#they’re looking at each other 💔💔💔 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

trashytracktales · 7 months ago

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I need lando ANGST. Make me cry! But also smut! Goshhhh I need it. Something like they’ve been distancing each other and things have been so tense and one day lando catches reader getting herself off so he says ‘if you wanted me to fuck you all you had to do was ask.’ And then he ruins here. But lots of angst in the beginning. Ty I love you xx

Endings, beginnings | LN⁴

💌 REQUESTED by anon ──── Well. I was sobbing while writing this. Hope you're proud of yourself 💔

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𐙚 summary ──── They’re at a breaking point in their relationship, their stubbornness and jealousy pushing them so close to the edge. After agreeing to distance each other during an exhausting triple header, Lando returns home unexpectedly to find her in his apartment, trying to cope with his absence.

𐙚 pairing ──── Lando Norris x she/her reader

𐙚 rating ──── explicit

𐙚 category ──── F/M

𐙚 warnings ──── +18, mature/sexual content, angst, smut, toxic dynamics, emotional distress, descriptive language, masturbation, oral & fingering ─ (f)receiving, unprotected sex, swearing, potential relationship breakdown.

𐙚 word count ──── 5.1k

𐙚 date ──── Dec. 12, 2024

𐙚 a/n ──── This is my 10th work ayeee! Thank you guys so much for investing your time into reading my silly little stories, and for trusting me enough to bring your requests to life. I appreciate you a lot 🤍🎀

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IT'S LATE. THE kind of hour that turns Monaco into a still painting, muted and hollow, yet as breathtaking as ever.

Lando isn’t supposed to be home yet. The plan was to stay in Brazil for a couple more days after the race, but plans change when you're a professional overthinker. Somewhere between the chaos of three back-to-back races, he couldn’t stand the thought of another night in a hotel.

He needed to be in his own space so he could think.

The elevator ride to his floor seems like going on forever, his suitcase dragging heavily behind him, its wheels scratching aggressively against the polished floors the second he gets out of it. He’s expecting silence; an empty apartment, untouched, heavy with the ghosts of their last argument. But when he opens the door, the faint smell of her perfume hits him hard across the face, and his heart tightens.

His living room is dimly lit, the soft glow of a scented candle casting long shadows on the walls. A throw blanket is draped over the couch, and a half-empty mug of tea sits forgotten on the coffee table.

And then he sees her.

She’s curled up on the couch, wearing one of his oversized hoodies. Its sleeves cover her hands as she hugs her knees to her chest, her face partially hidden in the dim light of the room. Her hair is a little messy, and there’s a redness to her eyes that tells him she hasn’t been sleeping well — he knows he shouldn't, but he's glad he isn't the only one losing sleep over this. On a deeper level, it means they both care enough to let it consume them.

So, it has to count for something, right?

For a moment, he just stands there, staring. Then, the words spill out before he can stop them, or think of something else to ask, “Why are you here?”

Her head snaps toward him, her wide eyes betraying a mix of surprise and guilt. She looks like a deer caught in the headlights, frozen in place.

She straightens slightly, pulling the hoodie tighter around herself. “Lan…” she blinks in amazement, her voice barely audible.

“I just asked you a question,” he says, sharper than he initially intended.

He's not usually like this. But considering how they left things before he had to go, Lando is entitled to ask questions. It was her suggestion to separate, and finding her here only messes with his head more.

“I… know. I'm sorry,” she looks away, her fingers tugging at the hem of the hoodie. “I didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” his suitcase thuds against the floor while he fixes his eyes on her. “Why are you in my apartment? We said we’d take some time apart.”

Her shoulders hunch defensively, but her voice remains the same as he knows it — soothing, carrying so much tenderness that it could stop wars. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Lando exhales harshly, nodding while dragging a hand through his curls. “We agreed on space, remember?” he insists, “You can’t just show up here like nothing happened.”

“I didn’t—show up,” she snaps, her tone suddenly sharper. “I’ve been here for a while. I didn’t know you were coming back so soon,” she repeats.

“Okay, then. Let me get this straight. You're here, but you don’t answer my texts anymore,” he fires back. “Does that make any sense to you? ‘Cause it sure as hell doesn't for me.”

“I was going to,” she retorts, standing now, the oversized hoodie swallowing her frame.

Lando takes a step forward, his hands on his hips. “I don't understand you. I thought this was what you wanted,” he says, his voice quieter but no less intense. “Space. Time. A chance to figure out if we even work anymore.”

“Yes,” the girl agrees, “I wanted to figure us out, not pretend we don’t exist.”

Lando's voice rises, his frustration spilling over, “You think I’m pretending? I’m doing what I thought you wanted! Because every time we’re together, we just end up—”

“Fighting,” she finishes bitterly. “Yeah, I know. Do you think I enjoy feeling like this all the time?”

His shoulders slump slightly, the fight draining out of him. “I don’t know,” he admits, his voice softer now. “I don’t know what to think or do anymore.”

They stand there in silence, the weight of their shared frustration pressing down on them. She sits back down on the couch, clasping her hands on the edge of it.

When she finally speaks again, her voice cracks. “I don't want to fight, Lando. I’ve been staying here because I couldn’t be in my own place. Everywhere I looked, I saw you. I thought maybe if I stayed here, it would make sense to feel your presence, because it's your place.”

Lando’s jaw tightens as he lets her words sink in. The sight of her, wearing his clothes with tears in her eyes makes his chest ache. He wants to wrap himself around her and make sure nothing will ever hurt her again, but the ego works a double shift tonight.

Still, “I'm not mad that you're here,” he clarifies. “But why didn’t you tell me?” asks Lando quietly.

“I didn’t think it would make a difference,” she whispers. “I planned to leave before you… Well, it doesn't matter now.”

“See, that right there is the fucking problem. Of course it matters! Why wouldn't—”

“Because!” her firm voice interrupts him. “We keep hurting each other, and I honestly don’t think we'll ever stop. You’re stubborn and selfish, and I’m jealous, and we both jump to the worst conclusions about each other all the fucking time.”

Lando sighs, “Right,” he says after a pause, his voice laced with guilt. “I am stubborn and selfish,” he agrees, “I get angry too fast. Is that it? And you—you think I’m always looking for a reason to leave.”

Her breath catches as she looks down at a random point on the floor. “Aren’t you?”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. He steps much closer, his voice firm. “No. I’m not. But you make it so damn hard to stay sometimes.”

He regrets his words the second they leave his mouth. He's aware that she's not the only one to blame for the situation that they're in, but at the moment, he's making it seem that way. He can't look at her hurt expression, so Lando closes his eyes for a second, a long silence settling in the distance dug so deeply between them.

She continues to look at him, anger flaring in her eyes. “Yeah, well, you make it hard to trust you, Lando. Every time you’re away, I feel like I’m waiting for the other bomb to drop.”

He finally opens his eyes, rubbing a hand over his face. “Alright, what do you want from me, hm?” he asks. “I don't know what you expect me to do.”

Her voice breaks as she replies, “I don't have any expectations left. I just want to stop feeling like I’m losing you all the time.”

Lando’s face softens, the exhaustion from weeks of racing and months of fighting etched into every line. He steps closer, slowly, until he’s standing in front of her. He crouches down so they’re eye level, his expression conflicted.

Even as hurt as she is now, he is still amazed by her beauty. Gazing down at him, she spreads her legs gently so she could make more room for him in her space. However, she's doesn't dare to touch him, no matter how badly she needs to feel him, just to remind herself that he's real.

“I'm so fucking tired, baby,” says Lando, his voice breaking slightly. “Aren’t you tired?”

She nods, a tear slipping down her cheek. “Every day, especially when you're not here,” she chokes out. “But I still want to try. God, Lando, I can’t imagine not trying.”

His hands reach for hers almost instinctively, but he acts with the same hesitation, pulling back at the last second. She notices, the flicker of hurt on her face evident in the way she squeezes her eyes shut, only to erase that image from her memory.

They sit in silence for a while, the air thick with unresolved issues and the weight of everything they can’t say. He studies her, trying to think ahead, but it’s impossible when she's like this — indecisive and lost.

Finally, Lando stands up, exhaling sharply. “I need a shower,” he mutters, heading toward the bathroom without another word.

She watches him go, her heart sinking. She’s still here, but somehow, it feels like she’s further away from him than ever. All she wants to do is jump into his arms and tell him she's missed him so much these past few weeks. Tell him how much she loves him, and that she would do anything to see him happy and satisfied with their life together. But she's too far away, and if she doesn't jump high enough, she could find herself free-falling, with no one to catch her on the other side. And that's too much of a risk, even for her.

When Lando comes back, his hair damp and his expression unreadable, she’s standing by the window, looking out at the city lights.

She doesn’t turn when he approaches, but she speaks softly, her voice small. “Do you even want me here?”

Lando freezes, her question cutting deeper than he expects. After a long pause, he answers, his voice low. “Of course,” he says. “But I honestly don’t think it's a good idea.”

She finally turns to look at him, her eyes searching his face. “Yeah…” the girl nods slowly. “I just—Lando. I can’t keep doing this if I’m the only one who believes we can make it.”

Lando nods. “Thing is, I don't know what to believe anymore,” he says honestly, his voice steady.

A simple truth that neither of them wants to acknowledge. But even as the words hang in the air, neither of them moves to leave. Because for all the pain, there’s still something tethering them together — something they’re both terrified to lose.

“I’ll take the couch,” he finally says, tugging the throw blanket off the armrest. His voice is flat, drained of the emotion that had filled it earlier.

“What?” she asks, startled.

“You can have the bed,” he clarifies, avoiding her gaze as he starts arranging the blanket. “It’s late. We’re both tired, and this… we can’t fix this tonight. We should rest and talk it out in the morning.”

She opens her mouth to protest, the words forming instinctively, but then she stops herself. He looks so tired, not just physically but emotionally. His shoulders are tense, his jaw set in that stubborn way she knows so well. He’s trying to create the space she's been asking for — not because he doesn’t care, but because he does.

“Okay,” she ends up saying, her voice small. Defeated. Once again.

At that, Lando turns to meet her eyes, his expression serious, almost distant. It’s a side of him she doesn’t see often, the version of Lando that’s careful and guarded. She hates it, hates the way it makes her feel like a stranger to him. But mostly, she hates that she’s the one who’s brought this out in him.

“Goodnight,” he says softly, his voice tinged with a finality that makes her stomach churn.

Alright then.

“'Night,” she replies, walking past him, their arms touching lightly.

She retreats to his bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her. The familiar scent of him — clean, musky, intoxicating but soothing, grounding her with its quiet presence and making her feel more at home than ever — wraps around her as she crawls into the bed they’ve shared so many times before. But it feels different now, colder, emptier. Foreign, somehow.

For a stupid, silly moment, she lets herself believe that things will be okay in the morning. That they’ll talk, really talk, and find a way back to each other. She clings to that thought as she stares up at the ceiling, her fingers clutching the edge of the blanket. But no matter how hard she tries, she can't shake the feeling that this is it.

Neither of them sleeps for hours after that.

IT'S FOUR IN the morning when Lando lies on the couch, his eyes fixed on the darkened ceiling as his thoughts race. He can hear the faint creak of the bed when she shifts, knowing she's not asleep, either, and it tugs at something deep inside him. He’s never been good at leaving things unfinished, and this is no different.

He pushes himself up from the couch for what feels like the hundredth time, his fingers curling and uncurling in frustration.

Maybe this whole thing was a mistake.

Maybe he shouldn’t have come home.

Maybe this is exactly why they need space, because when they're in each other's proximity, he simply can't think straight. Especially when she's just a few feet away, separated by only a simple door.

A door that masks the sounds of her soft cry.

Then, he hears the same faint sound, broken, but unmistakable. It cuts through his doubts like a knife through butter, sending a sharp pang of guilt and something deeper, a lot darker, straight to his chest. He hesitates for only a moment before moving toward the bedroom, his steps careful, almost hesitant. His hand hovers over the door, his heart pounding against his ribs as he takes a deep breath in.

Lando knocks softly, his voice barely louder than the quiet hum of the apartment. “Is everything okay?”

Nothing.

He knocks again, his jaw tightening.

The silence presses against him, thick and suffocating, until he can’t take it anymore. He twists the knob and pushes the door open, his pulse roaring in his ears as his eyes adjust to the dim light.

She’s sprawled on his bed, the sheets tangled around her hips, one hand clenched in the fabric while the other moves between her thighs. Her head is tilted back, her lips parted in soft, shaky gasps, and her eyes are squeezed shut like she’s trying to block out the rest of the world.

His throat goes dry, his emotions colliding in a chaotic storm of shock, desire, and something dangerously close to anger. Not anger at her — it never is — but at the situation, at the rift between them that’s left her seeking comfort this way. And at himself, for not being able to fix it.

He should walk away. He knows he should. But instead, he steps into the room, his movements slow and calculated as he crosses his arms over his chest, watching her intently.

Her eyes snap open, and for a moment, she looks utterly petrified. Her cheeks flush a deep crimson as she scrambles to sit up, her legs snapping shut as she fumbles for words.

“No, don’t let me interrupt you,” says Lando, his voice low and rough.

“You scared the shit out of me, Lando,” she stammers, her voice trembling. “I thought you were…”

Asleep.

“And I thought you were crying,” he says, wetting his lips. “Well, I was right in a way.”

The words hang heavy in the air, and she looks away, her hands twisting nervously in the sheets. He hates the way she shrinks under his gaze, but he can’t stop himself from taking another step forward. His jaw tightens again. He doesn’t know what to say or do, circling back to the same feeling.

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to feel, either — hurt, anger, longing?

So much lust.

The silence stretches between them until it’s almost unbearable. And then, finally, she moves, swinging her legs off the bed like she’s about to leave.

But he doesn’t let her.

His hand shoots out, grabbing her ankle and tugging her back toward the edge of the bed. Her gasp echoes in the quiet room, her wide eyes locked on his as he steps between her legs, his grip firm but not forceful.

“What are you doing?” she whispers, her voice shaky, a mix of uncertainty and... hope that she already knows the answer.

“Fuck if I know,” he admits. His hands slide up her thighs, spreading them apart again, and he drops to his knees in front of her. “But I can’t just… I can’t leave you like this.”

“Baby,” she breathes, her tone caught between a plea and a warning.

“Let me take care of you,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. “Please. I can't take this shit anymore.”

At the sound of his pleading, she reaches out, her fingers threading through his hair as her breath hitches. It’s all the permission he needs to press his lips to her warm entrance, soft and tentative at first, but when she arches into him, her body trembling beneath his touch, something inside him snaps.

Lando doesn’t hesitate once she gives in, her fingers tightening in his hair as her thighs tremble against his shoulders. His hands grip her legs, his touch firm but reverent, holding her open for him like he’s afraid she’ll change her mind.

The first swipe of his tongue over her slit is slow and deliberate, tasting her in a way that makes her breath hitch. He hums low in his throat, the vibration sending a shockwave through her that has her head falling back against the mattress.

“Lan…do,” her voice breaks on his name, a soft moan that sends a shiver down his spine.

“Always so sweet for me, love,” he exhales heavily, her scent intoxicating.

Lando's grip on her thighs tightens as he pulls her closer, his tongue moving with purpose now, circling her clit and flicking in a rhythm that makes her toes curl. The erotic sounds from between her legs make her close her eyes in pleasure, her pussy tightening around him with each intentional stroke of his tongue. He’s thorough, so meticulous, as though he’s trying to commit every whimper and every twitch of her body to memory.

“That's so good, Lan. Feels so good,” she lets out a string of moans, her eyes rolling as the air gets knocked out of her lungs. “Oh, god, I've missed your mouth so much.”

She traces her hand through his hair, holding him while her hips push forward, the bridge of his nose tickling her clit so sweetly. He wants to drown in her, to lose himself in the way she responds to him, every single time.

Each gasp feels like a lifeline, tethering him to something real, something he can hold on to when everything else feels so uncertain. Her fingers curl in his hair, tugging slightly as her hips begin to move against him, chasing the friction he so willingly gives. Lando's jaw clenches at the way she’s unraveling for him, and he redoubles his efforts, his tongue flicking faster, more insistently, as he pulls out to suck gently on her clit.

“Baby, please,” she's almost crying, her voice shaky, but still cutting through the air like a plea for salvation. “Need you… so close.”

Lando doesn’t stop. He can’t. Especially not when her legs start to tremble against him, her breathing becoming erratic as she teeters on the edge. Instead, he slides one hand from her thigh to her hip, pressing her down slightly to keep her steady while his other hand moves swiftly to where he has been tongue-fucking her. His long fingers slide gently through her wetness, curling inside as he finds the spot that makes her see stars.

She feels herself opening wider for him, then clenching harder while he adds just enough pressure to make her body tense, his tongue never ceasing its rhythm.

“Lando, I—” her words dissolve into a broken moan, and he knows she’s close.

His heart pounds in his chest as he keeps going, the sound of his fingers fucking in and out of her pussy blending so beautifully with the noise of his tongue lapping at her clit. He doesn’t care how long it takes; he’ll stay between her thighs forever if he has to. He won't move again until she falls apart beneath him. For him. Maybe then Lando will understand why he needs her so much, why the thought of losing her feels like losing a piece of himself.

When she comes, it’s like the world stops from spinning. Her body tenses, her thighs trembling as she cries out his name, over and over again, her release washing over her in waves. He should pull out and give her time to ride out her orgasm, but his tongue and fingers coaxing her through it, making her gasp for another breath, is sending shocks of ecstasy to his hardened cock. In his desperate attempt to relieve his pain, he rubs himself against the bed, but it is not nearly enough.

Finally, when her hands are falling limply from his hair, that's when Lando slows down his movements. He presses soft kisses against her inner thighs as he pulls back slightly, his hands gently stroking her soft legs.

“You alright?” asks Lando, his voice raw.

She looks down at him, her chest heaving as their eyes meet. There’s something vulnerable in his gaze, something that makes her throat tighten. His lips are swollen and glossy, his chin slick and glistening from her arousal. His breathing is as unsteady as hers, his chest rising and falling rapidly as if he’s just run a marathon. The sight of him like this — completely undone and yet so devastatingly composed — makes her stomach clench with need. More need.

“Mhm,” she manages, heat rising from her chest to her cheeks, while her hand involuntarily travels back between her own legs.

Lando slowly wipes the wetness from his chin with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving hers. The motion is deliberate, almost taunting, as if he wants her to remember every second of her high. Then he rises to his feet, his big frame towering over her as he leans forward, bracing himself on either side of her hips. Her breath catches as he hovers above her, so beautiful and wrecked, his face so close that she can feel the warmth radiating from his skin.

She expects Lando to kiss her, her lips parting slightly in anticipation, but instead, he tilts his head and murmurs, his voice a low rasp that sends a shiver down her spine.

“If you wanted me to fuck you, all you had to do was ask, baby,” his unfiltered voice makes her heart race in her chest. “I don’t care that we’re fighting. It doesn’t matter how tired I am,” he continues, his eyes dark and piercing as they lock onto hers. “I’ll stop anything, drop everything, just to fuck my needy girl, yeah?”

The bluntness of his words, paired with the raw intensity in his voice, leaves her momentarily speechless, the pads of her fingers collecting whatever is left from her release. She whimpers softly, her lips parting again as she brings her fingers to his, pushing inside his mouth while watching his pupils dilating. Lando sucks on them with the same thirst as earlier, biting softly when she tires to pull out. At that, something inside her snaps. She surges up, her hands gripping the back of his neck as she pulls him into a fierce, desperate kiss.

His lips are warm and soft, slick with the taste of her still lingering there, and she can’t help the way she moans into his mouth. He groans in response, deep and guttural, as his tongue slides between her lips, claiming her in a way that makes her stomach flip.

It feels like fire and desperation, like he’s trying to pour all of his frustration into one single kiss. When his tongue moves against hers, she whimpers, the sensation achingly familiar yet entirely overwhelming. It feels like he’s everywhere, like he’s consuming her from the inside out, and she doesn’t want it to stop. Ever.

“Lan,” she moans into his mouth, “Please…”

Her pleading seem to break something in him. Lando pulls back just enough to meet her gaze, his lips curling into a slow, crooked grin, making her realize how bad she's missed seeing it. There’s something tender yet profoundly sad in his expression, though, a quiet heartbreak that makes her chest burn.

“Please, what? Hm, what do you need?” he murmurs, his hand tracing a soft, reverent path down her body.

His fingers graze her collarbone, her ribs, her hip, each touch filled with a tenderness that feels almost out of place amidst the heat between them. But she doesn’t care about the sadness or the hesitation. Not right now. She arches into his touch, her hands clutching at his shoulders as she's whispering nonsense, too drunk on him to make more sense than that.

Lando’s breath mingles with hers, his lips brushing hers in the faintest of kisses as he whispers, “You aching for me, baby?”

Her nod is small, almost imperceptible, but he feels it, and his hand slips down to her hip, grounding her. The weight of his touch is familiar, comforting even, and it sends a tremor through her body that she doesn’t try to hide.

“Hurts so bad,” she admits, her voice cracking as her eyes meet his.

“I know,” he nods slowly, his voice thick with emotion. “Can I me make it better?”

“Always.”

He presses his lips to hers fully now, a slow, lingering kiss that feels like a balm against the ache between them. It starts soft, tentative, as if they’re testing the waters, but quickly grows deeper. His tongue sweeps across her bottom lip, and she opens for him, sighing into his mouth as he kisses her with all the longing, irritation, and so much love that he’s been holding back.

His hands move with purpose, sliding under the hem of her shirt — his shirt — and pushing it up, exposing her bare skin. She gasps as his palms graze her sides, his touch igniting a fire that spreads through her veins.

Lando pulls back just enough to tug the shirt over her head, his eyes darkening as he takes her in. “My beautiful baby,” he says, almost like he’s reminding himself that she still belongs to him and vice versa.

Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t look away. Instead, she reaches for him, her fingers tugging at the hem of his own shirt. He helps her, pulling it off in one fluid motion before pressing his chest against hers, their bare skin meeting in a way that feels like coming back home after a long, tiring trip.

They move together like this, slowly shedding the layers between them until there’s nothing left but their bodies and the weight of everything they've done wrong.

He lowers her onto the bed, his lips never leaving hers as he settles between her legs. The warmth of his body, the solidity of him, makes her feel anchored, even as the storm inside her threatens to consume her. And when he enters her, it’s heaven, deliberate, like he’s savoring every inch of her. She moans, her hands flying to his shoulders as he stretches her, filling her with his perfect length. He stills for a moment, his forehead pressed against hers as they both adjust to his size.

“Remember how easy it used to be?” he whispers.

She nods while his lips are brushing her temple. “Yeah. I remember.”

The first thrust is painfully slow, managing to pull a soft moan from her lips. But soon enough, Lando sets a rhythm, one that feels familiar, almost nostalgic, like they’re trying to recapture the simplicity of how things used to be. She matches him, her hips rising to meet his, their bodies moving together in perfect sync.

As the pace builds, so does the intensity and vulnerability between them. The kisses become messier, more desperate, and his thrusts deepen, driving into her with a force that feels like a mix of anger and love.

“I don’t want this to be the end,” he says suddenly, his voice cracking as her nails dig into his back, leaving crimson lines in their wake.

“No?” she asks, a little hesitant.

His movements falter for a split second before he recovers, his eyes locking onto hers. “God. No, baby,” he says, his voice thick with determination. “We can fix this. I swear we can.”

Tears well in her eyes, and she can see his own glistening in the obscure lighting. They’re both breaking, and yet neither of them wants to let go.

Lando thrusts harder now, the force of it making her cry out as her body arches beneath him. She meets him halfway, her legs wrapping around his waist as she pulls him deeper inside her, as close as humanly possible. The room fills with the sounds of their bodies slapping against each other, their breathing, and their muffled cries.

“I need you,” she whispers, her voice barely audible over the rush of their movements. “Like this, all the time. Only you.”

“You have me,” he replies, his voice breaking. “You’ll always have me, you know that.”

“Promise me,” she demands as she starts clenching around him, the heat building once again inside her.

Lando gasps at the feeling, fucking into her harder. “Shit, baby. I promise you. I promise.”

The weight of his words pushes her over the edge, her release hitting her harder the second time around. She cries out, tears streaming down her face as her body shakes beneath him. He follows moments later, his own climax tearing through him as he buries his face in her neck, his shoulders trembling with the force of it.

They stay like that, tangled together, their bodies molding into each other as they come down from the high. But the tears don’t stop. They cling to each other, crying softly as the reality of their situation crashes down on them.

“I love you so much,” he says, feeling her fingers tracing patterns on his back.

“I love you, too,” she admits without hesitation. “Do you think that's enough?”

Lando lifts his head, his eyes red-rimmed but full of a tentative hope. “No. But it's a start.”

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cloudyluun · 4 months ago

Text

Ruin me, Love me, Lose me| fratboy&playboy!harry

Summary: You hate Harry Styles. Or at least, you really, really want to. He’s the frat house king, the campus playboy, the smug asshole who always has a girl (or three) in his bed. You swear you’ll never be one of them.

And then one night, you kiss him.

And then another night, you sleep with him.

And then suddenly, you’re tangled in his sheets, in his arms, in his world, telling yourself it means nothing.

Until it does.

Wordt Count: 5k

A/N: Ah, yes. Another classic case of let’s make this as toxic as possible but pretend it’s fine because the tension is hot. This was supposed to be a slow burn, and then my brain said, “What if they suffered immediately instead?” Anyway, enjoy the angst, the mess, and the self-inflicted emotional damage. Love you, mean it. 💔 Based on this request!

Warnings:

Smut (18+ only)

Toxic relationships

Angst (like, a lot)

Jealousy & possessiveness

Alcohol use

Slight degradation & rough moments

Heartbreak (sorry in advance)

Some emotional whiplash

Questionable life choices

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

The party is suffocating.

It reeks of stale beer, sweat, and something obnoxiously expensive, probably the cologne of some guy who thinks dousing himself in Tom Ford will make up for his complete lack of personality. Bodies are packed together like sardines, moving in drunken waves, grinding against each other to the bass-heavy music blasting from the speakers.

You feel completely out of place.

And honestly? You couldn’t give less of a fuck.

The only reason you’re here is because your best friend practically dragged you. Come on, she had pleaded, hands clasped together like she was making a sacred vow. You never go out, you never have fun, and I swear to God, if you don’t start acting like a college student at least once, I’m going to lose my mind.

So, against your better judgment, you let her shove you into a dress and apply a little makeup, hyping you up like this was going to be some life-changing experience. Spoiler alert: it’s not. It’s exactly what you expected: obnoxiously loud, unbearably sweaty, and full of people who are so wrapped up in their own egos that they wouldn’t notice if the house caught fire.

You’ve only been here for an hour, and you already want to leave.

You retreat to the kitchen, seeking some kind of escape. It’s quieter here, if only marginally. The countertops are littered with half-empty cups and sticky spills that no one will bother cleaning up. A couple is making out against the fridge like they’re in a fucking movie, completely unbothered by the fact that people are walking around them.

And then there’s him.

Harry Styles.

You don’t have to look directly at him to know he’s there, you feel his presence before you even see him. It’s like the air shifts when he walks into a room, demanding attention without even trying. He’s exactly the kind of guy you can’t stand: arrogant, entitled, and so used to getting his way that he probably doesn’t even remember the last time someone told him no.

Everyone here worships him.

It’s disgusting.

You finally glance up, and there he is, standing just a few feet away, leaning lazily against the counter like he owns the place. He’s wearing all black—ripped jeans, an unbuttoned shirt that shows off just enough tattoos to make girls swoon, and a smirk that tells you he knows exactly how good he looks.

His eyes flicker toward you, and in an instant, you know exactly what’s coming.

“Y’look like you hate it here, sweetheart.”

His voice is smooth, like whiskey on ice, laced with just enough amusement to let you know he finds this entertaining.

You exhale sharply, unimpressed. “That’s because I do.”

Instead of being deterred, his smirk deepens, like he finds your resistance amusing. He steps closer—not enough to be invasive, but enough to make it clear that he’s testing you, waiting to see how you’ll react.

“Then why are you here?” he asks, cocking his head slightly.

You don’t take the bait.

Instead, you roll your eyes, brushing past him with a dry, “Because some of us actually care about our friends.”

You expect that to be the end of it. Guys like Harry don’t waste time on girls who aren’t immediately fawning over them. He could have any girl in this house—hell, most of them would kill for the chance.

But he doesn’t let it go.

He follows.

And when you turn to glance back at him, you find his green eyes locked onto you like a predator stalking its prey.

It’s a look you’ve seen before—the kind that says he’s intrigued, that you’ve just become a challenge.

And you know, without a doubt, that Harry Styles never walks away from a challenge.

You should have seen it coming.

From that night on, it becomes a game to him—one you never agreed to play.

He makes it his personal mission to get under your skin, to test your patience at every opportunity. It’s not obvious at first, just small things that could almost be coincidental. A glance held for a second too long. A smirk thrown your way when you pass each other on campus. An overheard comment about some girl he hooked up with the night before, loud enough that he knows you’ll hear.

You don’t care.

(You do.)

But you refuse to give him the satisfaction.

The second run-in happens at another party, because of course it does.

This time, you arrive more prepared—mentally, at least. You’ve made peace with the fact that these events are unavoidable, that your best friend will always drag you to them, that the college social scene is a relentless cycle of alcohol-fueled chaos. You can survive a couple of hours. You’ll drink just enough to take the edge off, then find a way to slip out before midnight.

It’s a decent plan.

Until you see him.

He’s lounging on the frat house couch like it’s a fucking throne, an arm draped lazily over the backrest, legs spread wide in a way that’s both infuriating and devastatingly attractive. He’s surrounded by girls—of course he is—all of them leaning in, waiting for his attention, laughing too loudly at things he hasn’t even said.

You roll your eyes and turn away.

You don’t care.

(You do.)

You tell yourself you’re imagining it, but you can feel his eyes on you as you move through the party, can sense the smirk tugging at his lips. He doesn’t call you over, doesn’t make a scene—he doesn’t have to. The air shifts when he’s near, gravity bending in his favor.

And then, just when you think you’ve escaped unscathed—

“Y’keep lookin’ at me, sweetheart.”

The words send a sharp, unwelcome shiver down your spine.

You scoff before you even turn around, willing yourself to appear unaffected. “As if.”

His grin deepens, slow and lazy, like he enjoys watching you squirm.

You hate that it works.

You hate that the sharp cut of his jawline and the teasing glint in his eyes make your stomach twist in ways that aren’t entirely rooted in hatred.

You refuse to play his game.

You take a step back, ready to leave, but before you can—

His hand catches your wrist.

It’s not forceful, just firm enough to make you pause.

And then he leans in.

Close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, close enough that his voice drops into something dark and slow, something meant only for you.

“You sure about that?”

The scent of whiskey and expensive cologne wraps around you like a noose, tightening around your resolve.

You rip yourself away from him, but it’s too late.

Your body has already betrayed you.

And it will again.

Another night. Another party.

By now, you should have learned your lesson. But somehow, you always end up here—another crowded house, another room filled with drunken laughter and cheap beer, another encounter with him.

It’s inevitable.

You don’t even know how it starts this time. It’s not some grand moment, not some life-altering realization. It’s just him—pushing, teasing, testing. Like he always does.

You’re in the kitchen again, arms crossed, a drink in your hand that you’ve barely touched. You’ve been avoiding him for most of the night, keeping your distance, but it doesn’t matter. He finds you anyway.

He always does.

“Y’gonna keep ignoring me all night?”

You don’t even look up. “That was the plan.”

A low chuckle, the kind that makes your stomach clench. “M’not that easy to ignore, sweetheart.”

Unfortunately, he’s right.

You take a slow sip of your drink, willing yourself to remain unaffected. “Try me.”

And that’s all it takes. That single challenge.

His eyes spark with something dark and dangerous. His smirk sharpens. And then—

“You act like you hate me,” he murmurs, stepping in closer, “but we both know that’s not true.”

Your fingers tighten around your glass.

“It is.”

“Liar.”

You finally look up at him, glaring. “Go to hell, Harry.”

He grins, cocky and infuriating. “Take me there yourself.”

And then—

It happens.

Fast.

Too fast.

One second, you’re standing there, glaring at him. The next, his lips are on yours.

There’s no hesitation, no slow build-up, no moment to think. Just heat.

His hands are in your hair, fingers tangling, tugging. Your back meets the nearest wall, the cold surface a shocking contrast to the fire raging between you.

It’s rough. Desperate.

You should stop.

You should.

But his body is pressed against yours, and you can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything except feel.

Your fingers find their way to the hem of his shirt, gripping it like a lifeline. His hands slide down, tracing over your hips, pulling you in like he can’t get close enough.

And maybe he can’t.

Maybe you can’t.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His lips are swollen, pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling in ragged breaths.

“Tell me you don’t want me,” he says, voice low, wrecked. “And I’ll stop.”

Your lips part.

To say what?

To tell the truth?

But before you can, before you even know what you want to say—

Your hands fist in his shirt.

And you crash into him all over again.

You pull away first, gasping for breath, your chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven movements. Reality slams into you like a freight train, but Harry doesn’t move. He watches you, his pupils blown, lips parted, his breath warm as it ghosts over your face. His hands are still on you—one firm at your waist, the other curled loosely around the nape of your neck. Holding you in place.

Like he’s afraid you’ll run.

Like he knows you want to.

A smirk tugs at his mouth, something smug and knowing. “Told you,” he murmurs, his voice rough, dark, like he’s just swallowed gravel. “You don’t hate me.”

You should.

You should hate him. You should push him away, put an ocean of space between you before this turns into something irreversible. Something you can’t take back.

But your body betrays you before your mind can catch up.

Your fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt instead of letting go. Your legs feel weak, but you’re not sure if it’s from the adrenaline or the way he’s looking at you. His green eyes flicker in the dim lighting, unreadable, but there’s something behind them—something waiting, something burning.

Something dangerous.

“This is a mistake,” you whisper, the words shaky, uncertain. You don’t even know if you believe them.

His thumb drags along your jaw, featherlight, and his lips barely, barely graze yours when he speaks. “Maybe.”

That single word is enough to send your stomach into freefall. Maybe. Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe this is the worst idea you’ve ever had. Maybe you’re going to regret this the second the sun comes up.

Or maybe you won’t.

Maybe you’ll regret it more if you stop now.

Maybe that’s what terrifies you the most.

Your body makes the decision for you.

His fingers slide down your wrist, tracing the delicate skin there before his hand finds yours, fingers lacing together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like they belong there.

And you let him take you.

The party behind you becomes a distant blur—flashes of neon lights, the thud of bass vibrating through the floor, drunken laughter echoing from downstairs. It all feels like it’s happening in another universe, detached from this moment. From him. From you.

Each step up the stairs feels heavier than the last, weighted with unspoken words, with history, with everything you’ve been pretending isn’t still there. The heat of his palm against yours sends sparks up your spine, and you squeeze your thighs together, ignoring the ache building in your stomach.

You don’t stop.

Not when you reach the landing.

Not when he leads you down the darkened hallway, past closed doors, past muffled voices, past all the chances you could have taken to turn back.

And not when he pushes open a door, guiding you inside.

Then—

The door clicks shut behind you.

The world disappears.

The second the lock turns, something inside you snaps.

There’s no hesitation this time. No second-guessing. No thinking. Just feeling.

Then he’s on you.

His mouth crashes into yours, rough and insistent, swallowing the gasp that slips from your lips. The kiss is nothing like the ones you’ve shared in the past—those were controlled, careful, measured. This? This is raw. Hungry. Starving.

His hands find your waist, gripping hard, pulling you flush against him. You can feel the way his chest heaves, the way his heartbeat slams against your own. Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging sharply, and he groans into your mouth, his grip tightening, like he’s trying to pull you even closer, like he wants to crawl inside you.

You barely have time to process before your back hits the wall.

You gasp at the contact, but he doesn’t let up. His lips trail down your jaw, hot and desperate, and when his teeth graze the sensitive spot beneath your ear, a sharp whimper escapes before you can stop it.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice wrecked. ��You have no idea what you do to me.”

His hands roam, sliding down your sides, gripping at your thighs, hitching them around his waist like he can’t stand the thought of any space between you.

You don’t think.

You move.

Your hands push his jacket off his shoulders, and he shrugs out of it without breaking contact. Your fingers fumble at the buttons of his shirt, but he beats you to it, ripping it open in one swift motion, buttons scattering to the floor.

Then his skin is against yours, and it sends a shockwave through your entire body.

Heat pools low in your stomach, a coil winding tighter and tighter with every brush of his hands, every press of his lips, every ragged breath against your skin.

Clothes disappear—hurried, impatient.

Your dress slips down your shoulders, pooling at your feet. His belt clinks as he unfastens it, the sound cutting through the heavy air like a gunshot.

You don’t stop him.

You don’t want to.

His hands grip your thighs again, lifting you effortlessly, and your legs tighten around him. You can feel him—hard, straining against the fabric still separating you.

There’s a pause, just for a second.

A breath.

His forehead presses against yours, his lips barely touching, his fingers digging into your skin like he’s trying to ground himself. His voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“Tell me to stop.”

You don’t.

Instead, you kiss him again.

And there’s no turning back now.

His body presses against yours, firm and unrelenting, as he walks you backward until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. He doesn’t let go. His hands are still gripping your thighs, still holding you against him like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

Then he lowers you onto the bed.

The world tilts, and the air thickens as he leans over you, his weight bracing against his arms, caging you beneath him. His eyes flicker across your face—like he’s memorizing every inch, every breath, every little way you react to him. His fingers trace up your side, slow and teasing, and the way you shudder makes his lips twitch.

“Still think this is a mistake?” he taunts, voice low and rough as his lips brush against your collarbone.

Your breath hitches, but you don’t answer. You don’t have to. The way your fingers clutch at his back, the way your hips shift beneath him, the way your body is already arching into his touch—it’s all the answer he needs.

He smirks against your skin. “That’s what I thought.”

Then he stops talking.

Because there’s nothing left to say.

It’s messy. Desperate. The kind of passion that comes from months of unresolved tension, from too much history, from too many things left unsaid.

He kisses you like he’s trying to claim you. Like he’s trying to burn himself into your skin. Like if he kisses you hard enough, you’ll never be able to forget this—forget him.

His hands are everywhere. Exploring. Learning. Worshipping.

Every brush of his lips, every drag of his fingers, every slow roll of his hips is deliberate, pulling you apart piece by piece. He takes his time, but not too much time—because patience is a luxury neither of you have tonight.

You feel like you’re unraveling beneath him.

He notices.

He thrives on it.

His mouth moves lower, teeth grazing, tongue soothing. His fingers leave fire in their wake as they trail down your body, mapping out every inch, every soft curve, every sharp gasp he pulls from your lips.

It’s intoxicating, the way he touches you—like he already knows what you need before you do.

He whispers your name against your skin, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

Your hands are greedy, desperate as they roam over him—his shoulders, his chest, the firm muscles in his back. You want to touch all of him. Feel all of him.

And he lets you.

He lets you pull him closer, lets you tangle your legs around his, lets you drag your nails down his spine, leaving behind faint, red lines that he’ll wear like battle scars tomorrow.

The room is filled with nothing but heavy breathing, quiet moans, the rustle of sheets, the sound of skin against skin.

And when it finally happens—when he finally, finally gives you what you both need—it steals the breath from your lungs.

It’s not slow. It’s not soft. It’s not sweet.

It’s raw.

It’s rough, desperate, punishing. It’s weeks of tension snapping all at once, a storm breaking, waves crashing, a fire finally given the air it needs to burn.

His name falls from your lips like a prayer, like a curse, like something you were never supposed to say out loud.

He groans, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath ragged. His fingers lace with yours, pinning your hands above your head. His body moves against yours in perfect rhythm—pushing, pulling, giving, taking.

It’s the kind of night that changes things.

The kind you won’t be able to take back.

The kind that leaves its mark.

And then—

Stillness.

Silence.

Just the sound of your breathing, heavy and uneven, filling the space between you.

His body is still pressed against yours, warm and solid and grounding. The weight of what just happened settles in, thick and undeniable.

You should get up.

You should leave.

But you don’t.

Instead, you stay.

Just for a little longer.

But "a little longer" turns into something else entirely.

Because it doesn’t stop at one night.

It should have. You tell yourself that over and over again. That night—the way his hands fit so perfectly against your skin, the way he pulled you apart and put you back together, the way his mouth made you forget your own name—it should have been enough. A single mistake. A one-time thing.

But it isn’t.

It’s never just once.

It happens again. And again. And again.

It’s always late. Always secret.

Always a text, a glance across the room, a lingering touch when no one is watching. Always a whispered come here against the shell of your ear, a door clicking shut behind you, a tangle of limbs in the dark.

It’s never soft. Never sweet.

It’s fast, desperate, all-consuming.

It’s hands fisting sheets, breathless moans swallowed into pillows. His body pressed against yours, heavy and unrelenting, holding you down, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

And he knows what he’s doing to you.

He’s filthy, cocky, teasing—he draws it out just to make you beg.

“Knew you’d be so fuckin’ sweet for me, baby,” he murmurs against your skin, voice rough, wicked, smug.

His rings feel cold against your burning skin as his fingers trail down your stomach, between your thighs, spreading you open like a secret. Like something meant only for him.

You bite your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a sound.

He chuckles, dark and knowing.

“This what you hate me for? Hm?” His lips brush against your jaw, down your throat, his breath hot and taunting. “’Cause I make you come harder than anyone else ever could?”

You hate him.

(You don’t.)

You hate that he’s right. That he knows he’s right. That he’s so good at this—at ruining you, at making you fall apart over and over again until you can’t think straight, until all you know is him. His name. His touch. His body moving against yours.

And every time, you tell yourself it’s the last.

That this is it. That you’re done.

That this means nothing.

And every time, you end up back in his bed.

But then you see him with someone else.

It’s late, the party is loud, and the music thrums through your body, drowning out everything else. You’re just stepping out for air when you spot him across the street. A girl is clinging to his arm, laughing at something he’s said, and his hand is low on her back as he leads her toward a car.

He doesn’t even look at you.

Doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t falter. Doesn’t even pretend to care that you’re standing right there, watching him disappear into the night with someone else.

And it shouldn’t hurt.

Because you knew he wasn’t yours. You never asked him to be. Never wanted him to be.

Right?

So why does it feel like the ground just cracked open beneath you? Why does it feel like something inside you just snapped?

You go back inside, down a drink, let someone else pull you onto the dance floor. You lose yourself in the crowd, in the music, in the way someone’s hands settle on your waist—too light, too unfamiliar.

It doesn’t work.

Because when he finds you later, when he corners you in a dark hallway, there’s still fire burning in your chest, in your throat, in the way your hands clench at your sides.

He smirks, like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just walk out of here with someone else a few hours ago. Like he knew you’d still be here.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” His voice is low, amused. “Jealous?”

The word makes you snap.

“You’re disgusting.”

His smirk widens, but there’s something behind his eyes now—something sharper, more dangerous.

“Funny,” he murmurs, stepping closer, eyes dark, predatory. “Wasn’t what y’said last night.”

He reaches for you, fingers curling around your wrist, but you yank yourself away like he burns.

“We’re done.” Your voice is ice, your eyes colder.

And his smirk falters.

Just for a second.

Just long enough for you to see something else flicker across his face—confusion, disbelief, something dangerously close to panic.

Then it’s gone.

And he laughs. Soft. Low. Infuriating.

“That’s cute,” he drawls, tilting his head. “Think y’can just walk away from me.”

You meet his gaze head-on, jaw clenched, shoulders squared.

“Watch me.”

Then you turn.

And this time—this time—you don’t look back.

Weeks pass.

You don’t speak.

Not a word. Not a text. Not even a glance when you’re in the same room.

And it’s fine.

It has to be.

You throw yourself into distractions—work, friends, nights out where the music is too loud and the drinks burn too much. You let other people flirt with you. Let hands that aren’t his touch you. Let lips that don’t taste like him press against yours in dimly lit corners.

You pretend you don’t miss him.

(You do.)

But you tell yourself this is better. Cleaner. Easier.

Until you start hearing things.

He’s been drinking more.

Fighting more.

Losing his temper over nothing.

You overhear his name in conversations, whispered between mutual friends. You see his face in the back of a blurry Instagram story, bottle in hand, eyes dark and unfocused.

And you tell yourself it doesn’t matter.

You tell yourself he’s not your problem anymore.

Until he shows up at your door.

It’s late. Too late for him to be here.

The knock is sharp, impatient. Like he already knows you’re home. Like he already knows you’re going to answer.

You shouldn’t.

You hesitate, fingers hovering over the handle, breath caught somewhere in your throat.

And then—

“Just let me in.”

His voice is quiet. Rough.

You open the door.

And he looks wrecked.

Tired. Haunted. Something’s different.

There’s none of the usual arrogance, none of the teasing smirk, none of the sharp-edged confidence that he wears like armor.

Just him.

His hands shoved deep into his pockets, his jaw tight, his eyes heavy-lidded and unreadable as they drag over you like he’s trying to convince himself you’re real.

Your throat tightens. “Harry—”

“I know,” he cuts you off, shaking his head. “I know, just—”

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. His eyes flicker over your face again, and for a second—just a second—you swear you see something crack.

And then he looks at you like that.

Like you’re his last fucking breath.

Like if you tell him to leave, it’ll break him.

And you cave.

You step aside.

You let him in.

And maybe that should be enough.

Maybe the way he holds you like you’re something fragile, the way his breath stutters when you touch him, the way his lips tremble against yours—that should be enough.

But it’s not.

Because fear is still there. Lurking. Poisoning everything it touches.

And you should’ve known.

You should’ve known that no matter how much he wants this, no matter how much he means it in the moment—

He’s still him.

And you’re still you.

And happy endings don’t exist for people like you.

So of course, he fucks up again.

Not with another girl. Not with whispered names and lipstick stains and the kind of betrayal that you could at least understand.

No.

This time, he betrays you with his own fear.

It happens fast. A conversation that turns into an argument, an argument that turns into something worse.

Maybe it starts because you ask too much. Maybe it starts because he’s never learned how to let himself have something good.

But all you know is that suddenly—he’s cold.

Detached.

Suddenly, his walls are back up.

“I don’t do relationships,” he says.

Flat. Emotionless.

Like none of it meant anything.

Like you don’t mean anything.

And it hits you harder than any slap ever could.

You flinch, like you’ve been physically wounded, like he’s just driven a knife between your ribs and twisted it.

Your voice shakes. “Then why did you tell me you loved me?”

Silence.

His jaw clenches.

But he doesn’t answer.

And that’s the worst part.

Not the fight. Not the distance.

The silence.

The fact that he has nothing to say.

And that’s when you know.

That’s when you realize—

This is it.

This is the moment he chooses to let you go.

You shake your head, chest heaving, eyes burning, throat closing up around the words you don’t know how to say.

“You don’t get to do this to me.”

But he already has.

And this time, you don’t give him the chance to stop you.

You walk out.

You don’t look back.

And he lets you.

Weeks pass.

You try to move on.

You tell yourself that you’re better off. That you should hate him. That you do hate him.

But then, one night—he shows up.

At your dorm.

At your fucking door, looking like he hasn’t slept, looking like he’s been through hell and back.

His hands are shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, his jaw is tense, his eyes are desperate.

And you—

You want to slam the door in his face.

You want to tell him that he doesn’t get to do this.

That he doesn’t get to come back.

But you don’t.

Because you need to hear what he has to say.

So you glare at him, arms crossed tightly over your chest, forcing your voice to stay steady. “What do you want, Harry?”

He exhales sharply. “I lied.”

Your stomach twists.

You swallow. “About what?”

He hesitates. Shifts his weight. But then—he steps closer.

“About not doing relationships.”

And suddenly, the air is too thick, too heavy.

Your head shakes. Your throat tightens. “You don’t get to do this to me.”

“I know.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “I know, I just—” He sighs, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “I was scared, okay? I didn’t know how to—”

A pause. A beat of silence.

He looks at you, eyes searching, pleading.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

Your lips part. But you don’t say anything.

Because after everything—after all of it—how do you know?

How do you know if this time will be different?

So you stare at him, pulse hammering in your throat, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.

And then—

“So prove it.”

The challenge hangs between you.

And for the first time in his life—

He doesn’t run.

He doesn’t push you away.

He doesn’t fuck it up.

Instead, he nods.

And he does. --

It’s not instant.

There’s no cinematic moment, no dramatic declaration in the rain, no sudden, sweeping realization that makes everything fall into place.

It’s slow. It’s awkward. It’s frustrating.

But it’s real.

The first time you see him after that night at your dorm, it’s different. He’s different.

He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t act like he already has you figured out.

Instead, he waits.

You’re the one who has to break the silence.

“You really think you can change?”

His jaw clenches, hands flexing like he wants to reach for you but knows he doesn’t have the right to.

“I know I can.”

And for the first time, you almost believe him.

It starts with the little things.

Like how he texts first. Every morning. Every night. Even when there’s nothing to say. Even when it’s just, Hey, eat something. Or, Are you sleeping? Or, I know you’re still awake, don’t lie.

Like how he shows up. Actually shows up.

Not just for the easy moments. Not just for the nights when he’s desperate for you.

But for the moments when you’re exhausted, when you’re in a bad mood, when you’re not the version of yourself that’s easy to love.

And he stays anyway.

The first time you test him, it’s almost accidental.

He calls, asks if you want to come over.

And for the first time, you tell him no.

A few months ago, that would’ve been the end of it.

A few months ago, he would’ve gone out, found someone else, let his frustration morph into recklessness.

But this time, he just exhales. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

A pause.

Then, softly— “Yeah, baby. That’s okay.”

And that’s when you realize—this isn’t the same boy who let you walk away.

He’s trying.

For the first time in his life, he’s trying.

It takes time.

Weeks. Months.

You make him work for it.

Because love shouldn’t be easy—not after everything.

Not after the hurt, the late nights spent waiting for him to choose you, the months wasted pretending it was nothing.

He should prove it.

And he does.

The first time he holds your hand in public, it’s instinctive. Thoughtless.

You’re walking down the street, talking about something unimportant, when suddenly—his fingers brush against yours.

And instead of pulling away, he just…takes your hand.

Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Like he’s not even thinking about it.

Like he’s not the same man who once made you feel like a secret.

You don’t say anything.

But you don’t let go, either.

And neither does he.

One night, he’s driving you home when he suddenly pulls over.

You blink at him. “Uh. What are we doing?”

His fingers drum against the steering wheel. He won’t look at you.

“D’you know the last time I did this?”

You frown. “Did what?”

“Took you home.” He swallows, finally turning to face you. “Last time, I let you walk away.”

Your stomach twists. You remember. Of course, you remember.

He inhales sharply. “Not this time.”

And then, he says it.

“I love you.”

Not because he’s scared. Not because he thinks you’re slipping away.

Just because he does.

And for the first time, you don’t have to question if he means it.

Because this time, he’s not running.

This time, he stays.

And this time—so do you.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️‍🔥

current taglist:

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#harry styles #harry styles fic #harry styles writing #harry styles x reader #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles x y/n #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff

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gpt890 · 3 months ago

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if I think too hard about Gayvincible & William I start throwing up and crying and screaming

I remember watching the ep in season 1 where Mark & Amber tag along with William to visit the University and I like Clutched my pearls so hard at this scene and turned to my bf like “THIS HAS TO BE WHY GAYVINCIBLE EXISTS…”

I didn’t Think this was gonna be a long form post but fuck I have a lot to say hold on

This scene in the Gayvincible-verse (spare me I literally don’t know what else to call it) to Me would read more so as William being not only shocked that Mark’s Invincible-but also getting a small crush on him for saving his life. I personally would like to imagine Rick is still there and he and William are still a thing, but maybe just not as emotionally invested? I can’t see William as a guy who swaps his interests so easily, so maybe he just has extra room to be attracted to Mark bc he’s not super serious about Rick.who knows anyone else cab see it differently it’s not canon I just like making my own personal canon

Then due to this new Romantic infatuation with Mark (specifically his super badass scary super hero side) William acts pretty much the same as he does in the normal episode but Tenfold-def tries to slip really bad flirting into there and Mark just. Isn’t impressed 😭in Maskless Mark’s universe specifically, I see his relationship with Amber crumbling partially due to him questioning his Own sexuality (his name is GayVincible. he likes boys only💔) and that of course frustrates him even more so in this scene bc he doesn’t know Why he’s staying with Amber if she seems to get so angry over things Mark *has* to do, and if he’s not even that attracted to her..!!!

That’s why I feel like in this universe Mark would agree to follow William to find Rick immediately instead of looking for Amber at the party. (Yes he flies William in costume to where Rick went missing and despite William’s worries about Rick he’s Extremely giddy he gets to be carried in Mark’s arms.) But to sync things up and make William getting restrained make sense, maybe Sinclair knocks them both out at first and restrains them both (to which Mark easily breaks out of the restraints bc duh). The three super humans would go to restrain him again, which causes the fight that happens in canon to break out.

A thing I like to think about the other Mark variants is that they’re all just a little bit more Viltrumite than og Mark is, who is closer to a 50/50 human-Viltrumite. Maskless Mark specifically probably isn’t too much more Viltrumite, but he’s closer to a 55/45 range.

That being said, Maskless Mark is Stronger than og Mark, and doesn’t get his shit rocked as hard by the super humans in this universe😭

When he knocks Rick’s faceplate off, William still attempts to reason with Rick, and admits to the “doing the dirty by the lake last summer” thing, but my freak ass likes to think that maybe….Thats what helps motivate Mark to kill this guy. I’ve seen a lot of ppl lean towards a more “yandere” trope for Maskless Mark, and while I wouldn’t say this is necessarily *That*, I do like the idea of him being extremely jealous…

All that being said, Rick *doesn’t* come back to consciousness anyways, so Mark *has* to kill him. And he does so by snapping his neck in front of William mercilessly 😭

Which leads to this very intimidating and yet. Intimate? Screenshot between them,,the aftermath of the college trip becomes that Mark comforts William the whole night, and can’t get himself to leave his side, even after Amber returns back to the dorm and he finds her asleep in Rick’s bed. Amber and Mark break things off at this point, and they are pretty much the same as they are in canon about it (not hostile or terrible to each other after the break up, just very very sad. Maybe a little less sad since it dragged on for less time here) And Eventually Mark gets with William. Probably post Nolan betrayal, as William is Terrified for his safety and Mark…is single and crazy in love with him.

However their relationship ends or William potentially dies is still a mystery to me-but that’s up for other Wark fans to decide I guess >;D

#wark #william x mark #i miss william #gayvincible #maskless mark #invincible #I’m still a Markrex main but I am partial to Wark specifically with Maskless mark🫡#they’re soooo silly #gptrambs #think piece #au #I guess?#invincible war #Invincible au #mark grayson variants #mark grayson #william clockwell #Maskless mark x william

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veryfruitywriting · 6 days ago

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even more headcanons of mac !

—from date everything—

it is currently 4:18 in the morning and i cannot fall asleep. i saw some cute fanart of mac and decided to write more content about them <3

this will probably be queued later in the morning hehe please ignore any mistakes as i’m just doing this as i go!

keep in mind this will be loosely based on their more “humanoid” forms that we see in the polaroids!

— it can be a bit tiring sitting in a chair all day, especially when it’s mostly forced upon you. you can’t afford those unique table that can change its height so being hunched over your desk will have to do for now.

— you can tell Mac gets tired of it as well. They have a comfortable chair and all—as it’s their only mobility—but the sound of just laying down and allowing their body to be one straight line sounds wonderful.

— you both look at each other and decided it’s time to take a break from the computer and its demanding duties.

— “after you,” you open the door swiftly, allowing them to wheel through and follow them to the living room.

— it was a daily routine now between the two of you. after hours of being glued to the screen, you both decide to wind down on the couch and take a breather. basking in each others presences during this downtime.

— you firmly lift them up from their chair and hold them close to your chest, planting a quick kiss on their jawline before falling onto the couch. a quick ‘oof’ and sigh was heard from you as you sunk into the couch.

— mac crossed their leg over the other as they adjusted themselves on your lap. their shoulders pressed at your chest and their head at the crook of your neck, they found themselves in a very comfortable position.

— you both talk softly. whether its about how tiring work is or plans for dinner, it didn’t matter. just hearing their voice was just enough for you.

— your eyes are closed while you two chatted. you were trying to heal your eyes from your bad habit of not blinking when it came to any large screen. you could feel air hit your now exposed neck as you felt mac lean back slightly. they were simply admiring your resting expression now. your slightly frowned eyebrows and your faint eye bags were the little things they loved to witness.

— you continued to hold them. your hand on their outer thigh and the other one at their waist. you know mac has a strong core and won’t allow them to slip off that easy, but you couldn’t help but be so physical with them.

— they are the same way with you. at this moment, they are currently brushing the strands of hair behind your ears, keeping them away from hiding any wrinkle or freckle that you were blessed with.

— and when they’re done with that, they tug at the fabric of your shirt. or possibly trace imaginary lines on your exposed arms. or might even mess with any wrist bands you may have. it doesn’t matter. they cannot keep their hands off of you.

— and neither can you.

it’s now 5am RAAAHHHHH. future me, was it worth it 💔

also i’m fixing the photos, themes, and possibly titles for my other hcs/posts so don’t fear!!! they’re just getting a little makeover! all of them are linked on my pinned <3

#mac date everything #date everything x reader #mac date everything x reader #mac nation #date everything mac #mac x reader #veryfruitywriting #date everything #5am writings #oh man #i feel myself getting tired so maybe there’s hope #ANYWHO #ENJOY

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loovser · 3 months ago

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the guy she was interested in wasn’t a guy at all - chapter 1

synopsis turns out the cute guy from the cd store is actually… a girl.

cw: heavily inspired in the manga with the same title if you couldnt tell, for obvious reasons ellie is often referred to with masculine pronouns (💔) just on reader’s direct thoughts about her or as she is talking about the guy from the cd store. cursing, ellie is down baaaad, cheap flirting (quite literally lol), conflicting thoughts, miscommunication.

wc: 2.9k

you found yourself at the same damn cd store you’ve been to the last five days, which is the amount of time you’ve acknowledged its existence. since you did, something — actually, someone — has been drawing you towards it day after day. you tell yourself it’s not that serious, you just need another rock band cd. who cares if you already bought four of them? you definitely don’t.

as the little bell above the door announces your arrival, ellie’s attention drifts to you. it’s like she’s been waiting for you to show up today, too. and she has. just like she waits for you to show up at the classes you both attend in college — not that she would admit it.

your heart flutters in your chest. you’ve never been this interested in someone before. like, ever. you’d even wonder if you are really into guys at all. but you never gave it that much thought, since you’ve never really been into any girls either… plus, you had other things to worry about.

but now? now, it’s different. there’s something about this guy that works at this cd store that has you wrapped around his finger. even though you’ve never seen his full face — because if you had, you’d know she’s a girl. that’s so fucking pathetic. is what you think every time and yet you can’t seem to get away from the grip those green eyes have over you.

“let me guess- another deftones cd?” is what she asks when she approaches you.

“actually… do you have any recommendations? i’ve been wanting to try something new.” smooth. you are proud to have come up with this excuse while thinking about how to get to know her better, during some random class. her eyes narrow a little and you imagine her smiling under the face mask.

“yeah, um… have you ever heard of sick habit?” she asks, leading you towards one of the smaller cd shelves. you follow, asking yourself how can his voice be so damn soft? which, honestly, just attracts you even more.

“i’ve never, actually.” you chuckle lightly and ellie almost gets stuck on the way you look when you do it. just like she did the other times she’s seen it in class.

she clears her throat, grabbing a cd from the bottom of the shelf, your chuckle still echoing inside of her head. “they’re great. you should give ‘em a listen”

“i definitely will.” your cheeks burn when your fingers brush as you take the cd from her hand. “how much is it?”

“it’s on the house. just tell me what you think about it after.”

your eyes widen at that. he’s giving it to me for free?! the thought makes you smile and ellie watches your reaction — silently thanking the universe that you can’t see how pink her cheeks turned under the mask.

“i… really?” she nods. “thank you! i’ll come back when i finish listening to it.”

she wants to ask why you don’t talk to her in class, but she keeps it to herself. “i’ll wait for it.” it’s what she goes for, instead. you’ve seen each other in class twice since you started going to the store, maybe you were just… shy? or you didn’t recognize her?

she watches as you smile at her and leave the store after thanking her once again. ellie didn’t want people from college to know she works there, — hence the face mask — but she wouldn’t mind it if you did. during classes she’s just someone that no one else seems to notice. and she likes it that way, it’s peaceful, doesn’t draw attention.

you, on the other hand, are the complete opposite. you draw attention everywhere you go, even if it’s unintended. you are popular in college, having your own group of friends and lots of guys drooling over you. not that you pay any mind to them, as you know what’s worth your time and what’s not.

as you walk to your apartment, you know exactly where your attention is going to be for the next few hours: sick habit’s whole discography. you were so excited about her giving you the cd for free that you barely said bye, not trusting yourself to be around her without stuttering or doing something stupid.

it’s so weird to think that someone you barely know can have this kind of effect on you. i know nothing about him! is he even a him? i never asked his name, never saw his face. he’s always wearing oversized shirts or hoodies and pants. i haven’t even seen his whole hair, always hidden in hoods or caps. is it short? is it long? you groan. overthinking is a bitch.

it feels like you are going crazy. maybe it’s all this mystery that attracts you. is it even healthy to be this obsessed over someone? you know it’s probably not, but at this point you don’t care anymore.

as you finally reach your apartment, discarding your shoes by the door, you sigh, quickly getting in and throwing your purse on the couch. there are so many things you should be doing instead of this. like the visual effects paper you kept postponing and is literally due tomorrow.

you huff, already plopping down on the floor, in front of the cd player. maybe you could ask that girl in your class, that sits next to you, to help you with it. or you should just be responsible for once and do it right now.

however, as soon as you press play and the guitar chimes in, starting the first song, you are sure that there’s no way you could stop now.

ellie is late. that’s actually an understatement, given the current situation. she missed her first class and is really late for the next one. which is VFX — visual effects. the only class that she shares with the film major students today.

which means, the only class she shares with you.

not that it matters, right? i mean… is she really that eager to see you? if someone asked it to any of the poor souls that have almost been dragged with her while she rushes through the dorm’s hallway, the answer would be yes. if someone asked her, though? of course not!

her wrinkled flannel and skinny jeans combo turns out to be quite comfortable for a little marathon, as she runs towards the class’s building. she spotted jesse, one of her only friends, near it. he mouthed a clear ‘what the fuck are you doing’ but she just signaled that she would text him later, entering the building and fleeing up the stairs to the second floor.

by the time she arrived the classroom, she was a panting mess, totally out of breath, hands on her knees as she tried to compose herself before opening the door. through the little glass window, she could see some students. she saw you.

big mistake, she felt even more out of breath. you looked so pretty, writing something down in a rushed manner, sitting on your usual spot. her chair, next to yours, empty.

she took a deep breath, running her hand through her short auburn hair as she entered the classroom, murmuring a tiny ‘excuse me’ and going to her seat.

of course she has to smell great, too. is what she thinks as she sits down, trying not to throw any glances at you. would you talk to her today? she hoped you would.

but as the class went by, you haven’t said anything. she couldn’t stop throwing glances at you. you caught her twice, the second time offering her a soft smile, which almost made her melt in her seat.

when Mr. Barbosa finished the class everyone started gathering their things to leave. ellie was no different — until one of your friends nearly yelled, making her freeze on her spot as she heard it.

“he gave you the cd for free?!”

he…? they must not be talking about her, right? she tries shaking her thoughts away, but couldn’t help hearing the conversation.

“that’s totally flirting! i can’t believe the guy you’ve been drooling over for days just hit on you during his shift.” your other friend adds.

what the fuck? it can’t be. you thought she was a guy? i mean… yes, she doesn’t dress all girly. and you can’t really see her face with the face mask on. but still… a fucking guy? really?

“you should ask for his number! what is the cd about again?”

“mmm… it’s from a really cool band. sick habit. i kinda listened to all of their discography on spotify, too” you explain, shyly. but genuine. ellie’s heart is beating so fast that she is having trouble hearing anything besides it, but she heard you.

she wanted to hear you telling her that later, on her shift. but she was so confused… she should just clear this all up. and that’s what she would do. she couldn’t lead you on, it would be so cruel. are you even into girls?

“you have such a weird music taste.” one of your friends say, giggling.

you don’t usually care about other people’s opinion, but somehow, when it comes to music, you’ve always felt so different from everybody else in your circle. they always point it out, too, which makes you uncomfortable.

“crap, leah, we have to meet jake at starbucks, like, right now. he’s got our stuff” your other friend pointed and they both said bye to you, rushing out of class.

ellie watches it all — the way your smile fades a bit when your friend says you had a weird taste in music. you really don’t. she thinks your music taste is fire.

she wanted to comfort you, somehow. her mind was a mess, not knowing if she should stay away from you or give in to her desire to get to know you better.

then, she sees it. your wired earbuds, dropped on the floor. she grabs them, getting closer to you. you get slightly startled, until you realize it’s her. ellie, the girl that sits next to you. she has green eyes, you would always see them through her glasses. cute freckles too, all over her cheeks and nose. and a lip ring.

you noticed her, sometimes. like, really noticed. she was pretty. but you barely talked. not because you didn’t like her, she was just usually very quiet. you even thought about asking for her help with your VFX paper, — which is still unfinished — but you didn’t.

she leans forward a bit, putting something in your ear. your earbuds. you didn’t even realize you had dropped them, since they are still connected to your phone, as ‘loser’ by beck is blasting through them and can be faintly heard by the both of you.

her fingers brushes at your ear, as she looks down at you. you freeze. her eyes, for a moment, really reminded you of the guy from the cd store.

“you dropped it.” she flashes you a crooked smile. “this song rocks, by the way.”

and with that, she’s gone. leaving a starstruck you behind.

you check your reflection in the mirror one last time, making sure you look good. you like the way your clothes fit on your body. you’ve worn this outfit a lot already — never to the cd store, though.

the time has come. finally you would go back there and see her again. it’s been so long (less than 24 hours). to be honest, time really seems to pass slower when you crave to see someone. and she hasn’t left your mind for even a second.

meanwhile, ellie was at the store since her classes ended. joel asked her to come a little earlier today to help him unpack the new arrivals and that’s what’s been keeping her busy all afternoon. which is great because she was almost going insane in her own head, thinking about what she should do about your… situation.

it’s way more complicated than she thought. because, even if she didn’t like to admit, she did care about you. so what if you barely know each other? you’ve always been nice to her — at least at the times you spoke to each other.

also, you guys share classes together. three, every week. she sits next to you in two of them. it would be so awkward if she just revealed herself to you. she tried imagining doing it naturally, just taking the mask off at some point. but she never did that, so it wouldn’t feel natural at all.

to be honest, she didn’t even know if she wanted you to know she is actually a girl. not a random girl, but your classmate. what if you stopped going to the store? changed your seat? just out of embarassment. ellie didn’t want that to happen.

she sighed, rolling her hoodie’s sleeves up, as she grabbed another box of cds to put on display, approaching one of the many shelves and kneeling down on the floor. she put the box down and took the nirvana cds, organizing them on the shelf.

the store is very cozy. there’s just something about it that makes her feel like she’s home. maybe the fact that her dad owns it? yes, that could be it, indeed. but she would like to work there even if it wasn’t joel’s.

music has always been a part of her life. a big one. all of her childhood memories are filled with songs. mostly rock ones. when she was little, joel and her uncle, tommy, were always playing something for her, letting her sing even if she didn’t really know the words. she grew up playing instruments and being surrounded by melodies.

since they opened Firefly, a few years ago, she would play among the cd shelves all day long, after school. the regular costumers adored her. some still do, visiting every now and then. she was so lost in those nostalgic memories that she didn’t even hear you arriving.

you recognized ‘tonight, tonight’ by the smashing pumpkins playing through the store’s speakers. not too loud, just loud enough to be comfortable and settle into the background. you smiled to yourself when your eyes laid on the figure knelt down in front of a shelf.

adjusting your purse, you made your way towards her. you took in her clothes, noticing something you didn’t see before. a tattoo, on her right forearm. a moth and fern? damn. it’s beautiful.

“i didn’t know you have a tattoo.” you say softly, making your presence known.

oh fuck. your words take ellie out of her thoughts, she turns to look at you. “you like it?”

“yeah, it’s beautiful.” you get closer to her and she nearly panicks, standing up.

“i was waiting for you.” it blurts out before she can stop herself. she wasn’t supposed to flirt with you, god. she should tell you the truth.

you blush at her bluntness. “have you, now?” you chuckle. “guess i couldn’t leave you hanging.”

“im glad you didn’t… so, did you like sick habit?” ellie asks, even if she already knows the answer.

“a lot. i had to listen to their discography on spotify after i finished the cd.”

“couldn’t get enough, huh?”

you almost shiver at the answer. why does he sound so good? “i guess not. in fact, i came here to buy another cd from them.”

“so you didn’t come to see me?” she teases, mentally facepalming herself right after. why the fuck can’t i stop flirting with her?

but then you chuckle shyly and she knows exactly why. she just can’t get enough of you, apparently.

“well, i… also want your number.” you shrug, trying to act nonchalant but your heart is beating like crazy. so hard you hope she can’t hear it.

talking about hearing things, you definitely didn’t miss the hoarse chuckle that escaped her lips. muffled by the face mask, but still there. your stomach might just fly on its own by now.

she pretends to ponder for a moment, just to tease you. she couldn’t really say no to you, could she?

“fair enough. do you know which cd you want to take today?”

“their second album.”

apparently, it was right next to your head, on the shelf behind you, as she gently sticks her tattoed arm next to your face, taking the cd and murmuring “great choice.”

you swallow hard as you stare at each other. it feels like everything around you just froze. her green eyes piercing through yours like she’s seeing inside your brain.

“there’s a girl in my college that reminds me of you.” you say, simply.

not imagining the turmoil it causes in ellie’s head. cursing internally and praying that you didn’t recognize her. but also…

she remembered me?

is what she thinks, before clearing her throat and answering “she must be pretty, then”

“cocky much?” you tease, but you are not denying it.

ellie laughs and your heart swells. “it’s $9,99” she hands you the cd.

you give her ten dollars. she writes something down and hands it to you. one cent.

and a card with her number written on it.

end notes: OKAAAYYYY so this was nerve-wracking 😅 this is my first work EVERR and english is not my first language so pls be nice 🤓 i hope you liked reading it tho, lmk if you did 💘

#ellie x reader #ellie x fem reader #ellie williams #ellie tlou #divider by fairytopea #wlw post #sapphic #wlw #ellie the last of us #ellie tlou2 #the last of us #the last of us 2 #tlou fanfiction #ellie williams fluff #lesbian #loovser #tgswiiwagaa

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slaughtame · 9 days ago

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Curt and Rod smut headcanons

note: In the toliet while writing ts 💔💔 (pun intended)

They probably be fighting on who gets to fuck your sex. Like this:

— “I called dibs on them!” Rod retorts back as he glares at Curt. But Curt scoffs at Rod.

— “But I’m like… seven minutes old than you! Yeah! So therefore I WILL go first, sorry not sorry!” Curt sticks his tongue out to taunt Rod.

They’re so competitive like it gets to a point where they actually start dragging you to their mess.

— “Y/N! Tell Curt that it’s my turn to fuck you!” Rod points at Curt who was already spreading your legs while you lay down on the mattress on your back. Curt looks at Rod with a pout.

— “No! You had your turn yesterday! Don’t drag Y/N into this!” Curt snaps back at Rod. And the argument CONTINUES for another hour.

Sometimes the two would joke around and throw some insults (playfully)

— “Hol hol up,” Rod stops thrusting to you and looks at Curt with a barely held in laughter expression. “Why the fuck do you moan like that?” Rod giggles when he sees Curt opening his eyes when his name is mentioned.

— “U-uh what? Their throat is good… like really good.” Curt scoffs, his cheeks flushed at a darker shade. “What do I moan like?”

— Rod begins to let out obnoxious wanton moans in the bedroom which almost made you crack up in laughter. Curt sees this and scoffs. “WELL GOD FORBID I EXPRESS HOW GOOD THEIR THROAT IS!” Curt yells at him, having no shade to throw at them anyway.

— — — —

— “Did you just said, “take Rod’s rod like a good pet”?” Rod scoffs at Curt’s attempt on dirty talking. “Say, “take Rod’s cock”. Ya pussy!” Rod laughs at his face while Curt playfully pushed him gently.

— “Shut up, I wasn’t thinking because I was lost in their freaking walls clenching down on me.” Curt tries to defend himself, despite coming off as poorly.

— “Aw, look who can’t say dick, Y/N!” Rod continues to egg on him because of that slip up. “DICK, BALLS, COCK, PENIS. THAT’S WHAT YOU’RE SCARED OF?!” Rod shouts out loud to purposely make Curt flustered.

— “Man, shut your bitchass up!” Curt says.

I don’t see them THAT kinky… I mean. They’re in the middle-ish and leaning more freaky.

Their kinks are:

Brat taming (both receiving and giving)

Praise kink (both receiving and giving)

(Slight) bondage play (both giving and receiving [but leaning to giving])

Dirty talking (both receiving and giving)

Teasing (both receiving and giving)

If you get hurt on one of their banters in sex, don’t like it, or whatever the reason that you don’t want them to be unserious. You guys have a safeword of it which is, “Curtains”

(This is different than the other safe word which is: “Red”, which means you wanna stop this intercourse)

After care with them is a solid 8/10. They’d give you check in’s or maybe offering to gossip with each other if you’re not tired. That, or you will get snuggled by them when you guys fall asleep.

#━ (っ'-')╮ ᯓ ✉︎ val talks #date everything #date everything smut #curt and rod #Date everything curt and rod #Date everything curt and rod smut #smut

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skullsfiction · 1 year ago

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locked in a closet | oscar piastri

pairing: oscar piastri x landos bestfriend!reader

summary: lando norris locks his two bestfriends in a broom closet in hopes that they’ll stop hating each other.

liked by, oscarpiastri, yourusername, and 438,626 others!

lando.jpg: how can i get my bestfriends to stop hating each other?

view comments below!

oscarpiastri: you can’t.

lando.jpg: ☹️

oscarpiastri: you can pout all you want. We will never get along.

lando.jpg: why must you break my heart 💔

user1: it’s been a whole year lando…i don’t think they’ll ever get along

user2: NEVER SAY NEVER

user3: oscar this, lando that, can we talk about how good y/n looks?? 🙄

yourusername: THANK YOU!! nobody appreciates my beauty anymore 😒😒

oscarpiastri: what beauty?

yourusername: die?

user4: LMAOO

yourusername: maybe if, he who should not be named, wasn’t so annoying, we could actually get along!

oscarpiastri: i’m not fucking voldemort you can say my name

yourusername: o-os🤮c-ca🤮🤮🤮🤮 no i just can’t.

oscarpiastri: oh and i’m the annoying one??

yourusername: yeah! you are!

oscarpiastri: @/lando.jpg control her.

lando.jpg: guy please, can’t we all just get along 😞😞

yourusername: how would getting along with he who should not be named, benefit me??

lando.jpg: it would make me really really happy 😁😁

yourusername: i couldnt give less of a shit about your happiness lando

oscarpiastri: see? She’s a horrible friend, me on the on the hand would never be so mean to you.

yourusername: you told lando he looks like big bird two days ago?

user5: for two people who hate each other, they sure do talk a lot…

danielricciardo: why do they even hate each other so much? 🙄🙄

lando.jpg: oscar spilled his drink on y/n the first time they met. he refused to apologize. she refused to forgive him.

yourusername: you forgot to mention that my shirt was $300 😐😐

oscarpiastri: FIRST OFF who in their right mind buys a 300 HUNDRED DOLLAR SHIRT???!?!? and SECOND OFF, IT WAS AN ACCIDENT!!! I refuse to apologize for something that wasn’t on purpose.

yourusername: this is why your mom loves me more.

oscarpiastri: she does NOT.

nicolepiastri: …

oscarpiastri: MUM????

yourusername: i know that’s right.

user6: oscar and y/n would be so cute together if they stopped being so IMMATURE

user7: they should just #kissandmakeup

user8: me patiently waiting for the enemies to lovers 🧍‍♀️

user9: you’re going to be waiting a LONG time…

charles_leclerc: i think it’s time to give up on the idea them being friends mate 😢

lando.jpg: I SAY WHEN ITS TIME

user10: charles is just sick of getting caught in the crossfire 😭

user11: OMG IM NOT THE ONLY ONCE WHO NOTICES THAT ???😭😭😭

user10: NOO I DID TOOO!! it’s like every time oscar and y/n are having a glare-off charles somehow ends up right in between them

user11: AND THEN HE JUST STANDS THERE LIKE 🧍‍♂️

maxverstappen1: just lock them in a room and let them fight it out 🤷

lando.jpg: wait a damn minute…

yourusername: LANDO NO.

oscarpiastri: absolutely not.

— y/n has posted new photos!

liked by, charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1, alex_albon, and 502,528 others!

yourusername: p2, and now movie night in max’s movie theater <33

view comments below!

user12: cutting oscar out of the photo is DIABOLICAL WORK 😭😭

user13: oh to be y/n l/n :((

user14: y/n is literally living the DREAM

user15: the way y/n made SURE you could see that she cut oscar out of the photo

yourusername; i have no idea what you’re talking about ?? 😓😓

oscarpiastri: get off your phone and watch the movie 🙄

yourusername: stop staring and me and watch the movie 🙄

user16: clock it y/n!!!!!

landonorris: did you really have to crop out oscar?

yourusername: yes!

user17: landos trying so hard 😞

user18: they’re all having a movie night 😞😞😞 ??

user19: I SHOULD BE THERE 💔💔💔💔💔

maxverstappen1: this movie is so funny!!

yourusername: it’s brokeback mountain?

maxverstappen1: and it’s hilarious! 😂

user20: MAX WATCHING BROKEBACK MOUTAIN ??!?!??

user21: max thinking brokeback mountain is funny is so him??

charles_leclerc: this movie is so sad 💔💔💔

yourusername: yeah charles we all see you crying :(

user22: charles crying over brokeback mountain is SO HIM!!

user23: is everyone just in there phones during the movie?? 😭😭

oscarpiastri: nope! just she who should not be named 🤷

yourusername: the unoriginality is disgusting!!

maxverstappen1: i’m going to, as the kids say, expose everyone. @/oscarpiastri has not stoped staring at y/n all night.

maxverstappen1: @/yourusername hasn’t stopped staring at a photo oscar on her phone.

this comment has been deleted.

maxverstappen1: @/landonorris has eaten 2 whole pizzas.

maxverstappen1: @/charles_leclerc is crying like a baby.

maxverstappen1: @/danielricciardo keeps awkwardly laughing at the worst moments.

maxverstappen1: @/georgerussell63 keeps taking photos of his abs

maxverstappen1: @/lewishamiliton is secretly wiping away his tears

maxverstappen1: @/alex_albon has been whining about missing ‘his lily’ all night

maxverstappen1: @/carlossainz has gotten up to pee 10 times in the past HOUR

maxverstappen1: and @/logansargent has been hugging a teddy bear for the past 2 hours.

maxverstappen1: that’s what you ALL GET for not having MOVIE THEATER ETIQUETTE AND BEING ON YOUR PHONES.

yourusername: damn okay….

alex_albon: can you go get me my jacket in the closet? i’m kinda cold 🥶🥶

yourusername: yeah sure? 😭

user24: something’s brewing..i can feel it.

landonorris: @/oscarpiastri can you go get me my beanie in the closet? my ears are cold

oscarpiastri: yeah sure

— 3 minutes later!

— 7 minutes later!

— 2 hours later!

— y/n has posted new pictures!

liked by, oscarpiastri, landonorris, maxverstappen1, georgerussell63, and 629,628 others!

yn.jpg: max’s door didn’t stand a chance against MY muscles 💪(ft, jimmy the cat♡♡)

view comments below!

user25: oscar in the likes?????

user26: wait a minute…

maxverstappen1: don’t worry i won’t make you pay for it 😚

yourusername: you locked me in a room with oscar. i wasn’t paying either way.

maxverstappen1: FINE. 😒😒😒

user27: did she just…say oscar name?

user28: in the whole YEAR oscar and y/n have known each other, y/n has NEVER said his name WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON

user29: something happened in that closet

landonorris: hello, i am lando norris, and i would like to publicly apologize for locking my dear friends (especially yn) in a closet. it was stupid and inappropriate of me. i hope to gain back their forgiveness.

user30: did y/n make you do this?

landonorris: no… (yes pls help she’s locked me in my room and won’t let me out)

yourusername; i’ll let you out once you’ve learned your lesson.

oscarpiastri: nice kitty.

yourusername: thanks!

georgerussell63: um, what the fuck is this?

charles_leclerc: maybe management took over oscar’s account?

oscarpiatari: no? it’s me?

charles_leclerc: oh! then what the fuck is this?

user31: something DEFINITELY happened in that closet. why are oscar and y/n actually being civil????

landonorris: i don’t know but it’s scary.

yourusername: do i have to confiscate your phone too?

landonorris: no! Sorry i’m learning my lesson 😞

carlossainz: hahaha 😂lando is such a loser

yourusername: do i have to take your phone to carlos? 🤨

carlossainz: NO, no i’m sorry 😔

user32: is it finally happening?…the enemies to lovers we all wanted 💔💔

user33: your telling me landos plan actually worked and y/n and oscar are being civil now ??

user34: dare i say…oscar and y/n would be a cute couple

danielricciardo: why are you and piastri being cool with each other?

yourusername: isn’t this what you all wanted??

danielricciardo: yeah…i guess we did…didn’t we?

landonorris: I KNEW IT WOULD WORK!!

yourusername: you’re still in trouble, come give me your phone.

landonorris: okay 😞

— oscarpiastri has posted new photos!

liked by yourusername, landonorris, maxverstappen1, and 727,918 others!

oscarpiastri: second date, kinda nervous. (she taught me that)

view comments below!

landonorris: second date and already making it instagram official? You’re so whipped 😒

oscarpiastri: didn’t you want us to get along better?

landonorris: yeah, GET ALONG, not GET TOGETHER 😒😒

user35: GET TOGETHER??? EXCUSE MEEEE

user36: THE ENEMIES TO LOVERS!!! IT HAPPNED IT FUCKING HAPPENED. FUCK EVEYONE WHO TOLD ME I WAS DELUSIONAL FOR SAYING THIS WOULD HAPPEN. GUESS WHO WAS RIGHT?? ME! I WAS!

user37: did i just step into a parallel universe where y/n and oscar are dating? because what the actual fuck is going on

maxverstappen1: 😨.

user38: SEE!! EVEN MAX IS ASTONISHED

user39; the period after the emoji is KILLING ME 😭😭

georgerussell63: Is that Y/n????? @/charles_leclerc

charles_leclerc: no? it can’t be?

yourusername: it is

charles_leclerc: AHHHHHHH

georgerussell63: AHHHHHHHH

user39: we did it ladies and gentlemen…after one whole year, the enimies to lovers has finally happened 🥲🥲🥲

landonorris: WE??? NAH BABY ME!! ALL ME!!

yourusername: heart heart

maxverstappen1: 🤨

lewishamilton: 🤨

georgerussell63: 🤨

landonorris: 🤨

logansargent: 🤨

charles_leclerc: 🤨

schecoperez: 🤨

danielricciardo: 🤨

carlossainz: 🤨

yukitsunoda0511: 🤨

fernadoalonso: 🤨

totowolff: 🤨

mclaren: 🤨

yourusername: OMG HE BOUGHT ME A REPLICA OF THE SHIRT HE RUINED, I FORGAVE HIM OKAY???

user40: only the seconds date and he’s already posting her?? oh he’s obsessed.

oscarpiastri: well, yes!

user41: 3 days ago they hated each other so much??? what happened???

yourusername: i’m a really good kisser

user42: DO YOU GUYS TGINK THEY KISSED IN THE CLOSET???

user43: maybe we do have lando to thank…

. . .

notes: one of the longest smau’s i’ve done! reminder that comments and reblogs are so greatly appreciated <33

#oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri social media au #oscar piastri smau #oscar piastri x y/n #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri f1 #oscar piastri #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 imagine #f1 x y/n #f1 social media au #f1 x female reader #f1 x you #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri fluff

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blue-jisungs · 1 year ago

Note

hi omg I loved all ur “u sleep with plushies” for each svt unit, may I req a hhu ver ??? all of the other units were so cute😭💗

you still sleep with plushies ♡

author's note. thank you hehe!!! it was so fun to do, sorry it took so long tho:(

vcu ver && perf ver

┆彡 SEUNGCHEOL [ 승철 ]

he never considered it a problem?

like he’s been at your place a couple of times and noticed the plushies, thinking it’s just really cute :(

i mean come on, some of his members heave weirder habits (like sleeping with their eyes open…)

so when you asked him if that bothers him, seungcheol was offended that you even thought!!! about it!!!

however . . .

when he does sleep at your place, you two all cuddled up and comfy

and then… he wakes up only to see your back

okay, it happens… maybe you were uncomfortable

BUT THEN HE SEES YOU’RE CLUTCHING A TEDDY TO YOUR CHEST!!! INSTEAD OF HIM!!

he’s so sulky, good luck with that …..

you explain that it’s just your comfort plushie and that you cuddled it out of habit :(

so cheol insists that he can be way better than it and begs you to let him stay one more night to prove his point ☝️

and he kinda does, he becomes your new giant, warm and loving teddy bear <3

┆彡 WONWOO [ 원우 ]

wonwoo noticed before you could tell him

well, you really thought you were slick when you didn’t bother hiding them because you hoped he’d think they’re there for the aesthetics

or when you two went shopping and your eyes widened upon seeing a cute plushie:(

yeah, he knows

but he thinks it’s really cute, especially if you have that one specific plushie ever since you could remember and you always sleep with it

so not to make a fool out of yourself in front of his friends, you don’t take it with you when you go on a trip with them

after whole day of fun, it’s time to sleep in the cabin

and wonwoo notices that you’re constantly squirming around, unable to fall sleep

and you confess that it’s because you didn’t bring your plushie:(

so he offers to be the plushie for the night, reassuring you that he doesn’t mind and you can cuddle him as much you wanna

and that may have been a risky decision because ever since…… well, he is one of your plushies now ^__^

┆彡 MINGYU [ 민규 ]

you decided to invite your boyfriend over and share a secret with him

mentally, you got ready to get teased about it

but you when mingyu entered your bedroom he didn’t even notice the plushies 🧍‍♀️

he was just happy that u let him in your personal space and looked around your room with hearts in his eyes, like a kid in a candy store

"so you don’t mind the plushies?" you mumbled, plopping down on your bed and holding one for emotional support

"the pl– oh? ah, baby…" he groaned and swore his knees got weak; you’re just too cute for his own good

he doesn’t mind, at all - which you’re kinda surprised but happy

he does get pouty if you cuddle a plushie to sleep instead of him >:T

sometimes will spray his cologne on your (or his) favorite one so you could feel like he’s here when he’s out having schedules ☹️

might steal a one or two to his apartment, esp puppy ones 💔

┆彡 VERNON [ 버논 ]

i mean we all know nonnie, he’s really chill about everything (welp, except bugs but—)

so when you were facetiming him once and you noticed your plushies are on camera, you started panicking

"yo, what is it? did something happen?" he asked, noticing something’s wrong

"yeah… no… well…" you stuttered, not sure how to answer "did you see that?"

"what? that big spider behind you?" he stuttered and soon after laughed upon seeing your scared face "sorry, it was a bad joke… hey, don’t get sulky…"

"i meant my plushies…" you mumbled and pulled one closer

"oh them? yeah, and? you always have them. say hi to gerard by the way" vernon nodded

what.

there’s no gerard in your collection but later on you realised he meant (plushie name)

like really,, he doesn’t care in a way that – he doesn’t mind you having them

he does care about them, though :(

will put a blanket on them if he thinks they’ll get cold or carefully reads all the corners of the internet before putting them into a washing machine:(

masterlist <3

taglist. @mirxzii ,, @primoppang ,, @l3visbby ,, @nicholasluvbot ,, @planetkiimchi ,, @weird-bookworm ,, @slytherinshua ,, @kazmura ,, @laylasbunbunny ,, @mon2sunjinsuver ,, @eternalgyuuu ,, @rubywonu ,, @haecien ,, @mine-gyu ,, @nonononranghaee

2K notes · View notes

rapz-rites · 2 months ago

Text

Doing Better

Damian Wayne x Singer!Reader

After your and Damian’s breakup, you both think the other is doing better

A/N: This is inspired by all the TikTok edits I see to We Hug Now by Sydney Rose. If you haven’t listened to it before, please do. I don’t think I’ve seen anyone do this before, so I hope I start something. If any Tumblr writers see this and are inspired by it, plz tag me in your versions 🙏🏾

Word Count: 1.5k

Warning(s): heartbreak 💔

You needed to move to LA for your music, and Damian had responsibilities in Gotham, Robin and his father’s company. Long distance was NOT an option.

The two of you had done long distance for a slightly over six months, and it was horrible. You two were supposed to alternate weekends to visit each other, but due dates and missions, and life got in the way. So you ended up not seeing each other for nearly 4 months, and considering you saw each other every day for years, that was hard. That's why when you reunited, you both promised to never do long distance again.

Neither of you wanted to break up, but you had to.

I have a feeling you got everything you wanted

And you're not wasting time stuck here like me

You're just thinkin' it's a small thing that happened

The world ended when it happened to me

It's been roughly six months since the two of you broke up. You’ve moved to Los Angeles with your label to start producing music for your first album.

They never talked about how difficult it is as an artist. It wasn’t necessarily difficult, but a lot at once. Yeah, you've got to move to LA and do what you love, making music, but they barely talk about the negotiating at every turn, the amount of time and energy and money it takes to make and produce an album. Then you also have to promote it. Then there are the events. Being on social media as long as you have, you have made some mutuals and online friends, but that’s not much. Even though you talk to them at events, they have other friends that they’re much closer to. So oftentimes you’re just wandering alone.

But what they never talk about is the constant cameras in your face and the baseless rumors. Don’t even get started on the hate. It’s as if they have nothing better to do than hate on you for small, petty reasons.

But most of all, you missed him. You missed Damian. When you moved to LA, you got a cute, cozy apartment for yourself. You had to stop yourself from getting a larger one because you forgot Damian wasn’t going to be joining you. It was pet-friendly too for Titus and Alfred the cat. You would stay up late into the night waiting for a certain vigilante to come through your window, only to realize he wouldn’t be coming. He’s back in Gotham, and the two of you aren’t even together anymore.

But after a while, you got used to everything. The people, the events, your hectic schedule, and you went to bed at a reasonable hour.

Now, you wouldn’t say you were an obsessed ex, but you couldn’t help yourself. When you and Damian first started dating, your Google would slowly start suggesting news articles about the Wayne family, more specifically, Damian. Eventually, as time went on, you would look for the funniest article you could find and tease Damian about it. So naturally, when you opened Google and saw the words “Damian” and “Dating” in the same sentence, your heart dropped.

You and Damian had kept your relationship a secret from the media. Of course, your families and friends, including the League and other heroes, knew. The two of you didn’t want the press in your business and thought it would be easier on both of you. It was only a plus that you both also preferred calmer, more intimate dates. So you two would drive hours to get away for a weekend or go to hidden gems that not many people knew of.

Your social media always showed that you were taken, but never specified who, same with Damian. So when you were asked by someone about your dating status and you said you were single, your followers who were with you before you blew up flooded your DMs asking what happened.

You didn’t plan on dating anyone else anytime soon, or at all, even. You thought Damian would have felt the same, that’s why seeing that article was such a surprise. You didn’t bother reading the article and just stared at the picture. Though a small part of the girl showed in the photo with Damian, you knew who it was just by the hair: Raven, his first girlfriend.

You knew deep down they weren’t dating, and were most likely together due to them both being heroes. Of course, no one wanted their boyfriend around their ex, but you had to get used to it while you were dating him. You loved him, but most importantly, you trusted him enough to know he would betray and hurt you like that.

But seeing that photo still hurts. There was a small smile on his face, and you couldn’t help but think, ‘Maybe he’s better off without me.

I have a feeling you got everything you wanted

And you're not wasting time stuck here like me

You're just thinkin' it's a small thing that happened

The world ended when it happened to me

Usually, while you and Damian were dating, if any tabloids got out that suggested he was dating or seeing someone else, he would immediately have it taken down. But this time he was too late, it had been up for a little over a week.

He contemplated messaging you to assure you it wasn’t what the media made it out to be, but the two of you agreed not to stay in contact. Neither of you deleted the other's number or removed each other from your socials. Staying in touch would have just made the breakup harder than necessary.

He wouldn’t admit this to anyone, but he missed you. More than he ever thought he could miss a person. Once you were gone, so was a part of him, the best part of him.

As you were friends with Stephanie before you and Damien even started dating, she would constantly show off photos and videos that you would post and send her. Naturally, as time went on and you got busy with your career, you didn’t send as many updates to her, but still continued talking to her, which is how Damien would know what you’re up to.

He would see on your social media, photos and clips of you at events, having a good time and smiling.

God, he missed your smile. He missed everything about you.

He especially missed the way he could be himself around you, and he could talk to you about anything. Right now, he was going through a lot. He was thinking about his future, whether he would continue as a hero under his father or branch out to become his own hero, he contemplated going back to the league, or even stop being a hero completely. If only you were here right now, one conversation with you and he would know exactly what to do, but you weren’t.

Damien continued to look at photos and videos you would post, thinking how you might be doing better. Better off without him.

Years Later

It had been years since you’ve been in town since you left. Crime has gone down, the air is less polluted, and overall, the people of Gotham are doing better than they’ve been in years.

You returned to attend a charity event hosted by Bruce Wayne. It had been hours, and you greeted and talked to a lot of people, including your best friend Stephanie, whom you hadn’t seen in months. Despite being famous and constantly attending events, you would always need to take a break and get some air.

On the rooftop, you just stared at the starry sky. When you lived here nights when you could see the stars, were far and few between. The air didn’t smell as dirty as it used to.

As you stared at the sky, you felt a presence watching you. Considering you dated Damien Wayne, a former assassin, and constantly had cameras on you, it wasn't difficult for you to know when you’re being watched.

“Are you going to keep staring at me or say hello?” You asked out loud as you continued to look up at the stars.

“I wasn’t staring, simply observing,” a deep voice said.

You could feel your heart skip a beat while you turned to face the man. He stepped out of the shadows to reveal himself. He was easily over 6 feet tall. His olive skin glowed under the moonlight. His emerald green eyes still mesmerized her to this day. He was clad in a dark emerald suit, which was tailored perfectly for him.

“Damian,” you said breathlessly. You hadn’t expected him to be here tonight. You heard from Stephanie about a year after you left, then Damian returned to the League of Assassins. Not only to take over, but to transform it into something better.

You continued to stare at him as he walked closer to you, closing the distance between you. He brought his hand up to gently cup your cheeks.

“Hello, Beloved,” he said just before bringing his lips down to meet yours.

Are they gonna get back together??? 👀😏

Tag List:

@firephoenix2020

@devotedlyshadowytheorist

@Manonptv

@inmymonologue

@Findingnolia

@thereal5limshady

@blackrockshooter780

@lillian-morningstar

#damian wayne #damian al ghul #damian wayne x reader #damian al ghul x reader #damian wayne x female reader #damian wayne x you #batfam #Spotify

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nocturnebite · 12 days ago

Text

meet me at the rink .｡❅*⋆

(caught a vibe) - hockeyplayer! sunghoon x figureskater! female reader

synopsis: Where the rink used to be your place of solitude, everything changes the day you welcome a hockey player from the school across town onto the ice—and into your heart. As you both glide through stolen moments and quiet confessions, the space between skating and life begins to blur, and something unexpected takes hold. fic notes: minor emotional hurt / rejection. nothing graphic, but this fic includes moments of slight emotional tension, miscommunication, and someone getting lowkey humiliated in front of others. if you're sensitive to that kind of thing, read with care 💔 wc: 10.8k

ash's notes: hey! it's been a minute.. so sorry, i've been going on a few trips and i'm about to leave on another, so i thought i'd hurry and post what i've been working on in the meantime! ugh skater hoon has SUCH a grip on me. this is the longest one parter fic i've written.. let me know if y'all prefer longer fics or shorter fics.

The air inside the rink bit at your cheeks — sharp and cold, but familiar. Comfortable. The music playing through your headphones dulled the world around you, leaving only the hum of your blades against ice and the rhythm of your breathing. Each stride was smooth, each turn effortless. You were completely focused, arms outstretched, body carving poetry into frozen glass.

Just a few more runs before you’d head out. You needed this — the quiet, the motion, the solitude. Your school's rink was closed for cleaning, and you'd lucked out booking this one last minute.

Or so you thought.

The sound came first: the dull slam of a door, followed by the unmistakable echo of boys’ voices — loud, laughing, careless. You slowed your pace, skating toward the edge of the rink just in time to see a group of guys pile in, hockey sticks slung over shoulders, skates clutched in gloved hands.

"Yo—someone's already here?" one of them called, annoyed. You pulled out your earbuds slowly, already anticipating what was coming.

"Hey, pretty sure we booked this time," said one of the taller boys as he approached the edge of the rink. His tone wasn’t outright rude, but it was dismissive — like you were an inconvenience.

“I booked it,” you replied, firm but polite. “Check with the front. I signed in.”

“Maybe they double-booked,” another voice muttered from behind him. "Figures. Always figure skaters stealing ice time."

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. You could stand your ground — you had before — but something stopped you this time. Or someone.

Leaning against the wall, a few paces back from the others, was a boy you recognized by name, if not by face. Park Sunghoon. Hockey’s golden boy from the rival school. Cold on the ice, colder in interviews. You'd seen him in highlight reels and heard whispers about his footwork, his speed, his precision.

But in this moment, he wasn’t moving. Just watching.

His helmet dangled from one hand, hair tousled from practice, cheeks flushed pink from the cold. He was staring straight at you — no smirk, no teasing grin, just something unreadable in his expression. Like he was trying to memorize you.

And for a second, neither of you moved.

Then one of the guys elbowed him — “Bro, you good?” — and he blinked, straightening.

“She’s done anyway, right?” he said casually, stepping forward. “Let her finish and let’s warm up.”

He didn’t look at you when he said it. His voice was cool, like he hadn’t been caught staring. Like you hadn’t just seen a flicker of something softer in his eyes. He turned to his friends, fist-bumping one of them, the way boys do when they’re trying to keep face.

You bit the inside of your cheek and glanced down, refusing to let it sting. You weren’t going to fight over ice time with a bunch of boys too proud to share.

Without a word, you skated off the rink. You didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t meet his eyes again.

But he watched you leave. Quietly.

And for the first time in a while, Sunghoon felt something twist in his chest — a feeling he couldn’t name.

The door slammed shut behind you, the sound echoing louder than it should’ve in the empty rink.

Sunghoon stayed still, helmet at his side, eyes fixed on the place where you’d been. The ice looked different now — duller, like something delicate had been scrubbed away.

Jake clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Bro. Earth to Sunghoon.”

“What?” he muttered, shaking it off.

“You good? You zoned out.”

“I’m fine,” he said, jaw tight as he brushed past him.

But he wasn’t fine. He couldn’t stop replaying the way you’d looked out there — gliding like you were weightless, like you weren’t even touching the ice. The way your eyes met his, just for a second, before he ruined it.

He wasn’t sure why he said what he did.

He could’ve backed you up. Could’ve offered to share the rink. Could’ve said something real.

But instead, he did what he always did — played the part. The cool one. The quiet one. The boy who didn’t flinch.

Except now, he was flinching. Inside.

Sunghoon yanked at the laces of his skates, tugging harder than necessary. His friends were already on the ice, chasing pucks and shouting like always. But his gaze drifted to the water bottle you’d left behind near the bleachers. Half full. Forgotten in the rush.

He didn’t touch it. Just stared.

Jake skated by, raising a brow. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” Sunghoon lied.

But something had shifted. Something he couldn’t name — like the sound of skates slicing through silence long after the figure’s gone.

—

“Remind me again why we have to be here?” Jake grumbled as the hockey team filed into the upper bleachers of their own school’s rink.

“Because Coach said attendance is mandatory,” Heeseung said around a mouthful of popcorn he’d stolen from the concession stand. “Support the arts, Jake. Be cultured.”

Sunghoon didn’t speak. He sat two rows down, elbows braced on his knees, eyes fixed on the ice below where figure skaters warmed up.

Flashes of sequins. Stretches. Spinning.

None of them were you.

Not yet.

He didn’t know why he came early. Why he kept scanning the rink like he was searching for something. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe curiosity. Or maybe — it was that water bottle, still sitting in his gym locker, untouched.

A few of the guys around him were elbowing each other, murmuring about the girls from your school who’d be arriving soon.

“Apparently they’re all hot,” one said. “Dancers. Crazy flexible.”

“Not interested,” another added, while still craning his neck to look.

Sunghoon barely heard them. Not until her voice cut through the noise.

“Sunghoon!”

He looked up instinctively.

Yuna — one of the skaters from his school — stood at the barrier, long-limbed, perfectly styled even in warm-ups. She smiled brightly, lips glossed and pink.

“You were insane last game,” she said, twirling a strand of her hair. “That third goal? Unreal.”

“Thanks,” he replied, voice flat.

It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate it. He did. The attention. The familiarity. The praise.

But it wasn’t what he was looking for.

She leaned closer. “We’re short a partner for the duet exhibition next week. I was thinking—”

He never heard the rest.

Because the doors opened.

And you stepped in.

Black leggings. Black zip-up. Hair tied up. No sparkles. No theatrics.

And yet — you were the most radiant thing in the rink.

You didn’t have to try. The fabric hugged your form like it had been made for you. You moved with quiet confidence, walking onto the ice like you belonged to it.

Sunghoon didn’t realize he was staring until Heeseung leaned in and muttered, “Isn’t that the girl from the other day?”

Jake followed his gaze. “Damn. She’s from the other school? Now I kinda get why you were acting weird.”

Sunghoon said nothing.

His eyes never left you. Every stretch, every spin, every flick of your hand. You weren’t performing. You were existing — fully, freely — and that was more mesmerizing than any choreographed routine.

Yuna followed his gaze and her smile faltered.

“She’s not even that good,” she said sweetly, too sweetly. “They always look nice warming up. Just wait until she messes up under pressure.”

Heeseung raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Yeah, we’ll see.”

—

The lights dimmed an hour later for the performance.

Music swelled, rich and cinematic. Spotlights swept across the rink like searchlights, then steadied.

Group numbers came and went in a blur of color and choreography — girls in glittering dresses spinning in sync, boys lifting their partners with practiced ease. It was dazzling, but fleeting, like fireworks fading too fast.

And then—

The announcer said your name.

Sunghoon sat straighter.

His back stiffened, his fingers curled slightly on his knee. Like someone had pulled a string taut through his spine.

You stepped onto the ice alone.

Wrapped in something soft and white, delicate as snowfall — a dress that moved like mist, catching the lights in quiet flashes every time you glided. Your hair was pulled into a low, neat bun, a few strands already slipping loose. There was no arrogance in the way you moved. Just grace. Quiet, unwavering confidence.

The crowd seemed to hold its breath as you reached your starting position. Stillness fell over the rink — reverent. Expectant.

Sunghoon swore it felt like the whole world exhaled.

Then the music began.

And you danced.

You skated like your bones were made of rhythm. Like the ice had been waiting for you. Every glide, every turn, every breath — it wasn’t choreography, it was memory. A story only you could tell, unfolding beneath your blades like poetry written in motion. The kind of performance that didn’t ask for applause. It earned silence. Awe.

Sunghoon forgot to breathe.

By the time your final jump landed — clean, effortless, a perfect punctuation mark — the crowd erupted.

Your team mobbed you at the edge of the rink, shrieking and clapping, wrapping you in scarves and congratulations. Laughter bounced off the rafters. Camera flashes sparked like confetti.

Even the hockey boys were standing now, murmuring amongst themselves.

“Yo,” Jake whispered. “That was insane. That’s not normal flexibility. How do her legs even—”

“Okay,” Sunghoon cut in sharply, teeth clenched. “Calm down.”

He kept his eyes down as they filed toward the exit. Tried not to look again.

Tried — and failed.

Because as he passed the barrier, he slowed. Just a little.

You were still standing with your team, cheeks pink from the cold and adrenaline, eyes shining under the lights. A laugh spilled from your lips, bright and real, your hair slipping loose around your ears.

And then you looked up.

Right at him.

Your eyes met — and your smile changed. Softened, like a secret only he could see. It held. One second. Two.

Then he looked away.

Kept walking.

But it was already too late.

His heart had tripped.

—

You liked the rink best when it was empty.

Before the lights warmed up. Before the shouting. When the sun was still low, filtering through the plexiglass in soft, sleepy beams that fogged the corners of the glass. When your blades were the only sound — sharp and echoing, cutting into the silence like a steady breath.

It was the kind of quiet that steadied you.

The world outside was always too loud. Coaches barking corrections. Judges dissecting routines. Girls whispering with sugary smiles and eyes like knives. Boys shouting in hallways, slamming lockers and laughing too hard.

But here, in the early stillness, it all melted away.

Here, you could breathe.

You landed a clean spin and pushed into a slow glide, arms folding in, the wind brushing your cheeks. Your exhale clouded the air. You were centered. Focused. At peace.

Until—

Clunk.

A metallic thud cracked through the silence.

You flinched mid-rotation — your blade caught—

CRACK.

Knees hit the ice. Hard. Palms scraped against the cold. The jolt knocked the air from your lungs — not painful, but sharp. Enough to snap you out of whatever calm you’d found.

And then—

“Oh my gosh—I’m so sorry!”

You looked up fast.

Sunghoon.

Leaning over the barrier, wide-eyed and horrified, hands braced on the wall. A water bottle rolled lazily across the ice, settling beside you like a guilty pet.

“I didn’t mean to—swear— I was just watching and it slipped—are you okay?”

Your breath fogged the air between you as you stared. Then, despite yourself, despite the jolt still echoing in your bones… you laughed.

“I’m okay,” you said, brushing a loose strand from your face. “Just surprised.”

He looked like he was debating whether to bolt or leap the wall — and then he did exactly that. Vaulted over the barrier like it was nothing, landing on the rink in just his socks with a startled yelp.

He almost fell. Arms flailing. Slipped once. Regained balance.

You laughed again, louder this time. “You’re gonna break your tailbone.”

“I deserve it,” he said solemnly, wobbling toward you. “I ruined your spin. I ruined the whole vibe.”

You raised an eyebrow. “The vibe?”

“Yeah.” He scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. “You had a really good vibe going.”

You looked at him — really looked. No teammates. No smirk. Just a boy in a hoodie, slipping on your ice, cheeks pink, eyes bright.

He stuck out a hand. “Sunghoon.”

“I know,” you said, lips twitching.

He grinned. “Still felt like I should say it.”

You slipped your fingers into his. Warm, despite the cold.

You told him your name.

His smile softened. “I know.”

Your brows lifted. “Do you?”

He nodded. “I saw the program list. And… you kind of stole the show.”

The silence that followed was delicate. Not awkward — just suspended.

Then you pulled your hand back gently. “Flattery doesn’t get your water bottle back.”

He laughed, breath misting. “Fair.”

You nudged the bottle toward him with your skate, then pivoted. “Well. I should let you practice.”

“I don’t mind sharing,” he blurted. Too fast. Too earnest. Then cleared his throat. “I mean. If you want.”

You hesitated near the edge.

He looked completely out of place — tall and hockey-built and still in socks — but his eyes were sincere.

You sighed. “Okay. But you’re going to need skates.”

—

At this point, it had been months now. You and Sunghoon had settled into a rhythm — the ice between you no longer a battlefield, but a shared space where something unspoken grew. The cold had softened, the silence filled with the quiet language of glides and edges.

But today, something was different.

He missed again.

The puck smacked the boards with a hollow thunk, nowhere near the net.

Sunghoon groaned, dragging a hand down his face. This was getting embarrassing.

He was a forward. A starter. Known for scoring under pressure — slicing through defenses like it was second nature. But today?

He couldn’t focus for shit.

Because every time he took a shot, his eyes drifted.

To you.

Skating on the far side of the rink, utterly unaware of the damage you were doing. Poised. Graceful. Lost in your own world.

He was, frankly, ruined.

Another shot. Another miss.

Then—

“You sure you play for the right team?” your voice called out, teasing.

He froze.

You turned, skating slowly toward him, a smirk curving your mouth.

“You miss a lot. Might need some extra practice.”

He flushed. “Guess I’m just… distracted.”

You circled closer, effortless, your hair slipping loose from its tie.

“Wonder what could be so distracting,” you murmured.

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

You raised a brow. “Want a skating lesson, hockey boy?”

He nodded before thinking. “Please.”

It did not go well.

“You’re stiff,” you said, circling him.

“I’m trying,” he grumbled, arms out like a scarecrow.

“You’re overthinking it,” you said, skating close enough that your voice brushed his ear. “Relax your core. Let your edges carry you.”

“Easy for you to say. I’m one wrong move from eating ice.”

“You body-checked a guy into the glass last week. You’ll survive.”

“That was instinct,” he said, wobbling. “This is… ballet.”

“It’s control,” you said gently, stopping in front of him. “Skating’s about lines. Precision. Breath. Not brute force.”

Your hands lifted to his waist — light, grounding.

Sunghoon forgot how to think.

You weren’t flirting. You were focused. Serious. But somehow, that made it worse. Or better.

“Engage here,” you said softly, tapping his side. “Keep your knees soft. Trust your edges.”

“I’m trying,” he murmured — eyes flicking, for a moment, to your mouth.

You stilled — just for a breath — then stepped back.

“Let’s try a crossover,” you said. “Right over left. Follow me.”

You demonstrated. Smooth. Seamless.

He tried.

Wobbly. Awkward. You giggled.

“I didn’t laugh when you missed your shots,” he muttered.

“You were looking at me when you missed,” you shot back, skating backward ahead of him. “I’m not looking at your feet.”

“Maybe you should be.”

“I am,” you teased. “Still not impressed.”

“Harsh coach.”

“Would a harsh coach do this?”

You reached out, took both his hands, and spun him — gently, carefully. He stumbled, caught himself, blinking wide-eyed.

“You just want to see me fall.”

“Not at all,” you said quietly. “I like you on your feet.”

And suddenly, you were close. Hands still laced. Breath mingling.

“I like you here,” you added, softer now.

He stared at you like he was afraid to blink.

You parted your lips — like maybe you’d say more — but then—

“Sunghoon!”

The shout shattered the moment.

You jumped back. He stepped away. Quickly. Too quickly.

Jake. Heeseung. The team, filing in, dropping gear onto the benches.

“Yo,” Jake called. “You figure skating now?”

Sunghoon swallowed. Hard.

And then — he panicked.

“She wasn’t supposed to be here,” he said, shrugging, tone flat. “I was just telling her to get off.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Your expression didn’t change right away. Just slowly faded — like a light dimming behind your eyes.

“Oh,” Jake said, dragging out the word. “Right. Makes sense.”

Sunghoon didn’t look at you. Couldn’t.

And you?

You said nothing.

You turned, skated off the ice with quiet precision, and knelt to untie your skates — fingers trembling.

“Wait,” he called, softer now, taking a step toward you.

But you didn’t look up.

Didn’t speak.

You packed your things, slipped on your shoes, and left.

The door clicked shut behind you.

And the sound echoed through him louder than any puck ever had.

—

You were gone.

The second Sunghoon stepped into the rink the next morning, he felt it. The air was colder, heavier — like the chill had seeped under his skin and settled there. Something was off. Off-balance. Off-rhythm.

Your usual spot at the far end? Empty.

The bench where you stretched before warmups? Vacant.

Even your water bottle — the beat-up one with the sticker half-peeled off — was missing from the ledge.

Gone.

The silence echoed. A hollow kind that made the ice feel less like home and more like a warning.

Sunghoon laced up his skates anyway, heart pounding, trying not to overthink it.

He did a slow lap around the rink, blades carving lines he didn’t care to trace. He wasn’t warming up. He was waiting. Eyes flicking toward the tunnel every few seconds like it was instinct. Like maybe he could will you into existence just by needing it enough.

Every time the door creaked open, his chest lifted with hope.

Every time it wasn’t you — his stomach dropped like a stone in freezing water.

He stayed longer than he usually did.

Didn’t shoot once. Didn’t pass. Didn’t speak to anyone.

He just kept skating in circles like a ghost, watching the door until the Zamboni rolled out and forced him off the ice.

And when he got home, skates slung over one shoulder, throat tight and raw — he did something he hadn’t done in years.

He looked you up.

First your name.

Then your team name.

Then the competition roster that had your number next to it in faded font.

And there — suddenly, you were on his screen. That same half-smile he knew better than he wanted to admit. A photo that looked like it had been taken in early winter, cheeks pink from cold, hair pulled back, captioned with something simple:

“Early morning practices and even earlier nerves.”

His heart twisted.

It felt like you. Even on a screen, even through pixels.

Home.

Without thinking, he clicked follow.

His thumb hovered over the screen.

Then, slowly, he started typing.

hey. i’m sorry about yesterday. can we talk?

He hit send before he could back out.

The second the message was delivered, he froze.

A few seconds passed.

Then — three dots appeared.

His breath caught.

But before he could even feel hope bloom fully in his chest — they vanished.

Gone.

He waited.

Refreshed the app. Checked again. Opened and closed the message.

Still nothing.

That night, he barely slept. Just lay there in the dark, your face etched behind his eyelids like a scar.

The next morning, he went back to the rink.

No you.

Next day: same.

Then another. And another.

By the fourth morning, the ache in his chest had moved to his stomach — something dull and constant, gnawing.

Jake asked him if he was okay.

Sunghoon just smiled. The kind that didn’t touch his eyes. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He wasn’t tired.

He was unraveling.

Every shot he took went wide. Every drill was off. Every shift was colder without you on the other side of the boards.

He hated what he’d said.

Hated that it came out the way it did.

But most of all, he hated that you believed it.

—

He was late.

Helmet half-on, jersey untucked, skates slung over his shoulder — Sunghoon jogged across the pavement toward the bus with a pit in his stomach and panic in his lungs. He didn’t care about being benched. Didn’t care about fines or lectures.

He just needed to see you.

One last time.

If you weren’t there, he was ready to fake a stomachache, call his coach, crawl back into bed and stay there for a week.

But then — just as he was rounding the corner toward the front doors of the rink—

There you were.

Hood up. Hair tucked back. Bag slung across one shoulder. Head low.

His heart stuttered.

He didn’t think. Didn’t care who saw.

He ran.

Called your name like it was the only thing he remembered how to say.

You froze at the entrance.

Your fingers tightened on the handle.

He slowed as he reached you, breath shallow, eyes wide like seeing you was something holy.

You turned.

And gosh — your eyes.

Red-rimmed. Tired. Swollen like sleep hadn’t come easy.

Like maybe you’d been hurting too.

“Can I talk to you?” he asked, voice already breaking.

“I’m late for practice,” you replied, quiet and clipped.

“You’ve been late all week,” he whispered. “I came every day. Just in case.”

You stared at the ground.

Didn’t say anything.

He took a small step closer. “Please. I didn’t mean what I said. I panicked. My friends—”

“You were embarrassed of me,” you said flatly, voice cracking halfway through. “Like skating with me was some kind of shame.”

He flinched like you’d slapped him. “It wasn’t—”

“Then why did you say it?”

“I didn’t think you’d hear me.”

You laughed. Harsh. Disbelieving. “That’s not better, Sunghoon.”

“I know,” he murmured. “I know.”

The silence that followed was sharp around the edges, aching.

You looked at him. Really looked at him.

His eyes were rimmed with exhaustion. His jaw tense like he hadn’t unclenched it in days.

“Why are you even here?” you asked, voice suddenly small. Fragile.

“Because I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said.

You blinked.

“I go to practice, and I can’t focus. I look at the ice, and all I see is you. I listen for your skates. I check your profile like an idiot hoping you’ll post. Hoping you’ll text.”

Still, you said nothing.

His voice dropped lower.

“I know I don’t deserve another chance. But… you became part of my routine too. And I don’t know how to do this without you anymore.”

You stared at him for a long moment.

Your breath came out shaky. “I haven’t been able to land my spin since that day.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I skate. I try. I push through it. But I can’t finish anything. You’re in my head.”

The admission hung in the air between you, raw and tender.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “It won’t happen again.”

You didn’t respond. Not really.

You just turned and pushed the door open.

Walked into the rink like you used to.

And after a beat, he followed — quiet and careful, a shadow trailing behind your blades.

You tried to skate.

Tried to shake him off — the weight of him, the memory of him, the way your body used to move differently when you knew he was watching because it made you feel seen. Lighter. Braver.

Now, it just made you clench your fists.

Because he was still watching.

Still standing exactly where he always used to — near the penalty box, just past the boards, hood up, hands stuffed into his coat pockets like he didn’t trust them to stay still.

Motionless. Speechless.

Like if he said one wrong thing, you’d disappear again.

You clipped in your earbuds, took a breath, and pushed off from the wall.

Your first attempt was stiff.

Your muscles remembered the routine. Your mind didn’t. Halfway through your first jump, your weight tipped just slightly backward — enough to send you crashing onto the ice with a slap that echoed across the empty rink.

You winced. Pushed yourself back up with burning cheeks. Refused to look in his direction.

Tried again.

This time, your turn was too sharp, your timing off — and your foot caught the edge of your own blade. You hit the ice harder. Cold seeped through your leggings. The sting brought tears to your eyes that had nothing to do with pain.

You didn’t stay down.

Couldn’t.

You launched into your third attempt like it was a challenge — like maybe if you just forced it, you could forget he was there. Forget what he said. Forget the way his voice had cracked when he told someone else you didn’t matter.

The music started.

You made it through the first twenty seconds. Maybe thirty.

And then — static.

The speakers popped, your track cut out, and the silence that followed felt cruel. Almost mocking.

Your body locked mid-spin. You stumbled, skated hard toward the bench, the sound of your blades scraping against the ice louder than anything else.

You dropped onto the cold metal like your bones had given up.

Angry.

Exhausted.

You yanked at your laces with trembling hands, pulling your skates off with sharp, jerking motions like they were chains you couldn’t bear a second longer.

Your chest rose and fell too fast.

Breath caught somewhere in your throat, trembling on the edge of something ugly.

A sob or a scream — you weren’t sure which.

You braced your elbows on your knees, pressed your palms to your forehead, and sat there.

Behind you, the sound of footsteps came slowly. Measured.

Careful.

Soft as snowfall.

He didn’t sit.

Didn’t speak.

He just stood a few steps away — the same distance he used to keep before your routines, as if it were sacred. Now it felt like a barrier. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to cross it anymore.

He hovered there — like the apology he hadn’t yet finished saying.

Your voice came out hoarse, barely a breath. “What do you want?”

A pause.

“I want to fix it,” he said, quiet. Honest.

You laughed once — bitter, tired. It didn’t sound like you.

“You can’t.”

The silence that followed was thick. Full of everything he’d said and everything you hadn’t.

Then —

“You ruined it,” you whispered, voice unraveling at the edges. “You made me think—like maybe this was something. Like I wasn’t just someone you passed on the ice. You let it matter. You let me matter.”

You didn’t turn. Couldn’t. The words felt like glass in your mouth.

You heard the shift of his weight. Then the gentle thud of a knee hitting the floor beside you.

He crouched down, slow, careful — as if getting too close might shatter you for good.

His hand hovered just above your knee. Not touching. Not brave enough to ask for that yet.

“And now I don’t know how to skate without you,” you breathed.

The truth of it made your chest ache. Made your jaw tighten.

You finally turned toward him.

And when you did — he flinched.

Not from anger.

But from the look in your eyes.

Because you weren’t angry anymore.

You were heartbroken.

Soft. Quiet. Bruised in ways no one could see.

“You broke something I didn’t even know was fragile,” you said.

He swallowed hard. You could see the pulse in his throat.

“I’ll stay,” he whispered. “Every day. For as long as it takes.”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t nod.

Didn’t reach for his hand.

You just sat there — skin prickling from the cold, emotions pulled too tight inside you to move.

But you didn’t move away, either.

And for now — for both of you — that was enough.

—

The air in the rink felt different.

Not just cold — it always was — but quiet in a way that felt deliberate. Like the space itself remembered what had happened the last time you were both here and didn’t want to disturb the fragile silence still hanging in the corners. The echo of past laughter, whispered apologies, blades carving across ice in harmony — all of it lingered like breath on glass.

Sunghoon exhaled slowly, skating a slow, hesitant circle before coming to a stop near the boards.

You were already there.

Tucked low on the bench, shoulders curled inward like you were bracing against more than just the chill. Your skates were off, placed side by side on the ground like you’d pulled them off in defeat. Arms folded tight across your chest, gaze locked on a scratch in the paint along the lower boards — a single scuff in a sea of wear.

You didn’t glance up when he skated over.

He stopped just at the edge of the ice. Close enough for you to hear him. Far enough not to overstep.

He swallowed once. Shifted his stick from one hand to the other. Then said, soft and careful, “I didn’t know how to fix it.”

His voice barely echoed.

“So I thought maybe I’d just... show up. Keep showing up.”

You didn’t speak.

Didn’t nod. Didn’t meet his eyes.

But you didn’t stand and walk away either.

That felt like something. A start — the kind made of silence and space and the smallest flicker of possibility.

The next few days passed in that strange, suspended rhythm.

It wasn’t like before — not quite. You didn’t joke with him after runs. Didn’t tease him for missing shots. Your laugh, once a melody that echoed off the rafters, had gone quiet.

But you came.

That was enough.

Sometimes, you laced up and took to the ice — headphones in, eyes locked forward, your routines sharper than ever but haunted by the tension in your shoulders. Other times, you just sat on the bench, as if trying to remember what this place used to feel like before it all cracked open.

He never pushed.

Never asked.

He simply practiced nearby — running tight stickhandling drills in silence, skating sprints along the length of the rink, always aware of your presence even when he pretended not to be.

Occasionally, you’d glance up. Catch him watching.

He always looked away too fast.

No flirty remarks. No easy banter.

But there was effort.

There was quiet. There was space. And there was something in the way he returned — every day, on time, eyes searching the door until you appeared.

He stopped trying to impress you.

He just tried to be consistent.

And for the first time in weeks, he was focused — really focused. Not just on hockey, but on healing whatever invisible thread still tethered you together.

Because it was still there.

Thin. Frayed. But intact.

And every silent morning you spent on opposite ends of the rink felt like one small stitch in the repair.

—

One afternoon, while you were working on a new sequence, Sunghoon found himself frozen mid-drill — stick loose in his hands, skates still, just… watching you again.

You skated differently now.

Still graceful. Still impossibly precise. But something had changed. Your edges were sharper, movements tighter, each push of the blade like a controlled release of something pent up — anger, maybe. Sadness, definitely. The flow was still there, but it felt… caged. Beautiful, but a little colder. Like a song missing its crescendo.

He followed your path with his eyes as you floated across the rink — edge pulls into crossovers, the twirl of your arms, the sudden snap into a landing. Controlled. Measured. Too measured.

Then — you spun into a stop right in front of the glass, spraying a soft mist of ice. Your chest heaved, breath quick and visible in the cold. He leaned forward instinctively, palms flat against the boards, forehead nearly touching the pane. His breath fogged the glass between you.

And then — you looked up.

Your eyes locked.

Neither of you moved.

For a moment, the air between you felt electrified — not loud or dramatic, but thick with every word unsaid.

Then you blinked slowly, lowered your gaze, and turned away — gliding back to the center like nothing had happened, ready to start again.

He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until his lungs started to burn.

A few days later, while you were packing up your things — skates half-untied, sweatshirt pulled back on, hair damp from effort — Sunghoon skated over slowly, the thud of his blades echoing lightly through the near-empty rink.

He stopped beside you. Gently tapped the toe of your skate with his own.

You looked up, cautious. Guarded. Expression unreadable beneath the fatigue.

“You…” he started, voice softer than usual, like he wasn’t sure he had the right to ask. “You always warm up that way?”

You blinked at him, wary. “Why?”

He shrugged a little, one shoulder lifting with faux nonchalance, but his eyes didn’t waver. “I just noticed… you do that edge pull. Backward entry. Twice. Then the same crossroll pattern.”

A pause.

Long enough for him to wonder if he’d overstepped.

“You’ve been watching,” you said quietly, not quite accusing — more like acknowledging a fact.

He hesitated. Then nodded. “I always watch.”

Your eyes flickered down. You turned away quickly, hands fidgeting with the zipper on your skate bag like it gave you something safe to look at.

He took a small breath.

“Will you teach me?” he asked. So quietly, it was almost lost in the hum of the rink. “Just something small. One thing.”

You didn’t look up.

Didn’t answer.

But after a long pause, you gave the smallest nod — not even toward him, just toward the ice, like a silent gesture of allowance.

And that’s how it started again.

It became its own kind of rhythm.

Not like before — not easy or full of teasing smiles — but something gentler. Tentative. Careful.

Each day, he’d start by shooting pucks into the net while you skated slow laps, running through your warmups. You never said much. But when you finished, you’d pause, glance over your shoulder, and lift one hand in a wordless signal.

Come here.

So he would.

You never rushed through instructions. You spoke in a calm, even tone, like you were teaching a kid — clear, patient, quietly encouraging.

The first lesson was simple: how to glide without scraping the ice, how to let the blade hum instead of bite. Then: shifting direction using body weight. Lean into the edges, don’t fight them. Trust your balance.

Eventually, you tried to teach him a basic spin entry.

He gave it his best shot.

And landed flat on his back — limbs splayed, helmet askew, dignity somewhere near the Zamboni entrance.

There was a moment of pure silence.

Then — laughter.

Yours.

Bright, surprised, real.

He looked up at you from the ice, stunned.

And there you were, hand over your mouth, shoulders shaking, unable to stop. The sound bounced off the walls and settled into the cracks between you like sunlight creeping through blinds.

He grinned despite himself, still sprawled across the rink.

He didn’t care that his ribs might bruise or that the fall knocked the wind out of him.

That laugh was worth all of it.

But he didn’t tell the guys.

They still thought he was coming in early for extra shooting drills. Extra conditioning. Maybe just working off frustration.

Let them think that.

He kept it to himself — the late nights, the secret lessons, the warmth in your voice when you corrected his footwork. The small glances. The unspoken forgiveness building, brick by careful brick.

It was his secret.

His sanctuary.

And maybe — just maybe — the beginning of something real again.

—

“You’ve been improving fast, Hoon.”

Jake nudged him lightly in the ribs as they unlaced their skates, brows lifted in suspicion. “Like… really fast. What, you got some secret training camp we don’t know about?”

Sunghoon didn’t look up. Just shrugged, eyes fixed on the strap of his shin guard like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

Heeseung flopped down beside him on the bench with a dramatic sigh, then slung an arm over Sunghoon’s shoulder. “Nah, don’t tell me—you’re in your mysterious genius athlete era,” he teased. “You’re just one press conference away from telling the media you’ve ‘been focused on fundamentals and visualizing excellence.’”

Jake snorted.

But Heeseung wasn’t done. He leaned in, eyes narrowing with faux seriousness. “Or… wait. Is it a girl?”

That made Sunghoon freeze for a second — just a flicker. Barely noticeable.

But they noticed.

Jake perked up immediately. “Oh? Ohhh. That was a reaction.”

Sunghoon rolled his eyes hard, trying not to wince as the tips of his ears flushed unmistakably pink. “No,” he muttered, yanking at his bag strap with more force than necessary. “I’ve just… been practicing more. On my own.”

Jake gave him a look. “You? Practicing. Alone. At ungodly hours of the morning.”

“You ghost us now for solo ice time,” Heeseung added, squinting at him. “You never miss your drills anymore. Your shooting’s gotten nasty. And your edgework? Freakishly tight. I mean—did you sell your soul to the hockey gods, or…?”

“I just wanted to step it up,” Sunghoon said, quickly, a little too defensively. He busied himself with stuffing gear into his duffel. “We’ve got regionals. I want us to win.”

That quieted them for a second.

Jake exchanged a glance with Heeseung. Then he just shrugged. “Okay, fine, Mr. Team Player. Keep your secrets.”

“Yeah, whatever, Ovechkin 2.0,” Heeseung muttered, ruffling Sunghoon’s hair as he stood up. “Don’t forget the rest of us when you go pro.”

They laughed and moved on, joking with the others as they packed up, the locker room filling with the usual clatter of gear and easy banter.

But Sunghoon just sat there for a second longer.

And even though the teasing had stopped, he could still feel it — the weight of the secret he wasn’t ready to share.

Because it wasn’t drills that had sharpened his reflexes. Wasn’t shooting reps that had taught him how to move with flow instead of force.

It was you.

You — skating silently at the far end of the rink, unaware of the way he studied your every movement like scripture. You — teaching him without realizing it, every glide and spin unraveling a new truth about balance, about rhythm, about presence on the ice.

You taught him that movement didn’t always have to be about power.

That grace was its own kind of strength.

That the ice could carry you if you learned how to listen to it.

He didn’t want to explain that. Not yet. Not when it still felt fragile. Private. Sacred.

Because what he had with you now — those quiet late-night lessons, your voice in his ear guiding his footwork, your fingers adjusting his stance — it wasn’t just training.

It was the only part of you he still had.

And he wasn’t ready to give that away.

—

The rink was wrapped in a hush only winter could bring — a kind of sacred stillness that settled in the corners like breath held too long. The cold wasn’t biting, not today. It was soft, almost reverent, like even the air didn’t want to disrupt what was unfolding.

The only sounds were the gentle scrape of blades carving delicate lines across the ice, the distant echo of a puck rebounding off the boards, and the low hum of the overhead lights, casting pale, watery reflections that shimmered on the surface like ghosts of memories past.

Sunghoon sat on the bench, lacing his skates with deliberate care, fingers fumbling just slightly around the laces. His gloves sat untouched beside him, his stick leaning against the boards. His pulse beat loud in his ears — louder than it should for a normal night of practice. But this wasn’t just any night.

He’d gotten there early. Earlier than usual. Earlier than he’d admit to anyone. He’d paced in the locker room for a full ten minutes before stepping out onto the ice. He told himself it was to get in some solo drills.

But really, he was waiting.

Hoping.

Needing.

And then — you appeared.

Like a breath of color in a gray-scale world, you stepped onto the ice without a sound, your movements fluid and effortless, the kind that came from hours and years of repetition. You didn’t try to be graceful — you just were. Each glide was purposeful but quiet, like you were painting with your skates, not pushing.

Your warmup jacket clung to you softly, the sleeves pushed up to your elbows, ponytail swaying behind you in gentle arcs. You skated a loop before dropping into your stretches near the center, and Sunghoon couldn’t look away.

His fingers tightened instinctively around his gloves, knuckles white. His heart thumped too loud in his chest. It was ridiculous how nervous he felt around you, especially after everything. Especially now that you were letting him back in — slowly, cautiously, like testing thin ice.

He forced himself to stand, clearing his throat as he stepped out onto the rink, his blades clicking against the surface. He tried to focus on drills. Quick stops. Stick handling. Practice shots aimed with too much force into an empty net.

But every time he glanced up, you were there — back arched in a spiral stretch, leg extended, focus sharp. You didn’t see him watching. Or maybe you did. You always had a way of knowing things without looking.

And every time he saw you move, something unsteady inside him melted. You had that effect — like watching snow fall over floodlights. Quiet. Mesmerizing.

Finally, you skated toward the boards for a water break. He saw his opening and didn’t hesitate.

He coasted over slowly, his breath coming in soft clouds, nerves buzzing beneath his skin.

“You’re early,” you said lightly, voice tinged with amusement, but you kept your gaze on your water bottle, unscrewing the cap with practiced ease.

“So are you,” he replied, smile small and crooked, cheeks flushed more from nerves than cold.

This time, you glanced up. And when your eyes met his, something gentle flickered there — a cautious warmth, a lingering softness that hadn’t fully left.

He cleared his throat. “Hey, uh… so I’ve got this game coming up.”

You raised an eyebrow, teasing. “Another one?”

He laughed under his breath. “Yeah. Last one of the season. Senior night. It’s… kind of a big deal. Whole school’s supposed to show up. My parents. The team’s doing this ceremony thing. All that.”

You nodded slowly, your expression unreadable.

He fidgeted with the strap of his stick. “I was just wondering… if you’d maybe wanna come.”

There was a beat — a small pause that held more weight than it should have.

You tilted your head, lips curving slightly. “You’re inviting me to a hockey game?”

He tried to play it cool. Shrugged like it didn’t matter as much as it did. “Only if you’ll cheer for me.”

You smiled — soft, but distant. A little sad.

Then you said, “I want to… but I have a competition that night. Warm-ups start right when your puck drops.”

For a split second, the quiet cracked around him.

He masked it quickly with a nod, shoulders stiffening as he glanced away. “That’s okay. I get it.”

And he did.

You weren’t saying no.

You just weren’t saying yes.

Not yet.

Your voice dropped a little, more tender this time. “But… if I finish early, maybe I can catch the last few minutes.”

His head snapped back toward you, blinking in surprise. “Yeah?”

You nodded, gaze softer now, like the walls around your heart were loosening, brick by careful brick. “I’ll try.”

That tiny word — try — didn’t sound like much.

But to him, it meant everything.

The cold rink felt warmer. The week ahead didn’t feel as heavy. And the quiet between you didn’t feel like distance anymore.

It felt like possibility.

—

The night of the game was electric.

The arena pulsed with sound — fans cheering from the stands in waves, cowbells clanging, the metallic clang of the puck echoing off the boards. Floodlights cast a sharp glare across the ice, turning each skate-blade scratch into a shimmer, every breath into a visible puff of frost. The announcer’s voice boomed through the rafters, rising and falling with each play, but none of it reached Sunghoon properly. It was all background noise.

Because he kept looking for you.

Every time he circled back to the bench, his eyes darted toward the crowd — row after row of bundled-up students, parents, alumni — scanning, hoping. Desperately. But your seat stayed empty.

And with each passing minute, his chest tightened.

The first period slipped through his fingers like melting ice. His stick fumbled once. Then twice. He missed a wide-open shot that normally would’ve been second nature.

Between plays, Heeseung dropped down beside him on the bench, nudging his shoulder. “You good?”

Sunghoon’s jaw was set tight. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?” Jake chimed in, voice lower, more careful. “You’ve been off all night.”

He just nodded, but his grip on the water bottle in his hands said otherwise.

They let it go — for now.

But the game was slipping. The other team scored. Then scored again.

And Sunghoon couldn’t shake the weight in his chest, that hollow ache where you should’ve been — the echo of your absence thudding louder than the puck.

He moved like he was skating through molasses, legs heavier than usual, thoughts scattered like snow in the wind. The hours of extra practice, the drills, the edgework you'd helped him refine — none of it mattered if you weren't there to see it.

He missed another pass. Swore under his breath.

He glanced up toward the stands one more time, just to make sure—

Nothing.

And then.

With less than three minutes left in the final period, the main doors creaked open behind the bleachers.

He almost didn’t notice — not until the air shifted.

And there you were.

Framed by the open doors and the flood of cold night air behind you, cheeks flushed from running, hair slightly tousled beneath the hood of your jacket. You still had your warmup pants on, your skate bag slung haphazardly over one shoulder.

You were late.

But you came.

You scanned the crowd in a single sweep, eyes sharp, searching — and found him almost instantly. Your gaze locked across the rink, and your smile bloomed like spring breaking through snow.

And suddenly, something shifted in him.

Like a frozen river finally breaking free.

The weight in his chest melted.

The noise dulled into a hum.

And the ice — the ice felt like home again.

On the next face-off, Sunghoon moved like a different player. Fast. Fluid. Certain. He darted through defenders with purpose, every edge control movement clean and confident. The lessons you’d shown him — how to shift his weight, how to trust the glide — they weren’t just technical now. They were part of him.

He didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t second-guess.

He was playing for the win.

But more than that — he was playing for you.

The final seconds ticked down. He received the puck near center ice, the goalie waiting, crouched and ready. But Sunghoon didn’t flinch.

He cut in hard, sharp turn on his inside edge, then — in one breathless, perfect motion — snapped a shot just under the goalie’s glove.

Goal.

The horn blared.

The arena erupted.

His teammates leapt to their feet, pounding the boards, screams echoing around him like thunder. People were cheering his name. Parents stood. Jake tackled him in a bear hug.

But all Sunghoon saw was you — standing now, clapping, face lit up with pride, eyes gleaming like you were holding back tears.

And in that moment, he knew.

It had all been worth it.

After the game, the crowd started to thin, the cold creeping back in under the bright rink lights.

Sunghoon didn’t wait for the locker room. He found you near the exit tunnel, just outside the players’ gate. You were still holding your jacket closed with one hand, the other clutching a half-finished bottle of water, breath misting in the air.

“You made it,” he said, breathless, cheeks flushed pink — not from the cold this time.

You gave a small, lopsided shrug, but your smile was warm. “Barely.”

Jake and Heeseung lingered a few feet behind, catching sight of you for the first time. Heeseung raised an eyebrow. Jake blinked in surprise. But Sunghoon didn’t flinch, didn’t turn. Not yet. This wasn’t for them.

This was just for you.

Without saying a word, he stepped forward and gently wrapped an arm around your waist, tugging you close until your forehead rested against his chest. You let him — no resistance, just soft warmth in the middle of the cold.

“Thanks for coming,” he whispered, his voice thick, his breath fanning against your hair.

You exhaled slowly, the moment stretching between you like a thread pulled tight.

Your voice was quiet, barely more than a breath.

“You killed it out there.”

And with your arms slowly slipping around him too, with your head tucked beneath his chin, with the crowd fading into silence — Sunghoon didn’t need anything else.

Not trophies. Not praise.

Just this.

Just you.

—

The rink was empty — except for you.

The overhead lights hummed faintly, casting a silver glow across the freshly resurfaced ice. Every glimmer off its smooth surface reflected like moonlight caught in motion. The sharp shhh of your blades carving lazy arcs echoed through the space, soft and rhythmic, blending with the low murmur of the heaters hidden in the rafters.

It was a kind of sacred quiet — the hush that only existed in empty arenas. That silence that felt like it was holding its breath just for you.

Sunghoon stood behind the glass, just outside the barrier, tucked into the shadows where you couldn’t see him right away. His breath fogged gently on the clear pane, each exhale catching the chill of the air. He knew he shouldn’t be here — not during your solo practice, not without asking. But lately, watching you skate felt like the only thing that made his pulse steady.

You moved like music.

Each glide was fluid, unhurried — more like painting than skating. The sharpness of your toe picks, the grace of your arms as they rose and fell like wings — it was more than technique. It was emotion. Story. Art.

Every movement held something you weren’t saying out loud.

Sunghoon leaned against the railing, shoulder pressed to the plexiglass, his eyes drinking in every detail like it was the last time he'd ever see it. Your warmup jacket clung to your frame as you moved, ponytail swaying behind you. The faint sound of your breath — that soft little puff each time you pushed forward — drifted through the boards and made something in him ache.

How could someone look so focused and so free all at once?

He wasn’t even sure how long he stood there. Minutes stretched long and quiet. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just watched, letting every motion etch itself into memory — the delicate tilt of your head mid-spin, the way your fingertips seemed to dance just slightly ahead of your body, guiding it.

Then, almost imperceptibly, your eyes flicked up. Just a glance — caught in the reflection of the glass — and then they found his.

Your blade slowed.

Your expression shifted — not startled, not annoyed — just… soft. As if you’d known he was there the whole time. A faint smile ghosted over your lips. Not quite an invitation, but not a dismissal either.

And somehow, that tiny smile hit him harder than a slapshot to the chest.

You slowed your pace, letting your skates draw to a clean, balanced stop near the boards, your breaths rising in faint clouds. You turned toward him, and for a moment, it was like everything around you stilled — the hum of the lights, the chill in the air, even the distant ticking of the scoreboard clock.

Sunghoon stood frozen, forehead now resting against the glass, his fingers gripping the railing so tightly that his knuckles paled. His heart pounded loud enough he was sure you could hear it.

“You’re…” His voice came out hoarse, barely louder than the wind outside. “You’re incredible. Every time I watch you, I’m just—”

You raised an eyebrow playfully, the corner of your mouth quirking upward. “Caught speechless?”

A soft laugh escaped him. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking down for a second, then back at you — more serious now.

His gaze flickered to the distance between you — barely two feet, and yet it felt like miles. A thin wall of glass and everything unspoken.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you something,” he said carefully. Like he was placing each word on thin ice, terrified of making the wrong step.

You stepped a little closer. Just enough for your breath to fog against the same panel of glass, leaving two mirrored clouds between you. Your expression gentled.

“And what’s that?”

He hesitated. Not because he didn’t know — but because he did. He knew exactly what he meant. What had been building since the first time he watched you skate alone. Since the first lesson. Since the first laugh.

“I think I’ve been waiting for you,” he said, voice low, honest. “Not just out here. Not just for skating. I mean… for you. All of you. Even before I really knew it.”

Your lips parted slightly, caught off guard by the confession — not flashy, not loud. Just raw truth, handed to you with trembling hands.

Color bloomed on your cheeks, but you didn’t look away.

Instead, your gaze softened into something warmer. Quieter. Like trust beginning to thaw.

And the space between you — the one that felt like a barrier just moments ago — suddenly felt like a bridge.

You pressed your fingertips lightly to the glass, almost touching where his rested. Not quite contact. But close enough for him to feel it anyway.

Neither of you spoke again.

You didn’t need to.

The silence between you wasn’t empty. It was full. Of hope, of tension, of everything that might come next — if only you were both brave enough to keep stepping forward.

And for now, that was enough.

—

The next few practices feel different.

Not in a way you could measure in drills or laps or landing percentage — but in the way your chest feels a little fuller when he walks in.

Sunghoon doesn’t hide anymore.

There’s no more slipping through side doors or pretending not to see you. Now, he strides into the rink like he belongs — and like you do, too. He nods in your direction with that soft, crooked smile that never quite reaches anyone else. Sometimes he murmurs a low “hey” as he laces up beside you, voice rough with sleep or effort, but always gentle. Sometimes, he tosses out quiet compliments — casual, but devastating. “That new spin? You looked unreal.” “Your edgework’s scary smooth today.” “Still can’t figure out how you make it all look so easy.”

Every word leaves your heart stuttering, and he knows it — you can see it in the way he bites back a grin when you glance away too fast.

The two of you fall into a rhythm: skating slow, overlapping loops across the rink during cooldowns. Like two shadows tracing the same path. The way your blades echo in tandem makes it feel like the ice belongs to no one else.

The boys still don’t know. And you can tell Sunghoon prefers it that way.

It’s not secrecy. It’s privacy. This thing — whatever it is, whatever it’s becoming — is something he wants to keep untouched. Untangled. Yours.

One night, after a long practice, you both linger at center ice.

The main lights have been dimmed, replaced by the soft amber glow of the rink’s perimeter bulbs, casting a warm haze across the glassy surface. It’s quiet — the kind of quiet that hums in your ears, like standing in snow. Your breath fogs gently between you, curling in the chilled air like wisps of smoke. But you barely feel the cold anymore. Not when he’s standing this close.

Your skates glide to a soft stop, and he mirrors you. You’re not touching, but the space between you is charged — heavy with all the things you haven’t dared say out loud.

Then, Sunghoon breaks the silence, voice barely more than a whisper.

“You ever think about what happens after all this?”

You blink, caught off guard. “After… skating?”

He nods once, slowly. “Skating. School. Us.”

Us.

It slips out quiet — careful — but it lands like a crash in your chest.

He’s never said that before. Not even hinted. But now it hangs between you, glowing like a question and a confession all at once.

Your heart stumbles. “What about us?” you ask, barely able to get the words out.

Sunghoon turns to face you more fully. His skates nudge yours, the faintest bump — like an invitation. His eyes are darker now, softer, filled with something real. Something certain.

“I used to think I had everything I wanted out here,” he begins, voice steady but low. “Goals. Stats. Big wins. It was enough for a long time.” His gaze drops, like he’s searching for the right words in the reflection of your skates. “But then you started showing up. Floating in with your quiet confidence. Your ridiculous grace. And it was like…” He pauses, swallowing. “Like the ice wasn’t just mine anymore. It became this… thing we shared. This place I looked forward to because I knew you’d be here.”

You say nothing. You can’t.

He’s still going. “You made me want to skate differently. To be better. For me, yeah. But also for you.” He lifts his head now, eyes locking with yours. “I think I was always skating toward you. I just didn’t know it until now.”

Your breath catches.

He lifts a hand — gloved and trembling just slightly — and lets his thumb graze your cheek. The gesture is so delicate it barely counts as a touch, but you feel it like a lightning bolt beneath your skin.

It’s not rushed. Not dramatic. Just real.

And then he leans in.

The kiss is soft. Almost tentative. But warm — achingly warm — like sunlight spilling through a frost-covered window. His lips taste faintly of winter air and something sweeter — maybe relief, maybe hope.

You melt into it slowly, arms slipping up around his neck. His hands find your waist, steady and careful, anchoring you to the spot like you’re something he’s afraid to lose.

The silence wraps around you like a blanket. No crowd, no teammates, no music — just the whisper of blades as you shift closer, deeper into the kiss.

When you finally part, your foreheads stay pressed together, breaths mingling. His cheeks are flushed, not from exertion but from you.

You whisper, barely teasing, “Still think figure skating’s weak?”

A slow, breathless laugh escapes him. He pulls back just enough to grin, eyes crinkling at the corners. “No,” he murmurs. “I think it saved me.”

And somewhere in the distance, the low mechanical hum of the Zamboni stirs to life. The sound should pull you apart — remind you that time’s still moving. But neither of you flinch.

You stay there, hand in hand, lips tingling, hearts still racing, as the world starts to catch up.

But here, on the ice — in your own quiet corner of the universe — you have all the time you need.

EPILOGUE ↴

It happens a week later.

Whatever unspoken agreement Sunghoon had with himself — to keep things lowkey, just between you and him — it starts to unravel under the weight of how obvious he’s become.

Jake and Heeseung are the first to notice.

Not because Sunghoon says anything — he’s still tight-lipped and cool as ever on the surface — but because something has shifted.

He’s sharper on the ice. More fluid, more explosive. Every play lands. Every pass connects. He’s skating like there’s a fire beneath him and gravity’s stopped applying.

But it’s not just that.

It’s the hum under his breath in the locker room — some tune that doesn’t exist outside the way he heard you humming it under your breath one night while lacing your skates.

It’s the stupid grin that sneaks across his face when he’s doing something as mundane as tying his laces or drinking water.

It’s the way he checks his phone during water breaks, thumbs flying fast across the screen before he tucks it away with that soft little smile, like the words on it are carved from sunshine.

Jake stares at him for a moment one morning as they’re suiting up for practice.

Then, squinting: “Okay. Spill it. Who is she?”

Sunghoon looks up too quickly, too sharply — caught. “Who’s who?”

Heeseung doesn’t even try to hide his laugh. “Don’t even. You’ve been moving like you’re in the opening credits of a K-drama. The smiling? The texting? The skating like you’ve been kissed for the first time? Yeah, we clocked it.”

Jake snaps his fingers suddenly, pointing at Sunghoon with wide eyes. “Wait. WAIT. Is it—? It is, isn’t it? The figure skater?”

Heeseung’s jaw drops like it’s been unhinged. “No way. The one from the other school? The really good one? The hot one?”

Sunghoon stiffens. Silent. Hesitates.

And then, with zero fanfare, “...I mean. Yeah.”

Jake lets out a triumphant squawk. “I knew it! Bro, I told you he was eyeing her during that last comp. Like, full-on ‘main character sees his future wife’ energy.”

Heeseung flails his arms like he’s been personally betrayed. “And you didn’t tell us?! Dude. You’ve been having secret after-hours practices and doing love laps around the rink while we were trying to figure out how you leveled up like a hockey anime protagonist?”

Sunghoon shrugs, but his smile gives him away — soft, boyish, completely unbothered. “I wasn’t sneaking. I just… didn’t say anything.”

Jake clutches his heart dramatically. “You didn’t trust us with your love story? I would’ve planned a playlist. A celebratory montage. Something!”

Heeseung leans across the bench, narrowing his eyes. “So when do we get lessons? You clearly unlocked some kind of romantic-figure-skating power boost and I want in.”

“Never,” Sunghoon replies instantly, flicking a glove at him. “That’s our thing.”

Jake and Heeseung groan in betrayal.

That night, the team heads to a little post-practice dinner — a cozy spot with warm lighting, clinking glasses, and the sound of cleats scraping on linoleum as players shuffle into booths.

Sunghoon arrives late.

And not alone.

When the door opens, heads turn.

You walk in beside him, cheeks pink from the cold, hair slightly windswept, and wearing one of his oversized spare hoodies — navy, with his team’s logo splashed across the chest and his number stitched into the sleeve. It swallows you just enough to make it his, but you wear it like it’s yours.

Jake and Heeseung look at each other, faces lighting up with identical I told you so expressions so dramatic they might as well have been choreographed.

You wave shyly toward the group.

Jake waves back like you’re a celebrity and he’s a fan at a fanmeet. Heeseung literally claps.

Sunghoon just exhales, long-suffering, but there’s a warm glow in his eyes as he places a guiding hand on the small of your back, steering you to the booth beside him.

Heeseung leans across the table like he’s interviewing you for a magazine. “So. Question. Did you teach him all those new spins he’s been showing off? Or just the ones that make us look like amateurs?”

You smirk, resting your elbows on the table. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Jake points at you dramatically. “Perfect. She’s perfect. You’re doomed, man.”

Sunghoon laughs — really laughs — and it’s unguarded in a way the team rarely sees from him. He pulls you in gently, letting you tuck beneath his arm, and rests his chin on your shoulder with a content sigh.

No deflection. No hiding.

For the first time in a long time, he doesn’t care who’s watching.

Because everyone is watching — and this time, he’s proud of what they see.

You.

Him.

Together.

And he wouldn’t change a single second of it.

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