#he’d probably have a hell of a time with it too | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

heesmiles · 1 day ago

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FROSTBITE p.sh

synopsis ⤑ Sunghoon’s injury was comparable to the end of the world, at least for him it was. Having not been cleared in time to start practice with his team, Sunghoon is stuck practicing alone after hours, except he's not alone. Forced to share the rink with the practicing figure skaters was his version of hell, especially when one of them couldn't shut up about the fact that the world was their oyster and taking a positive look on life was the only way to live? How could he be positive when the only thing that made him happy was taken away from him. She had felt like frostbite sinking into his skin. Frostbite was quick, it stung and then it killed before you could even see it coming.

pairings ⤑ hockey player!sunghoon x figure skater!reader word count ⤑ 25k

warnings ⤑ smut, mentions of injury, grumpy x sunshine, ft. Ruka from baby monster, angst, probably more I'm missing...reader is heavily inspired by my yapping baby @beomiracles (serene).

Prologue.

Sunghoon walked into the rink like a fallen prince returning to a ruined kingdom.

The cold welcomed him. Not with open arms, but with teeth. It bit through the seams of his hoodie, gnawed at the edges of his breath, and curled around the ache in his knee like a reminder. The air here was always sharp, always clean, always brimming with the promise of speed and sweat and glory. But tonight, it only felt hollow. Like an echo of the past, stretched thin over the bones of now. His blades scraped against the ice with a sound that used to thrill him. Now it felt surgical, sterile, like a scalpel carving open the truth he couldn’t avoid.

He wasn’t on the team. Not really. Not anymore. Not while he recovered. And to Sunghoon, that meant the end of the world. Not playing hockey was his apocalypse. Jay said he needed time. Coach Bennett had nodded, voice clipped and clinical, masking the decision behind phrases like “risk mitigation” and “long-term recovery.” But Sunghoon knew what it meant: they didn’t trust his body, and maybe just maybe they didn’t trust him. What a load of bullshit. Sunghoon could play through the pain. He’s done it before. He wasn’t one to shy away from a little leg injury. Who cares, he’d push through. That’s what real pros did and Sunghoon would be a real pro one day.

He clenched his jaw as the thought burned through him. His knee twinged again, and he tried not to limp, tried to walk like it didn’t hurt, tried to be the player he used to be. Every movement felt like a performance for an audience that had already left the theater. And then he heard it. A laugh. Light and lilted, drifting through the rink like glitter in a snow globe. He didn’t need to turn to know who it belonged to.

The figure skaters were still here. Of course they were. Sunghoon let out a groan, loud enough to be heard, sharp enough to cut. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered. She was the worst of them. Not in talent, but in spirit. Always smiling, always talking like life was some golden sunrise just waiting to be kissed. She had that annoying, relentless optimism, the kind that made Sunghoon’s blood itch. It wasn't just naive — it was offensive. Especially to someone like him, whose world had cracked open and swallowed him whole. How can someone look at the world and life and all that it offers and be happy about that? Life chewed you up and spit you out like old gum whenever it had the chance.

She was all light. He was the void that light avoided. Still, she twirled like the world had never wronged her. Every glide, every spin, every leap across the ice was effortless. She was a poem written in motion. And somehow, her presence made the silence of his isolation scream louder. He dragged a puck across the rink, his stick slicing through the quiet like a blade. The sound was dull, defeated. She didn’t leave. Of course not. She was too kind or too stubborn or too oblivious to understand that he didn’t want to share this place. Not with anyone. Especially not her. She skated past, the breeze of her motion catching his hoodie, lifting it for a fraction of a second. She left behind a sentence as light as her blades: “Pretty night, huh? Ice looks good.”

Sunghoon didn’t respond.

Not because he hadn’t heard, but because he had. Her voice sank beneath his skin like snowmelt — cold, but oddly soft. He hated that about her. Hated how she turned everything into beauty. How she made it look easy. But figure skaters didn’t know what it was to fall and stay broken. They didn’t know what it was to wake every day and feel your identity splinter under your ribs. They didn’t know how it felt to sit in the stands while your teammates practiced without you. Laughed without you. Moved on without you.

He looked at her then, really looked. And for a moment, he thought of frostbite.

Not because she was cold, but because she was warm — the kind of warm you feel right before the skin goes numb. Right before the blood stops moving. Right before the damage sets in. She had felt like that from the start. Quick. Unexpected. Beautiful.

And by the time he noticed her, by the time he realized she was changing something in him, it was already too late.

After.

Sunghoon didn’t look at you again. Not when you moved like a falling star tracing soft-burning arcs in a frozen sky. Not when your laughter spilled into the rafters, bright as windchimes caught in a spring storm. Not even when you passed close enough for your perfume, warm citrus and something he couldn’t name to slip beneath his guard and settle in his lungs like memory. He focused instead on his own rhythm. On fury and fire, on the merciless repetition of sprints. Forward, brake. Backward, pivot. Turn. Drive. His blades carved the ice with the same fury that burned behind his eyes, every motion a prayer to reclaim what he’d lost.

Jay said he wasn’t ready. Coach Bennett nodded like a verdict had been passed, and just like that, his kingdom of ice and glory had crumbled beneath him. Now, he ran drills alone in the shadow-hours, a ghost trying to resurrect himself one sharp breath at a time. This was supposed to be penance. Precision. Control. But then there was you.

You weren’t supposed to be here. Not really. Not like that. Not with your reckless grace and your endless optimism. You spun where he sprinted. You leapt where he lunged. And you smiled like life hadn’t carved a hole in your chest and left you breathless in the wreckage. You were a contradiction. Light in a place he’d turned dark on purpose.

Still, he moved around you. Like a storm steering around a cathedral. Like a soldier tiptoeing through a garden he didn’t believe in. Until you skated into his path. He didn’t see you at first, he was locked in the repetition, the heartbeat-thunder of his blades slicing the world into before and after. But then, there you were, gliding in without hesitation, your body all poetry and provocation.

Sunghoon veered, instinct sharp and immediate. His edge caught. Balance tipped. His world lurched and for one heart-clenching second, he was weightless and helpless and human. He caught himself on the boards with a sharp breath, pain flashing down his leg like a warning flare. Behind him, your voice rose, bright, amused, infuriating.

“That was a triple lutz of fury. You okay, Mr. Thundercloud?” He turned slowly, every muscle tight with the effort not to snap.

“This is a hockey rink,” he bit out, eyes dark, voice heavy with disdain. “Not a ballerina recital.”

You just grinned, like you hadn’t heard the venom — or worse, didn’t care. “It’s called figure skating,” you replied, the words wrapped in sunlight and sarcasm. “But I’ll let the insult slide… this time.” He stared at you for a beat too long. You were smiling. Like you’d won something. Like this was a game and he was your opponent. And for the briefest, strangest moment, he forgot how to breathe.

Then he scoffed under his breath, muttered something bitter and small, and pushed off again away from your voice, your grin, your golden defiance. But your laughter followed him across the ice, light as snowfall, impossible to ignore. He skated harder. Faster. Angry at the sound. Angrier at the way it stayed. You were the flame he never meant to touch. But you’d already left blisters behind.

The house loomed before him, golden-lit and quiet in the blue hush of evening. Sunghoon stepped across the threshold like a soldier returning from war, though the battlefield had only been frozen water and a girl who laughed like she belonged to the light. He limped. Not dramatically he would never allow that but enough that each step sent sparks of fire through his knee. His leg was screaming, a symphony of torn sinew and stubborn pride. He didn’t slow. Wouldn’t. Not for pain. Not for anyone.

The frat house was unusually still for a Friday night. No bass shaking the walls. No shouted dares or the sound of someone racing through the halls with a fire extinguisher again. Just a soft, echoing quiet that pressed against the walls like an old quilt — threadbare, familiar. Heeseung was probably with his girlfriend, tangled up in the kind of love that softened even his sharpest sarcasm. And Jake, well, Jake had been quieter lately too. Ever since his girlfriend’s due date began casting long shadows across his smile. The house had learned to tiptoe around anticipation, around the hush of something sacred arriving.

Sometimes Jay played his guitar in the evenings, those bittersweet chords bleeding down the stairs like spilled wine. But tonight, there was no music. Only the faint crackle of something cooking and the rhythmic clink of a wooden spoon against a pot. Sunghoon followed the scent to the kitchen, where Jay stood at the stove in a hoodie and sweatpants, sleeves pushed to his elbows, stirring something that smelled warm and nostalgic, tomato sauce, maybe. Garlic. Something close to comfort.

Jay glanced up, eyes flicking to the limp before Sunghoon could hide it. “You okay?” he asked, brow creasing. “You’re pushing too hard again. You need to slow down.”

Sunghoon’s jaw clenched. The words hit like cold water, shocking, unwelcome. He dropped his stick against the wall with a dull thunk, the sound far too final. “I don’t need your concern,” he snapped, voice low, bitter. “And I sure as hell don’t need advice from the guy who kicked me off the team.”

Jay’s stirring paused. The kitchen seemed to hold its breath. “You weren’t kicked off,” Jay said carefully, like choosing the wrong word might light a fuse. “It’s a recovery period. You know that. It’s just protocol—”

“Protocol?” Sunghoon echoed, a scoff splitting the word in two. “You think I care what the official term is? You benched me, Jay. You and Coach. And now you want to play big brother?” Jay turned fully now, eyes steady but tired. “It’s not about playing anything. I care, Sunghoon. That’s why we’re doing this. You’re not ready yet.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“Someone has to.”

There it was. The truth, bare and blunt. And it cracked something in Sunghoon, something already splintered beneath the surface. He stepped back, breath short, throat tight with all the things he didn’t want to admit: that the rink didn’t feel the same, that he wasn’t sure he’d ever skate like he used to, that you haunted the corners of his mind like a flame that refused to go out. He turned on his heel, ignoring the flare of pain that shot up his leg. “Whatever. Just—keep your advice to yourself.”

And then he was out of the kitchen, storming up the stairs two at a time like he could leave the conversation behind if he moved fast enough. The pain chased him anyway. At the top of the landing, he paused, one hand on the railing, the other clenched into a fist. The house was silent again. Jay hadn’t followed. The scent of sauce still lingered, but it no longer smelled like comfort. It smelled like a life that was continuing without him.

He exhaled shakily. And behind his eyes, he saw the rink. Saw you. Spinning like the world was made of light. Smiling like you’d never been broken. He hated that it stayed with him. Hated it more that he wanted it to.

Your dorm room was warm in the way a lived-in space should be. Golden light pooled against the far wall like honey, slanting through the blinds in stripes, soft and sleepy. The hum of a quiet Friday night filtered in through the window, distant laughter, footsteps echoing down the hall, the occasional door creak or hallway chatter swallowed by plaster walls.

Ruka was where she always was at this hour, curled up at her desk like a monk in silent study, her headphones draped loosely around her neck, textbooks spread like sacred offerings across the surface. She barely glanced up when you opened the door, nose buried in something with a terrifying title, highlighter held like a dagger mid-stroke. You didn’t mind.

The two of you weren’t close, not in the way girls braided hair and whispered secrets into pillows at three in the morning. But there was a quiet kind of companionship in coexisting. She listened. You filled the air. She was younger than you, ran with a different crowd.

As always, you started talking. Words spilled from your mouth like marbles from an upturned jar, clattering over every thought you hadn’t had time to process. You flopped onto your bed and kicked off your shoes, legs hanging over the side like punctuation. “I swear the rink was cursed today. I could feel it in the air — like the ghosts of last season were judging me. And someone — won’t name names — almost ran me over. Again. Do I have a sign on my back that says ‘human speed bump’? Honestly, it’s impressive how fast he moves for someone with a busted knee. Like, hello? Take a nap, eat a granola bar, embrace mortality or something—”

You paused to take a breath, dragging your fingers through your hair. “Anyway,” you continued, flopping dramatically onto your back, staring up at the ceiling as if it held answers. “I survived. Mostly. Though Park Sunghoon nearly gave me frostbite with just a look. I swear, I’ve never seen someone skate like they’re mad at God.” That was when Ruka looked up.

It was subtle — a tilt of the head, a flicker of curiosity beneath her steady gaze. But you caught it. The way her highlighter froze mid-air. The way one perfectly arched brow quirked in delicate, deliberate motion. “Wait,” she said slowly, voice soft but edged with intrigue. “Park Sunghoon?”

You blinked, propping yourself up on your elbows. “Yeah?”

“The hockey player?”

You nodded, slower this time, as if each motion unlocked some hidden meaning. A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, so rare and quiet it felt like catching a butterfly mid-flight. “He’s really cute,” she said simply. “I kind of have a crush on him.” And just like that, the air shifted.

Not drastically, no thunderclap, no sudden gust, but in the way a still lake ripples when someone tosses a stone. The world tilted a few degrees. You stared at her. Not out of disbelief, but in the strange, dissonant surprise that came from hearing someone else say his name with softness instead of frustration. Because you had only ever spoken of Sunghoon with fire in your voice. Sharp-edged. Wry. Annoyed, mostly.

But Ruka’s words were wrapped in ribbon. Gentle. Blushing. You laughed, more to yourself than at her. “Well, that makes one of us.”

She looked at you then, really looked, head tilted, eyes curious. “You don’t think he’s cute?” You hesitated. The thing was… you didn’t know. Not really. He was all sharp lines and silent storms, the kind of boy who walked like he didn’t belong to the earth. Beautiful, maybe, but in the way wolves were, wild, cold, untouchable.

“I think,” you said finally, drawing each word like a thread between your fingers, “he’s complicated.”

Ruka smiled again, turning back to her textbook with a knowing kind of grace. “Those usually are.” And just like that, the moment passed. She was back to her quiet, and you were left staring at the ceiling again, wondering when his name had started tasting different in your mouth. Like something that might linger. Like something that might matter.

Monday morning clung to the world like a yawn that never quite finished. The sky was that dreamy kind of blue, the color of notebook margins and sleepy eyes, and you were already two sips into your iced coffee, pretending it had magical properties. Your lecture hall buzzed softly with life, pages flipping, keyboards clacking, the distant groan of someone remembering they had a quiz. You sank into your seat and opened your laptop, but your fingers hovered above the keys like dancers unsure of the next step. Your mind? Miles away. Lost somewhere between calculus and chaos.

“Okay,” you whispered to yourself, drawing shapes in the condensation on your cup. “Finals are coming. Sure. Death approaches in a syllabus-shaped cloak. But we’re gonna be fine. We’ve survived worse. Like that chem lab last semester. Or the time you accidentally locked yourself in the practice rink because you thought the red button opened the door. That was fun.” You laughed a little to yourself, a soft musical thing, then added quietly, “Sharing a rink with Park Sunghoon? Pfft. Easy. He’s just one very grumpy man with a stick. It’s basically like living with a thunderstorm. Moody, loud, and occasionally electric — but you bring an umbrella and move on.”

You told yourself this because optimism was your armor. Because the world was already heavy enough, and if you didn’t keep spinning, you feared you’d sink. And besides, you liked spinning. You liked believing that everything, in its own way, would bloom eventually. Your fingers tapped absent-mindedly on your notebook. You were mid-thought — something about figuring out a study schedule, maybe, with your chin resting in your hand, your eyes soft and unfocused, when the air in the room shifted.

Louder voices broke through the usual murmur like a crack of thunder across calm skies. You blinked, sat up straighter. At the back of the lecture hall, four silhouettes gathered in a tight circle. You recognized them instantly. Jay’s dark hair, Jake’s easy posture, Heeseung’s lazy slouch. And Sunghoon, standing like a blade half-drawn from its sheath, tension coiled in every muscle. Their voices weren’t loud loud, but they carried.

“I told you, I’m fine,” Sunghoon bit out, arms crossed like a shield. “You’re treating me like I’ve lost a leg.” Jay said something quieter — calmer — but you couldn’t make out the words. Sunghoon shook his head, jaw clenched.

“I’m not some kid who needs babysitting. I could be out there with you. But instead? I’m stuck skating in circles with the goddamn figure skaters.” The words hit like a slap. No warning. No mercy. You blinked once. Twice. You looked down at your notebook, at the spirals you’d been doodling that suddenly looked like a fall. Like something unraveling.

You weren’t surprised, not really. Not when you’d seen the anger in his shoulders, the way he moved like something had been carved out of him. Grief in motion. Frustration dressed in skates and scowls. Still, hearing it out loud… hurt. Just a little. Like biting into something sweet and finding the bitter underneath.

You forced a smile. Told yourself, He’s just mad. Just hurting. And people in pain say things they don’t mean. You knew that. You’d always known that. So you tucked the ache somewhere deep, beneath the layers of warmth you wrapped around your heart every day. You held your chin a little higher. Kept the sunshine burning in your chest even when the clouds gathered.

Because that’s what you did. You stayed soft. You stayed bright. Even when the world gave you every reason not to. You glanced back at them one more time, just long enough to catch the storm still brewing in his eyes. Then you turned away. And smiled again. Even though this one didn’t quite reach your eyes.

The late afternoon folded over the campus like a well-worn quilt, stitched in gold and quiet. Shadows stretched long and slow across the sidewalks, and the sky blushed softly, unsure whether it wanted to be day or night. You walked back to your dorm with your headphones on but no music playing, just the hush of your own thoughts echoing in the space between footsteps and fading sunlight.

The building was its usual self: scuffed floors, sleepy corridors, the scent of someone's attempt at instant noodles clinging to the stairwell air. You climbed the steps like you always did, counting them beneath your breath like charms.

One, two, three, four—everything will be fine.

Five, six, seven—you're stronger than this.

Eight, nine—just lace your skates and keep moving.

Your key clicked into the lock, the door creaked open, and — Silence. Stillness, not unfamiliar, but… different. Ruka’s side of the room sat in its usual state of meticulous calm. Bed made like a hotel sheet ad, her books aligned like soldiers on her desk. But the chair was empty. Her headphones were gone. Her little desk lamp, usually the only star in your shared little galaxy was off. Your brows furrowed. She wasn’t the type to vanish without a trace. She was quiet, sure. Steady as a heartbeat. But dependable as gravity. On Saturdays, she studied. With her color-coded notes and an herbal tea steaming gently beside her elbow. A ritual. A rhythm.

You dropped your bag onto your bed and stood for a moment, frozen between thoughts. The silence was thick, pressing at your ears like water, and you almost called out her name, just to hear a sound bounce back. But you didn’t. You let it go. People have lives. Maybe she went out. Maybe someone swept her into a spontaneous adventure, a brief rebellion against her usual constellations. Maybe she just needed to breathe outside these four walls. You told yourself all of this, gently, while pulling open your bottom drawer.

Inside, your skates gleamed dully in the late-day light, blades catching the edge of dusk. You ran your fingers over the laces, the leather warm from where your dreams lived inside them. Then you pulled out your duffel, began packing with practiced hands, pads, gloves, that ridiculous fleece-lined jacket you never actually wore but always brought just in case. Each item folded like a promise. Each zipper, a punctuation mark. Each movement, a ritual. This is how we prepare. This is how we carry on.

You glanced again at Ruka’s desk as you slung the bag over your shoulder, something quiet fluttering in your chest. Not quite worry, not quite longing. Just the awareness that something familiar had gone just a little bit strange.

You left the dorm with that feeling trailing behind you like a thread, caught in the breeze of your footsteps. Outside, the sky was starting to darken. Time to skate. Time to shine.

Even if someone else’s words still echoed like bruises in the back of your mind.

The rink was a cathedral of echoes when you arrived, cold light spilling from the overheads like moonlight dragged down to earth. You stepped through the side door with your duffel swinging low and your breath fogging in the air, a silent offering to the frozen gods of routine. The chill kissed your cheeks the moment you entered, familiar and unbothered by your presence. The ice welcomed you without question unlike the boy skating circles at the far end of the rink, cutting lines through frost like he was angry at the surface itself.

Park Sunghoon.

You saw him the moment you stepped through the arch of metal and fluorescent glow. Sharp lines of movement, precise but edged with frustration, like a dancer trying to turn fury into choreography. He didn’t look up. Of course, he didn’t. You might as well have been a ghost to him, a passing flicker in his periphery. And still… his words from this morning clung to you like fog to a mirror. “I’m stuck skating in circles with the goddamn figure skaters.”

You could’ve held onto that. Let it curdle in your chest. But you didn’t. You’d already chosen to let it melt like frost under sunlight. Because that was how you survived people like him, people with cold hearts and stormy eyes. You stayed warm. You stayed soft. Gooey, like a cookie. Even if his silence sliced like wind over bare skin.

You moved toward the bench in the corner, began lacing your skates with steady fingers. A familiar rhythm. Loop. Pull. Loop. Pull. You took a deep breath. Told yourself that the ice was still yours. That joy could still be found here. And then you stepped onto it. The rink hummed beneath your blades. You skated a gentle warm-up, smooth glides and soft turns, tracing patterns in silence like a painter laying down the first strokes of something that might become beautiful. You didn’t look at him. Not really. But you felt him, like a shadow trailing just out of view.

He kept his distance. Good. Let him.

You spun into your routine, finding the quiet joy in motion again. Practicing your turns, letting momentum carry you like a whispered secret. And then, a voice loud and shrill broke the icy silence between you two. “WOO! GO, SUNGHOON!” Your skate caught slightly on the edge of your turn, not enough to fall, but enough to blink you out of your trance. You slowed to a glide, turning toward the source.

There, in the bleachers near the glass, waving like she was at a concert and not a cold, half-empty rink, was none other than Ruka. Your brows lifted before you could stop them. She had swapped her usual hoodie-and-headphones look for something more casual-cute. Perched on the edge of the seat like a cat in a sunbeam. And her eyes? They were locked onto Sunghoon like he was something out of a dream she’d once dared to whisper aloud.

“Come on, you look great out there!” she called, clapping. “That last sprint? Totally NHL-worthy!” You blinked. Slowly. Sunghoon, mid-stride, skidded slightly, his jaw ticking as he looked over at her. Not a smile. Not a nod. Just the sharp exhale of a man who’d rather be anywhere else. His annoyance was visible in the set of his shoulders, the way he stared past her like she was fog on the glass, there but inconvenient.

Your heart tilted sideways in your chest. Not because of the awkwardness. Not because Ruka was cheering for the very boy who had called your world a joke in a voice laced with disdain. But because you saw him. You saw how he stiffened under her praise, how his skates moved sharper, faster, like he was trying to outskate her words. Like kindness grated on him more than silence. Like admiration was a language he didn’t know how to read.

You stayed still for a moment, one hand on your hip, the other brushing a strand of hair from your eyes. You watched the way he avoided your gaze with deliberate precision. Like even eye contact might unravel him. Then you took a breath. Pushed off. Returned to your own practice.

Because the ice didn’t belong to him. And your light didn’t need permission to shine.

Still, as you skated, you felt something settle into your bones. Not quite sadness. Not quite jealousy. Just… the sharp awareness that everyone wore masks. Even the ones who scowled at sunshine and rolled their eyes at laughter. Especially them.

The hours unfurled like ribbons across the ice, silver and slow. You and Sunghoon spun your separate galaxies across the same frozen sky, orbiting each other in careful silence. His skates tore into the rink with force, blades slicing like twin swords, while yours curved and dipped with the grace of moonlight slipping through branches. He was precision and thunder. You were rhythm and light.

You didn’t speak. Not once. But you felt him. And somehow, that was worse. Every time he passed, your chest tightened just a little, remembering the way his voice had clipped those words this morning, how he’d tossed your world aside with a single breath. But the cold has a way of preserving more than just bruises; it clears the mind, too. By the time practice wound to a close, your hurt had melted into determination, soft and fierce.

The locker room door creaked as you stepped off the ice. And there he was, Sunghoon, perched on the bench like a statue carved from winter itself. He sat hunched over his skates, fingers tugging sharply at the laces, his jaw tight, sweat painting constellations at his temple. You watched him for a beat. The way his leg trembled slightly. The sharp inhale when he shifted. Pain. Not just ghost pain, not the phantom ache of healing. Real. Present.

Your eyes narrowed, and the words came out before you could swallow them. “You’re doing it wrong,” you said, stepping forward, breath curling in the cold.

Sunghoon didn’t look up. “Doing what wrong?”

“Your stride,” you said, matter-of-fact but warm, like you were offering a cup of tea to a frostbitten soul. “That’s why your leg still hurts so bad. Your form’s all off.”

He finally glanced at you, those glacier eyes narrowing, irritation flickering just behind them like lightning beneath snowclouds. “I’m what?”

“You’re playing wrong,” you repeated, standing tall despite your worn skates, your cheeks pink from the chill and adrenaline. “You’re putting too much pressure on the outer part of your knee when you push off. You’re compensating for the pain, which is making it worse.”

He scoffed. “And you’re what, a doctor now?”

“Nope.” You smiled, brightly, undeterred. “Just someone who’s fallen on her ass about a thousand times. Figure skaters crash constantly, but we know how to angle our bodies so the impact spreads. It’s all physics. Leverage. Balance. Control.” He looked back down at his skates, tugging harder now, the muscle in his forearm twitching.

“I can help you, if you want,” you offered, genuine, hopeful, stubborn. “Just with the angles. Not to overstep. Just to help you skate without pain.” He didn’t answer right away. For a heartbeat, you thought maybe — just maybe — he was considering it. That something in his storm-cloud gaze might soften. Then he snorted. “No thanks, Sunshine.”

The nickname was sharp, but not cruel. More like a brush-off wrapped in thin sarcasm, tossed over his shoulder like a towel. He stood, grabbed his jacket, and limped toward the exit, each step radiating quiet fury. You watched him go, your hands still resting on your hips, heart stung but not shattered. Because here’s the thing about sunshine. It doesn’t need permission to rise. It just does.

So you exhaled. Smiled again, just for yourself. And whispered under your breath like a promise: “Tomorrow, then.” Because you weren’t done. Not even close. The ice hadn’t melted between you yet.

You slipped through the dorm door with your skates still swinging from your shoulder, the scent of cold clinging to your hair like snowflakes that refused to melt. The hallway was dim, the kind of golden hush that only existed in the sliver of hours between late afternoon and true evening, and the air in your room felt just a degree warmer than the rink, barely but enough to sting your fingers with returning blood. And there she was.

Ruka. Curled cross-legged on her bed, laptop open, notebooks spread like wings around her. Her hair was tucked into a low bun, earbuds in, and she was scribbling something down with a pencil that had been chewed nearly to death. For a moment, you paused in the doorway. Something felt…off. Not visibly. Not loudly. But you knew people the way skaters knew their balance points — by instinct. You could feel when someone had shifted, even if they looked the same. She didn’t look up when you came in.

Still, you offered a bright little sigh, a soft smile breaking across your face like morning light spilling across your pillow. “Hey, you disappeared before I left the rink.” You tossed your bag gently onto the floor and began tugging off your coat, the fabric whispering across your skin. “Didn’t even hear you leave. Were you skating again?” You played dumb, of course.

Ruka blinked at her notebook, then slowly pulled an earbud free. Her eyes met yours. cool, calm, unreadable. “I wasn’t skating,” she said simply.

You tilted your head, fingers pausing mid-zip on your hoodie. “Oh. So… what were you doing there?”

it was a harmless question. Light as air. But her answer landed like a stone. “Just watching.” She turned back to her notes like punctuation, and you blinked. Something in her voice had been dipped in frost. Not biting, but distant. Measured. Not her usual soft-spoken stillness, the kind that let you chatter through silences without ever feeling unwelcome. No—this was different. This was cold. You stood there for a beat, hoodie half unzipped, heart tilting a little sideways.

“Right,” you said, voice laced in artificial warmth. “That’s cool. I didn’t know you were a fan of the rink.” Ruka didn’t reply.

You let out a little laugh, quiet, the kind that fills a space just to prove you still can. And then, still smiling, you crossed the room and sat on your bed, your bones aching from practice, your mind unraveling in quiet questions. You didn’t press. You didn’t pry. That wasn’t your way.

But you thought about the way she had cheered earlier, about how her voice had filled the cold air with warmth meant for someone else. You thought about Sunghoon, skating like he could outrun something, and the way her gaze had followed him like he was the sun she’d never dared look at before. You lay back against the pillow, eyes on the ceiling. Sometimes, things shift before you see them coming. And sometimes, people surprise you in the quietest ways.

But still, you stayed kind. Stayed bright. Because even if the room was colder than you remembered, you refused to stop being the warmth.

The night had softened by the time Sunghoon made it back to the house, the sky bruised with the fading violet of dusk, and the air bit at his skin like it resented his stubbornness. His leg burned. Not the sharp, immediate pain of an old injury flaring, but the deep, heavy ache of something being pushed past its breaking point. Again.

The front door creaked open under his weight, and the warmth of the frat house spilled over him like syrup. thick and too sweet. Familiar voices tangled together just past the hallway. Laughter. The clink of plates. The low strum of Jay’s voice. He almost turned around. But pride is a chain wrapped around the ribs. And his wouldn’t let go. He stepped inside.

The living room glowed gold, lit by the low hum of lamplight and the occasional flicker of the muted TV. Jay was leaned back on the couch, an open water bottle in hand, while Jake sat beside his very pregnant girlfriend, who had her feet propped up on a pillow. Her belly rose like a gentle tide beneath her sweater, and her eyes shone with that ever-glowing light. soft, observant, and infinitely kind. Three heads turned as Sunghoon limped through the door, his hoodie half-zipped and damp with leftover sweat from practice.

“You’re limping worse than yesterday,” Jay said, always the captain, always the voice of reason.

Jake chimed in a beat later, his brows drawn in concern. “Why won’t you just rest, man? You’re not gonna heal if you keep pushing like this.” Sunghoon dropped his gear by the door with a heavy thud, his jaw tight, the pain crawling up his leg like a storm trying to find a place to land.

“I’m fine,” he gritted out, not looking at them. “I don’t need a lecture.”

Jay sighed, the sound edged with exhaustion. “It’s not a lecture, Hoon. It’s basic logic. You’re tearing yourself up out there. You think Coach Bennett’ll let you back in if you break yourself completely?”

Sunghoon turned, irritation flashing sharp and raw in his eyes. “I wouldn’t be ‘breaking’ if you hadn’t pulled me off the ice in the first place.”

“You’re not off the team,” Jay replied calmly, setting his bottle down. “You’re on a required recovery period.”

“The same thing,” Sunghoon snapped. “Don’t split hairs.”

A quiet cough cut through the tension, and Jake’s girlfriend — sweet as spring rain — shifted a little on the couch. “I think what they’re trying to say is… maybe listening to your body isn’t the worst idea,” she said gently, her voice like a balm. “I mean, sometimes we think we’re fine just because we want to be.”

It should’ve landed like comfort. But it struck like a match. “Mind your business,” Sunghoon said sharply, the words out before he could call them back. The room froze.

Jake’s head snapped around, his eyes flaring. “Hey. Don’t talk to my girl like that.” The silence that followed was molten. Sunghoon’s anger flickered, dimmed, and died out in a single breath. He stared at the floor, guilt pooling heavy in his chest like sleet.

“I didn’t mean…” His voice cracked, quieter now. “Sorry. That was—stupid. I’m sorry.” Jake’s girlfriend gave him a small, understanding smile. She always forgave too easily. That only made it worse.

Sunghoon grabbed his water bottle and turned away, shoulders stiff, shame clinging to him like another layer of sweat-soaked fabric. He climbed the stairs slowly, every step a needle driven into the muscle behind his knee. When he reached his room, he shut the door softly almost tenderly and stood there in the quiet, staring at nothing for a long moment. The pain was still there, pulsing like a second heartbeat. But deeper than that — beneath the bruised ego and the battered pride was something else.

Your voice, bright and persistent, kept echoing in his mind.

“You’re playing wrong.”“It’s all physics. Leverage. Balance.”“I can help you.”

Sunghoon ran a hand through his hair, fingers trembling just a little. It had sounded ridiculous earlier. But now, with the pain sharp and unrelenting, and the silence of the room pressing in like a judgment, your offer didn’t seem so foolish. Maybe it wasn’t pity. Maybe it wasn’t an insult. Maybe you actually knew what you were talking about.

He sighed and sat on the edge of his bed, leg stretched out in front of him like a broken line. The ice, the skates, the ache, the quiet praise you gave him even when he hadn’t earned it… it all blurred together. And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t try to push the pain away. He let it sit beside him like a mirror. Maybe see you again tomorrow. And maybe… he’d listen this time.

The sky was the color of wet pearls as you made your way to the rink, the kind of soft gray that promised rain but never delivered. Your skates were slung over your shoulder, biting at your hip with every step, and your breath came out in visible puffs that floated like little ghosts of determination. You were a girl on a mission, fueled by blind optimism and an unyielding belief that even the most frozen things could melt if you were warm enough, loud enough, kind enough. And Sunghoon? He was a glacier. But even glaciers cracked under time and pressure.

The door to the rink groaned open and welcomed you with that familiar chill, that bite of air laced with the perfume of ice and steel. You stepped in like it was a cathedral, reverent in your own way, eyes scanning the space that had become your evening altar. He was there. Already. Park Sunghoon. Laced in shadow and silence.

He sat on the bench near the boards, bent over his skates, fingers threading laces with a quiet intensity, jaw set like it was carved from marble. His hair was damp at the edges, the kind of mess that spoke of someone who didn’t care enough to fix it but hadn’t quite let go of vanity either. The light caught on the sharp curve of his cheekbone, and for a moment you paused just a moment because something about him looked… different. He looked Less angry. Or maybe just tired of being angry. You couldn’t figure out which was which.

You marched up anyway, smile already blooming like a sunflower on your face, warmth radiating off of you in a way the ice couldn’t fight. “Okay,” you said, breathless not from the cold but from the flurry of thoughts bursting behind your eyes. “Hear me out. I’ve been thinking and don’t roll your eyes, this is important I’ve been thinking that maybe, just maybe, you need me.” He didn’t look up. You didn’t let it stop you. “Your form is off. I’m not just saying that to be annoying. I mean, I am annoying, but not this time. You’re straining the wrong muscle groups and you’re compensating for your knee in a way that’s going to make it worse. You’re going to tear something again and then you really won’t be able to play. And I know, I know I’m just a figure skater and you think I don’t get it, but we fall for a living. Literally. And we fall well. We learn to twist midair so the ice kisses us instead of cracking us open, and I could show you, I could help you—”

“Okay.”

You blinked.

“What?”

Sunghoon finally looked up. His eyes met yours, dark and steady, but not cruel. Not cold. Just quiet. “I said okay,” he repeated, voice low but clear. “Meet me here. Every weekday. 6:30 p.m. sharp.”

You stared at him, stunned into something dangerously close to speechless. “Wait. Wait, did you — did you say yes?”

“I did.”

“Well don’t deny me — wait. What.” A ghost of a smirk, barely there, almost imaginary curved at the corner of his mouth. “Meet me here on time, Sunshine.”

You laughed, half in disbelief, half in relief, the sound tumbling out of you like birds startled into flight. “Sunshine, huh? You really can’t help yourself with the nicknames.” He stood then, tall and limping slightly, but not so much that you missed the way his frame shifted lighter. Like saying yes had peeled off a layer of armor. Like hope, when it finally arrived, it didn't have to announce itself loudly; it just had to be there. “6:30,” he repeated. “Don’t be late.”

You saluted with mock seriousness, grinning wide. “Sir, yes sir.”

He rolled his eyes and skated toward the ice, but this time… this time he didn’t avoid you. Not entirely. And just like that, a crack had opened in the glacier. Small. Fragile. But real. And you, all sun and stubbornness, were ready to shine straight through it.

The next day dawned with a sky stretched in pale watercolor, as if the heavens themselves were yawning awake. And you moved with purpose, energy stitched into your limbs like golden thread, skipping down the hallway with your skates in one hand and a banana in the other, mid-bite, mid-monologue about how today was going to be the day Sunghoon learned the art of surrender. Not to defeat — oh no but to gravity. To momentum. To pain that teaches rather than punishes.

The rink was quieter than usual when you arrived, its emptiness echoing with the soft hum of the refrigeration system beneath the ice. The air was its usual crisp kiss, sharp enough to sting but not to bruise. Sunghoon was already there, of course, punctual and pouting. He sat on the bench with his skate half-laced and his hoodie still on, like a knight begrudgingly preparing for a battle he didn’t believe in. You practically twirled in, dropping your bag with theatrical flair. “Alright, Captain Crankypants,” you called out, voice bright and bell-clear, “today we begin with the basics. Lesson one: how to fall like a pro.”

He groaned, long and low, as if your very presence was the headache he couldn’t shake. “You want me to fall? On purpose?” His eyes flicked up at you, unimpressed. “Yeah, that sounds super smart.” You beamed at him, entirely unbothered. “Not just fall. Fall well. There’s an art to it, you know. A science. A rhythm. You can’t just slam into the ground like a dropped dumbbell, you’ll wreck yourself that way.”

He scoffed, standing slowly, testing his weight on that healing leg with guarded precision. “Pretty sure falling’s the last thing I should be doing if I want to get back on the ice with my team.”

“But that’s exactly why you should,” you replied, tilting your head, as if the answer was written in the frost forming along the glass. “Because falling isn’t the problem, Sunghoon. It’s how you fall. We don’t learn to stop gravity. We learn to meet it, roll with it, get back up without it stealing anything more than our breath.” His eyes narrowed, a storm cloud gathering, quiet but looming. “That’s figure skating stuff.”

“Exactly,” you chirped. “Which is why you’re lucky you’ve got me.”

He looked at you like you were speaking in tongues. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Oh, absolutely,” you said, laughing as you tugged on your gloves. “But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.” With slow reluctance, like a stubborn mountain giving in to time, Sunghoon followed you onto the ice. His strides were careful, a ghost of his former fluidity trailing behind each push. You watched him move with a softness in your gaze, knowing he was fighting something far deeper than physical injury. He was mourning a version of himself that had been left behind in the locker room that day, when his knee gave out and the world fell with it. You stopped near center rink and turned to face him. “Okay. Watch me.”

You let yourself fall, dramatically and deliberately. A gentle twist of the hips, a tuck of the arms, a controlled slide that kissed the ice instead of collided with it. You rose just as quickly, nimble and unbothered. “See? Easy peasy, gravity is greedy but we’re smarter.”

He muttered something under his breath, something about this being ridiculous, but you caught the way his lips twitched, not quite a smile, not quite disapproval. Just… conflict. And curiosity. “Try it,” you said, your voice dipped in sugar and sunshine. “Don’t think. Just fall. Trust that I’ll teach you how to land softer.”

He hesitated, eyes flickering across the rink like it might mock him, like it might remember how once, not long ago, it had hurt him. But finally, with a sigh that could have been mistaken for wind, he crouched a little, awkward and stiff, and let himself go. It wasn’t perfect. Not even close. He landed with a thud and a grunt, half-turned and slightly off balance. But he didn’t scream. He didn’t wince. And he didn’t stay down. You clapped, delighted. “Not bad! You’ve got the makings of a Bambi-on-ice!”

He rolled his eyes, but he was sitting up now, flexing his leg, and something in his face had shifted. A flicker of belief. A spark of possibility.

You offered your hand. He didn’t take it. But he stood on his own. And that, in your eyes, was progress painted in frost and stubborn hope. Practice ended in a flurry of silence and exhale, the kind that leaves your lungs aching and your limbs trembling from exhaustion masked as endurance. The rink had settled into a sleepy hush, the overhead lights casting silver puddles onto the ice like pools of moonlight spilled from a weary sky. Sunghoon had spent most of the hour gliding just beyond your reach, stoic and brooding, a storm cloud in a jersey, orbiting your sunshine in quiet, reluctant circles. But progress had been made. Not in leaps or bounds, but in small things: the twitch of a smile that he didn’t quite manage to kill, the way he didn’t protest when you told him his weight distribution was off. Tiny steps, quiet victories.

You both sat now on the bench that bordered the rink, his skates half-untied, yours dangling from your fingers as you caught your breath. His hoodie clung to him in damp creases, his hair plastered to his forehead, and yet he still managed to look like he’d stepped out of some tragic poem. A sonnet of scraped ice and stubbornness. “So…” you began, voice light as lace, “about Ruka.”

He didn’t look at you, only furrowed his brows deeper into the shadows of his lashes. “Who?”

You turned slightly, lacing one skate in slow loops as you stole a glance at his profile. “The girl who was here the other day. Cheering for you like it was the Olympics.” Realization flickered across his face like lightning fast, dismissive. “Oh. The cheerleader.”

You laughed, not unkindly. “She’s not a cheerleader, she’s my roommate. And she might have a tiny little crush on you.” Sunghoon groaned, tipping his head back as if the ceiling above might offer him divine rescue. “Great. Just what I need.”

“What, adoration?” you teased, nudging his knee with yours. “Must be so hard.” He didn’t answer right away, his jaw working through something he didn’t say aloud. Finally, he muttered, “I don’t date.”

You raised a brow. “Really?”

“Hockey’s the love of my life,” he said, eyes sharp like ice shards, like truth he’d carved out long ago. “That’s enough for me.” You tilted your head, letting your hair fall like a curtain of gold and starlight across your cheek. “That’s a sad way to live,” you said gently, not accusing, just… observing. “Everyone deserves to love. To be loved.”

He looked at you then, a long, lingering look, as if trying to decide whether your optimism was a costume or a calling. “I do love,” he said, softer this time. “I love the game. That’s all I’ve ever needed.”

“But maybe you just haven’t met the right person yet,” you offered, voice barely more than a breath. He let out a short laugh — dry, not cruel. “Sounds like something out of one of those cheesy rom-coms you’d make me watch.”

You smiled, undeterred, pulling your coat tighter around you as the cold began to kiss at your skin. “You’d be surprised what stories can teach you.”

Sunghoon didn’t reply. He stood, the worn laces of his skates now untied completely, his posture tight, shoulders stiff with the ache he wouldn’t admit. He slung his bag over one arm and glanced at you, his expression unreadable under the dull glow of the rink’s overhead light.

“See you tomorrow,” he said, voice low.

“At 6:30,” you replied, standing too.

He nodded, already walking away, and you watched him disappear into the tunnel that led out of the rink, his shadow swallowed by silence. Still, even as the chill pressed into your bones and your breath misted in the air, you smiled. Because he hadn’t said no. And sometimes, that was the first word in a yes.

The frat house was pulsing, alive with sound and sweat and lights that flickered like epileptic stars. The bass thumped through the walls like a second heartbeat, the kind that didn’t come from within you but pressed on your ribs from the outside, trying to break in. It was the kind of night made for forgetting, flashing cups, flushed cheeks, dizzy laughter. But Sunghoon had nothing he wanted to forget, only things he was trying to survive. His body was a map of ache, his knee a smoldering ember, his back tensed and twisted, his temples drumming a painful rhythm. He should’ve gone to bed. Should’ve wrapped himself in the quiet and left the world to burn without him.

Instead, he pushed through the crowd, ignoring the limbs that bumped against his shoulders, the haze of perfume and cologne, the drunk declarations and loud, sloppy choruses of songs everyone pretended to know. The lights made everything look fake — skin too bright, eyes too glassy. He moved like a ghost among the living. The kitchen was a marginally calmer pocket of air, though even it buzzed with tension. Soobin stood near the counter, arms crossed, stoic in a way that looked practiced. Yunjin stood in front of him, animated, eyebrows tight and lips moving too fast, too sharp. Sunghoon didn’t catch the words, but the emotion slapped against the tile floor like broken glass. Love turned into a battlefield over cheap beer and pride.

Heeseung leaned against the fridge, sipping something bright and unholy from a red plastic cup, and Jay stood beside him, eyes flicking from Soobin and Yunjin to Sunghoon with a practiced detachment. “Rough night?” Heeseung asked, his tone too casual to be innocent.

Sunghoon didn’t answer. He glanced at the tension in the room, the cracked silence in Soobin’s stance, the hurt in Yunjin’s voice. “What’s their deal?” he asked, jerking his chin in their direction. Jay shrugged, reaching for a half-empty bag of chips. “Who knows. Been like that all week.”

“We try not to get involved,” Heeseung added, a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. Sunghoon gave a noncommittal grunt and moved to grab a water bottle from the counter. The cold plastic stung his palm, grounded him for a second. The kitchen smelled like too many people and too many drinks, but it was better than the noise outside.

Jay leaned in slightly. “Hey, by the way — a girl was walking around asking for you earlier.”

At that, something in Sunghoon stuttered some quiet spark of thought, unspoken and unacknowledged. His mind flicked to you, impossibly bright and smiling, always halfway through a sentence, your words cotton candy and conviction. It was a fleeting hope, gone before he could even name it. Then Jay nodded toward the hallway, where Ruka stood, wearing confidence like perfume and eyeing the room like she owned it.

Sunghoon’s mouth twisted. The little spark of hope snuffed out before it could catch flame. “Of course,” he muttered. He didn’t wait for her to notice him. He turned on his heel and left the kitchen, weaving back through the crowd, avoiding her gaze like it might pierce him. He wasn’t in the mood for polite smiles or coy compliments, not in the mood to be someone else’s fantasy when he couldn’t even bear being himself right now.

He was almost free, fingers brushing the door to his room, sanctuary just a heartbeat away when her voice cut through the noise behind him. “Sunghoon, wait.”

He froze. Not in obedience, but in dread the way a predator might freeze in the moment it realizes it’s been cornered. He didn’t turn around. Didn’t slow. Just kept walking, because if he didn’t look at her, maybe she’d vanish into the static of the party behind them. But Ruka didn’t vanish. She chased. Her heels clicked across the floor like punctuation in a sentence he didn’t want to read. Then her hand was on his arm — cloying, too warm, too familiar. He yanked away from her grasp like her touch burned. And maybe it did. Maybe everything burned lately.

She flinched at his reaction, then softened her voice into something apologetic and breathy, practiced like a song she’d sung too many times. “I’m sorry, okay? I just— I wanted to say something.” He said nothing, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the stairwell. “She’s not who you think she is,” Ruka said then, her voice low but sharp, like a knife being slipped between the ribs. “That girl you’ve been skating with. All that sunshine and sparkle? It’s a show. She’s not that happy. She's actually really depressing.”

The words echoed strangely in the space between them, bouncing off the noise of the house and falling like lead at his feet. Sunghoon turned then, slowly, like something ancient and brimming with wrath. His face was calm, but his eyes — his eyes held storms. Not the kind that pass, but the kind that drown entire cities. “Mind your business,” he said, his voice cold enough to crack glass.

Ruka blinked, taken aback. Maybe she’d expected amusement. Maybe she thought he’d nod in agreement or laugh, or at the very least, care. But he didn’t laugh. And he did care and that infuriated him even more. He didn’t wait for her response. He turned and stormed back down the stairs, shoving past strangers with empty smiles and red plastic cups. The house felt suffocating, bloated with sound and people and things he didn’t have the patience for. His skin felt tight, his heart loud, his thoughts louder.

Why did it bother him? Why did her words sink under his skin like a splinter?

She didn’t know you. Not really. Not the way he’d started to. Not in the way you spoke about falling like it was an art form, not in the way you tried to fix him like he was something worth mending. He shoved out the front door, the cold air biting at his skin like it, too, had something to prove. His breath left in bursts of fog, pain pulsing behind his kneecap as if to remind him of every bruise he carried, every truth he refused to name.

He walked towards the diner that nearly everyone frequented on campus. Hoping and praying for some sense of solace.

The booth by the window smelled of syrup and coffee and the kind of late-night grease that clung to the bones of a day too long lived. The diner was warm in the way a memory is warm, buzzing neon lights humming above like lullabies, and the soft clink of forks on ceramic drifting through the air like wind chimes in a storm's lull. You sat alone, chin propped up in your palm, tracing swirls in the condensation of your water glass, legs still sore from practice but your spirit untouched, untouched the way a flame dances even after the wax is nearly gone. Your plate was half full, pancakes cut into clumsy quarters, syrup pooling in the valleys. You were halfway through recounting your own day in your head out loud, of course, because silence had never been your companion when the bell above the door rang.

You looked up. The words on your tongue stuttered into stillness. Sunghoon. It was Sunghoon.

Still dressed in the hoodie he’d been wearing at the rink, his hair damp with sweat or melted frost, eyes dark with something that stormed just beneath the surface. He paused when he saw you, shoulders sinking with theatrical dread. Of course, he thought. Of course you’d be here, light personified, smile too wide for the hour and heart too open for someone who’d barely gotten a thank you out of him.

“Sunghoon!” you beamed, like the sky had cracked open just to drop this moment into your lap. Your voice, effervescent as soda fizz, bounced toward him like a pebble skipping across water. He groaned. It was low, dramatic, and pulled from somewhere that wanted desperately to be annoyed, but didn’t quite make it. “Of course you’re here.”

“Where else would I be?” you grinned, motioning to the seat across from you like you’d always meant it for him. “So… what brings you to this fine establishment at such a glamorous hour?”

“I was hungry,” he deadpanned, walking over with the kind of gait that whispered of pain. He didn’t explain the limp, didn’t bother to soften his tone. “Why else would someone come to a diner?” Your smile didn’t waver. If anything, it grew.

“Touché,” you said, then leaned in with a twinkle in your eye. “Want to sit with me?”

He opened his mouth, likely to decline with something sarcastic and sharp-edged, but the words caught on the way out. Maybe it was your smile, or the glow of the booth light painting soft halos in your hair, or maybe — though he’d never admit it —i t was just that being near you quieted something in him, something he didn’t know needed quieting. “Sure,” he muttered.

He slid into the seat across from you, his movements slow, like each inch of space between pain and stillness had to be negotiated. You didn’t mention the way he winced as he sat. You just smiled again, folding your hands in front of you like this was a normal thing, the two of you, alone together in a corner of the night that didn’t feel so lonely anymore. Sunghoon didn’t tell you what Ruka had said. He didn’t tell you how it sat on his chest like a stone, how her voice echoed in his skull like wind through a cracked window. Because it wasn’t his to say. And because, deep down, he already knew it wasn’t true.

He saw you fall on the ice and rise again like it was a song your body knew by heart. He heard the way your laughter curved around your words and the way your voice filled silence with life, not noise. No — whatever Ruka thought she knew of you, it was only a fraction, and not the kind he cared to carry. Instead, he stared down at your plate, brows raised.

“Pancakes at midnight?” he asked.

You shrugged, delighted. “Midnight pancakes fix all problems. Haven’t you heard?”

He smirked then, small, fleeting. Like sunrise just peeking over frostbitten windows. “Heeseung says that all the time.”

“Well he sounds like a pretty smart guy.” You quirked, picking at your pancakes leisurely.

Sunghoon huffed a laugh — small but still there. “Sure.” For a while, the two of you sat in something not quite silence, not quite conversation, but alive and breathing all the same. And in the quiet hum of syrup-sticky booths and flickering neon signs, something invisible began to shift. The hiss of the coffee machine behind the counter had become a kind of lullaby, murmuring softly beneath the quiet chatter of the few remaining night owls nestled into booths and barstools. Across from you, Sunghoon picked at the edge of a sugar packet, his fingers deft and idle, not quite meeting your eyes, but listening in that particular way he always did, like he was preparing to argue but got caught up in your melody instead.

You sat across from him, legs tucked under you like a child curling into a story, your face glowing with the heat of possibility rather than the diner’s neon haze. And he watched you, not that he’d admit it. Not that he knew what to do with someone like you. “I’m going to make the podium this year,” you said, sudden and certain, stabbing a lone pancake piece with your fork like it was fate itself. “I don’t care what place. Bronze, silver, first runner-up to the crowd favorite. I just want to stand there, see the crowd, and know I didn’t fall flat.”

Sunghoon blinked at you. “Figure skating finals?”

You nodded, then grinned. “The big ones. My coach calls it the crown jewel. The end of the season, the whole year in a single performance. I tanked last time. fell on my opening jump and never recovered. My blade caught the edge, and it all spiraled. Couldn’t hear the music over the panic. I was supposed to shine and instead I… dulled.”

The words weren’t bitter, just honest. You spoke of failure with a sort of reverent gentleness, as if it were a bruise you had long since accepted. It surprised him how freely you gave that part of yourself away. No dramatics. No self-pity. Just truth. He leaned forward, arms crossed on the table. “And you’re trying again?”

“Of course.” Your voice was light, but sure. “I owe it to the version of me that cried backstage and promised to do better. I owe it to the dream that didn’t die just because I messed up once. Besides, we fall all the time in figure skating on ice, off ice. You just get up and do it again.” Something in him shifted at that. The ice in his chest cracked a little more, as if the warmth in your voice could thaw even the places he'd long buried under frost and fury.

You caught the flicker in his eyes and smiled, like sunshine breaking through cloud cover. “Don’t look at me like I’ve grown a second head. You’re the one always brooding like the main character in a sports anime.” Sunghoon rolled his eyes, but the edge was gone. He stared at the last of his fries, then slowly pushed the plate aside. “You’re weird,” he muttered, almost like it was a compliment.

You beamed, unbothered. “Takes one to know one.” And just like that, between the flicker of fluorescent lights and the taste of melted syrup, the world felt a little less heavy. He didn’t tell you about Ruka. He didn’t mention the ache in his knee or the fact that, for the first time in a long while, he hadn’t felt like lashing out or retreating. He just sat there, listening to you talk about your music selection and how you were planning to bedazzle your new competition costume yourself “with enough rhinestones to blind the front row” and something quiet inside him settled.

He didn’t believe in miracles. But maybe… maybe he could believe in second chances. Especially the ones that came in the shape of bright eyes, chipped diner mugs, and a voice that refused to give up. Even on him.

The night air was a velvet hush wrapped around the world, stitched with distant traffic and the occasional hum of streetlamp flicker. The diner door swung shut behind you both with a bell's chime like the last note of a lullaby. Outside, the cold kissed your cheeks and painted your exhales into fleeting ghosts, trailing behind you like forgotten sentences. You walked beside him, your boots crunching gently over old salt and fractured pavement, the glow of the diner still soft behind you. He walked with his hands buried deep in his coat pockets, shoulders tense, as if he were always prepared for winter — even in spring.

But you, you carried warmth like it bloomed from your chest. You talked, because silence begged to be filled and your thoughts were too colorful to keep caged. "I always liked walking at night," you began, voice barely louder than the rustle of your jacket. "When I was little, my dad used to say the stars came out just to eavesdrop on our dreams. I used to whisper to them before bed. Tell them everything I was too scared to say out loud." Sunghoon said nothing, only shifted slightly, head tilted as though your words trailed behind his ears like music on low volume. His footsteps matched yours, deliberate, steady. Listening. Always listening.

You glanced up at the sky, where stars flickered shyly through the sprawl of city haze. “Some nights, when I’m scared before a competition, I still talk to them. Like, ‘Hey, I know I biffed the last triple loop but if you could just not let me crash this time, that’d be amazing.’” You laughed lightly. “They’re probably tired of hearing about my spiral sequences.” He almost smiled. Almost. You kept going, because silence in his company no longer felt daunting, only deep. A pool that welcomed your words, let them sink in, soak through. He didn’t need to speak. He just needed to be there, and somehow, he was.

“I don’t think people realize how lonely it is to try to be great,” you mused. “Everyone sees the sparkle, the applause, the medals. But they don’t see the bruised knees. The missed meals. The days where you cry on the cold rink floor because you can’t land a stupid jump you’ve done a thousand times. Sometimes I wonder if I’m just chasing a spotlight that’ll burn me up before I ever reach it.” Still, no answer. Just his steady breath beside you, vapor blooming and vanishing. But his eyes had that quiet fire, the kind that flickered only for the things that mattered.

“I think… that’s why I don’t let myself stay down. Because even when it hurts, I still want it. Not the spotlight. Just the chance. To be better. To feel like I’m flying again, even if only for four minutes.” The street turned quieter, the neighborhood dipping into darker corners, sleepy houses pressing close together like secrets being kept warm. You stole a glance at him then, expecting — what? A laugh? A scoff?

But Sunghoon’s gaze was forward, brows drawn in thought. He didn’t look at you, but he didn’t walk faster, either. He stayed at your side like a shadow that had chosen you. And then, after a silence long enough to count heartbeats, he said, low and rough, “What’s your program this year?”

You blinked, surprised by the breach in his usual barricade. “It’s set to Clair de Lune,” you said quietly, suddenly shy. “I wanted something soft this time. Something like… falling in love with the sky.” He nodded once. Just once. And somehow, it felt like the biggest applause. You didn’t need him to say more. You didn’t need him to match your sunshine with light. He was the stillness where your words could echo and not be lost. And for that, you walked beside him in silence the rest of the way, the night folding around you both like a promise waiting to be made.

The night had mellowed into something hushed and golden, a quiet that settled over your shared footsteps like falling petals. The city exhaled slowly, as if sighing into sleep, and still you walked beside him, two shadows drawn in parallel ink, aligned but never touching. Then, out of the hush, his voice rose like a single note plucked from a cello string, low and sudden. “What’s your deal with Ruka?”

You blinked, startled by the sound, by the question, by the way his words cut through your stardust-thoughts like a falling star slicing the sky. You turned to him with raised brows, lips parted with a breath that hadn’t yet become a word. “Ruka?” you echoed, the name tasting foreign when it came from your mouth.

He didn’t look at you, just kept walking, hands still in his pockets, his jaw set like stone worn smooth by time. It didn’t sound like idle curiosity. But then again, nothing about Park Sunghoon ever felt idle. You wrapped your arms around yourself, not because of the cold, but because something inside you had curled up, uncertain.

“Oh, um. We’re not really close,” you said, the words spilling like marbles rolling across a hardwood floor — easy, but a little scattered. “She’s my roommate this year, just this year. My last roommate, Sakura, graduated early. We were kind of inseparable.” You smiled faintly at the memory, soft and aching. “She used to help me with my hair before competitions. Always had a bobby pin in her pocket, even if we were just going to the store. I miss her.”

He said nothing, just nodded once. The moonlight caught his profile and painted it silver. “She’s really smart, Ruka,” you went on, feeling the silence ask for more even if he didn’t. “Always has her headphones in. Always studying. We talk sometimes, but mostly she just… lets me ramble. Which, you know, I tend to do.” You gave a light laugh, hoping the sound would cut the tension, soften the edges.

But he didn’t laugh with you. He didn’t look at you. Just nodded again, like your words were being filed away in some hidden drawer inside him. And for a moment — brief and bitter and fleeting you felt a twinge. A single pulse of something dark and unfamiliar. It settled beneath your ribs like a secret. Jealousy. You didn’t want to call it that. You didn’t want to name the way your throat tightened when he asked about her, or the way your heart gave a suspicious little stutter at the thought of her name brushing his interest.

Did he like her? The thought was ridiculous. Maybe. Maybe not. But it lodged in your chest like a thorn. And what surprised you most wasn’t the question. It was how much it mattered. You shook the feeling off with a practiced smile, the kind you wore in the mirror before competition, the one that told the world everything was okay, even if your knees were shaking.

“She’s alright,” you said, voice light, breezy, so casual it almost disguised the knot in your gut. “But I think she prefers silence. I talk too much for her taste.” Still, he said nothing.

And you wondered, as the two of you drifted past sleeping houses and rustling trees, if you could ever stop wanting to know what was running behind his quiet eyes. Maybe he’d never say it. Maybe he didn’t even know it himself. But tonight, walking beside him through the tender hours of the dark, you wished he’d turn and say something that would loosen the twinge in your chest. Instead, he walked on. Still and silent. And you matched his pace, wondering if maybe that was enough. At least for now.

The dorm room welcomed you with the kind of stillness that felt staged, like a scene waiting for the actors to step into place. The air was warm, tinged faintly with lavender and printer ink, the signature scent of shared space and sleepless study. You slipped inside quietly, the door closing behind you with a hush instead of a click. For once, your voice didn’t follow you in.

You didn’t start with a story or a sigh, didn’t fill the silence with your usual cascade of chatter about a late-night craving or a skater’s cramp or how the moon had looked like a sugar cookie on the walk back. No, tonight you simply moved through the space like a ghost of yourself soft-footed, uncharacteristically quiet. Ruka was there, as always, hunched over her desk like a cathedral of discipline, shoulders drawn tight under the glow of her desk lamp. Her highlighter moved like a slow metronome across the page, precise and deliberate. But when you entered without a word, she paused.

You didn’t notice at first. You were too focused on your routine kicking off your shoes, dropping your bag by the door, tucking your food container into the small fridge like you were sealing away the last hour of your night. The remnants of warm laughter and cool night air still clung to your skin, even as the fluorescent light washed everything colorless. It was only when she turned, slow and deliberate that you met her gaze. “I went to see Sunghoon tonight,” she said, her voice smooth but wrapped in something slippery. Something rehearsed.

You blinked. Tilted your head. “Oh?”

She nodded, looking back at her notes for a second like they might give her the courage to lie again. “Yeah. We talked for hours at his party. I just left from seeing him.” The words hung there like wet clothes on a line, dripping, sagging under the weight of their own fabrication. And you knew. You knew in the marrow of your bones, in the quiet thrum of your heartbeat still synced to the rhythm of footsteps beside Sunghoon’s. You knew because you had just walked home with him, the ache of his silence still pressed like thumbprints into your thoughts. But you said nothing.

You didn’t call her out or laugh or ask her why she thought you wouldn’t notice the lie curling like smoke between her syllables. You didn’t say, “Actually, I just walked home with him,” or, “That’s strange, he didn’t mention you.” No. Instead, you sat down at your desk, unzipping your jacket, fingers steady as you untied your shoes. You offered her a smile — small, polite, hollow in the middle and said, “That’s nice.”

Ruka turned back to her notes, and you turned to face the wall, blinking slowly as if you could paint over the moment with enough quiet. And though you didn’t say it out loud, a strange new feeling began to settle beneath your ribs, something like suspicion, something like sadness. Not because of the lie itself, but because you couldn’t understand why she’d told it. What purpose it served. What it meant. But more than that, what unsettled you the most was how your heart gave the tiniest tug at the idea that she wanted Sunghoon to herself. That maybe, just maybe, she knew you were starting to want him too. And you hated how that made you feel.

By the time Sunghoon returned to the frat house, the storm of music and voices had softened into something gentler like rain losing its temper. The halls no longer throbbed with bass, just pulsed quietly with leftover laughter, the clink of bottles, the occasional shriek from the living room where someone was trying to revive a dying game of beer pong. The air smelled like stale cologne, cheap beer, and exhaustion.

He pushed through the front door, body aching in ways he didn’t dare name, shoulders stiff with memory. The walk home had helped, a little. The diner even more so. Or maybe it wasn’t the diner, it was you. That smile. That damn voice of yours, all melody and motion, coloring every dull corner of his night until it looked like morning. He hadn’t even meant to go out. He just couldn’t stay there, not after the lies that curled out of Ruka’s mouth like perfume.

Heeseung was sprawled across the couch with a bag of chips, half-asleep and still wearing his shoes. Jay sat nearby, nursing a water bottle like it was whiskey, his guitar leaning against the side table, untouched. They looked up when Sunghoon walked in, both of them clocking the shift in him, the unbrushed hair, the frown lines that had softened just barely, like something had tried to loosen their hold. Jay raised an eyebrow. “Where’ve you been?”

“Diner,” Sunghoon muttered, heading toward the kitchen to grab a glass of water. His muscles cried out as he moved, his knee barking like it wanted to collapse. “You missed the show,” Heeseung said through a yawn. “Your little fangirl was here. Again.”

Jay snorted. “Ruka. She was asking around for you. Whole place thought she’d get a kiss out of you before midnight.” Then came the question, as casual as it was crude, tossed out like a beer can into a bonfire.

“So?” Jay leaned back, grinning. “You tap that?”

The words hung in the room like fog, heavy and misplaced. Sunghoon didn’t even look up from the sink as he filled his glass. He stood still for a breath. Then another. “Hell no,” he said flatly. “I just went to the diner.”

it wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t even irritated. It was simply true delivered with the sharp edge of certainty. A line drawn clean in the dirt. Jay let out a low whistle. Heeseung chuckled under his breath. “Didn’t know you were such a gentleman.”

Sunghoon didn’t answer. He just sipped his water, jaw tense, eyes fixed on a spot on the counter like he was trying to smooth it out with sheer will.

Because what he didn’t say not to Jay, not to Heeseung, not even to himself was that he didn’t want Ruka. Had never wanted her. Not with her lipsticked lies and her eyes that always seemed to be searching for attention like it was currency. And yet, somehow, your voice kept echoing in his head like a melody he didn’t want to forget. “Falling is inevitable unless you can stop gravity.” He couldn’t stop gravity. Not on the ice. Not in his chest. And it was starting to terrify him.

Monday came with the bite of wind and the soft shiver of pre-dawn blue, the kind of chill that kissed your skin and whispered promises of something new. The rink sat like a cathedral of silence, your shared sanctuary of sweat and bruised ego, laughter and aching limbs. The boards were cold. The air was colder. But you… you were warm, incandescent, still grinning as you laced your skates with hope braided into every loop.

Sunghoon was already there, stretching his legs like the world had done him a personal disservice. He looked like he hadn’t slept well, but his eyes those, wintry things, found you easily, like a compass that refused to point anywhere else. His movements were stiff, his expression unreadable, but he didn’t complain as you chirped about your new routine, about your bruised knee from the spin you biffed on Saturday, about how this week felt like the start of something. He didn’t say much. He rarely did. But he skated. And fell. A lot.

You counted at least thirteen crashes before you stopped keeping score—some clumsy, some oddly graceful, all equally frustrating for him. Each time, he’d scowl, curse under his breath, and brush himself off like he was made of pride stitched too tight. But you never stopped encouraging him, your words a steady stream of sunlight spilling through his clouds.

“Better!”

“That fall was cleaner!”

“You angled your shoulder perfectly!”

He looked at you like you were ridiculous. Which, maybe, you were. But you were ridiculously happy to be here. With him. By the time the clock curled toward the last stretch of practice, he’d finally done it. Not a fall, but a landing. A descent that didn’t jar his bones, one where his body absorbed the impact like water receiving rain, smooth, natural, right. You gasped and your joy exploded out of you, bright and loud and uncontainable.

“You did it!” you cheered, skates clattering against the ice as you skidded over to him. “You actually did it, Sunghoon!”

He looked up from where he was still crouched slightly, his breath misting the air, eyes wide. And for the first time, the very first time, he smiled. It wasn’t a smirk. It wasn’t that half-tilted, cynical curl he used when he was being sarcastic or amused. It was real. Unburdened. And somehow, it made him look like a boy again, soft-edged, bright-eyed, touched by something other than pain or pressure. The moment lingered. Too long.

His smile stayed, your breath caught in your throat like a fluttering thing. The distance between you thinned until there was only the sound of the ice humming beneath your skates, and then, Then you kissed him. You didn’t think. You didn’t plan it. You just leaned forward, heart drumming in your chest like a war cry and a lullaby all at once, and kissed him — soft and sure, like the ice beneath your feet had whispered that you wouldn’t fall.

But he didn’t kiss you back.

You pulled away instantly, horror creeping into your chest like cold water. “Oh my god—I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—well, I did, but not like that—I mean I wasn’t trying to—ugh—Sunghoon, I just got caught up in the—” And then he was kissing you. Fast. Sure. No warning, no wind-up, just his lips on yours like punctuation, like a sentence he’d been writing in his head for days but didn’t know how to say out loud. You blinked when he pulled back. He looked stunned, maybe a little dazed. You were definitely breathless. And then, as if nothing had happened, you both went back to skating. Circling each other like stars in orbit silent, spinning, on fire. Neither of you mentioned the kiss. But neither of you forgot it.

Outside the glow of the floodlights, just beyond the fragile safety of the rink’s boards, a shadow lingered silent and still like frost waiting to bloom. Ruka stood there, tucked in the hollow between concrete and glass, her presence cloaked by the buzz of overhead lamps and the trance of celebration that unfolded before her. She hadn’t meant to come. She had only wanted to stop by, to catch another glimpse of him, of Sunghoon in that candid, breathless space where his armor sometimes slipped. Maybe she would pretend it was a coincidence again. Maybe she’d bring him something warm, an excuse wrapped in a paper cup and a shy smile. But what she saw was not Sunghoon alone.

Through the gleaming haze of the ice, through the rhythm of blades carving truth into frozen ground, she saw you. Beaming. Radiant in your joy. And she saw Sunghoon — grinning back. Not his usual strained grimace or practiced smirk. No, this smile was something else. Real. Unearthed. Unearned, in her eyes. And then, the kiss. Her breath caught like a gasp in winter wind. She pressed her palm flat against the glass as if to steady herself, as if to break through the divide between her and what she saw, a moment that didn’t belong to her but felt like it should have. That soft, charged touch of lips in the heart of the rink burned like a betrayal, even if no promises had ever been made to her. It was a kiss that seemed to split the ice beneath her feet. And she hated how gentle it was, how true.

The rage came slowly, like an icicle forming drip by bitter drip. A seethe in her gut. A fire in her lungs. She had spent so much time watching, studying, calculating, positioning herself at just the right angle to catch his eye. She knew the timing of his strides, the way his brows furrowed when he was lost in thought. She had noticed him long before you had ever touched the same ice. And yet it was you — scatterbrained, sunny, ever-yapping you — that he kissed.

She backed away, breath coming out in little bursts of fog, eyes trained on the scene unfolding before her like a play she hadn’t auditioned for but still wanted a lead in. She didn’t care that he pulled away quickly. She didn’t care that you stammered your apology. All she could see was the connection, the tether stretching invisible and unbreakable between your smile and his rare, reluctant joy. She could feel the bitterness pool in her chest like ink in water, spreading fast and without mercy. You hadn’t seen her. Neither had he. You never noticed the fracture blooming quietly in the corner of the world you shared. But she did. And it stung, not because it was love lost, but because it never even had the chance to begin.

The walk back to the dorm felt like treading on the edge of a dream, your feet barely touching the ground, your breath catching on the remnants of laughter that still lingered like glitter in your chest. The night air was cool, brushing your cheeks like a secret, the kind that only stars overhead seemed to know. You tucked your hands into your coat pockets, smiled like a secret was blossoming behind your lips, and tilted your face skyward, as if asking the moon to keep your moment safe. You had kissed him. Or maybe the moment kissed you, soft and strange and suspended in time, like a snowflake caught mid-fall. It didn’t matter who leaned in first, or that he hesitated, or that nothing had been said after. What mattered was the way the world tilted after. The way his eyes had widened before he kissed you back like something inside him had cracked open. Like he’d been waiting all along but just didn’t know it. Something had changed, undeniably and irreversibly, and it made your limbs feel like cotton, your thoughts like honey.

There was a shift now. Subtle but seismic. You could feel it humming in the soles of your feet, echoing in the memory of the moment. You didn’t know what it meant yet, not exactly but something had softened between you two, and in that softness, you found a kind of quiet joy. When you reached your building, you entered with the reverence of someone carrying something precious. The hallway lights buzzed faintly, and your steps echoed gently down the corridor, a rhythm almost musical in its contentment. You reached your door and turned the knob, half-expecting to see Ruka with her usual mess of notebooks and headphones, wrapped in her silent storm of thoughts and solitude. But the room was empty.

The lights were off save for the sliver of streetlamp that painted silver lines through the blinds. The air was still, undisturbed. Ruka’s bed was neatly made, her chair tucked in, her world untouched. And for once, you were grateful. You slipped inside and let the door close behind you with a soft click, as if trying not to disturb the fragile bubble that wrapped around your joy. There was something beautiful in the quiet, something that gave you space to breathe, to process, to smile without anyone asking why. You moved slowly, deliberately, putting away your things, peeling off layers like petals until only your giddy little heart remained.

And then, standing there in the low light, you allowed yourself to relive the glide of your skates, the crispness of the air, the look on his face just before he closed the distance. You pressed your fingers gently to your lips, almost to confirm they still tingled. It didn’t matter that you hadn’t spoken about it. Not yet. It mattered that it happened. It mattered that, for the first time in a long time, your heart felt like it had been seen. And for that, you let yourself float just a little longer on the dream of it all.

The walk home was quiet, but for once, it didn’t feel heavy. Sunghoon’s limbs ached as usual, the kind of ache that seeped into marrow and muscle and made itself at home but tonight, it was quieter. Like even the pain had decided to take a breath, loosen its grip on his body and allow him a moment of peace. There was a strange calm moving through him, something light and unfamiliar. His mind replayed that kiss, not obsessively, but gently, like turning over a smooth stone in his pocket. The softness of your lips. The way you smiled before it happened. The burst of something warm and startling that bloomed in his chest when you leaned in, and even more so when he kissed you back. Like an ember flickering to life in a long-cold hearth. He didn’t want to overthink it, and yet, it sat with him now — steady, glowing, undeniable. But as the frat house came into view, that flickering warmth began to dim. She was there.

Perched like a stormcloud on the stone steps, her knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them, face streaked with tears that glistened under the porch light. Ruka. Her presence felt like a sudden cold front, a sharp drop in temperature, a wind that bit instead of kissed. Sunghoon paused at the edge of the sidewalk, every instinct screaming at him to turn around and disappear into the dark. But she looked up. And she saw him.

He kept walking. Slow, steady, bracing himself. The steps creaked beneath his weight as he stopped in front of her. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice low and laced with quiet exhaustion.

Ruka sniffled, wiping at her cheeks with the sleeve of her too-expensive cardigan. “I saw you,” she said, voice breaking on the edge of accusation. “I saw you guys… kissing.”

Sunghoon blinked at her, unimpressed. “Okay?” he answered flatly, as if that alone should be the end of it. But of course, it wasn’t. “She’s a fraud,” Ruka spat, sitting up straighter now, her voice rising with that familiar, jealous tension. “That whole sunshine act? It’s fake. She’s just pretending to be all sweet and happy. But it’s all a show. She’s actually, she’s miserable. She’s depressing. She’s not what you think she is.”

He stared at her for a long moment. The wind rustled the trees, and somewhere in the distance, someone laughed a sound so far removed from the bitter drama at his feet. Sunghoon exhaled, slow and sharp like a blade pulled from a sheath. “You know what?” he said, voice like ice over steel. “Maybe you could stand to be a little more like her.” Ruka’s mouth parted in shock, but he didn’t give her time to respond.

“She’s kind,” he went on. “She shows up for people. She cares even when she doesn’t have to. She’s loud and ridiculous and warm, and yeah, maybe that annoys the shit out of me sometimes, but at least she’s not hiding behind fake tears and whispering poison about other people to make herself feel better.” Her expression crumpled, her mouth trembling.

“You don’t know her,” she whispered. “Neither do you,” he snapped. “You don’t get to decide who she is because she threatens your tiny little world.”

Ruka’s hands curled into fists on her knees. “If you really want to know who she is, look her up,” she hissed, the venom returning. “Look up last year’s figure skating finals. Her name. Go ahead. See it for yourself.” He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

“Fuck off, Ruka,” Sunghoon said, and his voice was calm. Steady. Done. He pushed past her without another glance, the door slamming shut behind him like the end of a chapter. The warmth inside him didn’t dim this time. Not completely. In fact, it burned brighter now not in spite of her words, but because of the fact that he’d chosen to ignore them. That he’d defended you, and meant every syllable. He didn’t need to search your name. He didn’t care about the past you carried like quiet luggage. Because when he looked at you, all he saw was someone who got back up. Again and again. And that, more than anything, was real.

Upstairs, behind the closed door of his room where the noise of the party below had faded to a dull, insignificant hum, Sunghoon sat on the edge of his bed like the silence itself had weight. It pooled in the corners of the room, settled on his shoulders, curled around his ankles. The warm echo of your kiss still lingered, on his lips, in his chest but so did Ruka’s voice. Sharp, needling. Insistent. “Look it up. Last year’s figure skating finals. Her name.”

He didn’t want to. He knew better. He should have let it die on the doorstep where it belonged. But curiosity was a sly little creature. It nudged at him like a breeze slipping through a cracked window, whispering just look until he caved. So he did.

With stiff fingers and an unsteady breath, he typed your name into the search bar, letting muscle memory carry him when intention hesitated. The first result glowed like a ghost: “Skater Meltdown at Regionals – Full Clip.” A thumbnail of you frozen mid-fall, your face blurred by motion, your body crumpling like something once fluid and graceful now shattered. He clicked play.

The screen lit up with harsh white ice and the sound of polite applause. There you were, twirling onto the rink, arms extended, posture poised, the embodiment of elegance. And then it happened. A stumble, a miscalculation. The slip. The crash. You hit the ice with a sound that wasn't picked up by the microphones, but he could feel it all the same, sharp and echoing in his bones. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst came after. The camera didn’t cut away. It kept rolling as you stood up, only to fall again. And again. And again. Until your hands were shaking and your breathing was uneven and your eyes — oh, your eyes — were wild with disbelief, glazed with tears that refused to fall quietly.

You broke. On camera. In front of judges and coaches and strangers and teammates and the faceless audience of the internet. You wept, not just from pain, but from something deeper, something raw and human and jagged with betrayal. You shouted through your tears, voice cracking like thawing ice, about how people only came to see the crash. How they clapped louder for the break than the recovery. How they waited for failure like it was a performance. Sunghoon felt something crawl into his throat and settle there — tight and aching. Not pity. Not embarrassment. But fury.

Fury at Ruka, for daring to use this as a weapon. Because what he saw wasn’t weakness. What he saw was someone who got back up. Someone who, even in the middle of a storm that stole her breath and shattered her pride, still stood. Still tried. Still gave the world her tears because hiding them would’ve meant giving up entirely. He didn’t want to close the video. But he did. And then, with that same fire that lived in his limbs when he skated, he opened his phone and typed fast, not giving himself the chance to rethink it.

Sunghoon [11:43 PM]: Meet me at the rink. Please.

It wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t even a plan. It was an instinct, pulled from somewhere honest and immediate. Because he needed to see you, not just the practiced, cheery version of you that lit up rinks and rooms, but you, unfiltered, unguarded, as real as you’d been in that video. He needed you to know that it didn’t scare him. That it didn’t change anything. No. If anything, it only made him want to fall with you. And this time, not get back up alone.

The rink was dark when you arrived, the overhead lights low like the stars were keeping secrets. The air was biting, laced with the cold whisper of ice and memory. Your breath puffed in clouds before you, and your heart thundered a frantic beat in your chest. You’d gotten Sunghoon’s message and hadn’t hesitated, you didn’t even change out of your practice clothes, just threw on a coat and sprinted across campus as if your soul had sensed something fragile waiting on the other end. The moment you stepped inside, your voice echoed in the stillness. “Sunghoon?”

No response. The silence felt unfamiliar, too thick, too full of unsaid things. You found him in the locker room, perched on one of the benches, still in his practice gear, his elbows resting on his knees, head bowed. The second you saw him, panic flickered behind your eyes. Was he hurt? Was something wrong? “Are you okay? Are you—oh my god, did something happen?” you rambled as you rushed to him, your hands fluttering over his arms, down to his knees, then back to his shoulders like you were checking for breaks or bruises. “Why did you call me? Are you hurt? Did you fall again? Why didn’t you just text what happened, Sunghoon, seriously, what is going—?”

He didn’t say a word. Instead, his hands found your waist. Not rough or hurried, just certain. He pulled you into him like gravity had finally done its job. And before your voice could form another word, his mouth was on yours. Soft. Fierce. Unapologetic. Your breath caught in your chest, surprise flaring wide in your eyes, but you melted into him with instinct. There was no hesitation in the way you kissed him back. For a moment the ice outside, the night, the ache of the past, none of it existed. There was only the warmth of his touch, the sincerity of his hold, the vulnerability in that kiss.

When he pulled back, your fingers lingered near his jaw, your gaze flickering with confusion. “Sunghoon… what’s going on?” He looked at you like he was still catching up to his own heartbeat, his voice quiet but steady. “Ruka showed up at the house. Told me to look you up. Last year’s finals.”

The words dropped like ice in your stomach. You stepped back, just slightly, and your body stiffened before you could stop it. “Oh.” Sunghoon saw it immediately, the way your shoulders curled inward, how your eyes shimmered with tears you didn’t want to spill. Your lips parted like you wanted to defend yourself, but no argument came, only the truth, raw and trembling. “I had a breakdown,” you whispered. “A really bad one. I’d been practicing that routine for weeks, getting up at dawn, going to bed at two, skipping meals, skipping sleep. I thought… if I could just nail that trick, I’d prove I was more than just the bubbly girl with the pretty smile. I was exhausted and wired and terrified. And when I fell… it was like the world collapsed with me.”

You paused, voice cracking. “But I got back up. I always do. Even when it hurt. Even when the crowd didn’t cheer.” Sunghoon stood, eyes never leaving yours, and took your hands in his — warm, calloused, steady. “I know,” he said simply. “I watched the whole thing. And you — you — were the strongest person I’ve ever seen.”

Your lips quivered. “But I broke down. I was angry and ugly and scared and—”

“And you got back up,” he said, firmer now. “You didn’t stay on the ice. You didn’t let it define you. I—” he exhaled, voice softening, “—I was going to quit. When I got hurt, when it felt like everything I’d worked for just vanished, I wanted to give up. I didn’t see the point.” He reached up, brushing a tear from your cheek. “But then I met you,” he continued. “And you reminded me that even when it hurts, we keep skating. That it’s not the fall that defines us, it’s the moment after.”

A silence stretched between you, delicate and profound. And in that stillness, you smiled. Not the bright, performative kind you wore in hallways and crowded rooms, but something quieter. Realer. “Thank you,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. He didn’t need to reply. The way his fingers laced with yours said everything. The space between you fizzled like ice cracking under a sudden flame. There was a flicker of hesitation in your eyes, an instinct, perhaps, to hold back but it crumbled under the heat of the moment. Your hands were still curled inside his, trembling slightly, not from fear but from the rawness of being seen.

Then you kissed him. No hesitancy this time. No uncertainty. You surged forward, your mouth finding his with a quiet kind of desperation, the kind that had been building for weeks, hidden behind teasing words and soft glances, behind shared practices and unspoken understandings. His lips met yours like a dam finally breaking, and suddenly you were both lost to it.

Sunghoon responded with a heat that startled even him. His hands slid from your waist to your back, holding you like he was afraid you might disappear. Your fingers curled into the hem of his shirt, clutching at the fabric like it could anchor you to something real, something burning and alive. There was nothing cautious about it now, the kiss deepened, mouths parting with breathless urgency, tongues tangling, exhales catching like thunder on the edge of a storm. You gasped softly against his mouth when he walked you backward, your spine brushing the cool lockers behind you. The contrast only made you shiver more, and he kissed you again to chase it away. His hands were in your hair now, cradling the nape of your neck like you were something precious. And you were, he kissed you like you were rare, like you were the first warmth he’d felt after winter.

Your body curved into his as if you’d always belonged there. You could feel the way he was holding back, restrained despite the tension humming through every inch of him. And maybe that’s what made it even more electric, knowing how tightly he was wound, how carefully he moved against you even as his breath quickened and his hands lingered. “Sunghoon…” you murmured against his lips, dizzy from the intensity.

He didn’t answer, not in words. But the way he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth, the way your breath hitched, the way your hands trembled where they clutched at his chest was its own kind of vow. The air between you felt heady, thick with longing, the room humming with the pulse of everything unspoken. You weren’t sure how long you stood there in the glow of the locker room light, locked together in something fierce and tender and brand new.

But when you finally pulled back, your foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling, the silence that followed didn’t feel empty. It felt full of everything still waiting to be said, still waiting to be felt. And neither of you ran from it. No, you welcomed it like an incoming tide washing over your heart and your entire being. Your forehead stayed pressed to his, your breaths mingling in the space between like steam curling from a fresh cup of tea. His hands still cradled your face, thumbs brushing gently over your cheekbones as if to memorize the texture of your skin, like maybe touching you was the only way to make sense of the storm inside him.

You whispered his name again, barely a breath, and that was all it took. He kissed you once more, slower this time, deeper. There was a reverence in it, a kind of awe like he still couldn’t believe you were real and here and kissing him back. His hands slid down from your face to your waist again, and he pulled you in until there was nothing between you but heat and air. Your fingers wove into the dark strands of his hair, curling just slightly at the ends, tugging him closer in the most delicate, desperate way.

The kiss grew from soft to smoldering, like fire catching slowly at first, then flaring brighter when the wind shifts. His lips moved against yours with more certainty now, more hunger, and yours responded in kind. It was dizzying, this exchange of breath and want, of emotion too big to name. Every brush of his mouth against yours made your knees weak, every sigh from his throat made your heart race like a drum in a thunderstorm. You tugged at the hem of his shirt, not to take it off, but just to feel the warmth of him under your hands, the dip of his back, the rise of his spine, the solidness of muscle beneath skin. He shivered under your touch and kissed you like he was unraveling.

He pressed you back against the lockers again — not harshly, never harshly — but close enough that you could feel every breath, every heartbeat, every inch of tension. His hands gripped your waist like he needed the contact to stay steady, like if he let go, the whole world might stop turning. “God,” he muttered against your lips, his voice thick and rough and nothing like the usual sharp-edged sarcasm. “You drive me crazy.”

You laughed softly into the kiss, breathless and glowing. “Good crazy or bad crazy?”

He kissed you again instead of answering, and the answer was everything. For a long, lingering moment, the rink, the cold, the ice, the noise of the world, all of it faded away. There was only the warmth between you, only the taste of each other’s names on your tongues, only the ache of something new blooming fast and bright like spring breaking through the frost.

With your back still pressed against the cold metal of the lockers you allowed yourself the luxury of tracing your hands up and down Sunghoon’s broad chest, feeling every contour, every muscle beneath your palms. Filthy thoughts filled your head as Sunghoon’s lips trailed down the expanse of your neck and collarbone. A gasp fell from your lips as he sucked on the skin where your neck met your collarbone.

“Oh!” You squeaked, running your hands through his hair fisting the tufts in your nimble hands like your life depended on it. “Sunghoon…” Your voice trailed with heat laced in the words, want. “I want you.”

“You want me?” He hummed, continuing his exploration of your neck. “How badly do you want me?” He was toying with you, playing with your need for him — your want.

“So bad.” Your voice was airy — needy almost. His smirk said he loved it, the way you were willing to beg for him and willing you were. You don’t even remember the last time you’ve been touched so intimately, with someone you cared for so fiercely. The pure lust and adrenaline coursing through your veins had left you feeling like you were ablaze.

“Beg for it.” His voice was sharp — stern. It was so so hot. The way lips let your body, the way his eyes searched your traveling down your body drinking you in. The way your chest rose and fell as red hot searing need coursed through you. You do anything he asks of you at this moment, anything.

“Please” You whimpered, hands grabbing at his hoodie. “Please, fuck me.” Your voice was sweet and light your eyes wide as you stared up at him. “I need it so bad.”

“Fuckkkk” He groaned and next thing you knew his hands were under your thighs lifting you in his arms in one fail swoop. “I can’t resist you, Sunshine.”

“I don’t want you to.” You pant as his hands find your skirt lifting it enough to show your panties. It was going to be quick, dirty. And that's exactly how you needed him.

“Take me out.” He hissed at you. Your hands reach for his sweatpants pulling them down just enough to release him from his boxers. He was hard, of course. The tip red and angry with need. Your hand made a fist around his shaft pumping up and down.

“Oh fuck.” He groaned, his forehead falling forward to meet yours. “Touch yourself before i fuck you.”

You listened carefully, moving your other hand down, pulling your white cotton panties to the side and rubbing at your sensitive nub with your fingers. “Oh my god.” You whined out. “Please Sunghoon, please”

“Just a little bit more, baby.” He cooed, “You’re almost ready for me.”

“I’m ready now.” You couldn’t contain the whimper that threatened to fall from your lips. “I need you, so bad.”

“Okay, Sunshine.” He nodded, taking his length in his own hand all the whilst holding you up against the lockers. “I got you.”

Sunghoon’s gazed fell from your face to where the two of you met, his tip slapping against your entrance like a knock. A gasp leaving your lips the instant he pushed into you — creating a beautiful stretch you felt through your entire body.

Sunghoon started with a slow pace, allowing hips to tap against yours lightly. It was almost romantic the way his forehead rested against yours. His breath fanning your face with short pants. You were in love with this feeling — in love with this moment and how it consumes you whole.

“Faster.” You whined, hands gripping Sunghoon’s shoulders with white knuckles. You were trying to ground yourself, the pleasure taking you to a whole other planet entirely. “Faster please Sunghoon.”

Sunghoon said nothing, his only response was the quick motion of his hips against yours. The sound of skin slapping filling the silence of the locker room like a melody, it was a tune you’d grow to love if given the chance. “Oh– my god.” You chanted. “Oh my god.”

“You close?” Sunghoon grunts, his voice gritty and harsh. “Take it.”

“Yes.” Your head was weightless as it bobbled up and down in tune with Sunghoon’s harsh thrusts. “I’m so close.”

“Gooood girl..” He cooed in your ear. “Cum for me.”

Your end splashed into you like a tidal wave, washing over your body in an overbearing pleasure you’d never felt before. Your thighs trembled in Sunghoon’s hands as you rode out your high. Sunghoon falling suit, moaning your name like a mantra. You had never felt more connected to someone then you did in this moment. Tied together a web of emotion and something that felt so close to love.

You were falling in love. It was fast and blinding and scary but it was true. You were falling in love. And you hoped and prayed Sunghoon was too.

By the time you situated yourself it was almost too late into the night to try and sneak back into your dorm room. Plus the thought of seeing Ruka right now with the knowledge of what she had done had been sickening. Sunghoon offered for you to stay at his place and you were in no position to turn the offer down. You allowed him to take you home. You allowed him to worship your body until all hours of the night. And most importantly you allowed yourself to fall in love deeper and deeper as the clock ticked on.

The morning sun trickled through the blinds in gentle stripes, painting golden bars across the sheets tangled around your legs. The air was still tinged with last night’s sweetness, a lull of warmth that lingered between your skin and his, and the scent of cold air and something distinctly him like mint and pine and a little bit of wild. You stirred slowly, your limbs heavy but content, the kind of ache that whispered of a night where nothing was said aloud but everything was understood in touches, in sighs, in the soft tremble of lips pressed together in quiet devotion.

Sunghoon was already up, standing near the edge of the room, half-dressed and slipping his hoodie over his head. The light hit his face just right, catching the soft curve of his cheek and the tired determination in his eyes. He looked like someone ready to face something, and for once, not run from it. You sat up, the covers pooling around your waist like the soft folds of a curtain falling back. “You’re up early,” you murmured, voice still raspy with sleep and something sweeter.

He glanced at you, and there was a flicker in his gaze, that rare smile he barely gave anyone, small, crooked, a secret stitched between two hearts. “I’m going to talk to Jay,” he said, adjusting the sleeves of his hoodie. “I want to ask him… to let me play again.” For a second, it felt like everything stopped. Not because you were surprised — no, you’d seen it coming, inching closer each time he took a fall and got up again, each time he looked at the ice with something softer than hate but because this was a moment of return. A full circle. A boy broken now choosing not to stay shattered.

You smiled, and it was bright enough to make the room feel warmer. “You should,” you said, voice thick with pride. “You’re ready.” He stepped over to the bed, leaned down, and kissed you, quick and soft, like a promise sealed in the hush of morning. It wasn’t heated like the night before, but it burned all the same, quiet fire beneath skin.

And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him like the final note of a song, leaving you alone with tangled sheets, sunlit silence, and a chest full of warmth. You fell back into the pillows with a sigh, fingers brushing your lips. Something had shifted. And you knew, with a certainty that reached down to your bones, that things were only just beginning.

The cold kiss of the arena hit Sunghoon the moment he stepped through the doors, but it felt different now, less like an echo of pain and more like a memory rediscovered. The air smelled of ice and rubber and worn leather, a scent that once haunted him, now stirring something in him that almost felt like peace. Almost. He walked toward the rink, skates slung over his shoulder, confidence stitched into the rhythm of his steps. The moment he stepped past the glass, heads turned. Jake was the first to notice, eyebrows lifting in surprise, his helmet tucked under one arm. Heeseung followed, stopping mid-lace with a crooked smile playing at the edge of his mouth. Jay’s brows drew together in disbelief, and even Soobin looked up from where he was adjusting his gloves. Coach Bennett, stoic as always, stood at the edge of the rink with his clipboard like it was a shield.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Jay muttered, not unkindly, but wary.

Sunghoon didn’t flinch. “I’m here to show you I’m ready.” The words settled into the air like frost, and no one moved for a moment. Coach’s lips pressed into a flat line. “Sunghoon…”

“I’m serious,” Sunghoon said, voice sharp as skates on fresh ice. “I’ve been training, I’ve been pushing myself. I’m not here to sit on the bench and clap for everyone else. I want to play.” There was a silence, heavy and cautious. Jake rubbed the back of his neck, looking at Heeseung, who gave him nothing but a tight nod. “You’ve been through a lot,” Soobin offered gently. “It’s not about wanting. It’s about being cleared.”

“I am cleared,” Sunghoon snapped, the warmth from earlier that morning slipping through his fingers like melting snow. “I’m cleared, I’m stronger, I’ve been working every goddamn day. But every time I come back here, you all look at me like I’m broken glass.” Coach Bennett looked down at his clipboard, unreadable. “It’s not about doubt, it’s about safety.”

“Bullshit,” Sunghoon muttered. His jaw tensed, breath fogging in front of him. “You think I’d put myself back on this ice if I wasn’t ready?” Still, they didn’t move, didn’t soften. And something in him snapped, not the injury, not the tendon, but something deeper. A flare of frustration bloomed in his chest, blooming red hot. Heeseung, trying to defuse the crackle in the air, said, “Maybe just keep training with the figure skater—”

Sunghoon’s head snapped up, and without meaning to, without even thinking, the words spilled out sharp and cruel. “I’m done wasting time with that ballerina on ice.” It felt like the words echoed, like even the boards flinched from them. A sting curled behind his ribs the moment it left his mouth, regret instantaneous, but pride, wounded and loud, kept him from pulling it back. “I want to come back to the real game,” he added, voice quieter, but iron-edged. “I’m done sitting out while you all pretend like I don’t exist.”

A thick pause. Coach Bennett looked at him long and hard, then said slowly, “You can skate at next week’s practice. We’ll see then.” And just like that, it was done. But the victory tasted hollow on his tongue, and when Sunghoon sat to lace up his skates, the chill of the words he’d thrown, not at them, but at you, clung to him like frostbite.

In the dim hush of the arena’s far bleachers, behind a column of shadow where the sun dared not reach, Ruka sat like a ghost in waiting, silent, calculating, and out of place. The buzz of the overhead lights hummed above her, flickering faintly, illuminating the sharp gleam in her eyes as she angled her phone just so. Her hand was steady. Patient. She shouldn’t have been there, wasn't allowed, wasn’t invited but Ruka had learned long ago that the world didn’t bend for those who asked politely. It bowed for the ones who took what they wanted. And right now, what she wanted was to unravel the ribbon of warmth that had started to thread its way between you and Sunghoon, to cut it with precision, to remind the world of who belonged in the spotlight and who didn’t.

Her phone was already recording when Sunghoon stormed in, voice clear and edged with fire. She leaned forward, breath caught, her ears tuned sharply to every syllable. And then, there it was. The perfect storm. “I’m done wasting time with that ballerina on ice.” it hit the air like a slap, reverberating across the rink, and Ruka’s mouth curved into something that might have been mistaken for a smile if it weren’t so cold. Her thumb paused just long enough to ensure it had been captured, every inch of his exasperation, the tension in his voice, the pride bleeding into his posture. She tucked the phone into her coat pocket like a prize, one she’d deliver when the time was right, when the sting would land deepest.

She didn’t care if Sunghoon hadn’t meant it. She didn’t care that he might already regret it. She wasn’t after truth, she was after control, and perception was always stronger than honesty in the court of whispered judgment. As the team fell into uneasy silence, she slipped out like a wisp of smoke, unnoticed and unseen, her heels light on the concrete floor, her breath misting in the chilled air. The doors of the arena sighed open and closed behind her with a hush. Outside, the sky stretched pale and gray, the wind carrying a sharpness that mirrored her resolve.

Ruka wasn’t stupid she’d seen the way you looked at him, the way your smile bloomed for him like the first flower of spring. And more than that, she’d seen the way he looked back, that faint, unguarded flicker that once might have belonged to her but now seemed to burn only for you. So fine, she thought. If fire was what it took to make him see, then she’d set the whole thing ablaze. Let the ballerina dance on thin ice. She’d make sure the cracks came quick.

The front door creaked open with a burst of wind and sunlight, and Sunghoon stepped inside, shoulders high and heart thundering like blades against ice. His cheeks were flushed, not from the cold but from the triumph still coursing through him like static. The house was quiet, a rare lull between chaos, there you were. Sprawled across the living room floor in one of his oversized sweatshirts, your legs curled beneath you, your eyes bright as twin stars as they landed on him. The moment you saw his face, your own lit up like the sky on New Year’s Eve.

"Did they say yes? What did they say? Oh my god, are you back? When do you start? What did Jay say? Wait, did Heeseung—" Your words spilled out like a melody, fast and tumbling and effervescent, each one building on the last in that way only you could manage. It was a deluge of sunshine, and Sunghoon didn’t answer — not with words, not yet. Instead, with one smooth movement and a grin tugging at the corners of his lips, he crossed the room in three long strides, swept you up with one arm around your waist, and kissed you. Firm, grounded, and breath-stealing. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for permission because it already knows it’s home.

You let out a delighted squeal, half-laughter against his mouth, your hands flying to his shoulders as your feet dangled above the floor. “I take it they said yes,” you murmured when you pulled back, breathless, the corners of your mouth lifting in that way that always made his chest ache a little in the best way. “Yes,” he said, barely above a whisper, but his voice held so much more than just agreement. It was relief and victory and hope. “Practice starts next week.”

You beamed like you had swallowed the moon whole, eyes soft and full of a pride that wasn’t loud, but deep and unwavering. “I knew they’d say yes,” you said, cupping his cheek. “You were born for the ice.” He kissed you again, this time slower, with a touch more reverence, as if he was grounding himself in you. As if your faith in him was the thing tethering him to the world. And maybe it was.

He set you gently down, but your arms remained looped around his neck, unwilling to let go just yet. You leaned your forehead against his and closed your eyes for a beat. “I’m so happy for you, Hoon.” His name on your lips still made something in him tremble. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“You would’ve,” you whispered. “But I’m glad I got to watch you do it anyway.” Outside, the wind whispered promises against the windows, and inside, in the soft glow of late afternoon, Sunghoon realized that somewhere between all the broken things, the injuries, the pressure, the pain he had found something whole. You.

That night, the frat house was glowing, music vibrating through the walls like a heartbeat, laughter spilling out into the cold night air, the scent of cheap beer and cologne wrapping around the porch in a familiar haze. When Sunghoon leaned against your doorframe earlier, looking all casual with his hands shoved in his pockets and a soft smile threatening the edge of his mouth, asking you to come with him to the party, your yes had come quicker than your breath. There was no way you’d miss it not after the week the two of you had. So now, walking in beside him, hand ghosting near his like some secret tether, you tried not to look too amazed at the wild warmth of it all. Lights strung from the ceiling blinked like dying stars, red cups swirled in every hand, and voices collided like waves. It was chaos, but it was the good kind, the kind where possibility clung to the air like perfume.

Sunghoon didn’t even hesitate. He kept his hand on the small of your back, leading you through the crowd with a quiet confidence, and then he said it, just loud enough for the group clustered near the kitchen island to hear. “This is my girl.” It took you a second to process the words. Your heart leapt to your throat, and your smile tried to hide behind the cup in your hand, but you felt it. The gravity of it. How he said it so simply, like it wasn’t anything new, like it had been true for ages and he was just now stating a fact everyone should already know.

His friends turned toward you all at once, a mix of grins and raised brows. Jay was first to reach out, pulling you into a quick, one-armed hug. “So you’re the figure skater.”

You laughed. “Guilty.”

“I’m Jake,” said the one with dimples, his voice warm and curious, like he’d been waiting to meet you. “You’re way too happy to be hanging out with Sunghoon.”

You giggled and nudged your shoulder into Sunghoon’s. “I think I balance him out.”

“Or drive him insane,” Soobin added dryly from the couch. His arm was loosely slung around a girl who looked like she’d rather be anywhere else. She was beautiful, no doubt, sleek and poised, but her smile was more of a formality than anything real. That had to be Yunjin. She gave you a quick nod. “You’re very…bubbly.”

“Is that code for loud?” you asked, grinning wide. “It’s okay, I get that a lot.” Soobin cracked a half-smile, and even Yunjin let out the tiniest huff that could’ve been a laugh if you squinted. Still, there was tension between them, an invisible thread pulled too tight. They stood close but didn’t seem to touch, not really. Their words skipped past each other like stones across water, and you wondered what storm brewed quietly behind their silence. Heeseung leaned in then, arms crossed, eyes flicking between you and Sunghoon. “She’s the opposite of you, man. Like…completely.”

Sunghoon only shrugged, sipping his drink with a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Yeah. I know.” And the way he looked at you when he said it like it wasn’t a flaw, like it was the best thing about you, made your chest bloom with something warm and wild. You reached for his hand, and this time he didn’t hesitate. His fingers curled into yours like they belonged there, like maybe they always had. The music shifted into something slower, the kind of beat that made everything else fade, and the crowd swayed around you like the sea. You weren’t quite sure how the night would end, but for now, wrapped in the golden hum of laughter and light, with Sunghoon by your side and your name spoken like something precious between strangers who might become friends you were exactly where you were meant to be.

The night had curled itself into comfort, like a candle-lit secret shared between strangers now growing familiar. You stood with Sunghoon and his friends in the corner of the room where the music wasn’t too loud, where voices could still dance freely. You were mid-laugh, something Jake had said, your face lit with that easy, golden joy you wore like a second skin. Sunghoon stood close to you, his arm brushing yours every so often, eyes softer than anyone had seen them in weeks. You didn’t know it, but he’d been watching you like you were a lighthouse in the storm, something to steer by. And then the room chilled.

It was subtle at first, just a shift in air, the way conversation dulled, footsteps falling heavy behind the group. You turned before Sunghoon did, and there she was. Ruka. Her presence bled tension into the moment, a sharpness that made smiles go stiff and gazes flick downward. She stood with her arms crossed, dressed like she belonged and yet looking so out of place. You smiled at her anyway, your voice honeyed and warm.

“Hey, Ruka! You made it, have you met everyone?” The sweetness in your tone was genuine, like you hadn’t noticed the way her eyes cut through you, like maybe this time would be different, like maybe she’d smile back and offer a polite nod. But she didn’t.

Instead, her lip curled, and her voice dropped low, sharp enough to wound. “Drop the act.” The words sliced through the air like glass breaking. The laughter stopped, your own breath hitching slightly as confusion passed across your face. “What?” you asked, softly, not in disbelief, but in the kind of gentle hope that maybe you’d misheard her.

“I said,” Ruka stepped closer now, venom twisting in her pretty mouth, “drop the fucking act. The bubbly sunshine girl thing? It's fake. And everyone here’s falling for it, but it’s pathetic.” A heavy silence fell. Jake blinked, Soobin muttered something under his breath. Yunjin folded her arms tightly. And beside you, you felt Sunghoon stiffen, like his muscles remembered rage before his mind caught up.

“Back off,” he said, his voice low and dangerously calm. But Ruka only laughed, a cold, humorless thing that curled at the edges like smoke. “Really? You’re defending her?” She looked at him, eyes glinting with something twisted and triumphant. “That’s rich, coming from the guy who said he was wasting his time with the ‘ballerina on ice.’”

You froze. The words hung between you like frost. You turned, your head tilting slightly toward Sunghoon, expression unreadable. But he was already shaking his head, already stepping forward. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, voice rising, urgent. “I was pissed, I was trying to prove I was ready to play again, and I said something stupid—”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Ruka said smoothly. “They can hear it for themselves.” She pulled out her phone, unlocking it with the ease of someone who’d been waiting for this moment. The recording played loud and clear, his voice unmistakable: “I’m just wasting time with the ballerina on ice. I want to come back to the real game.”

The words hit like a slap. Your chest ached, something invisible curling tight around your lungs. You stood still, perfectly still, like movement might make it worse. The others glanced between you both, some awkward, some stunned. Heeseung winced. Jay looked furious. Jake muttered, “Dude,” under his breath. Sunghoon reached for you then, eyes wide, desperate. “I didn’t mean it—” You didn’t flinch. You didn’t pull away. But your smile, your radiant, effortless smile — wavered. Only a flicker, barely there, like a candle in the wind.

The music faded. Or maybe it didn't, maybe it still pulsed behind you, still thudded with the bass of cheap speakers and louder laughter, but in your ears it was gone. Replaced by the sound of your own heartbeat — wild and feral, pounding like fists against a closed door. Your cheeks flushed hot, but your hands had gone cold, and everything in the room blurred with the sting of unshed tears. Your eyes found Sunghoon’s, but it wasn’t safety you felt.

It was betrayal. And shame. Shame so sudden it roared up your throat and turned the warmth in your chest to something molten and broken. “Wait—” he whispered, stepping toward you. You pulled back.

He looked like he’d been struck, like the reach of his hand had meant everything. Maybe it had. But you were already moving, weaving between people, ignoring the murmurs and awkward stares, the way the group parted like water around you. Your heels scraped the floor. Someone said your name, maybe Jake, maybe Heeseung, but you didn’t turn back. You pushed through the door and into the yard where the cold night air hit your face like glass. You breathed it in too fast, too hard, hoping it would drown out the heat of humiliation clawing at your throat. The stars blurred above you, cruel and glinting. Behind you — footsteps.

“Wait—please,” Sunghoon called out, breathless. You spun on him just as he reached the porch, voice trembling with hurt and rage. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t mean it,” he said, voice cracking. “I swear I didn’t mean it.”

“Don’t lie to me.” You tried to keep your voice strong, but it wavered at the edges, shivering like frost under sunlight. “Don’t act like I didn’t hear it. Everyone heard it, Sunghoon.”

“I was angry,” he said. “They wouldn’t let me play, I—I said something I didn’t mean because I was desperate. I didn’t mean it like that. You know I didn’t.”

“You called me a waste of time,” you whispered, voice breaking now. “You said I wasn’t the real game.” His expression collapsed. “That’s not what I meant—”

“You think I don’t know what it’s like to want something that bad?” You laughed, but it came out brittle and sharp. “To work every night until your legs give out? To fall and fall and fall and keep getting up? I gave everything to this. To the ice. To you.” Tears spilled hot down your cheeks, and you hated how fast they came, how they betrayed the tremor in your heart.

“I didn’t ask for any of this. I didn’t ask for you to kiss me. I didn’t ask to be anything more than the annoying figure skater who shares your rink time.”

“You’re not—don’t say that,” he said, stepping closer. But you stepped back.

“I should’ve known better,” you said, voice low now, shaking. “You were always going to go back to them. To the game. And I was just practice. Just something to pass the time.”

“That’s not true.” His hands curled into fists at his sides. “You’re more than that. You mean—fuck, you mean everything.” And then he said it.

“I love you.”

The words cracked the night in two. You stared at him, eyes wide, breath stolen clean from your lungs. But it was too late. You shook your head, tears still slipping down your cheeks, chest heaving. “Don’t say that now.”

“I mean it.”

“Then why did you say that?” The question hung between you like a blade. And he had no answer. Or maybe he did, but not one that could stitch the wound he’d just made. So you turned. You turned before he could see the way your whole body broke in half. Before he could see the shiver in your spine and the way your hands curled into your coat like it could somehow hold you together. You walked. Past the yard, down the sidewalk, away from the party that once felt like light. Sunghoon didn’t follow this time. And maybe that’s what hurt the most.

The days pass like shadows beneath your skates, faint and fleeting, yet always there. Each morning you wake with a hollow echo in your chest, a silence that’s grown too familiar. You lace up your skates like armor, wear your routines like battle hymns. You skate harder now, faster, carving the ice like it wronged you. Blades slicing through your thoughts, breath fogging in the cold as you spin through everything you can’t say. You haven’t spoken to Sunghoon since that night. You’ve seen him in passing, walking across campus, laughing with Heeseung outside the rink, nodding at Coach Bennett with that quiet intensity in his eyes, but you never linger. You turn corners when he comes close. Pretend not to hear when his voice drifts from down the hallway. You are your own silence, sharp and unyielding.

The dorm is no better. Ruka has become a ghost, and you let her be. You don’t look at her, don’t respond to her passive remarks or the way she sighs when you walk in. She’s tried to speak, maybe once, maybe twice, but you shut her out with the same coldness she once offered you. You spend more time out of the room than in it. Your application to switch dorms is in the system now, a silent wish sent to the stars. All you can do is wait. But the nights… the nights are the worst. Sleep doesn’t come easily anymore. Your mind replays everything, his voice, his kiss, the look on his face when you turned away. You wonder if he’s been practicing. You wonder if he hates himself for what he said. You wonder if he meant it.

That night, the silence in your room presses in too tightly, the hum of your mini-fridge too loud, the shadows too long. You grab your skates and your coat. The rink calls to you not just as an escape, but as something close to home. Familiar. Honest. The moment you step inside, the air hits you like memory. Cold. Quiet. Unforgiving. You walk past the front lobby, past the empty locker rooms, and step onto the bleachers with the intention of warming up slowly, maybe skating alone under the low light until the sun peeks over the horizon.

But you stop short. Because he’s already there. Sunghoon. Alone. On the ice. He’s skating, not perfectly, not as fluid as you’ve seen before, but he’s trying. Focused. Determined. His brows are drawn together, the sweat at his temples shining under the low rink lights. He doesn’t see you at first. Doesn’t hear the way your breath catches. You don’t move. You watch him glide forward, stumble slightly, then correct. He exhales, pushes again. Again. And again. He’s practicing. Your chest tightens.

At first, you want to run. The moment you see him standing there beneath the pale glow of the rink lights, alone, waiting, searching the dark for something like hope, your body tells you to turn around. To vanish into the quiet of night and not look back. You’ve been skating circles around your own heart for days now, tightening the laces of your silence so securely that the thought of unraveling them in front of him makes you tremble. But it’s too late. His eyes catch yours, and you freeze like a deer in the frost. The tension between you snaps taut.

“Wait,” he says, voice catching, breathless. “Please—don’t go.” You don’t speak. He steps closer, every movement slow, like he’s approaching something delicate, something sacred. His eyes are wide and shining in the cold, like he’s on the edge of something, begging not to fall.

“Just talk to me,” he says. “Please. I—I need to say something.” You don’t know what compels you to stay. Maybe it’s the quiver in his voice or the way your name falls from his lips like a prayer. Maybe it’s the days of silence, heavy as snowfall, finally breaking. But you nod. You sit. And you listen. “I’m sorry,” he says first, and the words drop between you like stones sinking into a still lake. “I’m so, so sorry.”

You don’t look at him yet. You’re afraid to. Afraid that if you do, your heart will unravel right there on the ice. He keeps going. “When you first asked me if I believed in love, I told you I didn’t. That it wasn’t real. That it was for other people, not me. And you, you just smiled like you knew something I didn’t. You said I just hadn’t found the right person yet.” You lift your eyes to meet his. He’s closer now. Kneeling in front of you, his palms flat against the boards, like he’s anchoring himself to you.

“I found her,” he whispers. “I found you.” The words hit you like a gust of wind, unexpected, sharp, and tender. You blink, and the tears finally come, soft and shimmering, gliding down your cheeks like melting snow. His gaze flickers, worried, but you raise a hand, just one, and rest it over his.

“What you said that night…” you begin, voice cracking like a brittle branch. “It hurt, Sunghoon. God, it hurt. But I don’t think it was the words, not really. It was the moment. The humiliation. Being exposed in front of everyone. Like I was something to be mocked.” He looks like he might cry too.

“I just wanted to feel safe with you,” you continue, softer now. “I wanted to be seen. And Ruka… she hates me for reasons I can’t understand. I don’t want to be in competition with her. I don’t want any of this.” His hand tightens around yours. “I know. And I hate that I let her use me like that. That I gave her the opening. But I swear to you none of what I said was real. You are not a waste of time. You are the only thing in my life that makes sense.” You lean your forehead against his, your breath mingling with his in the cold air between you.

“Don’t say things you don’t mean,” you whisper.

“I mean every word,” he breathes. “I love you.”

Your lips tremble. And before either of you can speak again, you kiss him. It’s not the fiery kiss of confession or the desperate press of need. It’s gentle. Forgiving. It’s two broken pieces finding a way to fit again, not quite perfect, but perfectly trying. His arms circle your waist, pulling you in close, grounding you as your fingers brush his jaw, his neck, his hair. The kiss deepens with every second. Not in heat, but in heart. Like a vow passed between mouths too tired for words.

When you part, your foreheads stay pressed together. His thumb brushes away your tears. “I forgive you,” you murmur, voice trembling. “But please… no more lies. Not even the ones you tell yourself.”

“I promise,” he replies, voice raw. “No more.” And in that quiet, ice-slicked space between apology and absolution, you feel it, that something between you hasn’t shattered. It’s only just begun to bloom.

Epilogue.

The arena hums like a living thing, buzzing nerves and echoing chants, the chill of the ice rising into the rafters like ghosts of old games, old dreams. You sit somewhere in the middle of it all, wrapped in a scarf and a soft coat, heart thudding so loud it’s almost a drumline. Your fingers are clasped tight in your lap, your breath fogs in little puffs before your lips, and your eyes are locked on the rink like the story of your whole life might unfold across its frozen face. It’s his first game back.

Sunghoon. And you can’t remember the last time you were this full of feeling, pride, nerves, joy, a fragile ribbon of fear, but most of all, love. Love so big and bright and burning it feels like a comet carved into your chest. The lights above dim slightly, just a flicker, and then the team is called out one by one. The crowd roars like a wave, cresting and crashing with every name announced, jerseys flashing, skates hissing against the ice as the players appear. And then, there he is. Sunghoon skates out like he’s flying, his form clean and sharp and easy, like every moment he ever doubted himself has been burned away. The crowd cheers louder, not because they know the whole story, but because they can feel it. The comeback. The storm stilled. The boy who refused to give in.

You feel breathless watching him. And then, mid-glide, he turns his head. Finds you in the crowd like a compass always knows where north is. His eyes catch yours and in that moment, the noise fades. The arena, the lights, the cheers — all of it vanishes, melting away like frost under the sun. There’s just him. And you. He points at you — simple, easy, certain. And then his mouth moves, slow and deliberate.

“I love you.” Three words mouthed without a sound, but somehow louder than thunder. Your chest caves in, and a laugh breaks from your throat, trembling and tearful all at once. You nod, hand over your heart, mouthing it back: I love you too. And in that charged quiet between you, across ice and lights and distance, the ache of the past slips into something softer. Something holy. The game begins but you're not really watching the puck.

You're watching him. And he's not just skating. He's flying.

reg taglist. (★) @izzyy-stuff , @beomiracles , @dawngyu , @hyukascampfire , @saejinniestar , @notevenheretbh1 , @hwanghyunjinismybae, @ch4c0nnenh4, @kristynaaah

series taglist. (★) @saejinniestar , @vixialuvs , @slut4hee , @xylatox , @skyearby @m1kkso @jakeswifez @heartheejake @hommyy-tommy @yunverie @lalalalawon

@strayy-kidz @wolfhardbby @kwiwin @immelissaaa @fancypeacepersona @starfallia @mariegalea @adoredbyjay @strxwbloody @lovingvoidgoatee @beeboobeebss @zyvlxqht @weyukinluv @flwwon

@guapgoddees @demigodmahash @cloud-lyy @heesky @ikaw-at-ikaw @shuichi-sama @shawnyle @kwhluv @iarainha @ikeuwoniee @mora134340

#enhypen imagines #enhypen smut #sunghoon imagines #sunghoon smut #park sunghoon #sunghoon x reader #enhypen #enha imagines #enha x reader

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munsonsmixtapes · 2 days ago

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I’m Right Here

ex-husband!ghost x pregnant!reader

You meet your ex-husband, Simon for coffee to give him some very life-altering news.

cw: hurt/no comfort

You sit at a table in a crowded coffee shop, constantly wringing your hands as you stare at the mug of tea in front of you that’s surely cold by now. You can’t drink it, not now. You’re too nervous. You feel like you could throw up because of how anxious you are, but you choke it down, trying your best to calm yourself down. You know that what you’re doing is right, but that doesn’t mean that you’re not terrified of doing it.

Simon enters the building and you feel the need to stand, awkwardly waving him over, feeling your heart beating even faster at how devastatingly handsome he still is. He’s let his facial hair grow out and now he’s got a mustache that makes him somehow even hotter.

As he spots you and waves, you immediately get the urge to run. You went over what you were going to say over and over on the way here but now that you finally see him, all of the words in the English language somehow fly out of your head and you’re left with nothing but panic and anxiety.

He approaches you with a wide smile and for a second, you’ve completely forgotten that you’re divorced. For a second, you forget that you haven’t seen him in over a month. It feels so right being together right now, like all that time away made you realize how badly you miss him.

“Hey,” he says, not tacking the words “baby” or “darling” on the end like he used to. You suppose it makes sense since you’re pretty much strangers now. “So, what did you want to meet about?”

“Maybe you should sit down for this,” you gesture towards the chair across from yours and he sits hesitantly, positive that he’s probably not going to like what you have to say.

“I guess I should just cut to the chase then,” you let out a sigh before looking him directly in the eye. “I’m pregnant.”

Everything goes still in that moment. The din of the coffee shop is no longer buzzing in his ears-it’s so quiet as his mind drowns out all the sounds happening around him.

Simon didn’t know what you were going to say but he definitely didn’t expect this. The shock quickly wears off and now he’s smiling so wide that his cheeks hurt. This is the best news he could possibly receive. Deep down, he always knew he was destined to be a dad.

He knows this will only make the divorce more difficult with the co-parenting, but part of him wishes that it would salvage your relationship. He wants so badly to be your husband again even though he’d never tell you so. He knows that you don’t feel the same.

He’s going to be a dad.

This was certainly not on his bingo card when he signed the divorce papers, but he’s definitely not complaining. This is what he’s always wanted, just not like this. And he’s definitely not going to make you go through it alone. Pregnancy is already so difficult and on your own? Yeah, there’s no way in hell he’s letting that happen.

“I’m so happy for you, y/n! Congratulations! I’m-”

He’s about to say that he’s here for you, but he’s not, not really. Not since your mutual break up. Not since he moved out of your house. Not since-not since you decided that you didn’t need him anymore.

“You can decide how you want to do this. If you want to co-parent, that’s great, and if not, that’s fine too.” He can’t imagine not being in his child’s life. He wants to be there throughout the pregnancy, hold your hand throughout the birth, then be able to hold the baby in his arms afterwards.

“I’m here for you,” he replies, reaching for your hand and you give his a squeeze before pulling away. “For everything. Whatever you need, I got it.”

“That’s very sweet, Simon.” It feels weird saying that and hearing his real name is making him feel sick. He thought that maybe your reunion would make you want to give him another chance, but apparently not. “I appreciate it. The first ultrasound is next Thursday at noon if you want to meet me there.”

“Better yet, let me give you a ride.” Of course he’s going to be the sweet selfless man you met all those years ago even though you’ve put him through a lot of pain.

“What?” You don’t know why you’re so caught off guard by his suggestion. It doesn’t matter how messy your divorce was, if you came to him for anything, he’d give it to you no matter what. He’s still the man you married but you just…outgrew each other. But now that he’s sitting here, you’re wondering if that was ever the case. If you both made a huge mistake.

“I don’t want my pregnant wife driving-“ he cuts himself off, realizing what he’s just said and feels his cheeks getting warm. This is going to take some getting used to.

“Well,” you say, standing from the table. “I have to head to work. So you’re picking me up on Thursday morning? I can send you all the information. Do you still have my number?” As if he’d ever delete it. You’re making this whole thing sound like a business transaction, not a discussion about your unborn child. He guesses he’s still in love with you while you’ve completely moved on.

“I’ve still got it,” he nods, caught off guard by the way you’re behaving, like his some random stranger who you hooked up with one night and not the man who used to be your husband. He’d never tell you how badly it hurts.

“Alright, well, I’ll see you then, Simon.” You press a quick kiss to his cheek and then you’re off. Simon watches you head out of the coffee shop, wondering how the hell he’s going to survive any more of this.

#simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost x reader #simon riley imagine #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley cod #simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost x fem!reader #ghost x you #ghost cod x reader #cod ghost #ghost x reader #ghost cod

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gimmethatagustd · 2 days ago

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blunt rotation | pjm

Supplying your law school classmates with weed on the regular might as well be a full-time job. It's lucrative, but lately, you've seen a dip in profits. Maybe it's because you keep giving out the Pretty Boy Discount to a certain guy in your ethics class…

Pairing: Pretty Boy Jimin x weed dealer Reader

Rating: Explicit

Genre/Trope: Law school, classmates to lovers, smut, a classic jai weed fic

Word Count: 7,477

Content Warning: Marijuana, a somewhat subby Jimin, consensual sex while high, choking, fingering, cunnilingus, protected vaginal sex, self-indulgent rants about capitalism and classism, lame dick jokes

A/N: On god, this fic is probably more about weed than anything else khskdjfs. My 420 fics are probs especially bad, and i decided i do not care. #blazeit

Soundtrack: a weed playlist made by yours truly

“What is the difference between ethics, morality, and law?”

Professor Kim leans against the desk at the front of the lecture hall with his hands gripping the edge on either side of his hips. The action makes the muscles in his arms flex, and you eat up the tan skin exposed by how his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. The tight white button-up accentuates plump pectoral muscles that threaten to pop and lose a few buttons. It wouldn’t surprise you if it happened. Professor Kim is known for being accidentally destructive.

It is unethical to fuck your professor because it would create a conflict of interest; you’d imagine it would be hard for Professor Kim to ethically assess your academic performance if he’d been balls deep in you.

It’s morally wrong to fuck your professor because you know he’s married, not because he has ever provided your class with information about his personal life, but because you sit at the front of the class. From your position, you can see the glint of his wedding band.

Legally, you’re pretty sure there isn’t a law against fucking your professor. It probably goes against your university’s code of conduct, but that’s not a law.

You sink further into your seat and let your eyes wander the room. Everyone diligently takes notes as Professor Kim turns to the presentation projected on the large screen behind him. Ethics and Professional Responsibility isn’t your favorite class, but no one said getting your J.D. would be fun. On the contrary, everyone you knew said it would fucking suck. And it kinda does.

One thing that doesn’t suck, though, is having a class with your program’s resident pretty boy, Park Jimin.

Pretty boys aren’t your type at all. You prefer boys who are rough around the edges. You’re not interested if a guy doesn’t look like he’s a one-way ticket to jail or hell. Maybe it’s the rebel in you. Maybe you like the idea that opposites attract. A lawyer and a criminal sounds like a cute ship, no?

Pretty boys are too soft for you. They’re the type to have skincare routines and listen to Jack Harlow. No thanks.

Yet your eyes always manage to find Jimin.

He’s sitting to your left and a few rows behind you, but close enough to see him when you turn your head. He sits with perfect posture as he scribbles notes on his iPad, plump lips puckered in a cute little beak of concentration.

Fuck, no, not cute. Ridiculous. Soft and childish. Everyone in the room is at least in their mid-twenties, some even in their late fifties. A prestigious J.D. program has no room for beaks and squishy cheeks.

You’re about to look away when Jimin lifts his stylus to his mouth. The end presses a small dent into his plush bottom lip. You instinctually lick your lips, though your mouth suddenly feels dry.

Jimin sits that way for a few more seconds with furrowed eyebrows as he focuses on his notes. At Professor Kim’s mention of the end-of-the-year oral argument, your classmate finally lifts his head to face the front of the room. His eyes are bright and wide, unlike the haggard look of your peers, and you watch them shift back and forth as he reads whatever is on the screen. You have no idea what Professor Kim’s talking about; your roommate, Hoseok, will fill you in when you get home.

All you know is that Jimin finally pulls his stylus away from his lips and casts a sideways glance in your direction. You lock eyes for a split second before he quickly ducks his head, suddenly interested in his notes again.

You snort loud enough for the woman sitting next to you to give you an odd look, but you ignore her and return your eyes to Professor Kim.

Your eyes don’t stray from the front of the lecture hall for the rest of the class. It’s not difficult; there isn’t anything else you find interesting enough in the room to distract you. Nothing. Especially not Pretty Boy Jimin.

“Hey, can I come over tonight?”

Two pale hands splay across your desk once the class is dismissed. Chipped, black polish adorns each nail, except for the pinkies, which are painted white.

“Why are you asking me? You don’t need my permission to visit your boyfriend’s apartment.”

“I’m trying to work on my manners, jeez.”

You roll your eyes and slide your tablet into your backpack. “Where were your manners when you and Hobi fucked on my couch? Hmm, Yoongi? Where were they then?”

Yoongi lets out a low groan as he steps to the side to let you fall in line with him as you exit the classroom. Your roommate is waiting in the hallway, always the last student to arrive and the first to leave.

“That’s different,” Yoongi huffs, though this time, the sound is due to Hoseok crushing him in a hug once they make it into the hall. “Besides, I’m asking because I’m bringing my friend. We aren’t going to stay. He just wants someone to come with him.”

Hoseok untangles his arms from Yoongi’s and adjusts his backpack. Your best friends act like surviving a three-hour class is like surviving a lifetime apart.

“Ohh, a friend?” Hoseok leans against Yoongi with his eyebrows arched. His questioning tone is fair. The three of you don’t have many friends aside from each other. It’s hard to maintain friendships with people outside of law school. There’s simply no time.

“What is this, the buddy system?” You snicker as you follow the two men to their cars. “Sorry, I only do business with adults.”

There is quite literally no reason for you to be judgemental about whoever this mystery friend is, but class has put you in a cranky mood. Probably because of stupid fucking Park Jimin with his distracting lips. Your unpreparedness for the oral argument is slowly causing anxiety to creep into your chest.

Yoongi gives you a light smack to your bicep. “Some people get nervous about this shit, you know that.”

“It’s weed, oh my god. You act like we’re cooking meth in our basement.”

Yoongi stops walking to give you a stern look with narrowed eyes and a cocked head. “You don’t even have a basement.”

“Yeah, well, it’s 2023, and weed is legal.”

“It is legal to purchase weed at a licensed dispensary. However, you are not licensed to sell weed, nor is your apartment a dispensary.”

“It’s got enough weed in it to be one,” Hoseok snorts, but the sound quickly morphs into a severe cough when Yoongi’s glare is directed at him.

Yoongi yanks his car door open and slides into the driver’s seat. Then, with one leg still on the ground and his arm holding the door open, he lets out a long sigh. “You two are insufferable.”

“Love you too, babe!” Hoseok giggles and sends his boyfriend a flying kiss as Yoongi drives out of the parking lot.

“For an anti-capitalist, Yoongi is so old-fashioned. I’m providing a product to the everyday person at a reasonable price,” you grumble while you fasten your seatbelt in Hoseok’s car. “Dispensaries are classist. They’re way too fucking expensive, and they’re all in affluent neighborhoods, anyway. The gentrification of marijuana in this country is ridiculous. Where does Yoongi think those tax funds end up? Not in neighborhoods that need them. And what about expunging people’s records? Is the government ever going to do that?”

You slump in your seat, the sudden energetic burst of social consciousness in you dying out. “I hate rich people.”

Hoseok hums in agreement, keeping his eyes on the road as he drives. “We’re about to be rich people, though.”

“Not me. Civil rights law isn’t going to make me rich, and I’m not touching corporate with a ten-foot pole.”

Yoongi and so many other people in your program are too dependent on what is and don’t stop to question what can be or what should be.

Ethics is a social construct, morality is subjective, and law is arbitrary.

Going to law school is less about learning how to be a lawyer and more about learning how to play a game.

When Park Jimin walks into your living room, all you can do is blink at him. Your eyes are red and glassy, your mouth dry even though you’ve been sipping water, and your limbs feel too gooey to bother getting up. Maybe you’re hallucinating him, which would be very upsetting because you don’t want to explore why he’s sticking around in your head.

But then Yoongi is ushering the guy to sit next to you, and the dip in the couch as he eases down feels too real.

“Ah, Jimin! You’re the friend!” Hoseok gives the newcomer a blinding smile. Smoke punctuates each word, billowing toward the ceiling. There’s already a thin haze to the room; you and Hoseok have been smoking for a while. “Welcome to our humble abode.”

Jimin gives Hoseok a small smile. He also turns to give you one, but it falters when you meet his gaze.

You’re not sure what expression you’re wearing. It could be anything, really. Or nothing at all.

“Hi,” he says quietly. His lips are so pink. You want to ask him how soft they are.

“How much do you want?” Is what you ask instead.

Jimin turns to Yoongi, who is now cuddled up with Hoseok on the other side of the room. The chair is made for only one person, but they have never known personal boundaries. You suppose if they’re dating, it doesn’t matter.

“Just give him an eighth,” Yoongi says with a dismissive wave. He’s more focused on plucking the blunt from Hoseok’s lips and bringing it to his own.

“Of what?” You huff your words, twisting the joint you’ve got between your middle finger and thumb. It’s clear that Jimin knows nothing about weed. He can’t even come up with a measurement or a strain.

Yoongi glares at you as if this is somehow your fault before saying, “Anything. Maybe not Girl Scout Cookies or Sour Diesel, though. I don’t want his brain melting out of his ears.”

Jimin makes a slight noise of surprise at that.

“Kidding,” Yoongi teases. “Well, about the brain-melting part. I mean it about the strains, though.”

Leaving your joint in an ashtray on the coffee table, you stand up with a groan. Moving is low on your list of things to do right now. The indica you’ve been smoking makes your movements feel slow, though you can’t tell if they actually are.

“Come on,” you mumble, gesturing for him to follow you down the hall. He goes without a word, eyes wide as if he’s about to discover something profound within the walls of your apartment. You don’t want to admit how cute he is, just as timid in your apartment as in class.

“We keep everything in the office. It’s super organized, but I guess that’s expected.” You don’t know why you’re rambling (yes, you do, it’s the weed).

Jimin nods. “Makes sense.”

He’s so cute, you think, when he asks if he wants you to close the door once you’ve reached the office. As if there is something to hide in here. Hoseok and Yoongi are the only other people in the apartment.

“I’m going to give you a hybrid. You know what that means?”

Jimin hovers over you when you crouch next to a dresser with multiple drawers. Numerous glass jars, all labeled with pieces of white tape and messy handwriting, are stacked in the drawer you open. You sift through them, taking a few to inspect before placing them back again.

“I do not.” At least he’s honest.

“It’s the happy medium between sativa and indica. Sativa gives you a head high. People tend to feel alert and creative sometimes. Indica gives you a body high. It’s the stereotypical kind of weed people talk about that makes you lazy and get the munchies. It’s because sativa has more THC than CBD, whereas indica is more CBD-heavy. Think about how people use CBD products when they’ve got joint pains or anxiety, right?”

“Oh, I didn’t know that.” The statement is redundant, but you don’t mention it. Jimin looks like he hangs onto your every word as though his life depends on it. It’s funny, and you have to stop yourself from laughing at him.

Finding what you’re looking for, you hand a jar to Jimin. “It’s already weighed, so you can take the whole thing.”

Jimin holds the jar like it’s a newborn. This time, you let a few giggles slip out.

“Do you have something to smoke it with? A piece or a bong?”

A shake of his head is no surprise, but you act shocked because you’re high and feeling good, and you love how he looks when his eyes grow wide.

“Wow, you’re so cute,” you say with a grin that starkly opposes the shy blush that paints Jimin’s face. “You probably don’t know how to roll either, do you?”

Another shake of his head. Of course.

It’s not difficult to show Jimin how. You pull up another chair at your desk and push away all your notes and textbooks for school to clear a path to work. You show him how to grind the weed and roll a blunt and a joint — so he can figure out which one he likes better.

Jimin’s body is warm as he presses against yours, your shoulders bumping into each other every time you move your arm. He keeps close, eyes glued to your hands as you work slowly but diligently. It’s a bit disarming having him so close. Aside from the occasional hello during class, you’ve never really talked to Jimin. Concentrating with all his Pretty Boy energy fogging up your mind is tricky.

Or is it the weed? Nah, it’s the weed.

“If you end up not liking either, go to a head shop to buy a bowl — it’s a pipe. Maybe don’t go with a bong yet. Yoongi can help you. He likes bowls better, so he’ll have good recommendations.”

Once finished, you slip the blunts and joints into a ziplock bag. When you pass it to Jimin, you can’t help but let your fingers brush against his. The touch sends waves of hot electricity up your arm. The shock of it makes your entire body tingle. Sure, the weed is making your body extra sensitive, but it’s not only that. He’s so fucking hot.

You don’t realize you’re staring at him. It’s hard not to stare or even know where to begin. His plush, pillowy lips? His fluffy, dirty-blonde hair that falls into his eyes? So cute that you don’t even care when he has to do a Bieber flip to get his bangs out of his face?

And, fuck, he’s not wearing the usual crisp white Oxford shirt and black chinos get-up. He must have gone home to change after class because now he’s wearing a form-fitting black t-shirt (probably designer from the looks of it) and grey jogger sweatpants that do nothing to hide how thick his thighs are and you’re sure if you get a chance to look at his ass you’ll find that that part of his body is thick, too. Expensive athleisure wear looks even better on him than professional clothing. It makes him look soft.

“Thank you,” Jimin says, speaking your name softly, and you feel like your knees grow weak at the sound of it tumbling from lips like those. “I’m sorry, I feel like I barged in here and took up your time. Not knowing anything… I’m sure you’re used to people with more knowledge than I do.”

Shaking your head, you guide Jimin out of the office and lock it behind you. “Don’t worry about it. Everyone has to start somewhere, right?”

It’s funny that he’s concerned about something like this, as if marijuana knowledge is so embarrassing not to have.

When you turn around, you realize the two of you are standing way too close. Your apartment isn’t a shoebox, but it certainly isn’t large. The hallway is slim, and Hoseok has a million and one plants and decorative furniture scattered around for the “aesthetic,” which makes it even harder to navigate tight spaces.

You’re not complaining, though. This close, you can see that Jimin is wearing contacts that make his eyes hazel, little flecks of orangish-brown highlighting his naturally dark irises.

Jimin’s eyes drop to your lips, and you feel your stomach drop along with them. Even though you’re not touching each other, your skin tingles with the knowledge that you could be touching. He’s so close. All it would take is one tiny shuffle forward, and you could slot yourself against his nimble — but what you assume is a very solid — frame.

“Yeah,” he speaks as he releases a soft exhale. You feel his warmth and shudder. “Thank you, still.”

“No problem,” you whisper.

Jimin’s tongue darts out to run across his bottom lip. His teeth draw it in slightly, and when he lets go, you can see how his lip bounces back into place.

Dragging your eyes back to meet his takes an embarrassing amount of effort. He’s finally looking at your eyes, too, with an expression you don’t understand because you don’t really know him.

“How much do I owe you?”

Right. Because he’s here with Yoongi for a reason. You swallow, turning your head to the side to hopefully break whatever spell Jimin and weed have put you under.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Jimin inhales sharply, but you keep your eyes down. “I must pay you something. I don’t know what’s a standard amount.”

If you were anyone else, you could honestly rip him off. The guy has no clue — he is even admitting that he doesn’t! But there are embers smoldering in the pit of your stomach.

“Nope,” you say with a tone of finality. You can hardly think before your following words slip out of your mouth like snakes. “Pretty Boys get weed free of charge.”

“W-w-what?” Jimin looks unbearably cute when he’s confused. It’s almost too much for you to handle.

So you don’t.

Without another word, you head back to the living room. Jimin follows silently. You’re sure his face is still painted with shock because Yoongi gives the two of you an odd look.

“Right where I left you,” you tease.

Untangling his limbs from Hoseok’s, Yoongi lets out an old man grunt and stands. You hadn’t believed him when he said he wouldn’t be staying, but it’s clear that he’s sticking to his promise when he starts patting down his legs to make sure he has his keys.

“Got what you need, Chim?”

Chim? How close are Yoongi and Jimin? And why are you only now learning of this friendship?

Jimin nods, his bottom lip between his teeth once again. He insists that you’ve been a great help to him, all while keeping his eyes locked with yours. It’s so different than his shy avoidance in class.

“Don’t worry, Yoong,” you insist as you plop back on the couch. Your joint is patiently waiting for you. “I took good care of him.”

You’ve never been very good at math, but it doesn’t take a mathematician to know that Pretty Boy Jimin ends up costing you hundreds of dollars as the semester progresses.

All your peers will walk away from law school making six figures easily. But not you. You just had to give a shit about the world, didn’t you? You just had to pick an area of law that values protecting human rights over making a profit.

God, being a good person is so hard!

And now, Park Jimin is sucking you dry before you can even earn money. Every time his fat little ass sashays away from your apartment with another jar of free weed, you can practically hear the chime of money signs ringing out with each step.

There’s a worse feeling, though. It hadn’t occurred to you until now, as you stand in the entranceway of Jimin’s apartment unit, your backpack carrying precious cargo inside slung over one shoulder.

Allowing Jimin to walk out of your apartment with the Pretty Boy Discount of free marijuana hurts your pocket, but doing a free weed delivery is even more pathetic. You’re wasting your own time and gas money to drive to Park Jimin’s motherfucking apartment to deliver him weed that you aren’t even going to charge him for simply because he’s hot.

Maybe this is the terrible consequence of abstaining from sex to “focus on school” — as if smoking weed with Hoseok all day isn’t a distraction. But, on the other hand, maybe you just need to get laid.

Dipping on this commitment would be easy, you think as you bounce on the balls of your feet. You could leave right now before Jimin answers the door, ask Hoseok to handle Jimin’s future requests, and put all of this behind you. But, of course, the entire situation is ridiculous anyway. You don’t even know Jimin. Not really.

There’s a clicking sound from the other side of Jimin’s front door. Logically, you know it’s the sound of him unlocking the door, but your nerves tell you it’s the sound of your fate being locked into place. It may as well be because Jimin opens the door with a smile that puffs up his cheeks, his hair looks damp, and he smells like body wash.

Fuck.

“Hi!” His voice squeaks, but a deep cough returns it to a normal tone. “I mean, uh, I appreciate you coming by.”

Your tongue presses into your cheek as you regard him for a moment. He might consider your silence as negative because he quickly sidesteps to allow you into his apartment.

You give Jimin a smirk. “I think you should at least give me a tip.”

“O-oh, I mean… oh, um,” he stutters, and you can’t help but laugh.

A rush of air escapes your nostrils in a low-energy, nearly silent laugh. While coming to Jimin’s place might seem like a lot of effort, the truth is that you’re bored, and lately, you’ve been seeking anything to get your mind off the loneliness you feel when your apartment is dark and Hoseok is with Yoongi.

So, even though part of you chastises yourself, you’re willing to risk looking pathetic or desperate if it means you can have someone to smoke with and get some time away from your too-quiet apartment. Not because Jimin is the most attractive person you’ve ever seen in your entire life.

Jimin’s pretty eyes widen, and you quickly wave your hand to brush off his sudden panic.

“I’m kidding,” you confess as you twist your backpack around your body to pull out a small glass mason jar. It’s cute how concerned he is.

No, not cute. Naive. You shake yourself out of the feeling.

”Well, come on then.” You walk through Jimin’s apartment into the living room. It’s your first time making a delivery with him, so you’ve never been to his apartment. Yet you walk through the building with unearned familiarity. You’ve got manners; sometimes, you choose not to use them.

“How have you and Hoseok been?”

“Prepping for finals. And that fucking oral argument Kim’s got us doing,” you groan. School talk wasn’t something you had in mind when you showed up, but in the months you’ve spent getting to know Jimin more, you’ve learned he’s a total nerd. He’s probably excited about the assessment.

“Sometimes I think he’s trying to kill us,” Jimin says with a slight grin. “Is it ethical, moral, or legal to terrify your students to the point of throwing up before evaluations?”

“Don’t tease Yoongi like that! You know he has public speaking anxiety!”

Jimin does a little half-skip to avoid your attempt to slap his chest. Although you know the both of you are drowning in student loans and law school tuition fees, the apartment is much nicer than expected. You wonder if Jimin has a roommate. He’s never mentioned one before.

“Don’t tell him, or he’ll beat me up.”

Eyerolls aren’t a commitment to anything, but you know Jimin knows you wouldn’t dare repeat his words.

Plopping onto his couch, you scoot the coffee table between your knees and set the jar down. Beside the jar, you place everything you need to roll for Jimin, including a grinder and swishers. You could have rolled it all in advance, but you don’t like to feel rushed. Prepping is the best part. It relaxes you.

Jimin slowly slides into place beside you on the couch. He leaves enough room between the two of you to be respectful, although something tells you it’s less about his desire to make you feel comfortable and more about his discomfort.

He’s nervous, but you don’t know why. He keeps dragging his palms against his thighs, roughly rubbing his jeans. Every once in a while, he lifts his hand to touch his bottom lip. Then, when you sneak a glance at him, he quickly turns away. There’s nothing of note to look at in the apartment, but he seems engrossed in something for those fleeting moments before you’re sure he’s looking at you once again.

“I should probably learn how to do this… Like, properly… I can’t remember everything you did the first time,” Jimin mumbles. When you look up, his cheeks are dusted a light pink.

“Sorry, I probably went too fast that time.” You give him an apologetic look that makes his face redden even more. “It’s not as hard as people make it out to be. Just need a good teacher.”

If Jimin expects you to be his teacher again, he doesn’t say so. You could be. You can’t stop yourself from giving the guy free weed; you might as well add comprehensive rolling lessons in the mix.

By this point, rolling a blunt is about muscle memory; you don’t have to use an ounce of brainpower. Your eyes can wander, sweep over the contents of Jimin’s living room, your thoughts floating off to wonder about the little details of the man’s life you aren’t privy to. Who are his friends? Where is his family? You look for photographs on shelves or hanging on the walls, items that are a staple in your and Hoseok’s apartment. Would Yoongi be in any of his photos? So many people in the city come in like ghosts.

“Do you, um, would you like to stay?”

Jimin’s voice pulls you back to the living room, where your hands have already finished two blunts without you realizing it.

“Isn’t that what you meant when you said I could smoke with you?” You question around the blunt you’ve brought between your lips, pausing to light it.

Jimin shakes his head, not as an answer to your question, but to himself. “Yes, of course.”

“You wanna share this or smoke your own?“ You can keep working on rolling the rest in the meantime.

Rather than answer your question verbally, Jimin does something that makes your heart fall into the pit of your fucking stomach. The supposedly shy, naive man parts his lips and juts his chin toward you.

The meaning behind his action hits you in the chest immediately. You let your eyes drift over his mouth, and you try not to react when his tongue swipes across his bottom lip while he patiently waits for you to give him what he wants. And you’re gonna do it, too. No questions asked.

Pinching the blunt between your middle finger and thumb, you twist on the couch to face Jimin with your legs tucked beneath you. Of course, if your fingertips brush against his lips when you place the blunt between them, that’s no one’s business, and you fucking plead the fifth, thanks.

Jimin’s eyes never leave yours when he wraps his lips around the blunt and inhales. He takes the hit like a champ, not coughing once despite the smoke’s thickness when he exhales. It’s been a few months since he started coming to you for weed. You shouldn’t be proud of his improvement, but you are anyway. Even if it’s weird to be.

“Thanks.” Jimin looks like a droopy-eyed dragon, eyes heavy and narrow when he expresses his appreciation. His voice is low and thick, and it makes your stomach swoop.

You nod your head and take the blunt from him. “No problem.”

Time is hardly discernible in normal circumstances for you, especially when you’re high. So you can’t imagine how long you sit with Jimin on his couch, watching smoke billow in the air and talking about how unfortunate it is that Frank Ocean and Rihanna ghosted the music industry.

For a while, the two of you fall silent. You lean your head against the couch and close your eyes, content with listening to the music Jimin put on until another thought enters your mind. One you can’t bring yourself to ignore.

“You ever fucked while you’re high?”

You ask the question once you and Jimin have finished the first blunt and move on to the second. The lighter you’re using is hot pink with blue and purple flowers printed on it. Something feels fitting about that.

The question takes you by surprise even though you’re the one asking it, unsure why you’re asking it aside from knowing the weed will make you more likely to speak your mind. Jimin, though. The poor guy is even more startled. As he should be, you think.

His hand trembles slightly when he passes you the blunt when it’s your turn to take a hit. “Uhh, um, have I— what?”

You roll your eyes and blow a smoke ring in Jimin’s direction. You wait for his coughing to subside before you repeat yourself.

“Have you ever had sex while under the influence of marijuana, Jimin-ssi?”

“No…”

“Hmm, you should. It’s really fun. Feels good.”

“Oh.”

“Do you wanna try it now?”

It’s comical how Jimin gulps, literally gulps, like a fucking cartoon character. “Now?”

Marijuana is an aphrodisiac. It won’t make Jimin want you, but it’s clear from his suggestive behavior that he already does. The weed will simply, hopefully, make him less nervous about it.

You pretend you don’t notice how he shifts to press his thighs together on the couch.

“Come on,” you encourage him. “Stop thinking so much.”

You know you’re too forward and sudden, but it feels justified because you’ve been thinking about Jimin for months. The buildup over the past few months has been stifling.

Giving consent is what finally unlocks something in Jimin. One moment he’s staring at you with wide, timid eyes; the next, he’s got his hand around your throat.

With a light squeeze, Jimin pulls you into him to slot his lips with yours. Holding back a moan is nearly impossible when his tongue pries your lips open. It’s wet and hot, and your skin tingles when you taste the smoke on him when his tongue curls around your own. Smoking always makes you feel warm, but you feel like you’re on fire when Jimin whimpers into your mouth. His pace is unrelenting. You feel like you’re tripping over yourself as you attempt to keep up with the quick work of his lips. The effort has you practically straddling his lap.

Tightening his grip on your throat, Jimin uses it to tilt you how he wants you. A pleased hum vibrates against your mouth when he hears you moan from the pressure of his fingers digging into the soft skin of your neck. It’s only when you start to get lightheaded, and your lips slow that Jimin finally pulls away.

His eyes’ heavy, sensual look remains, but you’re surprised to find his slick lips forced into a frown.

“I’m sorry.”

You could ask why, but you assume Jimin’s forwardness isn’t typical behavior. The good thing is that it is for you.

Rather than address the unnecessary tension, you let your lips do all the work and pull Jimin in for another ruthless kiss.

“I don’t wanna hear any apologies from you,” you murmur against his mouth. “The only thing I want your lips doing is eating me out.”

Jimin lets out a high-pitched whine that sets something dangerous off, buzzing through your body. “Please.”

Maybe you’re pathetic with how quickly you strip yourself of your clothes, but Jimin doesn’t seem to care. His eyes never leave your body as you toss the clothing onto the floor. “You’re so beautiful…”

“Yeah?” You lean with your back against the arm of the couch, scooting down slightly so you can let your legs fall open.

He nods sharply and is silent momentarily as he rubs his palms down the length of your legs, settling between them.

"I’ve always wanted to talk to you,” Jimin speaks with a hushed tone. He presses an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh. “I just get nervous. I’m sure that seems pretty lame."

You shake your head, not trusting yourself to speak. Every touch sends goosebumps pebbling across your skin. It’s exhilarating. You feel like your entire body is a hot wire, sparking and buzzing at a dangerous frequency.

"Yoongi said this would be a good way for us to get to know each other. The weed, not this this!” It’s shocking to you how adorable he can be at the same time he sucks the skin of your inner thigh into his mouth, swirling his tongue around after biting down hard enough to make you gasp.

Your head falls back as you feel the tip of Jimin’s tongue drags along your clit. He swirls it around, drawing small circles in a steady rhythm. Every time his tongue pulls back, you can hear a soft smacking sound of his lips. He’s likely swallowing the drool collecting in his mouth. You’re sure he’s probably getting a bad case of cotton mouth from the excessive sound.

It makes you smile knowing he’s that sensitive. It takes much more weed in your system to start feeling dry in the mouth, but you’ve been smoking more years than Jimin and at a higher frequency.

“Oh fuck,” you moan out a misshapen puff of smoke when Jimin’s tongue returns to your clit.

This time he wraps his plush lips around it and suckles lightly, using his tongue to flick from side to side. His little grunts and moans make your pussy vibrate, sending a tingling sensation through the inside of your thighs and down to your toes.

Your hand shakes as you bring the blunt back to your lips. A whine tries to break through, but you force it back down your throat as you inhale more smoke. It’s hard when your body feels like it’s burning up.

Every gentle touch of Jimin’s lips and tongue on your skin feels like a punch to your stomach in a way that is so deliriously delicious you can hardly take it. Wetness drips down your pussy and smears against your thighs, either from your arousal or Jimin’s drool or both, but you don’t care how messy it is when Jimin pulls back enough to spit more onto your clit.

You let out a surprised sound, lifting your head slightly to see a string of saliva connect Jimin’s pouty bottom lip with your skin.

Fuck, you didn’t think Pretty Boy had it in him.

Using two fingers, Jimin spreads his spit around your clit, pushing it down until he slides into your pussy with ease. You didn’t need the extra lubrication, but you groan at the wet sound that echoes through Jimin’s apartment as he thrusts his fingers deep inside you. He brings his lips back to your clit, sucking harder and massaging your skin with his tongue even faster to match the pace his fingers take.

When he finally locates the spot that makes your legs shake, hitting it repeatedly, you dig your fingers into his fluffy hair and yank his head back.

“H-h-here,” you stutter, pressing the blunt against his lips. They’re shiny, and the idea of sticking a wet blunt between your lips makes you want to cringe, but you don’t care because his lips are shiny with you.

Jimin doesn’t stop thrusting into you, but his pace slows as he concentrates on taking another hit.

“I’m so fucking hard,” he groans. With the blunt between his lips, Jimin’s hands fly to unbutton his jeans. Another groan sounds around the blunt once he’s freed himself of the retraining pants.

You let out a quiet sigh as you try to collect yourself while Jimin smokes. “I told you it feels good. It’s different, isn’t it?”

“Mhmm…”

There’s a large wet patch staining the front of Jimin’s briefs. It makes the fabric stick to his cock, clearly outlining his length and girth — big enough to make you drool but small enough that you won’t go home sore and regretful.

“Lemme ride you.” You use your free hand to push Jimin into the back of the couch. He plants his feet on the floor and spreads his thighs as you get comfortable in his lap. “Wanna smoke the rest while we fuck.”

Your head is in the clouds, your body melting like butter as Jimin skirts his hands along your sides. He eventually pauses to squeeze your hips, and you swear you can feel him all over you.

It’s quick work, tugging down the final article of clothing separating the two of you. It’s hard not to stare, especially when Jimin twitches and shivers with every light touch of your fingertips along the ridges and veins of his cock.

Your clit drags against the head of his cock when you adjust in his lap, and you let out a ragged moan.

“Soaked,” Jimin murmurs, “You’ve got me all wet.”

It’s true. Jimin’s thighs glisten from where you’ve leaked all over him. Your clit throbs so much it’s beginning to hurt from the sensitivity.

“Condom,” you practically wheeze out. “If you go in raw, you’re probably gonna bust a nut immediately, and I’m not interested in that for many reasons.”

Jimin’s face turns even pinker.

“O-okay, give me a second, please.” So fucking polite, and for what?

He holds you at the base of your spine with one hand as he leans forward to snatch his jeans with his other hand. There’s a condom in his wallet, so you assume your classmate isn’t all innocent.

It’s quick work rolling the condom on. Uninterested in teasing yourself further because you feel like you’ll die if you don’t orgasm soon, you push Jimin hard against the back of the couch. You slip down his cock with ease, with no stretch or sting, from how turned on you are.

“I feel like I’m already gonna come.” Jimin throws his head back against the couch.

His lips fall open, and you quickly snatch the blunt from them so it doesn’t fall and burn one of you. He looks beautiful, angelic even. His lips are puffy and pink, his cute little mismatched front teeth peeking out. His tongue flicks around his mouth as his breathing grows heavier.

You squeeze one of his shoulders with your free hand while your other keeps the blunt pinched to your lips. As you take a drag, you lift your hips and quickly bring them back down, your ass slapping Jimin’s thighs as you engulf his cock again. Your skin sounds wet and sticky, but Jimin’s whine drowns out the sound.

“Shit,” he hisses. Blunt nails dig into your skin, but it doesn’t hurt; it only feels good. Everything feels so good.

You hardly notice how hard you shake as you slam yourself down on Jimins’ cock again. Your head is too spacey to go fast, but you do your best to set a steady pace of bouncing on Jimin’s cock. It doesn’t matter if he’s already going to come. You feel your orgasm building up with every squeeze of his fingers and the pathetic moans from his mouth.

You lean forward to latch your lips to the base of Jimin’s neck when he again drops his head. Pulling the skin into your mouth, you suck hard. You know the shock the discomfort will send across his body, pain that quickly morphs into pleasure and makes his cock twitch inside you.

“Jesus Christ.” Jimin reaches up to brush his bangs away from his eyes. Sweat makes the hair remain in place, pushed up, making him look as wrecked as he sounds. His cheeks are bright red now, and the color bleeds down his neck, where you’re sure his chest is bright red, too.

Fuck, why didn’t you take off his shirt? It feels like a quick and dirty fuck, although you’re not sure you want it to be. You’re unsure what you want this to be or mean. Or how you want it to feel.

All you know is that you feel like you’ll come at the sight of Jimin’s toned stomach and chest when you pull the hem of his shirt up to bunch it right above his nipples.

Holding onto the fabric gives you more leverage to pick up your pace. It’s needed because Jimin is a puddle beneath you. His arms are tossed to his slides like they’re made out of rubber, flopped onto the couch cushions. He can barely lift his hips. He only makes a few weak attempts to thrust into you before he’s whining again, head lolled to the side with furrowed eyebrows. He looks so fucked out.

“Please, ahh, fuck, please,” Jimin begs, though you’re not sure for what.

“Wanna come, pretty boy?” You squeeze his t-shirt harder and yank it slightly, just enough to pull Jimin’s back a few inches from the couch. “You’re gonna have to work harder. I already gave you so much.”

Jimin’s eyes roll in pleasure when you clench around him, little “oh’s” and “ah’s” punched out of him. “Okay, yes, yes, fuck, yes, I’ll be soooo—”

You bring his hands back to your waist as he babbles. The contact must give him a bit of clarity because he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and begins to thrust into you hard.

“I’ll. Be. So. Fucking. Good.” Every word is punctuated by a mind-shattering thrust as Jimin pulls you down onto his cock.

If you were on the edge before, you’re falling by the time he picks up the pace and thrusts into you even harder. The buildup was long and hot, yet your orgasm hits you so hard it might as well have been a surprise.

You curl into yourself and press your face into the crook of Jimin’s neck while he continues his unforgiving rhythm until he comes with a choked-out moan of your name.

The silence should be uncomfortable. How awkward and irrational was it to simply… tell Jimin that you wanted to fuck? And for Jimin to go along with it? Casual hookups aren’t really your thing. Pretty Boy Jimin seems to be the exception for everything, though.

Heavy breathing fills the silence as the two of you try to calm down, your chests rising and falling in tandem. It’s comforting to lean all your weight on Jimin, despite how his bunched-up t-shirt presses uncomfortably into your chest. Even the feeling of his cock softening inside of you doesn’t bother you any.

At some point, Jimin had placed the blunt in the ashtray on the coffee table. It’s shocking that he had the mind to do so; you would have accidentally burned a hole into his comfy, expensive-looking couch. It’s a good thing you had the mind to use a condom. Imagine burn marks and cum stains. Sheesh.

The kiss Jimin presses to your temple when he turns his head feels way more domestic than you deserve. You smile, teeth pressed against his skin, despite yourself. You can blame the giddiness you feel on the weed, and not whatever Pretty Boy Jimin has done to trigger warmth inside your chest.

“I think I gave you more than the tip…”

With narrowed eyes, you lift your head from Jimin’s neck to look him square in the face so quickly that you’re worried you might pull a muscle in your neck. “You’re not fucking funny.”

Jimin lets his head fall back to laugh hard enough that his eyes squeeze shut. It’s so endearing that you overlook such a bad joke. Pretty Boy Jimin seems to get away with a lot. You don’t mind it as much as you act like you do.

#bts fanfic #bts x reader #jimin x reader #jimin fanfic #bts smut #jimin smut #gimmethatagustd #blunt rotation

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stilinskiandthebanshee · 3 days ago

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Falling Into The Stars | Natalie Scatorccio x Kevyn's Sister!Reader

Part One | Part Two (Coming Soon) | Masterlist (Coming Soon)

Word Count: 2.8K

Warnings: None really yet. Smoking, mentions of grief, and dead parents.

Summary: You're back in Wisayok, carrying grief and secrets, landing under the awkward watch of your half-brother Kevyn. The house feels unfamiliar—and then there’s Natalie: cool, mysterious, and smirking like she’s waiting for something to unravel. Sparks aren’t flying yet, but the air between you is charged. This isn’t just a homecoming—it’s the start of something complicated.

a/n: I don't love this chapter guys, but I've been going over and over it for days at this point, so I just had to put it out there. Truly, this is just a lot of setup for what's to come!

It was a chilly day in Wisayok, the kind of wet, heavy cold that clung to your skin and soaked into your bones. Rain tapped steadily against your cheeks—a welcome change after the brutal heat wave that had blanketed the town all week. It almost felt like the weather was trying to match the storm inside you, like the sky was doing its best impression of grief. Heavy clouds. Fat raindrops. Like the universe knew.

Kevyn’s ratty old truck rattled beneath you, the engine sputtering loud enough to drown out whatever mumbled track was playing through the radio. None of it registered. You kept your head against the cold glass of the passenger-side window, watching trees blur past like they couldn’t get away fast enough.

When the truck lurched to a stop, you blinked back into the moment. The parking lot was mostly empty—figures, considering Kev insisted on getting there early. Claimed it was so you could get settled before the crowd rolled in. But you knew better. He wanted time to find his friends and get high behind the gym.

Not that you were one to judge. The cigarettes in your pocket might as well have been screaming your name.

Kevyn tapped the steering wheel, hesitant. You could feel his eyes on you before he even said anything.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked. “Dad said you didn’t have to rush back to s—”

You cut him off before he could finish. He’d been hovering like this since the second you showed up on their porch—arms full of your shit, face still streaked with tears after your mom died.

Hell, he’d been like this since the day you were born, always trying to play the protector. Always a few steps too late.

“I’m fine, Kev,” you said, pushing the door open before he could argue.

The air outside felt thick. Stale. A few early arrivals were scattered across the lot, their curious glances sticking to you like static. You didn’t look at them. Didn’t have to. You already knew what they were thinking.

Kevyn showing up to school with a girl in his truck? That had to be news.

Most of them probably didn’t even know he had a sister.

You kept your head down as you made your way to the principal’s office, hoodie pulled up until the front desk lady barked at you to take it off. You did, barely, and dropped into the chair outside his door, arms crossed, trying not to look like you were crawling out of your skin.

You barely heard a word Mr. Whatever was saying once he ushered you inside. Something about pep rallies and school spirit and tryout dates. Your eyes stayed fixed on the clock. You didn’t care.

You were already missing your old school. Your old teams.

Your old life.

The one where your mom woke you up with pancakes and you led your cheer squad to States. Not the waking nightmare you’d landed in two months ago, the one no one seemed able to pull you out of.

You felt dazed as Mr. Hampton led you through the halls, pointing out classrooms like it mattered. You half-listened, nodding when he paused in front of a door and told you to wait out first period in study hall. You barely nodded before slipping away the second his back turned.

You didn’t even think twice—just kept walking until you found somewhere away from all the unfamiliar stares, the curious whispers that made your skin itch.

There was a green utility box near the edge of the field, probably a generator or something, and you slid behind it without hesitation. It was just tucked away enough that you could hear the girls on the soccer field but not see their faces. Their laughter felt like it belonged to a world you used to live in.

You reached into your pocket and pulled out the half-crushed pack of cigarettes, one already between your lips before you had time to second-guess it. It was a nasty habit you’d picked up at your last school, something casual that turned chronic once your mom got sick.

The first inhale was heaven. That familiar buzz in your chest finally quieting the noise in your head, just long enough to breathe.

A voice cut through the cheers—sharp, loud, unmistakably cocky. “Come on, that was barely a touch!”

You peeked around the corner, just for a second, catching the tail end of a blonde ponytail and a flash of athletic tape wrapped around lean fingers. Whoever she was, she’d gotten the attention of the whole field. You couldn’t see her face, not clearly, but the way she moved—confident, relaxed, like she owned the space—sent an odd flutter through your chest.

You shook off, retreating further behind the wall, taking another drag. Didn’t matter who she was. You were only here to keep your head down until graduation—then get far away from this shitty town and every bittersweet memory of your mom it held.

—----

The day passed quicker than expected. Bound to happen when you barely showed up to any classes, instead drifting between bathrooms and empty study halls. You learned fast: when no one knew your name, it was easy to disappear.

By eighth period, guilt, or maybe boredom, convinced you to show face. One class. Just enough to make it seem like you tried. And even if you’d never admit it, Art had always been your thing. A throwaway for most, but not for you. You took a seat in the far corner, pulling out your sketchbook—the worn, half-filled one Kevyn and your dad had given you for your last birthday. They’d been desperate back then, offering anything they could to coax out a smile. It hadn’t worked at the time, but now… now it was the only thing that made sense.

The teacher’s voice droned on with the usual first-day crap: rules, rubrics, supply lists. You were barely listening until the door swung open, and his sigh cut through the haze.

“Mrs. Scatorccio. Late on the first day. Off to a fantastic start.”

That voice.

Your head snapped up. And there she was. The same girl from the field. The blonde. Only now, she wasn’t just a blur of motion and laughter across the grass. Now she was front and center, and it hit… different.

She had that kind of presence that demanded attention without trying. A leather jacket slouched over her shoulders like she couldn’t be bothered to wear it properly, dark eyeliner smudged in a way that looked accidental but perfect. A half-lazy smile tugged at her mouth, like she found the whole thing amusing.

“Got a reputation to uphold, don’t I?” she said, voice smooth like honey laced with trouble.

The teacher rolled his eyes and waved her off, already over it. But before you could look away, her eyes met yours. Green. Bright, vivid, and just shy of brown if you weren’t paying close enough attention.

You looked away fast—too fast. She noticed. And then she was moving.

Straight toward you.

Your stomach did something traitorous. Not a flutter, exactly. More like a twitch of nerves you couldn’t quite explain. You told yourself it was annoyance. Or dread.

She stopped in front of your desk, plaid skirt swaying slightly as she tilted her head.

“You’re in my seat, newbie.”

Then, with a smirk and a gentle kick to the leg of your desk, she dropped into the chair beside you.

“But you look so cute back here, brooding in the corner. I’ll let it slide this time.”

Her voice was teasing��casual, like it wasn’t meant to stick. But it did. It lodged somewhere in the back of your throat, caught between a scoff and a shiver.

You tried not to stare as she pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from her pocket. No backpack. No pencil case. Nothing. That was what she was planning to draw on?

You glanced back down at your sketchbook, suddenly too aware of how tightly your fingers were gripping it.

Who even was this girl?

Her presence felt suffocating beside you, even though she wasn’t doing anything in particular. Just there. Scribbling across that balled-up scrap of paper like it was no big deal, leaning back in her chair like this was her living room, not a classroom. Something about the way she moved—loose, careless, like none of it mattered—itched beneath your skin. Like a splinter you couldn’t dig out.

She leaned in without warning, her breath brushing the side of your neck. It sent a cold shiver skating across your skin. You didn’t look at her. Refused to. You stared straight ahead, stiff as her fingers curled over the edges of your desk.

“Hey, newbie,” she murmured, voice low and lazy. “Can I borrow a sheet of paper?”

You exhaled hard, reaching into your sketchbook and yanking out a page with more force than necessary. Anything to get her to back off. You shoved it her way without making eye contact.

“Thanks,” she said, quiet but with that unmistakable grin threading through her voice. She knew exactly what she was doing. And worse—you knew she knew.

“You make a habit of showing up late and unprepared?” you muttered, trying to sound indifferent, even as your pencil dug too hard into the paper.

She laughed. A short, surprised breath like you’d caught her off guard. You could feel her smile shift from smug to genuinely amused.

“Nah,” she said, stretching her arms behind her like she couldn’t be bothered. “Only when there’s a cute girl I can bum some off of.”

You rolled your eyes, lips twitching despite yourself. Of course she was that kind of person—someone who could flirt with a brick wall and convince it to blush. “Smooth,” you muttered, voice dry.

She didn’t say anything at first. For a second, you let yourself believe maybe she’d finally lost interest. Maybe that was it.

But then, quiet and sure, her voice cut through again.

“Made you blush, though.”

The rest of class passed in a blur. Or maybe that was just your survival response kicking in—pretend you weren’t still hyper-aware of the girl next to you who hadn’t said another word but kept doodling like she wasn’t sitting directly inside your personal space.

You bolted the second the bell rang.

Your plan was simple: get to the parking lot before Kevyn so you could stare into space for a few minutes and maybe finish another cigarette before heading home.

What you didn’t expect was to see her there again.

Leaning against Kevyn’s truck like she owned it. Leather jacket still slung over her shoulders, plaid skirt hitched just enough to look deliberate. She was talking to him—fucking laughing, even—and whatever she said made him roll his eyes and shove her lightly on the arm.

You stopped dead in your tracks.

No. No way.

As if sensing you, Kevyn looked up and waved you over like this was completely normal. “There she is! Took you long enough.”

She turned to look at you, and that same lazy smile spread across her face like she’d been waiting for this moment all day.

“Hey again, newbie.”

You blinked, still trying to do the mental math.

Kevyn gestured between the two of you, utterly oblivious. “You met Natalie already? She’s been riding with me since sophomore year. Her car’s been in the shop since… forever, basically.”

Natalie winked. “I like the chauffeur service. Full perks, no gas money.”

You said nothing, just stared at her. This girl—the cocky, chaotic storm who called you cute in class—was Kevyn’s friend?

Perfect.

You didn’t respond, just let out a quiet huff as you chucked your backpack into the back seat and climbed in after it. Natalie’s grin widened like she’d won some kind of game, while Kevyn shot you a confused side glance, like he couldn’t figure out why the air had suddenly gone tense.

You turned to the window and prayed for a short ride.

They talked the whole time, laughing like this was just another Tuesday. You tuned most of it out, eyes trained on the passing trees, until the sharp smell of smoke hit your nose and made your head lift instinctively.

Natalie had a cigarette between her fingers, her elbow hanging out the open window. She caught your stare in the side mirror and smirked as she exhaled a long stream of smoke, slow and deliberate. Her eyes sparkled, amused and a little daring.

“Want a hit?” she asked casually, like it was nothing.

You rolled your eyes, but your fingers twitched anyway. Of course, she had to be the one to light up first, ruining your escape plan before it even started. Still, you reached out, fingers brushing hers more than you meant to as you snatched the cigarette.

Kevyn let out a half-hearted, “Seriously?” but didn’t stop you.

You took a long drag, the smoke hitting your lungs with a familiar burn. You leaned your head back against the seat, eyes fluttering shut, trying not to think about the way Natalie was still watching you in the mirror like she was reading something written on your skin.

“Nat,” Kevyn groaned. You could see him glaring at you in the rearview mirror. “Don’t start corrupting my little sister.”

You flipped him off without opening your eyes. “Relax. It’s just a cigarette.”

Natalie laughed under her breath, nudging him with her shoulder. “Don’t worry. I promise to be on my best behavior.”

That made something in your chest flutter, annoyingly light.

Kevyn muttered, “That’s not saying much.”

You let the corners of your mouth twitch before you took one last drag and handed it back, avoiding her fingers this time. Your eyes slid shut again, the warmth of the smoke lingering in your chest, and the feeling of her gaze still burning into the side of your face.

The house was still when you walked in, the door creaking on its hinges like it didn’t recognize you anymore. The stale scent of microwave lasagna and old cigarettes clung to the air, mixing with the distant hum of the television. Your dad was passed out in his recliner, mouth slightly open, the soft glow of a crime show flickering across his face.

Kevyn tossed his keys into the dish like always and headed to the kitchen. “There’s food if you want it,” he called. “What’s left of it.”

You didn’t answer. Your fingers toyed with the frayed hem of your sleeve as you climbed the stairs, each step heavier than the last. Your room was just as you’d left it—bare, except for the sketchbook on the nightstand and a laundry basket full of clothes you still hadn’t unpacked.

You collapsed on the bed, letting the weight of the day press into your chest. The sketchbook found its way into your hands without much thought. You flipped it open to the eyes you’d started drawing in class—sharp and bright, half-smirking even in pencil.

Green.

You snapped the book shut like it had burned you.

A soft knock at the door.

Kevyn didn’t wait before pushing it open. “Hey. Dad wants to do a dinner thing tomorrow night. Like... all of us. Actual table, actual food. He’s trying.” He gave a tired shrug. “Sort of.”

“Sure,” you muttered.

He lingered, rocking slightly on his heels.

“What?” you asked.

Kevyn scratched the back of his head. “Just… Natalie.”

You tensed. “What about her?”

He narrowed his eyes slightly, reading you like he always could. “She’s not someone you should get close to.”

That pulled your attention. You sat up a little. “Why? Because she bums cigarettes and shows up late to class?”

He crossed his arms. “Because I’ve known her for years. She’s a lot, and she’s not careful with people. She’s one of my closest friends, and I’m telling you: she’s a mess, and she’ll drag you into it.”

There was something sharper in his tone now, something that hit a nerve.

You scoffed. “You don’t get to tell me who I can talk to.”

He didn’t flinch. “No, but I will tell you who’s trouble. She’s not for you. Not now.”

You stared at him, heart thrumming for reasons you didn’t care to examine.

“I’m not asking for a lecture,” you muttered. “I’m just trying to survive a day here.”

Kevyn’s expression softened slightly, but his eyes stayed firm. “I’m serious. Just... be careful around her, okay? You don’t need that kind of chaos on top of everything else.”

He turned to go, hesitated in the doorway, then added, “I’m not trying to control you. I’m just—”

“Protecting me,” you finished, voice flat.

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t argue. “Yeah.”

He left you alone then, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

And all you could think about, as the room grew quiet again, was the way Natalie had looked at you in the rearview mirror. Like she already knew she was a storm you were going to walk into anyway.

#natalie scatorccio #yellowjackets #yellowjackets smut #natalie scatorccio smut #natalie scatorccio x reader #yellowjackets fanfic #britt writes #yellowjackets x reader #kevyn tan #tan x natalie

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roc-haze · 3 days ago

Text

From the ‘Pushing It Down and Praying’ series. Find the masterlist here.

Layla | WillNE

Pushing It Down and Praying - Will’s Perspective

Warning: George comes off as the bad guy here. In the first editions of this series, we get a lot of backstory about her friendships with the group and the comfortability. George’s reaction here is obviously not reflective of what we see on screen - it’s just necessary for the angst ✨

Will’s Perspective

It had been one of those weeks.

Not for him, necessarily. It’d been a week of inconveniences. Ieuan was working on another project, both of his usual editors were unwell. For the first time in a hot minute, Will had edited his own content from start to finish. But walking into the Clarke-Dixon-Hill flat, it was clear that the heaviness in the air wasn’t on his account.

Arthur’s last minute “the tour has sold out” party was meant to be a chill gathering. Most nights at their flat were peaceful, ending in a few games of FIFA and depending on if Chris had done a shop - sometimes they’d secure a tea and some biccies. Walking in, though, it wasn’t the chill, laidback night he’d assumed it to be. It was loud music, girls gossiping in corners and George deciding to roleplay the bartender from hell.

Will hadn’t even wanted to come at first, but when Lux had casually mentioned she’d be there, that was enough.

Y/N lit up a room. She walked in and it was like the light suddenly got brighter. Freya had once described her as “sunshine in human form”, and Will didn’t think there was a term more fitting for who she was. Tonight wasn’t any different, except for a certain tiredness behind her eyes and a stiffness in her posture. Almost like she was on edge. However, that could be totally attributed to George’s ongoing interrogation.

Will stayed mostly in the corner with Simon and Josh, faking interest in their conversation about golf, but his eyes kept drifting back to her. She’d parked herself at the kitchen bench, making her way through a cocktail that George probably shouldn’t have served anyone with taste buds. Will didn’t miss the way she’d poured half of it into the houseplant once George turned his back to her. Y/N didn’t notice Will watching. But George did.

And of course, with alcohol in his system and lowered inhibitions, George had zero filter.

The hair on the back of Will’s neck went up the second he heard George ask, “Not to sound like a prick, Y/N, but where’s Alex?” Too loud, too direct. Making the bustling room feel like a pin could drop.

He glanced at Lux, who was already clocking the conversation from across the room. Freezy, too. They exchanged a look and made their way over. The tone had shifted, but George had no clue he’d just crossed a line. The boys had been around Y/N for an almost a decade. They knew that this conversation wouldn’t well.

George pressed again, lips pursed. “Do you love him?”

Talia had beat the boys to it, not letting her respond. “Give it a rest, George. She’s come straight from work. Let her chill before you interrogate her.”

Thank god, Will thought.

Still, Will saw how her shoulders relaxed like she’d been holding her breath the entire time. Freya and Talia were behind her now, getting her comfy on the couches. She looked like she needed softness.

But he kept close, moving to the kitchen where Freezy was nursing a beer.

“That was rough,” Freezy muttered under his breath.

Will nodded. “I don’t get why he pushes like that. It’s not his place.”

“She’s already stretched thin,” Freezy said, glancing toward the couch where she was now sitting, surrounded by the girls. “I just worry that the newer guys feel like they are entitled to poke at her.”

Lux wandered over, resting a hand on Freezy’s shoulder. “He saw Will gawking at her. That’s what set him off. Maybe he’s jealous.”

Will sighed, rubbing his temple. “If anyone makes her feel like shit tonight, I’m saying something. Just a heads up.”

Freezy quirked an eyebrow. “About time. Everyone knows you’re down bad.”

“Shut up Cal,” Will said, too tired to pretend. “This isn’t about that. It’s just… she deserves better than being put on trial in the middle of a party.”

They watched her laugh weakly at something Talia said. She looked grateful to be away from the questions, but exhausted.

——

He didn’t get a chance to speak to her again until later that night, after Chris had followed her into George’s ensuite. The girls had been the ultimate protection detail, keeping her to themselves. Will lingered nearby, waiting to check on her. When Chris left, he gave Will a nod, patting his shoulder.

He knocked on the door, bottle of wine in hand.

“Why don’t we just sit in the bath, chat shit, and drink this expensive wine I copped from Mr Calfreezy?”

She pulled off her shoes and climbed into the bath like it was the most natural thing in the world. And suddenly, they were back to that familiar rhythm. Their knees touching, their voices soft, the rest of the party slipping into the background.

He let her talk. Didn’t interrupt. Just passed the bottle back and forth, actively listening and adding in the occasional joke when it called for some comedic relief.

She opened up about Alex. The relationship. How it wasn’t working out. Things he already thought he knew, but were confirmed finally.

Will fought the urge to tell her how he felt. But in all the scenarios and all the ways he’d imagined telling her, none of them included her feeling this tired and worn down.

Instead, he told her the truth: that he cared. That she could call whenever she was ready, and he’d answer.

No pressure.

——

Later, George came in. Freezy and Lux weren’t too far behind him.

“Out,” he said, trying to play it off with a grin. “Go be social. You’re stealing my ensuite.”

Will stood up first. “Mate, maybe read the room next time, yeah?”

George’s brows furrowed. “What’s your problem?”

Freezy appeared at the door. “You are. She’s in here opening up about the very thing you pushed her to talk about.”

Lux stood by the door, arms crossed. You okay, he mouthed to her.

Will’s voice was calm but firm. “We’re her mates. We love her. Your delivery has been a bit shit tonight. Figure that out before you pour your next round.”

George looked stunned. No one ever called him out. But to his credit, he didn’t argue. There wasn’t a bad bone in his body. He’d just taken it slightly too far.

Will turned back to Freezy and Lux. “Thanks for that.”

Freezy smirked. “Don’t thank me. I only came in here to see my best friend.” Pointing to Y/N, both boys scoffed.

——

Outside, walking her home, arms linked, she laughed like she hadn’t in days.

When they stood in front of her flat, she pulled him into a hug, hanging on and savouring the moment. And he almost kissed her.

Almost.

But he stood back.

“Oh fuck. Y/N, I’m so sorry. I’ve made it weird now.”

Her response was soft, but steady. “No, you haven’t. I just need some time to figure out my shit first. It’s not fair to Alex.”

He nodded. “I know. I meant what I said.”

And she smiled. “If I call…”

“I’ll answer.”

A week later, she called.

You know the rest. He answered.

——-

A/N: Feel free to drop any thoughts below or in my inbox!

Taglist: @clarkeysbedchem @octaneink @artvscvntymullet @mosviqu

#Spotify #willne #uk youtuber #willne x reader #will lenney #roc haze

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azialways · 3 days ago

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Mayybe something like a Ronin or V (or honestly any of them but preferably ronin oops) x stalker in a romantic way? Like they don't even fully realize they're a stalker but they're crazy stalkery. Write down every semi significant detail, probably know his home address in the same way ronin can hack and find all that stuff out, just something like that. It would throw him off so bad because he's used to being the one with the upper hand, meanwhile reader doesn't even know they're doing something wrong and think it's just how they show interest/friendship and ronin is like... "darling no that's kinda fucking creepy how do you know [incredibly specific detail from his childhood]". It just sounds funny !!!

From afar

ronin x stalker!reader

cw: stalking (duh) full name drops, route spoilers, mentions of death

You had been keeping your eyes on Ronin ever since you joined the slaughterhouse. Maybe keeping eyes on him is an understatement, because you learned details about his life that he thought were hidden. You wanted to learn everything about him, so he’d like you. You wanted to seem approachable, likable and that you guys had similar interests. Ronin was your type, let’s face it. He had this attitude that caught your eye since day one; that sarcastic, mysterious charm. In a way, he was kind of an enigma, and you wanted to crack the code. So you did some investigative journalism into his life, sure, hacking into his computer and listening slash looking around his space was invasive, and kinda creepy, but you didn’t see anything wrong. Plus, you occasionally got a good view, if you were lucky.

And other times, you’d follow him while he did his kills, observing his manner and his behaviors. You saw every little detail about him, his small grunts when he ripped a body open, his little “see you in hell” before he struck; all these little mannerisms that struck your attention and made you more interested. He was an interesting one, he had his defenses up, and you wanted to break that barrier down, and see who he really was. So you did it when he wasn’t watching. You learned these bits and pieces of information that made Ronin himself, and it made for great conversation.

You also took time to learn things about his life beyond the serial killing.

You learned his full name, Ronin Beaufort. You didn’t think he looked of French decent, but hey, you learn something new every day. You also learned about his childhood, where he grew up, how he grew up, who he grew up with, the works. On your little search, you even accidentally stumbled on his deadname and other details about him pre transition, which you didn’t intend on ever looking for; however, you had respect and human decency, sure, you were deep diving into a random guy you met recently’s life, but you had to have SOME level of respect. You swore to yourself that you wouldn’t bring up the person he used to be, because he made it clear that she was dead to him.

You understood it, you had a tough relationship with your past too. You didn’t exactly grow up in the best place with the best people, and it gave you this level of hatred to the person you used to be, and you knew it would piss you off if someone were to bring that up. So you kept your mouth shut; tried to erase that knowledge from your memory. Instead, you focused on other aspects of his life, like how he had a childhood lover by the name of Ther, who tragically passed away. How he grew up in Angelwood, an extremely religious town in the suburbs, and then it clicked as to why he was the way he was. It was an homage to the way he grew up, a big “fuck you” to the people and place that ruined him. You imagined it was also due to his identity, which religion tended to frown upon, and other small factors that played into his becoming a serial killer with religious subtext.

Knowing these details felt intimate.

You unraveling his life story as if he told it to you, it felt like you two were somehow closer. Even if it wasn’t him to told you, you felt closer to him more than you did before. In a twisted sense, you were. You knew things that a lot of people in the server probably didn’t, and that made you feel special.

Finding those old details was much harder than finding his address, or his full legal name, but you were good at what you did, after all. You knew where he lived, which was surprisingly close to you, a 20 minute drive uptown. You knew what type of passports he had, even his social security number. Not that you needed it. You knew this man as well as he knew himself at this point, and you were damn proud of yourself for it. You felt like you completed some sort of spy work or detective shit, and you were impressed at your own abilities, which has improved more than you thought.

You were snapped out of your thoughts when you heard a ping from your PC.

! goreboy

Speak of the devil.

<goreboy> [18:38]

good Evening darling

<user> [18:40]

what do you want?

u don’t just say good evening

<goreboy> [18:41]

cant a guy Just greet a Fellow killer?

<user> [18:42]

what? ya missed me or something?

heh

maybe. what can i say?

you’re A real charmer, Darlin.

Then a notification popped up.

goreboy would like to Video Chat!

You accepted, being greeted by his voice, and his stupidly handsome face. His black eyes stared into your soul, like he was reading you as if you were an open book. His hair was waved into his face, giving the messy aesthetic he usually had going. He was wearing a hoodie and a tshirt, and you saw black sweatpants in part of the frame. Nothing atypical for him.

“Oh, so you do miss me?” You teased, turning your camera on. You leaned in slightly, looking at him.

“Maybe a tad.” He smirked, leaning back into his chair.

“You wanna continue our little game?” He offered, spinning a pen in his hand.

“Sure. I learned some stuff about you recently, too.”

“Oh? What did you learn?” He asked curiously, looking at you with inquisition in his eyes.

“I mean, I know about Ther and how they like died. Oh! And I learned more about your like, past and shit.”

He went dead silent, his face dropped and was genuinely shocked.

“darling…how the fuck do you know that…?” He asked, leaning back. He didn’t seem angry, but he looked almost concerned.

“What do you mean? Is that not like…common knowledge about you?” You asked, genuinely confused. It wasn’t that hard to find the information, it only took a little digging.

“No? I mean, only Angel knows about Ther…wha-how?” He was baffled.

“I just-I did a little digging and-”

“You fucking cyberstalked me?” He spoke, his voice slightly raising.

“It’s not stalking per se-”

“It totally is. That’s fucking creepy.” He responded, his knees up on his chest.

“I’m sorry-I just-I”

“You what? You fucking stalked my past. Wait-Do you know-”

“I might’ve found that out too…” You spoke softly, ashamed of yourself at this point.

“______, what the fuck? You know my deadname and shit?” He yelled.

“On accident! It’s not like I’m gonna say anything. Plus! I already forgot.” You stammered, and he just hung up. Fuck. You pissed him off, didn’t you?

<user> [18:53]

i’m sorry.

please forgive me :(

<goreboy> [18:55]

that was Really fucked up.

and creepy.

<user> [19:00]

ik im sorry.

u have the right to be mad

<goreboy> [19:02]

and i am

leave Me alone

<user> [19:04]

ronin i’m sorry

please

just stop.

you know i hate my past.

just don’t talk to me.

Fuck. You’re so stupid, how could you do that to him. You’re so so dumb. You know better, you knew he struggled with his past, and you still decided to bring it up. Especially something as traumatizing as that? Bringing up the death of his childhood lover? Why are you so stupid?

#killer chat #killer chat ronin #ronin beaufort #ronin #ronin x reader #killer chat x reader #fanfiction #killer chat vn #light angst

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harrisonarchive · 3 days ago

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Onstage (in photo 1 with Tony Sheridan) in Hamburg, Spring 1961 (photos by Ellen Piel and Gerd Mingram); George with Tony Sheridan in Hamburg, February 1977 (photo by Ellen Poppinga?).

“In between was George, a very, very eager young man who saw nothing, absolutely nothing else in the entire world but guitar, stage, and rock 'n' roll. And he was obsessed, yes, obsessed [with the guitar]. Musically, George carried a great weight among the other three. That was perhaps much more important than one might think, and probably underestimated. Paul and John put him down a bit, unfortunately.” - Tony Sheridan, translated from Mach Schau! Die Beatles in Hamburg “George was keen as hell, keen enough to sit down three or four hours a day and put it all together. He was a bit of fanatic when it came to learning [more guitar] — we would have breakfast, then come back and start practicing. […] You had to have an anchor guy making sure that everything stuck together — someone who was not bawling at the front and screaming. You had to have somebody like that in the group. It allowed Paul and John to do their theatrical thing at the front. Paul was not a guitar player, he definitely did not love it — he loved being in the front, in the limelight. John was not a good guitar player. … George’s thing was to embellish and be musical in any song. He was the only guy in their group who was able to do that.” - Tony Sheridan, While My Guitar Gently Weeps: The Music of George Harrison “Tony Sheridan had an up-side and a down-side. The up-side was that he was a pretty good singer and guitar player, and it was good to play along with him because we were still learning — the more bands we saw and heard the better. He was older than us as well and was more hardened to the business, whereas we were just getting into it, more bouncy and naive. On that basis it was good to have Sheridan there, but at the same time he was such a downer. He’d fled from England — some kind of trouble — and was always getting into fights. […] We recorded [‘My Bonnie’ with Tony Sheridan, and] ‘Ain’t She Sweet,’ too. It was a bit disappointing because we’d been hoping to get a record deal as ourselves. Although we did ‘Ain’t She Sweet’ and the instrumental ‘Cry For A Shadow’ [Harrison-Lennon] without Sheridan, they didn’t even put our name on the record. That’s why it was so pathetic that later, when we’d become famous, they put out the record as ‘The Beatles with Tony Sheridan.’ But when it first came out they’d called us ‘The Beat Brothers.’” - George Harrison, The Beatles Anthology “George was not a guy who was using music to impress the word. He was trying to express something. He is one of the most important figures in early rock ’n’ roll history — he left his ego out of it. He was the ‘Egoless Beatle.’” - Tony Sheridan, While My Guitar Gently Weeps: The Music of George Harrison

#George Harrison #quote #quotes about George #quotes by George #1960s #1970s #The Beatles #George and fame #George and John #George and Paul #John Lennon #Paul McCartney #Stuart Sutcliffe #et al.#Tony Sheridan #1977 #The Beatles Anthology #fits queue like a glove

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letmeoutofthebasementt · 3 days ago

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Who in skz would be the best in a romantic/fwb relationship?

Chan

Chan does better in romantic relationships. FWBs just aren’t for him. He doesn’t dislike them, exactly, but they’re too stressful to him. He doesn’t know where the lines are. How they should/shouldn’t blur. He doesn’t want to accidentally catch feelings but he’s very likely to. Plus romantic relationships are just more fulfilling. He has someone to love and cherish. To go on dates with and introduce to his friends. Someone to have. Not just someone to hold for a night then walk away from.

Minho

He’d do good with both. But he PREFERS romantic relationships. Romantic relationships give emotional and intellectual satisfaction, and not just physical satisfaction. They’re fulfilling. They’re just better in general to him. FWBs he’d also do good with. And probably are more likely because of his work-life imbalance. He’s getting that physical release while also still having that layer of trust there. In general, due to his work FWBs are just more practical.

Changbin

Changbin does better in a romantic relationship. He can’t do FWB at all. Romantic relationships are better and more fulfilling in all aspects. I also see him needing that romantic aspect to want to have sex?

Hyunjin

He can’t do FWB at all either. Too much overthinking. He crosses the boundaries and in his mind you’re already committed and just won’t admit it. He gets too attached and falls in love quickly. Romantic relationships are also, again, just better to him. He loves romance and he loves love. You’re free to express your love and be together without worrying or overthinking about where you stand. Why wouldn’t he want romance?

Han

I don’t think he cares either way? In the sense that they offer different sorts of fulfillment. With FWB, with Han it’d be heavy on the friend part. It’s like being in a relationship without the too heavy parts. Without needing to constantly fan the flames of it. Like a vacation relationship. Just fucking the homies. But in the end he’d choose a romantic relationship above an FWB situation any day. Because that’s more important to him.

Felix

He doesn’t like FWBs. Point blank. Maybe he’s more conservative about that type of thing/more traditional when it comes to those things. He wasn’t raised like that. And plus, romantic relationships are more meaningful. He wants something meaningful in his life. It’s also secure. I also get he feels like he’s rich/wealthy in love if he has a romantic partner to love. He has an abundance of familial and platonic love. But romantic love? He’s lacking in that. And he wants it.

Seungmin

He feels the exact same about both. They have their pros and cons. To him, they even out. He doesn’t care if it’s a FWB or if it’s a romantic relationship. He may not even care about/be thinking about relationships at all right now. Or maybe he’s going through a time of trial and error.

Jeongin

He does better in romantic relationships. To him, FWBs have no value. They’re not satisfying and he doesn’t feel anything when he’s in them. (If he’s ever tried. Which I don’t think he has.) Hell, he probably doesn’t think he’d be able to even get off on it. Romantic relationships are harder, especially because of his line of work, but if he’s going to have one it needs to be romantic. He’s not satisfied with anything else.

#stray kids bang chan #stray kids minho #stray kids changbin #stray kids felix #stray kids jeongin #stray kids hyunjin #stray kids #stray kids astrology #kpop tarot #skz headcanons #skz bang chan #skz minho #skz changbin #skz chan #skz felix #skz hwang hyunjin #skz hyunjin #skz

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loganjameshowlett · 1 day ago

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SWALLOWTAIL

03: IF YOU SHOW ME YOUR CARDS

pairing: joaquín torres/ex-widow!reader summary: you and joaquín go undercover. things don't go as planned word count: 7.4k+ series masterlist | previous installment | next installment

“I think it’ll be fun!” Joaquín’s voice is far too chipper for the current situation.

Sam had spent some time trying to convince the rest of you that the bridge ambush wasn’t a total wash once he and Bucky had realized that the briefcase did not, in fact, contain the Aetos Device. It hadn’t stuck. Sure, you’d liberated some other stolen something from a criminal arms dealer, but it was some kind of small time ray gun that could temporarily shift an object slightly out of phase with other physical matter. You don’t totally understand it, but Sam had called Dr. Banner about it, and he’d recognized it as an outdated piece of Pym tech. The gist: it was a stupid piece of nothing, and the device that has apocalyptic connotations you’ve been trying to chase down is still in the hands of a criminal outfit.

So yes, in your book, still a total wash.

“We’re not here for fun,” you remind him. The last thing on earth that you want to do right now is go to the Golden Diadem auction. For one, what a fucking hassle. The auction is a secretive, invitation-only event hidden inside the larger nest egg of an alleged charity gala that happens at the Black Opal hotel annually. The party is lavish, gatsbyian, and a total distraction from the real thing. A thing which you all absolutely would not have been able to infiltrate, especially at such short notice, if it hadn’t been for Mali. Her position as observer and occasional information broker who does little, if anything to interfere in the affairs of Madripoor’s criminal underbelly affords her a certain level of respect among all of Madripoor’s players. They want her on their good side, and many of them end up owing her favors.

She used one of said favors to procure two invitations to the auction for Matías Avila, a nouveau riche Colombian tech mogul and his inconsequential piece of eye candy fiancée, Patrice. The false identities were some that you and Joaquín already had proper paperwork for, and Mali made quick work of forging a little more of a paper trail that painted Avila as a prodigious genius with more money than he knows what to do with and a suspiciously obfuscated resume. Patrice Pascolat is an identity you had used back in your SHIELD days, a bratty heiress who had helped you infiltrate the Scandinavian socialite scene. You’d kept her papers the way you keep all of your identities, just in case they come in handy again.

You resisted the idea of you and Joaquín going in alone, but the truth of it is that Sam and Bucky are too public of figures to do any kind of undercover work. Their presence would only sabotage the op and put you all at a greater risk of being killed. So just you and Joaquín then, posing as the most insufferable couple to ever grace the surface of the earth. Going into the lion’s den alone.

“Fun is allowed to happen on the job. Do you know that?” Joaquín asks, brows raised teasingly.

You roll your eyes. “Fun leads to mistakes, bird boy. Do you know that? We’re walking into a very large, highly-guarded building filled with people who will be happy to summarily execute us if they get so much as an off-kilter vibe. We need to stay focused.”

“Hey, come on. Haven’t I proven to you that you can trust me in the field?”

A smartass comment comes to your lips first, and you have to work to tamp it down when you get a look at the sincerity laid bare on Joaquín’s face. He’s right. You know he is. He has more than proven that he is a capable and worthy field partner over the last few days; hell, he’s probably the best field partner you’ve ever had, if only because he gives a damn about what happens to you out of more than professional duty. It’s more than you can say for most of the other field partners you’ve ever had.

“Yes, Torres,” you say, voice a half weary sight. “I do trust you in the field. I do, alright?”

Joaquín studies you for a moment, and you work to hold his gaze under the scrutiny. You feel it again, that same feeling you had back in Prague, like he’s uncannily able to analyze the whole gory mess of you with that look alone.

“I thought you didn’t get nervous anymore?” he asks finally. His voice is too soft to be fully teasing, undercut with a certain fragile hesitance. An invitation for you to be vulnerable.

“I don’t. Now go and get ready before we’re late.” You turn and stalk off toward your room before he can respond. A muscle in your jaw ticks, and you take a second to just stand, eyes closed, once you shut yourself behind the door. You’re half heartedly pissed at Joaquín, which you know isn’t fair. He’s not responsible for the moth wing flutter of nerves beating beneath your ribcage. At least not directly, anyway.

–

The dress you choose from the closet is actually one that you bought yourself, back when you were living in this apartment. The spider web includes a few pooled bank accounts that any liberated widows are allowed to use for any reason. Having just been freed from your conditioning, fragile as a bird’s egg and teetering precariously on the razor’s edge between sanity and something rather worse, your reason for spending two thousand American dollars on an evening gown had been simply because you wanted to look and feel good at some ostentatious party Mali was bringing you to as a plus one. You justified the purchase by telling yourself that the rest of your web could certainly get some good use out of the dress for a variety of reasons, and you’re feeling just a little vindicated in getting to use it for a real, serious op now. Also, a little bit grumpy about having to figure out how to conceal weapons in this thing.

The gown spills down your body and to the floor in ripples of luxuriously thick gold fabric. The back is cut so low that making sure your underwear wasn’t on display had taken some finagling, and the halter top is secured around your neck with elegantly braided golden ropes that drop down the length of your spine. With a pair of strappy heels and a full face of makeup on for the first time in weeks, you feel… good. Sexy, even. Patrice’s languid, rich girl lilt gathers in the back of your throat, and you surprise yourself by feeling a little excited to inhabit her skin for the evening.

In the end, you settle for strapping a tiny handgun and your vibranium knife to your thigh. They’ll be kind of a bitch to get to in a fight, but it’s the only feasible option, given how much of you is on display in this dress. You waste a few seconds wishing your undercover op included a disguise with at least one pocket, before stooping in front of the ancient wooden vanity pushed up against one wall and checking your makeup in the rust speckled mirror. You look expensive, and like you’re showing off. Exactly right for Miss Patrice Pascolat.

Once again, Bucky is the only one present in the living area when you emerge from your room. You can hear Joaquín and Sam bickering about something behind the closed door of the other bedroom, and decide that he was probably right to remove himself from whatever the hell is going on in there.

“I can’t believe he’s taking longer than I did to get ready,” you grouse, gesturing toward the aforementioned closed door.

“They only just got back from buying his damn suit twenty minutes ago,” Bucky informs you, glancing up from the ancient looking paperback creased open in his hand. You arch an eyebrow at him, and he gives a look back, like, believe me, I know. “It’s what we get for sending the two of them alone to get it.”

“Well, it’s probably best if we show up fashionably late, anyway. It’s what Avila and Patrice would do,” you sigh, dropping down into the wooden chair across the table from Bucky. Christ, but your feet are already hurting from these heels. You eye Bucky’s paperback, trying to read the title, but half the front cover is missing. “This what you’re doing with your night off?”

“What?” he asks, eyes flicking up to you, back down to his book, and then up again. “I’m not having a night off. Sam and I are still gonna be outside the building as backup.”

“Like I said, old man. Night off,” you say, snickering at the mix of annoyance and humor that flits across his face.

“Don’t get cocky, kid.”

You open your mouth to reply, but before you can, the bedroom door bursts open and Sam empties out into the living area.

“That boy is getting on my last damn nerve,” he says, throwing a scowl over his shoulder towards the bedroom. Bucky’s expression morphs more fondly amused as he looks up at him.

“Don’t forget that it was your idea to bring him along,” Bucky tells him.

“Yeah, well I’m regretting that a little right now!” Sam responds, raising his voice pointedly so Joaquín will hear. You stand from the table, rolling your shoulders and drifting your way toward the front door– with Sam busting out of the room, you assume Joaquín will follow suit and finally be reading to fucking leave.

You tune out Sam’s annoyed, quiet venting to Bucky, allowing yourself a moment to totally zone out. It’s a neat trick you have, one of the better skills you honed in the Red Room. The ability to separate your mind from your body. There were long stretches of time where it was the only thing that ever granted you a little peace.

And it’s not that you’re feeling particularly overwhelmed at the moment, not even with the evening you have planned looming over you. It’s not that this has been a particularly long or grueling mission, either– you’d had it much worse dozens of times before. Maybe it’s something about being plucked out of your home base without warning– even by people you trust– or the flying by the seat of your pants nature that this mission has taken on. You’re feeling out of control, and rusty too, and that’s the kind of thing that leads to fuck ups. So, you leave your body behind for a few precious seconds and imagine, briefly, all of your corporeal matter dispersing like mist into the humid night air.

And then Joaquín’s voice cuts through the air, and you come crashing back into yourself.

He comes out of the room with his head bent over his wrist, still adjusting a golden cufflink and arguing with Sam without looking up at him. His dark hair is pomaded back into a clean, vintage wave style, and even though he and Sam were clearly going for a somewhat ridiculous, new money look with the maroon suit, he still somehow makes it look kind of tasteful.

“... so you can claim them as a work expense on your taxes, man,” Joaquín is saying. Whatever he’s going on about has made Sam roll his eyes twice in thirty seconds. “And you picked them out, anyway!”

“Because golden fish shaped cufflinks are exactly the kind of thing your dumbass would buy, but that was before I realized they were eight hundred dollars!” Sam shoots back.

“You mean they’d be perfect for my forged identity, right?”

“That’s what we were shopping for, wasn’t it?”

“Can you guys argue about tax write offs later? If we don’t get a move on soon we won’t even be fashionably late anymore,” you cut in, anxious let’s get this over with energy making you springy on the balls of your feet.

Only at the sound of your voice does Joaquín finally look up from his cufflink. His hand freezes halfway through the motion of dropping back down to his side, and his whole body is so still that you’re momentarily worried he has stopped breathing altogether, too. It takes a few seconds for a deeper flush of red to spread across the full expanse of his cheeks than you even knew he was capable of. You had thought it was funny when he flushed red at the sight of you before you went to the floating market, but this time– well, this time you don’t feel like laughing.

“I called a limo service for you two. He’s been waiting down there,” Sam says, trying and mostly failing to hide the stupid smirk on his face as he claps Joaquín on the shoulder.

“Waiting for us…” Joaquín repeats, a little dazed. Sam claps him on the back again, a little harder this time, and Joaquín seems to undergo some kind of factory reset. “Got it. Be hearing from you on the comms?”

“We’ll be right behind you,” Bucky answers, hefting himself up out of his chair and reluctantly dropping his paperback on the table.

“See you on the other side,” you say to the pair, offering them a two finger salute.

Joaquín jerks forward in a few quick steps, grabbing the handle and pulling open the door before you can grab it. He stands to the side, half tucked behind the open door. “Uh– after you.”

You nod your thanks to him and exit the flat. You’re impressing yourself with how well you’re managing the heels– highly impractical shoes do not have a place in your life, typically, so you’re out of practice– but you’re still a little wobbly. Wordlessly, Joaquín joins you on the landing and offers his arm. You take it gratefully and allow yourself to lean on him a little bit to get down the rickety wooden stairs.

As promised, there is a limo waiting at the curb, looking highly out of place in the Lowtown neighborhood. You trust Sam to get you a driver you can also trust, even on notice as short as this, so you return the man’s polite greetings without much scrutiny. He moves to open the door for you, but Joaquín is ever faster and gets there first, pulling it open and ushering you inside.

–

The mission should be simple tonight, for the first time since you agreed to work with these three.

You’re not looking to take anything with you from the Black Opal– just reconnaissance this time. The Aetos Device will surely be sold at the auction before the night is up, and all you and Joaquín need to do is observe who buys it. Sam and Bucky spoke at length earlier in the day about bringing in backup, and who they might trust to do that. By the time you and Joaquín had left the flat, they still had seemingly not decided on anyone concrete, but no matter what, you expect this operation to grow after tonight. It would be too dangerous– and, you hate to admit it, pretty damn close to impossible– for you and Joaquín to try to locate and obtain the device and make it out of the building in one piece. Beyond that, you’ve come to expect no part of this mission to go as planned ever, seeing as nothing has so far, so you’re happy to hold off for some help.

So. Getting information– all well and good. Actually, it hardly will take any effort from you and Joaquín at all: the comms that Sam had distributed to all of you back in Prague are some real science fiction level shit, essentially visually undetectable and with transcription capabilities. They’re all hooked up to Joaquín’s tech set up, so by the time you get back to the flat there should be an incredibly accurate transcription of everything said at the party within a ten meter radius of you.

You’re not worried about that part. It’s the other part, though, that has you feeling… apprehensive.

Joaquín can hardly seem to look at you. Throughout the entirety of the ride, you’ve kept to idle chatter, just in case the driver does end up being someone who will cause you problems later on down the line. Every once in a while he forgets himself and looks at you head on; it lasts for all of ten seconds before he quickly and unsubtly diverts his attention elsewhere.

You’re really starting to wonder if the two of you are going to be able to pull off playing lovers for a few hours.

You can tell when the limo pulls up to the Black Pearl because the entire plaza in front of it is washed in muted purple light. The hotel is forty stories and features a huge hologram of elegant purple fish swimming in languid loops over the full glass front of the building, as if you are looking at the surface of a koi pond from above.

The limo has barely stopped moving before the driver is pulling open the door. You watch as, over the course of a few seconds, Joaquín’s entire body language changes. Gone is the nervous ball of poorly pent-up energy that you have become familiar with. His shoulders drop, entire body melting into devil may care repose. By the time the door is fully open, Matías Avila fully inhabits Joaquín’s body. He steps out onto the plaza and bends, offering a hand through the door to you. For the first time since you left the flat, he offers you a charmingly crooked smile and holds your eye contact without breaking.

“Ready, mi amor?”

–

Your invitations allow you to bypass the general party immediately, a nondescript man in a plain but clearly expensive suit chaperoning the two of you to the private auction. You cling to Joaquín’s arm tightly, heading bending in towards his as you ooh and ahh and comment on the beauty of the building and the city and the impressiveness of the hosts at appropriate intervals. For his part, Joaquín keeps a hand affectionately over your own that is resting on his arm, indulging your awe as only a smitten lover would, telling you that he will recreate anything you want in the home he is building for you, should only you ask.

Truly, you’re impressed by how well he’s doing. He had not struck you as someone who would do so well with a secret identity, but you’re starting to think that maybe he had missed his calling in theatre. You keep up easily, of course– a huge bulk of your training and missions for the Red Room included some kind of new identity and fully believable acting– though it’s not your best work; you’re feeling distracted by Joaquín’s unexpected talent and the fact that the building is even more heavily guarded than you had originally expected.

Suit Guy shows you to a large pair of ornately carved wooden doors, completely at odds with the sleek, modern Hightown look of the rest of the place. Two workers in porcelain masks in feline face shapes step forwards and pull the doors open, revealing the auction room: a space with three storey tall ceilings and ringed with balconies like tiers of opulently decorated cake. The ceiling is completely blocked by yards and yards of wisteria dripping toward the floor in vibrant shades of purple, pink, and blue. At the far end of the room, a small stage and some overstuffed armchairs sit empty, presumably for the auction later in the night. The items that will be sold– some of them, at least, because a quick scan of the place reveals the Aetos Device to be nowhere in sight– sit beneath glass cases set atop grecian pedestals. A miniature orchestra plays rich music from the corner, and a raucous group plays poker at a green-topped poker table. Servants whisk around carrying trays laden heavily with several dozen different kinds of food and beverage.

“Damn,” you mutter appreciatively. “They sure know how to throw a party.”

“I’ve seen better,” Joaquín sighs, loud enough to draw the attention of a trio of women in hand beaded gowns standing near a tower of fragile champagne flutes.

“Of course, baby,” you coo, stepping in front of him to smooth the lapels of his suit jacket. “Your twenty-fifth makes this seem… quaint.”

“Just wait ‘til you see what I have planned for yours, cariño,” he answers, both hands coming to rest on your hips. The warm weight of them through your dress somehow grounds you and sends you even more off-kilter than before. Joaquín is remarkably good at balancing boasting and affection in the tone of his voice all at once.

“Don’t spoil anything,” you warn him teasingly, before pulling an overly exaggerated pout. “I need a drink, baby.”

“On it,” he promises, tugging you closer by your hips and planting a kiss on your forehead before departing in search of something for you.

In his absence, you play the shy, solitary fiancée, backing up toward the fall just slightly. You pretend to be scanning the crowd for Joaquín, instead doing your best to take in as many faces as you can in as short a time as possible, attempting to determine who you recognize. There are a few obvious players here, well known names in the arms dealing underworld. Guys you went after with SHIELD, even. Several of them are very financially well-endowed, and are certainly here with enough money to purchase the device in the auction. There’s no single person who stands out as an obvious top contender, but you mark a few to watch more closely through the evening than others. It takes a few minutes for you to realize that comms are blocked in this room; you were so preoccupied with getting your bearings among all the players that you didn’t notice Sam and Bucky’s chattering falling silent for a while. But sure enough, it’s gone, and you know that they haven’t just fallen silent. Sam wouldn’t be able to stop talking even to save his life.

Joaquín returns to your side a few minutes later, pressing a flute of something fizzing and purple into your hand. Judging by the minute frown on his face, you’re he’s noticed the lack of working comms as well.

“What is this?” you ask, genuine amused curiosity peeking through the Patrice of it all.

“Well, I don’t speak much Tagalog, but I think he said something about coconut,” Joaquín answers. He lifts his own flute of the same drink, and tacks on, “I figured I would try it with you.”

“Cheers, Señor Avila,” you say, lifting your glass.

“To our very successful and lore-filled relationship,” Joaquín says, clinking his glass to yours.

“Lore-filled,” you snort, taking a sip. It’s really not bad, if a little sunscreen forward.

“What?”

“Who calls a relationship lore-filled?” you ask, arching an eyebrow. “Nerd.”

“Whatever, I’m not wrong. Any relationship is filled with lore,” Joaquín defends, waving a dismissive hand at you.

“I believe people typically refer to those as memories,” you say, and Joaquín rolls his eyes.

“Whatever you say, my beautiful perfect fiancée,” he says, and you’re sure the cheeky grin on his face is more Joaquín than it is Matías.

“Exactly, I’m always right,” you affirm with a laugh that bubbles like your drink.

“Of course,” Joaquín nods mock-sagely.

It isn’t long before the orchestra is quieted and finely-suited men are herding all of you towards the seats by the stage. Joaquín takes your hand and leads you to a plush settee with ornate scrollwork. He sits beside you with that same Señor Avila air of ease he donned in the limo, one arm thrown over the back of the seat behind your shoulders, the other holding the small gold placard that he will presumably be using to bid on behalf of both of you.

“Keep an eye on the hat over there,” Joaquín mutters in your ear. Your eyes drag over to your right, catching sight of an older, dark-haired woman with an incredibly large and busy hat sitting in one of the armchairs. You have to give it to the rich in Madripoor, always– they do not bend to any kind of old money aesthetics, regardless of their pedigree. Madripoor is much more of a go brash or go home kind of place.

You give him a look, conveying your question without any words.

“Overheard her saying something about the Bobcat when I went to get us drinks. Could be something.”

You hum your agreement, turning your face back toward the stage as a man in an elegant damask suit climbs gracefully up to the center. He stops in front of a vintage silver microphone already adjusted perfectly to his height. He calls out a greeting in Tagalog first, and then addresses the modest crowd in English.

“For sixty-three years, the Golden Diadem has brought both cutting edge and classic, storied technology and arms to the new and notable in our circles,” he says, his voice rich and smooth. “Objects such as Captain America’s original prototype shield and authentic Asgardian armor have passed through this room. Tonight, it is my pleasure to welcome you to this auspicious event. May your minds and placards be swift.”

His last line is clearly an in-joke, and several people make a point of laughing overly loudly at it, as if to demonstrate that they are important enough to have attended in years prior. While you all had been herded to this spot and the man had been speaking, other workers had gathered up the various pieces on display around the room and brought them backstage. Damask Suit introduces the first piece, starting small with a set of Wakandan daggers. Joaquín manages to snag those for less than a thousand dollars, and a little bit of the tension loosens in your chest– you had only been able to scrape together about a thousand dollars between the four of you to use at the auction, and you know that it would look highly suspicious if the two of you didn’t buy anything at all.

Throughout the rest of the auction, Joaquín makes game attempts at getting other pieces, but always allows someone more zealous to beat him out in the end. You whine about not getting the cool or pretty something or other to him, and he assures you that he’ll get you something twice as good after you leave this place with unearned bravado.

The Aetos Device is saved for last.

Damask Suit moves to the side of the stage with his microphone, voice a whisper that is almost reverent, as he tells your small gathering what, exactly, it does.

“Don’t believe me, ladies and gentlemen?” The question seems like a dare. “Just watch.”

A screen behind the stage comes to life with a bright flash, making more than one person in your cohort jump in surprise. In front of you is a warehouse, poorly lit and cold. Behind the camera, men laugh and speak lowly in a mix of different languages. You can hear Czech and Polish and an inconsequential amount of English. Nothing happens on screen for so long that you’re starting to get antsy. Or maybe you’re antsy because you already know what this is. You may have never seen it, but Sam and Bucky had told you about it back in Prague.

Next to you, Joaquín’s entire body stiffens, and the arm slung lazily behind you curls tighter around your shoulders, as if he needs grounding.

A young boy is thrown into the frame. His knees hit the dirty floor hard, dragging a rush of air out of his lungs. His hands are bound behind his back, his ankles held in shackles that give him a cruelly tantalizing amount of freedom of movement, but not enough to get anywhere. It takes you a second to realize that his entire map of veins is faintly glowing orange.

“Proszę–czekać!” His voice is already hoarse from overuse. When he opens his mouth, you can see a sort of magma glow in the back of his throat.

A man to the left of the camera laughs, and says something in grand, rapid-fire Finnish. You curse yourself for being able to recognize the language but not knowing it enough to know what he says. The Aetos Device slides up into view from the same side the voice is coming, held confidently and aimed directly at the Polish boy’s still begging face.

You have the ridiculous urge to get up and do something, but what is there to do? You know what comes next, and that it has already been done. The most you can do for the boy now is bear witness to his final moments.

The Finnish man pulls the trigger, and everything next happens so fast you almost miss it.

Some sort of energy bursts out of the device, rather than any kind of projectile. It hits the Polish boy in the chest, and you glimpse a blinding blue glow spreading exceedingly fast from the point of contact before it fades from view. The boy tries to bring a hand up to clutch his chest, but the result is a jerky movement that sends him falling onto his side due to his hands being bound. He stares, dazed, at the group behind the camera, mouth slack, brows drawn together.

Then he takes a ragged, choking gasp in and starts writhing on the floor. He seems desperate to escape his own body, so much so that he bloodies both ankles scraping the skin off as he tries to pull his feet up through the shackles. When he opens his mouth to scream, you see that the magma glow is gone. His veins have gone dark like a snuffed candle. He jerks around like a stringed marionette for a few seconds before falling to a limp heap on the ground.

A man in a lab coat scurries forward and bends down in front of the body. His pink scalp shines under the swinging bulb that is providing the only overhead light. He grabs the boy’s wrist and checks his pulse, before decisively announcing that the boy is dead.

Behind the camera, the group erupts into applause. You feel dizzy from all the blood rushing to your head.

Damask Suit pauses the video at this point, the screen going dark and fading back into the wall. He takes his place just slightly stage right, next to the podium in the center that is displaying the device for all to see.

“As you have seen, the Aetos Device allows one to wield power like nothing else. Well, like nothing else besides money, that is,” he says, throwing a wink out to the audience. “This is a one of a kind piece of technology. You will not find anything outside of this room that can do what it does. We’re starting the bidding at sixty million USD.”

So, sixty million dollars is the starting price of genocide. Pain, power, fear and helplessness striking the hearts of millions worldwide. The thought would make you feel sick if it didn’t first make you so fucking infuriated. You sit through the device’s auction with a detached sort of numbness, struggling to reign in your focus and pay attention to the players vying to get their hands on it.

Hat Lady is one of them, which doesn’t surprise you. A man with salt and pepper hair in the front whose entire being exudes old money is working his placard over time. A younger blond man built like a farmer is volleying both of their offers back at them, his demeanor disturbingly relaxed.

At the end of the melee, it’s the blond that comes out on top.

“Sold! For ninety-five million, to Mr. Carter Eklund,” Damask Suit announces with fervor. “Congratulations, young gentleman.”

As Eklund stands and makes for the stage, bowing graciously to Damask Suit before being presented with his acquisition, you rack your brain for any familiarity with his name or his face. Ultimately, you come up with nothing. Who can this man be, with nearly a hundred million dollars to throw around at an auction, and without any notable name at all? You study his face as much as you can without drawing his attention to you, filing every detail away for later.

As Eklund accepts the device– now safely stored away in a sleek chrome case– the rest of the group applauds politely. You can feel the resentment roiling off of several of them, but no one more than the other two who had stuck out the final stretch of the race, and still found themselves not crossing the finish line first. Now that even the amount of people in this room know what the device can do in intimate detail, you’re sure no one will be able to rest easy in owning it. Someone will always be hunting Eklund. And when it’s inevitably not him, his successor will be hunted, too.

Unless you can succeed in completely taking it out of the game.

As soon as Eklund is off the stage, the miniature orchestra starts up again; something warm and lively, conjuring images of victory and encouraging everyone to dance. When you look over at Joaquín, he struggles to cover the haunted look on his face for a few long seconds. And then the Avila grin is widening his mouth. He stands, making a big show of opening the chrome case that holds the Wakandan daggers the two of you bought in the auction.

“A gift for you, mi reina,” he says, chest puffed up with all the ego of a man showing the world that he can provide for his woman. He lifts out the daggers to reveal a leather sheath, designed to have one dagger hanging off of each of the wearer’s hips. You watch, mouth curved in a shy, pleased little smile as Joaquín fastens the sheath around your waist with a gentleness that you are sure is all him, not Matías.

He proffers the daggers to you faux ceremonially and you lean into the playacting, accepting them as if accepting a serious responsibility. The craftsmanship on the weapons is finer than most you’ve ever handled, weighty and well-balanced, ornate enough to be beautiful to look at without becoming unwieldy. You slot them into their sheaths, and do a little twirl, as if showing off for him.

“I look dangerous now, don’t I, darling?” you ask, preening.

“You always look dangerous to me,” he says, pulling you close. The sheaths hang low enough that Joaquín can still easily rest his hands on your hips. He runs his fingers over the handle of one of the blades, eyebrows raising appreciatively at the quality. “Now, will you join me for a dance, mi amor?”

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask all night,” you respond, inflating your own voice with Patrice’s half whining tone. You accept his hand, and allow him to tug you toward the dancefloor in the middle of the room. You settle easily into the posture of two people who are not particularly knowledgeable in dance. You sling your arms around Joaquín’s neck, pulling him closer as his hands find your hips. You sway back and forth like a pair of teenagers at prom, or else the perfect vision of a couple of new money drunken lovers who didn’t grow up taking mandatory ballroom lessons. Just a couple celebrating a tiny win at the auction.

Joaquín leans his forehead against yours and you close your eyes, leaning into the touch the way you imagine Patrice would.

“Is he familiar to you at all?” you ask, voice barely audible.

“Not at all,” Joaquín answers with a sigh. You tamp down one of your own.

“That’s… troubling.”

“It raises a lot of questions,” Joaquín says, nodding against your forehead. “We stick around here a little while longer and then we’ll be good to go. Sam’s been listening, so I’m sure he’s already done a cursory search of the name. He’ll have something to tell us right away.”

You hope he’s right. It doesn’t happen all that often, but every once in a while you come across a real ghost in your line of work. Someone with more money than god and a name that yields even less search results than your average high schooler’s. If this Eklund turns out to be one of those guys, then you’re all in trouble. There would be no skirting around calling in some bigger guns at that point.

“Well, let’s enjoy the rest of our time at this party then, hm?” you respond after a moment, lifting your head to give Joaquín what you hope is a reassuring look.

“Who knows when we’re gonna get to be fancy as all this shit again?” Joaquín asks in agreement. His dark eyes brighten with mischief, and before you can register what’s going on, he spins you out under his arm in a surprisingly elegant, fluid movement. You laugh– embarrassingly, you’d probably classify it more as an honest fucking giggle– half out of surprise and half out of sheer, unexpected delight, as he brings you back to face him, hands resettling on your hips.

Joaquín’s face falls from one moment to the next, sending your giggle to a screeching halt. You keep your eyes on him, studying him as he studies something else over your shoulder. You almost don’t want to know what has caught his attention– you don’t want this little carefree moment to be ruined. But that was your first mistake, wasn’t it? You had told Joaquín just hours ago that you weren’t here for fun.

Joaquín speeds up your dancing a little bit, swaying the two of you around until he is facing the opposite direction. Only then does he speak.

“Someone recognizes us. At the poker table,” he informs you. You struggle to keep the carefree look on your face. Casually, you sweep your eyes around the room, as if you’re just trying to take in the revelry around you. As Joaquín said, there’s a man sitting at the poker table who is staring at the pair of you with the kind of intensity usually reserved for trying to set someone on fire with your mind. You slide your eyes over him without recognition, looking back at Joaquín. But you know that guy– or, rather, you know those eyes. It’s the escalade driver from the night before. His fury-stoked eyes through the rearview mirror. His hand reaching for his gun.

God fucking damn it.

“We need to get out of here. Now,” you say, unable to completely keep the urgency from your voice. If that man raises alarm bells now, the two of you will be in deep, deep shit.

“Exactly what I was thinking,” Joaquín says, nodding. “Plan C is probably our fastest route?”

“Yeah, alright. Let’s do this then.” You let your dancing go on for a minute more before you slow your feet, a something is really wrong look coming across your face.

“Baby? What’s wrong?” Joaquín asks, and you bring a hand to your stomach in response. “Patrice?”

“I really… I don’t feel well,” you tell him, looking up at him with eyes wide in panic. “I think I’m gonna throw up.”

Several people near you on the dancefloor cast their own panicked looks at you and move farther away. Good, people are hearing and buying your story.

“Okay, let’s go find you a bathroom, yeah?” Joaquín asks, rubbing a hand comfortingly up and down your arm.

“No,” you put on your best drunken petulance. “I jus’ wanna go home. Please?”

Joaquín frowns. “Okay, if you’re sure. Let’s get you down to the car.” He wraps a protective arm around your shoulders and starts leading you toward the large double doors that you came in through. You press yourself into his side, taking unsteady steps, both of your arms wrapped around your middle.

“And where do you think you’re going?”

You pause at the voice, authoritative and condescending. You don’t even have to look at the speaker to know that your cover is already blown.

“The Falcon and Agent Swallowtail. You know, you needed only ask for an invitation. None of this cloak and dagger, secret identity nonsense was necessary.”

You and Joaquín turn to find Carter Eklund standing on the other side of the dance floor, looking at you like he just successfully caught his dinner.

“Is that so?” You ask at the same time that Joaquín shrugs next to you and says, “Well, now we know for next time!”

“We have a little matter to discuss before you scurry off,” Eklund carries on without acknowledging either of your comments. The orchestra has fallen silent, and the patrons of the auction have cleared a wide, curious circle around the two of you. “You rather rudely threatened to kill one of my scientists last night.”

“One of your scientists?”you frown, the words coming out before you can stop them. The scientist that you had threatened in the escalade last night was part of the Golden Diadem’s convoy, and unless Eklund just purchased the Aetos Device from himself, you’re afraid you’re not entirely following.

Eklund laughs as though he knows exactly what thoughts are running through your mind. “Things are always a little bit more complicated than they first appear, aren’t they?”

Your eyes narrow. “What do you want from us, Eklund?”

“Oh, well that’s simple. You’ve seen our faces– and with last night’s disrespect on top of that– we can’t let you leave.”

“Try to stop us,” you dare him, reaching for the Wakandan daggers sheathed at your hips.

“What fun! I do love when they put up a fight,” Eklund says with genuine delight. He turns to look over his shoulder and calls out, “I want them alive.”

And suddenly every bodyguard and server alike has a gun drawn on the pair of you. Instinctively, you and Joaquín move back to back, your new daggers in hand and your eyes scanning the room. The doors aren’t that far, but even after that, you still have to make it out to the street. It only takes a second to realize that your best bet is not getting out of here at all– but if you can hold them off long enough to get out of the room and get back on the comms to Sam and Bucky, you have a chance.

At Eklund’s request of taking you in alive, his goons seem reluctant to use their guns. A first wave comes at you and your mind goes blank, years of muscle memory taking over. The first guy comes in low, trying to tackle you at the waist, but your knee is in his sternum before he can make it. You drive the hilt of the dagger into the side of his head, dropping him at your feet. Behind you, Joaquín is only working with his fists, but he’s holding his own.

The auction’s patrons are clearly not in on it, judging by the screams and the race to get out of the room. They bottleneck at the door, blocking each other from getting out, but more importantly blocking Joaquín and yourself from getting back out somewhere the comms work. A pair of Eklund’s goons come at you next and you lean on Joaquín’s half-bent over back, using him as a springboard for a high kick to the first one’s head. He goes toppling into the second and you land near them, sure-footed and ready to take them out with your daggers.

And then you’re not breathing.

You slap a hand to your chest, brows knitted in confusion. You manually tell your lungs to take a breath, but it’s as though your chest is paralyzed.

“It’s interesting, isn’t it? All I had to do was tell your lungs to stop working, and they… did. I guess, at the end of the day, I hold the power over your body, not you.”

The last thing you hear before everything goes dark is Joaquín screaming your name over the woman’s calm, measured words.

#joaquin torres #joaquin torres x reader #marvel #marvel x reader #the falcon x reader #sam wilson #captain america #bucky barnes #the winter soldier #TFATWS

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