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mingigoo · 9 months ago

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look after you || k.hj (m.)

🩺 pairing ⇢ nurse! (fem) reader x struggling musician! Hongjoong

🩺 synopsis ⇢ after a long night at work with little to no sleep, you nearly doze off on your way home, hitting a tattooed, spikey-haired guy in the middle of the road. Panicking, you run out to help him and go with him to the hospital, only to lie and say he was your husband so you could go back with him. Well, when he woke up, he didn't exactly take it the way you thought he would...

🩺 genre/au ⇢ enemies to lovers (kind of), some angst, smut, fluff, hospital au

🩺 warnings/tags ⇢ 18+ MINORS DNI, injury, car accident, hospital scenes, unprotected sex, undefined relationship, mention of possible suicide attempt, Hongjoong is a scruffy underground musician, trauma with touch, tattoo!joong, grumpy sunshine, cum shot, biting, teasing

🩺 word count ⇢ 10.3k

🩺 taglist ⇢ @atinywhore @jjhmk @yukine-smx @roe-sinning @meowmeowminnie @yeritheloml @y00nzin0 @yesv01 @halesandy @shegotboreddsoo @kangyeosangelic @gayliljoong @sanshineeeeee @kodzukein @baguette-atiny @seokwoosmole @nyeatinyjunkie @juliettechokilo @pockyddalgi @justaqueerbufoin @hwaightme @likexaxdaydream @ssaboala @gtr-skyline-lover @miriamxsworld @daegale @knucklesdeepmingi @naiify @yeoyeoland @arya9111 @mdibby @8tinytings @angelicyeo @wooyoungjpg @lonewolfjinji @asjkdk @charreddonuts @mangishii @yeoyeoland @pink-hwaberry @wooyoluvrr @maru-matt @pearltinyy @loveuwoo @m3chigo @northerngalxy @silverpixiedust23 @interweab @skz1-4-3 (if I missed you please lmk!! bold = can’t tag)

masterlist

A/N ⇢ this story is purely fictional! I am not nurse, and do not have unlimited knowledge on this topic. However, I am a healthcare worker, so I know a little, but not a lot. I am sorry for any information this is incorrect. This is meant for entertainment purposes only. This is not meant to take place in reality.

They never prepare you enough for the things you might see within the hospital walls.

Nothing is ever enough within those few years of education, the desperate attempt to create life savers. No one tells you how much it hurts to see a child suffer until death, a mother, a daughter.

You just wanted to be something. Do something. Be like the girl you dreamed of being as a child—a child who put bandaids on her mother, all over, decorating her like a painting. Sometimes, your mother would act like she was hurt, just for you to play make-belief, “stitching” up her “wounds.”

And here you were, in the hospital locker room, tears falling silently down your cheeks as you unclipped your hair, letting it fall just like the tears. You sniffed, hiding your face in the locker, although no one was around to see. It was embarrassing enough to yourself—you couldn't believe you were crying. You just…couldn't stop.

The day was rough—just too much. Too much death, too much sadness. This wasn't what you dreamed of. You never thought about how hard it would be to put a smile on your face to a patient, right after witnessing someone leave the world. To act, really. You should've taken up that career instead. You were pretty damn good at doing it—well, until you landed behind the curtain.

You haven't slept in ages. It's been constant insomnia on top of twelve-hour shifts, sometimes even longer, and once you are able to lay down, the only thing you hear is the sound of a patient crashing, the cries of family members. It had you questioning your profession. Your devotion. Your childhood.

As you made your drive home, for some reason, the lines on the road soothed you. Your eyes began to beg for sleep, rolling back ever so slightly as you continued. The gentle patter of rain graced the windshield, the red hue of the stoplight in front of you nearing.

You stopped at the light—pausing to look at the city around you. The city was bright, even at the dark hour of midnight. People were walking, carrying on, bar lights bright, apartments lit up in an array of colors. You took in a breath and closed your eyes.

And you closed them a little too long when a car horn sounded behind you.

You jumped, feeling apologetic for holding up the line, and continued forward. People passed you with impatience, but you didn't care. You kept going, crawling, really, till you felt sleep creep up once again, shutting your eyes. You drifted off, only for a short moment, and suddenly you awoke with haste—but not quick enough. In your headlights stood a man, walking across the street, and you didn't have enough time to move. You slowed as best you could, tires screeching, praying to anything, anyone, that this was your imagination.

As your car came to a screeching halt, you hit the man with a thump, causing him to crumble to the ground. You gasped, now wide awake, a scream caught in your throat.

You swallowed hard, hands shaking as you pulled over as best as you could and put your vehicle in park, looking around for any sign of someone.

No one, absolutely no one, but you and this man you just hit. Just a few blocks back, the city was bustling, bars were hopping, but now, it was like a wasteland. You stepped out of your car, gasping for air, and sprinted through the rain to get to the man.

He was lying still, his head bleeding, his back on the asphalt. His black clothing hid the damage he received from the hit, hiding his body, his black hair covering his face. The only thing you saw was the black ink of a tattoo on his hand as it grasped the road.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, kneeling down to him. You assessed him as best as you could, fighting an anxiety attack. “I am so sorry, oh my god.”

He groaned in response, his arm visibly broken. You hurriedly dialed the emergency line, panting, nearly in tears. You didn't even think about the consequences of this action—you were only worried about the man, the stranger, in front of you.

After nearly crying once more on the phone, the paramedics explained that they would arrive quickly. You hung up and looked over the stranger once more. “Are you alive?” you asked like a dumb ass, nearly face-palming. You were a nurse, goddammit. Act like one.

You leaned over him, as gently as possible, putting a finger under his nose, and you felt a soft breath hit it. You checked for an airway obstruction, but nothing. He was breathing fine. In pain, but breathing.

The man tried to move, to roll over sharply, but you quickly bellowed, “Wait, please, you could have a spinal injury,” you pleaded, and surprisingly he stopped. “Don't move.” You caught a glimpse of his face. A large cut near his eyebrow painted his skin crimson, but his eyes were beautiful. His lip was cut, too, and you felt immense pain just looking at him. God, what if he was homeless? He looked it. What if he didn't have insurance? Oh god—

You saw how much blood was coming from his head as he looked up at you. His eyes were hazy, like he wasn't really seeing. You hurriedly looked around for anything to stop his bleeding, and when you found nothing, you took your coat off, then your scrub top, and you quickly put your coat back on. You held your shirt to his head as gently as possible, applying pressure, praying that the paramedics would come soon—

Your anxious thoughts were interrupted by sirens. You let out a sigh of relief.

When the ambulance pulled up, two men came to you with a stretcher. You were barely alert enough to hear them say anything. You mumbled a few things, your hands shaking as they set down the gurney. You mumbled to have them put on a neck brace, chest tightening at how the man cried in pain. You let out an ugly cry with him, but no tears fell. They gently rested him on the stretcher, his head steady, but his arm—

“Are you crazy!” you hissed, standing up quickly. “His arm….he needs his arm stabilized!”

“I’m sorry, mam,” the one man condescendingly said, giving you a dull look. “We know how to do our job. We don't need your input.”

You huffed. Mam? Mam? That was insulting. “I’m a nurse, I also know what I’m talking about.”

They ignored you like everyone seemed to ignore you. They began to move away, but a small object caught their eye that lay right where the man was. You picked it up, finding it to be an empty wallet—you’d give it back later.

They rolled him towards the ambulance, and you followed, forgetting about your car, and everything in it, leaving the scene behind. The paramedics didn't seem to care that you went with them, so you sat in the vehicle, watching them treat the guy you hit. You wanted to throw up as they treated him, as you sat still, like a worthless piece of paper. A crumbled-up piece of paper. Yeah. Crumbled.

When you arrived at the hospital—a hospital that wasn't yours, you walked beside the homeless man, nearly reaching for his hand. However, your race with him was put to a stop as the emergency room staff stopped you as he headed into the wing.

“I’m sorry, only family members are allowed inside,” the woman softly muttered, her eyes genuine.

She reminded you of yourself.

What….what if this man was really homeless? What if he had no help, no insurance, no family? You had to do something. You’d feel horrible if you didn't do anything.

“I’m—I’m his wife!” you blurted out, louder than you intended.

The young lady gave you a heartfelt look and nodded towards the door. “Go ahead. There’s a waiting room inside. What’s your name? I’ll let them know you’re the guardian.”

You told her your name, sparing no second longer than needed, and you ran into the emergency room, sitting down in a hurry.

It was now a waiting game.

—

For what seemed like forever, a doctor came out into the waiting room, looking right at you.

“Miss y/n?” He asked.

“Yes?”

He cleared his throat. “….You are Kim Hongjoong’s guardian?”

You paused, almost forgetting your whole spiel at the entrance. You remembered the name from his ID in his wallet, and nodded sharply, standing up quickly. “Is he all right?”

“He sustained many injuries, but nothing too major. His arm is broken in three places, and that will limit his mobility quite a lot. We set his arm, but he might possibly need surgery.”

You nodded, relief washing over you. Good, minor injuries. Phew.

The doctor pondered for a long while as he stared at you. “The paramedics stated that you were the one to hit him with the car.”

You sighed. “Yeah, he came out of nowhere—”

“Why was he walking alone so late at night?”

You looked around the waiting room, seeing only one other soul in the corner seat, sleeping. You wondered about what to say, as your little white lie was becoming a web.

“I uh….he works late?”

“He was intoxicated at the time of the accident—”

“He works at a bar?” you tried not to sound like you were questioning that statement.

The doctor deadpanned and then sighed. “Listen, I’m sure there's stuff that’s none of my business. So I’m going to choose to ignore this,” he nodded toward the emergency wing. “But you’re welcome to go see him. He’s awake now.”

You wondered for a second whether you should go back there. If he was going to rip your head off for lying, for hitting him with your damn car.

You nodded, telling yourself to grow some damn balls. “Okay, I’ll see him.”

The doctor led you to a room at the very end of the hall, the lights dim. There, in front of you, was the man you hit. He was all bandaged up, a large one spanning around his forehead, covering some of the spikey black hair. His arm was wrapped in a cast and held up for circulation, and his eyes were wide open. Right on you.

“Your wife is here,” the doctor spoke nonchalantly as he entered with you. However, you were stationary at the door.

“Wife?” he scoffed, coughing a bit. He tried to sit up, but you put on your act, walking up to his bedside.

“Don't move,” you spoke sweetly, eyes pleading. The attractive man just furrowed a brow, his lips curling down in a grimace.

“We’re gonna keep you here for observation tonight, and see how you are doing in the morning to keep an eye on that arm of yours.” The doctor quickly did what he needed to do and left, leaving you alone with….your husband?

The pretty homeless guy spared no second in the questioning. “Who the fuck are you?”

Your eyes widened, looking down at him. He gazed up at you, his eyelashes fluttering as he blinked. A tattoo peaked out of his hospital gown, where it met the skin of his neck.

“Listen,” you sat down roughly on the seat next to the bed. He watched you emotionlessly. “I’m sorry—I didn't see you when you walked across the road. I take full responsibility,” you breathed, getting nervous under his gaze.

You were expecting him to scream at you. Well, at least to freak out in some way. It was more alarming that he sat still, completely still, his mouth set in a line.

You blinked.

“I don't care, it’s fine,” he sighed. He showed no emotion, nothing. Not even a twinkle of anger. It was the look in his eye that told you that maybe, just maybe, he ran in front of your car on purpose.

Your eyes widened at the man in front of you—at hongjoong in front of you. He looked distraught tired, brown eyes never leaving your face as you gazed at him. He raised his eyebrows slightly, tilting his head.

“You can leave now,” he huffed, eyes dropping to your open mouth before darting up back to your eyes. “I’m not sure why you're even here in the first place.”

It was your turn to scoff. You crossed your legs in irritation at his lack of care. “Well, maybe because I hit you with my damn car? Maybe I’m worried, maybe I feel horrible, maybe I wanted to see if you were going to be okay.”

Hongjoong just blankly stared. He didn't show any signs of pain, of anger, of anything, really.

“You don't have to worry,” he spoke eventually, turning away from your gaze to look forward. You watched the tattoo dance against his neck as he moved. “I’m fine. This is all fine.”

You didn't know what to say, how to feel. Your head was spinning, all the tiredness washed away. It pained you to see him so empty, so barren, even though he was a stranger. “I feel like I need to do something for you.”

He bit the bottom of his busted lip, as if forgetting. He made a face, the only expression he’s shone. “No need.”

“But I need to,” you leaned forward, closer to him. He turned to you, eyes void. “I’ll pay for your hospital bill, maybe treat you for a dinner, I don't know—”

“Don't,” he hissed. His eyes grew dark, the fire in them rising. You nearly shrunk back in response to his sudden change of attitude. “Listen, just forget about this, about me, all of it. I don't need your money, or your time, or—” he paused, his anger faltering as he looked at you. “Just…just carry on with your life. I’ll only affect it if I stay in it.”

You frowned, wondering what he meant by that. It didn't matter, though. Your guilt was all-consuming—and the fact that he most likely ended up in front of the car on purpose really was overbearing.

After a second of just…staring at one another, you sighed. “One meal.”

He didn't make a face. Didn't change his plain, empty expression. You looked at his starless eyes, his pale skin. You had the need to brighten him up, to heal him. That was your job, after all.

He opened his mouth to speak, but a nurse came in before he could say a word. You immediately straightened, putting on a smile, hoping he would keep up the act even though he had no reason to. You didn't want to be kicked out—not right now.

“How are we feeling, Hongjoong?” the young nurse asked, a smile on her bright face.

“Fine, I guess.” His response was toneless. The nurse still bubbled around, checking his vitals. You watched as he stiffened as the woman touched him.

She looked at you, arching a brow. “Oh? Are you the wife?” she let out a hum of appreciation, then turned her gaze to Hongjoong. “You’re lucky with this one. They said she freaked out when they didn't stabilize your arm and when they wouldn't let her inside the emergency wing! She must really love you to nearly fight someone to get back here.”

Hongjoong, for the little time you knew him, showed more emotion on his face than ever after hearing that. After hearing that someone—you, a stranger nonetheless—was distraught at his expense. His lips flattened in a line, his gaze faltering.

You grabbed his good hand, although bruises were painted across his knuckles. Old, yellowing bruises. You furrowed your brows, subconsciously rubbing a thumb softly over the colored skin. Hongjoong stiffened, eyes widening, at either your caring touch or the pain it could have been causing. Or both.

You felt your stomach tighten as you met eyes with him. The air was stuffy, his eyes were….practically begging for a reason for your attention, as if he’d never had it before.

“I’m lucky to have him,” you sighed, acting but feeling an intense pull to him. Just touching him, although you didn't even know him, felt like a second nature.

Maybe it was the regret, the disparity, of hitting him, of being the reason his life was almost nonexistent. Maybe this feeling was because of the responsibility you felt for doing this to him. It didn't matter if it was true; this tension you were feeling with the stranger was more powerful than what you felt with your ex, the one before that, and the one before.

His face was devout of color besides the bruises that scattered his skin. He looked drained, tired, alone. The nurse just smiled at you two, noticing your bloody scrubs and messy exterior. “You’re a nurse, too?”

You just nodded, lost in the feeling that strummed through your body.

Hongjoong’s hand twitched under your hold, his eyes still wide. Still on you.

“Well, Hongjoong,” the friendly nurse smiled. “Don't let her go, she’s a keeper.”

He tore his gaze from you to look at your hand on his. He swallowed hard, blinking. “Ah, yeah.”

Soon after the nurse left, your hand still rested on his. He sat silently, staring forward at the whiteboard with his name on it.

“I….” you struggled with your words, realizing you were still caressing his hand. “I’m sorry,” you said as you pulled your hand away. His head shot towards you.

After a few moments of silence, he said, “It’s okay.” His tone was soft, defeated.

You wiped your hands on your thighs, sweating buckets. “I, uh, I should go.”

He watched you stand up, but your back was turned, unable to see the wishful glance he offered you.

You stopped in the door frame, turning around to meet his eyes once more.

“It was nice to meet you, Hongjoong,” you smiled, watching the glimmer in his eye trying to sparkle. “I wish you well.”

Before you were able to leave the room, he called for you.

“Wait,” he breathed, voice raspy.

You froze.

He took a breath in, exhaling his words. “What’s your name?”

You turned around. “Y/n,” you spoke softly, your chest aching at the little half-smile peeking through his bruised lips.

“y/n,” he repeated, blinking slowly. He didn't say anything else. You didn't either. You smiled at him once more before turning on your heel and walking out of the room, despite the tear in your heart telling you to stay.

And on your way out, you paid his hospital bill in full, not a single regret in your mind about it.

—

After a few days, you continued your days like normal.

Well, as normal as they could be. Your mind wandered to the spikey haired guy at every sparing second, thinking of how his eyes pleaded something unreadable, how his hand twitched underneath yours.

You were at the hospital, reaching the end of your workday in the emergency room. After running in with a few scruffy-looking guys, they reminded you of a certain someone, and you just wanted to tear at your hair. You were certain your odd feelings were due to the fact that you hit him with your car, and nothing else. This will pass.

When the quietness of the night was about to still, a man ran into the emergency room door.

“My friend is hurt,” The man huffed in desperation. You turned to the commotion, seeing a thin, black-haired man holding up another—his friend. But that friend and his familiar spikey hair jolted something inside of you.

You jumped out of your seat behind the nurses’ station and ran to the men, meeting eyes with the taller one. He was just as beautiful as hongjoong was, but his eyes were frantic.

“Sir, what happened?” you questioned, reaching out to the man who was just who you thought. Hongjoong’s head rolled back, his eyes squinted in pain, his teeth barred. You carefully steadied him. “What’s hurting you?”

At your voice, Hongjoong opened his eyes wide, looking straight at you. “Y/n?” he grunted out, his breaths strained. He shut his eyes again, and you almost couldn't take the look he had on his face.

“His arm,” the other guy said to you as you called for help, struggling to hold Hongjoong up. “He got into a fight at the bar, some guy decided to mess with his broken arm and, well…..”

You felt a sense of rage fill your body. You wanted to ask Hongjoong why the hell he was at the bar only days after getting hit by a damn car, let alone getting into a fight.

A few other nurses gathered around, all helping to walk him over to a bed. The wing was empty at this time of night—only a few people around. Once again, Hongjoong looked extremely uncomfortable as the nurses touched him.

You held him gently as you set him down on the bed, feeling his fingers curl around your arm.

He held on to you with his good arm—the hand you held only days before. The other nurses fluttered around, setting things up, but Hongjoong just stared up at you.

“Hi,” is all he said, his fingertips etching into your skin.

Your chest tightened, forcing yourself to smile. “We must be fated or something,” you joked, hoping to brighten him up. “That or you just frequent hospitals often.”

He blinked up at you, his eyebrows knitted in pain. “Maybe I just wanted to see you again.” He coughed as he joked.

Your heart skipped a beat, the other nurses and the man that came with him side-eyeing you.

“If you wanted to see me again, there are better ways than this,” you huffed, looking around. “We have to get an X-ray, alright? We’ll give you something to ease your pain meanwhile.”

The air between you two was undeniable. He nodded, emotion sparkling in his eyes, unlike the days before. You wondered if you were the reason for it.

It was probably just the pain.

The other nurses wheeled him to the radiology room, leaving you alone with the man who brought him there.

“You’re the girl that hit him, aren't you?” His voice was soft, gentle. It held no anger.

You turned to him, seeing the caring exterior he showed. “I….yes.”

He tilted his head at you, blinking, as if figuring you out in a single glance. “He’s been looking all over for you. You…paid his bill. He doesn't like handouts.”

Your eyes widened. “Oh? I didn't think he ever wanted to see me again. You know, I hit him with my car—that isn't something to take lightly—”

“You paid his bill,” the man repeated, crossing his arms. “He feels indebted to you. Please just make sure he knows not to feel that way.” The man sighed, looking into your eyes. “Despite how he looks, he ruminates over things. He’s sensitive. He’s a mess right now.”

You sighed, too. “I…I paid his bill because I did this to him—”

“No,” he interrupted, eyes serious. “You didn't.”

You knitted your brows. “....What do you mean?”

The man gave you a deadpan stare, as if not wanting to spell it out. He let out a breath he seemed to be holding. “He….he jumped in front of your car on purpose, y/n,” he bit his bottom lip. “So no, you really didn't do it to him. He’s…he’s just been a mess lately—and now that you acted sweet, played a wife, held his hand or whatever, he’s even more of a mess.”

Before you could ask what he meant by that, Hongjoong was back, alert and upright, but the pain still rested on his face. His gaze met yours, and you felt your stomach swirl in a mess of emotions.

You couldn't look him in the eye as you took care of him.

—

Hongjoong was sleeping as your shift was about to end. Before you clocked out, you couldn't help but go to him, check his injury out, check his vitals. His friend—Seonghwa, you learned his name—left about an hour ago.

As if noticing your presence, his eyes slowly peeked open, slightly drugged and delirious from the pain medications.

“I didn't expect to see you here,” he mumbled out, blinking lazily.

“I didn't expect you, either,” you spoke, keeping your emotions in check.

Silence enveloped you as you checked his pulse ox.

“Why’d you do that?”

He turned his head to look at you. “Do what?”

You unclipped the pulse oximeter from his finger. “Why’d you get into that fight? You were really injured.” You wanted to ask the deeper question, the question as to why he stepped in front of your car, but you didn't want to overstep.

He shrugged, wincing. He didn't have an answer. He didn't owe you one, really.

“Just,” you breathed, moving over to the computer to open his chart. “Just don't do anything like this while you’re healing. You need surgery. You need rest.”

He bit his lip, probably stopping himself from saying something he shouldn't.

“Also,” you sighed, looking over at him. “Your friend told me you were looking for me?”

“Yeah, well,” he scoffed. “I really didn't mean to meet you here.”

You let out a chuckle. “Well, here we are.”

He nearly smiled at you, lips curling beautifully. He had a bit of dried blood on his lip, and knowing that you were supposed to be leaving, you still reached for a washcloth. You didn't need to do this—in fact, you were acting against every thought in your head as you leaned forward and brushed the cloth against his lip, watching them part.

His breath hitched as you neared, as you touched him, and once again, his hand twitched, begging to touch you.

Your hand lingered on his cheek for a moment too long, meeting his eyes. He stared at you, expression unreadable, lips parted.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

You took a second to study his face before you moved away from him. His eyes followed you as you put space between you and him, dark and beautiful.

You logged out of the portal on the computer. “We’ll move you to your own room before we prep you for surgery,” you said gently, heart aching as you met his gaze once more. “The doctor will tell you more.”

“Will you….be there for the surgery?” he showed no specific feelings as he asked the question.

“I am only part of the emergency department right now,” you shrugged. “I don't think so.”

He pondered for a second before nodding, settling himself back into the comfort of his hospital bed. “Okay,” he spoke softly.

You offered him a solemn look, causing him to stiffen.

“What?” he asked.

“What?” you repeated, confused.

He blinked. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” you frowned.

“Like you feel sorry for me.” He looked pained, a deeper type of pain.

You thought about a response to that—you didn't necessarily feel sorry for him, you didn't pity him either. In fact, you just felt an immense feeling of wanting to see him happy, to see him without pain.

Which confused you incredibly, given that he was just a stranger.

“I don't feel sorry for you,” you clarified. “I just don't want you to be in pain.”

“You don't even know me,” he huffed, his expression contorting, and you figured that he didn't even know how he was feeling—what he was feeling. “Why would you even care if I’m hurting?”

You smiled at him. “Because you don't deserve the pain.”

He just stared at you, hazily, emotionally. There was a light in his eyes—a light that wasn't there the other day. “You don't know me well enough to know that.”

The air grew cold; you had nothing left to say. You wished he realized that he didn't have to suffer like this.

“Goodnight, Hongjoong,” you hummed, walking away, feeling his stare burn into your back.

—

The next day, you found yourself drawn to the bed Hongjoong was in yesterday. It was empty, with him now in a room of his own in another part of the hospital.

You typed away at your computer as your colleague, Yeosang, came up to you.

“Hey,” he leaned over the counter of the nurses’ station. “There's a guy asking for you.”

Yeosang, although very young, was a surgical resident in orthopedics. He was super smart, super sexy, super everything. You went to school together, spending lots of time in the library and everywhere else together.

“Who?” you mumbled without looking up.

“He’s a patient I’m prepping for an open reduction surgery, but he’s having a hard time letting anyone touch him. Says he only needs you or something.”

You looked up, hands freezing on your keyboard. Hongjoong. “He won't let anyone touch him?”

Yeosang sighed, propping his head up on his palm as he leaned on the counter. “We had to give him more pain medication, and it made him a bit….difficult. I suspect he has some sort of trauma.”

You frowned. “And why is he asking for me?”

Yeosang gave you a knowing look. “I don't know. He kept saying your name, saying he needed you.”

You tried to avoid the rush of blood to your cheeks. “I don't even know him.”

“Yeah, about that….” Yeosang looked a bit confused, a smile peeking through his lips. “He keeps calling you his wife.”

Oh, dear god. “How drugged is he?” you huffed, looking defeated.

Yeosang laughed. “I kept telling him that you weren't his wife, and he got super mad at me. He said only his wife can touch him. I really need him to stop this so I can get him into pre-op,” The surgeon sighed, giving you a pleading glance. “I’ll ask the attending if you can scrub in—”

“I’m an ER nurse,” you raised a brow. “I have other duties, Yeosang.”

“Y/n, please,” Yeosang pleaded, “ignore the rules or whatever. Can you just come and help me so we can get him into surgery?”

Your mind wandered to the fact that Hongjoong was having a hard time. Sure, he was delirious off of his meds and pain, but knowing that he was struggling with touch, a part of you crumbled.

So you followed Yeosang—after getting approved by the charge nurse, and went up to the third floor.

As you neared the room, you let Yeosang enter first.

“Mr. Kim, I have Nurse y/n here for you.”

There Hongjoong was, his eyes frantic, his breathing rushed. He was anxious, a mess. The nurses tried to ease him, and relax him, but he wasn't having it. That is, until he saw you in the doorway.

“y/n,” he breathed, as if he knew you forever. Everyone in the room let out a sigh of relief.

“Hi, Hongjoong,” you spoke softly, walking slowly near him. You sat in the chair next to his bed, scooting closer as the room emptied, Yeosang being the only other presence. “I heard you were asking for me.”

He blinked, his eyes lined with worry, with anxiety. For someone who looks so tough, he looks like a completely different person.

He didn't speak; he just looked at you, his eyebrows furrowed, his expression all over the place. You took a glance at Yeosang, who was observing you before you reached for Hongjoong's hand just like before.

The bruises were faded now, only old scars left on his skin. A tattoo trailed the skin of his arm. You went to rub his knuckles, but Hongjoong gripped your hand tightly.

You met his frantic gaze. No words were spoken. He just pleaded with his touch, his eyes. You knew he was scared.

“It's okay,” you hummed, fighting the urge to tuck his hair behind his ear. “It's a simple surgery. You will be just fine.”

He mumbled something, but you weren't able to catch it. Yeosang stood in the doorway with his arms crossed, the other nurses peering over his shoulder from the hall. Hongjoong’s gaze moved to the door, seeing everyone watching him.

And you realized that, more than being anxious, he was embarrassed, too.

You looked to Yeosang, giving him a desperate look, a silent cry for him to leave and to get those damn nosy bitches out, too. He complied, and they were alone once more.

“It’s alright,” you hummed, and this time, you did reach out to his face, gliding a gentle hand across his cheek. Without thinking, he leaned into your touch, craving it, longing for it, as if you were really his wife. “They’re gone now.”

His eyes were droopy, his lips downturned. He looked tough, someone with a rough exterior, but now, he was crumbling. He was alone. Alone to the point that he called for you, basically a stranger to him.

The moment could have lasted forever. His eyes bled into yours, yours into his, your hand on his cheek drawing circles into his skin. He took in a breath, and nodded.

“Will you let them take care of you?” you asked him gently.

He hesitated. You also did, as you realized that he leaned into your touch rather than avoiding it. That he felt comfortable with you—the one who hurt him. In his eyes, though, he didn't see it that way.

Your hand stilled on his cheek, his worried eyes lighting up a little. You didn't even realize that his good hand—the hand that you were holding just a minute before, was now resting on top of your hand that was on his cheek. He gripped it, his medical haze confusing him, confusing you.

You froze, your eyes wide. You allowed his fingers to interlock yours, having him hold your hand to his face as he shut his eyes. He was vulnerable. Human. Although he looked tough, looked troubled, he was just a person under all that trouble. Just a normal guy with normal feelings, normal fears.

And you were indebted to each other. You for hitting him, him for his gratefulness of your care.

“I’ll be there with you,” you murmured, knowing that Yeosang was still outside the room, close enough to hear, close enough to see. “I’ll be in the room while they’re operating.”

He nodded, his grip loosening slightly, but he still didn't release your hand.

“I’ll look after you,” you offered, and his eyes met yours once more.

He slowly let go of your hand, allowing you to move back. You looked at Yeosang through the window, giving him a curt nod for him to come back in.

Hongjoong let the other nurses touch him, but not without a grimace on his face. Yeosang’s words swirled around your mind; I suspect he has some sort of trauma.

Trauma. Trauma that didn't quite reach you—your touch. He allowed it, actually, he wanted it. You wondered what made him okay with yours. Why he needed you when you were the one to do this to him.

Eventually, Hongjoong entered the operating room, knocked out by anesthesia, but not without you holding his hand, making him childlike, making him….a normal human being.

—

After the surgery, Hongjoong sat in his bed even more dazed than before. Before the daze wore off, he kept calling you his wife, causing confusion to stir around the hospital.

As you left Hongjoong’s room to go back to the ER, Yeosang followed. “What’s this about?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

You walked faster.

“I mean, why does that guy keep calling you his wife?” Yeosang’s shoulder bumped into yours accidentally as you turned a corner. “And why are you the only one who can touch him? Why did you—”

You stopped suddenly. “Why did I what?”

Yeosang let out a breath. “Why did you….touch him like that? As far as I know, you….you aren't married.”

“I’m not married, you’re right,” you nodded, confused by why you touched him like that, too. Confused as to why he looked so relaxed with your touch rather than freaking out. “And…let’s just say we have met each other before. I did that to calm him down.”

You continued walking towards the elevator, Yeosang following still. “Okay, but you still didn't answer my question about why he keeps calling you his wife.” you pressed the down button and waited.

“Is that really any of your business?”

“Just a little—”

“Why?” you interrupted, turning towards him, arms crossed. “Why does it matter to you?”

You didn't mean to sound rude, you and Yeosang were good friends for a while. You've never dated, but you’ve flirted with each other occasionally. You never thought much of it other than being a little playful.

But the look on Yeosang’s face caused you to pause your racing thoughts. “Because I thought we…we had something going on?”

You blinked. “Do we?”

“I mean,” Yeo scoffed. “With the way you were looking at him, I don't think I have a chance.”

The elevator dinged, doors opening. You paused for a second before entering, Yeosang following.

It was quiet before the doors closed.

“I didn't think I looked at him any differently than anyone else,” you admitted honestly, causing Yeosang to look over at you.

He gave you a smile, although it didn't quite reach his eyes. “You feel something for him, huh?”

You frowned, leaning back against the wall. “I barely know him. I only…” you sighed. “I only met him twice.”

“But yet, you are the only one he allows to touch him,” Yeosang breathed as the elevator dinged on the first floor.

“That’s something to think about.”

—

Hongjoong was back to his normal self when you went to check on him in the evening; the anesthesia and meds had worn off. His arm was bandaged up and held in a sling, his eyes empty once more.

You hesitated on entering, but his stare moved to you.

For a second, you saw regret, and embarrassment, cross his face before melting back into a void stare.

You entered, but he didn't look at you. He avoided your gaze, too. Very unlike his earlier, medical high self.

You took his blood pressure, fingertips gently wrapping around his tattooed bicep as you put the cuff on. He didn't say anything, didn't even spare a passing glance. He just kept looking forward.

“119 over 79,” you mumbled out, letting loose of the cuff.

He nodded, coughing a bit. He didn't say anything, though.

“Dr. Kang told me that you’re cleared to be discharged,” you tried to start a conversation, but things just felt too awkward. You wrote down his vitals in his chart. “That’s good. Can I call anyone to pick you up? Maybe the guy that was here—”

“No,” he said quietly, looking down at his arm. “There is no one to call.”

“You need someone to help you. You just had surgery—”

“I have no one, y/n,” he hissed, finally looking at you. “Not like that’s any of your business, anyway.”

You didn't know what to say, so you just stared at him with confusion. He was putting his walls up.

“I just….don't want you to suffer alone,” you admitted.

“Why?” he let out a laugh, but it wasn't humorous. “I don't need your worry.”

“Okay,” you breathed, defeated. There was no point; he was just a stranger, just a man. Although, this feeling you had about him was overwhelming. And when you touched him, you wanted to hold him longer. Wanted him to feel better.

You left the room without a glance toward him and carried on the rest of your day as best you could.

—

Hongjoong was sitting on the bench outside the hospital entrance, head low, as if sleeping.

You knew you should keep walking. You shouldn't give him any attention, any time of day. But your chest ached as you got closer and closer, and as you reached him, you couldn't bear to walk past him.

“Why are you still here?” you asked him, keeping a good amount of distance away from him.

At your voice, he looked up quickly, as if waiting for you despite his nastiness earlier.

He took a second to respond. “I, uh, I’m just sitting here.”

You looked him over. His black hair was no longer styled spikey, it laid flat across his forehead softly. His tattoos were on full display in the black t-shirt he wore.

“You don't have anywhere to go,” you meant to ask it like a question, but it came out more like a declaration. He furrowed his brows at your words but didn't deny it.

“I’m fine, I’ll figure it out,” he sniffed, the cold air dancing around him. He didn't even have a coat.

Without thinking, you spoke quickly. “Come with me.”

He tilted his head. “Why?”

“Because,” you huffed, taking a step closer to him. “I owe you.”

“For what?” he spat out, probably not intending to sound rude.

You gave him an honest look, and his eyes softened. “Did you just forget that I hit you with my car? That I broke your arm?”

He just sat there, blinking slowly. “You don't owe me anything, y/n.”

You reached your hand out. His own hand twitched. “Come with me.”

After a long moment of just staring at your outstretched hand, he let his hand find yours, standing up at his full height. You got a good look at his face, his eyes, his lips. He was breathtakingly beautiful. So beautiful.

You held his hand as you walked to your car, feeling a flutter of emotion in the pit of your stomach.

When you got to the car, you helped him into the passenger seat, despite his aggravated digs at you. You leaned over him, buckling his seatbelt, feeling his hot breath against your cheek.

You paused, frozen, inches away from his lips.

He swallowed hard, eyes glancing down at your lips. He didn't make a move. You didn't, either.

You pulled away, forcing yourself to get out of his personal space to shut the door. You saw him tilt back his head and take a deep breath before you got to the driver's seat.

As you drove, you asked random questions like a goddamn idiot.

“So, uh,” you swallowed, looking over at him for a second. “What do you do for a living?”

What kind of damn question is that?

“I’m a musician,” he mumbled, looking out the window. “Kind of.”

“Ah,” you nodded, thinking of what to say next. Now you were thinking way too much into things. “What do you play?”

He looked down at his arm, sighing. “Well, I played the guitar, piano, some other things. I don't think I’ll be picking anything up for a while.”

“You will, eventually,” you tried to encourage him, but he just kept his gaze even out the window. You arrived at your apartment, pulled into the parking lot, and shut off the car. “We’re here.”

He nodded, watching you get out of the car. You opened his door, and with slight hesitation, you leaned over him again to unbuckle his seatbelt, but before you could, he stopped you with his good arm.

You paused, inches from his face, meeting his eyes.

“Thanks,” he muttered quietly. “I’m sorry for how I acted earlier.”

“You don't have to be sorry,” you whispered, feeling an immense pull to him, to his lips.

You ignored the urge and unbuckled the belt, but you didn't back away. Not like you could, anyway, with Hongjoong’s grip on your arm tightening.

The belt slowly slipped off of him.

He chewed on his bottom lip, his eyes dancing with emotion. “I was just… embarrassed. And drugged, and uh, well,” he paused, thinking. “Mostly embarrassed. I can't believe I freaked out over a little surgery. That’s so lame—”

“No, it's not,” you hummed softly, delicately. “It's a normal fear.”

He smiled. Actually smiled. From the little time you knew him, you haven't seen a genuine smile on his face. Or any sort of light, really.

“Thanks, uh,” he sniffed. “Thanks again. For looking after me.” his eyes fell to your lips. “You don't even know me, and you still…” he trailed off.

You realized that you were inhaling the air he was exhaling, that you were eye to eye, almost nose to nose. His breaths were shaky, labored, and tired.

“I would want someone to look after me in the same way,” You whispered. “That’s all.”

“That’s all?” he tilted his head upward, leaning against the headrest, warm, brown eyes on full display.

“Mhm,” you swallowed.

His eyes glimmered. He didn't have anything to say, and you didn't either. Realizing that you were shrinking the space ever so slowly, you took the opportunity to back away from the musician. He let go of your arm, but not without a little tug on it beforehand.

You cleared your throat as he got out of the car. You shut the door for him, and you walked together—slowly, till you reached your apartment door.

When you entered, hongjoong strayed back behind the door, not entering. You turned to face him, eyebrow raised.

“Come in,” you beckoned, and with one more second of hesitation, he followed you in, shutting the door behind him.

He surveyed the place, his eyes finding the piano that sat in the corner of the room. His eyes danced as if surprised to see it there.

The air was thick. The room was quiet. You tossed off your shoes with ease, noticing his struggle with his own, so you bent down the help him. He didn't pull away, didn't speak. He just let you take care of it—of him.

“I don't mean to be a bother,” he mumbled as you untied his shoe. “But I’d really like to shower.”

You glanced up at him. “Oh,” you nodded, taking off his shoe before standing up. “Sure. it’s the first door down the hall.”

He didn't make any move. He stood, a confused, shy look resting on his face.

And then you realized.

He had no clothes to change into. Nothing. He also only had one working arm, and one covered in material that couldn't get wet.

“I can help you,” you trailed off, trying not to read too much into his stare.

“If you comfortable with that.”

—

In the bathroom, Hongjoong stood anxiously as you waited for the water to warm up. It took a second, and most of the time, the hot water only lasted so long.

You figured a shower would be too difficult to help him with without seeing too much. You opted for a warm bath, filling the water up once it got hot enough. You made sure to add some suds to it, so he wasn't too uncomfortable.

When you turned around to face him, his eyes were cloudy, his lips in a line.

“Do you….not like baths?” you mumbled, scratching your head. “I probably should've asked you before I—”

“It’s not that.” His eyes met yours, switching his weight onto his other leg.

You didn't pry, knowing he was just probably embarrassed that he needed help for something as trivial as a bath.

Walking toward him, he backed up into the door. You nearly smirked but maintained your cool as you grabbed the plastic bag off the sink counter. “I just have to wrap your cast in this. It'll just be a second. You might want to take your shirt off before I….”

He blinked, eyes wide. “Huh?”

“I don't think you normally bathe in clothes,” you murmured slyly, tilting your head. “Unless you like that.”

He didn't move. His body was as stiff as a board, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

“Just take your shirt off, dammit, or I’ll do it for you.”

You saw his expression change the minute the words left your mouth.

His good hand found the hem of his t-shirt, hesitating to take it off. You realized that he probably did need your help with taking it off, but with the look in his eye, you weren't sure what would happen if you got any closer to him.

But you moved closer, anyway, setting the plastic bag back onto the counter. His back was nearly up against the wooden door, his breath hitching as your fingertips gently pulled at the fabric.

“Why are you….so okay with this?” he breathed before you could pull the shirt up.

You met his gaze, his eyes unreadable. Almost as if he didn't know what he was feeling, either.

“I told you already,” you shrugged, smiling.

He blinked, his eyes red with emotion, begging to send a flood down his cheeks. “I don't deserve your help.”

“You do, though.” Ever so slowly, you began to pull his shirt, soft, carved abs appearing as you moved it up. “Because you know, you don't have to suffer alone.”

“Who said I was suffering?” he croaked out, his eyes, his tone, spilling his guts out on the floor for her to see.

You didn't say anything. You just slowly tugged the black t-shirt over his casted arm, watching him wince slightly. Then, he stood, half-naked, emotionally charged in front of you. He was no longer a stranger. No longer someone that you classified as a patient, either.

His eyes spoke volumes, his good hand twitching at his side. You looked at it, and took it in your own.

“Come on,” you nodded behind you. “I’ll help.”

He looked like he was ready to cry. Ready to break down. He didn't, though, and you walked him over to the bath. You unbuttoned his jeans, but turned around as he stepped out of them and into the tub.

The soap covered his lower body, all that was on display was his torso, his slim shoulders, the tattoos inked on his tanned skin. He didn't break away from your gaze as you began to wash him.

“I feel….something I shouldn't be feeling,” he swallowed, his voice raspy, tender, defeated.

“And what’s that?” you wondered before running your hands through his silky hair, coating the strands in your lavender shampoo.

He shut his eyes, sighing. “I don't know what it is, but what I do know is, for some reason, your touch is very calming when everyone else’s hurts me.”

You paused, hands still tangled in his locks, but he opened his eyes.

A confession of feelings—worth more than any other cliche words. He stared up at you, heart on his sleeve, confusion and fear and everything in between dancing around his eyes.

“For the first time,” he whispered, the only sounds in the room being your shaky breathing and the quiet trickle of water from the spigot. “I feel…comfortable being touched. I….need it.”

His lips parted, his hair dripping wet, your hands still frozen within the strands. You didn't know how to respond, didn't know exactly how you felt, either. But you also knew one thing, and it became ever so apparent as his hand slowly reached your cheek, wet fingertips leaving a trail of soap across your skin.

You blinked slowly.

Softly, gently, you moved forward, over the tub, and brushed your lips against his. His eyes remained open from shock, but his lips moved slowly along with yours.

You pulled away, but didn't go too far, resting your forehead against his. His breaths tickled your skin, sending a blush to your cheeks.

Emotions are complex. You didn't know exactly why you kissed him. Why you needed to. Why you wanted to do it again. But what you did know was that you liked how his touch felt, liked the little smile that appeared as you kissed him, liked how he gently pulled you back into another kiss.

You took in his breath as you kissed once more, this time a bit more urgent. Your hands gripped his soapy hair, his hand rested softly on your cheek, his thumb on the corner of your lips, his fingers tickling the lobe of your ear.

He kissed you like he knew you forever. Like he knew just how you liked it. You found your hand trailing down his tattooed neck, fingers dancing on the ink, his dewy skin, his tongue in your mouth.

You parted once more, so close, breaths tangling, fingers scrunching. His breath was hot against your face, his dark eyes pleading.

You’d so get on top of him in that damn tub. You wanted to, so bad. But you remembered that his arm was hurt, that you were the one that did it, and you nearly stood up to move away before he gripped you by the arm.

“Don't go,” he breathed hazily.

So you didn't. You washed him, this time, knowing that you were begging to end this bath and fuck him silly till the sunrise. Till the warm, glow of the burning star fluttered through your blinds. And with that damn look on his face, you knew he was thinking about it, too.

You helped him out of the bath, not turning around this time. He stood slowly, body on full display, even more tattoos, even more scars covering the skin you didn't get to see.

You sheepishly handed him a towel. He took it, but didn't use it to cover himself up.

“You’re not dating that damn doctor, are you?” he spoke, his tone serious, deep. Sensuous.

You breathed out, “No.”

He grinned, cheshire-like. “Good.”

You could tell he wanted to rip your clothes off. He wanted to claw at your skin like some goddamn animal, his expression pained in all of the right ways.

You needed air. God, this bathroom was stuffy.

Turning on your heel, you forced yourself to walk out of the damn room, because if you didn't, Hongjoong would become something far more stranger than, well, a stranger to you.

But he had other plans. More impulsive plans.

He followed you out of the bathroom and into your main living space. He gripped your hand, his fingertips gently pressing into your skin. When you turned to face him, he was dripping wet onto the lightwash wood floor, beads of water collecting on the ends of his hair. His eyes were wide, begging you for something, anything.

So you gave up on your act.

“Do you want to fuck me right now?” you wheezed, smiling as his eyes widened even more. “Is that what you want?”

You stepped closer to him at his silence, and arched your body against his bare torso, feeling the hardness of him press your thigh, his lips begging to meet yours once more.

You teased him, lifting your mouth to his, letting out a sigh. He shivered as your hands felt up his bare skin, and your hot breath tickled his face.

He nearly growled, his good arm wrapping around your waist swiftly, tugging your body towards him completely, holding you here as his mouth crashed to yours. His broken arm begged to touch you, too, and without thinking, he moved it quickly. He hissed in pain, his arm definitely hurting him, but he didn't care as much as you did. You tried to part from his lips, to ask him if he was okay, but he bit hard down on your lip to keep you from speaking.

You moaned while he stuck his tongue down your throat, his hand now tearing at your top, your waistband. You hurriedly tore off your clothes for him, giving him no second to stare at your body before tossing yourself onto him again. He grunted, moaning into your mouth, the vibrations tickling every part of you. He pushed you back, nearly tripping over the throw rug, the coffee table, until your back slammed into the keyboard of your piano.

The keys slammed as your ass hit them roughly, the musician making music without even intending to. His hips bucked into yours, your core right where he needed it, his dick pulsing, aching to be inside you. You lifted your hips, grinding them against his cock, gaining pleasure in his expression.

He nearly whined as you bit his ear lobe, his hips shifting into you, begging for you.

“Can I get inside you?” he moaned, eyes frantic. “I need you, fuck, I need it bad.”

In more ways than one, he needed you, but now, he needed your body. Needed your touch, your moans. You obliged, your body already wet enough for him to enter. You lined up, and without a second to waste, he slowly moved into you, causing you to toss your head back at the feeling. His eyes rolled back; a whine left his pretty pink lips, his chest heaved in pleasure.

His head dipped to suck your nipple, tongue gliding over the sensitive skin of your breast. You huffed, trying so hard to breathe. He let out moans that did something dangerous to your body, to your mind. You moaned along with him as his hips snapped.

“Oh, god,” he whimpered, his tone light, airy. Water dripped onto the soft skin of his chest from his hair. “You feel so good.”

You smiled, tearing your hands up his back as the piano cried along with you. The keys clicked, moaning from the weight above them. The music filled the room, tangled within your breaths, your sweat. You gripped the back of his head, lacing your fingers through his wet, dripping hair, feeling yourself get wetter and wetter by the minute.

Your walls caved into him, his cock pulsing inside you. He looked into your eyes for a long moment as he moved, his black hair stuck to his forehead, his mouth open in gratification. He kissed you, tongue dragging across your bottom lip, tugging on it. He liked to bite.

You felt euphoria reach you before you knew it, and you cried out, gripping his hair, pulling it as he fucked you. His face pained, his teeth barred, his eyes shut tight. Just his expression—his appearance—could've made you come on the spot.

You felt tingles in your fingers, and your toes, and saw stars in your vision. Black spots fluttered, your heart rate probably much higher than it should be. You didn't care if you died right here, right now. It didn't matter. Nope. This was bliss. So much better than that damn vibrator.

You felt like you were on fire—no, more like a falling, burning star crashing to earth. Your stomach ached at his pressure, your hips aching, your head pounding. You came onto him with haste as your vision blurred, tearing into his shoulder blades, leaving little marks on his skin. At your actions, you witnessed the look of utter satisfaction on the pretty boy’s face, his breaths quickening, shallowing. He let out a whine, just as musical as the keys underneath you.

Before he could come, he pulled out, cumming all over your breasts, your stomach. You sighed, closing your eyes, trying to catch your breath.

He stared at you, eyes low, lips swollen and red. So fuckable, so delicious.

He looked at how he painted you, smirking a bit to himself. He was so full of life, full of emotion. “Let me go grab that towel,” he breathed, his voice crackling a bit. You watched in enjoyment when he walked away from you, watching his ass, his legs, the tattoos move with him.

He returned with the towel, wiping you gently as if he hadn't just made you nearly black out. You gazed at him, not sure what you were feeling, how you were feeling. You could do it all night with him, with this guy who was a stranger only a couple of days before. It wasn't too often that you acted on your desires, but there was no possible way you were supposed to avoid this, avoid him.

When he was done, when you were clean, he set the towel down on the floor, but his eyes didn't leave you.

“What?” you hummed.

“Just,” he breathed, smiling. “That was really good.”

“I hope so,” you chuckled the feeling of the room lightening, almost in a playful way. “I hope this wasn't your goal all along—you really freaked me out when I hit you.”

He looked down as you jumped off the piano. “Uh, yeah. I bet I did.”

You moved to him, gently reaching to hold his cheeks for him to look at you. “I got you now, huh? No more running in front of cars, unless it's mine. I’ll be prepared next time.”

His eyes widened as if he was shocked by your words. That you knew he did it on purpose. He didn't deny it. He just leaned into your touch, eyes closing tight in comfort.

“Like I said,” you started, giving his lips a little peck. “I’ll look after you, if you’ll allow it.”

He took in a deep breath, opening his eyes, meeting your sincere gaze. His lips curved up. “I’ll look after you, too.”

You smiled along with him. You wrapped your arms around his waist tightly, embracing him, feeling even more intimate than sex. He let out a shaky breath, as if finally realizing he wasn't alone, didn't have to be. That he deserved a caring touch, a longing touch, a needy touch. That he could actually have something to himself.

You didn't know what you were to each other, and it really didn't matter. There was no need to label it so specifically. You could be his rock, his personal nurse, the person to stitch him up when he gets hurt. The one he could confide in, have sex with, whatever he needed. Whatever you needed.

So when he kissed the top of your head while you hugged him, you tightened your arms just a little, holding onto him as long as he’ll let you.

You’ll look after each other.

#ateez #ateez smut #ateez fanfic #ateez angst #ateez hongjoong #kim hongjoong #hongjoong fic #hongjoong x reader #hongjoong smut #hospital au #enemies to lovers

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lymtw · 3 months ago

Note

shy reader who marches up to the counter when the restaurant gets tojis order wrong but still can’t look him in the eye is honestly sending me into a giggle fit. it’s a thought i had that i NEEDED to share with you 😭😭

A/N: Oh, that's adorable! 🥹 I love this and I have something for it!! Don't know if this is a request, but i'm blabbering on about it anyway, so thank you for sending this in! 💙

(Post writing... I made the setting at a cafe 🤦🏻‍♀️ Pretty fitting for an ask that involves getting things wrong, isn't it? Hope you like it anyway 😭)

You had been bugging Toji for the longest time about this new cafe that was going to open in town. Not necessarily bugging, because you never actually manage to annoy him, but you had brought it up multiple times, already. He understood that you really wanted to go, but it's like you kept forgetting that you already mentioned it to him and every time you brought it up again, he would say the same thing, 'sure, we can go once it opens'.

The grand opening had already happened and you couldn't make it because of work. Toji said that he could stop by and order something to bring to you, but you declined, saying that you could go another time. What you really wanted was to go with him... on a date... The thought made you giggle to yourself. Sitting across from him at a table, maybe being bold enough to reach for his hand. It made your heart race and it motivated you to get your work done a lot quicker that day.

You went together on a day you both had off. He picked you up, but instead of driving to the cafe, you walked because it was a short distance from your place. During the walk, he let you ramble on about the menu and what drinks looked good. It was cute how something that piqued your interest so much, managed to get you to talk his ear off. He loved the rare times when you talked more than him.

You finally reached the cafe, and it had such a simple, yet, elegant design on the outside. The color scheme consisted of white and a dark shade of blue and the logo had an outline of a white owl on a background colored in that same shade of blue. You walked in and everything was so bright and it all looked so cool. There was a wall that had a spray painted design of that same owl from the logo holding a coffee mug, and everywhere you turned there was something interesting. There was a spot to take pictures, a wall of the cafe's mugs and tumblers, it was just so much to take in. You were stunned.

The main thing you were there for was the drinks. You and Toji stepped up to the counter and read the menu for a brief second before the cashier asked if you were ready to order. Toji got something plain. Coffee with a splash of milk in it and he asked for the sugar on the side. You ordered something that made him suck in his lips from how sweet it sounded. You paid, despite Toji insisting on doing so. He pulled cash out of his wallet but you were quick to insert your card into the card reader before the cashier could take his money.

You both stepped aside to wait for your drinks. Toji shook his head, grumbling something about how he was going to pay, which just made you giggle. You kept that cheeky grin on your face until he got closer and said something about getting you back for this or paying you back for this, you didn't know which one. The second his hand went to your hip, you lost focus and didn't catch what he said.

Your name was called out and Toji had to nudge you so that you could head over to grab your drinks. His was in a paper cup, yours in a plastic one because it was iced. He grabbed the sugar packets beside his cup and followed you to whichever spot you chose to sit at.

"We're finally here, having the drinks you've been dying to try, doll. How're you feeling?"

You laugh, the sound so bubbly and accurately used to express the happiness you're feeling. You feel like you're being interviewed with the way he watches you and waits for you to respond.

"I'm excited. Hope it's as good as their advertisements made them seem." You quiet down for the second part, something that makes Toji snicker.

"Well try it and describe it to me," he says. He picks up his cup and takes a sip, his eyes on you as you do the same. The second the coffee hits his tongue, he's disappointed. He tries not to make it noticeable because when you put your cup down, you have a huge smile on your face. You must be happy with how your drink turned out.

"Well?" He asks.

"It's really good," you say, smiling at him before looking at the familiar owl design on your cup.

"That's all you've got for me? After chirping about this for so long?"

You giggle. "I don't know what else to say. It's really sweet... a little bit sour and could use some water, but it's good."

"Alright, doll. Just glad you like it," he says with a smirk.

You watch as he takes another sip of his drink, and when he puts it down, his expression seems off. You can't miss the way his nose scrunches a little and how he presses his lips together, like what he's having isn't enjoyable.

"Is your drink alright?" You ask, after observing him for long enough.

"Uh... not gonna lie, doll, they messed it up. It's got like some sort of hazelnut syrup in it, but it's all good. It's not going to waste."

"You should let them know. Maybe they'll remake it for you or give you a refund. Here." You extend your card to him. You feel guilty. His drink was such a simple one to make, yet he's unsatisfied with what he got.

"Nah, it's fine. They probably just got the labels wrong."

"But, Toji, you don't like it," you say, hoping to persuade him.

"It's just gonna be a hassle, ma. It's fine. Really."

You look down at your cup again, sparing a couple more moments of guilt, before standing up from your seat, and taking his cup up to the counter, politely explaining the mixup to the cashier.

Toji watches you, a quiet chuckle leaving him as you extend the cup towards the cashier, assuming you're asking if they need to throw it out, but the guy shakes his head and waves his hands in front of him to emphasize that it's unnecessary and you can keep it. You step aside once again and wait for Toji's drink. You look at him, where he sits across the room and he points at his phone, signaling for you to check yours.

👎🏻

Love you

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chlorinecake · 7 months ago

Text

🎙️ star-crossed lovers 【薄幸な恋人】 ⛦

summ✩ry ⭑⭒⭑ As rehearsals and promotions for your big collab stage with Enhypen become progressively more intense, you and Niki face challenges that might effect your secret relationship and standing with the company...

p✩iring ⭑⭒⭑ idol!niki x popstar!reader PREVIOUSLY

cont✩ins ⭑⭒⭑ band au, fluff, secret romance, kissing + a slightly heated make-out scene, mild bullying, LOTS of drama, reader is younger than Niki, 3.6k words

It felt strange having your hair, makeup, and clothes managed by someone else, especially in such a meticulous way.

Today was the big day of the Riot Grrlz x Enhypen fan meeting that Hybe was hosting in honor of your upcoming collaboration stage, the event acting as some sort of promotional.

The fashion theme for the day, as decided by the likes of an online poll distributed by Enhypen's Instagram account, was 'Schoolgirl / Schoolboy,' which meant everyone would be dressed in plaid neck ties and neatly-ironed button-down blazers.

“This'll have to do,” murmured one of the makeup artist's on duty, simply dusting you with a bit of blush, some gloss, and shimmery eye shadow because they couldn't find a foundation shade that matched your skin color.

“I can't find my contact solution!” Serenity exclaimed frantically in the dressing studio, searching through her sparkly teal duffle bag for the fifth time this hour.

Of course none of you were willing to assist her on the aimless contact solution hunt, especially not with the way she verbally harassed the makeup crew for not "lining her eyes right."

“Just let it go, Ren,” Sunghoon said with an annoyed sigh, “the stylists are making all of us wear glasses for the concept today anyways...”

“Okay first of all, don't call me by my nickname. Second, it's not my vision I'm worried about, but my image,” she clarified matter-of-factly, “I wanna impress the Korean fans with a big and bright boba eye moment...”

“You have sooo many problems,” Jade added with a similar irritation, rolling her eyes at the diva before a hairstylist ran over to clip in another track of fake hair.

“Tell me about it,” Serenity huffed despairingly, sticking her arms out like a scarecrow as the fashion crew adjusted the belt around her waist.

“Let's just try and maintain a good mood before the meeting guys,” you started optimistically amongst the tension, “the fans might pick up on our bad energy if we all show up pouting like this...”

“Easy for you to say,” Niki replied teasingly, “you slept like a baby last night… meanwhile, you kept me up with your insistent snoring…”

“Did not,” you whined in protest, looking back at his attractively playful expression, “it’s not my fault that the stories you tell in your groggy bedtime voice are so relaxing.”

Niki meant to reply but was rudely interrupted by Serenity’s stinky attitude, “Aww, late night bonding moment, I see? Hope a little ‘story time’ was as far as it got for you two lovebirds...”

You and Niki shook your heads in unison at her senseless comment, the rest of Enhypen and your band mates soon rushing out of the dressing room and outside to the awaiting limousine as the schedule manager directed.

“Make sure you have everything you need, guys! We’re running a bit behind on time and can’t afford any more set-backs,” exclaimed a tall, broad man in athletic wear, a black Hybe hat topping off his look.

“Got it, sir,” Jungwon replied politely, double-checking his leather cross-body bag before stepping into the vehicle, the rest of you following after him.

You didn’t expect to see Miss Kim in the front seat with the chauffeur, but you greeted her nonetheless.

“Morning, Miss Kim!,” You and Hearin started enthusiastically.

“Morning, Riot Grrlz,” she returned while not looking at any of you, writing hasty yet neat notes down on her clipboard, “I’ll be bold and assume you ladies have never attended any sort of fan event, correct?”

“Y-yes, that is correct,” Jade answered before you, crossing her legs in her seat, “this’ll be our very first experience today…”

“Oh, that’s cool for you then, isn’t it? Don’t worry if you don’t know what to say or do, by the way... just copy us,” you heard Heeseung encourage somewhere behind you, but your mind was more focused on the way Niki’s hand accidentally brushed against yours while you two glared out of the same window...

Accidentally… maybe…

“I was just getting around to that, Heeseung,” Miss Kim continued after clearing her coffee-stained throat, “Korean fans as a whole are pretty cutthroat, and whether you’re a foreigner or not, they expect you to present yourself a certain way…”

“Perfect,” Sunoo thought out loud, “they expect you to be perfect…”

“That’s just the way this idol life goes, I'm afraid,” Jungwon sighed from his seat, not empathetically, but in a realistic sense.

“Either way, you girls should be safe to mirror whatever the boys are doing if you ever feel confused…” Miss Kim trailed off, the limo being just a few feet from reaching the fan meeting center, “Good luck today, you all.”

▶︎ ၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊| • • •

Things were turning out surprisingly smooth at the event, to say the least.

Needless to mention, you and Niki stayed pretty close the entire time, and the fans seemed to be amused by your attempt at famous duo heart poses with him.

“Just extend your hand like this,” he instructed while giggling, watching as your overhead heart ended up looking more like an oval to the audience.

Serenity was received as a fan favorite, too, her “boba eye” look captivating the male attendees while others were more entertained in her beginner Korean skills.

“Hwaiting,” she exclaimed confidently before the fans one too many times for your tolerance, Sunghoon’s face clearly showing just how much he was enjoying not being the cringiest person in the room for once.

Or, at least that was until an older fan requested that he and Sunoo sing and dance to the infamous aeygo Ottoke song for good luck at the show tomorrow.

“The things we do for engene,” the two boys collectively thought to themselves while fastening coquette bunny ears atop their heads, hoping that their enthusiasm would override the embarrassment.

It was all just such a culture shock for you and your group.

“Uhhh, a little help here?” Haerin worriedly called out to Jake as a particularly excited Korean fan approached her with a lot to say that she could barely understand.

“Oh- allow me,” Jake offered between the language barrier, translating to Haerin what the fan was trying to tell her.

“She thinks I’m a what now?”

“A K-pop Idol, mostly because of your trendy look today,” Jungwon giggled warmly, “the prophesied eighth member of Enhypen, in fact...”

Haerin laughed with both embarrassment and flattery, trying her best to explain to the young fan that she was a member of the Riot Grrlz and Riot Grrlz only.

Interactive activities continued just as well after this, the event nearing its end as you and Niki did a few TikTok dance challenges for the fans on stage.

Dance challenges that you had practiced with him in eery hours of the night, or whenever you two were left alone in the dance studio.

That, alongside other things too… like stealing sweet kisses here and there… or nearly melting while staring into each others love struck eyes—

“____, right?” A fan asked, approaching you with a blue marker and square of paper.

“Yes, that’s me. Nice to meet you,” you returned, keeping eye contact with her, despite the dark shades she wore.

“Nice to meet you, too! I have so many questions to ask you about what it’s like working with Enhypen!… and I really like your hair, too! The highlights look really nice with your outfit hehe… ALSO, I've been listening to a lot of your groups songs recently, and my favorite has to be the main track from your most recent album, it’s so unique!…” the fans voice eventually trailed off shyly.

“Oh my goodness, sorry for rambling!! Uhmmm, can I get your autograph by any chance?”

“Aww, thank you,” you smiled brightly, “and it’s okay! I find it cute how interested you are in my experience and music…”

Your hand reached out to grab the marker from her grasp, your body leaning forward slightly as you signed your name on the photo, resting your weight on the desk before you.

So lost in the moment, you didn’t even realize that the photo you had just signed was one of you and Niki hanging out just outside of Yeouido Park the other night.

It was impossible to hold back the gasp that escaped your throat at the realization, your finger loosing its grip around the marker as your stunned eyes met her knowing ones.

“Look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she chuckled in a facetiously sweet tone, you and her hands fighting over the now autographed-polaroid before your grip overthrew hers.

“Where did you get that—”

“Your secret’s safe with me, alright?” She interrupted with a sharp whisper, “So long as you work on distancing yourself from Niki moving forward…”

You blinked in feigned confusion at her words, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, we’re just colleagues—”

“And he’s an idol,” she cut in again, “idols don’t belong to silly American girls like you… you don’t even belong in our world…”

At this point, you're certain she could see how upset you were with her, and you didn't even care to hide it. “Everyone has welcomed me here, expect for you… and to what gain? I’m here with my band solely for work purposes, and I can assure you there is nothing you have to worry about concerning my professionalism.”

Your strong reply seemed to have rubbed her the wrong way, one of her hands fastening the bag over her shoulder while the other adjusted the glasses sitting at her nose.

“Thank you for your time,” she nearly growled at you, that same phony smile plastered to her lips before she hurriedly walked away, disappearing into the crowd of fans.

You let out a breath that you didn't even know you'd been holding, trying to calm yourself down before anyone noticed the silent commotion that had occurred on your side of the meeting booth.

All you could do was hope that this was the only copy or evidence of you and Niki hanging out that night as you folded the paper into a small square, tucking it under your sleeve in a way that no one would notice.

Above all though, you were just glad that the event was coming to an end soon, a few on-set staff members already helping to put away some stage props, meanwhile Sunoo, Heeseung, and Jade helped themselves to bringing along some gifts from fans.

“Hey... uhm, Heeseung? Can I-”

“Yes, Jade,” Heeseung answered with a giggle, “you can have all of my kitty plush gifts...”

▶︎ ၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊| • • •

The limo ride back to the HYBE building was quiet, the sole thought roaming in the back of your mind being that one fan's cruel words…

…𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘈𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶… 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥...

It wasn’t like you were trying to infiltrate the world of K-pop.

You and your group were simply expanding your collab horizons upon being invited, and it seriously boggled you how anyone would have a problem with that—

“Knock knock,” Niki said with a smile in his voice from behind the door to your private backstage dressing room, waiting for your cue that it was safe for him to come in.

“You can come in, Niki,” you replied softly, standing in front of the body length wall mirror while struggling to fix your hair into a suitable style for the stage practice in a few minutes.

“Hi,” you greeted again once he reached you, watching as his eyes traced your reflection, almost immediately picking up on your nervous demeanor.

“You did great today, ____, y’know that?” He started with a low voice, guiding your stressed hands away from your head and resting them at your sides.

“Niki, I have to get ready—”

“And you already look more than prepared,” he encouraged, securing his hands around your waist before leaving a kiss below your ear, “gorgeous, even...”

“Thanks,” you answered shyly, somehow already feeling a bit better about things now that he was near you.

“So. Are you gonna tell me what’s got you upset or are we gonna make this a guessing game?” He teased, making you chuckle a bit as his attempt to cheer you up.

Your eyes fell to the floor, his grip on you loosening as a little sigh escaped your freshly glossed lips.

“A fan…,” you began quietly, “at the meeting today… she asked me to sign this photo.”

Reaching into your bra, you pulled out the mysterious square photo and watched with a pout as Niki carefully unfolded it from each corner.

“I… I don’t understand…” he stuttered, eyes glazing over the sight of you and him holding hands at the firework show that night.

“I know, it’s my fault that—”

“No…,” he interrupted your words before meeting your guilt-ridden eyes, “I don’t understand why you’re letting this get to you…”

“Excuse me?” You asked with a confused expression, “if something like this gets out, it could ruin both of our careers, y’know?”

“Sure,” he responded nonchalantly with a shrug, “but I couldn’t care less about some jealous sasaeng’s creepy little photo fest… by now, it’s gonna take a lot more than an innocent, harmless photo of us hanging out to make me question our status in this field.”

“You never take anything seriously, Nishimura,” you smiled with a sigh, shaking your head as you watched his fingers tear the photo to pieces.

“Well you’re definitely an exception to that trait of mine,” he smirked, tucking the torn shreds of paper into his back pocket before finding your face in his hands, placing a tender kiss to your left cheek.

“How sweet of you to say,” you whispered softly, grabbing the neckline of his shirt and pulling him closer to your height, “now how about you kiss me properly this time?”

He hummed at your teasing tone, sharp features softening as he tilted his head, sealing the space between you and him with the sweet kiss you’d been waiting for.

“I’ll never get tired of this,” Niki sighed against your lips, his right hand removing the rubber band securing your ponytail so his fingers could roam freely through your curls.

Things were escalating pretty quickly now, both of your breaths sounding more labored with each second as you stumbled backwards onto the desk, his energy leading the kiss as he remained on top of you.

It was almost more than you could handle, his hands roaming at your sides before your eyes barely fluttered open, the sight of his slightly blushed button-nose making you feel like melting on the spot.

Thats when you realized his pink hue was a result of two reasons: (1) The way your hands shyly clung to his shoulders right now, and (2) the shadow of footsteps peeking behind your dressing room door.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Hello? Miss ____, its Kim... Are you decent?”

“Erm, one second!” You responded in an obvious frantic.

Niki helped you get up from the vanity table, kneeling down quickly to hide himself under the it as the stern lady made her way into the room anyway.

“Sorry to intrude,” she began abruptly, not even taking note of your currently disheveled hair and flushed expression, “but I’ve unfortunately been appointed as the bearer of bad news for today…”

“Oh... uhm, w- what is it, is everyone alright?” You asked with a concerned tone, trying to take your mind off the fact that a Niki stained with the glimmer of your peach flavored lipgloss all over his mouth was literally under your desk right now, a mere two feet away from Miss Kim’s leather boots.

“For the most part, yes… but it concerns one of your band mates… Serenity, specifically… Since you are the leader of your group, I found it humble to have at least this much respect to tell you first in private.”

You let out a breath, closing your eyes for a moment before opening them back up, restoring your usually confident aura and making eye contact with the woman.

“Thank you, Miss Kim… I’m listening…”

▶︎ ၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊| • • •

The sounds of shoes rhythmically scuffing, mics going in and out of focus, and layered fits of heavy breathing filled your ears for the next two hours.

Design tech, stage directors, and performers alike were giving it their all to perfect things before the big show coming up.

You paced around the shiny stage, a sweat rag secured lazily around your neck as you and the Enhypen members just got through with rehearsing the main choreo at the performing arena for the first time.

Everyone except Jay and Jade that is, who were still busy with working on their guitar duet for the intro show backstage with the music writers.

“I have no idea how you can still see after being in front of these bright stage lights all the time,” you huffed out tiredly, glancing at Sunoo who only shrugged while taking a few gulps from his grey water bottle.

“I’m not too sure either, but for the lot of us, it’s just something you have to get used to,” he tried warmly before letting himself fall on the ground, limbs spread out like an exhausted snowman as sweat trickled down his forehead.

“Here, lemme show you a little trick I like to use,” Niki offered with a smile while approaching you from behind, his larger frame casting a shadow before you.

“Look down there,” he started, guiding your waist with one hand as he pointed ahead of you with the other, “do you see the tech crew down there?”

You looked to where his finger was pointing, eyes being met with the sight of workers who sat in reclining chairs while others drank some coffee, a few sporadic employees carrying clipboards with stacks of paper, giving out orders to their fellow floor members.

“Yeah, I see them,” you answered, making Niki laugh slightly for reasons you didn’t fully understand.

“That means you’re too close then,” he replied, still holding your waist as he guided you to take a few steps back, which ended up being more steps for you given the leg length differences.

“There’s a rule of thumb that if you can see the audience, they can’t see you… are the lights still bothering you now?”

“Not as much, actually,” you said, turning to face him as he still held you close, everything in your body fighting not to kiss him in this moment given the way he looked back at you, “thanks again…”

“Anytime,” he smirked smuggly, “but uhhh, I think people might be looking at us now—”

“Oh,” you giggled shyly, backing a few inches away from him.

“Ahem,” a nagging voice cleared from beside you two, breaking the wholesome presence of the moment.

“Do you guys think you’re invisible or something?” Serenity asked, crossing her arms while staring the both of you up.

“Uhm…. No?” Niki answered for you, furrowing his eyes at the blue-eyed diva.

“Then why’re you just standing there? You’re blocking my light…”

You let out a scoff at her words, feeling baffled at the thought of how insecure girls like her could have such egotistical tendencies.

“Sorry, Serenity…,” you said half-heartedly, “didn’t mean to disturb your… solo mid-break practice session...”

“Really appreciate it, leader lady,” she replied sarcastically, very intentionally bumping into your shoulder as she walked past you before stopping in her tracks, a loose copy of the stage schedule getting caught under her baby pink sneakers.

She leaned down to pick it up, examining the text before her eyes stumbled over a line of bolded words. All of this was for reasons she didn’t understand, but either way, would soon resent.

“Ugh?!!” She exclaimed with a confused scoff, “HYBE is kicking me from the show??”

Your eyes widened at her words, the furious, confused, and torn look on her face doing nothing but make Niki smirk to himself, “Serenity, I can explain—”

“And you knew about this, didn’t you?” She accused with balled fists, looking between your nervous face and Niki’s shamelessly proud one.

“I just found out today, okay? But Miss Kim specifically instructed me not to say anything about until she revealed it to you herself after practice,” you clarified with a shaky voice.

“Please,” she said with a scoff, “And what’s with the face, Nishimura Nimrod? Huh!? Your little girlfriend told you before she told me, her own band mat—”

“I didnt tell him anything!” You retorted with a slightly raised voice, cracking with nerves you couldn't keep buried anymore.

You never liked being in the hot seat unless you were sitting there with Niki, thanks to his ability to always maintain his cool under pressure...

However, for some reason, even with him next to you right now, you still felt like hurling yourself to the ground.

“You had to have told me him something, so just stop with your insistent lies, ____,” Serenity spat, poking a finger in the center of your chest. Hard.

“You couldn’t wait to get rid of me, its been all over your rotten little face ever since we got here… You’re so jealous of me and it’s honestly depressing at this point…”

Oh Serenity, you thought in your mind, if only you knew this was all brought on by yourself…

You’d had enough of her ignorant speech, holding a fierce eye contact with her while trying to conceal the tears forming behind your eyes.

The sadness growing in your heart…

“None of this was my decision, Ren, so if you have a bone to pick with someone, try taking it up with Miss Kim herself,” you said firmly, walking back a few steps in case she tried touching you again, “I'm sure she'd be more than happy to inform you on her reasons for exiling you from the main activities…”

“What’s going on you guys?” Haerin asked timidly in the midst of the chaos, having just come back from washing up in the restroom.

Serenity practically burned holes in your face with her venomous glare before turning sharply on her heel, footsteps loud and startling as she marched off the stage, murmuring a string of curses under her breath.

“Soooo,” Sunghoon started with a curious accent, “I’m usually not the best at comprehending things, but I’m assuming that whatever just happened was a lot more serious than the usual Riot Grrlz drama, correct?”

“Yeah, what's the big deal ____?,” Jade asked alongside Jake, who gave your shoulder a comforting shake.

You fought with everything in your body to not to let any tears fall...

Because in this moment, it just felt right to cry, but at the same time, was it really worth appearing weak in front of everyone?

Everyone who counted on you to remain strong?

You exhaled with a deep breath, wiping the pricks of moisture from your eyes before speaking, “Serenity won’t be performing with us for the special stage anymore… only the ending song.”

A cacophony of gasps filled the room at your words, Jungwon having picked up the loose schedule copy to analyze it for himself, the bolded words reading:

>> SERENITY TAYLOR Authorized to be PULLED from Furthering Her Performance Activities in Sight of Behavioral Decency Violations Under HYBE's Collaboration and Code of Conduct Standards

“Will she be allowed to attend the award show at least,” Heeseung inquired, not out of empathy, but curiosity as all of this was unfolding pretty fast.

“Perhaps, but for now, we can rest on the thought that we’ll have one less problem while preparing from here on out,” you answered, feeling a large hand take your hand in theirs before giving it a gentle squeeze.

Niki.

“Either way, the show must go on you guys,” he said with a deep voice, the faintest smile being on his face as he looked back at you, dark eyes sparkling with sincerity.

The stage lights flickered from ahead and above you, a key indicator that the radio would be picking up again soon, playing the instrumental to your practice track.

“Mic check everyone and it’s back to rehearsals in five,” yelled out a staff member from below the stage, the ten of you now lining up in formation while adjusting your headsets around your ears.

There was only one thought that remained in your head as the choreographer hopped up center stage to explain how the performance would accommodate for Serenity's sudden absence:

The show must go on.

🎙️For my baby, @microwvdstrawb3rri3s 💕 This is episode 3 for ya ~ Thanks for being so patient with me :3

⛦ TAGS: @squoxle @nikisvanillaccola @yourmomscuntis2tighy @nikimeows @kimjiho1 @nikipedia07 @nishimuradaniel @ashgonedash @laurradoesloveu @caithefly @samhomo @rikikiynikilcykiki @3ngene--frvr @illymontyshit @filmofhybe @whoslug @nikiiitties

🎙️ Feel free to check out more fun reads on the pinned post at my home page ~

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varpusvaras · 1 month ago

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Imagine you're a common criminal in Gotham, okay. Just a regular old goon. Not particularly devoted to any of the rogues or anything, sometimes you just rob a car or somehing on your own. But the times are tough, so you take a job from one of the bigger names. Just a really simple job, standing in guard on one of the rooftop doors. Easy peasy.

Of course you know about the Batman at this point, but hey, he's just one man. One very scary man who could probably kick your ass, but still, just one man, and you have like, ten fellow goons around you. So you're good.

And then you see something land on the roof next to you and do a ridiculously high spinning kick right towards your head and you go oh, that's not the Batman.

As you lie there on the roof, with your ears ringing, you see a tiny little child dressed in the most bright primary colors ever, and what is he doing here? That is a whole child. Where are his parents? Where are his pants?

And then Batman comes, and he says something to the child, and you can't really hear it because your ears are still ringing, but you can see the child smile, real wide and real charming, and you can see the Batman sigh and then call him a dick. And you think oh wow, Batman here really is dragging a kid along with him in the middle of the night, not giving him pants and then insulting him to his face. And you don't have kids of your own, but you do have nieces and nephews, and that's not okay. That's not okay. You can't even be mad at the kid for kicking you, because that's not okay.

And so, Batman becomes your number one enemy. Not because he prevents you from getting paid, but for being mean to a kid.

Over ten years later and you are laying on a roof again, your ears ringing, and you are watching Batman and Nightwing talk, and you watch Nightwing laugh and smile, real wide and real charming, and hey. You know that smile.

Batman sighs.

"Dick", he says.

It's been over ten years, but you have not been able to let it go.

So despite the ringing in your ears and the fact that you got the air punched out of you not too long ago, you push yourself up.

"Don't you talk to him like that", you say, and based on the reactions of both Nightwing and Batman, they most likely thought that you were unconscious, because they're staring at you like deer in the headlights.

"What?" Batman growls, in a way that would be indimitating any other night, but the probable concussion combined with the righteous anger is making you very bold at that moment.

"You heard me", you say. "Don't you talk to him like that. Between the two of you, you are the bigger dick here."

Batman looks...honestly stupified. Nightwing looks at you with his mouth open, and then he starts laughing again. Really laughing. Doubling over laughing.

Batman is starting to look a bit resigned, and you are starting to think that maybe you had missed something.

You get carried of to the hospital, and the next day you get told that all of your medical expenses have been paid off by a generous donation by the Wayne Foundation, in order to prevent criminals from reoffending by erasing their medical debt. Something about that smells, but you are not going to look the gift horse in the mouth. You like Bruce Wayne better than Batman, anyway. He does a lot for the city, and at least he isn't walking around calling his child a dick.

#inspired by the fact that they keep calling each other by their names in the arkham games all the fucking time #you are a gotham thug and just got your ass kicked by nightwing and then you hear batman insult him to his face #dc #dcu #batman #dc robin #nightwing #dick grayson #batfam

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luvelve · 1 year ago

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husband!mingyu who secretly knows that one of your weaknesses is seeing the band of his underwear whenever he stretches. something about seeing CALVIN KLEIN in all bold letters whenever the giant man stretches his limbs. hanging just below his torso, let it be red, black, grey, or just the classic white calvins, it’d be sure to make your stomach flutter.

how else could he have picked up on this not so little obsession of yours when every time his underwear peaks, your cheeks turn a bright pink hue and suddenly you forget what mingyu was talking about just then.

“though we could get 2 vacuums instead, one for upstairs and one for downstairs.” mingyu says after your mind has somehow turned 7 innocent seconds of him stretching into a short calvin klein montage with some flirty doja cat song playing in the background.

“that’d be smarter and easier for us, right?” he adds, fixing the folds of his shirt. you’re now completely unaware that your mouth is hanging slightly open and that your cheeks are now the same color as mingyu’s favorite pink hoodie.

“yeah, uh huh.” you nod your head absentmindedly, now finally shifting your gaze at your husband’s face. this doesn’t go unnoticed by him though.

“okay, so what did i just say, my love?” his tone playful, deciding whether or not he should tell you that he knows why you’re all flushed right now. he turns his body on the couch so he can fully face you.

he scans your face and he recognizes that look on your face. it’s the same flushed look you had when mingyu first kissed you outside your apartment. the same look when he showed up with flowers and your favorite chinese takeout on a random tuesday. the same look when he brought you to his parents’ house and accidentally said he wants to marry you.

after being married to each other for almost 3 years, mingyu finds it endearing that he’s still able to leave you all flustered. whether it be stopping in his tracks to tie your laces, to removing the strand of hair on your face, and even flashing the band of his underwear apparently.

“uh, we’re getting a new vacuum… and we can get those dyson? ones that you’ve been telling me about.” you shoot him a sheepish smile and it takes everything in him to not kiss you right now.

he pauses and flashes you his signature smile. his canines poking out at the side.

“what?” you say, giggling at the giant teddy bear that is smiling at you for a reason unknown to you.

“baby, i know.” he huffs, closing the tiny gap in between the two of you.

“know what?” you reply, raising an eyebrow at him.

being the gentle giant that your husband is, he wants to lay it to you gently so as not to totally embarrass you, but he’s afraid it’s gonna happen either way.

“my love, i know that whenever i stretch, like when i put my hands up like this and my tummy shows? and so does my underwear? baby, i catch you staring.” he trails off after demonstrating to you and he starts giggling and snakes his arms around your waist. your faces are now practically centimeters from each other. there’s only love and adoration in mingyu’s eyes.

“you-what do you? no, i don’t. babe, i don’t even know what you’re talking about.” you bite your lip in attempts to hide the giant smile that’s about to form on your face.

all mingyu can do is laugh and bury his face into the crook of your neck. meanwhile, your insides are burning from the embarrassment that your husband knows your little secret and your cheeks are turning bright red this time around.

“my love, its okay. so what if you find my underwear hot? i mean i find a lot of things about you hot. like when you pump gas into our car. hot. when your hair’s wet and you wrap it in a towel and you take it out from the towel? hot. oh, when you wear my shirts and hoodies. well that’s more of cute, but you get the point. babe, i could go on and on, you know.” he continues to rub circles onto your waist where his hands are resting.

you’re reminded of how loving and gentle your husband is because only he could rub away the embarrassment of finding his briefs hot.

“how long have you known?” you whisper, the bright red stain on your cheeks fading away. holding his chin between your thumb and index finger.

“i don’t know, i guess when we were having lunch this one time at that fancy place near us. that was the first time i caught you. so maybe a month ago?” his gaze is soft with a hint of playfulness.

“well, there goes my secret, i guess.” a pout forms on your face and all mingyu can do is lean in for a kiss. it’s not rushed, it’s the kind that says i love you. you can feel yourself melt into him as he takes one hand from your waist and places it onto your cheek. both of your arms wrap around his neck to pull him even closer than he was before.

“doesn’t mean i’m gonna stop doing it though.” you break away from the kiss momentarily to say to him. you shoot him a naughty look that he’s all too familiar with.

“that’s my girl.” he replies, leaning in for another kiss.

so this was completely self indulgent, and the first thing i’ve written. this was supposed to be like a 200 word blurb MAX but i got carried away :<

anyways, please enjoy <3

#kim mingyu #mingyu #seventeen #svt #mingyu fluff #mingyu x reader #mingyu x y/n #svt fluff #svt x reader #svt x y/n #mingyu imagines #svt imagines #svt au #mingyu au #mingyu scenarios #luvelve’s

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luvh4nji · 1 year ago

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𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐙 + 𝐃𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐊 𝐁𝐎𝐘𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒

warning: general drunkenness, reader is shorter than yeosang and yunho, use of "y/n" if y'all don't like that

seonghwa ; he seems like a quiet drunk. he's the type to space out, staring at nothing in particular while he thinks. and he gets so happy when you notice how quiet he's gotten and come over to sit with him, nearly purring when you run a hand through his hair and ask him what he's thinking about.

"just you." he replies, watching you with an almost reverent gaze. "well, a lot of things, really, but mostly you." he continues, a light blush coating his features. and he doesn't really have the energy to talk, so he just asks how your night's going, listening to ramble with an impossibly soft look on his face.

hongjoong ; he seems like the type to be an emotional drunk. he just starts thinking a lot when he gets some drink in him; thinking about ateez, about how much he's been through and how hard he's worked to get where he is. and about you. how you've been with him through everything, been his rock through all the tough times he's had over the years.

"you're just so... good." he mumbles, his hands cupping your cheeks, keeping you still and close to him so he can really look at you, as if he's trying to relay all his feelings for you through his gaze. "i couldn't have done it without you, baby. i hope you know that."

yunho ; he seems like a flirty drunk. he's the type to tower over you with his tall frame, letting his broad shoulders box you into the couch of your apartment. he wants to make you flush, to be the reason you're flustered. honestly, you'd have to physically push him away before he runs out of energy and passes out.

"you're so pretty, honey." he mumbles, almost reverently, if it wasn't for the grease that colored his tone. "can't believe i got so lucky, havin' someone like you." and all you can really do is listen to his flirting devolve into affectionate rambles about how much he loves you.

yeosang ; he's a giggly drunk. everything just becomes so funny to him when he gets some drink in him. and he's not necessarily loud either, he just giggles, holding his hand in front of his mouth, eyes pressed up into crescents from how hard he's smiling.

"you're just so cute," he tells you between little laughs, looking down at you from where you stood in front of him, tugging on the sleeve of his shirt, trying to convince him to go home. "how am i supposed to t-take you seriously, babe?" but he just lets you drag him along, giggling through his hand the whole time, his cheeks red and achy from how much he'd been smiling.

san ; he seems like the type to get clingy. he'd hold you in his arms, tight enough so you can't move anywhere without him tagging along with you. and when you try to shake him off, try to pry yourself away from him, telling him you need to go to the bathroom, he starts complaining and holding onto you tighter.

"i don't care that you have to go the bathroom, y/nnie." he whines, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck and pressing sloppy kisses along the skin. "i can just go with you, baby, no problem. i don't understand why you wanna get away from me so bad." and he looks up at you, pouting and giving you a pleading look until you decide he's had enough and it's time to go home.

mingi ; clumsy! he's already an extremely clumsy man, but it gets so much worse when he's drunk. his head's swimming and his legs are shaking as he tries to walk around your apartment, stumbling every few steps until you decide to step in and wrap an arm around him, helping him keep himself up. and he's not completely aware of his situation and a little delusional generally, so he thinks you're just trying to flirt with him.

"woah, y/n," he starts, wrapping an arm around your shoulders so he doesn't fall. he'd look at you with shining eyes and a bright smile. "i didn't know you could be so... so bold. if... if you wanted... to hold me you could've... just said." he tells you through slurred sentences, laughing at his own joke.

wooyoung ; you already know he's the loudest, most extraverted drunk there is. he's walking around, making friends with everyone in his line of sight, giving out his entire life story in an entirely too loud voice. however, you are a part of that life story. all he can do is brag about how pretty his baby is, how lucky he is to have someone like you in his life. especially when you walk over, wrapping an arm around his waist as he wraps his own around your shoulders, trying to keep him steady.

"h-hey, here they are. this is—this is my y/n." he'd tell whoever was present, pointing at you with a shaky hand and turning his gaze over at you with a lovestruck look in his eyes. "they... they're the best, let me tell you. no one can compare to my baby." he rambles between heavy sighs and hiccups to anyone who'll listen until you decide to take him home.

jongho ; he's definitely not a lightweight. it would take a lot of drinking to get him drunk and, even then, he doesn't let himself get to the point where he thinks it's irresponsible. he likes to be aware of and in charge of what's going on around him, but you can still tell when he's feeling a little more tipsy than usual by the way he laughs at everything, cute little giggles that ring in the air and make your heart flutter in your chest.

"c'mon, babe, you don't need to be drinking that much." he'd coo, taking the shot glass from your hand and setting it just out of reach, laughing when you lean over and press yourself into his side, half-heartedly telling him how mean he is. "i know, honey, i know. i'm the meanest guy around." he giggles, head only swimming a little bit as he leans down to press a kiss to the crown of your head.

#ateez #atz #ateez imagines #atz imagines #ateez reactions #atz reactions #ateez headcanons #atz headcanons #ateez fluff #atz fluff #choi san #kang yeosang #choi jongho #jung wooyoungs #song mingi #jeong yunho #kim hongjoong #park seonghwa

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dreemurr-skelememer · 2 months ago

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Hello :D

I have been following you for the last year or so (a few days after I got my Tumblr lmao) and I absolutely love your art!

I have been wanting to study your art style for a while but don't really know where to start,,,

Could you please show me a small portion of your art process, if it isn't too much trouble of course. Thank you and have a nice day!

hello. oh my god. this took forever to find.

im sorry it took 2 WHOLE FUCKING MONTHS for me to respond to this but i wanted to put it off until i felt happy with my art process again, so here it is

my fall 2024 rendering tutorial!

(this will be very very long)

FLATS AND WHATEVER YOU WANNA DO WITH LINES GIRL. then make sure to recolor the lineart to better match your base. trust me it helps, bold dark lines are Not your best friend when rendering. wait for that post-rendering

i start off with a doodle or a sketch, and then filling it in with flats and other details such as blush

FIGURE OUT YOUR LIGHT SOURCE. FIGURE IT OUT GIRL YOU CAN DO IT you can make it as simple as possible, make it as big as possible, dont even THINK about the details.........just make it really fucking big so you at least know where the shadows and the light goes THEN add smaller shading details LISTEN TO ME. LISTEN TO ME OKAY!!!!!!!!

my key point with this is for you to learn lighting fundamentals.

it's SOOO ANNOYING but alas......they are all correct. it helps a lot.

one thing i also really want to point out is that i like creating a big shadow shape first before fixing up the little details (such as folds and whatever) because it helps me focus on the way the lighting actually works instead of tunnel vision-ing into making the shading make sense on the clothing.

contact shadows (i dont remember if thats what theyre called okay) theyre fucking ugly because im not actually thinking sorry 💔

okay so basically:

contact shadows (if that's what they're called) are the spots in shading and lighting where light will NEVER hit.

shadows are still influenced by the colors and lights around it (it's why a blue shadow and a yellow shadow feel completely different, despite both being shadows) so it's not always COMPLETELY dark.

BUT! there are small points in shadows where light never hits, and they're almost always super dark or pitch black.

it's hard to explain shadow and light so briefly for a tutorial, but you'll notice it when watching fundamental studies and when trying it out for yourself

YES i unclipped the multiply layer YES its ugly and terrifying but it makes coloring the multiply layer easier okay the colors merged w multiply so now it looks cool and has depth overlaying colors that actually make sense

so basically what i did was color the multiply layer that i used to shade the overall drawing

adding a band of red/orange/yellow around where the light hits, and blue where the shadows get big and wide, gives it a fake ambient occlusion effect in the way that a person would get if they stood under the sun with a clear blue sky

the colors don't have to make sense, especially because i never draw backgrounds, but coloring the shadows really help it give a sense of depth and extra subtle detail and effect that just helps make the painting look nicer

around the end, i also put in colors (in an overlay layer with a low opacity brush) that actually make sense in context of the drawing, which is the lit cigarette and the yellow eyelights

mostly because none of the colors were making sense and i needed to actually make use of the lighting that DOES exist in the drawing lol

adding a muddy golden yellow pin light layer (opacity turned down to like 40-50%) to make the light colors less ugly lol

i SWEAR by the fucking pin light layer style. it's so useful and so so underrated.

i used an almost brown-ish gold color on stop of all the layers, and with the pin light layer, it helped make the bright (almost blue-ish) white colors more warm and more yellow. it just helps make things more warm (something i prefer)

i could probably show what it looks like without adjusting the layer opacity to truly show off what i mean (like in the coming section) but i sadly forgot to do that lol

make a layer on top of your drawing with this color in these ranges YES the drawing is fully merged NO don't be afraid, the base was fucking ugly anyway 💔 make this layer into an exclude/exclusion layer style TRUST turn down your exclusion layer opacity from a range of 10% to 40% literally until you're happy with the contrast and the way the color over the drawing. use your eyeballs. i know you can do it im so proud of you

this is pretty self-explanatory instruction-wise, so i'll go into why i do this instead

i really like art that seems like it has low contrast, with almost mid-gray shading and lines. i don't personally use dark and bold lines and shading, unless i find it necessary for the tone of the piece, so using this method helps lower the contrast of the art and make it look "pleasantly muddy" in the way that it's easier and softer on the eyes.

the inverted blue color also helps makes things warmer!

the exclusion layer style is still a bit of a mystery to me but i really like the effect it gives, even if i don't completely get how it works lol

if you want an alternative method to this, and if you have access to it (because i primarily use sai and sai only),

i absolutely encourage you to play around and experiment with gradient maps.

there are so many out there you can make yourself or even get from others that just give the painting an extra amount of depth and color variation. they're SO fun.

personally, if sai2 gets a gradient map update, it's over for y'all it will literally be so over no one will be able to stop me

then i merged everything and actually adjusted the contrast back up because it was looking too muddy for me 💔 but the color adjustments are still there so all hope is not lost here's a comparison of the adjusted contrast in black and white (adjusted on the left) (newly merged layer without adjusting the contrast on the right)

as you can see, i actually turned the contrast back up (despite talking all about how i liked things with less contrast lol)

i wanted to demonstrate that doing adjustments should be done in moderation, and is why i adjust layer opacity often when making color effects

you are free to play around with colors to help your style, but don't lose your initial idea and colors along the way.

you still need to trust your own colors and intuition!

along with that, i just want to say that it's completely okay to change your mind mid-painting, and it's okay to make somewhat drastic changes.

don't be afraid to change things you don't like or change your mind about certain aspects way later on

that's basically the whole thing of this!!! don't be scared!!!

now im gonna hold your hand when i say this..........but you need to learn how to render by yourself. it seems like i can teach you but i literally can't, because rendering is different on every piece and depending on how clean your base is. i have to render A LOT because of how fucking ugly my sketches are LMAO to simplify it, think of it as obsessively cleaning up every detail you can see, but with a color picker and a clean, hard edged brush. if you have shit lineart, you don't have to redraw it cleanly over and over, just paint over it. that's basically what rendering is

THIS especially is where you need to be brave and stop being scared.

like i said, i can't teach you how to render, and it's something you have to discover yourself because rendering is something that will always be personal to every single piece you make. the way you render on every piece is different.

on one piece, you will barely need to render, and on another, rendering is more than half of your ENTIRE process.

don't be afraid to paint over your old art.

rendering is a process that's both very perfectionist yet also very careless.

find your balance and just go for it.

and then that's it……..u did it………..now yuo know how to paint and render. it's literally just layering shading and lighting knowledge until you think it makes sense and looks okay lol additional note: since i render in only one layer (you don't HAVE to do this, but it'll be harder for you…), i also made slight adjustments with the transform (and liquify, if you have it) tool to make things more proportionate. (i drew the head too big lol)

if you compare the finished piece to the final unrendered base, you can see that a LOT changed, including a bit of subtle proportion adjustment.

particularly, the sleeves changed A LOT (because i really didn't like them)

but it's also over all cleaner and more coherent, instead of having haphazard colors and shading just thrown about.

rendering is when you finally use all 100% of your brain to finalize and figure out where the shading should go, where to clean up your lines, where to ERASE or ADD BACK in lines, and make sure all your colors look coherent.

it's not as intimidating as it seems, i only use a hard edged brush with a little bit of color mixing and my color picker.

it's like dragging and dropping colors to cover up mistakes, it's really quite fun when you get used to it

i wish i could explain it clearer but it's hard to describe without visuals!

i hope this helped, and i hope all my yapping isn't annoying (art as a special interest beloved)

have fun studying and trying to render in my art style!

#long post #art tutorial #rendering tutorial #art help #art tips #tutorial #kia doodles shit #artxstic-scr1bbles #tutoriel

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superblysubpar · 4 months ago

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<- part six | part eight -> | series masterlist

chapter summary: No more bets.

the song: Read Your Mind by Sabrina Carpenter

also for your listening pleasure: Girl Can't Help It by Journey, Open Your Heart by Madonna, U Got The Look by Prince, and The Lady in Red by Chris de Burgh

5,328 words | please see masterlist for gen warnings / brief descriptions of scars-previous head injury / SPICE/SMUT - really just some dirty talk and a teensiet tiniest start to oral (reader receiving) | my blog is 18+

Hawkins, Indiana - the past

His hand was in yours, and then it wasn’t.

“Well, well, well,” a voice sneered in front of you as you blinked at the boy who just dropped your hand at the sound of it. “What do we have here, Stevie?”

A group of boys around your age leaned against a falling apart fence just outside of the ride, eyes surveying you up and down, then looking at Steve Harrington standing next to you. The leader of the pack a face full of freckles and a grin that made your stomach unsettled when he pointed it at you and took a step forward.

“I’m Tommy, and you,” he grinned wider, like if he showed off more teeth, he’d placate you into thinking you enjoyed his company, “Well, you must be new to Hawkins. Think I’d remember a face like yours.”

“Knock it off Hagan,” Steve grit out of his teeth, a fist clenched at his side.

“I’m…I’ll…” you stuttered out at the boy named Tommy, backing away and looking at Steve as you did. “It was…I’ll see you around?”

You scrambled away from the boys as Steve took a step towards you, but Tommy’s voice rang out, making his head turn.

“Does Harrington have a little girlfriend? Gonna share all the juicy details with us, Stevie?”

“What? No!” He answered too quickly, cheeks pink, no longer looking at you. “She’s just some stupid girl, I got stuck with her on the ferris wheel…”

You didn’t stick around to hear more, swiping at your wet cheeks with the back of your hand.

Glittery green and gold smeared across it, freshly smudgable after Steve Harrington held your hand until it was over.

A house on Cornwallis Street - Sunday

Your hands shifted on the steering wheel, even though the car was in park. Clammy and shaking as you rubbed them on your denim shorts and took a deep breath. With your window rolled down you couldn’t help but smile at the sound of Journey coming from the backyard, the large splash that followed the shout of ‘Don’t you dare Henderson!’. Peals of laughter and the distinct smell of something grilling only added to elements encouraging you to join them.

But you were still sitting in your car.

You didn’t question it, when after the party last night, Eddie didn’t drive you home, but to the shop, dangling your keys in front of a shocked face as he proclaimed it was finally fixed.

“But…I didn’t pay you, I thought you couldn’t…”

Eddie had waved you off and smiled, “I’ve been working a lot.” He dropped the keys in your lap and grinned wider, “Besides, Harringon’ll be paying me three hundred bucks tomorrow.”

You looked down at your thighs, thinking about who’s hands had just been pushing them apart a few minutes ago as Eddie quietly probed, “Right?”

“Of course.” You nodded, telling yourself that technically you and Eddie had won the bet.

Nobody had slept with anyone.

Which is what you tell yourself again as you take another deep, bravery seeking breath and step out of your car.

Each step on the sidewalk then up the driveway is a little easier, your chest feeling a little lighter as the laughter and music only gets louder.

But then you see the sign.

The same color of the suit you have in your bag.

The same color he told you he can’t concentrate when you wear it.

Bright, bold, outlining four white letters.

SOLD.

You’re still looking at it when the door swings open, Robin greeting you, dripping wet from the pool and a slice of watermelon in her hand.

“Finally! I’m outnumbered, and Max is too busy canoodling with Lucas and I need more girl power!”

She grabs your arm and pulls you into the Harrington’s foyer as a louder call of, “I told you, as soon as Lucas apologizes for what he did-“

“And I told you, that I cannot apologize for something if I don’t know what I’m apologizing for!”

The pair walk out of a room on one side of the foyer as they argue, Max mumbling under her breath as they exit your sights and into the den.

“You know exactly what you did.”

Robin rolls her eyes and points up the stairs, “This downstairs bathroom is all packed up and,” she makes quotes with her fingers around the watermelon as she recites, “ ‘It’s cleaned and if any of you idiots fuck it up, you’re dead’ , but there’s one by Steve’s room, change and come help me seek vengeance on the boys!”

She’s gone as fast as she arrived, the silence of the house now overpowering, but at least it gives you space to take a moment to breathe and collect your thoughts.

Steve’s moving.

Why didn’t he tell you?

Your fingers glide on the wood banister as you climb the stairs, something sitting heavy in your gut from the more important question that’s gnawing at you.

Why does it matter that he didn’t?

Once you find the bathroom, your fingers tug on red nylon and strings. The suit you rummaged around for in your drawer this morning pointing out the glaringly obvious answer. It matters he didn’t tell you because-

It was a good suit, that was the only reason why it was picked for today.

Not because of where you were wearing it.

Not because of the boy who lived there.

Because he definitely still does live there, at least for the time being.

It’s easy to spot his room when you exit the bathroom, bare feet padding across hard woods as you tug the hem of your white tshirt over your hips a little lower. Worried you shouldn’t be walking around the house so uncovered despite the fact that you’re about to be even more so outside in the pool, when you catch your reflection in the mirror above his dresser.

The room is in shambles, half packed you assume. Boxes open, and only half filled, litter the floor, the white plaid wallpapered walls bare, whatever hung on the nails left behind now packed away. Your fingers linger on the top of the dresser, thumb catching on his watch, a Polaroid of him and Robin, the worn brown leather of his wallet. A tight squeeze pulls at something in your chest when the slip of paper with the name ‘Brit’ and a heart shifts beneath it.

You can’t help but wonder if he called that number that night like he said he would.

Wonder if he took her out to a movie, held her hand, let everyone know that Steve Harrington was on a date with her.

Your bag drops on his bed that’s unmade with sheets that match the walls as you wonder if she was here too. As you wonder how many other girls have been in this room, this bed.

A loud shout outside, just below his window makes you jump, pulling you out of the spiral of doubt you’ve fallen into and down the stairs.

The cream carpet is plush beneath your bare feet, the framed photos are gone, the desk as well, so nothing stands between you and the sliding glass doors out to the pool.

It’s a different view than the last time you were here. The bright turquoise littered with even brighter inflatables and swimsuits. It’s warm, it’s light, it’s loud, as bodies splash in it and compete with the radio playing top hits for the loudest thing. Eddie’s shaking his curls out back and forth all over Robin who’s shrieking and running past him.

The thought of stepping outside and arriving late has you turning into the kitchen, searching for something your hands can fiddle with before joining the party.

Which is how Steve Harrington’s lungs finally give out, and he dies.

He knows he’s not actually dying, but he’s sure that the process has to feel eerily similar to this.

He rounded the corner to find his fridge door opened, the glow of the interior light silhouetting around your curves hidden under a white shirt making his breath stutter in his chest. And as you bend at the waist, red fabric cut high and only climbing higher, reveals the perfect swell of your ass and his lungs fail to function, like one’s collapsing because he’s been shot, or he’s taking on water and they don’t know to expel the air anymore.

“Jesus Christ.”

It slips out of him much like the yelp the words startle out of you, the shoot up of your body involuntary, causing your head to smack into the top of the fridge and a litany of curses to tumble out of your lips.

Steve rushes over as you hold your head and spin, blinking and looking dizzy.

“Shit, shit, sorry.” He’s across the room in seconds, hands cupping your cheeks and tilting you gently while his eyes focus on your forehead, inspecting. He frowns and moves to the left slightly, towards the sink, though he leaves one of his hands in contact with your skin.

The furrow of his brow deepens as he dampens a towel and you try to breathe out of your nose and in with your mouth so you don’t focus on how his normal smell is stronger with his shirt off and mixed with sunscreen and chlorine that clings to his skin. Skin that shines with a sheen from each, that’s somehow not gross, but tantalizing. So much of that skin on display revealing more freckles than you can fathom counting. Skin that looks more tan from the dark chest hair curled against it or the swim trunks that sit low on his hips.

Steve looks at you with raised eyebrows and you realize he’s asked a question and you absolutely didn’t hear it.

“Um,” you swallow, your tongue taking up too much room in your mouth, “Wh-what?”

Steve’s lips twitch as he stands fully in front of you again, damp cloth raised as he whispers, “Something distracting you, honey?”

Your throat has something stuck in it, and no amount of clearing it seems to fix the problem. You focus on the freckle just to the left of his lips instead of his smug eyes as you admit, “Can’t concentrate when you wear that color.”

The reward of his low laugh and smile has you wondering if someone hand sculpted his lips and cupid’s bow.

“I’ll be sure to wear it every chance I get just to torture you then,” he murmurs while fingers adjust your chin into the light. Your back rests against the center island, legs sandwiched between his spread ones so he can raise the cloth to your skin, apologizing with his eyes as he tacks on, “Only fair, since you woke up and decided evil today.”

The damp material of his swim trunks sends a shiver up your spine when it hits your thighs, and your hands grab his waist in a wince when the cloth makes contact with your still fairly fresh head wound. You’re in a staring contest with a gold chain around his neck as you fib, “This is the only swimsuit I own. Just happens to be red.”

Steve finishes with your forehead, but two fingers curl under your chin and lift so you have to look at him as he speaks through a smirk.

“You’re pretty cute when you lie.”

“Come on Steve,” you whisper, fingers curling into his hips without thought, “You’re better than cheesy lines and rookie moves like this. Besides, the bet’s over. We can go back to hating each other now.”

He shakes his head, nose bumping yours as he does and he exhales, “Never hated you.”

Your swallow is loud as he leans closer, one hand on your hip and fingers playing with the so to speak fire of the strings holding your suit together as you offer, “Despised?”

Another shake of his head, another step closer so your lower halves are pressed together and your eyelashes are fluttering. Your head falls back with a gasp as his mouth trails along your jaw, hot breath and wet lips against it as you stutter out, “De-detest?”

He responds into your skin, just below your ear, something that sounds like the word, “Never.”

His name leaves you breathlessly as his tongue lightly licks down the side of your neck, lips following in a delicate brush.

“Steve-”

He hums into your collar, nose dragging around the curve of it while your hands grip his sides. “Stop saying my name like that honey, or I’m gonna get down on my knees and make you say it much,” he nips at your earlobe, “Much, louder.”

The space between your legs throbs, thighs push even tighter together at the thought of Steve’s mouth there.

“Steve,” you scold, cheeks warm, body even more so in all the places it touches his.

“Baby,” he groans, nose knocking your cheek, “What did I just say?”

He starts to lower himself, hands drifting so too, on the outside of your thighs. Brushing bare skin and aching to push it further, cup your ass and roll your hips against his. Especially when your fingers hold his jaw in place so he has to look at you. Only slightly distracted by how kissable your lips are as they say, “You’re moving.”

Steve shakes his head no and you laugh again and he wonders how many more times he can make that sound come out of you.

“Harrington, there’s literally a sold sign in your front yard.”

He leans in closer, unable to resist the chance to taste your lips again, to feel their lingering sting against them all day. He’s got this insane thought that he wishes you were wearing lipstick, so it could be smeared against him, marking up his mouth and neck, shit, even his dick, so everyone knows he’s yours, it’s yours.

“You worried I’m gonna be too far away?” He somehow manages to ask through the fog of images of your lips surrounding his cock, big eyes blinking at him as you-

“I’m actually worried it isn’t far enough,” you swallow around the tight feeling in your chest.

His forehead knocks yours, hands squeeze your waist and then climb higher on your curves as he tsks, “Even cuter. You gotta quit lying baby.” But he relents some of the upperhand, the thought of you being worried about him leaving making him admit, “I’m crashing at Robin’s for a bit. And we’re trying to save up for a place together.”

“Oh,” you nod, distracted by the way his nose traces the bridge of yours, how his eyelashes flutter and the freckles on his cheeks stand out more from a morning in the sun as he does. “Th-that’s good.”

“Yeah?” The corner of his lips rising in a smile making them brush yours.

“Mhm,” you hum, “So you can take Brit on that date still.”

“Who?” He blinks, cheeks turning pink as your fingers scrape up his stomach and through his chest hair.

“Brit,” your eyebrows raise, “Smells like peaches, and giggles and dots her eyes with hearts? The picture perfect girl to take out around town and proudly hold hands with?”

“Again,” Steve leans the few centimeters closer, whispering against your lips, “Who?”

You push at his chest, as much as it pains you to do so, needing the distance from the intoxicating mouth that smells like mint and lemonade. But

Steve remains strong in his position, fingers curl around your ear and hold your neck in place gently as he speaks like each word might spook you into running.

“I’m staying in Hawkins. I have no idea who you’re talking about. The bet is over. Can you stop being so stubborn and let me kiss you like I’ve been wanting to since we were twelve?”

Your heart rumbles low and slow, like thunder rolling in, it cracks in your chest like lightening hit it. Every ounce of your body is buzzing, like the strike tore your body in two. One part that can’t believe you’re hearing him say it and another that wants to run even though you know it doesn’t strike the same place twice. The fear of being caught in the storm with no way out has you stalling.

“Ask me nicely.”

Steve laughs, and you wonder how you never noticed how much you like making that sound bubble out of him.

Or how much you like the way he licks his lips before he says something important.

“Please,” he murmurs against your mouth, “Can I kiss you?”

Your lips part the same time a shriek calls from the den, “Steve! The food is burning!”

He curses under his breath, hand grabbing yours as he pulls you through the kitchen and into the den.

His frown only grows as the smell of burning food does when the two of you exit the sliding door. He tugs you with him across the warm pavement of the patio, the cool summer breeze has goosebumps arriving on your legs as he shouts at the curly haired boy fanning a smoking grill.

“Henderson! You had one fucking job, man! These aren’t just burning they’re-“

“Scorched,” Lucas supplies around a cough, smacking the air with his hat.

“Torched,” Mike pipes up, squinting and pinching his nose closed.

“Dead,” El delivers morosely.

Will snorts and covers his mouth and Max mutters under her breath, “Imbeciles.”

But then she’s smiling at you.

Then they’re all smiling at you, even Eddie and Robin who stand just beyond them, staring at Steve and yours intertwined hands.

The attention on it makes your hand feel too heavy in his and you go to slip it out, but Steve only squeezes it tighter, waving his other at them, “Take a picture, it’ll last longer. Now get lost, or I’m not making more and you can eat these disgusting things.”

The “kids” take off and Steve turns to you, thumb swiping over the back of your hand, cheeks pink and swallowing loudly. “Um, about my really nicely asked question that was rudely-“

“Yes.”

The just as interrupted response stuns him as much as it does you. But when he smiles, and takes your cheeks in both of his hands, and leans in slowly, you’re sure the answer was the right one, the storm clouds dissipate, the threat of another crack gone.

This kiss, is like rain.

The good kind of rain. Slow. Steady. Steve’s lips capture yours sure, calmly, breathing out just as the pair of his mold around your top one. He holds them through an exhale against your cheek as your hands fall to his chest naturally. You can feel the thud of his heart beneath your palm as his mouth parts to do it again, deeper, stronger. Each beat against your skin the rain hitting a window until it’s so natural, so steady, it’s a simple background noise.

It’s only when loud whoops and whistles break the calm that you hear yours in your ears and feel his heart again, the calm disrupted. Your cheeks warm beneath his palms as he kisses you again, a chaste and over too quick peck around a smile.

That pesky thing is still stuck in your throat, suddenly unsure how limbs and words and human things work anymore. You stumble a step back and trip on a pool noodle when your stomach flutters with a swarm of butterflies intent on trying to escape. He catches your waist before you fall as you gesture to the water, “Alright, well, that pool’s not gonna swim in itself.”

Steve smiles, but he narrows his eyes, squeezing at the outside of your thighs, “Honey, I thought we were done being mean to each other.”

Your eyes blink at him, confused, butterflies constructing a roller-coaster in your stomach now as well, as you ask, “How is me swimming being mean?”

“Kissing me like that then parading around in a little red bikini?” He swallows as his fingers play with the strings of said suit, whispering, “Mean. Incorrigible, baby.”

This feels surreal, his hands on you, calling you baby while your friends are only a few feet away and absolutely watching. Even more so when you whisper, “Big brain word.”

Steve taps your chin, lifting it as he asks, “What’s my prize?”

Looking into Steve’s, Buttercup’s description of Westley’s eyes being like the sea after a storm can’t help but float through your mind. But Steve’s are a lot more like the forest after one. Wet and darkened earth soaking up all it was just given, richer in color and waiting to be explored.

“What do you want?”

Steve grins, his mouth parts, but then you’re both being drenched with water, two buckets dumped over your heads as you shout in protest against the cold.

Robin and Max yell something about the fire in the kitchen being too hot and they needed to put it out as they run away from you both with laughter.

You peel off the white shirt that clings to your body now as you mumble something about payback. Steve groans at the reveal of your body in only the suit. It’s easy to look over your shoulder as you walk away from him and ask, “Tell me later?”

Even easier to shove a grinning Eddie towards the pool as you walk past and mumble, “Shut up.”

He grips at your shoulder as he flails, pulling you in with him, your double splash drowning out your shriek and the beginning of Madonna’s Open Your Heart booming out of the stereo.

When you resurface, swiping water from your eyes and laughing, you turn to find Steve again and aren’t surprised when he’s already looking at you. Your arms rest on the ledge when you swim up to the side and mock his voice, calling up to him.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer!”

He sticks his tongue out at you as you laugh and swim away, but he can’t help but wonder where he packed his Polaroid, and if he can get you alone long enough to snap several his eyes only photos.

He’s still thinking it, later, as the sun inches closer to the other side of the sky, and you’re relaxed on a lounger next to Robin.

Eyes hidden from him behind sunglasses, hands resting on your stomach, brushing back and forth over your skin as you roll your neck.

Prince’s U Got The Look fills the now much quieter backyard, the kids all having disappeared under the excuse of getting movie snacks and a video rental from Keith an hour ago. Robin’s voice interrupts the lyrics with, “How much you wanna bet they’re at the arcade and they aren’t coming back with the snacks?”

You groan and sit up, “No more bets. But,” a sigh leaves you, “Yeah. I’ll go order a pizza? Steve’s got a billion contraband rental’s downstairs too. I’m sure there’s something halfway decent in there.”

“Ha-ha,” he says dryly, watching you stretch has him sinking lower in the pool so only his eyes show. He squeezes them shut when your top slips just a smidge higher as your arms raise, the curve of each breast peeking out from the bottom and giving him a heart attack.

He’s certain that’s exactly what’s happening when he opens them to find you slipping your white shirt on. Only it’s not your white shirt.

It’s his.

Steve watches the collar linger on your nose, then slip over your chin as you smile at him and hook your thumb over your shoulder, “I’m - phone…pizza.” Stumbling over your words and shuffling towards the house quickly.

He waits exactly sixty seconds before he’s swimming towards the ladder and climbing out. Eddie’s voice taunts from the tube he’s floating in, with his arms behind his head, even with closed eyes he looks smug, “And where are you going?”

“To…help. With the calling for pizza.” He towels off quickly, Robin snorts and Eddie makes a booing sound.

Robin calls from her lounger, “Don’t say we never did anything for you, Dingus!”

Steve slides the glass door on their snickering, the house quiet and much cooler than the Summer outside. He glances in the kitchen, the hallway, searching for you, when he hears a creak upstairs.

He finds you in his room, in his shirt still, sunglasses pushed onto the top of your head as you sift through a bag and pull out a pair of denim shorts.

“Hi,” he whispers, when you look up at him.

“Hey,” you smile, voice quiet too, “Why are we whispering?”

“I-“ he starts quiet and clears his throat, returning to a normal volume, “I don’t know. Guess I thought if I spoke too loud I might wake up from this great dream.”

The grin spreads on your lips and you shake your head, “Wow. That’s bad, even for you, Steve.”

He takes a few steps towards you as you continue to shake your head with a smile, only stopping when he asks, “Say my name again? Please?”

Steve takes the shorts from your hands, dropping them on the ground as you murmur, gently, “Steve.”

His tongue darts over his bottom lip before he says, “Can I tell you what I want for a prize now?”

You’re only able to manage a small, “Mhm,” between pressed together lips as your hands sweat and your stomach burns, and your chest constricts while his fingers toy with the strings of your swimsuit bottoms.

He kisses you, slowly, licking out over the seam of your lips until you open for him. His hands guide you backwards gently until he’s climbing over your body on his bed and Prince’s voice fades into Chris de Burgh’s.

His body presses against yours, weight heavy and making your eyelids flutter as his hand cups your cheek, then traces your shoulder, the curve of your breast down to your hip. Your stomach burns with want, fingers dig into his hair as he releases your lips and kisses your chin, your chest through his shirt. He only travels lower, pushing it up and kissing your stomach, along the seam of your suit. Your legs rise on either side of his head, fingers leaving his hair to curl into his sheets that surround you and fill the space with a cedar and mint haze.

“St-steve,” you hiccup as he nips at the inside of your thigh.

He moans, palms pressing you open wider, mouth leaving a wet and hot trail of kisses and breaths up each leg. This wasn’t the plan, he wanted to take it slow, but he can’t help it anymore. He speaks into your stomach, kissing your skin between every few words.

“Baby, please, can I taste you?” His fingers tug on the strings of your suit and his vision blurs when you make a sound that sounds like a whine and roll your hips, searching. He’s gone fully blind as you tug on his hair again, drunk off of you without a single taste.

“Yeah? Gonna let me put my mouth on you?” He noses at your cunt through the suit, dragging it up against the fabric, babbling anything that comes to his mind without a filter. “That what you want, honey? To come all over my tongue?”

Your palms press to the bed as you sit up, fingers tugging at the mess of brown waves between your thighs when his tongue licks over your suit.

Your mouth parts in a gasp, eyes fluttering from the barely there friction, the minimal release of the tension you’ve felt since the kitchen downstairs hours ago.

Steve looks up at the sound and nearly comes in his shorts, the image of your dazed eyes and pouting lips, the heave of your chest under his shirt having him really thinking about where his camera is again.

“Oh,” his voice falls into a teasing lilt, playing with his food before he eats it, “Look at you. You’re already fucked dumb and I haven’t done a thing.”

Your body is engulfed in flames at the taunting words, somehow turned on and irritated in the same sentence.

A Steve Harrington special skill, you think.

He curses the words almost immediately after they leave him, thinking he’s pushed it too far too fast but then you’re saying his name like that again, saying the word please so softly, so sincerely, his vision goes white and scratchy like the tape of all of his abilities to think clearly was just ejected from his brain.

Steve sits up with a groan, backing away from the bed with the shake of his head.

“You’re trouble,” he rasps, breathing heavily from across the room, back against his dresser.

“What’s wrong?” The mood shift jarring and making your legs close, your arms cross over your chest in a hug, wondering what you did.

“This,” he says then immediately waves his hands, “No, not like that! I-“ he cuts himself off with another groan, a hand swipes through his hair only making it messier. You clench around nothing at the wild hair, the pink cheeks, the dark chest hair and tan skin as he paces.

“I wanna-“ he starts.

“Harrington! Quit making out up there and bring down some of what I gave you! I’m tapped and the pizza guy’s here.”

Steve curses and he spins on his dresser, grabbing his wallet.

His wallet.

Bring down some of what I gave you.

His shoulders hunch as he swears again, “Those…brats. I swear to god I’m gonna kill them.”

He spins to find you yanking your shorts on, muttering, “I cannot believe I fucking fell for this.”

“Fell for…what are you talking about?” Steve steps closer and you back up quickly, waving your hand at him.

“Save it.”

He watches you storm out of the room, confused, and then looks down at the wallet and quickly rushes out after you, “No, no, no, honey it’s not-“

“Don’t,” you spin on the stairs, voice icy, “Call me honey.”

Steve takes another step down, pleading with his eyes as Eddie, Robin, and a stranger stand in the foyer, blinking up at the two of you. “Eddie didn’t give me money for that. He…” his hand swipes through his hair again, tongue over his lip as he lowers his voice, “Can we please go somewhere else to talk about this?”

Your arms cross and Steve sighs.

“He gave me money…for a different bet. Sort of bet. Bet is a bad word for it.”

Something rumbles in your chest once more, though no storm was forecasted, you should have known there was bound to be more.

Steve’s lips pout as he waves his hand while explaining in a ramble, “After the bet started, I told them how much I actually liked you. And they agreed to help me. And if I got you to actually give me a chance, with their help of course, Eddie’d pay for a real date and Robin would cover our shifts when we went.”

The explanation should be sweet, but all you can focus on is that Steve didn’t just have the guts to tell you right away. That your friends all helped manipulate you and lied. You start to wonder if the power even went out, if Eddie knew Steve would be at that party, if Robin put In Your Eyes on on purpose, the diner, your car being busted - all of it.

What was real between you and Steve, and what was made with movie magic?

The storm cracks in your chest, letting the first drops fall down your cheeks.

“I have to get out of here.”

The calls of your name and his steps behind you on the stairs ignored as your vision blurs.

Leaving a boy standing in a yard on Cornwallis street while you disappear without your shoes again.

BICFTF TAGLIST: don'thatemedon'thatemedon'thateme there's still two chapters left! As always, thank you for your support!

@ash5monster01 @madaboutjoe @foreverinwanderlust @the-fairy-anon @scarletwitchgf

@curlsincriminology @siriuslysmoking @redbarn1995 @starry--sarah @starksbabie

@taccobelle @angst-lasagna @blckburd @crownofdecit @torntaltos

@sanniegirl1214 @yourmommilf @khena @ytgus @starryeyedpoet17

@halfburntout @belle101200

#superbly subpar's writing #BICFTF #steve harrington #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington series #steve harrington fic #cw injury mention

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joannasteez · 4 months ago

Text

starship pain

pairing: cody rhodes x reader , cm punk x reader warning: explicit content (smut) minors pls dni. angst. emotional infidelity? loads of description!!! a lot of space related metaphors. authors note: lovely little request from @harmshake i hope i did your idea some justice. this takes place after mania. somethings are changed and switched around to fit my ideas. so it's a bit of an alternative universe from present kayfabe. the one flashback i have in this has a little red text noting when in the timeline of the year its set in!! word count: 14k tagging: @333creolelady @theninthwonder @kill-the-artiste @empressdede @southerngirl41 @2-muchsauce @crxssjae @coyotegirl-ramblings @luchorgasm @xbriexx @wanna-see-my-lease

...what gives a star it's character?...

temperature

color

mass

luminosity

size

...and with the display of such magnificent character, do stars not go about tirelessly with the work of inspiring awe? living wondrously bright amidst the deafening swallow of that deep void called space, so much so, that even with great distance, they exist bold enough to be witnessed. if so, then can we not be stars too? though not as great, can we not aspire, with terrible diligence, to be as breathtaking?...

and with the conclusion of wrestlemania forty, the philadelphia crowd erupts thunderous. earsplitting even. the american nightmare, cody rhodes, kneeling with tears at the heart of the ring. clutching the weight of the title belt. gold in hand, the newly crowned undisputed wwe universal champion. the hearts, minds, joys and displeasures of the people performing well to revolve in orbit around such star-like greatness.

"your moonsault needs a bit of work still". your father's voice coarse from age. his eyes unblinking. a perfectionist's stare. his penchant for over examination as lively as the sun. existing still even with the residual thrill of wrestlemania. "you're hesitating too much before you press off'.

you sigh. small enough that it goes incomprehensible. sipping at early afternoon coffee complimentary of the hotel. "it was just nerves pop", you give. because facing rhea ripley for the title, center stage in front of thousands was no easy feat. preparation took a back seat, amongst the lights and screams and hard bumps to the body. it was natural to have a seconds worth of overthought. "the match was fine'.

because it was fine. it was good. great even. two women telling a story with the violent bursting and clash of their bodies. loss be damned. it felt good to withstand the cold. to toil through limitation so fiercely. an easy break of a glass ceiling that worked well to loom above your head for some time. but your hall of fame of a father couldn't see pass the minor inconsistencies. a scrutinizer to the greatest degree.

"you should come by the gym soon. we can catch up. work through a few things together'".

catch up and work through meaning your body bouncing off a turn buckle till his satisfaction reached a good, sore, exhaustion. you pivot quickly at the thought of it. at the thought of drilling through moves and the terse cut of his voice.

you pick up your phone, hearing the shift of feet from across the hotel room. another sip of coffee that plays well over the soft closing of the bathroom door. because your father didn't need to know the details of your latest tryst. especially so soon after the events of the biggest sports entertainment night of the year. everything to him, that isn't the four sided ring, a distraction.

you smile. "doesn't sound like anything's wrong with my wrestling. sounds like you miss me".

he softens. blinks his eyes and lets his pride show through a small smile. "any father in their right mind would".

"so then say it".

"your moonsault is near flawless...", he gives. like relenting but not really. "...and i miss you".

the bedsheets ruffle behind you. your cue to end the moment before it has the chance to sour.

"we'll talk later", you give. "i have to go".

"alright. be good".

the face time call ends. gentle touching steps along the carpet of your hotel bedroom before you're slipping under puffy sheets. the philadelphia sun bursting beyond thin curtains to shape his face. blue eyes more sky than ocean under such bright warmth. his fingers quick to pull against your body. slipping up and over with a tender maneuvering till you lay against him like he seems to like. a drawn tune of a hum singing, your weight pressing in to comfort the sore, exhausted champion. his neck craning, rushing with movement to follow the run of your touch over his scalp and across the apple of his cheek. lips dipping into the heart of your palm.

"did i wake you?", you ask.

"no", cody gives. voice tired. "my phones been going crazy all morning".

your thumb caresses just beneath his bottom lip. soft and sweeping. "as expected. the price goes up when you're the champ. so does the attention".

"is that right?", tone suggestive. eyes a heavy linger along your lips.

you oblige him. a small sweet reward for all his tiresome effort. your lips, sweet and rich, tasting of coffee as they meet his. a tender meshing before they slip to slot passionate. his fingers curling into your hips. a venture to endear you, moaning lazy as his body forms deeper into the sheets. mouths parting only so his indulgences can lead him else where. wet, tongue led kisses along your pulse. hot breath and the dull graze of his teeth. surely overwrought still by the thrill of the night before. this morning version of him performing with a delirious high. his every touch sure and firm. the hands of a champion.

"how does it feel?"

a deep breath. weighing the question with silence. finding a home for his yet to be spoken thoughts in the dip of your neck. the part of his lips there producing a shiver up your spine.

"good. it feels good". the shine in his eyes threatening to wane. "scary. now i have to actually carry it. do some good with it".

you kiss him sweetly. a plant of reassurance. "you will". words kind as you roll on your side to face him. catching the beginnings of an etch in of adoration as he fails to look away from you. a semblance of something near unpleasant troubling your chest. like being under the weight of his gaze is too much to bare.

"thank you for being here".

"of course".

"i couldn't get to you properly last night. it all moved so fast after the match. one thing after the other".

you find yourself ruffling through his hair again. your own will, making to ingratiate your senses to him. like staining the skin to lay a good base for memory. "it's ok. m'here now", mouth on him. an urge that lives with imperfections, your tongue flicking soft, lapping over sweetly till it works away that ambivalent trouble in your belly. urges growing greater by the second till they form with an edge too defined to ignore. eager now, to feel him against skin. the way the mellow heat of him flares under your palm, melting the worry till it runs off into desire. this performance of a great gravitational pull.

regulating yourself to one drink for the night is a testier task than originally thought, but it works well enough. the celebratory buzz of the room filling in where the warmth of liquor doesn't. the philadelphia skyline sparkling the dark chill of the night as the closed in rooftop swells up to a comfortable fullness. wrestling stars at every corner. drinks in hand and simple, cheery conversation. the scene of it all, once a dream, talked of and imagined, now a reality as you maneuver amidst it all.

a firm take to your arm pulls you toward the secrecy of a corner. your lips failing to keep away from a pull up of excitement. heels clicking to keep the pace as you're rounded about a tall column and tucked away behind it. cody pressing in. a lazy little kiss against your mouth that tastes like his drink of choice. the glass clutched in his hand still, attempting not to spill it.

not so long after your intimate morning did you both part. post-mania obligations too much of a priority to ignore.

his free hand slips into the slit of your dress. fingers curling into your thigh. a silky brown number that matches his undone suit. his tie loose, his jacket gone and the vest unbuttoned. cheeks dusted a faint pink. his mouth pressing into your pulse. housing there to feel the warmth corralling under the skin.

and with only a few weeks of this relationship have you confirmed just how affectionate cody is. his every touch made to linger, his smile luminous and his words warm as they work tirelessly to sink into skin.

"you look", a kiss to your cheek. "absolutely beautiful angel", and another to your mouth.

you smile. lip tucking under your teeth. "thank you". fingers running to crease his shirt. pulling him closer. the curt shuffle of his shoes clicking forward as your back flushes up into the corner. your eyes sweeping over his mouth. reaching to lick in for a kiss that makes him groan. "you look good too". tasting the bitterness washing his tongue before going in for more. "very good", a purr of a moan floating in that makes his breath hitch before he's groaning soft. a mindless overworking of nerves you're sure. because the weeks with him thus far—albeit fresh—have been nothing short of a teasing game. heavy traveling and the looming possibility of a good passion not yet explored. that trouble in your belly shortening the full breath of your desires.

you break for air, remembering where you are. he downs the rest of his drink. clutching the glass still.

"you had a lot to drink?", you ask. wiping at his mouth with your thumb. licking at the residual bits of liquor.

his eyes trailing over your lips. unhurried to meet back at your eyes. "not too much. this was my last. m'tappin out early".

"good", you give. tugging at the undone part of his vest. keeping him flushed up against you so that the strength of his cologne steeps in. "cause i need you sober. we have unfinished business".

his free hand still finds itself making a home beyond the slit of your dress. kneading just where your thigh rounds out into the supple flesh of your bottom. a firm squeeze that's all possession. the action risky, but exhilaratingly so. his words toughing out with a groaning. "fuck the party then".

"no. enjoy it". slipping from under him slowly. "we'll have plenty of time later".

a final look of promise before you click away. deep tempering breaths that work to quell your own rise of desire. cheeks hot and your body beneath the delicate dress teeming with the memory of his touch. sensations comfortable enough that they leave you wanting. borderline desperate. but yes, what lives of the the draw, the pull of him, all a symptom of simple necessity. his everything sure enough to fall into. a security exacting to an almost bothersome degree. but maybe this full consumption isn't a bad thing, after past failures and flings too loose and undefined. shapeless, wordless things. maybe cody is what you need. your body tucking to lean into the wall that meets the end of the rooftop bar. "gin and tonic", you order.

soft clutching hands at your shoulder. you turn. bianca belair beaming with excited knowing eyes and a smirk. "you got blondie real red in the face", she starts. slipping up next to you. "no thoughts, just half of a three piece suit and a vibe".

you smile with her. feeling heat in your cheeks and a swirl in your belly. the intimacy of your relationship with cody no outright secret, but the confirmation of it never really reaching the great private sphere of your friends and friendly acquaintances. because it was business only yours and cody's to keep or share, but bianca is a good friend. closer than most. a former tag team partner. a nxt sister. and the playfulness of her curiosities were always as fun to indulge in as they were to hear.

"a real nasty vibe", you chuckle. "that man was trying to give ya'll a PLE from the corner. i had to slip away while i could".

"and i get it cause this brown and gold!?", her hand taking yours to spin you around. appraising the the beauty of your dress and accessories. her fingers dabbing up under an eye and sniffling with faux tears. "i taught you so well".

"you really did".

both of you laughing and sipping at your drinks.

"is it serious?", her tone shifting firm.

the question forcing you into a bout of consideration you've attempted to stray from on many occasions. but it's crucial nonetheless. a conclusion you'll have to come to regardless.

"i mean, i don't know". thumb rubbing against the chill of your glass. taking to a silent mull over. the past few weeks or so a whirlwind of affection. secret rendezvous' and late night calls. the tenderness of him working with an endless drive, even amongst the world of work set before the both of you. "we're slow burning it a bit but i think the end goal for him is to have something serious".

and your wording doesn't go unnoticed, not that you want it to. some part of you maybe looking to gain some much needed perspective. a nudge in the direction you feel is necessary. and she doesn't fail in delivering it. "you deserve something stable. the casual shit is cool but it's not forever".

you sigh. memory serving well of your former trysts with a different superstar. "i agreed on that being casual".

"you can agree to a lot when you think the dick is good". sipping at her drink. "he's here by the way".

and if you pretend not be be affected by the possibility of seeing him, of being seen by him, then doesn't that null the existence of the feeling all together? that twist in of nerves in your belly. residual things, like words and perhaps sentiments left to wander the void of space formally known as a very casual but fevered, undefined union of legs and lips. a deep passion left to succumb to the suffocating elements of space and time.

"i figured he'd be".

his name is a draw. of money, eyes and thoughts. his return causing this gravitational pull of the people, controversial or otherwise. a veteran in his own right. for him not to be seen at a celebration of the greatest night in their business would be confounded and weird.

"you good with all that though? i know it ended kinda all of a sudden".

from passion all the time to none at all. hour long drives and last minute flights. apartments and not so high floor hotel rooms. his name seemingly forever written into the slip and work of your tongue. free and casual but still working so sure in that space of passion that the feeling of being beholden to one another felt more truer by the day. living too sporadically—and maybe too unrestrained—still though, to last well enough on its own. because without the consistency of light, how is anything sure to grow? and then in came cody, prying away your attention with the ease and experience of a star born to evoke awe. his light pleasant and safe.

you shrug. "you live and learn, you move on. i'm good where i am".

bianca smiles. her arms a nice embrace. "as you should be. m'happy for you".

"thank you", you give. her warmth contagious. your body squeezing into the hug.

and when she's called away, montez drunkenly whisking his wife to another corner of the room, she parts with an apologetic smile. mouthing "sorry", as her sloshed to capacity of a husband drags her along with him. leaving you to live alone at the end of the bar, newly made acknowledgements of your relationship resting over you thickly. a tight take of adrenaline to your nerves. small sips of your drink working only to occupy your hands. unwilling to decipher the root of such a rush. fear or excitement. either way, the feeling of it drops your belly and leaves the tiny hairs everywhere to stand on end. because this has happened before, drawing too close to the power of a star too soon, burning amongst the void before the possibility of impact.

shoes click, approaching beside you. his cologne familiar. a scent made to intrigue. memory slipping in to harshen the roll over happening in your belly. of course he'd be here. the self proclaimed 'best in the world', the second city saint, the straight edged superstar. after some months of nothing, cm punk is alive and looking too well for you to stand.

you sip again. a cool lean up again the wall. eyes patient as they go about examining him whole. his doing just the same.

he looks good in a suit, much to your dismay.

"you clean up well", you give. meeting his eyes. standing firm against the heaviness of his gaze.

"so i've been told", slipping closer. his body leaning up against the bar to rest just as coolly as you have against the wall. a casual disposition so incredibly indicative of your times together. "you look beautiful. nothing new for you though".

"you're letting your grays grow out again".

"a new era, a new look". his palm smoothening over the salt and pepper patches of hair. a smile running through his lips. "you always did like them".

a fight to arrest the heat in your cheeks and old memories. "so what, this is about me?"

"such a smart girl", he chuckles. "i love it when you state the obvious".

you grin at his teasing. "i just had one of the most important nights of my life', shoving up against him playfully. "you can't be a dick to me".

"you did well by the way". a sincerity that makes something bloom over the skin. a jittered feeling you choose to ignore as he continues. "a nice bag of new little moves and tricks, it was good shit for your first mania. get rid of that moonsault though, it doesn't fit you".

you scoff. "oh cause you know what fits".

body bracing for impact just after such a wild take to flight. the words leaving before you can think them over. his shoulders shaking as he laughs.

"i've had the pleasure of knowing a time or two".

"oh fuck you punk".

"i mean...", dark earthy eyes sweeping over your lips. a lazy, patient journey over your body. a show of his appraisal. "...i don't know if you can. given your new boy toy and all".

"i'm bound to get a new toy if the old one breaks". not that cody is a toy. no. he's no play thing in the slightest. a sudden need to defend him in that right springing up till its thick in your mouth. stitching into words. his every intention appearing precise and laid bare. sweet gestures and impassioned words. his everything lingering long enough for you to notice. "it's a lot more serious than you think".

"so it seems", voice neutral, but appearing in his eyes to live, these little slivers of disappointment.

its something not meant to harp on for the sake of your own peace. but they try their damnedest to penetrate. working diligent. enough for the air to feel too warm and thick to breathe in. your barely touched drink a nuisance and the friendly crowd of the celebration too much to handle. and thank God for cody, your attention catching his motions for you. slipping through the crowd to head for the entry-exit doors. a make to leave as he catches your eyes to join him.

"i should...i should go-"

"that's a smart decision".

cody's tongue tastes like his drink of choice. room temperature whiskey. the lap of it lazy and patient, aiming to steep into the palate. his lips soft, twisting wet as they go about the work of ingratiating the senses. his hands following suit. a tight journey over the skin, heat flaring up in the wake of such an ardent touch. curling in to leave cratered impressions. his movements breathtaking, your body hoisted up in his arms before you're bouncing into the fluff of the bed. persistent fingers and his mouth ready, tongue dipping into where your body pliantly unfolds for him. your legs spreading with guidance. an exposure to the air that pulls a shiver through the body.

"so pretty", musing to himself. tongue slipping deep. warm and wet and earnest. groaning from a pleasure that comes with pleasure. your inner thighs suffering under the gripping weight of his touch. a steady hold that keeps you open for him. "been thinkin about this all day".

you hiss. touch filled with delirium. your belly overwrought and filling in hot. skin breaking away from the chilly philadelphia air. your hips testing their limits. a gentle swing up that catches against the rhythm of his mouth. a sweet suckle to your clit that shortens the air in your chest.

his thumb joins the fray. teases the messy drool of arousal pooling to drip lazy like. a dull circling at that broaches the possibility but nothing more. leaving you with the desire to be filled to the hilt. your pussy pulsing hard against his tongue. clenching about nothing, waiting impatient as he revels in his own play at giving pleasure.

"cody please", voice near broken. a sweet little plea.

he leaves you spread. watches your little performance of appeal. nails painted a color that leaves a beautiful contrast against your soft skin. slipping sweet at the bud of your clit. holding his eyes. enchantment and lust. the light of his desire bright enough that it reflects beautifully off your skin. curving its way up the body. paints itself warm over the work of your pleasure. melting in till its swirling heavy at the base of your belly. a sensation that grows easy. another groan erupting, surely from that clinging sensation you've bought to his tongue. pulsing and shivering. singing and moaning wispy for him. a full consumption that breaks the resolve you've built so easily. and when his thumb sinks into the fat of your clit, circling deep and persistent, you sink further into the sheets. a sharp "fuck", breaking into the air. your nerves unruly as they go in their frenzy.

your body drunk, senses beautifully askew. a quick to arrive release that speaks to his determination.

his mouth messy and slipping over your inner thighs. working to kiss your belly and through the valley of your breast. tongue peaking before it flattens over the perk of your nipples. an involuntary rut in your hips rushing up into him. the sensation like kindling for a fire.

you taste yourself. pulling your lips to his. the whiskey and that dangerous steep in of your own arousal. his hands nailed into the sheets. your own freeing him from his underwear. hot and hard in your hand. slipping him through slick arousal, to feel how awfully ready he is for you, before you're guiding him in with a desperate hand. head tipping into the bed as you feel the wet split as he goes. a hiss of enjoyment as he deepens, resting just over the end of you.

cody hums. diving his nose into the scent of your perfume. the stain of it at your neck arresting him. hips knocking in firm. deft and easy. working you open to take him.

your palms sweep over muscle. to layer over that already laid foundation of memory. his back taut and strong. nails clawing in as he fills you whole. your lips parting. breaths taken. belly coiling with the threat of release. and here the work of taking him in feels more than good. that troubling knot of ambivalence that once warred beneath the skin, trampled upon with a temporary defeat, as his hips work steadily.

"you feel so good", a moaning drawl of words.

an admission that slips its way to settling into thick air. performing well enough to saturate the room. and its true. cody feels good. amazing. his warmth gentle, and his everything near flawless.

the man wrapped in your arms, the reigning undisputed universal champion, is only near flawless. this, a thought that slips deep into your conscience. taking root aggressively so. but are stars not perfect in shape? bright and the enormity of them sensational. great enough in size that the draw of them from within performs well enough to gather equally at every side. a faultless sphere of a shape indeed. and has he not—in spite of your damning early morning sentiments—taken on that part of a stars character? wearing it warm and well. the wrestling world revolving to orbit his dazzling spectacle of victory amongst the mania. then what of it could be so wrong as to call him only near flawless and not flawless simply? the touch of his skin and the pull of his lips gracious even in hunger and looking to consume. a ready made heat not so dissimilar to a great star.

it's clear. so very fucking clear, amidst the slow creep in of the morning, as your phone vibrates with a call, just where the doubt reeks from.

'the best in the world' showing up as caller ID. because you never changed the name. because you never had the heart to leave him nameless even. slipping from the sheets, from the comfortable weight of cody's body. a fluffy robe over your skin as you slide the balcony doors of the hotel room open. answering his call.

those slivers of disappointment in his eyes from last night. performing well enough to disrupt your feelings. like the grand effects of a solar flare.

"have breakfast with me", he starts.

no preamble to give you room to deflect. a sigh heavy as it leaves you. his morning voice coarse and unfortunately satisfying. maybe you should've stayed in bed. wrapped yourself deeper beneath the sheets and the lay over of cody's body.

"we lose a little contact and you forget your manners. that's unfortunate".

he chuckles. "please?"

"that took a lot out of you huh?"

"not really". a dramatic little pause, because punk does have a flare for it. albeit in small doses, in his own way. and you can feel him smiling through the phone. can feel the change in tone just before he can give it. "begging is just usually more your thing than it is mine".

and the truth only hurts, vexes the nerve so, because it is the truth. because it has life. breathing and smiling with the sole objective of tethering itself ungraciously to every little thing you do.

"can you not?"

"you like it".

slivers of guilt. peering to look through the glass of the balcony door. cody still sleeping, peacefully unaware. but what is there to be guilty of? the past solely the past. this little phone call but a blip in time. a soundless action amidst the airless void of space.

"ok, m'sorry". he relents. receiving your silence in full. "i'll stop".

"i can't do breakfast. it wouldn't feel right".

"it's just coffee and a little chit chat".

lies. "i've never had just coffee with you...", memory serving right as the words grow heavy and thick. leaving the tongue less easy than you'd like them to. months of passioned tryst' and rendezvous, from city to city, before and not so long after his return to the company. "...it's always had some accompaniment to it".

he hums. "i know how to respect a boundary if that's what you're worried about".

slivers of guilt still. a pang in your chest. the cool morning philadelphia air doing nothing to lessen the heat in your cheeks. "the boundary isn't just for you", admission quick and terse. angered that it had to leave.

this slow to slip along silence. a lazy passing over before he's chuckling again. like the type of amusement you get after a small win. his voice is all raspy satisfaction. "i see", he gives.

"i'm sure whatever you want to say over coffee, you can just say over the phone right now".

"you gonna make me bare my soul over some fuckin radio waves?"

it'd all be a less ceremonious go of words. not so serious. as shapeless and uncategorized as the months were with him.

"you are notorious for saying things you probably shouldn't, so keep that in mind".

"old habits unfortunately die very hard sweetheart".

a chill creeping up the spine. riding in along the morning air. "it's almost eight a.m., it's not even a good time to be sharing all this...sentiment".

"then give me a time and place".

"i don't know punk, whenever you can get to a target closest to you", laughing a little. the rejection feeling sweet and easy as it leaves you. "they sell journals and diary's with matching pens. that's a good place to put all of your little feelings".

"ouch".

you stand. watching cody slowly make his way to the bathroom through the glass balcony window. your hand against the handle to slide it open. "i have to go". a quick throw of words before you end the call. pride slowly inching over the skin.

a successful deterrent.

the “archangels moonsault", a name coined by a collective of your fathers contemporaries. his performance of the golden triangle moonsault habitually flawless. appearing more angel than man as his body soared for some seconds. awe forever struck across the color of your eyes at such a spectacle, so much so, that you wished to live it. and so it went, a song and dance done many times before. the child of a legend attempting to step beyond that harrowing shadow in hopes of creating their own. the awe inspired, attempting now to inspire awe. like the cinematic feat of interstellar travel, viable only through the art of imagination. a play at the impossible, and nothing more. the perpetual falling short of a dangerous aspiration. nerves fraying at the seams and a deep plummeting of the heart. angst, a side effect of near flawlessness. starship pain.

"just keep workin at it", cody said once. watching your frustration after failing to perfect your fathers beloved moonsault. the precision of it lacking. your body insistent on underperformance. resentful of the air.

the encouragement working against its own intention. a bitterness rising to meet your tongue. but the near success of it grows palpable on your fingertips. nagging the nerve endings there so much that it forces into the skin a deep repetition. a cycle of the same thing for weeks on end—house shows, and training, and live events and training, and meet and greets and training, and merch signings and training, and interviews and training, and photoshoots and training—till the system grew faithful. and whichever cracks of free time expose themselves are quickly remedied with cody. because if all these distractions exists, then the time to decipher the bitterness growing on your tongue has no room to live. the ambivalence attempting to sneak in your belly once again, snuffed out by other things.

and friday night smackdown becomes an interesting state of affairs amidst your little world of moonsault turmoil. cody and punk both drafted, a feud storyline written up by creatives. the new undisputed champion versus the self proclaimed best in the world. a guarantee for money and ratings. which always means good business. your draft to smackdown a grounds for opportunity just the same. a fresh creative direction post-mania. but such good chances don't stop your body's war with itself. feeling the toil of the work, that faithful routine, and refusing to surrender from it's grudge. resentful of the air still.

but cody remains. his touch heated and sure. a sweet kiss to your skin in the privacy of a dressing room before your first match on the smackdown brand. the memory of his words sticking as you make to kiss him. 'just keep workin at it'. the rush of affection feeling odd.

"you okay?", his eyes searching. thumb swiping gentle, palm holding at your cheek.

"yeah", your body odd in it's skin. tempted to leave but feeling the need to stay. you grab his hand. a gentle squeeze of assurance. "i think it's just nerves".

"you been workin at it hard. it's gonna pay off", he gives. his smile small but bright still. a hand roaming gentle. soothing up your back.

but the second city saint was, is, never too far behind. posturing himself as the metaphorical rock, adamant on flushing you uncomfortably against a hard place. slivers of mischief in his stride and in coarse perfected words. the smackdown before backlash interesting to say the least. proving itself as the first domino. the main event of the night a strategic volley of words. the returned superstar and the undisputed champion. the knot tying itself about your belly barbarous as it works, watching them dig into each other with dramatic promises of destruction. the usual song and dance of a good promo. waiting for something terrible that affirms the odd abrupt spring ups of guilt and that bitterness refusing to leave your throat. everything of your romance, center stage and dazzling with bright lights for all the world to see. and when the words stop, the crowd jeering for who they hate and loud in delight for who they love, the air grows thick with the way it deafens.

rough thudding drops of their microphones before that faithful rushing in. fire in their eyes and a close size up of the competition. good drama for the crowd.

punk breaks with a laugh. similar in an amusement you've heard, felt before. like he's won a small victory. wholly fucking satisfied and happy about it. reaching to whisper something in cody's ear. words that penetrate more than they're supposed to. something a little less fire filled than anger striking bold along cody's expression. like a smoldering yet to come fully ablaze.

and it is said that for every star, there is a loss of mass in it's life time. a lessening of that gravitational pull. a change of character that threatens its awe.

his skin warm, but not as balmy. his kiss sweet but the comfort of it waning. the journey to seeing to its ease seeming more painful than letting it be. but the need to try breathes still. living bored and tired and thin, but alive nonetheless. the late hours between the end of the live show and his first official title defense quiet and terrible. all of his little bright smiles and tender touches gone. the beauty of the french hotel drained by this sudden standstill. blue eyes colder and distant. taken by the trouble of overthinking.

text message | outgoing: wtf did you say to him?

text message | the best in the world: what's my name saved as in your phone?

your fingers feel weak. tired and unable. the nerves there doing well in fraying at the seams. held hostage by a guilt that refuses to leave.

text message | the best in the world: i'm not really a write my feelings in journals kinda guy, you should know that. i want to see your pretty little face for a chat still. whenever you decide to stop avoiding me.

text message | outgoing: boundaries remember? or are the new gray hairs screwing your memory

text message | the best in the world: well i figure a little courtesy closure is in order before your boy gets his ass whipped on live television.

text message | outgoing: closure? can't really close a door that never existed can you?

a thick, curling cloud of steam rolls into the hotel bedroom from the open door of the shower. a silent invitation to join him—an olive branch living still in spite of his sudden brooding—that your body refuses to indulge. but the air does well in an attempt to suffocate you anyways. skin sweltering uncomfortably. or maybe it's just the ambivalence in your belly and the dull taste of something wrong on your tongue. frayed nerves and this half shaped desire to leave. all of these symptoms living as the summation of...of something that feels too harsh to speak to. your eyes take a steady read over the chain of messages. a once over that happens too many times to happen just once and yet there is no clarity of thought here.

closure? a type of reconciliation afforded to people once terribly impassioned. and yes, your times with him were fevered. fierce little meetings that left you craving more. but never did the attraction burn so much as to bring about such a heat, that lived closer to something like love than not, or whatever he seems to be feeling.

but there was that one time in albany. a confusing, charged little tryst. different from the others. his fingers curling in so deep then that he'd bruised your skin, like he was trying to remember you-

"so...", cody starts. a simple word edged with hesitation. bath towel wrapped about his waist as he pads out of the steam of the bathroom. skin wet and tantalizingly inviting. "...you and punk?" and finally it comes. the source of his brooding, his silence. that dejection of touch and affection.

your phone grows heavy in your hands. plops along the sheets like a weight. "old news", words ironed and pressed. dressed up in a surety, that if spoken with enough, can be believable. because the second city saint is old news.

his eyes are cold. a gray-blue snatched from the impending roll in of a storm. "feels pretty current", he sighs. turns to the table below the bedroom mirror. searching through a small bag of things. lotions and colognes and clothes and such. his perfect teeth spreading mirthless. "very current actually".

your body anchors to the bed, and curiosity an anchor in your body. inspires a refusal to move—to go to him, to ease the tension in his shoulders—as the sharp edges of it rip through till it holds deep enough.

"what'd he say to you?"

"nothing worth repeating...", hands rubbing about his face. a serum moisturizer. taking up small work as he finds and treads slow through words. tone like that of an interrogators though not nearly as violent. but the suspicion in him bothers to root well enough that it can't be hidden. can't be done away with easily. "just implying a bunch of... of shit. which is interesting because punks not that type of guy on the mic. if it needs to be said, he makes it plain..."

"its a work probably...". tone cool. indifferent. the sensation resting in your belly just the opposite. words spilling, living two fold. an attempt at persuasion overflowing so well that it performs for him and yourself just the same. "...ratings, clicks, views. it's drama for tv".

"well it feels pretty damn personal".

"and what?", you scoff. "winning mania wasn't?"

cody recedes. softens. because winning at mania was personal. business but very personal. the stakes of such a win clinging to the base of his emotions at every breath and turn till the belt rested in his hands. that much you could feel, drawing closer to him in those months—a sweet, innocent friendship born from this great host of similarities—till nearly every moment was spent with each other. his words and his thoughts and his touches becoming more intimate. affections as clear as the perfect beauty of his smile. and then comes the guilt, a drizzle against the air, like the first damning drops before the inevitable chaos of a down pour. your body lighter now. the will to leave him be, to wrestle with his feelings by his lonesome unanchored by the shame of doing so.

"am i being crazy about this?", he asks.

you move to him. crossing the exceptional size of the room to embrace him. arms encircling and your eyes gentle. his skin warm and comfortable. your body fighting itself still though, even amidst the vulnerability of him, battling back these slivers of a temptation to leave. "it's a mind game. don't let him win".

his hands venture. a smooth, sweeping take along your arms till they cradle your face. thumbs tender as they roll at the apple of your cheeks. "and us? this is it right? we're solid?"

your eyes flick to his lips in a means to inspire within yourself some true meaning of devotion. desire and fidelity. your mouth pressing sweetly to the seam of his as you pull him into a deeper embrace. words kept unsaid. buried alive before the work of a damning departure. your tongue soft and slipping gentle. wet and precious enough to elicit a moan. the tension in him waning as he goes, falling further into your show of affection. shoulders unburdened and the heat returning pleasantly to his skin. a performance that convinces only his hesitations and nothing of your own.

and that lack of conviction reigns over heavily. devastatingly so. failure thundering about your chest, slipping wild through the arms and legs, till it swims heavily about the head. ambivalence working ungracious in the body, like a storm of solar proportions. because cody had done well at backlash, performed greatly against the second city saint as they went head to head in their first of a best of three match.

but you—your knees buckling just after the press off for the archangels moonsault—do terribly. a harsh botch that leaves your feet to slip, head hitting against the ring before your body can be properly caught. a concussion that blurs your vision for the remainder of the match.

a number of horrible executions that follow, equilibrium disrupted, all amounting to a slow paced performance. your body resentful, spiteful now too.

this attempt at a diligent work of resting comfortably in the security of cody's everything, like a roaming out into the hostile environment of space. unprepared and certainly unfit for such an expedition of passion. a fast deterioration of desire and the weakening of a strength to see to its survival.

this longing for a good and whole and secure thing, a need pulsing your heart strong and persistent, now inverted, though working with the same vigor, to bring you under with a maddening sort of frailty. a self induced bout of muscle atrophy.

"a break", is what hunter is calling it. his words and eyes this odd, cold meshing of empathy and business. a command that lives without the room to resist and it stings even the strongest parts of your ego.

punishment by the ether, for aspiring to reach so far, with so much confidence, for something never meant to be had. because stars exist out of reach, with light years of distance, for a reason.

and the doctor gives a definitive "no" on flying back to the states. a futile joke to follow about getting much needed rest in the "city of love", which in full effect lurches your stomach into a fit so disgusting that it empties. that bile troubling itself in your belly, waiting for its call to action, finally revealing its putrid nature to be formidable and unrelenting. a symptom of the concussion they say, but you know, above all things medically sound, that this is just violent revenge inflicted upon the self. the body taunting the mind for its ill-purposed ambition. trying to fall into something comfortable and love-like with cody was, is, and would always be ill-purposed ambition.

the air of the suv heavy with that leather interior smell. rolling smooth and slow against the parisian streets on its way back to the hotel.

cody's finger playing along yours with a soothing caress. a patient concern brushing up the drained make of your face from his eyes. soft music living under the sound of his voice as he goes. "they'll probably clear you to fly in a few days. i can get someone to book a flight for you, and you can just… just be with me...", a gentle tone but living definitive. committing himself to your care. a security you'd always hoped to fully adore. "...and im not saying this like you're unfit to take care of yourself but i wanna help...", his blue eyes looking for a response and receiving much of nothing. a shallow head nod that keeps him rambling. "...i wanna—just let me do this for you. please?", his hand squeezing yours. a feather weight gesture. "let me take care of it, okay?"

you blink. eye lids heavy with exhaustion. a drained sensation that leaves you too undone for any proper recognition of feeling other than emptiness. your voice hoarse, the acid moving up violent enough that it stole away the fullness of it.

"i hear you cody".

the last words said to him before his departure from france in the morning.

an army of texts and calls heating your phone as the sun rose and rested amongst the clouds with a far comfortable distance. a reminder of terribly fated ambitions. water at your bedside that felt like heaven as it settled in and down the body.

five calls from bianca and encouragement texts of the "i love you" variety. one call from your father and a message that read more definitive than suggestive. "come home when you can", it said. and a text from him.

text message | the best in the world: heard hunter put you on a bit of a break. im here for you when you need me.

not if, but when. the confidence even amongst the sympathy, frustrating. an imagining of his cool, more sage than forest, green eyes screwed with pity. the thought of it beating a harsh heat pass skin into blood. rolling in amongst the red till it rushes to anger. a pounding in your skull and a light nausea rocketing the delicate lining of your belly. laid out along the length of a too beautiful parisian couch, your body forced to endure the harsh gravitational pull back down to earthly reality. for there could no longer be an ambitious voyage to that outer enormity, in search of bright, wonderful, comfortable lights. a star so secure in its character that you make no qualms with the threat of it burning your skin before even the reach of full impact. and truly how stupid and cowardly was it anyways? fearful of a different end so much as to suffer with something that just barely scratches the surface of fulfillment.

fearful of the ill-controlled, imperfect things so terribly that you looked upward in an escape to the stars.

and though albany, new york is not the perfect choice, it is the most suitable option for what you need. a quiet, reclusive setting that works well for all this wonderfully, amazing, burdensome introspection you've been forced to endure. truths roaming tirelessly about your skull as they look and wait with impatience to be fully actualized. and maybe—agreeing with his decisions against your better judgement and instinct—hunter was right. this "break", needed. a thing that could not be put off on the account of some bruised ego. countless little mishaps and slip ups in ring that had eventually led to a nasty botch during the biggest PLE since mania. the look of it not great for business or your health. but to hear it, to feel the full rejection of it, tears through you something fierce. a complete tattering of your pride till it remained undone in mangled pieces. raw and red and blood filled. and once the doctors give their clearance for you to fly, you leave france silently. without a word to anyone. bags and suitcases packed and ready. the flight to new york like a shipping over into uncharted territory.

because some truths had made themselves painfully aware already. did not wait for your slow foot drag of a realization. funneling up hot and disgusting with the bile from your empty stomach.

trying with cody was only a dream, forced and sculpted by your hands and a stubborn will, till it formed with jagged edges. the struggle to fit two unmatched puzzle pieces.

"your old man'll kill me if he knows you're up here with me and not training with him". a ghost of a laugh living along with the coarse age of his voice. jimmy "the butcher" cruz, a dear old friend of your fathers, and a hall of famer in his own right, sighing agreeably as he speaks over the phone. "but you're welcome any time kiddo. you like my own, y'know that? the gym is here whenever you need it to be".

"i appreciate you butch", you give. the slow ride to your hotel quiet and familiar.

"let me know if you need anything else".

"will do".

the call drops. a blow of air past your lips working well enough as it plays an odd tune of some mild mannered frustration. a soreness of spirit where the body breathes and functions well, systems and internal processes going on as they should but still there rests this adrift feeling. a weightless sensation. fatigue and an imbalance of any direct thought. confusion. symptoms of the concussion surely, which only do well in leaving you to exist in this dead space limbo. an auto pilot of movement. muscles remembering the weight of things. your suitcases and bags, and the heavy swing back of the hotel doors. memory bruised but alive. because you don't have an explanation for returning to albany. your foot stepping into the quaint beauty of the hotel room like aggressively lifting the unfinished heal of a scab. being here, in this place, like your body is taking the long, necessary journey back down to earth. hot on impact of the surface but ready to land.

your lips suffering under your teeth and your fingers tingling. a wistful air working about you, brushing up against your skin as a reminder of times past. here in this place with him, before the abrupt end of it all.

flashback - january 2024 - albany, new york

and it is said, by scientists and theologians alike, that before the creation of everything, there was nothing. whether the world came to be from a Godly "let there be", or this abrupt but explosive expansion across the cosmos, the truth remains here, that we exist not of our own casual volition. and so if this coming into being—a devastatingly beautiful ripple through that forever stretch of space—is as ornate in nature as it is said to be, then how is it that one can exist so unceremoniously with another? passion this slow, steady expansion like that of the universe. his name on your tongue and his grip nestled into delicate skin. eyes fashioned with colors to rival that of those painting the faraway galaxies and the breaths singing between coarse little moaning songs, a great imitation of the wind. surely these are bouts of madness, giving frivolous, near shapeless names, for such heavy performances of affection.

or maybe it isn't insanity. because don't we always give awful, insufficient names to things we hate. and even more terrible names to things we fear.

the apple state inn, a small time hotel in albany, new york, is not known for it's size or luxury. a just off the exit, two and a half, maybe three star rated establishment—google reviews and the website beg to differ with one another—with a scarce housekeeping staff and forever stale, day old coffee. always near empty vending machines and a just out of high school receptionist who doesn't know the difference between credit and debit and counts change like they're counting sheep. but the walls are thick and the privacy is immaculate. immaculate enough that it'd be more useful and cost effective to keep from printing do not disturb cards than not. because once the door closes behind him and that roll of his mini suitcase follows him in, you figure—with the way he's nearly suffocating you with his mouth—that he needs all the undisturbed time he can get.

the cloud over of steam and a stream of hot, prickly, shower water. your fingers sudsy as they comb through the slick, soaked ways of his hair. thumbs sweeping at his nape before the caress behind his ears. these tender little dotting ministrations that make him groan some. a dark, near weightless, trembling sort of song humming up his throat. tattooed fingers feeling stitched into the soft flesh of your hips as the water works to wash away the soapiness of his hair. his nose nudging into yours and the slight height of him leaving this impression about you that he's surrounding you some. working to consume. to prove with a wordless go of his everything that he's the best in the world.

that thick curl of heat and the prod of his hard dick against your leg don't help either. his tongue jutting against your lips—a little lick that you chase with enthusiasm—as he smooths it over his own. such a damn tease. your body alive and burning with a war of feelings. not so little sensations that burst at your neck and your mouth and your chest and the warmth pulsing between already wet legs. the proximity of him damning to whatever words you used before to name your current state of affairs. because this seems a little more than casual. a little too charged and full of breath and life to be just a fulfillment of those nagging, sultry, desperate, bodily desires. because it's never felt this impassioned before. this slow and meticulous. a strangulation about the heart that makes the muscle somehow pump harder, faster. like if it fights for life, for it's right to be as its always been, than maybe it can survive the domineer of whatever this is.

the soap dissolves from his hair, washing down into the drain. your fingers remaining still. running dull over his scalp. a deep caressing. an act living so well that it forms it's own memory in your fingers. the seam of his lips pecking at yours. tiny, lax, unhurried kisses that work like they have till the end of the expansion of the universe.

a laugh cuts up from your chest. like it's unsure it even wants to escape. a fear that it'll have to explain itself.

cool green eyes and a spark of diligence you've only seen him have when he's wrestling. "what?"

"nothing, it's just...", eyes failing to meet him. dim as they take to the littered ink all over his chest instead. "...this is strangely intimate no?" because it is. the usual air of your rendezvous' living with a more curt edge to it. an urgency of spirit. something great and simple and to the point. made and brought about from a deep mutual attraction, but for the pure sake of fulfillment.

and maybe your words, amounting to this cautioned little question, have put some distance between your bodies. like the air and nerve to say it leaves the both of you just a little more distant than seconds before. and it must have, because he's fastening himself to you. skin pressing hotly over skin, a slow mold, leaving you to shiver up against cool tiling. mouth still a sweet tease over yours. palm sweeping down and under to cup your thigh till it's hitching up into his palm and cinched to his waist. "i take last minute flights to nameless little, kinda three star hotels, to eagerly stick my dick in you...", his hips canting up. nudging at the sensitive bloom of your slit. lips at the curve of your ear. his breath hot and your skin shuddering. "...and i'm not knockin the hotels..", he chuckles. "...i'm just sayin. it's a bit of a journey to make it to you. this whole thing has been pretty intimate in a way for a while".

you take slim little nips at your lip. "does that bother you?"

an earnest moan escaping as he slots his lips along yours for a real kiss. the gentleness of it turning sharp as his teeth glide to pull your lip. "why would it?...", tongue led kisses. hands cradling him hostage. his mouth tasting like the sweets he indulges in before he meets you. "...our whole thing is a little informal but that doesn't mean we can't have a moment...", nipping a trail to your neck and kissing over the slights as he goes. breath at your pulse and the thick heat of him slotting and nudging still between your legs. "...or moments". his words these actors of persuasion. as if muddying the lines of a casual thing has ever been good for anyone foolish enough to do it.

"does it bother you?", he gives into your neck. fixing your hips to the wet wall as he grinds into them.

the air thick still. his hair fine under your fingers as they find a home there. your lips kissing his shoulder. dazed by the sensation of shared little whispers and the hard ride of him provoking your arousal to slip and your belly to roll with delicious quiver. "no", you hum. meeting his hips with a roll of your own. "i think it makes our thing more enjoyable". words shaky and a shitty contradiction to the inevitable.

because this thing, this flare of a sensation—soldering hot to melt your bones—is neither unceremonious or fleeting. it is that forever expansion, forming from nothing into something after the abrupt snap that wills it into being. a universe of a feeling housed in the fragility of skin, simple sweeping touches and the persistence of his eyes.

your body is this picturesque take to the sheets. his arms strong, a gentle carry before he's settling to slot between your legs. wrapped up in your thighs and his lips placing delicate. and no, not like the simplicity of it would work in a means to break you, but like the need for reverencing runs deep enough that it'd feel like sin to ignore it. and cm punk has never been a man of self-denial. his tongue curling against yours, sweet and patient. hums of moans and the warmth of him working in beautiful opposition to the cool sheets. his thumb soothing up your jaw, palm cradling your cheek, like he's keeping the angle of your lips just where he likes it to be. control living easy in him. pressing kisses in without the urgency of forethought.

and maybe the apple state inn deserves a five star rating. a review that speaks to the allure of low yellow lights and that natural smell of lavender stuck to the walls.

an embarrassing sort of greediness spills over. hips rocking clumsily to rush into the simple glide through of his fingers at your slit. a firm circling with his thumb but still sedated. a measured touch that nearly aches your teeth in anticipation. breaths short and brattish whimpers. your back curling, attempting to steer him to the tight throb of your entrance.

he's enjoying this. teeth nipping your lips with a small smile. nails digging at his arms in need. "please". a drawl of a whine.

a gentle, testy, shallow, slip into your pussy makes him groan. raw and unmoderated. your legs falling over the muscles of his thighs, spread for him as he dips and retracts. the lewd little sound of it hot to the ears. "don't rush my process", teeth gripping into your neck. tongue following to sooth.

you squeeze his arm. digging what exists of sharp nails into tattooed skin. impatience unruly. "fuck your process, i wanna-"

an emptiness. the dip of his lone finger gone, replaced with the swift swat of his hand at your slit. a gasp cutting up quick, your body jostling from the speed and the cruelty of it. nestling then in pleasure that rolls in after. his tongue still at your neck. remedying skin sure fated to bruise in the morning. your clit overly wet and throbbing and sliding messily along the idle way his finger just sits there. resting right over without a mind to do something useful. the second city saint, a bastard and a half.

his laugh breaks into your skin. a little wry and a little mean. like maybe he thinks you're too audacious. so vulnerable and desperate and still making demands. "you barely know what you want for breakfast sometimes...", he starts. forehead pressed into yours. his right hand playing through the easy slip of your folds and the other tight as they ball the sheets near your head. like all of his control is stored there. knuckle white tight and fighting to stay strong. "...so whatever shit you think you want, it's just you being impatient and greedy. i guess its that only child syndrome shit".

"fuck you", you cut. nudging your face against his. cheeks roughing over the gray of his beard. defiance rife.

"oh sweetheart", he sings. a drawl of a tenor voice that makes you shudder. makes your hands cling to him tighter. like your hold there could maybe cause it to wring out more of his voice and breath, warm and sweet over your body. "you got not the slightest idea how much you're gonna eat every letter of what your just said". kissing your mouth harder. tongue sweeping with a less gentler purpose. lips pulling and suckling and nearly suffocating. looking to savor the dirty taste of your words. touch taking an abrupt curl into your pussy. a steady wet stroke that rattles your body with an almost ugly moan. almost. "you been drivin me crazy since before i got on that flight...", tongue lapping at your yours. a stress of a moan working up as he seats his finger deeper. "...been thinking about touching you for days".

and you rush to meet the feed in of it. an upswing of your hips, urging him just that much deeper. praying for the feel of it along that sensitive little spot inside that makes your skin jitter and your breathing short. your hands cradling his face close. a tough hold in his hair as you suck his tongue. a lazy timeless go if it, nearly falling so well into it that you almost lose yourself.

"someone sounds a little obsessed", you give against his lips.

his eyes green but nearly black and piercing. forehead pressed to you still. "unfortunately yes". an almost whisper if not for the bass of it.

your heart hammering. fearful and exhilarated all the same.

and you can feel his mouth on yours still, moving and hot and dangerous even as your eyes close for some feen for reprieve. a break from the diligence of his own. but you can hear him, the pry the noise of him takes to flesh, like he's opening up and splitting your nerves at the seams. "want you to show me what you do when i'm gone...", kissing your lips sweetly. a second finger joining the first. burying deep to the knuckle and balancing with perfection the deftness it takes to numb your brain with bliss. clit nudging against the add of his thumb. sensitive and the sensation of it blooming it's way till it reaches your toes. "...wanna see how good you take care of yourself when i'm not with you'.

that lavender smell soaked into the walls filling your lungs. the tips of your fingers pressing his thumb in till it's flush up against the swell of your clit. control ill suited to your body as you groan in his mouth.

back curling in with another arch. nipples aching and needy and up against his chest.

your longing this breathy, moaning, call to action. his mouth quick with a salacious answer, finding your body there. a flat, wide, lick over the twist of it. deep in it's savoring. curling and flicking and smiling about the perk of it as he feels you cling wet to his fingers. the pad of his thumb touched by the throb in your clit and the tight press you lay over it. keeping him there as he drags long and steady through your pussy. a greedy moan of his bleeding into your skin as it leaves him, the ball of your nipple playing in his mouth before he's suckling with tongue and prying with his hot mouth. wringing up the pleasure till it's voicing pliant and needy for him. teetering a line of overindulgence where he forsakes control. breaths heavy and hungry as he moves on to the other. a similar treatment that forces your hips to buck. a harsh, abrupt spurring that slips him deeper. right there, nestling and stroking lewd still. "harder, baby", you gasp. clutching the sheets. control lost. sporadic ruts that feen for that touch again.

"there?", humming at your breast. fingers just a little more vicious. the sensation sweetening your blood as it heats.

throbs undulating your skin, like the rippling push of something that goes on to last forever. his thumb releasing to let your have at your own undoing. lips suffering under your teeth. eyes glazed and your head tipped into the sheets. chasing that bliss as it waits to unfurl all over.

"yes", gasping. a tiny, pleading soprano. small and aching as it leaves you. trembling soft under him, the beginning of it rocking into you slowly. "oh God, i-", labored breaths and groaning. your fingers running up sloppy at your clit and his mouth suckling still. fucking into you with a purpose you're sure that entails seeing you go mad. "i'm coming ".

he releases your nipple with a simple pop of his lips. returning to sweep his tongue through the awestruck expression of your mouth. a sloppy kiss. wet and meshing and a little mindless. pussy drooling still as it steeps and clings and throbs.

"not sure he'd love hearing you say that but i sure do", a frail kiss at the edge of your mouth. "say it again".

"i'm coming", you pant. short cuts of breath he presses his lips over.

a glint to his eyes. gaze cascading over. appraising the state of your unraveling. "and so pretty doing it too".

you hiss. body collecting with a short hitch, like it means to ease the landing of this brace-less thing. an effort made in vain as the violence of it takes you. his throat humming satisfied, and the work of his fingers going on still to brush up against that deeper, delicate, slip of skin in you that drives you crazy. a bright, pitchy, "fuck", flying off the tip of your tongue as you curl in and lose yourself. a wordless, world of a feeling. an inconceivable burst of color behind the eyes and your lungs fighting for those better takes of air. unruly and exposed. skin teeming with too much of a good thing. the bed dipping and un-dipping, the shift of him living just at the edges of your awareness. the taste of former words heavy and thick in your mouth, like he said they'd be. his fingers collecting your thighs to adjust the way they reveal the mess of you.

a trail of dainty kisses as he ventures low. a journey over flesh to mark his appearance. a quiver playing your nerves, his tongue slipping to lick long along the full bloom of your slit. messy and drunk, like the careless indulgence of a reward long awaited. drawling moans and the grip in your thighs meaner than any touch he's given you thus far. a drive of his tongue through where you pulse and drip. weak hands near dead, trying their hardest to ease him off. eyes recovering and lazy, watching him go greedy. another hiss through your teeth, one now that indulges. a little less than brutal hold in his hair that keeps him close. the end of an old pleasure making way for a new one. suckling your clit like he did other parts of skin. little bursts of pleasure breaking to the surface, your hips rutting to following the sensation blindly.

his quickness, a jarring little feat. feeding tongue into your mouth to share the taste of you. your thumbs over his cheeks and your thighs hiking over his hips. the hard heat of him grinding along till it's snug and laying at your slit.

and even the thought of him slipping in is enough to leave you shivering.

"how do you want me?"

"deep". a thoughtless answer. your tongue wetting your lips, aching for it. "just take it, take me. i-", desperate and thin feeling. "please", you stress.

his earlier words a little clearer. thoughts and imaginations disrupted, having been troubled by the thought of you. his diligence running vengeful.

and there is nothing exactly satiating about this, about the pace, the life of it, of this. heavy feeling as he makes to stretch you deep. filling to the hilt and nestled comfortably so. like perhaps he was always meant to be there. your throat singing, breathy and filling his mouth as he makes to kiss you. a softness to you, boneless and subdued. the slightest touches made into something bigger and greater. a hand held at your thigh, a smooth reach till its hooking under your knee and the other calm and patience, the thumb of it stroking your forehead.

"not much for being a selfish prick but i need you lookin at me", he rasps. cool green eyes just a bit warmer under the low lights. gentle and arresting. "so beautiful", like a whisper to himself. "i wanna see em when i'm coming in you", he gives. testing your devotion with a push of his hips.

something heavy and dismantled erupting in his chest. bass-y and coarse, breathing over your mouth. his lips making like they mean to kiss you but never fully getting to the completion of it. your thighs housing a sweet aching and your ears burning hot, pleasured by the noise of him. the way his body slowly conforms to being taken in. easy and patient and terrible for his nerves. "yeahhh", he drawls, like an agreement of some staggering pleasure made with the self. or maybe a noise of satisfaction made pure by completion.

whimpers stuttering and cut with short breaths. your eyes glassy and your throat gaining that bit of heaviness. softly trembling, and feeling crazy under the weight of his eyes. like such vulnerability would soon be your end. a quiet sob breaking free, fingers sinking into his skin for dear life. your pussy quivering desperate, clutching hot as he gives a slow, firm, slipping stroke, pressing in enough that it makes you whole.

terror delighting it self in your bones. pressure in the body heavy enough to make diamonds. a tear slipping tenderly, falling over your cheek, the trouble of another release gathering in your belly.

he kisses the wet streak along your face. lewd and hot and wet, pussy pulling at him softly to stay. an endearing path being made upon the skin, a light press of his lips everywhere. silent and filled with purpose.

it isn't enough to let go, to deny the self of a former ambition. solid ground must be met, a full impact made regardless of how unsavory the process is. this quiet, contemplative, stretch of time in albany, not so dissimilar to a travelers great return to earth. readjustments made to air and the gravity. a re-stabilization of things—your walking and your turning and your weight against the ropes of that faithful squared circle and your ego—because a concussion only made your body's resentment more of a hell to deal with. compromise, a great ordeal with the self, a testier thing to endure even. a month of falling away, deep into the recesses of a particularly dark shadow. a host of memory lanes and the diminishing of self importance. FOMO a real bitch and a half to deal with. the frustration buried beneath skin feeling more childlike than anything else, eyeing the others as they roam and enjoy, from the window of your injury styled detention. week after week, nestled at the back of a little less than dingy sports bar, watching your friends and colleagues perform at the greatest arena's and stadiums.

but the time away made for an easier reclamation, a confession you wouldn't speak well too aloud, lest it proved hunter's opinions right. your head clear of that horrible knock of an ache against your skull and the nausea more than minimal.

minimal, but not gone. a small swim of it rippling your belly. flowing against the slosh of ginger beer you've become friendly with since discovering the existence of 'porters dive bar'. an albany staple for the city's exuberant wrestling community. the spice of the ginger steeping your tongue and the fizz of the liquid rolling over to test the limits of your stomach. like the first weary steps of a travelers feet back on earth. a fear of failure but an eagerness of spirit regardless. the building back of strength and resistance. a well made sort of exposure therapy.

your phone pings. another one of his messages appearing. his televised win against cody at an arena in albany, working like a kindling for this abrasive flare styling his words. ego on fire and looking to consume.

text message | the best in the world: soon i'm gonna stop asking to see you and just show up unannounced. you know i'm close right? where are you?

text message | outgoing: porter's dive bar

and this here is the full impact. a hypersonic re-entry. soaring past atmospheric layers as the body is once again enveloped by earths gravity. reality styled with its many worldly limitations. rich colors and coarse ground and a pulling weight in your bones.

talking to him is that meeting of skin against solid ground. the unsavory process.

your phone pings again. fingers slipping against the screen to reveal who. dread coursing wild and unfettered. a quick washing in your blood that plunges the heart.

text message | cody r: can we meet sometime soon? to talk?

text message | outgoing: of course.

you owe him that much. an explanation—regardless of how terrible it will form on your tongue. bile and a lack of brilliance born from guilt.—of your faults and self misguided decisions. but it's all just another step. a heel toe to reclaim familiarity with the earth. building back the strength lost from that unruly lack of ambition, from that great deal of muscle atrophy.

the wooden chair opposite your booth seat scoots harshly against the floor. his entrance screeching your nerves to wake with a horrible sort of surprise. the cool green of his eyes hidden beneath the curl over of a ball cap brim. shoulders squared and wide and persistent. "you look good", he gives. sitting across from you. "refreshed".

you settle your phone down. a soft tremble in your fingers as you make to embrace one hand in the other. the feel of his gaze, like the easy thin slice of a razor over thick skin. a surgical opening that leaves you bare to eyes and air alike. useless to yourself and a short ways from uncomfortable. fighting against a painless pain, against that shameful, irritating weakness that comes with vulnerability. fears and slivers of frustration born from this ill-controlled performance. because cm punk, the best in the world, makes you vulnerable.

you take one of the two ginger beers off the table. sipping at the cool spice of it for some reprieve. "your first words are always about how i look".

"because i'm unfortunately very invested in your wellbeing".

"unfortunately?"

"s'not a whole lot of reciprocation on that front". words not minced. eyes trailing to look over the cold glass left untouched. his curiosities moving him to bring it closer. "what is this?"

"ginger beer". watching him sniff at the rim of the glass before he tests the taste. the spice of the ginger and the fizz delightful and cold sober. "reciprocation". the truth of it cutting across the air, to give something deep and sharp and exacting against whatever assumptions he's made amidst his resentments. because while your investments into his wellbeing weren't as vocal as his for yours, they still hold firm in some form of existence.

"where you been hiding out?"

"our little go to hotel".

he shifts the curl of the brim to reveal more of his eyes. in a manner that allows you to see them well enough. to get the gist of whatever mixture of emotions they take. a hardened sort of confusion styling them now as your answer sinks in. "why there?"

hesitation. like the stutter of your foot after a misstep. body afraid to fail, afraid to fall after that great coming back to earth. "not sure".

his nose flares. a fierce movement. and then his jaw. a chain reaction of many things. as if to curb the brunt of his anger. this overbear of a deep vexing, he pulls into the constraint of words. hard eyes and a harder tongue. "you got a real nasty habit of not saying the things you mean and i can really do without it".

but it was enough, too much even to admit such wrongdoings amidst the court of your own thoughts and imaginations. resentment housed by the body, less sore as the days venture on, but still aching in the skin. felt in the abruptness of harsh maneuvers. swimming knocks in the head and your balance disturbed. those disgusting dull bursts of nausea and a heaviness in your body. exhaustion from nothing. "...and what is it exactly that you want from me?"

"a little transparency", he grits. "some honesty".

"i was fine with cody...was on my way to something substantial even', you give. a corral of words you feel were truthful sometime ago. back when the ambition felt sure and not so unattainable. before muscle deep resentment and injury. "we fell away from each other naturally...", words more like a tool. these builders of persuasion. and God what horrible persuaders they were. everything falling off the tongue half made and shoddily voiced. "...but in true cm punk fashion, whenever you don't like something anymore you get pissy about it. threw a dirty little wrench into my relationship to screw me over".

his chair stresses against the floor. body pulling in closer. fury stored in the pull in of his brows. "you screwed yourself. threw yourself headfirst into bullshit because you're scared. called what we had a thing, because if you actually put a decent name to it then you'd have to admit how you feel about me, and how much that terrifies you...", his tone hushed and curt and piercing. "because cody is safe and easy and if he fails at making you happy, it's no real loss at all right? because you were never really in all the way anyways".

you feel thin. subdued and quite overwrought by all this exposure to him. "you had time to say something. why wait till when i'm with someone else?"

he sighs. settles into an answer like it's the hundredth time he's come to the conclusion of it. "spent since january trying to get rid of you and it didn't work for me, and you were on live tv botchin the hell out of everything, trying to get rid of me, so i don't think it really worked for you either...so here we are".

the air thick and the silence loud. the droning of the bar easing in to fill the space. a hard siphon of the energy by words and the confession of not so dead feelings. your ginger beers icy still and watered. a waitress comes, strutting up to your table.

"you guys need anything?"

"two more of these ginger beers please", punk gives. a small smile as she leaves.

his eyes the color of garden sage. softer now. flitting over your face with a renewed sense of diligence.

and it's more clear now than it's ever been. he isn't going anywhere.

your fingers curl, a slow coming together into your palm to ball. multi-purposed, squeezing to live a little in that familiar burst of an ache. bones and muscles flexing as the skin pulls some. a summation of weariness. knuckles breaking against the door to knock. a similar rhythm playing in your chest, because cody could be many things. sad. angry. vexed. indifferent. he could speak wild or terribly soft, but inspire another layer of guilt to lay at your skin just the same.

"just a second", he gives. bass in the voice and words slipping thick like over his tongue. in that way that he tries to cover some but can't help.

a shift in your leg, like the anxious pinch of a nerve. a jerk or maybe a pulling. you're not sure what it is, but it's asking to move. to leave. to maybe do this another time. "i can come back later if you want", shouting some over the regular drone of pre-live show buzz. one hand slipping away from the cool metal of the door handle and the other undoing from that ache of a fist. making to about face into the fray of crew members. but he must recognize your voice, even through the thickness of the door. must've settled himself enough in whatever emotions he's living in.

his voice rushing. like he can feel you falling away from this long overdue talk. "no no, come in. i'm good. come in".

your hand returns against the door handle. cool metal more like an icy burning. stepping into his dressing room like a re-entry into the world of him. his hair retouched to the roots, a cold blonde that pops his already sky blue eyes. his hands roughing with his wrestling boots. blinking up at you silently. mouth parted and slightly lost for words. like he'd maybe rehearsed everything and has now forgotten all the brilliance of it. a sigh leaving with that realization. like he'll have to forsake all the prearranged self made discussion and go about this a little less practiced. "you look well", he gives. with a nod. "the break did you some good".

"yeah", stepping in further. arms folded over. body overly aware of his appraisal. "that seems to be the consensus".

his throat clears, brows pulling together before they fall away quickly. this awkward abrupt movement that reveals the slow work of his thoughts. gears oiled and turning and trying out words before he says them. a farer cry from his in-ring persona, where he's suited and pristine and seemingly always ready. the little action of it making him more human to the eyes and less star-like. something you would have shrunk away from before out of fear that it would cause him some lackluster effect, now finding in its own imperfections, very endearing.

"was it something about me, or anything i ever did that kinda just-...?", his voice falling off. left to motion oddly between your bodies with his hands. miming a separation. like finishing the words, allowing them to live in the air, would cause them to be true.

"no! no, it was...", trying to find something not so terrible to soothe him with. stepping a little closer to him. arms unfolded. like the honesty begging to leave you for some time has now taken command of your body and it's functioning. "...i wasn't being honest about a lot of things with myself and it spilled over into what we had going on, and i'm really sorry about that".

and he nods. not like he's accepting of it all but like he gets it. like he's relating to you. eyes softer, made vulnerable by his own truth. "all the...all the asinine bullshit leading up to mania just...", his eyes rolling as he remembers the trouble of it. "...on top of already wanting the belt for personal reasons, it just drove me crazy. and i think in the midst of that, i leaned in on us a little harder than i should've. maybe more than i planned to". fingers scratching and curling up into his hair, going about aimlessly almost. giving himself something to do to remedy the weight of his words. "we have quite a bit in common so...the intimacy was good enough, it-it was easy to just hold on to. i think we were both faking it to make it".

your throat grows heavy, face warm with the well up of tears. relief meshing easy with the sadness of it all. the both of you willing to settle, if it meant being comfortable and not alone. a heartbreaking circumstance to force upon the self for sure.

"can i...?", your hands motioning for an embrace.

"of course, c'mere".

his arms warm and comforting as he takes you in. wrapped tightly, with a friendly sort of affection. an earnest touch, made not to linger in a performance of desire but to give solace. sniffling against his chest as he squeezes tightly.

"don't you start crying for real...", he jokes. "...cause then you're gonna make me cry".

you smile. slipping away from him gently. "well that don't take much so..."

his eyes roll. grabbing the outer jacket that completes his in-ring gear.

your fingers sweep under your eyes to rid of the wet streaks. shoulders less heavy and the dread in your chest no longer fighting to consume. making to leave his dressing room. "don't go easy on him either. i need him a little softened up".

"will do".

you make a full exit. slipping your phone from your pocket. his name under your thumb as you press against it. memory serving well, thinking of that sports bar in albany and all the empty glasses of ginger beer spread across the table. the vex about his face growing gentler as the night carried on. that line in the sand washed away, the boundary blurred and then made new into something with a better shaping. his cool, pale, sage eyes working like he wanted to remember that moment. like the satisfaction of having you in front of him again without any attempts to break away from him, was too good to simply be lost to time.

you click to call and wait for his answer. an impatience running in your fingers as you make to join the producers and tech operators at the staging area.

he answers. a simple, coarse, "yeah", that sweetens your ears.

"have breakfast with me tomorrow", you give. plain and a little demanding. "please?"

he hums. amusement in his voice like he's smiling.

"time and place sweetheart".

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