#on another note entirely the only things i can reasonably think of to write are flashback chapters | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

atomicami · 3 months ago

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while my heart heals…

ceo!sevika x fem!reader

- summary: you’re in a whirlwind when you and your boss catch your boyfriend with her fiancée in the act together. the heartbreak starts to affect your performance at work, and as a result, you decide to take a leave of absence so you can heal properly. but when your boss catches you handing the letter onto her desk, she ends up giving you some unexpected comfort—followed by a proper farewell.

- content: smut MDNI, modern au, corporate setting, NYC living (for now), reader works in sales, reader is dating jayce (only in the beginning), mel and sevika are engaged, age gap (reader is early-mid 20s, sevika is early-mid 40s), secret love affairs, infidelity/cheating followed by breaking up, hurt/comfort, porn with plot, fingering (r!receiving), semi-public sex (they do it in the office!), sevika being a tease and talking you through it, cockblocking, and also everyone is filthy rich in this

- author’s note: can’t stop thinking about getting with rich ceo sevika so i decided to write this out. i hope y’all like it!

“sometimes i don’t even know where i’m going but i’ll never forget where i come from i know who i am and who i will be and that’s why i have faith in myself”

(this fic is crossposted on ao3)

The rain hasn’t let up all day.

Thick, gray clouds spread across the sky, the city being consumed by the downpour. You barely notice it, though��your mind is still at the office, stuck between unfinished paperwork and the weight of another long day.

You’d expect to be home after your shift, and you did…only to end up getting ready to leave the house again later that evening.

It was for some corporate event. A birthday celebration for an executive, or was it a fundraiser? You hadn’t paid much attention to it when it was brought up in last week’s meeting. Frankly, it was the last thing you’d want to be doing after a long workday like this.

And yet, here you are—back home, standing in front of the mirror, completely unaware of what the night has in store.

You’ve lost count of the outfit changes you’ve given yourself in the past hour. No one really specified what the dress code was for the event—so in the end, you simply resorted to a crimson piece that hung in your closet, blended in with the rest of your outfits.

The dress hugs your figure beautifully. It was sleek and elegant, but you barely feel like yourself in it. It’s not like you don’t like dressing up—on the contrary, you actually enjoy it, especially given that your clothes have now taken up space on your boyfriend’s side of the closet as well. But with the weight of today and this entire week overall, the exhaustion consuming you was making it harder to pretend that you want to be at this party at all.

Your phone buzzes beside you, the text message from Jayce lighting up the screen indicating that he was here.

You exhale through your nose, finishing the touches on your makeup before smoothing down the fabric of your dress. It’s not that anything’s wrong. Jayce has been nothing but kind and thoughtful to you. He’s said all the right things and treated you like royalty for the past two years of your relationship with him. But lately, there’s been something…off. Something you can’t quite put your finger on.

You shake the thought of it away, grabbing your coat and clutch before heading out the door. It’s just one night, right?

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It was only a ten minute ride to the hotel, but for some reason you felt like the ride dragged out longer. Maybe it was because of the downpour of rain, or the evening traffic, as it always is in New York—or maybe it was just your lingering anxieties about showing up to an event like this. As the top saleswoman in Hexcorp, and now the girlfriend to one of the CEOs, you can’t help but feel the pressure of having to make the best impression all the time.

Upon arriving at the hotel, the valet opens the car door for you, and Jayce steps out first, immediately offering you his hand as if he’s effortlessly playing the part of a perfect gentleman. You force a small smile and take his hand, stepping carefully onto the slick pavement as the two of you walk through the revolving door.

The inside of the hotel is a stark contrast to the gloom outside. It was elegant, with warm golden lights, crystal chandeliers, and the soft hum of music on the piano surrounding you the moment you entered. The air is thick with chatter and laughter as well dressed attendees mingle around with cocktails in hand.

Jayce keeps a steady hand on the small of your back as you both make your way deeper into the crowd, guiding you toward familiar faces. His touch is warm, but something about it feels…off. Too careful. Too practiced.

“Should we grab a drink?” he asks, yet he is already steering you towards the bar. You nod at his offer anyway, but your eyes wander.

And then you see her—your other boss.

Sevika.

Tall, broad, and impossible to miss, even in a room full of elites. She’s right across the bar, her suit tailored to perfection—coincidentally, it also was crimson, the same shade as your dress. The deep red fabric molds to her muscular frame, sharp lines hugging her body in all the right places. The top button of her shirt is undone, just enough to tease what lies underneath, and her posture is relaxed as ever, radiating effortless control. Her prosthetic arm gleams under the soft light, the intricate metal plating a sharp contrast to the rich fabric of her suit.

But she’s not alone.

Standing beside her is her fiancée, Mel Medarda.

But she doesn’t just stand there—she owns the space around her. A beautiful vision draped in a sleek, skin tight white gown that hugs her curves as if it were painted on. Gold jewelry glitters around her neck, and her perfectly manicured fingers rest lightly on Sevika’s arm in primal possession. And she sure doesn’t fail to show off the ring—a massive, dazzling marquise cut diamond perched proudly on her ring finger, glistening under the lights. Her skin glows alongside it, her rich brown complexion flawless, and her signature smirk tugs at the corners of her lips as if she knows every single person in the room is looking at her. As if she knows you’re looking at her.

That’s Mel Medarda for you. International supermodel. A walking fantasy who managed to get engaged with Sevika.

Your stomach twists, and you force yourself to look away before either of them can catch you staring. But your eyes betray you.

Because they find their way back to Sevika and Mel.

And Sevika?

She’s already looking at you.

You’re quick to pull your gaze away from Sevika’s, heart pounding a little harder than it should be. You’re not sure how long you’ve been staring, but the tension lingers in the air long after you look away.

A familiar hand wraps around yours, fully pulling you out of your thoughts as you look back up to see Jayce nudging a glass of champagne into your hand. “Come on, let’s make the rounds.” he urges gently.

You nod with a distracted smile as you take the glass of champagne and follow alongside him, but the memory of Sevika’s striking gray eyes on you stays in the back of your mind.

An hour passes, but you feel like you’ve been here for an eternity already. You’re forcing yourself to smile as one of your coworkers goes on about the latest sales report. You’ve been hearing about it for the past hour, but you’re barely listening. Your mind keeps drifting back to when you first saw Sevika and Mel at the bar. Something about the way Sevika’s eyes lingered on you still makes your heart race.

“Great numbers this quarter,” your coworker continues, pulling you back to reality. “You’ve really outdone yourself with the new client investment. They’re already asking about you by name.”

You nod absently, pretending to care as your eyes scan the around room for any sign of Jayce. He’d been glued to your side all evening, but now you can’t seem to find him at all.

“Thank you,” you say, shaking them off politely. “I’ll follow up with the clients about it tomorrow.”

They simply smile back before walking off to engage with another coworker. You take another sip of your champagne as your eyes continue to search the room. Your attention shifts as you overhear another conversation between two other coworkers near the bar, talking about next quarter’s sales targets. As the company’s top saleswoman, you’re used to these conversations being centered around you. They look over at you with admiration, always taking mental notes on your strategies and approach.

“She really knows how to close a deal.” one of them says. “She’s a shark.”

The compliment barely registers in your head. All you could do was smile, too distracted by the fact that Jayce was nowhere to be seen.

“Excuse me,” you murmur, sliding past them as you start to brush through the crowd.

The search feels longer than it actually is. You weave through the crowd, giving polite smiles and dodging conversations as you slip through groups of colleagues and executives. The music and laughter fill the air, but none of it gets to you. Your mind is fixated on one thing—finding where the hell your boyfriend is.

You try to be in denial about it, telling yourself that you’re just overreacting. Maybe Jayce just stepped outside to take a call or grabbed another drink at the bar. But deep down, that unsettling feeling refuses to leave your system. You finally reach the bar, but there’s no sign of him there.

“Have you seen Jayce?” you ask over to the coworker who sat there.

They blink, looking around before shaking their head. “Uh, no…not for a while. Maybe he stepped out?”

You give them a quick nod, muttering a quiet thanks before moving on, the knot in your stomach tightening even more. Your heels click faster against the marble floor as you move toward the quieter area of the venue, the noise and chatter slowly fading away with each step you take. Down the hall, a row of private rooms stretches ahead, each of them closed except for the very last one at the end of the hallway. You walk slower now, feeling the air get thicker with each step. You shouldn’t be anxious about this.

And yet…you are.

Your fingers brush against the smooth surface of the champagne glass in your hand, your grip tightening instinctively around the flute. You tell yourself to relax, but the words do nothing to alleviate you from the uneasiness that was settling into your bones.

And that’s when you hear it—muffled voices in a low and urgent tone. At first, you think it’s just another couple hidden away in the room for privacy. But something about these voices feels…familiar. Too familiar.

You take another step forward, your pulse pounding louder in your ears with each beat. Your stomach twists once more when you see the familiar head of jet black hair in your eyeline. The door is slightly ajar, and a warm light spills into the hallway. You hesitate, your grip getting tighter on the glass as you listen.

“We can’t keep doing this,” Jayce mutters, his voice rough and raw. His head moves slightly, just enough for you to see a glimpse of her—a glimpse of Mel.

“And yet…” Mel replies, her voice soft and sultry as she pauses. “You keep coming back.”

A breathy chuckle escapes him, followed by his hand shifting through the open slit on Mel’s dress as he moves closer to her. “I can’t help myself,” Jayce murmurs, his voice lower now, filled with a kind of desire you’ve never heard from him. “You drive me fucking crazy.”

“Is that so?” Mel muses back, her voice laced with pure seduction. “Then why do you keep wasting time?”

Your heart sinks down to your stomach, body going rigid as the pieces fall into place. The way Jayce had been acting around you, all those ‘late nights’ he’d spend in the office—it all made sense now.

“Because I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Jayce’s confession lingers in the air, his voice filled with desperation. “Even when I’m with her…all I think about is you.”

Your eyes widen in shock, your heart shattering as the champagne class trembles in your hand. It wasn’t just what Jayce had said, it was how he said it—straightforward, no hesitation whatsoever. There was no guilt. Just raw, unfiltered honesty, spoken so easily it feels like the knife was plunging deeper into your chest.

Like he never even cared.

You feel your fingers going numb on the glass as the wave of realization crashes over you. The love, the trust, the loyalty—it makes you wonder if it had meant anything to him.

Or were you just convenient?

The thought burns in your brain, leaving an ache so deep that it makes it hard to breathe.

And yet, he doesn’t even notice.

“Jayce…we really shouldn’t…” Mel reminds him, her voice softer now.

He simply scoffs at that, shaking his head in disbelief. “Come on, Mel…you want this just as bad as I do.” he breathes out, and you hear the rustle of fabric between them—their clothes shifting as their bodies press closer.

And then—the kiss hits between them. It was slow, deep and desperate. Your vision blurs at the corners of your eyes, and you don’t even register the champagne flute slipping from your fingers, hitting the marble floor with a loud shatter that echoes throughout the hallway. Tiny shards of glass surround your stiletto-covered feet, but you’re too frozen, too numb to even notice.

However, the shatter startles them both, causing them to freeze instantly, their lips pulling apart as the sharp echo rang through the room. Their bodies go rigid as they slowly turn their heads toward the doorway. Mel’s eyes widen, a panicked expression crossing her face. Jayce’s breathing quickens, his heart rate rising once he sees you. His hands, which had been all over Mel just moments ago, twitch slightly at his sides as he steps back, his eyes still not taking off of you.

“Jayce?”

Your voice was soft and shaky as his name escaped your lips, but it was enough to make them freeze as the realization hit them. His lips part, but no words come out at first. Mel’s eyes flicker between the two of you, her body shifting towards Jayce in hopes of hiding away.

“It’s…it’s not what it looks like,” he finally breathes out, his voice barely above a whisper, panic and guilt filling his tone. The words hang in the air, completely meaningless to you—but you don’t respond, you just can’t.

Because even as he said it—you know he’s clearly lying.

Mel hasn’t said a word. She’s too busy avoiding your gaze, her lips slightly parted as if she’s trying to think of something to say, but nothing comes out. For a woman who’s career relies on confidence, she’s sure failing to show it at this exact moment.

You don’t move. Don’t blink. In fact, your mind doesn’t register anything else besides the scene that had unfolded in front of you. You don’t even notice the door now fully swung open beside you, or the sudden warmth that lingered right behind you. But you do see the shift in their faces—especially Mel’s—as the panic flashes deeper in her eyes.

“Mel?”

The name cuts through the air like a blade, and your stomach drops. That voice—deep, low, and now laced with pure fury—comes from behind you. Slowly, you turn around.

Sevika stands in the doorway now, her broad frame blocking out most of the light coming from the hall. Her expression is unreadable at first, but you can see how tightly her jaw is clenched as she tries, but fails to stay calm.

“Sevika…” Mel’s voice trembles, almost at the same level as Jayce.

But Sevika doesn’t respond. Not at first. Her eyes don’t leave Mel, dark with rage—as if she were a storm on the verge of breaking. Her presence looms behind you, grounding you in the chaos swarming around.

“What the fuck is this?” Sevika growls, her voice low and cold. Her eyes flicker between Mel and Jayce, taking in the way their bodies are still too close to each other. The way Mel’s hand lingered on Jayce’s chest before dropping down only heated the anger inside her even more.

It was her fiancée and her colleague—together, behind her back.

The room suddenly feels smaller to you now, almost suffocating. Your hands tremble at your sides, fingers curling into fists as an emotional mix of heartbreak and rage bubbles inside you. But your eyes stay locked on Jayce.

“How long?”

Your voice is barely above a whisper, yet it was loud enough to cut through the tension. Jayce’s jaw clenches anxiously. His eyes are widened in a mix of desperation and cowardice, pleading silently for your mercy. “Babe…” he murmurs softly, as if that name could fix what was already beyond repair.

“How long, Jayce?” you repeat. Your voice is louder the second time, more stern and forceful. Jayce’s mouth opens again, but nothing comes out. He hesitates, his eyes flickering over to Mel for a split second. Big mistake.

You see it, and so did Sevika.

“Answer her fucking question, Jayce.” Sevika growls behind you, her tone low, almost threatening. “Don’t make her ask again.”

Jayce stiffens, swallowing hard, and finally looks back at you, letting out an exhale of defeat before responding. “A…a year.”

Your stomach drops.

You force out a breath, still in shock and disbelief over what you had just heard. “A year?” you shake your head, letting out a humorless laugh. “You’ve been sneaking around with her for a year, and you have the fucking nerve to tell me that it’s not what it looks like?”

The tears start to build in your eyes, and Jayce steps forward, but you take a quick step back. “Don’t.” you snap, your hands shaking. “I don’t want to fucking hear it.”

Sevika exhales sharply beside you, her arms crossed, trying to hold herself back. “This is fucking unbelievable,” she mutters, her eyes not leaving Jayce. “You’ve been lying to her for a year? And you…” her gaze snaps over to Mel. “What do you even have to say for yourself?”

Mel’s lips part, but no words come out.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Sevika lets out a laugh that was just as cold as yours. “I put a damn ring on your finger.”

Mel takes a step closer to her, a weak attempt in trying to redeem herself. “I-I had wanted to tell you—”

“Oh yeah?” Sevika scoffs, shaking her head in disbelief. “And when exactly were you going to tell me? After we got married?”

Mel’s lips part again, but the only sound that comes out is a shaky breath.

“What a fucking joke,” she mutters her gaze shifting between the two. “You’re both pathetic.”

Another shaky breath slips from Mel’s lips. “Sevika, darling please—”

“Save it.”

Sevika takes another step forward, her presence commanding the room. But this time, she doesn’t stop. Mel instinctively moves back, accidentally bumping into Jayce’s chest. His hands instinctively grab her shoulders to steady her, giving her a look of reassurance to make sure she was okay.

And that was the final straw for you.

You let out a sharp breath, shaking your head as the realization crashes down harder. This was never just a mistake.

You glance at Sevika, and when your eyes meet with hers, there’s a newfound connection between you both. Without another word, you turn on your heel, your chest still tight as you pass by the three of them and leave the room. Sevika follows right after, her heavy footsteps matching yours as you step over the shattered glass and out of the room, leaving them both in the mess of their own betrayal.

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The days that followed from the incident felt like a blur.

You throw yourself into work, burying yourself in reports, emails, and endless meetings. You figured it’d be easier that way—keeping busy. If your mind is constantly occupied, then there wouldn’t be any time to think about him, right?

But regardless, it was impossible to ignore.

Jayce keeps his distance from you, both inside and outside of work. He’s been staying somewhere else in the meantime, you’re not sure if it’s with Mel, or back in his large family estate, but frankly, you couldn’t care less about his whereabouts. As for the office, he doesn’t try to talk to you. No apologies. No explanations. Just…silence.

You didn’t want to admit it, but that alone hurts more than if he had tried.

Of course, you’ve still maintained your position in Hexcorp as top saleswoman, but even that feels empty to you now. Your numbers are still flawless, but the passion, the drive that used to push you forward in your career—it was gone. It honestly even makes you question why you’re still here in this building, or even New York as a whole. Deep down, it makes you wish that you could find yourself an escape from this.

And that sign was given to you just a couple of days ago.

You had broken the news to your parents over the phone. It was quite the shock to them—they’d mostly see you together with Jayce on holidays, but given how he always carried himself and the way he treated you, this was the last thing they ever expected.

But what hurt them the most was hearing just how broken you sounded when you told them.

“I just…I don’t get it,” your voice cracked, and you blinked back tears as your grip tightened on your phone. “How could he do this to me?”

“Oh, mija…I’m so sorry.” your mom’s voice had been soft when you told her, but it had the kind of heaviness that only came from a mother hearing her child in pain. You tried to keep your words to a minimum, tried to hold yourself together, but the more you tried to speak, the harder it was to keep you from breaking.

Your dad was silent for a moment before his voice came through the phone, steady but laced with a subtle hint of anger. “You know, I never liked that Talis boy to begin with.”

You can hear the soft tsk your mom gives to your dad, but you can hear the frustration in her voice too.

“Hey, I’m just saying,” he grumbled, his tone softening after a second. “You deserve better, kid. So much better.”

There’s a quick pause before your mother speaks again. “Why don’t you go stay over at the beach house for a while?” your mom suggested gently, her voice warm and comforting. “Spend some time in Miami, clear your head. “Your relatives are close by if you need anything, and I’m sure your abuela would love to see you too.”

You pause for a moment to think over your mother’s suggestion. The beach house was your childhood escape—sitting along the Miami shore where the sun was always warmer and the waves would effortlessly wash your worries away. It was nothing like New York, where the chilly, heavy atmosphere was harder to breathe in.

However, you couldn’t risk the chances of losing your job for being gone for so long. But deep down, maybe this was what you really needed—a sweet escape, a place where you can truly heal your heart and ground yourself back to your roots.

Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

You take a deep breath, nodding to yourself as your grip now relaxes on your phone. “You’re right,” you murmur softly, the words leaving your lips before you even realize it. “I could really use something like that right now.”

Your mother’s relieved sigh comes through the line, and your father’s quiet agreement follows right after. “I’m so glad to hear that,” she says gently. “You deserve a break from this, mija.”

“Hey, get some rest, alright?” your dad chimes. “And call us as soon as you get there.”

“I will,” you promise, voice barely above a whisper now.

The call ends with quiet goodbyes, leaving you now sitting in the dim, quiet space of the house you once shared with Jayce. The silence feels heavier here—every room still holds traces of the life you built together, yet it all feels so distant now.

You take a deep breath, reaching over for your laptop before bringing it onto your lap, and without a second thought, you book yourself a one-way ticket to Miami—far away from the chaos that was suffocating you in New York.

And once that’s done, there’s only one thing left to do—write out your leave of absence letter and leave it on Sevika’s desk first thing tomorrow morning.

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The next morning, the familiar buzz of the office surrounds you, but it all feels like background noise. You’re at your desk, staring blankly at your computer screen as you zone out into the unfinished spreadsheet on the screen. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Jayce and Sevika step out of their shared office and head toward the conference room down the hall. You couldn’t help but keep your gaze on Sevika for a little longer. She looks composed on the outside, but you can see it—the slight tension in her shoulders, the quiet exhaustion in her eyes—she’s holding it together just like you. You look away before she notices you, swallowing down the ache in your chest as they leave.

Once you made sure they were gone, you clutch the letter into your hand as you push back your chair and stand. Your footsteps are quiet as you pass by your busy coworkers and make your way toward their shared office, the door left slightly ajar enough for you to slip inside. Your eyes land on Sevika’s side of the office, the dark wood of her desk reflecting the soft light filtering in through the windows. You take a step toward it, unfolding the letter in front of you to place it on her desk. However, you couldn’t help but notice the soft, navy velvet box quietly sitting on the surface. Your heart skips a beat, knowing exactly what it is without even having to open it.

The engagement ring.

Mel had already given it back.

The box is closed, yet the weight of what it holds feels heavy in the air. Your mind flashes back to that night, to the look on Sevika’s face when she saw Mel with Jayce together. The devastation in her eyes, masked by fury—seeing her hurt you more than when you had seen them. You let out a shaky breath, fingers trembling slightly as they brush against the edge of your letter, but before you can set it down—

“Leaving something for me?”

The deep, unmistakable voice sends a chill down your spine. You freeze, eyes widening as your body goes rigid. Your heart pounds in your chest as panic starts to settle into your bones.

Slowly, you turn around. Sevika stands in the doorway, her tall frame effortlessly filling the space around her. Her expression is unreadable, but her sharp eyes are locked on the letter in your hand.

“Sevika, I-I was just—”

Her brow arches slightly as she shuts the door and steps further into the office, her gaze not leaving yours.

“What’s that?”

Her voice is calm, but you couldn’t ignore the tension behind it. The panic continues to fill up inside you as you instinctively pull the letter closer to your chest, as if that was going to shield it away from her. “It’s…it’s nothing,” you murmur, but the crack in your voice betrays you. Her eyes narrow down to the paper in your hand, and before you can move her hand reaches out, flesh fingers brushing over yours as she gently but firmly takes the letter from your grip.

“Sevika, wait—”

But it’s too late. Her eyes scan the words on the page, her brows furrowing deeper with each passing second as she reads through the letter. You see her jaw tighten, her throat bobbing as she swallows hard. “Leave of absence?” she asks, slowly setting the letter down and bringing her gaze back up to you. “You’re…you’re leaving?”

Your throat tightens, unsure of what else to say. “I was going to tell you,” you murmur softly, looking down at your feet, unable to meet her gaze. “I just…I need some time.”

“Why?”

You can hear the concern in her voice—a hint of vulnerability that you’ve never heard from her before. You finally look up, your eyes meeting hers. “Because I can’t do this anymore.”

Her eyes darken with uncertainty. “Do what?”

You swallow, heart painfully thrumming against your ribs. “Be here. Pretend that everything’s okay when it’s not.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, and you don’t notice Sevika’s gaze softening when you look over to Jayce’s side of the office. “Jayce and I...We built a life together. And now, it’s gone.” Your voice cracks, and you blink rapidly to keep the tears at bay as you look back at her. “Every corner of this place reminds me of what I just lost. I just…I need to get away. To breathe. To heal.”

Her jaw clenches, her eyes flickering away from yours for a moment. “It’s just…” She hesitates, running a hand down her face before exhaling a breath that sounds heavier than it should. “You’re my best saleswoman.” Her voice is quieter now, almost as if she’s trying to convince herself of something. “I can’t afford to lose you.”

But it was never about the numbers. Not when it came to you. You know there’s more to it—something deeper. You can feel it in the way her gaze lingers on you, in the way her body gets just a little too tense, as if she’s holding something back.

“I’m not…” Your voice trails off to a sigh as you shake your head. “I’m not quitting, Sevika. I just need some time. Please.”

For a moment, neither of you speak. The air between you is heavy, the silence in the room stretching longer than it should.

“How long?” she asks softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I don’t know,” you admit, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your blouse. “But I…I need this.”

Sevika doesn’t speak right away. Her expression is unreadable as she looks at you, but before you can process it—before you can say anything else—she moves toward you. Strong arms wrap around you, pulling you into a firm but careful embrace.

Your breath catches in your throat. Sevika has never been the type of person to do gestures like this. She’s never been the comforting, reassuring presence in someone’s life—at least, not in this way. But right now, she holds you close to her like she’s afraid to let you go, like she knows how much you need this more than you do. Your eyes squeeze shut as you clutch the fabric of her suit jacket, your fingers curling into the cotton tightly to keep you grounded.

“I get it,” she murmurs, her voice softer now. “Believe me, I do.”

Her words send another shiver down your spine, because she does get it.

Mel. The woman she was supposed to spend the rest of her life with.

You exhale shakily, pressing your forehead against her shoulder. “Then you of all people should know why I have to go.”

Sevika’s arms tighten around you just for a second before she finally releases you, stepping back just enough to meet your gaze. “Yeah,” she murmurs, her jaw tight as she watches you carefully. “I know.”

But that doesn’t mean that she wants you to go. Her eyes still linger on yours, and something shifts between you. Sevika looks at you like she’s fighting a battle within herself—like she’s trying to hold herself back from doing something that she may—or may not regret.

“Sevika…” you whisper, your voice quiet enough to break the silence between you.

She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. But her eyes—they tell you everything. You feel it before you see it—the way she leans in, her body instinctively drawn to yours like a magnet. It’s slow, almost hesitant, as if she's giving you an open chance to pull away. But you don’t. You can’t.

Instead, your hand drifts up, brushing lightly over her jaw. She tilts her head towards your palm, melting into your touch. Her eyes flutter shut for a brief movement before they open again��darker, filled with something you can’t describe.

And then, the distance between you two disappears. Her lips meet yours, and the world seems to fall away. The kiss is tentative at first, making you both afraid to take too much from each other. But the tension is quick to snap, and suddenly, the kiss deepens. Her flesh hand slides around the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as she pulls you closer. The cool metal of her prosthetic rests against your waist, grounding you in the moment. Your body presses into hers, and you feel like this should be wrong, but it doesn’t. On the contrary, it feels…right. Like this is where you’re meant to be instead. It’s nothing compared to how you’ve felt with Jayce. You absolutely lose yourself in her—her touch, her taste, the way she holds you like you’re something precious. Like you’re exactly where she wants to be."

She finally pulls back, breathless and dazed, her forehead resting gently against yours. “I really don’t want you to go…” Sevika murmurs, the desperation in her voice tugging at your heart. Your thumb brushes along her jaw again, a bittersweet smile spread on your lips. “I know,” you whisper, eyes searching hers. “But I have to.”

“Well, in that case…” Sevika replies, her thumb lightly brushing over your bottom lip as her eyes darken with intent. Her lips curl into a sly smirk, her gaze burning into yours. “Let me give you a proper goodbye.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and before you can even think, her lips crash into yours again. Unlike the last one, this kiss is more desperate, filled with everything the both of you have been holding back for far too long. Her flesh hand grips your waist firmly, pulling you flush against her, while the hard press of her prosthetic along your hip sends a shiver through you. Her lips move with a hunger that makes your knees weak. But you couldn’t give in like this.

“Sevika…” you manage to breathe out her name between heated kisses, your lips barely parting from hers. But she hears it.

And as much as it kills you, you pull back. Your eyes meet hers—her pupils dilated with desire, but there’s hesitation filling in yours. “We…we can’t.” Your voice is shaky and uncertain. “Jayce and Mel…it isn’t right…”

Sevika doesn’t respond right away. Her forehead simply rests against yours, her breath warm against your skin. “No…” she murmurs softly, her voice low but firm. “They’re the ones who threw it all away. It’s their loss, not ours.”

Your eyes widen slightly as her words sink in, but she doesn’t give you a chance to pull away. Her gaze is more intense now, searching yours for any sense of doubt. But there’s something else in her eyes—something raw, vulnerable, and aching for you just as much as you ache for her. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” Her voice is barely above a whisper now, but there’s so much behind her words.

And in that moment, you know she’s right. The weight of the heartbreak, betrayal, and confusion still lingers, but now it all fades away with you being in her arms. Her lips claim yours once more, and the heat inside you ignites all over again. Her hands slide down your back, guiding you as she walks you backward across the room. Your heart pounds in your chest, but you don’t stop her. Not this time.

The edge of the desk presses against the backs of your thighs, and her hands are already pushing everything aside, sending papers and pens scattering to the floor. Sevika lifts you up effortlessly in one smooth motion, placing you on the desk as her lips refuse to leave yours.

However, neither of you realize where you’ve really ended up—Jayce’s desk.

But at this moment, with Sevika’s hands all over you and her lips claiming yours…none of it matters.

Sevika presses her body against yours, pinning you to the desk as she stands between your parted legs. You can feel every hard inch of her muscular frame, the heat of her skin radiating through her suit. Sevika pulls back slightly, her lips trailing kisses along your jawline and down your neck. You tilt your head back to give her better access, and a soft moan slips from your mouth once she nips at your pulse point, her teeth grazing your soft skin before she soothes the sting with her tongue.

You’re barely able to keep your balance on the desk, your breath shallow as her touch stirs something deep inside you. Your eyes dart to the closed blinds, the faint silhouettes of your coworkers just outside, completely unaware of what’s happening behind them. Your heart starts to race—not from desire, but from the undeniable risk of it all. It feels like you’re playing with fire, and yet…you can’t help but take the heat.

“S-Sevika,” you murmur, trying to steady your breathing. “We—someone could see—”

Sevika cuts your sentence off instantly with a hushed, teasing whisper. “Shh…” she breathes, her voice low. “If you stay quiet…then no one will know.”

She leans in, kissing you hard while her hand works quickly to unbutton your slacks, pushing them down to your ankles. “You need this, baby, I know you do.” Her voice is a low rasp, sending shivers down your spine that makes her see right through you. "Stop overthinking, and just let me take care of you.”

To emphasize her point, her flesh hand shifts from your slacks to underneath your blouse, her warm fingertips brushing over your stomach as it moves up north. She cups your breast, her thumb brushing over your nipple through the thin lace of your bra. The sensation makes you gasp, your back arching into her touch. Sevika takes advantage of this and trails kisses down your chest, pushing your blouse up as she goes. She tugs your bra down, freeing your breasts to the cool air of the office. Then, in an instant, she leans down and takes one of your nipples into her mouth, sucking and biting at the sensitive bud, eliciting a whine from your lips over the sensation. Her hand slides back down your stomach, fingers now toying with the waistband of your underwear. She looks up at you, waiting for your permission to continue, to which you nod in approval.

With that, she hooks her fingers and shifts your underwear to the side, exposing your pussy to her. She leans back, using two fingers to part open your puffy folds only to be taken aback by how wet you were. “God, baby…you’re this wet for me already?” she mutters, gently sliding her fingers through your wet slit. You reply to her with a whiny nod, gently rutting your hips against the pads of her fingers for more. She simply chuckles at your desperate pleas, gently inserting a finger into your hole but only to be surprised when she sees how you resist her single finger. “Fuck, you’re so tight…” she pants out, carefully trying to push more of her finger in. “When was the last time someone touched you like this?”

Your breath hitches, and for a moment, you hesitate. But the truth weighs heavier than the silence between you. “Too long…” you finally breathe, your voice barely a whisper. Your eyes trail away from her, a flash of frustration and sadness crossing your face. “Jayce…he hasn’t—” your words falter with a sudden gasp when Sevika pushes her finger farther inside you. She brings her metal hand up to your jaw, the smooth yet unyielding grip making you face her. “His loss,” she mutters, lips brushing against yours again. “How about you let me remind you how it’s supposed to feel, yeah?"

Sevika doesn't falter just yet, she starts to work her finger in and out of your tight cunt, slowly at first but gradually increasing force once you become used to the resistance. Her thumb meets with your clit, rubbing firm circles around the sensitive nub as she continues to pump her finger in and out of your pussy. You whine and begin to squirm and shake at the sensation, but Sevika is quick to slide her prosthetic hand on your waist, keeping you grounded onto the desk as the cool wooden surface presses against your skin. She then adds another finger in, scissoring them inside you as her thumb continues its assault on your clit. You whine at the stretch, unable to take it, but your body starts to betray you by giving the opposite response—sucking Sevika’s fingers further inside rather than resisting. The wet squelching sounds of her fingers plunging into your soaked cunt fill the office, mixing with your restrained whines and the harsh pants of her own breathing.

“S-Sevika,” you whine, trying to wriggle yourself away. “I-I can’t…t-too much…”

“Too much?” Sevika chuckles against your skin, her fingers still working into your cunt. “Then why’s your greedy little cunt begging me for more?” Her gaze drops down to your pussy, admiring at how your desperate hole continues to suck her fingers in while your arousal drips around them. “Needy girl, taking in my fingers like this,” her gaze flickers back up to you. “I’m gonna need these back, you know. Can’t keep them forever, sweetheart.”

All you can do is whine and whimper, your chest and stomach tightening as you try to keep yourself quiet so as to not startle your coworkers outside. But Sevika doesn’t make it any easier for you once she speeds up the pace, the desk shifting slightly beneath you as if it was imitating the consequences of what you’re doing. The thought of Jayce sitting here tomorrow, completely unaware of what happened on his desk today, makes a dangerous thrill pulse through your veins. Jayce might have carried your past, but Sevika was putting herself into your present, claiming you as hers with every deep curl of her fingers, making sure your body never forgets the feeling of her.

She looks back up at you, her eyes darkening as she watches your face twist in pleasure. Your cunt begins to clench tighter around her fingers, along with the coil that's been winding deep in your stomach, you were getting close, and Sevika could tell. Her fingers never stop their relentless pace, pumping in and out of your clenching heat, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. She glances back up at you just to admire the drunk look on your face. “Look at you, so desperate to cum already, yeah?” she muses, her prosthetic shifting from your waist to push down on your lower stomach, only making it worse for you to restrain yourself. “Go on, sweetheart, cum for me. But remember…” she trails off, jerking her head over to the closed blinds. “They don’t need to know what’s going on.”

Her words are filthy, but they only serve to turn you on more, pushing you closer to your impending release. Your hand grips tightly onto the edge of the desk while the other claws at Sevika’s forearm in desperation, which does nothing but spur her on with her words. At this point, she’s practically begging for you to cum now, just so she can see you fall apart for her. “That’s it, baby—don’t hold back. Let me feel it. Come for me, sweetheart.”

Her words, combined with the relentless pace of her fingers, finally push you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as your cunt clamps down around her fingers like a vice. Your mouth parts open, body giving in as you’re tempted to scream her name, but Sevika is quick to lean in and attach her lips back to yours, muffling your cries of pleasure as your release gushes into her fingers and onto the desk. But she doesn’t let up just yet, working you through your orgasm with her fingers until you’re a shaking, mewling mess beneath her.

Once the aftershocks start to subside, she finally slows down, gently withdrawing her flesh fingers out of your sensitive cunt. She brings her hand up to her lips, making a show of licking your juices from her fingers, her eyes closing in bliss as she savors your taste. “Fuck, you taste even better than I imagined,” she murmurs, a satisfied smirk spreading across her face. “I should’ve used my mouth on you instead if I knew you were going to taste this sweet.”

You chuckle lazily, looking up at her with heavy eyes as you recover from your orgasm. “Well, you can go for seconds if you’d like, Sev.” you tease, kicking off your heels and bunched up slacks from your feet before spreading your legs farther out to her, leaving your fucked out cunt on full display to her gaze. Sevika’s eyes darken at your newfound position, getting nothing but more turned on at the sight of you spread out on her colleague’s desk. She glances down to your cunt, her smirk spreading wider as she sees your release pooling underneath you, darkening the wood of the desk. “You’ve sure made a mess, pretty girl,” she says, her voice almost accusatory as if she wasn’t the one who made you cum like that. “Luckily, I’m willing to clean that up for you.”

In an instant, Sevika drops to her knees in front of you, hooking her flesh arm beneath your thigh while her prosthetic grips the other, pulling you closer. Your breath hitches as Sevika lowers herself in front of you, her hold firm—one soft and warm, the other cold and unrelenting. Her lips tease their way back up to your pussy, ready to satisfy you once more, until—

“Where’s Sevika?”

Jayce’s words echo faintly from the hallway, distant but close enough to send a jolt of panic through your veins. Sevika freezes for just a second before quickly getting back up on her feet. The two of you scramble around—adjusting clothes, fixing hair, cleaning down the surface and scattering papers in your desperate attempt to make it look like nothing happened on this desk.

But Sevika already moves before you can think of a backup plan. With full precision, she snatches up the paperwork she was originally looking for, strides across the office, and yanks the door open right before Jayce can.

“You were supposed to wait in the conference room,” she growls, her tone now back to cold as she shoves the paperwork into his chest.

Jayce blinks, caught off guard by her appearance. “I—I was just—”

“Don’t.” Her jaw clenches, eyes narrowing down at him. “Go. Now.”

Her tone leaves no room for argument. As Jayce turns, footsteps retreating down the hall, Sevika lingers for just a second before glancing back inside—her eyes meeting yours. The heat from moments ago still lingers between you, but with one last knowing smirk, she follows after Jayce before closing the door shut, as if nothing had happened.

And you?

You’re still gripping the edge of his desk, breath unsteady, pulse still racing. Even as you slip your clothes back on, even as you straighten up Jayce’s desk—you can still feel the heat from Sevika on your body. Your lips are still slightly swollen from her kisses, your skin tingling in places that haven’t felt alive in…well, longer than you’d care to admit. You swallow hard, your mind replaying every breathless second. Your cheeks flush again, and your hands tremble slightly as you reposition Jayce’s things—only to realize it’s still out of place.

Get it together.

Your hands work quickly, smoothing out the papers, straightening the chair, making sure there’s no trace of what just happened. The last thing you need is Jayce walking in and sensing something.

No one can know.

Your fingers graze your pulse point, still feeling the phantom pressure of her lips there. You swallow down the feeling, force your hands to stay busy—tidying the last of the evidence, pressing a shaky hand to your chest, forcing a deep breath—before you finally slip out of the office, your head spinning.

And yet, as you settle back at your desk, pretending like nothing happened, you can still feel her on you.

But what’s even worse than feeling her…is wanting it to happen a second time.

˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧ ˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧ ˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧ ˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✧ ˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘

The sun barely peeks through your curtains when your alarm blasts through the silence. Your eyes snap open, heart pounding as you fumble to shut it off. You squint over at the time on your phone, only for your eyes to quickly widen in panic. You were supposed to be up an hour ago.

In an instant, you throw off the covers, the chill of the morning air making your skin prickle with goosebumps as you rush to get ready. As you take a quick shower and get dressed, your mind is still foggy from everything that happened yesterday—leaving the office, Sevika, the kiss, and the overwhelming decision to leave. But there’s no time to think about that now.

Your suitcase is already half-packed from last night, so you grab the last of your things and shove them into your bag without thinking twice. You barely glance in the mirror before you’re out the door, heart pounding in your ears. The taxi sits on the curb, waiting for God knows how long—and you rush into it, not even bothering to comfortably put your suitcase in the trunk and squeezing it alongside you instead. The city itself is still waking up as you slide into the backseat.

“Kennedy Airport,” you mumble, barely able to catch your breath as the driver nods and pulls into traffic.

Rain taps lightly against the window as you stare outside, the familiar skyline of New York blurred by streaks of water. This is it. You were getting away from the city that had been your home for years—where you built a career and nurtured a relationship, only to watch it all fall apart in the blink of an eye. You lean back against the seat, your eyes drifting shut for just a moment, trying to calm the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside you. But her face still flashes in your mind.

Sevika.

The memory of her kiss, her touch—heated, desperate, and impossible to forget—continues to linger in your mind. But nonetheless you shake your head, forcing the thought away as you tell yourself that it’s not what you need right now.

By the time you arrive at the airport, it’s nothing but chaos. You navigate through the sea of travelers, heart pounding as you sprint toward your gate. Your boarding pass feels like it’s burning in your hand as you rush through security, your pulse racing with every step.

Until you finally make it to Gate 17, departing to Miami.

You make it just as they begin the final boarding call, breathless and slightly disoriented. The agent barely glances up as they scan your ticket, giving you a quick nod to proceed. Your pace is calmer now as you walk through the ramp, the relief extending into peace the moment you enter the plane. As you set your carry-on into the overhead compartment and settle into your window seat, a shaky exhale slips from your mouth as your body finally relaxes. Your pulse slows, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you finally let yourself breathe.

You’re even blessed to have an empty seat beside you, thank God.

You close your eyes, head resting lightly against the head cushion of the seat. The distant hum of the engines vibrates through you, lulling your body into a sense of calm. A sense of peace. You don’t even register the measured footsteps approaching, growing heavier until they stop beside you. You don’t open your eyes right away, too caught up in the quiet you were finally starting to enjoy. But then—

Your name is called. And the familiar voice makes your heart stop. Your eyes flutter back open, head tilting to your left only for the calm in your body to be replaced by an element of surprise and shock once you see the familiar broad frame that stood in the narrow space alongside you.

“Sevika?”

Her name leaves your lips barely above a breath, but it’s enough to make her eyes darken. Her expression is unreadable, but the subtle flicker of surprise in her gaze says enough.

She didn’t know. You didn’t tell her where you were going.

And yet… she’s here.

And in that moment, as she finally lowers herself into the seat beside you, you know—

This changes everything.

But maybe, just maybe…some change is exactly what you needed.

- a/n: i need to stop making my fics so damn long omg 😭 i’m not sure if y’all fw ceo sevika like i do, but i could try to write out a part 2 if it catches any interest, we’ll see…

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p-seduonym · 3 months ago

Text

Switched at Birth

A/N: I wrote this all in one setting don't at me if it sucks. Okay? I wrote this with @luludeluluramblings Switched at Birth concept in mind. Give her some love cause she's awesome! I'll probably write more if you guys like this one. I also gave Reader a lastname cause (Lastname) felt too awkward.

Yandere!Batfam x Switched!Fem!Reader x Yandere!Wayne!OC

You like to think you were an ordinary girl.

You grew up in a sleepy suburb, on a street where all of the houses looked the same. Two parents and a handful of siblings, the quintessential nuclear family. Your father worked an office 9-to-5 while your mother tended to the house. Every morning began the same, with you being pulled from your sleep by the clamor of your family starting a new day. Breakfast, a routine affair around the kitchen table before you hurried to catch the school bus.

You attended public school your entire life, going through its monotonous rhythms with your siblings. Your highschool, never exceeding 850 students, was unremarkable, known - just barely - for its sports teams than for any academic prestige . But you only had a passing interest in sports. You had average grades across the board, from athletics to chemistry, and a comfortable but modest group of friends. This year was your final, with graduation looming in the future.

Each evening, you returned home the same way you always had: stepping off the school bus to the scent of a home-cooked meal and the familiar chatter of your family.

Yes, you were an ordinary girl.

Or so you told yourself.

Even with your striking features—sharp angles and piercing eyes that none of your family shared. Even with your demeanor—calm, composed, distant, no matter how warmly you tried to act. Even with the strange, invisible wall that always seemed to separate you from those you loved.

Despite everything, you were ordinary.

That’s what you thought.

Until you met her.

Melissa Wayne.

She introduced herself to you one Saturday evening. You were the only one home to answer the door. Your father was working overtime in the office and your mother had coaxed your siblings into running errands with her. You barely managed to avoid the chore by claiming you had to study for an upcoming exam. Instead, you were halfheartedly flipping through notes when you heard the chime of the doorbell.

Your mother always said you had a scarily keen eye. In the split second that followed you opening the door, you absorbed every detail.

A girl, no older than you, stood poised on your porch. She wore a pristine school uniform, her hands folded neatly over a leather messenger bag. Her blazer was buttoned to perfection, her tie knotted with precision. A plaid skirt fell modestly just above her knees, and polished loafers gleamed against the weathered wood of the porch.

It was immaculate, almost, how out of place she was.

“Hello” Her voice was soft, cautious – as if she wasn’t entirely sure why she was here either.

“Yes…hello?” You sounded more like you were asking a question rather than greeting a visitor.

“I’m looking for Mr. and Mrs. Johnson. Is this their house?”

“Yes, it is. They aren’t here though. Sorry” You replied

She blinked at you slowly. She didn’t seem perturbed, as if she expected this.

“Then.. you must be their daughter?”

You leaned against the door frame. The setting sun’s rays hurt your eyes.

“Yes, I am. Can I help you?”

The girl studied you. You studied her back. A slight breeze whistled between you two, tussling her hair.

“My name is Melissa Wayne. May I come in?”

It would have been perfectly reasonable to say no.

She wasn’t here for you—she wanted your parents. You didn’t know her. The logical thing would have been to ask her to come back another time.

Logically speaking, at least.

But something about her made you pause.

Despite the crisp uniform and air of sophistication, Melissa Wayne looked… lost. Unsure. Almost like she expected to be brushed aside. Like a stray left in the rain, having been passed by one too many times.

So, you gave her a courteous smile and welcomed her in.

Your mother always taught you to be polite to strangers, so you asked her if she wanted some tea or coffee.

“Tea would be nice” She murmured standing just outside the kitchen’s doorway, watching as you began to boil some water.

You rummaged through the pantry as you asked over your shoulder “What’d you like? We have green tea, chamomile… I think there’s some black tea left.”

Silence. You couldn’t see her, but you could feel her gaze on your back—heavy, contemplative.

“...Any is fine” She finally settled on, as if that was the safe answer.

By the time you turned around, the kettle was set to boil. She was still standing. You gestured for her to sit, and she did, carefully smoothing out her skirt before reaching into her leather messenger bag.

She pulled out a stack of documents, setting them on the table between you. You picked them up and scanned the pages.

Hospital records. Gotham City. Over a decade ago.

Two baby girls, born on the same day to their respective mothers. One, the daughter of an office worker and a housewife. The other, the daughter of a supermodel and a well-known billionaire. Both babies went home that night—

But not with their rightful parents.

Slowly, you placed the papers face-down on the table. Your gaze lifted to Melissa Wayne, taking her in with fresh eyes.

At first glance, she had the refinement expected of an esteemed philanthropist’s daughter. But now, looking past the polished exterior—

Her large, round eyes carried a watery sadness—the same quiet grief your "mother" wore when speaking of her late cousin. Her shoulders were drawn tight, her hair brushing against them with every subtle shift, much like the way your "father" held himself after a long, weary day at work.

Looking closely, you saw the quiet and innocuous nature of your parents, yet weighed down with years of burden.

Melissa opened her mouth and began to speak.

She spoke of her mother, consumed by vices—alcohol, drugs, sex—and how they ultimately overtook her. She spoke of her father, a distant and cold man, who reserved his affection for his menagerie of adopted children rather than for her. She spoke of lonely manor halls, cold glances, and missed events. Isolation and loneliness.

“I-I always knew I was different from them,” Mellissa stammered with an air of defeat, “I know this is your life, but please, please, I just want to know my parents—”

As the kettle began to whistle, you suddenly embraced her, cutting off any more words. Tears trickled down your face, but you held your composure.

“You’re incredible” You whispered softly into her hair as you held her close.

Melissa, mystified, stayed silent.

If it were you in that lonely place, you're not sure if you would have fared well. And thinking of someone like your parents, so soft and harmless, being forced to endure such hardships left your chest aching in grief. You gently patted her tousled locks of hair.

“You’ve done so well,” You whispered to her. “ You didn’t deserve that. You’re so strong and wonderful and…”

You held her tight.

Meliisa Wayne was well prepared to hate you. The girl that had taken her rightful place. The girl who had all of her parents' love.

She was well prepared for that.

She wasn’t prepared for this warmth. This kindness from the one who shared blood with those who left her to rot.

Years a loneliness have left her warped and twisted, beneath her soft demeanor. She had no qualms coming into our life with the intent to take back what was hers. Why she told you her life story, she doesn't know. Maybe it felt right to air out her grievances to the one who made her suffer.

And yet you held her-- when no one else would.

You called her wonderful and strong an cried for her sake.

Melissa Wayne was prepared to hate you.

She was never prepared to love you.

#yandere #yandere blog #yandere core #yandere batfam #yandere oc #is it platonic?#or romantic?#who knows?#just let me ramble #switched at birth au

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violentdelightsandviolentends · 2 years ago

Text

Cherry.

Synopsis - The lines of friendship get a little blurry, one unassuming Friday night in December.

Pairing - Bestfriend!Steve Harrington x Female Reader

Warnings - smut. cursing. steve's got an ego, but for good reason.

Age Rating - 18+

Word Count - 2k

Author's Note - hi lovelies!! my first steve fic!! listen, I actually really didn't enjoy stranger things, but... I love this man. he's charming and he's a softie and he's such a good character to write. hope you enjoy this - it's got me all warm and fuzzy. please feel free to send me a christmas request if you fancy, I'm in the mood to write some seasonal fics. much love, always!! <3

as always, reblogs are the only way to circulate my fics!! please, if you enjoyed, consider reblogging this so it gets further reach. comments and feedback are always appreciated!! thanks, angels. <3

Part Two. Part Three. Part Four. Masterlist. Inbox. The Moodboard. Series Masterlist.

Three rocks ping off the panes of your bedroom window in quick succession.

You're applying your moisturiser in the mirror, winding down and almost ready for bed. Your reflection is illuminated by a faint glow from the fairy lights you've draped over the headboard for the festive season, warm and comforting. A soft, jazzy melody is drifting from the radio softly, a welcome noise to break up the silence.

Another rock hits your window.

You fly out of your seat and towards the source of the trouble, worried that he's going to throw one too hard one of these days.

"Steve," you hiss as you yank it open. "Cut it out. Just come through the door."

"Where's the fun in that?" he chuckles, eyes rife with mischief.

You roll your eyes but step back anyway, making room for him to climb the tree and dive through the window into your room.

"Hi, sugar."

"Hi, Steven."

He grins at you, bright and awake despite the late hour.

"Don't you have better plans on a Friday night, King Steve?"

"And miss out on seeing you in your little pink pyjamas? Absolutely not."

You shove at his chest, smacking him upside the head for good measure. He feigns pain and wraps his arms around your middle, picking you up off the ground and spinning you in circles. You shriek, and the sound makes him laugh.

"Okay, okay! I'm dizzy! Put me down!"

He obliges by throwing you unceremoniously onto your bed, smirking when you almost bounce off it.

"So," he begins, sitting down across from you. "How was it? Do you feel like a whole new woman?"

You scoff.

"What? That bad?"

"Yeah, that bad. We didn't even do it."

He quirks a brow in curiosity, tilting his head to look at you.

"I thought tonight was the big night?"

"Yeah, it was supposed to be. But he was kissing me, and it just didn't feel... right? He started grabbing at me and I realised that you can only lose your virginity once - and that definitely wasn't how I wanted to lose mine."

You shrug, trying to play indifference, but Steve can see the hurt in your eyes.

"You always deserved so much better than him."

"Thanks, Steve."

"Come on, Cherry. The guy is an asshole who happens to be attractive. His face is the only thing he's got going for him."

The mention of your childhood nickname has memories of fruit flavoured popsicles on summer days flooding back. Laughter by the pool, pushing Steve in and screeching when he dragged you with him, staying out in the sun until you were both exhausted. Cherry. You've always been Steve's Cherry, for as long as you can remember. You still wear the lip balm he bought you last year, fitting for your moniker.

"You didn't like him from the start. Actually, you've never liked any guy that has ever liked me."

"Because they're not good enough for you."

"Says who?"

"Says me."

"And you're the boss of me and my love life now?"

"I'm the person that knows you better than anyone in the entire world. I think I have a pretty good view on things."

You huff, but accept your defeat in knowing that he's right. No one knows you like him. Steve always does this. He pisses you off, but makes you love him a tiny bit more each time.

He grabs your foot from the bed, pressing his thumbs into your sole. You relax instantly, tired of half arguing with him.

"I give up."

"With what?"

"Dating. Fuck it."

He chuckles, rubbing soothing patterns into your ankle gently.

"You've barely even started."

"Ooo, sorry Mr Womaniser."

"Stop it," he chides, pinching your calf. "Maybe The One for you just isn't in Hawkins. This place has always been too small for us anyway."

"Yeah, maybe. It'll all change when we go to college, hopefully."

"Exactly. It'll be a whole different ball game. There'll be tonnes of hot guys begging for your attention."

"And you'll be fighting them off."

"Yes I will."

You laugh, poking him in the chest with your foot teasingly.

"And maybe the college guys will actually know what they're doing in bed."

"Hey, some of us do know!"

"Yeah yeah, Steve's good in bed. I've heard it all before."

"Don't be jealous, Cherry baby."

"Jealous isn't quite the word I'd use."

"No?"

He drops your foot and scoots closer, settling in between your parted legs.

"You're not even a little bit curious what all the rumours are about?"

"Steve," you laugh. "I think they're probably just exactly that. Rumours."

He inches in towards you, so his forehead is almost touching yours. Running his fingers up and down the outside of your thigh, he takes a deep breath in.

"You should let me show you just how much I know. We're not all clueless, Cherry. I'm confident I could make you feel good."

You exhale with a shudder.

"I'm not letting you take my virginity, Steve."

"I don't want to. There's a thousand ways I can make your legs shake without fucking you, baby."

You stare into his big doe eyes, admiring the way a single strand of hair has fallen across his forehead. You look for a shred of doubt, or amusement, but all you see is love. Admiration. Trust. Sincerity.

"Okay," you breathe, before your mind has truly processed what you're saying. "Show me what you got, Harrington."

He grins, slow and saccharine, like the cat who got the cream.

"Steve?" you whisper.

"Yeah?"

"This isn't going to fuck things up between us, is it?"

He smiles, big and bright.

"Never. Nothing is ever going to fuck things up between us. It's you and me forever, Cherry Pie."

You chuckle at the nickname, stroking his cheek with your thumb.

"Well, then what are you waiting for?"

He shakes his head and grabs your ankle, pulling you across the bed and into his body. Wrapping a hand around the back of your neck, he leans in, pressing his forehead to yours.

"If at any point this gets weird, or you don't like it... Just say the words, okay?"

"Okay," you breathe, inhaling the scent of mint from his tongue. "Promise."

"Can I kiss you?"

"You don't usually ask," you tease.

It's no secret that you and Steve have kissed a few times. Once after prom, once at a party here and there, once when you were cuddled in bed comforting him after a break up. But it's never led to anything more. Which is probably why this feels a little different.

"I know, but this is a little more... intense, than usual."

You try to ignore the way your heart swells at his consideration for you, and nod your head gently.

"Kiss me. Please."

Steve wastes no time, leaning in to press his lips to yours. He tastes like spearmint and soda, with a hint of the cherry lipbalm he steals from your nightstand. You instinctively shuffle closer to him, straddling his lap as his arms bracket themselves around you. It's like he can't decide where to put his hands - they're roaming up your back, squeezing your ass, kneading your thighs. He's antsy and impatient, eager to feel you.

"Lie back," he whispers against your mouth, tipping you onto the bed.

Your head hits your pillows and you crane your neck to watch him as he crawls down your body, eyes never leaving yours.

"Steve-"

"Stop thinking so hard, Cherry. I can practically hear your thoughts."

You huff but can't keep the smile off your face, willing your mind to stop racing.

"Let me quiet things down, hmm?"

Steve presses a gentle kiss to the inside of your knee, trailing up and up until he reaches your hip. He licks across your hipbone before nipping it with his teeth, smirking when you gasp.

Grasping the waistband of your pyjama shorts, he asks for permission with his eyes, no words needed. You nod and lift your hips, letting him slide them down your body.

You've never been so exposed, which is causing a sudden realisation that the two of you are crossing a line that can never be uncrossed. As if he can read your mind, Steve presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, tender and full of love.

"Babe, if you want to stop..."

"I don't, I promise. I'm just nervous. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologise," he murmurs, resting his head on your thigh and looking up at you. "Never apologise. You're doing so good, Cherry. I love you."

You didn't know what you were expecting, but it wasn't I love you. You've both said it to each other a million times, but something about saying it in this exact moment makes it feel... weighted. You'll talk about it later. You'll make sure of it.

"I love you too. So much."

You're whispering, scared to ruin the peace you've created. Steve kisses your skin again gently, gazing at you like you've hung the stars just for him.

"Let me make you feel good, okay?"

When you nod, Steve nudges your core with his nose, arms wrapping around your thighs to keep you anchored in place.

"So pretty," he's mumbling. "Prettiest fuckin' girl I've ever seen."

He starts slow, easing you in carefully. Kitten licks and gentle nips, testing the waters. When you tangle a hand into his hair and tug, Steve gets the message.

"You want more, pretty baby?"

"Yes," you confirm, more breathless than intended. "Please."

He dives back in, this time with more intention. His nose keeps nudging your clit, the friction licking up your spine deliciously. It's like he can't get enough, eating you out like a man starved.

He groans into your heat, the vibrations making you whine. When he curls his tongue just right, you keen, the sounds leaving your mouth foreign to the both of you.

"Fuck, you sound so beautiful. You're perfect. God, you're perfect."

"Stevie," you pant. "So close."

"I got you. Atta girl, I got you. That's my girl, give it to me."

Maybe it's the my girl, or maybe it's the way he's slipped two fingers into you, but the coil snaps. Your back arches off the bed as white heat engulfs your body, vision going black for a moment. You can hear him talking you through it, loving and encouraging. Eventually, your grip on his hair loosens as you go lax, collapsing back against the comforter.

Steve grins at you as he licks his fingers clean, crawling up your body to kiss you. You groan when you taste yourself, arms wrapping around his shoulders to keep him close. Resting his head on your chest, you run your fingers through his hair, humming gently when he relaxes.

"You okay?"

"Never better," you laugh. "You're good with your mouth, Harrington. I'll give you that."

"Told you the rumours were true."

You shake your head and reach over, grabbing the glass of water from your nightstand and taking a sip. You offer it to Steve without a second thought, rolling your eyes when he downs the rest.

He plucks your cherry lipbalm from the drawer and applies it to himself, before leaning up to carefully do the same to you. He pecks your lips sweetly before returning it to its rightful place.

"You replace it, don't you?"

"Hmm?"

"The chapstick. I've had it for a whole year, and I've never even come close to reaching the end."

He blushes as he looks at you, suddenly bashful.

"It's special," he murmurs. "It's our thing, you know? And it smells good. I like knowing that I'm the only one who knows you taste like cherries."

You want to poke fun at him, say something to make him laugh. But you can't. He's rendered you speechless, for the second time in one night.

"I like knowing the reason you taste like spearmint is because I've been slipping pieces of gum into the pockets of your jeans for ten years."

"I knew it," he laughs, leaning up to kiss you firmly. "I can't tell you the last time I bought gum."

"You're welcome."

Steve shucks off his jeans and his shirt, climbing into your bed with just his boxers on. You slip your underwear up your legs before getting under the comforter with him, tangling your limbs with his.

The tunes from the radio still hum gently as the fairy lights flicker.

The room is unchanged.

The people in it are not.

read Part Two here. Part Three here. Part Four here.

@lillian-gallows @bookish-embroidery-witch @sweetdazequeen @fruityforcocoapuffs @steviespookie @livsters @diffrent-spokes @violet2022 @mrsjoequinn @valerievortex @chrrymunson

#steve harrington fic #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington #steve harrington x reader smut #steve harrington x reader fluff #steve harrington x bestfriend!reader #bestfriend!steve harrington #bestfriend!steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x bestfriend reader #stranger things x reader #stranger things smut #stranger things fluff

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mixolya · 1 month ago

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HIIIIII 🫶🏻so I thought Yk how sae is bad at this whole PR thing and he’s just very straightforward and not many ppl like it cuz they think he’s rude😭. what if reader was his pr manger😍??? And she like gets pissed off quickly but also gets flustered and why quickly and sae is teasing or wtv

I was like i really wanna read sum like but since I follow lots of bllk writers I didn’t know who to send this 2 so then I thought “who writes sae the best?”then I thought def mixolya so here I am I’d really like it if u wrote this since ur work is really amazing 😭🫶🏻🫶🏻💖

ᓚᘏᗢ — sae itoshi: ice prince !

synopsis: sae itoshi has a pr problem. and you're paid to fix it. too bad he's also the reason you grind your teeth at night and blush like a schoolgirl on the job.

sae itoshi x manager!reader ⭑ fluff + likes & reblogs are appreciated <3

note: thank you sm IM SO HONORED NOW HFUIJKVFKJKV ily

the headline blinks back at you like a neon sign from hell:

SAE ITOSHI: Football's ice prince strikes again - says he 'doesn't care' about fans

you slap your tablet shut. you don't even knock before storming into the training facility, scanning the rows of white training kits until you spot him; the menace in cleats, jogging casually down the sideline like he hasn't just detonated another pr landmine.

"sae!" you call twice after he didn't look the first time.

his head tilts lazily toward you. of course he heard you the first time. he just wanted to make sure you say his name again. you march over, fuming.

"you told the press you don't care about your fans."

"because i don't," he replies coolly, barely breaking stride.

you scoff. "you also said the interviewer's breath smelled like 'expired vanilla milkshake.' what even is that?"

he finally stops, water bottle in hand. "accurate."

"unbelievable," you mutter, rubbing your temples.

"you hired me for honesty, didn't you?"

"you were assigned to me because no one else could handle your media tantrums!"

he takes a sip of water, entirely unfazed. "i don't throw tantrums."

"no, you throw careers off cliffs. mine included."

his eyes finally land on you, sharp eyes meeting your glare. "you're still here though."

"unfortunately."

he quirks a brow. "so why stay?"

you freeze. that smug expression makes your stomach twist. it's always like this with sae, a constant tug-of-war where you're supposed to be the handler and he the genius. and yet here you are, red-faced, pulse racing, hands clenching your clipboard like it's the only thing keeping you grounded.

"why can't you just do as i say for once?" you mutter, spinning on your heel.

"cute."

you whirl back. "what?"

he shrugs. "you get all flustered. it's cute."

"you can't just say things like that to your pr manager!" you hiss.

sae's smile is barely there, but it is there. a rare sight, like a solar eclipse, beautiful yet terrifying, and liable to burn you if you look to long.

"maybe i can," he says softly, like it's a challenge.

⭑

you threaten to quit that night. you don't, of course. because the next morning, you wake up to a trending video of sae at practice gently helping a kid tie their cleats. the caption reads: "Maybe he's not so icy after all?"

you stare at your screen, stunned. was it intentional? and then a text pings from him.

sae: better? + attached photo of him with his bangs down

you stare. you're going to scream.

⭑

(two weeks later)

you're standing backstage at a sponsorship event, briefing him one last time before he goes live.

"no sarcasm," you say, ticking things off on your clipboard. "smile. thank the brand. don't call the ceo's shoes ugly."

"they are though."

"don't care."

he sighs. you glance up, only to realize he's already looking at you. not the room or the stage, you.

and his hair? bangs down.

you blink.

"you did it again," you said.

"what?"

"you put your bangs down."

he smirks. "why wouldn't i?"

"because you hate them."

"i don't hate them. i just didn't care."

"until now?"

he shrugs. "you like them."

you stare at him, chest tightening. and then he leans in just enough for only you to hear.

"by the way," he murmurs, voice low, "if i score in the next game.. i'll point to the camera, is that okay?."

your brows furrow. "do what you want."

"okay, i'll say it's for the 'cutest manager in the league.'"

you don't can't respond. you're frozen in place, clipboard limp at your side, face on fire. and he just walks away, grinning.

imagine he doesn't score

#mixolya!#itoshi sae x reader #sae itoshi x reader #itoshi sae imagines #itoshi sae fluff #bllk imagines #bllk x reader #sae itoshi imagines #sae itoshi fluff

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ikeukiss · 5 months ago

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ANYTHING FOR YOU | 전원우

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ꒰ MY FIC FOR JUPITER'S SECRET CUPID COLLAB

⟢ PAIRING: jeon wonwoo x fem!reader ⟢ WORD COUNT: 3K ⟢ GENRE: slight comedy, fluff, smut ⟢ TAGS: best friends to lovers au, drunk confession, dirty talk, breeding kink, unprotected sex, creampie, cum eating ⟢ SYNOPSIS: Wonwoo has been your best friend forever. And maybe something more could be in the cards with a mature, sophisticated confession. Or a lot of alcohol. ⟢ AUTHOR'S NOTE: Inspired by LANY's song "anything 4 u"! Big thanks to my betas for this fic Tiya (@gyubakeries), Honey (@heesuncore), and Mitchie (@seokgyuu)! I love you all so much. And this fic is for my Secret Cupid Ally (@lovetaroandtaemin)!! I love you loads and you're an incredible friend. I'm so glad I got you so I could share a small token of appreciation for our friendship. I hope you love this story as much as I did writing it! ♥︎

Valentine’s Day weekend. The one weekend you have to suffer through everything being doused in red, pink, and white decorations. It’s everywhere: across your work office, all around the city you live in, and even plastered around the hole-in-the-wall bar that all of your friends are drinking in now.

It’s not one of your least favorite holidays, per se. But the intensity of it can be incredibly draining. The constant declarations of affection, the emotionally gooey visual representations of one’s desire for another person, it’s too much even for some of your own friends who are coupled up.

The reality of your loneliness pushes your mood down just enough that staring down your third bottle of beer makes you yearn for another, despite your alcohol tolerance being less than stellar. And to make matters worse, it sucks to be surrounded by others’ happiness when you’re so alone in love and in love with someone too enmeshed in your life as a friend, rather than a person of romantic interest.

Wonwoo sits with Vernon and Soonyoung at the high-top bar, nursing tequila shots and Coronas without bothering to look back at the rest of your table of friends. Yes, you were all celebrating Soonyoung’s new promotion and Vernon finally nabbing a girlfriend in time for Valentine’s this year, and they only stalked off a few minutes ago to share a few drinks on their own, but you wish Wonwoo was sitting next to you again.

You always mocked him for telling you to slow down. To drink water to avoid dehydration or to eat something to offset your alcohol intake. With all of his parroted wisdom that drives some of his closest friends crazy, you love him for it. You love him for a lot of reasons, really.

“Maybe you should just tell him, you know?” Seokmin says across from you, looking over at you from the rim of his Whiskey Sunrise. It’s a sickly shade of red, grenadine mixed in with the other ingredients to commemorate the holiday season. You wonder if it tastes like cough syrup, because it sure looks like it.

“You think I haven’t thought of that?” You ask with a slur, licking the remaining beer on your lips. “It’s not that easy to destroy seven years of friendship.”

“Come on. You act like nobody else has noticed when it’s plain as day, babe,” Seungkwan pipes up next to you, elbowing you softly in the ribs with an accompanying waggle of his eyebrows.

“And what is your best course of action, Dum and Dee?” You split your stare between both of your friends, your irritation peaking. “I just go over to that bar and confess everything to him. Then he’ll say he’s felt the same this entire time and we ride off into the sunset together?”

“One, you don’t need to be rude,” Seokmin responds. “Two, you don’t have to make it so dramatic. Get him alone tomorrow, maybe. Talk it out, see where it goes.”

“Exactly,” Seungkwan says. “It doesn’t need to be this big movie scene thing.”

“What movie?” Soonyoung asks, sitting back down next to Seungkwan and in front of his empty bowl of ramen. The other boys follow suit, Vernon alongside Seokmin and Wonwoo next to you once again.

It feels like torture and sanctuary in the same moment, so close but so far from what you wish the two of you could be.

“Nothing, just this documentary we all saw the other night,” you respond. You press your lips to your bottle again, pouting when the last droplets hit your tongue. “I’m gonna get another,” you say to nobody in particular. Wonwoo perks up once he notices you stumbling to get out of your chair.

“Not so fast,” Wonwoo says as you fall back into his arms. “I think I should get you home.”

“No, the night’s still young!” You whine into his jacket, your hair ruffling the skin on his neck. His chest rumbles with laughter, but nothing at the moment is funny to you. You don’t want to leave just yet, and he doesn’t need to treat you like a baby. “We still haven't even gone to karaoke.”

“Another night. Go sleep it off!” Vernon calls from behind you.

“You kids have fun!” Seokmin says with a conspiratory wink. You and Wonwoo walk towards the entrance of the bar, and you want to throw something at Seokmin to make your idiot best friend’s dumb smirk and even more ridiculous idea of confessing your feelings to your mutual friend blip out of existence.

Wonwoo has seen you at your lowest. He consoled you after you ran your car into a parked motorcycle when you were sixteen, your humiliation palpable the whole three hours you both waited for the police to show up. He’s held you in his arms after every failed romantic relationship, telling you it was always them and never you when it ended poorly. There’s nothing the two of you haven’t been there for each other for, no experience too vulnerable to share and overcome together.

But Wonwoo holding your hair in a makeshift ponytail as you throw up may just be the all-time low of your embarrassing moments. He whispers in your ear that you’re okay and rubs your back with a soft hand, and you feel all the worse for it. How could he ever love someone this prone to disaster, this cringeworthy?

“You should go home,” you cry into the toilet bowl. “I’m disgusting.”

Wonwoo says your name in a mocking tone, pretending to be serious but in no way critical of you or the situation. He takes off his plaid button up and throws it in some random corner of your bathroom, free to hold you as close as possible as you continue dry-heaving. “You’re not disgusting.”

“Of course you’d say that, you’re you.”

He laughs again, tucking what hair he can from your face so you can lift your head off of the toilet. “And what’s that?”

You look at him with puffy, half-open eyes. “Perfect.”

He helps you up from the tile floor and moves you to your bedroom on your weak legs. He sheds off your overshirt as you kick off your denim jeans. Your mind rumbles with a whirlpool of thoughts as his brain ruminates on the word you used when comparing himself to you.

“I’m in no way perfect, kid,” he whispers. The nickname he’s used on you forever feels like a backhand, a copious amount of salt in a wound you know will never heal. He’ll always see you at a distance from him, his feelings leagues away from yours.

“Don’t call me that,” you cry into your pillow, resting your cheek deep into the material to muffle the quiet sobs in your throat. He can’t be serious, talking to you so tenderly when you’re falling apart.

“Hey, can you look at me?” You shake your head and settle deeper into the pile of comforters and throw pillows. Wonwoo suddenly feels his gut turn into a dozen knots. He doesn’t know what’s wrong, how to fix it, or what to say to make things better, and it kills him. “Why are you acting like this?”

“Because you’re too perfect to love someone like me. But I love you so much, and it fucking sucks,” you hiccup, the darkness of your bed making you believe he’s not there, this isn’t real, and it’s okay to release all the words in your heart into the dark. “And every time I see those damn red and pink hearts all over the place, I think of you and I want to die.”

The force of your confession almost knocks Wonwoo on his ass. At the very least, he settles onto the desk chair near your bed and hears your whimpers give way to light snores.

He runs his hands through your hair again and tucks the covers up to your chin. He holds himself back from pressing a kiss to your forehead, the one thing he’s always done when you’ve passed out countless times before in his presence, but never recalled the next morning. This time, though, he prays you’ll remember your drunken admission.

“I hope you meant everything you said,” he whispers before retreating to your couch to fall asleep to the sounds of the cityscape below.

You wake up to low jazz playing from your living room TV and the smell of sizzling eggs. Each limb aches from the heavy sleep you fell under last night. You quietly pad out of your room to find Wonwoo cooking what looks to be the perfect mix of breakfast and hangover food. A makeshift Bloody Mary sits on the counter next to him, waiting for you.

Wonwoo turns when he senses you behind him, and he grins. “Hey, you’re awake. I was worried you’d be passed out until the afternoon. I wouldn’t blame you, though.”

You blush a shade deeper, still sporting your tank top and clad in a pair of boy shorts. You forgot you had taken your pants off before slipping into bed the night prior, but it isn’t the first time Wonwoo’s seen you half-clothed. You drink half of the concoction and set it down, your headache throbbing a little less. “How bad was I last night?”

He smirks. “Bad enough to throw up another three times.”

You groan into the back of your hand and hitch yourself up on the counter across from Wonwoo, his focus still on the over-medium eggs in the pan. “I’m sorry you had to take care of me again.”

“I wanted to,” he says without looking up at you. “I always want to be here when you need me.”

“I know, I know, it’s your job to say that,” you joke.

He drops the metal spatula next to him on the stove, and you jump up at the sound. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t say a word for a moment, and you’re unsure if he’s even breathing when you ask him if he’s okay. “So, you don’t remember then?” His question comes out almost like a statement, but the wavered edge of it proves he is concerned with whatever has slipped your mind.

“Woo, you’re freaking me out.”

He turns the stove to a low, simmering heat before facing you. His eyes look sad but expectant, waiting for the inevitable to come to you. “You really have no idea what I’m talking about?”

You tuck your hair behind your ear, and in that instant, you recall that last hour before you fell asleep. Wonwoo helping you into bed. Crying in your bed. And all the words that followed.

The memories bring tears to your eyes and your hands to your face. “Oh my god—”

Wonwoo takes your palms away and holds them to his mouth. “Stop running from me.”

“Don’t make me say it again, Woo, please.” Your bottom lip trembles. You fight every instinct to run from the kitchen and out of the apartment altogether, wanting to accept the continuous pain of hiding your feelings than the truth that this could be the end of the both of you as you know it, for better or worse.

“Fine, you don’t have to.” Wonwoo’s lips curl into that grin you’ve adored for almost a decade. “I’ll say what I need to first, then.”

He takes a deep breath and sets his jaw. “I’ve been in love with you since the minute you threw your ice-cream at that biker who almost clipped me in the foot on the way to school. Remember? I may have loved you long before that, but that’s the moment I realized.

“And I don’t want to lose you. I want to be more than just the guy you call your best friend. I want to be the only friend that matters, the friend that kisses you goodnight and tells you how beautiful you are because there’s no other way to describe you. I love you, too, kid, whether you realized it or not.”

A breathy yelp leaves your mouth before you kiss Wonwoo on the mouth. It’s a hard one, a clash of teeth and a bit of tongue, but you didn’t expect less from such an unexpected and perfect confession. Maybe this was the way you rode off into the sunset together. Sure, there was the smell of burning eggs instead of the sounds of a white stallion gallivanting off to the unforeseeable future, but it’s perfect. It’s yours.

Wonwoo shuts the burner off entirely before he takes you by the hand into your bedroom. When your bed is in full view, he kisses you long and slow. It’s nothing like the first kisses you shared a second ago, but it’s earth-shattering all the same.

You moan into his mouth when he presses a free hand to your breast, teasing the skin above your shirt until your nipple pebbles.

“Is this too fast?” He asks in a gruff voice. “We don’t have to do anything if you’re not comfortable, I just—”

You press a finger to his lips, effectively shutting him up. “If you do not take my clothes off right now and fuck me, I will never speak to you again.”

Wonwoo smirks and kisses you once more, only stopping to pull your tank top over your head and rip your underwear off of your legs. His fingers delve between your folds, and you shudder in his hold but refuse to let him take his hand away.

“You like this,” he whispers, the statement thick with his lust.

“Yes, it feels so good,” you whimper. You gasp when two of his fingers curl inside of you, his thumb still nestled on top of your clit to swirl around with the pad. The amount of pleasure he’s already given you is indescribable, and he hasn’t even truly done much yet.

You whine when he takes his hand away, but it’s to discard his own clothes and sit at the edge of your bed. He beckons for you to sit on top of him, and he doesn’t think twice about swirling himself between your essence and lining the head of his dick with your entrance. His tip is so swollen and covered in pre-cum, there’s no problem sinking it inside of your heat.

You share a mutual curse of pleasure when he bottoms out, his pelvic bone meeting your skin. You stay like that for a moment. You’re so full and unable to move from the size of him filling every empty space inside of you, you think this has to be a dream. Last night has not given way to day yet, and now is just a conjuring of your cruel mind.

You get lost in your thoughts for so long Wonwoo brings his hand to your face and traces his fingers over your cheek, staring at you lovingly. “Where’d you go?”

You smile shyly and kiss his nose. “I just can’t believe this is happening.”

“I guess I’ll just have to remind you it’s real.”

He takes your ass between his hands and spreads you out before thrusting up inside of you, making you gasp hard. He moves long and slow underneath you, almost taking his cock out of your pussy completely before delving back into you.

“I want to give you everything,” he pants. “All that I have—will have—is for you. You know that, right?”

“Yes, fuck,” you whisper, meeting his hips with yours as you try to set your own pace, sinking down onto him with every thrust where your skin meets with loud smacks.

“I love you so much,” he says into your neck before biting down on your soft skin. You moan loudly and press yourself deeper and harder against him. His cock hits you at the perfect angle as you straddle him, and you feel the start of your climax deep in your stomach.

Seven years of missed opportunities. More than too many chances for days and nights like this spent together so intimately gone to the wind. It’s easy to be regretful for all the time that you’ve wasted without each other, but you realize it’s not wasted at all.

Every step, every thread of fate that tied you two together, brought you here. Whatever comes of today is just an extension of what has already existed in your hearts. So what more is there to ask for?

“Fuck, I’m so close,” he growls in your ear. His balls smack against your skin as he continues to slam into you. Tears spring in your eyes as he moves even harder, trying to take you both to your peaks together. “Where can I come, baby?”

“Inside of me. I want all of it, all of you. Please,” you beg. You bounce harder on top of him, circling your clit with your fingers to fall off the precipice with Wonwoo by your side.

“You want to feel all of me, yeah? So full of my cum it’s all you’ll think about?” He smirks and replaces the fingers on your clit with his own. “Maybe I’ll fuck a baby into you with how much cum I give you. Would you like that?”

You see stars behind your eyelids as you listen to the beautiful, dirty words on his lips. You nod vigorously, wanting nothing more than for him to claim you in this way. It’s all you’ve thought about for years, truthfully.

“God, I’m coming,” you say into his neck, thighs quivering as the rest of your body goes slack from the pleasure. Wonwoo grunts into the shell of your ear as he orgasms himself, his seed spilling into you so deep you think there’s no way any remnant of him will slip out.

When he takes himself out of you, he swirls the mixture of both of your releases on his fingers before you take those fingers into your mouth, sucking them dry.

Wonwoo chuckles and kisses you deeply, the taste of the two of you on both of your tongues. “That’s one way to end Valentine’s weekend, don’t you think?”

You giggle and kiss him on both cheeks, too eager to see the rest of your future together. “You could say that.”

@gyubakeries @loserlvrss @okiedokrie-main @brownbunnyb

𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 ౨ৎ˚₊

@kstrucknet @k-films @kvanity-main @lapydiaries @moadiarynet @/sweetvenomnet @onedoornet @deoboyznet @violetanet @whipped-kpop-creators

#kvanity #kstrucknet #keopihausnet #lapydiariesnet #wonwoo smut #jeon wonwoo smut #wonwoo x reader #jeon wonwoo x reader #seventeen smut #svt smut #seventeen x reader #seventeen fic #seventeen fics #svt x reader #svt fic #svt fics #[ lw - events ]#— ikeukiss #ikeukiss — svt

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puckinghischier · 1 year ago

Text

Choices

Jack Hughes x fem!reader

summary: jack proves that he will always choose reader, no matter what anyone has to say

notes: so, the first part of this is literally my favorite thing i’ve ever written. the ending? meh. i don’t hate it, but i definitely think it could have been done better, i just struggle so hard with endings 😭. i also lowkey don’t like the title, but literally couldn’t think of a different one. anyways, i hope you enjoy!! happy reading! 🫶🏼

can be read as a part 2 to this fic, but can also be read by itself

request: Could you write something with Jack getting defensive/choosing her? Maybe he gets cornered by an ex flame or someone about what makes reader so special to get him to commit to a serious relationship when he didn't with her

[6.7k]

“Are you sure I don’t need to dress up tonight? I know you said they’re just some old family friends, but I want to make a good impression,” you question Jack, standing in front of the full-length mirror propped against the wall.

You’re wearing a pale, yellow sundress with daisies imprinted all across the fabric. Jack insisted the Lawsons were just old friends of the family, having owned the house down the street since he was just a kid.

Since meeting Jack’s family last year, you’ve been his plus one to every single trip he’s made home. At thanksgiving he brought you home for a quick, two day trip to meet his grandparents and a few pairs of aunts and uncles, before having to fly out again because of his game schedule. Around Christmas the two of you split your time, spending the actual holiday with your family, then flying to meet Jack’s family for New Year’s activities, where you met several cousins and old school friends of Jack’s.

This year, you’re celebrating the Fourth of July in Michigan, finally getting to experience the infamous Hughes lake house. Jack was able to convince you to spend an entire month here at the large house, telling you the trip was for the Fourth festivities, but suggesting you leave a few weeks beforehand, wanting you to get the full lake house experience.

You had spent your days switching between joining his family on the large pontoon boat sitting at the end of their dock and going out on adventures with Jack alone on the pair of Jet skis Quinn had bought after his first paycheck came in during his rookie year. A few nights a week, Jack would tell you to put on something nice, showing you around the small town a few miles away from the house, taking you to each of his favorite childhood spots for dinner.

One night he had told you to put on the nicest dress you brought, then proceeded to take you to an old, beach themed bar. He sat across from you at the high top table in a collared shirt and khakis, the rest of the patrons around you in their bathing suit cover ups or shorts and t-shirts.

You scolded him, telling him you two looked like fools in there, all dressed up to eat fried seafood. He laughed, telling you the only fool in the room was him, because he was “foolishly and wholly in love with you.” You rolled your eyes at his mushy-ness, a blush making its way to your cheeks at the same time.

That memory, however, is the reason you no longer trust Jack when he tells you to either dress up or dress down for dinners. Including tonight.

“I promise, you don’t have to dress up. You could wear your bathing suit for all I care,” he calls out from the bathroom where he’s ‘fixing’ his hair, which usually means brushing it and then ruffling it around with his hands. “I mean, mom might not be too happy if you’re sitting at the dinner table in just a bikini, but I’d sure enjoy the show.”

You scoff at his words, turning to go and stand in the doorway of the ensuite, crossing your arms.

“I’m being serious, J. I want to make a good impression on these people. They’re really good friends of your parents. Your mom was telling me how you all used to spend almost the entire summer together, constantly over at one another’s houses for dinner and fire talks,” you remember how excited Ellen was to be having her friends over for dinner tonight, claiming she hadn’t seen them in years because of how busy their lives had gotten.

Ellen also mentioned they had a daughter around your and Jack’s age who was in with her parents for the summer. Her name is Sarah and she’s a department director of some big advertisement company in New York. She stopped coming around as often around the same time Jack got drafted to the Devils, according to Ellen. Her job being too demanding for her to make the trip every summer.

You were excited to meet yet another person that knew Jack as a kid. You were hoping to rope a few stories out of her over the course of dinner, wanting to know as much as you can about Jack’s childhood from those around him. Sometimes you really hate the fact that you haven’t known Jack his whole life. You count yourself one of the luckiest people alive to be able to share his life with him now, but you’re always picturing him growing up, wanting to know every detail of what makes Jack, Jack.

Quinn and Luke are always eager to tell you anything you want to know about Jack, from the time he wanted to be “TP man” for Halloween and proceeded to wrap his entire body in toilet paper, wearing the empty rolls on his hands, to the time he wanted to ask his eighth-grade crush out on a date, but instead blurted out that he had to go home to massage their dad’s feet.

You always enjoyed hearing stories about him from people that weren’t his mischievous brothers, though. Like when his grandma told you about the time she got home to see that Jack had rearranged her kitchen cabinets, placing everything he saw her use on a regular basis closer to where she could reach it after watching her drop her favorite mug while trying to put it away on the second highest shelf that morning. Or when his best friend from high school told you about the time Jack gave him a ride home from practice, stopping in to say hello to his parents when Jack heard his little sister crying in her room because she couldn’t figure out her math homework. Jack stayed over for nearly two hours to help the little girl with her multiplication table and gave her words of encouragement the entire time.

You knew Jack was someone special, his calming energy easing your nerves from the first time you ever spoke to him. Hearing the stories that confirm he’s been this way his whole life, from the people that have known him far longer than you, though, makes you burst with so much love for the man you think your heart might actually explode one day.

“And I’m being serious, Sunshine, what you’re wearing is fine and won’t change the fact that they’re going to absolutely love you, just like everyone else does,” Jack walks over to stand in front of you.

You uncross your arms, letting them fall to your sides. Jack reaches down and takes each one of your hands into his, stepping forward slightly.

“I just…I care about how the people that know you view me. It’s important to me that the people important to you know that I love you, not that I’m just trying to ride on the back of some hot shot hockey player,” you whisper, referencing a blog post you were sent by one of your coworkers back in Jersey, asking if the girl in the picture was, in fact, you sitting on Jack’s lap in a crowded bar you went to for a post-game celebration.

The post talked about how you had been seen with Jack at a few games and were seen leaving several bars with him over the course of a few weeks early into your relationship. The blog site was a silly, hockey gossip blog, more concerned about who the players were sleeping with than any of the games themselves, but the accusation made your heart sink nonetheless. You knew you were with Jack for no reason other than you love him and he makes you feel safe, comfortable, and loved. Jack knows you’re not with him for his money, and anyone close to him knows you’re not with him for his money or fame.

He could quit hockey tomorrow and it wouldn’t change even an ounce of your feelings towards him. With or without hockey, he’s still your Jack. The Jack that makes you honey lavender tea every night because he knows it helps you sleep. The Jack that somehow manages to bring you flowers after every home game, no matter how late it is. The Jack that insisted you move in with him after your lease ended because his apartment is closer to your new job, but really because he was tired of not coming home to you every night. The Jack that showed up to your graduation this spring, bringing nearly his whole team and his family, the group cheering so loud when you walked across the stage everyone in attendance laughed, the person handing you your diploma commenting “sounds like you have a few fans out there.”

Even though you know that Jack knows, and his family knows, each time you meet someone new from his life, you feel the need to prove yourself. It’s part of the reason you were so anxious to meet his parents all those months ago. You worry that each person you meet has seen or read an article like the one you were sent. You worry they’ll think you’re not right for Jack, or that you’re only with him to get a taste of the popularity and lifestyle that comes along with his job. All you want is to show them how much you love him for him, and how you never want to leave his side.

Jack looks down at you, bringing your joined hands up to his mouth, pulling them together and kissing your knuckles.

“I promise you, no one here thinks that,” he starts, his words oozing with sincerity. “There is not a single person that matters to me in my life more than you. And absolutely no one’s opinion of you matters to me other than your own. Do you think you’re with me for the wrong reasons?” He asks you, waiting for you to answer him.

You shake your head no, breaking his eye contact.

“Hey, look at me,” he squeezes your hands that are still resting near his mouth, bringing your eyes back to his. “Then absolutely nothing else matters, okay? I know who you are, and you know who you are. Last time I checked, we’re the only two in this relationship, so that’s the only two people I’ll ever be looking to for opinions concerning my choices in this relationship, got it?”

You nod, a little embarrassed you were ever worried in the first place after his small speech, but still needing the hear his words nonetheless.

You’re still looking up at him, opening your mouth to tell him how much you love him when your stomach growls between the two of you, loud enough you nearly jump back.

Jack’s eyes flicker down to your stomach and back up to your eyes, the amusement in them making the blue shade shine even brighter.

“On that note, let’s go get you something to eat,” he chuckles, kissing your forehead before dropping one of your hands, the other still intwined with yours, pulling you out of the room behind him.

Jack led you down to the kitchen, digging around in the fridge to sneak you a snack before everyone sat down for dinner, knowing the meal wouldn’t be ready for at least another hour.

After he was satisfied that you weren’t going to starve, thanks to the small bowl of fruit he found, the two of you walked out to the back deck, joining everyone else.

The Lawsons had already arrived, Jim and Ellen standing on the other side of the large deck, conversing with Mr. and Mrs. Lawson separately.

Mrs. Lawson is a short, slim woman. Her hair is flawlessly styled into a ‘looks lazy but really took an hour’ up do, wearing a light purple, short sleeve pleated dress that fell just above her ankles, a simple pair of sandals on her feet.

Her husband is a tall man with salt and pepper hair, wearing a matching polo shirt and khaki shorts, a pair of Hey Dude brand shoes on his feet.

As soon as the two of you walked out onto the porch, Ellen was immediately halting her conversation to introduce you to the guests.

“Oh! There they are! Aren’t they just dolls? Look at them!” she gushed, walking over to greet the two of you.

You smile warmly at her, your relationship with Jack’s mom almost as dear to you as your relationship with your own. The two of you were able to sit and talk with one another during the hockey game her and Jim had come into town for the first time you met them. You both were invested in the game itself, considering all three Hughes boys were on the ice that night, but the intermissions were full of conversations and stories. You left the rink that night feeling like you had gained another mother, exchanging numbers with Ellen and promising to keep in touch. You now have weekly phone calls with Ellen, her interest in your life and well being matching that of her interest in her son’s.

“Mom, we literally saw you an hour ago on the boat, calm down,” Jack tells her, earning soft smack to his chest from you.

“Don’t be a grump, Jack. She’s telling us how good we look and you choose now to suddenly act like you don’t love being told you look pretty,” you scold.

Jack looks down at you with his mouth slightly open, putting on his best fake offended face.

“See, I told you she keeps him in check for me. Now I don’t have to carry the burden all by myself anymore,” Ellen tells Mrs. Lawson, earning a laugh from the woman standing just behind her.

You and Jack continue to have a small stare down until he conceded, choosing to flash a smile at you instead, sticking his tongue out like a child and earning a small giggle from you.

“Y/N, this is Deborah, but we all call her Deb. Deb, this is Y/N, my new baby girl,” Ellen breaks up yours and Jack’s moment, introducing you to Mrs. Lawson.

“Hi, it’s so nice to meet you Mrs. Lawson,” you say, removing your hand from Jack’s so you could step forward and give a small, greeting hug to the woman in front of you.

“Oh honey, Mrs. Lawson was my mother-in-law, please, call me Deb,” she tells you as she pulls back from the hug.

“Okay, Deb is it,” you laugh, stepping back beside Jack.

“C’mere, I need a hug from you too, Jack,” she motions Jack over to her, your boyfriend walking over to give her a slightly longer hug than you shared with her. “My, you’ve grown up, haven’t you? Last time I saw you, you were just getting ready to declare yourself draft eligible. Now look at you, the real deal.”

Jack blushes as he steps back towards you, knowing how shy he gets when complimented.

He may be cocky on the ice and in interviews, but you’ve learned that when it comes to the people that are close to him, Jack is extremely humble. He turns a light shade of pink any time you compliment how well he played after a game, or when his mom calls to tell him she watched his game on tv and cheered so loud she woke their cat up anytime he scored a goal.

“Just enjoy playing the game, is all,” he slips his hand back into yours. You give it a light squeeze.

“Ron, quit talking golf and get over here! Come say hi to Jack and his girlfriend!” Deb turns and shouts to her husband behind her. Both Mr. Lawson and Jim leave their spot by the heating grill and walk over to join your small group.

“Jack, how are ya, boy?” Mr. Lawson walks up, pulling Jack from your hold, bringing him in by his arm for what you call a ‘guy’ hug, each having one arm slug over the other’s shoulders, their clasped hands trapped between their chests.

“Getting by alright. Happy to have a bit of a break. Couldn’t wait to show Y/N here the ways of the lake house,” Jack motions to where you stand slightly behind him.

“Oh gosh, where are my manners. Hi, sweetheart, I’m Ron,” Mr. Lawson sticks his hand out towards you, shaking it softly.

“Hi, Jack’s told me a lot about you two. It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Lawson” you reference both of the Lawsons, repeating part of your greeting to Deb.

“Oh, no, Mr. Lawson is my father, I’m just Ron, dear,” he mirrors his wife’s earlier statement, stepping over to place his arm around her waist.

You chat with the couple a bit longer, noticing after a few minutes that Quinn and Luke are nowhere to be found. Neither was their daughter Ellen had mentioned earlier.

“Not to interrupt, but where are Quinn and Luke?” you ask just as Ellen finishes telling Ron and Deb about a recent cruise her and Jim had been on.

“Oh, they took Sarah out for a spin on the boat before dinner. She said she missed the water, so away they went,” Deb explains, looking over to Jack. “She’s so excited to see you again, Jack. She always talks about wanting to get across the bridge to see a game, but you know her, a workaholic and all.”

You sense a slight rigidness in Jack’s body language at the mention of Sarah. He responds with a simple “Yeah, that’s a shame,” not offering any other words about the mystery girl.

You were confused. You had thought Ellen said the boys were friends with Sarah growing up. Why did Jack tense up when she was mentioned? Had there been some sort of falling out? Was he not excited to see her? He hadn’t mentioned anything when you brought her up earlier, causing you to assume he just didn’t know much about her, having lost contact after they both were busy and didn’t have as much time to spend at the lake anymore.

As soon as Jack had finished speaking, you heard loud laughter coming from the long deck at the end of the house’s yard, seeing three figures quickly approaching the porch you were standing on.

“See, told you I could still beat you, just like when I was a kid!” you hear an unfamiliar voice call out, footsteps coming up the wooden stairs leading to the porch.

“Not fair, you didn’t tell me it was a race until you were already at the end of the deck,” you recognize the voice this time, Luke uttering his words between fast breaths.

As you look towards the stairs, you see one of the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen in your life step onto the porch.

She had jet black hair that fell to her mid back, perfectly pin straight. She had the greenest eyes you think you’d ever seen, and her tan skin was a shade that people usually had to be photoshopped to achieve. She was wearing a sundress similar to yours, but hers was a baby blue color, complementing her skin tone and hair perfectly. It fell right at her mid-thigh, and had a floral print running across the fabric.

“Hey, everyone. Hope we didn’t miss dinner,” she said, waltzing over to the wet bar to grab a bottle of water as Luke and Quinn make their way up the stairs, coming to stand a few feet from you and Jack.

“Oh, not even close, honey. You’re just in time. Your dad and Jim were just about to put the chicken on the grill,” Deb tells her daughter, beaming at her.

She walks over to join everyone, not stopping until she’s stood right in front of Jack.

“Oh, Jacky! I’ve missed you so much! It’s been so long!” she wraps him in a hug. His arms stay pinned to his sides, his body going rigid with discomfort. You notice the looks from Quinn and Luke, confused at their wide eyes.

He coughs, causing her to detach herself from his body, but not removing her hand from his shoulders.

“Well, that hockey training sure has been good to you, hasn’t it Jacky,” she continues, squeezing his biceps with a smirk before dropping her hands, completely ignoring you.

The second her hands leave his body, Jack is stepping back over to you, placing his hand on your waist.

“Uhh, Sarah, this is Y/N, my girlfriend. Y/N, Sarah,” Jack says, squeezing you to his side.

“Oh! You’re the new girlfriend my mom was telling me about. How sweet!” she coos, placing her hand on her chest. “Jack, she’s so pretty. But, what happened to Macey? You know, the one with the pretty blonde hair? Oh, and the absolute insane body. Seriously, I need her personal trainer’s number,” she asks, looking around at everyone.

You think about your brunette hair and know exactly what she’s trying to do.

“Not in the picture anymore. Didn’t really like the fact that she kept sticking her tongue down some Philly player’s throat when she came to visit me during an away game,” Jack spat out, grinding his teeth.

“What a shame. I liked her,” Sarah waved it off, making a small pout with her lips. “But, I’m sure you’re great too!” she added as an after thought, flashing the fakest smile you’ve ever seen.

You feel a presence step up behind you, Quinn slyly whispering “ex-girlfriend” in your ear, suddenly making Jack’s body language and her backhanded warmth towards you make sense.

“Okay, well, time to go get the food on the grill. Food will be ready in around thirty,” Jim claps his hands together, sensing the need to break up the awkward moment.

“Oh great, I’m absolutely starving,” Sarah exaggerates her last word, turning and walking towards the sliding glass door leading to the kitchen.

You stand there, not knowing how to process what just happened, Jack’s grip on you as tight as ever. You look over to Ellen, who gives you a sympathetic look.

“Oh, my sweet girl,” Deb sighs and shakes her head in amusement, completely oblivious to her daughter’s fake niceness and obvious flirting with Jack. “She’s something else, isn’t she? Such a little firecracker,” she reflects, nothing but adoration in her tone and on her face.

“Yeah, one that backfires into the innocent bystanders,” Quinn mumbles under his breath, earning a snort from Luke. Ellen shoots them a glare, darting her eyes towards Deb to see if she heard, but the older woman was still staring adoringly at her daughter in the kitchen through the glass doors.

Thirty minutes later, just like Jim announced, everyone was sat at the large outdoor table, food covering the large surface.

The food was amazing, the bowl of fruit from earlier long gone as you sat down to fill your plate, wanting seconds of almost everything.

“Jack, will you hand me the potato salad, I swear, I can’t get enough of it,” you ask your boyfriend who’s sitting to your right.

He reaches over and grabs the bowl, scooping a spoonful on to your plate for you. “That good? Or you want more?”

“No, that’s good. Gotta save room for dessert,” you tell him, picking up your fork to dig in.

Jack places his hand on your thigh, smiling over at the little happy dance you do when you scoop the potato salad into your mouth.

“Oh, I’m so full,” you hear Sarah say, raising her voice to make sure the whole table hears her. “I wish I could be like you, Y/N, I’d love to have seconds, but I just cannot hold another bite, I’m already so bloated as it is,” she places her hands over her stomach to emphasize. “You’re so lucky you’ve already snagged a man and don’t have to worry about watching what you eat anymore.”

You stop mid-chew, her words sinking in.

You look around the table, everyone looking at you. Deb and Ron are smiling at you, not at all reacting to their daughter’s words, likely not even understanding the connotation of what she just said. Ellen and Jim are looking at Sarah, their eyebrows raised in shock. Quinn is glaring at her while Luke’s mouth is dropped open.

Jack’s hand is digging into your thigh, his other hand closed, clenches in a tight fist on the tablet next to his glass of water.

You finish chewing your food and swallow thickly, placing your fork down and sliding your plate away from you.

“Oh, no, don’t stop on my account. I’d kill to be able to be as comfortable as you are. Not having to worry about impressing anyone anymore, just being able to know you’re loved, no matter what you look like,” she continues, taking a sip of her water to hide her smirk.

You bow your head, your face a shade of red you can physically feel, refusing to meet anyone’s eye.

Luke coughs, a faint “bitch” heard by your ears.

“Okay, I think it’s time we clear the table for dessert, shall we,” Ellen pipes up, her own smile strained.

“Great idea, let me help you,” Deb, either still oblivious or intentionally ignoring the hurtful nature of her daughter’s words, starts to stand.

“No, I got it,” Jack surprises you by standing, taking everyone’s plates and quickly stomping off of the porch.

You could feel the anger radiating off of him when Sarah was talking, probably choosing to leave the area before he said something he would regret.

“Here, let me help, too,” Sarah stands, taking a few food dishes in her hands and stepping inside behind Jack before anyone could protest.

The table is silent after she leaves. You sit there, debating on just sliding out of your seat and under the table, wanting to hide. Luke, who was sitting next to you, brings his hand over to rest on your shoulder, trying to provide some comfort.

You look over at him to see a concerned look as he mouths a silent “You okay?”, nodding your head yes, despite the heavy feeling in your stomach.

You look up again, straight at Sarah’s parents, wondering how they can be so ignorant about their daughter’s malicious words.

You meet Ellen’s eye, seeing a sad, pleading look, begging you to forgive her with her expression. You give her a small smile, shaking your head to tell her it’s alright.

Ron is the one to finally break the silence, looking around at everyone with a genuine smile, once again proving your suspicion they’re unaware of the shift in atmosphere.

“Ellen, please tell me you made your famous cheesecake. It’s been too long since I’ve had a slice,” he speaks, unable to read the room.

Ellen partakes in empty small talk with Deb and Ron about how she makes her cheesecake when you decided you need to go check on Jack.

“I’ll be right back. I’m gonna go help Jack,” you say flatly, standing from your seat and all but running inside, the urge to walk over and shake the Lawsons while shouting “your daughter’s a bitch!” in their face your cue to leave the table.

You enter the kitchen, seeing the dishes both Sarah and Jack brought in littering the counter, but neither one of them was to be found in the spacious area.

You walk through the house, calling out Jack’s name softly as you pass the stairs, making your way to the small sitting room at the front of the house.

“Jack, I don’t get it. What does she have that I don’t? What about her makes her any better than me?” you hear the sound of Sarah’s voice coming from the foyer.

“What the hell do you mean? Everything! She has everything you don’t!” you hear Jack exclaim, stopping in your tracks.

Were they talking about you?

“Jack, we were good together! We had fun. I don’t understand why you ended things between us. Hell, I took a job in New York because you said you were probably going to New Jersey to play. We could have been the new it couple of New Jersey!” it was Sarah’s turn to raise her voice.

Jack shakes his head, a dry laugh making its way out of his mouth. “What part of I didn’t want to don’t you understand?” Jack spits out. “You had fun. You chose to move to New York. You thought were good together. There was never any we in any of that.”

You can practically see the veins popping out on Jack’s forehead through his tone, even though they were out of view.

“All you ever cared about when we were together was the fact that I was about to play professional hockey. You didn’t care about me, you just cared about what I could offer you!” he shouts again. “The fact you just admitted you cared more about being the “it” couple more than you cared about wanting to be with me proves it.”

“Well, sue me for wanting to live the life of the rich and famous,” Sarah says, scoffing.

“See, that’s what I’m talking about,” Jack huffs out. “Y/N doesn’t care about living the life of the rich and famous. She just wants me. She wants Jack, not ‘Jack Hughes, star forward, number one overall draft pick’,” he puts on his announcer voice.

“All my life, people have only ever cared about how well I played hockey. Every coach, every teammate, every girl. They all saw me as a hockey player. They wanted me on their team, or in their bed, because they wanted what came with me: attention and popularity,” Your heart breaks at Jack’s voice, never having heard him sound so deflated before.

“Hell, you introduced me to people as a future professional hockey player before you ever introduced me to them as your boyfriend,” he continues. “With Y/N, that’s far from the most interesting thing about me. When she first introduced me to her family, she told them I was her best friend’s brother,” he refers back to the first time you took him home to meet your family, the subject of hockey not coming up until your dad asked if he liked sports, only to berate him for not being a football player. Later that night he asked him how hockey worked. Your dad has never missed a Devils game since, either in person or on tv.

“Her favorite fun fact to tell people about me isn’t a stat, or how many hat tricks I’ve scored,” he keeps going. “It’s that I love to sing Shakira when I’m in the shower. Or that I’m the only other person other than her dad that has ever made her laugh so hard water has come out of her nose,” Jack lightly laughs.

“Hey, Y/N, everything okay-“ you hear Quinn’s voice rounding the corner.

Cutting him off with a “shhh” you place your finger on your mouth to tell him, and Luke who trails behind him, to be quiet, pointing to the sitting room where Jack and Sarah are arguing.

“So, yeah, I would say I’m sorry you didn’t get what you wanted out of me, but I’m not. I’m not sorry that I broke things off with you. I’m not sorry that I found someone that actually loves me for who I am. And I’m not sorry that I brought the woman that I plan on marrying here with me, and you just so happened to be here too,” Jack tells her, his voice still holding a slight trace of anger.

“I am sorry that I never told my parents what really went down between us, telling them we just agreed it would be too hard and we needed to go back to being friends, because maybe they wouldn’t have invited you over tonight. I am sorry that I didn’t take Y/N out for dinner, trying to avoid what’s happening right now. I am sorry that you can’t begin to fathom someone can see through your forced smiles and backhanded comments, seeing how cold and rotten you really are on the inside. And I am sorry that your poor, sweet parents were given such a malicious bitch as a daughter,” He finishes.

“You know, my mom said Ellen told her you showed her a ring, but I thought it was just a gift. You’re really going to propose to her?” Sarah asks, annoyance clear in her voice, spitting out her last word with unmistakeable disgust.

“Of course it’s true. Bought the ring months ago, been carrying it around with me every since. Showed mom the night she met her, told her I was serious about her and that she’s the one. I think part of me knew that from the moment I met her,” you hear Jack say, hearing the tenderness in his voice when the subject turns to you.

Your head whips over to Luke and Quinn, your eyes wide and your mouth handing open. The panicked look on their faces is all the confirmation you need to know that you heard Jack right. He bought you a ring. He bought you a ring and showed his mom. He bought you a ring and showed his mom and was going to propose to you.

Before you know what you’re doing, your body is leading you to the entryway where your boyfriend is arguing with his ex-girlfriend.

“Y/N, no, wait,” Quinn tries to stop you, but it’s too late.

“You bought me a ring?” you ask as you enter the room, seeing Jack and Sarah standing several feet apart from each other.

“Oh, great, the woman of the hour,” Sarah rolls her eyes at you, throwing her arms up and letting them fall to her side.

You shoot her a glare, not at all concerned about her comments from earlier anymore.

You turn your head to Jack, who’s face looked as panicked at Luke and Quinn’s.

“Jack, you said you bought me a ring. Is that true?” you ask him, begging him to answer you.

Jack gulps, nodding his head yes.

“Right…” is all you can say, trying to digest what’s happening.

You look back and forth between Jack and Sarah, your gaze finally landing on the unimpressed one of Sarah.

“Listen, I don’t care what happened between you and Jack however many years ago, but I don’t appreciate you coming to his family’s house and acting like a nasty bitch to me because you got dumped and I’m the one getting the ring,” you tell her, earning a shocked scoff from her. “So, if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it if you took your nasty attitude and sad insecurities out of this house and elsewhere. I have something I need to discuss with the man that chose me .”

You hear the faint snorts of Quinn and Luke behind you, while Jack’s face moves from panicked to shocked as he looks between the two of you.

“God, you don’t have to ask me twice. All of this melodrama is giving me a headache. You’re not worth this. I can get any guy from the Knicks roster, I don’t need to waste my time on hockey players anymore,” Sarah says before she storms out of the room.

You watch her go, giving her a sweet smile and a wave on her way out.

“That was…the hottest thing I’ve ever seen you do,” Jack tells you, walking over to where you stood.

You roll your eyes at him, hitting him in the chest once he gets close enough to you.

“Ow! What was that for?” Jack asks you, rubbing where you thumped him

“For not telling me that Sarah was your ex-girlfriend when I was telling you how excited I was to meet her earlier” you exclaim while looking up at him, poking him in the chest with each word

“I didn’t want you to feel like you had anything to be worried about and get even more in your head about this dinner,” he tells you, grabbing your finger and pushing your hand down to your side.

“Yeah, well a lot of good that did,” you roll your eyes, bringing your hand up to softly smack his chest again.

“God, woman, stop hitting me!” Jack yelps again. “What the hell was that one for?”

“For buying me a ring only a few months into our relationship! And then for not telling me you were going to propose, you idiot!” you exclaim, throwing your arms around.

“Well, I don’t know if you know this or not, but most proposals are usually a surprise,” he tells you, grabbing your arms and holding them apart, preventing you from hitting him again.

“Still. Why would you buy it so soon into us dating, Jack? What if you ended up hating me once we hit six months, or you found out I snored and decided you didn’t want to share a bed with me for the rest of your life?” you ask him, earning a laugh from your boyfriend.

“I knew that you were it from the moment I met you. There’s absolutely no chance of me ever getting sick of you, or hating you,” Jack tells you honestly, the intensity behind his eyes causing you to believe his words. “Also, you do snore, and I think it’s cute, don’t worry.”

You try to hit his chest again, but your arms are still being held by his hands.

“So, is this a good time for me to say I never really liked Sarah,” Luke chimes in, reminding you that him and Quinn are standing in the entrance of the room.

“Luke, you’re such an idiot,” Quinn tells him, flicking him on the back of his curly head.

“What? It’s true. I liked Y/N the second I met her, but Sarah was always just a bitch,” Luke rubs the back of his head as he speaks. “Why do you think Quinn and I took one for the team and took the wicked witch out on the boat so we could keep her out of your hair for as long as possible?”

“Thanks, Luke,” you chuckle, shaking your head.

“Well, I guess it’s time to tell mom that she knows you’re proposing,” Quinn says, looking towards Jack.

“Oh, no, no one is going to know that she knows. I had this whole thing planned out, and I’m not letting Y/N ruin her own proposal,” Jack says, finally letting go of your hands.

“Do I at least get to see the ring?” you ask him, hopeful.

“Nope,” Jack shakes his head, popping the ‘p’.

You huff, crossing your arms and looking at him with a pout, until you remember his words from a few minutes before.

“Wait, you told Sarah you carry the ring with you everywhere, does that mean it’s here? In this house?” Jack’s face falls, eyes looking anywhere but your own.

“No…”

Your face lights up, looking towards the stairs before back at Jack, turning and making a run for your room.

“Oh no, you don’t!” he runs after you, catching up to you in no time.

He grabs you by your torso and swings you around, sitting you back at the bottom of the stairs as he guards them.

“Not fair, your stupid hockey speed and reflexes can shove it,” you pout again.

As you stand at the bottom of the stairs, Quinn and Luke watch the two of you, admiring how perfect the two of you are for each other.

Luke thinks back to when he decided to introduce you to his older brother, knowing he made the right decision, the two of you bringing out the best versions of the other.

And when he stands, hidden with his family as he watches his brother get down on one knee, proposing to the girl that stood at the bottom of the stairs, demanding to see her ring, he knew sneaking into Jack’s room and moving the ring to his own room was the right move, the shock on your face worth the two week long silent treatment you gave him when you found out what he had done.

1K notes · View notes

fairyhaos · 6 months ago

Text

yeoubi. // chwe hansol

여우비 (yeo-u-bi) : noun. literally “fox rain” — when sunlight filters through rainfall, creating a golden shower.

PAIRING : vernon x f!reader

INFO : east asian historical fantasy(ish. i kinda made up my own mythology), fox demon!vernon, silver!vernon, immortal!witch!yn, fluff, magic, strangers to lovers

WORD COUNT : 22.3k+

WARNINGS : blood mention, injuries, slight discrimination against yokai, cursing

NOTES : for the @camandemstudios winter with you collab! i had so so so much fun writing yeoubi and it's genuinely one of the best things ive done this year. writing a fantasy au soft vernon fic was never something that i thought i needed to write, but now i have, and i love him and i love this and i hope everyone loves yeoubi just as much as i do too <3

SYNOPSIS : living as a magic, immortal healer in a rural, human mountain village means most of your existence has been rather peaceful. that is, until one cold winter when an injured yokai stumbles into your life; and though everyone else is terrified of him, you take him in, nurse him back to health, and show the others that some demons aren’t that scary after all. (...and maybe, just maybe, you end up falling for the pretty fox yokai too.)

For the first time in years, the river freezes over.

During winter, it’s often a lot harder for you to notice things like this, as the cold dulls your senses and numbs your fingers, so you’re only informed of this fact when the village children come to your cottage in the morning, their high-pitched voices blending with the mismatched beats of their fists knocking against your door.

“Miss Witch! Miss Witch! There’s something wrong with the river!”

“The river is all solid, Miss Witch!”

“Miss Witch, we can’t play in the river! Can you fix it for us, Miss Witch?”

Blanket wrapped around your shoulders, you open the door with a groggy smile, squinting down at the children on your doorstep.

“Hello, little kids. What are you doing here?”

“Miss Witch!” one of the children chirps. “Good morning!”

Despite being half-asleep, you can’t help but laugh a little at their chipperness. The children are, undeniably, your favourite people in this entire village.

“Good morning,” you say, bemused. “How may I help you?”

Their voices rise in volume again, all of them clamouring to be heard over each other. It can’t be any later than five in the morning, and your fingertips prickle with the cold grey of the mist as you blink down at them, surprised at their energy.

A girl tugs at the end of your blanket, wide-eyed. “Miss Witch, the river is all hard. We don’t know what’s going on.”

“Ah,” you say gently. “I see.” Crouching down so you’re at eye level with the kids, you ask, “If the river is hard, solid, and cold, what do you think that means?”

The children blink at you.

“What else is hard, solid, and cold?”

One of them brightens. “Ice!”

“Exactly,” you say, smiling. “The river has turned into ice. It’s nothing to worry about, but it does mean it’s very, very cold right now, so why aren’t any of you wearing any hats or scarves, hm?”

You ruffle the hair of the nearest child, and she shakes her head, giggling. “We were helping the grown-ups, of course! Something happened at the river, an’ they told us to go away.”

“So we came to you,” another boy pipes up. “They said something’s wrong!”

You tilt your head. Whilst it’s certainly been several decades since the river last froze over, it’s no reason for the villagers to worry that much about it. It’s also not something that your magic can fix, or something that needs to be fixed, so—

“Y/N!”

You look up at the call, and see a man in the distance, jogging down the pathway towards your cottage. It’s still far too dark to see clearly, but you smile at the familiar voice.

“Soonyoung,” you call back. “Good morning! Are you here to tell me about the frozen river, too? Don’t worry, it’s completely normal and not dangerous at all.”

His reply, if he has any at all, goes unheard as one of the children suddenly cries out, as if he’s had an epiphany.

You look down at him, amused. “What’s wrong?”

“I just remembered, something else happened at the river,” he says brightly. His remark makes some of the other children perk up too, as if they also remembered this other thing that had happened.

The kids are all at the age where something like a leaf falling onto their heads would be remarkably significant, so as you wait for Soonyoung to come closer and deliver the actual news, you decide to humour them, smiling and tilting your head interestedly. “Oh, really? What was it?”

“There’s a man in the frozen river, Miss Witch!”

“A—” The smile turns to stone on your face. “A what?”

“Not a man,” Soonyoung says. He’s finally reached your doorstep now, and you notice that his usual easy smile is nowhere to be seen. He frowns down at the children, displeased. “What are you all doing here? We told you to go home, not to Y/N.”

“They thought I could help,” you say placatingly. “It’s okay. And if there’s a man stuck in the river, you might need my help after all.”

“Not a man,” Soonyoung repeats, his face darkening. “It’s not a man.”

You raise an eyebrow at the graveness in his tone. “Well, then you certainly do need my help, it seems. What is it?”

Soonyoung sighs. His exhale clouds the air, and your fingers prickle even more at his next words, like invisible icicles piercing through your skin.

“It’s a demon.”

───────────── ‘✽,

You are not exactly a human.

Certainly, you look and dress like one—and you have to eat and sleep like one too, otherwise terrible things happen to your energy levels—but that doesn’t mean you are human. There are some things which make you slightly different.

One of those things being that you live forever.

“What do you mean you don’t know if it’s hostile?” Soonyoung demands, struggling to match your strides as you hurry towards the river. “Of course it’s hostile. It’s a fucking demon!”

“When you’ve lived as long as I have, you come to realise that some yokai aren’t hostile,” you respond, frosted-over leaves crunching under your feet. Soonyoung squawks back something unintelligible, too out of breath to make an argument.

After encouraging the children to return back to their homes and sleep—since it really is five in the morning, and none of them should be awake—you and Soonyoung began making your way to where the rest of the villagers were.

The river flows down from the mountain that the village is located near. The further up you go, the more dangerous the terrain becomes, and you pause on a jagged rock to frown down at Soonyoung, who’s gasping as he tries to keep up.

“Did you really find the yokai over here? Why were any of you up here in the first place?”

“We didn’t,” Soonyoung said hoarsely. “I’ve been trying to tell you for ages. The demon was found near the edge of the woods.”

“Oh.” You blink. The two of you had marched past the woods a decent while ago. “Okay.” And then you float down from the rock, lightly hopping over frozen patches of land, past Soonyoung again. “Come on, let’s turn back, then.”

Soonyoung sighs, turns around, and begins his clumsy, human descent. “You could at least use your magic to help me down too, you know.”

And that’s the other different thing about you. Magic. It’s such a flimsy, weak word for what you can do, but it’s also the best way to describe it. There are certain things about you, certain things you’re capable of in the way that no human can ever truly be.

Without even looking back, you wave a hand, and a glowing stream of wind nudges Soonyoung’s feet towards the easiest path down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And hurry up before those villagers aggravate the yokai even more.”

Demons, or more traditionally, yokai, aren’t something you’ve encountered in countless decades. As technology and weapons developed, and the human population expanded, many yokai simply faded out of existence, unable to sustain themselves in the less wild, less natural environment that humans created. Others were smart enough to recognise they now had less of an advantage over humans, and tended to stay away from densely populated areas, preferring to target any lone travellers who ventured too far into their territory.

Yokai values and morals are vastly different to humans, and they are so incomprehensible to mortals that yokai gained a reputation for being vindictive, vicious, vile, and all other negative ‘v’ words. That doesn’t necessarily make them so, however, and over your lifetime, you’ve encountered some who don't quite fit the stereotype that humans are all too eager to place on them.

It takes you and Soonyoung long enough to get to the river that the sky has lightened ever so slightly, but the lacey edges of morning mist are still blurring the edges of your sight, and you can only barely see what the villagers are looking at, especially with them all crowding around and pushing against each other to get closer to the river.

You crane your neck, standing on tiptoe, before huffing. Scratch that, you can’t see anything.

“Move out of my way, please,” you say sharply, adding a little volume magic to your voice so that it carries over the whole crowd.

Most of them instantly look back at that and clock your presence, eyes widening. Some of them begin rushing towards you, looking almost like their children as they begin talking over each other all at once.

“Y/N, there’s a demon—”

“Absolutely vile creature, is there any way—”

“—river’s all frozen, how did it even get here—”

“Okay, okay, okay!” you interrupt, adding even more volume to your voice to be heard. “Minah, yes, I know there’s a demon. Soonyoung told me. And no, Joongseok, we don’t know if it’s truly vile yet. And Woongri, yokai often work with magic, so it could’ve gotten here in a variety of ways. But if you want me to do something, you have to let me through. Yes?”

You’re tired, and cold, and dealing with stressed adults is not the best way to start the day, so you're more blunt than is perhaps necessary, but it gets your point across. The villagers look sufficiently contrite and finally shuffle to the side, making way for you to get through. Seungcheol, the village leader, nudges his way through the crowd until he’s by your side, face solemn.

“Good morning,” he says. “Sorry about the chaos.”

“Good morning,” you say back, voice now normal volume once again. “It’s okay. Everyone’s scared. You don’t call me at ungodly hours unless it’s serious, so I don’t mind.”

Seungcheol nods, looking both grave and apologetic. “We only ever want you to use your magic for good.”

It’s a terribly human thing to say, and you smile dryly. “Of course. What can I help you with this time?”

“Well… You can help with that.” Seungcheol points to a mound of warped ice a little ways down the river. “How can we get rid of it?”

You squint in the direction Seungcheol’s pointing at, peering through the tendrils of mist, and then gasp. Half-buried into the ice of the river, you can make out a blurry, pale-coloured figure clothed in pale silk. Dark liquid pools in all directions surrounding the motionless body, and anyone can tell the yokai is very badly hurt.

“It’s already bleeding half to death, so it shouldn’t be too hard to finish— wait, Y/N!”

Ignoring Seungcheol’s shouts, you step onto the frozen surface of the river and rush towards the yokai, and your blood runs cold as you take in the sight before you.

The yokai is a fox demon, you notice, with white ears and soft silver hair and a gorgeous white tail, which is partially being crushed by a river’s worth of ice. He’s waist-deep in the frozen water, and a thick layer of more ice has begun to form around the yokai’s torso from where he’s slumped against the surface of the river at an almost unnatural angle, causing his poor tail to be twisted and buried both in the river and the new ice.

“Oh, darling,” you whisper, kneeling down beside him, tracing a finger across the yokai’s cheek. Your finger comes away stained dark with blood, and you swallow thickly, heart constricting.

The crushing ice isn’t the end of the damage: there’s blood pouring from seemingly unknown sources, matted into the fox demon’s hair and streaking down his neck. He must have been in some sort of fight before getting stuck in the river.

Gently, you thumb over the yokai’s cheek, taking in the pale skin and delicate eyelashes. This fox demon is devastatingly pretty, and seeing him so badly injured makes your heart hurt even more.

Something rustles near the riverbank, and you look back to see some of the children hiding amongst the leaves, peering curiously at you as you kneel next to the yokai. Further up the river, Seungcheol is approaching you, wanting to know your thoughts on the demon, and his eyes widen as he also notices the children in the bushes.

“What are you doing here?” he says in their direction, the disapproval clear in his tone. “It’s dangerous! You shouldn’t be looking at this. Where are your parents? Didn’t Soonyoung tell you to go home?”

“But we wanna see Miss Witch,” one boy says, eyes wide. “Please, can’t we stay?”

You frown and open your mouth, preparing to reprimand them, but then the yokai makes a soft, pained sound beside you, and you instantly return your attention to him, bending down even closer to his face.

Seungcheol cries out, this time in your direction as you lean towards the yokai. “Y/N, what are you doing? Stay back!”

You ignore him, reaching out a hand to brush matted hair out of the yokai’s eyes. “Hello? Hello, can you hear me?”

The yokai scrunches his eyes up, whimpering in pain. The moment he’d returned to consciousness, he’d started shivering intensely, struck by the cold of the river.

“Hello?” you repeat, gentle. You move your hand away from the yokai’s face, directing it towards the ice surrounding his back instead. Silently reciting an incantation, the ice begins to glow orange under your palm, slowly beginning to melt away. “Can you tell me your name?”

The yokai shivers, mumbles something unintelligible. Then he looks up at you, golden irises shuddering in fear, every movement of his face telling you it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

One of the children lets out a shriek, and you whip your head up in alarm. They don’t look hurt, but the yokai notices the sound too, raising his head to look at them with wide, unsettling eyes, and the children shriek again, all of them frozen in fear. You can kind of understand why: the fox demon is covered in blood, and anyone unacquainted with the supernatural would find his slitted golden eyes petrifying.

But before you can say anything, do anything to reassure them, the ice around his back makes a cracking sound as it melts under your hand, and the yokai’s mouth drops open in pain. He coughs, splattering blood over the ice, more of the black liquid dripping from the corners of his lips as he starts writhing and scratching against the river, hauling himself up onto his elbows, eyes fixed on the children in the distance, and all hell breaks loose.

The children are screaming, ear-piercingly loud, and Seungcheol is screaming too, and the yokai starts writhing even harder, yipping and gasping like a distressed fox, his hands sticky with his own blood as he tries to push against the ice.

“No, it’s okay— don’t do that—Cheol, let me think!”

It’s obvious Seungcheol wants you to kill the demon, especially with the way he’s screeching at you right now, but the yokai looks so pitiful, ears shaking, eyes wide, still bleeding from gashes all over his body.

“Think about what?” Seungcheol yells, children cowering behind his legs, and he shields their eyes from the river. “Y/N, please, you have to get rid of it!”

You look at him, and then down at the helpless yokai beside you, and really, it takes you less than a second to decide what to do.

“I’m so sorry,” you say, getting to your feet. Seungcheol tenses, sensing something wrong in your tone as you look down at the yokai again, leaning down with your hand outstretched. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Your fingers come into contact with the yokai’s forehead, and there’s a golden glow before his eyes flutter shut and he freezes up, before collapsing against the ice.

Hidden safely behind the village leader, the children stop screaming. Seungcheol also doesn’t make a sound, still staring wide-eyed at you, and now the yokai is no longer moving, the early morning air is frozen still once more. You look back at Seungcheol, and he blinks, his face unreadable.

“Please tell me you killed that thing.”

You smile weakly, dried-up demon blood on your fingertips. At your feet, the yokai’s shoulders move up and down ever so slightly with every shallow breath he takes, unconscious.

───────────── ‘✽,

“Bad idea,” Seungcheol admonishes loudly from outside your window, and even though there’s a whole wall and a thick pane of glass separating him from you, his disapproval is crystal clear. “This is a bad idea. Y/N, let me in. We have to talk about this.”

You don’t look up from the boiling pot on the stove, simply lifting a hand and giving Seungcheol the finger.

“How dare— Y/N, you cannot let that thing live. It’s a danger to us. Especially the children! Y/N, think of the children, please, it could hurt the children.”

Seungcheol raps against the glass insistently, but you ignore him, humming to yourself as you ladle some of the boiling concoction into a wooden bowl. Gently, you blow on the steam, inspecting the lilac colour of the liquid before nodding, pleased, and heading over to the yokai asleep on your couch.

It’s been some hours since that moment on the frozen river, where you’d decided to save the yokai trapped in the ice rather than kill him. None of the humans agreed with your decision, however, so you’d had to make the tiring trek down the mountain yourself, a heavy, unconscious yokai in tow. That’s partly the reason you’re so tired right now, arms aching as you set the bowl down on the coffee table, where you’ve laid out bandages and various dried bags of poultices and face towels to help clean up the yokai.

Said yokai is still unconscious and bleeding all over the fabric of your sofa, the golden threads of magic you’d used to briefly staunch his wounds already beginning to fray open once more. You sigh, settling down beside him, and begin inspecting the more serious injuries on his forehead and down his arms.

“What happened to you, hm?” you say softly, ignoring Seungcheol still rapping against your window. “Why are you so hurt?”

Living as the only magic user-slash-competent doctor in a rural village means that you have plenty of experience in patching up the particularly nasty injuries that the villagers sustain, and your hands are careful and practised as you dip a towel into the warm, disinfectant potion you’d made, swiping it over the yokai’s skin. He’s injured practically everywhere: deep gashes are scored along his arms, his hands, and there’s one slashed across his chest. Not to mention his definitely-broken tail, the still-bleeding head wound and, judging by the way blood had been pouring from his mouth out on the lake, some internal injuries you can’t see.

You wince, taking a towel into your hands. “Sorry,” you say, heart twinging in sympathy for the yokai. “I’m so sorry this happened to you. But don’t worry, I’m here to help.”

Ideally, you’d run a bath first and scrub the yokai clean of all the grime and blood before getting to tending his wounds. But he’s a fox demon—ridiculously tall and with a fluffy tail and delicate ears, so he won’t fit in your tiny tub and it’ll end up being more troublesome than anything else.

So, you’ve resorted to magic, dipping a cloth in the potion you've made to melt and dissolve all the dirt into thin air.

The wounds are all worryingly deep, most notably the still-bleeding one on his forehead, and if he were human, you’d be concerned that he’ll suffer a serious concussion afterwards, along with an inability to use his hands for a long while. But as it is, the ancient demon-magic that he’s made of will mean that he’ll heal pretty quickly, and there should be no grave threat to his life.

Hopefully. As long as he doesn’t develop an infection from the open wounds.

You finish cleaning up the blood and then wipe down his face with a cool cloth, frowning slightly at how his skin still feels unusually hot. Infections will make his healing process much longer and much more arduous. The poor yokai looks like he’s already been through more than enough, so you really hope the fever dies down soon.

Seungcheol is still yelling at you from your window when you finish your preliminary clean-up, and you sigh heavily, beginning to develop a headache from how annoying he's being. So you walk over to the window, wrench it open, and jab a bloodstained finger in his direction.

“Seungcheol. Kindly, please, fuck off.”

Seungcheol blinks, both startled by your abrupt confrontation and a little affronted, but before he can say anything, you carry on.

“Currently, this yokai is injured, and it’s my job to take care of injured people, regardless of who they are, so you can take any thoughts of me killing him and shove them up your ass. It’s not happening, and it’s never happening, and you’re also disturbing my patient with the racket you’re creating, so please go away.”

If it were anyone else talking to him like this, Seungcheol would have blown up with anger a solid thirty seconds ago—as it is, he simply stares at you, still looking affronted, before he sighs, and all of the energy drains out of him. He knows how headstrong you are, and when you get like this, he knows there’s no way he can sway you. He’ll have to wait until you’re no longer brimming with obstinacy to get his thoughts across.

His gaze drops from yours to your bloody finger, and then he sighs again, folding his hands behind his back.

“Give the demon my wishes for his speedy recovery,” he says at last. “But we still have to talk about this later, Y/N. Okay?”

You huff, and lower your hands. “Fine. Later.” With a resolute swish of magic, you shut the window once again and turn your back on Seungcheol to return to your patient.

As village leader, you can understand why Seungcheol may have concerns regarding a yokai entering a human village, but that doesn’t mean you like how he has no qualms with telling you to just kill it in an instant. Discrimination against magical creatures is half the reason they’re so hostile to humans, anyway, and you’d know firsthand how painful it is to be targeted and attacked purely for being who you are.

It’s not like you ever asked to be magic. And yet, people end up hating you for it.

You look down at the unconscious yokai, with his silver-white fur and gentle eyelashes and those heart-wrenching injuries. Then, wordlessly, you pick up one of the poultices and get to work.

───────────── ‘✽,

Hansol wakes up to the strong, warm smell of chrysanthemum.

It’s an unusual scent to wake up to, and his ears prick up, alarmed—only for him to cry out a few seconds later, upon realising the action sends a sharp bolt of pain throughout his entire body.

“Oh!”

A voice sounds from somewhere above his head, and he startles even more, trying to open his eyes and locate the sound, before realising he can’t see.

He cries out again, panicking at the pitch black that surrounds him, flailing around before realising that that action also causes him debilitating pain, and he begins panicking even more. How did he end up here? What happened? All he remembers is being chased through the forest and then tripping and crashing into a river, and then hard ice and the cold water and the throbbing in his head and then— and then—

Something damp and heavy gets lifted from his eyes and he gasps, freezing up as bright white light almost blinds him.

“Sorry, sorry,” the voice from before says, sounding terribly apologetic. “I’m sorry. I should’ve warned you before doing that.”

Hansol scrunches his eyes, and then squints, vision all blurry from having been unconscious and now being blinded by bright light. He can’t see who’s speaking, but whoever they are, they carry on, the words steadily flowing out faster and faster as the person rambles. He can barely keep up with the onslaught of noise, twitching confusedly and trying to see what’s going on. The world feels like it’s spinning. He’s pretty sure the world isn’t meant to spin this fast.

“That was probably really scary when you woke up, huh? I’m so sorry. The towel slipped from your forehead and covered your eyes, and I’m sorry I didn’t notice. I didn’t expect you to wake up now, but I guess that’s a good thing, ‘cause you’ve been out for a whole day, and any longer and we’re veering into coma territory, which would mean that you were really, really hurt. Which is, like, definitely not good, you know? But you did wake up, thank goodness, so that means there’s a chance you’ll get better very soon. Plus, your fever isn’t that bad anymore, so it seems you really are on the road to recovery, which is all very—oh, wait. Sorry. It’s still too bright, isn’t it?”

Another wave of chrysanthemum hits Hansol’s senses and a hand comes up to his face, creating a shadow over his eyes so he’s no longer squinting furiously up at the disembodied voice.

“Sorry,” the voice says, apologising yet again. “Is that better?”

Hansol blinks, slowly opening his eyes fully to look up, and then, the whole world abruptly stops spinning as he finds himself looking at the most beautiful being in the entire history of the universe. He doesn’t say a word, mouth falling open in shock.

You smile down at him, made anxious by his silence. “Hello,” you say, hand still shielding his eyes from the brunt of the winter light. “My name is Y/N. What’s yours?”

Hansol squeaks, a small, high-pitched sound that instantly floods him with mortification when it accidentally slips past his lips, and he screws his eyes shut and curls into himself, knocking your hand away hurriedly in his rush to hide his face. He tries to bury himself into the couch, shaking.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you say, gently, worried you've scared him. “I promise. I want to help.” Perched on the edge of the couch, you lean over and slowly lower the yokai’s hands from his face, coaxing him to look at you again. “Can you please tell me your name?”

You smile, again, and Hansol feels a little faint as he looks up at you. His vision is still slightly blurry from his eyes being shut for so long, and the way you’re backlit by the light makes you look like you’re glowing, a gentle halo of silver light surrounding your form. That, coupled with the way you have the prettiest smile he’s ever seen, is making him feel all dizzy. And a bit warm. The air feels like it’s suffocating him, actually, but all of that is made irrelevant by how pretty he thinks your smile is.

There’s a possibility he’s still in the process of getting rid of his fever, because he blinks slowly, focused, and when he opens his mouth to speak, the next words spill unbidden from his lips.

“My name is Hansol,” he says, “and I think you’re the prettiest person alive.”

Your eyes widen at his words, a flush rapidly creeping up your cheeks. Hansol looks at you, worried that you’ll suddenly hate him for what he’s just said, but you just laugh, flattered, and bring your hand up to his forehead. The touch is cool against his skin, like a soothing balm.

“Thank you, Hansol,” you say. “Your fever seems to still be pretty high, if you’re saying stuff like this, huh? I’m currently brewing some chrysanthemum tea, and I think it’ll be a good idea for you to have some too.”

Hansol blinks slowly again. “Chrysanthemum tea,” he muses. He looks up at you. “That must be why you smell so warm and pretty.”

You laugh again, flustered, subconsciously brushing his hair back from his forehead and cupping his cheek, your fingers feather-light. “Perhaps. So would you like some tea?”

“Yes, please,” Hansol says. “I’ll have anything… you… give m…” His eyelids and ears slowly droop, and before he can even finish his sentence, he drifts back off to unconsciousness once again, head leaning into your hand.

Open-mouthed, pink-cheeked, you look down at the one-more unconscious yokai in your hands.

“Wow,” you breathe out. And then you smile. “You’re adorable.”

───────────── ‘✽,

Over the next few days, the yokai—Hansol—constantly drifts in and out of consciousness, his fever fluctuating in intensity the entire time.

It’s difficult to pull coherent sentences out of him, and anything he says is a mixture of your name, his name, and also how pretty he thinks you are.

You chalk it up to his fever.

His demon-magic must have taken a serious blow from the extent of his injuries, as it takes him a lot longer than you’d like for him to finally shake off the infection. A whole excruciating week goes by, and you almost cry with relief when, as you get up to check his temperature in the middle of the night, you find that his fever has finally broken, and he’s able to breathe easily once more.

When the weak sun finally peeks out from over the horizon, you enter your spare room to check on Hansol. Sometime after his first bout of consciousness, you’d gathered enough energy to move him from your couch to the spare bedroom in your cottage. It had taken a lot of work, and a lot of magic—weakened by the stress of taking care of a dying fox demon and trying to fend off any curious and judgy villagers, it takes a lot of energy for you to do anything strenuous lately—but you managed. And it certainly seemed to help, as he slept a lot better in an actual bed.

Humming absentmindedly to yourself, you make your way over to the guest room, fingers dancing and causing golden threads of magic to tidy up the state of your house as you go along.

To your surprise, the yokai is wide awake when you enter the room, and he startles when you noisily open the door and step inside. The moment you make eye contact with Hansol, you freeze, the song dying off your lips at the same time as your magic drops a partially-fluffed up cushion in the living room.

“Um.” You blink, hanging off the door handle, staring at the yokai picking his bandages in bed in the middle of your guest room. “Good morning?”

Hansol doesn’t respond, continuing to stare at you, wide-eyed.

You cough, feeling terribly awkward, attempting to adjust your stance and take your hand off the doorknob in the most natural way possible. “Hello. I’m, uh, Y/N. How are you feeling?”

There’s another beat. Then Hansol finally opens his mouth, only to completely ignore your question to say, “You’re the one who smells like chrysanthemums.”

“I— Sorry, what?” You blink, taken aback by the abrupt and unrelated question, before nodding. “Oh, yeah. I guess you remember the chrysanthemum tea I made you?” You smile slightly. “I can’t believe you remember that. That was when you were the most unwell.”

“Oh.” Hansol’s ears twitch, and he continues to look at you with his golden eyes, somewhere between bewildered and amazed. (Amazed by what, you aren’t entirely sure.) “I do remember, though. I remember you.”

You blink rapidly, trying to push down the blush that threatens to rise up your face. Having a handsome yokai stare at you with such focus, saying that he remembers you even when he was deep in the throes of a fever is such a heart-fluttering thing to experience early in the morning. You aren’t nearly awake enough for this conversation. If you aren’t careful, you could accidentally fall in love right then and there.

“That’s nice,” you croak, and then shake yourself. You have a job to do. Hansol’s a patient under your care, and you need to check his condition. “Um. Sorry. But, uh, I do have to check if you can remember anything else,” you say, slipping into healer mode as you step further into the room, walking towards the bed. “Do you remember your name?”

Hansol nods, intently following your movements as you draw closer. “My name is Hansol,” he says.

You smile, relieved by the coherency of his answer. The fact that the yokai remembers his own name is a very good sign. “Yes, you are. Do you remember how you got here?”

“Yes,” Hansol says obediently. “I was in a river. Trapped in the ice. And you… saved me.”

That makes you smile a little wider. “I took care of your wounds, yes! It’s really good you’re finally awake and able to answer questions, ‘cause it’s a sure sign there’s no lasting internal damage. I do have to check your bandages, though, so… may I?”

You make a gesture towards Hansol’s bandaged arms, and the yokai obliges, raising his arms to let you see.

You take Hansol’s hand in your own, preparing to lift his arm up higher—but the moment your palms brush, you gasp, fingers tightening around the yokai’s at the sudden sensation. Hansol, too, lets out a small noise of surprise, looking up at you.

The yokai’s hands are firm, strong, and perfectly healthy, but they also thrum with magic. You can feel every spark and fizzle of the magic as it dances under his skin, spinning and zipping back and forth like a cloud of hyperactive fireflies. Like the magic can talk, and when it noticed the magic that lives inside you, it seems to yip with recognition, spinning itself around in excitement in the yokai’s hands.

“It’s so strong,” you say, amazed. “I didn’t realise magic could be this powerful.”

Hansol’s also staring up at you, similarly in awe. “You’re magic too?” he asks, looking like he’s never fathomed such a thing is possible. “You’re like me?”

You laugh slightly, made a little giddy by the feeling of how alive the magic is under Hansol’s skin. “Not exactly,” you say, releasing Hansol’s hand to finally reach for the bandages, feeling around to see whether his skin is still tender underneath. “I don’t have the ears or the tail, do I?”

Hansol’s ears flick. You’re decidedly focused solely on the yokai’s bandages, but you can feel Hansol looking at you intently as you work.

“But you’re very pretty,” Hansol says. “Are you sure?”

Fuck. Hansol has to stop saying things like that, because they’re very bad for your poor heart. Very bad.

“I’m sure,” you say with a smile, straightening up once again. “I think all your wounds are healing nicely. Now your magic’s come back to its full strength, it’ll help you heal the rest of the way in no time.”

You can’t help but reach for Hansol’s hand again, once more feeling pleasantly surprised by the light zap of magic when your hands touch. Now you can feel the thrum of it under Hansol’s skin, it’s easy to realise how unwell the yokai was before, when his hands had been deathly cold with no fizz of magic in them at all. You’re just endlessly relieved that you can feel that fizz once again.

Hansol looks down at your intertwined hands, and then up at you, a smile lifting up the corners of his lips. “Thank you,” he says, so very sincere that it melts your heart. “Thank you for looking after me.”

You can’t help but smile back, squeezing Hansol’s hand once. “Of course. It’s my pleasure. Really.”

Hansol smiles even wider, ears twitching pleasedly, and you once again have to try and valiantly fight away your blush. Fuck. This yokai really needs to stop making you blush so easily, and fast, else you’re going to start having problems.

───────────── ‘✽,

It turns out, the blushing thing ends up being the least of your problems, because later that day, Hansol tries to leave.

Sometime after bringing Hansol a breakfast of soup and chrysanthemum tea (since he really seemed to like the tea), you’re drying away the breakfast dishes when a blast of cold air slices through the cottage, and you look over to see Hansol holding open the front door, looking like he’s about to step out.

“H—wait! Hansol, what are you doing?”

The yokai looks over at you, still holding the front door, confused. The bottom half of his tail is still bandaged, making it difficult for him to move it around, but it still sways from side to side unsurely as he blinks at you.

“I’m leaving,” Hansol says, like it’s obvious. “You took care of me. And I’m now better. So I’m going to go.”

You gape, jaw almost dropping to the floor at the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard.

“Like hell you are,” you say, marching over to the front door and firmly shutting it with your still-soapy hands, and then ushering Hansol back to the guest room and into bed. “You are very far from being better, Hansol. Your tail is still all bandaged up! I’m not letting you leave until you’re back to full health, so don’t you dare think for a second that you get to go before then.”

Hansol makes a noise of confusion as you fussily tuck him back into bed, fluffing up the pillows behind his head and arranging the covers around him. “What? Why would you let me stay?”

“Why wouldn’t I let you stay?” you counter, patting down the duvet and absentmindedly brushing away the strands of hair that fall in his eyes. “I want to take care of you. I want you to get better. I can’t exactly do that if you go off into the woods all by yourself and get up to heaven knows what, can I?”

Perched on the edge of the bed, you smile and pat his head.

“I’m not letting you out of my sight for a long while yet, mister,” you say, the faux-scolding adding a light playfulness to your tone. “You’re going to stay with me and get better until I say so.”

Hansol looks up at you, tilts his head, and scrunches his nose just slightly as he smiles, shy. “So you’ll let me stay as long as I like?”

“Obviously,” you say, smiling back. “However long it takes you to heal, and then some, if you want. Of course, unless you have somewhere else to go.”

The yokai hesitates, ears flicking unsurely. “Not really,” he admits, lowering his gaze. “I’ve never actually had anywhere real to stay.” He looks back up at you again, golden eyes glinting hopefully. “So if it’s okay…”

“Oh, of course you can stay here,” you rush to reassure him. And then you pause, deflating a little. “Although…This is a human village, so they don’t really like… your kind. It might make life a bit difficult, but since you’re with me, they shouldn’t bother you too much. Though I understand if that makes you hesitant to stay.”

Hansol shakes his head, smiling slightly. “That’s okay. I like it here, so I don’t mind staying with just you.”

“I’m glad,” you say sincerely. “Seriously, you can stay here for however long you want.”

Hansol ducks his head shyly. “Thank you. Genuinely, thank you.”

You awkwardly pat his hand where it lays on the covers, a little embarrassed in the face of his obvious gratitude, and instruct him to rest up before exiting the room. You’re glad that the brief misunderstanding had been cleared up, because you don’t want Hansol to feel anything less than welcomed. Being a yokai, he won’t have received similar acts of kindness in the wild, and as a magical being yourself, you know how that can feel. No one deserves to feel unwanted, least of all an injured yokai who’d obviously been hurt intentionally before you found him.

Unfortunately, though, the trials of Hansol’s first weeks of consciousness do not end there. Some days later, at some point during the afternoon, Seungcheol comes knocking on your door.

You hadn’t intended on inviting Seungcheol in. But afternoons are always a miserable time during winter, when the sky darkens far too early for anyone’s liking, and it’s difficult to find one’s way through the cold, barely-lit paths. That’s why you often get people coming to your door during the late afternoon, lost or confused or panicked because they’ve lost their way, and your cottage, shimmering with gold magic and warm lights is the only beacon they recognise.

So that’s the only reason why, when Seungcheol turns up, you accidentally open the door for him. Not that you have anything against the village leader, but—Hansol’s only been awake for a week at this point, and you don’t have the mental capacity to deal with a talk about getting rid of him.

Unfortunately, when Seungcheol already has one foot in a door, he will not go. Literally.

“Get your foot out of my door,” you say exasperatedly, struggling to push the door shut as Seungcheol pushes back. His foot is still wedged in the doorway.

“Let me in,” Seungcheol says.

“No. You’re gonna tell me to hurt the yokai again.”

“I’m going to tell you to get him out of here.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes,” Seungcheol says, finally giving up on the little game and pushing his way through the door like it’s no difficulty at all, making you let out an indignant hey!. “We need to talk about this, Y/N. You cannot harbour a demon in our village without discussing this with anyone. He needs to go.”

“He’s hurt,” you say. “He can’t go anywhere! And he won’t hurt anyone, I promise.”

“You can’t know that.” Seungcheol furrows his brow, his tone grave. “He’s a demon, Y/N. You don’t know what he’s capable of. You can’t keep him here.”

“Yes I can,” you insist, “because he’s a fucking real-life being with feelings, not this scary, evil harbinger of doom that you’re making him out to be, and I know this, because he’s been here with me, in my own home, and he’s quite possibly the nicest person I’ve ever met.”

Over the last several days, Hansol has been healing rapidly, so much so that most of his bandages have been removed and he practically glows with magic every time you see him. It’s incredibly relieving to see, and it’s also allowed you to get to know him better: sometimes unintentionally, as a natural side effect of living with him now, but also, sometimes quite on purpose. Because he’s pretty, and he’s interesting, and you want to know who he is.

Turns out, one of the key things about Hansol is he’s the most adorable being you’ve ever met.

He’s adorable, in an awkward sort of way, from the way he hovers hesitantly in doorways to the way his tail always fluffs up with contentment when he feels the tendrils of your magic brush across the room.

Unlike yokai, who simply have ancient magic embedded in them from birth, you are born of magic and made entirely of magic, so the stuff practically spills out of you wherever you go. The magic can’t only be felt from under your skin, but extends out and away from your being. You’re not used to having guests in the cottage, so you weren’t aware of the extent of how much you let your magic run free when in the safety of your home, until you noticed how Hansol reacted. He always blinks in surprise, lifting his hand palm-up, fingers curling inwards, as if your magic is some elusive silk strand that constantly evades his grasp. It’s as if he can truly feel it, and he always seems to like it.

“Can you actually feel my magic?” you ask one day, and he looks up from his hand, surprised. His tail is all fluffy and big, lazily waving from side to side and creating static against the decorative pillows on your couch. You’re sitting on an armchair next to him, smiling at him amusedly from over the book of hexes you’re reading. He doesn’t even seem to notice what his tail is doing, too occupied with the invisible tendrils between his fingers.

“Yeah,” Hansol says after a moment, closing his hand and resting them both back in his lap, a little awkward. “It feels warm. Nice.”

“Really?”

You can’t help but smile at that, oddly flattered. To you, your magic is just… yours. It doesn’t feel like anything in particular, nothing more than a familiar tingle in your hands and a weight against your skin. Though you like describing it as gold, in reality, your magic doesn’t have any colour or any real tangibility to it apart from a fleeting pressure. The idea of it being “gold” is just how you feel about it. It never occurred to you that others could feel it, let alone feel differently about it—living amongst humans, your magic has always subconsciously curled tighter around your arms when you interact with the villagers, not wanting to weird them out with your abnormality or make them feel intimidated by you.

Hansol nods, tail swishing once more. The static has caused all his white fur to stand on end, making him look even more fluffy and adorable. “Yeah,” he says again. “It’s so much calmer than the way my magic feels. It’s really cool.”

He’s looking at you earnestly, as if expecting you to totally agree that your magic is “calmer” than his. And even though you’ve only felt his magic twice before, you nod along in agreement anyway, and Hansol nods back, satisfied with your assent. Then he lowers his gaze back to his lap, opens his hand again, and goes back to playing with your magic.

An endeared laugh bubbles up into your throat, and you smile at the top of Hansol’s head before turning back to your book. Goodness, Hansol is so ridiculously cute.

That interaction only happened some days ago, and whenever Hansol smiles at you or stiltedly asks if he can help you around the house, the surge of affection comes back even harder. So you cannot stand Seungcheol standing here, right now, frowning at you like you’re being unreasonable in your decision to treat Hansol like a normal being.

Seungcheol continues to frown, and you simply stare defiantly back, arms crossed. You don’t let him walk further into the cottage, and a stare-off commences there in the front hallway, neither of you willing to back down.

That is, until there’s a loud crash from further inside the house, and both of you flinch in alarm.

“What was that?” Seungcheol asks, and you look back to where the sound had come from. Connected to the living room, behind a door disguised as an unassuming bookshelf is your own personal library, filled with all the tomes and books on magic and alchemy you’ve collected over the centuries. That’s where the sound’s originated from, which is definitely a cause for concern, but you don’t say so, lest Seungcheol uses this to fuel his argument against Hansol.

“Probably nothing,” you say, though you still glance over in the direction of the library. “You know my cottage. Everything’s old and falling apart.”

Seungcheol looks at you suspiciously. “That’s a lie. You always keep everything in perfect condition.” He begins to move past you. “I bet it’s that demon, isn’t it?”

“No, I—” You try to stop Seungcheol from investigating, but it’s a futile effort. “Cheol, come on, you shouldn’t go see him, he’s still unwell and you could end up distressing him—”

Hurriedly, you trot after Seungcheol through the bookshelf door and into the library, only to end up slamming face-first into his back when he stops abruptly, stunned at the sight before him.

You’re quite proud of your library. It’s an open secret that the bookshelf in your living room leads to it, which is cool all by itself, but your library is also made of magic. What appears as a normal, small study behind the bookshelf turns into a large and sprawling library with high ceilings and mahogany shelves and rows upon rows of books when you step inside.

You’d allowed Hansol access to the library when he’d asked what was behind the bookshelf, and as far as you know, he’s been peacefully situated there the entire day. But, as you peer over Seungcheol’s shoulder to see why he’s suddenly stopped, you realise you can’t see the yokai at all.

In the middle of the floor, there’s a large… fort of books. A book fort. With four walls built of books piled on top of each other, complete with battlements made of upright books and towers with open books as turrets, it’s actually quite amazing to see. The only drawback is how some of the walls are falling down, books tumbling from where they’re piled up.

Also the large spread of ice coming from under the fort, that’s very slowly continuing to pool further and further outwards.

Seungcheol blinks. “Uh… Y/N… you wouldn’t happen to be doing this, would you?”

You shake your head. “Weather magic is my weak point.”

Suddenly, two white ears and a head pop up from behind one of the crumbling walls, and Hansol’s eyes widen when he realises you’re here with a guest.

“Oh!” He ducks his head down, and then straightens once more so he can fully see over the walls of the fort. “Hello. I was just building a castle. One of the walls fell down, ‘cause I sneezed, but I can fix it.”

The tip of his nose is slightly dusted with glittering frost, but he doesn’t even seem to notice that or the ice that’s creeping across the wooden floor. His eyes are shining as he looks at you, infinitely more relaxed than when you’d first seen him, and he inclines his head respectfully in Seungcheol’s direction, looking as humble and polite as possible even when half his face is covered by his book fort.

“Hello to you too. It’s nice to meet you.”

You’re not sure what Seungcheol is most flabbergasted by: Hansol’s gentle manners, or the book fort he’s quite amiably making in your very respectable-looking, very grandiose library, or the circle of ice that’s very clearly coming from the yokai. Hansol is very close to giving the village leader a heart attack any time soon, it seems.

“I— This is— You’re using Y/N’s books to do this?” Seungcheol eventually manages to ask, looking both confused and horrified. “She let you?”

Hansol’s ears droop just slightly, but there’s no obvious change to his expression. “Well… no. But none of the books are damaged, and I’m going to put them back once I’m done with them.”

“It’s fine,” you interject. “I could probably fix a few ripped pages. You can do what you like.”

You couldn’t, probably, fix a few ripped pages, because each book is nearly as old as you. But you’re not going to say that, because you don’t want the confusion on Seungcheol’s face to turn into grim disapproval, and you also don’t want Hansol to feel guilty for what he’s doing.

“Although,” you say, looking down pointedly at the floor, “do you think you could stop the ice?”

Hansol peers over the wall, eyes widening when he realises what you’re talking about. “Oh, sorry. It just happened when I sneezed, I think. Everything is still going haywire… I think I’m still sick.”

The movement of the ice slows to a halt, until only a spattering of frost manages to creep over to where you and Seungcheol are standing. It covers the whole expanse of the floor, now, and there’s not a single patch of the warm brown that’s not frosted over, but it’s okay. That is definitely something you can fix.

Ignoring Seungcheol, who’s still standing there like he can’t believe he’s looking at a walking, talking yokai, you move forward and make your slippery way over to the fort. Hansol moves away a column of books, allowing him to step out of the fort and meet you.

“Is this one of the humans?” Hansol asks in a low voice before you even say anything. The sweetness in his face has disappeared, replaced with an icy look of anxiety. “He’s one of the mortals who don’t like me, isn’t he?”

You try not to wince. “Yes. He’s Seungcheol, the village leader here. He… wants me to get you out of here.”

Hansol regards you for a moment. “You make it sound a lot nicer than what he actually means,” he says. “He wants me killed, doesn’t he? At the very least, badly injured and banished from here.”

“Well… no,” you try to say, but yes, that’s actually exactly what Seungcheol wants. “He doesn’t want you badly injured. He’s just… scared. Of your kind.”

“Hm.” Hansol nods, expressionless. “Same thing, really. He wants me out.”

“Okay, Y/N, stop whispering with the… him,” Seungcheol says, and you look up to see the village leader making his slow way across the ice towards you. “We need to talk. Discuss what you’re going to do, because you are going to do it, for the safety of our village.”

You frown, frustrated. “Hansol’s not a threat to our safety,” you argue. Seungcheol continues to slide gingerly across the ice, and he sighs and shakes his head as you carry on. “He doesn’t have anything against humans. And if he did, he’d have been dead long before we found him at the river, because—Hansol. Tell him why you ended up there.”

Hansol hesitates, looking at you unsurely. The other day, you finally managed to ask him why he’d been so injured and how he’d gotten trapped in the river. It was nothing unexpected, but it still had broken your heart, and hopefully, hopefully, it’s enough for Seungcheol to feel a little bit of empathy towards the yokai. Seungcheol’s a good man, a kind man, and all he needs to do is realise Hansol’s not evil, and he’ll warm up to him faster than anyone could think possible.

“Some other yokai attacked me in the forest,” Hansol says slowly. “Really old yokai. Older than me. And… I got hurt.”

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow, looking at you like he doesn’t get the point of this. You simply glare at him, silently telling him to continue listening.

“It wasn’t bad. Just a broken tail and some scratches,” Hansol says, and Seungcheol blinks, surprised at Hansol’s nonchalance. “But then some demon hunters found me, and tried to get me to… attack them? I dunno. They were picking a fight, and when I didn’t give it to them, they also hurt me.”

Almost imperceptibly, Seungcheol’s face softens a fraction, and you feel a flicker of hope. You know he’s weak in the face of innocently victimised stories like this.

“And so I was trying to run away from them, but everything is kind of in pain at that point. So I end up tripping down the mountain and into your river. My magic goes haywire when I’m sick,” he adds, “so that’s how I end up accidentally freezing ice all over me, too. It kind of responds to my feelings I guess? So when I’m scared, it starts acting up even more, which is why the ice was so thick, too. Like it was trying to protect me, ‘cause it knew I was scared of someone hurting me.”

It’s the most that Hansol’s said in one go, uninterrupted, before. Seungcheol’s face softens even further, and he straightens slowly. He’s been standing still, a few metres away the entire time Hansol’s been talking, like he’s been frozen by his tale.

“And yeah,” Hansol finishes awkwardly, ears twitching. He’s sensed the change in atmosphere, Seungcheol’s empathy tangible in the air. “Then I ended up here.”

“After several, painful weeks of healing,” you add, and Hansol nods jerkily.

“Yeah.”

“Oh,” Seungcheol says gently. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise you were so scared. But…” And then he sighs, straightening up further, the softness melting away from his face. “That doesn’t mean you’re not a harm to the others, now you’re all better. Who knows how you might feel when you’re hungry, or angry. You said your magic acts up according to your feelings, and I can’t have it acting up and hurting people here.”

Hansol’s face scrunches up in confusion. “When I’m hungry?”

It’s a bit absurd that’s the thing he’s focusing on, so you feel indignation over Seungcheol’s whole speech on his behalf, crying out at the injustice.

“What do you mean?” you argue. “You’re saying that like he’s some mindless beast.”

“He may as well be, for all I know,” Seungcheol sighs. “He’s not human, Y/N. We don’t know how he’ll act. And I need to think about the villagers. They’re… they’re like family to me, you know that.”

“I’m not human either,” you point out angrily. “And yet I’m also a part of this village. What are you saying, Cheol? Do you not consider me family?”

Seungcheol’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head instantly. “No, you are. But still, you’re more human than he is. And… there are days where I’m a bit wary of you too, Y/N.” At your outraged look, he rushes to continue, “Because you’re so powerful! But you’ve been with us for so many years, during the time of my father and his father, and his father before that, so I know you’re good. You’ve saved their lives. Saved everyone’s lives. Hansol, on the other hand…”

You scoff, beyond furious. “That’s absurd. There’s no such thing as being ‘good’, just as there’s no such thing as being ‘evil’. We don’t live in a fucking fairytale, Seungcheol.”

“I know. Maybe if you’d made different choices, I’d think of you as less good, too, but…” Seungcheol trails off, shrugging helplessly.

You stare at him, eyes so impossibly wide that it’s actually hurting your eye sockets, astounded by what he’s just said. Seungcheol? Thinking of you as evil? Just because of your power?

Beside you, Hansol stiffens just slightly, and during the course of the conversation, he’s somehow ended up so close to you that you can feel his magic simmering frantically under his skin. You don’t know why he’s so worked up, and distantly, you wonder whether it’s on your behalf.

Seungcheol, noticing how irate you’re getting, takes a step forward to try and placate you. But he misjudges his balance on the ice surrounding the fort, leg twisting and his eyes widen and he yelps as he falls forward, on course to crashing face-first onto the hard, frozen ground. Your eyes widen, and you reach out to him, before then—

There’s a blur of white fur and Hansol catches him before he falls over and breaks all the bones in his knees, gripping him loosely around the torso, getting to Seungcheol before you can even blink. He gingerly helps him back into an upright position, and you wave a hand to whisk away the rest of the ice with streams of gold before another accident like that happens again. Hansol’s still holding Seungcheol when you’re finished, but by the shoulders now, looking the village leader right in the eye, golden irises soft and determined at the same time.

“I get you have a responsibility,” Hansol says. “I used to have one too, in the wild. To keep myself alive. But my rule, and this should be yours too, is to not hurt anything that doesn’t hurt you first. I haven’t hurt you. You shouldn’t hurt me. And Y/N—” He looks over at you, eyes flashing, before looking back at Seungcheol. “Y/N has never hurt you. So don’t act like you’re preparing for the day she one day will.”

Seungcheol’s face doesn’t change, but you’ve known him long enough to detect the minute shifts in the air around him as he digests Hansol’s words and, grudgingly, accepts it.

“I apologise,” he finally says, reluctant but sincere in the way only Seungcheol can be. “That was cruel of me. To you and Y/N.”

He looks at you, and Hansol’s hands fall away, allowing him to walk towards you.

“Sorry. But you have to understand where I’m coming from,” Seungcheol says, almost pleading, and you realise that, whilst his stance on Hansol’s existence has wavered, his overall reluctance over him being here hasn’t changed. “At least don’t let others see him, if he’s going to stay. They’ll be terrified.”

“That doesn’t sound like Hansol’s problem,” you retort. “I know these villagers, Cheol, and they’ll warm up to him, they really will.”

You look over at Hansol as you say your next words.

“Hansol is sweet and kind and really rather funny, and it breaks my heart to hide him from others because he might be seen as scary. That’s just people’s prejudice talking.” You smile. Hansol’s eyes are wide, lips parted slightly, and a fluttering warmth unfurls up inside you as you continue to smile at him. “Because I’ve seen Hansol, and he’s the sweetest person I’ve ever met.”

Hansol’s entire face goes pink, and he looks away.

“Maybe so,” Seungcheol says heavily, and you look back at him. The warmth in your chest fades at his tone, dropping to the depths of your stomach. “But I can’t risk them being near him. Don’t let him out.”

You sigh, disappointed. “No. He can leave the house if he wants to, Seungcheol. He’s not some kind of housepet you can impose rules on just like that and expect me to follow through with them.”

“Y/N—”

“Get out of my home,” you say, evenly. “Go. You can take your rules and go piss off out of my sight.”

───────────── ‘✽,

You stew in your anger towards Seungcheol for several days.

He comes to your door every so often, either with a letter or a plea to talk through this, but you refuse to let him in and instead tell him to, not so kindly, fuck off.

Hansol looks at you with a mixture of affection and disappointment each time you do so. You don’t really understand why he looks at you like that—neither the affection nor disappointment—but he doesn’t say anything and goes back to what he was doing soon after, either playing with your magic, or his own, or reading your books.

Having him around the house is quite like having a very adorable, very shy, fox. You might’ve gotten furious at Seungcheol for treating Hansol like a pet, but you don’t mean it like having a pet fox: it’s just like having an inquisitive, cute being around the house who quite likes following you around as you go about your day.

It’s cute. He’s cute, with his swishing tail and his sudden bursts of frost when he’s fiddling with his fingers, and the way he stays perfectly still whenever you gain the courage to slowly inch closer to him on the sofa until you’re laying on his shoulder, at the perfect angle to peer down at the book in his hands so you can read it with him. They’re all your books, of course, so you know what they’re all about, but it’s quite nice leaning against Hansol, feeling his warmth through the silk of his clothing, and the pleasant hum of his magic under your ear.

He never initiates physical contact, but he seems to like having you near. He’s never protested when you’ve held his hand or laid on his shoulder or (very, very gently) touched his ears, so.

He’s quite like a fox, in that way. But he’s like a fox in other ways, too: namely, how it appears that he’s a bit nocturnal.

Sometimes, you’ll awaken at three, four, five o’clock in the morning to someone clattering around in your house. It always turns out to be Hansol, trying to occupy himself without waking you up, but always failing to do so.

“Hansol?” you murmur blearily, shuffling into the kitchen where the flurry of clatters had emitted from earlier. It’s dark, and all the curtains are drawn; nevertheless, his dim silhouette looks distinctly guilty as he whirls around to face you, pots and pans in his hands. “What’re you doing?”

“Sorry,” he says apologetically. “I read some potion in your book, and I wanted to try it out.”

“At three in the morning?”

“Five,” Hansol corrects. You fix him with a look, and he winces, demon magic-enhanced night vision meaning he can see you perfectly clearly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You shake your head, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. It’s cold in the kitchen, and being exposed to the chilly night temperature is gradually waking you up. “It’s okay. I guess you don’t sleep a lot, huh? You’re wide awake, even though it’s so early in the morning.”

Hansol shrugs. “Dunno. But I always just feel like I have so much energy. Like it doesn’t have anywhere to go, and I can’t sleep for too long before it tells me to do something.”

“I see.” You purse your lips thoughtfully, pondering why Hansol’s feeling like this and what could cause it. And then, a realisation strikes you and your eyes widen. “Oh. Oh, I get it. I understand why you’re feeling that way.”

The yokai tilts his head. “Really?”

“Yeah, and it’s totally okay,” you reassure, nodding your head. “Totally understandable, too. But don’t worry, it’s easily fixed.”

You wave a hand and turn all the light fixtures on so you can see Hansol properly. The yokai literally does look like he’s vibrating with extra energy, holding your cooking utensils in his hands, ears perked upright and tail fluffed up to the max. Yeah, he’s definitely understimulated and frustrated with it right now, even if he doesn’t realise that’s what it is.

You smile. This is a good way to help him and piss off Seungcheol at the same time.

“Come on, Hansol. Let’s go outside.”

───────────── ‘✽,

Not even an hour later, you’re making a trek up the mountains in your warmest clothes, lagging behind Hansol even with your magic-aided agility helping you up the hardest of the steps. The yokai is bounding on ahead, nimble and quick-footed even in the darkness of the early winter morning, and you can hear the light crunch of snow under his footsteps as he moves.

This is what Hansol needed. Some time outside, where he can finally breathe.

Some minutes later, as you’re sitting on a log on the path to catch your breath, Hansol comes back down the mountain to meet you, settling down by your side.

“It’s so quiet,” he whispers. The air around you is lit with a faint glow, courtesy of a visibility spell you conjured so you wouldn’t fall flat on your face as you walked. It makes Hansol’s face look golden as he smiles at you, eyes shining. “Everything is so quiet out here. I can hear the animals.”

You smile back, finding joy in how relaxed he looks. “Doesn’t that make it noisy?”

Hansol shakes his head, and then looks away from you, ears cocked to the side, listening. “No. This is like a familiar buzz of noise, so familiar that it becomes silent.” He looks back at you again, smiling. “Down in the village, it’s so noisy because of all the people, but up here, it’s all gone.”

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” you say with a smile, and Hansol nods so quickly that you laugh, endeared. “I’m glad. You can go off for a bit, if you want, and I’ll wait for you here.”

Hansol beams. “Okay.”

And like that, he’s off, nothing more than a faint swish of a silver tail before he disappears once more.

He doesn’t come back to you for some time, which gives you a chance to sit there and breathe in the cool air. It’s so cold that it feels like inhaling clouds of peppermint, but it’s… relaxing.

You haven’t had a chance to properly rest this winter. Winter’s a tricky time for you: the cold numbs your senses and makes your magic more sluggish. This year feels much colder than usual, and now the prolonged adrenaline that came with bringing Hansol back from the brink of death is fading, you’re beginning to anticipate feeling more worn out more often, the warm fizz in the tips of your fingers not as present as it ought to be.

Strangely, though. It hasn’t happened yet. Maybe being around Hansol and his frost-related magic has built up your resistance to the cold.

Or, he’s just so lovely and comforting that you don’t feel the effects of the winter.

That’s always a possibility. You look down at your hands, still glowing slightly with the visibility light you’ve put on yourself. It hasn’t faltered even once, a brilliant gold, and when you think of the colour of Hansol’s eyes, the light seems to glow even more.

You breathe in, and then exhale, kicking your feet out in front of you, looking down the dim mountain. You’ve been up here, thinking, for so long that the weak sunrise is beginning to peek its head above the horizon. Hansol still hasn’t come back. Though, you find you’re not too worried about that: somehow, you know that he will come back to you, though you can’t find ears nor tail of him while he’s gone.

It’s incredible how much you’ve come to trust and believe in Hansol, though he’s only been with you for several weeks. He’s been so reserved, anxious and afraid at times, especially during the early days, when he’d been bandaged up and newly healing in an unfamiliar environment, but now it’s clear how earnest and gentle he is. Something in your chest tightens and then relaxes with happiness whenever you see him smile. He’s just so—genuine, and you really like that about him.

You like him. A lot. He’s certainly an unexpected new part of your life, but now he’s here, and you can’t imagine living without the silver-furred fox yokai by your side.

There’s a rustle in the evergreen bushes to your left, and, as if he’s here answering your summons, a familiar silver head of hair pops out, golden eyes shining when he sees you.

He blinks at you, ears flicking curiously, twigs in his hair like he’s been rolling around on the forest floor. His tail is out of sight, but you can imagine how it’s waving from side to side in contentment, the morning dew slowly turning into frozen crystals in his fur. You smile.

“Hey,” you greet, the moment you see Hansol’s face. “Are you gonna come over?”

Instantly, he stands up, hops over the bush and makes his way to you. His footfalls are light, looking like he’s dancing over the rocks before he settles next to you once more, looking like he never left your side.

“Hey,” he says. “There are so many rabbits in these mountains, you know? Like I’ve never seen so many rabbits gathered in one place before, because normally they get killed by hunters or there’s just not enough food in that area to sustain so many. It’s actually insane how many rabbits you have up here.” When you just smile, his eyes widen, ears pricking upright. “Oh, is it you? Do you do something to help them stay alive? With your magic and all that?”

Hansol then launches into a flurry of questions for you, so eager and animated that it surprises you a little, before melting your heart.

At the sight of sunrise, you’d taken down your visibility spell, but Hansol is still glowing, looking so alive with his cold-dusted cheeks, shining eyes, wind-fluffed hair and the frost dusting the tip of his nose, which must have accidentally happened when he’d gotten too excited and lost control of his magic.

Hansol’s positively lit up, now he’s surrounded by all this nature. He must’ve been so cooped up and nervous before, when he was just in your house, barely anything to do. Now he’s healed, and outside, and you can tell that being out of the house is where he’s meant to be.

“It’s not me,” you admit after Hansol’s finished conjuring up crazy theories. “Well, kind of. I messed around with the mountains about eighty years ago and did something by accident so we get a lot more winter flowers than normal. The rabbits love eating them, so we get a lot of them too.”

“Oh,” Hansol says, amazed. “That makes so much sense. I saw so many flowers. I thought that was a little bit weird, but I just chalked it up to Mother Nature having fun, or something.”

You laugh. “Yeah. I guess Mother Nature was having fun,” you say, gesturing to yourself, and Hansol grins too. His eyes crinkle as he does so, the corners of his lips spread wide so his pearly whites are fully visible, the tips of his yokai fangs slightly on display. Even his big, bright smile is as cute as he is. You’ve never seen him smile this widely before. It’s… pretty.

Even though he’s all warmed up to you now, even though it’s clear he trusts you, it’s obvious he’ll always be most at peace out here in the big, wide world.

His gaze slides away from yours, looking at something behind you, and he gasps.

“What is it?” You turn to look back, trying to find what had caught his eye, but Hansol doesn’t respond. He jumps up, diving into the bushes without a word.

A moment later he emerges, and in his hands is…

“A daffodil?” you say, amazed. “What’s this doing here? Spring is very, very far off.”

“I guess it’s because of you,” Hansol says, handing you the flower.

You accept it gratefully, tracing the edges of its buttery yellow petals, such a warm, golden colour in your hands, in stark contrast to the cold white of the snow around you. It’s so pretty, so pristine, and it’s amazing it managed to survive in the freezing winter temperatures. Must be due to your magic, like Hansol said.

“It looks like you,” Hansol says suddenly, and you look at him in surprise.

“Really? How?”

“You look like spring, to me,” he says. The frosted tip of his nose looks pink, as do his cheeks. A decidedly warmer, blushier pink than they’d looked before. “All warm and gold and pretty. Like the daffodil. And I…” He pauses, and then seems to change his mind, shutting his mouth and blinking at you like he wasn’t about to say anything else.

You smile, so endeared that you’re practically glowing with it. “Thank you,” you say, touched, and look back down at the daffodil in your hands before raising your eyes to the definitely-blushing yokai once more. “That’s so sweet.”

Hansol shrugs, a little bashful, before standing up abruptly.

“I’m gonna go find the rabbits again,” he says, and before you can even reply, he’s disappeared.

You laugh, breathing in the crisp air and then releasing it in a sigh, feeling warm all over despite the cold. You shake your head, fond. Hansol is just so…

That’s it, you decide. You’re not going to let Seungcheol dictate where Hansol can and can’t be. You’ll let Hansol do whatever he wants, and encourage him to do whatever he wants.

Whatever makes him smile.

───────────── ‘✽,

From that day on, you make it a point to take Hansol to the mountains as often as you can.

He loves it—he’ll never say it in so many words, extremely shy when it comes to voicing his preferences for reasons you cannot discern, but it’s so obvious that those few hours he gets to spend with you, in the fresh air, away from all the people, are his favourite hours in the day.

It’s another one of those mornings when you’re up in the mountains with him. You can’t come here every day: you’d collapse from exhaustion if you had to wake up at four in the morning every day, but today, it’s a particularly clear-skied day, and you wanted to watch the sunrise with Hansol.

He’s sitting shoulder to shoulder with you, looking silently down at the village below. It’s still not sunrise yet, but the sky’s beginning to lighten gradually, and you can see some of the windows beginning to light up with orange lights, everyone slowly waking. Hansol hasn’t said a word for a while, so you haven’t either, content to just look down at everything in silence.

The entire experience is rather humbling. From the mountain, the village looks so small, like it’s merely a miniscule dot in existence, something that could be missed in a single blink. Like each mortal is worth next to nothing. Like each could be destroyed in a second.

That’s what a lesser immortal would think, anyway. For you, however, rather than how fragile life is, being this high up makes you marvel at the intricacy of it. Every person, every soul, despite being so small, is filled to the brim with so many unique experiences that no one else can ever live through as that person did. They live, and they die, but almost magnificently so. Like a one-of-a-kind snowflake that melts as soon as it lies in your hands.

You look at Hansol next to you. His eyelashes flutter thoughtfully as he looks down at the village, delicate against his pale skin.

Every life should be cherished, you think. Because if even the fleetings lives of humans are that complex, then what of the immortal creatures, who live forever? No one should tell them to hide themselves away.

“I can hear you cursing Seungcheol in your head,” Hansol says abruptly, pulling you out of your thoughts. He’s staring at you, now, no longer focused on the village, and he tilts his head bemusedly when you meet his gaze. “You’re still mad at him, aren’t you?”

You blink, and then smile. You were kind of cursing out Cheol in your head, you admit, and it’s kind of funny that Hansol picked up on it.

“I am,” you sigh, looking down. “Well, now I’m more annoyed, really. I know I should be glad that he’s not going to extremes, like some other people in the world, but…”

Hansol nods slowly. “I get where he’s coming from, though,” he admits, and you look up. “What? Seungcheol cares for his village. These people… they all mean a lot to him, and he doesn’t know me, so I guess it’s natural for him to be cautious.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s no excuse. These people all mean a lot to me, too. I watched them all grow up! And Cheol should know I wouldn’t suggest anything that puts them in danger.” You frown. “It’s frustrating. It feels like he doesn’t trust my judgement, even though he’s literally known me his entire life.”

The yokai hums, and reaches over to pat your hand placatingly where it rests in your lap.

“Also, it pisses me off that he’s saying all this without ever making an effort to get to know you, and see if his judgement is right,” you say, looking at Hansol, catching his hand in your own when he begins to move away. “You’re just—you’re just so lovely, and how dare Seungcheol try to hide you away, like you’re something taboo, or something to be ashamed of?”

Hansol’s eyes widen, and he blinks rapidly, before averting his gaze to your intertwined hands. “Oh,” he says, after a moment, clearly embarrassed by your sincere compliments. “That’s… nice.”

You laugh, fond, squeezing his hand comfortingly. “I’m always nice,” you tease. “I’m the nicest person in the entire world, actually.”

To your surprise, Hansol doesn’t smile back at your joke, and simply ducks his head shyly. “You are.”

And then he keeps lowering himself down until he’s laying in your lap, the tips of his flickering slightly at the contact as he adjusts himself until he's practically lying down in the log, head in your lap. You stiffen in surprise, and Hansol slowly shifts so he can blink up at you with innocent, gold eyes.

“Can I lie here?” he asks, even though he's clearly very much lying there already, and you smile, relaxing.

“Yeah, I guess,” you say, and Hansol smiles, closing his eyes as your hand goes to his hair and begins to gently run through the strands with the tips of your fingers.

You stay like that for some time, running your fingers through Hansol’s hair and over the soft fur of his ears. Abruptly, he playfully flicks his ears as you trace a finger through the fur at the base of them, making you yelp in surprise, and he smiles, pleased at having made you jump. You lightly tug at a few strands of hair, teasing, and he smiles wider, eyes still shut, the slight points of his canines visible.

Too distracted with Hansol’s face, you end up completely missing the full sunrise, and eventually it becomes late enough in the morning that the village fully awakens, bustling with noise as people go about their day. But curiously, you can’t hear a single thing. It’s like your world has narrowed down to you, your hands, and the yokai laid comfortably in your lap.

He really is very pretty. You notice the small spattering of snowflake-like freckles on his cheeks, and smile. He’s so pretty that it isn’t even fair.

You trace a thumb over his cheekbones, opening your mouth to comment on them before Hansol’s eyes snap open, and his ears suddenly tilt towards something down the mountain, listening. Your hand freezes, and you let him turn his head, alert.

“What’s wrong?”

Then, you hear it: the crunching of twigs underfoot, and the telltale huffing and puffing of a human making their way up the mountain. Your hand falls, and you get ready to stand up before—

“Y/N?”

Soonyoung, clad in winter furs and holding a woven basket in his hands, blinks at you in confusion, and then he glances to the yokai in your lap, and shakes his head, his expression becoming even more mystified than before.

“What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” you ask back, equally confused as Soonyoung. “You literally hate climbing the mountains. What are you doing?”

Soonyoung looks at you oddly, lifting up the empty basket. “I’m here to collect wildflowers for you,” he says. “I asked you the other day if you could make some of that non-dangerous magic fire you did last year. You said you needed wildflowers harvested at sunrise to make that potion, so I’m here to get those.”

“Oh. Did you really ask me that?”

“Yes,” Soonyoung says. “You said you’d make them for me. And also complained for like five minutes because I tried to pay you, and you wanted to refuse ‘cause you said I was paying you too much. As if there’s such a thing as being paid too much money.” He rolls his eyes for emphasis, and you laugh.

The conversation comes back to you now, and you shrug sheepishly. “Yeah. Sorry. I forgot about that.”

Soonyoung makes a disgruntled sound, feigning annoyance before his eyes crinkle as he smiles. “Don’t worry about it, boo. Just as long as you remember to make the potion, it’s all fine. The children’ll love it for the bonfire tonight.”

Your eyes widen. “You want me to make it for tonight? There’s a bonfire tonight?”

“Yes,” Soonyoung says. “I specifically told you when I asked, as well. Goodness, you’re forgetting everything today, huh?” Then he gestures casually to Hansol, who’s still lying in your lap, looking unsurely at the villager. “Don’t tell me, you also forgot you have the injured demon in your lap, too?”

He points to Hansol so naturally, so calmly that you look down in surprise, as if you really had forgotten the yokai was there. Soonyoung laughs, shaking his head as he bends down near a bush, poking through the dirt to see if there are any flowers. He turns his back on you and Hansol, craning down towards the ground to see better as he continues to talk.

“Cheol told me all about the demon and how he disapproves of you keeping him alive,” Soonyoung says. He manages to find a few wildflowers, and lets out an aha! of pride, putting them away in his basket. “Not gonna lie, I agreed with him a bit. But then I come up here and find him in your lap as you pet him like a cat, and now I’m thinking, maybe not so much.”

Soonyoung turns back to face you once again, and somehow, during those thirty seconds, he’s managed to get dirt all over his nose.

“Plus, you seem to like him,” he carries on. “So he can’t be bad, can you? Because you’d kick his ass if he was.”

You quirk a grin at that, proud. Then you nod down at Hansol. “He has a name, though, you know. And he can hear you.”

Soonyoung’s eyes widen in realisation, and he stands up quickly, brushing down his clothes. “Oh, sorry, you’re right. Sorry. Hi, I’m Soonyoung, one of the villagers who live here. It’s nice to meet you.”

He extends a gloved hand towards Hansol, and Hansol looks at the hand for a long moment. Then he slowly sits upright again, and grasps Soonyoung’s hand in a firm handshake, the corners of his mouth relaxing slightly.

“Hansol,” he says. “It’s nice to meet you.”

And then he must do something, because Soonyoung lets out a small yip in surprise, withdrawing his hand quickly as Hansol observes him amusedly, eyes glinting.

“Did you…” Soonyoung starts, wide-eyed. “Did you just. Give me an electric shock? On purpose?”

Hansol cracks the slightest smile, evidently pleased with Soonyoung’s reaction. He’s in a playful mood today, you muse, smiling as Soonyoung stutters, clearly not sure what to do when a yokai plays a prank on him like this. It makes you smile too, amused.

“You have to show me how to do that,” Soonyoung eventually says, going from surprised to confused to full of amazement. “Can you show me? Is that something which can be taught?”

That makes Hansol smile properly, lips curving upwards. “You’re funny.”

“I’m being serious!” Soonyoung says, but something about Hansol’s smile must make him smile too, because eventually he laughs, shaking his head. “Goodness, you magic people need to stop messing with me. One day, I’ll accidentally set myself on fire, and it’ll be your fault.”

“You’d do that anyway,” you tease, and Soonyoung rolls his eyes. “Anyway, I have to get going, I think. Jeonghan’s coming over for a poultice for his back pain, and I need to get to my cottage before he does.”

“Okay,” Soonyoung says. “This is a hell of a way up the mountain, by the way. I might go down with you as well, and see if I’ve missed any flowers.”

“Cool.” This is definitely not that far up the mountain, and even though Soonyoung hates climbing, it shouldn’t have taken him more than twenty minutes to reach where you are. It’s clear he wants to walk with you for a moment to tell you something, so you look at Hansol, and offer him the chance to stay up in the mountains by himself for a bit.

He agrees, so you and Soonyoung begin your slow descent.

“What do you want?” you ask, when you’re out of Hansol’s hearing range.

Soonyoung just smiles, shaking his head. “Nothing bad,” he says. “I meant it when I said Hansol seems like a cool guy. I just…” He pauses, thinks over his words, and then leans in closer. “Bring him to the bonfire tonight.”

You reel back. “What? Are you crazy?”

“Hey, if you’re worried about him getting hurt, you shouldn’t be,” Soonyoung says placatingly. “Hansol’s a demon. He can hold his own. Plus, the people aren’t as against yokai as you might think. Cheol’s just overly cautious, and the elderly might have traditional views about it, but it won’t be hard to make them like him. He’s cute.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“He is!” Soonyoung argues. “I saw him in your lap, Y/N. He’s adorable. And very… docile? Like, he’s so quiet. But also very silly. The kids would love him, you know. So would everyone else.”

“Even Seungcheol?”

Soonyoung thinks about it for a second. The cold air has made his cheeks all ruddy red, and he looks like a very earnest, very red-cheeked schoolboy as he nods firmly. “Yes. Even Seungcheol.”

You hum, still incredibly sceptical. “Well. I’ll think about it. We’ll have to see.”

───────────── ‘✽,

Unfortunately, even though you were slightly swayed by Soonyoung’s words and his instant kindness and all-round chillness in Hansol’s presence, you ultimately end up not bringing Hansol to the bonfire night. It’s not your decision, though: it’s Hansol’s.

“Are you worried about the humans?” you ask, when Hansol tells you that, respectfully, he doesn’t want to go. “You don’t have to worry about that. I could blast them all to pieces for insulting you, if that makes you feel better.”

Hansol smiles a little, before shaking his head. “No. It’s actually just… I’m not really a big fan of all the noise and stuff. And how hot bonfires are.”

“Oh.” You soften, concerned. “Have you been… hurt by fire before?”

“Huh? Oh, no,” Hansol says. He shrugs. “I just don’t like being too warm. Makes me uncomfortable.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. Because even as he says this, he’s cuddling up into your side, head on your shoulder, his tail curled comfortably around him. “Really?” you say. “You don’t like being too warm?”

Hansol’s ears flick. “Yeah. My magic originates from winter, as you might have noticed, so…”

“Oh, I hadn’t realised,” you say teasingly, tapping the tip of his nose lightly. “I thought the white fur and random bursts of frost on your skin meant you were a summery fox.”

Hansol scrunches his nose, and you laugh. “Yeah, yeah. Anyway, it does mean I don’t like being all warm, so fires are a no-go for me. Especially bonfires, where there are many people. That’s way too much warmth for me, for sure.”

“I see,” you say, reaching a hand up to tuck some of his silver hair out of his face as he nestles closer into your side. “That’s cool. But I am going to have to go, even if you aren’t. Will you be okay if I leave you here by yourself in the evening?”

“Yeah. Can you make me dinner before you go, though? Last time I tried, I almost destroyed your kitchen.”

“What? When was that?”

“Oops. Did I not tell you?”

Anyway, the bonfire night ends up being a bit of a disappointment. Several of the villagers have cottoned on to the fact you’re housing the yokai, and express their concerns to you over the matter several times over the course of the night. You love these people, you really do, but hearing so many of them advise you to send him back off into the woods for your own safety really wears you down after a while.

“I think Y/N understands what you’re saying now, imo,” a gentle voice butts in, right when you’re in the middle of having a particularly exhausting conversation. This tricky older woman’s insisting you let the yokai go… only, she’s using much more unkind words.

You were very, very close to losing your cool with her—respect the elders be damned because hell, you’re way older than she is—before she’s interrupted mid-sentence by a villager appearing over his shoulder, and you smile in relief as you recognise him.

At the call of “auntie”, she looks up and comes face-to-face with your saviour, Joshua, and all it takes is another gentle smile and some sweet words before he successfully convinces her to leave your side and rejoin her friends on the other side of the bonfire.

“Don’t worry about it,” Joshua says when you thank him for his help. “You know how they are. Once they latch on to you, it’s impossible to get them to leave without using some sort of witchcraft to pry them away.”

You laugh at that. “And yet, it seemed to be you who helped get them off me. Maybe you’re the real witchcraft user out of the two of us.”

Joshua laughs, light and melodious, magical fire reflecting in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything to your joke, however, and nods into the distance behind you, down the darkened paths that lead to your cottage. “You need to bring him out, though,” he says. “Whilst he’s still unknown, they’ll continue conjuring theories that become wilder by the day. They need to see the yokai so their suspicions can be wiped away once and for all.”

“Wh—Hansol?” You blink. “It’s dangerous, Shua. They might hurt him.”

“They’re hurting him now,” Joshua says. “They’re hurting you and hurting him by making stuff up. Just introduce him to them, okay? He can’t become part of our village if he never meets our villagers.”

At your stunned look, Joshua smiles.

“What? I know you, Y/N. You’re attached. You want him to stay. And honestly…” His smile turns a little more secretive, a little more knowing. “I think he wants to, too. The yokai will stay for you, but to truly bring him in, you have to bring him out to us.”

Joshua smiles again, the colours of his irises swirling together, before he pats you on the shoulder and gets up, leaving you there speechless.

He isn’t… wrong. But hearing it like that sounds insane.

You shake your head. Hansol will have to meet everyone sooner or later, you suppose. You very much do not want to go ahead with Seungcheol’s idea to let him be hidden, like a secret, so of course, you need to bring him out into the open.

You shake your head again, mystified. Joshua’s correct, but how does he know so much?

Honestly, you really do think he’s more of a witchcraft user out of the two of you. His incredible timing, his knowledge of all your thoughts, the fact he’d called Hansol a yokai rather than demon…

Also. How old even is he, anyway?

Too confused and befuddled by all the thoughts in your head, you end up playing with the children and run through the fire all night instead. It’s a lot safer than having to deal with all the grown-up stuff of thinking about things.

───────────── ‘✽,

Both Soonyoung’s and Joshua’s words linger in the back of your mind for days after that, and you contemplate how to get Hansol out of the house. Hansol had never really shown signs of wanting to be part of the village, which had made you reconsider this whole thing, wanting to brush away the villager’s words, before you actually asked the yokai, and—

Hansol shrugs. “Yeah. I’d like to get to know everyone. I want to be part of the village.”

“You do?”

“Yeah,” he says again, smiling at you. “This village is your village, and I want to be with you.”

Oh. You smile back, touched. Hansol smiles wider, brightening at the eye contact, all sweet and lovely and really quite cute, before ducking his head and disappearing back through the shelves of your library once again.

So Hansol turns out to be not as against the idea as you thought, which makes you feel a lot better about thinking of how to get the villagers to trust him and how to get Seungcheol off your back for taking care of Hansol in the first place.

However, it ends up not being you who makes the first steps into getting him known. Oh, no.

Instead, Hansol does that all by himself.

It happens during the first snowfall of the year. You’d woken up to the beautiful sight of the white crystals floating down and covering the entire village with a soft, muffled coat, and the equally beautiful sight of Hansol, who had already woken up, practically pressing his nose against the window to look at the snow in awe.

He’d clearly wanted to go out and be in the snow—as a winter yokai, that made sense—but you’d had some errands to run that day, so you’d told him he could stay only in the front yard of the cottage and go no further.

Hansol had smiled at you, an amused quirk of his lips that acted as all the reassurance you needed.

So he’s sitting in the snow in front of your cottage, legs out in front of him, the silk of his clothes getting damper the longer he sits on the cold ground, but he hardly notices, more focused with tracing a finger through the soft white that is steadily building up.

Snowfall is Hansol’s most favourite wintry thing. It’s a perfect, wondrous phenomenon: the intersection of the perfect time and the perfect weather and the perfect temperature that makes the sky release soft handfuls of the white stuff down on Earth. Even nature falls silent when the snow falls. In Hansol’s opinion, that’s proof enough that it’s something to be appreciated beyond belief.

His robes, his old robes, used to have silver snowflakes embroidered into them, intricate and sprawling patterns that he could run his fingers over and almost feel the cold gust of wind that accompanied the snow. They’re not on the robes he’s wearing now—he’s wearing ones you’ve given him, after his old ones were ruined by his own blood—but he traces his fingers gently over the sleeves, letting frost spread out from his fingers like the feathery patterns that used to adorn the cloth he wore.

He quickly grows bored of that, though, and turns to the real snow in front of him, ears flicking absentmindedly to get rid of the small pile-up gathering on his head. He absentmindedly gathers the stuff in his hands, patting it into shapes and then leaving them out on the lawn.

This carries on for some time, and eventually there is an army of misshapen snow clumps in your front yard, all frosted over with a touch of his magic, and he grins, satisfied. And then his ears twitch again, and he feels… eyes. Watching him.

Hansol turns around, and some houses away, peeking from over a well-trimmed, leafless hedge, he sees three children clad in fluffy winter clothes staring at him, curious.

He doesn’t have much experience with human children. Or any children, for that matter. But he’s pretty sure that, when a yokai makes eye contact with them, they’re not meant to light up with glee and come running over with absolutely no regard for the icy paths or the danger that said yokai could present.

Surprised, Hansol jumps up to his feet, reaching out hands to steady the little kids as they skid over the snow and come to a stop right in front of him, eyes shining, expectant. He doesn’t know what they’re expecting, and being so close to these mini humans is a very awkward experience for him. He’s not sure what to do.

So he lifts a hand, and waves. “Hello?”

The three children beam, and one of them, the girl, practically vibrates with happiness when he speaks.

“Hello!” she chirps, and waves back. “I’m Yeowon! What’s your name?”

Hansol blinks, taken aback by her enthusiasm. “I’m Hansol.”

“Hansol!” Yeowon keeps speaking in exclamation marks, and it’s honestly kind of amusing. “It’s nice to meet you! This is Junghoon, and this is Minjun!” she says, gesturing to the boys on either side of him, who also give Hansol equally enthusiastic waves.

“Hello,” he says unsurely. How old are these kids? He doesn’t know much about human years, but they look… very young. Where are their parents?

He doesn’t get to voice his concerns before Yeowon starts speaking again, going a mile a minute and he can hardly get a word in edgeways.

“We were watching you from Minjun’s house,” she says, and picks up one of the snow balls that Hansol was making, lifting it up so he can look at his own handiwork. “These are so pretty! We wanted to come over and play with you, ‘cause we’ve never seen you before, but you live with Miss Witch, right?”

Hansol opens his mouth, but it’s apparent that wasn’t an actual question when Yeowon barrels on.

“So you must be a good guy! So we wanted to come say hello and play.”

She blinks big, innocent eyes up at him, as do the two boys, evidently begging him to play with them, or something. He doesn’t know what play entails, but… there’s no harm in entertaining these fun-sized humans, right?

So Hansol nods, says they can play with him, and sits down in the snow again. And then, before he knows it, they’re all shrieking and climbing over him and asking him to make figurines out of ice and snow and patting his hair in amazement and asking if his ears are actually real.

Children are very overwhelming, Hansol quickly learns. But he also kind of likes them: likes the way their eyes light up when he makes them the little ice characters they want, likes their fascinated smiles and the way they very gently touch his ears and accidentally get damp suede of their gloves in his mouth in their excitement. They’re bubbly, full of life, and so friendly with him that it honestly makes him so delighted that it surprises him.

“Make me one too! Make me one too!”

“Your ears look super fluffy! Can I touch your tail?”

“Why are your eyes yellow?”

“Can you make me something out of magic too, Mister Fox?”

“Mister Fox! Mister Fox!”

Hansol doesn’t know how it happens, but he blinks and suddenly he’s surrounded by what seems to be every child in the village, clamouring around him and asking if he could play, Please, Mister Fox, won’t you?

Your front lawn is quickly becoming a gathering place for the little humans who had swarmed towards him so quickly that Hansol’s starting to think they were waiting in the background for his very opportunity, and he makes more ice figures and listens interestedly to their babbling as they conjure stories for the figurines on the spot. They’re all so very noisy, but Hansol smiles, brimming with a similar sort of energy as his magic fizzes and pops with glitters of snow and makes the children laugh.

There’s no other way to describe it. He’s feeling happiness, pure and simple.

Unbeknownst to Hansol, there’s one human who’d been watching the entire scene right from the beginning. Coming down the path, on his way to visit the village’s magic-user, Soonyoung had noticed Hansol sitting by himself and had prepared to go over, extend a hand and a friendly word before Yeowon, Junghoon and Minjun had run over.

As a result, Soonyoung retreated a little ways round the bend to watch from a distance, which is where he is now, smiling at the innocent joy of both the children and Hansol.

From the opposite end of the path, he spots you walking back to your cottage, and clocks the exact moment you realise what’s happening in your front yard. Your eyes widen, and you stop in your tracks, before your eyes slowly lift further and you notice Soonyoung standing there too, smiling.

See? he seems to say with your eyes, meeting your gaze. They love him.

One of the children shrieks with laughter as she grabs Hansol’s tail and he playfully gasps in shock, scooping her up and lifting her into the air until she’s giggling and burbling for him to put her down. At his feet, one child is patting snow into the hem of his robes, and another is playing with a fox-eared figurine that Hansol had made him.

It looks so natural, and you watch them for a moment before looking at Soonyoung again. Soonyoung smiles even wider. You have nothing to worry about.

You laugh, a little bit in disbelief, warmth spreading across your face as you smile back, looking fondly at the sight in your front yard. Finally, you really do believe that that’s the truth.

───────────── ‘✽,

“Let’s go out,” you say, and Hansol looks up from his book, tilting his head inquisitively.

“Hm,” he says in reply. “Are you sure?”

It’s been a few days since the first snowfall, but the wintry precipitation has not let up, and it continues to softly drift down from the sky even as you speak. The blanket of snow covering the earth has also blanketed your senses, and your magic is nothing more than a gentle hum beneath your skin. A month ago, this would have stressed you greatly, but with Hansol and his winter-attuned magic singing happily around the entire room, you feel nothing but peace.

Nodding in reassurance, you smile at Hansol. “Very sure. Let’s go out today.”

Hansol blinks, once, and then smiles back, closing the book and getting up from the couch. “Okay. Where are we going?”

You smile wider. “To make you some friends.”

That was the plan, anyway. Ever since the first snow, when Hansol had been accosted by the children and ended up playing with them for a good part of the day, you’ve had several villagers come to your door, either complaining about the yokai or wanting to know more about him. So, you figure, today you should get him out to the village square so he can finally meet everyone. Regardless of their opinion of him.

Because you have trust in Hansol. Now, you have confidence he can turn their opinion around.

Hansol, despite having all the appearances and mannerisms of an introvert, doesn't seem to mind leaving the house for so many days in a row, and eagerly agrees as you urge him to get dressed and head out to the village square. There's the daily market taking place, and most people will be there, so it'll be a good opportunity to introduce him.

But, like you said, that was the plan.

Unfortunately, you're whisked away by some of the villagers who need help with their sick relative, leaving Hansol stranded in the village square.

“You don't have to stay,” you insist to him, as you're rushed off to deal with the medical emergency. “Seriously, Hansol, you can go home. Especially if anyone starts throwing insults, then just go, okay? I'll be with you as soon as I finish.”

Hansol watches you go, head tilted, slightly amused. It's kind of cute that you think he needs protecting. You know, since he's an ancient demon, and all. But before he can say as such, there's a small voice near his knee, and he looks down to see a small child, piping up in favour of him.

“Don't worry about Mister Fox!” the small boy chirps brightly. “We will look after him!”

And as if out of nowhere (seriously, where do these kids come from?) several children come up to him and cling to his robes, waving at you as you leave the market square. Hansol waves too, mystified by the miniature support latching onto him, but also a bit touched by their loyalty. They're really sweet.

“So what do you wanna do, Mister Fox?” the first little boy says, and Hansol recognises him as one of the first children to come up to him a few days ago. Minjun. “Are you hungry?”

Without even waiting for Hansol's answer, Minjun and the rest of the children start ushering him to the food stalls, fiercely advocating for their choice of what Mister Fox should eat first.

“Wait,” Hansol says, interrupting the particularly fierce fight over having hotteok or bungeoppang first. “Kids. Do you have any money?”

There's a short silence, and all the children look down, which is how he learns that they don't, and so they don't end up buying anything at all. Except, Yeowon, who joined the discussion partway through, manages to wheedle some of the stall-owners to give her free food with her big puppy eyes and innocent pout.

It’s like a magic trick, Hansol has to give her that. And when she happily tells the vendors that she’s sharing the food with Hansol, the villagers do nothing other than blink in surprise and then smile, polite and awkward, well. That’s also an incredible magic trick too.

They sit on the outskirts of the village market, pillowed by the mounds of snow all around them as they eat their steaming hot snacks. They’re delicious, and sticky, and very sweet, so it’s not too long before Hansol has several super-hyper, sticky-fingered children on his hands, who are all practically launching themselves into the snow with the bounding amounts of energy they have.

It becomes very noisy very fast, and Hansol starts panicking slightly, before he loudly suggests they ought to go and make some snowmen, and all the children whip their heads around to look at him, wide-eyed, and then—

“That’s such a good idea!”

“Yes! Let’s do that!”

“I’m gonna make the best snowman!”

“No, me!”

“No! Me!”

And then they go tumbling off into the snow, and Hansol slumps back down, relieved. He can still see them, and he can still sense them, too, so there’s no worry in any of them getting lost. At least he can now have some peace and quiet.

Twisting his lips thoughtfully, he gathers handfuls of the white snow, turning it over. He turns it over again, and then begins patting and shaping it in his hands until he has something that resembles a little snow duck.

It’s terribly misshapen, and the beak is a bit too long to be a duck, but it’s cute, and Hansol’s pleased. He swirls his fingers in the air, and uses some magic to add finishing touches, trying to rectify the wonkiness. It doesn’t work, but he still thinks it’s cute. You’d probably find it cute, too. Right?

Probably. Hansol hums to himself contemplatively. You like everything he does. It’s very sweet, he thinks, that you’re always so receptive to him, and it’s even sweeter that you genuinely enjoy his company. You brighten like a blooming chrysanthemum, spring-like in your warmth whenever he says something to you, and it makes him feel all warm too. Ever since the first time he woke up on your couch, out of his mind with a fever, and he’d noticed your floral chrysanthemum tea scent and accidentally called you the prettiest person ever, you’ve always been so gentle and kind and oh, Hansol likes you so much.

You’re just—lovely. You’re the loveliest being he’s ever met in his entire life, and that’s saying something, because Hansol’s been alive for a really fucking long time.

“Hello.”

He’s startled out of his thoughts by a light, melodic voice coming from over his shoulder, and Hansol looks up in surprise to see a villager bent over him, warm brown eyes glinting and the corners of his lips curving upwards in a seemingly permanent smile.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump. I just saw you, and thought I’d say hi,” the villager says, smiling properly, extending a hand. “I’m Joshua. You’re the yokai, right?”

Hansol manoeuvres his body around awkwardly and shakes Joshua’s gloved hand. “I’m Hansol, and yeah, I am the yokai. How could you tell?” His ears flick pointedly as he talks, and Joshua’s eyes immediately go to them before he smiles wider.

“Yeah, I guess it was a silly question,” Joshua says, and his fur boots crunch in the snow as he climbs over a mound and crouches down next to Hansol. “But I don’t wanna seem impolite, you know?”

Hansol shrugs, but he understands. “Yeah. I get it.”

Joshua smiles.

They say nothing for a moment, and Hansol lifts his head up briefly to check on the children. He can still see all of them, actually, dotted about the edges of the market as they build their snowmen. He watches them thoughtfully, and then down at the snow at his feet.

It only takes a moment for a snowman of his own to begin to form, aided by his magic as the snowballs roll themselves to become bigger and more round.

“That’s really cool,” Joshua comments, and Hansol had almost forgotten he was there. He’s so quiet, feather-silent, but when he catches Hansol’s eye and smiles, there’s a twinkle to his presence that makes him wonder how he could have ever forgotten him. “I’ve never seen anyone other than Y/N be able to do that.”

“Hm?” Hansol looks at the snowman that’s slowly being built. “Oh, well, it’s nothing, really.”

Even as he says so, his tail fluffs up in pride at Joshua’s words, and he begins adding more and more intricate frost details to the snowman. The feathery patterns wind through the body of his creation, like embroidery, and Joshua whistles, amazed.

“It’s very cool. Your magic is very cool.”

Hansol shrugs, bashful. “Thank you. But really, it’s nothing.” As the snowman continues to construct itself, he leans over to Joshua as if confiding a secret. “In the wild, there are yokai who can create literal monsters out of ice. In about five seconds flat. But I mostly just deal with frost and snow, so it’s a lot more difficult for me.”

Joshua tilts his head, genuine interest written all over his face. “Oh. I didn’t know there were differences in yokai magic.”

“Of course there are,” Hansol says, like it’s obvious. “Like there are differences in humans’ skills, there are differences for yokai, too. We are not unlike you, you know.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Joshua says thoughtfully. And then he looks Hansol in the eye again, smiling. Joshua is honestly so friendly, and even though they only met two minutes ago, he feels like he’s known him for years. “So you won’t object to being friends with a human, right?”

Hansol blinks, surprised, and Joshua’s smile just widens. It’s obvious what he’s asking, and Hansol feels… touched, that he’d even suggest such a thing.

“Yeah,” Hansol says, and his magic finishes off the snowman with an intricate flourish of frost. “I’d love to be your friend.”

“Joshua!”

The calling of the human’s name makes both Joshua and Hansol turn around, and they see one of the elder villagers coming over to them, the skirts of her robes swishing as she walks. She’s terribly intimidating, greying hair pulled back into a bun with a pointy hair stick, marching over with incredible grace even through the ankle-deep snow that has gathered. She squints at the yokai and how close Joshua is sitting to him.

“Mrs Choi,” Joshua greets, apparently oblivious to the sharpness of the woman’s gaze. “Hello. It’s very cold today, isn’t it?”

She eyeballs Hansol for a moment before nodding at Joshua. “Very. Frightful weather, but at least the children are enjoying the snow.” Mrs Choi lifts her gaze and squints into the distance, where the children are playing. “I hope someone is supervising them.”

“Oh, well, Hansol is, so don’t worry about it,” Joshua says with a smile.

Mrs Choi snaps her gaze back to them. “Is he really?” Hansol nods, doing his best to look as earnest and trustworthy as possible, and she hums. “I see.”

“He has them doing a snowman competition, actually,” Joshua says. “He’s very good at making them himself, too. Look. Don’t you think his creation looks amazing?”

He points to the snowman in front of them, glistening with frost and embroidered with thin ice, clearly a work of his magic. Hansol swallows, expecting Mrs Choi to fly into a tizzy over the presence of such witchcraft, but she just scrutinises the snowman, and then—

She smiles.

“It’s very pretty,” she says, and in the blink of an eye, her expression has turned warm. She’s smiling so nicely at Hansol, and then she leans down and brushes a hand over the top of his head, gently dusting away the snow that had landed in his hair. “Just like you, my dear.”

Hansol blinks up at her, open-mouthed. “I— thank you, ma’am.”

She chuckles, straightens, adjusts the skirt of her robes. “No need to thank me. I’m simply telling the truth.” Mrs Choi nods in the direction of the children, before turning away. “Thank you for taking care of the children, also. Keep up the good work.”

Hansol watches her go, feeling a little dazed. She had looked so sharp and stern at first, but something about him sitting there harmlessly and making a harmless snowman with harmless snow gathered in his hair must have done something to convince her that he’s, well, harmless. Which is good. Very good. Hopefully she’ll let everyone else know, too.

“Yeah, she looks scary, but Mrs Choi is anything but,” Joshua says with a laugh, when Hansol directs his wide-eyed gaze to him.

“She’s terrifying.”

“Her son takes after her,” Joshua chuckles. “Choi Seungcheol. He looks scary, but he’s a right softie on the inside, trust me.”

Hansol’s eyes widen further. “She’s Seungcheol’s mother? The village leader?”

“The one and only,” Joshua affirms. He laughs. “Don’t worry about him. His own mother found you cute. I’m sure he’ll be won over by you in no time. Especially if you keep making snowmen that rival Y/N’s in their intricacy. Seriously, I think yours are the best I’ve ever seen.”

“Shua, I hope I didn't just hear you dissing my amazing snowman building skills.”

Hansol looks up at your voice, and sees you slowly treading over to them, a drawstring bag dangling over your shoulder as you pick your way through the snow. The tip of your nose is red from the cold, cheeks a pretty pink with an amused smile on your face, and the moment he sees you, it’s like you’ve stolen his breath away.

Whilst Hansol’s too busy being starstruck, Joshua laughs, leaning back on his hands.

“So what if I was?” he teases, and nods to Hansol’s snowman. “Doesn’t it look amazing?”

You look away, directing your gaze to the snowman. Humming thoughtfully, you eye Hansol’s creation, and he begins to grow a little nervous under your critical silence, fiddling with his fingers and digging them into the snow, wisps of cold air seeping from his skin.

And then you smile, a lopsided smirk that makes Hansol feel a little dizzy.

“I can certainly do better.”

Before he can say anything, you set down your bag, and with a flick of your wrist the snow begins to swirl and gather itself before you. Under your command, golden streaks of magic begin to press the snow together, creating larger shapes that you obviously plan to sculpt into a showstopping piece.

You look almost relaxed in your movements, the entire process taking nothing more than a slight twitch of your fingers as magic sparks zip around the sculpture that’s gradually beginning to form. Hansol can only watch in awe, amazed at the fluidity and effortlessness of your power. By his side, he thinks he hears Joshua chuckle softly.

After a few short moments, the three of you are staring at a large, smoothly finished sculpture of a winter fox, and you smile and cross your arms, satisfied.

“What do you think?” you say, smug, confident in your belief that you’ve proved yourself.

Hansol’s jaw is on the floor. Delicate pointy ears, a fluffy-looking tail all made out of snow, and wow, are those whiskers? Did you really make whiskers?

“Wow,” is all he can say, staring at this lifelike fox that’s made entirely out of snow. “Wow.”

Just then, there are high-pitched exclamations from somewhere in the distance, and the children that Hansol’s been supervising come bounding over, shouting in amazement at the fox that you’ve made.

“Hi, kids,” you say when they’re close enough, laughing when Yeowon barrels into your legs to give you a hug. “Quick question, which snow sculpture do you think is better? The fox, or the Frosty the Snowman?”

They all look very thoughtfully at the two snow pieces in front of them, before unanimously pointing to your creation, and you grin triumphantly at Joshua and Hansol. Hansol just smiles back, totally expecting such an outcome. You’d beat him any day when it comes to stuff like this, and he’s totally fine with that.

“That’s not even a snowman,” Joshua protests, but it’s clear he’s arguing just for the fun of it. “Y/N, that’s not a fair competition.”

You shrug flippantly. “I’d win anyway.” And then you wink, pleased, and Hansol feels like burying himself in the snow just to try and get rid of his red cheeks.

“Mister Fox, we wanna play with you now,” Minjun says, and he looks up to see the children standing around him, red-cheeked and damp-haired but still eager to play more. “Can we play a game with you?”

“It’s getting late,” Hansol tries to say, but apparently, that had been a rhetorical question, because they’re hauling him up to his feet so they can play with him. “The market’s already closing. Shouldn’t you all go back to your parents now? Joshua? Y/N?” He looks back pleadingly as he gets dragged away, and you and Joshua just laugh, waving him goodbye.

“Have a nice time!” Joshua calls, standing up from the snow and brushing down his clothes. He stands closer to you, smiling as you both watch him begin to play. “He’s good with them, isn’t he?”

You smile too. “He really is.”

“The best,” another voice adds, and you look over your shoulder to see some of the villagers also watching Hansol. They’re all the parents, and yet they seem perfectly content to let their children play around with the yokai, any trace of hostility gone from their faces.

That makes you smile wider. “I’m glad you think so, Mrs Lee,” you say, and the woman smiles back. “Don’t worry. He’ll keep your children safe.”

Mrs Lee bows her head in acknowledgement, eyes turning soft as you all watch Hansol let the children punt tiny clumps of snow at him. “We know.”

They stay with you for a little longer, chatting about Hansol’s gentle nature and how wonderfully he gets along with the children, before eventually they disperse and begin packing up the market for the day. Next to you, Joshua is also smiling, looking fond, which is really weird because he barely knows Hansol but there’s definitely a clear look of admiration and affection in his face. Before you can comment on it, though, he pats you on the shoulder, and begins to step away.

“I better go,” he says. “Cheol’s coming your way. I think he wants a talk.”

He bids you goodbye then trudges back through the snow, and you look over your shoulder to see that Seungcheol really is coming your way. Instead of greeting him, however, you look back out at Hansol, and wait until the village leader is by your side.

“Hello, Y/N.”

“Hello, Seungcheol.”

You don’t offer him anything else, and so the two of you stand there in silence, continuing to watch Hansol play with the children. It is an adorable sight, though, and makes the corners of your lips twitch upwards the longer the silence goes on. He’s totally lenient with them, letting them pull his tail and ambush him with damp gloves and shrieking laughter. His head whips back and forth constantly between the two sides of kids that have inexplicably formed, somehow finding himself in the crossfire as snowballs get flung around him.

It’s cute, and it makes you laugh, heart warming with fondness. You can feel Seungcheol watching you out of the corner of your eye, and when it’s clear he’s not going to say anything until you do, you sigh and turn your back on Hansol at last, raising an eyebrow.

“Well?” you prompt. “What’s up? You didn’t come find me just to say hello.”

Seungcheol pauses, and looks down. “No. I didn’t.” A beat. “My mother actually told me you were here.”

“Okay. And?”

“She talked to Hansol,” he says, and both your eyebrows raise this time, in surprise. “She said to me that she liked him, and she wanted me to open my eyes and finally realise how much of a good person he is.”

Seungcheol clasps his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels. He looks over your shoulder, at where Hansol is undoubtedly doing something silly to entertain the children, and his eyes go gentle. They don’t soften, and they certainly don’t melt, but his gaze becomes a little more mellow, like a layer of hardness has finally given way.

“And he is a good person,” Seungcheol says, looking at you again. “I’ve been watching him all day. All week, in fact, and even if my mother hadn’t said anything, I would’ve sought you out to tell you this, because I think I owe you an apology.”

You breathe a laugh. “You certainly do,” you say, but there’s no real bite. Seungcheol’s actions were understandable. You’ve already forgiven him.

Seungcheol seems to know that too, because his lips quirk up into a half-smile. Nevertheless, his words are genuine when he says, “I’m sorry. I was too rash, and too harsh. Any worries I had over yokai did not excuse the way I talked about Hansol. Do you think you can also tell him how sorry I am?”

You draw in a long breath, cross your arms and lean back, staring down your nose at Seungcheol. His smile wavers, a little, but then you relax, breaking out into a grin.

“You can tell him yourself. He’d love to talk to you,” you say, and Seungcheol smiles too. “I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have reacted like that. You’re just looking out for the village, like you always do. But…” You shrug. “I was looking out for my kind, also. I was frustrated that you were treating Hansol like that just because he was a yokai.”

Seungcheol breathes out, wisps of white spilling from his lips. “I get that. It makes sense that you felt that way.” His eyes lighten with mischief suddenly, his smile taking on a teasing edge. “Especially considering the fact you’re in love with him, too.”

The world grinds to a halt. You stumble, taken aback by Seungcheol’s words. “I’m sorry, what?”

Nothing else gets to be said about the matter, though, because a small child goes zooming past you right at that moment, brushing against your side. And then, half a millisecond later, a fat clump of snow hits you square in the back.

The child continues running off, bubbling laughter fading into the market square. Slowly, very slowly, you spin on your heel and come face-to-face with the culprit.

Hansol’s still frozen in his throw position, one hand incriminatingly covered with snow. The moment he sees your face, his face breaks into a wide grin, that beautiful, big grin that shows the slight point of his yokai fangs. His eyes are glowing, alight with amusement and another, warmer emotion you can’t quite name.

He tilts his head to the side, eyeing the snow gently tumbling down your back. “Whoops?”

“Whoops?” you echo, breathing a laugh. You look at Seungcheol, as if saying Can you believe this guy? before turning back to Hansol, a handful of snow magically making its way into your hands. “Oh, you’re going to be saying a lot more than ‘Whoops’ in a minute.”

Hansol laughs, holding his hands up placatingly. “Now hold on a minute—”

Abruptly, his head jerks back, and he gets knocked off his center of balance by the force of the snowball you’d just lobbed at him.

You burst into laughter as Hansol, sitting on the ground and with snow in his hair and up his nose, wipes his eyes with a grin. “Now you’re just asking for it, I think.”

Still laughing, you snap your fingers, and several more balls of snow float up around you. “Oh, it’s on.”

Cut to several minutes later, and somehow, the snowball fight between the two of you has devolved into a village-wide thing, children slipping and sliding in the snow alongside their parents as Seungcheol yells at his team to close ranks and you yell at yours to focus their sights on Hansol. The icy air stings your cheeks, and at some point it begins to snow again, hard, blurring your sight, but the whole thing still continues, the square filled with the laughter of the villagers.

And throughout it all, Hansol manages to find your gaze no matter where he is, gold eyes seeking your gold magic, and the beautiful sound of his laughter leaves you breathless every time.

───────────── ‘✽,

All things considered, perhaps it’s totally expected that you end up falling for Hansol.

You don’t get to truly mull over Seungcheol’s last words until much later, when you and Hansol have both changed out of your sopping wet clothes and are sitting curled up together on the sofa, both of you blinking sleepily at the fire you’ve lit in the fireplace.

The snowball fight ended incredibly amiably, with everyone agreeing that Seungcheol’s team had obliterated everyone else’s, despite the lack of magic users in his group. You’d helped some of the villagers dust themselves off, and used magic to dry off the people who had gotten the most wet. Soonyoung, inexplicably, looked like he’d been dunked five times in a swimming pool, rather than emerging victorious from a snowball fight.

Finishing with Soonyoung, you’d looked back, and of course—Hansol was playing with the children, again, as if he had endless reserves of energy to spare. But in between letting the kids climb his legs and play with his swishing tail, he was chatting with the rest of the villagers, helping them tidy away their things.

It made you smile.

And then Hansol had looked back at you, as if sensing your gaze, and his entire face had lit up, brighter than the brightest summer’s day, and he’d quickly said goodbye to the villagers before coming bounding over to you, face so open and comfortable and warm and—

Yeah. You like him a lot. And you’re sure that he likes you a lot too.

Hansol yawns, big and wide and content, his tail flicking lazily as he rests on your shoulder. Outside, the snowfall has increased to a snowstorm, complete with howling winds and dark, looming clouds, but inside, your cottage is warm, and you have a sleepy yokai pressed against your side, and life is, admittedly, kind of perfect.

There’s just one thing, though.

You need to tell him.

Lost in thought, you shift around absentmindedly, and Hansol looks up questioningly at the movement. The warmth of your magic prickles softly in the air around you, and when he takes your hand, you can feel his own magic murmuring softly in tandem with your own.

He continues to look at you, and then smiles, eyes glowing. Goodness, he really is so pretty.

“I like you,” you whisper, the words falling from your lips as if he’s enchanted you, bewitched you into saying how you truly feel for all to see. “I like you, Hansol.”

Hansol blinks, slow, cat-like. He lifts his head up, pulls away slightly from your shoulder so he can sit up and look at you properly. His eyes are shining, slitted pupils widening and rounding in adoration.

“That’s good,” he says. “Because I think you’re the prettiest person alive.”

It’s almost a direct copy of the first words he’d said to you, almost a lifetime ago, when he had been out of his mind with a fever, red-cheeked and hazy-eyed and fixated on the way you smelled like chrysanthemums. The memory makes you laugh, heart squeezing with fondness, and you reach forward to cup Hansol’s cheeks, smiling wider when his eyes flutter shut briefly and he leans trustingly into your touch.

“That’s funny,” you say. “Because I think you’re the prettiest person alive.”

Hansol’s eyes crinkle as he smiles, showing those yokai fangs that you adore so much. His ears twitch with happiness, light speckles of frost covering his cheeks as he blushes. He’s so pretty, and you love him so much.

Slowly, you inch closer until the tip of his nose brushes against yours. So close that you can count the snowflake-shaped freckles on his cheeks.

“You forgot to say it back, though,” you murmur. “Hansol, you didn’t say you like me back.”

Hansol breathes a soft laugh. “I thought it was obvious.” His smile widens, so enamoured that it warms your heart. “Y/N, I like you too. In fact, I think I’m in love with you.”

You beam. “You know what? I think I’m in love with you too.”

And then you lean forward, and Hansol leans in too, and your lips meet in the softest, sweetest kiss. He tastes like magic, like love, like soft snow that numbs your senses but leaves your heart alive and alight and oh, this is everything you never knew you needed and more.

Hansol’s silver-white hair is falling into his eyes when you pull away, his golden irises shining brightly through them like dazzling, gorgeous sunlight peeking through the translucent colours of snowfall. The sight makes you instantly lean in to kiss him again, dizzy with adoration because goodness, this happiness is for you. He looks like this because he loves you.

And you love him too.

fics tags: @jeonginssa @weird-bookworm @minhui896 @slytherinshua @haowrld @belladaises @moonlitskiiies @mirxzii @zozojella @kawennote09 @a-wandering-stay @abibliolife @doublasting @wonranghaeee @icyminghao @sweet-like-caramel @your-yxnnie @odxrilove @kyeomyun @crackedpumpkin @jeonride @kellesvt @eightlightstar @onlyyjeonghan @aaniag @starshuas @raevyng @isabellah29 @hrts4hanniehae @mcu-incorrect @dokyeomkyeom @suraandsugar @haodore @tulsa24 @melodicrabbit

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hahaifolded · 7 months ago

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141 x POC!GN Intelligence Operative - Debrief 2 Author's Notes: This was super hard to write and not gonna lie maybe hard to read for some of yall so like please be careful. Probably safe after the lines Warnings: MDNI, Racism, Angst

Ghost was staring daggers at the back of the rookie’s head. How fucking dare he go after you? And in front of Ghost’s face? His stomach twists every time he thinks of Nikto’s question. Everyone is afraid of him… but not this rookie. Why?

He’ll find out soon enough. After Price is done gutting scolding the boy, Ghost will have turn. And so will Johnny and Kyle. Johnny was in the back of Price’s office with Ghost while Kyle was on his way.

“So, want to tell me what happened during training?” Price sneers. He sat forward in his chair, eyes burning with hatred.

Ghost nearly lunges at the rookie when the rookie just snorts in response. Ghost could tell that Price’s patience was withering by the second.

“I’d advise you to answer the question if you don’t want to be on toilet duty for the next month,” Price warns.

The rookie slouches in his chair and lets out an exasperated breath. “I know you’re doing this as a formality but you can drop the act. We’re on the same page.” Ghost cocks his head. What is this rookie on about?

“And what page is that?” Price thankfully asks for the whole room. The rookie leans towards Price.

“That this whole diversity initiative is just complete bullshit,” he admits like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Price’s eyes widen as the rookie keeps going and going on his whole anti-diversity spiel. Ghost’s and Soap’s body lock up.

Price clears his throat and asks, “and where did you get idea?”

“It’s pretty obvious. I mean none of you guys speak to them unless absolutely necessary. You never invite them to lunch or even the bar after missions. It’s clear none of you like them. I’ll admit I didn’t realize it until Lieutenant Ghost gave me a heads up.” Ghost feels his teammates’ eyes on him as soon as the rookie said his name.

Still looking at Ghost, Price asks what clue. And with glee, the rookie lets the three know how Ghost ripped your “dumb” gift in front of him and some other rookies while putting you in your place. Ghost feels his entire face go hot as he remembers the moment.

“And thank god he did because if I’m honest with you Captain, if I had to respect another one of them, I’d probably transferred by now and I know I’m not the only one,” the rookie jokes. While the rookie laughs, the 141 boys stay silent. None of them could believe what they were hearing. They didn’t realize how their actions looked like from the inside out.

Ghost felt his stomach churn. Fuck— is that why you asked him to accompany you with the rookies. Because— fuck. You turned to him for protection when actuality, he was the fucking reason you needed it.

Before this retched conversation could even continue, Kyle walks in. The rookie lets out a wicked laugh and quips, “Don’t worry Captain. Me and the boys will get rid of this one.” Kyle freezes, confused by the statement. Ghost’s entire body goes hot. He rushes towards the rookie and throws him to the floor. This ends now.

— — —

Ghost takes a deep breath before gently knocking at your office door. It’s time to make amends. And if amends can’t be made, he can at least be punished by your hand. He waits with bated breath as quick steps near the door.

“That was fa—,” you immediately stop. You straighten up your posture and roughly rub your eyes.

“Are you crying?” Ghost barks. He didn’t mean for it to come out so accusatory. Yes, he’s mad but not at you, never at you. Ghost takes a large step into your office and quickly closes the door.

Your jaw tightens at his sudden entry. You stop rubbing your eyes and stare straight in his eyes. “Might come as a surprise for you but we’re not all complete monst—.”

Ghost gently grasps your face in both hands and takes a sharp breath. “Please. Anyone but you.” Ghost knows he’s overstepping but he has to hold you at least once before you completely slip from his fingers. While wearing gloves, he gently rubs his thumbs over your cheeks and stares in your eyes with every ounce of admiration he has for you

You still. Your eyes widen in confusion. “Lieutenant, what’s going on?” Your gaze shift from his eyes to his hands on your face. They keep bouncing back and forth until they finally pause to his right hand as you catch Ghost’s skin peeking out between his pointer and middle finger.

“They’ll never bother you again, I promise,” he whispers. He knew you recognized the gloves. He knew you were reliving that moment in your head.

“Ghost?” you whisper. You look up at him, eyes shining with so many emotions. Anger, disbelief, betrayal… hope.

There’s still hope. Maybe Ghost can turn this around. Maybe Ghost can be the man you deserve. Maybe Ghost can be yours—

— your office door slams open, revealing a towering Nikto at the door frame. You immediately pull yourself out of Ghost’s grasp and lean against your desk. Ghost turns around and faces Nikto head on. The two giants stand still, facing one another, almost waiting for the other one to strike.

“Lieutenant, surprised to see you here,” Nikto states. He walks through the door and glides past Ghost. He makes his way to you and eagerly takes your side. Without a single care in the world, Nikto caresses your face and you immediately lean into his touch.

Ghost just stares on as the weight of his actions fell on him. Instead of protecting you, he threw you in the wolves. He pushed you away and pushed you in the arms of another monst— man.

“Lieutenant,” That breaks Ghost out of his trance. Nikto, with your head still in his hands, stares at Ghost and asks if he needed anything.

You.

Word Count: I’ll get to it

More Thoughts - Next Thought

#cod x poc!reader #cod x reader #tf 141 x reader #141 x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #nikto x reader #john price x poc!reader #john mactavish x reader #kyle garrick x reader #john price x reader #cod angst

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memorizingthedigitsofpi · 6 months ago

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I've been doing some introspection to try to figure out why I have such an intensely strong emotional reaction when someone takes a post with a hopeful or positive message and reblogs it with negativity.

I've blocked a lot of tumblr users for calling an OP stupid for being optimistic or hopeful. You know, people who are just being mean and hateful because it's edgy or cool or whatever. I think that's a reasonable reaction and a way to keep toxicity out of my feed.

But I've also blocked folks who read a post about being kinder to oneself and they respond to that with, "That's okay for other people, but I'm not allowed." They don't usually use those exact words of course, but that's the message. And that message cuts me to my core every single time I read it. Blocking those people isn't about avoiding trolls. It's about protecting myself from being hurt.

Because that's the thing. It hurts to see that and feel helpless. To see someone being so cruel to themselves and know there's nothing I can do to show them they don't have to be.

I'll write a post about how oneshots are amazing, or I'll see one talking all about how doodle art is so expressive and charming etc. and I'll see in my notes or in the reblogs a lot of people agreeing and a lot of people appreciating someone sharing that point of view.

But I'll also see a lot of people who say things like, "Maybe so, but my writing still stucks." or "Sure, OTHER PEOPLE's doodles are cool but mine are dumb."

When I see that, I just want to tell them they're wrong. That the post applies to them too. That they're allowed to love themselves, and they don't have to wait until they're better or perfect to do it.

Except you can't just roll up into a stranger's ask box and say, "I don't know you and I've never read your writing or seen your art, and the only piece of you I've seen are one set of tags on one post on this entire website, but you're wrong."

I think part of the reason why it hurts so much to see that is the feeling of wanting to help and knowing that I can't. But I think another part of the hurt comes from recognizing that feeling and remembering what it was like to be stuck believing my own lies about myself.

I don't think those things anymore. Or if I do, it's pretty rare. But every time I see those comments the pain wells up inside of me and brings back that feeling of hopelessness I had once upon a time. The feeling of shame that went along with it. The guilt and the anger and the frustration and the desperate need for someone to tell me I was really okay.

I wish I could do that for all of you out there who need someone like that right now. I wish you'd believe me if I tried. But I guess, for now at least, I'll just wish that when you see those posts that you let yourself believe them. Let yourself apply them to you too. Just for a little while.

#thinky thoughts #here's to a gentler 2025 #at least in our own heads

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beastyeastfreak · 21 days ago

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sooo,,, if your open to requests,,, can we get some yandere Shadow Milk

If you'd prefer something more specific,,, SM's a fucking freak (/pos) over Y/N to the point even his minions are a bit concerned for Y/N's well being. Meanwhile Y/N is equally as obsessed with "their shadow" and matches Shadow Milks freak perfectly. They just happen to seem "normal" on a surface level so nobody imiditaly realizes how both of them are unhinged

(idk that was the first thing that came to mind, I crave shadow milk content lmao)

Ooooo i like this i kinda went a little off prompt though because i had some fun ideas

Cw and tags: Stalking(mutually done so), obsessive behaviour, yandere behavior, reader is a shy type thats also a yandere, reader uses spells/is a magic cookie or something similar, implied murder / wanting to murder.

🃏 - Creeping behind the shadow of the sun lurked a beast of deceit. Watching over his souljam as a wolf watched a flock of sheep. But as he kept his eye upon the holder, he was drawn to another. A cookie that ensnared the beast, one he had equal if not more interest in. He knew he had to make them his, he knew that they would want to be his too.

🃏 - You were to join Pure Vanilla on his expedition to beast yeast, but three days before your departure you had your nose in books in a grand library deep into the night. You were drawn into a dark hall of bookshelves by the sound of something falling. You end up finding a book with no cover. Reading this book was simultaneously your worst and best decision, it would change the trajectory of your life forever. Inside was detailed myths, tales and legends of one Virtue of Knowledge turned Beast of Deceit. Upon seeing the flipped souljam your mind screamed to tell pure vanilla of your finding, but then when that voice calmed you stopped. For some reason, your mind quieted, and you stared at the page you left on and your thoughts then shifted to “maybe i should read a little more before i tell him…” Thus began reading an entire hefty book in one night and day, no sleep just continuous intaking of knowledge and a thirst for more.

🃏 - You were obsessed, ten pages in and you already had notes started. You weren’t sure if this was an autobiography but it felt so intimately wrote and painted this beast with such worship you couldn’t help but nod along. You weren’t a liar, you weren’t evil and yet you had found yourself utterly infatuated with someone who only wanted to spread misinformation and harm others. There were small segments where he was quoted directly, or where his own writing / stories were added and each time you found yourself sinking further into his words. You examined each stroke of the brush with, frankly creepy, observation. You finished the book the next day around the afternoon, the only thing on your mind? You couldn’t wait to go to beast yeast.

🃏 - You brought the book with you in secret, you had lots of questions and hopefully when Pure Vanilla sorted this out you’d get answers, maybe this beast would even grant you his friendship but you knew it was wishful thinking. You defended your team with all your might, these spores were strong but you were determined. Though as you trekked deeper, it felt like you were being watched, it felt like someone had eyes on you. Even stranger, it seemed like just about everything was trying to get that book out of your bag or get someone to see it. But you were far too possessive of it, if someone knew you bore such information they’d take it! You had to keep it for yourself.

🃏 - Your team is taken in by the Faeries who give the tale of the five beasts, you had heard Shadow Milks tales but not the overarching story. You gazed upon the striking beauty of the Faeries kingdom, and yet this all just felt like the prelude to something more grand. In the footnotes of the book, strangely in different handwriting, it read that Shadow Milk Cookie, referred to as simply ‘master’, would rise from his prison and usher forth endless deceit and entertainment alongside his peers. It took little time for you to finally gaze upon the silver tree he was in. While the others spoke of fear of their return, you stood in silence, one hand on your bag feeling the outline of the book. Your eyes searched where the shiny bark had torn, where they had nearly broke free if not for White Lily cookies vines. You stare into that darkness, and for a moment you swear on the witches two mismatched eyes stare back.

🃏 - Your quietness was interpreted as shyness, you were prone to linger away from crowds so when you wouldn’t speak or stared too long, Pure Vanilla would vouch for you. There was a certain calmness surrounding the group, they were in search of White Lily’s memories but you found yourself watching shadows and searching for eyes. Sometimes as you walked your shadow seemed to shift and change, you swore it did, you swore and yet when you looked directly at it it was yours, who else’s would it be?

🃏 - Words were whispered in your ear beneath another’s speech or when it became quiet. Claws that were not truly there wrapped around your throat and over your eyes and sickeningly sweet lies and deadly promises dripped into your head. Words you couldn’t exactly make out but you understood anyway, someone was watching you, he was quite eager to meet you too.

🃏 - Your group then awakened White Lily, and soon after the silver tree began to fail. Its ancient bindings were no more, no amount of magic would fix it. Discord had spread wildly, the once orderly kingdom now reduced to a circus. The king had relayed his power to the jester to their dismay, but you were over the moon. Shadow milk wasn’t like how he was in the writing, he was better. Unfortunately your team was beginning to hold you back, you wanted to clap at his shows and smile at his jokes but your teams eyes were on you as they were on his.

🃏 - “It feels like his attention has been on you for some time, Y/N…” Pure Vanilla says to you in a moment of relative peace. You had hardly noticed, it felt the same. You begin to realize it felt the same because he had been watching you this entire time, you fluster at the idea. Pure vanilla would continue to warn you and stay closer to you than he normally would, then the next encounter he was near solely looking at you. “I need a volunteer.. lets see, oh how about my biggest fan!” He says and a spotlight is cast upon you, you were brought on stage with strings, held next to him like a puppet. The game he was playing didn’t matter, nor did your friends protests. Your mind had melted as you watched him talk to the crowd, one hand on your beg resting on the side opposite to him. He knew, you knew he knew and that only fueled your interest in him more. His grip was harsh, you begin to understand that perhaps his other half’s closeness to you had caused that. Was it jealousy? You hoped so, you yearned for his attention in that way. After what felt like seconds of staring at him the game was over, you were snatched from his grip and questioned if you were ok. You could only nod, you needed to be that close again.

🃏 - He’d continue to try and reel you in, but soon it was the final round, everyone strung up like puppets. Of course, despite his upper hand, White lily, now guardian of the seal, had bound him to the silver tree once more. Though his ominous warning was evidence enough that you’d be staying in the faerie kingdom much longer. You were giddy at the thought of staying around his presence more, your excitement overwrote your sudden dislike towards the others for casting him away again when you were getting so close! You almost considered stealing their souljams to open it up again but knew it’d be foolish. The thought of saving him and getting rewarded was almost too tempting…

🃏 - You were given a room, Pure vanilla came to tend to your wounds but was surprised at your lack of which. Still, he sat with you and tried to comfort you, you were probably terrified in his eyes, you played along just to get him to leave. Soon night fell, you began to dream then vision came to you. A spire standing tall above the already mighty trees. “You thirst deeply for my knowledge, little fool, lying to your dear friends for me! Im so honored~” his voice whispers from behind you, directly in your ear. Your sight becomes completely dark, now in a black void. You see your room now, you’re standing but your motions aren’t your own. “It can be just us when i get that thief out of the way… all you have to do is obey me,” He whispers further, your hands have strings attached so tight your dough darkens and yet theres no pain. “You dont even want to say no! My, its almost like you’re begging for me to scoop you up and lock you away like a princess in a tower!” You open a map gifted to you by a faerie upon asking for it and begin to mark a path. You try to respond but nothing you say is cohesive, he giggles. The laughter echoes as you begin to awaken in your bed.

🃏 - You don’t need further command, you jump out of bed and get dressed. The mere thought of getting an inkling of Shadow Milks presence was enough. You knew that just leaving in the middle of the night wouldn’t work though. So you make it seem as if you had been taken, ruffling the sheets, spilling a small bit of jam and leaving some of your items. You sneak away and embark on your journey, traversing beast yeast. You were fueled by the thought of seeing him again, feeling him pull you close or feeding you more ideas. You wanted to be enveloped, you wanted to know everything about him and him to know everything about you.

🃏 - Your obsessive knowledge and map created whilst sleep-walking guided you to the spire, by now the sun was poking above the horizon. There was a clear border of the beast’s territory and surrounding wilds. The leaves were cooler in hue, the plant life looked like that of the imagery in his stories, roses littered the white tile path. You followed eagerly, nothing truly mattered anymore you just wanted to appease this shadow mocking your movements, this puppeteer tightening his strings around you when you got too close to another cookie. You wanted those eyes in the shadows to watch you add another note to an already well analyzed book.

🃏 - You dont get a chance to enter the tower, you hear the sound of movement around the spire where the roses grew denser. Curiously, you hug the side of wall and watch from behind a pillar. It was him! He was floating in the field of tangled thorny vines. He plucked a vibrant rose, who was it for? Dread or perhaps jealousy bubbled in your soul. “Did your mother ever tell you its rude to spy?” A voice says behind you, you notice your shadow isn’t yours again. Its his silhouette, you briefly look back at the shadow milk in the field but instead he is not floating right in your face with a smug look. You flinch back, he smiles. “You know, for once I’m shocked! You actually followed me! I was worried i’d have to get extreme in convincing that pure fool to let go of you, but you came on your own. Good choice!” He says floating around you like a fish swimming gracefully, almost flaunting the rose he picked. You were eyeing it, he grinned further. “Ohohoh! You look ready to tear someone to shreds! Don’t worry, it’s for you,” he says and places it in your hand. His hands now around yours, the thorns were clipped so when he squeezed your hands it didn’t hurt. He had a dark look on his face, it wasn’t like how you’ve seen before. “I think i’ll enjoy seeing your face for a long, long time, and i’ll be the only one to see it… sound familiar?” He says and pulls the book from your bag. You fluster further, cheeks burning. The mix of fantasizing about his potential actions and the shock of him pulling out your notes mixed quickly. “Im antsy to see what you said about me~,” he giggles deviously. Instead of standing shocked you replied matching his tone, “i think you’ll enjoy what i have to say about you.” He’s now smiling widely, “then let’s not waste any time!” He says and opens a portal, dragging you in.

Meanwhile on an unseen balcony nearby

🃏 - Black sapphire leans against the railing, at first incredibly amused at the sight. It was humorous to see his master trying to flirt, or scare them. Then you started to look like you were into it… He wasn’t expecting that, you seemed quite nice! His mind devolving into mild surprise, then finally a whole slurry of emotions. “That was… erm… are we going to have to deal with that everyday now?” He turns to Candy Apple cookie standing stiffly, disgust, sadness and rage written on her face. She exited without saying a word, running back into the spire probably to her room to plot.

#im not sure if i implied it well but the book in the beginning is a cognitohazard #its up to your interpretation on the extent of the damage its done to the reader and what exactly its done ;)#crk #shadow milk cookie x reader #crk x reader #x reader #crk x you #beast cookies #i wouldnt mind writing a longer fic about this but i want to finish mystic flours fic first

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stevie-petey · 5 days ago

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track five: gasoline, pretty please

“Don’t fucking touch her.” Steve. He shouldn’t be in the crowd with you. He should be on stage. Why isn’t he on stage? The sickening sound of fist slamming into bone answers your question. Steve slams his fists over and over again into the face of the man who caused blood to break from your skin. “Don’t ever,” more blood spills, only this time it isn’t yours. “Touch her again.”

Summary: screaming crowds and flashing lights with steves name on everyones lips. everyones lips but yours; the lips he cant forget. when you get offered a job that would force you to leave the februarys behind, steve only has one last chance to beg you for more.

Rating: general, some swearing, blood

Warnings: swearing, reader gets physically assaulted, mentions of blood, heavy heavy alcohol use, please be careful reading, fem!reader, use of y/n

Words: 22.3k (a new writing record. ouch)

Before you swing in: WE'RE HERE !!! THE FINAL CHAPTER !!!! whew. lots to discuss about this chapter for a multitude of reasons. first, it was hard to write. second, i am very tired. third, i would kill for mike in this story. finally, i will be continuing this universe with an extra epilogue chapter and then blurbs upon requests. stay tuned for details :) for now, enjoy this messy and slightly chaotic final chapter for my favorite messy and slightly chaotic love story <3

“I think I was a fucking terrorist or some shit in another life.”

Robin doesn’t look up from her keyboard. She plays a note, frowns, and then adjusts its tune before trying again. “Oh, I’m sure.”

Steve shoves his rings onto his anxious fingers. The lights on the vanity he sits at almost blind him. Each of his five senses heighten unbearably. “I mean, it’s the only thing I can think of to explain my colossally shit luck.”

“Could just be your stunning personality.” Max buttons her shirt, standing behind him in the mirror. She smooths the fabric down and studies her appearance. “Also, you’re the one who insisted we include the song in the album.”

“I just don’t understand why Rosie became the song everyone wants to fucking fixate on.” Steve runs a hand through hair, fixing its odd sticking strands. Any minute now someone will tell him that the show will start soon. He can’t stand the sickly sensation of his flushed skin, overly warm from the idea of singing love sick lyrics in a sold out venue.

Mike cuffs his shirt and shrugs. “A good song is a good song.”

Jonathan helps him with the cuff links. “I don’t know,” he shrugs towards Steve. “It is unfortunately ironic.”

Ironic. What a brilliant fucking way to view the fact that somehow the most vulnerable song Steve has ever written in his entire career has become the number one single from an album currently topping every chart in the country.

If Steve thought recording an album dedicated to every intricate dip of your neck was difficult, performing the song to you each and every night named after an endearment you no longer call him creates a hell that biblical choirs mourn over.

“Thanks, Byers,” Steve rolls his eyes. “Really appreciate the camaraderie.”

“That’s the most you’re getting out of me.” Jonathan checks his own reflection in the mirror. “Like Max said: you wanted Rosie to be on the album. Now it is.”

“Stevie begged for it before he realized what the begging entailed.” Robin snickers, playing another note on her keyboard. She got dressed long before the others. “Now he’s eating his own theatrical words like a pathetic little mouse.”

Steve opens his mouth to argue and say that yes, he had begged for Rosie to be on the album because he thought that one day he’d be able to play the song for you over a record player and lay in bed with you while the lyrics blanketed over your tired bodies. He didn’t think that one day you’d be unable to even look at him, but the stage door opens and Gregory walks in with you following close behind.

On top of the many things Steve has had to force himself to ignore during the first two weeks of tour, you and Gregory becoming practically inseparable sharing a fucking tour bus together is one thing he has to bite through the calcium of his teeth to not wince at whenever he sees you together.

“Good news!” Gregory says with a grand flourish. “Y/N saved Rosie.”

A stray chord scratches on Max’s bass. The ring Steve had been holding pings on the ground when it falls from his surprised hand. Jonathan and Robin glance at each other. Mike coughs awkwardly.

“The stage crew wanted to make the lights red during the song,” you’re quick to fill in the gaps that Gregory created. “I talked to them. It’ll be pink. Rosie. Like usual.”

“Isn’t she great?” Gregory looks right at Steve when he says this.

His eye twitches. “The greatest.”

Professional, Steve has to remind himself. That’s all she asked from you. Professional.

Clearing his throat, Steve tries to abide by your needs. “Thanks, Y/N. Seriously.”

“Of course,” you don’t flinch at the forced niceties. Instead, you smile politely at him and in the dim backstage lighting it almost looks easy for you to do. He tries not to think that, either. “You pay me to get the best pictures, right?”

Steve swallows. “Right.”

“Then that’s what I’m here to do.”

The ease in which you hold onto your end of the agreement tastes bitter in Steve’s begging mouth. He doesn’t understand how you’re able to talk to him as if he wasn’t drunk on the way you tasted the night the crossed lines stitched the two of you together.

He still hasn’t forgotten the taste.

But maybe you have. Maybe it was simply easier for you to forget than to acknowledge anything else. Like choking down chalky medicine meant to soothe a sore throat.

“Good luck out there tonight, guys.” Gregory beams at the band. “I’ll never not be excited to see you guys in action.”

Robin smirks, endeared. “Should we consider you our biggest fan?”

“Oh, definitely.”

The rest of the band laughs, though Steve’s laughter doesn’t join. He remains quiet, only offering a small smile. The more he bites his tongue, the deeper the wound becomes. But it’s for the best.

“Seems I have some competition, then.”

Steve can’t help the way his head turns to the sound of your voice. He looks at you, surprised by what you’ve said, and your eyes shine just a little, just enough to tell him that you’re still watching, still paying attention to him.

Jonathan drapes an arm over your shoulders. He knocks your head together and ruffles your hair. “Not going to let Gregory win this one?”

Childish laughter bubbles in your chest. “Never.”

Gregory feigns betrayal, clutching his chest and gasping for air, and this time the laughter that echoes in the dressing room reverberates back Steve’s own laugh. If he closes his eyes, he can almost trick himself into believing that what’s best for you is also what’s best for him.

–

Sweat drips down Steve’s neck. He will never get used to the heat of the purple and pink stage lights.

A dull ache stitches in his muscles from how tightly he clings onto the microphone stand. A desperate attempt to remain upright. His mouth opens and crass humor and pathetic pleas pour out for the audience to keep demanding more from him.

As long as someone demands more from Steve, he’ll give everything he has to perform how they want him to.

He’ll strain his voice to be heard over the unkempt screams. He’ll toss his guitar to Mike in between songs if it means the audience will cheer just a little louder, just a little harder. His jacket will drape over Robin’s delicate shoulders if it means it’ll placate her nervous smile during songs that cut too deep into Steve’s jugular. His expectant hands will catch Jonathan’s drumsticks and he’ll share his mic with Max for a glimpse of their smiles.

And it works. Somehow, by some goddamn miracle, it works.

The audience screams Steve’s name. They scream their name. The Februarys. Mike’s and Robin’s. Jonathan’s and Max’s.

Begging-soaked hands hold together the band that Steve has spent his entire life dreaming of. He dances with his childhood friends and he laughs with them and he sings the songs they’ve written together—even if the lyrics twist his intestines to perform.

Every night Steve forces himself to smile and coaxes strangers to cheer for the band he desperately wants to preserve.

Yet you’re the only one he performs for.

Always lilac in the lighting. Always centered, always inches from the stage, encased in a barricade that protects you from the mass of people you somehow never seem to notice through the viewfinder that somehow never shies away from Steve’s misery.

He hides behind his voice and his lyrics while you hide behind your filters and film.

“We only have one more song tonight,” Steve says into the mic. A stray piece of sweat-slicked hair falls into his face. He messily shoves it back while a cacophony of displeased boos fills the venue. His chest rises in amusement. “Aw, don’t be like that to me. Aren’t I always nice?”

He doesn’t mean to look at you when he says it.

Steve thinks that his question receives screamed responses and whistling, but he can’t focus on anything other than your exasperated smile and the slight shake of your head. Always performing for you.

“I think you’re plenty nice,” Robin plays a few chords, smiling wide when she’s met with excited cheers. “But I personally think you could be a little nicer.”

He rolls his eyes in a fond, secretive manner. For just a moment his attention slips from you. “Is that so?”

Robin’s lips press into a smirk. “A couple more songs wouldn’t hurt.”

He hums. “And which songs would those be?”

“I don’t know,” she plays coy, leaning into the mic. “I heard that Going is pretty good live.”

More eruptive cheers. While Rosie has topped every chart, Going gets demanded for every encore. One of the few songs from the album that doesn’t focus on love, its energetic beat and lyrics about life on the road amongst friends and uncertainties resonates with more than just a lonely crowd. The raw vulnerability of being young.

One day it’ll be known as a song that defines an entire generation.

Not needing to be told anything else, Steve laughs at the crowd’s enthusiasm, motions for Jonathan to start the count. The cheering grows into a deafening roar and quiets everything else in Steve’s head.

You capture the fleeting moment of genuine exhilaration that rarely shines on Steve’s beauty anymore.

And he allows you.

He looks into the camera. Feels the turn of his lips. Angles his guitar so that the stage lights reflect off its blue in a small, subtle way that you once told him you loved photographing. He still remembers where to place his hands and how to pose his body for you. He still remembers everything, even if you’ve forgotten.

The show ends and Steve thanks the crowd for everything. He exudes gratitude. Despite how often he has to fake the emotions on his face, he doesn’t have to fake the deep warmth in his chest as he thanks everyone.

“Get home safe, everyone!” He waves at the crowd and Robin’s hand falls on his shoulders and she nudges him, reminding him to bow, and together they duck their bodies and laugh at their unsteady balance while Max and Jonathan and Mike do the same.

Backstage Gregory greets the band with unadulterated praise. “Incredible!”

Mike fist bumps him. “Always know what to say, Gregory.”

“Part of my job.”

Max takes his glasses and puts them on her own face. “Sometimes I wonder if Leonard blinded you and that’s why you’ve stayed with him for so long.”

Gregory’s head falls to the side. “Like… Stockholm syndrome?"

“Sure,” she says, indifferent. “If that’s what you want to call it.”

“I’d call it ‘money is money’.” Mike grabs the glasses for himself. He squints through them and makes a pained sound. “Jesus, maybe you really were blinded by the guy.”

“I don’t know how we ended up here,” Gregory looks between the two kids, amusement slowly turning to concern. “But can I have my glasses back?”

Max looks at Mike. He looks right back at her. At the same time they smile. Then, without saying a word to each other, they run.

“Oh dear.” Gregory watches their figures disappear down the hall. “That’s not good.”

Jonathan pats his shoulder. “I’d start running if I were you, buddy.”

“I feared I’d have to.” The other man sighs and looks at you, extending a hand. “Care to join?”

You gently knock his hand away. “Start running without me. I wanted to show Jonathan some pictures.”

Gregory groans while Jonathan playfully shoves him. “Hope you’re a fast runner.”

“I’m really not.”

Robin pinches his cheek. “Good luck, then!”

The lighthearted wink that Gregory sends your way before he leaves further makes Steve believe that he must’ve been the worst fucking person imaginable in a previous life. Curling his fingers into his palms, he bites his tongue. There are now worn indents in the muscle from how often he bites it.

Sensing Steve’s quickly deteriorating mood, Robin yanks his arm. “C’mon,” she says, blowing you a kiss. “Let’s leave Y/N and Byers alone with their film.”

“Please don’t phrase it that way.” Jonathan gags.

You frown. “You don’t have to sound so repulsed by the idea of making a sex tape with me.”

“Nancy would kill me–”

“We both know she’d agree with me.”

“Okay, no–”

Steve doesn’t hear the rest of the argument, getting pulled into the dressing room by Robin’s insistent tugs. A force as always, she flings him across the room with a childish giggle. He allows his body to bend at her will. He’s just grateful to be the source of Robin’s laughter.

“We fucking killed tonight!” She jumps up on the couch and sways her body to an imaginary song. Pink highlights peek through her blonde hair. A bit outgrown now, but Steve was going to re-dye the hair for her anyways tomorrow. “I think my eardrums exploded during that last encore.”

Alone with only Robin in the dressing room, Steve wanders towards a cooler full of drinks. A courtesy from the venue. He grabs the first beer he finds. Not bothering to look at the brand, he twists its top open and drinks the bitter liquid. It stings the taste of you away.

“Jonathan really nailed the bridge for More.” He agrees, licking his lips before taking another drink. “Max, too. That song is fucking hard but they’re incredible every time.”

“They are.” Robin’s dancing slows. She watches him take his third large mouthful of beer in less than a minute. “Think you should slow down, there.”

Steve drinks again. “It’s only beer.”

“I don’t care,” Robin jumps down from the couch and takes the drink from his hand. “You’ve gone through two packs this week already. It’s Friday. I don’t like it.”

Down the hall your laughter rings through the thin walls. The taste of it lingers on Steve’s lips. How can he explain that to Robin? That he can taste your laughter and feel your heartbeat and yet is expected to pretend that his molecular makeup wasn’t altered by it?

Steve has to somehow forget the very chemical makeup of your skin while somehow hold onto what little of his life he has left. To remain professional while mourning what he could’ve had.

“I won’t drink too much tonight,” he eventually says, not looking away from Robin’s concern. When her frown only deepens, Steve cups her cheek. He hasn’t held her face since they were kids. But something within him tells him to, that she needs the comfort more than he does. “I promise, Robin.”

“That’s what you said last night.”

And the night before that. And the one before that.

Drinking dulls the memories. Its acidity burns the edges off of them. He only drinks enough to soothe the jagged edges, but never enough to jeopardize the Februarys. Not again. He holds onto that promise with bruised knuckles.

But he can’t tell Robin any of this.

“Robin, please.” He grabs for the drink, but she turns away. Gritting his teeth, Steve exhales roughly. “Robin, I’m trying, alright? I am. But if you expect me to survive this entire fucking tour sober then you’re out of your mind.”

“I just don’t understand–” Something catches her eye. She turns away from Steve, closes her mouth when she sees you standing in the doorway as Jonathan walks in. You don’t follow. You haven’t been in their dressing room without Gregory or the rest of the staff members since the tour began.

All the space, the distance. Your well-mannered responses to Steve’s forced quips. How plastic your interactions have become. Held at arm’s length from one another and how stubborn and lonely she knows the two of you are.

Robin breathes out. “Oh.”

“What’s wrong?” Jonathan asks, noticing the tension.

“Nothing,” she removes herself from Steve. Unable to look as she does so, she returns the drink. “Just don’t make me regret this, alright?”

Steve grabs her hand before she can pull away entirely. “I meant it. I really am trying.”

Blue eyes flicker over his face. They search for any ounce of falsity. They’re sad as they flicker over his lovelorn features. Reluctant, almost. Until finally she sighs. “I know you are.”

“Doesn’t really feel like there’s nothing wrong here.” Jonathan pokes his head between them. He tries not to look at the bottle in Steve’s hand. “We sure everything’s fine?”

Robin smacks him away. “Help me pack up our equipment.”

“You told Nancy you’d stop hitting me!”

“I also told her that I wouldn’t pour arsenic in your drink and have her marry me instead. Be grateful I haven’t broken my word on that one yet.”

Jonathan blinks. “Yet?”

She blows a kiss. “Watch what you drink.”

“Y/N made us give Gregory his glasses back.” Mike cuts in, stomping into the dressing room with you, Max, and Gregory behind him. He falls against the couch with a huff, knocking against Steve as he turns to him. “Tell her it’s complete bullshit, please.”

“Tell her yourself,” Steve shoves him away, uncomfortable with the assumption that you’d listen to what he has to say anyways.

Your fingers pinch Mike’s skin, causing the boy to jump and try to hide behind Steve. “What the fuck, Y/N?”

“You can’t just steal a blind person’s glasses. It borders on serious ethical concerns.”

Gregory fixes his glasses. “I wouldn’t say I’m blind, per say, but I do appreciate the concern.”

“You’re blind, dude.” Max pushes his glasses up unreasonably high, giggling under her breath when he wrinkles his face in displeasure.

He says something else, but Steve focuses on the drink in his hand. Uninterested in whatever else Gregory has to say, he studies the rim of the bottle, its dark brown that glows orange. The fizz of the liquid inside. How if he looks hard enough he can see traces of your lips in the way the liquid spills over.

“Hey,” a shoulder knocks against Steve’s and he manages to look up long enough to see that it’s you. “Nice show tonight. Stubbornly amazing as always.”

His grip tightens around the bottle. “Thank you.”

Niceties and pleasantries.

“Of course,” you don’t come any closer. You leave just enough breathing room for you both. “I’ll always tell you how amazing you are. Can’t let you forget it.”

Just don’t forget about me when you’re a rockstar.

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget.” His heavy voice drips the undertones of what once was. It burns going down just as the alcohol does. “You know that.”

I could never forget you.

Tender words have a tendency to turn bitter after time has taken its toll.

You know Steve too well. It only seems to burn him.

But he knows you, too.

You don’t say anything for a moment, sitting with his words as everyone else resides in their own world. They talk amongst themselves and laugh and Steve only looks at you and you only look at him. Landlocked in the world you’ve built together.

He knows you. A contradiction of emotions slither over your delicate face. Amusement, longing, contentment. Until they fall back into place, settling on a kind, mindless smile. You can pretend that it had been nothing, but Steve knows what you’re wanting looks like.

“Good,” you exhale, coming back to yourself. “I’m glad, then.”

“Harrington.” A sharp knock on the door. He turns at the unexpected sound and finds a stagecrew member in the doorway. “Brought them over. As requested.”

A group of girls peek from behind the employee. Blondes and brunettes and redheads all stare back at Steve with hungry eyes. Glittered eyelids and red painted lips that mouth their profane comments.

The Februarys have all formed their habits and traditions following a show.

Robin tucks herself into a corner of the bus and reads after every performance. She finds that it staves off migraines and calms her enough to sleep most nights.

Jonathan and Mike decide to try every pizza in every city. They sneak through the stage door exits to not catch the attention of the hordes of fans who wait outside.

Max purchases earplugs and a sleep mask their second show and has taken to falling asleep the minute they get on the bus. She claims it’s for everyone’s safety.

And Steve?

His post-show ritual has just arrived.

“Let them in.” He tells the crew member, no longer looking at you.

The girls swarm Steve before anyone can even recognize their arrival. They fall to his lap and sit across his body and fawn at his hair and unbutton his shirt and smell of overly sweet vanilla and smudged eyeliner.

Always finding him in the haze of lights and smoke, your camera captures everything Steve wishes he could erase. You stand in the center of a universe that he can’t escape. Locked away with no key and no way to beg for release.

The girls’ fingers dig the sensation of your gentle gaze out of Steve’s skin.

It’s the only release he can afford.

Yet you don’t even flinch when one of the girls starts to kiss Steve’s neck.

“And the merry band of thieves have arrived.” Robin sneers under her breath, glaring at any groupie that looks at her.

Max snorts. “Took them long enough.”

“A new record.” Mike grabs Jonathan’s wallet. “Can we go get pizza, now?”

“Why’d you grab my wallet? We get paid the same amount.”

“Spent my last paycheck on flowers for El. Turns out it’s super expensive getting flowers delivered to a different state. Who knew?”

Gregory pulls out his own wallet. “Here, I can pay. I’m craving some pizza as well.”

Mike snatches the money with a wicked smile. “Dude, you’re freakishly nice. It’d creep me out if I wasn’t getting anything out of it.”

Pinching his ear, you start dragging the kid out of the dressing room. “Less talking, more walking to get food.”

“You’re joining us?” Robin looks surprised.

“I’m hungry.” You shrug back, feigning indifference. The dressing room grows hotter every second. The scent of vanilla chokes you. You need air. “And I promised Jonathan I’d help him with Mike more this tour.”

Mike makes an offended noise. “You make me sound like some bratty toddler.”

Jonathan, Robin, and Max roll their eyes in harmony and the small moment makes you laugh. Grabbing your camera, you manage to snag the last second of their exasperation of their dear friend.

“Got the shot?” Gregory asks you, slipping an arm around your waist as the two of you walk out together.

“Mhm,” your body leans into his. He offers support that goes unasked for. “Always do.”

One by one the Februarys exit the dressing room. Jonathan guides, talking to Robin about a melody he’s thought of. His rough timbre floats over Max’s argument with Mike over whether pineapple belongs on pizza. You follow them, leaning against Gregory as you do so.

Steve doesn’t join. He stays behind with the girls. Alone in their adoration.

–

By week eight, the six month long tour becomes a haze of screaming crowds and flashing lights in Steve’s blurry mind. No matter how many years pass or how hard he tries later to remember what his first breakout tour was like, the alcohol consumption during that time leaves a black line of absent memory that he can’t reproduce.

There are snippets Steve remembers, though.

Like being forced to ski in Colorado.

It starts when you barge into the tour bus and throw winter jackets at everyone.

“There’s a ski resort not even ten minutes down the street.” You say, roughly shoving Robin awake and narrowly avoiding her angry fists. “C’mon, I heard it’s best to ski early while the snow is still fresh.”

“What the fuck do you mean there’s a ski resort?” Again you dodge Robin’s fists.

“You guys have a day off and it snowed last night so we’re going skiing.”

Jonathan quickly sits up in bed. “We?”

“You sound French.” You throw a hat at him. “But yes. Or I guess oui.”

Steve remains in bed, simultaneously anticipating the weight of your body upon his and dreading its absence. He pulls his curtain shut. Rolls over and pretends to still be asleep.

“Wake up!” You clap your hands, stomping around to rouse your friends. “Guys, I’m serious. I think this could be really fun.”

“Y/N, I know you’ve become the unofficial tour nanny by taking us on field trips to restaurants and parks, but if you seriously think we’d go skiing together then you’re deranged.” Max says, followed by a thud that Steve assumes to be her thrown pillow.

The bus door opens and suddenly Gregory starts talking. “Personally, I enjoy skiing. I can show you guys how!”

Of course you fucking roped him into your idea.

Another thud. This time followed by Mike’s pained screech. “What the fuck, Y/N?”

“I told you to get up!”

“The fucking sun isn’t even up,” Robin jumps out of her bunk and pulls the curtains open. “I mean, I love you, but this is insane.”

“This can either be a team bonding experience or a hostage situation.” Steve pokes his head out from his bunk and has to bite back amusement seeing your crossed arms and determined expression. Your threatening demeanor is adorable. “Up to you guys.”

Jonathan yawns, slowly getting out of bed. “I’ve never liked being held hostage.”

“Yet you’re the one who tied me to a chair multiple times.” Robin jabs him with her foot.

You frown. “Jonathan tied you to a chair?”

“It was Steve’s fault.”

He rolls his eyes to himself. While she isn’t necessarily wrong, he still has to swallow the urge to correct her. If he stays quiet long enough, maybe you’ll forget he’s even there.

His curtain flies open. “Wake up, Harrington.”

“I’m sleeping,” he says, monotone.

“Not anymore. Get up. I’m not giving the ski spiel again.”

Gregory comes up behind you and smiles down at Steve. Fuck him and his height. “You were an athlete, right? This is right up your alley!”

“Does your constant optimism have an off switch?” Steve glares at him.

“No. It’s how I still work for Lenny.”

By now the rest of the band has managed to slide on their jackets and snowpants. No one quite knows where you got them from or how you knew they’d need them, but you’re just relieved they’re listening. The cooperation provides some semblance of peace in the midst of uncertainty. You aren’t the only one desperate to preserve the remains.

This is how you hold onto the Februarys: through forcing them together, through shared experiences and memories.

Steve sees everyone getting ready and groans into his pillow. His head rings. He drank too much last night. Again. “I’m not fucking skiing.”

An hour later Steve stares up at a snowy hill, stiff from his thick snowpants and holding two thin poles that he’s terrified of snapping on accident.

“I’m going to die.” He squeaks out in terror.

Gregory slides up next to him. Being from Vermont, he grew up skiing before even learning how to walk. Another reason Steve hates him. “You know,” he pats Steve’s back. “Legally speaking, Lenny was supposed to have you guys sign a waiver saying you can’t get hurt while on tour to avoid unnecessary show cancellations.”

“We never signed a fucking waiver.”

“Spot on!” Gregory pats him again. “So for the sake of transparency, I highly suggest you don’t break your face.”

“I really don’t like you, Gregory.” “Never assumed you did!” He laughs, pushing off on his skis to go help Max put hers on.

“Asshole,” Steve mumbles, brushing his hands together to warm them up. He’s fucking freezing.

Robin adjusts her hat, puffing snow out of her face. “Be nice to Gregory. He offered to hold your hand down the bunny slope.”

“I’d rather fucking die.”

She ruffles his hair like a dog. “You’re adorable when you pout. C’mon, try to have some fun today, alright? You grew up rich, aren’t you guys supposed to be professional skiers?”

“We chose lake house rich. Not the middle of the fucking mountains in the dead of winter rich.”

Robin hits his arm, laughing under her breath. As much as she wants to hate Steve’s upbringing, she spent countless summers abusing the lake house privileges. Hawkins was boring, sure, but a house on the water helped lessen the burden of being alive.

“I can’t believe Y/N chose skiing.” Steve says after a few moments, squinting his eyes against the harsh white of the snow. You’re a couple feet away with Jonathan, who holds your hands to keep you steady, and Mike, who plops a pile of snow on your crimson hat.

“Hey!” You sputter out in shock, blinking the snow out of your eyes. You lunge towards him and Jonathan has to catch you before you accidentally impale yourself on one of the poles. “Jackass!”

Robin hums, watching the scene unfold alongside Steve. “Not her most well thought out field trip, I’ll admit. I prefer when she takes to parks. Like we’re dogs.”

Steve huffs a laugh, though a slight twist of pain settles in his stomach. He misses the warmth of the summer against his skin and the cool press of his guitar against your body. Fields of flowers and your fingers dancing through his. The sound of running water accompanying whispered chords.

Now only ice remains and the bitter cold of winter. Even his guitar misses your touch.

Eventually Max helps you tackle Mike to the ground. He writhes in pain and taps out in defeat, which Robin high-fives you for. Steve can only manage a curt nod in your celebration. Jonathan stays out of it, a fearful neutral party as he always seems to be.

Gregory inevitably has to break the fight up to prevent any legal misunderstandings on Leonard’s end.

“The waiver wasn’t a joke, guys.” He looks at the group like a concerned father. “If any of you break a bone and can’t perform tomorrow night, Leonard will sue someone. And that someone will probably be me. Which I really can’t afford.”

Max picks at her nails. “You’re not convincing me that your relationship with him isn’t simply Stockholm syndrome.”

“Alright, so let’s get to skiing!”

To Steve’s complete and utter humiliation, Gregory is a fucking fantastic ski instructor. Patient and thorough in how he explains the proper techniques and balance, he actually manages to make the whole ordeal fun. Within the hour he’s able to get Max, Jonathan, Robin, and even Mike up and skiing without any problem.

They fly down the beginner slopes and cheer each other on and enjoy their day in the freshly fallen snow.

Steve, who played basketball all throughout high school, was a life guard and even co-captain of the swim team, rivals a newborn baby deer with how pathetically horrible he is at skiing.

“You should widen your stance,” Gregory grabs his hips before he can shove him away. “Like this. See? Don’t you feel more balanced now?”

“If I told you what I was feeling right now,” Steve hisses through clenched teeth, “you’d let go of me and run.”

“So what I’m hearing is that you feel pretty balanced.”

Sometimes Steve wonders if maybe his aggression towards Gregory is misplaced, considering it was Steve’s bed that you fell into, but then the jackass goes and opens his mouth and sets every nerve in his body screaming.

He doesn’t know what the fuck you see in this guy. And that’s saying something, considering Steve isn’t exactly a saint himself.

Between Gregory’s insistent optimistic guidance and the bragging laughter of Robin and everyone else as they go down all the hills and enjoy their day off in the snow with scenic mountains all around them, Steve thinks he’s about to make the evening Colorado news.

Hungover musician hangs himself using only ski poles and a snowbelt.

Only the headlines never get created. Despite the Februarys all excelling at skiing, you accompany Steve in the failure to remain upright for longer than a second.

“This is fucking stupid,” you clutch desperately onto Gregory’s arms. Somehow you’re worse than Steve is, which he didn’t even think was possible. Your legs won’t stop shaking. If the wind shifts directions even a fraction, you’ll be on the ground. “What the fuck was I thinking?”

The three of you remain near the ski cabin, having not covered much ground since the others left to go explore the slopes.

Gregory fixes your jacket sympathetically. Steve has to look away. “C’mon, it’s not so bad.”

“Says the guy who grew up in goddamn Vermont. This,” you risk gesturing wildly behind you at the mountains, slipping at the last second and squeaking out a scream before Gregory catches you. “Jesus. This is basically a gloryhole for you.”

“That’s… certainly one way to put it.”

Steve really hates how endearing he finds your vulgarity and wit. He misses their intersection and all the jokes you used to entertain Mike with during particularly long drives between cities. All that remains on the tour bus this time around are Mike’s snarky comments with no one to bounce them off of.

“Hey, Gregory!” Mike’s shout grabs everyone’s attention. He stands at the top of a severely steep slope, one that definitely exceeds his beginner skill level. He waves wildly, a pleased smile on his face. “Watch this!”

“Oh dear god.” Gregory’s face pales. Mike grabs his ski poles and adjusts them in his hands, preparing to descend, and Gregory quickly drops your unbalanced body. Ignoring your pained cry when you land on the ground once more, he sprints towards Mike, screaming in terror, “for the love of god, do not go down!”

“I say jump!” Robin antagonizes, clapping her hands. She’s the only one next to Mike at the top of the slope. Jonathan made the mistake of walking Max to go grab some water.

It’s the only reason Mike even attempts the dangerous slope now. Less people to stop him.

“If you get hurt, Leonard will genuinely kill me,” Gregory shouts, voicing growing distant the further he runs away from you and Steve, left behind yet again. “I actually like my job!”

Lost in watching his friends nearly give Gregory a heart attack, Steve almost doesn’t hear your quiet plea beneath him.

“A little help, here?”

He looks down, startled to remember that you’re still here. Alone with him. Covered in snow and cheeks flushed a lovely rosie that his chest hurts to admire. An angel in the snow.

Your arm raises, palm open and not so subtly prompting Steve’s attention. “Please? My ass is cold but I’m scared that if I try to get up on my own, I’ll somehow give myself a black eye.”

“Right,” Steve clears his throat. He hesitates, unsure what exactly to do. Your hand hangs in the air, waiting for Steve to grab it, but his heart races. He hasn’t held your hand or played with your fingers or kissed the inside of your wrist since the night that the urge of more drowned you both.

Your hand falls just slightly, wavering in its own hesitation.

Neither of you know how to do this. How to be so distant with each other, civil instead of enamored.

“Steve,” you breathe out. He can’t tell if it’s a plea or an acceptance. “Help me up, please.”

Unable to put the inevitable off any longer, he carefully sets down his poles. Making sure he won’t fall right on top of you, Steve adjusts his footing and slowly, cautiously, grabs your hand. The contact, even through thick layers of gloves, etches a sting of regret into your skin and his.

He’s sure that come tomorrow, there will be a scar from your touch.

With one swift motion he stands you up. Chest to chest, the close proximity threatens to choke Steve. However, your eyes remain downcast in concentration as you try to regain your footing. The close proximity doesn’t seem to affect you as it does him.

“Got it?” He asks you softly, needing something to say, something to do.

You nod, still looking down. Your skis close in on themselves and Steve has to grab your waist to steady you. “Shit, just-just give a minute.”

He bites his tongue, but the words come out anyways. “Widen your stance.”

“What?”

“Widen your stance,” he says again, tightening his grip on your waist. “That’s what Gregory keeps telling us, at least. Something about balance.”

Not looking convinced, you grab Steve’s arms in a death grip and use his steady weight to support your own. Moving a centimeter at a time, you adjust your stance at an agonizingly slow pace.

But Steve doesn’t care. He’ll stand in the snow for as long as he possibly can if it means you’ll hold onto him.

Once you’ve widened your legs, you look back up at Steve. “I’m going to let go. If I start to fall, please spare my dignity and catch me.”

“I’ll always catch you,” he reassures, hiding behind the double meaning of his words. Shaking his head as if to clear his mind, Steve squeezes your waist, unable to stop the familiar habit. “C’mon, angelface. You can do it.”

Your breath catches at the old nickname. A slip of the tongue. Another habit Steve has to learn how to wean himself off of.

Without saying anything else, you inhale quickly, close your eyes, and then let go of him. Your body remains still, unmoving, no sign of struggle against the gravity that has betrayed you all morning.

Opening your eyes, you exhale in disbelief. “I-I did it! I’m standing!” Suddenly you’re in Steve’s arms, mumbling against his chest, “Thank you.”

Weak, he wraps himself around you. “Of course.”

Snow falls all over. Your second winter together.

Too soon you pull away, awkwardly adjusting your hat and jacket in an attempt to hide your discomfort. A line was crossed, though neither of you can agree on which. Forcing the polite smile that you both hate back on your face, you squeeze Steve’s arm like a friendly coworker would.

“Thanks again,” you say. He only responds with a tight lipped smile. Trying to ease the discomfort of knowing each other and unlearning that you do, you wink at him. “At this rate, I’ll be following right behind Mike in no time.”

It works. He lets out a surprised laugh. “Down that death trap?” He points behind him, where Mike has just been detained by Gregory. The slope looks even more threatening in the snowfall. “Yeah, you’re on your own for that one.”

You stick your tongue out, but as you do so, a snowflake lands on it. Your eyes light up in excitement and Steve is helpless to your joy, unable to stop the small laugh that expands in his chest and grows only for you.

–

The soft crackle of the fireplace warms the room in its orange-red glow. Its woody scent reminds Steve of Christmas mornings in Hawkins where Robin would bike over to his house while his parents went to charity events.

She sits next to him on the plush couch, feet tucked beneath her to defrost her toes and bring warmth back to her body. The jacket she stole from Steve looks particularly large over her small frame. He thinks she looks better in it than he does. She always looks better in his stolen clothes.

Mike and Max sit on the floor, closest to the fireplace. The ski resort provided complimentary hot cocoa and their lips are stained from the mocha. Steam rises from the mugs and their whispers intertwine with the murmur of the fireplace. Mike picks pieces of snow from Max’s long hair and she helps him ice his bruised knee.

Across from them Jonathan sleeps on the recliner. Swaddled in blankets with his own cocoa mustache, the sweet drink put him to sleep almost as quickly as the exhaustion from skiing did.

“We can’t tell Y/N how much fun we had today,” Robin whispers, head heavy on Steve’s shoulder. His arm holds her closer, rubbing her side to help keep her warm. “We’d never hear the end of it.”

Steve stares into the fire. “She does a lot for us.”

“The most overqualified concert photographer in history.”

He snorts, though no humor accompanies it. The Februarys don’t tell you enough how much they appreciate everything you do for them. The forced outings, the jokes to keep the tension at bay, photographs of their cherished memories.

“We should tell her that.” Steve says, more to himself than to Robin.

She hums in agreement, understanding what goes unsaid. She shifts, gets even closer to Steve, and closes her eyes. The warmth of the fireplace puts her to sleep, too. He smiles to himself.

You smile as well, watching the small moment from where you stand at the reception desk.

Gregory asked you to help him return the skis to the resort and you’d been happy to help. He started making polite conversation with the woman who works at the desk, but soon she lit up with every word he said and you think you saw him blush under her lovely smile. Within minutes his body leans closer to hers and you take a step back, giving them some privacy.

Your camera hangs by your side. Its familiar weight brings you comfort as you reach for it. The pinks in Robin’s hair shimmers in the fire’s light and the soft lines of content that carve Steve’s face beg you to capture the moment. In the bottom left of the frame Jonathan’s arm sticks out, near the right Max and Mike can be seen huddled together.

November, 1989, the Februarys recover from skiing.

Another picture that will go in your portfolio. Something that will only be for you. Screaming crowds and exploitative tabloids can have the Februarys who create personas to please them, but the raw, delicate, real version of them will be yours only.

“You really wore them out today.” Gregory reappears by your side, nudging you with his shoulder as he nods at the band members.

You lower your camera. “They needed a break from rehearsals and passive aggressive comments.”

“So you force them to go down dangerous slopes instead.”

“Only Mike.” You bite back a smile. “I’m surprised you were able to stop him in time.”

“God, I don’t think I’ve ever been that terrified in my life.”

“He’s really good at doing that.”

Gregory scoffs, “yeah, no kidding.” He pushes his glasses up, rolls his neck as if to stretch out the remnants from his mad dash to save his career earlier. With a tired sigh, he glances at you. “Anyways, before I forget, there was something I needed to talk to you about.”

Your lips turn down. “Should I be concerned?”

“No, not at all. It’s good, I promise.” His smile returns. “Do you remember the Jinxs?”

The mention of the band you shot a few months ago throws you. After the terror of losing your camera and the forbidden thrill of Steve helping you find it, the band had been fun to watch perform. Ultimately you got some really good photos of them during the show. “Yeah, why?”

“They really loved your work. A lot.”

“Where’s this going?”

Gregory’s smile falters. There’s something he’s afraid to tell you. “Well,” he clears his throat, smile becoming a grimace. “They requested you to be their photographer. And they want you now.”

“Oh.”

“They’re based in New York–”

“Gregory.”

“Willing to pay you even more than the Februarys–”

“Gregory.”

He releases a quick breath, body deflating. When he looks back up at you, his green eyes plead. “It’s a really good offer, Y/N.”

“And you should know, better than anyone, that I can’t accept it,” you blink in disbelief. Without meaning to, your eyes draw to the Februarys. It’s only for a second, but the action itself speaks louder than anything else. “I can’t just leave them behind.”

“They’ll come back to you in New York.” Gregory reminds you gently.

Your throat feels cold. “No. No, that’s not the same.”

You barely survived a month without them. All you could think about was how much of their history you were missing. How many moments that went uncaptured. Whether they missed you just as much as you missed them.

And Steve. All you could think about was Steve.

His hands and his eyes and his lips and hair and rings and piercings and his warm laughter on a sunny day or his quiet humming and tender melodies and how vibrant he can be when he trusts someone and how much of himself he gives to others because he can, because he wants to.

“I-I can’t.” You almost don’t recognize the sound of your own voice.

Gregory clenches his jaw. He knew this would be your answer. Risking your relationship, he says, “But can you survive four more months with him?”

Him.

Gregory can’t even say his name.

Yet as much as you want to be angry with him, you can’t. Gregory has been civil and wonderful and supportive despite having every reason not to be. He holds your hand on the tour bus during the nights Robin tells you that she hasn’t seen Steve in hours. He blocks your view of the girls who swarm Steve. Always finds an excuse for you to leave the dressing rooms early. Finds a distraction for you, finds a reason for you to say no.

You’ve leaned on Gregory more than you’re willing to admit these last two months of tour. He’s never once made you feel small for doing so.

Tonight isn’t any different. He’s worried about you. He’s seen how stilted your life has become with Steve.

“I love the Februarys.” You tell Gregory, biting the inside of your cheek to prevent the words from stinging. “All of them. I’m not leaving.”

Gregory exhales reluctant acceptance. “Alright,” his hand falls on your shoulder. “I believe you, but just so you’re aware, the Jinxs aren’t expecting an answer right now. Leonard told them you’d need to sleep on it, and for once I agree with him.”

“I won’t change my mind.” You don’t acknowledge Leonard’s surprising knowledge of you.

“I don’t doubt that,” he squeezes your shoulder. “But at least pretend to consider it, will you? Leonard told me to call him next week, so you have until then.”

Shrugging Gregory’s hand off, you start to walk back to your friends. He follows, silent. Needing to scratch the conversation off your skin, you flick his ear. “So, did you get the receptionist’s number?”

Gregory trips. “I-sorry?”

“Don’t act all shy now. You were practically drooling over her while I was standing right next to you. What did her nametag say? Jackie? Jacey?”

“Jamie.” Gregory corrects automatically, eyes widening when he realizes what he’s done.

You smile wickedly. “Gotcha.”

His face burns a deep red and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him quite this flustered. Laughing at his misery, you tug at Gregory’s sweater and soften the sting of your tease with the offer of hot cocoa before joining the others.

–

Leonard books the Februarys three shows in California.

“You guys avoided the state like it was a fucking venereal disease during your first tour.” He explained. “Which is a shame, considering it’s my favorite place to get a venereal disease.”

Jonathan’s face had twisted in poorly hidden disgust. “You really love to overshare, don’t you Mr. Branham?”

In the end Leonard schedules two shows in Los Angeles and one in San Bernardino.

You haven’t been back to California since you left five years ago for New York. California will always be where you grew up and where all your tender memories remain, but after your mother’s death and your father’s grief, the east coast offered solace.

The homecoming feels uneventful if only because your father now lives in Portugal and the barren desert that surrounds Los Angeles doesn’t at all compare to Berkeley’s lush green that defined your childhood.

“It’s insane that it’s technically winter and yet I’m wearing a t-shirt right now,” Max comments as she looks around the hotel that they’re staying in for the week. Palm trees wave back at her. “Doesn’t feel legal.”

You grab your bag from the bus. “Welcome to Cali.”

Robin squints against the harsh sunlight. “Is it always this bright?”

“I honestly have no idea.” When the band looks at you with varying degrees of confusion and astonishment, you sigh. “California is a huge state, guys. We’re six hours from where I grew up. I’m not a reliable source of weather information.”

Mike’s jaw drops. “So it’s not just desert everywhere?”

“I worry that you were taken out of college too soon.”

He shoves you, offended, while Jonathan shakes his head. “Please don’t say that. Mr. Wheeler still won’t look me in the eye.”

Mike shrugs. “Ted’s an ass.”

From the band’s bus you hear a loud thud and raised voices. Confused, you look around and realize that Gregory isn’t beside you. Neither is Steve.

Robin pieces it together before you can. She stares down at her nails, bored. “Guess Steve still doesn’t want to get up.”

“He’s still sleeping off his hangover?” You ask, fearful of what the answer will be. When both tour buses left this morning, almost eight hours ago, Steve had been too sick to even change out of his clothes from last night. Again. For the fifth time this week.

Max glares at their shared bus. “He spent the entire drive puking his guts out. He only fell asleep when we crossed state lines.”

“Wasn’t a fun drive.” Jonathan mumbles.

Robin doesn’t look up from her nails. Gregory’s muffled voice says something to Steve and the man responds with another scream. Something gets thrown against the window. You flinch at the sound. So do the others.

Unable to stand it any longer, you grab your things. “Let’s go get checked in.”

“Welcome to Cali.” Robin echoes your words from earlier, disdain and disappointment lacing their reflection.

–

Nothing prepares the Februarys for how popular they are in California.

The venue they play the first night in Los Angeles overfloods with bodies despite it being the biggest venue they’ve ever performed in. The rowdy audience pushes and shoves one another to catch a glimpse of the band, to get as close as possible, to demand more.

Screams pierce the band members' ears. Cheers shake their bones. Thousands of faces plead with the Februarys for a show. They won’t accept anything less than that.

And they oblige.

Jonathan beats onto the drums so hard that he breaks five pairs of drumsticks. His palms cut on the jagged pieces. He doesn’t realize that he’s bleeding until after the show finishes.

Max’s bass amplifies through the crowd’s demands and she has to brace herself against Steve during one of her solos, the rush of the performance almost too much.

Mike snaps two guitar strings the first five minutes into the show. The strings hit his wrist as they break and he laughs through the manic pain, replacing the strings without so much as a wince.

Robin slams onto the piano keys and strains her voice to keep up with the frantic cries. Her nails break and her voice cracks and the crowd feeds the desperation.

And Steve clutches onto the mic stand, covered in sweat, charming and beautiful and captivating. His fingers pick through the guitar strings and his biceps strain in the stage lights through every song, through every lyric, the dip of collarbones peeking through his cut off shirt.

He’d be beautiful if his gaunt face and yellowed eyes weren’t physical manifestations of the alcohol he survives off of.

Especially in California where the alcohol is stronger and the girls are even more willing.

It quickly becomes Steve’s favorite state they’ve ever performed in.

“I fucking love LA!” He exclaims, running off the stage after the show finishes. “Holy shit!”

Robin’s own exhilaration leaves her breathless. She leans against the wall, drenched in sweat yet smiling wider than you’ve ever seen. “I feel like I’m floating.”

Steve grabs her shoulders and jumps around, rosie face beaming. “I am floating, Buckley!”

Jonathan cackles and fist bumps the air, his injuries ignored in favor of celebrating. “Did you see how many fist fights broke out in the crowd tonight?”

“I think I saw three.” Max leans against the wall with Robin, who holds her hand to remind the other that tonight was real and not some far-fetched dream.

“I counted four!” Mike pretends to punch someone. “I mean, how fucking sick is that?”

Steve rough houses with the kid, ducking and weaving faux punches. “We’re fucking rockstars, Wheeler!”

Mike screams a cheer and Jonathan echoes it and the three boys all begin to grapple at each other and wrestle. Max and Robin watch with rolled eyes, though their fond smiles are hard to hide.

You take a picture of the childish scene before you. The Februarys wrestling one another, celebrating their biggest sold out show. Your cheeks ache from how hard you smile. The scene reminds you of nights in your apartment in New York, pizza boxes everywhere and empty beer cans with soft rock playing over an old record player.

“Alright, I got everyone’s room key–” Gregory joins everyone backstage, distracted with arranging the multitude of key cards in his hands, and almost walks right into the wrestling match. “Oh. They’re fighting.”

“Don’t worry, they’re just messing around.” You reassure him.

“This time.” Max adds.

Gregory makes an uncomfortable sound and you just shake your head. “Leave him alone, Max.”

“Just saying what we’re all thinking.”

Robin grabs a key card from Gregory. “God, I’m glad Leonard is a rich bastard. I’ve missed having a queen sized bed and AC.”

“I like the bunks on the bus.” Max says, though she grabs a key card as well. “I just hate that you’re all on the bus as well.”

Robin flips her off while you point at yourself. “Don’t group me with the band. I’m on the other bus. Far away. Just how I know you like it.”

“That’s a good point, actually.” Suddenly Robin grabs your arm, pulling you towards the boys who are still wrestling. She steps between them and blocks their punches, effectively ending their impromptu wrestling match.

“What the hell, Robin?” Steve asks incredulously. He was just about to put Mike in a headlock.

“Y/N is going to sleep with us.”

“What?” He chokes on his spit.

Jonathan and Mike are no better. Both whip their heads towards you with genuine fear in their eyes. You’d be offended if you also weren’t completely mortified yourself.

You raise your hand. “Hi, do I get a say in who I sleep with?”

“Not this time, pretty girl.” Robin pats your arm. “Don’t worry, we can all hole up in my room. You’re long overdue for a sleepover with the Februarys.”

“Platonically, I hope.” Gregory butts in. “For reasons I can’t legally specify, Leonard has banned intergroup relations.”

Mike looks at Steve and Jonathan jams his elbow into the kid’s ribs. Everyone else pretends not to have noticed.

“As much as it pains me to say, it’ll be strictly platonic.” Robin sighs. “It’ll just be us making Y/N miserable while she tries to develop film.”

“Again, do I get a say in this?”

“No.”

Jonathan rests his elbow on your shoulder. “I’m in.”

Mike shrugs. “Oddly I miss the chemical smell.”

You frown. “That’s not a reassuring answer.”

“If Mike is huffing chemicals, count me in.” Max says. “I’d pay to see that, actually.”

Robin claps her hands. “Then it’s settled. Mandatory band slumber party tonight. Gregory and Y/N will get shitty pizza with Mike and Jonathan while me and Steve get the drinks–”

“I’m not joining.”

The light in her eyes dims. “What part of ‘mandatory band slumber party’ do you not understand?”

Steve crosses his arms over his chest. A defensive act. He shifts his weight and looks away. “I have other plans tonight.”

“Harrington.” A stagecrew member knocks on the door. A hallway full of girls wait behind him.

Right on fucking time.

Robin’s jaw tightens. “Is this still you trying?”

I meant it. I really am trying.

Steve finally meets her eye. “Yes,” he answers, calm, unmoving. He doesn’t have it in him anymore to explain what he can’t quite understand himself. All he knows is that he can’t be in the same room as you, not sober, not drunk. He’ll only ruin everyone’s night and he can’t risk losing the band entirely, so he’ll sacrifice fragments of them if it means they’ll still remain whole. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

“Will we?” Max’s question severs.

He swallows the hurt he knows he isn’t allowed to feel. “You will.”

It’s the most he can promise.

In the silence of the dressing room Steve plasters a smile on his face, fixes his hair, snatches four bottles of liquor from the bar cart, and shoves past the crew member. The hallway explodes into expected feminine cheers.

“Leonard was right.” Robin says through her teeth. “California is where you’ll get a venereal disease."

Something about her words pinches nausea into your stomach and twists your intestines into knots. Breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth, the bitter cold air numbs the sickness within you.

–

Robin somehow ends up with a record player in her hotel room. She sighs in relief when she sees it and promptly demands that Jonathan to dig through his suitcase and play the first record he finds.

David Byrne’s voice floats through the room. Max lays on the bed with a comic, humming softly along to the song while Mike sits at her feet, messing with his guitar and scribbling chord arrangements he likes.

Jonathan and Gregory sit on the couch. The two of them discuss aspects of the music industry that the Februarys don’t necessarily deal with themselves. Jonathan expresses an interest in the business side, asking Gregory a million questions a minute.

You’re hunched over the vanity, carefully placing rolls of film into clear liquid and watching as the images come to life. Robin sits on the table itself, watching with her usual curiosity.

Then, because she’s Robin, she allows her thoughts to be voiced.

“What the fuck is going on between you and Steve?”

You spill an entire bottle of developer onto the table. Quickly standing up, you clear away the film at risk of being soaked. “Shit.”

Robin helps you, though she doesn’t take her eyes off your anxious frame. “Quite a knee-jerk reaction, there. If you try and tell me it’s nothing, I’m afraid I’ll have to tie you to a chair.”

“What’s with this band and tying people to chairs?”

Jonathan gets up from the couch and cleans up the mess with some leftover napkins the pizza joint provided. “Robin’s question came off a little strong, I’ll admit, but we’re really worried about Steve.”

“And while he’s been spiraling into a manic alcohol-induced sexual delusion,” Max scrutinizes you. “You’ve been weirdly normal about it.”

“So,” Mike concludes. “Something fucked up happened that you aren’t telling us.”

“Besides the obvious sleeping with each other in Chicago.” Robin hands you the film she salvaged. “Here you go, by the way.”

Your head spins. “Is this an intervention or some shit?”

She shakes her head. “Not unless we need to make it one.”

“I’m sorry, but when Steve and I crossed the line and jeopardized the band you guys were rightfully pissed off.” Turning around, you face everyone. “But when we agree to remain professional for the sake of our jobs, you’re worried about us?”

Robin narrows her eyes. “What do you mean you agreed to remain professional?”

“We…” Suddenly aware of how naive it all sounds, you hesitate to explain. “We made a deal.”

“Well go on.” Mike opens his arms. “I’m sure this will only further add to our problems.”

You throw a bobby pin at Jonathan. “Can you shut him up?”

“No, I’m on his side for this one.”

“Y/N,” Robin forces your attention back. “Tell us what deal you made.”

All eyes on you, there’s nowhere left to run.

The back of your knees hit the bed. Weak to the fall, you land against it, exhausted. “We made the deal the first gig back in New York.”

“The closet!” Mike exclaims, pointing at you wildly. “That’s when I saw you guys leaving the closet together!”

“You slept together that night?” Max gags.

You quickly correct them. “No. Jesus, have some faith in us, alright? We were in the closet because Steve was a fucking mess performing that night and it was clear there were still some unresolved… feelings, I guess. So I forced him into the closet and we made a deal: remain professional and stop letting our issues affect the band.”

“You forced Steve to be your coworker?” Robin almost can’t believe it, it’s almost too absurd to believe, but really she suspected something akin to it already. You’ve been more distant from the band. Most nights Steve can’t even look at you. Carefully curated sentences silence the laughter that she hasn’t heard since leaving New York.

“If that’s how you want to look at it, then sure. I forced him to be my coworker.”

Jonathan softens his voice. “And you’re okay with it?”

“Of course I’m not okay with it!” Exhausted laughter rattles your empty ribcage. “Of course it fucking hurts when Steve sleeps with yet another girl and of course I’m fucking miserable pretending that it doesn’t hurt. You don’t think I’m fucking terrified he’ll drink himself to death?”

No one says anything, which only makes you laugh even more hysterically. “Jesus fuck, this is my job, this is your job. What else am I supposed to do? Wait for him to get his shit together? Jeporadize everything again just for a small figment of fucking hope?”

“You shouldn’t have to make yourself miserable for us.” A soft hand cups your cheek. When your eyes open, Robin’s mournful regret stares back at you. “That isn’t fair to you.”

Gregory coughs. The action itself doesn’t give away anything. He remains silent and merely observes the conversation, but the cough was meant for only you to understand. Your conversation from Colorado hangs between you. The Jinxs and their offer. His uncertainty that you’d survive four more months of cold civility with Steve.

“Didn’t I tell you that I was the Februarys’ biggest fan?” You try to deflect the rawness of Robin’s grief for you.

Max studies you for a moment. “You don’t take as many photos as you used to.”

“I took almost a hundred photos of you guys tonight.” Entire rolls of film dedicated to the Februarys.

“She’s not talking about the pictures we pay you for.” Mike says with uncharacteristic kindness.

Nothing they’re saying makes sense. “I always enjoy photographing your shows. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

“And when you’re not taking pictures of our performances?” Robin pushes you just a little more, just enough to get you to see what everyone else already knows. “What are you taking pictures of, then?”

Once, you would’ve told her that you take pictures of Mike chasing Jonathan with a frog through a national park. Pictures of Max with her comics on the bay side of the bus, a moment of peace between shows. You would’ve told Robin that you take pictures of her as she gets ready in the mornings, a lazy image of her in the bathroom mirror with tired eyes but a warm smile.

Once, you would’ve taken a photo of the way the snow freckled in Steve’s brown hair and how it melts golden in the sunlight. How he looks encased in the green pine of the mountains. The way his hands grip the ski pole and the velvet red of his jacket matching the rosie flush of his face.

But you can’t tell Robin any of this, because it never happened. You never took the photos. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you’d been too afraid to. The memories you want to preserve are the same memories you try to forget. In putting aside your turmoil and grief for the sake of the band, you’ve slowly lost pieces of yourself in the process.

You’ve slowly lost the love for the art your mother left behind.

Gregory coughs again, this time with more force. It’s enough to break the mountainous silence and bring the attention off of you and onto him. “Excuse me,” he clears his throat excessively, putting on a show. “Didn’t someone say there’d be drinks?”

Robin allows the distraction, worried she’s pushed you too far. Tossing Gregory a beer, she offers one to you as well. “Here. You look like you need one.”

“Thanks,” your mumbled response doesn’t make her feel better. You crack the can open, drink the bitter liquid, and it tastes better than the empty realization of tonight.

–

The second night in Los Angeles follows the same as the first night.

Steve stumbles into sound check covered in hickies and a bruised eye. He reeks of alcohol and his normally tanned skin looks grey. The Februarys’ bite their tongues when they see him. At the very least he’s shown up for rehearsals sober, albeit hungover.

You watch them sound check as you normally do. As you watch the band go over the setlist and bicker as usual, the conversation from last night sits heavily in your skin. When Steve shows Robin how to hold a guitar in order to settle a playful argument, you reach for your digital camera before you can second guess it.

The image of them comes out hazy. You were too quick, too ill prepared, but even the lack of skill can’t explain the broken way Steve’s body appears in the photo. The shadows under his eyes are only emphasized in the pixels. The hickies that mar his body look more like cruel bruises than passionate ones.

Unsettled by how devoid his beauty has become, you put the camera down. You don’t want to remember Steve this way.

The show itself doesn’t help the pit of dread in your stomach. The overcrowded audience feeds into Steve’s spiral. They shout his name and jeer crude remarks and toss beer cans for him to catch and crack open after every song because he shotguns them with impressive speed. They’re too blind to recognize that he’s fading.

You break from your usual habit of taking pictures of the crowd. Something about the people in the venue makes you uncomfortable. You don’t like how they treat Steve like their shiny new toy.

Instead you focus on the band the whole night, photographing Robin’s lithe fingers and Jonathan’s exposed neck and Max’s light eyes and Mike’s wild hair and Steve’s lips.

Only the lips you photograph are hard to recognize. Bitten raw and dry and chapped. They no longer resemble the soft lips that used to kiss you to sleep.

The dread in your stomach only grows. Nothing about this is right.

You’re desperate at this point. As soon as the show wraps up you jump over the barricade and intercept the Februarys before they walk into their dressing room.

“Wait, hold on a second.”

They all jump back, surprised by your sudden appearance.

“Someone’s here early.” Robin remarks, eyeing you. “What’s up, pretty girl?”

“I just–” A hickey peeks through the top of Steve’s collar and it punches you in the throat. Your entire body goes numb, yet your nervous system screams at you to run. “Can I take some pictures of you guys? I-I mean, how I used to? After your gigs where I’d take pictures of your guys’ instruments and outfits and–”

“Breathe, dude.” Mike clamps his hand over your mouth. “You’re stressing me out.”

Jonathan slaps his hand away. “You’re all sweaty from performing, don’t be gross.”

“You know fast talkers stress me out!”

“You don’t just shove your hand onto someone’s mouth–”

Robin pushes both boys behind her. While they continue to argue, she grazes your arm. “Take as many pictures of me as you want, babe. You know I love it when I’m your muse.”

Max kicks the boys, causing them both to kneel over in pain. “And these idiots will agree once they get their heads out of their asses.”

“Perfect,” exhaling in relief, you look past the group for the missing member. “And Steve–”

He isn’t there.

Robin lets out an exasperated breath. “Where the hell did he go?”

Your mouth opens to suggest checking the dressing room, but the words die in your throat when a horde of girls run past you. Steve is in the center of it all, already drunk off the attention, tattered in lipstick marks and booze.

–

California feeds the excess of loneliness innate in Steve.

Every night the alcohol consumes him. He drinks to forget how your lips kissed the inside of his thighs and then he drinks even more to feel the phantom touch you left behind. The girls he sleeps with are happy to pretend to be someone else for him.

They all just want to be able to say that they fucked a rockstar.

Steve just enjoys the sensation of being held, if only for a brief second between parting lips and hushed tongues.

He hangs precariously on the thin line he drew out of faulty promises and hurt feelings. A tightrope of his own creation, Steve toes the line between preserving enough of himself for the Februarys and erasing the remaining pieces to forget you.

The morning the band leaves for San Bernardino, he spends the entire drive nursing a hangover. He buries himself in blankets to block out the excessive sunlight and has to clutch onto his bunk railing to steady himself against the rocky pavement that jolts the bus back and forth.

Robin spares him enough sympathy by hand feeding him some crushed granola and even asks Mike and Jonathan to keep their voices down so that Steve can sleep.

He isn’t sure what he did to deserve her in his life, but he’s glad he did at least one thing right.

By the time they arrive at the festival grounds of Glen Helen, it’s late noon.

Max sees them first.

“Holy shit…” She stares out the window, for the first time in her life completely speechless.

“What’re you–” Mike pushes beside her. His jaw drops. “Oh fuck.”

Hours before the Februarys are expected at the amphitheater, a sea of people intersperse through the trees and tall grass of the forest. Thousands lay in the grass and stand with their friends and clink their drinks together and inch their way closer to the stage. A haze of smoke clouds over them, some acrid wood, some herbal.

“Jesus fuck.” Robin can’t take her eyes off the crowd. The bus creeps past them down a private road and it takes several security guards to clear the way. A dozen onlookers try to follow the bus, but they’re denied access.

Jonathan roughly pulls Steve out of bed. He’ll want to see the visceral proof of their success. He has to be reminded of it in order to accept that it’s real. That it’s his.

“What the fuck–” Steve hits Jonathan’s chest as he falls off the bunk, but Jonathan doesn’t even blink. He shoves Steve towards the window instead.

“Remember this,” he tells Steve. “Remember why we do this.”

I’m going to be a rockstar. Me and everyone else in the Februarys. One day, everyone will know our name.

A sold out show of thousands, and they’re all waiting for the Februarys.

When Steve was twelve his father taunted him for wanting to learn the guitar. When he was sixteen he was told by his mother that he would only suit a traditional career if given enough luck. When he was twenty-one and waiting tables in a shitty diner downtown all he had to his name were two songs. One Robin wrote, and one he wrote.

Now he’s twenty-four. One EP, one album, dozens of songs, and a sold out show at Glen fucking Helen his last night in California.

And everyone does know the Februarys’ name.

Leonard greets them when they step inside the dressing room. “About time you kids made it to beautiful fucking Hollywood!”

Gregory coughs. “We’re in San Bernardino, sir.”

“Same shit.” The man waves his hand in the air. “I don’t give a damn. So long as the speed is fresh and the women are titty it’ll always be Hollywood to me.”

Max barely suppresses a snarky comment. He’s her boss whether she likes it or not. “We didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Neither did I!” Leonard cackles. “But I was bored and own a plane. Bought her after McCartney lost a bet with me. Bastard hasn’t answered any of my calls since. It’s a shame, really. Beautiful wife. She’s who I named the plane after.”

“And you think Paul McCartney hasn’t called you back because he’s upset he lost a bet ten years ago,” you say carefully, tilting your head at Leonard. “And not because you named an airplane after his wife?”

He lights a cigarette. “Who gives a fuck why he hasn’t called back? Moral of the story is that I’m here and expecting tonight’s show not to be a complete ass fuck like Chicago was,” smoke drifts around Leonard. “Tell me, will I be fucked in the ass tonight?”

Steve steps forward, a handsome smile covering the scent of alcohol that leaks from him. “Not unless we have your consent, sir.”

“Aw,” Leonard clasps a thick hand to Steve’s face. “The alchie thinks he can make jokes now, huh?”

Jonathan has to cover Mike’s mouth before the kid can break out into hysterical laughter. He ends up dragging him outside, away from the rest of the group. Leonard watches in amusement. Steve watches in shame.

“We’ll give you a show.” Robin cuts through the silent standoff. She hates how quickly Leonard can turn Steve into a broken shell. He idolizes the man more than she’d care to admit. They all do. “We can promise you that.”

Leonard takes another drag. He lets the smoke simmer in his lungs. You feel his eyes travel slowly from you to the remaining members of the band.

Smoke gets exhaled. “Then let the show begin.”

–

People shove against you and compress your chest to the barricade and loudly talk over one another in an anxious anticipation for the show that will start any minute. Warm bodies and hard limbs stifle your breathing, yet in the deafening chaos of it all you wouldn’t be anywhere else.

Maybe it’s the outdoor sanctity or the loose alcohol or the access to drugs and sweat and tears, or maybe it’s simply the music, but the Februarys have never experienced a crowd quite like this one.

“You guys are fucking rowdy!” Steve whistles into the mic after the second song. The ground shakes beneath him in response. His ears ring from the impact of the screams. Feeling like a little kid given his favorite toy, Steve bites his lip and leans over the mic, “Can you guys scream a little louder for me?”

White, bone rattling noise echoes back.

“That’s what I like to hear!” His laughter rings throughout the amphitheater. Boyish, prideful, charming like honey. The sweet taste of it fills your mouth as you watch Steve enamor the audience. He gets them to bite onto his wit, to eat from his maroon voice.

Stars glisten behind Steve in the dark of the night and yet he outshines the galaxy without even trying.

He decided to tempt the stars tonight by playing into the part himself. Stealing a dress suit jacket from Gregory and pairing it with a tight button down shirt with only the first few buttons done, he drips grungy Hollywood with his silver cross necklace stacked against endless chains around his neck.

Rosie has come out to play.

“This next song is a favorite of mine,” Steve caresses the mic stand and smirks when he gets the reaction he’s desired. “It starts out a little rough, messy, even. But isn’t that what teasing is all about?”

Jonathan starts the count and Robin plays the first few chords. Immediately everyone recognizes it.

Tease sends the crowd into a frenzy. Energetic and sensual and fucking addicting, they dance and scream along and beg for more, just as the song instructs them to.

Steve feeds into their wanting ways. He bounces around and head bangs with Mike and kisses Robin’s cheek and plays right back to Max and even slams down on one of Jonathan’s cymbals and he comes back to life after months of vacant death. All smiles, all love and passion and endearing charm.

This is the Steve Harrington you fell in love with.

Terrified you’ll miss the rare glimpse of the boy you once knew, you take as many photos as you can. You don’t pretend to find anyone else in the viewfinder. The images you take are all of Steve.

His jaw and the shine of his nosering. The cross that nestles against his chest and the buttons that don’t cover anything else. The moles that adorn his melancholy skin. How the pads of his fingers press against his guitar and the thrust of his hips.

He’s a beauty that offers no salvation.

You get lost in it.

That’s when someone slams the camera into your skull.

It happens quickly, faster than you can even fully react. All you remember doing is screaming out in pain as the camera hits the crest of your temple and crying at the blinding pain throughout your entire body.

“Fucking bitch.” You will never forget the way the assailant slurred viciously, unsteady on his drunken feet yet unwavering in his venom. “Blocking my goddamn view.”

Blood drips down your brow. You can’t see out of your left eye. Someone screams your name and pulls you behind them. He sounds like Gregory. You aren’t sure. Your ears ring too loudly from the impact of the assault to focus on anything other than the pain that explodes in your skull.

“Don’t fucking touch her.”

Steve. He shouldn’t be in the crowd with you. He should be on stage. Why isn’t he on stage?

The sickening sound of fist slamming into bone answers your question. Steve slams his fists over and over again into the face of the man who caused blood to break from your skin.

“Don’t ever,” more blood spills, only this time it isn’t yours. “Touch her again.”

“Steve!” Gregory tries to pull him off. You don’t know where you are. Your ears ring and there’s so much blood and you should be doing something. You can’t just let Steve ruin another show for you, but metal fills your mouth and you think you bit through your tongue from the impact.

Security shoves through the crowd. Jonathan jumps down from the stage to help them pry Steve off from the man now screaming out in pain. Gregory calls for more help and suddenly Robin’s familiar and warm and gentle arms drag your body over the barricade.

“You’re okay,” she whispers against your ear as she pulls you from the crowd as carefully and quickly as she can. “Can you move your legs for me? We gotta get you backstage, sweetheart. Help me out, here.”

Numb and overwhelmed you do as you’re told, forcing your legs to move. Robin guides you through a swarm of people. The second you’re backstage, away and alone from prying and public eyes all demanding more, you finally break.

The tears come faster than you can stop them and your body shakes so violently that you’re afraid you’ll fall. Robin takes you into her arms immediately.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she holds you tight to her chest, careful not to touch the bleeding wound on your head. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“Someone get some fucking gauze!” Max screams at any crew member who will listen. She runs around and slams through every drawer she finds, Mike right behind her.

“Is Y/N okay?” He asks, too nervous to look at you.

Robin holds you even closer. “She will be, but let’s just focus on finding something to clean her up first, okay?”

Both kids look so distraught and worried and it breaks something even deeper within you. Weaker than ever before, tears wet your face and the dull ache nauseates. Humiliation coats your skin, fear claws at it.

But it all fades the moment Steve runs into the room.

“Y/N.”

He doesn’t look at anyone else. He doesn’t hesitate or wait or overthink. In seconds his arms replace Robin’s. Fear paints every inch of his face. His hands trace every dip of your skin.

“You’re hurt.” Raw despair drips into Steve’s voice. He cups your face and carefully tilts your head so that he can inspect the injury. He has to hold his breath to steady how irrevocably his heartbeat stings seeing you in so much pain. “Oh, angelface.”

Steve’s touch burns, yet it makes your skin cold and you aren’t sure if you want to pull away or collapse into the cavity of his chest. “You’re okay, yeah? Just look at me. Max and Robin will find you something to stop the bleeding.” He brushes hair out of your face and attends to you in such a delicate way that you never thought you’d see again. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

Though your tongue feels raw, you still can’t resist reassuring him. “You’re not the one who hit me.”

He doesn’t respond, instead grabbing the gauze that Robin offers and dabs your temple with a wet rag that Max threatened a crew member for. The cold stings against the wound and you wince with every touch, but Steve shushes you with soothing words. He apologizes under his breath over and over again.

“You can’t be serious.” Jonathan’s raised voice gets everyone’s attention. He stands in a corner with Gregory, who Steve hasn’t let come any closer to you.

“What’s going on?” Max sets down the rag and stalks towards the men.

Mike jabs a finger at Gregory. “This asshole just told us to go back on stage.”

Robin laughs humorlessly. “Yeah, fuck no.”

“You guys sold 20,000 tickets,” Gregory closes his eyes, knowing he’s fighting a losing battle. “You only have five songs left, it’d be unprofessional to waste the remaining time–”

“Y/N was just fucking assaulted!” Jonathan’s malice surprises everyone. He doesn’t fucking care what Gregory or anyone else thinks. You’re one of his closest friends and your blood hasn’t even dried yet. “No way in hell are we going back out there.”

“I care deeply for Y/N, and what happened tonight was despicable,” Gregory tries to look at you, but Steve blocks his view of you. Suppressing an agitated sigh, he begs the band to understand. “But I wouldn’t ask you guys to do this if it wasn’t important.”

Steve tightens his arms around you. “We’re done. End of discussion.”

“If you’d just listen to me–”

The door opens. Leonard Branham walks in. “Let them cut the show early.”

Gregory’s jaw drops. “Sir, you can’t be serious.”

“I’m plenty serious. I mean,” Leonard snorts loudly and gestures towards you and Steve, holding each other still. “Look at these two kids. Young and in love. No better drug than that. Even I can be sympathetic enough to that, you heartless cow.”

Max stifles a laugh. Mike doesn’t.

You ignore the way Steve’s fingers dig into your waist when Leonard says “in love.”

Gregory clenches his fists. This is the most uncomposed you’ve ever seen him. “With all due respect, sir, it’s a sold out show. Thousands of dollars that people paid for.”

“And I don’t give a shit. I’ve already made millions off this band anyways.” Leonard claps Steve’s shoulder, reminiscent of a proud father. “Fuck if I care if this kid’s knight in shining armor act makes me lose a few thousand. At least it’s entertaining!”

“But–”

Leonard’s amusement quickly turns to displeasure. He reels Gregory with a steely look. “I don’t pay you to suck my dick, do I? I pay you to do as I say, and right now I’m telling you to go make the announcement that the show’s over.”

Swallowing down humiliation, Gregory nods his head stiffly and leaves without another word.

“Fucking asshole,” Steve says under his breath, pulling you even closer.

“Alright, well.” Leonard adjusts his jacket and pulls out his wallet. He flits through the endless money within it before settling on five hundred dollar bills. He shoves the cash in Robin’s face. “Here, take this. Should be enough to cover the girl’s injury. If you need any legal fees: don’t.”

She accepts the money, albeit reluctantly. “Thank you, Mr. Branham.”

“I repay my investments. Remember that.” He shrugs, looking right at you when he says it. A silent reminder of his offer with the Jinxs that you have yet to accept. “Anyways, I should get going before the horde of angry people pit me like a pig. Good luck.”

The Februarys don’t even blink at his departure. They swarm around you instead, asking you a million questions a second.

“Do you feel sick?”

“Has the bleeding stopped?”

“Do you need ice? More gauze? Stitches?”

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“She’s injured, not blind, Mike.”

“Had to make sure.”

Steve remains silent, holding you rather than asking his own questions. In his selfish ways this is the only thing he knows will keep him calm. Your scent, your soft skin against his, your hair in his face, your body with his.

You try to answer their questions and ease their concern, but as you attempt to reassure Robin that you don’t need stitches, a loud, macabre sound leaks through the dressing room from the audience outside.

They’re booing the Februarys.

A deep, hollow vessel of dread sinks into your stomach.

“You have to–”

Mike cuts you off. “Wait, you know I’m only holding up two fingers, right?”

“The show, you guys can’t–”

“I really think we should get your wound looked at.” Robin touches your face slightly and frowns at how deep the gash appears now that the blood has been wiped away. “I’ll take you. We can use the money Lenny left.”

Max nods. “Use every last cent that bastard left.”

They aren’t listening. No one is listening. “Please, just go back on stage–”

Only Steve hears your pleading. It’s always him. “You heard Lenny, Y/N. The show’s over.”

“But-but I’m fine.” This isn’t what you want. The booing persists and leaks through every crevice of the dressing room and drills into your skull and it only seems to be deafening you. “The fans, they’re upset and-and you can’t just let them down like this–”

“Y/N,” Steve pinches your chin between two fingers, forcing your head to tilt up at him. In his eyes is tenderness. Resentment cannot be found. “I don’t fucking care what the fans think. No show is worth your safety.”

You guys sold 20,000 tickets.

Holy shit, I look like a rockstar.

Everything I’ve done has been for the Februarys.

The booing outside grows into a nauseating crescendo and Steve looks at you with such softness. You can’t be the reason he loses a childhood dream that’s already been salvaged from ruin because of you.

Desperate, you raise your voice to be heard over the roar of the audience’s fury. “But this is everything you’ve ever dreamed of!”

“And I’m not sacrificing you for it! Nothing is worth losing you! Do you understand that? I’m not fucking losing you. I-I can’t lose you.”

All the air escapes your lungs.

The confession rings throughout the room.

And you stare up at Steve with no resolve or hesitancy or fear of what he’s said, as if you’ve expected it, as if you’ve always known, and isn’t that why you left that Chicago morning? Because Steve couldn’t admit to you what you already knew?

But as he stands before you, breathing in and out heavily, his adrenaline finally abandons his body. It leaves him weak and afraid. Like a shock to his system he comes back to himself, realizes where he is, who is with him, what he’s just admitted.

Everyone looks at Steve and they know. They know he’s in love with you they know he’s going too fast they know he bruised his knuckles tonight because he’d rather be in pain than to have you afraid and they know you’re wound so deeply into his skin and this is all happening too fast he’s going too fast.

Steve lets go of you as if you’ve burned him. Maybe you have.

The door slams shut.

No one calls after him.

–

Robin and Jonathan shove you into the back of a taxi and drag you into the first emergency room they find. Jonathan fills out all the paperwork. Robin holds your hand while a kind nurse cleans your injury.

Two hours later you’re cleared of a concussion and discharged with an ice pack to your head. The nurse instructs you to take it easy the next few days. Robin promises the woman she’ll keep an eye on you and Jonathan picks up your prescription pain meds for the swelling.

You’re just relieved that your camera made it out alive without any damage. Your skull took the brunt of it.

Even though it’s nearly one in the morning by the time you get back to the hotel, Mike and Max are waiting in the lobby. When they see you, they jump to their feet.

“What’d the doctor say?” Mike eyes your bandage wearily. “Are you brain damaged?”

Max pinches his side. “Can you be normal for five seconds?”

Though their worry endears you, the pain meds haven’t kicked in yet and your head feels like it’s on fire. Smiling thinly at them, you manage small reassurance. “I’m fine, guys.”

“No concussion, which is good.” Jonathan steps in for you. “She just can’t do anything reckless for a few days.”

Max snorts. “I’m sure that’ll be easy.”

“Now isn’t the time.” He gently berates her remark. “It’s late and we’ve all had a long day. Let’s just get some sleep. Tomorrow you guys can be your usual asshole selves.”

Mike boos, but Robin swats his chest and looks pointedly at Max. “Do as Jonathan says or I’ll hit you, too.”

She rolls her eyes but yanks the back of Mike’s shirt and drags him to the elevator. Jonathan accompanies them, kissing your forehead with a whispered goodnight as he leaves. The kids send you one last concerned glance before the elevator doors close and they’re gone.

“Do you need anything else?” Robin asks you, eyebrows knit in worry.

You shake your head. “I’m fine. Really.”

She doesn’t look convinced. “I can stay in your room tonight.”

“Robin,” you squeeze her hand, understanding her worry but hating the sensation of it. “I love you, but tonight was overwhelming and I just…”

All you’ve felt since leaving Glen Helen is overwhelmed frailty. The crash of your camera lens to your head, the man’s slurred anger, Steve’s fists cracking his skin, Leonard’s indifference and Gregory’s guilty eyes.

The terror on Steve’s face when he saw all the blood. His desperation to hold you, to search your skin for any other injuries and kiss them better. How raw his voice was when he confessed to you what he’s fought so hard to hide.

Closing your eyes, you exhale the weakness that bites your lungs. “I just really want to be alone right now.”

The edges of Robin’s eyes soften. “Yeah,” she says. “Of course, but if you’ll allow me to be selfish, I’d like to at least walk you to your room.”

You kiss the back of her hand. “Guide the way, Buckley.”

Her soft laughter eases the ache in your head for just a moment. Your hands remain intertwined the entire way to your room. She only lets go of you once you’re at your door, but even then she lingers.

“You know I love you, right?” Robin studies your face, as if trying to find something within it. “You’re still my best friend.”

You want to tell her that of course you know she loves you, but for some reason the words die in your throat. For hours now your body has been locked in a state of fight or flight. A varying mix of emotions heighten and depress every minute and all you want to do is close your eyes forever.

“I love you, too.” You caress her cheek, allowing yourself this one thing. Grabbing the key to your room, you unlock the door. “Thank you for taking care of me tonight.”

Robin cups the back of your head and kisses your hairline, right where Jonathan did earlier. “Always,” she mumbles against the skin there. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight.”

You leave her standing in the hallway. The silence in your room somehow amplifies the ringing in your ears. Alone for the first time all day, your knees sink to the floor, too exhausted to find the bed.

You don’t know how long you stay like this, head down and knees pushed against your chest with the hard floor beneath you. Long enough to leave your body numb to the pain, though not long enough to lessen the tugging in your chest that begs for attention.

Not now, you plead to yourself. Please.

The tugging in your chest only continues to constrict. Crawling out of your skin, you throw off your shirt and unzip your skirt and stumble into an old t-shirt before falling into bed. You force your eyes closed. Inside your ribcage something buries itself into the bones there. A million pins prick your skin.

A string ties around your throat and pulls tighter and tighter. Your chest squeezes, rattles your lungs, the begging doesn’t stop.

You have to see him.

Steve’s room is across from yours. It takes you less than a minute to cross the bridge of the hallway that divides you. Your legs carry you to his door, where you stand, hesitating, ears straining for any sign to turn around. That you’re making another mistake.

But there’s only silence in his room.

He’s alone.

Memories of the last time you stood before his hotel door flood your mind. Pleasurable, bitter flashes. The kiss that was on your lips from someone else. How Steve kissed them clean and poured liquid honey down your throat. The screaming the morning after. Vicious words that ruined the sanctity that the night had salvaged.

You knock on the door and wait several heartbeats.

No one answers.

Frowning, you test the handle and find that it’s unlocked. Your breath catches. For a moment you consider going back to your room, but the tugging in your chest pleads for release, it pleads for the reassurance that he’s okay.

You let yourself inside.

What hits you first is the stench of alcohol. Then you see the remains of the room.

Fragments of plates are shattered on the floor. Torn pieces of sheet music litter between the glass. A table on its side, thrown against the wall. Clothes strewn everywhere, torn from their suitcase and left in piles throughout the room. Cigarette butts burn holes into the carpet.

Careful to avoid the mess you’ve made, you step through the ruin.

Steve sits at the foot of his bed, a crumpled body on the ground. His head tilts to the side, knees curled into his chest, more a child soothing a hurt too big for his body than a broken man.

His glossy eyes find you in the dark room. A weak sound escapes his lips. A sheen of sweat covers his face, drenching his body. Paler than you’ve ever seen him, you’re afraid to ask how much he’s had to drink tonight.

“Is this real?” Steve’s hoarse question breaks the last of your resolve. He stares up at you like a little kid, lost and alone. “Are you real?”

“This is real.” You talk to him like an injured animal, lowering your voice, approaching him slowly. “I’m real, Steve.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and whimpers something incoherent. The sound weakens your knees and sends you to the ground beside him. Back against the bed, Steve’s head falls to your chest and you cradle his frail body that shakes through tears.

You’ve never seen Steve cry before.

You’ve seen him exhale elated laughter, you’ve seen his face twist in moanful pleasure and ecstasy, you’ve seen him spew bitter words and malicious anger, but you’ve never seen him cry.

“I’m sorry,” he cries into your skin, repeatedly, without pause, like a prayer that he begs salvation from. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

You don’t know what exactly he apologizes for. He doesn’t know, either. The only thing he knows is that he’s missed being in your arms and that his mouth can’t form any other words. All he can say is your name and the remorse that builds in his chest and spills down his face.

Eventually Steve falls asleep pressed to your ribcage. Your arms fall numb but you don’t want to let him go. Early morning sunlight creeps through the window and you stare at his sleeping profile like you used to, back when everything was easy with him.

Steve still looks the same as he used to. His freckles align in the same place, eyelashes still kiss his cheeks that are stained with tears. But his pale skin cracks at its edges, dry and lifeless. The warm gold he used to be is gone. You can feel the ridge of his spine through his shirt, the outlines of his ribs.

Sucked dry by the alcohol and sex, Steve has become a skeleton of his potential.

Blinking back your own tears, your finger strokes his cheek. Even in his sleep, Steve leans into the touch.

You can’t keep doing this to him.

The deal had been suffocating Steve. You had been suffocating him, all for the false hope of holding onto the scattered pieces of your relationship with him. There was never any other way for this to end. The pieces settled where they landed for a reason.

His mistaken confession tonight only evinces it.

And I’m not sacrificing you for it.

Steve would give up everything for you, renounce his entire life for the possibility of remaining at arms length of you, to even just breathe the air you exhale.

And it’s killing him. What you have is slowly killing him. It isn’t something that can be messily stitched back together, not like you once naively believed.

Robin was right. You really are a catalyst.

Gregory’s offer nips at the scattered remains of your mind. Go back to New York. Photograph another band. Give up the Februarys.

Tomorrow you’ll talk to them. They deserve to be the first to know what your answer will be. But tonight, you hold Steve and watch the sun rise over the wreckage of a reliquary love.

–

“What the fuck do you mean you’re leaving us?”

You should’ve known Robin would voice her disbelief over the news loudly and with great proclivity.

“Robin–”

“Absolutely fucking not.”

She paces the room and laughs to herself hysterically. When you asked the Februarys to meet you in the hotel’s conference room before leaving for Vegas, she thought you were just going to ask them to pose for a few more photos. Maybe confess that it was really you who ate the last batch of cookies that El sent.

She didn’t think she’d be stepping into the conference room with a goddamn resignation speech prepped and ready.

“This is a joke, right?” Mike looks around the room, as if expecting Leonard to jump out from behind the curtains. When he doesn’t find anything, he aims his disbelief and upset at Gregory, who unhelpfully stands beside you. “What the hell did you do to Y/N in her concussed state?”

“I was never concussed.”

Gregory pushes his glasses up. “And this was entirely her decision.”

Max can’t look at you, arms crossed on the couch as if to protect herself against the sting of betrayal. “Some bullshit decision.”

“C’mon, guys,” you hate the hurt on their faces. “It’s only for a few months. We all still live in the same building.”

“I don’t.” Max’s eyes cut right into you, forcing you to look down at the ground.

Jonathan sits on the couch next to her, his own arms crossed. He’s looking at you like he looks at particularly complex and almost uncomfortable displays of art. You recognize the look from the classes you shared together and from late nights exploring the city to find inspiration for your next film projects.

“Why do you want to leave?” He asks you, no hint of anything in his voice. Emotionless, without any indication how he feels, and in the lack of emotion he reveals the quiet regret that his eyes can’t hide.

“I don’t want to leave, it’s just–” The excuse gets caught in your throat, its jagged edges cut your gumline and stab your teeth. Steve sits alone, in his own seat away from his bandmates, and he hasn’t once looked at you since waking up to you at the end of his bed this morning, tucked away from him.

You aren’t sure how much he remembers from last night. You aren’t sure that you want to know. Not when he remains quiet now, head turned away from you as you tell the Februarys that you’re leaving.

“I miss New York more than I thought I would,” you miss the weightlessness the city provided you, but you can’t say that you miss the city itself. Only the memories you made within it. “And I figured that if I photograph the Jinxs then maybe it’d revitalize my love for photography. Go back to my roots, you know?”

Robin chokes on her spit. “Did you just say the Jinxs?”

You give her a funny look, unsure why that’s what she chooses to focus on. “Yeah. They’re the band that requested me from Lenny.”

“Oh dear fuck.” She clutches her stomach.

Immediately Mike turns on her. “What the fuck did you do?”

“I-I happen to, um. Know Amelia Sloan. Pretty well.” Robin squeaks out, face red and splotchy in embarrassment. “She’s the lead singer.”

Jonathan drops his head. “You’re sleeping with her, aren’t you.”

“You’re sleeping with the enemy?” Mike jumps away from Robin as if she’s physically injured him. “Why the fuck would you do that?”

“I didn’t know she’d try to take Y/N away from us!” Robin exclaims, panicking as well.

Max glares at her. “You probably fed the idea into her head.”

“Contrary to popular belief, I don’t talk about Y/N or the band whenever I’m sleeping with a girl.”

Mike scoffs. “Of course you do, it’s how you get laid in the first place. And now you’ve slept with the goddamn enemy. Not even Steve has done that!”

Steve closes his eyes. Jonathan rolls his. Robin tugs at her hair.

Max still can’t look at you.

“Stop saying I’m sleeping with the fucking enemy!”

As the Februarys continue to argue, Gregory gives you a silent can we please get the fuck out of here? look, which you don’t hesitate to act on. Using their argument as a distraction, you slip out the room to go call Leonard and inform him of your decision.

The moment the door closes behind you, Steve throws himself off the seat and grabs his things. “I’ll see you guys on the bus.”

His voice comes out raw from disuse and the alcohol that burned it last night. He can’t stay in the conference room where his friends mourn the loss of you. Not when he desperately wants to mourn as well. Alone.

But suddenly the Februarys look at one another in frightening synchronicity and within seconds they’re jumping into action. Jonathan throws himself onto Steve, hooking his arms tight. Mike and Max gather anything in the room that can be used as a weapon and throw them behind the couch. The giant oval table that the hotel provides in the conference room gets shoved against the door by Robin, locking everyone inside.

“What the hell?” Steve fights against Jonathan, but the guy’s surprising strength has him pinned to the wall. The rest of the band members stand in a circle around them and Steve’s cynical laughter cuts into the silence of the room. “Is this a fucking impromptu intervention?”

“I think we can all agree you’re long overdue for one.” Robin snarks back.

Steve tightens his fists. “Fuck you, Buckley.”

“No, fuck you.” She sneers. “You need to sort your shit out with Y/N, do you hear me? Because I’m not fucking losing her over some petty miscommunicated feelings that goddamn third graders can express more eloquently.”

“We actually really like Y/N.” Max says. “She’s our friend.”

“She takes us to parks!” Mike gestures wildly. “And she actually thinks I’m funny!”

Jonathan nods solemnly. “She’s been good for us, Steve. Even you have to see that.”

“Do you guys think I want this?” Steve’s eyes sting and the cavity in his chest collapses. Baring his teeth to protect himself, never to be malicious, he sucks in a defeated breath. “I mean, fuck. I can’t even go an hour without seeing her and you think I want her to leave?”

His head knocks weakly against the wall behind him. He lets it hang there, tired of holding himself up. “That’s the fucking problem. We aren’t good for each other. If she’s unhappy then I can’t stop her from leaving.”

Mike makes a mocking gag of a sound and stomps over to his bag. “Oh, just shut the fuck up.” He grabs a book from within it and throws it down on the table. The thud echoes throughout the room. “Open the goddamn book.”

Steve tilts his head at Jonathan. “I’m pinned to a fucking wall right now.”

Robin yanks Jonathan off of him and then grabs the back of Steve’s shirt, collaring him, before throwing him onto the table without any gentleness. “And now you’re not. Open it.”

A pulsing ache instills Steve’s body. It screams at him to run. Taunts him to ruin everything yet again. The rusted leather book that gets thrown at him like a stray dog gets thrown a bone persecutes him to open it; it sees through who he is and all he tries to hide.

Inside the book are all of your photos. Steve could recognize the style of your art anywhere after spending hours observing the way you create it effortlessly.

“How the hell did you get Y/N’s portfolio?” He doesn’t understand why it’s being presented to him now.

“Mind your own business.” Mike grunts.

Robin pushes the book closer to him, her eyes now gentle yet again, sympathetic. “Look through the photos, Steve.” She brushes hair out of his face and pauses for a moment, thinking through her words carefully. “Really look at them and finally fucking accept what’s been obvious from the start.”

Steve shakes his head. An image of himself stares back at him, smiling into the mic with your familiar handwriting beneath it, February, 1989, my first time hearing rosie sing.

“I-I can’t–”

“You can,” she murmurs, pressing her forehead to his. She breathes in the shaky exhale he releases. “Remember why we stay.”

She kisses the crease between his brow. Steve wonders how he can tattoo the kiss into his skin.

“We’ll see you on the bus.” Max throws his earlier words back in his face, though there’s a lighthearted teasing behind them. She grazes Steve’s shoulder, an uncharacteristic act of tenderness towards him.

Jonathan stuffs his hands in his pockets and gives him a small nod. Mike waves a sad goodbye and Robin leaves with one last reassuring smile.

He’s alone again.

Yet he doesn’t feel the overwhelming urge to run. Instead, Steve finds himself wanting to run his fingers through the pages of your portfolio. He loves every picture you’ve ever shared with him, but he’s never seen this collection of photos before. The edges of the book’s pages are frayed and worn from love. Small doodles decorate the gaps between pictures, small comments and thoughts meant only for you to read. The portfolio encompasses who you are, the purest manifestation. A small sense of guilt tinges Steve’s chest at the idea that he’s intruding on something you wouldn't want him to see.

The kiss that Robin left on his skin warms, reminding him of what she’s asked.

A collection of your work resides in the book. The pages start from the very beginning of your time with the Februarys. Within the images Steve recognizes the first night you ever photographed the band, a picture of his face pressed against Robin’s as they share a mic. It’s been a long time since they’ve been so close during a performance.

Steve swallows the remorse down and flips through the photos. They’re a collection of every memory he’s ever wanted to preserve, but within the images he can’t help but notice a repetitive pattern that connects them all together.

All the photos are of him. Each and every one of them contains pieces of him. But it’s not the photos that fill his chest with dandelion fondness. It’s the words you write beneath them.

Snow on his winter jacket with a box in his hands, standing beside a bright yellow taxi in front of your old apartment – Steve, the gentleman who carried all my boxes.

His head buried under a blanket, hair peeking out the first morning he woke up to your laughter – A surprising early riser.

Silver rings around his fingers as he taunts Jonathan for questioning your decision to include a Velvet Underground song – Jonathan might be onto me.

The corner of Steve’s mouth as he smiles at the first crowd you documented for the Februarys – What a dangerous smile.

All the photos contain the same date.

February, 1989.

You’d only known Steve for a week prior to the documented film and yet you captured such a softness to him. You’ve always seen through him, Steve knows this, but he didn’t think the view would be so gentle in the destruction that it brought.

But even in the destruction, the soft way you photograph Steve never quite disappears.

A lipstick mark on his cheek, red and vibrant despite the bitterness that came before it – Rosie with my kiss on him.

Pink lights encasing a halo around him – And he claims I’m the angelface.

His back against a small restaurant window, sitting next to Robin and listening to a story she tells him because he couldn’t bring himself to sit next to you – I love how sunlight is gentle with him.

The photos are dated with different months, different stages of the deconstruction you brought upon each other, yet the softness remains.

And in the most recent photo, dated only yesterday, displays Steve in his suit from Glen Helen, a hand on his hip and his shirt straining against his chest – There’s my rosie.

You must’ve added the picture this morning. Before you told the Februarys that you were leaving, you glued one last photo of Steve into your portfolio, depicting him as the rockstar he pretends to be, captured in a light that makes him feel like he’s worth something.

Steve is your muse just as much as you’re his.

It’s then that he finally releases the breath he’d been holding ever since he ran into his apartment one night, sweating and late for what he thought would only be a simple introduction to a possible new roommate, but instead he found you in his living room golden and holy.

From the very beginning, he’s loved you.

And you’ve loved him.

You still love him.

–

Steve spends the entire three hour drive to Vegas going over and over the portfolio. He memorizes every picture, every line of writing, every small detail and drawing and messily glued on scrap of art and each passing minute his body warms.

No one talks to him during the drive, though the Februarys share secretive glances with one another. He kept the portfolio. He walked onto the bus. They’ve done all that they can. They just have to hope that it’s enough.

You meet everyone at the venue, smiling as if you haven’t just made the band mourn the loss of you. Gregory chose to stay on the bus, worried that his presence would only further upset the band.

“Welcome to Vegas.”

Robin takes your camera from you and places the strap around her own neck. “I imagine this will be your last show with us, considering Leonard doesn’t value anyone’s time or money but his own.”

Opening the stage door for the Februarys, your smile turns into a bittersweet one. “You know Lenny so well.”

One by one the band members step inside, each offering you their own remorseful smile. Max thanks you under her breath as you hold the door open, Mike winks playfully, and Jonathan grabs your shoulder for a brief moment and squeezes it.

“Let’s make this show count, then.” He says, slow, savoring the last moments he has left with you.

You grab his hand. “I like the way you think, Byers.”

Jonathan laughs and walks inside, leaving only Steve outside, the last of his band mates. You glance at him for a moment, unsure how to look at him after the vulnerability he wept last night. His stoic reaction to you leaving hurt you this morning. You’re not sure you know how to be around Steve anymore.

But he surprises you. He always surprises you.

Steve grabs the door and his other hand lands on your waist, his fingers slotting around the skin he once carved his prints into, and gently, ever so gently, moves you to the side so that he can hold the door open instead.

“After you,” he murmurs, a playful lilt in his voice.

Your mouth goes dry. “Thank you.”

“Always.”

One word, and still it kisses your fiendish skin.

You walk inside. The venue is beautiful. Mike has already made himself at home, sprawled across a lush cream couch. Robin sits at one of the vanity tables, fixing her makeup and luminescent as ever. A mosaic covers one of the walls and forms an image of a field of desert flowers, its multicolored tiles bright and smooth to the touch, Max’s finger runs over their edges in silent awe. Jonathan stares at the wall of photos next to the mosaic, a picture of every artist who has ever performed in the venue displayed.

An empty frame waits with the Februarys’ name etched into the wood.

You nudge Jonathan’s side. “Think I could take your guys’ photo?”

He sucks in a breath. “I don’t know if you’re qualified.”

“Hilarious.” Grabbing your camera from Robin, you spin around and clap your hands. Once you have the Februarys’ attention, you point at the mosaic wall. “Listen up, assholes. I’m taking your portrait for the wall and you’re all going to smile and look happy. Understood?”

Mike salutes and Max pulls him to her side, throwing an arm over his shoulders. Robin walks from the vanity and stands behind her, placing her chin on Max’s head and smiles wide. Jonathan stands beside Mike, two brothers who stand back to back like a vintage poster. Steve takes his time walking over to them, as if savoring the final moments of normalcy.

He stops next to you. “Where do you want me?”

His question startles you. You didn’t think he wanted your input anymore, not like he used to. “Oh, um,” you clear your throat and try to lessen how tight your vocal chords are. “Stand next to Robin, behind Jonathan. Try to balance the height difference, maybe? And try to be in contact with someone. You’re all linked together, I really like the patterns it forms.”

Steve has a tender look in his eyes that makes you suddenly nervous. Voice dying off, you struggle to finish the sentence. “I-I mean, if that’s okay?”

“Of course it’s okay.” He walks to Robin and presses his cheek to hers, eliciting a giggle, and ruffles Mike’s hair. With an easy, charming smile, he asks you, “this alright?”

Bringing the camera to your face, you can’t suppress the gooey smile that melts into your lips. “It’s perfect.”

The Februarys all knit together in a beautiful and intimate piece of history that only they possess. Childhood friends smile at one another. Their bodies embrace. There are no unattached strings between them, only clean, uniform lines that draw them even closer together.

A family.

Once you’ve taken the picture they break away from one another, though the lighthearted energy remains. An easy peace settles over the dressing room, lighter than it’s been in a long time. Not wanting to lose these final moments of delicacy, you take as many pictures as you can, for old time’s sake.

Your viewfinder captures Robin in the mirror, Steve helping with her hair. He braids the strands together, fingers lithe from years of practice. She winks at the camera and his coy smile sets your heart pounding.

A game of tag breaks out between Mike, Jonathan, and Max. You follow their childish laughter with your camera. Max’s emerald green jacket clashes with Mike’s burnt orange t-shirt and Jonathan’s gold rings that Nancy gifted him for his birthday. Their youthful smiles paint the nostalgic memory.

You take pictures of the instruments in the room, just as you used to. Mike’s sage guitar resting against an amp, nestled next to Max’s red bass and Steve’s blue guitar, an explosion of colors all combining into something iridescent. Robin plays her keyboard for you and you capture the light that spills onto her fingers and onto her pink fingernails.

As you capture every fleeting detail you find, eyes never leaving your camera, you feel someone watching you. The weight of Steve’s gaze, impossible to forget. From the corner of your eye you notice his honeyed eyes. His eyes simmer on your skin, though you’re terrified to meet them.

When a stage crew member knocks on the door and gives the Februarys their usual five minute warning, Steve finally looks away and turns to his bandmates instead. Something akin to content settles into his features.

“We know why we’re here,” he tells them. “We know why we stay.”

“Because it’s only us.” Robin finishes, knocking her head against his.

Steve pulls her close, he pulls everyone close. “It’s only us.” He affirms. “And we know what we have to do tonight.”

Max smirks. “We give them a show.”

As they lean against one another you take a photo of the harmony between them. The easy way the group looks at one another. How bright Steve’s eyes become when he’s with them, when he’s talking to them and laughing with them.

This is how he’s supposed to be, you think. Alive and bright.

Steve leans down, the Februarys follow, and he allows the anticipation to build into barely contained desperation. The seconds spill over and he looks at his friends and bites his lip and can’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be.

“Showtime.”

The Februarys break into cheers.

Steve will never grow tired of the sound.

–

The Vegas venue is one of the smaller venues they’ve performed in. Capped at a capacity of one thousand, the sold out show murmurs conversations and speculation as the audience awaits the Februarys.

You stand at the center, placed in the barricade that only gets built for you. Camera warm in your hands, you breathe in deeply. The excited rumblings of the crowd, the hot stage lights, the scent of bodies and smoke and alcohol in a building meant to be danced in.

You hope you never forget any of it. Already you grieve the loss of this version of you, this part of your life, that you will never get again. Not quite like this. Never the same.

Your reverie ends with Steve’s arrival on stage. He walks up the mic while the rest of the Februarys take their places behind him. The crowd bursts into the cheers they’ll never get used to hearing, that you hope they’ll always receive.

Steve grabs the mic stand, fingers lazily wrap around the metal. His skin glows golden under the stage lights, a thin silk shirt drapes over him in a dream-like manner. “We fucking made it to Vegas!”

More screams and applause. He chuckles, the rough edges of the boyish laughter presses against your chest. “God, you guys know how to make a guy feel special.”

Mike plucks a few strings to the tune of the crowd’s pleasure. Steve nods along, extends his arm towards the kid. “Over here we have Mike Wheeler on electric guitar, arguably better than me,” he bows down, getting Mike to laugh. “Next we have Robin Buckley on keyboard, isn’t she pretty?” Robin plays a few chords and scrunches her nose in flirtatious manner. Steve blows her a kiss and turns to Max. “Here we have Max Mayfield on bass, a fucking monster.” The girl shoves him, but not even she can hide her smile. Finally Steve drags the mic stand to Jonathan and places a messy kiss to his cheek. “And last, but certainly not least, we have Jonathan fucking Byers on drums!”

A series of beats get pounded into the drums and at Jonathan’s cue the crowd goes fucking wild. Whistles and energetic praise all demanding for the show to finally begin, for the music they came for to come to life and become a part of their jugulars.

Steve lowers the mic and gets caught in the moment. He can’t believe any of it is real.

You watch his awe. The volume inside the venue only grows louder and Steve’s chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. In the crowd his eyes find you already staring back at him, and because nostalgia has always tasted sweeter dipped in melancholy familiarity, he winks at you.

Your heart beats out of its chest. He ducks his head seeing the blush that blooms on your cheeks, and the shyness, though endearing and lovely, lingers in the back of your mind.

“We’re the Februarys,” Steve shouts into the mic, teeth peeking through his confident smile. “Let’s go!”

Jonathan dives into the first drum solo and Max plays along, head banging to the rapid staccato tempo that Mike one day thought of alone in his room one night. Robin accompanies the tempo with a slower set of chords and Steve grabs the mic and the venue drenches in his clear voice.

Throughout the night you lose count of how many pictures you take. It doesn’t matter to you. Your final night with the Februarys will be preserved through the film. This you’re sure of.

Though as the show continues you find your attention drawn to the way the Februarys whisper between the songs. Poorly hidden glances at you follow the whispers. Their behavior confuses you slightly, worries you, but you’re desperate for one final memory of the Februarys that’s painted in lovely pinks rather than remorseful blues, so you push down the disquiet and cheer along with the crowd instead.

The setlist was carefully curated by Mike and Robin the week leading up to the tour. It took multiple days, arguments, and compromises before they were able to settle on which twelve songs to perform from their EP and album. You watched them agonize over the unseen details, such as whether Going should bleed into Lower East or whether it’s better suited as a closing song and if the flow of the music should tell a story or leave the audience unexpecting.

So when the Februarys don’t perform Rosie, a song that nearly broke the band apart trying to figure out where to put it in the setlist, you find it more than a little odd.

None of the band members stumble over the unexpected setlist change. They knew they wouldn’t be performing it tonight. Instead they wrap up their set as they normally do, ending with Going where Steve screams everything he has into the microphone.

Except he doesn’t say anything when the song is over. He doesn’t think the audience for the show or wishes them a good night. He’s completely silent as the fans scream for an encore, for any semblance of more.

Mike moves first, unplugging his electric guitar from its amp. Max does the same with her bass. From his drumset Jonathan unplugs the microphone that sits next to him. Robin turns off her keyboard and goes to the wings of the stage. She brings out Steve’s acoustic guitar. He takes it from her.

You watch along with the crowd, straining your neck to understand what the hell they’re doing. They’ve never done something like this before. The show feels unfinished, yet they take apart their instruments as if it is.

Steve walks over to the edge of the stage. He stands in front of you for a moment, eyes only on you. A hush falls over the venue. Every breath gets held, you’ve forgotten how to release yours.

He sits down. Close to the edge, his feet dangle over the sides, as close as he can possibly get to you given the constraints of the stage layout. Robin places a mic right next to him, angled so he doesn’t have to hold it, leaving his hands free for his guitar.

“We’re going to sing Rosie a little differently tonight,” he murmurs. “I hope that’s okay with you.”

The question is only meant for you. He knows you’ll understand it.

Heart beating in your throat, you nod.

Thank you, Steve mouths back, fingers already playing the beginning notes of the song. He doesn’t look away, he doesn’t blink when he swears to you, for everything.

Under the dim pink lights he plays the song he wrote that spilled from his chest and onto a piece of paper one night. Steve had been alone in his room staring at his ceiling. Your laughter floated through the bedroom walls, giggling with Robin about something. He had traced the cracks in the building’s walls, silently whispering to himself rosie rosie rosie, unable to get the sugary saturated way the endearment fell from your lips the night before. No one had ever given Steve a name before with so much charm and sincerity.

You get all rosie. I think it’s cute.

He remembers pulling out the photo you’d taken of him and staring at it, awestruck by how unreal it all felt to be portrayed as a rockstar. Steve had always had the far fetched dream, but somehow the growing recognition and crystallizing music couldn’t satiate the itch. He didn’t feel that he deserved it. But then there you were, somehow able to soothe the overwhelming craving for more that has always plagued him, all with one photo. One moment.

That night Steve wrote Rosie. He still considers it the easiest, and truest, song he’s ever written.

And now he performs it for you. He was always meant to only perform the song for you.

Steve’s lonesome fingers pluck the guitar strings. Mike and Max stand to the side, their instruments at their sides. Jonathan sits at his drums, head down, softly swaying to the melodic chords that remind him of his own love in New York, waiting for him. Robin leans over her keyboard, head in her fond hands as she watches her friend serenade you.

Slow, raw, aching, Steve never once looks away from you as he sings. His ember voice lilts through the guitar’s symphony. Everything he was never able to tell you, that he was afraid to tell you, intertwines within the strain of his voice and the pleading way he plays.

Rock-a-bye-posie?

No, maybe it’s ring-around-my-baby?

Or could it be rosie and falling down with you?

Through the blurry tears in your eyes you watch Steve. The ragged pause of his breath between the lines, his brown eyes a melted toffee adoring you, the darling way his freckles and moles dance across his skin as he sings.

He’s never looked more beautiful begging.

Mixed up all inside my head the rush of lullaby blues.

Yes or no? Or is it maybe?

Or could it be forever rosie?

Steve plays a little harder going into the bridge. He gasps for air and his wanting turns into a requiem. “Yes or no?” He prays into the open wound before you and begs you to fill it with something holy. “Can I be forever rosie?”

“Angelface,” the scratch of a guitar string cuts the softness of the requiem. He has to tell you. He has to get you to listen and know that has given himself entirely to you. He wants you to forever call him rosie, to always be the cause of the flush on his face. “Pretty please,” he begs under his breath between the lines, broken and aching.

Just before the bridge fades Steve prolongs the melody. He adds to the song, an extension of himself. He will not be left for want and nothing. “Let me be forever rosie,” his timbre softens around the edges of his prayer, finally tying his sacrament to you with the parting words, “forever rosie and falling into love with you.”

The final guitar note echoes irrevocably.

Rosie has come to an end.

All around you there are screams. Loud, blinding screams. The ground shakes and people cheer and throw their hands together in a frenzy that only music can strike. But you don’t hear any of it. The spillage of praise for the boy in front of you fades into nothing when he looks at you.

“Thank you,” Steve acknowledges the crowd, though his heart isn’t in it. His heart resides in your chest. He gets up and turns to the Februarys, linking his arms through Robin’s and Mike’s as they all line up in the center of the stage and take their final bows.

Robin blows you a kiss as she exits the stage. Jonathan and Mike both wink, following her. Max simply waves before she joins her friends. All of them knew what tonight would bring.

Just before Steve steps off the stage he quickly grabs the microphone. He only has one last chance to beg you to stay. When tonight ends, he could lose you forever.

Losing you would be the one thing Steve would never recover from.

“Please don’t leave,” his lips press against the mic, desperate to ensure you hear him. His eyes sink into your chest. The words press into your bones. “Not when I’m finally ready to promise you everything.”

And then he’s gone.

You don’t remember jumping over the barricade. You don’t remember running through the crowd, weaving through the onslaught of bodies. You don’t remember the hot desperation that singed your veins or the spiraling need to find him, for more.

All you remember is Steve waiting for you.

He waits for you in the dressing room, one last stand, one last attempt. He draws into himself when he notices you standing in the doorway. Neither of you move. He watches you, tries to read your body language.

Yes or no? Or is it maybe?

He doesn’t know anymore.

But then you’re running into his arms.

The kiss starts the same way your relationship did. Messy, fast, all encompassing. There isn’t room for anything else. There was never room for anything else.

Steve draws you so tightly into his chest and makes such a delicate sound. You nip his bottom lip, tug at his hair, and he answers your pleads with nails digging into your hips, where he carves himself into the outline of the bones there. The tender flesh welcomes him home, your skin exhales in relief, where have you been?

“I love you,” Steve bites the confession into your lips and soothes them with another kiss. “I love you,” he sighs against the mouth that he craves. “I love you,” he will die a happy man if all he is ever able to say again are these three words, marked nipped into your collarbones with his greedy teeth.

“I’ll stay,” you answer the prayer, merciful face wet with tears. “I love you, rosie,” you feel him smile against your lips. You were always going to end this way. He was always going to be your rosie.

Steve moves his lips to your cheeks, then to your nose, the crest of your forehead, the ridges of your collarbones, etching the same promise into them. It may never undo the hurt you brought upon each other. The scars left behind may not fade, but the tragedy of humanity wasn’t the fall of Eden, but the failure to stay in the garden.

When you love someone, you stay.

“I’ll stay.” Steve promises, human just as you are.

It is the only innate instinct to keep trying to hold onto one another. It is embedded within human history, and you once swore to him that you were going to be a part of his history.

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