#paper is going insane right now guys…..

[ppyopulii]

🎸 tour date | ft. lee jihoon

PREVIEW. The limelight is yours—you’ve been itching for it ever since your debut only six months ago, and your pathway to stardom is a straight-shot after being recruited to be the opener for the world-famous rock band CH33RS. This a hundred day tour is sure to bring you the fame you know you’re deserving of, especially after the announcement of your upcoming debut album. The only catch? WOOZI, lead singer of CH33RS, seems to hate you.

FEATURING. rockstar!lee jihoon x risingstar!reader GENRE(S). drama, angst, fluff, smut (mdni.) LENGTH | WC. <3.5 hrs | 27.5k (PHEW) TAGS | EXPLICITS. cursing, miscommunication, not really e2l more like they just get off on the wrong foot, lots & lots of tension, mentions of drug use, mentions of alcohol use, reader suffers from anxiety, mistreatment of idols by staff, mentions of needles from piercings (belly button, lobe, eyebrow, nose), descriptions of violence, frieren spoilers (!!!) | dom!ljh, sub!r, oral (r), fingering (r), finger sucking, reader has breasts, one (1) pussy slap, riding, doggy style, unprotected sex (pls be careful y'all…), sir kink, nicknames (ljh calls r pretty, baby)

JAY’S MUSINGS. FOR YUKI'S 100 MILESTONE COLLAB! i had an absolute BLAST getting to meet so many new ppl thru this collab & am excited to read through everyone else's work! additional warning: this is the craziest, longest projection I’ve ever done onto the mc for a fic. pls don't perceive me too hard. this is ALSO my smut debut (つ﹏<。)… I fear they get hella freaky. once again, pls don’t perceive me too hard. BIG BIG thank you to calli & hershey (@hhaechansmoless & @junplusone), my loves, for seeing me through this. (those sprints were insane btw. u guys rock. love u eternally.)

LISTEN TO THE SETLIST HERE! (🎧) fan favorites include california & he gets me so high by beabadoobee, r u mine, snap out of it, do i wanna know?, & 505 by arctic monkeys.

📍 SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

The photoshoot set is loud—too loud, if anyone were to ask you.

No one does, of course. Your make-up artist instead squeezes another shot of red cherry lip stain to your already plumped lips, batting her eyelashes and gushing over how your eyes are being complimented just right. Behind you, a photographer with a neon green mohawk mutters to themselves that you’re wearing too few layers for what’s supposed to be a corporate setting, but they’re shushed by the stylist who starts to preach about rebellion against a capitalistic and patriarchal society. There’s a flashing show of cameras going on up front where the office setting is, dulled-out office furniture turned over and papers scattered everywhere, with the camera staff making their final adjustments to the illumination.

The light hurts your head. You kind of want to take a Tylenol and pass out.

Just when the make-up artist begins to babble on about some sort of skin care routine to take care of the acne scars on your cheeks, your savior shows up.

Joshua.

“Oh, thank fuck that you’re here,” you sigh, pushing the staff member off of you in a barely professional manner. “Are we starting soon? It’s been like, two hours now.”

Your manager has the nerve to raise an eyebrow like he’s not the one causing you to be put through overstimulating torture. “Weren’t you the one begging to have a shoot with Rolling Stone? I went through hell trying to get you this gig.”

Tugging on the garter for one of your fishnet sleeves, you begin to fix your outfit from the horrors of prolonged sitting time, readjusting the tiers of silver jewelry around your neck. Joshua waits for you patiently, holding out a bottle of water that you gratefully chug down once you’re done.

“Look, this photoshoot is going to be good for you, you know. You need the exposure, especially with your upcoming debut album and tour.”

“Upcoming debut album and opener for a tour,” you sourly correct. “Instead of going on my own world tour, I get to be the background music to a merch line full of idiots who are probably high out of their minds, waiting for the main performance.”

You can tell when Joshua’s patience wears thin. He does this thing where his left eyebrow twitches in an attempt to stop his face from twisting into a scowl, and sometimes he’ll even pinch the bridge of his stupidly perfectly bridged nose with his index finger and thumb, rubbing it like a lucky charm.

The man sighs and surprisingly regains composure before speaking. “You’re still a rising star, Sairen. Rising doesn’t mean world-renowned. Rising means just starting out. We’ve had this conversation before.”

Your body involuntarily stiffens at the mention of your stage name. Sairen. A classic take on the seducing mythological creature that lures sailors to their death with an irresistible voice. When signing with the label PHOENIX, they insisted you use a stage name to increase your appeal to the target audience.

A persona raging with lustful eyes and dripping in confidence would make sales rocket, they praised, holding their breaths as they listened to your first playback. Embrace this mask on stage—it’ll give you the courage you need to score big.

But I’m already scoring big as I am right now, you wanted to argue.

Of course, your signature ended up neatly scribbled onto the contract anyway.

It wasn’t like you hated performing—no, you lived for the stage. Memories of your first live performance seep into your mind, the crowd’s energy shaking you to the core. Hearing people scream the lyrics to a song you wrote from the depths of your heart, and knowing they related tenfold to your words meant more to you than anything else in the world. From handmade bracelets to thank-you notes thrown on stage, you swore to continue giving back to your community. Your fans were one of the only things holding you together.

Because the constant hiding from on-slaughtering paparazzi? The diets your staff started to put you on, claiming they would help you lose weight? The fake interviewers with their fake smiles and even faker compliments?

You were tired of it—too tired of it, if anyone asked you.

But once again, no one does, and with only one more moment of hesitation does Joshua usher you to the front of the set.

📍 BUSAN, KOREA

Lee Jihoon can barely believe his ears.

“Sairen? You’re telling me Jeonghan got Sairen onboard for our tour?”

Soonyoung’s nodding so hard one would think he’s headbanging into another universe. The two of them were currently at a low-lit diner, enjoying kal-guksu over a shared beer.

“Yeah! Apparently he’s friends with their manager. They go way back or something, and he owed ‘em.” Soonyoung slurps a spoonful of noodles into his mouth. “Dude, this is huge. We’ve never had an opener who was this big before.”

“That’s because we’ve never had an opener, Soonyoung.” Jihoon raises an eyebrow at his friend’s antics and takes a sip of beer. The alcohol is bitter and tastes cheap on his tongue. “This is our first time going on a tour big enough to have one.”

“Oh. Right.”

The lead singer sighs and, in a bad habit of poor table manners, swirls his chopsticks around mindlessly.

Sairen. The indie rockstar was barely his age, but they were already reaching fame he could only have wished for back then. Jihoon remembers the restless nights waiting in anticipation for CH33RS’ album drop; he remembers the blood, sweat, and tears poured into the debut of the decade, and how the three of them had pushed themselves to limits they didn’t even know they had. He wonders how Sairen managed to do it—on their own, nonetheless—and with what will.

Letting out a low whistle, Jihoon kicks back his feet on the booth’s seat, right next to Soonyoung. The drummer makes a whine of protest before reluctantly obliging, scooting over so Jihoon’s clunky boots have more room.

“This Sairen,” Jihoon picks at his nails, “They’re pretty good, from what I’ve heard. But they don’t exactly fit our concept that much.”

Soonyoung scoffs, pointing his chopsticks at his bandmate accusingly. “You’re just jealous ‘cause you like their style. You wanna copy, don’t you?”

He tsks. Jihoon’s never been one for being read, especially by someone like Soonyoung.

It’s true; Sairen’s sound is unique and, like their stage name suggests, utterly captivating. He still doesn’t understand how they’re able to hit those haunting, spine-chilling high notes in their songs; Jihoon’s tried a shameful number of times to recreate the sounds, all unsuccessful.

Maybe this tour will prove useful, after all.

“Do you know when we’re meeting them?” Jihoon asks, totally ignoring his friend’s prior question.

Soonyoung tilts his head and rests his chin on his palm. He’s staring daggers into Jihoon’s soul again, a slitted eyebrow perfectly arched under the dim diner lighting.

“What? You interested in them or something? They are pretty hot.”

Jihoon moves his heavy-footed boot, and Soonyoung yelps. Rubber meets skin and Jihoon knows he’s hit a nerve when the older man starts whining for him to stop. He, albeit reluctantly, stops digging into Soonyoung’s thigh and opts for tapping a beat on the worn wood of the booth seat.

“I fear your lust is what’s going to disband our group,” Jihoon scowls.

The waiter comes at the perfect time with the check, and he watches Soonyoung neatly stack their bowls and cups together.

Flipping his hood up, the two band members shuffle their way out of the diner, the Busan wind meeting them head-on from the second they step out the door. Seungcheol is probably in the studio refining his guitar strings, Jihoon notes, as Soonyoung calls for a cab.

It’s still early in the evening, the sky on the brink of darkening into night. If he were farther inland, Jihoon would be craning his neck trying to see the stars that twinkle into view. Here, though, in the heart of the city, he knows it’s futile. There’s too much light pollution competing with the organic phenomena of the galaxy.

Jihoon purses his lips in thought. Humankind really knows how to fuck up natural beauties.

Soonyoung is calling his name, waving eagerly from the open back door of a taxi that will take them back to the studio. Raising a hand to signal he’s heard the obnoxiously rowdy calls of his friend, Jihoon trudges forward, forcing the stars out of his mind.

After all, forward is the only way to go around these parts.

📍 SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

WOOZI is… shorter in person.

You’re not sure why you notice him first; maybe it was indeed his height, or perhaps it’s because he’s the only one who’s actively not paying any attention to the matter at hand. It’s silent, save for murmurs of staff in the background, as Jihoon chugs water from a bottle someone gave him. A sliver of his abdomen is revealed as his head tilts back to get the last few drops, and to your surprise, you catch a peek of shiny black ink from under his white tank top.

Was it always this warm in the lounge room?

You shift awkwardly from one foot to another as a blondie with a mole on the apple of his cheek begins to introduce the members of CH33RS. Not like you needed one, anyway; you were more than familiar with the band.

CH33RS, a rock group that debuted barely two years ago. Composed of S.COUPS, HOSHI, and WOOZI, they’ve made an impressive dent in the K-rock world, hitting chart numbers you wouldn’t think were possible in someone’s early twenties. Their debut album, CHANGE UP!, charted in the top ten for Billboard, practically shooting them into stardom with people worldwide eagerly anticipating their release of new music.

Now, with their comeback and announcement of their world tour, RUBY, it’s a pure miracle you were able to even get a greeting from them. It’s even more of a miracle that you were able to score an opportunity to be their opener for the North America shows.

There’s a hand shaking yours. Breaking out of your trance, you’re met with the bright smile of HOSHI, the band’s drummer. His energy must be what got him the role of their percussionist, because you physically feel the drainage of your social battery from the vigor he has in shaking your hand.

“Hi! It’s so nice to meet you, Sairen, I can’t wait to see your performances,” he’s saying with a smile that rivals the sun.

His English is tinged with an accent, but you don’t find yourself minding. Your lips stretch into a smile, spurred on by his youthful spirit, and tell him he can call you by your real name.

“There’s no need for formalities when we’ll be working together.” You brush a stray hair out of your eyes and bow slightly to him; Joshua practically whacked good manners into you like you were some unruly kid who never learned how to take their muddy shoes off in a house. “I’m looking forward to working with you for the next few months as well.”

HOSHI’s eyes light up. He tells you that while he doesn’t mind being called his stage name, Soonyoung works just fine too, and for once in a blue moon, your heart warms for a coworker.

S.COUPS, also known as Seungcheol, is next. He bows deeply to you and extends his hand like a businessman. He was only adorned in a worn hoodie and baggy jeans, but if you didn’t know any better as an outsider, you would’ve guessed that the man was about to propose the best deal of your life.

To your right, the blonde man with the mole mutters something in Seungcheol’s ear. Seungcheol dips his head to you once more and steps back with a polite smile. “It is nice to meet you.”

You give him a brief smile. His eyes are the only thing that isn’t serious about him, and remind you of the gaze of a fawn’s that you would see in your backyard when you were younger—big, and filled with wonder.

Finally, WOOZI raises his hand in acknowledgment. You’re taken by surprise once again by him, as he doesn’t even bother stepping forward to greet you.

“WOOZI. Looking forward to working with you.”

You blink. “Sairen. Likewise.”

The air feels thick, and it takes Joshua coughing to get everyone back in action. Blondie with the mole introduces himself as Jeonghan, their manager, and you’re not quite sure if you like the twinkle in his eyes when they sweep over you and your manager.

“Now that introductions are over, our first schedule with the four of you will be a promotional shoot for the tour.” Joshua is clapping his hands like a director, and some staff members begin to scurry around for your guys’ belongings. “We’ll be taking separate cars, but we’ll see you at the shoot.”

You’re out the door before you can say formal goodbyes, but you manage to catch the friendly smiles on Seungcheol and Soonyoung’s faces while you’re being bustled along by staff members. Your ever-loving manager clicks the button to the elevator and heaves a sigh.

“Still angry over who you’re opening for?” he inquires. “I promise, they’re not a bad bunch to be around! Even Jihoon—er, WOOZI. I actually know all of ‘em pretty well; Jeonghan and I, we grew up in the industry together. You’re in good hands.”

You choose not to respond as you board the elevator, pressing the level for parking and reaching for your phone. There are no notifications, of course, but you fiddle with the folders of apps on your homescreen anyway to busy yourself. Joshua whistles a tune.

Maybe if you were lucky today, you’d be able to sneak away to a park somewhere and use that new gardening app you’ve been meaning to try out. You think back to your busy schedule and sigh; if only another miracle could happen, where someone with good intentions kidnaps you and steals you away.

“The photoshoot,” you finally say. “How many people are gonna be there? Same as last time?”

Your manager tenses. “I requested for less staff this time, but I’m not sure how well it came across to the company. Let me know if we need to schedule an early leave, okay?”

The elevator halts in time with your tightening chest. You blink hard and fast, trying to rid yourself of the images of bright lights and too many people talking to you at once. There’s a hand on your back, and though you want to curse Joshua for reminding you of your predicament, you instead find yourself aching for the circles he rubs into your shoulder blade.

“Fuck you,” you mutter. Joshua only laughs. “If I react this way later, don’t be surprised.”

—

You do, to your credit, react that way later.

Someone’s shouting for you across the set room. The room is alive with people, animated laughter ringing out as staff members run to and fro. It’s even worse since it’s not just you who’s being attended to, but three additional men. You can hear the cheerful voice of Soonyoung combined with Seungcheol’s requests to staff members for more water. Jihoon, on the other hand, is nowhere to be found.

Your name is called again and you flinch, muttering a half-hearted apology to the makeup artist who gives you a stink eye for messing up their work. The denim shorts they’re having you wear for this shoot are chafing your thighs. It takes everything in you not to throw a tantrum right then and there.

“There you are!” the sound manager barks, and you startle again, much to the stylist’s displeasure. “I’ve been looking all over you. Why haven’t you been to the front of the set yet? The lighting manager wants to ask for your opinion on filters.”

You want to bite back that what they’re asking is definitely a Joshua question, but you hold your tongue, sighing. Think of the park. Think of the flowers.

“I’ll be right there in a second, I’m almost done here.”

The makeup artist scowls. “You are not almost done here, are you kidding me? I’m gonna need a lot more time than a second.”

“Please hurry it up, then. We’re on a tight schedule; CH33RS is almost ready and we only have about two hours booked for this shoot.”

The sound manager leaves without another word. Your knuckles are paling from how tightly you’re gripping the arms of the styling chair, chewing the inside of your cheek until you taste the familiar metallic flavor of blood.

“You heard the man,” the makeup artist huffs. “Stop moving and maybe I’ll actually get something done to make you look better.”

Their brush clatters to the floor.

Before you know it, you’re out of the chair and in their face, teeth bared. It’s gotten eerily silent in the room way too fast. “You’re lucky my manager pities your company enough to work with you. How dare you treat me this way, and over a problem that’s not mine, no less.”

You’re about to say more, but there’s a cold tap of a finger on your shoulder. You twist, ready to charge yet again, but the sight of Jihoon’s sharp expression halts you in your tracks.

“Care to tell me why you’re yelling at a staff member? One your manager personally hired, too?” He raises an eyebrow.

You scoff. His perfect English pisses you off; it tells you his short introduction wasn’t due to lack of vocabulary, but lack of desire to greet you. “Stay the fuck out of this, Jihoon. You don’t know shit.”

The man’s eyes turn icy. You warily take a step back.

“My name to you is WOOZI. If you can’t even have the decency to treat your own staff members with respect, the least you can do to make up for it is refer to me by the name I prefer. Know your place, Sairen.”

With that, WOOZI turns around, coolly walking away without even a glance back to check if you’ve heard what he’s said. Seungcheol claps WOOZI on the back and says something in Korean, and Soonyoung starts up a conversation to kick the room back into action.

It works, and you’re left alone as the room bustles back to life, the makeup artist disappearing somewhere you couldn’t care less for.

Your cheeks sting, hot from embarrassment at being treated like a misbehaving child in front of dozens of people. You can hear the rumors already—Sairen, known for a biting tongue, finally humbled, and by no other than one of the members of the band they’re opening for. A classic powerplay that will haunt you even when the stage lights dim and the crowd cheers for an encore.

You barely register Joshua at your side. He’s speaking to you, pressing a cold water bottle to your neck to snap you back to reality.

Instead, tears prick your eyes, and your bottom lip wobbles. The sound manager from before is yelling again, no doubt trying to rush you, but the last thing you want is to be around people. The park will have to be saved for another day.

“I’m going to the bathroom. Tell the director I’ll be a bit.”

You don’t even wait for Joshua’s response before you’re walking away, arms crossed and head down.

📍 SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

Your head leans against the glass, the material cool against your forehead. The clouds across the sky streak red and pink as the sun peers out from behind a vast forest of evergreens. You stare at the outlined branches, imagining the rough, spiky bumps of a pinecone in your hands. Would it be less painful to hold a thousand of them bare, rather than have to be the bearer of WOOZI’s wrath?

A sudden lurch halts your reminiscences, the driver apologizing for the sudden brakes being hit, and you can faintly hear Joshua with his hasty forgiveness.

At least the tour was going well, you think bitterly.

You hate that it’s true; Joshua had excitedly woken you up this morning for your four o’clock flight with the news that three of the next upcoming shows for RUBY had sold out. In your stupor, you had spilled the poorly-made hotel coffee he had brought on yourself, leading to the man worriedly giving you treatment for any mild burns.

“Joshua, it’s fine,” you had stammered, hurriedly trying to ease the sting by pressing cold towels to your thigh and left wrist.

Contrary to how he acted with you in the industry, your manager was a kind man—it was one of his few redeeming qualities. He shooed you into the bathroom with a change of clothes, telling you he’d brief you more on the matter on the car ride later.

Now, on the vehicle, he sits beside you as you listen to him rattle off all the things you should theoretically be giddy about.

“Tonight, Vancouver, and Salt Lake City all were bought out once you finished up in San Francisco,” Joshua is puttering, typing away at some very important work emails on his laptop. “The crowd was great for a first show, of course, but because of how well your and CH33RS’ energy was, the internet is going wild with clips. Streams with How Tomorrow Moves have upped like, 16% overnight. You’re doing really well.”

“Just as they predicted,” you muse, tapping your chin with an indifference that makes Joshua’s eye twitch.

“Hey, their predictions don’t dictate that stuff, you know.” You feel the brush of his hoodie against your skin; a familiar way of his to show that in the end, he truly does care about you. “You dictate that stuff. Your energy, your performance, it all comes down to you. Not some shabby company that uses you like a pawn.”

You snort, slightly pushing him away and grinning at him. “Can’t believe you’re shittalking your boss, just like that.”

Joshua rolls his eyes as the trees start to give way to suburban developments, signaling that a restroom stop is close.

“You’re a human, too. Don’t forget that.”

His words stick with you throughout the remainder of the road trip.

You know CH33RS took a bus, them having more staff compared to you and your manager, and you’re grateful that Joshua listened to your request of taking a separate car to allow you to get more rest.

The flight itself was awful enough—two hours of staring straight ahead and trying to ignore WOOZI’s distant nature beside you. Soonyoung, who had been on your left, fell asleep rather quickly, leaving you no choice but to daydream about being anywhere but next to the lead singer of CH33RS. 

You knew that WOOZI had an aloof nature; it was something fangirls giggled relentlessly about in the comment section of his Instagram posts and YouTube covers. You were expecting his lack of emotion, even, but you never would have guessed he would have been so openly hostile towards you on your first day of meeting.

And over a staff member who was disrespecting you, nonetheless!

Out of the corner of your eye, you had taken a peek at him, earbuds in and eyes shut. If he hadn’t been so arrogant about being the bigger person in that situation, maybe the two of you could be talking about inspiration for music instead of sitting in complete silence on the flight.

Too bad he had to be a complete dick who inserted himself into situations that didn’t even involve him.

You sigh, dragging your luggage out of the elevator and into the luxurious hallway of yet another hotel. Tonight’s show was sure to be highly anticipated, but all you wanted to do was curl up on your bed and watch anime. You heard Frieren was being highly reviewed these days, and you were itching to watch it.

“Remember that once you unpack, you’re scheduled for a dinner with the guys to discuss plans for the next few shows, now that they’re sold out,” Joshua calls from behind you; there’s the sound of shuffling and the unlocking of a door to your right. “Text me once you’re ready. We’re heading deeper into the city, so it would be wise to wear something that’s easy to disguise yourself with.”

Biting your tongue, you numbly nod, and without any more words you hear the heavy hotel door click shut.

—

Jihoon knows he should apologize to you.

He stands backstage, a staff member making sure the mic on his outfit is secure. With his forefinger and thumb, Jihoon twirls his iconic red microphone in his hand, letting the sensation of applause from your latest performance wash over him with satisfaction. That dramatic high note at the end was something he only ever dreamed of hearing, but here he was, listening to you belt your heart out live to a bunch of strangers.

That day, back during the photoshoot, Seungcheol had cornered him during a scheduled break. He remembers the crazed look in the bassist’s eyes, lips turned so forcefully upside down that Jihoon had to steady the man before asking him what was wrong.

“Why’d you upset Sairen like that?” Seungcheol huffed. “Man, we just met them today. You’re gonna get rumors to spread and our tour hasn’t even started yet.”

Faintly, the sound of a vase clattering to the floor flashes through Jihoon’s mind. He remembers cupping a face in his hands and shouting for someone to call an ambulance.

His worry must be evident on his face, because Seungcheol’s frown eases into a sympathetic grimace. “You know, Sairen was being mistreated first. They had the sound manager on their ass, and I heard from Jeonghan that their makeup artist wasn’t the greatest to them, either. Cut them some slack, will you?”

“That gives them no right to treat their staff that way, hyeong,” Jihoon points out, gritting his teeth together. “They should know better than to outright challenge a worker like that. It won’t work in their favor—not here. Not when all they have is Joshua behind them.”

Seungcheol heaves a sigh; one that Jihoon knows all too well, when Soonyoung steals too much of the kimchi without permission or when Jeonghan plays another nasty prank on him.

“We were in their shoes once,” Seungcheol chides, nudging his shoulder. “And you, out of everyone here, should know what it’s like to be looked down upon by everyone except a select few. Try and have some sympathy, even if it only lasts the hundred days we’re together with them.”

Now, in the present, Jihoon watches you hype up the crowd for the main event of CH33RS. You’re decked in an outfit that emphasizes your figure just right, the red crop-top letting your belly button piercing take full stage in the twinkling lights. He never knew you had one; you weren’t one to post pictures often on social media, and when you did for brand collabs, it was never flaunted.

Maybe it had been an impulse decision before the tour started—before you met him, and before your life changed too much for you to keep up with.

Shaking his head, the singer turns around and looks for his bandmates. It was no use overthinking the past; he had done what he did, and now you avoided him like the plague. Your stink eyes could rival Seungcheol’s, that’s for sure.

“Thank you, Seattle!” He hears you shout into the mic. “I’ll be back, don’t you worry!”

The roar of the crowd is deafening, and he knows you’re taking your final bow. There’s probably glitter running down your neck from the sweat you’ve gained onstage, your makeup being ruined from the performance, and he wonders what it would be like to wipe away the cold expression off your face and be the receiver of a smile, instead.

No matter. The music fades to instrumentals of CH33RS’ songs as the sound of your chunky boots treads offstage. Soonyoung’s running up to you with a grin, saying that you outperformed the first show in San Francisco, and you’re laughing in his arms. Jihoon feels like there’s a frog in his throat.

“Well done, Sairen.” Seungcheol beams. “If we’re not careful, you’re going to be the main performance instead of us.”

“Seungch—S.COUPS,” you correct yourself, smiling bashfully up at the bassist. “Thank you, but you know that isn’t true. Those people are out there for you. Me being here doesn’t change that.”

Jihoon’s heard enough. One of the staff members calls for last-minute bathroom runs and outfit changes, saying CH33RS will be up in no less than fifteen minutes. Before he can rationalize with himself to congratulate you on your show, he’s scurrying off to the bathroom, cheeks alight with something he refuses to recognize.

—

For the first time in days, you don’t want to tear your hair out when interacting with a staff member who’s not Joshua.

Sakura, one of the permanent stylists for CH33RS, sits you in a chair and begins to help you take your makeup off. Your breaths are still coming in heavy pants, chest rising and falling all too quickly, and the girl responds by handing you a bottle of water.

“Drink, please.”

It’s the most care you’ve gotten in the industry since Joshua became your manager. You sit, quietly sipping the water, a warm feeling in your chest rising as Sakura begins to wipe your face and moisturize it without any cruel remarks or biting, back-handed comments.

Even from backstage, inside a well-padded dressing room, you can still hear the audience’s booming cheers accompanied by the high-pitched strum of a guitar. WOOZI’s voice, a symphony to your ears, begins to ring faintly. You close your eyes and let the calmness wash over you.

Maybe Joshua was right; maybe you were doing well this time around, and this tour was going to be your key to stardom. The stomach in your pit ached to be seen, to be known, to be heard, and tonight it feasted on the crowd’s voices singing along to your music. Flowers and handmade beaded bracelets notes had been tossed onstage, making your heart melt as you profusely thanked Seattle.

This is what you were made for—putting your all out there for those who needed a voice. Not to perform some shitty, fake and lustful persona that PHOENIX wanted to market you for.

Your eyes flutter open as Sakura murmurs that she’s almost done. Letting out a breath of relief, your lips curl into a smile. “Thank you, Sakura. I appreciate you.”

She pauses in putting away the moisturizer. Joshua had taught you some simple Korean, especially for etiquette, but you guessed that Sakura was still surprised at hearing you speak to her so willingly.

Her big brown eyes blink once, twice, thrice at you before she dips her head. “Ah… you’re welcome. Please let me know if you need anything else.”

“Of course. Thank you once more.”

There it is again—Sakura lets her lips part oh-so slightly. You tilt your head, a quizzical smile on your face, but she quickly waves her hands in dismissal before offering you another goodbye.

Once she leaves, you’re left to your own devices, your manager off somewhere making plans for the upcoming days before the next show. The guys shouldn’t be here for about another hour, you muse, idling on your phone. You had started Frieren last night, but the oncoming slaughter of cheers from outside gives you the impression it would be hard to enjoy at the moment. Maybe you should order some food instead.

The brief thought crosses your mind of ordering food for CH33RS now, so the wait time wouldn’t be too long. It has you hesitating over the screen, thumb barely brushing the Order Now button on your favorite takeout place.

You wonder what WOOZI’s favorite food is.

Scoffing, you turn your phone off and throw it onto the vanity, its case clattering against the wood. Now was no time to think about a man who had majorly upset you.

There’s a knock on the dressing room door. You let your chin fall to your palm. “Come in.”

When Joshua enters, he finds you in deep thought, still sitting in the chair Sakura had you sit in almost half an hour ago. You watch him reach for the half-empty bottle.

“Still has a lot left. You should finish it,” he simply says, handing it to you. “Nice job out there. We’ll have to post the pre-show photos we took later tonight, with a thank you again to Seattle.”

Begrudgingly, you drink the rest of the water, swishing it back with a satisfying gulp.

“I was thinking of ordering some food,” you offer, trying to change the topic. “Do you know what kind the guys like?”

At this, Joshua hums thoughtfully. “Didn’t know you were the considerate type.”

Though his tone is in jest, your stomach twists in a way unrelated to hunger. You roll your eyes as you hear the crowd go wild at Soonyoung’s drum solo.

“Please. I have to at least try and be cordial.”

The left side of Joshua’s mouth lifts in turn. He takes a step back, right out of reach to not be a victim of your quick fingers, before taking out his phone.

“Lucky for you, there’s this place nearby I know of. Jihoon likes jjajangmyun a lot, and it’s a pretty popular dish there.”

Ding! Your phone buzzes on the vanity. Eying him with distrust, you pick up the device, only to be met with the address to a Korean takeout place not too far away.

Joshua’s back is to you before you can form a coherent answer; you watch, flabbergasted, as his hand reaches for the door. When it opens, it creaks slightly before being drowned out by the cheers of fans.

“Don’t forget to post those photos once CH33RS ends their show,” he throws over his shoulder—and then he’s gone.

Damnit, Josh. You grit your teeth, your fingers pressing hard on the screen of your phone. It lights up to reveal your screensaver, the late time of 10:36 gleaming in the dressing room’s fluorescents. A sigh falls out of you.

Your chin rests on your palm again as you contemplate your manager’s suggestion. You’re irked by that pit in your stomach once more; the one that curls in your gut during the night as you lie awake, wondering if this career path was the right one to take.

The guilt screams at you to give WOOZI another chance—after all, perhaps you had just gotten off on the wrong foot. Your index finger hesitates over the menu button for the restaurant, the choice feeling heavy in your hands.

And then a sweaty, shirtless WOOZI barges through your dressing room door, his face red and neck veins prominent.

“Get out.”

You let out a shriek, covering your eyes in embarrassment. “Oh my god, dude—”

He’s not even listening to you. You hear something crash to the floor—a bottle of some sort of product, probably—and then WOOZI’s snarling at you again.

“Get. Out.”

Meekly, you stand and bow. That feeling of shame rises within you, hot and burning, as you make a beeline for the door. You want to—no, need to—get out of here, as fast as possible.

In your hurry, you fail to notice the tears staining WOOZI’s cheeks and his heavy breathing, tormented by a feeling you knew only too well.

—

“Who the fuck do they think they are!?”

Jihoon’s frustrated scream echoes throughout the hotel room. He’s got his head in his hands, raking his hair and taking pleasure in the feeling of his nails scraping against his scalp. It sends shivers down his spine in the most sinfully alive way possible.

“We should fire them all,” he fumes. Soonyoung is quietly criss-crossed on the bed, hands in his lap, while Seungcheol’s got his hands rubbing what’s supposed to be calming circles into Jihoon’s back. “Fuck them. How dare they say those things to you?”

“It was my fault,” Soonyoung mumbles, head hanging low. “I deserved it. You know as well as I—”

“—that this is no way for staff members to treat musicians?” Jihoon finishes, raising his head sharply at his bandmate’s resignation. “That you did nothing wrong other than try and say hello to the fans? That the staff members are treating us as some species of zoo animal to be put on display?”

“Jihoon.” Seungcheol warns.

The younger man wipes the back of his hand across his face. When he brings it away, his fingers are coated in saltwater and snot. Jihoon feels like his whole body is on fire, tingling with energy he cannot let loose.

America is different from Korea. That much, Jihoon knows.

However, he never imagined that the difference would be so… stark. Here, fans were wild and unpredictable, unlike the routine nature of Korean fans who stayed silent during performances, except for fan chants. There were hecklers during their crowdwork, and wolf-whistlers weren’t uncommon throughout shows.

Jihoon slides another hand down his face. He knew Soonyoung meant well with his plan, and was trying to be careful—the show was well over, with the crowd dissipating almost at once to the merch booth over by the entrance.

He had watched the entire thing from the stage: Soonyoung’s whoop of joy as he jumped the barricade, accompanied by the screams of fans. They swarmed him, practically tearing at his clothes, and security had to drag the drummer out of the mass of people.

It ended in a scolding, not from Jeonghan but from one of the leading managers of the venue. Curses had been thrown, saying that if Soonyoung had gotten more hurt than a scratch, they’d be liable for damages done to a foreign artist.

Jihoon’s fists clench again at the memory of the manager’s tone. He was some old guy in his early forties, no doubt, but the contempt held in his voice would make one think he had been from early colonial days.

“This is why we can’t let these kinds of people perform here,” the singer had heard the man murmuring to another staff member.

A soft knock at the hotel door startles Jihoon out of his thoughts. Soonyoung jumps up from his place on the bed, alarmed, but Seungcheol waltzes to the door like he’s been expecting the visitor for a while now.

“Delivery,” comes a muffled voice from outside.

Yoon Jeonghan’s arms are full of takeout bags and drinks. It’s more than enough for four men, but Jihoon knows the intention behind the gesture. 

Sometimes, one has to drown out the sorrows in good food and company.

“Wow,” Soonyoung breathes, immediately reaching for the chopsticks Jeonghan supplies from one of the various bags. “Where’d you get all this food?”

Jeonghan snorts. “A restaurant.”

He watches as Seungcheol snickers at the drummer’s whine. Jihoon accepts the wooden chopsticks he’s been given, cracking them apart and methodically swiping them together to get rid of the wood shavings peeling off. Sending a quick thanks to the universe, he digs in without another thought, absentmindedly listening in on the rambling conversation of the other guys.

“…they recommended it to me. Said they’d heard it was good, and thought it would cheer you guys up after what happened,” Jeonghan’s explaining.

Jihoon’s ears perk up at this. He’s slurping on a jjajangmyun noodle when he tunes back into what his manager’s saying.

“I should thank them tomorrow,” Soonyoung sighs solemnly. “We should’ve invited them to eat with us, actually. I bet Sairen has good food recommendations everywhere, and it’d be nice to hang out with them outside of work.”

Jihoon makes a face. Him? Hanging out with Sairen?

“Oh, is the jjajangmyun not good, Jihoon?”

Seungcheol is looking at him with concern, his chopsticks neatly placed on the cover of his takeout box.

“No, they’re fine,” Jihoon shakes his head; quietly, he adds, “Good, even.”

A head of blonde whips to face him. “Oh? You have Sairen to thank for that,” Jeonghan smirks, dabbing his face with a napkin. “They made the recommendation specifically for you and your love of jjajangmyun, actually.”

The noodle suddenly tastes like dirt in his mouth. He’s choking before he realizes it, reaching for the water bottle on the coffee table and downing it in one go. A splatter of water dribbles down his chin from how fast he’s drinking it.

Soonyoung gawks. “Jihoon, you’re red as fuck.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I just choked on water, idiot,” Jihoon argues, though he knows it’s futile—knows that Seungcheol’s looking at him with concern in a different tone, and knows that Jeonghan knew what he was doing when he brought up you.

Clearing his throat, he flips the lid on his takeout box and sets it on the coffee table with little care. He doesn’t like the look on Jeonghan’s face: eyebrows raised slightly, lips curving upwards with a knowing turn. Seungcheol and Soonyoung’s matching expressions are even worse—confusion mixed with a healthy spoonful of apprehensive perception, like they’re on the brink of a breakthrough.

“Thanks for the food, but you guys can have the rest of it,” Jihoon grumbles. “I think I’m gonna go back to my room. Goodnight.”

📍MINNEAPOLIS, MINNESOTA

After the incident at the Seattle show, WOOZI has been staring at you more often than you’d like.

Your thumb releases from the grip it has on the water cooler’s knob. As you watch the last few drops drip into your bottle, you simultaneously feel the shift of WOOZI’s gaze fall away from his perch on the couch.

You don’t say anything to him as you walk past, shoulders tense with unspoken words at the tip of your tongue. It’s been a little over two weeks, but nothing has been said between the two of you other than greeting formalities.

You can’t help but think you’ve done something wrong.

The stop in Denver, Colorado, helped shape your hypothesis. Briefly, you remember the familiar nerves spiking in your heart before you were meant to go on. While it had been a smaller venue, meaning fewer people overall, it meant a more intimate stage with equally intimate crowdwork.

Soonyoung, slowly being able to pick up on your mood swings and anxious bouts, had sat with you as you vented about the woes of being an American rockstar. It wasn’t so different from Korea, he explained, pouting and picking at a protein bar.

Diets still existed. Crazy fans everywhere. Shitty staff, too.

“You learn to live with it, especially when the good people finally stick around,” Soonyoung had spoken around a mouthful of granola. “Like Jeonghan. Or, I guess for you, Joshua.”

Humming noncommittally, you twirled a stray strand of hair. Even though Soonyoung meant well, the buzzing under your skin had continued, your teeth beginning to chatter even though it was well above freezing backstage.

“Oh, Jihoon.”

The name of the lead guitarist and singer made you flinch. You had blanched at the sight of him in his all black stage attire, the boxy button-up accentuating his broad shoulders and cargo pants resting dangerously low. Silver rings adorned his fingers, a particularly thick-chained one sitting pretty on his index finger.

Swallowing heavily, you gladly accepted the towel given to you, dabbing your sweat off your forehead and neck. You didn’t even realize it was WOOZI who had handed you the towel, fingers brushing his as you rushed to give it back before you were able to give it another thought—to your horror, your skin still remembers how his fingers felt sliding against your wrist, the metal of his accessories having done nothing to help your pounding heart.

“Good luck,” he then offered.

Now, almost a thousand miles away from Denver, Colorado, you were sipping your water, watching WOOZI bounce his leg up and down from your place leaning against the vanity. Stage call was soon, so there was no reason for him to be back here—yet, here he sits, a mere five feet away from you.

Tonight’s show has him in a sleeveless red tank, a worn-out white star plastered on the front. The chains around his neck glimmer in the dressing room light as he shifts in place, scrolling aimlessly on his phone while he pretends he’s been paying you no mind.

You want to scoff, maybe throw a snide remark at how he has the nerve to stare at you after treating you like trash—but then WOOZI tosses his head back onto the couch with a groan, pectorals heaving, and all coherent thoughts scurry right out the exit of your brain.

Were tank tops supposed to be that revealing? Perhaps it was time to go back to Victorian ways, after all.

A rap on the door startles you, but not the singer. He merely lets out a loud huff, making a show out of getting up and beginning to stretch his arms out in an attempt to get blood flowing.

“On in five,” comes the muffled call of a stage crew member outside the door.

You catch the face he makes: his nose scrunches up a little, and he lets out a little shake of his head in dissent. “Yeah, yeah. Be there in a minute.”

Capping your bottle, you move to sit on the vanity, eyes following WOOZI’s pre-show routine. He’s shaking his hair to get his bangs to hang a little more in his face, and that damned part of you that you try to keep hidden away aches to push his fingers away and fix his hair yourself.

You don’t, of course.

WOOZI’s making his way to the door now. Something gets stuck in your throat—a good luck, maybe, or a have fun—but you gulp it down when his fingers meet the knob and twist.

Ah. Your gaze is cast to the floor, forlorn. Next show for sure.

To your surprise, your head darts up at the sound of his voice, melodic and soft and everything you’ve never been on the receiving end of.

“See you after?”

It’s posed as a question, thrown over his shoulder, with his warm brown eyes meeting yours. The silence is so loud you curl your hands so as not to end up covering your ears.

You finally exhale, breath billowing out. The guilt on your shoulders eases up.

“Yeah. Take care.”

—

It’s a little past one in the afternoon when you and CH33RS leave the upskate cafe, laughter ringing out from behind you as you let the glass door close. The Minneapolis breeze hits your face, inviting and warm, and you reach your arms towards the cloudless sky.

“God, it’s so nice out today!” You sigh, stretching in satisfaction.

Seungcheol nods his head in agreement from a little way behind you, his eyes crinkling as he smiles. “The weather is nice. No need for a jacket.”

“And your English, it’s getting better with every show! Good job,” you encourage, shooting him a thumbs up; the man brightens at your response.

Beside you, Soonyoung swirls his iced coffee around with his straw, taking a sip and seemingly relishing in the aftertaste of grounded coffee beans.

“That cafe was so yummy,” he groans, squinting up at the sky. “You know the best food places.”

He stuffs his other hand in the leather jacket he’s wearing, his blonde hair gelled and spiky in the sun’s light. You offer him a grin, subconsciously leaning into him as a gesture of gratitude.

Sightseeing wasn’t exactly in your plans during the tour, but when Joshua encouraged it last night as a way to grow closer with the boys, you took up the opportunity with renewed determination. WOOZI’s reluctant acceptance of you makes your heart warm with the feeling of coworkers finally getting along after many unsuccessful trials.

At least, that’s what you reason with yourself when your heart rate picks up at the sight of him.

The aforementioned singer walks quietly beside the manager assigned to you four today, his wired earbuds bright against the black clothes you had grown used to seeing on him. You eye him, gaze tracing the wire that travels from his jacket pocket to the curve of his jaw and the slope of his ear.

He didn’t have many piercings, you noted—unlike Soonyoung, who had enough for a full set of stackers, WOOZI only sported the common, everyday single lobes. Huh.

An idea rises within you, but before you can speak, your body meets all things leather. Thud.

“Oh my god! I’m so s—Wait!—Are you—is this group—CH33RS? Sairen?!”

Bewildered, you hear someone start to speak Korean. You begin backing away from who you ran into only to be met with an equally confused man with short brown hair. He’s looking down at you like you’ve appeared from nowhere, but the shorter man beside him hurries to you with awe displayed plain on his face.

“Oh my god, it is you—out of all people to run into him—wow, nice going, Hansol—”

Shaking his head, the man bows deeply to the four of you. When he straightens up, you take in his bleached tips and pierced eyebrow. Hansol, the man you had crashed into, adjusts his gloves with pure shock written all over his expression.

“Oh. Sorry, dude. Didn’t see you there.”

His companion nudges him, hard. He says something again in Korean that gets a muffled laugh out of WOOZI.

“I am so sorry for him,” the unknown blonde dips his head again. “My name is Seungkwan. This is Vernon, but I call him Hansol. We’re big fans of you!”

Seungkwan begins to excitedly converse with Soonyoung, who reciprocates much too eagerly, leaving you to stand awkwardly in front of Vernon. You almost want to bow and leave to the back of the group where the manager is positioned, but the man begins to speak before you can.

“Seungkwan’s a big fan of yours.” He gives a nod to the man, who has retrieved a permanent marker from somewhere and is getting his arm signed by the drummer. “We like to blast your music during rides. Pretty calming, especially around the mountains during sunset.”

“Oh, are you guys bikers?”

Vernon nods. The left side of your mouth lifts at how, instead of ending the gesture, he lets it bounce on for a bit—almost as if he’s listening to an imaginary beat in his head. “Super fun stuff. You think you could sign my helmet or something?”

Your heart leaps. Random fan meetings outside of shows weren’t new to you, but every time you did get noticed, your entire day was made.

“Sure. Hey, Soonyoung, could I borrow that when you’re done?”

The commotion that is Seungkwan begins to die down once signatures are given and pleasantries are exchanged. You have to bite your lip to suppress your laughs; he’s too endearing, rushing around to congratulate everyone on the world tour and comebacks.

When he gets to you, his eyes brighten, and you swear you can see stars twinkling in them even though the sun is happily high up in the sky.

“Sairen, I’ve been meaning to get into music—I’ve actually worked on some of my own songs and they’re all inspired by you!” Seungkwan bashfully admits.

At his confession, you brighten. “That’s awesome! Could I hear one?”

The man deflates, your lips parting in an ‘o’ at how easily his entire demeanor changes in the blink of an eye.

“Ah… I don’t have the files on me right now…” He trails off and fiddles with the collar of his jacket, obviously downcast at the missed opportunity.

“It’s okay,” you smile, reaching out to pat his shoulder. “You can just message me on Instagram. How does that sound?”

Three things happen at once.

One. Seungkwan’s entire face lights up at your proposal, beginning to shake like a chihuahua without a sweater.

Two. WOOZI gasps.

Three. The manager’s hand flies out to grab your wrist, pulling you away with the strength of ten men, and forcing an ‘oomf!’ out of you quite easily.

The last occurrence takes the longest time and has the largest impact on you, your left wrist stinging slightly from his hold. Seungkwan, now a few feet away from you instead of smack dab in front, backs off in surprise.

“I apologize, but at this time Sairen is not accepting messages on Instagram. Perhaps if you come prepared to one of their shows, they can give you some proper feedback?”

Vernon wraps a comforting arm around his partner’s shoulders as Seungkwan stammers out an, “O-oh. That’s fine! We’re so sorry for bothering you. Could we get a picture before we go?”

The two bikers hastily leave. Your jaw clenches as the manager turns to you, his condescending stare rendering you frozen in place.

“Are you crazy?” He spits, pulling you towards him.

You cry out; WOOZI takes a threatening step forward, but he’s stopped by Seungcheol. There’s fury in his eyes as you give a minuscule shake of your head.

“What if they did that stuff with ill intent?” The manager’s breath reeks of the onion from the caprese he got from the cafe. “You’re not that stupid to just give away your information, are you? Do you not have a PR manager or something?”

Gritting your teeth, you wrench your arm away, rubbing your wrist with a scowl. “It’s Instagram, Carter. My account is managed by Joshua. If you got a problem with me interacting nicely with my fans, take it up with him. I’m sure he’ll have a blast telling you how wrong you are.”

Carter lets out a tch, turning away and beginning to walk ahead of the group. When he’s out of earshot, Soonyoung rushes to you, apologizing profusely. You barely pay him your regards; instead, your eyes catch WOOZI’s, the fire burning in his pupils trailblazing a pathway right through your strong facade.

You turn away.

—

You’re not entirely sure how you end up here, sitting a few inches away from WOOZI of CH33RS while munching on some potato chips.

Frieren plays out on his laptop screen, propped open awkwardly at the edge of the bed. The singer, clad in a black tee and gym shorts, shifts against the headboard of his bed and clears his throat.

It’s one of the earlier episodes, where Frieren is looking back on her memories with Himmel. She’s going on some monologue about not understanding how good things were until they were gone, and the scene pulls at your heartstrings, making you sigh.

“I can already tell this show is going to be so coming-of-age,” you frown, relaxing slightly and causing the bed to dip. “Classic story of personal growth, spurred on by past memories.”

WOOZI barely reacts to your comments, instead opting to open his palm up to you. Wordlessly, you place a few chips in his hand, which he crunches between his teeth earnestly.

It’s a while before he speaks. “You know, I didn’t take you for the anime type.”

“Same could go for you,” you dig at him, rolling your eyes. “Who knew the great WOOZI could have interests?”

“Hey,” he frowns. “Come on, don’t pretend you weren’t excited when I brought up Frieren.”

You bark out a laugh. “Excited? More like surprised. Never knew you could willingly give me the time of day, much less start up a conversation about the show I was trying to watch on the car ride home.”

Frieren is yelling something now. You watch in amusement at her and Heiter’s, the party’s priest, antics.

“Y’know,” you continue. “I even had the impression that you thought you were better than conversing with little ol’ me.”

Right. That’s how you got here. Memories of the dark insides of the van contrasting with the colorful scenes of Frieren on your screen come flooding back, along with WOOZI’s soft inquiries about how far along you were with the show. Surprisingly, he made for a good conversationalist about the topic, and you remember begrudgingly agreeing to have him join you on your marathon.

Joshua was going to have a field day with this one.

Don’t let his friendly demeanor fool you, a voice inside you chides. Remember how he treated you before. Some sappy anime isn’t going to change that.

The scene onscreen is violently different than before. Now, Frieren is blinking away tears, covering her face with her arms as her party consoles her. You find yourself mirroring her, self-pity beginning to swallow you whole.

WOOZI is silent again, but this time, you know he’s pondering what to say.

“Ah, sorry,” you choke out a laugh. “Forget about what I just said. Can we watch this episode another time?”

You’re reaching for his laptop when he stops you, grabbing your wrist. Unlike Carter’s, WOOZI’s touch is gentle and light, and you shiver at him running his thumb along the ball joint.

“Wait.” He inhales. “Just… wait.”

And you do, peering through your lashes at him. He drops your arm, drawing in on himself, and lets out another sigh.

“When CH33RS first started out,” WOOZI begins. “We were treated awfully. This was before we met Jeonghan; we had to fight to be given decent practice equipment and fair schedules. It was like our previous company wanted us to go through hell before reaching the top.”

You stay quiet, eyes trained on his fingers reaching to twist with the hoop in his right ear. It’s on the smaller side and made of black metal, but you think it suits him well.

“Then… along came Seokmin.”

“Seokmin?” you echo.

WOOZI nods, though it’s not without a hint of pain. “Our last manager from the previous company. He fought so hard for us. Didn’t let any of us get trampled on, and always made sure we knew we were his top priority.”

He leans back on the pillows, black hair billowing out to form a slight halo around his head. You blink down at him, fingers clawing at the mattress and heart being twisted in the worst way possible.

“He was the one who got us signed with our new company under Jeonghan,” he finishes softly. “It didn’t go over well with the higher-ups, but he took all the blows. Haven’t seen him since the big fight when our contract properly ended and we refused to renew.”

The show credits are running as his voice trails off. At this point, one of you would reach over and hit play on the next episode, but now you’re glued to the hotel bed.

“I’m sorry,” you console. “But… this still doesn’t answer why you snapped at me the first day.”

The singer throws an arm over his eyes.

“About that—I’m sorry,” WOOZI breathes out. “Can’t stand bullshit like that no matter who it’s from, and I didn’t realize at the time that the staff member started it. I know it's super late and also probably an incredibly lame apology, but… I really admire you and your work, Sairen. I hope the rest of the tour goes well and that we can at least be cordial.”

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you scrunch your face to avoid the giggles threatening to spill out of you. Part of you is annoyed, sure; couldn’t the dickhead just have asked you before jumping to conclusions?

But another part of you understands—this industry was notorious for wildfire rumors and miscommunication. That, coupled with the stress of being around a bunch of crappy staff members for hours on end, would be enough to drive anyone to the brink of snapping.

“I’m sorry, too,” you offer a bittersweet smile to him. “I get to be kind of an ass when I’m around people who don’t know how to be decent human beings. Kind of backfires on me a lot of the time in this field of work, though.”

To your utmost surprise and increasing delight, WOOZI lets out something between a witch’s cackle and a belly laugh.

He slaps a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound, but you’re already grinning from ear to ear, watching his own turn a shade of cherry red.

“Well,” he clears his throat. “Glad we can relate on that part, then. And thank you for the apology.”

You knock your knee against his. “No problem, rockstar. Hope to be more cordial with you too. Or whatever you said.”

WOOZI raises an eyebrow at you, but you wave him off, turning back to his laptop with a satisfied hum and hitting play.

Your heart feels lighter knowing you can enjoy the rest of the tour without having to walk on eggshells around the people who are supposed to know you best. It makes you wonder just how much you’ve missed out on with WOOZI, and how many episodes of Frieren you could be caught up with by now if this hadn’t happened.

Oh well, you mumble to yourself, stealing a glance at the man beside you. His face is once again illuminated by the screen, dimly lit yet glowing with an emotion that is hard to put into words. You hope it can be described as contentment.

Frieren is recapping her adventures with the knight of the party, Himmel, and promising to make the most of the time she has left. You turn your attention back to the screen, watching the elf girl finally cave into her heart’s desires.

Better late than never. 

📍 ONTARIO, TORONTO

Your hair is dripping wet when you bumble through the door, Soonyoung and Joshua hot on your heels. The rain outside was never-ending, puddles forming on the ground from your damp clothes as you try to wipe your shoes on the welcome mat. The guys aren’t any better; Joshua’s wringing his hair out as much as he can while Soonyoung shakes himself off like a dog.

A woman behind the front desk peers up at you before smiling brightly. “Hello! Are you here for an appointment?”

You dip your head as you approach, taking notice of the woman’s inked skin. She’s got a dragonfly drawn across her forearm, the swirls of its wings mesmerizing to your eyes.

“Yes, with Minghao?” you tilt your head, sliding your ID across the table. “I really appreciate you taking us in so last minute. I’ve been meaning to get a tattoo at a local place while I’m traveling.”

“No problem,” she reassures, checking you in with ease. “What prompted you to come to ours, though? Lotsa good ones around these parts.”

You jerk a thumb back at the two wet dogs you’ve pulled in from the rain. Soonyoung perks up at your attention and you roll your eyes.

“My friend back there wanted to get some flowers as congratulations for… someone,” you clear your throat, to which Joshua makes a face at. “We were at the florist across the street yesterday, and he praised you highly.”

“Junhui?”

The new voice makes you look up to see a slender, lean man propping himself against a doorway to another room. He sports a black mullet that shows off the various piercings he has, ranging from a silver hoop through his daith to the metallic rod he’s got going through a flat and his helix. He purses his lips as he takes you in, crossing his tattoo-sleeved arms with intrigue.

“Yeah,” you confirm in surprise. “Pretty sure his name was Jun, at least. You’re Minghao?”

He nods. When he speaks again, his voice is slightly tinged with an accent—Chinese, you think, listening intently. “So, you’re the famous Sairen that’s got this city in an uproar,” he muses, motioning for you to come to the back with him. “I’m guessing the blonde dude is Hoshi from CH33RS, and your manager is the one who looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here.”

At this, you let out a laugh, especially when Joshua bumps your hip with his own.

“Yeah, something like that.”

Minghao leads you to a table with various drawings spread out, papers cluttering the surface with ink spilling all over the wood. You sit down without having to be told, in awe over his workspace. Joshua and Soonyoung tell you they’ll be waiting for you outside, and you wave them off with a smile.

“Alright, what were we thinking today?” He takes a seat on the other side of the table and pulls an already-open sketchbook in front of him, uncapping a pen with his teeth. “What’s on your mind?”

You begin to describe the design you’ve had rattling around in your mind the past few days. Minghao takes your words in stride, slow strokes working faster to conjure up a messy drafted sketch. It’s easy, conversing with him—he’s straight to the point with his questions, but won’t hesitate to take a moment to linger on an answer he finds interesting. His wit catches you off guard.

“Do you have any other tattoos?”

To his inquiry, you straighten up a bit and pull on the hem on your shirt, revealing a section of your torso. Minghao raises an eyebrow before leaning over the table, his face instantly shifting to one of admiration once he sees the blotches of black.

With wondrous eyes, he hums in satisfaction. “Nice. Crescent moon?”

“Supposed to be a claw moon, actually,” you offer softly. “I was born on a night where the moon was so thin it looked like a cat’s claw. My mom—she would never stop talking about it when I was younger. Thought it was so cool.”

Then, you walk to his side of the table and lean over to slide down your ankle sock. Right above the ball joint of your left foot is a faded dahlia, the petals worn and just barely crackling at the edges.

“Official flower of San Francisco, California.” Your nostalgic tone doesn’t go unmissed by the tattoo artist, and he makes a noise of encouragement. “I got it when I was like, sixteen, without my parents’ permission. Whoops?”

Minghao snorts, angling the lamp onto the patch of artwork with a scrutinizing eye. “Glad you told me it was a dahlia, otherwise I would’ve thought it was a weirdly puffed up microphone. Or a sex toy.”

You curl your lip in disgust. “Okay, ew. I may be tacky, but not that tacky.”

Pretty soon, the artist is settling you into a more comfy chair, instructing you to raise your thigh so he has a good canvas to work on. The marker he uses to paint your skin tickles, and you tell him such, much to his dismay.

“I hope you aren’t going to move as much as this when I’m actively putting a needle in your skin,” he deadpans, but you only laugh.

Minghao’s quick, you’ll give him that. He lays down the basic outline in only about twenty minutes, give or take, though you suppose it also has to do with how you’ve opted for a simpler design.

He tells you about how business has been going for him lately; you make a big deal about how huge the sunflowers were in Jun’s shop. Minghao listens with the intensity of a therapist, making light remarks and comments that have you spluttering for an answer.

The next hour is spent lightly bantering with him, and listening to Joshua rattle off your next few schedules after he comes back from his trip to the café down the street. Soonyoung, ever so helpful, chugs a milk tea he got before offering you a sip.

“Dude, that tattoo looks fire. Jihoon’s gonna be in shambles.”

Minghao hisses as you promptly stiffen, your eye twitching. The drummer is quick to apologize while you give him your best death glare.

“Jihoon, huh?” Minghao clicks his tongue. “What, you getting this for him?”

“It’s not like that,” you quickly say. “Don’t listen to Soonyoung, he’s being stupid.”

The mentioned man makes a guffaw at this. “You’re literally getting the Frieren flowers tattooed on you.”

“They are not just ‘the Frieren flowers,’” you say indignantly. “They’re Blue-Moon Weed flowers. Which you would know the context and history of if you watched the anime.”

“Man, why’d you even ask me to come?” Soonyoung shakes his head good-naturedly. “Jihoon would’ve appreciated the invitation much more than me. He’s also basically getting to see the bottom half of you n—”

Joshua drags him out of the room before you can release your anger on the drummer. In front of you, on his knees, Minghao mutters something about trying meditation, which you gladly accept.

“Though,” he looks to the ceiling in mock thought. “What he said was true. I’ve seen the videos from last night’s show. If you haven’t gotten laid yet, that’s a mistake on your part.”

Your nose scrunches. Maybe you shouldn’t have listened to Jun the florist, after all.

—

WOOZI doesn’t react to your new tattoo right away.

Instead, he admires your older ones, questioning why you’ve never talked about them before.

To this you respond with a snort. “You’ve never asked, so I never talked.”

He seems to mull your answer over, before giving a sheepish nod.

“Touché.”

The bus hits a bump in the road, causing you to wince in pain. You shift in your seat, trying to get into a more comfortable position so as to not lean too harshly on the wound, before returning your focus back to the situation at hand.

This time around, you chose to make do with CH33RS for the ride to the airport, knowing that taking separate cars would only end up making matters more complicated. Joshua, Seungcheol and Jeonghan are upfront, giddy about some new pitch of a show that came out, while Soonyoung’s snoring away a few seats behind them.

How you all have gotten so close in such a short amount of time will never fail to amaze you, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“That reminds me,” you turn to face WOOZI again; the singer raises a single eyebrow at your words. “You’ve never shown me your tattoos before.”

He pauses in untangling his wired earbuds, apt fingers twisting the cords and making your stomach drop just slightly. WOOZI meets your gaze head-on, a challenge in his expression.

You swallow and muster the courage to look him in the eye. It’s not the first time he’s been the leading cause of the pleasing prickle of your arm hairs, but every time he is, you feel like you lose five years off your lifespan.

“Guess you’ll just have to see them for yourself,” he says smugly, before barely dodging your oncoming slap to his shoulder with a loud laugh.

📍 NEW YORK, NEW YORK

The East Coast is violently different from what you’re used to.

You fidget with your tank top, fanning yourself. The air conditioner was on full blast, but you still found your throat thick with heat, hydrating every chance you could get. You missed San Francisco.

Sure, the wind could get violent there, but the air itself was never as full as it was here. The humidity was awful, especially when smoke surged from sewer plates every five feet and clogged up the environment.

“Maybe because we’re more up north, where a bunch more cities are?” He had offered as an explanation. You raised an eyebrow full of judgement.

Oh, well, you muse. At least it gave you another justification for constantly wearing shorts other than to not irritate your tattoo. You had admired it this morning in the mirror of your bedroom, the early sun’s rays through the window causing the ink to appear quite nicely.

The flowers were healing well; you had marveled at Minghao’s handiwork, twirling stems lacing together before exploding into bundles of petals. While you wished it could have been colored the famous blue color that gave it its name, you had opted for leaving it as an outline, and you didn’t regret it.

Now, you sit and wait for the pizza to arrive, cozy on the couch of the suite you were given. Jeonghan had charmed his way into having the hotel grant you and CH33RS a proper penthouse for your stay in New York. Tired from your show the night before and having visited NYC before, you had opted to stay behind to rest.

Soonyoung wanted to explore the area, gushing about how he’d only ever heard stories of the city from when he was younger, and Seungcheol was close behind in his agreement. Jeonghan and your manager promised them a day full of sightseeing and good food, and the two were sold, letting out hoots of joy in following them out the door.

WOOZI, however, was adamant about staying in the suite. The man was full of surprises, it seemed.

Your name is called faintly from the foyer. Rising to stand, your slippers scuff along the wood as you pad to the source of the sound and take a peek around the corner.

There he stands, baseball cap on with compression sleeves fit snugly along his calves. The sight almost makes you sigh in pleasure. Almost.

“I’m going to go out for a run,” WOOZI says. “I’ll be back in like, thirty minutes or so. Just a few blocks down and then I’ll turn around.”

You’re not sure why he’s telling you this. You’re also not sure why your feet carry you to stand in front of him.

Both happen anyways, and in the end, you muster up a hesitant, hopeful smile at him. “Alright. Be safe.”

He pauses, just slightly, and for a second you almost fool yourself into believing he’ll give you a kiss on the forehead.

You wonder how his lips would feel—smooth, like the petals of a magnolia from the tree in your childhood backyard? Or perhaps a little chapped and roughened, like the strawflowers you saw back in Jun’s flower shop?

What the fuck? You immediately gawk at yourself. What the hell were those thoughts?

The silence drags on impossibly long, turning into an awkward pause you’re not too confident you can break. Thankfully, the singer clears his throat, and you startle.

“Save some pizza for me,” WOOZI finishes, giving you a firm nod.

A part of you deflates. Right, of course—WOOZI was professional above all else. And up until recently, the two of you had been nothing more than flies on the wall to each other.

To hide your disappointment, you scoff and nudge him playfully, twirling around and throwing a wink over your shoulder.

“Then be back soon,” you stick your tongue out at him. “Don’t keep me waiting!”

—

WOOZI comes back right when you’re about to dig into the pizza—the cheese hits the roof of your mouth, actually, as you hear the door click open.

“Pizza’s ready and hot,” you call out to him, and you get a muted grunt and some shuffling in response.

He’s panting lightly as he walks over to you and plops down on the floor, right at the foot of the couch. You study how his hair parts slightly to the side and is matted from being suffocated under his hat.

“Good run?” You ask, chewing through a bite of pizza.

The man turns his head, his gaze dropping to the new tattoo lining your thigh before rising to your lips. A part of you wants to ask his thoughts on the design, but his fixed stare makes your breath hitch.

You must have something on your face, you realize, and dart your tongue out to catch whatever crumbs have to be on the side of your mouth.

He tears his eyes away. “Yeah, but the city stinks of sewage.”

WOOZI grabs a slice of pepperoni and begins to scarf it down, focusing his attention to the episode of Frieren you’ve got pulled up.

“Hey, weren’t we supposed to watch this episode together?” He complains, and if you didn’t know any better, you can almost swear he’s pouting.

“You took too long.” You hide a smile behind the last of the crust you’ve got in your hand. “I told you to hurry back and not keep me waiting.”

He huffs. “I did.”

Something about his intonation has you pausing. Your eyes flit to his comfortable position against the couch and your lax posture across the cushions.

On the coffee table sits two cups and a plaque of napkins. He had brought a cup of water for you from the kitchen, and you had made sure to ask for extra napkins from the delivery man so it would be enough for the two of you. You blink in surprise at the revelation.

When did domesticity become second nature with him?

It’s like you’re hit with a bullet of clarity, the aftershock radiating through your system one bone at a time. WOOZI, as if noticing your silence, casts another glance back at you and holds your gaze.

He has a mole under his right eye. This, you notice, and you notice well. The explosion of feelings only further seethes under your skin, roaring to be let out through words.

Nothing leaves your mouth, though.

You let the shockwaves pulse through you until they simmer down to something calmer, as if nothing had ever happened in the first place. Uncharacteristically, you swallow down the words bubbling up in your throat. WOOZI takes another bite of pizza. 

And of course, the show goes on.

—

It’s well past four in the afternoon when you perk up and roll over, resting your cheek on the couch cushion and insistently poking WOOZI with your foot. Frieren is long paused on the TV screen, and you’re careful to not rest too much of your weight on your thigh.

“Hey, hey. Wake up.”

Half-asleep and slumped over a pillow, he hums in response, shifting away slightly. From your position on the couch, the glint of his single lobe piercing glares blatantly in your eyes, furthering the newfound determination thrumming beneath your skin.

“Crazy idea, but what if we got our noses pierced together?”

The man’s mouth moves in a mumble, clearly giving his response no thought. “Mmm. Sure.”

Without thinking, you tumble towards him, letting your arms find home around his neck. WOOZI stiffens, finally jerking awake and glaring at you. You grin back, trying not to seem unaffected by your instinctive action, and release your hold.

“Really? Okay, get ready then!”

A small, huh?, leaves his lips, but you’re already up and disappearing into your bedroom. He scrambles after you, but you leave him dumbstruck outside your door, his heart throwing itself against his ribcage and cheeks flushed red.

—

“A nose piercing?” you can practically feel his disapproval as you tug him towards the shop; it’s sundown, and golden hour sets his black hair on fire in a way that has you covering your eyes from the shine. “You, want me, to get a nose piercing with you?”

“You heard me the first time,” you reply nonchalantly, as if this were an everyday occurrence. “And I mean, who else if not you?”

The bell above the door jingles in greeting as you step through the doorway. You barely did any research of the surrounding area; your impulsivity left you walking into the first piercing shop near your hotel that had the flickering OPEN sign outside.

“Your tattoo is still healing,” he points out to you. “Shouldn’t you be resting before damaging your body even more?”

Though his words are rough, WOOZI still hasn’t let go of your hand, thumb running along yours as if it was nothing but a subconscious thought. You flush and pull away to grant yourself some dignity back. When did he think it was alright to touch you?

“It’s been a few days and I have high pain tolerance,” you shrug, before turning to the man at the counter. “Hi! Sorry to bother, but do you take walk-ins?”

WOOZI stares in wonder as you navigate through an impromptu conversation with ease. Sure, you’ve been cordial with him up to now, and even friendly enough to joke, but today has been something else entirely.

The person in front of him is nothing like the Sairen he knew from the media or interactions with staff; unlike before, where you would barely give him the time of day, you are now within arms reach. You are tolerable. Tangible. Holdable.

He rids himself of those preposterous thoughts and joins you at the counter.

You beam up at the man behind the desk with your best smile. He’s got cropped black hair and an equally cropped black shirt that shows off a belly button piercing, and the vertical labret he dons is nothing short of captivating. You watch as he scribbles something down on a piece of paper and excuses himself to the back, waving him off with a, it’s okay, take your time!

“When did you get so friendly?” WOOZI taunts, nudging you with his foot.

Your eyes are going to pop out of your sockets from how much you’re rolling them to the back of your head. “I’ve always been friendly. You’ve just been too unfriendly to notice.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but the staff member comes back, flashing the two of you a bright smile.

“Wonwoo will take care of ya in the second room on the left.” He gives you in particular a wink, to which you giggle at.

There’s a bad taste in WOOZI’s mouth. He hmphs—there must’ve been onions in the pizza, or something.

Wonwoo, thankfully, seems to be the complete opposite from his coworker. Wearing a simple sleeveless white tank and pierced with eyebrow studs, he stands up from his seat on a stool at your entrance.

You greet him with a polite hello, but the man’s eyes flicker to you for barely a moment before merely dipping his head in acknowledgement. Instead of starting up conversation, he brings the two of you over to a small glass display of studs.

“Whoever picks first can go first,” is all he says before disappearing off to who-knows-where, leaving you two in front of the display alone.

Instantly, your eyes are drawn to a silver star stud. It’s simple and serves its purpose as an easy sleeper piercing as well. Nudging the man next to you, you point it out with a smile, automatically leaning into him when his arm brushes yours a second time.

“This one would be cool, what d’ya think?”

WOOZI looms over the display, peering intently at the one your pointer finger is hovering over. From his position, you can easily trace the vein in his neck that snakes past the collar of his jacket, leading all the way down to the ones that bulge from his forearms. He presses his lips together in thought.

Standing up straighter, he gives a small nod. “Yeah, I like it.”

Wonwoo comes back a moment later, hands already gloved and holding a small kit of something in his hand. He lifts his head towards the stool, as if surprised that neither of you are sitting on it yet. “Did either of you choose one?”

“Oh! Yes, sorry,” you hurriedly show him the piercing, and he rummages around for a fresh stud.

The alcohol is cold on your nose. You have to stop yourself from wrinkling it as Wonwoo marks a dot right at the curve of your nostril. He steps back, gesturing for WOOZI to take a look.

“Look good to you?” He’s asking, but WOOZI’s eyes are already fixated on you.

Slowly, the guitarist nods, eyeing you up and down. It makes you squirm in your seat.

“Yeah. Looks good.”

Wonwoo instructs you to keep as still as possible, prepping the piercing needle with experience only a professional piercer could provide. Eyes flickering to the side, you take comfort in the sight of WOOZI, hair tousled and leisurely blinking at you with his hands in his pockets. He reminds you of a cat watching their owner do mundane tasks.

You hold your breath as you feel the needle go through your skin, before being quickly pulled out. It stings and you bite the inside of your lip. Air rushes through your lungs, wanting to tumble out of you, and Wonwoo successfully slots the star stud in with a satisfied hum.

“Nice work,” he compliments; you’re not sure if he’s talking about you or him, but you thank him anyway, stepping off the chair and making sure to be mindful of your tattoo.

He’s turning to WOOZI before you realize it, and your eyes widen in surprise.

“Oh, shit, I’m so sorry WOOZI I forgot to help y—”

But the singer is shaking his head, nodding casually to Wonwoo with all the nonchalance in the world. “I’ll have the same stud as them. Same place, too.”

Your jaw is on the floor for the whopping two minutes it takes for WOOZI to get his nose pierced. He watches you with amusement the entire time, eyes following your furrowing brows and flushing cheeks.

“What?” He smirks as the two of you leave the room, bidding Wonwoo a goodbye; the man just gives another nod. “Didn’t expect me to get the same one as you?”

“You…” You grit your teeth. You want to yell at him to stop playing with your feelings—it’s a dangerous thing, to play with fire. “You are such a copycat.”

WOOZI only shrugs. “I didn’t feel like looking at the display again and I liked your choice. What’s wrong with that?”

Everything, you want to confess. Everything, because it gives me stupid hope for something that’s never going to happen.

The man at the counter brightens at your reemergence. You offer a shy wave, and out of the corner of your eye, you see WOOZI’s mouth press into a thin line.

“Your piercing turned out well,” the man says—it’s pointedly towards you, his eyes never leaving your face. “I like the star you chose.”

“Thank you, Wonwoo did a great job,” you manage a nod. He was welcoming at first, but the way he’s looking at you now reminds you of the journalists who crowd you after a social event.

Thinking the conversation is over, you give him one last smile and turn towards the door. WOOZI seems eager to leave; he’s already five steps ahead of you, holding the wooden door open.

“Oh, um,” the man clears his throat loudly, and you half-turn, giving him a quizzical look. “I was thinking… maybe we could grab dinn—”

“Mingyu.” Wonwoo seems to appear out of nowhere, a broom in his hand. “We need to start cleaning up. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten you’re on the closing shift already?”

His stern voice makes you nervous; did you do something wrong?

The newly named Mingyu grumbles out an okay, sending you an apologetic smile before grabbing the broom and disappearing into the back. Wonwoo turns to you and WOOZI again, giving you two a final nod, though for some reason you feel like it isn’t exactly directed towards you.

“C’mon, let’s go,” WOOZI’s voice is rough, and it reminds you of your relationship with him early on: cold, and purely business. “It’s getting late.”

With what feels like no other choice, you follow him out the door and let the bell chime in farewell.

—

Strangely enough, the guys aren’t there yet when you come back to the suite.

The emptiness of the penthouse almost scares you. You’re not used to the stillness of a place, more attuned to the bustling of backstage prep and the liveliness of concerts. Slipping off your shoes, you make your way back to the living room, collapsing on the couch.

“Careful of your tattoo,” comes WOOZI’s belated reproach as the lights flicker on.

You groan and try to hide the burning sensation that rises in your leg. “What are you, my dad?”

He slides in next to you effortlessly, clicking on the remote to connect his phone to the TV like he had earlier in the afternoon. “No, but it’s clear that you need parental supervision at all times,” he remarks, his knees spreading slightly apart.

You do your best to keep your eyes on the TV screen when his leg presses lightly to yours. “I do not need parental supervision.”

“First the tattoo in Toronto, and now the nose piercing in New York.” WOOZI raises an eyebrow at you, and you feel caught red-handed, like a fly in a spider’s trap. “What next? Cutting and dying your hair in D.C.?”

“Come on,” you drawl, landing a soft smack on his shoulder. “Where’s your joy? Your whimsy? We all need to have fun sometimes!”

WOOZI scoffs.

“Oh yeah, I bet it was real fun flirting with the piercer,” he mutters under his breath.

There’s a pregnant pause. WOOZI stiffens and brings a hand up to his lips, as if, by doing so, he could stop the words that have already poured out. You’re equally as shocked, frozen in place at what now hangs in the air between you two.

Huh?

Trying to break the tension, you laugh nervously, heart pounding in your chest. “First you act like my dad, then you act like my jealous lover. Pick a struggle, dude.”

Another pause, and then WOOZI huffs. Puts the remote down.

He doesn’t say anything—instead, WOOZI leans in impossibly close to your face, studying the colors of your eyes with such intensity it has you blushing.

“You know what? Why don’t you pick for me, rockstar?” He challenges, breath mingling with yours. It smells like the Coke Zero you two shared earlier.

You swallow, lips parting ever so slightly with no sound coming out. WOOZI takes this chance to drag his fingers down your leg that doesn’t have the new tattoo on it, his touch sending your thoughts into a crazy whirlwind. A soft, high-pitched whine leaves your throat, and he lets out a heavy sigh in response.

Noses touching, your eyelashes flutter against your cheeks, whispering his name. WOOZI stills.

“Call me Jihoon,” he murmurs, and the care that’s packaged into his voice is swallowed by your lips as you gulp again. “Just Jihoon.”

Jihoon. Biting your lip, you feel emboldened by his actions, as if he’s got you under a spell only he can undo.

“Alright, Jihoon,” you place your own hand on his knee, drawing circles on his skin; he shudders in the most delicious way, and you file it away in your brain for later. “How about this? You kiss me, and you might just find out the answer to that question.”

He tsks in response, lips brushing yours.

“We’re home!”

Soonyoung’s echoing shout has the two of you scrambling away from one another, ending up on opposite sides of the couch. You wince from the pressure on your thigh, quickly using it as an excuse to bury your burning face in your arms and knees.

“Whoa—hey, Seungcheol, check this out! Jihoon got a nose piercing!”

You hear the drummer barrel into the living room, excitedly chattering in Korean, as a warm hand lands on your shoulder. Yelping, you raise your head to meet Joshua’s concerned glance.

“Hey, you alright? Did you hit your leg?” He asks worriedly, eyes searching yours.

Vigorously shaking your head, you rise with a wobble in your step. “No, I’m fine,” you squeak out. “Just really tired from today.”

The glint of the light must catch your stud, because Joshua lets out a laugh of disbelief. “Yeah? Tired from going out and getting a nose piercing?”

“What? You got one too?” Soonyoung bends down to try and get a glimpse. “Let me see! Aww, I can’t believe you two went without me!”

You finally get your friend off your back with the promise of getting another piercing with him before the tour ends, to which he immediately lights up at. He’s off to the kitchen where you can hear Jeonghan putting leftovers from the day away, no doubt accompanied by Seungcheol.

It leaves you with Jihoon and Joshua in the living room; the former is awkwardly inspecting the couch for lint as your manager worries over you once more.

“Joshua, I said I’m fine, honestly,” you smile tiredly, stomach doing a flip at Jihoon’s glance your way. “I think I just need some rest. Tell me all about your adventures tomorrow, ‘kay?”

Reluctantly, the doe-eyed man lets you go, and you trudge back to your room to get ready for bed. The bathroom is a quick trip, not wanting to chance running into Jihoon again, and before you know it, you’re buried under the covers.

You can still feel the warmth of Jihoon’s hand on yours, and the sweltering heat of his eyes on your lips. It makes you jostle uncomfortably under your blanket.

Call me Jihoon. Just Jihoon.

His voice fades to white noise, and you find yourself succumbing to sleep, uncertain of whether you wish for a dream tonight or not.

📍 WASHINGTON, D.C.

“I can’t hear you, D.C.!”

You lean against a pillar in the back of the venue, lips curved in a smile at Jihoon’s shout into the mic. The crowd thunders with applause and cheers, and from your vantage point you squint to see Seungcheol take his in-ears out, cupping the side of his face with one hand and gesturing to keep the screams coming.

Curious to get a different view, Joshua had allowed you to sneak to the very back of the venue, where the sound mechanics were handled. You were perched right on the edge of the outer balcony, hood and sunglasses obstructing the view of yourself from onlookers.

Jihoon starts jumping on stage again, his iconic boots thumping against the plywood. Enjoying your disguise, you take this chance to drink in his loosened tie and the flex of his biceps as he engages with the front row.

He’s beguiling, face so round and cheeky compared to the hard and chiseled statue of his body. Dangerously, you see his tongue loll out as he adjusts the collar of his shirt, unbuttoning the two top ones and giving a boyish grin to the crowd.

Cheeks flaring with desire, you look away, focusing on Seungcheol beginning to arch his hands up in time with the rhythm of the next song.

No wonder CH33RS was so renowned for their crowdwork; their energy was marvelous, no doubt wrecking the eardrums of any bystanders nearby the venue. You clap along to the beat that Soonyoung’s drum as they launch into their last and one of their most popular songs, 505.

Stop, and wait a sec’ Oh, when you look at me like that, my darling What did you expect? I’d probably still adore you with your hands around my neck Or I did, last time I checked

Leaning on the balcony, you nibble on your thumbnail. You don’t know where to look: there’s Seungcheol’s focused lip bite, his mop of hair swaying to the beat as his fingers work the bass he’s got; or maybe Soonyoung’s energetic trills, twirling his drumsticks in the air as a show for the crowd.

“D.C., sing it with me!” encourages Jihoon.

Ah. Your eyes find their target, sweating and panting and oh-so-captivating. You sigh longingly, the pit in your stomach flickering to life. He gestures for his fans to get louder, curling his fingers in time with the music, as their chants grow.

Then—he finds you.

You don’t know how he does, but he stares right through to soul, offering you a nod when your fingers flit in a small wave.

From your point on the balcony, you watch Jihoon’s face glow under the stage lights. His eyes are crescents, reminding you of the claw moon etched into your torso right below your heart. Voice low and gravelly, Jihoon begins to sing again, eyes never leaving yours.

“I’m going back to 505, if it’s a seven-hour flight or a forty-five minute drive,” you murmur along breathlessly; Jihoon mimics your expression.

Your legs feel like jelly as he hones in on the next sentence—the beat slows down, and Seungcheol opts for only plucking the mandatory strings for the bassine. Jihoon’s eyelashes flutter as he ends the pre-bridge, staring straight at where you’re stationed with dark eyes.

“In my imagination, you’re waiting lying on your side,” he sighs, “With your hands between your thighs.”

For a second, time slows down. The swirling pit in your abdomen screams to be let loose, and if he were to do anything more, you greatly feared for your remaining sanity.

Taking a breath, Jihoon wrenches his gaze from yours and clenches his fist to his chest, as if it physically pains him to do so.

But I crumble completely when you cry It seems like once again, You have to greet me with goodbye I’m always just about to go and spoil a surprise Take my hands off your eyes too soon

You’re incapable of watching anymore. Sinking to your knees, the air in your lungs comes out in harsh pants, sweat dripping down your chin and landing on your exposed thigh.

The Blue-Moon Weed flowers peek out from below your shorts, and you draw a shuddering breath that’s easily drowned out from the screams of the audience.

Lee Jihoon, what have you done to me?

—

The alcohol burns in your throat.

You tip back your head again for yet another shot, the yogurt-flavored soju tasting enticingly sweet on your tongue. Soonyoung claps your back from next to you.

“You’re getting good at taking it!”

He… must not know what he’s saying anymore, you think as you choke on the liquid from his words. Dirty images flash through your mind, horrifying you to no end.

You’re handed a napkin from somewhere that you gratefully take, wiping the dribbling fluid that’s escaping down the column of your neck. “Watch it,” Jihoon mumbles into your ear. “Don’t want you being rendered too speechless during our tour.”

Jumping in your seat, you murmur a slurring apology, face burning when he hands you another napkin. You can barely make out Joshua from across the table raising a delicate eyebrow in your direction.

Without warning, you reach across the table and give him a hard smack to his shoulder, taking pride in the way he lets out a sound of indignance.

“It’s not what it looks like!” You pout. “Stop… Stop doing that!”

“I didn’t even say anything,” he’s laughing, and Jeonghan’s leaning into him with a giggle. “What did I do?”

The blonde manager angles his head towards you. Your cheeks puff up as your lips press together, clearly dissatisfied, as Jeonghan speaks like he’s talking to a child—which he is not.

“Sairen, honey.” You blink drowsily at his cheeky grin. “What’s your tolerance for alcohol?”

“Good,” you blurt out. “It’s good.”

Laughter crows from your friends around the table. Seungcheol has his mouth latched onto Jeonghan’s shoulder in a bite, burying his laughter underneath sharp teeth and a wide smile.

Biting. You want to do that, too.

Your teeth land sloppily on the shoulder beside you, the taste of skin flooding your senses. Soonyoung has a nice shoulder. Humming, you dig your teeth in just a little more, enjoying the sensation that comes with your love bite. The drummer wouldn’t mind another one, right?

“Oh-kay,” Jihoon splutters, pushing you away from his bare shoulder lightly; you admire the marks left by your canines with a lopsided smile as Jeonghan cackles in the background. “I think you’ve had enough alcohol for the night. Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

“No!” You whine, and now he’s pulling you to your feet, easily hooking an arm around your waist. “Wait, I don’t wanna go…”

It takes a few minutes, but you do end up in your bed, bottom lip jutted out in a pout as you’re tucked into your sheets by a messy-haired Jihoon. It’s clear the alcohol’s getting to him too, apples of his cheeks red and eyes glossy. You reach out to touch his forehead and brush a strand out of his face.

“Pretty,” you mutter.

Jihoon lets out a sigh—it’s heavy, burdened by something that rests on his conscience, and you drop your hand onto the cool comforter. He hangs his head low, not looking at you anymore. You miss his eyes.

You decide to try your luck again. “Jihoon.”

While the man doesn’t raise his face to meet yours, he does make a noise to let you know he’s heard you. Carefully bringing your hand to his head again, you card your fingers through his hair, basking in the long, slow intake of breath he gives in response.

There’s a bite mark in his shoulder. You study it, eyes narrowing. Did Soonyoung bite him earlier?

“Did you mean it?” He asks suddenly.

Your lips part, tongue swiping along your bottom lip. “Mean what?”

“What you said. Back in New York. Did you mean it?”

Blurry images of your face pressed to his come rushing back, and you let out a whine. “Of course I meant it, stupid. I wanted you to kiss me so bad!”

Jihoon says nothing. You, inebriated as ever, take this as a sign to continue your tangent. “And then you pulled that… that stunt at your show tonight. I was already going fucking crazy from the tension between us after New York, but you—you kept being a tease! Do you not remember what happened on the bus? And now here you are, in front of me, and all I wanna do is…”

Your impudent speech tapers off into silence. Jihoon’s finally looking at you, really looking at you, his eyes glassier than before. You cradle his face in the palm of your hand, thumb careful to not disturb his still-healing nose stud. The bejeweled star gleams in the light of your bedside lamp.

Ever so attentively, you bring his lips to rest just against yours, craving for the now familiar feeling of your breath mixing with his. This time, it smells faintly of the citron soju he was nursing in the living room of the suite.

Does he taste the same? You wonder, and lean closer to find out.

“Wait—” Jihoon gasps, your name falling off his tongue in a plea that has your knees weak again. “Wait, we can’t. We can’t.”

He’s got his hand pressed against your lips and your wrist captured in the other. The two of you are breathing heavily, even though nothing has happened, and a part of you shatters.

“Whaddaya mean we can’t?” You frown, already small voice muffled further by his fingers—you give a tentative bite to his palm, and Jihoon yanks his hand away from your mouth like he’s been burned.

Shifting in bed, you reach for him again, but Jihoon is shaking his head violently. His brown eyes, usually so warm, are instead blown out with widened pupils.

“I—we can’t,” he repeats, standing up in a hurry. “Not like this. Not right now.”

“Wait, Jihoon—!”

“Please.” He’s at the door to your bedroom, forehead knocking against the wood. Jihoon takes another quivering breath, and you watch his whole body shake at the gesture. “Just… get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”

There’s some more mumbling from him; curses, you realize too late, and then he’s gone. The door clicks shut behind him and you’re left with nothing but the buzz of the air conditioner and your thoughts.

A part of you wants to stumble to your feet and crawl to him, begging for him to come back and explain yourself. Another part of you wants to scream like a child throwing a tantrum, tears threatening to spill over your lashline.

“Jihoon,” you whimper into the darkness, lamp clicking off automatically from no movement sensed. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Do you not want me as much as I want you?”

📍 ORLANDO, FLORIDA

In the days following that night, Jihoon’s been ignoring you.

You thought it was just your imagination at first; maybe he was just busy with the next upcoming show, you reasoned, shrugging your shoulders as he gave another lame excuse for not being able to watch the next Frieren episode with you. The amazing show at D.C. caused yet another uproar, Orlando and Atlanta selling out soon after videos started circulating.

But then one Frieren episode turned to two, and two turned to three, until he was a whole arc behind you. The last episode you had watched together had been the one in New York, where Frieren counseled Fern and Stark on their relationship. You remember huffing in disbelief at the main character finding out the real meaning of the mirrored lotus, and what that entailed about Himmel’s feelings for her.

“I can’t believe it. He loved her so much, yet was so content with just staying by her side,” you lamented, your back hitting the couch with a thud. “He was so selfless about that shit. Even until the end.”

Jihoon had eyed your complaining from his newfound position across from you, knee bent at an angle to be able to brush against your thigh. He just shook his head, the credits rolling, and shrugged.

“Anything to be by her side.”

Back then, you had rolled your eyes for the umpteenth time at him, griping that he was much more of a sap than he let on.

Now, his words linger in your head as you stare at the news headline, Soonyoung worriedly trying to snap you out of your daze.

New Foreign Love? WOOZI, Lead Singer & Guitarist of CH33RS, Seen Embracing Anonymous Person Last Night at Mango’s Club in Orlando, Florida!

“Hey, you know how people get about the media,” he tries to console. “It probably wasn’t even him. We get into dumb scandals all the time, and—”

“Soonyoung.” Your grim tone makes him flinch. “What happened that night?”

“That night?” He recites, thinking hard for a moment. “Oh! Do you mean last night? Don’t listen to Seungcheol, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about with billiards—”

You sigh. “No, Soonyoung. The night we all got drunk in D.C. What happened?”

“Ooooohh.” Soonyoung lets the note drag on, his vibrato reverberating through the dressing room you’re in. “That night!”

Yes, you want to groan, mentally slapping your forehead. Memories were nonsensical from that night—all you remember was biting someone’s shoulder and then being dragged to your room, feeling incredibly down about it.

You chalked it off the next day as silly drunk antics, as everyone—save for Jihoon, who said he wasn’t feeling well that day—was acting normal around you.

But now? After gathering the evidence of ignorance, and seeing this headline? Your heart hammers with fear of the unknown, and you have to do a breathing exercise for a second before you’re able to respond.

“What happened?” You ask again, more firmly this time.

The drummer scratches the back of his neck, eyebrows squeezing in thought. “...I dunno. We were all drunk and stuff. Jeonghan was teasing you a lot for your low tolerance, and Jihoon took you to your room right after.”

Slumping, you wrack your brain, trying to fragment some semblance of what could have happened that night. Maybe you had embarrassed yourself by letting out a particularly gut-wrenching burp? Or, perhaps, you had disclosed something incredibly personal to him, and he felt awkward about it?

But nothing was brought up. Frustration laces your thoughts and makes itself comfortable in your heart, throwing its arms up in the air with a sigh. Surely he would’ve talked to you if you did anything embarrassing, right?

Or, maybe, your anxiety murmurs, he’s so disgusted by you he doesn’t even want to bring it up.

Burying your head in your hands, you will the feelings away, trembling with emotion. Soonyoung, put off by your desolate state, rubs a comforting hand in circles along your back.

“I’m sure it’ll all blow over,” he reasons. “And Jihoon will come around. I’m sure of it.”

Not even half a second later, the mentioned man pushes the dressing room door open. You don’t catch it, too entangled in your woes, but Jihoon takes a sharp inhale at the sight of his bandmate comforting you in such an intimate manner.

“Soonyoung,” Jihoon rasps, and you involuntarily stiffen at the sound of his voice. “We’re needed soon for pre-show photos.”

Soonyoung mutters that he’ll be there soon. Turning your head, you meet Jihoon’s eyes, hope flaring in your chest when he hesitates at the door.

“Seungcheol and I will be waiting in the stairwell. See you then.” He takes a step back and lets the door shut, the wood creaking for a moment in protest before ultimately giving in.

You let out a long, resigned sigh, tears welling up in the back of your throat.

“I’m sorry,” Soonyoung mumbles your name, and you look at him with what you hope is a grateful smile; by the expression on his face, it’s far from one. “I promise, he’ll come around. Maybe he just needs some space. Talk to you in a little, okay? Drink some water.”

He abandons you then, draped over the arm of the couch with a tissue box and half-empty bottle of water. Your sniffles are quiet in contrast to the loud cheering from outside—it’s definitely Soonyoung trying to lift the mood.

Maybe he just needs some space. The words, empty with promise, ring in your head.

Space your ass. Your jaw clenches. Jihoon should know better than to hide from communication with you—it’s what had you two at each other’s throats in the first place.

Right then and there, against better judgement, you make a decision. Tonight you would confront Lee Jihoon, WOOZI of CH33RS, and you would do it scared to absolute death.

—

You find Jihoon in your dressing room after the opening show, tinkering with the make-up products on your vanity.

He must’ve just gotten out of his own last-minute touch ups, the red eyeliner making those half-crescents you like to stare at so much become just that much more endearing. Jihoon adjusts the leather jacket he’s wearing, fiddling with the pocket’s button, before finally glancing up at you.

He speaks your name, sweet and soft and everything you could ever hope for.

“Did the show go… well?” Jihoon scans your figure as you make a beeline for the vanity, pushing past him and grabbing your water bottle. “You’re shaking.”

“Show went well,” you reply curtly; the water easily goes down your throat, and you welcome it, using it as an excuse to not talk to the man beside you.

“Listen, I… wanted to explain—”

“Look, Jihoon.” You bring the bottle down from your lips, fixing him in place with a long look. “If it’s about the scandal, forget it. I need to talk to you about something more important—did I do something wrong?”

Jihoon blinks, lips parted in an ‘o’. “No?”

So he was brushing you off for the fun of it. Cool. The feelings of frustration and anxiety come flying back at the speed of light, smashing into you with such concentrated strength you end up crushing the plastic water bottle in your hand. Jihoon’s eyes flicker between you and the bottle in fear.

Good, you think. That makes two of us scared right now.

“Great, awesome,” you manage with a terse nod. “Have a good show, then.”

You make a move to leave, but there’s that familiar warmth around your wrist again, and you’re jerked back by Jihoon’s nimble fingers. He’s pleading your name, and—

Wait—I... we can’t.

Gasping, you snatch your hand away, stumbling back with your head whirling.

We can’t. Not like this. Not right now.

Please, just… get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?

Wait, Jihoon—!

Your lower back meets the couch, and you gawk at him, hurt slowly fanning out in your expression to reach even the tremors of your pinkie fingers.

“You—you stopped me that night. From kissing you. Didn’t you?”

Jihoon lets out a tch and rips his eyes away from you, running an agitated hand through his black locks.

“You stopped me—why? Was I not good enough for you? Is that why?” You cry out, fists shaking at your sides. “Did you realize at that moment that you didn’t want me? Is that why you ended up hooking up with someone from the club?”

“That’s not—” Jihoon clenches his jaw. “That’s not why I did that.”

Though his words are supposed to comfort, they instead overwhelm, the confirmation of the scandal looming over you like a taunt.

“So you did hook up with someone,” you say slowly, betrayal etched into your features.

He’s reaching for you, arm outstretched and eyes as glassy as the night he stopped you from kissing him. “God, okay, let me just explain—”

“What? Did you need a new lover, or something?”

It comes out much harsher than you intend. You watch as Jihoon’s arm falls and silence engulfs the two of you once more, save for your labored breathing and the squeaking of his boots on the floor when he shifts.

“Just… just for Orlando,” he mumbles, dropping his head.

You let out an incredulous laugh. “Just for Orlando?” You echo, disbelief written across all your features. “What, so you’re going to find someone new for Atlanta, too? Houston, even Los Angeles?”

He says nothing.

A knock comes at the door. The two of you stand still as statues as a staff member pokes their head in. If they heard anything, they don’t show it, sparing you only a glance before calling out to Jihoon.

“Stage in ten!”

The door closes as fast as they had opened it, the wood giving no resistance this time. You think Jihoon’s going to say something again, but as he’s quite loved to do during the time he’s known you, he surprises you once again by simply making his way towards the exit.

You can’t tell if you want to laugh or cry.

He passes you, intentionally making sure to not even have his jacket brush yours, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

“So that’s it.” Your voice cracks on the last syllable and you hate it.

Jihoon stops in his tracks. His back is to you now, but you turn to watch the rise and inescapable fall of his broad shoulders. If you look closely, you can see the new silver hoops you had helped him pick out at a random flea market on the road.

“Is that all I was to you? Is that all I am to you?” You clamp your fists together, thumbs pressing on your knuckles until they pale. “Just a—just some event that happened to you that you can then make your own dumb conclusions based off of?”

He doesn’t say anything again—you wished he would. The words can’t stop spilling from your lips, like a cup that’s been left uncared for too long under a fountain.

Your impulsivity will be the death of you.

“I’m not a tour date, WOOZI,” you spit. “I’m not just some random location you can think of and go, Oh, right, I visited that place. I’m a person too. I have feelings. I thought you would’ve known that by now, with those stupid memories we shared. I guess I was wrong.”

WOOZI’s low, grainy voice reaches your ears a moment too late. “That’s not what I’m trying to do—”

Crash!

Wrapped up in your emotions, you had forgotten that you were right next to your vanity, your elbow knocking off a jar of perfume. The delicate, rose-colored pieces of glass now lay shattered on the floor, a floral scent filling the air. It’s so pungent you want to gag.

“Fuck,” you mutter, stepping back and plugging your nose. “Ji—WOOZI, I—”

He’s rooted to the ground, hands pressed over his ears and eyes screwed shut. Your eyes widen when taking in how his shoulders shake.

Worriedly and without hesitation, you dash over to him, extending the tips of your fingers to run along the stitches of his leather jacket.

One of WOOZI’s eyes crack open. The iris of brown meets you, his pupil practically a slit, and you falter just enough for him to recognize what you’re trying to do.

He strikes your hand away, fast as lightning, and you yelp in pain.

“Don’t fucking touch me.” WOOZI regards you with a voice that doesn’t sound like his own; it’s roughened around the edges, and so, so cold, that you shiver despite the jacket around your shoulders. “I’m leaving. And you can’t stop me.”

He does exactly what he says he’ll do, slamming the door so hard behind him it rattles in his wake. Sinking to the floor, you let out a sob.

The perfume bottle’s rose-colored pieces are left untouched.

📍 ATLANTA, GEORGIA

Jihoon traces the outline of your side-profile from backstage, eyes taking in your loose tank top and baggy shorts that fall just a little above your knees. The stage lights burn brightly onto your newly colored hair, freshly dyed the night before, and your lips are bruised with the cherry red lip stain he knows you love. You’re in the middle of Real Man, fingers holding the guitar pick so tight he’s a little scared you’ll break it by force.

And I already told you I just wanted to dance Could you see me standing out here with my outstretched hand? I guess no one ever taught you how to be a real man, ooh

He feels Seungcheol before he sees him; the hand on his shoulder is weighted, resolute. The bassist says nothing to him as you launch into the second verse of the song.

What Jihoon hates the most is how much of a coward he is—how, even back then with Seokmin, all he knew how to do was put up a cold front and sneer.

Seokmin, with his bright laugh and hopeful gaze. Seokmin, with his neverending optimism, who cheered the three of them on during late nights at their old company’s studio. Seokmin, who took a slap for him from their bitchy CEO, ushering him and his bandmates to flee and never come back.

Crash!

“Seokmin!” He had yelled—never before had he yelled so loud. Jihoon remembers his hoarse voice the day after, how Seungcheol had to brew him ginger tea for his throat.

He also remembers how Seokmin had just laughed, blood dripping from a cut across his cheek. The vase that had smashed to smithereens lay right below him, knocked over when he stumbled back from the CEO’s hand, and Jihoon remembers the smell of the daisies all too well.

“Jihoon,” Seokmin grinned. “It’s okay. The contract isn’t renewing. Go. I’ll always believe in you.”

Walking as the morning beckon You said you'll be a second Locked the back door Yeah, you should have mentioned Guess I should expect it I'm out here, blue What to do?

“Did you know today marks a hundred days since we properly met them?” Seungcheol asks, startling Jihoon out of his memories. “And soon we’ll hit the hundred day mark with them as our opener.”

He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his trousers. Pauses in opening his mouth. Thinks about how he can’t see your eyes from this angle, but doesn’t quite know what he’s looking for in them anyway.

“Where’d you hear that? Soonyoung?” Jihoon finally snorts. “Him and his weird anniversaries.”

From his peripheral vision, he sees Seungcheol shrug. Instead of giving a proper answer, the bassist lets out a low whistle and runs a hand through his hair.

“Man, they must be really worked up about something.”

Jihoon’s already staring at you when you drop to your knees, head tilted back and eyelashes flush against your cheeks. Real Man isn’t a ballad song by any means, but your stage presence has made it infinitely more personal this time around as you cry the lyrics into the microphone.

Would you hold it down and take it if I gave you a chance? Need the reassurance, baby, not a silly romance Guess I'm used to being disappointed, falling too fast If you want it, go and get it, and I hope you last

“If you want it, go and get it!” Tears stream down your face; Jihoon ashamedly thinks you look like an angel with your hair framing your face so perfectly, head still tilted back to the light.

“And I hope you last.”

You punctuate the last word with a fist to the air. The stage lights darken, the music stills, and all that can be heard is the heavy breathing from you onstage.

That is, until the audience bursts into screams, of course.

He feels a hard clap to his shoulder. Seungcheol’s expression is stony, written with thick strokes of disappointment, doing nothing to ease the onslaught of bullets that are currently being shot into Jihoon’s chest.

Fix your shit, man, is what his friend says without words, before he leaves to go further backstage.

You’re standing up again, facing the crowd and away from Jihoon’s anxious eyes. He sees you readying your guitar for the last song.

“Thank you, Atlanta,” you say into the mic. “It’s been a pleasure being able to open for you tonight. This song… it’s dedicated to someone very special to me. I hope one day I’ll be able to introduce you to him.”

The crowd goes absolutely wild, and Jihoon becomes a deer caught in headlights. He’s listened to your setlist enough times to have memorized the order—knows that after Real Man, comes a song that you hold so close to your heart.

“Atlanta!” You strike a chord. “This is He Gets Me So High!”

There’s no time for him to react before you jump into the music, your mellifluous voice sweetening the sickening lyrics of the song as you strum. Jihoon can’t bear to watch anymore.

A staff member comes to remind him that he’s up next, and he gratefully takes the opportunity to leave—but not without throwing one last look over his shoulder. The entire show you’ve been facing away from him, but this time, you’re angled so he can see the glimmer of your star stud.

Then, you move, and that light fizzles out.

“A hundred days, huh,” he mutters, following the staff to his dressing room. “You’d think we’d have moved past square one at this point.”

—

You trace a light line across the dahlia on your ankle. Minghao had offered to touch-up on your old tattoos for free, but you had turned him down, liking how the fade of the ink added to the sentiment.

If only all your tattoos had such lighthearted meanings to them.

“Sit up a little straighter for me, please.”

Sakura, after your soft pleas, became one of your go-to staff members after shows to help you tidy yourself up. She gives a tiny pat to your leg, indicating you should put it down from its place propped up on your knee, and you oblige.

From outside your dressing room, you pick up on the now-familiar shouts from CH33RS’ crowd. While each city’s audience had their own unique sound—New York was full of screamers, whereas San Francisco had sweeter tones to them—they all bled into the same stream of being wildly captivated by the rock band.

Which, to your utter shame, you can’t exactly say is not hard to do.

“Sakura.” She hums to show she’s heard you, combing a hand through your hair to work the product out of it. “Do you enjoy being a staff member for CH33RS?”

The girl doesn’t stop in her ministrations, but she does fall into a different kind of silence from before, and you can only imagine the gears turning in her head.

“They’re very chaotic.” She states—this gets a giggle out of you. “But they’re very genuine in their actions, and I respect them for that.”

You wring your hands together. “Genuine?”

“I’d like to think so.” In the mirror, you see the reflection of her smile: it’s gentle and coats you with warmth, like one’s favorite quilt would do. “Especially Jihoon. He may seem prickly, but I think he’s just bad with words. He’s much better at showing sincerity through his actions.”

With a bite to your cheek, you carefully formulate your response, hoping Sakura doesn’t see through the cracks of your facade.

“He’s definitely… a character,” you confess. “It’s been hard to get along with him.”

To your surprise, Sakura only chuckles, as if she expected your answer. “I think it’s because you’ve been trying to be someone you think he would get along with. It’s hard to be someone you’re not, you know.”

Her words leave you silent, and she finishes up with pulling your hair back from face to start taking off your makeup. While Sakura doesn’t say any more than that, you feel squeamish in your seat—almost as if she knows something you don’t, and is waiting for you to realize it.

—

The water of the hotel stings.

You rub your eyes with your hands, blinking away tears that crowd the corners of your eyes.

It’s hard to be someone you’re not, you know.

A spray of hot water hits your back as you turn around, leaning against the tiled walls with a sniffle. Sakura’s words hit you with a truck of feelings you’re not sure you’re ready to face.

Sairen. The stage name echoes in your mind, and you repeat it out loud, hating how it rolls off the tongue with such an alluring mystique to it—the sigh of a maiden’s whisper before being grounded with a firm, calm ending, one that leaves you aching for more. It sickens you to the bone.

You cry softly into your hands. Sakura’s right. Pretending to be a magnetic pull when you are instead a sporadic force of resistance has led to the baring of your teeth one too many times. You desperately wish you could mold yourself into what society is begging you to be, if only to stop the relentless torment you endure every time someone mistreats you.

Because pray, do tell—how are you supposed to be the gentle, enticing waves of the ocean, when all you are is the barreling torrent of a tsunami?

Slowly turning the knob of the shower, you shiver as the heat of the bathroom begins to dissipate, condensing into little water droplets on the glass of the shower’s door. Goosebumps prickle your skin and you hurry to wrap yourself in the towel you had prepared before getting in.

The hotel room is dark when you step out, but you’re taken away by the sight of the Atlanta skyline at night. Lights twinkle from various apartments and city buildings, looking like a galaxy some thousand light years away, and you find yourself standing at the bay of your window, hair still dripping wet onto your shoulders and fluffy towel warming you to your toes.

Tap, tap.

Your breath hitches at the soft knock of the door. It’s well past two in the morning—Joshua wouldn’t come bothering you at this hour, and Soonyoung knows better than to try and show up unannounced. Heartbeat quickening, you rustle around for a shirt to throw on, hastily hanging your towel on the metal rod inside the bathroom.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re at the door, rising to peek through the peephole on the hotel room door. “Hello?”

The sight on the other side of the door makes your stomach drop.

WOOZI, hair messy and bearing grey sweats with a black tank. He’s shuffling about awkwardly in his sandals, but his head snaps up at the sound of your voice, and in the half-heartbeat that you see his face it looks like he’s been—crying?

“Hey, it’s me.” WOOZI speaks in a low, muted pitch, and it has your heart aching.

Whatever. Your face burns as you clench your jaw, your back pressed to the door, the sound of your breath coming out in rough gasps. Just make it back to your bed. Just go to sleep, and he’ll be gone.

Then—your name is uttered.

Suspended in place, the air is stuck in your lungs as a dull thump comes from behind you. Though the door is dense, you can practically feel the heat radiating off of him through it. You don’t know whether to run or let it embrace you.

He says your name again. The sound is loudest right at the shell of your ear, causing you to shiver despite the muffling of the door.

“I—I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I’ve been a jerk this entire time. Even when you treated me with nothing but kindness—it’s… I have no other explanation or reasoning or justification, but I’m sorry.”

“I just had to let you know before the next show.”

Unfurling your fists and against better judgement, you turn to flip the lock of the hotel door open.

WOOZI’s eyes are tinged red. The beauty mark you like to study when he isn’t looking is bold against his pale, blush-fevered skin, making your heart leap in your throat.

“At least have the decency to apologize to my face, dickhead.” It comes out in a pitiful attempt to insult him; a blurt, which is followed by the sound of you sniffling and walking away from the doorway.

He must come in right behind you, because the hallway light goes out not even a second later as the door clicks shut. The city lights glimmer from your window, illuminating your hotel room with a dim glow, and the soft hum of the air conditioner has made itself comfortable in the silence.

“Decency?” echoes WOOZI.

In the blink of an eye, he’s got your wrist caught in his hand, spinning you around to look him in the eye. The expression on his face is a new one—there’s a crease in the middle of his forehead, lips pressed into a small frown, and a small part of you wants to believe he’s worried about you.

“If we’re talking decency, then you should at least also have the decency to look me in the face,” he murmurs, running a thumb along your knuckles.

Your cheeks burn. He must notice this, because he drops your hand soon after, opting to rub his forearm and clear his throat. “Y’know, you’re pretty bad at that. Eye contact.”

This gets a proper reaction out of you. Huffing, you turn away again, wanting nothing more than for the ground to open up and swallow you whole.

“WOOZI. What are you doing here? What are you trying to possibly gain from this?”

There it is. At the last word, your voice breaks. Cringing, you inwardly curse at yourself, hating the evident flash of hurt in your tone.

“Didn’t you hear me earlier?” WOOZI’s walking around your figure to get you to face him again; the city lights disappear, his shadow looming over your body and sending shivers down your spine. “I’m—I’m apologizing. I’m trying to make things better—fuck, can’t you just look at me?”

Your hands shake as you tear at your hair. “No, I—I can’t. I can’t do that, I’m sorry. And I can’t accept your apology.”

“Why not?” You see him reach for your hand once more.

“Because!” Tugging your fingers away, the electricity jolts you alive, and your breaths start to fall shallow. “Because—how can I know you’re for real this time? How do I know you’re not going to push me away, again? How do I know that you’re not just spitting empty words at me like you have been the past few weeks?”

You don’t even realize you’re crying. The tears come slowly, at first, dripping down your cheeks and making droplets on your tee. Soon enough, though, they’re the flooding rapids of a river, all the emotions that you’ve bottled up over the course of the day exploding like a shaken can of soda.

“I’m tired of this, Jihoon,” you sob. “I’m tired of whatever the fuck this friendship—this, this situation is. Maybe you were right. Maybe we should just stay as memories on a map to one another.”

It all happens so fast; one moment, the cool air of the hotel surrounds you, and the next WOOZI’s got you tightly wrapped up in a hug. It’s the first time he’s voluntarily touched you the entire tour, a sickening part of your brain hoping it’s not the last. His hands are cold, fingers splayed firmly across the small of your back, but his torso—it’s warm.

“I’m sorry,” he’s croaking into your shoulder; you long to feel the brush of his lips against your bare skin. “I’m so, so, so awful with words. I’m sorry.”

His arms, heavy with muscle and firm with his quiet determination, guide you to your bed. The backs of your knees hit your comforter, and you sink to sit on the edge, letting go of him to cover your blazing face with your hands.

You’re expecting WOOZI to leave after sitting you down on the bed, fully convinced he’d be too off put by the surge of your emotions to have a proper conversation with you.

Of course, in true WOOZI nature, he surprises you by beginning to comb his hands through your hair.

He stands between you, not talking with words but with his fingers. I’m sorry, his index and middle finger mumble, disentangling some strands that veil your expression from him. I’m sorry, whispers his thumb, oh-so-carefully tracing the outer shell of your ear down to the point of your jaw.

I’m sorry.

“You still won’t look at me.” His murmur of your name is stained with defeat. “Please, just look at me.”

With a gulp, you lift your chin, trembling eyes meeting his. As you do so, his hand slides to cradle the side of your cheek in his hold. You try to fight the urge of pressing a kiss to his palm.

“There you go,” WOOZI lets out a sigh. “Wasn’t that hard, was it?”

He stands in between your legs, looking down at you with a gaze full of utter reverence. It almost makes you laugh.

“I should be the one saying that to you,” you croak out, the words getting stuck halfway in your throat. “It only took me several breakdowns for you to finally apologize. Wasn’t that hard, was it?”

Though the words are supposed to have a bite to them, they instead have a subdued acceptance to them, your heart pounding loud in your ears from how intimate this moment is. Now that you can get a good look at him, you spot your favorite manmade mark thus far—his star stud now shines brightly, spurred on by the Atlanta lights.

“Yeah,” WOOZI draws his hand away; you make a soft noise of protest at the lack of his touch. “Wasn’t that hard. Should’ve done this way sooner.”

His hands are on either side of you on the bed, leaning forward while you simultaneously lean back on your own hands. The tips of your noses touch and you don’t know where to look—his lips are parted, coffee-grounded eyes trained on the slope of your cupid’s bow, thumbs just barely skimming the surface of your thighs.

Time is awfully slow at times like this. You breathe a sigh into his mouth, one that makes his eyelashes flutter with a heaviness you’re quite sure you could get used to, and the seconds just keep on ticking.

“You’re not going to tell me to stop this time,” you murmur. “Are you?”

And then he fucking grins. “Nah. Been told I’m bad at words, so I’ll stick to letting my actions talk for me.”

You’re not ready for the swell of emotions that overcome you when his lips eagerly press to yours, drowning your senses in the smell of his shampoo. Your arms give out, and you fall back onto the bed, a whine escaping you when you feel the dip of his knee on the bed next to your thigh.

Kissing WOOZI is like taking your first dip in the ocean—the temperature initially shocks you and sends you into a gasping spiral, but then gradually gives way to the relaxing thrum of the waves against your body. His tongue darts out and takes a swipe along your bottom lip, your back arching in pleasure, and you feel the grin on his face when his teeth bump with yours.

“WOOZI—” You start, pulling back with a gasp.

Adjusting his position above you, the man’s head dips to press open-mouthed kisses along your jaw. He gives a nip to the column of your throat, making you let out an embarrassingly loud noise of content.

“I told you to call me Jihoon, didn’t I?”

Cheeks flushed, you let your arms snake around his neck, tugging lightly on the hair at the base of his neck. “Bed, please, Jihoon.”

Jihoon huffs out a laugh, detaching his lips from your neck with one last kiss. When he gets off you, you mourn the loss of his body heat, a long sigh leaving you at the glance you get of the tent in his grey sweats.

He guides you to sit much more comfortably on the bed, your head resting against the soft feathery pillows the hotel provided. Wasting no time, Jihoon settles between your legs once more, just barely dipping his hands underneath your already-bunched up shirt.

Leaning over you again, Jihoon tugs at your ear with his teeth, giving it a small kiss after. “Better?”

His fingers are a welcome chill to your feverish skin, and your quivering eyelashes tell him as such as you finally give into your desires, bringing one of his hands to your lips to press chaste kisses to. Jihoon’s own lips part in shallowing pants. His pupils are blown wide as he watches your ministrations turn less than innocent when you take the tip of his thumb in your mouth.

Your eyes are dark and half-lidded as you stare up at him with a challenge, swirling the digit around your tongue and sucking lightly. When you sigh, he sighs; when you let your eyes flutter close, his eyelids close half-way, becoming half-lidded in the dim light of your bedroom.

“You look so good when you’re like this, you know that?” Jihoon intones, the newfound sensation of the slow roll of his hips making you gasp and let his thumb fall out of your mouth with a pop!

You let out a shy mewl; he’s so hard against you, the friction of his sweatpants and your underwear catching onto your clit in the most delicious way. Chest heaving, your head tilts back on the pillows, exposing the column of your throat to him once more.

And he takes, dragging his teeth down your neck and sucking at the base of your collarbone. His hands are relentless on your body, squeezing your waist so hard you hope it bruises.

Jihoon pulls at the offending piece of clothing still on you. “Can I take this off, pretty?”

“Yes, please,” you beg. “And you too, Ji.”

“Of course I can.” He presses a long, sweet saccharine kiss to your shiny lips, one that leaves you breathless.

Jihoon sits back on his haunches, tugging his tank top off in one quick and smooth pull. Your eyes widen at the ebony serpent engraved into his skin, its tongue flicking out with a glint of danger in its expression.

The man quietly observes you reaching out to outline the tattoo. His abdomen tenses at your touch, but he lets you continue your journey down his torso, silent awe in your eyes.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur, gaze finally meeting his. “What does it mean?”

Swallowing thickly, Jihoon places a hand over yours, extending your fingers to fully splay over the mystical creature.

“Supposed to be the serpent Ouroboros, from Egyptian mythology, before he was doomed to his eternal fate of consuming himself over and over.” Jihoon’s voice is impossibly low. “A reminder to myself to never succumb to my greed.”

“Might have to go back on that promise, though,” he chuckles, eyes drifting to where your nipples are perked up underneath your shirt. “You’re making it kinda hard to keep myself in check.”

Jihoon lifts you up with a surprising amount of strength, helping you get your shirt off and throwing it off the bed without as much as a look. You let out a squeak when he dives between your breasts, massaging them with both hands and hungrily pressing sloppy, wet kisses to the valley between them.

All the while, he’s started grinding against you again, and you’re left a little unsure of the source of the stickiness between your legs. Jihoon’s presence is overwhelming, as if his goal is to make you think of him and him only, and this thought makes your stomach churn with need.

His mouth makes its way down your body, biting at your skin with his fangs before smoothing the lovebites over with his tongue. The saliva he leaves in his wake burns cold in the air conditioned air of your hotel room, but it’s nothing compared to the fire in your lower stomach.

A groan leaves his throat when he comes to the new flowers lacing your thigh—right next to the delicate material of your panties.

“When you got this tattoo,” he sighs, and you squeal at the sudden press of his tongue, flat against the darkening spot of your underwear between your legs. “It took everything in me not to crack at the sight of you in those damn shorts you wore for days after.”

Your panties muffle his words, but as if to make up for it, the vibrations coming from his lips on your clit send waves of pleasure through you. Moaning, you raise your hips to meet his face, your back lifting off the mattress.

Inevitably, Jihoon grows tired of only tasting cotton. In a flash, your panties lay somewhere behind him on the bed, and his mouth licks a stripe up your folds, your moans music to his ears.

“Jihoon—oh, fuck—” you whimper, covering your face with your arms in embarrassment. “Feels—feels s’good, please don’t stop.”

He hums a melody into your cunt, letting his tongue kiss the insides of your gummy walls. You’re delicious, a taste he could only imagine of on nights with no one but him and his hand. Jihoon buries himself further into you, nose rubbing against the bud that draws the loudest sounds out of your throat, and loving every second of it.

You’re squeezing his head between your thighs with all your might, frantically trying to get him to go deeper with his tongue. Fingers scratching at his scalp, your voice comes out in a babble as Jihoon does something with his tongue that leaves your legs shaking.

“D—do that again, please, sir.” The title falls out of you with shockingly little thought, and you clamp around his tongue with a deep flush.

Jihoon pulls back from your folds, cocking his head with a smirk. You whine at the sight of the wetness coating his chin; it dribbles down onto the comforter with little to no regard for your sanity.

“Sir, huh?” He mumbles, teeth moving to nip again at your sensitive spot; you jump and let out a moan. “That’s a new one.”

The singer prods at your entrance with his tongue once more, one of his digits tracing circles around your puffy clit. “You want me to do what again, rockstar?”

Keening, you struggle to keep your eyes open, pathetically pawing at his hair and hoping Jihoon gets the message. He only raises an eyebrow at you, much to your dismay, before devilishly slurping the new juices flooding out of your hole.

His fingers, the ones you’ve only watched pick at his guitar strings until now, make quick work of you, sliding in a V-shape around your bud—up, down, up, down. The wet smacks of his mouth against your pussy echo in the quiet hotel room, loud and lewd. Your noises of pleasure accompany them to create what Jihoon would call his favorite orchestra.

“Th—that! Oh my God, Jihoon!” You yank at his hair, hard, when he does that stupid thing with his tongue again. “Sir—oh god, please… I’m gonna—”

The coils in your lower stomach are threatening to burst. It’s a searing kind of pleasure—one that borders on pain as Jihoon vigorously works his tongue and fingers simultaneously faster, until you’re left a sobbing mess for him to pick up the pieces of. Too much, you want to cry out. Too much, but please don’t stop.

Your legs are convulsing, endless in their tremors as you get lost in how good he’s making you feel. However, just as you’re about to let go of that star, letting it explode into oblivion—

Slap!

A shriek escapes you and you tear your eyes open, hips jolting with the force of Jihoon’s slap against your cunt. He’s grinning, fingers tapping your clit three times before his hand drops.

“Sorry, rockstar,” he teases, shifting upwards to engulf you in a kiss; you taste yourself on his tongue, gooey and sweet, and whimper in response. “Didn’t want you to cum before I’ve had my share of fun, y’know?”

Jihoon rocks his hips forward, his hard-on barely concealed by his sweatpants and dragging enticingly along your pussy just right. Breathlessly, you hold onto his broad shoulders, pouting up at him with your release smeared all over your lips from his kiss.

“Please,” you whisper; he doesn’t even have to ask what you’re begging for, too entranced by the soft spoken sound of your plea.

Shuffling his pants and boxers off, you’re finally met with the sight of his cock: girthy and curved ever so slightly, with a tip tinged so red it leaves your mouth aching to be filled. He grunts as it slaps against his lower stomach, choking out a moan when you immediately reach down to spread your fingers around his tip, smearing pre all over himself.

Jihoon catches your wrist in his hand, looking at you with a gaze so dark it has you clenching around nothing. “Careful what you wish for, pretty,” he mumbles aloud. “Don’t bite off more than you can chew right now.”

He lets his cock slide deliciously between your folds, your juices mixing with his pre to create the perfect lube. It’s so messy, with Jihoon gasping every time the tip of his cock brushes against your entrance. The sheets below you are soaked with your arousal, and you silently pray that the hotel staff won’t mind too much in the morning.

“Ride me,” Jihoon suddenly says. “Need you to ride me. Please.”

 You’ve never heard him beg before, but you decide right then and there it’s one of your favorite sounds.

His eyes are so dark you can barely see the irises anymore, and are so, so glossy, that you worry he’s about to cry. Cradling his cheek in your hand, you swipe your thumb along his beauty mark with a soft smile.

“Of course, Jihoon,” you whisper.

He flips you over so you’re straddling him, your left hand splayed against Ouroboros. Jihoon tortures his bottom lip with his teeth as you mentally prepare yourself.

The stretch is painful. You squeeze your eyes shut as you lower yourself onto his length, whimpering from the dull sting of him. Jihoon isn’t doing any better; you hear his groan of pleasure, his hips twitching, before he’s desperately trying to still them as to not start frantically thrusting up until you.

“S’too big,” you fret, lashes fluttering along your cheeks with tears beginning to line the corners of your eyes. “Sir, s’too big.”

Jihoon grasps your hand in his and kisses it delicately. “You’re doing great, baby. Just breathe. M’right here.”

Slowly, you inch your way down his cock, until your hips meet his. You sniffle and try not to cry; he’s so deep in you, making you feel so full it has your head spinning.

“Good job, pretty.” Jihoon massages your hips with his fingers, squeezing the flesh with a gentleness you didn’t know he had. “You did so well. Feel good yet?”

“Uh-huh,” you nod, trembling above him.

“Good,” says the man. “Now ride me.”

With a small whine, your thighs shake as you lift yourself once, before dropping back down onto his cock. The loud, unabashed sound of his skin meeting yours makes you squeak in surprise, and Jihoon lets out a long, drawn out groan.

“Keep going, baby,” he encourages.

His hands help to guide you until you’re a bouncing wreck, cunt slamming down onto his dick with so much force the bed frame creaks in protest. Jihoon grabs your chin and pulls you into a smoldering kiss, your spit mixing with his as you unashamedly moan into his mouth.

“God, fuck, you’re taking m’so well.” Jihoon moans, lips sliding against your teeth, beginning to piston up into you at an impossibly harsh speed. He’s hitting that one spot that’s making you see absolute stars, your walls violently fluttering around him. “You—fuck, you feel s’good baby—tell me how much you like it.”

Your hips are starting to slow, especially with the new oncoming force of his thrusts, but you do your best to keep up with his pace. “Love it so much, sir—shit! Oh god… please, keep going…”

He must notice your slowing rate, because Jihoon makes a show of gripping onto your hips with a brutal hold and moving you in time with him.

“C’mon, baby,” Jihoon grunts. “Thought I told you to ride me.”

It’s so unbelievably hot, your skin sticky with sweat and whatever fluids have ended up on it. You let Jihoon take control, fingernails dragging down his chest as he lets out a hiss of pleasure. They leave little trails of red in their wake, and you take this chance to suck a bruising hickey or two into his shoulder, shuddering at his cock pressing into you in all the right places.

The squelching noises are what really get to you. They ring in your ears, directly fueling the pit in your stomach that’s already about to explode again. You feel so dirty.

“J—Jihoon,” you warn, the last syllable coming out in a garble. “Oh—oh, sir, too much! Gonna—”

And then Jihoon’s flipping you two over again, your face being pushed into the hotel pillows as he sets a pace so brutal it has you screaming. His cock rams into you, hands spreading your cheeks apart, as he finally lets loose of all control.

“Y—yeah?” He’s moaning. “Gonna what, pretty? Gonna cum all over my cock?”

Fisting the sheets, you nod your head eagerly, voice small in contrast to the loud, lewd noises coming from the two of you. “Yes—yes, please let me come sir, please please please please—”

“Go ahead baby. Cum.”

With a broken wail, your pussy flutters around his length, a burst of pleasure peaking within you as you see white. Jihoon still doesn’t stop, working you through your orgasm, until he’s whining and bent over you, mouthing at your shoulder with love bites.

“Fuck, baby—”

He pulls out and you sob at the loss, liquids rushing out of your hole as Jihoon works himself over with his hand. His cum spurts, hot and thick, all across your back and ass, and you clench around nothing to cope.

Breathing heavily, you turn your head, gasping for air. Tears stream down your face that you wipe away hastily. Jihoon, above you, has his breath coming out in harsh pants, leaning his weight onto the backs of your thighs.

For a few minutes, there’s nothing but the sound of your shared breathing, the air conditioning kicking in again to rid the room of the smell of sex.

“Jihoon.” Your voice is tiny, but he hears it all the same, taking a moment before moving so he can stand up and crouch beside the bed at your eye level.

With an inquisitive look from him, you blink the remaining tears away.

“Atlanta won’t be just another tour date to you, right?”

Jihoon’s shushing you before you can even get the question out. “Baby, baby, no. Atlanta is so much more than that to me, I swear. You’re much more than one night to me.”

He punctuates his words with kisses to your fingertips. You melt under his gaze, so soft and inviting it’s hard to ever remember a time where he looked at you with such contempt.

“Then…” You swallow tersely, pain lacing your every word. “Why did you sleep with that person? In Orlando?”

Jihoon’s expression turns solemn. He squeezes his eyes shut, heaving out a sigh, and when he speaks next, his tone is charred with regret.

“To try to forget.”

You frown. “That’s kinda hard to do.”

Smiling bitterly, Jihoon turns his face towards you again. “Yeah. Really hard to forget you, y’know. Especially now.”

Pouting, your cheeks flush, and you huff. It’s quiet again before you ask what’s been on your mind.

“Does that mean we’re dating now?”

The man chuckles, bringing your hand to cup his cheek. “You’re asking that now? You are so…”

“Let’s take it slow.” Jihoon stands up and disappears from your vision; you hear the click of the bathroom door, followed by the sound of the sink running, before he’s padding back to you with a wet cloth in his hands. “There’s no rush when it comes to us, ‘kay?”

You have the audacity to let out a snort as he begins wiping your back down, the towel feeling like heaven against your skin. “Right. Like how there was no rush to eat me out, I’m sure.”

He pauses, and you snicker at his dumbfounded expression. Jihoon sighs and shakes his head.

“Save it for when you aren’t covered in my cum, rockstar.”

“…Touché,” you concede, giggling as he presses kisses to your cheeks.

The towel is soon thrown in the bin, and he settles next to you in bed, curling an arm around your waist. You murmur a hello, eyes finding his under the Atlanta city lights.

“Sleep time, now,” he chides. “We have a flight at one tomorrow.”

Humming to show you heard him, you tilt your head forehead to boop his nose with yours. The stars are shining brightly, you’re positively sure of this, and Jihoon smiles against your lips as you whisper a goodnight.

Houston tomorrow, and Dallas next. Your eyes close easily, sleep coaxing you into the dreamworld rather quickly. Then, the future. Whatever the hell that entails.

The thought leaves you off with a grin.

—

“Rough night, eh?”

You jump in your seat, flinching at the sound of Jeonghan’s voice. He’s draped over the airplane seat in front of you, blonde hair perfectly framing the shit-eating grin on his face. It only grows when you fail to answer his question.

“Shut the fuck up, Jeonghan,” you snarl.

The manager of CH33RS barks out a laugh, causing Seungcheol next to him to throw a look over his shoulder. When he spots you, bottom lip pushed out in a glower, he gives his own chuckle.

“Happy for you,” Seungcheol calls; you wave him off, trying not to let his words affect you too much.

Pouting, you curl up in your chair, only picking your head up when Joshua peers over from the seat behind you, nudging the back of your head with a chirp of your name.

“Hey, take a look at this.” Your manager heaves his laptop over the chairs, and you grunt as you take it into your lap. “Let me know if I should schedule him for an interview when we get back to San Francisco.”

Lee Chan. His name comes out quick and fast, and you study his profile from the website Joshua’s got pulled up. Personal stylist, based in Berkeley, California. Looking for a full-time job under someone in the music industry. Flexible schedule.

“How do you keep finding Korean men to associate me with?” You laugh, passing the device back to him. “He looks promising. Did you run a background check on him?”

Joshua nods, typing away on his laptop atop the chairs. People who pass by him on the way to their seats give him a funny look, but he pays them no mind. “I’ll have to get the higher up’s approval, but that shouldn’t be hard. Lee Chan’s got about five years of experience in various other companies. Never stayed in one place for too long, though. Guess he’s as frustrated as we are with the industry.”

“I’d like to meet him, when you invite him for an interview.” The smile that spreads across your face is genuine, and Joshua mirrors your expression when he glances up from his screen.

“Look at you,” he coos, beginning to wipe fake tears away from his eyes. “Wanting to personally mingle with potential future staff members. You’ve come a long way… I’m so proud of you…”

Tsk-ing, you swat at him, letting out another laugh when he only stumbles back into his chair with a mock-offended gasp. Turning back around in your seat, you hum a tune to yourself, hope alight in your heart for what seems like a step towards proper management. A personal stylist would mean no more dealing with the berating cosmetic stylists at photoshoots or music video shoots, and the thought warms you down to your core.

Jihoon joins you a moment later; you both finally made the pinky promise to catch up on Frieren, the two hour flight to Houston being a perfect solution to your dilemma. Sliding into the cushioned seat, he’s already pulling out his wired buds, silently untangling them with a carefully stoic face.

You know better now, though—there’s a blush creeping up the column of his neck, and his fingers are clumsier than usual, slipping in and over themselves more times than not when trying to straighten out the wires.

So, you wait, watching out the window as air crew members line luggages to be packed onto the bottom of the plane. He’ll come to you when he’s ready.

And he does, poking the side of your arm with one of the buds.

“Here,” he murmurs. “You want the left one, right?”

Humming, you intentionally have your thumb run along the side of his index finger when taking the earbud, enjoying how he stiffens at your touch. Giving him a half-smile, you bump his shoulder playfully.

“Yeah. Thanks, Ji.”

Jihoon huffs but doesn’t move away; instead, he presses his shoulder to yours in a promise. Always.

Last but not least, Soonyoung comes bumbling down the aisle of first class, his new silver nose ring catching the overhead lights and complimenting the chain he’s sporting around his neck. He shoots the two of you a thumbs up, clapping Jihoon’s shoulder as he walks by to take his place next to Joshua, and you have to stifle another laugh.

The captain wastes no time once all the passengers are on the plane, flight attendants going through their usual routine of health and safety protocols. You’re barely listening, too caught up in the searing touch of Jihoon’s hand on your thigh.

Sometimes he’ll reach over to threateningly poke at the skin right next to the Blue-Moon Weed flowers, giving you a smirk when you shoot him a glare. After the third time, however, he tilts down to whisper something into your ear.

“Next time you get a tattoo, invite me to the studio, ‘kay rockstar?”

The pilot begins to back the airplane out of the terminal, the roar of the engine slowly coming to life as it approaches the runway. Breath hitching in your throat, you smile up at Jihoon: black bangs parted messily, eyes crinkling at the corners, and nose scrunched up to give his star stud the spotlight it deserves.

You’ve never found him more attractive, nor more yours, until this moment.

“Right back at ya, rockstar,” you challenge. “We may as well get matching tattoos. Whaddaya think?”

He considers it as the aircraft’s engine grows louder, trees whorling past you to indicate its about to make its ascent.

“I think you’re too impulsive for your own good,” he chuckles, brushing a strand of dyed hair out of your face.

“So, you’ll do it?” You eagerly lean into his touch, eyes wide with hope.

The airplane successfully makes its debut into the clouds, and Jihoon’s smiling at you like you’ve got all the time in the world to make this rushed decision together. Impulsivity was your forte, after all, and there were too many memories to be made in such a small amount of remaining tour locations.

Jihoon hums, bringing you out of your thoughts, prolonging his response even though you already know the answer.

“What design did you have in mind?”

📍 DALLAS, TEXAS 

“Hi, guys,” you whisper into the mic, smiling when the live chat floods with reactions. “Yeah, yeah, I know it's late. Shouldn’t some of y’all be sleeping too? Why are you berating me for this?”

Your hotel room is dimly lit by the lamp beside your bed. You have your guitar out, strumming lightly, and when the viewers take notice they eagerly eat up the melodies you’re humming.

“Where’s Jihoon?” you query, reading off the comments from your phone screen. “How should I know? He’s probably asleep or something. Lord knows he needs his rest.”

You scoff and knock your knuckles against the polished wood of the instrument. There’s requests for songs in chat accompanied by demands to go to the singer’s room and bring him on live. Shaking your head, you tsk. “I’ve spoiled you guys too much. You’re getting greedy.”

“Now, what should I sing?”

The chat is going so fast you can barely read it, but you smile anyway, feeling at peace in a city you’ve barely been in. The hotel you’re at is a fairly high-end one, and high up at that—from your place on the bed you can see the twinkling lights of the city below. Cars are shooting down the highways, their lights zooming by, and you revel in the peace that is Dallas at night.

Your voice lifts, delicate against the string plucking you’ve chosen for tonight, a low intone as you settle on a song choice. If one were to close their eyes, they could probably picture being in a stadium full of shimmering flashlights as they sang into the mic.

I'm running over sentences at times I'd better quit dreaming just so I could write Yet the words to describe you aren't so hard to find Like a good quote from a book that I've memorized But I keep forgetting just what to do

A viewer asks what song this is, and you only respond with a smile. “Oh, this? It’s a new one I’ve been working on during tour.”

“Do you like it?” you ask softly, before continuing.

I missed the train again I called your name, as if you'd drive it back I swear you're in my head Throughout the day I can say that for a fact

Truth be told, your legs are shaking under your guitar. These lyrics are raw and unfiltered—they’re straight from your notes app, unedited and messily scribbled into your notebook with a melody you came up with just fifteen minutes ago.

You’re not sure what exactly prompted you to start the live, but something told you it would be worthwhile. Perhaps it was that you had too many feelings now that you were just incapable of bottling them up; or, perhaps, it was the Texas night sky that had you craving for some sort of semblance of familiar recognition, the stars reminding you too much of the stage.

Whatever it was, you welcome it with open arms—all emotions are valid emotions, after all. You close your eyes and let a wave of serenity wash over you.

Know we had better days, but to keep me sane I guess that this is just another love song, About you

A ping! from your phone has you cracking your eye open in just a sliver, pinpointing the message that’s now resting at the top of your screen. The sender’s name stands boldly out against the notification and almost makes you choke on your own spit.

frieren freak!! Pretty voice. You should sing acoustic more often.

Just another love song, About you

Your voice falters at the last note, but you continue to strum, humming an encore for the viewers. There’s another buzz from your phone.

frieren freak!! Let me in?

Slowly, you let the strings of the guitar fade. Your smile is enough to compete with celestial beings as you pick up the device and blow a kiss goodnight.

“That’s it for tonight, guys,” you giggle. “Dallas, I’ll see you tomorrow. There’s someone I’ve been meaning to introduce to y’all.”

—END.

thank you so, so, so much for reading! if you liked this, please be sure to check out the other fics out for yuki's 100 milestone collab! have an amazing day and as always, may good music find you <3!

[myungsverse]

꩜ More than friends, Less than lovers !

ft. Myung Jaehyun, fem!reader

What happens to two friends who act like they’re more than friends? Nothing. They continue being friends, with the only twist—the lingering question in their minds: what has to come in their relationship?

genre fluff, maybe angst if you squint, best friends to lovers

warnings kissing, skinship

People say Myung Jaehyun is like a golden retriever. He’s that friendly, extroverted, social-butterfly type of person. Almost everyone in the school knows him. There's never a time or place you go where he doesn’t run into someone he’s acquainted with. You're convinced he could run for mayor in your city and he’d win—with the number of people he knows, it’s most likely he will win.

However, the way he acts when it comes to you—that’s another topic. He’d always have a hand or two on you. It’s impossible not to think there’s something going on between the two of you: the way he’d greet you every time and every day with a hug, how he’d walk with you with a hand on your waist, or how he’d pick the olives off your plate because he knows how much you dread the taste of them.

You didn’t want to assume, though. No, not even when your other friends from your shared friend group kept telling you how he definitely has feelings for you—you’d always brush it aside. You’d always convince yourself that he's just being compassionate and genuine with you—a little more comfortable, since the two of you have been best friends ever since kindergarten—nothing more, nothing less.

“Finally, you're here!” Jaehyun greeted you as soon as he saw you walking in the halls, pulling you into a hug and dragging out a few y’s when he said ‘finally’.

“Good morning to you too, Jae,” you chuckled. “You're quite early,” you commented as you returned his embrace.

“Couldn't wait to see you,” he said, his index finger gently booping your nose.

It’s moments like these that always make you question your relationship with him. Is this how friends usually act with each other? you asked yourself.

You brushed the thought off as you heard Leehan call out both of your names.

“(Y/N)! Jaehyun!” the blonde waved as he caught up to the two of you. “You guys seen Taesan anywhere? He took my notes yesterday. I need to study for tomorrow...” he fake-sobbed.

“Didn’t know you studied,” Jaehyun chuckled, wrapping his arm around your shoulders.

“Sorry, haven’t seen him this morning yet,” you said apologetically. “I hope you get your notes back, though.”

“Anyways, we’re off. See you at lunch, Leehan,” Jaehyun said, bidding goodbye before grabbing your wrist and dragging you towards your class—not giving you much time to bid your own farewell to the blonde boy.

Class wasn’t that interesting, nor boring. Most of it was filled with the sound of pages turning or the voice of your professor lecturing at the front. Aside from the usual exchange of paper notes with Jaehyun, nothing particularly eventful happened.

The notes contained complaints like how Mr. Lee’s slow speech made him sleepy, or how Ms. Kim kept telling life stories instead of discussing the actual subject. All of that was normal between friends—but what made it different, however, was how he’d always add something like, “I wish I could lay my head on your shoulder right now,” complete with a sad puppy drawing beside the message.

Is that a normal thing to say as friends? Or are you actually going insane?

At last, the final bell rang—signaling dismissal. You immediately packed your things, and just as you were about to sling your backpack over your shoulder, Jaehyun swiftly grabbed it from your hands and swung it onto his free shoulder.

“Let's go?”

You didn’t protest. You nodded and followed his lead.

The walk back home was unexpectedly silent. You wanted to say something, but with everything you’d realized—how his actions might mean more than just kindness, how your friends often said he treated you differently—you couldn’t help but want to ask him about it.

You tried to gather the courage to say something, anything, but every time you opened your mouth, the words just wouldn’t come out. Eventually, you slowed your pace. Jaehyun was vigilant and of course, he noticed—he always did.

“A penny for your thoughts?” he asked, stopping right in front of you.

“Oh—huh? Uhm,” you stuttered. “It’s nothing,” you brushed him off and continued walking.

Jaehyun, however, wasn’t oblivious. He studied your expressions and movements. He knew something was bothering you, and he wasn’t about to let it slide.

“Seriously, though. You know you can tell me anything,” he persisted.

“I don't know, Jae,” you sighed. “It's just… something.”

He stopped in his tracks. “Tell me. You're clearly distracted,” he said as he held onto your shoulders, locking eyes with you—his gaze full of sincerity.

“No, seriously. You—you wouldn't understand,” you said, breaking eye contact. You looked to the side, your eyes landing on the familiar scenery you always passed walking home with Jaehyun.

Only now did you notice the golden hues of sunset painting the sky, casting the world around you in soft yellow and orange light. You were lost in yet another thought before Jaehyun gently cupped your cheek, tilting your face back toward his.

“When did I ever not understand you, hm?” he said seriously, yet with a soft and gentle voice.

“You're unfair, Myung Jaehyun,” you finally said. “How can you go around holding me, making my heart beat as fast as The Flash, telling me those sweet words… and yet you—” you choked on your sentence. “You're unfair. Is this how friends are supposed to act with each other?” You looked down, unable to meet his eyes, a mix of embarrassment and fear washing over you.

He didn’t say anything at first. Instead, he pulled you into a hug. His arms wrapped around you, his hand patting your back gently. It took a few moments before he finally spoke.

“I’m sorry I didn’t make myself clear. It’s just… we’ve known each other for a long time, and you're my best friend. I’ve told myself, over and over, that this wasn't worth the risk—the risk of losing you. But I just…” he paused, taking a good look at you one more time before continuing. “Actually—screw it.”

He stepped back slightly, then lifted his hand to your jaw. His touch was gentle, yet firm. He tilted your face up so your gaze met his. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking—but he looked at you softly, as if you were the most precious thing he’d ever laid eyes on.

“(Y/N), I like you. A lot. Actually—no. I think I’m in love with you. And it hasn’t been for a short while. I’ve had these feelings for a long time now. I don't think I could’ve—”

You didn’t know what came over you, but at that moment, you already heard everything you’d ever wanted to hear from him. Without hesitation, you closed the gap between your lips and his.

Jaehyun was shocked—but he kissed you back. His hands wrapped around waist as yours hooked around his neck. In that moment, the world around you fell silent. The only thing you could hear was the faint sound of your heartbeats, the breeze whispering between rustling leaves as if the universe itself leaned in to witness what was unfolding.

It didn’t feel rushed or uncertain. It felt comforting and right, as if it was the only thing the two of you ever needed.

You both finally pulled back, his forehead resting gently against yours.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “You don't know how long I’ve been aching to do that.” He buried his face into the crook of your neck.

“Is it safe to finally call you my girlfriend?” he asked.

“Of course, silly.”

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎ Hiii!! This is the very FIRST oneshot I've actually managed to complete >< I have like so much prompts waiting to be turned into stories and whatnot... But yey! I hope you enjoyed this one!! It honestly felt super rushed but yeah :( I ran out of inspiration midway T_T

[bachirasbimbo]

Meguru wasn’t someone whose spirit was easily broken down.

In-fact, there’s never been a time that you can recall where his spirit has been completely destroyed.

He’s always kept a level-head.

Energetic? Sure.

Enthusiastic? Also sure.

Crazy? Beyond that.

But you found that extremely endearing to say the VERY least.

You crushed on him from afar, obviously way too scared to actually make a move on him.

He was everything you wanted in a guy, and despite not being too bad looking yourself, he made you much too nervous.

You had never felt like this about a boy, so for you to be going insane? That’s valid.

He didn’t notice when you would wave at him, blushing profusely as he waved back.

He didn’t know that whenever he brushed by you, your heart exploded in your very chest.

He didn’t notice that whenever he flashed you a sheepish smile, your stomach would churn in a way that left you puzzled.

Meguru Bachira was something that needed to be studied in a lab, you thought to yourself.

But you had also thought Meguru never noticed you.

Which was a total and utter lie.

During his games, you were always there, cheering him on from the sidelines.

He’d catch glances of you staring at him, even if only just for a split second—but he never made it obvious he noticed you.

He liked the way he had you wrapped around his finger.

So everything he had done you thought were part of your delusions? It was intentional. Because he liked seeing you squirm.

In-fact, Bachira had spent countless of nights thinking about you.

Whether it was your face,

Your eyes,

Your lips,

Or even your body.

Your enthusiasm towards him had sparked his interest, and that was enough for him to make the move on you.

It happened when you had been bored, you had decided to go see a movie.

You were waiting for your friend to sneak some drinks near your way.

She had been gone an awfully large amount of time, which was frustrating for you.

You were pretty alone in the theatre, this movie really wasn’t well-liked but you had been dragged here against your will.

A voice echoed, the tone was playful, light.

“Anyone sitting here?”

Bachira asked, pointing to the movie seat next to you. In one hand he was holding a paper bucket of popcorn, propping a piece of the buttery delight in his mouth every few seconds.

You were stunned, you just stared up at him, eyes wide.

Was this really happening? Wait—No, why is he even here?

You cursed under your breath, your mind reeling. But if he takes that seat my friend won’t-

“Hello?” He waved in front of your face, bringing you back to reality.

“Huh? Oh, uh, no.” Screw your friend.

She was taking too long to get back anyways, this is a once in a lifetime opportunity.

Bachira lazily hummed, falling back onto the seat as he stared towards the big screen, his hand occasionally digging into the popcorn.

The fact he was sitting right next to you excited you, your heart was twisting into knots.

Honestly, it was kind of scary how much of an effect he had on you.

All you could hear was random hums from him, or the crunch of his obnoxious chewing habit which you had grown to like.

He was carefree, and it was something you admired deeply.

You bit your lip, trying to distract yourself. Your gaze was on the movie and the movie alone, though, occasionally stealing a glance at him.

There was an abrupt silence between the two of you, as the movie proceeded.

Your friend still wasn’t back, by some miracle.

“So, do you like this type of series?” He asked, his voice still light, cutting you from your thoughts.

It was just casual conversation. You felt pathetic with how fast your thighs clenched together.

“Uhm—Yeah.” You replied, a bit too quick for your own liking

Shit. Now you just looked weird.

He replied with a click of his tongue.

“I don’t really like horror.” He said, a little too casual for your liking.

You just nodded slightly, your eyes still glued to the screen. You wanted to look at his face so badly right now. But you were scared.

The unsettling feeling of his gaze had settled in your stomach, you felt like he was staring holes into the side of your head.

Was he staring? Or are you just being delusional?

Oh, he was indeed staring. And quite shamelessly too.

He paid no mind to the movie playing upfront, and your gut clenched.

When you finally turn your head to meet his gaze, he smiles. Flashing you that grin you admired so much.

You don’t know what happened. One thing lead to another and you had somehow landed back at his place, breathless under him as he stared down at you.

Even as he met your gaze now, sandwiching you under him. His gaze was just as light as it always is.

Maybe you should be scared by his enthusiasm, or maybe his lack of shame.

But you weren’t. You were drawn to it like moths to a flame.

He leaned down, his grin widening. “Your crush was soo obvious!” He taunted, giggling more to himself than you. He probably found it entertaining humiliating you.

All you did was blush, your heart was erratic by this point. You wouldn’t be surprised if you just rolled over and died.

“I-“ you attempted to talk, to defend yourself, just for him to shove a finger to your mouth, effectively shushing you.

“Shhh!” He said, still smirking widely.

It was no surprise when things quickly escalated from that, and for some reason, he wouldn’t allow you to stop looking at him as he pounded into you, his grip on your thighs bruisingly tight—unbeknownst to him.

he destroyed you, your gut hurt so badly as you clenched around him, shaking as you came undone on his cock for the third time.

You were worn out, the use of your pretty little cunt had you unable to breathe properly.

Not how you imagined losing your virginity, but since it’s Meguru Bachira? It’s fine.

Your moans to him were like heaven, and you were a present he wanted to unravel and tear to shreds.

He urged you on, entertaining it all as he rubbed your clit, the pad of his thumb moving rhythmically on the wet bundle of nerves, like he had done this 100 times—but he hadn’t. He was a fast learner, is all.

You were an overstimulated, drooling, moaning mess.

You practically squeeled like a pig everytime he came inside of you, pulling out to watch his seed drip from your pussy only to push back in shortly after.

“Bachira- Ngh!” He had no shame, letting out noises of his own as he continued his thrusts.

The grip on your thighs was getting to be extremely painful, but your senses were too overcome with bliss to care.

“No.” He silenced, before leaning in, closing the distance between your fucked out face.

“Meguru.” He corrected, connecting your lips as he pushed his tongue into your mouth with such fervour it scared you.

Tears welled up in your eyes, you were too overstimulated to even process his words.

Your tongue wrapped around his own as he continued to fuck into you at a pace steady enough to make you yearn for more, but enough to overstimulate you.

The clawing of his back came into the picture, your nails scratching down his bare, meticulously fair skin.

The only noise shrouding the room was the plap! plap! of his skin meeting your own and faint moans.

The room smelt like pure sex and arousal, not that you cared.

You couldn’t continue on, he was a monster. His stamina was something you had never thought of whenever you fantasised about him.

But he could go for genuine. Hours.

For once, you thanked your friend for being unreliable.

And as your consciousness began to fade, your walls strangling another load out of him, spasming, you could make out a faint smile forming on his face.

“Night night.” Is the last thing you heard.

[semothekat]

Ok ok im probably not ever gonna end up doing anything with the marhcing band au but amber would play mellophone (or trumpet if the badn didnt have enough) as much as i woudl want her to play the same instrument as me for self indulgemnt reaons i can not imagine her playing somehting thats not brass. Also i cant imagine syau being band at all but like,,,,, what if we put her on bass 5 guys… tiny guy sayu walking around with ginormuous bass drum…. It would be so funny but also i really dont think she could carry that but whatever i dont care let me be insane for a second. She could also be in pit playing, like, idk the rack or something… hmmmmm

My school is a pretty small school so we dont have that many different instruments also im a wind player so my knowledge of the pit and percusison in general is pretty limited but anwyas

Ok since i really dont pay that much atteniton to inazuma characters that much were gonna pull from my syau boat fic and put sayu in mond territory so i dont have to figure out what all the inazuma peoples insturments are

Definitely feel free to correct me on what these guys would do if you actually read this because i am an expert of 0 characters

Kaeya and eula would defintely be guard, ii could also imagine mika being guard cause reconaissance company but honestly i didnt pay that much attention to him either so idk. Jean drum major obviously but in concert or if we dont make her drum major she would be flute :) venti flute or maybe in the pit playing mallets or someitng lisa., pit. Idk what but i dont think she would be marhcing, uhhhhhhh noelle. Low brass something. Tuba or baritone. Or maybe in battery as bass drum. Sucrose, upper woodwinds, either flute or clarinet, probably clarinet maybe. Albedo. Looks like a pit person. Mallets. I guess. Razor low brass probably, or marching cymbals?? Idk we dont have those at my school so idk, i can defintely see it though. Bennett is trumpet probably fischl is guard, rosaria would be guard too? Barbara would be pit piano or upper woodwinds….. i cnat think of anyone else besides klee and diona but idk if were gonna count them, if we do klee in trumpet maybe and diona in pit on mallets. That being said if this really is eveyrone in mondstadt we’re definitely gonna need more poeple which would be fine but also i dont pay attention to most or hte character so i wouldnt know what they would play……

[urdreamgirls-dreamgirl]

“vickie!” eddie practically screams from his kitchen, rage coursing through him as he stares down at the tabloids spread out in front of him on the counter. “get in here! now!”

eddie’s had an issue with his rage lately. well. he’s had an issue with a lot of things, since he got famous, really. but that’s not his problem right now.

his problem is he’s looking down at image after image of himself on the covers of people and us weekly and entertainment tonight being dragged out of last night’s night club by his own security team with blood pouring from his nose. he looks angry. he looks crazed.

just then, a stranger walks into his kitchen.

“who the fuck are you?” he blurts out at the man, who’s wearing a dark green sweater vest over a white t-shirt and tortoise-shell glasses.

“i’m steve,” the weirdo stalker says, smiling brightly. he has surprisingly swoopy hair for an insane fan. “i’m your new assistant.”

“where’s vickie?” eddie asks, rubbing at the sore spot on his nose. thank god it’s not broken.

“you fired her,” steve tells him. “two days ago.”

“i fire her all the time.”

“ok, well… i guess this time it stuck,” steve shrugs. “chrissy hired me.”

“fucking chrissy,” eddie says under his breath, rolling his eyes. he pulls out his phone from the pocket of his sweatpants and speed dials chrissy. “chris, what the fuck?” he doesn’t even give her the chance to say hello.

“good morning, eddie. i’m doing really well, how are you?”

“not fucking well, that’s how i am!” eddie practically yells into the receiver. “what the fuck? did you see the pictures? and who the fuck is this guy in my house?”

“yes, eddie, i saw the pictures.” eddie can hear the eye roll in her voice. “we’re handling it. nancy’s already on it with the team. what was the other thing?”

eddie knows she’s fucking with him and that pisses him off even more. “who is this freak in my house wearing a goddamn sweater vest?!” he feels like a blood vessel in his eye is about to pop.

“hey,” steve protests softly from across the kitchen where he’s started to pull shit out of eddie’s fridge. he didn’t even know there was anything in that fridge.

“that’s not a very nice way to talk about your new assistant,” chrissy’s voice comes loud and clear through the phone.

“christina fucking cunningham, you know i have final say on all hiring decisions when it comes to my assistants.” he rubs at his sore nose again.

“you had final say on all hiring decisions until you fired vickie for the thirteenth time and she refused to come back, even with a three hundred percent raise. we’re going in a different direction now.” chrissy sounds entirely too pleased with herself.

“well, i fucking hate him,” eddie grumbles and watches steve to make sure he’s heard him. steve doesn’t even react, just continues doing whatever the fuck he’s doing with the frying pan he’d found in the cabinet.

“you don’t even know him, eddie. give him a chance. anyway, i have to go, i have brunch plans with my very beautiful, very intelligent, perfect fiancée,” chrissy tells him, gloating, before hanging up on him.

eddie wants desperately to throw his phone across the kitchen, but if he breaks this one that would be his fourth phone in three weeks and he couldn’t bear to have to ask this steve person to go buy him a new one. he settles for squeezing it in his hand until it creaks while taking several deep breaths through his nose.

“what are you doing?” he grits out.

“are you always this rude?” steve asks, ignoring his question.

“to weirdo freak strangers showing up in my house unannounced? yes.”

“it’s not unannounced, chrissy wrote it on your calendar.” steve gestures toward the paper calendar hanging on the side of the fridge where chrissy writes his major life events and which eddie mostly just ignores before sliding a plate full of food toward eddie.

“what is this?” eddie sneers.

“it’s an omelette with cheese and mushrooms,” steve replies, smiling. he’s always fucking smiling.

“i’m allergic to… omelettes,” eddie says, just to be a dick.

“no you’re not. you’re allergic to blueberries and dust.” steve doesn’t stop smiling pleasantly.

“did you get access to my medical records? that’s a violation of my… whatever rights.” eddie waves a hand through the air.

“no, i didn’t go look at your medical records, jesus. i’m not a stalker. chrissy told me when she hired me.”

“whatever. i still fucking hate you.”

“okay,” steve shrugs again. “eat your breakfast.”

eddie has every intention of leaving the kitchen, full plate of food and all, but. he is hungry.

so he eats.

and he’s pissed that it’s actually good.

~*~

eddie spends the rest of the day being a general nuisance to steve any time he tries to do his job. when steve answers the phone before handing it to eddie, eddie “accidentally” hangs up on whoever it is on the hand off & makes sure to blame his new assistant when the person finally calls back. when steve has to drive him to his meeting with nancy and the pr team, eddie tries to give him the wrong directions, but steve’s too smart for that. when steve has to do the grocery shopping, he makes steve go to the erewhon all the way across town during rush hour because the one down the street “just doesn’t have the same vibe, steve.”

and all the while, steve just does his job, still smiling, not getting angry at all even though it’s beyond obvious eddie’s being a little shit to him.

which honestly just pisses eddie off more than anything else today.

“here’s some aspirin,” steve says, placing two white pills on the coffee table in front of eddie, along with a mason jar of water. eddie, lounging on his big squishy couch, pulls the ice pack away from his nose, which has started throbbing again. “you didn’t have any glasses.” steve shrugs when he sees eddie’s arched eyebrow looking skeptically at the jar of water. “if you don’t need anything else, i’ll take off for the day.”

it’s past 8pm already, long after steve should have left for the day except that eddie had made him stay to organize his extensive tshirt collection by color, shade, and design before he could even think about going home. it was an emergency, after all.

“i’ll have to check the t-shirt closet first,” eddie replies, before swallowing the aspirin dry. steve shrugs again and rolls his eyes. eddie would say something about his blatant rudeness, but he’s too exhausted.

eddie pulls himself off the couch and makes his way down the hallway to his “t-shirt room.” it’s so stupid, but he has all this space and he’d started collecting the tshirts so long ago. they’re not worth anything, they’re just his wardrobe but… they remind him of wayne and the thrifting they used to do every saturday morning.

the organization eddie had been having steve do was entirely arbitrary. it’s not like eddie plans his outfits. he mostly just pulls whatever out of wherever, unless it’s an event and then he pays someone to do the deciding and dressing for him anyway.

but. steve’s organized the t-shirts by genre and subgenre and then by band alphabetically and finally color. more than eddie had even asked him to do.

eddie had come in here fully prepared to rip steve a new one, but even he can be shocked into appreciation.

steve notices eddie’s silence and grins.

“can i tell you something?” steve says pleasantly and then continues without even letting eddie respond to the question. “i know i look like a nice polite guy next door that moms totally love—it’s the sweater vests, i think.” steve plucks at his top. “and that’s true. i am a nice polite guy and moms do love me. i’m awesome.” his grin widens. “but i got kicked out of my parents house when i was 18 and i lived in my car for a while. i’ve been on my own for seven years. i made a life in LA out of nothing. so you can throw your little temper tantrums and tell me how much you hate me. you can make me go to the erewhon all the way across town and you can make me look incompetent to my colleagues. but i need this job. i’ve worked hard for this job. this job pays more than any other job i’ve ever had combined. and you’re hardly the biggest asshole i’ve ever met. so you can continue trying to make my life miserable—hell, i’ll even give you my dad’s number, you guys can swap ideas!” steve laughs at his own joke before turning serious for the first time all day. “but i’m not vickie. you won’t make me cry. you can’t fire me. i’m not going anywhere.” he claps his hands together. “anyway, i’m gonna take off, since i have plans with my actual friends. but hey, i’ll see you tomorrow, huh?” and he smiles again, giving eddie a small waggle of his fingers, before heading out through the door.

eddie’s still just standing there in the middle of his tshirt room when he hears the front door slam shut.

part two

[cinnasite]

nerd gone viral ( ˶°ㅁ°) !!

꩜ pairing: nerd!armin arlert x female reader

꩜ warnings: explicit content, language

꩜ word count: 3.7k

꩜ synopsis: a harmless campus interview turns your best friend into an overnight internet sensation—and suddenly, every thirsty TikTok comment feels like it’s whispering your secret.

☆ art cred: @/juvianism on instagram :3

You nearly spill your coffee all over your Political Theory textbook when you unlock your phone. Another two hundred comments on that TikTok. You know you shouldn't check—you probably watched it about a million times yesterday alone—but your fingers move before your brain can scream at you to stop.

@/bookslvt01: ok but the way he talks about virginia woolf??? NEED HIM CARNALLY @/colossalthighs: i’d let him annotate my entire body fr @/arlertmeout: he looks like he apologises before choking you

You bite your lip, half-entertained and half-horrified, scrolling through the endless comments under what was supposed to be an innocent campus interview. The video has 2.3 million views now, completely insane for something filmed outside the modest main library—the same one you find yourself in at the moment—on a random Tuesday.

"Ugh, don’t tell me. You're watching it again, aren't you?"

Your head snaps up comically quick, caught red-handed, to find Sasha sliding into the seat across from you at your usual table, eyeing your phone screen with knowing amusement. 

"What? No."

"You are! You have that weird, glazed look in your eyes. The same one you get when Professor Ackerman extends the deadline for our research papers." Sasha unwraps what appears to be her third sandwich of the day. You don't mention how it’s only twelve in the afternoon. "You know you could just talk to him about it, right? He's literally one of your best friends."

"And say what exactly?" you finally close the godforsaken app, trying to ignore how your screen time report is definitely going to be embarrassing this week. "Hey Armin, I've watched your viral video more times than I can remember and I'm having very inappropriate thoughts about your tongue piercing that I absolutely shouldn't be having about my friend?"

Sasha snickers, a piece of lettuce tumbling to the table from her mouth. "Well, when you put it like that... actually, yes. One hundred percent that."

"Sasha, I can't just—" you frown in frustration, inhaling deeply. "It's complicated."

"How is it complicated? You've had a crush on him since freshman year."

"That was different. That was before we became friends. Before I knew him." You lean back in your chair, staring at the ceiling as fond memories overwhelm you. "Back then he was just this cute, nerdy guy in my intro psych class who got excited about statistical analysis and always smelled like that vanilla body wash I love. I used to sit behind him just to watch him get all animated during discussions about cognitive behavioural theory, you know?"

Sasha merely rolls her eyes. "Jesus, and you call me demented. Well, what about now?"

"Now? Now, he's Armin. He's my friend who stays up until 3 A.M. to help me with my assignments, who brings me soup when I'm sick, who texts me the dumbest memes about historical figures," you slump forward, close to pouting. "He's the guy who spent six hours teaching me how to play that MMO he's obsessed with just because I mentioned being bored over winter break. He's..."

"He's the guy you're infatuated with," Sasha supplies helpfully.

"I'm not," you start to protest, then wisely opt to give up instead. "Okay, maybe. But that's exactly the problem. I can't risk blowing up our friendship just because some stupid interview made me realise I want to climb him like a tree."

"A tree with a tongue piercing," Sasha adds with a cheeky grin.

"Fuck’s sake, don't remind me," you let your head rest against the table. "Do you know how many times I've replayed that two-second clip where he licks his lips? It's pathetic."

"It's not pathetic, it's kind of sweet. There's a difference." Sasha takes another bite of her sandwich, her eyes evidently lighting up. "Besides, you don't know that he doesn't feel the same way. Have you seen how he looks at you during our study sessions? Boy's got it bad."

"He looks at me like a friend, Sasha. Because that's what we are."

"Believe me, friends don't look at friends the way he looked at you last Friday when you were explaining your thesis argument. I thought he was going to combust from sexual tension."

Before you can blatantly disagree, you hear an all too familiar voice behind you.

"Sexual tension about what now?"

Your stomach drops directly through the floor. You turn around carefully, and there he is—Armin Arlert, campus's newest digital sensation, standing there with that signature bemused expression he gets when he catches you and Sasha gossiping. His blonde hair is mussed like he's been running his hands through it, and he's wearing that adorable blue sweater that brings out his eyes deliciously.

"Oh, um..." You scramble for an explanation, panicking on the inside. "We were just talking about... about..."

"About how Professor Ackerman's lectures are basically academic foreplay," Sasha jumps in smoothly. "All that tension and buildup with no satisfying conclusion. I mean, hello?"

Armin laughs, the sound warm and comforting. "That's fascinatingly accurate, I’ll admit." He shifts his weight, and you only then notice he's carrying his laptop bag and what seems to be a bag of takeout. "Mind if I join you? I brought Thai food and figured you might be hungry since you've been here since—," he checks his phone, "—9 A.M., according to the text you sent complaining about how it’s criminal that the library opens so early on weekends."

Your heart does a little flip at his consideration. "You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to." He slides into the chair next to you, close enough that you can smell his cologne—a rich blend of velvety caramel and toasted cinnamon that positively makes you want to lick him all over. 

Stop. None of that, you horny bastard.

"Besides, I figured you might want to hear about the latest developments in my accidental internet fame."

Sasha perks up at once. "Hell, yeah. Have you been recognised on campus yet?"

"Five times yesterday," Armin appears to lament, pulling containers out of the bag. "Including once in the bathroom, which was... awkward, to say the least." He hands you your usual order without asking what you want. "But the weirdest part is definitely the DMs."

"DMs?" you pipe up, failing to ignore how domestic this feels what with him knowing exactly what you like. Typical, precious Armin.

"You have no idea," he opens his laptop and turns it toward you two with a nervous twitch. "I've gotten marriage proposals, offers to 'show me a good time,' and at least a hundred messages asking about my tongue piercing specifically."

Your face burns as you push away the thought that you've been mentally composing similar messages. "That's... wow."

"The worst part is, most of them are asking if I'd be interested in demonstrating its uses." He fidgets with his glasses, coming across as embarrassed but also endearing. "I had no idea that thing would cause such a reaction."

"Well, it is pretty noticeable," Sasha remarks with a meaningful peek at you. "Very... attention-grabbing."

"I guess." Armin glances at you pointedly. "What do you think? You've seen the video, right?"

The question is innocent enough, but something in his tone makes you look at him more carefully. There's an out-of-the-ordinary implication that you can't quite put your finger on. "Uh... yeah, I've seen it," you manage to croak out. Terrific. Could you get any stiffer?

"And?"

"And what?"

"What did you think?"

You stare at him blankly, trying to figure out if this is a normal friend question or if you’re incorrectly perceiving the foreign edge of curiosity behind it. "I thought... I mean, your book recommendations were really good. Very passionate."

"Passionate," he repeats, the fleeting flash of understanding across his face confirming your earlier weariness. "That's interesting."

Sasha's phone cuts through the uneasiness with its incessant buzzing, and she scans it with obviously fake surprise. "Oh no, would you look at that. I have to go... meet... someone... about... a... very real thing... I have." She begins gathering her stuff with awfully suspicious speed. "You two have fun talking about books. And passion. And tongue piercings."

"Huh? Wait. Sasha—" you squeak out, but she's already dashing out of the private study room you had booked for the both of you until late afternoon (traitor). Which leaves you alone with Armin, who's scrutinising you with an expression you can't quite read.

"Alright," he speaks after a moment, closing his laptop and leaning back in his chair. "Want to tell me what you actually thought about the video?"

"I already told you."

"No, you gave me the safe answer." He tilts his head slightly, studying you with purpose. "Come on, we've been friends for two years. I know when you're holding back."

You hastily shove some noodles in your mouth, avoiding his gaze. "I'm not holding back."

"Really? Because Sasha seemed to think you had some important opinions about it."

You make a mental note to start drafting your plan for the girl’s well-deserved comeuppance. "Sasha talks too much."

"She does," Armin agrees. "But she's usually right about things. Especially when it comes to you."

The rarely there confidence in his tone makes you look up and, when you meet his gaze, the intensity catches you off guard. "What do you want me to say?"

"Did you know," he continues conversationally, "that TikTok shows you analytics about who's viewed your videos?"

Almost instantly, your heart stops. "What?"

"Mhm. Very detailed analytics. Including multiple views from the same account." His lips quirk up in a small smile. "Want to guess how many times your account shows up in my viewer list?"

You feel heat creeping up your neck. "I don't know what you're talking about." You briefly consider denying reality, blaming a technical issue, or claiming a glitch in the matrix—but none of it sticks.

"Seventy-seven times," he announces, the metaphorical checkmate hitting you straight in the chest. "As of this morning."

Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh god. He knows. "I can explain—"

"Can you?" He angles himself forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Because I've been trying to figure out why my very good friend has watched a boring thirty-second video of me talking about books seventy-seven times."

You want to run away, mouth opening and closing like a fish. "I... the algorithm is weird sometimes?"

Armin chuckles, low and warm, absent of any malice. "Try again."

"I was checking to see if the view count was going up?"

"Nope."

You're quiet for a long moment, trying to figure out how to get out of this without completely humiliating yourself. You don't suppose it's too late to jump out of a window? Ultimately, you sigh in defeat. "Okay, fine. Maybe I watched it a few times."

"A few?"

You narrow your eyes, crossing your arms in defiance at the unsolicited endless interrogation. "More than a few."

"How many more?"

You want to strangle him, and not in the sexy way. "You’re being annoying."

"Come on." His voice has dropped slightly lower, and there's something almost akin to teasing in it. "I told you about the marriage proposals. Fair's fair."

You mutter a profanity under your breath, groaning. "Fine. I watched it a lot. Happy?"

"No. We’re getting there, though. Why?"

"Why what?"

Armin’s glee sharpens into something ravenous, a flicker of desperation lurking beneath his carefree demeanour—like he’s itching for you to say exactly what he needs. "Why did you watch it seventy-seven times?"

Your lungs feel too tight, too exposed. "Because..."

"Because?"

"Because you looked really good, okay?" The words come out in a rush. "Because watching you talk about literally anything is incredibly attractive, and because that frustrating part where your tongue piercing shows has been tormenting me ever since the video came out."

The silence that follows is eerily deafening. Armin simply stares at you, and you wish the ground would swallow you whole.

"Shit," you grumble, burying your face in your hands. "I'm sorry. That was completely out of line. I know we're friends and I shouldn't have—"

"Hey. Look at me."

The way he asks convinces you to peep through your fingers, reluctant but unable to look away. His expression is attentive and focused—definitely not one of disgust.

"You think I'm attractive?" he questions softly.

"I... yes?"

He blinks, his usual calm shattered by the raw vulnerability in your voice. His fingers tremble, revealing the fierce hope inside that there’s a potential chance that someone sees him as more than the sum of his quirks.  "Even though I'm just a loser who gets excited about obscure paranormal documentaries and spends too much time playing video games?"

"Especially because of that," you admit, having never been more sure of yourself.

His answering smile is slow and devastating. "Good to know."

"Good to know?"

He hums, reaching across the table, and gently pulls your hands away from your face. "I've been wondering if you'd ever see me as more than just your friend who helps you with your homework."

Your brain, without a doubt, malfunctions. "What?"

"Did you really think I started bringing you food and staying up late just because I'm a good friend?"

The words disarm you. You’re trapped between incredulity and the dawning comprehension of what he might be suggesting. "I…"

"And did you think I learned how to play your favourite songs on guitar just because I had time to spare?"

"Y-you said you wanted to practice—"

"And I presume you thought I got this piercing because I was feeling rebellious?"

That stops you short, confusion apparent in the furrow of your brows. "You didn't?"

Armin's grin turns almost predatory. "I got it because I overheard you and Sasha talking about how cool you find them. This was back in October, after you'd been dating that guy with the lip ring."

You feel like a kettle left on the stove too long. "You... what?"

"You said, and I quote, 'There's something about tongue piercings that's beyond exciting.’ Something along the lines of how the person has to be bold enough to get it, but there's the simultaneous insinuation of what they can do with it."

"I’m going to kill myself," you gape at him in horror. "You heard all of that?"

"I was sitting right behind you in the campus coffee shop. You weren’t exactly shy about it." He shifts closer, and you can spot the hint of silver when he speaks, "I made an appointment that very afternoon."

"You got a tongue piercing because of something I said about another guy?"

"I got a tongue piercing because I wanted to be the guy you were talking about."

The confession hangs in the air between you, charged and electric. You stare at him, trying to process this complete change in everything you thought you knew about your friendship. 

"I've been trying to get your attention for months. I was starting to think I'd have to do something drastic."

In spite of being made to face terrifying revelation after revelation, you manage to stutter out a breathless laugh. "More drastic than getting a tongue piercing for me?" 

"I was considering learning to play your favourite video game."

You snort despite yourself. "You hate that game."

He shrugs casually, as if the lengths to which he would go for you knew no bounds. "I know. That's how desperate I was getting."

The atmosphere between you feels tense now, full of possibility and two years of unspoken tension. Armin traces your knuckles and the simple touch sends heat shooting up your arm.

"So," you say, trying to stay as composed as you possibly can. "What happens now?"

"Now," he starts, standing up, "you tell me what exactly you were thinking about during those seventy-seven views."

He's close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him, and the unwavering want in the blue of his eyes makes your breath catch. "I was thinking..." you trail off, feeling timid with his attention on you.

"You can do it. Use your words for me?" his voice has gotten rougher, huskier, and it sends delightful shivers down your spine.

"I was thinking about what it would feel like."

"What would feel like?"

"Your piercing. When you..." You gesture vaguely, cheeks burning. Armin's hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing across your bottom lip. "When I what?"

"When you kiss me," you whisper.

"Just kissing?" The question is loaded with underlying intentions, and you shake your head slowly.

"Tell me what else you were thinking about."

"Armin..."

"Please." The plea is hushed but insistent. "I want to know what's been going through your head."

You swallow, your throat suddenly dry as you let go of the entirety of your self-restraint. "I was thinking about what it would feel like on my body. What it would feel like when you use your mouth on me."

His pupils immediately dilate at your words. "Fuck."

"Is that... is that okay?"

Instead of verbally affirming, he leans down and kisses you. It's gentle at first, tentative, but when you react by fisting your hands in his sweater and pulling him closer, he deepens it. The first brush of his tongue against yours has you gasping, and when you feel the metal of his piercing, it sends intoxicating pleasure shooting through you.

You break apart, breathing heavily, and Armin rests his forehead against yours.

"How was that?" he asks earnestly, voice raspy.

"Good," you breathe. "Really good."

His smile is full of care but there's primal desire behind it. "And the piercing?"

"Want more of it."

He brushes his thumb across your lip again. Truth be told, it’s plain torture. "You know, we're in public right now."

Every wall you built is crumbling under the weight of him, and all you can do is let it. "I know."

"Anyone could walk by and see us."

"I know."

"And you don't care?"

You drag your hand up his thigh, stopping just shy of where he clearly wants it, "Not even a little bit."

He kisses you again, harder this time, and you can't help the soft moan that escapes when his tongue meets yours in another dance of display. The sound seems to flip a switch in him, because his hands are tangling in your hair and he's pressing you back against your chair.

"God, you have no idea how long I've wanted to do this," he murmurs against your lips.

"Tell me ‘Min."

"Since freshman year. Since that first day in psych class when you argued with Professor Smith about the ethics of behavioural modification."

You draw away just barely, shaking under the intimacy of his declaration. "That long?"

"That long." He doesn’t think twice before trailing his teeth along your jaw, and when the metal of his piercing digs into your flushed skin, you whimper needily. 

"You were so assertive, so brilliant. I was completely and utterly gone."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because you were dating that business major asshole, and then when you broke up, we became friends,” he hesitantly halts his ministrations to flutter his eyelashes at you, “I-I didn't want to ruin it." 

Good heavens, you didn’t stand a chance from the beginning.

"But then you kept looking at me like... like you wanted me too, and I started hoping..."

"I did want you. I do want you." The admission comes out whinier than intended, but you can’t bring yourself to be bothered at this point. "So much."

His hands tighten in your hair. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You’re unaware of how many minutes pass as you lose yourself in the sensation of his mouth on yours, and the way he tastes like mint and something uniquely him. You dig your nails lightly into his sides, claiming him in an act of fervent possession. His breaths mingle with yours and the world outside your tangled bodies fades until there’s nothing but lust burning between you. By the end of it, your chests rise and fall in tandem.

"We should probably get out of here," he mumbles, peeking around the library.

Craving Armin has left you dazed, vision glassy as you attempt to make sense of your surroundings. "Right. Um, your place or mine?"

He pecks your nose, full of affection, tenderly guiding you. "Mine. My roommate's gone for the weekend."

You start gathering your things with shaky hands, hyperaware of the way Armin is observing you. When you bend over to pick up your bag, you hear his sharp intake of breath.

"Something wrong?" you ask innocently.

"N-nothing," he mutters, skittishly pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

The walk to his dorm feels like it takes forever, full of stolen glances and the kind of anticipation that makes your skin feel too tight. When you reach his room, he fumbles with his keys for a moment—so fucking cute—before getting the door open.

You haven’t had a lot of time this semester to crash at his dorm—neat and organised, with anime posters on the walls and stacks of books and manga everywhere. But you barely have time to take it in before he's pressing you against the closed door, urgency lacing his actions.

This time, there's nothing apprehensive about it. His hands are everywhere—your waist, your back, squeezing your ass—and when you arch against him, he makes a low sound of approval.

"You taste so good," he shudders against you. "Everything I’ve imagined and so much more."

"You imagined this?"

"Every night for two years." His mouth moves to your neck, nibbling along your throat. "What you'd look like, what you'd sound like when I made you come."

The words send heat pooling low in your belly, prompting you to press your thighs together instinctively. "Fuck, don’t say shit like that.”

"Why not? I’ve been longing for you. All of you," he whispers, pulling back to look at you with dark, lidded eyes. "You’re not getting away until I’ve had my fill."

It would be an understatement to say that you hadn’t foreseen this when you woke up today. That you'd be spending hours with your legs over Armin's shoulders, forgetting your own name; the compassionate, stammering genius the internet drooled over. Too bad he’s not on the market. It would be a treat if his fans could see him like this—flushed and breathless, fingers gripping your hips like he’d die without you. Armin Arlert, golden boy of TikTok, practically begging to let him ruin you.

You grow dizzy at the promise in his voice. "Please."

He lets his hand trail lower, indecently tranquil, and just as you think he’ll do something reckless—he pauses, smirking wickedly.

"Want to find out what this piercing really feels like when I eat you out?"

[kayharrisons]

Will you go, lassie, go? [Remmick x fem!Reader] [18+] [1 of 11]

Remmick has been drifting for a decade now, aimlessly passing from one town to the next as he hunts and feeds and fucks and-

And. And. And.

One could go mad after a while with all those ands.

Loneliness threatens to consume him, to pull him right over the brink and into insanity.

Until, that is, he hears a voice sweeter than a nightingale's and with a haunting, melodic pain that buries itself deep in his chest and takes root there.

Until, that is, he meets you.

A/N: hey guys!! My first attempt at a Sinners fic o o p I LOVED the movie sm and Remmick was just 😩 😩 Jack O'Connell the man that you are fr!! Anyway, idk if I'll write a LOT for Sinners, my brain rot is still very much Romulus focused BUT HEY have this lil two shot for now! Scottish Reader x Remmick oh no oh DEAAAAAAR!!! I'm not a native Gaelic speaker by any means (I know a couple basic words lol), so any future Gaelic sentences will be in italics! This fic is set some time in the 20s before Sinners! Next chapter will be up soon hopefully!! Apologies if there's any mistakes we rock and roll buckaroo over here ✌️

Series warnings: younger woman (19-21) x older man (literal vampire), blood, biting, sexual acts, mentions of immigration and racist/xenophobic attitudes towards Scottish and Irish communities, colonisation mentions (Ireland in Remmick's past), manipulative Remmick, naive Reader, Remmick was at one point Jack the Ripper 💀

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Time.

It's a funny thing. Especially to someone like him, to someone with this affliction.

It both passes in the blink of an eye and goes by slower than those snails that used to infest his mother's garden when he was a boy. He can't remember her face much, but he remembers how she used to rant and rave over the little creatures as they ruined vegetables and plants she'd oh so painstakingly grown.

He's had many families over the centuries. Many mothers, many brothers, sisters.

The faces blend, sometimes, when you're as old as he.

His birth mother had eyes like his, he thinks. She had his laugh.

He recalls having been told, frequently, that he takes after his father.

He wonders if that was before or after his skull was cleaved in two. He can't recall his father's face before it was split in half like a log for the fire.

Fire. Warmth.

He misses that.

Misses sitting with his brothers and sisters around the hearth as their mother hummed lullabies in their native tongue. Síthmaith had been his favourite of the bunch, his precious sister only nine when her throat had been cut to the bone.

Remmick had been the oldest of the bunch.

He'd failed them, and this, he thinks, is retribution.

He's never done well without people to care for, could never cope knowing people were sad. His mother used to smile and call him her mo mhuirnin whenever she'd catch him being kind.

The last time in his human life that he'd been kind, he had invited a sobbing stranger inside of his home, a frail woman begging for shelter against Protestant brutes, could he please help her?

The children hadn't survived the turning. They never did, according to the woman.

His mother had taken one look at her dead children and screamed an almighty roar of agony before walking out into the sunlight.

Remmick can't remember his mother's voice anymore, but he remembers that scream.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The centuries passed. He spent it learning, teaching himself.

He occupied himself with hobbies, with history, and eventually with song.

That was the one thing he'd never allowed himself to forget over the years. The act of putting pen to paper and letting pain spill out as ink, of taking the time to sit back and think of melodies, of chords and notes.

He loves to sing.

Sometimes, he can still hear his mother when he sings, can hear his siblings laughter around the fire.

There is rarely anyone around to hear him, however.

New families come and go; not everyone is suited to this way of life, a lot lack survival instinct he's found. Lovers are there for an hour or two or three, the ones that linger end up drained upon the bed, his songs still lingering in their dead ears.

Perhaps one time he'd been overzealous in Whitechapel, had earned himself a nasty moniker and had had to hastily retreat to the countryside for a few years all while the public pondered over the identity of this Ripper fellow.

Animal blood wasn't quite the same as a human's, it must be said.

It's rather like drinking tar, he's come to find. Unpleasant and thick down his throat. Only worth doing in a pinch.

He hasn't met anyone else who's even tried it.

The others he'd been with on the ship, the ones who had burnt brighter than the sun, had rolled their eyes at him for that admission.

Lions were not expected to eat plants and nothing more, so why should they?

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

He hasn't eaten in weeks.

He could. Easily. Easy pickings don't even begin to describe half of the people he's come across as he wanders the earth.

New York had been ripe with bodies, and he'd indulged himself more than necessary during the ten years he had spent there.

But his legs were leading him south. And who was he to go against them? Taken him this far, hadn't they?

He is curious to see the rest of the continent, to meet people, hear stories, to rebuild that which he's lost time and time again.

He can help people, like he used to, he can give them a family, can take all their petty human squabbles and differences and turn it into something good, can't he?

He hums to himself, a melody he has hazy memories of his mother singing. The words are lost to him now, taken from him by time, but he recalls the melody, at least.

Over and over, he hums, his fingers brushing over brick and stone and cold hard suburbia, before eventually his fingers run over trees and leaves and life itself.

He never did like cities much.

Remmick hums into the dimming light of the night, with no expectations of a response, an answer, of divine intervention.

He gets one anyway.

A little miracle in its own right.

"-the blooming heather, will ye go, lassie, go?"

His blood ignites in his veins just as brightly and fiery as it had the day he'd been turned into this.

If he had a pulse, he is sure it would be racing in his cold dead chest. If he could blush, he's sure the tips of his ears would be a burning red.

Your voice creeps through the trees like that of a fine mist, and it settles over him like dew on grass during a summer's morning. Refreshing, soothing, anchoring.

When was the last time he had felt anchored?

Voices, he's found, have a way of carrying stories, of harbouring emotions in a way that sometimes merely speaking doesn't even begin to encompass.

Sadness, anger, love, lust, loss-

It all sounded beautiful, in song.

Your voice reaches out like that of a beautiful plant, wraps around his soul like vines in the forest, takes root upon his very being like that of the strongest of trees.

Nature personified.

His pace quickens, the damp grass and dirt cliging to his bare feet, his hair sticking to his forehead.

He only wishes he was more presentable for you. Remmick is far from vain, but he's certain he's about to waltz into the den of perfection, an alter of beauty that would put Aphrodite herself to shame.

And he finds it.

Your back is to him, your hair is down loose around your shoulders. Your blouse is a few sizes too big and clings to your shoulders, your waist cinched by your skirt. You sway softly, like that of a flower in the breeze. Your fingers move effortlessly over the strings of your guitar, your voice having lowered to that of an airy hum.

He damn near almost collapses at the sight before him. Of such beauty here before him, untouched by the world outside of this forest. He's not a religious man, hasn't been in centuries, but Remmick is struck by the urge to collapse by your feet and cling to your skirts as if you were a Saint of utmost divinity, one he would swear his life and soul to.

Such natural, effortless beauty, and he hasn't even seen your face yet. Persephone can weep for all he cares.

A branch snaps beneath his feet, and your hair whips your face as you whirl around to face him.

Oh.

Oh.

Remmick staggers back a step, unusual for someone with supernatural grace on their side.

You're more radiant than a sunrise on a winter's day, more beautiful than poetry itself.

He could weep in your presence.

"Can I help you, sir?" you ask, pausing your guitar strumming and setting the instrument aside, leaning it against the tree beside you.

Your accent isn't from here. Scottish, the highlands, he thinks. He smiles at the sound, at the knowledge that he won't have to use that goddamn ridiculous Yank accent that helps him blend in.

"Aye, lass'," he nods, hands in his pockets as he steps closer. You watch him with a furrowed brow, with complete and utter confusion across your radiant face.

He stops short of you, leaning back against a tree, crossing his legs at the ankles as he studies you.

His eyes...

You straighten a hairs breadth, the same way one does when they spy a wolf in the distance, when you know a predator is watching you.

Remmick merely hums, unbothered at your reaction, even as his eyes gleam unnaturally in the darkness of the night.

"You can help me somethin' fierce, darlin'."

You smile, a touch uncertainly, your head cocked as you patiently wait for him to explain whatever it is he needs help with.

Remmick can only smile.

[grotesquevi]

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ YOUR LOVE HAS GOT ME GOING ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ LIKE YOU COULDN'T IMAGINE.

cw  #  18+ mdni, stripper!reader + older and divorced!ellie getting all hot and bothered, dirty talk, contains metaphors to addiction and vices, fingering in the bonus side yikes. i'm sorry mutuals, i'm not usually like this but made this everything sean baker’s was dreaming of when he wrote anora with his dick.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ boycott tlou || check out my fic directory

side note  #  i went above and beyond to search for this two motherfuckers, they were not even in tumblr so i thank this to moya since i had to go to the dark places to get 'em aka the wayback machine on internet's archive. if you recognize this? or are you my pillar nonnie? you may be confused but its because tumblr deleted my old account thinking i was a fucking bot, i used to be under the name vicorices. bare. with. me — wonderful art bellow by @nramv

things would be different if you weren't blatantly pressing your ass against ellie's belt, cause those feelings she exhaustingly told herself not to have? — she suffering from all of them.

it may have to be with the outfit or the lack of it, the way your long, pointed nails scratch over her naked arms. but it's the perfect combination to make all this façade of having her life already sorted out fall apart to the ground when she recently signed up her divorce papers and she's there, getting a lap dance from this girl she really, really fucking likes, as if she wasn't slipping dollar bills beneath the thin strip of your underwear.

so she's been in a similar situation before, promising herself she wont ever step a fucking toe back in the club — she's not that kind of person anyway, the kind that salivates over strippers. the club's packed with men, and being the only girl there it's almost shameful as she has this need to go on and ask for a lap dance from you cause yeah she's greedy, greedy, spoiled, ravenous: ellie has now turned into a junkie trying to get more of their vices.

and in the secluded room, she forgets about previous inhibitions cause you're leaning against her, dancing along the sound of the music already sitting in her lap and her mind bubbles around this stupid rule, the one that forbids her to touch you under any sense of the word if she wants to keep her hands attached to her arms, but she's temped, tempted even when the security camera is pointing right in front of you two.

"yeah? that's what you'd like huh?" the sound of your voice is almost normal, a huge contrast when ellie's feeling like drowning, when the bass on the speaker’s so low it resonates in her damn heart, pouring all over her like ocean waves in the sand "want me to be your little spoiled slut? you'd buy me expensive gifts and get me out of this hellhole?"

ellie's glasses rest on the lower part of her nose, almost slipping as she looks up to you, cheeks blushed cause she's hella ashamed of it, hellhole. when she's in the club you almost rejoice in bliss happiness cause she has money, a pretty face, nice hands and more important — she's not a pervert guy.

there's a huge difference between a perverted guy and a perverted girl in your brain — cause while 50-years-old trying to hit on you disgust you, she's in her 30's and in the best fucking moment of her life and you’re struggling to not ask her to touch you.

"i- fuck. i really don't know why i'm here" ellie admitted the first time after seeing your pole routine of a much shorter version of bauhaus's 'bela lugosi's death', conflicted as you're pushed to talk to her because of your boss: business, it's fucking business "don't know how this works."

"you should ask me for a private dance," you reply, of course you want to dance for her, feel her closer and she won’t say no, no when your index finger trail down her collarbone "maybe you can start finding out by that."

there's something insanely hot about the idea of taking a woman so put together completely apart. ellie knows that, you do. so when she comes back again two nights after, and every-single-time after that, she makes sure to ask for you, name loud and clear in her lips as she enters and you know, just know it's going to be a good night — please, fucking pay for me the rest of the night.

wrong. sets back feminism at least 30 years, but ellie's there anyway, seated like she is during various times the week, letting you take control of her cause it's just what she needs, comfortably seated on a velvet couch with you on top; it seems like the cure to all her ruins — how is she not going to be infatuated with you? how is she not going to suffer from withdrawal when she don't see you for days?

"you know i can," she replies, and your skin shivers against the serious tone in her voice, almost recovered from her sore throat as she takes a sip from the heavy glass of neat whiskey in the table next to the seat "i can afford your lifestyle if that's what you're asking. let me take care of you."

she don't know what's so funny, what entertains you so much as you giggle on top of her, but ellie's distracted as she stares at the tiny underwear you're wearing, the friction between you and her as her fingers ache to reach and touch you, make the triangle on your ass to the damn side.

the sound of your laugh catches her off-guard, and she don’t think when her hand gently pushes you down, making you rest your weight against her legs and let yourself rub your thin underwear in her jeans: sin feels good when you do it right cause shit if it's not the best thing in the world when you're taking her hands in between yours, polished and soft, they guide ellie into your sides, allowing her to trail down your body before giving a sly look to the camera, almost afraid you're going to be caught.

leaving her hands in your thighs seems an invitation cause your movements get slower. fuck the song, if someone's looking, let the lucky bastard live enough to see ellie's hand rub circles in the skin of your inner leg, close to the little outfit you're pulling and barely manages to cover your cunt.

your back presses against her chest, resting against her frame as you move your hips in slow circles, making ellie feel the scent of your perfume in her nose, the way it lingers in the air surrounding the private room.

"ask me again," you whisper, and her gaze lingers in the front part of your body as you lay on top of her: the curves on your skin, the silver and glittery fabric that cover your tits — nipples hard beneath as she has the damn need to use her right hand to do something much better than just sweetly touching your fucking leg "i'll be your good new wife, let you whine about your important job, fuck the stress out of you, all domestic and shit."

it's the way you say it, how you move on top of her, the sparkles splattered in your skin that makes you seem almost ethereal, however it makes ellie moan as she's nodding already on an invisible leash you tied around her neck from the very first time she came, intoxicating, her right hand moves from your leg to your hip, back to your navel and up to your very ribs.

"they are going to see that," you said, the camera always a fucking reminder of her ripping need to have a bit of decency, self-control as ellie's cheeks turn red — "you cannot touch me, love."

"to be fair at this point club 976's alive thanks to me" draining her money cent by fucking cent, she’s sure she keeps the place rolling during the week "so let them be pissed, m'snatching their best worker and takin' her away from this dump anyway."

it must be evil, should be if it isn't, cause just like you landed on her lap you're swiftly turning to face her as you dance, dragging your nails across her chest as from this angle, she becomes aware of your barely covered pussy that grinds against her legs; yeah, she has a much better view of your fingers slipping beneath her belt, of you basking in bliss almost unaware of how stupid ellie’s left when you're around.

"you really mean that?" you ask almost like it's a secret, and she’s smashed with this need of pulling you into a kiss, get lost in the threads of your hair “don’t fuck with me ellie.”

"i'll pay for your nails," her words are warm, her breathing now heavier as her fingers toy with the hem of your underwear: one little tug and it will surely let ellie see your soaked folds, sure you're wet when she see's the splotch in your underwear, the darker hue right between your legs "your clothes, fuck. i'll take you to fancy restaurants anything you want, just- just say you let me."

she can’t pay for interest, that reaction you got when moving on top of her, that almost silent moan you make as you dance or grind to seek for more friction. fuck it, she really don’t know it at this point.

“that’s enough for fifteen minutes,” she’s not aware also of the other people in the room until you’re standing up and she’s going to whine about the lack of touch until you’re screaming at the guard that’s yanking her outside the club — “respect the girls or don’t fucking show up here, got it?”

“outside,” she manages to says to you as she’s being pulled away “ah fuck off man- i’ll wait for you outside!”

the biggest surprise of the night though? she was serious, dead fucking serious; so when you’re leaving the club at almost five in the morning, she’s smoking there, back against her black mercedes as she tilts her head satisfied you’re looking out for her.

yes, ellie williams’s leash is tied to this pretty stripper she has in her sheets, spread over her kitchen island, under the cascading water of her shower, wearing her shirt, eating her food, taking her life — hand-cuffed.

i totally envision it and i’m getting brainrot about rich and divorced!ellie whos ex wife hates you when noticing how fucked up you have her already, wrapped around your finger — ellie’s important to her clearly and you’re quickly becoming a distraction: too much weed, late nights talking, buying you clothes, not picking up the damn phone. shocking cause makes ellie miss up work one morning since you convinced her to call in sick: yeah she’s important to the company, but why can’t she spend just one little morning with you? just one. cross your heart cause you’ll make her time worth it.

she likes it even when you’re a danger to her lifestyle, when you’re slipping inside her office after your collage classes (same ones she’s already offering to pay), and you go there sitting on her lap as ellie tries to be concentrated in reading this paper about the growing insides of the economy for tomorrow, but you’re making it hard to keep her attention in her best behaviour when you’re leaning to see more of her work curious about it, and she has the best view she could ever ask from your bare back and those pajama shorts you use to roam around her penthouse.

so politely fuck work. ellie’s planting some wet kisses on your back, her fingers tug on your crop top and suddenly, you’re leaving wrinkles over her papers cause you’re gripping the wood desk too hard in hopes to hold onto anything, anything that connects you to earth and prevents you from spiraling. shit, shit, shit. how did it end up like that? how she’s so quick to make you stand between her legs? to bend so she can shove her fingers on your already wet pussy? it’s so easy for her to reduce you to this state, this plain mess. her gaze seems to burn holes in your skin, wanting to say something about you ruining her work, yet her mind does not function when she cannot say nothing more than, — “that’s it- can you bend for me? cheek against the desk baby.”

her free hand holds on the fabric of your short and your panties to the side, keeping them hooked in a finger as she uses it to make you move, a gentle pull that invites you to roll your hips back to meet her digits again before she’s slowly shoving a third finger inside and yeah, work can wait.

“faster,” you ask, a lewd sound filling the air when your arousal drips on her hand, coates her palm and makes your folds glisten in evidence of your needs, only gaining a needy sound in return when she’s compelled to follow your orders, keep you satisfied “fuck ellie- s’good you’re filling me so damn good.”

it’s dangerous cause she’s driven by your words, those sounds she loves to hear, the way you seem to suck her fingers deep inside until she’s curling them to rub on your velvety walls, that spot you overly enjoy and ellie discovered during the week: sure.

work can wait for an hour or two, she has better things to take care of now.

[pseudowho]

"You know, Nanamin," Yuuji started, between mouthfuls, "when we first met, I thought I wouldn't like you at all."

Kento raised one thin eyebrow over the rim of his paper-cup coffee. He sat with you, and Yuuji, at a dirt road Conbini overlooking Tokyo. The sun was setting, casting the city as a silhouette against oranges, purples. You could smell the earthy petrichor of an incoming storm. Yuuji did not mind, thoughtful as he slurped at an instant ramen.

"Like, really," Yuuji continued, his mouth puckered up, "I thought you were boring. Unfunny, grumpy, miserable. Maybe even a little bit mean." Yuuji laughed now, becoming gradually more animated as he set the scene. "And when you tried to lecture me, while I was fighting that curse? Insane. I was like, 'Who the hell is this guy?'"

You covered your mouth, hiding a smile, eyes flicking between your unreadable husband, and the bubbling boy opposite him. Yuuji finished laughing, wiping his eyes and sighing into another slurp of noodles.

You placed a surreptitious hand on Kento's thigh under the table, and he barely reacted, but to tense and cross his arms. Yuuji rested his chin on one hand, eyes softening as he looked over the ant-like lights, moving in scattered formation across the city.

"But then...I realised. You just cared. I mean, really cared. About me. And if I wasn't being treated right. And if I was gonna be okay." Yuuji swallowed, his voice thickening. "And I...didn't have anyone left like that. The only person I ever did have was my grandad, and maybe he just took care of me because he had to, y'know? But you chose to. Even though I'm...I'm a monster."

You saw Kento squirm within. You knew he'd had his misgivings about Sukuna's Vessel, before Kento knew him as Yuuji. You knew the shame and guilt Kento carried for that. His shoulders ached, a pall-bearer of emotions for so many.

"And you're hilarious. Anyone can see it, really. And you're a rebel. And a protester. And you stand up for the little guy when nobody else wants to. And you don't do it to make us like you. You just...believe it's right. And don't get me wrong, I like Gojo-sensei too, but I love you."

You pursed your lips, closing your eyes and trying not to tear up on Kento's behalf. Kento remained silent, arms crossed and frowning down at his steaming coffee. Yuuji looked at you, uncertain. You gently flapped one hand; don't worry, you're alright, you're okay.

Kento eventually broke his silence, his voice gruff. He pushed his bank card across the table to Yuuji.

"Itadori-kun." Yuuji sat to attention, wide-eyed. "Go and get yourself some snacks. As much as you like. And the other students, too, if you know what they'd want."

Yuuji took the card in confusion, with both hands and a little bow, and disappeared inside the shop, the automatic doors booping behind him.

Kento stood, your hand falling off his lap, and grasped the metal railings overlooking the city, with his back to you. His shoulders were taut, stiff, occasionally hitching with emotion. You felt him, as you always had.

"...Kento? Are you alright?"

A thick swallow and a sniffle before a single gravelly, "Yeah. I'm fine, I...I'm fine."

[wbellab]

Obsessed | Mattheo Riddle

summary: Rumours that you are hooking up with Mattheo Riddle are all over the Hogwarts Gossip. You’ve transferred at hogwarts not even a month ago and you’re- wait are you even supposed to know who he his ? The whole thing is ridiculous. And you’re pissed.

pairing: MattheoRiddle x fem!ravenclaw!reader

cw: angst, fluff, cursing, mention of drinking, slight mamma mia reference (iykyk)

4k words

inspo: obsessed by mariah carey

"No way he really did all that ?" Your 15 year old daughter gasped at your revelation.

"Yeah!" you laughed, shaking your head. "Then he started throwing out all these shitty excuses men come up with when they’re desperate."

She blinked, leaning in. "I bet he was."

You smirked.

"Oh he truly was, so I just stared at him and I was like ‘why are you so obsessed with me?’"

20 years ago.

The Hogwarts Whisper

Okay, guys, grab your wands because this tea is spilling. Our sources have definitely spotted Mattheo Riddle, yes THE Mattheo Riddle, son of Voldemort and the absolute hottest guy at Hogwarts (Professor McGonagall, we know you’re not exactly a fan, but we see you), with none other than the new girl in the three broomsticks. Is this the start of a new Hogwarts couple? We’re not saying they’re a thing... but it’s looking suspiciously like it.

But wait, things are getting spicy ! Another source of ours claims she saw them in the restricted section of the library, right next to the Dark Arts aisle, sharing a kiss that was so passionate, even Ron Weasley would have dropped his Chocolate Frog. Now, we have to ask, is Riddle trying to tip her over to the Dark Side? He didn’t exactly confirm or deny it, but what we do know is that he definitely tipped her over to his bed… No, we don’t mean in a metaphorical sense–

Your heart dropped.

What the fuck ?

You turned to your new friend, Luna Lovegood, who sat next to you in the Ravenclaw table. The paper was still in your hand and you gestured to it.

"I’m going to have a panic attack Luna. What is that ?"

It was supposed to be a quiet morning.

You had just sat down at breakfast, half-asleep, your toast untouched, when the shriek came from the other end of the Ravenclaw table.

"Oh. My. God. You’re on the cover."

You blinked. "Huh?"

Before you could even react, a copy of The Hogwarts Whisper was slammed onto the table in front of you. The glossy, overly dramatic headline screamed back at you:

“Mattheo Riddle Caught Locking Lips With Mysterious New Girl in Restricted Section.”

Your face went up in flames. It couldn’t be you right ? But your name was clearly mentioned in the paper.

"No. This is insane. I didn’t—I’ve never—"

But no one was listening. Everyone had turned to look at you. Eyes widened.

Whispers buzzed across the hall louder than enchanted howlers. You could see girls glaring, a few Ravenclaws snickering, and somewhere down the table, someone gasped. Dramatically.

"Merlin’s beard," you muttered, flipping the page. It got worse.

One source claims they heard moaning next to the Dark Arts aisle. Another says she’s been under a Love Potion. Which, let’s be honest, is very on-brand for someone who wears last season’s robes.

You slammed the magazine shut and turned to your friends. "Who wrote this? Who let this get published?"

Cho mumbled, "It’s anonymous. Probably that nosy third year Hufflepuff-"

"I wasn’t in the library yesterday ! I wasn’t even near the restricted section! I was in the common room, writing a stupid essay on wand theory!"

Your voice cracked, slightly hysterical now. Your hands came to rest on top of your eyes. You breathing was shallow as you tried to keep your calm, trying to think about what could’ve gone wrong.

You’ve transferred from Ilvermony a month ago. Hogwarts was supposed to be a new start for you after what happened there. You were bullied, relentlessly. Whispers behind your back that turned into cruel jokes in the hallways. Spells cast when professors weren’t looking. Your wand yanked from your hand mid-duel, your belongings hexed to humiliate you, your name always twisted into something meaner.

No one ever really stepped in. Not the teachers, not your so called friends. By the end, you stopped trying to defend yourself. You stopped speaking in class. You stopped looking people in the eye.

So when your parents offered the transfer to Hogwarts, you didn’t hesitate.

"Well actually, it could be Riddle." Luna interrupted your thoughts. You stared at her in question and she continued. "It says here that he confirmed that you guys slept together. It’s quite explicit."

"How could he do this ?" You wondered out loud. "Why would he say things like that ?"

"Tell that to them." Cho hummed towards the Slytherin table where a group–including Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini, Theodore Malfoy and Lorenzo Berkshire– was sat. They were also checking the journal, although they seemed amused by what was written. Obviously they would be.

Riddle was part of their friend group. It made them laugh to hear about another one of his conquest being publicly outed. You looked back at the journal. The guy even had the nerve to give a personal interview. You felt outraged.

When Mattheo Riddle arrived in the Great Hall, he was oblivious to the commotion happening. He sat next to his friends, thinking about his next potion class.

"Long night ?" Theodore questioned, a smirk on his face. He just rolled his eyes in response.

"Bugger off." He grabbed a spoonful of scrambled eggs and poured himself a glass of pumpkin juice. Something felt weird. When he raised his head, he saw all his friends staring at him expectantly, a big smile on their face. "Okay are you gonna tell what’s happening now ?" He dropped his spoon on the table, folding his arms against his chest.

"Aren’t you gonna read the news ?" Pansy smirked handing his a piece of journal. He stared at it confused, dread forming in his chest. What did his father do again ? At this point he was expecting a handful of things.

But what he truly was not expecting, it was to see his name on the paper. He read the headline once, twice. He frowned.

His eyes scanned the paper, widening each time he read the most blatant bullshit ever written on a paper. He quickly slammed it on the table, eyes wide open in horror as if traumatised.

"What was that ?" He looked around at his friends, who seemed to have witnessed the best entertainment of this year so far. "I’ve never seen this much bullshit written about me and trust me, I’ve read a lot of shit by the Rita Skeatcher."

"Come on, don’t act oblivious. You wrote this."

"I did not." He felt offended that people, let alone his friends would think he would engage in something as irrelevant as gossiping. Mattheo did not have the time for this. People already knew he could pull, why brag about it through a paper ? "This is an obvious piss-take. I would never say this." He gestured to the paper.

"Good point." Blaise nodded.

His thoughts seemed to clear a bit and that’s when he realised. His head snapped up, and he looked around scanning the Hall, looking for you. You were sat with your friends, furious he noticed. Obviously you would be.

When you felt eyes on you, you automatically turned your head toward his table, locking eyes. Your frown immediately deepened and you flipped him off, with both your hands. Childish, he pointed out.

You then stood up, aggressively and walked out of the Hall. Draco, who was the only one who noticed this interaction snorted on his food. Yes, Draco Malfoy snorting.

"Good job cousin."

Mattheo rolled his eyes. Standing up walking towards the entrance. After having done four strides, he immediately turned, walking back to his friends.

"Please find who wrote this and delete that shit." And without waiting for an answer he turned back, speeding to catch up with you.

"Hum… who’s gonna break it to him?" Pansy muttered.

"It was your idea. You assume the consequences." Blaise huffed.

"What ?" Lorenzo, Draco and Theodore stared at the two of them, confused.

"Pansy had this great idea to ruin Mattheo’s reputation after he pranked her. You know when he turned her hair yellow neon."

"You actually helped me write this, you hypocrite !" Pansy defended herself. Blaise simply shrugged at that.

"I don’t think it’s even possible to ruin his reputation at this point there is nothing to ruin." Enzo deadpanned.

"Hey I was desperate. We each have our own reasons to hold a grudge against Riddle…" Pansy muttered. "But I didn’t think he would get this." She paused, searching for the correct word. "Agitated ?"

"Well about that…"

You were strolling to your dorm. You needed to get your books before the first period started, that is if you even considered going. Your feet met the concrete floor with a loud thud, each step a confirmation of how furious you were.

You heard from behind quick paces. You curiously turned your head and to your own displeasure you saw the person you last wanted to talk to. Mattheo Riddle, with his hair all disheveled was trying to catch up with you. And he definitely seemed out of breath. Probably his smoking, you thought.

You rolled your eyes quickening your pace.

"Hey please." You heard him call out. Still you ignored him. You were nearly running now, running away from him as he chased you. The situation was dramatic, a bit comical from an external point of vue. But you really wanted to get away from him. You were nearly there. You could see the Ravenclaw’s common room’s door right in front of you.

It’s when you felt his hand on your shoulder that you suddenly flinched and stopped right on your track.

"Don’t touch me you dirty ass rag." He looked taken aback by your sudden outburst.

"I-"

"No you don’t get to fucking talk. You fucking humiliated me. And for what ? A good laugh ? Why would you sqy shit like and lie about us having sex ?"

"I never said this. Please just listen to me-" He nearly begged but you cut him off.

You did not care about him. You definitely did not sign up for this bullshit when you arrived. Having to deal with a guy was one of the last things you wanted to do.

"No I won’t. I know how men like you are. Pathetic. I’ll leave you to your miserable life. Continue bragging about getting me in your bed, it’ll make you look obsessed if it didn’t already."

You walk towards the door of your common room, thankful for the suspiciously great timing of the first year opening door at this right moment. You definitely didn’t feel like solving a riddle while trying to get away from Mattheo Riddle (pun not intended). The student awkwardly smiled at you, not meeting your gaze and you guessed that he probably heard your conversation.

Oh well. Something new to gossip about.

"I’ll fix this !" You heard his muffled voice, after closing the common room door.

Asshole.

Once you were settled on your bed, you decided that skipping your morning classes wouldn’t be that bad of an idea. You had advanced potions and you were prepared enough for your NEWT’s that skipping that one class wouldn’t hurt. You glanced at the paper on top of your roommate’s night table, The Hogwarts Whisper. On the front page, a very realistic picture of Mattheo Riddle kissing someone (that looked very similar to you) against a bookshelf. You did not take the time to properly look at it this morning, but watching it more carefully you realise that it’s not even you on the moving picture .

You crumble the piece of paper between your hands before igniting it with your wand. This was humiliating. You would never admit it but you truly fell for his charms. Back on the first day.

"Hi." You walked reluctantly towards the boy sitting alone in the Hallway. You were lost. Again. It was the third time and it was only the first hour of your first day at Hogwarts. The boy raised his head, his cigarette not moving from his mouth and he just waited for you to continue talking. "Do you know where the potions classroom is ? It’s my next class and I don’t really know my way around here. I would have tried looking for it myself but I’m a bit late. And well I have this map but it’s hard to–"

"It’s just here." He cut you off pointing to the door behind you.

"Oh." You mumbled embarrassed, looking at the ground. You felt your face flushing. "Mmh…Thank you, I guess ?"

You quickly turned around knocking once on the door. Without waiting for an answer you opened the door, too embarrassed to be one more second around the boy. You apologised to the professor and found a place in the back of the room.

As if the universe was against you, the classroom door opened to reveal the same boy who had been sitting smoking just a few minutes ago.

"I’m sorry Professor Slughorn. I woke up a bit late."

"Come come, m’boy." The professor waved him off, returning to his lecture.

Misfortunately for you, the boy obviously sat next to you. Out of all the empty places around you. You turned to him and saw that he didn’t even pay you attention.

"You did not."

"Excuse me ?"

"Wake up late– I mean that’s not the reason why you’re late."

"Wow you truly are clever." He answered sarcasm dripping from his voice. "I bet you’re in Ravenclaw right ?" He smirked.

"You see my tie colour." You deadpanned.

"I’m colour blind."

"No you’re not."

"How would you know. Do you know me ?" He asked challenging you.

"No, but colour blinding is a condition that affects only 4.5 per cent of the population, population that is, may I add, muggle. It does not affect wizards whatsoever."

"So Ravenclaw ?" His smirk was still present or his face, although it softened a little bit.

"What’s your name ?"

"Mattheo."

"Mattheo what ?" He frowned at that. Did you really not know who he was ?

"Riddle ?" He said but it sounded more like a question.

"No, no riddle just tell me."

"It’s Mattheo Riddle." He huffed exasperatedly.

"Oh okay, sorry."

After this, he volunteered to show you around the castle. You both hit it off pretty well. He spent three hours explaining every thing you needed to know to be able to guide your way around. He made a few jokes here and there making you laugh, and you always wittily retorted back which, as hard as he tried to conceal it, made him laugh too. Eventually, you both started talking about your personal life, sharing deep thoughts you’ve each never told anyone before. You’ve known each other for just a few hours really but it felt like you could both trust each other. It had been just a few days. But in the span of them you felt like he was your first friend, and somehow you were also the first person he truly appreciated.

Until that stupid paper.

"You should come to the party." Cho cut your thoughts.

You didn’t bother going for lunch nor for dinner. Your roommates have been kind enough to bring you something to eat, just a piece of bread with cheese and two blueberry tarts. This small gesture warmed your hearts and you thanked them although you weren’t very hungry.

They were now dressing up for the Hufflepuff quidditch victory party against Gryffindor. You were told Hufflepuff threw the best parties and although you wanted to figure it out for yourself, you did not feel like showing up your face ever again.

"Arghh… No I’m never setting feet out of this room." You retorted, your face deep in your pillow.

"This will be so much fun, you have to come please." Padma, another one of your roommates, tried convincing you.

You smiled apologetically at them. You truly appreciated how they wanted you to feel included but you genuinely didn’t want to party. They understood and after a few minutes they left the room leaving you alone. Or that’s what you thought.

"Your head is surrounded by nargles." You flinched at the sound of her voice. She took off the originally shaped glasses she was wearing, and stared at you. "Is something bothering you ?"

"I mean other than what happened this morning…"

"Oh yes right." She muttered. After a few minutes of silence she broke it. "You should go. To the party. You shouldn’t let Riddle hold this much power over you."

"I know but…" You had no explanation.

"In other circumstances would you have gone ?" She asked. You thought for a few seconds then you simply nodded your head. "Then you should go. Don’t let Riddle have that much power over you." You nodded thinking about it. She was right you shouldn’t let him affect you this much.

"Luna, I don’t know anyone."

"It’s okay I’ll come with you."

"You would ?"

"Yes I mean I don’t like parties but I guess if this could help you, why not ?" You warmly smiled at her.

Then you both started getting dressed. You wore a simple black laced top with a short black skirt and black boots. Luna suggested you wore a dark red lipstick, and you were against it until she reassured you it would really compliment your facial features. She herself wore a lighter version of your outfit, a long white skirt with a white top and light pink ballerinas. It complimented her fair skin and light hair.

The Hufflepuff common room was buzzing with music, you heard the sound of it even before entering the common room. Once you were inside, it was the smell of booze that entered you nostrils, making you shudder a little bit. You turned towards the makeshift bar in the end of the room.

"I’m getting myself a drink." You turned to Luna and she nodded, although she followed there.

You wouldn’t admit it but you lost count of the number of Firewhisky shots you drank after the second one. You weren’t used to drinking, a simple drop of it was enough to make you tipsy. But now you were absolutely wasted. Cho and Padma joined you when they saw you did in fact make it to the party. And quickly enough, you started swaying to the music amongst the crowd of students.

You were the first person Mattheo Riddle noticed when he entered the common room. It was hard not too. When you were in the middle of the dance floor, the sound of your laugh distinctive amongst the chatter, as you were swaying with the Hufflepuff’s quidditch team’s captain behind you. You looked beautiful that’s also one of the first thing he noticed but he couldn’t help feeling bitter about the position you were in with that other boy.

"Hey mate, we’re going–"

"Don’t fucking talk to me." He cut Blaise off.

His friends eventually told him they were the ones behind the article. And well…let’s say that Pansy couldn’t make it to the party because she unexpectedly grew a snake tongue in her mouth. Blaise was still there, although his hair was not.

They didn’t mean any harm. For them it was just a simple joke. But Mattheo seemed to have taken it that badly that he also refused to speak to any of them (and he probably will for at least a month even if you talk to him again). And that meant even his brother and cousin.

He headed towards the middle of the dance floor right towards you. He physically couldn’t bear watching you dancing this close to another man. It was also his chance to explain himself.

"Please can we talk ?" He said once he was close enough to you.

You turned your head and your joyful expression started to turn grim at the sight of him.

"You’re delusional if you think we have anything to talk about." You went back to dancing against the guy you were with. His hands going suspiciously lower and that was the last straw for him. How dare he touch you like this ? Let alone while he was clearly talking to you.

He ripped his hands off your body, nearly breaking them as you gasped. The guy cursed him loudly, but Mattheo didn’t care as he grabbed your hand. With a flick of his hand, the guys mouth was zipped shut. Satisfied, he guided you towards the exit of the common room, although you tried fighting back but your drunken body couldn’t do much against him. Once you were both in a quiet corner, he decided to let go of your hand.

"What is wrong with you ?" You frowned trying to stabilise your body. You were feeling extremely dizzy and Mattheo noticed, putting a hand on your hip so you wouldn’t fall.

"I hope you’ll listen to me now." he said, though his voice was softer than you'd expected.

You nodded slowly, barely holding yourself together. You really shouldn’t have drunk this much.

"Tell me." You mumbled trying to compose your thoughts. "Why are you so obsessed with me ?" It was meant to come off as biting. Dismissive.
But Mattheo didn’t take it that way. He didn’t even flinch.

He sighed.

"Because you’re the first person that doesn’t make me feel like I’m completely fucked."

You flinched at his honesty, blinking hard as your slow brain tried to catch up with the weight of his words. But he kept going.

"And I can’t fucking help thinking about you."
His voice was strained now. Like it hurt to speak.
"You’re constantly on my mind to the point I just can’t help but crave having you near me. All the time. And it’s driving me crazy. It’s scary as hell and I know it sounds insane but I need you. You don’t even realize how much.
You make it look so easy. So right. Like whatever I’ve done, whatever I’ve been, I’m not being judged. Not by you."

He took a shaky breath and pursed his lips, like he was trying to stop himself from saying too much. Then, quieter.

"I wouldn’t fuck it up. Not this. It would never be worth it."

There were still so many things he didn’t say.
How you made him feel safe in a way no one ever had.
How you listened without flinching.
How just existing near you felt like healing.

And maybe someday, he’d find the words for all of that.
But for now, this was everything.

"You’re pathetic." You huffed, but there was no bite in your voice. If anything, his words had sobered you up. Slowed your heartbeat in that dangerous, terrifying way.

"I know," he murmured. "Just for you."

You rolled your eyes but your lips twitched.

"You better deal with the paper."

"Yes." He was already shifting. "I’ll do it right now if you want."

You leaned in, your fingers brushing against his jaw, tilting his face toward yours.

"I’m thinking about doing other things." You muttered.

And then…

Dot dot dot.

"Fucking disgusting!" Your daughter gasped.

"Don’t tell me you told her about The Hogwarts gossip thing." Mattheo appeared in the living room, still in his robe from work

"Of course I did. She had to know the real truth about how her parents started dating."

"You didn’t need to say the WHOLE thing." She yelled.

"I didn’t. The ending is kept open for free interpretation." You shrugged, an amused smile on your face.

She huffed getting up. "This is so going to the group chat. Uncle Draco’s definitely going to hear about this. You two need help."

Mattheo glanced at you with a smirk.

"Do you think we should ask Draco for that therapist he talked about ? Maybe our dear daughter might need it."

"I don’t think it’s necessary. She’s just jealous she’s not as fun as us." You answer teasingly.

"You’re both insane!" Your daughter yelled from the hallway.

Mattheo chuckled and dropped onto the couch beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and pulling you into him. You went without resistance, head resting against his chest.

"You shouldn’t have told her." He muttered. "It’s an embarrassing story." 

"It’s a cute story." you countered, lips curving into a smirk.

He paused. Then sighed.

"Yeah well. Still awfully cheesy."

You just laughed, knowing damn well it was his favorite memory too.

a/n: this has been sitting in my drafts for three months. still not satisfied with the content but it took me a lot of time to edit.

[nadvs]

the power play (part eight) (end)

pairing hockeyplayer! rafe cameron x tutor! reader

rating mature 18+

summary rafe is your complete opposite. the only thing you have in common with the hockey player you tutor is that he’s also recently had his heart broken. in a last-ditch effort to make the people who hurt you regret it, you agree to pretend to date.

Time folds into itself as you lie in Rafe’s bed, slipping in and out of a tired daze, lulled by the sound of his heartbeat.

When he shifts and exhales a sharp wince, you don’t know how many minutes have passed, but you’re sure it’s time to leave, to give him all the space he can get in his bed.

“I should go,” you whisper, sitting up slowly.

He’s in a trance, his shoulder aching, exhaustion seeped into his bones.

Your warmth is gone.

He sees your figure in the dark.

You leave as quietly as possible.

════════

The next day, Rafe walks out through the campus gym doors after meeting with his coach and physical therapist. Turns out the tear isn’t nearly as bad as it could’ve been, but as expected, there’s no chance in hell he can play for a while. He’s out of tournament.

He’s lost. It’s like he forgot his own name. Hockey is the constant in his life, or it was, and it’s messing with his head that he won’t be spending hours training or practicing or playing anymore. Instead, he’ll either be in physio or resting, and the closest he can get to the ice is on the bench.

His coach had said that at least it happened at the end of the season, that he’s only a sophomore with so much ahead of him, but all Rafe can feel is disappointment ripping through him.

His phone buzzes with a text from you.

I hope you’re ok. Guessing you can’t make it today?

Right. It’s Thursday. He’s supposed to meet you for tutoring in an hour.

If he never hurt himself last night, if today was a normal day, he’d be in class right now, his morning workout done, his body buzzing with the hot anticipation that he feels every time he’s about to see you.

But today’s far from normal. You said nothing after he kissed you last night. He’s an idiot for making a move on a girl who’d told him so many times that she doesn’t want a boyfriend.

But you’re the one who curled up next to him, who cried over his pain as if it were your own, who told him you care about him.

It’s insane what you do to him. He never runs in circles like this, never dwells on what a girl might be thinking, because he doesn’t have to. In any other situation, he’d cut to the chase and tell you that he wants you.

But the embarrassment from what happened last night still stings. He wouldn’t survive it, hearing you say you don’t see him like that, that you’re not looking for a relationship. When he’s so sure it’d end in an awkward rejection, what’s the point?

After everything that happened in the last 24 hours, it’s a loss he wouldn’t be able to cope with.

════════

You’re writing in your agenda as you wait in the study room, your pen smoothly gliding over paper. Your phone is sitting beside your notebook, and you unlock it to reread Rafe’s text from half an hour ago.

I can make it.

You’re tense about seeing him after last night.

You don’t know what to do. There’s no misinterpreting it. He kissed your forehead and there’s no way he would do that if he didn’t feel something deeper than friendship for you.

Still, it’s sad how hard it is to believe that a guy sees you like that, all because of the mark that Beck left on you. Rafe had once called you clueless about this stuff, and he was right.

The memory of how he’d snapped at you in the car that night serves as a reminder of how cold he can be, and how you’re not entirely confident you could handle loving someone like that.

You’re carrying too much baggage. So is he. You’d thought Rafe came into your life at the perfect time, but if anything, the timing couldn’t be worse.

You’re still working through your heartbreak and you don’t know if you can be with someone when you need to work on yourself. Especially when that someone distances himself from you whenever you ask the wrong question.

You’re scared. If you gave Rafe your heart, truly, all the way, there’s no telling if it’d be in good hands.

His broad figure appears in the doorway, his expression guarded.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” you say. You motion to your own arm, immediately noticing that he’s not wearing the sling you saw him in last night. “You don’t need the…?”

“It’s not that bad,” Rafe murmurs, nudging the door shut with his good elbow.

“I thought you tore it,” you say, your voice laced with concern. He sits down with his elbow bent, his injured arm tight against his body.

“I’m not going to need surgery or anything,” he repeats what he discussed earlier at the gym. “Few months of physio and meds and I’ll be good.”

“And rest, right?” you say. “You forgot to mention rest.”

“What do you know?” he says with a small smirk.

You mirror his smile, glad that although something so awkward is weighing over both of you, you can share a lighthearted moment.

“A lot,” you reply. You hold up your pen. “Do I need to give you another reminder tattoo?”

He scoffs, but he’s not sure he could tell you no if he tried, especially if the offer includes you touching him.

To your surprise, he lays his forearm on the desk. You chuckle, leaning forward, gently writing rest! on the inside of his wrist, right where you’d written your study room number on him all those nights ago.

“I think I have a future in this,” you say, admiring your work. He gazes at you as you tilt your head and blow cool air over the wet ink. “How are you?”

“Good,” he answers, in a melancholy daze. “You?”

“I’m good,” you reply. You meet his eyes again. “So, only a few months until you’re better? What’s the healing process going to be like?”

“The physio gave me a whole list of crap I gotta do,” he answers with a sigh.

“Do you have it with you?”

He hands you the sheet of paper jammed at the side of his backpack. You read over the instructions, tips on managing pain, on the importance of nutrition and rest, on avoiding rigorous activities.

You skim over one of the bullet-points in the middle. Sleep on your back with the injured arm supported.

“They even tell you how to sleep?” you try to joke. “So, you shouldn’t have someone else on top of you. Lesson learned.”

What happened last night is out in the open now, the atmosphere strained with tension. Your eyes are still on the page. He can see you’re uncomfortable and he respects that you’re addressing it.

“I shouldn’t have…” He grimaces, embarrassed all over again. He has no choice but to brush the kiss off, to lie his way out of this. “I was on a lot of painkillers last night.”

He wants you to look disappointed so badly that it makes him ache, because then he’d take his words back and call bullshit on himself. But when you glance up at him, the look on your face is one of relief.

“Don’t worry about it,” you say, looking back down at the paper. You’re alleviated of your anxiety. He either didn’t mean the kiss, or he doesn’t want it to turn into something, and it’s better this way. Safer. “How often do you have to do therapy?”

Rafe tells himself he can deal with the hurt later, that now’s not the time to lose it, even though he’s on the edge. He pulls his laptop out of his bag, finding it so much harder now that he can’t use both arms.

“Twice a week,” he answers, his words stiff.

“And exercises you have to do on your own,” you murmur sympathetically, reading over the page. “This is a lot. I bet you can get accommodations for school. Deadline extensions at the very least.”

You put the paper down, smoothing out the wrinkles, trying to make sense of why your heart is racing right now. Rafe throws you for such a loop that you don’t even know how it’s possible to be both eased and troubled by him shrugging off what happened last night.

“I’m really sorry you can’t play anymore,” you tell him.

“Nothing I can do about it now.”

His scowl is hard as he logs in onto his computer, typing with one hand.

“I’m not just saying this,” you tell him. “The team wouldn’t have made it so far without you.”

He doesn’t need the reminder of what he’s lost, the agony of how much work he put in just to spend the rest of the school year behind the boards.

“Those guys will be fine,” he says with a sardonic chuckle.

It hurts you to see him so sure of it.

“No way,” you reply. “They’ll miss you.”

His throat is raw and he wishes he could just disappear right now, because he’s seconds away from breaking down. His eyes burn and he swallows it down, forcing everything he’s feeling away.

“Let’s not do this, okay?” he says sharply, his gaze still off you.

And with that, Rafe proves your point. That it’s not just you who might be emotionally unavailable, but him, too. Even after what you’d done last night, even after you’ve shared so much with him, you’re kept at an arm’s length, good enough to kiss, but not good enough to be honest with.

“Did you finish the book?” you ask.

“No,” he states, stoic and disinterested.

You’d normally call him out for his bad attitude, but after what he’s gone through, you’d just feel guilty for it.

You compel yourself to just be his tutor right now – not his friend, not the girl he pretended to date – but his tutor, tasked with one job and one job only.

Rafe finally lets his eyes land where they want to be most, on you, when you ask if you can take his laptop to start working on the next assignment.

But you won’t look at him back. He can tell that you don’t want to.

════════

The moment Rafe gets to his dorm room after your tutoring session, he feels like he’s stalling with nothing left to drive him. His thoughts are tangled together, his body aches, and he has no idea what to do next.

He sits on the edge of his bed. He should probably look over those recovery instructions again, email his profs and teaching assistants about accommodations, do some school work to keep himself busy, but it’s like he’s frozen.

He looks down at the floor, his vision going blurry. The only person, if anyone, he could talk to about this right now is you.

But he can’t even do that. Especially not when you’re mad at him. He snapped, and then you were distant and talked only about his schoolwork for the rest of your hour together.

He feels like shit for how he treated you. He didn’t expect to do it, but you can be so stubborn, forcing him to talk about shit that he can’t talk about.

He lies in bed, still in painful disbelief of how quickly things can change, and how he has no control over any of them.

════════

It’s nearing six p.m. when Rafe wakes up. He checks his messages, hoping you texted him like he always does when he picks up his phone. But of course, there’s nothing from you.

He reads over the team’s group chat texts that he didn’t get to answering. After a few messages asking Rafe how he is after Coach told everyone he’s out for the season, some of the guys texted about a party tonight.

Being surrounded by noise and getting a break from reality sounds like just what he needs. And because he misses you and has no willpower when it comes to you, he texts you: Down to go to a party tonight?

You reply minutes later: Look at your tattoo.

He smirks to himself, glancing down at the word you’d written on his skin, and texts you again: I’ll just be standing there. That counts as rest.

You’re walking through campus to grab dinner, staring at your phone as you weave through crowds, your stomach in a knot.

It’s been that way since Rafe left the study room earlier today. You hate that you’re back in this headspace, overanalyzing, wondering what a man really feels about you.

You did it for years with Beck, going back and forth between being sure he liked you and feeling sad that he didn’t.

It shouldn’t be this complicated. You have fun with Rafe. He gets you, and you think you get him. He’s flawed, but so are you, and that doesn’t mean things can’t work out.

But it feels impossible. You’re not sure you can give each other what you both need. And you’re still hurting from the way he’d brushed you off today yet again, refusing to let you in.

With an aching heart, you text back: Sorry, I can’t tonight.

════════

Rafe’s limbs are heavy and hot as he leans against a wall, surrounded by his closest friends on the team. He’s letting them do the talking, too in his head to even think about having any real fun.

He wishes you were here.

He heads towards the kitchen to grab a drink. He spots a familiar face. And it’s the last thing he needs.

“Hey,” Emma says, leaning over the counter as she fills up a cup. “Where’s your little girlfriend? Not hanging onto you like usual?”

It’s the first words she’s spoken to him since their breakup. That night feels like a lifetime ago.

“What the fuck are you doing talking to me?” he mutters.

Her eyebrow raises in that infuriating way that tells him she’s enjoying getting a rise out of him.

“Warning you,” she laughs. “She’s kind of twisted. I don’t know if a normal person would hear all about your red flags and then like, cling onto you.”

“What’d you say to her?” he asks, his jaw tensing.

“She didn’t tell you?”

“We don’t talk about you.”

Rafe hates that it’s a lie, that he wasted so much of his limited time with you talking about someone else.

“I just told her the truth,” she says.

His nostrils flare as he glares down at her, at a loss for how he ever thought he saw any good in her. After he’s gotten to know you, after he’s seen what it’s like when someone treats him like he’s not a burden, he could never want someone like Emma again.

“I’m sure it’s nothing she hasn’t seen for herself by now,” she says when he doesn’t respond. “Obviously, she heard what an asshole you are. That must be her type. Or it could’ve been the part I said about how pathetic you were, crying to get back together. Maybe she wants to fix you.”

So, that was your first impression of him. That’s what you’ve kept from him.

Rafe heads back to his friends without saying another word. There was a time he was dying for Emma to talk to him. Now, he can’t waste another second around her.

He got what he wanted. She’s jealous. And that guy he saw her with before isn’t around.

He won.

But the victory is hollow.

════════

“It’s not pretty,” Isaac tells you, one foot outside the locker room, “but I got everybody to write something.”

“Thank you,” you say, taking the card. You look around the hall again, as if Rafe will catch you, even though you know he wouldn’t be in this part of the arena right before the semi-final game.

“I did say I owe you,” he replies.

“He’s watching from the bench?” you ask.

“Yeah,” Isaac answers, wincing. “How is he?”

“Fine, I guess,” you reply with a sad shrug. “He won’t really talk about it.”

You haven’t heard from Rafe since last night after you texted him back. But based on how Isaac’s acting, you can tell he hasn’t told anyone about your breakup, saving you from having to come up with any explanations.

“The guy’s a vault,” Isaac half-chuckles.

You nod, glancing down at the card, opening it up to see messy, scribbled messages from the guys on the hockey team written across the inside.

You’d bought the blank card at an on-campus convenience store after asking Isaac if the team did anything to commemorate Rafe after his forced departure. When he told you everyone was too preoccupied with the tournament, you took it upon yourself to do something.

You’re not upset with Rafe anymore. Not after you’ve taken time to reflect that he doesn’t have to tell you anything he doesn’t want to, no matter how much you wish he would. Not when you recall how heartbroken he was when he insinuated that his teammates won’t miss him.

“It’s nice of you to do this for him,” Isaac offers.

“Thanks. I think he needs to hear that people care about him.” You take a step back. “Good luck tonight.”

════════

It’s difficult for you to even imagine watching the semi-finals. You tell Lyla you’re too swamped with studying to attend.

The truth is that you know sitting in those stands will just make you feel the lack of Rafe, the wrongness of him not being on the ice, the gap in your chest that he left.

It’ll break your heart to see him on the bench, instead of in the game where he belongs.

You stop by his dorm room to slide the card under his door. And then, you go home to distract yourself with schoolwork, hoping that with enough time, you can finally feel like yourself again.

════════

You send the text a few minutes after you check to see that the team won, left with one more game to potentially win the championship.

Can you come over?

Nerves stitch your stomach when you receive his response that he’ll be there in twenty minutes.

Eventually, there are soft raps on your door, and when you open it, Beck looks exactly how you expected him to. Confused.

“I’m going to talk,” you tell him, “and I want you to listen and be honest with me, got it?”

He nods, brows furrowed as you step aside. He walks into your room, leaning against your desk as you sit on your bed.

You take a deep breath, nervous but already relieved that years of pressure will be off your shoulders after you say this.

“You know what you did to me,” you say, “and I don’t want you to pretend like you don’t. You strung me along. For years. You knew I liked you, didn’t you?”

Beck glances to the side, adjusting in his haphazard seat.

“It's not like I…” he mumbles.

“What?”

“I liked you, too,” he says, looking like it pains him to admit it. “I – I do like you. Still.”

It’s not what you expected.

“Since when?” you say in a huff of disbelief.

“It’s been a long time,” he answers.

You can only scoff. He sighs, clearly uncomfortable.

“You’re my sister’s best friend,” he says quietly. “Can you imagine how weird it would be if it didn’t work out?”

It’s a sudden, overwhelming realization, hitting you like an ice cold wave. The only reason he never acted on his feelings was because he was afraid of a mere possibility. Maybe it wouldn’t end well, so he saw no reason to even try.

“That’s why?” you say. “Why not just tell me?”

“Because of this,” he says tensely, motioning between you.

“Because of an awkward conversation?” you say. “How is that any better than what happened after your final? You stopped talking to me after that.”

“I thought… with time, we’d go back to how it was,” he mumbles. “And that maybe, we’d both just lose feelings. But then you started dating Rafe and… I can’t handle seeing it. You shouldn’t be with him.”

You hate how he said Rafe’s name, as if it was a swear word. It’s the only thing you can focus on. Not that he just told you what you’ve been wanting to hear for years. Just that he speaks about Rafe like he’s bad.

And Rafe isn’t bad. He can be difficult and short-tempered, but he can also be warm. Passionate. Funny. Caring.

And you love him.

Damn it. You love him.

“I don’t need you worrying about who I’m dating, okay?” you say sharply. “Maybe if you were a friend, sure, but you’re barely even that anymore.”

“Why are you talking like this?”

Beck seems jarred by your contempt. You’re surprised yourself. You always thought you’d sugarcoat your words with him, that you’d care about his feelings too much to ever be brutally transparent.

But this is necessary. And you realize you couldn’t have gotten here without Rafe.

“Because I deserve honesty,” you say. You let out a shaky sigh. “I know you didn’t want to have a hard conversation, but avoiding it led to this. An even harder one. You weren’t wrong to worry that we would never work out. We wouldn’t. I just want things to be civil from now on. Like you said, Lyla’s my best friend.”

Beck shakes his head slightly. It almost looks like he had some semblance of hope that this conversation would go another direction.

“You know he’ll just hurt you, right?” he says. “I saw him fighting with his old girlfriend all the time. He’s a jerk.”

“You don’t know him,” you mutter. “And you’re in no place to call him that. Not after how you treated me. You expected I’d always be on the sidelines, waiting for you, and then got mad when I started seeing someone else. It isn’t fair.”

Beck shakes his head in frustration and walks to the door, but stops himself before he turns the doorknob.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his back still to you. “You’re right. Let’s… be civil.”

It’s a glimpse into why you once liked him so much. He has a soft heart, desperate to run from conflict. But conflict is inevitable. And you can’t be with someone who doesn’t see that.

“Okay,” you say to his back.

The door shuts behind Beck with a hard thud, closing a chapter you’re glad to see end.

════════

You eventually text Rafe: Are you going out with the team? I’m free. Just saying.

Now more than ever, you miss him. It feels silly to distance yourself, to do exactly what Beck did with you and stay away from someone just because there’s a chance that it’ll end badly.

Every part of you longs for him, for the feeling you get when you’re around him, and you can only hope he wants to see you tonight, too.

He responds that he’s on his way to pick you up.

════════

Rafe pulls up to your building, unable to stop his mind from stumbling down memory lane. He idled here for the first time so long ago, with only revenge on his mind, waiting for a ridiculously cheerful and talkative girl to sit in his passenger seat.

When you open the car door and flaunt your bright smile as you climb in, it’s like his heart found its way back to him, like you hold onto it when you aren’t together and parade it around when you are.

“Was it you?” he asks.

“Was what me?” you say.

“The card.”

You grin, glad he got a chance to go back to his room before coming to pick you up. You don’t need the recognition. You’re just glad he seems happy about it.

You notice both of his hands on the steering wheel, recalling how he could only type with one a few days ago.

“Nice,” you say, buckling your seatbelt. “Your pain meds must be working. That’s great. I have to tell you something. I finally talked to Beck. I kind of… told him off, I guess. And… you can say you told me so. You were right. He did like me. Or actually, he does. It was a lot to take in.”

Rafe grimaces, hating to hear that the guy you once said you loved told you he wants you, too. He drives out onto the road, his body tense.

“I told him that it’ll never happen,” you continue. “And he was bitter. And he’s convinced things are going to end badly with you and me. I wonder how we should tell people we’re broken up. Do we just… mention it if they ask? I haven’t told anyone. You haven’t either, right?”

You finally look over at him, gazing at his profile.

Rafe is relieved that you really are done with Beck, that you’re acting like yourself, that you’re in his car again, rambling, filling his life with a light he never had before.

He’d rather not talk about your fake breakup. And definitely not about Beck. He doesn’t have it in him to waste any time with you focusing on someone who hurt you.

“Just admit it,” he murmurs.

“Admit what?”

“The card,” he mutters playfully.

You sigh, realizing he won’t let you get away with not taking credit for it.

“Did Isaac tell you?” you ask.

“Nobody told me.”

“If you want to call me corny, just do it,” you laugh. “Never stopped you before.”

Rafe smiles sadly. Admittedly, it felt good to read the messages from the guys, seeing that they really will miss him. But he doesn’t deserve you doing that for him after the way he lost his cool on you.

“I thought you were pissed at me,” he says.

“I was, a little,” you confess.

“Sorry I snapped,” Rafe says regretfully. “If you were mad, then why’d you do it?”

His voice is soft, just like it was when he’d asked you why you came to his room the night he injured himself.

“That’s why,” you say. “You always seem so surprised that people care about you. I just wanted to give you proof that they do.”

You interlace your fingers together, glancing out the window.

“And it’s okay. I’m not mad anymore,” you say. “I think at some point, I started to take it personally when you don’t want to talk to me. Sorry. I don’t mean to force you. I’ll stop.”

Rafe taps his thumb on the steering wheel. For once, he doesn’t want you to stop.

“It’s because it’s new for me,” he mumbles, giving in.

“What?”

“Someone caring as much as you do is new for me,” he replies. “That’s why I seem surprised. It throws me off.”

Your lips part, but the words won’t form. You’re in shock that he’s opening up, especially when you didn’t ask him to, when you just told him you’ll stop pushing.

“And I’m not used to getting asked so many questions,” Rafe says. “You never stop.”

“I am kind of relentless,” you say, crinkling your nose and smiling. “You make me curious, though.”

“I can tell,” he mumbles, earning a chuckle from you. “We’re good now, yeah?”

You’re touched that he worries this much about you being upset with him. Some time in the last few months, throughout your tutoring sessions and the events you attended as a fake couple and all the moments in between, he really did start caring about you.

It’s nice, because you feel the same way about him. How deep those feelings go remains unspoken, and you’re not sure you can face them yet.

“We’re good,” you reply. “I can’t stay mad at you. You’re too charming. In like, a really grumpy, always mad at everything type of way.”

“Wow,” Rafe huffs, pretending to be offended while flashing the smile you always get hypnotized by.

“Was that rude?” you quip. “You’re rubbing off on me.”

His smile widens, certain now that if he only has you like this, as a friend, it’s so much better than not having you at all.

════════

“How’d that presentation go?” Rafe mumbles in your ear.

You’re standing on the bar’s back patio with the team and the rest of the usual social circle, surrounded by music and chatter floating through the warm late spring air.

You’re right next to him, but not touching in any way, because there’s no reason to fake affection anymore. But knowing this doesn’t make it any easier to stay away from him.

“For my group project?” you clarify. “Picture me and three guys in front of a full lecture hall. They’re taking turns reading off of Wikipedia and I’m trying to pretend that I’m not losing my mind.”

Rafe chuckles, enamored.

“I got a good individual grade, though,” you say. “Wait. Did you ever check what you got on your midterm?”

“No.”

“Please do,” you say, bringing your clasped hands to your chin.

He sucks his teeth, a little nervous as he pulls his phone out of his pocket. He feels your cheek against his good shoulder as you lean in to look.

“An A,” you say proudly, leaning against him, your hand curled around his bicep. You did it without thinking, the closeness feeling more natural than anything you’ve felt before, a hard contrast to how hesitant you’d once been to touch him.

“Thought we broke up,” he murmurs, glancing down at your hand on his arm. It’s his way of testing why you’re touching him like this, aching to hear you say you’re doing it because you want to.

You look up through your lashes, eyes trained on his, silence sweeping over you. You have to feel it, too. He’s sure of it.

“Right,” you reply with a chuckle, hoping to smile your way out of the split in your chest. “Yeah. We did.”

You let go, crossing your arms as you awkwardly look away. You should have known your instincts were wrong, that Rafe is just another guy leading you on, confusing you, whether it be on purpose or not.

He can’t take what it feels like when you pull away like that. He once thought he could handle not acting on his feelings for you, but he can’t. He needs to know what’s so wrong with him, if Emma’s words poisoned you before he even had a chance with you.

“Is it because of what she said?” he says, squaring his shoulders to face you, to try to separate both of you from the rest of the group.

“Is what because of-”

“Emma told me what she said to you,” he interrupts.

You gaze up at him, wide-eyed.

“You talked to her?” you ask. Imagining it wrings your heart out, jealousy pooling through you.

He nods, his jaw tight, looking at you like you’re the one who needs to explain something here. Your forehead crinkles, your face falling with disappointment.

“I thought you didn’t care what she thinks,” you say.

“I don’t.”

You look down, as if you can find the answer somewhere on the ground. Your heart is racing, your mind spinning.

“Are you okay?” you hear.

Rafe looks over his shoulder to see that Beck has walked over, staring at you.

“I’m fine,” you answer.

“I told you this would happen,” Beck says to you.

Rafe meets your eyes again to see that they’re glossed over with tears.

“Fuck off,” he mutters to Beck.

“I’m just looking out for her,” Beck says.

“I look out for her,” Rafe says angrily. His raised voice earns a few side-eyes, the conversations around you silencing.

“Do you?” Beck asks.

Rafe breathes a humorless chuckle, rage coursing through him as he turns around, his back to you, his fists clenched.

“Don’t,” you say. “You’ll get hurt.”

There’s a hole in Rafe’s chest when he hears the concern in your voice for Beck. But when he turns around, you’re gazing up at him instead.

“You’re already in enough pain,” you say to him, your eyes drifting over his aching shoulder. He stares at you in awe, again, like he’s in shock that you worry about him. “Let’s talk out front.”

You don’t wait for him to agree. You storm back into the bar, darting through the throngs of people, pushing the heavy entrance door.

Your shoes pad over the concrete, your breaths unstable as you pass by the small crowds outside the bar.

You round the corner, finding a quiet pocket of privacy in the dark parking lot, next to the wall. You turn to see Rafe right behind you, facing you, his chest heaving.

“What’d she tell you that she said to me, exactly?” you ask, crossing your arms.

Rafe is in disbelief that he led himself back to doing this, talking about his past relationship with you again, letting it bleed into whatever it is that he has with you.

“That I’m a pathetic asshole,” he begrudgingly answers, his features shadowed in the darkness. “That I – I cried.”

“Her words don’t mean anything,” you tell him.

“She’s right, though, isn’t she?” he asks. “You agree. Just be honest with me. Tell me all of it. No more bullshit.”

Tears continue to sting your eyes, afraid you’re going to hurt him, but too worn down to fight.

“She said you were moody and mean,” you relent, “and yes, that you called her crying when you wanted to get back together. And you know what? The only person I thought was an asshole was her. She’s the pathetic one, okay?”

Rafe searches your face, his features hard, in pain.

“She was horrible to you,” you say. “You deserve someone better.”

What’s left of his composure burns away. He drops his head, his breaths barely escaping his mouth. He’d do anything to be what you want. Who you need.

“Why can’t it be you?” he asks through a ragged exhale.

You still, your heart pounding in your ears. A tear escapes past your bottom lashes, a result of one of the most overwhelming days of your life.

“What?” you whisper. You brush the wetness off of your skin, silently begging him to look at you again.

“What is it about me that’s so wrong?” he rasps, his voice starting to strain, putting sound to the question that he’s asked himself his whole life.

Rafe finds it in him to meet your gaze, all too acquainted with the sinking feeling of begging someone to love him.

Your eyes sweep over his face, your lips parted in silent shock.

He’s tipping over the edge, in slow, splitting agony, waiting to hear the words he knows you’ll say so he can finally let the hope that’s still somehow living in him die.

“What are you...” you say quietly, needing to hear it, to be sure. “What are you saying? You want me?”

Rafe pinches the bridge of his nose, sending a frustrated, pained exhale towards the starry sky, your name laced in a groan.

“Yes,” he says clearly, staring at you again, frustrated and afraid. “So bad that it fucking hurts.”

You’re able to feel every inch of your body, yet you’re numb all over. It’s an overwhelming, euphoric rush, looking up at the man you’ve given your heart to and knowing for sure that he’s given you his.

You blink as you step a little closer, taking in every inch of him, his messy hair, his handsome face, unable to believe that there was a time you didn’t see the warmth behind his eyes.

You can’t find the words, and for once, you stop trying to. Instead, you follow your impulse and take one more step, your body brushing against his, tipping your chin up.

Rafe swallows hard, his veins tight and hot as your gaze flutters down to his lips.

“You said you wanted it to be real,” he says, a note of disbelief in his voice.

A smile tugs on your lips. In a moment like this, he’s considering what you’d told him about how you wanted your first kiss to be real, showing you how much he listens to the things you say, how much he cares about your comfort.

“It will be,” you say softly.

After wanting you so badly for so long, Rafe can’t be still for another second. He brings his hands up to cradle your face, ignoring the pinch of pain in his shoulder. His heart thumps as he leans closer and gently leads you towards him.

His lips press against yours and every piece of you melts away. You were wrong when you thought his kiss would either be rough or gentle. It’s both, the pressure perfect, the urgency just as present as the tenderness.

He kisses you deeper, his lips hot and soft. When he smiles beneath the kiss, you smile, too, hooking your arms around him, hands splayed over his firm back, because you can’t possibly have him any closer.

He gently guides you backwards, pressing you against the cool brick wall, your face still in his hands, holding you as if you could slip away.

Rafe is warm against you, shifting to kiss the corner of your lips, your cheek, your jaw, the side of your neck. His breath is warm on your skin as you try to catch yours, squeezing him.

He’s never been so sure that he’s where he’s supposed to be. It’s like you’re grounding him with how tight you’re holding him, ensuring him that he’s wanted.

He shifts to kiss your lips again, panting. He pulls back just enough to lock eyes with you, never having felt so lucky before.

But he’s unsure of how to even navigate this when you’ve told him you don’t want a relationship.

“‘I’ll wait,” he murmurs, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. “Until you’re ready.”

“Ready?” you ask.

“To date,” he says.

You smile up at him, your lips still warm from his. You know you both have work to do on yourselves, but you’re confident you can do it together.

“We already dated, didn’t we?” you tease. “I’m ready. If it’s you.”

He sighs a breath of relief, kissing you once more.

════════

You haven’t done much since you made it to Rafe’s dorm room.

You’ve been lying in bed together with your heads on his pillow, his desk lamp blanketing the room in a soft light, facing each other and talking.

“We didn’t tell anyone we were leaving,” you realize, even though you left the bar about half an hour ago.

The way your eyes widen in worry is so adorable to him that he can’t help but kiss you, and he loves that he doesn’t have to hold himself back from doing it anymore.

“Should we go back? Say sorry to everyone?” he murmurs, a smirk on his face.

“Don’t mock me,” you laugh.

“But it’s so easy.”

You scowl at him, although you’re hardly able to stifle your smile.

“Don’t be mad,” he chuckles, planting a kiss on your lips again. Your cheeks burn, still reeling from how intoxicating it is getting touched and kissed by him now that you know it’s real.

“Right, that’s your job,” you joke, nuzzling in, your forehead against his chest.

A pinch of shame digs into him, his hand running up and down the curve of your spine.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, all the happiness from his voice gone.

You shift back to look at him again.

“I was kidding,” you say, your voice thick with worry.

“Nah, it’s true,” Rafe says.

You bite your lip, studying him.

“Is there a reason?” you ask.

“I just… I’ve always been like this,” he admits. “Sometimes, I can’t feel anything but pissed off.”

“It’s an easy emotion to feel.” You gently trace shapes over his chest, your finger skimming over soft cotton. “They say anger is hurt’s bodyguard.”

“You read that somewhere, huh?”

“You know me so well.”

Rafe’s smile is sad. He had no reason to hold back, not anymore.

“Nobody’s ever tried to understand me like you do,” he admits, “and it was shitty of me to get mad at you for trying.”

“Being mad is comfortable for you,” you empathize. “I get it.”

He takes in a slow, deep breath, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest.

“I grew up around a lot of fighting,” he tells you. “It was a relief when my parents split up.”

Rafe’s stomach twists with discomfort, the memories rushing back, the pain of being at that damn birthday party and seeing such a happy family still cutting into him. Seeing a proud father. Seeing a mother who stays.

And he can’t believe he’s saying it out loud, and that he wants to, and that you didn’t even have to ask.

“But then my mom… stopped trying to be a mom,” he continues. “And I was left with my dad and my sisters and it was like to him, they could do no wrong and I was nothing but a fuck-up.”

You look into his eyes, unable to believe that he holds such a deep, painful wound. Earlier tonight, he asked you what was wrong with him. You can see now that he must have been asking himself that since he was a child.

“I was always trying to make him happy and it never stuck,” he tells you. “Then I started playing hockey and… I could let out how mad I was. And people liked me for it. I finally had a place to go and – and I hate not having it anymore.”

The puzzle pieces click together. Your instincts were right when you’d assumed he was much more sensitive than he let on, hiding behind anger when all he’s ever wanted was love.

Knowing he was in a relationship where he was pressured to hide those types of things makes the pang in your heart even sharper.

“It’s temporary,” you remind him. “You’ll get back out there. But there’s so much more to you than what a good player you are.”

“You think I’m good?” he says. “You didn’t write anything in the card.”

You breathe a chuckle, gently gripping his wrist, the ink you’d etched washed away now.

“I prefer to write on you,” you tease, then gaze up at him again with sincere adoration. “I’m so sorry that happened to you. Thank you for telling me. There’s nothing wrong with you, okay?”

He stares at you in concern, as if he’s afraid you’ll take it back.

But you don’t. You just brush a kiss against his hand, squeezing his fingers with yours.

And this is so much better than the doses of temporary happiness he used to find to fill the gaps. After feeling empty for so long, this is real, complete wholeness.

════════

“Last book on the syllabus,” you say happily, already seated like usual. “We made it.”

Rafe smirks at you as he shuts the door behind him. It’s been almost a week since the night at the bar, and he’s only falling deeper for you, missing you even more when you’re not around.

“Don’t tell me you’re actually tutoring me today,” he answers.

“What’d you expect?”

He drops his backpack on his seat and stands behind you, leaning over to wrap his arms around you.

“Somethin’ more like this,” he murmurs, his lips against the side of your neck.

You smile, squeezing his forearms as you breathe in the crisp aroma of his cologne, remembering when you’d noticed how good it smelled at the first party you went to together.

“You think you can get away with this?” you say, although you feel weak all over. “Did you read the book?”

He kisses the side of your neck, sending a warm tingle through you.

“Rafe,” you sigh. “We have work to do.”

“Oh, shit,” he chuckles. “Your serious voice. I’m scared.”

“You should be,” you laugh. “How was physio?”

“Fine,” he replies, giving you one last kiss before he heads to his seat. Then, he remembers he doesn’t have to lie to you, that you’re the one person in his life that would never give him shit for telling the truth. “Brutal, actually. How are you?”

“Not ready for finals,” you reply.

“You’re already thinking about finals,” he scoffs as he unpacks his things.

“Of course I am.”

You can’t believe that the exam season is just three weeks away and that in two days, the hockey season will be finished and that before you know it, your freshman year will be over.

Rafe pulls out a paper bag from his backpack and places it in front of you, the logo stamped on it familiar.

“Did you..?” you say with a smile. He must have driven to the cafe you’d once met him at right after class, the one you said had the best treats. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Just take it,” he murmurs.

“Thank you,” you sing-song, putting the bag in your lap, sneakily opening it. “Food’s not allowed in here, but this is worth it.”

“Nobody’s going to care,” he teases. “And the door’s closed.”

“Did you miss the windows?” you reply with a laugh. You take a bite and then reach for your copy of East of Eden that you’d lent him and fan through the pages.

“There’s some beautiful prose in this one, isn’t there?” you say.

“Sure,” he says, staring at you with an enamored glint in his eyes.

“You’re just saying that,” you chuckle.

“When do I just say things?” Rafe challenges.

You shrug in agreement.

“So, the discussion question is about the changes of perspectives between both families and how it…”

You trail off as you notice a circle around a paragraph in blue pen, standing out from the yellow highlight and pencil you’d previously etched throughout the book.

“Did you mark something in my book?” you joke. “Who gave you permission?”

“Permission?” he asks amusedly. “God, why do love rules so much?”

He watches as your eyes skim over the page. He only marked one thing in the book and he’s aware of exactly what you’re reading.

You tilt your head, your smile fading, your heart weightless as you read.

A kind of light spread out from her. And everything changed color. And the world opened out. And a day was good to awaken to. And there were no limits to anything. And I was not afraid any more.

“Why did you circle this?” you ask.

“Why do you think?”

Another smile ghosts over your lips as you look down at the passage again, brows furrowing.

“What?” Rafe says, afraid you’re actually annoyed he marked your book.

“I guess I…” You clear your throat. “I used to read stuff like this and imagined someone thinking it about me, but never thought it would actually…”

You meet his eyes, your voice faded into silence as you exhale. He’s never seen you like this before. Uncertain. Afraid to speak.

You spent so long wanting to be loved just like he has, and while he spiralled into anger, you fell into insecurity, convincing yourself that someone would never care about you the way he does, questioning every sign.

Rafe sits up, reaching forward. You put the book down and take his hand. He gazes at you, feeling so damn fortunate that he walked into this room all those weeks ago, and even more fortunate that you see something in him.

He’ll have to prove to you that he sees something in you, too. He knows there’s work for him to do here. It’s work he wants to do.

“It’s true,” he says, glancing down at the book. “You changed everything for me, you know that?”

You breathe a soft, appreciative laugh, offering a small nod.

“Like your grades?” you joke.

He bites his bottom lip, smirking as he leans closer. You meet him halfway, sharing a soft, slow kiss, your eyelashes overlapping.

“Everything,” he repeats, inches away from your lips. “Thank you.”

You’re dazed, lost, and finally, a little less afraid.

════════

“Get as many as you want,” Rafe says, putting his car in park.

You stare ahead at the shop he just pulled up to, your mouth agape.

This morning, you’d asked him if he had to sit on the bench for the final game of the season this afternoon, or if he could sit in the stands with you. He’d told you he’d rather not watch it at all and that he had something else in mind, refusing to elaborate.

Your eyes travel over the sign hanging above the small bookstore, boasting its collection of old and rare books.

He pulls out his key, then chuckles when he sees that you’re frozen, staring ahead in awe.

“Really?” you say.

“No, I just wanted to show you the front of the store,” he mumbles. “Yeah, really.”

You laugh, excitedly getting out of the car. It’s a surprise, seeing just how much he likes to give you things to show he cares. He might not be great with words all the time, but his actions show you what you need to know.

Rafe follows you as you browse the shelves, picking up books, taking some with you and leaving others behind. He doesn’t understand how this could make you so happy that your smile hasn’t left your face, but he’d do it for hours for you.

He starts to take the books out of your hands, holding them for you as you search, but you don’t let him carry them for long, worried about his injury acting up.

He’s glad this is how he’s spending the afternoon. His coach and his friends on the team were cool with it when he told them he wasn’t going to attend the last game of the season.

It’s too hard to watch from the bench, wishing he could be on the other side of the glass. He’d rather be where he feels best: with you.

At one point, you’re reaching for a book on the top shelf, on the tips of your toes, and the sight warms his heart so much that he takes out his phone and snaps a photo.

“A little help?” you giggle, your voice strained. You look over your shoulder to see him smirking with his phone directed at you.

Rafe pockets his phone and steps forward to face you, his chest brushing against yours as he grips the book you’re trying to reach.

Your gazes stay locked as he hands you the book, looking down at you with a pure smile.

“Can we do this all the time?” you ask.

“You like it?” he says. “Bet there’s lots of places like this between us.”

A look of apprehension flashes across your face. You’re weeks away from the end of the school year, when you’ll both be moving back to your hometowns for the summer, three hours apart from each other.

“Do you mean it?” you ask.

You’re uncertain, needing to hear that he wants to keep this going over the summer, and after, that he’ll keep making an effort to see you.

“Three hours is nothing,” Rafe says.

You beam. You don’t need any more words, entirely comforted.

════════

“You made the right call not coming today,” Isaac says as you and Rafe enter the common room an hour later, the team dispersed across the small space. “That was embarrassing.”

“Shit,” Rafe replies, their hands clapped in greeting. “Was it that bad, man?”

“Never got my ass handed to me like that before,” Isaac says, a few of the other hockey players nodding in agreement. “Meanwhile, you’re on some cute little date.”

You share a smile. It’s clear he’s seen the photo of you that Rafe posted.

“It was cute,” you laugh. “Sorry about the loss.”

“Crappy way to end our season,” Isaac tells you. “But there’s always next year. Rafe’ll be back throwing punches.”

Rafe catches your frown.

“Thanks for the help with my essay, by the way,” Isaac tells you. “Got an A.”

“Great,” you say sweetly. “No problem.”

“You think Lyla’s coming?” Isaac asks. You nod, having texted with your best friend on your way here.

“She is,” you say.

Isaac grins when he looks up at the door. You turn to see Lyla come in. He steps away, eager to greet her.

You smile to yourself. After everything you’ve heard from Lyla, you’re pretty sure they’re only a few days away from becoming official.

“What was that look?” Rafe asks quietly.

“What?”

“When he said something about throwing punches, you looked mad.”

You adore it about him, how much he picks up on, but at the same time, it hurts to remember that the reason he knows how to do it is a result of his lonely childhood.

“I’m protective of you,” you say. “I know you’re healing well, but I don’t like the thought of you getting hurt. Is that so crazy?”

Rafe smirks, stepping forward, putting his hands on your hips, gazing at you with half-lidded eyes and a wide grin.

“What?” you whine with a soft laugh.

“It’s cute that you’re worrying about me, baby,” he answers, revelling in the feeling of touching you in public because he wants to, not because he’s supposed to be making someone jealous.

“You think I’m cute?”

His grip tightens, holding you like he always does, like you’re too good to be real, like someone might take you away.

“All the time,” Rafe murmurs, earning a gentle nudge from you. “Gonna miss you when you get too busy for me during finals.”

“You know I’m going to want to read all those books you got me, right?” you say. “I need you to keep me in line and study with me. Make sure I’m not getting distracted.”

“I thought you said I distract you.”

You chuckle, still in awe of how affectionate he is, of how much he loves to touch and kiss you whenever you’re close. He absolutely does distract you, and you love it.

“I mean, yeah, but everyone needs study breaks,” you say with a shrug. “And I don’t like it when you’re not around.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Me, neither.”

Rafe takes a second to just stare at you. It’s impossible to get enough of you. He never really looked forward to life in general, but since you made him yours, he looks forward to everything.

You press your cheek against his chest in a hug, listening to his heartbeat. And you love the feeling of knowing, with absolute certainty, that part of it beats for you.

(the end)

epilogue >

au masterlist

author’s note this was such a fun series to write!! thank you to everyone who supported the story. the epilogue is pure fluff and smut, so for the readers who don’t like spice, def skip it!! ily all!!

[mntozakii]

politician!jaemin x secretary!reader

tags: infidelity, power abuse, slight insane jaemin, illusion of filming during sex

oops this is unedited… this has been sitting in my drafts for months and i might write a full fic of it tbh 🧃 lmk what u think lovelies, sorry i’ve been away for almost a year 🤫

politician jaemin who has special relationship with his secretary. behind his professional career, he enjoys getting intertwined with another man’s wife.

“when are you going to sign the paper? jaemin murmurs against your shoulder as he tenderly fondle with your thigh. he hates to think about your absent husband who can’t provide for you, jaemin is a much better man.

“i can’t do it now, he needs me” jaemin instantly regrets asking about the divorce as he watches you remove yourself from his arms. he should’ve known better to not mention that topic if he wanted you to stay over for the night.

“baby, my lawyer will do everything for you, mmhm? all you have to do is sign the divorce paper and everything will be okay” jaemin caresses your cheek then notices the tinge of sadness in your eyes. his lips forced into a smile yet his eyes remain cold, he is well aware that you still harbour deep feelings for your husband.

he just don’t understand why you choose to stay in the marriage, your husband is a struggling filmmaker who barely makes a penny. he rarely stay at home and works under several directors to make a name for himself. it hurts jaemin to see you working hard to financially support your husband’s dream.

“i am sorry baby, you don’t have to rush anything. i will wait for you” he reassures you as he kisses the top of your head. the kind hearted jaemin always apologise for mentioning about the divorce.

so when jaemin sees your resignation letter on his table, he was beyond infuriated. it doesn’t help when his lawyer updates to him that you have been reconnecting with that bastard again. apparently, your husband secured a solid position at a filming company in japan.

great, you left him without any closure and started a new life with your husband. although, it doesn’t take a long time for jaemin to find you. when he gets short vacation from his campaign, he makes it a mission to get the job done.

you woke up in the middle of the night when you hears a muffled scream, there is nothing that could prepare you to the sight of your husband being tied on a chair with a camera on his left hand. jaemin feels proud doing his final touch as he gags the guy with random clothes, he doesn’t want to hear his voice.

“i miss you so much” he smiles brightly as he walks closer to you. you look so frightened and adorable, he stares at you with amusement before pushing the strand of hair on your forehead.

“jaemin, please don’t do this— can we discuss about it?” you desperately grip his hands, begging for him to not humiliate your husband. you can’t help but to cry seeing him, there’s no way jaemin is going to do that.

“i’ve been too soft on you, my baby doesn’t respect me anymore” his gaze darkens seeing how easily you cry for your husband, you never do that for him. jaemin pulls you to his lap and faces the camera, the red light blinking as your husband hand shakes in anger.

“let’s put on a show for him, he needs to see how amazing his wife is, right baby?”

[evilminji]

Okay this is going to drive me INSANE. D:>

Dearly beloved, Phandom darlings...

Can DANNY EAT VIDEO GAME/TV FOOD?

I... I NEED to know. You don't UNDERSTAND!? Think about it. No, seriously. THINK about all those HIGHLY unrealistic, too good to be true, PERFECT looking meals. Animated shows n games etc where there are chefs who will "cook for Anybody!"

Now think about being 14 going 20. A teenager. A broke college student. Your fridge is empty and everything you touch? Comes back to LIFE. You're... you're just so hungry. Tired. Your bruises have bruises and you have a paper due tomorrow.

I kinda want to CRY.

Can only eat cup ramen so many times before you DO.

And this show? That commercial? Yonder cooking game?? Well... they did a REAL good job animating it. It looks so WARM. So FILLING and COMFORTING. You can practically SMELL it.

You look down at your sad, soggy, cheap but you can afford it, EZ Noodles and? Feel something BREAK inside. You... you KNOW you can travel inside technology. KNOW this. Have done it before. Why... why AREN'T you? You can't keep living like this.

You gotta TRY, right?

I? Wanna believe it TOTALLY works?? Because Ectoplasm is weird like that? And just shrugs? Says "actual food, the concept of food backed by electricity, what's the difference? Sure, we can fuck with this"? And so Danny? IMMEDIATELY fucking switches his diet.

Like? Dead stop screech, slam on the breaks, u-turn to take that last off-ramp. Type IMMEDIATE.

Grocery bill? No, no, you mistake him! No. NOW it's his "carefully researched for their cooking, games and shows" bill. Touch his collection and he'll FUCKING BITE.

They got sticky notes on the cases. Menus n lil fold out "grocery store" locations. He punched a dragon for this fruit. Mmmmm, home cooked meeeeeals~

Just? Weird Foodie Danny. Yes he DOES know what those steaks taste like. While YOU fuckers were staring at the cat girls bizangas, HE was eating granny cat lady's home made meatball stew! Ha! YOU FOOLS!

More then that? I want him to write reviews. Like "yeah, fight system was OKAY but- *5 hour glowing rant about the food, sounding like a food critic who'd actually fucking gone and loved it* " and people are like?? Who? Is this funky lil madman? This is hilarious?

I want it to be DPxDC JUST? So everyone slowly starts to play the game "Meta or Shtick?" Because no one REALLY knows who he is. This dude gets POPULAR though. For some reason can't be hacked (shame on you guys! Way to try and ruin the FUN!). And like? Eventually? Someone just fucking ASKS?

And Danny is like... " wouldn't YOU like to know, weatherboy?"

So everyone is like:

"Meta."

But hey... since they're already ASSUMING~? >:3c WHOOOOO wants to help him PAY RENT~? Let's VLOG this fucker! Wooooo! Say "hi" Catchef! *feline noises* like? It's like a let's play combined with a mukbang.

Teen Heros everywhere are FACINATED. Game developers are suddenly like? "If there's food. You BETTER make it look amazing. We want that weird YouTube twink to... whatever his powers are, our game! Free viral marketing!" Food channels? Rending their clothes, on their KNEES, please! PLEASE! Just ANSWER OUR EMAIL! Just ONE SHOW! A one off! Guest appearance!

We have MONEY!!!

All while Danny? Is finally happy with his life. Weird as hell. Harrasing the world. Good food on the regular. Gets to travel, kinda. Best of all? He's raising money from it! Can help people! Now... who wants salad?

@babbling-babull @hdgnj @hypewinter @legitimatesatanspawn @spidori @dcxdpdabbles @the-witchhunter @lolottes

[boiohboii]

The Twitter Marriage

(Oscar Piastri x fem!driver!reader)

Yn Ln has had a crush on fellow driver Oscar Piastri since their f2 days but she never and will never tell him.... at least not to his face

or

In which Aston Martin driver needed the alcohol to confess her feelings

N.B: rushed a bit cause of finals, but I hope you like it. Also, doesn't follow any timeline tbh. NOTHING IN THIS IS ADDS UP IN REGARDS OF DATES AND CHARACTERS AND STUFF, IT IS JUST FOR FUN.

WARNINGS: REALLY BAD PICK UP LINES, SOME SWEAR WORDS. Probably some spelling mistakes as well. Short fic.

faceclaim: sabrina carpenter

Masterlist

Liked by ynmyworld, f1memes, charliethesinglemom and 168,920 others

Keepingupw/f1: Aston Martin driver, Yn Ln, tweets as she celebrates her p3 in Monaco.... it seems like she has something to say to fellow driver, Oscar Piastri.

username: the entire grid is just having fun with that joke.

username: miss ma'am, STAND UP!!

username: what do you mean stand up? SHE FOLDED LIKE A CHAIR

username: understandably so tbf

username: no but her offering to make Spain Oscar's home race LIKE CARLOS ISN'T LOOKING FOR THAT MAN'S BLOOD.

username: so foul of her 💀

username: her tagging him is insane

username: pr is gonna have a headache tomorrow

username: the fact that she's tweeting this shit while in a club, WHERE OSCAR IS A FEW METERS AWAY FROM HER

username: you know she's out of it when she starts using twitter.

Liked by F1_updates_live, ynmyqueen, oscaroopastryy and 184,710 others

Keepingupw/f1: yn ln on her way back to the hotel last night after celebrating her Monaco podium.

username: she got wasted omg

username: now those tweets make sense

username: where did she even get the shoe box from

username: and where did her shoes go, papers fell out of that thing

username: so are you guys gonna post the video or?

username: what video?

username: there's a video going on twitter where these pics are taken from she was so drunk, she was actually dancing in the middle of Monaco (go queen, live your best life) and then the papers fell out of the box and she immediately went down to pick them up and put them back but then after she was halfway through she kept looking at the ground then at the box and then at her feet, you can see her pouting as she kept putting away the little papers in the box again

username: shut upp!!! I need that video! IT IS A LIFE SAVING MATTER ATP

username: yn ln is gonna be the death of me

yn ln has shared a story

text: when you wake up to a video of drunk you on the streets of Monaco and some tweets that should've gone with you to the grave

yn ln has shared a story

text: self pity and cringe time over, back to our regular schedule of slaying

Sebastian Vettel has shared a story

text: someone tell her that staying with me till the Spanish GP isn't going to make people forget that she exists

yn ln has replied to your story: your kids love me! AND SO DOES HANNA

yn ln has replied to your story: also, please take pity on me, I can't face him again, ever, I will just retire, I can't do this

yn ln has replied to your story: why are you ignoring meeeee!!! Not you too, Oscar is already doing thaaaat, I wanna turn into a worm, I'd die quicker if I was a worm, I wouldn't have to go through this much embarrassment if I was a worm

Sebastian Vettel replied to your message: are you drunk right now?

Liked by pierregasly, wtf1, oscaroopastryy and 268,715 others

Keepingupw/f1: we bring you part 2 of the osyn saga

username: i love this family

username: yn is such a pr nightmare

username: the ACTUAL child of fernando

username: wait, now that you reminded me, I need to update the family tree

username: post the updated family tree you coward

username: anyone who doesn't watch f1 will 100% believe that Charles and Nicole are Oscar's parents

username: hey, don't disrespect charles' heartfelt adoption like that

username: this sport is so fucking unserious

username: I refuse to believe that this is real

Sebastian Vettel has shared a story

Text: huh..... it's not so bad having her here

Liked by OscarPiastri, Charles_leclerc, Arthur_leclerc and 918,037 others

yn ln: let her cook now 🧡

username: yn.... yn..... YN.... WHAT ARE YOU COOKING YN

username: it has started, I can feel it in my bones

username: so she's with Oscar now, good to know (screaming into my pillow as I type)

username: oh so if I wear orange I'm dating Lando now, nice to know ig

username: fuck off away from my replies, I wanna have fun

username: yn pls don't, I can't lose you, you were the only wife left standing

username: PLS TELL ME THAT MY SHIP SAILED

username: if I see that australian's face anywhere on this account I will start biting ankles

username: ok Leo, geez, no need to terrorise your sister-in-law

username: I can't believe she was simping on main for a boy that goes 'wut'

Liked by Ynln, pierregasly, Arthur_leclerc and 890,627 others

Oscar Piastri: let him cook 💚

username: nope, no, nuuh, I see nothing

username: other partner's team colors, matching captions, liking the posts..... yup, they're officially dating

username: we lost her to a mini kimi raikkonen

username: I see that as a win tbh

username: kimi was and is the IT girl of the grid

username: how dare you forget about our very own Britney Spears.... nico you will always be missed

username: you can't prove that they're dating from just that

username: oh boy, the delulu is strong with this one

Oscar Piastri and Yn Ln shared a post

Liked by Charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1, danielricciardo and 903,815 others

Yn ln & Oscar Piastri: I said let them cook 💚🧡

username: YES YES YES YES YES YES

username: MY PARENTS

username: This is why women shouldn't be in f1, wtf is wrong with Oscar? Why would he date yn? And what is this hand placement? Where can I get a yn? Or an oscar?

username: slowly deleting my paragraph

username: had us the first half, ngl

username: yn hide oscar really well during the Spain GP, we leave his safety in your hands

username: THE CURLS OMG

username: MR OSCAR JACK PIASTRI WHAT IS THIS BEHAVIOUR WHAT IS THIS HAND PLACEMENT

[witherby]

Thinking naughty Brucie Wayne thoughts cause you KNOW he sluts around in order to maintain that playboy reputation.

Imagining Brucie on an evening gossip show and he's playing a game where he's sharing light-hearted secrets with the host. It's called some shit like...I dunno, "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours!"

"Okay, we gotta be careful with the wording here because we're on live television," the host laughs, "but I have a question."

"Ask me anything, baby, I'm an open book," Bruce purrs. The live studio audience whistles and cheers.

"What's your darkest sexual fantasy? I'll tell you mine —"

"IF YOU TELL ME YOURS!!" The audience shouts, clapping and cheering with ridiculous enthusiasm. Bruce, who has impeccable control over his body's nervous system, turns beet red and covers his face. His heartbeat is still as steady as a war drum. World's Greatest Detective and also World's Best motherfuckin Actor.

"oh shit," he mutters. The cheering gets even louder. "I can't say it out loud. I've never told anybody this before, it's insane."

The host is Locked The Fuck In. Exclusive information nobody else has about Brucie Wayne, Gotham's precious prince? He can smell the trending hashtags already.

"Oh?" He goads, grinning and leaning forward in his chair. "Is it really bad? Brucie, you dog! I didn't know you had it in you! We gotta know, now!"

"Skip," Bruce says shyly, "next question!"

The audience boos and starts chanting some iteration of "tell us! Tell us!" The host shushes them and says it's fine, he'll go first and they'll both be a little embarrassed about it. No big deal, it's just a fun game! What's a little spicy secret between friends, we're all friends here, it's fine!

The host's is boring. Something like Toes or edible underwear. Bruce shyly says he can't say it, and asks if he can write it down instead. The host is like yes, absolutely, someone fetch this man a pen and paper RIGHT NOW.

Brucie writes it down. The host reads it. He gasps.

"Okay everybody, shhh. This says...I want to — BRUCE?"

Bruce reddens more and is as curled up as he can possibly get in his big chair. The audience is feral at this point.

"It says "I want a priest to give his virginity to me." Bruce Thomas Wayne!!!"

There's an uproar. People are whistling. Women are screaming. Catholics are clutching their pearls. There's so much clapping. Some people are laughing. When everybody settles down enough to let him explain, Bruce, still red in the face, just stares meekly at the ground and mutters:

"I dunno, it's so wicked. I wanna be like Lucifer with the apple. I want a son of God to turn away from His light and be tempted into my bed. If God is actually homophobic and being gay gets you sent to Hell, — first of all, fuck that guy — and second of all, at the very least I want him to get a taste of Heaven in the sheets, y'know?"

#DamnedByBrucie is the number one trending topic for the next four days. Priests are coming out of the woodwork and sending him genuine offers to take their virginity. Hal buys a priest outfit immediately. Bruce is so down to roleplay this even though that wasn't even close to his darkest sexual fantasy.

[bunni-v1]

Lighter Relationship Headcannons

🍓Hi. I'm a liar. I sat down to write more of the alphabet requests and got possessed. This was the result. Anyway, he's so fucking everything to me. I hope the two zzz fans that follow me enjoy this because I'm going insane keeping all these thoughts in. Not putting this under the cut because I can't be bothered sorry gang. Gn.

Tw: NONE LIGHTER IS PERFECT!!!!

Info: Lighter x Reader; Headcannons; Fluff

-Lighter is, and I mean this with my entire being, the biggest walking green flag in the history of ever. Ironically, considering he’s the red scarf, but it’s the truth.

-He’s such a well-meaning guy, always considerate of others and incredibly caring to those he considers close. It’s hard not to imagine that he’d be a fantastic romantic partner, but like, how is he really in a relationship? (Lucky you, I’ve been obsessively fantasizing about it, so now you get to find out!)

-Lighter has most likely had a few partners, though none of them he would categorize as “serious”. Most of them were when he was significantly younger and way more stupid, and he cringes looking back at how he acted.

-He was a good-hearted and sweet kid, just… really fucking stupid about love. Most of his relationships either didn’t end well or were just nothingburgers that left him and his partner unsatisfied.

-As he got older, specifically after everything he went through, he didn’t want a relationship. Especially when he was still, you know, fighting because he quite literally wouldn’t have been able to maintain anything meaningful. (He’s well and convinced he would’ve been a miserable partner to have during that time, and he’s definitely right.)

-Even after joining the Sons of Calydon he’s not really looking for a relationship. The idea is nice, sure, someone to call your own. 

-Someone you can love and care for and who will do the same for you, it’s all lovely on paper, and Lighter would never say he wasn’t a romantic… but he’s gotta be realistic about it. When the hell is he gonna have time to maintain a relationship?

-He loves the girls, but they keep his ass busy – and that’s not mentioning everything else in his life that either gets in the way or would put a potential partner at risk.

-So, Lighter is okay just enjoying the thought of a relationship, not pursuing it.

-And… then he meets you.

-Meeting you felt like taking a punch to the gut, hard enough to knock the wind out of him.

-It’s not like it was love at first sight or anything, but it was definitely a whirlwind of something that Lighter had never experienced before, and it scared the shit out of him. He’s patient and reasonable, and he does his best not to let too many people in too quickly, but damn you were something weren’t you?

-It takes him a loooong time to feel comfortable feeling the way he does about you, and he’s really awkward around you – not that you can tell, because Lighter's “awkward” just makes him seem aloof, like the strong silent type. 

-You think that’s just how he is, but the girls know better, which only makes it worse for him. Expect lots and lots of forced alone time with Lighter because everyone ‘suddenly remembered’ they had something to do.

-You’re none the wiser about their scheming, but Lighter’s actually losing his mind because you are… really fucking cute to him.

-Now, regardless of how long it takes him (or you) to talk about how he feels about you, the relationship is going to be slow and steady. 

-He hasn’t been with anyone in a long time, he wants to do it right this time because he cannot – and I must emphasize this – he cannot lose another person. 

-This relationship is going at Lighter's pace, not yours, and if you don’t like that you’re probably not gonna last long with him. (So genuinely do not bother, for his sake.)

-It isn’t like he doesn’t value your thoughts and feelings, though. If you feel like you’re ready to move onto something else with him, he’s gonna sit and talk it out with you because he’s not a fucking prick. He just needs a partner who is willing to be patient, because he has been through a lot, and a long-term dedicated relationship is very new and very intimidating to him.

-It’s a series of slowly warming up to each other, getting comfortable with all kinds of affection, and learning what each other is and is not comfortable with.

-Once you learn about each other, everything is so incredibly smooth, and I promise on my life Lighter is the best partner you could ever ask for.

-His only issue and I say this very lightly (heh), is that he’s kinda bad at confronting issues he has head-on. 

-Normally he lets his fists do the talking but… he’s not really the biggest fan of socking you in the jaw sorry.

-He’s bad with words, and he’s only eloquent when he’s not trying to be, but he also knows that leaving an issue unresolved can be a death sentence so he will talk to you about things that bother him. Just give him a little time, even if you notice something is off. Patience is a virtue with him.

-Now, if you come to him with a problem he’s all for it. He’s clumsy about it, and he doesn’t know what to say depending on what it is, but he’s more than willing to change some things or work together to find solutions with you.

-Now, with that background established, let's talk about the fun stuff before I explode.

-Lighter is the best. Maybe I’m biased, but he’s so fantastic because he’s done a lot of work on himself as a person, and he values the relationships he has so much.

-To him, as your partner, you are his number one priority all the time no matter what. If you need him (and it’s an emergency (to him everything you need him for is an emergency)) he will be there, or he will ensure that someone will be there until he can be.

-No, this doesn’t mean his setting aside his responsibilities as Champion, and he isn’t going to set down every task he’s doing to answer your beck and call. He has a life outside you that’s important to him, but if something is wrong and you need him he’s going to be there. Always. Unless he physically cannot stop what he’s doing.

-Needless to say, Lighter is protective of you. Incredibly so. 

-He’s aware you can handle yourself and you’re not some feeble damsel in distress, but he worries a lot. He’s got a lot of targets on his back, and if a single one of those ever shifts to you he’d tear apart the entirety of the outback to ensure you were safe and sound.

-He can control his anger pretty well, but if anyone laid a hand on you I’m pretty sure it would take all of the Sons of Calydon and then some to pull him off whoever did that shit to you.

-He’s also the jealous type, believe it or not.

-He doesn’t care that much when mutual friends of yours are cuddly and cutesy with you. He knows those people, he knows you, there’s nothing to worry about. Someone he doesn’t know, though? Good luck.

-It doesn’t matter if they’re your friend, he doesn’t like it at all. He abandons his usual post of watching from the distance to be right up in your space. Constantly. 

-It’s so easy to tell when he’s jealous because suddenly there’s a gloved hand on you all the time and you can’t quite seem to get it off. How odd. Oh, there’s a pouty (intimidating) man attached to it, who would’ve thought.

-He doesn’t want to lose you, and he won’t apologize for that.

-He’s so cute, trying to keep the intimidating persona while clinging to his partner. (It’s really scary for anyone not in your close circle of friends).

-Speaking of, Lighter really struggles to keep up the cool guy look around you. He’s so incredibly weak to your whims and wants, he can’t help but let you cuddle up to him.

-All you have to do is bat your eyes at him a few times and usually, he crumbles like chalk. If this were a sport he’d be the champion of giving you whatever you wanted all the time.

-When he goes to the city to run errands for the girls or any other reason, he picks you up cute little trinkets or things that remind him of you. He does it without even thinking too. One second he’s on task, the next he’s buying you flowers and he doesn’t even realize it.

-You occupy a very big chunk of his everyday thoughts, he can’t help that you bleed into things.

-Speaking of, he sends you a ton of messages when you’re out. He likes keeping up with what you’re doing, where you’re at, who you’re with, etc.. He does the same for you, constantly telling you about what he’s up to and sending you little pictures of things he sees.

-He’s a helpless sap, okay.

-Unfortunately, though, he is at war about PDA. He likes it, obviously, but not too much, please?

-He has a reputation that he needs to upkeep, which means you can’t always hang off him, as cute as he finds it. Time and place.

-He’ll hold you at your waist if you’re just standing or walking around, sometimes an arm around the shoulder depending on what’s comfortable. If he’s just with the girls he’ll let you cuddle up to him as much as you please, but if there are a lot of people around he can’t do a ton of cutesy shit.

-Not that he dislikes doing it, but the embarrassment would actually kill him if anyone pointed out how weak the great “Red Scarf” was for his partner. (Everyone already knows this anyway, but it’s the principle).

-Genuinely the only exception is when he’s jealous because the only thing that crushes his pride more is having his relationship disrespected right in front of him.

-Behind closed doors though, Lighter is such a fucking idiot for you. He love love loves sappy romance films and he wants to recreate all those cringy moments that make you sick to your stomach with how sweet they are.

-Chasing you around his or your place, play fighting, twirling you around, or slow dancing in the kitchen to some oldies. He loves all of it, and he wants to do all of it with you, please indulge him. It’s not often he gets to be so free.

-He does the cutest thing when he tells you to get all dressed up packs up a picnic basket and takes you out on his bike to watch the sunset together. You lay there for hours after the sun has set just talking because his favorite thing is talking to you.

-He isn’t much of a talker himself, but he can listen and listen and never get bored of your voice. Just spew random bullshit at him, he’s fine with that, he just likes watching your lips move.

-If he gets tired of listening (which he never will) he’ll just kiss you until you shut up, so don’t worry too much about him.

-Also, I feel like this goes unsaid, but he takes you on plenty of rides on his bike. If you compliment it he’ll get all puffed up like a proud cat, it’s really cute.

-He stares a lot, by the way. Does this come as a surprise?

-He does a lot of standing around and watching, if you happen to be in the vicinity, he’s watching you most of the time. You’re just nice to look at. Lord help him if you turn and smile at him, or give him a wave.

-He allows you to play with his hair in private. He’ll lay his head down in your lap and let you rake your fingers through it, massaging his scalp and ruining his perfectly fluffy hair.

-He will also let you play with his sunglasses, so long as you’re careful with them. If you put them on your face and pretend to be him you’re in for some tickling though.

-Oh, please wear his clothes, pleaseeeeeeee wear them. If you walk out in his shirt he has to do a factory reset. You look so good in his clothes he can’t handle it.

The only thing that might be a little off-limits is the scarf, but even then he might wrap you up in it just to see you wearing the symbol of his strength. His two biggest prides in one? He likes the sight more than he’ll admit.

-Genuinely, he is such a good partner and I could go on and on and on about him, but this shit is like so long already so I have to put the breaks on.

-He’s just such a caring, loving, fun guy to be in love with and he will treat you like a goddamn king/queen all the time because he believes that's exactly what you deserve.