#Title from Good to me (SEVENTEEN)

[fairyniceyeah]

💎🦖'Cause you, you're my everything

Title from Good to Me (SEVENTEEN)

Summary: Dino seems to be having a migraine though he never has had one before. The members are worried and it gets worse before it gets better.

CW: emeto, migraines, seizures, hospitals and hospital procedures

Sickie: Dino/Chan Caretakers: Wonwoo, Joshua, Jeonghan, S.Coups/Seungcheol (+ others)

Wonwoo ran his hand through his hair as he power-walked through the company halls. He wasn’t having the easiest day - somehow his schedule was incredibly long and there was no real break into later that evening. He loved being busy of course, otherwise he never could have made it as an idol but for the moment he just wished for a bit of space to breathe. He hoped that Seungcheol would go easy on them in the upcoming Hip-Hop Team meeting despite them nearing a deadline and not having as much finished as they probably should have.

He entered the room, Seungcheol already sitting at his laptop while Vernon and Mingyu were snacking on some dried fruits. 

“There you are”, Seungcheol said, looking up. “We were wondering if you got lost in the halls on the way here.”

“Funny, hyung”, Wonwoo replied, plopping down next to Vernon and stealing the distracted maknae’s strawberry he was holding.

“Hyung”, Vernon whined, pouting but just reached into the bag again.

“Sorry, my schedule is just crazy today”, Wonwoo apologized, “I literally had to beg manager-hyung for a break so I could pee earlier before we left the photoshoot.”

Mingyu snickered and Wonwoo was very tempted to throw the strawberry at his head but he refrained just on principle of not wasting food. Instead he rolled his eyes and said: “Well, let’s …”

At that moment his phone rang and he glanced at the caller ID. To his surprise it was Dino. Wasn’t the maknae scheduled to have solo dance practice today? What could he want?

“Sorry, it’s Channie”, Wonwoo said, “I want to see what is up.”

He accepted the call. 

"Hyung?", the maknae’s familiar voice came through the speakers, though unusually quiet.

"Hey, Channie, what is going on?", he asked, stealing another dried fruit from Vernon.

"Where are you?", Dino asked in return.

"Hip-Hop team meeting", Wonwoo replied, confused. He thought Dino knew that, considering they always had meetings on Tuesdays. “Is something the matter?"

"No, it's, uh, it’s fine. Yeah, right, the meeting. I'm having a pretty bad headache, but I'll call somebody else to drive me home. Don’t worry." Wonwoo’s heart clenched at the shaky, stuttering voice of his favorite dongsaeng.

"Where are you?", the rapper inquired. Dino very likely wasn’t in the practice rooms if he wasn’t feeling well, especially if he was feeling so bad he asked to go home.

"Practice room bathroom. Spend the last half hour puking my guts out", Dino sighed.

Wonwoo echoed the sentiment, feeling worry rise. Clearly their youngest was truly not feeling well. But nevertheless, the Hip-Hop team meeting was important and they were thirteen people after all…

"I'm sorry you're not feeling well. Can you try to find somebody else to drive you home? I am so sorry, really. Call me again, if you find nobody else to drive you home, okay?"

"Yeah."

They disconnected the call and Wonwoo looked up at three worried faces. “Channie isn’t feeling well. I hope he finds somebody else to drive him home. Otherwise we might need to reschedule the meeting.”

Seungcheol nodded, eyes full of concern. Soon Wonwoo found himself swamped with the workload, practically forgetting about their conversation.

 💎

Dino, meanwhile, leaned against the bathroom wall. His head was aching, neck muscles sore from tension. He closed his eyes against the bright light. There were motion sensors in the bathroom and he knew he couldn’t stay in this brightly lit room. Little stars were dotting his vision. 

With both hands bracing the wall he carefully stood up, trying to keep his balance. He lifted his backpack on his back, nearly crying from the pain it caused in his neck.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the stall door, again blinking against the bright light, fighting terrible nausea for a moment. Then he stumbled to an empty meeting room, leaving the lights off. It didn’t help much, he still felt awful. 

Dino knew he needed somebody to drive him home. In his wish for his favourite hyung he had totally forgotten about the Hip-Hop meeting. But that meant that next to Wonwoo, Seungcheol, Mingyu and Vernon were out too.

He scrolled through his contacts, contemplating his options. Jun and Minghao were in China. Jeonghan was on a solo schedule. Woozi was likely busy in the studio and he didn’t have a driver's license anyways. Seungkwan would nag too much. He loved Hoshi but he knew he would probably puke in the car considering how his hyung drove. Jeonghan was visiting his parents. So it only left Joshua - not that Dino minded. He loved his gentle hyung and he craved his soft voice if he was honest.

 💎

Fifteen minutes later Joshua knelt down before him and smiled. 

"Hey, let's get you home, maknae", he said and gently helped the dancer to his feet. Once he was sitting in the overly hot car - at this moment Dino decided he hated summer - he shut his eyes and leaned back against the backrest.

"Sorry, baby, the AC seems to be broken", Joshua said apologetically as he put the car in drive. “I meant to get it fixed but we were so busy, you know how it is…”

 Dino didn't answer him, drifting between sleep and wakefulness in the twenty minute drive. He was very glad when they arrived at the apartment, the motion and the heat making him steadily nauseous. The elevator ride up to the apartments - okay, Joshua was taking him to the apartment Dino shared with Jun, DK and Vernon - was nauseating and Dino felt himself break out in cold sweat.

Once Joshua had opened the front door for him - Dino’s own hands were too shaky and his vision too bad to enter the keycode -, he bolted to the bathroom. He retched pitifully as the pain in his head exploded even more. It was probably the worst pain he had ever felt and he felt so dizzy. His mouth tasted awful, he could barely breathe between waves of vomit coming up and his head pounded in time with his heartbeat. Even his ears ached. 

When what was probably minutes but felt like hours was over he noticed a delicate hand on his back, rubbing comforting circles onto his back. Another hand landed on his shoulder and only then did Dino realise he had slowly started tilting to the side. He groaned and resisted the urge to rest his head against the toilet seat.

"You wanna lay down, baby?", Joshua asked worriedly. 

He nodded, well he tried to, but his muscles seized up so badly he let out a very undignified pained grunt. It got the message across anyways and the older man carefully helped him to his feet for the second time that day.

He led him to his bedroom, as he kept his eyes firmly shut, and sat him on his bed. While he struggled out of his sweatpants and shirt, Joshua efficiently pulled the curtains shut. They didn’t black out all the lights sadly. At this moment Dino wished for the blackout curtains they had all chipped in to buy for both Joshua and Woozi for their migraine attacks. If his hyungs only felt a fraction as bad as Dino did at that moment he pitied them. He didn’t know how they survived pain like this on a regular basis and he didn’t even know if it was a migraine he was having but rather a bad headache? After all, normally he didn’t get migraines. 

Once the room was as dark as possible he dared to open his eyes, looking up at Joshua. Due to the darkness and his squinty vision he wasn't really able to see him, only barely being able to make out his silhouette. 

"Thank you, hyung", he breathed.

"Sleep", Joshua replied and gently moved him so that he was laying on his back. "I'll put a bucket on the floor in case you need to be sick again and be in the living room if you need something. You’ll probably want some quiet."

Dino closed his eyes and let sleep overtake him.

 💎

To say that Seokmin was surprised when he found Joshua eating his cereal in his kitchen was an understatement.

His hyung chuckled at his expression. "Close your mouth or you might catch flies", he said.

"Uhm, well, not that I don't like your company, hyung. But why are you sitting in my kitchen? And why are you eating my cereal?”, Seokmin asked and walked across the kitchen and grabbed a spoon.

"Dino has a migraine, I think. I mean, he never had one before but he looked as pitiful as Jihoonie does during his attacks. It’s a pretty bad headache if not. So yeah, I drove him home from the company and decided to stick around should he need something. And I was hungry and I'm not gonna eat Hansollie's stupid healthy stuff."

"Fair enough. How is Channie?"

"Asleep, last I checked. He's been throwing up on and off. Couldn’t even keep the pain meds down."

Seokmin sat down across from her and used his spoon to eat the cereal with her. It was his after all. Joshua just fondly rolled his eyes and pushed the bowl closer.

 💎

“I should probably check on him again”, Joshua said once the cereal was eaten. “You should probably stay here. I know you aren’t the biggest fan of puke.”

He found their maknae tangled in his blankets, his forehead sweaty and creased in pain. His eyes opened when they stepped in.

Joshua sat down next to the maknae and brushed a hand through his soaked bangs. 

"You're really warm, baby", Joshua mumbled, feeling worried. The maknae was getting worse and worse. "I'll get a thermometer, take your temperature and then you should go back to sleep, okay?"

Dino didn't answer, but when Joshua returned he had shifted a bit, the heating pad he had asked for earlier to relax his tense muscles visible under his neck. After putting a plastic cap onto the tip of the thermometer, Joshua carefully slipped it under Dino’s tongue. The beeping sound made Dino whimper and Joshua tenderly carded his hand through his friend’s hair. 

"Sleep", Joshua mumbled and pressed a feather-light kiss on Dino's sweaty forehead before he left the room and returned to the kitchen.

He studied the thermometer and frowned at the reading of 39.5 degrees. "Not good?", Seokmin asked, peering over his shoulder. "Oh, poor baby."

“I’ll bring him an ice pack”, Joshua decided, “and take the heating pad. Even if it helps the pain it’s just making his fever rise. He’ll feel even worse then. I just wished he could have kept down the medication I tried to give him earlier.”

 💎

Three hours later, nearly all members were sitting in the living room. Joshua wasn’t sure how that had happened. When he checked his phone he realised that Wonwoo asked about the maknae in the group chat (maybe Joshua should check his phone more often after all) and Seokmin had answered and now everybody was worried. Jun and Minghao had even jokingly asked if they should book flights back to Korea - though Joshua wasn’t sure how much they were actually joking. 

So now Hoshi, Seungkwan, Seokmin and Joshua sat in the living room. Even Woozi had come out of the studio - a bit embarrassed by his rushing to the maknae’s side but defending his normally tsundere approach to life with knowing bad headaches could be. Jeonghan on the other hand had immediately slipped into Dino’s bedroom, never one to stray far from his hurting kids.

Blessedly all of them were more or less used to migraines and so very quiet when they talked. They had put on a movie that was playing silently in the background, while most of them were working on something or playing on their phones.

They all looked up, as Dino's door opened and their maknae stumbled into the hallway, leaning heavily on Jeonghan.

"How are you feeling?", Joshua asked quietly, from where he was curled up on the couch.

"Urgh", Dino mumbled, but smiled weakly at them. He let Jeonghan move him to the couch, which Woozi and Hoshi had vacated as soon as Dino had appeared. He sank down gratefully and cuddled up to his hyung immediately. Seokmin handed Jeonghan the thermometer who coaxed Dino to open his mouth to take his temperature.

"39.6", Jeonghan read with a frown, "that's not better." 

Woozi returned from the kitchen with a glass of water which he held to Dino's lips, knowing very well that the maknae would be too shaky to hold it himself.

 💎

Dino drank slowly, likely aware that anything could upset his stomach again. The headache was barely better, but he didn't feel like he was going to throw up any second anymore. With a sigh he leaned back against Jeonghan and closed his eyes.

"Yeez, no wonder your head hurts, your muscles are basically rocks", Jeonghan commented as he rubbed Dino’s shoulder. The maknae cursed in pain, as Jeonghan put pressure on his neck, uncaring that his hyung was … well, his hyung. 

"Hands off", he mumbled, "hurts." 

He noticed Jeonghan and Joshua exchanging a glance - probably because normally Dino enjoyed getting massages a lot and would often pester his members for one if he felt like it. RIght ow, he didn’t feel like it. His muscles hurt so much he didn’t think a massage would fix it.

“Stop thinking, let me sleep”, he grumbled and let himself drift off into a light sleep.

However, barely ten minutes later he jolted out of his sleep, stomach tossing and turning. He quickly sat up, but it was too late. Leaning over he retched and threw up the water ... all over Jeonghan. The older, to his credit, just helped Dino lean over further, so that the rest of the sick landed on the floor. Dino was shaking all over and he could barely muster the strength to move back upright, his body so stiff it felt impossible.

He could feel the other gazing at him, probably worried, but Dino wouldn’t care about them. There was vomit all over Jeonghan and the couch and his mouth tasted like dead animal. 

When he was finally done, Dino leaned back against the couch cushions. Only then did realisation hit. He stared in horror at Jeonghan, who just raised his eyebrow and said dryly: "Thank you for sharing that with us."

"Aish, hyung, I'm so sorry." Dino was mortified but Jeonghan just squeezed his arm. 

"It’s not the first time one of you kids threw up on me, love. It's not your fault that I forgot the bucket in your room." 

 💎

Clean up was just done, when the door opened, admitting the Hip-Hop team. Immediately Wonwoo jogged over to Dino who was dozing on Hoshi’s lap.

"How are you feeling?", Wonwoo asked quietly, gently stroking the bangs away from Dino' forehead.

"Head really hurts, hyung”, Dino whimpered. “Still really nauseous too.”

"I’m sorry I couldn’t come earlier, kiddo. Do you need anything?"

Dino smiled crookedly, feeling a bit embarrassed. But his bladder had demanded attention for a while and he could no longer ignore it. "I need to use the bathroom. Help me walk over there?"

Wonwoo nodded and lifted Dino to his feet slowly. Once youngest seemed reasonably steady he helped him walk the short distance.

"Remember, don't...", Wonwoo started.

"...lock the door, sit down if I feel dizzy and call if I need anything, I know, hyung”, Dino repeated the words he had heard Seungcheol drill into Joshua and Woozi when they had migraines ever since Woozi had collapsed in the bathroom and it had taken Mingyu’s and Seungcheol’s combined strength to force the door open. 

 💎

A few minutes later the maknae returned, still looking pale and he let Wonwoo lead him back to the couch without any fuss. 

But then he looked up at the flashing police lights from the movie that was playing and froze. Wonwoo looked down at his dongsaeng and quickly grasped Dino tighter as the younger man's knees gave out under him. With a surprised shout that alerted their friends, he lowered Dino to the floor.

He could only stare in shock as every one of Dino' muscles tensed and then … then Dino was seizing.

It suddenly didn't matter how long Seungcheol had been on his feet that day apparently (even though he had complained all the way back to the apartment), as he was the first on his knees next to Dino. 

Quickly the leader turned the seizing maknae on his side. Wonwoo was only able to stare at what was happening in front of his feet. His dongsaeng, his Channie, was jerking in unrealistic ways that frightened him to the bone. It was the first seizure Wonwoo ever witnessed and he had never once imagined it to be as awful as it looked.

"Wonwoo-yah, let’s take a step back", Jeonghan said, suddenly next to him, his own voice trembling, "Cheollie and Jihoonie are helping him and Soonyoungie is on the phone with the emergency services." 

Numbly Wonwoo watched how Seungcheol and Woozi tried to help the maknae, placing pillows against the walls. Hoshi indeed seemed to be on the phone and Seungkwan was staring at his wristwatch. Maybe he was timing the seizure. He couldn’t spot Vernon, Mingyu and Seokmin. 

The next time Wonwoo was aware, paramedics (when had they arrived?) lifted Dino on a stretcher, exchanging quick words with Seungcheol which Wonwoo's muddled brain couldn't make sense of, the leader crying.

Then Jeonghan was kneeling in front of him, no trace of Dino and Seungcheol to be seen. His mouth felt dry, his whole body was numb. He could see Jeonghan's mouth moving, but he didn't hear anything he said. Then Joshua was kneeling next to Jeonghan, his face worried, but a tiny smile on his lips. He looked up and saw all of his friends, except for Seungcheol and Dino and ... oh god, what was happening?

There wasn't enough air in the room, how could the others not notice it? Wonwoo clutched at his throat, trying to keep his turtleneck pullover from choking him any further. He whimpered and then arms were thrown around him and then at last could breathe in a familiar smell. Tears were leaking uncontrollably from his eyes but he clutched Mingyu tighter, pressing his face in his best friend’s shirt. Then sound came back and he was aware of somebody crying and whimpering, but even more so of Mingyu whispering soothing nothingness in his ear.

"'Gyu", he ground out, coughing slightly due to his dry throat.

"Hey, you back with us?", Mingyu asked tenderly, cupping Wonwoo’s face and wiping his tears with his thumb. Suddenly a bit embarrassed Wonwoo nodded. Seungkwan tipped a glass of water against his lips with utmost care and he drank greedily to soothe his parched throat.

"'M sorry", Wonwoo mumbled. “I …”

"Nothing to be sorry about", Jeonghan said. He had stood up and now was standing at the front door, obviously wanting to get to the hospital as soon as possible. "Happens to the best of us. It was scary, I'll give you that." 

 💎

Wonwoo let Hoshi and Jeonghan pull him to his feet and was quite grateful that they didn't let go as his legs still felt like jelly.

They quickly entered Seungcheol's car, Jeonghan in the driver’s seat, Woozi passenger and Hoshi and Mingyu joining him in the back. 

Mingyu pulled him close and Hoshi scooted to the door, so that even with the limited amount of space Wonwoo was able to rest his head on Mingyu's shoulder. Hoshi still held his hand in his, his thumb rubbing comforting circles on Wonwoo’s wrist. The rapper was too hyped to sleep, though he felt his body crashing as the adrenaline died down, but he was able to relax against his friends a bit.

Soon after, Wonwoo found himself in one of the plastic chairs in a private waiting room of a busy Seoul ER. A door opened and Seungcheol stepped in, his limb more pronounced again. Crashing to his knees seemed to have done him in, Wonwoo noted vaguely as Jeonghan rushed over to support him. 

Seungcheol squeezed his hand thankfully and sank down on Jeonghan's vacated chair.

"Dino's awake", he said with a forced smile. They all breathed a sigh of relief but it was short lived. "He is in a lot of pain, but they are running the test quickly. He already had a CT and MRI. They gave him some medication for the seizure, so he's good in that department. He's been freaking out at the prospect of a … I forgot the term but they want to take a sample from his spine fluid. Wonwoo-yah, he’s been asking for you. I told him I couldn’t guarantee it but do you want to go?"

Wonwoo nodded and moved to get up. He needed to be there for his dongsaeng now, especially if he asked for him. He still didn’t feel great, more like he was about to redecorate the hospital floor, but he had to do this. Mingyu squeezed his hand encouragingly and then he stood in the small treatment room.

Dino, pale and shaky, was lying on his side on the gurney, dressed in a hospital gown. He seemed impossibly small curled up like this, even more than normal.

"Hey", Wonwoo breathed and strode over towards Dino. The maknae opened his eyes and looked up at him. 

"Wonwoo-hyung?", he asked, his voice filled with a bit of uncertainty. 

"Yeah, it's me." He gently wrapped Dino small hands in his. Seeing Dino, no matter how he looked right now, calmed him down significantly.

"I'm scared. What's wrong with me?"

"I don’t know", Wonwoo said honestly. "But I am sure the doctors will find out why you are in so much pain and had that seizure"

"Seizure?", Dino asked, panicky. Wonwoo leaned forward and kissed his forehead. "Yeah, you had a seizure at the apartment."

"I don't remember", Dino said, closing his eyes again. "Shua-hyung drove me home and I went to bed. The next thing I know I wake up here with a worried Seungcheol-hyung, who looks like he just survived a war."

Wonwoo had no chance to answer as a doctor entered. 

“Good afternoon”, she greeted with a smile. “I’m here to perform the lumbar puncture. Chan-ssi, are you feeling ready?”

“No, but I don’t think I ever will. Just do it.”

"I promise I will be as gentle as I can, Chan-ssi. Relax, please, this will be a bit uncomfortable nevertheless."

"Focus on me, baby", Wonwoo said, running his finger across Dino' cheek, trying to distract the maknae. He nodded at the doctor who injected Dino' back with a local anesthesia. The maknae whimpered slightly and grasped Wonwoo's hand tighter.

 💎

Forty-five minutes later Wonwoo rocked a crying Dino in his arms, after the procedure was finally done. A nurse called somebody to move Dino's bed into a private room and nobody batted an eye when Wonwoo followed them. 

Once Dino was settled into the room, an IV connected to him to give him fluids and anti-nausea medication, Jeonghan and Mingyu appeared in the doorway.

Jeonghan quickly walked over towards Dino and gathered him in his arms in a tender way, kissing his forehead. Mingyu stepped to stand next to Wonwoo and grasped his hand in his, squeezing it tightly.

"Visiting hours are over in half an hour", he quietly informed Wonwoo. The older rapper nodded.

Now that Dino was settled he felt the exhaustion weigh him down and his vision got blurry. 

"Hoshi drove Woozi and Joshua home, pray for them. A manager is waiting for us to drive us back", Mingyu then added.

Wonwoo nodded again and then his knees buckled under him. He was so tired.

"Come on, hyung, sit down", Mingyu mumbled when Wonwoo sagged against him more and more with every second. He moved him to sit at the table in one corner of the room and sat down on the table, so that he could pull Wonwoo's head to lean against his stomach. 

They silently watched Dino and Jeonghan talking to each other, Jeonghan impossibly gentle with their youngest.

A knock on the door startled all of them out of their thoughts and the doctor from before entered the room.

“Good evening. How are you feeling, Chan-ssi?”, she asked.

“Tired. Headachy and tense. Still queasy”, Dino mumbled, his head dropping against Jeonghan’s chest.

"That’s understandable. The tests just came back. They show you have contracted bacterial meningitis. You will receive some antibiotics for the next few days. You should count on being here for at least a week. I’m sure your hyungs will keep you company during visiting hours but you need rest above all." 

With that she walked over and connected Dino's IV to a small bottle of what seemed to be the antibiotic.

"Thank you", Jeonghan said and turned to Dino as soon as the doctor had left. “Dino?”

“Hm?”

“Whose baby are you?”

Dino sighed and rolled his eyes. “Jeonghannie hyung’s baby.”

“That’s right”, Jeonghan said. “You are our baby brother. Don’t scare us like this again. You can count on your hyungs nagging you for the rest of time.”

Dino smiled crookedly. “From what I gathered I think I scared you enough that you’ll all wait on me hand and foot for the rest of time.”

“Brat!”

Notes: Lately I haven't been doing well mentally and especially with work it's been hard to write consistently. So this fic (and likely some future ones) are just rewrites and adjusted Les Misérables stories I wrote. I can assure you it's definitely my own story (even if the account name is different) and I mostly don't like doing this but I still want to present you some fics! This is why it also doesn't quite fit the request I based this fic on - because a) this was already written and b) I only headcanon Joshua and Woozi to get migraines and I needed something that looked similiar to one. I hope you enjoyed anyways!

Masterlist links: Fairy's Masterlist 2024 Fairy's Masterlist 2025 Fairy's Masterlist - SEVENTEEN

[whirlybirbs]

— CAN'T WE BE SEVENTEEN? ; shoto todoroki ; 焦凍

summary: he's loved you since he was seventeen. pairing: f!reader x pro hero!shoto ; reader was a 1-A student tags: mutual pining, heavy make-out, thinly veiled sugar daddy shoto, reader does not go pro, touya might be a dick but he's a hero now, shoto is bad at feelings wordcount: 5.6k a/n: i do not fucking know what came over me, enjoy your food my little todorokinas. yes the title is what you think it is. no i will not elaborate.

You never did go pro.

Truthfully, you thought there would be more pushback when, in your senior year, you announced your plan to pursue a degree in early childhood education with a focus on non-conforming quirk development. 

The War changed a lot. It changed you, your classmates, and the world. But, through it all one thing stuck with you:

What if someone helped Tenko Shimura?

How different would his life have been? How different would history have spun? 

You graduated at the top of your class and joined the faculty at Chiba Prefectural Preparatory School for Quirk Specialties two years ago. 

Chiba Prep was opened eight years ago in response to a societal cry for more infrastructure around what was dubbed "non-conforming quirks": a nice way to say quirks that can injure, maim, or kill. Maybe even all three on a bad day. Some parents still see their child being labeled as a non-conforming quirk user in the national database as akin to social suicide. 

You see it differently.

Your quirk allows you to manipulate emotions — anger, sadness, betrayal, love, hatred. If you can feel it, you can sink it into another's psyche deep enough to drive them to act. You can even imbue things with feelings. For example, a cup of warm milk can transform into more than just a simple comfort, now it can hold the feeling of home and safety, or even exhaustion strong enough to put even the biggest foe to rest. 

You could easily use your quirk with nefarious intent. 

You could steep hatred in someone's bone so deep it drives them to harm themselves. You could sew fury so solid into someone's mind it drives them to violence. 

Just a touch and you can control others with something so intrinsically personal it only exists within themselves: their feelings.

What makes you any different from little Asuke, a shy little girl with a quirk that allows her to see people's greatest fears, and then manifest and control them? You're convinced she can use this for good, if only with practice. In your mind, her future is bright and glimmering. Perhaps she will become a therapist, focusing on exposure therapy? Or, maybe the most prolific horror novelist in their time? 

Or, bright and sunny Tao — a transplant whose parents sought out Chiba Prep's specialized education — whose heteromorphic quirk makes his bodily fluids, namely saliva, eat through nearly anything but his own biologics. A sneeze is quickly the most dangerous thing in the world for the cheery, lizard-bodied class clown. 

He's just a boy given a quirk that needs more care. 

He isn't a villain-in-training. 

None of them are.

It's important to teach them that young — and as their teacher for Year 3 of their elementary schooling, you aim to hammer that in as much as possible. They deserve to feel normal. To feel loved and supported. They aren't scary, they're children. 

So, you take it upon yourself to insist on pushing for privileges like field trips. There aren't many public spaces that welcome the classes of Chiba Prep with open arms. Over the years, there have been plenty of incidents. But, a day trip into the city to visit Tokyo's Hall of Heroes is green-lit with bubbling excitement from both faculty, the children, and their parents. 

You usually keep your history as a graduated member of Class 1-A quiet. 

After all, you never did go pro.

And even still, Shoto Todoroki never stopped thinking about you.

He remembers that weekend everyone moved back in for their last year before graduation. He remembers you smiling at him, and helping him drag up a duffel of luggage from the common room to his dorm. You made a joke about how you're sure he got taller over the summer, and how his hair is longer now. You said you liked it. 

It was the beginning of the end, then.

His crush was a silent, smothering thing. It made it hard to think. Shoto had enough on his plate thanks to Touya's acceptance into the Villain Rehabilitation Program and his father's insistence on staving off retirement. Not to mention his parent's divorce — no matter how amicable, it was still a separation. Add on training, tests, studying, finals, and j-term classes... And a desperate, writhing, burning crush on the nicest girl in class? 

Touya's elbow digs into Shoto's side.

It drags him back to reality — to the stifled quiet of the historical Hall of Heroes. 

Suddenly, the doors to the wing squeak open, and a tour guide ushers in the elementary school class. The buzzing excitement and wonder are visible on each of their faces as the attendant — one of the HoH's lead tour guides — excitedly explains the newest, in-progress addition to the Hall:

Endeavor's wing. 

There's a whisper of awe that ripples through the children as their teacher and co-teacher follow, and as the class moves through the large, open space. They're staring up eagerly at the gilded statue in the center of the room. It's larger than life and intimidating. Years ago, Shoto might have had to fight the odd tremble in his knees at the reminder it brings: to be small in his father's shadow again. But, things are different now. 

Very different.

Touya scoffs. "I thought this wing wasn't open to the public yet."

"They're just children," Shoto hums, turning his back on the gaggle across the way to inspect the large mural winding along the back end of the installation, "I'm sure it's—"

"Oh, ho, no way!"

Shoto quirks his brow at his brother's outburst. His elbow digs into Shoto's ribs again. 

"Ain't that the pretty girl you never got the balls to ask out your senior year?" comes the rasped drawl of his older brother's voice. Touya is clearly amused, his white hair hanging in his eyes as he leans forward to squint, "She is cute, Sho'—"

"Shut up," Shoto grits, turning his head over his shoulder; he tries to bite back the flurry of nerves that ignite in his gut, "Stop talking."

It is you.

You look... good. 

Happy. 

You're crouched by a small, timid girl in the back of the crowd. Your hand is in hers, and you're pointing upwards at the large paneled screens replaying Endeavor's most historic fights. You're explaining something to her, your knees bent as you squat. You look... the same. As if in the six years since they graduated, you sat still in time. 

For a second, it's like he's seventeen again.

It's his senior year, and he's stuck at the corner of the gym's edge with a half-empty glass of punch in his hand. The lights are low, and there's slow music playing. His tie feels too tight. Bakugo keeps telling him to 'ask her to dance already', and Kirishima is considering bashing his head through the wall. Even Midorya is trying to persuade Shoto. 

"It's prom, man! C'mon, this could be your last chance—"

Touya is about to be a real pain in the ass — his favorite pastime — and make some comment about your ass, but when he turns to lob the one-liner at his baby brother, Shoto's gone.

Shoto is on the move.

The crescendo of gasps draws your attention first.

Then, the cry of "WOAH, IT'S SHOTO!" leaves you dumbfounded. The rippling murmur of excitement bleeds into the children as their eyes — and the eyes of the tour guide — widen at the sight of the approaching Pro Hero. 

Shoto Todoroki.

He looks... good. 

Really good.

He's a bit older, and a bit more filled out than when you were both teenagers. You can see the strength in his arms and shoulders — it's a distant echo of his father's physique, though Shoto is so much more elegant and much... prettier. He's always been.

For a second, you're seventeen again.

It's your senior year, and you're sprawled across Momo Yaoyorozu's bed.

They had finally wrangled out of you who your crush was: something they hadn't been able to do in all their years as classmates.

There's a sticky, Miss Midnight-themed face mask clinging to your expression as you try to flip through the large magazine in your hands as nonchalantly as possible. Mina's voice, as she paints Ochaco's nails a bright pink on the floor, is sweet and saccharine as she looks up at you.

"I think you and Shoto would be, like, the cutest couple ever." 

You're still crouched when the tour guide nervously — like she was caught doing something naughty — introduces The Pro Hero Shoto to the already-aware crowd of elementary school students and their teachers. It's like igniting a match; the uproar of excitement leaves you laughing as three of your boys push forward to bombard him with questions about his quirk. 

Asuke is smiling shyly, now. That's a small win. She's intrigued by the appearance of a real hero, not the "scary statues" — and her big, fat tears stopped rolling the moment you laid a gentle hand on her to quell her anxiety over the new environment with a push of comfort through your quirk. She unhooks her pinkie finger from yours as you guide her towards your co-teacher. 

"Boys," you call with a crisp air of authority as you stand and lead Asuke toward the bulk of the field trip group, "What have we learned about personal space?"

"It's fine, really, Insight," comes Shoto's voice; as warm and placid as you remember. 

"Insight?" mutters your co-teacher at the presumed hero-name; a look of confusion plasters itself on her face, and her big, feline ears perk up. She leans in to whisper in a way that borders on conspiratory, "Do you two know one another?"

"Old classmates," you confirm, not daring to get into the finer details.

Shoto's attention is entirely rooted in the way you manage the kids. There's something beautiful about the ease with which you handle the bouquet of students; you quell the excitement into a manageable decibel like it's as easy as breathing. 

"Shoto," you start as you gesture to him, "Has a very special quirk — Toyamai, he has ice like you. And, fire like Tojiro. He can regulate his temperature. Can anyone tell me what that means?"

There's a wave of hands shooting up, a few me, me, me's rise from the gaggle. 

You're using him as a teaching moment.

Shoto's smile is soft.

You nod at Ogomi, excitedly nodding as the reserved child speaks up. Normally, he hates public speaking. But, recently, he's started working with the speech pathologist during lunch. The boy bounces a little as he answers. "He doesn't g-get too hot, or too c-cold."

"Exactly! Isn't that cool?" you grin at the lazy attempt at a pun, "This is why it's important to learn about our quirks as much as we can!"

Touya thinks this whole thing is just too cute. 

You're different than he remembers — but, granted, things were sorta different last time he saw you. He was a little too busy tryna kill his old man and lil' Shoto. He's different now, too. A changed man! A real licensed hero. Support items and all. 

He hangs back. 

He... I mean, he is a jack-ass but he isn't gonna ruin this for Shoto. 

...It's kinda cute.

Just about as cute as Fuyumi said it was. 

Apparently, Shoto had opened up to her and Natsuo about his feelings after graduation — about how he regretted not doing��anything about it. Fuyumi then told their mum, who then off-handedly mentioned it to Touya... and well Touya dug in because, duh, he is a whore for good gossip. He might be the family's black sheep, but Shoto is the glue that binds. 

And he deserves to be happy.

Your co-teacher is ushering the kids to the next installation — a viewing of All Might's Legacy, a new documentary following the retired pro's teaching career. It will be a good wind down for them, in comfy seats and the dark. It's hardly the sort of content an elementary school student would find riveting, but it is All Might. And they love him.

You hang back. 

Shoto's heart is hammering in his chest.

"Hey."

"Hi," you greet back, closing the door to the theater and stepping forward as you weave your arms around you, "Long time no see."

"Yea," Shoto breathes, his hands in his pockets as he meets you halfway across the museum's marble floors, "I... I see you're teaching."

His eyes are as pretty as they were back then. Slate grey and piercing turquoise. "I'm in my second year," you confirm softly, fiddling with the material of your sweater, "Congrats to your old man."

You gesture up at the statue, then wave around to the rest of the installation.

Shoto inhales, then nods; he's staring at your face, blissfully realizing you're just the way you were all those years ago. Kind. "I'll pass it along."

"How's he handling it?" you ask, your eyes raking across his expression and trying not to stick to the sharp slope of his jaw, or the bob of his Adam's apple, "Retirement, I mean."

"He's happy, I think. Touya and I are working together and... things are...  good."

Last month, Endeavor finally retired. He cited his age, and his dedication to passing his legacy to his two sons: Shoto and Touya. Shoto has planted himself firmly within the Top Ten in the last year or so, and shockingly, Touya isn't far behind. People love an underdog's redemption story, you suppose. 

And the underdog in question can read a room. 

This is getting a little too sexually tense for even him.

"Heeeeey, girl," he rasps out, staggering backward with a thumb over his shoulder, "Nice t' see ya. I'll let you two catch up, yea? I'm gonna go pop my head into the theater, see how the kids are handling the snooze fest on screen—"

You jump.

How long has he even been there?

"Hi, D— Touya," you strain, wincing a little; the rehab'd villain doesn't seem to mind.

"Hi, teach'. That cool with you?" he asks, wobbling his thumb and quirking a pierced eyebrow; it's comical, like he's trying to disarm you with humor, "Don't want you thinkin' I'm corrupting your youths—"

"It's fine," you breathe, ignoring the sting of age-old mistrust. You know better. Shoto wouldn't be here, with him, if Touya Todoroki hadn't changed. Endeavor wouldn't be entrusting his legacy to the ex-League of Villain member if he didn't believe in his capacity for good, "Just don't be disruptive."

Casting judgment on someone whose life was nearly destroyed by his own non-conforming quirk would go against everything you taught the kids anyway.

"Touya's whole thing is being disruptive," Shoto grits as his oldest brother slips silently through the doors, "I apologize for him—"

"No," you wave him off, laughing a little, "Don't. It's... nice to see you two together."

Shoto's expression is soft as he wanders a little closer. "It took time — and a lot of therapy — but we've all managed to come out the other side."

"That's great to hear, Shoto," you breathe, your eyes flitting across his face, "I'm really happy for you."

There's a long silence, then — and you can't help but ignore the roil of butterflies in your stomach. The eye contact is heavy with some unspoken thing, and both of your tongues are weighted by secrets-never-turned-confessions. 

It's like finally this dance you've been doing around one another for years breaks — and the two of you throw caution to the wind at the exact same moment. 

"Would you like to—"

"Are you free—"

Hesitant, slow grins bloom on both your faces.

"Dinner?" is all he manages after a sweet moment of soaking up your soft smile, "If you're available...?"

You make yourself available.

Yaoyorozu almost dies when you call her that night — winded from tearing through your entire wardrobe. You explained you had nothing to wear a-and you needed something nice, and you only have an hour to get ready, because Todoroki — yes, stop screaming, Todoroki — is picking you up at 8pm.

Little bro is nervous. Touya can tell. 

From his spot on the sofa, the white-haired ex-degenerate scoffs. Natsuo is digging around for some cufflinks in Shoto's dresser.

"Seriously, Sho'? A suit?" 

"It's a nice restaurant," his brother says tightly, adjusting the collar of the black button-down, "I booked the upstairs dining room for privacy." 

"Who the hell told you t' do that?" Touya quirks a skeptical brow.

"Father was the one who suggested it."

"...That old dog." 

Natsuo rolls his eyes at the exchange before throwing his hands as he emerges from the closet. "Do you have any links that aren't emblazoned with U.A. High School's crest?"

The ones in Natsuo's hands have his graduation year on them.

Shoto winces.

"Want me to ask dear ol' dog of a dad?" Touya snarks from the corner, his posture becoming less and less upright as he scrolls on his phone.

"Already did," comes the soft voice of Fuyumi; she's smiling, padding into Shoto's room with a velvet box, "He offered up his nicest pair. He also says not to screw it up with Insight. He likes her."

Of course, he likes her. You worked under Endeavor for a brief work-study period during your third year. Shoto remembers hearing grumbled praise over dinner one night about your talent for de-escalation.

"You told him who I was seeing?" Shoto asks incredulously, taking the box and working the cufflinks on. He's starting to feel exasperated.

Fuyumi nods, popping down beside Touya. 

"He asked. I'm not gonna lie to him."

"Did y' tell ma?" Touya rasps, peeking up over his phone to inspect Shoto's outfit. Not half bad, honestly. He looks good in all black. A man after his own heart, "M'sure she's gonna be real excited—"

"Yes," Shoto grumbles, "I called her earlier—"

"Chiba Prep is a really good school, y'know," Natsuo buts in as he tries to find a tie that matches Shoto's outfit. Ultimately, though, the middle brother decides against it and tosses the options over his shoulder, "They're, like, on the leading edge for quirk therapies."

"Hey, nerd? Quiet down. The big kids are gossiping," Touya shirks, turning back to Shoto, "What did mum say?" 

"She wants me to call her after—"

"One, you're gonna call mum the morning after," Touya raises a finger, "Because if you don't get laid, I'll be so fuckin' disap—"

Fuyumi slaps Touya's chest. He lets out a pained yelp at the solid smack.

"Uh, ow," he rubs his sternum. "An' two, take a deep breath. You look like you're gonna shit yourself. Those are my pants and they're expensive."

Shoto lets out a long breath. 

Fuyumi's smile is sweet like honey. "Aw, Sho'! It's gonna go great. You two have known each other for such a long time, and catching up is going to be amazing. Just be yourself! Confident and kind—"

"—Hold the door open for her, and pull her chair out," Natsuo adds as he adjusts Shoto's collar for him, "Car door, too—"

It's Touya's turn. He's dead serious. "—And do not chicken out on kissing her at the end of the night. I swear to god."

Easier said than done.

You never did go pro.

Those years of hardened battle instincts have lost their edge. You try to remind yourself this is just Shoto, not The Shoto — but you're a little lost in the whole celebrity of it all when he picks you up in a very nice, sporty little car with ENDVRplates. 

You answer the door and he forgets how to breathe.

He has flowers for you. They're blue and blooming and beautiful. 

Fuyumi's contribution. 

You settled then you were going to kiss him at the end of the night.

The restaurant is... nice. Really nice. The sort of nice you could never aspire to experience on your teacher's salary. Even the valet is a concept that has your head spinning. But, Shoto handles it all with cool ease. The entire time, his hand is settled on your lower back. 

It feels like you've been lit on fire.

You're glad Momo was able to create a dress fitting for the occasion. It's sleek and black. Comfortable, too. Not much can be said for your heels on that front, but it's fine. 

Somehow, Shoto managed to book the entire upper floor of this place in all its glimmering glory — it's just the two of you alone in a sea of tables. 

The waiter is pouring you a glass of the chef's suggested pairing of sake.

You thank him, smile, and take a sip as Shoto unbuttons his suit jacket and watches you. 

For a second, you're seventeen again.

Sero and Kirishima were always in cahoots when it came to parties back then — somehow, between the two of them, they always managed to smuggle enough booze onto campus to obliterate any semblance of promised sobriety from even the most stoic members of 1-A. 

You remember one night, after a lot of hounding, you finally gave in and joined a few of your classmates on the back lawn for a few drinks. 

A few beers turned into a cup or two of wine, and then another big gulp of whatever deranged jungle juice concoction Kaminiari managed to cook up. It tasted terrible, but you were too drunk to really care. Shoto was no better. He was nursing his fourth drink of the night — a rarity he was even drinking at all — and seemed completely fine with the way your arms brushed as the two of you sat close in the grass. 

He was always so nervous around you. Now, he just seemed... happy. 

"I can't believe there is only one week left until graduation."

Graduation day was the last time you saw him. 

Until this morning, that is. 

You smile into your drink. 

"What?" you ask when his eyes never leave your face.

His fingers twitch towards his own glass. Shoto blinks, then rolls his jaw. He was caught staring. He clears his throat, looking a bit shy. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" you press playfully, cocking your head to the side.

"You..." he starts, then bawks. You're stunning, and it's making it hard to even think straight. He thought these feelings might have mellowed out over the years but seeing you again has just reignited everything. He feels like a hormonal teenager again, "You look beautiful."

Your expression falters into something lovesick. You chew your lip. "You're not so bad yourself, Todoroki."

He manages a half-smile. "Touya had me worried the suit was a bit much."

The idea of Touya offering him advice on his outfit strikes a chord in your heart. It makes you smile even bigger than before. "Well, you can tell Touya that I like it. A lot."

You rake your eyes up and down him. On purpose.

He notices.

Shoto's face feels hot. 

He tries to shake the bone-deep want that has swept his entire body up in its grip, but it's difficult when every single word out of your mouth reminds him just how in love he was with you back in school. You explain, excitedly, why you chose to teach at Chiba Prefectural Prep and catch him up on where you've been living since graduating. He's pleased to learn you're still in the area, living in the city, and decidedly in love with the commute to the school. 

Shoto's always been a good listener — but you can see how much he's changed when he begins to speak about his career. He seems so much more sure of himself than he was all those years ago. It wasn't that he was... unsure... but, no. He was shy. Quiet.

Now, less so. 

It's adorable. 

Dinner comes and goes with conversation over sushi that is far too good for you to even process. It's easy talking to him. It was easy talking to Shoto back, then, too but... Things are different. You're both different. Not in a bad way, but in a way that feels like coming home. 

While you both wait outside for the valet, Shoto shrugs his jacket off and puts it over your shoulders without a single word. Suddenly, you're cradled in a warmth that's very Shoto — his cologne clings to the collar and you bury yourself a little deeper into it. 

Shyly, you step closer and steal his hand. It's calloused and warm. He laced his fingers with yours as if practiced. You bite back a grin. You give his hand a little squeeze when you spot the car coming around the corner.

His silence is calming — and he squeezes your hand back. When you look up at him, you realize he's already looking at you. 

His face is close. It's so... intimate. Very. Nearly better than a kiss. 

But, you've wanted to kiss Shoto Todoroki since you were seventeen. 

The valet driver interrupts the moment with a respectful call of Shoto's name and offers the keys with a shake of the hand. With a little bit of hesitancy, Shoto remembers the thing Natsuo said — the car door, too — and moves around the passenger side to open the door for you. 

It's sweet.

Really sweet. 

The car ride back to your apartment is punctuated with easy conversation — you ask him about Bakugo and Midorya, and you're pleased to hear they're both doing well. He asks about Momo, and if you still keep in touch with Mina and Ochaco. He smiles to himself when you admit you did call Momo for help with an outfit. 

"She did a beautiful job," Shoto breathes, a palm moving from the gear shift to brush over the dress' fabric on your thigh.

His hand settles there. 

Your stomach does a flip. 

You chew your lip, swallow down a sudden burst of nerves, and let your hand rest over his. You squeeze it. Shoto tries to focus on the road. His gaze drifts for a moment at a red light, his heterochromatic eyes dancing across your figure. 

Keep it together. 

He isn't seventeen.

He's twenty-five. He's a Professional Hero. One of the Top Ten in all of Japan. He's more than capable of keeping it together in the face of physical touch from the woman he's dreamed about for years. 

...Right?

Green light.

His hand is still on your thigh when he pulls up to your apartment. 

The touch is relinquished in favor of putting the sports car in park. 

It makes your chest ache.

Shoto swallows thickly.

Do not chicken out on kissing her at the end of the night.

He'll never forgive himself. But, admittedly, he's bad at this. He's not good at reading body language, or even knowing himself enough to realize he looks mildly terrified as you blink up at him in the passenger's seat. His heart is hammering a mile a minute.

What if you don't want to kiss him?

When would he even kiss you? Now? Or at the door?

Why does he feel like he's going to die?

"This was really... Shoto, are you okay?" you ask as you unbuckle your seatbelt; you pause, your brows knitting tightly. 

"What?" he asks, blinking back to the present moment. The look of fear disappears, "Sorry. Yes. I'm fine."

You're working his jacket off your shoulders, gently leaning to fold it neatly in your lap. Your voice dips low, into something playful. "You didn't look fine..."

"I—" Shoto clamps his mouth shut as he leans an elbow on the center console, "Sorry. I suppose I'm just nervous."

"Nervous?" you grin, a little giggle punctuating your words as you wriggle in the red, leather seat, "Why?"

Your expression makes his expression crack. He ducks his head as he huffs out a laugh. You continue to egg him on via expression alone. "I... Stop it."

"Stop what?" you push some more, your back pressed to the door as you face him in the car, "You're the one being weird—"

"I'm not being weird—"

"Then what's wrong, Shoto?" you tease in a sing-song voice.

"I'm nervous because I want to kiss you."

His words are punctuated by a slow look that takes in every inch of your face. Butterfly wings kiss your stomach walls. And your knees. You feel a little tremble in your chest. 

It feels like someone has sucker punched you square in the sternum. Shoto's no better. He isn't entirely sure what the expression on your face means. Is that... good? Are you happy?

Your voice is a little quieter now. You duck your head and fiddle with his suit jacket as you lean back against the seat, a little closer now. 

"You don't need to be."

Shoto's breath catches at that.

So, he makes his move.

His hand comes first — his calloused palm settles nicely against your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone as his pointer finger brushes the underside of your jaw. Shoto is slow. Methodical. It's like he's trying to ground himself in the moment. 

Truth be told, he thinks he might be blacking out.

Your eyes flit up his wrist — a dark leather band around his wrist with an expensive watch face, a dark dress shirt with glimmering cufflinks, strong arms and a broad chest, and you can see the dip of his collarbone where the top two buttons of his shirt remain undone. 

He looks so damn handsome with his sharp jaw, pretty eyes, and his trademark white and crimson hair. Even his scar is beautiful. 

The touch pulls you in like he's got his own personal orbit.  

Your elbows are braced along the center console, your eyes flicking across his face as his fingers continue to brush along the soft expanse of your cheek. You wring your fingers together. 

Then, his eyes stick to your lips.

"Can I kiss you?" he whispers, his breath fanning across your face. 

You never did go pro.

But, Shoto did. 

It shows. 

Because, at this moment, all you can do is nod feebly before you're swept into the sort of kiss people go to war for. It's the sort of kiss that sticks to your ribs, that feels like warm, fresh food. It's the sort of kiss that would drive you to the brink, that would make you nod and agree sure, let's get married and have three kids, let's name one after your father, and paint the house blue like your mother's favorite flower—

His mouth is eager, but not in an overbearing way. It's gentle. Slow. As if he needs to remind himself this is real and not some midnight fiction that leaves him aching and alone. Shoto reminds himself to be tepid, pliable, and easy, which is easier said than done when somewhere deep inside of him there's a seventeen-year-old screaming in victory. 

It's better than anything he could have ever imagined. 

And then you whimper. 

It's a sound tied between bliss and relief and it's muttered against his mouth as you lean in and let your fingers brush the fabric of his dress shirt. The tips of your fingers brush his abdomen and he flexes, the feeling foreign and warm. It warrants his other hand to drift to your face and you break for a breath; he doesn't care that there's lipstick smeared across his mouth. He's kissing you again — this time a little bit more feverish, a little bit more aching. 

You melt against him, this time your hands trembling to grip his wrists.

He needs to slow down.

He is not having sex with you in his father's car.

That's shameless.

He needs to slow down.

He has to, or he'll lose himself in this and he refuses to fuck this up. 

Shoto's breath is ragged when he finally peels himself away, his lip parted and eyes half-lidded. His grip on your face is still so soft, so gentle. It's very him. 

You're glad you didn't do this when you were seventeen.

It would have permanently altered your brain chemistry, you're sure of it. How could you ever kiss someone else again after that? 

He's rubbing your cheek with his thumb. You swallow, and try to level out your breathing. It's hard when he's still so close, when he's so... perfect. 

"I've wanted to do that," he murmurs against your cheek, "Since our last year at Yuei."

A well-kissed smile breaks across your face. You reel back, your nose wrinkling as you shake your head in disbelief. Shoto is smiling. A real smile. The sort that's so rare you can count on one hand the amount of times you've ever seen it in person. 

"Are you serious?"

"Very," he says, chastely pressing another to your other cheek as he leans back.

"Me too," you admit shyly, "Can we... do it again sometime?"

Shoto's eyes widen incrementally. Then, his smile eases back onto his face. 

"Are you free this weekend?"

"I can be," you reply easily with a honeyed look, "And I will be. For you."

"I get off patrol on Saturday around seven," he explains before asking timidly, "We could... do dinner again?"

"Works for me," you breathe as you move for the handle of the car door, "After all, I never went Pro. Weekends are free."

Shoto scoffs. 

Then, as you open the door and swing a leg out:

"Oh, and tell Touya I thought the suit sexy."

Shoto's laugh is dry. You leave his jacket on the seat and scurry into your apartment with a lovesick wave. He swears he sees the silhouette of a familiar ponytail greet you at the door, but he doesn't dwell on it. He waits until you're inside and the lights to the front door are shut off.

Then it hits him. He has another date with you this weekend. 

Not so seventeen anymore, Shoto Todoroki. 

[theonottsbxtch]

TEEN IDLE | MV1

an: god this idea came to me while listening to teen idle by marina and lowkey kinda liked where i ended it, so i hope you enjoy it just as much and i won't write a pt 2 to this- unfortunalety for me my beloved friend hasn't proof read this one so apologies

wc: 2.8k

MAX VERSTAPPEN WAS RAISED FOR THIS. Before he could walk, he was sat in a go-kart; before he could read, he knew the weight of a steering wheel in his hands. His father made sure of that. Other kids had footballs, bicycles, summer holidays. He had telemetry sheets and tyre wear reports.

He was bred to be a champion, and so he became one.

By twenty-eight, Max had won everything there was to win. Multiple titles, records shattered, his name etched into the sport’s history books. And yet, looking back, it all felt like one long, unbroken blur—an endless series of podiums, press conferences, mechanics’ murmurs, and the relentless pressure of being the golden boy.

He could barely remember what it was like to be young, not properly. There were flashes, though. The sharp, acrid scent of petrol in the garage. The weight of his father’s expectations pressing down on him like a vice. The way his stomach had twisted before every junior race, knowing that second place was never good enough.

And then there were the times he could barely remember. That he should remember.

He had been seventeen, teetering on the edge of adulthood but feeling nothing like a man. She had been older—how much older, he wasn’t sure anymore, but old enough for it to feel like something forbidden. He’d told himself it was what he wanted, that he needed to do it. To feel something, to prove something.

Afterwards, he had stared at the ceiling, waiting for some grand revelation, some fundamental shift inside him. It never came.

He didn’t feel like more of a man.

And now, sitting in his driver room in another city, another race weekend, another meaningless milestone approaching, he wonders if anything ever really has.

He saw himself in the mirror across the room, still in his race suit, half unzipped, the fireproofs underneath clinging to his skin. His hair was damp, sticking to his forehead. He looked older than he remembered. Maybe it was the lighting. Maybe it was the exhaustion.

Maybe it was just the truth.

His phone vibrated on the bedside table. Another message he wouldn’t answer. He knew what it would say. Some journalist fishing for a quote. Someone from the team reminding him about media duties. A half-hearted invitation to drinks he had no interest in.

He ignored it.

Instead, he let himself sink back into the mattress, staring at the ceiling, replaying it all again. The wasted years. The wasted youth. The pretty lies, the ugly truth.

He had once thought that if he just won enough, if he proved himself enough, it would all start to mean something. That the hollow feeling would go away. But it never had.

He remembered being ten years old, crying in the back of his father’s car after a race he should have won. The slap, sharp and stinging. If you want to be the best, you can’t be weak.

He remembered being fifteen, standing on the top step of the podium, trophy in his hands, cameras flashing. His father’s arm around his shoulder, grip just a little too tight. See? This is what you were made for.

He remembered being seventeen, sheets tangled around his legs, a woman whose name he barely knew tracing her fingers down his chest. Was that what you wanted?

He hadn’t known what to say then. He still didn’t.

His driver room was silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioning, the city lights seeping through the gap in the curtains. He had spent years surrounded by noise—engines screaming, crowds chanting, his father’s voice drilling into his skull—and yet, in the quiet, he still heard it all.

He exhaled, long and slow, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. It was easier not to think. Easier to let the days blur together, one podium, one interview, one flight after another.

But some nights—like this one—he couldn’t help but wonder if he had ever really been alive at all.

He stayed there for a while, sprawled across the bed, staring at the ceiling as if it might give him some sort of answer. It never did. The room felt too still, too clinical, the kind of place designed for fleeting stays and nothing more. He had lived in hotels and motorhomes for most of his life, but none of them had ever felt like home.

Eventually, he forced himself to move. Peeling off his fireproofs, he let them drop to the floor, stepping over them as he made his way to the tiny en-suite. The mirror above the sink reflected someone he barely recognised. Shadows clung beneath his eyes, and a faint red mark on his forehead from his balaclava made him look even more exhausted than he felt.

He turned the tap on, splashing cold water onto his face, then braced his hands against the sink, head hanging low. He needed to get out.

Throwing on a plain t-shirt and an old hoodie, he grabbed a cap from the side table and pulled it low over his eyes. It was enough to make him anonymous—just another man slipping into the night, nothing special.

The paddock had mostly emptied by now, a few lingering mechanics finishing up for the evening, murmured conversations carrying through the cool air. He walked with purpose, shoulders hunched, hands stuffed into his pockets. No one stopped him. No one even looked twice.

By the time he reached the edge of town, he found what he was looking for. A pub, run-down but still open, the glow of neon signs flickering in the window. It wasn’t the kind of place anyone from the paddock would go, which was exactly why he chose it.

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of stale beer and cheap cologne, a low hum of conversation and the occasional scrape of a chair against the floor. A few old blokes sat hunched over their pints, barely sparing him a glance as he made his way to the bar.

“Can I help?” the bartender asked, barely looking up as he wiped down the counter.

“Whisky,” he said, voice hoarse from a day of interviews and radio calls. “Neat.”

The glass clinked against the wood a few moments later. He took it without a word, moving to a quiet corner, away from the dim overhead lights.

He took a sip. It burned on the way down, but at least it made him feel something.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, nursing the drink, letting the noise of the bar blur around him. Long enough for the ice to melt, for the world outside to fade into nothing.

For the first time in a while, he felt like nobody. And somehow, that was a relief.

The whisky went down too easily. He swirled the last of it in his glass, watching the way the light caught the amber liquid, then tipped it back, letting it burn its way down. He wasn’t drunk, not yet, but the edges of everything felt softer. Less sharp. Less real.

He was about to signal the bartender for another when she appeared. She slid into the seat opposite him without hesitation, eyes flicking towards the entrance before settling on him.

He barely had time to register her presence before a man followed, taller, broader, the kind of bloke who walked like he owned the room. The girl didn’t look at him, just leaned forward, resting her arms on the table as she spoke.

“See, I told you my boyfriend was waiting for me.”

Max didn’t move. Didn’t react. But he caught the way her fingers curled slightly, gripping the edge of the table just a little too tight. The man hovered for a second too long, gaze shifting between them, then exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Right,” he muttered, before turning and stalking back towards the bar.

She waited until he was gone before she relaxed, shoulders dropping ever so slightly. Then she looked at Max properly, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“Thanks for that,” she said, not sounding particularly sorry.

He didn’t respond, just pushed his empty glass aside, already regretting getting involved in whatever this was. But she didn’t seem bothered by his silence. She tilted her head, eyeing the glass, then raised a brow at him.

“What are you drinking?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered, shifting slightly in his seat. He wasn’t in the mood for small talk, least of all with a stranger who had just used him as an excuse to shake off some bloke she clearly had no interest in.

But she ignored him, her eyes flicking to the last few amber drops in his glass before he could move it out of sight.

“Whisky,” she said, like she had figured him out. Then, before he could protest, she got up and strode towards the bar.

He sighed, dragging a hand down his face. He should leave. Finish the last drops, disappear into the night, let her deal with whatever mess she was in on her own.

But when she returned, setting a fresh glass down in front of him with a quiet clink, he didn’t move.

“Cheers, boyfriend,” she teased, raising her own glass.

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly, but picked up the drink anyway.

For now, he stayed.

She took a sip of her drink, watching him over the rim of her glass. He could feel her curiosity, the way she was studying him, trying to fit him into a story in her head.

“So,” she said eventually, setting her glass down, “do I get to know my fake boyfriend’s name?”

He hesitated. It was a simple enough question, but it felt like a trap. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the whisky. Maybe it was the way she had just waltzed into his night without permission, without expectation. But before he could stop himself, he said, “Emilian.”

It was his middle name. He didn’t know why he hadn’t said Max, that was far more common that Emilian.

She raised an eyebrow. “Emilian, huh?”

He nodded once, taking a slow sip of his drink to avoid looking at her properly.

She didn’t question it. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, tilting her head slightly. “Alright, Emilian. What are you out drinking for?”

He considered lying again. Saying something easy, something normal. But the truth slipped out before he could think of anything else.

“I’m tired,” he said simply. “Needed a break from work.”

Her expression shifted slightly—not quite pity, but understanding. “Bad day?”

“Long day,” he corrected. “Long… few years, actually.”

That made her huff a quiet laugh. “Yeah, I know that feeling.” She took another sip, then rested her chin on her hand. “What do you do?”

He should have said something vague. Something non-committal. But the whisky was settling in now, loosening the grip on his thoughts, and the lie came out before he even knew why he was telling it.

“I’m a mechanic.”

It felt strange, saying it. Unfamiliar, but safe.

She hummed, tilting her head. “Huh. Thought you might be something like that.”

He frowned slightly. “Why?”

She shrugged. “Dunno. Just got the vibe.” Then she smirked. “Or maybe I saw the oil stains under your nails.”

His pulse jumped for a second before he realised she was joking. His hands were clean—too clean, probably, for someone who supposedly worked in garages all day—but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Must be a stressful job, if it’s got you drinking alone,” she added, watching him over her glass again.

He exhaled, glancing down at the whisky in his hand. “Yeah,” he said, and for the first time that night, it wasn’t a lie.

He rolled his glass between his fingers, watching the whisky catch the dim light. Then, without really thinking, he asked, “What about you? Why are you out this late?”

She exhaled through her nose, tipping her head back slightly. “Was walking home from a wake,” she said, matter-of-fact. “Then that bloke started following me, so I figured I’d use you.”

There was no shame in it, no hesitation. Just a casual admittance, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. She took another sip of her drink, then smirked slightly. “There’s always some sad sod drinking alone somewhere.”

He let out a small laugh at that—barely more than a huff of breath, but it surprised him nonetheless.

“Lucky me, then,” he muttered, shaking his head.

She raised her glass slightly in mock toast.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The bar buzzed around them, low conversations, clinking glasses, the occasional burst of laughter from a table near the back.

Then he asked, “Who died?”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift uncomfortably or drop her gaze.

“My dad.”

He blinked. “Shit.”

She shrugged, swirling the last of her drink.

“Sorry,” he said automatically, but even as the words left his mouth, he was already wondering—how would he feel if his dad died?

Would it be relief? Would it be grief? Would it be anything at all?

She must have seen something in his face because she let out a dry laugh. “Don’t apologise,” she said, tipping her glass towards him before downing the rest of it in one go. “He was a right old cunt.”

That made him snort before he could stop himself. He coughed, shaking his head as he took a sip of his own drink. “Christ.”

She grinned. “I mean, it’s true. Everyone was there, saying all this bollocks about what a great man he was, and I was just sat there thinking, what a load of shite.”

Max watched her, the way she spoke so bluntly, so freely. He tried to imagine standing at his own father’s funeral, people saying things about what a hard man he’d been, how much he’d sacrificed for his son, how proud he would have been.

He wasn’t sure he’d believe a word of it.

She leaned forward slightly, eyeing him. “Bet you weren’t expecting that answer.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “No. Can’t say I was.”

She smirked. “Well, you don’t look like the type to have a good relationship with your dad either, so…”

His grip tightened on his glass for half a second before he forced himself to relax. He didn’t reply.

She didn’t press.

Instead, she raised her empty glass, tilting it towards him. “Another?”

He should have said no. Should have left while he still had the sense to.

But he didn’t.

“Yeah,” he said, finishing the last of his whisky. “Go on, then.”

And just like that, he let himself sink a little further into the night.

The air was crisp as they walked, the quiet hum of the city settling around them. The streets weren’t quite empty—there were still a few late-night stragglers, people spilling out of pubs, voices carrying in the cool night—but it was calmer now, the chaos of earlier fading into something softer.

She shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket, tilting her head back slightly as she walked. “Where you staying, then?”

“One of the hotels by the track,” he said, not thinking much of it.

She let out a low whistle. “Bet that’s a nightmare with the F1 on. Must be packed. Loud as hell.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Something like that.”

She hadn’t connected the dots. Maybe it was the drinks, or maybe she just didn’t follow motorsport enough to care. Either way, he didn’t correct her.

They kept walking, neither of them in much of a rush to get anywhere. Her bus stop wasn’t far, but she didn’t break pace, didn’t cut the night short. Neither did he.

It was nice, in a way, walking with someone without expectation. Without small talk that felt forced or questions that felt intrusive. Just two strangers, filling the quiet.

Eventually, the bus stop came into view. She slowed, glancing up at the electronic sign before rocking back on her heels slightly.

“Well,” she said, turning to him, “this is me.”

He nodded. “Right.”

She looked at him for a moment, like she was considering something, then just smiled. “Thanks for the drink, Emilian.”

He let out a small breath of laughter. “Yeah. No worries.”

The bus pulled up, doors hissing open, but she didn’t move straight away. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, eyes scanning his face like she was trying to work something out. Then, without another word, she stepped onto the bus.

He didn’t ask for her number. She didn’t offer.

The doors shut, and he stood there for a moment, watching the bus pull away.

Then he turned and started walking back towards his hotel.

The night was still. The world felt quieter.

And for the first time in a long while, so did he.

the end.

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby @iamred-iamyellow @isaadore

[ts19009]

Seventeen Fic Rec's Part 5

(CONTAINS SMUT AND MATURE SUBJECT MATTER)

(Bold title means favorite)

(UPDATED: June 2nd, 2025)

when their bb girl steals ur phone @mi9yuz

the small romantic gestures that seventeen would be @fairyhaos

Kim Mingyu

guilty as sin (the thought crosses your mind that this is something you definitely shouldn't be doing. that what you're just about to do will be a terribly wrong move for you and your freshly broken heart.) @toruro

clarity (bf's best friend mingyu, (awkward) acquaintances to lovers, the other side of the f2l trope, angst, smut, you could say there's a drizzle of fluff) @hannieoftheyear

pure coincidence (office worker!mingyu x officer worker!reader) @sluttyminghao

that’s so true ❤️‍🩹(exes!mingyu x reader.) @studioeisa

The Admirer Was Right in Front of You — Kim Mingyu (Non-idol au, college au, romance (?), comedy, modern au (no specific setting, but contemporary vibe), slice of life and light-hearted mystery ) @mylovesstuffs

STRAWBERRY SCENTED STRINGS (bassist! mingyu x cellist! f reader) @himewonu

SAVE THE DATE (5 weddings in one year. 5 dates you saved for you and your boyfriend to attend — before he cheated. and now, you had to force your best friend, vernon, to go with you. but after losing a bet, mingyu agrees to take vernon’s place and be your date. this wasn’t how any of this was supposed to go, but you guess you could settle going with your only one-night-stand from college.) @goldenhourology

Back To Me (Mingyu or Hansol? You finally decide who you want to be with.) @xomakara

still yours (exes to lovers, second chance romance, fluff, angst, smut MDNI!) @cherrynpink

Theories & Heartstrings (Neighbours AU! Fake Dating AU! (but only one is fake dating. It’ll make sense when you read it, lol). Non-Idol AU!.) @wongyuseokie

croissant cravings (A seating chart mix-up has you crossing paths with a very good-looking pastry chef. ) @facethesunflower

Let Me Hear You Say... (mut (minor dni), heavy angst, fluff, toxic, ranch au, brothers best friend au) @onlymingyus

KITTY'S GOT CLAWS (a svt spiderman x jujutsu kaisen au (what a mouthful >< ), spiderman!mingyu, blackcat!reader, lots of banter, mild fighting scenes = mentions of blood and injuries !!, fluff with angst if you squint) @yi2huo

might let you make me juno @straylightdream

good behavior (just smut tbh) @ddeonghwa-s

Jeon Wonwoo

My Ride or Die (Late one night, you're attacked outside the library—your bag stolen and safety shattered. But someone saw everything. A mysterious stranger steps in to recover what was lost. What begins as a random rescue soon hints at deeper intentions and unexpected connections.) @missgraylock

WHAT IF you were wonwoo’s gf and almost got caught during NANA TOUR surprises… @cherriicou

good sport | wicked games series (bartender wonwoo, bartender mingyu, messy love triangle, friends with benefits, right person wrong time) @hannieween

on call (you'd never sleep in an on-call room, but that doesn't mean you won't find other uses for it.) @kkaetnipjeon

first love/late spring (first love/s, feelings realization/denial, reincarnation.) @studioeisa

The Fine Print (Enemies to Lovers | Fake Dating | Revenge Pact | Forced Marriage Fallout) @kathaelipwse

Lip Tint Stains and Hair Ties (childhood friends to lovers, school, college, slow burn, fluff, one shot, peachesndreams) @shineesbackbitches

Yours to Keep (Before leaving for military service, Wonwoo hands you a disposable camera, saying, "Take a picture whenever you think of me." At first, you laugh it off, but as the days pass, you find yourself reaching for the camera more often than you expected) @nerdycheol

make 'em sweat (introducing you to his friends doesn't go quite the way wonwoo expected (title from water by seventeen ; technically a sequel to fuck the neighbors but can be read as a standalone) @sluttywonwoo

progress report: i am missing you to death - jww(Childhood friends to lovers, smut, fluff, angst, college au) @imnotshua

CHEMTRAILS (Wonwoo is the last person you expect to find at a grief support group, but he may just be the peace that you need to weather all of your storms.) @vampsol

Warning Signal (In a treacherous turn of events, your most recent mission gets tangled with Wonwoo's, the last person you'd want to partner up with. As the lives of your targets get more and more intertwined, and your plan gets more complicated, memories of the past and feelings you thought you could put aside threaten to ruin the mission.) @hannieoftheyear

A New Vendetta (Wonwoo x Mafia's daughter reader) @thedensworld

wish you were here (you don't do long-distance. you never have, and you never will. not unless it's jeon wonwoo - and those chances are slim, as it is.) @haologram

My Brother's Bestfriend (fluff, light angst, smut, established relationship, doting!boyfriend wonwoo, slightly possessive!wonwoo, light comedy, soft but intense makeout sessions, lap-sitting & straddling, emotional intimacy, domestic sweetness, wonwoo being obsessed with reader™, mild tension but nothing too serious, clingy!wonwoo (unintentionally), wonwoo official lipstick tester & lip plumper) @honeyhaeya

SLACKING OFF. ( being technologically averse, yet a complete control freak to your core, you tend to annoy senior IT specialist, jeon wonwoo, to no end. but after an apology brings you two closer together, wonwoo finds himself reaching out to you more often than not. on and off slack. despite what you two had originally perceived, you find yourself thrown into feelings that neither of you could've ever prepared for.) @goldenhourology

Hong Jisoo

tough love? (boy dad!joshua, parents au, teeth rotting fluff, domestic asf) @mvnscloud

heaven knows (non-idol au, seminary student joshua, hurt/comfort (??), secret relationship, mentions of church, joshua is the pastor's son, mutual pining, physical touching (ex: hugging, holding hands), pet names (joshua calls reader baby), they are not slick your honor everyone knows they're in love) @seokminfilm

When Tangerines Give You Lemons (joshua fluff, joshua angst, joshua both, joshua breathing, joshua existing, non-idol!au, lawyer!au, hurt & comfort, angst first fluff later kinda; a warm rain after a heavy storm) @moonstarsunflower

Break (h.js) (Witch!Joshua x Cursed!Reader) @sailorsoons

dude, nice try! masterlist (strangers to lovers, revenge fic, humor, smau bits) @joshujin

starting again (you're wallowing in self-pity at your friends' wedding after being cheated on. you think you're unworthy of love until you meet someone who changes your mind.) @wonwootattoo

i can still see it all. (best friends to strangers to friends to lovers, non au, set in svtverse, idol!joshua, hairstylist!reader, some angst, nsfw, smut, unprotected sex, biting, hair pulling, dacryphilia, teasing, fingering, multiple orgasms, drunk sex, mentions of alcohol.) @woncheolisms

we both 🐚 (romance, friendship, light angst. 🐚 includes. mentions of food, death; cussing/swearing. alternate universe: non-idol; joshua is a marine biologist. bad-at-being-exes/exes to ???) @studioeisa

blurring the lines (you think you know everything about your best friend, dashing bachelor joshua hong. when you stumble upon his suggestive literature from his recent travels, however, reading even an extract is enough to make you question everything. unsure of your newfound feelings, you turn to your confidante, unaware of just how much knowledge—and experience—he has to offer.) @amourcheol

begging for the next (no one needs to know what you and joshua get up to except the two of you.) @100vern

Yoon Jeonghan

dropout | part one (okay, so you dropped out of law school. and you need a job. and the only job your wildly specific resume can get you is… lifeguard at the local 3.2-star water park, and the person assigned to supervise you at your new post is the mysterious and gorgeous yoon jeonghan. what could possibly go wrong? ) @kkaetnipjeon

always the lover, never the loved (lovers to ??? ; angst, mentions of suggestive themes) @haologram

Undue Influence (lawyer fem!reader x lawyer!jeonghan) @starlightxsvt

the final defense of the dying (hunger games mentor!jeonghan x tribute!reader.) @studioeisa (IM OBSESSED WITH THIS ONE)

Even Dumbasses Deserve Love (Yoon Jeonghan, your beautiful, wonderful, amazing, dumb-ass of a best friend who somehow doesn't see how hopelessly in love with him you are. ) @cheers-to-you-th

like starglight (howl’s moving castle-inspired au, fluff, humour, romance, magic!) @gallivantingheart

𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙚𝙭𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙙 (after an arranged marriage you come to realize that your new husband, the crown prince, and his kingdom are not like anything you expected) @yerimacoustic

Lee Seokmin

you deserve each other (co-workers seokmin x reader.) @studioeisa

Best Neighbor of All Time Award | Lee Seokmin (M) (Seokmin is the best neighbor you've ever had, making it impossible not to fall for his charms.) @drunk-on-dk

picture of a perfect rose (n total years of your whole life, you met Seokmin only twice. That will change drastically starting now. Because the young King is unfortunately a good person, loves his mother, and a true believer in good of people. No matter how hard it is to find and how cold he looks outside.) @youngwonhui

You Know What They Say About Men With Big Feet @hansols-yoda-boxers

Lee Chan

Cherry Sours (l.c) (Mafiaverse, Cyberpunk, Strangers to Lovers) @sailorsoons

CHWE HANSOL

Dark Gospel (c.hs) (After experiencing what you’re sure is a possession, you try to help Vernon get his old self back. Except - Vernon doesn’t want his old self back and you’re not sure you hate the new Vernon either. ) @sailorsoons

KISS 'ER UP (CHV) pt. 1 (baseball player!vernon x fashion designer/fan!reader) @shuastar

Kwan Soonyoung

in the zone | ksy (strangers to lovers, (accidental) roommates; smut, fluff, lite angst) @100vern

we can be all we need (best friends to lovers, idiots in love, a bit of miscommunication, angst for like one second, happy ending) @joshujin

the accidental kiss (fluff, comedy, strangers to lovers au, college au, idiots to idiots in love, profanity, alcohol consumption—please let me know if i’ve missed anything!) @fxstpace

busy woman @straylightdream

Echoes of Summer (Get ready for the most unforgettable summer yet at Camp Logan, where lifelong memories are made, friendships are strengthened, and old crushes make new appearances.) @mr-cha-n

red wine supernova (friends to lovers, childhood friend to lovers, romance, fluff, smut) @straylightdream

Xu Minghao

Rain Room (x.mh) (Waterpark Worker!Mingao x Waterpark Worker!Reader) @sailorsoons

the quiet world (minghao saves his words for you.) @studioeisa

[popcornpoppypop]

They'll Do It Because They Have To

Summary: Jack Abbot x Single mom!reader; The continuation of Like You. You and Jack reckon with Matt as he starts recovery.

Warnings: Slight violence towards women (no physical altercation), shouting, blood, broken glass

A/N: I heard the calls for more of this story and I was trying to figure out how I wanted to handle it. It took me a minute to figure it out. Just remember you all asked for it! I was sad when I wrote it so my characters must also be sad *insert evil villain laugh here*. Anyway, there will more to this. If anyone has any suggestions for a series title let me know! As always, I edited this half asleep.

The fluorescent lights made Matt’s eyes burn. He hated the sterile smell of the hospital. He had been stuck in a bed for a week and it was starting to drive him mad.

“You remember my friend Dana?” Jack asked as he wrote in a notebook. “She works day shift with Robby. She’s going to come help when your mom and I are working late.” He heard the bitter guffaw from the bed and looked up to see Matt shaking his head.

“I’m seventeen. I used to be able to do whatever I wanted by myself.” Matt could feel the anger rising like bile in his throat.

“Well, not ‘whatever’ but yeah, it’s going to feel weird for a while.” Jack said, closing the notebook and leaning back in his chair.

“I don’t need a babysitter.” Matt snapped, grabbing his iPad from the bedside table.

“Not a babysitter. She’s just there to help if you need it. Until we get the prosthetic fit you’ll be on crutches, it’s not easy getting around on those fuckers.” Jack sighed, remembering when it was all he had. It was annoying having to hobble around, not to mention the arm rests dug into his armpits and left sores because he was too damn stubborn to get them properly fitted.

“How are my boys?” You came in smiling and holding a tray of smoothies.

“Just peachy.” Matt’s voice dripped with sarcasm. He’d entered the angry phase earlier than you or Jack expected. You were choosing to ignore the sarcasm.

“Got your favorite. Walsh said we’ll be able to go home tomorrow! It’ll be good for you to get some rest in your own bed.” You said, handing him his smoothie and running your fingers through his hair.

“Which we moved downstairs for the time being.” Jack cleared his throat.

“So I get no privacy now, too. Fucking great!”

“It’s temporary, just to make things easier for you.” You said as you took his hand.

“Nothing is going to be easy anymore!” Matt yanked his hand from you.

“I know. That’s why we are doing what we can.” Jack said, crossing his arms.

“Now I’m going to be an invalid in the living room like an old person and I have to have a babysitter when you two aren’t there. Dana isn’t even that hot!”

“Watch it.” You warned.

“I’m sure she’ll be happy to hear she is somewhat hot.” Jack snorted. You shot him a look that told him he wasn’t helping.

“Matty, it’s our job to take care of you. You can hate it all you want, but I’m not leaving you to your own devices.” You looked over at Jack, unsure how to really deal with this.

“You’re about to go through Hell, Matt. If anyone is qualified to tell you how bad it is, it’s me.” Jack leaned forward.

“I just…I want to be normal.” Matt shook his head, wiping hard at his glassy eyes.

“I know, Kid. I know. Normal is just going to look different from now on.” Jack put his hand on Matt’s thigh.

“Everybody is going to stare at me now. I’m a freak.” Matt sobbed.

“No, Honey. You’re not a freak. You’re so brave.” You said sitting on the edge of the bed and holding his face in your hands.

“I am, I can’t even get the fake foot for months! I’m going to have a fucking stump just out, fucking disgusting!” He cried. You looked over to Jack who had his head bowed. He had the same thoughts when his happened, still did on occasion.

“Matt, I know that you’re angry-”

“Angry!? Mom, you will never understand this! It’s not anger! My life is completely different!” He shouted, pushing you off the bed. You land on your feet but are shocked by the forceful gesture.

“Hey! Matt, you can feel all the feelings and we’ll understand as best we can. But do not disrespect anyone, especially your mother.” Jack growled.

“It’s okay. Look, you’re my baby and will always be. I’m going to do what’s best for you.” You tried your best to keep the tears at bay.

“Oh just fuck off Mom! If you had taken care of me, told me not to go I wouldn’t be here!” He threw his smoothie at your feet. You jumped, the tears falling as you turned to grab something to clean it up.

“That is enough! You will not get physical with anyone! I won’t stand for that shit!” Jack barked, looming over Matt. Jack rarely got actually angry with Matt. In fact, neither you nor Matt had seen him more than snap. He made sure to keep control of his emotions; his father never did.

“You’re not my father!” Matt screamed. Jack stood still as stone, the words hitting him hard but not showing it. Not to Matt.

“That’s fine. Whatever I am, I’m going to make sure you get through this shit! You don’t have a fucking choice.” Jack growled as he went over to get you to stop cleaning the damn smoothie.

“I don’t fucking want help! I hate you both!” Matt’s voice was going raw as he shouted.

“Come on. Let’s go. Just give him space.” Jack held you up and started walking you out of the room, an arm wrapped around your waist.

“Everything okay, Dr. Abbot?” A nurse stopped outside the room.

“Yes. He threw his food on the floor, if someone can get that cleaned we’d appreciate it.” He said, holding you tight to his side as he felt the vibrations of your sobs.

“Of course. No problem.” She smiled.

“Be careful. He’s not himself today.” Jack sighed.

“It’s okay. We’re used to it. Never easy to go through limb loss, for anyone.” She gave a sympathetic nod and left.

“I’m taking you home. You need to rest too.” Jack said brushing the hair from your face. The tears left red trails down your cheeks, your eyes were sunken and dark. You couldn’t remember when you actually slept last. You’d taken to sleeping one of the family chairs that reclined, never wanting to be far from Matt.

“Maybe some time alone is what he needs tonight.” You shook your head. You were at a loss, you never thought this would happen. How were you supposed to help him if you didn’t even know where to start?

“I think it’s what you need.” Jack kissed your head as he tucked you into his side and went to the elevator.

“I need to talk to Dana before we go.” You wiped at your face, trying to look normal before people saw you.

“Hmm, yeah. Warn her.” Jack nodded. The doors opened and the chaos of the ER greeted you. It was jarring how much noise there was compared to the other floors.

“Hey, you two.” Dana smiled as you and Jack walked up to the counter.

“You two look like you haven’t slept in a week.” Robby said, almost a joke but laced with genuine concern.

“Feels like it too.” You murmured.

“How’s Matt doing?” Robby took his glasses off.

“Medically, good. Healing well. No infection.” Jack cleared his throat. The ED was used to Jack's stoic nature. They had never seen him emote outside of losing a patient; even then, he kept it mostly to himself—until Pittfest, when Jack saw Matt covered in blood. It had shaken the whole department.

Jack was put on family leave for the next two weeks. He told them it wasn’t necessary, but Robby insisted. He needed to take care of his family. He still would wander down to the ER when his mind couldn’t take it anymore. When he did, there was something broken to him in a way no one had seen before. Newbies would tiptoe around him, but after a while, they learned he wasn’t to be feared but respected. He wouldn’t bite people's heads off for no reason, he wasn’t that angry. He was just blunt and had little patience for sugar coating things. He was a monument of a man, strong but never cruel. Now, he looked like he would crumble if you looked at him wrong. His whole world was collapsing and he couldn’t figure out how to fix it.

“He’s…he’s getting angry again and I don’t blame him. It’s just…hard to watch.” You shook your head, trying to keep the tears at bay. You were so fucking tired of crying. You were just so fucking tired.

“Honey, it’s part of the process.” Dana reached over to hold your hand.

“Psych is supposed to talk with him, have they been by yet?” Robby asked.

“You’re joking right?” Jack snorted. “No. We’ve got him set up with someone in private practice.”

“I wanted to just let you know that you don’t have to stay with him, he’s not easy to be around right now.” You rubbed your face, the pressure on your eyes giving some relief.

“Honey, if I was only around people that were easy to get along with, I wouldn’t be a nurse.” She smiled. “I can handle an angry teenager, I got two at home.” She gave your hand a pat.

“He’s really good at insults these days, just be aware.” You sighed.

“Yeah?” She cocked an eyebrow.

“He said you ‘weren’t even that hot.’” Jack snorted.

“So I’m a little hot is what I’m hearing.” She laughed.

“that’s what I said!” Jack laughed. “But, he’ll put you through hell. Trust me, he’s already tried with me.”

“He’s family too. We take care of family here, no matter how much of a pain in the ass. Right, Robby?” Dana winked.

“I resent the insinuation that I’m anything other than a joy to be around.” Robby crossed his arms.

“You two go home and get some rest. I’ll check in with him when I can. He’s well looked after, promise.” Dana said, wrapping and arm around you. “Eat something, you’re wasting away.” She said.

“Thank you.” You hugged her as Jack lead you both out of the hospital.

The drive home was silent. You turned away from Jack, not wanting anyone privy to your tears. Jack wanted to hold you, make sure you knew you were doing everything right, but didn’t want to push you. The car pulled into the driveway, he took the key out and you both sat in the silence.

“We’ll figure this out.” Jack finally broke the silence. You nodded, unable to rely on your voice. You couldn’t stand the tension any longer and scrambled out of the car. Your chest hurt, like a vice gripped it. Your hands shook as you opened the door.

“Love.” Jack called after you as you ran into the house. You threw your bag down and went to the kitchen. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, why won’t they stop!? Your eyes were clouded with tears as you fumbled to get a glass, sending them falling to the ground in a flurry of glass shards. Your knees were trying to give out as you sobbed.

“Y/N! Baby, stop!” Jack ran into the kitchen, grabbing hold of you before you could fall into the glass.

“How can he forgive me if I can’t forgive myself!?” You sobbed, collapsing into Jack’s arms. His heart broke as he held you close.

“Love, none of this is your fault. It’s no one’s. This was…a tragedy. Senseless. You didn’t cause this. If you had told him no, he would have snuck out. He’s alive. Nothing else matters.” Jack whispered into your ear, just loud enough to reach you over your sobs.

“I can’t lose him, Jack. I can’t.” Your voice raw.

“You won’t. Trust me. We’ll get him back.” Jack kissed your hair. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed.” He said, guiding you up the stairs. “I’ll clean up the glass.”

Jack made sure you were comfortable, your eyes falling closed the second your head hit the pillow, before cleaning the glass. He swept it up, the glass glistening in the yellow light. He dumped it into the trash, small piece cutting his thumb. The blood trailed down his palm. He watched the red lines absorb into his skin. Was pain the only thing consistent in his life? Is that all he had to give?

He washed his hand in the sink, the bleeding finally stopped but the thoughts kept swirling. How was he going to get this kid through this? He barely made it. How was he going to bear seeing this boy in so much pain every day?

You felt the bed dip as Jack finally joined you. His arms wrapped around your body as he pulled you close. You learned quickly the different ways Jack would communicate his emotions without words. He was getting better at using his words, but he always preferred non-verbal communication. Tonight, he was holding you like you were the only thing keeping him alive.

The morning sun felt harsher than usual as you opened your eyes. Something angry in it, the weight of having to bring Matt home wrapped in it. You rolled over, wanting to ignore it a while longer and bury yourself in Jack, but he wasn’t there. You groaned as you lay flat on your back. He tried to never let you wake up alone if he wasn’t on shift. You knew he was just as anxious.

Eventually you got up, putting your robe on as you padded down to the kitchen. Jack was in the kitchen making eggs. He stood in his boxers and nothing else, the morning light illuminating his muscles. You stood in the doorway, reveling in the peaceful moment.

“Staring is rude, ya know?” He muttered without looking back. You gave a soft chuckle as you walked up behind him, your arms wrapping around his chest.

“Wasn’t starring. It’s called appreciating the art.” You kissed the side of his neck.

“I don’t think most people’s breath stutters when they look at paintings.” He scoffed. Your kisses trailed up to his ear, nibbling at his lobe. “If you keep going like that, breakfast is going to burn.” He sighed, leaning into your touch.

“I just want this moment to last a while longer.” You kissed his shoulder.

“You want to abandon the eggs?” he chuckled.

“Yes, but we should get ready soon. So, make your eggs.” You sighed as you moved to sit at the table.

“Your eggs.” He corrected as he plated them and put them in front of you.

“You’re too good for me.” You smiled as he sat next to you.

“No.” His voice was short, unnerved. “Not too good for you. Never.” He shook his head, avoiding eye contact. “Jack.” You grabbed his hand.

“I’m fine. I just…I know you deserve better. I want to be that for you but I don’t know how.” He closed his eyes with a grimace as if the thought caused him physical pain.

“I know that what I say isn’t going to stick. Not right now. But I promise you, you’re all I need and want.” You kissed his temple.

“Eat. It’s going to be a tough day.” He kissed your temple as he went upstairs.

The nervous energy as you pulled up to the hospital could be felt two blocks away. Jack held your hand as you walked into the hospital, opting for the front entrance rather than the ED.

“Good morning Y/N, Dr. Abbot.” One of the nurses smiled as you exited the elevator.

“Morning. How was he last night?” You clear your throat.

“He did okay. Didn’t want to talk to anyone. Nothing of note really. Dr. Walsh sent her discharge instructions if you need us to go over them with you.”

“Just print them out for us. I’ll handle it, thank you.” Jack nodded, wrapping an arm around your shoulder as you walked to Matt’s room.

“Good morning, Matty! They said your ready to head out!” You plastered a smile on your face, trying to convince everyone you were excited.

“Yeah, great.” He shrugged.

“We can stop at the diner and get breakfast if you want.” Jack offered. “The food from the cafeteria is never good.”

“I don’t want to be out in public.” He wouldn’t look at either of you.

“Okay, we’ll pick up some donuts on the way back if you want.” You offered, moving to tuck a hair behind his ear but he ducked away.

“Not hungry. Just want to go home.” His voice was flat, emotionless. It made your chest tighten.

“That’s okay. We have your meds at home, got some Zofran if you need it.” Jack said.

“Alright, Abbot clan! Lets get you out of here!” The nurse came in handing Jack a stack of papers.

“I’m not an Abbot.” Matt snapped.

“Matt. Please.” You sighed.

“Sorry. I’m going to take that IV out and you will be all set. We practiced with the crutches a little this morning but you’ll go down in the chair. It’s policy.” The nurse did her best to ignore the tension. The nurse made quick work of the IV and wheeled in a chair.

“Do you want me to help you or the nurse?” Jack asked, his hand outstretched and going from open to a clenched fist over and over.

“I’ll do it, Dr. Abbot. Policy anyway.” She smiled, giving Jack an out. You mouthed a thank you to her.

“Thank you.” Matt grumbled as she helped get him settled into the chair.

“You take care of yourself, Matt. Remember to do your stretches and take your meds. I know Daisy in PT and she’ll keep me updated if you start slacking.”  The nurse gave Matt’s shoulder a squeeze.

“Yeah, sure.” Matt nodded.

“Okay, let’s go home.” You sighed.

“I want to go to the ER. I want to see Robby.” Matt said, suddenly filled with nervous energy.

“Okay, yeah. Is everything okay?” Jack asked.

“I just…I need to see him.” Matt’s voice firm and insistent.

“Sure, baby.” You said, looking over to Jack who just shrugged. Jack took the lead wheeling Matt. The elevator ride was as uncomfortable as a breakup know you live together.

“Look who it is!” Dana beamed as she saw you three coming.

“Is Robby around?” Jack asked.

“Yeah, he’s around here somewhere.” She gave a confused smile as she paged him. “How you doing, Kid?” She patted Matt on the shoulder.

“Good. Just tired.” He smiled.

“Yeah, you can never get good sleep in a hospital. A Couple nights in your bed will get you feeling like a million bucks.” She said.

“Matt! Look at you, Bud!” Robby came over, a smile on his face.

“Robby! I wanted to talk to you, if you have a minute.” Matt beamed up at him. You saw Jack’s grip on the handles of the chair tighten, you put a hand on his arm.

“Yeah, I got a minute for you.” Robby nodded, giving you and Jack a confused look.

“Can we have a minute alone? I know I don’t get privacy anymore but I’m sure you’re okay with me being alone with a doctor.” Matt spit.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course Baby.” You said wrapping an arm around Jack and guiding him away. Robby looked confused as you walked away.

“You weren’t lying about that anger.” Dana shook her head.

“I was hoping it would simmer down overnight. How dumb is that?” You gave an exasperated chuckle.

“Oh, Hun. Not dumb.” Dana gave your arm a pat. “You’ll get through this. Boys always come back to their moms.”

You watched as Robby spoke with Matt. He was smiling. Thanking him for something, saving him probably. Robby wheeled him toward you.

“Call if you need anything. You have my number.” Robby said, patting Matt’s shoulder.

“Thank You, Robby. At least you didn’t freeze.” Matt threw a glance over at Jack as he started wheeling himself toward the exit. All four adults stopped, too stunned to speak. You looked over at Jack, his face pale and broken.

“Jack-” Robby started but Jack just shook his head.

“He’s not wrong.” Jack’s voice was tight, almost angry but too sad to be fully so. “He’s good at finding the weak spots.” Jack nodded as he turned to follow Matt.

“Jesus Christ, I don’t how to deal with any of this.” You shook your head.

“No one would.” Dana sighed. “Call me if you two need a break.” You nodded and left before the tears started.

“I don’t know how they’ll do it.” Robby sighed.

“They’ll do it because they have to.” Dana shook her head as she went back to work.

[amyzworldds]

Title: Unseen Version

Masterlist

For a decade, Seventeen’s Y/N has been the bubbly maknae, but her 10th anniversary solo track “Unseen” reveals a deeper, raw side, yearning to break free from her playful persona. Pairing: Seventeen x 14th member Genre: Angst, fluff WC: 3.2k

Ten years had flown by for Seventeen, a whirlwind of stages, tours, and memories etched into their 10th anniversary album preparations. The group buzzed with excitement, each member pouring their heart into a full album featuring solo tracks—a milestone to celebrate their journey. Y/N, now 25, had grown into a more mature version of herself—or so she insisted, despite still pranking her members and dragging Dino into her chaos. Her trinket obsession remained, her bag jangling like a wind chime, and her bunny slippers still squeaked through the studio. Yet, beneath her playful exterior, a quiet shift was brewing.

The dorm days were long gone—replaced by sleek apartments, each member carving out their own space. Y/N’s place was a shrine to her past: pink decor, trinket-covered bags, and a fridge stocked with gummies. But the media and fans still saw her as the “past Y/N”—the mischievous maknae, forever childish, forever energetic. She loved her role as Carats’ mood-lifter, but with the 10th anniversary looming, she craved something new—a chance to show a side of herself the world hadn’t seen.

Today, Y/N sat in a meeting with Woozi and the producers, discussing her solo track for the album. The room hummed with ideas—playful melodies, upbeat tempos, lyrics dripping with her signature quirky charm. “We’re thinking a fun, colorful vibe,” one producer said, flipping through notes. “Something that screams Y/N—energetic, maybe a dance track with cute hooks.”

Y/N nodded, her smile polite but strained, fingers twisting a glittery keychain under the table. Woozi, across from her, caught the flicker in her eyes—a hesitation she didn’t voice. He tilted his head, studying her, but didn’t push. “Sounds good,” she said softly, though her heart wasn’t in it. For ten years, she’d delivered bubbly anthems, and while she adored them, they felt like a costume she’d outgrown.

After the meeting, Woozi caught her in the hallway, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Hey, Y/N-ie, you hungry? Wanna hit that new café outside? My treat.”

Her face lit up, trinkets jangling as she bounced on her toes. “Ooh, yes! I heard they have glittery lattes—let’s go!”

They strolled to the café, a cozy spot with pastel walls and fairy lights. Y/N ordered a sparkly matcha latte, Woozi a plain black coffee, and they settled at a corner table. She was quieter than usual, scrolling her phone, her usual chatter replaced by a pensive frown. Woozi sipped his coffee, watching her over the rim. “You okay, kid? You’re weirdly silent—not planning to sticker my studio, are you?”

Y/N puffed her cheeks, setting her phone down with a dramatic sigh. “I’m fine, oppa… mostly.” She poked at her latte foam, then blurted, “It’s the solo track. I love their ideas—really, I do! But… it’s the same. Playful, energetic, ‘cute Y/N.’ I’ve been doing that for ten years, and I’m tired of it. People still see me as the kid I was at 15, and I’m 25 now—an adult! I want something new.”

Woozi chuckled, leaning back. “An adult? You? The girl with a glittery bunny backpack?”

“Rude!” she huffed, rolling her eyes, but a smile tugged at her lips. “I’m serious, oppa. Don’t get me wrong—I love cheering up Carats, making them smile. But I’m not just that. I want to rebrand, show a different side. Something… real.”

He sobered, nodding slowly. “I hear you. You want to grow up in their eyes—show you’re more than the chaos gremlin. I’ll talk to the producers, see what we can do for your solo. Maybe something deeper, raw.”

Her eyes sparkled, relief washing over her. “Really? You’d do that? Oppa, you’re the best!” She rummaged in her trinket-laden bag, pulling out a glittery pink notebook that screamed “Y/N.” “Hold on—I’ve got ideas!”

Woozi raised an eyebrow, smirking. “What’s that? Your secret diary? Is this your ‘mature’ side?”

“Shut up!” she pouted, flipping it open with a flourish. “It’s my lyric book—been writing for years. You guys never asked, so I kept it secret.”

His jaw dropped as she revealed pages of handwritten lyrics—some scrawled in glitter pen, others in smudged ink. “You write lyrics? Since when? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because you all wanted me to do cheerful stuff!” she said, half-laughing, half-sad. “Look at this one—it’s different.” She slid the notebook over, pointing to a page titled “Shadows of Me.” The lyrics were raw, heavy—verses about feeling trapped by her past self, the weight of being seen as “just” the bubbly maknae, the quiet struggles no one noticed. Lines spoke of rough paths, self-doubt, and yearning to be understood as a whole person, not a caricature.

Woozi read in stunned silence, his coffee forgotten. The words were beautiful, poignant, cutting deeper than he’d expected. “Y/N… this is good. Really good.” His voice softened, eyes tracing her handwriting. “You’ve been feeling this way all along? For ten years, and we didn’t know?”

She shrugged, a bittersweet smile playing on her lips. “I’m good at hiding it. I love being the happy one, but… sometimes I’m not. I just want people to see me—the real me.”

He leaned forward, shock giving way to awe. Her lyrics peeled back a layer he’d never glimpsed, revealing a Y/N who’d grown quietly, carrying burdens behind her glittery facade. For ten years, they’d missed this—her depth, her heart, her unspoken truths.

-------------------------------------------------------------

The café conversation lingered in Woozi’s mind, Y/N’s glittery notebook a quiet revelation. As they parted ways that day, she’d pressed it into his hands, her eyes earnest but nervous. “Oppa, read it all,” she said, trinkets jangling as she adjusted her bag. “Maybe you’ll find something for my solo track. I trust you.”

Woozi nodded, tucking the notebook under his arm. “I’ll look through it, Y/N-ie. No promises, but… I’m curious.” Her shy smile stuck with him, a glimpse of a Y/N he hadn’t fully seen before—not the chaos gremlin, but a woman wrestling with her own identity.

In his studio that night, Woozi flipped through the notebook under the glow of his desk lamp, its pages a mosaic of glitter ink and raw emotion. Lyrics spilled across them—some hopeful, some aching, all deeply personal. Songs about feeling caged by her “bubbly” image, about nights spent doubting herself, about wanting to be seen as more than a smile. One line hit hard: “I’m more than the laughter, more than the spark—I’m a shadow that’s learning to shine in the dark.” “Damn, Y/N,” he muttered, awestruck. “How’d you hide this?”

He called Bumzu the next day, notebook in hand. “You gotta see this—Y/N’s been writing lyrics. They’re… something else.” In the studio, Bumzu skimmed the pages, his jaw dropping. “She wrote this? Our Y/N? The trinket tornado?” He laughed, shaking his head. “This is a secret talent—she’s got a poet’s soul. We’ve been sleeping on her all this time!”

“Right?” Woozi said, tapping a page. “Her solo needs to be one of these—something real, not another candy-coated bop. She’s ready to show a new side.”

They zeroed in on a track Y/N had titled “Unseen”—a soft, haunting melody she’d scribbled chords for, its lyrics weaving her feelings of being trapped by expectations and yearning to reveal her true self. “This one,” Woozi said, circling it. “It’s her heart on paper. Let’s make it hers.”

-------------------------------------------------------------

Y/N joined them in the studio the next week, her usual bounce subdued as she clutched a glittery pen, nervous but eager. “You really liked it?” she asked, eyeing the notebook on Woozi’s desk. “It’s not… too different?”

“It’s perfect,” Bumzu said, grinning. “You’ve got a gift, Y/N-ie. This song’s gonna hit hard—trust us.”

“Yeah, kid,” Woozi added, tweaking the soundboard. “It’s you—raw, real. Let’s record it.”

The process was intense but intimate. Y/N poured her soul into the booth, her voice soft yet steady, carrying the weight of “Unseen.” The melody was gentle, a piano-driven ballad with strings that swelled like a heartbeat, a far cry from her usual upbeat anthems. Lines like “I’m not just the light you see, there’s a storm inside of me” flowed with quiet power, each note a step toward shedding her old skin. Woozi and Bumzu exchanged glances, floored by her depth, her trinkets glinting under the studio lights like a reminder of the Y/N they knew—and the one they were meeting now.

After the final take, Y/N stepped out, breathless, “Was that okay? I didn’t mess it up, did I?”

“Mess it up?” Woozi laughed, pulling off his headphones. “You killed it. This is your best work yet—Carats won’t know what hit ‘em.”

Bumzu nodded, clapping. “It’s beautiful, Y/N. You should be proud.”

She smiled, small but genuine, clutching her notebook like a lifeline. “Thanks, oppa. It feels… right. Like I’m finally saying what I’ve wanted to.”

-------------------------------------------------------------

After Bumzu left, Woozi lingered, motioning Y/N to sit on the studio couch. She plopped down, her bag jangling, and he leaned forward, his usual teasing edge replaced by sincerity. “Listen, Y/N-ie. I read every word in that notebook, and… I’m sorry we didn’t see this side of you sooner. You don’t have to pretend to be the ‘happy maknae’ if it’s not you—not with us, not with Carats.”

Her eyes widened, fingers twisting her keychain. “But… what if they don’t like the real me? What if they want the old Y/N—the one who’s always smiling?”

“Then they’re not real fans,” he said firmly, meeting her gaze. “The ones who matter will love you for you—storms and all. And if anyone hates it? Screw ‘em. You’ve got thirteen brothers who’ll stand by you, no judgment. We’ve got your back, always.”

Her lip trembled, and she looked away, blinking fast. “You mean it? Even if I’m not… fun all the time?”

“Especially then,” he said, softening. “You’re not just our chaos queen—you’re Y/N. The one who writes lyrics that hit like a truck, who drags Dino into pranks, who makes us laugh and keeps us grounded. You don’t have to hide any of it.”

She sniffled, a shaky laugh escaping. “You’re gonna make me cry, oppa. Stop being so nice—it’s weird!”

“Deal with it,” he teased, tossing her a tissue. “Now go rest—you’ve got a masterpiece to share with the others soon. They’re gonna lose it when they hear ‘Unseen.’”

She grinned, hugging her notebook, the weight of ten years lifting slightly. “Thanks, Woozi oppa. I’m… ready for this. I think.”

“You are,” he said, smiling. “And we’re with you—glittery notebook and all.”

The other members hadn’t heard “Unseen” yet, but Y/N’s solo was shaping into something transformative—a mirror of her heart, a bold step for their 10th anniversary. Woozi, carrying her notebook’s secrets, felt a new respect for her, knowing her lyrics had unveiled a truth they’d overlooked. Y/N was ready to redefine herself, and the world would soon meet the real her—shadows, storms, and all.

-------------------------------------------------------------

With Seventeen’s 10th anniversary album nearing release, the studio was a hive of anticipation, but Y/N carried a quiet weight no one else saw. She felt the pressure of a decade in the spotlight, her role as the youngest—and only girl—pushing her to match the group’s relentless energy. Lately, though, she felt like a stranger in her own skin, as if her bubbly persona was a mask she’d worn too long. Was it exhaustion from the industry’s demands? Fear of showing her darker side? Or was she simply outgrowing the Y/N everyone expected? She hid her unease behind smiles, but the doubt gnawed at her—especially as her solo track, “Unseen,” loomed.

Tonight, the group crammed into Woozi’s studio for a listening session, their laughter bouncing off the walls as they prepared to hear each member’s solo track. The footage would go up on their YouTube channel post-release. Couches were packed, snacks littered the table, and Dino sprawled on the floor, tossing gummy worms at Hoshi. Y/N sat tucked between Seungcheol and Minghao, her trinket-laden bag at her feet, forcing a grin as the chaos unfolded.

One by one, they played the solos, heads bobbing to the beats. Seungcheol’s “Jungle” roared with fierce determination, earning cheers and Mingyu’s dramatic, “Hyung, you’re a beast!” Wonwoo’s “99.9” was introspective, its smooth flow prompting Vernon to nod, “That’s my vibe—deep, man.” Mingyu’s “Shake It Off” had everyone dancing in their seats, Hoshi yelling, “Puppy, you’re stealing my spotlight!” Vernon’s “Shining Star” brought soft smiles, Joshua teasing, “So you’re a romantic now, huh?”

Dino’s “Trigger” followed, a high-energy banger that had Seungkwan hyping, “Maknae energy! You snapped, Dino-yah!” As it ended, Woozi leaned forward, a mischievous glint in his eye, pausing before the next track—Y/N’s. The group hadn’t heard it; she and Woozi had kept it a secret, wanting to surprise them. “Alright, guess time,” Woozi said, smirking. “What’s Y/N’s solo gonna be? Genre, vibe—go.”

Hoshi grinned, leaning back. “Easy—bubblegum pop! Something hyper, with glittery beats!”

“Yeah, like a cheerleader anthem!” Mingyu added, mimicking a dance. “Y/N’s always got that happy energy!”

Seungkwan nodded. “Gotta be fun—maybe a cute rap part, like her old tracks!”

Y/N rolled her eyes, slumping into the couch, her heart sinking. “Wow, so predictable, huh?” she muttered, half-joking, but the words stung. They saw her as the same old Y/N—cheerful, chaotic, unchanging.

Woozi laughed, shaking his head. “You’re all so wrong. Ready for a shock?” He glanced at Y/N, who gave a small nod, her fingers twisting a trinket nervously. “This is ‘Unseen’—let’s go.”

Hoshi leaned forward, joking, “What, is it sexy? Bold? Mature? Spill, Jihoon-ah!”

“Just listen,” Woozi said, hitting play.

The room fell silent as a soft piano melody unfurled, delicate yet heavy, strings weaving in like a quiet ache. Y/N’s voice followed—raw, vulnerable, unlike her usual bright tone. “I’m not just the light you see, there’s a storm inside of me…” The lyrics poured out, painting her struggle—feeling trapped by her “happy” image, yearning to be seen as human, flawed, real. “I’m more than the laughter, more than the spark—I’m a shadow that’s learning to shine in the dark.”

The members’ smiles faded, brows furrowing as they leaned in, eyes flicking to Y/N. She stared at her lap, heart pounding, afraid to meet their gazes. The song swelled, her voice breaking on “Ten years of smiles, but who sees my tears?” and the studio felt like it held its breath. When the final note faded, a heavy silence hung, the kind that pressed on your chest.

Seungcheol broke it, voice soft, “Oh, Y/N-ie… that’s different, huh?” He leaned forward, eyes searching hers, a mix of awe and sadness.

“Who wrote this?” Vernon asked, his usual teasing gone, replaced by quiet intensity.

Woozi pointed at Y/N, a proud smile tugging his lips. “She did. Every word, every note—her heart.”

The room erupted—not in chaos, but in a rush of stunned admiration. “You wrote that?!” Mingyu gaped, scooting closer. “Y/N, that’s… insane. It’s beautiful.”

“I’m shook,” Vernon said, shaking his head. “It’s so raw—like, you’re letting us in. I love it.”

Hoshi, usually loud, was quiet, eyes glistening. “I didn’t know you felt like that, Y/N-ie. It’s… it hurts, but it’s amazing.”

Y/N’s lip trembled, her hands gripping her trinkets to steady herself. “I was scared you wouldn’t like it,” she whispered, voice cracking. “It’s not fun or happy—it’s… me. The parts I hide. I thought… maybe you’d want the old Y/N.” Tears spilled over, and she swiped at them, embarrassed.

Seungcheol slid closer, pulling her into a side hug. “Kid, we love it. And we love you—every part, happy or not. You don’t have to hide this from us.”

“Yeah,” Joshua added, voice gentle. “You’re our sister—bubbly, sad, whatever. We’re here for all of it. This song? It’s you, and it’s perfect.”

Dino, eyes wide, leaned over. “I’ve seen you cry, but this… it’s different. You’ve been carrying this alone? Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I didn’t want to be a burden,” she admitted, tears flowing freely now. “As the only girl, I got so much hate—people saying I didn’t fit, that I was too loud, too girly. So I played up the bubbly side, to vibe with you guys, to prove I belonged. But… I’m tired. I’m 25, and I’m not that kid anymore. I’m scared to show the real me.”

Seungkwan reached for her hand, squeezing it. “You belong—always have, always will. You don’t need to prove anything. If you’re hurting, tell us. We’re not just a group—we’re family.”

“And screw the haters,” Seungkwan said fiercely, wiping his own eyes. “Your song’s gonna shut them up. This is Y/N—real, strong, ours.”

One by one, the twelve showered her with words—Wonwoo’s quiet “It’s poetic, Y/N-ie—you’ve got soul,” Mingyu’s earnest “I’m so proud of you,” Vernon’s simple “You killed it.” Even Woozi, usually reserved, said, “You showed your heart, kid. That’s braver than any of us.”

Y/N sobbed, overwhelmed, her usual spark drowned in vulnerability. “I thought… I had to be happy for you guys, for Carats. I didn’t want to let anyone down.”

Seungcheol hugged her tighter, his voice thick. “You could never let us down. If you’re struggling, we want to know—we’ll carry it with you. You’re not alone in the dark, Y/N-ie.”

The others piled in, a messy group hug that toppled snacks and sent trinkets jingling. Hoshi sniffled loudly, “Stop making me cry, you gremlin!” earning a watery laugh from Y/N. For the first time, she felt seen—not as the maknae, the girl, the clown, but as herself, shadows and all.

The session revealed a Y/N they’d missed—her tears weren’t new, but her quiet pain was. As the only girl, she’d fought to fit their rhythm, absorbing hate to shield her place, crafting a persona to belong. Her bubbly side had been armor, and “Unseen” cracked it open, leaving the thirteen raw. They felt the sting of neglect—not intentional, but real—knowing their laughter had sometimes drowned out her silent struggles.

[buntanteen]

svt fic recs list <3 - svt 10 year anniversary: woozi - sfw & nsfw

summary: 10 sfw & 10 nsfw jihoon reader insert fics :)

contains: 18+ nsfw (mdni!!) majority is afab reader

✩ svt writing & fic rec masterlist ✩

✩ sfw section ✩

1. ❥ do not disturb - @studioeisa

oh, to be the one that jihoon would drop everything for :,)

2. ❥ operation: hug me - @dokyumms

give that boy a hug and a cuddle PLS PLS PLS HE WANTS TO BE HELDDDDDDDDD

3. ❥ cat parents with woozi - @jihoonjuseyo

knowing that he's a cat dad now....*SCREECHES*

4. ❥ woozi bf habits - @odxrilove

*tears in my eyes* he's just so...so soft and sweet and loving and so hoonie and AHHHHHHHH JIHOOOOOOON

5. ❥ cuddling - @husbandhoshi

he's just so shyyyyyyyyyyyyy ahhh my babyyyyy

6. ❥ boyfriend!jihoon x reader - @xinganhao

kicking my feet and giggling HE'S SOOO BOYFRIENDDD (and beautiful fiancé) coded

7. ❥ lipstick kiss trend with woozi - @etherealyoungk

i wanna leave all the physical marks of love all over him

8. ❥ boyfie - @rubyreduji

he's SOOOOOOOOOOOOO boyfie hehehe

9. ❥ shirt(less) - @wheeboo

i could barely handle seeing those honkers during nana tour....i don't think i could irl djfkgdbk

10. ❥ main story vs close friends: woozi - @monolotus

obsessseddd with the main story vs close friends conceptttt

✩ nsfw section ✩

1. ❥ eating you out from behind when you're chilling without panties - @hoshifighting

he sounds too good here AHKGDFKJB

2. ❥ i'm sorry - @mejaemin

hoonie with baby fever so bad he starts acting dumb kjfgbvd

3. ❥ AAA - @boofeine

ah AH AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH (is all i can say cuz AHHH)

4. ❥ study break - @monamipencil

HIS FINGERS HIS HANDS OMGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG

5. ❥ side by side - @toruro

enemies but that fine line of hate and desire heheheheheh (the slight jealousy too??!? scrumptioussss)

6. ❥ ahegao and arousal - @rubyreduji

this weeb (i love the title of this fic a bit TOO much)

7. ❥ dumbification - @hoshifighting

ON MY KNEESSSSSSSSSS FACE IN MY PILLOW SCREAMING WTFFF i'd let him do whatever he wants to me holy shit

8. ❥ jihoon fingers - @woozivrsefactry

i need his hands on me NOWWWWW

9. ❥ brat tamer! jihoon - @svtswhorehouse

brat tamer! jihoon would be perfectttt for me

10. ❥ oh, agony - @cheolism-archive

OH THE AGONYYY. the pathetically horny tension between reader and woozi. the idea of them feeling so depraved from each other that they become absolute horn dogs. god woozi sounds so hot in this gjkbd. the oh the agony part was so WRSLDKFGJ. bonus points for friend mingyu. a fic hasn't effected me like this in a HOT minute WOOOOO. i had to put my phone down SEVERAL times cuz of how overwhelmingly hot he was in every moment. (i felt as though i was in agony too omg)

11. bonus audio rec: woozi pounding you after a long day working at the studio - @orbityvess

the way my jaw dropped and my face immediately turned redder than jihoon's ears when he's flustered??!!? cuz why does it sound like him and why does it sound so good wtgfdbfkjgfbd

bun note: helllooooooo~ i hope everyone is enjoying this lil fic event :)) are we ready for seventeen's upcoming comeback??? the tracklist is coming out later today and i'm soooo excited hehehe. everyone pls take care of yourselves and eat something yummmyyy :3

[prettygirl-gabi]

Title: Stirred & Sweet

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Rating: T (Teen)

Fandom: UConn Women’s Basketball

Word count: 3k+

Warning: Mild language, teasing from teammates, and an excessive amount of Dirty Shirleys.

Summary: being a bartender isn’t so bad after all

A/N: I got carried away and I didn’t want to do more than one part though… enjoy

🏷️: @yailtsv

There are slow nights at Ted’s, and then there are nights like this—where the place is packed shoulder to shoulder, the music is loud enough to shake the walls, and I’m pretty sure I’ll smell like grenadine for the next three days.

It’s my usual Friday night shift, and I’m behind the bar, flipping between orders faster than I can process them. But then, right in the middle of pouring a vodka soda, I hear a voice that’s unmistakable over the noise.

“Yo, can I get a Dirty Shirley?”

I don’t even have to look up. I already know.

Paige Bueckers.

Five-year UConn legend. Face of the program. Probably could get a drink for free just by flashing that stupidly perfect smile.

I glance up, and sure enough, she’s leaning against the bar, chin resting on her hand, watching me with that casual, slightly smug expression. Azzi, Ice, and the rest of the team are packed in behind her, laughing and teasing each other.

“Gotcha,” I say, grabbing a glass. “Coming right up.”

I make Dirty Shirleys all the time—it’s one of the easiest drinks in the book. But mine? Mine are the best. It’s not just about throwing Sprite, vodka, and grenadine into a cup. It’s about balance, ratios, the right kind of vodka, and just a little extra touch.

I slide the drink across the counter. “One Dirty Shirley, Bueckers. Hope it lives up to the hype.”

Paige takes a sip, and for a second, her expression is unreadable. Then, her eyes widen slightly, and she licks her lips like she’s trying to make sure she actually tasted what she thinks she did.

“Oh, hell no.” She looks at her teammates. “This is the best one I’ve had in five years.”

Azzi snorts. “You’ve had a lot of Dirty Shirleys, huh?”

“You don’t understand, Z.” Paige turns back to me. “How did you—what did you do?”

I grin, wiping my hands on a bar rag. “Trade secret.”

“No, for real. How are you this good at making drinks?”

I lean on the counter. “My dad owns a bar back home. He taught me everything. Ratios, ingredients, even flair bartending when I was like thirteen—don’t ask me why he thought that was a good idea. By the time I was seventeen, I could make drinks better than half the bartenders at his place.”

Paige shakes her head, impressed. “Damn. So I just got served a professional-level Dirty Shirley?”

“Something like that.” I smirk. “And now, the only way you’re getting one this good is if I make it myself.”

She raises a brow, a challenge in her eyes. “Bet.”

⸻

From that night on, Paige only orders Dirty Shirleys if I’m the one making them.

It turns into a thing.

She’ll walk into Ted’s, lock eyes with me across the bar, and hold up a finger—no words, just that stupidly charming smirk. And I already know. One Dirty Shirley, coming right up.

She hypes it up to the team, tells anyone who’ll listen that I make the best ones. She even gets a little dramatic about it sometimes.

“I refuse to drink a basic one now,” she tells me one night, sipping happily. “You’ve ruined them for me.”

“Oh no,” I deadpan. “Whatever will you do when I graduate?”

“Guess I’ll have to marry you, so you can make them for me forever.”

I choke on my laugh. “Paige.”

She just winks and takes another sip.

⸻

A few weeks later, it’s almost 2 AM when my phone buzzes.

I groan, rolling over, barely registering the name on my screen before answering.

“Paige,” I mumble. “Why are you calling me in the middle of the night?”

“Okay, don’t be mad,” she says, which means she’s about to say something ridiculous. “But I really want a Shirley Temple.”

I squint at my phone, confused. “Like… a non-alcoholic one?”

“Yes.”

I blink. “You called me at two in the morning for that?”

“You’re the only one who makes them right!” she whines. “Please? I’ll owe you forever.”

I sigh, already sitting up. “You better leave your door unlocked.”

⸻

When I get to her dorm, she’s waiting at the door, practically bouncing.

“You actually came,” she grins.

“You sounded desperate,” I tease, lifting the pitcher. “Figured it was my duty.”

She drags me inside, already pulling out cups. “You’re a lifesaver.”

We end up on the couch, sipping Shirley Temples and watching Friends. Somewhere between episodes, I stretch out, and Paige throws a blanket over both of us.

It’s late. Really late. But she’s warm next to me, and my eyes are getting heavier.

I wake up hours later to the sound of the TV playing softly, Paige’s head resting against my shoulder, and an almost-empty pitcher on the coffee table.

Not bad for a midnight call.

⸻

A week later, I’m back at work when Paige shows up again. But this time, she doesn’t ask for a Dirty Shirley.

“You’re trying something new tonight,” I tell her, already reaching for ingredients.

She looks skeptical. “You’re experimenting on me?”

“Yup.” I grin, setting up the glass. “I promise it’ll be good.”

She watches as I pour Seagram’s Ginger Ale, add two and a half shots of Don Julio, a shot of Tequila Silver, then grab an orange popsicle straight out of the freezer. I drop it in, stick and all, then drizzle in some strawberry syrup.

Paige raises a brow. “What the hell is this?”

“A masterpiece.” I slide it to her. “Try it.”

She takes a sip, then licks her lips slowly, processing the taste.

“Oh, that’s dangerous,” she murmurs.

“Told you.”

She takes another sip, eyes lighting up. “Okay, this is actually insane. What’s it called?”

I wipe down the counter. “I don’t know yet. You get to name it.”

She thinks for a second, then smirks. “Huskies Sunset.”

I laugh. “Why?”

“Because it looks like a sunset, and it’ll probably make you howl if you drink too much.”

I shake my head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But you love it.” She grins, lifting her glass. “To Huskies Sunsets.”

And just like that, we’ve got a new favorite.

A few days later Paige send me a text

Paige: Yo, you working tonight?

Me: Yeah, why? You tryna bother me while I work again?

Paige: Maybe. Also… bring your best sales pitch.

I stare at my phone, confused, but before I can ask what she means, she sends another message.

Paige: Just trust me. You’ll thank me later.

I shake my head, pocket my phone, and head to Ted’s.

⸻

When I walk in, I immediately notice something weird.

My boss, Mike, is standing behind the bar—not working, just standing there, arms crossed, a deep-in-thought look on his face. And across from him, sitting on a stool like she owns the place, is Paige.

The moment she sees me, she waves. “Took you long enough.”

I set my bag down. “What’s going on?”

Mike looks at me, then at Paige, then back at me. “Your girl here has been talking my ear off about adding some drink to the menu.”

I blink. “Wait… what?”

Paige smirks. “Huskies Sunset. I told him it deserves a permanent spot.”

My jaw nearly drops. “Paige.”

She shrugs, all casual. “It’s a hit. I mean, I should know—I’ve had like five.”

Mike sighs, rubbing his temple. “Look, I’m not against it, but I don’t just put random drinks on the menu. It’s gotta sell.”

Paige leans forward. “It will sell. I promise you. Y/N makes the best drinks on campus, and this one is dangerous in the best way. People will eat it up.”

I can’t help but smile a little. She’s really going to bat for me.

Mike looks at me. “You got a name for this thing?”

I nod. “Huskies Sunset.”

He thinks for a moment, then sighs. “Fine. But it’s on a trial run. If it doesn’t sell, it’s out.”

Paige claps her hands. “Oh, it’ll sell. Just wait.”

⸻

Turns out, she wasn’t wrong.

The moment word gets out that there’s a Paige-approved drink on the menu, people start ordering it like crazy. It gets to a point where I can barely keep up—I’ve got orange popsicles flying, tequila pouring, and strawberry syrup everywhere.

And of course, the team eats it up.

Azzi is the first to tease me. “Wow, Paige gets one favorite bartender, and now she’s getting drinks added to the menu?”

Ice shakes her head. “Nah, this is next-level simp behavior.”

I roll my eyes. “She just likes the drink.”

Ayanna grins. “Just the drink? Y’all are literally always together.”

I scoff. “We are not.”

Paige, unbothered, sips her Huskies Sunset. “We kinda are.”

And that’s all it takes. The teasing gets worse.

Suddenly, everyone’s pointing out every little thing we do together—how we study at the same table in the library, how Paige randomly FaceTimes me while I’m at work, how we spend way too much time coming up with new drink ideas.

It doesn’t help that one night, she asks me to teach her how to bartend.

I try to play it cool, but the moment she steps behind the bar, sleeves rolled up, ready to learn? Yeah. I might be in trouble.

⸻

“Alright, Rookie,” I say, setting a bottle of tequila on the counter. “First lesson: pouring without spilling.”

Paige smirks. “Easy.”

It is not easy.

She tries to pour a shot, but the moment the liquid starts flowing, she panics, overcorrects, and half of it ends up on her hand.

I laugh. “Oh, yeah. Natural talent.”

She glares at me, shaking tequila off her fingers. “Okay, okay. Let me try again.”

She does better on the second attempt, actually filling the shot glass without a mess.

I nod approvingly. “Look at that. You’re learning.”

She grins. “Told you I could do it.”

I lean against the counter. “Alright, next test. Shaking a cocktail.”

I set up a simple drink and hand her the shaker. “Two hands, firm grip, shake hard but controlled.”

Paige takes it, mimicking my stance, and starts shaking. At first, she looks focused. But then, halfway through, the lid pops off.

Cue tequila flying everywhere.

I barely dodge it, while Paige gasps, looking at the mess.

“Oh, my God.” She stares at me. “Did I just—”

I burst out laughing. “You definitely just showered us in tequila.”

She winces. “Oops.”

I grab a rag, wiping my arms. “You’re lucky I like you.”

She smirks. “You like me?”

I freeze for half a second.

“…Shut up.”

⸻

The teasing from the team only gets worse after that.

Especially when they find out Paige has a new habit of calling me in the middle of the night.

KK: Ayo, why did I just hear that Y/N got up at 2 AM to bring Paige a Shirley Temple?

Ice: A Shirley. Temple. AT 2 IN THE MORNING?

Azzi: Just date already, my God.

Me: IT WAS JUST A DRINK.

Paige: I have high standards, what can I say?

Caroline adds a poll to the team’s group chat:

Will Y/N and Paige finally admit they’re basically together?

✔ Yes, they’re oblivious

✔ No, but they should be

✔ They’re already dating and just don’t know it yet

Paige just sends a single response.

Paige: Drink up, haters.

⸻

A few nights later, Paige shows up at the bar with an idea.

“So, we’ve got Huskies Sunset,” she says, sliding into her usual seat in front of me. “But we need something else. Something bigger.”

I raise a brow. “Bigger?”

She nods. “Like… a team drink.”

I pause, considering it. “A UConn team drink?”

“Yeah! Something for game nights. Something we can all order and make a thing.”

I grin. “Alright, Challenge Accepted.”

We spend the next few nights messing with ideas, trying out flavors, and (accidentally) getting a little buzzed in the process. Paige is surprisingly good at taste-testing—she knows exactly what she likes, and she’s weirdly good at pairing flavors.

Finally, we land on something.

Blue curaçao for the Huskies’ blue, lemonade for a crisp, refreshing taste, a splash of Sprite for bubbles, and a frozen lemon slice on the rim.

The Husky Huddle.

When we debut it, the team goes crazy.

“Oh, this is dangerous,” Azzi says after her first sip.

Aubrey nods. “Yeah, we’re gonna need this before every away game.”

Ice grins. “Okay, but y’all see what’s happening, right?”

Ayanna smirks. “Oh, we see it.”

Paige looks at me, all innocent. “See what?”

Azzi shakes her head. “Y’all are literally co-owners of the Ted’s bar menu at this point.”

Ice grins. “More like co-owners of each other.”

Paige chokes on her drink. I roll my eyes.

“Y’all are so annoying.”

Azzi just raises her glass. “To Huskies Sunsets, Husky Huddles, and to Paige and Y/N finally admitting they’re a thing.”

Paige and I exchange glances, then both sigh.

We clink our glasses together.

“To Huskies Sunsets,” I say.

“To the best bartender at UConn,” Paige adds, smirking.

⸻

Six Months Later

By now, Paige is a staple at Ted’s.

She still only orders Huskies Sunsets when I’m working. Still calls me in the middle of the night for Shirley Temples. Still shows up unannounced to drag me out for “taste-testing” sessions.

The team hasn’t let up on the teasing. If anything, it’s gotten worse.

KK: So, what’s the hold-up? Y’all married yet?

Ice: I give it another month before Paige breaks and asks Y/N out.

Azzi: One month? You’re generous. I say two weeks.

I just roll my eyes every time. Paige and I—we’re just us. We exist in this weird, perfect space where we know we like each other, but neither of us says it out loud.

Until the night she makes me a drink.

⸻

It’s a slow night, one of those rare ones where I’m not drowning in orders. Paige is at the bar, as usual, twirling a straw between her fingers like she’s debating something.

Then, out of nowhere, she stands up.

“Okay, switch places with me.”

I blink. “Huh?”

She jerks her head toward the bar. “I wanna make you a drink.”

I scoff. “Paige, last time you were back here, you covered yourself in tequila.”

She grins. “Yeah, but I’ve learned. Trust me.”

I hesitate, then sigh, stepping aside. “Alright, Rookie. Show me what you got.”

She cracks her knuckles, looking way too serious for someone making a cocktail.

She starts with a base of passionfruit juice, a splash of lime, then adds two shots of rum. But then, she does something unexpected—she grabs a bottle of peach liqueur and pours just a little in, followed by a drizzle of honey.

I raise an eyebrow. “That’s… an interesting mix.”

Paige winks. “Trust the process.”

She shakes it (without spilling this time) and pours it into a glass over crushed ice. Then, to top it off, she adds a small mint leaf and slides it across the counter.

I pick it up, skeptical, and take a sip.

And damn.

It’s smooth, a little sweet, a little tart, with just the right kick.

I look up at her, surprised. “Paige. This is actually good.”

She smirks. “I know.”

I take another sip, then tilt my head. “What’s it called?”

She leans on the counter, looking at me with that lazy grin of hers.

“Date Night.”

My heart does a full-on somersault.

I set the drink down carefully. “Paige.”

She shrugs, trying (and failing) to look casual. “So, what do you think? Wanna make it official?”

I stare at her for a long second, then grin. “Well, I do like the drink.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “That’s all I get? After six months of pining?”

I take another sip. “Mmm… maybe you should take me out on a real date and find out.”

She leans in, eyes bright. “Deal.”

⸻

Four Years Later

If you had told me back then that one day I’d own my own bar, I probably would’ve laughed in your face.

But here I am, standing behind the counter of Sundown, my very own place in Dallas, with a fresh-cut lime in one hand and my phone buzzing on the counter.

I glance at the screen.

Paige: You at the bar?

Me: Where else would I be?

Paige: Cool. I’m ten minutes away.

I shake my head, smiling to myself.

Some things never change.

⸻

When Paige walks in, the place is packed. It’s a Friday night, and everyone’s here for happy hour, but the moment she steps inside, a few heads turn.

She’s in a hoodie and joggers, looking effortlessly cool, like she didn’t just drop 25 points on the Mercury last night.

She slides into her usual seat at the bar, grinning at me. “What’s up, Superstar?”

I snort. “You’re the only superstar here.”

She taps the counter. “Debatable. Now, hit me with the usual.”

I shake my head, already reaching for the ingredients. “Still not tired of Huskies Sunsets?”

She grins. “Never.”

I make her drink, sliding it over with a flourish. She takes a slow sip, eyes locked on me the whole time.

Then, she sets the glass down and leans in, voice softer. “So… you excited for tomorrow?”

Tomorrow.

Our engagement party.

I glance down at the ring on my finger—the one Paige had slipped on my hand last year after surprising me with a proposal at Ted’s.

(She had tried to be all smooth, but her hands were shaking so bad she almost dropped the ring in my drink.)

I smile. “Excited? Yeah. A little nervous? Also yeah.”

Paige tilts her head. “Nervous why?”

I gesture around. “I don’t know… this bar, this life—it’s everything I wanted. And now we’re about to start a whole new chapter.”

She reaches across the bar, taking my hand in hers. “And that scares you?”

I shake my head. “No. It just… feels big.”

Paige squeezes my hand. “Well, for the record, I think we’re gonna be just fine.”

I look at her—the same Paige who used to drag me out of bed for late-night Shirley Temples, who spent hours behind the bar learning to mix drinks just so we could have an excuse to hang out longer.

The same Paige who, after all these years, still only orders Huskies Sunsets if I’m the one making them.

I squeeze her hand back. “Yeah. I think so too.”

She grins. “Good. Now, gimme another drink. And make it something new.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Something new?”

She nods. “Yeah. Something fresh. Something that screams ‘future wife of a WNBA star.’”

I laugh, already reaching for a bottle. “Alright, challenge accepted.”

And as I start mixing, Paige just sits there, watching me with that soft, lazy grin—the one that says she’d spend forever right here if I let her.

Good thing forever is exactly what we have.

---

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

                 -Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

                             -prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️

[moonhoures]

warning: every post will include smut! minors do not interact! (18+)

these will be posted at midnight (CST) from Oct. 1st to Oct. 31st. the links will be added accordingly after each one is posted!

* titles are subject to change up until posting date!

go to the bottom of this post to join the taglist! ↓

1. Video Games | Enhypen Jay

— angry sex + makeup sex

2. One Night Stand | Seventeen Hoshi

— anonymous sex + roleplay

3. Relax | Ateez Yeosang

— bath sex

4. Insatiable | Enhypen Sunghoon

— biting kink + blood play [vampire!au]

5. Merciless | Stray Kids Hyunjin

— bondage

6. Countdown | TXT Taehyun

— brat taming

7. All Of Me | Monsta X Jooheon

— breeding kink / creampie

8. Stargazing | Monsta X Changkyun

— choking

9. Sunday Morning | P1Harmony Jiung

— cockwarming

10. Cowgirl | Ateez Wooyoung

— costumes

11. Pretty When You Cry | NCT Jeno

— dacryphilia

12. “It Just . . . Slipped” | Stray Kids Chan

— daddy kink

13. Play Thing | Twice Mina

— degradation

14. Open Wide | BTS Taehyung

— dom!idol

15. Score | Stray Kids Minho

— dry humping / thigh riding

16. Wicked Games | NCT Haechan

— edging / orgasm denial

17. Watch Yourself | Seventeen Jeonghan

— mirror sex

18. That’s My Girl | Twice Jihyo

— mommy kink

19. Thin Walls | ZB1 Matthew

— masturbation

20. I Can See You | The Boyz Sangyeon

— office sex [coworkers!au]

21. Sit | Blackpink Rosé

— oral

22. Good To Me | Seventeen Wonwoo

— overstimulation

23. Kiss Me Thru The Phone | Stray Kids Felix

— phone sex

24. Beautiful | NCT Jaehyun

— praise kink

25. Focus | Ateez San

— sex tape / filming

26. Knew Better | Seventeen S.Coups

— spanking

27. First Time For Everything | (G)-Idle Soyeon

— squirting

28. Bad Day | Wonho

— stripping

29. Hotel Room Service | TXT Huening Kai

— sub!idol

30. Three’s Company | P1Harmony Keeho & Theo

— threesome

31. Weapon | ITZY Chaeryoung

— toys

🕸️ Taglist 🕷️

to join the taglist for this event only, please comment on this post! asks or comments on any other posts will not be valid.

edit: if your age isn’t visible on your blog you will not be added! you must be 18+ to be eligible for this taglist. thank you!

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[parkjihoonswifey]

A/N: :(((

Title: Like brother, like sister

Pairings: Yeon Si-eun x Fem! Younger sister! Reader

Warnings: kinda sad?? crying, bullying

The silence at the dinner table was always awkward.

Not because anyone was fighting. Not because their mother said anything wrong. It was just the way things were. Their family wasn't loud, wasn't especially expressive. They just…functioned.

It was a strange, sterile kind of love. Like you could feel it under the surface, but it never came out in words.

So you didn’t say much, even when the bruises showed up. Even when your heart felt like it was splitting open every day at school.

You were Yeon Si-eun’s younger sister—by seventeen months, a mere school year apart. People always assumed he was the only target for cruelty growing up—his delicate features, quiet presence, the way he refused to fold even under pressure.

But no one knew what it was like for the girl who shared his last name. The girl who was "the freak's sister." Who didn't talk back, who kept her head down, who endured it all in silence because you couldn't stand up for yourself like Si-eun did.

Until the day you couldn’t.

It started like a normal day. You kept your eyes forward during class. Pretended you didn’t hear the whispers. Ignored the shove in the hallway that sent your books scattering. You'd become good at picking up your pieces.

But today, someone laughed when they ripped a photo from your locker. The one you kept tucked there quietly—of your family, of Si-eun from two years ago, rare smile and all. They crumpled it and tossed it at your feet.

“Not that he’d care,” they said, and the rest snickered. “Wonder if he even talks to her. Guy probably doesn’t even know she exists.”

You picked it up. Smoothed it out with trembling fingers. Said nothing, as always. But for the first time, the tears wouldn’t wait until home.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You didn’t stop walking when you got off the bus. You made it up the stairs, past your mother in the kitchen who offered you a tired, distracted greeting.

Your hands trembled as you opened your bedroom door. Closed it. Didn't bother to Lock it, you figured no one would come in anyway. You sat down on your bed and stared at the picture in your hand. Creased and ruined.

And you broke.

You didn’t even hear Si-eun knock. You didn’t hear the first time he said your name, or the second, or the third.

But when the door creaked open and he stepped in—cool and unreadable as always—you didn’t hide it.

You were sobbing.

Not the kind of crying you could muffle into a pillow. The loud, hiccupping kind. The shaking kind. The "I can't pretend anymore" kind. And for a moment, neither of you spoke.

"...Did something happen?" he asked finally, voice soft in a way few people ever got to hear. You covered your face. You wanted to lie, say it was nothing. But the pain was too raw, too sharp.

“They hate me,” you choked. “They all hate me.” Si-eun stood frozen in place.

“They shove me. They laugh. They ruin my things. I—I never told you. I didn’t want to bother you. You already…you already had so much—”

“Hey.”

You looked up.

His face didn’t show much, but his eyes were wide. There was a quiet storm in them. Not rage, but something heavy. A deep-rooted hurt that matched yours, reflected like a mirror.

“You should’ve told me,” he said, moving closer until he sat on the edge of your bed. “You should’ve said something.”

“I thought…” You hiccupped. “You always handle it. I thought I should, too.”

He didn’t answer.

He exhaled, slow and long. And for the first time, you saw it—the cracks in his mask. His hands trembled slightly as he reached out to take the ruined photo from your hand.

“They didn’t know,” you whispered. “What they did to me… they didn’t even know how much that photo meant."

Si-eun looked at the photo for a moment.

Then his voice dropped. “That’s worse.”

You blinked. “What?”

“It’s worse,” he said again, quieter. “They hurt you without even knowing. And I didn’t protect you. I didn’t even notice.”

“Si-eun, it’s not your fault.”

But something about the way he hunched forward, elbows on his knees, eyes dark and unfocused… It was like he was blaming himself for everything.

“I noticed you were quiet lately,” he murmured. “You didn’t eat much. You stopped playing piano. I just thought… you were tired. Like me.”

The silence stretched again. Your cries had faded into soft sniffles. The air between you was raw.

And then, slowly, he turned toward you.

“You were strong,” he said. “But you don’t have to be alone anymore.”

You looked at him.

“Neither do you,” you whispered.

That night, you sat together on your bed. He let you lean against his shoulder, and for once, he didn’t flinch from the contact.

You told him everything.

And he listened.

Every cruel nickname, every sharp whisper. Every time you ate lunch in the library just to avoid people. Every day you cried in the bathroom stall with your hoodie covering your face.

He didn’t speak much, but his eyes never left you. Not once.

At one point, when your voice broke again, he reached out and gently took your hand.

His was colder. Yours was shaking.

But together, it felt warm.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The next day, Si-eun walked you to school.

He didn’t say it was to protect you. He just walked alongside you, the way an older brother would, calm and quiet.

But when you reached the gates, he looked over at you.

“I’ll talk to the school,” he said.

You blinked. “You don’t have to. They’ll just make it worse.”

“I’ll talk to them anyway,” he said. “And I’ll make sure it doesn’t get worse.”

Something in his tone told you he meant it.

And something in your chest eased, just a little.

Weeks passed.

The school talked to students. The behavior wasn’t magically gone, but the whispers faded. The shoves stopped.

Si-eun never said what he did.

But a few kids who used to laugh when you walked past now avoided looking at you. One even muttered an apology.

More than that, he changed in little ways, too.

He waited for you after school. He made sure you ate dinner. He knocked on your door when the lights had been off too long.

You still didn’t talk much at the dinner table, but once, your mother paused to look at you both.

“You two are… getting along well lately,” she said. Si-eun nodded. Didn’t say much, but he nudged your foot under the table. You smiled for the first time in weeks.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

One night, you found him in the living room, asleep at the table with his head on his arms, a half-finished workbook beside him.

You laid a blanket over his shoulders. Quietly. Just as you turned to leave, he stirred.

“You okay now?” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. You turned around.

“I think so,” you said. “Thanks to you.” He didn’t smile, but he looked at you for a long second.

And he said, “I’ve got you. Don't worry anymore.”

That was enough.

A/N: this was a scheduled post so I'm definitely not awake rn but still let me know what you guys think! <3

[mingtinys]

" i am so proud of you "

pairing : hansol chwe x gn!reader

"13 ways to say "i love you" with seventeen"

warnings : language

word count : 0.6 k

a/n : got a little carried away with this one , something about writing for vernon is just so fun

"I was thinking, why don't we go out tomorrow to that restaurant you really like? To celebrate and all."

"I'd really like that." You call back, glancing over at your boyfriend who is still busy washing dishes at the kitchen sink. Though he isn't looking directly at you, you can just make out the excited look in his eyes and the toothy grin gracing his lips. He's been like that since you told him about your promotion at work. Honestly, you didn't expect him to make such a fuss over it. It was a relatively small promotion, just a raise and a slightly higher title. But that sunny expression on his face could make someone think you'd hit CEO status.

"I'll make reservations after I finish up here." His words are barely audible over the running water. You're about to thank him when your phone buzzes to life beside you.

Incoming call from Boo Seungkwan.

Seungkwan? You think, narrowing your eyes at the screen. Why on earth could he be calling you and not Hansol?

"Hello?"

"Y/N!" His excited voice comes through the speaker. "You're not busy right?"

"Not really, no. Why, what's up?"

"I— well we all wanted to call and congratulate you on your promotion!" A chorus of voices flood your phone and you take it you're on speaker with the rest of the members.

"That's very sweet of you all, thank you." It's nice, having so many people in your corner cheering you on. "But how'd you know? I only just found out about it a couple hours ago."

"You're joking right?" It sounds like Chan. "Hansol won't shut up about it in the group chat."

"He talks about me?" You ask no one in particular

"Yeah, like an annoying amount." That's definitely Mingyu.

There's a short altercation on the other side of the call, probably Seungkwan trying to wrestle his phone back from various members. But you don't pay much mind, the warm feeling in your chest taking over all other senses. You let your gaze drift back to Hansol, who is now on his laptop, nodding along to whatever song is currently playing in his head.

"Just, give it here—! Sorry about that," Seungkwan's voice jolts you from a daze. "Anyways, we just wanted to give you our compliments. We'll let you get back to your night."

Good, because tears are already welling up at your lashes and you're not sure how much longer you can hold back the stitch in your throat. "I appreciate it, tell everyone I said thank you."

You hang up before Seungkwan can respond and promptly make your way to the kitchen. Hansol's nose is still buried in his laptop, eyes squinted as his fingers peck at the keys. "Okay," He says upon the realization of your presence. He hits the enter key rather dramatically. "Reservations are made and you're . . ." His words teeter off when he looks up, met with your tear-filled gaze.

He takes a beat. Brows furrowed and head cocked to the side. "–You're crying. Shit, wait— why are you crying?" Hansol panics. He rushes to you, taking your face between his warm hands. Holding you the way one would hold fine China. Carefully, his thumb comes to swipe a stray tear from your cheek.

"You tell your members about me?" You sniffle. Hansol's eyes go wide and his mouth opens and closes like a fish before he conjures up an answer. "Was I not supposed to?"

The pure concerned cluelessness in his voice makes you giggle and he seems to relax when he realizes he's not in trouble. "I just didn't know you bragged about me like that, it's sweet."

"I am so proud of you,"  Hansol speaks with unashamed sincerity. "Why wouldn't I brag about your accomplishments?"

taglist: @matchahyuck @dontwannaexsist @minnieminshi @myfavoritedelusion @tanya596carat

[tricksh0t]

★ stag

☾ tywin lannister x top m reader

𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘩0𝘵 ⛥ need that old man part 2, also happy new year

𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘴 ⛥ 2.43k words

cw: hair pulling, from behind, first time anal for tywin, age gap, use of boy as a nickname for the reader, pretty long, small mention of period-typical homophobia

Tywin was never one for hunts, not the ceremonious ones. Hunting was a necessity. It was not like joustings and tourneys, the entertainment found in the desperation and death of boastful warriors; those, he could understand. It is joy and amusement there, and he knows there is no joy to be found in letting your scouts capture the beast for you. It is duller still to plunge your blade into a helpless creature.

Most of all, there is no necessity to send the Lord Lannister, the commander of the Lannister army, a trusted advisor to the crown hunting. The so-said "better taste" of the game you hunted yourself is nothing but delusion to cover up for the time wasted, he knows this too.

There are always men perfectly capable of hunting for him, and if there aren't any, Westeros is damned for its incompetency.

Tywin only understands a good, old-fashioned hunt with purpose.

His army marches on in its journey to tame the North. Night falls, and dinner must be served. So, he hunts.

He's a noble, still, a man who enjoys the comforts of filling meals and cupbearers and wine, regardless of how worthless they are in showing anything except that he is still wealthy.

That is why here, on the table of his very own tent, he's skinning a stag.

He won't be the only one to eat it, no. The man behind him will, too.

You were, seventeen years ago, a soldier; but, just like now, you were also more than that. You were a killer of Targaryen Generals, which grants you today the title of General too: the Commander of the remaining Baratheon army that is still loyal to the admittedly blonder, true Baratheons.

The Baratheon colors became the Lannister's. Yellow became gold and red, but colors were nothing in the face of loyalty.

Tywin's the Lord of Casterly Rock while you're just a lesser cousin, a distant nephew, the farthest there is from inheriting Storm's End, yet you are only one rank below him in power, and that is something to admire.

Suppose that's why he allows you a cut of his meat.

"You stare." Tywin says.

There's no surprise in the statement, even with his back turned towards you. "I do."

"Yes, you do. Often, might I add. State your intentions, plainly."

You know each other, you might even dare to say, well. Tywin is a clever man, he always considers his alliances and his relationships carefully, and you have his trust. It is not easily given.

That does not mean he won't walk on eggshells around you.

"You know, there's reason to my staring. You're easy to stare at."

"Choose your next words carefully."

You have your worth, you're valueable, you're irreplacable. Digging a dagger into your throat won't be easy.

He wedges the butcher's knife into the table with a strong stab. It'd be anger, if that wasn't his usual way of doing it. Here, it's a show of strength. He turns to face you.

"I apologize, my Lord, it appears I wasn't speaking plainly." You play. Oh, you play. You Baratheons don't know when to quit. "You look good. Not good like the pretty princesses in their skirts, but like the men, if you have seen it, if you can understand it, the men on hot summer days that are still bound to the sword, training, muscles golden under the sun."

Tywin doesn't realize he's entertaining you when he says, "We are under shade. It is almost fall."

"Then let me fix it." You look interested now, sitting up, it's a pursuit. "You hide your body under armor, because one does not need to see your body to see your strength. You are commanding, powerful, outside of the physical. Your voice is deep and it allures me even though you don't intend it."

He raises a brow. At this point, not denying you is encouraging you.

You serve him. He could execute you just for saying this. Men have been killed for less, though that is a kind of command he has never given. This is a first, to be wanted like this, by a man, no less, and since many years.

Tywin picks up his knife, turns towards the table, back to the stag, back to skinning it. He's busying his hands. "Continue."

You stride forward, boot upon the earth like you're sneaking up to prey. He does not move to turn, nor does he open his mouth to stop you.

"You're an admirable man, you're ruthless, you're cunning. You plan ahead, you lead the Crown's army." You huff out something of a laugh at yourself, "I am only feeding your ego now, am I not?"

"You think that will get you somewhere?" Tywin returns. HIs knife separates a stubborn bit of the stag's skin from its muscles with a sickening schlick.

"No, I don't believe so." Your hands come to rest on the table on either side of him. It'd be trapping him if he were any other man but Tywin.

He wields the knife.

"And you think this will get you somewhere?"

"Maybe." Your voice is closer to his ear now. He almost flinches. Instead, you press your nose against his neck, and the rest of your head against the back of his.

Intimacy, warmth. It gets colder the further north you go, but he knows that's not why he isn't pushing you away now.

"I think, you'd have ordered my head or killed me yourself if you weren't interested."

Silence is enough of an answer.

You have been, at times, that man bound to the sword in the summer. Tywin has seen it, though he's never allowed himself more than a glance. He knows the sight of them, but pressed up against him now, he can feel your muscles beneath the thinner garments you wear under your armor.

Much the way you admire the strength of him, he can feel your strength; and again, he has seen it in the way you cleave down your enemies, but he is feeling it now, and it is different.

His silence was enough then, and his words won't be enough now, not unless they are stop or you're dead. So he chooses, instead, to poke fun at you.

"You aren't even the age I was when the Mad King was felled, do you know that, boy?"

If it is a night of entertainment that he'll find today, then he might as well have his fun. After all, he's a noble, still, a man who enjoys his comforts.

"Is that supposed to stop me?" You laugh against the skin of his neck.

The knife comes down into the wood of the table again, threateningly close to your hand. You don't flinch. He admires that.

There's the first couple of kisses against his neck. They're wet, which isn't quite his preference, but they're tolerable.

Tywin sighs, which he regrets quickly.

He gave you an inch, and you took a mile. "What was that?"

"A sigh, boy." His voice is stern. It'd be threatening, if you didn't hear that tone all the time. "Keep going."

Your hands undo the clasps of his leather overgarment, then untuck the shirt from his pants, and then meet his skin. They're cold against his stomach, but quickly warming up as you rub over it, like a lady's belly.

He sneers. "Don't keep that up. Move on."

You laugh. He should smack you, but he doesn't. "Apologies, my Lord."

"Does it please you to call me that?" His hand comes back to grab a handful of your hair, a grasp for control in this situation.

"Yes." You don't deny it.

This desire you have for him is his upper hand. He turns around and roughly tugs your hair back, pulling a wince from you.

He's rougher still with the laces of your pants, undoing them quickly and finally wrapping a hand around your cock. You're different from him, unrestrained, already groaning. "Do you want me because I'm the Lord of Casterly Rock and you're insignificant to the Baratheon house? Are you trying to see which is the highest bed you can sleep on?"

"No-no, my Lord."

That surprises him. He works you quickly, root to tip, the cold and the dryness of it all don't help. "Then what is it?"

"I want you," Instinct calls and you pathetically thrust your hips into his hand. "fuck, because it's your strength and power that make my cock stir."

"Funny, that it's my hand now."

For a moment, Tywin considers if he should continue the affair. Since Stannis and Renly Baratheon's individual rebellions, he hasn't been entirely sure of your loyalty. Blood is thicker than water, and it seems the Baratheon blood in his grandchildren has spread thinner than even water.

You'd be his pet, if he kept this up. The Baratheon army that follows you would be entirely his, secured.

"But a hand isn't what you want, is it?"

He spits on his hand then continues to jerk you off, and, "Fuuck."

"You aren't making it easy to tell." Tywin laughs, thoroughly amused.

"No, my Lord," You gulp back a moan to speak properly in front of your Lord, "I wanna fuck you."

"Fuck me? That's hilarious."

He considers it. It's true that it's something he's never tried, but he's not sure if he's willing to try it at all. Well, then again, men are driven by their cocks, and you're no exception.

"Please."

You sound so pathetic, it's cute. Tywin sighs again, letting go of you. "Alright. Go fetch oil. That is what you men use, yes?"

Tywin was not a youth seventeen years ago, and he is much less a youth now.

That does not mean that his knees are weak, nor that he can't fuck, just that he tires easily. His only concern was to take it with caution.

Sex is such a vulnerable act, after all. That's why it's such a powerful tool.

He never cleaned up the table. There was still blood on it, steadily but lazily flowing out of the stag where he'd cut open right down the middle.

Tywin cared for his cleanliness, but he didn't seem to care right now. His well-established dominance had faded into pleasured sighs and heavy breaths, as this was a sensation he'd never felt before.

It isn't how he imagined it, like a cold, struggling humping against his back and into the only hole he'd let you use.

Instead, there's pleasure in it, his nerves lighting up with shocks as if lightning. Then there was one that spot you'd rub against sometimes with terrible consistency.

It's carnal, is what it is.

Your lips find his neck again, and he lets out a shaky sigh. The kisses you give are wet, and he likes it.

With each time your pelvis meets his ass, his breath gets shakier.

"My Lord–"

"Don't speak."

It's terrifying, how much Tywin likes this. He'd always thought queer men to be bumbling fools, if only he knew the pleasure that came with it.

Your hand finds his; he takes it, squeezes it. It's somewhat of a blood union, with stag's blood.

The irony of it, a dead stag, a Baratheon fucking him.

Some sort of possession runs through him. You wear his colors.

"Fuck." He says, an indecency. This is indecent. This is fraternization. Oh, but he couldn't care less right now.

His hand comes back, finds your hair again. He tugs, causing your lips to pull off his neck with a smack. He does it for nothing but the pleasure of hearing you gasp, a grasp for control where he finds it.

"My Lord." You don't seek to speak this time, he knows it. You're only moaning out for him, and it's rather pleasing.

He leans down further, pressing his ass into you, pushing your cock deeper into him. His back arches like a whore's. It's unbecoming.

And yet the heat feeds into it. It's still cold, here, but the way you work your bodies heats the both of you up in what feels like a mania to have more, to seek more, to want more, to fuck because you need it.

It's like a fire in his old, worn body.

The hand that was holding his travels down to his body, grasping his cock. Tywin gasps. His hand quickly follows, wrapping around your wrist with a slapping sound, and yet he doesn't pull it off.

It's stimulation on both sides, your hand around his cock and his asshole clenching around yours.

He almost loses his mind.

He tugs at your hair again, pulling another groan from your lips. It's a reminder of his control. You enjoy calling him your Lord, so he has to remind you that the title has meaning to it, before he loses himself to instinct.

He does, in the next moment, opening his mouth to let out a breath of a groan.

He shuts it, quickly. Tents are only fabric.

His hips follow in pursuit of instinct and pleasure, anyway; forward into your hand, finding pleasure for his length, then backwards onto your cock, spearing himself open.

When he cums, his mouth falls just slightly open to moan as quiet as instinct allows, and his hole clenches around you in tandem. You follow soon enough, groaning into his skin with enough restraint to remember you are an army general.

Tywin leans against the dirty table to catch his breath, before he's back to a fearsome commander the next moment.

"Get yourself tidied up." He's pulling his garments back on rather impersonally, because he cannot stay vulnerable. "And do not breathe a word of this to anyone."

Despite that, there is some joy to knowing he's enjoyed this, especially as you wipe off the evidence of his pleasure on the dirty rag he'd been using to clean the blood off his hands. "Yes, my Lord."

"Keep that smirk off your face, boy." Tywin's face is back to cold and emotionless, though there is something of an amused lift to his eyes. "When next you decide to seduce me, do pick a better location. Army encampments are dreadful enough."

You can hardly speak about next time before he waves you off.

You'll see him later tonight, anyhow.

Tywin does not care to make sure you're walking away when he turns around, because it's the best he can do to hide the amused smirk that rises on his lips. A new pet, hm?

A smell makes itself apparent and Tywin remembers there is still a stag to skin.

[moonstarsunflower]

When Tangerines Give You Lemons

by moonstarsunflower

pairing : joshua x fem reader

summary : you haven't gotten over your ex when you met joshua, but his patience never falters because maybe he knows exes are not easily forgotten—especially ones you just remembered to be dead

genre : joshua fluff, joshua angst, joshua both, joshua breathing, joshua existing, non-idol!au, lawyer!au, hurt & comfort, angst first fluff later kinda; a warm rain after a heavy storm

notes: photos not mine, mostly pinterest-based, credits to rightful owners!

warnings 1 : mentions of death, memory loss; not a warning but joshua x fem reader are both in late 20s to early 30s; not much tbh, this is just a hurt & comfort fic where angst meets fluff halfway and maybe dead exes give u permission to move on 🤷🏻‍♀️

warnings 2 : on a more serious note, i'd just like to say that this may not be everyone's cup of (lemon) tea, and that's okay. i just wanted to make smth meaningful but also different than my other works. i tried to make this as unique as possible, not just for the sake of it, but bc i thought this kind of plot deserved to be explored. i'm not saying this is how it should be, but that at least this is one way of interpreting it. so yeah, this isn't a simple boy meets girl story—this is patience meets grief, emotionally available meets the unavailable, and somewhere halfway—tangerines meet lemons ✨

word count : 11.1k

song rec : maybe not the entire lyrics but yawn by seventeen bc the vibes are just 😭

a/n : joshua is a lawyer and has a sister!; also if you read between the lines u might realize this is connected to one of my earlier fics; and this also connects to another fic bc why not right? 🤭; spin-off first main story later 😉; yes, title is a play on words and the k-drama series re: when life gives you lemons & when life gives you tangerines (these are exactly why i titled it that way 😂)

The Date

Joshua walks beside you as the evening air cools, the faint hum of city life barely audible over the sound of your footsteps.

It's one of those rare moments where you're not rushing, not fidgeting with your phone, not hiding behind the wall you've built up.

He can tell you're trying.

Trying to move on, trying to find peace in this thing between you two.

It's a good night, but it's not exactly effortless.

Your smile falters for just a second when you meet his gaze, and he notices it.

He's learned how to read you these past weeks—the way your lips twitch, like you're forcing yourself to feel something you're still not ready for.

"So, what do you think?" He asks, casually.

You've been talking about this new place—your favorite dish—and you've been engaging, your usual playful banter lighting up for a while.

But now, there's that silence again.

You pause.

"It's nice. Really nice." Your voice softens, almost thoughtful, like you're not fully here. "Thank you, Joshua."

He glances at you, sensing the distance.

The usual fire is absent tonight.

"Hey, it's fine. You know you don't need to thank me for every little thing, right?" He teases, his voice easy.

He's gotten good at playing it light.

But you don't laugh this time.

Instead, you just shrug, your fingers toying with the hem of your jacket as if seeking comfort from it.

"It's just been... a lot, that's all," you add quietly, as if it's a confession you haven't let yourself say aloud in a while.

"I've been trying to keep up with everything. With you."

Joshua stops walking for a moment, letting your words settle between you.

"YN, you don't have to try. Not with me." He says it with a softness that's rare for him.

It's hard to hold back the frustration, the urge to demand you just... let go, let yourself feel.

But he doesn't.

He won't.

He knows better than that.

You look away, staring down at your shoes. "I'm just not there yet."

It's not a rejection, not exactly.

It's more like an apology in disguise.

But it stings all the same.

"Okay," he replies, his smile a little more strained. "Whenever you are."

He means it.

He really does.

But inside, there's that little bitter sting—the one that reminds him you're not here yet.

The drive to your apartment is quiet, the hum of the car echoing a little louder now.

At your door, you glance up at him, and for a second, he thinks you might say something more, might let down that wall a little.

But instead, you smile softly.

"Goodnight, Joshua."

The words are enough to warm him, but there's a hesitation in your eyes he can't ignore.

He gives you a nod, turning to leave. "Goodnight, YN."

But as he walks away, he can't shake the feeling that something's missing, something he can't quite put his finger on.

As he reaches the lobby, he can't help the small smile that pulls at his lips, even though it feels a little bittersweet.

You're still here, still with him, but in so many ways, you're not.

And no matter how hard he tries to reach you, there's something keeping you just out of his reach.

♢

The Grief

Days have passed, and Joshua still hasn't heard from you.

He's been buried in work, in the grind of his latest court case, but it gnaws at him.

The way you didn't text back after that night.

The way you've barely responded to his messages at all.

It's like you're... slipping away without even realizing it.

He's been giving you space, sure.

He knows you need it.

But the silence is starting to hurt, starting to feel like it's not just a break, but something more.

Today, Joshua's won the case.

He should be celebrating, feeling that rush of success, but instead, he's thinking of you.

He's driving, his phone in the passenger seat.

It's the third time today he's checked—no text.

It's a little ridiculous, he knows.

He's a grown man, a lawyer who can command attention in a courtroom, but when it comes to you, he's helpless.

He parks in front of your place, taking a deep breath.

He's not here to pressure you, not to force you to open up.

He just needs to know that you're okay.

Knocking on your door, Joshua stands there for a few seconds, trying to push down the worry gnawing at his insides.

When you open it, you're wearing that expression again—the one that says you're holding yourself together just barely.

"Hey, Joshua," you greet him quietly, almost a little too calmly.

Your gaze flickers away from him too quickly, and he catches it—the way you avoid meeting his eyes.

Joshua's eyes narrow slightly.

"You okay?" He steps into the hallway, already guessing the answer, but he needs you to say it.

You hesitate, biting your lip. "Yeah. I've just been busy."

"Busy?" Joshua tilts his head, studying you. "Or avoiding me?"

You wince slightly at that, like the accusation stings.

But then you cover it up with a soft chuckle.

"I'm not avoiding you. Just... things are complicated right now."

That's all you say before turning away to head inside.

But Joshua follows you, his footsteps slow as he watches your back, the way your shoulders sag slightly.

He feels the familiar wall again, the one you're so good at building when you don't want to let him see your hurt.

But he's tired of it.

"YN..." Joshua takes a step toward you, stopping you in your tracks. "I'm not here to fix you. But I'm not going anywhere."

Your eyes flicker with something—fear, maybe, or sadness—but you quickly look away again.

"I don't need fixing," you mutter, your voice small.

Joshua sighs, walking toward you.

When he reaches you, he gently rests his hand on your shoulder. "Then let me help. Let me be here for you."

You don't respond at first, just standing there, the silence stretching between you like a chasm neither of you can bridge.

Finally, you whisper, almost to yourself, "I'm sorry, Joshua. I don't know how to let anyone in right now."

There's no immediate reply.

Just the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen. The light creak of the floor beneath his shoes. And then—

"I'll put the kettle on."

You blink, confused.

"What?"

Joshua offers you a soft look.

Not pitying—just present.

"You always think better when you're holding tea," he says. "Chamomile, right?"

Your throat tightens.

He remembered.

You don't follow him at first.

You just stand there, stuck somewhere between guilt and gratitude.

But eventually, your feet move on their own, leading you into the kitchen where he's already finding the cups like he's done it before.

Like this isn't the first time he's stepped into your silence.

You sit at the edge of the dining table, watching as he pours water into the kettle, the steam beginning to rise.

The air feels heavy, but his presence doesn't suffocate you—it steadies you, somehow.

When he sets the mug in front of you, you mumble a soft thank you. He takes the seat across from you without a word.

No questions. No expectations.

Just silence.

Just tea.

Just him.

Your fingers wrap around the mug. The warmth bites a little, but it grounds you.

"I don't know how to be... normal anymore," you admit, your voice raw. "I wake up and forget what day it is. Or what month. Or whether it's supposed to hurt this much."

Joshua doesn't flinch.

"You're not supposed to be anything right now," he says. "You're grieving. That's not something you fix."

You glance at him, and it hurts—the way he looks at you like you're still whole even when you feel like nothing.

"I'm tired," you say, finally.

He nods, slowly. "Then sleep."

You stand, almost expecting him to leave, to gather his coat and go.

But he doesn't move.

Instead, he looks up and asks, "do you want me to go?"

Your mouth opens, then closes again. You hesitate.

"No," you say quietly.

A beat passes.

"Couch okay?" He offers.

You nod. "Blanket's in the hallway closet."

You don't look at him again as you disappear down the hall. But after a while, you come back.

He's already settled on the couch, tie undone, blazer folded neatly on the armrest. His phone is face down. He's staring at the ceiling like it has answers.

You place the folded blanket at the foot of the couch.

"You always forget to grab it," you mumble.

His lips lift, just slightly.

"Thanks."

You retreat again, slipping into your room. You lie in bed, but your eyes don't close.

Because through the walls, you can hear the faint sound of his breathing.

And somehow, tonight, that's enough.

That's everything.

♢

The Flash of Memory

The soft, rhythmic sound of Joshua's breathing eventually lulls you into a light doze.

The tea, still warm, sits on the counter untouched, and the room around you feels too quiet.

A perfect silence—too perfect, even.

It pulls at something inside you, that aching quiet, the kind that lingers even after your eyes close.

Suddenly, it happens.

You're standing in the kitchen, fumbling with a glass in your hands, the cold smooth surface almost comforting to the touch.

You're not thinking about anything in particular.

But then, as you reach for the cabinet door to grab the dish soap—your mind flashes.

It's him.

A memory—so sharp, so vivid it hurts.

The laugh he had when you teased him for leaving his jacket on the floor, the way he looked at you with that soft, knowing smile like he understood things even you didn't.

The warmth in his eyes that never once wavered, never once let you down.

Your fingers tremble.

The glass slips.

It hits the counter and shatters, fragments scattering across the floor like shards of something long gone.

You freeze.

For a moment, it feels like everything has just... cracked.

Not the glass, but something deeper inside.

Grief opens up in your chest, raw and unbidden, and before you can catch your breath, a sob escapes you.

The door to the living room opens.

Joshua's footsteps approach, and you can hear the hesitation in his pace.

It's not the sound of a man who knows what to say—it's the sound of someone trying to decide if they should say anything at all.

He sees you there, standing in the middle of the kitchen, eyes wide, chest rising and falling quickly as if the air itself has become too heavy to breathe.

"YN..." He calls your name softly, not demanding, not urgent.

Just—there.

Present.

You can't meet his gaze.

You turn your back to him, fingers clenched tightly around the edge of the counter as if it might ground you.

You shut your eyes.

The sting in your throat is unbearable.

You weren't ready for this. You weren't ready for the weight of grief to resurface like this.

Not when you're already so tired.

Joshua watches the scene unfold, his hand hovering at his side.

He knows what this is.

He's seen it before—the way grief comes in waves, unannounced, pulling you under like an ocean.

You don't have to explain.

He can see it in the way your shoulders are trembling, in the way your hands are clenched into fists, as if holding on to the remnants of something that's already slipped through your fingers.

He almost says something—calls you out by name, mentions the person who's missing, the one you loved and lost—but he stops.

He knows better.

It's not time yet.

Instead, he steps forward, his voice a gentle murmur, "I'm here. I won't leave."

The words aren't a promise.

They're not a fix.

But somehow, they are enough.

You take a slow breath.

The shaking in your hands subsides just a little, but the sadness—that never fully leaves.

Joshua doesn't push, doesn't force you to explain. He's just there.

In the quiet that follows, you feel a little less alone, a little less lost.

♢

Doctor's Appointment

The day has settled into a stillness that is both comforting and suffocating.

Joshua had left hours ago, after making sure you were okay, his words still echoing softly in the background: "I'm not going anywhere."

But now, as the quiet of your apartment presses in on you, you're alone.

The weight of the evening settles on your chest—grief, guilt, memories you can't fully place.

You don't remember when it started, but you've been feeling off a lot lately, like you're carrying something heavy that you can't quite name.

You walk into the bathroom, glancing at the mirror.

The reflection staring back at you seems familiar, but at the same time... not.

You're still you, but the edges of the person you see seem a little blurry, like something's missing.

You touch your face, trailing a finger down your cheek, as if somehow trying to reconnect the dots.

"You remember now. Don't forget."

The words are written on a post-it note stuck to the mirror.

You stare at it for a moment, puzzled.

Your mind drifts for a second, and then you pull away, trying to shake the disorienting feeling.

You don't remember putting it there.

Or why you'd need a reminder.

But something inside you whispers that it's important. That you are important—more than you seem to believe.

You inhale deeply and let the thought pass.

You're here, alive, breathing.

That should be enough, right?

But the confusion lingers, like an itch under your skin you can't scratch.

The whole memory thing—it's not easy.

You're still missing parts. You can feel them.

They're locked away, out of reach.

The next morning comes too quickly, and you're at the doctor's office.

The waiting room is cold, the air sterile and unfamiliar.

You've been here before, you think, but not recently.

The doctor's office, the steady ticking of the clock on the wall, the soft rustling of papers—everything feels off.

Joshua's sitting beside you, his gaze flicking between you and the doctor.

He's been with you to every appointment since it started, this thing between you two.

It's the one thing he doesn't let go of. Not that you mind.

The doctor enters, his expression calm, professional.

"YN, how have things been since the memories came back?" His voice is a little too calm, too clinical, like he's asking about a headache rather than the intricate mess of a fractured mind.

You glance at Joshua, then back to the doctor.

Your fingers twitch, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve.

You don't want to admit it, but the truth escapes before you can catch it. "I wish they hadn't."

Joshua's gaze hardens just for a second—he knows the weight of those words, the truth behind them.

It's not just about the memories returning, it's about what you've lost in the process.

It's about the grief that has no place to go.

The memories are there, but they don't fit. They don't line up like they should.

The doctor takes a note, his expression unchanged. "It's normal to feel that way sometimes. Reconstructing memories can be painful. We can continue with the therapy to help you integrate them."

You nod slowly, the words lost in the fog of your mind.

You want to ask about the note, the one you saw in the mirror.

You want to know if it's connected to everything else you can't remember—but you don't.

Instead, you glance at Joshua again, and for a brief moment, he catches your eye.

There's something soft there, a depth of understanding he doesn't speak.

He knows what you're going through.

As the doctor talks about follow-ups and more appointments, your thoughts wander.

You keep your eyes down, tracing the seam of your sleeve, the rhythm of your heart quickening as you think of the gaps, the emptiness.

But Joshua... he's here.

That's the only thing that makes sense right now. And that's all you need to hold on to.

♢

Fragments of the Past

The evening drags on the soft hum of the world outside, just a reminder of how still everything is in here, inside your apartment.

Joshua stays with you.

Not because he has to, but because you've let him.

You're not sure how to explain it, but you're not asking him to leave.

It's easier this way—his presence a comforting weight, like a blanket you can curl up under when the night gets too cold.

You're sitting at the kitchen table, your fingers tracing the rim of your mug, steam rising from it, but you're not really drinking.

It's more of a distraction than anything.

He's been here for hours now.

You've had dinner, or at least you tried to eat, but now it's just the two of you in silence.

Joshua hasn't pushed for conversation.

He's been quiet, but in a way that makes you feel like he's giving you space—waiting for you to open up if and when you're ready.

You don't know how it happens, but the words slip out before you can stop them.

"That jacket used to be his," you say suddenly, your voice distant, almost as if you're talking about someone else.

The words hang in the air, heavy and uninvited.

Joshua's gaze flickers to the jacket you've left draped across the back of a chair.

It's faded, worn at the cuffs.

A faint memory of someone who isn't here anymore.

The silence stretches, thick with unspoken things.

You take a slow breath, setting your mug down on the table.

"I forgot he died. Until I remembered."

You try to shrug it off, but the movement feels too heavy, too loaded.

Joshua doesn't say anything.

He just watches you, his eyes soft.

His silence is enough—it always has been.

He doesn't rush you, doesn't try to push you to explain. He just listens.

You can't look at him right now.

You focus on the jacket, then the window, the way the night outside feels too big, too dark.

"The worst part was waking up and losing him again."

Your throat tightens, but you force the words out.

You never realized how painful it would be to remember the things you've lost.

To know that you once had them—and now you don't.

The ache in your chest is almost unbearable.

You clench your hands, trying to ground yourself.

But Joshua stays still, like he's waiting.

You don't need him to say anything right now.

You need him to be quiet.

And he knows that. He always knows what you need.

It's funny, in a way.

How grief isn't just about the loss—it's about how it changes you.

How it's not just a moment but a slow, seeping shift in the way you see the world.

"I don't even know how to miss him anymore," you whisper, the words slipping out like a confession. "I didn't even realize I'd forgotten... until everything came rushing back."

Joshua doesn't speak yet, but you feel the way his presence shifts.

He's not interrupting, not trying to fill the silence.

He's letting you speak. Letting you say these things.

Finally, you look up at him.

There's something in his gaze—understanding, pain, maybe even some quiet sorrow—but mostly, just... patience.

You inhale, steadying yourself, and when you speak again, it's with a kind of resolve you didn't know you had until just now.

"Some days... I think I'd rather not remember at all."

Joshua's heart aches at those words, but he doesn't say a thing.

Because he understands.

He knows this grief is bigger than both of you, and no words can undo it.

Instead, he just reaches across the table, his hand hovering for a moment before he gently places it over yours, a silent gesture of support.

You don't flinch, not this time. You let it be.

For now, that's enough. Just being here, together.

♢

The Case

The morning light filters into the office, casting long shadows on the polished wooden floors.

It's a typical day for Joshua.

He's used to the rhythm of the courtroom, the fast pace of his career, and the precision that his job demands.

His reputation is built on being flawless, sharp, and in control.

Today, though, things feel off.

He's been waiting for a critical case to start, but his thoughts are elsewhere.

His phone buzzes again, the screen lighting up with a text from you.

"I'm fine. I just... need some space."

He reads it again. The words don't sit right.

There's an ache in his chest that only deepens the more he thinks about it.

He sighs, shoving the phone back into his pocket and standing up.

He's never missed the opening of a case—not once in his career.

But today, the case will have to wait.

When his assistant, Laura, walks into the office, her eyes flicker to the clock on the wall.

"The trial's about to start," she says, confused. "You're not in court yet?"

She takes in the briefcase still sitting on his desk, the jacket slung over the back of his chair, his hand already on the doorknob.

"You're leaving, sir?"

Her tone is polite, but there's a sharpness beneath it—a quiet expectation that Joshua will act like he always does: efficient, precise, never distracted.

He hesitates.

"Yeah. I... I'll be back for the afternoon session."

Laura raises an eyebrow, catching the tension in his posture.

"You don't mess up, sir. Not unless it's something you care about."

Her voice is steady, but there's a knowing look in her eyes—the kind that implies she sees more than he lets on.

Joshua looks at her, feeling something twist in his chest.

"I know. I just... need to take care of it."

She nods. No more questions.

She's seen him walk out of more courtrooms than she can count—but never like this.

As he steps into the elevator, he catches his reflection in the doors.

For a moment, he doesn't recognize the man staring back—the lawyer, the perfectionist, the man who's always in control.

All of that is slipping away, little by little, because of you.

The elevator dings as he steps inside.

His heart races, not from the usual adrenaline of a court battle, but from the knot in his stomach as he heads to you.

Not to fix this.

But to be there for you, even if it means letting down everything he's worked so hard for.

♢

Late at Night

After leaving the office, Joshua doesn't head home—even though he has court in the morning.

His mind is too consumed with you, with the unread messages, with the feeling that something is wrong.

He knows he can't fix everything, but he can't walk away either.

He arrives at your place, as quietly as he can, not wanting to disturb you if you're sleeping.

You'd given him the spare key months ago—sometime in between your grief and his quiet patience—but he's never used it until now.

The apartment is dimly lit, a soft glow from the kitchen light flickering on the walls.

He finds you on the couch, curled up with a blanket barely covering you, the rest of it tangled around your legs.

You look so vulnerable, and Joshua's heart tightens.

He stands there for a moment, watching you sleep, knowing he shouldn't, but he can't stop himself.

This quiet, peaceful version of you is a stark contrast to the guarded, aching person he's been seeing lately.

He grabs the extra blanket folded across the chair and carefully drapes it over you. The soft fabric brushes your skin, but you don't stir.

Joshua's eyes linger on you for a moment too long, something painful flickering in them as he watches your expression soften in sleep.

Then, in the quiet of the room, he hears it.

"Mingyu..."

The name slips from your lips like a whisper in the night.

Joshua freezes, his breath catching in his throat.

It's not the first time you've said it, but hearing it this close—when he's so near you—feels like a gut punch.

He knows about Mingyu.

Your ex.

The one who died in the car accident.

You survived. Just barely.

You forgot... until your memories came back.

Hearing you say his name like that—so fragile, so haunted—sends a wave of devastation through him.

A reminder that he's still a distant second in your heart, and that part of you might never be fully his.

He stands there for a long moment, fighting the urge to say something, to break the silence.

But he knows it's not his place to comfort you in that way, not yet.

So, he just stays.

The hours pass, and the stillness between you two fills the room.

Joshua doesn't leave. Doesn't move, even as the night presses on.

Eventually, exhaustion tugs at him. His head dips slightly, eyes closing as he slumps a little in the chair beside you.

But his sleep is light—barely there.

So when you shift under the blankets, when your breathing changes ever so slightly, his eyes flutter open.

You wake up around the same time, disoriented, the remnants of the dream still clinging to you.

Joshua straightens up the moment your eyes open, his voice soft in the stillness.

"Hey, YN."

The weight of his presence fills the space between you.

And for the first time in a long while, it doesn't feel crushing.

It feels safe.

Almost.

Your eyes flicker to his hand resting on the arm of the chair—so close, yet so far away.

You feel the pull to reach for him, just the smallest gesture, a lifeline in the suffocating quiet.

Your fingers twitch, reaching toward him.

But then the old walls you've built come rushing back.

The grief, the loss, the confusion.

You pull your hand back at the last second, turning your head away as if the very thought of accepting comfort will unravel something inside of you.

Joshua watches the entire movement, his heart aching as he sees the hesitation in your eyes.

But he doesn't push. He doesn't make you do anything you're not ready for.

He just stays, as he promised.

♢

The Meeting

Joshua had noticed you before you even realized you were noticing him.

The first time was in the café, the one he always went to for his morning coffee.

He sat by the window like he always did—and there you were, across from him, reading a book, barely glancing up when the barista called out his order.

Then, he noticed you again the next morning.

Same time. Same table.

You were alone, as always. He told himself it was just a coincidence, but it happened again.

And again.

At first, it was nothing more than a casual observation.

But there was something about the way you carried yourself, the subtle curve of your lips when you sipped your coffee, the way your hair fell just right around your face, that pulled him in.

One day, he was driving down the road to work when he saw you crossing the street.

He slowed as he approached the intersection, and for a brief second—there you were, stepping onto the pedestrian lane just ahead of him, as if the universe was pulling you into his path.

He almost missed the light because he was staring, wondering why you were always there.

He couldn't shake the feeling that it was more than just chance.

Weeks passed, and it became routine.

He started noticing you wherever he went.

The café. The pedestrian lane.

Eventually, he realized you worked in the same building, just different floors, different departments.

You both seemed to be following the same pattern, like you were in sync without even knowing it.

One morning, you were standing by the elevator and Joshua noticed you from across the lobby. You were holding a folder in your hands, staring absently at the floor, and he felt a strange tug in his chest.

He walked up to you casually.

"Morning," he said, offering a smile.

You barely met his eyes, but managed a faint nod in return. The air between you both felt thick, almost heavy with unspoken things.

Joshua wondered if you were the type who didn't speak much. He couldn't quite figure you out, but it didn't stop him from wanting to.

After a few more accidental encounters, it stopped feeling like an accident.

Something about you pulled him in deeper than he expected.

Joshua doesn't believe in fate. But maybe he believes in patterns.

And you... you've been showing up like a heartbeat.

♢

The First Coffee Date

You'd spent most of the afternoon inside the café, but now you stood outside, looking at the street, letting the cool air clear your head.

It was quiet out here, the soft hum of the street filling the space, but it was peaceful.

Joshua had stepped out too, a momentary break before the world picked back up.

The late afternoon sky was softening to gold behind scattered clouds, the light casting a muted glow over everything.

The café had emptied out hours ago, leaving only the distant sounds of footsteps and the faint murmur of the world moving on.

Joshua stood a few steps away, his eyes on you, but not quite close enough to interrupt your quiet.

You were standing there, your posture distant—like you were somewhere far away in your thoughts.

He hesitated.

The weight of the silence was different this time, charged in a way he hadn't anticipated.

He wasn't sure if it was the right moment, but something urged him to step closer.

"Hey," he said, his voice tentative as he approached. "Mind if I join you?"

You didn't flinch or move away.

Instead, you glanced at him, your eyes holding something softer, almost like recognition.

He wasn't sure what it meant yet, but he didn't back away.

And neither did you.

You didn't leave, and Joshua took that as something—an invitation of sorts, an unspoken acknowledgment.

It felt like a door opening, even if it was just a crack.

For a few moments, neither of you spoke.

The silence was comfortable in a way, like it wasn't about saying something right—it was just about being there.

With each other.

Finally, he broke the quiet, his voice soft. "Would you want to get coffee sometime?"

His words felt gentle, like he was asking for more than just a casual yes.

You met his gaze, not quite smiling, but there was a shift in your eyes—something behind them that told him you were actually considering it.

Joshua smiled, trying to hide the fact that he might've been keeping track of your café visits.

"I know a place," he added, "a little quieter, if you'd like."

You huffed, maybe a laugh, maybe not, but there was a shift in the air.

A moment of something real.

And you nodded.

That was the start.

Not a relationship.

Not yet.

But something quiet, something that didn't need to be labeled yet.

An orbit, slow and steady, but undeniably present.

♢

The Ex

Coffee dates happened—quiet ones, simple.

You never called them dates, and neither did he.

But Joshua showed up each time with a steadiness that felt like something close to care.

You talked about books sometimes, or the weather.

Mostly, you just sat in the same space, and that was enough.

He didn't mind.

Joshua had the kind of patience that didn't need to name things to believe in them.

One evening, after leaving the café, you both wandered off to the nearby park.

The quiet, open space seemed to settle your restless thoughts.

You found a bench under a tree, the branches swaying gently overhead as moonlight filtered through the leaves.

You sat down without a word, so quiet, lost in your own world.

Joshua followed without hesitation, sitting beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The silence stretched between you, not uncomfortable—just waiting.

After a beat, your voice broke through.

"I had a dream last night. About someone I lost."

Joshua stayed quiet, watching you carefully.

He didn't push, didn't ask.

But the way you spoke—so softly, like the memory weighed on you—made him want to know more.

"He died. Car accident."

You pause, your voice catching. "I was in it too. I hit my head—woke up in the hospital, and I... I didn't remember. Not him. Not what happened. Not for a whole year."

Joshua just nodded.

"Then it all came back. Just like that. All at once. It was like... losing him twice."

His chest tightened at your words, the pain in your voice cutting through the quiet like glass.

He didn't know what to say, but he stayed still, listening.

"His name was Mingyu," you added.

"I remember he loved tangerines. I used to peel them for him," you murmured, a sad smile tugging at your lips. "He said I did it wrong but ate them anyway."

Joshua's breath caught at the softness of your confession—the quiet reverence in the way you clung to small, tender details.

There was something in the way you said it—so casual, yet quietly full of sorrow—that stayed with him.

He didn't try to fill the silence.

He was just present, letting you share your grief in your own time.

And in that moment, Joshua realized something: he wasn't here to fix you.

He wasn't here to take away your pain.

He was here because he saw you—standing, broken and bruised, but still trying.

And in that, he found something quietly, irrevocably beautiful.

♢

Almost There

You don't know when it started feeling easy again.

Maybe it was somewhere in the quiet between sips of coffee and shared silences—when the conversations stopped circling grief and started brushing up against something lighter.

He never pushes. He never pries.

He just shows up—steadily, patiently—like he's willing to wait as long as it takes.

It should scare you.

But it doesn't.

One afternoon, the weather was too kind.

The building's glass doors swing shut behind you, and the air outside is the perfect blend of warmth and breeze.

Joshua's waiting by the curb, a coffee in each hand, smile soft like he already knows you'll say yes when he asks.

"Want to walk a bit?" He says.

You nod.

The city feels quieter than usual.

Cars hum gently in the background, and your footsteps fall into sync with his without effort.

You're not thinking about the weight you usually carry.

You're not thinking about Mingyu.

Until you are.

"I used to walk this road with him," you say quietly.

Joshua glances at you, gentle and unassuming. "Mingyu?"

You nod, but the ache doesn't rise.

Not like it used to.

"He always said I walked too fast. Said he couldn't keep up."

Joshua grins faintly. "You do walk fast."

You bump shoulders with him. "You're just slow."

He laughs, and for a second, the world is okay again.

You keep walking.

The air smells like bread from a nearby bakery.

There's a dog tied to a street post chewing a leaf like it's a delicacy.

Someone's playing a mellow jazz tune on an old speaker from an open apartment window.

None of it feels sharp.

None of it cuts.

For the first time in a long time, you feel like maybe—just maybe—you could be happy again.

♢

Citrus

You were so close to giving in.

So close to letting yourself feel something.

It’s been a long day—too long.

The exhaustion from work weighs heavily on your body as you lie beside Joshua on the bed.

You let yourself sink into the softness of the mattress, the quiet hum of your apartment filling the space.

Joshua has his arm loosely around you, his warmth a quiet comfort as you both settle into the stillness.

It’s not the first time you’ve shared this kind of space, but tonight feels different—more intimate, yet without any expectations.

He knows you’re not ready for that.

He even seems to sense the shift in the air, the quiet tension that wasn’t there before.

His arm tightens just slightly around you, and he shifts a little, as if giving you the space to decide what you want.

“Do you want me to let go?” He asks softly, a gentle question with no pressure.

You shake your head slightly, not trusting your voice enough to speak. "It’s fine, just hold me."

He doesn’t hesitate. He just pulls you a little closer, his presence reassuring and warm, and that’s all.

No rushing, no pushing.

Just the simple comfort of holding each other, nothing more, nothing less.

His grip tightens ever so gently, pulling you closer, and you rest your head against his chest, letting the rhythmic rise and fall of his breath calm you.

It's easy to lose yourself in this moment, easy to pretend there's nothing else you're holding onto.

But the weight of Mingyu, the guilt of moving on, presses against you in the quiet.

Joshua seems to sense it again.

There's another beat of silence before his voice cuts through the air, lighter now, almost as if he's trying to shift your focus.

"I told you about my sister, right?" His voice holds a vulnerability in it, like he's waiting for you to remember.

You nod, only half paying attention, your thoughts still tangled in the air between you.

"She's always called me 'too sweet.' Said I needed something to balance me out."

You turn your head slightly, furrowing your brows in confusion. "Balance you out?"

"Lemons," he says, laughing softly. "She says they keep me from being too soft. Too sweet."

You stare at him for a moment, surprised at how genuine he seems, at how something so small is so important to him.

"Lemons?" You repeat, still not quite grasping the connection.

Joshua nods, almost fondly.

"Yeah. She buys me bags of them—always tells me to eat one whenever I start getting... too much."

He chuckles, a hint of a private joke dancing in his smile. "I don't really like lemons, but I keep them around. Because it's what she gives me."

You smile at his quirk, the subtle affection in his words.

The way he talks about his sister—it's like she's not just his sibling, but someone who's a constant reminder of balance in his life.

He looks at you carefully, his eyes soft.

"She said I need to learn to keep things balanced. Sometimes I think I get lost in trying to make everyone happy."

His voice dips low, quieter now, but still with that edge of honesty that's almost disarming.

You tilt your head, letting the conversation simmer in the air between you.

He's still waiting for you to understand, to absorb the way he carries these little, private pieces of his life with him.

"I don't think you're too sweet," you say softly, almost without thinking. "I think you're just..."

You pause, searching for the right word.

"Genuine. Real."

Joshua's smile stretches a little wider, a knowing glimmer in his eyes.

"Maybe. But a little citrus never hurts, right?"

♢

A Kiss?

Something feels different today.

You're lighter.

Like you're not holding your breath anymore.

The car ride is quiet, but not heavy.

Joshua doesn't fill the silence with idle talk—he lets it exist, lets it settle.

The streets blur past in dark blue, the moon peeking just enough to paint the world in a soft white light.

He pulls up in front of your apartment building and shifts the car into park.

Without a word, he gets out, and you follow his lead, stepping out of the car.

The weight of the quiet is comfortable, as though it's something familiar between you.

You both walk up the steps together, and Joshua stays a little behind, but close enough that his presence is a constant warmth.

It's the kind of silence that fills spaces, yet feels natural.

At your door, you turn to him, a little surprised at how quickly the moment has arrived.

"Well, this is me," you say, voice softer than you meant it to be.

Joshua offers a small smile. "Yeah."

But neither of you moves.

The hallway is hushed, lit only by the soft, yellow glow of overhead lights—dim, steady, and humming faintly above you.

And within it, the silence stretches, but it doesn't feel awkward.

It feels like something waiting to be named.

He stands a little too close—but not close enough to cross a line.

Not unless you step into it.

You glance up at him. He's already looking at you.

There's something unreadable in his eyes.

Something open. Something patient.

The kind of look that doesn't ask, but offers.

A silent question in the way his gaze flickers—just briefly—to your mouth, then back to your eyes.

Your heart stumbles.

The space between you feels suddenly electric, charged with something too delicate to hold and too heavy to ignore.

You don't speak. You don't need to.

Everything unsaid is already there—in the air, in the breath you hold, in the way his fingers twitch like he's thinking about reaching for you.

The pull is quiet but insistent.

The kind of pull that makes your stomach twist, makes your lips part without realizing it.

You almost lean in.

Almost.

And then—

Tangerines.

The memory hits too fast, too vivid.

Peeling them for Mingyu, the juice sticking to your fingers, the way he always laughed and told you you did it wrong.

The way you swore you'd never forget the weight of losing him.

Your chest tightens. The warmth drains from your fingertips.

You take a step back.

"I—I should go," you murmur.

His expression doesn't falter, but something in his eyes softens.

Like he already knew.

You don't look back as you turn away.

You don't want to see the disappointment.

You don't want to feel it.

But when you're alone in your apartment, staring at the untouched tangerine on your counter, you think about the way your hand almost moved.

About how, for just a moment, you let yourself want something again.

You didn't reach for it, but you almost did—and that's what scares you more than the grief ever did.

Because that would mean letting go of the part of you that still clings to Mingyu's memory.

♢

The Relapse

You feel like you're suffocating, like every breath is heavier than the last.

It's been building for days now, this pressure in your chest, this thing that's always lurking just beneath the surface.

And today, it's worse.

You walk past a fruit stand on your way home, the scent of fresh tangerines hitting you first, and it's like the world suddenly spins too fast.

You freeze, your hand instinctively clutching at the strap of your bag as the memories hit all at once.

Mingyu's laugh.

The way he would tease you about peeling them "wrong," but he'd eat them anyway, because it was you.

His voice echoing in your mind, his touch, the warmth of him next to you.

And then... the crash.

The accident.

The time lost, the year you can't remember.

The pain of waking up and realizing you'd lost him twice.

Your vision blurs, and you find yourself stumbling, gripping the nearest lamp post to steady yourself.

You can't breathe.

The world seems too loud, too overwhelming.

You try to shake the memories off, but they cling to you, the grief so raw and unbearable.

You don't know how to make it stop.

You make your way back home, your mind swirling in the chaos of it all.

You can barely think straight, your heart heavy and full of longing for someone you can't have, someone who doesn't belong to you anymore.

The phone buzzes in your pocket—Joshua.

You glance at it for a second before shoving it back in your bag.

You don't have the energy to deal with him.

Not now.

Not when you're drowning in this endless, suffocating grief.

♢

Joshua presses his phone to his ear again.

It rings.

And rings.

No answer.

He exhales slowly, thumb hovering over the screen like calling again might change the outcome. His brows furrow, jaw tight.

"Sir," Laura says gently from the doorway, clipboard in hand. "They're waiting for you in the meeting."

He doesn't look up right away.

He just stares at your name on the screen, the call finally cutting off.

"Right..." he says, slipping the phone into his coat. "I'm coming."

But he walks a little slower than usual.

And when he enters the boardroom, his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes.

♢

The calls keep coming, one after the other, but you're too consumed in the spiraling mess inside your head to even check.

Every message, every buzz feels like an intrusion on your overwhelming thoughts.

You just need to be alone.

You need the silence, the space to just breathe and fall apart.

But the silence only makes the memories louder.

You don't know how many hours pass like that—curled up in the quiet, phone facedown, grief sitting heavy in your bones—until the world moves on without you.

And when you finally look up, it already has.

Days slip by.

Maybe a week. Maybe more.

The sky outside shifts from gray to black to gray again. The untouched food spoils. The messages pile up.

You sleep too much and still feel exhausted. You shower once, maybe twice.

And somewhere in the stillness, the calls stop.

The texts slow.

The silence begins to feel different—emptier, colder.

That's when you notice it.

Joshua has been distant lately.

The messages have stopped coming as frequently. His smiles feel less warm, like they're forced.

And you can’t figure out why.

You know he’s always been there—constant, reliable—but something has shifted.

Maybe he’s giving you space. Maybe he’s waiting for you to reach out.

But you can’t help but feel that something has changed.

♢

Let Me Meet You There

You walk into the lobby, mind preoccupied, when you spot him standing by the elevator.

His eyes find yours immediately, and you instinctively look away, not ready to face the quiet disappointment you can sense in him.

But he's already moving toward you.

"You've been avoiding me," Joshua says, his voice quieter than usual, edged with something you can't quite place. "Why?"

The question hangs between you, thick and unspoken.

Your throat tightens, and you don't have an answer.

You want to say something, anything, but the words aren't there.

The silence stretches long enough that it feels suffocating.

You try to shrug it off, but he's not buying it. You see the way his eyes flicker with frustration, a flash of hurt that stings more than you expected.

"Why are you ignoring me, YN?" He repeats, and it feels like a weight pressing down on your chest.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

You can't explain why.

You don't even know yourself.

You just keep pulling away, and it's easier to do so than to face whatever this—whatever he—might be.

He doesn't say anything else.

He just turns and walks into the elevator, leaving you standing there, your heart heavy in your chest.

Later, you realize he hasn't sent you any more messages.

No more check-ins, no more casual hellos.

And it bothers you more than you care to admit.

♢

Another few days pass, each one dragging you further into the quiet of your own thoughts.

You're exhausted, not from physical fatigue, but from carrying this weight of grief you can't shake.

It's as though your world has been on pause, and everyone else has somehow moved on.

One day, you find yourself facing him again.

It's in the lobby again—your elevator doors sliding open just as his do across from you.

"YN..." He calls out, and you turn to him.

He glances at you, his gaze holding a certain quiet intensity, like he's been waiting for the right moment.

But he doesn't rush to fill the silence. He lets the space between you breathe.

Finally, he speaks again, his voice soft.

"I'm not asking you to open the door, YN. Just... crack it. Just once. Let me meet you there."

There's no urgency in his words.

No desperation.

Just a quiet plea.

His eyes, though, stay steady on yours, unwavering.

"You don't need to go back to who you were. I love who you are now."

His words linger in the air between you, and for a moment, you think you might say something back.

But then the tightness in your chest returns, the grief that holds you captive.

You can't move forward, not yet.

You want to, but the weight of everything stops you.

And so, you leave before Joshua sees your tears.

♢

The Visit

You didn't plan to go today.

It just... happened.

You found yourself standing in front of the door you hadn't crossed in what felt like a lifetime.

Mingyu's mom answers, the same warmth in her eyes, though there's a hint of sadness there.

She always greeted you like you were family, even when you felt like a stranger.

"YN," she says softly, her voice holding so many unspoken things.

She steps aside to let you in, as she always did.

It's different this time.

The silence feels heavier, the weight of the years without Mingyu filling the spaces between you. But as you sit across from her, there's a strange comfort in the quiet.

She pours you tea, and for a moment, you both sip in silence, the clinking of the cup the only sound.

You're seated outside, a simple table and chairs arranged just beyond the sliding doors.

The breeze stirs the air, and the faint rustling of leaves fills the space, while the sound of tea settling in your cup lingers.

It feels peaceful here, as if time has slowed for just this moment.

Finally, she speaks. "How have you been, dear?"

The question isn't just about today.

It's about everything.

The time since Mingyu's passing. The time since you were lost.

You manage a small smile. "There's... someone. He's been waiting for me. He's kind. Patient. He never pushes—but he stays."

A quiet hum leaves her lips, something between understanding and sadness. "That sounds like someone who really cares."

You nod, eyes beginning to sting. "But I haven't been able to let him in. Not really. Not when I still think about Mingyu every day."

She doesn't speak, so you continue—softly, like a wound you're still scared to touch.

"I miss him. So much. But it's like I'm lost in that grief, and I don't know how to move on. I don't even know if I should."

Mingyu's mom looks at you with the understanding only someone who's been through the same grief could have.

"I know you miss him," she says gently, "We miss him too. But it's okay, YN. It's okay if you want to let go."

Her words hit you harder than you expected.

You blink back the sudden tears, the weight of it pressing down on your chest.

"It's not about forgetting him," she continues, her voice a soft anchor in your storm of emotions. "It's about living with the love he left behind. And... I'm glad there's someone else now, someone who can make you smile again."

You meet her eyes, and the vulnerability in them makes your chest tighten. "I don't know how to let go of him. It feels wrong."

"It doesn't have to be wrong," she reassures you, her hands folded in her lap, calm and steady. "You don't have to forget him to move on. You just have to allow yourself the chance to feel something else, too."

You take a shaky breath, her words circling in your chest—unfamiliar, uncomfortable.

They don't erase the grief, but for the first time, they make space for something to sit beside it.

"I'm not saying you have to be ready," she adds, "But don't let Mingyu hold you back from what might be waiting for you. He would want you to be happy."

The weight in your chest lessens, the tears that had once seemed endless now falling in soft, quiet waves.

It's hard, but somehow you understand.

You understand what his mom's words are.

And she's saying that you can love him and still move forward.

You can keep him in your heart without letting him define your every step.

The thought of Joshua surfaces slowly—his quiet patience, the way he never asked for more than you could give, the way he waited.

And for the first time, you let yourself sit in that thought.

You don't run from it. You don't shove it away.

It lingers.

You don't say anything.

But you start to cry.

Mingyu's mom doesn't rush you.

She doesn't fill the silence. She just reaches out, wrapping her arms around you like she's done before, like a mother would.

You crumble into her.

And when the tears slow—just enough for breath—you whisper into her shoulder, "Can I please let go now?"

It's not really a question.

It's a plea.

An apology.

A confession.

She pulls back, tears in her eyes too. She cups your face in her palms, gently, like you're still fragile.

"Yes, it's okay, YN. You're not betraying Mingyu for loving someone else. In fact, he would want you to do that. He would want you to find love again. So yes, YN... you can let go now."

For a moment, you just stare at her. Her words hang in the air, and something stirs deep inside you.

It's like she's asking you to let go of a part of yourself, but also giving you permission to free it.

You blink, the weight of it all pressing down, and you look at her the way you would look at your own mom—seeking the permission you didn't know you needed.

The tears come again, soft at first, and then they overwhelm you, flooding your vision.

Before you can stop them, your shoulders shake, and you cling to her like a child, feeling the comfort of her embrace envelop you.

Mingyu's mom holds you tight, her own tears mingling with yours, as if she's also letting go of a piece of her son in this moment.

She had always hoped you would become part of the family one day, especially when Mingyu was planning to propose, but now she must let go of that dream too.

The realization hits both of you at once—you will be someone else's daughter-in-law one day, and she will have to step back, just as you are stepping forward.

In that quiet space, there's a release for both of you.

"Okay," you breathe.

When you part from the hug, you let out a soft chuckle—wet and a little cracked.

Embarrassed, maybe, for unraveling like that in front of his mom. But it's the first laugh you've let yourself have in a while.

It makes you feel lighter somehow.

Like something in you is finally releasing.

"Thank you," you say, voice steadier now.

She gives you a small, knowing smile. "You've always been strong, YN. And I will always be proud of you, just as Mingyu will be."

You hold her gaze for a moment, her words slowly soaking in, not just in your head this time—but in your heart.

"Okay."

♢

You leave the house of Mingyu's mom later that afternoon, the weight on your shoulders lighter than when you'd arrived.

The clarity you've been craving has finally arrived, but there's something else, too.

Something unexpected.

You think of Joshua.

Of his quiet patience.

Of the way he's been waiting—not for you to be the same, but for you to meet him halfway.

Just a crack in your door. Enough to let him in.

And he'll be there.

♢

Meeting Halfway

The office door opens with a soft creak.

Joshua glances up from his desk just as a girl steps in—a cozy cardigan draped over her shoulders, paired with a sleek blouse and dark jeans. Her long black hair flows naturally, and a tote bag hangs lazily over her shoulder.

There's something familiar about her energy: unbothered but observant, like she's used to moving through people's spaces and quietly collecting the things they miss.

"Hey, kid," Joshua says, his voice softening in a way you haven't heard before.

Not the softness he gives you—something older, something threaded with a long stretch of shared time.

"Thought you already left."

She rolls her eyes. "Needed to grab my tablet charger you keep stealing. Seriously, Joshua, can't you buy your own charger? Where does all your lawyer money go?"

Joshua just chuckles. "Right. I'll buy one soon."

"Buy one today, please. Or buy me one, and you can keep my old charger. Deal?"

"Alright, alright, I will. Isn't your boyfriend waiting for you already?" Joshua deflects, changing the subject so that the girl would already be done with her business.

It works, because the moment Joshua brings up her boyfriend, she turns pink and rushes off to grab her so-called stolen charger.

You blink, startled by the easy banter, by how quickly the room shifts in tone.

It's his sister—the one who buys bags of lemons for him. You've seen her in photos, the ones Joshua had shown you.

He stands, moving to the side of the room as she ruffles through a drawer. She doesn't glance at you until she's already at the door again.

But then she pauses, turning back.

Her eyes meet yours, curious.

Not in the way people tend to be curious about pain or rumors—but curious like she's heard things.

Her gaze is kind, steady.

"I've been hearing about you," she says casually, the edge of a grin playing at her lips. "It's nice to finally meet you."

Then she lifts a hand, gives Joshua a mock salute, and disappears around the corner with a muttered, "Don't screw it up, old man."

Joshua exhales a laugh under his breath.

And then you're alone, with him.

Again.

But something feels different.

Not because of the girl—though her presence lingered longer than she stayed—but because Joshua doesn't fill the silence with reassurances or affection.

He just... sits.

Quiet. Waiting.

You don't even know why you came.

You're standing there with your hands in your coat pockets, unsure of where to look.

The carpet?

The light filtering in through the window?

The man sitting a few feet away who never once stopped waiting?

You sit.

You don't say anything at first. You're scared to.

Because once it starts, it won't stop.

Your voice, when it comes, is brittle. "She's funny."

Joshua glances up, surprised. "She is, that kid," he says, smiling despite himself. "She's very strong, though. I'm proud of her."

You nod, a ghost of a smile on your lips.

Then a pause.

"She loves you," you add, quieter this time. "I can tell."

He doesn't respond to that. Not with words.

He just watches you, and it's not with hope—not this time—but with patience.

And something else you can't name.

Maybe faith. Maybe quiet grief of his own.

But then he speaks.

"How have you been, YN?"

You take a deep breath, trying to ease the tightness in your chest.

"I thought... I thought once the worst was over, it would feel lighter."

Joshua shifts in his chair, leans forward just a little. Not enough to crowd you. Just enough to listen.

"But the grief doesn't disappear," you continue. "It just... changes. Some days it hurts like a knife. Other days, it's just this—" You gesture vaguely. "Weight. In my ribs. In my throat."

Your hands tremble. You look down at them.

"I want to love you, I really do. But I don't know where to put this grief."

There it is.

Everything that's been clinging to your skin since the memories. Since the silence.

Since the last time you heard Mingyu's voice, and how it still echoes in the quiet spaces you can't escape.

Joshua's voice breaks through, quiet but steady.

Like a breath of fresh air after being trapped in a stuffy room.

"You don't have to put it anywhere."

You look up.

He meets your eyes. "You don't have to get rid of it to love again. You don't have to tuck it away or hide it or make it smaller for my sake."

You blink.

He takes a breath.

"I'm not here to erase what you had with him. I never was. I know he meant everything to you. I know part of you is still holding his hand."

Your throat closes up. The tears come faster than you can stop them.

"I'm not asking you to let go," he says. "I'm just asking if you can let me hold the rest of you."

You don't answer right away.

The grief still sits heavily, but now it's different.

You've already whispered those words to Mingyu's mother, and her quiet reassurance is still fresh in your heart.

It's like the weight has lightened just enough for you to breathe, to feel that perhaps, just perhaps, it's time.

Joshua doesn't push.

He just waits, his presence steady and calm, like the breath of fresh air you've been needing.

"I know it's not easy," Joshua says, his voice soft, "but you don't have to let it all go at once. Just... let me be here. Let me hold the pieces of you that are ready to be loved."

You finally meet his eyes, and for the first time in so long, you feel the tightness in your chest ease.

You've been afraid—afraid of forgetting, of dishonoring what you had with Mingyu—but now, you see Joshua's quiet sincerity, and you know it's safe to trust him with what's left of your heart.

"I..." You swallow, your voice barely a whisper. "I'm scared. I don't want you to think that by letting go of him, that I'm... forgetting him."

His gaze doesn't waver. "I know you're still grieving. And I don't love you despite that. I love you with it."

You blink, caught off guard.

"I want you," he says gently, "not just when you're ready. Not just when the weight is gone. I want you in your joy, your hesitation, your ruin. All of it. I want the you that's still healing. The you that still hears his voice when it's quiet. I want the you who came here even when she didn't know if she could."

Joshua's eyes soften, then, quietly, he rises from his chair.

He steps around the desk, past the armrest of the visitor chair beside you.

And kneels—slowly, purposefully—in front of yours.

He doesn't reach for you right away. He just looks up at you, waiting, offering.

When you don't pull back, he gently takes your hands in his.

And for once, you don't flinch.

You let him.

"I'm not waiting for a lighter version of you, YN," he says, voice steady even from the floor. "I'm here because this version—grief and all—is worth loving too."

You look at him, and see the sincerity in his eyes.

And that's what does it.

Because for the first time, it doesn't feel like you have to shed something to be loved.

For the first time, the grief doesn't feel like a wall—it feels like a bridge.

You breathe in slowly. Then out.

"I'm still scared," you say, voice trembling. "But I want to try. I want to meet you halfway."

Joshua's fingers brush yours.

"Then that's where I'll be."

And maybe that's what love is, after all—not the absence of pain, but someone willing to walk through it with you.

♢

When Tangerines Give You Lemons

The cemetery is quiet again.

Same winding path. Same rustle of trees. Same soft morning light threading through the leaves.

But this time, you're not alone.

Joshua walks beside you, steps slow and steady, a respectful distance kept until you stop at the headstone. He doesn't say a word. Just waits, hands tucked in his coat pockets, gaze lowered.

You crouch down, brushing a few fallen leaves off the stone.

His name is still there. Still weathered. Still real.

You set the paper coffee cup beside it—same brand, same blend. His favorite.

And maybe this time, it's not a ritual of holding on.

Maybe it's a ritual of remembering.

Of honoring Mingyu.

You sit there for a moment, fingers brushing the rim of the cup, heart beating steady in your chest. The grief is still there. But it no longer swallows the whole sky.

Then slowly, you rise.

You don't look back.

Instead, your hand reaches out.

Joshua takes it.

No hesitation. No words.

Just warm fingers folding around yours.

You glance back once, not out of doubt—but gratitude. You smile at the grave, soft and certain.

Then you turn to Joshua.

And smile again.

Not because the pain is gone.

But because it's no longer all that you carry.

Later that night, Joshua moves quietly around the kitchen.

The soft clink of porcelain, the hush of the kettle.

He doesn't ask questions when he sees you with that faraway look again.

Just brews the tea the way you like it—not too hot.

You're lying in bed with your phone face up beside you.

You scroll back through old messages.

You know which thread you're looking for before you even start typing his name.

Mingyu.

You open it.

There's laughter in those texts. Playful teasing. Good mornings and I'm-on-my-ways. A love that bloomed like spring and died like winter came too soon.

You don't reread them all.

You don't need to.

You know what they meant.

You press and hold the thread.

Delete.

A long breath leaves your lungs.

Not relief. Not yet.

But release.

You roll over and see another name at the top of your notifications.

Joshua.

The message is simple, sent earlier in the day.

No rush. I'm still here.

And he is.

In your kitchen.

Making you warm lemon tea.

Life has many ways of teaching you how to feel.

Happiness, sadness, grief, love.

It's made you forget, and made you remember.

It hurt you, but it healed you.

With time, and with the right person.

At the right time.

Even if you didn't see it before, even if you refused to before.

But now you do, and he's staring right back at you, waiting.

Always waiting.

Always there, never pushing, just steady.

Because life has many ways of teaching you how to feel.

And you learn that when tangerines give you lemons?

You don't forget the tangerines, you just learn to love the lemons.

just imagine ; svt | masterlist

🌻

a/n: this was so difficult to do! i only had one idea in my mind and that was to make yn from my mingyu fic the very same yn in this joshua fic hahaha!

so anyway, this is me confirming that this is kinda like part 2 of déjà vu but differently. i've had this idea since march of this year bc i kept getting joshua reqs and i said "eh, why not?" but in a way that connects my own fics with each other, like my very own cinematic universe 😂 i've done it before in my nct fics and i wanted to do it again in my svt ones and tbh, this isn't the last one bc who said i should stop at one connection? 😉

fun fact: i first decided the title would be that, then decided i want the same yn from the mingyu fic to be in the joshua one—but i wasnt sure how to tie everything in hahahahah! but it worked, i stuck to it, adapted to it, and made it make sense as long as the title stayed 😂

anyway, i hope u enjoyed this story! i'll see u in my other stories bc i have a lot planned out for this year and all are svt fics ☂️

questions? send your thoughts! feedbacks are much appreciated!

🌻

©️ 2025, moonstarsunflower. All rights reserved. Do not copy, repost, or use without permission.

[theeartuaist]

The App (2)

Three weeks. Two burner phones. One frenzied apartment change. That was all it took for you to start believing you were free.

You’d torched every digital breadcrumb like a fugitive with blood on their hands. The old phone? In pieces. Your social media? Wiped clean, like a crime scene bleached of evidence. The new number came from a prepaid device you bought with cash at a rundown gas station two towns over—right next to a place that sold fireworks and pickled eggs. You told no one but your family where you’d gone, and even then, you didn’t tell them why.

The apartment was smaller than the last one. Claustrophobic, maybe, but it had good bones: thick walls, double deadbolts, and a front desk guy named Marcus who treated unknown visitors like they were walking lawsuits. Most nights, you even slept through without scanning the corners for shadows that moved too smoothly, too human, but not quite enough.

For a moment, a fleeting, fragile moment, you believed you'd done it. That you’d outrun Raye.

And then the books started arriving.

The first one came five days after you finally began to settle in. No envelope, no Amazon box. Just a dog-eared romance novel—The Billionaire’s Forbidden Love—resting right in front of your door like an orphaned pet. Shirtless dude on the cover, a woman swooning like her bones had gone soft. You laughed, briefly. Then you saw the neon-yellow highlighting, thick and uneven like it had been applied with too much pressure:

“You can run, my love, but you cannot escape destiny. What belongs to me will always find its way home.”

You didn’t laugh after that. You pitched it into the alley dumpster and double-locked the door. Then you added a chair under the knob, just like your dad taught you.

The next day, the second book showed up. But this time, it was inside. Sitting right on your pillow. The highlighted passage was even worse:

“He watched from afar, memorising every pattern, every habit. True love required study, devotion, and pursuit. She would understand, eventually, that his persistence was the purest expression of his feelings.”

You tore the place apart. Every lock, every latch, every inch of ductwork. The windows were sealed, the cameras at the front desk had nothing. No one but you had come in.

By the end of the week, you had seventeen books. Seventeen. Titles like – Surrendering to the Shadow King and The Possessive Duke’s Darling. And they kept appearing in places they had no business being. One in your refrigerator, its pages damp with condensation. One stuffed between your clean towels. One curled like a sleeping dog in your shower caddy.

Each with its own highlighted passage about destiny, ownership, and love sharpened into obsession.

You considered calling the police. Then you thought about what that call would sound like: Hello, officer? I’m being stalked by a man who may not be a man and who communicates exclusively via bodice-rippers. Yeah. That’d go over well.

Then came a knock.

You crept to the peephole, half-expecting a nightmare in a human suit. But it was Mrs. Abernathy, your octogenarian neighbor with a floral scarf and a fondness for raisin cookies.

“You have a package, dear,” she called sweetly. “Special delivery.”

You cracked the door just enough to peer out. “I didn’t order anything.”

Her eyes didn’t look quite right. Too glassy, like someone had forgotten to switch them on all the way. Her smile stretched a bit too wide, like someone had drawn it there with a knife.

“Oh, I know,” she said, waving a small wrapped parcel. “That lovely boy Raye asked me to bring it. He showed me pictures. Said you were engaged. Such a devoted young man!”

You slammed the door like it was a guillotine. Locked everything. Heart pounding hard enough to echo in your ribs.

Through the wood, her voice came again, but it had a different flavor now—tinny, mechanical, like it had been routed through a bad speaker. “He asked me to tell you he’s learned from his mistakes. Movies were poor research materials. He’s found much better guides now.”

You didn’t say a word. Eventually, her steps shuffled away.

You should’ve been gone by then. Should’ve run. But something—foolish hope, or maybe just fear—kept you rooted to that spot. That night, the package still showed up.

You found it on your kitchen counter. Inside was a leather-bound journal. Handmade. Not a book but a log. Each page was filled with razor-precise handwriting—cold, methodical, obsessive. A surveillance diary.

It catalogued your life: what time you left for work, what you ordered for lunch, who you spoke to, how long your showers lasted. Some entries even had photos. From behind bushes. Across the street. Through windows. They dated back months before you ever met him.

The final page was in red ink, as if written in something warmer than pen:

“I have identified the errors in my courtship approach. Fiction is an incomplete source for behavioural protocols. I have been observing actual human mating behaviours and have identified more successful strategies. Persistence is key.”

“I have instead been consulting superior information repositories that your species calls Reddit, 4chan, and various forums dedicated to "game." I have also analysed dating advice blogs and YouTube channels dedicated to human mating strategies.”

“The consensus is clear: females respond to what humans designate as "alpha" behaviour. One must "hold frame" and employ "negging" and "dread game." The courtship requires what your species terms 'pushing past last-minute resistance”. I will begin again tomorrow. You will find my improvements satisfactory.”

You didn’t read any further. You just grabbed your things, left the apartment, and checked into a hotel the furthest from your apartment.

You didn’t care anymore. The world you thought you knew had slipped away, and now you were just running, your phone buried in the lining of your suitcase. At dawn, your eyes opened to a rose on the pillow beside you.

Your phone buzzed, though it was supposed to be off. You checked it. The app was back.

A single message blinked at you like an open eye:

Good morning. I have located your temporary nest. Your evasion techniques are impressive but unnecessary. I now understand that pursuit and resistance are part of the dance. This is biology. I will perform correctly this time. I am upgrading for you.

You didn’t even stop to brush your teeth. You didn’t bother packing. You didn’t bother trying to reason with yourself. You checked out of there in a flash, running down the hotel hall, looking for an exit; a chance to breathe without Raye’s presence closing in on you like a vice.

You burst into the morning air, your breath clouding in the cold as you stumbled into the streets. The first taxi you spotted felt like a lifeline, and you threw yourself into it without thinking twice.

The driver was an old man—silver hair combed neatly, liver spots on his hands, eyes soft and wet like a dog’s. He glanced at you in the rearview mirror and smiled, a slow,little smile.

“Where to, miss?” he asked, voice gravelly and warm, the kind of voice you think should come bedtime stories.

“Train station.” Your voice was high, tight. “Please hurry.”

The cab pulled out with a gentle lurch.

“Bad morning?”

You nodded, eyes glued to the window and pressed yourself against the door. You stared out the window, your heart was still punching your ribs. You thought if you stayed quiet, maybe you could disappear. Maybe he wouldn’t find you.

“Boyfriend trouble?” the old man asked, trying to make it sound harmless.

You swallowed. That word—boyfriend—curled in your throat like something rotten. “Why do you care?” you asked, too sharp.

He fell silent.

The city blurred past—gray buildings, flickering signs, streets that all looked like they were exhaling their last breath. Then you realized something was off. A left turn when it should’ve been right. A street you didn’t recognize. You sat up, brows furrowed.

“Hey,” you said, leaning forward, “you’re going the wrong way.”

No response.

“Sir? Did you hear me?”

Still nothing. The cab made another turn. Left. Not toward the bus station. Not toward anything you recognised.

“Hey! Sir this isn't where the train station is,” you repeated, the chill of dread sliding under your skin like ice water. “You’re going the wrong way?”

The driver’s voice came again, but it had changed. Just slightly. Too measured. Too... calculated.

“Creating uncertainty increases emotional dependence,” he said.

You froze.

“What?”

“The literature states that unpredictable environments produce deeper attachments.”

You reached for the door handle.

Click.

Locked.

You yanked this time. Still locked - child locks. Of course.

Your stomach dropped like a stone into a bottomless lake. You turned back to the driver, heart hammering. “Let me out,” you said. “Now.”

“The manuals suggest limiting options increases compliance,” he says, smooth as ice, still not looking at you.

You pulled your phone from your pocket. No signal. Useless. You pounded the window, screaming. “Let me the hell out!”

The taxi sped up, turning down a quieter road—broken sidewalks, chain-link fences, warehouses that haven’t been used in decades. The kind of place where bad things happen and no one finds out until it’s too late.

In desperation, you looked at the driver, ready to plead, threaten, whatever it took—and froze. In the rearview mirror, where the old man's eyes should have been reflected, there was nothing. Just empty space.

As if sensing my realization, the driver's face rippled. Like wax left too close to a fire, the old man melted away. The silver hair receded, the wrinkles smoothed. And what’s left was him.

Raye.

His familiar, too-perfect face stared back at you from the mirror, his expression neutral, observant.

“Was the old man's disguise inadequate?” he asks, genuinely curious, like a scientist observing a mouse that bit back. “I modeled it after ‘trustworthy archetypes.’”

“You... you.. just, let me out,” you said, quieter now. Not because you’re calm, but because you were trying to be. “Please.”

“Your heart rate has increased,” he noted. “The forums suggest this indicates attraction, yet your verbal cues suggest aversion.”

His head tilted. That same goddamn tilt you remembered from your first and last date.

“The data remains inconsistent.”

“Well, gee, perhaps the reason for that is because you are kidnapping me!” You saw the road slipping past. Warehouses and rusted fences blurring by. You tried to memorize every turn. Useless. You knew it was useless..

“Your cultural narratives celebrate pursuit after rejection. They frame perseverance as romantic despite the ethics and laws. Is this your attempt at stimulating narrative tension? Are you playing, as your people say, hard to get?”

You were shaking now. Not from fear—but from thr hot, boiling pit simmering inside you. “They’re written by people who want control, not connection. Hell, do you even understand what you're reading?” You said, breath trembling, “You have no damn idea, do you?”

He processed that. You can see him processing it. "The research is indeed inconsistent." The cab had slowed now, creeping down a service road lined with oleander bushes, their pink flowers drooping like exhausted dancers. "I calculated the most efficient approach based on available data.. the forum posts with the highest engagement metrics suggested—"

"Shut up wbout your stupid data! You don't know anything about love!" I gestured at the surroundings; the locked doors. "This - what you're doing - just creates fear. Not love.”

Raye's hands tightened on the steering wheel. Just slightly. The knuckles went white, then translucent, something that looked like starlight filtering through fog.

"I have exonerated my sources. I have watched 689 romantic films," he continued, voice carrying a new edge like glass scraping against glass. "Read 447 romance novels. Monitored 432 relationship advice forums. Observed—"

"OBSERVED!" You were shouting now, past caring. "That's all you do, isn't it? Watch and copy and calculate, but you've never felt a goddamn thing in whatever passes for your life. Relationships aren't algorithms. You can't learn them from books or websites. You need real experience. And you never experienced love in your life!"

The cab jerked to a stop.

In the terrible silence that followed, your own breathing, ragged and harsh, ricocheted in your ears. Raye's reflection had gone perfectly still. When he finally spoke, his voice was different — quieter, with a sound like distant rain.

"You are... correct. I have no experiential database for the emotion you call love. Only... approximations. Simulations." His head tilted, that familiar gesture now seeming disappointed rather than curious. "The inconsistencies in human behaviour patterns suggest an underlying complexity I failed to accurately model."

Something changed in the air. The child locks clicked open.

"If love cannot be calculated or observed from the outside," he said, still facing forward, "then my research methodology is fundamentally flawed."

You didn't hesitate. Your fingers were on the handle, your foot hitting the cracked asphalt before my brain could catch up. You were already running, but his final words followed you down that empty road: "I will... recalibrate. Begin new research. Attempt to understand the variables I overlooked."

For three days, there were no books, no messages, no signs of Raye. You began to hope that perhaps you had crashed his reasoning, created a logic loop he couldn't resolve.

Then on the fourth morning, you found a book on my new kitchen table in yet another new apartment that no one should have known about. It wasn't a romance novel this time, but a philosophy text opened to a passage about identity. A note had been paper-clipped to the page, written in that same mechanically precise handwriting:

"I purged the corrupted data. Your internet contains many viruses of thought. I will observe more carefully now, without intervention. When I understand the paradox, I will return."

"The designation "fiancé" was premature. The designation "researcher" was inadequate. I find no human words for what has transpired between us. Thank you for identifying the error in my programming. I will experience love."

next chapter

[arkofangels]

~Highways & Headaches~

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Reader (implied) Cast: Bob, Yelena, John (U.S. Agent), Ava (Ghost), Alexei (Red Guardian)

Summary: When Valentina sends the Thunderbolts on a "simple" mission—lay low at a safehouse upstate and absolutely do not draw attention, she probably shouldn’t have handed them the keys to a barely-functional government van. What follows is fifteen chaotic hours of existential crises, GPS mishaps, emotional support raccoons, pickled egg warfare, and Bob trying (and failing) to bond with an alpaca. 

Word Count: 2.1k

It started with a van.

Specifically, a rust-colored government-issued behemoth that Valentina handed over with a smile that meant “Good luck, idiots.”

“The mission is simple,” she said. “Drive to the safehouse in upstate New York. Lay low. No powers. No attention. Just blend in.”

“Like a family vacation!” Alexei declared, slapping the roof of the van so hard the mirror fell off.

Everyone blinked.

“No,” Yelena said. “Absolutely not.”

But it was too late. The Thunderbolts were hitting the road.

Hour One:

You’d barely left the city when Bob, wearing sunglasses indoors and out, leaned over the front seat and whispered, “Can I drive?”

“No,” John said. “Absolutely not.”

Bob pouted. “I can fly faster than this thing idles.”

“That’s why you’re not driving,” you muttered.

Meanwhile, Ava phased through her seatbelt for the sixth time, causing the van’s warning beep to have a full-blown meltdown.

“Stop doing that,” John snapped.

“I am restrained,” she said, casually floating halfway into the floorboard.

Alexei drove one-handed while balancing a Tupperware container of pickled eggs on his knee, chomping away like the road was his personal picnic. The smell was chemical warfare, and no one in the van could escape it.

Yelena cracked a window and stuck her head out like a golden retriever. “If I jump out now, I’ll only get mild road rash.”

Hour Three:

You stopped at a gas station that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the Cold War. Alexei, somehow, got into an argument with a raccoon over a discarded burrito.

Bob returned from the restroom pale and haunted. “I saw something in there,” he whispered. “Something… dark.”

“You looked in the mirror again, didn’t you?” Yelena joked.

“Maybe.”

Ava stole three bags of kettle chips without blinking. Bob paid for seventeen granola bars and a novelty mug that said World’s Okayest Hero.

Back in the van, John tried to input the safehouse coordinates into the GPS. The GPS promptly died, And so did everyone’s patience.

“Let me try,” Bob said, tapping the screen.

The GPS rebooted… in Spanish. And refused to switch back.

“¡Excelente! A la derecha en cien metros,” the robotic voice said with cheer.

“No one touch it,” you warned. “We’re committed now.”

Hour Five:

Yelena had created a playlist titled Murder Pop & Existential Bops. Bob added twenty-seven sad cowboy ballads. Alexei added Soviet war chants. Ava uploaded thirty minutes of white noise because she was “tired of feeling things.”

John tried to assert control and was promptly booed.

“This van is a lawless land,” Bob declared. “We live by vibes now.”

You were too tired to argue. You ate gas station gummy worms while Bob rested his head on your shoulder and muttered, “I think the Void’s in the glovebox.”

“Then close it gently,” you whispered. “We’ll feed it a cheese stick later.”

Hour Eight:

A wrong turn sent you three hours off-course into rural nowhere. The GPS was now offering unsolicited life advice in Spanish. Alexei insisted he remembered the way “by instinct.”

His instinct led you to an alpaca farm.

Yelena made friends with a creature she named “Greg.” Bob tried to telepathically bond with it. John threatened to turn the van around. Ava disappeared for twenty minutes and returned with hot cocoa she refused to explain.

“I’m not even mad,” you said. “I’m just confused.”

Hour Ten:

It started raining. Hard.

The windshield wipers wheezed like asthmatic pigeons. Bob pressed his hand to the window and whispered, “Do you think the rain’s judging us?”

“I hope it is,” Yelena said. “We deserve it.”

The van started making a noise like a blender full of nails. Everyone turned slowly to look at John.

“I didn’t do it,” he said.

The van then made a second noise, worse than the first. Something thudded beneath the floorboards.

“Void?” Ava asked.

“Possum,” said Alexei.

“Definitely one of you left the back door open again,” you sighed.

Bob pulled you closer. “If this is how I die, I want you to know—your playlists are bad, but your heart is good.”

You snorted. “Shut up and help me find the possum.”

Hour Thirteen:

The possum was, in fact, a raccoon stowaway from the gas station. Alexei named it Dmitri. Yelena tried to train it to fetch snacks. Bob offered it a granola bar and said, “We are the same, you and I.”

John tried to enforce order.

“No unauthorized wildlife in the van!”

“Then what do you call Alexei?” Ava asked.

Alexei growled. The raccoon growled back.

You intervened before a full-blown dominance war broke out in the back seat.

Bob handed you a thermos of lukewarm tea and said, “We’ll make it. Probably.”

You smiled, leaned into his side, and said, “This is the worst trip I’ve ever loved.”

Hour Fifteen:

The van broke down half a mile from the safehouse.

Everyone sat in silence as steam poured from the hood. It hissed like the entire vehicle had finally, finally had enough of your nonsense.

Bob patted the dashboard. “You did your best.”

John kicked the tire. “This whole team is cursed.”

Yelena tossed her backpack over her shoulder. “Well. Let’s walk.”

Ava phased through the side of the van to scout ahead.

Alexei insisted on carrying the raccoon.

You and Bob stayed at the back,

“Next time,” he said, “we fly.”

“Next time,” you agreed, “we bring snacks that aren’t war crimes.”

“And I drive.”

“Absolutely not.”

He laughed, softly. “Fine. But I’m choosing the playlist.”

“That might be worse.”

But still, you let your hand slip into his. Even with wet shoes, aching muscles, and a raccoon in the lead, it felt like something close to perfect.

Not because it went smoothly.

But because it went together.

[amyzworldds]

Title: The Little Secret

Masterlist

At a chaotic idol game show, Seventeen’s wild maknae yn hides a massive crush on Stray Kids’ Bang Chan, keeping it secret from her 13 teasing members. Pairing: Seventeen x Bang Chan x 14 member Genre: Fluff, Humor

Seventeen had been buzzing with excitement all week—they’d been invited to a massive idol game show, a chaotic mashup of silly challenges, alongside other groups. The dorm was a whirlwind of practice runs and Hoshi yelling, “I’m winning the water balloon toss, no one stop me!” yn, their wild maknae, usually thrived in this madness, plotting pranks or hyping the boys with her unhinged energy. But today? She was hiding a secret that could unravel her in front of everyone: she had a massive crush on Stray Kids’ Bang Chan. And no one—not a single one of her 13 members—knew. She’d kept it locked tight, knowing full well they’d tease her into next year if they found out. “Hoshi oppa would make a weverse post about it,” she muttered to herself, shuddering. “Seokmin oppa would sing a love ballad in my face. Nope. Not happening.”

The day of the show arrived, and the group piled into their dressing room, a mess of hairspray, costume racks, and Mingyu tripping over a chair. Yn, usually bouncing off the walls, sat oddly quiet in a corner, twirling her hair. She sidled up to Joshua, casual as she could muster. “So, uh, Shua oppa… which groups are here today? Just curious.”

Joshua shrugged, adjusting his mic pack. “Oh, you know, the usual chaos crew. NCT Dream, (G)I-DLE, Stray Kids—”

“Stray Kids?!” Yn blurted, eyes widening before she caught herself. “I mean… cool. Coolcoolcool. That’s… neat.” She spun away, heart hammering, and beelined for her stylist. “Unnie! My makeup—it’s okay, right? Not too much? Not too little? Like, cute but natural? Please say yes.”

The stylist blinked, brush mid-air. “Uh, yeah, yn-ah, you look great. Why’re you stressing? You’re always fine.”

“Just checking!” Yn chirped, too high-pitched, then darted to Seungkwan. “Kwanie oppa, do I look good? Like, pretty? Tell me the truth!”

Seungkwan squinted, suspicious but sweet. “You’re gorgeous, yn-ah. Always are. What’s with you? You’re acting like it’s your first stage.”

“Just… feeling it today!” she said, flashing a nervous grin before bouncing to Vernon. “Bononie oppa, am I cute? Like, cute cute?”

Vernon tilted his head, chewing gum. “Yeah, dude, you’re adorable. Chill, you’re killing it.”

“Aw, thanks!” she cooed, clutching her cheeks. The members exchanged glances—yn was being sweet. Too sweet. Normally, she’d be wrestling Hoshi for the last snack or yelling at Dino to stop stealing her iced coffee. Something was up, but they let it slide, too busy hyping each other up.

Showtime hit, and the groups lined up for intros. Seventeen went full SEVENTEEN—Hoshi cartwheeled across the stage, DK moonwalked into a mic stand, Seungkwan struck a diva pose, and Mingyu tripped over nothing, earning roars of laughter from the other groups. Embarrassment? Not in their dictionary. Then came yn. Instead of her usual chaos—backflips, goofy faces, or yelling “CARATS, I LOVE YOU!”—she just… walked. Smiling softly, waving daintily, like a princess in a parade. The other groups blinked. The MCs blinked. Stray Kids, lined up nearby, tilted their heads. Bang Chan, standing at the front, smiled politely, and yn’s knees nearly buckled.

“What… was that?” Jeonghan whispered to Woozi as they sat down. “She didn’t even dab or something.”

“She’s being… cute?” Woozi muttered, frowning. “That’s not her.”

The show rolled on—races, trivia, a ridiculous dance-off—and yn was a shadow of herself. Shy giggles instead of cackles, timid steps instead of wild leaps. During a water balloon toss, she delicately handed the balloon to Jun, murmuring, “Careful, oppa,” instead of chucking it at his head like usual. The members were officially weirded out. Bang Chan, meanwhile, was obliviously charming across the set, laughing with his members and acing every challenge, while yn snuck glances, her cheeks pink.

Break time hit, and the groups scattered to their corners. Seventeen huddled, whispering furiously, while yn stood at a mirror, practicing a sweet, dimpled smile. “Okay, tilt head… soft eyes… ‘Hi, I’m yn!’—no, too loud, softer—‘Hi, I’m yn…’ Perfect.” She nodded, pleased, then turned to see 13 pairs of eyes staring at her.

“Yn-ah, you okay?” Seungcheol asked, arms crossed. “You’re acting… weird. Quiet. Shy. That’s not you.”

“Yeah!” Hoshi jumped in, flailing. “You didn’t even laugh when I slipped on the wet floor! You just… smiled! Are you sick?!”

“I’m fine, Cheolie oppa, Hoshi oppa!” she chirped, batting her lashes. She twirled to them, clasping her hands cutely. “Do I look cute? Like, super cute? Tell me!”

“You’re always cute,” DK said, squinting. “But this is… extra. What’s going on?”

“Nothing!” she sang, spinning back to the mirror. “Just feeling cute today!”

“Liar,” Seungkwan accused, stepping closer. “You’ve been all timid and blushy since we got here. Spill it, yn-ah. What’s up?”

“Nope!” she said, popping the ‘p’ with a grin. “No spilling! I’m good! Perfect, even!” She wouldn’t budge—Bang Chan was right there, across the room, and she wasn’t about to let her crazy side loose. No way was her crush seeing her tackle Mingyu or scream-laugh at Hoshi’s antics. She’d be cute, poised, normal—for once.

The members weren’t buying it. “She’s hiding something,” Vernon whispered to Dino. “She keeps looking over there—” He nodded toward Stray Kids, chatting in their corner.

Dino gasped. “You think… a crush?!”

“No way,” Jun scoffed. “She’d tell us. Right?”

“Would she?” Jeonghan smirked. “She knows we’d tease her ‘til she cries.”

The show resumed, and yn’s shy act held—giggling softly at the MC’s jokes, waving cutely at the crowd, avoiding her members’ probing stares. During a team relay, she “accidentally” ended up near Bang Chan, who smiled and said, “Nice job out there!” yn squeaked, “T-thanks!” and bolted back to her spot, face flaming. The boys clocked it, eyes narrowing.

The game aftermath had Seventeen buzzing with suspicion, but yn was determined to keep her Bang Chan crush under wraps. Backstage chaos reigned—idols mingling, staff rushing around, and her members still whispering theories about her shy act. She needed a safe zone, so she stuck close to Minghao and Wonwoo, the group’s quietest duo. They weren’t the type to pry or tease her into oblivion like Hoshi or Jeonghan would. With them, she could breathe, maybe even vent a little without risking a full-blown interrogation.

The three of them were tucked in a corner near the dressing rooms, away from the main bustle. Yn was mid-ramble, pacing as she talked. “So, Hao oppa, Wonwoo oppa, I was thinking—maybe we should do a chill tiktok next time, you know? Like, just vibes, no crazy stunts. I’m kinda over falling on my face for views—” She took a step back, gesturing wildly, and thud—slammed right into someone.

“Oops, sorry!” a warm voice said behind her. Yn spun around, and her eyes ballooned to cartoonish size. It was Bang Chan. Stray Kids’ leader, her secret crush, standing there in all his dimpled, apologetic glory, smiling sweetly at her. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you—my bad!”

Her heart did a triple backflip. Her cheeks flared redder than a stoplight. “I—uh—n-no, it’s fine!” she squeaked, voice cracking like a middle schooler’s. She stumbled back, one hand clutching her chest, the other flailing until it latched onto Minghao’s arm for dear life. “Ohmygodohmygod,” she wheezed, hyperventilating as Bang Chan gave a little wave and walked off, oblivious to the meltdown he’d triggered.

Minghao steadied her, eyebrows shooting up, while Wonwoo tilted his head, peering at her like she was a science experiment. “Yn-ah… you okay?” Minghao asked, voice calm but laced with amusement.

“I think I’m gonna die,” she gasped, gripping his arm tighter, her other hand still pressed to her racing heart. “Hao oppa, Wonwoo oppa, this is the best day of my life. He smiled at me. He talked to me. I’m—I’m ascending!”

Wonwoo blinked, then let out a low chuckle. “Wait… is this why you’ve been all shy today?”

Minghao’s lips twitched into a smirk. “Oh, I see it now. Bang Chan, huh? That’s the big secret?”

Yn’s tomato-red face snapped between them, panic setting in. “Shhh! SHH! No, no, no—don’t say it out loud!” She flailed her free hand, nearly smacking Wonwoo. “You can’t tell anyone! I trust you two—you’re the quiet ones! Please, oppa, keep it secret! If Hoshi oppa finds out, I’m done for—he’ll never shut up!”

Minghao burst out laughing, a rare full-on cackle, while Wonwoo’s deep laugh rumbled beside him. “Oh, this is too good,” Minghao said, wiping a tear. “You’re a mess, yn-ah. Look at you—clinging to me like a koala ‘cause Bang Chan said ‘sorry’!”

“It’s not funny!” she whined, but her pout only made them laugh harder. “He’s so nice, and I’m dying, and you’re laughing? Rude!”

“It’s hilarious,” Wonwoo deadpanned, grinning. “You went from ‘crazy maknae’ to ‘blushing schoolgirl’ in two seconds. We’ve got blackmail material now.”

“NO!” Yn yelped, letting go of Minghao to grab Wonwoo’s sleeve instead. “You can’t! I’ll—I’ll bribe you! I’ll do your chores! Just don’t tell the others!”

Across the room, the rest of Seventeen clocked the commotion. Hoshi perked up, squinting. “What’s going on over there? Why’s yn red? And why’re Hao and Wonwoo laughing?”

“She’s freaking out about something,” Seungkwan said, narrowing his eyes. “She’s been weird all day—look at her grabbing them like that!”

“Did she trip again?” Mingyu asked, craning his neck. “She’s not yelling, though. That’s sus.”

Seungcheol frowned, arms crossed. “They know something we don’t. She’s been dodging us since the show started.”

“Bet it’s a crush,” Jeonghan teased, smirking. “She’s got that blushy vibe. Who’s the lucky idol?”

“No way,” Dino scoffed, but he looked unsure. “She’d tell us… right?”

Yn, catching their stares, panicked. “Shhhh, oppa, stop laughing—they’re looking!” she hissed, shoving Minghao and Wonwoo behind a rack. “Act normal! Please, I’m begging you!”

Minghao grinned, patting her head. “Relax, yn-ah. Your secret’s safe with us. For now.”

“Yeah,” Wonwoo added, smirking. “But you owe us. Big time.”

She groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Why did I pick the quiet ones? You’re evil!”

“We’re quiet, not saints,” Minghao quipped, still chuckling. “You’re too fun to mess with.”

The members kept staring, whispering theories—“She’s definitely hiding something,” “Maybe she ate Hoshi’s snacks again,” “Nah, it’s bigger than that”—but YN stayed glued to her safe duo, heart still racing from Bang Chan’s smile. She peeked through her fingers, muttering, “Best day ever… worst day ever…” Minghao and Wonwoo snickered, already plotting how to milk this secret without spilling it—yet.

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The second break of the game show was winding down, and the backstage area was a flurry of idols grabbing snacks, fixing hair, and dodging staff with clipboards. Yn, still reeling from her earlier Bang Chan collision, had ditched Minghao and Wonwoo for a solo mission to the snack table. They’d wandered off to chat with some members, leaving her defenseless—and starving. She spotted a lone bag of spicy chips on the table, the last one, and grinned. “Finally, something good,” she muttered, reaching for it.

Her hand brushed against someone else’s, and their fingers tangled around the bag. She froze, eyes darting up, and—oh no—it was Bang Chan. Again. Standing there, all dimples and charm, his hand still on hers. Her heart somersaulted into her throat, her cheeks flaring redder than a chili pepper. “S-sorry!” he said, pulling back with a sheepish laugh, holding the chips out to her. “You take it—I didn’t mean to steal your snack!”

“N-no, it’s fine!” yn squeaked, shoving it back at him, her voice cracking like a rusty hinge. “You have it! I’m good!”

“No, really, it’s yours!” Bang Chan insisted, pushing it toward her again, his smile widening as he watched her blush deepen. The bag ping-ponged between them, back and forth, earning a full-on chuckle from him. “Okay, this is ridiculous—should we split it or what?”

Yn’s brain was a puddle. Split it? With Bang Chan? She nodded dumbly, clutching the table for support as he ripped the bag open and handed her half. “T-thanks,” she mumbled, staring at the chips like they were a love letter. He was looking at her—laughing at her blushy mess—and she was dying inside, but in the best way.

“So, how’s it going?” Bang Chan asked, popping a chip in his mouth, casual as ever. “You’re killing it out there—seventeen always so fun to watch.”

Her smile went full wattage, shy but beaming. “Oh, uh, thanks! It’s… chaotic, but fun! How about you? Stray Kids is amazing—I mean, you’re amazing—uh, I mean—” She clamped her mouth shut, mortified, as he grinned.

“Thanks, that’s sweet,” he said, unfazed by her stumble. “How’s it living with 13 older brothers? I’ve met a few of them—Vernon and Joshua, mostly. They’re a lot.”

She giggled, loosening up a fraction. “Oh, they’re insane. Hoshi oppa once tried to do a backflip off the couch and broke a lamp. Seungcheol oppa yelled at him for, like, an hour. And Mingyu oppa—he’s tall but trips over air. I love them, but they’re a circus.”

Bang Chan laughed, leaning closer. “That sounds like a riot. I’ve got my own chaos with the kids, but 13? You’re a saint.”

“Nah, I’m just loud,” she said, blushing harder but warming to the chat. “They say I’m the noisiest, but I think DK oppa wins that one—he sings in his sleep sometimes.”

“No way!” Bang Chan cackled, his eyes crinkling. “That’s gold. You’ve got stories for days, huh?”

She nodded, grinning like an idiot, her heart doing cartwheels. He was so easy to talk to—funny, sweet, perfect. She forgot the world for a moment, lost in his laugh, until—

“OH MY GOD, I KNEW IT!” Hoshi’s voice exploded from the corner, shattering her bubble. He was pointing while vibrating at her like a detective cracking a case, eyes wild. “IT’S BANG CHAN! I KNEW IT WAS BANG CHAN!”

Yn’s soul left her body. She whipped around, chips spilling from her hand, as the SEVENTEEN members swarmed like piranhas. “Hoshi oppa, NO!” she yelped, but it was too late.

“Bang Chan?!” Seungkwan shrieked, clutching Jeonghan’s arm. “That’s why she’s been all blushy and shy?! OH, THIS IS PERFECT!”

“Yn’s got a crush!” DK sang, twirling like a giddy kid. “Yn and Bang Chan, sitting in a tree—”

“STOP!” she wailed, flailing her arms, her face now a furnace. Bang Chan, beside her, laughed harder, clearly amused but not helping her case.

Mingyu bounded over, grinning. “Wait, wait, wait—so that’s why you’ve been ‘cute yn’ all day? Asking us if you’re pretty? For him?!”

“I hate you all!” she groaned, burying her face in her hands. “This is a nightmare!”

“A cute nightmare!” Seungcheol teased, ruffling her hair. “Aw, our maknae’s in love! Bang Chan, you’ve got a fan!”

“Shut up, Cheol oppa!” she hissed, swatting him away, but the teasing train had no brakes.

Hoshi darted closer, pointing between them. “I saw it! The chip hand-holding! The blushing! You’re busted, yn-ah! How long were you hiding this?!”

“Forever, and you ruined it!” she shot back, stomping her foot. “You’re the worst!”

Bang Chan, still chuckling, waved a hand. “Hey, I’m flattered, honestly. She’s cool—don’t tease her too hard.”

“Too late!” Jeonghan called, smirking. “She’s ours to torture now. Right, Wonwoo? Hao?”

Wonwoo and Minghao, rejoining the chaos, grinned like devils. “Oh, we knew,” Minghao said, crossing his arms. “She’s been a mess since you bumped into her earlier.”

“YOU TRAITORS!” yn gasped, pointing at them. “I trusted you!”

“We didn’t tell,” Wonwoo said, smirking. “Hoshi figured it out himself.”

“Detective Hoshi strikes again!” Hoshi crowed, striking a pose. “I’m a genius!”

“You’re a menace!” yn retorted, but her pout only made them laugh harder.

Dino sidled up, grinning. “So, yn-ah, you gonna ask him out now? Since it’s all out there?”

“NO!” she yelped, shoving him. “I’m moving to Antarctica! Goodbye!”

Bang Chan, ever the gentleman, smiled at her. “Hey, don’t let them get to you. It’s cute—I like your energy.”

Yn’s jaw dropped, and the members erupted again. “HE LIKES HER ENERGY!” Seungkwan screamed, clutching Vernon. “SHE’S DONE FOR!”

“I’m dead,” Yn muttered, sliding down to sit on the floor, chips forgotten. “Officially dead.”

The break ended, but the teasing didn’t. As they shuffled back to the set, the members kept it up—DK humming a love song, Hoshi chanting “Yn and Bang Chan!” like a cheerleader, Seungcheol fake-scolding her with a grin. Bang Chan shot her a playful wink from across the stage, and she groaned, hiding behind Minghao. “Best day ever… worst day ever,” she mumbled, while her members cackled, plotting a lifetime of torment.

Her secret was out, and Seventeen was never letting it die.