Your Imprint's On My Soul || Cha Hyun-Su X Reader

your imprint's on my soul || Cha Hyun-Su x Reader

summary: When Hyun-Su's monster shows up at your door, he teases you and implies that Hyun-Su wants more with you than what you've shared before so, when Hyun-Su wakes up, you decide to act on that.

word count: 4.1k

warnings & tags: canon-typical angst, fluff, smut, explicit consent, dry-humping, thigh-riding if you squint, handjob (male receiving), they're both virgins and are both painfully awkward, this is very soft tbh

first one-shot · previous one-shot

This one-shot can be read independently as there is nothing intense plot-wise that requires having read the other parts, but I do recommend reading them for context.

A/N: sooo, we've reached the first smutty installment for this series, though this feels so tame and so soft I don't even know if it deserves that name. It's what felt right to me for the development of their relationship and what I think makes sense for their characters! I hope you'll enjoy it!

Hyun-Su always knocks. It doesn’t matter that you’ve told him he didn’t have to anymore, doesn’t matter that you’ve offered to give him a key. He still knocks, a soft rap against your door that you’ve learned to recognize from anywhere you are in the house — it’s probably the first time ever that you are truly thankful for the terrible soundproofing in there. When Hyun-Su isn’t there, you spend your time waiting to hear it again, whether consciously or not.

So when you hear something brutally hitting your door, the sound echoing through your silent house, it doesn’t cross your mind that it could be him.

You stumble through the house to grab your bat, heart beating so fast it’s threatening to fall out of your chest. Whether it’s a monster or a desperate survivor trying to get in, you need to be ready to defend yourself.

You’re slowly approaching the door when whoever — or whatever — is outside hits the door twice more.

“C’mon now, I haven’t got all day.”

You still. You recognize the voice instantly, of course you do, but what you don’t recognize is the tone, or even how loud it is, for that matter.

“Hyun-Su?” you call out quietly.

It’s not the smartest decision, because if it’s not him, it lets whatever’s out there know you’re here, but you can’t see yourself leaving him outside.

“You could say that,” the voice answers, and it’s still obviously Hyun-Su, and it’s still wrong, somehow.

But, after a couple seconds of further hesitation, you decide to open the door anyway. You’ve heard it before, that tone, you think, even if it’s blurry now. Plus, you cannot bear the thought of letting Hyun-Su out there, if it really is him. You tighten your hold on your bat, and carefully open the door.

The second you do, Hyun-Su walks in like he owns the place. It is so unlike him that you get ready to swing, but he spots you and grabs it from your hand easily, using his pull on it to get you closer to him, his other hand coming to your waist to stabilize you with a gentleness that contrasts with the abruptness of his movement. Once he does, he shoots you a grin that makes you knees weak, and, as his blue eyes stare straight into yours, you finally understand what is going on.

“All that for me?” he asks, glancing at the bat.

You don’t bother to answer him. You remember too well the state he was in last time you saw this— well— version of him, and your eyes run over his body, followed by your hands, checking for injuries. But while his sweater is in worst shape than usual, and you find blood that you think is fresh on there, his skin is intact under your fingers.

When you look into his eyes again, you find him staring at you, amused.

“You can keep going,” he teases. Your face starts burning and you take a step back, embarrassed, but he follows right after you, eyes devouring you. “Come on, you know you want to. Why not just give in?”

Your back hits the wall, and he leans closer, like a cat playing with a mouse. The difference is, though your heart is hammering in your chest, you don’t feel that scared. Nervous, sure, but there is no actual threat to his tone, or even to his attitude.

“I’m not— I’m not doing anything Hyun-Su wouldn’t want,” you answer, and you somehow find it in yourself to lift your chin defiantly as you do.

Meeting this version of Hyun-Su’s eyes sends a rush of heat through you once again. Beneath the amusement, there is so much more. Fascination. Adoration, even.

He lets out a brief laugh at your words.

“Please,” he practically purrs, “you can’t think that he doesn’t want this.” You stare at him, and his grin widens. “Maybe you should ask him, then.” He leans closer to you, mouth so close to your ear you can feel his breath tickling your cheek. “Ask him what he thinks about when he’s alone at night.” Your cheeks are on fire. “Ask him what he thinks about when you’re lying in bed next to him.” Your breath catches in your throat. “Ask him what he thinks of doing to you.”

He laughs again, and Lord, you don’t know how your legs haven’t given up underneath you yet.

“Come back to me if he still doesn’t have the guts to do anything,” he whispers in your ear. “For now, I think we’ll take a nap.”

That’s all the warning you get before he collapses into you and you can do nothing but slide down to the floor, holding Hyun-Su’s now unconscious body in your arms. You curse the monstrous part of him under your breath, but you know, deep down, that it’s less about that and more about the fact that he’s leaving you with your whole body practically vibrating with feelings and desires you’ve been having more and more as of late.

Your relationship with Hyun-Su is good. It’s great. It makes you happy, so much happier than you thought would ever be possible after the world ended.

But you’d be lying if you said there hasn’t been a— yearning, a longing for more. Something you haven’t put precise words on, something that is almost fully new to you, because though you had fooled around with the boyfriend you briefly had at the beginning of college, the two of you had never gotten really far. You suspect it’s even more foreign to Hyun-Su.

You do know you have an effect on him, you’re not blind. You know how he can get when he loses himself in you, when he finally lets go of all the weight he carries on his shoulders. You, however, also know how embarrassed he gets when his body reacts to you in ways he can’t fully control. You’re just not sure he’s ready for taking the relationship further and, if you’re being honest, the fear of rejection has kept you from bringing up the subject.

Except that after this conversation, the monster’s words are swirling in your mind, and you can no longer pretend that the desire that makes your pulse quicken isn’t there.

Now’s not the time for that, though. You do your best to carry Hyun-Su to the couch, something you doubt you could have done before the Apocalypse forced you to put on some muscle, cover him with a blanket, just in case, because his sweater is starting to have more holes than fabric, and sit by his side so his head rests on your lap. All that’s left to do now, is to wait for him to wake up.

It’s fine, though.

You’re used to waiting for him.

Hyun-Su opens his eyes, and at first, he just feels warm and good and safe. For once in his life, nothing hurts. Your hand’s in his hair, fingers brushing against his scalp pleasantly every now and then and—

And he doesn’t remember coming to your place or seeing you.

He jumps up, eyes surveying the apartment, which looks the same it always does, then you when he turns around. All he sees there is mild confusion.

“Did you have a bad dream?” you ask.

“Did you see him?” he asks in reply.

You frown for a second, before understanding passes on your face, and Hyun-Su feels the blood draining from his face.

Last time, the monster had been with you for a couple minutes, at most. This time…

He hadn’t thought he would come here. He’d been far away, when the group of humans had gotten attacked. Intervening had been the right thing to do, he’d thought — until he’d started getting shot at. The words they’d hurled at him, he’d all heard before, during a time of his life he wished he could forget. With his attention split between the monsters still trying to get past him on one side, and the arrows and bullets coming from the other side, the monster had managed to take over.

And maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t fought it as hard as he should have.

He had never thought you’d get caught in the crossfire.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Are you— Are you—”

Hurt. Angry. Disgusted.

“I’m fine,” you answer him. You don’t hesitate to reach out to gently touch his face, and your smile is so sincere it’s almost blinding. “Nothing happened.”

He leans into your touch, unable to stop himself, and though he still feels the need to protest, it gets easier to believe you each time you reassure him you don’t despise him.

“It didn’t do anything to you?” he asks, voice low and quiet.

You shake your head, but he can’t miss the way you glance away briefly, avoiding his eyes at first.

“He didn’t hurt me,” you tell him, and he can tell it’s true, but—

“What did it do?” There’s urgency in his voice, panic even. He grabs your arms to look into your eyes, the window to the soul, they say, but he cannot read into you, no matter how much he searches.

“Nothing,” you say, but again, he can tell that there’s more to it, and he doesn’t let go, until you cave in. “He just said something.”

“What did he say?” Hyun-Su presses on. Fear is invading his every bone, wrapping its vines around his heart and squeezing it.

“Nothing important,” you insist, but it only makes him more desperate, because if you don’t want to tell him, it must be something bad, must be something deep and dark and twisted, must be something that could make you hate him. When he doesn’t let up, you sigh. “He just said to ask you something.”

Hyun-Su’s mind goes quiet.

“Ask me what?”

His mouth is dry, his lips move painfully.

“Just— He said, I should ask you what you want to— to do to me.”

It’s like a bomb just went off.

Hyun-Su lets go of you. It feels as if his whole face is burning. Shame and embarrassment overtake him, and suddenly he can’t look at you anymore, just wants to run out the door, but his body is refusing to move. He’s stuck in place like a rabbit in headlights.

“I’m sorry,” he says automatically, whipping his head in the other direction, since that all he can do.

“So, you, um, you… are thinking about it?” you ask, your voice piercing straight through his heart.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats.

“No, no, I’m, uh—”

You grab his hand, scooting closer to him on the couch, until your knees touch his. And it grounds him. Slowly, reason starts to creep back up from under all the thoughts, and he hears the eagerness in your question.

“J-just so we’re on the same page,” you say, as he slowly turns his head to look at you once more, “you’re thinking about… having sex. With me.”

It’s precious, how you lower your voice to say ‘sex’, and then frown in annoyance at yourself. Hyun-Su still wants to tear his hand from yours, run away before you can tell him how much of a freak, of a monster you think he is. But he can’t.

He thinks he’d rather you rip his heart out, as long as you do it with your bare hands, than to live without your touch ever again.

Slowly, he nods. His face and ears are tingling, and he’s sure he’s bright red by now.

“I shouldn’t,” he mumbles. You’ve given him so much already. So much he hadn’t dared to hope for in years. He shouldn’t ask for even more. He doesn’t deserve more.

But your hands tighten around his. Your mouth opens, closes, your tongue comes out to wet your lips as you hesitate and fidget nervously.

“No, you, uh, you should,” you stutter before catching yourself, closing your eyes like you don’t want to see what’s in front of you before you take a leap of faith. “I mean— I think about it. About you.”

A light buzz starts again in his ears.

“I didn’t know,” you keep mumbling. “I mean, I wasn’t sure that you—” Your gaze goes from his hand to the floor, everywhere so you don’t have to look at him. “That you wanted me. So I’m— It’s, uh, it’s good to know.”

“I want you,” Hyun-Su blurts out without thinking, and of course then you look at him, with wide, pretty eyes, and if he wasn’t blushing before, he sure is now. His face could burst into flames any second. “I hate that I can’t—” His eyes fall on your legs, with the dress you’re wearing riding up on your thighs. “—touch you.” If he wasn’t so scared, if he was braver… “I just…” A whisper. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You wouldn’t,” you say patiently. “I trust you.”

“But I don’t,” he mumbles, looking down at the floor. “You’re so— fragile. If I lost control for a second…”

He sees you hesitate. He expects you to tell him, again, that he wouldn’t lose control, maybe that the monster inside him wouldn’t hurt you. Thing is, you might be right, but it doesn’t matter how unlikely it is. That’s not a risk he can take.

“Okay,” you say instead. “Okay. But what if— what if I was the one touching you?”

He almost wishes you hadn’t said it, with how badly he immediately wants it.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says. His throat is dry. His whole body is aching for you.

“And if I want to?” You tilt your head, all pretty, and oh, how can he deny you anything?

“Please,” he whispers.

Your lips part and your breath seems to stutter, before you lean in and kiss him, and it’s like he’s finally come home. It starts off soft, slow, no different from any kiss the two of you have shared in the past weeks. Your hand comes up to cup his face, thumb stroking his cheek.

Hyun-Su melts. He parts his lips to welcome in your tongue, lets you take the lead and set the pace for the kiss without thinking about it twice.

Then he feels you move. It’s barely there at first, your hand that’s not on his face coming to rest on his shoulder, and all that is known territory. Even if your fingers actually touch his skin there, because of the numerous holes in his clothing, he can handle that.

His eyes snap open again, though, when you move your leg over his so you can come sit in his lap, straddling him. You notice immediately.

“Is that okay? We can stop—”

“No, I—”

He doesn’t want you to stop. He wants more with you, so bad, and though he would never say it out loud, he’s desperate for you to show him that you’re not disgusted in him. Every time you kiss him, every time you touch him, every time you take his hand and lead him in bed with you, he comes closer to truly believing it.

But, ah, with this last conversation, even if it’s not the first time he’s had you in his lap, he feels— heated. He can feel himself growing hard, and he’s still embarrassed at the thought that you can feel him. Despite what he said, his hands are on your waist, holding tight. He doesn’t remember if he chose to do that.

After all, his desire for you aligns with what the monster wants so closely that he’s— scared. He’s so scared of losing control. But you’re looking at him so lovingly, and he wants you so bad… Can he be selfish? Just this once?

“Don’t stop,” he almost begs, and seeing how eagerly you nod in reply is like an explosion of warmth in his chest.

Your lips crash against his again, harder, with more purpose. Your fingers card through his hair, and the feeling of your light pull on them goes straight to his core, more enjoyable than he thinks it should be, though he’s in no position to linger on it, not when the next thing you do is to experimentally roll your hips on top of him.

From your perspective, it’s a clumsy movement, one you’re unsure of. From his, it’s a rush of pure pleasure when you rub against his hard cock, one that makes him openly moan, his mouth falling open enough that he breaks the kiss. The second he realizes what kind of noise came out of him, he raises his hand to cover his mouth, cheeks turning crimson.

He’s not daring to look at you, not at first anyway, until he feels your lips brushing against his fingers, pressing soft kisses against his hand.

“Still good?” you ask.

And he is, but he’s not trusting his voice all that much for now, so he just nods. A smile dances on your lips as you kiss down his jaw.

“Also,” you add, “I’m not— I don’t have much— experience, in all, uh, that. So you should— you should let me know. What feels good. What doesn’t.”

“That felt good,” he admits quietly, and your smile turns into a grin against his skin.

“I could tell.”

What you don’t say is how hot you found both the sound and the thought that you could affect him like that, how badly you want to press your legs together so you can alleviate the ache you’re feeling down there, how you’re worried you actually want him even more than he wants you.

Instead of saying all that — it would make you feel so naked and so vulnerable, and disarm you completely, which doesn’t seem like a good idea for now —, you start trailing your kisses down his neck. There’s one spot there that makes him whimper, more discreetly than before, but you latch onto it all the same, tongue coming out to flick against the skin, pulling on it softly between your teeth. He writhes and whines under you, and when his cock rubs against you just right, you gasp against him.

You’re delighted to see reddish skin when you pull away. He’ll heal, and there will be no trace of it by morning, but there’s something satisfying about it — and the glassy look he gives you, lips swollen and parted, hair a mess on the back of the couch, with that proud mark right above his collarbone… is purely sinful.

Your fingers hook in his hoodie.

“Can I?” you ask.

He’d go to the moon and back for you.

He nods.

You pull it over his head, struggle a little when it gets caught in his hair, then manage to pull him free and kiss him again with a giggle. It’s sweet. You’re still wearing your dress, but it’s the first time he feels your hands directly on his skin all the same, and even if his body’s burning up, your touch sets him ablaze.

You explore his body with hungry eyes and hands, follow the shape of his pectorals, then move down to his abs. You trace the muscles, slowly, and as you move down, closer to his crotch, he can no longer suppress a shiver. You still for a second, and he watches you with wide eyes, waiting for you to keep moving, so badly wanting you to keep going. Finally, your fingers brush against the button of his jeans. Silently, meeting his eyes, you ask for his permission. He swallows, nods again.

He’s nervous, almost painfully so, but he notices that your fingers are shaking as you have to try three times to get it open, and it reassures him, in some ways. It reminds him that, for all the issues he has, this is new for the both of you. There are no expectations to meet, just the two of you discovering, together, what works for you.

Once the button isn’t in the way, you, very carefully, move your hand under his jeans, but over his boxers. The second he feels your hand hesitantly closing over his cock, even through the fabric, he throws his head back, trying his best not to moan again and only half-succeeding.

You watch his reactions closely as you keep touching him, slipping your hand under the boxers after a few seconds. This time he does moan, a high-pitched noise that you take to mean you’re doing something right — even if you have no idea what you’re doing. How tight should your grip be? How fast should you move? Should you be saying something? Should he be saying something?

His cock is rock hard between your fingers, harder than you’d have expected; larger, too. It seems to have been that way for a while, maybe since you’ve started kissing, based on how wet with precum it is. You tighten your grip around it a little, then slide your hand down, slowly, down to the base. He moans again, and you feel him twitch between your fingers.

“Um,” you mumble, “I, uh, I don’t really know— is that— is there anything I should—”

Hyun-Su’s looks up at you, flushed and panting. One of his hands comes to your thigh, and now you’re the one shivering under his touch. You don’t think he even notices though. You’re dripping wet yourself, but for now you just want to make him feel good. If things go well, if he stays open to this sort of things, there’ll be plenty of time to deal with that… later. At the moment, all you want is to show him that pleasure doesn’t have to lead to anything negative.

“J-just, keep going,” he mumbles. “You can, ah, you can go a little faster, if you…”

The rest of his words gets lost in the next moan as you follow his advice, moving your hand up and down his cock, the wetness helping the movement. Despite yourself, you rock your hips against his leg, the pressure of it between your legs feeling so delicious, you can’t deny it to yourself at the moment.

Under you, Hyun-Su is lost in pleasure. Your rhythm is hesitant, you’re not holding him quite as tight as he’d like, but oh, your hand is soft and gentle, and it still feels so much better than his own. The fact that you’re all pressed against him, your breath against his neck, your scent filling him, it’s all much more than what he had imagined — because, yes, in shameful moments, he’d pictured this kind of scenes, but they had never felt as good, pleasure running through his veins and flooding his body.

Any time he indulged in them, though, he came faster than usual, and now, with the real thing, he realizes too late how quickly he is approaching his climax.

“Wait,” he hears himself mumble, “I’ll—”

But he’s already coming, and the strength of the orgasm leaves him breathless as he humps against your hand, trying to make it last longer.

“Oh,” is all you comment, and even through the haze, embarrassment spreads through him as he realizes that there’s cum on your hand and on his stomach. At least he cannot turn any redder now.

“Sorry,”  he mumbles, “sorry, I—”

“No, I— I thought that was pretty hot, actually,” you say, giving him a smile, and thank fuck you’ve taken his hand off him, because he wouldn’t want to have to explain why that’s making him twitch again. “I’ll just— you probably want to get cleaned up.”

“I’m— Yeah, but—” He glances down at your body. He felt you rocking against him earlier, even if he wasn’t exactly in the right mind to say something about it. “Don’t you— Don’t you want to, uh…”

“Ah, I’m fine, I just— I just wanted to make you feel good for now.”

And just as he thought his heart rate might go back to normal at some point, there it is, spiking again.

“We can do that— some other time. If you’d like to.”

There is nothing he wouldn’t give to you.

“I would. I would like that.”

Your smile is a promise for more, your kiss is sweet, and for the first time in forever, Hyun-Su forgets about the monster.

He’s in your arms, and it’s all that matters.

i’ve been trying to figure out what to put here. i already feel like i’m kinda begging for comment on my posts, which i don’t like doing, but i figured i’d try to explain at least once what i’ve been feeling lately — plus i'm starting a new job on Monday and i don't know how much time i'll have to write after that. truth is, the lack of interactions i’ve been getting on here, on these stories, has been kind of depressing to me. i know people are reading them, considering the amount of notes, and it’s hard not to question whether it’s my writing that’s not good enough to make people want to leave a comment, or if it's just how fandom is now and in that case it just might not be for me anymore. i mean, i write for myself first, but i post because i want to share with others, i want to see their reactions, know how my writing makes them feel… and lately it just feels like i’m screaming in the void and nothing else. it’s been hard to stay motivated honestly. so, yeah. you don’t have to leave a comment, especially if you didn’t like it, i get it, i’m not trying to guilt-trip you. i just. feel the need to explain this at least once, in case it changes someone’s mind, and if it doesn't, i'll know i tried. if you've ever commented, reblogged with tags, sent an ask, know that i'm so thankful for you and you truly keep me going.

next one-shot

Aemond Targaryen - Shadow

Summary - In the bustling streets of King's Landing, a day of market escapades and a sweet surprise reveal the depth of Aemond's devotion to his wife. Their story defies the whispers and gossip of the realm, proving that true affection flourishes even in the heart of the coldest dragon.

Pairing - Aemond Targaryen x reader

Warnings - None

Word count - 2267

Masterlist for Aemond • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

"Aemond, must you always look so miserable?" I teased as we strolled through the bustling markets and lively stalls of King's Landing, my arm looped through his.

He sighed, pulling me closer to his side. "I simply do not understand why we must do this ourselves. If you require anything, you know I can have it brought to you."

"But I enjoy going out myself," I insisted, stopping in front of an elderly woman's stall laden with vibrant dress fabrics and delicate laces.

Aemond frowned, his gaze dropping to my small, but growing bump. "I wish you wouldn't indulge in such whims, especially in your condition," he murmured, resting his hand protectively over our unborn child.

"If you do not start acting like you love me, I swear it, I will start weeping this instant," I threatened with a playful glint in my eye, as I sifted through a roll of golden fabric.

He arched an eyebrow, his tone softening. "I don't need to act like I love you if I already do," he countered, his voice gentle yet firm.

I handed the fabric to the vendor, her gnarled hands accepting it with a nod, and I couldn't help but smile at his words, a warmth spreading through me like the sun breaking through a cloudy sky.

"Well then," I replied, my tone brightening, "I suppose we're in perfect agreement."

"I suppose it's the chaos of the market that unsettles me," Aemond admitted, "I'd rather be certain of your safety." 

I pouted, feeling a pang of guilt at his concern. Leaning in, I pressed a quick, reassuring kiss to his cheek, hoping to lighten his worry.

The vendor soon returned, carefully folding the fabric and handing it back to me. "How much?" I asked, reaching into the small coin pouch at my side.

"For you, Princess, it is free," she said with a sweet, almost maternal smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

I shook my head, a soft laugh escaping my lips. "Nonsense," I replied, pulling out five golden coins and placing them in her hand.

The woman's eyes widened, her expression a mixture of shock and overwhelming gratitude."Oh, thank you, Princess," she said, her voice thick with emotions. "May the gods bless you and the babe."

Aemond and I began walking again, the vibrant energy of the market humming around us. He  took the fabric from my hands and passed it to Ser Arryk, who followed us with a vigilant but unobtrusive presence.

"Princess, you've paid far too much for this," Ser Arryk pointed out, his tone respectful but puzzled.

I shrugged lightly, glancing up at Aemond as he interlaced his fingers with mine. "If we can afford it, why not?" I replied, feeling a sense of contentment in the small act of kindness.

Aemond squeezed my hand gently, his gaze softening further as he looked down at me. "And now, where to?" he asked, his voice carrying a rare note of playfulness.

I paused for a moment, considering the options laid out before us in the lively market. "Perhaps the baker's," I suggested a playful glint in my eye.

Aemond chuckled, his grip on my hand tightening affectionately. "Lead the way, my love. Wherever you wish to go, I shall follow," he promised, his voice laced with warmth.

We made our way through the bustling streets to the baker's stall, the air heavy with the intoxicating aroma of freshly baked bread and sweet pastries. 

The display was a feast for the senses, with golden loaves, delicate pastries, and intricately decorated cakes all vying for attention. I couldn't resist the temptation and began picking out various treats, my eyes gleaming with delight as I selected a mix of sweet and savoury goods.

As the baker carefully wrapped my selections, I stepped to the side, my attention caught by a small cluster of cats lounging lazily in the warm sun by the side of the stall. 

Without a second thought, I dropped to the ground, the soft fabric of my dress pooling around me as I reached out to pet them. The cats responded instantly, purring contentedly as they nuzzled into my touch. 

I laughed softly, completely lost in the simple joy of the moment as I caressed their soft fur, marvelling at how they responded to my affection.

"Princess, your dress!" my handmaiden gasped, her voice filled with concern as she rushed to my side, her eyes wide with worry. "You'll ruin it!"

I looked up at her with a lighthearted smile, still stroking the contented cats. "It's alright," I reassured her gently, "I have others."

My handmaiden hesitated, clearly torn between her duty to maintain my dignity and her understanding of my spontaneous nature. Finally, she sighed, a small smile tugging at her lips as she watched me continue to pet the cats.

Aemond stood a few paces away, his tall figure casting a shadow over us, but his expression was anything but dark. He watched me with a gaze so full of love and adoration that it seemed to soften his sharp features, a rare vulnerability shining in his eye. 

His usual stern demeanour was nowhere to be seen, instead, he looked utterly captivated, as if seeing me in this unguarded moment deepened his affection for me even further.

Finally, I tore myself away from the cats, rising from the ground with Aemond's hand extended to help me up. I dusted off my dress, smiling up at him as I did so. 

"Do you like cats?" Aemond asked, his voice curious, yet tinged with a softness that was rarely heard.

I looked at him incredulously, surprised that he didn't already know. "I love them," I confessed, a wistful smile playing on my lips. 

"When I was younger, I begged my mother to let me keep one, but she never allowed it. She was afraid they would distract me from my duties, that I'd spend more time with them than attending to my responsibilities."

Aemond's expression softened further, a thoughtful look crossing his face as we began our walk back to the Red Keep. 

"Mhm, I see," he replied, his tone nonchalant, but I could sense the wheels turning in his mind as the familiar walls of the Keep came into view.

As we reached the entrance, I turned to him, smiling softly. "I'm going to change, my love. I'll see you later," I said, leaning up to place a gentle kiss on his lips before stepping away with a little wave.

He watched me go, his gaze lingering as my handmaiden and I started chatting animatedly about the gown that would be made from the gold fabric we had just purchased. 

We made our way through the corridors, our laughter echoing faintly as we envisioned the intricate designs and fine details that would soon bring the fabric to life.

─── ✦⋅♡⋅✦ ───

Later that evening, I sat in our chambers, the room dimly lit by the warm glow of candles. My handmaiden was gently braiding my hair, her fingers deftly working as we prepared for bed. The tranquillity of the moment was soothing, the quiet hum of the Keep's night settling around us.

The door to our chambers opened softly, and I heard it close just as quietly. "Aemond?" I called out, not needing to turn around to know it was him.

"Yes, darling," he replied, his voice filled with a tender affection that made my heart flutter. 

My handmaiden finished the braid, tying it off with a delicate ribbon before giving me a small nod and excusing herself for the night.

Aemond strolled up behind me, his presence warm and comforting. He leaned down to place a quick, affectionate kiss in my hair, the familiar scent of him enveloping me as I turned to meet his gaze. 

His eye was alight with amusement, a rare smile playing on his lips.

"I have something for you," he said, his hands hidden behind his back, the hint of a playful grin on his face.

My curiosity piqued, I raised an eyebrow. "What is it?" I asked, but before he could answer, I heard a faint, delicate whimper. My eyes widened in surprise as he slowly revealed what he had been hiding.

In his hands was a small, grey, fluffy kitten, its big eyes blinking up at me innocently. 

"She's yours to keep," Aemond said, his voice softening even more as he watched my reaction.

I gasped in delight, immediately reaching out to take the little bundle of fluff from him. The kitten was light as a feather in my hands, her soft fur brushing against my fingers as I brought her up to my face, inhaling the sweet, milky scent that only a kitten possesses.

"She's adorable," I murmured, my heart swelling with affection as I gently rested the tiny creature on my bump. The kitten settled in comfortably, her small, contented purrs vibrating against me as I stroked her with tender fingers.

Aemond watched me with an expression of pure love, his eye reflecting the warmth and joy of the moment. 

"I knew you would love her," he said quietly, his voice filled with satisfaction as he saw how happy the kitten made me.

I looked up at him, my eyes shining with gratitude and love. "Thank you, Aemond. She's perfect," I whispered, leaning in to kiss him softly.

The kitten's purring grew louder as she nestled against me, already content in her new home. 

Aemond sat beside me, his arm wrapping around my shoulders as we both watched the kitten explore her new surroundings, her tiny paws padding across the bed.

"What will you name her?" he asked, his voice gentle as he turned his gaze from the kitten to me. I paused, a faint smile playing on my lips as I considered his question.

After a moment of thought, I turned to him, the smile widening as I made my decision.

"Vhagar," I declared, watching as Aemond's face fell. He glanced from the kitten back to me, his expression caught between disbelief and amusement.

"What? Both our pets can share the same name," I teased, nudging him playfully with my elbow.

Aemond shook his head, his lips twitching as he struggled to maintain a serious expression. 

"Vhagar is not a pet, she is a dragon, a fearsome one at that," he countered, his tone laced with a mixture of pride and incredulity. "And that little creature right there is nowhere near as terrifying as her," he added, pointing at the kitten.

As if on cue, the kitten leapt up, her tiny claws latching onto his finger with surprising determination. Aemond blinked, momentarily taken aback, and I couldn't help but laugh at the sight.

"Hey, don't talk about her like that," I said, gently prying the kitten from his finger and placing her back on my bump, where she settled down with a contented meow. 

I stroked her soft fur, feeling her tiny heartbeat against me, a protective instinct rising within me.

Aemond raised an eyebrow, a smile finally breaking through his composed facade. 

"What about Shadow?" he suggested, his voice softening as he watched me cradle the kitten.

I considered the name for a moment, glancing down at the little ball of fluff that was now dozing peacefully on my lap. 

"Shadow," I repeated, testing the name on my tongue. It felt right, a fitting name for a creature who was small and quiet, yet already held a special place in my heart.

"I like it," I decided, looking back up at Aemond with a smile. "Shadow it is."

Aemond's eye softened, the corners of his mouth lifting in a tender smile as he leaned in to kiss my forehead. "Shadow it is," he echoed, his voice a low murmur, filled with affection.

Aemond's kisses trailed down my neck, each one sending a shiver of warmth through me as he gently pushed my body back onto the bed. His intentions were clear, the familiar hunger in his touch unmistakable. But just as his lips grazed my collarbone, I placed a hand on his chest, gently pushing him back.

"Not in front of Shadow," I whispered, nodding toward the tiny kitten, her soft purring barely audible.

Aemond paused, his lips hovering just inches from my skin, his expression shifting from passionate to utterly bewildered. He pulled back slightly, his eye widening in disbelief as he looked from me to the kitten and back again. 

The look on his face was a perfect mix of surprise and incredulity as if he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing.

I bit my lip, trying to suppress a giggle at his reaction. The absurdity of the situation was almost too much to bear, but I couldn't help but find it endearing. 

Aemond let out a dramatic huff, clearly resigned to the whims of our tiny observer. He gently lifted the kitten placing her carefully on the floor beside us.

He then turned his attention back to me, he reached out, his hands deftly guiding me as he manoeuvred our positions. With a swift, yet gentle motion, he pulled me on top of him, arranging us comfortably as he settled back onto the bed.

"There," he said with a note of triumph in his voice, his eye glinting with a mix of amusement and affection. "Now Shadow isn't watching."

After a thoughtful pause, I nodded in agreement, a smile spreading across my face. "You're right," I replied, my tone light and teasing.

With that, I leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Aemond's lips. The kiss was tender and filled with affection, a sweet affirmation of our connection. 

As our lips met, I felt the warmth of his love enveloping me, his arms encircling me as if to hold me in that perfect moment forever.

A/n -Welcome back Margaery Tyrell x

---

My heart hurts but i don't think i could ever forgive someone if they said that to me.

Dead to You

a/n: hello! this is for @beautifulbows924 Moon Knight writing special. 

prompt: “It’s okay.” + “I know you don’t love me like you do her.”

word count: 2k+

pairing (s): marc spector x reader, steven grant x reader

moon knight masterlist

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．

Your love for him was like a tragedy waiting to happen. The trigger was there since the beginning, waiting for your finger or his to pull it and shoot you right in the heart. Your friends were wary of him, saying that he would be the one to break your heart into two, leaving you alone to mend the poor pieces. You did not listen to them, not when you found yourself falling for him harder every day. 

When you first met him, he was nothing more but a stranger who saved you from your creepy colleague. You had a bad day at work, and your day was only getting worse when one of your colleagues kept pestering you to go out on a date with him. Rejecting him for the hundredth times, it seemed to upset him so much that he followed you home. You did not even notice it, not until he had you pressed against the wall of your apartment building, fear started to suffocate your head. 

That was when Marc came and ripped the man off you, sending a few punches that left him begging and crying for forgiveness from you. He was not in his suit, back then you knew nothing of his job and yet when he looked you in the eyes, you knew your heart was his. 

It was too good to be true. 

Keep reading

---

𓅨 Eros Masterlist

Eros: Married to Dream of the Endless, you find yourself sent back in time to Ancient Greece where you, unfortunately, meet Oneiros. Fresh off a divorce and drowning the sorrows of his son's death by indulging in the Panathenaia, you find yourself trapped beneath the lustful gaze of your future husband. In your defense, he seduced you first…

Overall Warnings: Filthy Explicit Material, Explicit Language, Time Travel, Morpheus getting jealous of his past self, Hoe!Dream, DILF!Dream, Seduction at its finest.

To Note: Morpheus x Wife!Reader, Time Travel, Oneiros is used for AncientGreek!Morpheus.

Total Word Count: ~24.5k

Legend:

❗ = Explicit Sexual Material

𓅨 Chapter One

𓅨 Chapter Two

𓅨 Chapter Three❗

𓅨 Chapter Four❗

𓅨 Chapter Five❗

𓅨 Chapter Six❗

𓅨 Chapter Seven

𓅨 Chapter Eight❗

Date Published: 12/30/23

Date Completed: 6/19/24

Last Edit: 6/19/24

Morpheus/Dream Masterlist

---

This is the best type of smut and you cant convince me otherwise.

OGC couple🥺🥺🥺

AHHHH YESS!!! OGMMG I'M SOBBING thank you for thinking of my couple 😔🥺💜💜

Cold as ice

Genre: fluff, first love, suggestive smut

Cw: FigureSkater!Minho x FigureSkater!Reader, slow(ish) burn, first kiss, he's shy, grumpy x sunshine kinda, rivals to lovers if you really squint, making out, hickies, smutty thoughts

Wc: 11.7k

Summary: Minho finds the icy cage around his heart melting sooner than he thought, and you were the flame

A/N: This was so fun to write I genuinely loved this sm, the song vibe is sparks by coldplay if anyone wants to listen while they're reading like me lol

Minho stood at the entrance of the Olympic ice rink with a newfound excitement for his skating career- his heart racing with a blend of nerves and ecstasy. He felt the cool air hitting his face, the frostiness biting at the moisture on his lips, felt his limbs being pierced with the harsh cold of where he felt most at home, and he knew he belonged.

He had sacrificed the majority of his life to get to this rink, gave up countless hours, missed important life events, and trained vigorously to the point of exhaustion just to stand here and compete for his country. A part of him looks back and wished he could've formed better connections with the people around him, a small twinge pulled at his heart when his peers didn't send him off, but he knew he didn't regret it.

Not when he was the one that got to stand on this ice, when he was the one that was going to represent his country and stand on the podium with a gold medal when all was said and done.

Minho loved being alone on the ice like this, he loved when it was just him and the sound of his blades cutting through the frozen surface- no one watching, no one putting pressure on him to be better. He felt an unparalleled freedom when he was allowed to just skate, to not feel.

The rink was his canvas, each push of his legs painted a picture over the ice that transformed it into proof of his dedication and passion for the sport he had devoted his life to.

The man had graduated from rink to rink in his journey, upgrading with every step of progress- and as Minho flawlessly executed the junior championship routine that had gotten him into the most important rink in his skating world, he marveled in the feel of it all. How much smoother the ice felt under his feet, simply how much more room he had to practice each jump and glide that merged seamlessly with his movements.

In his mind, the arena echoed with applause and the sweet taste of validation that he would get for all the hard work that had led him to this refined moment on the glistening surface.

"First time?" He heard a soft voice call out to him, the sound of another pair of blades gently scratching the surface reaching his ears at the same time.

He looked up and didn't see another figure skater anywhere on the ice.

But he did see an angel.

You glided across the ice so gracefully that it looked like you were floating.

You effortlessly lifted your leg and caught it behind your head, pushing yourself into an upright spin. Minho couldn't help his eyes from scanning across your legs, captivated by the seamless fluidity of your movements. He swallowed the lump in his throat.

Minho had a rule that he wouldn't let himself forget, and that was not to let anyone get in the way of his gold medal. He never bothered to become more than acquaintances with anyone he used to skate with- and the few friends he had outside of the ice eventually grew away from him, intimidated by his all consuming dedication to the sport.

He knew he couldn't break this rule now more than ever, so Minho stayed silent, just observing the mysterious skater from the corners of his eyes. As you continued to skate, each twirl and jump performed with an effortless grace, he came to the realisation that he hadn't found much joy in watching other people skate until right now. Minho remained in his solitary rhythm, maintaining the distance he had carefully cultivated to protect his focus.

As soon as he tore his eyes off of you, it was like you knew that you had lost his attention. Your soft voice, like a gentle breeze, began gliding through the air again, spurring his eyes to look up once more at your routine.

"I remember my first time on this ice too, amazing right?"

Still, he hesitated, torn between the familiar path of solitude and the intriguing possibility of.. no.

"What's your name?"

"Minho."

He may be opposed to making friends but he wasn't impolite, he'd answer if you asked him a direct question.

"Korea, right?"

He nodded.

"I watched your championships."

He hummed, staring down at the fluffy socks that were peeking out of your skates.

Minho already felt uneasy, knowing that you knew his style of skating, had seen his best performance to date, how he reacted to the crowds, yet he remained in the dark about anything to do with you.

The asymmetry of your knowledge of eachother made Minho weary, he felt like you had an advantage over him already.

"I'm Y/n." You announced, extending a hand to him but he didn't take it.

The air was heavy with the unspoken tension that had bubbled up in him from this small interaction.

"Making a friend isn't going to stop you from doing your best, you know?" You offered, your words cutting through the frosty air. Minho looked up, meeting your eyes with a conflicted expression. Despite your gentle encouragement, his  focus on the gold medal remained unwavering. He didn't want just to do his best; he wanted to bring home that prize.

His gaze shifted down to the patch of your country's flag sewn into your jacket, and he pursed his lips, a silent acknowledgment of the reality of the situation, you were here to try and beat him too at the end of the day.

It was ingrained in his mind from a very young age that he didn't need friends in this world. He needed to win. Minho chaneled all of his energy into surpassing his peers instead of conversing with them- he knew their names, and he knew their rankings. He didn't entertain any attempts at training together, lest they all steal his routines and steal his success.

"If I was going to make a friend it wouldn't be with someone I was competing against."

"Suit yourself, Minho," you grinned, "I'll be here if you want company."

He was sure he wouldn't want company, but he gave you a small nod nonetheless and watched as you slipped a pair of earphones in your ears and relocated to the far end of the rink so as not to collide with his space.

He appreciated that.

When he next came, during the more acceptable hours of the next day to be out skating, the ice was teeming with other competitors when he went back. He groaned under his breath, of course he couldn't police the rink, but he hated this.

Now he had to pay attention to his surroundings properly, he didn't get to just skate and lose himself in the silence, he had to watch everything, not just focus on himself.

Now he would feel uncomfortable in his own skin everytime a pair of eyes looked him up and down.

He felt uncomfortably exposed like this.

He felt like his every glide was being watched, examined, picked apart, stolen for other routines, magpied by other coaches.

No, he'd come back later.

He'd come back when he could focus.

There was no use being on the ice like this, not when he could barely keep his eyes straight in from of him; darting his eyes back and forth every two seconds to check for other skaters just in case someone got too close and he would collide-

Minho's fear materialized just then, right as he was thinking about avoiding it, he failed to see you right in front of him. The two of you tangled together in an unexpected embrace, his limbs flailing to keep himself upright amidst his moment of weakness- a stark contrast to the usual upmost precision and control that he prided himself on.

He cleared his throat, a habit that he used to shove the lump of embarrassment that made it hard for him to swallow out of his airway.

"Sorry," he mumbled, his ears tinting in a cherry blush that seemed much more bright on the ice.

"Are you okay?" You asked him, trying to surpress a smile at how his hands squeezed your arms, surprised by the unexpected shift of balance.

He noticed then. That he was still holding on to you tightly, and quickly removed himself, rubbing at his cheek subtly to try and force the blush back down his neck.

Cute.

"I'm okay."

"Be careful," you nodded towards him, skating backwards through the current of people. He watched as they all seemed to contort around you, fitting you into their paths and you didn't even need to look at where they were.

Minho wondered if that was a skill that came with skating around other people. If having friends on the ice allowed him to better suit himself for not skating alone.

When would he ever need that, though?

"Wouldn't want anything getting in the way of your gold medal?"

He heard your voice before he saw your face again, pirouetting around him like a ballerina.

You stopped in front of him, a playful smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you stared up into his stoic expression. It seemed he was as emotionally resilient as the ice.

"Do you speak only when someone's asking you a question?" You quipped, teasingly.

His response was a curt, "no."

You giggled at the irony, and a crack appeared in Minho's rigidly crafted exterior as he pursed his lips into a small smile and let his head flop down to hide it.

You wished he didn't hide it, though, as that split second his face held something more than that blank expression you wanted to chase it- tilt his head back up to see the smile he didn't want to show you.

"Well, you wanna skate?"

He looked to the side and let the anxiety bubble back up through his veins at the sight of all the other people moving past his field of view.

"How can you skate with so many people?"

You shrugged, a casual nonchalance in your response, "habit, I didn't really get to use private rinks a lot."

The admission carried a hint of your own experiences, and you wondered for a brief moment if he was going to open up about his to continue the conversation.

He didn't continue.

Of course not.

"What about you?"

Minho's stoic exterior seemed to reassert itself, mending the cracks as soon as you asked him a question about himself that he deemed suspicious. The question lingered in his air and in his thoughts as he pushed himself along behind you.

You faced him, skating backwards carefully as it you were guiding him through the people, opening up a path for him to start a new journey on the ice.

He watched you smile and greet everyone you skated past like you had known them for years, and maybe you had, he truly couldn't tell. Maybe if he hadn't been so shut off you would've asked about his day so far like you were chatting to an old friend.

Your question was deemed forgotten, but he still mulled it over- thinking about how talented and truly passionate you must've been to get this far without the opportunity to skate in a private rink.

Thinking about how he probably wouldn't have gotten this far without it, most of his love for the sport came with the fact that he could be alone.

Thinking about asking you about your experiences, to dissect how different the two of you were in that regard.

He skated behind you, internally grateful for the path you were clearing for him, but he didn't vocalise his appreciation.

He glided in silence.

In the next week, the man had found himself exhausted with the fridge that came in his dorm and reluctantly reatreated to the canteen. With his tray in hand, he looked around at the semi-filled tables, observing the groups of people, most just competitors from neighbouring countries huddling together.

It felt foreign to him.

But Minho was no stranger to eating alone. With a quiet determination, he selected an empty table and sat down gently, placing his head on his palm as he started to pick at the offerings that had came with his tray. The clatter of cutlery and hum of distant conversations accompanied his solitude, he had done this many times before, but he didn't feel quite as alone until right now.

He thought the rest of these people would be the same as him, closed off and obsessed with success, he didn't think it would be like school all over again- with cliques and small exclusive groups of people that all looked so happy eating together.

Friends.

They were all friends.

Then, a burst of laughter resonated from a nearby table and something stirred in his chest. He glanced up, and as he had expected, it was your table- the pleasant sound of your laughter that disrupted his thoughts.

You met his eye and a quick, strange, panic seized over him- he felt his face heating up and he didn't know why. Minho swiftly averted his gaze and pretended to be engrossed in the intricacies of his half eaten meal, masking the way his pulse spiked when you noticed him looking.

God, that was wrong. That felt wrong.

That felt like something that would get in the way of his gold medal if he entertained it.

Minho's sudden focus was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of a second tray landing on his table. Startled, like a lonely kitten, he looked up with wide eyes to find you standing there at the foot of the bench opposite him.

There was a moment of silence shared between the two of you as surprise flashed across his face, replaced with uncertainty, and then quickly painted back over with his usual plain expression.

"You looked like you could use some company," you shrugged with a casual smile.

Minho hesitated, this new turn of events throwing him for a bit of a loop. It was clear you were going to join him no matter what he did, so he might as well just accept it and try and finish his food as quick as he could.

"I didn't need it."

"Well, now you've got it," you replied with a gentle insistence.

He watched as you sunk down into the chair, resting your elbows on the table and your chin in your intertwined hands as you looked back at him.

The man cleared his throat, blinking rapidly and subtly chewing on the inside of his cheek as he looked back down. His nervous tics betrayed the emotional conflict occurring deep in the back of his mind.

Why were you so insistent on getting him out of his shell?

He wanted to ask, but that would in turn be getting himself out of his shell, so he sat in silence to regain his control- no different to before you were sat across from him.

That lonely feeling from before dissapated though, and for that he was grateful.

From that moment onward, every time Minho would show himself in the canteen- a subtle shift in the dynamic between the two of you took place. No matter which table he chose, no matter how far away from your usual spot he placed himself, you made it a point to come and join him.

Even despite the fact that he ate in silence, you did it opposite him. A small smile etched on your lips spoke louder than any small talk you could've tried to bother him with. You were happy with this arrangement and he couldn't figure out why for the life of him.

He knew he was difficult, knew that his cold and judging exterior that he presented was challenging for everyone around him. He prided himself on his control, the fact that he could navigate the confusing social interactions around him with said coldness, but something about seeing you sat across from him despite it prompted a lump to stir in his throat.

Why were you putting up with his silence?

Did you really have any interest in the thoughts he didn't share with anyone, or was he just a dull challenge? Someone for you to open up and then spare nothing but a morning greeting on the ice when all was said and done?

What if, in the process of sharing himself, you regarded him a puzzle solved and just.. moved on?

Over the weeks, yours and his schedules seemed to blend together seamlessly. The two of you found yourselves on the ice together more often than not, despite Minho's initial attempts to shake you off. He sought the emptiness of the early mornings and the late nights and, so it seemed, did you.

The rink became a shared space for the two of you, and it had gotten so bad that he looked for you when he entered- he would stay far away sure, but he looked for you. He couldn't help but glance around to make sure you were there, sat on the bleachers adjusting your skates or already twirling on the ice, your presence had somehow already become a part of his new routine.

Today, however, you weren't there.

He had gotten so used to skating in tandem with you, seperate routines, and yet intertwined on the frozen canvas as the marks that your skates left threaded together by the time the both of you were finished.

For a moment, a subtle but undeniable pang snagged at Minho's heart.

It wasn't quite sadness, no, more like discomfort.

The ice felt emptier now.

He whipped his head around as he span, his eyes searching the room for your bag or something of yours to quell the weird feeling pooling heavy in the bottom of his legs.

The sound of his blades cutting the ice felt louder now, echoed stronger without the other half of the room being polluted with the sound of yours slicing through his beloved silence.

Did he like it? He didn't know anymore.

What he did know was that he didn't like not knowing where you were.

That need for control reared its head, and some sort of anxiety washed over him like a gentle yet unrelenting wave. This was his routine now, he skated with you, and now you were gone.

His thoughts weren't clear with you gone, and his thoughts weren't clear when you were here- the confusing emotions that stirred restlessly within him made him frown. He almost longed for your presence, longed for the knowledge of your whereabouts, and longed for everything to go back to how it was when he didn't have to worry about distracting things like you.

He wasn't used to confronting problems like this.

When had Minho ever needed to navigate his emotions in order to concentrate?

He could push those down, he usually could ignore it all and just skate. He was having trouble just skating recently and it was bothering him, you were bothering him.

The man huffed to himself, a frustrated acknowledgement of his sudden codependency on your companionship, it struck him as a little amusing despite everything.

He could almost be moved to laugh out loud at the absurdity of it.

Minho found himself walking straight to the canteen when his session was over, the need to ask you where you'd been lingering in his mind- an impulse to understand why you'd disrupted his routine.

However when he arrived, he didn't find you sat at your usual table either. A frown etched into his face as he stood amist the moving current of people, caught between leaving and maybe.. asking?

He sucked in a breath, hesitation pushing through him before he pursed his lips and headed toward your usual table.

"Hey," Minho greeted, masking his small amount of worry with a composed exterior. "Have you seen Y/n around?"

The other skaters looked up, sharing glances between themselves, no doubt they recognised him as the man you always joined, the one who always sat alone. Three men and one other woman sat at your table, he didn't have a faintest clue of any of their names, but he picked up an Australian accent as the one closest to him spoke first.

"Yeah, she took a spill this morning. Went to get checked out by the medical team."

Oh.

You were hurt.

That upset him.

"She'll be back soon though, she didn't want to go, it was just her coach making her check it out."

A wave of relief washed over Minho, his initial concern fading. "Thank you," he replied, nodding at the information.

Minho chewed on the inside of his cheek.

Maybe if he had made more of an effort with these people, with your friends, he wouldn't have been the only one in the dark about your situation. The walls he'd built to isolate himself had isolated you from him, and the realisation made him sigh.

He turned on his heel to leave, losing what little appetite he had in the first place.

Minho's knee bounced up and down with restless energy as he sat on the bleachers the next morning. He took small sips of his hot chocolate, watching the empty ice and the way it glistened in the light- the thought that it was similar to the twinkle in your eyes didn't escape him.

One cup sat untouched next to his thigh, waiting for your arrival.

His gaze flickered to the entrance, wondering when you would appear. When you did, he straightened his back and fixed his posture, clearing his throat of that lump again before he could realise what he was doing. It was a reflexive action, and it wasn't intended to alert you of his presence so abruptly, but you smiled as you fixed your view on him.

Minho watched you approach, climbing up two of the levels to sit beside him silently. The action melted a part of his icy walls, the fact that you were willing to just sit next to him- just share his company.

Your eyes fell to the cup he held in his hands, and then flickered to the one that sat besides him- in between the two of you. As your gaze met his, you grinned knowingly and the warmth from it caught him off guard.

He blinked rapidly, composed facade faltering as he looked at you like a deer caught in headlights- blush tinting his ears. He had to look away.

"It's for you," Minho mumbled, gently pushing the cup towards you slightly as his eyes locked on something far in the corner.

From then on, he brought you a hot chocolate every day just to see that smile again.

Most of the time, and if he would arrive later than you, he would leave it by your bag- opting to watch you from afar when you realised what he'd done. Sometimes he would be bold enough to wait for you and hand it to you himself on the rare occasion he was feeling that confident.

Today you happened to be stood right behind him in the line to the small sponsored cafe that he had buying the drinks from. He didn't know how to navigate this.

He fully intended not to break his routine today, but there was something about having you right there that made him nervous.

Minho kept glancing over his shoulder at you the further down the line he got, and this time you looked back. A coy smile tugged on your lips, as if you knew of his struggle, waiting to see what he would do now that he didn't have the option to drop the drink off from afar.

Control yourself, he thought, this is fine.

He paid for the two hot chocolates still, except only picking one off of the counter when they were done despite the barista calling out for him.

He heard your rushed footsteps from behind, the other drink in hand as you fell into step with him.

"Thank you," you hummed, looking up at his reddish brown hair.

The man spared you a passing nod, playing with the hem of his jacket to steal his focus away from wanting to observe your smile from so close.

"I'll pay you back."

That made him look.

He shook his head, "no need."

"But these are expensive."

He thought back on one of the very first pieces of information he knew about you- that you never got to skate in empty rinks growing up. He assumed that you didn't have the means to book one out or pay for private sessions like he did.

He didn't particularly think the drinks were expensive, but you did and you still wanted to pay him back.

"It's fine."

"Minho.."

His heart skipped when you said his name.

"I'm not going to accept your money no matter what you say, so, you might as well just keep it and stop complaining."

You smiled, and he cocked his head towards you inquisitively.

"I think that's the most you've ever said to me."

He blinked.

You were right.

He cleared his throat of embarrassment yet again, fixing his gaze forward on the journey back to the rink- the guards on his skates tapping gently against the linoleum flooring.

You laughed now, a joyous sound that spread infectiously to his face no matter how much he willed it not to- and he smiled with you.

When the two of you got back to the ice, it was then that Minho noticed you sitting on the bleachers, taking off a pair of trainers to slip on your skates instead and he wondered why you hadn't just worn them on your way like he usually did.

As if you knew why he was watching you, you smiled bashfully, pursing your lips into a pout that he couldn't help but think was cute.

"I lost my guards," you laughed. "I can't damage these blades either."

"You didn't bring back-ups?"

He skated away from the edge of the rink as you shook your head no, joining him on the ice. The distance between the two of you didn't loom so large now that he wanted to gauge in conversation with you.

He couldn't help but smile.

That was stupid.

"The sports shop is only a 15 minute drive away."

"I can't drive," you shrugged.

He could.

Minho kept the information of his driver's license to himself as the two of you began your normal routine of skating together yet apart, but the prospect of offering you help nagged at his brain every time he caught a glimpse of you.

As he glided across his side of the rink, strewing together twirls and spins and jumps into the same routine he'd been practicing since he got here, his mind wandered to you.

He contemplated the simplicity of it.

Would you like me to take you?

He could surely ask, there would be no harm done- the probability of you saying yes far outweighed you saying no, but he still chewed the inside of his cheek in nervousness.

No? Why would I want you to take me?

A shiver shuddered down his spine at the thought of it. If that happened he probably would never open his mouth to you again.

Minho's face almost pressed down against the ice as he skillfully executed a hydroplane, his leg extended straight out with precision. The seamless movement demonstrated his mastery of technique and control as he moved into a spin, hands pressing into the frozen surface, guiding him into a position that bordered on lying horizontally.

He could feel the chill seeping through his clothes- making his face pink as his cheek brushed the ground.

Minho felt a sense of pride as he lifted back up on his feet, his movements seamlessly transitioning from the spin to a standing position. As he glanced up, a small smile played on his lips when he noticed that you had stopped your routine.

Something stirred within him as he realized you were watching, an urge to push himself further, to impress you with his skill on the ice. Despite the logical part of his brain dismissing it as somewhat silly, he quite liked when you looked at him.

Each next move was executed with a precision that showed years of disciplined training, but there was an added flair- a desire to showcase his abilities in a way that went beyond the standard routine.

As he landed his triple lutz, Minho couldn't help but steal a glance in your direction. The sparkle in your eyes fueled a newfound motivation within him. The ice beneath him almost began to melt, just like how yours did when he watched you for the first time with all that awe.

Minho finished the routine, his eyes blinking up at you from across the rink. There was a brief pause, a moment of anticipation where he almost expected you to say something. But he had given you no reason to believe he ever  wanted you to interrupt the silence he loved on the ice so much.

So you stayed quiet, a bitten lip adding a touch of intrigue to your expression, a detail he wished he could've seen up close.

He wondered what thoughts hid behind your eyes as you watched him, what you wanted to say, if there was anything more behind the quiet gaze you directed his way.

The cold air seemed to linger with a different energy as he skated towards you when you headed to the exit.

He watched in silence as you slipped off your skates and started to tie the laces of your trainers instead.

This was his chance, surely.

Just ask.

He was quickly putting on his guards when he had stayed quiet for too long, prompting you to disregard his gaze with a content sigh and head out of the hall with your belongings.

Minho followed behind you, his fingers nervously pulling at the seems of his jacket as he took in a deep breath.

"Y/n," he called.

You looked over your shoulder at him with a curious expression.

"Would you like me to take you?"

The man waited for your response with subtle anticipation, shuffling from skate to skate with an antsy energy. His simple question held a whole lot of meaning that he hoped wasn't lost on you. He hoped you knew how much of a step for him this was.

Somehow, no immediate response was worse than you just rejecting him.

"I can drive," he looked down, watching how the tips of your trainers got closer as you closed the distance between the two of you. "It's no trouble."

The prospect of offering you a ride held a significance deeper than the practicalities. He was opening up to you, or trying, atleast.

You laughed, the sound breaking the tension in the air, and Minho flashed you a fleetingly nervous smile. He couldn't help but wonder what was so amusing.

"I'd like that," you finally responded, a playful glint in your eyes.

He let out a breath, the burden of rejection lifting off of his shoulders as he straightened his posture with a newfound confidence.

You were like a candle flame, gently melting the frozen enclosure he cased himself in. Minho followed behind you, your magnetism pulling him close while you browsed the aisles of the sports shop. The quiet hum of the fluorescent lights and the crisp scent of new sports equipment surrounded the two of you.

"Which do you think?" You smiled, holding up one made of hard plastic and one that was so fluffy he didn't think he could make out where it started and ended.

"Do you need soakers or guards?"

"Guards," you sighed, placing the soaker back down into its pile of soft companions.

As you examined various different types, Minho couldn't help but find a certain comfort in the simplicity of the moment. He discovered a newfound appreciation for your flickering flame that had begun to melt the ice around his shielded heart.

His lips pulled into a downturned smile, picking it straight back up as soon as you moved on to the next miriad of brands and colours to look at.

"There's too many to choose from!"

"What were your old ones like?" He inquired, hiding the white fluffy fabric blade jacket behind his back.

"My old ones were boring."

He hummed with a nod, watching your fingers trace over the different shapes and sizes.

"They were grey, like yours."

"Mine are boring?" Minho raised his eyebrows, a teasing lilt to his tone that spurred you to look up.

"No, they suit you," you quickly added.

He laughed, actually laughed, and the genuine sound caught you off guard. It was pretty, and it made you blush.

You swiftly looked away, focusing so intently on the array of guards like they suddenly held the secrets of the universe. Swapping the white one you held for a baby blue pair, you held it up and pursed your lips.

"I'm gonna get these."

He gently took them from your hand.

"Go look at the skates, I'll pay."

You opened your mouth as if to argue, but he had already started the walk back to the tills before you could even say anything.

As you wandered over to the skates, a subtle warmth settled in your stomach. You could tell that Minho expressed his appreciation through acts of service, showed his feelings through actions instead of vocalising them.

You browsed through the different pairs, admiring the long blades and the pretty details engrained into the leather.

Your skates were white, and Minho's were black.

Binary opposites.

You heard his footsteps behind you quicker than you thought, and softly swivelled to find him holding the small bag with an equally small smile. Despite the differences, there was an undeniable charm to the fact that you were two seperate poles of a magnet.

Because opposites attract.

"Are you ready to go?" He asked, and you nodded, suddenly overcome with a strange sense of bashfulness as you fell into step with him.

He led you out back to where he had parked, placing the bag down in the backseat before sliding behind the steering wheel. Minho fastened his seatbelt, but didn't start the car, his eyes drifting over to where you twiddled your fingers in the passenger seat.

"What made you want to start skating?"

You looked up at the question that broke the silence.

"I like the cold."

The admission hung in the air, and he waited, his gaze unwavering, inviting you to share more if you felt inclined. A question danced in his mind.

He was cold when you first met, is that what drew you to him?

"What about you?"

Your eyes met and it was like the world outside of his car faded.

He was okay.

He was still going to be okay if he let you in.

So he did.

"My parents used to take me to a frozen lake near our house, and I just fell it love with it."

"How old were you?" You hummed.

"About 3, I didn't know a thing about skating, I just knew I wanted to be there."

As he reminisced, a nostalgic smile pulled at his lips.

"And then we moved to Gimpo."

"What happened in Gimpo?" You asked

"I got my first coach," he smiled, a sad sort of smile that made you want to reach over and take his hand. "She said I had so much potential."

The words lingered, carrying a weight that clearly meant a lot to him. You stayed quiet, a reassuring nod spurring him to continue, and sat peacefully.

"She told me not to bother making friends if I wanted to keep it."

So his coach's advice was what had pushed him into his pursuit of loneliness alongside the pursuit for his gold medal. Your heart ached painfully in your chest.

He thought of all the connections he could've had if he knew that it would be like this, like you.

"You've got one now," you smiled at him, and he nodded.

The journey back to the ice rink was a pleasant one, the gentle sound of soft guitar leaking from his speakers. He offered to turn it off when he realised it was in Korean, but you shook your head.

He told you about his 3 cats back home, his love for pudding and jokbal, despite never having tried either of them- you agreed with a smile when he asked you if you liked them.

You knew his favourite colour was mint, and his favourite flavour of ice cream was strawberry, despite the fact that he really did like mint choc chip and he almost couldn't choose. He didn't really have a favourite artist, but his favourite song was '10 out of 10' by a group called 2pm. He couldn't swim and he was afraid of heights.

You knew his birthday and his mbti and the fact that he kind of wanted to be a policeman when he was growing up, but he loved the ice too much. You knew that he had been recorded in the olympic qualifying lines and it was on an episode of nat geo, and no he wasn't going to show you and he really didn't want you to try and look it up because it was embarrassing.

It was like a switch had been pressed on his heart as soon as you made it out of the olympic halls that made him suddenly want to share things with you, and you quite enjoyed the change.

Minho looked at you, waiting at the entrance to the rink for him, his eyebrow subtly raised in a silent question about your intentions.

"You've never skated with a partner before, right?" you inquired, breaking the silence with a question that carried the promise of something new.

He paused for a moment, mulling over your words. Skating had always been just Minho, a realm where he could be free, on his own. The prospect of partnering on the ice was unfamiliar territory.

"No, never," he admitted, a mix of curiosity and uncertainty in his tone. He had never thought of navigating the ice in tandem with another.

"Do you want to?" you asked, your question hanging in the crisp air.

You were asking if he wanted to reshape his entire view on the sport.

Make a friend, skate with a friend, the whole thing didn't seem so daunting when he thought about it like that.

But some sort of truth lingered below the surface, that's not what this was.

Minho hesitated, his gaze flickering from you to the rink. The prospect of stepping into the realm of pairs skating was both alluring and challenging.

After a moment, he nodded, and you took his hand so casually that he wouldn't have even noticed if the touch alone didn't send warmth through his limbs.

Skating with a friend shouldn't make his heart beat this fast.

A simple friendship was not what had bloomed in the middle of all of this, and it was even worse than what he was afraid of in the very beginning when he first heard your voice.

"Do you trust me?" you asked, the question hanging in the air between you as you pulled him along, effortlessly falling into pace with eachother.

Minho looked down at his skates for a moment, contemplating the implications of your inquiry. He had never done this before. Any of it.

He had never changed his routine for anyone, never let anyone in as much as he let you in, and he had certainly never started spending double the amount of money on drinks in the morning just to see you smile.

When he met your eyes again, he didn't have to say a thing to confirm it, but he did anyway.

"I do."

As you both continued to glide together, you let go of his hand and a small pout fell upon his lips, making you giggle. His arm was still outstretched, as if he was chasing the connection from before. With a graceful ease, you gently raised your leg in the air and Minho's surprise was evident as he watched the fluidity of your movements.

When you told him to take your ankle, there was a moment of hesitation in his expression. He took it anyway, the warmth of your nude tights meeting his cold hand, and as he supported your body- he felt you moving back, closer to him.

The man panicked with a bated breath, no choice but to slide his palm further up your leg. He swallowed that lump down again as his hand rested underneath your thigh, holding you almost against him and yet you still glided closer.

The two of you were losing momentum now, and Minho didn't know what else to do, the natural current of the move you were trying to execute with him spurred his hands to grip your waist and pull you to his chest.

So that's what he did.

He swore you must've been able to feel his heart threatening to bang right out of his ribcage- aching to be close to yours.

With you both standing upright, you could continue skating, and yet his hand didn't leave the small of your back.

Minho observed the light wind catching your hair as you both pushed along, and in that moment, he couldn't help but be captivated. The ice held a certain magic when you were on it with him like this. The strands of your hair danced behind you, catching over your ear and shoulder.

His fingers gently moved up to free your hair, tucking it away behind you so it wasn't caught.

Beautiful.

You looked across at him, a spark of spontaneity prompting you to put your hands on his shoulders to ease the two of you into a slow spin, the crisp air around you crackling with tension.

Your eyes fell to Minho's lips, the magnetic pull between you both drawing you closer, slowly, gradually, almost touching. The world around you seemed to blur.

Just as a tender moment was about to unfold, someone pushed through the door to the rink, clanging and making noise, shattering the fragile bubble of intimacy. The intrusion was abrupt, and the spell of the shared spin dissipated in an instant.

As the noise from the cleaner echoed in the rink, you both pulled away, a silent understanding between you that whatever that was had passed.

"You're not supposed to be in here this late," the man called out, "the rink shuts at midnight!"

Minho frowned, a quiet disdain for the man present on his features as he stepped off of the ice and collected his belongings.

He knew that.

He didn't know that so much time had passed already, he swore he only got here at 11pm.

"Sorry," you smiled to the cleaner, "we didn't realise it was that late."

Minho nodded, a quick bow to show his apologies before he was following you out of the same door that had interrupted everything.

Now he was just left with the feel of butterflies dancing around in his stomach with no way out.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" You cocked your head slightly to the left, avoiding his eyes with a bashful smile.

"Yeah."

He didn't see you the next morning, and Minho's first thought was that you had sustained another minor injury. An instant surge of concern propelled him to the canteen as soon as he could to confirm it with your friends. However, to his surprise, you were there, seemingly unharmed. An unexplored emotion rushed through his heart- why wouldn't you tell him you weren't going to be there?

The air around him felt heavy with a mixture of concern and an unexpected tinge of jealousy that he struggled to comprehend. Should he go over? Ask you?

Or just sit alone again, or go back to his dorm and deal with his unstocked fridge?

He didn't have to wonder for long, because you beckoned him over as soon as you noticed him stood amidst the moving people, frozen in uncertainty. Your smile was bright, and all the negativity that clouded his thoughts for a second was washed away in favour of those familiar fluttery butterflies again.

Your friends turned to look at him, and he swallowed down that lump, taking in a breath and heading over to where you were.

"Min, I'm sorry it was my coach, she-"

Min.

His thoughts blanked and he didn't even hear the rest of what you were saying, just settling into the space next to you that you tapped as that nickname you'd just given him fogged his brain.

"It's okay," he smiled politely and small, once he'd registered that everyone on the table was looking to him for his response.

"I am sorry, I should really get your number or something, huh?" You pursed your lips into a guilty grin.

His number, right, yes.

He nodded, his eyes struggling to stay on yours.

"Sorry, um.. these are my friends," you tossed your wrist out to the rest of the table.

He waved awkwardly to them as they introduced themselves, Felix and Joshua, two more figure skaters from Australia and America, Yuqi, a Chinese skater too, and Chris- an ice hockey player self dubbed Australia's best left winger.

Minho felt a wave of unease pour over him again, the second he'd gotten used to being in your company he was thrown into the deep end with 4 new people. He nodded and smiled as they spoke, quickly pulling eachother back into whatever they were talking about before he arrived. They did try to involve him, one of them occasionally would ask him a question or ask him to weigh in on the subject, but he only gave short answers.

He kept taking subtle glances at you beside him, searching for that connection to keep him grounded.

You squeezed his hand under the table, a reassuring gesture that instantly soothed his nerves. He quickly looked down at the unexpected contact before fixing his gaze back on you, a genuine smile graced his lips again, and you intertwined your fingers with his.

Mingling with your friends wasn't that daunting really, he just wasn't used to it.

He quite liked them, actually, and as he started to feel confident enough to say more than a few words every few minutes, he started to feel at ease on your table.

Minho's thumb brushed back and forth over the back of your palm, the teasing smile he sent your way after he started to see that blush on your cheeks added a touch of playfulness to the moment. If anyone else at the table noticed, they didn't say anything.

He started to sit with the 5 of you from then on. No longer did he seek out an empty table, he would come and sit next to you, seamlessly integrating with you all like he had been there from the beginning. Secretly holding your hand under the table became an added bonus that he very much looked forward to.

You exchanged numbers too, and oftentimes he found himself texting you as soon as he got back into his dorm, finding out more about your life, your tastes and favourite things just like you had done to him. The days until the competition dwindled down into the single digits, and the solitude that both you and him shared in the ice during early mornings and late at night became scarce.

Now everyone was on the ice, at all hours of the day, and it set him on edge.

In the middle of the warm down stretches that were part of his nightly routine, his phone buzzed with a notification for him to meet you by the doors of the rink in 5 minutes.

It was already 11 at night, he really should get some sleep- he'd be performing for his entire career in 30 hours, 58 minutes and 25 seconds.

24 seconds..

23 seconds..

Minho slipped on his shoes and a coat, and twisted the lock on his dorm door as he started the cold walk to the rink.

You were there before him, and shot him a small wave and a nervous smile when he stood in front of you.

"Sorry," you breathed in, the look of his fluffy just-showered bangs covering his eyes making him look double the amount of endearing to you as usual.

"Why?"

"Well I.. wanted to see you, properly, but you're clearly ready to sleep."

A smile pulled on Minho's cheeks at your bashful shrug, he had long since stopped trying to hide them around you.

"I don't mind," he spoke gently, the warm air materializing in front of him due to the cold. "I wanted to see you too."

"You did?"

"Of course," he almost scoffed.

You giggled, folding your arms around yourself as you stepped closer to the man.

"What?" He asked, blinking down at you.

"Nothing."

"What's funny?"

"You are, Min."

Min. There it was again.

He smiled, a bashful expression forming on his face as he cleared his throat, looking away momentarily. The redness of his ears almost seemed to shine through his messy hair. He took your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours, and led you towards the exit.

As you walked together, he pulled out his keys and unlocked his car. The invitation didn't hang in the air, because without a second thought you got into the passenger seat.

The quiet intimacy of the moment spoke volumes, but it always had, hadn't it? Just like every other time when you would accept his silence.

He took the driver's seat and the engine hummed to life, as the car pulled away, the world outside seemed to blur into a palette of city lights you could barely focus on.

Sharing silence with Minho had never felt uncomfortable; instead, it was peaceful and calm, as if this is how it was always meant to be. The gentle hum of the car and the soft sound of the tires against the empty roads accompanied the short journey. You took in the view ahead with a gasp as the car pulled up to the top of a hill, the lights twinkling back at you like a miriad of stars.

Minho's deep brown eyes met yours, and a shared appreciation for the beauty in front of you lingered. Though neither of you seemed too occupied with the view of the city.

His fingers tapped against the steering wheel nervously, his other hand leaning on the armrest between your seats.

"This will all be over in just 2 days," he whispered, his adams apple bobbing up and down and you just knew he was trying to get rid of a lump.

"You're not coming back?"

"I am.. are you?"

"Yeah, so don't say things like that."

He nodded with a guilty smile, looking back outside.

"I never thanked you."

Minho furrowed his brows at your words, a hint of confusion flashing across his face as he examined yours for a hint as to what you were going to say next. What could you possibly need to thank him for? In his eyes, you've done more for him than you could ever imagine.

"1 month and 2 days worth of hot chocolates, that's £108, I checked," you started, "and the guards and the soakers, that's atleast £130."

"You did thank me for all of those," he shrugged- like the notion that he had spent that much money on you wasn't anything to draw attention to.

"Min.."

"I think I like it when you call me that," he said, his eyes falling down to the shape that your lips made when they said the nickname you'd given him.

"Min?"

"Yeah, Min."

You laughed and turned in your seat to face him properly. "I think I like you."

He stared up, searching your eyes for any hint of insincerity in your words. The smile faded from his lips into more of a confusion riddled expression, like he couldn't believe you'd ever say those words to him- and you let your head fall with a laugh.

As you looked down at your hands in your lap, Minho's confusion only deepened.

"I like how quiet you are, and I like how much you love to be alone."

He wanted to comment on how that had changed, how you had changed that, but he didn't dare interrupt.

"I like how much you love your cats, and all the pictures you send me," you smiled to yourself, "and I like how you'd rather show instead of tell me how you feel."

You weren't just a small flame, you were his entire sun, and he couldn't believe that you felt like this over someone like him. His breathing stuttered when you looked up again, gradually pulling towards him as you spoke.

"I like skating with you, and I like the tingly feeling I get when I'm around you."

So you did feel it too, the butterflies.

"I like holding your hand under the table, and I like it when your ears go red every time."

He could barely keep his eyes open for more than a second, his face flushed as you grinned.

"And.. I think it's really adorable when you blink so fast," you whispered, just centimetres away from his lips.

He laughed nervously, the sound quietly vibrating between the two of you in the confined space of the car. He looked down, to the side, anywhere away from your eyes because he thought he'd overload with emotion if he did.

He wanted to vocalize how intense this all was, how intense his feelings for you were, but the words seemed to escape him. The weight of emotion didn't sit heavy in his chest like it always had before, ready for him to ignore and shove further down, it danced around his limbs and bloomed in his stomach, making it difficult for him to even sit still.

The uncharted territory of expressing his feelings so boldly, the fact that he even had these consuming feelings, left him momentarily speechless. He took a deep breath and attempted to steady the racing beat of his heart.

"I think.." he started, his voice a quiet whisper, anticipation hanging in the air. "I want to kiss you."

"Then kiss me."

He glanced up then, ironically, because the shared gaze was brief when the two of you finally drifted together, eyes fluttering down as he gently held your cheek- pressing his lips on yours.

It was small, and sweet, and he shyly looked down afterwards.

"That's it?" You asked teasingly, pressing one more peck on his lips to chase it down.

"No."

Show not tell.

That had always been how he navigated his emotions, and he planned to show you exactly how he felt, how much he felt- kissing you like you were his oxygen, like he couldn't live without it, without you.

He pushed forward, his other hand leaving the console in favour of leaning against the headrest of your chair- forcing you backwards. He couldn't be bold with his words, but he could definitely kiss you with the confidence of someone that could.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, threading your fingers through his fluffy hair and Minho felt all giddy inside.

He smiled when you let his tongue in, and a long groan resonated pulled through his throat when your hands fell to his neck, pulling his shoulders, feeling his chest.

You moved away to catch your breath, immediately burying your head in his hair.

"Better?" He laughed, almost out of air- leaning over your body.

The man felt you nod, and he hummed softly, the hand holding your head moving to the edge of the window to hold himself up.

He cleared his throat quietly after a minute or two, "are you okay?"

You giggled, moving away to hold his arm, "why wouldn't I be okay?"

"Well, I just- this is an uncomfortable position and I didn't want to move if you weren't okay.."

"Sit down if you're uncomfortable," you furrowed your brows.

He did, with a pout, but he did.

"I wanted to keep kissing you, so I stayed."

With a click of a seatbelt, you shrugged it off your shoulders, moving over to slide into his lap. You hadn't accounted for the presence of the steering wheel that now dug into your back, disrupting the progression of the moment. A wince and a giggle escaped your lips, and Minho's expression was stuck between minor concern and trying not to smile.

Your looked up to meet his eyes again, and shared laughter echoed throughout the car.

He attempted to adjust the steering wheel first to provide more space, leaning forward and accidentally pushing you further against it. You let out a quiet yelp and he gave up immediately. After a few blank seconds, it was like a lightbulb sparked above his head and he leant sideways this time to pull the lever beside his chair.

Then, he attempted to kick the seat back, but it went too far, and he had to spend a second adjusting it properly, nervous giggles leaking from his throat as he chewed the inside of his cheek in concentration.

The awkwardness of what should've been something intimate and personal just made the moment more special. It may not have been the perfect scripted scene, but the journey to getting where you were right now hadn't been perfect either, and that was what made it uniquely yours.

You smiled and he smiled when the seat found it's rightful place, staring into eachothers eyes for a second before he gently ushered your head forward, his lips coming into contact with your neck.

His fluffy hair tickled your face, but it wasn't nearly enough of a distraction for the feeling of his tongue and teeth gently sucking on your skin.

Everytime you let out a quiet noise of content when he would find a particularly sensitive spot he felt lighter, like he could soon float away and just live up in the clouds where his head seemed to be when he was thinking about you.

"You can't leave any marks or the judges might dock my points."

You pulled back, and he chased your skin slightly, his plush lips falling into a natural pout as he looked up at you like a neglected puppy. Anyone would've thought you'd taken away his favourite chew toy.

A giggle left your mouth and you just rested the side of your head under his chin, listening to the his heart jump into your ear- syncing with the rythm of your own.

The city lights that twinkled outside casted a soft glow inside the darkness of his car, the only sound being the shared breaths and the soft thump of heartbeats. The tranquility was grounding- it's gentle waves washed over the anxiety that had been surfacing within the past few days, the pressure of your coach and the competition and the judges and the audience almost spilling throughout your system.

But Minho took it all away.

Each of his breaths lifted you up and down soothingly, and you could've seen yourself drifting off cuddling with him like this. Your eyelids were getting heavy, and his hands playing with your hair wasn't helping.

"I'd stay like this forever," he whispered, pursing his lips when he pierced the quiet. "But I do have to drive us back."

The two of you didn't see eachother the next day, the last day, busy schedules overruling everything because of the proximity to the biggest performance of your shared careers. Dress rehearsals on the ice and final critics of routines consumed the entire day, but it didn't stop the texting whenever a second of freedom was granted.

You shared complaints and anxious thoughts with him, and he comforted you- carefully concealing the part where he was also feeling more nervous than he had in his entire life in the last few hours of practice he had.

As he took to the ice, Minho couldn't shake the feeling that he could've done more though he executed the spins and glides perfectly. They were perfect, like always, perfect, controlled, precise, but he didn't know what was wrong. It all left a nagging awareness that tugged at the edges of his composure.

Something wasn't perfect.

That gold medal was his, he was sure of it, he couldn't have been more sure of it. Confidence shone through every perfectly executed movement on the ice. He was skating better than he had ever skated in his life. His routine was a masterpiece, meticulously composed of his best moves and most impressive jumps. The improvement he had undergone in the span of a few months since first stepping into this rink was staggering.

Something clung to him, the thought that his anxiety might be because of you.

That's what you had admitted to him over text, you'd just thrown a passing comment out into the world that maybe you were only so nervous because he wasn't there. That you didn't get to hold his hand today, or hug or kiss him, or even see him before you'd be in front of a panel of stern judges.

He'd accepted that too, he definitely knew that he would feel uneasy.

So why was something still nagging at him?

Your coach had decided to put you in a blue dress that hugged your figure, adorned with tassels that swirled around you beautifully. The vibrant color and elegant design had Minho entranced even before you stepped onto the ice. The not so subtle distraction that it would feel nice under his palms lingered in his mind as he watched you.

If he could skate onto that ice right now just to kiss you, tell you how gorgeous you looked in that dress, how the sight took his breath away- and would not be leaving his mind at night, he would.

He'd tell you how good it made your legs look, how it highlighted all the parts of you that he longed to see without the costume.

Fuck that, he'd show you, with his hands and his mouth on yours.

But not right now.

Right now his eyes twinkled like the chipped ice on the metal of his skates as he watched you glide into the middle of the rink like you were floating. The crisp air carried the rhythmic cut of blades on ice to his ears, but his attention was fixed solely on you. Your movements were graceful, and captured every part of him, mind, body, and soul- you had it all. His heart skipped a beat as you spun and twirled and he swore that you were the vision of elegance and freedom.

Stuck at the edge of the rink, he was mesmerized by your skill and beauty. It was as if time stood still, and the world faded away, leaving only the enchanting spectacle before him. The rest of the rink looked colder than usual but the ice underneath your skates looked like it was melting from the warmth of your smile alone.

You finished your routine by heading into a triple axel, his triple axel, the climax of your performance. He held his breath with the audience as you launched into the intricate spin, the ice beneath you transforming into a stage for your artistry.

You landed it well, perfectly even, and he let out that breath he was holding, a smile of relief pulling at his lips.

His coach snapped his fingers for his attention, garnering the turn of his head to look. "Are you ready?"

He nodded, "I am."

"I've never seen you smile at someone else's performance."

Minho blinked rapidly, his ears tinting with a little blush. He was that obvious that even his coach could see.

"It's good to see you coming out of your shell."

"Yeah," he hummed, letting his coach quickly fix his collar. "It is."

He wasn't just coming out of his shell, he was falling in love.

But Minho put his thoughts aside and focused only on what his heart was telling him, stepping onto the ice with a newfound vigour, inspired by the success of your performance. Pride welled up in him as he dived straight into his carefully constructed routine perfectly, not just because of his technical ability but for the emotional resonance that now fueled it.

He had always valued control, but he couldn't control your routine, and he hypothsised that that had been the source of his anxiety. Now, as he glided on the ice, he felt a sense of liberation. The weight of everything filled him, making the experience cathartic. He was no longer a machine skating just for the sake of being alone, now, there was a new sense of artistry to his routine, a different passion thawing through his veins that he hadn't had before.

The ice beneath his skates became a canvas for a different kind of performance, one that was more than just how well he could stick the landing. Minho's movements carried the echoes of newfound connection, and as he embraced the artistic freedom, he realized that you had not threatened his control, you never had. Instead, you had brought his skating to a level where passion and precision coexisted together to create something as beautiful as what bloomed between the two of you.

Passion and precision; two sides of the same coin.

Black and white; binary opposites.

Call it what you wanted, he was truly falling more and more in love with you with every second.

He felt the very last drops of his icy shell melting away when he beamed up at the audience and the judges as he glided past, too fast to find your eyes from wherever you were- but he could feel them.

His performance, his masterpiece, was unfolding perfectly, the wind blew into his hair and the frost bit his cheeks- just how he liked it. Everything was falling into place, all of it, his whole life.

You'd told him that this had all accumulated about 490 hours of skating together from all those early mornings and late nights- you'd worked it out. 490 hours he spent here in this rink with just you, not even counting the rest of the hours where you weren't alone with him.

Hours and days and months of work, his whole life, really. It was all playing out perfectly.

He'd have a gold medal soon, and he'd get himself a girlfriend straight after.

He thought about it while he jumped and glided and twirled, extending his limps into a passionate dance. Thought about asking you out, you saying yes, kissing you again, finally, driving you back up to that spot- hitting that spot inside of you as he made love to you in his backseat, fogging up the windows until you couldn't even see the city lights anymore.

Show not tell, as always.

And he'd show you forever, make love to you forever, as long as you let him, show you how grateful he was that you pushed past that cold exterior and singlehandedly thawed it all away with just the warmth that you carried.

He'd hold your hand and flaunt it to all your friends instead of leaving your intertwined fingers under the table. He'd flaunt it to the whole world if he could, hold it up along with his medal, both equally important.

Minho from 3 months ago would scoff at the notion of anything coming close in significance to his medal, but things change, and change isn't always bad.

What didn't change was the quality of his performance like he'd thought it would.

Minho from 3 months ago knew that technicalities were going to win him his titles. How many turns, how many rotations could he do in the air, could he do it 6 times in one program? He'd be the best skater if he could.

He was almost stiff then.

He kept going, move after move, 3T, 1Eu, 3S, 1Eu, 3S, 1A, and then a hydroplane.

He liked the hydroplane, he put it in all his performances because he just liked the way it looked. It was like his signature, the full side of his head touching the ice as he glided along, it was more artistic than technical like the rest of his moves.

He'd accidentally cut his skin more times than he could imagine perfecting it, and it was ironic, because he didn't value the artistry in the sport before. He valued what the judges would like.

That's what his passion lied in, harbouring his potential, like he had been taught by his very first coach.

Don't make friends, you don't need friends.

If you needed friends it would be the judges.

To make friends with the judges you need to impress them.

Impress them by proving how much better you are, how many more turns you could do, how well you could stick it.

Don't feel it, that's nonsense.

Think it.

Calculate it.

Work it out.

But now as he finished the best routine of his life, he felt it, it was his heart that was guiding him, not his logic or his mind or any calculations.

It was you.

He found you in the audience then, you were beaming across at him- and he was beaming right back, holding that final position to cement the legacy that he was creating for himself.

It will always be you.

A/N: I HOPE IT ISNT TOO OBVIOUS THAT I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT FIGURE SJATING

also I have literally never fully written a slow burn in my entire life cause I feel like I can never make it very slow so I'm sorry if this is too fast paced LMAO

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