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cherrychilli · 1 month

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18+ Perv! Steve Harrington x Perv! reader, F reader, friends to lovers, scent kink, reader being a bit of a creep but Steve's into it because duh, masturbation (f) sexual acts in public, mentions of and allusions to oral sex (f)

WC: 5K

A/N: I was going to split this into two parts but fuck it. Two for one special. Still feeling rusty when it comes to writing so go easy on me, yeah? Also, this one's kind of gross at times. Just a little bit. Nothing extreme but just letting you know incase you're someone who gets squeamish easily. Enjoy!

The hair? sure. Everyone liked his hair.

People usually fell into two camps when it came to Steve Harrington's signature do; either they envied it or they hoped to be one of the lucky ones who got to run their fingers through it.

You used to daydream about the latter when you only knew him from afar but now that he no longer ran with a particular kind of crowd, now that he's just Steve and no longer the King, you managed to get close enough to find out that he smelled nice too.

Really nice.

So, figuring out that he used women's shampoo shouldn't have been the revelation that it was because it made so much sense, his tresses never scented with a wintry pine or spicy cedarwood like most scent profiles marketed to men.

You had your friends to thank for your stumbling upon that discovery, the group of them arriving at your home to bully you out of your PJ's and into a pair of jeans and shoes, uprooting you from your room on a Saturday afternoon for an outing to the fancy part of the mall.

While they searched for new make-up, you wandered a section of the store by yourself, uncapping the pretty bottles in the hair care aisle whenever the sales assistants' attention wandered elsewhere, squeezing each one carefully to sample the array of scents. You did this idly and with no real plans to purchase anything, just something to pass the time while your friends crowded another display a few aisles away, chattering blissfully and swatching lipsticks.

Picking up a fifth shampoo from the lineup of bottles, you brought the uncapped rim up to your face, lightly skimming your cupids bow with it as you gently inhaled. While fun, you'd spent most of your time at the mall feeling a little bored, a small part of you still desiring to go back home where you could lounge and laze in peace. That was until you began to recognize the scent of the newest shampoo you had clutched in your hand, the familiarity of it triggering a whirlpool of memories.

In seconds, your mind plunged back to the night of Jack Sullivan's graduation party. The first time Steve Harrington had spoken to you – really spoken to you since he’d parted ways with Carol and Tommy, seeming much more approachable than he had in the past.

The two of you had ended up sharing the patio swing outside where the air wasn't as thick with smoke and the smell of spilled booze. Making conversation, he offered you a beer he'd originally intended to give Robin before she'd slipped away into one of the guest bathrooms with your best friend Sally. You both knew why, sharing a look of understanding but never mentioning the obvious out loud out of loyalty to your friends.

Then there was the only day it rained in July, remembering the way your fingers brushed against his as you handed him your umbrella. You'd discovered him taking refuge under the awning of the diner you worked at that morning, face twisted all worrisome as he looked up from his wristwatch to the downpour in front of him, forced into walking to work that day due to his car still being in the shop. The only light that shone that day was the gleaming smile he gave you when he thanked you for your kindness.

And then there was the time when you had your head down while scanning a tape at Family Video, bumping face first into Steve's chest when you rounded the corner, his name tag catching on your bottom lip. It was the tiniest sliver of a cut, barely noticeable or painful but oh, how he fussed over you like you were made of porcelain. He’d gone so far as to sit you down on his chair behind the counter as if you might collapse from blood loss at any moment, whizzing into the break room and back with a fist full of napkins to dab the miniscule wound that had already stopped bleeding.

All of those memories and more linked by one scent. This scent.

With your pupils dilating like a cat prepared to pounce, you flipped the bottle over to read the contents.

White frangipani blossoms, toasted coconut, bergamot waters, sea salt breeze and sunkissed musk.

Steve Harrington in a bottle. And the quickest 16 dollars you've ever spent.

And with that purchase came the self-imposed reminder to exercise caution. Upon leaving the mall with your friends, your mood much chipper than when you'd arrived, you made sure to hardly ever use the shampoo when you bathed, afraid that if Steve smelled it on you later, somehow, he'd be able to put the pieces together and know why you'd bought it, even as wildly unlikely as that seemed.

So instead, you huffed the bottle in private on most days, only using it when you knew you'd be spending the day at home. On those eagerly awaited days you luxuriated in the scent as you applied the shampoo in your shower, mind and fingers wandering, working your peaked nipples and your firm clit up to the thought of Steve joining you in your shower and fucking you dumb – tits pressed up against the cold, wet tiles, ass bouncing on his hips as he stretched you open and used you well.

But now that you'd discovered this new kind of hunger you had to make sure to keep it well fed and when the shampoo didn't feel like enough anymore, you set out to purchase his cologne.

The scent was one you had memorized from all of your trips to the video store, hanging around the counter while Steve talked to you about which movie you ought to rent next. You could smell it on his neck whenever he leaned in close on his elbows, face inches away from yours, wishing he'd close the distance and meet your lips with his.

Another trip to the mall had you scouring the men's section like a wolf tracking the scent of injured prey, sampling bottle after bottle of cologne until you found it.

Aromatic sage, dark tonka bean and rich sandalwood. Priced at a cool $39.50 which you gladly forked over because to you, it was all money well spent.

The cologne became part of your nightly routine after that, dabbing drops of the heady scent on your body when you went to bed, the smell making your arousal climb before lulling you to sleep an orgasm later, evoking dreams of Steve throughout the night that made you wake up to your panties all damp and sticking to your core by morning.

You were content that way, the shampoo and the cologne enough to satiate your fixation on the way Steve smelled all while managing to maintain your friendship with him without things becoming weird.

What ended up shattering that peace however was running into him a few weeks later coming out of the Y, just done with a game of basketball as he spotted you passing by and happily waved you down.

He smiled at you just as brightly as he had all those months ago in July, this time dressed in his gym clothes; a pair of green shorts that showed off the thickness of his toned, hairy thighs and a grey t-shirt, the sleeves filled out well by his tanned biceps and its collar darkened by sweat.

Up close, you could smell the exertion on him and that was what became your undoing.

It took every iota of self-control not to rush him to the ground and pin him beneath you, feeling more and more like a caged animal the longer the conversation went on and you were forced to compose yourself.

It was the kind of scent you wanted to sink into, more so than the cologne or the shampoo because this was Steve completely unadulterated – that earthy musk, that rugged, almost spicy all-natural scent that you wouldn't be able to find on any shelf.

Barely managing to hold it together until parting ways with him, you knew you wouldn't be able to rest without it, mind already working to devise a plan.

"Risve- what?"

You chuckled as the word died on Steve's tongue, knowing he'd trip up on the pronunciation. Reaching for a pen and a scrap of paper sitting on the counter, you wrote the word down for him. "Risvegli. It's Italian", you explain, handing it to him as you do your best to repress the shiver that runs through you when his slender fingers graze yours, trying hard to quieten your mind after all the ways you’ve imagined those very fingers touching you in your most sensitive places.

"It's kind of an obscure flick but I like that sort of stuff. D'you think you could have a look and see if you've got a copy in the back?", you try not to bat your lashes too much when you ask, not wanting to overplay the sweetness to the point that it comes off as insincere or worse, suspicious.

Steve looks down to study the paper, cheeks dusted a pretty pink, you can’t help but notice. The ends of his hair are still damp from his shower at the Y, just as you expected now that you knew which days he spent there before clocking in for work.

"For you? Definitely", he looked back up and smiled at you in that way that made your heart somersault. "Be right back". He leaves you alone at the counter and you make sure to wait for him to disappear out of sight into the back, stamping down a flash of guilt for having sent him off to search for a movie that didn't exist to buy you time.

You'd planned it all last night, stepping away from the counter before heading towards the employee break room, able to sneak in without fear of running into Robin because you knew she'd be spending the day with Sally on her day off from working at the diner.

Steve’s duffle bag is in plain view as you shut the door to the little room behind you quietly, resting on a chair that'd been pulled out from the table where you imagined he probably shared his lunch breaks with Robin.

Striding up to it, you find the zipper and tentatively, you pull it open to reveal the contents. What you're looking for is balled up at the very top, picking up the sweat damp t-shirt with clammy, trembling fingers. You're really crossing a line this time and you know it, your teeth close to piercing the soft skin of your bottom lip as you bite down on it but you can't deny that there's just something so exhilarating about the whole thing too. The lying, the sneaking around, the risk – it's all a little too much and your mind grows foggy with it, dulling your once sharp intuition and giving way to a moment of weakness that has you abandoning caution now that you're alone.

Waiting to do indulge your urges until you're safe at home feels impossible now that you've got your hands on it, eagerly pressing your nose into the damp t-shirt, eyes nearly rolling back as you filled your lungs with the smell of him. It must have been the pheromones, it had to be, awakening that primal kind of desire in you that had you parting your lips and pressing the tip of your tongue to one of the sweat stains, sucking on the sour, salty musk that had soaked into the cotton.

What you're doing is so dirty, damn near repulsive and knowing that just fuels you even more as you begin to salivate. You're too wrapped up in the earthy scent of him, too lost in the taste to notice when the door handle jiggles behind you, too drunk on the sick thought of what Steve’s used boxers must smell like if you were to pull those out of his duffle next when all of a sudden, it's too late.

The door to the break room swings open and in walks Steve, the world screeching to a sickening standstill when his eyes fall on you.

Your own eyes bulging, you watch in mute horror as he takes in the sight before him, the scrap of paper you'd handed him earlier slipping from between his thumb and forefinger, fluttering to the floor like the wings of a dying butterfly.

It's impossible to know what he's thinking. Is it disgust? if so, he hid it well. Bewilderment? You weren't sure. Ice crackles over your bones as the two of you stare for a few seconds longer, Steve's expression still unreadable.

The whole thing's all the more uncomfortable because of the way he continues to watch you like you’re something to be studied, looking contemplative as you trembled in place, wishing for the ground to break open beneath your feet and swallow you away into a never-ending crevasse.

But as the seconds tick by and the ground stays perfectly intact you're left to seek your own respite.

Despite what feels like the blood retreating from your veins, your body shifts into auto pilot as you wordlessly place the rumpled t-shirt back in Steve's duffel and do the only thing you can do in a fucked up situation like this – walk away. Even as he tries to call after you, you ignore his shouts, continuing on a path towards and out the exit, mortified.

You don't go back to Family Video after that. In fact, you avoid that entire street for a whole week.

The days following being caught out by Steve were some of the worst you've had to endure. Shame made a home in your body, making you ache with a belly full of thorns and your thoughts growing increasingly heavy and abrasive as they flood your throbbing head.

For those seven days you carried around the dread of knowing that Steve had discovered that secret side of you, the feeling worsening at the thought of him telling others what he had seen and rendering you some kind of town pariah – even though a tiny, hopeful whisper inside your raucous head told you that he probably hadn't said anything, at least not yet since Sally hadn't even seemed to have gotten word of the incident from Robin.

But that's all it was. A tiny, fleeting whisper that did nothing to calm you.

At home, you buried yourself in your blankets, letting your anxieties exhaust you to sleep and at work you moved as if you were fighting your way through thick slurry – slow and dragging your body from table to table, unsmiling as you took patrons' meal orders and served them their food.

You continued like that all throughout your shift, waiting for the moment you could peel your polyester uniform off in favour of your own clothes and drive yourself home. With only 30 minutes left before closing, your shoulders which had been pulled tight all day with tension began to sag, a momentary wash of relief coursing through you. That was until you smelled it – smelled him.

Whipping around, your stomach plummets when your eyes fall on Steve walking through the door – and to make things worse, he’s carrying that duffle on his shoulder.

He's yet to have spotted you, taking a seat at one of the empty booths though you notice the way his eyes are scanning the diner, searching.

It's obvious that you’re the one he’s looking for as worry courses down your spine like a lightning strike. Was he going to confront you? right here? in front of all these people? Normally you wouldn’t peg Steve as someone who’d do something so cruel but after what he’d caught you doing, a little public humiliation doesn’t seem all that undeserved, you had to admit.

So, carefully you retreat into the breakroom without drawing his attention, pulling a perplexed Sally along with you once you'd caught hold of her by her elbow.

Once safely inside, you all but blubber in her face, begging her to wait on Steve's table, even promising her all your tips for the next week in exchange.

Seeing the distress contorting your face must have made her feel sorry for you because she pulls you in for a quick, tight hug, running her hand up and down your back in an attempt to calm you. You'd only given her little snippets of what had happened at the video store, making sure to alter a few details for the sake of concealing how far you’d actually gone that day. To her, the gist of it was that you'd embarrassed yourself horribly and that was all she really needed to know, springing into action as the compassionate best friend to the rescue.

"I've got it, okay? just breathe", she'd repeated soothingly into your hair, giving you a quick squeeze and her best reassuring smile before you reluctantly unwind your hands from around her, allowing her to step out of the break room ahead of you.

Outside again, thirty minutes drag on like hours while you purposely stick to the part of the diner that's furthest away from Steve's table. You don't dare look at him but you do sneak a glance when Sally walks by with his order, a single black coffee and nothing else which he sips leisurely while you tremble.

If his plan was to confront you then what the hell was he waiting for? There was nothing stopping him from walking up to you while sweat collects between your shoulder blades as you clear the tables of customers who’ve settled their bill and since left. Nothing to prevent him from stepping up to the counter while you nervously rubbed the surface of it free of crumbs and stains to demand an explanation for your bizarre behavior last week. Nothing to stop him from simply walking up to you at any moment and ask to know what the fuck your deal was.

But he doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he finishes his coffee and casually waves down Sally for the bill while smiling politely. Somehow that causes you even more unease.

In that moment you lose sight of Steve when you’re called over to serve the only other table of customers left, a family of five keen to fit in one last round of milkshakes before they call an end to their meal.

You see to their order despite your shaking limbs, returning with a tray crowded with the cold, sweet drinks, setting each one down carefully in front of the smiling children and their parents before you head back behind the counter with your tray clutched close to your chest. The whole thing must have taken you ten minutes and when you sneak one more look in Steve’s direction you find his booth empty this time.

Eyes frantically searching the diner, you manage to catch a final glimpse of him walking out the front door, bell chiming above him as he departs, leaving the diner and you with even more questions than you had when he'd first arrived.

Had Steve changed his mind? Had he just wanted to make you sweat for the hell of it? Taken pleasure in watching you try to keep it together in his presence while you traipsed around the diner all too carefully like a petrified newborn deer?

Why had he shown up at all today if he wasn’t going to...do anything?

You get your answer fifteen minutes later when wearily, you trudge into the staff room at the end of your shift, pulling open your locker and all but fainting at the sight of what’s been placed inside beside your belongings.

Neatly folded inside is Steve's grey t-shirt, the same one you'd tried unsuccessfully to "borrow" last week The scent of him is instantly recognizable as you inhale shakily, fingers reaching out to touch the slightly damp cotton to confirm to yourself that you weren’t in fact hallucinating the whole thing.

When your pulse starts to settle and the static crackling in your ears starts to cease you notice a little scrap of folded paper placed inside too. Picking it up and pulling it open, it's with a deep, dreamy sigh that your chest blooms with sunny warmth as you read the note, a smile gracing your lips for the first time in a week.

Three months later...

The only good thing about working the graveyard shift at the diner was that Steve always insisted on coming in an hour before you clocked out so he could drive you home.

Occupying one of the booths inside the sleepy diner, he'd keep himself busy with his phone while you worked, perking up whenever you came by to freshen up his coffee or sneak him a piece of pie he hadn't ordered with all his favorite fixings.

It was during those moments that he liked to have a little fun with you, quickly surveying the room to make sure no customers or staff were looking over in your direction before he'd slip his fingers under your skirt and pinch your ass. Sometimes you'd see it coming and other times he'd catch you off guard, cruel delight curling his lips into a smirk whenever you had to stifle your surprised squeals.

And that's as far as he usually took, patiently waiting until he could get you in his car for more but today felt different.

With no new customers coming in in the last two hours, Sally had taken to the break room to work in a nap while the kitchen staff had stepped out back to smoke and deal cards to pass the time. That left just you working the front with Steve as the diner's only patron.

Having no one else around meant you could flirt freely with him now, making sure to look over your shoulder every now and then just incase to make sure you didn't get caught.

You spent that time alone together with his boot gently tapping against your shoe under the table, reaching out and fiddling with his fingers because you always liked to be touching him while you happily teased each other as the minutes passed by.

Somewhere in the middle of your playful banter you noticed Steve's cup was now empty, picking yourself up from the booth to bring over more coffee. As you leaned over the edge of the table to pour, you anticipated the glide of his fingers on your thigh, inching up your skirt to situate them between your legs.

"You're going to get me fired one of these days", you chide him, still holding on to the pot of coffee once you'd finished refilling his cup.

"Good – then I can have you all to myself", he teased back, index finger drawing patterns on your inner thigh, just a few inches below the lacy trim of your panties.

"Steve", you attempt to scold but there's barely any heat there for him to take it seriously, fingers daring to trail higher.

Meeting his heavy gaze, you watch him search your eyes for a moment, the soft smirk that had been tugging at the corner of his lips slowly fading away as something more serious clouds his expression when he leans forward to whisper to you.

"No one's around, baby. Please? Can I?"

It takes you a second before you know exactly what he's asking for without needing him to specify, heat rising up from the depths of your chest and gathering in your cheeks.

He's got that look in his eyes too and you know that this is what it must have looked like the day he caught you with your face buried in his sweaty t-shirt. That feverish glint of potent want making his iris' gleam.

"Steve, it's too risky", you try to reason quietly despite the way your thighs are already parting for him, allowing him to skim the pads of his fingers over the seat of your panties, teasing your waiting folds through the thin later of fabric.

"Never stopped you before", he's quick to reply with wink, making you grow warmer at the reminder.

He's got you beat there.

"I promise I'll be quick", he pleads again softly and it's almost comical how quickly you buckle under the weight of his needy gaze.

"Shit, okay", you concede as you step closer to the edge of the booth and he pulls himself closer too, hand moving higher to cup your ass under your skirt.

You sigh contently when Steve leans forward and presses his nose against the front of your uniform, right over the juncture between your legs. You're careful to keep your grip tight on the handle of the coffee pot you're still carrying when he takes in a deep breath, inhaling your scent right through your clothes.

Steve liked to joke that you brought out this side of him, the one that made the both of you realize how alike you really were.

It started with the way he liked to linger between your legs after he'd finished eating you out. Your ruined panties spilled out of his back pocket, never to be returned to you as he took his time pressing sweet kisses against your swollen folds and spent clit with his sticky lips, clearly pleased with himself as you fought to catch your breath from the orgasm that'd rippled through you.

And as things progressed, he wasn't secretive about wanting to fuck you so hard and often that the smell of you would linger in the air long after you were done. Or how he liked to nestle his nose in the curls on your mound once he'd finished laving at your pussy – the moreish combination of sweat, saliva and your natural musk making his twitching cock stiffen all over again as he rut into the mattress for a second time, painting his sticky boxers with another generous load.

Other times he'd get on his knees for you, pulling you close by your hips so he could place his face against your clothed cunt and mumble dreamy praises about how good your pussy smelled. And you always loved it when he got like that, even now as your free hand strokes lazily through his caramel hair, letting him do this to you in the middle of your place of work, your coworkers unaware but not far away enough that they couldn't walk in at any moment and find the two of you like this.

"Stevie", you whined softly as you tried to get his attention, a reluctant reminder that the two of you should probably stop before it's too late.

"Jus' a little more, please? need it to tide me over before I can get you alone". His eyes are all glazed over when he looks up at you, tentatively slipping his other hand up the front of your thigh to hitch up the hem of your skirt ever so slightly, his gaze all pleading as he waits for your permission.

With the way he's managed to work you up, your panties more that a little tacky from his attention and your belly tightening with warmth, how could you possibly refuse when you needed this just as badly as he did?

"Fuck. Yes, okay – just be careful", you urge gently because 'be quick' doesn't seem likely anymore.

A look of pure bliss breaks out on his reddening face. "Christ. Thank you, baby", Steve groans appreciatively, pushing your skirt up to expose your panties before burying his face against your clothed mound. He can feel the outline of your cunt perfectly when he's this close – so soft and plump, his mounting greed has him battling the urge to pull the soaked cotton down to your knees and start sucking the tangy slick from your pretty, swollen pussy lips before pressing deeper to lick at your tight hole and all it has to offer.

Restraining himself, he lets out a muffled moan against your core that has your clit swelling and throbbing, your eyes slipping shut while you give yourself to him. It's almost soothing the way he savors you so shamelessly, head partially ducked underneath your rucked up skirt, fingers gently squeezing your ass with his blunt nails making light indents in your skin.

You let him breathe you in for a while longer until you begin to feel a little floaty and more than a little needy from it all, expecting Steve to pull away soon because how much longer could you get away with doing this in public? Stopping him isn't what you want, not really but you knew better than to push your luck by now.

But instead of him reluctantly withdrawing away from you, what you feel next is the wet drag of his tongue along your messy panties, warm, firm and sudden.

Although definitely not unwelcome, under the circumstances, the feeling of it startles you and you can't help but cry out with a yelp, arm jerking backwards as a splash of coffee makes its way onto the checkered diner floor.

Hearts hammering, the both of you rip apart from each other then, Steve with his wide eyes and ruffled hair as he plasters himself to his seat while you very nearly lose what's left of your balance when your shoes skid over the wet mess of spilled coffee. You manage to catch yourself though when you grab the edge of his table with your free hand, finally placing the damn coffee pot down to hurriedly pull your skirt back into place.

Silence overtakes the room as the both of you peer wordlessly in the direction of the kitchen and breakroom, waiting to see if you'd accidentally drawn the attention of any nearby diner staff.

Seconds turn into a minute and when no one comes through either of the doors you allow yourself to sigh out in relief, turning back to Steve.

"Shit. I'm sorry I couldn't help it – had to taste you, honey. You just – fuck, you just smell so fucking good. I needed a little more", he tries to explain when your eyes connect, his cheeks sheened with a thin layer of perspiration and flushed a deep pink.

You were foolish to think you could let him do all of that and endure waiting until the end of your shift to take things further in his car. Leaving him with his lips parted and his jaw slack, you stride away to the diner's entrance to quickly flip the 'open' sign over to read 'closed', rushing back to tug Steve up and out of his seat urgently, grinning when you catch sight of the stiff bulge straining in his jeans.

"Supply closet. Now. Need you to put that mouth of yours to good use."

#steve harrington #steve harrington smut #stranger things smut #stranger things #steve harrington x reader

1K notes · View notes

forlix · 8 months

Text

𝐜𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠・h.h.

— you're uninviting, there's no doubt about that, your resolve like unpolished diamond and tongue like broken glass. but hyunjin finds you're not half as impossible as everyone assumes you are.

words・11.1k

pairing・idol!hyunjin x female stylist!reader (inspired by this)

genres・fluff, angst, eventual smut so MDNI, some hurt/comfort, some humor, mc is a bad bitch and hyunjin is a #simp, enemies? to lovers, sexual tension, workplace relationship, mutual pining, slow burn, nonlinear narrative

warnings・reader vividly remembers an anxiety attack, alcohol is consumed, lots of compartmentalization and imperfect communication, complex people feeling complex emotions, smut warnings under the cut

playlist・farewell, neverland by txt・like crazy by jimin・black friday by tom odell・collide by justine skye・crying lightning by arctic monkeys

a/n・call me victor frankenstein bc i've given birth to a MONSTER (except i actually love and care for mine ofc). this was easily the greatest challenge of my fanfiction-writing career and it feels like my magnum opus; i hope it's worth the wait! also a huge shoutout to sahar for being my voice of reason and my biggest supporter :’) i don’t deserve u i love u

smut warnings・cunnilingus, overstimulation, creampie (practice safe sex!!), mild dacryphilia

Present day. Cannes, France. 5:54 P.M.

You’ve long made peace with the fact that Hwang Hyunjin is incapable of shutting up for more than five minutes.

As it is, the man has a mouth that runs like a cross-country marathon; then throw in his uncanny aptitude for annoying you, and what do you get? A nonstop slew of terrible jokes and teasing quips, tailored according to his thorough mental manual of what gets under your skin hardest and fastest.

This is the reality you live in, presumably because you were evil in your past life, and you’ve steeled yourself to see it through.

But twenty minutes have passed since you and Hyunjin ducked into the back of a cab and gave the driver the show’s address—and, as stunning as the red rooftops and lazuline coastline of Cannes are, you find you’re more interested in Hyunjin’s peculiar silence.

You move your gaze to his face. He’s looking outside, his chin resting upon the palm of his hand, the afternoon sunlight dusting over his chiseled features like polish on pottery; his complexion an exuberant gold against the cream-colored linen that makes up his clothing.

Maybe it’s because you opted for a simpler makeup look today, leaving the most telling contours of his face warm and bare, or maybe it’s because you’ve spent the last year committing his every mannerism and expression to memory. Nevertheless, you see through his pursed lips and tight brow right away.

“Nervous?”

Hyunjin’s head swivels towards you with a small snap, like he’s forgotten you’re here. His lips fall open, their glossy peach color glinting with the small shift.

“No,” he replies reflexively, but then his facade flickers. “Fuck, maybe a little. It’s just hard to believe, you know?”

You do know. It was a huge honor for both of you when Hyunjin was named the newest global ambassador of Versace. For you to be attending the brand’s pop-up show in one of the most beautiful cities in Europe, among some of the world’s most prolific creatives, is truly incomprehensible. Even you’ve been feeling antsy since you landed; you can only imagine Hyunjin’s anxiety.

You have never been good at consolation. You think your mouth is too coarse, your propensity for honesty too strong. But you’ve always known just what to say when it comes to him.

“Just remember who you are.”

Hyunjin takes a few seconds to process your words, but his understanding washes over his whole body; straightens his back; hardens his gaze. You don’t see this change in posture, though. You’re too busy looking anywhere else, all of a sudden feeling quite embarrassed.

Nor do you see the private smile that disperses across Hyunjin’s lips; his eyes softening so, so marginally when they peer at your profile; his hand twitching where it rests on his knee, as if contemplating reaching for you with a mind of its own.

Thirty seconds. That is the amount of time you have left to bask in this otherworldly tranquility. And then he speaks.

“I want you to meet my parents.”

Your arm reacts before your mind can. Without having to turn your head an inch, you smack him squarely in the bicep, sending him crumpling against his door with a bark of a laugh; “please,” he adds, and you’re biting back a smile as you hit him again, with less conviction this time.

The cab driver nearly misses an exit, too busy wondering about the peculiar pair in his backseat and the nature of your relationship. He can’t tell if you hate each other or if you’re married.

One year ago. Seoul, South Korea. 8:42 A.M.

“I still can’t believe you’re abandoning me.”

“For my newborn daughter.”

“Yeah, okay. I still can’t believe you’re abandoning me for your newborn daughter. What does that brat have that I don’t?”

“My genes, to begin with.”

“That’s unfair. She’s using—”

An important-looking pair of women step out of the nearest elevators, the clacking of their heels ricocheting sharply off the lobby walls. Hyunjin straightens his back so quickly he thinks he pulls a muscle. He and Seojun incline their heads in perfect sync, their “good morning”s prim and professional.

“She’s using cheats,” Hyunjin hisses the second the women are out of earshot again, and this wrests a laugh from the older man at last.

Around one month prior, Seojun confided in Hyunjin that he and his partner were expecting their first child soon, and that he would be putting his career on indefinite hiatus to welcome her into the world.

Hyunjin had never felt so conflicted in his life. On one hand, he’d grown closer to his stylist over the last two years than he’d thought possible, and he knew it was stupid to be anything but delighted for him and his expanding family. On the other hand, it was precisely because they’d become so close that he wanted to grab the man by the ankles and shake the decision clean out of his body. He couldn’t imagine a dressing room or tour bus without him.

Today is a Saturday, but it’s also Seojun’s last day with the company. Hyunjin dragged himself to the JYP building at half past eight with much less reluctance than he let on. He wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

“Fourth floor,” Seojun instructs after the pair enter the elevator, and Hyunjin presses a knuckle to the according number. “Thanks.”

The doors slide shut; the floor numbers tick upwards.

“What was her name again?” Hyunjin asks.

“Y/N,” Seojun returns. “Y/L/N.”

“Is she here already?”

“No, she’ll be here at nine.”

There’s a small pause.

“Hyung.”

“Hm?”

“I feel like I’m being married off to another family for political reasons.”

“God, I can’t wait to be free of your theatrics.”

At this, the two men make eye contact; exchange smiles. The elevator announces their arrival to the fourth floor, and they step through the doors.

“You’ll be in good hands,” Seojun reassures. “She’s the best of the best. I hear she’s basically running the industry these days. I’m surprised she agreed to take you on.”

“I’m surprised an old fry like you knows someone like her,” Hyunjin replies, and the look Seojun gives him is so withering that he thinks he pulls a muscle again with his apologetic bow.

“You’re not wrong, though,” Seojun concedes. “We happened to work on the same project back when she was still a small name, and we’ve kept in touch ever since. She’s a great kid. Ambitious, hardworking, strong as hell—”

They arrive outside their destination, and Hyunjin holds open the door to the conference room. Only to find that Seojun has stopped in his footsteps, temporarily stunned by a new realization.

She reminds me of him.

“He’s forgotten how to walk,” the him in question whispers like he’s narrating a nature documentary, and the moment is over. “Is this what fatherhood does to a man?”

Seojun kicks Hyunjin into the room by the seat of his pants.

The minutes pass slowly. Seojun moves his eyes between the door and his phone every few seconds, visibly antsy about the imminent meeting. In the meantime, Hyunjin makes the groundbreaking discovery that these office chairs are absurdly and almost suspiciously comfortable. All it takes is a chin upon his palm and a few seconds of shut-eye, and he’s suddenly slumped over the table, snoring softly into the crook of his elbow.

At 8:57, Seojun’s phone lights up with a new notification. At 8:58, he notices that Hyunjin is asleep, and closes his hand around the crumpled receipt in his pocket. At 8:59, he scrunches said receipt into a ball and launches it in Hyunjin’s direction. It hits him squarely on the head, and the boy is nearly knocked to the floor like a bowling pin.

“For that,” Hyunjin sputters, “I’m the godfather.”

“Absolutely the hell not.”

Then, it is 9:00.

When the door of the conference room opens, Hyunjin is still trying to gather his wits, wondering if the bastard is leaving the makeup industry to secretly pursue a career in professional basketball. He just barely notices the unfamiliar figure who steps into his line of vision.

“There she is,” Seojun greets warmly, rising to his feet right away. “God, how long has it been? Two, three years now?”

You’re not doing anything remarkable when Hyunjin sees you for the first time, simply walking across the room and bowing graciously in Seojun’s direction, but he is immediately under the vague impression that you’re cutting through space as you move, scorching the particles of air that dare obstruct your path.

With his head cocked slightly to the left, like a fascinated puppy, Hyunjin watches the stunning smile that forms on your lips when you take Seojun’s hand; your finger as it tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear with the elegance of rippling silk. His mind feels impossibly slow, like you’ve tapped open his skull and robbed him of his ability to think.

Then, you toss Hyunjin a look over your shoulder, and he’s reminded of lightning forking towards the earth. Terrifying, volatile, beautiful.

“Something like that,” you say, turning back to Seojun, and time starts to move again. “It’s great to see you again, Mr. Lee. Congratulations on the baby.”

“Please, Seojun is fine,” he answers hastily. “And thank you. Thank you for all of this, actually. I can’t tell you how excited we are to have you.”

“You’re too kind—I’m excited too.”

Upon uttering the word “we,” Seojun delivers Hyunjin a fleeting side-eye; he takes the hint and pushes himself to his feet, feeling uncharacteristically clumsy as he moves towards you.

The second time he meets your gaze, it feels wrong, almost, for him to hold it for as long as he does. Like he’s approaching your throne with his chin held high and eyes fixed forward instead of his head sweeping the ground.

Except he swears he senses a strange warmth within the rings of your irises, and he spends every second of eye contact following, chasing it, almost craning his neck with how badly he wants to get a closer look. Until he’s as close to you as is socially acceptable for a first meeting and comes to a halt.

He ends up losing its trail, but he won’t forget that it’s there.

“My client, I’m guessing?” You say, extending your hand. “Y/N. It’s a pleasure.”

Your fingers are freezing cold where they meet his, and Hyunjin already knows that melting the permafrost that coats your flesh and guards your soul will be the tallest task of his life.

But he finds his next words accompanied by an involuntary smirk; he’s nothing, if not tenacious.

“Hyunjin,” he returns. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

Nine months ago. Paris, France. 6:16 P.M.

Hyunjin isn’t sure why—maybe you forget that he can still steal glances at your reflection over your shoulder or through the gaps of your fingers—but he’s learned over the last four weeks that you’re different, gentler, when you’re doing his makeup.

Your cold hands request instead of demand that he angle his head a certain way or suck in his cheeks. Your syllables are rounder somehow, your voice never traveling above a murmur. Even your eyes mellow out when you move in really close, your pupils dilating as you detail the final touches to the fresco you’ve painted upon him.

Your expression doesn’t give you away (it never does), but his hunch is that there’s a sprinkle of doting somewhere among the intense focus. That would explain why he feels like a flower in the moments when your fingertips and gaze move so carefully over his skin, like you’re touching his petals, trying not to tear them.

Too bad you never let him daydream for long.

“Close.”

“Huh?”

“Your eyes. Close them.”

His lashes have hardly brushed his lower lids when you begin to empty what feels like an entire bottle of setting spray on him. At the moist surprise, Hyunjin’s features scrunch up around his nose and he lets out a distraught hack like an old man.

A few seconds later, the barrage stops, and he cracks open a wary eye to scope out his surroundings. You wait until he does this to give his face one last spurt.

“Witch,” Hyunjin mutters, clawing back up the vanity chair.

“Thank you,” you reply, completely earnestly.

And whatever Hyunjin was going to say next suspends instantly on his tongue when you bring the pad of your thumb to the very edge of his lower lip and drag it across the soft flesh. He wonders if you know how hard he tries not to look at your mouth whenever you tend to his. He wonders if there’s anything you don’t know.

“You smudged your lipstick already.” There’s a small streak of coral pink on your hand when it falls back to your side. “See? That’s why we need the setting spray.”

“Uh huh.” And Hyunjin spots a ghost of a smile flit across your face, gone nearly as soon as it appears. The only evidence of it ever existing is the quickened heartbeat it leaves behind within him.

“You’re done, by the way,” you say, stepping aside. “Take a look.”

He slips out of his seat and moves closer to the vanity, peering at his reflection as curiously as if he’s never seen it before. But that’s how he’s felt since he started working with you.

Seojun was right: you are the best that the makeup industry has to offer. Hyunjin has come to understand this for multiple reasons. Your phone screen is incessantly illuminated by new notifications and incoming calls. The other stylists heed your advice like it’s the law. Brushes and pencils move like water when it’s you maneuvering them. And then some.

He would call what you have “talent,” but he knows it’s more than that. You show him a new version of himself every time you turn a mirror in his direction, like there are facets of him that are visible to you and you only. As much as he delights in the notion that you have such intimate knowledge of him, it should be impossible, considering you’ve only known him for two months. So no, it’s not just talent that you possess. It’s some combination of talent, hawkish perception, and raw artistry that is utterly inhuman—and sexy as fuck.

Speaking of sexy. Hyunjin’s look is relatively rudimentary tonight, the makeup light, the outfit a simple black tank top beneath a jacket and pants made of bright red velvet. But it’s the details that tie the whole thing together: the wide, loose sleeves causing the jacket to slip continually off his shoulders; the inner layer tight in all the right places. His face doesn’t look half bad either, with the sultry carmine powder that fringes his eyes and the intentionally mussed state of his hair. He pushes a hand through the dark locks, regarding himself with thorough appreciation.

You appear in his periphery as you start cleaning up your work station. “You can just take the jacket off when your sweat glands start malfunctioning, by the way. I thought you’d appreciate that detail.”

At this, his smize cracks into a laugh, the sound loud and uninhibited and uniquely yours to hear. “You suck.”

He looks away from his reflection just in time to glimpse another of your phantom smiles, and he thinks it’s so painfully on brand that the two times it’s appeared tonight have both been from you making yourself laugh. You might be the most insufferable person he’s ever met. He might be obsessed with you anyways.

“Well?” You implore. “What do you think?”

“No notes.”

It’s the answer you’re expecting. You survey him from head to toe one last time, decide that you, too, are satisfied, and slip your makeup into your bag; hike its strap over your shoulder.

“I’ll see you after the show, then.”

You have an important conference call to attend before tonight’s concert, hence why Hyunjin had to come in early for hair and makeup. This is also the reason why the two of you have been the only people in the dressing room for the better part of an hour.

It’s rare that he ever gets you alone, and he doesn’t want it to end. Not just yet.

“I lied, actually,” he calls. “I do have notes.”

You already have one foot out the door when you hear this, and you turn around so slowly and in such disbelief that he has to fight to constrain his laugh—the concept of imperfection is truly unthinkable to you. Insufferable, like he said.

“Do tell,” you say, dropping your bag back onto the floor.

“You have any jewelry for me?”

You chew on this for a moment. You did have a selection of necklaces prepared for tonight, but they were heavy and numerous, not exactly the best-suited for the group’s dynamic sets. You still like them, granted, and you know Hyunjin would as well.

You articulate all of this to him, and he asks if he can take a look at them anyways. “Come here, then,” you say, the words so tantalizing when they fall from your lips that nearly trips over himself trying to obey.

You take out a flat rectangular box from your bag and set it down in front of the lightbulb-studded mirrors. Hyunjin observes quietly as you show him its contents: three thick, gold chains with varying lengths and boasting different pendants, plus a beaded bracelet and an assembly of rings of the same material. His devious plan aside, he does love the selection.

“You’re sure you won’t be uncomfortable?”

He nods, and you pick up the longest of the three chains; turn to him expectedly. He takes this as his cue to move closer to you, except he overshoots a little, and he feels the tips of his shoes accidentally bump into the ends of yours; discerns the warmth emanating from your body against his own. He expects a withering glare, a kick in the shin, maybe, but you don’t seem bothered by the proximity at all, unblinking as you bring your hands around the either side of his neck and fasten the first necklace with a soft tap. Your fingers then brush over his collarbones to adjust the pendant, and he thinks your hands would have to be numb not to perceive the frantic heartbeat threatening to burst straight out of his skin.

Entire minutes pass before Hyunjin musters the courage to actually look at you. By then, you’re already working on the third and final necklace. It’s not a surprise that your face is mere inches away from his; he’s been watching your reflections out of the corner of his eye; he knows you’re closer to each other than you’ve ever been. But there are parts of you that the mirror doesn’t show—the soft curve of your lashes, the concentrated narrow of your eyes, the shapely protrusion of your pursed lips—and these surprise him so thoroughly that he slips and slides out of his right mind.

You are the type of beautiful that’s been around longer than humans have, the same as that of the true blue color of forget-me-nots. And Hyunjin feels enveloped, intoxicated by you from this minuscule distance. The idea forms numbly in his head that maybe, just maybe, he was put on this earth to admire you.

In this inebriated state, he makes a venturesome decision.

When you finish centering the last pendant upon the his chest, you are about to take a step back and review the updated look, but you’re debilitated by the feeling of fingers grazing over your hip—lightly, so lightly that you mistake them for a gust of wind at first, but the contact is enough to push the small of your back against the edge of the counter. Then, both of Hyunjin’s hands reach behind you, pressing flat against the marble surface, and, just like that, he has you right where he wants you, ensnared between cold stone and hot flesh.

And so begins an equilibrium so fragile that it’ll shatter if one of you so much as blinks the wrong way, your rattled breath fluttering against his lips, his eyes dark and hooded and out of focus as they survey the fine lines of your expression. It still doesn’t give you away (it never does), but he finds that in this moment he just doesn’t care.

“Let me take you out,” he murmurs. “One date.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” You reply under your breath.

“You know what I’m talking about, beautiful.”

Upon uttering that last word, he angles his head almost imperceptibly, the movement challenging, daring you to say something about it. But you don’t. You merely hiss out a whetted “you’re fucking crazy,” and that’s his opening to drag this on a little longer; push your limits a little more.

“About you? Damn straight.”

At this, finally, fucking finally, there is a semblance of something in your face that isn’t just your usual mildly-irritated nonchalance. Instead, he detects surprise in the whites of your eyes as you widen them; as you part your lips with a response that only comes much later.

And he’s surprised by your surprise. Surely, with your skills of observation, you would’ve noticed long ago how his world shrinks down to only you and your gorgeous voice and your confident glare and your shitty sense of humor whenever he’s been granted the privilege of your presence.

This might be the first time he’s admitted it out loud, but he hasn’t tried—hasn’t been able—to hide how he feels about you, not now, not ever. It’s been that way since the moment the sole of your shoe met the carpet of that conference room on the fourth floor of the JYP building.

“Hwang—” You begin.

“Hyung!”

At the sound of a third, new voice, your arms tense like you’re about to shove Hyunjin off of you, but he only leans in further, so that his lips almost graze your jaw and your hands have nowhere to go except the taut surface of his chest. The surprise is gone; now you’re just pissed. He can feel the heat of your furious eyes and the tremor in your hands as you form fists around the fabric of his top. But he takes his sweet time in scooping up the bracelet and rings, and only afterwards does he pull away from you and straighten to his full height.

“Hey, Innie!” Hyunjin chirps, and Jeongin materializes in the doorway, looking thoroughly perturbed by the older boy’s sunny tone. “What’s up?”

In the meantime, you turn around to snap the lid of your jewelry box shut, and it takes a singular glance in the mirror for a truly horrible realization to settle upon your shoulders. You don’t think anybody would be able to tell even if you announced it outright, but you know yourself and the little nuances of your face all too well.

You’re flustered.

You feel like a horror movie heroine breaking the fourth wall.

“Nothing, weirdo. I was just announcing my arrival,” Jeongin says. Thank fuck you did, Hyunjin thinks to himself, completely unaware of the epiphany you’re having behind him. “Chan-hyung mentioned you were here already? Why?”

“She’s in high demand.” Hyunjin points out the she in question by jutting his chin in your direction. “The usual.”

“Ah.”

Jeongin inclines his head towards you in polite greeting. You return his hello, but your expression starts to feel tight when his eyes dart between the strange smile on Hyunjin’s face and your awkward stance (still glued to the edge of the counter) as he drops his duffel by the couch. The boy isn’t stupid, unlike his older counterpart.

“I saw a vending machine on my way here,” Jeongin says, turning to leave the room again. “You want anything, hyung? Noona?”

“I’m okay, thank you,” you say.

“I’ll have whatever you have,” Hyunjin says.

Jeongin flashes a thumbs-up and dips out of the room, perhaps a little more hastily than he intends to come across. And then there are two. Again.

You wait until you can’t hear his footsteps anymore, and then you turn to glower at Hyunjin so intensely that he thinks you’re about to place a curse on his whole bloodline.

Then, your phone starts vibrating, and he knows he’ll live to see another day.

“You still owe me an answer,” Hyunjin calls as you turn around and leave the room.

“Don’t hold your breath,” you reply.

One day, I’ll break her, is the predominant thought that resides in Hyunjin’s head as he slips on the remaining jewelry; watches your figure disappear around a corner. One day, I’ll break his face, is the predominant thought that resides in yours as you stalk away. That’s the two of you, in a nutshell.

Six months ago. Osaka, Japan. 3:03 P.M.

When you walk into the dressing room, you find Haeun hunched over an overflowing photo album with her hands forming fists in her hair, muttering to nobody in particular, “I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing.”

There’s an amused look in your eye as you set your bag down by Hyunjin’s empty vanity chair. She hasn’t noticed your presence yet; approximately three hallways down, the members are rehearsing for tonight’s performance on the main stage of the Kyocera Dome, and the music is so loud that you think you actually saw the walls vibrating while you were in the hallway moments ago.

You rise to your tiptoes and encroach upon her, waiting until she’s within reach to tickle the back of her neck. She nearly flies out of her seat with a shriek that can be heard over the heavy bass.

“Never gets old.” You hand her the photo album that went soaring also, and Haeun snatches it back with an affronted flourish.

“I can’t remember the last time you said hi to me normally, unnie.”

“Me neither, now that you mention it.”

Haeun and Han are your favorite stylist-idol duo in the world because they’re so eerily similar—and it’s adorable. They both illuminate every room they walk into; they both have grins too big for their faces, laughs too loud for their lungs. You always regret leaving your sunglasses at home when you catch sight of the effulgent pair.

But today you cannot detect the usual radiance in Haeun’s voice, nor so much as a hint of her easy grin. Then again, that’s another quality that she and her client share; they’re both well acquainted with the burdens that come with unwavering passion.

Every stylist has their own modus operandi. Haeun’s is a scrapbook of images that she cuts out and saves from catalogs, advertisements, newspapers, et cetera. You’ve seen it many times before, but never in such a state: messy handwriting stuffing the margins to their very brims, numbers and symbols like clusters of rainclouds over a sea of different outfits, arrows and circles and squares highlighting pant cuffs and cascade collars and dangling earrings. Telltale signs that Haeun hasn’t a clue as to what Han will be wearing tonight.

You gnaw on your lower lip, deliberating your next move. You end up placing a firm hand against the album’s cover and pushing it closed.

“Come with me,” you say. “We’re gonna try a new approach.”

Haeun opens her mouth to protest, but unfortunately you have an extensive track record of being right.

“What do you have in mind?” She sighs instead.

“You’ll see.”

With that, you stand up, tuck a small towel under your arm, and angle your head in the direction of the music.

The two of you make your way through the labyrinth of hallways that comprise the venue’s backstage. Eventually, the color of the floor changes from speckled white to solid black, and you step onto the part of the stage that is concealed from the audience by drawn curtains and heavy equipment. You say a quick hello to the group’s manager as you dip past him, and eventually reach the edge of the curtains, where you and Haeun have a good view of the eight members as they run through their setlist for tonight’s concert.

Haeun settles into the spot beside you, still confused as she follows your gaze.

“Let me ask you this,” you say, just audible over the din. “Can you style a performer if you don’t know how he performs?”

And understanding seeps over her features like poured tea.

“I want you to watch him,” you continue. “Tell me how he performs.”

Han’s part begins, as if on cue. His voice rings out through the empty stadium as he ducks to the front of the formation, a microphone held loosely to his lips, his face taut with focus. Haeun stares at him for some time, silently trying to fathom her observations, but she sees you shaking your head in the corner of her eye.

“Don’t think, Haeun. Just speak.”

She blows out a deep breath before obliging. “It’s hard to picture Han doing anything but laughing or making other people laugh, he’s so goofy and lighthearted most of the time. But he’s like a different person on stage. He’s so intense, it’s almost intimidating. Not intimidating in a douchey way, though—you just get the impression that he’s very confident in himself and his music.

You don’t say another word, but don’t need to. She’s hit her stride.

“His voice and enunciation are so clear. It’s crazy how he sounds exactly like the studio recording. Plus, his delivery feels genuine; he’s not just reciting lyrics, but speaking straight from his heart.

“And this is gonna sound bad, but I didn’t know Han could dance. Like, yeah, I knew that he could dance, but not like this. His movements are so sharp that I feel like my attention is being—”

Right there.

She cuts herself off, reaching the same conclusion.

“It’s his turn to talk, and he wants you to cling to his every word," Haeun articulates slowly. "He’s demanding your attention. He needs you to listen. That’s how he performs.”

A satisfied smile bolts across your face like lightning. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Haeun pictures her scrapbook again, and there are now only a few articles of clothing and accessories that fit the framework you’ve helped her forge. She’s almost dizzy with disbelief, tearing her eyes from Han to look at you instead.

“You’re brilliant, you know that?”

“I do, but I appreciate the reminder.”

She can’t help but giggle. It’s a you answer if she’s ever heard one. “Do you do that with all of your clients?”

Haeun asks the question arbitrarily, without thinking. But you respond in a way that she doesn’t think she’s ever witnessed before, and she’s momentarily baffled by the sight: you hesitate.

As the song’s final chorus approaches, Hyunjin is the one folding himself into the center of the eight-person throng. You can only see his back from this angle, but even then it’s palpable how expertly and effortlessly he molds his body to the modulations of the music; how much fervor and feeling he expresses with every jerk of his spine and flex of his hands.

Within a few short seconds, innumerable descriptors and sensations skim the surface of your mind—but one word knocks the rest clean out of the water, the way it always does when you watch Hwang Hyunjin perform.

Artistry.

“No,” you reply. “Not all of them.”

And where better to find inspiration than inspiration himself?

Haeun furrows a brow, understandably puzzled by this response, but you don’t elaborate. Partially because you feel like being coy, but mostly because you know that any explanation you offer will sound like a confession.

The song ends, leaving your ears ringing with the abrupt absence of sound. The members hold their poses with heaving shoulders, staring out into the empty stands until the stage manager’s voice comes through the monitors.

“And that’s a wrap! We’re all set for tonight. Good work, everyone.”

There is a ripple of movement around the stage as the boys relax. Jeongin jogs over to Minho, hoping to review a particularly challenging dance break; the manager asks Chan if he has a second to discuss travel logistics; Seungmin plops onto the edge of the stage and downs the rest of his water; Hyunjin beelines toward you the second he sees you, because of course he does.

You get a good look at him as he skips closer. Stray blonde locks plastered against his damp skin, tank top dyed several shades darker by the perspiration rolling down his neck, the muscles of his arms actually rippling as he swings them around stupidly, a shit-eating smile plastered across his stunning face.

You’re annoyed before he says a word.

“I didn’t know they were letting fans backstage now,” he hums happily. “Want an autograph, gorgeous?”

“Put a sock in it.” You whisk the towel you’ve been holding in his direction. “Wet freak.”

But he catches and tosses it over his shoulder straightaway, and your heart sinks to your fucking ankle. You’ve seen this movie before. You know how it ends.

“No.” You take a shaky step back. “No, nope, don’t even think about—”

The next thing you know, Hyunjin is lunging towards you and winding his arms around your waist, nearly sweeping you clean off your feet as he pulls you into his sweaty embrace. To your complete dismay, your face presses flat against the clammy plane of his chest. “Call me a wet freak again, go on,” he manages to say through his laughter.

In response, one of your hands wriggles free of its slippery prison and snatches the cuff of Hyunjin’s ear with impressive accuracy. He yelps and loosens his hold on you, but doesn’t relent completely, not even when he catches sight of the murderous expression on your face and cackles so forcefully his whole head is thrown back.

You tighten your grip. “Wet,” you seethe, “freak.”

“Ow—okay, don’t make it hot, what’s wrong with you?”

“Wha—what’s wrong with YOU?!”

As the two of you dissolve into your fatuous arguing, Haeun is no longer sure that she’s still standing here. She’s not even sure if she’s in her right mind anymore. She thinks she might be hallucinating the way everything about Hyunjin softens next to you, or the way your biting tone only seems to nibble when it’s him on the receiving end.

“Psst. We’ve been placing bets on them. You want in?”

Han suddenly materializes next to Haeun, and she would have been jumpscared into a different dimension if she wasn’t so fixated upon the bizarre occurrence before her.

But what if she’s not hallucinating?

No, not all of them, you’d said, like you were disclosing a forbidden secret.

“Yes,” she says, and Han beams. “Absolutely.”

Three months ago. Seoul, South Korea. 2:26 A.M.

On a tranquil Saturday night, you’re sitting at your desk, your knees tucked to your chest, the newest episode of your drama playing quietly on your laptop, a half-empty glass of rosé and open sketchbook laid before you. This is your happy place—a safe haven that the trials and tribulations of the real world can’t reach. But you think you’ve really gone and lost your mind when you find yourself thinking about your job.

Well, not your job, exactly. More like the man who makes your job feel fucking Sisyphean.

You know your way around fabric and foundation better than anyone, but you have never struggled with anything as much as you have trying to navigate Hyunjin. You show up to work every day ready to just put some makeup on the man; instead, you wind up stumbling around the potholes of his dimples and the hills of the veins that run over his forearms and hands like a hopeless drunkard. Scouring the creases of his smile and the oscillations of his voice like they’re topographical maps. Mentally replaying your interactions with him time and time again like you’re monitoring security footage, trying to detect illicit activity in every casual touch he leaves on your shoulder or waist; every babe or gorgeous he throws your way, seemingly without a second thought.

You’ve been trying to understand him and his intentions for seven months now, and your efforts have yielded no fruit whatsoever, save for a few theories that you feel insane for even humoring.

You down the rest of the blush-colored liquid, and as you set down your empty glass you notice your fingers itch with a familiar urge. The pen that you’ve been twirling over your knuckles stills, then swivels; its tip hovers over the last free corner of the sheet of cartridge paper below you. And then it presses upon the surface and starts to move, as naturally as if on its own.

When you were little, you came across a children’s book that you no longer remember the name of, about a little girl with a magical pen that brought her every drawing to life. You decided then that you would one day be that girl.

At some point, the subjects of your incessant sketching became almost exclusively runway models and makeup advertisements. You cemented that you wanted to work in fashion as early as your high school graduation, and by then you already possessed the conviction and charisma of the industry’s most experienced members. Your portfolio was stellar; your personality prophesied of wild success. So your career took off, propelled by the neverending positions and projects that various companies continually laid before your feet.

You stand and pad to your kitchen to refill your glass, only to bring the entire bottle of wine back to your room instead. With one hand, you flick the cap off and lift the whole thing to your lips; with the other, you seize your pen again, not wanting to lose momentum.

For the year or so after you joined the industry, you basked in your idyllic prosperity. Even the doodles you scrawled on random napkins during banal business lunches would appear on some of the world’s most renowned faces the next week. You had indubitably become the little girl from your story; made a career out of giving your imagination tangible form. And what a fruitful career it was going to be.

If only you knew how it would strengthen you in ways you never wanted.

The first time someone called you cold, it took you a while to realize that they were talking about you. The phrase was said so casually and lightheartedly that it sounded at first like a piece of unimportant small talk. But the whisper of cold bitch was then followed by a bout of stifled laughter and what was undoubtedly your name. Your heart stopped along with your footsteps, and you looked towards the source: two interns whose names you had yet to learn, while yours was already in their mouths.

You felt nothing until you were three stops away from your apartment, and then the bottom of the subway gave out beneath you and suddenly you were feeling everything. Only confusion, hurt, and rage at first, but then the other emotions that you’d been smothering tirelessly for who-knows-how-long tore free of their cerebral shackles too, and together they formed an amalgamation of anxiety that closed up your throat within seconds.

As your pen studs details into a shapely jawline, you remember how you’d shoved your way off the subway and made a mad dash into the night air. You remember how you collapsed against a utility pole in an unfamiliar neighborhood, how your knuckles paled around the ashen wood, how your tears tumbled over your lips and salted your tongue. You remember wanting to go home so badly that you thought your ribcage would cave in on itself with the weight of it. You remember begging for air, for you.

By the time the oxygen had returned to your lungs, the streets were empty save for you, crouched on the curb, your face buried in your arms, spent, shattered, and alone. You were only nineteen at the time.

You are now twenty-two, and the word “cold” has become a regular guest in the lodgings of your heart. You never invite it over, but you’re no longer surprised to find it at your door. It’s a thief, swiping pieces of you when it thinks you’re not looking—a fragment above the fireplace, a scrap from the cracks between the couch—and you know whenever you’re being robbed, know that you lose parts of yourself upon its every visit. But better that than acknowledging what you lose.

You allow it to walk away with full pockets every time.

Hyunjin does not.

“Three words to describe yourself. Go,” he said a few days ago, the two of you heading back to the tour bus after a filming session.

You were so used to these irrational inquiries of his that you didn’t bother trying to dodge this one. “You first.”

“Smart, sexy, suave,” he said immediately, but burst into a sheepish laugh at the sight of your weary glare. “Fine, fine, let me think. Ambitious, for one. Introspective, definitely—maybe overly so. And artistic. I’d like to think so, at least. Satisfied?”

The most creative person you knew doubting his own ingenuity was absurd to you, but you nodded begrudgingly. It was a good answer, for the most part.

“Now you.”

Honestly, the thief had surfaced the moment you heard the question, but you weren’t sure if you wanted to inform Hyunjin of its existence. Not because you didn’t trust him—you did, more than you had anyone in years—but because you didn’t know what you’d do with yourself if he agreed. You weren’t sure your heart would be able to take it.

When you met the boy’s gaze, though, the carob brown of his eyes was so curious and so comforting that you suspected that was never a possibility.

“Cold,” you mumbled. “I’ve been called cold before.”

There was a pregnant pause. You found yourself holding your breath. And then—

“That’s a joke, right?”

Hyunjin began to count off his fingers.

“Mean. So mean. Impossibly, infuriatingly confident. Talented, stubborn, strong. Funny, sometimes, I guess, though I’d rather you hit me with a metal pipe than admit that ever again.”

At this, you caved; a laugh erupted from your lips, leaving a genuine smile in its wake.

“Determined. Eloquent. Bossy. Some kind of evil, twisted genius. Contemplative, caring, compassionate. Fearless,” he went on. “You get my point. You’re a lot of things, Y/N, but cold isn’t one—”

He was about to say something mind-numbingly stupid. You could sense it in the air.

“—and not just because you’re hot.”

You smacked his bicep, the smile on your face now an uninhibited, helpless grin. And as he vanished into a fit of high-pitched laughter, you thought you sensed him crack open your door and slip your missing artifacts back to their rightful places.

Hyunjin began to climb into the bus, and you caught the cuff of his sleeve, your feet still planted on the pavement.

“Thank you,” you said.

The tremors of his fond chuckle traveled to your very core.

“Idiot,” he sighed softly.

Idiot, you write, and the drawings are complete.

When you stand up, the bottle is mostly gone—and so are you. You splash some water on your face in lieu of your skincare routine and prod the inside of your mouth a few times using a dry toothbrush, and then you dive beneath your duvet and are dead asleep in minutes. Your slumber is interrupted only by dreams of a world where your theories about Hyunjin aren’t just theories.

If you’d had even one mouthful less of rosé, you might’ve remembered that you picked up your phone and opened your most recent conversation somewhere between steps two and three.

[3:10 A.M.] To: Hwang Hyunjin (Stray Kids, JYP) Audio Message.wav

Hi. I’m drunk and I’m going to regret this tomorrow. But that’s tomorrow’s business. There’s something I need to tell you tonight.

After I moved to Seoul, I used to get these bouts of homesickness. Not in a standard ‘I wanna go home’ kind of way, but in a way that felt like a hole had opened up in the ground below me. I was always ready for it to swallow me alive. I would’ve been happy for it to.

But I haven’t felt that way since I met you. I realized this not too long ago, and it threw me for a fucking loop. I’ve never felt seen the way you see me. I’ve never been known the way you know me. Every time I look at you or hear your voice, it feels so much like returning home that I don’t have to dream of it anymore.

You called me fearless the other day, but you’re wrong. I’m terrified. I’m terrified that history is going to repeat itself, that another home will slip through the cracks between my fingers and there will be nothing I can do to stop it. And that’s why I’m so hesitant towards you, towards whatever this is, because I don’t want to go through that ever again.

So the thing I need to tell you is that I care about you. I care so much that I’m scared speaking it into existence will make it real and vulnerable to all the worst parts of the world. But it’s not speaking it into existence if I’m drunk, right? Maybe I have no idea what I’m talking about. Maybe you’ll never even hear this. So it doesn’t count. That’s how that works, surely.

Sorry if this was totally nonsensical. And sorry that I’m so bad at feelings. You must think I’m impossible, and I don’t blame you.

Good night, Hyunjin. Thank you, again.

One month ago. Los Angeles, United States. 12:37 A.M.

When Hyunjin steps out of the hotel’s tall glass double doors, he’s wearing a teatree facemask, and his bags are draped over the crooks of his elbows like he’s an upper-echelon socialite on his way back from a lavish shopping spree. And then he sees you standing next to the curb, and the situation dawns on him in bits and pieces.

You’re the only one here. The vans that were supposed to take you to the airport are nowhere to be seen. Boarding begins in four minutes.

A soft flinch crimps his features. Oops.

“Tomorrow night,” you’re saying into your receiver, but your attention is on him only, your penetrative gaze putting the dead in deadpan. “The absolute earliest. You’re sure?”

When you finish listening to the manager’s response, you heave a sigh that sags your shoulders and end the call with a jab that should’ve splintered your screen protector.

Then, you start walking towards him.

“Hi,” Hyunjin says, his eyes pleading for mercy. “You are so talented and beautiful. I don’t tell you that often enough, do I?”

He expects you to grab him by the cuff of his ear again, to throw him a retort that’s twice as mean as it is witty, something along those lines. But you merely push your suitcase in his direction, and it is then when he notices that your face is hard enough to chip enamel; that your eyes are eerily, entirely empty. The tendril of warmth that’s always dancing among the subtleties of your expressions, that he’s always pursuing to the very borders of his dreamscapes, is nowhere to be seen.

A shiver travels down Hyunjin’s spine as he curls his fingers around the plastic handle.

Something’s not right.

“We’re gonna have to stay here another day,” you say. “Can you check us in? I have some calls to make.”

“Us?” Hyunjin repeats.

“Junghan could only reserve one room,” you reply, your phone already glued back to your ear. “The hotel is fully booked for the next few months.”

With that, you’re already preoccupied with the next thing, turning to the side to reschedule a meeting. But Hyunjin can only stare blankly at your profile, trying and failing to grasp that he’s going to spend a night with the subject of his every daydream. Though you might be leaning more towards the nightmare end of the spectrum at the moment, considering the way your head snaps back in his direction like a woman possessed.

Go, you mouth, and he obliges.

A few minutes later, Hyunjin is in the elevator by himself. He speculates it’s an ingenious, intentional choice that the lights are turned off, so that whoever’s inside can watch the psychedelic lights of Los Angeles sprawl further and wider the higher they go. But he can’t think of anything except for the subzero nothingness where your irises should’ve been.

Hyunjin’s initial guess was that he crossed a line with this missed plane, but the more he thinks about it the clearer it becomes that this isn’t an isolated issue. It’s the culmination of something bigger. Something continuous.

You have become as familiar to him as the lines of his eyes or the ridges of his knuckles. He’s learned where to look for your feelings when he can’t find them in your face; studied your words and the undertones of your voice like they’re verses of scripture. Yet, it was around two months ago when Hyunjin looked at your side profile and couldn’t recognize you. He’d blinked, startled, and then you’d asked why he was looking at you so strangely, and everything returned to normal. He wrote it off as a side effect of sleep deprivation and paid it no more mind that day.

Except it happened again a few days later; again, not too long after, and Hyunjin began to suspect that he was losing his mind. You didn’t seem all that different—a bit more taciturn than usual, maybe, but you’d been busier than usual, too, your workspace always full of empty coffee cups by the end of the day, the pages of your planner more colorful and crammed than ever. The minor variances never struck him as a reason for worry.

“Stupid,” Hyunjin whispers bitterly.

He replays your interaction one more time. You, shoving your suitcase against his palm, telling him to go check in. Him, fastening his hand around the handle, sensing the bottomless void within you, feeling like he’d been dismissed from before your throne.

As he steps off the elevator and walks towards your designated room, he doesn’t understand how or why—but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s failed you.

Nearly an hour passes. The room only has one bed, so Hyunjin turns off the lights, folds himself onto the armchair by the floor-to-ceiling window, drapes a complimentary robe over his shoulders, and tries to sleep. He doesn’t know why he even tries. He’s exhausted, but he knows damn well there’s no hope of him getting any rest until he has you in his proximity again.

He doesn’t look at the door when he finally hears it open, but the knot of tension in his chest comes undone as soon as your silhouette appears in the hallway. He takes out his first real breath since leaving you at the hotel’s entrance.

You hear the sound it makes. You fall still.

“Hyunjin?”

His heart physically aches at how tired you sound. “Yeah?”

“Oh, you’re awake,” you answer. “Move to the bed. You’re not sleeping on that thing.”

He remains where he is, his chin resting on the side of his fist, his eyes glued to the flickering panorama of neon lights below him. You crouch to unzip something, and there’s a heavy thud of metal meeting cloth, presumably your laptop being tossed onto the bed’s mattress.

“Hello? Did you—”

“Is everything okay?”

A short pause follows his interruption.

“I still have a few emails to write, but everything’s been rescheduled, so as long as you don’t miss tomorrow’s flight, too, we should be—”

The robe slides off his lap as he pushes himself to his feet. “That’s not what I mean.”

The only source of light in the room is the lone light above the entrance, but it’s enough for him to see your face and the surprise etched upon it. You open your mouth, utter one syllable, and stop yourself immediately after, stunned into silence by the sobriety in Hyunjin’s expression.

“Enlighten me, then,” you say finally.

“You really don’t know?”

“What is there to know? That you missed a flight and pissed me the fuck off? Trust me, I’m aware.”

“No, that’s not—”

“So what are you talking about, then? Why are you talking in riddles? Fuck, what is it that you want from me?”

There’s real frustration in your voice, and it’s the first time you’ve shown him any emotion in pure, unadulterated form. With this, Hyunjin understands that he was right; this conversation is heading towards a culmination of some kind, and so are you, with the devastating force of a natural phenomenon.

He wonders if you’re prepared to destroy yourself, too.

“I know how you are around me,” you whisper. “You’re always acting like you’re trying to unearth something, and I figure this ‘something’ must be wonderful, because you look at me like I’m made of stars; you speak to me like you’re serenading a lover. But I am constantly, ceaselessly haunted by the possibility that this ‘something’ doesn’t exist, that you’re looking for the wrong thing in the wrong person.

“I know it’s selfish to ask for anything more than what you’ve already given me—you’re so kind, Hyunjin, and you’ve been nothing but since the day we met. But grant me one more wish, even if it is the last time you ever do.

“Tell me what you see in me,” you plead. “Otherwise, I will spend the rest of my life mourning the months of yours that you wasted on me.”

With that, it occurs to Hyunjin, falls upon and cracks open his mind like a piece of firewood, that you have never been aware of—never asked for—the throne you sit upon.

For an indeterminate amount of time, the two of you stay there, standing in silence on opposite sides of your dark hotel room. You haven’t felt anything like this in a long time, your chest heaving with your heavy breaths, your vision muddied by both the lack of light and the desperation searing through your windpipe.

When Hyunjin finally begins to speak, his words wrest the oxygen from your lungs.

“After you moved to Seoul, you used to get these bouts of homesickness.”

Your mind careens; your heart reels.

“They came in a way that felt like a hole had opened up in the ground below you.” He takes a tentative step towards you. “You thought it was going to swallow you alive. You would’ve been happy for it to.”

You never got to listen to your voice note. You were blacked out when you recorded it and horrified when you discovered it in your chat logs the next morning; the wretched thing was unsent so quickly that you couldn’t check for a read receipt.

But there’s not a doubt in your mind that these are your words falling from Hyunjin’s lips.

“You haven’t felt that way since you met me, though.” He is only a few feet away from you now, and getting closer still. “You’ve never felt seen the way I see you. You’ve never been known the way I know you.”

God, you said that? Did you propose to him too?

“You’re terrified that another home will slip through the cracks between your fingers and there will be nothing you can do to stop it.” Hyunjin flattens his left hand upon the drywall next to your ear; pushes you back ever-so-gently against the hard surface. “I must think you’re impossible.”

And he brings his face so, so close to yours; looks at you with so much adoration, so much tenderness, that you feel the final bulwark around your heart fracture—

“I don’t,” Hyunjin breathes, cradling your cheek, “because you’re not. And I want to prove it to you, even if it takes me the rest of my life. That’s what I see in you.”

—and crumble.

You form fists in the lining of his hoodie. Hyunjin’s hand tightens where it lays over the curve of your jaw.

When you crash your lips upon his, he tastes the metallic sheen of electricity and the salt of tearwater both; he witnesses crying lightning, for the first time in human history.

Present day. Cannes, France. 9:15 P.M.

Hyunjin never thinks when he fucks you.

One part of it is that he physically can’t; his cognitive facilities shut down when he has you quivering beneath him, like his desire to pleasure you is too overwhelming for his mind to bear. The other part is that he doesn’t want to. He’s afraid that the voices of cynicism and trepidation that plague his mind every waking moment will taint the actualization of his wildest dreams.

Lucky for him, you manage to erase his mind on a daily basis with only one accidental touch or an apparition of a smile, so he doesn’t stand a chance whenever you let him between your legs.

“Trust me?” He whispers, imprinting the words upon the inside of your thigh.

“More than anyone,” you breathe, and just this has him tenting against his satin slacks.

Hyunjin used to see you scolding managers or moving racks twice your weight and think that was you in your element—tonight, he learned otherwise. You were so confident that even just the way you puffed your chest out prompted heads to turn and low voices to ask for your name; so charming that even by the end of your self-introduction you had every guest you spoke to eating out the palm of your hand.

Eating out your pussy, though, is Hyunjin’s privilege alone.

He wraps his fingers around the hem of your dress and pushes it upwards, creating a halo of red fabric around your midriff; slides your panties off your legs and tosses them over his shoulder. All obstacles out of the way, Hyunjin winds his arms around your thighs and pins your hips to the mattress, slotting himself between your knees as they fall apart. Your ankles fold over the top of his head, and you’re about to ask if he’s okay like this, but then you feel the hot muscle of his tongue trace over your dripping folds—and every word of every language you’ve ever known is dispelled from your brain and your mouth in the form of a stuttered, euphoric moan.

He teases you first, drags his mouth over you so that he’s lapped up all of your slick, and just when you feel your patience thinning he pulls you apart with reverent hands and begins to suckle on your clit, as attentive to your every solicitation as always. You arch your back so high off the bed that your ankles knock Hyunjin’s head down a few inches, but the new angle is even better; grants him access to more of you.

He reinforces his grip around you, presses his torso right up against the side of the mattress, and gorges: sluices your labia until you’re spilling from his chin onto the sheets; flicks against your bundle of nerves until it’s pulsating and swollen on his mouth; fucks his tongue against your favorite spot until you’re curling your toes, seeing the whole solar system.

“Coming,” you blabber after some time. Tell me something I don’t know, he thinks to himself. “Coming, Hyune. I’m—fuck—”

Hyunjin is aware of the way you clench so hard around nothing that your pelvis hurts. He is aware of the way you’re so dilapidated from pleasure that you’re genuinely struggling to breathe. He doesn’t care. He wants to get the cadences of your climax tattooed into the gray matter of his brain, and there can’t be rests in the sheet music, can there?

He presses a hand flat on your stomach in preparation for your body’s protest, then returns his face to its place between your thighs; starts to leave kitten licks around the edges of your puffy folds before you can finish riding out your high. You press your tongue against the back of your front teeth, emitting a pained hiss as you draw a sharp breath, tears stinging at your eyes.

“Son of a bitch—”

“Trust me?” He asks again, his voice vibrating against your sore cunt, and your complaints quiet into whimpers as you bring a hand over your quivering mouth, and nod.

At least Hyunjin bridles his thirst the second time he eats your pussy open, his lips smacking openly and slowly over your every inch except the one that would be truly unbearable for you right now. He’s so rough and so fucking careful at once like he can’t decide between obliterating and worshipping your cunt.

He’ll end up doing both.

Within a few minutes, your legs have gone slack on either side of Hyunjin once again, and another coil has begun to tighten behind your bellybutton, equal parts pain and pleasure—but he knows your pussy just as well as he does your person by now, and it’s not long before the former is compounding with the latter.

Round two has a faster ascent and a steeper drop. He finds your spot again with the precision and ease of a trained marksman and fixates upon it like a man starved. It has your cries devolving to incoherent profanities and, to his unfettered delight, your foot actually shaking, your heel tapping against the back of his neck every time it comes down.

As if referencing a metronome, Hyunjin matches the rhythm of his tongue to your accelerando. Only when your leg is nearly convulsing does he wrap his lips back around your clit; slide two fingers into the place he leaves empty and pumps them into you until you are liquifying, igniting around him, your mewls lamenting the second orgasm he plucks from your core.

After your body has stilled, Hyunjin lifts his head, his face drenched in perspiration and saliva and you. His eyes travel over the slopes of your arms and the hills of your breasts, over the tears streaming from your eyes and staining the pillow you lie on. It is this last bit that has him shrugging off his shirt and undoing his dress pants with one hand, palming his throbbing cock with the other.

He clambers over you, and the kiss that follows is filthy, your mouth falling apart when he rolls your nipples between his fingers, strands of spit suspending between your tongues before dripping down onto your collarbone. You can sense what he wants in his craving lips, his pleading tongue—and you know he won’t ask for it. He’s tested you enough tonight; he’d rather your comfort than his pleasure.

But you guide his leaking head to your entrance, returning his stupefied look with a watery smile.

“Love me?” You ask this time, for the first time.

There is not even a nanosecond of hesitation when he answers, “with everything in me.”

He comes inside you the moment he bottoms out, your name leaving his lips in breathless, desperate repetition like a broken prayer as he topples off the same cliff he’d dropped you from moments ago. You curl a hand in his hair as he stutters against you, bring your lips flush against his ear, and whisper that you love him too—and the sight of you beneath him blurs he also starts to tear up.

This is the reality Hyunjin lives in, presumably because he was a saint in his past life, and it would be his utmost pleasure to see it through.

Two years later. Milan, Italy. 11:28 A.M.

For the last half hour, a ray of sunlight has repeatedly struck the diamond that sits between the second and third knuckle of your ring finger, and the Vogue journalist on the other side of your desk thinks he is slowly losing his vision. But when he asks his final question, your hand comes to a much-appreciated stop, the fountain pen you’ve been twirling around clattering to your tabletop.

“Where do you find your inspiration?”

As the journalist blinks the phosphenes from his eyes, he finally manages to get a good look at the face of Versace’s newest designer, and he detects something ineffable and warm in your expression.

“My inspiration, hm?” You fall silent for a short time, thinking. “If you asked me this at the start of my career, I’d have said ‘people.’ Their postures, their expressions, their wardrobes. I knew I was a goner when I watched a fashion show for the first time and noticed how the models’ attire helped them harness their innate power and grace—I wanted to orchestrate that kind of symbiosis, too. In that aspect, nothing has changed, actually. I still find wonder in human beings, and not just the ones on the runway. I think it would be difficult not to, don’t you?

“Some time ago, a good friend of mine was having trouble with an outfit for her client. She asked me a similar question, and only then did I realize that it was no longer just people that inspired me most, but a singular person. I had always been skeptical of the idea of a ‘muse’ until I met him. But I could only spend so long denying how he ventured closer to my soul than anything ever had, how he knew me and saw me like nobody ever could. He understood my art. He was my art, so—”

Your eyes dart over your ring, and the journalist would’ve flinched out of habit if he wasn’t so mesmerized by your eloquence.

“—where better to find inspiration than inspiration himself?”

A few seconds elapse, and then you clear your throat and straighten your back, returning to your office from your trip down memory lane.

“That’s the long answer, anyways. The short answer would be my fiancé.”

The journalist laughs, and he doubts you’ll give him this next piece of information—but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try.

“And who would that be?”

He’s right. You don’t answer the question. But you do flash him an enigmatic smile, and for some reason it reminds him of lightning.

🔖 (send an ask to be added)・@astraystayyh・@like-a-diamondinthesky・@fire-08・@starsandrqindrops・@txtxlz・@laylasbunbunny・@strayghibli・@nuronhe

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milswrites · 2 months

Text

Unspoken Love

~ Eris Vanserra X Fem!Reader

Summary: All the ways in which Eris shows you he loves you.

Warnings: Fluffy goodness. Nudity (non-sexual). Period cramps.

Notes: This is for everyone who just longs to see Eris happy and in love (and more specifically for @searchingforbucky because I never would have written this if it wasn’t for you)

A Hopeless Prince

Eris had a silver tongue.

Centuries of speaking in court allowing him to become a master at crafting words. The Autumn Prince blessed with the gift of bending truths and delivering commands as though they were the sweetest poetry.

And yet, despite his eloquence in speech, Eris had one problem.

A cursed inability to voice his feelings.

It was a skill the red-haired prince had never required, a mask of cool indifference being the best item a male could wear in court. Emotions were a weakness that Eris couldn't allow himself to have on display, not in Autumn.

Until he met you. Then suddenly and all at once Eris found himself a victim to his own heart's desire.

A single look, that was all that was needed for Eris Vanserra to fall in love. One look and the male was certain he had found his equal.

Yet despite the instantaneous nature of his feelings for you, Eris found his tongue locked in your presence. The three words which he so longed to tell you caged within the confines of his mouth.

Eris loved you.

An all consuming love in which the heat of his desire burned brighter than any inferno he could muster with his own palms. And yet he still couldn't find the words to tell you this. But despite his inability to voice his emotions, Eris fought against his insecurities to make sure he let you know the depths of his feelings in other ways.

He made sure to tell you with the soothing tea he made for you each morning. With the gentle kiss he always laid upon your cheek as you stirred from your slumber. He made sure you knew with his sweet compliments and admiring eyes as he soaked in your radiant beauty for as long as you would allow.

Eris loved you.

He only hoped that one day he would be able to tell you this himself.

A Comforting Presence

Time was a scarce luxury for you and Eris.

Between his courtly duties and your equally busy schedule, quality time together was a rare sight.

Whenever you managed to find a moment of peace, free from your responsibilities and ready to devote all of your attention to the Autumn Prince, Eris always had the rotten luck of being called away to another task.

Which is why you often found yourself in this position; tucked away in a hidden area of the library, curled up with a good book whilst you waited for Eris to finish his daily obligations. The books you read acting as a blissful escape from the usually restless bustle of the Autumn Court.

It was all to easy for you to hide from reality between the inked pages. To allow your mind to freely wander amongst the stories while the time slowly passed until you could see Eris again. Working your way through Autumn's large expanse of literature as each day came and went.

So it was no wonder how in your dream-like trance you didn't notice the watchful figure admiring you from afar. It took three attempts of Eris softly clearing his throat before he was able to capture your attention and draw your gaze from the book in your hands. Tensing, your alarmed eyes swiftly flew towards the source of the sound, your muscles relaxing upon seeing the familiar face of your lover.

You took the time to admire Eris where he stood, shameless eyes raking over his well-defined figure before coming to a stop at the stack of documents which were clutched tightly in his hands.

"Another meeting?" you quietly ask with a sad smile, assuming that Eris had only dropped by for a short respite and a quick hello before he needed to return to his obligations.

Eris approached you, placing a delicate kiss onto your temple before moving to sit down in the armchair beside you. "Actually," he started, the low rumble of his voice cutting through the silence of the library, "I thought I might finish off my work here, if that is alright with you of course?"

You didn't fail to miss the light dusting of redness which blossomed on Eris's cheeks, nor the embarrassed edge to his tone as he spoke. Worried that the male would allow his insecurities to take control, you stretched out your hand to entwine it with his own, locking together your fingers as your thumb moved to rub soothing circles into his skin.

"I'd love nothing more" you answered honestly, squeezing his hand in reassurance.

The two of you sat in a peaceful silence, Eris beginning to work through his papers and you picking up your story from where you left off. Yet despite your different activities your hands remained placed in each other's, Eris placing the occasional kiss onto the back of your own whenever he sat back to ponder over what he was writing.

The two of you didn't speak; you didn't need to. Not when the comfort of each other's company was enough. It could have been hours until words were exchanged between you once more, the silence broken by a gasp escaping from your lips as you reached an exciting part of your story. Intrigued, Eris looked over to where you were sat.

"What is it?" he asked, straining his neck to peer over and try and catch a glimpse of your book. Interested eyes flashing over to your own wide ones.

"Nothing, sorry! Something big just happened, I'll try to stay quiet" you promised, afraid that if you were to disturb Eris from his work he would leave to finish it elsewhere.

Eris slowly nodded in acknowledgement, turning back to his papers to continue his writings, and yet it was impossible to stop his amber eyes from travelling back to your face. Brows knitting together as he took in the bright glint in your eye and the curling of your lips as you read.

Needing to satisfy his curiosity, Eris asked you once more, "What is it? What are you smiling at?"

"Shouldn't you be working?" you teased, noting the nosy way in which the Autumn Prince was trying to snoop at the page you were reading.

"Work can wait" he huffed, snatching the book from your hands, "I'm more interested in what's going on in that pretty little mind of yours."

And as you sat in Eris's lap, happily chatting away as his work laid unfinished and forgotten, the male promised himself he would always make time for you. Because no job, nor meeting, would ever be more important than getting to see you smile.

A Helping Hand

A groan of frustration tore from your lips as you entered your shared chambers. Distressed eyes meeting the teasing stare of your amused lover who was sprawled across the bed, no doubt having been waiting for your arrival.

A soft chuckle leaving Eris's lips at the sight of your disheveled form, "Difficult day, Little Fox?"

Having finally reached the sanctuary of your room, the weight of the days trials finally settled as your eyes began to uncomfortably sting with tears. Noticing your crumbling composure, Eris swiftly made his way over from the bed to where you were stood, gentle hands coming to rest against your cheeks as his searching eyes scanned over your frame.

Your appearance clearly worrying him as the male immediately pulled you into a crushing embrace.

Face now pressed into the exposed skin of Eris's chest where the top of his shirt was splayed open, you allowed yourself to deeply inhale the familiar scent of your partner. The smell of him alone enough to bring you the comfort you needed. The Autumn Prince held your tears at bay, both by the gentle caress of his hands against your body and the soothing murmurings of solace he offered you.

It was only when your breathing steadied, and the irregular pounding of your heart had subsided, did Eris then allow himself to pull away. "Do you want to talk about it?" Eris asked tentatively, lifting a tender hand to brush a stray piece of hair behind your ear, "Or would you just like me to take care of you?"

Your heart lovingly ached at the male's compassion, his words the same ones you recite to him each time he comes back to your chambers forlorn and dejected after a difficult day.

"Will you take care of me?" you asked your prince, a single tear falling down your cheek. Not at the expense of your terrible day, but at the overwhelming surge of empathy swimming in your lover's eyes.

"Always" Eris replied, kissing away your lonely tear.

The Autumn Prince needn't be told what to do; silently leading you to the bed with a promise of returning.

You waited patiently for the male as he prepared your bath, the male filling the tub with an assortment of luxurious oils and healing salts. It was only when Eris was satisfied with the temperature of the steaming water, did he then return to carry you into the bathroom.

Eris's hands worked to aid you in unlacing the corset of your dress before he gathered the silk of the slip underneath to help remove it from your exhausted frame. Once free from the confines of your clothing, Eris supportively held your hand as he carefully assisted you in getting into the bath. Allowing you to adjust to the temperate waters before moving behind you to wash your hair.

Eris had the hands of a prince, smooth and unscarred, free from the marks of labor. Yet despite the polished nature of his nimble fingers, they worked wonders whilst running through your dampened hair and massaging your aching scalp. Each gentle rub as he worked the pine scented soap into your hair being enough to draw sounds of contented pleasure from your lips.

Your love was an expert at knowing what you needed, and as he worked to was the pollutant worried of the day gone by from your skin, Eris filled your ears with light-hearted stories of his own day.

It wasn't long before the sweet sound of laughter filled the room, memories of your sour day long forgotten as you merrily conversed with your partner.

The only thing that mattered in this moment of time was him.

And as your eyes caught Eris periodically sinking his hands into the lukewarm water to rise its temperature to an adequate level, you knew there was no one else in the world you would rather have take care of you. No man that you would rather love.

A Treasured Gift

Life with Eris meant you needn't want for anything.

He made sure to spoil you with more dresses than you would ever need and your collection of jewels had grown so large they now spilled from the box you kept them in.

But your favourite gift you had received from Eris wasn't the diamond encrusted tiara he had given you for your birthday, nor the prize mare he had surprised you with on the anniversary of your relationship.

No, the best gift Eris had ever given you was his mind, scrawled between the pages of a book. . .

Your lover's nerves were almost tangible as he approached, hands hidden behind his back as he slowly stalked in your direction. Low whispers of self-encouragement upon his lips as he set his determined eyes on you.

It was unusual, to see the usually confident male blanching in your presence, all colour drawn from his usually lifeful cheeks. Eris’s foot tapping restlessly against the floor when he finally came to a stop before you.

You made to greet your prince with a kiss, but Eris's shaky words interrupted your action. "I have something for you" he said, offering you an anxious smile as your brows raised in surprise, thoughts racing as you desperately tried to remember whether this day held any important significance that you had forgotten.

Noting your panicked expression Eris immediately blurted, "It's nothing big! Just something small I've been working on for you."

Eris was slow to draw his hands from behind his back, nervous eyes meeting your curious ones as you took in what he was holding.

"A book?" you asked, taking it from his slightly trembling hand in order to cast your inspecting gaze of the cover. Tales of the heart. Your favourite story.

A book you have read over a dozen times before. So why would Eris gift you a copy of a book you already owned? Sure your copy was tattered and well loved, but did it really require a replacement?

Ever the perceptive male, Eris inhaled deeply before explaining the reasoning of his gift, "I know I'm not the best at voicing how I feel. . . So I thought you could read it instead."

His expectant eyes urged you to open the book, so you did just that.

Peeling back the cover, you were greeted with Eris's familiar penmanship, the black ink which marked the page curling into words which made your heart swell:

You are my everything, nothing more and nothing less.

With watery eyes you eagerly flicked through the book, breath catching in your throat as you observed the ink covered pages. Eris had underlined all his favourite passages, each one accompanied by scribbles of his comments and opinions, the margins overflowing with carefully worded text.

Here in your hands you held a window into Eris's soul. His emotions laid bare across each page, exposing his mind and sharing his thoughts.

This little book, which fit snugly into the palm of your hand, was an offering. An invitation to get to know the male better, to understand Eris in his entirety.

Finding yourself lost for words you did the only thing you could do, pulling the Autumn Prince into a heated kiss of appreciation. Arms flying around his neck in an attempt to draw him in closer, doing your best to pour every ounce of love and praise into each gentle caress of your lips against his.

Anticipation growing in your chest at the prospect of delving into the book later on in the day, eagerly awaiting your exploration of Eris Vanserra’s mind.

A Heated Touch

You were in agony.

Bound to your bed, wallowing in your own misery as you clutched onto your abdomen with the hope of quelling the rising tide of pain.

It was that time of the year, your aching body signaling the unwelcome arrival of your cycle.

Eris had been reluctant to leave you this morning, worried about your ability to take care of yourself. Despite wanting nothing more than to spend the day wrapped in the loving arms of your partner, you half-heartedly pushed him from your bed, knowing the male had an abundance of dull meetings to attend today.

Yet now as you laid under your covers, curled into a ball as you miserably absorbed each aching stab of pain, you wished that you had never sent Eris away. Your suffering only increasing as the hours passed by.

You would search for your lover if you could, call him from his meetings and draw him back to your bed, but with a head like cotton and a body like lead you had no choice but to lay with your torturous discomfort in solitude.

Though thankfully, Eris had other plans. Unsatisfied with leaving his partner to suffer alone during her cycle, he had spent the morning postponing his meetings and delegating his work elsewhere. Anxiously wishing away the time until he was able to return to his chambers and take care of you.

Wasting no time once the rearrangement of his tasks had been completed, hurrying to the kitchen to make you a healing cup of medicinal tea before making his way to your shared room.

Opening the door to find you exactly where he had left you, huddled under the covers and eyes tightly closed as you tried to wait out wave after wave of pulsating pain.

Heart clenching at the sight of you in agony, Eris uttered curses to the gods for bestowing you with a pain that he could not fix. Sympathy flooding into his eyes as he came to sit by your side, raising a comforting hand to brush against your cheek and pull you from your fitful slumber.

"My poor Little Fox" he empathetically cooed, leaning down to kiss the tip of your nose as you stirred from your sleep. Eyes blinking open, a weak smile graced your lips as the welcoming sight of your lover greeted you.

"Is there anything I can do?" he asked, brows furrowing at the wince which crossed your face as you turned your body to face him better.

"Will you hold me?" you pouted lamely, tears threatening to fall now your partner was here to comfort you.

"Of course" Eris answered, needing no further instruction as he moved to climb into the bed behind you, arms reaching out across the sheets to pull you towards him until your back pressed against his chest. A pained whimper drawing from your lips as he did so, Eris cursing himself for bringing you more anguish.

"May I try something?" Eris asked, seeking your permission for what he was about to do. Nausea building in your throat, you feebly nodded. What was the worse that could happen when you already felt like death itself?

Careful not to disturb you too much, Eris snaked his hands around your middle, moving them down towards your aching abdomen before allowing his hands to gradually heat to a bearable temperature.

A deep breath of satisfaction escaped from your lips at his heated touch. The ghost of Eris's flames working to quell your pain and soothe your aching.

"You are never leaving my side again" you giggled in relief, bringing your hands to rest against his own in the hope of absorbing each remnant of heat which Eris provided you with.

"That is something we can agree on" Eris purred, drawing you into his embrace further still, warm lips brushing against your neck as he continued, "There is nowhere else I would rather be."

And as Eris watched you fall into a blissful slumber, contented smiles resting upon each of your faces, the Autumn Prince could have sworn that the three words he so longed to tell you were patiently waiting on the tip of his tongue.

A Lover's Vow

It had taken you weeks to read through Eris's gift. Having opted to take the time to appreciate each little comment your partner had scribbled onto the pages.

Each word you read opening your eyes to a new side of the Autumn Prince, showing you glimmers of a male that felt and felt deeply. Every new thing you learnt about your lover working to crack the mask which he so often wore.

Now reaching the end of your story you didn't want it to end. You wanted - no needed- to learn everything you could about the male, feeling as though this gift had only scratched the surface when it came to introducing you to the mystery that was Eris Vanserra.

You had laughed, you had cried, and now turning to finish the final page you only longed to experience it all again.

Your curiosity would never be satisfied, not when it came to Eris.

Why is why you were pleasantly surprised, that when the final words had been read, a sealed letter which had been hidden between the pages dropped into your lap. The crimson ink which adorned the envelope staring right back at you as your wide eyes took in the message that was addressed to you.

Your happy ending, Little Fox.

You weren't sure why your heart had stopped at the sight of the letter, nor were you able to explain why your hands trembled nervously as you tore open the paper. Shaking as you removed the note which had been neatly tucked inside.

Pearlescent tears began to fall down your blushing cheeks as you read Eris's words, failing to even finish the letter before you had jumped on your feet and began to run.

You were unsure of where you were heading, but the one thing you were certain of was that Eris would be at the end of it. The letter now crumpled within your tight grip as you ran, afraid to let it go and lose the words which you had been so desperate to hear.

So you didn't stop, allowing your feet to carry you towards Eris, towards your answers. Only slowing down to catch your breath when you saw your partner outside, leading his horse back to the stables through the torrential rain.

Uncaring of the fact your clothes were not appropriate for the miserable weather, you closed the distance between you and the male. Mud splashing at your calves as you rushed towards him.

Eris didn't fail to miss your sodden figure running towards him, eyes blowing wide in alarm at your sudden appearance. Worried for your sanity, he immediately dropped the reins from his hands as he ran to meet you halfway.

"What are you doing?" he exclaimed, concerned eyes taking in the sorry state of your wild appearance, the male moving to grip your arm and move you towards shelter but not before you had forcefully ripped your arm from his hold.

"Is it true?" you asked, your silver tears mixing with the cooling rain which was beating against your flushed face.

"Is what true?" Eris cried, brows knitted together in confusion until his gaze dropped to the letter clutched tightly in your hand and then suddenly it all made sense.

"Yes. . ." he weakly replied after a moment, his surprise at your unexpected appearance having stolen his words.

"You love me?" you pressed further, taking a step closer to your anxious partner, lifting your fist which held the now sodden letter, "What you wrote, do you mean it?"

Eris scoffed at the ridiculous nature of your question, "Mean it? Of course I mean it, I wouldn't write it if I didn't."

"Say it" you ordered, "Please. I need to hear you say it."

The old Eris would have walked away, ignored your demands and fought against his tempestuous emotions. He would have never been able to express how he felt, unable to allow the words to escape from his lips.

Yet with one look at you, saturated hair clinging to your cheeks as you looked towards the male in desperation, Eris could feel his mask slipping. The stone veil falling from his face before it dropped to the ground and shattered.

And for the first time in your life you were staring at the true face of Eris Vanserra.

Tears streaming down his face as he allowed the wave of his once hidden emotions to crash over him.

"I love you" he confessed, burning stare meeting your own, "gods I love you."

A delighted laugh broke from the males lips as the weight of his confession lifted from his chest, hands flying to your smiling cheeks as the truth of his affections continued to flow, "Mind, body, soul, I'm yours. All of me. Mask or no mask, I have always belonged to you. I love you so much, and I'm so sorry I couldn't tell you this sooner."

"But I knew, Eris" you cried along with your partner, the heated touch of his warming palms enough to burn your tears away as they came, "Even though you never said it aloud I always knew, because you showed it to me in every way that counts. You have never failed to make me feel anything but loved."

"And do you?" he asked through heavy breaths, "Do you feel the same for me as I do for you?"

"Eris Vanserra" you beamed up at the male before you, eyes glistening as you absorbed the rawness of his heartfelt expression, " I have loved you since before I ever even knew you, and I always will. My heart belongs to you Eris, until my dying breath."

Unable to stop the sob which tore from his lips, Eris allowed himself to cry, arms coming to wrap around your middle in a crushing embrace as he sought to stabilize his trembling frame.

"I think I'm going to need a new letter" you mumbled into his chest, the ruined piece of paper having fallen to the rain-soaked ground in the midst of your embrace.

"I'll write you a thousand more if that's what you want" Eris promised, lips coming to softly press against you head as his tears subsided, "But I think I'd rather tell you how I feel from now on."

"I'd like that" you replied staring up at the male you loved so dearly, "I'd like that very much."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Notes: Ahhh I love this fic so much! Thank you @sarawritestories for holding my hand and walking me through this 😂

#acotar imagine #fanfic #sarah j maas #a court of thorns and roses #eris vanserra oneshot #eris vanserra imagine #eris oneshot #eris vanserra x reader #eris acotar #eris x reader #eris imagine #eris vanserra

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fragileheartbeats · 2 months

Text

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ 𓇼 ࣪ 𝒞 RYING BOY 𓈒ㅤׂㅤ⭒⠀

꒰͡ ⠀ ִ Aegon II Targaryen x Targaryen Reader ⠀ׂ ⠀ ͡꒱

♡ㅤEveryone hate him, everyone but you 𝅄ㅤೀ

˚꒰🍑꒱‧ Hi there! Before you read this, you should know that English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

As Aegon reached your chamber, his knuckles rapped softly upon the oaken door. A moment later, it swung open, revealing your warm and inviting presence. Aegon's weary gaze met yours, and a glimmer of hope flickered within his eyes.

'Brother,' you whispered gently, your voice like a soothing balm to his wounded soul. 'What troubles you so?'

He remained silent for a moment, his lips trembling. Then, with a stifled sob, he stumbled forward and collapsed into your arms. His body convulsed with sorrow as he poured out his heart to you.

'She hates me,' he sobbed, his voice thick with unshed tears. 'Mother...she thinks I'm weak, unworthy. I'm...I'm nothing to her.'

His words were like daggers to your heart. You knew the pain of a mother's indifference all too well. 'Oh, Aegon,' you whispered, 'I am so sorry.'

You held him tighter, allowing his tears to soak into your dress. He buried his face in your hair, seeking comfort in the scent of your lavender perfume. As you continued to stroke his hair, you could feel him gradually calming down.

'Stay with me,' he muttered, his voice a mere thread. 'Please don't let me go.'

'I will not leave you, Aegon,' you promised solemnly. 'I am here for you.'

You sat in silence for a long time, the only sound the crackling of the fire in the hearth. You could feel Aegon's body slowly relaxing in your arms. His breathing grew even, and the tension slowly faded from his face.

With each passing moment, Aegon's despair slowly subsided, replaced by a sense of tranquility. The warmth of your presence seeped into his aching heart, mending the broken pieces one by one. He leaned into your embrace, seeking solace in your arms.

As the night wore on, Aegon's eyelids grew heavy. His breathing became shallow, and his body grew limp with exhaustion. Finally, he drifted into a peaceful slumber, your fingers still gently twirling his hair.

As you watched him sleep, you couldn't help but feel a profound sense of pity for him. He was a young man, tormented by his own demons and desperate for love. Despite his flaws, he was still your brother. But beneath, he was just a lonely boy who had never known true affection.

You leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. 'Sleep well, Aegon,' you whispered. 'You are loved.'

And with that, you drifted off to sleep yourself, comforted by the knowledge that you had brought a small measure of solace to the broken prince.

His face was serene, his pain temporarily forgotten. In that moment, you knew that you had provided him with a flicker of solace in his darkest hour. And as the first rays of sunlight peeked through the cracks in the curtains, you knew that you would be there for him, no matter what.

@ 𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒔 . 𝐷𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑒, 𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡, 𝑜𝑟 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑠𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑦 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘𝑠 𝑜𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑒𝑏𝑠𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑠.

MASTERLIST

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falling-endlessly · 4 months

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Boomerang (part 4)

Vox x Female!Ex!Overlord!Reader

Summary: Vox is determined to win you over, no matter what. You just want your damn peace back.

Warnings: some mature themes (mention of sexual arousal)

<— Part 3 Chapter Index

Vox gripped the bathroom counter, staring at himself in the LED outlined mirror. "You've still got it," he said to himself firmly, lifting a clawed finger to point at his reflection. "Just be cool, man."

He relaxed his face into his signature grin, leaning an elbow against the counter. "Hey Y/n, how's everything? I was wondering if you wanted to go for coffee sometime?" He threw in a wink for good measure.

A second of silence passed before he shuddered violently, breaking composure. "Ugh, no, no. Focus, man. Okay," he repositioned himself, shoving his hands nonchalantly in his pockets. He cleared his throat, mustering up his best confident, devil-may-care expression. "Doll, what do you say we get out of here tonight, yeah? Just say the word and I'll get us a private room at your favorite restaurant."

His smile twitched. Shit. That wouldn’t work on you either.

This was ridiculous. He started trends on a whim, charmed the masses to hang off of his every word, and yet—here he was, rehearsing in front of a bathroom mirror like a prepubescent boy with a crush. And failing miserably too.

He shook his head to clear it, hands grasping at the sides of his monitor so tightly it displaced the pixels on his screen. "Think Vox, what did you do to make her like you the first time?"

But if he was being completely honest, it was actually you who made all of the first moves. You who captured his attention like a vice. You who reeled him in, hook, line and sinker. There was no grand courtship on his part. In fact, he couldn't even remember the exact moment he had started to fall for you. It was all so easy, natural, seamless. He didn't have to do anything except for be himself.

He pursed his lips, turning back to the mirror warily. And—whatever, fine, fuck it. Not like anyone could see him debase himself like this anyway.

Vox sighed, his smile dropping like an overused mask. The desperation and vulnerability that he hated so much creeped back into his eyes, making him tense.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm such a damn idiot and—I just..." he trailed off, before groaning, dropping his head in his hands. "Fuck, this is pathetic."

What was he doing? Wallowing in self pity like some lovesick loser? For fuck's sake, he wasn't just some spineless bottom feeder, he was Vox. CEO of Pride's largest conglomerate. People would kill to be in his position.

A shaky grin forced itself back on his face as he lifted his head. Fuck, enough of this. Nothing was going to get done if he just sat here and twiddled his thumbs all day. It was time to make a move.

With his mental armor back in place, he marched to your room like a man on a mission. He may or may not have sent a drone on your tail to find it, since everyone else in this damned hotel seemed hellbent on pretending that they had short term memory loss when he asked. It was still a prototype, unreleased to the public. A camera the size of an ant, for incognito purposes of course.

When he finally reached your door, he pasted a confident, charming smile on his face. One that he knew used to fluster you once upon a time.

"Just act natural," he chided himself quietly, taking a deep breath before knocking on your door.

There was a moment of silence, before some shuffling was heard, and then the handle was turned.

Vox froze as you opened the door, dressed in baggy sweats with your hair in a disarray. Your shirt had ridden to the side at some point, and the rumpled neckline was exposing the enticing dip of your collarbone. He felt his mouth go dry.

And suddenly it struck him how much he missed you. God, he'd missed you. Your comforting presence, your lively humor, even the small things like waking up next to you or seeing your toothbrush next to his in the bathroom. And fuck, it hurt to have you just out of reach.

Your pretty mouth pulled down into a frown when you saw him, body language changing from relaxed to guarded in an instant.

Vox forced himself out of his trance, clearing his throat. This was his moment to shine. He'd practiced for this.

"Hey—" he started cheerfully, before the door was promptly shut in his face.

Vox blinked stupidly, standing in front of your room in shocked silence. Did—did you just—?

Frowning, he raised a hand to knock again. "Y/n?" He called out in confusion.

"Go away, asshole," your muffled voice came from somewhere on the other side of the door. "I don't want to talk to you."

"But—"

"I said beat it," you growled, before a glowing barrier materialized outside of your door. Fuck, if he touched that he knew he wouldn't stop bugging until tomorrow morning.

"Fine," he hissed under his breath, turning and storming away. So that was how you wanted to play it, huh? Fine, joke’s on you. He liked a challenge.

On the way back to his room though, he felt a familiar, pleasant tightness between his legs. Vox froze, slowly looking down at the noticeable tent in his pants in horror.

"Oh, come on."

****

The next few days could only be described as an intensely aggressive game of cat and mouse. He tailed your ass like a damn police dog, determined to get even a moment alone with you—but to his absolute irritation, you kept coming up with increasingly ridiculous ways to blow him off.

He invited you to take a walk with him after dinner? You suddenly developed a spontaneous stomach bug and now you were bedridden. He held a door open for you? You pushed open the other side of the double doors and maintained unimpressed eye contact with him the entire time. He couldn't even follow you with his micro-camera anymore, because you'd promptly discovered it and stabbed it to his bedroom door with a needle as a violent warning.

Nothing was going according to plan and he was growing more frustrated by the minute. What was the point of coming here if he saw you just as often as if he had stayed in his tower?

"How am I supposed to convince her to come back," his eye twitched, one night on a rant-filled phone call with Velvette. "If I can't fucking talk to her?"

Velvette looked at him like he was a dried piss stain on the wall. "Vox, do I look like I give a singular fuck about your dumpster fire of a love life?"

Ah yes, such encouraging commentary as always. Really, he didn't even know why he bothered to call if his abused ego was just going to get attacked while it was already rolling around in a fetal position.

"You're still on the call with me," he said pointedly.

Velvette rolled her eyes, scrunching her nose up at him in irritation. "Fine, since you're so pathetic, I guess I could spare some charity," she ignored his scoff, continuing without a hitch. "You need to fucking lay off, stop trying so damn hard to get her attention. It’s giving desperate and creepy."

"I'm not—"

"Yes you are," Velvette glared. "Listen. If you don't want to end up permanently dumped, you need to compromise. Stop acting on your emotions like a toddler, you can't fucking afford that right now. And neither can we," she grumbled the last part.

Vox dug his claws into the bedding he was lying on, tearing up the soft material. The thought of giving up on you physically pained him, but...this wouldn't really be giving up, right? Velvette was suggesting a temporary ceasefire, a way to make you let your guard down, which might not be such a bad idea. It was more like...a strategic redirection of his efforts. Something that would benefit him in the long run.

He needed to build up the trust you'd lost in him. Slowly, bit by bit, until you accepted his feelings again.

The gravity of the situation was daunting. Something told him that this was his last chance, that if he fucked up one more time, you really would be gone for good.

He couldn't afford to lose you like that. It would fucking break him.

A loud crash sounded in the background on the other line, jolting him out of his thoughts.

Velvette's face drew into an aggravated sneer as she turned around. "For fuck's sake. What the fuck is it no—"

The line went dark, cutting off the call.

Vox sighed, throwing his phone blindly somewhere on the bed as he leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

Sleep evaded him that night, but in its place he started to devise a new strategy. Velvette was right, if he kept pushing, he would only drive you away. It was time to change his approach, and as much as he hated to admit it, it was...time to put his pride on the backburner.

Because he could live without his pride, but fuck—he didn't even want to think about what an eternity without you would be like. Besides, it was only until all of this was over and you came back home. He just...had to be patient.

****

After taking a few days to regroup, Vox was now more than ready to put his plan into action.

He’d rehearsed an embarrassing amount of times in the bathroom mirror, popped a breath mint, chugged an energy drink, and slapped himself in the face for good measure. Not necessarily in that order.

Now, in the late hours of the morning, he waited patiently for everyone to filter out before making his move, quietly cornering you in the kitchen.

You were sitting in the far corner, hunched over a steaming mug just like he knew you would be. It was something you'd been doing since he first met you, always reserving twenty minutes after breakfast to enjoy a second cup. He didn't even need to look at the contents to know that there was only a single cream, but enough sugar to make an elephant go into cardiac arrest.

That precious information would forever be saved to his hard drive.

For a long moment, he just stood there like a certified creep, admiring the familiar scene with painful longing. You hadn't noticed him yet, so your expression was still the vision of perfect bliss, eyes closed with a slight uptick to the corner of your mouth. And suddenly, he wasn't in this shitty hotel anymore. The retro kitchen transformed into a sleek modern design, the white walls melting to light blue. It was one of the few lazy mornings both of you were able to spend together, and—

"What do you think you're doing?" Your irritated voice shattered his fantasy like a pane of rose-tinted glass.

"Ah, Y/n!" His grin slotted back into place like a puzzle piece. Fuck, he hadn't even said a proper sentence to you, and you were already looking at him like he was a piece of shit someone forgot to flush down a public toilet. He had to act fast or you'd walk out again. "Funny running into you like this," he chuckled, hiding his fidgeting hands behind his back. Electricity crackled between them. "Actually, I was wondering if—"

"No," you said sharply, cutting him off.

"I—What?" His grin twitched.

"Whatever it is that you're going to say, no," you snapped, turning your back to him for emphasis.

Vox went silent for a moment. Tone it down, he repeated in his head. Stick to the plan.

"Look," he started, softening his tone. "I realize that I haven't exactly been," he grimaced. "Fair to you."

You laughed bitterly. "Understatement of the decade, asshole."

"I'm sorry," he sighed, watching carefully as your shoulders tensed in surprise. "I'll stop, if that's what you want. I won't ask you out anymore or bother you with stupid, meaningless shit."

"But?" You said quietly.

"But I still want to be...friends with you," the word left a bitter taste in his mouth, but he swallowed it with a smile.

He chanced a quick glance at your face, and—well you looked like you didn't really buy it, but at least you didn't look like you wanted to kill him and dispose of his body in a ditch anymore.

"Alright," you said, after a long period of skeptical silence, your eyes unreadable. "I’ll hold you to it, then."

He closed his eyes. "Please, just consider—" he froze, processing your words.

You said yes? Fuck, you said yes!

He cleared his throat. "I mean, yeah, absolutely. Totally. Makes sense."

He caught the briefest flash of amusement in your eyes, before you turned to bring your empty mug to the sink.

"So, uh," he started giddily. Fuck rein it in man, slow down. "What are you doing later?"

“I’m busy today,” you shut him down immediately, making him deflate at your sharp tone. Then you paused for a second, seeming to contemplate something. “Well actually,” you said lightly, making him perk up again. “There is something you can join me for, but it’s a little…out of your depth.”

“Oh really? Try me,” he smirked confidently. As if anything would stop him from finally spending time with you today.

A vindictive spark suddenly flared in your eyes, making him hesitate. "Group therapy and trust exercises," you said smugly, and a jumble of odd noises quickly glitched from his head, his screen flashing briefly to show a giant, red exclamation point. "But since you're too busy with that billion dollar company and all, I thought you wouldn't be interested," you smiled sweetly.

Oh. You conniving little shit. You had him cornered.

Looks like he wasn’t the only one doing his homework.

“How f-f-fun,” he forced out, the words literally tasting like ash on his tongue.

“It is,” you nodded genuinely, making him double take. “I actually quite enjoy it.”

Vox pressed his lips together into a fine line, dread steadily welling in his chest as he realized that yes, you were actually serious. Sweet fuck.

For a second, Vox contemplated making a strategic retreat and calling it a day. He eyed the door behind him longingly.

But no, he couldn’t afford to back down from your little game just yet. If this was how you wanted to raise the stakes, fine. Bring it on.

Before he could lose his nerve, Vox mustered up a pained smile. "Actually," he said, making you raise a brow. "I'd like to give it a shot."

"Really?" You said incredulously.

"Yeah?" His grin twitched. "Why not?"

****

<— Part 3 Chapter Index

Taglist: @pooplyface1423 @spookysisters @that-one-weeb-buts-its-the-main @neito327 @hxzbinwrites @coleisyn @bababahannah @yellowsubiesdance @dirk-strides @justaspectatorforfandomarts @harmoira @sunnyslug @gum-iie @lady-valtieri @mit-suri @whatelsecouldgowrong @sillysimplysilky @eternalera @aoiyx @hazellight11 @hopefully-not @tsuvvy @imcryinginemo @dinorawrss @rekoloid @ayesha-eroticax3 @sle3pyh3ad2 @l0verboyxoxo1111 @lucasisstupid @lu-ferri12 @fandom-queen37 @ilunapb @skyeliteratures @shannoncosplay @da-disappointment @memospacexx @crazyforbarnes

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majd571989 · 2 months

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25 posts!

#free free Gaza #free palstin #free rafha #

#25 posts #tumblr milestone #free palstain #free free Gaza #from the bombing and death #gaza strip #peace be upon everyone who passed by #i want to get my children out of gaza #books #el shab hussin #writers #world of warcraft #gazaunderattack #transfem #mahmoud balousha #transgender #authors

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dunmesh · 3 months

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hehe... it's also in the way laios trusted marcille to bring everyone back to life and save them all in the rabbits chapters just like how delgal put the safety of the entire kingdom in thistle's hands... and both instances were what finally pushed marcille and thistle respectively into interacting with the demon directly. into feeling like there's no other way to satisfy their hearts and bring an end to their suffering other than embracing the winged lion.

and it's how laios was asked to save the kingdom and bear the responsibility as "the chosen one" just as delgal inherited the same duty and had all this pressure put upon his shoulders. it's delgal who was the one to literally kick start this quest laios was on by revealing the dungeon to the outside world and laios was the one to finish delgal's last mission. but it was only yaad in delgal's body that could truly bring an end to this tragedy by letting thistle rest in peace for the first time in over a thousand years, and that happened due to laios bringing back the golden kingdom residents' hope, spurring them into action, and marcille destroying their prison and giving them the chance to escape.

it's how thistle was trying in his last moments of clarity before the demon finished him off to see delgal again, "passing on" that request to marcille, and how it backfired- seeing falin again was the catalyst for her making a pact with the winged lion.

it's marcille and laios's efforts that eventually saved the people thistle tormented and loved so dearly, and if it weren't for them and their journey, thistle wouldn't have been able to reconcile with the person he loved most, or at least believe that he did. and in the same way, laios and marcille's relationship wouldn't have been as close and fulfilling as it is by the end of their adventure, each reaching their own conclusions, if it weren't for the base of delgal and thistle's love that this entire dungeon was built upon. and now laios and marcille are keeping alive the kingdom thistle cherished, his home, their home- the place they could settle in comfortably, surrounded by their most beloved people, after years of seeking that warmth and understanding. they're all connected in a way that surpasses thistle and marcille's perception of time and eternity. a thousand years ago, today and forever on. it's a tale of the endurance of love.

#dungeon meshi #i love all of them so much u dont even know...aaugghhh #laios touden #marcille donato #thistle

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extristitiavenit · 3 months

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Too Sweet - @ohtheblissx

It was a day like any other for john, the rise and shine grind of stammering out of bed and into his kitchen to use the blender for his morning brew, bliss oil, jimson weed and coffee all ground together with just a pinch of hazelnut for task before he was soon his bouncing and charismatic self. Once the sun had come up, yes he woke before the sun, he had already been clad in a pair of tight skinny jeans, to avoid baggage during baptism and of course he wanted to make sure he looked his best so he had a relatively nice dress shirt, his vest to feel fancier and of course a shit ton of hair gel to keep that mess back in the water. He knew he had a long day ahead, so he grabbed several thermoses to fill his morning concoction for the go and he was out the door, barely beating the morning light.

Most days reserved for baptism had a lot of thought put into it, showmanship, scripts and it was a spectacle to be seen so he knew he had to be at his best. Unfortunately that meant being cracked out of his mind, tearing up the roads of hope county in his beloved car and making an entire ass of himself to the early rising farmers as he’d passed by. Once he was at his usual baptism spot he’d seen his devout workers already hard at work dumping the bliss into the shallow water and creating a natural barrier to attempt to keep it all maintained. He abhorred Faith for her littering, but this was a necessary evil. Eyeroll.

Black boots hit the morning dew-soaked grass beneath his car door, his eyes squinting at the sun beaming over the mountains even despite having his signature shades on, the bliss had made everything so more vibrant. “brothers, sisters.” He sighed out, he was exhausted much like any addict he didn’t sleep much and that attributed to his foul mood, not that he could take it out on any of his followers without joseph reprimanding him. “make sure after you bless the waters you get rid of those containers, and I mean get rid of. If I so much as see a single barrel on the side of the waters west of the henbane.. there will be hell to pay.” He wanted so badly to spit that out more aggressively than he did, but he knew that sometimes people got butthurt and ran back to run their mouths for brownie points, so he settled with clenching his jaw and gesturing for them to commence.

Him on the other hand, he had an entire roster of people who were willing to be baptized and usually they had a few not so willing participants but— today's schedule was cleared. The only thing that he was dreading was the fact that he was expected to be there upon pickup of every participant of the evenings event.

Which meant he had to sit either passenger inside of the van or spend all day driving himself to each location, so to save on gas and his own peace of mind he went with the van. One visit turned into two, minutes turned into hours and as many fake smiles as he had to muster was enough to drive a normal person insane, but john wasn’t normal and he’d spent the entire trip sipping on bliss and taking it easy. Half of the time he was on his phone scrolling aimlessly and trying not to get a boner, but eventually the time had come. They had picked up the final passenger in the van, and the show was about to begin.

Once they had been at the river and everyone had gotten themselves prepared, it was time for John to make his scene. It was only a few minutes before he was about to walk down to the edge of the water when one of his devout followers came up to him to whisper the news, there was a deputy on their way through town and a birdy had heard they were investigating the happenings at Eden’s Gate. There was almost a glint of excitement that washed over him, the dread of monotony was taking a toll on him and this was the spark that he needed to get his motivation back. What better way to have showmanship if you don’t have new fans? Of course part of him halfway expects it to be a yee yee local cop, but regardless of that he was ready to get the baptism on the go. If he could get the majority out of the way before the arrival of the newest victim deputy, it would be a lot less stressful.

#/ this is the first step of chaos #/ i am v sorry if it's shiddy. sleepy hours

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cr4yolaas · 4 months

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second best (pt 2) — iwaizumi hajime

notes: at last, the heavily requested part 2 to this fic !! i really hope it met a lot of your guys’ standards — i tried my best to take as much of your requests into account ^_^ i rlly dislike m the flow of this … but hopefully u guys still enjoy LOL

tags: angst → (bittersweet?) fluff, depressive episode (reader), swearing (once), a longgg process of grief and healing and whatnot, alcoholism (only briefly), roommate! tsukishima, best friend! oikawa, tsukishima does NOT have feelings for you, not proofread and quite long

taglist (incl. everyone who asked for a pt 2 !!): @altumsomnum @gennaray @romanticandupsetting @multi-fandom-fanfic

it was tuesday.

a frigid air pierced your limbs and left you to rot away, with the windows shut tight and the door locked. there was no mistakening the dark bags hanging beneath your eyes or the flakes of skin peeling from your bottom lip, nor the soft pleas of your stomach or the iciness of your fingertips. you basked in eternal slumber and silence and darkness and whatnot, save for the ticks of a clock that was 14 minutes behind and the hum of the air conditioning.

you were not frightened in the slightest. the warning signs plastered on your flesh were no great concern, and you could not fathom the idea of having to function again. it was horribly consuming.

with a groan, you released yourself from bed, your legs trembling under the mere weight of the air. you avoided the collections of trash and clothes splayed across the floor, being careful not to disturb the peace that had formed over the past handful of weeks. the sight of the kitchen was much more refreshing.

you were locked in stasis. contrary to the comfort these walls once provided, they now served as a a form of imprisonment, designed to allow the grief and the sorrow and the anger and the guilt to coalesce and spill over. it was terribly suffocating — you wished to escape.

gently, you poured a cup of water (not that you drank more than a sip, anyways). a thought passed your mind.

you needed to leave.

sendai was a home you could not find solace in anymore. gone was the youth encapsulated in the mountaintops and the hidden pathways and the convenience stores, and no longer could you feel at ease when faced with the neighborhoods you familiarized yourself with as a child.

your new apartment was shared with an old face — one you had only seen glances of in high school, notorious for his glasses and upfront attitude. he bore no hesitance when taking you in. instead, he was grateful for your presence, as if splitting the rent with him had taken off his life’s burden off of his shoulders.

he was quick to set ground rules — laundry days were on saturdays, trash needed to be taken out on sundays, the dish washer had to be clear at the end of the day, all groceries were shared, so on and so forth. you weren’t sure if you could keep up.

it took one week for him to actually conversate.

“why did you come back here?” he questioned, with a tone that implied he knew of you for years upon years (which would be false).

you picked at the skin of your lip. “why do you ask?”

“no reason. just curious.”

in a burst of energy, you recounted the tales of your past life, one of love and youth and joy; of the old apartment, of your past hobbies, of hajime. his gaze was so distant that you weren’t sure if he was listening at all.

in return, he expressed brief apologies and turned the story to himself — he discussed his volleyball career, his teammates, how he felt somewhat disconnected from his high school friends. he did not care to mention the exhaustion riddled into the pores on your face nor the weakness of your voice. that was all you needed. a conversation, not comfort.

only an hour later did he remind you of his name — tsukishima kei — and it was only then that you realized you had moved into an apartment without taking any precautions whatsoever. he laughed when you informed him of the situation.

this was not yet a home, but it was a house. and that was sufficient.

a month had passed before tsukishima forced you to get a job. he was clearly not a fool — at some point (you couldn’t tell when), he realized you were paying off your share of the rent with your life savings, which irked him ever so slightly.

“do you plan on moving out and dying on the streets when you run out?” he complained, despite the concern laced in the fluctuations of his voice.

you began working at his former high school coach’s family store. the owner himself was welcoming — he didn’t question your circumstances nor your physical state, and merely mentioned in passing that he was “given a token of appreciation from a prized student.”

and so began the cycle. on weekday mornings, you would depart for work and tsukishima would leave for practice. occasionally, he would pack you lunch (“only because i had leftovers,” he’d say) or leave a can of coffee on the counter for you. you would work at the register until the amalgamation of students died down, and once you were left with an empty store, you would take a break and go on a walk (as requested by your boss). then, you would return in the afternoon to serve the same population of children, handing them their ice cream and their sandwiches and whatnot. when they all disappeared, the coach would let you free and dismiss you with a “good work today, let’s do it again tomorrow.”

returning home was your favorite part of the schedule. a majority of the time, tsukishima arrived later than you, leaving you to your own time until he came home with dinner and a drink.

it was a monotonous cycle, but enjoyable nonetheless.

“i’m cutting off the beer for a month,” tsukishima exclaimed one warm summer night. you left your room to see him collecting unopened bottles and discarding them in a trash bag with little regard. you could only frown.

“those are all going to waste, we haven’t even opened them,” you groaned.

there was no response from the man as he continued to clear the apartment of any alcohol, akin to a parent cleansing their child’s home. before you could protest any further, he shut the door behind him and the crashing of bottles against one another could be heard beside the building.

tsukishima re-entered the apartment with empty hands and furrowed brows. “what’s up with the shitty face?” you asked from the couch.

he clicked his tongue at your comment and bore no response, instead letting his eyes wander to the screen in front of you. the morning news was playing, as usual. and yet, it was so wrong.

the screen flashed to a familiar face, one clad with a slight grin and sweat spread over his skin. his hair had grown slightly and his complexion had darkened, evidence of his labor. but most of all, he looked happy. his eyes screamed with a passion you hadn’t seen before, and despite his haggard appearance, he seemed to be content.

you did not see tsukishima rushing to turn off the television. you did not see the screen turn black, and you did not hear the noise diminish. you did not see tsukishima’s face adjacent to yours.

“hey. let’s go outside,” he muttered before moving to pull you up and out of the house

a delicate breeze washed over you both. the sun began to kiss you goodbye, and the noon crept up in its wake, leaving both of you in the dark.

“he looked so happy,” you whispered. “i don’t know what i’m doing wrong.”

you watched tsukishima light a cigarette in your peripherals, his lighter evidently battered and marred from heavy use. he made no move to offer one to you. “you’re not doing anything wrong,” he spoke firmly, although you could tell he was struggling to formulate the right combination of words in his head. “he’s just… going along a different path.”

“it should’ve been us on the same path. i feel so stupid. he’s gone on to do such great things, and i… what am i doing?”

tsukishima didn’t push the conversation any further. you were grateful.

a week had passed before tsukishima told you he had gotten you a new job, one deeper in the city. on an early sunday morning, he presented a uniform and badge to you, your name imprinted on both. the effort made you smile.

at some point, a new cycle formed. the museum was a far cry from the run down family store, and tsukishima taught you how to welcome it with an open mind and open arms. he never did mention the exact reason for the new occupation, nor did he tell you why he was so adamant on enforcing routine in your life. nonetheless, you appreciated it.

the mundanity that your new job encapsulated was slightly more enjoyable than that of your former job. exploring the concrete rooms filled with statues and paintings and whatnot was a sufficient way to pass the time. every now and then, you’d catch your roommate detailing a specific sculpture to a curious visitor, the scene contrasting his typical behavior. not that you would ever mention it to him, though.

a new routine was not unwelcome, but it did not feel impactful anymore. you still burned blue in the night, your bones aching with reminiscence over a lost life. your hands and legs still knew tokyo; they still knew the morning commutes and the bustling cafés and the chirping crosswalks and your own home, one that had been so devastatingly haunted by grief. your heart still knew the morning calls and the evening texts and the handfuls upon handfuls of promises made on once solid territory, and yet, you knew to return to it was to betray yourself.

you missed iwaizumi hajime.

rather, you missed the life that you formulated in his presence, opposed to the shambles you had grown comfortable in now that you were back home. tsukishima had carved a clay pot for your worn soul, and yet you could not help but yearn for the comfort and stability and routine you established in a past life.

the soft padding of feet echoed outside your door. soft strings of light streamed under your door as your roommate entered the kitchen, his actions indiscernible as he maneuvered about carefully. you decided to step out to greet him.

a startled tsukishima turned around to face you. “what are you still doing up?” he interrogated, albeit not in offense. “it’s late. we have work tomorrow.”

“but i don’t want to go to work. i want to go home,” you protested. you felt childish all over again — the thirst for selfishness was one that could not escape you, even now. an overwhelming desire to be in control of your own life.

tsukishima furrowed his brows. “to tokyo?” you nodded. “okay… then let’s go to tokyo.” he paid no mind to the slanted smile that transformed your lips, instead opting to turn away and fill up his bottle. “but why?”

“i need to escape,” you sighed, as if releasing a burden that had been lingering for a moment too long. “i need change. i just- i feel so stuck. i need to live.”

he merely hummed in agreement before uttering a comment about your poor sleeping schedule and ushering you back to bed.

tokyo was a city of hopes and dreams and noise. the shift from sendai’s cicada lullabies and whispers in the wind to the incessant chatter and obnoxious roads of the city was significant — any pedestrian would notice the irritation on you and tsukishima’s faces.

the inn he picked was small, yet slightly more comfortable than your current abode. the owners were kind and your neighbors were quiet, save for the occasional drunk couple. it was a life you remembering living, but not one you yearned for any longer.

in the night, you would both visit various attractions and markets and restaurants, with tsukishima insisting on paying for your meals (“as thanks for getting a life,” he argued). for that handful of days, you bore a smile that you weren’t sure would grace your lips ever again, for there was an adolescence in the evening activities that mended the remnants of your spirit. you felt whole.

on the last day, you brought tsukishima to a ramen house nearby the inn and promised to pay for the meal. it was a tuesday, again.

for reasons you could not discover, that appeared to be one of the busiest nights for the establishment — moments after you had settled, a line began to form, and the tables were crowded with families and friend groups and dates alike.

amidst the composition of metropolitans stood a man you wished you didn’t have to see. as if it were punishment, he locked his eyes with yours, the shock in his complimenting your dread.

you watched as he excused himself from his group while ignoring the cheers and shouts about him “shooting his shot.” tsukishima observed in tandem, seemingly reading the situation from a distance despite sitting right across from you.

you noticed the bold athletic trainer embroidered onto his chest, and the fitted red shirt he wore that matched those of his team. beads of sweat compiled on his forehead — you weren’t sure if it was from the density of the room or his exhaustion or anxiety. a small part of you hoped it was the second option.

“hey,” he began. “can- can we speak outside?”

you could not help but oblige.

hajime seemed to have developed an obsession with fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. you noticed the frayed strands on a spot that aligned perfectly with his hand, and you nearly laughed.

he coughed into his fist before rambling. “i’m sorry. i know you definitely don’t want to see me, and it’s not wrong of you at all to feel that way, but i just- i’ve thought about you- no, i think about you every day up until now. i know i don’t deserve you at all, and me being here is probably super upsetting, but-“

“hajime.”

the way you called his name seemed to deteriorate him and his principles. you finally felt otherwise.

“i really, really, didn’t want to see you at all. i don’t even want the thought of you to pass my mind. i’ve built a life outside of you and i’m tired of you interrupting it.” you witnessed his heart, mind, and body freeze simultaneously.

“i- i understand that, i know, i’m sorry. i’ve been- i’ve been reflecting a lot recently and i’ve known i was horribly in the wrong and i’m ashamed to have done nothing about it, and i know this sounds really, really dumb but i wish i had just stayed with you for that extra day because- because i don’t think i can go any longer without you now that i have you here, in front of me. could we- can we at least… keep in touch?” he seemed to speak without limitations, akin to a leaking clay pot. he was distressed, evidently. but you no longer saw his face and thought of guilt and love and yearning; you held no space for him.

you shook your head gently. “hajime, i don’t want you in my life anymore. you achieved your dreams, and i’m working on finding mine. that’s how it was meant to be.”

if not for the small lamp above the two of you, you would not have noticed the tears spilling onto his face. you bore no sympathy — with a goodbye and a small wave, you left him in the alley with a heavy heart and saline tears.

to witness him before you had awakened the truth riddled in your sinew and bloodstream: iwaizumi hajime was no longer a necessity. a truth that had cowered away beneath guilt and fragility and shame had uncovered itself, and for once, you breathed a full breath.

oikawa seemed so vibrant on the other side of your screen, the argentinian sun kissing his skin almost perfectly. “…i miss you lots!! i’ll visit soon, maybe, and we can catch up and maybe go get coffee and then debrief and then…” he trailed off with an aloof grin, his words spilling out from your phone and reverberating around the living room. tsukishima stood in the kitchen, the sound of his deliberate chopping and washing contesting oikawa’s voice. “but anyways, i’ll see you soon! byebye!!”

you waved goodbye and hung up, leaving only the noise of your roommate’s cooking. a loud groan left his lips in the midst of his mixing, followed by a complaint about how irritable your friend’s voice was. you could only laugh.

gentle strings of moonlight spilled into the apartment through the kitchen window, the songs of the evening falling upon both of you and your shared comfort. tomorrow was your off day, granting you both an opportunity for an actual meal. tsukishima (begrudgingly) agreed to make your favorite dish, with the request that you’d make his favorite dessert next week.

“thank you for the meal,” you whispered. tonight would consist of good food and a relaxing night, and tomorrow would entail a day of rest and a weekly reset, along with another call with oikawa. with marred hands and a porcelain heart, you had managed at last to craft a solid life — steady health, steady friends, and a steady routine.

you would no longer be second best to anything, and that was sufficient enough.

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