⋆｡🦈 ˚.⋆ Summary: You went to the SAP Center to watch another Sharks game. During warm-ups, you expected to see Will Smith completely focused on the ice. What you didn't expect was that, between laps, his gaze would start searching for yours. And that a simple puck tossed over the glass could carry much more meaning than it should.
⋆｡🦈 ˚.⋆ The ice reflected the white lights as the players took their warm-up laps. The sound of skates scratched the surface, mingling with the echo of the crowd's lively chatter. You were leaning against the glass, your hands tucked inside the oversized sleeves of a jersey that seemed a bit too big for you, your fingertips brushing the cold glass. You hadn't planned on being so close to the rink, but from there, the view of the game made your heart race in a different way.
In the center of the rink, Will seemed to be in a world of his own, moving with that confidence as he alternated between rapid shots and playing around with his stick. But as the minutes ticked by, that concentration began to waver.
He rounded the curve at the back of the rink, and for a second, his visor tilted in your direction. At first, you thought it was just the reflection of the game, but on the third lap, he held your gaze for a split second longer. You felt those butterflies in your stomach, among the thousands of people there, he had chosen to focus all his attention exactly on you. There was a spark of curiosity there, a genuine interest that made your face flush. He seemed to have noticed the way you huddled into your oversized jersey, watching him with admiration.
The horn blared, signaling the end of the warm-up, and the organized chaos of players moving toward the tunnel. Will, however, slowed down, letting his teammates pass ahead. He came to a smooth stop right in front of you, his chest rising and falling under his pads, his breath forming small clouds of vapor in the cold air that fogged the glass. Sweat trickled down his temples, his cheeks were flushed from the cold and the exertion, and that spark in his eyes seemed to blend charm and audacity.
He scooped the puck off the ice and held it against the glass, right at the level of your hands tucked inside your jersey. He didn’t hand it over immediately: he waited for you to look up. His smile was wide and genuine, making your heart skip a beat. Will leaned in a bit closer, almost touching his helmet to the glass to close the distance between you. "For you." he said, almost imperceptibly, followed by a light sigh and a shake of his head, looking secretly pleased that he’d managed to get your attention.
When you took it, the weight of the puck in your hand felt cold and solid against your warm skin, contrasting with the chill of the arena. Your fingers trembled as you closed them around the object. "Thank you!" you said, your voice nearly fading into the noise of the crowd. Will didn’t just move on. He bit his lower lip, a distractedly charming gesture, and gave you a short nod with his glove. As he spun on his skates to head toward the tunnel, he looked back over his shoulder one last time, making sure you were still there with his puck in your hands.
That last glance over his shoulder implied that his true victory today wouldn't be reflected on the scoreboard, but in the moment he could find you again without the glass between you.
Could you a Stray Kids reaction where reader is one of the Do It back up dancers and they keep getting distracted by reader during dance practice? 💜
pairing: Stray Kids x dancer!reader
warnings: none really, just fluff and maybe some tension etc.
disclaimer: not my pic
Bang Chan
The music echoed through the practice room, bass thumping against the walls as your sneakers squeaked softly against the floor. You stood behind Bang Chan in formation, close enough to feel the heat of movement and effort radiating off him. The air smelled faintly of sweat and cleaning spray, familiar and grounding. This was just another dance practice. Another run-through. Nothing special. That was what you told yourself.
Chan counted out loud like he always did, voice steady and reassuring. “Five, six, seven, eight.” His shoulders rolled smoothly as he moved, every step precise, every turn confident. You followed closely, matching his rhythm, your focus sharp. The choreography demanded awareness, especially with spacing, and you kept your eyes forward, tracking his movements.
Then it happened.
During the next count, he half-turned, just slightly, checking alignment. Your eyes met his without warning. For a heartbeat, the room seemed to shrink. You smiled at him, small and instinctive, not thinking twice about it. It was an easy smile, the kind that slipped out before nerves could catch it.
Chan’s voice faltered.
“Three, four… uh—”
His foot landed off-beat. The rhythm slipped from him like water through fingers. He recovered quickly, but not fast enough to hide it. The count came back uneven, his timing a fraction late. You felt it immediately, the ripple in the formation, the subtle shift that only dancers noticed.
The music stopped.
Chan laughed, breathless, and ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry, sorry. One more time."
The others turned toward him with raised eyebrows. Changbin tilted his head, suspicious. “You okay, hyung? You never mess up the count.”
Lee Know crossed his arms, eyes sharp. “Yeah, kinda weird.”
Chan waved them off, still smiling. “I just lost focus for a second. That’s all.”
You stayed quiet, heart suddenly loud in your chest. Heat crept up your neck as you realized what had happened. You avoided looking at him, fixing your gaze on the mirrored wall instead.
Chan cleared his throat and laughed again, softer this time. “Guess my brain lagged.”
Felix grinned. “Hyung buffering?”
“Hey,” Chan said, pointing at him. “Don’t expose me like that.”
The group chuckled, the moment easing, but you noticed what the others missed. The faint pink dusting his cheeks. The way he adjusted his cap lower on his head. The way his eyes flicked in your direction for half a second before darting away again.
“Alright,” he said, clapping his hands once. “From the top.”
The music started again. Chan counted, voice steady once more, but it sounded just a little tighter than before. You danced behind him again, muscles moving on memory alone. This time, you kept your eyes carefully trained on his shoulders, on the lines of the choreography. Still, you could feel his awareness like static in the air.
Halfway through the routine, his shoulders tensed, then relaxed. He was focused, determined. Professional. Yet when the song ended, he exhaled deeply, hands resting on his hips.
“Good job, everyone,” he said.
As people dispersed to grab water, Chan lingered for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck. He laughed quietly to himself, shaking his head as if amused by his own mistake. When he finally glanced your way again, his smile was sheepish and warm, just for a second.
You realized then that the distraction had not been one-sided at all.
Lee Know
The practice room lights reflected sharply off the mirrors, turning every movement into something doubled and impossible to ignore. Music started up again, loud and familiar, and you slipped into position among the dancers. Lee Know stood a few steps ahead, posture relaxed, hands loose at his sides like he was already bored of being perfect at this.
The choreography began, clean and sharp. You moved on instinct, muscles remembering the sequence before your mind caught up. Your eyes stayed forward, scanning the mirror for spacing, angles, timing. Lee Know’s reflection was right there, centered, precise. He danced like gravity listened to him.
Then his eyes lifted.
You met his gaze through the mirror, unexpected and direct. His eyes did not flick away. They held yours, steady and intense, like he had decided something in that exact moment. Your breath caught for half a beat, but your body kept moving, steps landing where they should.
Lee Know’s focus narrowed. His expression changed just slightly, jaw tightening, eyes darkening. He did not miss a single move. If anything, his dancing became sharper, more deliberate. Each turn felt aimed. Each glance calculated. He watched you through the mirror while his body followed the choreography flawlessly, like he had split his attention and mastered both.
You told yourself to look away. You did not.
The mirror made it impossible to pretend. Every time your eyes lifted, he was still there, gaze locked, unblinking. It sent a strange heat curling through your stomach. You followed the routine perfectly, but your awareness was off balance, pulled toward him like a magnet.
When the music ended, Lee Know finished strong, stopping exactly on count. He did not look at you then. He simply turned away, calm as ever, like nothing unusual had happened at all.
You exhaled slowly, shoulders loosening.
As the others started talking, Lee Know walked over to Changbin and Hyunjin. They leaned together casually, voices low. Changbin laughed loudly at something, Hyunjin grinning, but Lee Know only smirked, arms crossed, head tilted slightly as he listened.
You grabbed your water bottle and stepped aside, taking a long drink. Your pulse still felt too fast. You told yourself it was just practice. Just mirrors. Just coincidence.
Still, you felt it.
That sensation between your shoulder blades, like someone’s attention brushing against your skin.
You tried to ignore it, staring at the floor, then the wall. You shifted your weight, took another sip of water. The feeling did not fade.
You swallowed and turned your head.
Lee Know was looking at you.
Not accidentally. Not briefly. His gaze was openly fixed on you now, sharp and unapologetic. Changbin was still talking beside him, completely unaware, but Lee Know’s attention was elsewhere. His eyes traveled slowly, deliberately, like he was taking his time.
A smirk tugged at his lips, lazy and dangerous, like he knew exactly what he was doing to your nerves.
Your fingers tightened around the bottle. Heat crept up your neck. You looked away first, heart thudding too loud in your ears. The room suddenly felt smaller, heavier.
When you dared to glance back again, his eyes were still on you. This time, his smirk deepened, just a fraction, before he finally looked away and responded to Changbin like nothing had happened.
You stood there, water forgotten, trying to steady your breathing.
Lee Know stretched his arms overhead and rolled his shoulders, calm and composed. If anyone asked, he would say it was just another practice.
But you knew better.
He had seen you. And worse, he had enjoyed watching you realize it.
Changbin
The music kicked in with its usual force, vibrating through the floor and up your legs. You fell into the choreography easily, body warm, steps sharp. Changbin danced a few feet away from you, energy explosive as always, every move grounded and powerful. He looked completely in his element, rapping under his breath even though this was just practice.
Halfway through the routine, a tight ache flared up in your thigh.
You sucked in a breath and kept going, but the muscle protested with every step. It felt like a knot twisting deeper each time you shifted your weight. You winced before you could stop yourself, expression tightening as you landed a turn a little too carefully.
You told yourself it was nothing. Just soreness. You would walk it off later.
But Changbin saw it.
You noticed his eyes flick toward you for a split second, brows pulling together in concern. He did not miss a beat, still hitting every move, but his attention kept drifting your way. When the music ended, he glanced over immediately, scanning your posture like he was checking for damage.
As the others spread out to talk or grab water, Changbin walked straight toward you.
“Hey,” he said, voice gentler than usual. “You okay?”
You blinked, surprised. “Yeah,” you said quickly, then laughed. “I think I just didn’t warm up properly. My thigh’s kinda sore.”
He nodded slowly, like he was processing that. “During the routine, you winced,” he said. “I thought maybe something was wrong.”
You waved it off. “It’s really fine. Just one of those things.”
He hesitated, shifting his weight. For once, Changbin looked unsure, like he was choosing his next words carefully. “Um,” he said, then cleared his throat. “Can you show me where exactly it hurts?”
You paused, then shrugged. “Sure.”
You pointed to the side of your thigh, a little above the knee. “Right here. It tightens when I step back.”
Changbin crouched slightly to look, careful not to touch you. His focus sharpened, expression serious and thoughtful. “Yeah, that makes sense,” he said. “That muscle works hard in this one.”
He straightened up and demonstrated a small movement, slow and controlled. “Try this,” he said. “Shift your weight like this and keep your hip relaxed. Don’t force it.”
You followed his lead, mimicking the motion. The stretch was subtle, but you felt the tension ease just a little.
“Oh,” you said softly. “That actually helps.”
Changbin grinned, relief flashing across his face. “Told you. You gotta let it breathe a bit.”
You rolled your leg gently, testing it. “Thanks, seriously.”
He nodded, then scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, well… if you ever need help with moving correctly, you can always ask me.”
You chuckled, the words sounding a little too earnest, a little too quick.
Changbin froze.
His eyes widened slightly as realization hit him. “I mean,” he said fast, cheeks flushing. “With the choreography. Like, technique-wise. Not— I didn’t mean—”
You laughed again, softer this time. “I know what you meant.”
He laughed too, embarrassed, rubbing his face with both hands. “Wow. Okay. That came out weird.”
“Just a little,” you teased.
He shook his head, still smiling, ears red. “Anyway. Don’t push it too hard, yeah? Warm up properly next time.”
“I will,” you said. “Thanks, Changbin.”
He gave you a small nod, eyes lingering for a second longer than necessary before he turned back toward the others, still muttering to himself.
You stretched your leg again, the ache duller now, and smiled.
It turned out Changbin noticed more than just the beat.
Hyunjin
The music started again, familiar but unforgiving, and you took your place in formation. You told yourself you had it this time. You had practiced the steps enough. Your body knew what to do. Still, somewhere between counts, your mind tripped over itself.
The choreography moved fast. Turn, step, hit, slide.
For a split second, your memory blanked.
Your face froze before you could stop it, expression going empty as your brain scrambled to catch up. You recovered quickly, feet finding the rhythm again, but the moment lingered like a bruise. You could feel it, the hesitation, the doubt creeping in.
Hyunjin noticed.
You did not see him look at you, but you felt it later, in the way his attention sharpened without breaking the flow. He kept dancing smoothly, expression composed, never reacting outwardly. No pause. No call-out. No spotlight on your mistake. If anyone else saw it, they said nothing.
When the music ended, you exhaled, shoulders sagging slightly. Practice wrapped up soon after, people dispersing in loose clusters. You grabbed your things, replaying the frozen moment over and over in your head, each replay harsher than the last.
“Hey.”
Hyunjin’s voice came from behind you, quiet but clear.
You turned, surprised to see him standing there, hands tucked into the sleeves of his hoodie. His expression was calm, unreadable, but his eyes were gentle.
“You think too much,” he said.
You blinked. “What?”
He tilted his head slightly, studying you like a puzzle. “During the choreography,” he continued. “Your face. It stopped for a second.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks. “Oh. Sorry. I—”
“Don't be. I don't mean to scold or embarass you,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “I just noticed.”
You hesitated. “I thought I messed up.”
“You did not,” he said without missing a beat.
You looked at him, unsure.
“I’ve seen you practice,” Hyunjin went on. “You know the choreography. You’re good. But when you start thinking about every move, your body forgets that it already knows what to do.”
You frowned slightly, trying to understand. “So… I should think less?”
He smiled faintly. “Exactly.”
He stepped closer to the mirror and gestured for you to join him. “Come on. Let’s go over it once.”
You stood beside him, watching your reflections line up. Hyunjin demonstrated the sequence slowly, breaking it down with quiet confidence. He did not rush you. When you followed, he nodded encouragingly.
“See?” he said. “Your movements are clean. You just don’t trust them.”
You tried again, this time letting the steps flow without overanalyzing. Your shoulders relaxed. Your breathing steadied.
“That’s it,” Hyunjin said softly. “Relax. Don’t chase the move. Let it come to you.”
Something in his tone grounded you. The tension in your chest loosened, and when you danced again, it felt lighter, more natural.
Hyunjin watched you closely, then smiled, real this time. “There. That’s you.”
You laughed quietly. “I guess I panic when I mess up.”
“Everyone does,” he said. “But you don’t have to punish yourself for one second.”
You nodded, feeling calmer than you had all day. “Thanks. Really.”
He shrugged, a little shy now. “Anytime.”
As he walked away, you caught your reflection again. Your expression was relaxed, focused, alive.
Hyunjin had not corrected your steps.
He had reminded you to trust yourself.
Han
The music filled the room again, loud and familiar, and your body moved without hesitation. The choreography flowed easily this time, every step clicking into place like muscle memory waking up. You forgot about mirrors, counts, and spacing for just a moment.
You danced because you loved it.
A bright smile slipped onto your face before you could stop it, wide and genuine, sparked by nothing more than the joy of moving. The beat hit, your feet landed clean, and everything felt right. You did not even realize how visible your happiness was.
Han did.
He caught the smile out of the corner of his eye and let out a quiet chuckle, lips curving upward almost immediately. His own grin followed, eyes crinkling as he danced, energy lifting like he had just been charged up. The rest of the routine felt lighter after that, like the room itself had relaxed.
When the music ended, Han clapped loudly and started his usual victory lap, bouncing from person to person, handing out high fives with exaggerated enthusiasm.
“Good job,” he said to Felix. “Nice,” to Changbin. “Clean,” to Hyunjin.
Then he reached you.
You lifted your hand, smiling automatically. The slap landed, but instead of pulling away right away, his fingers curled slightly, holding onto your hand for just a second longer than necessary. The contact sent a small jolt up your arm.
“I really like your energy,” he said, voice warm and sincere. “It makes the whole practice more fun.”
You blinked, surprised. “Oh— thanks,” you said quickly. “I’ll try to be more professional on stage, though. I didn’t mean to break character.”
Han laughed immediately, loud and bright. “No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s not a bad thing.”
He finally let go of your hand, rubbing his palms together like he was embarrassed by his own honesty. “I actually really enjoy watching you dance,” he continued. “You’re always so positive. It’s kind of contagious.”
Your face heated up. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “It makes me want to smile too.”
You smiled again, softer this time. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
For a moment, you just stood there, both of you grinning like you did not quite know what to do with yourselves. Han’s ears turned red, and he laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck.
“Anyway,” he said quickly, stepping back. “Good job today!”
You nodded, cheeks warm. “You too.”
Almost at the same time, you both turned away, suddenly very interested in opposite corners of the room.
But the warmth lingered.
Han’s words echoed in your chest as you grabbed your things, smile still threatening to return. He had not corrected you or teased you.
He had noticed your joy.
And somehow, that made the dance feel even better.
Felix
The music echoed through the practice room once again, familiar and loud, settling into your bones. You took your place, eyes lifting to the mirror as your body prepared to move. Felix stood a little to the side, posture relaxed, blond hair slightly damp already. Practice had been intense today.
The choreography started, sharp and fluid. You focused on your timing, on the angles of your arms, on keeping your movements clean. Your gaze flicked to the mirror out of habit, checking spacing.
That was when you met Felix’s eyes.
It happened mid-step, completely unplanned. His reflection was already looking at you, and the moment your gazes connected, something shifted. His lips parted slightly, then he bit his lower lip without thinking, eyes darkening just a fraction as if the thought reached him too late.
Your breath stuttered.
Heat rushed to your cheeks, a soft blush blooming as you quickly looked away. You told yourself to focus, to get through the routine. Your feet kept moving, muscle memory saving you, even as your heart beat a little faster than before.
Felix did not look away immediately.
When you dared to glance back at the mirror, his expression had softened, eyes warm, almost amused. He danced flawlessly, but there was a new awareness in the way he moved, like he had been pulled into the same quiet current as you.
You pushed through the rest of the choreography, sweat gathering at your temples, along your neck, proof of effort and intensity. By the time the music stopped, you were breathing hard, chest rising and falling as you bent slightly to catch your breath.
“Good job,” someone said nearby.
You straightened just as Felix walked over, holding out a cold bottle of water toward you.
“Here,” he said, voice gentle.
You took it gratefully, fingers brushing his for a brief second. “Thank you,” you said, twisting the cap open and taking a long drink.
You wiped your forehead with the back of your hand, then laughed softly, suddenly self-conscious. “Sorry,” you added. “I sweat a lot. It’s kind of embarrassing.”
Felix blinked, then frowned slightly, like the idea genuinely confused him. “Why?” he asked.
You shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s not exactly pretty.”
He shook his head immediately, sunlight warmth in his eyes. “Don't be ashamed of that,” he said. “It just means you’re working hard.”
His words landed gently but firmly. You looked at him, surprised.
“And honestly,” he continued, a small smile tugging at his lips, “the audience is going to focus on you anyway.”
You let out a quiet chuckle, shaking your head. “You say that like it’s a fact.”
Felix smiled wider, confidence easy and sincere. “It is.”
Your cheeks warmed again, but this time the feeling was softer, less flustered. “Thanks,” you said. “That’s really sweet of you.”
He nodded, then took a step back, lifting his hand in a small wave. Before turning away, he shot you a playful wink, quick and effortless, like a secret shared just between the two of you.
Then he jogged back to the others, laughing at something Changbin said, slipping easily into the group like nothing had happened.
You stood there for a moment longer, water bottle cool in your hand, heart lighter than before. You glanced at the mirror again, catching your own reflection.
Sweaty. Tired.
Smiling.
Seungmin
The practice room felt especially focused today. The air was heavy with concentration, every movement sharp, every count precise. Seungmin stood out as usual, posture straight, expression serious, eyes locked on the mirror like nothing else existed. When he practiced, it always felt like he shut the rest of the world out.
You danced behind him, following the choreography carefully. You knew his part was coming up, the section where his voice usually carried the rhythm. Without thinking much of it, you found yourself mouthing his lyrics along with the track, quietly, instinctively, the words already familiar from countless run-throughs.
Seungmin’s part began.
He stepped forward, movements clean and controlled. His reflection stayed focused until, mid-count, his eyes shifted just slightly.
He saw you.
Your lips moved in time with his lyrics, expression concentrated but soft, like you were genuinely enjoying the moment. It caught him completely off guard. His brows lifted for a fraction of a second before his lips curved upward.
Then he smiled.
Not the polite, restrained kind. A real one.
A small laugh slipped out of him before he could stop it, breathy and surprised, breaking straight through his usual composure. His shoulders loosened just a bit, timing still intact but expression unmistakably different.
Everyone noticed.
“What was that?” Han blurted out, staring at him. “Did he just smile like...for real?”
Changbin glanced over, confused. “Hyung, are you okay?”
Han grinned immediately, sensing an opportunity. “Wow, look at him. Practice finally got fun for you?”
Seungmin snapped his gaze toward Han, eyes narrowing in warning. “Focus,” he said sharply, though his tone lacked its usual bite.
He glanced back at the mirror.
Back at you.
For a brief second, your eyes met. Heat rushed to your face when you realized he had noticed you mouthing his lyrics. Seungmin’s smile returned, softer this time, almost shy. It barely lasted a moment before he looked away again, clearing his throat.
The music stopped.
“Sorry,” Seungmin said quickly, bowing his head slightly toward the others. “I lost focus for a second.”
Han scoffed. “That’s new.”
“I said focus,” Seungmin repeated, ears faintly pink.
You looked down, suddenly very interested in your shoes, heart beating faster than before. The room buzzed with quiet amusement, but the teasing slowly faded as practice resumed.
Seungmin was back to serious almost immediately. His posture straightened, expression composed, voice steady when counting beats. If someone had not seen it happen, they would never guess anything had changed.
But you noticed.
Every so often, when he thought no one was watching, his eyes flicked toward you through the mirror. Just for a second. Just long enough for his lips to twitch like he was fighting another smile.
When practice finally ended, Han threw an arm around his shoulders. “You’re acting weird today,” he said. “What happened back there?”
Seungmin shook him off. “Nothing.”
He hesitated, then glanced at you once more before turning away. The shy smile returned briefly, just for himself this time.
You exhaled quietly, warmth blooming in your chest.
Seungmin might have apologized for losing focus.
But you knew exactly why he had.
Jeongin
The practice room already felt lighter when Jeongin was around. You had always matched each other’s energy without trying, laughing at the same things, moving with the same easy rhythm. Practice with him never felt stiff or heavy. It felt natural, like breathing.
The music started, and you fell into formation. The choreography flowed smoothly, your body warm and loose. Jeongin danced a few steps away from you, movements sharp but playful, expression focused in the way he liked to pretend he was older than he really was.
Halfway through the routine, your eyes met.
It happened through the mirror, accidental and perfectly timed. Jeongin’s lips twitched first, eyes lighting up with unmistakable amusement. You tried to stay serious. You really did. But the moment stretched just a second too long, and suddenly both of you broke.
A quiet giggle slipped out of you.
Jeongin laughed too, shoulders bouncing slightly as he tried to hide it behind the movement. It was brief, barely noticeable, but it was enough to throw both of you off for a beat. You quickly pressed your lips together, forcing your expression back into something neutral, but the spark of laughter lingered behind your eyes.
You finished the choreography without any more mistakes, but you could feel the energy buzzing between you, like an inside joke still unfolding.
When the music stopped, Bang Chan clapped his hands together. “Alright,” he said, scanning the room. His eyes landed on Jeongin almost immediately. “I.N.”
Jeongin straightened instinctively. “Yeah?”
“Where is your head,” Chan said, tone teasing but firm. "You with us?"
You noticed how Chan’s gaze flicked toward you for half a second before returning to Jeongin, like he had already pieced things together. He did not say anything else, but the look said enough.
Jeongin nodded quickly. “Yes, hyung.”
You tried to busy yourself, grabbing your water bottle, pretending you had not been part of the problem. Still, you could feel Jeongin’s attention drifting back to you like a magnet refusing to let go.
Chan kept talking, giving notes, but Jeongin’s focus slipped again. You felt it before you saw it, that familiar pull of being watched.
You glanced up.
Jeongin was looking at you.
Not openly enough to get caught, but not subtle either. His lips curved into a grin, eyes sparkling with mischief he was absolutely not hiding. You bit back a smile, shaking your head slightly in warning.
He only grinned wider.
Chan finally finished talking and waved everyone off to reset. Jeongin exhaled loudly, rolling his shoulders like he had been holding tension in his body the entire time.
As he passed by you, he slowed just enough to catch your eye again.
Then he winked.
It was quick and playful, completely unapologetic. Your heart jumped, warmth spreading across your chest as you laughed under your breath. You turned away before anyone could see your reaction, but the smile refused to leave your face.
Behind you, Jeongin hummed cheerfully, already bouncing back toward the others like he had not just been scolded. Chan watched him go, shaking his head with a fond sigh.
You took a sip of water, trying to calm the flutter in your stomach.
Jeongin might have been told to take practice seriously.
But he still found ways to remind you that dancing was meant to be fun.
older boyfriend!nanami and your favourite pastime: bothering him (affectionately ofc!!)
Nanami doesn't look up from his book at first. You have a way of looking at people. Quiet, assessing, like you already know what you’re going to do and are just deciding when.
“You're staring,” he says mildly, turning a page.
You hum, noncommittal, your legs comfortably stretched across his own as you lean closer. Your fingers brush the faint creases at the corner of his eyes. Not lingering or hesitant, but deliberate.
He exhales through his nose. “If you're cataloguing my age, I'd prefer you don't."
“I like them,” you say simply.
That makes him pause. He looks at you then over the top of his glasses—really looks at you. The way you sit against his side, effortless and unreadable. Pretty in that sweet, comfortable way. There’s something cool about you, and it often makes him question what a girl like you is doing with him.
“I was wondering,” you say, voice light, “if they show up because you frown so much, but I was also thinking that it suits you.”
He raises an eyebrow slightly. “It?”
You shrug, unbothered. “Being a little ahead of the curve.”
There’s something in your tone. Light, almost amused. Not mocking. Not impressed. Just certain.
Nanami studies your pretty face, then huffs a quiet breath. “You're enjoying this.”
“Maybe,” you murmur, “It's nice. You feel finished.”
“Careful,” Nanami says, though there's no real warning to it. His fingers curl around your wrist, gentle more than firm. “You don't say things like that casually.”
“I do, all the time.”
Your finger traces the lines again, softer this time and he just lets you.
“You're enjoying this too much.” He repeats.
You tilt your head. “You don't seem to mind.”
He doesn’t answer. Just turns the page of his book with one hand, the other still resting where it is.
Helloo!!! I get terribly nervous when sending a request so hopefully I'm doing this right
Anaxagoras, Mydei and Phainon (separate) with a reader who's based on the Greek prophet Tiresias? Nothing much (hopefully), just the same attributes like: blind but can see the future and past, all ominous and shit but can be unserious if wanted to etc etc. (I'm too lazy to write down everything)
And could you make the reader male aligned if possible? Thank you!!! :3
Kissed by the Future, Held by the Damned
Tags: Anaxa x Reader, Phainon x Reader, Mydei x Reader, Romance, Angst With Comfort, Male-Aligned Reader, Blind Seer, Prophecy, Tragedy, Emotional Intimacy, Slow Burn, Found Family, Mysticism, Subtle Flirting, Reader Sees Past And Future, Pre-Established Relationship (Anaxa), Enemies To Confidants (Mydei), Sunshine X Cryptid (Phainon), Philosophical Themes, Destiny Vs Free Will.
Warnings: Death And Rebirth (Mydei), Implied Body Horror (Anaxa), Religious Trauma, Prophetic Madness, Mentions Of War And Violence, Emotional Distress, Grief, Sacrifice, Unstable Time Perception, Non-Explicit Intimacy, Casual Language, Swearing, Mental Strain From Foresight.
It was late—always late—when Anaxagoras came to you. Not as the Great Performer, not as the Demised Scholar, but as a man unraveling at the edges of his own brilliance.
He didn’t knock. He never did. The doors opened for him, as they often did for men who had torn open the veil between what is and what ought never have been.
You sat cross-legged atop a dais of moss and moth-wing tapestry, blind eyes fixed on a point he could never see.
“You've been poking holes in the firmament again,” you said mildly, tilting your head. “I felt something scream.”
He scoffed. “A Titan soul ruptures, and you reduce it to screaming fabric, Freak.”
“Gilded heretic,” you replied with a lazy grin.
The tension held, then broke—he laughed. Rare. Like stormlight caught in glass.
“You saw it, then?” he asked, quieter now. “What I tried to become?”
“I saw the truth clothe itself in your skin,” you said. “And I saw it burn you alive from the inside out.”
He knelt before you, his eyepatch gleaming like a sigil of failed divinity. “Would you have stopped me?”
“No. I love you too much to lie, and too little to save you.”
His hands found your face, reverent despite the tremor in his fingers. “You could see the future. But you chose me anyway.”
You leaned forward until your forehead touched his. “I didn’t choose you. I recognized you.”
He kissed you like a man kissing a funeral pyre—because some things burn and illuminate at once.
You first met Mydei on a battlefield, surrounded by smoking corpses and shattered prophecies.
He had just felled a Strife-Born, its Coreflame bleeding into the earth. You walked barefoot through blood to reach him.
“You're late,” he grunted, eyes narrowing. “The gods said you’d arrive before the battle.”
“I did arrive before the battle,” you said, tapping the side of your head. “You’re just behind in perception, Last Prince.”
He almost struck you. Instead, he laughed—a dry, rusty sound.
Later, when the campfires burned low, and his warriors slept with swords under pillows, you sat beside him.
“Mydei,” you said, voice softer now. “You wear your survival like a curse.”
He didn’t look at you. “It is.”
“I saw you in the Sea of Souls. Nine lives torn from your body. You screamed like a star being born.”
“Then you know why I cannot rest.”
You touched his arm, feeling the heat of him—always burning, always aching. “You could. If you let yourself be seen.”
He turned. His golden eyes bore into your unseeing ones. “By you?”
“Only I can look at your ruin and call it holy.”
He didn’t answer. But when his lips met yours, it wasn’t a kiss of romance—it was surrender. A prince bending not to fate, but to a man who read eternity like a book he’d grown bored of.
Phainon was fascinated by you from the moment he met you. You were sprawled upside-down on an altar, humming off-tune and sipping wine from a broken goblet.
“You’re the prophet?” he asked skeptically.
“I’m the visionary, thank you very much,” you replied, raising your goblet in mock salute. “Prophet sounds too responsible.”
Yet when his team entered the Black Wastes, it was your voice that guided them. You whispered warnings of collapse, mimicked the laughter of Titans, and wept for futures you couldn’t change.
He watched you—between battles, during moments of stillness. You unnerved him.
“You speak like you’re already dead,” he said one night, sitting beside you as stars blinked out above.
“I’ve died more times than you’ve drawn breath,” you said cheerfully. “Time’s weird.”
He looked away. “Does it hurt?”
“Only when I remember to be human.”
A pause.
“Then be human with me,” he said.
You blinked, blind eyes widening. “That was... surprisingly romantic for a man in silk armor.”
He flushed.
Later, in the heart of a temple collapsing around you both, he shielded your body with his own, dragging you from falling debris.
“I saw this,” you whispered, clutching his shoulder. “I knew you’d protect me.”
He gritted his teeth. “Then you should’ve warned me I’d fall in love with you.”
“I didn’t need to,” you said, smiling. “You’re Phainon. You fall in love with light.”
Dr. Abbot knows how to keep his distance, especially at work. But when a violent case brings a criminal psychologist to his ER, boundaries blur in the quiet hours of the night shift, where trust forms quickly and attraction has nowhere to hide.
The night shift had it’s own music. Monitors hummed in steady intervals, IV pumps chimed softly like impatient reminders, and the robber soles of nurses’ shoes whispered against the polished and stained floor as they moved in practiced efficiency. The fluorescent lights were dimmed just enough to convince the body it was still capable of rest, though no one working under them fell for the ruse.
Dr.Abbot stood at the nurses’ station, sleeves rolled to the forearms, eyes scanning charts while his vision blurred from the familiar lines and chicken scratches some called his handwriting.
“Trauma three’s stable,” the charge nurse said, lowering her voice as she approached him with a brand new chart for him to look at. “Vitals are holding. Sedation’s been lightened.”
Abbot nodded once. “Any neuro changes?”
“None so far. CT came back clean, considering.” She hesitated, then added, “Also, admin wants you to speak with the criminal psychologist assigned to the John Doe.”
Abbot looked up. “Now?”
“She’s already here.”
That made him pause.
A criminal psychologist didn’t usually show up this fast, especially not in the middle of the night. “Christmas came early” he deadpanned. They were consultants, external, deliberate, fond of daylight and courtrooms. Not the type to hover in an ER that still smelled faintly of antiseptic and adrenaline.
“She’s in Consult B,” the nurse continued. “Said she wanted to speak with the attending who stabilized him.”
Abbot exhaled slowly, then closed the chart. “I’ll handle it.”
As he turned down the hallway, the sounds of the department shifted behind him, replaced by a quieter stretch of corridor reserved for offices and consult rooms. The walls here were lined with framed credentials and outdated hospital art, neutral landscaped meant to calm people who rarely noticed them, nothing says sorry your dad died like a mediterranean sunset.
Forty five minutes earlier, this hallway had been moral chaos and literal chaos.
*pretend this is a line break idk how to do a line break just imagine*
The call had come in just after 1:30 a.m.
Male, unidentified. Brought in by the FBI and paramedics. Severe blunt force trauma to the head. Multiple stab wounds. Unconscious on arrival.
Abbot had been finishing a lukewarm coffee when the trauma bay doors burst open
The patient was bloodied but breathing pulse thready but present. A John Doe, no ID, no medical history, nothing but injuries and the story the officers delivered in clipped, professional tones.
A kidnapping. A attempted homicide. A teenage girl. Escaped.
She had fought back hard enough to fracture his skull and drive a blade into him more than once before managing to get away and call the police. By the time paramedics arrived, the assailant was barely conscious, bleeding heavily, and combative.
Abbot hadn’t thought about the morality in the moment. He never did.
Airway, breading, circulation.
That was his job, not to play god.
They intubated him, maybe took a little more time than usual to push pain meds, controlled the bleeding, ordered imaging. CT scan first, no obvious intracranial hemorrhage. Lacerations cleaned and closed. Labs drawn. Toxicology pending. A neuro consult placed on standby in case the amnesia observed earlier by paramedics persisted once sedation was reduced.
Stabilized in under twenty minutes.
By the time Abbott stripped off his gloves, the patient was alive, monitored, and officially an open case being treated under police supervision in his ER. Only then had the weight of it settled. Not sympathy, just gravity.
*back 2 the present line break*
Abbot stepped outside consult b.
The door was ajar.
Inside, a woman stood near the window, flipping through a thin folder. The overhead light caught the edges of her hair as she tucked a strand behind her ear. She was not at all what he expected. Too young, his mind reached to immediately , before he could stop it. Not inexperienced, no that wasn’t it. There was nothing tentative about the way she stood or the way she held the file, already annotated with notes and tabs. But she couldn’t be much older than 25, maybe younger. Certainly not old enough, he thought, to be assigned something like this. He knocked once anyway and pushed the door open.
“Dr.Abbot,” he said. “I was told you wanted to speak with me.”
She turned. Up close she looked even younger than he’d thought, but composed, eyes sharp and observant in a way that suggested she missed very little. She offered a small, professional smile and outstretched her hand to his.
“Thank you for coming I’m the criminal psychologist, I’ve been assigned to the John Doe in trauma three.”
Abbot shook her hand, noting briefly that her grip was soft. “You’re the physiologist on the case?” He studied her for half a second longer than necessary, then stepped fully in the room and closed the door behind him.
“Surprised?”
“No, not at all, I just wasn’t aware the department was sending someone in so quickly” he said.
She tilted her head, “Given the nature of the offense and the condition of the assailant, they wanted early behavioral assessment, especially if the amnesia persists. Plus it helps one of their criminal psychologists prefers to work nights.”
Assailant. Not patient
Interesting.
Abbot crossed his arms, the fabric of his scrubs pulling tight across his chest, forearms thick beneath the rolled sleeves of his shirt. The motion pulled his shoulders forward making him seem larger than before. “He’s still under observation. Sedation was reduced ten m minutes ago. No significant neurological deficits so far, but he’s confused. Disoriented, memory gaps.”
She nodded already writing. “Retrograde or anterograde?”
His eyebrows raised, impressed. “Unclear right now, he doesn’t recall the incident or events immediately preceding it. We’ll know more once he’s fully awake.”
“And medically?”
Abbot shifted into familiar territory, words flowing out like a practiced performance.
“Severe blunt force trauma to the left temporal region, likely caused by a heavy object, impact patterns suggest multiple strikes. Lacerations and puncture wounds to the torso and upper extremities consistent with a bladed weapon. No organ perforation, no intracranial bleed on CT, we’re still monitoring for delayed swelling.”
She looked up at him, hair she moved from in front of her face before back in front, ‘that’s why all his doctors tie their hair back’ he thought. “Prognosis?”
“He’ll live.”
A beat. She didn’t react just wrote it down.
“Do you anticipate lasting cognitive impairment?” she asked.
“Too early to tell,” Abbot said. “”But amnesia could be transient, or it could complicate your work.
She smiled at that, so the girl does have a sense of humor, “It usually does”
As she spoke, Abbot found himself noticing things he shouldn’t have been cataloging, the way she listened without interrupting, the absence of performative concern for a criminal, the fact she wasn’t trying to moralize the situation, the choices she made in color coding her notes, that strand of hair that kept falling in front of her face. She was focused, grounded, competent.
Which was worse somehow. She asked about too screens, prior injuries, whether he had exhibited agitation upon arrival. Abbot answered automatically, only realizing halfway through he was enjoying the exchange more than he should. He cleared his throat.
“There’s a guard posted,” he added. “Police presence remains until he’s transferred or cleared.”
“I’d expected as much.” She closed the folder. “I’d like to speak with him once he’s more coherent, see what he’s willing or unwilling to engage with.”
Abbot hesitated. “He’s dangerous”
Her eyes met his, “I know.”
The silence stretched, “I’ll be back in an hour,” she said gathering her things. “That should give him time to wake up”
Abbot nodded. “I’ll make sure you’re cleared to enter” She reached for the door fingers brushing the handle when he stopped her, “Oh and I’d prefer to be with you when you speak to him.”
She turned, one eyebrow lifting slightly. “Hospital policy?”
“Partly,” he said. Then after a beat, “And it’ll give me peace of mind.”
“I don’t usually get escorts,” she said.
“You’re welcome to decline,” Abbot replied. She studied him for a moment longer than nodded.
“An hour, don’t be late” she said. Then she was gone, converse soft against the floor leaving the room quiet. Abbot stood there for a minute, then exhaled and turned back toward the ER, already counting the minutes until an hour passed.
I would like to make a request for a blue birdie 💙 and domestic fluff 🤭 (i have nothing specific in mind, so I'll leave it to your beautiful creative imagination!! 💖🤭 Take your time with this req, hehe!)
Also, my first time making a req- 🧍♀️
Entry: " Recipe to Reminisce "
Pairing: HSR! Sunday | Reader
Information: After the incident in Penacony, it would take time for everyone to settle back into life on the Express. However, some crew members find adjusting harder than others, particularly their new addition, Sunday. Wanting to make him feel welcome, you research how to make one of his favorite dishes that you overheard him longing for. | 4.6k word count.
Though you had never mastered the delicate craft of baking, the absence of time spent in the pursuit had never bothered you. Life among the stars kept you perpetually on the move, grappling with the cosmic currents of your adventures on the Astral Express. After your long and exhaustive trek from Penacony, your intrepid crew found a moment's reprieve, a rare stillness in the ceaseless tide of your travels as plans for the next voyage to the enchanting land of Amphoreus began to take shape. This lull in activity stretched over the span of a week, and amidst the maps and charts spread out like a celestial tapestry, you recognized a golden opportunity. It was the perfect chance to warmly welcome the newest addition to your diverse crew, ensuring he felt at home among the swirling constellations and the unfamiliar chaos of life on the express.
You find yourself in the dimly lit confines of the Trailblazer's room, surrounded by the tantalizing scents of fresh ingredients as you prepare a heartfelt welcome gift for Sunday. A deep sense of apprehension fills the air, as you worry about the possibility of him wandering in and catching you off guard during your clandestine preparations. The thought of March discovering your secret and spreading the word sends a chill through you—this moment is meant to be a tranquil escape, a chance not only to prove your baking skills but also to convey to Sunday that he is no longer alone in this journey.
As you glance downstairs, the vibrant camaraderie of your friends echoes in the background, their laughter and chitchat filling the atmosphere with warmth. Himiko is lost in her world, savoring the rich aroma of her coffee, while March and Stelle are caught up in animated conversation over their sugary drinks. Despite their delight, you can’t shake the longing that gnaws at you—a yearning for the comfort of fresh meals, something sorely missed during your travels with the express, where dining means waiting until you reach the next destination.
Determined to turn your cravings into something special, you made the journey back to Penacony three system hours prior, gathering the necessary materials to craft the perfect sweet dessert. The excitement of creating something from scratch fills you with purpose, especially after having asked Pom-Pom to install a kitchen ahead of time. Thankfully, the kitchen arrived just in time for this culinary adventure, providing you with the perfect space to channel your creativity and affection into a dish that will surely bring joy to Sunday’s heart.
Tonight's mission was set in your mind: bake a delicious tray of Pudding Tarts to brighten up Sunday! You pictured the silky custard filling nestled in crisp, golden pastry, and the thought made you smile warmly to yourself, filled with anticipation for the delightful treat you'd create.
As the night wore on, the vibrant sounds of laughter and chatter from your comrades began to ebb away, leaving the bar enveloped in a tranquil hush. The lively atmosphere faded, replaced by the soft hum of the fridge, a soothing backdrop to the stillness that settled in. In the quiet, you found solace, relishing the companionship of Shush, who stood silently by, patiently awaiting the moment to craft a drink.
Seizing this opportunity to take the lead, you crept down the staircase with the stealth of a cat, your heart racing with excitement. Balancing a precarious stack of ingredients, you maneuvered carefully, each step a delicate challenge as you fought to keep everything in your grasp. At last, with a triumphant lift, you placed the colorful array of bottles and mixers onto the bar, a small victory that made you beam with pride.
As you scroll through the contents on your phone, a familiar recipe catches your eye—it’s the one you saved for Tarts. A sudden realization washes over you: you mistakenly prepared for Cream Tarts instead of Pudding Tarts. Surely there can't be much of a difference, right? You murmur this to yourself as you tidy your workspace, surrounded by all the ingredients you’ve assembled.
You take a moment to check your supplies: the refrigerated pie crust dough looks perfectly chilled and ready to work with, check. The instant chocolate pudding mix sits in its packaging, promising a rich indulgence, check. Milk, creamy and cold, is prepped next to the dry ingredients, check. You have the whipping cream, fresh and inviting, check. The powdered sugar, nestled snugly beside it, will add the perfect sweetness, check. Finally, you eye the grated chocolate, a decadent touch for garnish, check.
With everything in place, it's time to dive into the baking process.
You follow step one by preheating the oven to an appropriate temperature. Taking the chilled pie dough you prepared in advance, you began rolling it out on the surface you lightly floured, cutting out twelve 3-inch circles.
"Keep an eye on the dough scraps,” you remind yourself, knowing they will come in handy later for re-rolling to create the final circles. You think aloud, clapping your hands together, and watching as a delicate cloud of flour billows and settles softly over the dough. “Seems simple enough!” you muse, encouraged by the process.
Moving on to the next step, you carefully press each dough circle into a mini tart pan, ensuring they fit snugly against the sides, creating a perfect little vessel for the filling to come. The cool, smooth texture of the dough molds easily beneath your fingers. With a fork in hand, you proceed to poke small holes in the base of each tart shell, a crucial task to allow steam to escape during baking, preventing any error during bake. The rhythmic tapping of the fork against the dough fills the kitchen, a satisfying sound that echoes your anticipation for the delicious tarts to come.
Unbeknownst to you, a solitary figure had remained hidden within the confines of the room. As the soft sounds of your baking filled the air, he lifted his head, sharp golden eyes fixated on your delicate movements. He watched intently, every detail of your actions captured in his gaze, as he remained cloaked in silence to ensure he did not disrupt the rhythm of your culinary endeavor.
As moments passed, it became increasingly apparent to him that you were blissfully unaware of his presence. With each step he took, his feet barely whispered against the floor, a ghost gliding nearer to you from behind.
Suddenly, his voice broke the quiet, smooth yet edged with authority: "Hm. And what do we have over here?" The sound sent a shiver down your spine, for it belonged to none other than the last person you had hoped to encounter at this moment—drawing you from your creative sanctuary into the light of scrutiny.
His first reaction is one of surprise and curiosity, the corners of his brows lifting as he takes in the sight before him. You attempt to mask your baking efforts, going to great lengths to hide the evidence without making your fabrications too glaringly apparent. A flush of embarrassment creeps over you at the thought of being discovered by Sunday, your heart racing as you navigate the tension between your secret and the other person's inquisitive gaze.
You keenly attempt to spin a complex web of deception, artfully dodging the conversation’s focal point. Yet, your evasive tactics only serve to heighten his curiosity, drawing him deeper into a labyrinth of intrigue over your peculiar unease about the possibility of him uncovering your creation. After all, if your carefully crafted work were truly meant for the rest of the express members, he muses, there would surely be no reason for you to obscure it from him. He is not the type to divulge secrets about your playful mischief, especially if you wish to keep this particular matter under wraps.
As he begins to connect the seemingly disparate dots, a flicker of comprehension dances in his eyes; he starts to assemble the fragments of your intentions, gradually deducing the true identity of the intended recipient of your work.
“I apologize for the intrusion,” he says, his voice calm and sincere, each word carefully chosen. The seriousness of his expression reveals a deep understanding of the situation at hand, you didn't enjoy it despite his polite mannerisms. “I mean no harm. Would it be better if I step aside?” His gaze is piercing, filled with an awareness that suggests he has already unraveled your intentions, leaving you feeling exposed under the weight of his judgment, or perhaps, it's your mind raising the intensity on its own.
"I would appreciate that, though I—never mind." You shook your head, a sigh escaping your lips as your gaze fell away from his piercing eyes. Instead, you focused on the delicate pastry resting on the counter, its surface glistening under the warm kitchen lights as you awaited the oven’s familiar melody signaling that it was ready. A rush of conflicting thoughts swirled in your mind. Would it be more suspicious to ask him to leave, to disrupt the uneasy tension that thrummed between you? Or if you invited him to stay, would he see through your facade and guess that it was merely an attempt to quell his rising suspicion? It felt like a mental chess game, and with this man, there seemed to be no winning move.
Choosing to remain silent, you relinquish control and let him proceed as he wishes. As you turn your attention back to your work, an unsettling awareness creeps in, sharpening your senses to the weight of his gaze fixed intently on your creation. A flurry of questions swirls in your mind—had you inadvertently erred in some way? Does your work meet his expectations? You had felt confident in the process up until now, the steps seeming straightforward and manageable… but now, doubt tugs at you—what if you overlooked an important detail?
♫♪♪~ ♫♪♪~ ♫♪♪~
Placing the tart shells in the oven upon its chime, you'd crouch to the ground and eye your pastries closely through the tinted glass. It is recommended to bake for about five minutes or until they turn golden brown.
At last, your gaze drifts back to Sunday, where you find him deeply immersed in the well-worn pages of the book he carries everywhere. With a hint of curiosity, you step away from the warmth of the oven, your attention drawn to him. Despite the tumultuous events that unfolded in Penacony, a smile spreads across your face. Sunday appears remarkably transformed, his previous burdens all but lifted. No longer confined by the weight of his family legacy, he has shed the label of "Bronze Melodia." Instead, he stands before you as Sunday of the Astral Express, exuding a newfound sense of ease and self-assurance, while still carrying internal troubles which leech off of him. His ideology captured your interest when you first stepped foot in his dream, and you recall your initial instinct being that he couldn't possibly be a villain. Perhaps misguided, yes—most certainly—but not inherently bad.
"Sunday? I hope this doesn’t come across as insensitive, but I’ve been pondering something for quite a while now…" Your voice finally cut through the hush of the bar, like a soft breeze on a still evening, as you summoned the courage to speak.
"Hm?" he responded, the sound a gentle hum, his gaze lifting from the pages of the book he had been lost in. The warm light that filled the room caught the edges of his halo, causing it to shimmer ethereally, casting a golden glow that framed his features in an otherworldly light.
"What exactly is the burden that comes with being Bronze Melodia?" you asked, your curiosity intertwining with a hint of hesitation. It felt like a delicate subject to bring up—like disturbing the surface of a still pond, unsure if it would ripple out with unintended consequences.
"Ah, it is to bear the weight of listening to the myriad problems and vexations of the Dreamscape’s residents, offering them the guidance they seek. That was my solemn duty as Bronze Melodia," he answered, his voice steady and calm, yet a veil of unresolved emotion lingered in the air. It was challenging to decipher the depth of his feelings—he often cloaked himself in silence, guarding whatever turmoil may lie beneath that serene facade.
"What about you?" You could feel empathy radiating from you, a warm pulse of connection amidst the flickering shadows of the bar.
"Me?" Sunday questioned, his voice softening into an uncertain whisper. It was as if your inquiry had plucked at an untouched string within him, revealing a vulnerability he rarely displayed. No one had ever ventured to ask him such a straightforward thing; it was a simple question made complex by the weight of expectation. Who, after all, saves the savior? Who brings comfort to the strong? Destined to fend for themselves, he ponders your implication.
♫♪♪~ ♫♪♪~ ♫♪♪~
"You need not carry the weight of others any longer, Sunday," you urged softly, your voice a gentle reminder amidst the bustling kitchen. "Take care of yourself for the time being; you truly deserve it, no matter what doubts you harbor." As you finished speaking, you sensed his intense gaze lingering on you, a mix of contemplation and vulnerability reflected in his eyes. With a heavy heart, you turned away, the aroma of baked goods wafting from the oven guiding your steps, feeling the warmth of his gaze on your back as you walked away, leaving him to ponder your words in the stillness that followed.
As you open the oven door, a rush of warm air escapes, carrying the enticing fragrance of freshly baked pastry that dances around the kitchen. You carefully extract the delicate tart shells, their golden edges glistening under the soft light, and gently place them onto the wire rack you’ve prepared, allowing them to cool and crisp. The sweet and buttery scent envelops you, a tantalizing promise of the delicious creation that awaits.
Suddenly, Sunday’s voice cuts through your reverie, warm and inviting. You glance over at him, noticing the subtle change in his expression—now softer, almost tender. A flutter of warmth fills your heart, stirring emotions you hadn’t anticipated. Yet, despite this newfound gentleness, a hint of hesitation lingers within you. Your gaze flits between him and the bustling preparations surrounding you; uncertainty clings to your tongue.
Before you can gather your thoughts, he speaks again, his tone earnest and encouraging. “It would be an utmost pleasure to help. You’re making tarts, aren’t you? I have experience with this process if you’d allow me.” His offer hangs in the air, filled with an unexpected promise of collaboration, leaving you to ponder the implications of letting him in.
"Sunday, I genuinely appreciate your eagerness to lend a hand, but… I want to handle this myself. Is that alright with you?" You feel a surge of determination as you envision impressing him with your baking skills, knowing that every detail is crafted with him in mind. Moreover, you smile softly, adding, "Didn’t I mention you should look after your own needs? I promise I’m perfectly fine on my own." The warmth of his thoughtful gesture touches you deeply.
With a nod, Sunday recognizes your longing for independence and hesitates momentarily before stepping back, allowing you the space to carry on. Yet, you notice a flicker of conflict in his eyes, as he tussles with your desire to prioritize his own needs while he is left wanting to ensure you’re truly okay.
You let out a relieved smile, the tension in your shoulders easing as you grab a large mixing bowl. With determination, you begin whisking together the rich, velvety chocolate pudding and cold milk, your hands moving in stirring circles. However, the absence of an electric mixer quickly becomes apparent; the task proves to be far more laborious than you anticipated. Within minutes, your arm begins to ache, the constant motion wearying and unyielding. You can only imagine how effortlessly the mixture would have transformed into a thick, luscious consistency had you only plugged in the machine.
Frustration wells up, and you set the bowl down with a soft thud, letting out a groan that echoes in the quiet kitchen. It doesn't go unnoticed—Sunday, with his unwavering attention, shifts his focus toward you. You take a moment to rub your tired face, finding solace in the brief respite. When you open your eyes again, you’re met with a sight that leaves you momentarily speechless. He quietly steps in to continue the task, his movements determined and graceful, a stark contrast to your earlier struggle.
His gaze finds yours, conveying an unspoken message full of insistence, urging you to take a break. Somehow, it makes you realize that both of you deserve a moment of pause—even as you remind him that he should do the same.
Once you feel prepared, you gently lift yourself, ready to tackle the task once more. With a playful nudge, you encourage Sunday to shift aside. Though he hesitates for a moment, a subtle smile dances across his face as he shakes his head in mock reluctance, ultimately giving way. With a sense of accomplishment, you carefully pop the now perfectly whisked chocolate pudding into the cool embrace of the refrigerator, the two of you working in delightful harmony.
After allowing the rich pudding to chill for a tantalizing ten minutes, anticipation bubbles within you as you dash to the fridge. Once back at your workstation, you dive in with enthusiasm, scooping a generous spoonful of the creamy filling into each delicate tart shell. As you work, you catch sight of Sunday thoughtfully tidying up the supplies you’ve set aside, effortlessly managing the clutter without any prompting. You can’t help but appreciate his consideration; perhaps his arrival in your kitchen wasn’t an obstacle but rather a serendipitous opportunity to deepen your connection in this serene moment.
In a separate, spacious bowl, you pour in the glistening whipping cream, its surface shimmering in the light. Gradually, you add a dusting of powdered sugar, the fine granules drifting like soft snowflakes into the bowl. Sunday takes charge of the electric mixer, the rhythmic whirring filling the air as he beats the mixture. You watch with a mix of pride and longing as it transforms into a thick, airy concoction, soft peaks forming elegantly. Yet, a frown tugs at your lips, a small shadow crossing your heart. Sunday catches the shift in your expression and looks momentarily puzzled, though his expression is somewhat hard to distinguish due to its subtlety.
With a pastry bag graced with a star-shaped tip in hand, you take a moment to admire the cloud-like whipped cream before you begin piping it atop the chocolate pudding. Each swirl is an artistic flourish, an invitation to indulge. Finally, with a flourish of your wrist, you sprinkle finely grated chocolate over each tart, letting the shards fall like dark confetti, completing the dessert with a touch of opulence. The tarts shimmer under the kitchen lights, each one a masterpiece waiting to be savored.
“What exactly is it that’s left you feeling dissatisfied?” Sunday’s voice is gentle, almost coaxing, as it weaves its way through the heavy air of disappointment that briefly clouds your expression. You take a moment, inhaling deeply, as though the breath might help you gather your thoughts and ease the sting of regret that’s been lingering ever since the mishap.
“I accidentally made the wrong pastry,” you confess with a hint of sorrow threading through your words. The realization washes over you like a cold wave, and you feel a mix of frustration and regret bubbling just beneath the surface. “Pudding tarts should have that perfect, rich custardy filling—something dense, comforting, and evocative of home,” you explain, your voice trailing off as the weight of your disappointment seeps into the atmosphere around you. Despite the undeniable beauty of the creation before you, it feels tarnished by the expectations you had set in your mind.
The tart glistens under the soft, warm light, the delicate surface boasting intricate patterns and hues that speak volumes of your skill and dedication. Yet, instead of pride, you find yourself marred by the haunting presence of your error. “But instead, I ended up with a lighter, smoother pastry cream…” Your voice falters, “I—I wanted to present you with a pudding, not this…” The words escape your lips softer than intended, almost like a whispered secret, and you feel a pang of anxiety rip through you, praying he hadn’t caught the slip of your tongue—the inadvertent mention of 'pudding' that hangs in the air, uninvited and heavy with unfulfilled intent.
The tension in your chest tightens painfully as you await his response, your heart racing. You wish more than anything you could snatch back the moment, rewind time, and recapture the perfect sentiment you had hoped to convey. Each passing second feels stretched, laden with anticipation, leaving you to grapple not only with the pastry but the delicate thread of expectation that now hangs between you.
“Haha—” Sunday chuckled softly, the familiar sound wrapping around you like a warm blanket. His tone, soothing and free from mockery, eased the tension in your chest. “It seems the use of coercion is unnecessary; you’ve openly admitted that your actions were motivated for me. Though, I wouldn't consider myself somebody worth this effort,” You felt your cheeks flush as you lowered your head, a mixture of embarrassment and defiance flooding through you. With a sigh, you crossed your arms tightly, trying to adopt a façade of nonchalance, though inside, you were anything but calm. ", I appreciate this, and while I may have my perceptions of who I am and how to make amends for my past, I'll make an effort to be open towards your guidance and support."
Even amidst the uncertainty of his potential error, he showered you with praise, his voice rich with warmth and encouragement. As his gaze lingered on you, a gentle glow sparkled in his eyes, illuminating the kindness within. Yet, there was also a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, a mischievous glint that ignited something within you. With a swift and daring sense of rebellion, you lifted your head, your hands dusted with flour from your latest baking adventure. In a moment of light-hearted defiance, you playfully swiped the white powder across his cheek, leaving behind a mark of your shared joy.
Sunday's expression transformed into a mask of confusion, his wings twitching in response and his eyebrows arched high as he sensed the powder settling onto his skin like fine dust. The Halovian slowly raised a gloved hand, fingertips brushing against his cheek, and stared at the pale residue now clinging to them, bewilderment etched across his features, as if he were piecing together a puzzle that made no sense. “That’s for laughing at me.” you declared, attempting to veil your embarrassment.
You quickly shifted your stance, the flour dusting your hands as you brushed them on the kitchen towel that hung over the oven, accompanied by a pair of well-worn mittens. A soft huff escaped your lips as you turned to look at him, unable to suppress the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Here,” you said, your voice laced with a hint of embarrassment. “I... I’m sorry for, um, this.” With that, you handed him the towel, offering him a chance to clean himself up from the minor chaos that had erupted in the kitchen.
As he took the towel from you, you felt a flutter of nerves in your stomach. A foreign affection blossomed within his proximity. You turned your attention to the nearby counter, reaching for a plate that gleamed under the warm light. Carefully, you arranged a couple of freshly baked tarts atop the plate, their golden crusts glistening invitingly. You hesitated for a moment, the weight of the moment making your heart race. “Welcome to the Astral Express, Sunday,” you finally said, your voice steadier now, filled with a mixture of excitement and a touch of apprehension about sharing this special place with him.
The weary man stood with his wings, once a proud emblem of paradise and hope, now curling protectively toward his lips, as if concealing a smile that flickered with the subtle brightness of a distant star, shimmering deep within the hazel depths of his eyes. Each gesture you made seemed to awaken a long-buried emotion within him, one he had long since surrendered in his ascent to the formidable role of family patriarch.
The crushing weight of responsibility had created an immense chasm between him and the warmth of joy he had once embraced so freely, a chasm that had only widened with the recent separation from his beloved sister. Memories of their laughter and shared dreams haunted him, leaving a palpable void that echoed with the yearning for those lighter, cherished moments of their youth. The gleam of hope he had once held dimmed, overshadowed by the ache of loss and the burdens of duty, yet as he looked at you, an ember of that joy flickered, igniting the faintest hint of a smile.
Sunday chuckled softly, breaking the comfortable silence between you. “You know, I appreciate this more than you realize. But there is no need to go through all this effort just to make me feel welcome,” he said, the warmth in his voice evident.
“I think you're worth it,” you replied with a smile, your eyes sparkling as you lifted the tart to your lips. The rich, chocolate flavor enveloped your senses, sending a wave of sweetness through you. As you savored the moment, you caught a glimpse of nostalgia flickering in Sunday’s eyes.
He stared into the distance, lost in thought. “This reminds me of my sister and those afternoons in the kitchen,” he began, his voice low and distant. “We’d whip up all sorts of things, but I always went straight for the pudding. I remember getting scolded for sneaking too much—” He chuckled at the memory, a light blush creeping across his cheeks. “I just couldn’t help myself. The way it melted in my mouth…”
You leaned closer, intrigued. “What did she say when she caught you?”
“She would get this stern look on her face, arms crossed. ‘Sunday, save some for everyone else!’” He recited her words, and the image was vivid; a younger version of him with a cheeky grin, caught in the act. "It had a considerable impact on my singing voice," he explained, his tone relaxed as he recounted the experience. "Because of this, my instructor urged me to avoid certain habits and practices, emphasizing the importance of preserving my vocal quality so that I could perform at my absolute best." He chuckled softly as he continued, "Our teacher referred to me as a duckling, a nickname that stuck with me throughout my lessons."
You both smile, the moment stretching comfortably as you take another bite of the tart, the chocolate-rich and decadent. The room felt warmer, filled with the echoes of shared memories and the sweet taste of connection. “Here’s to the pudding bandit,” you teased, raising your tart in a mock toast.
Sunday couldn't help but shake his head at the fond absurdity you displayed before playing along. "To the pudding bandit," he echoed, clinking his tart against yours, his eyes twinkling with delight. You both took a bite simultaneously, savoring not only the sweetness of the dessert but also the deeper bond forming between you—one chocolatey bite at a time.
Fin.
A/N | I pray I wrote Sunday accurately... I made it long to make up for my lack of Sunday content. I was afraid I'd write him poorly, and even now, I try my best to stick to what I know and describe more than include dialog. I fear writing them ooc. Sobs.
📝 short chapter. I plan to drop chapter 3 tonight or early tomorrow cause the creative juices are flowing.
Chapter Two: Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving at Wayne Manor is never just the holiday.
Tim knows this before he even sits down.
The house is full — donors who are “just stopping by,” board members whose invitations were too polite to decline, old family friends who remember Bruce at his worst and insist on bringing it up as if it’s nostalgia.
Tim smiles. Listens. Answers carefully.
Someone asks about the foundation’s year-end projections.
Someone else asks how he’s “settling into everything.”
And then, inevitably—
“So,” a woman says over cranberry sauce and expectation, “are you seeing anyone?”
It’s asked lightly. Kindly. Like it’s inconsequential.
Tim doesn’t bristle. He never does. He answers the way he always has.
“Not at the moment.”
There’s a pause — brief, but meaningful.
“Well,” she says, smiling in that way people do when they think they’re being helpful, “I’m sure that won’t last.”
It’s not a threat.
It’s an assumption.
—
Across the city, you’re seated at a dining table that looks like it belongs in a museum. Everything matches. Everything has a history. Every person at the table remembers a version of you they liked better — quieter, easier to categorize.
Conversation circles safely until it doesn’t.
“So,” your mother says, tone casual and anything but, “is there anyone special?”
You keep your expression neutral. “No.”
Someone hums. Someone else exchanges a look.
“You’re so busy,” an aunt says gently. “We just worry you’re… isolating.”
You smile. “I’m fulfilled.”
“That’s not the same thing,” your uncle replies.
You don’t argue. You’ve learned better.
—
By the time dessert arrives at Wayne Manor, Tim has answered the question three more times.
By the time coffee is poured at your family’s table, you’ve excused yourself twice just to breathe.
It’s almost a relief when you escape into work.
You open your laptop at the kitchen counter later that evening — more habit than intention — and pull up the Wayne Foundation documents. The review is nearly complete. A few citations need tightening. A footnote wants clarification.
You finish it quickly.
Then you hesitate.
And attach the file.
For your review — flagged the sections we discussed. Happy Thanksgiving.
You send it to Tim’s work email and immediately close your laptop like it might accuse you of something.
—
Tim sees the email twenty minutes later, alone in his study, house finally quiet.
He opens the attachment.
Then checks the timestamp.
Then exhales, amused.
He doesn’t reply from his work account.
Instead, he pulls out his phone.
📱 Tim: You know it’s a holiday, right?
You blink when the message appears.
📱 You: I’m aware.
📱 Tim: “Tentatively escaping family obligations through footnotes” is not a sustainable coping mechanism.
You smile despite yourself.
📱 You: You say that like you don’t do the same thing.
A pause.
📱 Tim: …fair.
You lean against the counter, tension easing.
📱 You: For what it’s worth, the “are you seeing anyone” question has been asked six times tonight.
📱 Tim: Only six?
📱 You: I fled early.
📱 Tim: Smart.
Another pause — not awkward. Comfortable.
📱 Tim: They mean well.
📱 You: They usually do.
The dots appear. Disappear.
📱 Tim: If it helps, your report is excellent.
That shouldn’t matter as much as it does.
📱 You: Thank you. And for the record — I did try to stop working.
📱 Tim: I believe you. Briefly.
You laugh quietly into your sleeve.
📱 You: Happy Thanksgiving, Mr. Drake.
A beat.
📱 Tim: Happy Thanksgiving.
He adds your first name after.
It lands softly. Steadily.
Like something to hold onto.
Neither of you says anything more.
But later — long after the dishes are cleared and the house settles — both of you think the same thing.
