#time to bully a studio again

[lord-of-the-noodles]

the Minecraft movie should be made with cardboard boxes and paint

[asmallshark-blog]

Who did the human costumes/design for the humans in the minecraft movie? Why do they all look like main characters I'm so confused I'm visually appalled and deeply concerned

[kissandtellus]

‘Schlick, Schlick, Hooray!’ : LADS Omegaverse, Heat Version

Synopsis: The ‘Heat’ version of ‘Into the Slick of It’! Your Heat has begun and without the help of Suppressants, only your Alpha can soothe this fire.

Warnings: Omegaverse, Knotting, Oral (m&f), Talks of Pups/Eggs, use of ‘Gege’, Caleb likes seeing you cry, Scenting, Marking, it’s another dirty one.

⋆˚🐾˖° Xavier

Xavier tried his best to keep you at an arms length as he tried to nurse you through your Heat. He had came knocking the moment the alarm on his phone went off, signaling your impending Heat.

The Hunters Association had cut back on Suppressants for Omegas, something for ‘budget cuts’.

The state he found you in could only be described as a fucking wreck. The sweat had already kicked in. You were wearing one of his t-shirts with nothing underneath.

When you opened the door, his eyes immediately went to the slick staining your inner thighs.

“Shit-“

“Help me.” Your whimper broke him. Forgotten, was the fruit basket in his hands. He backed you into your own apartment.

Your hands were immediately trying to tear at his sweatshirt. The feeling of his abs under your fingertips made you want to be under the flesh in more ways than one.

Clothing was torn left and right. The race to the bedroom was filled with you clinging to Xavier, one of his hands cupping your ass to lift you up. Your legs immediately wrapped around his waist.

“Xavier, need you inside. Need you filling me up. My Prince-My Love-“ You dry humped against the tent in his pants. His normally stoic facade cracked at the seams.

Your back hits the comforter and you can’t get your hands on him fast enough. His fingers thread to your hair.

“Starshine, you don’t need to-“

“Shut up.” It was the only thing you say before you pulls down his pants and underwear, stuffing the head of his cock snugly in your mouth. You ignore the burn in your throat as you take him inch by inch.

“S-Shit-“ he stumbled over his words. You look up at him through damp lashes when your lips finally meet the base. Your drooling, moaning around his delicious length like it was the last thing you’d ever taste. Your wandering hands cant sit still for long. “Dirty girl, are you touching yourself?”

Xavier knew the answer. Even before the scent of your arousal hit his nose, or the sound of your fingers sliding through your slick folds reached his ears. His hips snap in a rolling motion, cooing down at you as you make a mess of yourself.

“Such a filthy Omega. What would you do without me, hm? Waste that perfectly good slick on your own fingers?” His voice was always so sweet. But when those filthy words fell from his mouth, you can only moan around his length.

His pretty cockhead bullied the back of your throat over and over again. Your tongue flattened to the underside, a mixture of gags and wet noises filling the bedroom. Xavier used your hair as leverage as he chased his own release.

“Yeah? Yeah, my Pretty Girl. Gonna choke on my cum, hm?” His own sense were overwhelmed by your pheromones. His Alpha instincts screamed at him to take you, to dominate you, to make you his all over again.

He barely pulled his throbbing length out just in time for his thick, hot ropes of seed to coat your face. “Aht! Mouth open-that’s it. Good Girl.”

The final few strings coated your eager tongue. His long fingers pressed on your tongue to smear his cum around your tastebuds.

“We’re not done yet. Ass up.”

⋆˚🐾˖° Rafayel

You didn’t mean to walk so far in the midst of your Heat. It had hit you right after your final mission against a tough Wanderer. You thought you could make it to Rafayel’s before it sat in fully.

But when you showed up to his Studio, reeking of your Heat, he was already waiting with the door wide open. He met you at the doorway and pulled you in before you could even explain yourself.

Without a second thought, Rafayel moves swiftly across the studio, his long legs eating up the distance between you. He wraps his strong arms around your waist and lifts you up, carrying you to the makeshift nest he’s created for you without breaking eye contact. His hands tremble with need as he begins to undress you.

His heart aches at the sight of you, so deep in Heat that you're already apologizing. He gently lays you down on the bed, his hands caressing your face tenderly. “Shh, it's not your fault, my love. You didn't do anything wrong."

Rafayel quickly removes his own clothes, his eyes never leaving yours. He can smell your need, thick and heavy in the air. He climbs onto the bed, settling between your legs. His hands roam over your body, soothing and comforting as he tries to calm your racing heart.

You are rubbing your face in the crook of his neck, marking him with your own scent. “Missed you. Need you so much.”

His breath catches at your words, one hand tangling in your hair while the other trails down your side. "Missed you more than anything, Cutie. Gods, that scent..." He nuzzles against your neck, marking you back with his own smell. “How long has this been building?"

Before you can even answer him, his nimble fingers push between your legs to feel just how soaked in Slick you are. That cocky smile of his returns

He chuckles softly, pressing a kiss to your lips before trailing down your neck. “Looks like someone's been a very good girl, all hot and bothered for her Alpha." His fingers circle your entrance, teasing you with gentle pressure. “Soaked and ready, just for me."

"Your poor little body, aching like this..." He adds another finger, starting a slow rhythm as he speaks. “Did you try to take care of yourself before coming here?" He already knows the answer - the raw need in your scent tells him everything. “You didn't, did you?"

“Came straight from work. I-I couldn’t. You know I can’t do it myself.” Your nails dig into his shoulders, a needy whine tearing from your throat.

His eyes flash with primal desire at your words and the way you cling to him. “That's my girl..." He removes his fingers, replacing them with the tip of his cock. He teases your entrance slowly, letting you feel every inch. "Only I can give you what you need."

"Please..." You beg, your hips bucking up to try and force him inside. Your face is flushed, hair a mess from your frantic markings. “Need you inside me, need your knot!“ You sob the last part, the desperation clear in your voice.

Rafayel chuckles at your need. He reaches over to the bedside table where a messy paint pallet rests. He grabs the clean paintbrush right as he starts to fill you with his cock. “You stretch so beautifully around me.”

He praises. He lowers the paintbrush to tease around your nipples, watching them pebble under his administration. You cry out and try to jerk away your chest but he silenced you with a punishing thrust. “Ohhh, easy Cutie. Feels so nice when you gush around me like this.”

You nearly lost your fucking mind when the bristles touched your clit.

⋆˚🐾˖° Zayne

Zayne had thrown out your Suppressants. He’d personal ensure the physician who prescribed them to you at such a young age would never practice in medicine again.

You had stumbled into his office. He wasn’t even sure how you had made it here in one piece by the way you smelled alone. You barely had both feet in the door before he rushed to lock the door to his office.

His fingers were peeling open your eye, shining the pen-light into your pupil. You were pleading as he examined your Heat-stricken symptoms. “Z-Zayne I need them. Just one. Please!” Your pleads fall on deaf ears.

“Absolutely not. Those placebos only mask the issues, they do not solve it.” Zayne removes his glasses just as you launch yourself at the Doctor.

“Need your cock, Dr Zayne. No, need your knot.” You plead on a broken whimper. Zayne tries to just talk to you as a physician, and not an Alpha. But how could he ignore those pretty pleas. You were practically humping his dress pants, clinging to his lab coat.

“This is what you needed right?” His voice is almost mocking when he has you laid out on the examination table, knuckles deep in your squelching cunt. The latex from his gloves are too slick, not enough pressure. You try to squirm under his touch, you need more.

“No Darling,” he pins you down with a strong hand on your stomach, pinning you back. “Preparation is key. I’d like to avoid tearing you.” His fingers move faster, clipping that spot inside that makes those white stars flash behind your eyelids.

“Or maybe-“ he purrs, rubbing your stomach as though he’s petting an affectionate cat. “Being torn apart is what you need.”

Those words have you spasming under his touch, soaking the thin paper sheet on the examination bed. You Heat is blossoming in your belly and as soon as one orgasm leaves you, you crave to be filled yet again. You grasp at the edge of his lab coat sleeve which is now wearing evidence of your Slick.

“Inside-oh Please!”

“Patience.” His fingers quickly pull his throbbing length from it confines, pants barely shimmied down his hips. His cock is furious, the tip nearly purple with need, leaking already. It’s teasing your dripping folds and you gasp, afraid you might come undone right then and there.

When the bulbous head presses forward you tear at the thin bed cover, back arching. Zayne hushes your cries, hand over your mouth. His knee lifts to the edge of the bed for the right angle and-

You cry out loud behind his hand as he enters you in a single thrust. The burn is so delicious, so welcome, but your breath leaves your lungs at the pure size of him. “Shh, shhh…just take it. I took all that time stretching you. Open up for me. Good girl.”

The rickety bed is on its last legs as Zayne is letting you anywhere but go. His glasses have slipped down his nose while he growls and slobbers against your scent gland.

“You are making a mess all over my office.” His chuckle is nearly a put when he pulls your hair away from the crook of your neck. “If I ever catch you taking those suppressants again, I’ll keep you locked away and force you to ride out your Heat on your own. Understand?”

Oh you understood alright.

Understood enough to cream on his cock again.

⋆˚🐾˖° Caleb

If you thought Caleb was going to leave you alone through your Heat, you were sorely mistaken.

He made a makeshift nest for you right in his apartment. He even took a few days off work to ensure his Pretty Omega was taken care of.

He dropped off everything you needed at the door.

The first two days were fine, besides the sweet smell of your pheromones leaking through the door. But on the third day, it was like fighting off a caged tiger.

“No Pipsqueak, c’mon let’s get you back in bed.” He had tried to pry you off of him. You promised him you only need to come out to use the bathroom.

But here you were stripped down to nothing, arms wrapped around him while your Slick coated the living room carpet.

“If you make me go back in there I’ll die.” You sobbed out, big crocodile tears spilling over your flushed cheeks. “You can take care of me like you used to when we lived at Gran’s. I’ll even be quiet like I used to be. Won’t make a noise when I take your-“

“Enough.” That voice was something he used for his soldiers, not his darling Pips. So when he snapped and those tears started to spill faster, his strength dissolved. “Hey no, none of that.”

He hated seeing you cry.

Well.

Except in this current moment.

Your knees were pressed to your chest, it had been so long since he’d been inside of you. Each time felt like you were back in your Senior year of high school when he took your virginity.

You were crying.

You weren’t sure if they were tears of pain from the stretch, or from finally getting a knot to stuff your hole.

“I’ll be good, so good! Feel so good inside! F-Fuck Caleb-“

“Pretty Omega’s don’t cuss at their Alpha’s Pipsqueak.” His dog tags bump your chin as he begins stuffing you full of his cock.

He leans down and laps at your tears, letting the salty taste linger for a moment.

His strong hands push the back of your legs up until you are nearly bent in half. He watches his cock slide in and out of your sopping hole like it has him mesmerized.

“You wanted to cry so bad Pips. Cry for Gege, cry for your Alpha.”

His thrust is so punishing it feels like he may be a ‘Gege’ shaped hole in your guts by the time he’s done. But it’s exactly what you need. You need him to drill every thought out of your pretty head.

“That’s right Princess, oh I know, I’m so mean,” he fakes a pout as another one of his thrust send you spiraling “Tell me how mean Gege is.”

⋆˚🐾˖° Sylus

Contrary to belief, Sylus is far from a forgetful Alpha. He has the days of your Heat marked down on every calendar available. He has you in the best nest money could buy. No price is too high for his little Omega.

He’s sprawled out in his desk chair as he types away at his laptop. He can smell you before he sees you. You are clutching one of his shirts to your chest so tightly it might mold with your skin.

“Kitten, you should be in bed.”

“It started.”

“I know, Sweetie.” He pushes his chair back from the desk and opens his arms. He knew your Heat can be a frightful experience. Especially after taking Suppressants for so long. But he’d convinced you to stop taking them, that they were damaging to your body.

You crawl into his lap and he purrs, his own scent calming you just a little. “Where does it hurt Sweetie?”

He knows exactly where it aches. But he wants your permission of course. You grab his hand, guiding it down the expanse of your stomach and into the soaked panties you were wearing. “H-here.”

“Oh Kitten,” his finger squelch through your Slick and you squeak and cling to his arm. “Shh, it’s alright. Your Alpha will take care of you. Just relax.”

The nest he had spent so much time maintaining was in disarray. His tongue and fingers draw out a third orgasm and you feel like you might explode. “S-Sy! No more, no more, I need your knot!”

Sylus pulls his lips from your throbbing clit as he licks his lips. Your juices coat everywhere from his nose to his lips. He chuckles as he withdraws his fingers and slick gushes onto the sheets. “Do you know what you’re asking for?”

You let out a whine that says ‘if you don’t fuck me, I’ll lose my mind’

The first thrust is the hardest. His cock almost bends as he tries to fit it inside of your sopping hole. “Relax Kitten.”

“I-I can’t!”

“You can, yes you can. Oh, there we go. Good girl, I’m inside. Can you feel it?”

Oh God you can feel it.

You can feel how he’s taking up every piece of your guts, belly, fuck it’s almost like you can feel it in your chest.

“Oh, easy now Sweetie. You don’t want to inflate my ego. My Knot is doing enough inflating for the both of us.”

Sylus lathers your face and throat with his tongue and fangs. He wants to be like this forever, he never wants to let you go again. Your souls and bodies are intertwined in a dance that is millions of years old.

“I’m never letting you go again. So take this fuckin’ Knot and be mine again.”

[skyburger]

do NOT ask me a question and then let me go on wikipedia to check something you WILL receive really bizarre useless information

[1ddiscourseoftheday]

Liam was a boy, and then a man, who suffered so much trauma and pain. He was bullied as a child and then lived a nightmare that I think none of us can really imagine of having that triggering experience replicated on a literally global public scale. He became a man who inflicted trauma on others. He was an addict who was unable to find a way out of that disease, and now never will, but who was open and vulnerable about his struggles. He was an incredibly talented musician and artist and an absolutely integral part of one of the most important bands of a generation; his voice and songwriting and skill in the studio shaped every aspect of what One Direction became at their best. He loved that band and being a part of that experience with his whole being and would never have stopped celebrating what they meant to us and to the world. He had problems and did bad things; that doesn't mean he was a bad person who didn't deserve to be loved and helped to heal- everyone deserves that- and the fact that that's not something that can ever happen now is devastating. I was very distressed by many of his actions; and I cared deeply about this man I didn't know and wished for better for him than this outcome.

I'm so deeply, deeply SAD tonight. I'm sad for Liam, who will never now have the chance to look back on this hard time and reflect on how far he's come, and for Liam's family, for his parents and his sisters who loved and supported him so much, and for everyone in the 1D band family and circles. And I'm sad for us. It feels like nothing will ever be quite the same, and that's hard and sad and shocking. It's a special kind of doubled grief, to mourn the loss of the person, and also of what he meant to us in this strange world of parasocial fanning, for the real him and also for the version of him that we made up and attached so much meaning to and for the escape that brought us. For him, and also for the easy uncomplicated joy of listening to those beautiful songs from happier times, which might never feel the same again. For the other boys, who we love so much and wish we could shield from suffering and loss and pain. For our fellow fans, who we also worry about the impact of this on. Everything about this is terrible, and I am sending so much love out to all of you. We are not alone, and it's okay to feel complicated emotions and it's okay to mourn and it's okay to care about how it effects you and your life, whatever you're feeling- it's okay. We are here with you. We are 1D family.

[littlebluebird2000]

Twirling Hearts- part 2

pairing: yeon si-eun x reader (female reader)

rating: 18+

genre: romance, smut

warnings: overprotective sieun, school bullying, discussion about food and weight, violence, harassment, smut, mature language, sexual harassment, slow-burn, jealousy, baku always being at the scene of the crime...

summary: Who would've thought that a ballerina and the school's most feared nerd would complete each other so well? Being the new student was never easy-especially not when you were the only girl transferring into an all-boys school. To make matters worse, Eunjang High has a reputation for having its fair share of troublemakers. Some of the rumors were enough to make anyone second-guess stepping through those front gates…

author's note: this chapter contains sexual content. if you are not comfortable with that, it’s okay, i’ll see you in the next story.

word count: 8k+(again, sorry)

follow #bluebirdyeonsieun for updates on the story. for some reason, my tags aren’t working :(

part 1, 2, 3. 4., 5.

Your skin was warm. Too warm.

Your alarm buzzed just after 5, sharp and unforgiving in the quiet of your room. You groaned, arm fumbling over the sheets until your fingers finally found your phone. The floor felt cold when you swung your legs over the edge of the bed, but even in the chill of the morning, your body pulsed with leftover heat.

You'd dreamt of him again.

Sieun.

You sat there for a moment, breathing slowly, trying to shake it off. But the dream lingered—soft at the edges, vivid where it counted.

You fanned your face with your hands, skin flushed and your heart embarrassingly loud in the silence. You forced yourself to get moving. The weekend had gone too fast for your liking… You started to get ready for the academy.

You dropped your bag and sat on the floor, beginning your stretches with practiced discipline. Pain helped. Just a little. You moved through the routine without thinking, tying your bun tight enough to pull your focus back. You were supposed to be grounded—pointed toes, perfect turnout, breath timed with grace—but your mind kept drifting.

“Y/N,” your teacher’s voice cut through the room, firm but not unkind. “Focus. Again, from the top.”

You nodded, blinking hard as if it would clear the fog in your head. You moved when the music resumed, but your body didn’t feel like it belonged to you. Your pirouette was too fast. Your landing was too soft. Your chest tightened as you pushed into the next movement.

“Your balance is off.” Mrs. Kim said again. “Center yourself.”

You sighed. This was going to be a long practice…

The door clicked softly behind you as you stepped out of the studio, the air brushing cool against your flushed skin. The bus was quiet this morning, filled with the low hum of the engine. You sat by the window, forehead lightly resting against the cold glass, watching the world blur.

No matter how many times you blinked, his face kept flashing behind your eyes.

When the school came into view, you sighed, adjusting your skirt and brushing down your coat as if that would help settle the nerves crawling beneath your skin. You stepped off the bus, blending into the slow-moving crowd of students, pulling your bag higher on your shoulder.

You slipped into the classroom a few minutes before the bell, doing your best to appear casual—even though your heart skipped a little when your eyes found him.

Sieun was already there—head down, pen moving neatly across his notebook. He looked the same as always: dark hair falling slightly into his eyes, faint shadows clinging beneath them, his shoulders relaxed like he had found a way to exist separately from everything around him. His eyes flicked up.

You gave him a small smile in acknowledgment, the kind you hoped appeared casual and effortless. Just a soft curve of your lips, barely there, before you slid into your seat beside him, heart thudding louder than you wanted it to.

He hadn’t smiled back, of course, but you hadn’t expected him to. Still, his eyes had lingered on you a moment before dropping back to his notebook.

No one notices the way the tips of his ears flushed. Unbeknownst to you, you weren’t the only one having dreams that lingered long after waking…

You pulled out your notebook, uncapped a pen, trying to act normal.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught him stealing a glance.

Quick. Barely there. But it happened.

You shifted in your seat. Sieun’s pen keeps moving, neat and controlled. His expression remains unreadable—aloof, almost bored. But there was tension to his stillness now, like he was focusing harder on the page than necessary.

The classroom was starting to fill up—chairs dragging, bags thumping against desks, conversations bubbling with half-suppressed laughter. You didn’t look up. You just kept your eyes on the board, pretending to go over your notes even though you hadn’t really read a word.

You could feel it when Hyoman entered. His presence carried a weight, a cocky energy that crept over your skin like static. You heard his voice—low, arrogant, already joking with someone like the room revolved around him.

It made your stomach twist.

He passed by your row, and you could hear every step of it. The exaggerated scuff of his shoes. The scraping of his chair as he slouched into the seat directly behind you.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of a glance. Still, your shoulders tensed.

The teacher entered a moment later, his footsteps brisk as he reached the front of the class. “Settle down,” he said, placing a stack of papers on his desk. “Let’s begin.” Conversations quieted. Papers rustled. Pens clicked. The usual chaos smoothed into a quiet rhythm as the class finally began.

You tried to focus, but then—

Tap Tap Tap.

The steady rhythm of fingers drumming against a desk behind you. Not too loud, but pointed. Deliberate.

You didn’t react. You told yourself not to. That’s what he wanted. Or maybe you were overthinking it. He probably didn’t register he was doing it. A kind of nervous tick? You—

Then came the kick.

Not hard, but enough to jolt your chair. Enough to make your back stiffen and your fingers freeze on your pen.

Still, you stayed still. Your eyes didn’t move from your notebook. You wouldn’t give him attention.

A breath passed. And then, beside you, Sieun moved. Barely. His gaze slid toward Hyoman—calm, cold, unreadable. The effect was immediate.

The tapping and kicking stopped.

Sieun turned back, calm and unbothered, resuming his writing without a word. He didn’t even glance your way.

You stayed still for another breath, letting the quiet return. You relaxed a little bit, but unease lingered in the edges of your thoughts.

Since the very first incident, 5 months ago, Hyoman hadn’t bothered you. Not in class, not in the halls. It was Sieun’s warning that had stopped him then. It had been enough to keep him away for months… until last weekend outside the karaoke room.

You’d tried to convince yourself it was the alcohol…That he hadn’t fully thought about the consequences…That he had temporarily forgotten about Sieun’s threat…That he wouldn’t have tried if he had been sober…

But maybe you were wrong.

And you couldn’t help but notice: even if he was testing the limits again, unlike last time, he wasn’t doing it boldly…Like he was still affected by Sieun’s warning… just no longer fully stopped by it.

You wanted to figure out had happened. Why was he testing the edges again, pressing into the boundary he had seemed to accept before, and why the warning that once worked no longer held the same weight….What had changed?

You pushed the thought aside, let it unravel before it could take root. You were probably reading too much into things. He hadn’t touched you today, not really. Just background noise—his fingers tapping, the occasional thud of his shoe against your chair. Maybe he was just bored and hadn’t noticed he was doing it?

You told yourself it didn’t matter either way. You weren’t going to give him the space in your mind.

Not today.

Because your mind was already full of someone else. Someone quieter. Someone who never asked for your attention, yet had it anyway.

There was only one boy who constantly lingered in your thoughts these days—and it wasn’t Hyoman.

It was Sieun.

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏

The cafeteria was its usual chaotic mess—loud voices, trays scraping, the scent of fried food lingering in the air. You were seated comfortably between Baku and Sieun, one leg crossed over the other, completely engrossed in the ridiculous story Juntae was telling about his failed gym test.

You laughed, shaking your head, leaning slightly forward as you reached for your drink.

You didn’t notice your skirt riding up.

But Sieun did.

He’d been trying to keep his focus on the tray in front of him, eyes locked on a piece of kimchi he hadn’t touched. But out of the corner of his eye, that small shift caught him. A flash of bare skin, just above your knee.

His breath hitched—so quietly that no one heard.

He shifted in his seat. Once. Twice. First adjusting his legs, then his shoulders. He pressed his knuckles into his thigh, jaw tight, expression perfectly neutral, save for the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.

His knee brushed yours.

He moved it away quickly.

You kept chatting with Baku and Gotak, totally unaware, sipping on your drink. You adjusted again in your seat, accidentally rising your skirt another half-inch.

Sieun’s eyes flicked to the side, then to the ceiling, then back to his tray, scolding himself for looking. But the damage was already done…The dream from last night flooded back without warning.

He didn't ask for the dream. He hadn't gone to bed thinking about you like that, not really. But it had come anyway, slow and consuming.

Your breath in his ear. The softness of your voice. His name leaving your lips in the dark. The way you touched him. That dream had been soft and slow and maddening. And now this—you, here, real and inches away, so unaware. He’d woken up in a rush, skin flushed, breathing uneven. Aching. It was all new to him. He hadn’t known he could feel that way…Hadn’t thought it was possible for him. It was warm, unfamiliar and terrifying.

Shame curled through him like smoke. You deserved better than his messed-up thoughts. You didn’t deserve to be pulled into the confusing mess of whatever he was feeling—especially not like this, not without your consent. He had to stop.

But his body betrayed him. His fingers tapped a quiet rhythm on the table. His shoulders were slightly tense. His breathing had grown shallower, barely noticeable unless you were paying close attention.

Which Baku was.

He didn’t say anything. But across the table, he watched Sieun shift again, the tips of his ears burning faintly red. Baku smirked to himself, leaning forward on his elbows. His eyes flicked from Sieun to you, then back again. A secret.

Sieun let out a barely audible sigh through his nose and finally scooted half an inch away from you, giving himself just enough space to breathe. But even then, his knee bounced slightly under the table—like his nerves wouldn’t quit.

You just glanced over at Sieun, your brows pinching slightly as you noticed he’d only picked at his food. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

He blinked, his tone low and composed. “Not that hungry.”

You studied him for a second, eyes flickering over his face, like you were trying to read between the lines of a book no one else had bothered to open. But then, you slowly nodded in understanding before looking away. Sieun didn’t miss the concern look passing over your face. He didn’t know if that made it better or worse. You had no idea what he was thinking—what images were tangled up in his brain.

The first bell rang, a warning that class would start in 10 minutes. Chairs scraped against the floor as students stood, gathering their trays. You stood too, unaware of the soft tension beside you, brushing past Sieun as you adjusted your skirt.

He didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Not yet.

Sieun sat there, rigid, his legs tense beneath the table. His jaw was locked, his breath shallow. He kept his gaze down, refusing to look at anyone—especially not you.

Because if he moved now, someone might see.

His uniform pants weren’t doing a good job of hiding it. The ache between his legs had built slowly throughout lunch, each brush of your arm, each innocent laugh of yours pushing him closer to something unfamiliar, something he didn’t understand.

His hands clenched into fists beneath the table.

He wasn’t like this. He wasn’t. He had spent years feeling numb, emotionless and detached. He had never once looked at someone and felt this.

“Go ahead,” he muttered to the others, barely above a whisper. “I’ll catch up.”

Baku glanced over with a knowing grin—but said nothing. You hesitated for half a second longer, eyeing Sieun with quiet worry.

Baku leaned toward you and nudged your arm. “Give him a minute. He’s okay.”

“But—” You started to protest.

“He’ll be okay. Just trust me.” Baku said, softer this time.

Y/N looked back at Sieun, still motionless and unreadable, then slowly nodded.

The group left, and Sieun finally stood, slow and cautious. He angled his bag in front of himself and turned the corner toward the bathroom, heart thudding in his ears.

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

He didn’t stop at the sinks. Just ducked into the nearest stall, locked it, and pressed his back to the door, chest tight with something he couldn’t name.

His fingers trembled as he touched his waistband.

What was happening to him?

It wasn’t just arousal. It was confusion. Shame. Need. Want. He had never done this before—never felt the desire to.

For so long, he had been empty inside, untouched by anything, distant even from himself.

And yet here he was, alone in a bathroom stall, pulse racing, thoughts tangled in the memory of your smile, the warmth of your leg against his, and the ghost of your scent that refused to leave his nose.

He didn’t want to.

But he had to.

He exhaled shakily, teeth gritted.

It was over quickly. His hands curled tight at his sides afterward, and he didn’t move for a long moment. He just stood there, breathing hard, forehead against the cold wall. The shame settled right after.

He cleaned up in silence, eyes avoiding the mirror above the sink. His face looked the same. Cold. Blank.

But something inside him had shifted.

He dried his hands, adjusted his uniform, and left—shoulders tight. As he rejoined the hallway, he caught sight of you up ahead— entering the classroom with the others, tossing your hair over your shoulder as you laughed. He looked away.

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏

The bell rang, signaling the break between classes. Students spilled into the hallway, some stayed in class chatting and laughing. You couldn’t help but feel a strange shift in the atmosphere between you and Sieun.

He was quieter today—more withdrawn than usual if that was possible. His gaze kept flickering to the side, avoiding yours, and the usual cold mask he wore seemed to hide something more. He was studying, but his focus seemed scattered.

Curiosity stirred in you, and without thinking, you slowly reached over to touch his hand. Your fingers brushed against his lightly at first, but then your hand settled on top of his, fully connecting.

Sieun immediately tensed. His eyes snapped to your connected hands and his fingers twitched beneath your touch, as if he was trying to pull away but couldn’t. His hand—that hand. The same one you were touching so softly now—had been doing something else earlier. Something messy.

A quiet breath escaped him, and he clenched his jaw tightly, trying to mask whatever emotion was playing out on his face. You had no idea what that same hand had been doing, moments ago. How your name had been stuck in his head like a prayer…

“Sieun,” you said softly, your voice a little unsure, but you couldn’t ignore the growing concern building in you. “Are you feeling okay?”

For a moment, he didn’t respond. His face flushed ever so slightly, though he tried to hide with his hair. His lips pressed into a thin line, and he took a slow, shallow breath as if to steady himself.

“I’m fine,” he muttered quietly, his voice neutral.

But the blush on his cheeks didn’t lie.

"Are you sure?" you asked, a little more insistently this time. “You don’t seem like yourself today. You barely ate.”

Sieun finally lifted his eyes to meet yours. “I’m fine,” he said again, this time with a little more finality. He shifted in his seat.

You hesitated for a moment, sensing the tension between you, but you didn’t pull your hand away. There was something about his reaction that made you feel like maybe you should push just a little bit further. Was he sick?

Sieun’s eyes flickered down to your hand again. He let out a quiet sigh and returned to his studies, but this time, his posture was stiffer.

He didn’t want to look at you. He couldn’t look at you. Not when his thoughts still felt twisted. You stayed like that, touching him like he was clean…. His stomach tightened, guilt crawling up his throat.

“Hey, what’s going on here?” Baku interrupted, walking past Sieun’s desk with a smirk on his face. You quickly snatched your hand away, your fingers retreating as if caught doing something wrong.

Baku’s eyes narrowed knowingly.

Sieun’s eyes drifted down to his hand, still resting on the desk. He stared at it—at himself—and felt his cheeks burn even more.

If you knew what he had done, would you still look at him with that softness in your eyes?


Would you still reach for him?

Baku caught the shift in Sieun’s body. He knew exactly why Sieun was reacting this way—he had seen that look before. The kind of look a guy gives when he’s fighting with himself over something he didn’t want to admit.

Baku couldn’t help it. He chuckled quietly, a teasing glint in his eyes. “You’re a mess, Yeon Sieun.” He murmured, his voice low enough that only Sieun could hear. "You're so obvious."

You, on the other hand, had no idea what Baku was talking about, but his laugh only added to the strange feeling in the air. Sieun, still avoiding your gaze, seemed even more uncomfortable now. You weren’t sure if it was because of your touch or because of Baku’s teasing, but something had definitely shifted in him.

As Baku walked away, he shot a quick wink in your direction, still chuckling softly under his breath. You caught the glance and felt a little confused, but Sieun seemed almost ready to crawl under his desk to avoid all the attention.

“Just ignore him,” Sieun mumbled, though the words came out as a hushed whisper, like he was trying to calm himself down more than you.

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏

Class resumed, the teacher’s voice cutting through the lingering tension. You kept your eyes on the board, though your mind was still with him. Sieun sat stiff beside you, eyes trained forward, unmoving.

Minutes ticked by.

When the final bell rang, you rapidly stood up, not wanting to miss the buss bringing you to the academy.

Sieun didn’t move. You stopped in your tracks.

Baku caught your glance. Quietly, he stepped behind you and nudged your elbow.

“Hey.” He said low enough that only you could hear. “Let me talk to him.”

You hesitated but nodded, casting one last look at Sieun before walking out with the others.

Once the room emptied, Baku slide in the chair in front of Sieun’s desk. He glanced at him, then at the hand Sieun kept staring at.

“You planning to burn a hole in it or what?” Baku asked, leaning forward. “You’ve been staring like that thing betrayed you.”

Sieun didn’t answer.

Baku exhaled, more gently this time. “You wanna talk about it?”

Still nothing. Just that tense silence.

“Is it about her?” Baku asked, voice softer now.

Sieun hesitated, then nodded. “Earlier … After lunch. I just—” He exhaled sharply. “I didn’t sleep well last night. I kept thinking about her…and then her skirt rode up a little today and—I didn’t mean to look... But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. And I felt like—like I had no control.”

There was a long pause before Sieun finally spoke again. His voice was low, almost tight. “After lunch, I went to the bathroom... I had to…” He couldn’t finish.

“You touched yourself” Baku said plainly, not judging.

Sieun lowered his gaze. “Yeah.”

“So?”

Sieun looked up, startled. “So? That’s it?”

“What, you thought I’d freak out? Yell at you? Nah.” Baku leaned in closer, voice dropping. “It’s natural. You didn’t do anything wrong by reacting. You’re human, even if you hate it sometimes.” He teased at the end.

Sieun sighed, fidgeting with the sleeve of his uniform. “I just couldn’t stop thinking about her. And I… I had to relieve it. I didn’t want to. It just—happened. It felt—wrong”

“No, it felt intense. You’re not used to that. She makes you feel things, and you’re scared of what that means.”

Sieun’s jaw clenched. “She sat beside me, worried about me. She was being kind, like always. And I was just... I feel like some kind of creep.”

“You’re not a creep. You didn’t do anything to her.” Baku argued, voice softer now. “You didn’t cross a line. You just… felt something really strong and didn’t know where to put it.”

There was a long pause. Sieun shifted again, head bowed. “I don’t know how to handle, this feeling.”

“And that’s okay,” Baku said simply. “You’re figuring it out. Just like the rest of us.” Sieun exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

”Just don’t get weird about it.” Added Baku. “You’re not some monster for having feelings. You're also not the first guy to get worked up thinking about someone he likes.”

Sieun’s gaze flicked to him.

Baku smirked, nudging him. “I mean it. Stuff like that… wanting someone like that. It’s not something to be ashamed of. You like her. So what?”

Sieun blinked. His ears flushed as Baku went on, voice more serious now.

“I’m pretty sure she likes you back. Anyone can see it. Don’t beat yourself up just because your feelings don’t look clean in your head.” Baku gave him a lopsided smile. “You’re allowed to feel good things, man. You’re allowed to want them too.”

Sieun stayed silent, but his fingers flexed slowly, like he was finally testing whether the shame still lingered in the skin.

“And come on, man. She’s beautiful. Smart. Got that ballerina grace and all. If you weren’t thinking about her like that, then I’d be concerned.” Baku added with a knowing grin.

Sieun shot him a look—half scandalized, half mortified.

Then Baku added, laughing just a bit, “And hey, if you’re losing it over a glimpse of her thigh, you’ve got it bad.”

“Don’t cross the line, now.” Sieun said quietly, but the threat wasn’t serious. The blush on his cheeks was unmistakable.

Baku raised his hands in mock surrender, grinning wide. “Relax, I’m just teasing. But hey, it’s cute seeing you get all worked up.”

They sat in silence for a while. It was a rare moment—just the two of them, neither needing to speak, but still sharing an understanding. A silent thank you for the advice Baku had given him.

Then, out of nowhere, Sieun muttered, almost too low to hear:


“…It didn’t even last a full minute.”

Baku blinked—then let out a sharp laugh, nearly choking. “Dude—”

Sieun winced, clearly regretting saying anything. “I shouldn’t have told you.”

“No, no—this is great,” Baku wheezed, grinning like an idiot. “That’s—man, that’s so pure.”

Sieun groaned, burying his face in his hands.

Baku clapped him on the back. “It just means you're really into her. And also… maybe you need a bit more stamina.”

“Please shut up.”

“I’m just trying to help,” Baku said, laughing. Then, more gently, “Seriously, though. Don’t beat yourself up. You’re allowed to feel this way. It’s not shameful. It’s just human.”

Sieun glanced sideways at him, still wary.

Baku smirked, but his tone softened. “And hey. When it does happen for real—you’re gonna want it to last more than a minute, right? You have to make it last. Let it build.”

Sieun gave him a flat stare. “Stop talking. You're the worst.”

“I know,” Baku said proudly. “But I’m also right.”

For the first time, Sieun’s lips twitched up slightly.

And Baku, satisfied, leaned back in his chair.

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏

The night was still, the world outside silent as Sieun lay in his bed, his mind restless. It had been days since that awkward moment with you at school, the touch of your hand was still lingering in his memory.

His eyes closed slowly, exhaustion pulling him into a deep sleep, but his thoughts followed him, lingering at the edge of his consciousness.

In the dream, it was warm—almost too warm. The air was thick with the scent of something sweet and familiar, and Sieun realized it was you.

You were there, standing across from him in a soft, flowing dress. Your hair cascaded down your shoulders, catching the light in a way that made you seem almost ethereal. You stepped closer, and with each step, Sieun’s heart began to beat faster.

He didn’t speak. He never did in dreams.

His breath hitched as you reached out to touch his arm.

“You’ve been distant.” You said softly, your voice a whisper that echoed in his ears. “Why?”

His throat felt tight, and the air between you felt charged, like the space was too small to hold the tension that had been building between the two of you for weeks.

Your fingers brushed against his skin, and he felt a shiver run through him. Your touch was gentle, almost delicate, and it set something in him alight.

He knew it was a dream, but it felt so real—too real to ignore.

“You know, I always thought that you were cold.” You said, a playful smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “But now, I’m starting to think you’re just shy.”

Your hands slid to the back of his neck, drawing him down to as your body pressed into his. “Sieun…” Your voice was low, sensual. You leaned in closer, so close that your lips brushed against his ear. “If you ever need someone to talk to… or something more…” You said, your voice teasing and playful, sending a shiver down his spine. “I’ll be here.”

And then, before he could stop it, the dream shifted again. The tension that had been building snapped, and for a moment, he felt an overwhelming rush of heat.

He woke up with a start, his breath ragged and his body tense. His heart was pounding in his chest. His mind raced with confusion, the remnants of the dream still lingering in his thoughts. He exhaled through his nose, hand dragging down his face. He looked down and saw what he already suspected. What he already felt.

He was painfully hard.

No shame, he reminded himself. Just... focus on what feels good. It's natural.

Slowly, his hand slipped beneath the covers, fingers brushing against his stomach, his chest, before slipping lower, seeking the release his body was craving. Sieun’s breath hitched slightly when he gripped himself. He started the motion slowly. Up and down. Up and down. There was the faint sound of skin against skin—low, rhythmic, wet. A quiet curse left him. His fingers flexed, and the wet sound grew sharper, slicker.

His mind flashed to the dream again—your face, your touch, the warmth of your body. His breath caught, and his hand moved a bit faster now, the memory of you pushing him past any hesitation. He moved through the motions, not out of guilt or shame, but out of necessity, out of understanding that his body and mind were connected… and he needed you.

Baku's voice—a little teasing, but with a hint of advice, echoed in his mind: "Make it last. Let it build. Focus."

He squeezed his eyes shut, biting his lips, trying to push everything else out. His hand adjusted, a soft slick sound following, and a quiet exhale slipped from his lips. His muscles tightened, and his pulse raced as he focused on the sensation, feeling the pressure build slowly, forcing himself to hold back, to make it last longer.

He tried to savor it, to stretch it out, even as his body was demanding more. It was like a tug-of-war—his mind telling him to slow down, to take his time, while his body pushed him closer to the edge. The heat in his stomach spread outward, burning through him, but he kept his hand steady, slowing the pace.

Your touch, the way you’d smiled at him, the heat that had curled in his chest. He could feel you so clearly now, even if you weren’t there. His breath came in shallow gasps, and he focused harder, trying to make it last.

It was so hard, but he kept going.

He could feel the tension winding tighter inside of him, building, and he focused on every little sensation—every brush of his skin, the way the sheets felt beneath him, the rush of heat spreading through him. He pushed aside every other thought, except for you.

His breath quickened, and his hand moved with more urgency now. He furrowed his eyebrows in concentration. A soft, involuntary sound slipped from his lips. The bed creaked faintly beneath him. His muscles tensed hard, breath ragged as he chased the rising heat—every stroke making the pressure more unbearable, his body tight with need, straining as the release crept closer, impossible to hold back.

And then, with a groan, it happened. The release was overwhelming, crashing over him, almost too much. His mouth stayed open as low whines left him. His chest rose and fell quickly as the warmth flooded him. The images of the dream were still there, still in his head, and his heart pounded.

His hand fell limply by his side, and he lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, his body trembling. There was a part of him that almost regretted not making it last longer. He stayed still for a moment, the silence of the room wrapping around him like a thick fog. His chest rose and fell with slow, steady breaths, but his mind remained restless.

His body moved on autopilot as he cleaned himself up, wiping away the evidence of what had just passed. It was a strange routine, but at least now there was no confusion or hesitation. The act of it felt natural, even though his mind felt fogged. His body felt light, like the tension had completely left him. There was no more pressure, no more urgency—just a heavy satisfaction that lingered, like he could finally relax.

With that last thought of you in his head, Sieun let himself sink deeper into the mattress. The coolness of the sheets wrapped around him, and his body naturally fell into a state of rest. He didn’t fight it.

Sleep claimed him then, gentle and soothing, pulling him under with ease.

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏

You couldn’t stop smiling as you pulled the envelope from your bag, heart fluttering with anticipation. These tickets meant more than just a performance. They were a piece of you—your world—and you were about to share it with them. With him.

You walked over to the group, pulse picking up as you handed Baku his ticket first. He flashed you a teasing grin before you could even speak.

“Of course I’ll be there,” he said, winking. “Wouldn’t miss my favorite ballerina for anything.” You laughed softly, rolling your eyes, but the warmth in your chest stayed. Then, you turned toward Sieun.

He was seated, calm as always, looking vaguely distant—but when you stopped in front of him and held out the ticket, his eyes flicked to yours. You felt it again—that odd flutter in your chest that only he seemed to cause.

“Sieun,” You said, quieter than before. “You’ll come, right? I really want you to be there.”

For a moment, he just stared at the ticket in your hand. His lips parted, like he was going to say something, but hesitated. Your heartbeat slowed, waiting—uncertain.

Then he finally looked at you, and the world narrowed. “Yeah,” he murmured, his voice low and shy. “I’ll be there.”

“Thank you.” You breathed, holding his gaze a little longer than you meant to. He didn’t look away right away. But then, as if remembering himself, he dropped his eyes to the ticket, and you could have sworn his ears turned pink.

You handed out the rest of the tickets, but your mind stayed on him. That strange stillness between you hadn’t gone away. If anything, it lingered deeper now, like a thread pulling tighter. You couldn’t explain it—not fully—but you liked it.

You couldn’t wait to dance that night. To see them in the audience.

To see him.

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏

It was late when you finally stepped out of the ballet academy, the air crisp with the bite of late evening chill. Your hair was still damp from your quick post-class shower, clinging to your neck and soaking into your coat collar. You’d meant to dry it, but the clock had run faster than expected, and you didn’t want to be late for the hangout your friends had planned.

You spotted them right away—Baku, Gotak, Juntae, and—

Your heart gave a small, traitorous jump.

Sieun.

They were all leaning against the railing just outside the entrance, half lit by the warm glow spilling from the building, laughing at something Baku said. But Sieun wasn’t laughing. He was watching you.

He didn’t say anything at first when you approached. He just stood there, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, his usual cold expression in place. But the moment his eyes caught on your hair—his brows furrowed. A flash of something unreadable crossed his face. Concern? Confusion?

“You didn’t dry it?” he asked softly, once you were close enough.

You blinked, surprised by the quiet urgency in his tone. “There wasn’t time. I didn’t want to be late.”

He stared at you a second longer. Then, in a small, awkward movement, he reached up—hesitated—and gently tugged the edge of your hood up over your head.

“It’s cold,” he said, voice low. “You’ll get sick.”

Your breath caught a little, more from the gesture than the air. His fingers brushed your hair as he adjusted the hood, and something inside you pulled tight. His touch was soft—tentative—but filled with a kind of quiet care that made your chest ache.

“I’ll be fine.” You whispered, but your voice had softened. He didn’t answer, just looked at you for a beat longer before stepping back.

Baku clapped his hands, breaking the moment. “Let’s go, before we all freeze to death!”

The group started walking, laughter echoing into the night, but as you fell into step beside Sieun, you could feel the warmth of his gesture lingering—like the heat of a small flame, tucked quietly between you.

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏

The small restaurant was tucked into a side street, glowing with warm yellow lights and the hum of quiet chatter. It wasn’t anything fancy—plastic menus, mismatched chairs, steam rising from bowls of noodles—but it was cozy, and it felt like your little corner of the world.

You slid into the booth beside Sieun. Baku and Juntae sat across from you, still bickering about something, while Gotak was at the counter ordering for the group.

“Okay, but,” Juntae said, readjusting his glasses, “You can’t seriously tell me that the main guy isn’t overpowered. He literally destroyed an entire demon clan in the first episode.”

“That’s the point!” Baku argued. “He’s cool. You’re just mad because you don’t understand peak character writing.”

You couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. The way Baku got so animated when talking about his favourite anime reminded you of a kid—unfiltered, excited, alive. You leaned your chin on your hand, watching him with amusement.

“You really like this one, huh?” you asked.

Baku beamed. “I love it. I even ordered the limited edition figurine. It’s coming next week.”

You giggled softly, and as your eyes flicked sideways, you caught Sieun’s profile beside you. He was facing forward, expression neutral, arms crossed over his chest—but there was a slight tension to his jaw. His eyes flicked to Baku, then to you. Then back to Baku again.

You didn’t notice. But Baku did. The corner of his mouth twitched in amusement.

Sieun shifted slightly, uncrossing and recrossing his arms, then sat rigidly, trying to look indifferent. But the faint crease between his brows gave him away.

The food arrived, and the table filled with warmth and scent—spicy broth, sizzling meat, bowls of rice. You reached for the side dishes, brushing your knee against Sieun’s by accident. He tensed but didn’t move away.

Baku leaned back, grinning to himself behind his chopsticks.

Sieun glanced at him warily—and Baku just shrugged, sipping his soup like he didn’t know exactly what was going on.

You were halfway through your bowl of noodles when Baku leaned forward, resting his chin in his palm as he looked at you with a grin too wide to be innocent.

“So,” he began, dragging out the word, “Y/N, when exactly are you planning on falling for me?”

You blinked, almost choking on your bite. “What?”

Gotak let out a loud laugh, nearly spitting out his drink. “Bro, give it a rest. She’s way out of your league.”

Baku raised his brows at him. “You wound me, Gotak. I thought we were on the same team.”

You rolled your eyes and smirked, swatting at Baku with your chopsticks. “You’re not my type.”

Baku clutched his chest dramatically. “Well, aren’t you harsh!? I’m hurt. You’re lying though—How could I not be everybody’s type?”

The table erupted again—Gotak practically howling, even Juntae was cracking a smile.

But Sieun stayed quiet.

The spoon in his hand paused midair, his jaw slightly clenched. He looked at Baku a little too long—expression serious, but the faintest twitch in his fingers betrayed him.

“Alright, alright,” Baku said, holding up his hands. “I’ll stop flirting. For now.”

“You’re assuming you ever started.” You replied with a grin, making Gotak wheeze into his drink.

“Burned!” Gotak laughed It made you smile, proud of yourself for the comeback.

You noticed Sieun staring down at his bowl, not eating anymore. Something about the way he was hunched slightly forward, made your smile dim.

But before you could say anything, Gotak launched into a chaotic retelling of a fight that broke out between first-years, instantly dragging the group’s attention back to the noise and laughter.

Everyone except Sieun.

He was still quiet. Still thinking.

And still stealing the occasional glance at you when he thought no one was watching.

But Baku saw everything.

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏

The warmth of the restaurant still clung to your skin as the group spilled out onto the sidewalk, the night air crisp and buzzing with weekend energy. Gotak was the first to suggest it. “Bowling?” he asked, swinging his arms in excitement. “Come on, it’s Friday night.”

“Why do I feel like this could end badly?” Juntae mumbled, but he didn’t protest when Gotak threw an arm around his shoulder and started leading the way.

You walked beside Sieun, the neon glow of storefront signs lighting up the pavement ahead. His hands were in his pockets, as always, and his gaze was on the ground. But he walked just a little closer than usual.

The bowling alley was noisy and crowded, filled with flashing lights and the echoing crash of pins. Gotak was already trying to pick the heaviest ball he could lift, boasting that it would give him “maximum power,” while Baku filmed him for evidence in case he dropped it on his own foot.

You were laughing when you turned around—and stopped.

Sieun was gone.

You frowned and scanned the room, only to see him returning from the far end of the lanes. In his arms was a pale blue bowling ball. He walked over and wordlessly placed it on the return rack right in front of your lane.

“For you,” he said, not meeting your eyes.

You blinked. “You… got this ball for me?”

He gave a small nod. “Your hands are smaller. The others were too heavy.”

Something fluttered in your chest. You opened your mouth to thank him, but he was already turning away, pretending to adjust the score machine with Juntae.

Baku passed by behind you with a slight smirk, murmuring just loud enough for only you to hear, “He’s getting brave. I’m so proud.”

You bit your lip, heart racing just a little faster, as you stepped up to bowl your first turn. As you lined up your shot, you could feel it again—that soft, quiet gaze. Sieun watching you, just like always.

But this time, he wasn’t pretending he wasn’t.

No one expected much when Sieun stepped up for his turn. He looked as bored as ever, standing at the edge of the lane with a bowling ball in his hand. “Bet he drops it behind him,” Gotak snorted, elbowing Baku.

Baku grinned. “One thousand won says it’s a gutter.”

You shook your head. “Don’t count him out.”

Sieun didn’t respond to any of it. He just adjusted his grip on the ball, calculated the lane with a quick glance, then stepped forward with smooth, almost lazy movements—and released.

The ball rolled down the center of the lane with unnerving precision.

Crack.

A perfect strike.

The pins scattered like dominoes. The machine blinked its approval, the strike animation flashing across the screen.

There was a moment of stunned silence.

Then—


“What the—”


“No way.”


“Did you see that?!”

Gotak’s jaw dropped, mouth wide open. Juntae looked like he forgot how to blink. Even Baku—who always had a comeback—was speechless, eyes darting between the pins and Sieun like he’d just witnessed sorcery.

Sieun turned around slowly, expression unreadable. “It’s just physics,” he said flatly, walking back toward the group as if he hadn’t just blown their minds.

You burst into laughter. “Are you kidding me? That was amazing!”

“Physics, my ass,” Gotak said, still frozen, almost scared.

Baku was the first to recover, squinting suspiciously. “You secretly compete on weekends, don’t you? Be honest.”

Sieun sat back down beside you, his shoulders relaxed. “I’ve never played before.”

You leaned closer, grinning. “Well, I’m officially naming you our secret weapon.”

He didn’t answer, but you saw it—a twitch at the corner of his mouth. The faintest smirk.

“I’m scared to go next,” Juntae mumbled.

You giggled and nudged Sieun lightly. “Thanks for showing us all up.”

He didn’t look at you, just kept his eyes on the scoreboard. But his fingers were fidgeting slightly in his lap, and the soft glow in his eyes hadn’t faded. For once, he didn’t seem to mind the attention—especially not when it came from you.

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✎﹏﹏﹏﹏

After the first match ended—with Sieun’s name glowing confidently at the top of the scoreboard—you slipped away while the others headed toward the bathrooms, still laughing over their defeat. You told them you’d be right back, then wandered to the vending machine tucked into the quietest corner of the alley, past the claw machines and blinking arcade games.

You stood in front of the machine but didn’t press anything. You weren’t really craving snacks—you just needed a breather.

You didn’t hear him approach, but you felt it.

The air shifted.

“How many days until the performance?”

Sieun’s voice was low, almost hesitant, as if unsure whether it would reach you.

You turned slightly, and there he was—hands in his pockets. “Next Friday,” you answered. “Seven days.”

He nodded once, slow. “Is it a solo?”

“One of them,” you said. “It’s just a showcase for the academy, but there’ll be scouts.”

Silence settled in again. Not awkward—just…

“I think you’ll do great,” he said quietly, almost under his breath. “Even though I’ve never seen you dance.”

Your chest tightened. You weren’t used to compliments like that from him. Especially not so simply given.

“Thanks.” You murmured. “It means a lot.”

His eyes flicked to you, just briefly. But that one glance held something warmer.

You shifted your weight slightly, your shoulder brushing his arm. He didn’t move. “You’re acting weird again today.” You said, a teasing edge to your voice, trying to ground yourself.

“I’m not,” He replied, just a touch too quick. Then, quieter: “Maybe I am.”

The air between you grew heavier.

You turned slightly to face him. “Are you okay?”

His gaze dropped. “I’m fine,” he said. Then after a pause, “Just...thinking too much.”

You waited, but he didn’t elaborate. You didn’t push right away. Instead, your hand instinctively reached toward his, covering it gently.

The contact was innocent, simple. But his reaction wasn’t. His fingers stiffened beneath yours, and you felt the slightest tremor in his breath.

“Sieun? Please, talk to me.”

“I’m okay,” he said again, more softly this time. “Y/N, I have been meaning to—”

But he didn’t get to finish his sentence.

“Hello.” A rough voice called, and you turned to see a group of three unfamiliar guys sauntering around the corner. They weren’t students from your school—definitely older, and their cocky grins made your stomach twist in discomfort.

One of them stepped forward. “You two... you’re friends with Baku, right?”

Before you could answer, Sieun moved in front of you, his body positioning itself between you and the group. His shoulders tensed, a dangerous kind of energy radiating from him. He wasn’t saying a word, but his body language was clear.

The group’s leader smirked, clearly amused by Sieun’s protective stance. “You don’t have to act tough, kid. We just want to know if you’re on his side.”

Sieun’s voice was calm, but it held a warning. “You should leave. Now.”

One of them stepped around a little bit, his eyes scanning you for a moment before speaking. “You’re pretty,” he said, his voice a mix of admiration and something else—something less than kind. “What’s your name?”

Sieun, calm as ever, kept his eyes locked on the guy. You couldn’t help but feel a little safer behind him. You noticed the slight tension in his jaw, the way his body was just a little bit more rigid than usual. He didn’t look away as he spoke, his voice flat but firm.

“Don’t talk to her.”

The tallest guy gave a slight chuckle, clearly unfazed.

After a split second, one of the other boy in the group spoke up. “Omg! Look at his eyes.” He laughed. The leader of the group chuckled as well. “C’mon, we’re just talkin’. No need for the psycho stare.”

Then the first guy tilted his head toward you again, ignoring Sieun’s warning. “Why don’t you answer instead, sweetheart? Pretty girls shouldn’t act so rude. Are you guys with Baku?”

You took another step back, hiding completely behind Sieun’s back now.

“Yo, what’s your problem? Can you move?” One of them directed at Sieun, starting to get irritated. “You’re her guard dog or somethin’?”

Then—Sieun pulled something from the pocket of his jacket.

A pen.

He clicked it once.

Twice.

The smirks started to falter.

One of the guys shifted on his feet. “Wait… I’ve heard about this—ain’t he the dude that stabbed people with a pen?”

Another face drained of color. “No way. That’s him?”

Sieun didn’t say a word. Just clicked the pen again. Slowly. Deliberately. His cold eyes locked with theirs, unflinching, unmoving.

The first guy tried to save face. “You really are messed up, bro. You got—like—crazy eyes for real.”

They were backing away now. One even bumped into the wall without realizing it.

“Just answer.” The leader asked, visibly unsettled. “You’re one of his guys? Baku?”

Sieun tilted his head slightly to the side. Not a nod. Not a denial.

Just enough to make them unsure.

Click.

The three of them turned and left without another word, muttering to themselves as they hurried off.

Your heart was still racing. You hadn’t even realized you were holding your breath until your chest started to ache. And then—slowly—you let it out. A quiet, shaky exhale.

Sieun stood there, unmoving, his back still to you. His presence was solid. Steady. Like a wall no one could pass through.

Without thinking, you stepped closer and gently leaned your forehead against his back. His jacket was warm, and you could feel the rise and fall of his breath beneath it.

You stayed there for a second, eyes closed.

“I didn’t like how they were looking at you,” he said, voice low, barely above a whisper.

You didn’t respond at first. You just let yourself stay there, your body pressed lightly to his. The warmth of him. The quiet protection. “Thank you,” you murmured. “Really.”

Sieun didn’t move, but you felt the slightest shift—his hand flexing at his side like he wanted to reach back

“I don’t know how I can repay you.” You whispered, your voice trembling with something deeper than just nerves. “You’ve saved me three times already.”

The words hung between you, fragile and warm like breath on cold glass.

Your fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his jacket as you leaned more into him, your cheek now resting against his back. You could hear his heartbeat through the layers of cloth—steady, but just a little too fast.

Then, softly—almost too soft to catch—he said. “You don’t have to repay me.”

“But I want to.” I answered back quietly, like a secret.

A few feet away, partially hidden behind a vending machine, someone watched with quiet interest. Their phone raised slowly. One photo. Crisp, clear. You and Sieun caught in the middle of something almost tender. The glow of the device lit up the stranger’s hand, thumb quickly tapping the screen, sending off the image with practiced ease.

[22:41] “Looks like Baku’s got new friends.”

A pause. Then another message:

[22:41] “Think we could use them?”

The response was curt.

[22:42] “Let’s keep a tab on them. They could be useful.”

[lixiaolang]

Reconnection

Pairing: Go Hyuntak x fem!reader

Summary: Having known of Hyuntak from his training days of Tae Kwon Do, you never thought you'd run into him again. What started as admiration from afar quickly turned into the beginning of something more.

Word count: 1.9k

A/N: previous ☆ masterlist ☆ next

You couldn't sleep at all last night. The afternoon kept replaying in your head. How the Eunjang High bullies ganged up on you. How you ran away in fear for your life. And then, just as quickly as it happened, Hyuntak and his friends coming to your rescue. Turning on your side, you tried to make sense of it. Why would they help you? Sure, they kept the peace, especially Baku. But that was for their school, not yours.

The last time you saw Hyuntak was about three years ago. He had come to train at your Tae Kwon Do studio, and as a well-known topic in the community, it had everyone riled up. You tried not to show your own excitement, keeping to yourself, only glancing at him a few times. You never thought you would see him in person.

Watching him spar with another student, it was clear to you how hard he worked. His work ethic and skills were amazing, and you had stars in your eyes as you admired him. You decided right then that you would work just as hard as him, to never give up. Later, when you were focused on perfecting a move, he approached you.

It took you a minute to realize he was there to instruct you on how to land the kick. He gave a demonstration, and you nodded at his advice, becoming aware of the class' attention now on the two of you. You focused again, praying you wouldn't embarrass yourself in front of him.

Next thing you knew, the class broke out into cheers when you finally hit your target. You smiled proudly, turning to look at Hyuntak, who was clapping for you as well. You quickly took the opportunity to thank him and introduce yourself. Just as he was about to do the same, his team called out to him. He picked up his duffle bag and gave you a warm smile, turning to leave.

And that was it. Rising Tae Kwon Do star athlete Go Hyuntak had taught you a move. A moment that was unforgettable to you, and one he had surely forgotten. Or so you thought. You couldn't believe he had remembered your name. Much less remembered you.

His voice from your last encounter echoed in your mind. You can thank me by letting me walk you home for a while. He couldn't have been serious, right? You let out a groan of frustration, turning your back against the bed. Outside, rain had begun to fall. Sleep eventually came, your minds last thought of Hyuntak.

The next day, the sky was full of grey clouds compared to yesterday. As you were walking to your school, Buil Girl's High, you had no idea if you should recap yesterday's event to your friends. Part of you didn't want to, hoping Hyuntak wouldn't show up. That way, you could just forget the whole thing ever happened.

The rain started picking up again, so you opened your pink umbrella as you entered the gates of your school. You tried to act normal around your friends throughout the day, but if one of them noticed the difference in your usual mood, they knew better than to comment on it. You would tell them about it when you were ready.

Finally, the last school bell rang, and you felt like you might throw up from the nerves in your stomach. After a while, you lifted your head from between your arms and slowly got up from your desk. It was now or never. You caught up with your friends who were waiting for you by the gates.

"Hey, y/n! What took you so long?" They welcomed you with open arms as you all gathered together to keep warm. You felt a smile start to form on your face and began the walk home with your friends.

Before reaching the first light intersection, however, you noticed some girls around you were whispering to each other. Curiosity got the better of you as you looked around to see what all the commotion was about. That's when you saw him. Go Hyuntak was standing across the street with a blue umbrella over his head, his eyes searching for something. Not something. For you.

Your eyes widened in disbelief, immediately turing back the way you came. Confusion crossed your friends' faces as they hurried to catch up with you. "y/n?"

They stopped you, blocking your way.

"I forgot one of my books!" You lied. "Our math quiz is tomorrow, and I won't be able to study without it."

One of your friends arched a brow. "We don't have a math quiz tomorrow."

Before you could come up with another lie, you heard Hyuntak call out for you. You glanced back, seeing him jog across the street as some of the girls all stared at him with heart eyes and others at you, wondering what interest he could have with you. You looked back at your friends as they waited for your explanation.

They stepped back when Hyuntak stood in front of you. You faced him, looking into his eyes. He gave you that same warm smile he had all those years ago and then acknowledged your friends. Making a quick bow, he introduced himself. "Hello, I'm Go Hyuntak."

They bowed back, saying hello, too stunned to say anything else.

"If you don't mind, I'll be walking y/n home for a while." He explained. "I don't know if she mentioned it."

"No, she didn't." One of them grimaced, feeling her stare daggers into your back.

Hyuntak looked you, raising his eyebrow in question but letting it go.

"In that case, we'll get going." Your best friend said. In your ear, she whispered, "You'll thank me for this later."

Taking your umbrella from your hand, she quickly walked away, giggling with the rest of your friends. You stared at them in surprise, waiting for the rain to hit you. When it didn't, you looked up and noticed Hyuntak had placed his umbrella over your head. He stepped closer, making sure you were fully covered.

"Shall we?" He asked.

You nodded. The girls around you gossiped and made rude remarks at you as you started your walk, and you tried your best to ignore them. Suddenly, you felt Hyuntak arm around your shoulder. The girls all gasped and remained silent. You looked up at him in shock.

"Let's give them something to talk about, don't you think?" He winked.

◇

Once you were out of campus grounds, Hyuntak had removed his arm from your shoulder. He cleared his throat and scratched the back of his head, looking unsure if he made you uncomfortable or not. You decided to ease his worries.

"Thanks." You said.

"You're welcome."

The silence that followed was too loud. Not only did you have a million questions for him, but you couldn't pay attention to anything but his close proximity towards you. Here you were, sharing an umbrella with the Go Hyuntak, and you couldn't even enjoy it because you were confused. Yet, you didn't want to ruin the moment of being with him.

"How are your friends? Do they know where you are?"

"Ah, no, they don't." He laughed, shaking his head. "I don't have to report everything to them."

You didn't know whether to feel pleased or insulted being kept a secret. But you figured he could say the same, considering you didn't tell your friends you were walking home with him. Not wanting him to feel the way you do now, you sighed and stopped, facing him.

"My friends didn't know because I didn't tell them. The truth is, I didn't think you would show."

"Why not?" He frowned in confusion.

Around you, the rain started to pick up, landing harder on the blue umbrella above the two of you.

"Why would you?"

He looked taken aback at your honest question. His eyes searched your own, hoping to find the reason as to why you would doubt him. Just as he was about to speak, a strong gust of wind pushed you into him. Your hands shot up to catch yourself against his chest, and he held your arm with his free hand.

You felt cold, your jacket doing little to protect you from the new environment. Hyuntak wrapped his arm around you in protection, looking around to find the nearest shelter. To his surprise, you ended up near the same convenience store where he first saw you again. That also meant you were close to your home.

"Come on." He said. Doing his best to cover you from the harsh rain, he led you inside the store.

You shook your jacket and wiped your face of rain water. Blowing into your hands, you tried to keep them warm. Hyuntak noticed. After putting the umbrella away, he began to gather a few items into a basket.

"What are you doing?"

"We're going to need these if we're going to make a run for it to your house."

He remembered. You looked out the window. You couldn't recall the last time it rained so hard. Out of all the days, too. Realization hits you. Did Hyuntak basically self invite himself to your house? Not that you would turn him away. Not in this weather. You couldn't bear the thought of him getting sick because of you.

Something warm ends up in the palm of your hand. Glancing down, you found a hand warmer pouch and then looked up at Hyuntak. He grinned. His other hand held a white bag that looked almost full of items.

"Are you ready?"

Thinking fast, you reached into your backpack to find your house key. It's better to have it now than have him waiting looking for it.

"Ready."

He grabbed his umbrella, and you reached for the white bag. You held it in your hand tightly. Reaching over, he put the hood of your jacket over your head before doing the same to himself. Counting to three, the two of you ran out into the heavy rain. It was hard to see, but you managed to find your way.

Hyuntak held the umbrella over you as you quickly opened the door. You both hurried in, closing it behind you. The doorway light turned on, and as you were catching your breath, you looked over at him. You couldn't help but begin to laugh at the sight of him. He was completely soaked, and you were no exception.

Staring at you in awe, hearing you really laugh for the first time, Hyuntak took a second before his own laughter took over. The whole situation was ridiculous. Then relief came over him, happy that you made it home safely. The only thing that worried him now was you getting a cold.

Your smile slowly faded as you watched him step closer to you. He carefully removed your hood, his hand coming back to settle at the top of your head. Your eyes held wonder and anticipation while his showed adoration. That's when he pulled you close into a tight embrace.

Pressed against his chest, your arms slowly rose to wrap around him, returning the hug. You don't know why he saved you yesterday, when he could have just walked away. Or why he was here now, looking out for you. The only thing you were certain of was that you didn't want to let him go.

"Hyuntak." You breathed, closing your eyes and savoring the moment.

It's the first time you've said his name in his presence. He felt his heart do a somersault. Holding on for a second more, he let go.

"I should go."

His hand reached for the door handle, but you reached over to stop him, placing your hand over his. "Wait."

A/N: kicking and screaming at my own fic. Hope you enjoyed part 2! :)

[theetherealbloom]

IT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU - CH.4

Chapter Four: Everybody Wonders What It Would Be Like To Love You

Summary: You find yourself sharing a hotel suite with Pedro Pascal while working on the set of Fantastic Four: First Steps. Despite your different roles—he’s the star, and you’re behind the scenes. Nothing could ever happen between you two… right?

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader

Warnings: Age-Gap Romance (Not Specified), Eventual SMUT, Crush, FLUFF, Slight Angst, Trope(s), Swearing, Anxiety, Lots of Cliches, Cheesy Dialogue, Romance, Kissing, Real People Fiction, Cameras, Paparazzi, Social Media, Swoonworthy, One-Room Trope, They were roommates, Strangers-to-Lovers, Actors, Hallmark Tropes, the reader can sing and play guitar, the reader is shorter than Pedro, the reader has hair, Alternate Universe, Awkward!Reader, Shy!Reader, Fan Girl!Reader, Cringe, Embarrassment, Starstruck, Bullying, Physicological Bullying, Mean Girls,

Word Count: 6.4k

A/N: Heads up, there’s a bully in this chapter but dw, you got Pedro on your side hehe. Again, this is all fictional. To any Cecilia’s out there irl, no hate to you girl, I don’t even know you LOL.

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: gold rush by Taylor Swift

Previous Chapter → Next Chapter | Series Masterlist |Main Masterlist|

PINEWOOD STUDIOS — MORNING  

The hum of set life surrounded you like a familiar melody—the rhythmic chatter of crew members, the distant clatter of equipment being adjusted, the occasional burst of laughter from someone off-camera. You moved through it all with ease, exchanging quick words with a fellow PA as you double-checked the last-minute details before call time.  

You didn’t notice him watching you.  

Pedro sat in the makeup chair, already in costume, his eyes drifting away from the mirror as Coco worked her hands through his hair. His body was still, but his mind was somewhere else. Or rather—on someone else.  

It was the way you tilted your head as someone from production rattled off instructions, your brows furrowing slightly in concentration. The way you shifted your weight from one foot to the other, nodding once before offering a soft, assured smile. You weren’t just hearing what they were saying—you were listening, absorbing every detail like you belonged here. Like you had always belonged.  

He felt something tighten in his chest.  

God, you made him feel strange.  

It was the words that stuck in his throat when you were near, the way his pulse stuttered for no damn reason. The way his thoughts—usually so steady, so controlled—felt unruly around you. It was dizzying. Unsettling.  

It had been a long time since he’d felt like this. Since he’d been caught so completely off guard by someone.  

And yet, he couldn’t stop himself from looking for you.  

In the crowd. In the moments between takes. In the quiet spaces where he thought maybe—just maybe—you were looking for him, too.

PINEWOOD STUDIOS — AFTERNOON

Lunch break rolled around, bringing a much-needed lull in the day’s chaos. The crew scattered—some retreating to their trailers, others grabbing quick bites from catering, the energy shifting into something looser, more relaxed.  

Your phone buzzed just as you were sitting down at one of the outdoor tables, the screen lighting up with a message.  

Pedro: Wanna grab a bite later?  

You smiled to yourself, thumbs already moving across the screen.  

You: I do, but I kinda wanna hang with my friends for a bit too.  

His response came almost immediately.  

Pedro: Oh yeah, of course. Mind if I tag along?

You hesitated for half a second. Not because you didn’t want him there—but because you weren’t sure if he really wanted to be there.  

You: Are you sure? 

Pedro: Obviously.  

So that’s how Pedro Pascal ended up at lunch with you and your friends, settling into the group like he had always belonged there.  

He was easy to talk to, of course. He charmed his way through introductions, seamlessly jumping into conversations, laughing in all the right places, making everyone feel like they were the most interesting person in the room. But his attention always had a way of drifting back to you.  

The way you scrunched your nose as you tried to pick apart a joke someone had made. The way your eyes lit up as you talked about some old inside story with your friends. The way you were currently demolishing a cookie like it was the best thing you’d ever tasted.  

Pedro noticed.  

He didn’t say anything, but he noticed.  

His lips twitched as you took another enthusiastic bite, completely unaware of his amusement.  

There were other things, too—subtle things. The brush of his knee against yours under the table, lingering just a second longer than necessary. The way his fingers would graze your wrist when he leaned in to say something, as if testing the waters. The way his eyes would flick to your lips when you spoke before quickly darting away, as if he hadn’t meant to.  

And then, of course, there was the teasing.  

"Did you even taste that cookie, or did you just inhale it?" Pedro mused, finally breaking his silence, amusement lacing his voice.  

You swallowed the last bite, leveling him with a mock glare. "It’s really good."  

He smirked. "Clearly."  

"Don’t judge me."  

"Never." The word came softer than expected, a little too sincere for just teasing. His gaze held yours for a beat longer than necessary, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.  

Your heart stuttered.  

He looked away first, but not before you caught the slightest hint of pink creeping up the tips of his ears. It was such a small thing—barely there, really—but you noticed. And it made something warm unfurl in your chest.  

The conversation around the table carried on, your friends swapping stories and teasing each other between bites of food. Pedro chimed in here and there, laughing along, but every now and then, you felt his gaze flick back to you.  

You were hyper-aware of him now. The way his arm rested casually on the back of your chair, not quite touching but close enough that you could feel his warmth. The way his fingers absentmindedly drummed against the table, his other hand occasionally brushing against yours as he reached for his drink.  

Then, he sighed, pulling his phone from his pocket, frowning slightly at the screen.  

"Ugh, my phone’s about to die."  

Without hesitation, you reached into your bag, pulling out your power bank and a charging cord. "Oh, no worries, here—use this."  

Pedro blinked, momentarily caught off guard.  

You handed it over without a second thought, already turning back to your food. But he didn’t move to plug his phone in right away. Instead, he just looked at you, something unreadable in his expression.  

His fingers brushed against yours as he took the charger, his touch lingering just a fraction longer than necessary.  

“You just carry this around with you?” he asked, his voice quieter now, something softer beneath the teasing edge.  

You shrugged, popping another bite of food into your mouth. “Yeah, of course. Never know when you might need it.”  

His lips quirked, but he didn’t say anything right away.  

Instead, he plugged in his phone, then glanced back at you, shaking his head slightly like he couldn’t quite believe you.  

"What?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.  

Pedro exhaled a small laugh, tucking the power bank into his lap like it was something precious. "Nothing. You’re just—" He paused, searching for the right word, before finally settling on, "—thoughtful."  

Something about the way he said it made your stomach flip.  

You swallowed, suddenly feeling self-conscious under his gaze. "It’s just a charger, Pedro."  

"Yeah," he murmured, still watching you. "I know."  

But his expression said something else entirely.

You weren’t sure what to do with that look—the quiet weight of his gaze, the way he seemed to be memorizing you like you were something worth studying. So, instead of dwelling on it, you reached into your bag and pulled out your notepad and pen.

Doodling had always been second nature to you. Something to keep your hands busy while your mind wandered. While your friends continued chatting, their voices washing over you in waves, you let your pen glide over the paper in absentminded strokes.

Pedro, however, wasn’t nearly as distracted.

From the corner of his eye, he watched, his attention flicking between you and the small spirals and shapes forming beneath your fingers. It was mesmerizing in a way he didn’t expect. The way your brow furrowed ever so slightly when you concentrated. The way your pen tapped softly against the pad before committing to a new line.

He shifted in his seat, subtly angling himself so he could get a better look.

It wasn’t just mindless scribbles.

You were sketching. Really sketching.

A rough outline of the restaurant table, the glasses, the crumpled napkins. And just beside that, the faint beginnings of a face—strong jaw, slightly furrowed brows, lips curved at the edges as if they were on the verge of a smirk.

His lips.

Pedro’s throat tightened.

"That me?" he asked, voice pitched just low enough for only you to hear.

Your pen paused mid-stroke, and you glanced up at him, caught. He wasn’t teasing, not really. If anything, there was something almost—fond—about the way he was looking at you.

You shrugged, offering a sheepish smile. "Maybe."

Pedro huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. "I didn’t know you could draw."

"It’s just something I do when I’m listening," you admitted, flipping the page like it was nothing.

But he didn’t think it was nothing.

He wanted to say something else, something lighthearted to keep you from looking so shy about it, but before he could, one of your friends called your name, pulling your attention away.

Pedro exhaled, leaning back in his seat, but his gaze lingered on you for a moment longer.

Thoughtful. Talented.

Yeah. He was absolutely in trouble.

PINEWOOD STUDIOS — AFTERNOON

The shift in the air was subtle at first, almost imperceptible.

But you felt it.

It was the way certain conversations would quiet just as you approached. The way people who had once been warm and welcoming now exchanged knowing glances when they thought you weren’t looking. The way whispers followed in your wake, hushed giggles that felt anything but good-natured.

And at the center of it all was Cecilia.

She was the kind of woman people noticed when she walked into a room—stunning, sharp-witted, and utterly ruthless when it came to getting what she wanted.

And for whatever reason, she had decided that you were a problem.

At first, it was small things. A pointed look. A lingering smirk. A brush of her shoulder against yours as she passed by.

But then, it escalated.

"Did you hear?" one of her friends whispered just loud enough as you walked by. "She totally forced her way onto this project. Some kind of nepotism thing, I bet."

"Ugh, so cringe," another voice giggled. "She acts all sweet, but like, we know the truth."

You gritted your teeth, kept your head down, and moved along.

You weren’t stupid. You knew exactly what this was. Psychological warfare disguised as petty gossip. You’d seen it before, and you'd see it again.

The worst part?

You refused to let it get to you.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

Pedro noticed.

It started with the way you brushed things off too quickly, like you were trying not to care. The way your usual smiles didn’t quite reach your eyes. The way your laugh—one of his new favorite sounds—had dulled just a fraction, too forced, too polite.

And Pedro wasn’t an idiot.

He saw the way Cecilia and her group slinked around set like vipers, the way their eyes always seemed to flick toward you before whispering behind manicured hands.

It pissed him off.

But when he asked about it, you just waved it away.

“Nothing’s wrong.” You shrugged, reaching for a prop clipboard. “Just tired. Long day.”

Pedro arched a brow. “Really? That’s it?”

“Yep.”

He studied you for a moment, then exhaled through his nose. “You’re a terrible liar.”

That made you scoff. “I am fine.”

“Uh-huh.” He crossed his arms, tilting his head slightly. “So, you’re totally cool with the whole… weird vibe around here lately?”

You hesitated. Just for a second.

It was enough.

“Pedro,” you sighed, shaking your head. “It’s not a big deal. I don’t care what they think, okay? It’s just… you know how some people are. They get bored.”

“They get mean,” he corrected.

You frowned, looking away.

He softened, tilting his head to meet your gaze. “You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t suck.”

You swallowed, fingers tightening around the clipboard.

“It doesn’t suck,” you insisted. “Because I don’t care.”

Pedro’s stare was unwavering, but you held your ground.

Because if you admitted it did hurt—if you let yourself feel it—you weren’t sure you’d be able to stop.

And you weren’t going to let them win.

Pedro sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Fine. You don’t care," he murmured. "But if you ever do care… you’ll tell me, right?"

Something in your chest tightened at that.

You forced a small, teasing smile. “Wow, Pedro. That almost sounded like a serious conversation.”

He rolled his eyes but smirked. "Yeah, yeah. Don’t get used to it."

And just like that, the tension cracked, relief flickering behind his gaze.

For now, he’d let you pretend you were fine.

But he’d also be watching.

TWO DAYS BEFORE THE WEEKEND…

PINEWOOD STUDIOS — MORNING

The next two days were a slow, grating kind of miserable.

It started with small things—so small that if you weren’t paying attention, you might have convinced yourself they were nothing. The way conversations would quiet just as you walked past, the barely-concealed laughter from across the room, the occasional, suspiciously misplaced item that had definitely been right where you left it.

It was the kind of thing that chipped away at you in small, insidious ways.

Like the way Cecilia and her friends would conveniently stand right where you needed to go, their backs turned but their voices just loud enough.

“I swear, some people just don’t belong here.”

You’d walk past without reacting, even as the words burrowed under your skin.

Or the way your neatly organized stack of call sheets had been mysteriously scattered all over the breakroom counter when you came back from a coffee run. No one claimed responsibility, but Cecilia had walked by, tossing you a slow, syrupy-sweet, “Oops, was that important?” before sauntering off.

You clenched your jaw. Breathed through it.

Not worth it.

But then there were the more deliberate moments.

Like the wardrobe rack incident.

You had been helping move costumes between trailers when Cecilia and one of her friends conveniently brushed past, sending a precariously hung dress tumbling to the ground.

“Oh no,” Cecilia pouted, pressing a hand to her chest with mock concern. “You should really be more careful.”

You bent to pick it up, biting back the sharp retort on the tip of your tongue. The last thing you needed was to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

Still, your fingers trembled slightly as you smoothed out the fabric and rehung it.

Then, there was lunch.

You had been balancing a plate of food in one hand, your phone in the other, when one of Cecilia’s friends accidentally knocked your elbow in passing.

It was a tiny movement. Just enough to send your fork clattering to the floor, just enough to make you hesitate—because was it intentional? Or were you just being paranoid?

“Careful,” the girl sing-songed over her shoulder, giggling as she caught up with Cecilia.

You let out a slow breath. Swallowed back the lump in your throat.

Not worth it.

So you kept your head up, kept moving, kept going. You told yourself that if you didn’t acknowledge it, if you pretended it didn’t exist, then it couldn’t touch you.

Right?

But it did.

Because by the time you got back to your trailer that night, you had to sit on the edge of your bed and press the heels of your hands into your eyes, breathing slow, measured breaths to keep yourself from crying.

Because it was working.

Because no matter how much you told yourself you were fine, no matter how much you smiled and laughed and acted unbothered, the cracks were starting to show.

You barely had a moment to yourself.  

Between running last-minute errands for production, keeping up with the crew’s rapid-fire instructions, and dodging the subtle but constant hostility radiating from Cecilia and her group, you were stretched thin.  

The exhaustion was creeping in—settling in the space between your ribs, behind your eyes, in the way your shoulders sat just a little tighter than usual.  

But you wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.  

So you pushed through, past the carefully calculated inconveniences. The way they always seemed to cut in front of you when you were in a hurry, the stolen side-eyes and smirks exchanged whenever you spoke in a group, the way your things somehow always ended up in different places than you’d left them.  

You pretended not to notice when Cecilia’s voice turned just a little too loud whenever she spoke to someone near you.  

"Oh my god, you know what I hate? When people think just anyone can belong in this industry. Like… babe, you’re only here because they needed extra hands. It’s cute, though."  

You told yourself not to react.  

Even when Daisy—who had been standing beside you, her grip tightening on her clipboard—made a noise that sounded a lot like she was about to launch herself across the room.  

“It’s whatever,” you had muttered, tugging her back before she could make a scene.  

Daisy had narrowed her eyes. “It’s not whatever. She’s being a bitch.”  

You had only sighed. “I know.”  

Omar wasn’t as easily convinced.  

The next morning, when you found him loitering near Cecilia’s usual coffee spot, arms crossed and expression unreadable, you had to physically drag him away before he did something stupid.  

“Do not get yourself in trouble over this.”  

“She’s messing with you,” he seethed. “I hate people like her.”  

“She’s not worth it,” you said, but even to your own ears, your voice sounded too thin, too tight.  

Omar wasn’t buying it. “Okay, but are you okay?”  

You hesitated. The truth was, you weren’t sure anymore.  

The worst part wasn’t the pettiness or the whispered insults—it was the fact that it was working. That somehow, in all the noise and nonsense, they had managed to make you feel small.  

But admitting that felt too much like defeat.  

So you forced a smile. “I’m fine.”  

Omar gave you a long, knowing look before muttering something under his breath and stalking off.  

That afternoon, as you sat on a bench outside the studio, your notebook balanced on your lap, you felt a shadow fall over you.  

“Hey,” Pedro’s voice was soft.  

You glanced up, startled. “Oh. Hey.”  

His brows knit together. “You okay?”  

You blinked. “What?”  

“You’ve been… different.” His voice was measured, careful. “Quieter.”  

You tried to play it off, shaking your head with a small laugh. “I’m just tired. Long shoot days, you know how it is.”  

Pedro didn’t look convinced.  

For a moment, he just stood there, watching you with that steady, unreadable gaze of his. Like he was sifting through the words you weren’t saying, trying to make sense of them.  

Then, without another word, he sat down beside you.  

Close enough that his arm brushed against yours.  

You tensed, just slightly, before exhaling.  

Neither of you spoke for a moment.  

Then—  

“Can I see?” he asked, nodding toward your notebook.  

You hesitated.  

It was just mindless doodles—tiny flowers curling around the corners of the pages, half-finished sketches of set pieces, a rough outline of something that might have been Pedro’s profile if you hadn’t abandoned it halfway through.  

You felt a little embarrassed, but you handed it to him anyway.  

Pedro flipped through the pages, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “These are really good.”  

You rolled your eyes. “They’re just sketches.”  

“Still,” he murmured, fingers skimming over the paper. “They’re yours.”  

There was something about the way he said it—soft, sincere—that made your stomach tighten.  

For the first time in two days, something in you eased.  

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.  

And when Pedro leaned in, just slightly, warmth radiating from his shoulder where it rested against yours, you didn’t move away.

Pedro was still flipping through your sketches when a sharp, saccharine voice cut through the air.  

“Oh wow, there you are, Pedro. I was wondering when you’d finally come up for air.”  

Cecilia.  

You felt your whole body go rigid.  

Pedro barely glanced up, his fingers still tracing one of your sketches absentmindedly. “Hey.” His voice was flat, distracted.  

She took a step closer, her presence invasive in a way that made your skin prickle. “I was just telling the others how dedicated you are to your work. You know, always finding ways to get into character.” Her gaze flicked toward you, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. “Even off set.”  

You swallowed hard.  

Your chest felt tight, exhaustion pressing against your ribs, making it harder to keep your expression neutral. You were already hanging by a thread, stretched too thin over the last two days, and Cecilia knew it.  

Pedro, still looking down at your notebook, gave a vague hum of acknowledgment, barely engaging. It wasn’t the reaction Cecilia had been hoping for, and you could see it. The way her expression twitched for half a second before smoothing over again.  

She tilted her head, the corners of her mouth curling. “It’s sweet, though. That you take the time to entertain people. I mean, it’s not like everyone gets that kind of attention from you.” She let out a light, airy laugh that made your stomach turn. “Guess it pays to be in the right place at the right time, huh?”  

The implication was clear.  

You clenched your jaw, willing yourself not to react.  

But then—  

“Cecilia,” Pedro’s voice was calm, but there was an edge to it now. His fingers tapped against the notebook, his expression unreadable. “What are you doing?”  

Cecilia blinked, all faux innocence. “What do you mean?”  

Pedro finally lifted his head, and when he met her gaze, something in his expression shifted—something sharp, something distinctly unimpressed.  

“I mean, what are you doing?” His voice was just as smooth as before, but there was weight behind it now. “Because if you’re here to talk about the shoot, you should probably be talking to the crew.”  

Cecilia’s smile faltered.  

It was subtle, but you caught it.  

She opened her mouth, probably to smooth things over, but Pedro was already looking back at you, tilting the notebook toward you slightly, as if she weren’t even standing there.  

“You should finish this one,” he murmured, tapping his finger against the half-finished sketch of his profile. “It’s really good.”  

You could feel Cecilia’s eyes burning into you, but Pedro wasn’t giving her anything to work with.  

Her lips parted, like she might try again, but then she seemed to think better of it. Instead, she let out a small, sharp exhale through her nose, rolling her eyes as she turned on her heel and stalked off.  

The moment she was gone, you let out a slow, shaky breath, your hands gripping your notebook a little tighter.  

Pedro glanced over, brow furrowed. “You okay?”  

You nodded, even though your throat was tight. “I just…” A deep inhale. “I think I need a break.”  

Pedro studied you for a long moment. Then, without a word, he reached out, resting his hand over yours where it lay against the bench.  

Warm. Steady.  

Grounding.  

“Let’s take one, then,” he murmured.  

And for the first time in days, you let yourself lean into it.

The evening air was crisp, carrying the lingering scent of rain on the pavement as the last of the crew wrapped up for the day. You were exhausted, your body aching from hours on set, but when Pedro leaned in—voice low and warm—you felt something in you unwind.  

“Wanna grab dinner before heading back?”  

You blinked up at him, a little caught off guard. “Like… out-out?”  

His lips quirked into a small smile, hands slipping into the pockets of his jeans. “Yeah. Out-out.”  

You hesitated, glancing around as crew members bustled past, some already heading toward the shuttle van waiting to take everyone back to the hotel. “But, like… what if people see me with you?”  

Pedro gave you a look. “So?”  

“So… you’re you,” you gestured vaguely at him, “and I’m just—”  

He cut you off with a quiet scoff, shaking his head. “Nope. We’re not doing that again. You’re you. And I wanna have dinner with you. End of discussion.”  

The finality in his tone made your stomach flip.  

You bit your lip, then nodded. “…Okay.”  

Pedro’s face softened, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he bumped your shoulder lightly. “Good.”  

By the time you both made it to the shuttle van, most of the cast and crew were already piling in.  

Vanessa was the first to notice. She raised an eyebrow, a slow grin spreading across her face. “Ohhh, where are you two off to?”  

Before you could answer, Joseph leaned forward from his seat. “Are we witnessing a secret rendezvous?”  

Ebon chuckled, shaking his head. “A little late-night dinner date?”  

Coco, already buckled in, smirked knowingly. “Have funnnn,” she teased, dragging out the last syllable.  

You rolled your eyes, heat creeping up your neck. Pedro, for his part, was completely unfazed, flashing them an easy smile as he opened the door for you. “Don’t wait up,” he called, earning a chorus of laughter and whistles from the others as he shut it behind you.  

The restaurant wasn’t far—a quiet little spot tucked away from the main streets. The walk there was peaceful, the city buzzing around you but never pressing in too close.  

Pedro, dressed down in a hoodie, jeans, a baseball cap, and his glasses, was trying his best to blend in. But even like this, effortlessly casual, he still had a presence. He still walked like he took up space, like the world had to move around him.  

The height difference was almost comical. You felt it every time he turned his head down to look at you, every time his arm brushed against yours.  

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence.  

You glanced up at him, caught off guard. “What?”  

Pedro gave you a look, one that made it clear he wasn’t buying whatever act you thought you were pulling. “Cecilia.”  

Your stomach twisted.  

You exhaled slowly, shaking your head. “It’s not a big deal.”  

Pedro stopped walking.  

You took two more steps before realizing, turning back to find him standing there, arms crossed, brows drawn together in frustration.  

He looked at you, really looked at you. “Of course, it’s a big deal,” he said, voice quieter now but firm. “If it’s hurting you, it’s a big deal.”  

You swallowed.  

The weight of his concern settled over you, warm and heavy. No one had ever really said that before. That what you were feeling mattered. That you weren’t just overreacting.  

Something in your chest cracked open, just a little.  

“…I just don’t want to make a thing out of it,” you admitted, voice small.  

Pedro’s features softened. He stepped closer, dipping his head slightly to meet your eyes. “You don’t have to,” he murmured. “But you don’t have to pretend it doesn’t bother you, either.”  

A lump formed in your throat.  

And then, just as easily as he had turned serious, he pulled back, tilting his head toward the restaurant. “C’mon. Food first, then we plot Cecilia’s demise.”  

A laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it.  

Pedro grinned, pleased with himself, before nudging your shoulder with his own.  

And as you walked the rest of the way, some of the weight on your chest didn’t feel quite so heavy anymore.

The restaurant was dimly lit, warm and intimate in a way that made the rest of the world feel far away. Soft jazz hummed through the air, mixing with the quiet murmur of conversation and the occasional clinking of glasses. The hostess greeted you both with a polite smile, barely sparing a glance at Pedro—either because she didn’t recognize him or, more likely, was being professional about it.  

Pedro let you choose the table, and you picked one near the window, a cozy little booth that felt tucked away from the rest of the diners. As you slid into your seat, Pedro pulled off his cap, running a hand through his messy curls before setting it down on the table.  

He looked… comfortable. Relaxed. And yet, there was still something unreadable in his expression as he watched you settle in.  

“You know,” he started, leaning forward on his elbows, “I’m kind of mad at you.”  

You blinked, caught off guard. “What? Why?”  

“Because,” he huffed, “I’ve been trying to get you alone for days, and the first time it actually happens, it’s because some Mean Girls knockoff has been making your life miserable.”  

You snorted. “So dramatic.”  

“I am dramatic,” he agreed, eyes crinkling at the corners. “But seriously. I don’t like that it took this for me to get to steal you away.”  

There was something in the way he said it—lighthearted, sure, but laced with something else. Something quieter. More honest.  

Your stomach flipped.  

Before you could figure out how to respond, the waiter appeared, handing over menus. Pedro thanked him with a charming smile before glancing back at you. “What are you in the mood for?”  

You shrugged, scanning the options. “Something warm.”  

Pedro hummed. “Soup?”  

“Maybe.”  

“Or,” he wiggled his eyebrows, “we get a huge plate of pasta and reenact Lady and the Tramp.”  

You rolled your eyes, laughing. “Absolutely not.”  

Pedro placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. “Wow. That was a little too fast. Like you’ve thought about rejecting me before.”  

You bit your lip, trying to fight the smile threatening to break free. He made it so easy to forget the exhaustion pressing down on you, the weight of the last few days.  

The waiter came back, and you both placed your orders—him getting some kind of hearty stew, you settling on a creamy pasta dish. The conversation flowed as effortlessly as ever, touching on everything and nothing all at once.  

At some point, Pedro leaned back in his seat, stretching his legs out beneath the table. His knee brushed against yours, but he didn’t move away. Neither did you.  

“So.” His voice was softer now, less teasing. “Cecilia.”  

You sighed, slumping slightly. “Can we not?”  

“We can,” Pedro allowed. “But I still hate it.”  

You fiddled with the hem of your sleeve, tracing the fabric between your fingers. “It’s not like she’s saying anything outright cruel. Just little things. Looks. Comments. Stuff that doesn’t sound like much but still…”  

Pedro’s jaw ticked. His fingers drummed absently against the table. “That’s how people like her work. They know how to make you feel like you’re imagining it.”  

You swallowed, looking down. “Yeah.”  

A beat of silence stretched between you. Then—  

“Do you want me to talk to her?”  

Your head snapped up. “What? No.”  

Pedro tilted his head, eyeing you. “Why not?”  

“Because,” you exhaled sharply, “I don’t need you to fight my battles.”  

His gaze softened, a flicker of something fond in his eyes. “I know you don’t. But I also know that you’re tired. And I hate seeing you like this.”  

Something in you wavered.  

Pedro sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I just—God, I don’t get it. How could anyone not adore you?”  

Your breath hitched.  

The words were so sincere, so effortless, like he wasn’t even trying to be charming—just saying what was in his heart.  

Heat crept up your neck. You looked away, focusing on the flickering candle in the middle of the table. “You’re biased.”  

“Maybe,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”  

You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”  

Pedro grinned. “And yet, here you are. Having dinner with me.”  

“Unfortunately.”  

He clutched his chest in mock agony. “You wound me.”  

The waiter arrived with your food, and Pedro’s dramatic antics were temporarily forgotten as the delicious aroma filled the air. As you picked up your fork, he reached across the table, his fingers brushing against the back of your hand—just for a second, just long enough to send a small shiver up your spine.  

“Hey,” he murmured.  

You glanced up, and for the first time all day, you felt seen.  

“Don’t let her get to you,” Pedro said, voice gentle but firm. “You’re worth so much more than whatever bullshit she’s trying to pull.”  

Something tightened in your chest.  

You swallowed, nodding. “Okay.”  

Pedro studied you for a moment, then smiled. “Good.”  

The weight on your shoulders didn’t disappear entirely, but it softened, melted into something manageable under the glow of candlelight and Pedro’s unwavering attention. You let yourself relax, let yourself exist in this small, intimate moment where it was just the two of you, where the laughter was easy and the warmth between you was something real, something steady.  

Pedro caught your gaze mid-conversation, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he leaned in just slightly. “There she is.”  

You blinked, tilting your head. “What?”  

“That smile,” he said simply. “Haven’t seen it in a while.”  

Heat bloomed in your chest, warm and unfamiliar, something delicate but deep. You rolled your eyes, but it lacked any real bite. “You’re ridiculous.”  

“And yet,” Pedro teased, mirroring your words from earlier, “here you are.”  

You shook your head, lips twitching. “Unfortunate, really.”  

Pedro pressed a dramatic hand to his chest. “Wow. First, I get turned down for Lady and the Tramp, and now this? My ego is in shambles.”  

You laughed, a real, unguarded sound, and he grinned like that was exactly what he was hoping for.  

The conversation stretched long into the night, ebbing and flowing between playful teasing and quiet sincerity. The kind of talk that felt effortless, that felt safe.  

Somewhere between the last bites of food and the soft hum of the restaurant around you, Pedro reached across the table, his fingers skimming yours. The touch was featherlight, a quiet question rather than a demand. You could have pulled away.  

But you didn’t.  

Instead, you let your fingers curl around his, grounding, steady.  

Pedro didn’t say anything—he just squeezed your hand, a silent promise, and you squeezed back.  

Outside, the night air was crisp, carrying the distant sounds of the city with it. The restaurant door shut softly behind you, leaving you and Pedro standing beneath the glow of streetlights, his cap pulled low, his glasses perched on his nose.  

It should have felt different—stepping back into reality after the small bubble of warmth inside the restaurant. But somehow, it didn’t.  

Pedro rocked back on his heels, hands tucked into his pockets. “Still okay?”  

You exhaled, watching as your breath curled into the night air. “Yeah,” you admitted, surprising yourself. “I think I am.”  

Pedro studied you for a beat, then nodded, satisfied.

It turns out Vanessa, Coco, Joseph and Ebon got dinner somewhere else in town away from the two of you and they were waiting already in the shuttle and as soon as you both stepped inside, the teasing started. “Ohhh, look who finally decided to show up,” Vanessa sang, kicking her feet up on the seat in front of her, eyes sparkling with mischief.

Joseph smirked from his spot by the window, arms crossed over his chest. “How romantic was it, really? Scale of one to ten?”

Coco grinned. “I’m betting solid eight.” Ebon scoffed. “Nah, Pedro’s smooth—at least a nine.” Pedro sighed dramatically, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You guys seriously have nothing better to do?” Vanessa waved a hand. “Nope. Now spill.” You rolled your eyes, buckling your seatbelt as the van pulled away from the curb. “We ate dinner. Like normal people. And then we walked outside. Like normal people.” Coco squinted. “That’s exactly what someone who did kiss would say.” Pedro groaned, leaning his head back against the seat, while you fought the smile tugging at your lips. Joseph held out his hands. “Okay, okay, let’s be serious for a second. Was it cute at least?” You blinked at him. “Was what cute?” “The date—” “It wasn’t a date,” you and Pedro said at the same time. A pause.

Then Vanessa gasped, clutching her chest. “You’re already finishing each other’s sentences?” “Oh my God,” Pedro mumbled under his breath. The laughter rolled through the van, easy and infectious, and despite the relentless teasing, despite the way your face burned under their knowing looks, you couldn’t help but feel… good.

The knot in your chest—the one that had been coiled so tight these past few days—had loosened. Maybe not completely, but enough that breathing didn’t feel so hard. Pedro shifted beside you, turning his head so only you could hear him. “They’re never gonna let this go.” You sighed. “Yeah. I figured.” His shoulder brushed yours, a quiet reassurance, and when he spoke again, there was something soft in his voice. “You sure you’re okay?” You hesitated. Because truthfully, the weight of the past few days still sat heavy on your shoulders. Cecilia had made sure of that. The quiet digs, the passive-aggressive comments, the knowing smirks—it was a kind of exhaustion that seeped into your bones. But right now, in the warmth of this moment, with Pedro looking at you like he actually cared about the answer, you found yourself saying— “I think I will be.” Pedro studied you for a beat, then nodded, satisfied. It was a small thing—just a simple gesture, barely more than a shift of his head. But somehow, it carried more weight than it should have, like he was silently saying I see you. I hear you. You swallowed. It was nice to have a friend. But then—was that all this was? You glanced at him again, at the way he was sat with you so easily, like he’d always been meant to be there. At the way he felt beside you, like a quiet anchor in the storm of the last few days.

End Notes:

I told you there would be drama O_O

Again, no hate to any girlie named Cecilia, everyone calm.

Don’t worry girlies… it will turn out fine, mostly… I think… ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

YA'LL SEEN THE TEASER TRAILER!?!?!? IM UNWELL AND DYING AND SO EXCITED AND I WANT TO MELT AND DIE VANESSA KIRBY YOU LUCKY WOMAN I WANNA KISS HIM TOO T^T

TAGLIST: @comfortzonequeen @christinamadsen @liciafonseca @greenwitchfromthewoods @iqr-x @southernbe @maryfanson @brittmb115 @klajmekk @taytay0403 @whimsiwitchy @zymiii @sarahhxx03 @leilanixx @lilasskicker-23 @https-murdock @barnescamboy

[babyarmywrites]

someone i could love - han jisung

Synopsys: In a world where love often strikes like lightning, two former classmates—once distant and overlooked—find themselves drawn together again under the bright but demanding spotlight of the entertainment industry. As Han Jisung battles his own anxieties and the pressures of fame, you slowly discover the quiet, steady flame of a love that’s been there all along. Through awkward moments, late-night studio rehearsals, and gentle confessions, the two of you learn that sometimes love doesn’t roar—it simmers, growing stronger with every shared smile and every small touch, until it becomes impossible to ignore.

Word count: 9,7k

Warnings: fluff, slight angst, but with happy ending, Han's social anxiety, Han running away

Song in title: someone i could love - charlotte cardin

The ways of love are strange—no doubt about that. Sometimes, all it takes is a single glance. Suddenly, your world tilts, your planet shifts its orbit, and the stars rearrange themselves into something magical. Something otherworldly. A light so blinding, it leaves you dazed. A symphony so loud, it drowns out everything else.

Other times, love creeps in slowly, quietly. Just a spark—barely there—flickering in the shadows, waiting for the smallest gust of wind to breathe it back to life. And when it does, it burns wildly, consuming everything in its path. Like an inactive volcano, silent for years, suddenly erupting with all the emotion it had buried deep inside. This kind of love feels more like longing than anything else.

You meet Han Jisung in school. You share many classes with him, considering you're both foreign students and can only take courses in English. At first, he doesn’t really stand out. He’s shy, a little nerdy, and often keeps to himself. You notice early on that he clams up when he’s uncomfortable and tends to fade into the background unless he’s with people he trusts.

Nonetheless, he has some witty remarks, ones whispered under his breath, not expecting anyone to hear them, that are so funny they make the whole class laugh. He’s definitely a little odd, but there’s something endearing about him. He’s kind, helpful, the sort of person you know you could count on. No one at school has a bad word to say about Han Jisung. He wouldn’t hurt a soul. He smiles warmly at everyone—genuinely, not out of habit—and that smile is something people remember.

You, on the other hand, are a different story.

You’ve got a crowd. Your friends are loud, confident, impossible to ignore. They own every room they walk into, and while you're always with them, you sometimes feel like you don’t fully belong. The odd one out. The quiet presence in the middle of all the noise.

You’re not one for the spotlight, not really—but it can be nice, being surrounded by people. You listen more than you talk. You’re the one who steps in when someone crosses a line, the calm in the chaos. You like your friends, even if they’re a bit too much sometimes. Still, being popular in high school is intoxicating. You like being seen. You like that people know your name, that you’re part of the stories they tell.

And you’re not like the other popular kids. You don’t bully anyone. You’re kind, always smiling—everyone says so. A ray of sunshine, impossible to dislike. You wouldn’t even hurt a beetle.

Everyone is mesmerized by you. Including Han Jisung.

At school, your “relationship” with Han is nothing out of the ordinary. You're not exactly friends, but you sit together in some classes and work on group projects now and then. You only talk about mundane things—never anything deeper than homework or academics. You know he's funny and silly, sometimes clumsy, but it's clear he’s passionate, hardworking, and takes any project he's involved in seriously.

He carries an MP3 player with him everywhere, practically panicking if it goes missing for even a few seconds. He loves talking about music, which you find geeky—but kind of adorable. You think he’s cute, in a helpless little brother sort of way. Not in a would-like-to-kiss way.

Jisung, on the other hand, is convinced he's in love with you from the very first moment you interact—when he asks to borrow a pen. You nod cheerfully and hand him a Hello Kitty pen. As he reaches for it, your hands brush ever so slightly. And that’s it—Han Jisung is doomed.

He makes a quiet promise to himself: he'll savor every second he gets to spend with you. He knows those moments will be limited by social norms, your busy schedule (cool kids always have cool things to do), and his inevitable return to Korea. He hates that his hands get clammy and he gets fidgety around you, but he's grateful for the laughs and easy conversations you share. You're a good listener. You have a skill he envies: the ability to connect with anyone, to befriend whoever crosses your path. He's a little jealous of that, but never resentful—it probably makes him like you even more, even if only from a distance.

If Han is sure of one thing, it’s that you can never find out how he feels. Because his feelings are stupid, he tells himself. He barely knows you. You’re just kids. There’s no way he should feel this attached to the idea of you. So he keeps it quiet. And surprisingly, he manages to hide it for a long time—at least until he returns to Korea.

One day, he’s just gone. No goodbye—not to you, at least. Rumors float around school that he moved back to Korea to pursue a music career. You're surprised, but also oddly proud of him. You didn’t know much about the boba-eyed boy, but if there was one thing you were sure of, it was that he was a music nerd. You make a quiet note to wish him well in whatever he does. And, somewhere in the back of your mind, you kind of hope he makes it big one day.

A few years later, Han finally makes it. He becomes an idol. He debuts with his group, Stray Kids, alongside eight of his friends. He’s finally doing what he’s dreamed of his whole life: making music. He’s having fun, he's found friends he knows are for life.

But still, there’s a certain emptiness inside him.

He finds himself thinking about you every now and then. With every milestone they hit, every award they win, every record they break—he wonders about you. Do you remember him? Do you know he’s kind of famous now? That he’s out there, making music? Do you ever see his face on banners or posters around town? And if you do... are you thinking of him? Are you proud of him?

He tells himself he’ll probably never get answers to those questions.

Until one day, everything changes. One of his members decides to leave the group, and their PR manager is fired for mishandling the situation. A replacement is brought in immediately. The group is called in for a meeting to meet the new recruit.

And the second Han steps into the room, his eyes lock with yours. He recognizes you instantly.

And just like that—like a volcano that’s been dormant for years, quietly building pressure beneath the surface—his heart erupts. All the feelings he thought he buried come rushing back, stronger than ever.

"Han-ah! Close your mouth, or a mosquito’s gonna fly in!" Changbin teases, punching the younger boy playfully on the arm.

"Hyung! Hyung!" Seungmin calls out, trying to break Jisung out of whatever trance he’s stuck in. He waves his hands dramatically in front of those sparkly, boba-like eyes—locked firmly on you—but nothing in that moment could bring Han back to earth.

Bang Chan watches from the side, quietly trying to make sense of the situation. He’s seen his bandmate in all kinds of moods—he’s seen him go completely silent around strangers, and he’s seen him bounce off the walls, spewing nervous nonsense thanks to his social anxiety. But this? This is something else entirely.

Standing there in front of you, Han Jisung is frozen. Speechless.

But his eyes tell a different story. They’re calm. Full of fondness and familiarity.

"What is wrong with your friend?" Seungmin asks Chris, his voice sarcastic, but with a hint of concern—the kind he reserves for his bandmates.

Jisung’s brain doesn’t register anything happening around him. He doesn't hear the chaotic bickering between Hyunjin and Minho. He doesn’t see Seungmin or Jeongin making ridiculous faces, failing miserably at trying to snap him out of it.

All he sees is you.

He watches as a warm smile spreads across your face. He watches the moment you recognize him—the way your eyes crinkle with genuine happiness at seeing someone from the past. Someone you didn’t expect.

"Long time no see, Han Jisung!" you say brightly—and the entire room freezes. The members stare at you in stunned disbelief, silently wondering how and since when you’ve known their beloved rapper.

Han finally snaps out of his daze and acts on pure instinct. He crosses the room in a few long strides and pulls you into a tight hug. Neither of your brains fully processes what’s happening—if he weren't so shocked, he’s certain he would’ve run in the opposite direction instead of being this bold. But he can’t help it. You’re here. You’re finally here.

He’s spent so much time daydreaming about this moment, imagining what he would do, what he would say. But now that it’s real, all those carefully crafted scenarios vanish. Logic is gone. All that remains is something primal, a feeling so deeply rooted it overrides everything else.

You don’t hesitate. You hug him back, your arms wrapping around his lean torso. He smells like a dream. His oversized T-shirt is soft against your skin, warm and comforting—a perfect embrace, one that soothes a restless heart.

“It’s so great to see you again,” he whispers. You’re pretty sure the words were meant for your ears only, but he’s far too excited to control his volume. Everyone hears the not-so-subtle confession, and the room erupts with hollering and whistling.

But none of it registers. Not for either of you. You're too caught up in the moment.

After a few seconds, you pull away just enough to look at him properly. Your eyes scan his face, drinking in the details. He still has that boyish charm—the sparkly boba eyes, the soft pout, the expressive brows, the round cheeks—but he’s changed, too. There’s a maturity in his features now. He’s devilishly handsome in that same geeky, endearing way, but he’s grown into himself. His hair is professionally styled, his skin smooth and glassy, and his signature moles glimmer like rhinestones on his cheeks.

“Ahem.”

Someone clears their throat. Loudly. Both you and Han turn toward Bang Chan like startled deer caught in headlights. Han practically jumps back with a squeak, quickly bowing and blurting out a rapid “Annyeonghaseyo!”—as if the last five minutes hadn’t just happened. He looks like a cartoon character, and you can’t help but laugh at his flustered antics.

You respond in perfect Korean and bow respectfully, greeting each of the members one by one. Your formality surprises them—and Han most of all. You speak the language so fluently, your mannerisms so naturally Korean-like, he’s speechless.

He watches as you chat with Chan, still speaking Korean, and his surprise only grows. He doesn’t remember you ever knowing the language, let alone mentioning a visit to his home country. Somehow, impossibly, this new side of you makes him fall even harder.

The other members chime in, turning the conversation into a full-on interrogation. Where are you from? How did you learn Korean? How do you know Han Jisung? How close are you to their beloved Quokka-boy?

You explain everything. After high school, you moved to Seoul for university. Even though you took English-taught courses, your scholarship required you to learn Korean. After graduation, you decided to stay in the country as you were given a great work opportunity at a renowned company, you just couldn’t miss out on. You tell them that a few weeks ago, a headhunter from JYP Entertainment offered you a payment package impressive enough to switch companies.

Which brings you here. Their new PR Manager.

Han hangs on every word, completely captivated by your confidence. You’ve changed so much. You’re still beautiful—gorgeous, even—but there’s a new polish to you. The way you dress, the way you speak, the energy you carry. It’s probably because it’s your first day at JYPE and you’re trying to stay professional in order to make a good first impression. Still, he wonders: Do you still dress like you used to outside of work? Still laugh the same way? Still walk with that same bounce in your step?

No matter how much you’ve grown, one thing hasn’t changed: your warmth. Your smile still lights up every room. You still speak with that signature fondness. Your eyes still shine with curiosity.

He's standing so close now. Closer than you ever thought he would be again.

And you won’t lie—you don’t mind it. Not even a little.

It’s strange, isn’t it? The way time toys with you. How someone can slip out of your life, leaving behind nothing but fading memories and half-buried what-ifs… only to reappear like a song you used to love but forgot how it went. One moment he’s just a thought in the back of your mind, and the next—he’s here. Real. Right in front of you.

And you can’t stop wondering: did you two just meet at the wrong time?

Because back then… you weren’t ready. You thought you were. You convinced yourself you had it all figured out. But the truth is, you didn’t really see him. Not fully. Not in the way he deserved to be seen.

Your head was somewhere else—floating in clouds, chasing distractions that meant nothing in the long run. You didn’t know what love looked like when it was quiet and patient. You didn’t know what he looked like when he was trying to show you.

And maybe it’s foolish, maybe it’s far too late—but now, standing here with him looking at you like you’re still someone worth remembering… you’d give anything to try again. Not to go back—no. But to reach for something new built on the pieces you never really let go of.

He’s older now. You are too. And even with all the growing up you’ve both done, something about this moment feels like home. Like something you didn’t realize you were missing until it was standing right in front of you again.

You wonder if he feels it too.

Maybe this is the universe finally playing fair. Maybe it’s just another cruel twist in the plot. You don’t know.

But if he asked—if he even hinted—you know you’d try. You’d try to make it up to him.

Not with dramatic apologies or perfect words. Just with something real. Something honest. You’d show up, fully present this time. You’d stay.

If he lets you.

You’re standing right there.

He swears his heart is doing something it shouldn’t be allowed to—skipping beats, crashing against his ribs like it’s trying to break free, to get to you. You haven’t even touched him again, not since that first hug, but he still feels your presence like static on his skin.

It should scare him. It should be too much. But it isn’t. Not even close.

Because to him, you’re already a sin. A temptation he surrendered to a long time ago.

And he doesn't care.

He never stood a chance, not really—not when it came to you. You were sunlight and softness and a mess of contradictions, and he was a kid who didn’t know what to do with the way you made the world feel brighter and heavier at the same time. He kept his distance then because he thought he had to. Because he thought someone like you—someone with so much light—would never want someone like him. Someone who hid in shadows and second-guessed everything he felt.

But now? You’re back. You’re here. And he realizes with terrifying clarity: he doesn’t care if you hurt him.

You could burst into flames right in front of him, and he’d still reach out. You could look him in the eye, say you were only ever passing through, and he’d still hold the door open for you to come and go as you please. He’s not afraid of getting burned—not if it means being near you, even just for a moment.

Because there’s something about you that’s sweeter than the danger. Softer than the risk. Something he can't refuse.

If you asked—if you even looked at him a certain way—he’d become anything for you. A friend. A fool. A flame. A home.

You could wound him again and again, and he’d still stand there, arms open, ready to take it. Ready to hold the pain if it meant he could have a piece of you too.

He’s not like the others. The ones who looked at you and ran because they didn’t know what to do with someone so fiercely alive. Han isn’t running. Not this time.

He’ll stay.

He’ll take the storm, the fire, the chaos. He’ll embrace you, every imperfect part. Every beautiful flaw.

Because, no matter how much it might hurt, loving you has always felt better than losing you.

After the initial meeting and the gruesome interrogation inflicted on you by the members of Stray Kids, the following days go by without anything exceptional happening. You're trying your hardest to catch up on all the aspects of your new job, how you should approach certain topics of conversation, and how to depict the members online in different styles of interviews and shows. Their pre-established style allows their persona to shine through, individually and as a group. You're drowning in work, you're stressed, and worst of all, starving, having not eaten anything else throughout the day, for one chocolate croissant from the company cafeteria, which you considered would go well with your morning coffee.

You’re organizing a few papers on your tablet when you hear a soft shuffle behind you. You turn around and find Han lingering by the doorway like he’s considering turning back.

You raise an eyebrow. “You lost, Han Jisung?”

He grins nervously, then immediately glances at the floor. “No—well, kind of. Emotionally? Spiritually? Logistically? No. I’m here for a reason. I swear.”

You blink at him. “Okay… Should I be worried?”

He steps inside and shuts the door behind him, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie. “No, no—definitely not. I mean, unless… you hate food. Or me. But I’m hoping you don’t hate either.”

You tilt your head, trying to hide your smile. “That’s a strange way to ask a question, Han.”

“Right.” He exhales. “Okay. Let me restart.”

He straightens his posture dramatically, puffing up like he’s about to give a TED Talk, then immediately deflates. “Wow, nope. That felt worse. Why is this so hard?”

You chuckle softly, waiting.

“Okay. So,” he finally says, stepping closer. “I was thinking… maybe you and I could grab dinner sometime soon? Just, you know, catch up, reminisce about the good old days, complain about school, laugh about how socially awkward I was—and still am, apparently.”

You laugh, genuinely now. “You are kind of in a drama, Han.”

“Yeah, well, if this is a drama, I’m the comic relief. And also the love interest. And probably the tragic backstory guy, too. Triple threat.” He smirks, but there’s a flicker of nervousness in his eyes. “But seriously… I’d like to spend some time with you. Just us. Nothing fancy. We could go somewhere lowkey. I promise I won’t even rap at you unless you specifically request it.”

You pretend to consider. “Hmm… will there be food?”

“Unlimited food,” he nods. “Possibly some awkward small-talk and excited rambling. And maybe—if you’re lucky—an old embarrassing story or two about high school Jisung.”

“Well, how could I say no to that?”

He grins so wide it reaches his eyes, boyish and bright. “So that’s a yes?”

You nod. “That’s a yes.”

Han blinks. “Wait—really?”

You smile. “You were convincing. Also, I’m starving. And you said food.”

“Oh, thank God,” he breathes, the tension melting from his shoulders. “Because if you’d said no, I would’ve had to awkwardly moonwalk out of here and pretend this conversation never happened.”

You laugh. “You still could, if you really wanted to.”

“Tempting, but I’d rather feed you than humiliate myself. Again.” He glances around. “You done for the day?”

You check the time, then shrug. “Honestly? I’ve been pretending to understand this document for the last twenty minutes. I think my brain left the building an hour ago.”

“Perfect,” he says, eyes lighting up. “Come on, then. There’s this little place not far from here. Nothing fancy, but they’ve got killer tteokbokki and mandu.”

“That sounds dangerously good,” you say, grabbing your bag.

“Dangerously necessary,” he corrects, holding the door open for you.

You walk out side by side, the office lights humming behind you, the air outside thick with evening warmth. The conversation picks up easily, full of half-finished stories and half-remembered jokes from school. It’s easy—familiar in the best way.

You’re walking beside him, close enough for your arms to brush every now and then, and Han’s trying not to lose his mind about it. You actually said yes.

You’re not just being polite either—you’re laughing, your steps are light, and you’re looking at him like he’s... someone. Not a background character in your story. Not the awkward kid who used to whisper sarcastic comments during group presentations. Just—Han. And okay, maybe this isn’t a date. But it feels like something. Something rare. Something new. And if this is all he gets, just this one night where you see him in full color instead of the faded tones he’s used to—he’ll take it.

The restaurant is tucked into a quiet side street, warm light glowing through foggy windows. Inside, it smells like fried batter, chili oil, and something sweet simmering in the back. Comfort food.

You slide into the booth across from Han, who immediately flattens the paper napkin on the table like it’s a formal dinner setting. “Please prepare your palate,” he says seriously. “Tonight’s menu includes nostalgia, sodium, and possible indigestion.”

You snort. “Perfect. That’s exactly my vibe.”

He grins, a little lopsided and proud of himself for making you laugh.

When the food comes—steaming hot bowls of tteokbokki, crispy mandu, and two fizzy drinks you can’t even name—he watches carefully as you take your first bite.

You groan. “Oh my god. This is so good.”

“I know, right?” He lights up. “I found this place by accident during trainee hell weeks. It became my go-to comfort spot. Kind of like a greasy therapist.”

He’s funny. He’s always been funny, you realize—but back then, you were too busy stressing over GPA and being the “nice one” in your loud friend group to really see him. He was just the shy guy with headphones and brilliant one-liners whispered under his breath.

You didn’t know he was like this.

Effortlessly charming. Warm. Quick. Comfortable in his skin, but still that same gentle, quiet soul.

And maybe it’s just the glow of the restaurant lights, or the way he’s smiling like he’s genuinely happy just to be here—but you suddenly feel something strange curl in your chest.

A small, silent question: How much did I miss… by not looking closer?

You shake it off, refocus on your food. On him. On now. He’s still talking about old dorm horror stories, his eyes bright with memory, his hands animated. And you’re listening. Really listening.

After that dinner, something between you and Han shifts—not dramatically, but enough that you notice. You find yourself looking for him during work hours, though it’s not easy. Stray Kids are nonstop, always pulled in every direction: studio sessions, dance rehearsals, photoshoots, YouTube lives—you name it. Their schedules are packed tight, and they rarely stop moving.

Yet somehow, Han never fails to drop by your office every single day he’s at the building. Without fail, he shows up with a snack or a coffee in hand, plus a lame joke that somehow gets funnier each time. Some days, he’s already in full makeup, looking sharp and camera-ready; other days, he strolls in wearing sweats and a hoodie, hair tousled, face completely bare—but somehow still managing to look effortlessly handsome.

Every time you see him, it feels a little bit easier to breathe. His jokes get better, his smiles wider, and his hugs—well, his hugs start to feel warmer, like they’re meant just for you. You realize slowly, maybe even a little reluctantly, that he’s becoming something you didn’t expect to want so much. You're knee-deep in schedules and promo notes when a soft knock taps against your open office door.

“Delivery for the overworked and under-caffeinated,” Han says, stepping in with two iced Americanos and a triumphant grin.

You glance up, smiling despite the stress clouding your head. “If this is poisoned, make it quick. I’ve lived a good life.”

“Tempting, but I didn’t have time to Google the dosage.” He sets the coffee on your desk and perches on the edge of the guest chair like he might spring back up at any moment. His hoodie sleeves are pushed up, revealing a few faint ink stains on his wrist, probably from lyric scribbles or doodles. His hair is still damp from rehearsal, slightly curling at the ends. “I brought a joke, too,” he announces, already grinning like he knows it’s terrible.

“Of course you did.”

“What’s a producer’s favorite kind of rice?”

You give him a flat look. “Oh no.”

“Beats-rice,” he declares, finger guns and all.

You groan loudly, covering your face with one hand. “That’s not even a pun.”

“Sure it is. You just don’t get my genius.”

“I do. That’s the problem.”

He chuckles, and for a moment, the room feels lighter, like you’ve both pressed pause on the chaos just outside your door. You sip the coffee he brought and sigh. “You really don’t have to keep doing this, you know.”

“I know,” he says, quiet for a beat. “But I want to.”

You look at him then, really look, and something inside you shifts—just slightly. He’s not the awkward boy from school anymore. Or maybe he is, but now you see the charm in it. The steadiness. The ease. And for the first time, you catch yourself wondering—not all at once, but slowly, gently—how you ever missed this.

You didn’t come here looking for anything. Not love. Not distraction. Especially not someone who smiles like that and makes you laugh like you’re seventeen again.

You’ve always been fine on your own—thrived in your own space, danced to your own rhythm. You’ve built your world with your own two hands, moved cities, chased dreams, handled heartbreaks. You’ve learned not to need anyone else to feel whole.

But lately, when Han looks at you—when he’s lingering in your doorway with some stupid joke and too much hope in his eyes—you feel yourself softening in ways you didn’t plan for.

You try to remind yourself you’re not here for this. You came to work. To be good at what you do. To keep your head down and your heart tucked away. And yet. Something about the way he speaks to you—like you’re familiar and new at the same time—makes you want to reach out. To ask about his sign, like you’re back in high school, making up reasons to keep the conversation going. To wonder if maybe, just maybe, he has some kind of plan that you’re quietly becoming part of.

And even though you told yourself you didn’t need anybody…

You can’t help thinking—if he asked, if he really asked—you might take his hand. And you’d follow him. Wherever this road is going.

Jisung, on the other hand, knows he’s falling.

It’s not subtle, not slow, not something creeping in quietly—it’s loud, immediate, undeniable. It’s been this way since the moment you walked back into his life like no time had passed at all. Since the second you said his name and smiled like you’d been saving that moment just for him.

Back then, back in school, he tried to keep his feelings under control. Told himself you were out of reach. You were kind, warm, brilliant—but you didn’t look at him like that. And he accepted it. Smiled through it. Let himself have the tiniest piece of you in memories and old conversations he kept replaying in his head like a favorite movie.

But now?

Now you’re here. In front of him. Talking to him, joking with him, sharing little pieces of your life like maybe—just maybe—he’s someone who belongs there.

He doesn’t have to guess how he feels. He wants you. Wants to see you every day. Wants to be the reason your smile shows up at random. Wants to give you every dumb, sweet, messy part of himself and trust that maybe this time, you'll see him.

He finds himself wondering what tomorrow will bring—not in fear, but in hope. How your laugh will sound. What you'll be wearing. Whether your hair will be up or down. What tiny, perfect version of you he’ll get to witness next.

He’s not just falling. He’s already there. And all he can do now is hope you’ll look back and see him—clearly, fully—for the first time.

It’s late—later than it should be—and the building is quiet in that kind of way that makes every sound feel more important. The hallway lights are dimmed, and the usual buzz of activity has finally gone still, leaving only a handful of people still working through the night. Of course, Han Jisung is one of them.

You were on your way out—coat slung over your arm, bag in hand—when you passed by the familiar studio door and noticed the light was still on. Something in you paused.

You knock once, twice, and then push the door open.

“Still here?” you ask softly, your voice cutting through the mellow instrumental that plays low through the speakers.

Han’s sitting at his desk, headphones slung around his neck, fingers fiddling with a mechanical pencil. He looks up, surprised—and maybe just a little bit thrilled.

“Guilty,” he says, sheepish. “I swear I was only going to be here for an hour.”

You smile, stepping inside and closing the door behind you. “Let me guess—you fell into the zone?”

“More like the zone dragged me in and locked the door,” he says, spinning slowly in his chair to face you fully. “You still here too?”

“Just finished. I was leaving when I saw your light on.”

He watches you quietly for a second, something tender and open in his gaze. “Thanks for checking.”

There’s a pause—not awkward, just still. You lean against the wall, watching him, and suddenly, the room feels warmer than it did a second ago.

“What are you working on?” you ask, nodding toward the screen.

He turns back to it, clicks play. A soft beat rolls out, gentle but layered—melancholy in a way that makes your chest ache just a little. And then, over it, his voice enters—mellow, melodic, not quite a rap, not quite a ballad. It’s something in between. Honest. A little raw.

You listen in silence until the sample fades.

“That was…” you start, but the words don’t come easily. “Beautiful.”

Han’s ears turn a little pink. He shrugs. “It’s not finished.”

You step closer, slow and careful, not entirely sure why your heart’s started beating faster.

“It sounds like something you needed to write,” you say.

He looks up at you, and for once, he doesn’t hide what he’s feeling. It’s all there—affection, longing, a hundred unsaid things tucked behind his tired smile.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “It is.”

You hold his gaze longer than you mean to. And that’s when you feel it—that subtle shift again. Not drastic. Not earth-shattering. But real. Something warm flickering to life just under your skin. You smile, then reach out and pluck the uneaten protein bar off his desk. “If you’re going to work late, you should at least eat something.

”He blinks, then laughs. “You just stole my dinner.”

You grin. “You can get revenge tomorrow. I’ll be here.”

“I know,” he says, and it comes out softer than you expect.

You leave the studio with the bar in hand, heart a little lighter, thoughts a little messier. Behind you, Han just sits there for a while, staring at the closed door like he’s trying to memorize the exact way you left. The beat plays again, and this time, he hums along with it—already thinking of the next line.

Months go by and your relationship with Jisung shifts again. Not dramatically, but noticeably. You learn that he is big on physical touch. You also learn, that you enjoy it more when it comes to him.

It starts with longer hugs.

At first, they were brief, polite—friendly greetings between two people rekindling an old connection. But over time, they change. His arms start to linger around your waist just a second longer than they should. Your hands stay looped behind his back before either of you lets go. The silences between you grow comfortable, thick with something that isn’t quite tension but feels like possibility.

Sometimes, when you're standing close—talking over a screen or laughing at something ridiculous—you feel the light touch of his hand against your lower back, subtle and grounding. Other times, it’s his shoulder brushing yours when you lean in to read something on his tablet, his pinky finger twitching just enough to graze yours on the armrest.

None of it is overwhelming. It's slow, natural, soft. So soft, it almost doesn’t feel like change—until you realize how much you’ve started waiting for it.

The late nights at the studio become your thing. After the building clears out and the chaos dies down, you find yourselves drifting back there, like gravity pulling you both to the same point. At first, you pretended it was work—consulting on PR angles, previewing content together. But now you both know it’s not about that. Not really.

He plays you snippets of unfinished songs. You tell him stories from your day, things that made you laugh or pissed you off. Sometimes you do nothing but sit side by side on the couch, phones forgotten in your laps, the silence wrapping around you like a blanket.

One night, it’s raining hard outside—steady and rhythmic, tapping against the windows like it’s part of the melody playing through his speakers. You’re curled up at one end of the studio couch, legs tucked under you, your head resting on the cushion. He’s sitting beside you, close, close enough that his warmth bleeds into your skin.

You're not even sure when the closeness shifts into something else.

You must’ve been talking. Or maybe you weren’t. But at some point, your head ends up on his shoulder. And then he leans his head against yours. And when your eyes finally flutter closed, lulled by the steady sound of rain and the softness of his voice humming under his breath—you don’t pull away.

Neither does he.

You wake up hours later, disoriented by the soft hum of monitors and the ache in your neck. The studio lights are low, casting a warm glow over everything. You’re curled into Jisung’s side now, both of you on your sides, his arm loosely wrapped around your waist, your hand resting on his chest.

He’s still asleep, breathing steady, lashes fluttering just slightly like he’s dreaming something good.

And for a second, you just watch him. Really watch him.

The boy you barely noticed back then—quiet, awkward, too shy to speak in front of strangers—is now the man holding you like you’ve always belonged there. You wonder how many moments like this you missed by not looking up back then. How much warmth you overlooked because you were too caught up in your own world to see what was quietly blooming right beside you.

Your fingers twitch against his chest.

Maybe this isn’t where the story ends—or even begins. Maybe this is the middle. The part where everything starts to change, not with fireworks or declarations, but with one quiet night. Two people. And the slow, gentle rhythm of falling into something that feels dangerously close to love.

The soft light of morning creeps in through the narrow studio windows, pale and hazy, casting sleepy golden streaks across the scattered notebooks and empty coffee cups. You blink awake slowly, head heavy with sleep, and the first thing you register is warmth. Steady, solid warmth.

You shift slightly—and freeze.

You’re curled into Jisung’s chest, his arm still wrapped around you protectively, like his body didn’t get the memo that the night is over. His hoodie smells like fabric softener and faint cologne. His fingers twitch slightly against your waist, like even in sleep, he doesn’t want to let go. You glance up. His eyes are cracked open, bleary and still half-lost in a dream. When he realizes you're awake, he stiffens—just a bit.

“Morning,” you whisper, your voice hoarse.

He swallows. “Hi.”

Neither of you moves. The silence stretches, not uncomfortable, just full of words that neither of you know how to say yet.

“I didn’t mean to—” he starts, then winces. “Well, I did mean to fall asleep, just not… like this. I mean—uh—not that I’m complaining! Or that it was bad! I just—sleep is important, you know? And this couch is surprisingly comfortable, which is probably why—”

“Jisung.”

He shuts up immediately.

You shift slightly, propping yourself on your elbow. “Are we gonna pretend that didn’t happen?”

His eyes search yours, uncertain. “Do you want to pretend?”

You hesitate.

“No,” you admit quietly. “But I don’t know what it was.”

He nods, mouth pressed in a tight line. “Yeah. Same.”

Another beat of silence.

“I mean,” he continues, rubbing the back of his neck, “I didn’t… plan to fall asleep holding you like some rom-com lead, but also… I didn’t hate it. Like, at all.”

You huff a laugh. “Yeah, I noticed.”

“Okay, rude,” he mutters, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “But fair.”

You sit up slowly, stretching your legs. “I think we’re both confused.”

“Confused is my permanent state,” he mutters under his breath, then louder: “But yeah. I just— It’s weird, because it’s not like I’ve had this whole plan or something. I just... like being around you. A lot. More than I should, maybe.”

That softens something in your chest.

You nod slowly. “And I think... I like it, too. You. Being around you. But I also—this wasn’t supposed to happen. Not now. Not like this.”

“I know,” he says, quieter now. “But it did.”

You meet his gaze and suddenly it feels heavy again—not in a bad way, but in the way that makes you aware of every inch between you, every quiet thing unsaid.

“So what do we do?” you ask.

He shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know. Maybe… we just keep doing what we’re doing? No pressure, no labels. Just… seeing where it goes?”

You watch him for a moment. His messy hair, the sleep still clinging to his lashes, the vulnerability in his eyes.

You nod. “Okay. We’ll see.”

He lets out a breath like he’s been holding it the whole night. “Cool. Yeah. That works. I’m good at casual. Super casual. Like—flannel shirt casual. Or slippers and cereal casual.”

You laugh again, warm and real. “You’re a disaster.”

“And yet, here I am,” he grins, standing up and stretching his arms. “Charming disaster. Patent pending.”

You roll your eyes, but the fondness in your chest is impossible to deny. As he offers you his hand to help you up, you realize you're still not entirely sure what’s happening between you two. But maybe, for now, that’s enough.

You try to act normal.

Really, you do. You keep your expression unreadable, posture relaxed, voice calm as you scroll through the draft PR schedule on your tablet. Han sits across the table in the conference room with the rest of the members, nodding along to whatever Bang Chan is explaining—but you can feel it.

That awareness.

The air feels... different. Heavy in the space between you, like everyone else is swimming through water while the two of you are tethered by an invisible string.

You haven’t even made eye contact yet, and still—your skin prickles with the memory of his arm wrapped around you the night before, the soft way he’d looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching.

You shift in your seat, pretending to adjust your tablet. His foot accidentally nudges yours under the table.

You freeze. He does, too. Then he slowly, very slowly pulls away, like he’s defusing a bomb.

Bang Chan’s voice cuts through the weird tension in your head. “So that’s the plan for the next two weeks. Any questions?”

The table remains quiet.

“No? Cool. Thanks for joining, everyone.”

The room bursts into motion—papers shuffling, chairs scraping, conversation picking up.

You gather your things quickly, hoping to escape without incident. But then—

“Hey,” Chan says softly. Too softly. You glance up to find him watching you. His tone is casual, but his eyes aren’t. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

You hesitate. Han glances up too, subtly alert.

“Of course,” you say, smiling like this isn’t mildly terrifying.

He waits until the room has cleared before speaking. Not accusingly, not even cold—just… leader-mode. Thoughtful. Quietly concerned.

“I just want to check in,” he says. “About you and Han.”

Your stomach tightens.

“There’s nothing going on,” you say automatically, maybe a little too quickly.

Chan raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t call you out.

“Okay. I believe you,” he says, and he probably does. Mostly. “But I also see things. Jisung doesn’t let people in easily. He jokes, flirts, plays around, but real closeness? That’s rare with him. And it’s happening. With you.”

You look away.

“I’m not mad,” he adds quickly. “Just… making sure you know. Because if this turns into something more, it’s not just you who’s affected. It’s him. It’s all of us.”

“I do know,” you say quietly. “And I would never do anything to hurt him. Or your group.”

He studies you for a moment, then nods. “I trust that. I just hope you’re both being honest—with yourselves, and each other.”

You manage a small smile. “We’re trying.”

He gives a soft chuckle, then rubs the back of his neck. “Alright. Now get out of here before I start sounding like a dad.”

You laugh and nod, turning to leave—

—only to nearly collide with Han waiting just outside the door, his hands in his pockets, pretending to admire a crack in the wall like it���s a masterpiece.

You blink. “Were you… eavesdropping?”

“No!” he says quickly. “I was… standing. Nearby. And hearing. Coincidentally.”

You sigh. He glances toward the office behind you. “Chan give you the ‘don’t break my members’ hearts’ talk?”

“Kind of,” you mutter. “Less dramatic. More dad energy.”

Han grins, then bumps your shoulder with his. “You okay?”

You nod. “Are you?”

“Me?” he asks, eyes wide. “I’m great. Except I might pass out from how awkward that whole thing was.”

You chuckle.

“Hey,” he says again, this time softer. “We’re still good, right? Like... us?”

Your heart thuds. Slowly, you smile. “Yeah. We’re good.” For now.

Schedules shift.

Suddenly, the easy rhythm you and Jisung had found — the morning check-ins, late-night studio rambling, quiet glances over coffee — all begin to fade, smothered beneath the weight of Stray Kids' comeback prep.

The tension starts subtly. Fewer messages. Shorter replies. A missed lunch here, a forgotten inside joke there. You try not to take it personally. You know how this works. You’ve worked with idols before. Comeback seasons are brutal — rehearsals, recordings, performances, content shoots — every second of their day becomes pre-packaged and consumed by the machine.

But still, it stings.

Especially when you pass him in the hall and his eyes barely lift from the floor.

It’s not just you he’s pulling away from. You notice it in the way the members glance at him, quiet concern flickering between them. Chan’s brow is always furrowed these days. Hyunjin’s usual teasing toward Han has softened into wordless pats on the shoulder. And you — well, you remember the conversation Jisung once had with you late one night in the studio, sitting cross-legged on the floor with takeout between you.

“I don’t always know how to ask for space,” he had admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Sometimes I disappear instead. I know it sucks. But it’s not because I want to push people away. It’s because I’m scared if I don’t, I’ll fall apart with them watching.”

You hadn’t fully understood then. You do now. Because now he’s disappearing — not just emotionally, but physically too. He practically lives in the studio, his messages unread, the space where his presence used to sit in your day now hollow. And you feel it.

Not just the absence of his coffee deliveries or dumb puns or warm hugs — but him. The way he made the world feel softer when he was around. Like you weren’t alone in your own spirals.

You pass by the studio late one evening, and through the tiny rectangular window, you catch a glimpse of him. He’s hunched over the desk, headphones on, hair a mess, his leg bouncing rapidly as he re-records a line for the third, maybe fourth time. Frustration is written all over his face.

You don’t knock. Because you know he won’t hear it. Or he’ll pretend not to. Instead, you linger for just a second longer, remembering how easy things felt when he used to wave at you through that very window, silly grin and all. And now? Now, the silence between you is starting to echo louder than anything either of you had the courage to say.

The hallway is quiet — too quiet — except for the static buzz in Jisung’s ears, the kind that comes when exhaustion bleeds into something darker. He drags his hoodie up over his head, eyes unfocused, shoulders hunched as he rounds the corner.

That’s when he sees you.

You’re standing by the vending machine with Changbin, your heads tilted close together, talking in low voices. You're smiling — not wide, not beaming — but soft, gentle. The kind of smile Jisung used to get. The one that made his stomach twist in that way that felt like home and chaos at the same time.

He can’t hear what you’re saying, but he doesn’t have to. His brain, heavy with anxiety and lack of sleep, fills in the blanks. Changbin is funny. He's stable. He’s good with people. And you — you’re beautiful and kind and warm and there. The static in his head becomes a roar. Of course you’re moving on. Why wouldn’t you? Of course someone like Changbin would make you laugh. Of course someone like Jisung, who shuts down and disappears the moment life tilts a little, could never hold your attention for long.

He watches you place a hand gently on Changbin’s arm, brows furrowed in something that looks like concern, and it burns. Jealousy, shame, heartbreak — all in one sharp, unbearable flash.

He turns on his heel before either of you spot him and bolts. Down the hallway, past the practice rooms, through the stairwell — anywhere that isn't here.

He doesn’t stop until the city lights blur around him, and his phone buzzes endlessly in his pocket — texts from Chan, calls from Minho, your name flashing on screen — and he ignores them all.

He needs air. He needs time. He needs less.

Meanwhile, back in the building, panic starts to ripple.

“He’s not in the studio?” Chan asks, already pulling out his phone.

“No. I checked the dance rooms too,” Seungmin says. “Nothing.”

You step back, heart hammering in your chest. “He—he saw me and Changbin. Do you think…?”

Chan’s eyes narrow. “Saw you doing what?”

“We were talking about him,” you say quickly, guilt washing over you. “I was trying to ask for advice. I just—I didn’t know how to help him without making him feel cornered.”

Changbin nods. “We weren’t exactly being subtle. He probably jumped to the worst conclusion.”

“And now he’s out there alone, spiraling,” Chan mutters, already dialing. “Damn it, Jisung.”

Jisung leans against the cold brick wall outside, the night pressing in around him like a suffocating blanket. His phone vibrates relentlessly in his pocket, but he’s too numb to answer. Instead, he pulls it out and scrolls through the flood of missed calls and messages. One notification catches his eye — a voicemail from you.

His thumb hovers over the play button. Curiosity and guilt war inside him. He’s scared of what he might hear, but he can’t stop himself. He presses play.

Your voice trembles through the speaker, raw and fragile, tears audible between your words.

“Jisung, please… I know you want to be found. And if it’s not by me, then… then fine, I won’t come. But at least let someone know where you are, and if you’re okay. Please, I’m begging you.”

His chest tightens, heart pounding with a sudden ache he can’t ignore. He hates that you’re hurting because of him. That he’s left you worried, scared, alone in the dark.

The walls he’s built start to crack.

After a long pause, he unlocks his phone, his fingers trembling as he taps “Share Location.” The screen fills with the blue glow of the map pinpointing where he is. His breath catches. He sends it. Almost instantly, his phone buzzes with a reply from you.

On my way.

For the first time in hours, Jisung feels a flicker of warmth amid the cold night — a fragile thread tethering him back.

You find him sitting alone on the concrete ledge under the Han River bridge, the city lights shimmering on the water’s surface. His shoulders are slumped, eyes fixed on the ripples below, the weight of hours lost heavy in the air between you.

You sit down beside him, careful not to break the fragile silence. The night hums softly around you—cars passing on the bridge above, distant laughter carried by the wind. Neither of you speaks at first.

After a few minutes, Jisung pulls his phone from his pocket, hesitating like he’s about to reveal something deeply personal. He taps on his music app, then presses play. A soft beat fills the quiet, steady and raw.

Then, almost shyly, he begins to sing:

"You can burst into flames, you can wound me next to you If you like, I can be anything Yeah, you can hurt me, I don't care, yeah, you can burn me Unlike those who run away from you, I'll embrace you...”

His voice is low, slightly rough but filled with emotion, each word trembling with meaning you hadn’t realized was there before. You watch his lips move, mesmerized by the vulnerability in the song.

“Like a volcano Love at a temperature that can melt when touched Take me to you, way below to the end of the ground It's okay if everything burns down Even if I go back hundreds of times, my choice is always... you.”

The words echo softly beneath the bridge, and for a moment, the noisy city feels miles away. You feel your chest tighten—not just from the beauty of the song but from the unspoken connection blooming between you both.

When the last note fades, he glances at you, cheeks flushed with embarrassment but eyes hopeful.

You reach out, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead.

“You’re amazing, Jisung.”

He gives you a small, grateful smile, the weight on his shoulders seeming a little lighter now.

You take a deep breath, the cool night air filling your lungs as you gather your thoughts. His eyes stay fixed on you, patient and curious, waiting.

“Jisung,” you begin softly, voice steady despite the flutter in your chest. “I… I think I was blind before. Back in school, I didn’t see you. Not really. I was so caught up in my own world, in my own noise, that I missed what was right in front of me.”

You glance down for a moment, then meet his eyes again, earnest and open. “You could have been someone to love all along. And I’m sorry it took me this long to realize it. I never meant to overlook you, or to make you feel small or invisible.”

Your hand reaches out slowly, hesitating just a second before grabbing his hand and intertwining your fingers together. “I want you to know — I have no intention of hurting you. No matter how complicated this is, I would never burn you, or run away. I want to be someone you can trust, someone who stays.”

You pause, searching his face for a sign, a flicker of what you hope to find.

He swallows hard, a shy smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Thank you,” he murmurs, voice low and sincere. “That means more than you know.”

The night wraps around you both like a quiet secret, the world hushed under the bridge. Your fingers brush his arm, and Jisung’s eyes search yours with a fierce, hopeful light.

He leans in slowly, but as your lips almost meet, he bumps his forehead against yours with a soft thud.

“Ah, ouch,” he murmurs, rubbing his forehead and giving you a sheepish, yet proud grin. “Smooth move, right?”

You laugh, the tension breaking like a gentle wave. “Definitely unforgettable.”

With a shy but determined nod, he tries again. This time, the kiss is soft, sweet, and a little awkward — but so real, so full of all the feelings he’s been holding back.

When you pull apart, his cheeks are flushed, but his eyes shine with pride and something more — love.

“I’m not just saying this lightly,” he breathes, voice steady, heart wide open. “I’m in love with you. I have been for a while now, and I’m proud of it. So... will you be my girlfriend?”

You smile, your heart swelling with warmth and something new — the recognition of what you almost missed before.

“Yes,” you whisper, “I’d love that.”

His grin stretches wider than ever, and he pulls you close for another, longer kiss — this time, perfectly imperfect, and just the beginning of everything. After you say yes, Jisung’s grin turns mischievous, eyes sparkling with that trademark cheeky confidence.

He pulls you into a quick hug, whispering loud enough for you to hear and maybe the whole riverbank too, “You’re officially mine now. Sorry, Changbin — you can go to hell.”

You laugh, raising an eyebrow. “Wow, confident much?”

He smirks, puffing out his chest like a knight ready for battle. “Of course! Jealousy is just my version of chivalry. Protecting what’s mine.”

You shake your head, smiling. “You’re such a goofball.”

“Hey, I’m your goofball now. Deal with it.”

And with that, he squeezes your hand like a prize, and you both walk off under the soft glow of the city lights, ready for whatever comes next, together.

From his bandmates' perspective, Jisung becomes insufferable in the following days. He can't stop talking about how he's finally got you, how perfect you are, and how glad he is to finally be able to call you his girlfriend. The boys relentlessly made fun of him, but he couldn't care less.

You push open the door to the dance studio, the faint thump of music and the scrape of sneakers on the floor reaching your ears. The room is alive with energy—Stray Kids mid-rehearsal, muscles moving in sync.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot him.

Han Jisung.

The moment he sees you, his entire body lights up like a sparkler on a summer night. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, eyes wide, grin impossibly bright.

“Hey! You’re here!” he shouts, nearly tripping over himself as he rushes toward you.

You barely have time to step inside before he’s practically glued to your side, his arm wrapping around your waist like he never wants to let go.

“I missed you all day! Like, seriously, it was torture,” he whines, voice dropping to a mock-serious tone. “I’m not even kidding. I think I might have turned into a sad puppy or something.”

The other members pause their practice, exchanging amused looks. Bang Chan raises an eyebrow, grinning.

“Oh, look at Jisung! The cling monster’s back,” Chan teases, smirking at you. “We were starting to think you vanished for good.”

Changbin joins in, chuckling, “Yeah, we were worried he’d become a hermit again. Glad you showed up before that happened.”

You laugh, shaking your head at their playful ribbing. Jisung, still hanging on your arm, leans in and whispers, “See? Even they know I need my protector. Someone who won’t hurt me.”

You squeeze his hand gently. “I’m not going anywhere, Jisung.”

He beams up at you, the glow of happiness practically radiating off him. The group starts to warm back into their rehearsal, but the mood is lighter, softer—like a fresh breeze after a storm. You glance around at the boys who have become a second family to him—and now, to you—and feel a swell of gratitude. They tease and joke, but beneath it all, you know they’re genuinely glad to see their friend this happy again.

The ways of love are strange—no doubt about that. Sometimes, all it takes is a single glance, and everything changes in an instant. But other times, love grows quietly, almost unnoticed, in the small moments between breaths and words.

Between stolen glances and gentle touches, in laughter shared beneath dim studio lights, and in the silence of a midnight cityscape.

It’s the slow-burning flame, the volcano that rumbles softly before bursting to life, raw and unstoppable.

You realize now that love isn’t always a blinding flash—it can be the quiet spark that finally catches fire, warm and fierce, lighting up everything you never saw before.

And as you look at him—his smile a little crooked, eyes bright and steady like boba—you know that this love, patient and true, is the one worth holding on to.

Because sometimes, the most extraordinary kind of magic is the kind that grows quietly, right beside you, waiting for you to notice.

And in that noticing, everything shifts.

Everything changes.

Everything becomes home.

[elleaitch22]

Terms of Endearment

Chapter 3: Maison Noire

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

A/N: I'm not too sure about this chapter lol. I hope you love it though! Also, our girl isn't gonna stay in the dark place, I promise! xx Elle

Warnings: Flashbacks featuring emotional abuse, verbal abuse, domestic violence, gaslighting, manipulation, low self-worth, abandonment

Word Count: 2.3k

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Azzi was so exhausted she could feel it in her bones.

After her meeting with Mr. Smith, he decided to keep her there like a scolded child.

“You embarrassed me, Ms. Fudd. We don’t reward insubordination at St. Paul’s.”

Azzi held back the replies she wanted to give. He didn’t want teachers who thought; he wanted obedient little soldiers. Azzi was everything he hated: young, female, and unafraid to speak her mind when needed.

"You asked for my opinion, Mr. Smith." Azzi said tightly. "It doesn’t make sense to punish a child for standing up to bullies. It’s literally what we teach them to do."

Azzi was dismissed with a warning to not let anything happen again and the recommendation to “keep a better eye” on her students. She knew the real reason for his anger. Paige Bueckers – a lesbian and single parent – had embarrassed him by refusing the back down and enroll Soleil in a different school.

Azzi stepped onto the L train, head pounding. She buried her face in her hands, letting herself sink into the cold metal. Teaching didn’t pay enough for this shit.

When she stepped into the lobby of her building, Azzi jabbed the button for the elevator. The distinct lack of electrical humming that made her huff. Of course, the elevator doesn’t work — today of all days. She needed to move. As she climbed five flights of stairs, she ran through her budget in her head.

You can’t afford a better apartment, idiot.

She slammed the front door to her studio apartment and rested her forehead on the wood. Three hours until her shift at Maison Noire.

The upscale club was a survival tactic. On good nights, she could make her rent in a single shift. If she didn’t love teaching so much, she would have quit and been a server full time.

Azzi sighed, thinking about how she ended up here. Grant had seemed like a good guy. She met him at her first college party at eighteen. A few too many shots had her waking up somewhere unfamiliar with no memory of the night before. Grant had brought her bagels and coffee to help with her hangover, and she’d been charmed. She had no idea what the next few years would bring.

It started small — complaining that she spent too much time with her best friends, Caroline and Colleen, neglecting him and their relationship. She distanced herself from them, believing he was right. Next, she missed holidays with her family; it started small with the Memorial Day cookout before escalating to Christmas.

Once she was isolated, the real abuse began.

He wasn’t stupid; he never raised a hand to her. But the things he said hurt worse than a punch ever could.

He gave her everything — everything — and still, spat in his face like an ungrateful bitch. It was laughable, really, how she thought she was smarter than him, asking about bills like she understood the burden he carried. She was entitled, paranoid, and sick in the head, making up problems just to feel important. Her friends didn’t care about her; they tolerated her, the same way you put up with a sad little stray. She was a liar by nature, lying even to herself, twisting every kindness into cruelty so she could play the victim.

Her degree was a joke, a hobby, something little girls picked when they didn’t have the guts to do anything real. She didn’t have the brains or the discipline to survive without someone holding her hand. She would never amount to anything but a preschool teacher. She wasn’t special. She wasn’t strong. She wasn’t even good.

Deep down, she knew it too; she knew she was broken, unlovable, a burden that smart men like him were stupid enough to believe they could fix.

He would leave her, and the world would finally see her for what she was: a failure in cheap makeup, begging for scraps of attention from people who would never really love her.

She hadn’t decided to leave until he finally hit her. Six years into their relationship, when his fist ended up in her stomach, something inside Azzi broke.

She packed a backpack with essentials: passport, driver’s license, social security card, phone, charger, a few outfits, and one picture with her family. She left Los Angeles and started over in a different city.

It wasn’t until a couple months later she realized the full extent of the damage. Collections letters started popping up in her mailbox. The car, the apartment, and all the credit cards were tied to her name. She remembered signing papers, thinking she was just cosigning. She was in thousands of dollars of debt by the time she figured it out.

That was when she applied at Maison Noire.

While grateful for the money, she was sick of having to be ogled by disgusting men. On a Tuesday night, no less!

She used to dream about a tiny classroom, a partner who loved her, maybe a dog. Instead, she was smiling through aching feet, hoping drunk strangers would hand her enough cash to keep the lights on.

She decided to read for an hour and a half before getting ready for work.

Caiden Thomas, the love interest, reminded Azzi of a beautiful, strong blonde who had recently entered her life.

Paige Bueckers was probably the most beautiful woman Azzi had seen. Every time she opened her mouth, Azzi wanted to drool. And the way she had shut down Principal Smith’s bullshit? Hot.

 She was glad Soleil had someone like Paige looking out for her and taking care of her because Azzi had missed that.

She was all alone in a big city. Her parents didn’t even know where she was. She missed her mom, dad, brothers, and grandparents. But Azzi couldn’t face them now. She was worthless. She put a man before everyone. They wouldn’t love her now. They couldn’t.

Not anymore.

Azzi’s alarm buzzed, signaling it was time to get ready. She let out a quiet whine of protest.

One of her favorite things about Maison Noire was the uniforms for bottle girls. They looked like something you could wear out, unlike many of the other clubs in Chicago.

She started with her hair, slicking the front of her hair back and securing it with a claw clip, leaving the rest of her coils loose. A few face-framing pieces softened the look. Disgustingly, she always got more tips if she wore her hair like — or in braids or ponytails.

Men are disgusting.

She applied a light layer of foundation, thanking God that her skin had been behaving lately. She layered on a heavy smoky eye with long lashes. A pinky-purple blush warmed her face nicely, and pink lip gloss tied the look together.

She zipped up the tight black skirt and secured the sweetheart corset. After slathering on shimmering lotion, she spritzed on Kayali’s Sweet Bakery Bliss, her new favorite perfume. She added a silver necklace, bracelet, and a few rings.

She stuffed her feet into a pair of combat boots and pulled on a black hoodie for her train ride. Azzi packed her floor shoes, pouting at the uncomfortable arch. She shoved sweatpants, a t-shirt, and old tennis shoes into her backpack, so she could be comfortable on her journey home.

Setting spray! How could she forget.

Azzi dashed into the bathroom, drenched her face, and used a handheld fan to make it dry faster.

Tonight is going to be great, Az.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Manifestation always worked. By 10 p.m., Azzi had already made $400 in tips.

She took a fifteen-minute break and, when she returned, Kayla handed her an order for a VIP booth in her section.

Three Dirty Shirleys? Someone must be turning 21 or something. Azzi giggled and passed the order to her favorite bartender, Ayanna.

While waiting for the drinks, Azzi made her rounds, groaning internally as she spotted a few of her regulars. Focus on rent, Azzi.

Looping back to the bar, she grabbed the drink tray and plastered on a bright smile.

Azzi approached the VIP section with velvet couches. Three women laughed together. So not a 21st birthday. Two of the women were decked out in silky dresses and jewelry, hair perfectly curled. Maybe sister wives? The third woman wore a beautiful black suit with a blonde bun that looked oddly familiar.

Before Azzi can speak, she felt the blonde woman’s eyes raking over her. She locked eyes with her instinctively.

Her tray almost hit the floor, and a soft gasp escaped her lips.

“Good evening, Ms. Fudd.”

Paige Bueckers was here.

Paige Bueckers, the mother of the child that will probably be Azzi’s favorite this year, was here.

Paige Bueckers, the finest woman Azzi has even seen, was here.

She was here, in Azzi’s section at a club that she would lose her job for being at if her boss ever found out.

Paige Bueckers was at Maison Noire looking at Azzi like — Jesus.

Azzi was very aware of her buffering when one of Paige Bueckers’ companions teased, “Wow Paige. You and Soleil weren’t lying. Ms. Fudd really is as pretty as a princess.”

“Shut up, Nika.” Is gritted out as the same time as, “You can call me Azzi.”

God, her cheeks heated up again. She wished that the ground would open up and swallow her whole.

“Well, you have to call me Paige, Azzi. No more Ms. Bueckers.” Paige’s cool façade was back up, smirk firmly in place.

Azzi nodded stiffly. “Good evening, Paige.”

Before the blonde could say anything else, other women spoke. “I’m Jana, and this is Nika. Thank you for sticking up for Soleil today.”

A smile cracked Azzi’s face before she could control it, “It was nothing. She’s such a sweet girl and she didn’t deserve to get in any trouble.”

“Come sit with us,” Nika waved her over.

Azzi’s eyes bugged, stuttering. “Um, I — I’m still on the clock, I’m sorry.” She forced herself to finish her thought.

She placed the drinks and shots on their table and scurried off without another word.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

“So that’s Ms. Fudd?” Nika smirked, watching Azzi retreat.

Jana snorted. “You chose a class where Soleil’s teacher works here.” She gave a nudge to Nika, one that Paige couldn’t see.

“Don’t talk about her like that, J.” Paige frowned. “Everyone knows teachers don’t make shit. And this didn’t pop up on the background check. Remind me to ask Ash how she missed it.”

After a few more rounds of drinks, the girls had managed to pry some information out of Azzi. She was from Virginia, went to college at UCLA, and stayed in LA for a couple years after graduation before moving here, wanting a change of pace. She was 26 and in her third year of teaching at St. Paul’s. Her job at Maison Noire helped her make ends meet because private school teachers didn’t make much. She had two brothers and no pets, but maybe a dog soon.

Whenever Azzi was around, Paige went silent, content to watch her.

After her fifth Shirley, Paige pulled out her phone and texted the owner, Shyanne, knowing her from her college days.

I want a private room with Azzi. Just her. Five minutes.

Shy Sellers: Room 35

She left Jana and Nika to find someone else to flirt with and walked to Room 35.

The room was silent for ten seconds before the door swung open.

“I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m not for sale!” Azzi’s brows were furrowed, her big brown eyes flashing.

Paige was unbothered. She lounged back on the velvet couch, long legs spread casually, arms draped along the back. “Sit down.” She began lazily, “Please, Azzi. Five minutes.”

Azzi scoffed, hovering by the door.

Paige dragged her gaze over the brunette. Her black corset top, the tight skirt, the way she seemed to hide away, just a bit. It made Paige was to take her and keep her all to herself. She was perfect. If given the opportunity, she would protect her, cherish her, worship her.

“I just wanted to talk. Without the music. Without the girls.” Paige drawled lazily. “I heard what you said about working here. I want to help you, if you’ll let me.”

Azzi’s frown deepened and her arms tightened around her. “Why? You don’t even know me.”

“You helped my daughter. Because you care,” Paige shrugged. “I want to offer you something different than…this.” She gestured around, “You deserve better than this.” She gestured to the dark room. “You could leave the club. We would have an exclusive arrangement. No kissing. No sex.”

She sighed, leaning further back. “In my line of work, men don’t like dealing with single masc women. I missed out on a 2.3 million dollar deal because I’m single. They went with a company where the owner was married with two kids, even though they aren’t as efficient as me.  Having someone makes me look more stable, more dependable. You’ll be seen with me. Dinners, events, galas, those kinds of things. You’ll be with me, but not with me. No strings.”

Grant was wrong about something. At least I’m still good for my looks. Azzi thought to herself. Yeah, good enough to be a trophy, but not good enough to love.

“Just think about it.” Paige said, standing. “This could help us both. You work Friday, right? I’ll be back in this room at 11. Please have an answer by then.”

[estcaligo]

On Sebek's appearance, self-image, and hidden insecurities

It's well known that Sebek always stays well-groomed to ensure he does not tarnish the image of his Liege.

His New Year's attire vignette has some important lore details (I recommend reading it)

In Glorious Masquerade, when they see a barbershop, he comments

According to his 2025 Birthday Vignette, every morning, he styles his hair, even though it's a challenge.

The nightcap he wears while sleeping is said to help prevent his hair from drying out and getting messy during sleep (though it doesn't help much because it falls off during the night).

He gave Cater a clothes brush as a present, which not only shows that he knows why such things exist but also implies that he uses it himself.

He exclaims with joy while showing off his clean, gleaming shoes after polishing them with shoe polish Jamil gave him for his birthday.

However, he seems to care about his appearance solely because of Malleus and his reputation.

When it comes to his own preferences and self-reflection regarding style, (in his Dorm voice line) he says:

Like a true soldier

He only pays attention to the functionality of clothes.

And he says that he likes the Bloom Birthday outfit, but only because he thinks the design is befitting of a [night fae].

He does notice that his clothes are one size bigger than Silver's, though.

(He probably associates it with being stronger, aka better than Silver)

Sebek thinks he doesn't deserve to wear high-end clothes, as he believes they are more suited for his Liege.

This part from Lilia's Tamashina-Mina vignette is interesting.

In his 2025 Birthday Vignette, Lilia gave Sebek a hand cream, which appears to be scented. But Sebek once again expresses uncertainty, as it's his first time using scented ointment, and he thinks it's too refined for him...

According to the vignette, he also uses moisturizer, as his skin tends to dry out quickly, as well as sunscreen and moisturizing lip cream. (At least some of these were probably recommended by Lilia)

Vignette translated by @/mysteryshoptls

Conclusion

Not surprisingly, Sebek's relationship with clothing and self-care reflects his complete dedication to his role as Malleus's guard. He sees himself as a tool for protecting Malleus, and everything else as secondary.

It also, to some extent, reflects his insecurities (which supports my theory that he was bullied as a child by other faes because of his human heritage) and his tendency to downplay his own worth.

It's obvious that all his bravado and confidence are merely a facade to hide these insecurities. When commenting on the Bloom Birthday outfit, he specifically emphasized that he likes it only because it makes him feel more connected to the beings of the night. He desperately clings to every detail that makes him seem more like a fae.

He doesn't believe he is worthy of fine, elegant things, and the only reason he wants to look good is for Malleus's sake. In Glorious Masquerade, he only accepts compliments about his "dashing" appearance because those costumes were designed for guards accompanying Malleus.

We've already seen a lot of character development for Sebek. I hope we see even more in this aspect too, and that he becomes more confident in his own identity - not just as a guard, but as an independent person. Especially considering that his style preferences (according to the Guest Room) are Stylish and Unique.

Let's praise him - Sebek, you are wonderful and worthy of the world.

Credits: Text translations are from twst wiki and @/mysteryshoptls Screens are from youtube channel Songstress Studios

[storiesabouteli]

BitterSweet // Elijah Hewson X Reader.

requests: (1) pre-relationship!eli with an incrediblyyy oblivious and socially awkward girl that kinda avoided him bc he’s very charismatic and lowkey a fuckboy so she think he’s fucking with her 😭😭 and eli is tryna pursue her and making it obvious that he takes her really seriously + (2) i was just wondering if you could write an imagine where eli helps the reader with her anxiety / through an anxiety attack or something similar?

words: 3,6K

You had enjoyed the band; they were instrumentally solid, and their lyrics were captivating. Live, they were even better. Eli, drenched to the point that his hair was soaked, let out soft groans in between sung syllables. This was just the soundcheck, and though only a few fans were around, he was performing like it was the real thing.

“Think we can tweak it a bit more?” His voice pulled you back, a warning that you might be getting in over your head. Eli chuckled, eyes trailing over you from top to bottom with a slight smirk. You couldn’t tell if it was meant to intimidate, mock, or if he just found you pathetic.

“Of course,” you replied quietly, certain no one else heard. The walk over felt longer in your mind as the guys watched, and you reached for the guitar in his hands. His swift movement to pull the strap off revealed hints of muscle, all the pale skin and the brief brush of his arm, warm and damp with sweat, replayed in your mind.

“Will you be around?” His voice was deeper, smoother than when he sang, with a lazy edge that was almost too pleasant to listen to. You were getting paid for this entire experience. “It’s my job.” He raised his brows, that same confident grin tugging at his lips. You avoided direct eye contact, though you glanced at him from the corners of your eyes. You didn’t mean to sound so blunt. You were only here to set up the studio for their album recording—a short period, and soon enough, you wouldn’t see them again.

You liked them well enough, but Eli had that vibe of the guy who would’ve bullied you in high school. You thought you were past that. “I’ll be around,” you said more clearly, finally looking him in the eyes. He nodded, making a mental note of your face up close and the matching brand of your boots and his. Your delicate hand passed the guitar back to him, and he couldn’t resist; it was too easy.

“Thanks, pet. I’ll be needing you again soon.” Your gaze dropped quickly as you backed away. Josh overheard and laughed, while Eli turned a bit pink—no regrets, though. You knew guys like him. You’d worked with bands before, and you understood better than to let whatever that was get to you.

…

You only spoke when asked, keeping things strictly professional. Eli was openly watching you, blatantly, if honest. The producers asked you questions now and then, and you always responded, they’d nod and follow your advice right after. Eli already thought you were smart, which only made him more intrigued. You were focused, a little shy, content within your own bubble; he admired that. It was obvious you were fine like that, and he was bothering you, but he didn’t know any other way to approach you.

“Hey, uh…” he started, sitting across from you at lunch. Once again, you were alone, not in a bad way, just enjoying your break. “What’re you listening to?” You lifted one side of your headphones to hear him. He cleared his throat, needing to repeat the question before you could answer.

“It’s not the first time you ignore me like that, and I like it.” You had to bite your lip but still laughed, as if he were too much to believe.

“The Strokes,” you showed him your phone, sipping your Coke. You fidgeted with the strap of your white tank top, which happened to be just like the one he often wore—and was wearing now. Along with the boots, it was oddly charming.

“I love The Strokes, real teenage throwback. What are your favorites?” He smiled wide, a grin he hadn’t seen all day, feeling confident this was going well.

“See? We have so much in common,” he teased, even though, so far, it was just the band and clothes.

“I’m not a big fan,” you shrugged, “I think his voice is lazy and dragged out, not really my style, though the instrumental’s good.” His heart sank a little. You spoke so casually, completely unaware of the impact. Eli hadn’t found flirting so difficult before.

“All right,” he glanced around, watching you look at your empty plate instead of his eyes. “Did you enjoy yesterday? What did you think of the show?”

You briefly thought of the awkward moment adjusting his guitar with everyone watching and how he’d been appearing more and more on your social media—not him directly, but clips of him with fans. You’d even gained some random followers from being spotted with the band. Your feed was flooded with videos of him leaning close to a girl at the edge of the stage, his damp curls brushing her face. She’d clung to him, and he clearly loved the attention, even stopping post-show to chat and connect with everyone. It was an energy you didn’t have. You’d once wanted to be more like him but were now comfortable being reserved. He was just naturally good at it.

Then there was one photo—a girl holding his face in an intimate kiss—that made you pause. A fan captioned that Eli would make a perfect boyfriend, even if they weren’t together anymore. She was gorgeous, and he looked like he belonged with her. Him talking to you felt off, like he was doing it out of pity; you weren’t even on the same page.

“I really enjoyed it. You guys are very good.” You were honest, forcing a smile and pushing away your thoughts to show you meant it.

Eli wasn’t convinced of that. “Good to know. We’re close enough now to hang out and maybe share a cigarette or two.” You looked up at him, his hazel eyes gleaming, his freckles glowing with a hint of blush. He had that high-school-crush look, but it still didn’t make sense.

“Can’t you talk like a normal person?” In your mind, the question hadn’t sounded so hard.

“I don’t know; this way I get to keep talking to you, don’t I?” He raised his brows as looked away, noticing the rest of the band watching from another table. He could be over there, so why wasn’t he?

He dropped a crumpled napkin on the table and waited, saying he’d be persistent later when you just nodded, unsure what to expect. You were about to speak, and it was warming to see him actually paying attention, his caramel eyes fixed on you, his whole body focused—until he nudged the table, spilling half of the Coke onto your white top.

“Sorry,” his accent thickened, sending a jolt of anxiety through you. People glanced over, and Eli began wiping the spot, his hand brushing over the stain.

“It’s not helping,” you said, touching his shoulder. “Eli, it’s fine; you’re just making it worse.” Your firm tone made him stop, realizing you were right.

You crossed your arms over your chest, feeling a little embarrassed, and he quickly noticed. Without hesitation, he shrugged off his black button-down and handed it over for you to wear. It wasn’t like you could refuse; you still had the whole afternoon before you could head home and change.

“Sorry, like, the flirting’s intentional, yeah, but I wouldn’t ever mean to harm you.”

You fiddled with his shirt, playing with the buttons. It smelled nice. He was now in a tank top like yours, and you remembered mentioning how you liked his arms before to the voices inside your head.

You cleared the table, picking up his napkin too, and he watched as you tossed his number into the trash on your way out.

“These things happen, I guess,” he chuckled, getting the closest he’d come to a genuine smile from you. The lighthearted way you suggested he’d done it on purpose; if he’d known that smile would come out, he certainly would have.

“Don’t worry. I’ll give it back,” you reassured him, grateful he wasn’t phased by the incident, though disappointed the conversation had ended, even if it wasn’t going great. At least it was something, and he got to appreciate how well his shirt suited you the rest of the day.

“It’s yours now, ma’am.”

…

At home, you made yourself dinner, still wearing his shirt. Sure, you told yourself it was just because of the chill, but deep down, you knew you wanted his scent—cologne mixed with a hint of cigarettes—lingering around you. Despite your reluctance, you eventually washed and dried it to return it properly. As you lay down in bed, a wave of mental relief washed over you, savoring the solitude after spending nearly the whole day with them fine-tuning songs. You picked up your phone, intending to scroll until you drifted off, when an Instagram notification popped up. Opening it, you saw he’d followed you and even sent a message. You set your phone aside for a moment, feeling like he was physically there; somehow, it made no difference.

When you accepted the request and opened the DM, the first thing you saw was a picture: a can of Diet Coke spilling onto his jeans, captioned with, “Thinking of you.” You couldn’t help but laugh softly to yourself. Eli probably thought it was funny—maybe it was, in a way. “You there? Am I getting ignored online too?” It made you realize you'd left the chat open, staring blankly. “Sorry, was busy,” you replied, though you instantly regretted it, realizing you could've been friendlier.

The typing dots popped up again, followed by, “With something more important than me?” You had to admit, his shameless confidence was quite charming. “Washing your shirt to return it. Hopefully, you won’t try that again xx,” you replied, heart-reacting to the Coke photo he’d sent. You didn’t want him to think you were actually ignoring him. After a pause, just as you were about to drift off, his final message came through. It was a voice note, low tone, a little sleepy, smooth.

“Uh, don’t see the problem, you know? Got to talk to you, and now you’ll return my shirt with your scent on it. You’re making this hard for me.” You could practically hear him smiling through the words, and once again, you found yourself grinning into your blankets.

…

You know those days that just aren't good? Your eyes ached, and there was a sharp pain in your head. Before entering the studio, some girls in Inhaler shirts were gathered near the entrance. They greeted you, and you nodded back, answering a few quick questions about them. You were polite, so one of them handed you her number, asking if you could give it to Eli. You took the slip of paper—it seemed routine, as if he received these often. She was beautiful. Your mind wandered to the number of girls chasing after him, not just here, but everywhere.

"Bobby’s sick; they’re not coming in today." One of the producers announced, and you felt a bit guilty for being relieved. Today, you didn't want to see anyone. It was hard to explain—if you knew how to avoid it, you would. Your chest felt like it was being crushed, heart racing, the familiar grip of anxiety that you just couldn’t make stop. As you thought about leaving, it hit you that you'd have to pass by those girls outside and take the bus home alone. You also worried about the delay in recordings, though you didn’t think Bobby should be there if he was unwell.

"Uh, you here by yourself? We won’t be recording today; thought someone might’ve told you. I just needed to grab my stuff." Eli shook his lighter, a rescuer in disguise. You held a cigarette between your fingers, hoping it would distract you, but you were restless, tapping your boot on the floor and fumbling in your pocket for your own lighter to no avail. He didn’t seem to notice anything wrong—at least he didn’t show it. His curls were perfectly in place, his jacket pulled over his arms, and that familiar, inviting smile. He’d clearly spent some time talking outside.

You opened your mouth, numb lips struggling to hide how off you felt, but no words came. He stepped close, his rings catching the light, and you focused on how nice his hand looked—a random, sudden thought that made you frown slightly. "Let me help," he whispered, his minty breath brushing your face. With the cigarette at your lips, you kept patting your jeans for the lighter. This was the closest you’d ever been to Eli; his fringe touched your forehead, and you realized how easily you could rest your head on his shoulder if you just leaned in. He sparked the lighter, holding it to your cigarette, his scent dizzying. His hand brushed your shoulder, and you wanted more. His calm eyes took in your vacant look as his fingers traced down your arm. For the first time, you couldn’t look at anything but his steady gaze. His freckles seemed to judge you silently, wondering why you had no control over yourself.

Seeing you weren’t taking a drag, he pulled the cigarette from your lips and placed it in his. "You can hear me, right?" His thumb brushed your palm, and you focused on your breathing as your eyes began to water. Eli was patient, his calm presence grounding you as you tried to steady yourself. Holding your hand, he gently pressed it to his chest so you could feel his heartbeat—thankfully steady. He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. "Feel that, love?" Closing your eyes, still feeling overwhelmed, you listened to his words. "Just breathe with me. You’re not alone; it’s all gonna be fine." His voice was a balm, and slowly, it started to sink in.

"You’re doing great; you wouldn’t even need me here," he said softly, matching your small laugh with his own. Your knees gave way slightly, and he held you by the waist, you were closer than ever before. "We can just sit here until you’re alright, yeah?" You nodded, sinking to the floor beside him, surrounded by a few guitars. You toyed with the rings on his fingers, finding it a welcome distraction, and he didn’t mind. Exhausted, as you always seemed to feel, Eli noticed your tired, red eyes and pulled you against him. It was only his shoulder, but you let yourself lean in. He took a drag from the cigarette, ready to toss it aside to focus on you, but you took it from him, repeating his movements.

"So, that’s our first kiss," he murmured, his usual flirty tone and smug grin returning. He seemed proud. "What?" you muttered, throat sore, but he didn’t need to hear it; he saw it on your lips. His free hand slid along your back, keeping you close, wanting to distract you from your own mind. He was good at it.

"The cigarette’s a swap of saliva, right? That counts." You wrinkled your nose, thinking how typical it was for him to come up with something like that. You put out the cigarette, tossing the butt away. Nicotine didn’t help much, but it was something—it was human nature, and you understood that. He noticed your shy smile, his effect on you having its way. "Not funny, Eli. I don’t get why you do this," you murmured, exhaustion pulling your eyes closed, though you stayed nestled against his soft shoulder. He swallowed, realizing you weren’t playing a game; you were just oblivious.

"One of the fans outside even gave me her number to give to you." Your tone was gentle, though the crumpled paper in your hand suggested you had some opinion on it. "You think I’m just messing around with you?" He took your face in his hand, studying your troubled eyes. "Why would I do that? I wouldn’t flirt with you if I didn’t mean it. I don’t know how to be more obvious."

The firmness in his voice cut through like the edge of a blade. Now it was his turn to look at you like a puzzle piece he couldn’t quite figure out. You stared at him like he’d just spoken in another language, your brow furrowing in confusion. “Aren’t you? I mean… isn’t this just, like, a thing you do? Flirt with people for fun?” Oddly enough he was still comfortable, Eli could be anything but scary.

He looked at you, serious, shaking his head slightly, as if letting you slip through his fingers was out of the question.

Eli raised an eyebrow, his grin slipping. “Is that what you think of me?”

You fidgeted with the sleeve of his jacket, avoiding his gaze. “I don’t know. I mean, you’re… you know…” Your voice dropped as if admitting the truth was embarrassing. “You’re you.”

He leaned closer, his voice low but insistent. “And what if ‘me’ wants you? What if I’m serious ‘bout this?”

Your eyes shot up to his, wide and startled, but you quickly looked away. “You’re not.”

“Yeah, I am,” Eli said, his gaze more serious now, one of those looks you couldn’t avoid. “I don’t just flirt with everyone. I don’t chase people. But I’m chasing you. What’s it gonna take for you to get that?”

His chest had been racing, but it started to calm as he took in your parted lips and the tears lingering in your eyes. He knew he was overwhelming you at a tough moment, and he hated that. His fingertips traced the bridge of your nose, lightly outlining your soft lines, enjoying how close you allowed him to be. “Are you okay, little one?” he asked softly, the edge of his jacket brushing your cheek to wipe away the last of your tears.

“Yeah,” you replied, the incident finally slipping away as you looked back at him, unable to focus on anything else. His careful eyes, the freckles scattered like constellations, each carrying its own name that you gave them—it was hard to think of anything but them. “God, I must’ve been such an idiot, right?”

He chuckled, his laugh warm and steady against you. Then, he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, gentle but grounding, repeating it a few times as if to anchor you. You rested your head against his chest, nestling your face there, feeling the safety of his warmth. Your arms wrapped around his waist, a quiet comfort settling in.

“You weren’t an idiot. If anything, I’ve been bugging you since I got here.” You murmured a soft agreement, and he laughed again.

“But it worked, didn’t it? What do you say?”

You hid yourself a bit more in his embrace, feeling good, as he held you close, content to be your shield.

…

There was a comfortable weight draped over you, not unpleasant in the slightest. Your legs were tangled up with his, and you could feel his breath against your shoulder, soon followed by a series of light kisses and playful bites. You laughed into him, accepting your fate, and hugged him tighter. “Good morning,” he murmured, his voice sounding even better with that just-woke-up rasp. You glanced around, fully taking in the scene. His hand rested on your waist, his touch warm, and he was amazing at reading you, always respecting your pace.

“No one’s here yet. I’m not about to get you in trouble.” You smiled back at him, genuinely relieved.

“So you’re gonna hide us from them, huh?” he teased. “Hurts my feelings a little, y’know?” You looked down at your feet, ready to counter him, but before you could, his face was close again. He pressed a soft, wet kiss to your cheek. His messy curls tickled you, and you ended up laughing.

“When I make you nervous like this…” he traced his thumb along your hands, which were colder than your hot cheeks. “Is it a bad thing? Does it bother you?”

You met his gaze, smiling with your lip caught between your teeth. “I like how you talk to me, Eli. I just… don’t know how to deal with it right away.”

He nodded, his smile warm. “Good. I like that—it’s cute how you don’t know what to do with yourself.”

So effortlessly, he pulled the same reaction from you as before. The two of you kept talking, stealing these quiet moments before anyone arrived. Eli picked up on your hesitance with him, knowing you thought he was too charismatic for someone like you. But he also made it clear he didn’t mind your quieter world; he’d be just as happy living in it if you’d have him there.

Later that day, you ended up with his jacket draped over your shoulders and his hand resting gently on your back. You got to listen Bobby complimented you, saying you were better at adjusting his bass than any of the past techs they’d worked with. The way he talked about you was similar to how Eli did, which made you suspect Eli had already mentioned you to them before, even without knowing you well yet. None of them questioned your sudden closeness with Eli, not even when he introduced you like they didn’t all already know who you were. They were welcoming, you felt at ease.

 Eli’s hand slipped from your waist slowly, your smile softening as he looked at you. He was enjoying the way things were going. “I’m gonna grab us some food,” he said, tilting your chin up and pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “And a Diet Coke too.”

 You grinned, your smile so wide it showed all your teeth. “Want me to come with you?” Before either of you could say more, Ryan appeared with a question about drum kits, and Eli could see in your eyes that you wanted to answer.

 “I’ll be right back, I promise, little one,” he chuckled, leaving you with them. Minutes later, Ryan mentioned, “It’s great that Eli managed to finally talk to you. We’ve been hoping to catch you since that project you worked on with Miles.”

 The statement was so casual that you raised your eyebrows, realizing it had been over two years since that project—quite some time if you thought about it. “You guys were looking for me?”

 Ryan nodded, as if it were obvious. “Actually, Elijah suggested it. He’s into the albums you worked on. It took a while—you’re not exactly easy to track down.” You laughed, looking at them, struck by how Eli had admired your work for much longer than you’d ever realized. You’d thought he was out of reach, yet he’d appreciated your work from the start.

 “Don’t break our boy’s heart, alright? We’d have to side with you then, but we’d rather not,” Josh added with a smirk, and you felt your face heat up just as Eli returned, grinning, with a Diet Coke and fries in hand.

 You figured maybe you could handle this, after all.

[writesvani]

coming down | 01

collegestudent! gojo x collegestudent! reader

SUMMARY: You and Gojo Satoru were once everything to each other, but now, the space between you is filled with nothing but silence and resentment. College is just a reminder of how far you’ve drifted apart, and every encounter only adds fuel to the fire.

You avoid him like the plague, but it doesn’t matter. You can still feel him in the shadows, always there, always watching, as if the past was never really gone. So what do you do? You (try to) keep your distance, pretending it’s easy to forget the history that’s weighed you down for so long.

But deep down, neither of you can let go. And as the tension between you grows, you’re forced to confront the truth: some things are never truly buried, no matter how hard you try.

best friends-to-friends with benefits-to-enemies-to-enemies with benefits-to?

TWs (for this chapter): emotional distress and anxiety, body image issues and weight-related comments, mentions of food, dieting, and restriction, verbal abuse and manipulation, self-harm ideation, substance use and abuse references, mental health struggles (depression, anxiety, insecurity), intimate situations and explicit language, abandonment and neglect, self-deprecation and feelings of worthlessness, bullying or being belittled

comment here for Coming Down taglist;

SERIES M.LIST

— previous chapter / next chapter

wc: 4,7k // date: 5th of March 2025

CHAPTER ONE - The Morning; proceed with caution...

AN: okay, first of all, let’s talk about ren. he's liteeerally the only reason i'm posting this chapter earlier. REN. If you didn’t fall in love with him in this chapter, then honestly, i don’t know what to tell you because he’s an absolute gem. like i’m literally obsessed with him. he’s my favorite character HANDS DOWN. i’m talking top-tier, i would throw myself in front of a speeding bus for him if i had to. i mean, he’s got the charm, the humor, the flawless sense of timing. he’s a walking chaos machine and i’m here for it. can we please get a round of applause for ren? seriously, he’s out here living his best life, making questionable decisions, and somehow being the best friend anyone could ask for.

this chapter? oh yeah, it’s the introduction to the story, the one that sets everything on fire (in a good way, don’t worry). we’re finally giving you the ren experience in full force because he’s that important. his energy? unparalleled. his bad decisions? iconic. his ability to get people into ridiculous situations? absolutely legendary. and don’t even get me started on how much i’m loving writing for him. i know you can’t tell, but i’m literally typing this while holding back tears of joy. like, this man could ask me to jump off a cliff and i’d probably do it because i’m just so in love with his chaotic little soul.

stay tuned for more chaos, more fun, and more ren being ren.

love, [@writesvani] (ren's #1 fan)

No one ever told you opening your eyes while fighting a horrible hangover would be this hard—well, they did, and you’ve experienced it millions of times—but that doesn’t make it any easier.

Fluttering your eyelashes, your eyes barely open as a blurry flash of sunlight enters your narrow line of vision.

Ugh.

Why did you drink so much last night? You don’t even know.

Never drinking again.

Noted.

Lying to yourself won’t make the situation any easier.

Noted as well.

Hardly awake, you shift, trying to lift yourself up to sit—except your bed isn’t yours at all.

And this isn’t your room.

Or your apartment.

Your head throbs as you blink away the lingering fog in your vision, forcing yourself to take in your surroundings.

A small studio apartment. Cramped, slightly chaotic, and definitely unfamiliarly familiar.

The sofa beneath you is worn, the cushions flattened from years of use. Next to it, a tiny coffee table is cluttered with splattered magazines and old computer science textbooks, their spines cracked and bruised from relentless study sessions. Among the mess, a dirty ashtray overflows, its stale scent clinging to the air.

Gross.

A ginger-scented candle sits beside it—maybe an attempt to neutralize the overwhelming stench of smoke, though it clearly isn’t doing its job.

Your eyes drift further, landing on the tiny kitchen area. Greasy, dimly lit, its sink overflowing with dishes that look like they’ve been abandoned for days. The counters are barely visible beneath the chaos of unwashed mugs, instant ramen cups, and a suspiciously sticky bottle of what you assume was once honey.

Unease coils in your stomach.

Where the fuck are you?

Your fingers clutch the blanket draped over you, a thin, soft thing that smells like cheap detergent and cigarette smoke.

And then—

Relief floods through you like a tidal wave, so strong it almost makes you dizzy.

Oh.

Thank God.

Thank God you ended up here.

“So my worst best friend is finally up! What a lovely surprise!”

A voice—far too loud for this hour, far too cheerful for your current state—pulls you from the lingering haze of sleep.

You groan, pressing your palms into your temples as if that could somehow will away the pounding headache splitting your skull. “Please, for the love of God, let me enjoy my peace and quiet for five minutes before coming in with your unnecessary comments.”

A dramatic gasp. Then, “Okay, bitch. Rude. I understand you’re hungover, but please just be civilized for a second there. You don’t have to throw your defensive mechanism in—I didn’t even start my lecture yet.”

You crack open one eye just to glare. “Cut the crap, Ren. I’m not really in the mood right now.”

Ren smirks, crossing his arms as he leans against the kitchen counter. “Oh babe, if I were into women, I’d already have gotten you in it.”

Your lips twitch despite the throbbing in your skull. Because no matter how much you despise him in this exact moment—for being loud, for being happy, for simply existing when all you want is to die a slow, miserable, post-hangover death—a wave of relief crashes over you.

You’re safe.

Safe from last night. Safe with him.

You’ve known Ren for ages. Just to be more precise, since you were eleven. He’s your other half, your soulmate in a way that has nothing to do with romance and everything to do with the fact that, if it weren’t for his overwhelming love for ass and balls and dicks/men, the two of you would already be married.

It’s a thought you’ve had more than once. A parallel universe, maybe. One where you’d be an old married couple on some tropical island, far away from the bullshit of everyday life. Where you’d smoke weed all day and piss him off, and he’d play The Sims 4 all night and piss you off right back—screaming at his Sim for cheating on their husband with some new guy, courtesy of Wicked Whims.

But that’s not this universe.

This one’s a little messier.

This one’s full of questionable life choices, painfully slow mornings, and an unspoken pact:

If neither of you find an unrespectably hot, respectable man by the time you’re 35—

The wedding’s on.

“How the fuck did I end up here?”

Your voice is raw, thick with exhaustion and regret. The world tilts as you sit up, and for a brief moment, you genuinely consider throwing yourself right back into unconsciousness.

Ren, ever the dramatic one, sighs as if this isn’t the millionth time you’ve asked him that exact question. “What do you think?”

You blink at him. “First of all, don’t answer my question with another question. Second of all, IF I FUCKING KNEW, I WOULDN’T BE ASKING.”

Ren groans, tossing his hands into the air like a cartoon character about to launch into a monologue. “Okay, calm your pretty ass down, missy. You were too wasted. Or high. Or probably both. And you got a cab to my place. Probably the only address you could remember, considering we all know you can’t remember your own after one shot.”

His words are a jumble in your aching brain, but the general gist is clear: you fucked up. Again.

You huff, crossing your arms, but the sudden movement sends a sharp pain straight to your skull.

Yup.

Yup.

Never drinking again.

“Oh, Rennie,” you mumble, pulling his blanket over your head and collapsing onto the silky mattress. “I don’t think I’m ever going to drink again.”

Ouch. Bad decision. Pain again.

You’re dizzy, disoriented, sinking into the pillowcase you got him for his twenty-second birthday—the one he pretended not to like but still uses anyway.

Ren sighs. Not annoyed, not even surprised. Just—accepting. Because this isn’t the first time you’ve stumbled into his apartment, destroyed beyond reason, unable to string together a coherent sentence.

You feel bad. You always do. But you can’t help it.

Ren is the last remaining fragment of the old you, the one you buried deep in the back of your mind, the one you so desperately tried to forget. But he’s Ren, and he’s been your Ren since you were eleven.

And you hate it—hate that you keep dragging him into your mess, ruining his perfectly fine days with your self-inflicted chaos. But for some unfathomable reason, Ren still loves you.

He loved you at your best.

He loved you at your worst.

And somehow, he still loves you in whatever the fuck this is.

“It’s okay, babe. I know you’re lying.”

Ren’s voice is steady, soft, almost knowing. He doesn’t call you out with anger or frustration—just that damn patience of his, the kind that makes your chest tighten and your throat burn.

“C’mon, don’t go all crocodile tears and fake regrets on me now,” he continues, settling down next to you. “You know there’s always a safe space for you here.”

His hand finds your cheek, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles against your skin. His touch is light, barely there, but it still feels like an anchor. You lean into it instinctively, your head still pulsing with the aftermath of last night’s recklessness. Yet somehow, his presence dulls the ache, lulling your discomfort into something almost bearable.

Ren always had that effect on you.

“Now, now,” he hums, voice teasing but gentle. “Tell me what got you so worked up that you drank like a dog let off a leash last night.”

You tense, but before you can even think of an excuse, he sighs.

“Sorry for not coming, by the way,” he murmurs. “But you already know how I feel about Yumi and all your other friends.”

And just like that, if you thought you couldn’t possibly feel worse, Ren effortlessly proves you wrong.

Because the only person you actually wanted to spend time with on your birthday wasn’t there—and it’s all because of you.

Ren doesn’t like them. It’s as simple as that.

He doesn’t like your friends, your environment, or the people you surround yourself with. He thinks they’re a bunch of problematic teens trapped in grown-up bodies, incapable of making rational decisions. They seek validation from whatever reckless or idiotic thing they did just to be considered “cool enough” on campus.

And maybe he’s right. Maybe that’s exactly what they are.

Ren isn’t shy about speaking his truth, especially when it comes to them. And you’re used to it by now. Hell, you wouldn’t want him to lie, to pretend like everything’s fine when it’s clearly not. It’d be too toxic for your best friend to step out of his comfort zone just to match your lifestyle, to accommodate what you think you want.

He doesn’t need to.

Ren has been the only constant, the only good thing in your life for the past few years. And, in a way, that’s enough.

"It's okay, lovie. We’ll be together today," you murmur, your voice quieter than usual. "I tried to bail on the party, but you know Yumi—she just wouldn’t budge."

You shift, mind working at lightning speed, lips parting and closing as you try to piece together the mess of last night. It’s all a bit blurry, details slipping through the cracks of your memory like sand through your fingers. But one thing stands out.

Gojo called you cheap.

The words flash in your mind like a neon sign, burning hot, humiliating, cutting deeper than you’d ever admit. And, of course, you being you, there was no way you’d just walk away, let him have the last word like that. No, you had to strike back.

So you did.

In front of Geto, the guy you’d actually wanted to take home, you called Gojo out. Laid it all bare. Exposed your past, your messy, embarrassing, mistake-ridden history with him. Let the words roll off your tongue like venom, staining the air of Nanami’s pristine beige living room.

The degradation of admitting you’d once fucked the beautiful, white-eyed demon was almost unbearable. Almost. Because underneath that shame, there was something else—something undeniably satisfying about the way Gojo’s face drained of color.

Ha. Should’ve taken a picture.

The man was sweating.

But, of course, that satisfaction was short-lived. The moment passed, leaving behind nothing but a thick, awkward silence that hung in the air like a bad smell.

Mood? Ruined.

Horny? Not anymore.

Gojo? Pissed.

Geto? Not having it.

And honestly, you couldn’t even blame him. Who the hell would still be in the mood after witnessing an argument that never should’ve happened in the first place?

Gojo left quickly, tossing a sharp, “This isn’t over” over his shoulder before disappearing.

And Geto?

He just sat there, staring at you, dumbfounded.

So, as any sane person would do, you decided to self-destruct with tequila and dance to the INNA Party Mix some random guy snuck into the playlist while no one was looking.

Gojo’s words didn’t touch you. Not even a little bit. And losing your dick of the night? Whatever. Hot guys were everywhere. Besides, it was probably for the best—you really didn’t need the extra drama of Geto’s girlfriend finding out about whatever almost happened.

So that’s probably how you ended up at Ren’s place.

Even though you have zero recollection of getting here in the first place.

“So it wasn’t just weed and shots,” Ren squeezes your hand, his voice softer now. “It was Gojo.”

Your throat tightens. No. It wasn’t Gojo. Of course, it wasn’t Gojo. You just wanted to let loose, enjoy the night, without anyone ruining it for you. Right?

Right?

“Who cares about that assface? I just wanted to get drunk and high, simple as that.”

“Okay, okay,” Ren lifts his hands in surrender. “I won’t mention it again. Promise on Charli XCX.” He nods toward the poster on his wall, and for the first time since waking up, a laugh escapes your lips.

His eyes light up at the sound, and in that moment, you swear you love him even more.

Because Ren never pushes. He never pressures you to explain yourself or dissect your feelings. He just lets you be.

And you love him for that.

What you don’t love is the flicker of knowing in his gaze—the way he reads you like an open book. Not many people ever managed to do that.

But it doesn’t matter. Because Ren never says it out loud.

It’s different with him.

Sometimes you wonder if things would be easier if you could have this kind of connection with anyone else. But then again, if you did, maybe what you have with Ren wouldn’t feel so rare and fragile and beautiful.

“Swear on BRAT,” you say, extending your pinky.

“I swear on BRAT,” he echoes, linking his pinky with yours.

And just like that, Gojo isn’t mentioned again.

Or last night.

Or Yumi.

Or Nanami’s obscenely expensive house.

"C'mon, babe. Let's go get some breakfast."

Ren tugs you out of bed, dragging you into the world of the living, and just like that, you’re not a mess anymore. It’s stupid how easily he does that—how he makes you feel a little less like a disaster with nothing but his presence. And maybe, just maybe, you love him a little more than you did mere seconds ago.

The place Ren takes you to is… odd.

Some kind of coffee shop-slash-restaurant-in-the-making. It’s close to his apartment, but it’s way too edgy to be a normal breakfast spot. But hey—a free meal is a free meal, and who are you to complain when he offered to treat you?

Okay, maybe you’re exaggerating a little. It’s not that edgy. Just… offbeat.

It’s called Radio, and by some wonderfully bizarre twist, the entire place is literally filled with radios.

They’re everywhere.

The walls are made of them, stacked up like some chaotic art installation. Car radios serve as makeshift stands, holding the food and drink menus. The menus themselves? Coquette-coded, decorated with bows and big-eyed deer like they were plucked straight from some Tumblr fever dream.

And then there’s the rest of the decor—ripped anime T-shirts hanging in the corners, stickers on the counter with millennial-core quotes like Eat. Sleep. Coffee. Repeat.

The waitress who approaches your table looks dead inside, eyeliner smudged into a mess so perfectly disheveled it’s almost intentional. She definitely doesn’t want to be here. But then again, do any of us?

"Stop judging," Ren hisses.

You blink at him. Judging?

"I’m a broke college student, and this place is cheap enough to actually fill my stomach," he defends, crossing his arms.

"I’m not judging," you retort. "But you have to admit, this place is weird. Look around. The interior designer who made this was probably on coke. Or MDMA. Or both."

Ren sighs. Deeply.

"Not everyone has to get high to come up with weirdly fun concepts," he says, exasperated.

"Now that’s just a lie, honey," you shoot back, leaning on your hand. "All artists get their inspiration somewhere, and the good ones? They get it on something. Look at Van Gogh. Dickens. Bukowski—"

"That’s not something to be proud of," Ren interrupts, rolling his eyes. "Those people were addicts. They needed help. Jesus. There's no proof that they made their best works because they were high—who knows? Maybe their art would've been even better if they were sober."

You hum, pretending to consider his argument.

"Well, you can’t prove that, can you?" you say, smirking.

Ren narrows his eyes, lips pressing into a thin line. Checkmate.

You love throwing these hypothetical what ifs at him just as much as he loves throwing them at you. His argument about sobriety is well-executed, you’ll give him that.

But he’ll never understand the euphoria—the way inspiration thrums in your veins when you’re tipsy, or better yet, high. The way stories are born from that space between reality and delirium. You swear your best ideas only exist there.

(Not that you’ve ever tried making them sober, of course.)

"Let’s not argue about the lives and works of people we’ll never truly know," Ren sighs, finally relenting.

"Okay," you agree, lips twitching.

For now.

“So, we can’t talk about your Voldemort, but you can for sure tell me more about that black-haired hottie you met last night?”

Ren’s rosy lips curve into a playful grin, his eyes lighting up with excitement. And just like that, you can’t help but melt at how much he lives for the gossip. Some things never change.

“He has a girlfriend, you mentioned?” Ren asks again, clearly wanting the details.

“Yeah, but it’s not like I care,” you shrug, rolling your eyes. “I wouldn’t go after a taken man who didn’t want me—that’s just not cool. But this guy, I’m telling you, from the second he laid eyes on me, he was eye-fucking me. Like, full-on, taking my clothes off telepathically and sinking his cock into me. It was intense.”

Ren snorts, amused.

“And if you saw him—he was all black long hair, a bandana, A BANDANA hanging from his neck. Made me wanna strangle him and lick him at the same time.” You pause, feeling the heat rise in your chest. “And the polo shirt, okay, I thought it was kinda lame for a college party, but it gave me a peek at his abs and, oh my god, his happy trail. And his lips, babe, I’m telling you. Pink, soft, begging to be bitten. Ugh. I should’ve tried harder and just fucked him.”

“Wait, you saw his happy trail?”

“Yeah, his shirt rode up when he was stretching after playing billiards with the guys. I was already plastered, but trust me, I saw it. It was practically an invitation to drop to my knees.” You take a bite of your fries, half-listening to yourself as the images replay in your mind.

“Well, if it were me, I’d be licking that happy trail into the midnight and riding him ‘til sunrise, baby,” Ren quips with a grin, taking a bite of his crepes.

You can see the look in Ren’s eyes—the way he’s already imagining it all. It makes you laugh, feeling a rush of affection for your ridiculous, perfectly in-sync best friend.

“Got a pic of the hottie?”

You freeze.

Your horniness deflates to zero. You forgot. You didn’t even get his number, his Instagram, nothing. “I forgot to follow him. I’m so fucking dumb.”

Ren rolls his eyes.

“Follow him now, duh. Who cares?”

“I care,” you say quickly. “I don’t want him to think I’m some creepy-ass loser who’s randomly looking him up.”

Ren looks at you like you’re nuts. “He won’t think that. Plus, if he doesn’t follow you back, then he’s blind and needs a check-up.”

“Let’s just try looking him up on Insta. Maybe he has a profile pic so you can see him, but I am NOT following him.”

You whip out your phone and start typing.

And there he is. Geto Suguru.

And oh boy.

His profile pic isn't just a pic, he's shirtless, his shorts hanging low on his hips, and there it is—the happy trail, long, dark, and deliciously inviting. His face is perfectly smirking, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. You feel a shiver run down your spine, practically drooling as you stare at the picture.

Ren, ever impatient, snatches your phone from your hands before you can even blink. His mouth falls open in shock.

“Sweet Jesus, oh my God,” he breathes, his eyes flicking between you and the picture, blinking rapidly like his brain can’t handle it.

Then he moves his thumb. And you know exactly what he’s doing, but it’s too late. It’s too fucking late.

Ren has just sent a follow request to your “almost fuck.”

You feel a panic rise in your chest. No. This is it. You’re going to strangle him. Watch as life leaves his annoying body and his breath gets lost somewhere else because you know—you just know—he did it. He followed him. From your phone and your goddamn Instagram account.

“Are. You. Fucking. Insane?”

You stare at Ren in disbelief, heart pounding in your chest as your brain tries to process what he’s just done.

“I did what had to be done,” Ren grins, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “This man is too fine and too sexy not to be tried out at least once. Honestly, pardon his straightness, but I’d blow him like my life depended on it. Since I can’t do it myself, you’re gonna take the sacrifice of doing it for me.”

You feel a mix of anger and embarrassment bubble up inside you. “Ren, I’m going to kill you. I’m literally going to kill you.”

“Relax, girl,” he snickers, waving you off like it’s no big deal. “And when you fuck him, pretty please think about me, so I can, by some miracle, feel it as well.”

You roll your eyes, trying to calm yourself down, but there's that nagging fear lingering in the pit of your stomach. “What if he doesn’t follow me back?” you whine, your voice a mix of real concern and dramatic flair. “I’m too old for this humiliation. I don’t need more rejection stacking up on my list.”

Ren just shrugs, completely nonchalant. “He will. Trust. Now eat your food, ho, and let’s go shopping.”

You don’t believe him, though. Deep down, you know he’s lying—because by the end of your shopping spree with Ren, Geto still hasn’t followed you back.

You’re losing your mind.

Even after you’ve showered, eaten, and taken a power nap, you find yourself glued to your phone. There’s still no accepted request. No follow. Just a stupid pending ‘follow request sent’ sitting there, mocking you.

You panic. You called Ren probably ten times and sent him thirty messages, all containing some combination of death, you, kill, and didn’t follow me back. You’ve become a mess—unrecognizable even to yourself.

The worst part? You know he saw it. You just know it. There’s no way in hell he didn’t check his phone at least once in the eight hours that passed. He’s leaving you hanging, like some peasant who isn’t even worth the time to be acknowledged.

It stings. It fucking stings.

You were dramatic before, sure, but you were deep down thinking he'd follow you back. Everyone does. He was all over you last night, wanting you, practically undressing you with his eyes. There was no way that stupid little spat with Gojo could have ruined things with Geto. Or maybe you were wrong. Maybe you were just stupid.

How dare he?

How dare he act like you weren’t worth even a simple follow? You start pacing around the room, frustration boiling over as your mind spirals into overdrive.

Then it hits you.

Gojo. That bastard. He’s always meddling in your business, always making things harder than they need to be. He loves getting involved for no reason, just to mess with you.

Just like he did before.

18 years ago

It’s an usual Friday afternoon, and you’re sitting with your great grandma on the front porch, her wrinkled hands steady as she writes down the words you dictate to her. You don’t know how to write yet—not really. Yes, you know the alphabet, but putting words together, let alone sentences on paper, feels like an impossible task for your six-year-old mind. But you know how to speak, and that’s all that matters right now. So you speak, and she writes, and together, you create a poem. It’s about winter, and comfort, and there’s a line about soup cooking on the stove, messily tossed in there.

You swear, in that moment, you’ve never been prouder of yourself. You are creating something—your very first poem. And even though it’s messy, even though it doesn’t follow all the rules of the world that you’re still figuring out, you did it.

Gojo, your next door neighbor and self proclaimed best friend sits beside you, shyly drawing you, your grandma, himself, and his favorite teddy bear, Teddy (of course) on what he insists is a train, even though it looks more like a stinky snail. You laugh, but then your excitement gets the best of you, and you run to your dad to show him the poem you just made with Nana. You can’t read it, but that doesn’t matter because Nana’s going to read it to him, and you’re so excited.

You just know he’ll be proud of you.

Nana reads the poem out loud, and you watch your dad as he listens. He smiles, and you’re filled with warmth, because he’s so pretty when he smiles. His eyes crinkle in that perfect greenish light, and his mouth—those dimples—just make everything feel perfect.

But then, he speaks.

“Nana, it’s great you’re teaching her all that, but she doesn’t have to write about food. There are many more beautiful things to write about. Our little peach is already a bit too chubby, and we’ve really been trying to help her lose weight, so I don’t think writing or thinking about food is good for her right now, right?”

Your heart sinks. Your excitement crashes to the ground.

You don’t know what it is, but his words make you feel so small. Your eyes drop to the ground, and you can’t hide from the uncomfortable, overwhelming feeling that floods over you. You already feel too big in your skin, too big in your body. Too big in your dad’s mind.

And then you feel it—the rush of anxiety. It sweeps over you like a tide, drowning you in its force. The weight of his words, the weight of your disappointment in his eyes, it’s too much. You couldn’t even keep it together for a stupid little poem.

Again.

You’ve disappointed him. Again. And there’s nothing you can do to make it stop.Nana says something, her voice soft and reassuring, about you being a normal, healthy little kid. She shakes her head at your dad disapprovingly, but you can’t hear her over the ringing in your ears. His words hang around you, clouding the air, and the warmth that had once bloomed in your chest shrivels up. The mood is ruined. And even though you fight it, even though you don’t want to, your eyes grow heavy and the tears that have been threatening to spill finally break free.

You try to hold them back, but they come anyway.

"I don’t think you’re chubby. You’re cute, and I liked your poem," Gojo whispers to you, his small, warm hand slipping into yours. He squeezes it gently and beams a pretty, innocent smile at you.

But instead of feeling better, you feel worse.

His hand is smaller than yours. And he’s a boy. He’s smaller and slimmer than you, and you’re a girl. You shouldn’t even be thinking about these things, but you can’t stop. He’s smaller and slimmer and better, and you're chubbier, and nothing about this is fair.

And then you hear your dad again, his words ringing in your ears, harsher this time.

“Satoru, you don’t have to lie to make her feel better. Y/n’s a big girl. She can take it. Besides, she knows it’s for her own good.”

You nod, but it’s sharp and harsh, the motion of your head quick and jerky. You pull away from Satoru’s embrace, feeling like you might break under the weight of everything. His eyes are sad. You can see it now. The pity. The pity in his eyes, in your dad’s eyes, in everyone’s eyes. It’s there, it’s so clear, and you hate it.

You don’t understand pity yet, not fully, but you understand how it makes you feel small.

You’re not a little kid anymore.

Satoru looks mad now. He gives you one of those looks—‘It’s okay, I’ve got you’—the kind that only makes you feel worse. You can’t stand it.

You want to run. You want to hide. You want to be alone, away from all of this, away from their pity, away from the shame building up in your chest.

So you do.

You run. You run to your room, and when you’re there, the door shuts behind you, and you fall onto your bed. The tears come in waves, and you cry until evening falls, until your eyes are red and sore. You don’t come downstairs for dinner.

“Tomorrow, I’m not gonna eat anything. Then all of them are gonna see.”

You whisper the words to yourself, not fully understanding the weight of them, but in that moment, they make you feel like you have control. Like you can make everything better. And that's how it all begins.

taglist: @heh123321 @kazupop @mintcheery @krispywhisperswhispers

[wegc]

omg thots on 3some w 3racha in the studio….???🫣 w the door unlocked..???? eek!!!

first thought is that a 3some with 3racha is genuinely a fucking dream because HELLO!!! two super fucking buff men fucking the shit out of you and one insatiable, greedy, pussy drunk brat sloppily kissing you all over? give it to me NOW!

i can just envision being caught by changbin and jisung when you and chan are making out on the studio couch, you perched securely on his lap with two firm hands groping your ass. chan usually locks the door, but this time he was careless, and perhaps he wanted changbin and jisung to witness how he gets to have you, all desperate and out of breath after he catches them staring at you far too many times.

when poor jisung opens the door, he can’t help the flush of his face and the overwhelming sensation of his cock stirring in his sweatpants because you look so fuckable, and your ass looks so soft, and god—would you grind your cunt like that above him?

changbin wants to reprimand chan; as their hyung, he should’ve been more cautious, more responsible—they produce music here every day and now the pair of you are moments from fucking each other right on the studio couch? but he doesn't say anything. how can he when his throat becomes drier than it has ever become? how can he say anything when he’s dreamt of you in this situation for so long? and when chan finally looks over and shyly laughs before beckoning him to take you next, how can he say no when he’s fisted his cock to this very scenario?

changbin would be rough and fast, pounding you from behind, slapping your ass, and yanking your hair, almost punishing you for being such a whore—for being so keen to endure three cocks one after the other. he prays to whatever deity out there that he earns the chance of doing this again because he needs to fuck your ass; that ought to teach you a lesson! if you wanna get fucked so bad, take all three of them at once!

“god—you’re fucking insatiable, aren’t you? you’d bend over for some dick anywhere, huh?”

and chan, who landed the two of you in this predicament in the first place, calls you his greedy little thing. he’d be temperate compared to the other two, cooing and laughing breathlessly in your face, peppering you with lingering, sloppy kisses and urging you to jerk hannie off as he takes care of you.

“you like that, pretty? yeah, i know baby—you gonna cry? feels that good? can’t go a day without being filled up, hm? i’ll give it to you.”

and jisung, dirty little jisung who wants it messy—who yearns to spit in your mouth and have you choke and gag on his sore, thick cock as you’re getting fucked. jisung, who smears your mascara down your flushed cheeks and ensures you leave stains of your lipstick on his dick—he needs you to be a fucking mess.

“always so proper around everyone else—stupid slut for us though, yeah? tell me you like being used like this—nothing but a hole for us, yeah?"

or, perhaps one day, you'll make a mess out of him too. jisung wants nothing more than for you to spit in his face and slap him around. leave bruised, splotchy marks on his chest! call him your stupid fucking slut! bully him for being so desperate to eat you out! tug on his hair every time he becomes all fuzzy when he's eating you out! his eye will roll back, i promise.

either way, when they're not playing with you in the meanwhile, chan and changbin will be fisting their aching, overstimulated cocks, engraving this memory in their minds eternally to preserve it for masturbation fuel later!!!

[bucksangel]

milk and sugar

pairing: alpha!steve x alpha!bucky, alpha!steve x artist!omega!reader x alpha!bucky (poly) - omegaverse!au part two

word count: 5.1k

summary: “Are you nervous?” Steve asks, voice soft and caring. His hand settles on your arm, and Bucky appears beside you to place his hand on your back, as well as take one of your hands in his metal one. And despite your earlier anxiety, you mean it wholeheartedly when you say, “no.” or - it’s your first date with your alphas.

warnings: fluff fluff and more fluff, reader has insecurities, steve and bucky are adorable and caring, steve is very nervous bc he’s a romantic, like it’s almost unbearable how much of a pure puppy he is, bucky is extremely fond and a little teasing (bc of course he is), omegaverse, kissing, there are bits where it’s just steve and bucky

a/n: this fic doesn’t contain smut, however, due to the nature of my blog this is strictly 18+

milk and honey masterlist | main masterlist | tip jar

‘Good morning, darling.’

That’s the text you received from Bucky at nine that morning - in the group chat he’d made with Steve and you. And while you normally sleep in on Sundays since your studio is closed, you’d woken up early - seven to be exact -  due to the anxiety you’ve been feeling ever since your art class ended yesterday.

Truthfully, you didn’t really sleep well anyway. Going on a date with not just one, but two Alphas at the same time has you on edge - though, not in a bad way. No, not at all. These are the good kinds of nerves, the exciting kind.

Well, okay, not all of your nerves are positive. Being naturally shy and reserved has caused you to overthink every single interaction you’ve had with the Alphas, both together and separately. And now that you’re going on this date, you can’t help the way your insecurities come creeping in faster and faster as it gets closer.

Because what if they decide they don’t like you after they actually get the chance to know you? What if they don’t even pay much attention to you and treat this as a date with just them since that must be what they’re more used to? What if you say or do something wrong and they get scared away?

Now, logically, you know those first two outcomes are absurd. Over the past few weeks, they’ve each shown extreme interest in getting to know you, they show how much care they have for you, and oh boy does that knowledge make your heart flutter. It makes you feel good, really good about yourself.

But that last point? Well, that is a big insecurity of yours. As a child, you weren’t that open and didn’t have many friends. And it was hard to make new ones when you would always stutter and trip over yourself, causing many of the kids you’d gone to school with to laugh at you. You were so shy, always the shortest kid in your class which made you an easy target for bullying, especially since you couldn’t hold a conversation well and you’d constantly accidentally bump into someone. It’s honestly a surprise that Tori had stuck around this long.

And, to be completely honest, you think you could deal with them maybe not finding you as interesting as they probably thought, maybe even them telling you that it just wouldn’t work out. Yes, it would hurt for a while, but you would deal with it. However, you absolutely could not live with the Alphas finding you annoying. Because this whole thing already feels like a fever dream, and if you were to fuck it up by doing or saying something embarrassing it would only serve as proof that you aren’t fit for Alphas like them.

It’s nine-fifteen when you respond with ‘good morning :)’

And not even a minute later, Steve texts back. ‘how are you feeling about today?’

Well, isn’t that a good question? Because you want nothing more than to go on this date, you want this to work out so badly that you feel like your heart might burst out of your chest. But, again, those fucking insecurities are messing with your mind.

It’s maybe a few minutes later when you reply with ‘Feeling okay, you guys?’

A bubble pops up at the bottom of the text thread, Bucky typing for a good thirty seconds before it disappears. And it stays like that for another full minute, your heart hammering in your chest as your anxieties are jumping to the worst possible outcome. What if they cancel? What if they-

Your phone screen comes to life when Steve calls you. He’s calling you. And for a moment you want to let it go to voicemail, you don’t want them to hear how nervous you are. But you also don’t want them to think you’re ignoring them, so you answer with a timid, “Hello?”

“Hi, honey,” Steve says calmly, his smooth voice doing a good job of soothing some of your worries.

“Hi!” You hear Bucky yell in the background, causing you to giggle.

“Hi, guys.”

You hear a thud in the background before Bucky yells “Put her on speaker, punk!” And then you can hear both of them clearly, Steve laughing as Bucky huffs in what you assume is a fake annoyance.

“So, uh, I’m just wondering. Um, where are we going today?” Mentally, you curse yourself for being so awkward, for tripping over your words while talking to the two most handsome Alphas you’ve ever met.

“That’s a surprise, honey,” Steve says, the smile on his face is evident in his tone. “Just wear something comfortable.”

“And warm!” Bucky adds, coming closer to the phone. “We don’t need you getting cold, okay?”

The hint of authority in his voice makes your heartbeat pick up speed and the care that’s so evident in just the way he speaks kind of makes you want to cry a little. When was the last time any potential partner showed even these small acts of concern for your well-being? Too long.

“Yes, sir,” You joke, having to bite your lip to keep your smile from widening even further when both Alphas laugh. Butterflies are swirling in your stomach, forming a tornado of anticipation and nerves for the day’s festivities.

“Alright,” Steve says with a hint of laughter. “We’ll let you go get ready and we’ll pick you up in two hours, okay?”

Two hours? That seems like too long yet not long enough. You’ve already showered, all you really need to do is find something to wear and then fix your hair - maybe throw on some mascara. But, still. Two hours seems like the perfect amount of time to have a full-on breakdown over this date. But at least that should also give you some time to recover from said breakdown.

“Yeah, that works!” Internally, you cringe at how eager you sound. Because even though you’re nervous beyond belief, and a tiny part of you wants to cancel the date out of fear of anything embarrassing happening, you don’t think you’d be able to live with yourself if you let these two slip through your fingers without giving it a fighting chance. 

“Great,” Bucky says, clearly smiling. “Just send us your address and we’ll be there.”

Once you bid your goodbyes to each other you make sure to send them your address before deciding to freak out over what to wear. Luckily for you, and as though the universe knows you need the help, your doorbell rings soon after. Confused as to who would be at your door this early, you make your way to the door, and when you open it you see Tori standing on the other side with a wide smile.

“Alright, girl,” She says happily, ignoring the incredulous look on your face as she pushes past you to walk into your apartment. “We have to get you ready, where are they taking you?”

“Hello to you too, Tori,” you say with a slight roll of your eyes as you close the door.

“Hey, babe!” Tori grabs your wrist and all but yanks you towards your room, not really caring about the fact that you’re nearly tripping over yourself in an effort to keep up. When you both get to your room she lets go of your arm and heads for your closet.

“So, where are you guys going?”

“I don’t know, they just said to dress warm and comfortable.” Your shoulders shrug, fingers nervously fiddling with each other. You’re not too sure what exactly to wear based on those being the only two requests. Sure, you have plenty of sweaters and jackets and scarves - it’s New York after all - but you don’t know what will impress the Alphas.

You want to impress them so badly. You don’t want them to regret asking you out, and while clothing choices aren’t a ‘make or break’ type of thing it’s still important to you that you look the best you possibly can. After all, anyone who’s seen Steve and Bucky in person would agree that they’re most definitely the two most handsome men to ever exist.

Something soft hitting you in the face knocks you out of your thoughts.

“Hey!” You yelp, looking at the ground to see the thing that hit you - your light brown sweater with a cute graphic of a pumpkin patch on the front. Seconds later, a pair of leggings hit your chest. “Tori!”

Tori simply laughs, then heads to your shoe rack next to the closet door.

“How do you know this will be good for the date?” You ask as you pick up the sweater to inspect it as though you haven’t worn it hundreds of times. But, again, today needs to go perfectly so any stains you might’ve missed would not go down well with you.

“I don’t,” She admits with a shrug of her shoulders. “But that sweater accentuates your boobs and the leggings make your ass look great.”

Your whole body goes hot, the implication of them looking at those parts of your body doesn’t make you shrink away like it normally would, though you can barely stop your insecurities about your body from throwing the items to the side and picking something else to prevent that from happening.

“I-I don’t know, Tori…” You sigh, going over to your bed and sitting down on the edge. “What if they don’t like it? I mean, they’re-”

“Stop it,” Tori says forcefully, walking over to stand in front of you. “You’re beautiful and kind and wonderful and they’re going to love you. And if they don’t, then that’s not your fault. As long as you give it your all, everything will be fine.”

Coming closer, she places her hands on your shoulders so she can shake you a little bit. “I love you, girl. You’re my best friend and I want to see you happy. And it seems like they make you happy, but you make them happy too. I’ve seen it in the way they look at you, how they talk to you. It’s going to be fine, babe. I promise.”

After a long pause where you think over her words, you decide that she’s right - at least about your feelings. You like them so fucking much, so it wouldn’t be fair to them or yourself if you didn’t try your best.

“Okay… Okay, then. Let’s get me ready.”

And with that, Tori smiles brightly, leaning down to squeeze you in a tight hug before releasing you.

____________

It’s a few minutes before eleven when Bucky and Steve park out front of your apartment building. Steve is practically vibrating out of his skin, Bucky even had to convince his mate that he should drive to pick you up since Steve could barely keep his knees from bouncing.

“Baby,” Bucky says, shutting off the engine and twisting in his seat to face Steve. “It’s going to be okay. We’re going to just be ourselves and treat her like she deserves, there’s no way she’s going to not like us.”

Steve nods, though he doesn’t look super convinced. It’s clear from how he spent fifteen minutes this morning in the flower shop picking out the perfect bouquet for you that he really, really wants this to work. And even though he doesn’t show it, Bucky knows Steve would be heartbroken if it didn’t. His mate’s always been a softie, and there’s something about you that makes him feel different - better than any other omega ever could.

Bucky knows exactly how he feels. Because, although he’s not as outwardly anxious, he just knows that you’re perfect for them, and he wants to do everything he can to make you see that they can take care of you, they can protect and love you. Your smile and sweet giggle haunt his dreams, his nightmares have long been replaced with his memories of him and Steve - and now you. He can’t help but imagine what it would be like to wake up next to you and his Alpha, to cuddle with you two in your nest as you all trade kisses and talk about anything and everything.

“You’re sure?” Steve asks with a timid voice, fiddling with the flowers in his lap. “I - we really like her.”

Bucky sighs, then reaches over the console to place his hand on the back of his mate's neck in a comforting manner. And even though it’s uncomfortable, Bucky leans over and presses a soft kiss to Steve’s lips.

“I’m sure, Stevie.”

Steve sighs too, leaning forward to kiss Bucky again before pulling back.

“Okay, Buck.”

With that, they both share a small smile and then get out of the car. It’s about a minute-long elevator ride up to your floor, Bucky holding his mate’s free hand the entire way and sending him feelings of calmness through their bond. It works until they get to your front door because now Steve is practically fumbling with the flowers as he figures out the best way to hold them while Bucky knocks.

It’s about a minute later when the door swings open, but it’s not you. It’s Tori with a wide, knowing smirk on her face.

“Hello, boys,” She says, crossing her arms over her chest. “Those for her?” She nods towards the sunflowers and daisies Steve is holding.

“They are,” Bucky says with a smile of his own. Glancing at Steve to see him nod. “Is she ready?”

“Yes!” You say, quickly running up behind Tori to gently push her to the side and give her a side glare. You’re fiddling with your clothes, tugging at the bottom of the sweater in order to smooth out the fabric.

However, in the Alphas’ eyes, there’s no need for you to do so. Through their bond both of them feel the other go kind of dumb - you always look pretty but today’s outfit just hits them differently. Your eyeliner makes the color of your eyes pop, and the shiny lipgloss makes your lips nearly impossible to not kiss.

They don’t, though. Not yet. The last thing either of them wants to do is make you uncomfortable, especially with Tori standing behind you. So, instead, Bucky smiles and elbows Steve to get him out of his trance.

“Hello, honey,” Bucky says, his smile turning into a smirk when you fail to suppress a squeak.

“H-hi, guys,” You say nervously with a small smile. “Are those for me?” You ask when you notice the flowers in Steve’s hand.

“Oh, um, yes,” Steve stutters ever so slightly, reaching out to hand you the bouquet. “You once said you love Sunflowers.”

____________

“You once said you love Sunflowers.”

Something about this gesture makes you want to tear up. Flowers may not be a big deal to some people, but they mean everything to you. Receiving gifts from partners has been rare for you, so the beauty of the petals and knowing that they’re for you just makes you preen a little bit.

“I do,” You say softly, almost like you can’t believe he remembered. “They’re beautiful, thank you. Really.”

“Just like you,” Steve blurts out before a redness covers his cheeks.

And you absolutely cannot be blamed for the embarrassing squeak you let out. You try being called beautiful by Steve fucking Rogers and not want to bury your face in his neck to inhale his scent.

“Th-thank you,” You say with a giggle, handing the flowers to Tori and giving her a grateful smile as she gives you a quick kiss on your cheek.

“You guys have fun,” She teases, waving you off with a smile. “Treat her well or you’ll have hell to pay.”

“Of course,” Bucky says with an assuring nod. “Wouldn’t treat her with anything but care.” He says this while looking at you though, the twinkle in his eyes making you want to bare your neck to him.

When the door closes behind you, you step closer to the Alphas.

“Are you nervous?” Steve asks, voice soft and caring, though clearly a little anxious. His hand settles on your arm, and Bucky appears beside you to place his hand on your back, as well as take one of your hands in his metal one.

And despite your earlier anxiety, you mean it wholeheartedly when you say, “No.” How can you be nervous now when the feeling of the men’s warm hands on you and their clear concern for your wellbeing makes your heartbeat quicken in anticipation?

“Let’s go?” You ask, face growing warm in slight embarrassment for your enthusiasm.

“Let’s go,” Both Alphas say in unison. And then all of you are off to the truck - a very nicely kept, sleek black truck. Steve opens the back door for you before, to your surprise, sliding in next to you.

“We agreed he could sit in the back with you on the way there as long as I could sit next to you on our way back,” Bucky pipes up at your questioning glance.

Feelings of warmth fill your entire being, and you already know that today is going to be the most fun you’ve had in a while.

____________

It’s about a thirty-five-minute drive before you finally arrive at a park - a beautiful stretch of the greenest grass you’ve ever seen with orange and red-leafed trees surrounding two sides of it. It’s big, but if you look close enough you can make out a trail off to the left. That half hour was, surprisingly to you, filled with pleasant conversation. Now, your previous interactions with the men proved that they were wonderful company, but you’re surprised that you’re not as nervous as you thought you’d be. Everything was moving smoothly, there wasn’t even a single moment of awkward silence.

“We’re here,” Bucky says, pulling into a free parking spot closest to the entrance of the trail. Steve opens the door as Bucky gets out as well and goes around to the back of the truck. And Steve, ever the gentleman, holds your hand as he helps you climb out of the backseat, only letting go when you begin smoothing out your clothes.

“Are we ready?” Bucky appears next to you holding a large blanket and a stereotypical wicker basket.

A small smile forms on your face, and your heartbeat increases ever so slightly. How are they so fucking sweet?

“Yes!” Immediately, your face goes hot, self-conscious of your enthusiasm. But the Alphas don’t seem to mind, in fact, Steve takes the blanket from under Bucky’s arm and tucks it under his own, then grabs your hand and intertwines your fingers together.

“Let’s go then,” Steve says, smiling softly down at you.

With that, the three of you head off to the trail, walking under colorful oak trees that flank both sides of the dirt path. A comfortable silence falls over all of you, only the sounds of birds chirping filling the air. You walk for a few minutes, the leaves crunching under your feet as you take in the beauty surrounding you, your eyes wide with wonder.

The environment is comforting, calm, puts you at ease in a way you don’t normally experience. It’s freeing to feel so content - so happy. It takes about five minutes before you come upon a set of wooden stairs leading down to the most beautiful lake you’ve ever seen. The water is nearly clear, the colorful trees reflecting over the surface, and even though it’s a clear day out, you can’t help but notice the golden hue filling the air. You don’t even notice you’ve stopped walking until Steve tugs on your hand.

“Do you like it?” He asks, almost nervous as he waits for your reaction.

“I…” You trail off, tears filling your eyes. This whole thing is just - just perfect. “I love it,” you say as you look at Steve, a wide smile spreading across your face. And you look at Bucky when you say, “It’s perfect.”

____________

“It’s perfect.”

Bucky can’t help but let out a small sigh of relief. They’d both wracked their brains trying to figure out where to take you, what to do. They want to wow you, to show you that they can - and hopefully will get the chance to provide for you, they can make you happy. You’ll never go without, if you want something, they will figure out a way to get it.

“Good,” Steve says softly, smiling down at you before looking up at Bucky and nodding his head.

With that, the three of you make your way down the stairs, Steve holding on to your hand tightly to make sure you don’t fall, and Bucky places his free hand on your back. He can hear how your heartbeat speeds up when he does so and tries so hard not to puff out his chest when you glance up at him through your eyelashes coyly.

Once you’re down by the lake, the men lead you to a large oak tree merely ten or so feet from the edge. Steve is quick to unfold the blanket and spread it out under the tree - large enough to probably cover an entire California King bed. Bucky then places the basket down as his mate takes your hand and helps you sit near the edge of the blanket leaving enough space for the men to sit on either side of you.

The Alphas quickly open the basket and pull out containers of food, opening the lids and placing them in front of you. When they finally sit down - obviously with you in the middle - Bucky notices how wide your eyes are, how you seem transfixed on the array of fruits and sandwiches and cake. It’s when Bucky pulls out the jug of homemade lemonade that you choke back a cry.

“Honey?” Steve asks, turning his body to face you with a concerned look in his eyes.

“Are you alright? What’s wrong?” Bucky places a hand on your back, sweeping it around to hold your waist. And can you really blame him if his whole body goes hot when you lean into his side and turn your face so it’s halfway buried in his neck?

It takes a few seconds but you’re finally able to gather yourself and pull away.

“You guys are just… I can’t believe it.”

“What can’t you believe, sweetheart?” Steve scoots closer to you, placing his hand on your head to smooth out your hair, and unconsciously turns your head so he can look directly at you. “Tell us what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”

____________

You want to scream. You want to yell until your voice gives out. It’s nothing, in the grand scheme of things. Them preparing food - by hand - and bringing you to this beautiful spot might just be a normal thing for most people, but considering you’ve hardly ever been shown this much affection and thoughtfulness. Shaking your head, you look away, unable to withstand the Alpha's intense gaze.

“It’s nothing,” You mumble, fiddling with your fingers. “It’s stupid.”

“No, it’s not, honey,” Bucky says, giving your waist an affectionate squeeze. “If you’re upset, we want you to tell us.”

“I’m not! I promise!” You assure them, hesitantly reaching both of your hands out to place them on the Alpha’s legs. “I guess I just… I’ve just never been shown this much… care?” It’s phrased as a question, because you’re unsure if that was the right word to use, but it’s all you can think of at the moment.

“I know it may not seem like a lot,” You continue, taking a deep breath before looking up at Steve, and then Bucky. “But this means the world to me. You guys are just so sweet and thoughtful and I’m not really sure what to do, I’ve never felt this way about anyone before, let alone two people.”

Both of the men sigh, and you can almost taste the scent of disappointment wafting off of them. Suddenly your nerves spike, did you say something wrong?

You must have said that out loud because Bucky starts shaking his head. “No, no darling. You didn’t say anything wrong, I promise.”

“We’re just… I guess we’re disappointed that you consider this the height of romance because this is the bare minimum. You should be used to this, you should be loved and worshipped because that’s what you deserve, nothing less. And it’s not your fault, it’s every other person’s fault for not treating you like the perfect Omega you are.” Steve sounds upset, and your heartbeat increases to a degree that you’d think you were having a panic attack if it weren’t for how damn happy you are.

For a moment, you’re unsure as to what to say, it’s just baffling to you that one person, let alone two, can make you feel this way, this joyous and carefree. But luckily Bucky speaks up so you don’t have to.

“And we’d love to have the chance to do that for you,” He says softly, picking up your hand to cradle it in his own so he can place a delicate kiss on your knuckles. And when you stare up into his eyes, you can’t help but gasp at how loving his gaze is. “Will you give us that chance?”

“Yes.” And this time, you’re not embarrassed by how quickly your answer was to come. How can you be when both men sigh in relief and lean into your body so they can wrap you in their arms? It’s warm and comforting, filling you with happiness and care for these men.

When they lean back you really can’t be blamed for the way your gaze finds Steve’s, then drops down to his lips momentarily. At this, you’re a little flustered, suddenly overcome with the want to feel how soft they are.

Steve seems to read your mind because he places his hand on the back of your neck and forces you to hold his gaze.

“Can I kiss you, honey?”

“Please,” You whine, staying in place as the Alpha leans down slowly. Your eyes close when he gets close enough that you can feel his breaths against your mouth. And for a moment, neither of you moves, and your nerves climb higher and higher as the seconds tick by.

You’re about to speak when he finally, finally kisses you. At first, it’s just a simple peck, a chaste kiss on your lips, and then he pulls back by merely a millimeter. It’s you who leans forward to press your lips together again, and you let him lead as you lose yourself in the kiss. Though, it’s over far too soon for your liking by a soft groan.

Pulling away, both you and Steve turn to look at Bucky, who is now sporting a sheepish grin.

“Sorry,” He mumbles with a flushed face. “I just… I love seeing you two together. I love us all being together and having the two people I care about more than anything sharing your feelings. I know it’s-”

“Sweet,” You interrupt him, turning your body so you can face him better and slip your hand out of his. Placing it on his cheek, you smile when he nuzzles into your palm and gives it a little kiss. “I think it’s sweet, Bucky.”

“Can I kiss you too?” He whispers hopefully, smiling when you nod. Unlike his mate, Bucky doesn’t waste any time capturing your lips in a soft but passionate kiss. It’s clear he’s trying to hold back, and something in you just can’t help but feel wanted, desired. This kiss lasts a little longer, and although you can feel Steve’s gaze on you, you’re not in the least bit self-conscious. You know they wouldn’t lie to you, so you find comfort in knowing that you can show affection to both men without either getting upset or jealous.

When you do finally pull away, you can’t help but lean into Bucky’s chest, reaching behind you to grab Steve’s hand.

“I really like you guys,” You mumble into the Alpha’s chest.

“We really like you too,” They say in unison, causing you to smile.

With that, everything seems to fall into place, the men divvy up the food - giving you most of it - and you all eat in comfortable silence, occasionally stealing glances at each other. Once the food is eaten, Bucky wraps his arm around your waist, causing you to look up at him.

“Come here,” He says with a smile, guiding you to sit sideways on his lap, facing Steve. And there is absolutely no way in hell you could contain the squeak forcing its way out of your mouth. “Is this okay?” He asks as Steve scoots closer to sit right next to Bucky, picking up your legs and resing them in his lap.

You’ve never nodded faster in your life. You’re nervous, sure, but the utter happiness you’re feeling far outweighs it. That happiness only grows when Bucky nods to his mate, and you watch as the other man picks up the container with the cake. Your eyes widen when Steve picks up a fork and takes a small bit out of one of the slices, carefully leading it up to your mouth where you automatically open it.

Slowly, he slides the fork out, allowing you to chew the cake with a pleased smile on his face. It goes on like this until the slice is completely gone, with Bucky pressing kisses to your temple occasionally and bathing you in his warmth. It makes you preen having these Alphas take care of you like this, providing for you.

You’re content to stay here forever, wrapped up in their light, and by the time you’re done eating completely, you feel your eyelids grow heavy, a yawn forcing your mouth wide open.

“I’m sorry,” You say remorsefully, a little embarrassed by how tired you’ve become now that your stomach is full and you’re comfortably resting against Bucky’s chest.

“Don’t be, honey,” Steve says, leaning forward and placing a soft kiss on your forehead. “You can nap if you want, we’ll be right here when you wake up.”

A smile spreads across your face, and you instinctively bury your head into Bucky’s chest and reach out so you can hold onto Steve’s hands. “Are you sure?” You ask, peeking an eye open so you can look up at the blonde Alpha.

He smiles as he nods, pressing another kiss on the top of your head. “Go to sleep, pretty girl.”

It doesn’t take long for you to float off into dreamland, and the last thing you hear is, “I told you she’s perfect for us.”

tagging: @the-ginger-fairy-artist / @supernovatardis / @perdidosbucky-yyo / @wckedheart / @kandis-mom / @meteorshowercoffee / @wandaneedstherapy / @buckysbarne / @bigcreatorwombatdreamer / @p1ut0smoon / @venusfly11 / @buckybarnesmetalarmswife775 / @the-photo-hoe / @clownsbf / @matsumama / @fandoms-writings / @thornsnvultures / @sadboiabby / @lily-excal / @alright-i-guesss / @blondie-bluue / @loveforreading / @marvel-wifey-86 / @wheezy-stucky / @exposition-belongs-somewhere / @sweater-bee / @stuckysbike / @lovelylittleleigh / @buckyshbic / @starkblackwolf / @caitlink26 / @dreaming-potato / @emeraldfairy23 / @lethargicluv / @kinsssss / @perfectlyboring / @glistenuplove / @monicachic13 / @bbellen1411 / @akmenia / @shawnftjacob / @ladyravenclaw / @sadsadbabygirlrob / @hc-kerr / @iamfandomwasted / @sweetmoonlove0214 / @yesprettypleasesir / @duckies16 / @wizardofstories / @emerald-writes / @xonickibaby / @matchat3a / @hereticdance / @animegirlgeeky / @rippedpiece

[moonlitstoriess]

I have a request if it's possible. Could you write a fanfic or a oneshot about Azriel and the reader being a ballerina and also a shadow singer

When Shadows Waltz- Azriel x fem!reader (oneshot)

Summary: Y/N, a ballerina and Shadowsinger, has spent her life balancing grace and darkness. But when whispers of doubt and cruel words make her question her place, she hides her insecurities from Azriel, not wanting to burden him. Yet, he sees everything—and he won’t let her fall. With patience, love, and a bit of humor, he helps her realize that her shadows don’t ruin her dance—they make it unforgettable.

See masterlist

Warnings: angst, fluff in the end, protective az🤭, mentions of insecurities, some bullying

A/N: Thank you for the request! I didn’t know if you wanted angst or fluff so I incorporated both, hope you enjoy it🥰

The mirrors in the studio reflected everything. Every movement, every misstep. Every flaw.

Y/N stood at the center of the room, her pointe shoes silent against the polished floor. The dim glow of the chandeliers cast long shadows, and hers twisted unnaturally, curling and flickering like smoke. No matter how hard she tried to suppress them, they never truly left her alone.

She exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders back. Focus.

With practiced precision, she lifted onto pointe, extending her arms in a graceful arc. The motion should have felt effortless, but something was off. Her balance wavered, the weight of unseen eyes pressing against her skin. Not good enough. Not perfect.

Her foot barely faltered, but the mistake rang loud in her mind.

She could still hear the whispers from earlier that day.

“A Shadowsinger dancing ballet? It looks unnatural.”

“She doesn’t belong in a world of elegance.”

“No wonder they only talk about her being Azriel’s mate—what else is she known for?”

Her fingers curled into the fabric of her practice dress. She hated how easily those words found cracks in her armor, how they settled like poison in the back of her mind.

They didn’t matter. They shouldn’t matter.

But they did.

A quiet knock at the door startled her, and before she could gather herself, the very person she didn’t want to see her like this stepped inside.

Azriel.

His shadows slithered in behind him, merging with hers so seamlessly it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. His piercing hazel eyes took her in—her stiff posture, the tension in her hands, the exhaustion she hadn’t even realized was etched into her face.

She tried to smile. “Hey.”

Azriel didn’t return it. He simply tilted his head, studying her with that sharp, all-seeing gaze. Then, softly—so softly it made her chest ache—he asked,

“What’s wrong?”

Y/N forced a small smile, hoping it would be enough to make him drop the subject. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Azriel didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His stare remained steady, unreadable—but she knew better.

He always saw through her.

A slow tilt of his head. “Try again.”

She sighed, crossing her arms. “How can you even tell something’s wrong? You just got here.”

His lips quirked slightly, but the look he gave her was pure come on now. “You’ve been my mate for nearly a year, love. You really think I don’t notice?”

The warmth in his voice curled around her like a soft ribbon, and despite herself, her heart gave a little flutter. Cauldron save me.

It was so stupid—the way he could unravel her with just a few words, how easily his presence melted through her walls. Even now, with his scarred hands tucked into his pockets and his wings resting at his back, he radiated quiet strength. Calm. Steady. Hers.

And yet—

She still couldn’t bring herself to tell him.

So she smiled a little wider, making sure it reached her eyes this time. “I’m fine, really.”

Azriel didn’t believe her. She could tell by the way his shadows curled around his boots, restless. But she wasn’t giving him the chance to push further.

Before he could open his mouth again, she smoothly changed the subject. “I have my audition tomorrow.”

That worked. His head straightened slightly, some of the tension in his shoulders easing. “For the seasonal performance?”

She nodded, feeling something close to excitement creep past her unease. “It’s a huge opportunity, Az. If I get the role, I’ll be one of the principal dancers for the entire winter season. The main performance is the biggest of the year—leaders from all over the place will come to watch. I need to represent our court in the best way possible.” She hesitated, then admitted, “Your family will be there.”

Azriel’s expression softened. “And you want to impress them.”

“I need to impress them.”

His brows pulled together slightly, but before he could argue, she rushed on. “Feyre is an artist, Nesta trained with Cassian and is basically a Valkyrie now—everyone in your family has accomplished something incredible. I want to prove I belong.”

Azriel stepped closer, lifting a hand to cup her jaw. His touch was featherlight, reverent. “You already impress them, Y/N.”

Her breath caught as he leaned in, brushing the softest kiss against her lips. “You’re more than enough.”

The words should have settled in her chest like a soothing balm. But instead, the weight of her insecurities pressed heavier.

She managed a small smile, even as she whispered, “I still want to get the role.”

Azriel exhaled, his thumb brushing over her cheek. “You will.” His voice was quiet, certain. “Trust me, you will.”

And for a fleeting moment, she let herself believe him.

Y/N let herself sink into the warmth of Azriel’s touch for just a moment before pulling away, forcing herself to focus. “I just need everything to go right,” she murmured, mostly to herself.

Azriel tilted his head slightly. “It will.”

She huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “You sound so sure.”

His lips curved, but his eyes held nothing but certainty. “Because I am.”

Cauldron, how was it so easy for him? To have that unwavering belief in her, even when she wasn’t sure she believed in herself?

Azriel reached for her hand, intertwining their fingers, his grip firm yet gentle. “Come,” he said, leading her toward the small bench by the wall. “Sit with me for a bit.”

She sighed but followed, letting him tug her down beside him. He didn’t say anything at first, just ran his thumb in slow circles over her knuckles. The silence was comfortable, but she knew he was waiting—for her to speak, to confess what was really on her mind.

And she wanted to. She really did.

But the words refused to form, stuck somewhere between pride and fear. If she said them out loud, if she told him about the whispers, the doubt clawing at her chest, then it would make it real.

So instead, she leaned her head against his shoulder and whispered, “I just hope I don’t mess it up.”

Azriel’s wings shifted slightly, his shadows curling around them both like a protective cocoon. “You won’t.”

She sighed, not bothering to argue. He’d just contradict her again with that quiet, unshakable confidence.

After a moment, he spoke again, his voice softer this time. “Do you want me to come watch?”

The question made her heart lurch. “You—you’d come to the audition?”

He turned his head, pressing a kiss to the top of her hair. “Of course.”

Something in her chest squeezed painfully, caught between joy and hesitation. “You don’t have to.”

Azriel huffed a quiet laugh. “I want to.” Then, as if sensing her uncertainty, he added, “But only if you want me there.”

She did. She really did. But—

Y/N swallowed. “I think I’ll be too nervous if you watch.”

Azriel didn’t seem offended. If anything, amusement flickered across his face. “You dance in front of hundreds of fae, but I make you nervous?”

She groaned, shoving his arm. “Don’t say it like that.”

He chuckled, pulling her closer. “Fine. I won’t watch. But I’ll be waiting outside.”

Y/N lifted her head, meeting his gaze. “Really?”

Azriel nodded. “Really.” Then, smirking, he added, “Unless you change your mind and want me front and center.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips. “I think I’ll survive without that pressure, thanks.”

Azriel just hummed, clearly unconvinced. But he didn’t push. Instead, he leaned in, brushing his lips over her cheek, his voice a murmur against her skin. “You’re going to be incredible.”

Y/N closed her eyes, soaking in the warmth of him, the quiet reassurance in his touch.

She wanted to believe him.

But deep down, that familiar doubt still lingered, whispering that maybe, just maybe—

She wasn’t enough.

The sun had barely risen, but Y/N had been awake for hours.

The studio floor had long since warmed beneath her relentless movements. Every turn, every extension, every landing had been drilled into perfection—had to be perfect. She refused to stop.

Azriel had been the one to come and go, appearing like clockwork with food in hand, a quiet reminder in his eyes. “Eat,” he’d say. “Sit for a moment.”

She’d obey, just for a second. Just long enough to take a sip of water, a bite of fruit. But her feet would pull her back onto the floor before she even realized it. Again and again.

At first, Azriel had tried. Tried to coax her into resting, tried to make her breathe. He’d leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching as she pushed herself past exhaustion. A few times, he’d even taken her hand, pulled her to him, murmured against her ear, “Enough for now.”

She never listened.

Eventually, he had sighed, shaking his head as he stepped in front of her. She barely had a moment to react before his lips found hers—a slow, lingering kiss, warm and full of something dangerous. Something that made her knees weaken more than all the training ever could.

When he pulled back, his eyes were softer, but his voice was firm. “Food is packed for you to take in.” He brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I have some things to take care of, but I’ll be there when you come out of the audition.”

Y/N blinked up at him, caught between nerves and something unbearably sweet. “Promise?”

Azriel exhaled, pressing another kiss to her forehead. “You think anything could keep me away?”

Her heart stuttered, warmth spreading in her chest.

Then, with one last glance—one that said please, don’t run yourself into the ground—he left.

Silence settled over the room, broken only by her own breath.

Two hours later, she was sitting on the floor, hair damp and body strained as she stared into her reflection.

An hour later, the auditions would begin.

That realization sent a fresh wave of nerves crashing over her. With a deep inhale, she shook it off, forcing herself to move.

She needed to clean up, get dressed. She needed to leave.

She grabbed the food Azriel had packed, tucked it under her arm, and stepped out the door.

It was time.

Velaris was bathed in afternoon light, the streets alive with warmth and chatter. But Y/N barely noticed any of it.

Her steps were steady, precise, each movement measured like a dancer counting beats in her head. But inside? Her heart pounded, a nervous rhythm she couldn’t quite shake.

She had walked these streets a thousand times before, had spent her life weaving through Velaris’ twisting paths, but today, everything felt off.

Maybe it was the way her shadows curled around her ankles, clinging like wisps of smoke. Normally, they stayed quiet, hidden. But today? Today, they coiled and flickered in the late afternoon light, shifting uneasily as if they could sense her nerves.

She forced herself to breathe, to smooth her expression into something neutral. Calm. Steady. No one else could hear the thoughts racing through her head.

But they could see her.

She felt the stares before she even registered them. Passing merchants, nobles, fae of all kinds—glancing, double-taking, murmuring behind their hands. Some were subtle about it, a flick of the eyes before looking away. Others… not so much.

She supposed she must’ve made quite the sight.

A ballerina dressed in soft pastels—pink tights, a flowy white wrap skirt, a delicate shrug over her leotard—strolling through the streets, framed by shadows as dark as night.

It was almost comical.

She had heard the whispers before, of course. Had caught snippets of conversation when people thought she wasn’t listening.

A Shadowsinger, really? In ballet?

Shouldn’t she be in Illyrian camps instead?

Those shadows make her look unnatural.

She doesn’t belong on that stage.

She clenched her jaw and kept walking.

Azriel would have torn them apart if he’d been here to hear it. He’d spent months convincing her that none of it mattered, that she belonged just as much as any other dancer.

She wanted to believe him. But with every lingering stare, with every quiet murmur as she passed, doubt curled around her ribs like a vice.

By the time she reached the towering glass doors of the audition hall, her chest was tight, her palms clammy despite the cool breeze.

She exhaled sharply, shook out her hands.

It’s fine. You’re fine.

She pushed open the doors and stepped inside.

The waiting room was already full.

Dancers lined the benches, stretching, warming up, adjusting their satin slippers. The air buzzed with quiet tension—whispers of last-minute corrections, murmured prayers, soft hums of concentration.

The floor-to-ceiling windows bathed everything in golden light, making the polished wooden floors gleam. At the far end of the room, a set of doors led to the main audition space, where the judges were already seated, watching the first few candidates perform.

Y/N barely had time to take it all in before she felt it—the stares.

It was subtle at first, the way conversation dipped when she walked past, the way dancers exchanged looks, eyes flicking from her delicate pastel ensemble to the dark tendrils of shadow trailing at her feet.

She swallowed, lifting her chin.

Just get to the changing rooms.

She weaved through the crowd, passing the line of dancers already dressed in pristine costumes. A few were adjusting their hair into perfect buns, fixing smudged makeup, stretching out their limbs. Others were simply watching her.

She could feel their judgment.

It’s funny, isn’t it? she thought bitterly.

A girl like her—draped in pinks and creams, with ribbons laced up her ankles—moving with the grace of a trained ballerina, while shadows slithered at her feet like something out of a nightmare.

Like she was some contradiction that shouldn’t exist.

She tried to act indifferent. She forced herself to walk like she wasn’t being scrutinized, like the weight of their judgment wasn’t pressing into her spine. But inside, her stomach twisted.

She barely let out a breath when she finally reached the changing rooms, slipping inside.

Alone at last.

She pressed her hands against the counter, staring at her reflection in the large mirror.

Her face was composed, expression calm. But her hands—her fingers trembled against the polished marble.

Her shadows curled tighter around her, as if sensing her unease.

She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply.

Just a few more minutes.

Then it would be time.

Y/N sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, her posture straight despite the way her stomach twisted in knots.

Dancers came and went, each vanishing through the grand doors at the end of the waiting room before reappearing minutes later—some with relieved smiles, others fighting back tears.

Her turn was coming. Soon.

She tried to focus on steadying her breathing, on keeping her shadows from shifting too visibly around her. They were curling tight at her ankles, slithering up her arms like they, too, could sense her nerves.

And then—

“Are you lost?”

The voice was sweet. Mocking.

Y/N turned, already knowing what she’d find.

A group of three female dancers, all in the same pristine white audition attire, stood together near the mirrored wall. Their leader—a tall, elegant blonde—tilted her head, expression full of exaggerated pity.

Y/N forced a calm smile. “No.”

A few of the other dancers nearby had already started whispering.

The blonde raised a brow, looking her over slowly—lingering on her darkened shadows. “You? Ballet?” She let out a high, amused laugh. “I think you might have the wrong building, sweetheart.”

The other two girls behind her giggled.

Y/N kept her shoulders relaxed, her face carefully neutral. “I’m here for the same reason as you.”

The blonde blinked, as if that was the funniest thing she’d heard all day. Then she let out another sharp laugh. “Oh, darling. No, no—you can’t be.”

Y/N clenched her jaw.

“Oh, don’t look so serious.” The girl smirked. “It’s just… well.” She gestured to Y/N’s shadows, which had curled tight at her feet like wary animals. “You don’t exactly fit, do you?”

A sick feeling churned in Y/N’s gut.

The girl leaned in slightly, voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Did you hit your head? Or do you just have some kind of delusional sickness?”

More laughter. More murmurs from the surrounding dancers.

Y/N’s throat felt tight. Don’t react. Don’t let them see it.

She tried to respond, tried to form a retort—but her mind was suddenly blank.

Her shadows flickered uneasily. The blonde just smiled wider. “Oh, sweetheart,” she said softly, like she was so concerned. “It’s not your fault, really. You just weren’t made for this world.”

Y/N felt her hands clench in her lap, her thoughts growing darker, heavier.

And then—

“Y/N.”

Her head snapped up.

A staff member stood by the grand doors, scanning the room with a clipboard in hand. “You’re up next.”

Her heart stopped.

For a moment, she was frozen in place.

Then—slowly, unsurely—she stood.

She could feel their eyes on her as she walked toward the doors. Could hear the hushed snickers, the barely concealed whispers.

Just as she passed, another girl murmured under her breath, just loud enough for her to hear—

“Maybe she’ll trip and vanish in those shadows.”

Her stomach clenched.

But she didn’t stop. She couldn’t.

She stepped through the doors.

The audition stage was massive.

Golden chandeliers hung high above, their light casting a soft glow over the polished wooden floors. The room stretched wide, with sweeping archways and tall, pristine windows that overlooked Velaris.

And at the very front—seated behind a long, curved table—sat the panel of judges.

Five in total.

Their expressions were unreadable as they observed her, hands folded, quills poised.

Y/N swallowed hard.

The reality of it all hit her at once.

This was it.

Her entire career—her dream—was hinging on the next few minutes.

She forced herself to stand tall, to ignore the way her nerves coiled deep in her stomach.

“Whenever you’re ready,” one of the judges said, voice clipped and professional.

She nodded.

The music began.

For the first few moments, everything was fine.

Her muscles knew the movements. She had drilled them into her body a thousand times over. Her limbs extended with precision, her turns were smooth, her leaps controlled.

But then—

The whispers came back.

Not real, but in her head—echoing, clawing.

You don’t belong here.

Those ugly shadows—

Maybe she’ll trip and vanish—

You just weren’t made for this world.

Her rhythm faltered.

Her mind spiraled.

No, no—focus, keep going—

But the doubts were crushing her, strangling her.

And then—

Her foot landed wrong.

A sharp twist of her ankle.

A gasp.

And she was falling.

Hard.

The music cut out instantly.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence.

Y/N stayed where she was—knees against the polished floor, hands shaking, breath ragged.

She didn’t dare look up.

Didn’t dare face the judges.

But then—

“That will be all.”

The cold, detached voice sliced through the air like a knife.

Her head snapped up, eyes wide. “No—please—”

One of the judges, an older fae male, raised a hand. “There’s no need,” he said, his voice edged with boredom. “We’ve seen what we need to see.”

Her chest tightened. “I—please, I’ve been training for five years—”

Another judge, a stern-looking female, scoffed. “And?”

Y/N’s throat burned.

The older fae leaned forward slightly. “Just because you are the Spymaster’s mate,” he said coolly, “and the High Lord’s sister-in-law, does not mean you own this place.”

The words hit her like a slap.

“No, I—” She swallowed, scrambling to find the right words, to fix this—“I don’t think that, I just—”

“You are not fit for this stage,” another judge interrupted, eyes cold. “You have neither the discipline nor the grace required to perform at this level.”

Her heart shattered.

“We will not be moving you forward.” The older judge’s voice was final.

She couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t move.

“Thank you for your time,” the female judge added, already looking away. “You may go.”

She had no choice.

Numbly, she stood.

She turned.

And she walked.

The moment she stepped back into the waiting room, the whispers started again.

A few of the dancers gave her long, smug looks.

She kept her head down.

She ignored the snickers, the cruel, whispered comments.

Her hands trembled as she grabbed her bag.

Then she turned and all but ran to the changing rooms.

The second the door shut behind her, she let out a shaky breath.

Her mind was spinning. Her heart ached.

What have I done?

Her fingers curled into fists.

She had ruined everything.

She had humiliated herself in front of the most prestigious judges in the city. She had proven every cruel whisper, every doubting stare right.

Her own hatred curled deep inside her, sharp and suffocating.

And then, a single thought struck her.

Azriel.

He was waiting outside.

Waiting for her with that quiet, steady patience. Waiting for her to walk out with a hopeful smile. And she—she had nothing to give him but failure.

Y/N took a deep, shuddering breath.

Then another.

She had exactly five seconds to fix her face before she walked out of this building.

One. She straightened her spine.

Two. She swallowed down the lump in her throat.

Three. She pulled her shoulders back, forcing her body to relax despite the tremors running through her veins.

Four. She curled her lips into the most dazzling, effortless smile she could manage.

Five. She stepped outside.

The cool evening air brushed against her skin, a sharp contrast to the suffocating weight pressing down on her chest.

And there he was.

Azriel stood by the entrance, his wings tucked neatly behind him, his scarred hands loose at his sides—but his entire body radiated the quiet, lethal stillness of a male always waiting, always watching.

The moment his eyes landed on her, something in them shifted.

His shadows stirred.

She knew he felt it. Knew he sensed something was wrong.

She forced herself to smile wider. “Hey, you.”

Azriel’s gaze flickered over her, his expression betraying nothing—except his shadows, which curled tight around his shoulders like wary sentries.

Then, his voice, low and steady: “Why did you close your side of the bond?”

Her breath hitched.

Shit.

She hadn’t expected him to catch onto that so fast.

She let out a soft laugh, waving a hand dismissively. “Oh, that? I just didn’t want to worry you with my constant overthinking.”

His eyes narrowed the slightest bit.

She pressed on, slipping seamlessly into her usual teasing tone. “You know how my mind gets—I was obsessing over little things before the audition, and I figured you didn’t need to deal with that.”

Azriel didn’t respond right away.

Instead, he watched her.

Watched her too closely.

For a second, she thought he might call her out on it—might push past the weak excuse and demand to know the truth.

But then, with a quiet exhale, he reached for her bag. “Nonsense,” he murmured, effortlessly taking it from her grasp.

She let him, knowing better than to argue.

Then, before she could react, his arms were around her—one hand pressing against her back, the other coming up to cradle the back of her head as he tucked her into him.

Y/N nearly broke.

The warmth of him, the quiet strength in the way he held her—it nearly shattered her.

But she couldn’t let it.

She wouldn’t let it.

So instead, she melted into him, resting her cheek against his chest and breathing in the familiar scent of night-chilled wind and cedar.

Azriel pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his lips lingering for just a second longer than usual. “Promise me you won’t do that again.”

She blinked. “Do what?”

His grip on her tightened. “Close your side of the bond like that.”

Y/N swallowed hard.

“I was ready to break in just to make sure you were safe,” he murmured, his voice quieter now. “Don’t do that to me again, love.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. He can’t know. He can’t know.

When she finally spoke, her voice was light. Playful. “Az, you’re being dramatic.”

His arms didn’t loosen.

She tipped her head back just enough to meet his gaze, mustering up a soft smile. “I’m fine. See? Perfectly fine.”

Azriel studied her.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, he exhaled through his nose and finally, finally released her—though his hand lingered on the small of her back as they started walking.

They moved in comfortable silence for a bit, the cool night air wrapping around them.

And then—

“So,” Azriel said, his tone light, casual. “How did it go?”

Y/N froze.

Only for a fraction of a second.

But he noticed.

Of course he noticed.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, but she forced her body to remain loose, her expression to remain bright.

Then she laughed, shaking her head as if amused. “Oh, it went great.”

Azriel glanced at her. “Yeah?”

She nodded eagerly. “Yeah. I can’t wait to see the results. They said the decisions will be out in two weeks, so…” She trailed off, shrugging. “Now it’s just a waiting game.”

Azriel was still watching her.

She felt his eyes on her, felt the way his shadows curled subtly closer.

She knew what he was doing—trying to read her body, her breathing, her heartbeat.

So she made sure they all remained steady.

She had years of training in deception. She could fake confidence, fake nonchalance—hell, she could fake a damn performance if needed.

And right now, she needed Azriel to believe her.

Because if he didn’t—if he so much as suspected—

Az hummed. “So they didn’t give any immediate feedback?”

She shook her head. “Nope. Just the usual ‘thank you for your time, we’ll be in touch.’”

His brows furrowed slightly. “That’s standard?”

“Very,” she assured him.

Another hum. “And you feel good about it?”

She beamed. “I do.”

Azriel didn’t speak for a long moment.

Y/N’s stomach clenched.

Please let this work. Please believe me.

Finally—

“Well,” he said, his voice softer now. “Then I guess we wait.”

She let out a small breath of relief, nodding.

Azriel gave her a sidelong glance. “But just so you know…”

She raised a brow. “Hmm?”

His free hand reached for hers, fingers threading together effortlessly.

“I don’t need to hear the results to already be proud of you.”

Her throat tightened.

Her nails dug into her palm.

She forced herself to smile. “You’re sweet.”

Azriel only squeezed her hand. “You’re mine.”

For a split second, the weight in her chest almost lifted.

But then she remembered—

The failure.

The fall.

The cold, dismissive words of the judges.

You are not fit for this stage.

And just like that, the crushing guilt came surging back.

So Y/N just held onto his hand a little tighter.

And she kept smiling.

Azriel insisted on making dinner, saying she should relax after the audition.

And so here he was, moving around the kitchen like it was his second home, the rhythmic chopping of vegetables mingling with the sizzle of something cooking in the pan. Y/N sat at the table, silently watching him, trying her best to keep her expression neutral. She didn’t want him to see through the mask she was wearing, didn’t want him to know how much she was falling apart on the inside.

“You’re being quiet,” Azriel said, not looking up from his work.

Y/N smiled tightly. “Just tired.”

He paused, his gaze flickering to her from over his shoulder. She caught the way his brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t say anything—just went back to what he was doing, humming softly as he worked.

Azriel was always calm, always steady, and she found it both soothing and maddening. He could sense things—things she wasn’t always ready to confront—and she hated how well he knew her. But tonight, she wouldn’t let him see. She couldn’t.

She reached for her glass of water, her hand trembling just slightly. She was sure he’d notice. But he didn’t. He was focused on the dinner, and for a moment, she let herself relax into the normalcy of the moment, the small relief of not having to pretend she was somewhere else, someone else.

When he finally brought dinner to the table, Y/N forced herself to smile and thank him. She even complimented him on the food, but she could feel him watching her, his eyes scanning her every move, trying to figure out what was wrong.

Azriel didn’t ask any questions yet, but Y/N could sense the storm brewing behind his calm façade. He always knew when she wasn’t okay.

They ate in silence for a few moments, the clink of silverware the only sound between them. Her mind was elsewhere, far from the meal in front of her, as the words from her audition echoed through her thoughts.

“You’ve been quiet all evening,” Azriel said again, this time his voice much softer.

Y/N blinked and met his gaze. He was studying her, his brow slightly furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line. He was worried—she could feel it, even if he didn’t say the words out loud.

“I’m just thinking,” she replied, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.

“About the audition?” he asked, his voice casual but with an undercurrent of concern.

Y/N hesitated. Should she lie? Pretend that everything was fine? Or should she admit it—admit how awful it had gone?

But before she could answer, he reached across the table, his hand covering hers. His thumb brushed along her skin, warm and reassuring.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said quietly.

She sucked in a breath, her heart pounding in her chest. The warmth of his hand almost made her break, almost made her say it all, but she couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

“I’m fine, Azriel,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “Really.”

He didn’t believe her, she could see it in his eyes, but he didn’t push. Not yet.

He nodded slowly, his eyes not leaving hers. “If you say so.”

But there was an edge in his tone—one that made her heart sink a little further.

Dinner passed quietly after that. They talked about trivial things, Azriel asking her about her plans for the next few days, but it all felt distant to her. As if the words were just background noise, and her mind was somewhere else, drowning in everything she was trying to bury.

Finally, when the meal was over, Azriel cleared the table, his movements sharp, precise. Y/N stayed seated, her fingers picking at the edge of her napkin, twisting it nervously.

“You know,” he said, his back still to her as he loaded dishes into the sink, “you don’t have to keep things from me.”

Y/N’s chest tightened. She looked down at her hands, trying to keep her face composed.

“I’m not keeping anything from you,” she said, her voice a little too high.

Azriel paused, his back still turned, but his posture was stiff now. “You’re lying.”

Y/N bit her lip, her heart thudding in her chest. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t break. Not in front of him. Not when he had already given her everything—his trust, his heart. She couldn’t disappoint him.

“Azriel,” she started, her voice trembling just slightly. “Please, just… don’t worry about me. I’m fine. I swear.”

He turned to face her, his expression unreadable, but his eyes… they were full of that quiet, relentless concern that always seemed to follow her.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time, Y/N.” His voice was almost a whisper, like he was afraid to push her too far. “Not with me.”

For a heartbeat, they just stared at each other, the space between them charged with unsaid words.

Finally, Y/N forced a smile—one that she hoped was convincing enough to fool him. “I know,” she said softly. “But right now, I just need a little time, okay?”

Azriel didn’t respond at first. He studied her for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether or not he should press her further. But then, with a soft sigh, he nodded.

“I’m here when you’re ready to talk,” he said quietly.

Y/N smiled again, though this time it felt more like a mask than anything real.

“I know.”

But inside, the walls she’d spent so long building were crumbling, piece by piece, and no matter how hard she tried to hold them up, she knew it wouldn’t be much longer before they all came down.

She just hoped Azriel wouldn’t be the one to see it happen.

Not yet.

Not while she was still pretending.

The next evening, when Azriel came home, he was expecting nothing more than the usual quiet, the calm of his home and his bondmate waiting for him. What he hadn’t expected was to find Y/N sitting on the couch, her posture rigid, her eyes staring blankly at the wall.

His heart immediately sank at the sight. Something was off—he could feel it in his chest, that strange, unsettling tightness that always came when Y/N was hurting. He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him softly, not wanting to startle her.

“Y/N?” His voice was tentative, but there was an underlying current of concern.

She didn’t respond right away, and the silence stretched between them like a fragile thread. He walked closer, his eyes scanning her face. She looked… exhausted, drained, as if the weight of the world was pressing down on her. He crouched beside her, tilting his head to catch her eyes.

“Love, are you okay?” he asked softly.

Y/N blinked and finally turned her gaze to him. There was something in her eyes—something that made him take an instinctive step back.

“I’m fine,” she said, the words too quick, too rehearsed.

Azriel studied her for a moment longer before sitting down next to her, his tone shifting, more serious. “You don’t have to lie to me, Y/N. What’s going on?”

She didn’t meet his eyes again, her gaze dropping to her hands, folded neatly in her lap. The stillness in her was unnatural, and the shadows around them seemed to pulse with tension. Azriel’s brows furrowed as he let out a quiet sigh, his instincts kicking in.

He didn’t press her at first—he’d learned by now to give her space—but the questions came slowly, each one a little heavier than the last. “How was your day?”

“Fine.” Her voice cracked slightly, but she recovered quickly.

“Did you think about the results?”

“Not really, as I said the audition went well” she answered too quickly, her voice tight.

Azriel paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. She was hiding something, and the silence between them was thick with the knowledge that he wouldn’t be satisfied until he got the truth. “Really?”

She nodded, but her breath hitched ever so slightly, the only sign that something was wrong.

Azriel’s gaze softened, but his suspicion grew, and it was in that moment, when the quiet stretched on just a little too long, that the final thread snapped. He couldn’t hold back anymore. He had to know. He had to confront whatever this was.

He leaned in slightly, his voice hardening with a cold edge. “That’s why you tripped and fell during your audition yesterday?”

Y/N froze, her eyes widening, her body stiffening. The breath in her lungs caught. She hadn’t expected him to know that. Hadn’t expected him to have seen through the lies she’d told herself, the façade she’d built to protect herself.

“How do you know that?” Her voice was small, trembling with the weight of the question.

Azriel’s gaze darkened, his anger simmering just below the surface. He didn’t let her answer before he spoke again. “I knew something was up the moment you stepped out of those doors. I couldn’t just sit around pondering what was wrong with you. My shadows did their job well and brought me all I needed to know.”

Y/N’s mouth fell open in disbelief. “From the… the start?”

Azriel’s jaw clenched, his fists tightening in barely contained rage. “Yes. From the moment those bastards bullied you.” His words were venomous, and Y/N could see the raw anger in his eyes. “I know exactly what they said. The venom they spilled at you…” His voice trailed off, trembling with rage.

Y/N stood up abruptly, her hands shaking. “You had no right!” she exclaimed, her voice rising in anger and desperation.

Azriel stood, his body tense with rage, his eyes dark as shadows swirled around him. “No right?” He took a step forward, his voice rising with every word, a dangerous edge creeping in. “NO RIGHT?! Those bastards were bullying you, Y/N, and you didn’t say a thing?! You didn’t tell me what they said, didn’t let me help you—didn’t let me protect you?”

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her shoulders shaking. Her voice cracked, the raw emotion spilling out in a flood of hurt and frustration. “I couldn’t, Azriel! I couldn’t—don’t you get it? I couldn’t bring myself to tell you! I’ve been… I’ve been hiding this from you because I didn’t want to burden you. I didn’t want to be weak. I didn’t want to show you how broken I am. How useless I am…”

She stumbled backward, shaking her head in a frantic movement, her chest tight as she gasped for breath. “I’m just… I’m just not good enough! I’m not strong enough! I fail, every time. I failed at the audition, Azriel! I’m never going to be good enough for this world, for you! Don't you see the stares? Hear the whispers? No one thinks I'm worthy enough, no one..."

Her words came in a rush, all the broken pieces of herself spilling out in one chaotic moment. “The shadows—the way they looked at me, the way they whispered behind my back. They were right, Azriel. They were right about me. I’m nothing, I’m just…” She choked on her words, her knees buckling as she collapsed onto the couch again, her face buried in her hands.

Azriel’s heart clenched painfully in his chest as he stepped forward, his anger now replaced with an aching sadness. His voice was gentle but firm as he knelt beside her, reaching out to take her trembling hands in his. “Don’t you ever say that about yourself. You hear me? Don’t you ever say that again.”

Y/N shook her head violently, her tears pouring freely now. “I’ve failed so many times, Azriel. Every time I try, I trip, I fall, I let everyone down. The shadows—they don’t even care about me. They—”

Azriel grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to look at him, his eyes filled with a depth of emotion she hadn’t seen before. His voice was a low, raw growl. “They were wrong. Every damn thing they said was wrong. You are good enough. You are strong enough. And I’ll be damned if I let you talk about yourself like this again.”

Y/N gasped, her heart pounding in her chest. Her lips trembled as she tried to speak, but all that came out was a broken sob.

Azriel’s jaw clenched, his gaze searching hers, desperation in his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you trust me?”

She pulled away from him, her hands shaking as she wiped at her tears. “Because I couldn’t bear the thought of you seeing me like this. Of you seeing how weak I am. I thought I could handle it, that I could be enough on my own, but I’m not. I’m not…”

Azriel’s gaze softened, and he cupped her face in his hands, his thumb brushing over the tear tracks on her cheeks. His voice was soft but unwavering. “You are enough, Y/N. Don’t ever believe otherwise. You are stronger than anyone I know, and I’m so damn proud of you. Don’t you dare let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Her sobs subsided, but the rawness of her insecurities still lingered between them, like an invisible barrier. Azriel leaned forward, his voice low but firm. “Names.”

Y/N shook her head, her breath coming in ragged gasps. “Please, Azriel. Don’t do this.”

“I already know who they are,” he replied, his voice calm but insistent. “But I need to hear you say it. Confirm it. Please.”

She hesitated, then, with great reluctance, she whispered the names of some of those she knew of who had bullied her previously, each one a dagger to her heart.

Azriel nodded, his face unreadable as he absorbed the information. When she finished, he reached for her, pulling her into his arms once more. She let herself sink into him, her heart breaking, her trust growing just a little bit stronger with each passing moment.

“I won’t let them get away with this,” he whispered fiercely into her hair, his voice promising more than words could say. “But I need you to promise me something.”

“What?” she whispered back, barely able to speak through the tears.

He pulled back, cupping her face, his expression firm. “Swear to me that you won’t hide anything from me again. No more lies, no more keeping things from me. Keep the bond open, always. Promise me, Y/N.”

Her eyes met his, a flicker of hesitation passing through her, but in the end, she nodded. “I promise.”

Azriel’s face softened, but the resolve in his eyes remained. “And don’t you ever doubt yourself again,” he whispered, pressing his forehead against hers. “You’re worth everything, Y/N. Don’t you ever forget that.”

As the two of them stood there, lost in their embrace, something shifted between them. The pain, the secrets, the walls—they weren’t gone, but they were no longer insurmountable. And for the first time in a long time, Y/N allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, she was enough.

The days that followed the confrontation were quieter, more contemplative, but no less intense. Y/N struggled with her shadows, each day finding new cracks in her confidence, but each day, Azriel stood by her, watching in the background, patiently waiting for her to let him in.

It started with the small moments, those subtle acts of care that made her feel seen without being smothered. She had always been strong, had always prided herself on standing on her own, but now, after everything, the thought of dancing again seemed like an insurmountable mountain. The audition failure had knocked her harder than she’d let on. And the cruel words, the judgment she’d faced, were still echoing in her mind. She wasn’t sure if she could go back to the barre, could go back to the thing that had once been her escape.

But Azriel wouldn’t let her hide from it.

“You don’t have to do this all at once,” he’d say quietly, stepping into the room when he sensed she was lost in the shadows of her mind, the world outside muted in her silence. “Take it slow. But don’t quit. Don’t let them win.”

Y/N would look at him with that guarded expression, not wanting to admit how much she wanted to run. Not wanting to show him how weak she felt.

But he was patient. He’d never push too hard, never rush her into something she wasn’t ready for. Instead, he’d talk to her about anything else—about the weather, about his training, about the little things that made her smile—until, gradually, the conversation would shift, and the quiet moments would fill the space between them.

Then one day, when she was too tired to pretend she wasn’t aching, he sat across from her as she wrapped her shoes.

“You still want to do this,” Azriel said quietly, watching her with a gaze that spoke volumes. “Don’t hide from it.”

Y/N didn’t look up. “I don’t know if I can,” she whispered.

Azriel stood, moving closer without a word. He didn’t touch her, didn’t crowd her space, but his presence was soothing, a gentle reminder that she wasn’t alone in this. His shadows, ever loyal to him, surrounded her, their warmth seeping into her own. “You can,” he replied simply, his voice carrying that deep, unwavering certainty that made her chest tighten.

His words weren’t demanding, weren’t pressuring. It was more of an invitation.

Slowly, Y/N laced her shoes, her hands trembling just slightly, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. Not with him standing there, not with the strength in his eyes watching her like she was the only thing that mattered.

“Let me help you,” Azriel said, his tone low, intimate. “Let me help you heal, one step at a time.”

She didn’t answer immediately, but she didn’t need to. His quiet persistence was enough, and it settled into her bones, wrapping around her like a familiar cloak.

And so, the days passed. Each one a little easier than the last. Azriel’s presence was constant—he didn’t force her, didn’t push her, but his quiet admiration, his praise when she succeeded, built her back up in ways words alone couldn’t. Every small improvement, every hesitant movement, was a victory in his eyes.

Whenever she danced, whenever she felt the weight of doubt try to settle in, she’d sense his presence in the room. He was always there, hidden in the shadows, watching, waiting. His shadows moved with hers, always in sync, always intertwined in a dance of their own, a silent exchange of trust and understanding.

His admiration for her wasn’t in loud declarations or grand gestures. It was in the little things. In the way his shadows would curl around her when she hesitated, steadying her when she almost fell. In the way his eyes softened every time she let herself lose control, the way he made sure she always felt seen, even when she thought no one was watching.

One evening, after another failed attempt at perfecting a pirouette, Y/N huffed in frustration, stepping back from the barre. Her muscles ached, her body exhausted from the constant battle to get back to where she once was.

Azriel didn’t speak right away. Instead, he walked up to her, his gaze unwavering. He was always watching, always noticing.

“You know,” he began, his voice low, teasing just slightly, “your shadows were in perfect sync with mine tonight.” He smirked, his eyes glinting with a playful edge. “It’s almost like they know what you’re capable of, even if you don’t.”

Y/N looked up at him, her breath caught in her chest. She opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out.

“I’ve been watching you,” he continued, his voice softer now, more earnest. “You have something no one else does, Y/N. Your strength—your heart—it’s what makes you beautiful, and it’s what makes you powerful. And every time you step back into that studio, you show me a little more of who you are.”

His words were simple, but they struck her in ways she couldn’t explain. She felt her heart pound in her chest, the raw emotion of his praise and support slowly melting away the remnants of the fear and doubt that had clouded her for so long.

Y/N took a deep breath and nodded, her gaze meeting his, no longer afraid to hold it. “I’ll try again,” she said softly.

Azriel’s smile was small but full of pride. He stepped back, his shadows still lingering around her. “I know you will. And when you do, I’ll be here.”

Every step she took, every movement she made, she could feel his presence at her side, not as a crutch but as the support she didn’t know she needed. And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel so alone in the dance.

The healing was slow, but it was real. Each moment, each word, each look from Azriel was a step toward rebuilding the confidence she had lost. She wasn’t just getting back to where she was—she was becoming something more. Something stronger. Something she didn’t think was possible. And with Azriel by her side, she knew that, no matter what came next, she wasn’t going to give up. Not anymore.

Azriel paced through the streets of Velaris, each step heavy with anger. His thoughts churned, his mind unwilling to leave the image of Y/N from earlier that morning. She had smiled, but it hadn't reached her eyes. She was trying to hide it again, pretending like everything was fine when it was anything but.

His shadows swirled around him, agitated by his own tension. They could feel his fury, his frustration, and his desperate need to protect her, even if she didn't fully understand it herself.

She had tried to hide it from him. She thought he didn't know about the insults— the cruel words those judges had spat at her.

She thought he couldn't see it in her eyes, in the way she held herself, the way she moved now as if she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.

And it made him seethe with rage.

The anger that had been simmering inside him ever since she had confided in him about what happened during the audition was reaching a boiling point. He had promised her. He had sworn not to act. But how the hell was he supposed to keep that promise when the world-these people-had done this to her?

He clenched his fists, feeling the ache in his bones, the frustration gnawing at him. The female he cared about, the one he loved, the one he wanted to see succeed, was broken in ways that no one could understand. No one except him.

And all he wanted to do was rip apart the world that had done this to her.

He felt the weight of his own limitations pressing down on him. He was a warrior, a spymaster-he was trained to eliminate threats, to take down anyone who stood in his way. But this... this was different. This wasn't some battle he could fight on a battlefield. It was a war waged on the heart, and it made him feel helpless, more than he had ever felt before.

He was so fucking angry. Angry at them for humiliating her. Angry at himself for not noticing sooner. Angry that she thought she could bear this burden alone, hiding it from him.

But that was going to change. He couldn't keep his promise. Not when he knew what they had done. Not when he knew the damage they'd caused. He could feel it in every fiber of his being-this deep, primal need to protect her from everything that wanted to break her down. He was done standing by.

Done pretending that he didn't see the cracks in her.

Done watching her hide from the truth.

He was going to make them pay. Every last one of them.

The judges' gathering was held in the home of one of the higher-ranking members, a large, lavish place that screamed of power and authority. As soon as Azriel winnowed himself in, the room fell silent. His presence was enough to make everyone freeze. He could feel their eyes on him, the shock radiating from their faces. They weren't expecting him, weren't prepared for someone like him to walk in.

They had no idea what they were dealing with.

eyes cutting through the air like a blade. He didn't say a word, his silence hanging heavy in the room, suffocating. He could feel his shadows coiling tighter around him, his anger leaking into the atmosphere like a dangerous storm.

"Spymaster," one of them said, his voice barely a whisper, fear seeping through.

Azriel didn't respond. He took a step forward, the air growing colder with every inch he moved. "You know why I'm here," he said, his voice low, dangerous, a growl rumbling in his chest.

The head judge, a man whose face Azriel recognized all too well from the reports, shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I don't-"

"You don't?" Azriel interrupted, his voice laced with venom. "You don't remember insulting her? Belittling her? Telling her she wasn't good enough?”

The room went silent, the judges exchanging nervous glances. None of them dared to speak. They all knew exactly who he was talking about. They all knew exactly who he meant.

"Y/N," Azriel spat the name like it was poison, but the force of it sent a shiver down their spines. "You remember her, don't you?"

They swallowed hard, eyes darting around as if trying to find an escape. But there was no escape. Not from him.

"You made her feel like she wasn't worthy.

Like she wasn't good enough to be there," Azriel continued, his voice rising with each word. "You made her doubt herself. And I swear to the gods, if I hear any more of that bullshit from you, you won't live to regret it. If you ever so much as think about doing that to her again, I will make sure you regret it with every breath you take."

The judges were visibly shaken now, the threat clear in Azriel’s voice, but still, they tried to deny it. “We— We were just doing our job,” one of them stammered.

Azriel’s cold smile made the hairs on the back of their necks stand on end. “Your job? Your job was to make her feel small? Your job was to crush her spirit? Tell me, what part of that is ‘just doing your job’?”

One of the judges tried to stand up, but Azriel was faster. In a heartbeat, he grabbed him by the throat, lifting him off the ground. “You’re going to listen to me very carefully, and you’re going to do exactly what I say,” Azriel growled, his voice dripping with menace. “You’re going to redo the audition. Only for her. You’re going to send a letter, and you’re going to call her back here. And when she walks through that door, you’re going to praise her performance. You’re going to tell her she has what it takes. You’re going to give her the chance she deserves.”

The man was gasping for breath, his eyes wide with panic as he choked on his words. “Y-yes… yes, we’ll do it,” he croaked, but Azriel wasn’t done yet.

“You better,” Azriel hissed, tightening his grip just enough to send the message. “And if you don’t… I will come for every one of you. I’ll start with your families. Your children. Your wives. I’ll make sure every single person in this room knows exactly what it means to cross me.”

The man whimpered, his hands clawing at Azriel’s wrist in a futile attempt to break free. “We… we’ll do it. Just let me go…”

Azriel’s eyes darkened, his expression chilling. He released the man, letting him crumple to the floor, gasping for air. He turned to the others. “Do you all understand?”

They nodded, fear and desperation written across their faces.

Azriel’s gaze swept over them one last time, making sure they understood just how close they had come to losing everything. “If any of you try to play this off as something else, if you try to twist the truth, I will come back. And next time, I won’t be as merciful.”

He turned, leaving them in the silence of his threat. As he stepped out of the house, his shadows coiled around him, a dark presence that was both comforting and deadly.

He had kept his promise to Y/N. For now. But Azriel knew there was no stopping the fury that had been unleashed. He would protect her. He would always protect her. And anyone who tried to hurt her would regret it—deeply.

Feyre’s studio—her space in Velaris—was warm, filled with the scent of fresh paint and the faintest trace of lavender from the candles she had lit. Sunlight streamed through the wide windows, casting a golden glow over the half-finished paintings scattered across the room. It was peaceful. A quiet retreat from the weight of the world.

Y/N ran her fingers over the rim of a cup of tea, listening as Feyre hummed while mixing colors on her palette. They had been talking about nothing in particular—just idle chatter about a new piece Feyre was working on, how the city had been lately, and Y/N’s attempts to distract herself from the gnawing disappointment still lingering in her chest.

She had been getting better. She had been trying to move on from the humiliation of that audition. Feyre, as always, had been patient and kind, giving her space to talk but never pressing when she didn’t want to.

Y/N was about to respond to something Feyre said when the door swung open, and a familiar, commanding presence filled the room.

Azriel.

Her heart skipped, a warmth blooming in her chest the second their eyes met.

“High Lady,” he greeted Feyre smoothly, giving a respectful nod.

And, Cauldron boil her, Y/N knew she was hopelessly in love with this male the moment his expression shifted. The moment that cold, unreadable mask softened as his gaze found hers.

She went all mushy, as Feyre had put it before, whenever he did that. She hated how accurate it was.

“Az,” she breathed, already moving toward him before she could think twice about it.

He caught her the second she was within reach, his arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her into his chest. Y/N melted into him, pressing her face into his shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of night-chilled wind and cedar.

Home.

She felt his lips press a kiss to the top of her head before he pulled back slightly, his hazel eyes warm with something unreadable. “I missed you.”

A smile curled on her lips. “Where were you all day?”

Azriel hummed, running a hand down her back as he gave a nonchalant answer. “Handling some things.”

“Secret spymaster things?” she teased, tilting her head up at him.

His lips twitched, but he didn’t confirm or deny it. Instead, he leaned down, brushing his nose against hers before pressing a soft kiss to her lips. “You didn’t need to miss me. I’m always here.”

Y/N sighed, wrapping her arms around his neck, enjoying the quiet moment of just them. “Sap.”

He chuckled, pressing another lingering kiss against her temple. “Only for you.”

Feyre, being the saint that she was, took that as her cue to excuse herself. “I’ll just—give you two a moment,” she muttered, already heading toward the back of the room.

Y/N barely acknowledged her leaving. She was too busy soaking in the rare gentleness of the male before her.

But then—

A hesitant voice called out from the hallway. “Uh…Az?”

Feyre had just returned, but she wasn’t looking at them. She was looking past them, toward the entrance of the studio, her brows raised in confusion. “Did you bring… all those females into my hallway?”

Y/N blinked, pulling away slightly from Azriel’s hold.

Feyre continued, looking increasingly concerned. “I mean, I don’t want to sound judgy, but they’re bound in your shadows. And there are like… fifteen of them.”

Y/N froze.

She turned fully, stepping out of Azriel’s embrace to look at him properly. “What?”

Azriel sighed. Not in regret. Not in guilt. But in the sort of way that said, I knew this was coming.

And then, he turned to her with a small, knowing smile. “Yes.”

Y/N’s stomach dropped.

Azriel took her hands, his thumbs running over her knuckles. “And they will all apologize.” His voice lowered, his lips brushing against her forehead. “They will beg on their knees for your forgiveness.”

Feyre choked. “Forgiveness? What—what the hell is going on?”

Azriel, ever so casually, replied, “Nothing you need to worry about.”

Y/N’s heart hammered in her chest. “Az,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, shaking her head. “No. Please.”

His hands cupped her face, his thumbs tilting her chin up as he leaned in, pressing another soft, deliberate kiss against her lips. It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t desperate. It was firm. Resolute.

When he pulled back, his hazel eyes burned with unwavering determination. “No,” he murmured against her lips. “You need this.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

Azriel turned to Feyre, his voice returning to its usual icy calm. “Stay here.”

Then, without another word, he led Y/N to the hallway.

And there they were.

Fifteen females, all bound by thick, writhing shadows, their wrists locked together, their ankles bound. Some of them were trembling, silent tears streaking their faces. Others looked frozen in fear, their lips parted, as if they wanted to speak but couldn’t.

Y/N could barely breathe.

Azriel didn’t hesitate. His shadows curled tighter around the females as he spoke, his voice dark, merciless.

“Now,” he said, loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Get in line.”

The shadows obeyed, shifting, forcing them into a single row.

Azriel stepped forward, his wings partially flaring as a cruel smirk played at his lips.

“One by one,” he drawled, “each of you will take turns begging for my mate’s forgiveness.”

Y/N stared at him, shock rippling through her entire body.

And she had no idea what to say.

The air was suffocating.

Y/N stood frozen as the first female, the moment Azriel’s shadows slithered away from her wrists, collapsed to her knees in front of her.

The thud of her body hitting the marble floor echoed through the hallway.

“I—I’m sorry,” the female gasped, tears streaming down her face, her voice breaking with desperation. “Please—please, I take it back. I take it all back.”

Y/N’s breath caught. Her fingers twitched at her sides, her gut instinct screaming at her to take a step back, to shake her head, to tell her that it was fine—

Azriel’s hand came to rest on her forearm, a quiet, grounding touch.

She turned to him, her wide eyes meeting his. His expression was unreadable, his jaw set, his wings tucked behind him like a warrior standing guard. A silent message passed between them.

Do not give in. Do not let them escape the weight of what they did.

And maybe—maybe he was right.

Maybe these people, these females who had mocked her, who had shamed her, who had torn apart something she had poured her entire soul into—maybe they should feel this. Maybe they should know what it was like to have the world force you onto your knees, to feel helpless, to feel humiliated.

So she swallowed hard, ignored the burn in her throat, and slowly, slowly, she gave the smallest nod.

And then the next female fell.

Then the next.

And the next.

One by one, they dropped before her, sobbing, stammering out apologies that all blurred together.

We didn’t mean it. We were just talking. Please, please, I swear, we didn’t think— Forgive me, I was wrong, I was wrong!

Y/N watched, her fingers trembling, as they all crumbled. As they begged.

The last one, the one who had humiliated her the worst, remained standing.

Azriel’s shadows didn’t let her go.

Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her shoulders shaking as she forced herself to meet Y/N’s gaze. Unlike the others, she wasn’t crying.

But she was afraid.

And Azriel?

He smirked.

His voice was low, a whisper of lethal amusement. “Oh? Nothing to say?”

The female’s jaw clenched. She was shaking, her hands curled into fists at her sides. Y/N could see the war raging behind her eyes—her pride battling with the absolute terror of what he would do to her if she didn’t submit.

Azriel stepped forward. His movements were slow, calculated, the air around them darkening as his shadows curled along the floor like ink spreading through water.

“I remember you,” he murmured, tilting his head as if studying prey caught in a snare. “You had so much to say that day. So many things to mock, so many insults to throw.”

His smirk sharpened.

“Say them now.”

The female visibly swallowed. “I—”

She didn’t get to finish.

Azriel was suddenly inches from her, his hand gripping her chin with a deceptively gentle hold. His wings flared slightly, his breath a ghost of a whisper against her skin.

“No?” he purred, mock surprise lacing his tone. “Why not? Where is that sharp tongue of yours now?”

The female’s body trembled, her knees visibly weakening, but she remained standing.

Azriel’s fingers pressed in just a fraction tighter, forcing her to look at him. “Do you know what happens to people who insult what belongs to me?”

Y/N shivered at the quiet, lethal promise in his voice.

The female finally cracked. A soft whimper escaped her lips.

And then—Azriel’s shadows dropped her.

She hit the floor with a painful gasp, and before Y/N could react, she was crawling forward, her hands gripping the fabric of Y/N’s dress as she bowed before her.

“I—I was wrong,” the female choked out. “I was so wrong. Please. Please, forgive me.”

Y/N could only stare.

Azriel stood behind her, looming like a shadowed god. His voice was pure ice as he spoke.

“Beg louder.”

The female’s body trembled violently as she clutched Y/N’s dress, her fingers digging into the fabric like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

“Please,” she choked out, her voice raw. “I—I was wrong, I—”

Azriel’s cold, deadly voice cut through the air like a blade.

"Louder."

The female flinched, her breath hitching. Y/N’s heart pounded as she stared down at the woman who had torn her apart just days ago, who had laughed at her, who had made her feel like she was nothing.

Now, that same woman was crawling at her feet.

Y/N’s hands trembled at her sides. This—this was too much. This wasn’t her. She didn’t need this.

But hadn’t she dreamed of this moment?

Hadn’t she imagined looking into their faces, imagined hearing them admit what they had done? That they had crushedher? Hadn’t she wanted this?

A twisted part of her, buried deep inside, relished it.

Not for the power.

Not for revenge.

But because for once—for once—she wasn’t the one who had to bend.

She wasn’t the one forced to apologize for simply existing.

Azriel moved beside her, his warmth grounding her in the storm of emotions raging inside her. His wings cast a shadow over them both as he crouched, his voice nothing but a whisper laced with deadly amusement.

"I told you to beg louder."

The female sobbed. “Please! I was wrong! I—” Her voice cracked as she practically collapsed lower, pressing her forehead to the floor at Y/N’s feet. “I was cruel. I am the worthless one, not you! I take it back! I take all my words back! I—I didn’t mean it. I swear. I swear, I didn’t mean it—”

Y/N inhaled sharply.

Didn’t mean it?

No. That was a lie.

They meant it.

They had enjoyed it.

They had looked her in the eye and mocked the thing she loved most, had seen her hurt and laughed.

And now?

Now they were just scared.

They weren’t sorry for what they did.

They were sorry that Azriel had made them face it.

The realization hit her like a crashing wave, stealing the breath from her lungs.

She turned to him, her fingers instinctively reaching for his.

He was already watching her.

His hazel eyes softened—not with pity, but with understanding.

And that was when she realized—

This wasn’t just about making them beg. This was about giving her the choice. The power had always been in their hands.

Now, it was in hers.

Her gaze flickered back down to the female, still crying at her feet.

A beat of silence passed.

Then, Y/N took a slow step back, pulling herself from the woman’s grasp.

The female’s sobs quieted.

Y/N straightened her spine, letting the tension bleed from her limbs. Then, with a voice steady and calm—her voice, not Azriel’s, not anyone else’s—she spoke.

"Get up."

The female’s breath hitched.

Y/N arched a brow. "I said, get up."

Slowly, hesitantly, the woman obeyed, wiping at her tear-streaked face as she stood.

Y/N met her gaze, unwavering. “You’re not sorry for what you did.” Her voice was quiet but firm. “You’re sorry for what happened because of it.”

The woman opened her mouth—probably to protest, probably to claim she was sorry—but one look from Azriel had her shutting it immediately.

Y/N exhaled.

“I don’t need your apologies,” she continued. “They don’t change what you did. They don’t change how you made me feel.”

Her nails curled into her palms.

“I don’t forgive you.”

A flicker of something crossed the woman’s face—humiliation, maybe. But Y/N didn’t care.

“You can leave now,” Y/N said simply.

She saw Azriel’s shadows twitch—as if they didn’t want to let them go—but at her command, they loosened.

One by one, the females scrambled out of the hallway, their heads bowed, their faces still streaked with tears.

Y/N didn’t watch them go.

Instead, she turned to Azriel.

He was already looking at her.

And gods—gods, that look.

Like she had just become something entirely new before his eyes. Like she was something fierce, something untouchable.

His hand lifted, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face, his knuckles grazing her cheek. “I’m proud of you,” he murmured.

Y/N swallowed.

She didn’t answer.

She just closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his chest.

His arms came around her instantly, holding her close, his chin resting atop her head.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, softly—

“Az?”

He hummed in response.

She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. “Don’t ever do that again.”

A slow smirk curled his lips. “Not even a little?”

She glared.

He chuckled, but his fingers gently tilted her chin up. “Alright,” he murmured. “No more shadows dragging terrified females through the streets.”

A pause.

“Unless they deserve it.”

Y/N groaned, hiding her face in his chest again. Azriel just laughed, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of her head.

The morning sun streamed through the kitchen window, casting golden light over the small breakfast she was preparing. The scent of fresh bread and honey filled the air as Y/N moved around, her mind still heavy from yesterday’s events.

Even after all that happened, even after them begging for her forgiveness, a part of her still felt like it was over. That she had lost her dream.

She let out a quiet sigh as she plated the food, determined not to dwell on it. Az would be awake soon, and she wanted to surprise him with breakfast in bed—

A sudden whoosh of magic broke through the quiet morning.

She gasped, stumbling back as a parchment appeared before her, floating midair before it landed softly on the counter.

Her brows furrowed in confusion. With hesitant fingers, she reached for it, breaking the wax seal and unfolding the letter.

Her breath caught the second she read the words.

Miss Y/N,

After reviewing our previous judgment, we have come to realize that we misjudged your performance. We deeply regret our oversight and would like to offer you another opportunity to showcase your talents. If you are still interested, we invite you to perform again today in the afternoon at the Grand Theatre. We sincerely hope you will accept.

Her heart stopped.

Her hands trembled as she reread it again. And again.

She clutched the letter to her chest.

This—this can’t be real.

She had lost her chance. They had crushed it, torn it from her hands.

And now… they were offering it back?

She was so caught up in the storm of emotions that she didn’t hear the footsteps behind her, didn’t notice the warmth approaching until two strong arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her against a broad, familiar chest.

Azriel buried his face into the crook of her neck, pressing a lazy, sleepy kiss there as he murmured, “What is it?”

She felt the smile on his lips.

The knowing smile.

And something clicked in her mind.

She stiffened slightly, turning in his arms as she held the letter up between them. “Did you have anything to do with this?”

Azriel blinked at her. His expression was a perfect mask of confusion, of innocent curiosity. “What are you talking about?”

His voice was so smooth, so convincing—too convincing.

He tilted his head slightly, his brows furrowing in the perfect Azriel-has-no-clue-what’s-going-on way.

And gods help her—she believed it.

Y/N’s breath came out in a shaky exhale, her body relaxing as she turned back to the letter. “Oh my gods,” she whispered, her lips parting in disbelief. “They really want me to perform again. They really—”

Her voice broke off. A choked laugh escaped her as her hands clutched the parchment tighter.

She had a second chance.

She had a second chance.

A delighted laugh bubbled up her throat as she turned back to Azriel, practically launching herself into his arms.

Az chuckled as he caught her with ease, spinning her slightly before settling her against him, his wings curling around them both.

“I knew it,” she beamed, her voice breathless. “I knew they’d see their mistake. Oh my gods, Az, I get to try again—I get to prove myself.”

Azriel cupped her face, brushing his thumbs over her cheeks as he gazed at her, devoured her with pride shining in his hazel eyes.

“I told you,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her forehead. “I told you that you deserved this.”

Her heart swelled at his words, at the warmth of his touch, at the way he looked at her—like she was everything.

She pulled back slightly, grinning up at him. “What would I do without you?”

His lips curled. “You’d be just fine,” he said, nudging her nose with his. “But lucky for you, you don’t have to find out.”

She laughed, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him down into a kiss. He met her eagerly, his hands gripping her waist as he deepened it, as he poured every ounce of pride and love into her.

When they finally pulled apart, he whispered, “You’re going to blow them away.”

Her smile was radiant. “You really think so?”

Azriel’s gaze darkened with something fierce, something possessive. “I know so.”

Y/N laughed again, burying her face in his chest as excitement and nerves thrummed in her veins.

She had another chance.

And this time, she wouldn’t waste it.

Y/N had been preparing for hours.

The moment the letter came, she had thrown herself into practice. Every movement, every turn, every step—she perfected them over and over again, determined to be flawless today. Azriel had been with her every second, his unwavering support wrapping around her like a second skin.

He had sat on the floor of their room, watching as she practiced in front of the mirror. His eyes followed every movement, sharp and analyzing, but also filled with something softer, something adoring. Whenever she faltered, his deep voice was there, murmuring reassurances, guiding her back into focus.

And when the nerves crept in, when she doubted herself for even a second, he pulled her into his arms, pressing soft kisses to her forehead, her cheeks, her lips—reminding her exactly why she was meant for this.

Now, standing outside the grand doors of the theatre, she could feel her heart pounding in her chest.

The streets were quieter today, the usual rush of dancers missing from the entrance. It felt eerie, so different from the weeks before when the halls had been filled with hopefuls, all vying for the lead role.

Now, it was just her.

Azriel stood beside her, his hand gripping hers tightly, as if he could sense the battle raging within her.

"You’re ready," he murmured, his voice steady, unwavering.

She turned to him, searching his hazel eyes, seeking the same reassurance he had given her all morning. And she found it—found that unshakable belief in her, the absolute certainty that she could do this.

Her fingers tightened around his. “Stay here?”

He huffed a soft laugh, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You have to force me to leave your side, love.”

Warmth bloomed in her chest. She exhaled, stepping closer, pressing her forehead against his. His hands found her waist, his touch grounding.

“I’m nervous,” she admitted.

“I know.” He tilted her chin up, pressing a lingering kiss to her lips. “But you are going to be breathtaking.”

She let out a shaky laugh, letting herself melt into him for just a moment longer before she whispered, “I love you.”

Azriel smiled, and it was the kind of smile that turned her bones to honey. “I love you more.”

With one final breath, she slipped from his arms and stepped inside.

The theatre was silent.

It was so empty, so wrong compared to the chaotic energy of before. Her footsteps echoed against the polished wooden floors as she ascended the stairs, pushing open the doors to the main audition room.

The five judges were already seated, waiting for her.

The moment she entered, their expressions changed.

Not cold, not disinterested like before. But polite. Respectful.

It was… weird.

She took a seat, smoothing her hands over her skirts, and studied them carefully.

The older woman who had scoffed at her before now gave her a small, almost nervous smile. Another judge—one of the males—could barely hold her gaze.

Her eyes flickered to the last judge, and she nearly snorted.

A large, deep bruise curled around the side of his neck, just barely peeking out from the collar of his jacket.

What in the world did he do to deserve that?

She shook the thought away. Focus.

“Miss Y/N,” the eldest judge said, clearing his throat. “We want to thank you for coming today. We deeply regret our misjudgment the last time and hope you will give us the honor of seeing you perform again.”

She tilted her head. Weirdly nice.

She didn’t let herself dwell on it, merely nodded and made her way to the center of the room.

The music started.

She closed her eyes, inhaled.

And then—

She moved.

The first few steps were careful, precise. But with each turn, each shift, she let herself go, let herself become the movement, let herself lose everything but the rhythm thrumming in her veins.

The room faded away.

There was no theatre, no judges, no pressure—just her and the music.

Her shadows twined around her, blending into her movements, wrapping around her like an extension of herself. They curled at her fingertips, twirled with her in perfect synchronization.

Her fears melted away.

Every insult, every rejection, every ounce of doubt—gone.

She was light, she was free.

And as she reached the final note, she landed in a perfect, graceful finish—chest heaving, heart pounding.

The silence that followed was deafening.

She opened her eyes, chest rising and falling.

The judges were staring.

Wide-eyed. Mouths slightly open.

Then—

“You… gods above,” one of the females breathed.

The eldest judge straightened in his chair. “That was phenomenal.”

Another nodded. “Extraordinary.”

“The way you move,” a female judge added, “it’s like the dance was made for you.”

She blinked at them, overwhelmed.

They kept talking—throwing praise after praise, compliments she had never expected to hear from them.

She could barely process it.

She had done it.

She had done it.

Azriel was waiting outside.

The moment she stepped through the doors, his shadows curled around her, his sharp eyes scanning her from head to toe.

His jaw tightened. “Did they say anything—”

She didn’t let him finish.

She launched herself at him.

He barely had time to react before she was in his arms, gripping his shoulders tightly as happy tears streamed down her face.

Az caught her with ease, holding her like she was the most precious thing in the world.

“I got it,” she choked out.

He froze. Pulled back slightly. “What?”

A watery laugh bubbled past her lips. “I got it, Az.” She beamed up at him, breathless. “They said—there’s no need to wait. They’ve already reviewed everyone, and none came close to me. They said I was meant for this role, that I will represent Velaris and its art beautifully.”

Azriel’s chest rose sharply. His grip on her tightened.

Then—

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, voice thick with emotion.

And before she could say anything else, he kissed her.

Not soft, not hesitant—fierce, hungry, filled with pride and love and something utterly consuming.

She melted into him, smiling against his lips as his hands cradled her face, as if he couldn’t bear to let go.

When they finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against hers.

“I knew you would do it,” he whispered. “I knew it.”

She exhaled a shaky breath. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For always believing in me.”

Azriel let out a soft chuckle, pressing another kiss to her forehead before whispering, “Forever.”

With fingers intertwined, hearts still racing, they turned toward home—toward the future she had fought for.