#Miscommunication in Recruitment | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mochacoda · 4 months ago

Text

python | csc

Pairing: Choi Seungcheol x GN!Reader

Synopsis: When you broke up with your boyfriend to work in a different country, you didn't expect to see him ever again. But when you transfer to your company's Seoul branch four years later, the department head is your ex, and he’s made it his objective to make your life a living hell for leaving him all those years ago.

Content: Angst, Fluff, Comfort | Exes to Lovers | Office AU

Tags: emotions, miscommunication, heartache, workaholic!seungcheol, insecure reader, drinking, crying, begging, petnames (sweetheart, love), konglish w/ translations, no "y/n," this is for everyone who voted for cheol in the poll, loosely connected to too nice (joshua)

Word Count: 10.2K

“I hate him,” you seethe, your fists balled up, crumpling your rejected proposal. “God, I hate him.”

Your coworker, Joshua Hong, looks up from his cubicle with raised eyebrows. “Who?”

You breathe in deeply, willing your rage to dissipate at the sight of his confusion. Poor Joshua doesn’t deserve your anger. “No one,” you say, clenching your jaw.

Open-mouthed, Joshua blinks rapidly, eyes flitting over to glance at the office you had just walked out of. The door to the room is marked with a name plate that has 최승철 [Choi Seungcheol] in bold, gold letters.

“I’m fine,” you insist, hands uncrumpling the document you had just attacked.

“Uh, okay?” he says with a healthy dose of doubt, elongating the “o” in “okay.”

“I just—” you begin, then immediately shut your mouth. “Ugh, forget it.”

It’s one thing to crumple a proposal up, and another thing to start bad-mouthing your boss out in the open. You throw the tattered outline onto your desk, then plop yourself onto your chair. You rub your temples, and then mutter under your breath, “How did I get here?”

“Good question,” Joshua laughs. “Company synergy?”

You groan, “Don’t ever say that word again in my presence.”

“Mmh,” he says, walking over to your cubicle. “You won’t have to worry about my presence in a few months.”

“Don’t remind me,” you sigh, dropping your head in your hands.

Joshua would be leaving the Seoul branch and transferring to the New York branch in a few weeks.

Curse your company for its commitment to “workplace synergy,” swapping out a handful of employees across all departments in its international branches every few years. If it hadn’t been for this horrible program, you wouldn’t be here right now.

You want to rip out your own hair, at this point.

How did it even get to this? You shut your eyes, thinking back to older times.

When you first got a job offer at the New York branch of your dream company, your initial reaction was elation. Your second? Doubt. Leaving Seoul was almost unthinkable, not to mention the fact that you’d be leaving your boyfriend behind, too.

For the first few days after hearing back from the recruiter, you knew you’d accept, but kept the news to yourself. You’d heard of so many horror stories about long-distance dating, and after a long period of consideration, you wondered what the point was.

You knew your boyfriend—really knew him. You knew he’d make sacrifices for you at the expense of himself, and it was impossible for you to accept bogging him down with a 14 hour time difference. He’d stay up waiting for your calls, instead of getting much needed rest. He’d worry about you all the time, checking the weather in Manhattan instead of Seoul and calling you constantly instead of his family and friends. He’d wait on you for as long as you needed, in an almost obsessive way, thinking it could make up the difference in distance. But he deserved someone who could love him in person, all of the time.

It’d be better for Seungcheol if you just let him go, freeing him to focus on what mattered more to him. Like work.

He loved you too much to break things off with you himself, so it was better that you did it. For his own good.

That’s what you told him, at least.

────୨ৎ──── Four Years Ago

“Cheol,” you said, teary-eyed. “Cheol, look at me.”

Seungcheol stared blankly at the ground, face frozen.

“Please?” your voice cracked.

“Who are you to tell me what I can and can’t handle?” he suddenly choked out, eyes flashing with hurt. His hands clenched, like he was holding himself back from saying more.

You swallowed thickly, reaching for his arm. “Cheol, I—”

“Don’t call me that,” he said, snatching his hand away from you.

────୨ৎ────

But you had hidden the real reasons for the breakup.

Because, deep down, you had always suspected otherwise. Somehow, everything had just become so complicated. Loving Seungcheol—which had once been something as easy as breathing—had become a dull pain in your chest, clouding your every thought with insecurities.

Even from the start of the relationship, you’d loved him more, anyway. Back then, you didn’t mind it because you loved him so much, and he was always so, so sweet to you. But around the time of the job offer, paranoia had reared its ugly head, kicking your uncertain thoughts into overdrive.

It was obvious that he didn’t really love you anymore. While you were job seeking, he was distracted. Always checking his phone, not really listening to what you had to say. He made time for you, but he didn’t necessarily make you feel like he loved you as deeply as you did him—it didn’t feel like he was the same guy that you started dating.

Something about his actions just felt like he did them to claim that he loved you, rather than because he actually loved you. His actions were laced with a kind of surface level, superficial quality.

He’d take you out to a fancy dinner, open the door for you, pay for the meal, drive you home—all the gentlemanly things he did when you started dating, too. But on the car ride there and back, and while sitting down eating together, he wouldn’t remember the things you had said about the little things happening in your life—a major change, when compared to the start of your relationship.

And sure, he didn’t have an obligation to remember your next door neighbor's name. But shouldn’t he remember your favorite kind of pie, or your closest cousin’s name? Shouldn’t he just know not to check his phone every time it pings with a new email, or leave you to eat your stupid expensive pasta alone as he takes a call outside?

It was almost like Seungcheol had fallen out of love with you, but was staying with you out of some kind of obligation to continue what he had started? That was your only explanation for why he’d spend time with you, but wouldn’t pay close attention to the things you said. Every Thursday was movie night, and in hopes of trying to keep him away from work, you let him choose the movie every time. But what use was that, when he spent more time looking at his phone than the TV—and more importantly, you, for that matter?

You’d been dating a ghost of a man. While you loved him, he tolerated you.

If the two of you stayed together when you went abroad, he’d probably double down on texts, but he wouldn’t really remember anything you’d said if you mentioned details about them in calls.

You didn’t bring any of these fears up to him, because you knew that he would continue to deny it. In fact, you’d imagined it in your head so much that you could see it when closing your eyes to sleep. If you confronted him, he’d deny that he didn’t love you anymore. But he’d be staring at the ground instead of looking at you. He wouldn’t admit that he was only with you because he enjoyed the consistency of your affection, and because he somewhat pitied you—and most importantly to him, because he wanted to prove to himself that he chose correctly when he started dating you.

The pain of watching the love of your life push down his repulsion just to be with you was decidedly more horrifying than the pain of breaking up with him altogether.

Right before ending things, it had occurred to you that Seungcheol might not have ever loved you in the first place, and that just hammered in the idea that you were making the right decision. He’d get over the breakup fast. He’d probably be thankful for it in a few years, even. If you saw him again, you’d both probably laugh, and in his head, he’d realize that he was grateful that you ended things so that he could focus on his real love, his career.

If you were honest with yourself, you would admit that there was a bit of selfishness driving the breakup, as well. There was no way you could handle Seungcheol sacrificing things for you—if he lost sleep over you, if he worried about you, if he was distracted by you—because you knew he wouldn’t be doing it for love.

Because he only ever cared out of a superficial need to prove to himself that he made the right decision in asking you out all those years ago. Not because he really loved you.

Yes, he probably never loved you, and he would never know the real reason why you ended things.

────୨ৎ──── Four Years Ago

“You give up so easily,” he spat out. “Was I nothing to you?”

Tears were running down your face. “Don’t. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

Seungcheol laughed, then buried his head in his hands. “God, to think I almost—”

He stopped, jaw tightening, then shook his head like he couldn’t believe it.

────୨ৎ────

A hand comes down sharply on your desk, jolting you awake.

“Sleeping while on duty?”

Wide-eyed, with tear-stained cheeks, you look up to face your ex-boyfriend. “부장님! [Department Head!]”

Upon seeing your red-rimmed eyes, Seungcheol falters.

Swiping at your under eyes quickly, you bow your head to him slightly. “I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”

He swallows roughly, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. He opens his mouth, like he’s about to ask you why you were crying, and your heart drops.

You will crumble if you hear the tone of voice he had used when you broke up with him.

“Excuse me,” you blurt with choked words.

You don’t dare to look at his eyes. Instead, you get up from your seat, then immediately flee to the bathroom.

────୨ৎ──── Four Years Ago

“You can focus on work, now,” you squeaked out.

Seungcheol scoffed again, a cruel sound of disbelief. “What makes you think I give a damn about work right now?”

“Don’t you? Always?” you sniffled.

His eyes flashed with something you couldn’t quite describe. He seemed angry, but not just at you. At himself, too—his hands were balled into fists at his sides, fingernails digging sharply into his palms. His throat bobbed, and you could see the intense restraint he was forcing on himself. He opened his mouth with a sharp breath, then closed it again, as if he wanted to say something but stopped himself.

────୨ৎ────

You stare with glassy eyes at yourself in the mirror, trying to calm your racing heart down. It would be alright. You would be alright.

If you just focused on your work, it would be fine.

Leaving the bathroom, you square your shoulders. You’ll draft up a new proposal that suits his standards, and you’ll do it so excellently that he can’t possibly reject it.

Hours later, and you’re standing outside Seungcheol’s office again. Taking a deep breath, you walk in without knocking or announcing yourself.

The stack of papers trembles in your hands as you place them on Seungcheol’s desk. You keep your expression blank, steadying your breath, willing yourself not to let any emotion slip. “This is the revised proposal.”

Seungcheol doesn’t look up immediately. He takes his time flipping through the pages, his expression unreadable. The tension in the room is suffocating, thick with words left unsaid from years ago. You stand stiffly, waiting, watching the way his fingers drag across the paper. Finally, he exhales sharply and sets the proposal down.

The room is unbearably silent as the question of approval hangs in the air. Your heart pounds so loudly you swear he can hear it.

He should say no immediately. It would be the easiest answer. The logical one. The one you expect.

But he hesitates.

His fingers curl against the polished surface of his desk, and his gaze lingers on the documents in front of him for just a second too long. It’s subtle—anyone else might not notice—but you do. His mask falters. Just a flicker.

And for a split second, you let yourself hope.

Then, his jaw tightens. His hands retreat beneath the table, as if physically pulling himself back. When he finally speaks, his voice is steady, controlled, and restrained—nothing like the eager, puppy-like man you knew him as when you first started dating.

“We’ll have to decline,” he says, and it’s final. Unshakable. Like he hadn’t wavered at all.

You nod stiffly, as if you hadn’t just watched something slip through his fingers. As if it hadn’t slipped through yours, too.

“Decline?” you blurt.

His face remains impassive. “Yes.”

You blink at him, momentarily stunned. You had anticipated that he would be difficult, but this—it’s too fast, too dismissive.

You steel yourself. “Why?”

“It’s not good enough.”

Your fingers clench around the hem of your blazer. “Can’t you separate private and work life?”

He meets your gaze, eyes dark and cool. “I am.” His voice is devoid of any warmth. “I don’t care. Your proposal is bad.”

The words strike harder than they should, more than just a professional critique. A cruel, deliberate dismissal. You know it’s personal—for the past two weeks that you’ve been at the Seoul branch, it has always been personal when it comes to him. Your blood simmers.

“I see.” You force your voice to remain level. “Would you like to point out what’s wrong with it?”

His lips press into a thin line. “No.”

A sharp, bitter laugh escapes you. “Of course not.”

Seungcheol leans back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. “Four years ago, you didn’t choose me. So why should I choose your useless proposal?”

The shift is abrupt, the air sucked out of the room in an instant. Your nails dig into your palms.

“I have never loved anyone more than I loved you.” The words leave your lips before you can stop them, the truth of them ringing through the silence.

He scoffs, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes, something raw. “You left me,” he says, voice edged with something dangerously close to hurt. “You. Left. Me.”

Your breath shudders. “You left me first.”

He leans forward, eyes searching yours, like he’s daring you to take it back. “How?” His voice is quieter now, but no less intense. “How did I leave you, when I was the one you abandoned in Seoul?”

Your vision blurs slightly. This. This is why it never worked between the two of you. He’s too bull-headed to even consider that he was in the wrong.

You shake your head. “Why didn’t you fight for us?”

His jaw tightens. “Why didn’t you?”

A bitter taste coats your tongue. “You gave up so easily.”

His eyes flash. “No,” he says sharply, “you’re the one who brought up work all the time.”

Your hands tremble. “Because if it wasn’t about work, you wouldn’t talk to me!”

That stuns him. His mouth opens slightly, but nothing comes out. His brows knit together, the first crack in his mask of indifference.

You exhale shakily, pressing forward. “Because if I talked about anything else, I knew you wouldn’t listen,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I knew I’d be talking to a man who loved the idea of me more than he actually loved me.”

Seungcheol flinches as if you had struck him. His throat bobs, hands clenched into fists on top of his desk. “That’s not true,” he grits out, but there’s something in his voice—something unsteady, like the words are slipping through his fingers before he can stop them.

“Isn’t it?” you press. His breathing turns uneven, his jaw tightening like he’s physically holding himself back.

“You made me feel like I was a burden,” you continue, the words tumbling out, years of buried pain unraveling in real time. “Like you had to tolerate me between meetings and emails. Like being with me was just another responsibility to check off your list.”

He exhales sharply, like the air’s been knocked out of his lungs. His fingers twitch, gripping the desk so tightly that his knuckles go white. “That’s not—” He stops, biting his tongue, like even he can’t bring himself to finish that sentence.

A bitter laugh escapes you. “You don’t even believe yourself, do you?”

Seungcheol stands abruptly, chair scraping against the floor, his composure unraveling before your eyes. “I worked so damn hard for us,” he says, voice raw.

Your voice is small. “I never asked you to.”

His lips part, and for the first time since you stepped into his office, his expression isn’t blank or cold—it’s vulnerable. And it terrifies you.

His expression cracks, pain flickering through his eyes. “I was trying to build a future for you,” he says, voice raw, desperate. “For us.”

“You were so busy planning a future that you forgot to love me in the present.”

A tense silence falls between you, the weight of the past pressing down on both of you like an unbearable force. His breaths are uneven, his knuckles white from how tightly he’s gripping the edge of his desk.

Finally, he exhales, a bitter, tired laugh leaving his lips. He looks down at the proposal—still sitting there, untouched, still rejected.

“This meeting is over,” he mutters, his voice hoarse.

Your heart clenches painfully, but you nod, blinking rapidly to push back the tears. Without another word, you turn on your heel and walk out, leaving behind the shattered remnants of everything you once were.

When you get back to the safe haven that is your apartment, you retrace everything he had said. Or, rather, the accusations he had thrown at you.

“You left me.”

“I was the one you abandoned in Seoul.”

“Why didn’t you fight for us?” “Why didn’t you?”

“I was trying to build a future for you. For us.”

Your heart strangely aches, remembering how shaken he looked when you called out his workaholic behavior. You had blamed him for the end of it all, but it takes two to end a relationship. Why didn’t you fight harder for him, back then?

────୨ৎ──── Four Years Ago

You’re alone now. It’s what you wanted. To be free from the self-doubt that loving Seungcheol had drilled into you.

Your chest constricted so tightly, you couldn’t breathe.

────୨ৎ────

Two days after the disastrous office meeting, you’ve somehow managed to have the misfortune of sitting in front of your ex-boyfriend at a steakhouse for work. The restaurant is dimly lit, the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses filling the space. Your body practically vibrates from the tension.

You can see Seungcheol’s gaze turn sharper every time he looks at you, and it makes it all the more insulting when he immediately brightens at Director Chun. You chug another glass of wine, hoping the buzz will numb the annoyance bubbling within you.

“Thank you, Director,” you say, reaching over the table to shake your superior’s hand. “It was a pleasure.”

“No, thank you, Team Leader,” he chuckles. “We’re lucky to have such competent, young people working for us. I’m sure the Brennans will be thrilled to see this project come to a close so quickly.”

Seungcheol laughs. “We’re lucky to have you, Director.”

It’s so fake, you’re itching to get rid of the stupid grin off his smug face.

“I’m sorry I have to leave so soon,” the director continues. “I’ll see you two back at the office?”

“Of course,” you say, standing up and bowing to him as he gets up from his seat.

When the director finally leaves, you can’t help but clench your fists. Wanting to relieve the tension in your poor tendons, you reach for the wine bottle, refilling your glass for the nth time tonight. The rest of the restaurant is loud, but it is far too quiet in your corner of the room.

Now you’re alone with Seungcheol.

The air crackles with an unspoken tension, thick and suffocating. Seungcheol, across from you, has his fingers curled tightly around the stem of his wine glass. His knuckles are practically white, the pressure of his grip betraying the storm raging inside him.

He hasn’t touched much of his food, and barely spoke beyond a few clipped replies to you. He had really only responded to Director Chun all night. But it’s nothing new. You have long learned to recognize this silence; it’s the same, bitter one that had stretched between you in the months before you left him.

You don’t know why you told Joshua you could handle going to this. Why, after everything, did you let Seungcheol pull you into a setting so painfully intimate, so reminiscent of the past? The last time the two of you were in a restaurant like this, he had left for 40 minutes to take a call outside.

Seungcheol swirls his drink absentmindedly, watching the ice shift in the glass before finally speaking. “You look well.”

You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. “Small talk? Really?”

His jaw tightens, and he sets his glass down with a quiet thud. “Would you rather we skip the pleasantries?”

“I’d rather we not pretend this is anything other than what it is.”

“And what is it?”

You lift your chin. “You tell me.”

Seungcheol exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. He looks at you—really looks at you—for the first time since you sat down, and it sends a shiver down your spine. It’s the same expression he made when you were in his arms, four years ago.

The one that made you feel like the only person in the world. The one that he used to assure you that he loved you.

And you hate yourself, because you can’t help but remember that he looked so good when he was yours. Worse, you can’t help but notice how he’s still devastatingly handsome.

Only now, his gaze is shadowed with something darker. Something unresolved.

“You know, when you told me you wanted to end things, I could’ve accepted it,” he says, voice steady, but his fingers twitch slightly against the edge of the table.

You swallow roughly.

“I could’ve accepted it if you said you just fell out of love with me,” he continues, “But then.” He takes a deep breath. “But then, you told me it was for my own good. That I wouldn’t be able to handle long distance.”

Your hands grip your wine glass. You want to say something, but you don’t know where to even start.

“You told me you loved me, and then…” he trails, before shakily saying, “abandoned me, because I couldn’t handle it?” He dips his head low, hands joining like he’s about to make a prayer.

“Cheol, I—”

“Don’t. Just don’t.”

Seungcheol stares intensely at his half-eaten steak, a strand of hair coming down from his forehead to poke at his eyes. Despite yourself, your hand instinctively lurches to tuck it behind his ears, before you quickly jolt it back. A cloud of shame begins to envelope your mind. It’s not fair. Why does your body remember him so well, even after he broke your heart?

He takes a shaky breath before speaking again. “And you know what? That…that wasn’t even the worst part.” Choked up, he takes a deep breath and clenches his hands into fists to ground himself before continuing. “What’s worse, was what you said at the end.”

You furrow your brows, thinking back to all those years ago, right after you told him that he could finally focus on his work, and right before you walked away from him.

────୨ৎ──── Four Years Ago

“I’m sorry for wasting your time,” you whispered. You didn’t dare to look at him. “I’m sorry I made you miss that convention for my birthday.” You sniffled, voice breaking. “You shouldn’t have had to do that. I’m sorry I made you watch those stupid movies, and that I made you go out when you didn’t want to. I should’ve been more considerate of your dreams, Cheol. I’m sorry, I’m sorry I only realized it now. I should’ve—”

You exhaled deeply, blinking your newest tears away. They fell down your cheeks in streams. “You won’t have to worry about that kind of useless stuff anymore, okay? You don’t need to deal with me anymore. I’m sorry you had to handle all of that for so long. I, I really lo…”

You bit down on your lower lip, blinking desperately to get rid of your blurry vision. “I hope you get into the accelerator, Cheol. I know how hard you’ve worked for it. If anyone can do it, it’s you.”

One last time, you smiled at him weakly, not meeting his eyes. “Goodbye, Cheol.”

And then you turned your back from him, walking away from the love of your life, partly because you really did wish him well on his startup journey, and mostly because you knew he was only with you out of obligation to himself—because he never loved you, anyway.

────୨ৎ────

“Oh,” you say, eyes feeling strangely prickly.

“I love—I loved you,” Seungcheol says, clutching his chest. He exhales roughly. “Did you not… see that?”

You blink rapidly.

His throat bobs as he swallows, eyes darting away for a brief moment. “I had plans for us,” he admits, voice quiet but strained.

At the sight of his clear pain, your stomach twists uncomfortably. “Plans?”

He nods slowly, still refusing to meet your eyes. The candlelight on the table flickers between you, casting shadows that dance across his face, highlighting the tension in his furrowed brow.

His mouth parts as if he’s about to say something—something important—but then he stops himself.

You reach across the table instinctively, your fingertips grazing his wrist. “Seungcheol. Don’t do this to me.”

He tenses beneath your touch but doesn’t pull away. Instead, he finally looks at you, and the sheer weight of emotion in his gaze nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. There is so much in his eyes—anger, regret, sadness, and a deep emotion you haven’t dared call love in years. All tangled together in a way that makes it impossible to separate one from the other.

“I was going to propose to you,” he confesses, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your breath hitches. For a second, the world tilts, the steady hum of the restaurant fading into white noise. You blink, your mind scrambling to process the weight of his words. “What?”

Seungcheol lets out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head as if mocking himself. “I had the ring. I had everything planned out.” He exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “I was just… waiting for the right time.”

A sharp, painful lump forms in your throat. “Cheol—”

“But you left before I could,” he cuts in, his voice breaking at the edges. His eyes are glassy now, raw with unshed emotion. “You thought…you thought I didn’t love you enough. But I did. I loved you so much I—” He sucks in a shaky breath, his hands balling into fists on the table. “I was trying so hard to build a future for us. I wanted to give you everything.”

Tears burn behind your eyes, and your hands are still on his arm, but they’re shaking. “I didn’t need ‘everything,’” you whisper. “I just needed you.”

His face crumples for a split second before he forces his expression blank again. “I thought I was doing the right thing.”

Silence stretches between you, thick with everything you had never said to each other. The weight of missed moments, of love given but not received in the way it was needed, settles over the two of you like a monstrous thunderstorm.

You nearly choke on the sob threatening to break free from your throat. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

His voice is hoarse, like he has swallowed glass. “Would it have changed anything?”

You want to say yes. You want to believe that if he had just told you, things would have been different. But deep down, you aren’t sure. Because the truth was, you had already been slipping away from each other long before you had walked out the door.

You had told him you were leaving him so he could focus on his work. You had told yourself you were leaving him because he didn’t love you anymore. So, would you have really believed him if he had proposed to you? You’re not sure, but there’s no point in analyzing the hypothetical what-ifs, really.

Because now, looking at the man who had once been your world, you wonder if you had ever really left him at all.

────୨ৎ──── Three Years Ago

It was Seungcheol’s birthday. It hit you while you were at the grocery store, in the fresh produce section.

You saw cherries.

You cried.

Later that day, your finger twitched over his contact on your phone, before falling to your hips.

He was probably busy. He hadn’t texted or called you since the breakup, after all. He definitely wouldn’t want to hear from you even if he wasn’t busy, anyway.

“I’m sorry,” you said out loud, knowing that the person who needed to hear it most wasn’t there. “I miss you. Happy birthday.”

────୨ৎ────

You blink, and suddenly you’re outside. There’s a chilly wind blowing against you, making you shiver. When you try to take a step forward, you find your body is too sluggish to move much.

“You’ve had too much to drink,” Seungcheol says concernedly, his warm, strong hands finding an all too familiar spot against your waist.

“I’m fine,” you say, though your teetering body suggests otherwise.

Somewhere between watching Seungcheol laugh at Director Chun’s obviously not funny jokes and trying to give your hand something to do instead of ball into fists hearing his confession, you had drunk far too much of the expensive bottle of wine that the director had bought for the three of you.

Seungcheol says your name like it’s a warning, tone firm.

But you can’t help but laugh. You’re too close to him now. And oh, he’s so warm. Instinctively, your body presses against him, because it’s familiar and comforting and something you’ve subconsciously been craving for the past four years with every fiber of your body.

“I missed you,” you blurt.

Seungcheol swallows roughly.

“Fuck, don’t…” He can’t even bring himself to finish the sentence. “How did you get here? Taxi?”

You shake your head. “Too much money. Subway.”

“I’ll take you home, okay? Where are you staying now?” He squeezes your waist.

“Mmh.” Thinking, you close your eyes, fully leaning into his touch.

Three days ago, the company told you to move out of the original apartment they’d placed you in two weeks ago, and although you’d memorized how to get to your new place using the subway, you had yet to memorize the exact address. You’d always looked at your phone to double check, thinking that you’d be fine if you were stranded, since you’d always have your phone on you. Unfortunately, though, you hadn’t considered that you’d be lost if your phone died.

“That’s not an address, sweetheart.” He inhales sharply, realizing his mistake after it leaves his lips.

“I’m sorry,” you say with a frown, tears welling in your eyes. “Don’t remember.”

Here you were, wasting his time again. You’d left him four years ago because you were a hindrance to his career, and now you’re doing it again. Old habits die hard, don’t they?

You sniffle, “I’ll sober up soon, don’t worry. You can just leave me here. I’ll walk to the subway.”

Seungcheol’s throat bobs. “Hey, hey, don’t be sorry. I got you, okay? I’ll take you back to my place, if that’s okay?”

You nod, your voice small. “Okay.”

He breathes a sigh of relief.

Before you know it, Seungcheol has escorted you into the passenger seat of his car, and you’re on your way back to the house you had called your home only four years ago.

“Did you miss me?” you ask childishly, staring at the driver with sleepy eyes.

His Adam's apple bobs up and down.

For a moment, you don’t think he’ll answer. But then, he says softly, “I did.”

“Oh,” you say, and then you feel your eyelids get heavier. You let them close.

Right before you fall asleep, you catch him whispering something that sounds a lot like, “I missed you so much, sweetheart.”

────୨ৎ──── Six Months Ago

You blinked rapidly. “In the fall?”

“Yes,” Director Chun said. “I’ll be heading over to the Seoul branch as well, for a few months at the very least. I promise you’ll be under one of our best. Department Head Choi Seungcheol is known for being collaborative. I’m sure the synergy will be great between the two of you.”

You froze. Surely, not.

“Choi Seungcheol?” you asked breathily.

“Yes. Do you know each other?”

“No,” you said, far too quickly.

“Ah, I see. Perhaps he was impressed by the work you did with the Jeons,” the director said with a smile. “He requested you directly.”

Oh.

────୨ৎ────

Sleep is supposed to be relaxing, isn’t it? So why does it feel like your chest is going to cave in on itself, like a big boulder has plopped itself down on you?

You open your eyes quickly, only to be met with a mess of short, dark brown hair.

You try to blow on the hair, only to feel it enter your mouth. It’s horribly dry.

“Ack,” you spit.

And then it occurs to you that your hair has never tasted like this, or looked like this, for that matter.

You try moving one of your arms to get rid of the annoying strands, only to find that it has also been rendered immobile. You tense your core, trying to flop like a worm, but it’s of no use.

You furrow your brows, straining as hard as you can, but nothing happens.

For a moment, you wonder if you’re having a nightmare.

And then the boulder moves.

Your eyes widen into saucers. There’s only one explanation for this. You’ve only ever known one man who gives bear hugs in his sleep like this.

“Choi Seungcheol?”

“Fuck,” it groans. “Thought I told you not to call me that, sweetheart.”

You close your eyes, wondering if you’re still dreaming. But when you open them again, you see Seungcheol’s face.

Sleep lines are adorning his left cheek, and he blinks at you slowly. His pink lips are turned down in a slight pout, and the sight of him is so adorable, it makes you want to scream.

“Did you…” you pause, mind racking an explanation. “Fall asleep on top of me?”

“You said you were cold,” he says slowly, eyes half-closed, voice deep.

“Oh,” you say, then flush, feeling heat rush up the back of your neck and reach your ears. Trying to avoid eye contact with him, your eyes stray to your collarbone, and you see that you’re still wearing last night’s clothes. “Wait, did you let me into your bed with dirty clothes?”

“Mmph,” he says, rubbing his face into the crook of your neck.

“Wow,” is all you can manage. He never let you do that when you were dating.

“Go back to sleep, love,” Seungcheol mumbles.

“Can’t breathe, Cheol,” you groan, patting his back. “Too heavy, baby.”

He groans but shifts off of you, then cuddles up next to you, hands finding your waist immediately. “Five more minutes.”

“Mmh,” you sigh contentedly.

And as you close your eyes again, it occurs to you that Seungcheol is your ex, and that the two of you are definitely doing things that exes should not be doing.

────୨ৎ──── Two Weeks Ago

You folded your pride. You extended an arm out to him first.

“Department Head Choi Seungcheol, it’s a pleasure to work with you.”

You spat his first and last name out like venom, knowing all too well that he hated being called by his full name.

He stared at your outstretched hand, then scoffed.

Fuck.

────୨ৎ────

When you wake up again, you’re alone in Seungcheol’s bed. Out of habit, your arm moves to pat the other side of the bed.

For a moment, your mind flashes back to the lonely mornings you had with him four years ago. The days when the first thing you did after waking up was to check the other side of the bed, only for it to be cold. The hope of it all had fractured your heart slowly, but surely.

But today, for some reason, Seungcheol’s side is lukewarm.

Confused at the lingering warmth, you sit up in his bed, rolling back the covers.

Is it possible that he’s still here?

Then, you smell the distinct scent of ramen through the door to his room, which has been left slightly ajar. Planning on checking the kitchen, you move to get off the bed. But before your feet reach the ground, Seungcheol walks in.

He’s holding a tiny desk, the kind made for breakfast in bed. On it is a bowl of steaming ramen and a glass of water.

“Morning,” he says with a shy smile, and oh—oh, it’s so full of endearment and joy and hope, of all things.

God, something about it is just so, so pure and domestic, it makes your chest constrict. Seungcheol had never made you breakfast in bed when you had dated, because he had always been the first to leave in the morning.

But here he is, like he plans on making up for everything starting now.

And with how bright his smile is, your heart is aching to just let him.

“Is this… for me?” you ask in a small voice. Of course, it can’t possibly be for anyone but you, but something in you wants Seungcheol to admit it.

Seungcheol nods.

“Thank you,” you say.

“Ramen’s your favorite hangover meal, right?”

You nod slowly, and Seungcheol grins, like he’s proud of himself for getting it right. But something about it pokes a nerve. What use is there in remembering it now, when you’re not together anymore?

He watches you eat slowly, and you raise your eyebrows at the taste.

“It’s really good,” you say between bites, giving a thumbs up.

“Good,” he says, making intense eye contact with you.

He’s completely focused on you, phone and computer completely out of sight, and it makes you squirm. Now that his attention is on you without any distractions, it’s too easy to see how gorgeous he is.

You flush under his attention. “Stop looking at me,” you mumble.

“Don’t wanna,” he says dreamily, lying on his stomach on the bed, looking up at you with doe eyes.

You giggle, covering your face with your hands in embarrassment.

Seungcheol reaches out to swat your hands away from your face, taking the opportunity to hold your hands. When you look at him again, you’re taken aback by how serious he suddenly is.

Your laughter fades.

He takes a deep breath, and your heart sinks. You already know what he’s going to say.

“Can we… try ag—”

“Cheol,” you gently cut him off, withdrawing your hands from his familiar grasp. “Let’s not… we’re not…”

“Why not?” He looks at you innocently, with wide eyes.

You take a shaky breath. “I can’t do this again, Cheol. It’s not good for me, and it’s not good for you.”

At first, he just blinks at you, as if he misheard. But then, something in his expression hardens. “Who says you’re not good for me?”

“What?”

“Who says you’re not good for me?”

“Cheol,” you say with a sigh. “Let’s not do this again. It’s not gonna work.”

“Who says?” his voice breaks.

────୨ৎ──── One Week Ago

“Again,” he said dryly. “Redo the business model.”

You held back your anger. “Yes, Department Head Choi Seungcheol. Is there anything else you would like me to do?”

“Care more,” he said.

You frowned. “I have my full focus on this project, sir.”

“Care more,” he repeated.

────୨ৎ────

“I’ve changed,” he says frantically. “I can prove it to you, I promise.”

Your chest constricts.

“I won’t ever let you be lonely again, I promise. I won’t let it happen, I swear. I’m so, so sorry I hurt you back then, but I’m not the same man you left. I will never hurt you again.”

You swallow roughly, the ramen leaving a salty aftertaste in your mouth.

“Seungcheol…”

He shuts his eyes tightly, like you’ve wounded him.

“Please, call me Cheol again. Please, I can’t stand to hear you call me that.”

“It’s your name,” you tell him gently.

“No, it’s not. To you, I’m Cheol,” he insists stubbornly, crossing his arms. You have to remind yourself to breathe at the sight. Since when was his body so defined? You have to look away from his pronounced biceps to regain your will.

“Look at me,” he says with a frown. You obliged and he continues, “Sweetheart, please. I promise I will never hurt you again. Please, please, take me back.”

On the bed, he’s kneeling now, hands drawn together as if in deep prayer.

“I won’t let work get in the way of loving you. It was horrible and so stupid of me and I’m so, so sorry but it was only when I lost you that I realized I forgot what the point of working was. It was to provide for you, and I couldn’t do that if you were gone because I didn’t properly show you the love you deserved. I’m so, so sorry, my love. Please give me another chance?”

Seungcheol looks at you with so much sadness, but the history you had with his ghost makes you unsure about what to do.

“I don’t know, Cheol…”

He smiles weakly, resigned. “At least you’re back to calling me Cheol, though. Right?”

You nod slowly.

All of a sudden, Seungcheol lights up, like a last-minute godsend of an idea came to his mind. “If it’s too hard to say yes now, how about taking it slow?”

“What does that mean?” His definition of taking it slow probably isn’t like yours.

“I can take you out on some dates, and then you could decide?”

Your heart sinks. He’s so hopeful—eyebrows raised, eyes wide, mouth parted.

You don’t know if you have it in you to say no.

You press your lips together.

Seungcheol must have sensed danger in your face, because he immediately interjects with a rushed confession before you even open your mouth.

“I love you. So much. I loved you then, and I loved you after you left, and I love you now. There was no one after you, you know?” He looks a bit crazed, hands scrunching the blankets roughly.

Your heart jolts.

He continues, “You were everything to me—and still are. There wasn’t a single day that I didn’t think about you. But I couldn’t bring myself to reach out because I thought you hated me.”

He’s not exactly wrong. You did hate him. Then again, there’s a fine line between love and hate. Both are powerful emotions that require you to care about the person in question.

“I even quit the startup because I realized it had eaten up all my time, ‘cause it had taken you away from me.”

You gasp. This was the answer to why Choi Seungcheol, self-made entrepreneur who insisted on refusing to work for anyone but himself, had strangely become the department head of a company that he never had a hand in creating.

“I was,” he sighs self-deprecatingly, “unemployed for a while. Until I heard you were working here, and then I made it my mission to climb the ranks until I could ask for you to get transferred to Seoul. And when you accepted, I was so…”

Your heart breaks a little for him.

“I thought it was a sign.” Hesitantly, he clarifies, “That you might want to try again.”

You inhale sharply. There he goes, again. Talking so sweetly. Back then, that was all he ever did to show you that he loved you. It wasn’t enough then, so why would it be enough now?

At your silence, Seungcheol hangs his head, and your fingers twitch, wanting to reach out to him.

Except it’s different now, isn’t it? He’s finally doing all the things you once wished he would. Isn’t that what you wanted from him? You don’t trust him yet. But he’s trying, now, and every muscle in your body aches with an impossibly deep desire to pull him into your arms.

You exhale, and out with your breath goes your final worries.

Your lips part before you’ve fully decided what to say.

"Okay."

It’s barely a whisper, but it might as well be a strike of thunder with the way Seungcheol’s head snaps up. His eyes widen, mouth parting like he’s afraid he misheard you.

"Okay?" His voice trembles, cautious, like one wrong move could shatter whatever fragile thing is forming between you.

Your throat tightens. The weight of this—of him—presses down on you, but you nod anyway.

For a second, he doesn’t breathe. Then, his face crumples, and the sheer relief in his expression makes something in you splinter. His hands twitch where they rest on the blankets, like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t dare. He’s waiting—because this time, he knows he has to let you come to him.

And you do.

Slowly, hesitantly, you lean forward. His breath hitches, but he doesn’t move away. Your forehead brushes his, a soft press that feels like a heartbeat between you. You feel the warmth of his skin, the way his breath mingles with yours in the inches of space that remain.

Seungcheol exhales shakily, like he’s been holding it in for years. His hands hover near your waist, unsure, unsteady. He doesn’t pull you closer—he’s learned now—but he craves it.

Your eyes flutter shut, leaning into his touch, telling yourself it’d only be for a second. Just long enough to let yourself feel him, really feel him, without the weight of the past crushing you.

His voice is barely above a whisper, breath fanning across your lips. “Sweetheart…”

You could fall apart at the way he says it, so quiet, so reverent—like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he speaks too loud.

Your heart aches for more, but your mind reminds you of how he had left scars in your heart. For now, this form of affection would have to be enough.

After a few minutes in his arms, you reluctantly pull away to check the address of your new apartment on your finally-charged phone. Seungcheol drops you off, walking you to your door. You don’t invite him in, and he doesn’t ask. But something about the way he looked at you, right before you walked inside your apartment, lingers in your mind long after he leaves. He’d looked at you like you’d hung every glittering star in the sky.

Four years ago, you had decided that this gaze was something he’d manufactured while putting up with you. Maybe, you were wrong.

────୨ৎ────

Seungcheol keeps his promise of taking things slow. He’d arranged for you to meet him at a cafe the next day, and he’s already there when you get there. It’s a small, cozy place tucked into a quieter part of the city, the kind with warm lighting and the scent of freshly ground coffee drifting in the air.

You hesitate for a second when you see him through the window, seated at a booth near the back, fingers idly tapping against the ceramic cup in front of him. Then, before you can second-guess yourself, you push open the door.

His eyes meet yours instantly, and for a moment, he looks breathless—like he’s just as nervous as you are. But then he smiles. It’s a tiny, careful thing, but it makes your heart drum a little faster anyway. As you approach, he stands up, hand on his heart.

“Hey,” he says, voice soft, like he’s afraid to scare you away.

“Hey,” you reply, sliding into the seat across from him.

The booth is familiar. For a second, you’re struck by the memory of late-night conversations, of stolen kisses over half-finished drinks. You really were deep in love, back then.

You shake the thought away as Seungcheol gestures toward the counter.

“Still the same order?” he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting in something that isn’t quite a smirk but close enough that you recognize it as one of his signature expressions. You raise an eyebrow.

“You think I’d change it?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, tilting his head slightly. “A lot of time has passed.”

You exhale a small laugh. “Yeah, well. Some things stay the same.”

Something shifts in his gaze, a flicker of relief, of hope, before he nods. He waves down a barista and places the order without hesitation—exactly how you like it. When the cup is finally set in front of you, you find yourself staring at it for a beat too long, a strange warmth pooling in your chest.

“Thanks,” you murmur, wrapping your fingers around the cup.

Seungcheol watches you, his own drink forgotten, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he leans slightly forward, forearms resting on the table as he asks, “So, what’s new?”

You take a sip, letting the warmth settle in your stomach before answering. “Well, I have a wedding to go to next month.”

His eyebrows lift slightly, intrigued. “Oh?”

“Yeah. My coworker from the New York branch, Lee Chan, is getting married next month. I gotta fly out for it.” You swirl your drink absentmindedly, watching the steam curl into the air. “It’s kind of crazy. Feels like yesterday he was complaining about bad Tinder dates, and now he’s getting married.”

Seungcheol huffs a small laugh. “Guess he finally found the right person.”

“Yeah,” you say, a little softer. “Guess he did.”

There’s a pause, and you realize that for all the implications, for the way the topic is naturally leading to the idea of a plus one, you don’t bring it up. And, notably, neither does he. The question lingers, unspoken but present. Instead, Seungcheol shifts the conversation.

“You still baking?”

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “If you can even call it that.”

He grins. “That bad?”

“Worse.” You sigh dramatically. “I was trying to perfect my chocolate chip cookies, right? Like, I found this recipe online, and it looked completely foolproof. But somehow, I nearly burned down my apartment.”

His amusement vanishes instantly. “What?”

“I mean, not literally,” you backtrack quickly, waving a hand. “But there was a lot of smoke. And my oven might hate me now.”

Seungcheol’s brows furrow in concern. “That apartment’s new, isn’t it?”

You nod. “Yeah, company orders. Still trying to get used to it.”

He exhales through his nose, tilting his head as he studies you. “Isn’t it hard? Being in such an unfamiliar place?”

You blink, caught off guard. “Oh, uh, I guess?”

His tone is casual—too casual—but you’re not oblivious. You see the way he watches you intently, the way he’s gauging your reaction. He thinks he’s being subtle, but it’s clear what he’s hinting at. Someday, maybe you won’t have to be in an unfamiliar place. Maybe you could come back home, to me.

You let out a small breath, looking down at your drink. “It’s fine,” you say after a moment. “It’s just an adjustment.”

Seungcheol doesn’t push, but his fingers tighten slightly around his cup. “If you ever need anything…”

“I know,” you say, and you mean it. Because for the first time in a long time, it feels like he actually means it, too.

The conversation shifts again, moving from baking disasters to random anecdotes about work, about old stories that slip out without either of you realizing. And throughout it all, you notice something: Seungcheol is listening.

Not just nodding along, not just waiting for his turn to speak. He’s really listening—leaning in, responding at the right moments, his gaze locked on yours with a kind of attentiveness that makes your stomach flip in a way you don’t want to acknowledge yet.

It’s different. He’s different.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s why this doesn’t feel like a mistake.

Fuck, do you love him, still?

────୨ৎ────

After the weekend cafe date with Seungcheol came the work week, much to your displeasure. Today has been an especially exhausting day. The kind that seeps into your bones, weighing down your limbs, making even the simple act of unlocking your apartment door feel like a chore. You barely manage to kick off your shoes before collapsing onto the couch, groaning into the cushions.

You didn’t even hear your phone buzzing at first. It takes a few rings before you muster enough energy to blindly fumble for it.

“Hello?” Your voice is muffled, with your face buried against the pillow.

“You sound dead,” comes Seungcheol’s voice, laced with amusement but tinged with concern.

“Feel like it too,” you groan. “Long day.”

There was a pause on the other end. Then, softly, “Have you eaten?”

“I had lunch,” you say.

Another pause. Then, decisively, “I’m coming over.”

“What? No, you don’t have to—”

“Too late. I’m already on my way.”

And just like that, the call ends. You blink owlishly at your screen, a bit too drained to call him back in protest.

Twenty minutes later, a knock comes from your door.

When you open it, Seungcheol stands there, hair still slightly tousled from the wind outside, carrying a takeout bag in one hand and a six-pack of your favorite drinks in the other.

“You used to drink these when you were stressed,” he says, holding up the pack as if that explains everything.

Your heart does something funny in your chest, but do your best to ignore it. Instead, you step aside, letting him in for the first time.

Seungcheol makes himself comfortable in your kitchen, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. He unpacks the food and searches for utensils without asking you for help. And before you know it, you’re sitting at your small dining table, warm food in front of you, while he nudges a drink toward your hand.

The silence is comfortable. You didn’t realize how much you needed this until now—until the tension in your shoulders starts to ease, until the simple act of eating next to someone who cares about you makes the world feel a little less heavy.

At some point, you sigh, rolling your neck to work out a kink. You hadn’t meant for it to be noticeable, but Seungcheol caught it immediately. Without a word, he shifts his chair closer and places a warm hand against your shoulder, thumb pressing gently into the tension there.

You freeze.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “I got you. Just relax.”

And somehow, without even thinking, you do.

It isn’t grand, or dramatic, really. It’s just the quiet comfort of someone who knows you better than you thought he did. Who is all of a sudden remembering the little things, after all these years. He eases the weight of the world off your shoulders without even trying.

You don’t pull away.

And neither does he.

────୨ৎ────

A week later, and the workday is winding down. But the plans you’ve been looking forward to—a nice dinner that feels like a step forward, another stitch in the frayed edges between you and Seungcheol—suddenly teeter on the edge of collapse.

You’re gathering your things when Director Chun steps into the office, looking around before his gaze lands on Seungcheol.

"Department Head Choi Seungcheol," Chun calls, his voice even but firm. "I need you to stay back for a bit. The New York office just called me about a misalignment between Mr. Han’s vision and the work we submitted to their team. We need to smooth it over before tomorrow morning. I estimate it won’t take very long."

Your breath catches. Director Chun always sugarcoats things. It wouldn’t be just a couple more minutes, it’d be several hours of extra work.

It’s just a few words, a simple request by the director. But it’s enough to send you spiraling.

Because you've been here before.

You know how this story ends.

Your grip tightens around the strap of your bag as a million thoughts flood in, rapid and overwhelming. He’s going to say yes. Of course, he’s going to say yes.

Work will always come first. It always has, always will.

He’ll put you second again, and you’ll be left waiting, just like before.

The words you want to say—please don’t go, pick me, just this once—stick like molasses to the back of your throat.

You can’t stay here to hear him confirm it. You can’t bear to watch it happen all over again.

You walk away before Seungcheol answers the director, your feet carrying you toward the stairwell in a daze. The second the heavy door shuts behind you, a shaky breath escapes your lips. Your fingers press against your temples as you squeeze your eyes shut, willing away the sting that threatens to turn into tears.

Your chest constricts so harshly, you think you might be having a heart attack.

It shouldn't hurt this much.

But it does.

The past and present blur together in your mind—memories of cold dinners, of unanswered texts, of waiting and waiting and waiting. Until you stopped waiting altogether.

Why on earth did you think that things would be any different, now?

The door swings open with a rush of air.

"Sweetheart?"

Your stomach drops.

Seungcheol steps inside, eyes scanning the dimly lit stairwell before landing on you. His brows pull together in concern as he closes the distance between you.

"Hey," he murmurs, reaching out hesitantly. "What’s wrong?"

You shake your head, stepping back before his fingers can brush against your arm. "You don’t have to be here, Cheol."

He frowns. "What are you talking about?"

Defeated, you let out a humorless laugh, gesturing vaguely. "You don’t have to chase after me just to make me feel better about you choosing work over dinner. I get it. I know how this goes."

A pause. Then, softly, "Is that what you think happened?"

The sincerity in his voice makes you falter.

You blink at him, your heart pounding, confusion creeping in through the cracks of your resolve. "What do you mean?"

Seungcheol exhales, running a hand through his hair before stepping closer. This time, you don’t move away.

"I told Director Chun I couldn’t stay," he says, voice steady. "I told him I had a prior commitment, and that I wasn’t going to break it."

Your eyes widen comically. "What?"

His lips twitch into something that’s not quite a smile, but close. "I said no, sweetheart. I told him I had somewhere more important to be."

More important.

Your throat tightens.

"You—" The words catch, and you have to stop yourself from immediately replying, trying to process it. "You said no?"

"I did." His gaze softens, the weight of the moment settling between you. "I told you I wouldn’t let work come between us again."

His voice is quiet, but it carries years’ worth of unspoken apologies.

Of love that had once been misplaced, misdirected, but never truly lost.

Your eyes flicker over his face, searching. And the truth is written in the way he looks at you—open, unwavering, as if he’s willing you to believe him.

And you do.

It’s terrifying how easily you do.

The wall you’d built, the one meant to protect you from this very moment, begins to crumble under the warmth in his gaze.

Your breath shudders. "Cheol…"

His hand lifts, hovering near your cheek, close enough that you can feel the heat of it but not touching. His wide, sparkling eyes look eagerly into yours—giving you the choice, letting you decide.

Your chest tightens at his cute patience, the silent question lingering between you.

The space between you grows smaller.

You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly, you’re impossibly close, the tips of your noses nearly brushing. His breath fans over your lips, and your eyes flutter shut.

He doesn’t move to kiss you, but that’s okay. Because you’re finally ready to cross that line.

Tilting your chin up into him, your lips meet, and the warmth of him grounds you in a way that nothing else ever replaced, or ever could. His lips are so, so, soft, and as he melts into the kiss, he lets out a small content sigh. Everything about him is familiar, and yet, somehow different. It’s charged with a kind of electric buzz, the tension from the past weeks finally coming to a head.

For a moment, the world is still. You only see Seungcheol.

Then, in a voice so soft it almost disappears into the quiet of the stairwell, Seungcheol parts from your lips for just a centimeter, whispering, "I meant what I said. You don’t have to worry anymore. I’m 110% for you, I love you."

You close your eyes, exhaling against his skin, relishing his touch. And you say the next words with a full chest, “I love you so much, Cheol.”

Because for the first time in a long time, you believe him.

Masterlist

Author's Note: did u get the title?? seungcheol's the python bc he makes ur chest constrict and love is hard and hurts us sometimes anywayz happy valentines day <3

Disclaimer: nothing i write is representative of how svt acts off camera, take their names as stand-ins for oc's!!

Taglist: @syluslittlecrows - @junplusone - @fragmentof-indifference - @junniesoleilkth - @woncheecks - @peachypie97 - @viciousdarlings - @11zzyy - @thepoopdokyeomtouched - @dmstoyangyang - @christinewithluv - @snowcake666 - @rjreins - @namk00kie - @homelouisgirl - @slvrstrs - @jimintopiaaaa - @coupshour - @babycaratdeul

1K notes · View notes

buckysm · 5 months ago

Text

2:15 am (and i miss you)

ᯓ★part one, part two,

ᯓ★ Bucky Barnes x fem ex hydra AVENGER reader

ᯓ★ part one word count 6k+

ᯓ★a/n: junie’s first post— so please show some love— i hope you like!! my inbox is always open to chat! (minor edits on jan 27) (more edits on mar 11)

ᯓ★ summary: In the quiet hours of the night, you and Bucky find solace in an unexpected friendship built on sleepless conversations and cigarettes. Slowly, walls come down, and a bond forms, kept hidden from the team. But when crisis strikes, the Avengers are shocked to discover just how deep that connection runs—and just how far you’d go for each other. (i wrote this bc of a little fantasy of being in a secret situationship with bucky and the team finding out when bucky goes feral after reader goes missing during a mission)

ᯓ★ warnings/ tags/ tropes for the whole series: canon? what canon?, haters to lovers -- except you never hated him and he just resented you-- midnight rendezvous, friends to lovers, Anxiety, angst and fluff and smut, Bucky Needs a Hug, Protective Bucky Barnes Bucky Barnes issues related to past trauma, not so platonic cuddling, slow burn, jealous Bucky Barnes Miscommunication, Mentions of torture off screen (to be added and expanded as i post part two) NOT BETA READ

These are the hands of fate/ You're my Achilles heel/ This is the golden age of something good and right and real

It started with a cigarette.

It started when he had lent you a lighter. He did not smoke, and you didn’t ask why he had one.

For him, it started months before then.

Bucky was barely coping when you joined the team. His days were muddled by an eternal haze of anger and frustration…His life had been stolen from him, along with his memories from before. He did not feel like he deserved redemption. He had done terrible things, had had horrible things done to him.

He found himself disassociating whenever he wasn’t on a mission. He did not feel real; he couldn’t joke around and feel good without betraying his past. Yet, his past was real; it happened. But Bucky couldn’t just move on, couldn’t just exist without the churning in his gut telling him he was dirty, he was dripping in sin, tarnished by the red in his ledger, filthy to the point of no return.

When he was told about you, his body turned taut with trepidation. Two sides of the same coin. You were injected with serum just like him. Made to do things and had things done to you just like him. And he had heard of you. They had called you serpiente, the serpent, the snake. You were deadly and never made a mistake. No one knew any identifying details about you, not even your gender.

And it was his mistake, thinking you were a man. He yearned to be understood; maybe he would find companionship in you.

But then, you were not a man. The first time he beheld you, he had just finished a mission for Fury. Secret and dirty, he felt right at home doing SHIELD’s grunt work.

You were walking down the compound, side to side with Black Widow. He had assumed you were one of her brethren; maybe you had trained with her, a black widow yourself. Tony Stark pranced a few paces before you.

“Soldier, good you’re here! Come meet our newest recruit!”

Your smile was disarmingly bright. Pretty. Bucky felt himself grow cold with fury. It was a smile that came easily to you. And your eyes, frustratingly soft. You seemed at peace with yourself, and he hated that.

He just stared at you in response. Eyes hard. Waiting for you to react to his lack of reciprocity. You didn’t bite his hook. You just slightly pursed your lips and took his glare in stride.

“Nice to meet you. Stark was telling me about you. All good things, so don’t worry. But I had heard about you from before—you know—we do have in common h-”

“We have nothing in common.” He snarled before walking away, fuming. How dare you? How dare you make chit-chat about the thing that haunted his life. Every waking hour, every nightmare, he was haunted by his past. And you wanted to…what? Talk about it over jokes? No. He decided you had nothing in common.

Maybe your body count was higher than his, and he chose to ignore the elephant in the room. The fact that you were a beautiful woman could be a weapon as much as it could be a vulnerability.

He hated you a bit more each time he saw you get along with the rest of the team. How dare you?

He had thought, had been so sure, that the reason he was disliked was because of his past. But that wasn’t it, was it? Because you and the black widow seemed to do just fine. Maybe he was just broken, and perhaps you had been too, but you had fixed yourself just fine. Parallel wounds, yours had healed, while he had festered like a virus. How dare you?

His despise grew with each smile, each laugh, each time you were slapped on the back.

Everything came to a head when he found you on the balcony. He had thought it was his balcony. His.

It wasn’t a balcony, more of a ledge. A floor that had been destroyed during a hulk mishap had not been fixed and did not look like it would be anytime soon.

The wind was strong. You stood at the edge, facing the precipice. You seemed so peaceful.

He stared at your profile, illuminated by the city lights. Your expression was sad. He had never seen it like that. Your lips were tight, eyes fluttered shut. Were you about to jump?

He walked toward you, deliberately moving his limbs so that you heard his footsteps.

You turned unhurriedly, your eyes opening slowly. There was a small moment where Bucky saw you, your unguarded face. He was too involved in his stupor and had not considered the possibility of it all being a facade. But months had passed, and your mask hadn’t slipped until now.

It was only a fraction of a vulnerable moment before you schooled your features. And it angered him for some reason. Seeing you so easily slip into the practiced mask. It made him like the rest, taking you at face value, not digging deeper past your pretty face, sparkling eyes, and gleaming smile. But then he was angry at himself for not looking past and you for pretending.

Before he could stop himself, before he could think, words were coming out of his mouth faster than he processed them.

“Do not do that, don’t do that.”

You sighed, your mask falling to one of disdain. You looked disappointed in Bucky, exasperated. It was a look of derision; he felt scorned, yet it was better than the fake platitudes.

“Do what? Now, what am I doing that deserves your anger?”

“Pretending,” Bucky grunted.

You rolled your eyes and scoffed. “So what am I supposed to do according to you, huh?” You walked away from the ledge toward him. He towered over you, head lowered to meet your defiant gaze. “Am I supposed to growl, frown, and hate myself for things I can’t control? Well, guess what? I've been there and done that! And, hey—guess again what happened. I hated it. So what if I am faking it? Maybe if I fake it hard enough, it’ll come true.”

“What’ll come true?” Bucky asked beside himself, snarling.

“Wanting to live, not letting them win. Because if I hate myself, then they win.” Your angry gaze wavered, turning sad. You looked away from him towards the city skyline. “I’ll go now, leave you alone to your self-hatred and whatever….” You started making your way to the battered elevator doors.

Bucky sighed, exasperated. “No, stay. I’m sorry.”

You had stopped walking away, your footsteps silent, but some sixth sense told him you had, in fact, paused.

He turned toward you. “I’m sorry.” He echoed.

You nodded, moving towards the ledge and sitting on it.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“Careful there, doll face.” His voice was gruff. “Don’t want you to fall off.”

You stiffened slightly, taken off guard, not for the first time tonight. The sweet nickname, coupled with his harsh voice, made heat rise to your cheeks. You decided to appear as if you took it in stride. Not wanting him to know just how much his words meant to you. Wanting to hear him call you that forever.

Because as much as you told yourself otherwise, it hurt when he brushed you off. You had looked up to him.

You didn’t have any memories of your past before the experiments or the training, so maybe it was different for him. He had a life that was taken away from him — and you were just now learning to have one.

You heard about him, heard him even. Heard his screams sometimes. Your handlers wanted to teach you what would happen when you didn’t behave.

It was clear he did not remember you. Why would he? He didn't know who you were when you passed each other in the hydra bases; that was part of your deal. No one expected a pretty girl to have a body count as high as yours.

Bucky had killed about 20-something people, important ones. You knew that Natasha had a count of about six hundred and had shared the fact with you. Bucky had been Hydra’s tool and was used only in important missions. While you…were a gun for hire, basically. A knife for hire. You used your charms on men and women alike to disarm them enough. Your kills were always up close and personal. Sometimes, you have to put yourself in compromising positions to do so. Bucky never had to.

You knew that he had to be put under a lot, had to have his brainwashed again and again, and conditioned an inhumane amount of times. His brain rebelled, and he had a life. Somewhere, deep in his subconscious, he had memories or faint encodings of a life outside.

But you were awake all of the time. You did things because there was no other option. You had to survive. You didn’t know otherwise.

You pondered in silence. And when it became too much for you, you fumbled into one of the multiple pockets on your jacket for your cigarettes. You stiffened when you remembered you had left the lighter on your bedside counter. “Damn it.”

“What’s wrong, doll.” His voice was curious, less rough. He was standing somewhere behind you. You could feel the weight of his stare.

You wanted to comment on the pet names but didn’t want him to stop, so you swallowed a snarky remark. “I forgot my lighter.”

He made his way toward you, movements swift as he sat next to you, feet dangling on the edge. You understood him now. You didn’t want him to fall.

He slid his hand onto the pockets of his cargo pants and came out with a lighter.

You smiled at him. His eyes never strayed from yours as he placed the lighter in your hand.

His eyes were beautiful, darker than usual under the low light.

You tore away from his gaze. Placing a cigarette between your lips, you cupped the lighter and flicked it on.

You took a drag of the cigarette, enjoying the burn. Enjoying the strong scent, stronger than other cigarettes. It made your head light.

Banner had made them for you after you expressed sadness about not being able to enjoy any substances.

You heard a sniff. He had noticed it, too.

You waited a second, leaving the smoke in your lungs, before exhaling. “It’s enhanced with something, Banner made it for me.”

He hummed.

“You want one?” You looked at him from the corner of your eyes, not wanting to turn your face entirely.

“Thanks for offering, doll, but I don’t smoke.”

You hummed, taking another drag. “Not even before?” your question was tentative. You wanted to see if he would open up to you.

He hummed softly. “I did, yes, once or twice. But Steve couldn’t handle the secondhand smoke, so I stopped. Little asthmatic punk…”

Silence stretched out as you enjoyed the lightheaded sensation. Your limbs loosened, and you felt free.

“D’ya miss him?” You turned fully toward him.

His eyes never strayed from the skyline as he answered, “I do. It’s different. We’ve both changed a lot. You know how it is, losing the past.”

“I don’t know, not really…” your voice was soft and resigned.

His eyes flashed to yours. You didn’t know what to do with the full weight of his stare. “What do you mean by that doll?” His brows were furrowed.

You sighed, not wanting to get into it. “It’s late…” You took out your AVENGER-sanctioned phone to check the time, 2:15 A.M.

“I’m going to sleep.” You lied. And you couldn’t stop more words from tumbling out of your mouth. Clumsy and rushed. “Same time tomorrow?”

A ghost of a smile pulled slightly at the corner of his lips. “See you doll face. Sweet dreams.”

“Sweet dreams, Jamie.”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

Jamie. Jamie. Jamie. Jamie….

He had been too quick to judge, and now he couldn’t get you out of his thoughts. His sleep was fitful, but he was granted a reprieve from his nightmares. Dreaming instead of the multitudes in your eyes.

It was a slow day in the compound. He had a routine during slow days; he would go to his favorite training room and lose himself. The training room itself didn’t lack anything, but he had marked his territory with his glares at anyone who entered. He had achieved an unspoken ownership of that particular room.

After having you torment his dreams, however, he had to see you in person. He tried to contain himself and started his routine in the training room.

It lasted 42 minutes.

No amount of dagger throws could get him to calm down.

He found you on the tower’s common floor.

You hunched over a table, Banner at your side. Coming down was worth it.

“Well, good morning there, Sarge. It's nice of you to come out of your room and join the land of the living.”

And he immediately regretted it.

“Stark!” Two voices proclaimed in tandem. You and Steve jumped to defend him, Steve’s voice was sharp, and yours was a playful whine.

“What? I’m just saying, he’s acting like a teenager!” Stark’s voice was a defensive grumble. He tinkered with the toaster in the kitchen area.

“Oh, as opposed to you, who behaves so maturely?” The tone of your voice was playful but had a hidden bite to it. Bucky couldn’t help but appreciate it.

You turned to smile at him, and Steve turned to bicker with Tony. Bucky rolled his lips and moved to grab a mug. He poured himself a cup before walking away.

He barely heard Stark’s remark on his parting, mentally berating himself for caring about the hurt look that soured your face when he did not return your smile. He shouldn’t care; caring was dangerous. It made him vulnerable and put him in a position where he could be easily hurt again.

He had to be careful; he did not want to break down the walls he had put up protecting himself and others from himself.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

You almost didn’t show up. Hurt but not surprised by his attitude.

You paced the room you had on Natasha’s floor. She was not home, leaving you to pace away your conflicting thoughts.

Your heart had skipped a beat when he showed up. He never showed up; he was a ghostly presence in the compound. Part of the team, but never there for ‘team building exercises’…

It was 2:14 when you rushed to the elevator, a pounding of indecision in your chest. You told yourself it was curiosity. You needed to know more about him, needed to figure him out - maybe then you would be able to understand why he made you want…-

The silent elevator ride left you time to think.

He is hurt, just projecting/ This could end badly/ This could end with a friendship/ He was an asshole/ He just needs a friend/ At the cost of your sanity?/

Two inner voices argued with each other in the back of your mind. You let them.

The elevator stopped, the doors slid open, and there he was. The voices went quiet as soon as your eyes fell on him.

He leaned against a thick construction support post, overlooking the city skyline, his back to you.

“Nice of you to join me, doll.”

DOLL?! Asshole, he dared to call you doll- yet acted coldly toward you in public?! You grunted angrily, mimicking his usual blasé attitude and walking to stand beside him, not looking at him.

As you stared at the beautiful Manhattan skyline, a storm of anger raged inside you.

“Is everything alright, doll?” His voice was softer, and you weren’t as angry anymore.

Yes, he hadn’t smiled at you, but what exactly made you expect that from him? Yes, he called you doll, but he was from the forties. Plus, he hadn’t smiled at you before. And-what? You had one conversation, and suddenly, you expected him to smile at you? You were delusional! This man was set in his ways and maybe bored, but it meant nothing. He was bored and lonely, and you were overthinking everything. You were new at this, at socialization. Genuine socializing. You socialized a lot for your HYDRA days, but this was new. You were used to having the upper hand and being in control.

You sighed out your exasperation, letting your tense shoulders loosen.

“Mhm…” your eyes never strayed from the city.

You stood in comfortable silence. You were an expert at working yourself into a stupor. But honestly, you were about… twenty twenty-one (you lost time during HYDRA). Yet you felt emotionally stunted- of course, you did. You never had the chance to actually develop skills people your age did.

“This feels like a dream. Like I am hallucinating being free, and I will wake up from passing out due to torture and be back in my cell…” Words tumbled out of your mouth. You were also bored and lonely. Faking your way with the others made you exhausted.

He made no response, but you could tell he understood. And that was enough. You fumbled for your cigarettes. He slid a lighter from his pocket, handing it to you wordlessly.

You took it from his hand, inhaling to light your smoke.

“You know? It’s dumb… but I sometimes feel like screaming at them… like something deep inside me yearns to scream, kick, and throw whatever is around- to get out all my pent-up energy; maybe then I can pass out from exhaustion and sleep. And yea- the novelty of being free, and being in the fucking Avengers is slowly wearing off, and I just-” you sighed, you were talking, and maybe he wasn’t even interested in hearing you whine. “And whatever, I should be grateful… it’s dumb…” You stopped yourself. Letting the chilly New York air into your lungs.

“No, doll, it’s not dumb.” He turned to look at you, forcing you to face the full weight of his gaze. He was devastatingly beautiful. Your inhale was sharp. “Don’t feel bad about being angry. It’s valid to feel this way.”

You smiled then, “Look at you, giving emotional advice. Who knew you were a big softy underneath that grouchy, grumbling exterior.”

He scoffed, but you could tell there was no real meaning behind it. Your smile grew.

His eyes lowered to your lips for a charged moment before looking back to the city. “Those who can’t do, teach-” His lips tugged slightly upwards, a glimpse of a smile.

You took a drag of your cigarette, staring unashamedly at his profile. “What do you do when you are not brooding? Like, what does one do for fun around here?”

“At two am in the morning, doll, those who aren’t sleeping…” he trailed off, a soft pink brightening his cheeks.

“Are what?” your grin was teasing.

“Are you on a mission or something?” His voice came out slightly strangled.

“Or something…” you murmured, a yawn escaping you.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“So, you really liked big band music? Kind of… classy for a guy who threw himself off buildings.”

“Hey, a man can appreciate good music and bad decisions.”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“Stark’s fine, sometimes… but his ego’s bigger than his bank account.”

“If I had his money, I’d buy a planet and avoid people altogether.” You sighed,

“Doll, you’d get bored in two days.”

“True. I’d need at least one grump to frown at me.”

He couldn’t hide his soft grin.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“Paris. You think it’s as romantic as everyone says?”

“Probably less if I was there...”

“You’re right. You’d make it a lot more broody.”

“And you’d make it a lot more… sneaky. You’d blend into the shadows and pickpocket tourists.”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“I could live off this forever.” You spoke around a mouthful of pizza

Bucky grimaced. “Takeout pizza? You call that food?”

“Says the man who probably ate spam for dinner in the ’40s.”

“Now, doll, it was a delicacy back then.”

“Spam’s not a delicacy in any era, Barnes.”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“You ever thought about getting a pet? Like a dog or something?”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Me, with a dog? Not sure I’d be a good influence.”

“Nah, they’d see through you.”

“I’m more of a cat person.”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“I like the quiet moments just before dawn. No one’s around to bother you.”

“Night’s better. Everyone’s already asleep. Feels like you’re the only one left.”

“Until you realize someone like me is lurking in the dark.”

“Yeah, lucky me.”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“So, any weird phobias? Mine’s spiders. Too many legs.”

Bucky shrugged. “Needles. After Hydra? No thanks.”

You nodded. “Yeah, makes sense. But hey, at least you could crush a spider for me. And I can catch all your bulk when you pass out at the sight of a needle.”

“Ha, ha.”

Someday, you’d get a real laugh out of him.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“If you weren’t a super soldier, what would you do?”

“Maybe a mechanic. Fixing cars, quiet life. You?”

“Bartender. People tell you their secrets. It’s like espionage, but with cocktails.”

“Sounds dangerous, doll. What’s in the drink?”

You grinned. “Depends on who’s asking.”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“I keep getting these flashes… Steve dragged me to Coney Island, insisting I’d love it. Turns out, I hate roller coasters.”

You rolled your lips, deciding on what to say. “I don’t have any memories of before Hydra, but I dream about falling. Maybe I would love roller coasters.”

“I’ll take your word for it, doll. I prefer solid ground now.”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“You ever feel like the idea of ‘freedom’ is just another way to trap us? Like, what do we even do with it?”

“I dunno. Still figuring that out. But it beats following orders like a puppet.”

“Yeah. I just wish freedom came with an instruction manual.”

“If it did, doll, I’d probably ignore it. I don’t need another piece of paper dictating my life..”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

You were late, and Bucky was ready to leave when he heard the elevator doors open. You held a full white plastic bag.

“Honey, I’m home, and I brought dinner!” you had a slight spring in your step; he turned toward you, and a smile of pleasure and relief made its way into his expression without his consent. Your steps faltered slightly, your brows furrowing for a moment before a beaming smile took over, your eyes twinkling. It was real, not a sarcastic grin, a smile! Your response only made his smile more pronounced -slightly, but still-.

“It’s good that you don’t smile; if you did, people would pass out on the spot.”

He couldn’t stop the small laugh coming out of his mouth. “Not you?”

“Not me, I’m made of stronger stuff.” You sat beside him, a bit farther from the ledge than usual.

He followed suit, crouching in front of you. He noted the way you eyed his legs, your inhale, and the way you had to force yourself to look away.

“I wonder what would make you pass out.” His mouth ran away from his brain.

“Maybe take me to a fancy restaurant, and then you can try to find out.”

The thought made his heart race, and he stopped thinking about it. You were joking, it was friendly— you weren’t serious.

“I could, we could go on a few dates, and you would end it when you realize I’m too old and bitter for you, doll. Maybe it’s best we stay here at 2:15 A.M., where I can lend you a light.”

Your face soured to a pout. “Well I like my men a little bit older. But if you are telling me I’m not your type, and you like old ladies, well then I can handle rejection, not the worst thing I’ve lived through.” Your smile was sarcastic, yet he could tell there was hurt behind your eyes.

“No, doll, I don’t think anyone could reject you even if they tried.”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

Your heart raced at his words, caught off guard by their raw sincerity. You weren’t used to hearing compliments, not ones that felt real. A flippant remark was on the tip of your tongue, ready to deflect the tension, but it got stuck.

“You ever think about it? You know… dating?”

He snorted softly, “Who would date me? I’ve got more shit to deal with than anyone would want to deal with.”

You grinned. “Hey, at least you’re mysterious. I’m more… ‘potential assassin.’”

“Ah, the classic ‘will she kill me on the first date’ dilemma. I can hide the metal arm, but you can’t hide the serial killer smile.”

You laughed loudly, shoving him playfully.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

It was a few weeks after the initial meeting, and meeting had become a habit, a tradition of sorts.

You gave him a shy smile when others were present, and he reciprocated with a soft look in his eyes.

He knew he was being obvious with his staring, but he couldn’t help himself from looking at you.

He leaned on the counter, eyes flicking to and from you. He beheld as you smiled and laughed with the rest. He was jealous that you weren’t bestowing a smile upon him, but he held none of the contempt from before.

He sensed an annoying presence beside him.

“Hey, creep, why don’t you join us for drinks tonight? As luck would have it, even your star-spangled ass is joining us.”

Said star-spangled ass turned to glare at Tony, his expression turning into a smile as his eyes shifted toward Bucky.

“Yeah, come with us, you’ll have fun, we promise.”

A myriad of yeahs chorused from the rest of the team, including you. Heat rushed to his cheeks as he looked at the ceiling. “Whatever.” He muttered.

“Well, that wasn’t a no!” you grinned, acknowledging him.” Your smile was so bright he couldn’t take it.

He sighed and grumbled incoherently before turning to hide his blush and walking away.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

You smiled to yourself as he retreaded.

Natasha bumped your shoulders together. “He stares at you so much, I have no clue if he hates you or wants you. Maybe both!”

“Nat, don’t be rude; it’s probably because I’m new.”

She smirked, “Sure.” You hadn’t been new for a while.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

He was anxious. It took him forty minutes to place where the tight feeling in his chest was coming from. But it came down to you. It always came down to you as of late.

Steve had an arm around his shoulders and was babbling on about how much fun these rare night outs were, where everyone was present.

He didn’t know what he expected, but you weren’t talking to some guy. Enthusiastic hand gestures and a dazzling smile on your face as some random guy looked at you with an entranced smile.

He felt bile rising in his throat.

He wanted to turn around and walk away, but that would have been too obvious. So he walked in with his stomach dropping with anguish.

He was out of it, sipping a drink that Steve had handed him. His taste buds not even processing the taste of his drink.

“Yo! Joe Goldberg, knock it out with the serial killer stare.”

He felt a smack on his shoulder. He reluctantly tore his eyes away from you.

“What are you talking about?” he grumbled. Smooth. Real smooth.

Even though she was shorter than him, Natasha towered over Bucky. “I don’t know your problem, but you have to check it. It’s getting really weird.”

He felt a hand fist in his heart, tight. He downed the drink and sighed. Think Bucky. Think. “It’s not like that.” He was quiet for a few moments, formulating a response.

“Well, then explain why you keep staring at her like you want to strangle her.”

“I don’t want to— fuck.” He placed the empty glass on the table. “She’s also from Hydra.” He stated.

“Yeah, duh.” Natasha looked at him with contempt.

He needed to fix the fact that she thought he was some sort of obsessed weirdo…. He wasn’t!

“She’s so normal, happy. And she…” he trailed off.

Natasha’s expression shifted to one of understanding. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” He looked to Steve, who tried to make it seem like he wasn’t listening to the conversation.

“Bucky, you’re-” Natasha placed a friendly hand on his shoulder.

“I’m going to get another drink.”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

You could tell something was wrong when you stepped out of the elevator. He was quiet, not the usual kind, brooding. You acted like you always did, but you could tell his heart wasn’t in it.

“Bucky, is everything alright?” your voice was soft.

His reply was an irritated huff. You waited for a few moments, letting him have his space.

The night was cold, and you had worn thick cotton clothing. He wore a hoodie and pants; they looked comfortable, but the man in them did not.

You hummed and moved closer toward him. He leaned on a pillar,

“Big mission tomorrow, huh?” You shifted tactics. It wasn’t odd for him to have a quiet night, where you just sat in companionable silence. This was different, though… he was angry about something. Some insecure part of you told you he was mad at you. But there wasn’t any foundation to that, was there?

He grunted in response. He was making you anxious. You sighed loudly, deciding to smoke or go to bed. The stilted silence made you anxious, a pressure hard on your chest. You tried to exhale it out, but it wouldn’t budge.

You let him wallow next to you for a few minutes before giving up and turning to face him. You placed a soft hand on his forearm, about to say goodnight. He flinched harshly, and your heart twisted. He grimaced, eyes shifting to you before flitting away.

“Bucky, if you need, I-” Your voice had a nervous tinge, and you hated it. You were glad when he interrupted you.

“Go to sleep, doll.” His voice was sad, his face resigned.

You furrowed your brows, studying his expression. You had the urge to kiss him on the cheek for good luck but knew that you would break if he flinched away.

“Goodnight Jamie…”

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

You walked away, turning your head twice to smile at him sadly. He held your gaze as the elevator doors closed, removing you from his field of vision. Taking you away from him.

“Fuck.” His voice was soft and defeated. He looked at the city skyline. His eyes glossed over. He wanted to get the self-hatred out, to hit the wall, break his knuckles, and kick at the litter on the floor. But he let it sit, let it fester in his chest. A leech that grew bigger as it fed on the churning, loathsome thoughts overwhelming his brain.

He crumpled with the ease of a paper, falling to the ground.

His limbs splayed as he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. He couldn’t take it. Any of it. He always told himself he was strong. He was The Winter Soldier, for fuck’s sake! And here he was, crying over a girl. But that wasn’t it. Or it wasn’t just that. It was the fact that he was too soft for all of it. And he was still somewhat human at the end of the day. He still had emotions, and he was starved for comfort. He lacked connection. And he was okay without it. Having gone so long without it, he had grown used to the lack. But then you had come into his sanctuary and ruined everything, and he let you. He felt a kinship with you. You had gone through hell and back, had walked the same road as him, and you smiled so big, your eyes twinkled so bright. He couldn’t help but fall into your orbit. Admiring you from afar.

Maybe it was better when he hated you; it was something he was used to and comfortable. He did not know what to do with all these feelings; he hadn’t felt them before, not even in the 40s. He was happy then; it was normal for him to smile. He didn’t know how to appreciate it. Yes, there was war, but there was hope, and Captain America was there to save him, but then Steve wasn’t there anymore. And any sliver of hope was quickly crushed under gleaming leather Hydra boots. He would die someday on a Hydra mission; he had made peace with that. But Steve did save him, a little too late. He wasn’t Bucky anymore and did not feel like he had any right to the mantle of Captain America’s best friend. Some parts of him still wanted that, but all of him yearned to be your Jamie.

And now bitter and traumatized, he held a flower in his calloused hands, and he didn’t know if he was worthy of it. He couldn’t breathe.

He was going to die here, and he couldn’t go in peace because he wanted to see you one more time. He couldn’t stand up, he couldn’t move; he keened in pain like a puppy.

Pathetic, get up. Voices from Hydra spewed venom, wracking through his psyche. He clenched his jaw and groaned from deep in his throat.

Broken…unworthy…killer…tainted…

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

The mission was successful. The team had divided in two, his group had finished earlier.

He felt better, exhausted. It had been a long mission. He was covered in grime and blood.

It was rare for him to get to the point of exhaustion, but he had dived head-first into hand-to-hand combat, not letting up, ignoring the black widow’s knowing looks.

Freshly showered and changed into sweats, Bucky let himself fall face-first into his too-soft bed. Days of restless sleep and today’s exertion weighed his body down and pulled his mind into sweet oblivion.

He awoke with a start, looked at the clock, and sat up. 3:22 A.M.

He had stood you up. He rushed to the elevator and up to the floor. His thoughts raced with self-criticism and hatred. He breathed out a frustrated sigh, you weren’t there.

Of course, you weren’t there – he had been over an hour late.

He grumbled to himself all the way down to the common floor. His footsteps skidded to a stop when he found all the lights on and a flurry of activity.

Hawkeye typed furiously into a computer; Black Widow paced the floor, her hands fiddling with tech stuff. Steve was curled over a tablet, his hands clenched around the edge of a countertop.

Bucky stopped. The other team hadn’t come back.

“What’s wrong… where is she?” His chest felt tight.

Steve motioned at him to come near while the other two ignored him.

“Look, Bucky, I know you have some fondness for her, but I need you to calm down. She’s — uh— she’s missing…”

His ears started ringing; he didn’t hear anything after that. He took deep breaths, running his hands through his hair. It was longer, and he needed a haircut. Maybe you could cut his hair. Yeah, that sounded nice.

He stilled. Breathing in deep, “Give me the details. I’ll have her back with me within the hour.”

He didn’t recognize his voice. Black Widow and Hawkeye had turned to stare at him with wide eyes.

“Bucky, calm down, she’s alive from what we can tell, we can’t deal with y- we have to focus on finding her right now.”

“I am focused. I will find her.” His voice was gruff, and the language wasn’t English. He was reverting back…

Iron Man decided it was the best moment to walk in.

Bucky, The Winter Soldier, turned around with intent. He had some inkling of what he must have looked like, a menace— because Iron Man was opening his mouth to make some snarky remark, his jaw clenching shut, hands rising in surrender.

“Где она, где моя кукла?” Where is she? Where is my doll?.

His voice had a deadly cadence. He spoke and meant death.

“She’s okay, Wanda has her.” Black Widow had placed the radio on a table. She walked toward The Soldier slowly.

Wanda, the deadly witch, saved from Sokovia. He remembered her. She was strong. Not strong enough.

He leveled his eyes on her. “скажи мне где, или ты умрешь.” Tell me where, or die.

Her eyes grew hard. “Calm down, soldier. There is no need to threaten anyone.”

The tension was palpable then, rising… rising-

The Doors opened to you limping… being supported by the witch and the doctor.

His shoulders slumped. He shifted toward you, but something blocked his path. He looked down to see Steve’s arm pushing against his chest. The enemy’s stance was on the offense, about to attack, to keep her from him. He was about to threaten his best friend, The Captain, to move when-

“Jamie…”

His gaze flashed toward you. You pushed away from them, limping— stumbling toward him.

He met no resistance this time as he rushed softly toward you.

Your knees buckled as he wrapped his arms around you. You collapsed against him.

You sobbed softly- and he broke. His arms were strong and soft as he held you close.

He didn’t care about anything. He didn’t care how the scene looked. He didn’t care that they all knew for certain now. He loved you.

He just needed to know you were okay.

He held you as you shook, “I thought, I was back there Jamie, I- thought I wasn’t going to to see you again. I thought he would get lonely, and- and- I was going to miss you- they- they- I didn’t care about any of it. I just thought about you….” You sobbed, trying to get words out. “I got out. I killed them all, I couldn’t face it, couldn’t face not- I killed…” For you.

“Kukla…” Doll. “you’re here, you’re okay, let’s get you to the infirmary. You are hurt and bleeding…”

His voice was so, so soft —dense with remnants of Russian. His arms holding you together.

He ignored it all, ignored the dropped jaws and furrowed brows. You came first. He had shown you his vulnerability, but he first had to be sure his Achilles heel would be okay.

Please remember to leave your kind thoughts in the comments, and if you enjoyed support with reblogs, ok thanks for reading be back with part two soon!!!!

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winterarmyy · 1 year ago

Text

He Hates Me, Doesn't He?

A series of random Bucky Drabbles that I can't let go but don't have the brain to make the whole complete plot of.

Summary: You hurt Bucky's girl, and now he hates you.

Pairing: tfatws!bucky x female!reader

Words: 6.7k++

Warnings: angstyyyyyyyyy, but with happy ending because I cannot live in agony. miscommunication galore. 'I want to strangle bucky's girlfriend.' soft reader, cold/mean bucky. bucky should've grovel more. horrible attempt of writing verbal arguments. nothing much but pain.

Inspiration: I remember reading a bucky fic years ago and I like the pain that it caused me to feel. Idk why the pain suddenly came back to me lately. So, this is my take on the same idea. I haven't able to find it. But when I do, I'll reblog it in my another acc!

Read my other works here: Masterlist

y/n had always been a steady presence in the Avengers, known for her gentle demeanour and unwavering support. Her relationship with Bucky Barnes had blossomed from a quiet friendship into something deeper. When they first met, Bucky was reserved and hesitant, still grappling with his past as the Winter Soldier. y/n, with her gentle nature and patient understanding, slowly helped him come out of his shell.

She remembered the sleepless nights they spent together when they were on the run with Steve and Sam. They'd share stories, and sometimes just sit in silence, her quiet company offering solace to Bucky's restless mind. The unspoken bond growing stronger with each passing day. Bucky looked up to her, finding comfort in her presence, and in turn, he became fiercely protective of her. They'd watch each other's backs during missions, their synergy on the battlefield a testament to their deep connection.

And somewhere along the line, she fell for him. She had fallen for Bucky's resilience and vulnerability, though she never expected more, knowing that a relationship was not what he needed right now. At least, that's what she thought. Little did she know, Bucky had always loved her; ever since the day she offered him tea the first night they were on the run to Wakanda. Maybe she was just simply aloof, or maybe Bucky’s flirting skills weren’t translated the way he wanted, but they never crossed the line between friendship and ‘something more’.

Then when Jen came into the picture, it felt like things started to change. Jen was bold and confident, and it wasn't long before she caught Bucky's eye. Their relationship seemed to spring up overnight, and y/n, though hurt, tried to be happy for Bucky. Jen was supportive and caring, or so it seemed, and Bucky deserved happiness.

Now, as planned the team was instructed to moved into the Avenger compound for a few months to train new recruits. It had only been the first month but surely it was jam packed with endless of rigorous training sessions. The original team—y/n, Sam, Bucky, Jen, Clint, and his mentee Kate Bishop—were all assigned to train the new recruits, with additional of few agents from different branches coming in to help out.

y/n was heading to the training room; she knew it was way too early but she thought that if she didn’t get out of bed now, she might not even get up at all. To her surprise, she was not the first one. She saw a few new trainees were already on the way to the training room; some of them greeted her a good morning. She simply smiled at their enthusiasm.

The moment she entered the area, she overheard voices coming from the corner of the room. She paused, recognizing Jen's voice, which was raised and laced with contempt. Curiosity piqued, y/n stepped closer, staying just out of sight behind the white board. In hindsight, it might seem weird that she was sneaking around to eavesdrop on Jen, but she couldn't help it.

Initially, y/n liked Jen. She tried to welcome her into their tight-knit group and even supported her relationship with Bucky. However, as time went on, Jen began acting strange. The things she said about Bucky sometimes sounded condescending. She would make comments like, "It's amazing how well he's adjusted, considering his past," or, "It's great that he's trying so hard to be normal." The way she acted often differed from her words, with Jen giving Bucky disapproving glances or sighing heavily whenever he mentioned something from his troubled past.

She had noticed these discrepancies and started to feel uneasy around Jen. She couldn't shake the feeling that Jen’s support was just a facade. Now, standing behind the whiteboard, she strained to hear the conversation.

"…and honestly, I don’t understand how anyone can trust him," Jen was saying. "I mean, sure, he's got that whole 'reformed hero' thing going on now, but let’s be real. He was Hydra’s pet assassin for decades. The things he’s done? It’s unforgivable."

Her friend, another agent from a different branch, nodded hesitantly. "But you’re dating him, aren’t you? Doesn’t that mean you trust him?"

Jen laughed, a cold, humourless sound. "Dating him? Please. I’m in it for the fame and the perks. Have you seen the way people look at us? Besides, he’s hot, I’ll give him that. But trust him? Never. People like him don’t change. They’re broken. He's a monster, and he always will be. It’s only a matter of time before he snaps again."

y/n felt a surge of anger rise within her. How dare Jen talk about Bucky like that?

Memories flooded her mind, flashing back to Bucky’s nightmare-plagued nights. She remembered the prominent dark circles under his eyes, the haunted look that never quite left his face. The silent pain he endured, adjusting to a modern world where he felt like an outsider, magnified when Steve left. She could still see the wary, suspicious glances people cast in his direction, the whispers behind his back when they first ventured out. Before the fame he acquired as he regained his reputation after the Flag-Smasher incident.

She had witnessed his hardships firsthand—the nightmares that woke him in a cold sweat, the moments of crippling doubt and self-loathing. But she had also seen his triumphs, the small victories that slowly built his confidence. The first time he laughed freely in her presence, the genuine smile that lit up his face when he finally allowed himself to relax. She cherished those moments, the sunshine that broke through the clouds of his tortured past.

All of this came rushing back, breaking the chains on the Pandora's box inside of her. The fury she felt wasn't just for the disrespect to Bucky; it was for every ounce of pain he had suffered, every moment of joy he had fought so hard to reclaim. Her eyes hardened with resolve as she stepped forward, her voice steady but cold. "Take that back," she demanded, her presence startling both Jen and her friend.

Jen turned slowly, a smirk spreading across her face as she saw y/n. She knew from the beginning about the cute little crush y/n had on Bucky. To be frank, everybody sort of knew about it, except for Bucky somehow.

"Or else what, y/n?" she replied with a mocking tone. "You’re quite pathetic aren’t you? You think that I can’t see how you’ve been eye-fucking my boyfriend all this time? Come on, now. Backing him up would not give you a leeway into his pants, y/n."

y/n’s face went through a range of emotions—shock, embarrassment, and then seething anger. Jen’s words were like poison, each one landing like a punch to the gut.

Jen continued, confidence oozing out of her cocky demeanor, "Besides, we all know that I can easily beat you in a fight, doll"

The use of doll—a nickname Bucky had given y/n from day one, when Steve had quite literally kidnapped Bucky from the government—made y/n blood boil. Hearing it from Jen felt like a personal attack, a deliberate attempt to undermine everything she shared with Bucky.

And it was true that Jen had graduated top of her batch from the Avengers program and had countless successful missions under her belt, but y/n knew this wasn't about accolades or abilities. This was about something deeper, something more personal.

y/n clenched her fists, taking a step closer. "You think this is about who can fight better?" she said, her voice shaking with restrained fury. "This is about respect. You don’t get to talk about Bucky like that."

Jen scoffed, a cruel smile on her lips. "Respect? For that monster? You’re delusional. He’s a ticking time bomb, a liability to the team. And deep down, everyone knows it."

y/n’s patience snapped. In one swift motion, she slapped Jen hard across the face, the sound echoing through the room. Jen stumbled and fell to the ground, shock and anger flashing across her features.

She stalks forward like a predator cornering its prey, "I’m just done with your lies and your insults. Bucky deserves better than you." Jen instinctively crawled backwards towards the centre of the room. Seeing that she got the attention of the few new recruits she regained her composure, smirked again, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. "You’re pathetic, y/n," she taunted. "Defending a lost cause." her voice was loud enough for y/n to hear but quiet enough that the others might not be able to decipher her words.

At that moment, Bucky and Sam burst into the room, followed closely behind by a new recruit who alerted them of the incident. Bucky’s eyes widened as he took in the scene—Jen on the ground, y/n standing over her, shaking with rage. "What’s going on here?" His demand was completely ignored as y/n’s mind was hyper-focused on the wrath bubbling within her.

"Get up," y/n demanded, her voice shaking with wrath. Bucky’s momentarily froze as he watched the confrontation escalate before him. y/n, usually so composed, was now a whirlwind of rage, her eyes blazing as she stood over a trembling Jen. Bucky had always known her to be fierce in battle, but this was different—this was raw, unbridled anger. "I'm going to make you regret every word you said. So get on your fucking feet before I rip it off you.."

Jen, still on the ground, looked up at y/n with wide, teary eyes, playing the role of the victim to perfection. "Please, I didn't– I don’t know what you're…," she whimpered, casting a fearful glance at Bucky and Sam, who had just arrived on the scene.

Bucky's mind raced. Why was she doing this? He stepped forward, trying to diffuse the situation. "y/n, hey!" he shouted, his voice a mix of confusion and anger. "What are you doing?"

Completely ignoring him, "Get up," y/n snarled, her eyes blazing with intensity. "Get up and fight me. I’ll show you who the real monster is." Jen looked up, her hand on her cheek, disbelief mingling with her fury. "You’re crazy," she spat, scrambling to her feet.

Her response was only a furious shout. "I said, get up!"

"y/n, are you crazy?!" Bucky yelled, moving quickly to intervene. He grabbed her wrist, his grip tight and unforgiving.

She turned her fierce gaze towards Bucky; her expression momentarily faltering at the hurt in his eyes. "Bucky, you don’t understand, she--" she began, but the words caught in her throat as she saw Jen's smirk flicker for just a second.

"There's nothing to understand," Bucky snapped. "You’re acting insane."

y/n looked at him, her eyes filled with hurt and frustration. "Bucky, you have to listen—"

But he cut her off, his expression hard. "I don’t care! You hurt her, y/n. You think I don’t see that bruise on her cheek?!" Bucky shouted, his face contorted with anger. His eyes, usually filled with a gentle warmth when he looked at y/n, were now blazing with fury. "This isn’t like you, y/n. I’ve noticed that you’ve never liked Jen, and I don’t know why. But this? This is just immature and reckless." His metal grip on y/n's wrist was tighter than he intended. She winced, her eyes watering not just from the pain but from the sting of his words.

y/n had never seen Bucky like this. His anger was palpable, radiating off him in waves. It was like being hit with a physical force, and she felt her heart breaking under the weight of it. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she blinked them away, her anger flaring even hotter. "Bucky, you don’t understand," she tried to explain, but the words caught in her throat.

Bucky’s expression remained hard, the force on her wrist tightening painfully. "You need to grow up, y/n," he seethed, his disappointment evident in his tone. "You're always causing drama lately, and it needs to stop. Jen’s been there for me in ways you haven’t, and I won’t tolerate you attacking her like this."

The words cut through her like a knife. Her heart shattered at his harshness, at the realization that Bucky thought so little of her. She yanked her wrist free, feeling the sting of his grip lingering. "Fine," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Believe what you want."

Without another word, she turned and stormed out, leaving Bucky standing there, torn between confusion and guilt.

A gnawing sense of remorse tugging at him, but he couldn't shake the confusion and anger clouding his mind. "Jen, are you okay?" he asked, helping her to her feet.

Jen, tucking herself to his side, managed to summon a few tears, looking up at Bucky with a feigned innocence. "I don’t know why she hates me so much," she murmured, playing her part perfectly.

Bucky fingers softly traces on her wounded cheek before his gaze switched to y/n’s retreating form, a knot tightening in his chest. He wasn’t sure why those mean words had spouted out of his lips. Was it because he saw Jen injured on the ground and his protective instincts kicked in? Or was it because Jen had been whispering doubts in his ear about y/n’s loyalty, making him question his longtime friend?

The truth was, Bucky had always relied on y/n’s unwavering support. She had been his rock through the toughest times, and seeing her so furious, so hurt, shook him to his core. Yet, in the heat of the moment, he had lashed out, unable to reconcile the image of Jen crying with the fierce anger that radiated from y/n.

As Bucky comforted Jen, his mind was a storm of conflicting emotions. He couldn't shake the image of hurt on her face, nor could he ignore the nagging feeling that he was missing a crucial piece of the puzzle.

On the side, Sam was only able to watch the scene play out silently, a frown creasing his brow. He had a feeling there was more to this story, and he intended to get to the bottom of it.

As weeks passed, the rift between Bucky and y/n deepened, fueled by Jen's cunning manipulation. In a private conversation, Jen planted seeds of doubt in Bucky's mind, suggesting that y/n harboured hidden resentments and intentions.

"I hate to say it, Bucky, but maybe she's not who we thought she was," Jen insinuated, her voice dripping with false concern. "Maybe she's been hiding her true feelings all along, waiting for the right moment to strike."

Bucky, already vulnerable and confused after the incident in the training room, absorbed Jen's words like poison, allowing them to fester and take root in his mind. He began to view y/n through a new lens, one tainted by suspicion and distrust. This single conversation, filled with subtle manipulations and insidious suggestions, was all it took to fracture the bond between Bucky and y/n, leaving Bucky cold and distant towards the one person who had always stood by his side.

Most days he would avoid eye contact with her during team meetings, barely acknowledging her presence when they were forced to interact. In training sessions, his instructions to her were curt and clipped, lacking the warmth and camaraderie they once shared. y/n felt each of these interactions like a stab to the heart.

She couldn't understand how quickly Bucky had turned against her, how easily he had accepted Jen's version of events without even giving her a chance to explain. The hurt festered inside her, eating away at her sense of self-worth.

Then one night, as y/n sat alone on the rooftop, staring out into the darkness, Sam found her there. He knew this was where she retreated when she needed space to think, to process her emotions. He approached her cautiously, sitting down beside her without a word.

"Why aren't you at dinner, y/n?" Sam finally asked, breaking the silence. He could see the emptiness in her eyes, the weight of her sorrow pressing down on her.

She shook her head, her voice hollow. "Lost my appetite," she muttered, her gaze still fixed on the horizon.

Sam gently prodded, knowing there was more to her withdrawal than just a lack of hunger. "Is it because of what happened the other day at the training room?" he asked softly.

Instantly, her demeanor shifted. Anger flared in her eyes, directed not just at Jen and Bucky, but at the entire situation. "I don't want to talk about it, Sam," she snapped, her frustration bubbling to the surface. But Sam wasn't one to give up easily, especially when he knew how much y/n was hurting. "Come on, y/n," he urged, his voice gentle but insistent. "You can't keep bottling this up. Talk to me."

Her expression softened slightly at Sam's persistence, but the pain still lingered in her eyes. "Seriously, Sam, please just drop it," she pleaded, her voice wavering with emotion.

Sam could see the cracks forming in her facade, the vulnerability seeping through the tough exterior she usually projected. Without a word, he pulled her into a comforting embrace, letting her bury her face against his shoulder.

As she clung to him, her facade finally crumbled. Her lips trembled, her eyes filled with unshed tears. "He hates me, doesn't he?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of her own heartbreak. "Bucky hates me."

Sam held her tighter, offering silent comfort as she grappled with the weight of her sorrow. He knew there were no easy answers, no quick fixes to mend the shattered pieces of y/n's heart. But in that moment, all he could do was be there for her, a steady anchor in the storm of her emotions.

The dim glow of the kitchen's overhead light provided a faint sense of solace in the otherwise silent darkness of the compound. Bucky sat at the wooden table, his tired eyes staring blankly at the cup of untouched tea before him. It was a nightly ritual lately, this dance with sleeplessness and the haunting memories that lurked in the shadows of his mind yet again.

Footsteps broke the stillness, and Bucky's gaze shifted to the entrance of the kitchen. y/n stood hesitantly in the doorway, her presence casting a tentative aura over the room. There was a palpable tension between them, an unspoken weight that hung heavy in the air.

She cleared her throat, breaking the awkward silence. "Mind if I join you?" she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper. She was expecting Bucky to ignore her completely but he didn’t; Bucky simply shrugged nonchalantly, his guard seemed to flatter. "Suit yourself," he muttered.

As she quietly took a seat opposite him, a heavy silence settled between them. Bucky's thoughts churned with a whirlwind of emotions, each one vying for dominance over the others. His guard seemed to falter in the presence of her tentative yet comforting aura. The weight of his own vulnerability loomed large in his mind, drowning out the anger he had harboured towards her.

As the silence stretched between them, she felt a surge of compassion wash over her. She knew why he was awake at this time. She knew that the tea he brewed was to help him sleep. She was the one who planted that habit to him after all.

And despite everything that had transpired between them, she couldn't bear to see Bucky suffer alone. With a deep breath to steady her nerves, she decided to reach out to him, to offer what little comfort she could.

Without a word, y/n rose from her seat and moved to stand behind Bucky's chair. He stiffened at her touch, his muscles tense with apprehension. But as her gentle hands began to massage the tension from his neck, a wave of unexpected relief washed over him.

Her touch was soft and comforting, a stark contrast to the coldness he had grown accustomed to due to Jen’s unwillingness to acknowledge this side of him. She ran her fingers through his hair, coaxing him to relax, to let go of the burdens that weighed heavily on his shoulders. For a brief moment, Bucky allowed himself to forget the walls he had built around his heart. In her presence, her voice, and her touch; he felt a glimmer of hope, a flicker of warmth that he had long since forgotten.

But then, like a sudden gust of wind extinguishing a fragile flame, the weight of Jen's words came crashing back down upon him. Anger flared within him, hot and fierce, directed not only at y/n but at himself for allowing his heart to yearn for her.

He pushed himself away from the table, his movements sharp and abrupt. "I don't need your pity, y/n," he spat, his words laced with bitterness. "Just leave me alone."

With that, he stormed out of the kitchen, leaving y/n alone in the suffocating silence.The disbelief that clouded her thoughts gave way to a searing agony that twisted in her chest. How could he say such things? How could he push her away so callously, after everything they had shared?

y/n buried her face in her hands, her body trembling with the force of her sobs. The weight of her shattered dreams pressed down on her, crushing her spirit beneath its merciless grip. She had never felt so alone, so utterly abandoned by the one person she had trusted above all others.

The pain of losing Bucky, of losing the love that had sustained her through the darkest of times, threatened to consume her whole. Each breath felt like a struggle, each heartbeat a painful reminder of the emptiness that now filled her soul.

In that moment of crushing despair, she couldn't help but believe that Bucky truly hated her. The thought tore through her like a knife, leaving behind a raw, gaping wound that no amount of time or distance could ever hope to heal.

As she sat alone in the suffocating silence of the kitchen, y/n felt the full weight of her heartbreak descend upon her like a tidal wave. She was lost in a sea of pain and sorrow, drowning in the agony of losing someone she had loved so deeply, so completely. And in that moment, she couldn't help but wonder if she would ever find her way back to the surface again.

Unbeknownst to her, Bucky lingered just out of sight, his heart heavy with guilt. He wanted to go back, to take back his harsh words and hold her close, to chase away the tears that stained her cheeks. But the poison in his mind was too strong, clouding his judgement and trapping him in a cycle of self-destructive despair. And so, with a heavy heart, he turned and walked away, leaving y/n to cry alone in the darkness.

The mission had already been tense enough, but as y/n found herself face to face with Jen in a location she wasn't supposed to be, the atmosphere crackled with an added layer of hostility. It was as if fate had conspired to place them in this confrontation, and her jaw clenched involuntarily as she braced herself for what was to come.

Jen's presence in that spot was no coincidence, and she knew it. Her suspicions were confirmed as Jen turned to face her, a smirk playing on her lips, a gleam of malice in her eyes. y/n's grip tightened on her weapon, her pulse quickening as she prepared for the verbal assault she knew was coming.

"How does it feel, knowing that Bucky hates you now?" Jen's words sliced through the air like a knife, each syllable carrying the weight of y/n’s deepest fears. It was a direct hit, striking at the core of her insecurities, and for a moment, she felt as though the ground had been ripped out from beneath her feet.

But she refused to let Jen see her falter. With a steely resolve, she squared her shoulders and met Jen's gaze head-on, her expression a mask of defiance. She may have been shaken by Jen's words, but she refused to let them break her.

Ignoring the taunts, she focused on the mission at hand, determined to prove her worth despite Jen's attempts to undermine her. But with each passing moment, the weight of Jen's words hung heavy in the air, casting a shadow over y/n’s every move.

It was a battle on two fronts – against the enemy they faced together, and against the doubts that threatened to consume her from within. But she refused to back down, drawing strength from the knowledge that she fought not just for herself, but for the team she believed in with all her heart.

But Jen's relentless barrage of insults made it difficult to concentrate, her words like daggers slicing through y/n’s defenses.

"Aww come on y/n, bet you’re reeling in the loss right now, aren’t you." Jen continued, her voice ice cold. "The Asset’s little lapdog, clinging to him like a lost puppy."

y/n’s temper flared at the insult, her grip tightening on her weapon as she fought to keep her emotions in check. But Jen's mocking laughter only fueled the fire burning within her, pushing her to the brink of her patience. "Shut your mouth, Jen," she growled, her voice low and dangerous. "Or I swear to God, I'll make sure that the team finds your body disassembled in one of these rooms."

Jen simply rolled her eyes, unfazed by her threat. "You love him that much, huh?" y/n had no intention to deny that fact; she does love him, "More than you ever could." her voice was firm and true. Jen’s smirk fell as she scoffed. "Ain't that cute, the Winter Soldier and his little psycho sweetheart."

Before y/n could respond, a voice cut through the tension like a knife, freezing her in place. It was Bucky, his expression dark and stormy as he stepped into view. "What's going on here?" he demanded, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as he took in the scene before him.

y/n’s heart sank as she realized that Bucky might have heard everything. She turned around to meet his eyes and his face confirmed her suspicion; he heard it. Bucky had heard everything – every taunt, every insult, every word exchanged between her and Jen; even the confession of her true feelings. She met his gaze; searching for some sign of understanding of his emotions and the little that she saw was: disappointment, betrayal and guilt, mirrored back at her in the depths of his stormy blue eyes.

In that moment, all she wanted to do was pull him into her arms, to pull him away from all the painful memories and hurtful words; so far away that he would forget he had ever been taunted, betrayed, or made to feel less than he was.

Before she could utter a word, let alone take a step towards him, Jen's voice broke through, but it lacked the usual confidence. "Bucky, it's not what you think," she stammered, her eyes darting nervously between Bucky and y/n. "I-I was just..."

y/n’s clenched her jaw, her patience wearing thin as Jen stumbled over her words, unable to come up with a coherent explanation. She could see the confusion and hurt in Bucky's eyes, a reflection of the turmoil raging within her own heart.

"I-I mean," Jen continued, her voice faltering. "I was...um...just trying to...uh..."

But her feeble attempts to justify her actions only served to further incense Bucky. His brow furrowed in anger, his fists clenched at his sides as he struggled to make sense of the situation.

"Enough," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "I don't want to hear any more lies."

y/n’s heart ached as she watched Bucky's expression darken with anger and disappointment. She wanted to explain, to tell him the truth about Jen's betrayal and her own misguided attempt to defend him. But the words caught in her throat, choked by the weight of her guilt and regret.

With a heavy sigh, Bucky turned away, his shoulders slumped with defeat. "Let's just finish the mission," he muttered, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "We'll deal with this later."

As he was about to walk away, y/n noticed a red dot on his chest, the unmistakable mark of a sniper's laser sight. Without thinking twice, she leaped towards him, her body acting as a human shield. Time seemed to slow down as she collided with Bucky, pushing him out of the way.

"y/n, no!" Bucky shouted, his voice filled with panic as her body slumped against his chest.

In the chaos, Jen was nowhere to be seen. She had slipped away, taking shelter and ultimately fleeing the area as she heard multiple footsteps approaching.

Bucky tried to pull up his gun, but it was too late. An array of bullets rained down on them. He felt the searing pain of a few shots piercing his own flesh, but it was nothing compared to the sight of y/n’s body being riddled with bullets. She was hit in the shoulder, wrist, thighs, and other places Bucky couldn't even register.

Rage surged through Bucky like an inferno, obliterating any semblance of restraint. He moved with a deadly precision, his eyes blazing with fury as he unleashed a storm of bullets on the enemy. His movements were swift and unforgiving, every shot finding its mark with brutal accuracy. The enemy fell one by one, their bodies collapsing in lifeless heaps. The air was filled with the deafening sound of gunfire and the acrid smell of gunpowder, but Bucky's focus was unyielding.

Within moments, the room was cleared, the enemies wiped out in a flurry of rage-fueled vengeance.

The adrenaline ebbed away, leaving Bucky standing amidst the carnage, his chest heaving. He turned, and his eyes fell on y/n's crumpled form. The sight of her lying in a pool of her own blood shattered his rage, replacing it with a crushing wave of worry and panic.

"Hang in there. Please," Bucky hastily spoke, his voice trembling. He activated his com line, desperation seeping into his tone. "Guys, we need help. y/n... she's... she's been shot. We need to get out of here right now!" Panic coursed through him as he turned his attention back to y/n, frantically trying to stop the bleeding on her stomach. "y/n, doll…please" he pleaded, watching her hazy gaze. "Don't you dare give up on me now. Come on."

"babydoll, stay with me!" Bucky cried, his voice breaking as he cradled her in his arms. Blood soaked through her clothes, staining his hands. "Please, hang on, you can’t leave yet. I haven't told you... I haven't—"

Her eyes fluttered open, her breathing shallow and ragged. "It's okay, Bucky," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the chaos. "It's okay. Don't cry." Her shaking hands struggled to move, and with great effort, she managed to cup Bucky's cheek. The gesture was weak but filled with tenderness. "It's okay," she repeated, her fingers trembling against his skin.

"Don't talk like that," Bucky choked out, his own tears mingling with the blood on his face. "You can't.. I haven't told you...please doll..." His voice wavered with the weight of unspoken words and unconfessed feelings. He hadn't told her how much he truly cared for her, how every moment spent away from her felt like an eternity. He hadn't begged for forgiveness for his coldness, his mistakes, and for letting Jen's poison taint his actions. The guilt gnawed at him, each heartbeat a reminder of the words he hadn't said, the emotions he hadn't expressed.

He pressed her hand harder against his cheek, feeling the warmth of her touch anchoring him in the moment.Her hand weakly brushing against his cheek. "I know, sweetheart," she murmured. "I know."

Bucky's heart shattered as he clung to her, feeling her life slipping away. "No, no, no," he muttered desperately. "You can't leave me. Please, y/n. Please."

She smiled faintly, her eyes closing. "I'm here, Bucky. I'm right here."

With a final, shuddering breath, y/n’s consciousness slipped away. Bucky felt a surge of panic, but he knew he had to move. He lifted her limp body, cradling her against his chest as he ran towards the quinjet. Each step was agony, his own injuries slowing him down, but he didn't care. All that mattered was getting y/n to safety.

"Hang on, y/n," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Hang on. I won't let you go."

In the sterile environment of the medical bay, y/n lay unconscious, her body hooked up to various machines that monitored her vital signs. Bucky sat by her bedside, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen from crying. Every beep of the monitor seemed to echo through the silence, a haunting reminder of her fragile state. He held her hand, his thumb gently caressing her bandaged wrist.

Memories of their time together flooded Bucky's mind, each one a bittersweet reminder of the connection they shared. He remembered the laughter they had shared, the late-night conversations that stretched into the early hours of the morning. He remembered the gentle touch of her hand, the warmth of her smile that never failed to chase away the darkness.

But amidst the memories, there was also pain – the pain of their last conversation, the words left unsaid and the choices left unmade. Bucky's throat tightened as he recalled the day he had walked away from Jen, the air thick with tension and unspoken truths.

His voice was cold and final. "You almost got her killed, Jen," he had said, his eyes blazing with anger. "Stay away from us. Stay away from me."

Jen's eyes had flashed with anger, her words cutting like knives as she lashed out in frustration. "And what, you think you'll find someone better than me?" she had spat, her voice dripping with venom. "Good luck with that, Bucky. You'll never find anyone who would put up with your baggage."

But Bucky had remained resolute, his decision fueled by a sense of longing and regret that threatened to consume him whole. "Maybe not," he had admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I'd rather be alone than with someone who doesn't truly care about me."

Now, as Bucky sat by y/n’s bedside, the weight of his decision bore down on him like a crushing weight. Tears welled in his eyes as he reached out to gently brush a strand of hair away from her face, his fingers trembling with emotion.

"I'm so sorry, babydoll," he whispered, his voice thick with unshed tears. "I never meant for any of this to happen. So, please, wake up. I need you."

But y/n remained unconscious, her breathing shallow and weak as she lay before him. And as Bucky watched over her, his heart heavy with worry and regret, he vowed to do whatever it took to bring her back to him, to keep her safe from harm for all eternity.

For in that moment, Bucky realized that he couldn't bear to lose her – not now, not ever. She was his rock, his anchor in a world of uncertainty and pain. And as he held her hand tightly in his own, he prayed with all his heart that she would find her way back to him, to the love and light that had always guided them through the darkness.

The soft hum of machines filled the air as y/n stirred awake, her senses slowly coming back to her. She blinked, disoriented at first, until her gaze fell upon Bucky, who was sleeping soundly in the chair beside her bed. His hands were clasped tightly around hers, his face peaceful in slumber, but she couldn't help but notice the tear stains on his cheeks, the dark circles under his eyes, the worry lines etched into his forehead.

"How long has it been since?" she wondered to herself, her heart aching at the sight of Bucky's exhausted form. She carefully sat up, trying not to disturb him as she lovingly examined his sleeping face. She couldn't help but smile as she gently ran her fingers through his hair, the soft strands slipping through her fingertips.

Bucky groaned as his sleep was interrupted, muttering something about Sam needs to leave him be; before he abruptly sat up, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Hi there," y/n greeted softly, her eyes sparkling with affection as she watched Bucky's reaction.

For a moment, Bucky seemed unable to comprehend that she was finally awake. His eyes widened in disbelief, his mouth slightly agape. But then the realization hit him, and he threw himself at her, wrapping her in a tight embrace as if she were the most precious thing in the world .Despite the pain that shot through her body, she managed to let out a soft chuckle, returning his embrace with equal fervor. The warmth of his embrace chased away the lingering chill of unconsciousness, and for a moment, everything felt right.

"y/n..." Bucky breathed into her neck, his voice trembling with emotion. She hummed in response, her heart swelling for him. "Hmmm?"

Not wanting to let go of her, Bucky called her name once again, his voice wavering with uncertainty. "y/n-..." She paused, her lips curving into a tender smile as she whispered in his ear, "Yes, Bucky?"

Bucky tightened his grip, his breath hitching in his throat as he buried his face in her shoulder. y/n gently rubbed his back, her touch soothing and comforting as she reassured him, "I'm here, sweetheart." The scent of her hair, the feel of her warmth against him—it all felt overwhelming. Emotions churned inside him like a tempest. Relief, guilt, love, and fear battled for dominance, leaving him raw and exposed.

She gently rubbed his back, her touch soothing and comforting as she reassured him, "Bucky, I'm not going anywhere.

Bucky's mind raced, images of the past few weeks flashing before his eyes. He remembered the coldness with which he'd treated her, the cruel words that had slipped from his lips, fueled by Jen's poison. He thought of the sleepless nights, the nightmares that had gripped him, and the aching void he'd felt every time he saw y/n’s hurt expression.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, his voice muffled against her shoulder. "For everything. For not believing you. For pushing you away."

Reluctantly, she pulled away, but not before wiping the tears from Bucky's cheeks and fighting the urge to place a tender kiss on his forehead. As she looked into his eyes, she could see the depth of his love and the pain he had endured for her sake. And in that moment, she knew that she had found her home in his arms. Bucky took her hands in his own, his eyes closed as he pressed a kiss to her wounded wrists. "This will never happen again. Ever," he vowed, his voice filled with determination.

Moved by his words, y/n felt her heart flutter with emotion. She realized in that moment that she could never stay angry at him, no matter what had transpired between them. She understood now that they were both at fault, both victims of circumstance and misunderstanding.

With a surge of courage, she reached out and pulled Bucky into a kiss. Her lips met his in a slow, passionate embrace, pouring all of her love and forgiveness into the tender gesture. It was a moment of connection, of healing, of reaffirming their bond despite the trials they had faced.

The taste of Bucky's lips was like a soothing salve to her soul; it was intoxicating. It felt as if the world had fallen away, leaving only the two of them entwined in each other's arms. When they finally broke apart, Bucky whispered those three words that y/n had longed to hear, "I love you."

Her heart soared with joy, and she couldn't help but tease him, "Took you long enough." her teasing words met with a cheeky grin from Bucky. "I love you too, Bucky" she blinked slowly. As he whispered softly under his breath, "Come here," he pulled her back into the kiss, their lips meeting in a tender embrace that spoke volumes of their unspoken love. And in that moment, amidst the chaos and uncertainty of their world, they found solace in each other's arms, knowing that together, they could weather any storm.

Read my other works here: Masterlist

A/N: I just needed to let this out lmao. It's been stuck in my head for several weeks. Thank you for spending your time reading this crap... honestly. Love you so much 🤍

#bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #tfatws!bucky #bucky angst #bucky fluff

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softaestluv · 4 months ago

Text

Sticky When Wet

Three times Ghost swore he hated honey with his tea and one time he admitted he couldn’t live without it.

Alpha! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Omega! Reader

Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Omegaverse, Alpha/Omega stereotypical behavior, Scenting, Angst, Miscommunications, Denial, Simon is bad at feelings, Possessive behavior, Jealousy, Size difference, Eventual smut

CW: This chapter does contain a little bit of non consensual touching of the face & harassment. However, Ghost is not the one doing it.

Pt. 1, Pt. 2 of 4, Pt. 3, Pt. 4 | masterlist | ao3

It’s not that you needed someone to look after you, truthfully. You weren’t some weak omega who needed an alpha’s protection— Ghost’s protection.

Ghost just so happened to find himself in these situations; he didn’t want an omega to protect.

Maybe he was lying. Maybe.

However, he couldn’t sit and do nothing about it; his alpha wouldn’t let him, not when it involved you. He could only stand there and listen to a group of trainees rave about you, your honey scent, for so long. They were supposed to be training, but all they seemed to focus on was your lithe frame across the gym and your tempting movements.

Ghost didn’t even know why you were here. Why you chose to work out at this specific time for everyone to see. You didn’t need to work out. You worked in the cafeteria on base; it’s not like you were about to be deployed. Not like Ghost would even allow that to happen if it were possible.

You didn’t need muscle; he was all the strength you would ever need, enough for the both of you. You could remain soft and squishy, plump in all the right places. Just like an omega should be, supple flesh, bulging curves for him to hold, squeeze, use as leverage.

Yet there you were, across the gym during training, for all the recruits to see for some reason. It’s like you fucking wanted them to ogle at you. Ogle at the pretty omega working out in an outfit that seemed too small to be proper clothing. Shorts that barely covered the curve of your ass, rising every so often to reveal a sliver of plump skin during certain movements. Fitted shirt that cinched in the front, deep neckline jutting the fat of your breasts out.

Simon didn’t even want to acknowledge the rest. He didn’t care about it, really. Didn’t care that the plump flesh of your thighs jiggled with each new exercise or how your breasts bounced softly, tauntingly.

He didn’t notice any of it.

Didn’t notice the sweat cascading down your precious skin or how it collected in your collarbones, cleavage, or upper lip. Covering your body in a glistening sheen. Ghost didn’t see any of that; he didn’t even care enough to spare you a glance.

Why would he? He could fucking smell your stench miles away, even through the other alpha's strong scents.

The tones of sage honey and sweet tangerine remained, but now a natural musk joined. An overwhelming scent of sweat and exhaustion intermingled with your sweetness. Ghost supposed you would smell that exact way during sex, though it lacked the arousal that would seep from your scent glands. Tainting the saccharine smell raw and tempting.

He didn’t know what the big deal was. Why all the other men couldn’t keep their urges in their pants to save their lives. No one else complained about your pungent aroma; instead, they seemed to do the complete opposite. Foaming at the mouth like they’ve never smelt omega before. Like your scent was divinity on earth.

The perverted men almost disgusted him more than your scent. Enraged him when they talked about you like you were their dessert.

“Jesus, training ain’t so bad when you get a pretty little show like that, huh?” A recruit laughed, gesturing to your form on the yoga mat.

“You got that right. Practically wearing nothing too,” The second alpha added, smirking wolfishly in response.

The first recruit clapped the other on the back, pulling him closer to mumble to him as if Ghost still couldn’t hear the deceitful words he wanted to share, “Like she wants us to watch her. Especially with that honey fucking scent, begging for our attention.”

“Watch her? She’s probably close to her heat. She's desperate for one of us to fuck her,” the other chuckled.

Ghost's skin was already burning, scalding his bones, but those words, even the thought of another man taking you during your heat had him seeing red. Your heat of all times to take you. When you were so desperate you’d take any alpha that was willing. Regardless of their ulterior motives, regardless if they wouldn’t take care of you the way Ghost would.

You wouldn’t be able to think straight during your heat, just searching for a mate who could knot you, and the fact that the other alphas even thought of taking advantage of your vulnerable state made him seethe with rage.

Besides, Ghost is the only alpha that could take care of you the way you need.

Not like he wanted to help you through your heat.

But at least he would honor your boundaries; your limits. Give you what you craved the way you wanted, not the way he did. Make your throbbing pain go away with his thick knot, keep you nice and satisfied on his cock.

Not like he wanted that.

He was appalled by the thought of your honey scent. Disgusted by the thought of your honeyed slick coating his knot, drenching him sticky, squeezing him tightly.

“Little petite thing too; she’d be easy to make obey.”

God.

Simon was sure there wasn’t a god, but just hearing those words had him hoping there was a higher being to control his actions. Unfortunately, the trainee was right. You were petite. Small structure, lithe frame, dainty little figure. Easily overpowered by every alpha in this room, by Ghost. Tiny little thing in comparison to his massive body. Which is why you do need an alpha’s protection, especially from these men.

You would obey. Though not because you wanted to but because your instincts had no choice but to submit to an alpha’s voice. Simon wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t use his alpha voice with you; wouldn’t even let his scent seep into the room. Intense training had taught him how to control his scent; he would keep the room as sterol as possible keep his dominating scent to a minimum so that your decision was ultimately made by you and not instincts or hormones.

One of the men walked to you, bending over your lying frame on the yoga mat. His dark shadow loomed over your body as you looked up in shock, sliding your headphones off. Simon couldn’t tell what the other man was saying from here, but his jaw ticked in irritation watching you chuckle lightly at whatever he said, sitting up from your lying position.

The man reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear as he iterated smug words to you. Ghost’s alpha snarled loudly in his chest, plotting the other man’s death for even putting his fingers on your pure skin. Tainting your purity. Your scent instantly soured, natural musk turning into apprehension and fright.

Ghost's feet were moving before he even realized, alpha urging him to do something to eliminate the threat to the omega. His hand gravitated to your chin, tilting your head to look up at him. The nervous energy seeped off you, your irises drowning in anxiety as you flickered your eyes at him.

“Hmm?” The alpha hummed, “A dainty omega like you should have an alpha to fuck you through your heat, no?”

You gulped thickly, “N-Not gonna go into heat anytime soon. I’m on suppressants.”

That sentence had Ghost swallowing just as loudly. If this is how strong your scent radiated off you on suppressants, he couldn’t even imagine how strong you would smell off of them. Honeyed scent already ruined his black tea, ruined his food. Made his head throb in irritation and disgust from how overwhelming your sickly sweet scent filled the mess hall. He was sure his head would pulse erratically, probably explode in frustration, if he ever smelt your raw, unfiltered scent. Nauseate him to the core with how sweet you would smell, rot his teeth from one breath.

“What a shame,” He continued, “Though, doesn’t mean you still don’t need an ache met.”

“I’m not looking for that right now,” You mumbled weakly, fingers fiddling with the hem of your shirt as you avoided his domineering gaze.

“No? Why not? I could give you what you want,” The sergeant continued despite your obvious apprehensions.

“Sergeant.”

The man's eyes snapped up to Ghost’s, raising his eyebrows at him.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Ghost snarled, practically yelling in anger, rage purposely seeping through his scent glands to ward off the other alpha.

“Just talking to this little bird is all,” He responded, smirking proudly as he rubbed his thumb over your chin.

A motion that had you flinching away slightly. A motion that had his alpha growling loudly in warning, balling his fists. A growl that had the other man halting his movements.

“Do I need to take this up with Captain Price? Or would you rather I address this issue myself?” Ghost gritted through his teeth, holding in the urge to solve the problem by ridding him of this Earth himself.

“No, s-sir. You don’t have to tell captain,” The other man stuttered, confident tone disappearing as Ghost stood over him, skull balaclava casting shadows on his face.

“No? Then get the fuck out of here before I use you as an example during sparring.”

The sergeant nodded swiftly, running off just as all the other men had when they met Ghost’s wrath. You shifted from foot to foot, wearily looking up at him.

“Why do you let them do that?”

“Not to sound rude, sir, but I’m not letting them harass me. They just do it. Can’t really fight back against an alpha. I mean,” you chuckled lightly, hands gesturing down your body, “Not really built for that.”

Simon clenched his fists tightly, focusing on your doe eyes so his irises wouldn’t follow your movements, trace every curve on your body. He knew you weren’t built for that. God, did he know. But your dainty frame was definitely built for other things.

“Maybe if you didn’t parade your scent around they wouldn’t approach you so often.”

Your brows furrowed, just as they did in the cafeteria, confusion blooming on your face once again, “Sir, I am doing no such thing. I’m on suppressants.”

Ghost sighed, eyes twitching in irritation, “Next time, come get me. I’ll deal with them.”

Your face flushed a pretty pink, swiping your tongue across your lips, “You don’t have to-“

“Come get me.”

His gaze pinned you to the spot; end of your sentence evaporated from your lips as he interrupted you, nodding your head in agreement.

“Thank you for always looking out for me.”

Ghost grunted in acknowledgment, turning around to walk away, but you grabbed his sleeve before he could, stopping his movements. He looked down, your lip pinched between your teeth as you avoided his gaze.

“Um, is there a certain way you like your tea?” You asked, tiny hand awkwardly falling from his arm.

“What? Why does that matter?”

“Well, I always see you drink it in the mess hall, but if you want anything added I could always mix it in for you. Like milk.”

You paused, eyes shifting to find his.

“Or honey.”

Ghost almost grimaced as you said the word. Voice dripping in the same sugary warmth of your scent.

“Your scent already sweetens it enough as it is.”

The pink on your cheeks bloomed red, spreading to the tips of your ears at his words.

“I’ll try my best not to anymore, sir.”

And if the next day the mess hall smelt sterile, void of all sage honey and sweet tangerine, Ghost didn’t care.

If you served him a tray with scent blockers covering your scent glands, he didn’t feel guilty.

If he drank his black tea, it didn’t taste stale, didn’t lack any sweetness he craved. He was grateful even; he could finally drink his tea plain, just how it always should’ve been.

If he just so happened to leave his cup of tea untouched that day, it was simply because he wasn’t thirsty. Not because it burned his tongue bitterly.

Tag List: @terrifiedanimegirl @night-girl-301 @identity2212

#cherri writes #fanfic #simon ghost riley #ghost cod #simon riley x reader #softaestluv #call of duty #ghost x reader #cod #simon ghost x reader #sticky when wet #alpha simon ghost riley #alpha beta omega #simon riley #simon riley x you #cod x reader

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private-but-not-a-secret · 2 months ago

Text

Forever starts now

Words- 6k ish

The gym was alive with chaos— basketballs bouncing off hardwood, whistles slicing through the air, and the low hum of teenage energy pressing in from every side.

It was late afternoon, and the light from the high windows gave the court a dreamlike haze. The kind of haze where memories could be made without anyone realizing it in the moment

Where one glance— one word— could mean more than anyone would admit out loud.

Paige Bueckers tugged her hoodie over her head, letting it drop onto the nearest bench; her blond hair was up in a messy bun. She wiped her hands on her shorts and grabbed a ball from the rack, feeling its weight settle easily into her palms.

This camp— USA Basketball’s training for the next elite international team— was packed with talent.

Top recruits. The future of the game.

Paige knew the names, had watched the highlights, and had even played against half of the team already. None of it scared her. If anything, it fueled her.

She wanted to be the best.

She was the best— she just needed the rest of the world to realize it.

“Alright!” Coach Howard’s voice boomed over the gym. “Pair up! New partners for the ball screen series. Move, move, move!”

Paige bounced the ball off her hip lazily, looking around for someone she hadn’t worked with yet.

Before she could pick, she heard it:

“Bueckers! Fudd! You two!”

Her head turned, her heart giving a weird little skip she didn’t understand.

Azzi Fudd was jogging toward her.

Up close, Azzi was different from what Paige had expected.

The clips didn't do her justice — didn't catch the way she moved so fluidly, like everything was effortless

Didn’t capture the calm on her face, the total focus, the way she seemed to carry an invisible center of gravity that pulled the eye without even trying.

Azzi’s dark curls were pulled back in a tight ponytail, a sheen of sweat making her skin glow under the gym lights.

Paige tossed the ball lightly to her without thinking. “You shoot, I assist. Sound good?”

Azzi caught it with smooth hands, the ball making a sound.

She tilted her head slightly, the corner of her mouth lifting just enough to be called a smile.

“Deal,” she said quietly.

Something unspoken passed between them— a current Paige could almost feel humming between her ribs.

She shook it off. Focus.

It’s just basketball.

The drill began.

It was supposed to be basic — screen, pop out, catch, and shoot — but with Paige and Azzi, it became something else.

Something better. Sharper.

Paige's first pass zipped low through a crowded space, a thread-the-needle dart that would’ve clanged off another player’s ankles.

But Azzi caught it clean without breaking stride, rose to her shot, and flicked her wrist.

Swish.

Paige raised an eyebrow, impressed but playing it cool.

They reset.

Another screen, another pass, this one higher, softer, needing a mid-air adjustment. Azzi didn’t flinch.

Gathered.

Released.

Swish.

The other pairs around them were messy — fumbled passes, miscommunication, balls bouncing off the rim.

Paige and Azzi?

They were silent, smooth, unspoken

Like music.

By the third perfect shot, Paige let out a low whistle and grinned. “Damn. You some kind of sniper or what?”

Azzi shrugged, modest but not falsely so. “Just practice.”

Paige bounced the ball back to her, watching closely. “Must be some damn good practice.”

Azzi smiles — a little wider this time — and Paige felt the tug of it low in her stomach, quick and confusing.

Focus.

It’s just basketball.

But every time their hands brushed during a handoff, Paige felt her skin light up like someone who had touched a live wire.

And every time Azzi caught her pass without even looking, something deep inside warmed — a quiet, secret pride she didn’t know how to name.

By the end of the drill, the coach was nodding approvingly.

The other players were sneaking glances their way.

Paige and Azzi ended with a simple high-five

Their palms met, skin against skin, just a second too long.

Neither pulled away immediately.

Paige caught Azzi’s gaze — dark brown eyes steady, unreadable — and for a heartbeat, the noise of the gym faded.

Just the feel of Azzi's hand against hers, the electric charge of something starting

Then they let go, almost at the same time.

Too fast, like they were both afraid someone else might notice.

Paige shoved her hands into her short pockets and heard thudding hard enough that it felt unfair. She looked down, pretending to retie her shoe.

Get a grip, Bueckers.

Azzi, meanwhile, turned smoothly and jogged to the water station.

Her face felt hotter than it should; she blamed it on the workout.

Neither of them spoke again for the rest of the session.

But every now and then, Paige would catch herself looking across the court, finding Azzi’s shape instantly in the crowd.

And every time, without fail, Azzi was already looking back.

Practice ended in a swirl of noise — the sharp tweet of a whistle, the thudding of basketballs being bounced one last time before players scooped them up and headed straight for the sidelines.

Sneakers squeaked a final rhythm against the wood as everyone rushed to be first in the showers, first to claim dinner, and first to collapse into the beds of the athlete dorms.

Everyone but Paige.

She sat on the floor by the far wall, legs stretched out, her back pressed against the cold metal of the bleachers. Her hoodie was draped loosely over her knees, her phone forgotten beside her.

She should’ve been checking messages, texting home, maybe making fun of coach’s brutal practice playlist with the other girls.

Instead, her eyes kept sliding across the court—searching

There.

Azzi.

Still out there, alone.

While everyone sprinted for food and freedom, Azzi Fudd stayed behind, working through her shooting form with the same intensity she’d had when coaches were watching.

She stood at the free throw line now, bouncing the ball three times before each shot, pausing to square her shoulders, and rising into a perfect release.

Paige watched the ball hit the back of the rim and drop through without a sound.

Another.

Paige wasn't even pretending to look away anymore.

There was something about the way Azzi moved — the quiet focus, the refusal to rush even when the gym had emptied— that caught Paige by the ribs and wouldn't let go.

It wasn’t flashy.

It wasn’t cocky.

It was just… real.

Azzi chased down her own rebound, jogged to the right wing, and started again. This time, quick threes — catch, rise, release, reset — each one nearly identical to the last.

Paige leaned her head back against the bleachers and smiled without meaning to.

She didn’t know why she was still sitting there.

She could tell herself she was tired, or waiting for a trainer to ice her ankle, or scouting the competition.

All lies.

The truth was simpler, dumber, and more dangerous.

She just liked watching her.

Azzi made basketball beautiful— and Paige, for once, just wanted to sit still and feel it.

Minutes passed, slow and golden.

The gym emptied further. A couple of trainers zipped up their bags and wheeled carts of basketballs into storage. The big overhead lights clicked off one section at a time, plunging the gym into deeper shadows.

Only the far side, where Azzi stood, stayed lit.

It felt almost private, like Paige had stumbled onto something she wasn't supposed to see.

Like maybe this was the real Azzi Fudd — the version not for cameras or coaches or teammates— just a girl who loved the feel of the ball leaving her fingertips clean, pure, perfect.

Paige hugged her knees to her chest, chin resting on her arms, breathing quietly.

She could’ve watched for hours.

And then —

Azzi stopped.

Held the ball against her hip.

Turned, almost like she could feel the weight of being watched.

Their eyes met across the gym — an electric shock of connection, sharp and undeniable even from forty feet away.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Paige’s heart slammed against her ribs, too hard, too loud.

Should she look away? Pretend she’d just been zoning out? Laugh it off?

Azzi made the decision for her.

Slowly, she smiled — not the quick, polite one from earlier, but something smaller, softer. A real smile.

Paige smiled back, feeling suddenly stupid and fourteen again, like some freshman staring at the varsity star.

Azzi dribbled the ball once, lightly, and then made a gesture — a little flick of her head, like you coming?

Paige hesitated only a second before pushing herself up and jogging across the court.

Azzi handed her the ball without a word.

Paige caught it, grinning now, and squared up at the top of the key.

“Bet you I make it first try,” she said, cocky and teasing, because confidence was easier than honesty.

Azzi crossed her arms loosely, eyebrow raised. “Bet what?”

Paige thought for a second. “Loser owes winner a Gatorade tomorrow.”

Azzi nodded once, serious, like it was the biggest bet in the world.

Paige bounced the ball twice, settled her feet, and rose into her shot.

The ball clanged off the front of the rim.

“Ooof,” Azzi said, biting back a smile.

Paige threw her hands up dramatically. “The lighting’s bad! I was cold! There was a draft—”

Azzi laughed, the sound warm and golden, and Paige felt it sink straight into her skin.

“Let me show you how it’s done,” Azzi said, stepping up.

She didn’t rush.

Didn’t posture.

Just caught the ball from Paige, tucked a curl behind her ear, and let it fly.

Swish.

Of course.

Paige clutched her chest like she’d been shot. “Ruthless.”

Azzi just smiled — small, shy, triumphant.

Paige felt her stomach flip over and over.

Not because she’d lost.

But because she was already starting to realize something dangerous.

She liked being around Azzi Fudd.

Liked it too much.

In a way that had nothing to do with basketball.

The gym doors swung shut behind them with a loud bang, sealing off the sounds of bouncing balls, shouting coaches, and the entire noisy, familiar world they’d just come from.

Outside, the air was cooler than Paige expected — crisp, smelling faintly of pine trees and damp asphalt.

The heavy sky above was streaked with purple and gold, the last breath of sunset fading into the edges of night.

For a few seconds, neither of them said anything.

Paige kicked at a crack in the sidewalk with the toe of her shoe, feeling awkward in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time.

She wasn’t someone who got awkward. She was Paige Bueckers. Loud, funny, fearless.

But something about Azzi made all the easy things — the jokes, the comebacks—stick in her throat.

Azzi adjusted her backpack strap on her shoulder, the soft fabric of her hoodie brushing against Paige’s arm as she did.

Barely a touch, but enough to make Paige hyper-aware of the distance between them.

Or the lack of it.

“You always stay late?” Paige asked, her voice louder than it needed to be in the soft quiet.

Azzi smiled a little without looking over. “Sometimes.”

Paige shoved her hands deeper into the front pocket of her hoodie.

“Not trying to show off?”

Azzi laughed under her breath, a low sound that sent a weird shiver down Paige’s spine.

“No. I just… like it. When it’s quiet.”

Paige risked a glance at her.

Azzi’s face was relaxed, calm, but her eyes were far away, like she was somewhere else entirely.

The way she walked, too, slow, measured, like she wasn’t just walking to the dorms but moving through a world she was carefully choosing to be part of.

Paige swallowed.

“I get that,” she said quietly, surprising herself.

Azzi turned her head, the overhead lights catching a gleam in her dark eyes.

“You do?”

Paige nodded. “Yeah. Sometimes it’s easier. When… It’s just you and the gym. Nobody is expecting anything.”

Azzi’s mouth quirked, like maybe she was surprised Paige understood.

Or maybe she was just letting herself believe it.

For a few steps, they walked without speaking.

Their sneakers scuffed softly against the concrete.

The only other sounds were the rustle of trees and the faint hum of distant traffic beyond the campus.

It should’ve been awkward.

It was awkward, but in a strange way — like something fragile and new was stretching between them.

A thread, thin and gold, shimmering in the night air, tugging them closer.

Paige felt it in her chest, tight and fluttering.

They reached the long path that curved toward the dorms, lit by a scattering of old lampposts.

The light pooled around them, soft and golden, casting long twin shadows behind their steps.

Paige glanced sideways again, catching Azzi looking straight ahead, lost in thought.

She wanted to say something. Anything.

Crack a joke. Tease her. Ask her favorite pizza topping.

Anything to keep Azzi walking next to her just a little longer.

“You’re… crazy good, you know,” Paige said finally, voice a little rougher than she meant.

Azzi smiled, small and almost shy.

“Thanks,” she said, like she didn’t hear that every day — like it actually meant something coming from Paige.

“You’re like… smooth,” Paige continued, fumbling. “I dunno how else to say it. It’s not just the shot. It’s like… you move like you’re in control of everything. Without forcing it.”

Azzi turned to her then, really turned, her eyebrows lifted in surprise.

No one talked to her like that. Not about how she played.

Not about the parts of it that were invisible — the feeling, the rhythm, the soul.

Paige bit her lip, suddenly self-conscious.

“Sorry. That sounded dumb.”

Azzi shook her head. “No. It didn’t.”

She said it so simply, so firmly, that Paige felt a little dizzy.

They walked another few steps in silence.

Azzi’s shoulder brushed Paige’s lightly, just from the natural sway of their bodies.

Neither of them moved away.

Paige’s hands itched with the urge to reach out — grab her wrist, her hand, anything — but she kept them jammed deep in her hoodie instead.

The weight of what wasn’t said hung heavy between them.

Finally, Azzi broke the tension with a soft laugh.

“You’re pretty good too, Bueckers.”

Paige shot her a grin. “Pretty good? That’s it?”

Azzi bumped her lightly with her hip.

“I mean… decent passer. Okay vision.”

Paige gasped, pretending to be wounded.

“Wow. Just throw me under the bus.”

Azzi laughed again, easier this time — the kind of laugh that made Paige’s chest ache in a way she didn’t have words for.

“You’re alright,” Azzi added teasingly, like she was handing down a royal decree.

Paige bumped her back, harder this time.

Azzi bumped her again.

And suddenly they were half-wrestling their way down the path, laughing too loud in the quiet night, the tension breaking like a snapped rubber band.

It felt stupid and light and perfect.

Paige was grinning so hard her cheeks hurt.

They reached the dorms too soon.

The heavy glass doors glowed ahead of them under the floodlights, buzzing faintly with moths.

Neither of them slowed their steps, but neither of them really sped up either.

Paige tugged on her backpack strap, heart thudding.

“I owe you a Gatorade tomorrow,” she said, voice casual, but her hands suddenly sweaty.

Azzi smiled sideways at her. “I want blue.”

“Blue’s a cop-out flavor,” Paige teased. “Be original.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “Fine. Surprise me.”

Paige nodded, even though her mind was racing.

Surprise you.

Sure.

But how did you surprise someone who already felt like a miracle?

When they pushed through the doors, the warm lobby light spilled over them.

Their hands brushed again — a tiny, accidental thing.

And this time, Paige didn’t move hers away right away.

Neither did Azzi.

Their fingers slid against each other — barely touching, just enough to feel — a soft, slow-burning spark.

Paige swallowed hard.

Azzi didn’t say anything. She just smiled, small and secret, and walked toward the stairs.

Paige stood there a second longer, trying to catch her breath.

Trying not to look after her.

Failing.

When she finally followed, her chest felt light and tight at the same time, like maybe the ground had shifted beneath her without her noticing.

She didn’t know what was happening between them.

She didn’t know what it meant.

All she knew was this:

She didn’t want it to stop.

The next afternoon, the gym was humming with noise.

Sneakers squeaking against polished hardwood, basketballs pounding the floor in chaotic rhythms, and the sharp whistle of the assistant coach cutting through it all.

Paige wiped sweat from her forehead with the hem of her practice jersey, glancing around.

Coach had decided today would be a full-speed scrimmage. No drills, no lectures — just play.

Hard. Fast. No mercy.

Paige lived for days like this.

She could already feel the adrenaline buzzing in her veins, the electric anticipation of competing — of showing off.

But there was something different buzzing under her skin today too.

Something sharper.

Something she couldn’t name.

And she knew exactly where it was coming from.

Across the court, Azzi was stretching her arms over her head, the hem of her tank top riding up to flash a sliver of stomach.

Paige’s mouth went dry.

She jerked her gaze away, bouncing the ball hard against the floor like she could dribble the distraction out of herself.

Focus, Bueckers. Come on.

But it was impossible not to notice her.

Every time Azzi moved, it was like Paige’s body knew before her brain did — turning slightly toward her, tracking her without meaning to.

It was like some invisible string tied them together across the gym, pulling tighter every second.

“Teams!” the assistant coach barked.

“Paige, Azzi, you’re on the same side.”

Paige’s heart did something stupid in her chest — a little leap she tried to hide by adjusting her headband.

Azzi caught her eye from across the court.

Just a glance.

But it felt heavier than it should have.

Paige nodded once — too casual, too cool — and jogged toward her.

As they lined up to start, their shoulders brushed.

That tiny contact sent a crackle down Paige’s spine.

She risked a side glance at Azzi, who was tightening her ponytail, calm and focused.

If she felt it too, she didn’t show it.

The scrimmage started fast.

The ball was a blur — passes snapping through the air, sneakers cutting and sliding, bodies colliding in controlled chaos.

Paige slipped into game mode automatically — her instincts taking over, her vision widening until she could see the whole floor like it was laid out in her mind.

She didn’t even think about it.

She just played.

But no matter where she moved — no matter where the ball went —

Azzi was there.

Moving in sync with her.

Cutting when she cut.

Fading when she faded.

Popping out to the wing exactly when Paige needed an outlet.

It was like they were speaking a language no one else knew.

A glance. A tilt of the head. A twitch of fingers.

That was all it took.

Paige would thread a pass between two defenders without even looking — and Azzi would already be there, catching it smooth and pure and letting it fly.

Nothing but net.

It happened again.

And again.

At some point, the other players started groaning.

“Get a room!” someone muttered as Azzi nailed another three off a perfect dish from Paige.

Paige flushed hot, but she kept her head down, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.

Azzi jogged back on defense, bumping Paige’s shoulder lightly with hers in passing.

“Nice look,” she murmured.

Paige didn’t trust herself to answer.

Not when her heart was hammering so loud she could barely hear anything else.

By the middle of the second quarter, it wasn’t just good basketball anymore.

It was magic.

Every time Paige touched the ball, she knew where Azzi was — could feel her, even without seeing.

And Azzi—Azzi moved like she trusted Paige with her whole body.

Like she didn’t need to second-guess anything.

It was intoxicating.

Paige had never had this with anyone.

Not like this.

She was addicted to it already, and it scared the hell out of her.

Timeout.

Coach blew the whistle, and they trotted to the sidelines, gulping water, wiping sweat from their faces.

Paige sat on the bench, elbows resting on her knees, breathing hard.

Azzi dropped down next to her, close enough that their legs brushed.

Neither of them moved away.

Paige stared at the floor between her sneakers, trying to slow the wild beating of her heart.

“You’re…” Azzi said quietly, like she wasn’t sure if she should say it.

“You’re easy to play with.”

Paige turned her head slowly, meeting her eyes.

For once, Azzi didn’t look away.

Something passed between them —

something hot and terrifying and thrilling all at once.

Paige opened her mouth to say something — anything — but Coach barked at them to get back out there.

Azzi stood first, offering a hand without thinking.

Paige took it.

Their palms met, slick with sweat, fingers sliding against each other.

Neither of them let go right away.

Just a second too long.

Paige felt it everywhere — in her chest, her throat, the tips of her fingers.

Azzi’s hand was strong and warm.

Reluctantly, Paige pulled away and followed her back onto the court.

But the imprint of Azzi’s hand stayed burned into her skin, even after the game resumed.

And when the final whistle blew, when they were all high-fiving and laughing and collapsing onto the benches, Paige didn’t even care about the score.

She only cared about the way Azzi smiled at her across the gym — tired, happy, radiant.

Like maybe —

just maybe —

She felt it too.

It was past midnight when Paige finally collapsed onto her bed.

The whole dorm was quiet, except for the faint hum of someone’s music two floors down and the occasional soft whir of the hallway fan.

Practice had drained her.

Her legs ached.

Her shoulders were sore.

She still had the taste of sweat and Gatorade lingering in her mouth.

But even exhausted, even half-dead, Paige couldn’t shut her brain off.

She rolled onto her back, staring up at the dark ceiling.

All she could think about was the scrimmage.

The way it had felt — too easy, too perfect — like she and Azzi were orbiting the same sun and didn’t even realize it.

The way Azzi had looked at her when they sat on the bench, their knees brushing.

The way Azzi’s hand had felt in hers.

Paige bit her lip, hard enough to sting.

She should sleep.

She needed to sleep.

But her phone was burning a hole in the blanket next to her, demanding her attention.

She gave in.

Without even thinking, her thumb hovered over Azzi’s name in her contacts — a new addition, added only two days ago, but already feeling like it had been there forever.

For a second, she hesitated.

Was it stupid to text her?

It was late.

Azzi was probably asleep.

Or — worse — Azzi would think she was weird for texting.

Paige squeezed her eyes shut, breathing out slowly.

Then she opened them and typed:

Paige: You up?

Immediately, her stomach twisted into knots.

God, she was pathetic.

She flung her arm over her face, half-hiding from the screen.

Three minutes passed.

Then four.

She was about to give up when her phone vibrated softly against her stomach.

Azzi: Yeah

Azzi: can’t sleep

Paige exhaled, a laugh catching in her throat.

She propped herself up on one elbow, thumbs moving almost before she could think.

Paige: Me either

Paige: too wired from practice

There was a pause — maybe thirty seconds — but it felt longer.

Then:

Azzi: You carried us today

Azzi: not gonna lie

Paige grinned into the darkness.

Her fingers hovered for a second, considering.

Tease her? Joke back?

Or say what she really wanted to say?

For once, she chose honesty.

Paige: nah

Paige: We were just in sync

The little “typing” dots appeared immediately.

Then disappeared.

Then appeared again.

Paige watched them, heart thudding.

Finally:

Azzi: it felt different

Azzi: with you

Paige’s breath caught.

She sat all the way up in bed now, blankets pooling around her waist, staring at the glowing screen like it might catch fire.

Slowly, carefully, she typed:

Paige: Differentt good?

Azzi’s reply came fast, almost like she hadn’t even had to think:

Azzi: best i’ve felt playing in a long time

Azzi: with anyone

Paige pressed a hand to her chest like she could physically calm the pounding inside it.

She didn’t know what to say.

Her fingers itched to type something huge, something reckless — me too, iI can’tstop thinking about you, I don’t know what’s happening, but I don’t want it to stop.

But she couldn’t.

Not yet.

Instead, she sent:

Paige: same

Simple.

Safe.

But she hoped Azzi could read the weight behind it.

The conversation drifted after that.

They talked about dumb stuff — the worst cafeteria meals, the weird kid in their English class who always wore flip-flops even when it rained.

Azzi’s texts were short but funny—sharp little comments that made Paige snort out loud into the darkness.

Paige’s replies were longer, rambly, full of bad jokes, and dramatic exaggerations.

She wanted to make Azzi laugh.

She wanted to keep her talking.

She wanted to keep the thread between them alive, glowing in the dark.

Every time her phone buzzed, it felt like a secret —

Something just for them, separate from the rest of the world.

At one point, Azzi sent:

Azzi: You’re easy to talk to

It wasn’t a huge thing.

It was just a sentence.

But it stopped Paige cold.

Because it wasn’t just about basketball anymore.

It wasn’t about passing or shooting or syncing up on the court.

It was this.

It was how, somehow, in a place full of strangers and pressure and noise, Paige felt more like herself around Azzi than she had in months.

Maybe longer.

Paige stared at the words for a long time before answering.

Finally, she sent:

Paige: You are too

Paige: feels like I’ve known you longer than a week

There was a longer pause this time.

Almost a minute.

Paige’s throat went tight.

Had she gone too far?

But then her phone vibrated again.

Azzi: Yeah

Azzi: Me too

Paige set her phone down on the blanket next to her, breathing out a shaky laugh.

She didn’t know what this was yet.

She didn’t know where it was going.

But lying there in the dark, heart full and buzzing, she knew one thing for sure:

She wanted more.

The hallway was still half-asleep when Paige cracked open her door the next morning.

Muted gray light filtered in through the narrow dorm windows, pooling across the scuffed tile floors.

Someone’s alarm was buzzing faintly from three rooms down, and the air smelled faintly of burnt toast from the communal kitchen.

Paige rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand, yawning as she stepped into the hall in her baggy hoodie, shorts, and worn-out slides.

She hadn’t meant to get up this early.

She hadn’t even set an alarm.

But sleep had been impossible after the way her phone had buzzed all night, after the way Azzi’s words had wrapped around her like a second skin she couldn’t shake off.

It was dangerous; she knew that.

Letting herself feel this much already.

But it was like trying to fight gravity.

Useless.

Her brain said Slow down.

Her heart said, Go.

Paige shoved her hands into her hoodie pocket and wandered toward the kitchen, determined to find the worst coffee possible and maybe salvage her brain before morning lift.

She turned the corner —

And almost crashed straight into her.

Azzi.

Barefoot, hair still damp from a quick shower, wearing nothing but an oversized UConn sweatshirt that hit mid-thigh.

For a second, they just stared at each other.

Paige’s brain blanked out like a dead TV screen.

Azzi’s lips parted slightly, as if she might say something, but no words came out.

The silence between them pulsed.

Thick.

Heavy.

Crackling.

Paige felt heat crawl up the back of her neck.

God, she was staring.

Hard.

But how could she not?

Azzi looked unfairly good.

Like she’d rolled out of bed and accidentally invented a new kind of breathtaking.

Paige opened her mouth, ready to throw out some dumb joke — save herself, kill the tension — but nothing came out.

Azzi beat her to it, voice soft and rough with sleep:

“Hey.”

Paige’s heart punched the inside of her ribs.

“Hey,” she croaked back.

Real smooth, Bueckers.

Real cool.

They stood there awkwardly for another beat, neither making a move.

Paige was acutely aware of every single detail:

The faint steam rising from Azzi’s cup of tea,

the way her bare legs shifted slightly on the cold tile,

The sleepy squint of her eyes, like she was still half in some dream, Paige desperately wanted to know.

Finally, Azzi stepped sideways, letting Paige pass.

Their shoulders brushed.

Bare skin on bare skin.

The touch was barely there — a whisper.

But Paige felt it like a brand.

The whole side of her body lit up, heat rushing under her skin, nerves sparking awake.

She stumbled slightly, catching herself with a hand against the wall.

Azzi turned, a tiny smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

“You okay?” she teased, voice still soft.

Paige nodded too fast.

“Yeah. Totally. Good. Solid.”

Azzi’s smile widened just a fraction, but she said nothing, cradling her tea between both hands like she could pretend she hadn’t noticed Paige nearly face-planting over nothing.

Paige darted into the kitchen like a coward, heart hammering.

She busied herself banging cabinets, pretending to look for a clean mug, trying not to think about how her whole body was still buzzing from that half-second touch.

Behind her, she heard Azzi’s soft steps retreating back down the hall.

Paige dared a glance over her shoulder.

Azzi looked back once — just once — before disappearing around the corner.

A glance that lingered.

Longer than necessary.

Long enough to make Paige’s stomach flip.

When she was gone, Paige let herself sag against the counter, gripping the edge until her knuckles turned white.

This is bad, she thought wildly.

This is so bad.

But even as she thought it, a grin tugged at her mouth.

A grin she couldn’t— and didn’t want to — fight off.

Because somewhere deep in her chest, deeper than fear or panic or logic, something was unfurling.

Something warm.

Something terrifying.

Something right.

#paige bueckers #uconn wbb #dallas wings #pazzi #paige buckets

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hoshinasblade · 1 year ago

Text

second best |1| hoshina soshiro

PART 1 | PART 2 | BONUS: PART THREE

DISCLAIMER: this fic has a detail that hasn't been mentioned in the anime yet. it isn't a big give-away but if you are sensitive about that kind of thing, please do not proceed. pairing: hoshina soshiro x f!reader genre: slight angst, comfort, childhood friends to lovers, a bit of that miscommunication trope snippet: hoshina soshiro always ranks second at everything in his life. god forbid he falls behind in the bid for your heart too. word count: 3K trigger warnings: author's note: this fic has two parts - part 2 will be posted a week from today :) likes, replies, and reblogs are always appreciated but please do not repost or steal my writings. this is quite long, but i gotta make you guys work for it. i have also set up a taglist for the second part and the other fics or drabbles, please sign up if you wanna be tagged! as always, feel free to let me know what you think or give me a prompt by sending me an ask here!

hoshina soshiro can claim with extreme conviction that he rarely regrets the decisions he has made so far in his life.

from the time he has set his sights on taking the aptitude exam necessary to be recruited in the anti-kaiju defense force, to following captain ashiro mina to support her as the vice-captain of the third division, to religiously adhering to his daily routine of working out even during his off days so he can stay in peak condition - everything he's done is driven by soshiro's lone motivation: to rise and come on top.

unfortunately, as he sees you walking in the hallway of the training building with his brother, soshiro realises that this is one of those rare occurrences where he hopes he gets a do-over.

it was barely 6 in the afternoon so there was still light from outside; the rays of the setting sun penetrating the transparent windowpanes cast an orange glow to the furniture in soshiro's office. it made him remember how he used to always be assigned as the student to clean the classroom back in junior high school: he would sweep first then rearrange the chairs before closing the windows and drawing down the curtains. he would rush up to the rooftop, in time to watch the sun dip below the horizon. he would stay for a few precious minutes, dreaming of a chance to get out of their town. he was fifteen then.

soshiro shook his head a bit. he decided that today - of all days - will not be when he will have a trip down memory lane. yes, despite the number of times he would get reminded of his past today, he refuses to get sidetracked.

the floor is eerily silent, save for the momentary opening and closing of doors; soshiro is aware that almost everyone has left, flocking to the local izakaya not too far from the base to celebrate. he had half the mind to prompt himself to hurry up in order to make it to the get-together on time. the long and gruelling application process took three months before the vetting could begin, but finally, the third division of japan anti-kaiju defense force honoured its new officers that morning. as the nominated head of the selection committee, he oversaw the entire thing, and at the end, he could not help but to feel confident that their force would become stronger from here - this year their roster of applicants boasts high-profile names like that of the very daughter of jakdf's director general and the young master of the prestigious izumo family.

okonogi, sitting in front of him at his office, was sorting the personal forms of the recruits, a big stapler in her right hand. "i can take care of this, vice-captain", she said to him, "they cannot miss you there."

soshiro smupled to his swivel chair, obviously fatigued by the task he and okonogi had been trying to finish for half an hour already. fighting and defeating kaiju is the main part of the job, but handling the paperwork proves to be as challenging. "right, make sure the headquarters get this by the morning along with the report of all their numbers -" the sound of footsteps nearby interrupted soshiro's train of thought.

there were three loud knocks and the door opened, a man with the same eyes as soshiro peeping inside. even okonogi glanced over her shoulder to identify who the intruder is. soshiro stood up.

"just wanted ta drop by before i head back ta himeji", hoshina soichiro's undeniable accent dripped. spotting the huge pile of forms littering the desk, he commented, "seems like ya are a little preoccupied though."

"hoshina fuku taichou, good evening." your voice was firm yet jovial as you greeted him, the kansai inflection rolling off your tongue. you appeared beside soshiro's brother, still wearing the same standard-issue uniform you wore during the event several hours ago when you were sworn in as a new defense force officer. the outfit is snug on you - soshiro had noticed at the ceremony earlier, but up close the top looked almost skintight, the skirt coming up a little above your knees. soshiro can be a high-ranking official within the force, but he is also a man. if only briefly, he stared. "aren't ya going ta the party?"

taken aback that you would drop by his office, it was out of his mouth too fast he couldn't stop it - "how about ya? what are you still doing here with him?" soshiro responded pointedly at you, throwing you the same query but not answering what you asked him. it was too late to take it back; he sounded like he was interrogating you about your presence with the captain of the sixth division. soichiro winced; soshiro pretended not to see. "i- i was just thinking ya went with the officers on the way there", he added, calmer this time.

"oh, i was just catching up with hoshina-kun", you replied without missing a beat. soshiro doesn't know if the accidental force in his question just seconds prior did not intimidate you at all or you simply ignored his tone. "i mean with soichiro-kun. considering ya are hoshina too", you chuckled. soshiro stole a glance at the man at your side while maintaining an empty expression. he found his brother smirking at him; soshiro willed himself not to picture soichiro as an ugly kaiju with a butt for a face.

okonogi who is now attentively eavesdropping on your conversation caught your attention. "pardon for the bother, hoshina-san. we'll be off now."

for an instant, it looked like you were waiting for soshiro to say something in response. to say what, he doesn't know. the eye contact between you and him held up for a moment but broke as quick as it began. tension prickled in the air briefly then ebbed as you turned away from soshiro. "i'll see ya at the party, vice-captain", you gave him a bow before exiting the room. soshiro wanted to stop you; he didn't.

soichiro sighed. "it was nice seeing ya, 'lil bro", he addressed soshiro, his hand patting the latter's shoulder once, twice. "i have paperwork ta worry about too so as much as i'd like to, i won't be able ta attend your division's party. just in case ya want ta know." soshiro didn't look like he had a crumb of interest to know about his brother's occupational responsibilities; he shrugged soichiro's hand off.

soshiro saw you standing outside, leaning on the wall, when he ushered his brother out. "i'll be driving her to the izakaya though", soichiro informed him. "ya should visit our folks when ya have the time. ya should come home sometimes", soichiro continued, a hint of concern evident in his voice. when soshiro did not respond, surprisingly the older hoshina did not look a tiny bit disappointed. instead, soichiro put on a charming smile and waved at okonogi. "okonogi-chan, see ya around!" he tossed a playful wink at her.

soshiro merely watched as you and soichiro walked together, your pace matching his. a few meters away, he saw you listening intently to something soichiro was saying - he is too close - and although he is not within earshot to hear what is being said anymore, he knows it is another one of his brother's bad jokes. it looks like you were trying to suppress it, but a smile was about to dawn on your lips. soshiro felt sick to his stomach all of a sudden.

the party was already in full swing when soshiro arrived - everyone is hungrily feasting on the expensive wagyu beef, drinks flowing endlessly from the bar. everyone is enjoying themselves; even captain ashiro mina can be seen having small talk with the newly sworn-in officers who were eagerly taking notes from her.

you had easily made friends with the other rookies who are now sitting next to you; it was thanks to your group that this event was planned - after enduring long sessions of strenuous physical training every day of every week, you all deserved a night of everyone just gathering to have a good time. soshiro seems to be exempt from the festive atmosphere though.

he picked the seat next to his captain, who greeted him with a curt nod. he proceeded to grab the mug of beer served to him; the first sip registered a sharp bitterness through his mouth but soshiro relished on the flavor as it overtook his senses.

"everything alright?" captain ashiro from his side asked without lifting her gaze from her own drink. "you are being -" she paused, carefully searching to find the right words, “uncharacteristically quiet.”

soshiro picked the glass of beer again, and when he was about to put the lid on his lips, he could sense someone’s intense stare locked on him. years of being the vice-captain gifted him with equal parts instinct and paranoia so he could not help but scan the room, only to find you, sitting across the room, watching him with a curious expression.

a rowdy group of rookies surrounds you; they are high-fiving each other, laughing at their silly pranks, not minding that all of you are squeezed together at a crowded circle. soft music in the background swelled as everyone cheered and clinked glasses.

soshiro's eyes remained fixed on yours, lasting for what he felt like forever. the buzz of chatter dulled to a distant hum, fading into an almost white noise. his heart raced as he felt his breath catch and his mouth go dry. the corner of your lips curved into a smile and maybe it is the alcohol in his system, but he is certain his cheeks are flushed now.

"huh", captain ashiro lowly exclaimed. soshiro quickly snapped a glance at her. "you talked to her yet?" she asked him. ah, she caught his little moment with you.

soshiro was on the verge of playing it cool and putting on an act; he was about to outright lie to his captain by saying "talk to who?" as if he had no idea what she was referring to. he settled with silence. he was grateful his non-response only earned him a sigh from the captain who did not press the topic any further.

"to you newbies, congratulations!" captain ashiro raised her glass, still half-filled with alcohol. her voice rang out over the place, everyone's conversations immediately falling quiet. "may the third division always be victorious in our battles to come", she recapped her speech.

the party showed no signs of slowing down. hibino kafka, a recruit in his thirties has been the centre of intrigue that has spanned for weeks now. hibino ossan - as what the others nicknamed him - had revealed in a bathroom conversation with other male rookies that he grew up with captain ashiro. ashiro mina likes dried squid; ashiro mina used to raise pets in grade school - everyone consumed any and every tidbit of trivia hibino disclosed about the usually stoic and serious third division commander. soshiro was among those invested in the rumor and you knew why. for a while, you also wondered how he would react once the rest of the troops learned about your own past with their vice-captain. would he deny it? or would he brush off any potential gossip that may arise from the revelation? if everyone discovered your shared history with hoshina soshiro, would it make him want to reconnect with you?

“you lot will start duty monday next week, but tomorrow will just be another workday for vice-captain hoshina and i”, captain ashiro said, having stood up from her seat, preparing to take off. “no, you can stay”, she said to some of the newbies who have started to get up too.

“nah, captain, why don’t we bring them along to help us file all the tedious paperwork?”, soshiro interjected in his familiar upbeat tone. the crew bursted into snickers; captain ashiro gave soshiro a perplexed look, obviously puzzled about the sudden shift in his mood. testing her theory, she looked at your direction.

captain ashiro couldn't make out why, but you were giggling at whatever your seatmate had said, elegant hand covering your mouth, eyes crinkled. she understood soshiro then - she was not foreign to feeling uneasy inside when she sees someone so physically near someone she cares about after all. "let's go, hoshina", she tucked her pity for the vice-captain away.

"do you guys think they are dating?" a particularly tactless rookie sitting at your table had asked immediately after captain ashiro and hoshina were out the sliding doors.

"i bet they're not", you blurted out a little too soon, a little too sure. you did not mind clipping your accent, your kansai-ben thick and heavy. your fellow officers looked at you, expecting an explanation for your outburst. "i mean -" you stuttered, "that would be awkward, i guess."

"you know to think of it, you're from himeji too, right?" a few more recruits have started to listen in on the exchange. these people can smell the truth off me, you thought. you wanted to smack yourself in the face.

"we went ta the same high school together, that's all", you admitted, feeling backed in a corner. tomorrow when you get questioned for this imprudent behavior, you can probably blame it all on the alcohol. "and grade school", you continued, loose-lipped now.

you still liked wearing pink bows in your hair when you met him. an only child of kind parents, you never experienced having to ask for something you like; you were doted on and spoiled so you were reasonably upset when a young hoshina soshiro did not give you the time of his day. your family has just moved to hyogo shortly before that, and you were anxious to make friends; since your early age, you had made it your mission to make soshiro acknowledge you.

"you dun wanna play with me, because ya are stupid", you told soshiro-kun once. "oka-san said all boys are stupid", you had the nerve to elaborate after he pouted at you, his unkempt bangs sticking on his sweaty forehead, his clothes dirty from training all day.

"yer pretty", he responded and you felt the blush crept up on your cheeks. "pretty annoying."

"come on, spill some tea!" someone's palm connected with the table, jolting you out of your trance. "we have another hibino-senpai situation on our hands!" they declared, grabbing you by the arm and shaking you a bit. if it was meant to encourage you to tell more childhood tales between you and the vice-captain, it worked really, really well.

"he's always had that haircut even as a kid", you said, misinterpreting the kind of story your companions wanted you to tell, judging by their disappointed looks. “i- i don’t know what else to tell you guys”, you held up your hand in surrender.

“do you have a crush on him?” you choked on your drink, caught off guard.

vexed at his absent-mindedness, soshiro was walking back to the izakaya place alone when he heard the commotion. he is going straight to bed once he gets back to the base, but he would have to retrieve his uniform jacket first from his seat earlier.

“you totally do, don’t you!” it stopped sounding like a question and more of an accusation you could not deny. “you like hoshina-san!”

“i -i do, yes... but what of it, huh?" he couldn’t see you but he would recognize the soft timbre of your voice anywhere. soshiro felt like a victorian gentleman getting a glimpse of a woman’s ankle for the first time listening in on the uproar of cheers after your confession.

“the three of us attended the same high school, soichiro-kun was a grade ahead”, you said. soshiro froze. you are talking about his brother. “he has always been good at everything, t'was hard not ta like him.”

soshiro closed his eyes, attempting to steady his breathing. he always had his suspicions - for the ceremony earlier his brother even took a day off his busy schedule as the commander of the sixth division to attend as a guest. he should have known.

last year, soshiro’s squad fought a lizard-type kaiju with a fortitude of above 8. like the reptile, a cut made on any of its limbs was useless due to advanced regeneration. a fractured rib, extremely bruised arms, and a dislocated shoulder were what it costed soshiro to win against the monster. his bitterness threatening to consume him, he cannot believe that you confirming his worst fears would hurt more than that fatal experience.

of course, he said to himself. it’s not like he can fault you for liking soichiro - everyone did. as the firstborn son, their father always had favored him. soichiro has been the more skilled swordsman between them; he was the golden child, charismatic and talented with an effortless charm - like moths to a flame he would attract people, and even in his silence he would overshadow soshiro.

soshiro didn’t stand a chance against his own flesh and blood.

he was a teenager when he dreamed of running away from the constant but inevitable competition he had with his brother. scouted for the third division, he relished on the freedom. but how do you escape the reality of the one you love loving the one person you could never measure up to?

#hoshina soshiro x reader #soshiro hoshina x reader #hoshina soshiro #soshiro hoshina #hoshina x reader #kaijuu 8 gou #kaiju no. 8 #kn8 x reader #kaiju #hoshina #dont worry guys #i will make them kiss in the end #hoshina soshiro fic

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kivino · 2 years ago

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BIG GUY || SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY X GN!READER

my masterlist

ao3 link to this fic

Word counter – ~1,8k

Tags/Warnings – Fluff, a bit of miscommunication and jealousy, nothing much.

Summary – Ghost takes a liking to the nickname you give him, but struggles to understand just how much he likes it.

A/n – I’m still struggling with my school projects so wish me luck, I made this instead of making a video for my language class lmao, enjoy! i’ll add the ao3 link a bit later.

upd. link added for ao3 enjoyers!

It didn't miss anybody, the way Ghost seemed more easygoing and light-hearted on certain days, letting recruits get away with a bit more than usual. Coincidentally, it was right after various interactions with you, be it training or sparring together, doing reports, moving some shit around the base, or just hanging out in the common room. Nobody could just figure out what it was about your interactions that lifted Simon’s spirits so high, which was notoriously hard, courtesy of how gloomy or menacing the man usually appeared. But the answer was quite simple, really.

“Thanks, big guy. Always a huge help.” Simon catches your small smile as you pat him on the shoulder and nods, barely containing his joy, he’d hate to make it too obvious. He was wearing a balaclava after all, and the smallest stretch of the fabric on his cheeks and around his mouth could easily give away how joy spread itself in his chest at the affectionate nickname.

Big guy. Big guy. Your big guy.

Nickname reserved only for him, exclusively from you. Of course, Ghost knew he’d be larger than your average soldier, and that regularly got acknowledged by others, but something about you calling him like this made it different. That pleasant warmth inside, which reminded him of the sun, or that stupid fluttering in his stomach, was…unusual to say the least. It made his mood better almost instantly, an interaction he eagerly, but silently looked forward to each day. Something about you calling him a big guy made his head spin, swimming in the endless clouds. Something Ghost hasn't felt in a long time and didn’t think he’d ever experience.

It was easy to let down his guard around you, you stripped him of the metaphorical armor just like this, with an effortless joke and that godforsaken pet name thrown in somewhere in the conversation. And just like that - Ghost’s low laugh rumbled in unison with yours, heart missing a beat when he looked into your eyes that sparkled with something unknown and captivating. It felt…good. New. And so fucking warm, Ghost felt like he was about to suffocate.

You were the newbie, your reputation preceded you but Ghost didn’t pay much attention to all the rumors swirling around on the base, like some suspicious soup in a boiling pot. He had better things to do. Like following you similarly to a lost puppy, maybe staring intently right at you with his huge brown eyes, if he was feeling brave. Or lingering somewhere around, just to make sure you’re adjusting alright. After all, all of you soldiers have to look out for each other, right? Right. Definitely.

It felt good to finally be able to just laugh and play around with someone, who didn’t seem scared shitless by his presence, mask and, well…everything about him, that seemingly drove people away. Not that he didn’t understand the reasoning for that – quite on the contrary. But you were probably just built differently, drawn to the weird, unappealing, and scary. Maybe Ghost should feel lucky that you were like that. And truth be told, he did. He liked it and he liked you.

Ghost could only hope that he lightened up the things for you the way you did for him. To ask and dig deeper would probably be too much, Simon could still feel that caution and tremble at the mere thought of trying to grow closer to you and spend even more time together. Like he’ll put a curse on you the moment he decides to open up a bit more and show you at least some inner workings of his mind on a more intimate level than just some stupid puns, or gossip and discussions about the way you spent your day. Although they were certainly pleasant, with you giving him a subtle, understanding smile from across the table, while steam from your coffee mug made it seem so domestic and wholesome like Ghost was in a dream. So, Ghost kept what little distance he could, despite his wishes, and hoped that you take your time and be patient with him.

That is until he overheard something that startled him, to say the least.

“Well, your jokes are a bit too much for me, big guy.” You say, letting out a clear, loud laugh, as you patted Soap’s chest. Scotsman straightened up almost immediately in front of you, a proud toothy smile beaming on his face. Now Ghost felt like he just got punched in the gut, for some reason. Annoyed and on edge in a split second. But why? He truly couldn’t seem to pin down the reason for the surge of anger and something bitter in his chest, bubbling right under his skin.

It was probably nothing worth his attention. Just something weird with his body, exhaustion from the training, muscle cramps...or whatever it could be. In any case, running headfirst into dissecting his mind for something so small and minuscule? Ridiculous, really. Completely unnecessary. Of course, Simon knew that both you and Johnny weren’t saints, two rascals more like, but he had no obvious reason to feel this bitter stinging inside of him, that slithered and slipped around, followed by tightening of his throat and bobbing of his Adam’s apple. He swallowed loudly, trying to wash down that gross aftertaste on his tongue hours after he saw that interaction. And the fact that he couldn’t get it out of his head was telling enough, that he was, in fact, bothered by something.

So, Simon decided to do what he did best. Bottle it up. But then it just kept sitting in his head, that nasty feeling still eating him from the inside out. It didn’t help that he started seeing you talking with Johnny more often, while Simon unintentionally avoided you, still buried deep in his thoughts and contemplations about what caused him to feel the way he did. Of course, he couldn’t help but eavesdrop. And there you were. Laughing with him. Calling him “big guy”. Again. This only caused Simon to become more cranky and unfriendly, taking his frustrations out on poor privates who’ve never ran so many laps in their entire lives.

The only people Ghost was outright cruel and merciless to were his enemies. He wasn’t the friendliest guy, of course, but everyone noticed when the lieutenant who usually would crack jokes and dumb puns at the expense of others at most suddenly started to get annoyed at smaller mistakes more, using harsher words and overall look like he was down in the dumps. Nobody dared to talk about the subject though, so Ghost was left terrorizing the privates and recruits, having lunches in his office and avoiding areas where he knew you’d be at certain times of the day from your long talks before. Which, of course, didn’t help him to understand what was wrong at all.

So, all Ghost was left with were his own thoughts. He didn’t feel jealous of you interacting with other people before. You were never his, so he had no right for that at all. But there had to be something else that pushed Simon to where he was now, tired, unsatisfied, and craving at least a passing smile and a short “Hey there” from you. So that the two of you could sit down somewhere together, and you’d talk about some irrelevant nonsense, and then you’d open your mouth again and call him “big guy”. It didn’t feel fair that Johnny got to be called that. It was Simon’s nickname. From you. Wait-wait-wait, hold on a second.

The sudden revelation as to why exactly Ghost was feeling that way when he saw you talk with the sergeant hit him like a damn bus. Fuck, that is childish. Weird. God, Simon feels like a damn creep. Getting upset because of a damn nickname, way to fucking go, you oaf. This felt confusing. Irrational. Absolutely fucking stupid. To think that something that simple threw him off so easily. That’s human relationships for you. Now it felt like he needed even more time. Not to make it complicated. Not to hurt you and himself.

Regardless of his wishes, he didn’t have any more time to think when he was soon approached by you, a concerned frown adorning your face, along with a look full of sympathy and understanding. Ghost already dreaded the conversation that hadn’t even begun. And he wasn’t even the one reaching out first. Which makes it even more embarrassing.

“Hey, Simon. I have something I want to talk about with you.” You, bless your heart, probably thought something terrible happened in Simon's life when in reality he was just running away from you and his feelings like a whole wildfire was chasing him. The only correlation he could think of is dumb teenagers, which is…remotely fitting with his recent behavior. “I’ve noticed you’ve been kind of…avoiding me? Did something happen, or am I just overthinking everything?”

“It’s stupid, really. Nothing you should be worrying yourself about.” Ghost blurts out before he can even think. Great, now he can only tell you the whole truth, without the options to back out or lie. But it was truly so unusual for him because Simon never expected to get attached to a nickname and to you.

“Well, let’s hear you out. I won’t judge.” Again, with your perfect reassuring smile and your calming presence. Simon lets out a deep sigh, his throat itching from what is about to ensue. He knew he was going to embarrass himself, but he just couldn’t bring himself to lie. Which would’ve been so much easier, instead of baring his true feelings in front of you.

“Well, your nickname for me…You know what I’m talking about.” Simon’s tone is deep and gruff as he tries to conceal that uncertainty in his voice. You appear to be listening attentively, your eyes trained on him, head slightly tilted to the side, which makes his heart melt. You give him a confident nod at the mention of the nickname, and Ghost continues. “I want you to call only me like that. And I mean, only me” He can see your eyebrow rising, your expression more teasing than questioning. There we go, now you’re going to mock him or laugh at him. Just perfect.

“Sure thing, big guy.” A shudder runs down Simon’s spine from your words, a sweet, saccharine feeling immediately blossoming in his chest. Oh, he had no words to describe how hard he missed it. All his worries lifted immediately. You didn’t find it weird. In fact, from what Ghost could tell by your satisfied expression, it was quite the opposite of the reaction Simon initially expected. Which was extremely relieving. He would hate to lose your intriguing relationship to the miscommunication of his own making. “Could’ve just said that you wanted it reserved just for you.”

Oh, it wasn’t just the nickname that did it to him. But it’s a bit too early to tell you that.

check out my masterlist for more fics or send me a request/comment!

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qwimblenorrisstan · 10 months ago

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COD:MW Masterlist

🥀 = Angst 🌼 = Fluff

🌸 = Comfort 🌹 = Smut

Request Guidelines

Task Force 141 (Includes all group ships)

~ A Smoke For 3 | Price x Reader x Gaz 🌹🌹

Summary: You, a new and bold recruit, decide to inform Price that smoking is bad for him, and he and Gaz proceed to figure out that smoking is also very bad for you after they tag-team you.

~ Cuddles with 141 (+Roach!) 🌼🌸

Summary: How I think Price, Gaz, Soap, Ghost and Roach would cuddle + little blurbs.

~ Held | Ghost x Price 🥀🌸

Summary: While on leave, Simon can’t seem to get to sleep properly, and Price knows just the thing to help.

~ Trophy | 141 x Reader 🥀🌸

Summary: When the MacTavish Clan raids a neighboring clan who grew a bit too bold, they don’t expect to find the feisty, beaten wife of the other clan’s chief.

~ Replacement | 141 x Reader 🥀🌸

Summary: After Soap is injured in the field, you, a replacement alpha, are added to the 141 as a replacement. However, after months of neglect, you have a breakdown, and they have to confront their actions and treat you right. (Omegaverse | a/b/o)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Platonic!141

~ Undying Stupidity 🌼

Summary: After raiding a strange facility, 141 takes you back to base with them, where they interrogate you, and after shooting you in the head, quickly discover that you’re an immortal.

~ ParkRanger!Reader &/x Reader Hc’s🌼

Summary: You, a park ranger, discover that your group of oddly friendly animal friends might not be what you originally thought they were.

~ Found | 141 & Reader 🥀🌼🌸

Summary: When you’re introduced to your new foster parents, a bear hybrid, harpy, werewolf and wraith, four big scary men, you’re not sure about how things are going to turn out. Your first day with them turns out more okay than you expected.

Intro | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish

~ Surprise | Soap x Reader🥀🌼

Summary: After a mission that they barely survived, Ghost leads the team to a safe place to stay, his half-sister’s apartment.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

~ The Bet | Soap x Reader 🌹🌹

Summary: After a drunken bet Johnny didn’t think you’d take seriously, he ends up beneath you in bed, figuring out just how literally you took it.

John Price

~ Lesson Learnt | John Price x Reader 🥀🌸

Summary: Your good-for-nothing boyfriend won’t help you change out your flat tire in the cold, soaking rain, but luckily someone else comes along to assist, and teaches your boyfriend a lesson while he’s at it.

Part 1 | Part 2

~ Forgive Me | John Price x Reader 🥀🌸🌹

Summary: After a rough day, Price gets home and accidentally raises his voice at you, leading to plenty of apologies, and making up for his mistake.

~ Five More Minutes | John Price x Reader 🌼🌹

Summary: Your stubborn boyfriend is working at home late into the night, and you’re missing him, so why not let him work while he makes up for being absent?

~ Just Surviving | StepDad!Price & Reader 🥀🌸

Summary: Price’s relationship with you, his wife’s daughter from another partner, isn’t the greatest, but he’s willing to try, and after a rough day at school, it seems he’s got a chance.

Simon “Ghost” Riley

~ Pent Up | Ghost x M!Reader 🌹🌼🌹

Summary: Simon comes home from a mission pent up and missing his boyfriend.

~ Perspective | Ghost x Reader 🥀🌸🌹

Summary: Simon Riley has always thought of himself as broken and undeserving of you, but you’re always there to quiet his intrusive thoughts.

~ Regrets | Ghost x Reader 🌹🥀🌸

Summary: After a rough night, Simon treats you a bit too roughly, and tries to make it up to you.

~ Rediscovered | CBF! 09’ Ghost x/& Reader 🌸🌼

Summary: After meeting in elementary school, you and Simon hit it off, becoming best friends before miscommunications leads you two to lose contact for years, before meeting again at an airport.

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

~ Stains | Gaz x Reader 🌸🌸

Summary: After the worst day possible, Kyle is there to comfort you with all of your favorite things.

~ Perfect | Gaz x Reader 🌼🌹

Summary: After you and Kyle’s lovely wedding, you can’t help but find yourself a bit nervous for your first time, luckily, your husband is there to reassure you.

~ Spared | Gaz x Reader 🥀🌸

Summary: After your good-for-nothing husband abandons you in the face of danger, Kyle takes matters into his own hands.

~ Honored | Gaz x Reader 🌹🌹

Summary: Gaz learns quickly that you, a new member of their team, don’t take well to his sarcasm, and he has a devastating run-in with ‘attitude readjustment’.

Gary “Roach” Sanderson

~ Leaf Pile | Roach x/& Reader 🌼

Summary: You find a very lost, mute, British soldier in your very American base, and someone had the audacity to knock over his pile of leaves.

König

~ Pumpernickel | König x Reader 🌼🌼

Summary: You wake up in the middle of the night to find your husband gone, only to discover him in the kitchen, baking…bread?

~ Bubbles | König x Reader 🌼🌼

Summary: When Task Force 141 joins together with KorTac for a mission, he doesn’t expect the bubbly member of the 141 to give his entire base a Christmas surprise.

~ Happy Accidents | König x Reader 🌸🌼

Summary: König has always had trouble feeling safe and secure, that was until he accidentally stumbled into your apartment late at night.

Other

~ Stitching Us Together 🥀🌸🌼

Summary: Brianna Riley, Charlotte Garrick, Isla MacTavish and John Price Jr, a close group of childhood friends, investigate a strange shadowy figure that had been poking around Isla’s front yard with a flashlight, leading to a plot larger than they could’ve imagined.

Part 1 | Part 2

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ppyopulii · 1 day ago

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🎸 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!

#milestone: 100 collab #svt100collab #svthub #seventeen #seventeen x reader #lee jihoon x reader #woozi x reader #lee jihoon smut #woozi smut #seventeen imagines #lee jihoon imagines #woozi imagines #seventeen fluff #lee jihoon fluff #woozi fluff #🎶 ppyopulii’s discography

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