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coffee-and-geto · 6 months ago

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“BE MY VOICE AND I CHOOSE YOU TO FILL THE VOID”

“Why a second chance when the first one didn’t work?” “Because we’re too stubborn, love.”

pairing: fashion designer! suguru geto x supermodel! reader

summary: after you broke up with suguru a few years ago, you swore you’d never have anything to do with him ever again… until new york fashion week arrived and you found yourself forced to take part in the event with suguru geto — aka your ex and one of the most famous personalities in the fashion world, as your fashion designer. but perhaps the latter will take advantage of the event to do his utmost to regain your heart.

warnings: +18 only, smut, modern au! (no curses), exes to lovers, geto is your ex-boyfriend, fluff, (light) angst, hurt/comfort, anxiety attack, bossy! reader, nobara is the reader’s assistant but also plays cupid, only one bed/second chance trope, jealous! geto, gojo makes an appearance because he’s a fashion designer too, switch! geto, oral (f + m), fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), creampie, handjob (m! receiving), body praises, fanart by @ / hiikeu.

wc: 15,257

“He wants you among his troupe.”

You nearly spit out the sip of your drink through the straw. “Excuse me?” you laugh out loud.

But even in front of the serious expression of one of the employees of the agency you work for, it’s hard to keep your own. A fit of giggles takes over your stomach, releasing uncontrollable laughter that echoes throughout your dressing room.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Nobara — your assistant — squeezes her planner against her chest — a nervous tic that has never been trivial to you. Silence finally returns to the room, and neither of the other two women utter a single word. The corners of your lips fall. “This is a joke, right?” you whisper breathlessly.

Nobara pulls her phone out of her pocket and scrolls for a few seconds before showing you an announcement from the official website of New York Fashion Week. She is followed by the employee who hands you a tablet screen displaying an email signed by someone you had erased from your life years ago:

Suguru Geto.

°°°°

“Next.” Suguru’s sharp tone cracks like a whip as another model steps onto the casting studio podium. His fist clenches nervously around the handle of the megaphone, resting its bell on the foldable wooden table.

In front of the silhouette of yet another candidate, Suguru’s gaze scrutinizes the model’s fine features that adorn her refined face with prominent cheekbones. A defined jawline. Hazel eyes and a slender body.

“Next,” Suguru repeats mechanically — perhaps because his eyes are desperately searching for your form? With each new woman, he hopes to meet your captivating gaze. And he almost systematically dismisses everyone when it’s not you?

“Mr. Geto, maybe we should—”

“Silence,” he cuts off without a glance at Manami, his assistant.

She sighs and offers an apologetic smile to the model who leaves the podium with a look of icy disappointment. Suguru’s right leg starts to twitch slightly in his chair—a sign of anxiety gradually eroding the calm he tries to maintain in his troubled mind.

“Night Skies: The Illuminated Darkness.”

A relatively inspiring theme and quite easy to design. So why has no inspiration come to him since the announcement? Why do his thoughts constantly drift to outfits that only you deserve to wear, making him prefer to withdraw his participation rather than let someone else wear them?

Fuck.

After the next four hours, Suguru and Manami leave the casting studio for a break in the lounge. He leans against the counter, letting his obsidian eyes fix on a void, swept away by his overwhelming reflections. In the background, the coffee machine rumbles.

You had to join his troupe. Even though he already envisions a firm refusal from your agency. But he is ready to try anything for you — even risks that could endanger his career.

Manami clears her throat slightly and takes a hesitant step towards him. “Mr. Geto? Out of the three hundred top models proposed by partner agencies, we’ve only shortlisted four…” She fiddles with her nails painted in vermillion red, bites her lower lip, and adds, “And that’s under my insistence. At this point, I seriously doubt—”

“Write a letter to this agency,” Suguru cuts in once again without listening to a word of what she tried to explain. He hands her a business card from your agency and mentions your name. “You must know her. I want her among the models for my collection. Otherwise, I’ll cancel my participation,” he declares in an uncompromising tone.

Manami carefully takes the small card and studies it. She lets out a perplexed sigh and nods. “Alright.”

°°°°

“No, absolutely not! I refuse! Reply to him that it won’t be possible!”

“Miss, please—” Nobara tries to calm you and prevent you from committing murder against the top model manager of the agency.

“We’re talking about Suguru Geto! THE internationally renowned designer!” the manager yells with such vehemence that it surely carries well beyond your dressing room.

“I don’t give a fucking damn! There are thousands of models in the world! No one knows, so reply to this email with a fucking refusal!” you yell back just as fiercely. Your usually well-groomed hair is slightly disheveled by a few rebellious strands as agitated as your anger.

There is no way you’re participating in New York Fashion Week or any other event involving Suguru Geto. Not after everything that happened.

Not after he abandoned you.

No.

“But are you aware of what you’re saying—”

“Shut up! If you’re not happy, I’ll quit this damn agency right now! Do you think you’re the only one who wants me? I have hundreds who will be at my feet as soon as I’ll leave!” you spit after a bitter laugh.

Nobara’s soothing hands rest on your shoulders and force you to sit in a chair. Assured that you won’t attempt another assault on the manager, who has turned pale at your declaration, your ginger-haired assistant easily pushes the manager out, whispering to her not to set foot back in here until the refusal is sent to Geto.

She tries to argue one last time, her voice a bit more pleading and less aggressive, but Nobara slams the door in her face. She leans against it, sighs deeply, and closes her eyes for a moment. “Phew…”

As for your own state, ‘fury’ is the perfect adjective. Hair in disarray, cheeks flushed with anger, chest heaving with irregular, harsh breaths, and a vein throbbing along your neck; it’s as if you could turn your dressing room upside down at any moment.

Nobara heads to your automatic water dispenser and pours you a fresh glass. After ensuring you drink every drop, she notices you seem calmer.

Your bloodshot eyes meet her gaze, and she offers you a sympathetic smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll personally make sure everything is sent properly.”

You nod and run a hand over your face to wipe away your overflowing emotions.

It’s crazy how just the mention of that cursed name can set you off. But the final straw was when your manager was informed of Suguru Geto’s request for you to join his models for New York Fashion Week. She insisted relentlessly despite your patience for a no.

She said she didn’t understand.

Of course, no one could understand when no one knew that one of the world’s greatest designers had been your boyfriend before your careers took radically different paths. But how could you explain when he was the one who pushed you to break up with him, leaving you alone, lost, and broken with only an unknown fate to face without anyone’s help?

It was without anyone’s help that you built yourself into who you are today.

Even less your international career.

All the agencies are at your feet, but the only person you wanted to see there wasn’t.

So there was no reason to pay attention.

You will not participate in New York Fashion Week. As long as it involves Suguru Geto, anyway.

°°°°

Mouth agape in shock, Suguru thinks what he sees before him is a prank.

But it’s indeed a clear refusal from the agency you work for.

No, no, no, no, no.

NO.

Suguru storms out of his design office and rushes upstairs to his luxurious bedroom to rummage through his personal belongings. An old photo album is hidden under the piles of clothes in his dresser. He scatters his things carelessly, paying no attention to the mess, and with trembling hands, he drops to his knees, flipping through the album.

On each page, a plastic film covers photos of you and him. One — the most painful — is the first one he took at the beginning of your relationship with him. Both of you standing next to an ice cream vendor, radiant smiles on your faces with sun rays illuminating both your faces, you had your arms around Suguru’s neck. Another one, as he turns the pages. You, lying in his bed one morning. He had taken it the night you had your first time with him. Your figure, which he worships, is covered with his sheets, and your mouth is slightly open as you sleep. A cute little drool escapes from your mouth.

All these photos hold real memories. Proving that nothing was imagined by him when, in his moments of madness, he wondered how he could have ended up here if it all was real. His heart twists in his chest when his eyes catch a photo of him with a bouquet of flowers in his hands and your lips pressed against his cheek. Those flowers were the first Suguru had ever received. He had never received flowers — not even from his own family. You were the very first to give him any.

Suguru pinches his lips, lost in reflections that lead him to check your Instagram page. On your profile, your posts are often collaborations with luxury brands, your body wrapped in fabrics showing your silhouette in its best light, some old videos of you as a child that you wished to share with the world, or random photos of you in pajamas in front of your mirror or with your daily makeup.

He couldn’t help but watch your stories, your posts, your interviews, and your shows in the shadows, never intervening as much in public as in private.

Suguru is obsessed with you.

And he has never stopped being, even after you broke up with him years ago. He never wanted to end things with you.

He pushed you to do it so as not to hurt you more than you would be.

It was when you announced the breakup that he felt all the accumulated resentment he had caused in your heart, and he was nostalgically happy for you.

You no longer had to endure the pain of canceled dates, missed calls, his constant absence.

He knew, at the time, that he was hurting you. He knew you hid your wounds behind forced smiles and excuses you found for his lack of involvement and neglect without him even having to make them when his career started to take off in the fashion world. He understood that he didn’t deserve you.

Yet today, Suguru burns for you.

He is ready to risk his career to find you and seek your forgiveness.

He is ready to lose all his dignity, let you use him like a mere pawn, humiliate him, and break him.

All that, just for you.

Even if he doesn’t deserve you, Suguru wants your forgiveness at all costs.

Even if he doesn’t deserve you, Suguru wants to redeem himself to you.

Leaving your Instagram page, he opens Twitter and tries to find a way to force your hand to participate with him in New York Fashion Week, to meet him, to allow him to do everything to deserve you again and no longer have any regrets.

He taps the ‘New Tweet’ icon and writes words that may place his reputation on an unsteady platter that could fall at any moment.

°°°°

The grip around your phone threatens to make it explode between your fingers. Your knuckles whiten, your hand trembles, and your eyes burn as you read the few words on a Twitter post where you’ve been tagged. It’s as if this time, you’ll actually turn your dressing room and even your agency’s headquarters upside down.

“@reader’sagency. @reader, would you do me the honor of participating with me as a model at the next New York Fashion Week? :)”

Your eye twitches, and you robotically lift your head toward your assistant. “Nobara, I beg you. Pinch me, hit me, slap me, but tell me this is just a nightmare.”

She looks up from your phone and sighs with a forced smile. “It’s... a nightmare?”

You grab a cushion from your red velvet sofa and bury your face in it to muffle a long scream from the depths of your soul. Nobara chuckles and places a hand on your shoulder. “You can just refuse. I’m sure everything will be fine. A public refusal should calm him down,” she whispers.

“Have you seen the comments, retweets, and reposts?” you murmur in a small voice, your brain numb.

Nobara frowns and shakes her head before taking out her own phone. But you stop her by handing her yours without lifting your face from the cushion. “No... Already? But... He posted it less than twenty-four hours ago!” Nobara breathes out in astonishment, covering her mouth with her hand.

Indeed, even though Geto’s tweet is less than a day old, it hasn’t stopped an overwhelming number of internet users and fans worldwide from reacting strongly to the news. You could very well refuse publicly yourself or through your agency — even humiliate him by posting a screenshot of the initial private request that was rejected, making him look desperate and creepy. But that’s not the issue.

By daring to renew his request publicly as if the previous one never existed, he’s putting your reputation and your fans’ hopes — whom you cherish so much — at risk.

If you refuse, you risk disappointing many and tarnishing your image as an arrogant and condescending supermodel for refusing to participate in such a globally anticipated event with one of the best-known designers in the world — despite the fact that no one knows about your past connection with Geto.

The reactions are so hyped, so excited and amazed at the possibility of you and Geto forming a partnership that would result in something beyond imagination.

Suguru Geto has just forced your hand, hovering a threat over both your career and reputation, as well as his own. But you need to make a decision.

You lift your head from the cushion and take a deep breath to brace yourself for what you’re about to do.

“Nobara?”

°°°°

With one foot in a pair of shiny white stiletto sandals and an outfit of the same color, one of your bodyguards helps you step out of the black sedan with your first step onto the ground. You stand up elegantly, wearing dark sunglasses. You are escorted in front of a huge building — one familiar to you from the pages of fashion magazines you usually read — and the immaculate sliding doors open for you.

You stand in the middle of the enormous hall, head held high and one eyebrow raised. “Weren’t the other models supposed to be here at the specified time?” you ask Nobara, who hurries to join you at your side.

“That’s what the email indicated…” she sighs, busy arranging the white fur draped over your arms, framing your long strapless dress in the same color as your heels — a tribute to Marilyn Monroe. Nobara lifts her head with a worried frown. “He couldn’t have stood us up or changed the address at the last minute—”

A confident and cheerful female voice calls your name. In a synchronized movement, you and your assistant turn toward an elevator entrance where a fairly tall woman with a slender and elegant figure, dressed in a long sleeveless Byzantine purple dress, stands. Your two bodyguards follow you and Nobara to join the woman, but she raises a firm hand.

“Your assistant will suffice.” She smiles professionally, and you nod, entering the elevator with the other two women. Like Nobara, she holds a clipboard against her chest and almost looks at you with admiration. “It’s an honor to meet you in person.”

You offer her a polite half-smile, and the elevator begins to climb its endless floors.

“My name is Manami Suda, Suguru Geto’s personal assistant and one of his executives,” she continues, glancing at Nobara. “And you are?”

“Nobara Kugisaki, her personal assistant,” Nobara replies with equal seriousness, and a hint of pride fills your chest. “But since you are Mr. Geto’s assistant, that answers our question. Why are we the only ones to arrive at the agency on time? Where are the other models?” she asks, tilting her head to the side, skeptically.

A small chime announces the arrival at the very top floor, and the doors open to let the three of you out.

Manami doesn’t lose her smile and leads the way down a corridor with an immaculate gray carpet. Her black heels make muffled sounds with each step until reaching a door where she knocks three times. “Everything will be explained by Mr. Geto himself,” she assures, opening the door after a ‘come in’ is heard from the other side.

The voice, though muffled by the door, is easily recognizable. A bitter pang grips your heart, but you shake it off within seconds with a blink.

Manami steps aside and introduces you as you enter.

At the back of the office stands a black swivel chair facing away from you — masking the already known identity of the owner and adding palpable tension.

Manami discreetly leaves, closing the door silently, leaving you to face one of your worst nightmares. The chair turns to face you and Nobara, and the face of Japan’s most popular designer and couturier lays his dark eyes on you.

You remain secretly frozen a few meters away, back to the door, your eyes coldly staring at your ex.

Suguru Geto has always had a reputation for being a man of style, in his behavior, his language, and his way of dressing. While the basic suit he wears contrasts with the extravagant outfits that the wealthiest designers can afford — in this field, they are certainly experts, and some can wear clothes as expensive as the series of Picasso’s “Les Femmes d’Alger” paintings — his perfectly sculpted body and charm embellish the slightest thing he wears, even if it was straight from an old supermarket. But if there’s one prominent feature of his face that can match his advantageous physique (his body), it’s his hair. Being a chic, elegant, and refined man, Suguru is also known for his iconic long raven hair. With strands cascading down his back and bangs framing his temple, the half-bun at the back of his head has always earned him numerous compliments and collaborations with the most well-known brands for their haircare products.

Suguru’s piercing eyes narrow as his lips stretch into a smile. Your name rolling off his tongue gives you goosebumps. “Welcome. Please, have a seat.” With a broad gesture of his hand, he indicates two cocoa-colored leather chairs at the end of a ridiculously long glass table.

You take a seat without looking at Suguru at first, and Nobara seems to read your thoughts as she immediately asks, “Where are the other models?”

Suguru places his forearms on the table in a measured gesture, but as he responds, his gaze never leaves yours. “None are at this agency, it seems.” And it all feels as if asking such a question is stupid.

“That’s what was written in the email,” you reply in a dry voice.

“That’s what was written in the email,” Suguru confirms with a strange softness. “But it doesn’t matter, does it? If I hadn’t said that, you would have refused the meeting.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

Suguru’s smile widens even more as he continues, “Aren’t you happy to see me again?” And for a nanosecond, you thought you saw his irises darken.

Nobara alternates her gaze between you and Suguru, completely lost.

“Mr. Geto,” your tongue clicks against your palate, “I came here to discuss the initial progress of the collection you will present at New York Fashion Week. Nothing else.” You pause. “If it’s for any other subject, please address my manager, and I can leave right now.” Your frozen facial mask doesn’t falter at all.

“Awwww… You’re breaking my little heart, love—”

“Enough.”

Nobara looks dubious. “You… you already know each other?”

“We…” You pause, torn between the idea of confessing everything to Nobara or pretending nothing happened. “In the past. Before we became known,” you reluctantly admit. “But it doesn’t matter. I have nothing to do with anyone now.”

Suguru’s gaze darkens and never leaves yours. Yet, he doesn’t say a word, and an uncomfortable silence sets in.

Nobara decides to break it by clearing her throat and speaking again. “I— I see. I won’t say a word,” she murmurs.

You sigh and straighten slightly in your seat. “Fine. Let’s discuss the proposed theme.”

Suguru’s Adam’s apple moves as he swallows, and during the next half-hour, neither of you brings up your past relationship with Suguru again. The choice of the leading model was quickly settled on being you — because among all the proposals from partner agencies, no other model in Japan reaches your level of fame.

Suguru also doesn’t waste time revealing that he has selected very few models since the theme announcement. The delay will potentially impact the preparation and organization for New York Fashion Week, but he hasn’t bothered to explain why. He simply asked for your help with the rest of the selection.

You hesitated before accepting, finding it strange that someone like him is so behind. But how could you know that you are Suguru’s muse — his source of inspiration, the purpose of his existence? He is much more confident than a few weeks ago since he finally saw you again and ensured you decided to work by his side. It’s only a matter of time before you settle the score with the low blow he dealt you — something impossible to do with witnesses like Nobara around.

The agreements also included a trip from Tokyo to New York. The group will be accommodated in a secure, comfortable, and luxurious hotel until Fashion Week ends and preparations allow access to dressing rooms for each model.

This means being much closer to Suguru than expected...

°°°°

“What do you think?”

“I’m not a stylist.”

“That’s true; you’re more than that.”

“Shut up.”

“Come on… Don’t be so rude! I need your help!” Suguru grins, and you roll your eyes, noting the name of a model who just walked past.

On the runway where hundreds and hundreds of models from all over the world are parading, you, along with Suguru — much to your dismay — are perched on a high platform giving a panoramic view of each model. Of course, he had to move his two-seater table just to spend time with you — a detail he didn’t hesitate to hide from you. What’s the point? he muses with amusement, glancing at you; from the side, he gets a view of your hair falling like a curtain along your cheeks, your nose bent over your clipboard as you jot down names of models that would be interesting to keep for Fashion Week. This poses no problem in itself, especially for an event like this.

If only your partner wasn’t Suguru Geto.

Ugh.

“Help you? While I’m the only one noting names while you harass me with your pathetic attempts at conversation? Don’t pretend to ask my opinion when you’ve barely looked at more than ten models,” you retort irritably. The ballpoint pen rolls over the paper with obvious frenzy.

“‘Harass’ is a bit harsh,” Suguru comments, his lips pursed in a mockingly offended pout — just to hide his predatory smile. “I’d say I’m trying to have a conversation — something you, let’s be honest, avoid like the plague.” A smile curves his thin lips. “And then, why bother looking at what doesn’t interest me when I already have what I want. I’ve never bitten, you know,” he whispers, his eyes softened by a tenderness he hasn’t felt in a very long time.

“You don’t have me,” you respond immediately. You raise your eyebrows and, without looking at him, you continue, “Oh really? You do have quite a resemblance to dogs,” You wrinkle your nose to sneer mockingly as he takes offense. It’s strange because you haven’t laughed in front of Suguru for years. But as expected, the laugh is not joyful; on the contrary, it’s meant to hurt him because you still can’t stand his presence — even less when it’s forced.

“Hey! You’re insulting me!” he frowns and wipes away a laugh. Suguru shakes his head and sighs. “How cruel.”

Your lips turn downwards, and you roll your eyes yet again (you could have won an award for the record number of eye rolls in such a short time). Ignoring the feeling of vice and hatred gnawing at your heart, you refocus on the runway several meters below. The blinding spotlights brilliantly illuminate all these models eager to participate in the highly anticipated Fashion Week alongside Suguru Geto, the internationally renowned stylist, and you, a supermodel equally famous — while you both are plunged into the shadows of the upper floor that looks more like a hallway where stage technicians usually come to secure and manipulate high-up equipment, rather than anything else. Especially when the provided table is just foldable wood and almost fragile to abrupt movements.

Your eye catches a rather tall model with long ebony hair and golden, radiant skin. Her silhouette seems almost ethereal, and it’s at this moment that you don’t regret for a single second having taken your life into your own hands when you were alone just to admire the beauty of all these women of various beauties, shapes, and ages. The female body is beautiful.

No, magnificent.

“That one…” you murmur, noting the candidate’s name announced by Manami below. You bite your lower lip in a concentration tic. “She’s perfect. We’ll keep her for later.”

Suguru nods, but his gaze hasn’t once rested on the model whose name you just mentioned. His irises don’t leave your features, which he has missed so much, especially at this distance. “Hmm…” he hums simply. He gets lost in his contemplation.

You haven’t changed a bit.

Even if your hair is styled differently, your makeup meticulously done, and your chic and luxurious fashion sense, to Suguru, you left him in the same state you are now. He knows your body by heart — not thanks to the photos he kept of you — but because your existence has marked his so much that your simple face is forever etched in his retina.

When Suguru says he is obsessed with you, he goes to the end of his words.

Of course, he regrets his past actions and seeks the right moment to ask for your forgiveness, but he couldn’t hold back.

It was stronger than him.

°°°°

In the spacious studio typically reserved for smaller fashion shows (the irony noted), today it is being used to give Suguru a first taste of what his final troupe was proposing. With your help, Suguru has finally moved on to the next stage just before the outfit creations begin.

Manami, who is backstage, is managing the music and the secondary effects. She sends a message to Suguru to indicate that the line of models can begin their walk before returning from the runway.

The music starts with a rhythmic tempo suited to the steps the models are to take. You are the last to go, which annoys you immensely. Your supermodel status is far more valuable than that of a mere model. Every aspect of your profession is a relentless effort; so seeing these poor models advance with such banal and mediocre strides makes you want to vomit.

Did you accept this for that?

Already, you’ve had to endure disdainful looks from the other models in the group regarding your popularity. It’s quite audacious for them to act so confident when their steps resemble those of a penguin, you can’t help but ponder.

When it’s finally your turn, you waste no time.

The music resumes, and you begin your first steps with a feline grace, almost silently gliding down the runway. Your high heels strike the ground with a hypnotic regularity, syncing with the pulsing beat of the music and its rhythmic cadence: a perfect synchronization. Each step is a demonstration of confidence and control, shoulders straight, chin slightly lifted, eyes fixed straight ahead.

Each step brings a breeze that lightly lifts your hair from your face, like a halo enhancing your display worthy of a true model. At the end of the runway, you pause gracefully before turning on your heels with impeccable precision.

As you return, it’s even more captivating as you continue to walk with palpable assurance, your hips swaying slightly, capturing everyone’s attention.

Your turn finally ends, and the desired effect has certainly been achieved: everyone’s eyes have been glued to you from start to finish. You also didn’t miss Suguru’s gaze fixated on you, his lips parted in captivation. This, of course, earns you the disdainful looks of the other models in the troupe, but a triumphant smile adorns the curve of your lips.

This is what it means to be a model.

“Very well, very well! Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for your very pleasant and… captivating performances,” Suguru announces energetically, standing in front of his chair with his arms open towards his official troupe.

Unsurprisingly, his gaze does not leave you and remains fixed on your silhouette as you move towards the backstage, back to him.

°°°°

You knock on the door, and Suguru’s muffled voice invites you in.

For a stylist and designer as popular as he is, Suguru’s sewing workshop is… more unconventional than you would have thought.

Indeed, several spacious tables are littered with sketch sheets—some colorful—fabrics of all colors, lengths, and textures. Crafting materials are scattered here and there, cluttering the passage along with open boxes on the floor, making it nearly impossible to take a step without brushing against piles of stuff that threaten to collapse. But at least the workshop isn’t filthy and retains the same aesthetic touch you’d find in TV shows or fashion serials.

At the far end of the room, a single chair is occupied by Suguru, who is sitting with his back to you. Hearing your approach, he turns towards you, his eyes fixed on a bright yellow measuring tape and a metallic needle wedged between his teeth, with a fuchsia pink thread running through the tip.

“Come closer,” he murmurs, moving towards you with the help of the wheels on his chair.

Feeling self-conscious, you take another step closer, and when he lifts his eyes to you, it feels as if you are naked before him: less than a step away, you are wearing a delicate sport bra that barely covers your chest, dreading any shiver that might reveal hardened nipples, along with a pair of equally revealing bicycle shorts in the same color. You had insisted to Manami on a firm refusal to wear any underwear in front of Suguru, without providing a reason.

Even though he has seen far more intimate parts of your body before, the current situation with him challenges everything.

A faint blush colors your cheeks, and without a word, Suguru extends his arms, his long, slender, pale fingers wrapping the measuring tape around your waist first. You can’t gauge the meaning of his gaze. How is he reacting internally right now?

But his mischievous remark answers you the moment after, “You okay? Are you still breathing?” The sarcastic tone immediately irritates you.

“And you’re taking the opportunity to enjoy the view, aren’t you?” you retort venomously. You’re about to continue spewing your hatred towards him when his hands gently — but with some firmness — grasp your hips and make you turn around. You stifle a moan at his touch, which sends a shiver through your body and, as you feared, your nipples harden. You step away from him abruptly when his breath grazes your side. “What are you doing?” you ask sharply, your arms futilely trying to cover your chest.

Suguru sighs. “Are you done acting like a kid?” He grabs you by the elbows and forces you to turn your back to him. He wraps the measuring tape around you again. “So no, I’m not enjoying the view, I’m doing my job.” He kneels to measure your hips, and with a glance downward, you see his amused smile. “You should have refused to work with me if it bothers you so much to be measured.”

“Ah, as if I had a choice?” you retort abruptly.

“You did,” he whispers as he stands up, brushing your hair away from your back, and for a moment, his warm breath caresses your shoulders. All you want right now is for him to place a tender kiss on the side of your neck, but the resentment towards him always takes over.

“No, you know that’s not true.” Your tone is harsh as a whip. “By the way, have all the other models been through here? I saw assistants with all this gear. Why am I the only one alone with you?”

Suguru grins. “The others went through with my assistants,” he replies with a chuckle before taking your bust measurements. “You’re the first I’m measuring, and the only one.”

“What game are you playing?” you murmur after a pause.

“None.”

He continues with the rest of your measurements — bust, thighs, legs, and finally arms. During this part, he takes an unusually long time to scrutinize you, and his head tilted close to your skin makes your heart race uncontrollably.

The final straw is when his lips accidentally brush against your arm.

“Stop that,” you warn him all of a sudden, stepping back. Your furious gaze seems to want to kill Suguru on the spot, and he loses his smile.

“I—”

“Stop pretending to be clueless, Geto.”

He already knows it will be hard to win you back, especially with this reaction he had long feared. But it had to explode sooner or later.

“If you think I’ve forgotten the past, you’re deluding yourself. The jerk you were is still the same in my eyes,” you seethe.

Suguru takes a step towards you in an attempt to beg you not to avoid him as you continue to back away. He murmurs your name in a plea. “I know you’re mad at me, and you have every right to be, but I did all this for you. I knew you wouldn’t be able to refuse a second time with—”

“I don’t want you to try to make up for it, not after all these years. Is that really why you asked me to come back? Because I’ve reached your level of popularity? My money? My body?” Your throat tightens further, and you squint your eyes to hold back your tears. “I will never forgive you, Suguru. I’m no longer the naive girlfriend who waits like a fool for someone who didn’t give a damn about her!”

“I— It wasn’t— Please, let me explain… I still love you as much as I did before, and I know I’ve been unworthy of everything you’ve put up with for me, but—”

You bitterly laugh in his face. “Liar! You’re lying, and you always have, even when you said you loved me! Your babble about what you were and what you are now is just the typical crap an toxic ex says when they want to win someone back. Did I really have a choice to come back to you? Do you think it’s a good method?”

With those words, you turn around and walk away towards the workshop door.

Suguru’s heart screams at him to follow you and beg on his knees for you to listen, but he knows your stubborn temperament. The only words that come from his mouth after his first failure are enough for him to know you’ve heard them, even as you fling the door open and rush out.

He knows you heard him.

“You will always have a choice with me.”

°°°°

“What do you mean, ‘the camera isn’t working’?” Suguru thundered with severity.

The entire group waiting for the final shoot (including you) turns towards the back of the studio to face a visibly agitated Suguru. He is handling the camera in every direction and then turns towards you.

You’re ready, dressed in the latest collection from the luxury brand you’re working with for Suguru’s troupe’s Fashion Week. There’s no problem on your end.

So why is he talking about a camera that isn’t working?

Especially when it’s your turn?

You take a hesitant step towards him, and Manami quickly avoids your questioning gaze, stepping away from her superior.

A few other models follow you, whispering incomprehensible things not far away to your ears, but all you care about is hoping you’ve misunderstood something.

“Find me another camera,” Suguru orders, violently throwing the one he had against a wall. The sound of metal shattering on the floor startles everyone.

Manami follows him out of the studio at a brisk pace. “Wait! Mr. Geto! Did you forget that this isn’t our studio? It’s the only camera we were able to borrow!”

“SO?” Suguru retorts acridly. “She’ll be the only one not photographed while she’s the star of MY troupe?” His tone rises significantly towards Manami. But he doesn’t spare a glance at you, even as everyone listens to their conversation intently. “Don’t forget that tonight the magazines will be prepared, and we won’t be here but at Gojo’s reception!”

All the other models turn to you in unison, watching you with astonishment.

“Too bad, I’m sorry but she won’t be in it!” Manami resigns with an even tone. “We need to leave in an hour, and the reception starts then!”

“Absolutely not! Find me a fucking camera so she’s in the magazine for tomorrow!” With those final words, Suguru opens the studio door and storms out, slamming it shut behind him with a loud bang.

Silence envelops the room, and you find yourself at a loss for words, your lips sealed and your voice stuck in your throat.

Manami sighs and finally turns to you, her face showing sincere regret. “I’m sorry… I know it’s really unfair, but I think you won’t be in the promotional magazine for the brand partnering with us…”

“I—” Your face falls completely, and you look in dismay at the broken camera on the floor from a few minutes ago.

“I’m truly sorry…” Manami murmurs, lowering her head in genuine remorse.

A few hours later, you’ve resigned yourself as well. The luxury brand partnering with Suguru’s agency had lent outfits from their latest collection for advertisement in fashion magazines. The models and the brand were to be highlighted, but this preview was unfortunately ruined by the delay caused by Suguru, who couldn’t complete the photo shoot in his own studio. On the same day — at a time too close to the reception hosted by his friend-rival Satoru Gojo, a stylist of equal renown—the weather and equipment decided to turn against you.

According to Manami, the camera borrowed from a nearby photo studio was sabotaged right after photographing all the other models. So, despite your star model status, you won’t appear in the magazine coming out. The lack of time also prevented photographers, as well as Manami and Suguru, from finding another camera in time, as everything was prepared at the last minute.

Your troupe isn’t the only one participating. Those of other stylists — like Gojo, for example — will also be featured in a fashion magazine with their partner brand and all their models. The shame will fall upon you as the one not included.

And it will be a scandal — you couldn't make it up.

But Nobara has been far more helpful than you would have thought. She learned the news that evening while helping you prepare in your dressing room for Gojo’s reception and was outraged by the situation. Most of all, she was scandalized to learn that someone had attempted to sabotage your photo shoot.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Your name rolls off Satoru Gojo’s tongue as he bows respectfully and takes your hand, brushing his pink, thin lips against it.

“Likewise.”

Your raise eyebrow and small, sly smile don’t escape him, and he responds with a laugh that makes your heart flutter. Through his signature round sunglasses — Gojo’s trademark — his cerulean eyes sparkle with mischief. He gives you a wink, then releases your hand and offers you his arm. You take it without hesitation, appreciating the touch of a man like him.

The reception hall is packed with models and stylists; some are Japanese, while others come from different corners of the world, ‘passing through’ before heading back to New York. Indeed, the trip is fast approaching, and this evening is one of the last things you’ll need to face before traveling to the other side of the world.

Chandeliers light up the marble floor with tiny reflections that resemble stars. Tables lined against the walls overflow with dishes and canapés — along with chocolate fountains and desserts. Small groups are gathered in every corner of the room, and the dance floor is filled with couples or partners dancing amidst the exceptionally chic ambiance.

“I’m meeting you in the flesh,” Gojo murmurs, casting a flirtatious glance at you. This man has always had the reputation of being exceedingly handsome and tall. Today, you confirm it.

In his immaculate tuxedo, Satoru Gojo walks with you through the room, maintaining a perfect conversation without awkward pauses or questionable vibes. He is exquisite, charming: everything a woman could dream of.

“Few people get to meet you up close,” you add with a light giggle. You adjust your hold on his arm and look up at him. “I heard you’re also participating in the New York Fashion Week.”

“Indeed.” He takes a glass of champagne and hands it to you. “It would have been a pleasure to work with you, though,” he murmurs with a wry smile.

“I would have loved that.” Your gaze sweeps across the room as you take a sip of champagne. “It’s a shame I went with Mr. Geto.”

“Oh yes, Suguru. My eternal rival. I was surprised by that Twitter post. A model like you… should be among the best, and unfortunately, Suguru is one of them.”

“Do you think so, Mr. Gojo?”

He wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you a bit closer as he stops near a table with canapés, not far from a window. “Call me Satoru,” he says, looking at you over his sunglasses and taking a mini macaron.

You pick up one as well, and Suguru’s figure passes by you, too quickly for you to understand what’s happening but close enough to notice his gaze on you and Satoru.

“Would you be interested in working on a future collection with me after Fashion Week?” Satoru asks, his attention completely focused on you.

Your blood rushes in your ears as you feel his breath on your lips and you hold back the urge to lean in and kiss him.

“With pleasure, Satoru,” you respond with a smile as playful as his.

“Perfect.” His face lights up, and he is about to say something when he is interrupted by a trio of models approaching you.

“Excuse us, Mr. Gojo,” one of them coos with a sugary voice, batting her eyelashes.

“Can this wait?” He rolls his eyes without any shame. “I’m busy.” He pulls you closer to him with a firmer, more possessive embrace.

Without wasting any time, he takes you out of the reception hall, where a few people are lingering and chatting in a slightly more intimate setting. Thick crimson velvet curtains adorn the various entrances, and Satoru leads you further in.

Your cheeks flush in reaction to the pleasant situation you’re in. Your mind even begins to compare him to Suguru...

“Have I told you how beautiful you are, especially in that dress?” Satoru whispers near your ear, his voice low and warm.

“No,” you murmur, dazed by his hand resting on your lower back, his thumb making gentle circles.

Satoru leans in and his lips brush against yours. “May I?”

You nod, aware of what’s to come as his lips slowly capture yours in a soft, needy kiss. Your lips respond immediately, and Satoru’s two hands join behind your back to guide you into a room that looks like a luxurious bedroom.

Without breaking the kiss with its wet sounds, your back meets the soft surface of a mattress, and you’re already panting. You know that with him, you won’t regret doing anything.

Satoru’s heavy breathing moves away from your pink, swollen lips to approach your bare collarbone and kiss it with those same lips. With his hand gently caressing the back of your thigh, which you lift and drape around his waist, Satoru uses his nimble fingers to slide down the thin strap of your dress. Your chest rises and falls with the sensual tension descending upon you. Your fingers help him lower your dress, first revealing your bare breasts, and a flush colors your face.

“Beautiful, sweetheart,” he purrs in your ear, taking pleasure in depositing a line of soft, affectionate kisses along your neck and down to your chest. Satoru stretches his lips into a smile against your skin and lightly touches the swell of your breasts. He takes one nipple into his mouth, teasing it with his tongue.

A moan escapes you, and you arch your hips to rub against him desperately. His bulge becomes more prominent and presses against your own underwear, adding friction that makes your core sensitive. “Satoru…” you pant softly, stroking his snow-white hair as he lavishes your breasts with wet kisses. “More…”

He grins and returns to your lips, whispering “Adorable…” while sliding your dress down further.

But the door to the room suddenly opens, revealing a frozen Suguru standing before the scene. You and Satoru immediately turn your heads toward the intruder and pull away from each other abruptly.

But it’s already too late, as neither of you have time to say a word before Suguru turns and leaves as quickly as he arrived, his face as pale as a sheet.

An unusual pang tightens in your chest, and you sit up from the bed, overwhelmed by a sense of guilt. But why? Why feel this way?

You sigh, and Satoru shakes his head. “He won’t say anything,” he reassures you, reaching out a hand to stroke your cheek.

You don’t push him away, but he understands that you wouldn’t want to go any further with him tonight.

°°°°

“Here… Lift your chin…” Suguru takes a photo with a sharp click. “Perfect…” he murmurs to himself, his tone filled with admiration.

Sitting on the floor of Suguru’s photography studio in yet another outfit from the luxury brand partner, you give him a profile shot, your chin lifted in a dreamlike expression of devotion. For another photo, you lie on your side, your eyes fixed directly on the lens.

Suguru, for his part, doesn’t hesitate to give his best effort to capture the most beautiful photos he’s ever taken in his career. He insisted on handling it personally — despite what happened less than two days ago at Satoru’s reception. He even came up with an idea to make up for the consequences of his delay with the magazine published for all the participating Fashion Week troupes in New York. The scandal over your absence, despite being one of the featured models, had shaken most social media, and indeed, enough for Suguru to come up with a plan that would do justice to you.

What better way than to discuss with the luxury brand partner to release an entire magazine featuring you as the sole model? You would showcase the clothes that weren’t worn due to the lack of time. The success and attention would be all focused on you — spotlights fixed on you.

Because you deserve it.

No matter how long it takes Suguru.

He vowed to do everything to make amends.

So that’s why you find yourself alone in the studio with him, posing in outfits that shake him so much that he’s suggested taking a break twice to calm his trembling hands.

Two days later, the magazine is finally out, with you as the star, once again shaking up social media and causing a wave of appreciation from fans. At your finest, every page shows only you.

You, the heart’s desire of Suguru Geto.

“Have you seen the reactions?” Suguru asks as he approaches you while you’re busy admiring the sky and the skyscrapers from one of the agency’s balconies. Suguru slides the glass door closed and joins you. “Am I bothering you?”

You sigh.

“Come on, at least thank me for doing such a good job. You look stunning in all the photos.” He has a smirk and nudges you in the ribs as he leans his forearms on the glass railing. “And you always have been.”

You give a subtle smile but don’t immediately respond. You leave a small silence between the two of you. For the first time in years, Suguru’s presence doesn’t bother you as much.

“Thanks, I suppose,” you murmur. Without looking at him, you continue, “It’s nice of you to do this.”

“I did it for you,” Suguru breathes, his heart tight.

You nod. Lately, it feels like you don’t quite know how to react. All these compliments, the fact that he hasn’t changed his behavior after catching you with Satoru (he’s even become even more gentle)... It’s a lot to take in.

You eventually clear your throat. “Well, I think—”

“Wait.” He turns his head toward you. “Please.”

The note of pleading is the only detail that brings your feet back to the railing.

He lets a light silence linger, not saying a word. A breeze brushes both your faces, like cool water on a tired face.

Perhaps it’s this that makes Suguru speak up, saying your name.

“You’ve become someone since then,” he whispers with a faint smile. “I’m proud of you.” And oh, how you wish you could erase the blush spreading across your cheeks! “I don’t want to pretend like nothing happened anymore.” He turns fully toward you, the wind whipping his long raven hair and his obsidian eyes scrutinizing you. “I haven’t forgotten you. I’ve never forgotten you, actually.”

His sudden declaration catches you off guard. Why is he saying this? You already knew it. And your behavior towards him gives an unspoken response. You simply turn your head towards him without moving your body, with a forced nonchalance. He mustn’t see what he still evokes in you after all these years.

“Not a single day has gone by that I haven’t thought about you. I know I hurt you, and coming back now is probably not the best way — especially after I pushed you away.” He takes a step towards you. “And I want to win you back.” You prepare to retort, eyes narrowing, but he cuts you off immediately. “I know. And it’s not because you’ve become a famous model. Far from it.”

He repeats your name once again.

But this time, his tone is different.

His voice returns to what it was so long ago. The voice he used to whisper in your ear in bed, when you were standing in a supermarket line, and on the phone.

The thorny brambles of your heart wrap painfully around you, reminding you of what he became later.

“I love you. I’ve always loved you.”

Your lips press together, and you start to pull away from the glass railing.

“Give me a second chance, I—”

“No. There’s no point.”

Your steps move closer to the glass door, but Suguru grabs your hand.

“Please, let me at least explain—”

And your hand tears away from his grasp with an insensitivity hidden beneath its opposite in your heart. “We were perfect, Geto. Incredibly perfect. But now, I really wonder if you ever truly loved me,” you admit without any warmth.

“I did, and I still—”

“No. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have been increasingly distant, avoiding our dates as your career took up more and more of your life.” You take a trembling breath meant to chase away the tears from your eyes, but it’s in vain. Your voice quivers. “At least you didn’t give up on your dreams for someone. Even less for love. And for a love that only brought you pain after it left you…”

“Love,” Suguru pleads in a heart-wrenching whisper. He takes another step towards you, arms outstretched, but you shake your head.

“But at least, I can thank you for what I’ve become today. I’ve become the person that little me always dreamed of being. Thanks to your departure from my life.”

The words slap and scratch him violently.

You turn on your heels and open the glass door, casting one last glance back at him, tears streaming down your face, smearing your mascara.

“So don’t ruin it all.”

°°°°

As scheduled, the private jet successfully dropped Suguru’s entire troupe at a New York airport less than a week before Fashion Week, where a luxurious van awaited your arrival. As soon as you stepped inside, fuchsia purple LEDs assaulted your eyes, and a multitude of leather seats were lined against the vehicle’s walls. At the very back, there was a mini-bar stocked with alcoholic beverages and spaces near the seats featuring multifunctional drawers: a retractable coffee machine, a selection of accessories and makeup products, as well as blankets, sleep masks, and other handy items. Near the driver, who greeted the troupe with a nod, a tablet fixed to the wall allowed you to change the background music at will.

Without delay, everyone rushed to the seats and chatted merrily over drinks and snacks as the journey finally began. All the models’ assistants were allowed to join the trip, which meant you found yourself laughing with Nobara about the different shades of blush provided in one of the drawers.

She took out her phone and suggested doing an Instagram story, which you accepted without hesitation. You were soon joined by the others, and a group photo was taken by Suguru. To your great surprise, you participated with a small pose. It was also posted on Suguru’s agency’s Instagram, and Nobara quickly showed you the reactions. For the past three weeks, she has almost been gushing on your behalf over the wave of positive responses you received following your appearance in the latest leading fashion magazine in the United States — even despite the success that Satoru Gojo’s own troupe has also enjoyed.

But it has also been three weeks since you last spoke to Suguru following your conversation with him. Throughout the journey to the hotel — where you will stay with your troupe for the rest of Fashion Week until its end — you couldn’t help but have unintentional eye contact. Fortunately for you, he didn’t make any attempts, and somehow, you would have liked to have Suguru in your life once more — just one last time.

But your bitter past with him still haunts your dreams, so that’s out of the question.

A few hours later, the van drops the troupe off in front of the famous hotel, but to everyone’s great surprise, a crowd is packed around the entrance. Security is pushing back some people protesting that they’ve been queuing for hours, and Suguru steps outside to observe what’s happening.

“They were right. The hotel is packed.” Of course, all due to Fashion Week taking place just a few kilometers away. Celebrities, high society, and tourists alike, the gigantic hotel promises not to be easy for the model troupe and Suguru himself. He signals the driver, who contacts security agents and bodyguards via his walkie-talkie to approach the van so that the troupe can either queue or simply navigate through the crowd.

So, with further delays and heightened security, a decision was made regarding the group: it was divided into several smaller groups so everyone could pass without issues. Some models have already gone to the reception and are enjoying their rooms, while you find yourself paired with…

…Suguru.

And last in line.

Neither of you speaks a word, and you are engrossed in your phone, trying your best to ignore him. On the other side, your assistant with ginger hair, Nobara, has asked if it bothers you that she takes a trip to do some shopping in New York— a rare opportunity for the young woman. How could you refuse her? How could you say that you don’t want to be alone with Suguru, even if it’s for the sake of organization? Being stuck in a line with him is uncomfortable?

You finally sigh in relief when your turn comes after forty minutes of waiting while other customers check in.

Bodyguards step aside, both of your luggage in their arms, waiting for a word from you.

The receptionist clears her throat and squints at the screen of his computer. “I apologize, but... I think there’s a reservation issue with your rooms.”

“What do you mean?” Suguru and you ask in unison.

“Um... There’s only one room reserved for both of you.”

The response hits your ears like thunder. You blink, the embarrassment of the situation rising to your cheeks. You don’t even dare to glance at Suguru. “Then book me another room,” you request in a measured tone.

The receptionist discreetly elbows her colleague, who looks up at you. “I— Miss, you are the last guest with Mr. Geto for the coming weeks, and there are no more rooms available…”

For the next five minutes, you try every possible way to avoid being alone in a single room with Suguru. But it’s in vain, as you end up in the infamous room with the receptionists offering a myriad of apologies, blaming their oversight regarding the reservation.

In the room, you stand, boiling with anger as the bodyguards set down your luggage and leave. One of the women tries to divert your attention from your ready-to-explode gaze by pointing out an undisturbed sofa — of course — where one of you might sleep.

But a single glance is enough to see that even your own feet wouldn’t rest on it. The receptionists leave the room in their little heels, and you sit on the firm sofa. You grimace and massage your temples while Suguru has not said a word since entering the room.

He takes a few steps towards the bed and places a hand on the mattress, so soft and comfortable that his fingers almost sink into it. “You can take the bed if you want,” Suguru offers with a calm and kindness that makes you grit your teeth. “I can take the sofa.”

Your body is in such turmoil that if you stay one more second in the room with him, you might explode — literally. So, you don’t respond and rush to your luggage, driven by the need for space. You pull out some comfortable clothes and retreat to the bathroom.

A small sigh of exasperation from the main room still reaches your ears.

You lock yourself in and collapse on the floor, groaning with frustration.

Damn it.

Why does this only happen to you?

If a shower seems to have calmed your nerves a bit, you would have preferred not to have decided to shower right away because, barely dressed in a loose t-shirt and pajama shorts, hotel staff members are gathered around the sofa and start carrying it out of the room.

In shock at the realization of the situation, you call out to them. “Hey! We need that sofa!”

One of them turns his head towards you nonchalantly. “There’s been another reservation issue. We need this sofa for others in a much more urgent situation than yours, miss.” He adjusts his hat as a gesture of apology and leaves the room as if nothing happened, taking with him the only thing that provided a slim chance of escape — however slim — to avoid Suguru.

Suguru stands there, arms hanging, too stunned by what’s happening to react. He blinks several times without saying a word.

This is all just a nightmare.

°°°°

“I’m not going to break my back sleeping on the floor, and neither will you. Or is that what you want?” Suguru nearly barks as he slips under the covers.

“There’s no way I’m sharing a bed with you!” you retort in the same tone, arms crossed over your chest.

“Stop being so prissy for two minutes, will you? It’s not like we haven’t done this thousands of times before.” He rolls his eyes and finally lies down.

The comment hits your chest like a sharp arrow. The already horrifically awkward situation combined with Suguru’s reasonable demeanor, which only seems to make things worse, makes you look simply ridiculous for not cooperating out of pride.

So, you find yourself under the covers, forcing as much space as possible between you and Suguru, trying to stay as far away as you can. Both of you have turned your backs to each other, nerves too frayed to say anything without igniting yet another argument.

But Suguru closes his eyes with a smile on his lips that night, noting in the back of his mind to thank Nobara as soon as he has the chance for agreeing to his ridiculous plan of deliberately booking a single room for both of you.

°°°°

That night, your sleep is much more restless than usual. You have sleep troubles, but this night they seem to intensify despite your peaceful breathing, which Suguru uses as a lullaby to fall asleep. You toss and turn from time to time, with your leg carelessly hanging out of the bed or an arm too close to him. A dangerous position where you might easily slip off and fall.

When Suguru feels the sheets pulling away from him as he’s about to fall asleep, he turns around and catches you just before you fall. With a pounding heart, he pulls you a little closer to him and finally lets you go.

Unaware in your sleep, you roll towards him and your fingers cling almost desperately to his t-shirt. He freezes and doesn’t dare move, hoping you won’t wake up so he can extricate himself from the embrace you’ve claimed. Your arms drape around his shoulders and your legs seek to wrap around him like a koala.

“Sugu…” you murmur in your sleep. Your face contorts into a small frown.

His nickname is a purr to him. He’s tempted to push you away, but your slight frown, seeking comfort, makes him relent, and he holds you completely in his arms. Your nose nestles into the crook of his neck and you hum before letting out a small snore.

Maybe Suguru is dreaming — amidst the dim light of the room and your two blurred bodies. Nevertheless, he rocks you gently in his arms, holding the most precious thing to him close.

°°°°

Your dream continues where you’re alone, nestled in your bed — yes, it must be that. Finding yourself in the same bed as your ex is just a nightmare.

Or maybe a dream.

Warm, sweet whispers envelop you in a comforting embrace.

“Forgive me, love. I’m sorry… I love you so much.”

These distant words soothe you enough when your sleep is half-awake, with Suguru’s body and voice surrounding you. You should push him away, but everything around you feels so dreamlike. So why not give in for once when you can’t in real life? After all, it’s just a dream for one night.

Nothing can happen to you.

Especially at a moment when your heart wants to accept these pleading whispers of forgiveness that will probably never happen in real life.

°°°°

A warm ray of sunlight tickles your cheek, and you hum as you bury your head against something firm and comfortable that envelops you. Arms rub your back, and you smile, deciding to give in to the warm embrace. Something places a gentle kiss on your temple, encouraging you to stay in bed a little longer.

Before a knock at the door jolts you from your comfort.

Nobara’s voice is heard from the other side. “Are you awake?” she asks out loud. “Almost everyone is already ready!”

You open your eyes at the same time as Suguru, and your noses almost touch. It’s a close call not to scream and almost jump out of your spot. Dazed and still groggy from sleep, neither of you says a word, only muttering a few curses about the alarm not going off.

You rush to do your makeup and put on your outfit, as by 11 a.m., at the very place where the last preparations for the show will be made, hundreds of fans, journalists, and paparazzi will be lined up behind barriers or security ropes, shouting for autographs or even a smile. So there’s no time to waste; you need to cover your tomato-red complexion with foundation.

Downstairs in the hotel, the rest of the crew is waiting for both of you, and others arrive at the last minute — some even with their poodles. To your great relief, no one seems to suspect anything about Suguru, whom you carefully avoid even after arriving at the Fashion Week preparation area.

As you step out of the black sedan, piercing fan screams ring out, eagerly waiting for you to approach them: banners with names written in capital letters, notebooks, and hands outstretched almost desperately.

On the red carpet and under the bright morning sun, female fans call out your name, and you turn with a smile to approach them behind the security barrier. You spend about ten minutes taking selfies and signing autographs with the rest of the crew until one girl, after you’ve signed her autograph, speaks to you again. “It’s incredible that you’re working with Suguru Geto! I never thought I’d see this day, so I’ll be here to watch you walk the runway!” she exclaims with stars in her eyes.

Your smile freezes at the mention of Suguru, as you’re constantly reminded that no one but you and Suguru know what happened between you two. You swallow and regain your composure. “Oh, honey, you’re adorable. I’m glad you’re coming. I hope we’ll run into each other again.” You then give her a final wink and rejoin your group.

Nobara catches up with you a few minutes later in your dressing room with a smile and quietly closes the door. You collapse onto a couch and sigh, hiding your face in your hands.

°°°°

“You’ve measured me before.”

“I lost them.”

“Liar.”

Suguru lets out a small laugh and grabs his measuring tape before approaching you. “It’s just my job, love.”

“You’re playing around,” you accuse with a pout, and he kneels in front of you to measure your legs and waist.

His movements are precise, slow, meticulous, and attentive. Even his gaze doesn’t fall inappropriately on you, a look of respect filling his entire being, guiding him gently with that eternal mischievous smile that reminds you of Satoru’s.

“Don’t give me that pout, now,” Suguru whispers as he stands up with a sigh.

Today, he’s wearing a simple white shirt under a pair of black pants and a matching blazer — perfectly tailored, of course. An unfair perfection. Among all the exes you could have had in your life, it had to be Suguru Geto—the man with a beauty almost impossible to rival, and who clearly shows a refusal to let you go. And the worst is the still-fresh memory from the night before with the image of a half-asleep Suguru against you — you in his arms. If you loathe yourself for what happened, why does his embrace comfort you so much? If you truly hate Suguru, why do you show such weak resistance to both his gentlemanly behavior and his irresistible charm?

“And there we go,” Suguru announces softly with his notepad in hand. “Lovely as always,” he adds with his eternal smile. “Hey!” You punch him in the bicep, and he steps back, laughing.

“Don’t mess with me,” you grumble, still pouting.

When was the last time this kind of situation happened?

When you two were still together.

And is forgiving him a good idea after all?

“I wasn’t messing with you, love,” Suguru replies quietly. He locks his eyes with yours to capture all your attention. “You’ve always been beautiful. And that will never change, even if you turn into a slug.” He grins at your comical look of disgust.

"A slug? You’d still choose me even if I were a slug?" you repeat, not convinced at all by his promises.

Suguru scoffs and moves closer, facing you directly. “No matter what you are in any lifetime, it will always be you that I choose, again and again.” He slowly lifts his hand and places it on your cheek. His thumb caresses your cheekbone, and your guard weakens. His words, spoken with sincere tone, float like clouds in the dressing room-turned-sewing workshop.

You remain as vulnerable with Suguru Geto — despite years of building a fortress to avoid falling back into the state you were in years ago. Yet, you are in a massive denial, giving a semblance of change in your life. You haven’t erased all feelings for Suguru. You’ve simply buried them in a corner of your heart and forgotten where—neglecting the risk they might resurface someday.

You look up at him, your lower lip trembling. “Then why didn’t you in this one?”

The question seems to catch him off guard, as his lips part and an equally vulnerable look appears on his face. He’s about to respond when someone knocks on the door.

“Mr. Geto? Are you finished?” Manami’s voice calls from the other side, sounding slightly concerned.

You both immediately step away from each other, and the tension between you dissipates, replaced by the usual coldness.

Suguru clears his throat, runs a tired hand over his face, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Uh, yeah, yeah. You can come in, Manami.”

°°°°

Less than two hours before the main moment, you are practicing breathing exercises to calm the stress of a runway show. You’re wearing one of the luxurious outfits designed by Suguru himself, and if that alone isn’t overwhelming enough, an invisible vise is tightening around your chest, making your breathing heavy and your lungs congested.

You grimace at the sensation and groan as your heart beats more erratically than expected, and tremors run through your limbs. You can’t have a panic attack now.

No.

Not when Nobara isn’t by your side to help you relax.

Staying locked in a stuffy dressing room won’t help, but the very idea of stepping outside paralyzes you. You need to wait patiently for the makeup artists to finalize your look, and it only makes you more impatient and on edge.

Someone knocks at your door and asks to enter.

Suguru.

You open your mouth to utter even a sound, but anxiety wraps around your throat and chokes you. You gasp for air, your hands sweaty and cold, slipping from the back of the chair you’re clinging to, and you collapse to the floor.

The noise is enough for the door to burst open, and Suguru rushes in, dropping to one knee and taking you into his arms.

“Love, what’s happening?” Suguru murmurs as you cling to him as if your life depends on it.

The panic attack gradually overwhelms you, and you start crying in front of him. Thank God your face is only covered with skincare, but tears are streaming down your cheeks, mingling with your grimace and your difficulty breathing.

“I…” Then a hiccup takes over. You try to inhale, but as soon as your lungs fill, the air cuts off and doesn’t pass through. You keep trying, but all you manage is to cry without stopping.

Suguru frowns. “You… Wait.” He slides one arm under your knees and back to lift you easily and place you on a sofa. “It’s going to be okay, my love… Everything will be fine… Do the same thing I do.”

You sniffle and wipe your eyes to prevent the blurred vision from making it even harder to see Suguru helping you. He places his hand on his chest and does the same for you. “I’ll count to three and you breathe in very slowly, okay? Same for exhaling,” he murmurs with all tenderness and patience. His chest rises slowly in sync after he counts to three. The air flows more smoothly now. Encouraged by this, he smiles and holds his breath. He nods for you to do the same, intertwining your fingers with his and exhaling at the same slow pace. The icy air leaves your lungs at the same time as your racing heartbeats.

For the next five minutes, a silence punctuated by controlled, rhythmic breathing fills the dressing room. You eventually manage to regain a normal breath and quell your panic attack, leaving only a few residual hiccups.

Suguru leans toward you and kisses your sweaty forehead. With your still-trembling arms, you grip his to keep him close and draw him against you, the tip of his nose brushing against your neck. The unexpected action makes him freeze, and up close, you can see goosebumps spreading over his skin. With hesitant movements towards each other, you both hold each other gently in a comforting embrace.

“Suguru…” you whisper, your voice hoarse from the recent panic attack. You take the opportunity to bury your head in the crook of his neck.

He immediately welcomes your touch and affectionately kisses your cheek. “I love you, love. Do you feel better?”

His affirmation reaches your heart so strongly that, once again, tears well up and you force yourself to blink them away. Suguru notices and a worried crease forms between his eyebrows. For a moment, his chest against yours allows you to feel his racing heart. “You—”

“I’m better,” you interrupt weakly. “Thank you…”

He sighs in relief and gently caresses your hair absentmindedly. His fingers weave skillfully through your strands, bringing back a memory that hits you hard: him comforting you for various reasons when you were together, that same hand resting and caressing the same spot on your head. So for once in years, you let yourself indulge in this nostalgic feeling without pushing it away.

However, you can’t prevent a burning question from crossing your lips. “You love me?”

Suguru reacts immediately. He carefully pulls away from you and helps you sit up on the sofa, wiping the dried tears from your beautiful cheeks. He smiles at your flushed face and bloodshot eyes. “Of course I love you. I’ve told you. I’m sorry, and even if you don’t accept it, I’ll do everything to make you forgive me.” He kneels in front of you. “I didn’t want to break up with you because it would have broken my heart, so when I saw that my career was starting to affect our relationship and I couldn’t take care of you as you deserved, I thought it would hurt less if I let you detach from me.” His shoulders shake with a sigh. “Forgive me, my love. I want to make amends and—”

“But why a second chance when the first one didn’t work?”

“Because we’re too stubborn, love.”

His words, spoken with such sincerity, reach your heart directly.

You take his face in your hands and press your lips against his. Suguru gasps slightly in surprise but quickly follows your lead, his hesitant hands sliding to your waist to deepen the contact.

Fuck.

How he missed you…

With every kiss, you reclaim Suguru’s lips as if one moment without them would take away your life. They are so soft and warm, as alluring as they are addictive, making it almost impossible for your body to pull away from him. It’s only when you feel that time seems to be passing a bit too quickly that you finally pull away from him.

“I…” A semi-horrified expression pulls at your face as you’ve just initiated a kiss with your ex—the one you’ve been avoiding for months. You shake your head and back away, stammering, “Sorry… That was a mistake, I—”

Suguru utters your name in a pleading tone. “Please… I’m begging you. Give me another chance. I only need one word. One word, and I’ll stay. One word, and I’ll leave and never come back to your life.”

“You…” If you’ve never been short of sharp retorts for Suguru, today is a new experience.

One word from you, and Suguru will accept your choice. For any other ex you might have had, you wouldn’t have even attempted to participate or do anything that involved them. But with Suguru…

“S-Stay…” you murmur in a broken voice, almost throwing yourself into his arms. He wraps you in his embrace and rocks you, his breath quick. “Stay, Suguru…” You break down, tears returning with a vengeance, flooding your face.

“I love you, sweetheart. Forgive me…” And he continues to repeat these words until someone else knocks on the door.

He prepares to pull away, but you hold him back, not wanting him to leave you once more. With a swift move, he crouches and rests his forehead against yours. “I have to go. You’re going to do great. I have no doubt, and you have no reason not to, understood?” His breath, as warm as his hands around your head, brushes your nose, and you sniffle one last time, nodding. “You’ll be perfect. I’ll watch and wait for you at the show. You’re going to shine.”

°°°°

The lights in the hall dim, plunging the audience into darkness. A bright spotlight illuminates the runway as the music begins to resonate throughout the fashion studio, amplified by the speakers.

“Here we go… In three… two… one…” Manami makes a frantic arm gesture to signal the lineup of models to step onto the runway.

The first model makes her entrance, wearing a spectacular outfit that instantly captivates the audience, with audible “oooohs!” reaching even backstage where you await your turn with a suffocating pressure. You are among the last to walk, but the distinct sound of heels clicking in rhythm with your heartbeat still reaches your ears.

But there is no room for panic now that you no longer carry the weight of your past relationship with Suguru.

He will be there to admire and reassure you from afar.

Manami gives a final signal and your lineup thins, giving you the space needed to step onto the stage.

The outfits parade down the runway, each one more impressive than the last. The theme of the collection is clear: dark silhouettes adorned with sequins and stars, reminiscent of a starry night sky. Your own outfit, the centerpiece of the collection, is bound to captivate the awed spectators. The black, sparkling dress catches the light with every step, creating an illusion of a moving firmament. Murmurs of admiration fill the room first, followed by camera clicks and cheers as you appear at the first quarter of the runway.

Taking a deep breath, your heels glide as elegantly as ever down the runway. One foot in front of the other, the sole firmly planted but almost silently advancing on the runway, chin up, and a neutral expression on your face; if anyone had never heard of your modeling career, your impression answers immediately.

Your hips sway slightly from side to side in the same entrancing rhythm as the powerful beat of the music, giving an unmatched grace to your walk. Reaching the end of the runway, your gaze falls on the front row where recognizable men have their eyes fixed on you, feeling the palpable energy of the room.

The scene lasts only a second, but it feels like an eternity.

Satoru Gojo, with a smirk, hands in the pockets of his dark stylist suit, stands with his legs spread in a posture highly unflattering for a personality like his. But then again, he exudes a carefree attitude, so who would be shocked? You manage to keep your mouth from stretching into a smile thanks to Suguru Geto, whose eyes are glued to you. His obsidian irises shine with admiration, professionalism, and also pride. He gives you a knowing wink that sends a warm, pleasant wave through every corner of your abdomen.

You snap out of your trance and pause, striking an elegant pose under the camera flashes before gracefully turning around. The shimmering fabric of your dress captures the lights with every movement, creating a shower of stars around you.

As you return backstage, the music shifts, signaling the grand finale. The crowd is buzzing, applauding enthusiastically as the spotlights sweep across the stage to accentuate the dramatic effect of the starry collection. The show comes to an end several minutes later, and you notice the applause intensifying. Suguru seems to have taken the stage and begun speaking — his voice reaching every ear — and you listen intently near your pairs.

“Thank you all for coming tonight. This collection has been a true labor of love, and I am honored to share it with you. Thank you also to all the wonderful people who made this possible, especially our incredible models,” Suguru declares, a wave of shared pride resonating through his speech.

The applause erupts once more, louder than ever.

°°°°

“Really?” you murmur softly, the tone as warm as Suguru’s hand on your hip. “If I did so well in the show, don’t I deserve a reward?”

He kneels in front of you, sliding his large hands along your thighs. “So beautiful, so magnificent…” Suguru continues to whisper as if in a prayer. “I love you… Ruin me… Use me and hurt me, love…” he pleads before placing a long, sweet kiss on your inner thigh.

The effect sends waves of goosebumps across your body, and desire burns in your eyes as you lower them to your desperate lover.

What better place to want to fuck your ex than during a festive reception hosted by Satoru Gojo, in one of the luxurious corridors of his many mansions? The same heavy, thick, velvet burgundy curtains brush against your back as he nuzzles between your legs like a little boy.

The gesture might seem funny and cute, but not when he slides his head under your evening dress and presses his nose against your panties. You gasp in surprise and place your hands on his head. “Sugu… Not here…” you whisper, alarmed.

He grumbles like a displeased child, the vibration of his voice against your core increasing your sensitivity. “You— Ah…” you moan as he plants a kiss on your already swollen clit.

“I love you, sweetheart… I love you so much…” Suguru keeps repeating these words that make you melt. He shifts your underwear with his index finger, finally gaining access to your core. He starts with a chaste kiss on your damp folds and hums in contentment, as he catches the first drop of your juices. “Tastes s’good, baby…”

Your moans intensify under his agile tongue as it licks and laps at your swollen, wet folds. Your teeth sink into your lower lip, forcing you to gasp. “Suguru…” You groan as he focuses on your throbbing bundle of nerves this time. He gently sucks on it, coaxing more juices from you, and this has the effect of drawing whimpers from your lips. If you were already struggling like mad to keep quiet, Suguru always loves to tease you and he gently inserts a finger into you. Your walls clench around it as if afraid he might pull it out. Unfortunately, pleasure comes far too quickly. With only a few long, slow thrusts inside you, your fingers find their way into his dark strands. “I’m going to—”

“Cum for me, my love,” he murmurs between flicks of his tongue.

You pray that no one can see or hear you, letting the knot in your stomach that was holding back your orgasm finally release. It bursts onto Suguru’s mouth, who doesn’t waste a single second in collecting your juices until the last drop, all while you moan in pleasure.

He finally pulls his hands and head from under your dress, panting in the same ragged rhythm as you, a satisfied smile on his lips. “I love you,” he murmurs for the umpteenth time.

A slightly exhausted smile from the intense sensation lights up your face, and before you can even respond, Suguru scoops you into his arms and nearly runs to one of the luxurious bedrooms in the Gojo mansion.

He locks the door and gently lays you on the mattress. Within seconds, you take charge, removing Suguru’s pants and teasing his bulge with the tips of your fingers. You smile mischievously and giggle.

Suguru shivers at your touch and props himself up on his elbows, weak as he is for you. “Sweetheart—” But you catch him off guard by pulling down his boxer, exposing his twitching erection. “Oh God…” He almost rolls his eyes as your hand administers a few gentle strokes. “I love you… I love you… I love you… I love you…” he repeats in a plea in the dim light of the room.

Your fingers wrap around his base as you lower your head just to kiss his sensitive, reddened tip. “What, baby? Is it too much for you? You’re already so hard f’me…” And he doesn’t have time to protest as you go slowly, for he might not last. He smiles slyly as you lick the bead of pre-cum that escapes his length.

“Damn, princess… I’m not gonna last…” he hisses, his chest rising and falling at a rapid pace. He lets out a sigh, his muscles tensing under your hands. You run a thick band with the flat of your tongue along his dick, and he grits his teeth. “Tease…”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh really? Let’s see about that…” Your lips part around him, taking him fully into your mouth. As soon as his tip hits the back of your throat, he lets out a groan. “Sorry…”

Your hands slip to graze his balls and caress his thighs. With a motion of your head, you suck him, your tongue swirling around his tip and veins. “Love, I—” And with a twitch of his cock, he signals that he’s about to cum. He shudders and groans, moaning your name. His cheeks flush, and you take the opportunity to tease him. He gives in and lets his release paint your mouth white. Without wasting any time, you swallow the warm substance and pull his cock from your mouth, a string of saliva mixed with his cum linking your lips to him.. The sight of your lover in a messy, submissive state sends a shiver down your own spine.

He regains his breath, rising onto his knees, unuttons his white shirt, and tosses it into a corner at the foot of the bed. Suguru’s hands settle on your hips, pulling at the fabric to undress you completely. Your panties are just as damp as when he ate you out. Your bra quickly joins his discarded clothing, and he seals his lips with yours as if it’s the last thing he needs to do in his life. He gently flips you onto your back on the bed.

Your hands move sensually across his chest to settle on his shoulders, maintaining a grip, while Suguru’s hands grasp the back of your thighs and slowly detach his lips to press them against the side of your neck where your pulse races. He marks a hickey in that exact spot and revels in the moan you produce.

“Suguru, please… I need you…” you plead into his ear, you aching clit grazing his hard cock, and he clenches his jaw to avoid holding you too tightly in his arms. Hasn’t he dreamed for years of having you like this, in his arms, begging him to please you?

“Anthing for my princess,” he coos, his lips curling. Gently, he wraps your legs around his waist and maintains eye contact with you. One of his hands grabs his dick and teases your needy cunt with the tip to collect droplets of your wetness. “Still so wet?” Then your blush is enough to make him burst into laughter. You pout, and he purrs. “Awww… I’m going to give you what you want…”

With utmost care, his tip parts your folds and slowly pushes into you, finding its way deep inside your hot, dripping pussy. Breathing between his teeth, Suguru closes his eyes for a moment and hisses. “Damn, you’re so fucking tight…” He pants for a few seconds before resuming his movements as you moan for him to go further. “Fuck, princess… taking me so well… Like you were made for me since start…”

“Suguru…” You moan, your nails digging into the flesh of his shoulders. The pressure his cock exerts makes it hard for your pussy not to react and tighten with each of his slow thrusts as you adjust. “That’s it, my love… You’re doing so well…” He whispers in your ear. His hands grip your hips, helping you find the right space for both of you as he sinks into you, your pretty walls clenching around him deliciously. He lets out a whimper of your name and hits that sweet spot deep inside, making you twitch beneath him.

"Again… Please… Sugu—” But another sound of pleasure escapes you as he slowly increases his pace inside you. His length twitches between your gummy, tight walls. “So deep… So good…” you murmur with a pleasure-filled wince. “I love you… I love you…”

Words hit Suguru like a punch to the stomach, and he almost has tears in his eyes. He doesn’t stop bucking his hips into you and nuzzles his head in the crook of your neck. “Baby…” you whisper, your fingers tangled in his hair, pleasure all for you now. He nods, and his hand snakes to your clit, rubbing it in circles. “Suguru… I’m close…” you squeal as he continues to pound into you until you see stars and your cunt contracts around his length, your toes curling.

His seed paints your walls white, a warm, gentle sensation spreading through your lower abdomen, Suguru groaning into your neck, his teeth biting into the flesh of your trapezius. He slightly lifts his head, panting heavily, and presses his lips to your ear. ��I don’t want to see you on anyone else’s arm, okay? Not even Satoru.”

You nod and giggle, trying to catch your breath, your eyelids closed and exhausted from the aftermath of intense pleasure. “Jealous, hmm?”

“Yes. And very possessive, love,” he affirms in a strained voice. “Will you forgive me?” he adds with a glimmer of doubt in his eyes. He withdraws from you and lies down beside you, attentive to any signs of discomfort.

“For a long time, Suguru,” you affirm, yawning.

“Oh.” He raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Can I ask since when?”

“Since the hotel.”

Suguru buries his head between your bare breasts and closes his eyes with a sigh. “I see. I owe that to Nobara. What do you think would make her happy?” he asks in a casual tone.

Suddenly, it’s like gears are turning in your brain, and your fingers, which were caressing his hair moments ago, freeze.

“WHAT?”

And Suguru’s laughter echoes throughout the room.

a/n: finally! i'm relieved that i've finished this fic (promised from far months now...) well, i hope you'll enjoy it! <3

tags: @ssetsuka @zara-zara11 @bearwithmoo @alwaysfreakingout @mutsu422 @lymsfm

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biteyoubiteme · 6 months ago

Text

redlightdesign

fem!reader x hyunjin

synopsis: you get tattooed by your favorite tattoo artist.

warnings: !!!🔞!!! tattooartist!hyunjin, tattooing, needles, pain, oral (f!rec), use of teeth, overstim, multiple orgasms (f!rec), squirting, fingering, pussydrunkvibes, subspace kinda, prob forgot some sorry

wc: 5.2k

an: I want a new tattoo </3 feedback appreciated! [m.list] not proof read sorry ;-;

You didn’t think you would ever get a consolation let alone an appointment with redlightdesign. For over three years you have been submitting a request anytime their books were open. You set timers for when the form dropped to make sure you were one of the first to be seen but everyone was doing the exact same thing.

redlightdesign would make an announcement that the submissions were closed an hour later saying they were booked solid for the next three months. The process repeats itself and every time you pray you get a response.

Thirteen forms later and you finally got an answer. Your dream tattoo will be underway in a matter of weeks. You made sure to keep the perfect space open for the piece. Not a single artist is the right fit to do your idea justice the way Redlightdesign could.

Before you read the email you didn’t even think you would ever be picked, your thigh would just always be bare for the possibility that never would come to fruition. But sitting in a coffee shop on a Sunday morning avoiding finishing your homework for Monday's class you jump on the opportunity to check your phone when it dings. Post notifications for redlightdesign on since you started following them. Every time they announced open books or a dropped appointment you jumped to put yourself up for the running. You remember the magazine article Redlightdsign had been featured in that started your obsession. The anonymous tattoo artist is based in Seattle and New York, traveling across the states to get a wider audience. Not that they needed the help, they were globally known, with people submitting forms all around the world, purchasing plane tickets after they confirmed an appointment.

It was stiff competition and the anonymity of the artist was sacred to each client. There was barely any information about Redlightdesign on the internet besides the finished product, and the address to their studios was only given out just before your appointment. Once the details of the New York studio had been doxxed online and redlightdesign had stopped working for a year, packing up and shutting down in well deserved retaliation. When they came back to their socials they made it clear the next time they wouldn't stop for a year but quit entirely. No one shared any information after, only stating that Redlightdesign was one of the nicest people they have ever been tattooed by and a photo of the beautiful work after.

But there sipping on an almost empty drink avoiding work that needed to be done you felt your pulse race just like every other time you've submitted a form. Only this time your stomach bottomed out seeing the email that popped up in your inbox a few minutes later.

h.rldesign/gmail.com Hi, I love your idea and sketches. I think this would transfer perfectly in my style. If we are to do the piece on the thigh at the size you want I think it's best we split the work into two appointments. My open slots for this would be January 9th and 10th. Let me know if these dates work for you and then I can get started on designing and cleaning up your idea. -redlightdesign

even just knowing their email address was shocking enough, seeing a response could have sent you into a coma. If Redlightdesign needed you on the 9th and 10th you would do everything in your power to be right at their door. You didn't care if you had to call in sick, you would put on the most convincing fake cough known to man; you would sell out stadiums with the performance if need be.

You couldn't type a response fast enough, needing to send in a confirmation just to know it was solidified. Within seconds you got a link for a deposit to hold the dates and a promise that Redlightdesign would be working on your piece asap. You were too excited to even think about your work anymore, sitting in the coffee shop staring down at your phone in disbelief.

It was only a few days later when the first drafts of the tattoo you would be getting were sent over for you to approve. You could tell the work had been drawn in a sketchbook and scanned to send in an email, the charcoal lines and highlights showing the detailed work. It was everything you could have hoped for, redlightdesign taking the amateur rendering of your idea and turning it into the masterpiece sitting in your inbox. They promised to have perfected versions ready when you arrived early on the ninth, reminding you that they would transfer it into the stencil and use a pen to finish drawing the finishing touches to make sure it flowed with your body just right. Make sure to eat before the appointment and don't wear any lotions on the tattoo area. Take care to remember we can take as many breaks as you want you have the day booked up with me so no need to rush through just to get it over with.

You made sure to dress appropriately. A pair of shorts you didn’t mind getting ink on in case any decided to ruin them. It was cold the morning of the ninth, a drizzle setting in as you made your way towards the address you had been sent before you had woken up. Even just seeing the street name and knowing this whole time you’ve been a fifteen-minute walk away from Redlights studio was bizarre. How many times have you driven by the building without ever knowing?

The email with the address had said the door would be open and to take the stairs up to the loft. The separate space on the ground level was a bakery, the sign flipped to closed. But as you felt the first droplets of rain you pulled on the handle for the door only for it to not budge. You check the address again to make sure it is right, you can see the windows to the studio above but the curtains are pulled shut. You were running over the email you could send to redlightdesign, reading it over once more when someone reached past you making you jump. “holy shit you almost gave me a heart attack,” you breathe your phone pressed to your chest.

The soft laugh of the person beside you is muffled behind the black medical mask they wear, long dark hair hanging on their brow leaving only smiling eyes glancing over you. “I'm sorry I was running late and didn't make it in time to beat you here,” they push their key into the lock twisting until it clicks, painted nails wrapping around the handle to hold the door open for you.

You give a weak thanks stepping into the little hallway leading to the stairs waiting for them to step in and follow.

You're trying hard not to make it seem like you're staring at them but it's almost impossible not to. Right in front of you is the person whose identity has been hidden from the public for years. You've tried to imagine what redlightdesign looked like since you read that magazine article. Now with the early morning mist still stuck to their hair you were seconds away from knowing exactly what they were like. Watching how their long fingers flipped over the keys looking for the one to unlock the loft door, how they used their shoulder to push open the door turning back to give you smiling eyes, waving you in.

They moved around to pull open the long cream-colored curtains, the gray light pouring in revealing the space. The walls have tacked up charcoal drawings, painted landscapes, and oil pastel flowers. A worn brown leather couch pushed to one side, heavy white blanket pushed back like someone had taken a nap there against the throw pillows. Tattoo bed next to rows of inks and past designs. On another wall a cluster of polaroids, stepping closer you can see its every tattoo that redlightdesign has done here. You're excited to see ones they haven't posted on their socials, so distracted you don't hear a closet door opening and the wheeling of a cart behind you. “I wanted to be set up so we could get started right away but,” when you turn you see them shrug. The view outside of the waterfront off in the distance matches some of the paintings done during different times of the day.

“It's okay I can wait, we're booked all day right?”

“yes that's right,” they go through their bag pulling out a large sketchbook, “here take a seat and we can go over some of these together,”

they sink into the couch pushing back the blanket to make room for you to follow. Your thighs touching before they hand over the sketchbook. You're amazed by the craftsmanship, and the detail put into each variety of the tattoo idea you have given them. No other artist has given you so many possibilities, maybe one of two but a whole spread dedicated to small details was never on the table. redlightdesign had taken time working through this with passion. “Wow,” you breathe not knowing where to look first.

“do you like it? It's a big thing, a tattoo of this size, and I wanted to make sure it really had all the elements you wanted in it while also not being too chaotic and messy. You see this one has less shading and seems more open but this one is heavy-handed if you're into that kinda style. I see you have other work done on your arms and if you want to go that way style-wise I think this one would be perfect,” they point at the one you've been focused on knowing that it was exactly what you wanted.

“It's amazing, they all are, I'm so impressed redli-“

“Hyunjin, you can call me Hyunjin,” they chuckle, “I should have introduced myself earlier but I was late and it slipped my mind I'm sorry,”

“no, it's okay thank you hyunjin,” you try the name in your mouth, “I think this is exactly what I want, better than what I could have imagined,”

“great I'm happy to impress let me get this printed in a stencil and we can add anything else after we find the right placement,” you watch as they stand moving to the corner with a desk, you can't see their face but know they've taken their mask off as they turn on the printer. “Do you live around here or was it a commute?”

“oh I live right up the street, I was surprised to see how close it was to my place actually,” you say over the sound of the scanner.

“that's good, sometimes I have people coming from all over it's fun to finally have a local visit,”

“I would have come out to New York if that's where you would have been,” you admit.

“I haven't been out there in a while, they are doing construction on the street the studio is on so I've been located here for a while now,” he states pulling out the stencil sheet. “I did a few different sizes to start with,”

he turns around and you're shocked at how beautiful Hyunjin is. In all the time you've thought about redlightdesign never did it cross your mind to account for prettiness but if you did your scale would be broken. You're still seated when he comes over and kneels in front of you.

“Can I?” he asks looking up at you, your hands in your lap covering your thighs.

“oh yeah sure,” you're flustered lifting your hands away.

“left or right?” he asks, holding two of the stencils over each leg.

“right,” your hands sinking into the couch as Hyunjin wipes his thumb over your bare thigh. He shows you the three different sizes and you decide on one before he asks you to stand in front of the mirror so he can place the stencil on.

“Here,” he mutters, being gentle to get the placement right in the first go. “We can always print more if you don't like it here,” he blows cool air over the purple lines traced on to make sure it's dry enough for you to move. He slides his hand behind the pit of your knee tugging your leg. You reach out to steady yourself with his shoulders, the backs of your hands feeling the tickle of his long hair hanging past his ears. He lifts your leg enough so that your foot is resting on his thigh, his hands slipping over your skin checking it looks good.

You love the way he's found the perfect spot on your thigh so that it flows with your body, “I think you got it first try,”

“Look in the mirror first just to make sure,” he lets you go, pulling himself to stand behind you so that you can see yourself.

“yes it's perfect,” and he nods, grabbing a purple pen.

“finishing touches then,” he gets back down in front of you lifting your foot back to his knee so that he can steady you. The marker is cold on your skin as he draws, adding lines and shading in spots to make the work blend better. When he blows on the wet lines of ink you shiver especially when he draws on your inner thigh, your skin so sensitive you swear you could imagine his fingers tracing shapes instead of the pen. “Perfect,” he states, giving your knee a tap letting you know he's done. “Let me set up and if you need the bathroom before we start I'd go now. I have water and a kettle for coffee over under the desk, and we can stop for lunch around let's say twelve or one-ish?”

You nod, taking your seat on the tattoo bed. He's set it up so that you're slightly leaned back but still sitting up. You watch him pull on black gloves and get all of the inks and needles ready, following a system you've seen done before. He clicks on a stereo the soft song playing in the background just loud enough for us to talk if we wanted to or just to listen. you adjust in your seat when you hear the sound of the tattoo gun whirring, hyunjins free hand stretching your skin in preparation, “The hard part will be around the knee so let's get that area out of the way,”

you nod watching as he starts, the familiar burn of the needle digging in but not too painfully. He was right that it was worse than some of your other tattoos but not unbearable. What distracts you is how concentrated he looks leaning over your leg, hair pushed back behind his ears but one strand hangs across his forehead, the corner of his lip between his teeth.

He starts to ask you small questions about yourself, the conversation leading to learning about him and how he got into tattooing. He talks about his art and the little things he likes. Both of you are so invested in one another that you don't even notice how far you've come in the day, lunch already rolling around before you know it. He's gotten through more than half the outline when he starts the loose wrap to keep it clean while you go out for lunch. The bakery is just downstairs offering lunch deals you can't refuse and when you get back upstairs both of you sit on the couch and continue your conversation. Giggling over nothing much but being comfortable in each other's company more than what you could have asked for.

redlightdesign could have been a total dick but you were blessed enough to get someone so genuinely kind and talented. And when you got back in the chair to finish the day's session you were sad to know that tomorrow would be the last time you saw Hyunjin unless you somehow got another appointment. The idea in it of itself was making you dread leaving.

“Could you tie my hair up?” he asks lifting his wrist up to you, a hair band waiting for you to take off. You lean over taking the tie from him and running your fingers through the dark strands. He hums as you brush the hair from his face gathering it all to tie into a ponytail. “thank you,” he nods letting the end bob up and down, a sweet smile teasing his lips before he goes back to the linework.

When he finally declares you done for the day you sigh, his thumb smoothing over the ends of the tape he's put to hold the wrap he put over your thigh. His finger slips across your inner thigh making you jolt harder than when the needle was to your skin. “sensitive?” he asks and you nod, not wanting to think too much into it. You were definitely sensitive but not from the pain, watching his long fingers work over your skin didn't put the cleanest image in your head.

He starts to break down his workstation, cleaning up and wiping everything to disinfect. While you put on your coat he asks, “Do you want to get dinner?” you turn to make sure he is not on the phone but he is in fact asking you, “I know this great spot a block over it's not that far a walk if you're up for it?”

“Sure,” you nod and he rubs the back of his neck.

“You know if you're not busy or anything I don't usually ask clients out for dinner but we were having a good chat and you know if you don't want to,” he drags on his ears pink, it was cute to watch him flustered.

“I'd love to go to dinner with you hyunjin,” you smile following him out.

You share an umbrella as you make your way to the small cafe-style restaurant, outdoor seating covered with a canopy so you won't get hit by any rain. Sitting across from one another, Hyunjin asks to see your other tattoos. You lay one arm down on the table, hyunjins fingertips ghosting over your skin as he traces the lines of all your other work. “I think I've seen this one before, did you get it from Felix? Or what's his username…”

“youg.ink?” you nod, “I actually got it because I saw you mentioned them before and it introduced me to their work. instantly fell in love with this when he offered it up,”

hyunjins not even paying attention to the tattoos anymore as he lets his fingers glide over your smooth skin. Most times after a client was done for the day in his chair he walked them to the door, waved goodbye, and worked in the studio on the next person's design. Most times he had people who he didn't mind not seeing again but you and your laugh, your gentle conversation, made him want to break his own rules for once. He walks you home after dinner and promises to see you tomorrow at the same time.

When you show up for your second session you're double fisting two iced coffees; the door is already unlocked as you make your way up the stairs. Hyunjin is sitting at the desk with headphones on sketching away before he sees the movement in the corner of his eye. He gives you a big smile, all teeth and is so cute. He tugs his headphones off letting them hang around his neck, “you got me a coffee?”

“Maybe or maybe I have a caffeine addiction,” you joke, handing over his cup. You look over to see what he's working on and he leans back to give you a better view.

“The next client wants their back done, it will be spaced out over the next four months. first sessions tomorrow,”

“I wouldn't even know where to start on something that big,”

“the same way I started yours,” he looks down at your legs, the wrap still in place only today you're wearing a skirt instead of shorts. The only other clothing item you felt would give him space to work today. Hyunjin looks back to his sketchbook, shutting it and standing. “let's get you up on the chair and get started,”

you follow his instructions, sinking back into the chair and letting your skirt bunch between your legs to expose your thigh. Hyunjin starts to set up his station, pulling on his gloves after flipping to the sketch of your design to have to glance at while he works. “might hurt today with all the shading if you need any breaks let me know we can go as slow as you need,” he peels away the tape before cleaning your leg with a towel and watered down soap. “It already looks good,” he nods, pressing around the tattoo.

“I think I can handle it,”

“Okay, we can work the bottom to the top again today, get the area closest to the knee and get the most painful bit first,”

and you think you can handle it and you can for the most part but the dragging of the needle over the still red outline from yesterday is painful today. Your hand bunching in your skirt as you remind yourself to breathe. You let your head roll back in the chair not able to watch anymore, focusing on the music playing, the dull hum of the tattoo gun usually comforting you but now a reminder that you're here for a while.

hyunjin is trying to concentrate, he's great at what he does, but what's testing him is how you're flashing your panties at him. he was going to say something, bring up a conversation about anything but when he looked up, a simple glance he was face to face with the dark grey fabric, the outline of you silencing him. You didn't even notice, your neck exposed as your free hand not holding your skirt gripped the armrest.

Tattooing people made nudity and almost nudity normal. It was why Hyunjin preferred his private studio so that he could make people feel comfortable, it was better than having someone who wanted a hip tattoo strip in a shop where anyone could watch. But with you sitting in front of him he forgot that he shouldn't look so close. Because instead of ignoring the view he was imagining ways that he could make your pain more bearable. Imagining how if he reached over and brushed where he knew your clit would be waiting you wouldn't be moaning in pain.

It's not until lunch that your skirt is let go but it's done the work of keeping Hyunjin hard for the entirety of the progress he's made toward the tattoo. When he sprays the tattoo down with the soapy water beads roll back up your leg because of the way the chairs are angled. The cold water feels great against your hot skin and Hyunjin apologizes for the mess passing you a paper towel to wipe any that got too far. You slightly lift your leg to wipe your inner thighs, the movement flashing Hyunjin again only this time the droplets of water had dampened your panties. The gray fabric was dark where he had been fantasizing they would be.

He doesn't even want to think about standing from his stool knowing that the second he does he will have to adjust himself only drawing attention to the fact he is very hard. He tries to make a list of things in his head as he wraps your thigh. To think about how it's almost over, that you will be gone in the next hour or two but that only makes it worse. You would be gone when he was this needy? He wanted to make an excuse to have you come back for another session. But it was quite obvious he would be dragging out the appointment when he only needed to do a small section when the two of you were done with lunch. He could have waited and finished, pushed your lunch back, and waved goodbye but no.

He swiveled his chair away from you, taking a sip from his almost empty cup of coffee as you slid down the bed to stand. Hyunjin takes a breath and prays you don't notice but it's the first thing you see when he turns, the strained outline not very well hidden. You pretend to look out the window, feeling your cheeks get hot. All you can think about is if it was your noises that did it, all the whimpering wasn't usually how you handled tattoos but this one was the biggest piece you've gotten, and didn't know two sessions would make your usually composed self break so easily. it would explain the silence compared to yesterday. So you toy with the idea, how far would he go if you made yourself available?

You grabbed lunch together, hyunjin putting a pillow over his lap to steady his plate of food but both of you knew that wasn't the real reason. And when you were back in the chair you intentionally let your skirt roll up this time. It doesn't help that he's now working on the part of the tattoo closest to your center, how he wraps his hand around your thigh, pushing your legs further apart to reach a spot on your inner thigh. Gloved fingers brushing over your panties for the smallest second, your hips sinking into the seat to keep yourself from moving. Hyunjin noticed but needed to get through the rest of the tattoo, if he stopped now he wouldn't know when he would start again. Your lip between your teeth he watched as you tried to close your legs again to block your exposed panties, now wet with your slick and nothing else. He could see the spot and almost ripped his gloves off as soon as he finished his work. But now he was teasing you. Cleaning the tattoo down and wiping it down. He doesn't even bother with the normal photos he would take right away instead putting on the second skin to protect the tattoo. As he smooths the thin film over your inner thigh he lets his fingers slip up brushing against your center to see your reaction.

Your head rolls to your shoulder watching him through your lashes as he takes off his gloves and tosses them on the cart. He lifts the armrest on the tattoo chair before reaching behind your knees to pull you to the edge of the seat so your legs are dangling off the side. “how is it someone can make the prettiest sounds and sit so still for me?” he leans down and plants a kiss on your tattooless thigh, “because all I could think about was how I wanted to see your legs shaking for me while you whined like that,”

you tried to draw your knees together but he was in the way, kissing up your inner thigh, nipping at your skin with his teeth. When he reached your skirt he flipped it up with a lazy hand giving you no time before his thumb was over your clit rubbing a harsh circle over the fabric. You felt the shock run up to your stomach, your voice breathy as you whimpered his name. He followed the wet line down the front of your panties before hooking his finger along the seam to pull them back. He wanted one taste, needed one taste but knew he wouldn't stop at just one, not when you looked this edible and ready for him.

He ravages your clit, your hands shooting to his head burying your fingers in his hair as he sucks. He's careful of your tattoo but your other thigh is fair game for him to wrap his arm around and push you open, fingers bruising with how he spreads you. His free hand prodded your entrance, circling in your wetness before slipping in knuckle deep. “Hyunjin,” you whine, your hips rocking against his lips, feeling the build up of your orgasm. He curls his fingers pressing up into you enough to make your legs jerk from the new angle.

You're seeing spot before too long, hips stuttering as he gives a final hard suck, fingers still as you clench around them. You're moaning so loud you're sure someone will hear but you don't even care. Hyunjin doesn't stop the flick of his tongue against your clit making you cry out, “I said I wanted to see them shake,” devilish smile covered in your slick before he latches on to your clit again. Fingers pumping in and out of you before he presses deeper into you. You can feel tears at the corners of your eyes, and when he pulls away slightly to let his teeth brush your clit you're done for, legs trembling as you cum. He is persistent and you have to tug his head away, a slight smile stuck on his wet lips as he watches your body shake from the overstimulation. “once more?”

“I can't- I can't do it,” you shake your head but he drags his fingers out slowly before inching them back in, your hips jumping.

“I know you can, you've been doing so good for me already, one more time won't hurt,” he hums, dipping his nose down to brush over your nub. Jolting at the feeling he turns his head to kiss your inner thigh, slowly building up speed with his fingers, “can't you do just one more?” it's the way he asks so softly, the heavy gaze under heavier eyelids that makes you nod.

You're so sensitive that one lick has you shaking, your orgasm feeling so far and yet so close all at once. His tongue laps through your folds circling your clit. Hyunjin is obsessed with the taste of you, completely under the spell of your pussy and how it responds to his touch. He could go all night eating you out, watching as you fell apart again and again before him. Your cries are getting louder and before you know it your back is arching into him almost coming off the seat, your orgasm so intense you don't expect the clear fluid to squirt out of you until it has.

You're breathing so labored you place a hand over your chest to try and calm yourself. hyunjins pleased grin is the only thing you see before he pulls his fingers out of you and sticks them in his mouth to clean them. Every once in a while your legs jerk from an aftershock, the delight in his eyes worth how tired you feel. Your thighs are sticking to the leather seat under you as Hyunjin pulls your underwear back into place leaning down to leave a ghost of a kiss over your clothed clit. “next time I want you to cry this pretty for my cock okay?”

#hyunjin #hyunjin x reader #seungmin #kpop smut #bang chan #lee felix #lee know #han jisung #i.n skz #changbin #stray kids smut #stray kids #stray kids hyunjin #skz #skz smut #hyunjin stray kids #hyunjin smut #Hyunjin smut #hyunjin skz

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moonlinos · 10 months ago

Text

It would’ve been sweet if it could’ve been me

♡ Pairing: Bang Chan × fem!reader

♡ Genre: Single dad!Chan, friends to strangers to lovers

♡ CW: Explicit sexual content (minors dni!), mentions of parental guilt, themes of loneliness, Chan is stuck in the past, lying, mentions of feeling lost in life, story spans over a number of years, nipple play, oral sex (male receiving), unprotected sex, creampie

♡ Word count: 8.2k

♡ Synopsis: Being a single dad to Hyerin is all Chan has known for the past four years. He and his ex-girlfriend reached an agreement that saw her going off to live a life she had always dreamed of while he was left with a life of loneliness, which he endured with a smile on his face for his daughter. A small gleam of hope seems to appear in his life in the shape of you. But hiding himself under a haze of lies seems to be his only option if he ever wants to keep you.

♡ A/N: Based off a request by anon! Thank you for requesting, this was so much fun to write 🩷 I will admit this is a lot more focused on Chan as a character than I originally wanted it to be, and I kinda went a bit crazy with the plot, but I hope you still like it! The song Chan sings to Hyerin is Little Star by Standing Egg 💗

Every day in Chan’s life is a monotonous, never-ending cycle. Like watching reruns of bad TV shows on gloomy Sunday nights, every second of his past and upcoming days is etched into his mind like a quilt of mundane tasks and repetitive moments.

But that wasn’t always the case.

Once, excitement filled his every waking moment. His weekends were a whirlwind of new places teeming with bustling crowds and unfamiliar faces who became fast friends. During his university years, he and his friends lived their lives with ardor, savoring every moment as if it could be their last. His days were filled with an array of unplanned parties and impromptu trips which brought a kaleidoscope of color to his life.

Until he met Dana.

He was about to graduate, and she swept into his life like a hurricane — flipping everything upside down before disappearing just as quickly, with only destruction and ashes remaining in her wake.

He was infatuated; she was bored. That was clear from the start, but Chan was too blinded by affection to be concerned with such a minute detail. So long as he got to have her by his side, he was happy. Their relationship lasted a year, yet it changed his life forever.

He was twenty-one when Dana announced her pregnancy. On his twenty-second birthday, she told him she didn’t want to be a mother.

By that point in his life, Chan had already forsaken everything he had for her. He turned his back on his old friends, the vibrant life he once led, and everything that once made him who he was. Without Dana, he would be left with nothing but the ugly reflection of his self-destructive choices made in the name of a loveless love.

And so, they came to an agreement. Dana would leave — that had been her plan from the start, anyway — but she would leave Chan with a small piece of their story.

Hyerin was born on November 20th, 2019.

Dana left on a plane to New York City on December 1st.

Now, the only speck of color in his life is Hyerin. In the four years Chan has been lucky enough to be her dad, he has found she is much more than simply a reminder of Dana or what could have been between them. Hyerin is his entire world. She is the love he’s unknowingly been searching for his whole life, and he would sacrifice every last bit of himself to make sure she only ever knows happiness.

They live a quiet life, with Chan working a less-than-fulfilling corporate job and spending all his free time with her. He sometimes allows himself to wonder what happened to his old friends — did they all eventually settle for the mundanity of adult life, or are they still chasing an endless thrill? But he never dwells on it too much. The sweet memories of his early twenties are now nothing more than a comforting escape when the weight of loneliness becomes too overwhelming.

Today is one of those days. A late Friday night after his shift, Chan sprawled on his couch with Jisung, a co-worker who became his first friend after many years, a silly smile on his face as he reminisced about a trip to Jeju in his sophomore year of college. This is how he lives most of his life; when he’s not in the present with Hyerin, he’s stuck in the past.

How could he not be stuck in the past? So many people he loved and memories he cherished were there.

“I don’t get how you just left all of that behind for someone,” Jisung scoffs, loosening his tie. “Why couldn’t she just join your group of friends?”

“It’s complicated,” Chan sighs, eyes wandering toward Hyerin’s bedroom door for the umpteenth time to make sure she’s still sleeping soundly. When he turns to look back at Jisung, his expression prompts him to elaborate. “What? You want the whole story?”

Jisung shrugs. “It’s not like we have any other plans for tonight.”

“Well, there was this girl in my friend group. We hooked up a lot, but our relationship went beyond that,” Chan explains, fingers tapping his thighs as the memories flood his mind. It was a sore topic, one he certainly didn’t enjoy remembering. “We never dated, but Dana was jealous, and I couldn’t blame her. Me and this girl were… very close. I couldn’t be in a relationship while also being that close to her, but I also couldn’t imagine us being only friends. So it was easier to walk away.”

Chan conveniently leaves out the fact that he walked away because an artificial love strangely provided solace for his heart, unlike the searing torment of unrequited love, which engulfed him like molten lava.

“And that was the last time you ever had that type of relationship with anyone?”

“With Dana? Yeah—”

“Hyung, you know what I mean. You told me yourself Dana didn’t love you,” Jisung points out. “I mean this other girl.”

Chan shrugs dismissively. “I guess, yeah. Doesn’t matter, though.”

And Jisung scoffs loudly at his words, rubbing his forehead with a sigh. Memories of that love flood Chan’s mind, and he's ready to let them sweep him away when Jisung abruptly turns so he sits facing him, resolve swimming in his eyes.

“Give me your phone,” his loud voice reverberates through the small apartment, prompting Chan to shush him with a stern look. “Give me your phone,” Jisung repeats himself with a harsh whisper.

Chan rolls his eyes but ultimately smiles at his friend. He retrieves his phone from the end table, handing it to a much too enthusiastic Jisung. “The password is Hyerin’s birthday,” he tells him, albeit a bit apprehensive.

He watches amusedly as Jisung types away at his own phone before doing the same on his, handing him the device with a grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

“What did you do, you little menace?” Chan questions the younger boy, narrowing his eyes. Jisung simply shrugs.

“I got you a date tomorrow. Thank me later.”

Chan immediately sits up on the couch, eyes darting toward his phone screen. A chat with a single message from him to an unknown contact makes him question his entire friendship with Jisung.

Me: I’m your date for tomorrow 😉 Me: O’neul restaurant, 6 pm. See you there, cutie

“Jisung, what the fuck?”

“What?” His friend asks between giggles. “Sora has this friend she said desperately needs a date, and I have you in the same situation,” he explains, clearly proud of himself. “I just did you both a favor while also getting boyfriend points.”

Chan’s eyes shift toward his phone once more, inwardly cringing at the messages with a heavy sigh.

“And was making me sound this creepy necessary?”

Jisung waves his hand dismissively. “Nah, that was just a little treat for me.”

“And why the fuck is her name Mystery Girl?” Chan queries, the irritation making him unknowingly raise his voice.

“It’s a blind date,” his friend explains. “This girl’s apparently super picky, kept turning down every guy Sora suggested. So, she came up with this solution. Can’t turn you down if she doesn’t know what you look like.”

Chan groans, ultimately sinking back onto the couch with a defeated sigh. Jisung was trying to be a good friend, he knew that, but he wasn’t at all thrilled with the prospect of a date. Not only did he not want one, but he also had no time for such a futile thing. He had Hyerin, and she was the sole reason for his existence. He didn’t need anyone meddling in their little world. But he didn’t have the courage to tell Jisung that.

It would be a lie to say the past four years weren’t lonesome. Falling asleep alone in a cold, empty bed was a sorrow he had simply grown numb to. Yet, he still yearned to have someone to share the grapples of routine life with, someone whose presence alone would effortlessly diminish his worries, someone he could make love to before falling asleep and waking up intertwined.

But he couldn’t afford to have that.

At least this date was bound to fail; the woman’s demanding nature, coupled with Chan’s unwillingness to even be there in the first place sure to make their wasted time brief.

Just as he’s about to grumble about the messages again, Hyerin comes stumbling out of her room, her small feet shuffling against the floor as she rubs her sleepy eyes.

“Oh, honey, were we being too loud?” Chan asks sweetly, and his eyes discreetly shoot daggers at Jisung, who mouths an apology.

Hyerin firmly shakes her head, the crooked pigtails Chan clumsily had tied this morning coming undone as she does so. He smiles at her, propping his elbows on his knees and waiting for her to speak her little mind.

“I had a dream,” she mumbles. “With a dragon.”

Chan gasps, hands wrapping around her tiny frame and picking her up before walking toward her room. It took him some time, but he ultimately learned that it’s best to ease her back into bed while she’s distracted, lest she throws a tantrum.

“And was it a nice dragon?” He asks. Hyerin giggles, and Chan is positive that the sound has the power to light up even his most somber days.

“Of course it was a nice dragon, daddy,” she tells him. “You said I only have nice dreams ‘cause my mind is pretty, remember?”

Chan nods as he gently tucks her back into bed, triple-checking that she is comfortable and warm. “Of course, of course. How could I forget?” He slaps a hand on his forehead with a sigh. “Hyerinnie has the prettiest mind. It can only make up pretty things.”

Hyerin smiles at him, tugging her blanket close to her chin, her doe eyes already heavy with sleep and blinking languidly. Chan asks her the same question he does every night, although the answer remains unchanging every time: would she like him to sing to her? She drowsily tells him she wants to hear him sing her favorite song, Little Star.

Chan promptly gets under the covers beside her — Hyerin pouting and whining about how he’s stealing her blanket for himself, to which he can’t help the hearty laugh that escapes his lips. Since turning four, she’s developed quite a strong personality that Chan soon finds he adores, much like everything about her.

He turns on his side to watch her features as he sings; her nose and mouth so similar to his, and the way she furrows her brows while falling asleep mirrors his own habits. Chan might not be a happy man in his job or his personal life, but the boundless happiness his little gift provides him surpasses anything else he could wish for. Every now and then, he finds himself wanting more, but it’s not long before he realizes he already has everything he needs.

Chan goes over his rather extensive list of how to care for Hyerin with Jisung for the tenth time that evening, making sure the younger man knows what to do in any situation that could arise in the couple hours he’ll be gone. Hyerin is the one to usher him out of the apartment, assuring him she’ll be fine with her uncle Han, and Chan has to stop himself from wallowing over the fact that his once tiny baby is rapidly blossoming into a young kid.

He made no real effort to dress for his date; a simple button-up shirt and jeans served him just fine, seeing as he plans to return home as soon as possible. His date and he haven’t talked much at all since his initial texts yesterday, texting each other only to confirm the time and place of their basically forced date.

He arrives fifteen minutes late, all but running from the bus stop to the restaurant while cursing Jisung under his breath. This was definitely not worth the hassle, and Chan wanted nothing more than to be back at home with his daughter. He’d pick watching Tangled with her for the hundredth time over an unwanted date in a heartbeat.

Chan finally walks into the restaurant, informing the waiter that he’s there to meet Cherry. His face visibly grimaces as he mutters the words. Fuck this blind date bullshit.

He’s led to his table, dragging his feet behind the waiter. His attention is immediately drawn to the pencil holding his date’s messy ponytail together. He chuckles quietly, circling around the table and forcing out a smile to introduce himself.

But then he’s met with a sight he had long given up hope of ever seeing again: you.

You, who were next to him as he made stupid decisions during college. Like when he drunkenly thought it wise to bet his laptop in a game of beer pong.

You, who always made him your special hangover soup after a party. He especially loved it when you let him keep the leftovers, knowing that he and his roommate were hopeless in the kitchen.

You, who filled the space in his cold sheets with warmth and always made his bed feel like a sanctuary.

You, who let him make love to you despite you both swearing to be only friends.

You, who later had to watch him walk away from you like a coward, driven by sheer fear.

You, staring back at him with a stunned look on your face.

“Chan?” You ask, an unsure lilt to your words.

And Chan embarrassingly fumbles over his words, his tongue tying itself into knots in front of you. He notices you pursing your lips to stop from giggling and clears his throat a bit too loudly, a few patrons turning their heads to look at him. But he can’t bring himself to care, not when it seems the universe has turned the wheels of his fate in his favor for once.

“Uh, hi,” is all his brain can muster among the jumble of thoughts inside his head. He mentally berates himself for acting so damn awkward when you’re clearly not as affected by this encounter as he is.

“Damn, it’s been so long,” you marvel, eyes not leaving his face for a second. “I thought you moved to a different country or something. It’s so strange how we never ran into each other.”

Chan forces out a chuckle, hands now fiddling with the menu on the table. Of course you two never ran into each other; he only ever leaves the house for work or when he has to accompany Hyerin, and he doubts you frequent playgrounds or zoos.

“Yeah, I… don’t go out much anymore,” he simply says.

You hum, and he properly takes in your appearance. You haven’t changed one bit; from your hair to your choice of clothes, you’re still the same girl who ruled over his every thought during college.

You two order your food and fall into an infuriating cycle of small talk. Chan doesn’t want to talk about the weather or if you have seen the latest movie yet — he’s desperate to ask you how you’ve been, if you ever pursued your dreams, if you can still outdrink anyone in your friend group, and—

And if you’re still single because you find relationships a hassle.

But as the food arrives, you fall into an even more frustrating cycle: silence. Chan feels restless, squirming in his seat every few minutes while you calmly eat and watch the people around you. He remembers your habit of scanning crowded rooms and making up stories for strangers with your vivid imagination. He wants to ask if you still do that, but it seems he’s only grown into more of a coward since your last encounter.

You’re the first to break the silence, waiting for the waiter to leave with your plates to ask what Chan has been doing since graduating. It’s a casual question with no weight to your words, as lighthearted as you have always been. And the complete opposite of his every possible answer.

How can he tell you he’s given up music altogether, now surrounded by gray walls and lifeless faces in his corporate job? How can he tell you he’s alone most of the time, partly by choice and partly because he doesn’t know how to dig himself out of this comfortable hole he’s trapped himself in?

How can he possibly explain that he agreed to be a single father, sacrificing his own happiness for the selfish whims of a woman who never even loved him?

You’re still the same; the same carefree eyes and attitude, same easygoing approach to everything life throws your way — such as meeting him again after years.

All of him has changed.

Chan can’t tarnish your colorful life, can’t sit before you and spill out his problems or grumble about the overwhelming loneliness in his life when he knows damn well that was a consequence of his own choices.

He wants nothing more than to be the same Chan he was in college. Creating life stories for strangers in dive bars with you, not caring about whether he’ll have enough money to pay the water bill next month, not having to bear the burden of something as precious as a human life depending solely on him.

It’s selfish, but he wants nothing more than to go back.

So he does.

“I actually still write songs, though it’s only a freelance thing,” he lies. He hasn’t written a single note in years. “Other than that, I’ve just been taking it day by day. Same as I’ve always done, I guess.”

And your eyes immediately light up — you’ve always loved his songs, after all. Your conversation flows much like it used to in the past after that, with you making witty jokes and Chan laughing loudly at them. You tell him you started working as an art teacher for the elderly when living off of commissions became impossible, and that you adore the stories they share about their younger years. They remind you of your own stories together, you admit with a genuine smile.

Your conversation is endless, continuing even as Chan walks you to your car in the empty parking lot. The night has grown colder, and the crescent moon gleaming in the sky above him almost feels like a sign that things will change for the better.

As you two stand in front of your car, a smile tugs at the corner of your lips. Ever the free soul, you ask him outright if he would like to come back to your place. There are no further implications hidden in your request beyond a hookup. Nothing’s ever heavy with you, every little thing always feeling light as a feather.

He says he would love to, but quickly excuses himself under the guise of calling his roommate about the spare key. Chan hurriedly calls Jisung as soon as he turns a corner in the parking lot, ensuring you won’t be able to hear him. It’s juvenile, the way he’s actually taking pleasure in almost creating a different version of himself — a version much closer to who he was when you were his, at least in some sense of the word. He’s a father, he should be responsible and dependable, but the weight of that role had been thrust upon him far too abruptly. He can’t be faulted for wanting to go back in time.

“Okay, I have no time to explain,” he blurts out as soon as Jisung picks up the phone. “Would it be too much to ask you to stay the night?”

Jisung chuckles at the other end of the line. “Damn, was the date that good?”

Chan ignores his sly comment, because yes, the date was everything he never thought it could be.

“I’ll be back first thing in the morning,” he assures him. “I’ll even pay you if you want. How much—”

“Hey, no need for that,” Jisung cuts him off. “You know I love looking after Hyerin.”

And the pang of guilt inside his chest at the mention of his daughter’s name almost knocks the air out of his lungs. He feels ashamed, as if he’s neglecting his daughter for a hookup, going after a fantasy that has long crumbled and faded away.

“How is she? Is she okay?” He asks, guilt washing over him like a wave. He hadn’t thought of his daughter for a second that entire night. “Did she cry at all? Did she notice I was gone for longer than I promised?”

Jisung calls out his name with a chuckle, prompting him to stop his rambling. “Relax. We painted each other’s nails, she did my makeup, had her dinner, and is now sleeping soundly after listening to another one of uncle Han’s phenomenal stories about frogs,” He details, causing a hearty laugh to fall from Chan’s lips at the image of Jisung’s face painted with Hyerin’s cheap children’s makeup. His friend then adds, “Go get laid, man.”

And so Chan hangs up the phone, all but running toward your figure waiting by your car. You smile at him, taking his hand and pulling him into a tight embrace. It’s the first time he holds you in almost five years, and he feels his dull world away from Hyerin slowly fill up with vibrant hues.

It takes you less than fifteen minutes to reach your apartment building, and Chan is thanking any higher power that might listen for that. The sheer anticipation of what is implied to happen once you two are alone together has him picking at his cuticles until it stings.

He’s nervous, to put it lightly. A couple of terrible drunken hookups in dingy motels after office gatherings were his only sexual encounters after Hyerin was born.

But once you’re standing in front of him in your living room, your eyes never leaving his even as you’re slipping off your heels, Chan knows you’re both equals in this playing field.

He’s the one to pull you into a kiss, lips barely grazing against yours. But the feeling of finally kissing you again after so many years was like wildfire, consuming him wholly until the kiss turns feverish. His hand travels from your shoulders to your lower back, pulling you flush against his body. You hum against his lips, fingers clumsily undoing his buckle, and the prospect that you might be as eager as he is has him gripping the fabric of your dress.

Chan swears his vision goes black the moment your fingertips brush against his hardening erection, the feathery touch enough to make him sigh into your mouth.

A hand is pressed to his chest before he has the chance to think, and you’re pushing him backward until his back meets the wall. You immediately drop to your knees in front of him, leaning forward and nuzzling your face against his clothed cock.

“I missed you,” you whisper, hungry eyes looking up at him. “Don’t think I got to say that.”

Chan takes in the sight of you, memorizing and storing it in his mind alongside the countless images he already had of you on his knees for him. His fingers thread in your hair, your lips falling open with a sigh.

“I missed you too,” he professes. You have no idea how much.

With a smile, you quickly work his zipper open, pulling his jeans down his legs and pressing a wet kiss to his clothed erection. Chan feels your tongue lap at his member through his boxers, lips sucking around the head as your nails scrape the flesh of his thighs lightly.

It feels like you mouth at his length for hours, the light gray fabric of his boxers stained with your saliva and his precum, leaving Chan panting and tugging at your hair. You trail soft, wet kisses down his thigh while pushing his boxers out of your way, his cock already swollen and flushed. He’d be embarrassed for the way his body reacted so responsively to you if you weren’t also visibly as affected.

Your tongue circles his length languidly, lapping at a small bead of precum with a hum. Finally wrapping your lips around his tip, your tongue flicks teasingly beneath the head of his cock, Chan sucking in a deep breath and using his grip on your hair as leverage to pull you toward him. You almost obediently drop your jaw to slide his now fully hardened length into your mouth, your hand wrapping around the base as you begin to bob your head up and down his cock. Chan hisses your name when you relax your throat after a few passes, taking him fully into your pretty mouth, your nose brushing his pelvis.

“Fuck, you always looked so pretty like that,” Chan chokes out. “Pretty lips taking me so well.”

You groan at his words and the vibrations traveling along his shaft have Chan growling with a harsh tug of your hair, causing you to sputter as his cock hit the back of your throat. You seek purchase in his hips as tears prick the corner of your eyes. You’re unrelenting nonetheless, circling your tongue around him before pulling away, hands now sliding up his thigh before gently gliding over his balls. As you slowly lick from the base of his shaft all the way up to the sensitive tip, Chan’s gaze shifts down as he catches a glimpse of your thighs rubbing together. He feels himself twitch, and immediately pulls you away from him.

“Don’t wanna come like this, I need to fuck you,” he rasps out.

You stand back up, legs wobbly, and fumble with the buttons of his shirt while he slides your dress down your shoulders. Your movements are messy and filled with urgency, your breaths quickening as you both want nothing more than to strip away any form of barrier between you. Piling up five years of yearning will do that.

As your impatience reaches its peak, you tear open the last remaining buttons of his shirt, your nails grazing his skin as you slide the fabric down his shoulders. A wave of goosebumps travels across Chan’s body, and his hands abandon the task of removing your dress in favor of tracing the curve of your ass before picking you up off the floor.

“First door on the right,” you tell him, your words answering his unspoken thoughts as if you could read his mind. Chan nods, your proximity making it impossible for him not to press his lips to yours, tongue sliding over your bottom lip before licking into your mouth with a low hum.

He collides with a wall, missing the entrance to your bedroom by a hair’s breadth, and you giggle against his lips. Chan smiles back. Nothing’s ever heavy with you.

He lowers you onto the bed gently, his body instinctively slotting between your spread legs the way he did so many times before. You soon also wrap your thighs around his waist as you always did, pulling him closer until his cock is pressed up against your clothed pussy.

“Wanna ride you,” you tell him, grinding your hips forward and eliciting a quiet moan from Chan’s lips as he hastily nods. With a tight grip on your waist, he flips you both effortlessly.

Promptly sitting up on his thighs, you finally rid yourself of the inconvenient fabric of your dress, followed by your bra, your nipples instantly hardening. Chan sits up, eyes transfixed on your chest as his calloused thumbs trace the nubs before his lips circle around one, sucking harshly. As you gently roll your hips, he can feel the way your soaked panties cling to his skin as your core presses up against his thigh.

Your fingers tangle in his hair with a whimper, pushing his face into your breasts as he bites the sensitive skin. His lips leave your nipples with a wet sound, then trailing kisses up the column of your neck until his gaze is locked on yours again. He was dying to mark you, bite and suck on your skin until it blossomed into a beautiful maroon — but he knew better. You weren’t twenty anymore, and you weren’t his; in no sense of the word.

“I’m on the pill,” you tell him, eyes heavy with lust.

And he knows this is a terrible idea. This was exactly how he came to be a father.

But it’s not his mind that’s doing the thinking, and so he nods, his grip on your hips tightening as you pull your soaked panties to the side just enough to slide the swollen tip of his cock against your slick folds. Chan sucks in a breath, fighting a war against his own body not to come from this feeling alone. It wasn’t just how long it had been since he was with someone, it was you. It was all you. The effect you had always had on him having never faded, simply laying dormant until his body had you again.

Chan rests his forehead on yours as you slowly sink down on his length. His lips find your neck again, gently sucking the skin into his mouth as you slowly grind down on him, a whine falling from your lips and going straight to his cock. His hips buck up unwittingly, causing you to moan loudly in his ears. But your slow pace remains, and Chan knows he should savor this moment, but he wants nothing more than to fuck you into the mattress until he forgets every minor issue aggravating his brain.

Such as the fact that he knows you will leave his life again the second you find out he lied to you.

So his hands find your waist and he flips you down onto the mattress once more. His eyes bore into you as you suck in a breath.

“Fuck me,” you plead, hips grinding into his cock again. “I want it, please—”

Chan doesn’t waste another second, retreating only to plunge back harshly into your cunt. He moves with deep strokes, hips falling into an erratic rhythm, your nails digging into his back as your thighs clenched around his waist. All he can hear is static and your choked moans as he presses you into the mattress.

“Missed this so fucking much,” he groans against your ear. And finally succumbing to his desires, he bends down to suck and nibble on the delicate skin of your neck, mind too focused on how your walls squeeze around him to worry about marking you. He laps at the small bruises he leaves behind, your fingers tangling in his hair as you mewl.

You roll your hips, matching his rhythm, and Chan feels a familiar heat rise within him. He reaches down to glide small circles around your clit, your body jolting and squirming. He absentmindedly smiles against your skin.

After an entire night of pretending his life was the same as it was five years ago, fucking you required no acting.

“It’s too much, fuck,” you whimper, tugging him by the hair until your lips are crashing together in a sloppy kiss. Your walls tighten around him, body clenching as the tension finally snaps, your orgasm coursing through your shaking body as Chan growls into your parted lips.

He keeps fucking into you, until his hips meet yours one last time, and a low groan reverberates through the room. His cock twitches inside of you as his body stills, filling you with his warm release which leaked out of you and onto your sheets as he pulled out with a sigh.

Chan throws himself onto the mattress, labored breaths leaving his heavy lungs. He pulls you into his arms, and you melt into his embrace as if it were a habit. It’s as though he’s gone back in time, even if temporarily.

He feels like he’s simply a guy making love with the girl he adores in the familiar comfort of his dorm room again.

When the first rays of sunlight seeped into your room, Chan was already awake. He watched as you slept, eyelids fluttering and a small smile adorning your lips.

It was as if you were his, in every sense of the word.

Guilt.

That’s what Chan feels every time he sees Hyerin’s laughing face on his phone’s wallpaper when he’s out, entertaining the silly lie he crafted.

It’s been two months since you reconnected and you effortlessly slipped him back into your life. The reunion with his old friends was expected — but Chan dreaded it, regardless. He found that out of the nine people that once comprised their group, only five remained. He wasn’t the only one who had gone his own way.

But he was the only one who had done it in the worst way possible, carelessly ghosting every single one of them, hoping his existence gradually faded from their memories.

That made facing his once best friend frightening. Minho was the first friend he made on the very first day of university, when Chan walked into his dorm room only to find he had snuck his cat into the building.

They were roommates for two years, and best friends for four. Chan complained loudly when he was assigned a new roommate. Minho was silent as he watched his best friend turn his back on him with no explanation.

Minho initially ignored him entirely, and Chan doesn’t fault him. When his vibrant face turned cold upon seeing him walk into a bar, Chan knew he earned that the moment he decided to ignore his friend’s every text message and phone call. When Minho made backhanded remarks about how nice it felt to have him back in their group, he knew he deserved it for not answering the door the only time his friend came looking for him.

It takes a drunken argument leading to a fist colliding with Chan’s cheek for Minho to finally address him. It takes them being escorted out of the bar by security for them to finally have a conversation, tears and resentment flowing freely as they sat at a bus stop late at night. After that, their friendship returned to what it was before, as if they had never been apart even for a second.

Despite the years and the changes, Minho was still his best friend — which was why he was the only person he came clean to.

Hyerin loved Minho, especially his cats. Her new favorite pastime quickly became going over to his house to play with her new ‘friends’, as she called them. And Chan was overwhelmed with happiness to witness his best friend falling under his daughter’s spell — his house now containing its very own box filled with every toy Hyerin mentioned even once, his kitchen stocked with all her favorite foods, and his cats falling asleep beside her anytime they came over to visit.

It was as if he was watching his two worlds collide. His past and present, which he had separated out of a senseless fear, intertwined so effortlessly it made him feel stupid for ever thinking he needed to build this barrier. For assuming the people he loved so much would reject him.

Made him feel even worse for walking away in a futile attempt to protect his feelings, because it only resulted in more hurt.

After so much of his time spent wondering, Chan finally has the answer to his questions. Some of his friends did settle for an ordinary adult life, some already married and some focusing their energy solely on climbing the corporate ladder. Still, some remained relatively unchanged — much like you did.

His social life blossomed again after reconnecting with his old friends. However, he still refused to hire a nanny, too fearful to leave Hyerin to a stranger’s care, resulting in constantly having to come up with excuses when his parents aren’t able to babysit. He won’t deny that he often fabricated these lies purely because staying in with his daughter and watching Tangled now outweighs any appeal of noisy nightclubs.

Jisung remained his salvation whenever he wanted to spend the night at your place, with Chan slowly but surely running out of reasons as to why you can’t go to his apartment for a change. He hasn’t had the heart or the courage to tell you the entire truth yet, only owning up to his lie about his job after you understandably asked him to listen to his new music and he was put on the spot.

Ever since you walked back into his life, he finds himself weaving a web of little white lies that slowly chip away at his heart.

He’s at a small gathering for his friend’s birthday, listening to Minho all but eulogize his fiancee. They have been a couple since university, Chan playing the wingman and encouraging his friend to finally do something about his crush (mostly because he couldn’t handle any more of Minho’s whining before going to sleep). Despite what everyone around them surmised, they beat all the odds and statistics and stayed together even after university. Chan would be happier about that if he hadn’t bet money on them breaking up before graduation. He wonders if Hongjoong will ask for his twenty bucks now that they’re friends again.

“No, really, settling down with someone is so good,” Minho says after another shot of Soju, a silly smile etched onto his lips. “I thought I would hate it, y’know? Thought slapping such a significant title on our relationship would wear it down, but it’s the complete opposite. Ever since she proposed, it’s like we’re two love-struck nineteen-year-olds again.”

Chan smiles, saying they should drink to that purely because he hopes the sensation of alcohol burning his throat will numb his overwhelming jealousy. After congratulating Minho for the umpteenth time, he finds himself listening to yet another story about his relationship.

And he’s happy for Minho, just as much as he’s happy for Wonwoo for getting married last year. He couldn’t express the overwhelming joy he felt upon discovering these people, who once meant so much to him, had successfully navigated their way through life. But envy rears its ugly head every time he listens to one of their stories, because Chan’s direction in life seems to be a winding road. He’s a father, and his love for Hyerin is immeasurable, but he’s still actively lying about this side of him simply because he feels as if maybe he made the right choices in life at the worst possible time.

As he’s walking out of Hongjoong’s apartment with you later that night, he wraps an arm around your waist, a smile spreading across his face when you nestle closer to him. You two discuss Wonwoo’s marriage, with you talking about how beautiful the ceremony was, but ultimately scowling at the mere thought of getting married. Chan feels the corner of his heart crack at your words, but he laughs it off.

“Do you think he wants kids?” he wonders aloud.

He expects you to laugh at his sudden curiosity. He doesn’t expect you to dig at the fissure in his heart with your words, causing it to shatter completely.

“Gosh, it’d be so weird to see.” You cringe, snuggling deeper into his arms as a chilly breeze brushes against you two. “I like kids, but I’d never have them myself. Feel like it’d kinda ruin my life.”

Chan feels his grip on your waist loosen.

“Having kids doesn’t ruin your life,” he reasons. “You’re given the chance to care for something so precious, so important to this world…” he trails off, shaking his head and taking a step away from you. It feels as if exasperation has filled his entire being. “You look into their eyes and see yourself, and it’s— the love you feel when you first see them is so pure and earth-shattering that you can’t think of anything but how to make that tiny being only experience the good in the world. It doesn’t ruin your life.”

You eye him with confusion, cocking your head to the side and huffing out a laugh. “You talk like you know what that’s like. If you ever have kids one day, then you’ll know—”

“But I do know,” he’s yelling before he can stop himself, his footsteps coming to a halt. “I know because I have that. I have that and it’s the most precious thing in my life and yet I’ve been taking it for granted. And for what?”

He scoffs bitterly, his gaze fixing on your features; your flushed cheeks and slightly smudged lipstick, the way your puzzled eyes gleam under the moonlight. He shakes his head.

“For childish illusions. The illusion that I could go back in time if I pretended hard enough, the illusion that this romanticized idea I have of my early twenties was superior to the life I have now,” Chan lets out a heavy breath, averting his gaze to the pavement. “The illusion that I could ever have you.”

“So it’s my fault you chose to lie about being a dad?” You blurt out.

He doesn’t lift his head. He can’t, the burden of guilt and shame weighing too heavily on his shoulders for him to face you.

“It’s my fault. You were simply the catalyst.”

“What do you even mean?”

“I mean I’ve always felt this way,” he exasperates, finally lifting his head but keeping his gaze anywhere but on you. He’s a coward. “I’ve always felt like maybe I was too young to be a dad, too immature to fully understand the consequences of the choices I made. I don’t regret my daughter, but I certainly regret the timing, and this haunts me every day. Meeting you again just made these feelings worse because you represent everything about my past that I no longer have.”

You remain quiet for a beat, but it feels like an eternity as Chan is forced to endure the deafening ring of your silence.

When you finally speak, your voice is unsteady. “You know, that’s why I always figured it was for the best that you left.”

“What?” Chan turns his gaze toward your face at last, your words stomping on his scattered heart one last time. He expects anger, but sorrow has taken over your expression, one so heavy he doesn’t recall a single moment in the years he’s known you where he’s seen you like this.

“You were always like this, Chan. You might think you were a different person back then, but you said it yourself,” you shrug with a sullen chuckle. “It’s only an illusion.”

He hums, nodding his head as it dawns on him. “You were never gonna be mine, were you? No matter what I did. I lied to you because I thought you would never want someone like who I am today. But I guess that was all in vain, ‘cause I’ve always been like this.”

“You always talked about getting married, settling down, having kids.” As you run a hand through your hair, an exasperated sigh falls from your lips. “You went along with our bullshit, but even back then, you were always like the dad of our group. This has always been you, Chan, but that’s not a bad thing. Don’t think you need to change or lie about who you are ‘cause you’re the most amazing man I’ve ever met, but…”

He scoffs. “But?”

“But we’re too different. We’ve always been. We’re great together in every way but the way you want us to be — the way I would love for us to be as well,” you simply say, offering him a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“And would it kill you if we tried? ‘Cause this unfulfilled hope has been killing me since I first fell in love with you.”

“What’s her name?” You simply ask, avoiding his question altogether. Chan furrows his brows. “Your daughter, what’s her name?”

He shifts on his feet. “Hyerin.”

“I hope she knows how lucky she is to have you as a dad.”

Chan shakes his head. “I’m far from the perfect father.”

“Good,” you state matter-of-factly. “Perfect wouldn’t be you.”

You fall into a much lighter silence, although it’s still far from comfortable. A swarm of questions fills Chan’s mind, but his words fade into silence and die on his lips.

He knows everything is over when you suck in a sharp breath, muttering, “I can’t be what you need. When love becomes too serious, I feel trapped and run away. You know what that’s like,” you trail off. “I know we loved each other back then, and I know I still love you now, but I think it’s my turn to walk away. I’m sorry, Chan.”

And just like that, he’s left to watch your figure slowly grow smaller and smaller as you fade into the dimly lit street. You don’t reprimand him for lying or question if he also loves you still. You don’t explain why you can’t make an effort, probably because you’re unsure of the answer yourself. It turns out you both remained unchanged.

And after all this time, it’s only then that Chan realizes you were always just as lost as he was.

Chan didn’t allow himself to think much about you since he watched you walk away that night. He missed you often, as he had done for so long before your last encounter, but he had long grown numb to that feeling.

In the two years he was apart from you for the second time, he learned that life isn’t black or white. He could be a father while also being his own person; a son, a friend, a boyfriend. He learned that prioritizing Hyerin didn’t mean neglecting himself, as that would negatively impact her as well. She couldn’t only know happiness if her father was always dripping with sadness.

He learned he doesn’t have to choose between who he is now and who he was at twenty years old; they were both him, with certain moments bringing out glimpses of one or the other.

Hyerin started elementary school and is blossoming into a caring little girl, no longer needing Chan to tie her pigtails in the morning or remind her to brush her teeth before bed. Although she still demands that they maintain their nightly routine of lying together until she falls asleep to the sound of his voice singing her favorite song.

During his first parent-teacher conference — after walking into the classroom fifteen minutes late — he’s stunned to see you sitting across from him yet again, a pencil holding up your ponytail the same way it did that night at the restaurant. He couldn’t help the smile that spread on his lips.

You were Hyerin’s teacher. He recalled picking her up after her first day of school and listening to her gush over the art teacher who was so pretty and nice, and talking about how she wanted to be like her when she grows up.

It felt as if you were destined to find each other every time one of you chose to walk away.

Your friendship picked up again slowly this time — no rushing into bed together and no rushing into long overdue serious conversations. They had already been avoided for years, anyway, they could wait a bit longer. This is exactly what you needed; patience. Chan had never had the patience to wait for you, while you never had the patience to understand your own feelings.

It’s been ten months now, and he’s yet again sitting before you. The teachers and parents converse around you both as you sit in silence. When you think no one is watching, you exchange glances, struggling to suppress the silly smiles that insist on spreading across your faces.

As people leave the room one by one after the meeting, Chan approaches you.

“You’re Bang Hyerin’s father, correct?” You speak with a grin.

“Correct.”

“She’s an amazing kid,” you tell him.

He smiles, shifting his gaze toward his feet before his eyes find yours again as you speak.

“We could grab a coffee this weekend.”

This time, there are further implications hidden in your request. You’re not asking as a friend, like you’ve been doing these past months. Some things are heavy with you now, and this is something he’s only recently come to find. He’s also come to find that he loves that change.

So he answers, “Sure. Tomorrow at three?”

“Then I’m your date for tomorrow,” you say with a giggle. “See you there, cutie.”

And Chan lets out a hearty laugh at that, which earns him a scolding look from the other teachers in the room.

He isn’t sure what will come of this. Maybe you two are better off as friends and all it will take is a couple of months to figure that out. Maybe time has changed you both more than he can understand, and you will finally be able to try something real after all these years of unfulfilled hopes and childish illusions.

Either way, Chan knows he won’t let go of you this time.

He wants you to be his, in any sense of the word.

♡ taglist: @bloom-ings, @linocz, @farahia, @mirbokk, @jisunglyricist, @jazziwritesthings, @seungseung-minmin, @yourcvndx, @hynjinnnnnnnie @vlctorriaa @yongbokkiesworld

#stray kids #bang chan smut #skz smut #stray kids x reader #bang chan x reader #bang chan #bang chan x you #stray kids smut #skz #bangchan smut #bangchan x reader #bangchan x you

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lizziesangel · 12 days ago

Text

RAFE CAMERON ⟢ the notebook kinda girl

x CITY GIRL!FEM!reader ⟢ MASTERLIST

SUMMARY: you meet a certain someone while you’re on vacation in obx

WORD COUNT: + 2k

GENRE: fluff

CONTENT WARNING: flirty!rafe, heavily inspired by the notebook! part 1?

the hum of the plane’s engine faded into the background as you stared out the window, watching the coastline of the outer banks come into view. it was a stark contrast to the constant buzz of new york city—the quiet beaches, the endless ocean, the promise of something different.

your mom had always talked about this place, especially about the summers she spent here with kiana’s mom. when they invited you to spend part of your summer vacation with her, you couldn’t say no. you needed this escape.

a familiar voice jolted you from your thoughts as you walked out of the small airport terminal. “y/n!”

“kie!” you called back, grinning as you saw her running toward you.

she pulled you into a tight hug, her energy as infectious as you remembered. “oh my gosh, it’s been forever! how long has it been?”

“since your family came to new york for the holidays. i think i was, like, eight?”

“that’s way too long,” she said, linking her arm with yours as she led you toward her jeep. “cmon. we have so much to catch up on, and there’s a party tonight. you’re coming.”

“a party?” you asked, raising a brow as you slid into the passenger seat.

“yeah, it’s kind of a tradition around here,” she said, starting the engine. “you’ll meet the crew. they’re gonna love you.”

the drive towards outer banks was like stepping into a postcard—beaches stretching out endlessly, small shops and surf shacks dotting the landscape. by the time you reached her house, the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink.

kie handed you a hoodie and tugged you toward the door. “come on, we’re late!”

the party was in full swing by the time you arrived. a group of people was gathered around the flames, their laughter mixing with the sound of crashing waves. kie led you straight into the heart of it.

“guys, this is y/n!” she announced.

a blonde girl with sun-kissed skin and a warm smile stepped forward first. “i’m sarah. kie’s told me so much about you. it’s so cool you’re here.”

“nice to meet you,” you said, returning her smile.

“i’m cleo,” said another girl with a sharp grin and a caribbean accent, offering you a fist bump. “stick with me. these guys are a handful.”

the boys approached next, each of them exuding their own brand of chaos.

“jj maybank,” said the one with wild blonde hair, giving you a wink. “resident heartbreaker and boat expert.”

“you forgot professional troublemaker,” cleo added dryly, earning a laugh from the group.

“i’m john b,” another boy said, extending a hand. his easygoing demeanor made you feel instantly at ease.

“and that’s pope,” kie added, nodding to the guy beside him, who gave you a friendly nod.

“hi,” you said, feeling a little overwhelmed but already charmed by their camaraderie.

“so, new york, huh?” jj said, flopping onto the sand beside you. “big city girl in little ol’ obx. how’re you holding up?”

“i think i’ll survive,” you teased, feeling yourself relax as the group bantered around you.

the night stretched on, filled with laughter, music, and the kind of easy conversations that made you feel like you’d known these people forever.

for the first time in a long time, you felt like you belonged. and as you stared into the flames of the bonfire, you had a feeling this summer was going to change everything.

the bonfire crackled, sending embers spiraling into the night sky. you were chatting with sarah and cleo about new york, when you felt it again—that strange, almost tangible feeling of being watched.

you glanced up, and there he was.

he was leaning against a nearby post, his sharp blue eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken. His smirk deepened when your eyes met, and before you could look away, he started walking toward you.

“hey,” he said smoothly, stopping in front of you and completely ignoring sarah and cleo. “you must be new around here. i’d remember if i’d seen you before.”

you hesitated, unsure how to respond to his boldness. “yeah, i’m visiting for the summer.”

“visiting,” he repeated, as if tasting the word. “well, you picked the right time. summer in the obx? can’t beat it. i’m rafe, by the way.”

“y/n,” you replied, your voice steady despite the way his gaze made your stomach flutter.

“y/n,” he said, testing the sound of it. “pretty name. pretty girl.”

before you could react to the blatant flirtation, jj appeared out of nowhere, stepping between you and rafe.

“she’s with us, man,” jj said firmly, his posture protective.

rafe didn’t even glance at him, his attention never leaving you. “so, y/n, where you from?”

“new york city,” you said, glancing nervously at JJ, whose jaw was tightening by the second.

“new york city,” he repeated, as if it was the most interesting thing he’d ever heard. “city girl in the obx. bet this is a change of pace for you.”

“yeah, it’s different,” you admitted, feeling both flattered and slightly overwhelmed by his unwavering focus.

rafe chuckled softly, the sound low and smooth. “different can be good, city girl. so, how about it? go out with me sometime?”

“she’s not interested,” jj snapped, stepping closer, but rafe still didn’t acknowledge him.

“c’mon, sweet girl,” rafe continued, his smirk playful. “i’ll show you the real outer banks. not the touristy stuff.”

“rafe, give it a rest,” kiara said sharply as she joined the group, pulling you by the arm. “let’s go.”

but rafe stayed rooted, his eyes still locked on you. “think about it, city girl” he called as kie tugged you away.

once you were far enough, kie let out an annoyed sigh. “ugh, typical rafe. don’t let him get to you.”

“what just happened?” you asked, your voice tinged with disbelief.

“i think he kinda likes you,” sarah said, her tone amused as she walked up beside you.

you turned to her, eyebrows raised. “what? no, he’s just messing with me.”

“i don’t think so,” Sarah replied with a shrug. “i’ve never seen my brother act like that before. that wasn’t his usual intense, brooding vibe. he seemed… i don’t know—”

her brother?

“don’t put ideas in her head,” cleo said, cutting in with a pointed look at sarah. “rafe cameron is trouble, and we’ve got enough of that in our lives.”

you nodded slowly, but you couldn’t stop replaying the encounter in your mind. rafe’s charm might have been trouble, but it was also undeniably magnetic—and something told you this wouldn’t be the last time he’d try to get your attention.

the morning sun poured through the window of the carrera’s guest room, golden rays warming your face as you stirred awake. the faint sound of waves crashing in the distance was a soothing backdrop, a far cry from the honking horns and city noise you were used to back in new york.

you stretched, slipping out of bed and padding down the hallway. the smell of coffee greeted you, and when you reached the kitchen, kie was leaning against the counter, scrolling through her phone.

“morning,” she said, looking up and flashing you a smile. “how’d you sleep?”

“like a rock,” you replied, pouring yourself a cup of coffee. “it’s so quiet here. i could get used to it.”

kie smirked. “that’s the obx charm. so, what’s the plan for today? we could hit the beach, check out some local shops, or—”

“i was actually thinking of going for a walk,” you said, taking a sip of coffee. “just to explore a little on my own.”

“yeah?” kiara asked, raising a brow. “you sure you don’t want me to tag along?”

“i’ll be fine,” you reassured her. “i just want to wander, get a feel for the place. i won’t go far.”

kiara shrugged, setting her phone down. “alright. just don’t get lost. or run into any kooks.”

you laughed, brushing off her comment as you slipped out the door.

the streets were peaceful, with quaint houses nestled among swaying palm trees. the salty air and gentle breeze made the walk refreshing, and you found yourself meandering without any real destination.

you were admiring a row of colorful cottages when a voice interrupted your thoughts.

“fancy seeing you out here, city girl.”

you turned, and there he was—rafe cameron.

he was leaning against his car, a sleek black car that looked as polished as he did. dressed in a fitted t-shirt and some jeans, his smirk was as familiar as the memory of the night before.

“rafe,” you said, your tone cautious. “didn’t expect to see you.”

“this is my island,” he replied smoothly, his smirk widening. “i’m everywhere.”

you rolled your eyes, taking a step to the side to keep walking, but he pushed off his car and fell into step beside you.

“you always this charming?” you asked, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye.

“only with you,” he said easily, flashing you a grin that made your stomach flip despite your better judgment. “so, what’s a city girl like you doing wandering around all alone?”

“i wanted to explore,” you said, keeping your tone neutral.

“oh, well, lucky for you, you’ve got the best tour guide now.”

“do i?”

“you do,” he insisted, pointing ahead. “see that shop over there? best place for shaved ice on the island. and that dock?” he gestured toward the water. “sunsets there will ruin you for life. no other view will compare.”

you already knew another view that wouldn’t compare when you’re back in new york.

“is that so?” you asked, half-amused despite yourself.

“it is,” he said, his tone softening slightly as he looked at you. “obx has a way of doing that to people—making them never want to leave.”

the sincerity in his voice caught you off guard, and for a moment, you forgot about everything the girls had said about him being trouble.

“well, thanks for the tips, island boy” you said, trying to keep things light.

rafe stopped walking, turning to face you fully. “you know, i wasn’t kidding last night. about taking you out.”

you blinked, thrown by his directness. “you’re persistent, aren’t you?”

“when i see something i like, yeah,” he said, his voice low, his gaze unwavering.

before you could figure out how to respond, a loud horn blared from a passing truck, breaking the moment.

you stepped back instinctively, and rafe chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “alright, i’ll back off. for today.” he started to walk away but glanced over his shoulder. “don’t wander too far, city girl.”

you watched him go, your heart pounding in your chest. whatever you thought you knew about rafe cameron, it was clear he wasn’t going to be easy to ignore.

when you got back to kiara’s house, she was sitting on the porch, sipping a smoothie. she raised a brow when she saw you.

“everything went good?” she asked casually.

you hesitated, then nodded. “yeah. just… ran into someone.”

kie frowned. “who?”

you sighed. “that rafe guy.”

she groaned, setting her smoothie down. “of course you did. he’s like a heat-seeking missile when it comes to girls who don’t need his drama.”

“drama?” you echoed, tilting your head.

“trust me, n/n,” kie said calmly. “rafe cameron is a storm you don’t want to get caught in.”

but as you sat down beside her, your thoughts drifted back to his smirk, his confidence, and the way he’d looked at you like you were the only person in the world.

a storm, maybe. but one that was dangerously hard to ignore.

#lizzieswrites𝜗𝜚 #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron #drew starkey x reader #drew starkey #rafe cameron imagine #outerbanks rafe #rafe cameron x you #drew starkey x y/n #drew starkey imagine #drew starkey x you #drew starkey x female reader

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86espresso · 3 months ago

Text

secrets i have held in my heart, are harder to hide than i thought ✯ jh86

sum: “I really like you.” *looks around* “are you sure-”

// jack x med student

warnings: 18+, oral (f & m receiving), mentions of familial neglect, cursing, kissing, stress, anxiety, doubt, pet tigers, jack thinking too hard, reader is insecure don’t know what for 💔, overuse of commas because im insane, happy ending, a lil too sappy (i say this with emphasis), i mean it there’s a whole lotta CHEESE, mostly fluff, very emotional and hearty pls im sorry im a lover. afab!reader w/ she/her pronouns :)

w/c; 7.6k

a/n: hey so yeah. wtf. the word count?? i had so much fun writing this. half scared that its boring. i love simp / munch jack. ps: as queen as y/n is, i gave reader a nickname, sorry. (a very … unique nickname. i myself am puzzled as to how my brain works) enjoy. or at least try to. under the cut !

THE library was unsurprisingly almost empty considering the fact that no sane person would want to step outside in this rainstorm, so you were content in studying organic chemistry in the very back, alone with your thoughts, your textbooks, folklore by Taylor Swift, and now a guy. Who decided that he will break the silence in the almost empty library.

You were in your world, as always, not really connecting or associating with things around you but the ruckus of the someone knocking over an umbrella stand and profusely apologizing to apparently no one made you lift your head up. You smile slightly before going back to your work, barely registering your surroundings.

Sure, Jack was entirely focused on his friends, studies, and hockey back in high school, but he was an expert at faces and names and could jot down absolutely anyone that he knows he’s seen before. He knew exactly who the girl with dark circles and way-too-oversized hoodie in the back was.

At least five minutes later, Jack started hovering near your spot, which was the romance aisle. You sneak a glance at him and take note of his athletic shorts and New York Giants hoodie and quickly denote that this man was definitely not the romance novel type (or maybe book type at all). After flipping mindlessly through another book he lets out a soft “fuck it” before turning to face you completely.

You can’t help but crack a smile at his jump when he saw that you had already been staring at him with wide, voidfull eyes.

A pause. You staring at him. Him staring at you. He cracks a dopey smile, blinding you with his paper white teeth, and pulls up a chair in front of you.

“What’s up, Dee?” He asks holding his hand up for a dap. Bewildered at how this complete stranger knows your nickname amongst close friends (from when you gracefully told people that ‘the bags under your eyes are Dior’), you dap him back anyway and blurt, “I have never seen you before.”

“You went to my high school. We worked in a project in like, AP World I think? I dunno. But I remember you saved my grade that whole year.”

Your mind remains blank. You saved a lot of people’s grades.

“My only high school memories are countless APs, pain, suffering, studying and depression.”

Most people would blanch at your dreamy straightforwardness, but Jack just grinned again.

“Yeah, I remember you were always tired but also really funny. And tired. Deja Vu, man, watching you sit here, laser focused on your books. I was on the hockey team, if that helps.”

I furrow my brows, thinking hard.

“I do remember that our hockey guys were really good. They would announce their names like every day on the speakers because they won all the time.”

Jack groans at the memory. He was well known but it was just uncomfortable having your last names called out where the whole school could hear.

You laugh at his reaction. “They would call the same names over and over. I don’t know if it was you who used to hide your face every time they did it but yeah.”

Jack perked up. “Yeah that was me.”

You take a moment to admire his boyish facial features and athletic build. He’s pretty.

‘Don’t even think about it’ pretty.

“Dang. You were like a superstar. Sorry I don’t remember much. I’m like, walking jet lag.”

He laughs a typical frat boy laugh (if that makes sense) and you like it. You want to hear it again.

“So, what are you doing out here? Never pegged you for a big city girl.”

“I go to college here.”

“Damn, we should’ve met sooner. My name is Jack, by the way.”

“My friends call me Dee, but I guess you knew that.”

You were left pondering as to why a hockey player from high school was even anticipating meeting you; people only approached you for notes and the occasional party invitation back then.

“So, uh- what about you? Make it big in the league thingy yet?”

He breaths a laugh. “You could say that.”

“Who do you play for?”

“New Jersey.”

“Prudential, isn’t it? That’s close by my apartment.” I say in thought.

Jack grins. “Really? We might bump into each other often, then.”

He looks genuinely excited.

Why.

What’s going on.

You chat for a few more minutes but it’s mostly you saying out of pocket things and Jack laughing instead of side-eyeing you and walking away. You were surprised at his effortless kindness.

“Phone.”

“Hm?”

“Or Snap? Whatever you feel like is best,” he says, pulling out his phone. It takes a second to register that he’s implying that you exchange contact information.

“Don’t really use Snapchat. I kinda have too much on my plate right now.” You hand over your phone.

“You always overwork yourself, you should be at the club. You’ll die on the inside.”

“Nothing I can’t handle, I hope.”

You just need to push through and never ever have fun.

He checks the time and sighs.

“I was just here to return a book but I gotta head back. Flight for a roadie takes off in a couple hours. I’ll be back in, like, four days? I hope to see you around then?”

You match his soft smile and nod, whatever roadie means but okay. It was actually nice, wasting some valuable study time for a potential friend. He’s cool.

“Yeah. See you.” You offer and huff a laugh as he reaches out to dap you up again.

That night, after yet another long and winding day with the only highlight being meeting someone who was apparently a high school acquaintance, you decide to look him up. Surprised at the absolute famethat this man had loaded, your lips parting at every detail, you click on his instagram and officially unhinge your jaw.

500k followers?

You’re never on insta but that can’t be good.

The shock of how you basically were bonding with someone who definitely downplayed how famous he was didn’t wear off a week later; he texted you quite often and you tried to text back without seeming dry.

It was nearly a week later when he offered to meet up again.

-> two questions

babies come from the baby store.

-> wtf

sorry. ask away !

-> 1. are you at the library rn

do you still like the caramel frappe from dunkin

yes. and yes. what the hell are you doing.

-> something nice. see u soon angel.

angel is wild when I look like I snuck on this earth but thanks for that anyways. you’re very kind :))

-> kind enough to tell you to that you’re really pretty :))

*reacted with heart emoji*

You check your forehead temperature to make sure you hadn’t just imagined the whole conversation.

It wasn’t long before Jack was strutting into the library with two dunkin’ shakes in his hands accompanied by his gorgeous smile when he spotted you in the back, once again.

“You’re wearing glasses today.” He says when you look up at his outstretched hand. You reach forward with a grateful smile, and deja vu hits you hard. The same exact scene playing out in high school when he had asked everyone in some group project their favorite drinks and treated them when they all got an A.

“I remember you,” you say as he flopped on the bean bag next to you with his own drink.

“Yeah? I knew you would. You’re too smart.” He says, again dazzling you with his perfect smile as he lifts two fingers to tap your temple softly to emphasize his point. It’s a challenge to tear your eyes away from his baby blues.

“Your eyes are so blue. It’s distracting.”

Jack’s eyes widen at your unintentional rebuttal at his subtle flirting, and he smirks. He knew that you weren’t aware that you were being flirted with the past week; what you lacked in emotional and social intelligence was shadowed by your sharpness in academics.

“Hey, you didn’t tell me you were a really big deal around here? Everyone knows you and you have like a million followers.”

“Stalking me?”

“Educating myself.”

Jack laughs and throws as arm around you to peer over your shoulder.

“Well, I don’t just go around telling people how good I am. So, whatcha doing?”

The contact makes you freeze up and once again the surreality of a man wanting to spend time with you disorients you a little bit.

“Watching porn.”

Jack laughs again and earns a stern look from the clerk down the aisle.

“I’m studying anatomy.”

“Yeah, didn’t suspect any less than med school for your smartass.”

You turn to him to talk back but his face was inches away from you and that sets off alarm bells throughout your body. You’ve had your fair share of guys and girls but there was not a single string attached and the short flings were easy to forget.

But having someone that pretty, that close to you, not showing exactly what intentions he had? That caused your anxiety to spike. Positively.

“Your face is really close.” You simply state, pushing your large frames higher up your nose.

“And yours is really red.”

You immediately press your hands against your cheeks and groan at what you picture your face looks like. Jack just giggles again and pulls your hands away.

“It’s cute.”

His hands are still on your wrists.

“It really isn’t, but thank you. You’re very kind.”

There’s a beat of silence where you can see the gears in his head turning.

“Do you like aquariums?”

You surprise yourself and Jack when you pull him into a hug as a greeting outside the aquarium.

The feel of your chests touching with little fabric in between set Jack’s heart off racing and the way your curves dipped at your hips had him pulling at his collar.

But most of all, when he pulled back from the hug, he noticed you were wearing shorts that had your legs all out for him to ogle over.

“You hidin’ all that?” He scans your figure, noting the dark, low cut, full sleeve top.

“What? All this?” You say as you push your tits together. “There’s not much to hide.”

Jack’s throat runs dry. Unfortunately for him, he’s still a guy and tits still make him drool. And the fact that you had no idea you were keeping him on his toes

“Be for real.” He rolls his eyes. “How’d your day go?”

“Nice, actually. I just took Nala for a walk and-“ you cut yourself off.

“I didn’t know you had a pet? Can I see her? I love anim-“

“She’s a tiger.”

You give him more and more reasons everyday as to why him hanging out with you was unethical and strange but he seemed to keep on staying. Studying you as if intrigued by your strangeness.

“You- have a pet..tiger?”

Yeah. I’ve done it.

“I- yeah.”

It seems like all Jack ever does is grin because he’s doing it again and flinging an arm around your shoulder as he starts to walk with you.

“Oh, Dee. There’s just so much to learn and love about you.”

It takes you a second to react.

“That may be the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“You serious?”

“Yeah. Well, cause I was ugly growing up, and people always thought I was strange. It’s hard to imagine that people are genuinely interested in any sort of friendship with me.”

Jacks fingertips on your bare collarbone, his cologne and aftershave, his figure pressed against your side; all of it was overtaking your senses.

“Baby, why do you think I walked up to you that day in the first place? You may not remember much but I do. You were so kind and honest. And so intriguing. And hardworking. And pretty. I think your dark circles are hot.”

You huff out a laugh and ignore the flutter in your chest at ‘baby’.

Jack looks down at you with a gaze that he can’t pinpoint. You’re just very, very endearing to him. He needs to show you all kinds of fun so you laugh like that again.

“You smell nice.” You say and hesitate before loosening yourself against him more. He hums at the increased contact and at your compliment, smiling against your hair.

“Thank you.”

To say you had the absolute time of your life at the aquarium was an understatement. Jack got to see a side of you that loved fun, that was carefree, and didn’t have that goddamn crease in your eyebrows. You were the one pulling him around, telling him you wanted to be a marine biologist as a kid and that you recognize most of the species. Jack made sure to snap a few pictures of you when you weren’t looking, the lightning shaped twinkle in your eyes a memory he wanted to keep forever.

Later that day, Jack drove you back to your apartment, mentally noting that you were about a fifteen minute drive from his place.

“Nala?” You coo out softly as you push open the door and drag Jack inside, not giving him the chance to protest. Jack looks around at your apartment. It’s small and messy, but organized in some places. He jumps and lets out a brief scream when a fucking tiger is bounding towards you at full speed and knocking you over with a hug. You laugh as your beloved Nala starts licking up your face and you both roll on the floor.

Jack’s breathing calms a little as he remembers who owns the tiger.

“I’ll put her away for now.” You say, reading Jack’s skepticism. He sighed in relief.

“Oh good. Because as much as you reassured me and as man as I am, she’s still a tiger.” You giggle at his words and guide Nala towards her room.

The sound makes Jack smile stupidly. His heart stutters and he wants to put your little laugh on replay. He can’t believe that a girl who stated random medical facts at any time, who lost sleep because ‘she just forgot that it’s important’, who barely remembered him from a while ago even though he remembered everything, who waves at planes as they fly overhead, who didn’t know shit about the sport he played, had him wrapped tightly around her finger.

He takes a moment to observe your apartment. The stacks of medical related books that he doesn’t want to and never will understand, the old record player sitting in the corner of the kitchen, a huge jar of nutella on the coffee table, a questionable fluffy purple blanket on your sofa. Just little things that made you all the more real to him.

And he still wants to know more. He wants to know your sleep schedule so he knows that you’re getting enough sleep and when to text or call, he wants to know what you dream of, he wants to know your passions besides studying, he wants to know what made you become so numb and detached, how you still managed to have a twinkle in your eye when you experienced emotion.

But, as he leans to the counter for support at his racing mind and as you enter the room, still clad in your godforsaken low cut top and curve-hugging shorts, he most of all wants to know what you are like, what your lips would feel like molded against his, how you’d moan or whimper at his touch. He’s still leaning against the counter as he recalls when you unabashedly pushed your tits together just hours ago.

“You alright?” You ask, but you yourself seemed to have distressed eyebrow lines.

“Uh? Oh yeah. I was just.” He gestures around your apartment. “Observing.”

You nod, still lost in thought.

“Are you okay?” He asks, not liking the stress in your body language.

“Yeah. It’s just, I have two projects due next week and I’ve been studying for something else so I completely forgot about them.” You frown, feeling tears pool in your eyes. You can’t cry in front of Jack. If everything else didn’t make him abandon you, then this would.

“Woah. Hey, hey.” Jack is by your side immediately. He feels guilty for thinking of you sinfully while you were in distress but he really couldn’t help it. You blink back the tears and shrug it off.

“It gets kind of a lot sometimes, y’know?” Jack follows you to the couch and sits next to you, immediately taking your hands in his and pulling your legs onto his lap. You gave up on keeping your cool when he does that and give him a bewildered expression. Being taken care of is so strange.

“And? Go on, baby.” He smiles softly and encouragingly, dropping one of your hands to hold your chin for a moment before grabbing your hand again.

You blink.

“Well, It’s probably not as much as I’m stressing it out to be. I’m about to abuse substances.”

“Now don’t do that. There’s lots of ways to destress yourself.” Jack’s hand wanders again, resting on your bare knee. His movements are soft and gentle, but they still cause a foreign spark through your body. You dryly cough before registering his words and looking at Jack’s hand that had inched higher by the slightest.

“Is this flirting?” Rushed out of your mouth and Jack chuckles, a normal sound but an octave lower.

“Sure is, baby. You’re learning fast.” He’s staring your eyes down, and all of a sudden he’s consuming your senses again. His cologne is still there, his insane blues are glued to yours, his deep breathing is signifying his increasing heart rate. His hand inches higher as he moves closer.

“Why don’t I just,” shrug, “eat you out? ‘S a better high than drugs-” His phone buzzes in his pocket.

Jack huffs and pulls away, leaving your insides churning at the his lingering touch and words??? The implication alone, the images conjuring in your head were nothing short of filthy.

He scowls as he takes the call, muttering something about how it’s his agent and he’ll get in trouble if he doesn’t answer. His responses are curt and his expression neutral, but his hand is gripping your thigh with intensity. As he hangs up the call and tosses his phone aside, his hand is almost at your inner thigh and he maneuvers himself to be directly on his knees on the floor in front of you.

The sudden movement and his face looking up at yours between your slightly parted legs has your pussy throbbing. It’s been weeks since you were.. in this particular position with someone and god did it feel nice that it was the finest man in world to unpause your sex life.

He leans up to be face level with you. “Do you trust me, baby?” You never noticed how sultry his natural voice was.

His eyes search yours for any kind of discomfort as his hand reaches forward to cup your cheek. You nod in conformation as he moves closer.

Your breath hitches as he presses his lips to your cheek, dangerously close to your mouth. It confuses you slightly as to why he didn’t just kiss you but both of his hands on your waistband distracts you.

“Can I take these off?” He questions and you nod once again, not trusting your voice.

He’s doing everything in slow motion and you think it alludes to your sensitivity earlier, but anticipation and his hands cloud everything in your mind.

What kind of guy just? offers to eat you out? to help you destress?

Your shorts are discarded and the exposure doesn’t bother you. Sure your heart would be thudding either way, but Jack made you feel different. No anxiety in the sense that he would judge you or harm you or hurt your feelings.

“Hm, these are cute.” Jack’s thumb fingers over the lining of your underwear.

You feel yourself flush.

“Thanks.” Is your quiet response.

“Relax, baby. This is for you to unwind, not to get nervous. Focus on how you’re feeling,” Jack instructs as his finger ghosted over your clothed cunt. Your teeth nibble on your bottom lip as you push your hips closer to his hand.

He smirks at your eagerness and gives in, entirely pushing his thumb against your clit through your panties.

His thumb moves slowly but firmly back and forth as he gauges your reaction. Finding the right spots where your stomach clenches or your eyebrows knit together.

“More.” You muster as you open your eyes to look down at Jack who was already moving to take your damp panties off. Once again, slowly. He groans as he sees you glistening for him and starts kissing up your thigh.

“You have a pretty face.”

Jack grins up at your compliment while peppering feather light kisses on your inner thighs.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The anticipation pools in your lower stomach as Jack breaks eye contact with you to admire your delicacy in front of him. He uses the same thumb to rub through your folds and reach higher to circle your clit. The stimulation has you moaning softly and the sound has Jack’s cock twitching in his shorts.

“I- hurry.” You huff in slight annoyance, wanting more besides the slow circles. Jack smirks against your thigh and removes his thumb so he could move forward lick a stripe through your folds.

Your knuckles get white gripping the pillow, itching to hold his hair instead as his eyes flicker between yours and your pussy. Jack notices your hand on the pillow and guide it to his hair while sucking and licking your cunt. He parts away for a second to catch his breath before making slow and languid motions with his tongue on your clit.

You grip his hair, hard. Jack grunts against you and loses a shred of control as he pulls your legs apart further to dive further in. You let out a startled breath at the sudden movement and pull on his hair more as he shakes his head deeper while still staring up at you.

“Jack..” you breathe out, but it comes out as more of a whimper that makes him hum against you and a spark run through his body. He pulls away and inserts his middle and ring finger through your slick and pumps shortly before curling his fingers. You heave a breath and moan at the feeling while Jack stares up at you in awe.

“You’re everything.” He says more to himself than you, as he watches you writhe and whimper at his fingers while holding the eye contact. He connects his lips with your clit again and suctions in a way that has your back arching and your moans getting louder and more high pitched with each type of attention Jack gives to your pussy.

He switched his fingers and mouth and rubs your clit as he laps up your arousal as he feels you getting close. He takes that moment to switch back and locks eyes with you as his dark pink, wet lips attach to your clit again, softly sucking you closer to your tipping point.

“Oh, f-fuck I’m-“

Your eyebrows knit and your eyes roll back at the sensations of his mouth and tongue and fingers and gaze.

You spasm around his fingers and moan louder while Jack’s fingers guide you through your release. He licks up whatever he can before sitting and wiping his face with the back of his hand as you stare at him with hooded and tired eyes.

“Feel better?” He has the nerve to ask as he runs a wet wipe up and between your legs.

When did he even get that?

Your leg twitches in sensitivity after he’s finished.

“Mm better.” Was all you could muster. All you wanted was to sleep and dream for days.

Jack laughs softly at your state and checks the time.

“I’ll need to head out soon. Team dinner.” He says as he fits another pair of underwear on you. You feel a pang in your chest and anxiety creeps up your spine, but Jack immediately shuts your thoughts down.

“Hey, this doesn’t mean I’ll abandon you or anything. I’m goin’ cause I have to and I would take you but you look like you could use a nap. We can hang tomorrow?” He’s so soft and caring with you, cupping your cheek and smoothing his thumb over it.

“Yeah okay.” You say and watch as he gets up, not before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“I won’t go anywhere, baby.”

After the team dinner, when Jack got home and shut the door to his apartment, the first thing he did was call his older brother. Quinn was just the slightest, itty-bittiest bit more fortunate with girls, so Jack naturally went to him for tips here and there.

A few minutes into the call, they exchanged formalities and talked about each others’ seasons before Quinn cut to the chase.

“So? Is it a girl?”

Jack blanched.

“I- well yes, but it’s different this time. Swear.”

“You say that every-time. But it does sound like it might be different.”

“Do you remember Dee from high school?”

“I don’t remember anything from high school.” Is it really that common to forget four years of your life?

“Yeah well. I met her again a few weeks ago. She was the one who used to take all the APs and she graduated early? She was like always tired and kinda funny. And she’s pretty. Like the natural kind of pretty. You’d look at her and want to give up the world for her kind of pretty. I don’t know.” Quinn listened quietly, detecting the hint of fear in Jack’s voice.

“I might be, like obsessed with her. I think she knows.”

“Wait, wait, wait. She knows? That you like her? And you’re not together yet?” Jack didn’t deny it when he said that he liked her.

“I-yes? I think so. She might be into me too and we did a thing earlier today and she flirts with me without even thinking about it? That’s gotta mean something right?”

“You did things with her?!She flirts with you?! Do something. But take it slow. She probably still wonders why you even give her the time of day. She likes you but she doesn’t know it yet.” Hearing his older brother say it untightened his chest.

“I was going to kiss her but I really wanted to things slow with her. She’s been through a bit and, I don’t know, I want to treat her special.” He’s glad that he has a person he can say the cringiest shit to. If it was anyone else on the other line, he would get toasted for the rest of his life. Jack wore his heart on his sleeve and was smart at reading people and their emotions. But sometimes he was just clueless on what to do with that knowledge.

We can hang tomorrow.

Who the fuck says that after going down on someone.

Jack didn’t text you that night.

Or the next morning.

You started panicking slightly when you come home from classes.

That had to have been the last straw for him.

He’s a fucking superstar, he lives in the New York City area, where all the pretty models and blue eyed blondes live. Why the hell would he go for a tired med student from his home state who didn’t care about herself enough to care for him?

Your mind runs a marathon as the elevator doors open to your floor. But when you approach your apartment, Jack is sitting on the floor next to door, scrolling on his phone.

You freeze and stare blankly as he realizes that you’re here.

He perks up and walks over to you pulling you into a light hug.

“Hey, Dee. How were classes?”

“Good. Thanks for asking.” You reply, hesitantly wrapping your arms back around him. You weren’t hugged a lot as a kid or growing up. You’ve hugged more in the last two weeks than you have in your entire life.

“I have a game later today. Wanna come? The other team…isn’t that good. We might win. Unless you have work to do. Or if you just don’t want to go that’s okay too. Or-“ he cuts off when you press a finger against his lips.

“I’d love to go. I finished a lot of my work during classes.” You smile removing your fingers, relaxing in his arms. “When is it?”

“At 7. I’ll pick you up, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You both just stand there for a minute before you remember social cues.

“So, come in? I’m hungry as fuck. We should eat.” You say pushing the door open, petting Nala as you walk in and Jack followed. He smiles at your awkwardness and accepts.

Your look is acceptable. Hair clutched back, light makeup, hoodie and sweats is your go-to anyway. Plus, you’re always cold.

You arrive at around quarter to seven and with the help of signs make your way to the lounge that Jack gave you a pass to.

There’s a guard at the door that held his hand out for the pass and when you gave it to him he eyed you wearily.

“You’re Hughes’ girl? Where did you get this?”

“Jack gave it to me.”

“Uh huh.”

You furrow your eyebrows. “So can I go in?”

“Sweetheart, Jack has only ever invited two other girls here and I can tell you right now, you’re not the third. Who gave you this pass?”

The mention of Jack bringing other girls here makes you absolutely sick to your stomach.

You might vomit.

But anger bubbles up your throat and you’re about to press your finger into the guards chest and give him a piece of your mind, when there’s a patter of feet and an excited “Dee!” coming from your left.

Jack has you in his arms already before you could register it. He tucks you into his shoulder, presses his lips against your temple, lingering, and faces the guard.

“Was there a problem?” The guards mouth hangs open and flickers between the two of you.

“None at all.” He opens the door and lets the two of you in. After he shuts the door and turns face you, you take a second to admire him.

He’s dressed in his game jersey, shoulder pads and everything; except for his skates.

He looks really good.

“You look really good.”

Silence.

“Are you blushing?”

Jack pulls you into his chest so you don’t see more of the pink adorning his cheeks.

“Am not,” he mutters above your head and you giggle as you try to untangle from his grasp.

You pull back and notice that he still has a tint on his cheeks. He holds your face for a moment, admiring every feature. Going from eye to eye, the slope of your nose, the dimple digging into your left cheek, a beauty mark on your chin, your lips.

You feel your breath quickening when his thumb grazes your cheek and his eyes linger on your lips a little longer.

A sharp knock on the door interrupted the two of you.

“Warm ups in two!”

Jack sighed and looked back at you.

“I need to go. You can watch from here.” He led you further into the room and you could hear the crowd getting louder as you got closer. He led you to a balcony where there were a few other people, and pecked your cheek before going back.

The game starts and you’re more clueless that you thought you’d be. The puck was way too small and you didn’t bring your glasses, but you remember Jack telling you that he was ‘86’, so you tried to follow wherever he was.

The girl next to you strikes up a conversation which you cautiously tread with, but you warm up soon. She tells you that she’s dating someone on the team.

“Woah. That must be cool.” She looks confused.

“Aren’t you Jack’s girl?”

“No? We’re friends. I think. He’s really nice to me.” Your new friend blinks before talking again.

“He really likes you though, and you look like you really like him.”

“Well of course I do. He treats me really well.”

“Oh, babe. No. He like likes you. My boyfriend told me he talks about you all the time.” She holds your hand. You look down at it and back at her. You’re quiet for a moment. You’re not sure how to process that.

“I’m not sure how to process that.”

“Well, do you like him? Love him even?”

“I-“

You’re cut off by that awfully loud goal horn, and glance at the screen to see that Jack has scored. You felt a surge of pride in your chest and feel yourself smiling wide as Jack’s tiny figure skated around and fist bumped the players on the bench. He turns to your section for a moment, lingering for a sliver of a second and your heart stops. The game called for the face-off just a second later so he had to look away.

You look over to the girl on your right and she’s already looking at you with a half smirk.

Jack politely declined on drinks later in the locker room after the devils won.

He leans against his car and thinks about you. He really wanted to see you, needed your affirmation.

It’s all he seems to do now. Jack just wants reassurance and peace in knowing that you were there. He spent every waking moment thinking about you and how he got you to show sides of yourself that you don’t show to people. He tried to keep his personal life away from hockey but the way his instincts told him to look in your general direction after he scored made him sick to his stomach.

He might actually be stupid obsessed with you.

Trusting his gut on your body language and making a bold move the previous night may have been the best thing he’s ever done.

That means that he doesn’t need to be cautious with his flirting anymore. He knows exactly what he feels but he wants to wait til you come to that conclusion on your own.

He didn’t notice your quiet footsteps in his direction and was mildly startled when you were standing in front of him. Almost at once, he felt a smile adorn his face.

“That was so cool, I didn’t understand anything but I know you scored.” Your wide, twinkling eyes stared back up at him. “I’m proud of you.”

And that’s all it took for him to usher you into the back seat, strip off your sweatpants, and throw your legs over his shoulders.

Not even ten minutes later, your lungs are dying for air and your body is covered in a thin sheet of sweat. He was rougher this time, sucking a hickey on your neck before, getting the entire bottom half of his face messy, his own hooded eyes losing focus as he pleasured you.

“You back to me yet, baby?”

“Hm?”

You open your eyes and you’re in the front seat, cleaned up, pants back on, and Jack is fastening your seatbelt for you.

“I lost you for like, three minutes there. You okay?”

His voice is gentle and quiet, his index and thumb holding your chin softly as his azure eyes bore into yours.

“Chipotle?”

He laughs, pulling back and shifting the gear into drive, his hair falling slightly in his face and he pushes it back.

“All the chipotle in the world for my Dee.”

Your mind briefly flashed to how he kissed the tip of your nose before he went down on you, and not your lips.

You’re in Jack’s apartment now (your heart dropping when you thought of Nala, but then you remembered that you fed her quite well and she had to be passed out by now. Jack handed you a Hershey’s kiss to calm you down), and it’s big.

Like, huge.

Massive for someone who lives alone.

His TV was playing ‘How to lose a guy in 10 days’ and you were watching like a hawk.

“I’ve never seen this one before.”

“Really? You don’t watch romcoms?” Jack looks at you surprised, sitting next to you with both of your chipotle orders and throwing a blanket over the two of you.

“No. I don’t really get the time.” You furrow your brows and turn to him with a blank expression. “You’ve showed me so much fun in the last few weeks. Thank you.”

Jack could happily die in that moment. He flashes back to yesterday again, your childlike wonder, the new things he learnt about you.

“‘S nothing yet. There’s so much more you deserve to feel happy about.” He kisses your temple before getting closer to you.

You both watch in silence for a while, occasionally laughing and aw-ing, until you can’t hold it back anymore.

“Do you think kissing is unhygienic?”

You look up to him, his unbuttoned shirt, messy hair and lingering smile making your heart skip a beat.

Oh no.

You have such a horrible, fat crush on him.

“Hm?”

“I-nothing.”

“M’kay.”

Sweet boy is not a multitasker and the movie was at a really good part, so he didn’t really get distracted and soon you were engrossed too.

You were still in a cloud of feelings and it was getting a bit much for you. Your head was usually void of emotion, so the change was welcome. And you had Jack to thank for that. He’s done so much for you, taken care of you in ways that no one has and no one ever will.

You realize that he could be your worst heartbreak or someone that’s going to be in your life forever.

You feel slightly sick thinking about it and you need to get it out of your system.

“Can I suck you off?” Your lips lightly brush his ear.

Now that.

That gets Jack’s attention.

He nearly snaps his neck to turn to face you and your noses touch.

“You- I- what?”

Your fingertips are feathery as you brush the hair out of his face.

“I want to suck your dick.”

“You don’t- if this is to- to reciprocate or something-“

“I promise it’s not. I really just want to.”

Jack is already semi-hard and he can feel his dress pants tighten. His eyes briefly widen and he borderline gulps before he watches your hand run down his chest and toy with his belt buckle. As soon as he gives you the green light and pauses ‘How to lose a guy in 10 days’, you’re on your knees in front of him, just like how he was with you the previous night.

Jack’s sanity is once again lost as he watches you on your knees for him. You make a quick work of his belt buckle and pull down his dress pants just enough.

You can already see how loaded he is through his boxers and look back up at him with the same wide eyes that he goes crazy over.

“Cool.”

Jack barely has time to react over your concise approval of his length before you’re mouthing over his boxers, sucking softly, leaving Jack gasping for a breath.

You pull down his boxers and start working immediately, pumping him and wetting your hands slightly so you have more friction.

“Y’know, it’s crazy—I know what all of these veins are called.” You say, more to yourself but Jack’s half smile drops when you lay your tongue flat against his shaft and suck on his tip. He lets out an embarrassing sound between a staggered breath and a whimper as you make your way down. Your cheeks hollow out as you make eye contact with him, making sure you’re getting it right. You come off and continue with your hands and look up at him.

“Good?”

“F- Christ- fuck, so good, baby. So good.”

Happy with yourself, you continue to suck him clean while he chokes out moans and his stomach clenches. You can feel him getting heavier in your mouth and you start speeding up, using both of your hands.

There’s a moment when he reaches forward to push your hair out of your face, so that you don’t get bothered and so that he sees you properly, which warms your heart.

He taps one of yours hands that’s on him to indicate that he’s close and you pull back with a kitten lick to his tip before sticking your tongue out.

You have Jack seeing stars when his load pumps into your mouth, and your eyes dart over his shirt clinging to his chest, his hair falling into his screwed shut eyes, his lips parted and his hand gripping the sofa with such intensity that his veins pop out.

You tuck him back into his clothing after cleaning him up, and he looks at you with tired eyes while making grabby hands.

You chuckle, climbing into his arms and he slumps his body against you, both of you now lying down on the couch as he unpauses the movie.

His head rests comfortably against your chest, one of your hands running through his hair, and the other intertwined with his.

It’s sweet.

Jack wakes up alone and panics at once. It’s embarrassing, really; like finding out your stuffed animal fell to the floor during your sleep as a toddler. But when he checks his messages, he finds a text from you.

Hey, I had to leave. I have a project due tomorrow and also Nala :( We can meet up later. I had fun yesterday. Thank you :))

It’s hits Jack how gone he is when he finds himself clutching his phone to his heart.

It takes a while.

He comes home fresh from morning practice took a nice long nap to clear his head before waking up properly to see that it was raining outside.

He was enjoying (not) the protein shake that he was required to drink and mindlessly scoring through plays from an old game, when it hits him like a sack of bricks.

Do you think kissing is unhygienic?

You think he doesn’t want to kiss you.

You think he’s toying with your heart by showing you all kinds of affection besides the one thing that both of you wanted so fucking bad.

You think he doesn’t like you enough to do that yet.

The drive to yours was smooth despite the rain pouring down from every direction, and because you always reminded him of road safety.

You were standing outside of the apartment building, looking like you were having an argument with.. your tiger.

Your hands were on your hips, body soaked and hair wet as you tried to coax Nala into shelter.

Jack laughed at both of your antics which got your attention. Your mind flashes back to the day that you met him, the pouring rain, and how awkward it was to meet someone you knew from a while back. You wave at him happily as he approached, but noticed a hint of anxiety and embarrassment.

“What’s wro-?“

“Are you into poetry?”

“Uh, sometimes? Why?”

“This- well, I can’t read it. Here.”

He hands over his phone, stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks at anything but you. Puzzled, you cover his phone from the pelting droplets so you could read.

‘The first time you caught my eye

it was not love at first sight.

Instead a quiet curiosity was

planted in my chest and I knew

it was only a matter of time before

you sunk beneath my bones and

nurtured this deep seated familiarity

into a love so fierce that I would question

if I had ever been in love before.’

Lyra Wren.

You read it again.

There’s no way he actually searched for a poem to depict how he felt.

“Look, I didn’t understand half of it hit you get the-“

Jack was cut off by our lips against his.

It was short, maybe a second long, closed mouth, but you pulled away breathless and were close enough to feel his heart racing underneath his clothes.

How desperately he wanted your cold, soft lips against his again.

“So, you like me? For who I am?”

He nods.

“Are you sure? ‘Cause I-“

You were interrupted by Nala’s whine (to say: I change my mind, I want to go inside), and you give Jack his phone, grab his hand and pull him inside.

“C’mon, we’ll get pneumonia.”

Your hands were still in each others, his engulfing yours, when you shut the door to your apartment, locked it, watched Nala bound to her room, and turned to face him again properly.

He was so, so close. Your lips were parted, just inches apart, your foreheads touching.

He closed the gap this time, almost groaning in relief when he felt your mouth properly against his, something you both yearned for without realizing. His lips move against yours gently, savoring as much of you as he can. He nips your bottom lip and it has you and Jack smiling into the kiss. And then it’s a mess, teeth clashing, giggling, tongues lolling over another, one of his hands cupping your face and the other wrapped around your waist, but it feels like everything you’ve ever wanted.

You pull back.

“I love you more.”

#jack hughes #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes imagine #jack hughes blurb #jack hughes one shot #jack hughes smut #jack hughes fic #ellie writes 🙂‍↔️#jack Hughes fluff

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punkshort · 6 months ago

Text

In Another Life | Part I

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x f!reader (time travel au)

Chapter Summary: Your brother and his friend surprise you after work with a handsome stranger crashing on your couch who claims to be from Ancient Rome.

Chapter Warnings: language, food consumption, major romcom vibes, mentions of prostitution, mentions of OC death, mentions of OC pregnancy, flirting, sexual tension

WC: 6.5K

A/N: this is a soft/romcom Marcus Acacius mini-series. Heavily inspired by Kate & Leopold. Also, let's just assume Ancient Romans spoke and could read English.

Series Masterlist

Time was of the essence. He had to move quick.

People would say he was a coward, no doubt his legacy would be tarnished, but if he escaped with his life, so be it.

He didn't bother with spare clothes, just an extra set of sandals and food thrown into a satchel before he crept down the dimly lit hallway, careful not to wake one of his many servants.

He loved his palace. It was a place of peace and comfort for him, but come morning, it would be ripped away and he would be thrown into the pit. A general, Rome's deadly sword and the Emperor's right hand man, would become a lowly gladiator. Trained to perform and kill for amusement.

And all because he refused to play the Emperor's sick game.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't help train another legion of young men half his age to fight and die for their vanity. For their greed. When the Emperor announced his new task, all he could think of was his unborn son. He would be of age now, had he lived. He could have been training him to die.

He padded down the stone steps softly, hardly making a sound, his combat training serving him well. He managed to get just outside the city limits while it was still dark, but he could see the glow from the sun breaking the horizon. He didn't have much time to find a place to hide. He was still too close, and no doubt warriors would be looking for him once Geta realized he had fled.

Gods above, if they found him... his fate would be far worse than one of a gladiator.

He stumbled across a small clearing, head twisted around to make sure he was not being followed when he tripped over something large and heavy.

"Oh, shit!" he heard a young male voice exclaim.

Quickly, he unsheathed his sword and aimed it toward the voice. Confusion painted his face when he saw the unusual clothing and utterly strange contraption behind him. Before he had a chance to say anything, leaves rustled and he swung is sword towards the noise. Another young man, similarly dressed to the other, emerged from the thicket.

"State your names. Quick."

"Uh..." the first man trailed off, hands raising slowly in the air. "D-Danny. Daniel. And this is... Victor."

"Dude! C'mon! You know I -"

"Silence!" the general roared as loud as he dared. "What is your business here?"

"Science! Just... experiments. And the like," Danny said hurriedly, glancing at Victor for help. He nodded.

"Yes. Experiments."

"And are you citizens of Rome?"

They paused and looked at one another again.

"We are citizens of... York," Danny said.

"It's new," Victor added.

The general looked back and forth between the two men before ultimately deciding he did not have the time to quarrel with them and they did not appear to be a threat. He dropped his sword to the side and glanced around.

"You did not see me," he said sternly, turning to leave.

"Wait!"

He glanced back over his shoulder, pausing.

"Are you running away?"

"Fleeing," Victor added quietly.

"Fleeing?" Daniel repeated.

"I do not see it fit for you to ask such questions of someone above your station," he snarled. The two men exchanged worried looks before continuing.

"We're leaving. If you're looking to jet, you can... y'know," Danny said, jutting a thumb over his shoulder towards the strange looking contraption.

"Can you get me to Greece?"

They grinned and nodded.

"Sure, dude."

The general glanced around once again, his brow furrowing when he saw the light stretching high into the sky, brightening the landscape and soon, giving his position away.

"Then I accept."

He sheathed his sword and stomped over to the men, startling them both with his intensity.

Victor turned to unlock a door, struggling a bit before it popped open and crawling inside. Danny stuck out a hand and gave him a nervous smile.

"What's your name?"

His eyes dropped down to the frail looking hand before him, then slowly, as if he couldn't decide, lifted his arm to grasp the inside of Daniel's forearm, giving him a vigorous shake.

"General Marcus Acacius."

"What the fuck?" you grumbled under your breath, rereading your brother's text.

Danny: I have a friend crashing on the couch, won't stay long

Shuffling your bag onto your other shoulder as you walked down the bustling city street, you tapped out a response.

You: It better not be Lizard.

Danny: It's not, but he's here 2

Danny: Just visiting

Fucking Lizard. You've known him since he was maybe ten years old and you were fairly certain he never matured past that age.

Given you had two extra people waiting for you in your already cramped apartment, you decided to grab a couple pizzas on the way home instead of the sushi you had been thinking about all day. Choosing to be a little selfish, you made one of them a white pizza, it being your favorite, and made your way home with the last bits of energy you had left.

Nothing could have prepared you for what you walked into that day.

You stopped dead in your tracks when you stepped into your apartment, door wide open behind you, two pizza boxes balancing in one hand as you stared blankly at the massive man standing with his back to you in the middle of the living room. He was dressed in some strange type of robe that fell just above his knee and his head was bent, looking at something on your coffee table.

When you cleared your throat, he swung around and defensively placed a hand at his waist. That was when you noticed the massive and very real looking sword at his side and your blood ran cold.

"D-Danny!" you yelled, your eyes glued to the stranger's hand. As if he finally sensed your fear, he dropped his arm and straightened up.

"Apologies-"

"Danny!" you yelled again, louder this time.

"Yeah? Hey! Sorry," Danny said, hurrying into the room with Lizard following on his heels.

"Oh, pizza? Sweet," Lizard said, reaching for the boxes and brushing past you as if an armed man wasn't standing in the middle of your home.

"Who the hell is this?!" you exclaimed, pointing towards the stranger while glaring at your brother.

"I told you already, he's a friend who's crashing on the couch for a few days," he replied, following Lizard into the kitchen, pizza the only concern at that point.

"My lady," the man began again, "please allow me to explain."

"My lady?" you repeated with a scowl. "I thought you guys stopped playing Dungeons and Dragons after high school."

"That's not -" Danny shook his head with a mouthful of pizza, "this is General Acacius."

"General?" you said quizzically, raising an eyebrow first at Danny, then towards the large man in your living room. "Be serious, Danny."

"He is!"

"I promise, what he says is true," the general chimed in, taking a step closer and stretching out his hand. You sighed and dropped your things onto your table.

"I'm too tired for this, it's been a long week."

The general frowned, hand still outstretched. "Daniel, please explain to your mistress she is not to challenge men above her lover's ranking."

You balked and gagged. "Lover?!"

"Mistress?" Danny said at the same time with a similar look of disgust. "Gross, dude, she's my sister."

Something in the general's face shifted when he learned you were siblings and he looked at you with renewed interest. "Ah, so you do not belong to another?"

You rolled your eyes and grabbed a plate, tossing a piece of white pizza on it before Danny and Lizard ate it all. "I don't have a husband, no. And that's a super sexist thing to say, I don't care if you're role playing or not."

Turning around to exit the kitchen, you were surprised to find the general somehow snuck up on you. Standing just a few feet away, you nearly ran into his strong, broad chest. He lifted a hand to tilt your chin up and whatever biting remark you had locked and loaded died on your tongue. You finally allowed yourself to get a good look at him. Dark, brooding eyes. Thick, brown curls dusted in grey, the color matching his beard. Sharp, angular nose and pouty lips.

Okay, so he was good looking. That didn't negate the weird dress and obvious mental illness.

"Your name?" he murmured softly, finger still hooked under your chin.

You cleared your throat and responded with your name, to which he nodded before dropping his hand. His gaze drifted to your plate and his nose wrinkled. "What is this you are eating?"

"Pizza?" you replied, squeezing up against your counter so you could get past him and get some space. "Help yourself."

"What is pizza?" you heard him ask Danny. You collapsed onto the couch with a groan and took a bite, fully not in the mood for whatever weird shit your brother had going on.

"It's Italian, you'll like it," Danny replied.

The three men trailed in from the kitchen to join you in the living room, your moment of peace and quiet over.

"This appears to be some bastardized version of flatbread," the general said, lifting the piece of pizza and giving it a tentative sniff. "What is this red? Some kind of pepper paste?"

"It's tomato sauce."

"Alright, enough with this bullshit please," you said, but the men ignored you.

You watched as he took a bite and almost instantly spit it out. "This is vile."

"Hey, that's authentic New York City pizza. Nothing vile about it," Lizard said. You pinched the bridge of your nose in frustration.

"General - I'm sorry, I'm not calling you that. What's your real name?"

"That is my real name," he answered, cocking his head at you from the other end of the couch.

"General Marcus Acacius," Danny told you, cursing under his breath when he dropped some cheese on his shirt.

"Okay, Marcus," you began, but he shook his head.

"It is quite inappropriate for you to -"

"I don't give a shit, I'm not calling you General like I'm in the fucking army!"

The room fell quiet as you glared at Marcus, daring him to say another word. When it became evident he wasn't going to, you took a deep breath and continued.

"If you don't like the sauce, there's another pizza in the kitchen without it. Go try that," you said, voice a little softer now. He nodded and rose to go find the white pizza, leaving just the three of you for the first time.

"What the fuck, Danny?!" you whispered angrily. "Why the hell is there a guy in a dress pretending he's a fucking general in my home?"

"He is a general," Danny whispered back. "From Ancient Rome. I'll explain everything later," he said, straightening up when Marcus's footsteps approached.

"This is far better. Thank you, my lady."

"Oh, look at that. You already have something in common," Lizard said with a fake, syrupy voice. "You both love gross pizza."

"Thought you just said authentic New York City pizza can't be gross?" you sneered.

"Boom! She got you, Lizard," Danny laughed. Marcus looked around the room, confused.

"You said your name was Victor, did you not?"

You burst out laughing, covering your mouth with a napkin.

"Lizard's just his nickname. His real name is Victor," Danny explained.

"Yeah. No one calls me Victor. Just like no one calls you Marcus," Lizard explained.

"Only those dearest to me are allowed to use that name," he explained. "Such as a parent or a lover." His eyes flickered up to you quickly before focusing on his pizza once again.

"Does that make you his lover now?" Lizard teased. You kicked a foot out and jabbed him in the hip.

"Shut up," you grumbled.

"Do you not follow the proper steps to obtain a lover in your land?" he asked, genuine curiosity painting his face. "It is much more than simply calling another by a name. If a man were to deem a woman acceptable, he would make an arrangement with her father to wed." He scratched his chin in thought for a moment before adding, "unless, of course, she is a whore."

Lizard and Danny doubled over, howling with laughter while you stared daggers at them both.

"Did I say something to warrant such laughter?" Marcus asked you. You rolled your eyes.

"No, you did not."

"Rule number one, General," Danny said, gasping for air and wiping the tears from his eyes. "Don't call girls whores."

Marcus looked taken aback.

"I meant no offense. A whore is a common profession where I am from. There is no shame in it."

"Alright, can we stop talking about whores?" you asked, exasperated.

"Yeah, good idea. Let's find you some clothes to wear and we'll set up the couch so you can sleep. It folds out, don't worry," Danny told Marcus.

"My tunic should suffice," Marcus said, glancing down at his clothes.

"Uh, not in New York, man. Might stick out a little," Lizard joked, then stood to take his plate back in the kitchen for seconds.

"Depends on what side of town you're on," you mumbled under your breath.

"You can borrow something of mine," Danny said, standing up to go to his room. "You're a little bigger than me but I think I have something that'll work."

You eyed Marcus up over your plate, taking in the finer details of his appearance. "Where are you from? Really?" you asked. He turned to you with a sigh.

"Rome."

"Come on. You can drop the act, they're gone," you said, narrowing your eyes at him.

"I promise, I am telling you the truth," he replied, his gaze boring into you so intensely that it left you spellbound for a moment. "Your brother and his comrade found me on the outskirts of the city with some... contraption. They said they would take me to Greece, however it is clear this is not Greece."

"A contraption?" you repeated nervously. Oh, fuck.

He nodded. "I had never seen anything like it. I do not know what happened but once I entered, there were bright lights and a loud crack and... I must have lost consciousness. I woke in your lounge, utterly confused."

"Shit," you whispered, putting your plate down so you could angrily scrub your face with your hands. Danny, although very irritating and far too dependent on you for basic survival, was incredibly gifted. His intelligence stunned his teachers since he was three years old. He was doing long division at five and became fluent in Spanish at seven. By the time he entered high school, he had grown extremely interested in science, where he met Lizard. For years you had witnessed failed experiments and fireballs in your backyard, but you saw all their successes, as well. Since they were fourteen, Danny and Lizard talked about time travel and you always brushed them off, even when they began to build different devices throughout the years that claimed they were on the verge of a breakthrough, but of course, nothing ever came of it.

Until now.

No, that was crazy. There's no way they actually travelled back in time to Ancient Rome and returned with a Roman general... right?

"Why were you going to Greece?" you asked, tiredly dropping your hands in your lap.

He paused for a moment and you could see the hesitation in his eyes. He opened his mouth to reply right when Danny emerged from his bedroom with an armful of different clothing options.

"We'll go shopping tomorrow and find something else that will fit," he said, sheepishly handing over the clothes. Marcus slowly reached out and set them down on the cushion next to him.

"Thank you."

"Hey, I'm gonna take off," Lizard said from the kitchen doorway.

"Yeah, alright. Hey!" Danny said, swiveling around before he left. "You'll be back tomorrow, right? I need your help with the... thing."

You narrowed your eyes in his direction but remained silent. Once Marcus was asleep, you planned on having a very heated conversation with your brother, so you saved that little tidbit for later.

"Yeah, sure thing, man."

You stood to clean up the leftovers while you listened to Danny explain the concept of a pull-out couch to Marcus, then after that, a bathroom. The more time that passed, the more nervous you became. What if this was real? Was it even possible?

Quietly, you stepped out from the kitchen. Marcus was sitting on the edge of the pull out mattress, hands clasped together between his knees as he stared blankly at the floor. For the first time, you felt bad for him. If everything he said was true, he had to have been so confused and scared.

"Hey," you said softly. He lifted his head with a jolt of surprise. "Here's some water," you said, offering him a plastic bottle. He took it and frowned. "You twist the top to open it," you explained, ignoring how ridiculous it felt to tell a grown man how to open a bottle of water.

"Thank you," he replied, setting it down on the floor next to his bed.

"Do you need anything else?"

He shook his head and gave you a small smile. "No, my lady. Thank you for your hospitality."

"You're welcome," you said shyly, inching towards the little hallway that led to your bedroom. "We'll get you back home, Marcus. Don't worry."

He swallowed and smiled again. "Of course."

You smiled back and awkwardly clapped your hands together. "Well, if you need anything at all, just knock on one of our doors."

He nodded and with a sigh, began to peel back the sheets.

"Good night, my lady," he said once your back was turned. You swiveled back around and gave him a little wave, his deep brown eyes looking breathtaking in the evening light.

"Good night."

Flustered, you knocked into the doorframe on your way back to your room. Cursing under your breath and rubbing your shoulder, you slipped behind your door, finally putting an end to your humiliation.

The next morning you sipped your coffee in your kitchen as you replayed the argument you had with Danny the night before once you were sure Marcus was asleep.

"You need to get him back home. Tomorrow, Danny," you had said sternly.

"There might be a slight hiccup with that," he replied, bracing himself for your anger. "The machine needs repairs."

"What the fuck do you mean?!" you seethed as your paced around his cluttered room.

"Don't worry, sis! We can fix it! But we just need a couple days."

"How many days?" you asked with a glare.

Danny shrugged. "Two. Three."

You sighed and pinched the bridge of your nose.

"A week, tops."

"A week?!"

"Shh! You'll wake him up!" he scolded, pointing angrily towards the door. "Lizard's coming over tomorrow, we'll get working on it right away. Something happened on impact when we returned, I didn't factor in modern day atmospheric pressure originally, but -"

"I don't give a shit what the reason is, you just need to fix it! You have no clue what the ramifications are by keeping him here! You could alter the course of history or something!"

"You watch too many movies," Danny chuckled, but quickly stopped and cleared his throat when he saw the look on your face. "I'll fix it. Promise."

The caffeine hadn't even had a chance to enter your bloodstream before Danny woke and dropped yet another problem onto your lap.

"Do you think you can take him shopping for some clothes today while me and Lizard work on this thing?" he asked as he poured cereal into a bowl.

"So now I'm running errands for you?" you snapped.

"C'mon, don't be like that," he replied as he put the carton of milk back in the fridge. The dynamic between you and your brother was wearing thin. It was always up to you to be the levelheaded one while he just allowed the wind to take him wherever it pleased, completely carefree while you harbored all the stress of basic responsibilities.

"Try to just enjoy the adventure for once," he added before messily scooping cereal into his mouth.

"Yeah, right," you grumbled under your breath before bringing your mug to your lips and taking another sip.

"So, is that a yes?"

"Fine," you said with a roll of your eyes. "If only so I can get away from this apartment and the inevitable chaos those repairs will bring. Just don't piss off my neighbors, okay?"

"Deal."

"Good day," you heard Marcus's deep voice rumble behind you. You jumped and swiveled around, gaze flickering down briefly to take in his borrowed clothes. Danny was right, he needed something that fit.

"Morning, General," Danny said with a grin. "Sleep well?"

"Surprisingly, yes. Even with all the noise outdoors... tell me, is it ever silent here?"

"No," you both said in unison. He nodded and looked down at his tunic, which was crumpled up in his fist.

"Do you have a servant I can give this to for washing?"

"That would be me," you said, stretching out your arm. Marcus hesitated for a moment.

"The lady of the house shouldn't have to perform such arduous tasks."

"I agree, yet here we are," you said, taking the tunic and tossing it over your shoulder. "I have to put in a load, anyway."

You changed your clothes and freshened up while listening to your brother scrape together some type of meal for Marcus that he found acceptable, then pressed the button on your tiny washing machine before heading back into the kitchen.

"Ready?"

Marcus glanced between you and Danny while chewing the last piece of a baguette.

"My sister's gonna take you shopping for some clothes," Danny explained. Marcus looked down at his attire and nodded.

"To the market, then?" he asked you, trailing after you as you tossed your bag over your shoulder and walked down the hallway towards the elevators.

"Something like that."

"I have plenty of denar," he said as you jabbed the call button.

"Denar?" you asked, cocking an eyebrow at him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small leather satchel filled with unfamiliar coins. You grinned and shook your head.

"Don't worry, I got it."

"Please, your hospitality has already been gracious enough," he said, following you into the elevator when it opened.

"If you can find someone who will take that, then be my guest," you said, tapping the lobby button. He was about to say something else when the doors closed and the car violently jolted, startling him.

"What is this?"

"It's an elevator. It lifts us up and down so we don't have to take the stairs."

His jaw hung open in disbelief until the doors slid open to reveal the lobby, then he broke out into a huge smile.

"Incredible."

But once he followed you out onto the busy New York City street, peppered with pedestrians, bicyclists, couriers, and a sea of vehicles, then his eyes practically bugged out of his head.

"I see now where all the noise comes from," he said to you, raising his voice a bit over the commotion as you walked. It was actually endearing to see him experience the city for the first time, something you took for granted every day leaves most people in awe. It was easy to forget that.

"Stick close," you said with a small smile when you saw him tip his head back to gaze up at the towering skyscrapers.

"What is your profession, then?" he asked as he walked by your side. You noticed with envy that others on the sidewalk veered out of his way, his massive shoulders and hulking frame no doubt the reason, instead of brushing past him, like what most do to you every day.

"I write for a fashion magazine."

"Oh, so you're a poet?" he asked, intrigued. You shook your head with a small laugh.

"No. I write about romance in the lifestyle section. I have a column every month on a different topic and I also pick three reader questions to answer and publish on the website every week."

It was clear he hardly understood what you were talking about, so you stopped at the nearest newsstand and grabbed your magazine. After paying, you ushered him over to a bench and sat down while you thumbed through it.

"Ah! Here we go," you said, proudly handing over the magazine and tapping on the corner of the page.

"'Are Soulmates Real'?" he read aloud the title before frowning at you. You nodded.

"Yeah, I talk about the idea of soulmates and how it's putting too much pressure on the modern woman to find this perfect partner when in reality, they don't exist."

"And how do you know this?" he asked, clearly amused.

"I don't, but I wrote from experience," you shrugged.

"So, since you have not found a soulmate, that means they do not exist?"

"No, it's an opinion, Marcus," you explained, "the magazine pays me for my opinion and outlook on things."

He sighed and closed the magazine with a shake of his head. "I am sorry you feel that way."

"Are you saying you believe in soulmates?" you asked.

"Well, I cannot say one way or another from experience, but I like to believe they exist, yes."

"Do you have a wife or family waiting for you back home?" The thought hadn't even occurred to you before now and you felt guilty, but he shook his head.

"My wife died many years ago during childbirth," he said sadly, and your heart plummeted. "She was young and I had just made rank, so her father arranged our marriage in order to ensure a safe and comfortable life for his only daughter." He looked down at the magazine in his hands but he wasn't really reading it. He was too lost in thought.

"She was with child very quickly after we wed. I had not even known her a year by the time she passed, but the time I had with her was enjoyable. I thought very much one day we would learn to love one another," he said, giving you a sad smile. "Was not meant to be."

"I'm so sorry," you said softly, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "That's horrible... I don't even know what to say."

"It was a long time ago now. I never did remarry, although I had many offers. I became entirely focused on war, fighting to keep Rome and her citizens safe. It is what I was meant to do," he said, exhaling loudly and looking around. "Is this what you feel you are meant to do?" he asked, holding up the magazine. You laughed, grateful for the change of subject.

"No, probably not."

He grinned and nodded in agreement. "Yes, I imagine you are destined for much more, my lady."

"You think so?" you asked, scrunching your nose self-consciously.

He nodded, his gaze drifting over your face solemnly.

"I do."

If elevators impressed Marcus, then the escalators within Bloomingdale's practically floored him. He was so enraptured with them that you had to nudge his shoulder to remind him to step forward before he tripped when you got to the top.

"This is unlike anything I have ever laid my eyes on," he said to you in wonder, his head rolling around on his shoulders as he gazed around at all the lights and signage.

"Yeah, Bloomingdale's is special," you said dreamily. "Sometimes I get to tag along with girls from work to pick out fashion samples for the magazine. It's always so much fun."

You led him over to the men's section and turned to study his broad frame. "You're probably an extra large," you said as you began to sift through the racks, picking out various shirts in different styles and colors and draping them over your arm. He watched you without saying a word, just occasionally feeling the material between his fingertips whenever he saw something that caught his eye. When you got to the pants, you paused and pursed your lips. Glancing around, you spotted a measuring tape left on one of the registers. Grabbing his hand in yours, you dragged him over and shoved the shirts in his arms.

"Here. Hold these while I measure your waist and inseam."

He frowned for a moment but did as you asked, then jumped when you wrapped your arms around his middle with the tape.

"Sorry, it will only take a second," you murmured, ignoring how muscular and firm he felt under your hands. You took note of the number and flushed when it came time to measure his inseam. You chewed on your lip and glanced around, searching for a worker to maybe do it instead, but none were nearby.

"Okay, I'm going to have to measure the length of your leg," you began to explain. "I need to... put my hand close to..." you trailed off and gestured vaguely towards his lap and it finally seemed to click.

"Oh," he said in surprise, glancing down. He cleared his throat and nodded but you could see the pink creeping up his neck.

"I'll be fast," you assured him, "unless you prefer I find someone else."

"No, that is quite alright," he told you, standing tall and tucking his hands behind his back. Glancing around the store once more, you fell to your knees with the measuring tape. You tried not to think about it, tried not to look, but his clothes were too snug as it was and it was right fucking there.

Jesus Christ, you had to get it together. You were not lusting after a time traveling Roman general in the middle of Bloomingdale's. But it was impossible to ignore the impressive looking bulge right at eye level.

"Okay," you said quickly, standing up so fast your head spun. "Got it, let's go."

You hurriedly dropped the measuring tape back on the counter and swiveled around, looking for men's pants while trying to hide how flustered you were. You grabbed a few pairs of jeans and khakis before adding them to Marcus's pile, and avoiding his eye, you pointed over to the corner.

"You can try them on in there."

You waited outside patiently, listening to him struggle with a zipper. You had to draw the line: there was no way you would help him with that. But when he emerged from the dressing room for approval wearing a nice fitting pair of jeans and a white polo shirt, you kind of missed those tight clothes from before. You gave him a smile and thumbs up and he grinned before stepping back into the dressing room. When he turned around and you saw his ass in those jeans, you tilted your head to the side and raised your eyebrows.

Okay, the new clothes weren't so bad, either.

You picked him out two pairs of pants, an assortment of shirts, and paid before going to the intimates floor to grab some underwear, socks, and pajamas. On the way to the men's section, you passed by some mannequins wearing lacy lingerie and robes. Marcus frowned and tugged on your elbow.

"What is that for?"

You glanced in the direction he was pointing and inwardly groaned.

"It's undergarments women wear," you explained, hoping to leave it at that, but he still had questions.

"What is the purpose of the colors if they are under your clothes?"

You sighed and pinched your nose. "It's for sex, okay?" you whispered to him, looking around quickly to make sure nobody could overhear you.

"Sex?" he repeated at full volume. You shushed him, your cheeks flaring with heat, but he just gave you a bewildered look. "Why must I be quiet?"

"We don't talk about sex in public here," you told him, voice still lowered. "It's inappropriate."

"Why on earth not?" he asked, but he kept his voice soft for your benefit as he followed you into the men's section. "Nothing is more natural or beautiful than sex."

"Yeah, well, I don't have all the answers, Marcus."

"And why would a woman drape herself in such garb? A woman's body is a work of art. It is meant to be worshiped and admired just as it is. One would not hang ornaments off a statue of Venus, so why would a woman -"

"I don't know, Marcus!" you said, grabbing a pack of boxers and then a pack of white socks. "Men just like it, I guess."

He scoffed and shook his head but chose not to say anything further when he picked up the agitation in your voice.

You paid for the rest of the clothes and handed him the bag to carry as you led him to the exit. "Are you hungry What do you usually eat around this time of day?"

"It varies. I quite like fish with some bread and cheese."

You thought about it for a moment before your face lit up and you snapped your fingers.

"I have an idea."

Right around the corner from Bloomingdale's was one of your favorite bagel places. You found a table outside and made him sit then hurried inside to order two lox bagels. You almost grabbed Diet Coke but then thought that might kill him, so instead you got two waters and met him back outside in less than ten minutes.

"Try this," was all you said, handing him a warm bagel wrapped in paper and smelling absolutely divine.

Carefully, he peeled the paper away and sniffed the bagel before taking a hesitant bite. You waited, your own bagel untouched, for his reaction. His eyes snapped up to yours and a slow smile spread across his face.

"This is magnificent."

You giggled and tore into the paper covering your own lunch. "I had a feeling you would like it. Fish, bread and cheese."

He nodded and took a bigger bite. "Very wise. Tell me," he said, wiping the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "How has no one asked your father for your hand in marriage? You are bright, strong and beautiful. I am shocked you are not taken."

You decided to let the taken comment go that time and swallowed your food before replying. "Our parents are dead, first of all. But secondly, even if someone was interested in marrying me, they wouldn't need to ask my father. They just ask the woman directly now."

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "My apologies. I was unaware of your parents' passing."

"That's okay," you shrugged. "It was a long time ago. Danny was a teenager and I had just graduated high school." You looked up at him, realizing he wouldn't understand what that meant. "I was nineteen. I had to grow up fast and help keep an eye on Danny," you settled on saying, figuring that would sum it up enough.

He nodded and looked down at his food, quietly thinking over what you said. "Has a man ever asked for your hand?" he asked before taking another bite of food.

You laughed. "Uh, no."

"Why is that humorous?"

You sighed and glanced around. "I haven't exactly dated many winners." He cocked an eyebrow at you and you added, "I seem to only attract assholes."

"Ah," he said in understanding. "I am attracted to you. Does this make me an... asshole?"

Your eyelids fluttered and you nearly choked on your water. "W-what?"

"I said, I am attracted -"

"No, I heard you, I just needed a second to process what you said," you told him, feeling your heart beat loudly in your chest. He tilted his head at you curiously.

"Does this surprise you?"

You laughed and fanned the back of your neck nervously. "Um, yes, a little. People don't usually go around just announcing when they're attracted to someone. They're a little more subtle than that."

"Oh. Have I made you uncomfortable? I do apologize," he said, his deep brown eyes softening as he gazed at you across the table.

"It's okay, I just didn't expect it," you chuckled, waving him off and focusing on your food with a stupid smile stretched across your face. He watched you eat for a moment, the corners of his mouth twitching as he replayed what you just told him.

"You did not say if you are attracted to me," he said, drawing your attention back up to him. "Is this because you are not, or are you being... subtle?"

You grinned and shook your head. "You have a weird way of flirting."

He smiled back, the creases next to his eyes deepening. "I told you. Where I am from, sex is not something to be ashamed of. It is enjoyable and discussed often. Unless one has devoted themselves to a life of celibacy."

Definitely not, you thought. He let the subject drop as he finished the rest of his lunch and sat back in his chair, looking around at the cars inching by and beeping their horns angrily. You remained quiet for a few minutes, debating on what to say, if you should say anything at all until you finally decided fuck it.

"I'm attracted to you, too."

His head swiveled in your direction and he grinned. "Thank you," he said sincerely.

You giggled in disbelief before you said, "you're welcome."

Something had shifted between you on the walk back to your apartment. It felt so different from just a few hours ago, and it wasn't just the shocking confession over lunch. You had learned a little more about each other, let the other in and shared personal details about your lives, trusting one another with your vulnerability. And for once, you didn't feel raw and exposed. Strangely, it felt like you could trust him. Maybe it was because you knew he would be gone in a few days and it didn't feel like you had much to lose.

However, when you got off the elevator and walked toward your apartment, the sounds of power tools and shouting coming from the other side of the door, Marcus stopped you. He plucked your hand from your side and brought your knuckles to his lips, brushing over them gently while maintaining eye contact, the entire moment making your hands tremble and your heart to flutter excitedly in your chest.

"Thank you for today, my lady. I had a lovely time with you."

You smiled shyly at him and looked down at the ground.

"Me, too," you replied softly.

And it was then you realized you very much might have something to lose after all.

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wolverigrl · 4 months ago

Text

Thirst Tweets

Hugh Jackman x reader (actress)

!Disclaimer! I’ve got a lot going on right now, and I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get back to writing. There will definitely be more parts, but not this week. I also have two oneshots saved that might go online this week, so don’t be surprised if you see them.

I'd be happy about some feedback and just a reminder to you, I have my requests open, so feel free sending some of your ideas! :)

Warnings: tiny bit of fluff and some swearing here and there

Enjoy!

Previous Part

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Returning to New York felt like waking up from a beautiful dream I never wanted to end. Sydney had been a paradise - sunshine, the salty breeze from the ocean, and Hugh. God, Hugh. We couldn't keep our hands off each other, behaving like love-drunk teenagers. Whether it was our sunset strolls by the harbor or cozy nights in, wrapped in blankets, we found ourselves growing closer every day. There was something magical about that time - like we were in a world of our own, free from distractions.

Hugh would sometimes visit his family, leaving me to explore Sydney on my own. I’d walk through the city, admiring the sights, feeling the warmth of the sun on my skin. But no matter where I went, I was always thinking about him. It wasn’t long before I’d be back at his place, sharing stories of my solo adventures while he teased me with that wicked smile.

Of course, the paparazzi had a field day. Every moment seemed to be caught on camera - whether we were laughing together at the beach, wandering the streets hand in hand, or lounging in the park. There were endless photos of us everywhere, but I didn't mind. Honestly, I found it kind of funny how we had become some sort of internet sensation. I had even started posting more pictures of Hugh on my socials - candid shots of him with funny, flirty captions. The fans ate it up, especially when I started liking and commenting on their fan edits of Hugh. They said I was fangirling hard, and maybe I was, but could you blame me? The man is perfect.

The hate we used to get was slowly dying down, too. People were starting to root for us. It felt good.

Today, though, was on a whole new level of fun. We were shooting a "Thirst Tweets" video, and it was as chaotic as you'd imagine. The energy in the studio was electric as we settled into the plush chairs, both of us trying to stifle our giggles before the chaos of "Thirst Tweets" began. I glanced over at Hugh, who looked far too calm for what was about to go down, his long fingers tapping lightly on his knee, his face carrying that familiar smirk that always made my heart race. It was like he knew exactly what was coming and how I’d react.

The first tweet was mine to read. I grabbed the small card from the pile and cleared my throat dramatically. “Okay, here we go…” I scanned the text quickly before bursting into laughter. “Oh my God, okay. ‘I would let y/n punch me in the face just to say I’ve been touched by perfection.’ ” I couldn’t help it - I snorted.

Hugh chuckled beside me, shaking his head. “We’re starting off strong, aren’t we?” he teased.

I leaned over, nudging him with my shoulder. “What can I say? I have violent fans.”

He grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Perfection though? Can’t argue with that." he said, giving me a wink that made my face heat up.

It was Hugh’s turn next. He grabbed his card, took a quick glance, and then raised an eyebrow at me. “Alright, here’s a good one. ‘I’d like to officially announce that Hugh’s arms should be declared a public service. Like, those things could end world hunger. Use them for good, sir.’ "

I let out a loud laugh, slapping my knee. “See, this is what I’m saying! They should be protected. Maybe insured.”

He flexed a little - just enough to make me roll my eyes - and grinned. “I’ll take it under consideration.” he joked. The crew behind the camera was already in stitches, but I could tell this was just the beginning.

The next tweet was handed again to Hugh, and he gave it a quick scan before bursting into laughter. "Oh, this one's good. 'Hugh, you can call me baby girl and tell me to sit down, and I would happily obey for the rest of my life.' "

I raised an eyebrow, trying to hold in my laughter. "I mean.. you do have that commanding presence."

He turned to me with a devilish grin, his voice deep and teasing. "You think I should try it out, love? Call you baby girl and see what happens?"

I immediately blushed, my laughter betraying how flustered I was. "Oh no, let's not give the fans more material!"

He chuckled, reaching over to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "Too late, baby."

He took the card with a dramatic flourish, his eyes quickly scanning it before he burst out laughing, almost choking on his words. “Oh no, this one’s for you, love. ‘Y/n really out here fangirling over Hugh like the rest of us. She’s one of us now.’ ”

I groaned, though I couldn’t hide my smile. "Listen, I am not fangirling!" I protested weakly, but Hugh gave me a look that said he didn’t believe a word of it.

"Oh, you totally are!" he teased, nudging me playfully. “You’re in deep.”

I shot back with a grin. “Okay, maybe I’m a little obsessed with you. Can you blame me?”

The crew behind the camera was losing it by now, and I could hear some of them whispering amongst themselves, probably trying to stifle their own laughter. But we were just getting started.

I grabbed another card, still grinning. "Hugh could choke me with his biceps, and I'd die happy."

Hugh started laughing again, clearly enjoying himself. "There's a lot of love for my arms in this, isn't there?"

I looked at him, pretending to be serious. "I mean, have you seen your arms?"

He flexed again, playing it up for the camera. "I guess I have no choice but to deliver." I snorted loudly and leaned against him while laughing and hiding my face behind my right hand.

Hugh took the next tweet, shaking his head in amusement. “Alright, here’s a spicy one. ‘Hugh, please, just throw me against a wall. Like, I’m begging you.’” He read it in such a deadpan tone that I nearly fell out of my chair laughing.

He raised an eyebrow at me as I tried to compose myself. “Well?”

I fanned myself dramatically. “That’s a strong request, but relatable."

Hugh opened his mouth to say something but instead snorted with laughter and shaking his head. "Unbelievable."

I picked up the next card, already giggling before I even read it aloud. " 'Y/n’s laugh could cure my depression, I swear. She could rob a bank and I’d still be like, wow, what a cute laugh!' "

Hugh looked over at me, grinning. “See? You do have a cute laugh.”

I shrugged, trying to play it cool even though my cheeks were burning. “I mean, if it works for bank robberies, maybe I should test it out.”

He gave me a look, smirking. “I’m not bailing you out.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to." I replied, laughing. “I’d just charm my way out of it.”

I grabbed the next card from the pile, glancing over at Hugh before reading it aloud. "Y/n, how do I sign up to be your sugar baby? I don't need much - just a little attention and maybe to sleep on Hugh's abs as a pillow."

Hugh let out a loud laugh, his eyes widening. "My abs, huh?" He leaned back, pretending to flex for a moment before winking at the camera. "I didn't realize they had so many applications."

I rolled my eyes playfully, unable to hide my grin. "I mean, you have to admit, they're not wrong. Those abs could solve a lot of problems."

He smirked, leaning in closer to me, his voice dropping a bit. "Is that what you think about every time you cuddle me, baby? Using me as your personal pillow?"

I nudged him, trying not to laugh. "What can I say? I'm resourceful."

The next few tweets were just as wild, some downright inappropriate but in a way that had us both cracking up. Hugh read a particularly bold one aloud: " 'Hugh in that leather jacket… sir, I’m on my knees. What do I need to do to get you to ruin my life?' " He paused, glancing over at me with a devilish grin. “What do they need to do?”

I covered my face, laughing into my hands. “Oh God. This is escalating so much!”

He looked at the camera and lowering his voice. “Maybe just say ‘please?’ ”

The crew burst out laughing again, and I could see the camera shaking slightly as the person filming struggled to keep it steady. By this point, even the sound guy was wiping away tears of laughter.

Hugh grabbed the next tweet from the pile, his eyes quickly scanning it before a sly grin spread across his face.

"Okay," he began, in that rich voice that could melt butter, "Here’s a fun one: ‘Hugh Jackman could breathe in my direction, and I’d immediately drop to my knees, ready to serve.’"

I let out an involuntary snort, burying my face in my hands. "Oh my!" I gasped between fits of giggles. "They went straight for it!"

Hugh, trying to maintain composure, turned toward the camera with a half smile. "Well, I appreciate the enthusiasm." he said, and then turned to me. "Is that something I should be adding to my skill set?"

I swatted his arm playfully, still laughing. "Please, let’s not turn this into a live demonstration."

Hugh chuckled and nodded towards the camera. “Fair enough. But hey, I’m flattered."

I grabbed the next tweet, scanning it quickly and feeling my face heat up even more. "Oh, this one’s good. ‘Y/n’s legs are so long, they could wrap around me twice, and I’d happily suffocate.’"

Hugh let out a low whistle, his eyes flicking down to my legs and back up to my face with a teasing grin. "I mean, they’re not wrong." he quipped, making the entire crew laugh again.

I gave him a playful serious look. "Careful, you might encourage more of this behavior."

He laughed, raising his hands in surrender. "Too late."

I passed the next tweet to him, still trying to suppress my laughter. Hugh's eyebrows shot up when he read it. “Oh, wow, okay. ‘Hugh could literally break me in half, and I’d say thank you.’” He paused, a devilish grin creeping onto his face as he looked up at me. “I’m sensing a theme here.”

The crew behind the camera was howling at this point again, and I could barely breathe through the laughter. "I mean… who wouldn't be thankful?" I teased, raising an eyebrow at him.

Hugh laughed, leaning back in his chair, clearly enjoying himself. "Should I be concerned for you people, or…?”

"Concerned, maybe. Grateful, definitely,” I replied, still giggling.

He handed me the next card, his smirk widening. “Your turn. Let’s see if it gets wilder.”

I took the card and immediately had to press my lips together to keep from bursting out laughing. “Oh God, here we go again… ‘Y/n could ruin my life, and I’d thank her by paying her rent for the rest of the year.’ ”

Hugh’s laugh boomed across the room, his head falling back as he tried to catch his breath. “Well, if you’re ever looking for a side hustle…”

I gave him a playful nudge. "Hey, rent’s expensive in New York. I might just take them up on that."

He wiped away a tear of laughter, still grinning. “You’d definitely have no shortage of offers.”

Another tweet landed in Hugh’s hands, and he gave it a quick read before raising an eyebrow at me. “Oh jeez, we’re diving straight into the deep end now. ‘Hugh Jackman’s voice is so hot, I’d let him read the phone book to me while I climax.’”

My jaw dropped. "NO." I immediately covered my face with my hands, laughing so hard. I would lie, if I'd say my body doesn't hurt of laughter by now.

Hugh, ever the professional, barely flinched. He just gave the camera a deadpan look. “The phone book? Really? That’s a bit outdated, but… hey, I’m here for it.”

I peeked at him from behind my hands, still laughing uncontrollably. “You’re not gonna let that one go, are you?”

He winked at me, his voice dropping an octave. “If that’s what the people want, who am I to deny them?”

I playfully shoved him, still blushing furiously, but loving every second of the ridiculousness. “We need to talk about boundaries later." I joked.

He shot me a grin. “Boundaries? What are those?”

I took a deep breath, composing myself enough to grab the next tweet. The second I read it, I was gone again. “Oh, this one’s golden. ‘Y/n, I will pay you $1,000 to sit on my face. I don’t even need to breathe. Just consider it.’”

Hugh burst out laughing, clutching his chest and wiping tears from his eyes. “A thousand dollars? Only? That’s a bargain!”

I covered my face again, my shoulders shaking with laughter. “This is officially out of control.”

Hugh leaned in closer, his eyes dancing with mischief. “Come on. You’re underselling yourself. You’re worth at least $10,000.”

I laughed so hard I almost fell off my chair. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, babe.”

By this point, the crew behind the cameras was barely keeping it together. The laughter was contagious, and it felt like the entire room was on the verge of tears from how absurd the tweets were getting.

Hugh, still grinning, took the next card, glancing at it before giving me a cheeky look. "Alright, last one for me. ‘Hugh, you could crush me between your thighs, and I’d die a happy person.’”

I dissolved into laughter again, leaning back in my chair. "See, this is what I’ve been saying!" I managed between giggles.

Hugh turned to the camera, looking far too amused. “I’m sensing a lot of… very creative fans.”

I wiped away tears of laughter, still grinning. “Creative is one word for it.”

With that, the video wrapped up, and the crew finally stopped laughing long enough to give us a round of applause. Hugh’s charm and my endless giggling made for the perfect combination, and I could tell this video was going to go viral the second it dropped.

One of the cameramen approached us, grinning. “I’ve been doing this for years, and that was easily the funniest shoot I’ve ever been a part of.”

Hugh smiled, thanking him, while I nodded in agreement. “That was insane!” I said, still feeling the buzz of excitement. “I don’t think I’ve ever laughed that hard.”

After the shoot, we headed back to Hugh’s place to get ready for dinner. Ryan and Blake were coming over with their kids and dogs, and Hugh was in charge of cooking, much to his delight. He loved being in the kitchen, and it was one of those little things about him that always made me swoon.

While he started prepping in the kitchen, I disappeared into the bathroom to get ready. I slipped into something simple but nice, touching up my makeup before making my way back to Hugh. He had his back turned, fully focused on whatever he was chopping up, so I tiptoed up behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist, leaning my head against his back.

He jumped, clearly startled, but then relaxed into my embrace. "You nearly gave me a heart attack!" he chuckled, setting down the knife.

I grinned, squeezing him tighter. "Sorry, couldn’t resist." My hands slid over his chest as I pressed closer. "You look ridiculously good in that shirt, by the way."

He glanced down at himself - just a casual button up and jeans - but it worked for him in a way that made my heart race. “Oh yeah?” he asked, turning his head slightly to look at me with a playful smirk.

“Yeah. Like.. annoyingly good." I teased, letting my fingers linger on the fabric. “Distractingly good. It's kind of a problem.”

He turned fully then, wrapping his arms around my waist, and leaned in close, his voice low. “Maybe we should skip dinner then?"

I bit my lip, laughing softly as I pushed against his chest. "Nice try. We’re not blowing off dinner with Blake and Ryan. You know they’d never let us hear the end of it."

Before we could get any further into our flirt, the doorbell rang, and we both groaned. The Reynolds were right on time, of course.

With one last grin at each other, we reluctantly pulled apart. Hugh grabbed a towel to wipe his hands before we made our way to the door. When we opened it, we were greeted by a whirlwind of chaos - Ryan with the kids and Blake holding onto the dogs. It was loud and warm, the kind of energy that made you feel instantly at home.

Blake gave me a tight hug while Ryan and Hugh exchanged their usual friendly banter. We all gathered in the dining room, Hugh finishing up in the kitchen while Blake and I set the table, chatting and laughing about everything and nothing.

Dinner was filled with easy conversation, laughter, and the occasional bark from the dogs. Hugh caught my eye from across the table more than once, and each time, I couldn’t help but smile. This was our life now - full of love, friends, and shared moments that felt like they could last forever.

And honestly? I wouldn’t change a thing.

---------------------------------------------------

@spectorrrhgf @tinawantstobeadoll @appetencyfortacos @weskerussy @kellyxo1 @larkkyoris @shukirschtein14 @corvusmorte @carefree-flowerchild @rexmeshlasblog @melmel-fandom @needz1nk @nonamevenus @morganlolitta @angelofthorr @pickuptruck01 @inlovewithcharmers @gaulty74 @mega-kittyglitter-1

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bratzkoo · 3 months ago

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yours, always and forever | jeonghan

Author: bratzkoo | beta read by: @spnyin Pairing: perfumer! jeonghan x estrange wife! reader Genre: fluff, angst Rating: PG-15 Word count: 5.9k Warnings/note: went on a shopping trip with my mom and i cried when i smelled rose kabuki by dior. Happy National Boyfriend's Day to our boyfriend, Jeonghan.

summary: Perfumer Yoon Jeonghan took the Perfume industry by storm with his intriguing perfume names that seems to be inspired by one specific person which makes the industry question, who is he even naming his creations after? Only Y/N, Jeonghan’s estrange wife knows the answer.

taglist (hit me up if you wanna be added): @escoupseu , @yanabaaaaaaarysheva , @spnyin , @sousydive , @gyuguys , @gyubakeries

requests are open, but you can just say hi! | masterlist

The soft glow of the setting sun painted the New York skyline in hues of gold and pink, a stark contrast to the sleek, modern interior of the penthouse apartment where Yoon Jeonghan stood, gazing out at the city he'd conquered. In his hand, a delicate crystal glass held a swirl of amber liquid, its aroma mingling with the lingering scents that always clung to him—a symphony of olfactory notes that had become his signature.

Jeonghan took a sip of his drink, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat. His eyes, dark and intense, reflected the city lights beginning to twinkle in the twilight. At thirty-two, he was at the pinnacle of his career, a prodigy in the world of perfumery, and the toast of the fashion and beauty industries. For the third year in a row, the title of Perfumer of the Year sat comfortably on his shoulders, a crown he wore with a mixture of pride and nonchalance that only added to his allure.

The gentle ping of his phone drew his attention away from the view. Another congratulatory message, no doubt. They had been pouring in all day, ever since the announcement of his latest triumph. Jeonghan ignored it, choosing instead to walk over to his workspace—a sprawling, custom-designed lab that took up nearly half of his living area.

Here, amidst the orderly chaos of beakers, pipettes, and countless vials of essences and extracts, was where the magic happened. This was where he crafted the scents that had taken the world by storm, perfumes that didn't just smell divine but told stories, evoked memories, and stirred emotions in ways that left critics and consumers alike in awe.

Jeonghan's fingers trailed over the labels of his latest collection, a small smile playing on his lips as he read each name aloud:

"You, in the Garden."

"You, in Greece."

"You, in the Club Holding Your Favorite Drink."

"You, in New York."

Each name was a whisper of the past, a fragment of a story that the public could only guess at. And guess they did. Entire forums were dedicated to deciphering the meaning behind Jeonghan's enigmatic perfume names. Who was this mysterious 'you'? A lover? A muse? A figment of the perfumer's vivid imagination?

Speculation ran rampant. Some theorized it was a marketing ploy, a clever way to personalize each scent for the wearer. Others believed Jeonghan was leaving breadcrumbs, telling his own story through these olfactory chapters. The more romantic souls insisted it was an ode to a lost love, each perfume a memory crystallized in scent.

If only they knew.

Jeonghan's smile faded as he picked up the bottle of "You, in New York." The weight of it in his hand felt heavier than it should, laden with memories he both cherished and tried to forget. He uncapped it, bringing it to his nose and inhaling deeply.

Notes of crisp apple and bergamot gave way to a heart of rose and jasmine, grounded by a base of sandalwood and vanilla. But beneath these carefully orchestrated notes lay something else, something only he could detect—the ghost of her perfume, the one she wore on that last night.

Across the city, in a modest but charming brownstone in Brooklyn, Y/N sat cross-legged on her bed, surrounded by discarded wrapping paper and birthday cards. The celebration had been small but joyful, a gathering of the close friends who had become her support system over the past few years. As the night wound down and the last guest departed, she found herself alone with her thoughts and the pile of gifts yet to be properly examined.

One box in particular caught her eye. It was elegant, wrapped in matte black paper with a single silver ribbon. There was no card, no indication of who it was from. Curiosity piqued, Y/N carefully untied the ribbon and peeled back the paper.

Her breath caught in her throat as she revealed the contents. Nestled in a bed of black satin was a bottle she recognized all too well, even though she had never held it before. The clean lines of the glass, the minimalist label with its distinctive handwritten font—it was unmistakably one of Jeonghan's creations.

With trembling hands, Y/N lifted the bottle. "You, in New York," she read aloud, her voice barely above a whisper. A humorless laugh escaped her lips. How fitting, how cruelly ironic that of all his perfumes, this would be the one to find its way to her.

New York. The city where dreams came true and hearts were broken. The city where, five years ago, she had celebrated her last birthday with Jeonghan. It had been magical—a surprise weekend getaway, a whirlwind of Broadway shows, candlelit dinners, and long walks through Central Park. It was the last time she remembered feeling truly, incandescently happy.

It was also the weekend that marked the beginning of the end.

Y/N uncapped the bottle, hesitating for just a moment before bringing it to her nose. The scent hit her like a wave, transporting her instantly back to that weekend. She could almost feel the crisp autumn air on her skin, hear the bustling streets, see Jeonghan's smile as he pulled her close on top of the Empire State Building.

Unbidden, tears began to fall, leaving glistening trails down her cheeks. Five years. Five years since she had spoken to him, seen him, been in the same room as him. And yet, with one carefully crafted scent, he could still reach across that divide and touch her very soul.

They weren't divorced—the paperwork sat untouched in a drawer in her study, a task neither of them seemed able to bring themselves to complete. But they might as well have been strangers for all the communication that passed between them. Estranged was the word the media used when they bothered to mention her at all. Jeonghan's mysterious wife, who had disappeared from the public eye as swiftly and suddenly as Jeonghan had risen to fame.

Y/N set the bottle on her nightstand, unable to put it away but unwilling to hold it any longer. She reached for her phone, scrolling through the countless birthday messages until she found the one she was looking for. It was from her best friend, Mina:

"Hey birthday girl! Hope you loved all your gifts. That last one... the perfume. I hope it wasn't too much. When I saw it, I just thought... well, maybe it was time. You can't run from the past forever, Y/N. Call me if you need to talk. Love you!"

So it had been Mina. Y/N wasn't sure whether to thank her friend or curse her for this unexpected trip down memory lane. She fell back onto her pillows, staring at the ceiling as her mind raced.

Did Jeonghan know his perfume had found its way to her? Did he still think of her when he created these scents? Was she the 'you' in every bottle, or had someone else taken her place in his heart and his art?

Questions she had buried for years bubbled to the surface, demanding attention. Y/N closed her eyes, willing sleep to come and provide a temporary escape. But the scent of "You, in New York" lingered in the air, a persistent reminder of all that had been and all that was lost.

Meanwhile, in his penthouse, Jeonghan had moved from his lab to his home office. The wall opposite his desk was covered in framed magazine covers and articles, a testament to his meteoric rise in the industry. His eyes, however, were fixed on a single frame tucked away in the corner of his desk. It was turned face down, but he knew every detail of the photograph it held—him and Y/N, laughing and in love, on their wedding day.

He reached for it, hesitating for a moment before picking it up and turning it over. They looked so young, so full of hope and dreams. Jeonghan traced the outline of Y/N's face with his finger, wondering not for the first time where she was, what she was doing, if she ever thought of him.

A notification on his computer screen drew his attention. It was an email from his publicist, marked urgent:

"Jeonghan,

The press is buzzing about your win and the launch of 'You, in New York.' Vogue wants an exclusive interview, and they're particularly interested in the inspiration behind your perfume names. I've held them off so far, but we need to give them something. The mysterious artist angle only works for so long.

Also, there's been some renewed interest in your personal life. A few gossip blogs have dug up old photos of you and Y/N. Nothing scandalous, but we should be prepared for questions.

Let me know how you want to handle this.

- Somin"

Jeonghan leaned back in his chair, a frown creasing his brow. He had known this day would come eventually. The perfume industry thrived on stories, on the personalities behind the scents. He had managed to maintain an air of mystery for years, letting his creations speak for themselves. But now, with his continued success and the increasingly personal nature of his perfume names, the world wanted more.

How could he possibly explain the truth? That each perfume was a love letter, a memory, a piece of his heart poured into a bottle? That 'You, in the Garden' was born from lazy Sunday mornings spent in their tiny apartment's rooftop garden, Y/N's laughter mingling with the scent of herbs and flowers? That 'You, in Greece' captured the essence of their honeymoon, sun-kissed skin and salty air and the intoxicating feeling of being young and in love?

And 'You, in New York'... Jeonghan's gaze drifted back to the photograph. Their last happy moment, preserved in glass and scent. He had poured every ounce of his skill into that perfume, trying to capture not just the smells of the city, but the feeling of that weekend—the joy, the love, and the bittersweet edge of what was to come.

He picked up his phone, thumb hovering over Y/N's contact. He hadn't deleted it, couldn't bring himself to erase that last tangible connection. But he hadn't used it either, not in five long years. What would he even say?

"I'm sorry"?

"I miss you"?

"Every scent I create is a desperate attempt to hold onto the memory of us"?

Jeonghan set the phone down, leaving the call unmade. Instead, he turned back to his computer and began to type a response to his publicist:

"Somin,

Set up the Vogue interview. I'll give them the story they want.

As for my personal life, it remains personal. No comments on old photos or relationships.

- Jeonghan"

He hit send before he could second-guess himself. It was time to give the public a peek behind the curtain, to feed the curiosity that had been building for years. He would craft a story, something romantic and mysterious enough to satisfy the masses without revealing the raw, painful truth.

After all, isn't that what he did best? Create beautiful illusions, capture feelings in a bottle, tell stories through scent? This would just be another performance, another carefully constructed facade.

But as Jeonghan stood to pour himself another drink, his eyes fell once more on the photograph of him and Y/N. For a moment, the mask slipped, and a look of profound sadness crossed his face. All the success, all the accolades, all the adoration from fans around the world—none of it filled the Y/N-shaped hole in his heart.

In the quiet of his luxurious apartment, surrounded by the fruits of his success, Yoon Jeonghan—three-time Perfumer of the Year, creator of the most sought-after fragrances in the world—had never felt more alone.

As the night deepened, two souls on opposite sides of the city lay awake, each haunted by memories and might-have-beens. The scent of "You, in New York" lingered in the air, a fragrant bridge across the chasm that separated them. Neither knew that this birthday, this perfume, this moment of remembrance, was about to set in motion a chain of events that would force them to confront their past and decide their future.

The sleek, modernist interior of Vogue's New York office buzzed with nervous energy as staff scurried about, making last-minute preparations. Today was no ordinary day—they were about to interview Yoon Jeonghan, the enigmatic perfumer who had captivated the fashion world with his mysterious creations.

Jeonghan sat in the makeup chair, his eyes closed as the artist applied a light touch of powder to his already flawless skin. He exuded an aura of calm, but beneath the surface, his mind raced. This interview was a calculated risk, a chance to satisfy the public's curiosity while maintaining the mystique that had become his trademark.

"Mr. Yoon, we're ready for you," a young assistant called, clipboard clutched to her chest.

Jeonghan opened his eyes, meeting his reflection in the mirror. He adjusted his tie—a deep, midnight blue that brought out the intensity of his gaze—and stood. With a deep breath, he stepped into the lion's den.

The interviewer, a sharp-eyed woman named Clara, greeted him with a professional smile. "Mr. Yoon, thank you for joining us. Shall we begin?"

As the cameras rolled, Clara launched into her questions, starting with the safe and expected before gradually probing deeper.

"Your latest fragrance, 'You, in New York,' has taken the world by storm," Clara said, leaning forward slightly. "Can you tell us about the inspiration behind it?"

Jeonghan's lips curved into a small smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "New York is a city of dreams and memories," he began, his voice smooth and measured. "I wanted to capture the essence of a perfect moment in time—the crisp air of a fall evening, the excitement of possibility, the bittersweet beauty of a fleeting experience."

"And the 'you' in the title?" Clara pressed. "Your fragrances all seem to be addressing someone specific. Is there a story there?"

For a fraction of a second, Jeonghan's composure slipped. A flicker of something—pain? longing?—crossed his face before the mask slid back into place. "The 'you' is everyone and no one," he said carefully. "It's the wearer of the perfume, the object of desire, the memory of a love lost or yet to be found. I believe that the most personal stories are often the most universal."

As the interview continued, Jeonghan wove a tale of inspiration drawn from travels, fleeting encounters, and imagined romances. It was a beautiful story, crafted as carefully as his perfumes. But those who knew him best might have noticed the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers occasionally twitched as if reaching for something—or someone—just out of grasp.

---

The publication of the Vogue interview sent shockwaves through the fashion and beauty world. Social media exploded with theories and interpretations of Jeonghan's words. Fan forums dissected every sentence, looking for hidden meanings and clues about the mysterious muse behind his creations.

@ScentObsessed tweeted: "OMG, did you catch how his voice changed when talking about 'You, in New York'? There's definitely a real story there! #YoonJeonghan #PerfumeMystery"

A popular beauty vlogger released a 20-minute video analyzing Jeonghan's body language during the interview, claiming to have spotted at least five instances where he seemed to be holding back tears.

Even serious fashion critics couldn't resist speculating. A piece in WWD posed the question: "Is Yoon Jeonghan's entire oeuvre an olfactory autobiography? The clues hidden in his fragrances."

---

Across the city, Y/N sat at her kitchen table, a cup of coffee growing cold beside her as she stared at her laptop screen. The Vogue article was open, Jeonghan's face looking back at her from a series of artfully shot photographs.

She had promised herself she wouldn't read it. Had sworn she was past all this, that she had moved on. But curiosity—and perhaps something deeper, something she wasn't ready to name—had gotten the better of her.

Now, as she read his carefully crafted words, Y/N felt a complex mix of emotions churning inside her. Anger at the half-truths, sadness at the memories his words evoked, and a traitorous flutter of her heart at the moments where she could see through his facade to the man she once knew so well.

A knock at the door startled her out of her reverie. Y/N closed the laptop quickly, as if hiding evidence of a crime, before going to answer.

"Ms. Y/N?" A woman with a press badge stood in the hallway, notepad in hand. "I'm Mia from Style Weekly. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about Yoon Jeonghan's latest interview."

Y/N felt the blood drain from her face. "I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about," she said, moving to close the door.

The reporter's foot blocked the doorway. "Please, just a moment. Your connection to Mr. Yoon is a matter of public record. Surely you must have some insight into the inspirations behind his work?"

"No comment," Y/N managed, her voice strangled. She pushed the door closed with more force, hearing the reporter's muffled protests from the other side.

Leaning against the door, Y/N slid to the floor, her heart pounding. It was happening again. The life she had carefully rebuilt, separate from Jeonghan and his world of glitz and glamour, was threatening to crumble around her.

---

In his penthouse, Jeonghan paced back and forth, phone pressed to his ear. "Somin, I thought we agreed to keep my personal life out of this," he said, frustration evident in his voice.

His publicist's calm tones came through the speaker. "Jeonghan, we did our best, but you have to understand. The public is hungry for this. Your story, the mystery—it's what sells. The interview was a huge success."

"At what cost?" Jeonghan muttered, more to himself than to Somin.

After ending the call, he walked to his workspace, surrounded by the tools of his trade. His fingers trailed over the bottles of his creations, lingering on "You, in New York."

For a moment, he allowed himself to remember—truly remember, not the sanitized version he had presented to the world. He saw Y/N's smile as they watched the sunset from the Top of the Rock, felt the warmth of her hand in his as they strolled through Central Park.

Almost without conscious thought, his hand reached for his phone. Y/N's contact information stared back at him, unchanged after all these years. His thumb hovered over the call button.

A war raged inside him. The desire to hear her voice, to explain, to apologize, warred with the fear of rejection, of reopening old wounds.

In the end, he set the phone down, the call unmade. But the desire, the need, lingered.

---

"Y/N, have you seen this?" Mina's voice came through the phone, excitement evident. "Jeonghan's Vogue interview. Girl, he's talking about you."

Y/N sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Mina, please. You know I don't want to hear about—"

"No, listen," Mina interrupted. "He talks about a moment in New York, watching the sunset from a rooftop garden. That was you two, wasn't it? On your last birthday together?"

Y/N's breath caught. She remembered that evening with painful clarity—the golden light, the gentle breeze, the feeling that everything was perfect. It was mere days before it all fell apart.

"It doesn't matter," Y/N said, but her voice lacked conviction.

"Honey," Mina said gently, "I think it does. He's been telling your story all along, in every bottle. Maybe... maybe it's time to tell yours."

After hanging up, Y/N found herself once again staring at the bottle of "You, in New York." She uncapped it, letting the scent envelop her. In that moment, she allowed herself to truly feel everything she had been suppressing for years.

The realization hit her like a wave: Jeonghan hadn't forgotten. Every perfume, every story, was a message in a bottle, cast out into the world in hopes that someday, somehow, it would reach her.

---

The charity gala was in full swing, the cream of New York society mingling amidst the glittering decor of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Jeonghan moved through the crowd, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries, the perfect image of the successful artist.

He was in the middle of a conversation with a fashion designer when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he found himself face to face with an old friend—one he shared with Y/N.

"Jeonghan," the friend said, a strange mix of emotions playing across their face. "It's been too long."

As they talked, catching up on the years that had passed, Jeonghan found himself hungry for any scrap of information about Y/N. He tried to be subtle, but his old friend saw right through him.

"She's doing well, Jeonghan," they said softly. "She's strong. But... I think she misses you too."

The words hit Jeonghan like a physical blow. He excused himself, making his way to a quiet corner of the museum. His carefully constructed world felt like it was shifting beneath his feet.

Across the city, Y/N was experiencing a similar upheaval. A mutual friend had let slip that Jeonghan had asked about her, that he still kept a photo of them on his desk.

As the night wore on, both Jeonghan and Y/N found themselves standing at a crossroads. The walls they had built, the distance they had maintained, suddenly seemed more like obstacles than protection.

Unbeknownst to each other, they both reached for their phones at nearly the same moment. Fingers hovering over screens, hearts pounding, they stood on the precipice of a decision that could change everything.

In the air, the faint scent of "You, in New York" lingered, a reminder of what was lost and what, perhaps, could still be found.

The stage was set. The next move was theirs.

The Autumn chill nipped at Y/N's skin as she stood outside the small café, her hands shoved deep into her coat pockets. Her eyes darted nervously up and down the street, searching for a familiar face she hadn't seen in years. Her heart raced, a mix of anticipation and fear coursing through her veins.

She almost jumped when her phone buzzed. A text from Jeonghan: "I'm here."

Y/N's breath caught in her throat as she spotted him rounding the corner. Jeonghan looked much the same as she remembered, yet somehow different. His hair was styled differently, and he carried himself with a weariness that hadn't been there before. But his eyes—those eyes that had once looked at her with such love—were as intense as ever.

Their gazes locked, and for a moment, the busy New York street faded away. It was just the two of them, standing on opposite sides of a chasm five years in the making.

Jeonghan reached her first, stopping a few feet away. "Y/N," he said, his voice a mix of relief and uncertainty.

"Jeonghan," she replied, surprised at how steady her own voice sounded.

An awkward silence fell between them, years of unspoken words and suppressed emotions creating an almost tangible barrier.

"Should we..." Jeonghan gestured towards the café, and Y/N nodded, grateful for the suggestion.

Inside, they found a quiet corner booth. The warm, coffee-scented air was a stark contrast to the tension between them. They ordered—an Americano for him, a latte for her, just like old times—and then faced each other across the small table.

"You look well," Jeonghan said, his fingers fidgeting with a sugar packet.

Y/N managed a small smile. "So do you. I... I've seen your interviews. Congratulations on all your success."

Jeonghan's face tightened almost imperceptibly. "Thank you. I hear you're doing well too. Teaching, right?"

She nodded. "Yeah, literature at NYU. It's... it's good."

Another silence fell, heavier this time. Y/N took a sip of her latte, using the moment to gather her thoughts.

"Why did you want to meet, Jeonghan?" she finally asked, setting her cup down perhaps a bit too forcefully.

Jeonghan looked up, meeting her gaze directly for the first time since they sat down. "I... I missed you, Y/N. Every day for five years, I've missed you."

The raw honesty in his voice caught Y/N off guard. She felt tears pricking at the corners of her eyes and blinked them back furiously.

"You missed me?" she repeated, a hint of bitterness creeping into her tone. "You're the one who left, Jeonghan. You chose your career over us."

Jeonghan flinched as if he'd been slapped. "I know," he said softly. "And I've regretted it every day since."

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, familiar bottle. Y/N's breath hitched as she recognized it—"You, in New York."

"Every scent, every name," Jeonghan continued, his voice thick with emotion, "they were all for you. About you. My way of holding onto what we had, what I threw away."

Y/N stared at the bottle, memories flooding back. The laughter, the love, the pain—it all came rushing back in a dizzying whirl.

"I thought I was protecting you," Jeonghan said. "The pressure, the spotlight—it was destroying us. I thought... I thought if I let you go, you could have a normal life. Be happy."

"That wasn't your choice to make," Y/N said, her voice barely above a whisper. "You should have talked to me. We could have figured it out together."

Jeonghan nodded, running a hand through his hair in a gesture so familiar it made Y/N's heart ache. "I know that now. God, Y/N, I know. I was young and stupid and scared. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I was just a coward."

Y/N felt the walls she'd built around her heart begin to crumble. She reached out, almost unconsciously, and took the perfume bottle from Jeonghan's hand. As she did, their fingers brushed, sending a jolt of electricity through both of them.

"I tried to hate you," Y/N admitted, her thumb tracing the label of the bottle. "I tried so hard to forget, to move on. But then I'd catch a whiff of one of your perfumes, or see your face on a magazine cover, and it all came flooding back."

Jeonghan leaned forward, his eyes pleading. "I know I have no right to ask this, but... is there any chance? For us? I'm not the same man I was five years ago. I've learned, I've grown. And I know now that nothing—no amount of success or fame—means anything without you."

Y/N closed her eyes, feeling tears slip down her cheeks. When she opened them again, she saw that Jeonghan's eyes were also wet.

"I don't know," she said honestly. "You hurt me, Jeonghan. Deeply. That's not something that can be fixed with a conversation and some pretty words."

Jeonghan nodded, his face falling. But before he could speak, Y/N continued.

"But... I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss you too. That I didn't still love you, despite everything."

Hope bloomed in Jeonghan's eyes. "So... what does that mean?"

Y/N took a deep breath. "It means... it means maybe we can try. Slowly. No grand gestures, no rushing back into things. We need to relearn each other, rebuild trust. Can you do that?"

Jeonghan reached across the table, gently taking Y/N's hand in his. The familiar warmth of his touch sent a shiver down her spine.

"Y/N, I would wait a lifetime if that's what it took. We'll go as slow as you need. I just... I just want a chance to make things right."

For the first time since they sat down, Y/N felt a genuine smile tugging at her lips. "Okay," she said softly. "Let's try."

The gentle spring breeze carried the scent of cherry blossoms through Central Park, where Jeonghan and Y/N walked hand in hand, their steps slow and purposeful. Two years had passed since that fateful night when they both reached for their phones, finally bridging the gap that had separated them for so long.

"I still can't believe we're here," Y/N said, squeezing Jeonghan's hand. "Sometimes I think I'll wake up and find it was all a dream."

Jeonghan brought her hand to his lips, placing a soft kiss on her knuckles. "If it's a dream, then I never want to wake up," he replied, his eyes shining with emotion.

They found a quiet bench overlooking the lake, the same spot where they had sat years ago, planning their future together. Now, older and wiser, they sat again, the weight of their shared history and renewed love settling comfortably between them.

"The launch is tomorrow," Jeonghan said, a hint of nervousness in his voice. "Are you ready?"

Y/N took a deep breath, nodding. "As ready as I'll ever be. It's still surreal, you know? Being back in this world, but on my own terms this time."

The past two years had been a whirlwind of rediscovery and healing. After their reconnection, Jeonghan and Y/N had taken things slowly, rebuilding trust and relearning each other. Y/N had been adamant about maintaining her independence, refusing to be swallowed up by Jeonghan's world as she had been before.

To everyone's surprise—including her own—Y/N had discovered a talent for perfumery. What had started as curious questions about Jeonghan's process had evolved into a genuine passion. Under his guidance, she had begun to create her own scents, her natural intuition complementing Jeonghan's technical expertise.

And now, tomorrow, they would launch their first collaborative perfume.

"I have something for you," Jeonghan said, reaching into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a small, elegant bottle, its contents shimmering in the afternoon sun.

Y/N gasped, recognizing the prototype they had been working on. "Is this...?"

Jeonghan nodded, a smile playing on his lips. "The final version. I wanted you to be the first to see it—to smell it."

With trembling hands, Y/N took the bottle. The label read "Essence of Us" in Jeonghan's distinctive handwriting. Below it, in smaller letters: "By Jeonghan & Y/N."

She uncapped the bottle, bringing it to her nose. The scent enveloped her immediately—bright citrus notes of bergamot and lemon, giving way to a heart of rose and jasmine, grounded by warm sandalwood and a hint of vanilla. But there was something more, something uniquely them—a note that spoke of long nights of conversation, of laughter shared over coffee, of gentle kisses and whispered promises.

Tears welled up in Y/N's eyes. "It's perfect," she whispered.

Jeonghan wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close. "It's us," he said simply. "All of us. The good, the bad, the journey we've taken."

As the sun began to set, painting the sky in hues of pink and gold, Jeonghan and Y/N sat in comfortable silence, the scent of their creation lingering in the air around them.

The launch event for "Essence of Us" was the talk of the fashion world. Held in the same New York hotel where Jeonghan and Y/N had celebrated her last birthday before their separation, it was a poignant reminder of how far they had come.

Cameras flashed as Jeonghan and Y/N stepped onto the red carpet, a united front. Y/N, dressed in a flowing gown that shimmered like liquid silver, looked every inch the confident co-creator, a far cry from the woman who had once hidden in Jeonghan's shadow.

Inside, the room was transformed into a sensory wonderland. Different stations represented the various notes of the perfume, allowing guests to experience each element individually before sampling the final product.

As the crowd mingled and the excitement built, Jeonghan clinked a glass, calling for attention. The room fell silent, all eyes turning to the stage where he and Y/N stood.

"Thank you all for being here tonight," Jeonghan began, his voice carrying easily through the room. "This launch is special for many reasons, but none more so than the fact that it represents not just a new scent, but a new chapter."

He turned to Y/N, love evident in his gaze. "For years, my perfumes told the story of what I had lost. They were messages in bottles, cast out into the world in the hope that someday, they might find their way back to the one who inspired them."

Y/N stepped forward, taking Jeonghan's hand. "And I heard those messages," she continued, her voice strong and clear. "Even when I tried not to listen, even when I thought that chapter of my life was closed forever. They called to me, reminding me of a love that never truly faded."

Together, they unveiled the perfume—an elegant bottle that seemed to capture the light, refracting it into a thousand tiny rainbows.

"'Essence of Us' is more than just a perfume," Jeonghan said. "It's a testament to the power of love, of forgiveness, of second chances. It's the scent of two people who lost their way, only to find that all paths led back to each other."

Y/N nodded, adding, "It's also a new beginning. A declaration that our story isn't just about the past, but about the future we choose to create together."

As the crowd applauded and the first samples of "Essence of Us" were distributed, Jeonghan and Y/N shared a private smile. They had poured their hearts into this creation, distilling years of love, loss, and rediscovery into a single, perfect scent.

Months later, as "Essence of Us" continued to top bestseller lists and garner critical acclaim, Jeonghan and Y/N found themselves back in their favorite spot in Central Park. The trees were ablaze with autumn colors, a crisp breeze carrying the promise of winter.

"I've been thinking," Jeonghan said, his tone casual but his eyes betraying a hint of nervousness. "About the future. About us."

Y/N looked at him curiously. "Oh? And what have you been thinking?"

Jeonghan took a deep breath, reaching into his pocket. "I've been thinking that maybe it's time for a new scent. Something... permanent."

He pulled out a small velvet box, opening it to reveal a stunning ring. The design was unique—a delicate gold band that twisted into the shape of an infinity symbol, set with tiny diamonds that caught the light like drops of perfume.

"Y/N," Jeonghan said, his voice thick with emotion, "will you marry me? Again? For real this time, for always?"

Tears sprang to Y/N's eyes as she nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. As Jeonghan slipped the ring onto her finger, she finally found her voice. "Yes," she whispered. "Forever and always."

They sealed the promise with a kiss, the scent of "Essence of Us" mingling with the crisp autumn air. As they broke apart, both laughing and crying, Jeonghan's eyes lit up with that familiar spark of inspiration.

"I think I know what our next perfume will be called," he said, grinning.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, a smile playing on her lips. "Oh? Do tell."

Jeonghan pulled her close, whispering in her ear: "You, Forever and Always."

And as they walked hand in hand through the park, already discussing notes and accords for their new creation, both Jeonghan and Y/N knew that this—their love, their passion, their shared creativity—was the most intoxicating scent of all.

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