#hozier's in a week type love

[willobyroseherb]

Alysia Harris - Death Poem

[thedensworld]

Villain Origin Story | c.sc

Pairing: Seungcheol x reader

Genre: Conglomerate au! Revenge au!

Type: angst, slow burn, drama

Word Count: 17k

Summary: At the end, Seungcheol is the only one who see you—not as the villain, but the main character of the story he is willing to write.

Seungcheol smiled faintly as he watched the engagement ceremony unfold. His best friend’s big night was going well — laughter echoed through the grand ballroom, and everywhere he looked, there were fresh white florals, soft golden lights, and faces glowing with celebration. It was branded an “intimate” party, but the extravagance in every corner whispered otherwise.

Love was in the air — in the clink of champagne glasses, the exchanged glances, the carefully curated perfection.

And then his eyes stopped.

A shadow against all the light — you.

Dressed in black, perched quietly on the second-floor balcony, sipping wine like you were mourning something the world had forgotten. Seungcheol tilted his head, amusement curling at his lips. Of course you’d show up like this. It was your stepsister’s engagement, after all.

And she was marrying the man you once loved.

Drawn by something he couldn’t quite name, Seungcheol found himself climbing the stairs, walking to your side with quiet steps. From this height, the room looked like a music box — perfect, spinning, artificial.

“Black suits you,” he said, voice laced with a teasing edge. “A little dramatic for your sister’s big day, don’t you think?”

You didn’t flinch. Not even a blink.

That calm, polished stillness — it unnerved him more than any icy comeback.

Your eyes slid toward him, briefly. Cool. Empty. You raised the wine glass to your lips again before elegantly turning away from the scene below, facing the floor-to-ceiling windows framing the Seoul skyline like a painting.

The city glittered beyond the glass, oblivious to the party, to the people, to the past.

You sighed — quiet but deep — and drank again. Not a single word escaped your mouth.

Seungcheol leaned beside you, studying your profile.

"How’s life?" Seungcheol asked, his voice low, almost hesitant. He admitted to himself — it had been a long time since he’d seen you in person. Sure, he’d seen your face everywhere: on posters, luxury brand ads, movie trailers. But the real you? The one standing beside him now? Maybe not since college.

"Terrible," you murmured, eyes vacant as they stayed fixed on the city lights beyond the window.

Seungcheol turned to follow your gaze, then leaned his back against the railing beside you. You didn’t look like the girl who used to light up a hallway with drama and perfume. You looked tired. Polished, but hollow.

“You’re a rising star,” he offered.

You scoffed — not bitter, not sad — just... amused in a way that felt cold.

You turned to him for the first time that night, eyes meeting his. “You must’ve missed the latest headline then. Apparently, I’m a homewrecker now.” You raised your brows slightly, your tone laced with indifference. “Dropped just last week.”

Your gaze drifted to the glowing couple in the center of the ballroom — Baek Ara and Joshua, hand in hand, surrounded by the buzz of celebration.

“Not even sure whose home I supposedly wrecked,” you added lightly. Then, your eyes locked with his again, sharp and knowing. “But I have a pretty good idea who orchestrated it.”

Seungcheol blinked, caught off guard by the directness. His brows rose. “Me?” he repeated, letting out a scoff that bordered on a laugh. “I don’t have time for that, Y/n.”

You smiled. Not the soft, glowing smile you once reserved for Joshua. No — this smile was the one that used to make underclassmen trip over themselves in the school hallway. The one that promised destruction to anyone who dared cross you.

Seungcheol recognized that smile. He didn’t enjoy the drama you used to bring, but he remembered the chaos — and how much he’d secretly lived for the way it made Joshua squirm back in the day.

He sighed and let his amusement fade, studying you more seriously now. “I heard being a celebrity is hard,” he said quietly. “I wouldn’t know firsthand... but I hope you’re doing okay.” He hesitated, then added, “Just don’t do anything you’ll regret later.”

You let out a quiet chuckle — then, to his surprise, it blossomed into a laugh. A full, honest laugh that echoed off the high ceiling of the balcony. Seungcheol watched you in confusion, brows furrowed. You weren’t laughing with him. You were laughing at him.

“It’s funny hearing that from you, Choi Seungcheol,” you said, his full name slipping from your lips for the first time. He stiffened slightly. All those years, you barely acknowledged him. Back then, you were too busy making heart eyes at Joshua to notice anyone else.

You held out your half-empty wine glass to him, an elegant gesture that felt more like a dismissal than anything else. He took it without thinking.

Then you turned, walked down the stairs, and disappeared from the ballroom without looking back.

Seungcheol stood still, staring after you.

That wasn’t the girl he remembered. That wasn’t drama.

That was something else.

And it unnerved him more than he cared to admit.

*

To his surprise, he saw you again just two days later — and in the most unexpected place. The elevator of Choi Group's main building.

He was returning from a business lunch, casually heading up to his office when he spotted you standing by the elevator with someone he assumed to be your manager. You wore an oversized blazer and sunglasses that covered half your face, your posture reserved but poised. You gave him a polite bow.

Seungcheol blinked, unsure why at first — then it clicked. You were an ambassador for one of Choi Group’s skincare brands. Technically under his father’s empire. That explained it.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Choi,” your manager greeted him warmly as you all stepped into the elevator together. He was much friendlier than you, practically oozing eagerness. “I’m Kim Byungho. I’m Y/n’s manager. We’re heading to the marketing department to discuss the revised contract.”

Seungcheol nodded, only half-listening. He glanced at you, who hadn’t said a word.

“I hope we can count on your kindness,” your manager added, bowing deeply as the elevator doors closed. “It’s been a rough week for her, and we’re trying our best to handle the damage.”

Seungcheol frowned slightly, unsure what he was talking about. He glanced toward Jun, his secretary, who stood beside him with a subtle shift in posture — tense.

Before Seungcheol could respond, your voice cut through the space, calm and sharp like a blade.

“Stop it,” you said to your manager. “It’s not up to him. It’s up to his father. So let’s stop begging.”

You didn’t even turn your head, your voice muffled only slightly by your sunglasses. The bitterness was controlled, but not hidden.

Byungho clenched his jaw, clearly frustrated, but didn’t argue further. Seungcheol, still processing the tension, turned to Jun for an explanation — and saw his secretary clenching his tablet a little too tightly.

The moment the elevator doors slid open, you and your manager turned in the opposite direction, heading to the marketing floor. Seungcheol watched you disappear around the corner, your heels clicking against the marble tiles like a metronome marking the slow descent of your public image.

He didn’t say anything until he and Jun stepped into his office.

“She’s the one who’s been rumored to be a homewrecker,” Jun handed Seungcheol his tablet, already pulled up to the article. There was a blurry screenshot of messages — one-sided, emotional texts supposedly from you. The headline screamed “Top Star Ji Y/n Exposed as Third Party in Chaebol Love Triangle?”

“A screenshot leaked. People say she was blowing up the phone of an engaged man — supposedly begging him to break up with his fiancée.”

Clingy. Desperate. Pathetic.

That was the narrative.

"Apparently, she was also a bully in high school," Jun added casually, scrolling through his tablet.

Seungcheol’s brow furrowed. Was she?

He dug through his memory, trying to match that claim with what he remembered of you. You were definitely intimidating — the kind of girl who walked through the halls like you owned them, confidence woven into every step. Popular. Sharp-tongued. Beautiful. But a bully?

He couldn’t recall a single instance of you picking on anyone. If anything, your silence did more damage than words ever could. Maybe people just assumed that someone like you — magnetic and unapologetic — had to be cruel.

“We were in the same high school,” Seungcheol murmured.

Jun blinked. “Seriously? That’s real?”

Seungcheol didn’t answer. His gaze drifted to the floor for a moment, lost in a flicker of memory — you in your perfectly pressed uniform, arms looped around Joshua’s like he was yours and the world was just extra.

Jun scoffed. “Damn. I’m honestly disappointed. I was a fan of her acting. But turns out she’s just… a terrible person.”

Seungcheol’s jaw clenched.

He remembered what you’d said on the balcony just two nights ago — how your voice was low, detached, as if the world had already given up on you and you were only matching its energy.

“Terrible.”

The word had hung between you like a joke only you understood.

Seungcheol repeated it under his breath. “She’s… terrible.”

Jun perked up at the agreement. “Right? I knew it!”

But Seungcheol wasn’t so sure. Something about the way you’d laughed that night — bitter, hollow, nothing like the queen bee from back then — stuck with him. That laugh didn’t belong to someone evil. It belonged to someone hurt. Someone exhausted.

Maybe you had been terrible once. Or maybe… they just needed you to be.

And he was beginning to wonder which was worse.

*

Seungcheol stood in front of a painting one quiet afternoon, stealing an hour for himself at the museum — a rare act of rebellion against his punishing schedule. It was meant to be soul-searching, a breath of calm before drowning in the flood of paperwork waiting at the office.

The painting was titled Discarded, signed simply, G.

It was achingly beautiful — and heartbreakingly tragic. A woman in a white dress, stained with chaotic swipes of color, sat alone in the middle of a road. People passed by on either side, their faces blurred into motion, ignoring her as if she weren’t there at all. She looked misplaced, messy, like something no one wanted to claim.

Something about it made his chest tighten.

“This is one of her latest pieces,” came a gentle voice beside him. The curator, observant and perceptive, had noticed how long he’d been staring. “She’s been on a long break, but she recently started painting again. If you’re interested, I can show you the rest of the collection.”

Seungcheol turned toward him slowly, not realizing he’d been holding his breath.

“This one…” he started, but the words stuck in his throat.

The curator smiled knowingly, his hands folded behind his back. “I know. It hits hard, doesn’t it? There’s something cathartic about it. Tragic, yes — but honest. That’s why we saved it for last.”

Seungcheol looked back at the canvas, unable to shake the haunting familiarity of the figure. The mess. The silence. The beauty of being unseen.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “It feels like she’s waiting for someone to notice her. But no one does.”

The curator nodded, then motioned gently. “Come. I’ll show you the others from G.”

Seungcheol followed, but not before casting one last glance at the woman in the painting — alone, forgotten, yet unforgettable.

The late afternoon sun poured through the tall windows of Seungcheol’s office, casting long shadows across the piles of documents on his desk. Contracts, proposals, reports — all neatly stacked, all waiting for his attention. But his pen hadn’t moved for the last twenty minutes.

His gaze was unfocused, distant, pulled back to the painting now carefully stored in the private gallery wing of his home. Discarded.

He bought it without hesitation. The moment the curator mentioned it was available for purchase, Seungcheol wrote the check like it was a lifeline — not for the artist, but for himself.

Because that woman in the white dress, stained and overlooked in the chaos of the world, wasn’t just a figure on canvas. She was him.

He could still see her — sitting in the middle of that imaginary road while people rushed past her, uncaring. She wasn’t screaming or crying. She wasn’t begging to be seen. She had simply given up.

It haunted him.

Because it was familiar.

The shadows in this office were nothing new to him. He had always been someone’s shadow. His older brother, the golden child — charming, accomplished, his father’s pride. Joshua, the favorite among friends — warm, articulate, and effortlessly adored. Even his father, whose name carried the weight of the company, cast a long silhouette across his life.

Seungcheol was there, always. Present, reliable, good — but never bright enough to stand on his own.

He couldn’t even bring himself to hate them for it.

There was no bitterness, just... exhaustion. A quiet ache from being half-visible all the time. Like he was allowed to exist, just not too loudly.

His fingers brushed over a printed memo. He didn’t read it. He just sat there, eyes locked on nothing, remembering the sadness in that painted woman’s posture. She hadn’t given up because no one cared. She had given up because she had cared too much for too long without anyone noticing.

He leaned back in his chair, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and exhaled slowly.

It was strange.

*

Joshua stepped into Seungcheol’s office with his usual easy stride, a cup of iced coffee in hand and a folder tucked under one arm. His eyes immediately drifted to the new artwork hanging on the far wall — subtle yet striking pieces, all seemingly from the same artist.

"You purchased paintings?" he asked, curiosity laced in his voice as he walked closer to one of them. “These are... different for you.”

Seungcheol didn’t look up from his laptop. “Needed some change,” he replied simply, fingers still tapping away before finally pausing to take a sip from his lukewarm coffee. “The walls were too bare.”

Joshua tilted his head slightly at one of the canvases, squinting at the signature in the corner. “They’re all from the same person. ‘G’?” He turned back toward Seungcheol. “You know the artist?”

“Not personally.”

Joshua raised a brow but didn’t press. He set the folder down on the desk, then leaned casually against the armrest of the nearby couch. “How’s everything going here? You look like you haven’t left this chair since Tuesday.”

“Probably haven’t,” Seungcheol muttered. Then, as if remembering, he added, “How’s Ara? Haven’t seen her since the engagement.”

Joshua let out a light laugh, “Busy. Planning things. Overthinking things. You know how she is.”

Seungcheol finally looked up, a faint, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “She’s always had a plan.”

“She does,” Joshua said with a chuckle. “Down to what I’m supposed to wear on our honeymoon.”

There was a comfortable silence for a few seconds before Joshua’s eyes returned to the painting. “You sure you’re okay, though?” he asked, this time more quietly. “You seem a little... distant.”

A pause.

“I ran into Ji Y/n,” Seungcheol said casually, eyes still on his screen.

Joshua blinked. “Really?”

“She was at the company this week. Elevator ride. She’s still the ambassador for the skincare line, apparently.” He tilted his head. “Marketing kept her while the other brands dropped her.”

Joshua looked thoughtful. “Kind of surprised, to be honest. I figured the whole thing would scare off everyone.”

“Yeah, well. Father said she still sells. Numbers don’t lie.”

There was a brief silence between them.

“She didn’t look great,” Seungcheol added after a moment. “Not that she ever talks much to me. But still… she seemed tired. Detached.”

Joshua didn’t say anything right away, just nodded slowly and tapped his fingers against the armrest of the chair.

Then, he sighed. “This whole thing’s messier than I thought.”

Seungcheol gave him a glance, sharp but unreadable. “You say that like you’re surprised.”

Joshua didn’t respond — just stood up, smoothing out the front of his shirt.

“Well,” he said lightly, “I’ll tell Ara you asked about her. And maybe bring her some flowers so she doesn’t kill me over the honeymoon wardrobe.”

Seungcheol gave a faint smile. “Good call.”

Joshua paused at the door, hand on the knob, before turning slightly. “I met Y/n... before the engagement.”

Seungcheol looked up, surprised. “Before?”

“Yeah. A few months before Ara and I got engaged.” He let out a slow breath, as if choosing his words carefully. “It… complicated things more than it should’ve.”

Seungcheol raised a brow but didn’t interrupt.

“Ara’s always been a bit…” Joshua hesitated, then gave a short laugh, “jealous. With her step-sister, I mean.”

Seungcheol leaned back, folding his arms as he watched Joshua.

“I’m not saying it’s justified,” Joshua went on. “She wouldn’t have been, honestly — if Y/n ever acted like a sister. But she never did. Not really. I guess I get where it starts from. That weird invisible tension between them. But… things happened.”

Joshua didn’t elaborate, and Seungcheol didn’t push, though the implication hung in the air like smoke.

“I thought Ara was managing the label now?” Seungcheol said eventually, voice even.

“She is,” Joshua nodded. “It’s technically under her father's group, but she’s been running it since last year. Y/n was already under contract before that. Ara didn’t have a say in it… at first.”

“And now?” Seungcheol asked, his voice just a touch quieter.

Joshua offered a tired smile. “Let’s just say it’s a mess I’ve learned not to get involved in. Or at least, I try.”

He turned toward the door again, tapping lightly on the frame. “Just… don’t mention to Ara that you saw her. It’ll only spiral.”

“Right.”

The door shut behind him with a muted click.

Left alone, Seungcheol stared at the spot where Joshua had stood. The image of the painting—of that woman in white, messy, aching and ignored—flashed behind his eyes again.

And somehow, this time, she looked a little more like you.

*

Your presence in front of him brought back memories of high school in a rush—moments of crowded hallways, student council speeches, and the way you used to own every room you walked into. You still carried that same quiet confidence, the kind that demanded attention without trying. That main character aura—so distinctively yours—hadn’t faded.

But something was different.

Gone was the loud, commanding prom queen, the sharp-tongued yet respected queen bee of high school. The woman sitting across from him now was Actress Ji Y/n—composed, refined, and heartbreakingly untouchable. A woman who had earned her place in the industry with undeniable talent, not just a pretty face.

“I’m sorry,” you said softly, your voice steady, almost too calm. “But I’m leaving South Korea.”

Seungcheol stilled. “Why?”

There was a pause. A small breath. And then you answered, “Some people want me there.”

His mind immediately went to your Hollywood debut—buzzing headlines, red carpet premieres, glowing reviews.

“So... LA?”

You nodded.

Seungcheol leaned back in his chair, exhaling. “I was about to offer you a job.”

“I appreciate it,” you replied, polite but distant. “But I don’t think you understand—I’m an actress, not just a pretty face for an ad campaign.”

The words weren’t sharp, but they landed with precision.

He watched you carefully. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t try to soften the blow. There was something admirable about that. The girl he once knew had always been fierce—but this version of you was unshakable.

He cleared his throat and adjusted his posture, choosing his words carefully. “Five-year contract,” he said. “And I’ll cover seventy percent of the debt you owe your label.”

You blinked, visibly taken aback for the first time. The silence stretched between you.

Seungcheol didn’t break eye contact. His voice, steady and low, carried a rare sincerity. “It’s not just about the face. I want to help you survive. You have so much potential, Y/n. More than any of them ever gave you credit for.”

You let out a quiet chuckle, though it lacked any real humor. Your gaze dropped to your hands resting neatly on your lap.

“That’s... almost more humiliating, to be honest.”

He furrowed his brows, watching as your smile faltered just slightly.

“To be pitied,” you continued softly. “To be seen as someone that needs saving. I’ve fought too hard to still look like a damsel.”

Seungcheol exhaled, the weight of your words settling heavy between you. But he didn’t backpedal. He understood now—this wasn’t just about pride. It was about dignity.

“I didn’t mean it as pity,” he said finally. “I meant it as someone who knows what it’s like to be discarded.”

That silenced you. For a moment, neither of you said a word.

And somewhere in that silence, something unspoken passed between you—recognition, maybe. Or something dangerously close to understanding.

“Why?” you asked, your voice quieter now, touched with something fragile.

Seungcheol took a slow breath, eyes never leaving yours. “It might be too late to say this,” he admitted, his voice low. “But I’ve realized… you might not the person I painted you out to be all this time. You’re not nearly as bad as I convinced myself you were.”

He paused, searching your expression for a flicker of emotion.

“In fact,” he continued, softer now, “I think I was just too proud to see you a little bit clearer.”

*

After Seungcheol helped you clear your debt—every last Won tied to the label Ara managed—he didn't just stop there. Once your contract officially ended, he introduced you to someone he trusted deeply in the entertainment world. Boo Seungkwan, a sharp-witted industry professional with an eye for comeback stories, offered you an exclusive contract under his rising agency.

Unlike others, Seungkwan didn’t see you as tainted or a risk—he saw potential, resilience, and star power buried under the scandal’s dust. And just like that, after months of silence, rejection, and whispered humiliation, your name began to rise again. Slowly, steadily. New endorsements, indie film scripts, magazine shoots—small steps, but they were yours.

Then came Joshua’s wedding.

You had debated not coming. But Seungcheol insisted. “You’ve earned the right to be in the room,” he’d said. And so, you came—not as a girl wounded by the past, but as a woman who had survived it.

You entered the grand ballroom with your arm looped through Seungcheol’s, the train of your gown flowing behind you like a quiet declaration. The low hum of conversation dipped as people turned. Eyes followed you, the infamous Ji Y/n—once the center of controversy, now the embodiment of elegance.

Joshua turned too.

He was standing at the altar, hands clasped in front of him, awaiting his bride. But when his eyes met yours, something in him faltered.

You looked ethereal. Graceful. Almost untouchable.

And beside Seungcheol, who held himself with quiet strength and calm authority, you looked… safe.

Joshua hadn’t seen you in months. Not like this. Not since the tabloids. Not since Ara's label dropped you after 'quietly' blacklisting your name in industry. Not since he met you before the engagement and complicated everything.

He couldn't stop staring. Because it felt wrong. It felt wrong to be standing at the altar, in a suit tailored for a promise, when his eyes were still chasing a past he’d never truly understood—only judged.

You didn’t look at him for long. Just a brief glance, polite and composed. But it hit him harder than any argument ever had. Because in that one glance, he saw it all:

That you were no longer his.

You sat down beside Seungcheol like you belonged there. Your posture perfect, your smile calm. And Joshua… he stood there, a groom on the verge of vows, wondering if the girl he once left behind had finally outgrown him for good.

Joshua assured himself—he loved Ara. He must love her.

He loved her because she wasn’t you.

Ara didn’t flood him with a million questions when he needed space. She didn’t throw tantrums or cry in the hallway when he didn’t text back. She didn’t show up unannounced to his classes demanding explanations with teary eyes and trembling lips. Ara was quiet, composed, graceful. She stayed in her lane, gave him room to breathe, and never made him feel overwhelmed.

She wasn’t you, and that was the point.

He never once thought of Ara as difficult. Not when he was with you. Because back then, chaos had a name, and it was you. You were loud and alive and far too much for him when all he craved was stillness. Ara gave him that stillness. That peace.

Joshua's mind drifted, uninvited, to that day—the day everything truly fell apart.

College campus, mid-semester, the lecture hall packed. He still remembered the low hum of voices before the professor walked in, the clatter of keyboards, the scent of ink and burnt coffee. He had been seated near the front, flipping through his notes, trying to concentrate. Trying to stay focused.

He was under pressure—his family needed him to step up, to start preparing for his role in the business. His father had just handed him a department to manage part-time. His days were full of meetings, documents, and late-night calls. And there was you.

You didn’t fit into that life the way you used to. You needed more than he could give—more of his time, his attention, his affection. You were fighting for him, but he was too exhausted to fight back.

And then you walked in.

The door swung open with a thud and gasps filled the room. All eyes turned to the girl in the black hoodie and dark jeans, your eyes puffy, hair pulled into a messy ponytail. You didn’t care who was watching. You came for him.

“Hong Joshua” you said, your voice trembling but loud enough for everyone to hear. “You can’t even reply to a single text, but you have time to pretend like I don’t exist?”

He had closed his eyes then, wishing the earth would just swallow him whole.

“Not here, Y/n,” he muttered, rising to his feet.

“No. Here. If this is what you care about most, then let’s do it here.”

You were upset. You were hurting. And you were right. But he couldn’t see it at the time.

“Stop it,” he hissed. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“I loved you!” you had cried. “I gave you everything, and you’re shutting me out like I’m nothing?”

That was the moment something in him snapped. The pressure, the expectations, the embarrassment—he cracked under it all.

“We’re done,” he said coldly, his voice slicing through the lecture hall like glass. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Silence.

Your expression didn’t fall right away. You held it together just long enough to straighten your spine, to blink away the tears, to lift your chin in that signature prideful way. Then, without a word, you turned and walked out—your head held high even as your heart broke.

He never saw you cry that day. But he knew you did.

And now, years later, as he stood in his wedding hall, waiting for his bride, he looked across the room at the woman you’d become—elegant, untouchable, a thousand miles away from the girl who once begged him to stay.

But he knew better.

He once knew what your love looked like when it was messy and loud and real.

And as Ara walked toward him in white, smiling politely, Joshua’s jaw clenched with the weight of a truth too late to confess.

Ara is not you.

*

The clink of ice in your glass was the only thing filling the silence for a moment, soft jazz humming in the background of the dimly lit hotel bar. You sat beside Seungcheol on one of the plush stools, legs crossed, a half-finished drink in your hand as you watched the golden amber swirl.

"You were great today," Seungcheol said, eyes on you—not just glancing, but looking. Like he was still trying to figure out how someone could walk into a room full of people who used to love her, used to hate her, and act like she ruled the place.

You took a small sip and set your glass down. "I have no reason not to be."

Seungcheol chuckled lowly, impressed. “Right. Why show the ghosts that they haunt you, when you can just haunt them back?”

You smirked at that, tilting your head toward him. "That’s poetic of you. Been reading my old fan letters?"

He rolled his eyes playfully but couldn’t hide the slight flush at your teasing. “Please. If I had a fan letter for you, I’d hand-deliver it.”

You raised a brow. “Would it come with flowers?”

“Only if you signed a ten-year ambassador deal.”

You both laughed, and for a second, the world felt soft. Comfortable. Familiar.

He watched you silently for a moment after that, eyes lingering a little too long on your profile, the way the bar lights kissed your skin. You turned to meet his gaze, lips parted slightly.

“What?” you asked softly.

Seungcheol leaned back, swirling the drink in his hand before answering, “Nothing. Just thinking how weird it is… that I know the version of you people were too afraid to claim. And now I get to sit here next to the woman no one can ignore.”

You bit your lip—subtle, unintentional, but he noticed. “Sounds like someone’s getting sentimental.”

“I think I’ve earned the right,” he replied, and you weren’t sure if it was the drink or the way his voice dropped just slightly—but suddenly the air between you felt warmer.

Dangerous, almost.

So you turned back to your drink, smirk playing on your lips.

“Don’t fall for me, Choi.”

He tilted his glass toward you. “I don't fall easily, Ji.”

You smirked, lips brushing the rim of your glass. “You didn’t do a very good job at it.”

He finally glanced at you, and this time it lingered. Just long enough.

“I never said I succeeded.”

A beat passed. Tension curled between you two like smoke. He wasn’t making a move, but he didn’t need to—not when the pull between you was this thick, this unspoken.

You leaned in just slightly, voice almost a whisper, teasing but not joking. “Be careful. Ara might start another rumor.”

“I’m not the type to hide behind someone else's narrative,” he said easily, eyes flicking down to your lips and back. “Let them talk.”

You blinked, just once, and leaned back with a soft chuckle. “You’ve changed.”

“Not really,” he said, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I just got better at playing your game.”

You didn’t say anything, just let the silence stretch with the same thrill of a held breath. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew this could end badly—but you also knew you wouldn’t be the one walking away first tonight.

The silence between you stretched through the elevator ride—thick, magnetic, every breath laced with possibility. You didn’t touch, didn’t speak, but the heat simmered in the air like static before lightning.

When the elevator dinged at his floor, Seungcheol stepped out first, pausing just long enough to glance over his shoulder. You followed.

His suite was spacious, minimal, clean. A half-empty glass of whiskey rested on the table from earlier, but he ignored it. You stepped inside slowly, heels tapping against the floor, fingers brushing your hair behind your ear as you looked around.

“Still the same taste,” you said softly, running your hand along the edge of the table. “Neat. Expensive. Subtle.”

“Like it?” he asked, closing the door behind him.

You turned around, arching a brow. “You didn’t bring me here to give me a room tour, did you?”

He gave a small, breathy laugh, loosening the first two buttons of his shirt. “Depends. Do you want the full experience?”

You stepped toward him, but stopped just short. “Are you flirting with me, Seungcheol?”

Seungcheol tilted his head, eyes meeting yours with a quiet boldness. “Only if you’re going to flirt back.”

The pause that followed was heavy—your heart drumming against your ribs, his gaze never wavering. You stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until the air between you barely existed.

Your voice dropped. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“I’m not scared of you anymore,” he said, and there was no cockiness in it. Just truth.

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “That’s the problem.”

You didn’t kiss—not yet. But your hand brushed his arm, slow, and lingered. His eyes dropped to your lips, then back up. His restraint was impressive, but you could feel the tension in the way his shoulders stayed firm, jaw clenched just a little too tightly.

“You look tired,” you whispered, changing the subject just to mess with him.

He smirked, stepping a hair closer, his voice low. “You’re exhausting.”

You tilted your head. “You like it.”

His hand finally moved—fingers brushing lightly down your bare arm. “Maybe.”

Neither of you made the next move yet. But the invitation hung in the air—unspoken, charged, and undeniably mutual.

You turned away first, walking slowly toward the window, your back to him. The city lights outside blinked through the sheer curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. You could hear him behind you, his quiet steps, the sound of him undoing his cufflinks.

“I didn’t think you’d let me get this close,” he said, voice lower now, a little rough around the edges.

You didn’t turn around. “You didn’t get this close. I let you.”

Seungcheol chuckled under his breath. You felt him step behind you—close, not touching. His presence was magnetic. You could feel the heat of his body near yours, his breath just brushing your neck.

“You were the storm in every room you walked into,” he murmured. “And somehow tonight, you walked in like silence… and I still couldn’t look away.”

Your breath caught—he noticed.

When you finally turned, his hand moved to your jaw, not quite cupping it, just the slightest touch, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. He was looking at you like he was memorizing the way you’d changed—how your eyes didn’t burn like wildfire anymore, but something softer, something wiser. And yet, you were still you.

“You look like you’ve got something to prove,” you whispered, barely audible.

His smile was slow. “Only to you.”

You tilted your head, letting his hand steady you as you leaned in. “Then prove it.”

The space between you disappeared. His lips found yours—unrushed, firm, like he’d waited long enough and wanted to do this right. It wasn’t desperate. It was deliberate. The kind of kiss that said he was still holding back, just a little, because the night was young and you had time.

He pulled away just enough to press his forehead to yours.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he said, voice hoarse.

You shook your head. “You already know I don’t.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, and his hands found your waist, pulling you into him. Every step backward you took was guided by his touch, until the backs of your knees met the bed.

Still clothed, still caught in the tension between boldness and restraint, Seungcheol looked down at you like he wasn’t sure if this was real—like after everything, having you here, like this, might still be a dream.

But you were real. And this was happening.

And tonight, for once, neither of you was pretending.

*

The morning light slipped through the curtains, golden and gentle. Seungcheol stirred, reaching out instinctively to the other side of the bed—empty, but still warm.

He opened his eyes slowly, gaze landing on the slight indent in the pillow where your head had been just hours ago. Your scent still lingered faintly on the sheets, and the memory of your skin, your breath, your laugh pressed against his senses like a soft echo.

Then he noticed the phone on the nightstand blinking with a message.

[Y/n]

I had an early shoot. Didn’t want to wake you. I ordered breakfast—it should be arriving soon.

A small smile tugged at his lips. It was such a simple gesture, but it settled something warm in his chest. He ran a hand through his hair, still lying back against the pillow.

Peace. That’s what this felt like.

But the next notification made his brows furrow.

[Joshua]

When did you and Y/n get close?

He blinked at the message. No greeting. No preamble. Just straight to the point. A day after his wedding.

Seungcheol sat up, the sheets slipping down his torso, and stared at the screen. For a moment, he didn’t know if he wanted to reply or throw the phone across the room.

He took a breath.

[Seungcheol]

Didn’t realize you were checking in this soon. Everything alright?

A beat passed before Joshua responded.

[Joshua]

Just answer me.

[Seungcheol]

We reconnected. That’s it.

He didn’t offer more. Because Joshua didn’t deserve more. Not after everything.

Seungcheol dropped the phone on the desk and turned toward the room. The bed was still messy from last night, your scent faint on the pillow. He smiled to himself—not because of the intimacy, but because of the quiet trust you gave him.

No theatrics. No clinging. Just you, choosing to stay for a night and go without a scene. Leaving coffee, breakfast, and a piece of peace he didn’t know he craved.

[Joshua]

You never told me.

Seungcheol rested his arm on the windowsill of his office, the city below flickering with late lights. The coffee on his desk had gone cold, untouched since the text from Joshua hours ago. He hadn’t responded further—and didn’t plan to.

But memories had their own way of seeping in. Joshua once told him about you during college. Late one night after drinks, tipsy honesty filling the space between laughter and bitterness.

“She was loud,” Joshua had said, lips curled into something between a smirk and a wince. “Demanded everything. Even in bed. Too aggressive. She wanted to control how I moved, how I touched her, like it was her stage.”

Seungcheol had just hummed back then, pretending not to care. But he remembered how Joshua laughed like he needed to laugh—like he was trying to prove he wasn’t affected. Like he needed to make you smaller, just to feel bigger.

But now, standing here with last night still clinging to his skin, Seungcheol couldn’t relate to a single word Joshua had said.

You were all fire, yes—but not in the way Joshua made it sound. There was no chaos, no demand. Just honesty. Just heat. Just the kind of intimacy that came from finally being with someone who wasn’t scared to want.

You were present. Intentional. Unapologetic.

And for the first time in a long time, Seungcheol felt seen without ever needing to explain himself.

He smirked to himself, recalling how you'd pressed your lips to his jaw, how you’d texted him about breakfast like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Joshua had complained.

But Seungcheol had no complaints.

Only a feeling. One that told him—this wasn’t over.

*

Night after night was spent with you—no pressure, no promises. Just two bodies colliding, wrapped in warmth and need, with emotions neither of you dared to unpack. Whether it was after a sunrise shoot or squeezed between late-night meetings, you always ended up together.

There were no labels. Not lovers. Not even friends, really. Colleagues, maybe—by day, you worked as the face of his brand, smiling in front of cameras and attending sleek product launches. By night, you laid tangled in his arms, limbs heavy with exhaustion, silence filling the spaces where feelings should’ve been spoken.

It was an arrangement. A quiet, sacred escape. And both of you prayed no one would ever know. Let it stay like this—uncomplicated, unspoken, and only yours to understand.

One afternoon, Seungcheol found himself sharing coffee with Ara after a quick business lunch. What was supposed to be a brief check-in had stretched longer, the conversation drifting into the familiar waters of the entertainment industry Ara had been part of for five years.

“You interested in entertainment now?” Ara asked, casually setting down her cup, eyes glinting with curiosity.

He leaned back, expression unreadable. “This isn’t about your step-sister, right?” he said, his voice smooth. “That situation your label made 'helped' her a lot.”

Ara tilted her head, her smile strained. “You’re saying that like you weren’t involved.”

Seungcheol raised his brows. “It was all business. I saw potential. That’s it.”

“But it started with her,” Ara pointed out. “That sudden interest in the industry, the sponsorships, the rebranding… it wasn’t just coincidence.”

He didn’t deny it. Instead, he let a small smirk tug at his lips. “The entertainment world is complicated. Messy. Political. And layered in ways most industries aren’t. It’s fascinating.”

Ara chuckled dryly. “Well, my husband runs an agency too, in case you’ve forgotten. Maybe ask him for lessons—he’s been in the game far longer than I have.”

Seungcheol met her gaze with an amused glint. “True. But I think you’re more impressive.”

She narrowed her eyes, a faint crease forming between her brows. “What are you trying to imply, Choi Seungcheol?”

His smile didn’t falter, but he leaned forward just slightly, sensing the shift. “Nothing,” he said smoothly, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “You’re sharp, and you’ve handled your position well. That’s all.”

But the tension lingered. Ara’s tone dropped, voice tighter now. “Her mother married my father for money, Seungcheol. You expect me to pretend we’re sisters and braid each other's hair? Please.”

Seungcheol didn’t respond right away. He only observed her—sharp lines, guarded eyes, that perfectly placed bitterness. There was more to her story. Just as there was more to yours. And maybe that’s what fascinated him most.

“How’s your relationship with Ara?” Seungcheol asked one night, his voice low and rough against the crown of your head.

Your bare skin pressed against his, arms wrapped lazily around him as his warmth soaked into you. The air was thick with the silence that always followed—after he picked you up from the late-night shoot, after the tangled sheets and unspoken feelings. Now it was just his breath, fanning your hair as his fingers traced idle circles along your back.

“She’s…” you hesitated, then exhaled softly, “She’s like a step-sister. A good stepdaughter for my mom, actually. Kind of like Cinderella—except she gets the spotlight wherever she goes.”

His hand stilled for a moment, then continued moving in gentle motions. “I didn’t ask what kind of person she is,” Seungcheol murmured, his voice deeper now, quieter. “I asked about your relationship. Are the two of you... good?”

You paused, searching for the right word, then shrugged lightly against him. “We barely talk. Almost never. But I don’t hate her. She’s just... there. Existing in the same house, the same air, but never really touching mine.”

He didn’t speak right away, but you felt the subtle shift in his breathing, the way his arms tightened around you just slightly—like he was bracing himself for the weight of your truth.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, then began, voice barely above a whisper.

“My mom remarried when I was eleven. She didn’t love him, not really. But he had money. A big house. Enough to get us out of the debt my dad left behind.” You paused. “It wasn’t a choice made out of love. It was survival.”

Seungcheol’s thumb grazed over your shoulder gently. You leaned into him more, your words tumbling out slow and soft like they’d been waiting years to be said.

“I never blamed her. But I wasn’t happy. I don’t think I ever was in that house.” You let out a small laugh, bitter at the edges. “It was always Ara this, Ara that. She was pretty and charming and everything I wasn’t. She knew how to smile in front of people. I just... slowly faded.”

He stayed quiet, his hand now resting flat against your back, grounding you.

“I was never seen. Not by my stepdad. Not by his family. Not even by my mom. It was like—I existed in that house as a shadow. And Ara… she shone so brightly. She didn’t do it to hurt me. But... it still hurt.”

You felt your voice shake, but you kept going. “Joshua was the only one who ever looked at me. He was just… kind. He noticed. He talked to me when no one else did. Asked how I was. Remembered things I said. He made me feel human when everything else made me feel invisible.”

That moment lingered for a beat longer than comfortable.

“I’m sorry,” Ara said, shifting in her seat across from Seungcheol at the polished table. “It’s… very discomforting to talk about my husband’s ex.” Her words were cool, clipped with a professional courtesy that didn’t quite hide the tension behind them.

Seungcheol nodded, biting back the words at the edge of his tongue. She’s your sister, though. But now he understood. The dynamic between you two wasn’t just complicated—it was detached. Ara didn’t just dislike you. She resented your presence in any form, even as a memory.

Still, he offered a diplomatic smile. “I’m glad you and Joshua married,” he said simply, his tone even, sincere. “He seems happy. Genuinely.”

Ara let out a breath, shoulders softening a little. She nodded, accepting the statement as though it was a gift. “He is. He really is.”

But even as Seungcheol smiled, part of him couldn’t stop remembering the warmth of your skin against his, the quiet sadness in your voice when you said “she’s just there.” And in that silence, he realized—he didn’t want you to be just there anymore.

*

“You took days off.” You glanced at him as the plane ascended, your voice a mix of disbelief and amusement.

The two of you sat side by side in business class, on a flight bound for Jeju. Somewhere quiet—somewhere Seungcheol had planned for the both of you. A much-needed vacation. You had just wrapped your first major project in a while, and he, after endless launches, meetings, and late nights at the office, decided it was time to breathe.

“You, of all people—the workaholic—took days off,” you repeated, eyeing him like he’d grown a second head.

Seungcheol smirked as he leaned back in his seat, arms folding behind his head with practiced ease. “Tell me something I don’t know, Y/n.”

You sighed, mirroring his position, the tiredness finally sinking out of your shoulders. “You’re crazy.”

“I know someone crazier, back in high school.” He turned his head toward you, lips curving mischievously.

“What?” you narrowed your eyes, suspicious.

He gave a soft laugh, shaking his head. “You don’t want to know. She once went after the football game committee and demanded the referee be fired because her boyfriend got injured without the other guy getting carded.”

You groaned, sinking into your seat. “I didn’t technically get him fired. His boss made the decision.”

“After a call from your stepfather’s office.”

You shrugged innocently. “Something could’ve gone seriously wrong with Josh. Someone had to be responsible.”

Seungcheol laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. “He wasn’t six, Y/n. He was seventeen. You were unhinged.”

You lowered your gaze to your hands, fingers fidgeting slightly. “I know,” you murmured.

There was a pause.

Seungcheol tilted his head, watching you more closely now. “You really cared about him, didn’t you?”

Your nod was small, but immediate. “Of course I did,” you said softly. Then you looked up at him with a teasing smile. “Didn’t you?”

He chuckled at the way you dodged the depth of the question, as always with that playful glint in your eye. He let it slide.

“Has anyone told you how much you’ve changed from your old self?”

You smirked, turning your attention to the screen in front of you, searching through the inflight movies. “I haven’t changed, Seungcheol.”

He raised an eyebrow, expecting the twist.

“I’ve grown.” You threw him a wink before pressing play on the action film you’d been looking forward to since boarding.

Seungcheol didn’t reply—he just leaned his head back and smiled. The kind of smile that stayed long after the words faded.

The resort was everything Seungcheol promised—secluded cliffs overlooking Jeju’s deep blue sea, private villas built with wood and stone, where the wind carried the scent of salt and pine. You stepped onto the terrace, hair slightly damp from a shower, wearing one of the white robes provided by the resort. The breeze kissed your skin, and the sound of waves crashing in the distance melted some invisible weight from your chest.

Seungcheol came out behind you, two wine glasses in hand. He handed you one and leaned on the railing beside you. “You look like someone who finally remembered what rest feels like.”

You sipped your wine with a grin. “I feel like someone who forgot how good silence can be.”

He clinked his glass gently against yours. “To silence, then.”

The night crept in, painting the sky in deep indigo. Neither of you said much. There was no need to. His presence beside you was enough.

Later, in the dim light of your shared villa, you sat on the rug beside the fireplace, your legs tucked beneath you, watching the flames move. Seungcheol sat behind you, his hand gently massaging your shoulders.

“You’ve been tense for months,” he murmured, his voice low and close to your ear.

“You’ve been watching me for months,” you replied just as quietly.

His hand stilled for a moment, then resumed its motion. “Someone had to.”

You leaned back slightly into his touch. “Why do you do this?” you asked, eyes still on the fire.

“What?”

“This. Us. It’s not just sex and you know it.”

Seungcheol didn’t answer right away. Instead, he placed a kiss on your shoulder, slow and intentional. “Maybe because I don’t want to be another man who takes and leaves. Maybe because… when I see you, I don’t feel like I need to lie.”

You turned to face him, your gaze sharp. “That’s dangerously close to romantic.”

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “We agreed not to talk about emotions, didn’t we?”

You leaned in, kissed him softly, and whispered, “That’s because we’re cowards.”

The fireplace crackled as his hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer, your robe slipping slightly off one shoulder. Neither of you said anything more that night.

And in the quiet hum of dawn, wrapped in sheets and the scent of him still clinging to your skin, you realized that whatever this was—it was no longer casual.

You were still asleep when Seungcheol stepped out onto the villa balcony with his phone pressed to his ear. The ocean breeze tousled his hair as he leaned against the railing, his body still relaxed from last night—until he saw the caller ID: Joshua Hong.

He hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen, then finally answered. “Yeah?”

There was a beat of silence before Joshua spoke, voice flat but tight. “Did you go to Jeju with her?”

Seungcheol’s jaw tensed. “What are you talking about?”

“There’s a video of her at the airport yesterday. Some media caught it. She was covered up, but not enough.” Joshua inhaled sharply. “You were in the background.”

Seungcheol didn’t respond right away. His gaze shifted toward the bedroom, where the curtains fluttered and the silhouette of your sleeping body could be seen beneath the sheets.

“You’ve been seeing her, haven’t you?” Joshua asked again, his tone sharper this time. “Since when?”

Seungcheol let out a slow breath. “We reconnected. That’s all you need to know.”

“That’s all?” Joshua’s laugh was bitter. “You’re sleeping with her.”

“That’s not your business anymore,” Seungcheol said, a finality in his voice. “You’re married. You chose your path. So did she.”

“You know what happened between us—how it ended. You were there when she—” Joshua stopped himself. His voice cracked, either with anger or regret. “I just didn’t expect you.”

“I didn’t expect me either,” Seungcheol replied. “But here we are.”

There was another pause. Then Joshua said quietly, “You’re not just sleeping with her.”

Seungcheol’s grip tightened around the phone. “Goodbye, Joshua.”

He ended the call before the man on the other end could say another word.

When Seungcheol stepped back into the bedroom, you stirred slightly. Your eyes opened, still heavy with sleep, and you blinked up at him with a soft smile. “Who was that?”

He walked over and sat at the edge of the bed, brushing your hair away from your face. “No one important.”

But he knew better. Joshua was important—to you.

And this… whatever this was between the two of you… wasn’t going to stay quiet much longer.

*

"You did amazing," Seungcheol said as he climbed back onto the boat, water dripping from his hair as he reached over to help you out of your gear. His hands were steady, warm against the cool metal of your breathing apparatus. "Seriously. You did amazing."

You exhaled, catching your breath as you pulled the mouthpiece from your lips. “Really? I was worried I looked like I was flailing down there. It’s been a while since I last dove.”

“I couldn’t tell. You looked calm. Natural,” he replied as you shrugged off the rest of your gear and made your way toward the seating area in search of your robe.

He was already a step ahead, handing it to you as you approached. You murmured a quick thanks, wrapping it around your body, still slick from the sea.

"You were amazing too," you added, glancing at him as he ruffled his wet hair with a towel. "I mean, you’ve been doing this for a while, right?"

Seungcheol tilted his head, eyeing you with curiosity. "How do you know that?"

You smirked lightly. "I remembered Joshua mentioning it once. Something about how you always went diving every semester break. Guess you were coming here?"

He paused for a moment, eyes studying your face like you’d just said something he hadn’t expected. Then he nodded slowly. “Yeah… I used to come here a lot. Especially back in high school. The water felt like the only place I could breathe.”

You met his gaze, the silence stretching comfortably between you as the wind tousled both your hair. He broke it first.

“I didn’t think you’d remember something like that,” he said, quieter this time.

You chuckled as you settled onto the bench of the boat, wrapping the robe tighter around your body. “I know a lot of things about people, Seungcheol. I’m not as ignorant as you might’ve thought… and I never was.”

Seungcheol sat beside you, his shoulder brushing against yours. “I figured that out. But… why didn’t you ever talk to me in high school?”

Your brows furrowed as you turned your head toward him. “I thought you hated me. I mean… everyone kind of did. But with you, I figured you especially didn’t like my presence, so I just—stayed away.”

He shook his head instantly, reaching out to place a hand gently on your arm, grounding you. “No. God, no. Of course not. Did I ever say anything like that to you?”

You hesitated, biting your lower lip, eyes flickering away for a second. “I… I don’t know. I can’t remember exactly. Maybe Joshua said something? Or maybe I just inferred it from the way things were.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Joshua told you I didn’t like you?”

You exhaled a short breath. “No. I told you, Seungcheol. I forgot. Maybe no one said it. Maybe it was just... the way everything felt back then.”

A beat of silence hung between you, filled only by the gentle sound of waves lapping against the boat. His hand didn’t move from your arm.

“I didn’t hate you,” he said softly. “If anything, I think I noticed you more than I was supposed to.”

*

It was a memory Seungcheol never quite managed to forget.

He had just arrived at campus that day, walking leisurely down the hallway with his headphones on, music playing loud enough to drown out the world. But the moment he turned the corner toward class and saw a group of students peeking through the door, murmuring with their phones half-raised, something tugged at his gut. He paused, pulled the headphones down around his neck, and stepped forward.

Inside, he saw it—the moment Joshua broke up with you. Publicly.

Your face was pale, jaw tight, but your eyes didn’t flinch as Joshua stood there, saying things he clearly hadn’t rehearsed enough. His voice was calm, yet his hands betrayed him—fidgeting, twitching, unsure.

“Y/n is so crazy about her reputation. Anything she’ll worry about is how people think about her.”

Those words had echoed in Seungcheol’s head for a long time, not just because Joshua once said them to him in passing, but because they didn’t fit with what he saw that day.

Joshua ended it in front of everyone, knowing full well how much you hated being watched, being judged. Seungcheol had always thought Joshua wouldn’t intentionally humiliate you—but then, why do it like that? He could see it in Joshua’s eyes too—something inside him was breaking just as much.

And then you ran. You rushed out of the classroom, your shoulder colliding with Seungcheol’s chest as you stormed past him. No apologies. Just heartbreak in motion. He remembered watching your figure disappear down the hallway, the faint sound of your heels against the tiles lingering far longer than they should.

Now, sitting across from you with glasses of whiskey in hand, the sea breeze from Jeju brushing in from the half-open window, Seungcheol finally asked what had been sitting at the base of his chest for years.

“How did it feel?”

You sipped your drink slowly, eyes staring into the amber swirl in your glass. “It was humiliating, of course,” you said. “He didn’t have to do it that way.”

Seungcheol nodded. He agreed. “But?”

“But I was relieved,” you continued softly, a dry smile playing on your lips. “At least it woke me up.”

There was a pause. Heavy. Honest.

Then you looked up at him, your voice just a breath. “I knew Joshua liked Ara.”

Seungcheol blinked. “What?”

You gave a slow nod. “I saw it. The way he looked at her during her sweet seventeen. Like she was… something he desired. Like he forgot I was in the room.”

“Did you ever confront him?”

“Of course I did,” you said, letting out a soft chuckle. “But I didn’t say her name directly. I just asked, ‘Do you like someone else?’”

“And what did he say?”

You shrugged. “Does a cat say anything after it knocks a vase off the table and watches it shatter?” you said with amusement, your smile laced with bitterness. “He didn’t answer. He just stood there like silence would undo the damage.”

Seungcheol watched you carefully.

“Maybe that’s why it didn’t hurt that much. That day,” you murmured.

“But still… he hurt you,” Seungcheol said, voice quiet but firm.

You looked at him, a ghost of a smile on your lips. “Who cares?” you said lightly. “Who cares if he hurt me? When I realized he wasn’t the same person who saw me like I existed—like in high school—I chose to be hurt. That was my decision. My freedom.”

Seungcheol looked away, his jaw tightening. He stared at the bottom of his glass as if the answer to everything might be swirling in the amber liquid. Then he looked back up at you, eyes unreadable. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “For everything you had to go through. You didn’t deserve any of it.”

And for the first time, Seungcheol saw you cry.

Not the quiet, composed kind of tears that slid down silently—but the kind that surprised even you. It cracked something in your voice, your expression trembling as the tears pooled and broke, slipping down your cheeks. You tried to laugh it off, blinking rapidly, but your chest stuttered on a breath you couldn’t quite catch.

“I’m sorry,” you said, brushing at your cheeks. “God, I don’t even know why—”

But Seungcheol reached out, not to stop your tears, but to be with you in them. He didn’t speak. He just looked at you with the kind of gaze that saw straight through the armor you'd built, right into the hurt you thought you’d buried.

“You don’t have to be strong around me,” he finally whispered.

And for once, you let yourself believe that.

“I’m tired, Seungcheol,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. The kind of tired that didn’t just sit in your bones—it lived in your chest, in the corners of your mind, pulling everything down with it.

“I’m so tired of fighting. Of defending myself. Of always having to prove I’m not what they think I am. Not a homewrecker. Not a villain. Not someone cold just because I don’t cry in public or fall apart when they expect me to.”

You looked away, ashamed of the crack in your voice. “I tried so hard to hold myself together. To keep my name clean. To be someone my younger self would be proud of. But somewhere along the way, I forgot what it’s like to just... breathe.”

Seungcheol leaned in slightly, his hand still resting near yours, but he didn’t try to console you with empty words. He just listened. Present. Unflinching.

“Sometimes I think I survived everything just to be this exhausted version of myself,” you exhaled. “And I hate that. I hate that it still hurts, even when I know I did the right thing.”

“You’re not just surviving anymore,” he said gently. “You’re healing. It’s slow, and it’s ugly, but you’re doing it.”

You laughed softly through the ache. “Does healing always feel this lonely?”

Seungcheol’s eyes softened. “Not when you have someone who stays.”

*

“What is this?”

Ara’s voice trembled as she shoved her phone into Joshua’s face. The screen lit up with an article, the headline bold and accusatory, accompanied by a grainy photo of Joshua standing in front of you in a hotel lobby. The timestamp showed it was taken just last week.

Joshua exhaled, chest tightening. He hadn’t expected anyone to snap a photo that night—let alone that it would end up online so fast.

“Ara, I—”

“What were you doing talking to another woman when you’re married, Joshua? And not just any woman—her?” Ara hissed, eyes blazing. “She’s your ex.”

“She’s your sister,” Joshua reminded her, the words heavy with frustration.

“I don’t care!” Ara shouted. “She’s still your ex! You promised me—promised—you’d stop talking to her! And then I find this? In a hotel lobby? What am I supposed to think, huh? That you were just there for coffee and childhood memories? Or should I believe you slept with her?”

Joshua clenched his jaw. “Is that really how little you think of me? After everything? You know me, Ara. You know I’ve always been loyal.”

Ara scoffed bitterly, folding her arms. “Then explain to me why the entire internet thinks my husband is cheating—with my own sister.”

It was supposed to be just a talk.

That’s what Joshua told himself when he texted you last week, asking to meet. Just a small catch-up in the hotel lobby while you were in town for a schedule. A moment to ask about your career, which he was quietly relieved to see bouncing back after the scandal. But the conversation drifted, as it always did with you, into places it shouldn't have gone.

He shouldn’t have asked. But he did.

“You two… are you dating?” he asked, voice low and cautious.

You looked at him, eyes cool, unreadable. “That’s none of your business, Joshua.”

Joshua flinched at the words. “You’re my ex,” he said, voice tightening. “And he’s my best friend.”

“And you’re married,” you snapped back, your voice cutting through the air with quiet finality.

Silence dropped like a curtain between you. Joshua stared at you, taking in the version of you that sat in front of him—no longer the girl he once held in his arms, but a woman. Confident. Grown. Blossomed in a way he never imagined.

He wasn’t sure if it was regret or longing creeping up his spine, but he hated it.

“You still love me, Y/n…” he whispered, almost as if testing the weight of his own delusion.

You blinked at him, lips parting slightly in disbelief. But you said nothing. You didn’t need to.

You scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief.

“Joshua… it was all in the past. I don’t love you anymore. And honestly? I don’t even know if it was love to begin with… or just obsession. I was hurt—by my family, by everything. You were just a way out.”

Joshua’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Obsession? Y/n, you were obsessed with me? How could you say that…”

He watched you stand up from your seat, your body tense with finality. Panic sparked in his eyes, and without thinking, he reached out and gripped your wrist.

“Don’t go. Please… don’t go to him.”

You looked down at his hand on your wrist before meeting his eyes, cold and sharp.

“Why are you always like this, Joshua? Seungcheol is your best friend. You said that yourself. So why?”

Joshua blinked. Why? Why did it always feel like he needed to prove something? Like he needed the world—and maybe himself—to believe Seungcheol would always come second? That he was the one who shone brighter?

You pulled your hand back, voice low but laced with exhaustion. “Stop being jealous of him. We’re not seventeen anymore.”

His chest tightened. Then he said the one thing he’d been clinging to.

“You called me that time. You texted me.”

You froze. He was talking about the screenshot. The one floating around the internet. The one Ara had weaponized into a full-blown scandal.

You turned back to him, eyes burning.

“That was because your wife tried to ruin me, Joshua!” Your voice trembled, fury shaking through every word. “Ara tried to kill my career. She turned down every offer sent to me. She wanted me jobless. I texted you because I was desperate—I thought maybe you could talk some sense into her.”

Joshua opened his mouth, but no words came out.

“And you ignored me,” you whispered, voice breaking. “You left me hanging. And now… now you make it look like I’m a homewrecker? You let them believe that? You stayed silent while she tore me apart.”

There was a pause. A silence that felt heavier than any scream. And in that quiet, Joshua saw it—what he’d done. What he didn’t do.

“Ara, it’s over. It’s been over for a long time. You’re the only one,” Joshua said softly, reaching for her hands and holding them firmly in his.

Ara stared at him, eyes glassy, hurt simmering beneath the surface.

“Then tell me,” she said through gritted teeth, “why were you captured with her? Why were you seen with your ex in a hotel lobby like you had nothing to hide?”

Joshua sighed, tension coiling in his shoulders. “It wasn’t like that. We just… talked. But things got complicated. Everything’s been complicated lately, and you know that.” His voice faltered, almost pleading. “I’ve always loved you, Ara. Even when I was still with her.”

Ara bit the inside of her cheek, swallowing the bitter taste his words left behind.

“Then why…” she whispered, voice trembling, “why do you keep getting distracted by her these days? Why do your eyes drift when you think I’m not watching?”

Joshua looked down. His silence was louder than anything he could’ve said.

Because Ara wasn’t you.

And that truth—shameful, quiet, and damning—sat heavy on his chest.

*

Seungcheol had read every article. Every damn headline that twisted the truth into something grotesque. And still—he hadn’t seen you since that night. Since everything with Joshua hit the internet like wildfire.

He hated to admit it, but he was scared. Not of the public, not of the media—but of the possibility that you were avoiding him. That you might be too hurt, too tired, too ashamed to even face him. And the thought gutted him.

But more than anything, Seungcheol didn’t care what the world said. He knew you. He knew you wouldn’t do anything reckless. He knew your mind—how it worked, how it processed things wisely even when you were breaking. He was proud to say he knew you now, not just the girl from the past, but the woman you had grown into.

Still, it didn’t stop the media from fanning the flames.

Old wounds were reopened and picked apart. Every detail of your past with Joshua was dissected like you were nothing more than a scandal. Reporters interviewed your high school classmates, hungry for scraps of gossip. And somehow, overnight, you were painted as everything you never were: a homewrecker. A manipulative ex. A washed-up actress. A high school bully. A villain. Cancelled.

Seungcheol couldn’t stomach it. He couldn’t even look at your name trending without feeling sick. He called Seungkwan, desperate for answers, but Seungkwan only offered a tired sigh and a polite refusal.

“She’s somewhere safe. That’s all I can tell you.”

It was a déjà vu of the darkest kind. All over again, you were losing everything. Sponsors withdrew. Brands pulled out. Upcoming projects were "postponed indefinitely." And the public, once so quick to idolize, now tore you apart with bloodthirsty glee.

Then, a week passed. No word from you. No appearances. No social media activity. Just silence.

Until your name resurfaced.

This time, attached to a formal letter. A retirement.

Seungcheol stared at the screen, his blood running cold as he read your words. Calm. Gracious. Final.

You were leaving the industry.

And it broke something in him.

Two days later, he was standing at Joshua and Ara’s doorstep, fists clenched, jaw tight. He didn’t care about courtesy. He didn’t come to talk. He came to confront.

To demand answers.

Because while they lived comfortably inside their quiet home—married, unscathed—you were out there picking up the pieces of a life they helped destroy.

And Seungcheol wasn’t about to let that slide. Joshua opened the door, surprised to see Seungcheol standing there. He looked disheveled—no styled hair, no jacket, just a plain black shirt clinging to his chest, damp from the light rain outside. His eyes were bloodshot, tired, and angry.

“Seungcheol?”

Seungcheol didn’t say anything at first. He stepped inside without being invited, brushing past Joshua with a force that made it clear he wasn’t here for small talk.

Ara appeared from the hallway, her expression stiffening the moment she saw him.

“Seungcheol,” she said carefully. “What brings you—”

He turned to Joshua. “You let it happen again.”

Joshua blinked. “What?”

“You let her go through all of it again. You stood there and watched the world tear her apart—again. And this time, it was because of you.”

Ara folded her arms. “Don’t bring that tone in here.”

“Don’t tell me how to speak when she’s out there suffering because of you!” Seungcheol snapped, pointing at her. “You knew exactly what you were doing when you pulled those strings—blacklisting her, blocking projects, feeding lies to the media.”

“I never—”

“Don’t lie to me,” he growled. “You tried to bury her, Ara. And you—” he turned to his old friend, “you let her take the fall alone. You saw the articles. You saw the comments. And what did you do? Hide behind your silence like a coward?”

Joshua’s jaw tightened. “It wasn’t supposed to go this far.”

“But it did!” Seungcheol shouted. “Because you never stopped it. You never protected her. You just stood there while she wrote her own damn retirement letter like she was the villain in a story you wrote.”

“Cheol…” Joshua’s voice cracked. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“But you did,” he said coldly. “You hurt her. And then you let the world finish the job.”

Silence fell. Joshua couldn’t meet his eyes anymore.

Seungcheol took a shaky breath, voice lower now, but no less sharp. “She loved you. Even after everything, she respected you. And you disrespected her name like it was nothing.”

“Then why are you here?” Ara asked, her voice tight.

“Because I’m not like you,” Seungcheol said, eyes locked with hers. “I don’t stay quiet when someone I love is bleeding.”

Joshua looked up sharply at that.

Seungcheol didn’t flinch. “Yeah. I love her. And I’m not going to sit still while people like you rip her apart.”

With that, he turned and walked toward the door, chest heaving.

“Fix it,” he said, without looking back. “Both of you. Before you lose whatever soul you still have left.”

And then he was gone—leaving the door open behind him, the air thick with the weight of everything they refused to face.

*

A year had passed.

Seungcheol found himself once again wandering an art gallery in Samcheong-dong, his safe haven. On days like this—quiet, gray-skied afternoons with no schedules—he liked to get lost in colors and silence. Museums, paintings, sculptures… they helped him think, helped him breathe. They grounded him when the world felt too fast. But today, they did little to soothe him.

Because today, he missed you.

More than yesterday. More than last week. More than he was willing to admit to anyone else.

He hadn’t seen you since that night—since your name was dragged through headlines, since your tear-stained retirement letter was posted across every screen, since he watched you disappear like smoke in a storm. No goodbye. No closure. Not even a whisper.

Still, deep inside, he believed you were okay. That you were somewhere far, healing. Creating. Living quietly. He told himself that every time your name made his chest ache.

After your contract officially ended, Seungcheol had taken care of everything. Without asking for your permission, he’d paid off the remaining debts you owed to Seungkwan.

“Just let her know I did this for her,” he told him quietly. “Not out of pity. But because I care.”

He never asked for anything in return. He only hoped you knew.

As he drifted past the modern impressionist section, a familiar texture caught his eye. Thick, dreamy brush strokes. G. The artist he’d admired. But it had been a while—almost two years—since G last released anything.

“She just launched five new paintings,” the curator beside him said. “Would you like to take a look, Mr. Choi?”

He followed, curious but detached—until his eyes landed on Beautiful Beach.

And suddenly, he couldn’t breathe.

It was a painting of a man standing at the shoreline, his arms wide open to the sea. The ocean crashed behind him, the wind caught his white shirt, and his pants fluttered around familiar legs. The way his hair curled in the wind—it was unmistakable.

It was him.

Seungcheol’s heart skipped.

“This one has drawn the most attention,” the curator said, handing him a pair of headphones. “There’s a recorded synopsis from the artist herself.”

The headphones pressed against his ears, and for a moment, only the sound of waves and seagulls filled the silence. Then a voice—soft, warm, clear. Familiar.

Your voice.

“Jeju. When the beach was beautiful… and you were too—beautiful.”

The date mentioned in the audio matched the exact day you both stayed in Jeju. He remembered that day clearly: leaving for almost a day to meet old friends while you stayed behind at the villa. When he returned, your painting tools had been scattered on the balcony, though you had brushed it off, asking the staff to clean them up before he could say a word.

He should’ve known. Should’ve asked.

He turned to the curator, voice tight. “Is G a woman?”

The curator nodded. “We believe so. Still in her thirties, based on the timing of her first portfolio. But we don’t have any biographical information—she chooses anonymity. Her agent manages everything.”

Then Seungcheol stared at another painting, breath caught in his throat. His fingers trembled. His chest tightened—not from fear, but longing. And then dread.

Love of My Life, G.

“I need her personal contact or information,” he said, turning toward the curator, urgency coating every syllable. “Please… can you help me?”

*

You were halfway through folding laundry when your phone buzzed with an unknown number. You picked it up absently, expecting a telemarketer.

“Hello, this is from Haesung Delivery. We’re arriving shortly with five paintings for Ji Y/n-ssi. Just confirming someone will be home to receive them.”

You froze. “I’m sorry—paintings?”

“Yes, five canvas pieces, already in shipment. Should be arriving in about fifteen minutes.”

Your mind started spinning. You hadn’t ordered any paintings. Not one, let alone five. None of your friends had mentioned sending you anything either. Confused and mildly anxious, you thanked the caller and hung up.

When the delivery arrived, the workers carried in large, bubble-wrapped canvases, each labeled with careful handling instructions. You signed the receipt in a daze.

The moment they left, you tore the packaging open—urgently, like unraveling a mystery that had been quietly waiting for you.

Your breath caught in your throat.

They were your paintings.

Paintings you had sold—some long ago, some to private collectors you never met in person. Yet here they were, standing like memories reincarnated in oil and color.

Villain Origin Story—the jagged depiction of a woman painting her own portrait while shadows loomed behind her, each one holding knives. A piece you created in the darkest part of your twenties.

An Actress—a surreal image of a man pulling off layers of masks, each one playing a different female role.

Detached—a woman sitting alone in the middle of a road while people rushed past her on either side, all in blurred motion. A painting about grief disguised as resilience.

Beautiful Beach—the serene figure of a man staring into the ocean from Jeju, his back turned, as if the sea might offer an answer he couldn’t speak aloud. That was the first one inspired by Seungcheol.

And then there it was—Love of My Life.

A baby’s tiny hand reaching up, fingers curled, with a paper label around the wrist. Scribbled in your brushstroke handwriting: love of my life.

You swallowed thickly. Your heart clenched.

Taped gently to the back of the final canvas was a small envelope. Inside, a handwritten note, no signature.

I enjoy these paintings so much.

You’re a piece yourself.

You stood there, the letter trembling slightly in your hand. You didn't know who sent them back or why—but the message was clear: someone saw you. Someone remembered. Someone thought you were worth returning to.

Your eyes lingered on the letter as your phone began to vibrate beside the unboxed paintings. You didn’t recognize the number, but something—your instinct, your gut, your heart—told you to pick it up.

You did.

“Hello?” you breathed.

A pause, just long enough to make your chest tighten.

Then a voice. Familiar. Deep. Gentle.

"Are they arrived safely?"

Your heart stopped for a moment.

You clutched the phone tighter. “You sent them...”

A low hum rumbled through the speaker, warm and quiet.

“The moment I found out it was you,” he said softly, “I couldn’t think of anything else but returning these pieces to you. They never belonged with me.”

You sat down slowly on the edge of your couch, knees weak, surrounded by fragments of your own soul painted on canvas.

“You bought all of them?”

“I had.” He paused, like he was choosing his next words carefully. “Turns out they held pieces of you I didn’t get to keep. But I realized… they’re not mine to hold onto.”

Tears burned behind your eyes. You blinked fast. “Why are you calling now?”

“Because I couldn’t go another day pretending that I was okay with the silence. I know I helped from afar… but I never asked if you wanted me to.” His voice cracked faintly. “I just wanted you to know… I still see you.”

A single tear slipped down your cheek.

“I see you,” he repeated. “Not the headlines. Not the scandal. Not the rumors. Just… you.”

You whispered, “Choi Seungcheol… I miss you.”

There was a sharp inhale on the other end of the line, like he’d been holding his breath for a year just to hear those words.

“I miss you too, Y/n,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Every damn day.”

Your eyes fluttered shut, as if that could somehow slow the racing of your heart. The silence between you was no longer heavy—it was full. Of everything unsaid. Of everything still waiting.

“I wanted to call you after everything,” he confessed. “After the letter. After the way the world turned its back on you. But I thought… maybe I’d done enough damage.”

“You didn’t,” you said softly, wiping your cheek. “You were the only one who didn’t.”

He let out a shaky breath, relief bleeding into his voice. “Do you think… maybe I can see you?”

You looked around your apartment, now filled with the ghosts of your past, returned like gifts. A warmth bloomed in your chest—not because the pain was gone, but because someone had carried it with you, even when you didn’t ask them to.

“You’re not here?” you asked as you opened your door, half-expecting to see him on the other side. Empty.

You heard Seungcheol chuckle softly through the phone, the sound tinged with affection.

“They wouldn’t even give me your address. They’re pretty strict with their artist… which, honestly, I’m glad.”

You bit your lip, your breath hitching as a sob threatened to escape. You turned away from the door, wiping your tears with the back of your hand, trying to steady your voice.

“I’m in Busan.”

There was a pause on the line. “Busan,” he repeated, like he was picturing it—like he could already see you there.

“That’s unexpected…” he murmured. “If I go there today… would that be okay?”

Your heart twisted. You looked down at the phone, your fingers trembling slightly as you held it closer.

“Totally,” you whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I’d really like that.”

And for the first time in a long time, hope didn’t feel like a heavy thing.

*

Seungcheol stood in front of your door, his heart pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears. His fingers hovered over the doorbell, then curled into a hesitant fist. For someone known to command people and boards, this—this quiet moment in front of a small apartment door in Busan—was the most nerve-wracking thing he’d done in years.

He took a deep breath. The salt in the sea breeze lingered in the air, and for a second, he remembered the painting—Beautiful Beach. It was him. It was you. It was everything they never said out loud.

He pressed the doorbell.

Inside, you froze. You hadn’t expected him to come this fast. You were still in your oversized sweater, your hair pinned up messily. But you moved to the door anyway, barefoot on the warm wooden floor.

When you opened it, he looked up.

For a beat, neither of you said anything. You took in the sight of him—dressed simply, holding nothing, but carrying everything. The way his eyes searched your face. The way his shoulders dropped like he could finally breathe.

“You’re really here,” you whispered.

“I had to see you,” he replied. “I couldn’t wait anymore.”

And then, as if time folded in on itself, you took one step forward—and he pulled you into his arms. Tight. Like he needed to prove you were real.

You stood there in his arms for a long moment, neither of you saying a word, the hallway holding its breath around you. You felt his chest rise and fall against yours, the warmth of his skin through the soft cotton of your sweater. He smelled like a memory—faint cologne, a hint of coffee, and the ocean air clinging to his coat.

When you finally pulled back, your hand lingered on his arm. “Come in,” you whispered.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Inside, the apartment was small but warm, art supplies scattered on the table, half-finished sketches on the wall. He walked in slowly, like he was stepping into a sacred space. His eyes scanned the paintings, some new, some old—some he had bought back with trembling hands, now resting again where they belonged.

“It’s strange,” he said, voice quiet. “They look different here. Like they can breathe again.”

You watched him as he ran his fingers along the edge of Villain Origin Story. “I used to stare at this one the most,” he murmured. “I kept wondering what kind of pain could birth something so bold. And then I realized… it was everything I missed while you were breaking.”

You swallowed hard, tears stinging your eyes. “I didn’t want you to see me like that. I didn’t want anyone to.”

“But I would’ve stayed,” he said, finally turning to you. “If you’d asked me to. I would’ve fought for you. I still would.”

You sat down on the couch, the heaviness in your chest both familiar and new. “I needed to lose everything. To see what I could survive without.”

He took a seat beside you, his hand finding yours.

“And now?” he asked.

You looked down at your intertwined fingers. “Now I’m starting to wonder what I want to live with.”

His thumb brushed your knuckles. “You know… I never said it back then. I thought it was too late. That I didn’t deserve to. But I’ll say it now, if you’ll let me.”

You met his eyes, steady and warm.

“Say it.”

“I loved you then,” he said, voice cracking. “And I still do. I don’t know if I deserve a second chance, but if there’s even a piece of you that still wants this… I’ll be here. For every version of you.”

You exhaled shakily, emotion flooding through your chest.

“I never stopped wanting you, Cheol,” you whispered. “Even when I had to let you go.”

He reached for you again—and this time, the kiss came softly. No fire, no rush. Just a promise. Just the beginning.

“Love of My Life,” Seungcheol said, his voice low but intent. “Enlighten me… because the moment I saw it, I thought—” He paused, brows furrowing as he gently pulled you closer, cupping your face with both hands. “I thought you had my baby.”

Your breath hitched at his honesty. You let out a soft sigh and gave a small, almost bittersweet smile as you shook your head.

“No,” you whispered. “I didn’t get pregnant or anything like that.”

You looked away for a second, then back into his eyes.

“It’s just… that painting,” you said, voice trembling slightly. “That was the moment I realized how deeply I loved you. My love for you—that love—was born the day I painted it.”

His hands tensed slightly around your cheeks, eyes scanning your expression like he was memorizing every word.

“I didn’t know how else to hold you,” you added softly. “So I held you there… in that painting.”

Seungcheol exhaled shakily, a small, relieved smile tugging at his lips.

“You have no idea,” he said, voice thick with emotion, “how long I’ve waited to hear something like that from you.”

You laughed again, this time with a lightness in your chest you hadn’t felt in years.

“And you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to say it.”

He leaned forward, forehead resting against yours, eyes closing as he breathed you in.

“You’re still the love of my life,” he whispered. “Even after everything. Even now.”

And as his lips met yours—soft, slow, and full of promise—it didn’t feel like starting over.

It felt like finally coming home.

*

Seungcheol sat beside you in the dressing room, his fingers intertwined with yours, grounding you as the hum of reporters buzzed through the walls. The press conference had just begun, and the moment you’d been running from for years was now moments away.

"You ready?" he asked softly, eyes steady on you.

You looked down at your name card—Ji Y/n, Artist—and took a deep breath. "I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready," you admitted, then smiled faintly, "but I’m here."

“That’s more than enough,” he said, lifting your hand to press a kiss against your knuckles. “Let them meet the soul behind the art. The woman I never stopped believing in.”

The emcee's voice echoed from the stage, calling your alias.

“Painter G has agreed to speak today…”

You stood, hands trembling just slightly, and walked toward the light with Seungcheol right behind you.

The cameras clicked furiously the moment you stepped into view. Whispers rushed through the crowd like a wave crashing against the rocks.

And then you spoke.

"Hello. I’m Ji Y/n,” you said calmly into the microphone. “Some of you know me as Painter G.”

A stunned silence washed over the room. You didn’t flinch.

“I want to begin by apologizing for the way I disappeared from the narrative. For what happened in the past.”

You paused, your fingers gently grazing the edge of the podium, heart steady despite the lights and cameras.

“For years, I painted anonymously. Not because I feared being seen, but because the world I came from didn’t have space for me to exist freely. So I spoke the only way I knew how—through colors. Through shadows. Through light.”

A soft breath escaped your lips as your gaze found the familiar face watching from the wings—Seungcheol, eyes full of quiet encouragement.

“My art was born in silence, but I hope it spoke loudly. And now, standing here as Ji Y/n, I hope my paintings can continue to be what they’ve always been meant to be—a place of comfort, a mirror, a home—for anyone who needs it.”

You smiled, a gentle but certain curve of your lips.

“Thank you for listening to me now… for seeing me.”

There was a heartbeat of stillness.

Then came the applause—hesitant at first, but quickly growing into something loud and warm.

Later that night, you stood in front of your newest piece at the gallery. The curator had insisted on exhibiting The Return, a new painting you created in Busan after Seungcheol came back.

It showed two silhouettes under soft light—one standing, one opening the door. Between them was a blur of colors, a reunion in motion.

Seungcheol came up behind you, arms circling your waist.

“Do you know how proud I am of you?”

You leaned back into him, eyes on the painting. “I think I’m starting to.”

He kissed the top of your head and whispered, “Welcome home, Y/n.”

*

The morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains, casting golden lines across the wooden floor. You were curled up on the couch, sketchpad in your lap, feet tucked beneath you as soft jazz played from the speaker in the corner. The house smelled faintly of fresh coffee and vanilla candles—Seungcheol’s favorites, even though he insisted he didn’t have favorites.

From the kitchen, you heard the familiar sound of him humming. You peeked over your sketchpad.

Seungcheol stood at the stove, hair slightly messy, wearing a faded gray hoodie and plaid pajama pants. He was flipping pancakes with a focus so intense, you had to smile.

“You’re taking this very seriously,” you teased.

He turned his head just enough to smirk. “These pancakes are a celebration. One year of not running from love deserves fluffier batter.”

You laughed, closing your sketchpad. “I’m glad you’re not running anymore.”

He set the pan down and walked over to you, lifting your feet and settling beside you, resting your legs on his lap. “You make it easy to stay.”

You reached out to touch his face, thumb tracing the scar on his eyebrow you always loved. “I still can’t believe we get mornings like this.”

Seungcheol caught your hand, kissed your knuckles. “We deserve mornings like this. And afternoons. And quiet nights. Maybe even a dog.”

You raised a brow. “A dog?”

He grinned. “A big one. Clumsy. Terrible guard instincts. But loves you more than anything. Like me.”

You snorted, but your heart swelled.

Then he leaned in, forehead resting against yours, voice softer now. “One year down. Forever to go. You still okay with that?”

You smiled, eyes glistening. “I’m more than okay with that.”

On the day of your first anniversary, Seungcheol took the day off, determined to make every second count.

He showed up at the door—where two of you lived together, with a shy smile and a bouquet of your favorite flowers—messily wrapped, as if he tried to do it himself, which only made it more perfect. "Ready for the best date of your life?" he grinned, eyes crinkling.

You nodded, slipping your hand into his, and the two of you stepped into the day like it belonged only to you.

First stop: an art gallery tucked between tall buildings, the kind only locals knew about. You both wandered through quiet halls, stopping in front of unfamiliar artists' work, whispering thoughts like secrets. He stood beside you with his arm around your waist, proudly watching you lose yourself in the brushstrokes, like you always did.

Shopping came next—just small things. A sweater you said felt like a hug, snacks for later, a new sketchpad. Every step was light, easy, like breathing.

By evening, you were at a rooftop restaurant overlooking the city. The lights below sparkled, but nothing outshone the warmth in Seungcheol’s eyes as he sat across from you. You had just finished dessert when he reached into his coat pocket and slid a small velvet box across the table.

Your breath caught.

“No pressure,” he said, voice gentle, but his fingers trembled slightly. “It’s not what you think, love. Not yet. But it’s a promise."

You opened it slowly. Inside was a simple, elegant ring—silver, with a tiny engraving inside: I see you.

Tears welled in your eyes.

“I’m not asking you to marry me, love. Not tonight,” he whispered, reaching across to take your hand. “But I am asking to keep growing with you. Keep showing up. Keep choosing you. Every day.”

You looked at him—your Seungcheol. The man who saw you behind every canvas. Who came back when you thought everyone else had walked away.

“Actually… I have a gift too.” You reached into your bag with a soft smile, and Seungcheol tilted his head, his brows lifting with curiosity.

“A gift?” he echoed, already intrigued.

You pulled out a small, neatly wrapped box—simple, but with care in every detail. You slid it across the table to him.

His eyes narrowed playfully. “It’s not a watch, is it?”

“Just open it,” you said, barely containing your grin.

He chuckled, but carefully peeled the ribbon away and lifted the lid.

And then—he froze.

The moment his eyes landed on what was inside, his breath caught. His gaze shot to you, wide with disbelief, then back to the box.

He blinked, once. Twice.

“Love… really?” His voice was almost a whisper, trembling with the weight of a thousand emotions.

He closed the box as if needing a second to process, pressing his hand over his mouth. His other hand gripped the edge of the table like the world had just tilted.

You watched him, biting your lip in amusement, your heart swelling at the way he was visibly falling apart—in the sweetest way possible. His joy was so big, he didn’t know where to put it.

After a few beats of stunned silence, he opened the box again, his eyes shimmering. Then, he let out a laugh—soft, breathless, completely overwhelmed.

“We need to get married,” he whispered, leaning in closer, his voice cracking as his eyes flicked between your face and the testpack laying in the box. “Love, we’re going to be parents?”

You nodded slowly, tears pricking your lashes. “Yeah… we are.”

In that moment, the city lights faded behind him. All that existed was you, him, and the quiet miracle growing between you.

He stood up suddenly, walked around the table, and pulled you into his arms with so much love it nearly knocked the air from your lungs.

“Forget everything I said earlier,” Seungcheol said suddenly, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes—his own still glossy with wonder. “I’m not waiting anymore. I’m proposing tonight.”

He reached for your hand, holding it like it was the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

“Let’s get married, love. I want to build everything with you. Starting now.”

*

The living room looked like a battlefield—and Seungcheol was clearly losing the war.

There were wedding brochures everywhere, color swatches pinned to walls like crime scene clues, half-finished to-do lists scattered across the coffee table, and at least three different planners lying open, none of which seemed to be helping his sanity.

“We still haven’t finalized the seating chart,” he muttered, pacing. “And what if the venue changes the lighting last minute? Or the florist forgets we said no roses? Love, seriously, we’re two weeks away!”

From the couch, you let out a soft hum, cradling your slowly growing belly with one hand and flipping a page in your book with the other. “Babe… relax. It’s all under control.”

He spun around, pointing dramatically at you. “You’re too calm. You’re suspiciously calm. You’re either hiding a meltdown or secretly plotting my downfall.”

You just smiled, glowing in a way that had nothing to do with stress and everything to do with the small life inside you. “Why would I be stressed? I’m marrying you. That’s the only thing that matters.”

He opened his mouth to argue—then closed it again. His eyes dropped to the gentle curve of your belly under your loose shirt. That stopped him cold.

Your free hand slid over your bump, soothing it instinctively, and his gaze softened, the stress in his features unraveling just a little.

“I already have everything I need,” you said quietly. “You, and our baby. The rest is just… decorations.”

Seungcheol let out a long sigh and walked over, letting you pull him down beside you. You snuggled into his side, resting your head against his chest, feeling the way his heart slowly calmed. He placed a hand on your belly, rubbing it gently.

“You’re dangerous,” he mumbled, smiling despite himself. “You and this baby—tag-teaming my blood pressure.”

You giggled. “Then you better get used to it, Mr. Choi. This is just the beginning.”

He kissed your forehead, then your temple, then your belly. “As long as I have you both, I’ll survive. Even if the cake is wrong and the napkins are beige instead of ivory.”

You laughed again, softer this time. “See? We’re going to be just fine.”

He nodded, eyes shining. “Yeah. We really are.”

Two weeks later when the morning light filtered gently through the hotel room curtains, casting a golden glow across white satin, soft florals, and the delicate lace of your wedding dress hanging by the window. The air was quiet—peaceful, even—as makeup brushes moved like whispers across your skin, stylists moving carefully, reverently, as if they knew this wasn’t just any wedding.

This was yours. And today, you would marry the love of your life.

Your hands rested gently on your belly, the softest curve showing beneath the silk of your robe. The baby gave a tiny flutter, like even they could feel it—today was special.

“Y/n,” your stylist whispered, handing you a mirror, “you’re glowing.”

You smiled, eyes meeting your reflection. You looked like someone who knew she was loved.

Meanwhile, in the groom’s suite, chaos ruled.

“Where’s my cufflink?” Seungcheol asked, half-dressed, half-breathless. “The gold one—no, the one she picked.”

Jeonghan, his cousin, rolled his eyes as he calmly handed it over. “Relax. You’re still handsome. Even with one cufflink.”

“You don’t get it,” Seungcheol muttered, fidgeting with his collar. “She’s pregnant. She’s walking down the aisle carrying our baby. I need to be perfect.”

Mingyu, another cousin, patted his shoulder. “You love her. That’s already perfect enough.”

And Seungcheol nodded, grounding himself in that truth.

When the music finally began and the doors opened, everyone turned—but for Seungcheol, the world went silent. There you were, walking down the aisle, a soft smile on your lips, bouquet in hand, your other hand brushing protectively over your belly.

He blinked, almost disbelieving, his heart rising to his throat. You were everything. His future. His family.

As you reached him, your eyes locked—and all the nerves in him melted. He held out his hand, steady and sure, and you took it with no hesitation.

“Hi,” he whispered, teary-eyed.

“Hi,” you whispered back, voice trembling with joy.

The ceremony passed like a dream—vows spoken between soft tears and laughter, rings exchanged with trembling fingers, and a kiss that promised forever.

The reception had faded into a blur of lights and laughter, toasts and warm embraces. The music had slowed, the guests slowly leaving, and the stars outside blinked quietly over the city. You were finally alone.

Back in your suite, shoes kicked off and veil set aside, you curled into the couch together—your head resting on his chest, his hand gently resting over the swell of your belly. No cameras, no speeches, no expectations.

Just you. Just him. Just this.

Seungcheol shifted slightly, brushing his lips against your forehead before whispering, “Thank you.”

You looked up at him, brow raised. “For what?”

He smiled softly. “For not giving up on love even when life gave you every reason to. For choosing me. For letting me be the one to build a life with you. I never thought I’d find someone who makes me feel seen the way you do.”

You blinked back the tears, biting your lip as you leaned up to cup his face. “Then thank you… for showing me I’m not hard to love. For holding space for me, for everything I carried before I met you. And for loving me in the softest way I never knew I needed.”

He kissed your palm, holding it over his heart. “You and this baby… you’re my everything.”

You rested your forehead against his, your voice a whisper, “And you’re home. Always have been.”

In that stillness, wrapped in each other and in the promises you made only hours ago, there was nothing left to say. Just quiet gratitude—heavy, full, and endlessly warm.

The end

[honeyedmiller]

Sweet | Joel Miller

joel miller x f!reader

rating: 18+, minors do not interact

warnings: established relationship, no outbreak!joel, smut (f!oral receiving, unprotected piv, body praise with joel’s skillful mouth), fluff, no use of y/n.

word count: 2.8k

a/n: listen, i cannot get hozier’s too sweet out of my head, so naturally, this is the outcome of that. this one shot doesn’t correlate with the song one hundred percent, but the concept is there.

synopsis: it’s a lazy sunday and joel can’t help but want his coffee in bed with a side of you.

i take my whiskey neat; my coffee black and my bed at three; you’re too sweet for me

- too sweet, hozier

Joel wasn’t the type to sleep in. Even on his off days, he’d be up bright and early to brew you both a cup of coffee to kickstart the day. It was a one in a million chance you’d ever be up before him, and that day just so happened to be today. 

You opened your eyes slowly, only to be met with the sight of a sleeping Joel next to you. His chest rose and fell in steady, even breaths. His lips were slightly parted and his usual furrowed brows of worry were relaxed. His dark eyelashes fell upon his cheeks without a single sign of stirring awake, and the morning sun highlighted his tan skin. 

You were missing those beautiful brown eyes of his, and part of you wanted to wake him, but you let him rest. He’d had a long week at work and the last thing you wanted to do was deprive him of much needed sleep. 

You carefully maneuvered out of bed, cautious to not wake Joel. An old Miller Contracting shirt fell over your body and barely landed over the tops of your thighs, and for a moment you contemplated putting on some sweats, but ultimately decided against it. 

The carpet was plush beneath your bare feet as you tiptoed out of the bedroom and down the stairs. It was just you and Joel this weekend with Sarah being over at a friend’s house until later in the evening, and Tommy on a trip with his girlfriend Maria. 

The house was quiet aside from the ticking of the clock that sat atop the mantle in the living room. It was odd, because you were used to the good kind of chaos in the Miller household. 

You grabbed Joel’s favorite mug from the cupboard and the coffee grounds he preferred, starting up the coffee maker. It was done brewing after a few minutes, so you carefully took the mug in your hand and moved even slower than before to avoid spilling coffee on yourself or on the carpet. 

You made it up to the bedroom once more, Joel still fast asleep. The sight made your heart melt and a smile curled onto your lips as you made your way up to him. Your eyes landed on the alarm clock that sat on his bedside table, reading 9:45 a.m. 

He’d be distraught if you let him sleep in any later, so you set his coffee mug down and leaned into his body, lips gently pressing onto his cheek. 

“Joel, baby, wake up.” Your voice was soft and laced with sleep. Your hand landed on the side of his face gently, caressing his cheekbone as you gave his forehead a kiss. 

His eyes scrunched tight before opening them, gaze finding yours as you stood above him. A panicked look crossed his features as his eyes flit to the time on the clock, and he curses under his breath. He rubs his eyes and sits up, looking up at you again. 

“Baby,” He starts, voice raspy and deep, “Why didn’t you wake me up sooner?” 

“You needed rest, Joel. You were exhausted.” 

The corner of his mouth twitches up in silent gratification, and his eyes shift to his bedside table once more as his senses are filled with the delicious smell of black coffee. 

“Y’made me a cup?” 

You nod and offer him a small smile. He grins and reaches out for you, gripping your hips. He silently encourages you to join him in bed, so you straddle his own hips as your hands land gently on his bare chest. 

It’s rare when he got to have coffee in bed, but he secretly loves it. He carefully takes the cup and sips from it slowly, setting it down again before his hands find purchase on your hips once more. 

“Mornin’ gorgeous.” He grins as he leans up, connecting his lips to yours. Your hands slide into his curls, keeping him there just a bit longer. 

“Morning, handsome.” You say against his lips, pecking them two more times before you separate from him. 

“Nuh uh, where you goin’?” He grips your flesh tighter in the slightest, sliding you forward onto him. You feel the growing bulge beneath his gray sweats that adorn the bottom half of his body, and you can’t help but bite your lip as you stare down at him. 

A pit of fire of pure want and desire burns low in your core. Arousal easily coats the fabric of your panties, and it takes everything in you not to grind yourself down on him for the friction you desperately seeked. 

He knew it, too. Joel’s smug smirk was tell-all, knowing he had you right where he wanted you: aching and hungry for him. 

Bastard. 

“What’s’a matter, baby?” His teased, and you huffed out a breath of air for dramatics, but you decided to play along. You pressed your clothed core down on his bulge, grinding yourself over him with the tiniest of movements. 

He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, nostrils flaring as he feels your wetness through the goddamn fabric of his sweats.

You pry one of his hands from your hip, guiding it between your bodies so his fingers brush over your soaked panties. You hiss at the contact and a low groan evades his chest. 

“This,” You grind yourself onto his fingers, “This is what’s the matter with me, Joel. You gonna finish what you started?” Your voice was shaky as you forced yourself not to buck your hips against him. 

“Fuck–baby, you’re fuckin’ soaked. All for me? This what I do to ya?” He moves the fabric to the side so his middle finger runs through your slick folds, coating it in your arousal. 

“God, yes, Joel. This is for you, and only you. Always.” You couldn’t help but whine, wanting nothing more than his skillful mouth to take care of you before he stretched you deliciously full of his cock. 

“I know pretty girl, I know.” He coos, slipping his finger away from you to bring it to his mouth, sucking on it slowly. His eyes closed in pure ecstasy at your tangy sweet taste. 

He flips you both around so he’s on top of you now, easily sliding his shirt you were wearing over your body, tossing it onto the floor. 

“You’re so good to me, baby. Too sweet,” He slips your panties off and tosses them onto the floor next to the shirt before leaning down to kiss your neck, making his way down to your breasts. He’s attentive to your pert flesh, tongue swirling over one nipple while his hand rests on you as he rolls the other between his forefinger and thumb. You tug on his hair, a breathy moan escaping you as you roll your hips up into his body involuntarily. 

“So lovin’,” He whispers against your skin, mouth replacing his hand on your other nipple. His free hand skates down your body slowly causing goosebumps to arise. Your breath hitches in your throat when his fingers find your dripping folds once more, swirling his ring and middle finger around you. He releases your nipple with a small ‘pop’. “So genuine n’ kind,” 

His mouth moves languidly down your sternum and to your torso, tongue savoring the taste of your soft flesh. He makes it down to the tuft curls above your pubic bone, kissing you there once before moving to the inside of the apex of your thighs. He softly moans as he licks your arousal up from your thighs, biting your flesh gently before looking up at you. 

“So. Fuckin’. Sweet.” He emphasizes each word as his eyes move down to your glistening heat, and you can’t help but look at him with pleading eyes. The fire that stirred in your core was fully aflame now, silently screaming and begging him to put his tongue on you where you needed him most. 

He spreads your folds apart with his fingers, sliding his fingers through your slick a few more times before a strangled plea escapes you. 

“Please, Joel–” You’re never above begging him to pleasure you. You know he’ll take care of you, but the build up and anticipation was almost too much to bear. 

“I’ve got you, sweet girl.” 

And he’s on you. His tongue licks a strong line up from your entrance to your clit, and you can’t help but cry out at how fucking good it feels. 

Joel groans as his tongue swirls around your folds, sucking on them in the slightest before gripping your thighs and tossing your legs over his shoulders. He delves the muscle into your entrance, fucking it in and out of you at an increased pace. 

You’re panting now, hands gripping the haphazardly tossed-around sheets as you grind your hips into his face. 

“Thas’ it baby, use my face. Can’t help yourself, hm?” The teasing tone in his voice only makes you crave release further, arousal gushing out of your entrance once more. Joel can’t help but groan at the sight, licking up everything you give him.

 He hums against you as your body writhes on the mattress above him, and he slides his hands over you and interlinks them together to hold you down. You’re gripping his hair now, shoving his face into your needy, aching cunt as you chase your high that’s winding up tightly in your very core. 

He moves his tongue up, swirling the muscle around your clit before attaching his lips to suck the sensitive bundle of nerves. 

You inhale a sharp breath and grip his hair tighter, a string of curses spilling from your mouth before he uses just the tip of his tongue to flick over your clit impossibly fast. 

“Joel, fuck, please don’t stop–don’t stop don’t stop,” You plead, and he listens. He keeps his pace the same, and your hips still as your orgasm washes over you, flame igniting your whole being. Your eyes roll into the back of your head as you ride out the intensity of your release, hands moving down to grip his shoulders. 

“I got you baby. So fuckin’ pretty when you come. Taste so fuckin’ sweet, like nectar from a peach in the summertime.” He says, kissing your thighs and your cunt once more before moving up your body. 

He settles himself between your legs once more, and you tug at the waistband of his sweats. He discards them onto the floor with the rest of the clothes, kissing you deeply as his body covers yours with his own. 

You both moan into the kiss, the taste of coffee and your arousal on his tongue. He ruts his hips into yours, coating his stiff, aching cock in your slick, and you gasp at the slight overstimulation. You want more, though. Your body always wants more when it comes to Joel. 

You can never seem to get enough of him, and he, you. The temptation was too sweet to resist, and you’d both be damned if that day ever came around. 

“I love you, sweetheart.” Joel murmurs, nosing at your jaw before kissing your neck. His hands grip your arms gently and move them to rest above your head, and he slots his fingers into yours you give him a soft, satiated smile. 

“I love you too, Joel.” 

And he’s yours. You keep your eyes locked on each other as he slides home, pushing into your warm heat that wraps around him and welcomes him without fail every single time. Your lips part as you stare at him, nothing but an adoring look painting his features as you feel him pulsing inside of you. 

The feeling of him in you, on you, around you is so ethereal. You want nothing more than your senses to be all-consumed by this man—this loving, stubborn, protective man. You got so fucking lucky, you think. 

Before Joel, it was nothing but failed dating and men who only wanted one thing from you. With Joel, he wanted it all—your mind, heart, body, soul—everything. He absolutely loved everything about you, and he wasn’t shy to show it. He might’ve not been that great with words but he always reassured you with his actions, including making you feel so loved and cherished every time you two got intimate, even if it was a little rougher and a little more risqué. 

He gave your hands a squeeze and you focused back onto him, the feeling of him pushing in and out of you having you feeling absolutely ravenous. 

“You still with me?” He chuckles, noticing you drifted off in thought for a second. 

“Always.” You reassure him, leaning up to kiss the tip of his nose. 

Joel picks up his pace, untangling his hands from yours before gripping onto your hips again. Your moans reverberate off of the bedroom walls, back arching and brows furrowing as you struggle to keep your eyes open. 

“Makin’ the prettiest sounds for me baby. Lettin’ me ruin you like this. ‘M so fuckin’ lucky.” He pants as he thrusts into you faster now, grinding his hips up to hit that spot inside you.

Your vision blurs and your eyes gloss over in ecstasy, a devastatingly euphoric feeling of pure bliss coursing through your veins as Joel is nearly successful with wringing out your second orgasm. 

“Who do you belong to?” His voice is gruff behind clenched teeth, concentrating on bringing you to an Earth-shattering orgasm. 

“You! You, Joel, fuck–it’s always been you, it’ll forever– forever be you!” You cry, hands flying to his shoulders, legs wrapping around his body. You cling onto him with no intention of letting go as he fucks into you so deep that you start seeing the whole goddamn galaxy behind your eyes. 

Your whimpers and pleas for him are loud, neither of you particularly caring if the neighbors can hear. It’s music to his ears; a song he wants to hear for the rest of his waking days. 

“Thas’ right, baby.” His voice wavers and he’s close, but he needs you to come first. 

As if on cue, your body crumbles around him once more. You cry out his name as the force of the orgasm consumes your body whole. He leans down to kiss your collarbone and rest his head on your shoulder, his own body starting to shake. It didn’t take long for him to follow suit, filling you with everything he had to give you. His grunts send a shiver down your spine as he tries to ground himself, getting lost in you every time he gets the chance to fill you in such a way. 

His body slumps down onto yours and you’re both breathless, too fucked out to even form a coherent thought. You move your hands up to his hair, taking your fingers through his sweaty locks. He nuzzles his face into your neck, giving your flesh soft, loving pecks. 

Neither of you make an effort to move even an inch, completely content with one another as your breathing evens out. You feel him soften inside of you, but he makes no attempt to move out of you. 

You eventually tap his back gently to signal for him to move off of you, but he groans in refusal before tightening his grip on you. 

You breathlessly laugh as you shove his large body. “Get off of me! I have to pee.” You chide, and you feel his shoulders shake as he silently laughs. He slowly slides out of you and you both groan, and he rolls over onto his back. You stand up on shaky legs with a small huff, looking down at him while he gives you his infamous shit-eating grin. 

When you come back from the bathroom you spot his coffee mug on his bedside table, completely forgotten about amidst your activities. You frown as you pick up the lukewarm mug, an apologetic look crossing your features. 

“Well that went to waste.” 

“Waste? Baby,” Joel chuckles, “I don’t think gettin’ to devour you and seein’ you come undone while I’m inside you is a waste.” 

“Joel!” Your face heats up at his words, looking up at the ceiling in embarrassment. After all this time he thought it was so fucking cute that you still turned shy about his comments toward you, even though you should’ve been used to them by now. 

“What I’m not gonna waste is havin’ the house to ourselves for the next–” He looks at the clock’s red numbers blinking back at him, “–Seven hours. ‘Sides, the coffee can be warmed up again. ‘M not done with you yet.” The mischievous and commanding tone in his voice didn’t go unnoticed, and he gripped your forearm to drag you back into bed with him. 

“What am I gonna do with you, Mr. Insatiable?” You laugh, cupping his face. He leans down, kissing each high point of your face before pulling back to flash you his million dollar smile.  

“Let me prove to you all the ways you’re too sweet for me.” 

tags: @ilovepedro ; @nostalxgic ; @punkshort ; @joelsgreys ; @endlessthxxghts

divider by @saradika-graphics <3

[mabelstone]

Imagine Being Loved by Me

hozier x f! reader

part three of lullabies <3 | part two | masterlist

cw: 18+, nothing too serious but a bit teeeny bit of smut

word count: 3.2k

taglist: @princezty @somethinglikero @jimihendrixpopfigure

Three weeks have gone by since I walked in on Joe piledriving another woman in my bed.

Three weeks ago after a beautiful morning of jazz music, pancakes, and instant coffee, Andrew drove me back to my house to pick up my car. I sent him away with an earnest hug, putting on my bravest face as I let myself inside. No shit, there were rose petals on nearly every inch of floor board. I fought the urge to roll my eyes, instead, tiptoed upstairs into my room. Joe was asleep in bed, and I nearly tasted my breakfast for a second time that morning. Instantly, I felt nauseated, the type that makes you hot and dizzy and want to run away and never come back.

I pushed the feeling back down, determined to grab all my shit and forget this tainted cell of a house I once loved more than anything. Furiously, I began stuffing all of my clothes into a suitcase. Then in another bag, I took everything that belonged to me; sheets, towels, everything down to the last teabag. I was fuelled with rage, huffing and puffing my way around the house, lugging my bags out to my car. Oh, fuck. My keys.

Where are my car keys?

I searched the house like a mad woman, tearing apart the couches, looking in every cupboard and under every piece of furniture. Nothing. I called Andrew, asking if I'd had them at the bar, as if he'd know the answer if I didn't. "Ehm... just your house keys? I tink..."

"I tink you're no help," I mocked, hanging up with the briefest of smiles before I was playing detective again. I searched for nearly an hour before caving in and waking Joe.

I shook his shoulder roughly, standing back with my arms crossed once he finally stirred awake.

"Mmm..." He groaned, and I waited patiently with a scowl for him to realise it was me and not some broad off the street. "Oh, you're finally home."

"Where are my keys?" I deadpanned, fuse shorter than ever. I wasn't in the mood for the slightest conversation with him.

"I missed you so much, babe," he sighed, pulling my stiff body into a hug. I peeled myself away from him, repeating myself.

"Where are my keys, Joe? I left them in the fruit bowl, and now they are gone."

"Let's talk first before we make any hasty decisions," he coaxed, pulling me by my wrists onto the bed beside him. "I can't explain how sorry I am."

"Joe, please."

"I've been up all night crying, my heart is broken," he sighed emphatically, taking my hand into his. Oh, you're the heartbroken one? "I can't imagine a life without you."

"You weren't thinking that way when you were fucking the girl you met at my show."

"You hadn't had sex with me in weeks! I was getting desperate-"

"Just stop," I barked, throwing his hand off of me. "Give me my car keys so I can leave. This doesn't need to be any harder than you've already made it."

After minutes of brutally painful back and forth, he gave me the keys to his safe. I unlocked it to find my keys and an open jewellery box with a sparkling engagement ring. He was sitting on the bed, eyes filled with optimism, and I almost fell for it.

My phone buzzed and I saw a message from Andy.

You haven't crashed your car have you? X

I took my keys and closed the safe, turning on my heels out of the bedroom.

"Um, what the fuck?" Joe called out as he followed close behind me, roughly grabbing at my arm when I was halfway out the front door. "I just proposed to you, and you don't even have the decency to say no?"

"No," I replied, unlocking my car and tossing my bags into the boot.

"What? Babe, don't throw this away," he began to cry, clearly panicked.

"I haven't thrown anything away. You have." I shoved him away by his chest, just about ready to boil over with anger. "You have destroyed any shred of trust I had in you. It's over, Joe."

My tough act began to slip as my voice shook, climbing into my car and slamming the door shut before he could see how hard this really was on me. He screamed something inaudible at me as I drove away, and I watched him sob into his hands from the rearview mirror.

I cried the entire drive to my mums, ignoring the hundreds of calls I missed from him.

Andrew and I continued to spend time together. I spent many nights at my mums place while I tried to look for a house. I didn't have rental history as Joe wouldn't put me on the lease... because I didn't have rental history. "Babe, it'll just make everything harder," was once his excuse.

When my step dad would get unbearable, Andrew would invite me to spend the night. These nights would frequently begin with me sobbing about how broken hearted I was, and end with him and I snuggling on the couch to a movie. Innocent enough, sure. But after weeks of abstinence following six years of frequent sex, I was pent up. So pent up to the point where I would have to excuse myself for some time alone with his retractable shower head. Many of my thoughts of Andrew were so explicit, you'd think they were from the brain of a teenage boy who'd plough through two boxes of tissues a day. This of course left me feeling inexplicably guilty and beyond confused.

Tonight, we drank wine and sang cheesy duets together. We clumsily danced and laughed until we cried. He had the coordination of a newborn giraffe, and though I'd never admit it to him, I wasn't much better. He drunkenly rambled about how in a perfect world, he'd own a cottage in Wicklow and keep bees. I told him how I'd be a florist who sold my Irish friends' honey.

As if routine now, we'd share a blanket on the couch and watch a movie. Last night was Superbad, tonight was Inception. Andrew mindlessly carded his fingers through my hair, and with the comfort that brought me mixed with the wine, I was out to it within minutes.

His beard tickled the inside of my thigh as he continued to bite and suck at the sensitive skin, eyes boring holes into mine with a devilish grin.

"C'mon, Andy," I whined, throwing my head back in frustration. I closed my legs over his head, desperate to feel his mouth on me where I needed it viscerally.

"Patience, darlin'," he tsked at me, spreading my legs wide before him again. "Look so fuckin' gorgeous right now."

"Please, just touch me," I begged, reaching a new peak of arousal that was actually causing me pain. "Anything, just fucking touch me!"

He just chuckled, locking his arms around my thighs, pulling me closer to his face. He continued to place hot, wet opened mouthed kisses along my thighs, his beard scratching over my clit for a split second, and I swore I was on the brink of orgasm immediately. I grabbed a fistful of his hair, impatience taking full control of my autonomy.

He licked a languid stripe up my clit, causing me to let out a guttural moan, arching my back beneath him. He pushed me back down by my hips, one hand easily reaching my breast as he toyed with my nipple.

"Fuck, Andy," I cried, eyes screwing shut as every single nerve ending of mine came alive.

"Look at me," he ordered, the low rumble of his voice vibrating against my core. Without warning, my orgasm rippled through me, each nerve erupting like fireworks as I chanted his name.

I woke up panting, taking a moment to realise I was laying with Andrew on the couch. And processing the fact that I actually just orgasmed in my sleep.

"What's a'matter?" His voice was soft and concerned as he turned his head to face me.

"Weird dream," I laughed breathlessly, heart still pounding in my chest. This happened far too often. I almost wanted to spill my guts and confess everything he made me feel.

"Dreamin' of me, huh?" He grinned down at me, and I felt my cheeks burn.

A moment's silence.

"What?" Please tell me I wasn't moaning his name in my sleep.

"I'm jokin'," he laughed, averting his eyes back to the TV. "Unless you were."

I laughed along too, though in my head I was screaming. 'Unless you were,' what the fuck does that mean?

The credits rolled over the screen and like routine, we got off the couch and went to our separate rooms. Except this time, my heart didn't settle, and I didn't get much sleep.

We went about our days as usual, as if I didn’t fantasise about him every waking moment. I worried that I was catching feelings, and catching them far too fast for someone who'd only just gotten out of a 6 year relationship.

I couldn’t help it. I was infatuated. Infatuated was an understatement. I was completely and utterly enamoured by Andrew. I wanted to be in his presence every moment I could. I often told little white lies so I could spend the night, even though our we remained within a strictly friends only basis.

He was kinder than any man I’d ever met, insisting on having to open every door for me, sending me off to bed with a glass of water each night, and waking me with coffee just how I liked. He was gentle and tentative, always fast at identifying cues when I was upset.

But that’s all we were - just friends.

I began to crave his touch, desperate for any opportunity to feel his skin on mine. He’d often play me a new song he’d written, and I’d watch on with hearts for eyes as his skilled fingers worked his guitar effortlessly.

I saw it in his eyes too, sure he wanted me how I wanted him. I dreamt of climbing into his lap, kissing him until my lips were swollen or until he couldn’t take it anymore and we’d need to take off our clothes to satiate our desires.

But I couldn’t.

When it felt like we were moving in that direction, I’d turn ice cold. Though my heart was begging me to love him how he deserved, my brain knew this was probably just a rebound. And someone with a heart as golden as Andy's didn’t deserve the hell grief I’d cause him.

So I brushed off each pet name as if hearing them didn’t cause my stomach to do acrobats. I treated each night on the couch as if we were simply best friends who enjoyed each others' company. As though there was no other option than spooning on the couch where his scent became hardwired into my brain. I’d act as if I couldn’t feel his hard on pressing into the small of my back most nights. I’d pretend I’d have no idea what he was really doing when he’d have to excuse himself halfway through the movie to ‘make a call.’ It’s just how it worked for us.

And often, I wondered if it was torturing him as much as it was me.

We pulled up at the venue, Andrew of course opening my door for me, offering me his hand as I stepped out onto the kerb. I thanked him and we headed in together, turning a few heads as we did so. Not that this was unusual, he was 6’6” and painfully handsome, after all. He’d also given himself quite the name, rumours of a few producers attending tonight in hopes of setting him a deal.

“Remember me when you’re famous and touring the world without me,” I fake pouted, fluttering my eyelashes at him.

“Well obviously, nobody forgets their muse,” he bumped his shoulder into mine, that cheeky grin stretched across his face. “Besides, I owe you that much for giving me something to write about.”

I nearly choked on my drink, raising my eyebrows at him. “And what songs are written about me, hm?”

“The monster mash?” He kept a straight face, giving me that duh look at the same time.

“Oh, shut up, Andrew.” I laughed, acutely aware of the man who just sat beside me. “I’m being serious! It'd make me happy to know.”

“You’ll know when you hear ‘em, baby,” he grinned, throwing back his glass of champagne. Baby. My heart leapt from me, and in that moment I was grateful that he wouldn’t have noticed the deep blush splattered across my cheeks. He was too busy claiming another round of free drinks for us.

“Please tell me that’s your brother or something,” the man sat beside me spoke up, chocolate brown eyes so endearing, thick American accent on his lips.

"I sure hope not," I joked. His face fell, and I realise how that could've been misconstrued. "No- he's not my boyfriend either. We just sing together."

He put his hands together in prayer, looking up to the roof, mouthing, 'thank you, God.' I laughed at him, shaking my head. He had dark brown curls similar to Andy's, his were just more tame and much shorter. Full lips that twisted into a dopey smile, and if I weren't so confused with my emotions, I'd have jumped into a cab and gone home with him without a second thought. "I'm Will," he introduced himself, shaking my hand.

"Y/N," I blushed when he kissed my knuckles, wondering where the hell Andy had run off to. "Where are you from?" I attempted to avert the conversation, regaining ownership of my hand.

"Colorado," he smiled, signalling to the bartender that he wanted to order another round. "And you're a singer?"

"Uh... well I sing, yes," I giggled, the three prior glasses of bubbles gone to my head. "I wouldn't label myself a singer as such."

"Well aren't you just the cutest thing," he grinned, slipping his hand onto my thigh.

"I uh," I stammered, struggling to find the words. "That's very kind," my eyes searched the room for Andy. He towered over mostly everybody wherever we were, standing out like a sore thumb. But for some reason, he was nowhere to be found right when I needed him.

"I'm only in town for the night," he leaned in close to me, his breath hot in my ear, and his hand only getting warmer on my thigh. "Once you're done your little performance, why don't you come back to my hotel and give me an encore?"

Like the Gods had intervened, a familiar calloused hand was grabbing my arm. "C'mon, we gotta go backstage." I looked up to Andy, his expression rigid, bordering on disgust and anger.

"Oh, okay," I nodded, hopping up from my stool, Will's hand quickly retracted. "Uh, see you," I smiled awkwardly, Andrew's grip still around my arm.

"Here's your drink," he let me go, handing my glass to me.

"You saved me, Andy," I laughed, glancing back at the man who'd already moved onto his next victim. "Total wanker."

"Mhm," he hummed, not even looking at me as we made our way backstage.

"Everything alright?" I prodded, his expression unchanging. He didn't reply, instead opened the door to the green room for me. We weren't at our usual bar tonight. We'd been invited to perform at a decently size theatre that just so happened to be full of producers, offering free drinks for the performers. Maybe not the best combination.

The green room was alive with seven or so other musicians, all mingling amongst each other as they awaited their turns. There was a table lined with finger food, and a minibar with premixed drinks. Andrew had made a beeline straight for the snacks table. Typical.

"Um, hello?" I whisper shouted to him, trailing behind him like a lost puppy. "Is there a reason you're ignoring me? Is it because of that bloke? Because I-"

"Yes," was all he replied, taking his food to one of the couches with him.

"Okay," I was surprised with how forward he was, sitting down beside him, honestly perplexed by his rigidity. "...Why?"

"I didn't like the way he was talking to you," he shrugged, still avoiding my eye contact. "He was disrespectful."

"So... why are you icing me out, exactly?"

"I will say the wrong things, better to say nothin'."

This was unlike any way I'd seen him act before. Cold, annoyed... jealous? Surely not.

"Well, I'm sorry I- or he made you feel this way."

"Andrew Hozier-Byrne? You're on in two minutes," one of the stage hands announced, nursing his clipboard on his hip like a baby. "And we're still going ahead with the song change?"

Andy nodded, having a quick drink of water and tossing his rubbish away.

"Song change?" I questioned, following behind him. I made sure to watch every performance of his, even if it meant being amongst the audience when I wasn't also performing.

"Oh, yeah. When I went to get you a drink, I quickly changed my song. No biggie," he shrugged, tying his hair back into a bun, slipping his cap over the top. Jesus Christ, he looked fucking edible.

"What's the song?" I pressed further, still adamant despite the backstage timer ticking '30 seconds.'

"Haven't named it," he shrugged his guitar strap over his shoulders, giving me a wry smile. "It's about you, though."

I blushed deep, unable to form words. There was no space for talking anyway; he headed out onto the stage, leaving me dumbfounded as I watched on.

He awkwardly introduced himself, as he did each night.

And then followed my undoing.

I'd be the voice who urged Orpheus when her body was found.

I'd be the choiceless hope in grief that drove him underground.

I'd be the dreadful need in the devotee that made him turn around.

And I'd be the immediate forgiveness in Eurydice.

Imagine being loved by me.

Suddenly, there was not nearly enough air behind this curtain as I watched on, awestruck.

I won't deny I've got in my mind now all the things I would do.

So I try to talk refined in fear that you find out how I'm imaginin' you.

I'd be the last shred of truth lost in the myth of true love.

I'd be the sweet feeling of release mankind now dreams of.

That's found in the last witness before the wave hits, marvelling at God.

Before he feels alone one time and marries the sea.

Imagine being loved by me.

Fuck.

My knees felt weak, sure my ears were deceiving me. Imagine being loved by me. Oh, but I do.

Sure enough, producers from many labels were flagging him down from the minute his set finished, flooding the backstage where I was waiting for him.

I ended up having to go on straight after Andrew, thankfully. I couldn't think of any words to say, and the ones I could think of were highly inappropriate. Not that he would mind, clearly.

I hung around after my set, making eye contact with Andy here and there, waving him off when he looked like he might leave the conversations for me. I was happy for him. Ecstatic. And the craving for his touch only multiplied tenfold with his subtle admission that he felt the same.

tricked ya!! i am physically incapable of writing slow burn lol i hope u enjoy what i have for u in the next chapter xx it'll be very juicy (and hopefully longer)

i've also added a taglist as per a request, lmk if you wanna be added xo

[man-i-love-fanfiction]

To Share the Space with Simple Living Things - Hozier x Fem!Florist!Reader

Chapter One: Blue Hydrangeas- Gratitude

Summary: Your job as a florist has been the highlight of your day for years. It becomes even more exciting when a certain new customer becomes a regular.

Word Count: 2286

Author's Note: Hey guys! My first multi-chapter fic, i'm so excited!!! i don't have a strict posting schedule, but I won't go more than two weeks without an update. please bear with me here because I have no idea what it's like to be a florist. I hope you all enjoy!!

p.s. special shoutout again to @deprivedmusicaljunkie for beta reading, i can't thank you enough!

fic below the cut :)

You were a part of the small minority of people who actually loved their job.

The concept of this was strange to most people — strangers making small talk, men asking introductory questions on dates, even your own parents. Maybe because it wasn’t exactly a career; more so a job that someone has as a way to make rent while getting their degree, which is how you originally began to work at Earth's Laughter Florists. College had been years ago for you now, and yet you stayed behind the counter, making bouquets for customers with a genuine smile on your face. It got to the point that when the old owner decided it was time to retire, she chose you to take over. Of course, you immediately accepted; this job was the best part of your day. While all of your friends were going insane with their office jobs, you… admittedly still went insane from time to time, just in a much prettier workplace.

You had even taken it upon yourself to learn flower language: different types of flowers having different symbolic meanings. It was almost like extra credit. It gave you a new challenge of arranging flowers while keeping both color and symbolism in mind, and helped you create bouquets and arrangements with more meaning. This, in turn, gave your customers a new incentive to buy different flowers for different occasions based on what they meant. More business for you, more smiles on people's faces, and more money in your pocket. Everyone wins.

Another benefit of the job — your favorite part — was that it gave you small glimpses into the lives of other people. Flowers had a multiplicity of sorts. They were so versatile that people bought from you for almost every occasion. Weddings, funerals, birthdays, dance recitals, you name it. It made you more appreciative of others. Every day was a new insight into whatever your customers had going on. And today was no exception.

You arrived an hour before the store opened, as usual. You went into the back and threw on your apron, adjusting your name tag. Thoughts of everything you had to do before opening ran through your head, and you quickly began to busy yourself with everything from giving some flowers new vases of water to following up on an order for a wedding. Your two coworkers came in around a half an hour after your arrival, donning their aprons, saying their hellos, and also beginning their day. When the time finally came, you flipped around the sign hanging from the door, telling everyone outside you were open. You stood behind the counter and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

One of the only downsides of your job was that it required a lot of patience.

It's not like you were just staring at the clock, biding your time until a customer entered. You still had work to get done, mostly tying up loose ends from what you didn't finish before. Your coworkers were occupied with a tall order of arrangements, so they stuck to the back, with the occasional popping in to ask if you needed assistance. Politely, you declined.

Mundane was the word that kept repeating itself in your head as you did your odd jobs around the store. Not necessarily a bad thing. In fact, mundane meant nothing horrible was occurring (even though it meant nothing was occurring). Of course, mundane never does last long.

You had just finished creating an arrangement to put on display when your first customer of the day walked in.

The bell above the door rang, and you quickly walked back over to where you were supposed to be standing, not even bothering to see who had walked in until you were behind the counter.

The first thing you noticed was that he was taller than you had expected, with long brown curls that fell down to his shoulders. His outfit, a black turtleneck, a brown leather jacket, and black jeans, was the right mix of formal and casual; you could tell he had somewhere to be, but with people that wouldn't mind if he laughed a little too loudly.

To top it all off, he was handsome. You couldn't pull your gaze from him if you tried.

He walked forward, slowly looking around at all the flowers on display until his gaze locked onto you. He broke the silence between you.

“Hello. I need some flowers.”

You maintained your composure and brushed off your previous thoughts. You started your usual routine, asking him the same questions to get to know the situation (and him) better.

“What's the occasion?”

“It's my mum’s birthday.”

“Does she have a favorite flower?” You asked. He replied with no hesitation.

“She loves hydrangeas. Blue hydrangeas. She always has.”

His immediate answer brought a small smile to your face. You nodded intently and began to think of all the possible combinations of flowers that would work well.

“You're specific. I like that. That makes my job easier. Usually guys say something like ‘I don't know’ or ‘the purple ones’ or just ‘roses’. It's like some people don't even pay attention.”

“Well, that's all I know how to do.”

“A blessing and a curse, I imagine.”

“More of a blessing, believe it or not.”

“I have a similar blessing, though it seems to be laser-focused on plants of all things.” You joked. “Speaking of plants, let me start on your bouquet.”

You left your spot, walking over to the wall of flowers on display for you to pick from. You stopped and stood next to the man, fixated on the wall as you tried to decide what flowers would go well together, in meaning and in visuals. Mumbling, you thought out loud.

“Alright. For his mother. Blue hydrangeas… that's gratitude. What can go with that?”

The customer tilted his head in confusion, clearly having heard you.

“I don't mean to interrupt, but what's with blue hydrangeas and gratitude?” He asked. Your eyes widened, and you turned to face him as you started your explanation.

“Oh, it's flower language. I learned about it to help me make more symbolic bouquets. Back in the Victorian era, people would use bouquets of flowers to convey messages they couldn't say out loud. Most of the time it was a love confession, though you could also reject someone if you picked your flora wisely. Individual flowers have meanings, too. Blue hydrangeas, your mum's favorite, symbolize gratitude. There was even a change in the meaning based on which side the ribbon was on, or if they were given upside down, and…” You cut yourself off when you realized you’d been talking for much too long, your excited expression dropping. “I’m rambling about something you definitely don't care about. I’m sorry.”

He gave you a confused look, and a small laugh of disbelief escaped him.

“What? Don't apologize. That was fascinating. I don't know if I’ll ever see flowers the same way again. In a good way, of course”

The fact that he was actually invested in what you had to say pleasantly surprised you. People — not just customers, people you actually choose to surround yourself with — would often tune you out after the first two sentences.

You knew this man for two minutes and he was already raising your standards.

“Well then, I’m happy to give you a new perspective. I’ll get started on your arrangement.”

You stepped back to get a better look at the flowers lining the walls of the room. You already had a vague idea of what you wanted, you just needed to put it into action. Hydrangeas were grabbed first, and made the focal point of the bouquet immediately. Other flowers were picked up and put down, a trial-and-error of sorts until you found which ones truly matched.

Occasionally, you looked over your shoulder to find your customer still standing there, spectating you from a few feet away. He watched you with a certain gleam in his eye, one you would attribute to admiration if you didn't know any better.

Once your selections were made, you picked out a plastic sheet and took the flowers into the back, where there was a smaller room with a much larger table surface for a workspace. The wrapping was laid out, and meticulously, flowers were laid down. Rearranged. Shifted around. After a few small touches, everything was in the exact place you wanted it.

You finally finished up, wrapping the flowers in the silver plastic and tying it up with a blue ribbon. You went back behind the counter and held the bundle of flowers up, pointing at each one as you described the meaning of each specifically selected flower.

“There's the blue hydrangeas for gratitude, white roses for loyalty and beauty, and belladonna delphinium for protection and well-being. You're basically showering your mum with compliments with this thing.”

“It's gorgeous,” he replied, the look of astonishment from before lingering on his face.

“As nature tends to be.”

“I mean, you can't argue with that, but the way you’ve arranged them, it's… stunning. She’ll love it.”

His compliment surprised you; it wasn't too often you got such a compliment for a simple bouquet. It caused your heart to flutter in your chest in a way that definitely crossed the border of the employee-customer relationship you had going on. Frightening. Maybe if you kept acting unaffected, it would magically stop.

“Let me ring you up.”

There was no true cash register, and you instead relied on a pen, a yellow legal pad, and mental math for customers’ totals. It took a moment, but you calculated what he owed you.

“That'll be $54.”

He muttered in agreement, and you watched as he reached into his coat pocket. His hand stayed there, fiddling around. After a moment, he reached the opposite hand into the opposite pocket. He felt around for a second, pulling his hands out and placing them on his hips. His content expression was replaced by one that was much more panicked.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit!”

Your brows furrowed in confusion.

“What’s the matter?”

“I…I forgot my wallet back at my house. Do you take any online payment?”

You shook your head.

“No, sorry. We're old school. That's alright though, I can put these to the side and you can run home and get your wallet.”

He let out a frustrated sigh in response, angry more at himself than anything else.

“That's the thing. I live thirty minutes from here and I’m meeting my mum in fifteen minutes, and I have specific instructions to be on time. I might just…”

He stopped his sentence, paused, and took a deep breath to calm himself.

“I’ll find something else. Thanks for all your help, though. You have a gift.”

You caught the sincerity behind his now bitter tone, and it made your heart ache. He turned to leave and took a few steps forward. You didn't process that you had said anything until his reaction.

“Wait.”

He immediately stopped in his tracks and turned around, and you realized your impulses led you to call out for him even though you had no plan whatsoever.

Biting at your lower lip, you thought of an idea. You genuinely wanted to help this man give his mother flowers… The fact you found him attractive was merely an added bonus. Besides, the pity you felt for him overrode that. Once the metaphorical light bulb lit above your head, you spoke again, leaning in closer and lowering your voice so only he could hear.

“Okay, I’m not supposed to do this, and this definitely isn't a good business practice, but I can tell you're not just doing this to steal flowers from me, so I’ll make an exception.”

He leaned in as well with a look of intrigue. You continued to explain.

“You can take the bouquet for now, and then within… I don't know, two days, you have to pay me back. I’d just need a name and phone number so I can contact you if you don't show up.”

You snatched one of your business cards from the display and flipped it over so the blank side faces upwards, leaving a pen in front of you so he could write. He picked up the ballpoint, seemingly scribbled for a moment, and then slid the card back over to you. Written in surprisingly beautiful handwriting, you read his name aloud.

“Andrew… Nice to meet you. I’m Y/N.”

“I know.”

This caught you off guard. For a second you wondered if maybe you did accidentally give a free bouquet to a shady guy.

“Excuse me?”

Andrew’s mouth went agape as he realized the connotation behind what he said, and he quickly muttered an explanation, flustered. “Oh my god! No. Not like that. You… your name tag.”

A sigh of relief escaped your lips, and you gave him a nod.

“Right. Forgot that was there for a second. Alright, take your bouquet. Happy birthday to your mother. And remember, two days.”

He gave you a gesture showing his gratitude, pressing his hands together.

“Thank you. So much. I don’t know how I’ll repay you.” He said, grabbing the bouquet.

“Hopefully with money in two days,” you joked.

He let out a laugh.

“Money would do the trick. I’ll see you soon.”

“See you soon.”

You watched as he left, the smile of your face growing as you noticed his appreciation of the flowers you had arranged by the doorway. He paused for a moment before opening the door and leaving, and you caught him humming a tune you'd never heard before.

You hoped he would come back much sooner rather than later.

[padfootagain]

Love in Verses (XXX)

Chapter 30: ‘You liked me well enough in black; I make you a gift of these objects’

Hi! Here is a new chapter! Some shopping for our lovebirds that turns into Andrew fighting for his life…

I hope you like this chapter! Tell me what you think!

****

Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader (professor!AU)

Warnings: slow burn, angst, hurt, hurt/comfort, tooth-rotting fluff in later chapters, some scenes in later chapters will have heavy sexual themes even if it’s not explicit nsfw description, so minors here

Summary: Your life seems perfect. You're engaged, your career is thriving as you become an assistant professor at Trinity College, and this Andrew Hozier-Byrne you're sharing an office with seems to be a nice guy you hope to call a friend soon. Life seems to be smiling at you... until everything goes sour. When your fiancé breaks up with you, your perfect world shatters. And when your colleague also gets his heart broken soon after, your shared office seems to be a curse rather than a blessing. But Andrew seems determined to mend your broken hearts... Will things finally go according to plan?

Word Count: 3322

Masterlist for the series – Hozier’s masterlist – Main masterlist

Here are my black clothes

I think now it is better to love no one than to love you. Here are my black clothes, the tired nightgowns and robes fraying in many places. Why should they hand useless as though I were going naked? You liked me well enough in black; I make you a gift of these objects. You will want to touch them with your mouth, run your fingers through the thin tender underthings and I will not need them in my new life.

Louise Glück, The First Five Book of Poems

The tailor was posh but undoubtedly talented. Then again, it was a tailor, posh was to be expected.

It was the old type of tailor, the one you saw in movies, the type that hid a secret passage to the secret service. Wooden walls covered with wooden shelves and clothes, wooden tiles on the floor, large corduroy armchairs. You walked in feeling like you didn’t belong there, like you should never have come in the first place.

Frank spotted you instantly when you walked in. You hadn’t seen each other in a few weeks, there were times when you missed him. There were times when you didn’t think of him at all… what a strange feeling… he was always in your thoughts for years…

You wished Andrew was there with you. You wondered if his classes were going well this morning, you wanted to make him a coffee and chat instead of working…

“Y/N!” Frank beamed at you, crossing the room to give you a hug. “I’ve missed you! We’ve spent too long apart!”

“Missed you too. You look well! Are you ready to choose your suit?”

“I’m so nervous,” he admitted with an uncomfortable laugh.

“It’ll be just fine.”

You said hello to Frank’s friends and family members gathered in the shop. Only a few people, including the three best men.

The tailor came in a few minutes later, started taking care of his clients. You remained quiet while the group was splitting its attention between Frank’s suit and his best men’ clothes.

The plan was simple. You had to give him terrible advice. You had to ruin the suit, make him look ridiculous. Something that Sam would hate.

That was the only way to weaken the wedding with today’s activity.

You waited patiently, watched Frank try suits on. Every piece of garment shattered your heart.

You should have been the one discovering the suit on your wedding day. You should have been the one he talked about now, asking if you would like that colour on him, hoping you would find him handsome.

He was. He was handsome. So fucking much. You wanted to shout, to claw your eyes out of their sockets with the pain of it. He was so handsome, and you should have never been here. Instead of seeing him try on all these suits, you should have been the bride hiding her dress from him. But you weren’t. You were just the friend he was turning his attention to now, asking for an advice.

And you couldn’t do it. Couldn’t ruin this for him. You were too kind-hearted for that, or perhaps, you were simply too much in pain.

You struggled to put a smile on your face.

“I think navy blue is better than green on you.”

“You think?” he asked, looking at the two shades.

“It matches your eyes better. Makes them pop.”

He smiled, bright and excited.

Had he ever smiled like this thinking of your wedding? Of marrying you?

“Thank you, Y/N. You’re always right with those things.”

“Because I pay attention.”

Your answer held more meaning than it seemed, but he didn’t notice. He never did. Not when it was you.

And you wanted revenge now. You wanted him to regret you. You wanted him to see that you were enough, that you were always enough, that Sam wasn’t better than you… even if you didn’t really believe it. Frank had chosen Sam. Andrew had been in love with her, and now that he was starting to move on, it was to be with a woman who wasn’t you.

You excused yourself, looked for the bathroom. The moment you turned the lock on your door, the tears were let free.

You looked so sad when you came back.

It was almost noon when you stepped in the office, Andrew had been waiting for you to eat his lunch. He didn’t have classes for the rest of the day, and neither did you. He was relieved about it, you clearly needed some help.

“How did it go?” he asked as you closed the door behind you.

You didn’t answer at first, instead you took the time to take off your coat, let yourself fall in your office chair and throw your head back towards the ceiling. You let out a dramatic moan, Andrew chuckled at the sound.

“That bad, huh? Did you make him choose something terrible to wear?”

You didn’t answer.

“Let me guess… you saw him in there, it broke your heart, but you didn’t lie and helped him look stunning for his wedding day.”

“How do you know? That’s exactly what happened.”

“I know you. You’re too kind to do something so mean and selfish. Hiding a few bottles of champagne is one thing, making your ex look like a fool on the most important day of his life is another.”

“I’m so pathetic. I feel so… pathetic…”

“You’re not. You’re just heartbroken.”

“Same bloody thing.”

“What can I do?”

You looked at him then, tears in your eyes and looking so sad… so damn sad…

But then you looked angry instead, wrath burning through your gaze and Andrew shuddered at the sight.

You looked gorgeous like this, despite your eyes reddened with tears. Fierce was a good look on you, it had always been…

“I’m going to make him regret me so fucking much he’ll beg to get me back.”

He raised an eyebrow, surprised by your determination.

“And how do we do that?”

“By making me look so fucking good he’ll have nightmares about leaving me.”

Andrew’s heart skipped a beat. His words came out in a whisper you didn’t hear.

“You’re always gorgeous, Y/N…”

“We’re going to this party they’re throwing two weeks before the wedding. So… in…”

“Two weeks.”

“Yeah… in two weeks. God, I can’t believe it’s the end of April already. Exams will be back in no time.”

“Don’t mention that…” Andrew winced. “Besides, we’ll have to go through the conference first…”

“Did you have an answer for that by the way?”

Andrew smiled.

“Main speaker on the second day. Forty-minutes presentation.”

“That’s awesome, Andy! Congrats!”

“I’m going to hate every second of it.”

“You’ll be brilliant.”

“We’ll need to rehearse your presentation too.”

“Yes, thank you for helping me.”

“Don’t mention it. We’re a team.”

You exchanged a tender smile, one that reached gratefulness for more than professional support.

“Anyway, I’m going to go shopping after work,” you declared. “I’ll buy the most gorgeous dress for that party. And Frank will be at my fucking feet.”

Andrew chuckled at that.

“Alright, good plan.”

“Actually… can I be insufferable and ask for your help?”

“Pardon me? My help? I don’t know anything about dresses…”

“You’re a man. You know what men like. Actually, you know what? We could go now. Be back before two and work this afternoon.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

“Okay…”

Andrew gathered his things in a hurry, let you babble away while you exited the office. He didn’t mention the way your voice was shaking from time to time, how your eyes still glistened with withheld tears.

He didn’t mention any of it. He merely drove you to the shop you liked.

Andrew didn’t know what to do while you browsed through expensive dresses, selected a few, asked for his opinion. He didn’t really have any. He had no idea what he was supposed to do to make you smile again, to make you happy, to make you feel as beautiful as you truly were…

You walked in a fitting room with five different dresses to try on. There weren’t many people in the shop at this hour, only an old woman with her grand-daughter were looking for a dress for the young woman. The elder lady started chatting casually with Andrew while they both waited in front of the cabins.

“Your girlfriend is looking for a dress for a special occasion?” she asked, and Andrew fiercely blushed.

“Oh… no, she’s not… we’re not… She’s not my girlfriend.”

She gave him a look, one that annoyed him a lot.

“Right… I see…”

Andrew ignored her, her grand-daughter showing her a dress the perfect excuse not to answer.

And then he heard you calling his name in a quiet voice…

His heart didn’t just skip a few beats, it stopped altogether. Butterflies didn’t cut it, these were fireworks in his stomach.

You were standing there in an emerald dress that fell across your calves, a low cut on your cleavage that made his wildest fantasies about you seem mild.

“What do you think? I like this one.”

You turned around to show him the back, or rather, the absence of clothing on the backless dress.

Andrew couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think…

You were so… so…

“How do I look?”

You were so… so…

“…Breathtaking.”

You blinked up at him. And he tried to hide his reaction, but he couldn’t. He must have looked stunned, a deer in headlights, and he couldn’t help it. You were so…

“…Perfect.”

You raised a surprised eyebrow, a shy smile forming on your lips.

He wanted to kiss you so badly. He wanted to touch the skin of your back the dress revealed. He wanted to run his fingers along your cleavage. He wanted to tear that gorgeous dress off you…

He cleared his throat, averted his eyes so he would stop staring at you.

“Yeah… that’s… a good one.”

“I have another I like, hang on.”

He nodded, unable to look at you. He could feel warmth spreading through his body, but he would never survive the humiliation of getting a boner in the middle of a shop because you were trying dresses on…

“Not your girlfriend, huh?”

Andrew turned to the stranger, the old woman giving him a knowing smile.

“You’d better make her your girlfriend, before it’s too late.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No, of course not.”

She heaved a sigh, looking at the closed curtain of the fitting room where her grand-daughter had disappeared.

“My husband looked at me like that, you know? The way you look at her. And I can only hope my grand-child will find someone who will look at her like that, too.”

“Like what?”

“Like she is the most beautiful thing on this earth.”

She stared right into his eyes.

“The way you must be looked at when you are loved.”

Andrew struggled to swallow, looked away, fiercely blushing.

Christ, he was a desperate case. And if a stranger could notice his feelings for you, surely everyone had… what would you say if you noticed? Would you push him away? Would you break his heart?

You walked out of your cabin again, wearing a black dress this time. And Andrew tried to hide it better this time, but you looked divine. It fitted your curves perfectly, it made your body look like sin…

“What about this one?” you asked, turning around, and Andrew hated himself for being unable to stop himself from staring at your arse.

“Yeah… that’s a good one too,” he nodded, clearing his throat.

“Which one do you prefer?”

“I… I don’t know…”

“Come on! I like both. I don’t know which one to pick. What’s your favourite?”

He struggled to control his breathing, to slow down his heart.

“I… erm… I really liked the green one.”

“The green one?”

“Yeah, it… you’re gorgeous in this dress too though.”

He heard you clearing your throat too.

“Right… the green dress it is, then.”

“Yeah… okay… grand… erm, like… good…”

“Thanks, Andy.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Christ, please, don’t mention it…

“I’ll get changed real quick.”

He hummed as he nodded, still unable to look at you.

By his side, the elderly lady chuckled, and Andrew wanted to dissolve into nothing, a puddle on the ground, to simply be atomised into thin air…

You bought the dress, Andrew drove you back to Trinity in relative silence. He was too busy picturing you in these dresses again, too busy trying not to picture you in these dresses again.

When you walked back to your office though, it was obvious that you were still sad. That search for a semblance of power over a situation you couldn’t control was gone again. He let out a long exhale through his nose as he looked at you sitting behind your desk. He crossed the room, avoiding the lamp hanging from the ceiling, and gave you a soft smile.

“You’re alright, Y/N?”

You shook your head.

“I’m sorry… I just… I can’t get over it.”

“It’s okay. You’re upset, that’s all.”

“Seeing him like this… wearing these suits… he should have been wearing them for me…”

“I know. I know, Y/N.”

“I want my life back.”

“But you have one. You have one now. You don’t need him in it.”

“I feel like I need him. I feel like I… like I just messed everything up.”

“You didn’t. You didn’t mess anything up. None of this is your fault.”

“If he chose her, then I must be lacking something…”

“You’re not. Trust me, you’re not lacking anything. It’s his loss if he can’t see what’s right in front of him.”

You looked up at him, surprised by the sudden harshness of his tone.

“You don’t need him, Y/N… you… you could have better than him. You… he’s not… He’s not even paying attention to you.”

“What do you mean?”

“He doesn’t really care. I think he’s a little too selfish for that.”

He shook his head.

“I see you with him, you know? You’re not yourself. You’re not… babbling away about cinema, or literature, or art or this recipe you’ve just tried or… it’s like you just shut down. And you listen, and then you make a tiny summary of all the things you wanted to say… but you’re so fucking smart. You’re so fucking interesting. You’re… you shouldn’t be with someone who doesn’t care about what you have to say. And he fucking broke your heart! Why do you still want him? Why…?”

Why do you still want him, instead of me?

But he didn’t say it. He stopped, and closed his fists tightly.

Andrew was growing annoyed, angry even. And of course you noticed, he reckoned he was doing a pretty bad job at hiding his true feelings.

“Y/N… Frank… I’m not saying he’s a bad person, but…”

“But?”

“But he doesn’t deserve you.”

You raised an eyebrow, visibly unimpressed.

“Really? Why not? It’s not like I’m anything special, anyway.”

Andrew frowned hard.

“Are you listening to yourself?!” he asked with something aghast in his voice, a genuine incomprehension that surprised you. “You’re… you’re amazing. You deserve so much better than him! You deserve to be treated with respect, to have someone who actually pays attention to you, who cares about you, who listens to you when you’re talking about your passions, who’s not going to disregard what you’re saying simply because they disagree…”

But you interrupted him with a scoff.

“Perfection doesn’t exist, Andy. I’ve learned as much in life. I don’t have a choice but to settle for less than that.”

“There’s a difference between accepting someone’s faults and flaws and setting the bar so low it’s actually buried underground…”

“You’re one to talk! You’re still in love with Samantha despite how she hurt you, despite the fact that she doesn’t give two shites about your poetry or your work, about the fact that she won’t make a single fucking effort for you…”

“Who says I’m still in love with her?”

You raised a surprised eyebrow, and you were genuinely taken aback this time, Andrew could tell.

“You’re not?” you asked, your tone quieter, Andrew guessed that it was a side-effect of your surprise.

“No, I’m not. I’ve learnt my lesson. I want to move on. I… I’m moving on.”

“Wow… that’s… good… That’s really grand, Andy. Is it… because of that woman you mentioned?”

Andrew’s heart sped up, he could feel himself panicking, he closed and opened his fists multiple times in an attempt to slow down his breathing.

“I… I mean… kind of…”

“Kind of?”

“I…”

He took a deep breath, gathering his courage.

“I want to be with her. I… I just… I haven’t told her yet.”

“Why not? You should ask her on a date.”

But he shook his head.

“She won’t say yes. I know her, she won’t go on a date with me, not for now. Besides… It’s too soon… for me too, I mean. I need to put Sam behind me for good, before I can try to be with her.”

You stared at him with a blank expression… or rather, not blank. The opposite. Like you felt something but tried to show the opposite reaction. The result was unreadable to him.

“I’m glad you’re moving on.”

But your tone was flat, and you didn’t seem happy at all.

“Thanks,” Andrew answered anyway.

You heaved a tired sigh.

“Please, don’t judge me with Frank. I… you don’t understand.”

Andrew sighed too, let the air out through gritted teeth.

“No, you’re right. I don’t understand. I mean… I do. I do understand the process of grieving for a life that wasn’t fully yours to begin with, but you thought would belong to you. But that’s the thing, Y/N. You need to start grieving now. You can’t remain stuck there forever. You… You deserve to be happy. You deserve better than that. Don’t do that to yourself. Especially not for someone like him. We deserve better than this, Y/N.”

You stared at him now, tears in your eyes, a sight he wished he could banish forever. He would take all of your pain away if he could, he would suffer it in your stead.

“It’s not that easy, Andy,” you shook your head, taking a step back.

“It could be. It could be, Y/N…”

“I’ve loved him for so long…”

Andrew slowly nodded.

“You could love again, with a little bit of time. He… he doesn’t care about you, Y/N. He doesn’t… listen when you talk. He acts like he does, but he doesn’t. He’s not interested in what makes you happy…”

“Neither is Sam with you.”

“I know. I know, and I don’t want that anymore.”

“But I want Frank.”

Your voice was shaking, it didn’t sound either earnest nor convincing. Still, hearing the words broke Andrew’s heart.

After everything… how could you still want Frank… why couldn’t you want him instead?

Could you… could you ever want him?

Andrew closed his fists tightly, until he could feel the sharp pain of his nails digging crescent marks into his palm. Perhaps you would never want him. Maybe it wasn’t just about Frank, maybe it was about him… maybe he was simply… not your type, not attractive to you, not good enough.

He let out a long, painful exhale through his nose.

“Would that make you happy?” he genuinely asked, voice quiet, deeper than usual, but softer than before as well. “Is that what will make you happy?”

You stared at him for a moment, then clenched your jaw. When you answered, he couldn’t read in your eyes whether or not you were telling the truth. Maybe you were lying… against all odds, he hoped you were lying.

“Yes.”

One word, breathed out, it was enough to break his heart.

Slowly, Andrew nodded.

“Alright, we’ll do it then. We’ll go to that stupid party. We’ll make him jealous. We’ll make him see what he’s losing by choosing Sam over you. If it’s what it takes for you to be happy… As long as it makes you happy.”

“Thank you.”

He stared at you as you walked back to your desk, sat before your computer, looked at the screen.

He turned around, blinking tears away, stood in front of the window behind his desk.

As long as it would make you happy…

[rainrot4me]

i dunno if you listen to hozier, (that man is my pride and joy and im seeing him live for the second time this month iakwjekdks) but masky, and lowkey like, all of the creeps, remind me so, so, much of 'work song.' the fact that their ruthless murderers but y/n is able to see the human in them and understand their hurt, is SO hozier love coded. if youre not a big fan of his, i HIGHLY recommend getting into his music! its basically just poetry with a groovy beat!

I LOVEEE Hozier! I am so jealous that you get to see him live! His music is so gorgeous and beautiful and makes me want to crawl out of my skin with yearning. So, I took the initiative to headcannon the creep’s favorite/most relatable songs:

── .✦

✦ . jeff the killer

“Dinner & Diatribes”

Jeff thrives on chaos, violence, and the intoxicating high of adrenaline. But underneath the bloodlust, there’s a deep craving for someone who sees him and still wants to play with fire. D&D explains the desire for intimacy and closeness with a significant other, while also having to uphold expectations.

“Hell is the talking type / I’d suffer Hell if you’d tell me what you’d do to me tonight.”

Fast-paced, teasing, laced with lust and a little madness. The guitar feels like a heartbeat mid-chase, or the feet chasing behind you. Seems pretty familiar.

✦ . ticci toby

“To Be Alone”

Toby lives in noise: mental, physical, emotional, and he’s learned to become comfortable in it. But he’s also hiding in it. The line between comfort and pain is blurry. Hozier’s rugged vocals and the pounding rhythm mirror the overload Toby constantly lives with.

“But you don’t know the hell you put me through / To have someone kiss the skin that crawls from you.”

Electric, almost ritualistic. It feels like dancing on shattered glass just to feel alive, even when you know you won’t be able to feel the cuts on your feet no matter how hard you stomp.

✦ . eyeless jack

“In A Week” (feat. Karen Cowley)

This song’s haunting tenderness and obsession with mortality perfectly echo Jack’s strange, clinical intimacy. It’s about death, but also about staying with someone through the rot. Romantic in the most macabre way, just like him.

“I have never known peace like the damp grass that yields to me / I have never known hunger like these insects that feast on me.”

Slow, melancholic, and strangely serene. A love song for something dark and eternal. It’s more-so a want for mortality that he lost a long time ago, and imagining that sweetness of death with someone next to him.

✦ . masky (tim wright)

“Work Song”

Masky is made of restraint, guilt, and devotion to a being that couldn’t care less about him buried beneath a cold mask. This song is his heartbeat. It’s about love so powerful, so sacred, it transcends damnation. You are the only thing grounding him, even in death. Is it a savior complex? An obsession? Or just the desire to be wanted for more than his abilities.

“No grave can hold my body down / I’ll crawl home to her.”

A dark gospel hymn. Heavy, aching, and loyal to the bone. He’s not dead, but he’s not alive either. He does things that make him sick, but if he can have a warm hand to hold, maybe it’ll be okay.

✦ . hoody (brian thomas)

“Like Real People Do”

Hoody is a ghost of who he once was. This song is about loving after ruin—awkward, gentle, and sacred. Someone having the ability to look past his faults, forced or not, he desires that wholly.

“I will not ask you where you came from / I will not ask, and neither should you.”

Tender, breathless intimacy. Like whispering in the dark and not expecting an answer, but being pleasantly surprised when someone whispers back.

✦ . ben drowned

“Movement”

Ben is obsession, rhythm, and screen-central horror. Anything he enjoys, he enjoys so potently you’d think he couldn’t live without it. This song is raw, hungry admiration—mesmerized by the things he admires and having unwavering affection for it.

“When you move / Honey, I’m put in awe of something so flawed and free.”

Sexy, powerful, like watching a storm from inside the eye.

✦ . clockwork

“Foreigner’s God”

Clockwork is torn between her rage and the humanity that lingers beneath it. This song reflects her inner war—the feeling of not belonging, of worshipping something that feels too good to exist in her world. It’s the idolization of a better life.

“She feels no control of her body / She feels no safety in my arms.”

Holy desperation. A tragic reverence for love she thinks she doesn’t deserve, but craves wholeheartedly. There’s something so tragic about a girl destined to be hated now craving love.

✦ . laughing jack

“Someone New”

Jack is manic love, fast and unpredictable. This song’s whimsical tone hides deep loneliness—he wants to love, to feel, but it never lasts. Whether as the toy or as himself, he’s always searching for that perfect someone who will cherish and adore him above all else.

“To somehow escapes the burning weight, the art of scraping through / The dark caress of someone else, I guess any thrill will do.”

Bouncy, charming, and tinged with bittersweet ache. The age-old tale of a clown meant to perform, but getting tired of the performances. He wants something real and tangible, something more than the constant.

✦ . slenderman

“No Plan”

Slenderman doesn’t do emotion in the human sense—but this song speaks to his ethereal detachment. He watches the world fall and feels something ancient and slow stir constantly, but it’s always the same question of why. His purpose, his craving, his desire to tear apart and ruin.

“The screaming, heaving fuckery of the world / Why would you offer a name to the same old tired pain.”

Apocalyptic and majestic like a god feeling love for the first time in millennia. There is no reason for him, he just is, purpose only to wreck and destroy.

꩜ .ᐟ

[kenobers]

Jason Todd Headcanons

just a few thoughts that help inform the way i write this doof. it's linked below as well, but check out jason's spotify wrapped if you have a minute! ;-)

Samsung User

Jason says he likes his coffee dark, but secretly orders flavored lattes (see that one Hozier photo)

Puts cinnamon in his coffee grounds

He may have good taste in books, but he's got shit taste in movies

Loves a few basic safe picks - Fight Club, Pulp Fiction, things you might expect from someone like him

But his "Watch Again" list is all cheesy action movies and wacky comedies. Mark Wahlberg appears a little too often.

Doesn’t watch a lot of television, but sometimes likes to fall asleep to Family Guy or South Park

Has one ear piercing he got on a dare, done by either one of his brothers or one of the Outlaws

Good gift giver, but only wraps things in newspaper

Really terrible about remembering to take his medication

To the point that Dick and Tim got him one of those every day of the week pill boxes as a joke - but it's actually been incredibly helpful

Is a regular at his neighborhood corner store

To the point where the guys at the counter don’t even card him anymore

He's the type of man to sleep till noon, 1:30 on Sundays

If he's sharing a bed, he will snuggle up to you in his sleep

Snores

Unfortunately uses 3-in-1 shampoo/conditioner/body wash

Has an high tolerance for weed, which annoys the hell out of him because he enjoys a joint but does not fuck with edibles

Every time he tries an edible, he stares at himself in the mirror for three hours and Does Not like it

Drunk Yapper

Beer Drinker

Doesn't always know his own strength

Not in the accidentally-break-someone's-arm type of way, but definitely in the sometimes-closes-the-door-too-hard-and-goes-"whoopsie daises!" type of way

Thankfully, he's become a pretty great handy man

Despite being a certified Car Guy, he did die at 15 and as a consequence is lowkey still learning how to drive a non-military grade car (in other words, he's a shit driver) (but it's okay, he sticks to the motorcycle and public transportation)

He's not a hugger, but he is a leaner

Thrifts all of his clothes

Prefers to get his books from local indie/second-hand/new & used bookstores

But still has a Barnes & Nobles membership card

His bookshelf is not organized what-so-ever; it's started to operate as more of a gun rack while his books get stacked underneath his bed (he tells himself that this will make him get through his To Be Read list faster)

His top played song of last year was “Kiss Me Through The Phone” by Soulja Boy

His music taste can be divided into three primary playlists; East Coast Rap, Metal, Ear Worms

Is the family expert on the Gotham underground music scene

He isn’t big on social media at all, but he has a Twitter with like 15 followers he uses to keep an eye on whoever

(and also to keep up with music and book updates)

He’s occasionally very funny on it. But just occasionally.

Just Online enough to know who Trisha Paytas is, not Online enough to know who ClubChalamet is

He got his GED once he joined the family again

and yes, they threw him a little party to celebrate

Has the BatChat on silent, but still checks it regularly

Terrible texter; you’ll either hear back from him immediately or in three weeks time

“srry didn’t see this”

(he did see this, he just got anxiety about it)

Has a lot of anxiety about smalls things like that

Especially when it comes to the Bat Family

He’s not always sure where he stands with everyone - if they like him, trust him, want him there

Paranoid that they’re nosy because they secretly think he’s going to go rogue again

Has to constantly remind himself that they’re just nosy the same way that he’s nosy - because this is literally a family of detectives

[leaderwonim]

I LOVE YOU LIKE . . .

pairing. enhypen ot7 x fem!reader

genre. fluff, angst in some of them if you squint

synopsis: in which enha members love you like different songs

LEE HEESEUNG

“i love you like seasons by wave to earth”

he was the bad boy who was afraid to love you because he was so scared he would ruin your life. he tried convincing you that it wouldn’t work, that you deserved way better than he could ever be.

“that’s not true hee,” you say as you cupped his face into your hands. “i love you and that’s all that matters.”

although lee heeseung swore to himself he would never fall in love, the idea is thrown out the window as soon as you muttered those 3 words that seemed to change his whole lookout on life.

“i love you.” he says as he places a kiss on your forehead, engulfing you into a hug. “thank you for loving me back in this universe.”

PARK JONGSEONG

“i love you like my love mine all mine by mitski”

jay was a certified lover boy by heart. people, more specifically, guys—would often tell jay it was too early to settle down and he should have as much fun as he could before that moment came.

he disagreed completely. jay wanted someone to love, someone who he’d propose to after dating for some time. he didn’t just want someone to warm his bed for the night, or call when he’s drunk and alone. he wanted someone who would stay up late to talk about spontaneous things like how many kids they wanted or what career they wanted to go into.

and he found himself lucky when he met you, the cute girl in his chemistry class on his first day at college. you swooned him over with just one smile, and he knew he was helpless right there and then.

“here—i can get that.” he says, reaching for your heavy backpack.

“oh it’s okay jay!” you quickly protest, but it’s to no avail because jay’s already got it swung around his shoulder, your textbooks in his hand.

“i can’t have my future children knowing i made their mother carry heavy items, can i?” he jokes, which makes you blush as you look down at your feet.

“enough jay! you’re gonna make me turn a tomato.”

it has only been one week since he’s asked you to be his girlfriend with some cliche chemistry pickup line, but it was the best decision of his life. after all, you were all his, and he was all yours.

SIM JAEYUN

“i love you like would that i by hozier”

sim jaeyun likes to think of your relationship as a breath of fresh air on the first day of summer vacation. he feels fulfilled when he’s with you, and he couldn’t ask the universe for a better feeling.

when you spoke about the things you loved, he listened in attentively, his pretty eyelashes batting as his ears concentrated themselves to only tune into your voice.

“hey! are you listening?” sunoo whines as he taps jake’s shoulder, but heeseung stops stops him.

“don’t bother,” heeseung snickers. “jake’s too obsessed with his girlfriend to hear you.”

he lives for picnic dates with you in autumn when the leaves are turning their pretty shade of orange. he’d pick a more secluded place, one where you can run off into the nearby grass while he chases after you, pulling you into a hug and placing kisses all over your face once he catches you

PARK SUNGHOON

“i love you like slut by taylor swift”

park sunghoon was most definitely the most popular guy in your uni. he had the looks and his shy but charming personality made him even more attractive to the girls.

when they first saw you walking around with sunghoon, there were rumors that he was just using you because they’d never seen him with a girl before and he wasn’t the type of guy to get into a relationship (but boy were they wrong)

he wanted to take things slow because he really liked you, so you two began hanging out more and more and he even introduced you to his friends — heeseung, jake and jay.

heeseung and jake even took you to the arcade after one of your long exams, claiming they needed to take care of sunghoon’s girlfriend even though he hadn’t officially asked you out yet.

when girls at the uni saw this, they freaked out, bombarding you with words like slut or whore simply because you were hanging out with sunghoon’s friends.

“i don’t know why they hate me so much.” you sniffle as you wipe away your tears. one of the girls had bumped into your shoulder harshly as she was walking by, creating a small but aching bruise where she had hit.

“c’mere.” sunghoon says, pulling you into his arms. “they’re just jealous because i like you and not them. you’re the most beautiful and sweetest girl i know.”

even though everybody seemed to like park sunghoon, he made it clear that he wanted you, and when he pulled you in earlier as you cried to him, you realized that in a world full of boys, park sunghoon was a gentleman.

KIM SUNOO

“i love you like sweet by cigarettes after sex”

it was truly easy to fall in love with kim sunoo. he was the epitome of sunshine, and he made your days just a little bit brighter by simply being around you.

loving kim sunoo was sweet and delicate, going on small dates where you two would walk around and eat street food as you admired the views that seoul had to offer.

“i love you, you know that?” sunoo suddenly says, finishing up the last of the bread he bought from the sweet old lady vendor next to your house.

“all of a sudden?” you giggle nervously, tippy toeing to place a small kiss on the bridge of his nose.

“just thought i’d let you know.” he shrugs. “i love you more than anything.”

“i love you too sun,” you smile. “you’re the sweetest boy i could ask for.”

YANG JUNGWON

“i love you like real love baby by father john misty”

loving yang jungwon felt like finally kissing your soulmate in the rain.

it felt like kissing them with such a passion even though both of your hairs are wet from the water and you swear that you’ll catch a cold the next day by your soaked clothes.

however, it doesn’t matter because you’re finally with the one person that you want.

loving yang jungwon felt like that. it felt real, and it felt like it was the final piece in your missing puzzle.

“wanna dance in the rain?” jungwon asks, eyebrows wiggling themselves at you.

you roll your eyes, smacking your hand against his chest softly. “and risk catching a fever? i thought you were more responsible than that yang.”

“ouch,” he says, holding his chest. “we’re on last name basis now?”

you pull him in, placing a kiss so quickly on his lips that he whines when you push him back.

“that was not fair!” he says, sitting himself next to you on the soft fuzzy floor.

“oh my won baby,” you tease. “we can dance in the rain only if you promise we get chinese takeout after.”

“PROMISE!” he shrieks, grabbing your hand as he practically runs over to the coat shack.

NISHIMURA RIKI

“i love you like black friday by tom odell”

nishimura riki was a joker by heart. he loved playing around and making jokes because it made his body rush with dopamine that fueled his ability to keep going.

however, when he was with you, it was like there was a whole new side to him — that not even his friends or family knew.

“i wish i had a better body,” you say, frowning as you look down at your legs that were currently tangled with riki’s on the couch. “i wanna be perfect like all of my friends.”

the clicking of his remote stops immediately after you say that, his game console long abandoned as he untangles his legs from yours, pulling you straight into his arms.

“yah, where is this coming from?” he asks, eyebrows raised. “did someone say something?”

“no.” you sigh.

“you know that you’re the prettiest girl i’ve ever set my eyes on?” he says, holding your shoulders so that he could make direct eye contact with you. “pretty like the ocean, pretty like the wind, everytime i’m around you — i get this rush of adrenaline. you make me so happy.”

your eyes soften at his sweet and genuine tone, wrapping your arms around his neck as you play with his hair. “i love you riki, you make me happy too.”

he lets you lay your head on his lap as he plays his game, your laugh every time he made a noise of disapproval at his teammates made his heart leap.

[carmenized-onions]

The Other Shoe | Consultation

logline; old wounds tend not to heal, if you don't let them. but, there is hot chocolate, and love. so perhaps that's enough.

[!!!] series history, this is the seventh; First, Second, Third, Fourth, Fifth, Sixth

Spotify Playlist, if you like to listen while you read. I listen to it when I write :) Constantly gettin’ added to. Finally got Hozier on here. Don't know how that took me so long.

portion; 3.1k

possible allergies; two absolutely garbage mental states of people who are NOT over Mikey or the way they've been treated. Bunch of self-loathin, the whole lot.

pairing; Carmen ‘Carmy’ Berzatto & Fem Reader (no pronouns!)

Took me a minute, new jobs goin' well though!! This one took a lot of stewing, lmao. Lot of staring and thinking. We'll talk after, but SO many alterations were made lmao.

It has been three weeks since you met Carmen in a freezer.

Six days since you were at his apartment. Ish.

Roughly forty-three weeks since the worst day of your life. Doesn’t feel like it.

In five days, you’ll have the second— Well, maybe third or fourth, worst day of your life.

But today is Monday, and you don’t know what’s coming yet.

It’s just after one in the morning, and you wake up to a phone call. Carmy. Yes, do not disturb was on. Yes, you’d set him on priority access— Which most people would find very cute and intimate, and it is— But he’s not the only one. It’s not a limited feature for people you want to kiss. There’s Syd, Richie, …Mikey…

Cause when is the right time to delete a dead friend’s contact info? It’s not right now. You know it’s not right now. And it probably won’t be tomorrow, either.

Phone call. You’re getting a phone call.

“Carm?”

“…”

You stir a little, bit, when there’s no reply, brain dehazing. “Carmy? Everything okay?”

You hear the beep of the phone call being ended. No way he butt-dialed you, right? You’re awake. You’re so awake. This feels all too familiar, and that's not a good thing. You immediately open your phone to text him, by the time you get to his contact, he’s already texted you. Actively texting you, in a rapid, manic succession.

‘fuck’

‘sorry’

‘you were supposed to be asleep’

Hm.

‘talking to a person hard right now?’

‘yes’

‘you’re so smart.’

‘easier to talk to robot you.’

‘wowwww’

It’s hard to write funny, right now. It’s hard to act like yourself, right now. You’re not sure how you’re doing it.

‘not what I meant’

‘I know. You’re you.’

‘you wanna send a voice message maybe?’

‘it’s fine. I’ll text.’

You give him time, you expect a paragraph since he’s taking so long, but instead you get,

‘can’t.’

‘carmen.’

‘I like you so much.’ Oh be still your stupid heart.

‘feeling is mutual.’

‘I can’t make my problems the only reason I talk to you’

Is that true? Fuck, that's kind of true, isn't it? But there's the puzzles! And there's been phone calls!

‘You talk to me for other reasons’

‘yeah. But it’s mostly problems’

‘with me.’

‘eh. Not really. Walk-in was you, toilet was Mikey, Nat had a baby, I’d consider the oven a shared problem of you and Syd’

‘oven was my fault’

He types for even longer this time. It’s hard not to interrupt him. When you start to type, he sends.

‘can I come over?’

‘I know it’s late’

‘I’ll come pick you up.’

‘no’

‘I’ll walk. I’ll be there in 20.’

‘it’s not a problem to pick you up.’ It's a problem if he doesn't let you pick him up.

‘I know.’

‘promise I just wanna walk. Get air.’

God, why are your fucking hands shaking he just wants to walk. He just wants to walk. Why can’t you bring yourself to believe people when they say that anymore?

Everything’s normal. It’s been a good six days for Carm, you know that it’s been a good six days. Everything's normal. You’ve kept a puzzle streak every morning, you’ve called him some nights, he’s called you some nights. He’s had a good week. He told you so. Everything's normal. You’ve vaguely flirted in that extremely sexual yet completely nonsensical way new situationships do, via text. People don’t do that when they’re on the brink of death, right? Everything's normal. Stop playing with your pendant. Relax. Put a shirt on. Stop being so fucking paranoid. Stop typing—!

‘can you do me a favour’

‘anything’

‘can you turn your location on for me’

‘not to be invasive. You can turn it off when you get here, I—’

Before you can even finish typing your explanation, let alone send it, he sends his location, trackable. He’s already walking.

‘be there in 18.’

You watch, with bated breath, his little contact photo bubble marching across Chicago to you. You make yourself mildly presentable and make hot chocolate on the stove—Gotta use milk, for Carmen— For when he comes to you, out of the cold. Because he’s going to come to you. He’s gonna be here. He’s gonna be here. You know that because you’ve been keeping your phone screen open and only look away to ensure you don’t pour milk on your stovetop and to blink.

He's here in eighteen minutes. You think if you had a stop watch going on, it’d be down to the millisecond. You open the door for him, before he can even knock. You watched his bubble walk up to your door. No point in waiting. You need to see him.

He’s breathing heavy. Held tight in his fist is a bundle of flowers— Importantly, not a bouquet, a bundle of flowers—Like, roots still on a few, visibly yanked out of the ground. Though seemingly from different gardens, since there's quite a variety. He looks at you, then down at the flowers, then back to you.

“I— I stole these.”

“Had a feeling.” You wave your hand for him to come inside, he does. “Are you okay?”

His steps falter, he seems downtrodden. You take the flowers, and then take his hand. He hesitates to speak, but he’s really trying to say fucking something. You squeeze his hand, it seems to help.

“I—” He swallows the spit caught in his throat. “I didn’t know— I— No. No, I did know— I knew the one place I had to come was, here. Had to go somewhere.”

You nod, you look over him. Silently doing a wellness check. You’re panicked. You’re so panicked. But he can’t know that. This is about him. You’re the one that takes care of people. He’s clean. He smells like Old Spice and you. He’s a little cold from the walk, he didn’t wear a jacket, but he’s warming up fast. He looks tired but not exhausted, which, for Carmy, is kind of as good as you’re going to get. He didn’t have the energy for a phone call, but he had the energy to come over and talk to your face; his social battery is wonky, but that’ll fix with time here. Is he hungry? That’s hard to tell on looks alone.

“You wanna talk about it, Bear?”

He nods, head down. Can’t look at you. You gently pull at his hand for him to follow you into the kitchen. “Made hot chocolate. You a marshmallow or whipped cream guy?”

His eyes are glassy, and his mood itself doesn’t change, but he does swiftly lift his head up to look at you with an incredulous, curious half smile. “You don’t do both?”

“I find it gets a lil’ busy. But I like the tiny marshmallows that come with the mix with whipped cream—”

“You gotta do actual cocoa.”

You roll your eyes. “I don’t like my hot chocolate to actually be rich. I want sweet.”

“You’re breaking my heart.”

“Good thing I’m a repairman, then.” You deadpan. He does actually seem to glow a little bit, at that. You repeat, hand full of flowers resting on your hip. “So both?”

“Both.”

He calms you down so easily, even when really, he was the oncoming stress— Or rather, your perceptions. He clears static for you, without effort. You nod, letting go of his hand— Slowly, withdrawing, like a silent promise that you will be back. You grab a paper towel and wrap the flowers in them, setting them down on the counter. You’ll plant them later. Honestly, kind of a better gift for you and your green thumb than a bouquet would be.

You turn to your oven to stir the pot of hot chocolate— Can’t have any fuckin’ clumps for Mr Michelin over here. Speaking of Michelin, he sidles up behind you and puts his head on your shoulder, hands hovering as if he’s going to hug your waist but simply cannot bring himself to.

He mumbles into your shoulder. “I lit my oven on fire.”

Ah. The oven was his fault. That's what he meant. When you pause and try to turn, that’s when he hugs you, holding you in place. “Please don’t look ‘t me.”

You take a deep breath, and continue to stir the pot. “Okay. I’m listening, not looking.”

“I did— I did it in my sleep. Not the first time. I think, I think they’re night terrors? But I don’t, don’t scream or nothin’— I don’t say shit actually. I don’t think.”

God, he’s insecure, even now, about how crazy you’ll think he is. Like telling your therapist everything that’s wrong with you except for the stuff that they might hospitalize you for. God, does he treat you like a fucking therapist? He’s awful. He’s awful for you. He’s awful for anyone. It doesn’t matter that you’re different— The common denominator is him. He’s a fucking piece of shit—

“I wake up screaming sometimes.” You reply, so softly. You feel his short nails dig into your sides just slightly for a second as he remembers where he is. He’s over your shoulder. No one’s over his. “Happens to the worst of us.”

You grab two mugs from the cupboard— Reaching with the arm he’s not leaning on. “Did you put it out or should I be calling my former C-F-D crew?”

“I put it out.” He notes your mugs. They’re mismatching. One is definitely handmade with messy floral patterns, the other a tourist trap Chicago mug.  They’re perfect. “I—I was cooking something, in my sleep— And then— Then the fire starts.”

You ladle the hot chocolate into the mugs— Usually you’d just pour it straight but you don’t want Carmen to watch you inevitably spill half of it on your counters. You nod, “Do you dream that you’re cooking?”

“K-Kinda? I’m not cooking, I’m the Head, the expediter— And, and my Exec is over my fucking shoulder and he’s— Just in my head.” He swallows, thinking of how to explain without explaining. “And then I wake up, and there’s a fire, and I watch it grow, and I think about what it would mean if I just let it, and how I’d want it to.”

“And then you put it out?”

“And then I put it out.”

“Do you wish you didn’t?”

“I don’t know. And it’s fucking with me. ‘Cause— ‘Cause things are really good right now.” You tense under him, and he knows it’s because you don’t believe him. “They are, they really really are. Sug bein’ away is… not easy, but, it’s, it’s okay—”

“Carm.” Your tone is so accusatory.

“It’s the same nightmare it used to be.” He doesn’t hesitate to correct as soon as you question it. He cannot lie to you. For one, you see right through him. For two, it’s you. You’d rather know he’s insane. For some reason. “It’s been hard. I— I know fuck all, about business, and, and we can’t afford to hire a fuckin’ replacement right now because we owe so much fucking money or the whole thing caves— But it’s— It’s been good.”

You grab a handful of mini marshmallows, splitting them between the two mugs. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He nods into your shoulder. “Everyone is… happy, right now. It’s not always fuckin’ breezy but— Everyone’s, everyone’s okay. And I have somethin’ I can actually be proud of, right now. And I have— I — You’re around. N’ that, that has been good. For everyone.”

You hum. Heart full, at that. You awkwardly shift to your fridge, waddling like a penguin instead of turning, as not to disturb Carmen, he chuckles against your shoulder. “You can tell me to fuck off, y’know.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want you to.” You hug his arm to you. This makes him squeeze just a little tighter. You pull out a half-empty can of Reddi-Wip, shaking it violently, as instructed. “Say when.”

You hover the can over the tourist mug, he shakes his head. “Other one.”

He wants the handmade one. Your fingerprints are grooved into the handle. You ignore how insane this makes you feel, and spray whipped cream into the handmade mug. You’re waiting for him to say when.

It’s getting to a concerningly tall pile, at this point. You feel him swallow. He finally says the quiet thought out loud.

“I think I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. Even in my sleep, I know it’s coming.”

You nod, you stop spraying. You think on it for a beat. You opt to be honest. “I am, too.” You nod. “I am, too.”

“What’d’you think it’s gonna be?”

You feel your neck flare red and hot, guilty. Horrifically guilty. Lifesaver. You spray whipped cream into your own mug. You don’t really want both whipped cream and marshmallows, but it’s a good way to disguise how shaky your hands are. You take a deep breath.

“Think you’re gonna realize I’m not as good as you think I am.”

He kind of, tugs at you, pulling you closer to him, as if to rebuke thee. “You’re very good, Tony.”

You just hum in reply, once again, the pile of whip cream grows— It sputters, and basically nothing is coming out, but you can’t bring yourself to move, so it continues to struggle. He lets you do this, for a moment, before softly, questioningly speaking your name.

You just hum, again. Everything’s fine. Everything’s normal. This isn’t even about you, this is about him. “I’m good.”

“You are.” He declares, like it’s law. He grabs the empty can from you hand and puts it on the counter, then turns you around to face him. You keep your head down, there’s every chance you throw up and die if you— “Look at me.”

“I know—” He does not give you the chance to excuse yourself, he grabs your chin, softly, but still, forces you to look at him.

“You’re very good.” Too much eye contact. Too close. Too sincere. Too much— “Too good, too good for anyone.”

Too good for him. You, of course, don’t think that. But that’s exactly why you’re too good. “I’m not gonna change my mind ‘bout that.”

“…Hope so.”

Carmen can see it, now. The way your jaw clenches, how you’re looking past him, not at him. The way you mirror how he imagines he looked in the walk-in, to you. He decides to take a page out of your book, and hugs you close. “Know so.”

Your chin hooks over his shoulder. You stare down the hall of your apartment, brain somewhere else. He stares over your shoulder at the hot chocolates, whipped cream slowly melting and overflowing onto the counters.

“You wanna talk about it?” He asks, and you can’t help but smile at the ridiculousness of it.

“I—It’s not—This about you, not me—”

“It’s both. It can be both.” The shared burden.

You sigh, putting your arms around his shoulders. “…I’ll talk about it eventually, I promise. Just not… Ready—Right now.” You’re not ready to risk him no longer liking you. You need a little more time to be selfishly avoidant. “Eventually, though.”

He nods. He gets it. He does it.

“How do you think the other shoe’s gonna drop? If it does?”

This was the exact question he didn’t want, but you answered it, kind of, and that means he has to answer it, kind of. He relaxes his hold on you. “Think you’re gonna see me when I’m— When I’m not me— When I’m— I’m like, like my fuckin’ family.”

When he’s angry. When he yells. When he’s mean. When his crises don’t take the form of hibernation. When he’s frightening.

“Think once you realize, you’ll leave, and it’ll all leave with you.”

When he said that everyone’s happy at The Bear, he knows it’s because you’re back in the atmosphere. You bring a lightness that he never could, that he always envied in his brother. He honestly needs to break something at The Bear to get you to come in soon, because it’s been two weeks since you made everyone coffee, and your presence is only finally starting to wain in power. He really needs to start paying himself so you can get on bar.

“I don’t love being yelled at, certainly.”

You know what acting like his family means. Mikey used to do it. When things got bad. And while you got better and better at being understanding, still never managed to keep yourself from tearing up. “But it’s nothing that would make me leave. Nothing that’s not worth it.”

Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ. His bad side, his anger, his violence, his teeth, the parts of his functionality that he hates, you consider worth dealing with, for the sake of the rest of him.

It reminds him, of a question that’s been on his mind for a while now. His chin digs into your shoulder, a little bit. He swallows.

“Do you really not think taking care of people is a lot of work?”

You frown, thinking about it. It is a lot of work. It’s exhausting work, rotten work, to take care of people.

“It is a lot of work.” You tilt your head, kiss his clothed shoulder. “But it’s just pure instinct, to do. “I care therefore I care, or somethin’.”

“What a poet.”

“Fuck off.”

You both laugh; then comfortable silence. He’s the first to break it. “You’re good.”

“We’re both good.” You pull back to look at him. Nothing has truly been resolved, and yet he looks more at peace. Thank, God. You’re doing a good job. You’re not failing again. “You wanna go drink these barely warm hot chocolates in my bed and pass out?”

“Please.”

Carmen never turns off his location, and he never will. He doesn't ask why you want it. He takes advantage of the whipped cream on your nose and the severe lack of napkins in your bedroom when he can. He replaces the Cubs jersey wearing bear in your arms, that night. He hopes he will forever, he's pretty sure he won't.

In five days, this Friday will be the worst Friday of your lives.

But neither of you know that yet. The painting is still not finished, he hasn’t yelled at anyone around you yet, Carmen still doesn’t know about the necklace you’ve tucked under your shirt every day for the past year.

The other shoe still hangs in the air; but not in your bed.

You pray it’s fall will not wake the bear.

FUCK bro.

It was tough writing in a way that was coherently incoherent. Like, neither of these two want to talk about their problems, so they are vague, but I know what the fuck is going on-- And hopefully you kindddaaa get what's going on?? There's still a little mystery I'm holding on for myself, hehehe. I'm very curious if anyone has theories by now tbh. What's this hidden part of Tony's life!!! They're usually so open!!! So what's this shit!!!

I cut out like a WHOLE 300 words of them doin' a smooch because it just made no fuckin' sense. They're both in emotional hell, couldn't force it, even if I wanted it. But there was the cuddlin' and nose kissin' in bed. So I think that's a good caveat.

But the most insane part of this chapter for me, and you'll see later, THIS chapter and the next,,,,, 3 chapters? Were all gonna be ONE. I know. Nuts. I was essentially gonna format it like all snippets of this one week, because as we know, Fridays gonna be the worst friday! But I realized like a quarter way through writing this one, that it simply couldn't just be a snippet. It needed to breath as it's own full thing. As did the next 3 chaps. I think they'll be a lot more digestable this way and also it won't force me to hole away for a fuckin month writing it without giving you a single morsel of content.

Anyways, tell me what the fuck you THOUGHT!! I'm excited to hear thoughts, hopefully all good ones~~~

Next Part

[fqerielust]

crawlin back to you - cl16

now playing: do i wanna know? hozier's version.

જ⁀➴ ♡

synopsis: you swear you left Monaco for good. you left it behind you. but upon return to the godforsaken country, you find yourself facing the boy you swore you'd never hurt.

au: desi!singer!reader

requested: no

trope: exes to lovers

type: slight angst

warnings: swearing, reader's father is lowkey toxic, badly translated french!

word count: 1134

playlist:

do i wanna know? hozier

no. 1 part anthem arctic monkeys

i wanna be yours arctic monkeys

say yes to heaven lana del rey

f1 masterlist here !

"No." You shake your head immediately at the proposal of going home. "I'm not coming with you."

Sanjit frowns. Your brother has been pestering you this whole week to come back to Monaco and help him plan his wedding. It's not that you don't want to- you definitely do- but it's seeing your mother and father that slightly scares you. You can't bear to step foot into the house without thinking about the night that you left. You swore you'd never go back. And even if that meant leaving him behind, then so be it.

"But Y/n-" he pleads again, "Paapa isn't going to kill you for coming back."

You blow a wisp of hair out of your eyes. "But he's going to have that stupid look on his face and tell Amma that he told her so."

"You're acting just like him." Sanjit states, a scowl on his face.

That's what gets you. You hate to be compared to your father. Despite all the comments you get about you looking like him, you want to have nothing to do with the man. You'd go as far as to say you resented him.

So, just to prove your idiot brother wrong:

"Fine," you unplug your guitar, "I'll come with you."

You slide your shades over your eyes as you lug your suitcase out of the terminal at NCE. You'd forgotten the sun practically roasts you in Monaco. It'd been years since you were here, years since you moved in with your brother in the States.

"Keep up!" Sanjit exclaims a short way in front of you, "We'll miss the cab!"

You go as fast as your tired feet will carry you. Thirty minutes in the cab will do you nicely, actually. You could take a quick nap and rest yourself for the madness that you'll have to deal with in the upcoming week. You could prepare yourself to see him. Not like you need preparation. No, you didn't. It'd just be a quick hello to his mum and his brothers. Maybe an awkward handshake for him. Maybe nothing at all. Maybe, maybe, maybe...

Thirty minutes later, you spot the burgundy, Victorian house come into view. You see him then- in his front yard, clumsily kicking around a football with his younger brother. You know his eyes are narrowing at the strange vehicle in his quiet neighbourhood.

You know his expression changes when Sanjit gets out of the car. Maybe a hitch of breath when you follow. The time has done Charles beautifully. It's chiseled out his jaw, his lips pinker. Training has changed him as well- his frame wider and muscle on his body. He's grown into a vision of handsomeness.

He puts his hands on his hips, a wide grin on his lips as Sanjit approaches him, "Look who it is."

You busy yourself with unloading the suitcases with the man in the cab. Poor thing, the man casts you a look. Anything to not look at him. You're unable to stop the guilt twisting in your stomach. Summer was for love, and you'd left him. You manage to get the suitcases steady on the pathway leading to the front door of your parents' house, the incline of the hill already against you. But you manage. When you come to greet Arthur and Charles, your throat feels a little dry.

You feel like you're looking at someone totally different.

"Welcome back." He says dryly, extending his hand for you to shake.

You shake it. "It's good to be back." It's not, it's really not.

He nods at that, and Arthur makes a comment that you both don't really pay attention to. Before you say anything else, your mother is rushing through the front door, eager to see her 'babies'. Charles watches with a small grin as your mother squeezes you into a tight hug. She plants a kiss on your forehead, almost on the verge of tears at you coming home for the first time in years.

She's so ecstatic that the Leclercs are over for family dinner, for 'old times sake'. Sanjit wants Arthur's opinion on everything. He's going to be his best man, you know. His fiance wants to get married the Christian way, not the lengthy Hindu way. She'd rather it be short and sweet. He says she doesn't want too much expense, even though he can afford it because of racing.

You really can't stand the look your father's giving you. And between Sanjit's constant chatter about his fiance and Arthur and Pascale's constant input, you'd rather be anywhere else. Not in your room- it feels a bit small now that you've got a bigger one in California.

You excuse yourself to make a cup of chamomile. He'd call you an old lady for it. Quietly, you slide open the backyard door. You find him on the patio, sipping on his own cup of something. You take a seat on the rocking chair across from the swing he's on.

"Je ne pensais pas que tu voudrais me voir." He admits quietly. I didn't think you'd want to see me.

"Pourquoi ne voudrais-je pas te voir?" You reply, just as quiet. Why would I not want to see you? "Je ne pensais pas que tu voudrais me voir." I didn't think you'd want to see me.

"Come sit." He murmurs, patting the empty spot next to him. When you do, he shifts closer to you. "Pourquoi penses-tu que je ne voudrais pas te voir?" Why do you think I wouldn't want to see you?

"Je ne pensais pas que quelqu’un dans cette maison voudrait me voir." You confess. I didn't think anyone in this house would want to see me. He brushes a stray hair from your face as you continue, "Surtout, après que je viens de partir." Especially, after i just left.

He doesn't want to forgive you just like that. Not after almost a decade of you making no attempt to contact him. The week after you'd left, he realized you weren't coming back. No phone calls, no emails, no nothing. You'd left him for good. It was an unsaid break-up. He'd watch you leave, book the first flight out of Nice, just pacing your room with mascara running down your cheeks. He'd tried to talk you out of it. Out of leaving him and your whole life behind. You'd had none of it. So that was the end of you and Charles.

But he does it, anyway. He forgives you when he plants a kiss on your temple. And he knows you're grateful for the forgiveness when you lean in closer.

"Il n'y aura jamais un jour où je ne voudrai pas te voir." There will never be a day where I don't want to see you.

[vidavalor]

hi! back with (yet another) word nerdy question. (I’ve brought cookies this time!) in the 1941 episodes, Crowley refers to the church as “consecrated ground” but furfur calls it “hallowed ground”, i was wondering what your thoughts on that were? always love reading your metas!

Hi there, @the-ineffable-parker 💕 Thank you muchly & what a very fun topic! Alright, throw on some Hozier 😂 so we can talk about what the story's ongoing discussion about how the show's discussion of what constitutes consecrated ground, including this consecrated vs. hallowed contrast, might have to say about themes around autonomy and authority.

I have also had more than one anon send me a request for stuff on consecrated ground so *radio voice* this one also goes out to all you lovelies who were not only nice enough to ask but who gave me an excuse to look at Aziraphale-as-Crowley in the bathtub during an otherwise kind of irritating week. 😂

TW: Mentions of Heaven & Hell violating bodily autonomy.

Consecrated vs. hallowed is an example of offering the audience a pair of near-synonyms for the purpose of having a conversation about the themes that come up when looking at the differences between these words. There are others like this in Good Omens, too:

Welfare vs. quality of life. Magician vs. conjurer. Job vs. profession. Seller vs. purveyor. Father vs. dad. Master vs. boss. The historical mister vs. doctor debate. Lift vs. elevator, etc..

So, what of consecrated vs. hallowed?

Technically, both of these words mean that which is considered to have been made holy through some sort of rite or ceremony. You wouldn't use them interchangeably, though, because one of the words-- hallowed-- has evolved to also have a secular meaning, whereas consecrated has remained a word that-- unless you're writing something blasphemously sexy 😉-- would still just be used exclusively to describe something faith-based.

Hallowed ground can be theatres and libraries and historic buildings and the like but, when we're talking about physical locations, consecrated ground is still considered just places of worship and burial sites and other religious places.

Hallowed is an example of a secular evolution of a word in a direction away from its original, religious meaning. There are many that have gone that route and also many that have been stolen by religious groups. Good Omens focuses attention on quite a few words in these crosshairs, like passion, profession, joy, and halo. Contrasting hallowed with consecrated allows the story to have a discussion about how linguistic evolution away from religion reflects many, if not all, humans also evolving away from it.

The word hallow is a pretty-much-obsolete-unless-you're-writing-a-press-release-for-The-Vatican word for a saint, which is how it came to mean that which is holy. This is also the etymology of why we call the holiday at the end of October 'Halloween', from its earlier name of All Saints' Eve.

Halloween is pretty much the most perfect evolution away from anything once at least somewhat related to Christianity that has ever existed 😂 and the evolution of hallowed is much the same so it doesn't surprise me that a demon like Furfur would prefer to use the word hallowed over the word consecrated. The demons were all ex-communicated from Heaven so they're all for humans blasphemously evolving religious words away from those types of meaning.

This is where we have to get into the big question that bringing up these words in the first place asks of the audience, though, which is:

Who gets to say what is holy?

Good Omens' theme of autonomy is freedom is, unsurprisingly, interwoven with its theme of recognizing your own authority to author your own life.

We sometimes might think that there is a higher authority who can answer things for us-- someone more powerful than ourselves. We might be prone to thinking that fallible human beings who are seen by some as holy should be granted authority by us when it comes to influencing our thoughts and actions. In thinking this, we're selling ourselves short and allowing others control over us. It impacts our ability to self-determine and impedes our freedom and our health. The effects of this are so dangerous that it puts our lives at risk.

There are people, often some men, who will say that there is a God who has granted them the power to speak for them. That their word is God and that if you aren't following their word, you aren't following the word of God, and that means you are evil. You are a demon. You are a heretic. You are anathema. You are a sinner and will be forever damned. And they will use this power they claim comes from God to maintain their own power and while controlling and abusing others.

They will try to poison your mind with self-loathing and try to convince you to harm yourself by repressing yourself and denying your own needs. They will try to tell you what to consume with the body that is, at once, both supposed to be seen as a celestial temple but also repugnant and unholy with impure needs for which you should repent. They will, if you let them, cause you to starve yourself in every possible way there is to do so.

They will try to tell you that you're sinful if you desire or love another consenting adult of whom they don't approve. They will try to tell you what to wear, what to eat, how to behave, to most exemplify what they consider to be pure, and not accept that you might think differently. They see your body as belonging to them and do not recognize your autonomy.

These are just people. They have no authority that you don't give them. They do not care about you-- they want to own you. They will harm you to maintain their own power. You do not need to listen to them. You are the judge of you. Autonomy is freedom and freedom cannot be had by listening to people who try to do you harm. You are the higher authority you're looking for.

The question of who gets to decide what is holy? is, really, also the question of why should anyone recognize as a holy authority anyone who does not respect the sanctity of a person's right to autonomy?

If you notice, Furfur isn't really shocked that Crowley was able to get into a church and remain unharmed. He isn't all omg how did he not go up in flames upon crossing the threshold?! He's just surprised that Crowley elected to go into a church at all, since the whole thing about all the original demons is that they were all thrown out of Heaven. This goes along with other scenes about consecrated ground that we've seen in both seasons.

It seems that the insides of churches are considered the domain of Heaven by the demons, who, as the metaphorically dead, prefer to haunt their territory of churchyards. This would make sense since we've already seen many other scenes showing demons walking across what would be considered consecrated ground without issue, like Crowley, Hastur, & Ligur in the churchyard in 1.01, and Beez in the Edinburgh graveyard in 2.06.

This is where we can also see that there's a question of whether or not there's even such thing as consecrated ground in the 'will burn a demon' sense in Good Omens.

If four demons have been seen walking around churchyards and if Crowley has been drinking Chateauneuf-du-Pape from vineyards in Avignon-- the former site of the papacy where every square inch of it was long ago consecrated by the Catholic Church-- then it's pretty clear that human beings, at least, do not have any authority to consecrate in the religious sense any bit of land or water or the like.

That would go along with the themes we're discussing here, as it effectively says that there is no human being on Earth with any divine power beyond the fact that every human being is a divine star child because being human itself is what is supernatural. The Earth itself is all consecrated ground and should be treated as such but, say, parish priests blessing water and land and all that is not really doing anything.

This would mean that all genuine holy water in the series-- like the stuff that killed Ligur-- would need to be made from or blessed by a literal angel. The "holy water" in the church in 1941 was just water, which is what Crowley was joking about, but he'd later apparently felt that he found some actual holy water in some church by 1967 that he had been planning to rob. Considering that Aziraphale knew about it, it's likely that Aziraphale was even the one who had blessed the water in that church.

This is even if holy water blessed by literal angels in Good Omens is real and, yeah, I say that even after Ligur, because you could argue that it's possible that Ligur believed it was real and that's really how he died. In a story where Crowley willed himself alive through the M25 fire and with the whole make it happen, make it real theme... I'm still not really convinced that holy water and hellfire are things unless you actually believe that they are. They well might be but I think that it's at least a bit open to interpretation.

Additionally, you'd think that the most consecrated place anywhere for a demon ever would be Heaven, right? That they should never be able to step foot back in there ever again, if any of this consecration stuff is real? Except, we've seen that's not the case...

Yes, you could argue that maybe Heaven and Hell did some magical exception thing to trade Michael down and Eric up in the holy water/hellfire part of S1 but Crowley strolling into Heaven in S2 would seem to negate that idea. It's more that angels can get into Hell and demons into Heaven but they mostly usually just don't because those places are considered enemy territory by one another, even if it's all the same terrifying office building.

Crowley explaining angels as bees to Muriel also showed that he already thought it was more a matter of blending in than getting into Heaven. And what did he do when he followed Muriel to their office?

That silly little hop dance, poking fun at the idea of consecrated ground, as he undoubtedly also was thinking about the church in 1941. Heaven, ugh, it's like being on a beach in bare feet! Let's hop to it, Inspector Constable, and get outta here... 😂 As we saw, he was fine to walk in Heaven, which makes it then pretty unlikely that he wasn't also fine to walk in a human church in 1941.

People are going to burn me at the stake for this lol but... I've always thought that things like this make it more than likely that Crowley was just joking about his feet burning when he entered the church in 1941. *ducks* Let's put it this way-- it's interpretable...

So, regardless of whether or not Crowley's feet were actually burning in the church in 1941, he's being flippant about consecrated ground and, as you asked, why might he use that word in this scene, when Furfur used hallowed and Crowley, honestly, probably often would, too, in other scenarios?

Because physical places, as we've mentioned above, are not the only things that people might consider holy.

Crowley has a very understandable distaste for how Heaven-- and Earthly churches like it-- say you are supposed to starve yourself of consumption and pleasure and keep "pure" the celestial temple of your body. Not only are these ideas just very unhealthy, Crowley is not about to let Heaven's ideas of bodily sanctity be his own when Heaven does not acknowledge and respect anyone's bodily autonomy, including his own.

Heaven abused him. They took his memories, burned him, gave him an unwanted snake side to his corporation. They called him evil and kicked him out and, as he put it when projecting his fall all over those poor goats in the Job minisode, had "given him up to be destroyed," which is a word that was once also used to refer to rape. He's talking about how Heaven declared him a demon, ex-communicated him, and said that, in their view, he and his celestial temple belonged to his rapist for eternity.

Crowley has religious trauma still as much as the next demon, sure, but, after all he's seen and that has happened to him, he is, ya know, going to generally be a hard pass on buying into Heaven's opinion on what healthy and holy is.

As it is, everything Crowley and Aziraphale believe are truly sanctified are all things with which The Metatron would disagree anyway.

So, in 1941, Crowley is walking into a Christian church, fully aware that he is literally the epitome of everything that church would say is a sin-- a queer, gender-everything, heathen of a demon. Just as Satan and The Metatron forbid relationships like Crowley and Aziraphale's, so did-- and still do-- many human churches like this one... and there was Crowley dryly aware that he was getting to the Nazi-laden church on time to roll up the aisle like he was soon to be Aziraphale's wife.

Whatever a wife is, as Jim so aptly questioned in S2, since that word has a long, patriarchal history implying an obedience that does not reinforce ideas of women being autonomous beings. This church Crowley's entered in 1941 would say that a wife should be subservient to her husband and that would be what would make her holy. Crowley and Aziraphale and their partnership of equals couldn't be any further from any of that.

Within the church, marriage is a sacrament, which is a type of consecration. It's the church sanctifying an union between people. It's an example of an exercise of authority that is supported by getting people to buy into the idea of their church being the only, true authority.

A marriage not sanctified by the church is, in the church's eyes, not a marriage. They define sin and a love that is seen as a sin can never be holy, in their view. This only matters if you recognize the church's authority.

Just as Heaven and Hell don't recognize Crowley and Aziraphale's love as holy, neither did this church. Neither did the country they were in, either, as it was 1941. Forget about it being illegal to marry Aziraphale at that time, it was still illegal in England just to be queer then, as it also was pretty much everywhere else.

Crowley entered the church knowing that the entire known universe at that time would never recognize his right to marry Aziraphale because it didn't even recognize their right to be themselves, live their own lives, claim their bodies as their own and make their own decisions about them. All of that was-- and still is-- pretty ironic to Crowley because there are things that he considers holy and his and Aziraphale's love is at the top of that list.

As Crowley entered the church, he was more than aware of how matrimonial all of this was. He was going up the aisle to Aziraphale at the altar in a place that preached that everything about them and their love was a sin. Regardless of whether or not you believe his feet were truly burning, Crowley was making fun of the idea that many people believe places like this church are the epitome of holy when, really, what is truly holy is much of what they call sinful.

He was being every snarky, traumatized queer whom the universe had dragged back to mass for a funeral or whatever, bitchily joking to his partner about how it was amazing that they didn't spontaneously combust upon crossing the threshold, evil, sinful heretics that they are. 😂 Argh, angel, I can't believe you're making me go to *church* to rescue you... oh, the consecrated ground-- how it burns my evil toes!

He knew he could get away with being thoroughly obnoxious about it because Aziraphale doesn't really disagree with him about any of this. Crowley's lover got humor. She's the giggle at a funeral. Crowley compares the non-existent physical pain to "like being on a beach in bare feet" and we've seen that he and Aziraphale use the sea to refer to sex so it's saying that this is all just the worst, having to romance Aziraphale by going into a church, but he's naturally there anyway because of course he is. 💘

Walking on a beach in bare feet is also basically the same thing, from a physics standpoint, as firewalking, which people have done as a religious rite/test of faith for ages. People of these faiths believe that being able to walk across hot stones and the like shows that one is holy because it must take divinity to do so. It doesn't. It's science.

It's literally just that the act of continued walking is what keeps your feet from being scalded. Your body is cooler than the stones and, since you're walking quickly over them, no part of your foot ever touches the hot stone long enough to absorb enough of the heat to burn the way that they would if you were to stand still over them. See above link, if interested, for how that connects to the theme of "walking the Earth"-- "professional cobbler"; "Demon's Guide to Angelic Beings Who Walk the Earth", etc..

There is something very dry about Crowley essentially riffing on things like consecrated ground burning demons and humans thinking firewalking sanctifies them because Crowley is literally a scientist who essentially was ex-communicated for suggesting that maybe there's more going on with the universe than it being there for people to be all "wow, God is amazing!" over.

On this theme, as we see Crowley's autonomy violated by Satan in 1.01, "Bohemian Rhapsody" is practically narrating it and Crowley grabbing the wheel to avoid the truck with🎵 Galileo, Galileo, Galileo, Galileo🎵 blaring through the speakers was connecting Crowley to another polymath who suffered a similar fate.

In the church in 1941, Crowley is on consecrated ground to him-- but not because he's in a church. Because he's there for Aziraphale, to whom he's utterly devoted, and their relationship is sanctified to Crowley. Their love is holy to them. Crowley keeps his little dance going mostly for the whole scene and you can see Aziraphale look at Crowley and smile at his shenanigans in the bit below.

Joking about consecrated ground and Crowley's humor about it in 1941 is also what I think might be behind Aziraphale initially keeping Crowley's feet out of the holy water during the body swap.

As we saw with Aziraphale's delight over telling Crowley about asking for the rubber duck, he was saying and doing a bunch of things he thought would not only help him to pass as Crowley but which would amuse Crowley when he told him later on. Being able to tell him that he was sure to keep his feet out of the holy water as much as possible would be something that Aziraphale knew was likely to earn him a laugh.

So, Furfur helps to illustrate that the demons are allowed in hallowed places like churches because places of worship truly are, technically, open to anyone there in peace. There are just plenty of people for whom the doors to the church are supposedly open but the hatred there is enough to make them feel less than welcome.

Furfur suspected that Crowley was up to something treasonous when he heard Crowley was in a church with someone because it made more sense to him for Crowley to be there with an angel committing treason than it would be for a demon to want to go to church.

While Crowley, on the other hand, called a church consecrated ground to use the purely holy connotation of the word to make fun of people who felt they could define holiness while not respecting bodily autonomy and personhood, including failing to recognize as sanctified love like that of him and Aziraphale.

In truth, what Crowley and Aziraphale are when they are together is also really the word that Furfur used-- they're hallowed. From the root kailo, meaning: whole, uninjured, and of good omen.

[deedala]

🥞weekly tag wednesday oops its saturday💀

i've been so scattered this week! big thanks to @femboymilkovich for writing this weeks game and for tagging me!! + @heymacy @energievie @kiennilove @suzy-queued

@mybrainismelted @sgtmickeyslaughter @stocious @runninonemptyy @gallapiech

@nozenfordaddy 💖

What is the last song you listened to? red wine supernova - chappell roan

Have you read anything lately, fanfic or published? the last thing i read was the latest chapter of in this smoking chaos by @jrooc

Are you doing anything fun this year you’re looking forward to? uuhhh well ......

What is your favorite type of weather? chilly enough i can comfortably wear my favorite cozy coat and hat and mostly sunny

Do you have a favorite word? if i do then i cannot think of it right now because i get stupid when im put on the spot lmfao

Do you make playlists for music? If so, do you have a favorite one? i DO!! i have three favorites that i listen to a lot: hell hole (which is a bunch of music from shameless and songs that i have mentally assigned to shameless), chappell + sabrina + olivia, and hozier + petey

Do you have a favorite trope to read? i dunno... i guess mutual pining. i fuckin love pining and yearning. but its gotta be a happy ending :>

Do you have any tattoos or piercings? my ears are pierced but i dont really wear earrings anymore

If you could visit anywhere in the world, where would you go? i want to say chicago or toronto but we should dream a bit bigger, i want to go back to dublin and sit by the river liffey

tags below the ✂️

@jrooc @michellemisfit @crossmydna @gardenerian

@mmmichyyy @callivich @gallawitchxx @sam-loves-seb @spoonfulstar

@heymrspatel @echotrees @too-schoolforcool @darlingian @blue-disco-lights

@palepinkgoat @creepkinginc @the-rat-wins @loftec @rereadanon

@catgrassplantdad @francesrose3 @softmick @lazystargazy

@wehangout @thepupperino @lingy910y @sickness-health-all-that-shit @ian-galagher

@samantitheos @transmickey @captainjowl @c-nord

@burninface @geonbaeeeesblog @doshiart @spookygingerr @gallavich-annise

@nenekestis @mickeysgaymom

[the-bear-and-his-sunbird]

OTP Vibe Game

Finally coming around to something @notyourmamasdeerbat tagged me *checks notes* nearly two months ago.

Rules: Post some pictures of your OTP and their vibes, some info, and a song that fits their vibe. That's it. Edit as you please.

Siobhan x Emmrich

Their songs:

In a week- Hozier

Je te laisserai des mots - Patrick Watson

Honorary mentions:

Love you to death - Type O negative

Kiss me until my lips fall off- Lebanon Hanover

My boy builds coffins- Florence and the Machine

I don't want to set the world on fire - The ink Spots

I, Carrion- Hozier

I tag (Idk who has done this and who has not ahh): @guacamolleee, @caughtnyact, @mosoderbergh @theyearningghoul, @virshiral + anyone who wants to!

[hoziernaturalevents]

The 2025 Hoziernatural Multi-Ship Bang Playlist!

For anyone curious, here's your list of Hozier songs that our authors have said they're using for inspiration!

We're still pretty early in the writing process and nothing is set in stone until they submit their fics for claims, so a few of these may change as ideas change and grow. However, we thought we'd give you all a peek ;)

HMSB '25 Spotify Playlist

(Typed list below the cut)

(There's still time for artists and beta readers to sign up btw)

Abstract (Pyschopomp)

Angel of Small Death and the Codeine Scene

Better Love

Blood Upon The Snow

Hymn to Virgil

In A Week

It Will Come Back

Like Real People Do

NFWMB

Run

Shrike

Take Me to Church

To Noise Making (Sing)

Too Sweet

Work Song

[padfootagain]

Love in verses (XXVI)

Chapter 26: ‘Well, how else are you to live except by denial’

Hi! Here is a new chapter! This is one of my favourites, just… some adorable stuff!

I hope you like this chapter! Tell me what you think!

****

Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader (professor!AU)

Warnings: slow burn, angst, hurt, hurt/comfort, tooth-rotting fluff in later chapters, some scenes in later chapters will have heavy sexual themes even if it’s not explicit nsfw description, so minors here

Summary: Your life seems perfect. You're engaged, your career is thriving as you become an assistant professor at Trinity College, and this Andrew Hozier-Byrne you're sharing an office with seems to be a nice guy you hope to call a friend soon. Life seems to be smiling at you... until everything goes sour. When your fiancé breaks up with you, your perfect world shatters. And when your colleague also gets his heart broken soon after, your shared office seems to be a curse rather than a blessing. But Andrew seems determined to mend your broken hearts... Will things finally go according to plan?

Word Count: 4227

Masterlist for the series – Hozier’s masterlist – Main masterlist

Earl

In Sitka, because they are fond of them, People have named the seals. Every seal is named Earl because they are killed one after another by the orca, the killer whale; seal bodies tossed left and right into the air. “At least he didn’t get Earl,” someone says. And sure enough, after a time, that same friendly, bewhiskered face bobs to the surface. It’s Earl again. Well, how else are you to live except by denial, by some palatable fiction, some little song to sing while the inevitable, the black and white blindsiding fact, comes hurtling toward you out of the deep?

Louis Jenkins

The pain in your abdomen was a sensation you were used to, sadly. You recognized the pattern in the intensity, you knew it perfectly after years of suffering once a month. This month seemed to be particularly nasty though, and there was little doubt on to why. Your stress was so high these days, between your new job, your research, your career, and Frank’s bloody wedding… You were drowning, to be fair. Drowning in an ocean of emotions. You bent in front of your sink, waiting for the wave of pain to fade again, closing tightly your eyes, while the microwave beeped with the heating pad now reaching a burning temperature. You placed it on your stomach, not caring about your skin, only about the pain under it.

Damn… that was a bad month…

You stood straighter again, letting out a long and careful exhale, relaxing once more. Your head was spinning a little, but you didn’t dare to eat too much for now, your nausea was too bad and you didn’t want to end up throwing up. You settled for a bit of rice and an apple for lunch.

You were supposed to see Andrew this afternoon, but there was no way you could plan on fucking up Frank’s appointment at the tailor when it was hard to stand… At least, it was the weekend, you didn’t have to deal with work, and could spend your day being a burrito on your couch while watching TV and eating junk food.

You were supposed to shop for groceries in the morning, but you didn’t have the strength for that either, so you decided that you would get some food delivered for the rest of the weekend and would tackle the issue of not dying of starvation on Monday.

You sat down on your couch, at long last, heaving a sigh of relief. You held the heating pad against your stomach, covered yourself with a blanket and grabbed your phone while you turned on the TV.

You pressed on Andrew’s name on whatsapp while the tu-dum noise of Netflix echoed in your living room.

You heaved a sigh…

… you had forgotten tea… never mind, you were too much in pain and too tired to be bothered making some tea now that you were seated.

Back to your phone, you typed your message quickly.

Hi Andy! Sorry, but I’m not feeling well today, gonna have to cancel for this afternoon. We’ll talk about our plans next week. Hope you have a nice weekend, see you on Monday! Xx

You pressed ‘send’ and started browsing in the list of movies available on your TV screen.

Your phone lit up with Andrew’s name.

Sorry to hear that! Are you alright? Do you want me to drop you something?

You were too tired not to acknowledge the warmth that spread in your chest as you read his text.

Nothing to worry about, don’t worry.

His answer was quick to arrive.

Are you sure? You want me to drive you to a doctor or something?

You chuckled at his obvious worry. He really was too sweet…

No, I’m okay. Period being bitches, that’s all. I can handle it.

He answered with a thumbs up right under your text, right when you found Pride and Prejudice was on Netflix…

Well, it looked like your afternoon was all set.

You cursed under your breath. You didn’t have any snacks. Not even chocolate… and your kitchen was so fucking far… a whole ten steps away…

Damn you and your stupid brain.

You were surprised when you received another text from Andy.

So, what’s planned for today? Did you get your groceries this morning?

You snorted at the mere thought.

Nah. Too much in pain. Too tired to go to the kitchen and make myself tea, so imagine going outside with people?! No, thanks.

I’m gonna spend my afternoon with Mr. Darcy instead.

You waited for his answer, ignoring your TV now.

The Keira Kinghtley movie?

You sent him a thumbs up.

Will you hate me if I admit that I’ve never watched that film?

You almost dropped your phone.

YOU’VE NEVER SEEN PRIDE AND PREJUDICE?!

OH THAT’S IT! DISHONOUR! DISHONOUR ON YOUR WHOLE FAMILY!

He sent a laughing emoji.

You’ve forgotten the dishonour on me and my cow too…

You couldn’t refrain a laugh, even though it hurt your stomach.

You don’t have a cow. But I’ll take it out on Elwood.

You could picture the grin on his face at the joke.

HOW DARE YOU! HE’S SUCH A GOOD BOY!

Elwood, my son, don’t listen to the nasty lady…

You laughed again, but quickly stopped this time, the pain getting too strong.

You didn’t think as you wrote your next text.

You could drop by and watch it with me.

You reread the text and realised your mistake; your eyes grew round. You were in your old pyjamas, you hadn’t showered and had no intention to do so, your hair was a mess, you hadn’t washed your dishes…

You wanted to delete the text, but the blue symbols under it let you know that he had already read it.

Damn it!

I mean… I’m in pain, grumpy and look like trash…

So… maybe not the most pleasant way to spend your afternoon.

Feel free to refuse.

You waited for his answer, watched the dancing dots, until a text was received.

I’d love to, actually.

Besides, I am not five, I know about menstrual cycles, thank you very much…

You bit on your lips as you hesitated.

You’ve never seen me like that.

 A pause. You guessed that he had rephrased his text several times.

Would that make you feel uncomfortable?

You thought about it for a second. Frank didn’t really pay attention to that part of you. It was cliché, but you knew he was making a conscious effort to acknowledge your period and how much of a burden they were to you. You saw it as him making an effort at the time. Now, you were worried Andrew would be the same, with typical disappointing male behaviour…

And yet, you didn’t care. You couldn’t find a way to care. You couldn’t imagine Andrew, out of all people, disappointing you on that. Perhaps it was naïve, you weren’t sure. Your answer was earnest anyway.

No

His answer came in a matter of seconds.

Give me forty minutes to come over then.

You smiled.

An hour then.

You laughed again at his answer.

Gobshite…

You didn’t select the movie for now and merely watched some crappy TV instead, with whatever was on.

You tried not to pay too much thought on how excited you were at the idea of Andy coming soon…

Andrew ended up ringing at your door an hour and fifteen minutes later, proving you right about his time blindness, and the thought made you smile. You had washed your dishes waiting for him, using a fifteen-minutes break from the pain to stretch your legs and attempt to look like a human being. The pain was soon back with full strength though, and you gave up on the idea to change into a proper outfit. You remained in your comfortable pyjamas, tied your hair up to hide the mess it was, and went back to suffering on the couch, the heating pad growing colder and less effective, but you were too tired to get up again.

You groaned as Andrew rang at your door, forcing yourself to stand. You couldn’t hold yourself completely straight, not with the pain in your stomach being now combined with a sharp stinging sensation in your lower back. You opened the door still, and welcomed Andrew with a genuine smile.

He was wearing his hair in a bun today, his glasses perched on his nose, and a warm smile on his lips as his gaze rested upon you. He looked gorgeous in a simple brown jacket, dark jeans and a black turtleneck. You couldn’t refrain the way your heart fluttered at the sight, nor the butterflies that were added to your painful stomach.

“Hey! God, you do look like shite,” he exclaimed, but there was worry in his frown despite the obvious teasing in his voice.

“Thanks for the compliment,” you stuck your tongue out, and he couldn’t refrain a chuckle.

He walked inside, took off his shoes and jacket, and it’s only when he set the bags on the floor to do so that you noticed them.

“What’s that?” you asked.

“Groceries.”

You looked up at him with a puzzled look.

“Jeez… if you were busy this afternoon, you should have declined!”

He laughed, and you were more puzzled than ever.

“These are for you,” he clarified, picking up the bags again.

You blinked up at him.

“For… me?”

“Yeah… you said you didn’t get any groceries this morning. Can’t let you starve! Come on, get a move on, these need to go in the fridge.”

You let him pass, followed him in your kitchen. He started to empty the two paper bags on your kitchen counter.

“I didn’t get you much, just enough to last for a couple of days. Pass the weekend. Nothing that needs fancy cooking either, don’t worry. Mostly pasta, rice, and a few vegetables and fruits. I also got some take out for tonight, so you don’t have to bother with cooking today. Chinese, hope you’re in the mood for that. And then, the obvious ice cream, crisps and chocolate combo. Oh, and I bought you this tea! My mom recommended it once for menstrual cramps to one of my cousins, and it’s apparently pretty nice, so… thought you could use that too.”

He looked up at you then, after his little babbling. He frowned at your expression though, and you noticed the shift in his demeanour: the way he shrank, bending over himself instead of standing straight, with his full height. Trying to look smaller than he was, to occupy as little space as possible. He rubbed nervously at his collarbone.

“I… I thought it would make things easier for you. I… I’m sorry if I’m overstepping… if you… sorry. Sorry…”

But he was interrupted by your arms around him; you almost tackled him with the strength, and you heard the loud huff he let out at the impact. It took him a couple of seconds to close his arms around you too, but then it felt like he was unwilling to ever let go.

“Thank you so much,” you mumbled into his chest. “That’s… so fucking sweet, Andy.”

“That’s nothing,” he tried to brush your thankfulness away, but you could hear in his voice that he was smiling again, feel that his body was relaxing once more. “I didn’t mean to overstep… I just… I just thought it would make it easier for you.”

You spotted your favourite chocolate on the table, along with some ice-cream.

“These are my favourite,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“You didn’t have to do that…”

“It’s nothing.”

You didn’t say it. You didn’t say that Frank had never done that for you. And Andrew did? When he wasn’t your boyfriend? When he didn’t even have feelings for you?

“Do you need anything else?” he asked, rubbing your back, and the caress was so soothing you were ready to cry. “Painkillers or something? I can go to the pharmacy…”

“I’ve got that covered, don’t worry. Thank you.”

“Right…”

Another cramp came breaking your embrace, you let out a groan as you held your painful stomach. You tried not to think of how your heart stumbled and missed a few beats when Andrew brushed a messy strand of your hair behind your ear.

“You really don’t look well. You should sit down.”

“I need to reheat my heating pad…”

“I’ll do it. I’ll do that, love. Sit down, okay?”

‘Love’… he had called you ‘love’… You wanted to cry…

Why were you so affected by it? It was Andy. It was Andy, not Frank, and you wanted Frank, you wanted Frank, you wanted…

He walked into the living room about 10 minutes later, carrying your heating pad under his arm, ice cream and some chocolate. He had to go back to the kitchen to fetch your two cups of tea.

“Alright… need anything else?”

You shook your head, and he settled on the sofa next to you. Readjusted the blanket so it would cover your feet. You didn’t recognise the flavour of the tea, you reckoned he had made a cup of the one his mother had recommended.

You refused to name the feeling that was spreading across your entire body, the unbearable fondness aimed at Andrew that came with it.

I want Frank, I want Frank, I want Frank…

“Alright, let’s watch Mr. Darcy getting rejected…” he grinned at you, as if he was at his happiest, as if he couldn’t have thought of a better way to spend his afternoon than to watch Pride and Prejudice with you while nursing you back to health because you were on your period…

You scoffed, trying to hide the tears in your eyes by looking for the movie on Netflix again.

“He doesn’t just get rejected. They do get together at the end, you know?”

“Thanks for spoiling it all to me…”

“Wait… you told me you read the book…”

He laughed.

“I did! I was joking, like… It was a joke. I did read it. I simply haven’t watched any adaptation.”

“Wow… Oh… so you haven’t seen the one with Colin Firth either?! The BBC series?”

“Nope…” he answered, popping the ‘p’ before taking a sip of his tea.

Two teabags. As always. The detail made you smile.

“Okay, that is going to be our next activity together.”

He laughed, but didn’t contradict you, on the contrary.

“Well, I guess my next Sunday is all booked…”

“Indeed, it is!” you grinned, but your tone was too soft not to show how emotional the thought of spending another afternoon like this with Andrew made you feel.

He didn’t comment on that, though, and you were grateful for it.

He reached for your coffee table, where he had put the two sets of ice-cream and spoons, and handed you one.

Your heating pad was back on your stomach, warm and effectively soothing your cramps. You seized the opportunity to eat a large spoonful of chocolate ice cream.

You moaned at the taste.

“Andy… this is perfect, I hope you’re aware of how amazing you are.”

He chuckled, but there was something a little sad in his eyes when he looked down at his food, a tinge of melancholy. You didn’t know why.

“Bribing you with chocolate is the way to your heart, then,” he joked, clearly stirring the conversation away from himself, while pushing his glasses higher on his nose.

“Of course,” you rolled your eyes, starting the film.

You exchanged another smile, while the movie started. You didn’t realise your own movements as you scooted closer to him on the couch, and neither did he notice how he leaned towards you, until your arms were softly touching.

“You have bewitched me, body and soul. And I love… I love… I love you…”

You heaved a sigh after whispering the words in sync with Mr. Darcy, clutching at your heart, burying your face further in Andrew’s shoulder.

You weren’t sure when you had ended up in Andrew’s arms, but you were now. He had wrapped an arm around your shoulders at one point, noticing how livid you had become because of the pain, how you had tried to withhold your wince but failed. And it was meant as a temporary anchor, a soothing gesture that should have lasted just a few minutes, until the pain subsided again. But when you relaxed once more, he didn’t pull away, and instead of freeing yourself from his hold, you leaned closer, sank deeper into his embrace. And now, he was resting his long fingers on your waist, while you leaned into his chest.

Which was… better not think about boundaries and friendship and professional behaviour and all those limits you were breaking.

Meanwhile, Andrew was brushing a tear away, but you spotted it before he could pretend it hadn’t happened.

“I know… I know…” you patted his chest, trying not to notice that you were touching his chest. “I cry every time too.”

“For proof,” he chuckled, brushing your tear away with his thumb, making your heart stutter and expand to the point that you wondered how it hadn’t broken any of your ribs yet.

“It’s Jane Austen’s superpower, Andy… we can do nothing against it,” you concluded before nuzzling into his chest again.

“I’ll have to agree,” he nodded.

You noticed how his breathing was a little irregular for a moment, when you shifted to be a little more comfortable in his arms, but he didn’t push you away, didn’t move at all, in fact. Instead, he waited for you to settle again, readjusted the blanket on both of you, and stared at the end of the movie. His cheeks were turning a bright shade of red. You hated the thought that crossed your mind…

There were but a couple of minutes left, it was the end: Mr. Darcy had walked across the moor already, he had declared his love and Elizabeth had accepted his hand in marriage. They were waiting for Elizabeth’s father. You were staring at Andrew, the feeling of your gaze on him made him look down as well, catching your eyes with his. His hazel eyes, they looked so green now, in the rather bright light of the late afternoon, and the tears he had dried just before had enhanced that colour too. Green… like leaves bathed in sunlight during the summer… you loved that shade…

You didn’t even notice when the screen went dark, when the credits started rolling. You were thinking of Andrew, of how sweet he had been all afternoon, of how handsome he looked now, how much turtlenecks suited him, how cute he looked with his glasses…

He blinked a couple of times, as if he were coming back from a reverie, and looked at the TV again. You looked at his profile, found yourself longing to run your fingers through his short beard, noticed the red tainting the brown of his hair.

“Well, that was an amazing film,” he easily admitted, bringing you back to earth.

And indeed, the story was over. Mr. Bennett had accepted their union. Elizabeth would marry Mr. Darcy. All ended well. Black screen and a list of names, printed in white pixels…

You pushed yourself out of Andrew’s arms.

Back to reality now… and in the real world, you wanted Frank. You wanted Frank. You wanted Frank…

You looked away in a hurry, and trembled at the loss of contact, when Andrew finally moved his hand away from your waist.

You kept on talking about the film for a while, but eventually, Andrew checked the time.

“I should get going, let you get something to eat. And I mean… something proper. Not snacks,” he teased, standing up and taking the remnants of your various snacks with him to the kitchen.

And you had to tell yourself that mantra again. Because your heart was aching at the thought of Andrew leaving. Which was ridiculous because you would see him in two days. Which was ridiculous because he was only a friend. A colleague, even. And it was ridiculous because you didn’t want him, you wanted Frank. You loved Frank. You wanted the life you had with him back. You… you wanted Frank. You wanted Frank… You… You wanted…

“Andy?”

He reappeared, coming from the kitchen, and tilted his head a little as a silent invitation for you to speak again.

“Do… do you want to stay for dinner?”

He stared at you for a few seconds, long enough for you to start spiralling and babbling…

“Unless you need to take care of Elwood…”

“No, my parents took him to the seaside today, they’re keeping him for the night. He’s living his best life, trust me. I bet my dad is giving him all the treats he wants.”

“Or like… I mean… you’ve already spent your afternoon with me, even if I’m sick and not the best company today, and… yeah, I totally get it if you don’t want to stay, like… that’s…”

“Y/N.”

“Hmmm?”

“I’d love to stay.”

“Really?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

Because I’m too much to take care of…

You merely shrugged in response, making him chuckle, clearly unaware of your thoughts.

“Well, if you’re not bored of me yet, I’d love to stay for dinner.”

You grinned.

“Grand…” you nodded, and Andrew disappeared in the kitchen again to prepare dinner.

Still, you noticed how he was smiling when he turned around, how he was blushing, too…

You ended up watching tv again after dinner. The pain wasn’t as vivid as it had been during the rest of the day, and so you were more comfortable during that part of the evening. So much so that you started dozing off, as you were watching for the nth time how Luke and Han were trying to save Leia.

You had stumbled upon a rerun of the old Star Wars movies, and settled on the nostalgic feeling of these stories to end the day. Andrew was supposed to go home after the end of the movie, once the Death Star was gone and Leia was placing medals on the heroes’ chest.

Andrew had made you laugh with his best impression of Chewbacca, and you had made him choke on his glass of water with one of your jokes and snarky remarks. It was lovely, but you were so tired you neared exhaustion by now. So, it was quite logical that you started dozing off after a while, losing tracks of the story when Han and Luke were dressed as stormtroopers.

You hadn’t noticed that your head had fallen on Andrew’s shoulder as you were falling asleep. You didn’t notice how he stopped paying attention to the movie when you did. How his heart started pounding at how adorable you looked like this. He waited for a few minutes, to see if you would stir and wake up again, but you didn’t. He stared at you for a moment longer, but you weren’t aware of it. You weren’t aware either of the longing in his gaze, of the smile on his lips as he watched how peaceful you looked in your sleep.

You blinked your eyes open again only when you felt something slipping under your knees and behind your back, felt the warmth upon which your head rested move.

“Andy?” you called in your drowsy state, still unable to understand what was happening, where you were…

“I’m here, love.”

That pet name again… were you dreaming it?

You reached up, held onto a soft fabric, and somehow, despite the fact that you had closed your eyes once more, you knew it was Andrew’s turtleneck.

“You’re falling asleep, you need to go to bed,” he said softly, his voice unbearably low and deep, it made your heart skip a few beats and warmth spread across your entire frame.

And it sounded so reassuring… so safe… He was so reassuring…

You nuzzled into his shoulder, breathing in his scent. His cologne, his softener, him…

“Can I help you reach your bed? Can I do that? Is that okay?” he asked in the same caring voice, and you nodded. But then again, you would have accepted anything, for as long as you could remain in his warmth, as long as his voice came back…

You realised then that he was slipping his arms under you, it took a moment longer for your brain to register he meant to carry you.

“I can walk,” you whispered, opening your eyes again and forcing yourself to look at him.

You were too stunned when he bent down to kiss your hair to argue when he told you there was no need, that he got you, that you could close your eyes again. You obeyed, having no strength left to argue, and you wrapped your arms around his neck when he stood up and lifted you off the couch.

He readjusted your position, and then you were vaguely aware of moving, while he walked through your apartment. You nuzzled closer, your forehead brushing his jaw and your entire body trembled as you felt his beard against your skin.

Too soon, he was gently putting you down on your comfortable mattress, tucking you in, under your warm blanket.

You blinked your eyes open before he could leave, found his hazel eyes looking down at you. He seemed so tall like this, standing above your bed.

“Thank you, Andy. For everything.”

He smiled, gesture gentle and full of fondness.

“Sleep well, Y/N. Goodnight.”

He tucked a strand of your hair away from your face, and the brush of his fingers across your cheek made you close your eyes for good.

Your last thoughts were of him, while you heard him move away from the bed, recognized the creaking of the tiles by the door of your bedroom.

God, you wanted him so much…