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ficsforeren · 2 years

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Falling

Pairing: Eren Jaeger X Female Reader

Genre: College Boyfriend AU, Smut, Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Summary: In the absence of your warmth, Eren Jaeger begins to reminisce the loving memories he’s shared with you in the past three years, regretting how your first fight turned into something that ended it all.

Lyrics are taken from this beautiful song: Harry Style’s Falling.

Warnings: unprotected sex, oral sex, alcohol consumption, swearing

Word Count: 15k+

Poster Art by @_sonagee on Twitter

I’m in my bed

And you’re not here

The small, barely prominent crack on the ceiling of his bedroom has always gone unnoticeable. It stands only as a silent witness of the meeting between a pair of plump lips to redder ones, the breathless sounds of frantic moans, and the sacred exchange of loving words. But not tonight. Tonight, as he lays on his bed, sheets all crumpled but with the absence of your warmth, Eren notices everything.

He notices how quiet his room—his entire apartment—feels when it’s only the sound of his own soft breathing that fills the air. His black shirt is fully unbuttoned, his skin a golden canvas missing your marks. The tattoos that painted his rib cages are no longer coated by the shade of your lipstick.

His pillow, no longer smelling like your favorite shampoo, is covered by his long chestnut hair, now all tousled and unkempt. He misses the way you threaded your fingers through them, the way you lulled him to sleep with your little hum, his head a comforting weight on your lap. The walls, the carpet, the bedsheets, the framed photographs that remind him of the joy that used to bloom on his face—everything feels monochromatic. Empty. Shallow. Because ever since you walked out of his life, you’ve taken all the colors with you, leaving him solely in black and white.

And now, Eren doesn’t know what to do anymore. Or to feel. He’s a puppet missing his puppeteer.

And there’s no one to blame

But the drink in my wandering hands

With the bitter taste of vodka sitting on his tongue, he closes his eyes, allowing himself to remember but not forgive the words he once said to you.

With your name echoing through the labyrinth of his mind, regret starts to suffocate him at once.

Forget what I said

It’s not what I meant

And I can’t take it back

I can’t unpack the baggage you left

What hurts from a break-up is not the parting of two hearts, but the memories that had been drawn deep within them. It’s not the kiss that he misses, it’s the taste of your lips—the faint scent of cherry that sits pale in comparison to your natural flavor. It’s the way they move against his own, timid at first then consuming all at once. And how there will be no other girl that will taste the same, feel the same, or be able to draw out the same kind of feelings from him.

It’s funny, Eren thinks, how he can only see your smile behind his closed eyelids these days, but he doesn’t find himself laughing. He can’t even remember the last time he found a reason to smile, now that you’re gone.

The moon was hiding behind thick clouds, he remembers, that night when fate walked in and introduced you to one another.

***

Eren’s eyes were glued to the silver screen, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he witnessed the battle between the villain and the protagonist grow deadly. It had been a while since he last saw a movie in a theater, and the experience was certainly different. The thrill of it soon perished, however, when the sweet scent of your shampoo fleeted through his nose.

Your head was falling onto his shoulder as you waned into slumber. Unbeknownst to you, you had been leaning your weight entirely to a stranger whose bergamot perfume compelled you to focus on anything besides the movie. It was as pleasant as it was distracting. But after being sleep-deprived for three days, exhaustion finally took over and you fell asleep so deeply that you didn’t even have the strength to dream.

Your weight on his body was unfamiliar but it wasn’t uncomfortable for twenty-year-old Eren Jaeger. As he took a glance at your face, it wasn’t your beauty that kept him frozen. It was how peaceful you looked, almost like an enervated child curling up after spending her time chasing butterflies on the field.

Eren shifted carefully on his seat, attempting his best to give you comfort by providing more space for you to lean your weight on. Then he stayed still, his lips bowed and his smile never faltered away. The movie was long forgotten. He didn’t spare a glance at the screen even when people were gasping at the sight of the protagonist dying in his lover’s arms. He felt intrigued by the thought of your name, wondering whether it would sound as nice as the soft breathing that flowed past your lips.

When the credits rolled, Eren told Armin and Jean in hushed whispers to leave without him, throwing icy glares at them when they grinned devilishly at the sight of you sleeping on his shoulder. He went as far as kicking Jean on the shin when his voice rose too loudly, afraid that he’d wake you up, which made the other man complain because certainly, the background music was louder than anything else in the room. Nevertheless, you were still deep in your sleep.

Eren begged for more time when one of the concessions workers asked him to leave. Refused and left with no other solution, he sighed and turned his head toward you.

“Hey,” he murmured, his heart palpitating in anticipation of finally hearing your voice. “Sorry, but uhh… We need to go.”

His voice was foreign to your ears but it was so deep, so soothing, almost like a lullaby, that you snuggled closer, wanting nothing more than to listen to it forever. It took Eren three times more with his cheeks reddening to call upon you until you finally found the power to detach yourself from your stupor.

“Hey there.” A boy—a beautiful boy—with glowing, sun-kissed skin and a pair of sharp green, enticing eyes with a gaze intense enough to kiss your skin with fire, greeted you as you blinked yourself awake. His voice was as deep as the ocean, as sweet as honey. His hair was tied up in a messy bun, making him seem juvenile, matching the little twinkle in his eyes. He beamed at you with a smile so warm that it nearly melted your heart, and you decided ah, I don’t ever want to wake up from this dream.

It was when the usher popped into your vision, stating, “I’m sorry, Ma’am, but we’re closing,” that you internally screamed oh God, no, this isn’t a dream, what have I done?

“So that’s what he said.” Eren’s smile was sheepish with a hint of teasing, and your heart moved on its own, yearning for him to display you another one. “But if you still have time to spare, we can go get some coffee or something. I can fill you in on the details.”

“D-details?” Your voice was hoarse from sleep, embarrassingly so. “About what?”

“About the movie you just missed.” The grin he showcased grew wider and this time, it was so utterly mischievous that you had to break your gaze before heat rushed to your face. “The fact that you’re here watching a movie by yourself must mean you’re interested to see how the trilogy ends. I can help you with that.”

“Umm—” You rummaged your purse, pretending like you were searching for something when it was only a poor excuse for you to not be captivated by his eyes longer than you already were. “It’s fine, I can look it up online.”

“But then what should I do with this?” He brought his right hand in the air, pursing his lips. “My arm’s falling asleep. Shouldn’t you take responsibility for it?”

The horrified look on your face made him laugh, and his laughter became the reason why you decided to throw all common sense away and just went with what felt right. “I-I’ll pay for the coffee.”

“Well, then, I’ll make sure to go somewhere expensive.” He threw a wink before he rose to his feet, offering you a hand to help you stand from your seat. “I’m Eren, by the way.” When your skin met, his palm was scorching against your icy one. You told him your name, stammering as you did it and he chuckled.

You turned flustered. “W-why are you laughing?”

You’re just so cute, he thought. “Nothing. I just thought your name fit you so well.”

You frowned, not sure if you should take it as a compliment but Eren didn’t give you much time to think. “Umm…” He tarries, looking down to see the way you’re still clutching onto his hand. You were too enticed by his charm, too comfortable with his warmth that you failed to notice anything else.

You followed his gaze, panicking before you released your hold. “I’m sorry, I–”

But he retrieved it again, gripping it tighter than before. “I don’t mind,” he grinned. “It’s too dark to see and I don’t want you to fall down the stairs. But you’re gonna have to treat me to some bagels too. I don’t do this for free.”

Your jaw dropped but you could only follow after him without a word, your body being tugged forward as he led the way.

You had expected that he would let go once you were out of the theater, knowing how weird it was for strangers to hold hands as lovers do. But when he did, you were still left surprised, not because of his action but the way your heart shriveled in disappointment at the absence of his warmth.

You didn’t realize that you wanted him to hold it longer.

***

Awkward conversations made you anxious but they died before you could finish your coffee. Like a phoenix, they were reborn into something that was supposed to only be shared between friends instead of strangers. With Eren, everything felt so natural, you didn’t even find the will to question it. Stories after stories, you talked to him like he was the most interesting book you’d ever read. His affable, carefree attitude was almost inspiring, breaking through your facade as easy as counting his fingers.

“So, how come you went to the movies by yourself?” Eren asked, his coffee long abandoned on the table as he was more drawn to you and the little smile you retained on your lips. “Boyfriend too busy to come along?”

A bit embarrassed, you brought your head down, hiding your eyes behind your fringe. “I don’t… have a boyfriend.”

Eren raised an eyebrow, lying his chin on his palm as he rested his elbow on the table. The way he stared at you made your stomach flip, and he reciprocated with nothing but a hum, tapping a finger to his cheek. His tiny smile held a thousand meanings.

You hurriedly took a sip of your coffee. “I, uh, I had some free time today and it’s my favorite movie franchise so I just had to see how it ended. But all my friends have seen it, so…”

“They didn’t invite you?”

“They did. I was just busy with work.”

His voice dropped an octave lower. “And they didn’t wait for you.”

“It’s—” Your chest tightened. “It’s fine, really. I mean, it would only make me feel bad if they waited for me. My schedule is crazy. I haven’t been sleeping properly for three days because of my deadlines.”

“Yeah, I noticed that.” He chuckled and you noticed how his teeth were a little jagged. “I could still smell your drool on my shirt, actually.”

“Oh, God,” you spluttered. “I’m—Please let me wash it for you.”

“And you expect me to walk home half-naked?” His naughty eyebrow raise made your skin tingle. “Or are you inviting me to stay over?” Seeing you part your mouth but lost for words, Eren tittered. “I’m kidding. I would’ve waited for you, though. To see that movie together, I mean. No matter how busy you were, I would. And even if I had watched it first, I wouldn’t mind watching it with you again.”

You shook your head, both in an attempt to disagree with his words and to erase your bashfulness away. “But that would be a waste of money—”

“That wouldn’t be a waste, and you know why?” He leaned closer, body almost halfway through the table. “Because for me, it’s never about the movie. It’s about watching it together with you. About us complaining about the plot holes, talking about the bad acting, laughing at each other when something reminds us of one of our inside jokes. That’s what makes it worth it.” As Eren realized how your eyes were locked with his, your breath hitching in your throat with the sudden proximity, he quickly plummeted back to his seat, flushed. “I mean, it applies to everyone—not you, specifically.”

So he could be shy, you concluded in your mind. And what else could he be? Maybe buried underneath those impish grins, laid a caring heart. Maybe he could be the one who’d understand when you missed three of his calls as you tried to survive your deadlines. Maybe he would cook you breakfast instead of just reminding you to take one. Maybe he could taste sweeter than any boy you’d ever kissed.

So when his curiosity for you matched the intensity you had towards him, you let your walls crumble, welcoming him with open arms.

***

“It’s going to rain,” Eren mentioned, eyes observing the night sky. Dark clouds rumbled deeply as they hovered above you, giving an ominous feeling. You were walking next to him, knuckles nearly grazing one another from how near you were though none of you was brave enough to close the distance.

Although obvious, you decided to humor him. “Yeah? How can you tell?”

“‘Cause I’m psychic.” The added wink at the end was a bonus but to you, it became the main reason why you had to drag your gaze to your feet. Funny how for the past three hours, your smile never faded away–almost to the point that your cheekbones began to hurt–when you could barely remember the last time you found amusement in anything.

“Are you cold?” he asked, and you promptly shook your head no. Unfortunately for you, your body betrayed you. Eren chuckled softly when he noticed the shivers that ran through your spine. “Want me to lend you my jacket?”

“Oh—no, it’s fine, I’m—”

“It was a rhetorical question, dummy.” The body heat that was imprinted on his black leather jacket made you feel well aware of just how warm he actually was. The scent of his bergamot perfume was overwhelmingly delightful, but there was another scent underneath it; something that reminded you of summer, sunlight, and sandalwood which made you wonder, maybe, if he wasn’t wearing this perfume, he’d smell just like this.

He pushed your hair away from your collar, straightening the jacket until it enveloped you entirely with its warmth. “Better?”

You eventually managed to snap yourself out of your reverie. “Were you always this smooth with women?”

“No, I just practiced in front of my mirror a lot.”

“Practiced what?”

He wiggled his eyebrows. “The art of seduction.”

“Is that so?” Your cheeks began to warm but it was probably because of the jacket. “Guess I should try that sometimes,” you joked.

“I don’t think you need it,” he cooed, bending himself down a little so you were eye-to-eye. “You already have me wrapped around your fingers from the second I laid my eyes on you.” When you turned petrified by his words, his laughter reverberated through the air. “Now, that’s an example. How did I do?”

Ignoring your racing heart, you retorted, “Terrible.”

“Then will you let me practice on you so I can get better?”

Just like that, you found yourself sporting another smile. “Now, that was smooth.”

Life had been dull, with you repeating the same routines over and over again. Your job had taken up most of your precious hours. Being with Eren was a breath of fresh air. A stranger who was attentive to every little gesture you made, every little word that escaped your mouth, as much as he easily stole your attention away. His confidence was inspiring, his laughter was contagious, and you adored every little bit of his quirkiness. Once you opened yourself to him, Eren burst in like fireworks, painting a million shades of colors on your monochromatic world.

“This feels like a date,” he said, smiling diffidently to himself. “Would it be okay for me to think of it as a date?”

Suddenly, your vocabulary had diminished into nothing but his name. You nodded, and surprisingly enough for you, Eren snickered, hand reaching out to playfully—almost childishly—ruffle your strands. “Thanks. Then a date it is.”

You wished time could go slower so you could savor the moment, memorizing the heart shape of his lips when he grinned.

You stopped in front of your apartment building, a breeze of cold night wind caressing your cheeks. “Umm, this is me,” you announced stiffly, dismantling his jacket from your body. “Thank you… for this.”

Eren’s fingertips grazed against your knuckles and it took longer than necessary for him to retrieve it from your hand. “You’re welcome.”

“And also…” Your mind strayed away from forming the right words as you watched him wear back his jacket, how it fitted him so perfectly, how effortlessly handsome he looked in a simple white tee and a pair of dark jeans. “Umm, thank you for walking me home.”

“Thank you for giving me the chance.” His smile reminded you of spring, your favorite season, the way it blossomed on his face, so warm and beautiful. “I could’ve been a serial killer, you know. Showing me where you live isn’t too smart.”

“You don’t look like a serial killer to me.”

“Yeah?” The same angelic smile turned devilish. “Then, how do I look like to you?”

You were fast to pivot on your heels. “It’s late. I should go.”

His laughter filled the air. “Wait, you haven’t said good night yet.”

“Then good ni—“ Your word died on your tongue when a pair of plump lips found their way to your cheek. They only lightly brushed against your skin but they stole your entire breath away as if he was tasting your mouth. He retraced his steps before you could respond properly, biting the corner of his lip as uncertainty filled his eyes.

“Sorry if that’s—“ Eren cleared his throat. He was visibly worried, afraid that he might have gone too fast and too far. “Umm, good night.”

You felt lightheaded, and you shortly blamed it on the amount of espresso you’d gulped too much during the day. “Good night…”

Eren was too timorous to meet your eyes, which was why you were brave enough to sneak a glimpse at his face. You decided that his sly, confident grin looked alluring on his face, but they were nothing compared to how adorable he seemed when he evinced that nervous, shy look on his face.

It took a few seconds before he gave you a meek nod and walked away, taking the same direction from where you came. Something queasy grew inside your stomach, your grip around your purse tightened. Is it all there is? Am I never going to see him again? With a heavy sigh, you walked toward your building.

Maybe he doesn’t like me that much, you continued to ponder. But what do I do now? I still want to see him. I don’t want to let him go without knowing whether I could see him again.

God, for once, just do something for yourself. You clenched your jaw, reprimanding yourself. Do something that makes you happy! Be brave!

Taking a deep breath, you chose to gamble.

At the same time you turned on your heels, shouting his name, Eren was calling upon yours and you both met each other halfway, breathless when it didn’t even take you more than twenty steps to reach one another.

“H-hi,” you greeted, voice quivering but not as much as the fingers you curled around the hem of your blouse.

“Hey.” Eren’s gaze softened. “I was wondering—”

“Can we meet again?” You didn’t intend to cut him off so abruptly, but the anxiety within you nearly made your heart burst that you ended up asking the question without waiting for him to finish his. “I—I mean—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt—”

“Yes, a thousand times yes,” he answered in one breath, with his sentence ending in chuckles. “God, you’re so adorable, do you know that?”

Your heart was still about to burst but for an entirely different reason. “That’s…” You tucked a loose strand of your hair behind your ear—a habit that seemed to appear whenever you were too embarrassed to function. “That’s great. I mean, the fact that you want to see me again, not about you calling me adorable, I—” Oh, God, okay, stop. “I guess I should leave now…”

He concealed his grin. “Aren’t you going to ask for my number or something?”

You mentally slapped yourself. “Y-yes, that would make it easier.”

The way Eren was gazing at you made you feel like you were about to fall from the edge of your seat. He must think I’m an idiot. But had you been brave enough to see the gleam in his eyes, you would’ve noticed how he was staring at you so adoringly. “Give me your phone then.” When you just stood still, too busy trying to comprehend that a cute boy was really going to give you his number, Eren added, “To add my numbers, Sweetheart. What, do I look like someone who flirts with pretty girls just to steal their phones away?”

“I wasn’t—” You quickly handed him your phone. “Here.”

Eren’s smile grew playful again. “Care to make it interesting?”

“What?”

“I’ll add my numbers except for the last digit. You gotta guess it.”

“What? Why—”

“Because you’re cute,” he repeated, cocking his head as he returned your phone. “And it makes me want to tease you even more.” You unconsciously began to pout and he nearly whimpered at the sight. “Don’t do that, that’s not fair.”

You mumbled quietly, “I don’t like being made fun of.”

“I’m not making fun of you, I’m teasing you. There’s a difference.” He sighed, fingertips aching to reach out and swat your bangs away from your eyes. “A huge difference.”

You jutted out your bottom lip. “Feels the same to me.”

Eren leaned in, his calloused palm finding its way to cup your cheek, lifting your face so the streetlight could illuminate your features. “You need to wash that pout away,” he whispered, eyes slowly drifting down to your lips that you had to remind yourself to breathe. “Or else I won’t be able to hold myself back.”

It was supposed to be just another attempt at teasing you. You knew he only meant it that way. But all traces of playfulness quickly vanished from his face when he noticed your eyes shifting to his lips—just for a split second—but that was enough. He saw the sign, he felt the chemistry, and there was no way he was going to let it pass just like that. Not when he had been thinking the same thing repeatedly for the last three hours you’d spent together.

It wasn’t your first kiss—nor your second or third—but it was the kiss that mattered and you weren’t sure why. Three hours ago, he was a stranger. Now, he sent a trickle of electricity coursing through your bloodstream, as if he was your first love. As if you had been wanting him for years.

A gentle rain began to pour over your heads, tiny droplets staining your cheeks but all you could think about was the way his thumb was caressing your cheekbone, how his lips were warmer and softer than anything you could have imagined, yet fierce and powerful at the same time.

“Am I going too fast?” He asked in a broken whisper, parting away just enough to murmur the question but close enough that you could still feel his words grazing your lips.

“Yes.” But you curled your fingers on the front of his shirt, tugging him closer. Eren sighed into your mouth, eyebrows furrowing as he let himself drown deeper in passion. What started as a chaste kiss became ardent, and you allowed him to taste you enough so that he would fall asleep thinking about your lips. Eren took a hold of your wrist, detaching your grip from his fabric, and moved it up, silently telling you to wind your arms around his neck instead. The second you did it, he melded his lips with yours in a passion that matched the blazing sun, entangling his long arms around your waist, nearly lifting you off your feet as he embraced you tighter.

You wanted to preserve this moment. Right here, kissing fervidly under the soft rain in the arms of a stranger, drowned in the feelings of excitement. Because if you were oxygen, then Eren was dying to breathe.

When it ended, you wished it didn’t have to. Eren’s eyes were heavy and intense as they peered into yours, growing a bit half-lidded when he shifted them back to your lips. “Hey…”

You mirrored his gentle smile, forehead pressing against his. “Hi…”

“I don’t know about you,” he chuckled deeply. “But as far as first kisses go, I think that was the best one the world has ever known.”

You tried to suppress your laughter but failed instantly. “Ren?”

He loved how you were bold enough to call him that way. The way his name rolled off your tongue… It was like you were playing on his heartstrings. “Yeah?”

“Judging from that line, I think you need to practice harder on your art of seduction.”

He pulled you in again, exchanging muffled giggles between playful kisses. “Let’s just go back to kissing for now. I like kissing.”

And if happiness had a form, it would’ve had his smile.

***

It’s almost laughable that the memories that once sparked so much joy in his heart have taken the shape of a javelin, striking him deep in his chest, right where he ached for you the most. It tasted like summer when he kissed you in the rain, and the pain that swells in Eren’s heart whenever the memory of it resurfaces is harder than the storm. And now, it’s the silence of the room—the absence of your presence—that pierces like a dagger through his skin.

But what am I now? What am I now?

What if I’m someone I don’t want around?

I’m falling again. I’m falling again.

I’m falling.

It was easy for him to fall in love with you. So easy, it frightened him at first. After his first relationship, the way his first love shed his heart to pieces, he thought he wouldn’t be able to love someone ever again. Wouldn’t have the courage to even try. But when you came into the picture, Eren didn’t even have the strength to resist. You were everything he ever wanted, an epitome of the woman that graced his dreams. And he was a prisoner, trapped under your spell.

So, why does everything have to end like this?

Now that he’s falling without you catching him, what is he going to do?

He hates who he’s become. He loathes the fact that he can no longer smile as easily as he used to. He despises how grimly he envisions the world these days. As if you were his entire future, and now that you’re gone, his whole world collapses. Eren no longer knows himself as you were the one who defines him. The one who gave meaning to his life. The one who mended his broken heart.

What if I’m down? What if I’m out?

What if I’m someone you won’t talk about?

I’m falling again. I’m falling again.

I’m falling.

You must hate me now, Eren muses, bringing his arm over his face, nibbling at the corner of his lip. The things I said… How I let you go without even giving us a chance… I must have hurt you…

“I’m sorry.”

***

It all began that night, on the day of your twenty-sixth birthday. Two years had passed since you shared your first kiss. Little fights over your differences couldn’t be avoided, but they helped nurture the bond you had with him, making it stronger. And each forgiveness was sincere and rich in kisses. Eren always made sure of that.

As you were fond of movies, your perfect date must involve watching a movie together with him so Eren, dressed unusually handsomely in a white button-down shirt, a pair of black khakis, and a matching black blazer that caught you off guard, took you out to the movie theater—the place where fate once meddled in and brought you to one another.

Knowing your taste, he paid two tickets to see the latest romantic movie, two buckets of salt caramel popcorns, and a coke for him but iced green tea for you, realizing full well how soda had become one of your biggest enemies ever since your diet started. He made sure that your seats were located on the corner top of the theater, private enough for him to snuggle close to you or steal kisses whenever he felt like doing it. You didn’t mind because Eren would only kiss you when you seemed bored, never wanting to bother you when you were too immersed in the movie. He simply kept his hand laced with yours the whole time to make up for the loss.

Complaining about the plot holes and making jokes that only you two could understand had become his habit to keep you entertained during the movie and it was something you always looked forward to. But that night, he was quiet, his eyebrows creasing in irritation but because of what, you were clueless.

“Are you okay?” You asked as you exited the building, this time being the one who reached out for his hand first. Eren stiffened but his shoulders soon relaxed as he intertwined your fingers together.

“I’m fine,” he assured, though his grin never reached his eyes. “Why, do I not look fine?”

You weakly smiled back, uncertain. “You just seem awfully quiet, that’s all.”

He rubbed his nape, somehow looking a bit perturbed. “I just… It made me remember something I’ve been trying my best to forget.”

“You mean the movie?”

“Yeah.” He sighed into the night, puffs of hot air erupting from his slightly chapped lips. “I don’t know about you, but I think the way the movie depicted their long-distance relationship is just bullshit.”

There was so much bitterness in his words that it nearly made you stop walking. Suddenly, there was a thick tension shrouding you, one that made you feel aware that it would be wiser to drop the conversation. But curiosity was eating you from the inside, gnawing like a starving wolf. He looked so crushed, so angry, and Eren was turning into a whole other person before you.

You asked him what happened.

“I don’t think I want to talk about my past relationship when I’m celebrating a special night with my girlfriend.” He forced himself to laugh about it, but it sounded hollow.

You unconsciously tightened your grip around his hand. “I just wanted to understand you better.”

“Hey.” He pulled you toward him so abruptly that you ended up falling on his chest. His smile was warmer when he looked at you. “Even without knowing about my past, you already understand me better than anyone.”

You were still unsettled when Eren kissed your lips to divert your attention, softly biting your lower one just to joke around to ease the tension. “Ah, I can’t wait until we’re home,” he whispered when all laughter had receded, his fingers tucking your loose strands behind your ear. “I want to make love to you.”

Your heart beat thunderously inside your chest. “You’re—you’re just gonna say it so blatantly like that?” He used to be so shy about it, asking you to join him in bed by pressing open-mouthed kisses down your neck instead of using words.

“Just wanted you to know my plans beforehand,” he simpered. “Or do you not want to?”

Face aflame, you hurriedly took a couple of strides forward, leading the way with your hand clamping his wrist. “Where are we going?” Eren frowned but followed you nonetheless. “The restaurant is right there. Our reservation is in ten minutes.”

“We can have dinner after.” You threw a look over your shoulder, too nervous to smile, but you hoped your words would deliver. “We’re going to make love, aren't we?”

His astonished look soon turned delicate. Eren’s smiles were always beautiful, but the ones that were caused by you were the brightest.

As soon as the door clicked open, Eren half-pushed, half-carried you inside his apartment that smelled pleasantly like him. He didn’t wait until it was properly closed before he latched his parted lips on your softer ones, fusing perfectly in the way no one ever could. You tore your own coat away before you pushed his blazer off his shoulders, and he let it slide down to the floor as you struggled with his buttons. He kicked off his shoes, his giggles muffled by your lips when he almost tripped from taking off his socks.

With his shirt now pooling around his elbows, Eren drove you to the wall. A stinging pain erupted from the back of your head as he did it too hard, not knowing his own strength, but when you groaned against his mouth, it was solely because you needed him as much as he needed you.

“I love you,” he breathlessly said against your neck, fingers dancing up your thigh and slipping underneath your dress. “I love you so much, it’s insane.”

It had been a few months since you first exchanged the sacred three words, but no matter how much Eren had whispered them in your ears and painted them to your skin with his lips, it still felt like it was the first time you heard him say the words. It wasn’t just because of how many promises he held underneath them, it was the way he said them—so sincerely, so desperately, as if you were running out of time and he needed you to hear them before you disappeared from his life.

“I—” You flinched, pulling him for another kiss again when Eren hooked his fingers on the side of your lingerie, hastily pushing it down your legs. “I love you too.”

The bed was not more than twenty steps away but it was long forgotten when Eren, still with his teeth ghosting across your lower lip, hastily unzipped himself and pushed his pants and briefs lower enough for your hand to find and stroke him to life. “God, baby,” he hissed when you curled your fingers around him, hot breath caressing your jawline. “I want—I need to be inside you—just—Ah, now, please, I need it.”

No one had ever wanted you the way he did. Every kiss was nearly bruising, every hug was almost suffocating, the thrill of it all was overwhelming.

It was almost a whine that escaped his lips when he vocalized your name. As soon as his desperate gasp and pleading moan reached your ears, the butterflies came alive in your stomach. Your skin tingled even with the lightest brush of his lips. Your fingers found home in his hair when he kissed the valley between your breasts, tugging at his soft strands and earning a low grunt in response.

You gave him a sign, affirming that it was okay for him to continue and Eren wasted no time. He lifted you up the wall, your shocked yelp cut short by his lips on yours. His hand slid along your thigh as your legs circled his waist, his hips pressing firmly into yours to pin you harder. “Ah, Ren—” Your gasp turned louder when he adjusted you higher, angling so that his hardness pressed right against the wetness of your folds, the friction setting your nerves alight.

Pushing the fabric of your dress as much as he could until it pooled around your waist, he shifted one hand to prop up your thigh, the other one aligning his tip against your entrance. He teased the head of his cock against your lips, the glide coursing waves of bliss through both of you. “Wet…” He spoke sotto voce, his breathing tattered at the sensation of your slick coating his tip. He repeatedly pressed it into your clit at an even, steady pace that had you floating and whining.

“You want me?” He asked breathlessly, his eyes having the hardest time tearing themselves away from your lips but they managed. “Tell me you want me…”

Eren needed confirmation. It wasn’t to feed his ego, nor to build on his self-esteem. He needed you to say it so he knew it was real. That someone as perfect as you were wanted him just as much as he wanted you. That he wasn’t the only one with his sanity deteriorating. That your feelings were just as intense.

“I want you,” you breathed out. Winding your arms around his neck, your fingers carded through his hair, accidentally unfastening his hair tie before they scratched his nape. “I want no one else but you—Ah!”

The friction made you moan, both in pain and passion, as Eren slid himself in one swift motion. The second he was sheathed deep inside, waiting for you to adjust to his size, he drew out a long sigh, eyes shut close as he relished the sensation. But when your gaze met, his half-lidded eyes were gentler than they had been the entire day.

Careful fingers framed your face, his thumb rubbing comforting circles along your cheekbone. “You okay?”

You weakly nodded, smiling sheepishly. “Are you?”

His chuckles were light and bashful. “I’m feeling great,” he said. He moved his hips without warning, just a little, not too fast, not too deep, but the sensation was enough to make you whimper and Eren swallowed every little noise you made directly with his lips. For every movement, he shoved you up and down the wall, your hair mussing and clumping against the surface. The fabric of his shirt slid down his shoulders in languid fragments, slowly revealing his lean back muscles into which you dig your fingertips.

A certain thrust made you squeeze around him and he drowned out his moan by mouthing against your shoulder, teeth prickling against the skin. “Fuck, do that again, baby, please.” And as he continued hitting the same spot, it was a given that you provided him with the same reaction.

Eren was insanely good at making you feel good, and in return, you wanted to give him everything that he desired. “I love how you feel around me,” he confessed under his breath as if he was talking to himself. “Perfect—you’re so perfect for me—”

Your arms were frantically clutching around his neck, trying to maintain stability as you fought against gravity. He buried himself deeper, snapped his hips into you with isolated precision, fucking you harder, and kissed you with the desperation of a dying man.

You tried to hold back but you couldn’t. It was too much. His breathless moans in your ear, the frantic sway of his hips, the closeness of your bodies—everything was overwhelming and you came hard on his length, legs wrapping tightly around his waist as Eren chased after your lips.

“Fuck,” he breathed heavily, his jaw hung low. The way you quivered and clenched around him sent fire through his veins. “Did you just come?” he whispered and you bit your lip in shame. The tiny laugh that broke free from his lips was both playful and filled with tenderness. “Already? That was fast.”

Flustered but not given the chance to react, you inhaled sharply when he picked up the pace. He was almost growling when his lips grazed against the shell of your ear. “Actually, me too,” he moaned, “Baby—fuck–can I come inside?”

“Yes.” You embraced him tighter. “Please, come inside me–ah, Ren–”

“Shit, I’m coming–” He buried his head in the crook of your neck, hips stuttering as he came.

When he let you slide down to your feet, your knees gave out under your weight and you stumbled back to his chest. He held you close, chortling as he kissed the top of your head. “I’m sorry, come here.” Bending down slightly, Eren hooked one arm under your knees and another one behind your back. He carried you in his arms, teasing, “Fucked you so good, you could barely stand, huh?”

Unable to deny it, you playfully slapped his chest. “Shut up.”

But all of his mischievousness dissipated as soon as you both slipped under the duvet, his bedsheets felt silky smooth under your spine. He cleaned the stain that dripped down your thighs with a warm towel, but dipped his head down to taste you directly with his tongue the second he was finished with it. Eren’s eyes never left yours, placing gentle kisses on the inner sides of your thighs and two more on your clit before he slid his tongue along your folds, slowly, as if he had the whole time in the world to please you.

He was always gentler the second time, slower with more feelings instead of sheer passion. So when he slid himself into you again, his forehead was pressed against yours, lips curving up into an innocent smile. “I never want to let you go,” he confessed between faint moans. “I want to stay just like this with you, forever.”

“I don’t think that’s physically possible,” you giggled, raking your nails down his spine and he arched his back in response.

“Wouldn’t it be great if we could stay connected like this all the time, though?” Eren broke away, sitting on his heels as he rested one of your legs on his shoulder. His fingers were kneading the skin of your thigh, hugging your leg close to his chest as he rocked his hips slowly, savoring every moment. “I mean—ah, God, baby—doesn’t this feel good?”

You nibbled at your lip, sighing. Good was an understatement but you weren’t sure you could find a term to perfectly define how amazing he felt around you. “It feels like you’re made just for me,” Eren said and you couldn’t have phrased it better.

From where you laid on the bed, you could take a good look at Eren’s viridian eyes—the way they drooped slightly, clouded with both affection and infatuation every time they met yours. How the muscles in his abs were flexing with every movement. The sinful, obscene sway of his hips. The little smirk that broke on his face when you accidentally moaned his name too loud—Eren was… Beautiful. Irresistible. Sensual.

“Baby?” Eren called, chuckling softly as he peppered open-mouthed kisses to your ankle that made you stare in a haze. “You okay down there?”

You pursed your lips. “Just enjoying the view.”

“Yeah?” He brought your leg down so he could fall back into your arms, his mouth meeting your jawline before he landed a peck on the tip of your nose. “Well, I’ve got something else you could also enjoy.”

You hummed, trying your best to contain your whimper when he suddenly brought his fingers down to rub against your clit. “And what’s that?” Though the way he slammed his hips harder against yours served as an obvious answer.

“Some caramel puddings,” he replied, nipping against your neck as he grinned, careful enough not to leave any marks as you had an important meeting with your executives tomorrow. “They’re in the fridge. You’ll love them.”

It was hard to focus when he kept hitting the spot that made you curl your toes. “Eren…” You pushed a stray lock of his long hair behind his ear before you caressed his cheek. “I love you.”

His movements stopped. You both might have exchanged the same words three or four times today, but he was always the one who uttered them first. Eren melted into a smile, one that was softer than the breath of summer. “I love you too.” His lips never left yours as they spoke each loving word with more sentimentality and less urgency. “Happy birthday, baby…”

You closed your eyes, indulging in the soft sense of his warmth, and during that moment, your heart, your soul, and your mind, they formed the same words.

Ah, so this is what happiness feels like.

***

“Ren?”

“Hmm?”

Both of you no longer had the strength to do anything but cuddle in each other’s arms. As Eren wallowed in the sweet moment of silence where your breath sounded like a soothing lullaby in his ears, you gathered the courage to ask once more. “I still want to know, after all. About what happened to you earlier, I mean. You looked so distraught… I can’t rest before I know what upset you.”

He stiffened, his fingers stopped momentarily from stroking your strands. With a sense of weariness filling his eyes, he surrendered.

It was his first relationship with his first love, back when he was fifteen. They were together for four years but knew each other for ten. She was a close friend that grew into something more. Even loving words didn’t need to be exchanged as they could practically finish each other’s thoughts. You felt a pang of jealousy gnawing at you from the inside, at the thought of him having someone so important in his life—someone who had stayed with him longer than you’d met him—someone whose name couldn’t be spoken as it triggered too many emotions.

But for the sake of understanding him, you cast your jealousy aside, no matter how much it lit your body on fire.

Eren’s voice had lost its usual cheeriness when he reminisced about his past. By the time they graduated high school, she decided to continue her study in another country. Eren let her go, supporting her plans and dreams like the perfect boyfriend that he was. They were committed to each other, faithful to one another. Eren never doubted her, not even once.

Until one day, during the summer break of their first year of separation, he decided to pay her a visit. He bought airplane tickets with the money he’d saved up for months, along with a thoughtful gift for her birthday. But the second he saw her opening the door to her apartment, he realized that she wasn’t alone.

She was never alone. He was.

“Why are you here?” She asked as if his presence was a bother. Him, the man whom she claimed she’d loved with her entire soul for the last four years. The man whom she had made love to on his bed just six months earlier. Eren would never forget the look she had on her face that day.

“It’s funny how you’ve been with this person your whole life,” Eren said, his words laced with venom as he kept his gaze fixated on the ceiling. “And you thought you knew them like the back of your hand and then one day, they betrayed you in the way you thought they were incapable of doing.”

You couldn’t find your voice, blending in with the silence of the room.

But he didn’t hate her, Eren confessed. He hated himself. He hated how stupid—how innocent and gullible he was. He hated how easily he had let someone else carry his heart around and let them do whatever they wanted with it. He knew that she wouldn’t have the power to destroy him if he had never given her the chance. Maybe, if his thoughts weren’t as clouded by his feelings, he would’ve noticed the little sighs she made whenever he told her he loved her. He would’ve noticed the way she sounded much brighter when she talked about her life instead of their lives together during their late-night calls. He would’ve noticed how distant she sounded whenever she spoke his name as if it was just another meaningless word and not the one that she used to murmur in short gasps near his ear.

And maybe if I hadn’t fallen in love…

Eren fell mute for a few seconds as if he was being drifted to another time and space. The hurting look on his face was so vivid that it broke you apart just by seeing it. Attempting to wash the pain away, you placed a hand on his cheek and Eren grew rigid before he discovered the strength to smile.

“I had to stay for a whole week in a country I didn’t know because I couldn’t refund my ticket,” he said, leaning into your touch. “All alone, since my girlfriend cheated on me and didn’t even care to apologize about it.” He snorted, still sounding bitter but his taut muscles had grown loose. “So yeah, I probably have some trust issues now because of that.” He tried to conceal the pain behind his laughter. “But it’s all right. I don’t care. I have you now, right?” He laid on his side, facing you with a boyish smile that made your heart race just a little bit faster. “I’m starting on a new page with you. And as long as you’re here with me, I’m the happiest man in the world.”

You reflected his smile though your heart was still left unsettled. “You’re lame.”

“Excuse me, I’m in love,” he corrected, pouting. But when his hand found yours, his expression grew tender again. Kissing each of your fingertips, he murmured, “We’ll always be together, right? Promise you won’t do that to me.”

“I will never cheat on you, Ren.”

“No, it’s not just that.” He gazed deep into your eyes. “Promise me you won’t leave me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He knew what loving you could cost him, but you were different. And he was different. He wouldn’t fall into the same trap. He knew how to protect himself this time. So he allowed himself to love you just as much, if not more, moving on but never forgetting.

Your eyes were focusing on the way he brought your index finger between his lips, your digit pressing against his hot tongue. “Yes,” you softly whispered, hooking a finger around his silver necklace, and pulling him in for a kiss. “We’ll always be together.”

“Forever?”

“Forever.”

***

Your forever did not last long.

When you received a job promotion a year later, you didn’t know what to say to him. It was your dream job, finally achieving that position after practically hanging on for dear life for five years working in the company. The salary exceeded your expectation, and you would be working under a senior that you admired. The company would pay for all your living expenses and give you your own flat to live in with a balcony where you could see the sun rising behind the skyscrapers. It all sounded so perfect. Too perfect.

Except for the part where you had to move to another country that stood three thousand miles away from where he was.

You knew you should’ve said something to Eren the first time your director broke the news to you. But you couldn’t as you didn’t know how. During the three years of your relationship, both of you had avoided talking about matters that could lead to fights, only allowing yourselves to discuss trivial, mundane things that would make the other pout in annoyance but not fury. The first time you noticed this happened was when both of you became too busy dealing with your own lives. You had your job to think about, while Eren had his thesis to work on and there wasn’t much time to focus on each other even when you were staying in the same apartment.

Eren often released his stress by nuzzling his nose against the side of your neck, pulling you into his lap, whispering, “I miss you,” and you reciprocated each time with a kiss. But you always stopped before it got too much with you patting his cheek, apologizing to him using both your words and your gaze. “I’m sorry, Ren, but I have a Zoom meeting in an hour. I really need to get my presentation done.”

He just sighed, pressing a tiny kiss between your eyebrows. “Well then, I’m gonna go catch some sleep. Don’t work too hard.”

And as he walked to the bedroom, closing the door behind him and leaving you alone in his living room, you realized the distance that grew between you. He used to look back, peek his head through the door, saying, “Would it really kill you to just join me for, like, fifteen minutes? I’ll be fast, I swear,” which you would answer with a laugh, assuming he was joking. “Why are you laughing? I’m serious!”

But now, he doesn’t even stop to say good night.

You knew you could fix it. He knew he could fix it too. But none of you ever said anything about it, afraid that it would trigger something bigger that neither of you would be able to mend.

It didn’t mean that you didn’t try. Every weekend, you would commit yourself fully to him and Eren would accept your unspoken apology with all his heart. You once attempted to drop some clues about your promotion during dinner when he made you your favorite dish, grinning from ear-to-ear as he waited for your reaction. Eren’s Spaghetti Aglio e Olio never disappointed you, but you know your words would. So when he was smiling at you, his thumb gliding along your knuckles as he took your hand in his, how could you tell him?

I just need more time to prepare myself. To find a better way to explain.

But before you could find your words, Eren found your promotion letter.

“What is this?” He asked to your horror, body leaning against the doorframe, your letter in his hand.

The maroon dress you were trying to fold fell from your lap as you stood up abruptly, eyes widening in shock. “That’s—where did you get—”

“What is this?”

You turned rigid. The weight in his tone was terrifying. “It’s… My promotion letter.”

“Are you planning to tell me about it?” He wasn’t shouting, didn’t even raise his voice, but to your ears, his voice was thunderous.

You fidgeted, fingers fisting the hemline of your shirt, desperate for comfort. “Of course, I—” But there were no words. Your brain was too jumbled to find a proper excuse because you knew, he didn’t wish to hear one.

Eren didn’t want to repeat himself. His heart was already breaking. He just lowered his gaze, emerald eyes turning darker and colder. Then he left the room without a word.

“Eren.” You followed after him, legs turning frail underneath your weight. “Eren, please, can we talk?”

He only stopped in his tracks when you grasped his wrist. “Did you say yes to this?” He turned around to face you, raising the letter he gripped so tightly in his hand. His voice was quiet, eerily so, that it sent shivers down your spine.

Your heart was somewhere in your stomach. “I was—”

“Yes or no?”

He only allowed you to choose, not explain. With a deep breath, you mumbled out, “Yes.”

There was a moment of silence where you could only hear your stuttered breathing but none of his. “Three months,” he murmured, voice deep and hoarse that you barely recognized. “The letter is three months old. You had all this time to tell me.”

Panic rose quickly in your chest. “I know. I was going to tell you but—”

The rest of your words died instantly the second Eren slammed the letter on the dining table. Your breath caught in your throat at the sound. Had his fist met porcelains, he would’ve shattered everything to pieces with how forceful he was.

Without another word, he stomped off to the front door, grabbing his coat with him.

“Wait!” You chased after his trails, knees wobbling. “Where are you—”

The door was shut with a bang.

No matter how many times you tried to call him, he never answered. The only thing you could do was stay in his apartment and wait until he came back to his senses. Now that you were alone in the living room, you began to notice just how many of your belongings were positioned in every corner of his apartment. Your toothbrush was next to his, your clothes were hanging inside his wardrobe, your favorite books were on his shelf, and the walls were painted with more photographs of you than his own. In every picture, you could see yourself smiling in his arms, laughing at something he did or said because that was it, wasn’t it? Eren was the source of your happiness. He was the only one who could make you smile so freely without a care in the world.

So why are we in this position now?

It was your first big fight and you had no one else to blame but yourself. Hours had passed by and tears began to well from how frustrated you were with yourself, but the front door flung open before they could outline your cheeks.

“Ren,” you called out, your heart ruptured at the sound of his name. Eren’s hair was ruffled by the wind, his bun turning messier than ever. His nose and cheeks were bitten by the cold night air, turning scarlet. His hands were inside the pockets of his coat, his eyes glazed by his temper as he kicked his shoes away. He walked past you as if you weren’t there, heading straight to the bedroom.

Judging from the scent and his slightly unfocused eyes, you knew he had been drinking. “Are you okay?”

No answer. He took his coat off, throwing it on the bed along with his phone which was clearly functional as always. You had expected him to dismiss your calls, but it still hurt being ignored.

With your eyebrows knitted in concern, you went to the kitchen to make him a cup of coffee, hoping that a little caffeine would ease the tension as it was something you were both fond of. You stopped to catch your breath, noticing that it was already two in the morning.

What should I do?

“Eren…” You carefully began, voice quieter than usual as you walked into the bedroom and closed the door behind you. “I’ve made you some coffee. It’ll help warm you up.”

Your lover was sitting at the edge of the bed, his phone between his hands, blatantly ignoring you.

“Can we…” You hesitated, fingers curling into tiny balls of fists. “Can we talk?”

The silence was deafening.

“Ren—”

“What?!” He suddenly roared, making you take a step back, flinching. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I…” You swallowed your breath, your voice is as shaky as your fingers were. “I know you’re upset about me leaving and I’m sorry—”

“Oh, so now you want to talk about this? After I found out about your letter?” Eren didn’t wait for your response. “I can’t believe you’ve been keeping this a secret from me! What else are you not telling me?”

Heart plummeting to the ground, you timorously replied, “Nothing, just… I was going to tell you—”

“Yeah? When, exactly?” Eren stood up, throwing his phone to the bed. “When you’re about to go? When you’re about to disappear from my life just like her?”

Being put in the same position as the person who tore his heart to pieces was both sickening and infuriating. “Of course not, I won’t do that to you!” Your voice gradually turned louder, more frantic. “I won’t leave you—”

“But that’s all everybody fucking said!” He threw his hands in the air, eyes blazing with fury. “That’s what she said when—”

“Well, I’m not her!” The booming sound of your voice startled you both, but it grew weak in comparison when the eerie silence followed. “Eren, you can’t blame me for what she did. I’m not her. I’m not her replacement. Don’t compare me with her.”

For a moment, Eren’s lips were pressed tightly until they grew white. “I never compared you with her,” he said through gritted teeth, his husky voice thundered like a rainstorm. “Not until now when you’re doing the same thing, saying the exact same thing she said to me.”

You cowered slightly under his gaze. The sound of the ticking clock had never felt so loud when you fought for words to say. “I’m sorry for not telling you about this sooner.”

“I don’t need your apology,” he snapped back. “I don’t care.”

“It’s my dream job, Ren…” Your posture drooped, grave sadness written on your face. “I’ve been waiting my whole life to get this position–”

“Congratulations,” he scoffed, clenching his jaw. “I’m so glad you got what you wanted.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. His words hurt more than you thought they would. “You don’t have to force yourself to say words you don’t mean.”

He clicked his tongue in vexation. “Yeah, well, I would’ve meant them, if you had told me about this.”

“I wasn’t able to tell you because I thought you’d be upset about it—”

"I suppose postponing it until we’re counting days till your leave is going to make me feel fucking elated, isn’t that right, Sweetheart?” There had never been a day where you thought his adorable, warm laughter could turn into something so spiteful. “Let me guess. You’re leaving in like, what, a month?”

You rubbed your tears away before they fell. “Six weeks.”

“Oh, that makes everything so much better! Six weeks!” He cynically laughed, throwing his head back. “You know what? You’re right. I’m so happy. Never been this fucking happy in my whole goddamn life—”

“What do you want me to do?!” The frustration that welled inside your chest finally broke through your lips. “You want me to turn back time so I could tell you right after I heard the news three months ago?”

Eren averted his gaze, his hand going to his head, pulling at his hair roots. “I just don’t understand why if this is so important to you—and if I’m so important to you—why didn’t you talk this out with me? Don’t you care about what I think? About how I’d feel?”

Tears were running faster than you could wipe them off your cheeks. “I couldn’t find the right time to tell you.” You choked out. “ And you were so busy working on your final thesis too. I didn’t want to bother you—”

“That’s your excuse?!” he gasped in disbelief. “I don’t fucking care about my thesis. I care about you! And you knew how I felt about being in a long-distance relationship—"

“That was the reason why I was waiting for the right time until—“

“Until you can tell me that you’re leaving.” He sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Look, I’m tired and we’re going in circles. Why are we even discussing this when you’ve made the decision all by yourself? This is pointless.”

Embittered, you asked, “Do you want me to choose between you and my career?”

“No. I don’t.” He finally looked into your eyes, and you could see how there was not as much anger as sadness that emerged behind his lenses. “But I’m making my own decision.” When you frowned in confusion, Eren looked away, staring at the wall that was filled with memories as he spoke. “I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

“What?” It felt like the world was swallowing you whole. “What did you say?”

Exchanging stares with you, Eren appeared more weary than furious. “I just don’t see how this is going to work.”

For a moment, every cherished memory you shared with him fleeted across your eyes. Eren was standing before you, wearing the same clothes as he did on the night he spent embracing you on his bed, and yet right now, he felt like a stranger. He sounded like one, looking at you like you just betrayed him and drove a knife into his back.

“You’re drunk.” You reasoned out, both to calm him down and to wash the fear away from your chest. “You won’t be saying any of this if you were sober.”

“If that’s what helps you sleep at night, sure.” Both his eyes and his tone were glacial. “Go ahead and think that way. I don’t care.”

Dread was running through your veins, making you feel anxious about what was coming. “Wait,” you almost pleaded. “We need to talk about this.”

“I think we’ve talked enough.”

“Can’t we at least try—”

“I can’t.” The confession escaped his lips, and your facade shattered. Tears pooled in your eyes and his heart twisted as sadness washed over him too. His eyes finally spoke the true shape of his heart—how it was smashed apart, broken with neither of you being able to collect the pieces. He gazed at you as if it was you who was breaking up with him and not the other way around. “You know I can’t do this,” he said. “I don’t want to repeat the same mistakes. I don’t want to be that guy who constantly gets suspicious or overly protective of you because of my past. It won’t be fair to you.”

“I don’t care if you’re being unfair,” you replied shakily, “I just don’t want us to end what we have now.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.” His voice grew softer. “If we continue this, I know I’ll end up saying things I never meant to say. With three thousand miles between us, how often do you think we can see each other? With you being so busy with your new job, how often can we speak?” But the bitterness in his voice came alive when he added, “We could barely do that even when we were in the same room before.”

“It’s about that..?” Realization washed over you like a wave. “Why didn’t you say anything before?”

“Same reason as you,” he replied, “To keep our relationship the way it was. That’s what we always do, isn’t it? Pretending everything is fine when it’s not?”

A fresh swell of turmoil rose within you. “Eren, I’ve tried my best to spend time with you… I thought you’d understand that I have a job—”

“You’re right, but unlike you, I don’t.” Eren weakly smiled. “I don’t have anything going on with my life except you. I don’t even know if I can graduate college in time. But you’ve achieved so much. You’re only a few years older than me and yet you’ve already had everything figured out, and I admire you for that.” His words sounded sincere but they only tore your heart open even more. Eren walked closer, his fingers pushing the bangs out of your eyes like the way he used to do but it didn’t feel the same. Instead of giving you the comfort you needed, he only inflicted more pain. “You’re already perfect the way you are now. You don’t need me in your life.”

“No.” The desperation was so thick in your voice, that it made you wince but not in regret. “You’re wrong, you—There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t need you, Ren. I want you to stay with me. Come with me. We still have time.”

You don’t mean that. Eren brought his head down, unable to meet your eyes. If you did, you would’ve told me about this sooner. “And then what?” he sighed, sounding so tired. “What am I going to do if I come with you? I haven’t even finished my study yet, let alone have a job.”

“You can find one in—”

“In a country where I can’t even speak the language? I doubt it. I’m not gonna let you pay for my needs—”

“Then, I’ll make some time for you, I promise. Better this time.” Your fingernails were sinking into your palms from how tightly you curled them. “No matter how far we are from each other, I’ll call you every day.”

“I don’t want that.” His words were laced with frustration. “I don’t want you to force yourself to do something for me. And I don’t want to spend my nights imagining whether you’re spending yours with someone else.”

“You…” You were so quiet, you wondered if he could hear you properly. “You don’t trust me?”

But Eren shook his head, gaze softening. “I do. I just don’t trust myself.”

Your mind turned into a blank slate, unable to form a word. Eren’s breathing tattered a little when he exhaled, walking to his wardrobe to pick out some clothes. “I’m gonna go stay at Armin’s place for the weekend. Feel free to take out your stuff. Just drop the keys at the lobby when you’re finished.”

You stood still, icebound to the ground. It almost felt like a heart attack from the way your heart was hammering against your rib cages. “I don’t want to lose you,” you quietly professed, “I thought we could work this out…”

Eren’s movements were put to a halt just for a couple of seconds before he continued shoving his clothes down his bag. You stood on the side as he walked past you, his natural sandalwood scent had disappeared, buried under the amount of alcohol he’d consumed.

“So, this is it…?” You fretted. “For us..?”

Eren stopped taking another stride, glancing at you from over his shoulder. “It’s better for both of us, don’t you think?”

But he didn’t wait to hear your answer.

***

When you dared to appear at his front door six weeks later, it was on the night before your departure. He hadn’t called, hadn’t sent you a single text. He was a ghost, living solely in your imagination. But knowing it was your last chance to see him, you gathered your courage and took the first step.

Eren was wearing the same navy blue knitted sweater that he wore the first time you told him you loved him. You remembered how startled he was back then, unsure of what to say as he was afraid to love someone else after knowing how it felt like to have his heart shattered to pieces. The words I love you were merely reciprocated with a small “Thank you” and an awkward hug to serve as a bandaid. As you laid in his arms later that night, you spent every second with your eyes closed but your thoughts awake, trying to figure out why won’t he say it back?

You left for work early the next morning, your mind so distraught that you forgot to put some cream in your coffee. With one arm holding an umbrella over your head to protect you from the morning showers, you stepped outside with an anchor for a heart, bidding him farewell without having your smile reach your eyes.

Was it a mistake? You pondered. Should I have not told him? He didn’t look so happy about it…

Does he not… love me?

Before your eyes were misted with your tears, you heard your name being called. Turning around, you saw Eren chasing after you in the same knitted sweater, his hair still messy from sleep but soon to be drenched by the rain.

“Wait!” he shouted, breathlessly, both from running and the rush of adrenaline that pumped through his veins.

Your eyes turned wide in astonishment even when you failed to catch his words. “What—” You were about to run so you could shelter him from the rain, but he reached your spot faster than you could reach him. “Eren, what are you doing? Why didn’t you take an umbrella with you?” You dropped your handbag to the ground, not caring if it got wet from the rain as you focused more on the man who was shivering before you. You rubbed his arm up and down, providing him with warmth before you cupped his face. “Go back inside. You’re shivering.”

“I’m fine. I just have something to say before you go.” He broke into a tender smile, pressing his palm against the back of your hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t say it back last night. I was… I was afraid,” he admitted. “Being in love with someone means you’re giving your heart for them to hold or to crush and I didn’t want to go through that pain ever again but—” He stepped closer, his temple nearly touching yours as he brought his head down. “I love you. I want you to know that I love you too. I don’t want to lie to myself anymore. I don’t care what’s gonna happen in the future. I just love you, so much, that both my heart and my head feel like they’re going to burst.”

For a moment, you could only stare back, dumbstruck and in awe. Eren’s eyes shook as they searched yours, growing frantic when he couldn’t understand the feelings that churned inside you. “Say something, please?” He begged, cold fingers caressing your cheek. “Otherwise, I might have to crawl into a hole and die from shame.”

You chuckled lightly, overwhelmed by the sheer happiness that washed over you. “I love you too.”

He seemed so relieved, almost as much as you were, and he twisted his fingers around your strands, chasing after your lips. The kiss was sweeter than honey but knowing him, even the sweetest kiss emitted so much passion, it left you breathless.

“I’m sorry, I know you have to go to work,” he said, pushing you away just for a couple of seconds before his emotions defeated him once more. Your mouths collided yet again, a frenzied kiss that left your skin burning. “God, I know you have to go,” he whispered between needy kisses. “But just—one more—”

You let him. You let him kiss you as much as he wanted. You let him steal you away from the world as much as he pleased. After all, you were his. Body, mind, and soul, you offered everything to him.

When he finally had the strength to break apart from you, his eyes were conflicted. “Must you go?” His thumb caressed your cheek, and Eren wetted his already glistened lip as he stared at yours. “I want to be with you today.”

It didn’t matter that the two of you just spent the entire weekend together. No amount of time would be enough to satisfy your needs for each other’s touch. So you answered him with your lips meeting him in a frantic kiss, casting your umbrella aside. You didn’t care that it was cold, with big droplets of rain easily drenching you from head to toe because Eren was always ready to warm you up.

“Then take me home, Ren.”

But you realized as he tugged you back into his arms, soft lips pressing against your temple, you were already home.

Now… That memory felt like a fantasy, one that you could only dream of having.

“I…” Standing right before him after six weeks of separation was so nerve-racking that you found yourself unable to meet his eyes. “I just wanted to get the books I left on your shelf.”

He didn’t say a word, only stepping to the side to give you some space to enter. His apartment still smelled delightfully like him, so familiar that it felt like you were coming home, but instead of suffusing your chest with joy, it only broke your heart even harder.

“They’re in my room,” he said, all stern with no warmth like he used to have. Not our room anymore, only his. You nodded, making your way inside. When you closed the bedroom door behind you, hot tears were about to spill and you tried your best not to be suffocated with the memories of the nights you shared your feelings with him, bodies tangled underneath the sheets, lips carving marks on each other’s skins.

You couldn’t breathe.

By the time you managed to collect yourself, you came out of his room with two of your books in your hands while you left ten more on his shelf. You didn’t need any of them. It was only a poor excuse for you to see his face once more before you bid your final farewell.

“I made you some coffee,” he said, leaning against the kitchen counter. “It’s cold outside so…”

You timidly smiled. “Thank you.”

You used to spend hours chattering behind a few cups of coffee, talking about the things that mattered and things that didn’t because everything felt special when you shared them with someone you loved. But today, every sip of your coffee sounded louder than your voice as no words were shared.

You said you care

And you missed me too

And I’m well aware I write too many songs about you

“How are you?”

“I’m doing great,” he answered formally. It’s funny how he didn’t need spiteful words to hurt you. The absence of his affection in his sentences was more than enough to smother you.

“That’s good…” You tapped your fingers against the side of your mug. “Are you still writing lyrics for Armin’s songs these days?”

“No. I’ve been busy.”

“Oh… With your thesis?”

“Sure.”

Eren didn’t tell you the truth. He didn’t tell you how many notes had been written, scratched, and discarded just so he could deal with the thoughts of you. Didn’t tell you the words he wrote about your pretty eyes, your pretty smiles, your kindness, your passion, your everything. And how, despite his choice of leaving you, he still longed for them. Still loved them with all his heart.

The reason why he let you go was that he knew you would probably stay with him if he’d asked you to. He didn’t want you to have any regrets. Didn’t want you to choose him because you felt like you had no other way. Because when you love someone, truly, you’re ready to be cast aside for them to attain their happiness. You just happen to be walking on a different path, and Eren is not strong, nor fast enough, to walk with you just yet. Rather than wishing for you to stop, he wants you to walk faster even if it means he won’t be able to chase after you.

And Eren still couldn’t forget the pain. It felt like you betrayed him when you kept it a secret for months.

What else will you keep from me, if you can’t even tell me you’re leaving? Will you keep it a secret when you no longer love me the way you used to? Will you keep it a secret when you find someone new, someone better, someone who can stay to wipe your tears and hold you in their arms while I’m three thousand miles away from you? Will you pretend like everything is fine when we’re straying further away from each other every day?

In Eren’s mind, he thought you’d be better on your own. At such a young age, you had already managed to chase after your dreams while he was still unsure of what he wanted to have in the future. To him, you were always a step ahead. And tomorrow, you’d be taking your first step to another place where he wouldn’t have the strength to follow.

His thoughts about you were never-ending. And he wrote so much, pouring every feeling down on papers, that now as you stood before him in person, there were no more words left to be said and he could only reply to your sentences with silence.

And the coffee’s out

At the Beachwood Cafe

And it kills me ‘cause I know we’ve run out of things we can say

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” you eventually said and Eren glanced at you from underneath his eyelashes, but he never let his gaze stay for a second longer.

He knew. Of course, he did. He had been counting the days, dreading every second of it. “Take care of yourself,” he responded in a way a stranger would say to another stranger at the end of their brief meeting. “Good luck with your job. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

There were no pet names at the end of his sentence, no sweet terms he’d once associated with you. He even refrained himself from calling your name out loud as he was afraid it would shatter the walls he’d built around him. The walls he created to protect himself from hurting even more. You were truly strangers now.

“Thanks.” You forced yourself to smile, nails sinking into your thighs as you brought your hands to your lap. “You too. Don’t forget to eat your breakfast every day. You always skip it.”

It was your job to remind him, who used to serve fried eggs and toasts on his plate while Eren was the one who cooked dinner. Perhaps he remembered that too because as soon as the words departed from your lips, Eren brought his head down, simply replying with a hum so you wouldn’t notice the tremble in his voice.

When you took your leave, you handed him a note to your new address. “Just… Come and visit me whenever you’re in the country. I’d love to show you around.” It sickened you how formal you sounded, but you couldn’t say it any other way.

When Eren took the note, your fingers brushed against his, it almost seemed like time stopped, just for a little, and he wanted to pull you into his embrace, to tell you how much he’d been missing you the same way you’d been missing him. To tell you how much he wanted to be selfish, to have you choose him over everything else in your life because that was how you meant to him. You were everything to him.

Just like how you are to me.

So when he dropped his hand, tucking it inside his pocket, you knew it was really over. Finally, the word goodbye took its true form.

And I get the feeling that you’ll never need me again.

***

Three years passed by like eternity. Time progresses so slowly that your mind can only recall the taste of euphoria just like how your lips remember the softness of his kiss. But you don’t feel them, not anymore. The joy, the thrill of being in love, the burning desire of wanting someone and being wanted. You remember everything but your body starts to forget. And when your mind decides to abandon those memories too, what’s going to be left of you then?

Birthday parties had the taste of farewells. Love confessions, even when they came from a gentleman you respected, would never be able to fill the void in your chest. Ardent kisses only felt nice on your lips but they always left a bitter taste on your tongue. And your body felt incomplete, cold as if you had been standing in the snow for hours, missing the warmth he used to give you on the passenger seat of his car.

I wonder what you are doing now, Ren…

Have you met someone new? Have you ever thought about me?

Did you ever miss me?

“Because I do,” you heard yourself murmur one day in the darkness of your apartment, your mind intoxicated as you had drunk more alcohol than you intended. “I never stopped thinking about you… I miss you…”

I miss you so much.

Three years. Three years and he is still the only man your heart yearns for, so desperately, it hurts. You have his phone number memorized in your head but you can’t lift your finger to punch down the buttons. Three years and you never found the courage to do it, so scared of the thoughts of him dismissing your call, or worse, answering only to tell you to leave him alone. And you know he has your number too, but the fact that your phone never rang with his name flashing on your screen only meant one thing.

Eren no longer wants to have anything to do with you. Not anymore.

The four walls of your apartment are the only witnesses of the tears you cried and the ones that dried on your cheeks as you sobbed yourself to sleep. Some nights could feel exceptionally lonely that you had to drown yourself in sleeping pills to forget the sound of his laughter that once felt like music to your ears. Days, especially like today, feel longer when you have to stay home and you don’t have your job to distract you from him.

And when you start imagining him there, breathing the same air that you breathe, your heart constricts like you’re trapped inside a box, buried ten feet under the ground. The human mind is a powerful thing. As your eyes turn vacant, it runs on its own, playing scenes after scenes like an old movie. You can see Eren walking around your apartment in nothing but his plaid pajama pants, his top missing as you’d stolen it away, draping it over your own body while wearing nothing more underneath. You can see him hugging the old version of yourself in the kitchen, his chest completing the dip of your spine, his nose nuzzling against your neck.

“Morning,” you can hear him say, his voice hoarse from sleep. “You woke up early.”

Your giggle echoes in your ears. “Eren, it’s two in the afternoon.”

“Yeah, that’s early. Let’s go back to bed.”

“Wait, let me make you some food. You must be hungry.”

But Eren doesn’t listen, he never did. You see him lifting your body off the ground, throwing you over his shoulder with one hand wrapped around the back of your thighs. “It can wait. I want to cuddle,” he insists as you laugh. “You’re going to be the big spoon now.”

“Aren’t I always the big spoon?”

“That’s right, so you better spoon me right.”

“What does that even mean?”

Funny how a conversation like this is what you miss the most. You can never find and share a moment like this with anyone else. Or maybe you just don’t allow yourself to?

I want to see him, you confess deep within your thoughts as you lay your cheek on the coffee table. Your fingers are still wrapped against an empty can of beer, the taste of alcohol sitting thickly on your tongue. You just realize that you’re wearing Eren’s old hoodie again, its color fading from scarlet to salmon pink from how many times you’ve washed it. It was the only thing that’s left of him, something that you forgot to return and Eren didn’t care enough to ask for it back. You nuzzle your nose against its long sleeve, still trying to catch a hint of his scent lingering on its fabric even when you’ve failed so many times. There’s nothing left of him that lingers near. With your legs stretched out on the carpeted floor, skin sliding against polyester, you feel tears brimming in your eyes.

Eren…

Your doorbell rings, breaking the smothering silence. You attempt to ignore it, just wanting to be swallowed by the earth for now and never resurface. But when it keeps resounding through your hallway, you have no choice but to groan and return to your feet.

You wipe your tears away, your eyes still puffy and red as you take long strides toward your front door. Your hair is a tangled mess, your clothes rumpled and worn-out. You’ve never really cared about your appearance these days. You haven’t really cared about anything else.

You turn around your doorknob. “I’m sorry, but I don’t feel well today, so if you… can…”

Your eyes grow wide, incapable of blinking as Eren Jaeger, the same man whose face has been haunting you night and day for the last three years, stands before you with his hand stopping mid-air, about to ring your doorbell once more before you suddenly swang your door open.

“H-hi…” He says, in the same husky voice that trickles down like honey. It feels so surreal to hear him again—to see him again. You’ve been imagining him standing on the other side of your door like this countless times before but you never allowed yourself to see what happened past that, knowing that it would only hurt you even more.

And now that he’s here…

What am I supposed to say?

He looks exactly the same, not a day older. He’s still the most handsome man you’ve ever seen, with smooth golden skin kissed by the sun. He still owns the same high cheekbones, the same inviting plump lips, and the same beautiful long brown hair that’s cascading down to his shoulders. It’s as if not a second has passed by since the day you bid each other farewell with your hearts being trampled to the ground.

You can’t speak. It’s already a miracle that you can still suck air into your lungs.

Just like you, his mind turns blank as his eyes grow twice their size. You’re wearing his hoodie. Three years after your break-up, and you still wear it as if you had never stopped being his lover. Something claws against the walls of his stomach as the memories of those morning kisses you shared with him are revived in his head. You look just as adorable, just as beautiful, and God, it hurts him. Seeing you wear his clothes used to be his favorite thing to wake up to and now it just feels like God is playing the vilest joke on him.

You’ve lost weight. That’s the other thing he can tell once he’s calmed himself down. Even when half of your body is hidden underneath his oversized hoodie, he can still tell by the dip of your collarbones and the little protruding bones on your wrists. You seem pale with dark circles under your eyes, but none of them shocks him as much as the fact that you’ve been crying. He hates it. He always hates it when you cry, even when you look beautiful when you do. Tears don’t belong in your eyes. He wants you to have a smile written on your lips and nothing more. And he wants to be the reason for that smile. And yet, just standing before you like this, he becomes the reason behind your tears.

It takes everything within him not to reach out a hand and stroke your cheek, wanting to provide comfort with every fiber of his being. “It’s been a while,” he says, a delicate smile gracing his lips. “How are you?”

You feel layers of unsettling emotion, a sob threatening to rise fast to your lips. “Umm… Yeah… I’m—” Your words are strangled in your throat. “I’m doing well.”

“I’m glad.” Eren is wearing a denim jacket over a white tee, his bag slinging on one shoulder. His grip tightens around the strap as he tries to sort out his words. “Sorry for showing up so suddenly like this. I’m in the country for the next two weeks. I’ve got, umm… I’ve got a gig.”

“Oh…” You swallow. “So you’ve… graduated, huh?”

“Yeah, finally,” he chuckles, still sounding a bit tense but he’s doing much better than you do in masking his emotions. “I thought I was going to get expelled for taking too long. But I graduated two years ago, actually. And I got myself a job as a photojournalist. It sucks. I hate it. But it pays well and I get to travel for free so...”

You hear his words but you can’t seem to let them sink in. He’s like a ghost, materializing out of thin air, and your brain can’t differentiate between your dream and reality. “Congratulations,” you can only say.

“Thanks.”

Silence is like a pair of invisible hands that strangulate you by the throat and Eren can feel it too. Casting his gaze downward, he shifts his weight from one foot to another. “So, umm…” He clears his throat. “I just… I just thought I’d swing by to say hi since I’m in the country. I’m glad to see you’re doing well.”

You’re not. And he can tell that you’re not. He’s just not sure if you would allow him to get close enough to you to ask the questions he’s itching to say. He’s afraid that you’d reject him. After what he’s done to you in the past, choosing to end your relationship without giving you a proper chance to explain, it’s only right for you to distance yourself away from him. Because that’s the reason why you hadn’t called, right? You were angry with him. Maybe you still are. But that’s where he’s wrong. You didn’t call because you were angry. You never called because you thought he was.

To Eren, the thought of you walking away from him isn’t as terrifying as the thought of you having another man’s name on your tongue. You don’t know how nerve-racking it was for him to press a finger against your doorbell. How every ring made his blood curdle, his brain creating a string of mental images of you sharing kisses with a new lover on the other side of your door.

What if I’m too late? Eren’s fear echoes through the maze of his mind. What if she’s moved on to someone else?

What if she doesn’t want to see me again?

What if this is a mistake?

His thoughts turn clamorous by the second that he has to curl his fingers against the side of his black jeans to stop him from acting irrationally. “Sorry,” he says, the rush of adrenaline that filled his system before dissipating fast. “I shouldn’t have come here. I—I’m gonna go—”

A hand finds his wrist before he could escape. You keep your head low, your bangs the perfect curtain to conceal your reddened eyes and the tears that mist over them.

“Coffee,” you say, your lower lip trembling as you form your next sentence. “Would you… stay for a cup of coffee?”

Eren’s gaze shifts down to where your hands are connected, fire dancing on his skin. Just how many nights has he spent thinking about feeling your touch again?

With his heart in his throat, he answers, “I would love to.”

***

The clock on the wall is a better conversationalist than you are as it constantly replies to Eren's words with a steady, monotonous rhythm, while you are drowning further in silence with nothing but your heartbeat ringing vehemently in your ears.

“Your apartment looks nice.”

“I think I understand why you like living in this country. It’s beautiful.”

“Armin is doing well. He asks about you from time to time. Said he missed arguing with you about Breaking Bad.”

You answer his every line almost with a nod or a shake of your head and nothing more. You’re afraid to use your words. Afraid that he’ll notice the crack in your voice. Afraid that that little crack would trigger the rest of your feelings to burst and explode like a broken dam.

Eren, despite his successful attempts at moving from one topic to another, feels like he’s been stalling and repeating himself. He doesn’t want to talk about the country you’re in, or Armin, or your apartment–he doesn’t care about any of those. Why are you still wearing my clothes? Do you still think about me? Do you still see me in everything you do? Is there another person in your life or are you still wishing for me to come back just as much as I’m dying to tell you how much I’m still in love with you now? These are the questions he’s yearning to say. He just needs to part his lips and form the words, but fear is a vicious murderer. It crushes his hope to dust before he can let it spread to his nerves. So he waits for you to say them, waits for you to be the stronger one.

But you don’t say anything.

Eternity seems to pass by in reticence–both of you sitting on the dining table with your mugs between your hands and your shoulders slumped forward. The coffee you made him tasted like nostalgia. The sweetness of your first kiss, the bitterness of your last goodbye. Funny how your coffee would usually be left cold and forgotten as you were both too caught up in conversation. But right now, you let it burn your tongue, wishing that it would give you an excuse to remain silent.

Eren’s phone rings and both of your bodies jolt in surprise. “Excuse me,” he says a moment before he picks up the call. “Yes? Oh, no, it’s okay. I’m at my friend’s place right now.”

His friend, you chew on your lip, feeling your heart drop. Of course. I should be thankful that at least he still regards me as a friend. And yet, your eyes grow hot, your fingers clawing against the coffee mug that’s been resting between your hands.

The call ends and Eren comes back to you with his bottom lip caught between his teeth. “I, uhh… I have to go,” Eren says as he returns his phone inside the pocket of his jeans. “That was my director calling. There’s a sudden change in tomorrow’s schedule so I have to meet up and reshape our plans.”

He’s leaving. You panic. He’s going to leave me again. Am I just going to let him go like this? What if this is truly going to be the last time I’ll ever be able to see him? I still have so many questions I want him to answer. I still want to hear your voice.

Eren…

I still want to see you, so, please…

Please don’t go.

But your body betrays you in the end, your lips only moving to say, “Okay.”

“Okay.” He feigns another smile, just like what he’s been doing for the past half an hour. When he rises back to his feet, you mimic his action. “Thank you for the coffee,” he says, so politely that it feels unsettling. “It was really nice to see you again.”

You sink your nails into your palms, hard enough to make yourself bleed. You give him a nod and nothing else.

Shackles bound your feet together as you walk him to your front door. The doorknob feels cold underneath your quivering fingers but it feels like you’re sinking into a frozen lake with ice daggers piercing through your skin the moment Eren walks past you without stopping to offer you a last embrace. He keeps his hand tight around the strap of his bag, turning around just to say, “Please take care of yourself,” while he keeps the rest of his line to himself.

I wish you can be happy without me, I really do, he says only for the demons in his head to hear. But if you wish for me to stay… If there’s even a fragment of you that still wants me, I pray that you will act on it now.

Because I can’t live without you.

I don’t want to go.

I want to be with you.

I want you to love me again.

Please…

Please say that you love me.

But when you say nothing, he has to face reality. The reality where he’s nothing more but a memory, maybe even one that you wish to forget. And so, there’s only one thing left to say.

“Goodbye.”

When he walks away, Eren feels like walking barefoot on top of broken shards. He’s bleeding. He can feel his heart is, but you’re not there anymore to mend his wound. He smiles brokenly to himself.

I'm an idiot.

I shouldn't have come here.

But then he feels your hand grabbing the edge of his jacket’s sleeve and he turns around, radiant jade green eyes growing wide at the sight of you staring at him with your lips parted in a silent call of his name, your glassy eyes shaking.

For a second, the earth stands still.

“I’m…” You retract your hand, your stomach churning that you feel you’re on the verge of collapsing. You couldn’t stop your body from moving, only realizing once it did. It was a mistake. You shouldn’t have done it. You’re only going to make things even more unbearable than it is now. If you tell him the truth, if you wish for him not to go, then you can’t even be his friend anymore. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I… I’m sorry.”

But a moment of weakness is a moment of honesty. And Eren sees it. He understands it.

And that’s enough for him to abandon everything.

“Fuck this.”

Eren traps your jaw between his long fingers and smashes your lips together. You fall back, almost losing your balance as he pushes you inside your apartment and uses your body to slam the front door closed. He tosses his bag to the ground, driving you further up the door with his mouth scorching hot against yours. You’re doing everything at once—calling his name between short gasps, fingers clawing against the front of his shirt, tears lining down your cheeks.

Eren, Eren, Eren.

He kisses you with a degree of passion that can’t be found in anyone else. He plays music with your heartstrings and dances with your body in the way no one else ever did. You have found him again, your puppeteer, and he feels the same way. It’s easy for you to let loose, to let him take control and own you like he did before. This feels right.

If he’s being honest, Eren feels like he wants to cry. The taste of your lips, even if it’s layered by the saltiness of your tears, this is what he’s yearned during your years of separation—craved it until his whole body feels like it was burning to ashes. You’re here. You’re finally here in his arms again. The amount of happiness that surges through him paralyzes him, but your fingers sliding against his chest keep him alive.

“I love you,” he says between a string of heavy kisses, his voice muted by your lips. “I’m still in love with you.” He takes a hold of your wrist before he laces his fingers with yours, bringing your hand over your head and pinning it against the door. “Fuck, I can never love anyone else but you.”

You whimper against his mouth, struggling to return the words as you’re choked by your own sobs and submerged in his kisses. But Eren can tell and that’s enough. He will let your body speak for you.

Eren lifts your body enough for you to tangle your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist. He makes his way to the bedroom, two bodies meshed together in a queen-size bed. Clothes are shed in an instant, fabrics being pulled and tugged so harshly, you almost tear holes on his shirt. But once your bare skin grazes him, the softness of your belly plastered against the ridges of his abdomen, time seems to slow down. And it’s only when Eren’s lips are carving delicate strokes on the skin that covers your heart, that you can finally express the words you’ve been dying to say.

“Me too,” you breathe out, cradling his head in your arms, fingers weaving through his long strands. “I’m still in love with you, Ren…”

Eren feels his heart tremble. “You are..?”

You nod, capturing his lips in a chaste kiss. “I’ve never stopped loving you. I think about you every day. You don’t know how happy I am to see you–to be with you like this. Honestly, I–” A peal of laughter escapes your lips, just as soft and heartwarming as your smile. “It still feels like a dream to me.”

He feels tears prickling in the corner of his eyes. “It’s not a dream,” he says, nuzzling his nose into your neck. “I’m here with you now.”

And I’ll never let you go again.

Eren tries to avoid meeting your gaze as he knows he will break apart if he does. There’s just too much happiness for him to bear. He crawls down your body, each kiss he paints on your skin is a form of praise and affection on its own. He closes his eyes, his eyelashes damp with the tears he doesn’t allow to fall.

“I’ve missed you,” he says, mouthing the words against your thigh as he settles himself between your legs. “I’ve missed you so much, baby…”

He takes his time, and you’re thankful that he does. Burned by his passion is a great way to cure your longing, but the pang in your chest can only be healed if you’re smothered by his love. And Eren is ready to give it to you. He’s ready to do anything, give you everything, even if it means destroying himself in the process.

But you’ll never destroy his heart, will you? After all, even when you left him, your heart remained where it was. With him. Right now, he can truly believe it.

His lips carve love marks on your thighs, his beautiful eyes making their way to yours. He moves to your center, mouth moving agonizingly slow. He kisses the spot he’s kissed million times before and you almost close your legs around his head. He smiles. Your reaction is still the same. No matter how many times he’s done this to you, it always feels like the first time. And when he hasn’t done this in three years, it’s only natural for your body to scream with every bit of his touch.

“Ren…” you sigh in bliss, pushing back his hair. He moans at the sound of his name rolling off your tongue, clamping his lips around your clit as his gaze turns hazy. You’re beautiful. So fucking beautiful. Even without your make-up, even when your eyes are still glassy and puffy from all the tears you shed, even when he can still taste the alcohol on your tongue, you’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. It’s your heart that makes you different. It’s your love for him that turns you into a goddess in his eyes. And it’s his love for you that makes you beautiful—makes you feel beautiful.

Eren can spend hours pleasuring you like this, with his stomach pressed against the sheets, his arms hooked around your thighs, and his tongue savoring your taste from your slit. But you gently tug on his hair, putting a halt to his movement. One look at your face and he knows you can’t wait. Neither of you can.

He climbs up your body, his lips returning to where they belong. You circle your legs around his waist, lifting your hips as he presses down, two souls moaning in pleasure at the sensation.

“I didn’t bring a condom with me,” he says against your neck, almost deliriously.

“It’s okay–ah–” you gasp out, arching your back when he draws your nipple between his mouth, rolling the bud between his teeth before he sucks hard enough to paint purplish blooms on your chest. “I want you so please, just–just hold me, Ren…”

The desperation in your voice causes his desire to cloud his senses. He wants to take this slow, savoring every moment, but you’re making it harder by the second. He kisses you in the way he knows you adore, and that’s anywhere, everywhere, so long as it’s his lips on your skin. “Say it again.” He frames your cheek, thumb sliding against your bruised bottom lip. “Tell me you want me.”

He’s grinding against your folds, the underside of his length rubbing over your clit. “I want you.” You tangle your fingers around his necklace, pulling him down even further until his lips are just a breath away. “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything else.” Satisfied with your answer, he melds his lips over yours in a way that bonds you to him, and you lose all semblance of reality. In his arms, you feel safe. At this moment, you feel infinite.

Eren aligns himself, his forehead pressing against yours as you taste each other’s breath. “Baby…” He gradually presses in, eyebrows furrowed and his gaze intent. He fills you up in the best way possible, his cock velvety hot, pulsing inside you. “God, you’re perfect.”

The corner of his lower lip is tucked between his teeth as he tries to hold himself back but you urge him to move, digging your fingertips into his shoulders as you ride the thrill he gives you. After spending years in the absence of his warmth, every slide of your skin against his evokes raw emotions that leave your mind dysfunctional. “I want to be with you, Ren.” You hold him close, letting him bury his head into your neck. “In all sense of meaning. I made a mistake and I regret it every single day. You’re the only man I’ve ever loved, the only man I will ever love, so please…” You quietly sob. “Don’t leave me again…”

His tear falls to your cheek, unable to put a lid on his emotions when you told him the words he didn’t know he had been wishing to hear. And despite your tears, you smile like it’s the only thing you know how. Contentment fills your heart as you kiss his tears away, and he laughs quietly, sheepishly, ashamed that he’s showing this vulnerable side of him in front of you. But that’s the whole point, isn’t it? He can only be like this—shedding every layer of his facade, tearing down every wall he has built—when he’s with you. You give him the freedom to do whatever he wants, and in return, he’ll grant you your every wish.

And if you wish for him to stay, then he will. Right here in your arms where you both feel complete. “I won’t,” he promises, his lips brushing against your temple. “I’ll stay with you. As long as you want me to.”

The contact and drag of his body flow in waves as he pushes in and out with fluid thrusts, and you match his movement, swaying to the rhythm that he sets. “I want to stay just like this with you, forever.”

It feels like Deja Vu when you hear the words you spoke and Eren feels it too. He plants a brief kiss on your lips before he says, “I don’t think it’s physically possible.” He offers you the same answer you gave him that night, his voice laced with mirth even when it still trembles.

You hear yourself giggling at his words, something that you thought you’d forgotten how to do. You tangle your limbs around his body, your lips forming his name as they graze the shell of his ear. Eren’s heart swells twice its size in his chest. He’s spurred on by the idea of you loving him, completely out of your mind, body twisting in his grasp.

“Baby,” he calls breathlessly, groaning at the feeling of your walls clenching tight around him. “I won’t last long if–ah–if you keep doing that–”

You catch his lips again, drowning in every bit of the sweet sounds he makes. “It’s okay.” Because you’re just the same, feeling like you’re about to explode in ecstasy. You melt together, effortless and flowing, whole and light, and so filled with love. It’s terrifying how good this feels. How every thrust, every kiss, and every moan, they satisfy you not only physically, but soulfully and eternally too.

Your fingers are buried in his strands, twirling and pulling at the tufts, earning a soft hum from him that’s lost on your lips as he leans into you. “Eren, I’m–I’m close–”

“Me too–ah–baby, you gotta let go or I'll–”

“It's okay.” Your legs are shaking as you wrap them tighter around his waist, pulling him lower until there’s not an inch of space between your chests. “Come inside me.”

I never want to let you go.

Eren kisses you deep and hard as you crash over with a cry of his name. Hearing and feeling you come apart around him has his hips stuttering and his voice caught. He follows soon after, his fingers clawing against the sheets as he rides the rush of pleasure. The erratic movements of his hips turn lazy, uncoordinated, and he lets out the softest of giggles when he kisses you again. “I’m so happy I could die,” you hear him say and they match the words you’ve been saying in the back of your mind.

“Me too.” You pull his hair off his forehead and tilt his face toward you to view him as best as you can in the dimness of your room. He’s trapped in a haze, lost himself even more in the depth of your eyes. He’s about to taste your lips again when you whisper, “Welcome home, Ren…”

Eren pauses, his blush smearing fast from his cheeks to the tip of his ears. His face contorts as though he’s struggling not to cry again. “I’m home,” he murmurs back, his lips beautifully dawning into a smile. He gently swats your hair out of your face, his gaze softens as he rakes his eyes all over your features. There are so many things to say, and he wonders if he has the time to say them all. Even if he does, will words suffice? Will they be enough to describe the things you make him feel? How complete, how infinite, how every bit of his soul is burned with a fierce joy that he’s never felt before–will his words ever be enough?

No, they won’t.

“Eren?” You incline your head, frowning. “Is there something wrong?”

Maybe someday, he’ll find them. The words that are beautiful enough to elucidate your divine grace and this profound happiness that you shroud him with. And when he says them, they won’t just be sentences to sway your heart. They will be a string of vows, and he wants the world to hear them. He wants his Lord to stand as his witness.

Until then…

“I have a question I’ve been wanting to ask you for years,” Eren says, intertwining your fingers together. “Even after we broke up, I kept thinking about it. In my head, there was only you. I would never be able–no, I would never want to ask anyone else. It has to be you. And maybe this isn’t the perfect time to do this but I just–I feel like my heart is about to burst if I don’t ask you now.”

You search his eyes, wanting to catch a clue and when you fail, you turn tense. “What is it?”

Truthfully, he feels just as nervous as you are. If you are anxious by the thought of his question, he’s terrified of how your answer would be. Even so, he decides to risk it all.

His lips dance on your knuckles before he pulls away to call upon your name. He peppers the sweetest of kisses slowly, deliberately to your cheeks, your nose, and finally your lips. And when he speaks, you can feel his words and his smile blooming on your skin.

“Will you marry me?”

***

AN: Finally, it's out! Sorry for the long wait, I was having the hardest time trying to finish this one. I'm not really proud of this but I really hope you enjoyed it! Thank you so much for reading and let me know what you think ❤️ Massive thanks to Sandra who beta-ed this for me, you're the real MVP, babe, I love you!

Tagging:

@l6ffys @vivi-et @halparkebitch @fwess @littlemochi @thebeardedmoon @didiyogo @coyloves @erenbean @tehehebri @justasketch @infnteen @naiomiwinchester @spiderlingh @doyochii @ahornyenby @aengelren @sakurashell @princess-jaeger @resonancesoul @blrqt @cacapeepee @persyhange @jaegersdiary @erentoes @trashygremlin04 @meed18 @j0livi0ni @snowflake-201 @jaymihawk @eva-gates @claudevonstrukesblog @sofijaeger @rinsie @blanccofiie @ereninbunu @natanialora @khinjito @jaegeriess @watermelon-online @tropicsoda @damselofblueroses @alexackrman @bblgumz @jurrasicpork @erenjaegercult @holycandypizza

#eren smut #eren fluff #eren angst #eren x reader #eren jaeger smut #eren yeager smut #eren jaeger x reader #eren yeager x reader #aot smut #aot fluff #snk smut #snk fluff #eren jaeger fluff #eren yeager fluff #aot x reader #snk x reader #falling canon

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uwmspeccoll · 17 days

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Decorative Plates

It's been awhile since we last posted something on the theme of the decorative arts, so I'm happy to have found this book—especially because it was mis-shelved in the stacks! This book is House and Garden's Book of Color Schemes, which contains "over two hundred color schemes and three hundred illustrations of halls, living rooms, dining rooms, bed chambers, sun rooms, roofs, garden rooms, kitchens and baths; the characteristic colors of each decorative period; how to select a color scheme, with unusual treatments for painted furniture and floors; a portfolio of crystal rooms and eight pages of unusual interiors in color." It was edited by long-time editor of House & Garden Richardson Wright (1887-1961) and Margaret McElroy, associate editor, and published by Condé Nast Publications, Inc. in 1929.

The book includes a large number of photographs of rooms, however, they are mostly in black and white—an unfortunate thing for a book about color! The promised eight color illustrations of rooms are not all present in our copy, but the five that are still in the book are shown here, alongside some of their black and white compatriots. I especially love the one titled "Tawny Yellow in Variety" that features a shocking amount of leopard print.

If you've read any of the posts I usually write, you know that I love a good binding—this one is a publisher's binding in a chartreuse-y yellow book cloth with art deco-style silver tooling featuring stars and leaves. Somebody took it upon themselves to write the publication date on the cover above the title—how thoughtful!

View more posts featuring Decorative Plates.

-- Alice, Special Collections Department Manager

#Decorative Sunday #Decorative Plates #decorative arts #House and Garden's Book of Color Schemes #color schemes #color #decoration #home decor #interior decorating #Richardson Wright #Margaret McElroy #Conde Nast #Conde Nast Publications #art deco #chartreuse #Publishers' bindings

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accio-victuuri · 5 months

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Sugar Rush : November CPNs

What started out as a relatively quiet month after a chaotic October, turned into something else because of a few candies. Especially the whole 11/19 fiasco that surprised us all. LOL. As usual, this is for cpn-loving turtles only. Keep an open mind but still clown responsibly. I can’t believe we only have one month left for this year!

If you wanna recap other years I have archived : 2021 ( one | two ) 2022 ( one | two ) 2023 ( one, july, august, september, october ) 2020 candies and some other sweets before I was doing round up posts may be found on my masterlist.

Let’s review the past month…

• Some side by side / parallel photos of GG ( Tod’s Milan ) and WYB ( Chanel Shenzhen ). They are both photographed with the very beautiful Liu ShiShi. Also the way they are the center of attention. KINGS! 👑

• hoping they play tennis together 🎾 ; there is also a cpn out there about yibo being fully prepared for the game cause he had lacoste shoes and bag then a jacket that he used in wuzhen. people are speculating that XZ bought stuff for him to use cause he is the one who knows more and thought of this brand. this may seem like a stretch but you never know with this fandom when a seemingly insignificant observation becomes a big candy along the way.

• 2021 vs 2023 beach photos similarities + xiamen coincidence and it’s connection to ZZ’s ideal life painting

• LHK ( Liu Haikuan ) giving clues about BJYX? + Part 2 of comments

11/7, GG was announced as Boucheron’s global brand ambassador, then people remembered that one time WYB wore stuff from the brand. So now we have an unintentional couple jewelry incidence😂😂

• the sound of an eagle 🦅

• some similarities in forwarding 119 message, yeah i know celebrities like them are sort of required to bring attention to stuff like this. however, WYB is known to support this cause and even made a VCR specifically for it. if you look at the actual post, theirs is the top 2 in terms of likes and the rest of the celebrities are not the usual ones similar to the boys’ caliber. Another clue that this is WYB’s advocacy of sorts, most, if not all top comments are from his fans. so ZZ joining in on spreading the message seems ( to me and some cpfs ) like influenced by WYB.

Next is they both filmed VCRs for "People in My Heart" - "Classic Characters" series. We just love seeing them support the same projects ^^

• NARS live drawing

• Candies from WYB’s 11/12 douyin post. Mainly the parallel about the same walls and floor.

• XZ fell asleep on WYB during the golden core scene

• Interpreting YBO’s 11/16 weibo caption

• 11/19/23 double update candies

• similar necklace??? ( cough in vain )

• the full story ( so far ) behind 11/19 📝

• Talking about this a bit late considering when the whole CPN started about this GG mural for GG. There are side by side comparisons of the eyes on the mural and Yibo’s. The CPN being they used WYB’s eyes for that mural.

I usually let people have free reign on clowning but this one isn’t for me personally. just because it’s obviously a mural commissioned by GUCCI which a big brand that couldn’t care less about the CP. Maybe it’s a coincidence how similar it is? Because there is a reference photo that should be followed. Also, this is GG’s time to shine. This mural is his & him. I think this is an example for cpfs to learn to separate the boys as individuals, especially for things that are work related and most especially their achievements. While I do believe they influence each other greatly, it’s important to not make every single thing a romantic relation.

• the mystery driver is seen again 👀

• 11/22 Yibo scenery post 🍬

• One night in Beijing Song + 11/23 XZS post

• I don’t really wanna clown with Redmi but the black and white theme from XZS and then the next day it’s Redmi. I was surprised with this cause all the promos were supposed to be related to the scifi themed ad blockbuster!

A coincidence 👀👀👀👀

• small candies form IQIYI scream night 😱

• wyb acknowledging light signs and calls us wangba

• XZ’s 11/27 Airport and Selfie Clues

• there is some talk with BXGs regarding WYB’s redmi appearance, it looks like he was bitten by the mosquito again. lol. I usually just find cpn like this funny cause there is always deniability. also hello to the mosquito who loves to bite the center of his neck.

I’m separating these next entries cause it’s not new. I just found myself revisiting bts content and clowning about it. old candy still tastes good! 💯

WYB signs 520 to GG

WYB’s small steps to GG but robe gets caught

Something is funny and XZ has to tell WYB

Flirting and Fighting? “WYB’s love you”

XZ got hurt and WYB said he is gonna kiss it better?

-END.

#yizhan #bjyx #there is no science here i’m just clowning like i always do #sugar rush #i have to say that i was meh with cpns at the start of the month cause how can you top october? lol #but as soon as 11/19 hit i was back LOL

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leezlelatch · 9 months

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Kiss Prompt - "I really, really want to kiss you right now" - Copia

Copia x GN!Reader - kiss prompt, insecurities, misunderstandings, Copia's surgery, smooching, worship of the white suit.

One and only prompt given to me and for my beloved @writingjourney.

“So we’re definitely keeping all the crotch shots, right?” You ask, flipping the photograph in your hand around so the antipope sitting across the room from you can see it.

Copia cuts you a look before turning back to the document on his desk. You smirk to yourself, letting out a small huff of a laugh as you look back down to the stacks of photos on the small table you’re using as a workspace in his office. There are a lot of photographs that the immensely talented photographer for the Ghost Project takes for each Ritual, but they tend to…pile up. And you have been given the - frankly blessed - task of looking through photo after photo of Copia during the Prequelle era. From the Pale Tour Named Death to his ascendency as Papa Emeritus IV.

Your primary task is to separate them into two organized piles. Ditch and keep. From the very vague instructions Sister Imperator gave you, it has something to do with the next tour and a mini museum. As tedious as your task is, you’ve really tried to separate each photo by suit. Black, red, and white, as well as two piles for the black and red cassock. It is so…fascinating to see Copia during a time when you didn’t know him. A time when becoming Papa was a dream he thought would never be realized. A time of facial hair and very attractive sideburns.

“What happened to your suits, by the way?” You ask Copia, placing another picture in the keep pile which is significantly bigger than the ditch. Copia makes a small noise in the back of his throat, an indication that he’s thinking and that he needs to finish the paragraph he’s reading lest he lose his place.

He places his finger down and looks in your direction, “In my closet. Toward the back. Getting acquainted with the dust bunnies.”

“Even the white one?” You say, distraught as you bring your hands to your cheeks.

Copia raises a brow at your theatrics, leaning forward on his elbow across the expanse of his desk as he regards you with an amused smile. “What has you so concerned, topolino?” His head tilts to the side in that natural curious way of his.

“I just think that they…,” you pause as you choose your words carefully, eyes pointedly looking away from him. The blush painting your cheeks broadens his smile. “Have a little more wear to them.”

“Eh, well…they were good for, you know, my Cardinal days, but as Papa I have a much better wardrobe, don’t you think?” He pulls at his brocaded vest before adjusting the frilled sleeves at his wrists.

“Oh, yeah! I’m just saying I really love the Prequelle era! You know it’s my favorite album, and your stage outfits were just so…I mean look at you…Copia?” You pause in your exuberance, one of the photographs in your hand, observing the frown crossing his lips that deepens with every word, made sharper by his face paint.

His eyes fall to the picture in your hand, brow furrowing. His hand comes up to brush against his bare top lip, fingertips then finding the tip of his nose. His eyes seem to go hazy, pupils falling to pinpricks creating an expanse of green and white that looks through you and not quite at you. “Do you think I made a mistake?” He asks, his voice quiet, reaching you like a pot of scalding water against your skin. You place the photograph down on the desk, your own gaze wide as you look back at him. “Should I not have gotten this…,” he waves his hand around in front of his face. “Eh, facial?”

“What?” You sound flabbergasted, confused. Concern etched across your features as you try and figure out what may have prompted him to ask such a question.

“I can regrow the mustache! The sideburns may take a little work…,” Copia trails off as he touches his face again, deep in thought, his eyes dropping to the desktop.

You close your eyes, cursing yourself for…you’re smarter than this. You know how Copia feels about the surgery. And here you are, gushing over Cardinal Copia when Papa Emeritus IV is in front of you, needing your support when he cannot get it elsewhere. He smiled, big and toothy, the day he returned from his ascension and you called him “Papa” for the first time. He looked grateful, however bruised and swollen, bandages across his nose when you expressed how glad you were that he wouldn’t have to suffer such severe nasal issues anymore. He once called you his strength. It wouldn’t do to fail him now.

“Copia. Just because you got a nose job and shaved doesn’t make you any less beautiful than you are in these photos. It’s still you. You still look like yourself. You’re still the most attractive man I’ve ever seen.”

Your words seem to echo across his quiet office, and leave a silence in its wake. He’s looking at you again, lips parted, boring a hole into you with passionate and relieved eyes that make your cheeks flush. Copia stands from his desk and smooths his hands down his thighs, moving around the chair to carefully push it in before walking toward your small workspace. You stare up at him, unsure, and he flounders like a fish for a moment, mouth opening and closing.

“I really, really want to kiss you right now,” he finally says.

You suck in a breath and look down, blinking before meeting his gaze once more. “Please.”

Copia looks down at the little table piled with photos and promptly tips it over. The photographs go scattering, his former image fluttering to the floor like a cleansing rain, and then he’s on you. Pulling you up from the chair with steady, gloved hands, he draws you into his body, pressing flush against you as he claims your lips like he’s claiming a prize he has waited far too long for. Copia kisses you like a man who found an oasis in the desert, thoroughly licking into your mouth with abandon, capturing every noise you make with lips that nip and suck your bottom lip until it's swollen. He lets you take in a much needed breath only to continue across your jaw and down your neck, growling softly as he sucks a spot into your sensitive skin which he kitten licks before pulling away.

You stare at each other, chests heaving. His paint is a mess, a slash of gray around his mouth, and you can only imagine what your mouth and neck looks like. Copia smiles, softly chuckling as his eyes rove over your kiss swollen lips.

“Amore?” He questions softly, taking your hand in his.

You smile. “I really, really want you to kiss me again.”

#the band ghost #papa emeritus iv #cardinal copia #ghost #ghost bc #papa emeritus iv x reader #papa iv x reader #copia x reader #papa emeritus iv fanfiction #the band ghost fanfiction #papa emeritus iv x gn reader #cardinal copia x reader #copia fanfiction #copia x gn reader #kiss prompts

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chubsonthemoon · 1 year

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Binderary week 3! This is the magical Flower King by @landwriter <3 Gorgeous art by @fishfingersandscarves (thank you for letting me include it!)

This fic is the epitome of fairy tale Dreamling! It plays with the traditional fairy tale structure in delightful ways and has just the most beautiful winter atmosphere. Gloam's prose is so musical and haunting--truly the best kind of story to tell around a fire, or tucked up warm in bed!

Details and more pics under the cut <3

This one was so much fun to design! The fic takes place in the winter so I really wanted to give the book a pale blue/silver color scheme, but the title is also Flower King (and for good reason ehe--the cold has to give way to warmth at some point :3), so I also went for a green/red title page. I also leaned into the fairy tale setting with these really pretty border assets to separate each section of the fic:

The first section pictured above--and YES it ends with "THE END" but it is certainly not the end ehe. Some of that delightful play with the traditional fairy tale structure I mentioned earlier!

I also tried to mirror the progression of the events of fic with the colors of the borders. It starts out with pale/frosty blue for part I, turns to stark black and white for the very short part II, then to increasingly richer hues of blue with parts III and IV, until finally green for the return of spring/summer in part V:

I also had a lot fun with the decals on the cover, which I painted with metallic acrylic in silver, green, and blue! Not a perfect paint job baha but I really liked how it came out. You can also see the ~rainbow~ effect of the holographic HTV I used for the cover/spine titling here as well:

The edges are also fake gilded with the same metallic acrylic paint, buuuuuuut the lighting in my bathroom (where I took these photos, crouched and muttering over the fabric I used for the backdrop LOL (which I bought on clearance at Joann's for a dress I will make...one day ajslkdfjs)) made it kind of hard to photograph T_T so here it is again at my desk!

And that's all from me for this week! One more Binderary book to go, which I hope to have up before the month is out :3 (Well, hopefully. Four days may be a bit optimistic but by god I am going to try XD)

And of course, all my love and thanks to Gloam for giving me permission to bind her fantastic work <333 It was a pleasure, and I'm so happy to have your writing on my shelf!

#the sandman #dreamling #landwriter #Flower King #binderary2023 #bookbinding #fanbinding #ficbinding #not my fic

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hwaightme · 1 year

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Long exposure

THIS IS 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI FOR STAR'S SAKE (nsfw tags under the cut) (masterlist)

🔳 pairing: seonghwa x afab!reader, wooyoung x afab!reader 🔳 genre: smut, angst, dark themes, fluff if you squint 🔳 summary: as you struggle to see a future with your boyfriend, Wooyoung, and spiral into an obsession over your boss, Seonghwa, you hope to see a different world through the lens. 🔳 wordcount: 14.6k 🔳 warnings/tags: photographer!seonghwa, sculptor!wooyoung, everybody in this fic is toxic I swear (this is FICTION pls don't do this), boyfriend!wooyoung, boss!seonghwa, cheater!wooyoung, cheating on the cheater, language, hints at violence, arguments, passive aggressive behaviour, photography, art, living in black and white, unhealthy social relations, kind of edited kind of not, lmk if anything else 🔳 taglist: @doom-fics @layzfeelit @acciocriativity @justhere4kpop @honey-lemon-goose @byuntrash101 🔳 a/n: Hello, this has been haunting me... hope you enjoy, any reblogs, comments, likes appreciated, much love and big hugs!!

🔳 NSFW warnings/tags: slight corruption, pictophilia, fingering, masturbation (m&f), light voyeurism, deriving pleasure from taking pictures of someone with them not knowing, blowjob, wet dreams galore, perhaps cuckolding, degradation, petnames, boudoir, soft dom hwa, jealous/teaser woo, dom-ish woo, implant and pull out (irl pls wrap that before you tap that)

You were no stranger to pleasure. You watched him share it many times. Each one, an offering to the altar of hedonism. Such was his work, his vision.

Park Seonghwa was a man who dedicated his life to passion. The greatest satisfaction imaginable, on the brink of after life and illusion, the closest to heavens above that a person could ever experience. He had an eye for it, discovering its many manifestations in the smallest of things. Rarely was there a place that did not bear its traces in his magnificent, deep brown eyes. To the unenlightened, ones who had not had the honour of being in the vicinity, let alone sharing musings with this enigmatic man, this amounted to nothing more than phosphenes that they assumed had permanently corrupted his vision. But you knew better. His art was an ode to raw human nature, an address which only he would dare reveal and be capable of subjecting himself to the rolling waves of judgement that came with it.

You were not sure who you wanted to be. This was a question that plagued you every time you entered the photography studio and let yourself sink into its monochromatic elegance. Did you want to be the decor - the paraphernalia occupying the white, low shelving units off to the left from the entrance, or the potted ivy, suspended by chains that your teacher had painted with mars black acrylic, cascading to blend with the barely-there tulle? Would you turn into an object so you could spend your days in motionless awe, observing the master at work, embracing art in pure desire? Perhaps you wanted to be one of the models - the goddesses, clad in armour of lace, performing seduction through a complex sequence of motions with a ritualistic sanctity, irony leaving the beholder intoxicated. Maybe you would be willing to expose yourself down to your intricate network of capillaries, tear yourself apart to translate and immortalise pleasure with the click of the shutter, nothing more than a vessel for the artist's higher meaning. One this was certain, however. You did not want to be him. The creator. The bearer of the prodigal eye. The tormented soul curating fantasy. For that place was only ever for the Park Seonghwa as he was - his essence, his flair.

This, you had been confident in, for as long as you could remember, so, for as long as you had been dedicated to following the photographer's work. You were partial to the coiled intensity contained within each piece, and had spent many hours poring over collections, published photobooks, specials in editorial magazines. This had become a near religious act, carried out in silence, in the illusion of privacy of the tiny apartment that you shared with Wooyoung, who, acting like more of a ghost than a man, would lurk behind you to catch a glimpse of the beauties who you could never compare to. In those moments, you would choose to dissociate from the dysfunctional, cacophonic home life and tap into the memories you had with each piece. Be it the past or the present. The grayscale, interestingly enough, possessed more colour than all else you were meant to hold dear.

Tracing the curves of the bodies frozen in time, treasure maps to your personal safe haven, you traversed the avenues of your own memory: from what you had helped shoot and what was now gracing your shelves as a reminder that you were worth something to someone in your home, all the way back to the beginning. It was the triptych that you had analysed for one of your modules way back, when you barely knew anything except the basics of what was now your craft. It was a composition set in what you had later found out was Seonghwa’s secluded seaside studio down in the south, one which he used extensively in the summer months. It had been your first dive into learning of Gestalt grouping, and how easily a photographer could actually influence a viewer – a couple of miniscule tweaks, and the world was changed. Much like yours. The three pieces were terrifically entrancing in their proud solitude, but, in tandem, were a wave that covered and drowned you. The Rembrandt lighting, in contrast to the gentle waves made by white and shadow grey bedsheets, framed the centrepiece, the guideline to observation – rolling hills from waist, to hip, to the hint of a black stocking. Perhaps a person not in the know would try to argue that since the image was in monochrome, just like every other of the photographer’s works, it was not possible to infer hue, but you had the honour of knowing: Park Seonghwa lived in black and white. Floor, set, attitude – a balanced divide. The mind was loud, he had told you. If the composition needed physical colour, it would be able to complete the picture for itself. Otherwise, the colour of sensation was the underlying theme and mission.

That piece was what had started your lighthearted interest, or so you had naively called it. From mild appreciation of his works, to warm enthusiasm for the inner workings and technique, to going down the spiral to feverish adoration of all that Seonghwa captured. It was a glimpse into how he saw the world, and how he wanted to aid others in perceiving it. The initial embarrassment that had come with studying his photobooks that you had checked out from the library had subsided as you ceased to avoid the concept of eroticism. On the contrary, in some of your projects you had made attempts to emulate the master’s style, which had earned the attention of one of your professors and closest mentors. After confirming that you had not gained access to a closed early showing of the photographer’s exhibition, he had been kind enough to extend an invitation, thereby changing the course of your life.

The event had been an extension of the man, complete in the same hues, down to the very last detail. Even the guests were all a part of the scene, blurred to emphasise the subject, the creator. He was gallant, attentive, guiding you from masterpiece to masterpiece even though he had hordes of hardened professionals and eagle-eyed critics to entertain. He had made you feel central to something other than your obligations. Deserving of time and space. And left you with a business card where he had neatly added his personal mobile phone number, making you promise to consider working with him as soon as you could.

After a year of stalling on any decision, you had applied, and became his apprentice. You had discovered that Seonghwa had been keeping tabs on you, producing printouts of your own work during the informal interview he had organised, and asking you to elaborate on aspects that you had intentionally hidden away. You realised that it was impossible to hide anything from him, your mind was behind an open door. Rapidly, his world became yours, and you turned to seeing it in the beautiful black and white.

You took a sip of your hot coffee from your beloved dalmatian patterned mug cradled in one hand, scrolling through social media with the other. Checking works tagged with anything relevant to your teacher’s studio and works had become a habit for you, and as such, you continued to do it even though Seonghwa had hired a social media manager a couple of months ago. To your defence, most of their work was done remotely, so you could take pride in being the first one to see your favourite artist break out into a megawatt grin, giving you a peck on the cheek if you were lucky. In those moments, you swore you would do anything just to see and feel it all again. A smile crept onto your lips as you indulged in your fantastical daydreams, one which you tried to mask by taking another long sip.

“Your boss really should let you catch a break. This is not even intern level stuff.” You had not noticed your boyfriend’s presence behind you, and with a glance behind you noticed that he was lazily eyeing your screen. Good thing you were deep in some nature photography at least, rather than your boss’s or the studio’s page. It had been a touchy subject recently. And by recently, it meant the entirety of the time you had been hired there and had been earning a steady income from what Wooyoung had called your ‘hobby’.

“Call it market research. It is important for any artist to keep a finger on the pulse, otherwise they will be left behind, and won’t be able to innovate.” You locked your phone for good measure, placed it face down on the table and spun yourself around on the bar stool. You had insisted on having a pair at the breakfast table to be economical, seeing as the area was simply an extension of the kitchenette’s counter space. Plus, they were a wonderful snowy white and matched with your recent furniture upgrades.

Wooyoung appeared less than amused, though it was not much of a surprise to you.

“But the guy will be taking the same fap material pics anyways, so what’s the point?” he countered, running a hand through his dark hair. There was something you knew for certain about the man you had been with for the last one and a half years, and living together for nine months. He was hilariously easy to read. Past the façade of biting comments and cheeky quips, he was as good as a flyer on a posterboard at keeping things hidden from you.

“I see you have your day planned out, huh?” Your response was quick and venomous, and you noticed Wooyoung roll his eyes and trail the gaze to a print hanging on the wall to your right, in the living room. It had been a gift from your boss, a ‘less stimulating’ piece perfect for family life, as he had elaborated, making you laugh. After giving you a soft embrace, he had let his hands linger on your waist, and whispered his congratulations on your moving in with your boyfriend right against your ear, sending shivers down the spine. You were not ashamed to say that it was Park Seonghwa’s touch you had thought about during your first night, in your own apartment, together with Jung Wooyoung.

“So do you. Dolled up and ready to impress, I see?” a classic response as of late. Equal parts aggressive and accusatory, equal parts hinting at his still lingering desire for you.

Irritation. Jealousy. That was what had been fuelling your relationship since the start. Truth be told, you were surprised it had lasted as long as it did, considering how you wanted nothing more than to slam his head against the wall sometimes. That was what happened when two individuals who had sold their soul to the creative arts decided to live under the same roof, under the illusion that they had found their lifelong muse. You had been there, in the very beginning; confident that Wooyoung was the one likeminded collection of visions, the closest thing there was on this earth to a soulmate. You had melted under his touch, much like the intricate sculptures he crafted and carved away, but it only resulted in you eventually being burned and the ceramic of your heart - cracked.

Nothing gold couldn’t fix. Or, in your case, it was the hours you spent at the studio, letting yourself get carried away by the intoxicating sensuality you were tasked with capturing. If it were anyone except you who was with Wooyoung, they would have probably started a riot and confronted him, but his behaviour gave you an excuse to mentally reduce him to an abstract expressionist dot on your canvas and dedicate yourself wholly to your idol. You told yourself that you were engaging in these mind games only until your lease were to run out. Then, you would quietly not renew it – to your advantage, Wooyoung was not much of a documents man, leaving it to whoever was closest, which just so happened to be his ‘dearest’ with a vengeance. It was not a matter of taking it out on Wooyoung because you had been scorned – oh no, it was because you found it unfair that he could act this way while your conscience had deemed this to be taboo. Besides, you needed something above you, a higher legislative power, to take that final step.

But who were you kidding? Had you the ability to control the way in which you thought of Seonghwa, you would have probably had the resolve to pack up your things and go anywhere, as long as it was far away from Wooyoung. He would remember you by the pieces he had sculpted in your honour, inspired by your frame, by the fire that had burned out some time ago. But even then, say you had left, and your black suitcase with metal decal at the ready, camera lazily slung over your neck, where would you go, when your feet could only remember the route from this loveless apartment to P.SH Studio?

“Mm, you know it. Rough day today, so I will probably be back late.” Not that you would notice was left unspoken. You wanted to at least finish your coffee before the bickering started.

“Just how you like it. Isn’t it right?” He was pushing your buttons, purposefully twisting your worlds into lewd euphemism. Wooyoung enjoyed driving you up the wall – probably the closest he came to actually giving you some kind of excitement in recent weeks. Otherwise, he was perfectly satiated, and you might as well be décor, sauntering around from room to room. It was as if he took pleasure in knowing that your mind was hazy, but the distance between you concrete, and only getting larger.

You swivelled back around to face away from your boyfriend, but caught his darkened gaze at the last moment. Head lowered to make his dark hair fall slightly over his eyes, a dangerous smirk dancing on his lips, still in your vision as you stared at the bottom of the cup, thoughtlessly moving the remaining grounds that were suspended in rapidly cooling droplets. You listened to Wooyoung pushing himself off the cupboards, and step towards you, until his chin was hovering just above you shoulder, and you could count his breaths.

“Want me to give you a little pep talk?” he whispered, turning to peck your earlobe a couple of times. You gripped your mug, not wanting to satisfy Wooyoung with a reaction.

In these moments, you almost wished you were still infatuated instead of subjecting him to impersonal evaluation. The attention would have then felt special, instead of as an apology in advance for inviting his assistant over to your shared accommodation. Again, his habits and methods were very traceable and blatantly obvious. But at least it let you think of the man you were going to be spending the entire day and evening shooting with, and helped you get rid of your frustrations early, so they did not bother you as much while you watched your master with unbreaking focus. And like in long exposure photography, eventually, everything except him became a blur. It was impossible to associate your own satisfaction with anyone else, so when you felt Wooyoung’s hot, needy lips trailing from your ear to the lower jaw, and his hand snaking up your thigh, pushing your black skirt up with it, you merely shut your eyes, and thought of him.

To your delight, Wooyoung was not being vocal like he usually would as he continued to caress you, his other hand now having found its place on your waist, effectively making him wrap around you. His sturdy chest was pressing against your shoulder blade while he nipped at the sensitive skin at the base of your neck. You cursed yourself as you felt a moan threatening to escape you, and bit your lower lip. Oh, to imagine yourself as one of those models in monochrome, revealing their true nature for the first time only to him. He never touched them, at least not in front of you, but oh how they wanted to be. You understood them wholeheartedly – your imagination being the only thing to get you closer to Park Seonghwa.

The hand that you mentally removed from its owner slinked away from your thigh, completely hiking the skirt up and slipping under the band of your black panties. You liked to think that your strive to match inside and out gave you more desirability, thus enabled you to be more confident at work – a silly way of masking your subconscious intentions. Who were you trying to fool? The other slid under your shirt, and, without bothering to take it off, tugged your bra aside to reveal your shapely breasts. The sudden change in temperature proved to be stimulating, leading to your nipples increasing in sensitivity. The hand carefully, patiently brushed over the tip of its erectness. You inhaled sharply and gave a little further into the feeling. No harm done, right?

Tapping into your mind palace, it conjured an external image of what was happening to you, the subject of the moving photograph. It was a surrealist, fantastical performance, challenging the imaginary viewer with physical abstraction. You could not help but wonder if how you were unravelling right this moment would look good through the lens. What settings would be used for this shoot? You ran the numbers, and with each one, turned more and more pliable, a putty in the strong arms that had permeated into this early morning day dream. Two fingers slipped into your half open mouth, and teasing, you ran the tip of your tongue over them, wordlessly giving full access and commanding they stop teasing you any longer.

A 105mm lens would do it. Focus should be on the act, other elements fading into the background and removing any undesired presence – a mechanical fog, heightening your desire. Heat pooled to your core as you felt what could only be equivalent to sparks of electricity coursing from your exposed and stimulated breasts down to the now aching arousal. He would probably praise you for being so responsive to him – any task, no matter how small, had earned you the warmed gratitude before, so why could that not be the same here? He would give you his undivided attention, slipping those fingers, coated in saliva, down to the pleading sex, poking your inner thighs to give him better access. You obliged, visualising how a gentle, approving smile would settle on the beautiful man’s every feature, down to the slight squint of his eyes. He leaned in closer to you, his chest hitting against your back once more as he suddenly squeezed your nipple, and ran his digits over your hard clit, coaxing out a gasp.

Your molars sank into your inner cheek with such power that you thought you would draw blood, as the fingers continued to tease you, moving in painfully slow circles around the nub, making your muscle clench and inadvertently grind your hips forwards, for even a small bit more friction. The action spurred him on, and soon enough you felt a pair of soft lips trailing across from your jawline to your collarbone, occasionally stopping to pay special attention to what he knew would make you scream. Barely being able to contain yourself, you stopped preventing the sinful melody from escaping you, and moaned to a particularly precise adoration of skin on the side of your neck. Fingers, which had been mercilessly abusing your impossibly sensitive clit, slipped between your folds and glided down their length, coating them in your own arousal. You had not realised just how wet you had gotten, raw desire coating the inside of your panties.

This had to be shot in the same rush as the one you were being enveloped by – handheld, manual, shutter speed at 1/200th – it only made sense to do so. This had to be sultry, less exposed to the lamp lights. A sensuality meant to be contained in the shadows. With a final flick, which made you groan in pleasure, only begging for more, the fingers travelled down the length of your soaked pussy lips, practically hooking it in and curling themselves into you. The entry of the digits into your trembling cunt sent your thoughts into a flurry, clouding you from seeing anything except stars and the man who shared his name with the celestial apparitions.

If not for the heat building in your lower half at an astounding rate, you would have been more amused at your conclusion for best using ISO 800 for this scene – high sensitivity, indeed. How terribly you wanted to capture this intimate portrait, encapsulate the dreamlike tenderness that you were visualising for none other than Park Seonghwa. Black and white. Lustful and loving. Fast and slow. He was a man of contrasts and unthinkable combinations, he was the only one who could understand your vision.

The rhythmic, accelerating pumping of masterful fingers into your pussy was caused you to lose focus, attention span reduced to mere instinct. Writhing in the chair, you were about to fully transport yourself into the studio, forgetting to set the shutter speed for the pretend shoot, when you caught the last voice that you wanted to hear in the building of your high:

“I bet you’re thinking of him, you dirty girl.” Wooyoung hissed right into your ear, an unsaid challenge in his tone. A flash of guilt ran over you as you were caught red-minded but did not want to go through the trouble of denying that what he said was true. Blame sculptors and their skilful hands, bringing you to a certain ruin.

“Shut… up, ah!” you yelped as you felt your boyfriend’s thumb pressing against your bud, moving at an entirely different pace as it stimulated just the tip, shifting your folds further apart.

“What, don’t want to hear me in your daydreams?” he teased you, knowing full well that you would agree if you weren’t so secretive. He had clocked some time ago that you were not indifferent to your boss, however he did not realise just how far gone you were. In his mind, the claims he was throwing out were a mere improvisation, the best he could conjure to fuel his hate-driven passion towards you.

“I- mfph, said, shut-”

“Such a needy little slut for him.” You were insufferable. When you were like this, trying to regain control of the situation even though you were clay in his hands, melting under him, he was regretful that you could not be the only one in his turbulent life.

If it was not work, then it was the mood. If it was not the mood it was something he did wrong. And if, somehow, he did nothing and you confirmed that, you simply pitied him. That was the power you held. You ignited within Wooyoung a ferocious need to destroy the pedestal onto which he had elevated you in the very beginning. But as he gave you distance, toppled one platform after another, you only seemed to soar higher above him, just within reach but still, not someone he could control. He was no longer a figure of romantic authority for you – perplexed by the exact timeline, he assumed that it was simply meant to be that way. Carnal pleasure in this united destruction.

“I know you want his fingers in your tight cunt, don’t you, my darling?”

You could not respond as Wooyoung continued to pick up the pace, bringing you closer and closer to orgasm. The pet name was obviously taken from the snippets of conversation between you and Seonghwa that your boyfriend had overheard. Whenever he would have an idea for another series, or changes to some details for already planned scenes, he would run them by you, always interested in your opinions and taking them as the most valuable pieces of the creative puzzle. You really were here, getting off to the thought of being listened to, the master's hums and approvals at the forefront of ideation. You had to give it to him, Wooyoung knew how to make you come undone, even if it was by guesswork.

The vocalisation of the real source of your climb had flipped a switch, and Seonghwa flooded your mind. Wooyoung did not speak up again, and you were gone from regular consciousness, the dark lustful abyss surrounding you. Park Seonghwa was right there with you. You dashed from vision to vision, stringing them together to describe how he would feel. How it would feel for him to be the one to capture soft, supple tenderness of your throat with his enticing mouth, and how his arms would embrace your form and crush you in boundless pleasure. For the first time, he could be in front of the camera, together with you. The blur of the background disappeared as you adjusted the focus to the lewdness, the wet sounds of his outrageous rhythm. His face was now crystal clear before your eyes, his sharp features, half-lidded eyes as he brought you to your orgasm, praising you for being such an obedient little girl for him.

Your orgasm came crashing down on you with unexpected force. Overwhelmed, you let the sensation wash over you like a tempestuous ocean. Seeing only those two beloved colours, you felt for the seat beneath you to support your unsteady form. You could not yell, could not let out as much as a whisper as the etchings of the man you so desired glinted before you, lips parted in a silent proclamation of brutal, unrefined passion and obsessive adoration. Comical, how it was his manifestation amidst your sensual release that was the embodiment of love and lust, and not the man who you intentionally possessed with the role of Seonghwa.

“So fucked out, Y/N, shit. Just look at yourself.” Wooyoung chuckled as he watched you coming back to reality, trying to blink away the haze of the climax. He had remained still, wrapped around you almost in a protective gesture, his chest serving as a support for your arched body. His own arousal was frustrating him, trapped under a layer of denim, the friction only making him more impatient.

“Vulgar, as always.”

“Says you – look at this precious little mess you made, my sweet. Or can I even say ‘my’ anymore?” He demonstratively twisted you, so you were facing him, and with the hand that was attacking your breast now on his hip, he lifted the other away from your pulsating sex and lapped up the nectar that remained on his fingers, eyes lowered and scrutinising you through fluttering lashes. The bulge of his crotch commanded your gaze, albeit only for a split second. You were far from being in a Wooyoung mood. You squeezed your legs shut, feeling the soaked panties rubbing against you, and rolled your eyes.

“So, why in the world did you do that?” your nonchalance was painfully fake, airiness taking away from any impact you had intended for your question to have.

“If I told you I missed you, what would you do?” he countered, throwing the ball back in your court.

“Tell you to shove that bullshit where the sun doesn’t shine.”

“Way ahead of you there, sweetheart.” He winked, completely dispelling your sensual musings.

“Run that mouth one more time, Woo, I dare you.”

“Oh, so you want my mouth to treat you right too. How greedy. Plus, I bet you would much rather have a certain someone else do that.” He kept on going, goading you into a spat. What had previously been a joke now transformed into a hypothesis, and Wooyoung was keen to see how far you would go to keep the truth from him.

“Shut u-”

“I’ve seen the photos you have of him, sweetie. All ‘focused with tongue sticking out’, or ‘making a playful face in a selfie’. Even I can imagine as far.” He could see that he was close to cracking you.

In your vulnerable, stupefied glory, the barrier between your pursed, plump lips and cruel heart was as weak as it could be. He needed to hear that you did not love him anymore. Not because it would give him any particular relief. Mainly for minimising regret over his actions. Convincing himself that what you two had was long gone and you were stuck in a routine. He needed to hear you say it. Wooyoung needed you to utter the words, be explicit that you wanted someone else. He peered into your eyes, unwaveringly, in search for at least a hint. The rise and fall of your chest was still uneven, yet you managed to return a glare, outwardly unfeeling, unresponsive, and worst of all, indifferent. He wondered if his little act of service was actually an act of pity on your behalf.

“I’m leaving.” Silence turned to bitter disappointment. It was time to slip away, very noticed, but that was the intention. Wooyoung pulled you closer to him by pinching your collar, letting you observe how a natural grimace underwent a metamorphosis into a boyish grin, as though he genuinely wanted to wish you the best.

“Have a lovely day.”

“Have fun being a ‘hand me down’,” you mercilessly quipped, fed up with his taunts. If one were to objectively compare you and him, the answer to who was the instigator of this shipwreck was clear enough. You were confident that it was not you, since up until this point, you had remained strictly theoretical, and did not dare bring up neither his unfaithfulness nor your dissatisfactions. “Fuck, I have got to change these now…” you stated, mainly to yourself as you hopped off the stool and made a beeline for the bedroom to grab a fresh set of lingerie.

Wooyoung fell into deep contemplation, leaning back on the counter with his elbows, and letting out a soft whistle. So, you did know of his escapades, as he had assumed. He had to give it to you, you were a phenomenal actress, and all these months that he had been indulging in one temporary partner after another, you had maintained a cool demeanour, letting your own evolution and walk through life without considering him in the present nor the future. Had you really so readily accepted his dismissal of you? His disrespect? Were you not seeking… vengeance? Could you not openly hate him for his sake?

He regarded you with indignation as you rushed from room to room, intent on ignoring his presence. Had you spared him any more emotion than basal instinct, even if it was just demanding his silence with rude yells, Wooyoung would have been content. But all he had left now was to watch your silhouette, now donning that oversized shirt dress, gathered at the waist with a black leather corset which had never failed to drive him wild, disappear out of the apartment, front door shutting softly behind you and leaving him alone with his demons and the divine shapes of your body that his hands had memorised. For the first time on his own volition, he cancelled that day’s rendezvous. He would only be able to think of you, anyways.

You were late. Terribly late. And no excuses about public transport or traffic could cover for you. And like hell you were going to say to your boss that you were late because you were fantasizing about him while your cheating boyfriend fingered you. To be frank, you could mention that you could not board the trains since they were overcrowded, but you encountered the issue only because you left the house at peak commute time, like an utter fool. Shame had settled into you as you were travelling across the city, squeezed between passengers, faceless and much the same as one another. You had tried to avoid touching anything, relying on your platform shoes to give you balance - you did not want your filth to embed itself into the doors and handles. How was what you had allowed yourself to do at all appropriate? And how had you conceded to Wooyoung's accusations and teasing, accepting his conjectures as soon as he played into your darkest dreams? Stuck in this blameful loop, you had almost missed your stop and had a number of glares sent and not so kind words muttered in your address, as you lurched through the crowded carriage by sheer inertia from the train stopping, and out of the doors.

It was nearly forty minutes past the hour on which you had agreed to begin preparations today, which meant even less time until the arranged boudoir shoot with the model Seonghwa had signed to work with. Thankfully this did not require too much effort, since for the most part you and your boss had the bright idea of beginning last night: setting up the backdrops, readying the series of props and leaving the clothing rack with pre-selected outfits out by the set. But the fact that you broke a promise that you had made to your boss, the master, was what aggravated your brooding.

Once you flew up the stairs that led from the entrance to the main part of the studio, you crept into the space nearly folded over. Bowing repeatedly in apology, you could barely see where you were going, and instead of making an uneventful entrance, were halted by a hand on either one of your shoulders, grinding you to a halt and making you straighten out.

“Woah there, beautiful, don’t run me over.”

You went pale as you came face to face with none other than your boss. The one who you had just been thinking about in less than professional ways. You grinned at him sheepishly, lowering your head and choosing to focus on his outfit. Black Oxfords, slacks and shirt, black hair in the elegant 4:6 parting… of course he would be embodying this timeless hue. He had explained to you before: the reason why he was dedicated to the monochromatic palette was because if one were to consider its formulation, black was the most ‘colourful’. Seonghwa was enamoured with everything around him, and thought its predominant use to be the optimal method of honouring nature.

“Hey, my eyes are up here.” He chuckled, while adjusting the top of the dress from invisible creases, giving you a discreet onceover. It was impossible for you to remain composed, and an indecipherable amalgamation of ‘sorry’s and haphazardly mashed elaborations that all amounted to nervous white noise began to pour.

You were cute when you were shy, he concluded to himself as he took in your presently meek form, cooing that you need not worry. Though the illusion was broken as soon as he spotted what was, unmistakably, a fresh hickey that was only just gaining prominence on your delicate neck. A playful smirk threatened his lips as he raised an eyebrow and cut your monologue short.

"A kiss from your boyfriend wishing you a good day at work, my love?" The odd combination of words sent your heart ablaze. It was like Wooyoung's existence did not matter one bit to him, he was above it.

"Huh? What, sorry?"

"Your neck." You were caught off-guard by the handsome brunette pointing at his own neck, and then tilting his head towards you. An unreadable smile was on his lips as he watched your checks heat up and you stuttering out a barely audible curse. It was endearing, watching how you, normally unphased and professional, crumbling at the slightest mention of something even the tiniest bit suggestive if it was related to you.

Did you want to appear 'pure' in front of him? Unaffected and innocent? Whilst it was admirable that you had been holding out for so long, be it because of your so-called commitments or something darker, it was the not-so-subtle glances you sent in his direction that drove him to the brink of insanity, igniting a demonic creativity that led him to shoot one masterpiece after the other. Your hesitation blended with an undeniable desire was his strange addiction.

When Seonghwa had met you at his exhibition all that time ago, within you he saw a sophisticated fragility, like that of a precious artwork, or of a spring flower. At the beginning of your journey as a photographer but showing much promise, the sparkle in your eyes left him dizzy. There was something about you that reminded him of a cherub, a sweet creature untainted by misery and heartbreak. Or so was his initial perception that had given him the push to take a deeper interest in you. As he observed your rise in the circle, be it through his extensive web of connections or his own eyes, he noticed your expressions morph into showcasing a grotesque chiaroscuro. A daunting heaviness of your portrait miniseries for a class, where you had placed every pore, every wrinkle of your subjects under scrutiny in the stark light, left an inkling of fear and concern in Seonghwa's heart. This was work done in passing, an experiment for a module where you had to present your interpretation of an assigned theme, with yours being 'heartbreak'. He had found out about it by accident while catching up over a coffee with your professor for that class. And yet, it was this collection that demolished any doubts that he might have had about your future as an artist. You lived through each portrait. Your soul was shared with the model, and immortalised. A collection of portraits of people who had lost love.

You had a story to tell, and what better way to do it than through photography? Any description of his joy when you had asked if his offer of mentorship and fulltime work was still standing would be an understatement. He wanted to play a part in your development. To help you harness the immeasurable talent you had and give you the opportunity and resources necessary for a newcomer to the otherwise cruel industry. Seonghwa felt the urge to be your protector, someone who you could turn to and rely on. While you two maintained a professional relationship, he could not help but treat you with extra care and affection – it came naturally. And it only increased once he found out that, apparently, you had an excuse for a significant other. What little rationality he had left when it came to you proclaimed he should distance himself, but by a risk-hungry democracy, he only inched closer to the fire. Although you were always hesitant to share anything about your partner, he managed to piece the facts together. You were hanging on by a thread, and Seonghwa wanted to cut it and be there to catch you.

He felt it tighten once again as you dashed for the full length mirror standing in the corner of the room, inspecting the bruised skin, mortified. If only he could have the key to that gorgeous mind of yours to know just what you were recalling as you stared into the mirror and attempted to raise the collar of your dress to cover it, but to no avail. The corset – a neat contraption with a convenient zip at the back, highlighting your graceful features, was holding the article stubbornly in place. As you began to search in your bag for the concealer which you just so happened to forget due to the disturbance of your routine this morning, Seonghwa stalked towards you, raising his hand to place it over yours, reducing agitation to mere shock. The surprise on your face as he guided you into a more relaxed stance accelerated the pace of his heart to unprecedented heights.

“Do not worry about it, hey, look at me, Y/N, are you okay?” you had refrained from lifting your head.

Everything was going wrong, and you were the only one to blame. Automatically, you moved to cover the hickey, pressing a palm against it. Did Wooyoung do this on purpose, to send some sick message to you and your boss? Claim ownership over someone who was, emotionally, already lightyears away? How you despised that man, but even more, how you despised yourself for the utter lack of control you had. Splitting into thousands of pieces, you offered too many parts to the one and a half years of an illusion, clearly not having enough left to make a concrete decision and dare to spread your wings. Even if you were to be burned by the sun, you would give up anything for the smallest chance to not be plagued by the conundrum and would soar. The ghost of a touch that Seonghwa applied to your knuckles sparked your internal pleas, and again you availed yourself of safe formality, and let apologies overflow.

Confused, Seonghwa let the weight of his hand become more noticeable as he turned you a little more towards him, meeting you half way with a side step. Taking the purse out of your hand and setting it down on a painted bench set right by the mirror, he was about to pull you even closer but hesitated.

“Sorry, may I put my hands on your upper arms?” you glanced up to meet Seonghwa’s earnest expression, “Would it be alright with you?” only once you nodded did he let himself do just as he had explained, and lightly squeezed the muscle. “Y/N, what happened, talk to me.”

This man was going to be the death of you. Asking for permission over things Wooyoung did not even consider. Ever. Not even when he was just trying to ‘woo’ you, for the lack of a better word. If your heart had not melted before, it sure did now, as Seonghwa continued whispering phrases of reassurance, concerned but not pushing you to reveal more than you wanted. Presenting himself as your safe haven. He was normally open about physical affection with those close to him, but respect was an even higher priority.

“Seonghwa, I-… I am not sure I can talk about it… at least right now.” You mumbled, dropping your arm to your side.

“I get that. Sure. You okay to do the shoot? If you need to go home-”

“Anything but home! Uh, I mean, yeah. I am okay. I just need to cover this… thing… thank you for spotting it. And again, I am so sorry you had to set all of this up and I am a mess and-”

“Ma belle, what you need to cover is your responsibilities. So, if you’re sorry, get to it.” The sudden sternness snapped you out of your mental drift, and you widened your eyes. His finger dug into your skin, not quite as strong as to leave marks, but enough to make the temperature begin rising. Voice dropped into a whisper, but still bearing traces of near maternal attentiveness, he explained:

“The make up artist will be here in about fifteen minutes, but I assume you don’t want anyone to see it, so if you don’t mind, I have an accessory for you to try on.” He moved away to stride to a cabinet on the other side of the room and retrieved an item from one of the drawers.

Upon closer inspection, you recognised the item to be a thick black leather collar, with a circular silver detail at the front. This was a prop from one of the shoots you had collaborated on a couple of months ago – a series that took inspiration from dominatrix culture and bondage. Your cheeks began to heat up as Seonghwa raised it closer to eye level, and smiled sweetly, as if he did not have the same association with the object as you did.

“This should do it. And if not, you know we have some items with more… substantial coverage,” you hummed in agreement, unsure of how to proceed. Seonghwa was expectant, motioning for you to let him help with the choker.

Not finding any reason to disagree with the proposition, you lifted your hair, while he walked behind you and slid the item around your neck, positioning and fastening it in such a way that the bruise was fully concealed. As he worked on the miniature buckle, a strong sense of déjà vu overtook you, making you even more sensitive to his proximity. This was too close to what you had been playing in your head; a couple of steps going south, and it would be a re-enactment. You bit your lip nervously, listening to every breath.

When Seonghwa requested that you show the now completed outfit to him, the intensity with which he was affected by it was unforeseeable. He barely managed to utter a compliment, clenching his fist to suppress an urge to ruin the beauty. Here stood the one who he had been searching for in his art. The one who he had subconsciously been dedicating work to. The Aphrodite, and at the same time, the visionary and his partner in crime. And in that pretty collar, there was no longer any reminder that you should be off limits. The forbidden fruit. To hell with common courtesy-

Seonghwa dipped his head towards you, and once millimetres away, shut his eyes and sank into the feeling of his lips locking with yours. Just as he had thought, you were a sweet paradise, leading him into a paralysis - all he could ponder was how far he could go. You did not push away, joining him in the passionate abyss and getting drunk off his delicious and soft lips. In unison you were satiating your hunger, the current proximity simply not enough. To deepen the long-awaited kiss, you ran your fingers through his hair and gently tugged at the back, causing him to break away momentarily, revealing darkened, carnivorous orbs. He stepped even closer to you, his hips almost touching yours as hands travelled to your waist and pulled you in. Perhaps it was good that you had as little control as you did – or were just this willing when it came to this dazzling man.

There was no good reason for this to be happening. In fact, had your life been a show, most of the audience would likely say you were to blame, that you were a cheater, a whore living two lives, but to you even these seconds, turning to minutes, were worth it. With each caress you were erasing your memories of early morning, and of the fiend who, undoubtedly had organised his own fun. Didn’t a girl deserve to smile too?

Nothing felt real. Floating, life forever altered, relishing in the fact that there was no turning back. Finally, the thread snapped. A precious little bird, freed from the confines of losing oneself, day in, day out. Seonghwa noticed how you entered a flow state, hypnotised by the taste of your personal heaven. The Birth of Venus, your vibrancy brought to light by none other than him – couldn’t the other man see that you could not be carved nor moulded? You needed the spark, the energy, the worship. For that, you would go to the end of the world, but now, Seonghwa was the only one who had the power to choose if you did.

A sharp ringing of a phone interrupted your dizzying sensuality, making Seonghwa groan as he took out the vexing device from his pocket, flipping it to answer. As he talked, however, it was as though the moment still continued, with him not taking his eyes off you a single time, only motion being his mouth outlining the contours of your jawline, moving to your reddened lips to wipe away smudged lipstick. You could not move, fixated on his mellifluous low tone as he continued to admire you. Like you were his magnum opus.

“My darling, our time to shine. The whole crew will be here in five.” He covered the speaker, sharing with you what the manager on the other end of the line had stated. Unwillingly, he had to part from you, but was halted by your nimble hands cupping his face and returning the favour, clearing his face of any traces of your makeup. As a way of thanks, he turned to give your fingers a peck, a brief amused chuckle escaping him as you raised your eyebrows.

Though it was customary for Seonghwa to be a little more physically affectionate than most when it came to working in a professional environment, the significance of his attention towards you had changed drastically and did not go unnoticed by either of you. Each lingering caress held a universe, and served as silent reassurance, communication of the ongoing symbiosis between you and him. As he would reach over to grab a different lens, he would just so happen to brush past you, and send you, just you, a smile. While his hands were pressing all the right buttons, and he was uttering the right commands that the manager was translating to the model – as it turned out she did not speak a word of Korean nor any of the languages Seonghwa had picked up during his travels, and generally preferred to remain void of emotion, his thoughts were entirely on you. As he guided the model from one position to another, directed the feeling that she was supposed to be embodying, but ultimately failing, his only salvation was pretending what it would be like if you were on that chaise longue sofa, clad in elegant lingerie.

Far too many long, gruelling hours had passed by, and Seonghwa had shown far too much patience with the solemn, rigid woman on the set. The sun had already gone down, so he was trying his best to retake some of the shots, with you running from reflector to studio light, endlessly readjusting. Both you and him were winded, exhausted both physically and mentally as you, the model and the manager were the only ones left working – upon Seonghwa’s request, you had dismissed the stylist and makeup artist, agreeing that if any last touch ups were needed due to the heat from the lights, you would figure it out. Art school had taught you how to improvise in times of crisis.

At this stage, it would be better to simply wrap up for the day and pick up again tomorrow; it could be that the ‘energy’ for the shoot was off for someone, or everyone. Could be that there simply was dissonance between certain people on set. But it could not be any worse than what you had waiting for you at home, so, in some ways the long shoot was a blessing in disguise. With the new dynamic between you and Seonghwa to explore, you had almost forgotten about the fact that you had a significant other, at least until your phone began to ring incessantly in your bag, forcing you into a run across the room. As soon as you checked the caller id, your blood ran cold, and with a hardened expression, you swiped to answer.

“Y/N, hello there, sweetheart!”

“Hi.” You could not remember the last time Wooyoung had called you out of the blue. You thought that such behaviour had remained in the flirting stage for him.

“You sound stressed. Hard day at work?”

“Yes. It isn’t over yet, so I need to go.”

“Aw… And here I was, about to ask you what you would like for dinner.” He elaborated. You could hear the pout that he was undoubtedly wearing, along with some shuffling.

“Back so soon? No fun at work?” you remarked, implicitly jibing.

“Yes… terribly uneventful. Was thinking about you all day, replaying this morning…” he was acting too sweet for your liking, and for his present character. Had he been conversing with anyone else and you were listening in, you could have made more sense of it. But this made your skin crawl.

As he babbled away, your focus drifted. Never before had the man on the call felt so foreign – more distant than a stranger. It was like the dull words being uttered were entirely inaccessible, nothing more than the ghost of lost meaning, thrown into a gust of wind. His efforts were lost on you, for you had no heart to tolerate Wooyoung anymore. With an unprecedented tranquility, a conclusion had been reached, and it felt right to step away. That decision, that snap that you had been seeking had finally happened, and you were observing him while pretending to listen to the incessant chatter. The dream, the fresh start, the possibility. Seonghwa had captured your heart long before you had even met Wooyoung – so, maybe, it was you who had been unfair. Getting into a relationship when you had been simply fooling yourself.

A conversation between your boss and the manager, which had previously been level and measured out, was growing more heated by the second. You perked up at the elevated volume, and pulled the phone away from your ear to tune in.

“…I can’t work with her when she is not even trying to work with me!” Seonghwa exclaimed, clearly upset as a familiar southern lilt had seeped into the phrase, naturally deepening his voice and leaving his interlocutor taken aback. But not for long enough, as they recovered and snapped back:

“She’s pretty, isn’t she? Making her look good in a frame is your job, so, do it.”

Eyes wide, you whispered some excuse to Wooyoung, cutting him off mid-sentence. You wished you felt bad, to preserve some social dignity, but it was liberating to finally be the one to elicit shock.

"Honey, what did you say? I'm worried."

The fingers of your free hand curled into a fist as you registered the urgency in his voice. A drastic change from even a mere couple of minutes. You fell silent, processing your reaction. Why did you freeze? Why could you not just... leave?

"Y/N, darling, are you there? Do you need any help? I'll be right there if you need me..." he continued, concern growing with every syllable as you began to dig your nails into the soft flesh of your palm.

Part of you was still attached, it seemed. Some subconscious element that had been thoroughly trained by none other than Wooyoung, trained to believe him and only him. That toxic portion was still confident that he wished for nothing more except for you to be well and in a blissful harmony. In his shadow. A gifted sculptor, whispering watered down droplets of affection, softening up the clay of your innocent heart until he could leave his permanent mark. Wooyoung was here. Wooyoung wanted to be your creator. But the magic trick ceased to be impressive as soon as you realised, and now could take the risk to fight back.

"I'm okay, I'll... I'll see you later." You wanted to conclude the conversation as soon as possible, seeing as you could see that Seonghwa was beginning to lose his patience. It was a rare occurrence but unpleasant enough to avoid... at all costs.

"Is he hurting you?" A sharp jab, out of the blue, right into the arguments that you had been collecting against the man on the phone. He? Was Wooyoung really accusing Seonghwa of something you could not even begin to imagine him doing?

"What?" You mumbled, so quietly that it could have been to yourself.

"I can hear the shouting, Y/N. Not only is he overworking you, but... resorting to violence? Who does he think he is?"

Your eyes darted to the black-haired angel on the other side of the studio, about to hang his halo on a clothing rack in the strive to prove a point to a person who did not want to listen. Surely, that was an appropriate reaction? And was he not the one who gave you what you swore to be your first love-filled kiss?

"Sweetheart, just say the word... do you need to go home?"

Wooyoung was your boyfriend still, wasn't he? Many promises and commitments later, many months as one whole. He couldn't recommend something downright outrageous, since he would have to face your wrath in close proximity. Yes, you were still safe there. Home. Not perfect, but a home nonetheless. What did Seonghwa promise? Do? You were a colleague to him, a subordinate. An inexperienced photographer who barely graduated from being a pure amateur. Maybe you would be doing him a favour if you went home right now. Home to the person who had officially called you his.

"I..."

"Mm?"

"Y/N! Can you give me a hand?" You winced at the question turned command that Seonghwa boomed. It did little to dispel your assumption that Wooyoung might be right in saying you should leave, but at the same time, cleared your head just enough to realise that here you were again. Falling into the same pattern of blind obedience.

"Was it him? Say no!"

"Sorry what? Can't hear you I think you are breaking the connection is so bad so sorry I really did not understand bye-" you stuttered out, ending the call, and letting out a sigh of relief.

You felt dizzy. Exhausted. The brief conversation with Wooyoung had drained you more than the photoshoot, leaving you numb and dreading the end of the workday. Just how much strength would it take to cut all ties? You had not noticed that you had been absent-mindedly playing with the choker, and only when Seonghwa had sent a glare in your direction did you fall from your musings in a cold flash and followed his pointing gestures.

He was turning livid, his expression darkening. You slipped into the background, approaching the model, and gestured for her to follow you. Seeing as she was bored to be here, she was more than happy to follow you to the neatly folded pile of her clothes, paying no mind to the standoff occurring a mere couple of metres away. You cowered as the manager leered at you slyly, and dismissed yet another one of Seonghwa's rational suggestions for how to switch up the shoot to take at least couple of salvaging shots. As the model took her time to get ready, not having heard from her supervisor whether it was time to go or not, you saw Seonghwa's eyes bleed into a ghoulish abyss, barely containing what would be the foundation for a catastrophe.

“How about this, I can find another model, and you can find another photographer to complete this lady’s portfolio. I think both of us would be satisfied with that outcome.” he hissed, refraining from stooping so low so as to use informal language, even though the other man had been disregarding the common principle for the better, or worse, half of the day.

"Who, this... girl?" All eyes were on you, and you could not feel any smaller than you did at that moment. The manager gave you a wry side glance and crossed his arms. "Can she even model?"

"I'd say my co-creator and muse can model. Yes. And better than... many." Seonghwa bit back the offences that had accumulated, but the weight of his words was enough to hint at the lack of welcome. He nodded at you in an attempt to subtly share some comfort, but could not find your eyes, which were tracing lines between the white floorboards.

Muse. The title he had given you with such ease and pride. The title that no artist dared to use lightly out of fear of cursing their inspiration. A warmth spread over your body as the notion ate away at the embedded agitation, washing over the soul and taking, with each wave, the rotting floatation left behind by the person who wanted to sculpt your fate. A muse. And there was no better place for a muse than in a place of art and innovation. Wooyoung could enjoy his dinner by himself.

"Now, if you'll excuse us, it is late, and I don't think this should continue for any longer." The manager broke the silence, though nothing except his indignant utterance littered the ambience.

"Adieu."

The duo had departed, thankfully, in a hurry, with the manager practically pushing the lady with the stony face out of the door. As soon as Seonghwa, from his position by the window, having lifted the tulle away from it with two fingers, saw the pair appear on the street and start in the direction of the busier road that was in the studio’s vicinity, he let out a low, exasperated groan and ruffled his hair. The camera, which had weighed down on his neck not dissimilarly to a ball and chain, had found home on a high stool, while the photographer stormed towards the main set, and crashed onto the chaise longue.

Your breath hitched in your throat as you took in the sight. His right arm was grazing the floor, while the other, palm pointed outwards, was pressing into the bridge of his nose with the wrist. One leg slightly bent, the other fully lying on the plush material, he had landed in a threateningly sensual position that set you ablaze. It was impossible to tell whether this was purposeful or not, but at that moment you began to question why this ethereal man had never made an official appearance in front of the camera. The lights gave him a mystical sheen, only further enhancing the dreamlike quality Seonghwa possessed. You took a tiny step closer, careful to not produce a sound with the thick rubber soles of your boots.

He was worn out. It was painted, clear as day, across his face, and yet he still retained a regal quality, his profile – a timeless elegance. He would not hurt you. It had to be a crude lie said in egoistic anguish. The magnificent individual before you was a healing luminescence, filling up the room, embodying it, spreading the monochrome across your universe until you were hesitant to even consider external matters. This had to be immortalised. You raised your mobile phone, swiping to remove the notifications of messages that Wooyoung had apparently sent you, instead switching to the camera. The angle was not perfect, since you were on the side, the outskirts, but with a careful zoom and some manual finetuning to the settings, you could see the opportunity for a shot. Steadying yourself, you adjusted your hold on the device, and snapped away.

An unfamiliar sensation began to course through you as you focused on Seonghwa’s every detail, eyes devouring him and guiding your secret shoot. The thrill of acting on your own accord, capturing an intimate moment for yourself only was leaving you feverish. Enraptured by his slightly parted lips, you went for an extreme close up, leaning further forward and adjusting the settings once again to drop the ISO to 280 and adjusting the shutter speed to a 1/750th. Through the lens you could witness divinity embraced by pitch black, broken only by his grace. One click. Another. You were losing rationality. Snapping away, hypnotised.

“Use the proper camera. It’ll be good practice.” You froze as you were met with Seonghwa’s smouldering gaze, sent right into the lens. With a gasp, you locked your phone and shuddered, flaring up in embarrassment.

“I-I am s-so sorry, I didn’t even a-ask-”

“Apologising to me an awful lot today, aren’t you?” you could not respond, and merely followed Seonghwa’s movements as he raised himself back up and, while still on the sofa, spun to sit facing you. Legs slightly spread apar, he positioned his elbows at the knees, and intently studied you with a smug grin. “A photographer’s calling is to capture beauty as they see it, so if anything, I am honoured, my love.”

A knot began to form in your stomach as you regarded the man. How could he treat your actions so lightly? Should he not be mad? Where was the enraged Seonghwa, who had been on the verge of letting hell break loose? His unreadable nature only proved to elevate your excitement, and you eagerly approached him as he beckoned you:

“Would you show me the photos, darling?” you nodded, taking a seat to his left and unlocking your phone.

Careful not to scroll up, nor to hit any buttons to unleash the guilty pictographic altar that was the candid photographs you had taken at earlier times, you clicked on the first one you had taken this evening and tilted the screen towards the interested man. Prior consideration of your actions as only adorable rapidly evaporated as he inspected the work, astonished by its quality. You had managed to surpass the awkward positioning of the equipment from where you had been standing and made the phone work with you. Seonghwa manoeuvred to be pressed against you, thigh to thigh, and used your startled state to fish your phone out of your hands and scrutinise the pictures freely.

Judging by the reluctance to let go, he could sense that you were hiding something from him. You were heavily interested in where and how he was swiping, and one of your hands was hovering next to his. It was his duty, and his pleasure, to find out what the fuss was about. There was something unequivocally compelling about your transfixion – no dispassionate photographer would be so loving and involved in any image. Even his own works, on occasion, exhibited the ‘technically perfect, and yet far removed’ quality. Seonghwa had a sneaking suspicion about what kinds of pictures you had, but did not want to show how the sheer idea affected him. As he indulged in your reflection on the screen, your trepidation proving irresistible, a spontaneous ruse spawned in his mind, and was rolling off the tip of his tongue in an instant.

“Y/N, could you get me my camera, please? This shot reminded me of one I had taken…”

Waiting for the moment you were outside of arm’s reach, making a beeline to the requested object, he pressed on the back arrow, and within a couple of clicks and scrolls, his guesses were confirmed. A hidden album containing only him. Bursts of his profile, his physique, occupying your gallery. You appeared to be quite selective in when you took the photos, too. More often than not, you emulated Rembrandt style lighting, and the pictures you had favourited were those that reminded him of ancient Greek etchings and sculptures. When did you have the time to do this? How had he not discovered this before? He could not wipe the smirk off his face in time as he saw your shadow fall over him. Far from innocent, weren’t you? The grasp over the camera grew slack, only saved by the habit you had formed of wrapping the strap around your hand to not let it hang loose. With a victorious raising of the eyebrows, Seonghwa turned the phone to you, showcasing what he had ‘just so happened to stumble upon’, and declared:

“I think we have a lot to discuss here, love. Take a seat.” Just when you were about to stiffly settle in the same place, he roughly pulled you to him and onto his lap, grunting as you collided with his powerful thighs. One arm immediately found your waist, fingers toying with the base of the corset, while the other, phone on display, rested like a guard over your legs.

“Now, let’s see… what a collection! How long has it been?” he scrolled slowly, making sure to elevate your sense of shame, though judging by your facial expressions, you were more than happy to be treated how you were at that moment. Eyes half shut, ragged breaths, you were alert and in anticipation. “You kissed me, so you can tell me.” He emphasised, raising up the phone to poke you lightly under the chin.

“A… about seven months…”

“Wow… and how long have you been together with mister Jung Wooyoung?”

“A year and a half…”

“And how long has he been… not satisfying you?” you gaped at Seonghwa in shock. He locked your mobile and set it aside, choosing to play with the metal loop attached to the choker he had picked for you, and tugging just enough for the pressure to build.

“What?”

“Well, evidently there is something that is not there anymore… and these hickeys don’t count, my love. So tell me, what is it?”

“Cheating. He is cheating...” It was challenging to muster up the courage to say the words out loud. It was the first time you openly acknowledged the act for what it was. No euphemisms, no bent truths. It was almost too much for you, as that lump in your throat that had formed during your last conversation with your boyfriend made an irksome return.

“How long?”

“I have had my suspicions for… eight months, confident for… three.”

“I see. I am so sorry, darling I-”

“Now who’s the one apologising?” You joked, a small smile returning to you as you let Seonghwa take the camera from your hands, his chuckle making you shiver.

“Then I hope you won’t need one from me when I do this,” Seonghwa’s voice dropped into a sultry tone before he traced your jawline with his fingers and closed the minimal space between you.

Hands roaming your body, gentle, barely there, treating you like you were a priceless centrepiece made of glass. Compared to the first you had shared, this kiss was an ocean, commencing with a series of lulling waves – a reminder that you need not worry about anything except yourself and what you desired. A crescendo with a building breeze, awakening you from a forlornness and leading you into a glowing, rekindled wanting. The climb towards the crashing tsunami, consuming you as, finally, you felt wholly acknowledged, adored, affirmed.

Your yelp was stifled as he deepened the kiss and let you down slowly onto the velvet fabric of the chaise longue, making sure that your head was lying on the miniature pillow in the corner of the seat by protectively cradling you. Once your back was against the material, Seonghwa hovered over you, a hand on either side while his right knee positioned itself between your legs, with it pushing your dress upwards. His tongue pressed against your teeth, begging for entrance which you readily allowed, and sighed at the feeling of it filling your senses, Seonghwa quickly becoming the only thing you ever wanted to taste. With a tilt of the head, it moved even deeper, while his body was radiating an immeasurable longing for you, its friction against yours nearly making you question your own sanity.

Once you broke apart for gasps of sweet oxygen, sharing the hot air and watching a lewd string of saliva stretch and break between you, you mumbled out a breathy question, which you knew to be your last as you were growing more and more desperate for this man’s heavenly touch.

“Seonghwa… but why?”

“You can only see me. I can only see you. It simply makes sense, no?” he responded, giving you a quick peck on your reddened lips, followed by a couple more on your cheek, until he was right by your ear, “Let me show you that you deserve so much more, darling. Let me show you worship. May I, my love?” his beautiful, dark eyes staring into yours as he awaited your agreement.

“Yes.”

“Très bien.”

With that, the choker flew off you in one swift swipe, and, suddenly, your neck was exposed to him. Hungry orbs trained on the mark that your boyfriend had left, and soon enough Seonghwa’s lips were abusing the same sensitive spot, teasing the skin. After giving it his love and special attention, he moved to another area right beside it, repeating the action, while his knee moved higher for more support, accidentally brushing against your clothed core. You could not help but use the opportunity to buck your hips a little to add to the pooling desire. Unfortunately for you, Seonghwa had caught on too fast, and with satisfied lick, rose up and pushed himself off the chaise longue.

He regarded you through half-lidded eyes, his own arousal starting to build. No longer were there traces of the other man on you. You were free to choose whomever, and you chose him – Seonghwa. This moment had to become timeless.

“Darling, as much as I would love to ravish you right here right now, we have some photos to retake.” He could barely contain himself as you whimpered with frustration, rubbing your thighs together. He reached over to grab the camera and your phone, and added a request for you to undress. Completely.

Erection rubbing against him as he ambled towards the stand, Seonghwa heard a zip, followed by a series of rustles. “You can throw them off set for now, I do not mind.” He called out, his back still to you. A thump, and quietude. Finally at his rightful place as photographer, he let himself retrain on the scene, and felt his heat rise to unprecedented heights. He realised – this was exactly what he had been imagining every time he had a model work with him. Every time he had anybody over, this was what had been guiding his vision. You. Only you. Sat patiently, waiting for his direction.

You heard the clicking of the aperture, and took in Seonghwa’s black-clad form on the stool behind the camera. It was easy enough to guess why it was uncomfortable to remain in one place, but you were not about to ruin the photoshoot. You were a professional, after all.

“Do you think you can show me how you touch yourself?” he asked, readying his camera. You were still a little shy, so he urged you on: “You have so many photos of me, darling, show me how you get off to them. I know you do, my love.” Blushing, you finally acted, and Seonghwa could not believe it.

Sliding a finger between your slick folds, you wetted it with your own arousal and began to rub slow circles over your sensitive clit, head tilting back.

“Legs a little wider for me,” a flash, “that’s it, well done. What are you thinking of, ma belle?”

“Ah… y-you…” the sinful mumble was electrifying, and one of Seonghwa’s hands drifted towards his bulge, which had grown even larger, starting to become problematic for his concentration.

“What specifically, Y/N?”

“H-how you could take me, right here.”

“Take you? Elaborate, tell me everything. And yes, just like that, beautiful.”

Your hand began to move faster, flicking the nub, while the fingers of your other hand took to producing unimaginable sounds as they curled to stimulate the clit even further and progress to glide into your pussy with ease. A course of flashes and clicks signified that Seonghwa particularly enjoyed this course, so you did not hold back and let yourself moan, whispering his name as your high started to approach.

“How you could- ah! Make me come. In any way- AH, Hwa, I’m close-” beloved fantasies floated before you as you continued your performance.

“You are gorgeous, Y/N, I’ll make you come, not to worry, darling, just one more shot, okay?” he cooed as he continued to palm himself through his trousers, watching you bring yourself to a euphoric ruin.

“I- I am n-not sure I’ll la-ast-” you cried out, the orgasm imminent.

“That’s perfect, Y/N, show me.” His finger hovered over the button, like a panther lying in wait to capture its next kill.

“S-Seonghwa!”

“Yes-”

A flurry of shots surrounded you as you shut your eyes and were hit by a satisfying climax that caused you to sink back into the sofa and left your sex pulsing, hot juices trickling out and coaxing Seonghwa out of his digital hiding. It was virtually impossible for him to contain himself any longer, so with a few quick changes to settings, he set an automatic interval timer, for the camera to continue capturing the intimacy, but now with him in the second starring role.

Not taking his gaze off you, Seonghwa slipped out of his Oxfords, and neatly folded his button up and trousers, while having been reduced to a miniscule tremor due to the never-ending pressure on his trapped member, which had already leaked precum onto his boxers. Another flash, and he was walking towards you, ablaze from how you studied him, so alluringly dishevelled and dedicated to him.

A real life Adonis, a mortal blessing seeking you out and yearning for your caress. His equally well shaped cock twitched as he stood off to one side of you, at an impeccable ninety degrees from the camera to capture his length and salaciousness of the scene. Having recovered from your high, you were enthusiastic to please and dropped to your knees as Seonghwa gave the member a couple of pumps. Crawling forward, you innocently opened your mouth, lolling your tongue out. A perfect picture, you knew it.

“Care to prepare me before I make you feel good, ma belle?” he did not need to ask twice.

As soon as he let his hand fall to his side, you replaced it with your own, and with the other massaged his balls, attentive to every flex of muscle, every groan he held back. Now, that was not acceptable. You wanted to hear this man say your name at least once if he truly held you in his heart. You shot him a quick look, and upon seeing that he had bit his lower lip and he was already hazy, took his tip in your mouth, circling it with your tongue and giving it a couple of light sucks. A gasp promoted your continuation, and you teased his hole while not ceasing to give his base thorough focus.

Shaken, Seonghwa could only manage a low, guttural moan as you moved to take in half of his length, still keeping up the intoxicating patterns with your tongue. He gingerly pushed a lock of hair out of your face, unable to utter anything when you gazed up with curiosity. With that, you took a quick breath, and by pulling yourself forward using Seonghwa’s legs, you took him in until the cock hit the back of your throat and caused tiny tears to well up.

“Ah- Y/N, you- mfph-” nothing had ever sounded better than this you leaned back, with only the tip remaining between your lips, and then slid back down, speeding up as you listened to Seonghwa’s sinful vocalisations.

Feeling his member harden, you were about to pick up the pace even more, but your endeavour was cut short by Seonghwa placing his palm on your crown, and tapping you with his index finger a couple of times.

“Th-thank you, love, now I want to make you feel good.” A loud pop resounded as you removed yourself, resulting in the man fighting back a shudder. “Ah, but I don’t have-”

“I have the implant, and you don’t have to come inside.”

“Wasn’t planning to, love, I want to paint over you, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

Seonghwa sat on the chaise longue, much as he had done at the very beginning while still clothed, and reached out to take your hand and walk you to him. Only you existed to him, a realisation that turned to fact as he sped up your movements, roaming your body and helping you lower yourself onto his throbbing dick. Prior to giving him the full pleasure, however, you ran the soaked pussy lips, softened by a climax and yearning for more, across it, to coat and lubricate it with your nectar. And finally, you sank onto the member, the dizzying feeling of fullness making your walls clench around it, and Seonghwa’s nails dig into your waist.

He let you remain motionless to get used to him, and to have the camera do its magic, but was ecstatic once you rose again, and began to ride him while lazily rolling your hips. You were now moaning without inhibition, Seonghwa’s name sounding simply right. When you cried out, his cock hitting at just the right spot, he rushed to soothe you by stroking circles over your pelvis, but the concern quickly dissipated as you uttered, much to his delight:

“Seonghwa, this is so-so good…”

“You’re perfect, my love. So perfect for me.” He mumbled back, kissing your shoulder blades.

Only fate could have brought him to you, or you to him. It was as though you had been made for one another, fluid and communicating through exquisite body language. A flash. Another. A priceless collection marking yours and Seonghwa’s evolution into a divine creative partnership. Undefined by standards, understood by inspiration and artistry.

“Mm, love how you fill me up so well, Hwa, please-” the knot in your stomach continued to grow as you grinded on his dick.

“So amazing, my darling, my muse.”

Seonghwa reached over and stimulated your clit while your breathing turned shallower, and you attempted to speed up. The action proved difficult, as with your climax fast approaching, your movements became more disjointed and dysrhythmic. Clearly, they became so uncontrollable, that he decided to take matters into his own hands. Melting into his touch, you followed as he stood up, careful to keep his member inside of you, and told you to bend over, keeping your ass up in the air.

Arranging for the best angle, he checked the camera, and, once confirming that the shot was going to be ideal, inhaled and glided his length into you, progressively picking up the speed until what had been a slow exploration was now him pounding into you, skin on skin, slapping against one another. You let out the uncontainable yelps of pleasure, tuning into a higher and higher pitch until your comments were mere incoherent babble. Thoughts clouded over, you could only focus on Seonghwa and your state on the verge of orgasm.

“AH…ah… Please… Hwa… don’t stop- I’m about to-”

Your yell was interrupted by him increasing the pace to an unprecedented level, accelerating you into an unthinkable crash as you shook with your climax. The way in which you enveloped him, and how you reacted to his demands and touch was becoming too much, and a bead of sweat was threatening to roll down his face as he prayed he would not come while your pussy clenched around him, the walls mercilessly pulsating as he built himself up to his high, which came sooner rather than later, and only just in time did he manage to pull his member out, and watch as strings of cum decorated your lower back and buttocks.

You collapsed on the floor, while Seonghwa fell onto the chaise longue, the back hitting his, and the two of you silently rejoiced in a shared ideal, illuminated by the continuing flashes.

“My love?”

“Mm?” you hummed, listening to Seonghwa stepping around you and shutting off the camera, only to approach you again.

“May I pick you up? Let’s go get cleaned up.” Sleepily, you raised your arms and let him lift you up, first to stand, and next to pick you up bridal style, making you giggle. “Off to the showers we go! Oh, the benefits of having a guest room at work.” He rambled light-heartedly, pecking you on the cheek, grinning, and disappearing into a dark corridor.

For the first time in a while, you felt, as Seonghwa had said, satisfied. Nothing could be more right.

You had insisted that you still needed to go home, even though it was long past midnight. But you did promise that, on that exact morning, you were going to break the news that you were leaving your soon to be ex. Life was looking brighter, and the taxi driver had already called you and Seonghwa a couple, which both of you had actively welcomed.

“I am going to Europe. In two weeks.” The brilliant young man stated as he held your hands in his while standing by the taxi, at the entrance to your apartment building.

“Oh… uhm… where?” you tried to conceal your disappointment, failing miserably.

“Brussels.” The cheeriness in his voice confused you, but as you tried to pry yourself away and mumble a “Bon… voyage?”, he beamed and embraced you.

“Two tickets, darling. You are coming with me. And I won’t accept no for an answer.”

“Then I won’t say no. All the more motivation for me, Hwa.” You snuggled into his trench coat, memorising the aroma so it could help you last the next few hours in that damned apartment.

“Let me know how it goes, okay?” his concern did not fail to make your heart flutter, and you hugged him tighter.

“If you see me at your doorstep in these same clothes, you’ll know it went… supremely well.”

“That’s why you have your good luck collar on.” Seonghwa joked, freeing one arm to poke your leather-covered neck.

“Ha, sure. Well, I’ll be off and see you soon.”

Sharing one final kiss, you departed into what you were looking forward to no longer call your home.

Upon entry, you needed a moment to adjust to the darkness. Assuming Wooyoung was asleep, you decided against entering the bedroom and occupying the sofa. If you were to breakup, it was better to start hyping yourself up early by separating yourself. There was no emotion attached to the walls, to the rooms, to him anymore. You just wanted out. As soon as possible. There was no place for you here, not when Seonghwa was waiting.

You lied down on the couch, exhausted, and what you had assumed to be five minutes of shuteye quickly turned into a deep slumber, recounting the beautiful revelations and your destined happiness. If only the man who was blankly staring at the ceiling, felt the same way. But it was impossible to, after he had spent the entire day lost in memories of you and him, of how you had been before he had gone astray and found temporary fun.

He had prepared an elaborate dinner in an attempt to impress you, only for it to be stuffed into plastic boxes to grow cold and inedible in the refrigerator. Had grown sick with worry over your disappearances and ignorance of his emotional state. And then, the final straw. You, and him, revoltingly enamoured, sharing saliva right under his damn windows. Wooyoung had vowed, today, to change, so who had allowed you to do what he had done? Were you not better than that?

Wooyoung crept out of the bedroom to at least catch a glimpse of you, and there you were a sleeping beauty. He had never seen you smiling in your sleep before. It was because of him, wasn’t it? That bastard, stealing what was not his. Or were you just so ready to give yourself away? Were you not the epitome of loyalty, standing by Wooyoung’s side no matter what? Who gave you the right? No, this could not be. This was wrong on all levels. This was not you, this was an impostor. A possessed version of you, about to do something you would regret. How could he prevent you from leaving, he wondered, toying with the clay-cutting wire in his hands.

#k-labels #ateezlovenet #seonghwa x y/n #wooyoung x y/n #seonghwa x reader #wooyoung x reader #park seonghwa #jung wooyoung #seonghwa smut #wooyoung smut #park seonghwa smut #jung wooyoung smut #ateez smut

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taylorswiftstyle · 6 days

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The Tortured Poets Department | April 19, 2024

Grace Lee 'Demi Earrings' - $1,298.00

One of my favourite parts of the album listening experience is, of course, the new set of visuals that come with it. While there’s much to be said about interpreting clues, patterns, and preferences in aesthetic from the case study that candids provide, I view the album photoshoot as the most ‘canonical’ of every era. And oh *swoon* is this one ever beautiful. The original album cover set it up and the rest of the album’s photographs followed through to create a beautifully raw, desaturated world. One that provides ample space between all the black and white for the music to paint with all the shades of grey that its messy, complicated circumstances depict.

In this particular shot, I love that we get to see Taylor’s hair smoothed out into a more classical glamour shot with a low, off-shoulder garment that exposes her back. Again, underlining the vulnerability of the shoot itself and how that ties into its respective work. The only ornamentation we see is from her modern, curved #GraceLee earrings.

But what’s most interesting in this shot are what appears to be calla lilies resting on her shoulder. The flowers look so naturally tied into the shot they could almost be the ends of her hair or floral embellishments on the garment. Of course, Taylor being Taylor there’s a lot to possibly interpret from these flowers (the language of flowers is fascinating and there’s a lot of conflicting and wide-reaching symbolisms to each). That said, calla lilies are a common funeral service flower as they’re typically seen as symbols of resurrection and rebirth or purification of a departed soul. Broken calla lilies on tombstones often indicate someone who died before their time. With a lot of lyrical imagery across the album that centers on death, dying, and grief this makes the most sense

The calla lily also has ties to other themes we’ve already seen Taylor opt into for #TTPD. First, the Victorian era, the lily having become popularized in the 1800s (the Victorian age was 1820-1914). Secondly, in Greek mythology as it’s often seen as the symbol of Hera (goddess of marriage).

Editorial Note: Original cover image captured by Beth Garrabrant - Taylor’s album photographer since folklore. In place of Beth’s image, for which she retains rights, I’ve commissioned a lovely demonstrative illustration by the talented Amelia Noyes.

#taylor swift #photoshoot #jewelry #grace lee #april 2024 #ttpd

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sapphos-ode · 10 months

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Young Larissa 1

Young Larissa Weems

Pls help me think of a title. This is very messy, I do apologise. I’m not sure how I wanted to characterise Larissa here. Anyways enjoy

Larissa was always a quiet girl, she kept to herself and focused on her studies. Much to the chagrin of her roommate, Morticia Frump. Who was the ever outgoing ray of sunshine that everyone seemed to love at Nevermore.

Walking into their shared dorm was always an experience. You would have Morticia’s side, music blaring, dark and gothic, every square inch of her walls covered in posters or black and white photographs. And then there would be Larissa’s side, filled with little trinkets and keepsakes. Small potted plants dotting her side. Predominantly a lot of whites, soft yellows, and pale greens. She’d often have a pair of headphones on. Trying to drown out Morticia’s record player.

Whilst they kept it civil for the sake of them being roommates, there wasn’t much reason for Larissa and Morticia to be friends. If she was honest, Larissa didn’t like anything about Morticia, apart from you. Being in the same dorm as Morticia meant she got to see you in a quieter environment. When there were less people, and you weren’t surrounded by friends. Not that she talked to you much when you were in her dorm. She always wanted to, thinking that next time she’d have the courage to hold a proper conversation with you. Not just small talk.

You were aware of Larissa’s existence and you always found the girl very sweet. A little dorky even. In the last year you’d developed a small crush on her. She was this stunning girl, pretty in an ethereal sense, she was soft and gentle. Gorgeous in a tantalisingly feminine way yet at the same time being unbearably handsome.

You really liked her voice, the subtle English lilt to it. The way she spoke so tentatively. You wish she talked more, you were happy to carry conversation but Larissa always seemed to give you short and dry answers. So you guessed she didn’t like you much. That still didn’t stop this silly crush of yours. You had made peace with it being unreciprocated. But you still hoped to become friends.

You sat on Morticia’s bed, she was busy fussing about a date she had with Gomez. She’d torn out half her wardrobe and abandoned it on her bed, forcing you to burrow through it all to make space for you to sit. You weren’t paying Morticia much mind, letting her ramble on at you.

You watched Larissa, sat at her desk, pressing the end of her pen against red painted lips as she squinted at a worksheet. She had grown tall and you loved every inch of her. Her platinum blonde hair held itself in soft curls and was kept in a low ponytail, shorter pieces fell loose and framed her face. She wore a simple sage green jumper with a white tennis skirt, and a pair of matching white converse. Her gold jewellery, minimalistic in style caught the light every now and then. The desk light she had on cast a halo of light around her. She truly was like an angel from another world.

She was hyper aware of your presence in the room, equally aware of your eyes burning into her. She did her best to not do anything embarrassing. Larissa had wanted to say hello but Morticia had started ranting on about something the second you poked your head in. The blonde was a little annoyed. She’d rehearsed asking you how your day was in her head ever since Morticia mentioned off handedly that you were stopping by to help her with clothes.

“Earth to Atikah!” Morticia snapped her fingers in front of you.

“Sorry Ticia!” You jump, being broken out your daydream. As you look away you don’t see the blonde look over to you. Stealing the opportunity to glance at you whilst your attention was elsewhere.

She blocks out your conversation with Morticia. She doesn’t really care much for what her roommate’s current woes are. It’s short lived because Gomez knocks on the door. Eliciting a squeal from Morticia as she rushes to open it.

They’re all over each other and you fake gag at them, you look away and catch Larissa’s eye before sharing an exasperated sigh with her. Playfully rolling your eyes.

“I saw that!”

“Good!” You shoot back at Gomez, “now go piss off on your date, damn lovebirds,”

Larissa scoffs quietly at your comment, causing a subtle flush to cover your cheeks.

“Don’t wait up for me,” Morticia calls out as she and Gomez disappear.

You let quiet fall around the room, fiddling with your fingers out of nervousness. It’s rare that you find yourself alone with Larissa, and you intend on making the most of it. You’d happily settle being friends with her.

“You know, if they come back here tonight you can take refuge in my dorm,” you attempt to crack a joke.

Larissa chuckles softly, and you take that as a win.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she murmurs softly. Hoping she spoke loud enough for you to hear.

“Pardon?”

Larissa’s heart sinks, still. She repeats herself, “just said I’ll keep that in mind,” she sounds unsure of herself.

You let out a happy hum, “I mean it,” you think for a second. “You got any plans for the weekend?” hoping to make small talk, you certainly weren’t curious if she was free. Just making small talk. That’s all. Is what you told yourself.

Larissa paused, this conversation was either just to fill a silence, or maybe… you would suggest you two do something. ‘Don’t be delusional,’ she scolded herself.

“No,” she put her pen down and spun in her chair to face you properly, “what about yourself?” Larissa cheered internally, proud she’d managed to return the question.

“Nothing,” you hum out as you stood up and walked over. You failed to see Larissa blush, and sit up a little straighter. Her eyes trained on you.

You pull yourself out of Morticia’s clothes and walk over to stand at the edge of Larissa’s desk, peering down at the papers, “what’re you studying?”

Larissa’s posture slackens and she seems a little dejected. Then a sudden wave of self consciousness washes over her, what lame kind of seventeen year old spends Friday night studying? English literature of all subjects too!

“Just some text analysis,” she mumbled. Unconsciously fiddling with the hem of her skirt.

“Cool,” you nod to yourself, “sorry, hope I’m not disturbing you too much,” your eyes roam over her side of the room, admiring a large poster of one of Alphonse Mucha’s works, “I can head back to my own dorm if you’d like peace and quiet,” your eyes find her soft blue ones as you wait patiently for an answer.

“It’s okay, and you’re not. Don’t worry. I’d love the company,” Larissa offered a shy quirk of her lips, “I’m afraid I’m not very interesting- ”

“Oh please! You are not!”

There’s a lull. You look around thinking of something to talk about.

“So, you seeing anyone or has Morticia stolen all the love and left none for the rest of us?”

Larissa takes a moment to respond, “I’m not no…” she gives you a look. Returning the question just not verbally.

“Neither, have my eye on someone tho,” You maintain eye contact with her.

“Pray tell?” She asked, curiosity burning. This was good news just as much as it was bad. It was good if there were hints that it could be her, but bad if it wasn’t.

“There’s no fun in that! She’s really pretty though, ridiculously pretty,”

Larissa perked up at that, you were into women as well, “I’ll find out one day,” she fixed you with a look causing you to laugh. How she loved that sound, she wanted to be the cause of it.

You stay and talk for a little while longer before you take your leave. Reiterating how you felt bad for taking her time.

A knock sounded from your door, you were currently slouched in your desk chair, feet up on your desk wrinkling a some homework but you didn’t really care. In your lap sat a small sketchbook where you had started laying out guidelines for a portrait.

You weren’t expecting anyone, and certainly not at 1am. You reach over to lift the needle off of the vinyl you had playing.

Larissa debated walking away when you didn’t answer the door instantly, she began to second guess herself, maybe you were only joking. How stupid of her-

You swing the door open and seeing your crush standing outside your dorm was a surprise to say the least, but you gain your wits quickly and give her a beaming smile, “take it the lovers returned?” You usher her inside, “I’m glad you did take up my offer,”

You did have a roommate, Tam, but she had moved out. In fact she had moved school entirely, that was a few months ago so you had a spacious room to yourself. Well, sort of. Morticia was using the spare wardrobe as an overflow for her own clothes. And when you weren’t in Ophelia hall, Morticia was in your room.

“I don’t think I’d manage another night,” Larissa grimaces, a cold shiver running over her.

You let out a hearty laugh at that, “how do you sit through it?” You motion for her to sit on the bed whilst you settle back on your chair, wheeling it closer to Larissa.

“Fleetwood mac and good headphones,” Larissa had never been in your dorm before, and she was dying just to soak it all in. But that was rude, even more so with you sitting right there.

“You’re a braver soul than I am,”

You notice Larissa clutching a few jotters to her stomach, “swap places?”

She takes a second to catch on before nodding shyly. You offer her your seat and nestle on your bed stop your duvet.

“Thank you, you don’t mind if I still do a little studying?” Larissa silently cursed herself, she’d finally managed to bank some time alone with you and she wants to study. In all honesty, she didn’t know how well she’d manage to converse with you, so the notebooks were a fallback.

“Not at all,” you chirp, leaning over to the desk to grab your pencil, deciding you have a nice angle on Larissa, where you could draw her without her realising.

You both sit in silence for a while, with only the sound of pen and pencil on paper.

“I’ve got spare bedding, you can sleep in Tam’s bed,” you speak up.

“Oh god, I couldn’t!” Larissa interjects, “they should be done in an hour or so, I don’t want to keep you up too late… I’m surprised you were still up at if I’m honest…” she mumbled the last part. Which is a lie, she’d gathered from Morticia that you were a night owl, and somewhat of an insomniac. She was expecting you to be awake.

“Larissa please!” You stifle the giggles, “it’s no bother, and we both know they’ll be at it like rabbits, for hours,”

“That is true… but only if you’re sure…”

“Absolutely positive, Larissa,” you give her a reassuring smile and she seems to relax a little.

She loves hearing her name from your mouth. You say it with such a tentative and gentle way. As if her name was some kind of delicate China.

At some point, you’re not sure when, the record player is playing and Larissa has joined you on the bed, sitting next to you, thighs touching. You had closed your sketchbook on the pencil, keeping your place but hiding the multiple portraits of Larissa you had drawn. Some things were best left unshared.

“Want to go to Jericho tomorrow?” You ask, hoping you sounded nonchalant.

Larissa had an apprehensive look, were you inviting her alongside a group of others? Or did you mean just her? Just the two of you? Were all your other friends busy? Were you just a second option cause you didn’t have anyone else?

You took her hesitation as a sign she didn’t want to, but you tried one attempt at convincing her. If she still hesitated you’d accept that.

“There’s a new coffee shop opening, the Weathervane, I wanna try their hot chocolate,” you study her face, “if you don’t want to that’s cool though!”

“No! I do want to, please,” Larissa stumbled over her words a blush forming on her cheeks, not wanting to lose the opportunity.

You can’t help the grin on your face, she was too cute, “it’s a date then!” you say jokingly, gauging Larissa’s reaction.

The poor blonde just blushes more, and can’t find her words for the life of her. You start laughing and bump your shoulder into her gently.

“A date for sure,” Larissa manages to choke out. It may be a joke but she’d take it.

You sit and talk for a while longer, discussing all the things you could do in Jericho, which wasn’t a lot.

Eventually you throw in the towel, “it’s like, 4am,” you yawn, covering your mouth, “I have a spare toothbrush and you can steal some pyjamas,”

Larissa was all too eager to sleep, she was overjoyed at being able to talk to you. And you had interesting conversations too! A major milestone for Larissa, given she could work herself up about just asking you how your day was. She also was not a night owl, more of a morning person. But she tougher out the early hours to be with you.

You lay out some clothes for her then realise you’d forgot to make up Tam’s old bed. Shit. Larissa seems to catch on as she looks at the bed then to you. You were far too tired to put bedding on, and Larissa was beginning to look half asleep already.

She wanted to suggest that you both-

“Share my bed?” You look a little on edge as you ask in a small voice.

“Sounds great,” Larissa had to tamp down her excitement. She could ‘accidentally’ hold you in her sleep.

“Brilliant!”

You’re both ready for bed, Larissa’s sporting shorts and an old band tee of yours. You feel yourself become a little giddy, Larissa was wearing your clothes, it seemed so domestic. She also looked good in the darker colours.

You clamber into bed first, tossing your stuffed cat somewhere into your room.

“That was so mean Atikah,” Larissa pouts, looking over to where the poor thing had landed.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble a little sheepishly.

Larissa only laughs at that and worms herself under the covers. It’s then that she spots your sketchbook on the bedside table. Still closed over the pencil.

“Can I see what you were drawing?”

“Huh? Oh, sure,” you hand it to her and just as she goes to open the book you turn off the lamp. Dousing the room in darkness.

“Atikah!” Larissa slaps your arm and you can’t help the laughter.

“Sorry Rissa!” You manage to gasp out. In the dark you don’t see the girl still at the nickname. Nor do you see her face turn red. Larissa could feel her heart racing.

“Forgiven, I guess,” she huffs out, leaning over you to place the sketchbook back on the bedside table. You take this opportunity to wrap your arms around her and drag her back onto the bed. Your head nestled into the crook of her neck.

Your hearts pounding and you hope she doesn’t kick you out the bed, “I usually sleep with a stuffed toy but I chucked it so you’ll have to do, sorry, good night!” You throw the words out and close your eyes. Larissa smells nice, calming and grounding. She smells like rain, in a good way. The scent fills your head and makes it spin. Against your will you sigh in contentment.

Larissa had yelped in fear when you all but tackled her, but once she realised she was over the moon. She didn’t hesitate to snake her arms around your frame, enjoying how perfectly you seemed to mould to her body. Her own heart was on a rampage in her chest and you could feel it hammering away.

“If you wanted to cuddle you should’ve just said, you didn’t need to assault the poor stuffed toy,” Larissa chuckles to herself.

“Then I wouldn’t have a valid excuse,” you speak but your words are muffled by Larissa’s neck. She shivers pleasantly at the feeling of your warm breath ghosting against her skin.

“Cold?” You ask, pulling the covers with one hand.

“No,” Larissa answers, she burrows in and readjusts her hold on you, “sweet dreams,”

You don’t reply, at least not verbally. Your soft snores are her answer, you’re out like a light. Larissa smiles to herself as she presses a gentle kiss on top of your head.

#larissa weems #larissa weems x reader

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omgthatdress · 1 year

Photo

Cécile and Marie-Grace were released alongside the best friends line of dolls, and are a pretty transparent gimmick to get people to buy two dolls at once. That being said, I actually kind of love their collection.

Their story is set in New Orleans in 1853, which is a pretty great way to represent the Antebellum South without having a Scarlett O’Hara doll. New Orleans was one of the few places in the south with a robust middle class. Everywhere else had tremendous wealth inequality with absurdly rich plantation-owners, barely surviving poor Whites, and slaves.

Cécile is of the gens de coleur libre, that is, the free people of color, a class of New Orleans citizens born out of the plaçage system in which White men would take women of color as informal second wives. Plaçees held a really interesting position, as they could legally claim inheritance once their patron died, and the children born of plaçage could be named heir of an estate. Plaçees were also allowed to develop assets and run small businesses. All of this created a level of generational wealth that was unique among African-Americans at the time. Today, their descendants are known as Creoles.

As far as Marie-Grace goes, I don’t think she’s Cajun, just French-American. Cajuns are a specific group, the Catholic descendants of the French colonizers of Acadia, now called Nova Scotia, who were forced by the British out of the home. They settled mostly in the fertile Mississippi delta, and maintained a rural, somewhat insular way of life. Marie-Grace is the city-dwelling daughter of a doctor, so probably just the descendant of regular French citizens who settled in New Orleans.

Hair-wise, this is the era when girls tied their hair up with rags at night to have fat sausage curls in the morning. Most photographs and paintings that I’ve seen of Black girls in the era show them with their hair tied up, but there are a few who had curls.

Marie-Grace’s face-framing curls are a little bit more Jan Brady than 1850s, but it’s cute on her, so I’ll give her credit for that. The long hair isn’t inaccurate.

There’s something about Cécile’s dress that keeps saying “wrong” but I can’t quite put my finger on it. A more accurate dress would be more along the lines of something like this:

(The Victoria & Albert Museum)

(New York Historical Society)

Marie-Grace’s dress seems to have been inspired by this portrait of Creole children:

(credit to @in-pleasant-company for finding it)

Cécile’s pillbox hat is a style that was adopted more in the late 1860s and 1870s. A more accurate hat would also have her in a “coal scoop” bonnet.

Her gloves, however, are accurate and adorable!

(The Met Museum)

Marie-Grace is wearing a kind of sun hat that was popular for children:

(The Met Museum)

Marie-Grace’s fan looks typical of the French fans that were popular at the time. They were usually painted with pretty pastoral scenes instead of flowers, however, although Chinese fans at the time frequently had floral themes.

(The Philadelphia Museum of Art)

(The Victoria & Albert Museum)

The shoes are definitely late Victorian rather than 1850s. Fine city ladies in the 1850s would be wearing boots made out of silk with leather soles:

(The Met Museum)

#1850s #American Girl #Cécile and Marie Grace

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lila-rose · 3 months

Text

This story is dedicated to @sydnikov as part of the 2K24 Winter Fic Exchange. I apologize if it's not precisely what you wanted, Sydney. The story initially was much longer and had Jack getting injured and reconnecting with his ex-girlfriend. But I think I overdid myself and ran into some GI issues that may be exacerbated by stress. As a result, I was forced to cut things short. I also apologize if Jack or the Devils seem out of character. I had never written to them before, so I had to take a shot in the dark.

Pairing: Jack Hughes x OFC

Words: 11.5K

Additional Tags: @aqueersouthofthemasondixonline @kurlyteuvo @callsign-denmark @behoright @likegoinghome @wyattjohnston

"Looking at me. Naw, come get it. Like what you see then you have good vision. Boy, this beat was so different. Let me show you what you've been missing," Maisy sang to her reflection in the mirror, using her nude lipstick as a makeshift microphone.

K/DA's beat reverberated throughout the white tile bathroom from an iPhone speaker buried underneath the mountain of cosmetics spread across the marble countertop. Mascara and cleanser leaked out carelessly screwed tops, creating a disgusting mosaic that undoubtedly needed to be cleaned and disinfected at some point. But only two things mattered to Maisy then: perfecting her makeup and stopping the butterflies in her stomach. After Ahri, Akali, Evelynn, and Kai'Sa reached their chorus, she returned to reality and painted the deep beige tint over her lips.

Her phone vibrated with a notification somewhere underneath her morning routine disaster. Digging through, she saw a glimpse of her white and gold phone case, which suffered collateral damage from her blush.

"Aww, shit!" Maisy cursed, wiping off the powder with an old towel and hoping she wouldn't have to dig anything out of the tiniest crook and cranny. Once the phone was clean again, she swiped down on her notifications and realized she had a text message from her father.

Dad Sent at 8:15 am I can't believe you're starting your first day with the Devils. It seemed like only yesterday that I was taking you to your first game. Best of luck, Mae. I love you!

Tears threatened to spill over Maisy's cheeks and ruin her makeup as she reminisced about her first hockey match and the photographer who was kind enough to immortalize the day. As autumn arrived in Newark, a chill permeated the air, and the verdant foliage surrounding the Pearson family home had long since turned burgundy and orange. Maisy sat at the kitchen table, stuffing her face full of cucumbers and trying to unscramble words for her first-grade homework. Her mother, a beautiful woman with waist-length chestnut hair, stood and julienned vegetables over the kitchen sink. From the driveway, a pair of headlights from a black Honda shined through the kitchen window, causing Mrs. Pearson to lift her forest-green eyes from her work.

"It looks like Daddy's home," she said over her shoulder to Maisy, who paid her mother no mind.

Within minutes, a dark-haired man dressed in a stuffy gray suit and a Prudential Financial computer case over his shoulder entered the home. Before stepping into the kitchen, he placed his keys in a catch-all tray in the mudroom entrance and his black loafers into the shoe rack. "Hi, Girls!" he greeted.

Mr. Pearson shared a kiss with his wife before turning his attention to his daughter. "How was school, Mae-Mae?"

"It was fun. Did you know that the Pilgrims first sailed here on a ship?"

"I did. They came here on the Mayflower. Maybe we should start calling you Mayflower!" Mr. Pearson jokes, patting Maisy on her chestnut hair. "But I have something that you may like."

Maisy climbed out of her chair to face her father, who placed his work bag on the ground and began to search through the pockets. After a few moments, Mr. Pearson produced an official envelope from Prudential with his name on the front and handed it to his little girl with a soft smile. Maisy did her best to open the envelope with her tiny fingers and pulled out a pair of red and black tickets to see the New Jersey Devils in the company's private suite at their eponymous arena in the Central Ward.

"What do you think? Do you want to go?" Mr. Pearson asked.

Maisy clutched the tickets to her chest and spread her lips into a large grin. "Yes, please!"

"Alright. It's not for a couple of days. But I'll pick you up from school, and we'll have a blast," Mr. Pearson replied before heading up the stairs to change out of his work clothes.

Mr. Pearson graduated with his Bachelor's and professional degree from Rutgers University and chose to dedicate his Juris Doctorate to Prudential. Most days, he would look over corporate contracts and occasionally had to persuade his bosses that Karen did not have grounds for a lawsuit because Brenda in Customer Service refused to transfer a call to her supervisor. But working for an insurance giant that was successful enough to buy the naming rights to an NHL stadium had its perks. Mr. Pearson had a few decorations in his office to bring life to its dull corporate atmosphere, including a picture of his wife and daughter and some artwork Maisy brought home from school. But the most helpful thing hanging in the office, by far, was the Devils' schedule.

Being only a few minutes down the road from the Rutgers campus, the Prudential Center, named the Continental Airlines Arena at the time, provided quick and accessible entertainment for the college-age Mr. Pearson and his roommates. They could typically scrape a few dollars together and secure decent seats to watch the Devils, and the boys in red have been a staple in his life ever since. A large flat-screen TV hung in his office, where he could watch his games if he ever needed to bring work home or if he wanted to free up the television in the den for his wife and daughter.

Occasionally, little Maisy would turn the ornate, brass doorknob to the office and poke her little head in. If Mr. Pearson weren't busy, he would allow Maisy to sit on the small black leather couch and turn the screen so they could watch the game together. Maisy would fixate her light brown eyes on the TV and watch the players go up and down the ice. She tried her best to understand what was occurring on the ice; sometimes, she would have to stop and ask her father to clarify something, which he did in the simplest way possible. Regardless, she soon began to understand the game using cues on when her father would cheer and when her father would boo. Mr. Pearson would look back over his shoulder with a smile and a sparkle in his eye as he saw his daughter enjoying something that had brought him so much catharsis over the years. It soon became their father-daughter activity to sit in the home office and watch the Devils games whenever their schedules permitted.

On the game day, Maisy and Mrs. Pearson woke up early to select an outfit for the game. They settled on a beautiful little dress with a black top and red polka-a-dots, and a red bow fastened on Maisy's right hip held a piece of tulle fabric over her matching skirt. For her hair, Maisy requested to divide her locks into pigtails with red and black hair bobbles. And as for her shoes, she selected a pair of sparkly black Mary Janes.

Maisy was the talk of her class that day. Many of her classmates approached her and asked why she dressed up, to which Maisy proudly proclaimed that she and her father were planning to see a Devils game later that evening. A few peers groaned as the teacher instructed everyone to take their seats. Whatever the lesson was that day, Maisy couldn't tell you because the teacher's voice seemed to fade into the background as she eagerly awaited for the clock to strike three. She watched the thin, black, minute hand agonizingly tick away above the classroom door. Every once in a while, she would try to divert her attention to their colorful classroom or the worksheet her teacher handed out as the daily assignment to make the time go by faster, but her eyes always found a way back to the clock itself.

Eventually, her suffering subsided as the school bell, at long last, rang its jarring melody, causing the school children to break into an excited cacophony as they rushed into the halls. Maisy did her best to dodge her way past her classmates as she clutched her bag to her shoulders and ran out the door. Stepping out onto the cement stoa, she found her father standing before her, smiling and waving as promised.

Father and daughter had to make a stop home for Mr. Pearson to throw on his old Martin Brodeur jersey that he kept for an occasion like this and explain their plan for the evening to Mrs. Pearson. Once they settled everything, the twosome climbed back into the car for dinner.

They traveled to a charming little American-style dinner on Broad Street down the road from the stadium. It sat in a small brick building with a red awning out front with the name Broad Street Tavern written in bold, white letters. What the restaurant lacked in curbside appeal, it made up for in its interior design. Several patrons sat at the metal bar and the reclaimed wood tables, enjoying a hamburger or other American fare by a roaring fire.

A waitress approached Mr. Pearson and Maisy within minutes of entering and led them to their table with a pair of menus. Due to the special occasion, Mr. Pearson allowed Maisy to indulge, getting her whatever entree she wanted and some ice cream. He quizzed Maisy on her hockey knowledge while dipping his French fries into her hot fudge sundae. Maisy, at first, wrinkled her nose at her Dad's strange eating habits. However, after some coaxing, she finally acquiesced and dipped a French fry into her chocolate ice cream, discovering for the first time the delectable balance of sweet and salty that she still sometimes enjoys almost twenty years later.

After they had filled their bellies, Mr. Pearson and Maisy headed to the Prudential Center. They used the parking garage tucked away at the end of the arena where VIP ticket holders — or anyone willing to spend $40 to park their car — could spare themselves from a long walk in the chill New Jersey climate. Maisy grabbed her Dad's hand and followed him to a large entrance decorated with portraits of the Devils, where her Dad handed their distinctive tickets to the usher. The woman dressed in red and black looked at the tickets, smiled and nodded, and opened the doors for Maisy and her dad.

The two walked the glass walkway that led to the luxury suites, high above the regular ticket holders mulling about through the concourse, exploring and buying their stadium food for the game while they waited for the game to start. Maisy turned her head and stared at the sea of people down below and, for once, felt grateful that her father's profession prevented her from getting lost in that nightmare.

It only took a minute or two for Mr. Pearson to reach the private concourse reserved for the suites, and it was evident that anyone willing to shell out the cash for a bit more privacy would get what they paid for. A chef in a white coat sliced meat under a heat lamp while their colleagues ran behind them, putting ingredients on the grill or in the fryer and ensuring the grab-and-go counters were well stocked. Several pairs of tables and chairs sat in a semi-enclosed eating area and faced large screen TVs, allowing whoever was hungry to follow the action on the ice without missing anything. The floor also contained multiple comfy couches and armchairs interspersed with Devils memorabilia, stretching back to their run as the Kansas City Scouts in 1974.

Maisy's mouth fell open slightly as she looked around at the luxury the piazza offered. She was so surprised she couldn't hear her father calling her name.

"What do you think, Maisy?" Mr. Pearson asked, shaking his daughter’s hand to get her attention. "Do you like it?"

But a shocked Maisy could only nod, causing her father to let out an audible laugh.

"Well, we probably won't be able to sit here all the time. But if you ever want to go again, I could pull some strings. C'mon, let's go find our suite!" Mr. Pearson said as he escorted his daughter down the hall.

There was one other perk of being a Prudential employee: the CEO's suite. The company designed it when it first purchased the naming rights to the stadium in 2007. It wanted a place to impress some of its more affluent clients. But sometimes, they were generous enough to allow their workers to use the room for private parties or to take their daughter to their first hockey game. The space was about the size of a single-bedroom apartment and several rows of padded seats near a sliding glass window. In the back was a small dining area with a fridge and a countertop well-stocked with snacks, drinks, and anything the patrons needed.

But to six-year-old Maisy, it wouldn't matter if her father and his bosses treated her like the princess of the world. What mattered was that she could finally enjoy something that had brought her and her father together outside the four walls of the family's home office.

During the intermission, Mr. Pearson had brought Maisy down to the regular concourse to visit the Devils Den to pick something up for his daughter to commemorate her first NHL game. She selected a small red and black teddy bear, whom she promptly named NJ after the team's mascot. There was still some time left before the second period, and Mr. Pearson inquired from Maisy whether she wanted to stay on the regular concourse or go up to the private suite.

Maisy tilted her head and stared into the distance, weighing her two options. On the one hand, returning to the private suite would rescue her from dealing with the crowds of people wandering outside the store. But on the other hand, she never knew what she would find if she did explore.

After thinking, Maisy looked up at her Dad and excitedly announced, "Let's go explore!"

Mr. Pearson nodded and led his daughter back out and into the congregation of fans. The main concourse was not as nice as the private concourse. Maisy held tight onto her father's hand as endless lines of people seemed to pass, chatting about the first period. Others stood around with beers in their hands or waited in a long concession lines for the second period. Despite clinging to her Dad as close as possible, Maisy couldn't help but take in the sights and smells of a Devils game. She scanned the large murals covering the walls and turned her ears to pick up on what some of the grown-ups were saying about the game for posterity.

During their walk, the two encountered a pair of Devils staff holding cameras next to a backdrop.

"Daddy, let's take a picture for Mommy!" Maisy stated as she dragged her father over to the photo booth.

"Say cheese!" instructed the photographer once the two had selected a background for their snapshot.

Maisy couldn't have known then, but that game was pivotal in her life. Watching the match from the CEO's suite was such a magical experience that Maisy resolved to grow up and work for the Devils to help recreate the same happiness for the later generations of fans. She wanted to become precisely like that photographer who had helped her enshrine the start of her journey.

Returning to the present, Maisy shifted her gaze from the picture to her face in the mirror and smiled, reminiscing about all the hard work that went into bringing her to this moment — her summer job at the Den, internships at the Newark Museum of Art, position on the Rutgers women's ice hockey team, and Bachelor's in Fine Arts. It led to this moment where Maisy would walk proudly into the Prudential, not as a fan but as an employee.

She stopped the playlist on her phone, which had long moved on to Fifth Harmony, and began addressing her bathroom calamity. Re-screwing the caps, Maisy collected everything and dumped it into an acrylic bin sitting on the free-standing bookshelf next to the counter before wiping down the countertop with some disinfectant. She took a step back to look over her work once everything was spotless and mentally scolded herself that, as a recent college graduate, she did not precisely have the money to risk losing her security deposit because she fixated on making herself look beautiful rather than taking care of her apartment.

Domiciled a block away from the Prudential Center, Maisy didn't have to go far to get to her new place of employment. She could see the arena from her apartment window. She spent many nights reading about daguerreotypes and the works of Adams and Cartier-Bresson for her courses, listening to the faint sound of the goal horn from the stadium and dreaming of the day she could proudly proclaim herself as one of their photographers. It would only take a few-minute walk and a couple of left turns to get to work, so Maisy looked over her outfit and belongings to ensure she had everything ready for her first day.

The clothes she selected for the day were a change from the skirts and sweaters she wore during her college days. When the call came in from the Director of Human Resources that Maisy had gotten the job, her best friends immediately took her over the river into New York City to buy her several outfits that would make her look more professional. She didn't exactly know what kind of work attire the Devils' creative teams wore, so she opted for an outfit that was both professional and casual by using a dark blue pants suit, a matching blue and off-white striped sweater, minimalist brown belt, and a pair of off-white slip-ons. Looking over herself in the bedroom, Maisy let out a relieved sigh upon seeing that her work outfit was devoid of makeup, strings, or tears.

"Lenses … check … Filters … check … Memory card … check … " she mumbled as she looked over all the slots in her camera bag. Everything seemed to be coming together, but not even that idea could assuage the butterflies flying around her stomach.

She checked her phone and realized it was finally time to face the fire. It was time to head over to the Prudential Center. "You have this, Mace. You already have the job, and the only way that you could fuck it up is if you take bad photographs. But you can't take bad photographs, can you? I mean, you could if you wanted to. But you don't because you went to Rutgers, one of the most prestigious schools in America, for your Bachelor's in Art."

Maisy continued her pep-talk as she fetched her black woolen overcoat from her hall closet and swung her work and camera bags over her back and shoulder. She stepped out in the hallway, locked her apartment with her keyfob, and pushed the down button on the elevator. Thankfully, since most people would be at work by 9:00 am, there wasn't anyone around to listen to Maisy’s endless monologue. The elevator arrived at the ninth floor with a ding and opened its doors, allowing Maisy to enter onto its tiled floor. She requested the lobby and gently began to rock on her toes as she watched the screen go from nine to eight to seven and so forth. Some of her wished the elevator would get stuck somewhere during the ride down and it would take the Newark Fire Department several hours to get her out. But alas, the lift did its job and brought Maisy to the lobby.

Maisy exited the elevator and readjusted her bags before heading towards the door. A young woman in an indigo suit, paying homage to the name of the apartment building, stood behind a dark gray modern desk, typing away at her computer.

"Have a good day, Maisy!" the front desk woman said with a wave. "Best of luck with the new job!"

A nervous Maisy gave her a friendly wave in return as she left the building. Buttoning up her coat, she took off down Broad Street, where the Devils' Creative Director promised he would be waiting to let her into the Staff entrance. She did her best to meander down the sidewalk, trying to slow her gait. However, as she neared the arena, she saw a glimpse of a tall, dark-haired gentleman wearing a pair of khaki dress pants and a black Devils pullover. He stood before a large black door with a matching metal marquee above that read STAFF in large, white letters. There was only one option for who this person could be: the Creative Director.

Maisy took one last deep breath and plastered a large smile, attempting to hide her anxiety as she approached the man. "Hi, Mr. Gambiano!"

"Please, call me Nick. You're part of the Creative team now, and we're nowhere near as fussy as the Front Office or Legal. We all operate on a first-name basis," the man responded.

"Right. I'm sorry, Nick. I'm ready for my first day of work."

"Sounds good. Come with me, and I'll introduce you to everyone!"

Nick produced a keycard from his pocket and swiped it on the scanner to keep the staff entrance locked away from unwanted visitors. The box beeped, turned its light green, and opened the door with a click, allowing Nick to pull.

"Ladies first!" he joked, gesturing for Maisy to enter.

The entrance led into a bleak white stone hallway that desperately needed some decorations. Only an old, framed corkboard with various notices hanging from it decorated the walls. On either side, several large gray doors stood, leading to different offices. Nick gently bypassed Maisy and stopped at the door frame to her right, conversing with whoever was inside.

"Maisy, c'mere. I want to introduce you to our security team," he explained.

Maisy poked her head around the corner and looked into the office. To the security team's credit, they did their best to brighten up their austere surroundings with pictures and other posters. Two men sat in front of desks with multiple computer screens with security footage from several places in the building, from the entry gates to the concourse. A few others enjoyed a quick breakfast or coffee to begin their workday at the small kitchenette. Everyone lifted their gazes and greeted Maisy with a friendly smile, welcoming her to the Devils' crew and promising they would get her a security badge by the end of the day. In the meantime, she could use a guest keycard that would allow her to get into various other parts of the arena, such as the tunnel and the employee elevator.

One by one, Nick and Maisy visited each door in the hallway, meeting the departments that kept the Prudential Center up and running, such as the Facilities Management Team and Groundskeeping and Landscaping. Maisy's shoulders drooped, and her gaze softened with each pleasant face she met, discrediting her fears that morning and finally settling the butterflies in her stomach. Once the two greeted everyone correctly, Nick led Maisy to a massive red freight elevator at the end of the hall.

"This is the maintenance elevator," Nick explained as the cage doors opened, allowing himself and Maisy to enter. "I don't take it too much because you never know when someone needs to bring down a large delivery. There's another one up the stairs that's a bit nicer. But this one is closer, so I thought we could use it for convenience." He placed his keycard on another reader and pushed the button for the seventh floor.

Upon arrival, the two stepped into a large, colorful open area. There were no designated offices on this particular floor. Still, it was evident that the employees who worked there all had their areas, given the eccentric collection of mismatched furniture. Various people mulled about, checking the broadcast equipment, discussing the season's social media strategy, and designing their graphic design templates.

"This is the Broadcast Floor," explained Nick. "All of the team's creative and social media specialists work here — social media, graphic design, broadcast, radio, and photographers, like you, Maisy."

He wandered deeper into the floor, taking time to say hi to some of his colleagues, with Maisy in tow. Unlike the departments working in the basement, few paid Maisy any mind. Some would give her a quick smile or nod before returning to their work. Maisy allowed their quietness to roll off her shoulders because she knew how annoying it could be to arrange an artistic vision and have someone constantly interrupt you with trivial things. Eventually, Nick and Maisy arrived at a group of people moving various graphic elements into place to create distressed posters of the Devils.

Nick cleared his throat, capturing the team's attention. "Everyone, this is Maisy. She's the Junior Photographer for the season. I expect you all to make her feel welcome."

"It's nice to meet you, Maisy," a thin, gray-haired man with angular features said, standing up from where he was fiddling with his camera and filters. "My name is Thomas, and I'm the photography director for the team. I will be helping you get acclimated to the job. Why don't you sit while we wait for Human Resources?"

Maisy shook Thom's hand, taking the empty seat next to him. She watched as he popped out a memory card from his camera, entered it into one of the USB drives on a nearby computer, and pulled up a project the team had been working on. The piece featured a distressed photo of Nico, edited to look like he was gritty and exhausted, standing in a sea of water in a raging storm.

"Wow, that's pretty cool!" Maisy complimented.

"Thank you!" replied Thom. "The theme that we went with this season is resilience. The guys gave it their all during last season's Playoffs. As a result, we wanted to message the other teams that, come hell or high water, New Jersey will persevere.

Together, Maisy and Thom walked through the proper steps of helping the Graphic Design team make artwork for the club's social media teams, from tips and tricks for getting the best shots of the players in the Prudential Center to uploading those photos to the company computers. After some time, a stuffy woman dressed in a business outfit strode to the group.

"Are you Ms. Pearson?" the woman inquired from Maisy.

"Yes?"

"I'm from Human Resources. Follow me, and I'll help you complete your paperwork."

"Don't worry. HR is a lot scarier than it looks. Just don't do anything reckless," Thom muttered to Maisy.

Some other Graphic Design members overheard Thom’s instructions and giggled as Maisy grabbed a folder of essential documents from her tote. She slowly rose from her chair, trying to avoid eye contact with the HR lady, who glared at the laughing bunch from behind her wire-framed glasses with pursed lips. Maisy silently followed the woman toward the employee elevator that Nick referenced earlier. It wasn't much smaller than the freight elevator in the basement. But Maisy still found herself fidgeting and clearing her throat, doing whatever she could to alleviate the deathly silence that permeated the air between her and the HR person.

A few minutes later, the lift finally arrived a few floors below, and Maisy stepped onto carpet. A gray plaque on the far plaster wall offered directions to three separate offices: the Legal Department was to the right, the Front Office staff was straight ahead, and to the left was Human Resources. She followed the stuffy HR lady into her corresponding office, where multiple employees kept their noses in their work, not even giving her the time of day. Eventually, Maisy and the woman arrived at an average-looking conference room with a medium-sized circular table and multiple black leather swivel chairs arranged around it.

"Have a seat," the HR woman instructed, taking a seat and readjusting the glasses on her face.

Maisy followed her instructions and took the nearest chair. She opened her folder of essential documents, such as a copy of her social security card and passport, and folded her hands in her lap, not wanting to show any signs of trouble.

Despite her appearance, the HR lady was reticent but polite, walking Maisy through her W-4 and Payroll information and answering any questions Maisy may have about the job expectations and benefits. When the HR woman concluded everything, Maisy shook her hand and stepped back into the Human Resources offices. An analog clock on the wall read that it was half past ten, meaning the players should arrive shortly for practice. Wanting to make a good impression, Maisy returned to the Broadcast Floor and scooped up her camera backpack from the corner of Thom's desk, where she left it for safekeeping.

"Would it be alright if I head down to the tunnel?" Maisy inquired.

Thom lifted his head from the digital album of player portraits the team had taken several days earlier. "I don't see why not! All you have to do is hop back onto the elevator and push the R button for the rink."

Maisy nodded and threw her backpack onto her shoulders. Upon reaching the tunnel, the elevator doors opened to a long, intimidating hallway. It resembled the basement connected to the staff entrance with its white-stone walls, several stick racks, and equipment bins pushed to the side. Memories flooded Maisy's mind as she recalled the few times she got to greet the Devils as they walked down onto the ice. They were once her idols and played a critical part in how she shaped the early years of her adult life. But now, these same men were her co-workers, and this was her place of employment.

Several Bauer sticks stood in one of the racks, waiting for the team to arrive. Maisy bit her lip and looked in both directions but saw no one. It would hurt for her to have one little touch, would it? Just one touch?

"Hey, what do you think you're doing!?" a tenor voice exclaimed.

A red and black glove caught Maisy's wrist before she laid a finger on the twig and pulled it back. Her eye drifted upward to see his slightly tan, youthful features. His face had a stern expression, but his gray eyes did not show malice toward Maisy. Several strands of his shoulder-length hair poked out from his matching red helmet.

"I asked you a question," the young man said, lowering his voice. He moved his face closer until his pink lips were only a few inches from Maisy's.

Maisy's eyes grew wide as the tiniest wisp of his body spray flooded her senses. She wanted nothing more than to free her arm from the man's grasp and try to stop the blood flowing to her cheeks, but his hand remained firm on her forearm. "You … you're…" she stammered, trying to ignore the growing lump in her throat.

"Yes, I'm Jack Hughes, and you need to answer my question. Who are you, and what are you doing here?"

"Maisy. Girl. Newest junior photographer for the New Jersey Devils."

"Do you have anything to back up your claim?"

Jack let go of Maisy's wrist to allow her to reach for any proof. She gently removed the black security lanyard from around her neck and handed it to him.

He flipped the card back and forth, scanning the plastic piece for spelling errors or other inconsistencies. "This is pretty good. You girls are getting good at replicating these things," Jack finally said.

"It's not fake, jackass. I got it from the Security te一"

"Ms. Pearson?"

Maisy and Jack turned their attention to the source of the new voice, one of the security guards. He looked between the two before clearing his throat and continuing, "I wanted to come and bring you your official security badge. Nick said that you would be down here."

"Yes, of course. Thank you so much for bringing it all this way," Maisy replied, turning and smirking at Jack. She yanked the guest keycard out of his hand without resistance and returned it to the guard. "I greatly appreciate it!"

"So … you do work here?" Jack asked Maisy, who exchanged a wave goodbye with the man.

"Yeah, that's what I just said about five minutes ago," stated Maisy.

An uncomfortable Jack shifted on his blades and rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you or anything. We've had problems in the past of psycho fans making homemade security cards and using them to get into off-limit places like our locker room."

"Like the fabled underwear thief?"

"How did you know about that?"

"It was all over Devils Twitter a few years ago."

"That was one awkward meeting with the Front Office. But yeah, just like the girl who broke into our belongings and stole our underwear during games."

"I can't fault you for being suspicious. Even though it was impressive that the underwear thief managed to elude the Devils for several weeks, it wasn't fair that you had your privacy violated. Not everyone understands the boundary between fantasy and reality. I would've done the same thing if I saw some random girl I had never seen before wandering the tunnel."

"Thank you for understanding. Let's try starting over now. I'm Jack." He tucked one of his gloves under his arm to free a hand and extended it.

"Maisy!" she responded with a shake.

One by one, the Devils slowly wandered into the rink for practice. A few of them stopped upon entering the hallway to take notice of Maisy, exchanging gentle whispers amongst themselves as they observed how relaxed Jack looked while conversing with her. The elder Hughes was not known for idling when a big game was approaching. Though it was still the pre-season, the Devils needed to use this crucial time to perfect every little aspect of their play, mainly if they wanted to make it to late April. Their match against their rivals in Southern New Jersey, the Philadelphia Flyers, went splendidly, with the Devils winning against Philadelphia in a surprising 6-0 shutout. Everyone seemed eager to get their blades dirty after the team fought so hard to make it to the second round of the 2023 Playoffs but tragically lost to the Hurricanes in overtime. Their passing and puck handling were almost flawless, and the Flyers never seemed to be able to get comfortable anywhere on the ice.

But New Jersey had little time to celebrate because the league scheduled them to face their cross-river rivals, the New York Rangers, in a few days. During the 2022-23 season, the Devils kept the Rangers mostly at bay, finishing five points ahead of New York. The team also rallied to return from several multi-point losses during the postseason to close the series and move on to the next round. Undoubtedly, the Rangers would be just as eager to prove to the Devils and the rest of the league that they grew from their mistakes.

"I should get going," stated Jack, looking over his shoulder and realizing that Ruff and most coaches and players had arrived. "But it was nice to meet you, Maisy."

"Likewise," Maisy responded. "Best of luck with practice. I'll be sure to take some wonderful pictures for you."

Jack walked down to the end of the tunnel where Luke was waiting for him, while Maisy wandered in the other direction to the photographer’s hole. The Devils did not know who the Rangers would start in their goal. But because professional ice hockey also involved a few mind games, they practiced as if Laviolette would start Shesterkin by working in three groups to set Daws and Vanecek off-balance and try to get the puck into the net. Everyone lined up at middle ice with Jack and several forwards near the left wall, another line of forwards at center ice, and the defensemen waiting on the other side. At Ruff's whistle, two forwards and a defenseman would start skating down the ice as their teammates moved down the queue.

Jack glided down the line as his teammates ran through the drill. Each time he arrived at his new spot, his eyes would drift over to Maisy, who stood on the rink floor, talking to the photography director and taking snapshots of the team. Nico tried several times to start a conversation, but Jack responded with an affirmative grunt and forced his friend's voice to the back of his mind. He tried searching for a reason to explain why he felt so enamored with a woman he only met almost an hour earlier. Perhaps she wasn't like the other girls who flocked to him as a professional hockey player or that she stood up to him. Whatever the reason, he knew he didn’t want this to be the last time he saw her.

Suddenly, Jack felt the sting of Nico's stick blade against his calf. "Ow! What was that for?" he yelled, recoiling his leg.

"GO!" Nico shouted, pointing down the ice with his stick.

Jack followed the direction of the twig and realized that the second forward and his brother were already well into the offensive zone and prepared to take a shot on Daws. He skated as fast as he could to catch up with his teammates as Daws slid back and forth across his crease, attempting to anticipate where the puck would come from. In a moment of synchronicity, Jack, Luke, and the second forward realized that Daws failed to see Jack joining the action, giving them the opening they needed. Luke passed the puck to Jack, who tucked the puck into the back of the net under Daws' flank. As the attacking trio returned to their cheering lines, Daws fell on his side with his legs in the air. Players came and went until the coaches noticed a pattern of success with their current goaltender. At this point, Ruff blew his whistle for Vanecek to replace his partner. Vanecek took one last sip from his water bottle before placing his helmet on his head and giving a friendly blocker bump as he made his way to the pipes. Once Vanecek prepared himself and the coaches set up the puck back at center ice, Ruff blew his whistle again to complete the exercise a second time.

Like with Daws, the players went through their routine of trying to get the biscuit past their goalie, except this time, Jack was a bit more attentive to his place in line lest he wanted to face the wooden wrath of his captain again. Practice continued as planned until the team felt more prepared to face the Rangers, working on their shooting and defending against New York's robust checks. Eventually, practice slowed to a trickle until the players started mulling about and holding friendly competitions between themselves, such as seeing how many times they could bounce a puck on their sticks before it fell to the ice.

After noticing that his players were getting tired, Ruff blew one last whistle. "Alright, that's enough!" he called out. "Everyone, gather around!"

Jack, Nico, Luke, and several others skated over and took a knee before Ruff while the rest of the team remained standing. They listened intently as the head coach congratulated them on successful practice and reminded them that Rangers had everything to give when they met New Jersey in Newark for the first time since their elimination. A loss would not count against their record, but the Devils could still not afford to undo all their progress during the off-season and the first pre-season games. They needed to match the Rangers at every corner of the ice. But for now, the team deserved several days of rest to recuperate and reflect on the lessons they learned during today's practice to prepare themselves physically and mentally for their game in a few days.

Ruff dismissed the team, and Jack immediately rushed into the tunnel without a second thought. Perhaps it looked strange to his teammates, but he wanted to be the first in and out of the locker room to catch Maisy one last time before heading home. He flew into the room and immediately began to unlace his skates, stripping himself down to his jock before rushing into the showers with his post-practice clothes. Doing his best not to trip over the bathroom tile, he selected a few bare essentials 一 shampoo, soap, washcloth, and towel 一 set out by the Wellness Department before every practice and game. Jack didn't need to smell like he finished a cologne commercial, but he didn't want to make a second horrible impression by smelling sweat as he selected a shower stall and turned on the water.

The faint sound of conversation and the bathroom door opening and closing came through the shower's spray as Jack allowed the warm water to trickle down his chest and abs. A sigh escaped his lips, and his muscles slowly began to relax. If the Devils did lose to the Rangers, his body wouldn't soon forget the work ethic necessary to try and beat them. After some time, Jack grabbed the soap from the stall's built-in corner caddy and began to wash away any spec of dirt from his body. He gave his appendages a final glance, deeming himself presentable to Maisy, before turning off the shower and wiping himself down.

"You okay?" Luke inquired as his fully dressed brother returned to the dressing rooms.

"Yeah, why?"

"Because you've just been out of it since I saw you talking to that girl in the hallway."

Jack rolled his eyes and continued to dry his locks. Luke was the quietest of the Hughes children but also had the biggest heart and wouldn't hesitate to check up on his elder brothers if he thought something was wrong. "I'm fine, and her name is Maisy," he responded.

"Who, do tell, is this Maisy?" asked Nico from the other end of the row as he collected his stuff from his locker.

"She's the newest photographer for the team."

"Maybe you should ask her out. You seem to like her a lot," Luke suggested, putting on a pair of sweatpants.

"That's not a good idea!" Nico retorted.

"Why?"

Luke froze in place and looked between Jack and Nico with his downturned eyes, trying to decipher whatever silent message they exchanged. Jack widened his eyes and tilted his head, almost as if to tell Nico that he piqued Luke's interest, which meant that he had to tell Luke what happens when personnel get involved with the players.

Nico pursed his lips before turning to Luke and saying, "We generally try to avoid going out with the female employees because the organization can fire them for having romantic relationships with the team.”

"They were serious about that?" Luke murmured under his breath as he finished dressing.

"Yes, they were," responded Jack, tossing the used towel into a nearby laundry bin. "But don't worry, I wouldn't count saying hi to a girl five times before awkwardly shuffling off would constitute having a romantic relationship with someone."

"I still think you should get her number."

"Why?"

"I mean, if she could get The Big Deal to smile, she seems cool."

Jack shifted his gaze to Nico, looking for a final piece of advice from his captain.

"It's up to you. But if you do give her your number, I would suggest that you try to keep the relationship as professional as possible. You don't want to be that person who ruins a girl's career because you couldn't keep it in your pants."

Jack nodded as he threw his black duffel bag over his shoulders and exited the locker room. He watched as the equipment managers ran back and forth, putting back the pucks and the sticks from practice. But as far as Jack could tell, there didn't seem to be any sign of Maisy. Jack reassured himself that she had to be down there as he slowly wandered the hallway. There wouldn't be any reason she would have to return to work so soon. He poked his head in every corner, searching for any sign. However, as the minutes passed without success, Jack's expression started to sour, and a slight frown formed. If she wasn't in the tunnel, she could have return to the Broadcast Floor to learn how to touch up her photos. Jack could request access to the Broadcast Floor if he wanted to. The only problem was he would have to explain to Ruff why it was a good idea to allow the team's star player near their newest hire to give her his phone number.

As Jack tried to formulate a backup plan, a woman's laugh broke through his thoughts. He couldn't place a face to the giggle, but his heart already knew who it was: Maisy. Clearing his head, Jack rushed to the source of the voice and found Maisy conversing with the photography director over the pictures she had taken during the practice. Jack couldn't do anything in that moment lest Jack wanted to risk exposing his plan to the director, so he was content to watch for several moments. His frown transformed into a smile as he watched how her lightly freckled cheeks lifted every time she spread her lips to reveal her perfect, white teeth or how she sometimes lifted her manicured nails to her nose to stifle her laughter.

The photographer director left after a while, leaving Maisy alone. Jack immediately placed his back to a nearby wall and kept perfectly still to prevent the photographer director from noticing him as he passed. He relaxed his body once the photographer was safe and revealed himself from his hiding spot.

"Hey, Maisy!" he said, shoving his hand into his pocket, trying to act natural despite feeling his heart skip a beat or two.

"Hey, Jack! I saw you during practice. You looked good out there. Do you feel ready to face the Rangers?"

"Yeah, yeah … but, umm … I wanted to come and apologize again and see if I could get your number."

"My number?" Maisy asked as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Aren't most guys supposed to pull out some cheesy pick-up line like, 'Are you a camera? Every time I look at you, I smile.' I heard that one a lot while I was a student."

"No, no, nothing like that. I'm not that kind of guy," Jack reassured, keeping Nico's advice at the front of his mind. "Just like a pair of friends going to get lunch or something. That's not awkward, right?"

"I thought you hockey-types usually go after the long-legged, skinny, blonde model-type of girls."

"Some do, but not all. I prefer a girl more like you — a short and feisty one who looks, well, healthy."

Maisy smiled a bit before placing her camera bag on the floor and pulling out a pen and paper from a small side pocket. "I suppose we need to test your theory of not being like other guys."

"I should get going," she continued, handing Jack a neatly folded paper square. "There's still a few more things I need to learn before heading home. But if you ever get bored, hungry, or bored, text me, and maybe we could do something together."

Jack unfolded the paper and smiled at the pristine handwriting that wrote out Maisy's numbers. He could hear Nico's voice in his head, admonishing him for putting himself in a situation that would probably end up with either the Devils reprimanding Maisy, Jack, or both. But Jack's consciousness quickly shooed Nico away like an exasperated linesman trying to break up a scrum and didn't get paid enough. He knew that he needed to be careful moving forward. Still, he wanted to learn more about Maisy and perhaps himself, particularly if he had never felt this way about a girl. His gaze lifted once more to see the steel doors of the elevator closing on Maisy's visage as she waved to him.

"Win against the Rangers for me!"

A hockey photographer's life was unlike your typical 9-5. Many artists worked long nights, reviewing their photos and ensuring that everything looked right before submitting them to the team, league, or even Getty Images. Thankfully, Maisy would be able to make it home before the sunset. Thom, Nick, and the other members of the Creative Team wanted Maisy to stick around so that she could learn more about how the team would use her pictures to create art for the club. It was interesting, but Maisy couldn't wait to return to her cozy, warm apartment and change into something more comfortable.

She hung her keyfob on a mahogany key rack in the entryway and placed her bags near the little island in the kitchen before opening the small door protecting the closet in her one-bedroom apartment. There were clothes of various colors and textures sticking out from every angle in the little shoebox. The accommodations worked so well for Maisy while she was studying at university. Still, she was starting to get tired of the lack of space and decided to save up enough money to move out while she struggled to hold back the clothing avalanche that was threatening to spill over. Once Maisy felt the disaster subsided, she stepped back and looked at the mess for anything that looked clean and comfortable. Eventually, her eyes picked up a distressed band tee and pair of shorts. As Maisy finished putting on her shorts, her phone rang from the kitchen, catching her attention. A picture of her and her father standing in front of the wrought-iron Rutgers gate leading to the campus with her diploma popped up on the screen, causing Maisy to smile. Mr. Pearson had long since gone gray, and he was even considering retirement, but his eyes and smile still retained that same energy he had all those years ago.

"Hi, Daddy!" Maisy stated after a moment of reminiscing.

"Hi, Mace! Is this a good time to talk?"

"Yeah, I figured you would be calling. I just got home from the Prudential Center."

"Really, I never would have guessed! Anyway, how was your first day of work? Did you meet any cute hockey players?"

"DAD!"

Maisy and her parents talked well into the evening about everything, how she met some of the team, loved her new co-workers, and was happy to do something she loved. Once she had given her parents a play-by-play, her mother started a saga about how she ran into a book club member at the grocery store, which Maisy pushed to the back of her mind while searching her refrigerator for something quick she could make for dinner. As her mother babbled, Jack was the only thing she had on her mind. It felt like there was a massive debate going on inside her head. One side of her wanted to tell everyone that she had given her phone number to Jack Hughes, the Jack Hughes. Another part told her to keep things on the down low because it wasn't very professional for her to rush into a workplace situationship on her first day at her big-girl job. It didn't hurt that Jack Hughes had her phone number. All she needed to do is be careful when approaching this situation.

"Maisy, are you there?" her mother asked, interrupting Maisy's train of thought.

"Yeah, I'm here. I'm probably just tired from a long day of work."

"Alright, then, we should probably let you go. But we want to see you the next time the Devils have the day off!"

"Sounds good. I'll call you when I have more information. Love you!"

"Love you, too! Have a good night!"

Maisy disconnected and breathed a sigh of relief that her mother didn't pry any further like a detective interrogating a homicide suspect. She wouldn't know what to say if anybody asked her about her feelings for Jack, so it is best to keep things quiet for now. After sifting through various bottles and containers of Tupperware, Maisy finally settled on a container of sesame chicken from yesterday that she should probably hurry up and get rid of. With a belly full of food and an episode of her favorite reality blaring on the TV, Jack had almost faded into the back of Maisy's mind until her phone vibrated with a text message.

Jack Sent at 9:30 pm Hi, Maisy. It's Jack. 🙂

Maisy glanced over the phone, thinking it was probably her parents or some promotional text message from a store that she had forgotten to opt out of. But when her brain registered what the message said and who the sender was, she immediately sprung from her stupor and into action. Jack Hughes was texting her, which meant that it was go time. A thousand thoughts danced around Maisy's head as she attempted to figure out how she was supposed to handle this situation. Eventually, she took a deep breath and typed a generic greeting back before shutting off her phone for the night.

She plugged her phone into the little floating shelf beside her and immediately climbed into bed. Starting your dream job and meeting one of your favorite players, who also turned out to be super cool and accepted your phone number, takes a lot out of a girl. And Maisy wanted nothing more than this day to end. But as she laid her head down on her pillow and closed her eyes, she couldn't help but wonder if she was doing the right thing.

The Rangers game eventually came around, and the Prudential Center filled up with equal parts Devils and Blueshirts fans. Being the only member of the photography team to appear in the public eye, Maisy decided to dress up a little bit with a powder blue blouse and a pair of matching nude pants and heels. She waved to the security guards, who stood outside the staff entrance in their neon yellow jackets, feeling very proud and sophisticated as she swiped her keycard to enter the building. Ordinarily, she would be standing in line with the other fans with her father's old Martin Brodeur jersey. But tonight was Maisy's night to shine, to show how hard she worked over the years to obtain this position.

Maisy journeyed up to the Broadcast Floor, where Nick, Thom, and everyone else were busy preparing for the game. She retrieved her setup from the equipment lockers, activated the appropriate settings, and returned to take pictures of the players entering the arena. Jack hadn't responded to her message from last night, so Maisy figured that he understood that she didn't want to rush into this relationship. However, that didn't stop her stomach from threatening to spill the contents of her lunch in the streets.

After moments, she noticed movement across the parking lot, where the players traditionally parked their cars. Her eyes adjusted a bit and discerned the slicked dark brown hair of Brendan Smith, poking out from the top of his BMW driver-side door. Maisy smiled as she recalled rumors she had seen online of the rosy-cheeked Brendan, one of the team's more organized and punctual guys. He smiled at her and greeted her with a raise of his coffee cup before heading inside the stadium with the help of the security team. One by one, the players began to trickle in after Brendan – Dougie, Jonas, Nico, the other Nico, and Vtek. However, there was no sign of Jack. Players generally had to be at the arena three or four hours ahead of game time to prepare for the match, and Jack was cutting it real close. Maisy entered a vicious cycle of checking the time and lifting her head again. His delay was not helping Maisy's already heightened anxiety as she debated what she should do about the situation. She had his phone number and could certainly text him.

Thankfully, there was no need for intervention as Jack and another player, whom Maisy identified as Luke upon closer inspection, came running up to the door. She took a snapshot and shouted, "You're late!"

"Blame Luke!" a breathless Jack called back as he gently shoved his brother into the hallway.

Maisy giggled as she took one last photo and followed the Hughes brothers into the stadium. All the players disappeared into their locker room to dress for warm-ups while Maisy went to the ground floor to take pictures of the fans in the stands. It wasn't much longer afterward that the Rangers and Devils emerged to warm up for the game, and a deluge of fans descended upon the glass to try and compete for either a stick or a puck. As Maisy stuck her lens through the hole in the glass, Jack skated up to her and placed his face right up to the lens, giving him a fishbowl appearance. She smirked, turning off the flash and taking the picture of Jack for posterity.

Jack skated away to join the other players in helping Vancek and Daws warm up and the goal. The Devils won 2-1, causing the Devils fans in the building to leap from their seats in celebration. They hugged and high-fived each other as the disgruntled Rangers fans gathered their things to head back over the river. Meanwhile, the elated Devils lept from their bench to give Daws his congratulatory head bumps and the Blueshirts filed silently back into their locker room.

The games came and went over the proceeding months. As planned, New Jersey returned with a vengeance from their elimination during last year's Playoffs. There were a few teams who had the Devils' number. But the boys in red did their best to hold on and secured the second spot in the Metropolitan Division. However, that wasn't the only big narrative that circled through Newark that fall. Despite their promise to remain just friends, Jack and Maisy slowly started to break their boundaries one by one. They didn't do it outright to avoid suspicion, but rumors about their respective departments were circulating. Their families, friends, and co-workers could see it in how they smiled at each other, or they always seemed to find time to talk

As everyone suspected, Maisy and Jack's relationship grew underneath the surface. Their first date was pretty simple because they didn't want anyone – or even themselves, for that matter – to know that they had feelings for each other. It wasn't a big deal or anything. Jack invited Maisy for a hike and picnic at the South Mountain Reservation in West Orange. Both of them rationalized that there was nothing wrong with them getting a little exercise, particularly considering that Jack is a professional athlete and food was necessary for the body to rebuild muscle after exercise. There was nothing romantic about Jack and Maisy sitting together, surrounded by the beautiful leaves, laughing and conversing away from the prying eyes of the fans and the Devils organization.

There was one problem, though. These casual dates, which were nothing more than two friends and co-workers hanging out, soon became a pattern. Jack and Maisy would lie awake at night, contemplating their mistakes and how they should proceed. One day, on a team break day, Maisy was lying on her sofa, listening to music and surfing social media, when a text came in from Jack.

Jack Sent at 1:05 pm I'm bored. Do you want to go out and do something?

Maisy smiled as she sat up and clicked the notification on the top of her phone. She asked what Jack wanted to do, and Jack said he wanted to go to the Newark Museum of Art. Maisy pursed her lips at this idea. It wasn't the fact that she didn't want to go to the Museum. She still had many friends from when she interned there during her college years and popped in occasionally to see them and what new exhibits the facility has. But Jack never showed an overt interest in art. He thought Maisy had incredible talent and sometimes asked her about different photography terminology. Besides, he seemed more than content hanging with his brother or playing video games — typical guy things. Maisy was still intrigued all the same.

Jack Sent at 1:05 pm I just thought it would be fun.

Maisy just shrugged her shoulders and found a cute outfit before heading out to the Museum as planned. She pulled into the small parking lot beside the old stone building and selected a spot next to Jack's dark gray Mercedes-Benz Sedan. Despite its mundane appearance, the Newark Museum of Art had a lot of space and held tons of exhibits. Maisy opened the door and approached the white desk in the middle of the foyer, where a man and woman sat behind a glass countertop.

"Well, if it isn't Miss Maisy!" the gentleman exclaimed, causing the woman to look up from whatever she was doing on her computer. "Have you come back to visit the little people?"

"You're never little to me," Maisy replied, pulling out a pamphlet from the plastic holder on the countertop and opening it. "I'm here to meet a friend. Are there any new exhibits that I should know about?"

"There is a new exhibit that documents art from various cultures in America during the 20th and 21st century that I think you may like," the woman said, standing up and pointing to the page Maisy had open in the pamphlet.

"Sounds cool! It was nice to see you guys again!" Maisy responded as he waved goodbye and headed to the large, colorful arches leading to the exhibits.

"Of course! Don't be shy and come see us again!" the man and woman replied as they returned to work.

Maisy stepped onto the modern exhibit floor and wandered through some individual pieces as she examined the map. A lot had changed since she was just a teenager, working there to help stage pieces, sell tickets, and direct to the people where the bathrooms were. However, there was one thing that stayed the same: its eccentricity. Public historians had one main job, and that was to make history more accessible to the public. The Museum's art director certainly had that covered by ensuring that every exhibit was fun, interactive, and different than the last. Some say that it is a bit tacky and prefer the more sophisticated stylings of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. But it worked for the everyday citizens of Newark, got more people in the building, and made the place feel a bit more homey.

Maisy had no idea where Jack was in this whimsical maze, but that gave her more reason to wander around and see the Museum. She took the advice of the guides sitting at the front desk and visited the exhibit on Modern American Art. It was a gorgeous exhibit that featured art from many of the country's minority populations, from Indigenous Art to the Harlem Renaissance. Maisy stopped and looked at each piece of art, admiring the mediums and use of color as she wandered the different halls. She had almost forgotten about Jack until she saw him staring at a statue of Aphrodite of Knidos in an ongoing exhibit about ancient art history. Jack had his face turned to the installment, but Maisy could tell he put more effort into his appearance today. It wasn't that Jack was unclean or anything. As someone who spent half of his week in his suit and another half under several layers of padding, Jack usually liked to dress down on his days off, typically wearing a basic T-shirt and jeans. However, today, Jack looked extremely dashing with his brown hair brushed back, matching black shirt and pants, and matching gray sweater.

Maisy joined Jack at his side. "It's quite beautiful, isn't it?"

"Even though she's missing her head and limbs, you can still see there is beauty in how much care the sculptor put into the piece," Jack responded.

Afterward, there was an awkward science between the two, and a feeling of easiness settled into Maisy's stomach. There was a reason why a well-dressed Jack had brought her to a place that played such an essential part in Maisy's life for several years. The only problem was that Maisy did not know whether this was a good or bad sign.

"She kind of reminds me of you," Jack finally said.

"What do you mean?"

"Over the past few months, I have gotten to know Maisy, the photographer. But I haven't gotten to know the other sides of Maisy in the past few months. I'm pretty sure everyone has seen it, but I don't think we can remain friends — or at least not remain friends without acknowledging our underlying feelings."

Maisy shifted the strap on her purse and looked down at her ballet flats. This is the one thing she feared. She promised herself that she would never allow herself to land in this position when she accepted Jack's phone number. He was super sweet and did so much for her. He made her laugh, made it a point to talk to her every day after every game, and checked up on her whenever they had the day off. Maisy had written off the behavior as Jack just trying to be excellent. However, looking back on everything, she considered whether Jack developed feelings for her, she developed feelings for him or both. The problem was that if she indulged in these affections, she might lose the job she had worked so hard to obtain.

Was she ready to take this leap?

Jack's gray-colored eyes watched Maisy as she considered her options. "What are you thinking?"

"I think that's a lot to ask for. Surely, you know what happens to employees, particularly female employees, to get involved with players!" Maisy replied.

"Yeah, I have. And I'm not suggesting that you jump right into a relationship with me, but it would be a bad idea for us to let these feelings foster.

Maisy took a deep breath and asked, "What if I did take that chance?"

"Are you sure about that?" inquired Jack.

"Yes, I am definitely sure," Maisy finally confessed, letting go of her purse strap and relaxing her shoulders. "I have spent all of my life preparing for this job. Not once have I ever had time to think about the fact that this job is not guaranteed. And if I am ever going to let go of my fears of losing this job, I have to let go of my attachment to this job. And there's no one I would rather risk my job for than you, Mr. Hughes."

A large smile appeared on Jack's face as he grabbed Maisy's hand to bring her closer. Maisy could feel the calluses on his fingers, where he had spent so many days learning how to shoot pucks with his father and brothers on the homemade pond in their backyard. Yet, they were gentle and soft, reassuring Maisy that her decision would not go to waste. "Well, then, I think we should reintroduce ourselves," Jack joked. "My name is Jack Hughes, and I'm Maisy Pearson's boyfriend."

"It's nice to meet you, Jack Hughes. My name is Maisy Pearson, your girlfriend," Maisy replied with a giggle.

Without a moment's hesitation, Jack pulled Maisy in for a kiss. It all happened quickly, but it felt natural, like their bodies had been waiting for this moment for months. Maisy softly smiled, and her eyes fluttered shut as her mind began to process the sensation of Jack's lips being against hers. The kiss was warm and tender but delicate and tempting. It would be remiss of her to say that she didn't want more. She could see images of her and Jack sharing a passionate kiss several months later when their relationship was much more profound, and they weren't worried about any potential repercussions because of Maisy's job. For now, though, Jack's kiss was just enough to let Maisy know that there was something more that they could explore.

After a few moments, Jack broke off the kiss and offered Maisy his elbow. "Now that is settled, why don't you show me around the Museum? I hate to admit, but I kind of pulled that Aphrodite thing out of my ass."

"Oh, that's really nice to say to your new girlfriend!" quipped Maisy, giving Jack's shoulder a little slap as she linked her arm with Jack's.

"I didn't mean it like that!" Jack said. "Everything that I said was true. It was just a little hard to make up on the fly because I'm not good at this art thing at all."

"What color do yellow and blue make?"

"Uh, blue?"

"Look, you're learning!"

"Well, it's easy when you have such a smart and beautiful teacher!" Jack answered as he escorted Maisy deeper into the Museum and the great unknown.

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