#this is the greatest joke in the whole show | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

forlix · 8 months

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𝐜𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠・h.h.

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

words・11.1k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nervous?”

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

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

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

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

“Just remember who you are.”

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

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

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

“I want you to meet my parents.”

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

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

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

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

“For my newborn daughter.”

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

“My genes, to begin with.”

“That’s unfair. She’s using—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The doors slide shut; the floor numbers tick upwards.

“What was her name again?” Hyunjin asks.

“Y/N,” Seojun returns. “Y/L/N.”

“Is she here already?”

“No, she’ll be here at nine.”

There’s a small pause.

“Hyung.”

“Hm?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She reminds me of him.

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

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

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

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

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

“Absolutely the hell not.”

Then, it is 9:00.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re too kind—I’m excited too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too bad you never let him daydream for long.

“Close.”

“Huh?”

“Your eyes. Close them.”

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

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

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

“Thank you,” you reply, completely earnestly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No notes.”

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

“I’ll see you after the show, then.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You have any jewelry for me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In this inebriated state, he makes a venturesome decision.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“About you? Damn straight.”

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

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

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

“Hwang—” You begin.

“Hyung!”

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

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

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

You’re flustered.

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

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

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

“Ah.”

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

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

“I’m okay, thank you,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t hold your breath,” you reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Me neither, now that you mention it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ll see.”

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

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

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

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

And understanding seeps over her features like poured tea.

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

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

“Don’t think, Haeun. Just speak.”

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

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

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

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

Right there.

She cuts herself off, reaching the same conclusion.

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

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

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

“You’re brilliant, you know that?”

“I do, but I appreciate the reminder.”

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

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

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

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

Artistry.

“No,” you reply. “Not all of them.”

And where better to find inspiration than inspiration himself?

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

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

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

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

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

You’re annoyed before he says a word.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wha—what’s wrong with YOU?!”

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

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

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

But what if she’s not hallucinating?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hyunjin does not.

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

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

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

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

“Now you.”

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

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

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

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

“That’s a joke, right?”

Hyunjin began to count off his fingers.

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

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

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

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

“—and not just because you’re hot.”

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

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

“Thank you,” you said.

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

“Idiot,” he sighed softly.

Idiot, you write, and the drawings are complete.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good night, Hyunjin. Thank you, again.

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

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

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

A soft flinch crimps his features. Oops.

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

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

Then, you start walking towards him.

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

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

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

Something’s not right.

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

“Us?” Hyunjin repeats.

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

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

Go, you mouth, and he obliges.

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

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

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

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

“Stupid,” Hyunjin whispers bitterly.

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

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

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

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

You hear the sound it makes. You fall still.

“Hyunjin?”

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

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

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

“Hello? Did you—”

“Is everything okay?”

A short pause follows his interruption.

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

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

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

“Enlighten me, then,” you say finally.

“You really don’t know?”

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

“No, that’s not—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your mind careens; your heart reels.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—and crumble.

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

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

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

Hyunjin never thinks when he fucks you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Son of a bitch—”

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

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

He’ll end up doing both.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where do you find your inspiration?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And who would that be?”

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

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

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evilminji · 3 months

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Broadway :3c

And I hear ya. (Insert spooky joke here) There is a sprawling WEB of central hubs, for The Arts. For trade. For getting drunk and having a good time. The Zone is large and it is endless. You'll NEVER reach the far end. It can never reach you.

All things, in gentle sweeping waves, across eternity.

So when folks want to have "a market" or "a movie theater" or "the waterpark"? You gotta PICK a point on the endless map. Figure if you are close or far enough away for others like it, to make it worth the effort to build.

You might even be the first to do it for GALAXIES in any direction! People might fly for WEEKS to come to your place! Move their Lairs to be closer too it. Like dust gathered by gravity, slowly creating planets and stars. A mega Lair. A CITY.

They rise, they fall, the Zone shifts all the while.

But!

Does the dead starlet stop singing? Does getting gunned down, stop the show?? I think NOT! Where is her STAGE? What musicals? What dramas? What operas and tragedies and forms unknown to human kind??! Ballet dancers who CAN defy gravity! Singers who have no NEED for air! The haunting blend of instruments, that could never in life have met! From empires long turned to ASH!

The greatest show in DEATH!

Ember was a world wide hit. Yes, her voice was hypnotic. But that could be FOUGHT. It was SKILL that carried the game. And she was hardly "I was Literally The Greatest My Planet Ever Produced" skilled. She was good, great even. Not "I was Born For Greatness" Excellence.

And like?

.....eventually? Danny's gonna ask after "cultural-y" Culture stuff. Clothes and food. Music and the arts. To help his parents get used to the whole "our son is half-dead" thing. To show he's not some mindless monster now.

And? Ghostwriter? Probably an absolute legend. Does he know where you can find some CULTURE? Oh THANK ZONE! He thought you'd NEVER ask! You unsophisticated-! *fist fight in a library* Still a dick, though. Always and forever.

And just? Imagine Broadway stretched out into a floating city. That never sleeps. Never stops. Shows ever changing. Some on a cycle, some only once. Dream-like. Beautiful. Eye catching.

And yeah, Danny didn't think he LIKED musicals. It was more of a Jazz thing. But? This was important! Gotta get the whole family in the Speeder. We're going to see a play, guys! We'll pick when we get there! Family road trip! Educational! We can make notes!

His parents are trying to be supportive. Big, fixed, strained grins. Trying to pretend to be excited. But they... DO seem reluctantly intrigued? And Jazz is all but vibrating in her seat. It's basically her "before you go away to college" present. And she is THRILLED.

The longer she excitedly speculates? The more into it she gets their folks. This IS gonna be new! Exciting! Never before seen Ghost Culture! Music! As a FAMILY! Think we could find souvenirs? Ooooh, wonder if they sell CDs??!

Then? They GET there. And it's... it's like seeing the Las Vegas strip for the first time, except multiplied into a city. Made of even MORE styles and eras. At angles gravity would never allow.

The air filled with laughter and excitement, people rushing to shows or humming bits of tunes. Street stalls. Fountains. Flowers growing everywhere.

They could stay for months and not even reach a fraction of these buildings. His parents are taking countless photos. His sister squeeling with joy as she races for an information kiosk like they just arrived at Disneyland. He, at least, remembers to lock up the Speeder. Grab their day bags.

When did HE become the responsible one?

The argue over shows. Obviously. Wouldn't be Fenton's otherwise. HE wants to see the alien one. It's from mars! But it's his sister's trip, as his dad points out, so she gets to choose. She picks a musical set during the Fall of Krpton. He's... reluctantly kinda interested. I mean, EVERYBODY likes Superman, right?

It's... it's amazing. Terrible, but amazing. I mean? A coming of age story cut tragically short? Oof. Hello, massively projecting then getting FEELS about it! Yeah, sure, rip my heart out why don't you? He's fine. No, really! Just drowning in his own emotions over here. The refrain of "A Life Well Lived"? *gargling dying whale noises* he's FINE. Not grappling with anything! Go on without him!

Thankfully?

They DO sell CDs.

He... he may end up, kinda, getting a bit of a collection. Going on the weekends, hoping show to show. Wandering to whichever catches his eye in the moment. Buying the CDs for one's he likes. Which? Honestly is a lot of them. Even though there's all sorts of genres and languages. Cause it... it RESONATES you know?

The grief. The anger. The "I have died but I wasn't FINISHED. It isn't FAIR.". And? Something about ghost speak flows so BEAUTIFULLY in song? It's hard to explain. But he... he needs them.

A pair of headphones, a CD, and a clear night sky? Nothing touches it. It's like a trance made of light. Like he can just drift.

The problem? Is the CDs are kinda... Zone made? They're radioactive, for one. Nothing a Fenton CD player can't handle. But... they? Also? Kinda fuckin GLOW? Like... very, very noticeably. And not in a "ha ha, cool glow in the dark paint!" Sorta way.

.........but like FUCK is he leaving his music behind when he goes to college. Gotham will have to deal. It's already a burning shit-nado, it can handle this. Probably. He'll put um in a lead lined box. Actually, speaking OF.... he needs to get a few more of those... *goes back to packing*

Which? Is how? The Bats are treated to some of the most HAUNTING music they've ever heard, belted and crooned from Some Guy's speakers, out an open window, on the "stop for a mid-patrol drink of water and a snack" building. It's one of the intersections of their patrol routes. And THAT? That is some dude listening to a Romani ballad about death and the circus. Now it's a musical about the trenches of an obscure war.

Okay, that was DEFINITELY Kryptonian. Like... coherent Krypto- *Bruce gets a call from Clark on his "work" number DEMANDING to know where that is coming from. Who is that voice Bruce?!* huh.... Well Then.

@hdgnj @hypewinter @nerdpoe @lolottes @babbling-babull @spidori @mutable-manifestation @the-witchhunter

#dpxdc #dp x dc #dc x dp #dc x dp prompt #danny phantom #minji's writing #broadway of the Zone au #Danny's music au

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helluvapoison · 4 months

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Sing, Little Songbird

The Vees x Singer!Reader

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ

˚✧₊⁎ Valentino ⁎⁺˳✧༚

• Since it’s not something he can exploit in his line of work, Val lets himself simply enjoy your gift

• His eyes may not be great but his hearing is impeccable

• A day won’t go by without him cupping your chin and asking for a song

• “Sweet pájaro,” He purrs, “Sing for me, won’t you?”

• Jokes about putting you in a golden birdcage or having you be his alarm clock

• He likes to put a hand on your throat while you hum or sing, seemingly entranced until you stop

• Valentino will take your hands mid song and begin to dance with you

• “Keep singing,” He says firmly yet soft, as if not trying to interrupt you entirely

• He’ll tell you to learn a song for him every now and then

• Randomly, Val will have Kitty get you tea with lemon. It’s not optional, you’re drinking it

˚✧₊⁎ Velvette ⁎⁺˳✧༚

• Acts offended when she catches you singing in the shower. Perched on the counter when you pulled the curtain, she has her arms crossed and a rather peeved expression on her face

• “Why didn’t I know you could do this?”

• She scares the everloving crap out of you, you almost break your neck, “Have you been sitting there this whole time!?”

• Velvette has creative business partners, sure, but a gifted sweetheart is just another leg up in the world

• She wants to collaborate immediately. Incorporate your singing into her shows and be the “it” couple she knows the two of you can be

• Take this as a major compliment because she doesn’t like sharing credit

• —And she isn’t handing this out just because you’re dating, either! She knows talent when she sees it!

• Whether or not you take her up on her offer, Velvette loves to hear you sing

• She made a playlist of songs that remind her of your relationship, she gets giggly when she hears you singing one of them

• “I could make you famous in two minutes flat, you know.” Velvette praises when you’re finished

• “How would I get to hold you if I was always on a stage, hm? Would you be my groupie?”

• Cackling, she rolls her eyes, “As if! You’d get my autograph across your chest and dedicate every single song to me!”

• “Good thing I’m happy doing that right here,” You grin, hugging her close

˚✧₊⁎ Vox ⁎⁺˳✧༚

• Is it bad the first time he heard you singing he thought of no less than a thousand ways to put that voice to use?

• (Don’t answer that)

• Vox asked you a handful of times if you’d be the voice of Voxtech but you declined, worried it might ruin the activity entirely

• The possibility never occurred to him

• “Forget I asked! Your voice is priceless to me, anyways.”

• It doesn’t stop though! When you sing, Vox gets a plethora of ideas! Ringtones, jingles, commercials, you name it and he’s already thought of it!

• He’ll grab your shoulders, cutting off your song, lift you up for a kiss to the cheek and disappear!

• “Birdy, you’re the fucking greatest! Imagine the numbers we’d be seeing if you let me use you instead of that wannabe Mayday cunt.”

• It’s a compliment to you more than an insult to the singer (er, supposed to be anyways)

• “What happened to being priceless?” You faux pout

• “I can’t help it! You know I’m your biggest fan,” Vox purrs, coming up behind you and holding your hips, “How bout a private concert?”

• “You’re on a work high, aren’t you? Feening for some more inspiration, Voxxy?”

• “…Maybe.”

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel imagine #vox x reader #vox headcanons #vox imagine #velvette headcanons #velvette imagine #velvette headanons #valentino headcanons #valentino x reader #valentino imagine

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lemonlover1110 · 7 months

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𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤

Suguru Getou & Kento Nanami

[Chapter 1] A Very Special Birthday

Story Masterlist - Next Chapter →

Pairing: Suguru Getou x f!Reader x Kento Nanami

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi

“Mommy.” There’s someone poking your face over and over again, very early in the morning. It’s a lot of work for you to get your eyes open, but you eventually get them open to find your now three-year-old with a bright smile on her face. Her energy is infectious which causes you to smile as well. You fill up her face with kisses until she stops you, claiming, “Brush your teeth.”

“You could be nicer, Sayuri.” You respond with a chuckle. You stand up from the bed and walk to the bathroom to start your morning. You rush this morning since you want to rush to be by your baby’s side. But when you exit the bathroom, she isn’t in your room. You furrow your brows, but your eyes land on the half open door. You catch the smell of the delicious food, and you immediately know who else is joining you in the apartment.

You walk out of your room to find your daughter pulling the hem of her father’s pants. His back is to you since he’s facing the stove. He doesn’t wear anything special today even though it’s a very special day; just black jeans, and a long black sleeve shirt that’s rolled up to show off his sleeves of tattoos– And because it’s hot since he’s near a stove. You hear Suguru tell her, “Why don’t you wait by the table, princess? I’m scared you’ll get burned if you’re around here.”

“I wanna help.” She says but he’s hearing none of it. And to help out Suguru, you walk over to them and pick her up from the floor. You kiss her face over and over again.

“There’s my sweet birthday girl. How are you, honey?” You ask, and there’s a bright smile on her face. She forgets about the fact that she wants to help out her father, and remembers the fact that it’s her very special day; she’ll forget about it in a couple of minutes, but she gets so very excited when she remembers. “How does it feel to be three?”

“Good.” She answers. Suguru finally gets her breakfast off the stove and cuts it into small pieces for his precious daughter. He opens the fridge and he asks,

“You want whipped cream on your pancakes?” And she almost bursts your eardrums as she yells back a very enthusiastic yes. It’s a very special occasion, of course Suguru is going to spoil his little princess. When the sweet breakfast is ready, he sets it down on the table for her, and you put her down so she can take a seat.

You glance at it, pancakes smothered in syrup with some strawberries and blueberries on top– And of course, the whipped cream the Suguru added. You two watch as she begins to eat, and when she takes her first bite, Suguru says, “I made some pancakes for you too.”

“You better, or else I would’ve kicked you out.” You joke, although he takes the threat seriously. He did use your stove and your ingredients to make the breakfast, the very least he could do is make some for you. You prepare your plate, watching how Suguru takes a seat next to his daughter. You speak up, “Didn’t you make anything for yourself?”

“I had some breakfast with Kumi.” He answers, and your brows raise. You don’t give it much thought though, that’s his girlfriend. You just were expecting him to have breakfast with his daughter, that’s all. At the very least, he sits next to her after making her a delicious plate of food. He focuses his attention on his daughter, laughing as she makes a mess. “Is that good, princess? You seem to enjoy it.”

“Yes.” She answers with her mouth still full of food, which is something that Suguru would usually reprimand her for but he lets it slide this morning. You walk over to the table and take the other seat beside her, quietly beginning to eat.

Suguru watches his greatest gift, a subtle smile on his lips. Her birth wasn’t all that ideal since your pregnancy wasn’t planned at all but she became his whole world when he first listened to her heartbeat. You were friends with Suguru, and after he broke up with his girlfriend, he needed a rebound. You were also having some romantic problems, and it ended up in you seeking comfort in each other. Your relationship (if it can even be called that) ended a couple months after, when he got back with his girlfriend, Kumi. Your friendship practically ended because there was no way you could go back to normal after hooking up, in the end, you had no option but to go back to being friends since you were pregnant.

Your pregnancy was rather… A weird one. When you found out, your first thought was to get an abortion since you weren’t with Suguru, but when you told him the news, the man almost begged you to keep the baby. After much pondering, you decided to keep your daughter and to raise her alongside Suguru, even if you weren’t together. He moved in shortly after, and lived with you for the first two years of her life, moving out recently to be with his on-and-off girlfriend.

Luckily, you have no complaints about them. Kumi is a wonderful figure for your daughter, and while you aren’t friends, you are civil with each other. She has a good reason to not like you, plus, she’s not the easiest woman to get along with.

“What do you want to do today, Sayuri?” You ask. You’ll be having a small birthday party later in the night, but you don’t have anything planned out for the day. She puts her tiny index finger on her chin, tilting her head slightly to the side. She thinks about what she wants to do, she just has so many options.

“I have a very busy day, so I won’t be able to join you.” Suguru answers, and you’re surprised that he booked clients today of all days. The past two birthdays the man refuses to do any tattoos because he wants to spend all day with his daughter. It seems that his priorities slowly shift… He’s been working a lot lately though, and you might have an idea why.

“It’s alright, Kento is joining us.” You respond, and you watch him roll his eyes, crossing his arms in front of his chest. He tries to act like it doesn’t bother him, but you know it does. You don’t understand why he’s so hostile with Kento, the pair used to get along well before Sayuri was born, but they seem to butt heads since her birth.

“Doesn’t he have to work?” He asks, and you shake your head in response.

“He asked for the day off.” You tell him, and he scoffs. You can’t help but ask, “Why are you so… Annoyed by it?”

“Sayuri, when you’re done, can you go to your room to change out of your pajamas?” He looks at his daughter, and her brows furrow.

“I haven’t told mommy yet.” She answers, and Suguru sweetly smiles at her.

“You will in a minute, I have to talk to her about something. It’s a surprise.” He lies to lure her away, but she doesn’t easily fall for it. Her ears perk up at the mention of a surprise, which clearly wasn’t Suguru’s best option of words.

“I wanna know.” She says, and Suguru shakes his head. She gives him doe eyes, hoping that’ll help persuade her father since it’s worked in the past. It doesn’t though.

“It’s a surprise. If you know then I won’t be able to give it to you.” Suguru responds, and she has no option but to stand up from her chair and walk to her room. When she tries to slam the door of her room, Suguru speaks up, “Why does he act like he’s her father? Are you two dating or what?”

“If we were dating, it’d be none of your business. We’re just friends anyway, he just wants to be there for her.” You tell him, and of course he rolls his eyes. He doesn’t like that, it’s clear that Kento is trying to be a parental role and Suguru doesn’t like that. Sayuri has one father, that’s all she needs. “She adores Kento anyway.”

“Isn’t he coming to the birthday party? Isn’t that enough?” Suguru replies. You click your tongue, annoyed by his response.

“He took the day off to come with us, the very least I can do is allow him.” You answer, and he stands up from the chair to clean up. You’re not telling Kento to stay home because of the simple fact that Suguru doesn’t like the man– He chose to work today, that’s his own fault.

“I’m Sayuri’s father.” He says, and you chuckle.

“I didn’t say otherwise, Kento is not even my boyfriend.” You stand up as well, grabbing your plate and taking it to the sink as Suguru begins to do the dishes.

“He likes you.” Suguru states, and you let out a sigh. Suguru always had the bad habit of accusing every man that looks your way of liking you. You had serious problems with his jealousy when you were seeing each other.

“I wish. He’d be the perfect step father for Sayuri.” You comment, and he clenches his jaw. He’s about to say something about it, but Sayuri calls your name and you rush to her aid.

“Need help.” She says, and you rush to her side to help her change into the outfit that she picked out. You help her put on the yellow dress and the black leggings, before going to the bathroom to grab her hair products to style her hair. You sit on her bed, and she kneels in front of you so you can brush her hair.

“Did you pick, baby? What do you want to do?” You ask her, hoping it’ll take her mind off the fact that you’re doing her hair. Each of your movements always results in a whine from her, even though you’ve barely touched her hair.

“Playground? Please?” She responds, and you hum in response. You knew she’d land on something similar. You feel Suguru’s eyes on you, staring from the doorway, watching as you do his daughter’s hair.

“What are you doing, Suguru? It’s weird for you to just stare.” You tell him, grabbing one of Sayuri’s bee hair clips and putting it in the front of her hair.

“Just waiting for you to finish, I have to get going soon.” Suguru says, and Sayuri rises from the floor, running to her father. He picks her up from the floor and kisses her cheek. He caresses her cheek, “Happy birthday, princess. I love you.”

“I love you.” She answers, and it makes the man smile from ear to ear.

“I’ll come back with your present, princess. You’re going to love it.” He kisses her cheek again before putting her down on the floor. He waves at you, and before he can go you speak up,

“Are you still showing up to help me set up?” He nods in response. You awkwardly smile at him before waving, and he waves again before walking away.

“Can we go?” Sayuri asks, and you shake your head.

“Girl, I’m still in my pajamas. Wait for me to get ready.” You chuckle, and she sticks out her bottom lip. You stand up and begin to walk out of the room, and she follows behind you. She never leaves you alone, and honestly, you’re glad she doesn’t.

“Mommy, hurry.”

You keep a close eye on Sayuri as she runs around. You often wonder how so much energy resides in such a small body. She’s sweating as she goes down the slide and quickly runs to go up again. She happily does it over and over again, and you almost laugh, knowing that after the second time you’d be too tired to go up the slide again.

So focused, you miss the man that approaches you, until he finally greets you. You put your hand over your heart, spooked by him. He notices and apologizes, and you stand up from the bench. You playfully hit his arm before giving him a side hug.

“How are you, Kento? I didn’t expect you to come so fast.” You take a seat again, and he takes a seat next to you. He searches the playground, and he spots Sayuri quickly. She’s wearing something yellow, it seems to be her favorite color lately.

“I have nothing to do this morning, so of course I came to see my two favorite girls.” He says, and you immediately think of Suguru. He’s plaguing your mind with stupid ideas. Kento simply isn’t very popular with women, so of course you and your daughter are his favorite girls. “How has she been doing today? Does she realize it’s her birthday?”

“She does, had to tell her like three times but now she knows. She’s using it to her advantage too.” You share, and it makes a chuckle escape his lips. He expected nothing less from her, in fact, he’s proud. “She’s expecting a big gift from you.”

“And she will get one. I’ll give it to her at her birthday party.” He assures you. You love the fact that he spoils her, he’s the absolute sweetest with her. Suguru gets jealous over the fact that Kento is trying to become a father figure to your daughter, but you think it’s sweet. Plus, Kento is more of an uncle than a wannabe father. “Did you already eat breakfast?”

“Suguru came over and made us something.” You answer, and his brows raise, surprised. You don’t understand his reaction though, Suguru always shows up for his daughter. Kento should know better than anyone. Then you hear his stomach growl and you chuckle, reaching into your bag to pull out a snack for him, “I expected you of all people to have eaten something.”

“I’ll just get something to eat after this.” He doesn’t take the snack from your hands, assuming that it’s for Sayuri. He doesn’t want to take something that’s supposed to be for your daughter. You insist that he takes the snack, forcing his palm open and putting the bag in his grasp.

“We’re going out to lunch after this, but that’ll take a while. I have other food packed for Sayuri.” You insist, and Kento opens the small bag of chips. You laugh, looking at the other stuff that you have packed. “She’ll be eating baby carrots.”

“Baby carrots? She’s going to hate me.” He responds, almost spitting out the chips in his mouth because of his sudden regret– He then realizes just how fucking gross that is so he continues chewing slowly.

“She likes baby carrots, you’ll be fine. Just hide the bag– She’s coming over now.” You warn him, and he hides the bag behind him. Sayuri’s eyes land on him, and she runs over to him with open arms, causing the man to stand up from his seat and crouch down. He welcomes her warm hug, a smile on his lips.

“I missed you, Nanamin.” It makes Kento hug her tighter, but his grip loosens since he gets scared that he’s hurting her in any way. He comes around a lot, but lately he’s gotten too busy. You’re the one that sees him, Sayuri spends the night with her father and you go out with Kento. But their usual princess movie marathons haven’t been happening, and she can’t remember the last time she played dolls with the man that’s in front of her. He kisses her temple before saying,

“I missed you too, Sayuri. Happy birthday.” He responds, and she thanks him. She walks over to you, and Kento retakes his seat.

“Want my snack.” She tells you, and you reach into your bag to pull out the baby carrots.

“What do you say?” You ask her, and she shrugs.

“I’m hungry.” She answers, and you can only blame Suguru for it. You click your tongue against the roof of your mouth.

“Please, you say please.” You correct her. You give her the baby carrots, and she quietly begins to munch on them. It makes Kento feel less bad about the fact that he’s eating her bag of chips. He quietly brings it out of hiding, and her eyes light up when she notices it. She extends her small palm out and gives him puppy eyes.

“Can I have some, please?” She puts on her sweetest voice, and she magically remembers the word that seems to slip her mind. Kento isn’t going to refuse. He forgets he’s hungry and how his stomach feels uncomfortable, and he gives her the whole bag of chips. She squeals happily, thinking she has the best uncle in the world, little does she know that the chips are originally hers and he stole them.

“What do you want for lunch?” Kento asks her while she stuffs her mouth. She ends up shrugging, not having anything in mind since the only thing she wants to eat is the chips that she holds in her hand. Your hand goes to her back and rests on it while you look down at her.

“Do you want a burger, baby? You were begging for one last night.” You suggest, and her eyes light up as she looks up at you. She nods her head in response, getting excited at the thought of eating a cheeseburger with fries. “Then we’ll get one.”

“I was just thinking of a burger too. Great minds think alike.” Kento comments, and she hums in response. She finishes her bag of chips and runs back to the playground. Leaving you alone, you talk with Kento about your lives, mostly joking around with each other.

You dress Sayuri in her special outfit, one that she picked out for this very important occasion. She wanted to look like a certain princess that has a yellow dress, a princess that’s become her favorite for the simple fact that the outfit she wears is her favorite color. You have to prepare the place for her birthday party, and while you were expecting Suguru to show up and help you out, he leaves you stranded. Luckily, you can call Kento for backup and he comes running to aid you; with his help, you manage to get the house and everything ready.

“Are you okay?” Kento asks, when he catches you washing some dishes. He cleaned everything up, so he wonders why you’re cleaning everything again. And why you’re doing it so harshly. Waiting for an answer is useless. He grows impatient. “Does this have to do with Suguru?”

“He told me he was going to come here to help. His family, my family, our friends, and some of Sayuri’s daycare friends. And look at him, he’s not here. He’s not answering my calls either.” You say. “He’s a son of a– You know what? Go check on Sayuri. I have to finish this.”

“You sure? I can finish up here and you can get ready…” Kento offers, but you shake your head in response. You’re far from ready, but in order to relax yourself you need to clean up. It’s odd, but it’s the way you relax. “I’ll go check on her then.”

When you finish rewashing the dishes, you look for another chore to redo. But you look at the time, and realize that you do have to start getting ready. You take a moment to check up on Kento and Sayuri, finding them playing with her dolls before you walk to your room. You leave the door open and change your outfit into something that isn’t your rags, and you put on some light makeup. You don’t put in a lot of effort into it but you manage to look cute. Presentable for your guests.

“You look beautiful.” Kento says when he sees you again. The corner of your lips turn upward, and you mutter a thank you. Your daughter tries to force Kento to pay attention to the rag doll that’s in his hands, and she does so best by hitting him with the plush that’s in her hand. You give her a mom look which is enough to scare her; you’re grateful for it because it’s her birthday and you have no intention of raising your voice at her.

“Sorry, Nanamin.” She sticks out her bottom lip, something that always works when she needs to be forgiven. He wraps his arms around her, assuring her that it’s okay. She pulls away and asks you, “When is daddy coming?”

“I don’t know, honey. He should get here soon.” You answer. You wish you could reach the man that’s ignoring your calls. He’ll probably show up around the time guests do so you won’t be able to berate him. Knowing him, he’ll leave before you can even get a word in. You think about calling him again, even though you have a feeling your call will go unanswered for the umpteenth time. You then tell her, “Clean up your toys. People will get here soon.”

“Okay.” She answers, and she takes the rag doll from Kento and begins to put them in her toy box. She leaves her favorite doll on her bed, and then walks to you. You grab her hand and take her to the table that you’ve decorated with her favorite princess. You pick her up and sit her down in the middle of the table.

“Let’s take some photos, baby.” You tell her, and you take out your phone to begin taking pictures of her. She smiles showing her teeth, clearly forcing herself to smile for the camera. It makes you laugh. You call Kento and he’s by your side within seconds. He knows what to do immediately, taking the phone from your hand as you walk over and pose by your baby’s side. Kento comments how good you both look and tells you to say “cheese” before snapping a couple of pictures.

“Your turn, Kento. Stand right next to her.” You take the phone from his hand and he poses next to her. The first picture is awkward, but then Sayuri stretches her arms up, wanting to be picked up. So he does it. The second picture is much cuter, and you swear you’ll print it out and frame it. Sayuri and her uncle Nanamin. It makes you say, “Let me take another picture. You two are so cute.”

You’re so caught up in what you’re doing that you don’t hear the front door open, and when you realize, it’s because Suguru’s voice enrages you, “Aw are taking pictures without me?”

“Let me take another one.” You completely ignore Suguru, deciding that yelling (your way of voicing your feelings at the moment) isn’t the best thing to do right now. You have your daughter that’s right in front of you. Suguru doesn’t like being ignored, if you don’t acknowledge him, neither will Kento. Sayuri only speaks up when Kento puts her on the ground, and that’s when she runs to her father, excited to finally see him again.

“There’s my princess. How are you doing, baby? I hope your day has been amazing.” Suguru kisses her cheeks when he picks her up from the ground. You cross your arms as you watch them, your eyes falling on Kumi who is staring back at you. Disdain in her eyes which makes you roll your eyes. You usually try to disguise your annoyance, but today you’re fed up with her and her boyfriend. You don’t have the energy to be nice to them.

“Kento, come with me to the kitchen, please.” You look at Kento, and he nods in response. He follows after you. He helps you out with what you need to finish up, doing so quietly since he senses you’re annoyed. He watches as you get more irritated as you hear Suguru and Kumi talking to your daughter.

“Surprised you didn’t yell at him.” Kento lowers his voice to talk to you, not wanting anyone to hear. You raise your brows, a sigh leaving your lips.

“Not while Sayuri is there.” You answer. You don’t want to cause a scene yet. The doorbell rings, and you have to take a deep breath. You need a minute to calm down. The man that’s next to you knows you like the back of his hand. He ends up saying,

“I’ll open the door.”

Interacting with everyone at first is hard, but you loosen up and stop paying attention to Suguru around an hour in. You’re celebrating your baby’s third year of life, you shouldn’t let Suguru ruin your night. You manage to ignore him at the beginning of the night, talking to friends and family, as well as paying attention to your daughter.

There comes a moment that you do have to interact with him, and it’s when you have to sing happy birthday to your daughter. Even then, you don’t pay much attention to him. Kento turns off the lights and you light up three small candles before everyone begins to sing to your daughter.

Her eyes glance at the tiny fires in front of her, and she’s too engrossed by it to pay attention to the people that sing to her. Until she hears her name, and she looks up at her father and then at you. You two chuckle, exchanging a look with each other before focusing back on her. When the song comes to an end, Suguru has to remind her, “Blow out the candles, princess.”

When she finally puts her lips together and blows out the candles, and the moment the candles are put out, Kumi steps out of the place which causes Suguru to run after her. Your annoyance is back and worse than before. You usually take pictures with her after the candle is blown out– Either during her birthday, Suguru’s, or yours, it’s your tradition. But he steps out for some reason.

“Where’s Suguru? I want to take some pictures.” Suguru’s mother asks when the lights are turned back on. Sayuri also looks around for her father, but she doesn’t spot him. Luckily, she spots Kento and she extends her hand and reaches out for Kento.

“Nanamin.” She calls out for him, and he runs to be by her side. That’s when you take your customary pictures, even if they aren’t with Suguru. Kento takes his place, and helps Sayuri cut the first slice of the cake. They both hold a knife and Kento sticks it into a corner of the cake. They serve the first slice, and they put it on a paper plate. Kento then gives it to her.

“You can eat it, honey. I’ll finish up here.” Kento tells her, and she gets off the chair that she stands on, walking to the couch to eat her slice of cake. Kento begins to serve everyone a slice, and you’re thankful that he’s by your side because you’re so close to losing it.

“Thank you.” You mutter to Kento, helping him serve the cake. You finish up, making sure there isn’t a single slice left for Suguru or Kumi, and you take a seat.

Ten minutes later, they’re back inside, and Kumi looks annoyed. Suguru sighs and looks around before he says, “I hope there’s some cake left.”

“There isn’t.” You answer. You make sure to hum the next time you take another bite, wanting to make note of how good the cake is, and how he won’t be having any. Until your daughter gives her plate to her father, putting her hand over her tummy and announcing,

“I’m full.” He happily takes the plate from her. He offers some to his girlfriend, but she shakes her head in response. Her arms are crossed and she tries to make herself go unnoticed. Suguru tries to sit down on the empty spot next to you, which causes you to stand up and practically run elsewhere.

Your anger doesn’t go unnoticed.

Shortly after, people begin to leave one by one. Sayuri wants to open her gifts, but you hold off till almost everyone is gone because you’re scared that she’ll react badly if she opens a gift she doesn’t like. Suguru’s parents are the last to leave, and you’re left with Kento, Suguru, Kumi, and your daughter, of course.

You’re about to pick a random gift to give to her, but Suguru says, “Open mine first!”

He grabs the gift that he wrapped for his baby girl, and he gives it to her. She unwraps it, and her tiny brows furrow. It’s a cute pink stuffed animal… She glares at her father and then says, “I don’t like it.”

“Huh? Kumi told me that it’s what kids want these days. Her niece has one and she loves it.” Suguru says, but that doesn’t change his daughter’s mind. She tosses it to the side, and while you’d lecture her about being grateful for her gift, you’re mad at Suguru. He deserves it for the awful gift.

“Nanamin.” She looks at Kento, and he raises his brows before realizing what she wants. He looks for his gift. He gives it to her, and her eyes light up when she unwraps it and sees a doll that she keeps seeing on TV.

“What do you say, Sayuri?” You say, and she wraps her arms around Kento. He wastes no time in hugging her back.

“Thank you.” She responds, and Kento smiles.

“I’m glad you like it, Sayuri.” Kento replies. You watch Suguru’s face, full of contempt which almost makes you smirk. Maybe some other time you’d worry about his thoughts, how he probably thinks that Kento is trying to take his place. But you hope that’s what he’s thinking now, and hope that he’s seething at the fact that your daughter prefers Kento’s gift over his dumb one.

You continue passing her gifts but none surpass Kento’s. She goes to her room to play with her new toys, while Suguru, Kento, and you clean up the place. Kento and Suguru find themselves alone in the kitchen, and Kento tries his best to ignore the man’s presence. But Suguru clears his throat to get Kento’s attention.

“I know what you’re trying to do.” Suguru comments, making Kento raise his brows in utter confusion. Kento looks around, wondering if Suguru is talking to him.

“And what is that?” Kento asks, putting the plate that he scrubs down in the sink, washing the soap off his hands. He crosses his arms, turning his attention to Suguru. He repeats the question, “What am I trying to do, Suguru?”

“You’re trying to play dad and I don’t like that. She’s my daughter.” Suguru says, making a scoff come from Kento’s lips. Kento isn’t exactly a confrontational man, he usually tends to agree with people that are in the wrong simply to move on past a problem; he doesn’t have the energy to deal with it all. But he can’t keep quiet for some reason.

“Trying to play dad? By what exactly? By being decent to my best friend and her daughter? By getting her daughter a gift she actually wanted?” He questions, and the attitude that comes from Kento’s voice makes his blood boil. How dare Kento talk to him like that? Who does he think he is? “Last time I checked, I’m just being a good friend, and a great uncle to Sayuri. I’m sorry that I act as a better father figure than you.”

“Excuse me?” There’s full offense in Suguru’s voice. Kento isn’t lying– At least not in his eyes. Sure, Suguru has been a great father but lately he’s been putting other matters before his daughter. Luckily for Sayuri, Kento can step in for her father.

“You heard me. Guess who spent most of the day with her? I did.” Kento responds. “I took her to lunch, and I was the one who came here to help set up the party. I’m starting to act more like her father than you.”

“I know you like her mother, but don’t you dare think that you’ll ever be anything like Sayuri’s dad. This is your first and only warning, Nanami.” Suguru sounds threatening, but Kento doesn’t take him seriously; at the very least, he doesn’t care. He won’t push it any further though, so Kento bites his tongue.

“Everything okay here?” You ask as you step into the kitchen. You couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, but you knew they were talking even though the men never talk. Suguru is the one that speaks up,

“Why are you mad?”

“Why do you think, Suguru?” You put your hand on your hip. “Doesn’t take a genius to figure that one out.”

He’s about to justify his actions– Not showing up to help set up, ignoring your calls, walking out right after singing happy birthday. He’s a guilty man, but he has to justify himself. And you know he does, and you stop him right on his tracks.

“Don’t. Not in the mood. Help Sayuri clean up her new toys and say goodnight. I can’t stand to look at you any longer.” You refrain from talking about his girlfriend because he’ll get upset, but you can’t stand having her in your house for another minute.

“Yes, ma’am.” Suguru answers, choosing his words carefully because he doesn’t want you to be mad at him. Suguru walks past you and out of the kitchen, and when he’s out of sight you walk to Kento. You kiss his cheek.

“Thank you for tonight, Kento. You’re simply the best.” He turns back to washing dishes because his face warms up, and he doesn’t want you to notice how his cheeks turn pink.

“You don’t have to thank me. I loved helping out.” And you stand still for a moment, watching how he washes your dirty dishes. You couldn’t have asked for a better friend.

#jujustu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen geto #suguru geto #getou suguru #getou #geto suguru #geto x reader #jjk geto #jujutsu kaisen suguru #jjk suguru #getou suguru x reader #kento x reader #nanami kento #kento nanami #nanami fanfic #nanamin #jjk nanami #geto fanfic

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nat-ter · 4 months

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superbat fic idea: Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne are dating. Superman and Batman are teammates.

The first time Clark Kent joins the Wayne's for dinner, Bruce's kids realise that Clark Kent is Superman. Surely if they can immediately figure out Superman's civillian identity, World's Greatest Detective probably already did too. It makes sense, Bruce has always talked about Superman this and Superman that so they knew he definitely has a crush on the hero, and it's good that he seems to get his act together and ask Clark out. If anything, the kids are happy for him. And if Bruce knew Clark is Superman, surely he would've already revealed his own alter ego too. The whole "meet the family" was probably also Bruce's way of testing his kids, to see if their extensive training paid off and could see what is right in front of them.

Except. World's Greatest Detective, Batman, The Dark Knight himself, is in the dark about his boyfriend's superhero life. And Clark Kent, investigative journalist with superpowers and supersenses, has no idea he's dating Batman. But far be it from Bruce's kids to ever question the intelligence of Batman or by extension, Superman.

Cue, the Batkids acting overly familiar with Superman much to Superman's confusion; Bruce's children sharing what is supposed to be an inside joke with Clark when Batman or Superman happens to come up in a conversation even though Clark doesn't look like he gets the joke; Batkids greeting Clark Kent like an old pal when he happens to be in a Gotham crime scene; Bruce's children calling for Superman when they need him to do something, which is usually really mundane like "Superman! Superman! I got my baseball stuck on the roof can you please come and take it for me?", but Superman always does come because these are his boyfriend's kids of course he'd do anything for them even if they don't know that Superman is Clark Kent.

Even though they find it weird that Bruce talks as if Clark and Superman are two different people, they just chalk it up to Bruce being Bruce and refusing to mix Batman's business and Bruce Wayne's. And if Bruce refuses to mix their personal life with their professional life, then there's nothing Clark can do but follow Bruce's steps because Bruce is a control freak and Clark seems to be completely smitten with Bruce. Right? It makes perfect sense.

(And Bruce is perplexed. On one hand, his kids seem to adore Clark whenever the man comes over, or even when he doesn't, they would ask about him— Is he coming over this weekend? Can they visit his parents' farm? But on the other, his kids seem to try and set him up with Superman too, if the jokes and innuendos they make were any indication. Should Bruce talk to his kids? Tell them he's serious with Clark? But shouldn't they already know that he is? Is this their way of showing their dislike for Clark? But what is there not to love about Clark? Bruce ended up brooding a lot these days.)

#superbat #superbat fic idea #oh and #i almost forgot:#manman #i just LOVE misunderstanding #and identity reveal #so why not combine both?#ofc alfred knows the truth but he's a little shit (we all know he is)#and decides to let the young ones figure out their own shits #batkids #batfam #superbat fic ideas

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soapoet · 1 year

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describing your next love...

...because i'm just as nosy as you are.

like & rb if it resonates ♡

01.

Shufflemancy: Lucky people by Waterparks

they have a very sunny energy. the kind that peaks out behind the clouds after a fall of rain. rejuvenating, always welcome. they try their best to stay optimistic, for loved ones and strangers alike. it feels a little tragic because there is a darkness inside them that they choose to ignore. their sunny disposition seems less like a mask and more like armour. it's what has gotten them this far. they may have had a rough childhood, and their heart may have been wounded particularly by one of their parents. they struggle with mental health and might be neurodivergent. they're the kind of person to end a depressing sentence with 'lmao', or turn a therapy session into a stand-up comedy show. they cope with their struggles through humour, because if they take themselves and their problems too seriously and lean in too close to where it hurts, the pain becomes overwhelming. their heart is much like a dam, holding back tons of tears of almost biblical proportions. even still, if they opened the floodgates they'd find a way to muster a 'noah, get the arc' joke to force some sunlight through the clouds.

despite their dance around their own feelings, they're encouraging of others expressing theirs, and stand firmly by their side and always have a shoulder to offer if needed. they love to make people laugh, and aren't afraid of making a fool out of themselves if it puts a smile on someone's face. they'll gladly cast themselves as a jester if it makes their loved ones feel like royalty. they're very excitable and fun to be around. at their best they are a firecracker, bursting with an energy so infectious and bright. they're creative and very passionate about their hobbies, often to the point of obsession. it seems like all they do they do with such love. like a show is never just a show, but a whole world of its own to explore and come to know as home. they love the escapism of foreign lands, fictional and real, and something about them makes a simple trip to the grocery store an adventure with many memories to one day share.

you either already know them, or will meet them very soon. especially if you're in a transitional period, moving away, changing jobs or applying to schools, then this is a person you'll meet in this next chapter of your life. this has friends to lovers written all over it. you might be in the same friend group, or meet them through a mutual friend. their hair stands out for some reason. it could either be in the literal sense because it's messy, perpetual bedhead, or they have a unique colour or cut. perhaps they change their hair frequently and have a bit of chameleon vibes in which they become unrecognisable with every change that they make to their appearance. they're average in height but could look taller than they actually are. their posture isn't the greatest, especially if they're an artist of some kind. they have golden retriever energy and may be a dog person in general. for some, they have freckles or dimples, or prominent birth marks. there's a lot of mutual pining involved before anything happens. they're a little bit oblivious, too. someone else might have to step in to spell things out for either of you.

02.

Shufflemancy: Into you by Ariana Grande

being playful and flirtatious can get you in quite a bit of trouble, and they know this from experience. they're attractive, and seem very aware of it, though there is less legitimate arrogance and more playful cockiness involved. they like to make an effort to look good, and have a strong appreciation for a partner who does the same. generosity may be a way they show this appreciation because they understand the time and maintenance this effort can take, and are of the mindset that they ought to reward what they like rather than simply expect it or take it for granted. they're likely involved in business such as investments or trade, or could be working on building a business of their own. they're physically fit, and might frequent the gym or be into sports. they have a lot of stamina because of this, so do with that information what you will.

they could have a bit of a reputation due to an unscrupulous past, and it is one they have done much work to rewrite. they want to settle down, but haven't found someone they could commit to. a big issue for them is the way fun gets sucked out of things too quickly in the relationships they've been in. they're very spontaneous and have a big capacity for romance, but they often find themselves lacking space and time to do anything special. like how you would decide to clean the house to surprise your mother, only to have her call and ask you to do just that, ruining the gesture. similarly, in their relationships they may find themselves cornered, and in the suffocation of their freedom and passion their capacity and desire to impress and to woo begins to fade like a smothered flame, which in turn causes strife. and the nagging that so often followed turns them into a complacent shell of themselves, wherein it's better to nod along than risk discord. they seek an equal. somebody powerful in their own right, who can support them and be supported in return. they want love to be an adventurous undertaking of a power couple ready to seize the day.

this feels like a right person wrong time -scenario. when you meet they're probably in a relationship with someone else, or you are. you could meet at some sort of social gathering or organised event like a fundraiser or a concert. there's a distinct sense of delay here, though the interest is mutual and very persistent right from the beginning. they could hold themselves back from pursuing anything with you at first because they want a clean slate. it may at first to you seem like frustrating indecision and make you question their intentions, even integrity, but they may just be untangling their life and closing chapters. they yearn for the long-term and would like the house and the kids and whole nine yards, but need to make sure their life is upright, straightened, and ready for it. there is a playful glint in their eyes, which may be hazel or brown. there is a distinct warmth to them and a loving gaze feels especially adoring from them. they would make a very good and attentive parent and spouse for the right person. there could be a noticeable size difference between you. if you're softer and curvier, they're more angular and dense, and if you're shorter, they're taller, etc.

03.

Shufflemancy: Great shipwreck of life by IAMX

oh, how charming! they're gregarious, and attract quite a few admirers. though it seems they take few, if any, seriously at all. their popularity may be a byproduct of an important or visible position that they hold. they could be a prominent figure within their community or be very successful in their field of work or hobbies. their schedule is often packed with meetings, events and social obligations. they could travel a lot too, both for pleasure and for work. for their work they may spend extended periods of time away from home. in spite of their sociable persona, they keep their private life very private, under lock and key, and may even be secretive about it to an extent. they may be unapproachable or simply be unattainable by people outside of their established circles. there is an element of social games or hierarchical factors present in their life, and whilst they're good at networking, climbing ranks, or beating records, they may actually find many around them to be uninteresting or outright obnoxious. where they spend their professional hours draws a lot of similar types of people together, and their tastes differ quite a bit. being married to their work in a way leaves few options for them in love since they look for something outside of their norm, which they have little time to explore.

there could be a fear of being taken advantage of. like they can't seem to trust people easily, and expect everyone to have ulterior motives. to use them or get something from them. these trust issues run deep, and either they have been burnt before or have watched somebody close to them fall from grace and are afraid they'll share that same fate. there could also be legal reasons for their caution, as they may have signed contracts or taken an oath that dictates what they can and cannot share, particularly if they work for the government or a big corporation.

this connection might begin online or otherwise have distance involved even if you meet in person first. lots of messages or calls. they revel in good banter and enjoy entertaining more out-there ideas. they feel starved off of deeper conversations because their life seems to revolve around a lot of simple niceties and professional talk with tons of things redacted, edited, and filtered to fit into a very narrow box deemed correct and good and appropriate. it's very tiring and wears them out, even though they won't show it. they really appreciate things that differ from the norm or breaks the status quo in some way. what they consider their type is also very different from what would be expected of them, and their peers would be shocked to hear what they find ideal both in terms of a partner and a life that they would like to lead. their voice seems important too. they have a very attractive voice, could be a great speaker or an artist. their hair is either longer or shorter than average (shorter for women, longer for men), and their physique leans slimmer and angular, not a lot of curvature just lots of straight lines and sharpness.

04.

Shufflemancy: Willow by Taylor Swift

they probably don't get out much. most if their life occurs behind closed doors. they could work or study remotely, and their schedule might be different from the usual nine to five. their friends and family may live at a distance, too, which leaves them few reasons to leave the house. they need mental stimulation and might be a little high-strung, their nerves like violin strings wound too tight. independence is of great importance to them and their boundaries are clear, almost like austere walls protecting a castle. they appear aloof and don't say much, especially around strangers. though their shyness is often overruled by their intrigue. they like to tinker with things and minds alike, and may often step in to play devil's advocate just to stir the pot. especially in their boredom they may seek out discourse as a form of entertainment. they have strong opinions, but are not stubborn or unable to bend. in fact, something they abhor is weak convictions and mindless agreement. they respect admittance of ignorance far more than the parroting of popular opinions if there is a lack of substance behind them. they really do not seem to mind different views at all, and may surround themselves with people of all walks of life and various temperaments and opinions. this is in part driven by an insatiable thirst for knowledge. it's as though they've made their quest in life to seek information and learn everything they can in one short lifetime. they are open-minded and curious, and have great respect for anyone who has something to teach them. and they're a great teacher themself! even if they do not literally teach as a part of their work, they might have been told by many that they should consider it because they really have a way of adapting information, hand-tailoring it to their audience, so that even complex things get delivered and comprehended.

where they may be a great source of knowledge and advice to those around them, they aren't the greatest in terms of emotional support. they are a problem solver, and they can't fix tears. they try, but it feels clumsy and awkward. though that can be a little charming, too. they care a lot, more than people might expect. they're just terrible at showing it through big and extravagant gestures and displays of affection. they're more likely to give praise or take on tasks to unburden you. they like routine and solitude and seek someone who rivals the comfort of their peace and quiet. they could die happy if they could simply share a space comfortably with someone without constant noise, buzz, and attention. they could be strangely private about things that don't necessarily call for privacy. like, they might easily drop childhood lore in a casual conversation, but find inquiries about what they did yesterday suspicious even if they didn't do anything special.

because this is a bit of a 'rapunzel, rapunzel, let down your hair' -type of situation where they're very comfortable in their ivory tower that gets no visitors, it might take a while before you meet them. they're far more social online and you could meet through common interests like online games, subreddits, discord, or through mutual friends. if you already know them, there may be a sense of unrequited love for a while. they rarely act on their infatuations and just wait it out, enjoying the feelings for what they are but do little, if anything, about them. alternatively they participate in very indirect chasing that appears more like making the other person chase them. they have attractive hands, could be ambidextrous or they fidget a lot with their hands. they may be a writer, play an instrument or play a lot of video games. they always appear deep in thought or even a little irritable, even if they're actually not. not so much RBF as simply spacing out. their eyes seem hazy. whichever colour they are it looks desaturated and blurry, like there's mist covering them. blues lean greyish, greens look muddy, browns look more true and lack the amber warmth. they might wear glasses or contacts. regardless of race they're a little paler and may have some health concerns or struggles.

05.

Shufflemancy: I want you to want me by Chase Holfelder

there is something broken here. their home, their heart, or perhaps their mind. it'll be difficult to break through this shell because the exterior is harsh and uninviting. whatever it is that haunts them, it really shows in their relationships. they walk a path seemingly unlit and full of horrors, leaving behind them a trail of broken hearts. pieces of both their own and those of past lovers scattered along the way. to some their love is suffocating, draining and overbearing. when they get attached they latch on with a powerful grip that seems unyielding. they're a rock that could weather the strongest of storms and they're used to being a pillar of strength. but it seems as though their past is full of people who would have needed the room to bend with the winds and were left feeling too restricted. they may have a jealous streak that's rooted in fear of betrayal, likely from past hurts. they could struggle with a mental illness or have history of abusing drugs or alcohol to numb what haunts them.

they really want a partner in crime. someone who is similar to them and understands their turmoil. they have a big capacity to understand and deal with heavy burdens and mental issues in a partner too and aren't easily fazed by emotional outbursts or any type of spiraling mentally or emotionally. they also remind me of the quote 'a hero will sacrifice the person they love to save the world, a villain will sacrifice the world to save the person they love'. they seem a bit like an outcast or a misfit, and those closest to them may also be underdogs and form a very tight-knit group. they're a little bit of a hopeless romantic and have a soft side. if they're musically inclined they might write you a song, or otherwise use writing as a way to express their feelings in a deeper way. their cold and rough exterior is there to ward off the most frail and flaky. they don't want to ruin dainty petals or have their own ripped out by players.

funnily enough they actually look like one themselves. they have that quintessential heartbreaker look to them. the one all the movies deem nothing but trouble. a villain in the story of many but their own and those closest to them. there is a feminine energy close to them that they're very protective of, like a sister or mother. for some they might be providing and caring for a sick relative. they have an unusual job or field of study, and peculiar working hours. they might work a graveyard shift, gigs, or do work that's seasonal or done on the go. music plays a big role in their life and you could meet them at a concert or through another kind of relation to a band or artist you both enjoy. they take a keen interest in the strange, and the mysteries of life. they might study the occult, enjoy conspiracy theories, true crime, etc. they're distinctly cool toned, blondes are dirty and ashy, browns are void of red pigment and lean darker, almost black. blue eyes are very cold and piercing, and brown eyes are very dark and may appear black. they have piercings, tattoos or scars and may bruise easily, or be into those things in others.

06.

Shufflemancy: Trust by Boy Epic

somebody send this person on a mandatory holiday. i really should not have left this one for last, because the energy is really heavy. their life seems unbalanced, like it is all work and no play. there is a jittery energy here as though they are running on fumes and caffeine to fuel a big machine with hundreds of intricately moving parts. they might work in real estate, management, law, IT, or have a lot of people they're in charge of who depend on them. they have impeccable memory and somehow manage to stay on top of things with ease. they like being personally involved and may be hands-on with many of their projects. task management comes naturally to them. it's as if they're playing a game of chess with life and stay aware of every possible variable and reach outcomes long before they show in the present. this spills into all areas of their life and allows them to map out goals with great precision, leaving very little room for uncertainty. they're very stable and competent. but they're also miserable. even though they enjoy their work for its challenges and the heights it allows them to reach, it may seem to them as though they are wearing themselves out without real purpose beyond the accolades. like they're building an empire in vain because there is nobody to share their glory. they want more from life, namely a home. their home is as big as it is hollow and they don't like it there. it lacks a lot of love and light and they wish to bring some of that into it through children and a spouse.

they may come from a big family themselves, even one of good fortune. their discipline and work ethic is likely something instilled in them by a father figure, and there could be a bit of an eldest child complex at play, wherein they have always felt the need to set an example for their younger siblings, but also feel embittered by what they cannot get away with that others so easily can. they could use with a bit of whimsical and carefree energy in their life. they're aware of it too, as they find a bit of chaos oddly attractive in a partner. in previous relationships they may have been with people far too similar to them, allowing them no place of restoration and solace, but instead a constant movement of the goal post. they seek someone comfortable and more easy-going who can help them relax and live a little. they are generous and would spoil a worthy partner rotten, but are also afraid of gold diggers and don't want to be taken advantage of, as they may have run the risk of in the past.

out of all groups, this one leans the oldest. depending on your age they could easily be 5-10 years your senior, and if you're very young it will likely take some time before you meet them. you might meet through work, through coworkers, at a work related event, or if it is a leisurely occasion it's one with a mixture of age groups like a family gathering of sorts. for a few, you could run into them a few times at random whilst running errands and going about your daily routines. either way interest is established quickly, even though they may seem stand-offish or even stiff at first. in actuality they busy themselves with observing, and throughout your interactions, and your interactions with other people in their presence, they size you up and try to figure you out. they could be very taken with you, but they try their best to not show it. they're cordial, but keep their cards hidden. once they decide to pursue you everything happens very quickly. again, because of their game of chess having played out various scenarios while they figured out their feelings and rearranged their life to fit you into it. they're eager to please, and one-on-one you may be surprised by their sensitive and softer side. they're doting and have a lot of adoration once they fall, and out in public where they seem level-headed and collected you can easily distract them and have them stumbling a bit. they're very protective and are bigger or stronger than you. their features lean darker and they may have an earthy look to them, like green or hazel eyes and auburn hair. this one has the strongest indications of marriage.

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