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devdozes · 3 months ago

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Love me like a sailor

im sorry it was a long time anwyyas hope u like the fic ! horror, dark romance ig?, lowkey YANDERE some spoilers on 3.2 quest, and just silliness

The scent of laurel smoke curled through the air, laced with something older, bitter—like burnt parchment and hubris. You stood beneath the Sacred Tree, where philosophers carved truth into bark and left their minds to rot with honor. They called this place holy.

You called it absurd.

“Found something funny?”

His voice was a low purr, golden in timbre, venomous in rhythm. Anaxagoras—Anaxa, as he insisted you call him when no one else could hear—emerged from the columns like a specter from forgotten scripture. His robes shimmered like oil on water, reflecting knowledge too painful to bear. Eye the color of the sweet magenta-cyan ombre.

You didn’t look away.

“Only the idea that anyone here thinks they know anything at all.”

That smile. That cursed smile. He hated it. He loved it.

“Blasphemy,” he whispered, delighted. “You’ll fit right in.”

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The Nousporists had no scriptures, no prayers, only questions so sharp they left the mind bleeding. Anaxa led them like a messiah of madness, burning every ideal of truth to rebuild his own version—twisted and elegant, cruel and beautiful.

You should have left the Grove.

Instead, you debated him.

And that’s when the trouble began.

Because when you said, “You’re wrong,” with a laugh in your voice and not a shred of fear in your eyes, he felt something break. And Anaxa did not break.

So he followed you. He read your discarded notes. Memorized your arguments. Stole the scent of your skin from the folds of your coat when you left it unattended. Rewrote his entire doctrine to include you as a conceptual axis without you noticing.

He never touched you.

He never dared.

But every night, in the sanctum where thoughts became flame and philosophies were branded into flesh, he dreamed of flaying the world open and handing you its still-beating heart.

“You don’t get tired of chasing your own logic circles?” you asked once, after a particularly vicious debate.

Anaxa looked you dead in the eye slowly, as though the sight of your breath misting in the cold air was sacred.

“I only walk in circles because you are the center.”

You laughed.

He didn’t.

The Nousporists were not a school. They were a fever. An idea that spread like mold under gilded thought. Founded by Anaxa, born from his desire to prove that even divinity could fracture under scrutiny. To challenge the Coreflame of Reason was to challenge god itself—and so he did.

But what the others never understood was this:

The Nousporists were built for you.

His "heresies"? All mimics of your questions.

Does truth decay the longer we observe it? Is prophecy a mirror, or a command? Can love exist without misinterpretation?

You were not a lover. Not yet.

You were a problem.

Anaxa studied you like a puzzle made of void and starlight. Every time you opened your mouth, it wasn’t words—it was scripture only he could hear.

Subject Log, Entry 12 I accused her of solipsism. She laughed. She asked if I dream in color. I lied and said yes. (Note: I need to know what she dreams. Perhaps she dreams me.)

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The deeper your research delved into the Chrysos Lineage, the less you slept. The more Anaxa watched you not as a peer, but as a phenomenon.

Your desk was a chaos of forbidden manuscripts, old glyphs glowing faintly, and diagrams of neural decay. At the center was your theory: The chrysosis was not divine punishment, but cognitive overload—a truth so absolute the brain set itself aflame to escape it.

Anaxa began sleeping in your study. He said it was to "supervise your deductions."

He never slept.

One night, while researching on Tribios as per Anaxa's request, you fell asleep with your cheek pressed to your notes. When you stirred, hours later, Anaxa was still at your side, chin resting on his folded arms beside you. His eyes were closed. Not asleep. Just...waiting.

He whispered, "I tried to dream about you. But I couldn’t replicate you. Not even in sleep."

Your breath caught. You wanted to mock him, to defuse it—but the way he looked at you made your heart crack sideways. Like you were his last theorem. Like he would kill every scholar in the Grove if it meant you’d say his name just once with awe.

And perhaps you did. Quietly.

"Anaxa." Holy fucking shit, he felt his undead heart burst up with blood

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The Chrysos Heirs—beings of legend, said to carry the golden blood of the gods—were central figures in Amphorean history. Aglaea, the Goldweaver, stood as the acting leader of the Heirs, her divine authority inherited from the Titan Mnestia. Phainon, the Nameless King was undergoing the trial of the Coreflame. Hyacine, the enigmatic priest, was whispered to possess the ability to mend the celestial realm and to bear the fate of Aquila. Mydei, the Undying, bore a curse that rendered him immortal, a testament to his harrowing past. Cipher, the Fleet-footed, was a shadow that danced on the fringes of time, her allegiance and motives obscured, She was the demi-god of Zagreus.

Together, you and Anaxa embarked on a clandestine journey to dissect the essence of these figures. Nights were spent poring over ancient manuscripts, deciphering prophecies, and constructing theories that bordered on heresy.

The question that haunted your research was profound: What was the true nature of the Coreflames, and why were these individuals deemed worthy of their inheritance?

"The Titans,"

Anaxa mused one evening, fingers tracing the faded ink of a forbidden text, "were said to have crafted the very fabric of our existence. Their Coreflames are not mere symbols of power; they are fragments of creation itself."

You nodded, the gravity of his words sinking in. "And the Chrysos Heirs are the vessels chosen to wield these fragments. But by whom? And to what end?"

Anaxa's eyes gleamed with a mixture of excitement and something deeper, more insidious.

"That, my dear, is the crux of our inquiry."

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Your research led you to the origins of the Titans themselves—beings born from the Coreflames, each embodying fundamental aspects of existence. Kephale, the Worldbearing Titan, had sacrificed their Coreflame to ignite the Dawn Device, creating a sanctuary amidst the chaos wrought by the Black Tide. This act of selflessness set the stage for the rise of the Chrysos Heirs.

"The Black Tide," Anaxa pondered aloud, "was the catalyst that plunged the Titans into madness. But what if it was more than a mere calamity? What if it was a deliberate act to dismantle the old order?

The notion was radical, yet it aligned with the patterns you had begun to discern. "And the Chrysos Heirs are the instruments to establish a new order—a cycle perpetuated by the acquisition of Coreflames." Anaxa's expression darkened, a shadow crossing his features.

"A cycle that demands scrutiny. For if we are to break free from the chains of predestination, we must first understand the forge in which they were crafted."

"So, in simple words, The current chrysos heirs who bear the coreflame of the deceased titans, will bear the misfortune of becoming the titan in the next cycle..?" You questioned as your eyes widened to meet his magenta-cyan eyes this time driven with something which not even you knew.

"Correct." He said as his grin widened.

You glanced up to find him sitting unnervingly still, the ink quill idle in his hand. His eyes were on you—but not in the way a scholar looked at a peer.

His gaze had slipped. Dropped. Traced the curve of your jaw, the line of your lips. He wasn’t hearing your words anymore. His lips parted as if something sat behind them—some urge, some truth trying to claw its way out.

Your throat felt dry.

“...Anaxa?”

He didn’t look away. His stare stayed heavy. Dark. Hungry in a way he’d never let surface before.You shifted in your seat, your heart thudding once in your chest, louder than it should’ve.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

He blinked once. Slowly. And smiled with an unsettling softness, like he was indulging in something he wasn’t supposed to. “Forgive me. You said something… that caught my attention.”

“Something about the Heirs?”His eyes flicked back up to yours. “Something far more dangerous. Your breath hitched. The tension in the room was suffocating now—thick, aching.

You couldn’t explain why your pulse was racing, or why you suddenly felt like you were being studied not as a colleague, but as a mystery he was desperate to unravel.

You looked back down at your scroll, trying to focus.

“W-We should finish transcribing this section before—”

His voice was lower now. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You froze. Slowly looked back up.

Anaxa’s smile had vanished. His fingers were curled around the edge of the table, knuckles white. His pupils dilated. The madness in his gaze shimmered like oil beneath a calm sea.

“Every night I leave this chamber and I think I’ve regained my composure. And then I see you again and I—” He stopped himself, biting down on the inside of his cheek. “...This is not what I intended. I wanted truth. I wanted the the true reason of all of us, the Titans’ legacy. But now I find myself… wanting something I was not supposed to want.”

You stared. Unable to speak.

“And it infuriates me,” he said, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it. “Because it makes me weak. You make me weak.” The words hit you harder than they should’ve.

You felt hot. Flushed. You didn’t know what you were supposed to say. Was he confessing? Was he unraveling?

“Anaxa…” you started, voice shaky, unsure if it was warning or invitation. He leaned forward, slow, calculated—like a predator who didn’t want to scare its prey, but couldn’t help indulging in the thrill of it. His hand stopped just beside yours, close enough to feel the heat of his skin.

But he didn’t touch you.

He wouldn’t. Not yet.

“I won’t do anything you don’t want,” he whispered, voice dangerously soft. “But you should know this: the more we uncover, the more I realize the truth of this world is nothing compared to the truth I’ve found in you.” He said as he forcefully moves back away from you, in fear and something else

You held his gaze. Breath shallow.

The silence between you and Anaxa stretched taut—thick like honey, cloying like fate. He hadn’t moved since the moment he confessed those words.

The fire in his voice still clung to the air like smoke, and yet something in his expression had begun to flicker—falter.

His lashes lowered, eyes narrowing not with menace now, but something disturbingly fragile. Doubt. As if he expected your silence to become a knife. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he muttered suddenly, voice cracking at the edges.

“You’ll leave. You’ll run. Like all the others who called me cursed. Mad. A blasphemer…” You stood. Slowly. He didn’t flinch, but his jaw locked tight. He expected distance. Recoil. Rejection. A scholar might call it logical consequence—he called it inevitability. But you didn’t move away.

You stepped closer. He blinked, confusion warping into something far more desperate as he rose slightly tumbling backwards. “What are you—?”

You were close enough now to see the cracks in him. Not physical—no. His composure. That perfectly constructed mask he wore around the others, around even you, was splintering right at the edges.

You could see it in the twitch of his mouth. The unsteady breath.

The trembling in his fingers as he kept them clenched at his sides, refusing to reach for you. Because he didn’t dare. Because he feared touching you would shatter the only sacred thing left in his world.

You leaned forward. Brief. Barely a heartbeat’s worth of contact. Your lips brushed his. A breath. A flicker of softness. A question without words.Then you pulled back, just as fast.

Your heart thundered, panic laced in your movements as you turned to go, your voice stumbling out—“Forget that happened, we have research to—”

But you didn’t get far.

His hand was on your waist.

Gripping.

Firm.

Not rough.

Not yet. But trembling with restraint.Then he pulled you back, and suddenly he was burying his face into the crook of your neck like a man starved.

Like something had finally broken loose in him—unleashed, unstopped, unholy. You gasped softly as you felt his breath ghost across your skin.His voice was low, unsteady, wrecked.

“Why… would you do that to me?” His other hand found your back, clutching it like he was trying to make sure you were real.

Like you’d slip through his fingers otherwise.His grip tightened. And behind his calm whispering, behind the warm pressure of his body pressed into yours, his thoughts spiraled like wildfire—

She’s mine. She’s real. She kissed me. Me. Not them. Not the sages, not the heirs. Me. She chose me. She cannot leave. She cannot see the others. She cannot be claimed by anyone else. I will burn the world if it touches her. I will gut the sky itself if it looks at her wrong.

His eyes—glowing now, iridescent with the light of something not entirely sane—flickered open against your skin. He pressed his lips to your throat. Not a kiss. A mark. A claim without blood.

“You don’t know,” he whispered, trembling. “You don’t know what you’ve done to me.”

You didn’t know. But maybe… maybe you wanted to. Because you didn’t push him away .And that was enough to damn him.

Woah sorry if it's ooc and bad, I've lost my writing skills 😞

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koiukiy-o · 3 months ago

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orphic; (adj.) mysterious and entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding. ─── 003. the framework.

-> summary: when you, a final-year student at the grove, get assigned to study under anaxagoras—one of the legendary seven sages—you know things are about to get interesting. but as the weeks go by, the line between correlation and causation starts to blur, and the more time you spend with professor anaxagoras, the more drawn to him you become in ways you never expected. the rules of the academy are clear, and the risks are an unfortunate possibility, but curiosity is a dangerous thing. and maybe, just maybe, some risks are worth taking. after all, isn’t every great discovery just a leap of faith? -> pairing: anaxa x gn!reader. -> tropes: professor x student, slow burn, forbidden romance. -> wc: 2.4k -> warnings: potential hsr spoilers from TB mission: "Light Slips the Gate, Shadow Greets the Throne" (3.1 update). main character is written to be 21+ years of age, at the very least. (anaxa is written to be around 26-27 years of age.) swearing, mature themes, suggestive content.

-> a/n: well well well... this took a long damn time. apologies, apologies, but the science had to be figured out. these two are absolute NERDS, i fear. oblivion is absolutely delicious on those who claim to possess and pursue the knowledge of the universe. i fear you will be suffering for a WHILE if youre not into the slow burn HAAHAHAH. also,, if you guys ever want to see the actual equations and notes i took to write some of the science for this chapter, i could post it as well,, hehe,, -> prev. || next. -> orphic; the masterlist.

Hushed voices, the occasional shuffle of papers, the muted hum of thought is all that fills the air in the library. You sit at your usual table, papers strewn before you. The assignment has consumed your thoughts since it was given to you—an open-ended challenge demanding structure, logic, proof. Model something that physics refuses to acknowledge.

Your notes are chaotic, an evolving web of connections scrawled in the margins, crossed out and rewritten. A familiar frustration gnaws at you—the feeling of standing on the precipice of understanding, just shy of articulation. You run a hand through your hair and exhale sharply, staring at the mess of your own making. You need structure, a foundation to hold onto. If the soul exists, then it cannot be an anomaly—it must be governed by laws, patterns, something definable. If every human mind is unique, then what makes them so? The answer cannot be randomness. There must be an underlying form, a universal template from which all variation emerges.

You tap your pen against the page, mind turning. If identity is not a static entity but a recursive function, shaped by initial conditions and iterative transformations, then no self is ever fixed. The soul would not be a singular essence but a structure in motion, a process of becoming. And if this process holds, then consciousness cannot be isolated. The soul, then, is not merely a singular phenomenon—it is networked, existing not only within itself but through its connections. But what is it that determines it?

If this recursion is real, then it must not be a property of human existence but a fundamental principle of consciousness itself, a universal law.

It isn’t proof. It isn’t even a complete theory yet. But it is a start. A framework, a way forward. You stare at the words in front of you, pulse steady but intent.

Your fingers ache from gripping the pen too tightly, your vision blurring as you stare at the same lines of text, reading and rereading without truly absorbing them. The library’s stillness, once a comfort, has become suffocating—a static silence pressing in around you, the air too thick, the rows of bookshelves seemingly endless, as if space itself is closing in.

You lean back, dragging a hand down your face. A glance at the clock startles you. How long have you been here? Long enough that the lamps cast long, slanted shadows over your scattered notes. Long enough that exhaustion has settled into your limbs, dull and insistent.

You need air. Movement. A change in surroundings before your thoughts begin looping endlessly in place.

Gathering your papers into a loose stack, you shove them into your bag with little care for organization. You rise, stretching the stiffness from your spine before heading for the exit. The fluorescent lighting of the library hums overhead as you step out, the cooler evening air brushing against your skin like a quiet relief.

Minutes later, you find yourself at the café, drawn by the promise of warmth and caffeine. As the quiet hum of the city presses in, you click a few buttons on your phone and lift it to your ear.

–

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee lingers in the air, grounding you. You wrap your hands around the ceramic cup, letting its heat seep into your skin. You sit near the window, coffee cup nestled between your hands, eyes skimming the notes spread haphazardly across the table. The light overhead buzzes softly—old wiring, probably—but the sound fades into the background as you focus.

You’re not here to have a breakthrough. You’re here to map the boundaries.

The problem with studying the soul—if you can even call it that—isn’t just defining it. It’s figuring out where to look. If it exists as more than a philosophical concept, then there have to be parameters. A framework.

You flip to a blank page in your notebook.

What is the soul?

A real question. Not in the poetic sense, not in the way people speak about it in hushed tones and late-night confessions, but as a function. A thing with properties.

You write:

— The soul is not isolated. If it were, it wouldn’t interact with the world. People change. Learn. Influence each other. Whatever the soul is, it isn’t locked away inside a single person.

— It has persistent traits, but it is not static. Memories shape behavior. Experience alters perception. The thing that makes you you isn’t a fixed point, but it also isn’t random. There’s continuity, even through change.

— It extends beyond individual experience. Connections leave an imprint. People carry each other—sometimes in ways they can’t explain. If the soul exists beyond metaphor, then its effects should be traceable.

You take a slow sip of coffee. These aren’t conclusions. They’re places to start.

At the very least, if you’re going to chase something this impossible, you have to know what it isn’t–

"Trial and error."

The voice is measured, almost idle, but it cuts through the noise of the café like a well-placed incision.

You jolt, pen slipping from your fingers. Anaxagoras is standing beside your table, hands in the pockets of his coat, gaze flicking over your notes with mild interest. His presence isn’t overwhelming, but it shifts the air in a way you feel immediately. Like a variable introduced into an equation.

"You can’t just—appear—like that," you say, exhaling sharply as you retrieve your pen.

He lifts a brow. "I used the door. Perhaps you weren’t paying attention." His gaze drops back to your notebook, reading without asking, though you suspect if you told him to stop, he actually would. "Trial and error," he repeats, as if the phrase itself is under scrutiny. "A method you seem to be employing."

You sit back slightly, fingers curling around your coffee cup. "You say that like it’s a bad thing."

"Not at all," he replies, voice as even as ever. "It’s an honest approach. Just an unpolished one."

You huff a quiet laugh. "Practicality aside, it’s the only thing I can do at this stage. I'm defining parameters, not solving anything." You tap your pen against the page. "Or would you rather I skip to the part where I give you something half-formed and empirically worthless?"

His mouth curves—just slightly. "I appreciate the restraint."

"High praise."

Anaxagoras doesn’t acknowledge that, but his gaze lingers on your notes a moment longer before he straightens. He doesn’t sit, doesn’t ask to join, but he also doesn’t leave immediately.

Instead, he says, "It’s getting cold."

You blink at him. "What?"

"Your coffee," he nods toward your coffee cup, still mostly full. "You’ve been holding it for minutes without drinking."

You glance down at it, then back up at him. "I didn't realize you were keeping track."

"Well, far be it from me to disrupt your... inefficiency." he remarks, stepping back.

You glance toward the door. "I'm actually waiting for someone."

Anaxagoras tilts his head slightly.

"A friend," you clarify, though you're not sure why it feels necessary to do so.

He makes no move to leave, and you take another sip of coffee, not minding the silence that settles between you. It's surprisingly comfortable, even in its brevity.

Then, the door swings open.

Ilias strides in, scanning the café—then stops dead when he sees the two of you. His eyes flick between you and Anaxagoras, narrowing with immediate, delighted suspicion. And then, with exaggerated slowness, he pivots on his heel, turning straight back toward the exit.

"Oh, for—come back," you call, exasperated.

Ilias replies, raising his hands in mock surrender but grinning as he turns back around. "Please. Continue your—" he gestures vaguely, "—whatever this is."

Anaxagoras exhales, barely more than a breath, and finally steps away from your table. "I’m leaving."

Ilias watches him, expression far too entertained. He mutters just loud enough for you to hear, "I can't believe you invited me to your impromptu date."

You glare at him, but before you can retort, you catch the faintest shift in Anaxagoras' posture—nothing overt, no reaction beyond the briefest pause in his step. Then he continues toward the door, leaving without a word.

You groan, rubbing your temples.

Ilias collapses into the seat across from you like a man overcome by the sheer weight of his own amusement. "That was," he announces, "the single most deliciously awkward thing I have ever witnessed."

You mutter a quiet curse under your breath, flipping to a fresh page in your notebook.

"And yet," he sighs, folding his hands under his chin with a smirk, "here I am—like the universe itself has conspired to place me in this exact moment.”

Ilias is still grinning as he leans back in his chair, stretching lazily. “You know, if you ever need a chaperone for your secret intellectual rendezvous, I’m available.”

You roll your eyes, gathering your notes with more force than necessary. “It wasn’t an—” You stop yourself. There’s no point. Ilias seemingly lives for provocation, and you won’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, you shake your head and lean back in your chair, stretching your arms with a sigh.

Ilias, ever the dramatist, makes a show of settling in across from you, propping his chin in his hands. “You’re unusually quiet,” he muses. “Brooding, even.”

“No.”

“Hmm.” He taps a finger against the table. “That was an awfully long pause for a simple ‘no.’”

You roll your eyes but don’t bother arguing. Instead, you glance out the window, watching the people moving along the street, the steady glow of passing headlights. The café hums around you—low conversations, the occasional clatter of a cup against its saucer. It’s late, but not late enough to leave just yet.

Ilias orders something sweet, drumming his fingers absently against the table while he waits. You sip the last of your now-cold coffee, your mind still lingering elsewhere. A glance at your notes does little to pull you back. The thought won’t let go.

You don’t even realize you’re frowning at your notes until Ilias nudges your cup with his own.

"Thinking about your not-a-date?" he teases, grinning.

You glare at him half-heartedly, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Thinking,” you say simply.

Eventually, Ilias finishes his pastry, brushing crumbs from his fingers before stretching with a yawn.

The two of you step outside together, the shift from the café’s warmth to the crisp night air making you shiver. The city has quieted, the usual rush of movement settling into a steadier rhythm. You walk side by side for a while, boots clicking against the pavement, the hum of distant traffic filling the spaces between conversation.

Even as Ilias chatters on about something inconsequential, the ideas still linger at the edge of your mind, waiting to take shape.

By the next morning, the café is a memory drowned out by the quiet rustle of students filling the lecture hall. The usual pre-class murmur settles into a steady rhythm—books thudding against desks, the sharp clicking of laptop keys, the low hum of voices exchanging half-hearted speculations on today’s topic.

You slide into your usual seat at the front, your notes open in front of you, though your pen remains idle between your fingers. The thoughts that have followed you since the library refuse to resolve, circling just beyond reach. There’s something missing—something foundational, yet frustratingly unformed.

At the lectern, Anaxagoras sets down his drink with practiced ease, the cup making a soft, deliberate sound against the wooden surface. The hall quiets.

He surveys the room with that same composed intensity, his gaze flickering over the assembled students before settling briefly—too briefly—on you.

“Continuity,” he begins, his voice carrying effortlessly, “is a deceptively simple concept. We assume that when two systems interact, they influence each other only at the moment of contact. That once they separate, the interaction ends.”

You straighten slightly. A slow prickle of recognition runs down your spine.

Anaxagoras picks up a piece of chalk and sketches a familiar equation on the board—one you’ve seen before, but never in this exact context. Your fingers tighten around your pen.

“But,” he continues, underlining a key term, “this assumes a linear, local model of influence. What happens, then, if we acknowledge that certain interactions leave something… persistent? That even after separation, a trace remains?”

The rustling of papers around you barely registers. Your thoughts lurch forward, bridging gaps in ways they hadn’t before.

You shift, almost without realizing, and Anaxagoras glances in your direction—briefly, but with intent. He knows.

A student two seats over raises a hand. “Are you talking about quantum entanglement?”

Anaxagoras tilts his head slightly. “A useful analogy, but not a perfect one. Entanglement suggests an instantaneous connection regardless of distance. What I am asking is more fundamental—does influence itself persist, even outside direct interaction?”

A murmur ripples through the hall. A few students exchange looks, some hurriedly scribbling notes, others frowning as they try to grasp the implications.

Your heart beats a fraction faster as the pieces align. The answer should be simple. If two variables are no longer in contact, the influence should end. The system should reset. But—

“They don’t go back to what they were before,” you murmur, half to yourself.

Anaxagoras sets the chalk down. “Louder.”

The words form before hesitation can stop them. “Even apart, they still retain the effect of their interaction. They update each other, whether they remain in proximity or not.”

The silence that follows is the kind that shifts the atmosphere of a room. Not an absence of sound, but a space filled with quiet recognition.

Anaxagoras watches you, his expression unreadable, but you swear something flickers in his gaze.

You grip your pen tighter. “There’s a kind of imprint,” you continue, voice steadier now. “An effect that doesn’t disappear even after separation. A persistence beyond time or proximity.”

He nods once, the movement precise. “Nonlinear. Nonlocal.”

A slow breath escapes you.

The clock on the wall ticks forward. A student coughs. Someone flips a page too loudly. The world presses back in, indifferent to the shape of revelation.

Anaxagoras turns away first, back to the board, where the equation remains half-finished. He picks up the chalk again, his voice returning to its usual cadence, folding the moment neatly back into lecture.

His gaze flickers back to you for a moment—steady, contemplative, threaded with something unreadable. Interest, perhaps. Amusement, restrained but evident in the slight tilt of his head. And then, just low enough for only you to hear:

“You were closer than you thought.”

You exhale, staring at the marginalia scrawled in the edges of your notebook—sharp, decisive, yet somehow restrained. Outside the window, the campus air carries the crisp scent of rain—not quite fallen, not quite gone. And yet, the thought lingers, refusing to leave you.

-> next.

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#❅ — works !#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x gn reader #hsr x reader #anaxa x reader #hsr anaxa #hsr anaxagoras #anaxagoras x reader #guys a/n 2 #if you guys have any suggestions for a playlist for this series pleeeeasseeed drop it in the comments <3 #i have 7 songs so far but unfortunately my taste is too corrupt for this series :sob: ANY recs i will take them all HAHA (desperate)#if something isnt linked right pls lmk !!

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wonderlandwalker · 2 months ago

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Developments pt. II: Exposure

𝐩𝐭. 𝐈 / 𝐧��𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 / 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.6k 𝐬𝐮𝐦��𝐚𝐫𝐲: what happens when everything and nothing changes, when your world is at the edge of annihilation, and Steve is studying the phenomenon. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: more cockblocking I can't help myself, hurt/comfort if you squint, mdni, smut, my limited vocabulary trying its hardest to not sound repetitive, Dutch expressions that probably don't actually exist in English but do now

𝐚/𝐧: my life may be falling apart but at least there's still fictional men and reblog reactions that make me smile, hopefully this lives up to its precursor I fear I might be losing braincells

The past few days have been... strange. Not in any dramatic, earth-shattering way, but in the quiet, unsettling manner of a clock suddenly ticking out of rhythm—the kind of change you feel in your bones before your mind can articulate it.

Not bad.

Not heart-breaking.

Not even awkward, really—no stilted conversations filled with painful pauses, no forced laughter ringing hollow between you.

No, this was something quieter.

Something more unnerving in its subtlety.

Diffidence.

Which was ridiculous. Infuriating. A cosmic joke of the cruellest variety.

Because just seventy-two hours earlier, Steve Harrington had pressed you into his mattress with the reverence of a worshipper at an altar, his confessions spilling against your throat like secrets too sacred for this world. And you’d kissed him back with equal desperation, nails scraping down his spine as he moved over you, his name leaving your lips over and over and over like a mockingbird discovering its new favourite melody. The morning after, he’d made you pancakes—slightly charred, just the way you liked them—and watched you eat with this soft, dazed expression, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

It had been effortless. Natural. Like you'd been doing this for years instead of hours. And then—

Nothing.

No lingering touches in the hall—no casual brush of fingers that lingered just a heartbeat too long. No warm palm settling against the small of your back to guide you through doorways. No stolen kisses behind the Family Video counter, breathless moments between the VHS racks where he'd crowd you against the shelves, his lips finding yours in the shadows between customers.

Just... Steve.

The same Steve who still drove you home without being asked, even when it was twenty minutes out of his way. Steve, who still passed you the last slice of pizza without hesitation, who still remembered to grab your favourite candy bar when he stopped for gas. Steve, who still looked at you like you'd hung the goddamn stars—only now there was something newly cautious in his gaze, something fragile and measured, like he was afraid of being crushed beneath their celestial weight.

The Waterloo of it existed in the way you understood. Able to read the fractures in his composure like Braille beneath your fingertips—how his confidence splinters under pressure like thin ice trying to bear an ever-growing weight. His smirk just a fraction too tight when he was worried and his jokes landing a beat too quick when he deflects. Because for all his effortless charm, all that golden-boy popularity that came so naturally to him, Steve Harrington approached love like a penitent approaching communion, all-consuming, self-immolating, giving until he was hollowed out—like it was something to be earned through blood and sacrifice, something he had to deserve.

And now? Now he looked at you like you were both the salvation and the executioner. Like loving you was a game of Russian roulette where he'd already spun the chamber five times and survived, and this last shot awaits. You could see the calculation in his eyes—the gambler's dilemma. Go all in; sign his soul over without reservation? Or fold now, walking away while he can still pretend his heart is intact? You knew it from the way his hands hovered near yours but never quite touched, fingers twitching with the ghost of a caress he wouldn’t allow himself. You saw it in the careful distance he maintained, the space between you measured like a man navigating a minefield—every step a potential detonation. He’d chosen to love you; that much was undeniable. But you also knew the gambit had already been made, that he didn’t know how to let himself be loved in return. Not when every instinct in him screamed that good things were borrowed, not kept, and that happiness was just the prelude to loss.

So he waited.

And you waited.

The two of you balanced on the knife’s edge between the leap of faith and the fall.

This wasn’t rejection.

This wasn’t regret.

This was Beckettian limbo. Waiting for Godot in a mall parking lot, watching shadows lengthen as hope curdled into something bittersweet. The agony wasn't in the absence of answers but in the infinite possibilities each unanswered question contained—was he giving you space or creating distance? Was this patience or retreat?

Was he waiting for you to run?

Was he waiting for some invisible string to be pulled?

Was he already running himself?

You were this close to convincing yourself it had all been in your head—that the tension between you was just another ghost you’d conjured out of want and wishful thinking. You’d almost swallowed the lie whole.

Until Eddie Munson—bedlam incarnate, meddler of divine proportions—reached between you like a thief in the night and yanked the pin from your stalemate grenade.

It happened like this:

Robin, in her infinite wisdom (or more accurately, in her current state of sugar-deprived hysteria that has her vibrating in place like a hummingbird on espresso), practically launches Eddie toward the back room of Family Video with a desperate whine that borders on ultrasonic. Her fingers twitching toward the empty candy wrapper on the counter like a junkie eyeing their last hit. "I know he stashed candy bars back there. Find it, Munson, or so help me God—” The threat loses impact when she punctuates it by nearly face-planting into the counter. And Eddie, ever the chaotic neutral force in your lives, obliges, sweeping toward the employee area with all the gravitas of a man marching to the gallows.

The locker is... depressingly empty, because Steve Harrington has the organisational skills of a concussed squirrel. The interior looks like a tornado swept through a TJ Maxx clearance aisle—a single spare vest (slightly wrinkled, probably from that time he used it as a pillow during his lunch break—"It’s ergonomic!" he’d insisted, as if that made any sense at all), a half-empty bottle of cologne he no longer wore (”I needed to test drive it!” He’d argued when confronted, as if his "signature scent" was a goddamn Camaro he could take for a spin around the block), and—aha— the coveted candy bar. A king-sized Snickers slightly melted from being forgotten in the summer heat, wedged behind a mint condition (clearly unread) copy of "Employee Conduct Guidelines". Eddie’s about to declare victory and return to Robin’s good graces (or at least avoid another plastic fork ambush—seriously, that shit stings) when a small, glossy rectangle flutters to the ground. It drifts down with all the grace of a falling feather, spinning lazily like it’s got nowhere urgent to be (which would be poetic, if it wasn’t about to detonate his life like a stray missile in a china shop)

His stupid monkey brain—always curious, never helpful—screams at him to pick it up. Logic, self-preservation, and approximately three seconds of common sense lose the battle to sheer, self-destructive instinct.

So he does.

And—

Oh.

Eddie’s higher brain functions short-circuit, neurones firing and fizzling out behind his eyes like a busted string of Christmas lights.

Shit.

It’s one of those Polaroids.

The kind you’d been strategically hiding for Steve, who, for all his alleged detective skills, somehow hadn’t managed to uncover this particular landmine.

And there it is, staring up at him in damning, saturated colour: a snapshot of bare skin bathed in low light, the smooth curve of your waist disappearing under rumpled sheets that Eddie suddenly, violently, wishes he could shred with his teeth. And your eyes—Christ, that look—something so utterly foreign to him that his pulse stutters like a misfiring engine. It’s the kind of look that makes him think, for one delirious second, about dropping to his knees and taking up religion—because surely this is divine retribution.

Maybe he’d been a war criminal in a past life.

Maybe this was karma for swiping that pack of gum when he was eight.

Or maybe God was just an arsehole with a particularly fucked-up sense of humour, sitting up there on his cloud and cackling as Eddie’s soul left his body in slow motion.

He should burn it.

He should eat it.

He should—

But then—because this mystery deity apparently finds his suffering hilarious—the break room door groans open with a creak so nerve-shreddingly ominous it sounds like nails dragged across a chalkboard. You and Steve walk in mid-conversation, shoulders brushing, laughing about something undoubtedly stupid—completely unaware that Eddie's world has just tilted on its goddamn axis like a bored kid shaking a snow globe. The kind of violent, nauseating tilt that sends all his internal organs sloshing against his ribs. He should shove the photo back in the locker. He should pretend he never saw it. He should let Steve find it himself later—preferably when Eddie is at minimum three state lines away, maybe starting a new life as a goat farmer in Vermont.

But he doesn't. Because while Eddie's charisma stat might be maxed out, his wisdom score has always hovered somewhere between "questionable" and "actively self-destructive". So he stands there, frozen like a bug in amber, a bee drowning in golden honey—Polaroid welded to his stupid, traitorous fingers—as you finally register his presence. Steve follows your line of sight a beat later, and oh fuck, this is bad.

In all the time you've known each other, Eddie's been rudimentarily brash, crude, and gloriously callow. Now? Every single shred of his DNA seems to have been rewritten overnight. Someone's taken the Eddie Munson operating manual and hit select all → delete.

"Uh," he says, brilliantly eloquent. His eyes perform a frantic tennis match between the incriminating photo in his hand, the dangerous twitch of curiosity at the corner of your mouth, the frankly unfair amount of exposed skin your summer clothes display (making his fingers spasm like wanting to reach for the forbidden fruit of Eden itself), and Steve's expression, which has gone so arctic that Eddie can actually feel the frost forming on his own eyelashes from across the room.

Here's the thing: Steve genuinely couldn't give less of a shit about Eddie rifling through his locker. Hell, he uses the thing so sporadically he'd be shocked if there was anything in there worth stealing. But the way Eddie's looking at that photo? The way his breathing's gone all jagged, like he's been sucker-punched by lust and forgot to be ashamed about it? Like he'd been struck by lightning and sent the storm a thank-you note?

Yeah.

That gets his attention.

Because Steve knows that feeling. Knows it in the way his own pulse jumps when you look at him. Knows—with sudden, violent clarity—that the Polaroid currently burning a hole in Eddie's hand is one of yours. One of the ones you'd tucked away. One of the ones he hadn't found.

The air in the room curdles. Three heartbeats stretch into eternity. Somewhere, the universe is taking notes for its next comedy special. Steve’s posture locks—the calm before the storm, every muscle coiled tight beneath his skin. The carbonated fizz of the soda in his hand is the only sound in the crushing silence, bubbles popping like distant gunfire. Then the storm breaks: his jaw clenches, and his eyes sweep through Eddie’s foundation like a wrecking ball.

Something raw crawls across Steve’s face. Not anger. Not alarm. Assertion. A silent, seething mine that blows through the room. You’ve seen Steve in many moods—smug, pissed, reckless—but this? This is something new. An undiscovered decimal that changes the entire equation. Something hot and primal, that same flicker of virtue twisted into vice that made him spend hours between your thighs, savouring your undoing like Judas betraying Christ with a kiss.

Eddie’s expression snitches on him instantly, darkening as his gaze drifts back to you. It lingers—too obvious, too long—on the hitch of your breath, the teeth digging into your bottom lip, like he’s already imagining things he has no right to. “Munson—” Steve’s voice drops into a register that would send most sane men sprinting for the hills, the kind of tone that prophesies bloodshed. “Eyes are up here.”

Eddie’s hands fly up in surrender, the Polaroid fluttering to the floor like the first leaf of autumn—ominous, inevitable. But there’s a new cadence in his voice, something reckless and intrigued, the curiosity of a starving animal in a trap debating whether to chew its own leg off. “Hey man, no hard feelings. Just—uh—didn’t exactly expect that to be lying around like some kind of—” Steve takes a step forward. Eddie takes two steps back, knocking into the table hard enough to send a mug catapulting to the ground. “—highly classified erotic artefact,” Eddie finishes, voice pitched higher than usual, flashing a grin that’s all nerves and zero bravado.

You can feel it in the air—the shift from a fleeting southbound breeze teasing through the open window to the suffocating vacuum of withheld dares and arsonist heat. The change is tectonic, the kind that splits the earth between before and after. It should frighten you, this dissolution of restraint, reluctance disintegrating like cotton candy in the rain, leaving behind only the sickly-sweet residue of possibility. It would frighten you—if you didn’t know it. If you hadn’t heard that same voice murmuring filth against your stomach, dripping with devotional ruin. If it didn’t send an electric current racing from your membrane straight to your marrow.

Across the room, Eddie’s smirk falters. He’d looked the gift horse of Steve’s restraint square in the mouth—and now finds himself staring down the barrel of a loaded gun as the reality of his miscalculation hits. Then—

The dam bursts.

Eddie scrambles backwards so fast he nearly trips over his own shadow in his haste to escape the flood. The tension solidifies into something palpable as Steve turns to face you. For a moment, he simply stares—an apex predator amused by the detritivore that dared trespass in his territory, calculating whether to devour you whole or savour you slowly. It’s the same razor-edged focus he’d worn that night when he pinned you to his sweat-damp sheets, when he’d growled "again" against your throat and insisted, asserted, stipulated that he needed to feel you clenching around him even as his own spend leaked down your thighs between thrusts. That look that said mine and more and never enough, the one that turned your blood to gasoline and your nerves to lit fuses.

Your fingers twist in the fabric of your top—contemplating tearing it off yourself to feel his skin against yours faster—but the thought disintegrates when his knee nudges your thighs apart, pressing his body flush against yours. Jealousy rolls off him in waves, thick enough to choke on, and God help you, you revel in it. The phantom of his touch lingers in every hot breath that skates over your skin, in the way his hips slot against yours like a key turning in a lock. His mouth crashes into yours, hands bruising into your waist as he lifts you onto the break room table with the practised ease of a man who’s been praying for this. The wood creaks beneath you, a feeble protest swallowed by the groan that tears from his throat. And you—Christ—you realise with dizzying clarity that you’re already addicted to this side of him. To the way his control shatters when it comes to you. The way he needs to brand the truth into your skin: you’re his. He’s yours. His hands dig into you, urgent as a sinner’s grip on salvation. His lips brush your temple, soft as a benediction. You melt into him like a sacrifice on an altar, pliant and willing when his palms glide over your chest; it’s with a reverence that borders on fear—hesitant, hungry, as if touching you might unravel him instead.

This isn’t fealty.

It’s revelation.

Steve kisses like he’s composing his last confession—every sigh you give him a psalm he’ll spend eternity trying to recite to perfection. His mouth drifts lower, a crusade down your body, pausing to worship at the inside of your thigh. His nose nudges the sensitive skin there, lips parted against your pulse as if tasting divinity. Not demanding. Surrendering. A disciple on his knees, ready to die for the privilege of dedication. "Steve—" Your voice shatters, cracking not from desperation but from something far more forceful—love, molten and thick. He answers with a low hum, the vibration travelling straight to your core.

Warm.

Approving.

Devouring.

But still, he doesn't rush, doesn’t take.

Moving over you with the precision of a scholar deciphering sacred texts, each touch a deliberate translation of supplication. When his knuckle tilts your chin up, the eye contact is nearly unbearable—his gaze burns with the intensity of staring at the sun without blinking. "Tell me this is real," he murmurs, the pad of his thumb tracing your swollen lips. His voice cracks on the plea: I can't lose you. Tell me what to do, how to keep you—every word is another wingbeat higher, another reckless ascent toward combustion. You can almost see the wax dripping from his shoulders as he flies ever closer to it—the heat between your bodies threatening to melt both your hearts.

His mouth finds yours before you can answer, stealing the breath you'd gathered to reassure him. It's a claiming, last-ditch effort to brand himself into your memory should the Gods tear you apart tomorrow. His hands map your body, fingers pressing into your flesh hard enough to leave tomorrow's bruises. The irony isn't lost on you—this man who fought against every chain now begging to be bound, this once-carefree Icarus who sees the wax melting from his wings and chooses to keep flying, because his tragedy lies not in the fall but in the willing surrender to the innate burn, to this delicious damnation.

He’s almost come full circle—so close to acceptance, yet still hovering at the precipice, one flutter away. His skin scorches where you touch him, eyes burning with the effort of maintaining control when every atom in his body screams to dissolve the last fragile boundary between yours and mine until there’s no distinction left. The last of the shreds of doubt melting beneath your fingers as they tighten in his hair. The heat of you is irresistible, a gravitational pull dragging him deeper into orbit. His hand slides under your skirt, calloused palm skating up your thigh to discover the truth he already knows: you’re falling apart just as fast as he is.

A broken sound escapes you as you arch into his touch, your body ablaze against him. Your own hands map his skin with starving intent, drifting lower, lower, tracing the hard planes of his abdomen before dipping beneath the waistband. His fingers brush higher, hot and slick with your arousal, drawing a ragged groan from his throat that you swallow like communion. The sound vibrates against your lips—pure animal triumph—as his thumb circles with devastating precision. Fuck, how does he always know? That sweet spot that makes your thighs tremble, that perfect pressure as two fingers sink deep, curling just right, and a silent scream tears through you. "Fuck, baby," Steve pants against your mouth, his voice wrecked. "You’re so fucking perfect." The praise liquefies your spine, but you still manage to slide your hand under his jeans, grasping him through the strained fabric. The second your fingertips graze that velvet heat, he jerks forward with a gasp, teeth scraping your earlobe in retaliation—

The door flies open like a gunshot. "Jesus Christ!" Robin’s voice slices through the haze. Steve’s body slams over yours in a protective arch, his forearm braced against the table as he glares over his shoulder with venom. "Buckley," he snarls, voice dripping with murderous intent. She covers her eyes with a sigh so dramatic it would make Shakespeare weep. "In my defence—" she yelps, "your shift started ten minutes ago, and there’s this very persistent customer asking about the horror section you organised like a psychopath!" Steve doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. You can feel the furious pound of his heartbeat where his chest presses against yours, a wild counter-rhythm to your own.

"Robin", you drawl, sweet as poisoned honey, "if you don’t turn around and walk out right now, I will tell Vickie about the time you—" "GOING!" she shrieks, already backpedalling. The door slams hard enough to rattle the framed employee-of-the-month certificates.

The silence that follows is worse.

The momentum’s gone, but the wreckage remains. His forehead drops to your shoulder with a thud, his breath coming in ragged bursts against your collarbone. You can feel the restraint vibrating through him—every muscle coiled tight enough to snap.

You can’t help it—you laugh, the sound shaky with adrenaline and lingering lust. His head snaps up so fast you hear his neck crack, eyes blazing with unfiltered heat. "Oh, you think this is funny?" he growls, nipping at your jaw with sharp teeth before soothing the sting with a swipe of his tongue. His hands slide back under your thighs, hauling you flush against him in one motion. The hard line of him pressed insistently between your legs wipes the smirk right off your face—along with every coherent thought in your head.

"Keep laughing, sweetheart," he murmurs against your throat, lips dragging a searing path down to your pulse point. "See what happens when my shift ends."

The hour that follows—after Steve had hesitantly detached himself from you with a plea in his eyes and your lipstick smeared across his jaw like war paint—stretches into eternity.

It’s longer than the time you got drenched by a speeding car ploughing through a frozen puddle on your way to school, icy water seeping into your socks until you squelched with every step. Longer than Aunt Margie’s infamous "Bridge Club Confidential" lecture, where she’d waxed poetic about the "sensual strategy" of trump cards while you stared into your punch glass praying for spontaneous combustion. Longer even than Eddie’s dare at Rick’s party, when you’d sat statue-still for sixty minutes while Dustin balanced a Dorito on your nose and Steve—unhelpful bastard—kept making you laugh just to watch you fail.

Because Steve Harrington doesn’t make idle threats.

He feasts on them.

Every excruciating minute carves a new circle of hell into your sanity. Steve moves through the store like a man possessed, his brain reduced to binary code: 1. You’re the one. 0. Everything else is noise. His pacing is a slow-burn torture—languid and deliberate, letting the heat of his chest sear into your back as he reaches for a misplaced copy of The Terminator, his biceps flexing just enough to make your throat go dry. He makes sure his lips graze your jaw when he slots returned tapes onto the shelf exactly where you’re standing, his exhale hot against your ear. Then he’s gone again in a heartbeat, leaving only the phantom imprint of his promise throbbing under your skin.

And you’re no martyr. Not when every stolen glance from Steve—heavy-lidded and determined—pours fuel on the fire in your gut. Not when the brush of his fingers against yours as he "accidentally" hands you the wrong receipt makes your pulse stutter like a bad VHS tape.

Until Robin, bless her deadpan soul, reaches her limit.

"That’s it." She slams a stack of returns onto the counter hard enough to make the Jawbreakers jump in their display, rattling like tiny, panicked witnesses. "Eddie’s covering Steve’s shift."

Eddie opens his mouth— "No." Robin jabs a finger between his eyebrows. "I don’t care that he doesn’t work here; it’s not that hard to say ‘Be kind, rewind’ and take people’s money. What is hard is watching you two orbit each other like horny vultures waiting to dive in." She shoves Steve’s keys into his chest. "Do humanity a favour and go home. Fuck it out. Write each other sonnets. Carve your initials into a tree. I don’t care. Just end this before I drown us all in holy water."

And well.

You don’t need to be told twice.

The store’s entrance barely shuts before Steve's crowding you against the scorching hood of his car, his body pinning yours to metal that burns through your skin. You gasp at the dual sensation—the sear of the sun-baked steel beneath your thighs and the far more dangerous heat of Steve's palm cradling the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, hips grinding against yours in a way that makes your vision blur. The parking lot's empty, but you'd barely care if it wasn't—not when he kisses like he's trying to carve his name between your ribs.

But then—the cruel, calculated tease that he is—he steps back. Lets you sway there for one dizzy second before guiding you into the passenger seat with a hand low on your back.

The silence during the drive isn't uncomfortable—it's charged, vibrating with everything left unsaid and undone. You can practically hear the filthy refrain looping in Steve's head, matching the pulse pounding between your thighs: not yet. Not here.

Your fingers creep toward his thigh like a separate entity, drawn by magnetic need. The muscle tenses beneath your touch before you even make contact. When your nails scrape up the inseam of his jeans, his grip on the steering wheel turns white. "Don't," he warns, voice gone dark. But his dick twitches traitorously beneath your wandering palm, the thick line of him already straining against denim. The hypocrisy would be laughable if you weren't so busy revelling in the power thrumming through your veins.

His hand closes over yours — not to stop you, but to press your palm harder against his erection. The groan it wrenches from him vibrates through your entire body, your own breath catching in time with the stutter of the speedometer as his foot slips on the gas. "Keep doing that," he grits out between clenched teeth, "and you're going to regret that."

As the car takes another turn, you realise you've miscalculated.

Badly.

The math had been simple—fifteen minutes to his place, ten if he sped—but you hadn't accounted for the way his jaw would clench every time you shifted in your seat. The engine had roared like a living thing as he took corners too fast, and now the tires screech their protest as he slams into his parking spot.

The ignition cuts.

One heartbeat of silence.

Then he's on you, pressing you into the window with enough force to fog the glass, his mouth hot and demanding against yours. There's nothing gentle in it—just hunger, raw and unchecked. His teeth catch your lower lip as his hand slides up. When his mouth closes over your nipple through your shirt, tongue circling just hard enough to make you arch, you're half-ready to drag him into the backseat and fuck him right there. But before you can so much as gasp his name, he's gone—door flung open, his footsteps sharp on the pavement.

Your door swings open next, his hand extended.

It might look chivalrous to anyone watching, but you know better. That grip on yours as he tugs you out is a demand, not an offer. The walk to his front door is a blur, his arm locked around your waist like he thinks you'll bolt. The lock clicks shut behind you, and then—

Déjà vu hits like a sucker punch. This is exactly what you haven't been able to stop thinking about. And yet—

Completely different.

Last time, he'd been a man on a mission, determined to show you every filthy fantasy you'd ever pulled from him. Methodical. Precise. A slow unravelling that left you begging. Now?

Now he doesn't wait for begging.

Now he hauls you onto the kitchen island with a roughness that sends a bowl clattering to the floor, his hands already pushing your thighs apart. There's no patience in him—just certainty and something darker, something that curls low when his gaze drags over you like he's already deciding where to start. His palm splays across your stomach, pressing you against the cold granite as he leans in, and the revelation hits you — he doesn't just want to worship at your altar. He wants to be the architect of your canonisation, the hand that lifts you to sainthood even as he drags you through the exquisite torture of your own destruction.

If you had one wish in this crumbling world—it wouldn't be fame, wouldn't be fortune, not even the hollow promise of world peace—you would ask for this. The devastating press of his body, the sinful cadence of his voice whispering filth and vows. You'd take it until your lungs forgot how to expand, until your heartbeat stuttered into arrhythmia, until the last frayed thread of your consciousness could only comprehend the grip of his arms and the sweet poison of his words. Even then, especially then, you’d ask for more of this.

You're already ruined beyond salvation—a ship dashed against the rocks, hull splintering on unforgiving shores, yet somehow grateful for the carnage that means you've found land at last. His name spills from your lips in a ceaseless litany, your thighs clamping around his hips in wordless supplication, speaking in the sacred tongue of want, your body offering its final surrender at the temple of his undoing. The light at the end of this tunnel isn't absolution—it's hellfire, and you're so consumed by its gravitational pull that reality has dissolved at the edges. The world narrows to the sweat-slick press of his skin against yours, to the animalistic sounds tearing from his throat, to the obscene stretch as he sheaths himself inside you in one devastating thrust, a broken sob caught between your teeth—until his mouth crashes over yours, swallowing the sound as he buries himself to the hilt. You feel him tremble—not from restraint, but from the way your body takes him in frantic, greedy pulses, as if trying to draw him deeper still.

The fat of your ass shifts under his punishing grip as you grind down, chasing that perfect angle until he swears he can feel your heartbeat through the slick walls clenching around him. Your shared sweat makes a mess of everything—the slide of his abdomen against your clit, the way your thighs stick to his hips, the obscene squelch as he moves through your dripping cunt like he was carved from the same divine stone that shaped you. Every convulsive ripple of your inner muscles seems designed to ruin him, to reduce this beautiful, dangerous man to nothing but base instinct and desperate thrusts. Then—just when you think he's wrung every possible reaction from your body—he does something that steals what little breath you have left. With agonising slowness, he withdraws until only the flushed, leaking head of his cock remains seated inside you, that unbearable stretch reduced to the barest teasing pressure. Your hips jerk uselessly, chasing that delicious fullness, but he pins you in place with one broad hand splayed across your ass while the other yanks open the nearby drawer in search of something. You open your mouth—to tease, to protest, to beg with words so filthy they'd make a sinner blush—but he gives you no chance. In one brutal snap of his hips, he's buried inside you again, the force of it driving you up the surface until his forearm bands around your waist to keep you still. The punched-out moan that escapes you sounds broken even to your own ears.

The rhythm he sets is punishing, each thrust calculated to make your vision whiten at the edges. Your tits bounce obscenely against his hungry mouth, nipples pebbled and oversensitive from his teeth scraping urgently against them. Tears bead at the corners of your scrunched-shut eyes as you bite your lip—until his command slices through the haze: "Open your eyes.”

When you obey—when your bleary vision finally focuses through the haze of pleasure to see the obscene glisten between your thighs, your own arousal painting his cock in irrefutable evidence of your desperation—a shutter clicks, echoeing as the bullet going through the church, the camera flash immortilizing everything as your body arches in perfect, ruined ecstasy.

He's not just fucking you. He's curating it—assembling irrefutable proof of your complete surrender to his arbitration. Cataloguing how beautifully you come apart beneath him. Documenting how even when reduced to a shuddering, tear-streaked wreck, all your broken pleas still ask for the same thing: him. Only him. He captures it all—the flutter of your lashes when his thumb swipes through the streaks on your cheek, the way your throat works around silent screams when he angles deeper. His next words are the final nail in the coffin of your consecration, divulged against the column of your throat: "Let me show you how pretty you look when you cum on my cock."

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w1w2 · 5 months ago

Text

The Dance We Share

Nakamura Kazuha x Fem!Reader

Word Count: ca. 12k

Synopsis: A new member joins an already successful girl group, bringing talent, determination, and a history that threatens to disrupt the group’s harmony.

Requested by Anon

Notes: I got a bit carried away with this.. I guess I'm in my angs era.

Also, to the Anon that have requested that, please let me know if you like it

English isn’t my first language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

♡ Enjoy! ♡

The journey to this moment had been a whirlwind of auditions, sleepless nights, and quiet moments of doubt. Y/N had pushed herself harder than ever before, driven by an unrelenting desire to make her dreams come true. There were days when she felt invincible, buoyed by the promise of what could be, and nights when she doubted everything, the sacrifices, the exhaustion, the relentless grind. It had all led her here, to this practice room, standing on the precipice of something she had both longed for and feared.

As Y/N stepped into the room for the first time as an official member of LE SSERAFIM, a mixture of excitement and apprehension bubbled beneath her calm exterior. She was no stranger to performing, to auditions, to high-stakes environments, but this was different. This wasn’t just a group, it was a phenomenon. They had already carved their place in the industry, and now, she was expected to do the impossible: step in, catch up, and somehow shine without overshadowing.

She wasn’t just filling a spot, she was filling Garam’s spot.

The name carried weight, not just within the group but with fans, critics, and the media. Garam’s sudden departure had left a hole in LE SSERAFIM’s lineup, a gap that fans had fiercely debated how to fill, if it should even be filled at all. Social media had been abuzz with speculation when her addition was announced.

Was she the right choice? Would she fit in? Could she live up to the expectations?

These questions, along with a litany of comparisons, would undoubtedly follow her every move.

It was daunting, suffocating even, but Y/N had resolved to prove herself worthy, not just to the world, but to her new groupmates.

The atmosphere in the practice room was warm but tinged with careful politeness. Y/N could feel the subtle tension that came with welcoming a new member. They were trying, but it wasn’t effortless yet.

Chaewon, ever the responsible leader, was the first to step forward. Her smile was encouraging, her tone genuine but measured, as if she were balancing the roles of leader and mediator.

“Welcome to the family,” she said, her voice kind yet carrying the unspoken understanding that Y/N had a lot to prove.

Sakura followed, offering soft words of encouragement in Japanese that brought a flicker of comfort to Y/N’s nerves. Yunjin added a playful comment about how they could commiserate over the grueling trainee experience. Even Eunchae, the group’s youngest, greeted her with a bright, bubbly enthusiasm that made Y/N feel lighter, if only for a moment.

They were kind, supportive even, but Y/N could sense the invisible wall. They were a tight-knit team, and she was the outsider. For now.

And then there was her.

Kazuha stood apart, her presence understated yet impossible to ignore. She offered a faint smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. There was none of the warmth or easy grace that lit up her face in the photos and videos Y/N had studied before joining. Her expression was carefully neutral, her eyes flitting to Y/N for the briefest second before darting away, as if the mere act of looking at her was too much to bear.

Y/N’s chest tightened.

She had prepared herself for this moment, told herself it wouldn’t matter. It had been a year since they had seen each other, a year since they had been anything to each other. And yet, standing here now, with Kazuha just a few feet away, every memory they had shared surged back to the surface like a tidal wave.

The studio smelled faintly of sweat and polished wood, but in her mind, it was the faint perfume of the ballet studio that came rushing back. The soft padding of pointe shoes, the music filling the air, the sound of Kazuha’s laugh as they perfected a lift. Late-night conversations whispered over cooling cups of tea. The quiet promises that had once felt unbreakable.

And the heartbreak.

It was a pain so sharp it had felt like it might split her in two. The suffocating ache of watching Kazuha walk away after Y/N had laid her heart bare. The way she hadn’t even looked back.

“Zuha,” she had called her back then, her voice soft, affectionate, laden with trust.

But that was a lifetime ago. A lot changed during these months.

Now, they were strangers. Or at least, that was what they were pretending to be.

The flash of pain was gone as quickly as it had come, buried beneath the professional mask Y/N had perfected during her years of training. She couldn’t afford to let emotions cloud her now. She was here to work, to perform, to prove that she belonged.

When the first practice session began, Y/N threw herself into the choreography with everything she had. She followed the beats, absorbed every direction, and moved with a precision born of determination. The music was loud, the mirrors reflected every step, and the members exchanged approving glances.

But Kazuha kept her distance. She spoke only when necessary, her words clipped and professional. She avoided eye contact altogether.

The room was filled with music and movement, but to Y/N, it felt like they were dancing around a silent truth neither of them dared to face.

For the rest of the day, Y/N focused on the steps, on the voices of her teammates, on the beat of the music, anything but the shadow of the girl she once knew.

Anything but Kazuha.

The first days were always the hardest, and for Y/N, it was no exception.

The soft hum of music played in the background as the group gathered in the spacious practice room. The mirrored walls reflected each member, moving with synchronized precision, but Y/N couldn’t help but feel the stark contrast of her presence among them. She was hyperaware of every glance, every whispered comment exchanged in the corners, though the others had been nothing but kind.

Kazuha stood at the far end of the room, tying her sneakers with meticulous care. She hadn’t said much since the initial greeting. Their interactions had been limited to curt nods and brief, professional exchanges. And yet, the weight of Kazuha’s silence pressed down on Y/N like a tangible force, suffocating and inescapable.

As they worked through the day’s routine, the tension between them became harder to ignore. Their gazes met in fleeting moments, the kind of accidental eye contact that was too brief to hold meaning but too frequent to be unintentional. Each time, Kazuha would quickly look away, leaving Y/N wondering if she was imagining the flicker of something —guilt, regret, or even longing—in her dark eyes.

“Y/N, you’re picking up the choreography quickly,” Chaewon said, breaking the silence as the group took a short water break.

“Thank you,” Y/N replied, her lips curving into a polite smile.

“It’s impressive,” Sakura added, her tone warm. “You fit in well.”

Y/N nodded, grateful for the encouragement, but her mind was elsewhere. Despite the praise, she couldn’t shake the unease that clung to her like a second skin. She stole a glance at Kazuha, who was quietly stretching in the corner, her movements fluid and precise.

Y/N’s fingers tightened around her water bottle as the memories began to resurface.

The ballet studio was a place of dreams, a sacred haven where artistry met discipline. The air always carried the faint scent of resin and effort, a combination of polished wooden floors, sweat, and ambition. For Y/N, the studio had been a second home, a place where she could lose herself in the rhythm of movement, the poetry of dance. It wasn’t just the physicality of ballet that she loved but the way it demanded her soul, her entire being.

That summer had started like any other, grueling practices, blistered feet, and a fierce determination to perfect every pirouette, every arabesque. But then Kazuha arrived, and everything changed.

They first met during a partnering class at the prestigious summer intensive. Y/N had been scanning the room when her gaze landed on a girl who moved like liquid light.

Kazuha Nakamura.

Her name was whispered in admiration by the other students, her reputation as a prodigy preceding her. Kazuha was an enigma, her movements were graceful yet powerful, her presence quiet yet commanding.

When the instructor paired them together, Y/N felt a jolt of nervous excitement. Kazuha was tall and poised, her every step brimming with elegance. Y/N couldn’t help but feel slightly self-conscious next to her. But the moment they began to move, everything clicked.

Their connection was instantaneous, as if their bodies instinctively understood one another. Y/N’s playful, expressive energy filled the spaces Kazuha’s disciplined movements left behind, creating a harmony that stunned even their instructors. In the span of a few weeks, they had gone from mere dance partners to a team that everyone admired.

“You two are like magnets,” their instructor had once commented, watching as they nailed a complex lift. “Completely different energies, but when you’re together, it just works.”

And it wasn’t just their dancing that brought them closer.

Outside of practice, Y/N and Kazuha were inseparable. They often stayed late at the studio, the overhead lights dimming as the evening stretched into night. Their conversations drifted from dance to life, their voices echoing in the empty hall.

Kazuha spoke with quiet passion about her dreams. Her family in Japan, her love for ballet, her desire to push herself further than anyone thought possible. Her eyes would light up as she described the feeling of losing herself in movement, as if the world disappeared and all that remained was the music.

“You make it sound magical,” Y/N had said once, lying on her back on the studio floor.

“It is magical,” Kazuha had replied softly, her head tilted to the side as she stared at the ceiling. “It’s like… you’re telling a story without words. That’s what I love most about it. It’s honest.”

It was in moments like those that Y/N found herself falling.

At first, it had been admiration, a deep respect for Kazuha’s artistry and discipline. But as the days turned into weeks, her feelings began to shift. She found herself drawn to the way Kazuha’s lips curved into a small smile when she nailed a particularly difficult routine, or the way her laugh would break through her composed exterior when Y/N teased her.

Kazuha, for all her quiet elegance, had a surprisingly goofy side. She wasn’t afraid to try ridiculous dance moves when they were alone, their laughter filling the empty studio as they dared each other to push the limits of their creativity.

“I bet you can’t do this,” Y/N had said one night, attempting an exaggerated, clumsy leap.

Kazuha had raised an eyebrow, her competitive streak flashing through. “Oh, I can do it. Better than you, actually.”

Moments like those were the foundation of their bond. It was easy, effortless, until it wasn’t.

The confession happened on one of those golden evenings when the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the studio floor. They had just finished practicing, their bodies aching from hours of work. The room was bathed in hues of amber and pink, the kind of light that made everything feel softer, dreamier.

Y/N had been pacing for the better part of an hour, building up the courage to say the words that had been burning on her tongue for weeks. Kazuha sat cross legged on the floor, oblivious, carefully unwrapping the tape from her toes.

“Zuha,” Y/N started, her voice trembling slightly.

Kazuha looked up, her expression curious. “Yeah?”

Y/N’s heart pounded in her chest. She had rehearsed this moment a dozen times in her head, but now that it was here, the words felt heavy, unwieldy. Taking a deep breath, she decided to just say it.

“I think I’m falling for you.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Kazuha’s eyes widened, her hands freezing mid-motion. She stared at Y/N, her expression unreadable, as if she were trying to process what she had just heard. Her lips parted as though to speak, but no words came out.

Y/N felt her stomach drop.

“I…” Kazuha finally began, her voice hesitant. She stood slowly, taking a small step back. “I can’t… I don’t know if I can do this.”

It wasn’t a rejection, not explicitly, but it felt like one. The words cut through Y/N like shards of glass. Her chest tightened as she fought to keep her composure.

“It’s okay,” Y/N said quickly, forcing a smile she didn’t feel. “I just… I needed to tell you. That’s all.”

But it wasn’t okay. Not really.

For a while, they tried to pretend nothing had changed. But the tension was there, a fragile undercurrent that neither of them acknowledged. And then, weeks later, Y/N learned the truth.

Kazuha had been offered an opportunity to train in Korea, a once in a lifetime chance to pursue her dream of becoming an idol. She hadn’t told anyone, not even Y/N, until the decision was finalized.

The day Kazuha told her was one of the worst days of Y/N’s life.

“I’m leaving,” Kazuha had said, her voice breaking slightly. “I… I got an offer to train in Korea. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted, but I didn’t know how to tell you.”

Y/N stared at her, disbelief and hurt swirling in her chest. “When were you going to tell me? After you were already gone?”

Kazuha looked down, guilt written across her face. “I didn’t want to hurt you,” she whispered.

“Too late for that,” Y/N said bitterly.

Kazuha’s voice wavered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to happen like this. I just… I need to follow this path.”

Y/N wanted to scream, to tell her that leaving wasn’t the only option. But she knew it would be futile. Kazuha had already made up her mind.

The goodbye was quiet, almost anticlimactic. There were no grand gestures, no promises to keep in touch. Just a hug that felt too short, a whispered apology that didn’t feel like enough, and then she was gone.

And Y/N was left behind, staring at the empty studio that once felt like home, wondering how someone who meant everything could walk away so easily.

“Ready to run it again?” Yunjin’s voice snapped Y/N back to reality.

She blinked, quickly pushing the memories aside. “Yeah, let’s do it.”

As the music started, Y/N threw herself into the routine, channeling every ounce of emotion into her movements. Her body moved with precision, her steps matching the beat perfectly. She couldn’t afford to falter, not now, not with Kazuha watching.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Kazuha move to her position. Their movements were synchronized, but the distance between them felt like an ocean.

When the song ended, the group broke into applause. “You two have great chemistry,” Chaewon noted, her comment light but laced with meaning.

Y/N forced a smile, glancing at Kazuha. Her former partner said nothing, her expression unreadable as she turned away.

The tension between them lingered, a silent shadow that neither of them could escape. For Y/N, it was a constant reminder of what they had been and what they had lost.

The days leading up to the comeback were nothing short of punishing. Practice sessions stretched endlessly, often bleeding into the late hours of the night. The only constants were the pounding bassline of the title track, the mirrored walls reflecting their every move, and the collective effort to perfect a routine that demanded nothing less than excellence.

For Y/N, the grueling schedule was both a sanctuary and a battlefield. The sheer intensity of the practices left little room for her mind to wander. There was no time to dwell on the tension simmering between her and Kazuha when she was counting beats, perfecting angles, and ensuring that every step matched the rhythm. Yet, every practice session brought them closer, physically, emotionally, metaphorically. And no matter how focused she tried to be, no amount of precision could stop the unspoken emotions from creeping in, carving their way into the space between their movements.

The choreography was as intricate as it was demanding. It wasn’t just about hitting the right moves, it was about embodying a raw, rebellious energy. The routine thrived on synergy and fluidity, requiring the six of them to move as one.

But Y/N and Kazuha’s roles in the intro carried a different weight altogether.

The song’s opening was more than just choreography, it was a statement. The intro was designed to captivate, showcasing the dynamic contrasts within the group. Y/N and Kazuha were paired for this critical moment, their movements a duet of tension and harmony. It was a bold choice by the choreographer, one that placed them at the center of attention before the full routine even began.

“Alright, Y/N and Kazuha,” the choreographer called out, clapping her hands to draw everyone’s attention. “Let’s see the intro again. From the top.”

Y/N grabbed a quick sip of water, wiping the sweat from her brow before stepping into position. She felt the familiar twinge of nerves settle in her stomach as Kazuha approached. Her former partner carried herself with a calm, almost detached grace, her expression unreadable as always.

Kazuha moved into place, her posture flawless, her eyes focused somewhere beyond Y/N’s shoulder. Their proximity was unavoidable now, and for a moment, Y/N felt her breath hitch.

“Ready?” the choreographer asked, eyeing the pair.

They both nodded, and the music began.

As the opening beats thundered through the studio, their bodies moved instinctively. The intro was slower than the main choreography, a carefully choreographed interplay of motion and stillness that required complete focus. Y/N stepped forward, her hand outstretched, while Kazuha mirrored her with a sharp, fluid grace.

Their movements were designed to contrast Y/N’s bold, grounded energy against Kazuha’s airy, ethereal fluidity. They circled each other, their steps deliberate and precise, the tension between them palpable even in the silence between the beats.

The section culminated in a synchronized lift, Y/N’s hand finding Kazuha’s with a familiarity that startled her. Her palm was warm, steady, and for a fleeting moment, Y/N felt the years between them dissolve. Kazuha’s grip was firm yet gentle, a stark contrast to the tension that hung between them outside of practice.

Y/N hoisted Kazuha effortlessly, the lift smooth and fluid as Kazuha extended her limbs with perfect control. Their gazes met briefly before the sequence ended, the transition seamless as they broke apart and prepared to move into the main choreography.

For anyone watching, it was nothing short of breathtaking.

To Y/N, it was maddening.

There was something about the way their movements aligned so effortlessly, as if their bodies remembered something their minds refused to acknowledge. The tension that existed between them in silence seemed to vanish in motion, leaving behind a connection that felt... timeless.

When the music cut off, Y/N’s heart was pounding, though she wasn’t sure if it was from the exertion or something else entirely.

“That was perfect,” the choreographer said, her tone laced with satisfaction. “You two have incredible synergy.”

The compliment hung in the air like an echo. Y/N forced a small smile, murmuring a quiet “thank you” before retreating to the corner of the room. She grabbed her water bottle, taking a long sip as she tried to calm her racing thoughts.

For a moment, she felt Kazuha’s gaze on her, an almost imperceptible pull, as if the other girl was trying to bridge the distance between them with nothing but a look. But when Y/N turned her head, Kazuha had already turned away, her focus back on the choreographer’s instructions.

It was infuriating how composed she seemed, as if the connection they shared on the floor meant nothing to her.

But Y/N knew better.

There were cracks in Kazuha’s facade, subtle, fleeting, but there. The way her shoulders tensed when their hands brushed. The slight hesitation before they made eye contact during transitions. The way her voice softened, almost imperceptibly, when she gave Y/N instructions.

Y/N hated how easily she noticed these things, how her mind cataloged each moment like a keepsake she couldn’t discard.

“Let’s go again,” Chaewon’s voice cut through her thoughts, bringing her back to the present.

Y/N nodded, taking her place once more. But as the music started again, she couldn’t shake the feeling that they weren’t just dancing. They were navigating something far more complicated, something neither of them was ready to name.

And no amount of flawless execution could erase the tension simmering beneath the surface.

The group’s dynamic had been relatively smooth since Y/N joined. Everyone had gone out of their way to make her feel welcome, offering support during her transition into the group. Yet, there was one glaring exception: the quiet, uneasy tension between Y/N and Kazuha. It was subtle enough to avoid immediate scrutiny but persistent enough to raise eyebrows among the more observant members.

Chaewon was the first to pick up on it.

It was during one of their breaks, the group sprawled across the practice room in various states of exhaustion. Chaewon sat on the floor, absently scrolling through her phone while her eyes flicked toward Y/N and Kazuha. They were on opposite sides of the room, as usual.

Y/N sat with her back against the mirror, her phone in hand, though her furrowed brow and restless fingers suggested she wasn’t truly engaged. Kazuha, meanwhile, was perched on the edge of a bench, her focus entirely on adjusting the laces of her shoes. Her movements were deliberate and methodical, as if tying her sneakers was the most critical task in the world.

Chaewon leaned toward Sakura, keeping her voice low but pointed. “Something’s going on between those two.”

Sakura followed her gaze, her sharp eyes narrowing as she took in the scene. “Y/N and Kazuha?”

Chaewon nodded, her expression thoughtful. “Yeah. Have you noticed how... stiff they are around each other? It’s like they’re trying too hard to act normal.”

Sakura tilted her head, considering. “I thought they were just being professional. You know, new member, team dynamics, all that.”

Chaewon shook her head slightly. “It’s more than that. Look at them.” She gestured subtly with her chin.

Sakura’s eyes darted between the two, picking up on the details she’d initially dismissed. The way Y/N’s gaze flickered toward Kazuha for a fraction of a second before darting away. The way Kazuha’s shoulders stiffened every time Y/N shifted in her direction. It wasn’t the typical awkwardness of strangers learning to work together.

“You think it’s serious?” Sakura asked after a pause.

Chaewon exhaled quietly, leaning back against the mirror. “I don’t know, but it’s definitely not nothing.”

Sakura hummed in agreement, crossing her arms. “Should we say something?”

“Not yet,” Chaewon replied after a moment of thought. “They’re not making it anyone else’s problem yet. But if it starts affecting the group, we’ll have to step in.”

Sakura’s gaze lingered on Kazuha, who had finished tying her shoes and was now leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, her expression unreadable. “You think it’s awkward ex energy?” she asked, half-joking but with a flicker of curiosity.

Chaewon smirked faintly, shaking her head. “I’m not playing detective. But whatever it is, they need to figure it out.”

“Maybe we should lock them in a room together,” Sakura said dryly.

Chaewon snorted, shooting her a sidelong glance. “Let’s try not to escalate things just yet.”

The two lapsed into a comfortable silence, though Chaewon’s eyes drifted back to Y/N and Kazuha. She could feel the tension between them even from across the room, a charged undercurrent that made her uneasy. She just hoped it would sort itself out before it became a problem for the group.

For Y/N, every interaction with Kazuha felt like walking a tightrope. On the surface, they were cordial, exchanging polite words when necessary. But beneath the veneer of professionalism, there was a storm of unresolved emotions.

One moment, Y/N would catch herself watching Kazuha, her chest tightening with the remnants of affection she couldn’t quite bury. The next, the memory of their last goodbye would surface, twisting the affection into a dull ache of resentment.

Why was it so hard to let go?

It didn’t help that Kazuha was an enigma. She maintained a polite distance, never giving too much or too little. But Y/N could see the cracks in her composure, the fleeting moments when her gaze would soften, when her lips would part as if she wanted to say something but thought better of it.

One evening after practice, Y/N found herself lingering in the studio longer than usual, stretching out her sore muscles. She thought she was alone until she heard a soft voice behind her.

“You did well today.”

She turned to find Kazuha standing a few feet away, her hands clasped nervously in front of her. It was the first time Kazuha had spoken to her outside of practice instructions.

“Thanks,” Y/N replied, her tone clipped.

There was an awkward pause. Kazuha opened her mouth as if to say more, but the words never came. Instead, she gave a small nod and walked away, leaving Y/N with a swirl of frustration and confusion.

By the end of the following week, the rest of the group had picked up on the awkward dynamic. Eunchae, ever the curious and straightforward maknae, was the first to address it, albeit clumsily.

“Unnie,” she said one afternoon, plopping down beside Y/N during a break. “Why are you and Kazuha unnie so weird with each other?”

Y/N choked on her water, her eyes widening in surprise. “Weird? We’re not weird.”

Eunchae tilted her head, unconvinced. “You don’t talk much. And when you do, it’s all… stiff.”

Before Y/N could respond, Yunjin sauntered over, grinning. “Don’t mind Eunchae. She’s just nosy.”

“I’m not nosy!” Eunchae protested.

“You kind of are,” Yunjin teased before turning to Y/N. “But she’s not wrong. You and Zuha have been... tense.”

Y/N bristled, unsure of how to respond. She hated that their tension was becoming so obvious, but what could she say? That the girl she was avoiding was also the girl who had once held her heart?

“It’s nothing,” Y/N said finally, standing up and brushing off her leggings. “We’re just adjusting. That’s all.”

Kazuha wasn’t faring much better. She kept her distance, not because she wanted to but because she didn’t know how to bridge the gap. Every time she looked at Y/N, she was reminded of the past.

She wanted to apologize, to explain, to somehow make things right. But every time she tried, the words got stuck in her throat. What could she possibly say that wouldn’t sound hollow?

One night, as she sat alone in her dorm room, she stared at her phone, her thumb hovering over Y/N’s contact. She had never deleted the number, though she hadn’t used it in over a year.

“I’m sorry. Can we talk? Let me explain.” The words sat in the message box, stark and inadequate.

With a frustrated sigh, she deleted the message and tossed her phone aside. Apologizing wouldn’t change the past. It wouldn’t erase the hurt she had caused.

For now, all she could do was focus on the work and hope that time would dull the edges of their shared pain.

The final straw came after a particularly grueling practice session. Chaewon called for a break, and while the others dispersed to grab water or collapse onto the floor, she motioned for Sakura to follow her.

“Kazuha,” Chaewon called softly, her voice cutting through the chatter.

Kazuha looked up from where she was sitting, her expression calm but guarded. “Yes, unnie?”

“Can we talk for a minute?” Chaewon asked, her tone gentle but firm.

Sakura leaned against the mirror, her arms crossed as Kazuha hesitated before nodding. The three moved to a quieter corner of the room, away from the others’ prying eyes.

“What’s going on with you and Y/N?” Chaewon asked directly, her eyes fixed on Kazuha.

Kazuha’s posture stiffened, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. “What do you mean?” she said carefully, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her.

Chaewon sighed, her expression softening. “You know what I mean. This tension between you two, it’s getting harder to ignore. It’s affecting the energy in the room.”

“We’re not asking to pry,” Sakura added, her tone calm but insistent. “But if there’s something unresolved, it’s better to deal with it now before it starts affecting the group.”

For a moment, Kazuha said nothing, her gaze dropping to the floor. She seemed to be waging an internal battle, her jaw tightening as she struggled to find the words. Finally, she exhaled a shaky breath.

“Y/N and I… we knew each other before,” she admitted quietly.

Sakura and Chaewon exchanged a glance but remained silent, waiting for her to continue.

“We were close,” Kazuha continued, her voice tinged with guilt. “Back when we were both training in ballet. She… she confessed to me.”

Chaewon’s brow furrowed slightly. “And?”

Kazuha swallowed hard. “I didn’t handle it well. I was overwhelmed, and then I got the offer to train in Korea. I left without… without really talking to her about it. I thought it was the right thing to do at the time, but looking back, I know I hurt her. Badly.”

Sakura’s expression softened, a hint of understanding in her eyes. “And now that you’re working together again, it’s bringing all of that back.”

Kazuha nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “I want to apologize, but… I don’t know how.”

Chaewon placed a comforting hand on Kazuha’s shoulder. “You can’t change the past, but if you’re serious about making things right, you need to be honest with her. Avoiding the issue is only making it worse for both of you.”

Kazuha nodded, though her face was shadowed with uncertainty.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, Eunchae had planted herself beside Y/N, her wide eyes studying her unnie with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

“You’re not yourself today,” Eunchae said, her voice light but probing.

Y/N sighed, running a hand through her hair. “I’m just tired. That’s all.”

Yunjin joined them, plopping down on the floor with a dramatic groan. “Tired or avoiding something?”

Y/N shot her a sharp look, but Yunjin’s grin was disarming. “Don’t give me that face,” she said. “It’s written all over you. Something’s bothering you.”

“It’s nothing,” Y/N insisted, though her voice lacked conviction.

Eunchae tilted her head, her tone uncharacteristically serious. “Is it about Kazuha unnie?”

Y/N stiffened, her eyes darting toward the younger girl. “Why would you say that?”

“Because you’re weird around her,” Eunchae said simply.

Yunjin chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Subtle, Eunchae. Really subtle.”

Y/N sighed again, this time heavier. “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated how?” Yunjin asked gently.

Y/N hesitated, her gaze dropping to the floor. For a moment, she considered brushing them off, but the genuine concern in their eyes made her pause. She didn’t want to unload everything, but maybe letting a little out wouldn’t hurt.

“We… have history,” Y/N admitted vaguely.

Eunchae’s eyes widened “Kinda. And it didn’t end well.”

Yunjin hummed thoughtfully. “Well, whatever happened back then, it’s obvious there’s still something between you two. Whether it’s anger, regret, or something else, it’s not going to go away unless you deal with it.”

Y/N bit her lip, unsure how to respond. Part of her knew they were right, but the thought of confronting Kazuha felt like reopening a wound that had barely begun to scar.

Later that evening, the group wrapped up practice, the exhaustion settling over everyone like a heavy fog. The mirrored walls reflected six tired faces, flushed with the effort of hours spent perfecting their routines. Slowly, the others began to gather their things, the hum of quiet conversation mixing with the rustling of bags and the clinking of water bottles.

Y/N lingered behind, her body stretched across the wooden floor as she worked through the tight ache in her legs. The solitude was welcome, a brief reprieve from the constant presence of her teammates. She needed these moments to collect herself, to push aside the day’s frustrations, most of which seemed to revolve around one person.

“Y/N.”

The sound of her name, spoken softly yet distinctly, made her freeze mid-stretch. She knew the voice instantly.

Turning slowly, she saw Kazuha standing a few feet away. The other girl’s posture was hesitant, her hands clasped nervously in front of her. There was something in her expression that Y/N couldn’t quite place, an almost fragile determination.

“What is it?” Y/N asked, her tone neutral but tinged with weariness.

Kazuha shifted her weight, her fingers fidgeting as if they didn’t know where to rest. “I… I wanted to talk,” she said, her voice steady but quiet.

Y/N straightened, crossing her arms. Her posture turned guarded, a wall of defense built in an instant. “About what?”

“About us,” Kazuha replied softly, the words almost lost in the stillness of the room.

Y/N’s jaw tightened. Her heart clenched at the word, a flood of emotions threatening to spill over, but she kept her expression carefully neutral. She didn’t reply, letting the silence stretch as she waited for Kazuha to continue.

Kazuha took a small step forward, her eyes searching Y/N’s face for any sign of openness, any crack in the armor. Finding none, she pressed on, her voice trembling slightly.

“I know I hurt you,” she began, her words deliberate, as if she were choosing each one with care. “And I’m sorry. I was scared, and I made the wrong choice. I shouldn’t have left without—”

“Stop,” Y/N interrupted sharply.

Her voice was calm, but there was a hard edge to it that made Kazuha flinch. Y/N could see the flicker of hurt in Kazuha’s eyes, but she didn’t let herself waver.

“Kazuha, I don’t need your apology,” she said coldly, her words cutting through the air like a blade.

Kazuha opened her mouth to protest, but Y/N didn’t give her the chance.

“It doesn’t change what happened,” Y/N continued, her voice gaining strength as her emotions boiled to the surface. “You left me once without a second thought. Do it again and leave me alone. We don’t need to be more than professional.”

Kazuha’s expression crumbled, the weight of Y/N’s words hitting her like a physical blow. Her lips parted as if to respond, but no words came. For a moment, she stood there, frozen in place, her usually poised demeanor nowhere to be found.

“Just drop it,” Y/N said, her tone quieter now, but no less firm. She turned away, grabbing her water bottle and towel as if to signal that the conversation was over. “It’s too late for apologies anyway.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Kazuha stood motionless, her hands limp at her sides as she stared at Y/N’s back. She wanted to say something, anything, to break through the wall between them, but the words stuck in her throat.

Finally, she nodded, the motion small and defeated. “Okay,” she whispered, more to herself than to Y/N.

As Kazuha turned and walked away, her footsteps slow and heavy, her chest ached with a mix of regret and determination.

She had known this wouldn’t be easy. She had known that Y/N wouldn’t forgive her overnight. But hearing those words, feeling the cold finality in Y/N’s voice, was harder than she’d expected.

Yet, beneath the hurt, a flicker of resolve remained.

She couldn’t undo the past. She couldn’t erase the mistakes she’d made or the pain she’d caused. But she could try to make things right in the present.

As Kazuha exited the room, the resolve in her steps began to solidify. She didn’t know how yet, but she wasn’t going to give up.

The pressure of the upcoming comeback was relentless. The group’s schedules were packed with rehearsals, vocal practices, and concept meetings, leaving little time for rest. Every moment was dedicated to perfecting their performances, and the weight of expectations hung heavily over all of them.

For Y/N, the intense workload was manageable, it was the simmering tension with Kazuha that made each day feel like a marathon. No matter how hard she tried to focus, Kazuha’s presence seemed to loom over her, an invisible yet suffocating force.

Kazuha wasn’t faring any better. Despite her best efforts to act normal, the unresolved emotions between her and Y/N were beginning to take their toll. Her movements during rehearsals became less fluid, her usually calm demeanor occasionally cracking under the strain. The rest of the group had noticed, though they tried to give the two space, hoping they’d sort it out on their own.

But the cracks in the group’s harmony were becoming harder to ignore.

The rehearsal room was filled with the steady thump of the track as the group worked through yet another run of the choreography. The mirrors reflected six bodies in motion, their steps sharp and precise. At least, most of the time.

“Y/N, you’re a beat late on the transition,” the choreographer called out, her voice cutting through the music.

“Sorry,” Y/N replied quickly, adjusting her position.

They started the routine again, and this time, Y/N made sure to hit the timing. But just as they reached the formation change, she felt a slight hesitation in her footing, her mind momentarily distracted. It wasn’t much, barely noticeable, but Kazuha caught it.

“Seriously?” Kazuha snapped, her voice louder than intended as they finished the sequence. She turned toward Y/N, her frustration breaking through her usually calm facade.

Y/N froze, her brows furrowing. “What’s your problem?”

“My problem?” Kazuha repeated, incredulous. “We’ve gone over this part a dozen times, and you’re still off. We don’t have time for mistakes.”

The tension in the room was palpable as the other members exchanged uneasy glances. Chaewon stepped forward, her mouth opening as if to diffuse the situation, but Y/N spoke first.

“Maybe if you weren’t so focused on criticizing me, you’d actually notice your own mistakes,” Y/N shot back, her tone icy.

Kazuha’s eyes narrowed, her jaw tightening. “This isn’t about me. This is about you not taking this seriously enough.”

“Not taking this seriously?” Y/N repeated, her voice rising. “I’ve been working just as hard as everyone else, so don’t you dare act like I’m slacking off.”

The argument escalated quickly, their voices cutting through the room like shards of glass.

“Enough!” Chaewon’s voice rang out, firm and commanding. She stepped between them, her expression a mix of frustration and concern.

“Both of you, stop,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “This isn’t the time or place for whatever this is.”

Sakura placed a hand on Kazuha’s shoulder, gently pulling her back. “Let’s take a breather,” she suggested, her voice calm but pointed.

Kazuha clenched her fists, her chest rising and falling as she tried to rein in her emotions. Y/N looked away, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, the anger still simmering beneath her skin.

The group gathered in a loose circle, the air thick with tension as Chaewon took charge.

“This can’t keep happening,” she said, her voice steady but firm. “Whatever’s going on between you two, it’s starting to affect the group. We can’t afford that. Not now, not ever.”

Yunjin nodded in agreement, her expression serious. “We all feel it. The tension, the arguments, it’s throwing off the energy in the room.”

Eunchae looked between Y/N and Kazuha, her wide eyes filled with worry. “Unnies, can’t you just talk it out? Please?”

Kazuha and Y/N avoided each other’s gaze, their silence speaking volumes.

Chaewon sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Look, I’m not asking you to magically fix everything right now. But if you don’t address this, it’s only going to get worse. You need to talk. Privately.”

Sakura added, her voice softer but no less insistent, “You don’t have to be best friends, but you do have to find a way to work together without dragging the rest of us into it.”

For a moment, neither Y/N nor Kazuha responded. The room felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for one of them to speak.

Finally, Y/N exhaled heavily, her shoulders slumping slightly. “Fine. We’ll talk.”

Kazuha nodded, her expression unreadable. “Yeah. We’ll talk.”

The other members exchanged relieved glances, though the tension between the two girls remained.

As the others left the room to give them space, Y/N and Kazuha found themselves alone in the studio. The door clicked shut, leaving behind an oppressive silence that neither of them seemed willing to break.

Kazuha stood in the middle of the room, her hands fidgeting at her sides, while Y/N leaned against the wall, her arms crossed tightly. Her posture was defensive, her gaze sharp and expectant.

Kazuha opened her mouth to speak but hesitated, her throat tightening with the weight of everything she wanted to say. Apologizing felt inadequate. Explaining herself felt impossible.

“I…” she began, but the words faltered, slipping through her grasp.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, her expression hardening. “If you don’t have anything to say, I’m leaving,” she said curtly, pushing herself off the wall.

“Wait,” Kazuha said, her voice trembling slightly. But when Y/N turned to face her, eyes blazing with a mix of hurt and anger, Kazuha froze.

The words she wanted to say, I’m sorry, I still care about you, I want to make this right, stayed lodged in her throat, trapped beneath the fear that whatever she said wouldn’t be enough.

Y/N shook her head, her disappointment evident. “That’s what I thought.”

Grabbing her bag, she walked to the door without another glance. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving Kazuha standing alone in the empty studio, her hands still trembling.

For a long moment, she stayed there, staring at the floor, her chest heavy with regret. The silence around her felt crushing, a mirror to the emptiness she felt inside.

The tension didn’t ease in the following days. Y/N and Kazuha’s avoidance of each other became even more pronounced, their interactions limited to what was strictly necessary. The rest of the group noticed the strain, their own frustration mounting as the two continued to dance around their issues, figuratively and literally.

Chaewon and Sakura had had enough.

“This has to stop,” Chaewon said during a rare moment of quiet in the dorm. She sat on the couch, her arms crossed as she watched Y/N disappear into her room without saying goodnight to anyone.

Sakura nodded, her expression thoughtful. “They’re like magnets stuck in reverse. The longer this goes on, the worse it’s going to get.”

Yunjin, sprawled out on the other end of the couch, chimed in. “We need to do something. They’re clearly not going to fix it on their own.”

“I agree,” Chaewon said, her tone firm. “But it has to be subtle. We can’t just sit them down and force them to talk.”

Eunchae perked up from where she was munching on snacks at the table. “What if we made it seem like part of a group activity? Something where they’d have no choice but to work together?”

The four of them exchanged looks, the beginnings of an idea forming.

A few days later, Chaewon announced the plan during a rare moment of quiet in the practice room. She stood in front of the group, hands on her hips, her expression calm but purposeful.

“We’re doing a team bonding exercise tomorrow,” she said with an air of casual enthusiasm, though her tone hinted at an unspoken determination.

“Bonding?” Y/N repeated skeptically, glancing up from adjusting her shoes. The word rolled off her tongue with clear doubt, as if the concept itself was absurd.

“Yup,” Chaewon replied, her voice light but firm. “Pairing up for trust-building activities. It’ll be good for morale.”

“Morale?” Yunjin echoed from the back, raising an eyebrow. “Whose morale is suffering exactly?”

Chaewon shot her a look, and Yunjin quickly raised her hands in mock surrender. “I’m just saying…”

Sakura chimed in with a knowing smirk. “Trust-building, huh? Sounds suspiciously like one of those ‘corporate retreat’ activities you see in movies.”

“Call it what you want,” Chaewon said with a shrug. “But it’s happening. Everyone needs to participate.”

When the pairings were announced the next day, the tension in the room was almost palpable.

“And the first pair is… Y/N and Kazuha,” Chaewon said, her tone deliberately neutral.

Y/N immediately frowned, her eyes darting to Kazuha, who shifted uncomfortably in her spot. “Seriously?” Y/N muttered, her voice low but sharp enough to carry.

“It’s random,” Chaewon replied smoothly, though the slight tilt of her head and the faintest quirk of her lips suggested otherwise.

“Sure it is,” Y/N mumbled under her breath, her skepticism evident.

From the sidelines, Sakura’s smirk grew wider, though she quickly disguised it with a loud cough. Eunchae, ever the enthusiastic maknae, clapped her hands together. “This is going to be fun!”

“Fun,” Y/N repeated flatly, already regretting her life choices.

The practice room had been transformed into a makeshift obstacle course, complete with low hurdles, cones to navigate, and mats scattered across the floor. It was a far cry from the polished precision of their usual choreography sessions, and yet, the stakes felt just as high, if not higher for Y/N and Kazuha.

The rules were simple: one partner would be blindfolded, while the other guided them through the course using only verbal instructions. It was an exercise in trust and communication, two things Y/N and Kazuha seemed to lack entirely.

“Alright, you two are up,” Yunjin called, gesturing for Y/N and Kazuha to step forward. Her grin was a little too wide, her amusement barely concealed.

Y/N sighed heavily, pulling the blindfold over her eyes with a resigned air. “Let’s get this over with,” she muttered, her tone laced with irritation.

Kazuha, standing just behind her, took a deep breath, her nerves evident in the slight tremor of her hands. She moved into position, her fingers hovering awkwardly near Y/N’s shoulders before she finally rested them lightly. Her touch was hesitant, as though she wasn’t sure if it would be welcome.

“Ready?” Kazuha asked softly, her voice almost tentative.

“Just start,” Y/N replied curtly, her arms hanging stiffly at her sides.

Kazuha’s voice was quiet at first, almost unsure. “Take a step forward. Slowly.”

Y/N followed the instruction, her movements cautious, her senses hyperaware of every sound and shift in the room.

“Now a little to the left,” Kazuha said.

Y/N adjusted her footing but paused. “A little to the left? Be specific. How much is ‘a little’?”

Kazuha bit her lip, the frustration bubbling beneath her composed exterior. “Two steps to the left,” she corrected, her tone sharper than before.

Y/N muttered something under her breath but complied.

As the course progressed, the tension between them grew thicker. Kazuha’s instructions became more clipped, her frustration slipping through with each correction, while Y/N’s responses grew increasingly pointed.

“Watch out for the cone,” Kazuha said quickly.

“Where?” Y/N asked, her tone edged with impatience.

“Right in front of you,” Kazuha replied.

“Great,” Y/N snapped as she stumbled into the cone. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

“I told you it was there!” Kazuha shot back, her voice rising slightly.

“Yeah, about half a second too late,” Y/N retorted.

From the sidelines, the rest of the group watched with varying degrees of amusement and concern. Eunchae’s eyes darted nervously between the two, while Sakura leaned against the wall, whispering something to Chaewon. Yunjin, meanwhile, was openly grinning, clearly entertained by the train wreck unfolding before her.

“Could you at least try to help me avoid breaking my neck?” Y/N snapped, ripping off the blindfold in frustration. Her tone was sharp, her patience worn thin.

“I am trying,” Kazuha shot back, her own voice rising. “But maybe if you’d stop being so difficult, this wouldn’t be so hard.”

“Try harder!” Y/N retorted, glaring at Kazuha. “This isn’t that complicated.”

Kazuha’s composure cracked, her frustration bubbling over. “Oh, because you’re so perfect, right? You think you’re the only one dealing with this? You think I don’t see how you look at me, like I’m some kind of villain?”

Y/N’s eyes flashed with anger. “Maybe if you didn’t leave me the way you did, I wouldn’t look at you like that.”

The words hit like a slap. Kazuha’s breath caught, her chest rising and falling as she stared at Y/N. “You think I don’t regret it?” she said, her voice trembling with barely contained emotion. “Every single day, Y/N. You think it was easy for me to leave?”

Before either of them could continue, Chaewon’s voice cut through the air like a whip.

“Enough!”

The entire group had stopped to watch the argument unfold, their expressions ranging from shock to exasperation. Chaewon, her patience clearly at its limit, exchanged a look with Sakura, who nodded.

“That’s it,” Sakura said, walking over and placing a hand on each of their shoulders. “We’re done letting this ruin practice.”

“What—” Y/N began, but Sakura cut her off.

“You two need to figure this out. NOW,” she said firmly, steering them toward the storage room attached to the practice studio.

“Wait, we—” Kazuha started, but Chaewon was already opening the door.

“In. Both of you,” Chaewon said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Yunjin leaned casually against the wall, her voice carrying an edge of humor despite the tension. “We’ll let you out when you stop acting like this. Good luck.”

The door shut with a resounding click, leaving Y/N and Kazuha alone in the cramped, dimly lit storage room.

The silence between them was deafening, broken only by the faint hum of the ventilation system. Y/N stood with her arms crossed, glaring at the floor, while Kazuha paced a few steps, running her hands through her hair.

“This is ridiculous,” Y/N muttered, her voice tight with anger.

“No,” Kazuha snapped, turning to face her. “What’s ridiculous is how you can’t even give me a chance to explain myself!”

Y/N’s head shot up, her eyes narrowing. “Explain? Explain what, Kazuha? How you broke my heart and left without even looking back? What could you possibly say that I haven’t already told myself?”

Kazuha’s jaw tightened. “You don’t think I wanted to stay? You don’t think I hated myself for leaving?”

“Then why did you?” Y/N shouted, her voice cracking as the emotions she’d tried to bury came rushing to the surface. “Why did you leave me if it was so hard for you? You made me feel like I didn’t matter!”

“That’s not true!” Kazuha yelled, stepping closer, her own emotions spilling out now. “You mattered to me. More than anything! But I was scared, Y/N! I didn’t know how to handle everything, and when the opportunity came to train in Korea, I thought it was the only way I could make something of myself!”

“You didn’t even try to talk to me about it!” Y/N shot back, tears stinging her eyes. “You just left! Do you have any idea how much that hurt? How much I hated myself for thinking I wasn’t enough to make you stay?”

Kazuha froze, her breathing ragged as she stared at Y/N. Her chest tightened, the weight of Y/N’s words pressing down on her like a crushing force.

“Y/N…” she began, her voice trembling, but Y/N cut her off.

“Don’t,” Y/N said, shaking her head. “Don’t say you regret it now. Don’t tell me you hated it, because that doesn’t make it better. It doesn’t change what you did!”

The anger and hurt in Y/N’s voice were like daggers, each word slicing through Kazuha’s already fragile defenses.

“I know I can’t change it!” Kazuha shouted, her voice breaking as the floodgates finally gave way. “I regret it. Every. Single. Day. You think it was easy to leave? To walk away from the person I—”

She stopped herself, but the words were already out there, hanging in the air.

Y/N’s eyes narrowed, her voice shaking with fury and something far more vulnerable. “To walk away from the person you what, Kazuha?”

Kazuha’s fists clenched at her sides, her emotions too powerful to contain anymore. Her voice rose, raw and desperate, as she finally let the truth spill out.

“The person I loved!” she shouted, her voice cracking as tears streamed down her face.

The room fell silent, the weight of her words settling like a heavy blanket over both of them.

Y/N froze, her heart pounding in her chest. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, as the confession echoed in her ears.

“You don’t get to say that now,” Y/N said finally, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and pain. “Not after everything.”

“I know,” Kazuha said, her tears falling freely now. “I know I don’t deserve to say it. I know I hurt you, and I hate myself for it. But it’s the truth, Y/N. It’s always been the truth.”

The raw sincerity in Kazuha’s voice pierced through Y/N’s anger, leaving her feeling exposed and vulnerable in a way she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in years.

“I don’t know if I can trust you again,” Y/N admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Kazuha took a tentative step closer, her eyes filled with a desperate kind of hope. “Then let me prove it,” she said. “Whatever it takes, I’ll prove it to you. Just… don’t shut me out completely.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The weight of their emotions, their shared history, hung heavy in the air between them.

The aftermath of their explosive fight in the storage room left Y/N and Kazuha emotionally drained but strangely lighter, as if the weight of their unresolved past had finally begun to lift. Neither of them had all the answers, but for the first time in a long time, there was clarity. They had finally said the words that had been trapped inside them for far too long.

The following days, the practice room felt different. The tension that had once hung over Y/N and Kazuha like a storm cloud was still there, but it was softer now, less suffocating. When their gazes met across the room, it wasn’t avoidance or anger that lingered in the air, but something closer to understanding.

It started small.

A quiet “Good job” from Y/N when Kazuha landed a particularly tricky turn in the choreography, her tone soft but genuine. It was a simple phrase, yet it lingered in the air, a far cry from the sharp retorts and icy silences of weeks prior.

Kazuha reciprocated in kind. During one grueling rehearsal, she noticed Y/N struggling with a sequence and instinctively reached out, her hand resting gently on Y/N’s shoulder. “Try shifting your weight earlier,” she suggested, her voice steady but kind. The advice worked, and Y/N’s smile, small but sincere, was enough to make Kazuha’s chest ache in the best way.

These small gestures, though seemingly insignificant, carried immense weight for the two of them. Each act of kindness, every shared glance, felt like another brick being placed in the fragile foundation they were rebuilding.

Their interactions, once tense and awkward, grew warmer, more natural. They began to talk during breaks, not about anything particularly deep, but enough to show the others that something had shifted.

It didn’t take long for the rest of the group to notice.

One afternoon, during a rare lull in practice, Y/N and Kazuha sat against the mirrored wall, quietly laughing over a shared joke about their last photoshoot. The sound was light, genuine, and startlingly out of place given their recent history.

“Are we dreaming?” Yunjin teased, watching the scene unfold with exaggerated disbelief. She clutched her chest dramatically, as though the sight of Y/N and Kazuha laughing together had physically floored her. “Is this real? Should someone pinch me?”

Sakura smirked from her spot on the floor, her legs stretched out in front of her as she leaned back on her hands. “Careful, you might jinx it,” she said, though the amusement in her tone was impossible to miss.

Chaewon, sitting nearby with her water bottle in hand, simply smiled. She didn’t say anything, but the quiet relief in her expression was unmistakable. The uneasy tension that had once plagued their dynamic was finally beginning to dissipate.

Eunchae, never one to hold back, plopped down between Y/N and Kazuha with a wide grin. “You two should argue more often,” she said, nudging each of them with her elbows. “It’s good for the group!”

Y/N rolled her eyes, while Kazuha let out a soft laugh, shaking her head.

“Yeah, sure,” Y/N replied dryly, though the corners of her lips curved upward despite herself.

Eunchae’s grin widened, clearly satisfied. “See? You’re already happier!”

For the first time in what felt like forever, the group’s dynamic felt easy again, like slipping into a favorite song after a long silence. The others didn’t press too much, knowing that the progress between Y/N and Kazuha was delicate, but their quiet support was felt all the same.

As practice ended that day, Chaewon gathered her things and glanced at Sakura. “It’s nice, isn’t it?” she said softly, watching as Y/N and Kazuha walked out of the studio together, their conversation flowing effortlessly.

Sakura nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah,” she agreed. “It’s nice to see them like this.”

As their friendship slowly mended, their synergy on stage grew stronger. The group was rehearsing one of the centerpiece performances and the sections that paired Y/N and Kazuha together took on an entirely new energy.

Their movements, once marked by tension and hesitation, became fluid and seamless. There was an unspoken connection between them that shone through in their performances, a connection that had always been there but was now unburdened by the weight of their unresolved feelings.

It wasn’t just their team who noticed.

Fans began pointing out their chemistry in online discussions and live-stream chats. Edits of their synchronized movements and subtle interactions started circulating, and while Y/N and Kazuha didn’t acknowledge it publicly, the comments brought a secret warmth to both of them.

Away from the cameras and everyone else, Y/N and Kazuha were slowly rebuilding the trust they had lost. It wasn’t easy, some days were better than others but the effort was mutual.

One evening, after a long day of schedule, Y/N found herself in the dorm’s cozy living room. The lights were dim, casting a warm glow over the space as she sank into the couch, a fleece blanket draped over her lap. She scrolled idly on her phone, letting the quiet of the evening soothe her frayed nerves.

She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t notice Kazuha until she was standing nearby, holding two water bottles.

“Oh,” Y/N said, sitting up slightly as Kazuha extended one of the bottles toward her.

“Here,” Kazuha said simply, her voice soft but steady.

Y/N accepted it, twisting off the cap and taking a sip. “Thanks,” she said, her tone light but genuine.

Kazuha sat down beside her, leaving a small but deliberate space between them. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The quiet hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen was the only sound in the room.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said when we were locked up in the storage,” Kazuha began softly, breaking the silence. Her gaze was fixed on the floor, her fingers fidgeting slightly with the cap of her own bottle.

Y/N turned to look at her, curiosity flickering in her eyes. “Which part?”

“All of it,” Kazuha admitted, a small, self-deprecating smile tugging at her lips. “How I hurt you. How I made you feel like you weren’t enough. You were right. I should have talked to you instead of running away. I should have trusted you enough to let you in.”

Y/N studied her for a moment, the sincerity in Kazuha’s voice cutting through the remnants of her lingering resentment. The vulnerability in her words was disarming, and for the first time in a long while, Y/N felt herself lowering her guard.

“You don’t have to keep apologizing,” Y/N said quietly, setting her water bottle down on the table. “I’ve already heard it. Now I just need to see it.”

Kazuha finally lifted her gaze, her eyes steady as they met Y/N’s. “You will,” she said with quiet determination. “I promise.”

Y/N nodded, a small, tentative smile softening her features. “Good.”

Another night, they found themselves sitting on the dorm balcony, wrapped in the stillness of the city night. The balcony wasn’t large, just enough for two chairs and a tiny table, but it offered a perfect view of the twinkling lights stretching out to the horizon.

The air was cool but not cold, and both of them sat bundled in sweaters, savoring one of the rare moments their packed schedule allowed them to breathe.

“I missed this,” Kazuha said suddenly, her voice breaking the comfortable silence.

Y/N turned to look at her, one eyebrow raised. “Missed what?”

“This,” Kazuha said, gesturing between them with a small, almost shy smile. “Talking. Laughing. Just… being with you.”

The words hung in the air, unadorned but heavy with meaning.

Y/N hesitated, her chest tightening at the vulnerability in Kazuha’s tone. There had been so many moments like this between them in the past, moments of quiet honesty that had felt so natural, so easy. Now, they felt like rare treasures, fragile but precious.

“I missed it too,” Y/N admitted, her voice soft. She turned her gaze back to the city lights, but the faint smile tugging at her lips gave away her emotions.

The confession lingered between them, but this time, it didn’t feel heavy or suffocating. It felt like a step forward, tentative, careful, but forward nonetheless.

As they sat there, the quiet stretching on, Kazuha leaned back in her chair and sighed contentedly. “I’ll keep saying it, you know,” she said after a moment, her voice playful but sincere.

“Saying what?” Y/N asked, glancing over at her with a curious smile.

“That I’m sorry. That I care about you. That I—” Kazuha stopped herself, biting her lip as her cheeks flushed faintly in the dim light. “That I want to fix this.”

Y/N shook her head lightly, her smile widening just a bit. “Just don’t mess it up this time,” she said, her tone teasing but carrying an undercurrent of earnestness.

“I won’t,” Kazuha replied, her voice steady.

It wasn’t just a friendship they were rebuilding, it was the foundation of something much deeper. Neither of them said it outright, but the shift between them was undeniable. The glances lingered a little longer, their conversations carried a tenderness that hadn’t been there before, and their moments of silence felt comfortable, not strained.

Still, some things remained unspoken. Beneath the surface of their growing connection, there was a tension, an unaddressed question neither of them had dared to voice. Y/N sensed it in the way Kazuha sometimes looked at her, as if trying to find the courage to say something more.

One quiet evening, as they wrapped up yet another day of practice, the unspoken question that had lingered between them for months finally came to a head.

The studio was dimly lit, the faint hum of the air conditioning the only sound after the music had stopped. The other members had already left, their chatter fading down the hallway as the door swung shut behind them.

Kazuha lingered, standing near the mirrored wall, her movements hesitant. Her fingers brushed against the hem of her hoodie as if she were trying to ground herself. Y/N, who had been on her way out, paused at the doorway, noticing the way Kazuha’s gaze lingered on the floor, unfocused.

“You coming?” Y/N asked lightly, her voice breaking the silence.

Kazuha’s head snapped up, her eyes meeting Y/N’s. There was something in her gaze, nervous but resolute, that made Y/N hesitate.

“In a minute,” Kazuha replied softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Y/N tilted her head, curiosity flickering across her face. “What’s up?” she asked, stepping back into the room and folding her arms as she leaned casually against the wall.

Kazuha hesitated, her hands fidgeting again. Her eyes darted toward the mirror before landing back on Y/N. She took a deep breath, as though she were gathering courage.

“I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” she began, her voice trembling slightly but carrying an undercurrent of determination.

Y/N’s brows furrowed slightly, her curiosity growing. “Thinking about what?”

Kazuha shifted, taking a step closer. Her movements were deliberate now, her gaze locking with Y/N’s. “I know we’ve been rebuilding things slowly,” she continued, her words careful and measured. “And I didn’t want to ruin that, but… I need to say this. Properly. This time.”

Y/N’s confusion deepened, her arms uncrossing as she stood up straighter. “Say what?”

Kazuha took another step forward, the space between them growing smaller. She clasped her hands together to still their trembling and took another steadying breath.

“That I’m in love with you.”

The words hung in the air, clear and unwavering, reverberating through the quiet studio like a delicate but powerful note.

Y/N’s breath hitched, her heart pounding as she stared at Kazuha. For a moment, her mind was a whirlwind of emotions, shock, warmth, a flicker of nervous excitement.

Kazuha, her cheeks flushed but her eyes steady, pressed on. “I know we said we’d focus on being friends again, and I don’t want to ruin that,” she added quickly, her voice tinged with nervous energy. “But I couldn’t keep pretending that my feelings weren’t still there. They never went away, Y/N. I know I should’ve told you sooner, back then, but I was scared. I can’t keep hiding it anymore.”

Y/N stared at her, her emotions swirling together in a chaotic but undeniable warmth. She could see the vulnerability etched across Kazuha’s face, the way her hands trembled slightly, the earnestness in her eyes as she waited for Y/N’s response.

For a moment, Y/N said nothing, and the silence stretched on, broken only by the faint hum of the air. Then, slowly, her lips curved into a small, genuine smile.

“I still have feelings for you too,” Y/N admitted softly, her voice warm but tinged with caution.

Kazuha blinked, her shoulders visibly relaxing as relief washed over her face.

“But,” Y/N continued, her smile fading into a more serious expression, “we’ve both changed. So much has happened, and I don’t want to mess up what we’ve rebuilt or the group.”

Kazuha nodded quickly, her agreement earnest. “I know. Slow is good. I just… I needed you to know. I couldn’t keep holding it in.”

Y/N stepped forward, the last bit of distance between them vanishing as she reached out to gently touch Kazuha’s arm. Her fingers lingered for a moment before she shifted closer, hesitating briefly before wrapping her arms around Kazuha in a soft, tentative hug.

Kazuha froze for a split second, surprised, before she melted into the embrace. Her arms came up slowly, encircling Y/N in return. The warmth of the hug felt like a balm, soothing the unspoken pain they had both carried for so long.

“Thank you for telling me,” Y/N murmured, her voice steady but warm, her words muffled slightly against Kazuha’s shoulder.

Kazuha’s lips curved into a soft smile, a faint pink coloring her cheeks as she held Y/N a little closer. She hesitated for only a moment before leaning down and pressing a gentle kiss to Y/N’s temple, the gesture filled with quiet affection.

Y/N pulled back just enough to meet Kazuha’s gaze, their faces inches apart. The moment lingered, the air between them charged with something tender and unspoken.

After a beat, Y/N smiled, a small, genuine smile that lit up her face. “Come on,” she said softly, her tone lightening as she stepped back, though her hand briefly squeezed Kazuha’s arm before letting go. “The others are probably wondering what we’re doing.”

Kazuha let out a small laugh, the sound carrying a newfound ease. “You’re probably right,” she said, her voice soft.

As they walked out of the studio together, side by side, there was a quiet but undeniable shift between them, one that neither of them could deny.

Months later, the group stood backstage, their hearts racing as the deafening roar of fans filled the arena. It was the encore of their first major concert, and the sheer energy in the air was electric, a palpable buzz that made every moment feel larger than life.

Y/N stood near the back of the group, adjusting her in-ear monitor as she took in the scene around her. The members huddled together, a mixture of excitement and nerves evident on their faces. Chaewon was at the center of the group, her voice calm yet commanding as she delivered a final pep talk.

“This is it,” Chaewon said, her gaze sweeping over each of them. “The last performance. Let’s give them everything we’ve got.”

The group nodded in unison, their determination shining through despite the exhaustion of the night. When the huddle broke apart, everyone began to take their places.

Y/N was about to step toward her position when she felt a familiar presence beside her. She turned to see Kazuha, her expression soft but purposeful as she approached.

“You ready?” Kazuha asked, her voice low but steady. She held out her hand, her fingers outstretched in a silent invitation.

Y/N smiled, her chest tightening with warmth as she slid her fingers into Kazuha’s. “Always,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, the world seemed to slow. The roar of the arena faded into the background, the chaos of the moment giving way to an intimate stillness that belonged to just the two of them.

Kazuha took a small step closer, her grip on Y/N’s hand firm but gentle. Leaning in, she pressed a soft kiss to Y/N’s cheek, her lips lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary. “Thank you for trusting me again,” she whispered, her voice carrying a vulnerability that made Y/N’s heart flutter.

Y/N’s cheeks flushed a deep pink, but she didn’t hesitate to return the gesture. She leaned in, her own lips brushing against Kazuha’s cheek in a gentle kiss. “Thank you for not giving up,” she murmured, the sincerity in her tone leaving no room for doubt.

Their moment was short-lived, interrupted by the familiar sound of Yunjin’s playful voice cutting through the backstage noise.

“Are we getting an encore or a love confession back here?” Yunjin teased, her grin wide as she leaned against one of the stage props.

The group erupted into laughter, the tension breaking as the lighthearted teasing spread. Even Chaewon cracked a small smile, though she clapped her hands to refocus everyone. “Alright, save the confessions for later. Let’s go.”

Y/N and Kazuha exchanged an amused glance, their hands still entwined.

Hand in hand, they stepped onto the stage together. The deafening cheers of the crowd enveloped them like a tidal wave, the sheer energy of the moment sending chills down Y/N’s spine. The arena was awash in light, the glowsticks held by fans creating a sea of shimmering colors.

The bright stage lights bathed them in warmth as they took their positions, their hands finally parting as they prepared for the final performance. Y/N glanced at Kazuha one last time before the music began, a small smile tugging at her lips.

And then the song started, the beat pounding through the speakers as the group moved in perfect unison. Y/N and Kazuha danced side by side, not just as performers, but as partners once more, bound by a connection that had withstood distance, heartbreak, and time.

The encore was electric, a culmination of their hard work and the love they shared with their fans. The cheers grew louder with each beat, and as Y/N and Kazuha exchanged a brief but meaningful glance in the middle of the routine, Y/N felt a sense of peace she hadn’t known in years.

They weren’t just facing the stage. They were facing the world. Together.

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