Chapter Text
For three hundred and seventeen years, Hyunjin and Changbin had waited.
They had built quiet lives across centuries — watching empires rise and crumble, lovers come and go like mayflies.
As high-ranking members of the hidden Immortal Council, they helped maintain the veiled estates where immortals could safely regress without the outside world ever suspecting. Inside those gated sanctuaries, regression was not shame. It was structure. It was healing. It was home.
But something had always been missing between them.
Hyunjin — known in council chambers as an Aetherion — carried an expansive ache.
His wings, when manifested, hungered to shelter more than just his husband. Changbin — Cindrake — provided the steady anchor, horns and tail a constant reminder of containment and endurance, yet even his grounded nature felt the absence of a third thread. A little. Their little. Someone to pour their complementary care into, to possess completely, to watch unravel and reform under their hands.
They had searched discreetly for decades. Never rushing. Never forcing.
Until Felix.
Felix Lee was a twenty year old, human, and beautifully ordinary.
He worked evening shifts at a quiet upscale restaurant in the city to pay for his small studio apartment. Straight dark hair that fell neatly into his eyes, warm smile, gentle laugh. He moved through the world as a fully functioning adult — independent, curious, a little lonely, but content enough with late-night walks, music playlists, and quiet dreams of traveling someday.
He knew nothing of immortals. Nothing of regression. The word “little space” had never crossed his mind outside of vague memories of childhood play.
He had no idea he was being watched.
It started subtly.
Hyunjin first spotted him on a rainy Thursday.
Felix had been rushing to cover a table, apron tied neatly, laughing softly at a customer’s joke while refilling water glasses.
The moment their eyes met across the room, Hyunjin felt the ancient pull — sharp, possessive, undeniable. That night, back at their private residence outside the estate, he told Changbin with feverish certainty: “He’s the one.”
From then on, they observed from the shadows.
Changbin used council resources to pull public records — employment history, rental agreements, medical basics (nothing deep yet).
They followed at a distance: Hyunjin’s wings allowing him to glide unseen through city air currents, Changbin’s grounded presence letting him blend into café corners or park benches. They watched Felix buy groceries, scroll on his phone at bus stops, stretch tiredly after long shifts. They learned his routines. His favorite songs. The way he sometimes talked to himself when he thought no one was listening.
Hyunjin became obsessed with the small details. The way Felix’s fingers tapped rhythms on tables. The soft curve of his neck when he tilted his head. How resilient he seemed despite the quiet exhaustion in his eyes some nights.
“We don’t rush this,” Changbin reminded him nightly, tail curling around Hyunjin’s waist in their shared bed. “He’s human. Fragile. We ease him in.”
But Hyunjin’s wings would flare with restless hunger. “I want to wrap him up already. Keep him small and safe where nothing can touch him but us.”
Months of watching passed.
They became regulars at the restaurant. Gentle conversations. Hyunjin’s intense gaze lingering. Changbin’s calm, steady presence making Felix feel oddly… protected. Small gifts appeared — a warm scarf left “by mistake” on a cold night, a playlist anonymously sent to his work email with a note saying “you seem like you’d like this.” Felix brushed it off as coincidence or kindness. He had no reason to suspect obsession.