It took me a long time to realize that not everything in life is meant to be a beautiful story. Not every person we feel something deep with is meant to be forever.
Sometimes, people come into our lives to teach us how to love; and sometimes people come into our lives to teach us how not to love. How not to settle, how not to shrink ourselves & our boundaries ever again.
Yes, sometimes people leave, and it'll hurt but, that's okay, because their lessons always stay, and that is what matters. That is what remains.
— KL's Page
fic recs/art recs blog! go follow my main, @wowbyselene, where you can find my juicy cute fics
SYN . accidentally confessing to your crush on the stupid ig story box thingy was definitely not in your senior year agenda. while you're embarrassed as hell and is currently contemplating your life choices, seonghyeon is nothing but smug and thrilled that the girl of his dreams secretly likes him back
part one , part two , part three (finale)
✏️ . juhoon mentioned to hav a gf but dw gang click here for juhoon's story if u haven't read it (not necessarily in the same universe but cld be tbh)
✏️ . . . that was a LONG chapter lolll like literally we at the img limit rn ye this is cuz ily alr. anyways hope u guys liked it! bye coer lovu coer n don't forget to browse my masterlist for more funsy works ^^ also keep an eye out im posting a martin fic soon :p
NOTE. very suggestive, guys. fem!reader for this one, hehe
“You sure you don’t want me to drive you?” Hinata asked, though he already knew the answer.
“No, no, it’s just downtown. I’ll park near the café,” you said, smiling at him in the mirror’s reflection. “You have your own plans, don’t you? Volleyball with your friends?”
“Yep! But I’d ditch them for you,” he said, grinning as he pushed off the counter and wandered over to you.
“Liar,” you laughed, turning to face him. “You’ve been vibrating with energy all morning at the thought of hitting Kageyama’s tosses.”
“Okay, maybe a little,” he conceded, his grin softening. He reached out, his fingers brushing a nonexistent speck of lint from your shoulder. “But I’ll miss you. It feels weird, you going out without me on a Saturday.”
“It’s just for a few hours, Sho.” You patted his chest, your hand warm through his t-shirt. “I haven’t seen the girls since graduation.”
“I know, I know.” He slid his hands around your waist, pulling you gently into his space. You smelled like vanilla and your floral perfume—the scent of home, of comfort, of you.
“Just… give me something to remember you by while you’re gone.”
You rolled your eyes playfully, but a warm feeling crept onto your cheeks. “You’re such a sap. A quick kiss, then. I really can’t be late. Yumi is always so punctual.”
“A quick kiss,” he agreed, his voice dropping to a murmur.
Hinata leaned in, and you met him halfway. It was meant to be simple, a sweet press of the lips, a ‘see you later.’ And it started that way. But the moment he felt the familiar, smooth sweetness of your lip gloss, something in him just clicked.
It was strawberry. His favorite.
It always was, because you knew it was his favorite.
The planned peck lingered. Instead of pulling away, his mouth moved softly against yours, savoring the sugary gloss and the warmth of you beneath it. A quiet, happy sigh escaped him, breathed directly into the kiss. His hands, which had been loosely at your waist, drifted up your back, drawing you a fraction closer.
“Mmh, Shouyou…” you murmured against his lips, a gentle protest.
“Just… one more second,” he whispered back, his lips chasing yours as you tried to lean away. He caught your bottom lip lightly between his, tasting the gloss again. It was addicting. Or maybe it wasn’t the gloss at all, but the way you yielded to him, the little puff of your breath, and the way your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.
So, there was no such thing as a “quick kiss” when it came to your husband.
His tongue swept out to trace the seam of your lips, and with a soft sound, you opened for him. The kiss deepened, turning slow and explorative. The world narrowed to the feel of you in his arms, the taste of strawberries, and the quiet, shared rhythm of your panting.
He forgot about his volleyball game.
He forgot about your lunch.
The only thing on Hinata Shouyou’s mind was your lips on his.
One of his hands came up to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking your jawline. You made a small, contented noise in the back of your throat that sent a thrill straight through him. He backed you up gently until you were against the wall by the entryway, not with urgency, but with a possessive sort of fondness, as if he wanted to surround you completely.
Suddenly, you stiffened, your hands pushing lightly against his chest. “Shouyou—the time!”
He broke the kiss, but only just, resting his forehead against yours. Both of you were breathing a little faster. Your lip gloss was now thoroughly and messily shared, smudged around the edges of your lips. He probably looked the same.
“What time is it?” you asked, your voice dazed.
“Uh…” He glanced over your shoulder at the clock on the microwave. “Ten minutes past when you said you needed to leave.”
“What?” You scrambled out of his embrace, diving for your phone on the table. “Oh no! I’m going to be late! Yumi is going to text me a frowny face. She has a specific frowny face for tardiness!”
You frantically grabbed your keys, your movements comically hurried. Hinata just leaned against the wall, watching you with a besotted, utterly unrepentant smile.
“This is your fault!” you accused, pointing a key at him, but there was no real anger in your eyes, only a flustered, happy exasperation.
“I know,” Hinata replied, cheerfully admitting his guilt. “I couldn’t help it. You taste like strawberries. And you’re my wife. It’s a dangerous combination.”
You tried to frown, but a giggle broke through. “You’re weird. A menace.”
“Your husband,” he corrected, pushing himself off the wall to walk over to you. He caught you by the hand before you could flee out the door. “Hey.”
You looked up at him, impatience and affection warring in your expression. “Hinata Shouyou, I am now officially late.”
“I know. Just… come here for one real second. No kissing, I promise.”
You sighed, a long-suffering sound he knew you didn’t mean, and let him pull you into a proper hug. He wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your shoulder, inhaling deeply. You melted against him, your earlier hurry pausing for this one, quiet moment.
“Have a great time with your friends,” he said, his voice muffled against your shoulder. “Tell them I said hi. And that I’m sorry for making you late.”
“They’ll know exactly what happened,” you mumbled into his chest. “I’ll have to blame it on traffic.”
Hinata chuckled. He pulled back just enough to look down at you. Gently, he used the pad of his thumb to wipe away the smudged strawberry gloss from the corner of your mouth. “There. All presentable again.”
You bit your now-gloss-free lip, your eyes impossibly soft. “I love you, you know that? Even when you make me late.”
“I love you more,” he said, because it was their game, and he would never not say it back. “Now go! Before I decide to be selfish and kiss you again.”
With a final, quick peck—a real, genuine, quick one this time—on his cheek, you slipped out the door. “Bye! Don’t serve a ball at Tsukishima’s face!”
“No promises!” he called after you.
The door clicked shut, leaving him in the sunlit, quiet apartment. He touched his lips, still able to taste the faint, sweet hint of strawberries. A goofy, uncontrollable smile spread across his face. He was going to float through his entire volleyball game. He’d probably be insufferably energetic, and Kageyama would ask what he was so happy about, and he’d just say, “My wife,” and they’d all groan.
But he didn’t care. He wandered back into the kitchen, his plans forgotten for a moment longer. He picked up your abandoned coffee mug, still warm, and took a sip from the exact spot where your lip gloss had left a faint, shiny mark on the rim.
a/n: this one goes out to my girl @hyuneskkami enjoy bbg
you had been practicing the choreography for an upcoming comeback, trying to nail one combo that for some odd reason, you just could not master.
the choreographer saw everyone’s tired faces and sloppy moves, knowing that they had been trying to nail this bit for half an hour. “okay. guys, take five. give your bodies a break.”
martin and seonghyeon practically fought in line for who got to use the water dispenser first. “everyone could’ve gotten water by now, idiots,” juhoon mumbled, pushing them both aside.
“back of the line,” keonho mumbled, pulling a bickering martin and seonghyeon to the back.
you just sat on the ground, trying to catch your breath as you tilted your head back against the wall.
“you good?” a familiar voice asked.
you could only nod, too tired to speak.
soon enough, you felt a heavy weight drop into your lap, james. he then moved your hand into his hair, a wordless way of asking for gentle head scratches.
“james we’re in practice. you’re gonna have to get up in a few minutes,” you mumbled.
“don’t care,” he replied, already half asleep.
well. looks like you’re stuck.
“did he do it again?” martin asked from where he was on his phone.
you nodded, one hand in james’ hair and the other scrolling on your phone.
THE AVENGERS ARE A MESS . . . AS USUAL ──── between saving the city, fighting over absolutely nothing, and somehow making every mission ten times harder than it needs to be, being an Avenger is never boring. especially when you and Keonho start getting a little too comfortable around each other
guysss I lowk loved this idea in my mind but mf's lowk botched it (me) ts ahh asf as fuck lowk and IKKK this isn't abt juhoon but I lowk dont give a gaf
summary ☞ There's times where Sirius has this uncontrollable need to just charm his girlfriend with his shiny fur and big paws.
word count ☞ 0.9k
warnings ☞ fluff, post hogwarts au, cuteness overload, pads is a mischievous fur ball, use of YN, reader is done but can't resist pads, skinship, jily mention
mene's notes ☞ previously posted on @/selenewowww. kinda inspired by cat & dog by txt! it's short, ik, and it's also one of my first fics, so be nice! pls leave a comment and a reblog!
dividers by ☞ @cursed-carmine, @cafekitsune
When YN agreed to go on a date with Sirius Black in seventh year, after the boy’s persistent and ceaseless habit of asking her out twice a week, she admittedly wouldn’t have thought that this was how the notorious heartbreaker and prankster would have acted.
As of now, six years have passed since graduation, and the high school sweethearts in their early 20s are sharing a roof. Have been for a year or two. Their days having come to a familiar routine. She’d leave for work early in the morning only to return just after lunch time while Sirius left with James to head to the Ministry of Magic. Who would’ve thought they'd apply for the same job? Well, everyone did. She and Lily were now the girlfriends of two promising young aurors that were quickly climbing through the ranks.
To her student–self amazement, Sirius Black was quite domestic. His characteristics cheekiness and playfulness never faded, though. He still had that smirk that suggested that some kind of mischief was on the way. Still had his charming aura that had swept her off her feet multiple times in the course of the years despite the responsibilities that now laid on his shoulders.
After unlocking the door and stepping inside the doorway of their shared apartment, in the aftermath of an exhausting day at work, YN did the only rational thing; kicked off her shoes and unclasped her bra, a soft sigh of relief escaping her lips.
She took off her coat and walked further into the flat, completely ignorant to what her boyfriend had planned for her. As she passed by the kitchen, she noticed— or rather hadn’t— Sirius’ absence. Had he gone out to the grocery store perhaps? With that reassocuration in mind, she shrugged off the thought and headed to the living room, planning to take a well–deserved rest on the plush and cosy sofa.
Just enough time to step into the living room, a massive shaggy black dog jumped onto her, making her lose balance and fall— quite hard, if she must say— on her butt. The dog, that she had immediately recognised as her idiot of a boyfriend, wasted no time and snuggled closer to her body, his wet snout tickling her side while his tail was wiggling in pure delight.
“Bloody—!”, she cursed under her breath. “Padfoot! Get off me this instant!”, she reprimanded half amused and half annoyed by the boy’s antics.
Padfoot obliged and got off her enough for her to get on her feet— not without sending a disapproving glance at the dog. With a resigned sight, she took her seat on the gray sofa cushion and leaned her head back, her arms and legs following suit.
Padfoot jumped on the spot beside her, his big, silver eyes staring up at her, shiny with yearning. He practically shoved her hand on his head, demanding cuddles. Her fingers combed through his onyx fur with a gentle smile playing on her face, scratching the soft fur behind his ears just as he liked, receiving in return quiet growls in appreciation.
And just like that, snuggled cosily with a warm blanket covering them, they both fell asleep. It was a routine at this point.
Days with Sirius Black were never dull. Especially when instead of his charming human–self, Padfoot took over. Usually for a whole day.
After the one–hour nap, Padfoot woke up with even more energies than before. Was that even possible? Didn’t one have a maximum level of energy?
With a push of his hind legs, Padfoot jumped off the couch and ran to find the nearest tennis ball he left around the house specifically for this kind of situations.
Satisfied, he threw at YN a spit–covered ball at her feet, waking her upwind and with a gasp. Once having found out the furry culprit of her abrupt awakening, she let out a sight in despair and laid her gaze on the shaggy dog with an unamused expression— something she was accustomed to and found herself doing a lot.
She picked up the bright yellow ball from the floor with a slight disgusted frown and threw it for Sirius, who sped off as soon as the ball was launched in the air. A few seconds passed before Padfoot trotted back to her with a proud air around him, the ball in his mouth. She threw it again, and again, and again, and again.
Sirius was returning with the ball when she decided she had had enough and got up to head over the kitchen to start cooking dinner.
He obviously had to transform back to eat dinner at the table, and had a shit–eating grin on his face for the whole time. She could only sigh and roll her eyes affectionately.
She was starting to understand the pain Remus had to endure for seven years at Hogwarts. Sirius and James clearly never run out of energy. She'll have to treat him to a nice dinner.
The day had finally come to the end, and Sirius was waiting for his dear girlfriend to join him under the duvets.
Once she was settled snugly in his arms, he left a tender kiss on her temple, and with a mischievous look on his face, he whispered in her ears. “Got me acting up all crazy, let me be your pet”
She shifted her head to look up to him puzzled.
“Let's play forever, I just wanna be your dog”, he muttered in her ear again, his warm breath tickling her skin.
“That’s way too corny”, she mumbled baffled with a small grin playing on her face. “Even for you, Siri”, she let out a soft chuckle.
Sirius mirrored her grin. “This and more for my owner”, he replied, earning a light slap on his chest.
“Worth it”, he grinned and left a kiss on the corner of her lips.
True to her thoughts, Sirius Black didn’t change at all.
summary ☞ With the arrival of Percy Jackson’s childhood friend, woes follow suit to Camp Half-blood. Cynical, sarcastic and stoic, she will put to the test her bond with the Poseidon son, and perhaps it'll change for the better.
word count ☞ 1.9k+
warnings ☞ fluff, use of YN, book percy and annabeth, reader is heavily based on netflix's wednesday addams, some quotes from the wednesday show, slight slander towards annabeth (i love her), misunderstandings, best friends to lovers
mene's notes ☞ previously posted on @/selenewowww. excuse the bad writing and don't mind it if it's a lil corny 🙏pls leave a comment and a reblog!!!
dividers by ☞ @cursed-carmine and @cafekitsune
YN wasn't new to being the subject of judgemental stares or whispers behind her back as she walked.
In every school she had been to, she was viewed as the gloomy, dismal girl who had a weird obsession with cemeteries and death.
She had her own clear opinion on schools; useless buildings overflowing with hundreds of adolescents, run by people whose dreams were crushed years ago.
That same feeling persisted even when attending Camp. The overall experience could have been less hideous and dreadful if only her sole friend Percy hadn't decided to ditch her completely, resulting in her ignoring him in return.
An eye for an eye.
One might wonder how she knew Percy Jackson, the star kid of Poseidon, the demigod who saved Olympus multiple times, in the first place.
Well, they were childhood friends. Their moms were friends since high school, making them attached to the hip. As thick as thieves. ‘Like two inmates sentenced to life on the same cell block’, as she often replied when asked about it.
The perfect couple in their moms' eyes. Her type wasn't by any means Percy. Her very first crush had been Sartre, who said ‘Hell is other people’.
As already mentioned, Percy had been distant during the last summers. No calls. No emails. Not even a letter sent by a carrier pigeon which consisted of a mere “Hey, I'm not dead yet :)”.
She'd have even accepted using any sort of technological device to contact him although she despised technology to her core. Something about finding social media to be a soul–sucking void of meaningless affirmations.
This summer, though, she had finally understood— or so she thought— the reason behind Percy's radio silence. He was a demigod. And, apparently, she was one too. A terrible joke.
Her mother tried to explain everything about the new world she'd be soon sucked into, completing the task despite the incessant questions from her daughter.
She must have been relieved when she left for Camp.
And being the daughter of Hades, a not–so–loved god and his only child out of the pact, didn't make her the most popular kid. Well, not that she wanted to be popular, and luckily her heritage allowed the other halfbloods to avoid her at any cost, almost like she was the plague.
Some dared to ridicule her stature and mocked her dark clothing choice, to which she responded with a“Use the words ‘little’ and ‘girl’ to address me again and I can't guarantee your safety” and a“I'll stop wearing black when they make a darker color” muttered threateningly.
Only Annabeth Chase was brave enough— or rather foolish— to approach her. She was tasked by Mr. D to help the gothic girl settle into her new cabin and give her a brief tour of Camp.
Needless to say, she loathed the Athena girl. Loathed her with a passion only a true child of the Dead King could master. Goldilocks was stealing her best friend from her grasp undisturbed right under her nose.
She did not like it. But oh well, if that was Percy's will, who was she to break them apart? If Percy preferred a girl he met two years ago over his all time best friend then she'd let it be.
You really fell for that? Of course she wasn't going to let it be. There's one thing she believes in. And that's revenge.
That's how Percy had found himself at breakfast with confusion painted on his face at his friend's detached behaviour. Had she never acted like that, bearing in mind her everyday character.
Little did he know she had a knack for holding grudges close to her like a toddler would hold its teddy bear plushie at night.
That's also how the week had progressed.
Every time he had tried to approach her— while training, breakfast, lunch, dinner or any sort of activity he could find her into— he was always met with a cold shoulder. And if the gods were looking down at him, he would be granted a nasty glare that could kill him on the spot.
The same story went on until Annabeth finally acted on her annoyance, dragged Percy with her, and got YN cornered for him while she was returning to her cabin after a draining session of sword fighting. In the distance could be heard a panicked yell of a son of Apollo calling for help and medical supplies to tend to the gravely injured kid.
She didn't bat an eye when she was forcefully dragged into her cabin. She turned to identify her captor, staring into the blonde girl's soul with the ever present scowl on her face, apparently not surprised by having come face to face with her.
“Goldilocks”, she mused in her monotone tone. “Wish I could say it was a surprise to see you, but I heard your brutal steps from a mile away.”, she sneered. “Even an elephant would have been more stealthy than you”
Annabeth rolled her eyes with an exasperated sigh.
“It's amateurs like you who give kidnapping a bad name”, she blinked boredly and set aside her sword.
Annabeth sent a deathly glare her way, meant to scare her away.
“Cute attempt”, the gothic girl sneered.
“Stop blabbing nonsense! Gods, no wonder you don't have friends apart from Percy!”, Annabeth finally burst out, fed up with her attitude.
YN stood in the middle of her cabin, her black eyes narrowing just slightly. “Friends are a liability and can be exploited. That makes them weaknesses”
Having overheard this, Percy tentatively took some steps in the building. “That's what you think of me? Really?”
Silence fell across the room, and Annabeth left to give them privacy, closing the door behind her.
Percy tried to avoid her gaze at all costs, her words having stabbed his heart. Until she decided to break the ice.
“Your friend’s a bitch”
He tried to stifle a chuckle by the sudden insult and failed miserably, before his expression returned disheartened. and shook his head. “I don't get why you don't like her. She's nice… When you get to know her”. He took a deep breath and looked straight at her, addressing her with a serious tone he had never used before on his friend.
“YN”, at the call of her name, her gaze locked with his.
“Has that been your opinion on our friendship for the whole time? You’ve been ignoring me. Look, if I did something that offended you— Just tell me. Don't complicate things like you usually do”, Percy breaths out, his eyes troubled.
“… You did, actually”, she says firmly. “Goldilocks isn't the only bitch around here”
Percy stares at her dumbfounded before collapsing in fits of laughter he couldn't hold in any longer.
“Goldilocks?”, he snorted. “Are you for real? That’s— Well, creative for sure. I'll give you that.” He smiles bitterly. “You’ve earned yourself a nickname too, you know?”, he brushes his black hair out of his eyes. “Wednesday Addams”, he stared in her eyes.
“It fits”, he adds with a wistful smile.
She gave him a dirty look that made him shut up immediately, leaving room to talk.
“What I said wasn't referred to you”, she stated as if it was a matter of fact. “Although… I can't help but wonder why you still stand by my side. People call me weird”, she stalks closer to him, a touch of sincerity in her voice for the first time.
“I act as if I don't care if people dislike me. Deep down… I secretly enjoy it. But you do. You're not as strong headed as me, you let people’s opinions sit in your head”
Percy stares at her with a mix of adoration and what looked like disappointment.
“What?”, he breathes out.
“You're my friend, not theirs. It's not their business who I want close to me. Your ability to not let others define you. It's a gift”, he smiles gently at her.
“You're non refundable, I fear”, he jokes to lighten up the mood.
Her eyes bore into his, searching for any hint of insincerity and deception. Even when she found none, she still wanted prod further, interrupted by Percy’s admission.
“Wednesday— ”, she narrowed her eyes at him, annoyed by the nickname, making him crack up.
His fingers slowly, tentatively threading with hers.
“— I like you”, he finally blurted out. “More than a friend. That's… That's why I keep up with your bullshit daily. In my eyes, in my wildest dreams…”
“You're more than a friend”, he confessed quietly.
Her whole frame stills, her eyes widening slightly. His heart–touching confession stabbing at her black heart while she was unprepared for it. It was like someone threw a bucket of ice cold water on her.
And just like that, her heart started thumping loudly in her chest. What's this feeling?
She took a shaky breath and gulped. “I— I’m not friend material. Let alone more–than–friend material”, she threw her hands in the air with a sigh. “I will ignore you, stomp on your heart, and always put my needs and interests first”
As she noticed her lip quivering slightly, she brought a hand to it, hoping that that single touch could control and suppress the raging river of emotions she had always reprimed that were flowing through her.
That was so out of character for her.
“I know I'm stubborn, single–minded, and obsessive. I see the world as a place that must be endured—”
He grips her hand, as if afraid she would slip away if he loosened his grip even just a tad bit. His sea green eyes tell a mix of feelings so tangled up together that it was an arduous task to point out every single one.
“I'm not asking you to change for me. I would never dream of it— You know what? If I ever do it, you're allowed to slap me”, he snorted and squeezed her hand once again.
“I fell in love with you for who you are right now. If everyone was the same, the world would be monotone, no?”, he grinned at her like she had personally hung the moon and the stars in the otherwise pitch–black night sky.
Said by someone else, this affirmation would have resulted in another soul entering her father's realm.
Oddly, Percy saying it didn't bother her. On the contrary, it warmed her arctic soul and glacial heart. Her eyes glimmered in the dim lights of her cabin coming from the lit candles scattered around, the fire reflecting off them dancing in her onyx eyes.
The sight was enough to hypnotize Percy. He was entranced, enamored, smitten, bewitched, infatuated, transfixed, head over heels and so on.
No language had enough words to express his love for her.
Was it unexpected? Certainly.
Would their hypothetical relationship make people turn up their noses? Most probably, yeah.
Did Percy care? Not even in the slightest. He was too lost in everything that she was to even pretend to care about anything else. He'd do anything for her. He'd endure a séance if that was what she wanted. And why not. He'd fall into Tartarus for her.
That night Wednesday— as Percy promised to call her from that moment onward, just to keep her on her toes— laid on her bed with her heart a bit less frigid.
Sleep catched up to her shortly after, thoughts of Percy lulling her to a peaceful rest.
BONUS PART
“Uhh… Just to not misunderstand the situation… Are you rejecting me, or…?”, inquired he scratching his neck, with a certain awkward air about him.
“... No”, the Hades' daughter declared after a few moments of quiet silence.
Percy's features lit up like a kid on Christmas day and hugged her out of pure joy, mumbling into her shoulder blade, “Am I finally a Hades’ child type?”
“What was that?”
“Inside joke. Don't worry”, he pulled back slightly and smiled brightly at her.
ִ ⠀ ✸ synopsis : fic in which y/n is an underground rapper with idol!martin bf. y/n has more freedom in terms of love life but she must keep it lowkey due to martin’s idol life and fear of criticism, his company is being considerate of his relationship after all! but how can he stay away from his gf?
navigation requested ⟡⠀⠀⠀ׅ⠀ 𝑖dol!𝑚artin 𝑥 𝑓em!𝑟eader ❤︎ est. relationship 𓈒 underground rapper reader 𓈒 fluff 𓈒 language 𓈒 reader implied to be older than martin 𓈒 bossy reader 𓈒 down bad martin 𓈒 reader calling martin a puppy 𓈒 tiny smau + written ᯓ wc : 731
੭ ׅ notes maybe a part two??? if so, it’d only be two parts, i’ve realized i suck at doing series’s… tell me if you guys like this! i really liked writing it!!!
PROFILES!
“you need to change your account or make a side one,” you tell martin as soon as he walks in through your door.
“i just got here!” he whines, leaning against you, his whole body weight on yours.
“get off me or i’m making you go back,” you warn him, attempting to push him off you.
“sorry, okay,” he leans back and straightens his back.
“can i go all the way inside now? to your bedroom maybe?” he asks, closing the door behind him.
“no, you’re gonna sit down at the couch like a good boy, i’m not afraid to kick you out,” you push him inside and lock the door.
“okay, okay!” he throws his hands up and walks toward the couch.
you go to the kitchen and put some water to boil on the stove.
“you haven’t eaten?” martin asks, turning around and puts his arms on the back of the couch.
“no but i was until you came,” you tell him, turning on the stove.
“are you gonna make ramen?” he ask again.
“yes, are you a child? why do you ask so many questions? if a question mark were a person, it’d be you, martin,” you say, turning back to him once the stove is on.
“maybe,” he smiles and turns back around, facing the tv.
you smile to yourself softly, he’s so cute.
you walk back to the couch and sit down beside him.
“you wanna know why i told you to come over?” you ask him, sitting crisscrossed.
“is it because of how obvious my account is…?” martin asks, looking cautious.
“yes and no.”
“no?” his face lights up.
“nope but you really gotta change it,” you cross your arms.
“yes ma’am…” he looks down.
“look at me,” you tell him, tapping his thigh.
he looks up, his lips pouting slightly.
“martin…” you sigh.
“what…?” he looks at you with the puppy eyes you love so much.
the same puppy eyes you cannot resist.
“oh god… martin…” you groan, throwing your head back against the back of the couch.
it’s like martin knows the effect his chocolate-colored eyes have on you.
“y/n, what?” he asks, still giving you that look.
“you know that when you give me that look, i give in,” you narrow your eyes at him.
“maybe that’s what i want you to do,” he mutters, looking away.
“ughhh…” you groan and get up when you realize the water is boiling.
“can you turn it off?” martin whines, his eyes following you.
“no, i’m hungry,” you reply, opening a cabinet to take out a pack of ramen.
you place the noodles in the water and go back to sit with martin.
“is that all? i just need to change my profile?” he asks, looking slightly puzzled.
“do you want me to scold you?”
“no ma’am…” he whispers, looking down at his lap.
“that’s what i thought, cutie,” you smile and place your hand on his cheek, pulling him in, and kissing him.
he immediately melts against your lips, sighing softly.
you lean your body towards him, your chests now pressed against each other, so much so that you can feel his heartbeat which so happened to speed up once you leaned on him.
“you’re so cute…” you tease him while smirking against his lips.
you lean even more so that he’s leaning back, he’s trying to stay up right.
he eventually falls to his back, finally placing his hands on your waist.
“if you’re gonna do this, might as well go all out,” he pulled away, implying you should straddle him, you know him.
“you’re so needy,” you roll your eyes but bring yourself up to straddle his hips.
“maybe,” he whispers as you lean back down to kiss him.
his left hand comes up to the back of your head to hold your hair softly.
when you wrap your arms around his neck is when he decides he’s had enough of your lips and pulls away only to nuzzle his face in your neck.
“i love you,” he says and starts to kiss your neck softly.
“i’m still mad at you, you need to change your profile,” you say and kiss his forehead.
“i’ll fix it however you want,” he says.
“you’re a good puppy, huh?” you smile and pull away.
✦ synopsis. the plan was simple: go on a three-week getaway your friends had planned so you can get over your ex. falling for a complete stranger is not part of the itinerary.
✦ content. 13.6k words. nishinoya yuu x f!reader. strangers to lovers. fake marriage. noya asks you to be his fake wife to score lodging discounts lol. reader is a med student. good guy nishinoya. fluff. yearning. mild angst. happy ending.
✦ foreword. this is a little fic dedicated to @megapteraurelia for the hq club room secret santa event organized by our lovely @sodaneko (thank you lale!!!) to jelly, i've been admiring you from afar for a while now, and was glad to have you as my giftee :D your prompts were all very fun to experiment with, and i hope you don't mind my pitiful attempt at personalizing this for you specifically! ofc i made this as general as i could for a reader-insert, but every minute detail was definitely written with you in mind <3 happy holidays, friend!
✦ p.s. the fic doesn't rly take place in rome but we're in italy so. CLOSE ENOUGH LOL
✦ p.p.s. i made a playlist for this fic here!
READ ON AO3
You are fairly certain that if you had stayed home, none of this would be happening.
You wouldn’t be sweating through your shirt at ten in the morning. You wouldn’t be dragging a wheeled suitcase up a staircase that looks like it was designed by someone who actively hated travelers. You wouldn’t be standing in the middle of a narrow street in Amalfi Coast, blinking up at pastel buildings stacked like they’re daring gravity to do something about it.
When your phone buzzes against your palm, the group chat lights up with a flurry of messages from the girls. They want to know if you’ve landed yet, demanding pictures and insisting that you breathe in the sea air because it’s healing.
You slip the device back into your pocket.
This trip wasn’t your idea. You didn’t wake up one morning and decide to become the kind of person who books a solo vacation to Italy after a breakup. You are not that self-possessed nor are you brave in that aesthetic way influencers always seem to be.
Your friends, however, are relentless.
They’d booked the flights while you were still in the foggy aftermath of your split. You’d laughed it off and started listing reasons the way you always did. You couldn’t just disappear for three weeks. You had work. Your passport might be expired. It was too much money. You didn’t even like traveling alone.
They dismantled every excuse with alarming efficiency, not because they wanted to win the argument, but because they loved you and had been watching you slowly fold in on yourself for months. Your boss would understand—they’d already checked. Your passport was fine. They’d split the cost because they were terrifyingly serious about this. And traveling alone, they told you gently, was the whole point.
You remembered staring down at your wine glass that night, watching condensation trail slowly toward the table. You thought about how every corner of your apartment still felt haunted by your ex—how the silence he left had stopped feeling peaceful and instead had grown sharp and invasive.
So now you’re here. Alone. With a suitcase that weighs too much and a heart that feels oddly hollow despite being freshly broken.
You’re following directions you only half-remember, replaying the boatman’s kind but rapid English in your head as you wind your way away from the dock.
Walking distance, he’d said, smiling as he pointed vaguely uphill. You’d just nodded along because that felt easier than admitting you were already overwhelmed.
The harbor fades behind you, replaced by streets that get narrower the farther you go. The sound of the water gives way to the scrape of luggage wheels against stone, and each bump jars all the way up your arms. You stop once, then twice, pretending to admire the view while your legs scream in protest.
So much for walking distance.
Your suitcase feels heavier by the minute, as though it’s actively punishing you for agreeing to this trip. Sweat clings uncomfortably at your back, and you’re acutely aware that everyone passing you looks relaxed and sun-kissed. Like they’re not dragging baggage—literal and otherwise—up a hill that feels endless.
By the time you finally spot the hotel sign, you could cry. You almost do.
The lobby is quiet and mercifully air-conditioned. You approach the front desk with fragile optimism as things start to look up. The receptionist stationed there greets you politely, asks for your name, and starts clicking away at the computer.
But then her smile falters.
She clicks again. Frowns. Tilts her head.
“I’m very sorry,” she says carefully. “But I don’t see your reservation.”
The silence stretches just enough for her words to register.
“What?” You snap up, bewildered. “That’s not possible. I booked it weeks ago.”
She asks for confirmation. You pull out your phone, fingers growing clammy as you scroll. The charge is clear as day in your phone gallery, reflecting the exact amount deducted from your account. You hold it out like evidence, like this should fix everything because it should.
The receptionist studies it before nodding sympathetically. “I understand. But the payment did not register in our system. You will need to contact your bank.”
Something cold drops into your stomach.
Your friends had sent the money they all pooled together that same girls’ night. You remember them watching you book the hotel in real time, cheering when the confirmation page loaded. The transaction had reflected immediately on your end.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. This couldn’t have happened.
“I-I can’t possibly pay for three weeks up front,” you stammer. “That money is already gone.”
“I’m very sorry,” she tells you, palms folding together on the counter. Her voice lowers as though she’s speaking to a child on the verge of tears. “But there is no active reservation under your name. Without confirmation from our system, I cannot check you in.”
You wait for an exception, a workaround, anything.
But the receptionist only offers you a small, helpless shake of her head.
Not wanting to inconvenience her further, you mumble a quick thanks before lugging your suitcase outside. You end up walking until you see a small café tucked just off the main road, shaded by an awning and mercifully empty compared to the others. Inside, it’s cool and smells faintly of roasted beans and sugar. You drag your suitcase in after you, parking it awkwardly beside a table like it belongs there.
You order an affogato because it feels safe. Because ice cream drowning in espresso seems like something meant to fix a bad day, even if only temporarily. When it arrives, you stare at it for a moment before taking a spoonful. Cold. Bitter. Sweet. The contrast makes your chest ache in a way that’s almost welcome.
Then you pull out your phone.
Lale picks up on the second ring.
“Hey,” your best friend greets groggily. You can picture her already sitting up in bed, hair a mess, worry written all over her face despite the harrowing time difference between here and home. “Was wondering when you were gonna check in. Everything alright?”
You close your eyes.
“The hotel didn’t have my reservation,” you tell her, the words tumbling out now that you’ve started. “They said the payment didn’t go through on their end, and… I don’t know what to do, Lale.”
There’s a pause—brief, but loaded.
“They what?” she says, sharp with disbelief. “But we watched you book it.”
“I know,” you sigh as you press the heel of your hand into your forehead. “I showed the receipts and everything, but apparently it didn’t go through on their end. They told me to talk to the bank.”
“Oh my god,” she exhales. “Okay. What did your bank say?”
Chewing on your bottom lip, you tell her the truth. “Haven’t reached out to them yet. I just know it’s just going to make me even more stressed.”
“Can’t argue with that.” Lale gives a sympathetic, lighthearted chuckle. “Where are you now though? Have you figured out where you’re staying?”
“A café. Where I’ll be staying is still up in the air though.”
“At least you’re safe.”
You huff out a weak laugh. “I mean… relatively.”
Silence falls over the line, the sound of sheets shifting on her end of the line. When Lale speaks again, her voice is calm in that way she’s perfected over years of being the level-headed one.
“Listen to me,” your best friend starts. “Flying back right now would be a nightmare. Last-minute tickets out of Naples are insane, and you’ll just be tired and miserable and crying in an airport for twelve hours.”
You glance down at your melting affogato. “So what, I just… stay?”
“You find another place for a few nights. I can help cover it if you need.”
“What? No. You guys already paid so much for me. I can’t ask for more.”
“Don’t be silly,” Lale beseeches gently. “That’s not—”
“I still have savings,” you cut in, forcing steadiness into your voice. “I’ll figure it out. I just needed a minute to rearrange my thoughts.”
She hesitates. You can hear it—the way she wants to push, the way she knows you too well.
“Are you sure?” she asks quietly. “The last thing we want is for you to end up broke in Europe with no way home.”
“I won’t,” you insist as you sit up straight. “I promise. I’ll be fine.”
Another pause.
“…Okay,” Lale sighs finally, still not convinced. “But you call me if anything changes. Anything.”
“I will,” you promise. “Thank you.”
After you hang up, the silence rushes back in.
You stare at your phone for a long moment before setting it down. Around you, the café hums softly with conversation and clinking cups. Even outside, people pass by unburdened, laughing and moving with purpose while your own world is just shy of collapsing in on itself.
It takes you seconds to open your phone’s browser.
Hotels near me.
Cheap accommodation Amalfi Coast.
Last-minute stays.
The prices make your stomach drop all over again.
You close the tab.
You have no plan. No backup. No idea where you’re sleeping tonight. You sit there with your suitcase at your feet, affogato half-melted, telling yourself over and over that you’ve got this.
Even though you absolutely, unequivocally, do not.
You’re still staring at the screen of your phone, thumb hovering uselessly when a voice cuts gently into your spiral.
“Is this seat taken?”
You answer without lifting your head, the response automatic as muscle memory kicks in before thought has a chance to intervene. “No, go ahead.”
It’s only after the words leave your mouth that you clock how something feels weird. Your gaze drifts upward, confusion blooming a second too late, and you realize with a faint jolt that the man before you just spoke to you in Japanese, and you’d replied in turn.
There’s a light tan to his skin, one that suggests time spent outdoors rather than a single reckless afternoon in the sun. He settles into the seat with easy familiarity, setting down a compact backpack at his feet—the same kind you’d noticed slung over the shoulders of other travelers on the boat ride you’d just disembarked from, people unburdened by excess.
A small portion of his bangs is dyed blond, the color catching the café’s warm light, while the rest of his hair sticks up in unruly black spikes. There’s a band-aid stretched across the bridge of his nose, slightly off-center, as if it’s been reapplied more than once. When he smiles at you, it’s open and unguarded, an expression that feels like it might get him into trouble more often than not.
He glances down at the affogato slowly losing its shape, espresso bleeding into pale ice cream. “That’s melting,” he remarks casually, still speaking Japanese as amusement threads through his voice.
You follow his gaze, momentarily flustered, and scoop up a hurried spoonful as if caught neglecting something important. Only then do you look back at him properly, the reality of the situation finally settling in.
“…Are you from Japan too?” you ask, still half-expecting the moment to dissolve.
He hums, lifting his own drink and taking an unhurried sip before answering. “I used to be. But I’ve been traveling for a while now. I haven’t been back in years.”
The way he says it is neither regretful nor proud—just matter-of-fact, as if home has become a flexible concept. You nod slowly, eyes flicking down to your oversized suitcase beside the table and then back to his lone backpack, suddenly aware of how conspicuous your presence must look.
Of all the places for this to happen, you think this feels absurdly, inconveniently well-timed. You glance at him again and the thought arrives almost fully formed.
“…Did you overhear me on the phone just now?”
There’s no point pretending otherwise. The café is small. Your voice hadn’t been as quiet as you’d wanted it to be. He doesn’t dodge it; doesn’t even look sheepish. He just exhales through his nose, a sound halfway to a laugh, and nods.
“A little,” he admits easily. “Not everything. Just enough to tell you were having a rough day.”
You should feel embarrassed. But instead, you feel tired enough that honesty slips out before caution can stop it.
“That obvious?”
He shrugs. “It’s happened to me before. Places like this mess things up all the time. Payments don’t go through. Reservations disappear. Somehow it’s always the traveler’s fault.”
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.
“You sound like you’ve got a lot of experience being screwed over.”
He laughs at that, head tipping back slightly, and when he looks at you again his smile is wider, warmer—crinkling at the corners of his eyes in a way that catches you completely off guard. It’s disarming. Annoyingly so.
“Well,” he drawls with an unapologetic grin, “that’s kind of the only thing traveling guarantees. You mess up enough times, you start collecting experience whether you want to or not.”
You huff a quiet laugh despite yourself.
There’s a pause then, the comfortable kind, filled only by the din of the café and the clink of a spoon against porcelain. He watches you for a moment before speaking again.
“I’m Nishinoya,” he says, offering his name like it’s nothing more than another small courtesy.
You hesitate, just briefly.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, Lale’s voice pipes up—don’t tell strangers your name, reminding you that shared language doesn’t equal shared safety. That you’re still alone in a foreign country with a suitcase and no plan.
Still.
You tell him your name anyway. Partly out of politeness. Partly because he doesn’t feel like a threat. Mostly because you’re too exhausted to guard every inch of yourself anymore.
He repeats it once, like he’s testing the sound of it. “Nice to meet you.”
You talk a little more after that. Nothing heavy. Where you’re from. How long you’re supposed to be here. He doesn’t pry when you skirt around details, doesn’t ask anything too personal, and you realize eventually that your shoulders have dropped, and you feel lighter than you’ve been all day.
It’s only when the conversation lulls that he shifts in his seat, expression turning thoughtful.
“The inn I’m heading to is doing couples discounts right now,” Nishinoya begins casually. “Honeymoon season and all that. Apparently if you’re married, everything’s cheaper here at Amalfi.”
You blink. “Oh. That’s… considerate of them.”
Something flashes across his face then—something like mischief, unmistakable and utterly unrepentant. His grin returns, brighter than before, all bad ideas and confidence, and it makes your heart stutter traitorously in your chest.
“So,” he says as he leans forward, brown eyes catching the light as they lift to yours
“Wanna be my wife for a few weeks?”
The place Nishinoya leads you to looks like it belongs in a movie.
It isn’t polished or minimalist like the hotel you initially booked, but the place feels lived in, rustic and sun-warmed. The stone exterior is worn smooth with age, pale bougainvillea climbing its walls in lazy bursts of color. Wooden shutters sit open, catching the light, and somewhere inside you can hear the low hum of conversation, the clatter of dishes, and domestic noise that makes your chest ache.
Your “husband” steps in beside you without hesitation, fingers brushing yours just once before settling properly in the spaces between yours. The gesture comes to him easily, as though he has always belonged there. You’re acutely aware of the matching wedding rings on your fingers—simple, unassuming bands of gold that catch the light every time you move. They feel heavier than they have any right to be.
“Welcome, welcome!” the owner greets warmly. Her smile only widens when her gaze catches on your intertwined fingers. “Newlyweds?”
“Yes,” Nishinoya answers smoothly in English, squeezing your hand once. “We just arrived today.”
You nod as you force your own smile into place. Husband and wife. Right.
The owner (Chiara, as she introduced herself) seems delighted when she ushers you both inside with an enthusiasm that leaves little room for questions. As she walks you through the inn, she points out the dining area first—wooden tables, mismatched chairs, candles already lit despite the lingering daylight.
“You may order until two in the morning,” she tells you cheerfully. “Breakfast begins at six. Oh, and you must try the pastries—my sister makes them from scratch!”
Chiara then leads you past a small hanging garden with herbs spilling over clay pots, leaves brushing your arm as you pass. Then she opens a set of doors that lead out onto a terrace, and you stop short.
The view stretches out endlessly—the coastline laid bare beneath a sky just beginning to soften into evening. The sea glimmers far below, rooftops stacked and scattered like something from a storybook rather than built with real human hands. The air here smells like salt and citrus and something faintly floral.
“It’s beautiful,” you breathe before you can stop yourself.
Nishinoya grins, and you try not to stiffen when his arm loops around your waist.
After the tour, Chiara finally brings you to your room, unlocking the door with a practiced twist of her wrist. You and Nishinoya step inside together, still playing your parts, still holding hands as your “husband” helps wheel your luggage inside.
The room is warm and close, wrapped in pale wood and softened by age. Sheer curtains lift and fall with the breeze slipping in from the open balcony, carrying with it the distant hush of the sea.
And there, unmistakably in the center of the room, is the bed.
One bed.
Large. Immaculate. Soft-looking in a way that feels vaguely threatening.
You keep your expression neutral, nodding along as the owner explains where everything is. You even murmur something about the immaculate view, and how perfect it all is. As a married couple, this should be unremarkable. Expected, even.
When Chiara finally leaves, the silence rushes in.
Nishinoya exhales before immediately blurting in Japanese:
“I can sleep on the floor.”
You turn to him, startled. “What? No.”
“I’ve slept in worse places,” he adds quickly, already glancing around like he’s assessing the terrain. “Trains. Park benches. Even under a bridge once—”
“Absolutely not,” you interrupt with an insistent shake of your head. “It’s fine. The bed’s big enough. We can just… stay on our own sides or something.”
He pauses to study you for a moment before shrugging. “Alright then.”
That’s it. No argument or awkwardness on his end. Just agreement, like this is another simple problem with a simple solution. You, on the other hand, are too hyper aware of everything else—of how close the bed is, of how small the room suddenly feels, of how real this arrangement has become in the span of a single afternoon.
You excuse yourself to the balcony under the pretense of wanting air.
The sky has deepened into soft gold and blue in the faraway horizon. You rest your hands on the railing, breathing in the salt air slowly as you try to steady yourself. Your gaze drifts down without meaning to, catching on the band of gold around your finger.
Your “wedding ring”.
It gleams softly in the fading light, and the weight of it settles somewhere deep in your chest. The mere sight of it makes you wonder what exactly you’ve gotten yourself into.
Wanna be my wife for a few weeks?
For a moment, you just stare at him.
At the ease in his posture, and the way his brown eyes are still warm with amusement, like he’s fully aware of how outrageous that sounded and has decided to say it anyway. The café noise fades into the background, replaced by the dull rush of blood in your ears.
“…Sorry,” you say finally. “What?”
Nishinoya doesn’t repeat himself right away. He watches you with patience, as though he knows you need the time. You take it and do a quick, ruthless inventory in your head.
You have no hotel. Flying home would be worse—expensive, exhausting, humiliating. Your savings exist, but they are not infinite. He’s Japanese, which helps in ways you don’t want to admit. He’s also a stranger, which absolutely does not.
And then there’s the word he used.
Wife.
Your ex’s voice rises unbidden in your memory—how he used to introduce you, how he liked the way being with him seemed to define you more than you ever meant it to. With him, marriage had always been framed as inevitability, not choice. Until you broke up, sure. But the thought of being perceived that way again, even as a joke, even as a lie, makes your stomach turn.
“You’re joking,” you say, though it comes out more uncertain than you’d like. “Right?”
He tilts his head. “Only a little.”
You blink. “This is something you’ve… done before?”
“Yeah,” he says easily, like you’ve asked whether he’s taken this bus route before. “A few times.”
A few times.
“Fake wives,” he continues, ticking it off on his fingers. “Fake husbands too, a few times. It really depends on the situation. Tourist places like this love couples, especially married ones. It’s basically a free discount code.”
You stare at him, mildly horrified.
“That’s—” You stop, recalibrate. “That’s insane.”
He grins. “Effective, though.”
Your instinctive reaction is to shut it down. To laugh it off. To stand up, thank him for the sympathy, and return to panicking alone like a normal person. That old reflex whispers that it’s safer not to belong to anyone, even in name. Safer not to let yourself be folded into someone else’s story again.
But practicality creeps in, unwelcome and persistent especially under that hazel-eyed stare of his.
“…You’re serious about this,” you say slowly.
“Absolutely,” Nishinoya replies. “But only if you are. I don’t push. Ever.”
He leans back in his chair, giving you space instead of crowding you with enthusiasm.
“Don’t get me wrong, we can set rules if it makes you feel better. A few boundaries,” he adds. “We decide everything beforehand. You can back out whenever you want—no explanations, no guilt. Same goes for me.”
You study his face, searching for something reckless, something slippery.
You don’t find it.
“And the lying?” you ask. “Won’t that get us in trouble?”
“Don’t worry, sweets. This isn’t airport immigration. They won’t ask us for our marriage certificate as proof,” he laughs cheekily, a sound that warms your cheeks. “We can just show them a matching set of wedding rings, and we’re home free.”
You try not to dwell on the way he calls you sweets.
Before you can respond, he reaches down and unzips his backpack, rummaging briefly before pulling out a small pouch. It looks worn and well-traveled. He opens it and tips the contents gently onto the table.
A handful of rings scatter softly against the wood.
They’re simple bands—gold, silver, one slightly too big, another thinner than the rest. None of them flashy. None of them new.
“Souvenirs,” he explains, nudging one aside. “A couple were given to me a few years back. Some I bought just in case.” He glances up at you with his lips curling into a sordid smile. “I try to be prepared.”
You let out a startled laugh before you can stop yourself.
It bubbles up unexpectedly, real and unguarded, cutting through the tension you’ve been carrying since you stepped off the boat on the way here. It surprises you both.
“This is unbelievable,” you mutter.
He slides the rings toward you. “You can pick. Or not. No pressure.”
You hover your fingers over them, suddenly aware of how absurd this all is—and how carefully he’s making room for you to decide. Your ex had always decided for you, always framed choices like conclusions already drawn. The contrast makes your throat tighten.
When you finally select one, it’s the simplest of the lot, cool against your skin.
It fits.
That shouldn’t matter. Yet it does.
“Okay,” you say slowly, exhaling. “Let’s say—hypothetically—I agree.”
Nishinoya nods, an implicit tell for you to keep going.
“We keep our finances separate,” you continue. “No touching in public unless it’s absolutely necessary. We don’t share a bed if it the circumstances allow it.”
“Agreed.”
“And if either of us wants out,” you add, meeting his gaze, “we’re out. No questions.”
“Right on the money.”
You hesitate, then add the last condition—the one that matters most. “This is temporary, okay? Just until I get back on my feet. I don’t want to inconvenience you during my entire stay…”
He smiles, soft and knowing, and agrees without hesitation. “Of course. Although I do think I’ll be staying here longer. In fact, how long are you here for anyway?”
“Three weeks,” you admit somewhat sheepishly.
“Oh? Three weeks is no time at all, sweets. Don’t worry about it.”
You don’t notice it then—the way he says it like he already knows how this will go. So you slip the ring onto your finger, heart pounding, and glance up at him.
“So,” you start. “You’re my… husband.”
Nishinoya grins even wider, looking far too delighted for his own good.
“And you are my wife.”
On your very first night, dinner ends up somewhere in Ravello.
Nishinoya recommended a bistro tucked away from the main road where the tables spill out onto stone pavement and the lights are strung just low enough to feel intentional rather than touristy. It’s affordable in a way that feels like a small victory for your budget.
You half expect your companion to excuse himself the moment you two leave the inn’s line of sight and reclaim whatever distance this arrangement is supposed to have. But he doesn’t. He walks beside you easily with his hands in his pockets, matching your pace without comment as if the idea of splitting off hadn’t occurred to him at all.
Once you’re seated, Nishinoya starts talking.
Not aimlessly but with the confidence of someone who’s walked these streets before. He points out which bakeries open earliest, which restaurants water down their wine, which viewpoints are worth the climb and which ones only look good on postcards. Nishinoya even shares which ferry schedules are a gamble on a good day.
Nishinoya talks like someone who’s learned things the hard way and you listen with your elbow propped on the table, chin resting in your palm. It’s easy to forget, for stretches of time, that this began as a negotiation. He isn’t performing expertise; he’s sharing it, passing it along freely, like information is meant to be used rather than hoarded.
“And never buy souvenirs near the docks,” he adds, spearing a piece of pasta. “They jack up the prices. You’ll find the same stuff two streets over at half the cost.”
“You sound like a tour guide,” you remark.
He grins. “I’ve been accused of worse.”
Between bites, he tells you about other places—crowded hostels, missed trains, nights spent sleeping wherever there was space. He talks about it all lightly, but not flippantly, like someone who knows the difference between hardship and adventure. Every so often, Nishinoya pauses to ask about you, and the questions aren’t cursory. He waits for the answers.
You find yourself telling him things you hadn’t planned to.
That you have always liked the sea. That you’re the kind of person who could stand by the water for hours and never feel bored. That sea creatures—big, small, strange, unseen—fascinate you in a way that feels silly considering your age, something that Nishinoya refutes immediately with a shake of his head.
“I was a volleyball meathead in high school. Still am now,” he shares with a quaint little grin. “So don’t call the stuff that makes you happy silly.”
“If I’d had it my way,” you admit, swirling your drink absently, “I would’ve studied something like marine biology. Anything that let me stay close to the ocean.”
“But you didn’t.”
You shake your head. “I’m in med school.”
He perks up immediately, eyes bright. “Oh? Is that so?”
You give him a wary look. “Don’t.”
He laughs. “What? I’m impressed.” Then, with a grin that tells you exactly where this is going, “Good to know we’ve got a doctor in our midst then, sweets.”
You smack his arm without thinking, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to get your point across. “I’m not a doctor yet.”
“Still.” Nishinoya shrugs, unfazed. “Future doctor. Even better.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, and you hate how easy it feels. How natural it is to sit here with him, trading stories over shared plates, the salt air brushing past your ankles like it belongs.
The two of you walk back at an unhurried pace. Evening has settled comfortably over Ravello by the time you climb the last set of steps. The air is cooler now, kinder, and the ache in your legs feels earned rather than punishing. When you make it inside, the lobby is quiet—lights dimmed, voices lowered, the kind of hush that signals the day is officially over.
Once you’re inside the room, Nishinoya hesitates by the door like he’s waiting for a cue.
“You go first,” he says, already reaching for a towel. “Bathroom’s all yours.”
You blink at him before murmuring a quick thanks as you retreat.
The shower you take is longer than necessary. You let the water run until your thoughts finally slow, then go through your nightly routine with careful attention—cleanser, toner, moisturizer, one step after another until you feel like yourself again.
When you finally step back into the room, Nishinoya is still there, rifling quietly through his bag as he sets out fresh clothes. He looks up when he hears you, gives you a brief nod, then heads towards the bathroom you just emerged from.
You change into sleepwear and perch on the edge of the bed, taking in the room again now that the day’s chaos has dulled into something manageable. The balcony doors are still open, and the curtains stir lazily with the breeze. After a moment, you hear the muted rush of running water.
By the time he returns, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends, a towel slung loosely around his neck, you realize you’re staring.
His hair is usually styled upward, all sharp edges that reflect his endless reserve of energy. Now it hangs softer, dyed blond bangs slipping down across his eyes, giving him a gentler look that feels unfairly distracting.
You look away quickly, pretending to fuss with your phone.
“So,” Nishinoya asks, toweling his hair as he moves to the other side of the bed. “What’s the plan for tomorrow?”
You ponder about it for a moment before telling him about the guided tour you’ve already booked in advance—how it covers the coast for the first week and that everything’s scheduled down to the hour. As you speak, you realize how defensive it sounds, like you’re bracing for judgment. He was a seasoned traveler, after all.
But Nishinoya only listens.
When you admit you don’t have much planned beyond that—two weeks intentionally left open, meant for wandering and figuring things out as you go—he exhales through his nose and shakes his head.
“Guided tours,” he says mildly. “They’re kind of a scam.”
You wince. “I thought so.”
“They mostly bank on tourists being afraid of getting swindled,” he continues, tone thoughtful rather than dismissive. “Which—okay, sometimes that’s fair. But most of the time it’s just capitalism trying to mess with you.”
He glances at you, expression softening. “That said, it’s already paid for. No reason not to enjoy it.”
You relax at that.
“I’ll just… do my own thing while you’re on the tour,” he adds. “Wait for you to finish each day. But—” He pauses, eyes flicking to yours, a spark of something playful there. “—only if you agree to try the Nishinoya Yuu Grand Tour after that planned itinerary of yours.”
You snort. “Is that included in the honeymoon package?”
“Very exclusive,” he says solemnly. “No refunds.”
You consider the idea of having someone show you around without an agenda after a brief pause. He’s proven to be great company so far, and you’re free to jump ship whenever you please.
“Alright,” you agree. “Deal.”
“Nice,” Nishinoya grins, satisfied.
You settle into bed after that, each claiming a side without discussion. There’s a noticeable gap between you—respectful and intentional. As you lie on your back, staring at the ceiling, you are made even more aware of his presence without feeling crowded by it.
The sea murmurs somewhere beyond the balcony doors. The room smells faintly of soap and salt. Your counterfeit wedding rings sit together in a dish on the nightstand. You turn onto your side eventually, careful not to cross the invisible line between you, and let your eyes close.
Tomorrow will come soon enough.
Nishinoya was right. Guided tours are an absolute scam.
You learn this within the first hour, when you’re told not to stray more than five steps from the group, not to take photos without permission, not to ask questions until the end. Restrictions are fine. Sensible, even. But this feels excessive, like the experience has been vacuum-sealed for safety and convenience until there’s barely anything left to enjoy.
By the time the shuttle pulls over near a statue the guide announces as historically significant, you’re already drifting. He speaks in a steady monotone that suggests he never wanted this job in the first place and has long since stopped trying to pretend otherwise. The statue itself is weathered and solemn, positioned dramatically against the coastline, and you know you should care more than you do. But you don’t.
So you find a spot a little ways off, close enough to still be counted, and pull out your phone.
It’s a terrible idea. The time difference flashes across your mind—eight hours ahead, dead of night back home—but boredom outweighs caution. You tap Lale’s name before you can overthink it.
She picks up on the third ring.
“…Do you know what time it is?” she murmurs groggily.
Relief floods you anyway. “You’re awake.”
“I am now,” she sighs. “Why haven’t you updated us? Do you know how worried I’ve been?”
You smile faintly. “I’m fine. I swear. I’ve got everything under control.”
A scoff. “You always say that.”
“I’m staying at this inn in Ravello,” you continue, eager to redirect. “It overlooks the whole coast. It’s… a really beautiful place. Kinda glad you guys roped me into this whole thing.”
She hums, the sound softening. “Ravello, huh. Sounds expensive.”
“It’s not,” you say quickly. “Shockingly reasonable, actually.”
You talk her ear off for a few minutes, but you do not mention Nishinoya. You absolutely do not mention the fake marriage, or the ring on your finger, or the single bed. Lale does not need that information at two in the morning.
There’s a pause on the line, one that makes your shoulders tense.
“…Are you sure you’re alright?” she asks carefully. “No weird people trying to sidle up to you or anything?”
“Nope. Just a very boring guided tour I shouldn’t have splurged on.”
She laughs, the sound bright even through the phone. “Figures. At least tell me—has it helped? Are you thinking about him less?”
You blink.
You think back to how you’d left things behind—the apartment that felt too small once your ex was gone, the silence that pressed in on you from all sides. You’d spent so long turning conversations over in your head, replaying endings like they might soften if you examined them closely enough. But now, standing here by the sea, you realize you haven’t done that once.
“I…” You trail off. “I actually haven’t thought about him since I got here.”
There’s another beat, then Lale’s laugh turns soft and satisfied. “Good. That’s really good.”
“Yeah. I guess it is.”
“Enjoy the rest of your vacation,” your best friend implores. “And update the group chat, at least. We’re living vicariously through you.”
“I will,” you promise.
You hang up just as the guide’s voice drifts back into focus, still droning on about dates and names that refuse to stick. As the group starts moving again, you follow along, but your mind wanders.
Unbidden, you imagine Nishinoya at the front instead—gesturing animatedly, pointing things out not because he has to, but because he wants to. You can almost hear him explaining the statue in his own way, weaving some ridiculous anecdote into it, somehow making even this feel alive.
You shake your head, catching yourself.
The thought slips in and out just as quickly, and you don’t linger on it. You fall back in line with the rest of the group, climbing onto the shuttle and claiming a window seat as it rumbles to life. The coastline rolls past in familiar blues and greens, pretty but already starting to blur together.
Whatever this arrangement you have, it’s temporary. Even if, inconveniently, you’re already looking forward to telling Nishinoya just how boring your day was without him.
The tour finally spits you back out where it found you when the shuttle wheezes to a stop at the small waiting shed just outside town. You step down with the rest of the group, legs aching despite the fact that you’ve done little more than stand, shuffle, and take photos you’ll later send to the group chat as proof that you’re having a great time. The heat clings to you in a way that feels heavier than summers back home, the air thicker, saltier, and harder to ignore.
You’re tired in that particular, useless way—exhausted without feeling accomplished.
It takes you a second to spot him.
Nishinoya is already there, standing beneath the shade of the shed in what can only be described as full fisherman gear. Boots. A khaki vest over a loose, sun-faded shirt. Something slung over his shoulder that looks like it’s seen real work today. He’s mid-conversation with a cluster of elderly women, all of them animated, hands moving as they talk over one another. He laughs easily, bright and unrestrained, like he’s known them for years instead of hours.
You slow without meaning to.
He’d been gone when you woke up that morning, your shared bed empty and sheets cool on his side. You’d realized, belatedly, that neither of you had exchanged contact information, and had spent the rest of the day reasonably assuming that the oversight might’ve been a mistake.
Apparently not.
It takes him no time at all to notice you. His gaze flicks up, locks onto yours, and his face brightens instantly, like someone’s turned a dial all the way up.
Nishinoya excuses himself with a few quick words, tossing a quick, “Thank you! My wife’s here!” in English, waving once before turning fully toward you.
You freeze for half a second. He doesn’t need to pretend out here. The agreement only extends as far as the inn. Yet he’s already crossing the distance with a skip to his step like he was actually excited to see you again.
Nishinoya reaches you, slips a hand into yours, and presses a quick kiss to your cheek.
It’s brief, warm, and utterly casual.
“How was the tour?” he asks, eyes crinkling.
You blink, caught off guard, and scramble for something that sounds normal. “Oh—um. It was… good,” you say, then wince internally and tack on, “Very… educational.”
Nishinoya’s grin deepens, clearly unconcerned with the quality of your answer.
Behind him, you hear a chorus of soft chuckles.
“Ah,” one of the women says, eyes bright as she looks between the two of you. Another hums approvingly, her gaze dropping pointedly to the ring on your finger before sliding back up to Nishinoya’s face. She says something in Italian that earns a round of knowing laughter.
You shift on your feet, suddenly hyper aware of his hand now holding yours.
The woman nearest you smiles and switches to English. “You should leave the tour,” she says kindly, as if offering advice she’s very confident in. She gestures at Nishinoya with her chin. “Spend time with Yuu instead. He makes everything fun.”
You let out a nervous laugh, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I-I’ll think about it.”
They seem satisfied with that.
By the time you start walking back toward the inn together, your hand is still in his, and you don’t comment on it. Nishinoya launches into his day without prompting, words tumbling over each other as he tells you about heading out to sea with a few local fishermen that morning.
“And then—okay, you’re not going to believe this—but I actually caught a marlin,” he boasts.
You snort. “You’re bluffing.”
“I would never bluff about this sort of thing,” he protests immediately, affronted and already digging into his phone. He thrusts it toward you as the screen displays a photo of him beside an insanely large marlin, pride written all over his face.
You stare for a moment, then laugh. “Oh my god.”
“I brought it back to the inn after lunch,” he continues. “Chiara and her sisters are already figuring out what to do with it. Pretty sure dinner’s going to be… excessive. Could feed all of us for a week if they froze some of it. ”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, as he launches into stories about the morning. How he nearly lost his grip when the line first jerked hard enough to rattle his shoulders. How an argument broke out on the boat over whether the marlin was luck or skill. Nishinoya reenacts it all with broad gestures and poorly contained excitement, voice rising and falling as if the moment is still unfolding in front of him.
By the time he finishes, you’re laughing softly, the image of it vivid enough that it feels like you’d been there with him. And somewhere between his animated storytelling, you realize something:
Maybe you won’t be finishing that guided tour after all.
Unlike your carefully color-coded itinerary, the Nishinoya Yuu Grand Amalfi Tour appears to run on an entirely different operating system.
Namely: vibes.
He never tells you what’s planned ahead of time. Any attempt to coax details out of him is met with a grin that suggests he’s enjoying your mild irritation far too much to give it up now. “Trust me,” he keeps saying, like that alone should be enough to override years of habit and common sense.
At the end of your first week in Amalfi, you’re starting to suspect it might actually be the case because that’s the day he wakes you up at four in the morning.
You surface slowly, still disoriented, the room still dark and cool, and the sea outside nothing but a low, distant hush. For a blissful half second, you think you’ve imagined it—until the bedside lamp flicks on and Nishinoya’s face appears in your line of sight, far too alert for an hour that is meant for sweet, undisturbed REM sleep.
“Morning,” he whispers loudly in Japanese, like he always does when it’s just the two of you.
You squint at him. “It’s… still night.”
He checks his watch theatrically. “Technically, yes.”
You groan and roll onto your side, pulling the pillow over your head. “Nishinoya.”
“C’mon,” he cajoles, poking your shoulder. “This one’s important. Once-in-a-lifetime timing.”
“I am an early riser,” you mumble into the pillow before stealing a glance at the time on your phone lockscreen. “But four a.m. is a little ridiculous, don’t you think?”
He laughs, unabashed. “You’ll forgive me later.”
That remains to be seen.
Still, you drag yourself up, shuffle into the bathroom, and go through the motions on autopilot. You splash water on your face, tie your hair back, pull on clothes that feel only marginally appropriate for whatever fresh madness he’s orchestrated. When you step back out, Nishinoya’s already ready, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet like this is Christmas morning instead of ass o’clock.
You leave the inn at five while the streets of Ravello are hushed and half-asleep, shutters still closed, the sky a muted blue-gray that promises dawn but hasn’t delivered yet. Nishinoya stays infuriatingly tight-lipped the entire walk downhill, humming to himself while you trudge along beside him, trying not to trip over your own feet.
At one point, you consider texting Lale your location—just in case. He’s charming, yes. Friendly. Endearingly unhinged. But you’ve also watched enough documentaries to know better.
That thought loses steam the moment you reach the harbor.
It’s already alive with motion. Tourists mill about in small clusters, some yawning openly, others clutching steaming coffee cups. A few couples pose for photos against the faint light creeping over the water. The presence of people loosens something in your chest.
You board the boat with the rest of them, the engine rumbling to life beneath your feet. Nishinoya claims a spot along the side and pats the bench beside him. You sit, tucking your hands into your sleeves as the boat pulls away from the dock.
As it picks up speed, the coast slips past in quiet silhouettes, cliffs softened by shadows, and the sea smooth and dark and endless. The wind is cold enough to wake you properly, threading through your hair, carrying the clean, briny smell of open water.
It’s peaceful in a way that feels almost unreal.
You glance at Nishinoya, who’s leaning forward slightly, elbows on his knees, watching the horizon like he’s greeting an old friend. The light catches his profile and something about it nudges at you.
“So,” you yell over the roar of the engine. “Where’re you from? In Japan?”
He blinks, then looks at you, surprised but not guarded.
“Sendai,” Nishinoya answers easily. “Miyagi Prefecture, specifically. Born and raised.”
You nod. “That tracks.”
“Yeah?” He grins. “How so?”
“You did call yourself a volleyball meathead,” you point out as you try to recall some things that Lale’s partner, Kiyoomi, once shared in passing. “I heard Sendai had some strong teams.”
Nishinoya snorts, but the expression that crosses his face afterward is… complicated. Fond, definitely. A little sad, maybe. It’s there and gone so quickly you almost think you imagined it.
Instead of addressing it, he straightens, grin snapping back into place like it’s muscle memory. “Best high school volleyball team in the world,” he announces proudly. “I was the libero. Got called all sorts of stuff: Guardian Deity, Savior of the Court, One in a Million Defender—”
“You’re making those up.”
“I am absolutely not,” he insists, offended. “Okay, maybe some of them. But the Guardian Deity thing was real.”
You smile, listening as he launches into story after story—about impossible saves, roaring crowds, teammates who trusted him with everything. You picture it without effort: him younger but no less electric, throwing himself across varnished wooden floors, fearless and unyielding.
When he finally pauses for breath, you ask carefully, “So… why’d you stop?”
The shift is subtle, but you feel it. Nishinoya’s shoulders relax, his gaze drifting toward the horizon where the sky has begun to lighten, the deep blue thinning just enough to hint at what’s coming.
“I just… thought I needed to see what else was out there,” he says after a moment. His voice is quieter now, but no less sure. “Figure out who I was without all that, and I’m glad I did.”
It sounds genuine. It feels genuine. Yet, there’s something unfinished about it, like a sentence deliberately left without its final clause.
You don’t push. Some things aren’t yours to pry open.
Instead, you sit beside him as the boat cuts through the water, the air cool and briny, the world holding its breath in that fragile space before morning. The sea stretches on in the slowly receding darkness and for the first time since you arrived, you don’t think about where you’re going next.
You just let yourself be carried by the tide.
You finally find out where he’s been taking you when the boatman throttles down and calls out their arrival, voice ringing clear across the water.
“Capri!”
The name lands with a strange mix of familiarity and disbelief. Capri Island was printed neatly on your abandoned itinerary, a crucial part of the guided tour you’d ditched without much remorse. You’d assumed you’d get here eventually, just… not like this.
The boat nudges up against the dock, ropes thrown, planks set. People begin to disembark in a loose, unhurried line. You step forward with them, misjudging the distance between the boat and the wooden platform by just a fraction—
—and your foot slips.
The world tilts off its axis. Salt air rushes up to meet your face.
But then a hand catches your waist, yanking you back before your brain even has time to panic. You collide lightly with a solid chest, fingers clutching instinctively at the fabric of his shirt. For a heartbeat, everything freezes.
You look up.
Nishinoya is already looking down at you, eyes wide and bright, breath warm against your cheek. You’re close enough to count the freckles dusted across his nose, close enough to feel the steady strength of the arm still braced around you. The noise of the harbor fades to a dull hum, replaced by the thunder of your pulse.
Then he clears his throat and gently sets you upright, hands lingering just long enough to make sure you’re steady before pulling back.
“Careful,” he says lightly, like he didn’t just pluck you out of mid-disaster.
Behind you, the boatman lets out a sharp whistle, laughing as he rattles off something in rapid Italian. You don’t catch the words, but the tone is unmistakably impressed.
Nishinoya beams and shoots back a reply just as animated, one hand gesturing wildly as if reenacting the whole thing. He offers you his arm as you step down the plank properly this time, steadying you until both your feet are safely on solid ground.
Your face burns.
“Th—thank you,” you manage, mortified and relieved in equal measure.
He just laughs, bright and unbothered. “Hey, I can’t have a future doctor drowning on me. My conscience would never let me live it down.”
You huff a shaky laugh as the two of you head toward town, the early morning still quiet enough that your footsteps echo faintly against the stone. After a moment, you add, almost offhand, “It was a… nice save. By the way.”
“Mm?” he hums.
“I, uh. I don’t know how to swim.”
He stops.
You take two more steps before realizing he’s no longer beside you and turn back to find him staring at you like you’ve just told him the sky is green.
“…I thought you liked sea creatures,” Nishinoya says slowly.
Your face goes even hotter. “Liking them doesn’t mean I’m good at swimming. That’s actually—” You hesitate, then sigh. “That’s part of why I never pursued marine biology.”
The words feel fragile once they’re out, like glass set carefully on a table. You brace instinctively for the familiar dismissal, the way your ex had always waved it off like a childish phase best forgotten.
Instead, Nishinoya just smiles.
“Then I’ll teach you how to swim,” he chirps.
You blink. “But I’m unteachable.”
“There’s no such thing.”
“No, I’m serious.”
He only grins wider. “Then I’ll be the judge of that. Soon, though—not now, ‘cause we gotta take a chairlift up the mountain.”
Before you can argue, he’s already tugging you along, leading you toward a small building with a sign proudly declaring ANACAPRI CHAIRLIFT above the entrance. To which Nishinoya helpfully supplies that Anacapri means 'top of Capri', implying that you’re in for a view. Thankfully, you’re the first ones there, the teller barely looking up as he recites the price.
You reach for your wallet automatically, but Nishinoya’s hand snaps out, stopping you mid-motion.
“I got it,” he says.
Before you can question that, he leans forward and produces something from his small pack—a small glass bottle sealed with wax, pale yellow liquid catching the light. Limoncello. The homemade kind, not the mass-produced stuff lining souvenir shop shelves. The teller’s eyes flicker with recognition. He glances once toward the door, then accepts it discreetly, sliding two tickets across the counter.
Free of charge.
Nishinoya ushers you out toward the lift before you can even process it.
“Did you just bribe that guy?!” you hiss in Japanese as an attendant begins strapping you into your seats.
From the chair behind yours, Nishinoya snickers. “Hey, it’s just a well-known custom around these parts.”
“You really are a cheapskate.”
“Implying limoncello is cheap?” he shoots back, mock-offended.
“Yes,” you say flatly. “That’s exactly what I’m implying.”
He laughs from the chair behind yours, the sound carried easily through the cool morning air.
You’re still mildly grumpy about it—about the bribe, about his infuriating ease with things, about the way he keeps pulling surprises out of thin air—when the chairlift lurches forward and begins its slow ascent. The motion pulls a small, involuntary sound from you as your feet lift off the ground, dangling freely over the slope below.
“Relax,” Nishinoya calls. “It’s sturdy.”
“That’s what everyone says right before something goes wrong.”
“Hey, if we die, at least it’s scenic.”
You huff, gripping the edge of the seat a little tighter than necessary as the lift carries you upward, the forest rising to meet you. The path cuts straight through a stretch of trees, branches brushing close enough that you can hear leaves whisper against one another. For a while, all you see is green and shadow and the pale steel line stretching endlessly above.
Then the trees begin to thin.
You hesitate, then let your gaze drift outward—and stop breathing for a second.
Capri spreads out beneath you, smaller than the main island along the Amalfi Coast but no less striking, its rugged cliffs catching the first real light of morning. The sea beyond it is an uninterrupted expanse of blue, darker near the shore and slowly lightening as it stretches toward the horizon. The sun hasn’t fully crested yet, but its presence is unmistakable now, gilding the edges of everything it touches.
“Oh,” you murmur.
You instinctively reach for your phone, then freeze, suddenly very aware of the fact that you’re suspended hundreds of feet in the air with nothing but open space beneath you. The idea of fumbling your grip and watching it tumble into oblivion is enough to make you tuck it safely back into your pocket.
Nishinoya laughs softly. “Yeah. Probably not worth the risk.”
You don’t answer right away. You’re too busy watching the light shift, the colors deepen, the island slowly wake beneath you. The earlier annoyance fades, replaced by a quiet understanding that settles in your chest.
So this is why he woke you up at four in the morning.
By the time the chairlift reaches the top of Monte Solaro, you feel almost weightless, like the ascent has shaken something loose inside you. You step off carefully, legs a little shaky, and follow Nishinoya toward the edge of the viewing platform.
The ocean stretches endlessly in every direction, an unbroken sheet of blue that makes you feel very small and strangely unburdened all at once. The breeze up here is stronger, cooler, carrying the clean scent of salt and sky. Below, the island curves and dips, rooftops and paths reduced to tiny, orderly shapes.
You stand there in silence, taking it in, letting the view settle into you.
After a moment, Nishinoya glances over, grin softer than before as he takes your hand in his. You let him.
“Worth it?”
You exhale slowly, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.
“…Yeah,” you admit. “Worth it.”
Sometime later, you wander through narrow streets lined with shops selling hand-painted ceramics, linen scarves, little blue-and-white magnets shaped like fish and lemons and cliffs. You linger, compare prices, pick things up and put them back down again, trying to imagine your friends’ faces when they open these pieces of a place you hadn’t known you needed so badly.
Nishinoya trails along beside you with easy patience, hands tucked into his pockets or hooked through the straps of his pack. He doesn’t buy anything for himself—not once. Instead, he steers you subtly toward stalls tucked a street away from the main drag, murmuring, “This guy’ll knock ten euros off if you smile first,” like it’s insider knowledge meant only for you.
It strikes you, somewhere between haggling for a set of hand-glazed espresso cups and picking out a ridiculous keychain shaped like a squid, that he doesn’t leave pieces of himself behind the way most travelers do.
No trinkets. No keepsakes. No little proof that he was here.
He travels light—just his backpack, his clothes washed and rewashed at Chiara’s inn, possessions reduced to what he can carry without thinking. It’s not that he seems detached from places. If anything, he’s deeply present, absorbing details, collecting experiences with an intensity that makes everything feel brighter. It’s just that once he leaves, he doesn’t cling to physical reminders.
Like he trusts himself to remember.
Or maybe like he’s learned not to anchor himself to any one place for too long.
The thought lingers with you as the afternoon heat presses down, and by the time you end up at a quirky seaside restaurant, you’re still half-lost in it.
You’re staring absently at the water when Nishinoya leans forward with his elbows on the table, that no-good grin sharp enough to cut through your thoughts.
“You’ve been spacing out,” he observes. “Did souvenir shopping tire you out that much, sweets?”
You blink and refocus on him.
He looks… unfairly good like this. A little rumpled from hours in the sun, shirt clinging slightly at the collar, a thin sheen of sweat catching the light across his brow. His dyed blond bangs have fallen out of place, curling softly against his forehead, and he looks energized rather than worn down, like the heat only feeds whatever keeps him moving.
Your gaze drops without permission to the space between your hands on the table.
They aren’t touching. But they’re close enough that the fake gold bands on your fingers sit side by side in your line of sight, matching and unmistakable. The sight of them sends an unexpected warmth creeping up your neck, settling in your cheeks before you can stop it.
What is wrong with you today?
“I-it’s not like that,” you say quickly, lifting your eyes again.
“Okay.” He nods. “Then—is the Noya Tour at least enjoyable for you so far? You seemed to have a great time playing pickleball with the seniors at the Ravello rec center the other day too.”
A laugh slips out of you before you can catch it. “Yeah. I don’t think any guided tour would’ve let me go toe-to-toe with locals in pickleball.”
“Exactly,” he says triumphantly. “That’s the secret. You gotta earn your fun.”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself.
“Well, that’s great,” Nishinoya continues. “Because we still have a lot of things to cross off your bucket list.”
You eye him warily. “I’m afraid to ask.”
“Teaching you how to swim,” he says immediately.
You groan. “You’re not letting that go, are you?”
“Absolutely not,” he agrees, pointing at you with mock seriousness. “I take promises very seriously.”
You laugh again, and the sound surprises you with how natural it feels. Sitting here with him, watching the sea lap lazily against the shore, you’re struck by the quiet improbability of it all—that of all the people you could’ve met on this trip, of all the versions of escape this vacation could’ve turned into, it’s him you ended up with.
You glance at Nishinoya again, still talking animatedly about some other half-baked plan he’s already dreaming up, and feel something unfamiliar stir beneath the surface.
You don’t give it a name just yet.
For now, you’re content to sit here, letting the day stretch on, grateful in a way you don’t quite have the words for that you met Nishinoya Yuu of all people—and that, somehow, he chose to stay and weave himself into the tapestry of your life.
The rest of your stay doesn’t unfold so much as it happens to you, one day bleeding seamlessly into the next under Nishinoya’s cheerful, utterly unapologetic direction.
Somewhere along the way, he takes full control of the reins—and you let him.
There’s a day trip to Pompeii that starts with an obscenely early train and ends with you sunburned, dusted in ash, and laughing so hard your sides hurt. Nishinoya navigates the ruins like he’s been there a dozen times before, ushering you out of crowds and into pockets of quiet where the air feels more reverent. He insists on taking photos of you, angling himself low, then high, then darting sideways with startling speed.
“Trust me,” he says every time you protest.
And annoyingly, every time you look at the results, you do.
He makes you stand framed by crumbling archways, catches you mid-laugh when a gust of wind sends your hair flying, snaps a candid while you’re reading an inscription with furrowed concentration. When you accuse him of secretly moonlighting as a professional photographer, he just shrugs.
“I like catching people when they forget to pose.”
Then there’s Amalfi Cathedral, where you barely get three steps inside before Nishinoya tilts his head back, cups his hands around his mouth, and shouts just to see what happens.
You stare at him, horrified.
“Oh my god,” you hiss. “You did not—”
“I had to know if it was true that it only echoes once!”
You’re escorted out less than a minute later, the attendant visibly unimpressed, but Nishinoya only laughs, apologizing profusely in a way that somehow makes it impossible to stay mad. He makes it up to you by taking you to a tiny seafood place by the docks that evening, the kind that smells like salt and garlic and butter before you even sit down.
It’s there he discovers mid-bite that you don’t like peas.
He stares at your plate. Then at you. Then back at your plate.
“…Are you serious?”
You bristle. “They’re mushy.”
He doesn’t say another word. Just calmly reaches over with his fork and starts picking them out of your dish, piling them neatly onto the edge of his own plate.
“What are you doing,” you ask weakly.
“Protecting you from suffering,” he replies gravely.
You laugh, mortified, as he proceeds to tease you about it for the rest of the trip. Any time peas appear on a menu, he shoots you a look of exaggerated concern. Once, he even asks a waiter—entirely unprompted—if a dish is “pea-free.”
By the second week, you find yourself at Spiaggia Grande, standing at the edge of the beach in a fully modest bathing suit and wondering how you let this happen.
“I still think this is a terrible idea,” you say, arms crossed tightly over your chest.
Nishinoya, already barefoot and ankle-deep in the shallows, grins. “That’s okay. You don’t have to like it. You just have to trust me.”
You hesitate. Then, against your better judgment, you step forward.
Teaching you how to swim is… an experience.
You panic. A lot. One second you’re fine, the next you’re flailing, convinced the sea has personally decided to have you as a snack. Nishinoya stays close the entire time, steady hands at your elbows, voice calm and unwavering even when you’re anything but.
“I’ve got you,” he keeps saying. “I’m right here. You’re doing great. No, seriously, you are.”
You alternate between sputtering protests and intense focus, brows knitted, teeth clenched, refusing to give up even when your muscles start to burn. And somehow—somehow—it works.
When you finally manage to float on your back, arms loose, body supported by the water instead of fighting it, Nishinoya freezes.
“…You’re floating,” he gasps.
“I am?” you squeak, immediately tensing.
“No, no—stay like that!” He throws his arms into the air. “YOU’RE FLOATING!”
The celebration he throws would make you think you’d just broken a world record. He whoops loud enough to earn looks from nearby beachgoers, claps like a proud coach, nearly trips over himself rushing back to you.
“I told you!” he beams. “I knew you could do it! Come on. Freestyle next!”
You’re breathless—not from fear this time, but from laughter and the warmth blooming in your chest that has nothing to do with the sun.
There are smaller moments too.
Sharing leftover pastries from Chiara’s sisters at midnight on the steps outside the inn. Falling asleep on the ferry back to Ravello, your head tipping against his shoulder without either of you acknowledging it. Waking up early just to watch fishermen haul in their nets, Nishinoya translating bits of conversation with exaggerated flair. And lying awake just a few inches away from his snoring form on your shared bed, wishing so badly that you were brave enough to reach out.
Somewhere between all of it, you realize you’re no longer counting down the days.
You’re counting memories instead.
You can’t remember the last time you felt this light—this seen—without bracing for it to disappear. But when Nishinoya laughs, when he looks at you like the world is brighter simply because you’re standing in it with him, you feel something settle into place all the same.
Quiet. Certain. And growing.
Your last night in Amalfi arrives quietly—almost deceptively so.
You’d known it was coming, of course. The date has been sitting in the back of your mind like a tide chart you’ve been refusing to check. Still, when Nishinoya finally mentions it aloud over breakfast, the words land heavier than you expect.
He breaks the news to Chiara first.
It’s done gently, earnestly, his Italian rough but enthusiastic as he explains that his wife has to return to Japan early—medical school waits for no one, apparently. Chiara’s hands fly to her mouth immediately. One of her sisters clicks her tongue in sympathy, another shakes her head like this is a personal injustice.
“No,” Chiara says firmly. “We send her off properly.”
You think she means a hug. Or a nice dinner. Maybe a shared bottle of wine.
You are not prepared for a farewell banquet.
By sunset, the outdoor dining area behind the inn has been transformed. Long tables are draped in white cloth, fairy lights strung overhead in soft golden arcs. Someone has hung a banner between the olive trees that reads Arrivederci, amica!, the letters hand-painted and slightly crooked. The air smells like grilled fish and lemon and rosemary, dishes laid out generously—fresh hauls from the sea you and Nishinoya had helped reel in days earlier, alongside plates of pasta and sides you’d offhandedly mentioned you’d miss once you left.
The other guests are invited, too. Laughter spills easily between languages. Glasses clink. Music drifts through the warm night air.
Nishinoya is in his absolute element.
He talks and laughs and gestures wildly, weaving himself into every conversation, making sure no one feels left out. He retells stories from your weeks here with dramatic flair and embellishes just enough to earn laughs without crossing into nonsense. Every so often, he slides an arm around your waist or presses a kiss to your temple, easy and affectionate and convincing.
Too convincing.
You keep reminding yourself that this isn’t real. That it’s gratitude and kindness and performance, that it has to be—because the alternative feels too fragile to touch. Still, your heart doesn’t seem to care. It stutters every time he leans close, every time he smiles at you like this night belongs to the two of you.
Near the end of the evening, Chiara claps her hands loudly to get everyone’s attention.
“Dance!” she announces, pointing at you and Nishinoya. “Under the stars. It’s only right.”
One of her sisters is already seated at the vintage piano near the wall, fingers hovering expectantly over the keys.
You sputter. “Oh no, that’s really not—”
Too late.
Nishinoya grins, grabs your hand, and pulls you forward before you can finish the sentence. The guests cheer, clapping in rhythm as the first notes spill out, soft and lilting.
“Nishinoya,” you hiss.
“Trust me,” he murmurs back, squeezing your hand.
Of course he says that.
He draws you close, one hand settling at your waist, the other warm and steady around yours. You move together easily, swaying more than dancing, the world narrowing until it’s just the two of you beneath the lights.
You look up, only to lose yourself.
His brown eyes are warm and intent, reflecting the glow of the fairy lights overhead. There’s something unguarded there tonight, something gentler than his usual mischief, and it makes your chest ache. You think of the past three weeks in a rush: sunrises and sea spray, laughter and late nights, the way he made space for you without ever asking you to earn it.
Lale and the others had been right. This trip was exactly what you needed.
You just hadn’t known it would come with the quiet, devastating side effect of falling in love with a stranger you were about to leave behind.
The song ends too soon.
Applause erupts around you, cheers and whistles echoing into the night. Someone pops confetti, bits of silver and white fluttering down like celebratory snow. Chiara laughs, wiping at her eyes.
“It’s like a wedding reception!” Nishinoya jokes, breathless and bright.
Chiara beams. “Then you may now kiss the bride!”
The words catch him off guard—you can tell by the way his grin falters, just for a second. His gaze drops to yours, searching, careful.
He leans in, close enough that only you can hear him.
“I won’t actually kiss you,” he whispers. “Okay? Just… trust me.”
You nod.
You always do.
He presses his forehead to yours, breaths syncing, his arms tightening around your waist as the space between you disappears. Slowly, tenderly, he tilts his head and places a kiss at the corner of your mouth—close enough to feel, distant enough to remain an illusion.
The crowd roars.
When he pulls back, the noise fades again, replaced by the dull thud of your heartbeat in your ears. Confetti still drifts through the air, catching in his hair, on your shoulders, around your feet.
Nishinoya smiles at you like he loves you.
And all you can think is that this is the kind of smile you might never see again once you leave, the kind that exists only here, under Amalfi’s stars, in this borrowed moment you didn’t know how to ask to keep.
Narita feels… ordinary.
That’s what gets you. After weeks of light and noise and salt in the air, there’s something almost jarring about how everything here simply works. The floors are clean. The lines move. Announcements arrive on time. You step forward when you’re told to, wheel your luggage, keep going.
You’d thought twelve hours in the air might be enough to put some distance between you and Amalfi. Enough time for the memories to blur at the edges.
It wasn’t.
Lale is waiting just beyond the gates, eyes already searching the crowd. The moment she spots you, her face breaks into a smile, arms lifting in greeting like nothing has changed. You return it automatically, the expression practiced enough to pass.
“There she is,” she gushes as she pulls you into a hug. “Welcome home.”
Home.
You nod, letting yourself lean into the familiarity of her for just a second too long.
“I’m back,” you greet her brightly. “I have so much to tell you.”
And you do. Stories spill easily as you walk—about the food, the views, the absurdity of the tours you ditched. You talk about Pompeii and Capri and the ridiculous number of photos you took, about how Italy somehow managed to live up to the hype. You laugh at the right moments. You sound, by all accounts, like someone who had exactly the kind of healing vacation her friends had hoped for.
What you don’t talk about is your last moments at the harbor.
You don’t talk about how Nishinoya had walked you there that morning when the sun barely crested the water. How you returned the ring he let you borrow. How he’d pressed a small bundle into your hands at the last second—a mess of candies, some wrapped in crinkled paper, others clearly from different places, different days.
“Why these?” you asked, startled.
He just grinned, that familiar, lopsided thing.
“Because you’re a sweet person, sweets,” he said simply. “Always remember that.”
You’d stood at the edge of the boat afterward, eyes fixed on the dock as it pulled away from the shore. Nishinoya had waved until his arm must’ve hurt, until he was nothing more than a blur of color against the stone, until even that disappeared into the horizon.
You hadn’t asked for his number. Hadn’t asked if he was coming back to Sendai. Hadn’t asked for anything at all. Because some things were easier to carry if you never let them turn into hope.
Lale listens beside you as you talk, nodding, smiling, and occasionally bumping her shoulder against yours like she always has. At some point, her gaze lingers on you a fraction longer than usual, sharp and knowing in the way only hers can be. She doesn’t comment on the way your voice softens when you mention Amalfi. She doesn’t ask why your hands keep worrying at the handle of your suitcase.
She just says, “I’m glad you went.”
So are you.
You go back to your old life like nothing happened.
Classes resume. Syllabi pile up. Your days are swallowed whole by lectures, labs, late-night study sessions where time blurs into caffeine and fluorescent lights. Med school is merciless in the best way—it doesn’t leave much room for wandering thoughts. There are always terms to memorize, pathways to trace, exams looming close enough to keep your mind occupied.
Hazel-brown eyes don’t belong here. Neither does the endless ocean, or the sound of laughter carried on salt air. So you tuck Amalfi away. You tell yourself it was simply a fleeting season, something beautiful because it ended. You move through your routines with quiet competence, smiling when appropriate, answering questions, showing up exactly where you’re supposed to be.
You pretend you haven’t lost something.
You do such a good job of it that even Lale never pushes. She notices, you’re sure of that, but she lets it be. She’s never been the type to pry unless she’s certain something’s wrong, and you give her nothing concrete to grab onto. Just a version of you that’s functional, composed, unchanged.
Weeks pass and then somehow, it’s December.
Tokyo turns cold in earnest, winter settling into your bones with quiet determination. Snow becomes a regular companion—soft at first, then insistent. You finish your final exam of the semester in a haze, fingers stiff as you clutch the paper, relief dull rather than triumphant. By the time you make it back to your apartment, all you want is to disappear beneath your kotatsu and let the world wait.
You shower. You change. You sink briefly into stillness.
Then your phone buzzes.
A group chat lighting up—Lale and the others inviting you out, insisting it’s almost Christmas, and that you can’t keep hiding in your apartment forever. You stare at the screen longer than necessary, thumb hovering over the keypad as you roll some words of declination in your head.
In the end, you go.
You bundle yourself against the cold and head for the station, breath fogging in the air as you board the train into the city. Tokyo feels sharper in winter—steel and glass made colder by the season. You watch the snow blur past the windows and think, unhelpfully, of how different it was from the heat of the Amalfi Coast.
From the way the sun used to cling to your skin.
From him.
Normally, you don’t let yourself linger there. It’s a thought you banish quickly, like touching something you know will burn. But tonight, exhaustion lowers your guard.
You wonder where Nishinoya is now.
You wonder if he’s somewhere that snows. If he’s warm. If he’s laughing with strangers the way he always does. If he’s already convinced someone else to play pretend spouses with him just to save a little money.
The idea makes you snort softly.
A high schooler leaning against the wall near the doors glances at you, confused. You bow your head in apology and look away—only to catch sight of the poster behind him. It was an ad about the decisive match between two Division 1 volleyball teams, scheduled for later this week.
You sigh and turn your gaze elsewhere.
Not tonight. You really can’t afford that tonight.
You disembark at Tokyo Station to a barrage of messages asking where you are. Instead of replying, you make a small detour—a habit you’ve picked up since coming back. Your favorite sweets shop sits tucked between larger storefronts, warm and dimly lit, familiar in a way that feels comforting.
You ran out of the candies Nishinoya gave you months ago.
What they left behind, however, is harder to quit.
You browse the shelves, selecting your usual favorites, barely noticing that someone else is in the store—a lone figure with their hood pulled low and a large backpack slung over one shoulder. Probably a tourist, you assume, murmuring a quick excuse me as you pass.
You don’t see the way his head snaps up.
At the counter, the elderly shop owner smiles when he recognizes you. “Back again, huh?” he says fondly, already reaching for an extra handful to toss into your bag.
“You really don’t have to,” you protest automatically.
Before you can even reach for your wallet, another hand appears, placing additional items on the counter.
“Hey, gramps,” a voice says easily, familiar in a way that makes your chest seize. “Can you add these onto the receipt? I’ll pay for it all.”
You turn.
For a split second, your brain refuses to cooperate.
Because Nishinoya Yuu is standing barely an arm’s length away, the hood of his jacket pushed back just enough for you to see him clearly. He grins at you like he always does, like he hasn’t been living rent-free in your memory for months.
The shop owner looks between the two of you, confused, but shrugs and rings everything up in one transaction when you don’t respond.
You can’t speak. You can’t even breathe properly. You simply let Nishinoya guide you outside with a bag of sweets in hand like you’re afraid you’ll shatter if you resist.
It takes a few steps before your voice finally catches up to you.
“W—What are you doing here?!” you blurt.
For a moment, he just stares at you until he laughs, snow already beginning to gather on the hood of his jacket. “My pals have a pretty big game coming up this week. Thought I’d fly in to watch it myself.” Then his grin softens. “Didn’t think I’d run into my wife the moment I got back, though.”
Your face goes absolutely red. “I’m not your—!”
“Well,” Nishinoya cuts in cheerfully, “we never divorced. And I never took another wife or husband after you.” He tilts his head, eyes bright with something you cannot name. “So that still makes you my wife, sweets.”
You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again.
Something in his gaze makes your stomach twist—too sincere to be brushed off as a joke, too careful to be casual. You can’t tell what it means, and that terrifies you.
“I—I have to go,” you say weakly, taking a step back. “My friends—”
You don’t get far.
Nishinoya steps forward and pulls you into him without hesitation, arms wrapping around you in a tight, grounding embrace. Your brain short-circuits. For a heartbeat, you’re frozen—
Then you melt into him.
You cling to his jacket, fists twisting into fabric as if letting go might undo him. You hug him back just as fiercely, breath hitching as the truth settles fully into your chest.
You missed him.
You missed him so much.
Snow falls quietly around you, the city fading into a blur as you stand there holding each other like this is the only place you’re meant to be. You don’t know what this means. You don’t even know what comes next.
But right now, with his arms around you and his warmth seeping through the cold, all you can think about is how impossibly, overwhelmingly glad you are to be here again.
Right where you left your heart.
Me: Rain check? Ran into an old friend. Gotta catch up.
Lale: What seriouslyyyyy
Lale: Bring her to girls’ night.
Me: That’s the thing. He’s not a girl.
Lale: Oh? 👀
Lale: And I’m guessing not just an old friend?
Me: …How did you know?
Lale: I’m your best friend, babes. I just do.
Lale: Have fun out there. Stay safe.
Me: WE ARE NOT DOING ANYTHING LIKE THAT
Lale: HAHAHAHAHA OKAY!!
Lale: Just introduce him to us sometime, yeah?
Me: …
Me: No promises.
Lale: Good enough for me 😙
✦ afterword. you made it to the end!!! thank you so much for reading, friend! i hope you liked this because it was such a tremendous joy to write HEHE i felt like i was writing some mamma mia-adjacent fic or something!! and please do forgive any errors i might have missed ! am only human T_T ++ thank you again to lale for giving me some important feedback abt some details here and there, and for letting me cast her into this fic as reader's best friend NYAHAHA! slowly but surely, i'm getting back into the grove of writing for haikyuu again, it's amazing! that said, happy holidays to all of you <3 (and if you don't celebrate, i wish you have the greatest day ever!!)
summary you have had the biggest crush on seonghyeon since forever, thinking you would never have the balls to talk to him, you suddenly get paired with him for the baby project: making you and seonghyeon temporary parents
💌 ayatalks! i kinda dont like this! but the upcoming chapters should be more….entertaining! enjoy mls and once again tysm for all the love and if you want to be on the second taglist then please press the “confessions to make” button and lmk because theres so many comments and I lowkey lose track of who to add 😭😭
ship wars and fan theories -a guide to misreading signs and getting every single thing wrong (a series)
idol!james x illit!member!reader
⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖When you and James hide your relationship a little too well, ship wars ensue and somehow even James himself gets involved in the discourse. ݁‧₊˚
previous
warnings/diclaimer: there's writing inbetween the pictures, someone hates on you but you get deffended, lngshot slander (im sorryyy), weird fans, jokes about being gay (im bi and wrote this in a way that isn't insulting (at least i think so) if you disagree and find this offensive pls tell me i will fix it<33
The newly installed bright lights of your favorite convenience store glare down at you while a fan hums faintly in the background.
You’ve wandered around a little even though you already know what you’re going to get, feeling a little guilty for wasting time and taking a break when she should be hurrying to get back to work. Walking back into the aisle of snacks, you pick up some sour patch kids, sun chips and jalapeno cheetos and move towards the counter.
Someone taps on your shoulder and when you turn to find Ryul smiling at you, you feel even worse than before for being disappointed. You don’t know who you expected, you’re not exactly in the mood for fan interaction right now so this is really the best possibility.
“Heyy, nice seeing you again.”
You smile politely, glancing at the counter while answering “Oh my god, you too. How are you? Still disappointed about losing?”
Ryul shakes his head softly but doesn’t say more except for a little “I’m good” for a short moment. You wait for him to elaborate or bid his goodbyes, feeling a little awkward standing in the middle of this store with your hands full of snacks while he looks at you.
“Nice choice. Love the Cheetos.”
You press your lips together in a hopefully not too forced smile and keep yourself from saying that they’re for your boyfriend and not you, instead answering with a diplomatic “Yeah, they’re good. What are you getting?”
He juts his chin at Louis in the background, stacking cakes and chocolate in his little basket. You haven’t noticed him until now and find yourself smiling at the familiar scene, remembering your own snack runs with Iroha and Minju.
“Nothing for you?”
Ryul shakes his head “Nahhh, i still have stuff at the dorm. Louis just didn’t want to go alone.”
You nod politely and slowly start moving towards the counter while responding “That’s nice of you. It was good to see you, we should talk again soon!”
“It was nice seeing you, too.” He looks like he wants to say something else, but for a second you consider just ignoring it. Instead, you cock your eyebrow at him.
He steps a little closer “How about I get your number so we can figure out when we can talk again?”
Your mouth falls open in surprise, hesitating to answer. On the one hand, you really do want to get to know him better, even through this slightly awkward conversation heightened by your current mood. On the other, with everything going on on twitter right now, you really don’t want to give him the wrong idea.
You bite your lip and look at him in thought, searching for his intention. To make sure he knows where you’re standing you smile back at him “Yeah, sure. It’s always nice to have more friends that get the experience.”
He presses his lips together and nods in understanding while getting out his phone “yeah, for sure.”
You shift your snacks to one hand and feel very accomplished with the way you handled this whole thing, saving yourself in his phone with your first name instead of the usual nickname or added emojis.
i think these are exactly 30 pics i was stressingggg hard omg
I appreciate all comments and reblogs!! The support gives me motivation and the energy to keep posting! Love you all!!!
(this is getting posted through the Queue so i currently can't add to the tl, you can still reply and ask and i'll add you in like a week or so when im back on her)
there is a point in an orbit where the earth drifts as close to the sun as it will ever get. astronomers call it perihelion, but for you, it was just what growing up with shoyo had always felt like.
✦ content. 7.2k words ⋆ hinata shoyo x f!reader ⋆ childhood friends to lovers. set in the brazil arc. reader goes on vacation to visit shoyo. there's only one bed. mutual pining. brief language barrier w other characters. alcohol. an almost-kiss that turns into [redacted bc spoilers]. an actual kiss to wrap it all up in a neat, #requited love ribbon!
✦ foreword. this is part of the hq x reader server's summer fic exchange!! wrote this piece with my lovely @deltamel in mind <333 hello, you! surprise, i am your secret summer santa mwehehe sorries it took a while to put out, i've had my hands tied for a while but i finally got to lock in for shoyo and mel :3c
There is a point in an orbit where the earth drifts as close to the sun as it will ever get. Astronomers call it perihelion, but for you, it was just what growing up with Shoyo had always felt like.
He lived only a few blocks down the street, but the universe around him felt so vast that your paths might never have crossed if your mothers hadn’t been the best of friends. Wanting their same-age kids to be just as close was second nature to them, and as it turned out, falling into step with Shoyo came to you as naturally as breathing.
You were always just one beat behind him for as long as you could remember, willingly dragged into whatever latest obsession caught his wild imagination. Whatever caught his eye became your shared world before you even had time to process it.
If a strange new snack appeared in your elementary school cafeteria, Shoyo was the first to buy it, and you’d be the one taking a cautious bite right after. Then came middle school, and with it, the sudden, consuming fire of volleyball. While everyone else brushed off his sudden obsession, you became his anchor. You spent sweltering afternoons holding worn, underinflated balls, helping him tie sagging nets to rusted poles, and tossing to him until your arms went numb just so he could fly.
When you both hit high school and his drive to play transformed into a commitment to pursue volleyball as a career, it was sort of an inevitability. It was impossible not to get swept up in Shoyo’s momentum because he didn’t just have passion playing the sport he loved, he burned with it. And you knew better than most that when a star burns that brightly, everything around it gets pulled in.
But what you didn’t know that years later, your college degree and his dream to become a renown athlete would carve out vastly different lives for the both of you.
Twelve hours of separation meant that even the sun couldn’t shine on you both at the same time anymore. While you were bleary-eyed in an 8:00 AM lecture in Tokyo, Shoyo was collapsing into his bed in Rio after a long day of deliveries and beach volley. Your days became a patchwork of missed calls and delayed voice notes, and you were still struggling to get used to the distance, to all these changes that came barreling into your lives unannounced.
Your existence had always been measured in the space you shared. But now, every interaction had to be calculated across time differences. You would always catch yourself reaching for your phone at odd hours just to check his local weather, staring at the little clock widget on your screen, and realizing that the boy who used to fill every corner of your daily life was literally living in your yesterday. You missed the noise and the effortless ease of his presence, but more than anything, you missed the simple warmth of being anywhere within his reach.
Yet you never let it deter your friendship.
Between your exhausting university schedule and late-night shifts, you had managed to stack away a modest savings account. You hadn’t really known what you were saving for at first—maybe just a safety net. But maybe a quiet piece of your heart already knew. This space between Japan and Brazil was the farthest you had ever been from your best friend, and it cost nothing to daydream about crossing that distance every now and again.
But when Shoyo half-jokingly suggested that you fly out to visit him in Rio on one of your weekly phone calls, you didn’t even weigh the cost or overthink the logic. You simply opened the most affordable airline tab and booked the ticket, instinctively following the same pull that had guided your entire life.
That was how you ended up in Copacabana during summer break.
It was your first time on an airplane, your first time out of Japan, and traveling completely alone in a country where you couldn’t speak Portuguese—and barely managed English—felt like stepping onto a completely different planet. Anxiety clawed at your chest while you clutched your carry-on and suitcase questioning every life choice that had brought you across the world.
That panic vanished the second you caught sight of him standing by the crowd, waving his arms so wildly he nearly hit a passerby.
“Over here!”
Shoyo’s familiar voice cut straight through the roar of the city. He practically sprinted towards you and launched himself into a hug, lifting you off your feet before you could even set your bag down. He was over the moon with a grin so wide, his eyes crinkled into bright crescents. It took mere moments for him to start babbling a mile a minute about how he couldn’t believe you were actually here, and that he couldn’t wait to start showing you around.
“You always this enthusiastic when you have guests over, Sho?” you teased.
His grin only spread wider. “Yeah, but even more so when it’s you!”
…How could you ever hold up against this guy?
Once Shoyo set you down and took your luggage, you finally had a chance to look at him properly. It was jarring to see how much the months had reshaped him. He was taller, his broad shoulders easily carrying your carry on as he wheeled your suitcase, and his skin radiated a deep tan from endless hours spent under the blazing sun.
For a moment, a quiet knot of worry twisted in your stomach.
What if too much time has passed? What if we don’t fit together like we used to?
“Oh, by the way!” Shoyo piped up, glancing back over his shoulder as he navigated through the swirling crowd. “There’s this restaurant I really want you to try after we drop your stuff off at my place. I just know you’ll love it!”
Your heart did a traitorous flip right against your ribs.
It was such a simple, characteristic gesture from him—the same old desire to drag you into whatever new thing he’d found with unbridled enthusiasm. But standing beside him now under a rake of afternoon sunlight, an uncomfortable knot began to tighten in the pit of your stomach.
It wasn’t a bad feeling, exactly, but it certainly was jarring. For years, you had known the exact shape of your friendship. You’ve never thought of Shoyo as anything tother than your best friend. Yet looking at him right now, hearing the eager thread in his voice while feeling the unfamiliar pulse in your own chest, the ground beneath you felt just a little less solid.
“You really haven’t changed at all, have you?” you managed to say, offering a soft laugh.
“What do you mean?” He blinked, tilting his head with an openly honest expression that suddenly made him look far too close for comfort. “If I find something awesome, of course you’re the first person I wanna show it to!”
He said it so easily, completely unaware of the subtle gravity pulling at the edges of your chest. As you followed him down the sun-drenched avenue, you couldn’t quite shake the uneasy sense that something fundamental about your once easily-defined friendship was being uprooted.
Rio de Janeiro was unlike anything you had ever known back in Japan.
Where you’d gotten so accustomed to quiet neighborhoods and soft-spoken crowds, Brazil was teeming with vibrant energy that seemed to pulse straight up through the pavement. The seaside town Shoyo had chosen as his temporary home was a riot of color. It was loud and beautiful and most importantly, brimming with life around every corner. Looking around, you instantly understood why he fit in so seamlessly.
As you walked, Shoyo greeted locals with an effortless familiarity, trading quick, lively phrases in Portuguese while gesturing wildly with his free hand. Every person he passed regarded him with the same open warmth, shouting greetings across the street or waving from open store windows. A few even called out a distinct nickname (“Ninja Shoyo!”) which made him scratch the back of his neck and shyly tell you that it was a moniker he’d somehow earned while playing volleyball on the public beaches.
“How did you manage to make everyone love you so fast?” you asked, genuinely amazed as a fruit vendor tossed him an orange with a grin.
Shoyo caught it easily with one hand before offering a sheepish smile. “Well, delivery work might not pay much, but it definitely has its perks! You meet pretty much everyone in the neighborhood after a couple of weeks. Plus, you get to know your way around.”
Your best friend said it all so matter-of-factly, like being amicable towards a whole neighborhood several thousand miles from home was completely normal. You couldn’t help but admire him in silence. Shoyo had moved halfway across the globe entirely on his own, yet he had built a whole world here through warmth and persistence.
Your thoughts were cut short when a group of tall, sun-baked guys in beach attire spotted Shoyo from across the boardwalk. They shouted something enthusiastic in Portuguese, waving him over toward the sand and making spiking motions in the air. You fully expected him to drop your luggage somewhere, grab your hand, and drag you straight to the beach to watch him play. Instead, Shoyo offered them an apologetic smile, and held up a hand in a polite passing gesture.
He smoothly steered you further along the boardwalk, leaving a dozen questions forming in your head. When you finally reached a scenic railing overlooking the sweeping expanse of the shore, you couldn’t keep quiet any longer.
“Why’d you turn them down?” You raised your brow. “Since when do you pass up a chance to play?”
Shoyo turned to face you slowly, his grin softening into something that carried a decade and a half’s worth of sentimentality. “My best friend is here. Of course I’m giving her my full attention! Besides, I’m not scheduled to play until Thursday, so they can wait.”
You snorted, a disbelieving laugh escaping you before you could stop it. “You? Waiting for a schedule? That’s definitely not what happened when you crashed that training camp at Shiratorizawa.”
A sudden flush crept up Shoyo’s neck, painting his tanned cheeks a bright, dusty pink at the reminder of his more reckless high school years. “Ah—hey! That was totally different!”
Without thinking, he sheepishly reached out and wrapped his fingers around your wrist, tugging you gently in the direction of a colorful storefront further down the path that looked like an arcade. As he pulled you along, babbling excitedly about the prizes inside despite still lugging around all your luggage, your eyes dropped to the place where his calloused hand encircled your skin. His touch was undeniably warm, sending a persistent spark right through your pulse point. You forced a small smile as you tried your absolute best not to dwell on how right it felt.
Or how terrifyingly hard it was becoming to pretend it was just a friend holding your hand.
The sun was already dipping toward the horizon by the time you finally made it to his front steps, painting the sky in brilliant streaks of violet and gold. You were utterly exhausted, but your heart had spent the last several hours floating somewhere near the clouds.
Shoyo had dragged you and your week’s worth of luggage through every spot he could think of. You browsed through tiny gift shops and record stores, cheered him on when he caved and played one match against those volleyball guys at the beach, and stopped at a roadside stall for acai bowls topped with fresh fruit, washed down with sweet coconut water straight from the shell.
Sitting across from him and catching up felt so effortlessly familiar. It was the exact same routine you’d shared back home after long school days in Karasuno, right down to the way he gestured with his spoon when he got too excited. You had been so thoroughly wrapped up in his presence that you almost completely forgot about the heavy suitcase still rolling behind him.
When you finally reached the tiled porch of his humble, slightly worn apartment complex, Shoyo came to a sudden stop. He set your bags down as he awkwardly scratched the back of his neck, a sheepish, apologetic look washing over his face.
“Sorry for keeping us out so long,” he sighed. “I... well, I actually have a roommate since I can’t afford to pay off the rent all on my own. I just didn't want to crowd you while he was getting ready.”
He held up his hands, tumbling over his words in a rush to reassure you. “I-it’s okay though! Pedro just needed most of the afternoon to pack his stuff so he could go back to his hometown for break. He’s a college student, too. I’m pretty sure he should be gone by now.”
Your best friend looked so genuinely anxious about inconveniencing you, his big brown eyes wide with worry that he had somehow let you down on your very first day. You couldn’t help the quiet laugh that escaped you. Shaking your head, you reached out and lightly nudged his arm.
“Sho, I’m your best friend,” you reminded him with a playful nudge to the ribs. “You don’t have to act all shy about this. I don’t mind, really.”
The tension seemed to ebb from his shoulders just a bit. He didn’t look completely at ease just yet, but he led you inside of the building and up to a run-down elevator anyway.
As the lift slowly clanked its way up to the third floor, you were too consumed by the creeping weight of jet lag to notice Shoyo's uncharacteristic silence. The initial adrenaline of seeing him again was finally wearing off, leaving behind a dull ache in your muscles and a haze in your mind. All you could think about was peeling off your travel clothes, standing under a long, hot shower, and flopping onto a real bed for a quick nap.
Shoyo slid the key into the lock, giving the slightly sticky handle a familiar jiggle before pushing the door open.
“Here it is!” he announced softly, stepping inside first to flick on the lights.
You followed him across the threshold, taking in the small studio apartment. It was modest and simple—a compact kitchenette tucked against one wall, a tiny wooden dining table, and large windows that let in the fading twilight. But your eyes immediately landed on the sleeping area.
There were only two single beds in the entire room, separated by a narrow nightstand.
Reasonably, it wasn’t an issue. You had seen plenty of tiny, cramped apartments back in Tokyo that were half this size. But with the knowledge that his roommate had just packed up and left for the break fresh in your mind, your brain was far too quick to process the math. Pedro was gone. Which meant one of those single beds belonged to Pedro, and the other…
Shoyo, entirely oblivious to the absolute tailspin happening inside your head, wheeled your heavy suitcase into the corner. He set your carry-on down on the wooden floor with a sheepish smile as he turned back to face you.
“Sorry it’s a bit small,” he sighed. “But make yourself at home! It’s all yours for the week.”
The rest of the evening settled into an easy rhythm that helped soothe your buzzing nerves. While you took a long shower to wash off the grime of a twenty-hour travel day, Shoyo ordered takeout from a local spot down the street. Soon enough, you were sitting side-by-side on his bed in your softest loungewear, sharing a warm box of coxinhas and watching a live stream of an international match on his propped-up laptop.
It was Argentina against France, and the second a familiar, wildly tall setter appeared on the screen to deliver a blistering jump serve, Shoyo practically bounced off the mattress.
“Look! Look! It’s Oikawa-san!” he practically shouted, pointing wildly at the screen while chewing. “He’s playing in the top league here in South America! Isn’t that insane?!”
Listening to him breakdown every play with his usual chaotic sound effects was so comforting that the strange knot in your chest finally began to loosen. By the time the match ended, the exhaustion you’d been fighting off all day began to pull you under.
Going to bed was a blur of quiet routine—brushing your teeth at the tiny bathroom sink together and turning off the main lights until only the golden glow of the streetlamps outside filtered through the blinds. Just as you were about to make a beeline towards the other empty bed across the room, Shoyo cleared his throat.
“Um… hey,” he started, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked down at the floor. “Is it… okay if you share my bed with me? Pedro’s a really nice guy, but he’s super particular about his stuff and his bed, so I kinda promised I’d leave it untouched while he’s away.”
He looked up at you with a nervous look, clearly terrified he was putting you on the spot. Your heart instantly kicked into overdrive, hammering against your ribs a million miles an hour.
“Oh! Yeah, of course,” you forced out, playing it off with the most breezy, casual shrug you could muster. “That’s totally fine. I don’t mind at all.”
Shoyo let out a soft sigh of relief, offering a warm smile before insisting you take the side closer to the window where the ocean breeze came through.
Even so, lying down under the thin sheet together felt entirely different from those childhood slumber parties. Back in elementary school, you used to pile onto the same futon without a second thought. But now, as you lay rigid under the covers, every inch of your body felt hyper-aware of the zero space between you. You could feel the radiant heat rolling off him, hear the steady rhythm of his breathing, and smell the faint, clean scent of his soap.
You shifted carefully, turning onto your side to face him.
Shoyo was already fast asleep, one arm tucked under his pillow, his face soft and completely relaxed in the dim light. The usual restless, fiery energy that drove him all day had settled into something deeply peaceful. Watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the stiff tension in your own muscles slowly melted away.
As you drifted off to the soothing sound of the distant ocean tide and the steady rhythm of his breath, the lingering anxiety of the day completely vanished. Looking at him resting just inches away, you just felt impossibly lucky to be the one lying this close to the sun.
You didn’t really have much of an itinerary despite this being your first time traveling.
In the days leading up to your flight, Shoyo had kept insisting that the two of you write out a strict, day-by-day plan so you wouldn’t miss a single thing. But you had just laughed and told him that your best memories together had always happened when things were spontaneous.
That was how you ended up sitting on the beach so early the next morning. You assumed the shore would be practically deserted at six in the morning, but to your surprise, a small, bustling crowd was already scattered across the sand. From ladies following a joint exercise routine along the boardwalk, to young families building towering sandcastles near the gentle lap of the tide, to a group of teens already diving for a ball over a makeshift volleyball net—the coastline was already vibrantly alive.
After grabbing a couple of fresh sandwiches from a nearby convenience store (which Shoyo had proudly declared the breakfast of champions) the two of you settled into a cozy spot under the generous shade of a towering palm tree.
Right beside your spot was a kind, elderly man setting up a vibrant display of bright beach inflatables. The moment he spotted Shoyo, his face lit up, and he called out a warm greeting you couldn’t quite translate on your own just yet. Shoyo was instantly on his feet, responding with his usual peppy enthusiasm and a broad wave.
Then the vendor turned his attention to you. His eyes softened, and he gestured gently in your direction, repeating the word “Namorada?” with such an approving smile that you would have assumed he was simply offering a polite compliment—had Shoyo not cut in all-too fast.
A rosy flush instantly surged up Shoyo’s neck to the tips of his ears. He scrambled over his words, waving his hands frantically as he explained something in rapid-fire Portuguese, practically tripping over his own tongue in his eagerness to clarify. Upon hearing whatever flustered explanation Shoyo offered, the vendor simply nodded in easy understanding. He gave your best friend a reassuring pat on the shoulder and went back to his shop, though the knowing, lopsided smile on the old man’s face didn’t fade in the slightest.
Shoyo practically collapsed back onto the beach towel beside you, letting out an unnaturally high-pitched laugh as he unwrapped his sandwich.
“What was that about?” you asked, raising an eyebrow at his wildly blushing face. “What did he say?”
“Uhh, nothing! Carlos was just surprised I had a guest is all.”
You made a mental note to look up namorada for later.
Once the last bite of his sandwich was all gone, Shoyo immediately began rummaging through your shared backpack, pulling out a bright blue bottle of sunscreen. You curiously peered over his shoulder as he popped the cap. “Isn’t there a rule where you’re not supposed to swim until at least twenty minutes after eating or something?”
Shoyo flashed you an eye-crinkling grin, already squeezing a generous dollop onto his palm. “Nah, that stuff’s just a myth! Come on, I’ll put some sunscreen on your back before we take a dip!”
At first, you didn’t think much of it—it was a practical request, and you’d helped each other out with sunblock on hot summer days plenty of times before. You untied your sheer cover-up, letting it pool around your waist, leaving only the thin straps of your frilled bikini exposed to the morning air.
Then you felt his hands touch your skin.
His palms were broad and firm, thoroughly calloused from years of playing volleyball religiously. Even if you’re certain he didn’t mean to, Shoyo made every careful sweep of his hands feel intensely intimate. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying desperately to suppress a squeak as he smoothed the cool sunscreen over your shoulder blades, his thumbs trailing down the dip of your back with gentle pressure.
It’s just Shoyo, you silently repeated like a mantra, staring intently at the sand between your knees while your face burned hot enough to cook an egg. Your best friend.
Thankfully, Shoyo seemed completely oblivious to the internal meltdown you were experiencing, far too engrossed in telling you a story to notice how stiff you’d gone under his touch.
“Man, the first time I tried playing beach volley out here, I was way too excited to even think about sunblock!” he chattered away, his hands moving to rub the sunscreen evenly over your shoulders. “I was out on the sand for like four hours straight. By nightfall, I was so bright red I looked like a boiled lobster! I literally had to slather my entire body in aloe gel just to sleep. It was awful!”
You forced out a breathless laugh and nodded along as if you were paying complete attention to his anecdote. But deep down, you were losing your mind.
The boy who had left Miyagi a year ago had become a young man whose warm, calloused hands were currently gliding across your bare back with innocent care. When he finally clapped his palms together to shake off the excess liquid, announcing he was all done, you practically scrambled to pull your cover-up back over your shoulders, praying the ocean breeze would cool down your flaming cheeks before he looked you in the eye.
“Great! Now it’s my turn!” Shoyo chirped, handing you the bottle before casually tugging his shirt over his head.
You nearly choked on your own breath.
Without a trace of hesitation or self-consciousness, he sat down in the sand with his back to you, completely unbothered by the fact that he had just handed you a front-row view. The endless months of grueling beach volleyball and daily delivery rides across Rio had forged his body into something absurd. Even with his height, Shoyo’s back was broad and lean, the sharp definition of his shoulder blades moving beneath sun-bronzed skin that practically glowed in the morning light.
You stared at the bottle of sunscreen in your trembling hands, wondering how on earth you were supposed to survive applying sunscreen to that without your heart bursting right out of your chest.
By some miracle, you made it through the ordeal without hyperventilating, and once you finished, the two of you immediately ran down to the water, diving into the cool, crystal-clear waves of the Atlantic.
Floating in the gentle tide beside Shoyo made all your lingering nervousness wash away. The water was refreshing, the morning sun felt amazing, and for about half an hour, it was just the two of you splashing around and laughing like you were kids back in Japan again.
Then a loud shout echoed from further down the shore.
“Ei! Ninja Shoyo!”
A tall guy in board shorts was waving frantically from a court setup in the sand, flanked by three other players who were gesturing for Shoyo to come over.
“Is that the group from yesterday?” you asked, wiping sea water from your eyes.
“Nope, these guys usually play near the pier!” Shoyo grinned, treading water beside you with effortless ease. “I met them a few months ago during a delivery! Told them they might like playing on this beach better.”
You shook your head, a fond smile breaking across your face. “Honestly, Sho... you really have a talent for making friends everywhere you go.”
“Yeah, maybe,” he said softly as his voice cut clearly through the sound of the crashing waves. “But none of them hold a candle to my best friend.”
As if it was somehow trained to always have ridiculous reactions to Shoyo’s otherwise innocent words, your heart makes a full somersault right against your ribcage. You opened your mouth to say something to cover up the sudden catch in your throat, but the ever-oblivious Shoyo was already grinning again. Before you could recover, he grabbed your hand in the water, pulling you toward the shore with a burst of laughter.
“Come on! I want you to watch me play!”
That’s how your trip became defined by a definitive cycle.
Every morning started at sunrise with the quiet crash of the tide, the cool Atlantic water washing away the heat of the coming day while you cheered Shoyo on from the sand. Whether he was playing two-on-two against the locals or tearing up the court with passing tourists, watching him leap against the horizon was as mesmerizing as it had always been.
By ten in the morning, however, reality would pull him away. Shoyo would pack up his sand-dusted gear, throw on his delivery uniform, and head out on his bike to work until five in the evening. He was practically sick with guilt over it every single day, practically bowing in apology before leaving.
“I’m so, so sorry!” he had groaned on the third day. “If I could skip, I would, I swear! But my boss is super strict and I really need the rent money—”
“Sho, stop,” you had laughed, gently pushing his shoulder. “I’m in Brazil! I’m not going to starve or get bored. Go to work.”
“If you get lonely, you can always go back down to the beach!” he urged, his eyes wide and sincere. “Everyone there is super nice. You’ll be totally safe!”
By your fifth day in Rio, you finally felt confident enough to take him up on that advice.
To help you out hen your human translator was making a living, Shoyo had spent every evening patiently writing down everyday Portuguese phrases in your notebook. The tutorials came with exaggerated hand gestures and a translation app he swore had saved his life when he first arrived.
Armed with your new vocabulary, you set off down the boardwalk on your own. It was surprisingly liberating. You managed to buy a few handcrafted souvenirs for your family, a wide-brimmed sun hat that matched your favorite sandals perfectly, and even discovered a tiny cart selling dragon fruit shakes in a spot so tucked away you were certain even Shoyo hadn’t stumbled across it yet.
Sipping the sweet, icy drink under the bright blue sky, you wandered aimlessly along the shoreline, watching the waves roll in, until a familiar row of colorful inflatables caught your eye. It was the same shop from your second morning. The elderly owner—Carlos, you recalled Shoyo mention—was just handing a cute, bright pink flamingo floatie to a young mother and her giggling toddler.
As the pair trotted back toward the ocean, Carlos turned around and immediately spotted you standing by the boardwalk. His weathered, sun-lined face broke into a broad, delighted grin, and he raised a hand, warmly waving you over.
“Bom dia,” you bravely told him with a wobbly smile, to which Carlos perked up and responded with a string of words that Shoyo hadn’t really covered in your Brazilian Portuguese crash course. That’s when you set your drink down on the wooden counter of his little shop and pulled out your phone to open that translating app Shoyo mentioned. “Uhh, trazudir?”
When Carlos nodded along, you tapped the voice recording icon and Carlos spoke into the mic as told. True to Shoyo’s word, the app was able to translate a bulk of what the elderly man just said into coherent Japanese.
“Didn’t think I’d see Shoyo’s guest all on her own here! Are you from Japan too, little miss? Did that rascal leave you to fend for yourself?”
You quickly adjusted the settings on the screen, switching the input to Japanese and the output to Portuguese. Holding the phone between the two of you, you spoke clearly into the microphone.
“He has work to do, so I really don’t mind! And yes, we actually grew up together. I came here to visit him once I managed to save up enough money.”
The phone played the translated audio back to Carlos in fluent Portuguese text. A warm look washed over his weathered face as he read each line before he tapped the recording button once more, speaking into the mic with a soft, teasing glint in his eyes. The Japanese text generated across your screen a few seconds later:
“Are you sure he’s not your boyfriend?”
Your heart gave a treacherous kick against your sternum. It took you a long moment to regain your composure, your thumb hovering over the screen before you finally tapped the button to respond.
“No, no,” you said, forcing your voice to stay completely even. “We’re really just best friends.”
It was the truth. It was the same answer you had given everyone who had ever asked since you were seven years old. But saying it out loud to an elderly stranger on a beach in Rio, after spending a week drowning in the warmth of Shoyo’s touch and the heat in your own chest, felt dangerously close to a lie.
Thankfully, Carlos didn’t press you. He simply chuckled—a soft, raspy sound that crinkled the corners of his eyes, and looked out toward the endless expanse of the ocean. He spoke into the app one more time. “I see. It’s just that seeing the two of you together reminded me of my wife and I when we were younger. She passed away a few years ago, so maybe I’m simply trying to see her in every young couple I encounter.”
Your cheeks flushed. “We’re not a couple.”
Carlos let out another rich laugh, waving a dismissive hand in the air. “That’s what they all say at first.”
Before you could scramble for another defense, the old man reached into his display rack and pulled out a bright, packaged inflatable—a cute yellow duck floatie—and pushed it across the counter toward you. When you tried to politely decline, waving your hands frantically, Carlos held up a hand to stop you, speaking into the app with a look of genuine sincerity.
“Take it. Consider it a thank-you gift for looking out for Shoyo after all this time,” the translation read. “I’ve seen that boy go through the lowest of the lows since he arrived in Brazil. While he’s been picking himself up better these days, he looks so much happier now that you’re here.”
You stared down at the packaged floatie in your hands, the lump in your throat making it impossible to speak right away. You managed a quiet, polite bow of gratitude before saying goodbye, clutching the inflatable tightly against your chest as you began the walk back to his apartment complex.
The sun was still bright overhead, and the ocean breeze carried the scent of salt and summer, but as you walked alone down the avenue, your mind was in a complete tailspin. Carlos’ words echoed in your head with every step, entangling with the memory of Shoyo’s calloused hands on your back and his sleepy smile in the dim light of his bedroom.
You had crossed an ocean just to see your best friend, but with every passing day, the neat, safe boundaries you had spent years building around your heart were completely crumbling away.
On your final evening in Rio, Shoyo made it a point to throw a proper send-off celebration. He arrived home carrying several bulging bags filled with an incredible spread of Brazilian food, declaring he was going to make sure you’d end up craving it the second you touched down back in Tokyo.
There were savory pastéis, juicy picanha skewers, pão de queijo, and an assortment of sweet brigadeiros for dessert. He’d even picked up several cans of cold beer, proudly bragging that his boss had been so pleased with his delivery stats that month that he’d given him a surprise bonus.
You spent the next few hours sitting on the floor by his low coffee table, stuffing yourselves with food until your stomachs hurt and laughing over silly stories that never seemed to run out. On any normal night, you would have paced yourself with the alcohol, but with your long flight back to Narita scheduled for late tomorrow evening, you figured you could afford to let loose just a little.
By the time the food containers were cleared away, the two of you had migrated to his small couch. You sat slumped together in the quiet dimness of the apartment, your legs casually tangled with his as you both worked through your nth can of beer. Both of your faces were flushed a deep, telltale red, a sweet haze of alcohol making the room feel warmer and the world outside feel pleasantly far away.
In the soft glow of the outside light filtering through the window, your eyes drifted over to his face, lingering a beat longer than usual. It was a habit you’d caught yourself slipping into all week whenever you got momentarily mesmerized by the vibrant orange of his hair or the sudden, golden shine in his dark eyes.
Carlos’ words floated back into your mind.
I’ve seen that boy go through the lowest of the lows...
You looked at the subtle set of Shoyo’s jaw, the faint exhaustion tugging at the corners of his eyes now that the day’s loud energy had died down. No matter how effortlessly he masked his struggles behind a megawatt smile, you knew him better than anyone. Moving halfway across the world, navigating a foreign language and a foreign city all on his own, and working exhausting delivery shifts just to afford a place to sleep while chasing a brutal training regimen—it had to be terribly lonely.
Slightly tipsy and completely disarmed by the proximity, you wanted nothing more than to reach over, pull him into a tight embrace, and whisper that he was doing so, so well. That he was amazing. That if it ever became too much, he could always come home.
But you held yourself back. Because as well as you knew his loneliness—how even his sun-bright spirit could be shrouded by heavy clouds every now and then—you also knew his heart. You knew there was nothing in this world Shoyo wanted more than to stand on the biggest stage, to become a player who could take on the world. This brutal heat was the fire forging him into who he was meant to be, and all you could do was stay close enough to keep him warm.
“You okay?” Shoyo’s voice suddenly broke through the quiet hush of the room. He turned his head on the back of the couch, his cheeks rosy from the beer as he blinked at you with a soft, curious gaze. “You’ve been staring at me all funny for a while now.
That’s when you noticed how close you really were.
With his head turned toward you, your faces were only a few inches apart. You could feel the steady warmth of his breath against your cheek, catching the faint scent of beer lingering on his lips. His eyes were heavy, fixed on yours with an open, unshielded intensity that made your pulse hammer wildly against your ribs.
Your gaze traitorously dipped down, fixing on his mouth—on the soft swell of his Cupid’s bow and the rosy hue of his lips in the barely there light.
The alcohol coursing through your veins made every warning bell in your mind sound faint and distant. Every ounce of self-preservation you had built over the years was evaporating into the warm night air. You were leaning in—just a fraction of an inch, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm—on the absolute precipice of making a decision that would change the trajectory of your entire friendship.
Then Shoyo’s eyes suddenly went wide as saucers.
His face paled, his hand slapped over his mouth, and before you could even register the sudden shift in his expression, he abruptly lurched to the side of the couch—
And threw up all over the floor.
The departure terminal of the airport was a chaotic flurry of honking taxicabs, rattling luggage wheels, and tearful goodbyes. As you stood on the sun-drenched sidewalk, the humid evening breeze whipped through your hair alongside the rumble of idling engines.
You and Shoyo had both implicitly agreed to never, ever speak of The Incident again the second the mop was put away last night. He had spent the entire morning apologizing about it profusely, but you had just waved him off with a laugh. It was gross, sure, but it was just another ridiculous core memory to add to the endless pile you’d collected since childhood.
“You’re promising me right now,” you warned, poking his chest as you stood beside your wheeled luggage. “No more drinking past your limit. Ever.”
“I promise! I swear on my life!” Shoyo held his hands up defensively.
After a beat, your best friend stepped forward to wrap his arms tightly around your shoulders and bury his face into the crook of your neck. You held him back just as tenderly, resting your chin on his shoulder and soaking in the familiar warmth of his embrace one last time.
“Don’t you dare come back to Japan until you’re officially the best player in all of Brazil,” you murmured into his shirt, forcing a light tone to hide the sudden tightness in your throat.
Shoyo chuckled softly, his arms tightening around your waist for a brief second before pulling back just enough to look at you. “And what am I supposed to do if I miss you too much?”
You rolled your eyes, lightly punching his chest. “You’re so dramatic.”
He finally let you go, stepping back so you could grab the handle of your suitcase. You offered him one last smile, turned on your heel, and began rolling your bag toward the automatic glass doors of the terminal. Each step away from him felt ridiculously heavy. You made it about ten paces before your feet simply refused to move any further.
Without giving yourself a single second to overthink, you spun around and sprinted right back toward him.
Shoyo’s eyes went wide with confusion. “Wait, did you forget your pass—”
You grabbed his shirt collar, pulled him down, and pressed your lips directly to his.
You kissed him right in the middle of the busy sidewalk amidst the passing travelers. Shoyo went completely still under your touch, shell-shocked, his hands hovering uselessly in the air beside your shoulders. Before he could even register what was happening to react, you pulled back, your face burning like a furnace as panic briefly clawed at your chest. But when you looked up, the sight before you made your heart completely melt.
The dark red flush on Shoyo’s cheeks had spread all the way to the tips of his ears, and a dazed, completely helpless smile was slowly stretching across his face. His hazel eyes were wide, shining with an open tenderness that told you everything you had ever needed to know.
“You can always video call me, idiot,” you grumbled, readjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder to cover your own burning embarrassment. “Let’s talk about… whatever this is later.”
Shoyo let out a breathless laugh, nodding frantically as he watched you turn around and go inside the airport for real this time.
People often said that the only true certainty in this world was that the sun would always rise again tomorrow. And as you walked toward your gate, crossing back to the other side of the planet, you realized your own certainty was just as simple—that no matter how many miles or time zones stretched between you, your place in this world would always be right beside him.
✦ afterword. if you follow me on my main, you'd know how much i love and cherish shoyo hinata of haikyuu fame, so seeing him on mel's wishlist had me over the moon! mel, it is an absolute honor to write for one of the characters we are both mutually batshit insane about, and i'm so so happy to have gotten you as my giftee! i tried to incorporate as much as i could from your wishlist into this fic, so i hope you like it!
thank you also to lale for organizing our bi-annual homework per usual! writing for others always feels much more fulfilling than writing for myself at times mwahaha! thank you also to the friends who have lent an ear when i was still putting this fic together (juni and ky ilysm)! i really wouldn't have been able to finish this without you guys GRAHHHHHHH
DISCLAIMER: Y/N's face claim is wonhee from illit! this is just for the pictures and it is not a wonhee x cortis! she is also described to be younger than keonho for the sake of the story!
wc. 2079
j's corner ˚ · . REQUESTS OPEN! so so sorry this took so long! i've been so busy with concerts and getting my job...
An hour later, you find yourself in the studio with Martin, Seonghyeon, and Keonho. The boys are loudly laughing and yelling into the mic, joking around in between takes of a demo song.
You watch with the smallest bit of envy in you. Why can't you joke around with them like that? Your thoughts are cut off when Martin comes up to you.
"Yo! Come on, let's get you on the mic for this part." he exclaims, brightening your thoughts.
You stand, hopping up from your seat and walking quickly over to the mic. Since Martin had just used it, he adjusts it to your height and then steps back.
"Okay, demo lyrics are here and now just go with the flow of the beat. You can switch between rapping and vocalizing." Martin informs.
"I've only ever heard you rap a bit, you sing too?" Seonghyeon asks, to which you provide a nod before putting the headphones on your head.
Once the beat starts playing and you analyze the flow you think about how the lyrics will piece together. You're aware that the lyrics are changeable since Martin had let you know they were demo lyrics.
After about 15 minutes of you quietly going over your verses, you give a thumbs up. Martin starts the beat again and enables the recording for the verse.
As you start to sing, everything around you disappears. It almost feels like the world turned black and the only thing light is what you're doing right now.
The feeling you are harboring makes all the hate and comments fly away. This is your dream, this is what you are meant to do and you love it. Singing really was your first love and you can't find anything else that would make you this happy.
As of right now, there might be one thing that's starting to make you as happy. Though, the thought of that makes you want to shut down in a way, so you push it down.
After your verse is finished, Martin smiles and nods. His reaction isn't too big, since you two had been in the studio before. As you look to the other two, the shock on their faces are there.
"Holy shit! That was amazing," Seonghyeon exclaims, coming up and giving you a few hard pats on your back.
You thank him profusely while also telling him it's not that big of a deal. Then, your eyes wander over to Keonho who is staring at you in awe with his lips parted. His cheeks are slightly red for some reason, which makes your brows furrow the smallest amount.
"Pick your jaw up, Keonho" Martin laughs.
Seonghyeon joins in with a chuckle as well, "We're not cleaning up your drool either."
You let out a small laugh before walking over to the couches and plopping down. Seonghyeon and Martin huddle up and start composing the last part of the lyrics together.
"You're so talented." Keonho speaks under his breath as he sits down next to you on the couch. His arm naturally finds its way to the cushion behind you.
"Oh, thank you, I appreciate it."
"I'm serious, honey, I don't think I've ever heard someone sing the way you do." he adds that stupid pet name, which makes you suppress a shiver.
The compliment leaves you silent, not because of the words, but because of his voice and tone. You nod your head as your cheeks flush up the smallest amount, which you notice is starting to happen a lot with Keonho.
"I dunno what to say," you admit.
"You don't have to say anything." he replies back before grabbing the lyrics he was given, "Wanna help me figure these out?"
A smile breaks out on your face at how simple he makes things. One second you're a nervous wreck because of something he said, the next you're completely comfortable. You've come to the conclusion that the nervous you feel around him is a good nervous, so you offer a small nod of your head.
"Perfect, I was thinking that I could sing this part here..."
Being too absorbed in the bubble the two of you have created, you fail to notice Seonghyeon and Martin. The two boys are now staring directly at you two as they watch Keonho's arm slowly make its way closer to your shoulders.
Once Keonho successfully finishes his mission, Seonghyeon huffs out an amused scoff, "I know we've said it before, but he's in love with her."
Martin smirks at the comment and nods along, "I give it a month before something happens. Maybe two if Keonho chickens out."
"Do you think she likes him?"
Martin pauses before answering, "I think so, but I don't think either of them know it yet. He's the only one she really feels comfortable with right now."
Seonghyeon purses his lips as he thinks about that fact, "We should spend some more time with her. I hate to see her so shelled up all the time."
Martins agrees before both boys decide to talk about this at a later time, hopefully with everyone. Instead, they spend their time in the studio by refocusing on the lyric sheet in front of them.
Later that evening, when everyone's home from studios or practice rooms, they notice a small shift. The dorm is more lively, and by that, they mean you.
Instead of staying to yourself or chatting quietly with Keonho, you're brightly laughing and joking around with all the members. Still, Keonho is attached to your side the whole night.
His body language shows that he's calm, not really caring about much as he slumps into the soft cushions. However, his facial expression reveals more than anything. He's staring straight into your head with a look of admiration.
To Keonho, there's nothing he want's to see more than watch you open up with everybody. He watches as your eyes light up when James mentions a movie you like, then his eyes light up too. He smiles when you laugh at a joke Juhoon said.
"Keonho?" a voice calls out from somewhere, but all he can think is that it wasn't your voice.
"Hm?" he hums, lifting his gaze to find Seonghyeon smirking directly at him.
"You're so done, bro." Seonghyeon laughs before shaking his head and focusing back on the conversation in the dorm.
Keonho refocuses on you, now dropping his arm onto your shoulders like he's been doing recently. Unconsciously, you lean into his body as he pulls you in the slightest bit.
A small yawn escapes your mouth as you pull your knees up onto the couch. Keonho's arm tightens around you once he hears the yawn. James also quiets his voice.
"Should we do a movie night?" he suggests, looking around to all the members.
"Hell yeah, but no Spiderman tonight, we've watched it so many times this week." Seonghyeon replies as Martin agrees with him too.
Juhoon suggests some type of drama and the boys groan before reluctantly agreeing. Usually they end up getting way to into the drama's and claiming they never complained in the first place.
Not long after the movie starts, your eyes start to feel way too heavy and you start your fight with sleep. The drama look really good, you can't lie, but the feeling of exhaustion is creeping up fast.
You let yourself relax into Keonho's side, furthering the sleepy feeling clouding up your head. What completely messes you up is when Martin stands to dim the lights in order to "make movie night better."
Once those lights dim, your vision does too. You let yourself slump into Keonho and your eyelids come over your irises. The last thing you register is Keonho's arm tightening around you and a soft whisper leave his mouth.
"Shh, just rest."
You nod into his chest and finally let yourself succumb to the urge. Keonho's warm, soft, and most definitely comfortable, making him a great place to sleep right now.
A few minutes later, James glances over and smiles at the both of us. He points it out to everyone with the biggest smirk on his face. Keonho ends up shooing their eyes away once he glares at them.
"Martin, can you make popcorn?" Seonghyeon asks, to which Keonho shushes him angrily.
Seonghyeon looks over with furrowed brows and a confused expression at Keonho's sudden shush. Instead of replying with words, Keonho points to you, who's still very much asleep on his chest.
"Then take her into her room, Lover Boy." Juhoon speaks up without glancing away from the drama still playing on the TV.
"I'm not a Lover Boy."
"Sure you aren't," Martin scoffs, "That's why you're always drooling over her."
"I am not drooling-" Keonho's voice raises, but he cuts himself off once he feels you stir the smallest bit against him. He stops talking for a minute, looking down, then speaks quieter, "Whatever, I'm taking her to our room."
James chuckles before watching Keonho wake you my rubbing a hand down your shoulder and whispering in your ear. His voice is too low and quiet to be heard by the other members, but combined with the touch it wakes you up.
"Honey, why don't we go to our room?"
There's a small hum of acknowledgment on your part before you pull yourself up, half asleep. The boys all mumble goodnights, to which you mumble one back and offer a wave.
Keonho stands up and says goodnight to the members before walking you to your shared room. His hand stays planted on your lower back as he guides your drowsy body through the halls.
Once you make it to the bathroom, the two of you brush your teeth in silence. He had originally turned the light on, but it was too fluorescent for your liking so you let out a groan. He caved and turned it off and mumbling about an apology.
Once finished, he guides you back into the bedroom and pulls your covers off for you. Right after you climb in, he tucks them around you and starts to make his way over to his bed.
"Keonho?"
"Hm?"
"Come back, you were warm and now I'm cold," you grumble, not thinking clearly and just seeking warmth.
His eyes widen, but once he sees your sleepy eyes blearing at him, he knows he can't resist you. He nods before changing into a white t-shirt and strolling over to your bed. He decides it's better to sit on the edge instead of crawling under the covers with you.
"Keonho, you can come fully in." you let out a small giggle.
He laughs with you for a second before laying under the blanket with you. His arm comes around your shoulders and he pulls you into his body again.
"Am I sleeping here?" he asks, looking down to your face.
"Do you want to?"
He nods, and tightens his hold again. Once your head lands on his chest again his muscles loosen up. He lets out a small sigh of contentment as his hand comes up to rub your back.
Your arms wrap around him as well and you end up tracing small shapes onto his chest. The sleepiness you had felt on the couch rushes back as you melt into Keonho's presence.
"Honey?"
"Yeah?" you speak into his chest.
"Sleep, you're tired," he whispers into your hair, "I am too."
You offer one last nod before letting your eyes close and breathing even out. Keonho's hand doesn't stop it's soothing motion on your back until he's sure you're out.
Once he sees your lips part, he lets himself fall into a slumber, probably the best sleep he's had in a while. He knows waking up tomorrow will probably be awkward once you wake up, but he can't bring himself to care.
All Keonho knows is that where he is right now is warm, your bed sheets are fluffy, and the weight on his chest is comforting. He sleeps through the whole night, never once waking to a sound.
He doesn't even stir when the light comes through the door due to Seonghyeon and Martin sneaking in to spy. He doesn't wake up to the gasp from Juhoon and the picture that James snaps.
Later, when the house is quiet and the lights are off, the two of you shift in your sleep, but never once does his grip on you falter.
kuroo tetsurō had no other emotion to describe what he was feeling except for the word gobsmacked. after you’d so casually crashed the conversation that he and akaashi were having (about his crush on you), only to propose that he practice his dating skills ON YOU, every working brain cell he owned ceased to exist.
two things had been established during this conversation. one was that he liked you far too much to ignore it any longer. the other was that you were wholly oblivious and didn’t realize this fact. neither the fact that he liked you, or the fact that this…situationship was clearly an issue.
to make matters worse, you thought he liked someone else, which was a total joke in his opinion. considering how much time he spent around you, there couldn’t be anybody else.
jokes on him though. he’s sitting on the rug of your dorm room, eyes looking into yours as you smirk at him mischievously.
“so,” you hum, “tell me about them. your crush.”
he watches your eyes light up at this, your lips quirking up into that tell tale smile he loved so much. he thought for just a moment, how easy to would be to lean up and kiss you. surely that’d kill this limbo.
“i like them,” he sighed, “i have for quite a while. if anything, i thought i was obvious. i just can’t tell what they feel for me.”
you nod, sinking onto your knees to join him on the floor. “okay. so they’re oblivious. is there a chance you’re too subtle?”
kuroo’s eyes, golden and ever so beautiful, locked onto you with a look that screamed “seriously?”
“okay,” you sighed. “let’s go on a practice date.”
he rose a brow amusedly, doing his best to hide the way his heart did a somersault in his chest. “when? and where?”
“i mean there’s that cute italian spot downtown,” you suggested, “good options and price. it’s also fancy enough to count as a date rather than one of our hangouts.”
“sounds good,” he nodded, stilling when he saw your eyes expectantly cling to him. “what’s with that look?”
“you didn’t ask me out,” you pouted, “how are you supposed to bag if you don’t even ask.”
you huffed, doing your absolute best to handle the nerves in your chest. this wasn’t a real date. hell, it was simply a selfish effort to see how kuroo could be as a boyfriend before you sent him off with who he really liked.
he exhaled slowly, taking your hands in his and running his fingers slowly over your knuckles. you watched him trace a pattern you could quite place, feeling your face heat up when he finally looked back at you.
“are you free this friday?” he asked, voice smooth as he continued to hold your hands, “because if you are, i’d like to take you out.”
“i’m free,” you gulped, struggling to reconcile the tired man who crashed in your dorm after volleyball after parties with the man in front of you. “i’d like that.”
“be ready at six,” he smiled, reaching to press his lips to the back of your hand. you could feel him smile softly against the back of it, your head spinning from the contact.
since when was he so touchy?
“good job,” you mumbled, “i’m sure your crush would fold for that kind of approach.”
“you think?” he smirked, “well i’d hope so.“
you nod, watching him stand and offer a hand to you to hoist you up.
he moved towards the door, the most shit eating grin on his face. “dress well enough to kill me by the way! i want to be derailed by how good you look. it's no fun if i'm the only one derailing the person i have a crush on.”
he chuckled, closing the door behind him and leaving you standing there, slackjawed.
what. did he just say? no way. he was just messing with you….right?
Summary: The Pevensies' and Penny finally arrive at Aslan's camp and Penny learns about the prophecy of the Summer Witch
Word Count: 2.3K
Content/Warnings: fear, threat
Gif Credits: @ophcliaswrites
Author’s Note: so… it's been a minute ngl. the last few months have been a lot of doctor and hospital visits (current diagnosis: vestibular migraines but idk if that's gonna stick) and i've not really had much inspiration for this story. i'm also writing a crime fiction novel and have a few other side projects outside of fanfiction writing so i've been putting a lot more into those things whilst i'm feeling well.
i also started watching love island usa season 6 for the first time in march and my crazy brain fixated and now i have an entire fic for that outlined too. plus i've been editing the ej caswell fic (hsmtmts) i originally started in 2024 and now i really want to write more for that too…
basically my heads a mess of too many ideas and not enough time. thank you to everybody who's been reading / commenting / voting / liking / reblogging even when i haven't had regular updates, it really means a lot! - auri
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CHAPTER SEVEN—THE PROPHECY
[ NARNIA, 1000 ]
A MIGHTY HORN BLEW LOUDLY ABOVE THE CHATTER OF ASLAN'S CAMP. It startled Penny, the sudden announcement of their arrival, as if it were important somehow. She supposed, to the creatures of Narnia, it was.
Out of the corner of her left eye, petals began to fly. She stopped and turned to find them floating in the air, taking the vague form of a woman. Naked and free, the way nature had intended all women to be before clothes and impossible expectations were manufactured. With a smile, Penny pushed on, no longer weighed down by the water-ridden fur or the snow piled around her feet. She almost felt like dancing, pirouetting through the fields and gliding along the air.
The crowd parted as they stepped near, the Beavers leading the way with an almost nervous excitement. Penny felt it too, her grip on the dual blades hanging from her belt tightening ever so slightly. As they passed by Narnia's creatures, all stopped, stilling for a moment to catch a glimpse of their supposed saviours. Penny recognised some from the mythology books her Uncle had in the Library: Centaurs, Fauns, Dwarfs, and animals (beavers, bears, leopards, horses) all somehow imbued with the power of speech.
Some smiled, some followed, the crowd that welcomed them in now shutting off the frost-ridden world they had left behind.
"Why are they all staring at us?" Susan asked through gritted teeth that she had forced into a smile so as not to seem rude.
"Maybe they think you look funny." Lucy giggled, looking up at her sister.
Penny shrugged, glancing around the campsite. "To them, we do."
Mr Beaver ran a hand down his wife's back, "Oh, stop your fussing, Mrs Beaver. You look lovely."
The crowd thinned once again, funnelling them toward the largest tent on the site, raised up a little higher than the rest on the mossy stone. A large man with the body of a horse waited outside, eyeing them up and down suspiciously.
Peter drew his sword, holding it up proudly, "We have come to see Aslan." He announced to the centaur with a little less confidence than he had intended.
The crowd murmured expectantly, familiar whispers reaching Penny's ears. The Lost Princess, they called her. The same as the beavers and the voices of the wind. The breeze shifted, swirling away from Penny's side and toward the tent. The curtained door blew gently, and Penny heard a low snarl from inside. Like a tidal wave, the creatures behind them lowered onto one knee, their heads bowed and eyes trained on the green grass below.
The children looked back at the tent, a bubble of apprehension ready to burst in Penny's chest. The curtain finally pushed open, a large orange paw stepping out into the warm sunlight. The body of a magnificent lion followed, his mane fluttering in the gentle breeze. The first thing Penny noticed was his eyes, old and kind in a way that reminded her greatly of her Uncle Diggory.
The girls followed Peter's lead, bowing their heads and falling to their knees in respect.
"Welcome Peter, Adam's son, Welcome Susan and Lucy, daughters-of-Eve. Welcome Penelope, our lost Princess. And welcome to you, Beavers. You have my thanks." Aslan's deep voice rang through the camp. "But where is the fourth?"
The children rose to their feet.
"That's why we're here, sir," Peter stated. "We need your help."
Susan chimed in. "We had a little trouble along the way."
"He's been captured... by the White Witch," Penny spoke reluctantly.
"Captured?" Aslan repeated. "How could this happen?"
"He betrayed them, Your Majesty." Mr Beaver told.
"Then he has betrayed us all!" The centaur stood beside Aslan spat.
"Peace, Oreius," Aslan commanded, settling the crowd before they could grow restless. "I'm sure there's an explanation."
Peter looked down, disappointed in himself. "It's my fault, really. I was too hard on him."
Susan laid her hand on his shoulder before looking back at Aslan. "We all were," she admitted, taking her share of the blame.
"Sir, he's our brother." Lucy's words sounded like a plea.
"I know, dear one." His voice softened as he addressed the youngest child. "But that only makes the betrayal all the worse." He shifted his piercing gaze to Peter. "This may be harder than you think."
THE GENTLE WIND TICKLED THE EDGES OF PETER'S HAIR AS HE STOOD ON THE HIGHEST POINT OF THE HILL AND LOOKED OUT OVER NARNIA. Through the valley of rolling hills, a structure glistened in the winter sun. It sat on a cliffside, surrounded by ocean and sand. A peninsula, he had learned in geography class, back when they were still allowed to attend school without the fear of an air raid siren blaring and the Germans dropping bombs.
As he stared out over the campsite and out toward the purple-pink sky, he realised just how much he missed it. Home.
Peter heard the crunch of the grass beneath four paws. "That is Cair Paravel, the castle of the four thrones. In one of which you will sit, Peter, as High King." Aslan peered up at him knowingly. "You doubt the prophecy?"
"No. That's just it." Peter sighed. "Aslan, I'm not what you all think I am."
"Peter Pevensie, formerly of Finchley," Aslan remarked. "Beaver also mentioned you planned on turning him into a hat." They shared a chuckle. "Peter, there is a Deep Magic, more powerful than any of us, that rules over all of Narnia. It defines right from wrong, and governs all our destinies. Yours, and mine." Aslan spoke mysteriously.
"But I couldn't even protect my own family," Peter argued.
Aslan disagreed. "You've brought them, and Penelope, safely this far."
Peter looked back out over the land. "Not all of them."
"Peter, I will do what I can to help your brother," Aslan promised. "But I need you to consider what I ask of you." He observed the various creatures milling around below them. "I, too, want my family safe."
Light footsteps coming up the hill behind them caught Peter's attention. He turned to find Penny, no longer dressed in her English clothes but instead in a long, pink linen dress with golden fabric draped down from her shoulders and a leather belt in which her dual daggers hung ready for use at any given moment. Half of her hair had been pulled into a crown-like braid, the copper strands more vibrant than they had been earlier, now interwoven through the blonde, while the rest fell down her back.
It wasn't the first time Peter had been struck by Penny's beauty, but it was the first time it had made his heart skip a beat.
Aslan tipped his head down an inch as she approached. "Penelope, I see you got my message."
Penny glanced between the boy and the lion. "What did you want to see me about?"
"It is not I who has anything to say, but you, dear Princess," Aslan spoke. "I imagine you have many questions."
Penny hesitated, "The Beavers mentioned a prophecy. It was about the lost Princess of Narnia. They said it tied into another they claimed to be about Peter and his siblings."
"As I was telling Peter, Deep Magic binds Narnia. Its past, present and future." Aslan took a step back, allowing the two halves to stand beside each other. Close but not touching. Not whole. Not yet. "What was predicted by the centaurs centuries ago through the ancient art of star-reading will come to pass. It is the way this world works."
"But what is this prophecy, Aslan? And how is everyone so certain it is about me?" She glanced at Peter. "About us?"
Aslan shook his head, "It is not as simple as just a single prophecy, Princess, but a quintet of intertwining strings threaded together to tell a tale of noble heroes and the lives they are yet to live."
"But if we are the heroes, then shouldn't we be allowed to know?" Peter questioned.
"Some, yes. But not all." Aslan acknowledged. "Peter, Penelope, not all things need to be known. Some must be lived."
"But there is a prophecy, predicting the Princesses' birth and return to Narnia." Penny insisted. "We know about the two sons of Adam and the two daughters of Eve. I can understand how that could be the Pevensies', but I don't understand why people keep staring at me like I'm a miracle they can't believe exists."
"If you truly wish to hear the prediction of the Summer Witch then I will gladly share it, however it is a prophecy of two halves." Aslan stared deep into Penny's ocean eyes. "Are you sure you wish to hear of your fate, Penelope?"
Penny held his gaze. "I do, Aslan."
"In the frozen heart of the land where shadows creep,
Where the ice-bound whispers of death wail and weep,
A child of warmth shall rise from winter's cruel grasp,
In the bleakest of nights, she'll bring forth hope at last.
Born in the depths of the coldest despair,
With hair like the sun and a spirit laid bare,
She'll dance through the meadows where snows used to reign,
And bring forth the blossoms where sorrows remain.
The summer witch, born of fire and gold,
At almost seventeen summers, her tale will unfold.
Golden threads of fate will weave through her heart,
The love for her lost kingdom, never to part.
With the sons of Adam and daughters of Eve,
In unity strong, we shall conquer and cleave."
"You are the Summer Witch Penny. The daughter of Jadis, and you will be the one to restore the light to Narnia after these long winter nights." Aslan spoke with a certainty neither Penny nor Peter had ever heard before.
Penny stepped back. Her head and hands shook as tears welled in her eyes. "No. I cannot be. I cannot have been born from such a wicked woman. I refuse to believe it!"
She turned on her heel and started back down the hillside.
"Penny! Pen!" Peter called, rushing after her.
Halfway down the hill, Penny still wouldn't stop, no matter how many times Peter asked her to stop. She couldn't bear to hear any more about the vile enchantress Aslan had declared to be her mother. Penny didn't have a mother. She was abandoned, not saved. She was a daughter of the Earth, not of Narnia and magic and—
Penny stopped dead in her tracks.
The low blare of Susan's horn filled the air. She had left Susan and Lucy by the river.
As he passed, Peter looked like a blur. "Come on!"
Penny almost lost her footing at the force with which he grabbed her hand in his and pulled her forward. Together they sprinted through Aslan's camp, narrowly avoiding the inhabitants as they raced to the riverbank.
They skidded to a stop by the edge of the water. Two wolves circled the base of the tree that Susan and Lucy had managed to scramble up. They snarled, drool flinging out of the sides of their mouths every time they snapped at Susan's dangling legs.
"Peter!" Lucy screamed.
Peter wasted no time, running through the shallow water and drawing his sword. "Get back!"
"Peter! Watch out!" Susan yelled from above.
One of the wolves tried to pounce, but Aslan intervened, pinning the wolf down with his large paw. Penny gripped the handles of her daggers, but before she could move to help, a hand seized her shoulder. She looked up to find Oreius staring straight ahead at the battle unfolding before them.
"You must stay back," Aslan warned. "This is Peter's battle."
All Penny could do was watch as Peter held his sword out steady in front of him.
"Come on," Maugrim growled. "We've already been through this before. We both know you haven't got it in you."
Peter didn't falter.
"You may think you're a king, but you're going to die like a dog." Maugrim pounced.
A strangled cry left Penny's lips as blood spilt out onto the grass below the wolf and the boy. No longer caring for Aslan's words, Penny lurched forward. She hardly felt the cold water hitting her legs, only one word whirling around her mind—Peter.
Susan and Lucy dropped down from the tree, reaching him in tandem with Penny. Penny's eyes checked Peter for bitemarks as she helped Susan roll Maugrim's corpse away from his motionless body. Peter gasped, taking large gulps of air as his eyes settled on the frightened faces of the three girls beside him.
His arms wrapped around his sisters as they threw themselves onto him and buried their faces into his neck. He caught Penny's eye from over their shoulders, and they shared a look of fear, relief and longing.
Aslan released the other wolf from beneath his paw. "After him." He commanded Oreius and his troops. "He'll lead you to Edmund."
The Pevensies watched them run into the woods, a flicker of hope burning inside at the thought of getting Edmund back.
"Peter." Aslan caught their attention. "Clean your sword."
Once the blade was wiped clean of the wolf's blood, Aslan commanded Peter to kneel before him. He placed his paw on Peter's shoulder, "Rise, Sir Peter Wolfsbane, Knight of Narnia."
Peter looked at the girls in shock, but a smile quickly spread across his face. The sunlight behind him turned his hair into a golden halo, and his eyes shone bright with pride. It felt strange, Penny thought. The tugging sensation inside of her, like a red ribbon of fate tied them together in ways beyond compression or understanding.
Years later, when reflecting on their long-awaited romance to their loyal subjects, Penny would cite it as the moment she fell in love with Peter Pevensie.
SYN . accidentally confessing to your crush on the stupid ig story box thingy was definitely not in your senior year agenda. while you're embarrassed as hell and is currently contemplating your life choices, seonghyeon is nothing but smug and thrilled that the girl of his dreams secretly likes him back
part one , part two , part three
✏️ . . . wait ya'll ate up the 1st part sbbb here's a sweet treat for u guys!
✏️ . . . soo what we think abt it gangg. btw the petname shi r supposed to be lowk cringew cuz yn hates it n hyeon loves to get a reaction out of her LOLLLL. like my usual smau thingy this will prob be 3/4 pt! so js drop in the comments if u wanna be tagged for the nextt
