EYELINER AT 8 IN THE MORNING
— it's basically the title: y/n doing theo's eyeliner in the morning.
— pairing: choi taeyang x reader
— genre & tags: fluff, roommates to...whatever they are, theo's in an rock band and he needs to wear eyeliner at all times (bc ion know, y not)
— warnings: not much...apart from my horrible writing
— word count: 1.6k
a/n: welcome to my first evah piwon fanfic on this app. uh so...my writing is absolute dog poop and i literally hate it like...but i decided to post this regardless bc i just had the URGE to post smth. anywvay, enough yapping...so have fun :))
props to @mrkedfsch for being my booriful beta reader. love u 💕💕
It’s a beautiful morning. The sun is peering through the dorm windows, the birds are chirping—
“Y/N! You can't hog the bathroom forever.” Cue a loud knock on the bathroom door.
And you’re taking too long in the bathroom.
But in your defense, your makeup needs to look effortlessly flawless—and that requires significant effort.
You roll your eyes, eyeliner pen still against your face. “Keep it down, will you? You almost made me mess up my eyeliner—and it's liquid, for Pete's sake.”
“Oh, boo-hoo,” the mocking undertone in Theo's voice is very much clear. “I think you forget that we share this bathroom. I need to do my liner, too, you know?”
You scoff. “Oh, please. You can't even do it correctly—you just end up looking like a freaking raccoon.”
“Well, the guys think it's amazing. And-and the fans don't say anything.”
“One, the guys are biased. And two, your SoundCloud fans like you guys too much to insult your amateur skills,” you shoot back, finishing up your liner with a satisfied smirk.
You hear a grumble on the other side that sounds suspiciously like, ‘I hate you.’
You know he doesn't. It’s just the way you two had been communicating; you fight over something, (like whoever ate the last cookie from the cookie jar), you exchange a few ‘I hate you’s, then fifteen minutes later you two are back to normal human conversation and activities (e.g, bake more cookies together). And the cycle repeats.
Though, over these past few months, the cycle has gotten an extra step: you exchange a few ‘I hate you’s, then fifteen minutes later he drags you out of the dorm for dinner (no fancy ones, though, just street food that you'd been craving for weeks) as ‘compensation’.
After every stop, he’d tell you not to get used to it.
And you try not to—you really do.
But one turned into five, and that turned into every other weekend—even without the fights. It could be because ‘you need to touch grass every once in a while’ or ‘I don't want to go to this place alone, it makes me look like a loser.’ (You’ve always been skeptical of that one—looking like a loser never phased him before).
But that has always been the cycle—one that had you feeling butterflies in your stomach and blushing like never before.
Silence fills the space, save for you popping the cap to your lipliner. Once you are done applying it, you sigh. “I could help you with your eyeliner, you know.”
A pause, and then: “Really?”
You nod. “Yeah. I mean, it always hurts to see you waste such good liner on mediocre results.”
“Right, right. And I'm Ariana Grande.”
“Just open the door, will you?”
“Yeah, yeah. I'm coming,” you walk over, unlocking the door and turning the knob, pulling it open.
Right there before you, is Theo in his wrinkly ‘The Smiths’ sweatshirt and dark sweatpants, his hair mused up in a messy bundle. Your breath quietly hitches under your breath—gosh, why did he have to look hot even when he isn't freaking trying?
Your eyes aren't the only ones wandering, too. His are trailing over what you're wearing. It isn't really anything special: a long-sleeved off-shoulder navy blue shirt with a black plaid miniskirt, over black sheer stockings. Still, it makes your cheeks flush slightly.
Trying to regain some semblance of control, your lips quirk up in a grin. “My eyes are up here, genius.”
His eyes snap up to yours, and they roll. “Shut up,” he mutters as he steps inside, closing the door behind him.
You mimic a zipping motion with your finger over your mouth, moving your makeup bag to the side and perching up on top of the counter in front of the mirror. He walks inside, closing the door behind him, and standing in front of you, staring right at you with a gaze that’s intensely warm.
You immediately break eye contact, looking at his cheek instead (why, you also don’t know), feeling your heart racing faster by the second. “Someone looks nervous,” he taunts.
“Then look at me, why don’t you?”
With all the strength in your being, you shift your eyes to his with wavering defiance. “Happy now?”
You roll your eyes. “Just shut up and don’t move, got it?” Then, you reach for his chin next, slowly turning his head to the side as you begin on his left eye. He flinches, his eyes close to blinking before you stop him. “Stop blinking! You're going to smudge it.”
He huffs, almost in protest, but he keeps his eyes open and stays silent.
The air in the bathroom feels heavy and not at the same time, tense yet still loose. You feel his eyes boring into you, steady, unyielding. Every once in a while, you make eye contact with him, freezing for a bit before going back to focus on his liner.
The silence, however, doesn't last long. “What’s gotten you so dressed up in the morning?” He asks.
“I’m studying with some friends at the library,” you simply explain.
“And what time are you supposed to be there?”
“Aren’t you going to be late?” He leans his hands on the counter. “Last time I checked, it was…8:50. And, knowing you, being late always has you fuming for…whatever reason.”
The pen stalls in your hand for a bit. He's right—tardiness has never really been in your vocabulary, always acting like some sort of nuisance every time it gets brought up. But right now the thought seems…far away.
You shrugged, continuing to finish up his left eye before tilting his head to work on the other eye.“I can show up a bit late. I want to finish this first.”
He hums, drumming his fingers on the marble top. If he wasn’t too close before, he certainly is way too close right now—his nose almost brushing against yours, his breath tickling your lips. “You want to finish doing my eyeliner before studying for subjects that cost quite literally three-quarter of your grade?” He whispers, his voice teasing. “So you do care.”
“Shut up,” you shake your head, a small smile on your face. “I mean I did offer, didn’t I? I’m never one to back down from that.”
“Oh, I know. Experienced it first hand—it’s like dealing with a cat.”
“I don’t act like a cat. That’s just inaccurate.”
“What you call inaccuracy is what I call a resemblance.”
“That doesn’t even—ugh, whatever.” You huff in defeat.
“You know I’m right,” His voice is annoyingly smug.
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” You roll your eyes, but your smile didn’t stray off your face. You finally pull the pen away from his face, popping the cap back on.
His head tilts slightly. “You’re done?”
“Mhm,” your eyes stay on his, noticing that he hasn’t pulled back. “I say it looks amazing.”
“I'll be the judge of that,” with a sudden swiftness, his hands go on your waist, carrying you off the counter. You let out a soft gasp, your hands going to his shoulders to stabilise yourself as he puts you down.
“You-you could've just asked me to move, by the way.” You stammer, your eyes wide.
“Yeah, but this was more fun. Your face is priceless,” He reaches up to boop you in the nose, and you jerk your head back.
“Oh, I know.” His hands linger on your waist for a few seconds before he pulls back slowly, as if he’s reluctant. He turns to the mirror, taking in his new appearance. “It looks good. I like it.”
Your eyebrow quirks up. “Just good?” You slam a hand on your chest with an offended laugh. “I’m hurt.”
“Fine. It’s amazing and I absolutely love it. Happy?”
“And speaking of amazing,” Theo leans his back against the counter. “The guys and I, we have a gig tonight at that new bar downtown, 8 p.m. It would be really cool if you showed—if you want to, obviously.”
Okay, maybe you’re imagining it, but you swear you hear a sliver of vulnerability hiding in that laid back tone of his. And when you look in his eyes, there is a small sparkle of hope there, like it would break his heart if you said no.
So you say the opposite. “I’ll show.”
“Really?” His eyes visibly light up.
“Yeah. I have nothing else to do tonight except rewatch ‘Pitch Perfect.’”
“You’re way too obsessed with that movie.”
“It’s a healthy obsession,” you clarify. “One I can hold off for one night.”
“Great,” he says a bit too eagerly, before catching himself, clearing his throat again. “I mean, cool cool. I’d like that.”
“Yeah, I know you would,” you tease, walking over to open the bathroom door. “Too obsessed with me, aren’t you?”
“Oh, get over yourself,” he follows after you as you leave, plopping down on the couch, watching as you grab your bag from the coffee table. “I just thought you’d want to actually get out of the house for once instead of bed-rotting.”
“Hey, it isn’t bed-rotting exactly,” you argue, swinging the bag over your shoulder and slipping on your sneakers. “It’s called resting.”
“Denial’s a river, roomie. You just have to accept it.”
“I’m leaving now,” you call out, opening the front door and leaving before he can answer. That stupid smile never leaves your face as you walk down the stairs of the building.
It’s a beautiful morning. The sun is peering through the dorm windows, the birds are chirping and your stupid crush on your roommate just doubled—no, tripled.
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