#and all these songs about missing your love | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fizzyapplecandy · 1 day ago

Text

Ateez as Romance Tropes

The one with the one night stand

Other members

Seonghwa x Fem reader

Word count: 3.7k

Genres and warnings; accidental pregnancy, wrap it before you tap it!, minors dni, mild smut, mature language, fluff, humor, strangers to lovers

One night of passion brings you more than you can handle, but luckily Seognhwa is there to ease your jumbled mind.

"Oh God."

You stared at the two bright pink lines.

The lines that were about to change your whole life around.

"Oh my fucking God! Jongho!"

You rushed out of your bathroom and ran into the living room where your best friend was waiting, eyes wide with anticipation.

"So?" He asked, frozen in his spot when he noticed how frantic you were.

"It's... It's positive."

Both of your gazes dropped to your stomach, and you slowly lifted your hand to feel around it.

There was a tiny... Something inside of you. Something you never really thought about having, but weren't opposed to. But that something came too soon, too rushed.

"So... I don't mean to be that person, but... Is it, you know? Is it his?" Jongho questioned, being careful not to say the man's name out loud.

Your eyes widened, just now realizing what you have gotten yourself into.

"Oh no."

One month ago

"Woohoo!"

"Get down from the chair Wooyoung!"

You tried grabbing your friend's arm to pull him down, but he was too into the song to stay still. Luckily, his boyfriend knew how to handle him in situations like these.

"Come on now Woo, you're giving the poor girl a headache." San put his strong arms around his waist and lowered him to the ground.

"You guys don't know how to have fun!" A pouty Wooyoung shouted, placing kisses all over San's face. You just shook your head and went to the bar to get another drink.

It was a Saturday, and you always went out to your usual club with the boys. Jongho was deep into an arm wrestling contest with Yeosang, San and Wooyoung were now all lovey dovey in the corner, Mingi and Yunho were showing off their amazing dance moves, but Hongjoong was nowhere to be seen.

He usually stayed by your side, watching over the friend group, but he told you he was going to be late tonight. Hongjoong went on a business trip recently and met another aspiring designer along the way. You forgot his name, but you knew your friend was bringing him over tonight to meet you all.

You weren't in the mood, to be honest. Maybe it was because you had a tough week at work, trying not to strangle your new boss, or maybe because you were watching couples being all loved up. Honestly, you yearned for someone to hold onto at night, but it just wasn't meant to be yet.

"Why so sad, sugar?"

You turned around, surprised to hear his voice, even though you knew he was coming tonight.

"Hongjoong!"

He wrapped his arms around you, lifting you up and giggling along with you.

"Hey there! I missed you!"

"I missed you too! Gosh, I can't parent these kids no more!"

You laughed, but he understood how stressed you must have felt.

"No worries, daddy Hongjoong is back!"

"Joong, I'm glad, but please don't say it like that!"

You grimaced, and your friend only chuckled at your expression. It seemed like Hongjoong suddenly remembered something, because he turned around and waved someone over.

"Y/N, I want you to meet Park Seonghwa, the new friend I was telling you about."

"Hi there."

Goodness gracious. Park Seonghwa had to be the most handsome man on planet earth. His dark hair was cut short, but some of the longer strands fell over his eyes. He was dressed to the nines in something you probably couldn't afford to look at, and his stance was confident.

Almost borderline cocky, if you were being completely honest.

"O-Oh... Hello."

"You must be Y/N, right? Hongjoong has told me a lot about you, but I must say..."

He leaned over, whispering the next sentence in your ear.

"... I get why he calls you sugar, because you look like a real sweet treat."

Ah. There it is. You knew something must be wrong about such a handsome man. Of course he was a fuckboy.

"Yeah, thanks. I'm gonna go now, you two enjoy your night! Joong, come catch-up with us later!"

You blew a kiss to a confused Hongjoong, leaving him with Seonghwa and walking over to the rest of the group. They've settled down at the table in the meantime, and you were glad the chaos was over.

For now at least.

"Major fuckboy alert!"

Mingi gasped.

"Who's competing with me?"

You scoffed, pointing at the arm he had wrapped around Yunho.

"Please, be serious. You haven't left Yunho's side in how long now?"

Mingi pouted, leaning into his boyfriend's side.

"... Five years in August."

"That's right." You nodded, plating yourself beside Jongho.

The younger tapped you on the shoulder to make you look at him.

"What's up?"

You sighed, sipping on your vodka.

"Hongjoong's new friend is to die for, until he opens his mouth."

Jongho pointed his finger, making you follow along.

"You mean that one? They already said hi to us before going to the bar to find you, he was really cool."

"Yeah, maybe to you."

You wanted to continue your rant, but the very man you were gossiping about approached with Hongjoong.

"Finally! Come on people, make room. We're about to get this party started!"

Hongjoong sat opposite you, making the only free seat available the one next to you. Seonghwa planted himself there, throwing his arm around the back of your chair.

"So, what's your story sugar?" He whispered into your ear.

You jerked away from him, surprised he got so close to you. The other thing that surprised you was how nervous you got.

"I don't have a story. And don't call me that, we just met."

Seonghwa looked confused for a second. He wasn't used to the cold shoulder from girls, but he figured you weren't his usual type.

Not that he particularly had one, but being in the fashion industry only lets you meet a certain amount of people. Fake people, only interested in your connections.

However, you were someone real. Someone who wasn't about to give into his charms so easily. Seonghwa was hooked before he realised it.

The night went on like this - you running away and being rude, while a desperate Seonghwa tried to get a smidge of your attention. The other boys found it hilarious, and Seonghwa seemed to fit right into your little group.

The other thing that certainly progressed was your drink intake. Maybe you were frustrated with the fact that you were warming up to the handsome fellow, and you tried to drown it with vodka.

A hefty amount of it, too.

It seemed like everybody was on the same page, because two hours later, Seonghwa was a blushing mess who couldn't stop giggling at Yunho's bad jokes.

The smile on his face brought out a small one of your own. He didn't seem so bad when he was like this. Or was it just your mushy brain convincing you?

It didn't matter anyway, because before you knew it, you were hollered up in a corner, making out with him.

"You finally warmed up to me, huh?"

"Stop talking."

You grabbed his face and brought his lips to yours again, continuing the dance between your teeth, tongue and lips. Seonghwa's hands explored your body, staying respectful despite the fact you were literally pressed up against each other.

"Wanna get out of here?" He asked before putting his lips back onto yours.

"Hell yeah."

The ride to his new place was spent giggling into each other's mouths as you tried to continue kissing, the poor taxi driver having to listen to your antics.

The elevator ride was something else, because you managed to unbuckle his belt while he accidentally ripped one of your dress straps.

It was hot, heavy, and you couldn't wait to take his clothes off.

No time was wasted when your back finally hit his king sized bed. Your hands were all over each other, squeezing and caressing places that made you both moan out in pleasure.

Once he finally entered you, the look on his face changed. Seonghwa was taking it slow, trying to set a good pace because he knew he'd come too soon. You just felt that heavenly around him.

"I like you, Y/N. It's crazy how much, knowing we just met."

You wanted to respond, but his thrusts sped up and you could only sigh while wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders.

"I-I'm close. Harder, Seognhwa, please."

"Yes, yes... Anything you need, sugar."

You hit your climax before you even realised it, Seonghwa following soon after.

He slowly pulled out, laying on his side and wrapping you up in his arms.

"That was..."

"Yeah..." You said, exhausted, but incredibly satisfied.

The night went on like this after you both caught your breath for a moment.

When you were both finally spent, Seognhwa made sure to clean you up before settling back into his bed. For some reason, you couldn't fall asleep even after he drifted off.

So, you sneaked out of his place as the sun went up, feeling guiltier than you should. You only just met him, and he didn't really leave the best first impression, but the spark between you was undeniable.

You had no idea how badly you messed up until the next time he came to a friendly gathering at Hongjoong's place. Seonghwa acted as if nothing happened, and you were devastated.

It was your fault, honestly, but you were still a bit hurt about it. There was no point in ruining the fun for everyone, so you just went along with the situation.

You weren't aware just how much your lives would change in a month's time.

Present day

"Did you use protection?" Jongho asked, holding onto your hand as you sat next to each other on your couch.

"We... I think we did, I don't know? I was too drunk, and besides, I'm on the pill... I thought..."

"Hey, hey, I'm not judging you. I'm just asking, it's a valid question." He tried to calm you down, but it wasn't working. Tears were already falling down your cheeks, and the positive test on the coffee table was starting back at you like it was about to consume you.

"What... What am I going to do now? This is so messed up Jongho." You cried, placing your head into your hands.

"Oh baby... We'll figure something out, okay?"

That's when you heard your doorbell go off. You snapped your head up, looking at Jongho who seemed too calm about everything.

"Don't worry, I know who it is." He stood up, going over to let the person in.

"Y/N?" Hongjoong asked, coming to kneel in front of you. You glanced at Jongho who just shrugged.

"I had to call for back up. I know he can be of better help than me."

"Y/N, is it true?"

You looked at Hongjoong before throwing yourself into his arms. He only sneezed you tight, patting your back as you sobbed.

"Oh sweetie... It's okay, you know that? We'll figure something out."

"B-But Joong... You're going to hate me when I tell you who... You know." You cried, refusing to let go of him.

"Y/N, look at me. Come on, I know already."

You froze, slowly detaching yourself from him. He didn't look mad, or even disappointed. On the contrary, he had a small smile on his face.

"Hwa couldn't keep it to himself, but he made me promise not to tell you. The man has been devastated about fucking up his chance with you."

"He what?" You mumbled, not believing him.

He only nodded and continued.

"Yeah, he really likes you. Why did you run off on him?"

"I... Well... I don't know, okay! We had such an amazing night, and then we did what we did, and I don't know... I got scared."

"At least now you have a good enough reason to talk to him again." Both your and Hongjoong's head snapped towards Jongho, and the poor boy looked frightened.

"Sorry, I told you I'm not good at this."

You laughed, the tears slowly drying up.

"It's okay, thank you. I don't know what I would do if I didn't have you both."

You spent the rest of the evening sandwiched between the two men, considering all of your options.

"I take it you want to keep the baby?" Hongjoong asked while peeling an orange for you. You've told them how sick you've been feeling for the past week, and oranges were the only thing you could stomach easily.

"Yeah... I think I do. I don't know, I've always wanted to have a family, and this baby is here for a reason. I just don't know how I'm going to manage being a single mom."

"A single mom? What about Seonghwa?" Jongho asked, continuing to run his fingers through your hair.

"Oh come one, he's a designer for god sakes. He's traveling all the time, and he's not about to drop all of that to become a dad. Be for real."

"You haven't even talked to him yet, how can you know?"

"Jongho... I can't get my hopes up in any way, so please, let's not talk about this anymore."

Hongjoong stayed silent throughout your debate with Jongho, itching to tell you how wrong you were.

Seonghwa was constantly pestering his friend about you, day and night. He was so into you it hurt, but he wasn't sure how to approach you after the night you shared. The one where you left him without a word, and never mentioned anything again.

"Okay, here's your orange. I'm going to run you a bath, and then we can watch a movie. We'll think of a plan along the way. You're not alone in this, that baby already has seven amazing people out here who will gladly be of help whenever you need."

You looked at Hongjoong, thankful to have such an amazing friend by your side.

"Let's... Let's not tell anyone else before I talk to Seonghwa, okay? I don't want him finding out because Mingi couldn't keep his big mouth shut."

The two men laughed, agreeing it was for the best. The rest of the evening was spent on the couch, in the comforting arms of your two friends as your brain went haywire.

Your life was about to become much more complicated, and you still had to do the toughest thing of them all - Tell Seonghwa.

"Y/N? Hey there... Where's Hongjoong?"

A confused Seonghwa stood by your table as you gestured for him to sit on the chair opposite you. Your tea was cold, hands wrapped around the mug only there to keep you grounded.

"Hi. Hongjoong won't be joining us today. I have to... I have to talk to you about something, so I asked Joong to call you. I wasn't sure if you'd show up otherwise."

"Oh..." Seognhwa was confused. Why would you all of the sudden want to talk to him? It's been a month since you two shared a wonderful night together, but you made it clear it was just that. One night.

The waitress came and took his order, and you took the chance to rummage through your bag for the little black and white photo. You hid it under the table, waiting for him to settle in.

"So, what's this about? I know we aren't exactly on speaking terms..." He wandered off, his eyes never meeting yours as he spoke.

"Listen, there is no easy way to say this, so I'm just going to... Well..."

You placed the little photo at the center of the table, pushing it slightly towards him.

"This right here is... Our little blip. I know it's yours because I haven't been with anybody for a while, and after our night as well. So... Yeah."

It took a while for him to react. His eyes were still glued on the tiny sonogram photo you took, not even sure where exactly he should be looking.

"You're... You're pregnant?" He whispered, slowly moving his fingers over the edges of the photo.

"I am. I'm sorry, truly. We were kind of... Careless that night. I'm keeping the baby, it's something I want to do, but you won't be obligated to do anything you don't want. I'm fully prepared to tackle this by myself. I just wanted you to know."

He seemed... Angry all of the sudden.

"Obligated? What are you talking about? This is my blip too! I'm not letting you do this by yourself. We'll... Work something out."

You sighed, finally looking straight into his eyes. You couldn't quite decipher his feelings about everything, but there was a strong determination behind his intense gaze.

"Are you sure? Seonghwa, this is something life changing, you know? We don't exactly... Know each other the best. You don't have to decide this instant."

"I am absolutely positive. I won't let you go through this alone. I'm as much responsible as you are, so we're in this together. Besides, this way you won't run off on me, again."

Silence enveloped you after he said that. He was right, you had to give him that. You sighed, giving him a shy smile afterwards.

"I guess you're right."

"How do we... How do we do this? Do we move in together? What should we do?"

You noticed how flustered he suddenly got, probably realizing what you'd have to figure out in the span of nine months.

"Relax, Seonghwa, it's still early to think about that. Besides, I have a room in my apartment that can be transformed into a nursery, and I really don't want to move right now. So, we'll go from there and, I don't know, see how things progress?"

You shrugged, while he only nodded along.

"Okay, fair enough. When's your next appointment? I assume you have weekly or monthly check ups?"

"Oh, you don't have to-"

"I want to. I think I made it clear by now that I really want to be a part of this. So, when is it?"

The way he looked at you suddenly made you blush, but you blamed the hormones for your reaction.

"Next Thursday."

"Great, I'll be there."

The two of you spent another half hour discussing your predicament before you started feeling too tired to speak. Seonghwa noticed your change in mood quickly.

"Want me to take you home?"

"I really want to be polite and decline but I'm too exhausted to do so."

Seonghwa chuckled, gesturing for you to go ahead. You exited the cafe and made your way towards his car. For some reason, he was staring at you intensely while you walked.

Once the two of you settled into his car, you turned towards him.

"Okay, spill. You're being really weird."

"Well..."

He sighed, glancing where your hands laid out on your stomach.

"I... I just can't believe I'm going to be a dad soon. I mean, I've always wanted a family, I just didn't think it would be so soon."

He noticed how you frowned and quickly corrected himself.

"Not that I mind! Don't get me wrong, please. I can't wait to meet our little blip, I just have a bad way with words. And... You make me kind of nervous."

Your eyes widened.

"Me? Make you nervous? Why is that?"

"Well..."

He kept silent after that, building up the courage to finally get his feelings off his chest. Almost a month has passed since your night together, and he tried pretending like it never happened for his own sake.

"Seonghwa? You're kind of leaving me hanging over here." You chuckled, lightly pushing his shoulder to make him snap out of his trance. He shook his head and started the car.

"Listen, I know this is not the moment, but we have to talk about that night. I need to know if... If you felt the same about it as I did."

His eyes were focused on the road, but you could tell it was easier for him not to look at you right now.

"And how would that be?" You asked, subconsciously putting your hands over your stomach.

"I... Something clicked, Y/N. Something in my mind, and my heart, telling me you're the one. Is that crazy? I know it probably sounds like it, but I just... I can't stop thinking about you, sugar."

"Is that why you're so calm about the baby?"

Seognhwa smiled lightly, glancing at how you cuddled into yourself.

"Maybe. I've always wanted to be a dad, and knowing you're going to be the mother of my child... I can't be mad about that. I can only feel... Excited."

"Oh, Seonghwa... We'll make this thing work, I promise." You reached over the console and placed your outstretched palm for him to grasp. He did so without thinking twice, happy to finally clear the air with you.

The rest of the ride went by smoothly, and you were in front of your building before you knew it.

"Here you go guys, you're home." Seonghwa said, looking at your belly before bringing his eyes to yours. You smiled, amused by the way he addressed both of you.

"Thank you, daddy."

His face made you burst out into laughter.

"Oh, lighten up! It's a sweet thing to say!"

Seonghwa shook his head, chuckling along with you.

"You're going to be the death of me. Go rest, our blip needs it."

"Seonghwa..." You said, cautious about the way you should approach him.

"Do you want to come with us? I mean, that's what blip's asking, you know."

He stayed silent for a moment, watching as a rosy hue printed your cheeks. Using your child was definitely a way of avoiding showing your true feelings for now, but he understood you needed more time to open up. However, he was not about to decline such a nice invite.

"You know what? Tell blip I'd love to hang out some more. But..." He stalled, looking into your eyes, the smile on his face mirroring yours. He leaned over, close to your ear. Your cheeks brushed against each other, his lips grazing your ear lightly.

"You can also tell our blip I'd like to spend some time with mommy as well."

Oh yes, this would truly be the most interesting and exciting experience of your life.

You could only be thankful someone like Seonghwa would be a part of it.

#ateez #ateez imagines #fluff #imagine #ateez fanfic #ateez seonghwa #mature language #mild smut #accidental pregnancy #minors dni #humor #ateez seonghwa x reader #park seonghwa

134 notes · View notes

story-box · 2 days ago

Text

STATIC ON THE LINE

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader | Eddie Munson x Y/N

Summary: Eddie ghosted you to “set you free”—so you came home to ruin his pity party and remind him you're nobody's damsel.

—

You should have set his trailer on fire.

Okay, maybe not literally — arson was still technically illegal — but metaphorically?

Oh, absolutely.

Because if Eddie Munson thought he could ghost you like some coward in a metal band who suddenly decided he was too emotionally fragile to answer a letter, then he clearly forgot who he was dating.

You had written twenty-one letters. Twenty-one. Plus, three postcards you thought were charming and a freaking cassette mix you made with actual effort and very questionable transitions. ("Careless Whisper" into Black Sabbath — sue you, you were emotional.)

And what did you get in return?

Silence.

Avoidance.

The occasional 'your letter was received' from Wayne when you called the Munson trailer, followed by an uncomfortable pause like the old man wanted to say more but wouldn’t.

You had tried to be patient. Really. You reminded yourself that Eddie wasn’t exactly known for healthy coping mechanisms.

But there’s only so much you can take before you start imagining exactly how hard youmee going to throw that shoebox full of unsent letters at his stupid, beautiful, stubborn head.

Because here’s the thing: You didn’t fall in love with him because he had perfect grades or a five-year plan. You fell in love with the idiot who played Dio songs like they were sacred texts, who gave voices to dungeon monsters and talked about fate like it was something he could fight.

And now? Now he was playing tragic martyr like it was some noble sacrifice.

You stared at your phone, hanging up on the wall. Again. Like it might magically spring to life with his voice on the other end.

It didn’t.

Instead, you whispered to no one, "If you think you're protecting me, Eddie Munson, you're dumber than that time you tried to climb my dorm window and got stuck halfway like a stray cat."

Maybe it was time to come home for a weekend.

And maybe it was time to make some noise…

. . .

The trailer looks smaller than you remember. Maybe it’s the winter light — flat and grey, like everything’s been dulled down without you here. Or maybe it’s just Eddie.

Because he’s standing in the doorway, sleep-creased and shoeless, hair a mess, looking like regret and cheap weed had a baby and named it "avoidant behavior."

You cross your arms and lean against your car, giving him the kind of look that says: Go ahead. Explain yourself. I’ll wait. Probably won’t believe you, but I’ll wait.

He blinks like he thinks you’re a hallucination. Which, fair. You did show up unannounced, in your Friday jeans and a pissed-off aura that could probably kill a small god.

“Holy shit,” he says.

“That’s all you’ve got?” you ask. “‘Holy shit’? After ignoring me for three months?”

He rubs the back of his neck. Classic. You’d almost missed that stupid nervous tic.

Almost.

“I thought you were… I don’t know. Gone.”

You laugh — sharp, not sweet. “Yeah. That tends to happen when someone stops answering your letters, calls, telepathic pleas—should I go on?”

His mouth opens like he wants to defend himself. Then closes again, like he realizes there is no defense. And honestly? Good. Let him stew. Let him feel the way your chest has felt every time you checked the mailbox and found nothing but silence.

“I didn’t know what to say,” he finally mutters.

You throw your hands up. “Try anything. ‘Hey, I suck at feelings, give me a minute’? ‘Sorry I’m an emotionally constipated disaster’? Even a postcard that just says ‘still alive’ would’ve been better than radio silence.”

He flinches. You almost feel bad.

Almost.

But then he says, voice low and stupidly sincere, “I thought if I let you go, you’d move on. Meet someone better. Someone who doesn’t live in a trailer and get held back and—”

“Oh my god, shut up,” you groan. “You don’t get to martyr yourself and act like you’re doing me a favor. I’m not some romcom character who blossoms without the sad boy weighing her down. I chose you, you idiot.”

He stares at you, like maybe he didn’t quite believe it until you said it out loud. Like he’s terrified hope might be real.

You step closer. Close enough that he can see the tear line in your eyeliner and the months of unsent anger burning just behind your eyes.

“If you ever ghost me again,” you whisper, “I will break into your room, steal your favorite guitar, and replace all your good vinyls with Barry Manilow."

He chokes on a laugh.

You almost kiss him right then. Almost. But he has to earn that.

So instead, you say, “Now let me in before I freeze out here. We’re not done talking.”

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x oc #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie stranger things #eddie munson #ghosting #yearning #angry love #men are dumb

132 notes · View notes

wcnderlnds · 16 hours ago

Text

last first kiss | choi seung-hyun (t.o.p)

BIGBANG APRIL CHALLENGE - APRIL 16TH

・❥・ summary: the internet had given you your best friend but life had taken him away from you until one day he messages you again and you're surprised to find out who he really is ・❥・word count: 4.8k ・❥・warnings: 18+. mdni. virgin!reader, virgin!seunghyun, loss of virginity, fingering, oral (f receiving), p in v. swearing. they're both 21+, thank u. ・❥・authors note: this would've been up yesterday but i was having an awful day with sinuses issues so here we go. its also the longest thing ive ever wrote. i will be hiding now goodbye.

When MySpace first hit the scene it was all anyone could talk about. Conversations often involved who were in people’s top eight friends, what song lyrics to use in their profiles — it was the first of its kind on the internet. Everyone in school had one which is how you had ended up with one. At first you had been rather reluctant; the internet seemed like a scary place and putting all your information on there seemed risky but you soon came around. If everyone else was doing it then why shouldn’t you? There had been no expectations when you had finally made your profile. The first few days you had spent making your page pretty, figuring out HTML so you could code it to look better than the rest. It wasn’t until one day a message popped up from a boy you didn’t know when the social media platform became part of your every day life for years to come.

Choi Seunghyun, that was his name.

He was a cute, chubby boy who was into rap. His profile said he was a rapper himself, or trying to be one anyway. His message was simple, sweet even as he complimented the song choice you had placed on your profile. No Diggity by Blackstreet. A classic. Seunghyun seemed to think so too.

That was the start of a beautiful friendship.

Every day, for two years, you talked daily for hours upon hours. Topics would range from music to films then slowly but surely into the deeper stuff. He’d tell you how he was struggling at school, you’d tell him about what was going on in your life — there wasn’t anything you didn’t share with each other. He even told you when he’d started dating this older girl. It had never sat right with you but he seemed so happy so you never said anything. Then, there was the day he told you they’d broken up. He had been so crushed but you? Well, you couldn’t help but feel elated.

Because, by then you’d realised you had a crush on him.

Conversations started to turn a little flirty. Nothing insane - you were still young after all but everytime he said something to you, you couldn’t stop the butterflies swarming in your stomach or how your cheeks would heat up. It was safe to say this boy you had never met was your first love. Neither had spoken it but you were sure he felt the same. He had to. The messages he sent you, the hours he spent talking to you; it had to mean something, right?

Then, it all stopped.

No more messages came from Seunghyun. It had shattered you — your very first heartbreak. At first you couldn’t help but blame yourself. Maybe you had driven him away, maybe he had got fed up. Realistically you knew something must have happened but self doubt was your biggest enemy. It got easier with time, you learned to let him go but you missed him. He had been your best friend, the one person that you could count on and now he was gone.

Life carried on. You studied hard, got yourself a part time job to help pay your college fees, even had a couple of relationships in the few years since Seunghyun had vanished but nothing ever stuck. They never had meaning because whether you realised it or not, you were always wondering about what could have been.

It was one exhausting day after a shift at work when you randomly decided to look at you MySpace. And, there it was. One new message. Your heart caught in your throat, heart pounding wildly as you moved the arrow to click on it.

CHOI SEUNGHYUN

Long time, no see. I know you might be mad at me and that is understandable. I never meant to vanish on you, I beat myself up over it everyday. I miss you and I’d love to explain, if you’ll let me. Would you care to meet up?

For a moment anger boiled up inside you. Did he really think he could show up out of the blue after all these years and think everything would be okay? You moved the mouse to hover over the delete button then really thought about it. This was someone that had meant everything to you, someone that had made your teenage years more bearable. Now you finally had the chance to meet him. So, taking a deep breath, you typed out your reply.

YOU

Mad might be a little bit of an understatement but I’m willing to hear you out. Give me a time and place and I’m there.

It was a warm spring day in Seoul so you’d opted for a light jacket. The weather could be unpredictable so it was always better to be prepared. The sights around you were too beautiful to inflict anything but positivity on you. Seokchan Lake Park was one of your favourite places in the whole of Seoul especially now that it was Cherry Blossom season. The pink leaves swaying in the breeze, the ripples of the lake catching the corner of your eye — it was truly a stunning place to be. This time of year was your favourite. Spring had always been your favourite season because when the cherry blossoms were in full bloom, it seemed to make everything more beautiful, serene even.

Your hands gripped the railing bordering the lake, eyes casting across the water. People were riding the moon boats, couples on dates or friends who wanted to escape the world together for a bit. Maybe one day you’d have someone to ride one with.

“Y/N?” A deep, soothing voice spoke your name causing you to turn around. Eyes scrunched in confusion, head tilted to the side as you looked at the handsome stranger in front of you. He seemed oddly familiar.

“Uh? Who’s asking?” You eyed him curiously.

“Oh shit, wait. Sorry. I never told you that I lost all the weight,” he stumbled over his words, cheeks tinting a slight shade of red. “It’s me. Seunghyun.”

Your eyes narrowed as you took him in, examining every inch of him. Then it hit you. This was the guy from BigBang — the one who did the raps. You weren’t that big of a fan but you’d heard their music and seen their faces on the TV. Your brain began putting two and two together. You gasped loudly, eyes widening once you finally realised.

“Fucking TOP from BigBang are you ki-“ The rest of your sentence was muffled as Seunghyun placed his palm over your mouth to stop you from talking. His eyes darted around, checking to make sure nobody had heard your outburst. He wanted solely to spend this time with you, nobody else.

“Be quiet,” he hissed. “I’m trying to be incognito.”

He removed his hand from your mouth, pleading with his eyes that you’d be calm. You folded your arms over your chest, once again checking him over. He could sense the sceptism but he’d been prepared for this. “The Seunghyun I knew was a cute, chubby boy with the prettiest little dimples.”

He rolled his eyes. “I still have dimples.”

“If you really are my Seunghyun then tell me something only he and I would know.”

The way his heart skipped a beat when you said ‘my Seunghyun’ nearly made him stumble. He didn’t have to think, though. His head was so full of all the memories he had with you. “The day I first messaged you, you had No Diggity on your profile, we talked about how much we both loved the cherry blossoms and how one day we wanted to see them together.”

The moment the words left his mouth, you flung yourself at him, almost knocking him back with the force of it. Your arms wrapped around his neck, his encircling your waist. He had waited for this moment for so long, he wasn’t going to waste a second of it. He held you close, taking in the scent of your hair, the way your body felt against his. It was better than he could’ve ever dreamed of. He wondered if you could feel his heart pounding against his chest or the way his breath caught in his throat when you snuggled into his neck.

“You have so much explaining to do,” you giggled.

“I promise, I’ll tell you everything.”

Seunghyun more than kept his promise. He told you every single thing that had happened. How, when you had first met, he had been the chubby boy in his profile picture but then the trajectory of his life changed. What he hadn’t told you back then was that he had tried to sign with YG, getting turned down because of his weight so he spent months and months losing it to finally get signed. He told you about how his trainee days went, how after a hard day he loved messaging you because it made everything feel better. Then, he got to the part where he stopped talking to you. That had been because BigBang had finally debuted. He didn’t have the time (or more so YG had forbid them all from talking to anyone online). You could see the remorse in his eyes from keeping it all from you, the way you knew the guilt was eating him up. You had told him you understood now even if you had been furious at first. It was like a weight lifted off his shoulder. He felt lighter now. There were no more secrets.

Apart from the unspoken feelings between you.

The day had been spent mostly talking, sitting under the cherry blossoms and catching up. It had been nice, not awkward at all. Something about Seunghyun put you at ease. The kindness in his eyes and the way he spoke to you were nothing short of breathtaking. It was almost unfair that it had taken you this long to meet. You were both adults now, though. You weren’t teenagers anymore.

Currently, you were leaning back against the railings of the lake, finishing the last remainders of the ice cream Seunghyun had kindly bought you.

“Since you told me everything you were hiding, I feel like I should tell you something,” you finished the last bite of the ice cream cone, wiping your hands on your jeans. Seunghyun raised a brow, his own ice cream devoured long ago. He had been leaning over the railings, watching people have their fun on the lake. Now, though, he turned so he could look at you.

“Hmm?” His head tilted to the side slightly, a cheeky grin on his face. “Been hiding your own secrets, I see.”

“Not much of a secret just… didn’t know how to say it,” you started. “I just don’t want to scare you off now that I’ve got you back but I feel like you should know.”

“Hand on my heart,” he placed his hand on his chest right where his heart lay just for dramatics. “…nothing you could say would scare me away.”

Silence fell between you for a few moments before you finally spoke in a soft, rushed tone. “I think… well, I know, you’re my first love.”

Seunghyun froze upon hearing your words. One of his hands gripping the railing as if he needed it to hold himself upright. Had he heard you right? Did you really just say he was your first love? Words failed him, his brain a messy pile of words, none of which he could grasp enough to form. He was like a deer caught in headlights with his wide eyes, the shock of your confession surging through his veins. Those were the last words he had ever expected you to say. The truth was that Seunghyun had always had feelings for you. There had always been hope that one day maybe you could’ve had something but then when BigBang took off, he let you go. Well, he tried to anyway. Now, seeing you standing in front of him, nervously fidgeting with the sleeve of your jacket as you awaited his reply, it brought back all those feelings. They had never gone away. Always there, simmering and waiting for the right moment to boil over.

Just as you were about to tell him to forget it, your heart pounding hard in your chest, Seunghyun moved. Before you knew what was happening, his lips were on yours. They were slow, almost hesitant at first until he felt you kissing him back. He smiled into the kiss, bringing one of his hands up to cup your cheek, the other wrapping around your waist to pull you close against him. His whole body felt like it was on fire, like he needed more of you. Usually he wouldn’t be the one to kiss so out in the open but he had his shot and he was sure as hell going to take it.

“Do you want to come back to my place? You can say no, it’s totally fine,” he breathed, thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

“Yes,” you replied almost instantly, earning the widest smile from Seunghyun that showed off those dimples that you loved so much.

That was how you ended up at Seunghyun’s apartment, laying on top of him, his hand tangled in your hair, lips moving furiously together. The second you’d stepped foot through the door, neither of you had been able to keep your hands off each other.

Your tongues tangled together, a quiet moan from you swallowed by the kiss. You pulled away, sitting up and straddling his lap, hands resting on his chest.

“I… I’ve never done this before,” you admitted shyly. “I mean, I’ve done stuff but I’ve never… gone all the way but, god, I want you. So bad.”

Seunghyun blushed as his hands found your waist, sitting up slightly himself. “Me neither. I…I want to… with you. If you want to. It’s, uh, up to you but… I think I’ve always been waiting for you.”

“Me too,” you said softly, leaning back in to kiss him. “It’s always been you, Seunghyun.”

He flipped you around, gently laying you back on the mattress, his body on top of yours now. His lips were back on you, kissing you like his life depended on it. Your fingers threaded through his hair, causing him to groan into the kiss. He couldn’t help when his hips involuntarily bucked into yours, the delicious friction causing you both to moan.

“Do that again,” you mumbled against his lips.

Happy to oblige, he did it again, hips grinding against yours. You could feel his hard on, pushing against your clothed core. It was nice but it wasn’t enough so you moved your hips in time with his. By now one of Seunghyun’s hands had slid under your shirt, his fingers leaving a trail of goosebumps on your skin in their wake. He broke the kiss for a moment, looking at you with the softest eyes as he asked his question. “Can I take this off?”

“Yes,” you nodded, chest rising and falling in anticipation.

He slowly peeled your shirt off, taking a moment to look at you as you lay there, top half bare minus your bra. He inhaled deeply, trying to keep himself under control. “You’re so beautiful.”

It was impossible to fight the blush creeping up your neck. “Thank you but I think you’re talking about yourself.”

“No,” his lips had found your neck, trailing kisses along your collarbone then the side of your neck. He nipped at your skin, his tongue running across his mark to soothe it. If he was doing this, he was leaving you a reminder… and maybe he wanted everyone else to know that he was the first one to have you. That thought alone filled him with a possessive pride. You tilted your head to the side to give him more access. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on. A fuckin’ dream.”

It was your turn to undress him now, tugging at his shirt. Seunghyun took the hint, removing himself from your neck momentarily to pull it off over his head, discarding it somewhere on the floor. He leaned back down again, his fingers dancing along your side until his hand cupped your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple through the fabric of your bra. You bit your lip at the sensation, Seunghyun reaching behind your back to try and unclasp it. Unfortunately, he wasn’t as smooth as he’d like to be, fumbling with it and failing to unclasp it.

“…is this some torture device or something? What the hell?” He huffed which only caused you to giggle. You sat up, reaching behind your back to take it off yourself. It joined the ever growing pile of clothes on the floor. There was a moment where you almost covered yourself up but seeing how Seunghyun was looking at you — like you were the sun, stars and moon — it gave you the confidence you needed. He felt his cock twitch in his pants, nearly nutting right then and there. He really needed to get a hold of himself if he was ready to cum at seeing your tits. “Holy shit.”

His lips found yours, hungrily moving against them, tongue instantly passing your lips to find yours. His hand cupped your breast, giving it a gentle squeeze. You arched into his touch, spurring him on, giving him the courage he needed to keep going. The pad of his thumb brushed your nipple again, feeling it pebble under his touch. He tore his lips from you, kissing down the valley between your breasts before his lips found your other nipple. His tongue swirled around it, lavishing it with attention while his hand made work of your other one. The sensation was incredible, you could feel yourself getting wetter and wetter with each touch. Embarrassingly wet at this point. He ground his hips back into yours, harder this time. He was so hard, so painfully hard but he wanted to take his time. He wanted this to be a memory both of you could look back on fondly. Your first time had to be special, he would make sure of that even if he was a nervous wreck inside.

“Seunghyun,” you sighed. His lips left your breast, trailing wet kisses down your stomach until he reached the waistband of your jeans. He looked up at you, silently asking you for permission. It took one nod of your head before he was tugging them off. HIs eyes instantly caught the damp patch on your panties, groaning to himself. The fact he had done this to you, that he was the one to make you so riled up? It was an incredible feeling. He lightly pressed his fingers against your core, rubbing in slow circles over your panties.

“Does that feel good?” He asked nervously. All he wanted was to make you feel good, to give you the pleasure you deserved.

“Mhm. I….” You started but cut off, too embarrassed to say what you wanted to.

“No, go on, baby. Tell me.”

“…I want you to touch me properly, please?”

Seunghyun hooked his fingers into the sides of your panties, pulling them off. Now you were completely naked in front of him. He was sure this was a dream. There was no way you were lying here, hair fanned out on the pillow, looking at him with desire in your eyes, bare for him and only him. He parted your legs, his hand trailing up to where you needed him. A long finger slid between your folds, your slick coating it. You were so wet. He kept doing that, sliding his fingers along your pussy before he found your clit. You gasped out when he began to rub slow, soft circles against it. Hearing your breathy moans, the way your hips were moving against his hand; it spurred him on. He added more pressure, sliding his index finger down, teasing your entrance. It was slowly that he slid his finger inside you, eyes instantly flicking up to your face to check your reaction.

Your bottom lip was tugged between your teeth, fingers gripping the bed sheets beneath you. It was truly a sight to behold. He began to pump his finger; the fact you were so wet made it easier for him to pump his finger in and out. “You’re so wet.”

He added another finger, keeping it gentle. He curled his fingers, to which you rewarded him with a loud moan of his name. He couldn’t help himself but seeing your writhing under his touch, the way your eyes were squeezed shut, hips chasing his movements? He needed to taste you. If he was being honest, he’d only ever eaten a girl out once but for you, he’d try his damndest to make it the best experience of your life.

He kept his fingers moving inside you, picking up the pace a little. His head now between your thighs, kissing along your soft skin before finally, finally, he darted his tongue out to taste you. He had to pause immediately, feeling himself almost nutting once again. Yeah, he was definitely a virgin. Couldn’t keep it together at all. Once he got a hold of himself, his tongue went back to work, swirling around your clit. The moan you let out was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.

“Fuck, Seunghyun!” You gasped, fingers flew to his dark hair. “I.. oh…that… that feels so good.”

You held his head against you, bucking into his mouth as his lips attached to your sensitive bud, sucking it. And, that was it. The way his fingers were pumping into you paired with his mouth working its magic, it was too much. Too overwhelming. The pressure had built to a crescendo.

“O-Oh, I-fuck…” you cried out, fingers tugging at his hair as you came. Your body tensed up, your release flooding his mouth. He lapped it up like a man starved, his cock aching painfully knowing he’d just made you cum. He slowed his fingers down, helping you through your release. When he felt your body relax, his lips trailed back up your body, pulling his fingers from you. He found your lips again, kissing you slowly.

“Back with me?” He asked softly, brushing your hair from your forehead.

“Yeah.”

“That was so fucking hot. I can’t believe I just made you come like that.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard before. Let me return the favour.”

Your hand slid between your bodies, dipping into his jeans to palm him through his boxers. He thrust into your hand automatically. He was certain he’d never been this hard in his life. It was too much. He knew he wasn’t going to be able to handle it if you kept touching him. That would have to be saved for another time. As you began to rub his cock through his boxers, his fingers wrapped around your wrist to stop you. You frowned. “Did I do something wrong?”

He cupped your face, shaking his head. “Not at all, baby. I just…. if you keep touching me like that, I’m gonna come and I…” His face turned a deep shade of scarlet. “I… I want to come inside you.”

“Oh,” you understood immediately. “Do you… have any condoms?”

He sighed heavily. “No.”

“I’m on the pill so we should be okay.”

Seunghyun nodded. He stood up for a minute, shedding himself of his jeans and boxers. You hadnleaned up on your elbows to watch, the throbbing between your legs ever present as you watched him undress. Seeing his cock, the way it sprang out made you lick your lips. Yeah, you definitely needed that in your mouth one day soon. You hadn’t missed how hard he was, the precum leaking from his tip.

Seunghyun crawled back on top of you, his heart now pounding in his chest. Nerves were setting in. You were really about to do this. He was about to lose his virginity to the girl he’d always dreamed about. It didn’t feel real. So many things had gone wrong in his life but this? This was right.

You cupped his cheek, the nerves in his eyes reflecting back in yours. It was scary but you trusted him. Seunghyun would take care of you, that was something you knew for sure. He rocked his hips against you, his cock sliding through your drenched folds. A whimper escaped your kiss swollen lips. By now, it was the point of no return but you had to ask anyway, had to be certain. “Are you sure?”

“Never been more sure in my life. Are you?” He kissed the palm of your hand.

“I…I’m nervous but I want this. I want you.”

“And I want you. I’ve always wanted you. I promise I’ll be so gentle and… if it hurts or you need me to stop then I will instantly, okay?”

You nodded. Seunghyun took one of your hands in his, lacing your fingers together. His other hand had taken his cock, running it along your folds on more time to coat himself in your slick before positioning at your entrance. “I’m gonna start now.”

He very, very slowly pushed the head of his cock into your soaking entrance. He groaned at the sensation, your pussy warm as it enveloped his length, trying to accommodate him. He pushed in a little further but immediately stopped when he heard the sharp gasp tearing from your lips. Eyes wide, he looked up in a panic. “Are you okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Just… stings. Give me a minute.” He did, he waited patiently even if it was the hardest thing he’d ever done. His lips covered your face in sweet kisses, his free hand running up and down your side to soothe you. When you opened your eyes, you nodded, a fierce determination in them. “Keep going.”

He pushed in even more. Little by little he kept it up, watching your face for any signs of discomfort. The way you were squeezing his hand made his heart clench. He knew it would hurt for a little moment for you, but he hated the thought of it. Finally, he was all the way inside. Stilling completely.

“Holy shit. You feel so good,” he breathed, his deep voice full of barely constrained desire. “So tight. I… I’m not going to last long, baby. Tell me when I can move.”

It was a foreign feeling, strange but not in a bad way. It was overwhelming, the feeling of being so full as your body tried to accommodate the new intrusion. The initial sting had started to fade now. The hard part was over with. Your eyes met Seunghyun’s and you could see how much he was holding back but he hadn’t complained one bit. His eyes shone with nothing but love and patience for you. “You can move. Please.”

He inhaled a breath, pulling out only halfway before gently pushing back in. He set a slow rhythm, it was clunky and awkward but neither of you cared. He buried his head in the crook of your neck as he thrust into you. The more he did, the better it felt. You could feel how good it felt, needing more of it. So, feeling brave, you wrapped one leg around his waist which pulled him in deeper. He moved a little harder, spurred on by your moans in his ear. His head lifted, hand squeezing yours, his forehead resting against yours. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

That was all it took for Seunghyun to lose it. A deep groan fell from his lips as he rutted into you. He thrust in to the hilt, the tip of his cock hitting that special spot inside you which triggered another orgasm from you. The feeling of your tight walls clamping around him like a vice was it. He groaned loudly, your name on his lips as he emptied himself inside you. It was a beautiful sight. His hair stuck to his forehead, damp from sweat, his face contorted in pleasure. It was something you would never forget. He collapsed on top of you, careful not to crush you with his weight.

He nuzzled his head into your neck as you ran your fingers through his hair, both of you panting to get your breaths back.

Silence enveloped you. Both of you basking in what you’d just shared together. Eventually, Seunghyun pulled his head back up. “I meant it, you know? I love you. I didn’t get to say it earlier but you’re my first love, too.”

The intimate moment you’d just shared, giving yourselves to each other paired with his beautiful words brought tears to your eyes. “I love you, too. I’ve always loved you and I’m always going to.”

No matter what happened now, you knew that as long as you had each other, things would be okay.

He was yours and you were his. In every way possible.

challenge taglist: @ldydeath @infinetlyforgotten @loveesiren @sevendaysummer @gdinthehouseee @eru-vande @bluesunss @emmiesoverthemoon @petersasteria @currentloser @makeitworse @berfgrimm @aizshallnotbefound @sherxoo @keiraryan

normal taglist: @sherrayyyyy @justsisse @fleabagspurplewife @gemzyy @bettelaboure @breakmeoff @flymetothexmoon

#choi seunghyun x reader #t.o.p x reader #choi seunghyun #choi seunghyun smut #bigbangaprilchallenge #my fics

136 notes · View notes

revelboo · 21 hours ago

Note

How is our relationship with Cop doing? 👀

They’re both struggling and awful at feelings

Stand Too Close Pt 19

Prowl x Reader

• “Where do you want this to go?” He asks instead of answering you and your head turns to glare at him, finding him watching you. And honestly, you’re not sure. Afraid of that warm feeling he kindles in you, because it’s not right. Love isn’t supposed to be like that. It’s not what you see in movies, hear about in love songs. Maybe it’s because you’re both kind of terrible? Both messed up? “Why does it have to complicated?”

• Hears you snort at him and the tension gripping his spark eases some. You’re home and he missed you so much it hurts. Needs you here with him. To hear your voice even if you’re angry, even if all you do is argue with him. Feels better, whole with you. Like he’s home and it’s frightening in its intensity. “Because life’s complicated,” you mutter and you bend a knee up, shoe sliding. “We’re just extra complicated.”

• Hear him laugh at that and there’s that warmth, making you smile despite how hurt you still are at his abandonment. “I’m almost positive I do love you. It’s about seventy-two percent certain,” he says and you snort, tempted to throw a shoe. And almost wanting to cry at how much you missed this, good naturedly picking at each other. Arguing without any real heat.

• “Only seventy-two percent? Not very certain then,” you mutter and that ache in his spark sinks a little deeper. Wants to touch you, hold you, but knows you probably won’t let him. That he’d hurt you when he’d left you thinking he was doing what’s best for you. Not understanding that you didn’t want to be freed. Messing everything up between you. “I’m at two percent, personally.”

• Hear him bang an elbow on his berth sitting up to scowl at you and you shrug your shoulders, not bothering to sit up. “Brat,” he growls and you laugh. Really laugh, warming as he offers you a self deprecating smile, his door wings lifting slightly. Looking hopeful. Is it love? Really love? You’re not sure and it’s frightening. But you want to find out.

#transformers x reader #prowl x reader #tf prowl

112 notes · View notes

obvithe-bestsoph · 24 hours ago

Text

sleepy boyfriend.

masterlist requests word count: 803

a/n: this is straight up just fluff. kinda sappy but also cute. also we're not going to judge the slightly cringy song choice for this one, are we? no, no we are not. 😌 sorry for missing an upload yesterday, i was really busy! you guys get two fics tomorrow instead to make up for it. genre: fluff. summary: you come home after a long day to a sleepy surprise, and spend a peaceful night getting ready for bed with pau. warnings: they kiss? nothing graphic at all though.

You’ve had a long day. Having to arrive early to work at 8 AM, working late until 9 PM, you could hardly keep your eyes open as you finally dragged yourself through the front door. You dump your stuff in the entryway and grab a piece of fruit, eating it quickly as you make your way through the apartment, greeting the dogs and closing all the curtains before finally heading to your bedroom.

You open your door and almost jump halfway out of your skin when you find your boyfriend lying asleep on your bed, not expecting him to be there. There’s a bouquet of flowers on the bedside table, and he’s got on dress pants and a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up and the top few buttons undone. Clearly, he was going to try and surprise you, but the pobricito (poor guy) had fallen asleep.

He’s lying on top of the covers, but he’s hugging one of your pillows like he’ll die without it. He has his face buried in it, so he can get that familiar scent of your hair products and perfume. You smile and snap a quick picture on your phone, before gently sitting down next to him and stroking your hand over his soft cheeks until he begins to stir.

Pau’s vision is bleary for a moment before he awakens fully, realising that his girlfriend is now home and sitting right next to him. His expression almost instantly perks up to look like an excited puppy. “Hola, meu amor (my love).” he croaks. “I was waiting for you. I was gonna take you out for dinner, but I guess I fell asleep.” his cheeks turn a little pink. “It’s alright, I’m kinda tired for going out anyway.” You smile, kissing his cheek, before standing up and starting to get changed from your work clothes into one of his hoodies and some pyjama shorts.

“How was your day?” he asks softly, sitting up against the headboard and watching as you move around the bedroom, going about your nighttime routine.

“Kinda awful, I haven’t had a minute to sit down since I left this morning, and I’ve had no time to myself either. So, yeah, busy,” you sigh. He smiles sympathetically as he follows you into the ensuite, sitting down on the closed toilet seat while you brush your teeth and do your skin care. For the most part, he simply watches curiously and quietly.

Of course, you still include your little domestic traditions of getting ready for bed together. When you put on your moisturiser, you turn around to him and rub it gently over his face too, just like how, out of habit, he leans up for a kiss when you put your lip mask on.

He then lets you brush his hair, practically falling dozing off again at the soothing motion of the brush against his scalp. When you finish, he opens his eyes slowly, looking up at your face with a sleepy smile.

“Ets tan bonica, ho saps (you’re so beautiful, you know that)?” he murmurs, making you blush a little. He stands and steals a quick kiss as he walks back out into the bedroom, starting to undress from his nice outfit.

You and Pau don’t live together just yet, but you may as well do, as you’re basically half moved into his dorm at La Masia, and he’s basically half moved in here. He manages to find one of his hoodies that you’ve stolen from him at some point or another, and some of his sweatpants he also discovers in your wardrobe. “I think there’s more of my clothes in here than yours, tu petit lladre (you little thief)!” he calls, laughing.

“Calla (shut up), they’re more comfortable than mine!” you laugh back, leaving the bathroom to appear in the doorway of the closet. He just shakes his head as he walks over to you, grinning as he wraps his arms around your waist and lifts your feet off the ground, his lips on yours as you giggle in surprise. He carries you like that all the way to the bed, before dropping you ungracefully in the middle of the mattress, falling on top of you, laughing himself.

He stares into your eyes for a moment before kissing you softly again, still able to taste the lip product on your skin. After the long kiss, he pulls away and grins that sweet grin of his, before slipping you both under the covers and sliding you closer, until your head is tucked under his chin, and your face is buried in his chest.

“Bona nit, la meva bella dona (good night, my gorgeous woman).” he whispers into your hair.

“Good night, meu nen bonic (my beautiful boy). T'estimo (i love you).” you whisper back. “Jo també t'estimo (i love you too).”

#pau cubarsi #pau cubarsi fic #obvithebestsoph!paucubarsi #pau cubarsi x reader #fc barcelona #fanfiction #football #football fic #culer #teenage romance #PC2 #Spotify

63 notes · View notes

gojover · 6 hours ago

Text

get him back! | mydeimos.

summary ⇢ years after your messy breakup that broke up the band, you and mydei are forced back together for a reunion tour—and the public can’t get enough of your chemistry. on stage, you’re electric, but backstage it’s all snide comments, heated arguments, and mydei slipping in petty lyric changes just to piss you off. you’re not sure what’s worse: how much you still hate him or how much you don’t.

pairing ⇢ lead guitarist!mydei x lead singer!fem!reader contains ⇢ romance, angst, smut (oral sex, hate sex, angry sex, unprotected sex, wall sex, overstimulation, slight dirty talk), exes to lovers!au, modern!au, band!au, profanity, alcohol consumption, smoking—please let me know if i’ve missed anything! word count ⇢ 16.7k note ⇢ inspired by the honkai star rail official mydei art, olivia rodrigo’s get him back! & daisy jones and the six by taylor jenkins reid. reposted from @/dxnheng. read on ao3 here.

i). wait, is this the song with the drums?

Your first instinct, when Anaxa drops the news about the reunion tour, is to shake your head and vehemently say no.

“Absolutely not,” you say, holding up a hand like that might somehow physically block the idea from reaching you. Anaxa simply raises an eyebrow and adjusts his glasses.

“It’s not a request,” he replies, flipping through the stack of papers he brought with him. “It’s happening whether you’re on board or not. Your contract’s airtight.”

“That’s impossible,” you scoff, folding your arms defensively. “I specifically remember agreeing to no future projects involving him.”

“Yeah, well, when you’re in a band that makes millions, the label doesn’t exactly care about your personal vendettas. Fans have been begging for this for years. You know how much money this is going to make?”

“I can’t do this, Anaxa. You know what he’s like. He’s gonna make this a living hell for me.”

Your manager’s eyes soften just enough to make you look away. “Look, I know it’s not ideal. But it’s just a tour. A few months, and then you never have to see his face again if you don’t want to.”

You hesitate, teeth worrying your bottom lip. Anxiety coils inside your stomach like a live wire. You’d thought you’d buried that part of your life—left it to rot somewhere in the wreckage of what used to be your band and your relationship. Mydei’s name still leaves a bitter aftertaste whenever it slips out of someone’s mouth.

But the label wants it. The fans want it.

“So, what—you just expect me to pretend we didn’t break up in front of the entire world?” you snap, though there’s less fire behind it this time.

Anaxa shrugs and sets the contract on your coffee table. “Pretend, don’t pretend. Hell, make it part of the show for all I care. As long as you’re both on that stage together, the crowd’s going to eat it up.”

You hate how practical he sounds. How it almost makes sense. You glance at the contract, at the neat, tidy letters spelling out your own name and Mydei’s right next to each other, and feel something bitter curl up in your chest.

“I’m gonna kill him,” you mutter.

Anaxa pats your shoulder as he heads for the door. “Try not to do it on stage. Though that might actually sell more tickets.”

You flip him off without looking, and Anaxa just laughs on his way out. The contract sits there on the coffee table, and no matter what you do, you can’t seem to look away. Your eyes blur over the words, and all you can think about is him.

Mydei.

You’ve spent months forcing yourself not to say his name out loud, not to think about his legs tangled with yours in bed or the rasp of his voice in your ear when he couldn’t keep his hands to himself before a show. You don’t let yourself think about the songs you wrote together. You definitely don’t think about the way it all fell apart. It was easier when you could pretend that part of your life was over—when you didn’t have to picture his face or hear his voice in your head, mocking you with every love song you swore you’d never sing again.

With a resigned sigh, you grab the pen Anaxa had placed next to the contract papers and flip to the last page. Your signature comes out a little shaky, but it’s done. You let the pen drop onto the table and lean back against the cushions.

The rehearsal studio feels too small. It’s ironic, really—after spending years crammed into dingy vans and shitty motel rooms together, you’d think it wouldn’t bother you. You’re the first person there (Anaxa had threatened to personally drag you out of your apartment if you didn’t show up on time), and because you don’t know what else to do, you set about adjusting your mic stand.

It’s stupid. You know it’s already set to your height, but it gives your hands something to do. The room is way too quiet, the walls lined with soundproofing and a few faded posters from when your band—the Chrysos Heirs—was at its peak. There’s a familiar, musty smell—stale air and old fabric—and it makes your chest ache just a little.

Without really thinking about it, you start humming one of the old songs—one that never made it to an album, just something you and Mydei had messed around with one night in the back of a bus. The melody flows out of you like muscle memory, soft and a little shaky at first, but gaining strength as you let the lyrics slip past your lips.

“Kiss me once and call me baby, Lie to me and say I’m crazy— Can’t believe I let you take me—”

The door swings open mid-verse, and you stop singing so fast it almost gives you whiplash.

Mydei steps inside, and for a second, you can’t move. It’s like being punched in the gut—seeing him again after all this time. He looks almost the same, and that’s what pisses you off the most. The same messy hair, the same worn leather jacket hanging off his shoulders, that same stupid, self-assured expression. The only real difference is the hint of stubble lining his jaw, like he didn’t bother shaving before showing up. Typical.

He stops just inside the door, guitar case slung over his shoulder, and his eyes lock onto yours. His expression doesn’t give away much—just a calm, uninterested look, like he couldn’t give a shit about being here. Your stomach twists, anger simmering just under your skin. You’d spent months convincing yourself that you’d moved on, that he didn’t matter anymore, but seeing him here, right in front of you, makes all that effort feel pointless. You hate that he still looks good.

He doesn’t say anything, just drags his gaze over you like he’s sizing you up. You force yourself not to react, keeping your expression as neutral as possible, even though your hands are shaking where they grip the mic stand. You can’t let him know how much this is messing with you. You refuse to give him the satisfaction.

Mydei glances at the mic stand, then back at you, and there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—annoyance, maybe, or just plain indifference. You don’t know which is worse. You half expect him to make some smartass comment about your singing earlier, but he doesn’t say a word. Just sets his guitar case down on one of the couches and starts unzipping it, still not acknowledging you.

The way he’s ignoring you grates on your nerves. You’re tempted to snap at him just to get some kind of reaction. But you know how that game goes—how he’s always been good at pushing your buttons and making you the one who loses their cool first. You’re not giving him the satisfaction today.

You busy yourself with the mic stand again, even though there’s nothing to fix. It’s something to do with your hands, at least. The air feels thick, and your chest feels tight, and you can’t stop your mind from wandering back to late-night songwriting sessions and whispered promises that ended up meaning nothing. You wonder if he thinks about those nights too—or if he’s just moved on completely while you’re still stuck in the aftermath.

The door swings open again, and Castorice and Hyacine walk in, chatting and laughing about something. They both pause when they see you and Mydei, exchanging a quick look before stepping inside.

“Hi,” Castorice greets, adjusting the hem of her faded purple band t-shirt. “Everything okay here?”

You force a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. “Yeah. All good.”

Hyacine gives you a small smile, her pigtails swinging, and starts setting up her bass. Castorice nudges Mydei with her elbow as she passes by, but he just shrugs her off and keeps tuning his guitar. She rolls her eyes and grabs her drumsticks.

You can’t help but glare at him, half-hoping he’ll look up so you can throw something snarky his way. Maybe if he’d just stop pretending like you’re invisible, you wouldn’t feel like your chest is caving in. You’re caught between wanting to scream at him and wanting to leave before your hands start shaking too hard to hide.

Phainon slips in a few minutes later, his snowy hair wind-ruffled and his jeans ripped at the knees. “Already at each other’s throats, huh?” he mutters, mostly to himself, but you hear it.

“Nah,” you bite out. “No one’s dead yet.”

Phainon chuckles and unslings his guitar case. It’s forced, yes, and you know he’s just trying to lighten the mood. It doesn’t help much. Mydei doesn’t even acknowledge the comment; he just keeps strumming a few notes like he’s deliberately tuning you out. You look away.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “Chrysos Heirs: The Reunion Tour – Behind the Music. Episode One.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]Soft lighting. Castorice sits on a stool, tapping her drumsticks against her knee absentmindedly. She grins when she notices the camera.

CASTORICE: The first practice? Oh, man. That was a nightmare. I mean, I know it was gonna be awkward, but—wow. I half expected the room to just spontaneously combust. (Laughs) They didn’t even look at each other for the first half hour. I thought I’d have to throw a cymbal at someone just to break the ice.

[CUT TO: HYACINE, sitting cross-legged on the floor, her bass leaning against her shoulder.]

HYACINE: Honestly, I wasn’t sure if they’d even show up. _____ got there first, and Mydei came just before me and Cas showed up. When we walked in… (Sighs) It was like stepping into a freezer. I kept looking at Castorice like, Are we really doing this?

[CUT TO: PHAINON, leaning against the wall with his guitar propped up next to him.]

PHAINON: You could cut the tension with a knife. I was just waiting for one of them to snap, honestly. ____ was messing with the mic stand like it owed her money, and Mydei—(snorts) he just acted like he didn’t give a shit. Everyone knows he does, though. I could see his hands shaking a little while he was tuning his guitar.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, slouched on the couch, arms crossed.]

MYDEI: First practice? Whatever. I showed up, didn’t I? (Shrugs) _____ was already there, singing something I wrote. I didn’t say anything. Didn’t feel like arguing. Didn’t feel like… dealing with that. (Pauses) We got through it. That’s what matters.

[CUT TO: YOU, sitting on a folding chair, arms crossed, eyes fixed somewhere off camera.]

YOU: I didn’t think he’d actually come. And when he did… (shakes head) I was just angry. At him, at myself. At the fact that he didn’t even look at me. We used to be… I don’t know. Better than that. He didn’t say anything to me, and I wasn’t gonna be the one to break first. We both have too much pride.

[CUT TO: CASTORICE AGAIN, twirling a drumstick between her fingers.]

CASTORICE: Eventually, I just started playing something random to break the silence. That usually worked back then—get the rhythm going, and the rest will follow. I guess some things never change, because once I started up, Phainon joined in, and Hyacine just kinda jumped in too. ____ and Mydei just stared at each other like it was some kind of weird staring contest.

[CUT TO: HYACINE AGAIN, laughing softly.]

HYACINE: I thought one of them was gonna strangle the other before we even got to the chorus. But after a few minutes of us just messing around with the intro, _____ gave in and started singing. Mydei followed—stubborn asshole—but it actually sounded good. Like, almost better than I remembered.

[CUT TO: PHAINON AGAIN, smiling with his eyes crinkled at the corners.]

PHAINON: It was a mess. A beautiful mess. That’s just how it is with us. Always on the edge of imploding but somehow making it work. They didn’t say a word to each other the whole practice, but the music spoke for them. It’s weird how that works, huh?

[CUT TO: MYDEI, still looking annoyed, but his jaw clenches a little.]

MYDEI: We got through the set. It wasn’t… terrible. (Pauses) She still sings like she’s got something to prove. Never really lost that passion. I guess that’s one thing that hasn’t changed.

[CUT TO: YOU, looking almost hesitant.]

YOU: The music was the only thing that didn’t feel different. That’s the worst part. We still fit together on stage. I don’t know how to feel about that.

ii). he had an ego and a temper and a wandering eye.

The venue is packed, lights flashing in time with the beats of the opening song. Castorice is good. That hasn’t changed, not even a little. The heat of the stage lights is already making sweat prickle at the back of your neck, but you force yourself to ignore it, keeping your eyes fixed on the dark mass of people in front of you. You can barely make out individual faces past the glare, but it doesn’t matter—they’re all screaming, hands in the air, chanting your band’s name like a war cry.

To your left, Hyacine’s fingers fly over the bass strings, head bobbing in time with the rhythm. Her eyes are focused and sharp, lips curved into a smile. Next to her, Phainon strums his guitar, sweat dripping down his temples. He’s got that manic grin on his face, the one that always surfaces when he’s deep in the music.

You’re trying to focus—keep your voice steady, keep your hands from shaking—but it’s hard when you know he’s right behind you, adjusting his guitar strap and dragging his pick over the strings just loud enough to be a distraction. You swear he’s doing it on purpose, plucking random notes like he’s got nothing better to do, just to see if he can make you crack.

You refuse to look back at him. Instead, you take a slow breath and lean into the mic, eyes half-lidded and voice low as you speak to the crowd.

“Hey, everyone,” you drawl, and the noise swells, cheers and screams merging into a single deafening roar. You give them a crooked smile. “Feels good to be back. Did you guys miss us?”

The crowd roars. You can feel it—the way they’ve been waiting for this, for you. You ignore the way it makes your throat close up a little, focusing instead on the setlist displayed on the prompter. The opening song is one of your older hits, the kind of thing that used to play on the radio at least once a day back when it was first released. You’ve sung it a thousand times before, but tonight, it feels different. He’s right there, and you hate how you can feel his presence without even looking.

The drums kick in, pounding through your ribs, and you throw yourself into the first verse.

“Bite your tongue ‘til it bleeds, Hide the bruises on your knees, Say you never cared— I know you’re lying through your teeth.”

Your voice is steady, loud enough to carry over the instruments as the crowd sings with you. You almost lose yourself in it. The light pulses red and white, casting shadows across the stage, and you grip the mic stand tighter, putting every ounce of frustration into your performance.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Mydei move closer to his mic, his guitar slung low and his fingers dancing over the strings. You force yourself not to look at him, focusing on the rhythm instead, on keeping your breathing even as the verse transitions into the chorus.

“Bittersweet vendetta, Carved your name into my skin, Kiss me like a secret. Make me wish I’d never let you in.”

You push your voice harder, practically shouting the last line, and the crowd’s response is instantaneous—voices rising to meet yours, some of them screaming loud enough to rival the speakers. You finally risk a glance to your right, just in time to see Mydei’s lips curve into a smirk, his head tilted like he’s daring you to acknowledge him.

He leans into the mic, and his voice slices through the air.

“She lies like she means it, Fake love on her lips—”

You clench your jaw so hard it aches, but you don’t miss your next cue, even though your mind is reeling. That’s not the original line. He’s never changed it before—not in all the years you performed this song together. You shove down the surge of anger, forcing yourself to keep going as if nothing happened.

The audience reacts immediately—some laughing, some whooping. You know they heard it. You know he did it just to get a rise out of you. You hate that it’s working, that your pulse is thrumming in your ears and your hands are shaking even as you keep your expression blank.

You don’t look at him. Instead, you pour every ounce of your irritation into the next verse, voice dropping low and venomous.

“Cut me down with your clever words, Always knew how to make it hurt, Fake your way to heaven, But I’d follow you through hell first.”

You swear you hear Mydei laugh under his breath, but he keeps playing like nothing’s wrong, his fingers moving over the strings like second nature. Your stomach twists, and you can’t tell if it’s fury or something uglier—something that feels like regret buried under years of resentment.

The bridge comes crashing in, and you give it everything you’ve got. Your voice is raw and unrestrained.

“Swore I’d never write about you, Guess I lied again somehow, Made my bed on broken promises, Tell me—are you happy now?”

The crowd’s roar almost drowns you out, but you don’t let up, spitting out the words like they’re poison on your tongue. You’re breathless by the time the final chorus hits, and the last line comes out almost like a snarl.

When the song ends, the audience erupts, and you finally allow yourself a moment to breathe, wiping sweat from your forehead with your palm. Your ears are ringing, but you catch a glimpse of Mydei as he steps back from his mic, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He doesn’t look at you. Nor does he seem to particularly care that he just tore through one of your most iconic songs with a cheap, unnecessary jab.

You force a smile and wave to the crowd.

The moment the stage lights cut out and the cheers of the crowd fade behind the heavy backstage door, you’re off. You don’t bother thanking the crew or even stopping to catch your breath—you just march straight to the green room, hands still trembling from the adrenaline and the anger. Your heart’s pounding so loud in your ears that you barely hear the door swing open behind you.

You whirl around just as Mydei walks in, still wiping sweat off his face with the hem of his shirt. The sight of him—smirking like he didn’t just pull that shit on stage—makes your stomach twist with rage.

“What the fuck was that?” Your voice comes out harsher than you intended, but you don’t care.

Mydei just raises an eyebrow, like he’s confused about why you’re yelling. “What was what?”

“Don’t play fucking dumb,” you snap. “You changed the fucking lyrics. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

He just shrugs and tosses his towel onto one of the chairs. “Oh, that. Yeah, I thought it sounded better. More honest.”

You take a step closer, jabbing a finger at him. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to just rewrite shit on stage without telling anyone. We practiced that song a hundred times, Mydei. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“You’re really gonna get this worked up over one line?” He scoffs, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “Come on, it’s not that deep.”

“Not that deep?” You laugh, but it’s humourless and cold. “You made it sound like I’m some kind of manipulative bitch in front of thousands of people! How the hell am I supposed to not get worked up about that?”

“Maybe if it wasn’t true, it wouldn’t bother you so much,” he says, leaning back against the wall.

Your jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

Mydei shrugs again, his voice low and taunting. “You always were good at faking it—feelings, sincerity, the whole tragic frontwoman act. Sorry if I just cut through the bullshit.”

Something snaps inside you, and before you even realise it, you shove him backwards with both hands. Mydei doesn’t stumble, but his smirk falls for just a second—just enough to make you feel a flicker of satisfaction.

“Fuck you,” you spit out. “You don’t know a single thing about me.”

His face hardens, and he pushes off the wall to get right back into your space. “Don’t I? I know you lie like it’s second nature. You get off on being the victim, pretending like you’re the one who got hurt. But we both know you’re just as guilty as I am.”

“You’re a fucking asshole.” You’re breathing hard now, fists clenched at your sides to keep from swinging at him. “You’re the one who decided to leave the band first. I’m not the one who bailed.”

“Yeah, because sticking around and watching you sabotage everything we built together sounded like a blast. You’re impossible to deal with. Always have been.”

“You think I’m impossible? You’re the one who picks a fight every chance you get. It’s like you can’t stand if I’m not miserable,” you shoot back. “Newsflash, Mydei—not everything’s about you and your bruised ego.”

“Says the girl who can’t stand it when someone calls her out,” he says, lips curling into a mocking grin. “Maybe I hit a nerve because you know I’m right. You’re so used to being adored that the second someone questions you, you lose your shit.”

You shove him again, harder this time, and he doesn’t move—just stays rooted to the spot, glaring down at you. “God, I hate you,” you seethe, voice cracking despite yourself.

“Funny. Didn’t sound like hate the last time you were screaming my name.”

You freeze, heat rushing to your face, and the anger bubbles into something darker—something desperate and bitter. “You think you’re so fucking clever, don’t you? Always gotta have the last word, always gotta prove something. You’re pathetic.”

“You’re one to talk,” he grits out. “Still hung up on shit that happened years ago. I’m pathetic? You’re the one still singing about heartbreak like it’s gonna make people feel sorry for you.”

You want to hit him. You want to scream at him until your voice breaks. Instead, you shove him again, and this time he catches your wrists, yanking you forward until your chest brushes his. His face is inches from yours, breath hot against your cheek.

“Admit it,” Mydei murmurs, low. “You’re pissed because I called you out, and now you can’t hide behind your lyrics like a coward.”

You wrench your hands free, but you don’t move back. You’re too close, breathing hard. “You’re such a fucking asshole,” you whisper, voice tight.

His eyes bore into yours. “And you’re a goddamn liar.”

Before either of you can say anything else, Hyacine pushes the door open with a scowl. She takes one look at the two of you and shakes her head. “Seriously? Already? I knew this tour would be a shitshow, but I didn’t think you’d try to kill each other on night one.”

You finally rip yourself away from him, swiping at your face like you’re trying to scrub the confrontation off your skin. Mydei doesn’t look at you. He just picks up his towel and wipes his hands.

Castorice slips in behind Hyacine, still buzzing from the performance. “Kephale, you two are like feral cats. Can’t we just chill for five seconds?”

“We’ve got interviews in ten minutes,” Phainon pipes up from behind her. “You guys need to get your shit together.”

Hyacine levels both of you with a glare. “I don’t care what personal shit you’ve got going on, but don’t pull that crap on stage again. Mydei, you don’t change the lyrics without telling us. _____, stop feeding into his bullshit. You’re both being idiots.”

Neither of you says anything, but you’re still seething, trying to force down the bitter ache in your chest. Mydei rolls his shoulders and turns away, his shaggy hair falling down the nape of his neck. When you finally turn and leave the room, you can still feel his eyes on your back, and it makes your skin crawl. You tell yourself you’re just glad to be away from him, but the knot in your stomach says otherwise.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “Opening Night – Sold Out.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: CASTORICE, her expression thoughtful.]

CASTORICE: Okay, look, I’m not gonna go around pinning the blame on anyone. That doesn’t do anyone any good. (Shifts slightly) I just think that we’re all adults here, and what Mydei and _____ were doing didn’t do us any favours.

[CUT TO: HYACINE, scowling at the camera.]

HYACINE: They’re pretty f***ing immature, if you ask me. Sometimes I think Mydei and _____ forget that they’re not the only people in the band. They founded it, sure, but what about me, Cas, and Phainon? This isn’t just some petty high school-level battle of the bands shit. This is our f***ing careers we’re talking about.

[CUT TO: PHAINON, leaning back with a cigarette rolling between his fingers.]

PHAINON: Yeah, it’s real inspiring when your frontmen are trying to rip each other’s heads off backstage. Real rock and roll. (Scoffs) Look, they’re both stubborn as hell, and it’s not like we didn’t see it coming. You put two people with that much history on the same stage, and it’s like throwing a match into gasoline.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, arms spread out on the back of the couch.]

MYDEI: It’s not my fault she can’t handle the truth. We’re supposed to be putting on a show, aren’t we? Guess what—drama’s a part of it. If she wants to get pissed because I added a little honesty to the setlist, that’s on her. (Shrugs) I’m not gonna apologise for making it real.

[CUT TO: YOU, visibly tense, gripping the edge of your seat.]

YOU: He didn’t change the lyrics because it was real. He did it to hurt me. There’s a difference. It’s not about the fans, or the show, or whatever bullshit excuse he’s telling himself. It’s about control. He just couldn’t stand the fact that I was getting through it without him, that I was… fine. (Pauses) Or at least trying to be.

[CUT TO: CASTORICE AGAIN, rubbing the back of her neck.]

CASTORICE: (Sighs) You’d think that after all these years, they’d have learned how to work together without turning it into a battlefield. We’re not in high school anymore. We’re on tour. If one of them messes up, it’s not just their mess to clean up—it’s all of ours.

[CUT TO: HYACINE AGAIN, looking more annoyed than before.]

HYACINE: It’s exhausting. We’re just trying to make music, not mediate whatever unresolved shit they’ve got going on. Half the time, I feel like I’m babysitting. They either need to figure it out or shut the hell up and be professional for once.

[CUT TO: PHAINON AGAIN, giving a resigned laugh.]

PHAINON: Honestly, if they’d just screw and get it over with, we might finally get some peace around here.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, AGAIN]

MYDEI: Phainon said that? Not a chance. I’d rather set my guitar on fire.

[CUT TO: YOU AGAIN, rolling your eyes.]

YOU: Yeah, well, might be the most impressive thing Mydei’s done in a while.

iii). do i love him? do i hate him? i guess it’s up and down.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “The Founders’ Cut.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: YOU, sitting upright with your arms crossed.]

INTERVIEWER (off-camera): Can you tell us about the band’s early days? How did the Chrysos Heirs come together?

YOU: God, that feels like forever ago. (Pauses) It was just me and Mydei at first. We were… just kids, really. We’d meet up after school in my dad’s garage—him on guitar, me scribbling down lyrics on whatever scraps of paper we could find. It wasn’t anything serious back then. We just wanted to make noise and piss off the neighbours.

INTERVIEWER: Did you always know it was going to be a band?

YOU: (Shakes head) Not at all. We didn’t plan for it to be anything more than a way to kill time. We’d play until our fingers ached or Dad came out yelling at us to cut it out. (Smiles a little) It was messy and loud and—fun. We didn’t think much past that.

INTERVIEWER: When did it start to feel like more than just noise?

YOU: When Castorice came into the picture. She was incredible. She had this way of making everything tighter, more precise. Like she just knew what needed to happen to make the sound click. Mydei knew her from some music workshop thing—said she was the only drummer he’d met who wasn’t full of shit. (Laughs softly) One day, she just showed up with this beat-up drum set and told us our timing was crap. And she was right.

INTERVIEWER: What was your reaction to her criticism?

YOU: Oh, I was pissed. I didn’t want some stranger telling us we were doing it wrong. But she wasn’t mean about it—just honest, I suppose. And once she started playing, we couldn’t really argue with her. She made us sound like an actual band.

INTERVIEWER: And Hyacine and Phainon? How did they join?

YOU: They came later. We’d been playing these tiny, shitty bar shows—barely getting paid, just trying to scrape together enough for gas and food. It was clear we needed a bassist. Castorice was the one who pushed for it. She said we sounded hollow without that low end. She knew Hyacine from some other band that had just imploded—some drama I never got the full story on. Hyacine came in and just took over. She was relentless, always pushing for perfection. It drove me and Mydei crazy at first, but she made us sound good. Really good.

INTERVIEWER: And Phainon?

YOU: (Smiles fondly) Phainon was a surprise. Mydei found him at some underground gig—he was up there shredding like it was the easiest thing in the world. Mydei practically dragged him to rehearsal the next day, and Phainon barely said a word. He just picked up his guitar and played like he’d been with us the whole time. We didn’t even have to teach him the songs—he just… knew. It was weird, but it worked.

INTERVIEWER: What was it like performing together back then?

YOU: Incredible. We weren’t perfect by any means—we’d f**k up chord changes and stumble over lyrics, but people didn’t care. There was this energy that made up for it. The crowd felt it too. We’d get off stage, drenched in sweat, hearts pounding, and just laugh about how much we almost screwed up. Those shows were something else.

INTERVIEWER: And what about you and Mydei? You two were already together by then?

YOU: (Pauses, glancing away) Yeah. It just happened. It wasn’t really something we talked about—it just made sense at the time. We were always around each other anyway.

INTERVIEWER: What changed?

YOU: (Exhales slowly) Success changed things. Suddenly we were everywhere—touring, interviews, non-stop shows. We didn’t have time to breathe, let alone talk about anything that mattered. It was just… go, go, go. And when things got tough, we didn’t know how to handle it. We didn’t talk. We just fought. About stupid shit—lyrics, setlists, tempos. It wasn’t about the band anymore. It was about us, trying to hurt each other without admitting that’s what we were doing.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, leaning back in his chair with one arm thrown across the back of it.]

INTERVIEWER (off-camera): Can you talk about why you left the band?

MYDEI: (Exhales, looks away for a moment) It wasn’t… one thing, you know? People always want it to be simple, like there’s one big reason I just up and left. But it wasn’t. There was just—too much shit piling up. Tension between all of us, pressure from the label, and I wasn’t in the right headspace to deal with it.

INTERVIEWER: Do you regret it?

MYDEI: Sometimes. Maybe. I didn’t really think about what it would do to the others at the time. I needed to figure out who I was without the band. It was selfish, I know, but I couldn’t keep pretending I was okay with how things were going.

INTERVIEWER: Were you unhappy with the band itself, or just the dynamics between the members?

MYDEI: Both, I guess. The band was everything to me at one point. It was the one thing I thought I could count on. But then it just got… complicated. We went from just being a bunch of idiots messing around to something huge, and I wasn’t ready for that kind of pressure. The music stopped feeling like ours—like mine. It was just what everyone else wanted from us.

INTERVIEWER: How did the others react when you told them you were leaving?

MYDEI: (Chuckles bitterly) Not well. Castorice tried to talk me out of it—said I was being impulsive and throwing away something we’d built from the ground up. Hyacine was pissed. She didn’t say much, but I could tell she was angry. Phainon didn’t say anything at all. Just kind of… stared at me like I’d betrayed him or something.

INTERVIEWER: And _____?

MYDEI: (Stiffens) She didn’t take it well. She said I was running away—like I always did. We fought about it for hours. Nothing we said made sense by the end of it. Just yelling for the sake of yelling. I think we both knew it wasn’t just about the band at that point.

INTERVIEWER: After you left, the Chrysos Heirs seemed to almost dissolve overnight. Can you talk about that?

MYDEI: (Breathes out slowly) Yeah, I heard about it a few months later. It wasn’t something I expected. I thought they’d keep going without me, honestly. I didn’t think I was that important. (Pauses) Turns out, though, that me leaving kind of pulled the rug out from under everything.

INTERVIEWER: Did the others ever talk to you about it?

MYDEI: Castorice called me once. She didn’t say much, just that they’d decided to take a break, and that without me there, it wasn��t working. She didn’t blame me, exactly, but I could hear it in her voice. Like she was trying not to say that I’d screwed everything up. (Shakes his head) Phainon never reached out. I don’t know if he was angry or just—disappointed. Hyacine texted me some stuff, mostly updates, but nothing about how they felt about it.

INTERVIEWER: What about _____?

MYDEI: (Tenses visibly) We never spoke to each other after I left.

INTERVIEWER: Do you think that the band dissolving hurt her the most?

MYDEI: Yeah. I know it did. The band was everything to her—more than it was to any of us, I think. She was always the one pushing us to go further, to make better music, to keep going even when it was hard. So when it all fell apart… I know she took it personally. Like she failed or something. Especially when I saw her trying to do solo stuff after that.

INTERVIEWER: Did you listen to her solo work?

MYDEI: (Nods) Every track. It was good—different, but good.

The studio lights beat down on you like a relentless sun, and you resist the urge to wipe at the thin sheen of sweat forming at your hairline. You force yourself to smile through it, shoulders squared and posture just right, even as your muscles ache from holding the same position for too long. Castorice mutters under her breath about how awkward it feels to act casual when there’s a giant lens pointed right at your face; you can’t help but agree. It’s been ages since the last group photoshoot, and the discomfort is hard to ignore.

Mydei stands at the far end, stiff and distant, hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket. He’s staring at some fixed point behind the photographer’s head, looking like he’s seconds away from bolting. It drives you insane how obvious he’s being about not wanting to be here. You catch his eye once, and the look he gives you is so blank, it’s almost insulting.

Castorice throws an arm across Phainon’s shoulders, and the two lean into each other. Hyacine sits cross-legged in front of you, holding up two peace signs and grinning widely.

“All right, good! That’s enough for the group shots,” Aglaea, the director of photography, calls out, clapping her hands together. “Everyone but Mydei and _____, take five. I want a few duo shots.”

You stiffen. Castorice glances between the two of you with something close to worry, but when you shoot her a tight smile, she just shrugs and heads off with Hyacine and Phainon in tow.

Mydei hasn’t moved an inch, his hands still stuffed into his pockets, jaw tight. You take a slow breath and will yourself not to let him get under your skin. Not again.

Aglaea gestures you both forward, clearly sensing the awkwardness but too professional to comment on it. “All right, you two. Let’s lean into the chemistry a bit. I want intimate and raw—like the world’s finally looking at you both behind the professional masks.”

Your lips press into a thin line. Mydei doesn’t react at all.

“Face each other,” Aglaea instructs, waving a hand to adjust the lighting. It catches on the bright gold of her blouse, and you blink a little. “Mydei, hands on her waist. _____, put your hands on his shoulders. Closer. I need to feel the tension. Like you’re caught between fighting and kissing.”

You almost laugh at the irony. That’s practically all you’ve done since he showed up again—hovering somewhere between wanting to scream at him and wanting to grab his face and never let go. The thought burns. You squash it as you step forward.

Mydei’s hands settle on your waist, and it’s as if electricity crackles through you, setting every nerve alight. His touch is hesitant, like he’s not sure he has the right to be this close anymore. Your hands come up to his shoulders, fingers brushing over familiar leather and muscle, and you force yourself to look up at him.

His eyes catch yours. Neither of you moves. He looks at you like he’s seeing something he thought he’d lost, and it makes your heart twist painfully.

“Closer,” Aglaea calls out, voice clipped. “Mydei, lean in like you’re about to say something you’ve been holding back for years. _____, tilt your chin up—give him that look, like you’re angry but imploring.”

You do as she says, your breath hitching when his forehead dips to rest against yours. Your fingers tighten against his shoulders, and his hands shift on your waist, thumbs brushing over the fabric of your shirt like he’s trying to memorise the feel of it. Those strands of hair that he always braids because he claimed it made him look “edgy” brushes against the curve of your cheek. You can feel his breath fan across your face, warm and familiar, and it hurts how natural it feels.

When you look to the side, Aglaea is frowning. “Closer,” she says again. “I need to see that longing.”

You don’t bother hiding your scoff, muttering under your breath, “Maybe it’d be easier if he didn’t look like he’d rather be doing literally anything else.”

His eyes snap to yours, defensive. “Sorry I’m not putting on enough of a show for you,” he mutters back, just loud enough for you to hear.

“Maybe if you actually gave a damn, it wouldn’t feel like pulling teeth,” you hiss.

He narrows his eyes, tightening his grip just a fraction, enough to make your pulse jump. “There you fucking go again. Acting like you’re the only one who cares about this.”

You force yourself to keep the smile plastered on your face for the camera, teeth clenched. “Oh, forgive me for thinking you don’t give a shit. It’s not like you haven’t disappeared for months without a word.”

“You think I wanted to leave?”

“You didn’t exactly try to stay,” you snap, fingers digging into his shoulders. “You left me to deal with the fallout while you got to play the tortured artist somewhere else. And now you’re back, and you’re acting like none of it mattered.”

“You didn’t want me to stay,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “You didn’t even ask.”

The accusation slices through you, and your grip on his shoulders loosens. “How was I supposed to ask when you made up your mind without me?” you fire back. “You made it clear that I wasn’t worth staying for.”

His expression hardens, like he’s trying to cover the hurt bleeding through his anger. “That’s not fair. You never once asked how I felt about it. You just decided I didn’t care.”

You want to scream at him for being so oblivious—for acting like you didn’t spend weeks waiting for a call that never came. Instead, you force your lips into a tight, brittle smile. “Guess you made it pretty damn convincing when you left even though I asked you to stay.”

Something in his eyes cracks, just for a moment, but then Aglaea’s voice cuts through.

“Yes! That’s it!” she crows. “Keep it up. Mydei, cup her face.”

He doesn’t move at first, just stares down at you, his breath coming out in uneven bursts. Then his hand lifts, cupping your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek like it’s muscle memory. The way he looks at you, then, makes your throat close up.

You want to push him away, but your hands stay where they are, like they’re glued to him. Aglaea calls out more instructions, but her voice is distant—just noise behind the thunder in your chest.

When she finally calls for a wrap, you step back, your hands falling limply to your sides. Mydei’s arms drop away from you, his face shuttered and closed off again. You don’t look at him as you turn on your heel and walk off to the break room, every muscle in your body screaming with the urge to just get away from him before you say something even worse.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “The Members’ Cut.”

The screen fades out into grainy footage from an old concert: Mydei and _____ on stage, harmonising, Mydei strumming his guitar while _____ sways with the mic. The audience sways as one, flashlights held up as they move in time with the song. The video fades out.

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: PHAINON, sitting cross-legged on a couch, an easy smile on his face.]

PHAINON: Back then? Man, they were something else. You’d think they were fused at the hip with how much time they spent together. Writing songs at three in the morning, huddled over some crumpled notebook, arguing about chord progressions one second and laughing the next. I don’t think I’ve ever seen two people make something so good while simultaneously wanting to strangle each other. It was weirdly sweet.

[CUT TO: CASTORICE, sitting in a green room with her legs swung over the arm of a chair.]

CASTORICE: _____ used to steal Mydei’s hoodies every time we hit a new city. Didn’t matter how hot it was—she’d be drowning in that thing, sleeves halfway covering her hands. Mydei’d just roll his eyes and mumble something about it smelling weird when he got it back, but he never complained. They’d go on these stupid little coffee dates whenever we had downtime—just the two of them, sneaking off like no one would notice. We noticed. Everyone noticed.

[CUT TO: HYACINE, sitting on the floor of the green room.]

HYACINE: Honestly? Their songs were the best ones we ever wrote. Together, they just… clicked. It was effortless. I think the first time I heard “After Midnight”, I kinda wanted to throw up from how sweet it was. But you could tell—every word, every note—they put their whole hearts into it. It was like they were making something for just the two of them, and the rest of us were lucky to get a piece of it.

[CUT TO: PHAINON AGAIN, still sporting that easy smile.]

PHAINON: But, y’know, things got complicated. Like they always do. They’re both stubborn as hell, and neither of them knows how to sit down and talk without throwing metaphorical knives at each other. Still… (Laughs softly) I stand by what I said. If they screw each other and get it over with, everyone’s gonna be okay.

iv). wanna kiss his face with an uppercut.

You’re sprawled across the hotel bed, face buried in the pillow, when your phone rings. You groan, tempted to ignore it, but the screen flashes Anaxagoras’ name, and you know better than to let it go to voicemail.

You pick up and press the phone to your ear. “Yeah?”

“Don’t sound so enthusiastic,” Anaxa deadpans. His voice is brisk, no-nonsense as always. “I’m just checking in.”

“Fantastic,” you say dryly, sitting up and running a hand through your hair. “Photoshoot went great. Almost fought Mydei. Twice.”

“Great Kephale,” he mutters, and you can imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose. “Are you two still at each other’s throats?”

“It’s kind of hard not to be when he acts like breathing the same air as me is a personal insult,” you snap. “Aglaea made us take those stupid couple shots, and he looked like he wanted to die the whole time. It’s—” You break off, clenching your jaw. “It’s annoying.”

Anaxa grunts, unimpressed. “You’re letting him get to you.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“Then stop it,” he says, as if it’s that easy. “You don’t have to like him, but you do have to get through this. It’s one shoot and a few public appearances. You’ve handled worse.”

“That’s the problem. It’s not supposed to be worse. We’re supposed to be professionals, but he’s—he’s making it impossible.”

Anaxa doesn’t answer right away, but when he does, his tone is firm. “Look, if he wants to act like a child, let him. You don’t have to stoop to his level. Smile for the camera, grit your teeth if you have to, and don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s pissing you off.”

You hate that he’s right. “Yeah. I know.”

“You want me to handle anything?”

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head even though he can’t see it. “I’ll deal with it.”

He doesn’t bother with goodbyes, just hangs up like always. You let your phone drop onto the bed and slump back down, staring up at the ceiling. You hate that it’s still gnawing at you—the frustration, the hurt, the way Mydei’s indifference feels like a punch to the gut every single time.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You can handle it. You’ve been through worse.

A knock at the door startles you out of your thoughts. You blink, wondering if you imagined it, but then it comes again—more impatient, this time. You groan and push yourself up, dragging your feet as you cross the room. Your muscles still ache from the photoshoot, and your mood hasn’t improved because of Anaxa’s call.

You pull the door open, expecting maybe Castorice or one of the others, but it’s Mydei. He leans against the doorframe, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, his jaw set in that familiar way that makes you want to slam the door right in his face.

“What do you want?” you snap, not even attempting to sound polite.

He glances away, gaze fixed on some spot above your shoulder. “I— Just wanted to—”

“Oh, please,” you interrupt. “Like you fucking care.”

“Don’t start.”

“I’m starting,” you snap back, “because you spent the whole fucking day making it perfectly clear that breathing the same air as me is unbearable, and now you’re playing concerned? Do you even look at yourself?”

“Maybe I do care,” he tells you, and you cut in again.

“You’re the one who looked like he’d rather die than put his hands on me. Trust me, I noticed.”

“It’s not that—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenched, and steps closer. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me!” you shoot back, shoving his shoulder. “You can’t just act like a dick and expect me to read your mind. Or are you still too much of a coward to admit anything out loud?”

That hits a nerve. His eyes flash, and he steps into your space, so close you can feel the heat coming off him. “Maybe if you didn’t act so fucking righteous all the time, I wouldn’t feel like I’m losing my mind around you,” he spits out.

“Yeah?” you challenge, shoving him again just to get him to react. “Maybe if you didn’t keep running away every time something actually matters, we wouldn’t be stuck in this stupid cycle!”

He grabs your wrist, yanking you even closer, and you can feel his breath on your face, warm and ragged. “I’m not running.”

“Yes, you are,” you hiss, your voice cracking despite yourself. “You always do. You think if you act like nothing happened, it’ll just go away. Well, fuck you, Mydei, because it doesn’t.”

He looks at you like he wants to argue, but his jaw works soundlessly, and you’re so sick of it—so tired of dancing around whatever’s been festering between you since the band split. Before you know it, your hands are gripping the front of his jacket, yanking him forward just as he crushes his mouth against yours.

It’s not soft or careful—nothing about it is gentle. It’s teeth and heat and frustration, like trying to punish each other for every stupid fight, every missed chance. He makes a low, frustrated noise, backing you into the room and kicking the door shut behind him.

Your hands are tangled in his hair now, and his grip on your waist is bruising, like he’s terrified you’ll pull away. You bite down on his lower lip, and he groans against your mouth, pressing you back until your spine meets the wall.

“You’re an asshole,” you mutter against his lips, barely catching your breath.

He just smirks, dragging his mouth down to your jaw, his voice rough and breathless. “Yeah? You’re not much better.”

Your fingers tighten in his hair, and he doesn’t even try to hide the shiver that rolls through him. You hate him—you hate him so much for making you feel like this, for pushing and pulling and never letting you breathe. But right now, with his mouth on yours and his hands on your body and heat pooling inside your stomach, the only thing you can think of is him taking you against the wall.

You barely register the way Mydei lifts you off the ground, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he pins you to the wall. His mouth is hot and unrelenting against yours, like he’s trying to erase every insult you’ve ever thrown at him. You’re just as ruthless, biting at his lips and tugging his hair hard enough to make him growl.

He eases you down when you moan—embarrassingly loudly, but you don’t give a fuck. His hand slides under the waistband of your jeans, and you don’t stop him. You let him tug them down, the denim sliding down your legs and pooling at your ankles. Mydei lifts you up, just so you stand on your tiptoes long enough for him to kick them aside. Every brush of his skin against yours feels like an assault—every touch a reminder of all the hurt, all the anger—but you don’t pull away.

You hate him. You love him. You need him.

His hands slide down to your thighs, gripping tight enough to leave marks, and then he pulls back, panting, his eyes dark and wild. You’re wet by now, enough that your underwear feels cool from where a damp spot has formed already.

“You always have to have the last fucking word, don’t you?” he grits out.

You scoff. “Someone’s gotta knock you off your high horse.”

He huffs a laugh, but it’s rough. Without warning, he drops to his knees, his hands slipping under your thighs to keep you steady as he buries his face between your legs.

You gasp, one hand flying to the wall to brace yourself, the other still tangled in his hair. Mydei doesn’t waste any time—he’s ruthless, licking you through the fabric of your panties. It makes your head spin. You choke on a moan, trying to squirm, but he just tightens his grip, keeping you firmly in place.

“Mydei—” you start, but his teeth graze your inner thigh, and your words dissolve into a shuddering gasp.

“Shut up,” he mutters, yanking your underwear to the side and pressing his mouth against your folds with a fierce sort of hunger. His tongue flicks over your clit, and your head falls back against the wall, a keening sound leaving your throat.

“God, you’re such an asshole,” you manage to choke out, even as your thighs tremble around his head.

He laughs against you, the vibrations making you bite down on your lip to stifle a whimper. “You’re still running your mouth,” he taunts, giving your thigh a squeeze. “Wonder if I can make you shut up.”

He doubles down, sucking your clit between his lips and flicking his tongue in a manner that has you seeing stars. Your nails scrape against his scalp, and he just groans in response, the vibrations sending another shockwave through you. Your hips jerk forward. He grips you harder, dragging his mouth down to lick at your folds like he’s starved for it.

Your fingers tighten in his hair. You can’t help the way you tug him closer, grinding against his face despite yourself. Mydei merely hums approvingly, his hands sliding under your ass to lift you higher, pressing you harder against the wall.

When his tongue dips inside your clenching hole, your knees almost give out, but he holds you steady, refusing to let you escape the overwhelming, maddening pleasure. You’re barely breathing, trying to swallow down the sounds threatening to spill out, but when he curls his tongue just right, you can’t stop the loud, desperate moan that breaks free.

He pulls back just enough to smirk up at you, his lips slick and his eyes burning. “You done being a brat now?”

You glare down at him, panting and still shaking. “Fuck you.”

His smirk only widens, and before you can blink, he’s pressing his mouth against you again—rough, merciless, relentless. It doesn’t take long before your vision blurs and your head tips back, his name tearing from your lips as you come against his mouth.

He doesn’t stop until your thighs are trembling and your grip on his hair has gone slack, and even then, he licks you through the aftershocks like he’s addicted to the taste of you. When he finally pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he stands, and says, “You’ll give me one more, won’t you?”

Your breath comes out in shallow pants. You can barely muster the energy to glare at him, but his smirk only grows as he straightens up, dragging his hands up your sides and pushing your shirt higher until it’s bunched under your arms. You’re still too dazed to protest when he lifts it over your head, tossing it to the floor before his hands find your waist again, pulling you flush against him.

He dips down to kiss you, and you taste yourself on his lips—sweet and dizzying all at once. You’re still recovering from your climax, but it doesn’t matter—he kisses you like he’s making up for every second he hasn’t touched you, rough and a little desperate, his hands squeezing your hips.

His hands slide up your back, finding the clasp of your bra. You don’t even have time to catch your breath before he unhooks it and slides and straps down your arms, tossing it aside without a second thought. His mouth is back on yours in an instant, but his hands cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples in a way that makes your back arch off the wall.

You don’t even think before your fingers find the hem of his shirt, pushing it up and over his head, and he helps you get it off before crashing his mouth against yours again. Your hands roam over his bare chest, feeling the hard lines of muscle and the rapid beat of his heart under your fingertips. His skin is warm and slightly slick with sweat, and you can’t resist scraping your nails lightly down his abdomen just to feel him shiver.

He bites down on your lower lip in retaliation, and you gasp into his mouth. It earns you a low chuckle. You’re about to shoot back with something sarcastic when his hands slide up to cup your breasts again, rolling your nipples between his fingers, and your retort dies in your throat.

“Thought you were gonna give me attitude,” he murmurs against your mouth, lips curving into a cocky grin. “Guess you can be good when you want to.”

“Shut up,” you breathe out, but your voice comes out shaky. He laughs softly, bending down to take one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking and flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud. Your hands fly back to his hair, fingers twisting in the strands, and he groans the tug.

Your hips buck against his, and he grinds back without hesitation, the hard line of his cock rubbing against your thigh through his jeans. You can feel just how badly he wants you; the thought sends another wave of heat flooding through your veins. You tug at his hair hard enough to make him look up at you, his lips red and swollen.

“Quit teasing,” you pant. Mydei’s eyes flash with something dark and hungry.

He doesn’t bother replying—just scoops you up effortlessly, wrapping your legs around his waist. His mouth is back on yours, demanding, and you feel him fumbling with his belt between your bodies. You don’t have the patience to wait, so you reach down to help him, your hands brushing against his as you yank the buckle open and shove his jeans and briefs down just enough to free his cock.

He groans in relief when your hand wraps around his cock, stroking it slowly and spreading his pre-cum across the length. He bites back a curse. His hands tighten on your thighs, and you don’t miss the way his muscles tense under your touch. You give him a little smirk, but it falters when he presses his tip against your entrance, not quite pushing in yet.

“Are you sure?” he asks, eyes roaming over your face.

You roll your eyes, grabbing his face and pulling him down into a bruising kiss. “If you don’t fuck me right now, I swear—”

You don’t get to finish because he thrusts into you all at once, knocking the breath out of your lungs. Your head tips back against the wall, and Mydei buries his face in the crook of your neck, groaning against your skin as he adjusts to the tight warmth of your cunt. His breath is hot and ragged, each exhale brushing against your collarbone. His fingers dig into your thighs.

“Fuck,” he rasps, voice rough and strained. His hips pull back just enough to drag his length almost completely out before he slams back in, his pace brutal from the start. The force of it makes your back scrape against the wall, and you can feel every inch of him—thick and girthy, splitting you open in a way that has your body straining towards him.

Your hands scrabble for purchase, nails leaving crescents on his shoulders as he sets a relentless rhythm, each thrust hitting deep and perfect. You’re clinging to him, your legs tightening around his waist as he drives into you. The wet, obscene sounds of your skin against skin echo through the room, mingling with your breathless mons and his low groans.

“Fuck—so tight,” he mutters against your skin, his mouth dragging along your throat, teeth scraping and biting hard enough to leave a slight stinging in their wake. “You feel so fucking good. S’like you were made for me.”

You whimper, your hips rocking against his instinctively, desperate for more. You can’t stop yourself from moaning his name shakily. It spurs him on. He grins against your neck, pressing a sloppy kiss to your pulse point before sucking a bruise into your skin.

“Yeah? That good, huh?” he taunts, his tone mocking but laced with genuine awe. One of his hands slides from your waist to cup your breast, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. His thumb grazes over your nipple, and the sensation has your back arching off the wall, pushing your chest further into his hand.

Your head is spinning, pleasure coiling tight and hot in your belly as he fucks into you hard. You can feel every ride and vein dragging against your walls, every thrust forcing sounds out of you that you didn’t even know you could make.

His mouth finds yours again; his teeth nip at your bottom lip before he slips his tongue inside. You’re so lost in him, so overwhelmed, that it takes you a second to realise his other hand has slipped between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit and circling it with almost punishing pressure.

“Fuck—” Your hands are back in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him hiss, but he doesn’t let up, the rough pads of his fingers rubbing insistently as his cock drives into you again and again. “I can’t—fuck, I’m—”

“Gonna come again?” he growls against your mouth, his pace never faltering. “You’re gonna come all over my cock, aren’t you? That’s it. Good girl.”

His words make your thighs clench. Your climax comes over you without warning, tearing a strangled cry from your throat. Your walls clench around him, pulsing and fluttering as pleasure blazes through every nerve ending. You feel your thighs trembling where they’re locked around his waist.

Mydei doesn’t slow down; he just keeps fucking you through it, each thrust coaxing another wave of sensation that leaves you gasping and boneless in his grip. Your mind is a haze, barely able to process how good it feels to be taken like this. You’re dimly aware of his breathing getting rougher, his hips stuttering as your body milks him.

You drag his face back to yours, capturing his lips in a desperate, messy kiss, biting until you taste copper. He groans into you. You feel him shudder just before his rhythm falters. With one last, deep snap of his hips, he buries his cock inside you, spilling hot and thick as his body shakes with the force of his release.

His forehead presses against yours as he catches his breath, both of you panting and trembling. He stays inside you, like he’s not quite ready to let you go, his hands sliding up your sides to hold you close. You’re still reeling, your pulse racing, but you manage a small, satisfied smile, brushing your lips over his with a gentleness that almost feels out of place after what just happened.

For a long moment, neither of you move—you just breathe each other in, letting the remnants of pleasure tangle in the space between you. Finally, he pulls back enough to meet your gaze, his thumb brushing over your swollen lower lip.

“Still think I’m running my mouth?” you whisper, still trying to muster some semblance of defiance.

Mydei simply nudges his nose against yours. “Maybe,” he says, a little bit hoarse, “but at least I finally shut you up.”

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “Chrysos Heirs: The Reunion Tour – Behind the Music. Episode Two.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: CASTORICE, sitting on a stool.]

CASTORICE: You want to know about the relationships? (Grins) Oh, man. It’s like a dysfunctional family reunion. Some of us slipped right back into old habits, and some of us… well, it’s complicated. Mydei and _____? (Snorts) Don’t even get me started. You can feel the tension from three rooms away.

[CUT TO: HYACINE, sitting cross-legged on the floor.]

HYACINE: There’s definitely still some… uh, unresolved stuff. We used to be so tight. All of us. I mean, we fought, sure, but we’d always make up eventually. Now? I don’t know. It’s like everyone’s got their guard up. Phainon’s doing his best to keep things light, Castorice just barrels through any tension like she doesn’t notice, but Mydei and _____… (Pauses) It’s like walking on eggshells around them.

[CUT TO: PHAINON, leaning back against the wall with his guitar across his lap.]

PHAINON: I think everyone kind of forgot how to be around each other. We spent years being everything to one another—friends, family, bandmates, rivals. When the band split, it wasn’t just the music that fell apart. It was us. Now it’s like… we’re all trying to figure out where we stand again. The way Castorice and Hyacine laugh like nothing’s changed, while Mydei and _____ act like they’re on opposite sides of a war zone. It’s exhausting.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, still slouched on a couch with his arms crossed.]

MYDEI: I’m not gonna sit here and pretend everything’s fine. It’s not. The band breaking up after I left? I’m sure that wasn’t just some decision they made over drinks. Castorice acts like we’re one big happy family again, but she knows it’s not that simple. Phainon’s always the peacemaker, trying to smooth everything over, but that just makes it worse sometimes. I don’t know.

[CUT TO: YOU, sitting on a folding chair.]

YOU: It’s frustrating. We used to be so close. All of us. And now it feels like every word has teeth. Castorice is trying so hard to keep us from falling apart again, and Hyacine’s just… tired. Phainon’s stuck playing mediator, and Mydei—(shakes head)—he still looks at me like it’s probably my fault. Maybe it is. But it wasn’t just me who made it boil down to this.

[CUT TO: CASTORICE AGAIN, balancing her drumsticks on her finger.]

CASTORICE: We’ve always been a mess. That’s kind of our thing. But it used to be that we were messy together. Now it feels like we’re just trying not to accidentally set each other off. I miss how easy it used to be. Back when Mydei and _____ could actually talk without biting each other’s heads off. Back when Hyacine would just crack a joke instead of staying quiet.

[CUT TO: HYACINE AGAIN, resting her chin on her hand.]

HYACINE: Sometimes it feels like we’re playing pretend. Like we’re trying to convince ourselves that we’re still friends when we’re really just… people who used to know each other. Cas keeps pushing for us to hang out after shows, but it never feels right. Everyone’s just waiting for someone to break the silence. I don’t know. Maybe it’ll get better once we’ve been on the road for longer.

[CUT TO: PHAINON AGAIN, eyes thoughtful as he fiddles with his guitar strap.]

PHAINON: I think everyone’s just afraid to be the one who cares the most. Back in the day, we knew each other better than anyone else did. Now, it’s like we’re scared of stepping on each other’s wounds. Mydei’s carrying too much pride to apologise, and _____ is too stubborn to forgive. Castorice and Hyacine just want everyone to get alone, but no one’s talking about the elephant in the room. We’re good at pretending on stage, though. Real good.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, his jaw clenched, his eyes hard.]

MYDEI: You don’t just come back from something like that. You don’t go from being everything to each other to nothing without it leaving a scar. I’m not saying it’s all her fault. (Hesitates) I’m just saying that it’s easier to be mad than to admit I might’ve messed up, too. That’s why I keep my distance. It’s just… easier that way.

[CUT TO: YOU, looking almost weary.]

YOU: I never thought it would feel this hollow. I don’t know what I expected—a clean slate, maybe? But it doesn’t work like that. We’re still carrying the past with us, and it’s dragging us down. I guess… I just wish he’d talk to me. Even if it’s to say he hates me. At least that would be something.

[CUT TO: CASTORICE, shrugging with a half-smile.]

CASTORICE: Whatever happens, I’m not giving up. We’re stuck with each other. That’s just how it is. Even if we have to scream it out or throw things at each other, we’re gonna make it work. Because the way they look at each other sometimes? There’s still something there. They just gotta get over themselves long enough to see it.

[CUT TO: PHAINON, adjusting his guitar.]

PHAINON: They’ll figure it out. We’re not just a band—we’re more than that. And sometimes, being more means we break and put ourselves back together. We’ll get there.

[CUT TO: HYACINE, giving a faint smile.]

HYACINE: If we can just stop letting the past dictate everything, maybe we can start being friends again. Maybe more. I don’t know. But I do know this—on stage, we’re still the same. Maybe the music will help us remember how to be us again.

v). so i write him all these letters and i throw them in the trash.

When you stir in your sleep, the mattress beside you is cold.

It’s late—past midnight, probably. Your stomach grumbles; you sit up and shuffle tiredly over to the mini-bar and grab a bag of salted cashew nuts, tearing it open. There’s no trace of Mydei. It’s as if he was never here, didn’t fuck you against the wall like it was all he could think of, didn’t lay down on the bed next to you and curl a strong arm around your waist.

You wish you could say you were just disappointed. The truth is, you had expected nothing else, but disappointment still curls around your ribs.

It’s stupid. You walk over to the glass table placed in front of the plush armchair towards the side of your bed. There’s a notepad and a slightly blunt pencil placed on top of it. You sink into the armchair, popping a handful of cashew nuts into your mouth and chewing.

The words should be flowing by now—anger and frustration always make for good material—but tonight, they’re stuck somewhere between your ribs, buried under the feeling of his mouth on your skin.

It shouldn’t feel like this. You knew what you were getting into. You knew better than to expect anything else from him. But the way he kissed you, like he was trying to make you forget every fight—made your chest ache. You’re not surprised that he’s gone. You’re not even hurt, really. Just angry. Angry at him for leaving without a word, angry at yourself for caring that he did. You shove a few more cashews into your mouth and wipe your fingers on your sweatpants before picking up the pencil.

Your hand moves almost without thinking, words scrawling across the page faster than you can catch up with them.

You look at me like I’m your only song, And I play the part even when it feels wrong. We’re always dancing on the edge of a goodbye, But I’d risk the fall just to feel you by my side.

You pause, glaring at the lyrics. You should throw the notepad across the room, rip the page out, crush it in your fist. Instead, you just sit there, tapping the pencil against your knee. You can still feel the way his mouth moved against yours, the bruising grip of his hands on your hips. You take a shaky breath and force yourself to keep writing. It’s better than sitting here drowning in the memory of him.

We’re tangled and twisted and never the same, We love like it hurts and kiss through the pain. You’re poison and honey and everything wrong, And I hate that you’re still the one I want.

The pencil scrapes harshly against the paper as you press harder than you mean to. The words taste bitter in your mouth, but at least they’re honest. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to write them down—because admitting that you want more than just his hands on you feels like exposing a wound you’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.

You swallow down the knot in your throat and lean back, squeezing your eyes shut. It would almost be easier if you hated him. If you could just shove him out of your head and pretend he was nothing more than a bad decision. But it’s not that simple. You don’t just want him; you want the old him, the one who used to light up when you walked into the room, who teased you until you were laughing so hard you couldn’t breathe. You want the Mydei who didn’t always look at you like you’re a problem he can’t fix.

You know you’re being unfair. He’s not the only one who’s changed. You’re not the same either—too guarded, too tired. Sometimes you wonder if you’re just setting yourself up for disappointment because it’s easier than admitting you still love him.

Your chest aches, and the next words come almost like a confession.

You look at me like I’m the one you’ve been missing, Kiss me like I’m the dream you keep wishing Would come true when the lights fade away— But you never stay.

You finish the verse and set the pencil down, pressing your fingertips to your lips like you can still taste him there.

You told yourself you wouldn’t do this again. But he looked at you tonight like he was starving—like you were something he couldn’t resist. And you let him have you because a part of you needed it, too. Needed to feel wanted, even if it was just for a few hours. Even if he was gone before you woke up.

You shove the notepad away, letting it fall to the floor as you curl up in the armchair, knees pulled to your chest. The song lingers in your head, the lyrics clawing at your heart. You feel ridiculous for letting him get under your skin like this, like a bruise that won’t heal.

The truth is, you’d let him hurt you a thousand times if it meant he’d look at you like that again. Like you’re the only thing keeping him alive. Maybe that makes you a fool, but you don’t know how to be anything else when it comes to him.

Shaking your head as though to dissolve it of its thoughts, you tear out the sheet of paper with your lyrics on it, fold it into a square hastily, and shove it inside the pocket of your sweatpants. You stand up and grab your lighter from your bag. You need a smoke.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “The Founders’ Cut.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: YOU, sitting on a simple black stool, hands loosely clasped in your lap.]

YOU: Writing with Mydei… God, it used to be so easy. We didn’t have to think about it. (Smiles softly) We’d just be sitting on the floor of his shitty apartment—barely any furniture, just the couch his neighbour was gonna throw out and that one rug we stole from Hyacine’s place. One of us would pick up the guitar, start playing something, and it was like everything else just faded out.

INTERVIEWER (off-screen): Was it always that natural?

YOU: (Nods) Yeah. It just worked. Sometimes we didn’t even talk before starting a song. I’d be on the floor, writing down whatever came to mind, and he’d be next to me, leaning against the wall with his guitar. Sometimes I’d hum something, and he’d just—pick it up. It was like we were reading each other’s minds.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, sitting with his back slightly hunched, elbows on his knees.]

MYDEI: We wrote some of our best songs at 3 A.M, dead tired, arguing about lyrics while eating instant ramen. She’d always overthink the words—had to make sure they said exactly what she wanted. I didn’t care as much. I guess I figured the feeling mattered more than getting every word right.

INTERVIEWER: Do you have an example for the same?

MYDEI: There was this one song (pauses, shakes his head). We wrote it after this stupid fight. I’d stormed out, pissed as hell, but when I came back, she was sitting on the floor, scribbling lyrics like her life depended on it. I didn’t say anything. Just sat down and played along with whatever she was humming. Neither of us apologised, but… I guess that was our way of making up.

[CUT TO: YOU]

YOU: We never talked about it, you know? We’d write all these songs that were practically confessions—about each other, about how much it hurt when we fought, or how we couldn’t stand being apart—and then we’d just… move on. Never acknowledged it.

INTERVIEWER: Do you regret that?

YOU: (Hesitates) Sometimes. But the songs made it pretty obvious. We were practically begging each other to figure it out without actually saying it.

[CUT TO: MYDEI]

MYDEI: She always wrote like it was her way of… bleeding out whatever she couldn’t say. We made something good out of it, though. Even if we never said it out loud. And… yeah. Sometimes I miss that. The simplicity of it. Just us and a guitar and whatever shit we were working through. I didn’t need anything else back then.

[CUT TO: YOU]

YOU: It’s funny. We used to write about heartbreak like it was this distant concept—something that happened to other people. Never thought we’d end up writing about each other.

vi). i want to get him back (and then?)

The rooftop is quiet at this hour—too early for most and too late for the rest. The sky is more navy than blue, more shadow than light. You push the heavy metal door open with your shoulder, and it clicks shut behind you with a soft thud. You tug your hoodie tighter around you, retreating into the warmth, and dig around in your pocket for your cigarettes.

The lighter sparks on the second try. You inhale. Smoke fills your lungs, and something in you loosens. You hate how easy it still is to find comfort in bad habits.

That’s when you notice him.

At first, it’s just the faint glow of a cigarette at the far corner of the rooftop. But you know it’s him—know it in the shape of his silhouette, the way he leans forward with one elbow braced on the ledge, hoodie pulled low over his face. Mydei. Of course.

You hesitate for a beat, frozen halfway between the door and where he stands. It would be easier to leave—pretend you didn’t see him, pretend you didn’t spend the night tangled up in him and then wake up to cold sheets and silence.

But you don’t.

Your steps are quiet as you cross the rooftop, stopping a few feet away from him. He doesn’t look at you, just exhales slowly, eyes on the horizon. You take a drag from your cigarette, watching the tip burn orange, watching the smoke curl upwards and vanish into the sky.

“Why’d you leave?” you ask. You mean the hotel room, but not only that.

He’s quiet for a long time. You wonder if he’s even going to answer.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he says eventually, still not looking at you.

You huff a breath. It’s not quite a laugh. “You didn’t want to be there.”

He doesn’t argue. The silence stretches again, but it’s not uncomfortable. Just tired. He glances at you. The wind picks up a little, brushing your hair across your cheek. He notices—always notices—and shifts just slightly so he’s blocking the breeze. Neither of you says anything about it.

“You looked peaceful,” Mydei says. “I didn’t want to mess it up.”

“You think not being there was better?”

“I didn’t know what to say.”

You nod. You don’t push. You’ve learned not to with him. “It’s not just about tonight,” you say quietly.

He nods, eyes dark and shadowed. “I know.”

The sun starts to edge over the horizon, painting faint streaks of pink and orange across the navy sky. It’s beautiful in that fragile, fleeting way, like something you’re scared to touch because you know it’s too delicate to last. You both watch in silence for a while, letting the smoke and the light fill the air between you. There’s a comfort in it, strangely enough. The way the world keeps turning even when your heart feels like it’s stuck. The way mornings come anyway.

You look at Mydei again.

He’s tired. You can see it in the curve of his mouth, in the slump of his shoulders. But he’s here. Part of you wants to ask him why. Why he came up here. Why he didn’t leave the hotel entirely. Why he lets himself touch you but won’t let himself stay. Instead, you say nothing.

He offers you his lighter when yours gives out, and your fingers brush when you take it. It’s a brief touch, barely there, but it’s enough to make your chest ache in that too-familiar way.

You smoke the rest of your cigarettes side by side, not speaking, not needing to. It’s the kind of silence that used to exist between songs in the studio. When you stub the last bit out on the ledge, you take one last look at the sunrise. The light catches on his face now, gold and soft, and you want to say something. You don’t even know what.

So instead, you pull your hoodie tighter and nod. “I should go.”

He nods too, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t stop you either.

You turn back towards the door, and as you do, a folded piece of paper slips from your pocket. You don’t notice it fall, fluttering once before landing gently near his feet. You don’t notice it, because you’re too busy disappearing back into the stairwell, too wrapped up in keeping your shoulders straight and your breathing steady.

He doesn’t move for a while after you’re gone.

Then, slowly, Mydei leans down and picks up the paper. The handwriting is unmistakable—your quick, slanted script, a few smudges where the pencil dragged.

He reads it once. Twice.

Then he folds it back up, holds it in his hand like it might crumble, and watches the sun break over the city, alone.

The lights shift from the vibrant spotlights of the previous set into something softer, slower—dimmed gold and dusky purple spreading like ink over the stage. Your mic is cold under your fingers. You roll the cord absently through your hand. You can’t see much beyond the footlights; only the sea of shadows, the faint outlines of swaying arms and cell phone lights blinking like stars.

But Mydei’s there, across from you. This next song is just you and him, after all.

He’s adjusting the strap of his guitar, head bowed, eyes hidden beneath the fall of his hair.

It’s the same stage. The same lights. The same song. Why does it feel so different?

The crowd doesn’t know what they’re about to hear. Most of them don’t even know the song, you’re pretty sure. It’s some B-side from one of your earlier albums. You remember when you wrote it. The quiet of three in the morning, the late-night arguments that bled into music, the unraveling of two people who couldn’t speak to each other unless it was in chords and half-rhymed lines.

Here you are again. Older. Worse at pretending.

The intro begins with gentle chords, the kind that hurt more than they soothe. Your mic is already at your lips. You inhale like it’s your first breath of the night.

“I told myself I wouldn’t care this time, Said your name like it didn’t still taste like goodbye. But you look at me like you never learned how to let go…”

Your voice holds, though it feels like walking a tightrope. Every word comes out measured, like if you let it slip, your heart will come out tumbling too. You don’t look at him, not yet. You can feel his presence—like gravity—but you don’t turn your head.

Not until he sings. Then, you do. He meets your gaze.

“I said we were fire meant to burn out fast, But I keep finding you in every song I’ve written last. You don’t ask me to stay, and I don’t ask you to try… But we’re still standing here, pretending we’re fine.”

His voice—God, his voice. It’s rougher than it used to be, edges carved by years and distance, but it still wraps around your lyrics like it was always meant to. He’s not just singing. He’s looking at you like he’s saying every word for the first time. It knocks the air from your lungs.

Your heart’s pounding now, and you hate that it still reacts to him like this. Like your body remembers the way he used to hold you when no one else was watching.

The chorus crashes over both of you.

“So lie to me, baby, say it’s still love, Say the ending never mattered, that this beginning’s enough. We were smoke, we were stars, we were doomed from the start, But tonight, just tonight, sing like you still mean every part.”

Mydei steps closer. You do, too. It’s instinct, not plan. You don’t even realise it until you’re nearly toe-to-toe, voices tangling into harmony, eyes locked.

You wonder if the crowd can feel it. If they can hear the way your throat tightens, how the vowels tremble when he looks at you like that. Like he’s trying to remember the shape of you—not just your face, but your soul. The bridge comes. You always dreaded it.

“Maybe we’ll break like we always do, Maybe we’ll forget this in the morning too. But for now—God, for now— You still feel like a home I never knew.”

The line lands like a punch to the chest. Yours, and maybe his too.

You let it ring out, raw and full. For a second, it feels like the two of you are back in that tiny studio years ago—barefoot, angry, tired, in love. Writing a song you were both too scared to mean. But you meant it. You always did, and you do now.

The last chorus is quieter, a lullaby instead of a plea.

“And I’d sing this with you a thousand times… if you’d let me.”

You drop your hand from the mic, breath catching in your throat, and for a moment—just a moment—there’s silence. Just you and Mydei.

He doesn’t move. He’s staring at you with something unspoken lodged in his eyes, something that looks too close to regret.

You turn away first. Your heart’s already too full. One more second and it might burst.

The crowd roars behind you, applause crashing in waves.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “The Members’ Cut.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: CASTORICE, lounging back on the couch.]

CASTORICE: It was just a fact. Mydei and _____. You didn’t say one name without the other. (Shakes her head) And the way they used to look at each other on stage? Insane. Like, we’d be in the middle of a song, and I’d be watching them instead of playing because damn. The rest of us could’ve vanished into thin air, and they wouldn’t have noticed.

(Laughs lightly, rolling her eyes.)

CASTORICE (CONT’D): It was kinda funny, actually. Like, okay, we get it, you’re in love. Can we get through the set without you two making heart eyes at each other? (Pause) But, y’know… it was also kinda nice. Seeing people that in sync. That kind of connection isn’t something you fake.

[CUT TO: HYACINE, sitting cross-legged on the floor, bass resting on her lap.]

HYACINE: They were disgusting. I mean that in the nicest way possible. (Grinning) Like, you’d be tuning your guitar, and they’d just be standing off to the side, whispering to each other like they weren’t literally about to perform in front of thousands of people. And yeah, sure, couples sing duets all the time, but with them? It was different. Like they were letting us in on something private, something meant just for them. Even if it was a song they’d performed a hundred times before, it always felt like they were saying something new.

(Chuckles, eyes soft with nostalgia.)

HYACINE (CONT’D): They made you believe in that kind of love, y’know? The all-consuming, this-song-is-about-you kind of love. You couldn’t want them and not feel it.

[CUT TO: PHAINON, sitting with his arms draped over the back of the chair, smirking lightly.]

PHAINON: Yeah, they were that couple. The ones who made you roll your eyes but also kind of wish you had what they had. Like, I remember this one show—Mydei had just finished this crazy guitar solo, and instead of, I don’t know, reveling in the applause like a normal person, he immediately turned to _____ like she was the only one whose reaction mattered. And she just grinned at him, and I swear to God, he looked like he won the lottery.

(Shakes his head and scoffs.)

PHAINON (CONT’D): They were reckless with it. Loud about it. No hesitation, no holding back. They didn’t just love each other, they showed it. And that’s rare. You don’t get that kind of honesty on stage very often.

(His smirk fades just slightly.)

PHAINON (CONT’D): …That’s why it was so hard when it ended.

vii). ‘cause i miss the way he kisses and the way he made me laugh.

The crowd is louder tonight. Not louder in volume, necessarily, but just… like they’re expecting something. Like they know something you don’t.

You glance at the setlist as someone does your in-ear check. Your duet with Mydei is coming up next—the same one you’ve done every night for years. It’s not your most popular song, but it’s yours. It always has been. Something about it felt safe even now, when everything else between you and him was held together with duct tape and willpower.

You take a sip of water and step towards the side of the stage, waiting for the intro cues.

But when you hear the first notes, they’re not yours.

Your stomach drops. The chord progression is soft, a little unfamiliar. It’s not one of your tracks, or a part of the agreed setlist.

Your gaze snapes to the center of the stage where Mydei stands—guitar in hand, face calm. He’s adjusted his mic, and he’s… smiling? Not a grin. Nothing cocky. Just this small, quiet thing, like he’s doing something that matters to him more than he’s ready to admit.

“This one’s not on the list,” he says into the mic, casual, like this doesn’t upend everything. “I wanted to try something new tonight.”

Your brow furrows. You step a little closer, careful not to draw a scene. Castorice gives you a sharp look from behind her kit, like, Did you know about this? You shake your head once.

Mydei starts to sing.

“You look at me like I’m your only song, And I play the part even when it feels wrong.”

It hits you like a punch to the ribs.

That lyric. That exact line. You know it because you wrote it, alone. In that hotel room weeks ago, scrawled in a burst of emotion you weren’t proud of, folded up and shoved into the pocket of your sweatpants. You’d thought it got tossed in the wash or lost somewhere in the shuffle between cities.

Apparently not. Apparently he found it. And instead of asking you—like a normal person would—he set it to music. He built a melody around your bleeding heart and decided to sing it to a crowd of thousands.

“We’re tangled and twisted and never the same, We love like it hurts and kiss through the pain. You’re poison and honey and everything wrong, And I hate that you’re still the one I want.”

It’s a beautiful melody, and you feel something inside your chest twist, hard. He sings softly but unsteadily, like he wasn’t sure that you’d hear it—or worse, that you would.

He doesn’t look at you while he sings. He scans the crowd, eyes on the horizon. But the meaning is clear. You can feel it in the tightness in your chest, in the hush that’s fallen over the audience, like they know this isn’t just a love song.

You fold your arms over your chest, more for grounding than anything. Castorice doesn’t play a beat. Hyacine and Phainon watch silently, hands loose on their instruments like they’re ready to jump in if needed, but they don’t. Neither of you do.

This is his moment, and your words.

“You look at me like I’m the one you’ve been missing, Kiss me like I’m the dream you keep wishing Would come true when the lights fade away— But you never stay.”

You exhale shakily. You feel exposed, as if you’re standing naked in front of an entire arena. The words weren’t just lyrics—they were confessions. Grudges. Regrets. Things you never had the guts to say out loud. And here Mydei is, saying them for you.

No. Singing them.

Your fingers curl into your palms. You don’t know whether to be furious or deeply, deeply moved.

He finishes the song in a whisper, almost. The last chord rings out like an unanswered question. The audience is silent for a beat too long. Then they erupt—whistling, cheering, screaming. It’s a standing ovation for something they didn’t even know was a story.

And still, Mydei hasn’t looked at you—until now.

He turns, finally, just a little, and meets your eyes across the stage. You don’t smile. You don’t clap. You just stare at him, speechless and conflicted.

Then, Mydei steps back from the mic and gives the signal to move on with the set. You turn your face away before the next lights come up, blinking hard. Your heart’s racing. You don’t know what happens after this; what this means; what you’re supposed to say.

You only know one thing: That song was yours, and now, it’s his, too.

The hallway outside the dressing rooms is buzzing—crew rushing around, the muffled roar of the crowd still seeping through the walls, someone shouting about cords and lights and encores. But all you can hear is the blood in your ears and your name echoing in Mydei’s voice as he sang your lyrics.

His voice, but your words. Your heart on a scrap of paper you never meant for anyone else to see.

Your footsteps are harsh against the floor as you turn the corner and push the door open. The dressing room is too bright, too sterile compared to the intimacy of the stage. Mydei stands with his back to you, shirt clinging to his skin with sweat, hair pushed off his forehead like he ran his fingers through it too many times.

You close the door behind you with a click. Quiet, but final. He hears it.

“Hey,” he says, not turning around yet.

You stare at the back of his head. “Don’t do that to me.”

Mydei pauses. Slowly, he turns to face you. “I figured you’d be mad.”

“Mad?” You laugh, breath catching somewhere in your throat. “You think I’m mad?”

“You look mad.”

“I am mad,” you snap, taking a step closer, heart pounding. “You sang a song you weren’t supposed to have. You didn’t even ask me, Mydei. You just—just stood there and threw it at me in front of ten thousand people like it meant nothing.”

“It didn’t mean nothing,” he says. “That’s why I sang it.”

You’re both quiet. The silence stretches and tightens until it’s almost unbearable.

“You could’ve told me,” you say finally, voice hoarse. “You could’ve talked to me. About the song. About anything. But you don’t. You never do.”

Mydei exhales slowly, resting his hands on his hips like he’s bracing himself. “I didn’t know how.”

You tilt your head, lips parting in disbelief. “That’s such bullshit, Mydei. We wrote songs together. We told each other everything through music. And now you’re just—standing there, acting like it’s some impossible thing.”

He looks at you, then. Really looks. And for a moment, he’s not the cold, distant version of himself he’s been for months. He’s just him. The boy who used to fall asleep beside you in the tour van. The one who hummed half-finished melodies in your ear at midnight in whatever motel you were crashing in. The one who used to kiss you like the world might end before morning.

“I didn’t know how to say I missed you,” he admits. “So I used your words instead. Because mine never come out right.”

You don’t want to forgive him. You really don’t.

But the hurt in his voice is real. So is the way he’s looking at you—like you’ve always been the only person in the room, and he’s just been waiting to see you again for real.

You take one shaky step forward. Then another.

When your lips crash into his, it isn’t careful or slow. It’s everything you’ve been holding back: Rage, longing, grief, hope. His hands find your face, yours grip his shirt, and everything around you blurs until it’s just him, just the warmth of his mouth and the softness of his sighs and the undeniable truth that this still feels like home.

You part, breathless.

Neither of you speaks at first. You’re still close enough to feel his breath on your cheek, the heat of his skin under your fingertips.

Your voice comes out quieter than you intend when you tell him, “I want to get you back.”

Mydei doesn’t hesitate. “You already have.”

It hits you harder than the kiss did. Something cracks inside you—something small and soft and long-buried. You almost don’t realise you’re crying until he wipes your cheek with the back of his hand.

You let out a breath, something between a laugh and a sob. “I’m still mad at you.”

“I know.” His thumb traces the edge of your jaw. “You’re allowed to be.”

You step back first, gently. He lets you go, but his eyes follow you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks.

As you adjust your jacket and run a hand through your hair, something slips from your pocket—folded paper, creased from being handled too many times. You don’t notice, but Mydei does.

He kneels to pick it up after you’re gone, quietly unfolding it to find another unfinished song. Lyrics in your handwriting. His name, half-crossed out and rewritten three times.

He reads the first line. Smiles.

He doesn’t hand it back to you. He tucks it into his jacket, like he already knows how it ends.

[CUT TO BLACK] Text appears on screen: “Chrysos Heirs: Reunion Tour. THE END.”

#honkai star rail #mydei #mydei x reader #mydei smut #mydei x you #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail smut #honkai star rail x you #hsr x reader #hsr smut #hsr x you #mydeimos x reader #mydeimos smut #mydeimos x you #honkai: star rail #mydeimos #hsr mydei

77 notes · View notes

honeyslibrary · 2 days ago

Text

Ghost of You | Quinn Hughes

Pairing; Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); DEATH, grief, mention of car crash, marriage, fluff, edited once.

Summary; A piece based on the song Ghost of You, by 5 Seconds of Summer. I would recommend listening to that while reading to enhance the experience.

Word Count; 4.6k

Author's note; I did cry writing this. This is a lot. I was listening to the song last night, and just started writing. The flow might be a little weird since I did not write this in order, I wrote bits and pieces and then combined it. Also, I couldn't decide between you or she point of view (if there's any mistakes regarding that, please ignore it lol). I ended up going with you, but now I kind of wish I went with she, but it's fine, because I cannot go back and read this again as it is lowkey triggering for me ! Anyways, hope you enjoy it and it makes you cry 😁 -Honey

The house was too quiet again.

It always was now.

The hum of the fridge, the distant creak of settling floorboards—none of it filled the space like your voice used to. No footsteps padding through the kitchen in socks that didn’t match. No soft laughter echoing from the other room. Just Quinn, standing in the dim glow of the stove light, his keys still in his hand, his heart still stuck somewhere between the past and the present.

He hadn’t turned on the main lights when he got in. He never did when he got home late. He told himself it was because he didn’t want to wake anyone, but there was no one to wake anymore. Just him.

And the ghost of you.

His gear still smelled like the rink, sweat, adrenaline. The post-game mix of a man who was supposed to be holding the weight of a team, a city, a legacy—but couldn't even carry himself some nights.

His skates had been sharper today. A little too sharp. Petey noticed and asked if he was okay. Quinn had just nodded and muttered something unheard, then deflected with a chirp about Elias missing an open net. That got a laugh out of the guys. They won tonight. But his smile didn’t reach his eyes, and everyone saw it. No one said anything.

The silence wrapped around him as he made his way through the house, each step echoing just a bit too loudly. It still looked like you lived here. Your touches were everywhere. The blanket on the couch, the mason jar with dried lavender you refused to throw away, the framed Polaroid of the two of you in front of the house the day you moved in.

God, that day.

You’d barely graduated when he asked you. It was after your ceremony—still in your cap and gown, your smile beaming like summer sun as you clung to your diploma and asked him if he was proud of you. Of course he was. He always was. And when he’d kissed your forehead and said, “Come to Vancouver with me,” you didn’t even hesitate.

You just laughed and said, “Only if we can get the ugly throw pillows I like.”

He let you buy four.

Now he stood in front of one of them—pink and puffy and godawful—and touched it like it might dissolve if he pressed too hard.

The air was thick with memories, and he was always breathing them in.

He passed the kitchen, and the floor creaked under his weight. His gaze flicked to the little speaker on the counter. He hadn’t touched it in weeks. Not since that night he tried to cook dinner—your favorite, the pasta with too much garlic—and ended up standing in the middle of the room, crying while Sinatra sang about moonlight and love and holding someone close.

You used to dance here. Right here on this tile.

It didn’t matter if it was noon or midnight. If he was exhausted from a back-to-back or if he’d just come home from a brutal loss on the road. If you were here, and music was playing, and dinner was cooking—or even just leftovers heating up—you'd grab his hand and pull him into a slow dance like you had all the time in the world.

“Just one song,” you’d say, smiling up at him. “Come on, Cap. You won’t get benched for dancing with your wife.”

He used to tease you. Used to grumble that he was tired. And then he’d give in anyway, and sway with you like he didn’t have a care in the world.

Now the music was off. The speaker was dusty.

So was the record player in the corner.

Quinn exhaled and pressed a hand against the counter to steady himself. His knuckles were scraped from practice—he hadn’t worn his gloves when he took a spill morning skate. The trainers told him to take better care of himself. That the team needed him healthy. That he couldn’t afford to play reckless.

They didn’t understand. Or maybe they did, and just didn’t know how to say it.

He closed his eyes.

The house was heavy with your scent. Faint vanilla, like the candles you loved. They still sat on the shelf by the window. Half-burned. Unfinished. Just like everything else. He kept buying more, like letting smell disappear would make it too real.

It had been two months.

Two months since the phone call. Two months since the early morning rain slicked the roads, and someone ran a red light, and you didn’t come home.

Two months since he last heard your voice that wasn’t trapped in a voicemail or a dream.

He hadn’t gone into your closet. Not once.

He still used your shampoo, though, small amounts in a futile attempt to savor what was left of you. Still wore your hoodie when he couldn’t sleep. The one you stole from him first and claimed as yours.

It still smelled like you, if he closed his eyes and didn’t try too hard to remember.

Quinn wandered to the living room window and looked out at the city. Vancouver glittered beneath the night sky—indifferent, beautiful, alive. He’d once told you that this view made him feel like he could breathe. That was back when you stood beside him, arms wrapped around his waist, head on his shoulder.

Now, all he felt was the ache of where you used to be.

He turned away and glanced at the shelf beside the fireplace. Photos lined it—smiling ones, golden ones, the kind that belonged in a life well-lived.

One caught his eye.

University of Michigan. Fall semester. You were laughing, a coffee cup in hand, your other hand tugging the sleeve of his jacket. He looked stunned in the photo, caught mid-sentence.

He remembered that day.

It was your first week of classes. You were late. He was late. You rounded the corner in the lecture hall, juggling your bag and your drink and your headphones—and he barreled straight into you.

Coffee exploded down your front.

“Oh, shit—I’m—uh—” Quinn panicked, dropping his own backpack and grabbing uselessly at napkins that didn’t exist. “I’m so sorry.”

You blinked down at the damage, then looked up at him. “Wow. You come here often?”

He stared. Speechless.

You grinned. “If this is how you flirt, you’re gonna need to work on your game.”

And just like that—his face broke into a sheepish smile.

“Can I buy you another?” he asked, awkward but sincere. “Coffee, I mean. Not a new shirt. I mean, unless it’s ruined. In which case…”

You laughed. Loud and honest. “Just the coffee, Hughes. For now.”

He blinked. “You know who I am?”

“Sure. But don’t let it go to your head, Mr. Hockey.”

That laugh.

He could still hear it sometimes. In his dreams. In the rink. In the echo of the empty house.

Quinn turned away from the photo and wiped a hand over his face. His jaw clenched. His eyes burned. He didn’t let the tears fall. Not tonight.

Instead, he sat down on the couch—the one you picked out—and reached for the remote. Hockey highlights played, muted. He couldn’t watch them anymore. Couldn’t bear to see himself skating, smiling, high-fiving teammates when he felt like he was hollow inside.

He clicked the TV off.

And sat there.

Alone.

The morning light crept in like an unwelcome guest, filtering through sheer curtains you’d picked out because they made the bedroom feel “soft and cozy.” That was how you described it. “Soft and cozy, like a Sunday morning,” you’d said, perched cross-legged on their unmade bed with fabric samples fanned out around your legs, excited about decorating your first home together.

Quinn blinked up at the ceiling, unmoving, his head heavy against your pillow. Your scent was gone from it now. He didn’t know when it faded. Just that one day, he buried his face in the cotton and it wasn’t there anymore.

It was the little absences that gutted him most.

Not the obvious ones—not your inactive Instagram , or the toothbrush that was never replaced, or the unopened box of birthday decorations you’d ordered off Etsy two weeks before the crash. No. It was the quiet.

It was brushing his teeth alone and not having you peek around the corner with toothpaste foam in your mouth, saying, “Did you remember to floss, Mr. Hockey?”

It was opening the fridge and not finding your post-it notes stuck to the oat milk: Drink me. Don’t let me expire :(

It was not hearing you hum in the shower.

It was dancing in the kitchen to nothing but his memory.

He didn’t get up right away. Not that morning. Not most mornings. Sometimes he just laid there, listening to the hollow thump of his own heartbeat and the wind outside the window. February was cold this year. Not the bone-deep kind of winter cold, but the wet, lingering kind that made everything feel gray. Vancouver had always felt vibrant with her in it. Even the rain felt romantic when you were in his passenger seat, bare feet on the dash, hair a little wild from the wind, singing along to Fleetwood Mac like you didn’t have a care in the world.

Now, it just felt like grief pressing against the glass.

Eventually, the alarm on his phone buzzed—Skate @ 9:30. He ignored it for seven more minutes. Then he finally got up.

He didn’t shave. Didn’t really look in the mirror, either. Just brushed his teeth, pulled on an old team hoodie—the one you used to wear that hung just a little looser on him now, like everything else in his life—and left the house without breakfast.

The rink was quiet when he arrived. Most of the team wasn’t there yet.

“Morning, Cap,” called out Brock, tossing him a nod from the trainer’s table.

Quinn gave him a tight smile. “Hey.”

Conor passed him in the hallway, shoulder-checking him gently. “You good?”

He nodded. The lie was automatic.

They were good guys—his teammates, his brothers. They didn’t pry. But they didn’t avoid him either. They skated with him, trained with him, laughed around him, and gave him space when his eyes went somewhere else. Somewhere you still lived.

Only Jack and Luke really knew how deep the spiral went. Quinn tried to protect them from the worst of it, especially their parents, but there were nights when he'd call Jack at 2 a.m., voice cracking, and just sit on the phone in silence. And Jack would sit there with him. No questions. No pressure. Just presence.

Sometimes that’s all grief needed. Someone willing to sit inside it with you without trying to fix it.

Practice was a blur. He was sharp. Focused. Too focused. It wasn’t intensity so much as detachment. He skated like he wanted to be somewhere else. Or nowhere at all.

Coach said something about defensive gaps and ice time. Quinn nodded, but his mind was elsewhere.

In another time.

Ann Arbor was golden with autumn. The leaves scattered like confetti across the sidewalks, and you always dragged him off the main path so you could crunch every single one under your boots. “It’s a crime to step around a perfect crunchy leaf,” you’d declared, mock-serious.

He loved that about you. The way you found small joys and treated them like treasure. Like they mattered.

That day, after the coffee spill, he met you outside the student union. You were early. He was nervous. He didn’t get nervous often—not about hockey, not about media, not even about scouts in the stands—but he was around you.

You waved when you saw him, eyes bright. “Captain Hughes,” you said with a grin, holding up your new coffee. “Redemption achieved.”

He flushed. “Thanks for giving me a second chance.”

“Third, actually. The coffee, the shirt, and the delayed class entrance.”

He laughed, and for the first time in what felt like years, it felt easy.

They sat outside on the lawn, trading stories. You told him about your dream of being a kindergarten teacher. About your love for messy finger paint and the chaos of snack time. He told you about growing up in a hockey family, about missing his parents, about how much pressure came with making mistakes.

And you said, “Well, I don’t care about your mistakes, Quinn. I care about your smile. So keep doing that.”

You didn’t know it then, but he’d remember that sentence forever.

After practice, he stayed late. The rink had emptied out. He sat alone in the locker room, taping and re-taping his stick like he didn’t want to go home.

Eventually, he drove. The city flickered around him. He didn’t turn on the radio. Couldn’t. Too many songs you used to sing to.

At home, the front hallway was still cluttered with reminders of you. He'd tried once to clean up. Lasted ten minutes before he ended up sitting on the floor in front of your rain boots, sobbing.

Tonight, though, he made it to the kitchen.

The lavender candle on the counter. The crooked fridge magnet from the weekend trip to Tofino. The playlist you made on the speaker, still titled Midnight Snack Dances.

He reached for the speaker.

His thumb hovered over the button.

Then he pressed it.

The song that came on was Sinatra.

"Fly Me to the Moon."

He didn’t remember the last time he let it play. Didn't remember if you picked this one, or if it came up by accident, one night when you two were tipsy and cooking pasta at 1 a.m. But the second the first note played, he felt you again.

Your hands in his.

Bare feet on tile.

“You’re not even cooking,” he’d murmured once, letting her lead. “You just want to dance.”

You laughed. “Cooking is overrated. But dancing? That’s what makes life delicious.”

Now, he moved to the center of the kitchen, eyes closed.

He let the music wrap around him. Let himself remember the weight of her head on his chest. The sway of your body against his. The way you used to hum along to the trumpet parts like you were in a jazz club in another life.

He danced alone.

To a song that didn’t belong to him anymore.

To a memory that wouldn’t fade.

Later that night, he sat outside on the back step, hoodie drawn up, coffee cooling in his hand. The stars above the city were faint, but he looked for them anyway.

He imagined you up there sometimes.

Not in the spiritual sense—he didn’t know what he believed anymore—but in the poetic one. Like your laugh became starlight. Like your soul settled somewhere that still saw him.

His phone buzzed.

A text from Jack. "You good?"

He stared at it for a long time. Then typed: "Not really. But I’m here."

Jack replied a few seconds later. "That’s enough for tonight."

Quinn nodded to no one, set his phone down, and leaned back against the step.

The air was cold.

But for a moment, in the stillness, he swore he could hear your laugh on the wind.

The third voicemail on his phone had never been deleted, for that reason.

"Hey Quinny… it’s nothing, just calling before you hit the ice. You left your protein bar on the counter again, by the way—one day you’re going to starve during a game and it'll be your fault. Anyway, love you. Don’t get checked into a wall tonight."

You laughed at the end of it.

That quiet, musical kind of laugh that only came when you were talking to him. He used to play the message on away trips when he couldn’t sleep. Not every night. Just the bad ones. The nights when the hotel room felt unfamiliar, or when the game went wrong, or when the silence inside his own chest started to get too loud.

Now he barely listened to it at all. It hurt too much. The laugh, especially. It sounded so alive. So present. So unaware of what was coming.

They told him it was instant. That you didn’t feel it. That you didn’t suffer.

He didn’t believe them.

Not because he thought they were lying, but because part of him needed to believe you’d known he loved you in that final moment. That you had thought of him. That you felt him, even as the world tilted and shattered and the rain kept falling like it had every damn day since.

Some nights, the guilt clawed at him like an animal. He’d replay the morning over and over.

You had argued. Stupidly. Quietly. One of those soft-voiced, tension-tight arguments that stretched through breakfast and followed them into the hallway. He was distracted—thinking about line changes, about the upcoming game against Vegas, about whether his hip was going to hold up under the forecheck.

You wanted to show him something. One of your students made a drawing: Mrs. Hughes and the Hockey Prince. Stick figures. Crayon crowns. A dog, even though you two didn’t own one.

“You’ve gotta see this one,” you said, smiling. “It’s so cute.”

“Later,” he said. “I’m late.”

He rushed out.

He didn’t kiss you goodbye.

He always kissed you goodbye.

And then you were gone.

He told no one about that. Not his family. Not even his therapist, the one the team’s mental health staff gently encouraged him to see after he broke down in two post-game interviews in one week.

He’d gone to one session.

Sat in the parking lot for thirty minutes.

Left.

The grief didn’t hit in full force all at once. It came in waves.

Sometimes it was a tsunami—pulling him under so fast he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t be.

Other times, it was soft.

A song on the radio. A kid in a Canucks jersey pointing at him with wide eyes at the grocery store. The lavender scent in a stranger’s shampoo. A memory triggered by a piece of toast he accidentally burned the way you used to when you were distracted in the mornings.

He never knew which version of grief he was going to get.

He’d surprised you after practice. You had parent-teacher meetings that night, and he figured he’d swing by, bring her a coffee, maybe dinner. He was trying to be romantic.

You met him at the door, a smear of glitter across her cheek and a string of construction paper hearts dangling from her wrist.

“You look like a kindergarten Picasso,” he teased, handing her the coffee.

You kissed his cheek. “We made valentines. One kid ate the glue.”

He laughed. “Are you allowed to admit that?”

“I’m not naming names. Teacher code.”

Your classroom was pure chaos—bright drawings, finger-painted handprints on the wall, tiny desks with tiny chairs. But it was magic. It was yours. And when you moved between the kids, kneeling to their level, praising their stick-figure whales and lopsided hearts, he swore he’d never seen anyone shine like that.

After the parents left, you walked him through the class library, stopping to point out your favorite picture books.

“You know,” you said, brushing hair out of your face, “this job is exhausting, but it’s the best kind of exhausting.”

He smiled. “You’re good at it.”

You shrugged. “They make it easy. Kids see the good in people first. Grown-ups forget how.”

That memory haunted him now.

The funeral had blurred past, just weeks after your passing. It felt too quick for him. The condolences, the flowers, the carefully constructed eulogies. Everyone told him you’d been light. That you lit up a room. That you were joy, wrapped in wild curls and vanilla-scented perfume.

He knew that.

He didn’t need to hear it in past tense.

The school had invited him to a small gathering for the parents and students. The kids adored you. The staff adored you.

He went.

He stood in the back, silent, hands jammed in his coat pockets, and listened to one of her students—a little girl with sparkly clips in her braids—read a letter she wrote:

“Mrs. Hughes said I was brave when I was scared. She let me wear the crown even when it wasn’t my birthday. She smelled like sunshine. I hope she’s dancing in the sky.”

He didn’t cry there.

He waited until everyone had left.

Then he stepped into your classroom.

It smelled like glue and markers.

Your handwriting still covered the whiteboard: “Be kind. Be brave. Be YOU.”

Your coffee mug—Kindergarten Queen—still sat on her desk. He touched it like it might shatter under his fingertips.

On the back wall was a photo of them at the team’s charity skate day. You’d worn a Canucks hoodie that hung off her shoulder, laughing as a kindergartener tried to chase Quinn across the ice.

He stared at that photo for a long time.

Then he left without saying a word.

He went home, and opened the bedroom closet.

He sank to the floor, hoodie bunched in his fists, your clothes surrounding him like a cocoon.

He cried like a man unmade.

No noise. Just the kind of sobbing that comes from somewhere deep and private and untouched by language.

And when it passed, when he couldn’t cry anymore, he sat there, eyes swollen, heart split down the middle, whispering to the dark.

“I’m so sorry.”

For the argument.

For the missed kiss.

For not being there.

For not saving you.

He took you back to Michigan.

Said it was a nostalgic trip.

You suspected it from the beginning—he wasn’t good at lying—but you played along.

The two of you walked the campus. Stopped by the coffee shop where he spilled your first drink. You ordered the same thing: vanilla oat milk latte, two pumps, no foam.

He dropped to one knee just outside the old lecture hall.

“I know the timing’s crazy, and the travel sucks, and my schedule is chaos, but there’s no world I want to live in where I’m not waking up next to you.”

Your hands flew to your mouth.

“I love you,” he said, voice shaking. “Always. Even when I’m a pain in the ass. Even when the season’s long and I’m gone more than I should be. You make me better. You make me whole. Will you marry me?”

You nodded, laughing through her tears.

And whispered, “Yes. Yes, yes, yes.”

That night, for the first time in weeks, he took off his wedding ring.

Not forever.

Just to clean it.

He set it carefully on the bedside table, wiped it gently a small cleaning towelette.

He held it up to the light.

“Love you,” he whispered.

And in the silence that followed, he thought he could almost hear you say it back.

The ring felt heavier once he put it back on.

It wasn’t symbolic. Not in a grand, poetic sense. It just felt heavier—like maybe his body was finally acknowledging the weight of everything he’d been carrying alone.

He stared at his hand for a long time after sliding the band over his knuckle again. The skin underneath was lighter now. A thin line. A ghost of something permanent. Something that once was.

The ceremony had been simple.

Lakefront. Small. Close friends and family.

He remembered every second.

You walking barefoot down the aisle.

You whispering, “You’re shaking,” when you reached him at the altar.

Him choking out, “I’ve never been this happy.”

The vows.

Yours: “You are my home. Whether we’re in Vancouver or Michigan or on the moon, if you’re there, that’s where I want to be.”

His: “You remind me who I am. And who I want to be. You make the world make sense.”

They danced to Can’t Help Falling in Love. You sang softly into his ear as they swayed.

“I’ll love you in every lifetime,” you whispered.

The phone buzzed beside him. A name on the screen: Mom.

He didn’t answer.

He went home.

Real home.

Michigan.

The house hadn’t changed. The same backyard net. The same cluttered garage. His childhood bedroom still had the worn poster of Datsyuk, corners curled.

Ellen opened the door before he knocked.

“Hi, baby,” she said softly, and pulled him into her arms.

He didn’t say anything. Just held on.

Inside, the house smelled like soup. Like love. Like memory.

He didn’t eat much.

But he sat at the kitchen table, head bowed, while Ellen laid her hand over his.

“You have to let yourself feel it,” she said.

“I’m afraid if I do,” he whispered, “I won’t come back from it.”

“You will,” she promised. “Because she wouldn’t let you drown.”

He stayed a week.

Jim didn’t say much—just sat with him in front of old Leafs games, passing popcorn, offering comfort in the only way he knew how.

It was raining the day he opened your side of the closet again.

Five months had passed since the accident.

He hadn’t touched it since that first time he broke down.

Not the hoodies you stole from him. Not the floral dress you wore to the engagement party. Not the polaroids clipped to the inside wall.

But he needed something. He didn’t know what. A sweater, maybe. A memory.

He reached for a box tucked in the corner.

Inside, he found a card. A sealed envelope with his name on it, one he hadn't seen before. Your handwriting, unmistakable, the date on it—the night of your wedding. The sticker was a tiny gold heart.

He opened it.

My love,

There are things I feel so big I can never say them out loud without crying, and I don’t want to cry tonight. I just want to smile until my cheeks hurt.

Quinn… you are everything. You’re strength and softness. You’re the calm in every storm I’ve ever had. You are more than the name on your jersey or the goals you score. You are home.

I know sometimes you don’t see the light in yourself. But I do. I always will. You make me feel safe and wild and alive and steady—all at once. I’m so proud of you. Not for what you do. But for who you are.

I can’t wait to build a life with you. To wake up beside you. To dance barefoot in our kitchen at midnight. To grow old, and grumpy, and still completely in love.

You are my beginning. And my end.

Love, Y/N

He read it three times.

Then pressed it to his chest, and let the tears come—not like before. Not broken. But whole.

Full.

Alive.

Spring came late to Vancouver.

Not the bright, sudden kind of spring that bursts through like a symphony, but a slow one—measured and hesitant, like the world was still grieving something too.

Quinn woke to the sound of rain easing against the windows, not hammering. For the first time in a long while, it didn’t feel oppressive. Just… soft. Like it was letting up.

He sat in the kitchen, barefoot, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. The Sinatra playlist still played quietly in the background—track number four, your favorite. “The Way You Look Tonight.”

There was toast burning in the toaster.

He didn’t even mind.

He’d read the letter every night for a week.

Not because he wanted to memorize it, but because it felt like you. Not a memory, but a conversation. A tether. Words from beyond the veil that didn’t close the wound, but helped him breathe through it.

He tucked it into the inside pocket of his gear bag. Right beside the laces you used to knot for him when you got bored in the locker room.

“Only the left ones,” you’d say, grinning. “I’m superstitious.”

He tied both the same way now. Just in case.

He’d gone back to therapy.

Not for anyone else. For himself.

It wasn’t easy. The words didn’t come all at once. But the therapist—an older man with gentle eyes and quiet pauses—just sat with him. Listened. Let Quinn unravel slowly.

One session, Quinn brought the letter.

Read it out loud.

Didn’t make it past the second paragraph.

Didn’t need to.

At the rink, the guys had started chirping him again. In the old way. Not walking on eggshells. Just giving him hell like brothers do.

It was the best thing in the world.

Brock called him “washed-up.”

Petey joked he “didn’t look like a homeless man anymore.”

Even Demko raised a brow when Quinn played Sinatra during pre-practice warmup.

“You good, Cap?”

Quinn nodded. “Getting there.”

That was enough.

One morning, Quinn visited the cemetery.

He didn’t go often. You weren’t there. Not really. But this time, he brought something.

The ugly pink throw pillow you loved—the one he always said was hideous. The one you insisted gave the living room “character.”

He set it down beside the headstone and smiled.

“Okay,” he murmured. “I admit it. It made the couch better.”

Then he sat with you.

Told you about the last game of the season, the Canucks narrowly missing a ticket to the playoffs. About his teammates, Conor’s new baby boy, and his family. About the letter he found.

“I read it,” he said softly. "I miss you so much" He admits, for the first time out loud.

The wind shifted gently.

He closed his eyes and imagined you there, arms folded, leaning on the stone like you were teasing him from the other side of the veil.

“Still sappy, Hughes,” you’d probably say.

And he’d reply, “Still yours.”

My Patreon, where you can find exclusive fics not posted anywhere else: HERE

#quinn hughes #quinn hughes imagine #quinn hughes imagines #quinn hughes fanfiction #quinn hughes fic #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes x you

85 notes · View notes

beaviu · 1 day ago

Text

𝜗𝜚˚ ⋆₊ LOVE iN THE AiR — don’t hate the player hate the game

⌗ masterlist :: next :: prev

The seatbelt sign chimed on just as yn put her phone down and was halfway through inventory. The jet shuddered—not dramatically, but just enough to feel like God gave it a little nudge.

Karina looked up from her corner with a blank stare. “Are we dying or just being humbled?”

Amber squinted toward the cockpit. “If this plane drops again, I’m opening the emergency exit and seeing God manually.”

Yn barely blinked. “We’re fine. most likely.”

Then the turbulence hit again—stronger. A lurch.

Yumi, wrapped in a throw blanket like she was starring in a kdrama, shouted dramatically, “If this is karma, I need to know wtf I did to die on a plane wit these guys.”

Jake, from his seat, whispered to no one in particular, “This is what I get for lying on my tax form.”

Leehan looked up from his book. “You don’t even have taxes. You’re Australian.”

Jake blinked. “Exactly.”

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🪷་༘࿐

Sunghoon clutched his phone like it was the most important thing in his life. “I’m too sexy to die like this. At least let me land with a thirst trap.”

Heeseung, sitting across from him, calmly put his AirPod back in. “If we crash, you’re not posting anything. No more people thirsting over your ugly ass”

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🪷་༘࿐

Yn was restocking the snack drawer when the third shake came. She grabbed the counter, bracing herself. The lights flickered once. Twice.

Heeseung appeared beside her like he spawned out of no where. “Hey. You good?” He asked out of concern

“I’m literally just doing inventory,” she said. “You’re the one free roaming like this is a cruise ship.”

“I’m multitasking. Panic and charm.”

She glanced at him, skeptical. “It’s mostly panic.”

He leaned against the counter, inches from her, teasing her. “Come on, admit it—you’d miss me if the plane nose dived.”

Yn gave him a mocking look. “You’re lucky you have a face. If you were ugly, I’d duct tape you to a seat.”

Heeseung grinned. “So you do think I’m cute.”

“I think you’re persistent.”

“Same thing.”

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🪷་༘࿐

In the galley, Amber was trying to stabilize the water bottles while Sunghoon strolled over, clearly unbothered.

“You know, we could use this moment to have a heart to heart,” he said.

Amber didn’t look at him. “Why? You scared?”

“No. Just emotionally available.”

She paused, rolling her eyes and glances over her shoulder. “are you trying to flex that on me??”

He stepped a little closer. “I mean, if we’re all going down, I’d rather do it confessing to a girl who looks like she could ruin my week with one text.”

Amber raised an eyebrow. “You practice that line or did you freestyle?”

“Little of both.”

She turned back to the cart. “Points for confidence. Minus ten for delivery.”

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🪷་༘࿐

Meanwhile, Karina was buckled in, one leg tucked up under her, scrolling Spotify like the playlist would stop the turbulence.

Yumi slid in next to her. “You know everything is off when even you stop pretending everything’s fine.”

Karina didn’t look up. “I’m just annoyed I’m gonna die to a soundtrack that includes four versions of the same girls generation song.”

Yumi snorted. “Okay, but the acoustic one hits.”

“Exactly,” Karina muttered. “Which makes it worse.”

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🪷་༘࿐

Back in the galley, Heeseung hadn’t left Yn’s side.

“You sure you’re good?” he asked again, this time less flirty, more concern.

Yn looked up at him. “Yeah. You?”

He gave a small shrug giving her a sheepish smile. “I don’t love flying.”

Something about the way he said it made her pause. Less flirtatious now, more real.

“I used to hate it,” she said. “Then I realized it’s just like life. Feels like you’re not in control, but you kind of are.”

He looked at her for a moment. “That’s weirdly comforting.”

“I’m full of surprises.”

He smiled, softer now. “Can I sit here for a second?”

She nodded. “Just don’t eat the spicy ramen. I will throw you off midair.”

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🪷་༘࿐

Back in the lounge, the band was spiraling.

Jake sprawled dramatically across the couch. “I wanted to record that I didn’t touch the emergency door this time.”

Leehan, still somehow calm, replied, “That implies you’ve touched it before stupid fuck”

“I was curious!”

Yumi appeared with a granola bar. “What did I miss?”

“Jake’s admitting to federal crimes,” Sunghoon said.

“Again?” Yumi said uninterested.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🪷་༘࿐

Later, after things settled, the cabin dimmed into a calm silence. A false peace.

Heeseung had fallen asleep near the galley, head tilted against yn’s shoulder, Yn sitting next to him with a clipboard. She glanced at him every few seconds, pretending not to.

Then he mumbled, without opening his eyes: “You’re staring.”

Yn didn’t even flinch. “I’m literally working.”

He smiled, eyes still closed. “You’re literally lying.”

She sighed. “Go back to sleep smoothie boy.”

“Only if you promise not to fall in love with me while I’m unconscious.”

Yn rolling her eyes and then looking down on him. “Don’t flatter yourself now. You snore.”

“But you like it.”

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🪷་༘࿐

Karina walked past and whispered, “You guys gonna kiss or just keep trauma bonding through near death experiences?”

“Go back to your playlist,” Yn shot back.

Amber leaned over from across the galley. “No seriously just kiss and get it over with. but don’t do it infront of us”

Heeseung cracked one eye open. “Told you. Everyone’s rooting for us.”

Yn stood, walking away with a smirk. “Then let’s keep disappointing them.”

Behind her, Heeseung muttered to karina and amber laughing at him, “She so wants me.”

“Go back to your smoothies, “smoothie boy”” making air quotes on smoothie boy.

༘˚⋆ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧༘˚⋆ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧༘˚⋆ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧༘˚⋆ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧༘˚⋆ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 — taglist :: @heesexual74 @starbyeol1512 @naevisringring @urmomssneakylink @lovenha7 @ari3ll4 @t1iqaa @gweoriz @millis-diary @androgynouscrownorbit @reibelhearts @melodiessvy @desssss-0

>ᴗ< authors note — should I make them land or should I continue on … 🤔 argrhrhhrrh but anyways tag list is still opened!!!

61 notes · View notes

takusan-no-ai · 3 days ago

Text

Original Me

PAIRING: Astra x Male Reader (Romantic) (Fluff)

SUMMARY: Astra develops feelings for Phaethon’s younger brother.

As the younger brother of Phaethon you naturally had connections with Chaotic Fried Rice, aka Astra Yao. You had previously talked with her about your siblings hiding their proxy work, and it led to a serious conversation between you too; one that formed bond before either of you knew it.

You both found solace in each other’s presence whenever doubt would arise. For you it was the trust of your family. For Astra it was the love of her fans. And that comfort became a genuine friendship as you both grew. You found it in yourself to forgive Belle and Wise, and Astra found her own strength and courage to be a light in the darkness for others.

Surprise, surprise, all that time together didn’t stay platonic. The casual handholding, cuddles, comforting words, shared laughter, and cheeky kisses from Astra led to you developing a crush on her. And Astra found herself becoming more attracted to you; the guy she can’t get out of her head. So much so that she’d developed the problem of writing about him in all her love songs.

But the thought of expressing those feelings left you nauseous. Your heart was already damaged from when your family lied to you. And although you’d forgiven them, there was still a fear. Fear that your heart might get hurt again if you opened up. So you did the only thing you could: avoided her. You hid in your room, pretended to be sick, anything. But it didn’t help the ache in your heart from how much you missed her.

But of course that never stopped Astra before. And it certainly wasn’t going to now. She knew the feelings she felt for you. And Astra would be damned if she wasn’t going to at least confess to you. So she tracks you down, studying your schedule with the help of Evelyn, and catches her prey when he least expected it.

A loud gasp erupted from himself, (Y/N) now being pinned to the wall. He was just walking in the alleyway next to Gravity Cinema, and having finished a pickup job for some new films, was on his way back to Random Play. However he wasn’t the only one aware of this.

Astra had him pinned. And she huffed at him with her eyebrows crossed. The young man looked away from her, blushing furiously.

Had it been a few weeks, maybe a month, since he last seen her? Either way it felt like an eternity. Her eyes were just as beautiful, no…more, than he’d last seen her. Did she get her hair done? The style looks nice. Wait he’s getting distracted now.

Astra crossed her arms, huffing and puffing, walking back and forth, circling around him like a predator would its prey. “You avoid me for so long and all you can do is ogle me? Just say you love me already!” She left no room for comfort, immediately getting in (Y/N)’s face. Despite her crossed brows and forcibly deepened voice, her eyes sparkled brightly, and her mouth almost curved into a smile.

She was enjoying this.

(Y/N) turned away. “I’m not saying that.”

“Hmmmm.” Astra kept turning his head every time he looked away, forcing him to maintain eye contact. All the while she had her hand pressed on his chest. “But when I say I love you, your heart beats faster. So much so that even you have to notice it.”

“Still…,”

“Why won’t you say it?”

“…I,” he hesitated. “I can’t say it.” Astra stared at him, confused. “You’d get bored of me. Or find me annoying. Plus I’m not a cool proxy like Belle and Wise, or a strong fighter like Evelyn.” He kept prattling on reasons for her to not like him.

Astra pinched his nose, effectively making (Y/N) shut up. She leaned close, smiling at him.

“If I say I love you then I love you. Simple as that. And if I need to prove that to you then I will. But you have to let me.” They were now so close they feel each other’s breath.

Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to open his heart some more.

“I…really love you, Astra. And I want you to love me too.”

…

“Congrats.”

“Happy for you.”

“Nice.”

Back at Random Play, Wise, Belle, and Fairy cheered at the news of Astra and (Y/N) being an official couple. Though it was through the gritted teeth and codes of slight jealousy, it was mostly cheers of joy.

Astra had a new person to sing for, to ignite that hope in humanity. And (Y/N) had a new person to believe in, to help him open his heart to the world.

- Fin

#male reader #zenless zone zero x reader #astra yao #astra yao x reader #imagine

59 notes · View notes

dannyriccsystem · 4 hours ago

Note

Omg you know what would be so funny, the 2025 rookies or current grid doing the tell on me TikTok trend with reader! I know the trend passed, but I still occasionally get those videos.Maybe some of them stand on readers feet bc their reactions would be funny!

If you don’t feel comfortable with this I 100% understand, but thank you in advance regardless💜

FORMULA ONE DRIVERS X READER

Summary: “Tell On Me” trend with the 2025 rookies + the papaya boys because I love them!

Warnings: Y/N usage, suggestive lyrics and jokes, one of them accidentally gets hit in the nuts 😕, not proofread

Featuring: LN4, IH6, JD7, KA12, LL30, OP81, OB87,

Sorry this one took forever! I’m finally getting to actually finish my requests, which ARE open! Check pinned for more

Jack Doohan is such a cutie but I miss his hair so I wrote him pre-buzz!!

Also sorry no Gabriel 😟 I couldn’t think of anything!!!

LANDO NORRIS - LN4

“I’m liking this angle.” Y/N immediately rolled her eyes at her boyfriend’s suggestive comment. If she was on the same level as him, she might smack his chest and tell him to knock it off. However, right now that was rather difficult.

Only hours ago Y/N had been begging Lando to participate in a trend with her. He refused, insisting there were much more fun trends to do, but finally gave in when he saw how excited she was. One person was meant to stop on the other’s legs, propped against a wall, while recording them from above. Then, they’d drop the phone and the person on the bottom would record the one on top. All while lip syncing some ridiculous audio.

“Quit moving your legs so much, I’m gonna fall!” She criticized him in a joking manner, a soft giggle leaving her lips as she reached into her pocket for her phone. She did a quick search of the audio, selected it, and then hit record. The room was dark, allowing her to use her flash to illuminate his handsome face.

He lipsynced the words, “If I beat that pussy up is you gon’ tell on me?” Just as the song said. Right then she was supposed to drop him the phone so he could capture her. That’s what was supposed to happen, but instead it landed flat on his nose. He jolted from the impact, causing Y/N to topple over and land on top of him.

“I told you not to move!” She laughed.

“You dropped it on my face!”

ISACK HADJAR - IH6

Everyone knows about Isack’s obsession with TikTok lip sync videos. He posted at least one a day, his specialty being Kardashian videos. And mind you, those were just the videos he posted. Y/N was sure that the amount of drafts he had harbored away was probably insane.

But, this idea? This was hers. He just happened to be the right person to ask, because of course he wouldn’t say no to such a proposal. Make a lip-syncing video with his girlfriend? Abso-fucking-lutely. Name a time and place, he’d be there. He sat in the corner of their kitchen on his back, his muscular legs in the air and propped against the wall. With very wobbly balance, Y/N stood on top of his feet.

“Okay, hand me the phone,” She laughed, barely able to stand still. Isack laughed along with her, until he realized he had to reach up and hand her something. With a focused expression, he tried to keep his legs still whilst simultaneously reaching up to hand her the phone. Sucess! Y/N’s hands gripped the phone, and Isack could relax against the floor.

“This is a long walk for a short drink of water,” He pointed out. Y/N just shrugged, and proceeded to hit record.

JACK DOOHAN - JD7

“I don’t know if my PR team will approve of this.” Jack chuckled, trying to keep his legs completely still while Y/N stepped atop of them. It took her a few tries, but eventually she managed to balance herself on his feet. She giggled softly, both of her hands on the wall to ensure her own safety.

“Well, this can just be for me then! Nobody else has to see.” She was grateful her boyfriend was an athlete, otherwise they’d be on a time crunch. Hey, maybe this could be a future leg workout for him. Who’s to say? “I’m already up here, pleaaase?”

“Hey, I never said no.” He laughed, running a hand through his hair to perfect his own style. After prepping himself, he nodded. “Okay, I’m ready. You can hit record whenever.” Y/N opened the app and found the audio saved to her favorites. She clicked record, and point the camera at him.

He lip synced with a big grin, and when it was time to swap, she dropped the phone, and started to mouth the words herself. After reviewing the footage, they both decided to keep it buried in Y/N’s drafts. The lyrics were too much, and the angles were a lot.

KIMI ANTONELLI - KA12

“DON’T DROP ME,” Kimi squeaked in his heavy accent, his voice rising an octave as he shouted with fear. His hands were clawing at the walls, looking for any sort of stability to keep himself balanced there. Y/N only laughed, causing her legs to shake more.

They probably should have swapped positions, but there was something humorous about him standing atop her feet. He swayed, arms out to keep himself steady. They were both against a wall with Y/N on her back, legs in the air. Kimi stood atop her feet.

“I’m not gonna drop you! Just hit record!” She muttered through fits of laughter, breathing in heavily to try and keep her composure. Only Kimi could make her laugh so hard. He pulled the phone out, and nearly fell just doing that. Without even thinking about it, she shifted.

Suddenly, he was on top of her. It happened so quickly— One twitch of the leg and he toppled over with ease. They both laughed as Kimi rolled off of her and onto his back, both of them lying there in their harmonious laughter.

LIAM LAWSON - LL30

“How do I even get into this position?” Y/N questions as she reviews the video once more. It was her idea to participate in the stupid trend, but now she was beginning to regret it. The two seemed to simultaneously agree that Liam would be the one on the bottom, since his leg strength was a lot better than hers.

“Okay, here.” He extended both of his arms and brought his knees to his chest. “Step on my feet, hold my hands, and I’ll slowly lift you.” She couldn’t help but laugh at his current predicament, but followed his instructions. Y/N carefully stepped up onto his feet and held his hands, barely able to balance as is.

Slowly, he extended his legs and she held on to the wall. A silent cheer passed over them as they reached the peak, both of their legs fully extended. It was… Awkward, to say the least. “Okay, now-” Before he could finish, Y/N let out a yelp as she came toppling forward.

Unfortunately for Liam, her knee landed right between his legs. He shouted with pain, rolling over onto her side. Half-laughing, half-groaning. “Babe- Ow?!”

She knelt beside him, laughing her ass off. “OH MY GOD- I’m so sorry!”

OSCAR PIASTRI - OP81

If anyone ever doubted that Oscar Piastri loved his girlfriend, he’d show them this video they’re making right now. Tell me, does a man who hates his girlfriend agree to film some stupid trend with her, just because her eyes sparkled with excitement at the idea. No, certainly not. How about a man who is currently lying on his back, supporting said girl on his feet as she explains the whole concept to him? Does he hate his girlfriend?

I think not.

“Okay, so… I’m gonna point the camera at you, and you’re gonna mouth the words,” She explained as if it was obvious. “And then-”

“Wait, what words? You didn’t tell me the lyrics,” he reminded gently, staring at her with that signature ‘you’re so stupid but I love you’ expression.

“Oh!” She grinned. Together, they seemed to have perfect balance. Even an awkward position like this felt natural. “If I beat that pussy up is you gon’ tell on me,” She sang very poorly. Oscar tilted his head, one brow raised.

“Really? That’s the lyric? I might get fined for this.”

“It’s for a good cause. Anyway! Afterwards, I’m gonna drop the phone and you have to catch it, turn it around, and then record me singing my part.”

So, in summary. If anyone tells you Oscar Piastri doesn’t love his girlfriend, you can confidently tell them that’s not true. He’s willing to walk the earth’s surface again and again for her.

OLIVER BEARMAN - OB87

“OW-” Y/N cried out sharply, followed by a giggle at the foolish mistake. Yeah, pro tip. If your boyfriend has long legs, don’t have him full send this trend. Y/N confidently stood atop his feet, using the wall for support. She balanced quite well, but the issue had yet to come.

With her okay, she allowed him to push his legs up. Issue? Her head hit the ceiling. With worry, her carefully lowered her, helping her get down. “Y/N, ohmygodI’msosorry, are you okay?!” She laughed as she nodded, her hands cradling the spot she hit.

“Yes, oh my God— Yes, it didn’t actually hurt that bad it just shocked me.” After getting confirmation she was okay, Ollie laughed with her, resting his forehead against her shoulder in an exasperated manner.

“I thought you were seriously hurt for a second!”

“Well for all you know I could have been.”

Yeah. Video was never posted. Was never even made.

58 notes · View notes

rubyuji · 1 day ago

Text

In Every Frame, You (Jeon Wonwoo) ˙✧˖📷⋆

“You know he looks at you different, right?” 🎞˙✧˖°⋆｡˚

Genre: Slowburn, Open ending

AU: Highschool!au

Pairing: Photographer!Wonwoo x Afab!Photographer!Reader

Warnings: None

Synopsis: Some love stories don’t need big moments—just the right ones, quietly captured. Tender slow-burn buzzing beneath the surface told in glances, near touches, and moments that almost pass unnoticed. In the quiet rhythm of working behind the scenes and shared silences, two souls begin to orbit each other—capturing something real before either of them fully realize it’s happening.

Notes: This is based on a true story, probably because it reflects my current situation with my crush. It feels like standard cliché fanfic with how this connection is developing, so I thought why not write one about Wonwoo since I miss him but also because my crush had always reminded me of Wonwoo. (This fic is open ended because I will base it off what happens in my real life so there will be a follow up fic in the next few months or so, depending on my situation lmao ;;)

W.C: 7.9k

It started at a school sports event practice. Late afternoon, golden light. The kind of hour that makes the world feel softer, like everything’s been dipped in honey.

You hadn’t planned to stay long. You weren’t even taking photos—your camera was still at home, resting on your desk like it knew this wasn’t a moment to capture through a lens.

This was one of those rare afternoons where you just… observed. No role to play. No one to impress. Just you, the sun, the quiet hum of sneakers on asphalt, and a crowd that blurred at the edges.

That’s when you noticed him.

He wasn’t on the field. He wasn’t cheering. He was just… watching, the same way you were—seated a few rows down the bleachers, back straight, eyes sharp behind a pair of black-rimmed glasses. There was something still about him like he knew how to hold space without needing to fill it.

And then, he looked up. Right at you.

The moment stretched—just long enough to feel like a flicker in time, not long enough to be certain it happened.

You looked away first. Or maybe he did. You’re not sure. But what you are sure of is this: something in you clicked.

Not in a thunderbolt way. Not loud, not sudden. Just… a quiet spark. A thud in your chest that didn’t hurt. A softness that settled in your lungs.

You didn’t know his name. You’d never seen him around before, or at least, you thought you hadn’t.

But from that day on, you kept running into him.

In hallways. In the cafeteria. At the back of the media lab when you went in to borrow a mic. He never said much. Sometimes he didn’t say anything at all. But he always looked.

Not in a lingering, obvious way. In a curious, caught-off-guard kind of way. Like he was surprised to see you again, every time.

And yet, it didn’t feel new. That was the strange part.

Even on that first day, you didn’t feel like you were seeing him for the first time—you felt like you were remembering him.

You never believed in fate. Still don’t. But after a while, it started to feel like the universe had quietly decided to fold him into your day-to-day life. Like he belonged there.

Not as a plot twist, not as a lead character, but as a presence—steady, quiet, watching you the way he watched the field that day. Like he sees things other people miss.

Like he sees you.

The thing about seeing him often—but never close enough to talk—was that it created a rhythm. Like a song you couldn’t name, but kept humming anyway.

In the weeks that followed that first glance at the bleachers, it was all so unspoken.

Passing each other in the hall. Brief eye contact in the cafeteria when neither of you meant to look up. Standing near each other in the media room while someone else talked too much. You never exchanged more than a nod, a blink, a silence.

And yet—he stayed with you. Quietly. On the way, you started noticing things you wouldn’t have before.

How he stood with his hands tucked into his sleeves. How he always carried his camera in one hand, never both. How he rarely laughed, but when he did, it was the kind that lit up just his eyes.

You told your friends, of course. Or tried to.

“Wait, who?” Haein had asked, squinting at the crowd from across the lunch table.

“The one with the black hoodie?” Areum guessed. “Isn’t he in the media club or something?”

You shrugged. “Yeah. I don’t know. He’s just… he’s got this quiet thing. Like, background music energy.”

“Are you even sure you like him?”

That was the thing. You weren’t.

Some days you swore your chest fluttered when he was nearby. Other days, you forgot he existed—until you saw him again, and it hit you all at once.

It wasn’t a crush in the way you were used to. No butterflies, no burning need to impress. Just this subtle pull. A strange calm. Like he was a place your mind returned to without realizing it.

But summer came. And with it, distractions.

You threw yourself into life—loud, fast, sun-drenched life. Football games with your cousins. Late-night drives with your friends. Dancing in small towns, letting the music fill the spaces where thoughts of him might’ve lived.

You took so many photos that your gallery blurred together: neon lights, rooftops, coffee foam, beaches, and back seats of cars.

You forgot the way his eyes softened when he looked at you. Forgot the way you once held your breath near him. Forgot to even look for him in crowds.

You were over it. Or at least, you told yourself that.

And it worked. For a while.

But hearts don’t always listen to logic. And feelings—especially the quiet ones—don’t leave. They wait. They change shape, hide in small moments, then resurface when you least expect them.

When school started again, you hadn’t thought of him in weeks.

So when you saw him again—standing by the doorway of your media arts classroom, flipping through the back of a camera—something clicked in your chest.

It was back.

Maybe it never left.

The start of the semester always had a way of hitting you harder than you expected. You were still catching up from the summer’s distractions, settling back into the rhythm of early mornings, late nights, and the low hum of the school routine.

One morning, as you shuffled into class, your mind still caught up in lingering thoughts of football games and beach trips, Mrs. Lee caught your eye from across the room.

Her gaze was sharp, but there was something unusually warm in the way she looked at you. It didn’t take long for her to wave you over.

"Y/N," she called, her tone light yet purposeful.

You paused for a second, unsure if you’d missed something. You’d been in her class long enough to know her to be stern, but this felt… different. You pushed through the small crowd of students, making your way to her desk.

When you reached her side, she gave you a nod toward the back of the room, where Wonwoo was sitting, lost in his own world as he fiddled with his laptop.

He hadn’t noticed you yet.

"I’ve been discussing the media team for the school play with Mr. Kim," she began, her voice low, as though sharing a piece of news that needed careful delivery.

“And I think you’d be perfect for it. You’ve shown such a strong eye for capturing moments, Y/N. The way you approach your photos—thoughtful, intentional—it’s exactly what we need for this project.”

You blinked, surprised. A part of you had always loved capturing moments, but you didn’t think your school’s play would be the place to showcase it. The logistics of it all felt like another world entirely.

“Wait, the play? You want me to work on that?”

She smiled, the lines of her face softening.

“Yes. And I was also thinking of pairing you with someone who has a similar passion for visual storytelling. Someone who could complement your style. I’ve spoken with Wonwoo about it, and he’d be a great fit. He’s quiet, yes—but he’s incredibly detail-oriented. I think you two would work well together.”

You followed her gaze, and for the first time, you really looked at Wonwoo. He was at the back, one arm resting casually on the table, his camera in hand as he adjusted the lens, all while listening intently to whatever the class was discussing.

The way he observed things, always present but never intrusive, always focused but never rushing—it was like he was born to capture the world as it was.

“Wonwoo?” you repeated, unsure if you’d heard her right. “I mean, I guess I can see that. We both like photography, I suppose…”

“Yes,” Mrs. Lee agreed, almost like she’d been expecting this reaction.

“That’s the idea. I think you two balance each other well. You’re both meticulous in your own way but in different ways. It’ll give the media coverage a dynamic that’s just right for the play.”

The thought of working with him—a person you’d barely spoken to outside of shared class projects—made something stir in your chest. Was this a chance to finally get to know him more? Or just another task to complete?

Before you could answer, Mrs. Lee was already scribbling something down in her planner.

“I think you two will get along just fine. Work out the details later. I’ll let Mr. Kim know you’re both on board.”

You nodded, trying to hide the slight discomfort of the situation. The pressure of collaboration was one thing, but the thought of being forced into proximity with Wonwoo, of working alongside him for hours, was… another thing entirely.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to. It was just that the idea of feeling too close made your pulse race, even if you hadn’t spoken much at all.

As you looked back toward the back of the room, your eyes briefly met his. That familiar flicker of recognition passed between you two, the same silent exchange that had been happening since that first, accidental moment on the bleachers.

His gaze lingered on you for a moment, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. There was no tension. Just something quiet—like an understanding of the moment.

You looked away first, but that didn’t make the sudden weight in your chest go away. Working with him was one thing; figuring out how you felt about him was entirely different.

“Alright,” you muttered to yourself. “I guess we’ll see how this goes.”

And just like that, everything began to shift again. The subtle pull you’d tried to ignore, the fleeting moments of connection that always seemed to happen just outside the realm of real conversation, were about to become something you couldn’t avoid anymore.

The next few weeks would make everything clearer. Or maybe they’d just complicate things more.

But you couldn’t help but wonder: Was it possible to work alongside him without letting your feelings turn this into something more?

The media team meeting for the school play was nothing like what you’d expected. It wasn’t just about setting up cameras or organizing photo ops; it was about collaboration, ideas being thrown around in every direction, each person’s voice adding something to the whole picture.

You had never been part of a team like this before, but the second you walked into the room, you felt an unexpected sense of belonging.

The group, though diverse, was passionate. They all had their own creative energy, and as soon as Mrs. Lee introduced you as the newest member, you were met with nods and genuine smiles.

"Welcome to the team," one of them, Jiwoo, said as she gave you a reassuring smile. "Excited to work with you."

Another student, Emma, asked if you had any experience with lighting setups for photos, and you nodded, eager to share some of the tricks you’d learned.

It felt good to speak with them. You’d spent most of the summer isolated with your camera, but this was different. There was a kind of warmth to the way they included you, and before long, you were chatting comfortably with everyone.

But through it all, there was Wonwoo. He was still sitting quietly at the far end of the room, absorbed in his own thoughts, taking in everything that was said, his fingers casually flipping through his notebook.

It wasn’t like he was ignoring you—far from it. His gaze would drift over every now and then, always calculating, always observing, but never saying a word.

You could feel his presence even when he wasn’t actively engaged in the conversation.

The contrast between him and the rest of the group—their loud, vibrant energy against his calm, reserved nature—was striking.

You found yourself drawn to him again, but now there was a layer of professionalism between you. You were both part of something bigger, something that didn’t leave much room for personal matters. Or did it?

As the meeting moved forward, ideas were exchanged for how to capture the essence of the play, how to set the right tone.

One person suggested a more dramatic style, using shadows to create tension in the photos. Another wanted to use a more candid approach, showcasing the natural emotions of the cast.

You sat back, quietly listening, when an idea began to form in your mind. The play wasn’t just about the performances; it was about the atmosphere—the raw, fleeting moments of connection between the actors, the way the audience could feel the emotion rather than just see it.

You raised your hand, slightly hesitating before you spoke.

“What if we captured the moments before the curtain rises? Like, the behind-the-scenes interactions, the actors getting into character, those quiet moments of focus? I think it would create a really intimate, personal narrative about the play.”

The room fell quiet for a moment as everyone considered your idea. Jiwoo’s eyebrows lifted, impressed.

“That’s actually a great idea,” she said, her voice warm.

“We’ve never really thought about showing the process behind the scenes. It could bring a new dimension to the whole production.”

The conversation began to pick up again, but then, unexpectedly, a voice broke through, low but certain.

“I agree,” Wonwoo said, his voice almost surprising even to himself. He rarely spoke in group settings, preferring to observe. But the way you spoke about the play, the way you saw it—it resonated with him.

It was the kind of idea he would’ve suggested himself if only he’d been quicker to speak up. He paused and then met your eyes for the briefest of moments, his gaze steady but not unkind.

The air between you two shifted, just a fraction. It was subtle, but you felt it—the connection that had been hovering, just out of reach, suddenly felt tangible.

The moment lasted only a few seconds, but it was enough. Enough for the weight of his words to hang in the air and for you to feel that strange pull, the magnetic force that seemed to always bring you and him together in quiet, unnoticed ways.

You quickly looked away, unsure how to process what had just happened. Everyone else continued discussing the logistics of the project, but at that moment, you couldn’t stop thinking about the way he had agreed with you, and how easily the words had come from him, as though he’d been waiting to speak all along.

It wasn’t just the idea he had agreed with—it was the subtle way he had acknowledged you. A quiet recognition, like the two of you had just bridged a gap that neither of you could fully explain. And the way he’d looked at you, just for those few seconds, was enough to set something in motion.

Your heart quickened, and you could feel the familiar nerves crawling back to the surface.

Was it possible that this collaboration would bring you closer to him in a way you hadn’t expected?

The rest of the meeting passed by in a blur. You made mental notes of everyone’s ideas, but your mind kept returning to that moment. To Wonwoo’s quiet agreement, and the way his gaze had lingered just a little longer than necessary

The sound of footsteps echoed through the rehearsal hall as you stepped in, your camera bag slung over your shoulder, the weight of it grounding you in this familiar space.

Today’s rehearsal wasn’t for the cast—it was for the media team.

The focus wasn’t on the performers; it was about capturing the essence of their work, the backstage energy, the tension, the raw moments before the spotlight hit.

The team was already gathered in the corner of the hall, talking about shot lists and the schedule for the week. But as soon as you walked in, you felt the familiar weight of eyes on her.

You didn’t even need to look to know who it was.

Wonwoo was there, as usual, positioned on the edge of the group. His posture was relaxed but attentive, his focus sharp as he listened to Jiwoo speak about the lighting setup for the scene.

But it wasn’t just that. Your heart skipped a beat as your eyes locked—just for a second, but long enough for the quiet intensity between you to resurface.

He didn’t speak, but his gaze didn’t waver.

It wasn’t the usual casual look of someone who was just glancing over at a teammate. No, this felt different.

His eyes were searching, almost as if he was taking in every detail of you. And for that moment, it was just the two of you in the room, the buzz of the team’s conversation fading into the background.

You felt the familiar flutter in your chest, a mix of warmth and anxiety. Your feelings for him had come back full force, flooding you in a rush.

You quickly glanced away, pretending to check the time on your phone to avoid his gaze. But the image of him—the way he was always so observant, so still, so effortlessly in control—lingered in your mind.

It was strange, how easily he managed to capture your attention, even when he wasn’t trying. He was quiet, not in an awkward way, but in a way that made you want to know more.

It made you curious, made you wonder what was happening behind his calm exterior. And you were starting to fall for that calmness again.

"Okay, Y/N, what do you think about the positioning for the close-up shots in the next scene?" Jiwoo’s voice snapped you back to reality.

You took a breath and stepped forward, trying to push the distracting thoughts about Wonwoo aside.

"I think the close-up should emphasize the intensity of the moment. Maybe have the light come from the side—play with the shadows, highlight the faces," You suggested, voice steady.

Jiwoo nodded, taking notes, but you could feel the weight of Wonwoo’s gaze again like it was pulling you in.

He hadn’t spoken yet, but you noticed how he had leaned slightly forward, his eyes narrowed in concentration as he watched you. It wasn’t just about the idea—it was about you.

The conversation continued around you, but all you could focus on was that quiet energy.

How easily it took over the room when he was present. How, despite his silence, his presence felt like a magnet pulling you in, bit by bit.

And then, when Jiwoo asked about something else, you caught him glancing at you again. This time, his gaze lingered even longer.

There was something in his eyes, something that made your pulse quicken. It wasn’t just the familiar intensity—it was the subtle way he looked at you, like he was waiting for you to speak, to open up.

It was a silent invitation, and for the first time, you felt the weight of it.

Your heart raced as she realized that he was still here, in your orbit, and that the feelings you thought you had left behind had only been dormant. But now, they were back—stronger than before. And what was even more confusing was that you weren’t sure if you were ready to face them, or if you even wanted to.

You had told yourself, time and time again, that you were over him. That he was just another passing moment. But the truth was, you couldn’t forget him.

The meeting ended soon after, and as the team began to pack up, you gathered your things slowly.

You didn’t know if it was because of the lingering tension or something else, but you couldn’t seem to leave without one more glance at him.

Wonwoo was still standing there, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—those eyes—followed you as you moved.

Your gazes met again. This time, it wasn’t just a fleeting moment. It was a silent acknowledgment, a quiet understanding.

You weren’t sure what it meant, but you felt like something had shifted. You had always believed that, given enough time, the feelings would fade.

But here, at this moment, in the space between you, you realize that maybe some connections weren’t meant to be forgotten. And that, maybe, this was the start of something you hadn’t planned for.

Rehearsals start to settle into a rhythm—a blur of movement, dialogue, lighting tests, and whispered cues.

You find yourself growing more comfortable around the media team, slowly blending into the background yet always present, your suggestions more frequent, and your laughter more at ease. They’ve become familiar. Safe.

But him? Wonwoo still feels like a question mark.

He’s always nearby—never quite in the center of things, but never far either. He watches, listens, says little. But when he does speak, it lands.

You notice that. And you notice how you’ve started watching for it too.

One afternoon, the team meets to finalize the mock-up of the playbill, flipping through title fonts and cast photos.

You joke offhandedly about the title—The Road Less Traveled—making a snarky comment about how dramatic it sounds.

“Sounds like one of those plays where someone stares into the void for ten minutes and calls it art,” you murmur, half-smirking.

Out of nowhere, you hear him—his voice low and quiet but clear. “A little drama never hurt anyone.”

Your gaze snaps to him. Wonwoo doesn’t look away. A flicker of amusement in his eyes, a shared grin tucked beneath the surface. You quirk an eyebrow, playing along.

“Oh, so you’re the dramatic type?”

He shrugs lightly. “I can brood if I have to.”

You laugh—surprised by how easily it bubbles out of you. That’s new.

The tension between you both shifts after that—no longer just glances and proximity. There’s something being built now, one exchange at a time.

You begin talking more during rehearsals, always about the play, the concept, and the logistics of lighting. But between the lines, there’s a softness. Teasing. Shared humor. A glance held a second too long. The way he leans in slightly when you speak like he doesn’t want to miss anything.

Then comes the teaser shoot.

You’re both involved from the start—scheduling, setting up, and talking through the concept.

The air is thick with excitement and low-key chaos, but even through the noise, you’re aware of him.

The way he listens when you pitch ideas. The way his gaze lingers when you’re focused on your camera.

You tease him about posing too stiffly. He throws a quip back about your “artistic vision.” It’s all playful. But underneath it… something warmer simmers.

You’re careful not to treat him differently, not really. You laugh just as easily with the others. But with him, the spark feels different. Sharper. Quieter.

It’s in the way your shoulders brush as you pass equipment. In how your conversations never have clean endings—they just pause, like they’ll pick back up when you least expect.

Dinner sneaks up on all of you after hours of filming, and you somehow end up next to him again. You don’t even question it this time. It just happens.

The chatter around the table is loud, but it feels like a bubble forms around just the two of you—soft laughter, quiet jokes, the kind of comfort that settles in slowly, like dusk.

“You think Jiwoo’s gonna go full-throttle drama with the trailer?” you ask, tearing into a slice of pizza.

Wonwoo grins, his usual reserved edge softened.

“She’ll probably write a voice-over about chasing destiny or something.”

You laugh, nudging his arm gently. “Over a high school play. Classic.”

There’s a stillness after that. Not awkward. Just… calm. It feels like the eye of a storm—the part where things are quiet enough to notice how close you’ve gotten.

When the night winds down and people start filtering out to cars and carpools, you gather your bag and begin heading to the exit. You're halfway down the steps when you hear his voice again.

“Y/N, wait.”

You stop and glance over your shoulder. He’s already moving toward you, hands in his pockets, that unreadable look on his face.

“We live in the same direction, right?�� he asks, gaze steady. “I could drive you home.”

There’s a moment—a single heartbeat—where you feel everything sharpen. Not dramatic. Not sweeping. Just quiet and real. You offer him a smile, one that feels instinctive.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “Sure.”

The walk to his car is quiet. But not in the way silence usually is. This one hums with something new. A shared rhythm, an unspoken familiarity that has slowly crept in-between moments.

You glance over once as he drives, watching the streetlights flicker against his profile. He doesn’t say much, but you can feel him listening—feel him aware of you, the way you’ve always been of him.

And somehow, just sitting there beside him, the air between you charged but calm, it feels like the beginning of something.

Even if you don't name it yet.

Finals week is a haze of over-caffeinated nights, too-loud study sessions, and the growing ache of everything winding down. Rehearsals blur together.

Some days people show up; some days, they don’t. Everyone’s just barely hanging on. So when a last-minute promotional shoot for the play is scheduled, and only you and Wonwoo reply with a green checkmark, you already know how it’s going to go before you even show up.

You arrive at the theater first. The space is quieter than usual, sunlight bleeding through the high windows in golden streaks.

You walk the perimeter slowly, your sneakers quiet on the wooden floor, eyes adjusting to the dim warmth of late afternoon. There’s a calmness in the air, the kind that only exists when everyone else is too busy to be present.

You begin setting up—softboxes, reflectors, your camera slung over your shoulder. You hum a little under your breath, not expecting to be heard.

But then he enters.

Wonwoo.

No loud entrance, no announcement. Just the sound of the door creaking and his soft footsteps as he approaches.

“Hey,” he says, and it lands softly between you, almost like a question.

You glance over your shoulder and smile, just a little. “Hey.”

He sets his gear down beside yours like it’s second nature. Like this is something you do—work quietly, side by side, no instructions needed.

The silence is comfortable. You both know what has to get done. You both know how the other works.

For a while, it’s just technical stuff. You check the lighting. He angles the background. You test the shutter. He adjusts a reflector. You barely speak—but then, you never really had to.

It’s only when you take a moment to scroll through your camera settings that he speaks again.

“You color graded the teaser, right?”

You blink, glancing up. “Yeah. Why?”

“It looked… good. Felt intentional.”

Your mouth quirks. “It was. I was chasing that kind of nostalgic but grounded vibe. The way the story feels more in the pauses than the plot.”

He nods. “You pulled that off.”

There’s a beat.

“I picked that up from Dan Winters,” he adds. “His stuff’s all about the in-between.”

“Dan Winters?” you echo.

“Yeah. Photographer. Shoots like… the moments just before someone speaks. Or right after they stop crying. Like he’s not just capturing faces, but everything unsaid.”

You turn your body to face him, curiosity bubbling in your chest. “Is he your favorite?”

“Top three,” he admits. “Also Saul Leiter, for color and distance. And Annie Leibovitz—obviously.”

You chuckle. “Classic.”

He glances sideways at you, a small smile teasing the edge of his lips. “What about you?”

You think for a moment. “Nan Goldin. Her work feels lived in. It’s not beautiful in a posed way, but it lingers. Makes you feel like you accidentally stepped into someone else’s memory.”

He looks at you then. Not a glance—a look. Full, focused, still.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I can see that in your work.”

You stare at him for a second too long, and it startles you when the door opens again.

Your friend walks in—one of the actresses, always a little too observant for her own good. She greets you both casually, rummages through a drawer, but her eyes flit between you and Wonwoo more than necessary.

She doesn’t say much. But the smirk on her face speaks volumes.

Later, as the shoot wraps and you both begin packing up, she comes over under the pretense of grabbing her makeup bag from you. Her voice drops just enough to make it personal.

“You know he looks at you different, right?”

You freeze mid-zip. “What?”

“He doesn’t look at anyone else like that. Not Jiwoo, not anyone. It’s… warmer. Like, soft. Which is gross. And kind of sweet.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart skips anyway. “You’re imagining things.”

She snorts. “Sure I am.”

She walks off without waiting for a response, and you try to focus on rolling up cords, sorting lenses. You’re almost done when Wonwoo finishes tucking away the last tripod and turns to you.

“Need help?”

“I’m good,” you say, but he walks over anyway.

You hand him his camera bag, fingers brushing his as you pass it along. You both freeze for just a second. There’s nothing overt—no gasp, no intense eye contact. But it feels different.

Natural. Like a rhythm you’d slipped into without even realizing. Like you’d done this before.

He meets your eyes. “Thanks.”

You nod, throat a little dry. “Of course.”

And just when you think the moment might end there, he glances down, then back up.

“By the way, that teaser day—Jiwoo and I switched SD cards. Just for the raw footage. Nothing else.”

You blink. You hadn’t asked. But something about him offering that—like he wanted to clarify, like he needed you to know—makes your stomach turn in a way you can’t explain.

“Okay,” you say softly. “Thanks for telling me.”

There’s a pause. Then a small, knowing smile. “Just wanted it to be clear.”

You don’t respond. Just look at him. And for a moment, you wonder how many more things he’s wanted to say but hasn’t.

When you leave that day, the theater is bathed in soft gold, and your friend lingers at the edge of the hallway, waiting to walk with you.

“You looked domestic,” she says as you fall into step.

You blink. “What?”

“When you handed him the bag. It was weird. Like... lived-in. Comfortable.”

You don’t know what to say. So you just look straight ahead, hands in your jacket pockets.

But later that night, as you edit the photos and see the ones he took—photos of you adjusting lighting, half-laughing, in motion—you realize something.

He wasn’t just documenting the play.

He was documenting you.

Rehearsal starts slow, as they usually do. People trickle in late, scripts half-crumpled in their bags, exhaustion hanging in the air like mist.

You settle into your usual spot—middle of the row, just behind the front of the house—with your camera bag beside you, legs crossed under the folds of your black maxi dress. Your white polo slips slightly off one shoulder, the fabric is oversized and familiar. You don’t think much of it.

Until he walks in.

Wonwoo.

And he heads straight for the row behind you—right behind you—and sets down his gear without a word. You can feel the air shift before you even turn around.

He’s wearing a crisp white top. White sneakers and black jeans. You blink.

You look down at your own outfit—white, black. Matching.

Unintentionally. Of course. And yet...

You don’t speak. But your bodies do. In small, quiet ways.

When you reach for your camera, he’s already leaning over, eyes focused on the buttons, adjusting the dial like he knows it better than you do. “Your shutter speed’s off,” he murmurs.

You move your hand to take it from him—brush.

His fingers graze yours. Light. Deliberate. A breath between touch and hold. You freeze for half a second, and so does he, but neither of you pulls away. Not immediately.

He forgot to charge his camera, you realize. But he says it like a confession, not an excuse. And for some reason, it makes your stomach flip.

He scrolls through your photos as you lean in to look—but he never hands you the camera. Not like he does with others. With them, you’ve seen him pass the camera without a second thought.

But with you, he keeps it close.

You catch your reflection on the dark screen of the monitor—your face right next to his. Leaning in, close enough that if you turned just slightly…

You swallow the thought.

Around you, people are noticing.

You catch your friend’s raised eyebrows across the row, a small smirk forming on her lips. You pretend not to see. Pretend not to notice how everything about him feels louder today—the way your arms brush when you both shift simultaneously, the way you both turn your heads in perfect sync.

A dance you didn’t rehearse.

At one point, you both end up standing in the same pose without realizing it—arms crossed, leaning back against the wall—and when your eyes meet, it’s like the room disappears.

The conversation stays light, but your heart feels anything but.

He gives you more tips, softer this time. His voice drops when it’s just for you. And you mirror him, effortlessly. Like you’ve found the same rhythm, the same lens to see things through.

Your friend says you don’t treat him differently.

And maybe you don’t—not on purpose.

But you know you do.

In the way, you tilt your head when he speaks. The way your eyes linger longer on him than anyone else. The way you memorize the cadence of his voice. The way you laugh—just a little more softly when it’s with him.

You’ve both been walking around this invisible thread for so long now. But here, under the harsh lights of rehearsal, between lens flares and whispered notes, you realize:

He sees you too.

Not just through the camera.

But like this.

Like whatever’s building between you exists even when no one’s looking.

Even when you're pretending it doesn’t.

The day feels off.

Maybe it’s the weight of deadlines. Maybe it’s the exhaustion in your shoulders from days of late-night edits and early call times. Or maybe—if you’re being honest with yourself—it’s that he’s not around.

Wonwoo didn’t show up to rehearsals today. You heard something about him helping with a different department—lighting, maybe, or editing final cuts for the teaser. Logical. Understandable. Still… noticeable.

Because you’ve gotten used to the way his presence anchors the room.

You don’t realize how often your eyes wander to where he usually sits until there’s nothing to find. And when the meeting ends, you find yourself walking slower. Lingering. Waiting for something—someone—to appear.

But he never does.

So you stay in your lane. You smile at your friends. You take a few photos. You play your part.

Still, you carry this restlessness home with you like static in your chest.

Later, while heading to the admin building to return a lens, your footsteps echo in the empty hallway. The golden hour sun spills through the windows, pooling onto the floors like spilled light. You don’t expect to see anyone.

And then—you do.

Wonwoo.

Just ahead, turning the corner at the far end of the hallway, walking toward you with quiet purpose. He’s alone. His hands are tucked into his jacket pockets. Earbuds hanging around his neck.

Time slows.

You notice the way his eyes find yours almost immediately. No hesitation. No looking away.

You don’t speak.

You just look at each other, and the silence becomes its own language—heavy with all the unspoken things, all the almosts.

There’s an ache behind your ribs that you can’t quite name. Because in this one moment, it feels like everything is balanced on a string—tight and fragile and impossibly close to snapping.

You think about saying hi.

You think about smiling, teasing him for disappearing all day. You think about asking what he was working on or if he needs help or if he missed being around the team today.

You even open your mouth slightly.

But then…

You look down.

You walk past.

And he does too.

Your shoulders brush as you pass. Not enough to be intentional—but not completely accidental, either. He smells faintly like cedar and something warm and familiar. You wonder if he turned his head to look back.

You don’t.

Not until it’s too late.

That night, you lie in bed staring at the ceiling.

You replay the moment like it’s a scene from a film you can’t stop watching. You remember the look in his eyes. How it held you in place. How you wanted to move—say something, anything—but your body refused to betray your heart’s urgency.

You think about how close you are to something that still doesn’t have a name.

And you promise yourself—next time.

Next time, you won’t let it pass.

Even if your voice shakes. Even if it’s just a smile.

Because you can’t afford too many more missed moments with him.

Not when every one of them stays with you like this.

It’s nearly midnight when you finally call her.

The moment replays in your head like a stuck record—those few seconds in the hallway where time stretched thin between you and Wonwoo, thick with everything unsaid. You’ve tossed and turned for hours, your phone screen lighting up the darkness as you scroll through nothing. So you do what any girl in emotional chaos does: you call your best friend.

She picks up on the second ring.

“You sound dramatic already,” she teases, voice groggy but amused.

“Because I am,” you sigh, flopping deeper into your pillow. “I saw him.”

She doesn’t even ask who. She knows.

“Did you talk?”

“No,” you groan, dragging the word out. “We just—looked at each other. Like full-on eye contact. And I was gonna say something, I swear. But I choked. I completely chickened out.”

There’s a pause before she laughs softly. “You’re so unserious. You’ve literally talked to him before.”

“Yeah, but not like that. This moment was different. It was… cinematic.”

“Everything’s cinematic to you.”

“You’re not helping.”

“No, but I am entertained,” she says, and you can hear the smile in her voice. “Also, not to add fuel to your lovesick fire, but have you seen yourself lately?”

You blink, confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… there’s a glow. You’ve been walking around like you’re in a perfume ad. All soft and floaty. It’s like—you’ve always been pretty, but now? It’s like your confidence is blooming out of your skin.”

You scoff. “That’s dramatic.”

“Is it though? You used to dodge the camera like it was cursed, and now you’re letting people take candids of you. You used to be all sharp edges and ‘don’t look at me,’ and now your smile literally reaches your eyes. You’re glowing, babe.”

You go quiet for a beat, biting back a shy grin. “Okay, but that’s not all because of him.”

“No, it’s not,” she agrees. “But don’t lie and say he didn’t help. We all see it—how you soften when he’s around. How you carry yourself differently. How… feminine you’ve become.”

That word hangs in the air like a ribbon. Feminine.

And you feel it. Not in the way you dress or speak—but in how you feel inside your body lately. Less guarded. More open. More you.

“I think… I feel safe with him,” you admit quietly. “Even when we’re not speaking. Even in silence. It’s like he sees me. And I see him.”

She exhales like she’s been waiting for you to say that.

“Then next time,” she says gently, “don’t look away.”

You see him the very next day.

He’s already there when you walk into the rehearsal room, hunched over his camera bag in the far corner, sleeves rolled up, fingers adjusting dials like second nature.

For a second, you hesitate. Not because anything is wrong, but because everything feels heightened after the hallway moment. The weight of the silence, the brush of something unspoken still hanging between you like fog.

People are everywhere—laughing, greeting each other, shifting through costumes and scripts—but your eyes land on him instantly.

You don’t make a move right away. You float. You hover. But eventually, your steps guide you to him naturally. Like you always knew you’d end up here.

“Hey,” you say softly, eyes flicking to the camera in his hands.

He looks up, smile flickering across his face like a secret sunrise. “Hey.”

There’s a pause. A comfortable one. You point toward the lens. “Can I try it?”

Without hesitation, he nods and passes it to you. “Yeah. Just—here, let me show you.”

His hands find yours briefly, not lingering too long, but long enough for your breath to catch. His fingers brush over your knuckles as he helps guide the settings. His voice is low and steady, explaining shutter speed, aperture, ISO. But you’re not sure you’re absorbing any of it.

You take a few photos—of props, people milling about, the dim lighting of the room—and hand it back to him.

He studies the shots, then glances sideways at you. “Your shutter speed’s a little slow,” he observes quietly, tapping the preview screen. “But… it kind of works. Gives it that blurred, dreamy feeling.”

You shrug, trying to hide your smile. “Maybe I like things dreamy.”

He huffs a small laugh. “Makes sense.”

You don’t expect it, but halfway through the run-through, as the actors block their scenes and your team quietly captures the process, Wonwoo steps up to you and leans in just slightly. “Hey—I’m stepping out for a bit. Just grabbing something. I’ll be back.”

You blink. He doesn’t owe you that information. You’re not his keeper.

But he told you anyway.

You nod. “Okay.”

And just like that, he’s out the door, leaving you blinking in his absence, heart skipping a little at the odd weight of his words.

When rehearsal ends, the atmosphere shifts—lighter, more playful. You chat with some of the cast, laugh at a misplaced prop, tease the director. Wonwoo returns not long after, slipping back into the room as quietly as he left. You find yourselves near each other again, your conversations casual, threaded with inside jokes and that familiar, teasing rhythm that only the two of you seem to fall into.

He’s packing up his things when you realize someone from the media team left her camera by your feet.

“Ugh,” you groan to your actor friends nearby. “I have to go all the way to the sixth floor just to give this back.”

They offer sympathy. One jokes about charging a delivery fee. You laugh, wave them off, and start to gather your things. But before you go, your eyes instinctively find Wonwoo’s.

“Bye,” you say to everyone—and then to him.

“Bye,” he murmurs back, smile soft but unreadable.

You step out of the theater and catch the media member just outside. She thanks you for the camera, and you’re about to head down the hall when—

“Y/N!”

You freeze.

It’s his voice—clear, loud, carrying through the corridor like a thread pulling tight. You turn around and see Wonwoo jogging a few steps in your direction.

“Did you get to give it back?” he asks, slightly breathless.

You nod, confused but flustered. “Yeah, I just did.”

“Okay,” he says. That’s all. Just… okay.

You smile again, heart buzzing. “Bye again,” you say with a playful edge.

“Bye,” he echoes, but this time there’s a hint of something warmer behind it.

You turn and walk away, the sound of your name still ringing in your ears. You try to play it cool, but your chest is blooming.

There was no reason for him to call after you.

And yet—he did.

You thought the last rehearsal would be the final thread holding the two of you together—at least officially. Summer was around the corner.

Final projects, last-minute submissions, yearbooks being signed. You were preparing yourself to let it all go. Not in a dramatic way—just in that bittersweet, slow-sinking way of something beautiful coming to an end.

And then came the announcement.

A teacher from a different department—one who always had a knack for roping in the creative kids—stopped by the theater during cleanup. Her eyes scanned the room until they landed on you and Wonwoo, both crouched near the stage packing up cables.

“Ah, perfect,” she said. “You two. I’ve been meaning to catch you.”

You both looked up at the same time.

“There’s a school-wide exhibit coming up for the art and design program. We’re collaborating with a few other departments for a showcase… installations, student projects, performances. It’s a pretty big deal. And we need solid documentation and marketing this time around.”

You didn’t even have time to ask before she continued.

“I’ve already spoken to your teacher—he told me about the work you two did for the play. Said you were a good pair. So we want you two onboard.”

Wonwoo’s brows lifted slightly. He glanced at you. You blinked back, heart thudding.

“I’d like you, Y/N, to take on the Head of Marketing position for this,” she added, tapping the clipboard in her hand.

“You’ve got the eye and the leadership. Wonwoo, you’d be working with her closely on all things media—teasers, photo documentation, day-of coverage. You two work well together.”

You swallowed. “Okay… sure. That sounds great.”

Wonwoo simply nodded beside you. “I’m in.”

“Fantastic,” the teacher beamed. “We’ll send out the formal schedule and assignments by next week. But consider yourselves part of the core team. Oh—and this runs through early July.”

July.

You barely caught the rest of her words, your thoughts already drifting. This wasn’t just a post-grad event. This meant more late nights. More creative meetings. More hallway encounters and shared glances over camera screens.

You and Wonwoo were still going to be working together.

After she left, you sat back on your heels, pretending to tie your shoe while the theater buzzed around you.

Wonwoo shifted beside you. “Didn’t expect that,” he murmured.

You looked at him. “Nope. But… I’m not complaining.”

His lips twitched, a quiet smile tugging at the corner. “Me neither.”

And just like that, the next chapter started writing itself—quietly, naturally, as if the universe had decided your story wasn’t finished yet.

Not even close.

56 notes · View notes