kassieㅤ𔘓

ㅤ 𓈒 ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ᨳㅤㅤㅤㅤ♡⁠˖ ʿʿㅤ ㅤ ooh⠀sienna,⠀would’ve⠀been⠀cute. ㅤ✶

[kassiepocalypse]

⊂⊃﹕ ᯤㅤwhat lingers thereafter﹒ ◌

🌱﹐ synopsis. some things stay buried. others resurface and find you again, across oceans and years of silence, with everything still unsaid.

pairing — oikawa tooru x reader. ; pt. 02 !

ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤsome people fall in love with fireworks. you fell in love with someone who shone brightly. someone everyone looked at, someone who never looked back long enough.

he smiled at everyone, pulling people in like gravity.

and still — it felt different when he looked at you.

maybe it wasn’t. maybe he just looked at everyone like that and you’re feeding into your hopes too much again.

but there were moments. small, almost forgettable ones —where you swore he lingered.

when your eyes met in the middle of a noisy gym class and he didn’t look away first.

when he waited by the school gate one rainy day, umbrella in hand, just to ask if you had an umbrella. and he’d share his when you didn’t.

he never really said anything. and you never had the courage to ask.

.. you wanted to. you almost did. but it’s hard to ask someone to stay when the whole world is already waiting for them.

in a night with a full moon, you’d still search for the star that is oikawa tooru.

you never meant to stay behind so late after classes. club activities can really make you lose track of the time. but you decide you can kill two birds with one stone and give iwaizumi back the notebook you borrowed, since the gym that they use was on the way to the school gates, anyway.

your fingers curl around the gym’s doorframe, pushing lightly to take a peek inside. there was only a star inside. the others must’ve been getting ready to head home.

oikawa tooru had a volleyball in hand, bouncing off and back to him and you want to believe that he had some sort of string attached to it — but you knew that’s just how hardworking oikawa is.

you push the door open wider, wide enough to walk in and walk toward him despite the fact that you were here for iwaizumi (that’s what you told yourself).

“you’re still here,” he said your name without looking, catching the next ball off a rebound. you blinked, caught off guard by the fact that he knew it was you from your footsteps alone. “and you’re still practicing.”

he smiled faintly, like he was amused by both your answers. then he turned to face you.

his hair was damp from sweat, some strands clinging to his forehead. there was a sharpness in his eyes that softened when they met yours — or maybe it was a trick your mind played on you.

“are you here to see me?” he teased, and you rolled your eyes before he had to chance to notice how your chest clenched at the thought.

“i’m returning iwaizumi’s notebook.” you didn’t say that you could’ve just handed it over in class. or that it’s been in your bag for three days and you’d passed by him twice today alone. you didn’t say you kind of hoped oikawa would be here.

he raised an eyebrow. “iwa–chan’s not here.”

you knew that. but you shrugged anyway, letting your bag slip off your shoulder, fingers finding the spiral edge of the notebook. “guess i’ll just leave it with you, then.”

he stepped forward to take it, and you have to pretend like your heart didn’t just threaten to jump from your chest to your throat.

he looked down at the notebook, flipping to a random page. “your handwriting’s cute.” he said offhandedly, like he was waiting for a chance to compliment you.

you snorted. “that’s not my handwriting. it’s iwaizumi’s.”

“...oh, right.” he looked up and grinned, all boyish charm and summer warmth. “well. i’m sure it would be, if it was.” you rolled your eyes, but no amount of eyerolling could stop your stomach from flipping like a pancake.

the gym lights hummed gently above you, casting soft shadows over the polished floor. someone down the hall called out, distant, maybe from the track team. the sky was bruising at the edges, slipping slowly toward dusk.

“you really like it here, huh?” you asked, nodding toward the volleyball still resting in his hands. he glanced down, then tossed it lightly once, catching it with ease. “i do.”

you waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. he just turned the ball over in his hands, thumbs brushing against the worn surface. “i have to keep practicing.” he added, quieter this time. his voice was fragile.

that answer didn’t surprise you. but his tone did. at least, enough to not know what to say in response.

he passed the ball to one hand and leaned back against the wall. just enough to relax, not enough to lose composure. “what about you?” he asked. “you always hang around after club hours like this?”

“not always,” you replied. “just when it feels like… the day shouldn’t end yet.”

he blinked at that, and for once, didn’t have something witty to throw back. his smile softened into something gentler. something that felt almost real compared to the usual dazzling smile he threw for the others.

“you say weird things sometimes.” he said eventually.

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

he laughed at your jokingly offended tone, shaking his head. “hey, i didn’t mean it like that! in fact, i think i like it.” you felt your breath catch, just a little.

but he pushed off the wall a moment later, the weight of the conversation shifting again. back to normal, back to something more friendly and safe.

“you walking home?” he asked, already making his way to the door. “yeah.”

“then let’s go,” he was already holding the door open for you. “before i end up shooting another hundred tosses and forget what a real milkbread looks like.”

you were both, what, sixteen? — young enough to think moments like that could mean something, old enough to feel embarrassed about wanting them to.

it wasn’t a long walk. ten minutes at most, if you didn’t count the part where he slowed down a little near the vending machines, just to say he was craving something cold.

you watched him buy a canned coffee and grumble that it wasn’t sweet enough, then drink it anyway. you didn’t say anything about how he tilted the can toward you without looking, offering you the first sip.

could’ve been for poison testing for all you know, but it was those little moments that got you to like him so much. it was so easy to confuse kindness for affection. attention for meaning.

but it was also easy to fall in love. and you did. over and over again, in the quiet between his sentences. in how he never held your hand, but never let you fall behind.

you told yourself that it wasn’t love. it was just a passing crush, a silly infatuation. but then summer passed. then autumn, and you were still glancing at the gym when you walked home.

it was never about grand gestures. it was the moments in between — the casual way he greeted you in the hallway, the soft good luck before your club competitions, the way he said your name in a way that sounded like it belonged somewhere in his mouth. like he didn’t even know he was doing it.

and maybe he really didn’t. you thought that was the hardest part. because you noticed everything, and he never noticed the way you noticed.

but still, you stayed close. too close to let go, too far to be anything more. some days you swore he was reaching for you. other days, you wondered if you were just in the way. it hurt.

because how could you say something, when he never said anything at all?

once, he looked at you like he was gonna say something. you raised a brow, “you have something you wanna say?” he looked mildly surprised before giving you a smile. “yeah, i’m kinda failing chemistry.” and that was it.

you never told him how you felt.

not even when sixteen turned into seventeen, and seventeen into eighteen.

not even on graduation day, when he smiled at you the same way he smiled at everyone else, and your heart broke quietly under your uniform when it sinks in — he was willing to leave those things unsaid.

in the five long years you’d grown to love him for all his imperfections — this was an imperfection of his that you found hard to love. all those quiet moments, the lingering, the teasing, and in the end he had never admitted that he liked you. because to everyone and you — oikawa loves you like a sunset, a love that only grows with time.

but maybe to tooru, liking you isn’t something he can fit into his schedule. he’d already made plans to move to another country and have his volleyball career take off there. to have his moment to shine, like the true star he is.

and you? you barely thought about your future. all you really wanted was to live comfortably, no matter what your line of work is.

you left not long after he did.

he went to argentina to purse his dream career, you went to russia to get away from everything. because oikawa tooru was the kind of person you didn’t mean to write your life around — until you looked back and found him in every chapter.

now, you teach languages — japanese to russians, russian to the occasional japanese expat. it’s quiet, steady work. you’re comfortable — but not rich in any sense of the word.

you have your own apartment, your own money, everything here is nothing but your own. but as the snow drifts past your window, soft and slow, you start to realize — maybe you never had a joy that was truly your own.

compared to your life in japan, russia was cold and distant.

there were no sounds of hajime throwing things at a screaming tooru, no laughter from takahiro or issei, no friendly chats with the first years from your third year.

you sigh as you take your gaze off of the window, turning back to the tv in front of you. you blew the steam off of the hot choco you made, curling up on the couch even more — if that was even possible.

the heater hums gently in the background, its warmth never quite reaching your fingertips. outside, russia stays wrapped in white, like the whole country is asleep under a heavy quilt.

you sip slowly, eyes half-lidded as the television drones on. something dubbed, probably. you don’t know. you like the background noise. the stillness used to bother you, now you’ve made a home out of it.

you almost flip the channel — some international game, probably. not your thing. but then..

“number seventeen, setter — oikawa tooru.”

your thumb freezes on the remote.

it’s his voice that gets you first. not his face. the clip cuts to a brief player interview, his usual grin still sitting on his lips, that practiced charm so familiar it nearly knocks the air out of you.

“we’re honored to be playing against russia’s national team.” he says, speaking in halting but careful english. you blink. because you can’t believe it. not because you didn’t think he would make it, just .. you didn’t think you’d see him again. you’re careful to avoid any news and mentions about any oikawa.

he’s wearing a new, unfamiliar jersey — ca san juan. but his face is still the same, if not a little sharper now. his hair a little shorter, there’s a comfortable confidence in the way he speaks now that wasn’t there before.

you don’t even realize your mug is trembling slightly in your hand. it’s been five years.

and yet, he’s still finding ways into your quiet life — unintentionally, too, just like back then.

back then, it was in the way he sat one row ahead of you but always turned around to ask for a pen. and now it’s through your television, in a country half the world away from home.

you place the mug down, carefully. because your hands don’t feel like they’re entirely yours anymore. on screen, the game starts. he jogs onto the court with a look in his eyes you’ve never seen before — not the boyish hunger of your schooldays, not even the pressure-heavy gleam of nationals. this was different. lighter, freer even.

you wonder if he knows you’re watching.

no. of course he doesn’t. he’s here to win, to play. to keep chasing that fire he’s always had in his lungs.

but your eyes stay locked on the screen anyway, like you’re trying to memorize him again — this new version of him, older and steadier, but still so unmistakably tooru.

he sets the ball — and it’s a perfect toss. the spike lands clean. you catch yourself smiling before you can stop it.

some things don’t change. not even after five years. you want to lean into the moment and say ‘i’m proud of you, tooru’.

you look down. your hot chocolate has gone cold. maybe you’ve gone cold, too.

as the match continues, you feel something melt again. like maybe joy isn’t always loud or bright. maybe it can be something quiet, something that never left.

there are things neither of you ever said. words that sat on the tips of your tongues and dissolved with time. it wasn’t silence out of fear — not entirely. maybe it was the quiet, shared belief that there would always be more time.

but life moved faster than both of you knew how to catch it, and now here you are, two people on opposite ends of the world, still holding onto sentences that never found their way out.

and it makes you wonder, briefly, if he remembers you at all. and worse — if he ever thought of you the way you thought of him.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ©ㅤ@ kassiepocalypse .

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ06 . 15 . 25

[kassiepocalypse]

ㅤㅤ୨୧ ㆍ footprints in the sand ◝

🍦﹒ synopsis. you thought summer ended when he stopped showing up. but some things have a way of coming back.

pairing : sugawara koushi x reader.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤsummer always made you a little reckless. maybe that’s why you let yourself fall in love with someone you only saw between june and august — soft-eyed, sweet-voiced sugawara koushi, who felt more like a daydream than anything real.

your family stayed at the same little beachside town every year. his was in the cozy inn just off the boardwalk. it was never planned — but somehow, by the time you reached middle school, it was just understood.

you’d arrive, unpack half-heartedly, then go out looking for him. and there he’d be, waiting under the same umbrella by the sand, waving like he hadn’t just seen you last year.

you never exchanged numbers, never wrote letters or kept in touch. it was like the moment summer ended, you both quietly agreed to place it all on pause. and still, every time the season rolled around again, it picked up exactly where it left off — the late-night walks, half-melted popsicles, matching tan lines.

he’d tell you the dumbest jokes he learned during the time you were apart. you’d dare him to do cartwheels down the beach and laugh until your stomach hurt.

you met him when you were eight. the inn had just been painted that summer, all white and yellow like a lemon meringue pie, and you were eating a dripping cone of vanilla ice cream when you tripped over your own sandals near the boardwalk.

“woah—! careful.” a boy caught your arm before you could fall, steadying you with both hands. he had chocolate eyes and a missing tooth. he looked your age, maybe a little older, and grinned like he’d just done something heroic.

you blinked up at him before frowning down at your ice cream. “.. my ice cream’s melting.”

he glanced down at the melted ice cream threatened to drip down on your wrist and then offered you his own cone — slightly eaten, but still cold and sweet. “trade?”

that was how it started. just two kids, sitting on the curb with their feet dusty from sand, talking about crabs and sharks.

as thanks for the ice cream, you taught him how to build a sandcastle with tunnels that didn’t cave in. when it rained, you kicked and danced — and when your parents called, you raced each other up and down the slippery deck, soaked and breathless, with wide smiles on your faces.

you didn’t really know it then, but something about that week sunk its teeth into your memory. not just the ocean breeze or the taste of saltwater forcing itself into your lungs, but him.

and by the time you left that year, your heart ached in a way you couldn’t name.

you didn’t even ask if he’d be back next summer. you had too much pride for that — so you just hoped. and the next year, when you returned, he was there. waving from the same patch of sand and under the same umbrella like no time had passed at all.

you must’ve been thirteen when you realized it was a crush, the fifth summer you met him.

that summer, he was taller. not by much, but enough that you noticed. his hair had lightened from the sun, and his voice cracked once or twice when he got too excited telling stories, though he tried to play it off every time.

he still teased you relentlessly, still kicked up sand when he ran ahead, still laughed like the world was ending and it didn’t matter at all. but now, when he smiled at you, it did something strange to your ribs. made them feel a little too tight.

that very same summer, you started watching him a little differently — like when he ran ahead to chase the tide and you found yourself staring at his back a second too long, or when he ruffled his hait to dry with a towel and your stomach flipped for no good reason at all.

and when he smiled at you it felt like the sun had turned its attention just on you.

you tried to play it cool. rolled your eyes more, teased him back harder. but he caught you staring once, during a lull in conversation as you sat side by side, feet buried in the sand.

“what?” he asked, tilting his head.

you blinked and looked away. “nothing. your face is just weird.”

he barked a laugh, nudged your shoulder with his. “hey, i take offense to that! it’s the only one i’ve got.”

and you wanted to say — i missed it. but you didn’t, because your pride was bigger than your longing.

so instead you shrugged, kicked a bit of sand at his ankle, and changed the subject to something forgettable.

the thing is — with koushi, it was always easy to pretend. easy to laugh off the ache, to let the words die on your tongue.

you never needed to say i like you when it was already there in the way you chased after him without hesitation, in the way he always waited just a little longer than necessary for you to catch up.

summer after summer, the years blurred together and baby fat disappeared. you learned how to flirt by accident and he learned how to make you flustered on purpose.

but you never crossed that fine line.

it always ended the same way — the last week of august, goodbyes at dusk, promises with no real weight behind them.

“see you next year.”, he’d say, smiling like it never hurt.

and you’d echo it back, even when you already knew you’d spend the next ten months wondering what it would’ve felt like to ki — er.. to do couple–y things with him.

but you didn’t. you never let the thought linger too long. because if you said it out loud, it might break whatever delicate thing you had — this yearly ritual built on tide, sand, time and unspoken understanding.

it was easier this way. to leave him with a wave and a grin, to store him in the same place you kept your seashells and sun-bleached memories. leave it as it is, just a summer thing.

and then, one year — he wasn’t there.

you were sort of patient at first. as patient as one pre-teen girl could be. you waited and scoured the beach for a flash of silver hair or that familiar laugh carried on the wind. maybe he was just late. maybe his family pushed the trip back a week.

you sat in your usual meeting spot every morning anyway.

but the summer came and went, and he never showed. the umbrella spot was still empty and untouched.

you didn’t cry. you just shut the door quietly on that chapter of your life, and told yourself it was fine. it was just a summer thing — just a boy.

and most people outgrow summer, don’t they?

if your family noticed how glum you were that summer break, they never asked or said anything to your face. your parents would just cast you an understanding look with a face full of pity.

the next summer, your family vacationed somewhere else. a bigger city, nicer beaches, better weather.

you smiled through it, laughed when appropriate. but nothing stuck the same way.

you busied yourself with other things instead. made new friends, kissed someone else at a party during your last year of high school. it was messy and unfamiliar and didn’t feel like anything at all — not in the way summer with him did.

you stopped going to the beach after that.

not because you were bitter, of course. life just got busy. college happened — then internships, group projects, part-time jobs. people outgrew summer, after all.

and anyway, he had ruined the ocean for you a little. no other shoreline ever felt right.

years passed. you almost forgot what the waves sounded like against the shore, what sand felt like when it clung between your fingers, and his face turned blurry in your memories. you forgot it all — almost.

one day, your boss cheerfully announced a company retreat. a week-long “team building getaway” at some coastal town you hadn’t heard of in years.

and when you saw the name on the itinerary, your stomach dropped.

the same place. the same stretch of sand and waves.

you told yourself it was fine. it’s just a beach. it doesn’t mean anything.

but when you stepped off the bus, suitcase in hand and heart pounding in your throat (maybe it was bile threatening to pour out), the air smelled exactly the same. full of salt and memory.

and for the first time in a long while, you felt like a young child again.

as your coworkers chattered beside you, shuffling toward the inn where you'd all be staying, you caught sight of the boardwalk.

still the same weathered white and yellow.

you wandered off during the first break, waving at your closer coworkers as you did.

you didn’t go far — just down the boardwalk, past the ice cream stand that had changed owners but not colors, past the souvenir shop still cluttered with seashell keychains and sun-printed towels.

you walked slow, cautious, like the place might vanish if you blinked too hard.

the umbrella — that old, beat-up one with its faded red stripes — was still there.

... and under it, so was he.

older now. taller than you remember. no more baby fat, no more missing teeth. at first you thought maybe you were hallucinating. or it was just someone who looked like him.

but he had the same soft eyes. and the very same half-lopsided grin when he saw you.

you couldn’t help but freeze — despite the humid air and the sunlight surrounding you.

koushi stood up, brushing sand from his jeans. “hey.” he greeted, a little breathless. like he couldn’t believe it either. “took you long enough.”

you opened your mouth, but nothing came out. looking like a fish out of water in a beach seemed fitting.

he laughed — a tad deeper and freer than you remember, but still so achingly familiar.

“what? no ‘your face looks weird’ this time around?”

and gosh, you nearly cried.

“you .. you jerk — where have you been?”

his smile softened, and the wind tousled his hair just like it used to.

“life happened,” he said, shrugging like it didn’t ache to say. “school stuff. family stuff. we stopped coming for a while. i didn’t think you’d still…”

he trailed off, and his voice cracked, even if just barely.

you didn’t answer right away — couldn’t, with everything in your chest swelling too tight. so instead, you crossed the last few steps between you and punched his shoulder.

“you made me wait the whole summer.” you muttered.

he rubbed his arm, but he was beaming like you told him that he won the lottery. “you waited?”

you rolled your eyes, heat rushing to your face. “...pshh, no.”

he laughed again, brighter this time. “still such a terrible liar.”

“so,” you exhaled nervously, staring out at the ocean and squinting as the wind grew more apparent. “what now? we pretend we’re still fifteen? trade popsicles and build sandcastles?”

he didn’t answer right away.

when you turned to look, he was already watching you — with a look that seemed far too soft and affectionate for years of seperation.

“nah,” he shook his head, voice softer now. “i was kinda hoping we could finally do all the things we didn’t do back then.”

your breath seemed to get caught in the wind. “like…?”

his lips curved, sly and knowing. “like take you out. hold your hand on purpose. maybe finally call you when it’s not summer. if i’m not years too late, that is.” he looks down at your hand, causing you to look over, too. your ring finger was bare.

“…well,” you murmured, smiling despite trying not to. this wide smile of yours, it just broke out, you suppose. “took you long enough.”

he laughed, quiet and disbelieving, and then — just before he leaned in, he hesitated, gaze flicking over your face like he was trying to memorize it.

“you’re beautiful,” he murmured. “just like the wind.”

you blinked. “oh my days.” you whispered, pulling back just slightly. “did you quote the wind rises right before kissing me?”

he grinned, unrepentant. “maybe.”

“such a sap.”

“only for you, maybe.”

and then, slowly, carefully — he leaned in again.

and this time, you didn’t let pride or fear get in the way.

his lips were soft, and his hand found yours like it belonged there.

the years melted, the ache dissolved, the salt-tanged wind carried everything else away.

and for the first time in forever, you didn’t have to wait for next summer.

he was here. and this time, he was staying with you — summer or otherwise.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ©ㅤ@ kassiepocalypse .

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ 06 . 17 . 25

[kassierole]

#⠀YOU⠀X⠀HIM⠀:⠀NOW⠀TRENDING⠀!

IN WHICH you don’t know who started it — but now everyone is convinced you’re dating him. how does he feel about these allegations?⠀(pre–relationship).

~300 words each saja boy, mostly for my own enjoyment, my characterization only :3

𝐉𝐈𝐍𝐔

ㅤㅤㅤㅤhe’s absolutely mortified, and there’s almost something pretty about the way he absolutely panics. absolute ‘oh no they found out! wait, there was nothing to find ’ energy. it started with a photo of him leaning toward you — only to whisper, he swears on it. he didn’t mean to stand to close, to have his eyes linger on you for far too long. but he did, and now there’s a hashtag of a mash of your names together, and hundreds (maybe thousands?) of edited photos. he doesn’t even understand how the fans noticed. he surely didn’t.

now it’s all he can think about. the first post he saw, he physically dropped his phone. it hit the ground like a brick, heavy, loud, and disruptive. the others pause. “.. you okay?” abby had asked, eyebrow raised like he’s more curious than concerned. jinu hummed affirmatively bending strangely to pick up the phone with a forced smile on his face and an urgency of someone who was being chased by a serial killer. “fine. totally fine.” he’s the complete opposite of fine.

how is he supposed to face you after seeing all of those tweets? he doesn’t know. but what he does know that his latest search history has been .. weird. weird enough that if anyone opened up his safari they would immediately know what was plaguing his mind.

‘how to delete trending hashtags?’

‘did (name) notice jinu looking at her??’

‘signs that they think about me romantically’

he tries to forget about all the shipping. try to look at you in a platonic light again. but the universe had other plans. he can’t open any of his devices without being bombarded with those posts. an au where you two are exes getting back together, a slideshow of nearly every picture of you two near each other’s proximity. there’s even a whole poll deciding who fell first. and eighty–eight percent of the people who voted went ahead and voted for jinu.

he wants to argue and deny everything, he really does. but then he looks over at your way and, oh, the place where his heart should be flutters in the stupidest way possible. in a way a demon like him probably shouldn’t be able to feel. oh, he thinks. they’re right.

𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐘

ㅤㅤㅤㅤhe named the damn ship. as if he wasn’t already the biggest contributer to it — no, he named it too. like it was his own child. instead of something normal like ‘abby(name)’, it’s something way worse. everything abby does near your proximity just makes the ship grow and expand it’s fandom even more.

tugging you away from paparazzi, making you wear his beanie out in public just because it ‘looked better on you’ — and your staff doesn’t help, posting pictures of the two of you behind the scenes (though you’re just talking, you know, like normal friends do). most are blurry, yes, but the fans have eagle vision.

he thinks it’s funny. cute, even. you brought it up once. as a joke — “we’re trending again. gonna feed into it?” he blinks like he’s gaining consciousness for the first time. “should i? no, yeah, we should.” you think he’s just joking. you realize that you’re dead wrong when he brought out his phone and wrapped an arm around your shoulder — suddenly your hashtag blows up because someone decided to actually post the selfie. if he had a pr team, they would hate abby’s guts. or abs.

no, he has no shame. his likes are public (because he isn’t aware you can make it private) and embarrassingly filled with gym content, fan edits of him, and posts about the two of you. if the fanbase didn’t exist — there’s still abby to show love and support to your pairing. it’s gotten to the point that he thinks you’re playing dumb, because everyone and their mothers knew how hard he tries to make you laugh.

because deep inside, he’s glad that everyone agrees that you’re cute together. if anyone’ll have you, it has to be him.

𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄

ㅤㅤㅤㅤof course it’s trending. he made it trend. the moment fans started noticing your interactions, he leaned into it — just slightly. not enough for you to question him, but enough for hardcore fans to notice immediately and go batshit crazy. your manager rubbed her head and mumbled something about ‘pr nightmares’, but does romance care? no, romance only romances.

he times things so perfectly that you have to admit that if you didn’t know any better, you’d think you were in a ‘secret relationship’ too. you’d post a selfie of you wearing red and suddenly he’s posting “red looks good on you ♡” on his twitter. he’s so .. subtle in a not–so–subtle way. when confronted in interviews, he gives vague answers. “they’re very dear to me.” he once said, head leaning on the palm of his head. “like family?”, “like the moon is to the tide.” he’s always been smooth like that.

he knows exactly what he’s doing and lives for the thrill of it. except — well .. sometimes, he forgets it’s supposed to be for show. romance enjoys the attention, the fan’s screams. but most of all, romance loves the way your mouth twitches as you try not to smile at an overly corny pick–up like he used, the way you shove him playfully backstage after another interview.

the fans say you’re a visual match made in heaven. he agrees. not because you’re pretty (you are), or because it benefits his image (he could care less, really) — but because he likes the idea of being paired with you, someone who grounds him.

“you’re not actually into all this shipping stuff, are you?” you scoff, bumping his shoulder with yours. he chuckles. “aren’t you? i already planned out our entire marriage.” the thought of it is .. dangerous. but so is he.

𝐌𝐘𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐘

ㅤㅤㅤㅤhe never really acknowledges it. but he’s seen the it. the little fancams slowed to hell and back just to show the two of you making eye contact for a split second. the fans catch everything. it unsettles him how right they might be. mystery never intended to give them material. it’s just the way he looks at you. but he’s confused — not because he doesn’t know where the ship stemmed from, but because they were only noticing his behaviour recently.

you ask him about it one day, phone showcasing a video of you in the center, with him staring (question mark? can’t really see his eyes) in the background. he takes one glance, “pictures.”, he answered with a shrug. he plays dumb really well — too well. you genuinely thought he just didn’t know what shipping is. but he totally does. “you feed the fire.” he tilts his head innocently. “didn’t know there was a fire. a lie. he figured out how incognito mode works just to read fanfics of you two. out of curiosity at first, but then it became a small habit he gained.

but you don’t know any of that, obviously. what you do know is that he stands unusually close to you at events now, and you swear you can feel his hand on the small of your back to guide you whenever you happen to walk in the same direction. he doesn’t exactly bark like they say he does (not in front of you, anyway), but he can and will growl. there’s something animalistic and protective about the way he hovers like second nature — like right beside you is where he’s supposed to be.

mystery stays completely unbothered. if the fans want to talk, let them. if they just so happen to post ship edits of you two with his new favourite love song, that’s fine. great, even. at least the world already knows you’re his.

𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘

ㅤㅤㅤㅤhe hates it, he needs every video, picture and post deleted and burned to ashes. there could be a video of you handing him a water bottle and there’d be a comment saying that he’s, quote, ‘down bad’. down bad for what? hydration? every time those videos happen to unfortunately come up his for you page he instantly groans like it’s instinctive. baby just doesn’t get it. he looks like he tolerates you at best. that’s if he even looks your way. (that’s what he tells himself.)

he has a private account where he just .. watches. videos he’d see slowly went from mukbangs to that horrid mishmash of your names. he views them. not because he enjoys seeing them .. but for research purposes. he has to know what to avoid, right? “.. you’re not even my type.” he said mid–watch, to no one but himself. why is he talking to himself? fuck. he shuts off his phone and throws it across the bed. it lands on a pillow, still playing that edit of you that got two million likes.

this revelation starts to affect how he talks to you. or, more accurately, how he doesn’t. baby doesn’t talk to you for two days. three. for preventative measures, of course. he doesn’t do ‘crushes’ — it’s some social construct he stopped believing in the moment he became a demon. except he’s dodging you like you’re garlic and he’s a stereotypical vampire. the only thing he can say in your presence is a lame, “your shoelaces are untied.” while you’re wearing something that doesn’t even have them.

you still checked. he’s doomed. and worst of all, it’s public knowledge now. fuck the imaginary shoelaces, it was whatever he had left of his soul that came undone.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⠀ㅤㅤㅤ©ㅤ@ kassiedotcom .