#(she likes how good-natured he is and how much he loves to just... talk. and share his mind)

[gallusrostromegalus]

I'd love to hear about Aunty Chihiro, and, by extension, what exactly was going on with Orihime's parents

Chihiro Inoue is the MUCH younger sister of Orihime's father. In fact, Chihiro was only about four years older than Sora, and the two of them were close growing up- more like siblings than cousins, because Sora was left with his grandparents so often by his neglectful parents.

The problem with Sora and Orihime's parents was that they were... Not up to the herculean task of parenting and didn't know how to cope.

They weren't stupid- they were actually both quite bright and did well in school, but both of them had little to no impulse control, emotionally volatile were intensely self-centered (mostly as a means to cope with the poor organizational skills and emotional disregulation). None of those are sins, but they did make for two high school sweethearts who married and had a baby immediately and the stress of an infant overwhelmed them and they never recovered, hopping from one self-destructive coping mechanism to another until at age 17, Sora Inoue ran away from home with his two-year old sister, Orihime.

Chihiro turned out to be instrumental to their survival- She was taking a gap year before college and when her baby cousin called her at 1 AM in tears because he didn't know how to take care of her even babier cousin and they were sleeping under an overpass-

Chihiro Inoue, Force Of Nature, was downtown and herding them into the car within the hour.

They stayed in her apartment for the first year while Chihiro got Sora his Emancipated Minor status and a few months later, convinced her brother and his wife to give up custody of their daughter to their son, argued with the magistrate to get it done, set Sora up with an office job and got Orihime enrolled in Preschool.

She and Sora stayed close, but while she was finishing her degree in agricultural sciences, she met a charming young man and shortly after graduating, married him and moved up to his family dairy farm in Hokkaido.

She kept in close contact with her Baby Cousins, with Orihime often going up to Hokkaido during summer breaks to get out of the city heat and play with her aunt and her growing swarm of children.

When Sora died as a result of the car accident ten years later, Chihiro would have taken Orihime in in a heartbeat but - She had five children of her own, And - The Very Charming Man she'd married had made some exceptionally shitty decisions re: Money, fidelity and his general treatment of Chihiro, So - She was in the process of divorcing him and - Forming a sort of feminist Commune Of Women Wronged By That Guy Specifically with the four women he cheated on her with and their children to run - The Dairy Farm in Hokkaido, which The Formerly Charming Man's parents had left to HER rather than their shithead son.

So Chihiro was in no position to take on a grieving 12-year old.

Chihiro holds IMMENSE respect for the Kurosaki family, who did their damndest to save Sora and immediately took Orihime in and coordinated all the paperwork between Orihime, the local relevant governing bodies and Chihiro. Isshin never asked for any kind of compensation and was bewildered when Chihiro offered it to him because "that's just what you do in this kind of situation?"

She's also very fond of Ichigo, who has always been a perfect gentleman, if a bit moody but he's a teenager, and compared to how insane Chihiro was as a teenager, he's a saint.

Psychic Bullshit runs in the Inoue family too, so Chihiro almost fails to notice anything odd about Kon, the cat who talks, and routinely forgets that most people don't see ghosts, so she doesn't get why Ichigo is sou grouchy about-oh, right. Sorry Kiddo.

Eventually, it was simplest to get Orihime her own place- Rent in karakura is remarkably cheap for urban Japan, mostly because of all the unexplained deaths the city has, and Chihiro didn't want to uproot her niece from all her friends and the very good schools she'd gotten into.

So the agreement was that Chihiro would pay Orihime's rent and living expenses "Provided you keep your grades up, because you're smart as hell and if your grades tank that means you're in serious trouble and need my help so I'll come get you right away baby"

Orihime is in close contact with her aunt and cousins- they talk on the phone at least once a week and Orihime often goes to see them during summer and winter breaks.

More Importantly, Auntie Chihiro comes down every September 3rd to Celebrate Orihime's birthday with her, and every October 3rd, Orihime takes the bullet train up to Hokkaido to celebrate Chihiro's Birthday.

...Orihime seems a bit distant and distracted during her Birthday, and awfully sparse with the details about the "Summer Trip" She and her friends from school went on. It seems like the trip ended up being kind of a downer because someone in management at the camp or whatever decided to quit very dramatically right at the end? And Ichigo got pretty badly hurt?? but Orihime insists that everything is fine and she's looking forward to seeing all her cousins and the cows next month!

So it's VERY SUSPICIOUS when Orihime fails to turn up at the station a month later, and calling around to all of Orihime's friends leads to various non-answers- Chad and Tatsuki just say they didn't see her at school today, Uryuu hangs up on her in what sounds like panic, and she only gets the Kurosaki household's voicemail.

So Chihiro Inoue, Force Of Nature, takes the train to Karakura.

Her first stop is the Kurosaki household where she discovers that Ichigo and more worrisomely, Kon have also vanished off to Parts Unknown, and she turns her wrathful gaze upon Isshin Kurosaki.

He folds like a deck chair.

Turns out HE's not sure what the hell is going on either, just that Ichigo made friends with some girl called Rukia earlier this summer and she's involved in the organization that is responsible for dealing with all the ghost-monsters and Ichigo may have joined it too also the entire gang of kids went to the land of the dead maybe Ichigo doesn't tell him anything these days, you need to ask Kisuke, he's the one that knows what the hell is going on-

Kisuke Urahara has all of 0.03 seconds warning before Chihiro Inoue literally kicks the door of Urahara Shoten in and demands to know where her niece is.

This is deeply surreal for Kisuke for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that Chihiro Inoue looks EXACTLY like Orihime, but about 20 years in the future and terrifyingly SHREDDED. The Woman is wearing a MEGA MILK shirt without a hint of Irony and the only thing Kisuke can look at are her biceps as she lifts him up by the collar and indicates that he'd better start giving her some answers or she is gonna break that stupid cane off in his ass-

Kisuke Urahara, Noted Coward, directs her to the Basement.

Down there, she discovers Ichigo is undergoing some sort of horrific John Carpenter's The Thing-esque transformation under the supervision of a gang of badly dressed lunatics being lead by a man with the stupidest haircut she's seen in her life.

Shinji Hirako is reminded of the Utterly Terrifying Kirio Hikifune, and immediately levels with her.

Chihiro is Very Disappointed that Orihime told her none of this, but really, the girl has never REALLY been in trouble before, of course she panicked. But where IS she?

Ichigo and his assorted inner spirits are having a great deal of trouble deciding who is horse and who is king but the sudden Booming Demand for Orihime's exact location in a voice meant to put the Fear Of God Into Bulls and other livestock makes Ichigo's imaginary friends all dive for cover, sorting out who the horses are rather nicely.

I have not actually figured out HOW to end this scene yet, but it ends with Chihiro agreeing to stay in Karakura and keep watch over Ichigo's body and family since Kon seems to have been abducted along with Orihime. ---

There is a MUCH later scene in which Chad's Uncle Jaime De La Rosa, who came up to surprise Chad because he got invited to a veterinary conference in Karakura at the last minute, is wandering around Karakura wondering WHY THE HELL everyone is asleep when he spies a horrible pale figure with a terrible twisted smile that can only be The Devil Himself, and some fucking gringo who won't shut up with him.

But before he can distract The Devil Away from Chad's friend with La Chancla, The Devil is Geta'd with enough force to actually throw him off balance, and a beautiful woman with the proportions and unbridled fury of a Valkyrie sprints up and starts battering The Devil with her other shoe whilst bellowing the most vile invective Jaime's Good Catholic Ears have ever heard.

Naturally, he immediately falls in love.

Shortly therafter, and exhausted and panicked Chihiro Inoue, in tears because she can't get the crowd of alarmingly powerful ghosts to let her see her niece, finds them being parted like the red sea by the wrath of a very small man directing them with a fury and speed not normally seen outside of livestock auctions or automatic weapons in both Japanese and Spanish, getting the chaotic mess sorted into a triage, the start of peace negotiations, and Orihime Delivered to her arms in under ten minutes.

Naturally, she immediately falls in love.

[leonarecs]

PIZZA. this was such a fucking masterpiece, i’m in tears and i haven’t even gotten to part two yet??? i know how much love and soul and dedication you poured into this fic and it truly was so so fucking worth it. i think i told you this before when you first sent me bits and pieces of this fic, but seriously, i can feel every bit of the reader’s heartache in this. its so potent and real and i feel so incredibly honored to be friends with such a talented person!! okie now let’s get into this…

Dark and brooding, his eyes scan through the crowds of students like an eagle targeting its prey before they relax set on you. As he makes his way ambling towards, his eyes soften, his lips curving upwards, at the crouched position you sat.

the way he melts when he looks at her 😭 ‘best friends’ my ass, he was so down bad for her from the very start, UGH they’re so dumb

His fingers hook over the spine of the book, pulling it down to see your sweet face. “Hey there Ace.” 

THE WAY I SQUEALED AAAAHHHHHHJFH this is the cutest fucking thing it’s so romcom coded i’m gonna burst. i’ve said it before and i’ll say it again, you always include the tiniest details that make me go insane!!!

“You know I hate that damn nickname. It’s not a good representation of me. You’re going to scare off my prized possessions with the softness.”

okay first of all, that’s a LIE, you love the nickname, and second, FUCKING EWWWWW “prized possessions” I’M GONNA THROW UPPPP HE’S SUCH A MAN 🤢🤢🤢

It cut deep to know Mattheo was hurting too, every time he would lie quietly in your arms. A homely embrace that often was the only way he could fall asleep, the treacherous nightmares finally blurring away into nothing but distant dust particles.

HE. COULD. ONLY. FALL. ASLEEP. IN. HER. ARMS. SHE HELPED HIS NIGHTMARES GO AWAY. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME. i genuinely don’t know how to put my feelings into words at this moment so i’m just going to shut up and use memes instead.

It stung he’d never considered you an option, someone willing to open his doors, to melt the hardened rock that caged his heart, to patch it up with a warmness he deserved. But maybe it was your fault for always being available, too in reach, desperate for any time he threw your way. Mattheo loved the chase and if he was a dog, you were about as exciting as a flobberworm.  

i’ll never get over how good you are at capturing emotion like this. no exaggeration, this is just so beautiful and i can feel my heart aching for her. ‘never even considered you an option,’ OUCH IF ONLY YOU KNEW. and her thinking she’s not exciting to him. babe, this is the chase of the century to me.

You felt it too, feeling like the two of you shared something special, but nothing ever changed, nothing more ever came.

I CAN’TTTT, THE WAY SHE KNOWS THEY HAVE SOMETHING BUT SHE CAN’T DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT PLEASE

And so you were stuck with just watching from afar as he broke your heart, shattering it into tiny grains of sand slipping through your fingers into an hourglass. That turned over and over at each new glimpse of hope, an endless time loop that had you feeling useless. 

no words. just in complete adoration of this metaphor and your brain.

His courteous and considerate nature was at large all day, making sure your basket was full of every Honeyduke flavoured candy, to reaching for magical assortments on the highest shelf in Zonkos.

i’m melting at the way he spoils her goodnight

Swarmed by a couple of girls stalling his exertion of returning to you, though he’s chatting away to them happily as if he has all the time in the world.

oh. yeah i take that last part the fuck back. the fact that he’s not even thinking about how she’s waiting outside in the cold for him while he’s just talking to other bitches? i can’t tell if my heart is aching or filling with something that says ‘punch him.’

Dean widens his grin, finding yours utterly gorgeous. “Going in right?”

DEANNN YOU BEAUTIFUL GENTLEMAN, COME SAVE THE DAY PLEASEE

“She’s fine. She’s with me.” Mattheo’s voice grabs your attention as he finally appears at the doorway, coldly shoving past Dean, his eyes narrowing into unpleasant slits meeting the Gryffindor's eye.

oh, mixed feelings here. glad he’s jealous, upset that he ruined my moment of happiness 😾

He wouldn’t allow anyone unworthy to take up a moment of your time, and a lousy shithead, Gryffindor, definitely didn't tick the box. 

oh please, dean is the furthest thing from a shithead 🙄✋

Call him selfish, but with the long history and close bond the two of you shared, he had always felt you were his. His friend, his study partner, his number one supporter at quidditch games, his go to for advice, his favourite person to pester lovingly, to sneak up on or make you laugh so hard tears would stream down your adorable face.

AUGHSHFH I JUST—… this pisses me off bc he’s such a hypocrite, expecting her to be completely his and give all her attention to him when he doesn’t do the same in return for her. but also… i love a possessive man what can i say 🥹 it’s one of my flaws. ‘down your adorable face’ ADORABLE EEHGFHASFG I’M GONNA CRY

He’ll find himself outside your dorm as if the hallway is lit with a thousand glowing signs guiding him.

this is incredibly random but the thought came to me so i have to say it. you know in the movie brave, how those little blue whisps guided merida to wherever she needed to go? thats what i’m imagining right now

“S‘good to me, Ace.” He pushes himself up further into the bosoms of your chest, his arm dangling heavily over your shoulder and his own fingers tickle the nape of your neck. “Don’t know what I'd do without you.” 

i’m hurting rn

mattheo when asked to explain his feelings for reader ^^

Dean, like Mattheo, was stuck on the interaction, daydreaming about the small, fond moment he shared with you. How your smile had warmed your face with a radiance unlike any other he’d seen before

AWWWWSAGSDS HE’S SO CUTE

When he had heard through the grapevine that Eli, his closest Hufflepuff friend, had grown and started a routine studying session with you twice a week. He practically leaps at the chance and the boy to let him tag along

do men actually do this too? i thought only girls daydreamed about tiny little moments and conspired plans to meet their crushes like this 🤯

The conflicting rising affections for Dean begin to sprout vines along the already fortified stone wall Mattheo has set inside your heart. 

THIS SENTENCE HELLO????? i’m in awe its such good imagery

His laugh only deepens, and he reaches over grabbing the cutlery, “Let me you damn klutz.” You watch his hands grip the silverware, his veins popping prominently under the flex of his movements. 

CUTTING HER FOOD FOR HER THE DOMESTICITY I’M SOBBINGGGHGHG also the veins omg i came

“Want me to feed you too, Ace.”

yes actually yes please

A multitude of inappropriate names and answers filter to the forefront of your brain, like a slideshow that practically screams ‘You’re horny for your best friend!'

LMFAOOOOO my mind right now: daddydaddydaddydaddydaddydaddydaddydaddy 

A habit he undeniably loves, only wishing it was his lips you were so sensually nipping. 

ok now i’m horny again that’s not fair 😐 you can’t play with my emotions like this

“You giving me attitude now, little brat?.” He grabs your head into a tight headlock, rustling his knuckle into the crown of your hair, envisioning putting you in your place in an alternative method.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME I’M CUMMING AND WE HAVEN’T EVEN DONE ANYTHING JSDHFJFGHSDJGFFSDKG

“Yeah, it should be entertaining. Kind of hoping to use it as an excuse to finally get that stuck-up bitch Everly, to at least let me get to second base. No offense.. to women.”

the way i would fucking drag this man out to the courtyard by the hair… god give me patience he’s so fucking GROSS FOR SAYING THAT, TF YOU MEAN STUCK UP??? gonna slap him… on a lighter note, this also made me giggle a little bc that last bit reminded me of diary of a wimpy kid, the part where the mom finds a magazine rodrick had with a bikini model on the front and she was like “do you have anything you want to say to women for having owned this offensive magazine?” and he was like “… i’m sorry, women” LMFAOOOOO

The casual standby and unbothered appearance tightens his chest knowing you don’t care what he does with girls. It breaks him never getting a real reaction, and only fuels his conclusions regarding you only seeing him platonically.

oh so he says this shit to her on purpose. to make her jealous. to get a reaction. FUCK. YOU. but also omg feelings 🤗

It pains him to utter the next few words, “But that doesn’t mean you can’t tag along, of course. You know I'd never ditch my number one girl.” 

FUCKKKK YOUUU DUDE IF I WAS YOUR NUMBER ONE GIRL YOU’D BE GOING WITH ME INSTEAD OF TELLING ME TO “TAG ALONG” AND THIRD WHEEL

“You have a date?” He cuts you off with a little hostility.

the italics on ‘you’ pain me, like he thinks it’s impossible for someone to like her (ik that’s not what his thoughts are but that’s how it feels to her ☹️)

No fucking way. He looks between you and back to Dean, feeling an upchuck of jealousy gurgle in his stomach. The clocks churn, working overtime to filter through his memories. The same dazed smile you cast to him in Hogsmeade reflects on your expression as you wave back. 

he’s suchhhh a fucking hypocrite, i love the jealousy but he’s so annoying

He’s not used to this kind of hostility from you, and while he feels a wave of pride, he can’t wrap his head around you getting angry at him over the sake of a Gryffindor. 

HIM BEING INTERNALLY PROUD OF HER FOR SPEAKING UP FOR HERSELF UGHGHGGHG MY HEART

He walks with Everly confidently hanging off his arm, looking like a sparkly prized charm that, you know, means his eyes won't be anywhere but on her. 

it hurts please stop, one second i’m swooning and the next i want to be far far away from him

He's as attractive as ever, dressed in all black. His curls look decent for once, coiled neatly, which might have made you swoon, but you can't help question if she did it for him.

instantly i thought of this pic

What he really needed was you, a nice tall glass to satisfy his thirsting desire. His eyes linger on you for another moment. You look nice. Who’s he kidding?  You look gorgeous. It’s such a simple outfit and yet it suits your figure so well. He doesn’t know the last time he saw you so dressed up, definitely never for himself like that. 

YEAHHHHH BITCH NOW YOU’RE HORNY FOR ME SUCK IT UP 🖕

He wanted to stand beside you now as the group moved to the stage and scream the lyrics with you in each other's faces. He wanted to have your smile directed at him and be the one to spin you, listening to your infectious laugh meant for only him. 

stop now i’m imagining them doing just that and i want to cry. they’re so fucking cute together.

But Dean isn’t one to back down from a little intimidation, and eyes him, “I see what this is about. You're jealous, aren’t you?” 

call his ass out king

In the split second the word leaves Dean's lips, Mattheo connects his fist with his nose. There’s a loud crack of the bone and Dean yelps, grasping it as blood streams covering his fingers. 

IT TOOK TWO SECONDS FOR HIM TO SNAP OMGGGNDGHG

He meets your gaze, his eyes lighting up at seeing you noticing him properly, but then you’re walking towards him hastily. He has little time to escape before the familiar pulling pain shoots from his ear down and he yelps, cursing. 

I’M CRYINGGG NOT THE EAR PULL LMFAOOOO I LOVE HER

“He doesn’t even like you, y/n, he’s still hung up on his ex - I don’t know why you’re wasting time with him anyway, you’re not that oblivious, are you?”

that’s so fucking mean 

“Fine. I can see I’m not wanted.” He’s bitter and heartbroken as you completely disregard him with no trust. But he holds his tongue further, not wishing to damage the ship. “I’ll stay out of your way to avoid ruining your life further.” 

my heart is literally clenching shut up. why do i feel bad for him right now when he literally did this to himself.

You had been the one to ask Dean. 

WHAT A FUCKING WAY TO END IT OH MY GOD. the fact that he only processed that part when he got back to his dorm?? the fact that he was trying not to CRY?? i’m so done.

jfc i’m scared to get to part two, BUT i know we have a happy ending so its okay, i can power through 🙏 i currently feel the same way that i did as a child after watching that spongebob episode where gary ran away, i need to—

She will be loved

Sum: Reader is hopelessly and madly in love with her best friend Mattheo while constantly having her heart broken living in the shadows of other girls. Unaware that he’s hiding a secret and unable to express the truth about how he feels for her too. Wc: 8.7 k

Warn: This is part one, as it was so long, I decided to break it up. angst, (V angsty I guess), fluffy, use of Ace nickname, one mention of blood, bit of y/n in there, swearing - you will probably be unhappy with Mattheo in this part. Eli, Everly and the eloquent editorial are all made up by me.

A/n: inspired by the song she will be loved for my delayed milestone!!! (apologises for those who have been here since april ilysm!!) I also listened to butterflies which I think encapsulates their relationship more! dividers from here & here 🩵

You watch with eyes peering over the book, keeping yourself conspicuous while your heart clenches once again at the way he talks to her. The arrogant smirk, the subtle touches and sultry words that leave his sweet lips, and she’s caught hooked as he digs his fangs into another victim. Bagging another venture for some late-night plans, watching the way his hands squeeze her hip in farewell before he turns, and his eyes shift their gaze.

Dark and brooding, his eyes scan through the crowds of students like an eagle targeting its prey before they relax set on you. As he makes his way ambling towards, his eyes soften, his lips curving upwards, at the crouched position you sat. You avert your gaze downwards to the words you’ve continuously reread appearing busy on his arrival. 

His fingers hook over the spine of the book, pulling it down to see your sweet face. “Hey there Ace.” 

With nowhere to hide, you drop the novel and grin up at him. All feelings of hurt wash away as you greet your best friend. “Hi Matty.” His lips curl scoffing at the nickname, with an over dramatic eye roll, and he plants himself beside you with exhaust, leaning back into the bench seat. 

“You know I hate that damn nickname. It’s not a good representation of me. You’re going to scare off my prized possessions with the softness.” His lips mumble out, pursuing a cigarette between them, his hands covering the end to light it. 

It’s your turn to roll your eyes at his careless habit, “and you know I hate when you smoke. Can’t win every battle.” You ignore his comment about the girls he likes to collect as trophies. It’s easier if you pretend your feelings for him don’t exist. 

His eyes light up in amusement at the remark, “Touché little Acey.” Pulling back the cigarette, he playfully blows his next exhale in your face, making you fan it with your book. A deep chuckle cascades out of him smooth like honey, and you swoon internally as it vibrates from his body to yours. 

His eyes stare off into the distance, thinking for a moment, and you take the time to study his features. Something you often did, unable to help yourself from admiring the boy you loved. He was gorgeous. But of course he knew that, and so did every other girl in school.

Sometimes you wonder how life would be if you had never stumbled upon the then frightened boy hidden out in the wooden dockyards. If the two of you had never bonded so closely, then maybe you would have had a chance with him, too. 

Despite sharing similar trauma, one of the mainframes of your relationship, you still felt he was holding back. Not that he couldn’t trust you, but someone who has gone without love for so long, struggled with giving it and even harder to receive it without any doubt. 

It brought him comfort knowing you would always be there for him, always when he was in trouble, a helping hand, a guiding light. At times, he felt like you were the only one he could go to. 

For you, it was a curse and a blessing. You loved him truly as a friend always. But something lay deep beneath those friendly feelings, a growing sensation that burned in your heart. 

It cut deep to know Mattheo was hurting too, every time he would lie quietly in your arms. A homely embrace that often was the only way he could fall asleep, the treacherous nightmares finally blurring away into nothing but distant dust particles. He’d never been fully able to express the gratitude he held for you being in his life, in how you made him feel seen like he finally was someone of importance and not for his lineage. 

Someone who mattered and deserved to be loved. Even if he continued to suffer in denial over his conflicting thoughts about you as more than a friend, that kind of emotion never came easy for him to express. He’d freeze up as if Medusa herself had flashed her eyes, turning him instantly to stone. His palms clammed up, heart slowed and in the end he’d brush it off with a joke and bury those ambivalent feelings. 

But the way he felt for you was nothing like anything he’d ever experienced for anyone. You were kind and compassionate, with a heart of pure gold; the complete opposite of him. As far as he believed. He cared for you like you were kin, a treasured item with the utmost value, and it was his duty to protect. It was the only way he knew how to articulate those weakened feelings, soft thoughts of vulnerability taught to hinder. 

So he acted like a dragon, almost guarding you fiercely, and sometimes a little cold even to you by being overprotective. His loyalty and possessive nature grew stronger over your years at Hogwarts. The fear of destruction lingering behind every action, spiking his anxiety controling him like a puppet on a string, the dread of losing you dangling dangerously.

If something were to happen and he was the one to watch your bright flame flicker and extinguish because of the chaotic whirlwind that is his life, he’d never forgive himself. It didn’t matter anyway, he had all but virtually convinced himself that you felt nothing for him but brotherly love. So he kept you at a distance, not allowing anything to fester outside of platonic.

His eyes dark and contemplative glimpse down the corridor, admiring the newest gaggle of girls who flocked, his hair moving with the calm breeze that floats through the concrete archways. Students bustle around between the transfiguration courtyard, moving with enthusiasm for what the weekend brings as classes wrap up for the day. You can't tear your eyes off how he checks them out despite already scoring a date for later. Your jealousy is so potent it's a good thing he can’t smell it. 

You knew he was wounded, seeking enrichment and attention through women. A way to fill his emptiness from the absence of love he sought. It stung he’d never considered you an option, someone willing to open his doors, to melt the hardened rock that caged his heart, to patch it up with a warmness he deserved. But maybe it was your fault for always being available, too in reach, desperate for any time he threw your way. Mattheo loved the chase and if he was a dog, you were about as exciting as a flobberworm.  

He was a boy with a broken smile, and to most it seemed to only stretch wider when you were near. You felt it too, feeling like the two of you shared something special, but nothing ever changed, nothing more ever came. And so you were stuck with just watching from afar as he broke your heart, shattering it into tiny grains of sand slipping through your fingers into an hourglass. That turned over and over at each new glimpse of hope, an endless time loop that had you feeling useless. 

“I saw you got partnered in potions with that Badger boy. How’s that going?” His voice slices through your thoughts, redirecting your mind to the present, and you blink away the tattered heartbreak. His eyes are now observing you, lips sucking in the nicotine he badly craves, before his head falls to flick the butt against the seat.

You don’t catch his own undertone of jealousy laced in his curiosity, for it wasn’t odd of Mattheo to pay attention to how guys acted around you. You were, after all, someone significant to him. “Oh Eli? yeah, he’s fine. We’ve got plans to study in the library this weekend.” 

“You can’t. We have plans.” He rebuttals hastily, his voice low with a hint of seriousness that means don’t push him. His eyes study your reaction, letting out a drag before he continues, “Come on, I think it’s time I owe you that trip to Hosgmeade together. I know how badly you want to go.” He raises a brow, flashing you a boyish grin, his seriousness simmering with hopes of convicing.  

The suddeness in which he jumps at your long ago suggestion, one you’ve been pestering him about for weeks. The one always met with a shrug and a sheepish sorry-excuse decline that he has other things planned. A small frown forms in confusion, till you toss the idea over and the mere idea that he’s finally free to go with you overturns the doubt and you mirror his smile, excited and giddy.

The idea now blooming in your chest of spending a whole weekend with Mattheo. His smile widens at the fact he knows you so well, and he gets you out of your plans. “Okay, yeah, I’m sure Eli won’t mind waiting. We were getting ahead of ourselves, anyway.”

The day spent in Hogsemade went fast, a wonderful speed drive of hyper adrenaline that radiated deep in your chest. It was a dream, everything you’d imagine a date with Mattheo would be like. Which was a problem, because this most definitely wasn’t a date. 

Mattheo was a notorious charmer. For someone who grew up with unusual and pratically zero social contact, he was surprisingly quick on his feet. He knew the way to sweep and woo a girl with the subtlety of a chameleon, and the ability to match anyone's aura as easily as alternating his colours. 

His courteous and considerate nature was at large all day, making sure your basket was full of every Honeyduke flavoured candy, to reaching for magical assortments on the highest shelf in Zonkos. All little thoughtful things that had made you woozy with delusion and a pounding heart that rang out like smashing symbols repeatedly. 

Mattheo, though he might never admit it, was always subtly paying attention to you. You were his best friend, and he wanted to keep you near, concealing his longing gazes with reasons of just  being defensive. A part of him felt responsible to repay you in the best way he knew how, if not with words of gratitude - avoiding ripping down the robust fortress that protected his vulnerability - he’d be there in other ways that held less hardship on him. 

When he excuses himself to the bathroom in the three broomsticks, you decide best to wait outside the inn for him. Huddling near the entrance underneath the roof that overhangs, the last stop of your outing before the two of you head back up to the castle as the afternoon sun sets. The minutes tick by slowly, making you apprehensive and irked, wondering what’s taking him so long. Peering back through the dusty windows, you find the cause of his delay. 

He’s nested at the far back of the pub close to the bathrooms, but he’s no longer alone. Swarmed by a couple of girls stalling his exertion of returning to you, though he’s chatting away to them happily as if he has all the time in the world. The usual bitter feelings of neglect and redundancy rise, stirring the once settled butterbeer, now threatening to creep back up and paint the windows. 

Turning around with a heavy heart, you lean back on the cool panels, taking a shaky breath to control the hurt you feel. It's not the first time he’s done it, throwing you aside temporarily, replacing you with something more shiny and alluring to him. You’re almost certain he doesn’t do it purposefully, he just gets swept up in having positive attention on him, and well with girls, it's always favourable. 

As time turns, those grains of sands sift further through the gap in the hourglass, questioning with logic why you're not just barging in and yanking him out by the ear. The bell goes signalling the exit of customers, and you turn in hope only to find yourself planted in the middle of a loud, deafening talkative group of Gryffindor boys. Alarmed, you step back, attempting to save yourself from being flattened by the load of them as they mingle past you. 

Giving polite smiles to the passing lads, you wait patiently, till there's only left still holding the door in offering. He’s easily recognizable with his towering height and his signature kind smile, one that has you feeling as if a thousand rays of sunlight were glowing from deep inside your body, leaving you feeling warm and cozy. 

Dean widens his grin, finding yours utterly gorgeous. “Going in right?”

Nodding absentmindedly, you still don't move, a little frozen by his dazzling smile. “Uh huh.”

He tilts his head, studying curiously, his expression shifting into an amused smirk. “You alright y/n?” 

“She’s fine. She’s with me.” Mattheo’s voice grabs your attention as he finally appears at the doorway, coldly shoving past Dean, his eyes narrowing into unpleasant slits meeting the Gryffindor's eye. A silent warning that he’s walking a thin line into deathly territory talking to you when he’s present.

He falls back in his place, slinging an arm over your shoulder protectively, and steers you away from the pub without another word to Dean. Looking back, you give a brief goodbye smile to Dean before your undivided attention returns to Mattheo. 

“What did he want?” He grumbles, walking with a quicken pace much faster than your legs can keep up with.

“Nothing. He was just leaving the pub too.” Mattheo’s eyes are distant, flickering back between the cobblestones and the castle emerging in the distance.

“What took you so long?” You push for a truthful answer, watching his reaction carefully. 

He shoots you a glare, though he can’t help the boyish smirk that shines through. Despite knowing he had made you wait longer than needed, he’ll bend the truth to avoid admitting a fault.

He pulls you in closer with his arm, “I just got stopped by some classmates, no big deal. Quit overthinking Ace.” He ruffles your hair with childlike mannerisms and your nose scrunches, feeling babied, the constant reminder that he sees you as nothing more than a sister. 

Contrarily, Mattheo’s mind still lingers on seeing your dazed look radiating from the simple act of kindness Dean had shown you. Defensively, he assured himself that it's probably nothing; you were just being your friendly self.

He swallows, the bitter taste rising, promising himself he wouldn’t let you out of his grasp. You were precious to him. He wouldn’t allow anyone unworthy to take up a moment of your time, and a lousy shithead, Gryffindor, definitely didn't tick the box. 

The next few weeks pass in a blur, the seriousness of the potions assignment weighing down on you and Eli. The two of you had worked together seamlessly, coordinating portions of the workload evenly to one another and sharing ideas and discussions together to get it done efficiently.

In the time since working on the Antidote for Veritaserum, Eli and you had grown closer together, strictly platonic. A routine was beginning, finding yourself commonly buried in the library working alongside one another more often than not with an intellectual mutualism. 

It was nice to find a common interest with someone outside of Mattheo, as he wasn’t the biggest fan of studying. His interest in it was minimal. Being naturally smart, he found the absence of it didn’t alter his grades and more so a waste of time. Not to mention he had a multitude of other talents that he believed were superior to the education of most Hogwarts classes. 

Mattheo wasn’t entirely fond of your new friendship with the puff, stuck in a loop of eye rolls and grumbles when you would escape away from him to the library. Even though he had concluded that Eli was an unworthy and pitiable threat, the idea of your attention suddenly being split from him nagged at the back of his head. 

Call him selfish, but with the long history and close bond the two of you shared, he had always felt you were his. His friend, his study partner, his number one supporter at quidditch games, his go to for advice, his favourite person to pester lovingly, to sneak up on or make you laugh so hard tears would stream down your adorable face. He might have not fully comprehended his feelings, continuing to act as though you were nothing more than a friend. But he was still loyal to that possessive idea, and he didn’t want anyone else taking his treasure away. 

He had managed so far to brush off his imaginary jealousy for your attention, not wanting to appear clingy or needy for it. Two traits he despises with deep, pure hatred. Never wishing to be associated with the dread of appearing weak or desperate, haunted by his past punishment. 

Especially for something so pathetic as this. They had no place in his heart. 

His line of vulnerability was already thin enough, and you barely just crossed it being his best friend. But that was when he had the safety net of darkness, all the lights off where he could release a heavy sigh from his chest and into your embrace. In the middle of the night, where it was silent and the only noises were the colliding beats of your hearts and mingled breaths, a world for just the two of you. 

Or the occasional times when he’s too drunk to coherently fulfill his plans of hooking up with someone. He’ll find himself outside your dorm as if the hallway is lit with a thousand glowing signs guiding him. The intensity blares his vision, and he’d stumble with his hand lifting to block them. They shine with hope and all things good as he makes his way into your room. Calling your name into the dark, a voice filled with contentment arrived at the epitome of a home. 

“Matty?” Bedsheets ruffle and a soft glow illuminates the room at the switch of your lamp, which he profoundly protests at. 

“Noooo, turn the light off.” He shields his eyes, still feeling the blur from his invisible imagery, and flops down on your bed. You groan at the pressured weight of him half collapsing on top of you and the vivid stink of his alcohol infused breath, his hands coming to constrict around you in a tight squeeze. “Ace! Turn the light off.”

Grumbling with irritation, you flick the lamp off and sigh heavily under the weight, but when he mumbles a slur of incoherent words to you, the anger melts away. Bringing the familiar soothing hand to his head, your fingers rack through his curls and he sighs peacefully. 

“S‘good to me, Ace.” He pushes himself up further into the bosoms of your chest, his arm dangling heavily over your shoulder and his own fingers tickle the nape of your neck. “Don’t know what I'd do without you.” 

His words cause that familiar churn in your heart, even with the understanding of where his words pull from, you can’t help but ache pining for more. As usual, you say nothing to reflect the desperate truth and continue to be only a good friend for him. Comforting him as he spills drunk, vulnerable babbles one after another till he succumbs to the sleep he so severely needs. 

And when the morning light shines and wakes him from his slumber, he’d give you the smallest of an indebted smile, that broken smile begging to be loved - a boy clinging to the one radiant thing in his life, completely convinced he’s reached the peak fulfilment of love confined to never earn it romantically before he’s back to the overconfident composed boy with a secret so big he might break if it spills. 

Dean, like Mattheo, was stuck on the interaction, daydreaming about the small, fond moment he shared with you. How your smile had warmed your face with a radiance unlike any other he’d seen before and while he knew who you were, he wanted to further that acquaintance. Perhaps friends, though Dean wished for better luck than that. 

When he had heard through the grapevine that Eli, his closest Hufflepuff friend - for the mere bonding over the muggle football club, West Ham - had grown and started a routine studying session with you twice a week. He practically leaps at the chance and the boy to let him tag along, with N.E.W.T.S drawing nearer he found himself cumulative by stress and wanting to buckle down. 

“Eli! El- wait up.” Surprisingly, the measly boy had a speed like a roadrunner, zipping his way along the hallways up the grand staircase, causing Dean’s larger body to mutter a substantial amount of ‘excuse me’ before he catches up grasping the puff's shoulder. “Bloody hell, you’re fast.” 

“Oh hey Dean, where’d you come from?” Eli turns, smiling once he recognizes his friend. 

“Just got out of DADA with the Slytherins, anyway I wanted to ask if I could join your next study session. Seamus is snoring a lot and talkin' in his sleep. It's driving me mental mate. I’m so behind on my workload.” Dean huffs out his worries, hoping it seals the deal. 

Eli's smile just widens, nodding, “Course! The more the merrier, I'm sure y/n won’t mind. It's just the two of us, anyway, so there's plenty of room on the table!” 

Dean grins, pleased, “Cheers, mate.” He presses a bit for further info on you. “So, what’s she like? y/n I mean.” He leans against the banister as the stairwell churns, moving upwards. 

“Nice, very nice. She’s super smart too, wouldn’t be able to cover half the material without her…” Eli watches Dean’s expression, noticing the highly engrossed look, and raises a brow with a small laugh. “Is this some sort of set up?” 

“W-hat-what? No course not. I need help, really.” Dean smiles widely, trying to appear less suspicious, though he’s not lying. Getting to spend time with you is just a bonus. A very nice bonus. 

The library is packed with students, squeezed into every nook and crevice, stressed for the upcoming last few weeks before exams. The table you and Eli accommodated no longer resembled one of dignity—scattered with papers, books, quills laid out among the extra assortments of snacks and water. 

“So still cool if my mate joins us today? Seamus is driving him mental! He told me his accent has thickened stronger and he can barely understand him.” 

Shaking your head in a no, you laugh at the idea of Seamus Flingans Irish accent becoming more incoherent with how you already struggled to make out what the poor boy was saying. The absence of your usual sleeping routine alters your ability to make the connection of who Seamus’s friend was. 

He’s hard to miss when he comes bounding round the towering shelves that lined the interior of the library, with a clear height on himself. His head topples over the other students, beelining towards the two of you. That same contagious smile graces his face, lighting the browns of his eyes to warm ambers and he offers a friendly wave. 

“Blimey! The library is bloodyfull today. I’ve never seen so many students here at once.” His voice is smooth and lulling, filled with an enthusiastic kick that zaps the sleep right out of your body. 

You sit leaning your head in your palm, nodding in agreement at his observation. “Yeah, cram studying, I guess.” 

He grins, opening his books, and takes the moment to glance appreciatively at you. “Nice to see you again, y/n.” 

A warm glow of pink flashes under your skin and you nod, “Yeah, you too, Dean.” 

Eli watches, noticing the small flustering effect the two of you seem to have on one another, giving Dean an eye, who shoots him one back, telling him to keep it cool. Dean rubs the back of his neck, trying not to gaze too long at you. He hadn’t been into another girl since Ginny Weasely had dumped him for Potter, leaving him gutted and shocked. So spending time slowly easing in with you felt nice compared to the drama of endless fighting he’d had endured with his ex. 

The longer the two of you work alongside one over the weeks of sessions, Dean can’t help himself crushing a little deeper on you. The way you talk about your passions with so much enthusiasm, his own face can't help but match your ecstatic smile. He finds you listen well, and he gets to match his own excitement about quidditch and football. The two of you often get distracted chatting about your interests, with Eli having to rein your focus back in. 

His warm brown eyes have a habit of igniting the deepest red upon your cheeks and your hands suddenly can’t stop playing with your hair. It feels odd and completely different to how you feel with Mattheo. You find you can’t take your eyes off of him wanting to be the one to see that pearly smile and hear his deep chuckle.

The feeling is refreshing and his attention feels reciprocated, which only makes you glow brighter. For every time you glance at him, he’s already staring back with a slight twinkle, like he finds amusement in your shyness. 

Though there’s a part of you that aches with betrayal, with disloyalty, like none other than Mattheo has thrown a cold bucket of water at you. The conflicting rising affections for Dean begin to sprout vines along the already fortified stone wall Mattheo has set inside your heart. 

If only you could merge the traits of both boys to make the perfect specimen. You’d take Mattheo’s charm, those moments of compassion he saves for you and the ability to make you laugh even on your darkest days. Added with Dean's patience, kind nature and positive outlook on life and Voilà, you’d never have to deal with these frustrating thoughts again, which have made your head throb. 

You decide its best to keep the feelings at bay, under observation and stick to only friendly interactions with Dean outside of sessions. A kind wave in the halls, or a smile over breakfast at the far away tables. It’s not like you want to unravel a new crush to blossom, you just want Mattheo that’s always been true.

But you know you won’t be able to contain the feeling for long. The desperate yearning for attention, for something real and that’s only yours.

The latest bulletin publication in Hogwarts’s eloquent editorial, engrossed the topic of witnesses spotting the popular band Weird Sisters and their crew arriving down in Hogsmeade, sparking school wide chatter. For many, the band hadn’t been seen since the Yule Ball, and their next gig performing this weekend for eighteen plus only made it even more exclusive. 

Everywhere you walked the whispers about the wicked gig breezed whispering in your ears, between classes, to the common room and down to the great hall. Where you sat pressed up to Mattheo, the news making this evening's dinner even more packed. He shoots you an amused grin, watching how you struggle to eat your dinner without your elbows flying up. 

He lowers the left one, near missing his jaw, and chuckles, “Fuckin hell Ace, trying to finally land a blow to me, huh.” 

Embarrassed, you tuck your arms inwards, instantly giving a light apology, thinking up new tactics for how to cut your steak. His laugh only deepens, and he reaches over grabbing the cutlery, “Let me you damn klutz.” You watch his hands grip the silverware, his veins popping prominently under the flex of his movements. 

It's hard not to daydream whenever he’s sweet and considerate like this, imagining a life with him away from all the trauma. The two of you, a life of your own, him cutting you dinner and you as his loveable wife. But it’s really watching his hands go to work that makes your mind wander a little more down the lane to the bedroom. 

“Want me to feed you too, Ace.” His teasing question interrupts your hopeless fantasy, causing a flush to break rising your neck, and you laugh rolling your eyes at his playful antics. He grins, matching you, glad to know you can always take a joke from him. He puts the cutlery down, his eyes twinkling with lively energy, the spark that makes him feel like himself.  

“Just checking, ya know, cause you looked like you were drooling.” An adorable smirk graces his face, watching for your reaction. 

Another wave of heat adorns your cheeks and you have to thank Merlin that there are candles in the hall concealing your clear flustering. “Shut up, you sod.” 

Reaching over to steal a potato from his plate, you pop it in your mouth and scrunch your nose at him in displeasure. “You little thief. Where are your manners, Ace? And no ‘thank you’ either.” His face feigns disapproval, arching a brow like a disappointed father. His once charming eyes stare down with an intensity that halts your breath. 

As subtle as you can you bite your lip and frantically search your mind that's currently occupied in a foggy haze under your aroused state. A multitude of inappropriate names and answers filter to the forefront of your brain, like a slideshow that practically screams ‘You’re horny for your best friend!'

When the words finally find you, you thank Merlin, again, for the rational part of your brain and utters a sarcastic response. “Sorrrry your highness, thank you for your cutlery knight ship.” 

He reacts with an eye roll of his own, stealing a potato of yours back, his full cheeks bearing his own cheeky grin. Watching you laugh, he questions the habit of having noted the brief second your teeth had sunk into your lips, something you only did when nervous or in thought. A habit he undeniably loves, only wishing it was his lips you were so sensually nipping. 

“You giving me attitude now, little brat?.” He grabs your head into a tight headlock, rustling his knuckle into the crown of your hair, envisioning putting you in your place in an alternative method. 

Your laughs echo around the large hall and you swat at him, shoving a hand up into his face, making him groan in protest. “Watch those grubby fingers! Gonna poke my eye out.” 

“Well, stop messing up my hair!” The constant back and forth of your argumentative banter continues until dessert appears and you make a truce for the tradition of sharing a banana split. 

“So.. you heard about the gig?” You ask, easing into the next conversation, one you’ve been contemplating since this morning. Heading down to the village on a Saturday night is customary to have a date, especially for an event such as this. 

Mattheo takes another spoonful of his ice cream, humming in acknowledgement at the topic. “Yeah, it should be entertaining. Kind of hoping to use it as an excuse to finally get that stuck-up bitch Everly, to at least let me get to second base. No offense.. to women.” He adds. 

You should be ticked off about the comment, but you’re completely transfixed on the way your heart has fallen out of your chest. It's laying right there on the ground, a knife shoved in the centre and then it pops like a balloon and the remaining sand runs out of it. Biting back the tears, you give a small nod as he meets your eye, watching as he goes about like nothing has happened, offering you the last bite. 

Mattheo raises a brow, offering a kind smile, though he’s watching the way you seem as usual indifferent about his forward encounters. The casual standby and unbothered appearance tightens his chest knowing you don’t care what he does with girls. It breaks him never getting a real reaction, and only fuels his conclusions regarding you only seeing him platonically.

It pains him to utter the next few words, “But that doesn’t mean you can’t tag along, of course. You know I'd never ditch my number one girl.” 

Number one girl is right, sitting in your rightful place on top of the podium of his heart. And yet he can never give you the medal just for being here. In his presence, he can never tell you how he truly feels. But it's the next words he hears that cause him critical heart palpitations. 

You shake your head, declining his offer to friend zone you, refusing to be the awkward tag along while he gets his dick wet. Thus you lie. “No, it’s alright. I just wanted to ask in case you didn’t. I actually have one-”

“You have a date?” He cuts you off with a little hostility.  

The sharpness of his interrogation takes you back, shutting your mouth, eyes fixed on how his one's narrow skeptically. Your brows furrow together with offense. Does he not think you could get a date? Though it's true you don’t have one, he doesn’t know that, so you lie again. “Yes.”

“Who?” The one word spits bluntly. 

A loud scoff of disbelief falls from your lips at his audacity to not ask, but demand an answer. Rolling your eyes, you look out around at the other houses, buying yourself time to think of a partner. You spot Dean who meets your gaze and offers a friendly wave. 

Mattheo observes, his eyes darkened and fixed on where you look. No fucking way. He looks between you and back to Dean, feeling an upchuck of jealousy gurgle in his stomach. The clocks churn, working overtime to filter through his memories. The same dazed smile you cast to him in Hogsmeade reflects on your expression as you wave back. 

“Him?! Dean Thomas asked you?” 

How could he not have seen this? All this time he’d been dismissing the notion that he had nothing to worry about, and then it clicks like the last piece of the puzzle. Wherever Eli was, Dean was, too. Every trip to the library he had blown off as just another geek session with your Puffle friend, that slick son of a bitch got you in effect alone. The only place Mattheo wouldn’t dare go. His fists clench, shake with a raging adrenaline and he eyes you hard, waiting for a good reason for this illogical decision. 

Shit. Catching Mattheo’s expression from the corner of your eye, your muscles tense, afraid to face him full on. His tone laced with accusation as if you’ve committed treason, which in his eyes it's far worse than that. 

But seeing how ticked he is, and the lingering thought that maybe, just maybe, he’s jealous drives you to lie again. “Yes, he did.”

When you meet his eye finally, they’re clouded with a dark, fiery intensity, not detecting any hesitation in your answer. He’s up instantly and you grab his arm to tempt him back down. “Mattheo sit down-“ 

“Need to have a word with that fucking lowlife. What was he thinking asking you?!” 

You. The way he spits the word with animosity causes a deep frown to appear. Was he really that disturbed for you to have a date? Knowing it’s most likely from his short circuit brain reacting with brute protectiveness doesn’t exactly ease your thoughts. What made you so unloveable for you to be forbidden to spend an evening with someone outside of Mattheo? While you felt regret for falsely informing him, the aggravation of his skepticism bruises your heart more and pushes you to defend yourself. 

Pulling on his arm harder, you rebuttal with strength, almost sneering the words out of ache. “I can go to a gig with whoever I want. Not sure why you care so much if you have your own date.” 

His jaw clenches with a stubbornness not willing to explain his reasonings, sensing the growing tension brewing between you two. He huffs agitated, “That’s besides the point-” 

“-I don’t need protection. You don’t need to baby me.”

He can see that you’re not allowing room for argumentation, his eyes tinting with dark coldness swallowing his bitterness. He’s not used to this kind of hostility from you, and while he feels a wave of pride, he can’t wrap his head around you getting angry at him over the sake of a Gryffindor. 

"Whatever. I don’t have time for this shit.” He pushes past you, leaving you aghast and hurt. 

“Matt-” His name dies on your tongue, watching him retreat without any remorse. You release a deep sigh, forcing down the part of you that reeks of guilt, ceasing the tidal wave of pity urging to wash ashore. 

The newfound spite irks, refusing him to control your social interactions and you pick yourself up, marching with determination over to the Gryffindor table. “Hey Dean. Are you going to the gig? Because I was wondering if you wanted to, uh—gowithme?” The adrenaline spits out in a hurried ramble, standing behind the sprightly boy.  

Ron snorts, snickering lightly. “What a skitzball,” he mutters to Seamus. 

Dean, who had only just turned at your arrival, catches the half rushed question and grins. “Are you asking me to the gig? Like on a date?” 

You nod. His smile brightens. “Sure sounds fun!”

You blink, surprised. “Really?” His answer is so straightforward. There’s no teasing or joking, a stark difference from how Mattheo interacts with you. 

He laughs nodding, “Yeah really, can’t wait!” 

You grin, biting your lip excitedly, “Okay cool, see you then!” Leaving the hall with a light spring in your step, your mood instantly lifted at having a date for the first time. 

The following weekend, students of age make their way down to the village crowding around the entrance to Hogs Head, the hosts of this evening. The interior, normally consisting of minimal effort, had surprisingly transformed, outdoing itself for the performance with dark black cloth hanging to encapsulate the atmosphere of a muggle venue. The ceiling is enchanted with glistening disco lights twinkling and streams of smoke that surround the main platform the band will perform on. 

Dean grins, offering his arm chivalry out to you, liking the idea of you entering the venue as one. He's chuffed, and a little surprised that you had been the one to initiate, asking him to be your date.

Dean’s fondness for you had continued to bloom, his trips to the library becoming more frequent, happily using every opportunity to get more acquainted. It seemed to be the only time you weren't attached at the hip to Mattheo, and Dean, though not entirely scared of Riddle, didn't want to end up on his shit side. 

“Woah, the pub looks wicked, doesn’t it?” He speaks down to you, his voice attempting to be on the softer side still booms with elation. 

Laughing sweetly, you nod in agreement, admiring the pub as it fills, people already gathering towards the stage. Dean moves inwards, his arm gently pressing to your back to stop the two of you getting separated. 

“Yeah, I’m excited!” Responding with positive optimism for a good night, though you can't help searching around for someone in particular. 

Already aware of his date, there's no room for unwanted assumptions to creep in. It's all laid on the table. He’s easily noticeable, entering among his other Slytherin friends and their obnoxious energy suffocating anyone in a one step radiance. He walks with Everly confidently hanging off his arm, looking like a sparkly prized charm that, you know, means his eyes won't be anywhere but on her. 

The desperation slithers up your throat, constricting your breath. Thankfully, Dean’s not paying attention caught in his own zone. For when Mattheo scans the floor and his eyes lock on yours, there's no force strong enough to lure your attention from him.

He's as attractive as ever, dressed in all black. His curls look decent for once, coiled neatly, which might have made you swoon, but you can't help question if she did it for him. The bitterness drenches your tongue with the disturbing truth that he’ll always pick someone else over you. 

Your heart sinks further, drowning in the waves of pain and ultimately it’s the part of you with any dignity left that turns your focus back to Dean. Mattheo watches how Dean waves over his other mates, his smile widening for a moment at Ginny, and he frowns as you are forced to blend in with his rivals. He rubs his temple, a throbbing headache banging as he fights the battle, evading the pressure rising of hurt and jealousy threatening to breach the surface.

“Fuck off, since when did y/n mingle with the Gryffindorks.” Draco’s disdainful comment snaps Mattheo’s head back as the others identify the reasoning for your absence. 

“What did you do?” Theo asks Mattheo bluntly, the crowd roaring, welcoming the band strolling onto the stage. 

Mattheo scowls with bitter irritation, snapping louder over the noise. “I didn't do shit. She did that all on her own.” 

Theo observes perplexing Mattheo’s response, noting the nonstop chatter you’re spewing to Dean as the two of you move closer to the stage. He leans down to point out whispering, “I doubt it. She hasn’t even waved at you once.” 

“Well, maybe she’s too busy fawning over dickhead Dean to give a shit about the rest of us.” Mattheo grits, defensively grouping everyone in to share the fault of his wrongdoings on why you hadn’t said hi. 

“I need a fucking drink.” He mutters, his high hopes of smashing dissolving no longer interested in using Everly as a distraction. What he really needed was you, a nice tall glass to satisfy his thirsting desire. His eyes linger on you for another moment. You look nice. Who’s he kidding? 

You look gorgeous. It’s such a simple outfit and yet it suits your figure so well. He doesn’t know the last time he saw you so dressed up, definitely never for himself like that. 

His eyes flicker back to his date and he can’t help but compare the two of you. There's an energy about you tonight he rarely sees. You’re holding yourself with tallness, an appearance that makes you even more attractive. You look happy and confident and his eyes can’t help but scan your exposed legs. That skirt is definitely shorter than your uniform. 

He always knew his feelings would resurface, couldn’t stay down forever despite how hard he fought them. However, the intense jealousy and pain was something he thought he could escape. Having kept it at bay for so long, why was it now that his mind weakened, allowing the sweet essence of you to slip through? 

He wanted to run to your side and embrace you, to shove Dean to the ground with one swing of his fist, for even daring to look. He wanted to stand beside you now as the group moved to the stage and scream the lyrics with you in each other's faces. He wanted to have your smile directed at him and be the one to spin you, listening to your infectious laugh meant for only him. 

But of course he’d been afraid and pushed you again and even as he ponders and dreams of the possibilities of what ifs, he can’t deny how happy you look beside Dean. Smiling brightly up at the git, he knows he’s being selfish and greedy. He wants to fight for you, to make things right, to tell you how much you mean to him. 

He leaves you be for the first few songs, eyes fixated on you only, before he spots Dean excuse himself to the bathroom, and in a flash he’s doing the same ditching his date. He walks casually so as to not draw suspicion, keeping a distance between Dean and himself.

The bathrooms down the corridor in the pub are dark and dingy and mostly empty as everyone’s still listening to the band. He spots Dean stalking past him down a few urine stands before he takes a wiz himself. It’s more awkward than the usual boys' bathroom encounter. 

Dean can feel the prickling burn of deathly eyes on him, and peeks sideways at Mattheo. They finish washing their hands and then Mattheo speaks up before Dean can escape his interrogation. “Thomas. Doing well?” 

Dean looks over at Mattheo in surprise. He dries his hands and clears his throat. “Yeah fine. Yourself?”

Mattheo runs a hand through his hair, eyeing him with a sharp look, trying to pinpoint what about him you might like over himself. Sure, he was tall and strong like Mattheo. But he’s a loudmouth Gryffindor. There's nothing worth tolerating about them. “Fine.”

Dean watches, sensing Mattheo is pissed about something, and he can only imagine it’s his presence around you. “You seem like you're digging for something. Why don’t you just say it?” 

He chuckles darkly, a little impressed with his boldness - guess Gryffindors' are brave after all. For the anger Mattheo felt was reaching a peak like a volcano about to explode and Dean was standing in the danger zone.

“Not sure why you’re hanging around her when you’re clearly still hung up on your ex.” Dean frowns, looking at Mattheo in confusion. “I can see the way you look at Weasley still, so I suggest you back the fuck off y/n, before I make you.” 

Dean looks at Mattheo like he’s mental. “I actually like her, you know. I’m not into Ginny anymore.”

“Don’t play dumb with me, shithead.” Mattheo moves forwards looming, he’s a tad shorter than Dean, but it doesn’t diminish the look he’s shooting his way. 

He’s still standing tall and brooding enough to have Dean a little uncomfortable in his shoes. But Dean isn’t one to back down from a little intimidation, and eyes him, “I see what this is about. You're jealous, aren’t you?” 

Mattheo scowls, hating that he’s hit it right on the nail, but only laughs instead. “Good one, Thomas.” 

“You are, though, and you missed your chance to tell her, didn't you?” Dean uncharacteristically taunts him, unaware of the insecurity he’s about to strike. “Not like you deserve her anyway with how you act-.” 

In the split second the word leaves Dean's lips, Mattheo connects his fist with his nose. There’s a loud crack of the bone and Dean yelps, grasping it as blood streams covering his fingers. 

“The fuck are you, to talk to me like that?” He watches Dean’s bravado crumble as he stares into the intense and wired eyes of Mattheo. “You don’t know shit about me or her. Get the fuck out of here before I do something I actually regret.” 

Dean, still clutching his nose, gives him a look that easily reads what he thinks about him before he decides it’s best just to leave, heading back out into the hallway. Mattheo stays pacing a little longer and gazes at himself in the mirror. He’s craving a cigarette now; he should just ditch this shitty gig and call it a night. 

The few people hovering outside the hall’s entrance, dousle themselves with refreshing glasses of water. You’re one of them having gotten hot and thought it would be good to wait somewhere visible to him. All too easily Dean is noticeable pushing out the door with his hand still pressed to his nose. 

“Holy shit! What happened to you?” Rushing over you ask Dean, though you have a tickling suspicion already. 

For once, Dean’s usual aura is low, and he gives you an indifferent look. “Who do you think, y/n. Riddle of course.” 

Hot flashes of anger blur your vision, washing over you with a feverish intensity at Mattheo's audacity and you stare at the bathroom door as if trying to summon him out. Dean gives you another look, muttering an irritated, “I’m gonna go wash up elsewhere. I think you should talk to him.”

Dean walks off back down the hall to another bathroom, and your shoulders drop in defeat at the disappearance of your date. How had your night flipped one eighty? Your sunny optimism now drenched by the pelted rain of trouble that Mattheo Riddle brings, and then he appears.

He’s shaking out his fist, flexing his fingers, a clear sign he’s just used them in combat, and your eyes narrow on him. He meets your gaze, his eyes lighting up at seeing you noticing him properly, but then you’re walking towards him hastily. He has little time to escape before the familiar pulling pain shoots from his ear down and he yelps, cursing. 

He could never defeat the strength of an angry woman's ear pull, as you drag him down and outside the pub, pleading at you. “Ace! Geez, come on, is this really ow- necessary!? Fuck-“ 

It had been forever since you’d pulled the move, one that was extremely effective and often required when the two of you were younger. His ear swells a deep red and continues to throb even once released from your hold.

He winces, straightening up to shoot you an unappreciative glare, but he’s met with an equally disappointed face. A look he never wishes to see again, eyes vacant their usual glimmer, left with only a look of disappointment that fears him worse than his father.

He swallows, but acts nonchalantly. "What’s this all about?” 

Gritting your teeth, eyes narrowed into slits as thin as paper. “You hit him? You hit Dean! What is wrong with you, Mattheo?” 

His sympathy and sorrow vanish in the return of his anger, muttering. “He had it coming.” 

“How? What did he say?” 

He rolls his eyes, rubbing his aching ear. “It doesn’t matter. It was uncalled for, and I shut him up.” 

“You always do this, always an excuse that makes you look like the victim. What could he have possibly said that would make you need to act like that?” 

“He doesn’t even like you, y/n, he’s still hung up on his ex - I don’t know why you’re wasting time with him anyway, you’re not that oblivious, are you?” He snaps, his frustrations growing. 

His words sting, like a slap to the face, and you blink, standing back from him. Oblivious? Who was he to call blind when he couldn’t even comprehend how you felt about him? There's no recollection of seeing Dean pining after Ginny, and the tears build at the lengths he will go to destroy your first possibility of romance.  

“Are you seriously making this up now because you're upset? That I had the courage to ask someone to be my date, and he happens to be a Gryffindor?” 

He groans, frustrated, “No fuck, I’m not making this up.” He walks closer to you, trying to get you to understand, but he can see he’s hurt you. “Ace, come on, I’m not trying to ruin-”

“Well, you are!” It’s his turn to be slapped, and he stares a little taken back, absorbing your words. There's a chill in the air, like your words squeezed all the joy out and it shows in his eyes. 

They harden, staring you down, and he gives you a tight-lipped smile. “Fine. I can see I’m not wanted.” He��s bitter and heartbroken as you completely disregard him with no trust. But he holds his tongue further, not wishing to damage the ship. “I’ll stay out of your way to avoid ruining your life further.” 

He doesn’t even mean to say that much, for the idea of staying away breaks him. The concept that his worst fears are coming to life, cracking, pushing their way to the surface, and it frightens him. As he storms off, glad to escape the awful changing reality, he can't stop thinking about how this is all his fault. 

Fuck. Fuck! He walks hastily away, not daring to turn back around and see the despair he’s left you in, heading straight back to the castle with a tornado of mixed emotions. Anger and sadness that push and shove at one another, fighting for dominance in who will break the surface first. 

He collapses on his bed, stuffing his pillow over his face and erupts into a raw yell, fighting back the tears. In the end anger wins, and he kills his self-pity, deciding to down himself in a bottle of fire whiskey till he blacks out with the last remaining thought on his mind. You had been the one to ask Dean. 

Any and all interacts are greatly appreciated, thank you for reading! 💫 Masterlist! Part two should be up next few days- to a week.

ALSO the biggest shoutout to @amongemeraldclouds who patiently dealt with my ass about this for like a month ilyyy pookie 🤍 @leona-hawthorne who for without I’d never have restarted this I swear ilyyyy and @slytherinslut0 thank you for proof reading!! 🩵

©️pizzaapeteer 2025

[moondustbaby]

Only You Could

Bsf!Rafe x Bsf!Reader

a/n: this was requested by the lovely @mariechristine00 💖

Summary: When Rafe loses control during an argument at a party, no one—not even his closest friends—can get through to him. But the moment you step in, everything shifts. You’re the only one who can calm him down… and maybe the only one who’s ever really known him.

⸻

Rafe was already yelling by the time Kelce found you in the kitchen, his face pale, his hand gripping the counter like it could anchor him.

“Where is she?” he asked, breathless.

You blinked at him, half-laughing. “What? Who?”

“You. You—Jesus, Rafe’s losing it. He’s two seconds from swinging at this guy and I don’t know what the fuck started it, but we can’t get through to him. He keeps looking around like he’s—he’s looking for you.”

Your stomach dropped.

You didn’t ask anything else. Just dropped your Solo cup on the counter and shouldered past him, weaving through the crowd until the shouting got louder, sharper, more Rafe.

And there he was.

On the front lawn, shoulders tense, eyes wild. Some guy you didn’t know was running his mouth, but it barely mattered. Rafe looked seconds from snapping, every muscle in his body coiled and ready to strike. Topper and Kelce were there, trying to hold him back, but he wasn’t really hearing them.

“Rafe,” you called, threading through the crowd.

He didn’t move.

“Rafe,” you said again, louder, pushing in until you were practically in front of him.

Still nothing—just the ticking jaw and the way his fists clenched at his sides like he was barely holding it together.

So you did what you always did: you stepped closer. One hand flat against his chest, the other reaching for his wrist. “Hey. Look at me.”

That got his attention.

His eyes snapped to yours like a lifeline, his breathing sharp and uneven.

“You need to come with me,” you said quietly. “Right now.”

“I can’t just—”

“Yes, you can. He’s not worth it, Rafe.”

You felt the way his chest rose under your hand, how tense he still was, the storm still churning behind his eyes.

“Please,” you added softly, barely above a whisper. “Just come with me.”

He still didn’t move, but he blinked hard, like your voice was finally starting to break through the noise in his head.

You took his hand.

It was only when you started pulling—slow but firm—that he let you.

You led him away from the crowd, around the side of the house, somewhere quieter. The music dulled, the voices disappeared. You didn’t say anything until the only sound was the rustling of trees and the way Rafe was still breathing hard beside you.

He didn’t let go of your hand.

You turned to him, watching him carefully. “You good?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just stared at you, lips parted like he wasn’t sure what to say.

“I hate when people talk like they know me,” he said finally, voice low. “Like they know what matters to me.”

Your fingers flexed in his. “What did he say?”

Rafe looked down. “That I’m not even a real person unless you’re around. That you’re the only one who can calm me down. Like I’m some broken project you’re stuck with.”

You were quiet for a second. “And that pissed you off?”

“No,” he said, almost too fast. “The way he said it did. Like it was pathetic. Like caring about you that much makes me weak.”

Your throat felt tight.

“And maybe it does,” he added, softer now. “Because I couldn’t think straight without you. I didn’t even care about the fight—I just needed to find you.”

You swallowed. “You found me.”

His hand was still in yours, thumb tracing your knuckles now like it was second nature.

You looked at him—shirt rumpled, jaw tight but softening, eyes locked on yours like you were the only thing grounding him—and you felt it again. That unspoken thing. The one neither of you ever dared to name.

“I always find you,” you said.

Rafe didn’t speak right away. He just kept holding your hand, like letting go wasn’t even an option.

And maybe that was the answer. The quiet, careful way he looked at you. The way his grip never wavered.

Neither of you said what you were thinking.

But for now, the silence was enough.

༶⋆｡ﾟ☽✿⋆˚✧✿☾ﾟ｡⋆༶

a/n: requests are open send ‘em my way 💌

♥️ lani

Send Me Requests 💌

Masterlist

[kxsagi]

Heyy can you please do "just a chill girl" part two with Aiku or otoya? Cause I feel like they'd be flirting back and be surprised that the reader is pretty chill about it, and thank you 💗

“𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐩𝐭. 𝟐”

a/n: i want to be as chill as this but i'd crash out if another girl flirted with my man

ft. aiku oliver, otoya eita, nagi seishiro, ness alexis, itoshi sae

aiku oliver

oliver, who is used to girls getting jealous over everything, is actually kinda confused the first few times it happens. 

like some girl is full-on bending over the table in front of him at a bar and you’re just sipping your drink like, “her highlights are nice. i might ask her for her salon’s name.” 

he’s side-eyeing you like “hello??? aren’t you supposed to be clawing her eyes out rn???” 

he lowkey starts trying to test your reaction. 

“babe, that girl winked at me.” 

“cool. you want me to wingman you?” 

“um, babe, that was a test –” 

“and you failed. tragic.” 

he's so used to attention that the fact that you don’t compete for it actually throws him off. 

you never nag, never stalk his socials, don’t even ask who texted him. you’re just like: “if you cheat, you cheat. but then i leave. no yelling, no tears. just blocking you and moving on.” 

and he finds that terrifyingly attractive. 

now he gets territorial for you. “why was that guy talking to you for so long?” 

“he was asking for directions.” 

“directions to your heart maybe.” 💀��

when he tries to flirt with other girls to rile you up, you literally cheer him on. 

“that was a good line, babe. maybe a bit too much tongue, though.” 

“please get jealous i’m BEGGING.” 

otoya eita

otoya thinks you're a mythical creature. 

“you don’t care if girls hit on me?” 

“nope.” 

“you’re not gonna ask who i’m texting?” 

“it’s probably your mom.” 

“… how did you know that?” 

otoya is dramatic, flirty, and thrives on chaos. you? you bring none. you are an unbothered queen with god-tier chill. 

girls would be full-on throwing themselves at him, giggling, touching his arm, batting their lashes… and you’re just sitting there like “nice weather today.” 

otoya: “babe, aren’t you jealous?” 

you: “i know you’re hot. they’re just confirming it.” 

he melts. “how are you so cool about this? don’t you love me?” 

“of course. but, i also know you’re mine.” 

you say that like it’s just facts. like gravity. and he’s internally kicking his feet over it. 

otoya’s the kind of guy who craves a reaction, but the way you never give him one drives him insane, in a hot way. 

“baby, i flirted with a cashier today.” 

“did you get the discount?” 

“… you are my roman empire.” 

he literally brags about how chill you are. “my girl? oh, she doesn't get jealous. she knows she’s the baddest. she lets me flirt 'cause she knows i'm walking out with her.” 

and you’re in the back like “can you just walk out with the groceries, otoya.” 

nagi seishiro

nagi is so naturally attractive without trying that girls are constantly hovering around him. and he… genuinely has no clue. 

some girl was twirling her hair and laughing at everything he said and he deadass asked you, “was she okay? she kept coughing.” 

you? you don’t even blink. “she was flirting, sei.” 

“oh. should i say bless you or somethin’?” 

you never get jealous. not even a little. you’re just like: “if someone can beat me in a relationship with you while i’m doing nothing, then they earned it.” 

chillest threat of all time. he felt that in his soul. 

he actually loves that you’re not dramatic about it. girls flirt, you scroll on your phone. girls giggle at his every word, you’re napping on his shoulder. girls touch his arm, you’re like “nice. now tell her to press A so the match can start.” 

but the best part? you don’t compete. you just win. effortlessly. like a final boss that doesn't even have to move. 

and when you do say something? it’s straightforward, but polite. “you know he’s taken, right?” 

“oh… i didn’t –” 

“yeah, don’t worry. happens a lot. you’ll be okay.” 

nagi turns into a lazy little golden retriever around you. sprawled across your lap, hiding his face in your hoodie like “don’t wanna talk to those girls. talk to you instead.” 

you: “then stop looking that good in public.” 

nagi: “not my fault 😞” 

he literally won’t entertain other girls because it sounds like effort. “too much talking. too much blinking. i’ll stick with you.” 

ness alexis

ness adores how chill you are but is also like… lowkey stressed by it? 

“this girl just complimented my abs and winked at me.” 

“tell her i said thanks, i made you go to the gym.” 

you never get clingy or jealous, which is new for him because… well, have you seen his teammates? (k*iser cough) 

he expected drama when you two started dating but all you gave him was… peace. 

he calls you his emotional support zen rock. “baby, i’m spiraling. this girl said she liked my thighs.” 

“okay. and i like them more. breathe.” 

“okay 🫡” 

you never fight girls for him, you just win by doing nothing. girls flirt. you yawn. ness hides behind you like you’re his emotional support sword. 

“get her, baby.” 

“i’m on cool-down mode, sorry.” 

the only time you actually do react is if someone crosses a line. like touches him too much? flirts while knowing he’s taken?. suddenly you’re not chill anymore. you’re clinical. 

“do you want my boyfriend or are you just this friendly with everyone’s man?” 

ness: 💍

itoshi sae

sae, who literally has zero interest in any girl that isn’t you, finds it endlessly attractive how calm and composed you are. 

like a girl will literally try to sit on his lap and you’ll be like, “she’s bold. i’ll give her that.” 

sae looks at you like he’s ready to marry you on the spot. 

he’s so loyal it makes flirting with him embarrassing for everyone involved. someone flirts. he gives them a blank stare. you sip your coffee. silent double kill. 

he secretly loves when girls try it just so he can flex your energy. “you’re not even gonna say something to her?” 

“you’ll handle it.” 

“damn right i will.” 

but he’s also the type to make it obnoxiously clear he’s taken. arm around your waist, holding your hand, whispering in your ear like, “wanna leave and do nothing together?” 

meanwhile the girl who was flirting is like 🧍‍♀️ 

if someone tries to make you jealous, he’s the one who gets annoyed. “why are they still trying to get a reaction out of you?” 

“cause they’re bored. i’m not.” 

and he’ll just glare until they vanish from existence. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[readerihardlyknowher]

In Every Universe | Pt. 6

Can't believe Amanda's going to be a mom for real now oml

Spencer Agnew x Reader Warnings: None WC: 1,824 Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4, Pt. 5, Pt. 6

“Hello, welcome to Smosh Mouth. I’m Shayne-” “-and I’m Amanda, and we have a very special guest here today: Y/n Y/l/n!” Both of the hosts look at you, and you wave to the camera, saying hello. “And today we are going to be talking about romance, is that something you know a lot about Y/n?”

“Oh wow, romance,” you chuckle, a little nervous. This is the first time you’ve been able to come onto Smosh Mouth. “Yeah actually, I do. I mean, I’ve had romances before, and I recently rewatched Pride and Prejudice.” Amanda gasps at this.

“The one with Colin Firth?” “No, the one with Matthew Macfayden. From Succession.”

“Right, okay, and was it any good?” Amanda’s perpetually enthusiastic voice makes you smile. Talking with her just feels natural, which is why it’s good she’s one of the hosts.

“Yeah, actually. I mean, it’s one of my favorite movies. I can’t lie, I love a good fairytale ending where everyone’s just happy and in love.”

“Same. I love seeing people happy and in love,” Amanda’s excited voice agrees with you, before looking at Shayne with an expectant look.

“Yeah, I mean I’ve watched my fair share of romance movies, and there’s some good ones out there.”

The rest of the podcast continues on in a much similar manner. Amanda and Shayne ask you questions about shows, games, and even basic questions about your romance life, like your first kiss and whatnot. You share more than you thought you would have, but nothing too intimate or personal. Gotta keep some semblance of privacy on the internet. Eventually, Amanda’s face breaks into a smirk, looking down at her paper before back up at you.

“So, you’ve had many on-camera romances with our favorite Spencer.” You chuckle at this, having known from when she first mentioned romance that it would lead to here.

“Yeah, I have. I mean, I’ve also had a few romances with other cast members in other games, but I think Spencer and I have had the most romances. I mean, besides you and Angela.” You throw it back to her, with a smile, which she laughs at.

“She’s my wife, man!”

“Your work wife,” Shayne throws out.

“Yes, my work wife.

“Anyways, Y/n, we wanted to know straight from you how it feels to be shipped to such a degree. All of us here have been shipped with other cast members many times in the past, but how do you feel about it?” You go silent for a moment to think about it, trying to give a sort of political answer to the question. Honest, but nothing to stir the pot.

“I guess I don’t really mind it. I mean, even if I did mind, it wouldn’t stop anything. Besides, what girl hasn’t been shipped with her boy best friend at some point? But really, it’s no different than how Amanda is with Spencer, so I really don’t get why I’m the one getting shipped. I know you’re married and I’m not, but still,” you finish with a smile, feeling a little hot under the heat of the lights.

“To be clear,” Shayne begins, “we do have it on record that Amanda does in fact have a crush on Spencer.” This comment makes your face heat up more, smiling nervously and shaking your head.

“Oh right, well nevermind that comparison then. What I meant was that we’re just really friendly with one another.”

“Yeah I mean,” Amanda scratches behind her neck. “There’s just something about Spencer that makes everyone love him. It’s so weird.”

Shayne chuckles at that. “Oh yeah, I mean even back in the Defy era everyone loved him.”

You can’t stop smiling throughout the conversation, and you know it must look a little silly to the audience. The truth is just that you love your best friend, everyone does. He’s a very lovable guy, nothing “weird” about it. But what is weird is how your heart flips when you hear what Amanda says next:

“Which is why we’re bringing on the one and only Spencer Agnew to join us here today!”

Immediately you turn your head and watch Spencer as he walks up on set from behind the cameras. You hadn’t even known he was there and silently you wonder if you’ve embarrassed yourself. You have half the mind to move your chair over as he brings one of his own to sit next to you, between you and Shayne.

“Hey, how’s it going guys?” Spencer says to the two hosts before looking over at you, his familiar, all too comfortable grin on his face. “Hello, my wife.”

You huff out a laugh and return the smile. “Hello, my husband.”

“Guys,” Amanda’s voice draws your attention. “Knock it off. There’s too much chemistry already and we haven’t even gotten to the question we’ve all been wanting to know.”

You both pause at that, turning to face her, expectantly waiting for her to continue.

“Where did the marriage joke come from?”

At that you both turn to each other, smiling and silently asking who wants to be the one to tell the story. It only takes a second before Spencer looks down, a little embarrassed.

“I’ll tell. So, back when we were working as editors with Defy, we were good friends. So, one day we’re about to start a shoot, I’m helping to set up, Y/n’s across the room working on something else and she calls my name. Now, I don’t know what was with me that day, but I said ‘Yeah, hun?’ in front of EVERYONE there.”

“And that’s what got us our first trip to HR.”

Amanda “aw”’s at the story. Shayne merely chuckles and shakes his head. Amanda’s brows crease as a question enters her mind.

“Wait, but why did you call Y/n that?”

Spencer can only shrug as a response before laughing. You catch him glancing over at you and can see a light dusting of red on his cheeks.

“I don’t even know, man. If I’m remembering correctly, it’s because that’s what I was calling the girl I was with at the time and was super tired coming into work, so I just slipped up.”

“And that’s called a freudian slip,” Amanda says, nodding. This causes Spencer to laugh and put his head in his hand, saying her name under his breath in exasperation. You step in to continue the story.

“So yeah, then after that, people on set thought we were together. Once they realized we weren’t they just turned it into a running joke that we’re the married couple on set. But I guess that title now has to be handed off to you and Courtney now,” you say, directing the energy back to Shayne who nods.

He ends up telling a story of his own about how the people at Smosh were told/found out about them dating, and how they wondered at first whether or not to ever tell the audience, but ended up settling on telling them once they got married. It’s a nice change of pace at this point in the podcast, getting to listen to a sweet story. Eventually, the conversation falls back into the topic of romance movies, in which they end up asking Spencer what his favorite is.

“Excluding Attack of the Clones? I’d have to say Princess Bride right now. Y/n and I rewatched it about a month ago and it still holds up.”

Amanda “ooh”’s at that choice, agreeing that it’s such a good movie. Shayne takes this time to turn towards the camera and speak.

“So, just for you guys at home, Spencer and Y/n like to watch movies and shows together in their free time.”

“Hey, we’ve invited you two to join us sometimes and you always blow us off!” You say playfully. It’s true though, when watching a movie you knew one or the both of them loved, you would ask if they wanted to join, but most of the time they end up being too busy.

“I come whenever I can. Mostly though, after a long day I like to hit the gym and relax with Courtney,” Shayne responds, a slightly offended tone with his first statement, before going back to the casual style he speaks with. Amanda nods and looks as though she’s about to speak before you feel Spencer’s warm hand through the sleeve of your shirt, resting just on your upper arm.

“Yeah, gives me more time to relax with my wife as well,” his smooth voice replies to Shayne. You turn and shoot him a confused smile before smacking his hand.

“Get your Mountain Dew fingers off of me,” you huff out as he pulls his hand away with a smile.

“See what I have to put up with? Women, amiright?” Amanda immediately boos Spencer’s comment, Shayne putting his head in his hands.

Pretty quickly, the topic turns back to movies and TV shows, Amanda talking about her love of Turkish dramas, and you talking about your favorite movies. Shayne turns to you once you’re done talking.

“So, Y/n, aren’t you and Spencer having your movie night tonight?” You nod and hum as a response to his question. “Do you know what movie you’re going to watch?”

The two of you turn and look at each other, silently wondering if you should share it, before you take in a breath and turn back to Shayne, a giggle in your voice as you speak.

“We’re actually watching The Notebook.”

“My choice,” Spencer adds. Amanda gasps and holds her hands to her chest, while Shayne hums and nods.

“Oh my gosh, such a good movie.”

“Well, I think that we’re nearing the end of our episode here,” Shayne’s voice calls to attention. You had hardly noticed how quickly time had passed since you first sat down, Amanda and Shayne’s energy, as well as Spencer’s presence being so welcoming. You almost wished this episode would never end, however, it does comfort you to know that you and Spencer will be seeing each other later tonight.

“Thank you for having us, I hope to get invited back soon. You guys were amazing as always,” you say, being nice for the end of the video. Amanda looks at you with an excited look on her face.

“Yes, and you have to tell us more about your movie nights,” Amanda teases you, which makes you a little flustered but you brush it off. You’re about to speak before Spencer talks first.

“No way, if you want to know about our movie nights, you’ve got to come when we invite you. What happens at movie night stays at movie night.”

Amanda opens her mouth to protest, and you realize this is just going to prolong the end of the video, so you turn to the camera, a playfully panicked look on your face.

“Quick, cut the video now! They’re not going to stop otherwise!”

Tag list: @lisiliely, aliceblxck, burrowedinnature77, 65percentleg

[cheralith]

— reroutes. feat. oliver aiku || wc: 2.1k contains: gn!reader, no pronouns used, teacher!reader, dilf!oliver, single parent!oliver, miscommunication, fluff, alcohol consumption a/n: people keep saying that oliver is dilf material usually based off his looks so sure what the hell . let me entertain the thought and feed the masses also a reupload since the og wasn't allowing me to edit for some reason

trying to butter up the president of the parent-teacher association over a candlelit dinner to gain his approval and vote for you as a a worthy candidate incoming principal isn't exactly the easiest task in the world, nor is it your vision of spending a friday evening. but with adult life comes sacrifices, even if it means you'll be missing out on the season premiere of your sitcom.

you've heard rumors about him from other teachers in passing—quite the charmer with a natural flair for leadership, hence why he's been on the board for a few years now, even longer than you've been teaching the second grade at this school. many people on the association look up to him, his approval being worth more than some of the district's, a smile and nod at a suggestion being made being worth more than gold itself.

hence why his vote is the one you need to gain the most—if oliver aiku is in favor of something, then surely it must be good.

the single father to one of your shyer students, he's the complete opposite of her. where rena is quiet, soft-spoken, and spares her words, oliver seems to exude this calm confidence—a calculated rationale weaving into every sentence he says with that baritone, caramel-rich voice of his.

you smile tightly as he rests his cheek on his fist, bright and attentive hues of malachite and amethyst daggering into your stiff figure, that typical smile on his lips that you've seen he gives everyone.

"you know," he starts, tone smooth and sweet. "it's rare that rena has a favorite teacher. but she seems to talk about you a lot these days."

"oh does she?" you laugh, trying to filter out the nervous edge as best as possible. "i'll admit, she's one of my more creative students. she seems to really love arts & crafts."

oliver shares his chuckle with you. "oh i bet. she's always asking me to put up any art she takes home on the fridge. trying to get into it is almost impossible these days with how much stuff is on there—you should see it, really."

he takes a slow sip of his wine, his eyes scanning you for a reaction at his last few words and his eyes lid attentively when you fidget in your spot. oliver uses the swirling ruby in the glass to hide his growing grin.

"ah well," you flicker your gaze toward anything that isn't him, his stare piercing every possible fiber of apprehension within you. "i'm glad. y-you know, for students like rena, they'd really benefit from art walks! i visited one of the charter schools nearby that does them every few months to help cultivate—"

"oh yes, we've been looking to dabble in those as well," oliver says dismissively, ceasing your words in a gentle, clean cut. "maybe one day... if the district increases our budget."

a sharp inhale ensures your composure doesn't falter at the lack of concern. there's many projects you have in mind if you were ever the principal of the school, but you need his approval if they were to ever go through. the voice of the parents mattered just as much as the district's after all.

you fold your hands affirmingly. "well, i've also noticed that we don't have an actual sci—"

"are you doing anything after this?" oliver cuts in again, a smile that's a bit larger now still on his face intently.

you pause, breath hitching. your eyes lift from the food on your table to him. your eyes narrow.

"excuse me?" you ask.

oliver leans back in his seat almost a little too casually. it's only then you notice two of his shirt buttons are undone, exposing a hint of his plated chest. "rena's at her mom's this weekend. i was just wondering if you had any plans after. because if you aren't... i'd love to spend more time with you. somewhere a little more private, perhaps?"

he sends you a knowing wink, a twinkle in his eye that flashes intimately at you. at first, you're confused, trying to understand what he's implying—until...

oh. oh.

"oh—" you choke out. "—my god. excuse me?!"

oliver blinks, smile faltering at your dropped jaw. "what?"

"you thought this was a date?" you rasp.

perplexity takes over his handsome features, oliver tilting his head and sitting up. "sorry, i'm confused. was this dinner not about that?"

"no?!" you're trying your absolute hardest to stay professional, but it's hard to do see when you runover his interactions toward you in your head. the kiss to your knuckles when you met him at the door, the intense eye contact, the unbuttoned shirt... oh, how could you be so stupid?!

you stiffen. "i'm terribly sorry that i gave you the wrong impression. but i only invited you over for dinner so i can discuss what my future plans would be as principal."

oliver is quick to interject himself. "oh. well. i apologize then. i'd be happy to talk more about that matter if you'd like."

the audacity of him to bypass it so casually, as though he wasn't lusting over you for nearly an entire hour when you were trying your absolute best to woo him with your ideas, with both of you ending with nothing but dust in your hands at the end of it all.

you shake your head and start packing your things up, which alerts him.

"no, i'd rather not," you mutter, taking out some wads of cash and pushing it over to him to cover your cost of the food. "i don't think we should proceed this conversation further. at least not for now."

he grabs your hand before you can proceed any further—strong and firm. maybe even desperate, dare you say? "hey, hold on. i swear, i'm really intrigued by your plans. especially the art walk. how 'bout we just finish this dinner and talk things over?"

"i've been trying to do that since we came!" you exasperate loudly, your sharp tone making him flinch a little, especially as you gather some onlookers who glance your way. "i'm sorry, but i'd rather not dabble in a one-sided conversation for another hour."

you plop your phone in your purse and quickly shuffle on your coat, offering him only a disappointed look before you leave, one that pinches an unknown twinge in his chest.

"have a nice evening, mr. aiku," you mutter solemnly, leaving him in the dust.

the next time you see him is the following monday, when he picks up his daughter with the rest of parents.

you're working with another one of your students, introducing him to another book that you think he may like, until you feel a tap on your arm. you excuse yourself from the boy and come face-to-face with rena, who holds up a collaged butterfly she was working on made from spare magazine parts from the crafting table proudly. her eyes that match a familiar two-toned hue sparkle at you.

"look!" she exclaims, her normally-soft voice now replaced with a more voluminous one—a self-curated confidence that you helped bring to life. "i even made it your favorite color. do you like it?"

she lets you hold the collage up to the light, the colors glistening. "oh, it's beautiful, rena!" you praise, your smile being mirrored by hers. "you should put it somewhere you can see it in your house."

she shakes her head, noir pigtails bouncing as she giggles. "it's not for meee..." she sings and then points to her left, where the door is. "daddy said i should give it to you instead!"

your voice suddenly falters, the mention of her father making you look up and suddenly catch the gaze of oliver, who stands idly at your classroom's door. he scratches the back of his neck when you stare at him.

you turn back to her, your eye twitching a bit. "are you sure, sweetheart? i'm sure your father would love to have this instead of me. i think you should keep it somewhere safe."

rena frowns. she seems almost unimpressed.

"he said it himself!" she protests, "it's yours! i'm gonna get my stuff from my cubby now."

abruptly, rena shuffles away without the art piece and to her designated shelf, leaving you. you sigh, standing up and making your way to oliver, who has yet to move his earnest eyes away from you.

"i think this is yours," you murmur and offer rena's piece to him.

oliver shakes his head and pushes your hand back, his larger hand enveloping yours for a slight moment, the leftover desperation from saturday still ghosting his skin.

"she really wants you to have it," he says quietly. "it'd make her happy. really."

you open your mouth to try and reply, but when nothing comes out, you nod and take the piece back, planning to display it somewhere for the children to see. before you can turn on your heel and return your attention back to the boy from before, oliver catches your wrist and shuffles something in your hand.

you turn back and open your palm, seeing the bills you left for him on friday night back into your hand and look up at him.

oliver chews his cheek. "i've got friday's dinner covered. think of it as an apology for um..." he flickers his eyes toward the other parents that wait for their children to finish packing up, not wanting anything to conspire if he said the wrong thing. he leans toward you, his hand shielding his words. "... getting the wrong idea."

he lets out a shaky laugh, trying to break the tension between you and him, though it does so to no avail when you only react with a thick silence. "i mean, i was gonna pay for our dinner regardless, but—"

you hold your hand up, the shake of your head making him stiffen. "it's fine. really. i apologize myself for not making my own intentions clearer."

oliver swallows dryly. he then moves himself out of the classroom and motions you to follow suit to hold a more private conversation, away from the eyes of the children and parents.

"listen," he mutters lowly to you. "again, i'm really sorry for sending mixed signals. i mean this when i say it, but i really do want to talk over your plans as principal one day more sincerely. i should've done it earlier, but..." he lets out a loose laugh, scratching his cheek.

he lifts his gaze to you, the familiarity of eye contact making you squirm.

"... you were just so pretty, i really couldn't help myself," he continues, forcing you to inhale sharply, even though you can detect the sincerity. "rena praises you a lot at home, so when i finally got to meet her favorite teacher formally, i didn't expect you to be so beautiful. and the fact you had asked me to dinner just made me go over my own head."

his buttery words attempt to make you melt, but all they really do is just make your nerves go rigid, your consciousness telling you not to trust them.

you stay quiet, letting him finish.

"i think you'd make a great principal," he says. "and compared to the other contenders, you've definitely got my vote. i'm sure you'd have no problem wooing the others on the board."

your toy with your fingers, pushing the brief spark of happiness over his approval away, not sure if you trust his words as you suspect with a gut-feeling they've been recycled for you.

"i'm glad to hear that. but i'd rather you vote for me because of my mission, not because i'm just another pretty face," you state with a hard look in your eye.

oliver shakes his head, a slight grin lifting on his lips. "that's just another bonus added. i mean it when i said i'm intrigued by your ideas, and i really would love to discuss them over another dinner... if you'd let me?"

he blinks slowly at you, almost fondly, with a slight desperation in his gaze.

your jaw tightens, doubt inking your tongue as you try to find the right words. you merely take a step back when you can't find them, teeth biting your lip. rumors spread fast, and the last thing you need is for people to gossip about the fact you may be privately conspiring with the president of the pta when all you initially wanted to do was just simply persuade him with a presentation of your ideas.

"i don't know," you hesitate. "i'll think about it..."

you try to escape back into your classroom, but oliver grabs your wrist again tenderly and makes you look back at him.

there's that earnestness again in his eyes, the one that really tests your guard and makes you put it down for the moment you capture it.

"you still have my number, right?" he asks quietly. your lips tighten, but you nod, making him sigh out in relief at the fact he hasn't been blocked yet. "okay, good. if you make up your mind, i'm just a text away."

a blank look is his only reply from you, with the mercy of a soft nod, right before you enter back into the classroom and tend back to the leftover children who still wait for their parents to pick them up.

her backpack jangling behind her, rena says a happy goodbye to you as she clutches her father's hand, chiming that she'll see you tomorrow and waving excitedly back at you.

you return it back with an affection on your face, a softness in your eyes at her drastic social improvement as you follow her figure out—all the while not noticing the way that oliver looks at you in the same tender manner.

[mikkomacko]

need a blurb of mob nico coming home to reader teaching luke how to tame and style his curls

Omg ok so I’ve always tried to keep reader pretty vague that way everyone can have they’re own perception of what she looks like haha

But I mean my girl is Italian so her hair would most like be textured/wavy/curly ya know??

I can so see Luke coming up to her one night at the bar and just being like “your hair looks really nice.”

And she’s smiling, a little caught off guard but flattered by the compliment. “Thanks Luke, that’s so sweet.”

“Do you-I mean like what stuff do you put it your hair to make it look that nice?”

Reader is so eager to sharing her product line up because her and Johnny have perfected it. Like it’s immaculate. So she’s getting all excited and listing off stuff and Luke has no idea what any of it is. He just nods until she stops talking and then goes kinda shy.

“Do you think you could teach me? Some of the boys have been saying my hair looks bad and that I should comb it or something but it just gets bigger when I do that!”

And oh my goodness reader’s whole day is made. She’s so excited, making plans to take him to the store to pick stuff out and then he can come to the house and she’ll show him how to use everything.

He comes over early Saturday morning for his little beauty lesson and because this is such a big deal, he even gets access to the overly large bathroom attached to reader and Nico’s bedroom.

Which is where Nico finds them when he comes home from his run, shirt damp with sweat and plastered to his skin uncomfortably. He just wants to get in the shower, get dressed for the day, and then spend the day lounging around with his girl.

Unfortunately he’s stopped by the sight of Luke sat on a stool from the kitchen, a towel wrapped around his shoulders and wet hair dripping down his forehead.

“Uhhh what’s happening here?”

Her and Luke both freeze, turning to him with the same deer in headlights look. Reader smiles then, waving the bottle of leave in conditioner in her hand.

“Luke is learning,” is all she says and Nico just nods, moving into the bathroom and perching against the counter to watch them. His clothes are drying and feel odd and gross on his skin, but he doesn’t care.

Because it’s actually entertaining to watch her explain everything to Luke, to make him tip his head upside down while she scrunches mouse into it and then curl the shorter pieces by his face with her finger, and even when she puts two claw clips in the wet ringlets on top of his head.

“For volume,” she explains simply, that look of pure concentration on her face that makes her look so cute. And Luke is hanging on her every word, like a school child, obediently nodding his head and asking questions.

Nico remembers the first time he watched this exact same routine, listened to her tell him about everything and while Nico knew she sometimes hated doing it, he loves her hair when it’s naturally styled, just a bit frizzy and curling around her face and neck.

He always wished his hair wasn’t so pin straight, so flat all the time. So yeah he admires it, admires her, and if he pictures this same moment in the future with mini version of him and her instead of Luke sat in that chair, well then that’s his little secret for now.

Afterwards, when Luke’s hair is mostly dry and he’s given up on trying to figure out the diffuser, he’s looking to Nico with his mouth parted in shock. “Did you know so much work went into this?”

And Nico is laughing. “Yeah man. I watch her get ready almost everyday.”

[dodgeballstuckonthegymceiling]

Same commissioner from before! I absolutely love your headcanons for Breadhead x Fallen Angel Fem!Reader, they are so AMAZING!! *chefs kiss* I’m here again to ask you about writing another headcanon request but this time with Protective Yandere Breadhead if you please with Fallen Angel Fem!Reader! Basically Yandere!Breadhead is crazily in love with Fallen Angel!FemReader and he’s unaware about her status as a fallen angel since she’s been keeping her identity a secret from The Gaslight District ever since she was violently casted out of heaven. So Breadhead assumes she’s immortal just like him and his family and thinks nothing of it. But he is protective of her since she’s new to The Gaslight District and she always seems to keep herself hidden from the public eye so Breadhead visits her when he’s off-duty to talk to her. He’s an extremely gentle giant to her and she loves him but fears him because she knows he’s a huge golem and a very strong one too, as she worries what would happen to her if he were to find out that she’s a fallen angel mortal. (She’s worried he’s gonna kill her) So! I can imagine Fallen Angel Fem!Reader wanting to do something nice for Breadhead by making a homemade gift basket to give him but she ends up getting into some trouble with some Rotlings who wanted to rob her for her basket, plus she got injured in the process. So! I can see Breadhead who was just walking along to visit Fallen Angel Fem!Reader and ends up seeing her getting injured and it’s not long before he kills the rotlings who were hurting her as Fallen Angel Fem!Reader watches him slaughter the rotlings with fear in her eyes and it’s not long before Breadhead locks his eyes on her wanting to check on her and the second he sees her black blood, he goes quiet and Fallen Angel Fem!Reader panics but I can see him not wanting to let her go after that, he does keep her identity a secret from his family but he does keep a close eye on her and never leaves her side. Sorry if this is too long! You can modify it into whatever you like if anything! Just know that I love your writing and I love to see more Gaslight District headcanons from you!

Thank you so much for commissioning me again! Hope I did your idea justice.

Yandere Breadhead x fallen angle Reader

★ Breadhead is a protective yandere, with a bit of delusions thrown in for good measure. He constantly worries about your safety, especially since you’re new to the Gaslight District. While he’s usually gentle and sweet with you, any perceived slight or threat can send him into a rage.

★ He interprets even the smallest gestures as signs of your love. Whenever you go out of your way to be nice to him, it makes his heart flutter. You’re consistent about it, too, never faltering in your kindness. Despite still being afraid of him. 

★ You try to trust him, but it can be hard. Even though he likes you, you know where his priorities lie. With the Smiling Dead. Breadhead’s family. Assuming that If push came to shove, he would pick them over you. In reality that would never happen. The family would love you, seeing how happy you make Breadhead. 

★ Around you, Breadhead is a gentle giant. His touch is always careful, as if he’s afraid of hurting you. Whether it’s brushing stray hair from your face or holding your hand. He always treats you like glass. “You don’t know how important you are.”

★ He visits you whenever he gets a rare day off. Sneaking away from the restaurant to spend some time with you. Usually he brings you a take-away box filled with leftovers from the night before. Keeping you company so you don't feel lonely.

★  One night, you saw some very lovely cooking knives in a store window. They made you think of him. So, naturally, you stole the set as a gift. That went smoothly, but while delivering it to him, a group of Rotlings cornered you. You tried to make a run for it, but they were faster. 

★ Worse still, your black blood spilled, its inky sheen staining the ground and drawing attention. Something you feared most. Before things could escalate further, Breadhead appeared, his towering figure illuminated by the dull glow of streetlights.

★ His goofy grin quickly faded as his gaze locked onto the scene, taking in your injuries and the Rotlings surrounding you. He destroyed them. The sound of bones snapping echoed through the alley. leaving no room for escape. Lucky for them, you begged him to stop. 

★ Panic sets in as you try to come up with an explanation. Before you can speak, Breadhead cups your face. “It doesn’t matter,” he says firmly. “You’re still my birdie.” After that day, Breadhead becomes even more protective of you. He keeps your secret from his family, but he’s always nearby. His visits become more frequent. Clingier than before. 

★ You’re grateful that he keeps your secret, but you can’t shake the fear of what might happen if his obsession ever turns against you. For now, you tread carefully, enjoying the moments you spend together while keeping one eye on the shadows.

[flowersforthemachines]

hello! 💙✨️

i have a question for our favourite divorce (non-)couple! terribly sorry if you've answered that already, I haven't seen it then.

so, my question is, where does spite fit into the whole couple and then divorce? does he have any feelings toward the break-up happening, good or bad? does he give lucanis a hard time for fumbling a baddie like ghilasara? is he still rooting for them to eventually make up? is he, or is he not, a true child of divorce?

No, I've never talked about it before. But I have always dreamt of being asked that question, so thank you for that.......

Hiding under the read more because this got long, but this is what naturally happens when I'm asked about something I've really wanted to talk about.

I've always thought of Spite as a child of divorce! And also the #1 wounded party in the whole affair (#2 is Ghilasara's griffon. #3 is Lucanis, and #4 is Ghilasara herself. #5 is Bellara, probably. but I digress).

In the sense that he cares deeply about Lucanis, and about Ghilasara, but he's basically forced to repeatedly watch their train wreck from the front seat without being able to do anything about it. That must suck dontcha think. A lot, I wager.

Spite sees life in a much less complicated way than Lucanis does. Lucanis loves Rook + Rook loves Lucanis = they should be together! It's hard to him conceptualise why that is not happening. Spite is often seen as a representation of Lucanis's inner desires; being with Ghilasara is one of such deeper desire, and Spite doesn't understand why Lucanis would prioritise the First Talon position/his duty to the family over it.

From Spite's point of view, Ghilasara is always 100% right no matter the situation. He's in her corner, and is never leaving it. Also attaching this bit from mtyew that happens after their first post-divorce reconciliation to sort of showcase that idea (thick cursive is Spite's thoughts in Lucanis's narration):

“Is [Spite] happy to see me?” “Overjoyed.” You are not saying it right. “He’ll finally have someone to side with in all arguments again. It’s like giving him back his moral compass.”

And, since I've already quoted my own fic, Go First is basically about how Spite spilt Lucanis's secret to Ghilasara (she didn't ask him to do that; he chose to do that on her own), while also keeping her own secret from Lucanis (again, she didn't ask. he took her side unprompted). She is the dog's favourite, for better or worse ^_^

Partially for worse, because I would never say that it's just Lucanis fumbling Ghilasara. I believe that women can do anything as good as men, if not better, which is why I consider their divorces a joint venture (hashtag feminism). Ghilasara is many things, which include being selfish, a coward, and a hypocrite with a "I know what's best for you" attitude. Post-canon her is also a lot more interested in nurturing her mental illnesses than trying to let go of her grief and move on. She is absolutely a big part of their problem.

I headcanon that she was the one to initiate the first break-up, and when it happens, she takes the time to talk to Spite specifically to explain why she's acting the way she does. The fact that she purposefully chooses to stay away is the one thing preventing Spite from constantly badgering Lucanis to seek her out.

Spite will always root for the two of them to get back together, though. Just like he doesn't understand why Lucanis would want to stay away from Rook, he also doesn't understand that it would be better for both of them to permanently cut ties. But alas!

Thank you again for asking <3 I hope this was interesting to read!

[callsign-rogueone]

Heyyy idk if you will do it or not because it might be a little weird request but I hope you do it!

Soo I would love to see how they would be like if their girl was being a little insecure cause she’s a little chubby(chubby girl requesting this))and like how would they comfort etc.I hope you really do it and I hope you don’t find it very weird😅

it's not weird! fellow chubby girl here to declare to you that none of our boys would mind if their girl is a little extra soft. some of them might even prefer it... I'm getting ahead of myself.

if you have doubts, my points are three;

they are all beautiful human beings inside and out, and see you for who you are (and also do not give a fuck what society thinks)

they are all gigantic and therefore all of them could still feel like the strong manly protector even if their partner isn’t Violet-sized

when I started this reply I had a third thing in mind. that was an hour ago, and it’s gone now. I’ll replace it with “and because I said so.”

now, moving on. the kind of scenario that I had in mind is that they hear you say something negative about yourself. and today’s categories are:

1) it would be upsetting how logical they’re being about this if they weren’t so cute while doing it:

I have a whole scene written for Dain and love of him being so sweet to her when she’s upset that her pre-Basgiath clothes don’t fit anymore. the TLDR of that is that she’s still the girl he fell in love with years ago, regardless of her looking different now. he reminds her of that, and that it’s for a good reason, that it means she’s healthy, and that it's part of a natural process. so while that isn't exactly the same scenario, I imagine him still being his logical self.

I know I lump Dain and Brennan together all the time, but he is also going in the logical category because he is also a nerd (affectionate), and the thought of you ever being insecure about anything just never crossed his mind. he does have some experience in the reassurance category via Violet, who is on the other end of the spectrum, but it works the same way. he has the whole "you are more than your physical presence and also there is nothing wrong with looking the way you do" speech down pat.

2a) gives you a very sweet speech about how much they love you

Bodhi owns this category. he might actually cry if you say mean things about yourself, because it genuinely breaks his heart to hear that the person he loves most in the world doesn’t love themself. he’s so sweet and loving to you, but also manages to know precisely how you want to be comforted. for example, and maybe I'm just weird, but when I'm having a "bad body image day" I don't want to be touched. I won't elaborate because I don't want to be negative or triggering. but my point stands that Bo would know exactly what you want in that scenario, and does it automatically.

Sawyer is also in this category, though he'd be a little bit more awkward than Bodhi. him and insecurity are old friends, and while his are much different than yours, he knows how it feels to be embarrassed by just existing. he starts by saying what he wishes someone would have told him two years ago, but nobody was around to (wrong. Love was there for him. as much as she could be, anyway.) and when he gets past the general stuff (promising he loves you, etc etc) and into the specifics, he trips over his words a little, and is definitely blushing a little (a lot) but it's so cute and you can tell it's 100% genuine.

2b) listens quietly to everything you have to say, and THEN gives you the speech:

Cam is rather quiet and aloof, from what we've seen in the books. he's not very chatty, probably because he's trying not to give himself away, but also I think that's just in his nature from being the ignored last-priority son... ANYWAY. he sits there listening, and once you finally run out of steam and stop talking, and you see him there, not having said a word, your heart breaks a little, because does that mean he agrees with you? nope. he was just listening and waiting his turn to speak. he knows the pressure to keep up appearances from being part of the Royal Family, so while he doesn’t agree with the statements you’re making about yourself, or the idea that pretty = thin, he understands that there’s outward pressure to look a certain way, and also rants a teeny bit about how much that's bullshit. (as an aside, should I keep calling him Aaric in these posts? or make the switch to Cam? I like Cam better. idk.)

Liam is an observer through and through. he's also sitting there listening, though he's easier to read -- you can always tell his emotions from the way he looks at you. there's so much softness and genuine sadness in those lovely blue eyes, because like Bodhi, he's so saddened that his favorite person feels this way about themself. I also see him as more touchy than Cam, so maybe your eyes just catch his mid-rant, and you see how he's looking at you, and just break... and he's there to hold you and help you glue yourself back together, holding you if/when you cry, and speaking to you so gently...

3) is more playful about it

Garrick is immediately offended — excuse you, how dare you say those things about my beautiful girlfriend. gets handsy, presses kisses everywhere he can reach, and even proves to you that he can still throw you over his shoulder like a sack of flour. holds you like that, upside down with your legs hanging in the air, until you're dizzy and giggling, your mood thoroughly lightened. if you're up for it, he'll continue demonstrating the extent of his attraction to you long after he sets you back down.

Ridoc is also in this category, to nobody’s surprise. while he's not tossing you around, his approach is similar to Garrick's -- lightening the mood, providing a distraction, and proving to you that you're fucking sexy, and not despite of your appearance, but because of it. of course, both he and Garrick know when to fuck around and when to be serious, so if this was a genuine breakdown on your behalf, he's choosing the 2a or 2b approach instead. he's incredibly emotionally intelligent. and I think his constant joking is partially because he wants to provide others a distraction from all the shit going down at Basgiath.

bonus category: 4) immediately assumes that someone else put these ideas in your head. "who said that to you? I just want to talk to them." (no he doesn't)

Xaden is not tolerating any kind of slander about his partner. but when you tell him it wasn't anyone in particular, it was just your own head, he softens. his response is kinda a mixture of all of the above. we know that he's a speech-giver, but also very physically affectionate with his partner... so expect speech followed by the both of you clearing your calendars for the next hour so that he can kiss every inch of you.

[thirtyorolderpls]

the strawmans i see by american TRAs on tumblr are insane but i want to focus on the "women are not oppressed"

i think it's important to address that, yes, lots of women have wealth, race and social class privilege over other men. it's dumb to deny it and it doesn't water down feminism one bit.

in fact i think denying it and presenting women as this ever suffering sex is a big mistake, one that i made when i was younger. because it obscures reality and feminist victories just as much as denying our oppression does. lots of women are living happy and successful lives and they must be celebrated as well.

another mistake is recurring to historical data, sure, everyone should know that women were basically objects up until two days ago, historically speaking, but that won't impress misogynists because they see it as a far away thing, just like racists like to repeat ad nauseam that "slavery ended 200 years ago" therefore no more racism.

modern misogynists, both men and women, have fallen for the illusion that women and men are legally equal, and that's when women from the west make the third mistake which is mentioning feminist issues from different countries.

you don't need to say that child marriage is legal somewhere else because most child molesters are usually closely related to the child. in the west a man can rape his children and if he goes by statistics alone he knows it's very likely that he will not get reported.

women are allowed to study, sure, but try being a woman in a male dominated field, try getting a promotion without being called a cocksucker. it happens, sure, but it doesn't happen more often because misogynists prevent it from happening. just like they used to do with music until someone said "enough" and now around 50% of professional musicians are women.

speaking of working women try being a lady boss outside of a city. i could write for HOURS about how men disrespect women who are their superiors, others already have. it's incredibly frustrating when you see it happen for yourself. one of my bosses had to ask her big boyfriend to just be there when she talked to male employees, and it fucking worked, they started respecting her a lot more.

trans women are forced into prostitution because of stigma, and that's horrible, but women are much more often abducted or coerced into prostitution than just "trying to making ends meet". sex trafficking is very real and mostly targets one sex and one sex alone. "but that barely happens to girls in the west" true, but most of the eastern european girls who are trafficked end up in my country, and that makes it my country's issue as well. my country is first world, has good education, great healthcare and so many things that make it look like a progressive country but it still is a prostitution haven, thousands of mostly chinese and eastern european women are trapped in here while thousands of male tourists come for sex tourism daily.

women are still expected to do more house chores and generally take more responsibility in a relationship and even worse in parenthood. we are still coerced to have children and expected to like children. SAHMs have no financial compensation for their daily work, can't contribute to social security and are left basically homeless if their loving husbands decide to leave them. "but it is their choice!" alright and what are they supposed to do now? get fucked? because the whole of society told them being a SAHM with no plan B is okay and normal and lots of women make it work? "but it's not really work" yeah that's why you pay for others to cook your food, take care of your kids, dogs, house, right? because it's not really work? yeah, right.

medical studies that use human subjects are still mostly conducted on males because periods are annoying to track. men get alopecia medication and viagra 2.0 and women are still told that "menopause is a natural process" and get sold a bazillion different supplements that don't work because there's almost no data on menopause that doesn't revolve around fertility rates. in general, most of what we know regarding women's health revolves around fertility. fuck pain relief and better quality of life, all that matters is if you can pop kids out or not. and this is huge, women with reproductive issues are usually ignored and have to face excruciating pain for no reason at all, menopause goes on for years and these women are not only expected to perform as well as they did before, they're mocked for a natural condition of aging as a woman.

last time i checked it was women mutilating their bodies daily in the name of beauty and self esteem when it's really body dysmorphia. anyone who has body dysmorphia knows that getting surgery to fix it will only make the problem worse, so we officially have a multi-billion industry that predates on women with mental health issues and it's fine because it's also their choice. just like most women have some sort of disordered eating pattern or have anxiety over food, not healthy consciousness but a terrible relationship with food and their bodies.

if you want to convince someone on why feminism is still important in the west, despite full access to abortion in my country and full equal rights under the law, these are better arguments than resorting to extreme situations of violence or trying to educate someone on women's history, they will not believe you or won't care.

[cherryswithcokediet]

𝐈𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐞

✷ 𝘈 𝘋𝘳𝘦𝘸 𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘦𝘺 𝘹 𝘠/𝘕 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 ✷

“Not every love story ends. Some just get paused, waiting for the right moment to find their way back.”

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟎 — 𝐁𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞

(Song for this chapter: “right where you left me” — Taylor Swift)

2025.

The coffee in front of Drew Starkey vibrated lightly under his restless fingers tapping the table. Saturday. Outside, Los Angeles buzzed under a spring sun, but inside him, it was still winter.

He often wondered when exactly things had changed. Was it in one of those soft arguments, heavy with unsaid words? Or had it been in silence too long to ignore?

His phone buzzed. A notification from an old Outer Banks fanpage. A video: them, in 2020, during an Instagram live. Everyone laughing, playing games, teasing each other.

And there she was.

Y/N.

Smiling the way that had once made him believe anything could be healed. Laughing the way that add spaces feel fuller.

In the video, Drew leaned closer to whisper something in her ear. She burst into laughter, dropping her head against his shoulder.

Fans commented innocently: “They had such good vibes!”. They didn’t know. No one did.

Only the walls.

2019. Charleston, South Carolina.

The first time he saw her, Y/N was sitting alone, flipping through her script, wind messing up her hair.

Drew wandered over, casually leaning against the chair across from her.

“First time in Carolina?” he asked.

She looked up, smiling softly.

“First time in everything” she said.

They spent hours talking that afternoon. About music. About dreams. About stupid fears.

Their first scene together? It was supposed to be scripted. Instead, they improvised half of it — so natural the director said, “Keep it. Whatever you two have, it’s real.”

Nobody knew how real it would become.

2020. The night of the first kiss.

The pandemic froze the world. Except for the little bubble on set.

One night, after everyone left early, they stayed behind at the beach.

Y/N kicked at the sand. Drew skimmed stones across the water. The didn’t talk much. They didn’t need to.

“You know?” Y/N murmured, staring at the waves.

“Know what?” he asked, stepping closer.

She didn’t answer with words.

She stepped toward him, close enough to feel the electricity hum between them.

Drew kissed her without thinking. Clumsy. Sweet. Inevitable.

Between breaths, he whispered against her lips:

“I'll always know how to find you.”

She smiled against him. And somehow, it felt like the start of everything.

2021 - 2022. Lives, improvisations and unspoken things.

The show grew. So did the pressure.

In Instagram lives, they played friends. Which they were. And so much more.

During the filming of season two, they shot a dramatic scene — a fight on a cliff. Y/N was supposed to cry. And she did.

Only… she wasn’t acting.

Her voice cracked for real. Her shoulders trembled. She collapsed into the sand.

Everyone applauded after “Cut!”. Everyone but Drew.

He knew.

He was the first to reach her, pulling her into his arms without asking, without pushing.

The scene stayed in the show. But only Dre knew the pain captured wasn’t fictional.

2022. The beginning of the end.

Tours. Projects. Different cities. Different futures.

But before it all collapsed, there was one moment —one scene— that still clung to Drew's mind.

They were shooting for season 3. A heated argument between Rafe and Grace. Scripted to be quick, sharp. A staged fight.

But when the cameras rolled, something cracked.

Drew stepped closer than he should have. Y/N's hands trembled, but she didn’t break character. The lines blurred.

Rafe (Drew): “You always run. Every time it gets hard, you just leave.”

Grace (Y/N): (voice cracking) “Maybe because staying means getting hurt worse.”

Rafe (Drew): (stepping closer) “You think walking away hurt less?”

Grace (Y/N): (tears welling) “It’s not about hurting less. It’s about surviving.”

Rafe (Drew): (quietly) “I would've stayed… if you asked.”

Grace (Y/N): (whispering) “I couldn’t ask you to break for me.”

They stared at each other —broken, breathing heavily— until someone finale yelled “Cut.”

The set fell silent for a moment too long.

Then applause.

Praise for the “intensity”. The “realism”.

The scene made it to the final cut.

Months later, when the show aired, fans whispered online:

“That flight… it didn’t feel scripted.”

“You could see it. Like… it was real pain.”

They weren’t wrong.

But by then, it was just another secret buried between episodes, between interviews, between two people who had once been everything to each other.

And only the walls knew the full story.

2023. The whispers.

Old pictures surfaced. Scraps of interviews where Drew's smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Fans guessed. Some connected the dots.

But Drew and Y/N never confirmed. Never denied.

Because their truth wasn’t public property. It belonged the walls, to silence, to memory.

2024. The reencounter.

After the writer’s strike, the group chat buzzed:

“Guys, we’re back. OBX 4 starts Monday.” — Chase.

Drew stared at the screen longer than necessary. Back. To the place where, last time, everything between them was already starting to break, even if neither had dared say it out loud.

His stomach tightened. Not from fear. From the weight of an unfinished story.

He would see her again. Not the idea for her. Not a memory.

Her.

And maybe things would be different. Maybe they wouldn’t. But deep down, Drew knew:

Some loves never really leave.

And no matter how far they drifted, he would always know how to find her.

✷ 𝐄𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟎

[shrewfern]

things about all the young dudes i really like (my atyd annotations so far)

note: i was going to post this when i was done reading it, but it’ll be while before i finish. i’ve been reading it for about a day now (spread over the past two-three weeks; i don’t have a whole lot of free time </33), and i’m on chapter “fourth year: january”. also, i’m reading atyd on a pdf file, so i can’t see the chapters numerically. any chapters named specifically will be done by year and title. <3

remus cannot read

james is tone deaf (relatable)

sirius can raise one eyebrow

james cannot. to compensate, he wiggles them.

“that sirius black grin.”

remus being excited to be thirteen, fourteen, so on…

for their birthdays, the marauders get the whole gryffindor table to sing “happy birthday”.

“birthdays are family occasions.” –narcissisa black (carrying a slumpy regulus black) to sirius black, before promptly intimidating the elder black brother to have lunch with them.

regulus being absolutely criminally offended that james touched sirius’ shoulder.

james running his hand through his hair.

james and peter nominating a “ban on bowie until the end of the year”.

remus’ gay awakening was from watching a david bowie concert on the world’s shittiest tv.

i had to keep my jaw from dropping when sirius said walburga's making him marry his cousin.

lily uses a ‘muggle-expression’. james doesn’t understand it, remus does.

james and sirius trying to tape their hands to the table while wrapping christmas presents.

after walburga (boooo tomato tomato) kidnaps sirius during christmas break, regulus sends james and remus an owl saying sirius is home and do not try to contact him.

MR AND MRS POTTER GOT THE MARAUDERS MATCHING QUILL SETS!!!!!

james yells “come in!!!!!” to mary, marlene, and lily (who are outside the door) in a room bound with a silencing spell. 

‘“One day you’ll all read Hogwarts: A History, and I can finally rest.” Sirius sighed…’

^AND HE DID!!!

remus’ favorite flavor of chips is salt and vinegar (me to!!).

‘remu’.

‘goulash’ (‘gilgamesh’).

foreshadowing with the epic of gilgamesh.

i love the implications that no one in the black family wants to be there.

ALPHARD BLACK IS GAY.

domestic sirius black!! give remus that toast!!!

‘the two m’s.’

remus, with zero context, to lily: it’s a trunk full of umbrellas.

‘telling-bone’.

sirius likes his albums alphabetically organized.

‘remoony’

‘He [Remus] didn’t want someone as cool as Ferox thinking he was a wuss.’

remus doesn’t like cats.

‘Sirius had been listening to “Black Dog” on repeat for weeks now.’

THE SHADE thrown at peter is BOMBASTIC. /pos /ihatepeterpettigrew

‘stupid o’clock’.

when talking about something important, james relates it to quidditch.

‘lumpy elephant dung’ 💀💀💀

mary is me irl.

‘James handled the invitations – which as far as Remus had seen involved shouting at various students telling them they’d better be there or else.’

good writing, feels very natural.

‘“...marry Prince Charles if you want to…”’ –remus lupin

^ as a royal family watcher, i damn near flipped my lid at this (i love you, diana!!!!!).

andromeda saying that she doesn’t think nymphadora will marry anyone at the table…

marauders should build a treehouse. not related, just a silly thought.

marlene is also me irl.

sirius point blank refused to sign marlene’s petition to remove the whomping willow (‘“it has the right to be here as anyone else!”’).

james being nice to peter got me fuming.

sirius intentionally does poorly in astronomy to piss off his parents.

ok i’m reading marlene’s break-down chapter (third year) and she IS ACTUALLY ME.

NOT SIRIUS TELLING REMUS IN TOTALLY PLATONIC CONTEXT ‘Have I told you lately how much I love you?’ 💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀 (third year, marlene chapter)

madame pomfrey being the nicest person alive! i wish we got to see more of her in the actual books.

the conversation between remus and ferox in “third year: greyback” mirrors that between remus and harry in the prisoner of azkaban.

‘one emotional crisis at a time.’ me every day.

gang remus >>

lanky weedy remus is real and he lives inside your walls.

first fourth year chapter’s off to a good angsty start!

‘[remus’] laces didn’t match, red on left, yellow on the right. He’d thought that looked really cool back in July, but now it looked a bit silly.’ 

^me who wears two different colored shoes 👀👀👀

sirius pronouncing ‘cigarette’ with a french accent.

i want to be sirius or remus so badly aAJBSHSDGBSKBJ i love them both sm sdfkjgbsjkblsgnjskbgsbgjkjjbkbkjbkfkdjkbgdkjbgjk.

oh, no, not the chicken sandwich being symbolic.

‘one might assume that a hungry werewolf would fancy a chicken sandwich…’

james trying to court lily (year four) got me grinnin frfr.

lily hates being called ‘ginger’ bc the kids in elementary school picked on her for it (i would too. it’s nothing personal; i just see a ginger and i gotta bring out my flame thrower.)

mcgonagall telling the commentators to stay on-topic during quidditch match.

^this is something i love in the official books, too!

‘“please mr. moony, step into our office,”’ james says, inviting remus into his bed (not like that, you shitface!!!)

sirius doesn’t like sticky things.

‘“we seem to have some pranksters in our midst,”’ *everyone immediately looks at the marauders*

as a great gatsby enthusiast, i greatly enjoyed “year four: christmas”.

^THE GREAT GATSBY IS NOT A ROMANCE!!! well, it kinda is but NOT IN A GOOD WAY!! it’s more of a dramatic tragedy imo.

^sorry. i see anything great gatsby related and i just pop off.

^I SHOuld have been in the theatre with remus!! he would’ve loved the great gatsby if i was there! we would’ve squawked about what a narcissistic bitch daisy is and how fucking gay nick and jordan are!! and i could’ve explained the social parallels and the symbolism and why daisy is a WHORE and love vs deperation vs obsession vs want and why i would absolutely KICK f. scott fitzgerald’s ass if i ever met him. and the green light. THE GREEN LIGHT. ugh remus why aren’t you real we could’ve had such a good time…

^i get even crazier about the greatest showman.

remus freaking the fuck out after being told to calm down.

‘Since Dumbledore’s visit to the Potters Sirius’s hatred for anything remotely Slytherin had increased tenfold.’ as a slytherin and the #1 sirius simp, i do not like this sentence.

[moriarfer]

OC Questions

I've been procrastinating on this reply for quite a while, but thanks so much for your tag @mogruith! These questions are very interesting!

The fact that Coranzan thinks about what the birds want to say in their songs is really wonderful. It's nice to see that sometimes he finds his inspiration in them.

Uh, okay. Not the most surprising choice, but talk about Seylas!

👕Appearance 7. Is there someone your character tries to look similar to?

Not really. Seylas was more the type to make others want to be like him. He knows he's handsome and has good taste. Even though he had to sometimes dress the way he was required to in the Seymour household, he still tried to pick clothes that were to his liking. Now he is finally glad that he can finally afford to look the way he and only he wants. He prefers both comfortable and beautiful clothes, rather than something pompous.

📦Objects 14. Is there an item your character is embarrassed they own or want?

It's funny because Seylas is a bard, but he's embarrassed by his own compositions. Sometimes he improvises on the violin, sometimes he writes this music on pieces of paper. This fact, for some reason only he can understand, causes him irritation mixed with embarrassment. Perhaps he is afraid of appearing overly romantic, even though it sounds silly.

But for some people he is willing to make an exception. Once he had to step over himself and perform a play at his friend's wedding that had been written especially for him.

🍽️Food and Drink 10. What is a childhood meal your character cherishes?

Both as a child and now, Seylas is madly in love with meat. Any kind of meat dish made him excited. He didn't have the opportunity to eat it all the time, but he was a special servant in the house, so meat was often present in his diet.

Of fruits, he was very fond of oranges. The flavour of the citrus and the sweet and sour pulp made him almost purr with pleasure. A few times he had stolen the fruit from the kitchen and then hidden it under his pillow to eat alone later.

His mother was a kitchen maid. And, though Seylas didn't know it himself, she baked Marruth, which Seylas also liked a lot. An ordinary root cake, but Farnelis had a special way of making it. As an adult, Seylas had never been able to find a pie anywhere that tasted anything like the one the cook made at the Seymours' house.

🌤️Weather and Nature 2. Has your character had a meaningful encounter with an animal?

Nothing special. He likes animals a little more than people, though. Seylas can talk to animals, so sometimes he could have a word with a cat or dog (or even rats) on the street. Animals can tell a lot of useful information if you know how to ask them.

🤝Community and Relationships 3. How comfortable would your character be singing and dancing in front of others?

Absolutely comfortable. Seylas is a bard, and he's great at introducing himself to an audience. In the past, he's often had to pretend to be an ordinary musician, so sometimes he'd let himself play the violin or dance with someone. He knows how to draw attention to himself, and he even enjoys it. So he finds the idea of someone looking at him or listening to him fascinating. It's not every day you get that opportunity.

Though playing the violin is still not something he usually did while travelling. More often he was telling some funny stories to his companions (most of which he had literally just just made up). Karlach was his biggest fan.

💓Mind, Body and Soul 19. Are there scents your character dislikes?

It's actually easier to tell which smells Seylas likes. He has a rather sensitive sense of smell, and he absolutely dislikes most of the scents of the city. The smell of the sewers disgusts him, and the scent of the goblin camp almost made him vomit.

🎲 Hobbies and Activities 3. What is a talent your character wishes they had?

After losing his memory, Seylas knows himself too badly to realise exactly what talents he would like to have. He thinks he's good at almost everything.

Except maybe cooking. That's his Achilles' heel. He can boil potatoes.

Although it's more of a skill than a talent, he wishes he could cook (especially cook deliciously). It would actually help him a lot now that he has to survive outside of his usual urban environment. So he would really wish he had a talent in cooking.

No pressure tag: @oonalovesastarionssimpleplan @twilight-sanctuary @optimisticgrey @alstromeri-a (if you can answer this post!)

[luvfae]

BEST FRIENDS MAKE THE WORST LOVERS

summary: he was yours first and if you can’t have him, no one can.

parings: thanos x f!reader

warnings: cheating, smut, swearing

You've always had a thing for your best friend, Su-bong.

You don't know exactly when it happened — the shift, the slip, the quiet fall. Maybe it was after that night at a mutual friend's seventeenth birthday, both of you half-drunk and grinning, tipsy on cheap vodka and shared frustration. You'd looked at each other, shrugged, and decided you were tired of waiting, tired of wondering. Virginity was overrated anyway. So you'd fucked — clumsy, curious, urgent. Just to say you had.

Or maybe it was before that. Before you ever touched. When the laughter came easy, and his hoodie always ended up on your shoulders, and you'd catch yourself staring at the slope of his neck, wondering how it would taste. Wondering why no one else ever made you feel quite the same.

Whatever the case — the truth settled in after. Quiet and permanent. A part of you.

You want him.

But not in the way that's noble or romantic. Not in the way you could explain to your friends without sounding unhinged. You want him selfishly — he doesn’t have to love you or be your boyfriend.

You just want him to be yours.

In the way that matters in private. In the way that doesn't need labels, or promises, or futures. In the way that makes you the only one who knows how he sounds when he comes.

And he's still your best friend. Always has been. You're good at that part — loyal, ride-or-die, first to answer the phone at 3am. You show up. You look out. You hold the parts of him that no one else gets to see. The sharp and the soft.

But you also keep his bed warm when he needs it. Keep his mouth busy. Keep his balls empty.

And for a while, that was enough.

Until he got a girlfriend.

At first, it was fine. Truly. She was pretty in a harmless way. Nice in a way that didn't raise your hackles. She didn't try to separate him from you — not at first. She smiled when you walked into the room. Laughed at your jokes. Let him lean against you at parties and never questioned how easily your bodies fit together.

You even tried to be happy for him. Because you do love him — in that complicated, sideways, back-of-your-throat kind of way.

And you thought you could handle it. Thought you could go without. Thought you could be just friends again.

At first.

Until the jealousy started to rot you from the inside.

Not loud. Not sharp. Just a slow, creeping burn that sank into your bones.

It wasn't just the loss of the best dick of your life — it was the silence. No more lazy smoke sessions on your balcony. No more co-op missions at midnight, legs tangled on the couch. No more FaceTime rings answered on the first buzz, no matter the hour, no matter the reason.

You weren't just losing the sex.

You were losing him.

And you could live without the fucking, maybe. But not the version of him that belonged to you. The version that lived on your couch, barefoot and loud. The version that rolled your joints better than you did, who knew your Panda Express order by heart, who'd watched you cry over boys he never liked anyway.

You could feel her pulling him away in inches. And you were never one to beg. So you made sure he remembered where he came from.

The first fight hits hard — and loud.

You don't get the details. You don't ask. He just shows up at your apartment at 11:42PM, hoodie half-zipped, phone clenched in one fist like he wants to throw it through the wall.

"Bad night?" you ask.

He exhales, tight and bitter. "You have no idea."

You hand him the joint before you say anything else. He takes it wordlessly, flicks the lighter like second nature, and leans against your kitchen counter like it's his.

Like he never left.

"She says I don't talk to her," he mutters, exhaling smoke. "Says I shut down. But then when I do say something, it's wrong. Too much, too blunt, too—" he waves a hand, "—me."

You let him talk.

Let him pace.

He moves like the words are eating him alive, like if he stands still too long they'll rot a hole through his ribs.

You sit on the couch, pull your knees up. Watch him unravel.

"I try," he mutters. "I fucking try. But I'm not soft like she wants me to be. I'm not—"

You tilt your head. "You don't have to be soft with me."

His gaze flicks to you.

You tap the cushion beside you. He doesn't hesitate. Just drops down, exhales hard, passes the joint back.

The silence that follows is familiar.

Laced with old habits. Old sins.

Your legs are over his in the next minute — casual, innocent on the surface. Then your hand on his chest. Then your lips at his jaw.

He doesn't move.

"She just doesn't get me, you know?" he murmurs, voice low, almost broken.

You kiss his neck. Slow. You feel him shudder. Feel his hand drop to your thigh.

"I do," you whisper.

And then, without thinking — or maybe because you've thought about it too much — you straddle him, rock your hips against him.

Just once.

It's not enough to cross the line.

But it's enough to smear it.

His head drops back against the couch, a low sound breaking in his throat. Your name, half-spoken.

You move again. A little slower. A little deeper.

He doesn't stop you.

Doesn't even try.

His hand grabs your hip, hard.

And then he's fucking into you — desperate, panting like he's been starving for weeks. You're still on top of him, still pretending you didn't plan this, and he's still trying to pretend he's not cheating.

But he is.

And you're moaning into his mouth like it's the first time all over again.

You're his best friend.

And you've never made it so easy to forget someone else.

It becomes a pattern — ritual, even. Every time they fight, he ends up here. Knuckles tense. Mouth tight. Carrying anger like it's stuffed in the lining of his jacket, waiting for you to tear it out of him.

And you always do.

You fuck him like you own him. Like you're the only one who could ever handle him. You ride him until his voice cracks and his grip bruises and the heat behind his eyes dissolves into something messier. Needier.

His fury fades between your thighs — swallowed by how fucking tight you are, how perfectly you take him, how your pussy milks the stress out of him like it's your job.

And maybe it is. Maybe you made it your job the night he chose someone else.

You drag orgasms out of him like confessions. Make him moan in ways she's never heard. Make him forget what he was mad about in the first place.

Because she argues.

You open your legs.

She gives him space.

You give him your throat.

And when you sink to your knees, slow and smug, dragging your tongue along the base of his cock before wrapping your mouth around him like you're starved — he breaks.

Every time.

One hand in your hair, the other gripping the back of your neck like he needs to feel you taking it. Eyes rolling back. Chest heaving.

"Fuck, you're warm," he groans, voice wrecked. "Always so good to me."

You hum around him. Eyes glassy. Drool on your chin.

She never sucked him like this. Never let him fuck her face until he was twitching, nearly crying, emptying everything down your throat because he couldn't hold back even if he wanted to.

And the worst part?

You know that.

You want him ruined. You want him addicted. You want him thinking about you when he's inside her.

And he does.

Because her moans are soft.

Yours are filthy.

She kisses him sweet.

You beg him to breed you.

You whisper, between gasps and trembles, "I want your cum. Want it deep. Want to feel it leaking out when I walk."

She tells him to slow down.

You tell him to break you.

She arches away.

You arch into it.

And every time he's sure he's going to end it — every time he's buttoning his jeans with shaking hands and the taste of you still in his mouth — he remembers.

She's not you.

But you're not her, either.

Because where you fuck and praise and give him everything he wants, she holds his face and tells him things he doesn't want to hear. Things that make him better. Things that make him human.

You make him forget.

She makes him try.

And that's the difference. That's why he hasn't left her.

But you? You don't need him to stay. You just need him to come back.

And he always does.

It's happened enough times now that it feels like fate.

Fucked-up. Familiar. You, bent over your bed. Him, buried inside you. Whispering things he swore he'd never say again. Praising your cunt. Cursing himself. Saying your name like a sin and a salvation.

And still — he goes back to her.

You know this pattern by heart.

You know she doesn't suspect yet — but she will.

Because she's not blind. Not anymore.

It starts at a party.

It always starts at a party.

You're wearing that dress you know he likes — the one that rides a little too high when you bend, clings a little too tight when you sit.

You feel his eyes before you see them. Heavy. Heat-soaked. Lingering too long on your legs. His beer stalls halfway to his mouth. Frozen. Like he forgot anyone else existed.

You don't look at him. Not directly. You just sip your drink and laugh at something someone else said — as if you can't feel the weight of his stare branded into the inside of your thigh.

But she sees it.

The way his jaw tightens.

The way his chest rises when you cross your legs.

The way his pupils don't move until you finally get up to leave the room.

She doesn't say anything then. But it eats at her.

Later, when the noise fades and they're alone in her car, she turns to him. "Do you have feelings for her?"

He scoffs. Too quick. Too sharp. "She's just my best friend."

And maybe he believes it.

Or maybe he's just repeating it — like a mantra.

Like a lie he's told so often it's starting to sound like truth. But his voice cracks just slightly when he says it. And she hears that too.

It's not just that night.

It's not just the look.

There are other moments — quiet things, easy to brush off on the surface, but wrong if you stare too long.

She stares too long now.

You're curled up on the couch in Su-bong's hoodie, barefoot, legs tucked under you. He's in the kitchen pouring drinks, and she watches the way he glances at you — like a habit, like gravity. You don't notice. Or pretend not to.

When he comes back and hands you a glass, she says, a little too light, "Su-bong never lets me wear that hoodie."

You grin. Sip. "I was cold."

Her laugh is thin. She doesn't say what she's thinking. That you're never cold when she's around. Only when she isn't.

Or the time, she walked in on him helping you zip up a dress. His fingers are at your spine. Your hair is swept to the side. He's laughing at something you said, low and under his breath.

You both freeze when she opens the door.

You turn. Smile. "This thing's impossible without help."

She nods. Smiles back.

But later that night, she whispers in the dark, "Why didn't she just ask me?"

He doesn't have an answer. He just kisses her shoulder and pulls her closer, like she won't notice how his hands don't linger the way they lingered on you.

The parties were always the worst. Too much alcohol. Too many people.

One time, she finds you both in the hallway, laughing too hard. Your hand on his chest. His arm above your head on the wall.

The moment stretches.

"What's going on?" she asks, voice sharp.

You pull away immediately. Too quick. "Nothing," you say. "He was just being an idiot."

Su-bong nods. Eyes down. "Just messing around."

But she sees the way your lipstick's smudged.

The way his hand brushes your back when he walks past her.

She doesn't say anything that night. Doesn't cause a scene. But when they get home, she doesn't kiss him. She doesn't even look at him.

And he doesn't ask why.

Because he already knows.

It's well past midnight when the knock comes.

Soft. Hesitant. Familiar.

You're not even surprised — just rise from the couch in silence, heart already bruising in your chest.

You open the door and he's there.

Su-bong.

Shoulders hunched. Hoodie soaked from the rain. Eyes rimmed red.

His mouth moves like he's trying to speak, but nothing comes out. Just a breath, jagged and raw, and then he's pulling you into him, holding you like you're the only solid thing left in the world.

And that's when you feel it — not just the weight of him, not just the tremble in his arms, but the wet warmth that hits your collarbone.

Tears.

You freeze. You've seen him at his worst — high, drunk, bruised, broken. But never this.

He's crying.

And not because he lost her.

Because he didn't.

Because she's still there, still waiting for him to come home.

And he's not sorry.

Not really.

Not enough.

That's what's killing him.

You guide him inside without a word. Sit him down. Wrap a blanket around his shoulders like you're bandaging a wound that never bled right. He stares at the floor like it's going to collapse under him.

Minutes pass.

Then, softly — voice shredded, "she doesn't deserve a fucking asshole like me."

You smile.

Not cruel. Not smug. Just... knowing. You reach out. Brush wet strands of hair from his forehead. Let your fingers linger.

"Maybe not," you hum, warm and quiet. "But I do."

He looks at you. Eyes wide. Bloodshot. Searching.

And you say the thing that's lived in your chest for years.

"I've never asked you to be anyone but yourself, Su-bong."

Something breaks in him then. Not the way it did in her hallway, not in anger or panic — but quietly.

Like relief.

Like love.

His hand finds yours. Brings it to his mouth. Kisses your knuckles like he's never touched you before.

And when he leans in, when his lips meet yours, it's not rushed. Not hungry.

It's soft. Slow. The kind of kiss that tastes like apology and something almost sacred.

He doesn't take you to the bed. He follows you there.

Undresses you carefully, like he's worried you'll disappear. Like this version of you is something new — or maybe something he's just now letting himself see.

And when he pushes into you, slow and deep, chest to chest, your name on his tongue — it hits different.

Not like every other time. Not like fucking to forget. He's not fucking you now. He's making love to you.

And that terrifies you.

Because when he groans into your neck, "God, you feel like home," your body arches into his and your heart whispers, Please. Choose me.

And for the first time, you let yourself imagine what that might look like. Not the secret. Not the backup. Not the girl he runs to when he's wrecked.

But the girl he stays with when he's okay.

The girl he wakes up beside in the morning.

The girl he picks.

Out loud.

All the way.

And when he holds your face after, panting and dazed, whispering thank you, you don't say anything back. You just press your lips to his cheek and let yourself hope.

You don't sleep that night.

He does.

Right beside you, sprawled on your sheets like he's always belonged there, like the fight that sent him here never existed. One arm draped over your waist, breath slow and steady, skin still damp with the memory of what you let him do — of what he let himself feel.

And you watch him. In the quiet. In the dark.

You trace the lines of his jaw with your eyes, the way his mouth softens in sleep, the curve of his bare shoulder where it catches the first hint of dawn.

You could love him like this.

You do.

But it's no longer enough.

Because you're tired of hiding. Tired of being the secret he comes to when he's aching, the mouth he fucks when he's angry, the name he moans into a pillow he doesn't get to keep.

You're tired of being good at it.

Of being his best friend.

Of being the one who listens, and waits, and swallows.

You've seen what's left of him after a fight. You've seen what he looks like when he breaks. And now you've seen what he looks like when he gives himself to you — not rough, not reckless — but soft.

Yours.

And if you can have that version of him — even for one night — you know you can have it again.

If she wasn't in the way.

You think about her when you kiss his temple. Think about how she clings to what little of him he gives her.

How she thinks she knows him.

Thinks she has him.

But you've felt him cry.

You've felt him come apart.

You've felt him say nothing and mean everything.

She doesn't have that.

She never did.

So maybe it's time she finds out what you already know — That he was never really hers to begin with.

Not the way that matters. Not where it counts.

And maybe that makes you cruel. But cruelty is a small price for ownership.

For love.

For him.

So you lay back down beside him, head on his chest, heart thudding with quiet resolve.

You're done sharing.

And if he won't choose you outright — you'll make it so he can't keep hiding.

It starts small.

A text.

I miss you, when you know he's in bed with her.

You don't expect him to answer — not right away.

But you know he sees it. You know he thinks about it. And that's enough. At first.

Then come the games.

You start leaving things behind — panties tucked half-visible under his pillow, lip gloss on his sink, a stray earring on the floor of his passenger seat. Things she'll find if she's even half paying attention.

You press hickeys just above his collarbone — places too risky to ignore, but too intimate to blame on anyone else.

He gets mad, sometimes. Tells you to be careful. Says she's suspicious.

But you know him.

If he really wanted to stop you, he would.

And when he doesn't?

You push harder.

Nudes at 3:14AM.

Soft lighting. Lip bitten. Panties pushed aside.

Wish you were here.

You pray she checks his phone. That she sees the way his hands linger too long, the way he won't meet her eyes the morning after he's been inside you.

But it doesn't work.

She never finds the panties. He wears hoodies to hide the bruises. She doesn't go through his phone.

So you get bolder.

The comments come next. Sweet. Polished. Laced with venom.

When Su-bong is out of earshot — fetching drinks, answering a call — you smile at her, too wide, too warm, and say things like:

"I hope you don't mind that he still comes to me when he's upset. Old habits die hard, I guess."

"He's always been... generous. I'm sure you appreciate that, too."

"It's the little things, you know? Like how he knows just where to put his hands. Always so intuitive."

"I've always loved how... responsive he is. Even the smallest touch gets a reaction."

And you get a reaction. Every time. She flinches. Smiles too tight. Looks to Su-bong with that look — like she's trying to catch him looking at you first.

She never does.

Because he's careful.

But not careful enough.

Eventually, she tells him:

"I don't want you seeing her anymore."

And for a while — you don't hear from him. No texts. No calls. Not even a half-assed excuse.

So you show up. Late afternoon. Hair down. Hoodie oversized. Nothing underneath but perfume and patience.

She's not home.

He opens the door like he expected this — like he hoped you wouldn't come, and knew you would anyway.

He doesn't invite you in.

You step in anyway.

His voice is quiet. Heavy.

"She's onto us." A beat. "She wants me to stop seeing you."

You nod. Say nothing. Let the silence choke him for a moment before you sit on the edge of his bed.

Then you say it.

"I was the one who held you when you were nothing." Not loud. Not bitter. Just... true. "You only love her because I taught you how."

And he doesn't move.

Doesn't blink.

So you stand. Walk up slow. Put your hand on his chest — right where you can feel the thud of his guilty heart — and lean in.

You kiss him.

Soft. Final.

And he kisses you back.

Because he always does.

His mouth is still on yours.

Soft. Then not.

The kind of kiss that shouldn't happen. The kind that tastes like final decisions and fucked-up truths and everything he swore he wasn't going to do again.

But he doesn't pull away.

And you don't let him.

His hands slide to your waist — grip tightening like he's trying to stop himself from shaking. He presses his forehead to yours for a beat, breath shallow.

"I shouldn't," he whispers.

You smile against his lips. "Then don't."

He groans. A low, guttural sound that vibrates in his throat — and then he kisses you again, this time deeper, hungrier, teeth grazing, tongue pushing past your lips like he needs to taste every second you've been apart.

Your fingers curl in his shirt. Tug. Yank. You want skin.

"Su-bong—" you gasp into his mouth, "—I want you to touch me."

"I fucking am touching you," he snaps, hand sliding down to your ass, squeezing hard.

"Not enough."

He curses under his breath — like the request hurts — like it lights something up under his ribs.

You shove him back a step, just enough to grab the edge of your hoodie and pull it over your head in one motion. No bra. Just skin.

His breath catches. "Jesus fuck."

He stares for a second too long — like he forgot how good you looked underneath all your attitude — then grabs your jaw and kisses you hard, dragging his other hand up your side, palm rough against your bare breast. He groans into your mouth when your nipple tightens under his thumb.

"You do this on purpose," he growls. "Show up like this, act like you didn't plan the whole fucking thing."

You moan, arching into his touch. "Of course I did."

"Brat," he mutters. "You're fucking evil."

You just grin, gasping when his mouth drops to your neck, tongue dragging over your pulse before he bites — not gently — and sucks a bruise into the skin just below your collarbone.

You gasp again as he starts walking you backward, fast and clumsy, until the backs of your knees hit his bed. You fall with a soft thud, legs spreading instinctively, panties already damp and sticking to your skin.

"I don't have time—" he pants, eyes locked on the wet patch.

"You have time," you breathe.

He grabs your thighs, spreads them wide, pushes them up until your knees are almost to your chest, panties stretched tight across your cunt.

"I should make you beg," he mutters.

"I already am," you whisper.

His mouth crashes down.

Right over your panties.

And you cry out — hips lifting, thighs twitching — as he drags his tongue hard over the soaked fabric, lips curling when he feels how fucking wet you are.

"Goddamn," he groans. "You missed me that bad?"

You nod, breathless.

"I didn't even touch you yet."

"You don't need to," you whimper.

He's licking you through your panties like it's the only thing keeping him sane, but when his watch buzzes on his wrist, he pulls back just an inch — breathless, flushed, mouth glistening.

"Shit," he mutters. Checks the time. "She's gonna be home soon."

Your head tips back, eyes fluttering. "Then you better be quick."

That breaks him.

His mouth crashes to yours as he fumbles for his belt, yanking it open one-handed, pants halfway down his thighs. You reach for him at the same time, push your panties to the side, pull him between your legs like he belongs there — like he never left.

"I shouldn't be doing this," he pants against your lips.

"Then don't make it slow," you whisper. "Just make it worth it."

And he does.

He shoves into you in one desperate thrust — so deep, so fucking full it rips a moan straight out of your chest. His hands are braced on either side of your head for a second before one slides to your throat, gripping just enough to make your breath catch.

"Fuck—this pussy," he gasps. "Every fucking time. It's like you were made to fuck me."

You choke out a laugh, nails digging into his back. "Maybe I was."

He fucks you hard. Deep. Not rushed — but urgent. Like he's trying to memorize every sound you make, every clench, every tremble. His body presses you down into the mattress, your legs over his shoulders, angle so brutal it leaves you speechless.

"You like this?" he grunts, tightening his grip on your throat.

You can't even answer. Just nod, eyes rolled back, mouth open in a silent scream.

"Use your words," he growls. "You want it like this, don't you?"

"Y-Yes—yes—Su-bong—please—"

"Say what you want, baby," he pants, eyes locked on your face. "Tell me."

"Choke me—fuck—choke me harder," you gasp. "You know I love it. You know I love when you ruin me—"

He does.

His hand tightens. Your head tips back.

He leans in close, mouth brushing your cheek, voice rough and tender all at once.

"My girl," he murmurs. "My pretty fucking girl. Gonna fill you up. Don't worry."

Your breath hitches. "Please—please—inside—please—"

And that's when the door opens.

A pause.

The world stops.

You don't see her.

But you hear her.

A gasp. A stutter.

And then—shattered glass.

You twist your head toward the doorway — and she's there. Frozen. Face pale. Eyes wide. Tears spilling.

Su-bong freezes inside you. Hands still on your throat.

Your eyes widen. You try to speak, but nothing comes out.

She breaks the silence.

"You told me not to worry about her!" Her voice cracks. "You said she was your best friend!" She's shaking now, yelling, chest heaving. "You told me I could trust you!"

Su-bong still hasn't moved.

He looks down at you — stunned, guilty, still hard inside you. And you — eyes glassy, lips parted — look up at him like this is the moment you've been waiting for.

Because now?

There's no hiding.

There's no going back.

And someone's about to burn for it.

The silence stretches thick — heavy enough to suffocate.

Your chest rises and falls, your heart hammering somewhere near your throat, but your smile is steady.

You sit there, half-naked under the covers, legs spread slightly, still slick and throbbing, Su-bong's cock still twitching against your inner thigh.

You meet her eyes.

Hold her gaze.

And you smirk.

Soft. Lethal.

The final nail in the coffin.

Then you tilt your head, voice syrupy sweet, “he only fucks me like this because he can't with you."

The words land like a slap.

Her whole face crumples — color draining, mouth trembling — and Su-bong jolts like you physically punched him. His hand shoots out, grabbing the edge of the bed, knuckles white.

"Jesus—" he growls under his breath, glaring at you. “Why the fuck would you say that?"

But it's too late.

The damage is done.

She stumbles backward, tears spilling down her cheeks, choking on a sob so broken it barely sounds human.

Su-bong yanks the covers over your body, muttering furious, useless curses under his breath as he shoves away from the bed — pulling his jeans up, erection angrily straining against the denim.

He catches her in the hallway.

"Babe, wait—"

You hear her voice crack like glass, “don’t call me that. Don't you dare fucking call me that."

A slam of a door.

And then silence.

You give it a beat. Two.

Then you slide out of his bed, bare feet padding across the floor, still naked, sticky, shameless. You find him slumped on the couch, head in his hands, shoulders hunched like he's trying to disappear inside himself.

For a second — just a second — you feel almost sorry for him.

But then the old ache tugs at your ribs — the jealousy, the hunger, the way he always picked her first even if it was just for the sake of appearances — and it washes clean away.

You move without thinking.

Sink to your knees between his legs.

His hands tense where they grip his hair, but he doesn't look up — not even when you rub your palms soothingly along his thighs, slow, careful, patient.

You nudge your head under his hands, tipping your chin up.

His red-rimmed eyes meet yours.

Broken. Defeated. Addicted.

"Want me to make it better?" you murmur, voice dripping with false innocence. You blink up at him, lashes fluttering sweet and slow. “Want me to finish you off, baby?"

He exhales — wrecked, trembling.

You see the exact second he caves. The way his shoulders drop, his mouth slackens, his thighs part just slightly under your touch.

He nods. Small. Miserable.

"Yeah," he rasps, almost inaudible. “Yeah, baby. Please."

You smile — soft, secret — and lean forward, pressing a kiss to the damp denim over his cock.

He shudders.

He's still hard for you.

Even after all that.

Even after her.

And that?

That's the sweetest victory of all.

[rpwprpwprpwprw]

this will sound more like a love letter than a review 💌 (you guys are being warned)

after reading everything (like two seconds ago), the first thing that i thought about was this cool image i saw yesterday on twitter, celebrating world book day. i was honestly mesmerized cause that’s why i love reading so much, that’s why i praise fanfics and authors who put effort on building characters and environments. those tiny details… the body language, the eyes, pinkies touching on subway bars….

i screenshot some parts to talk about it so here we go:

“A reminder that there are always other worlds to explore, other lives to live, if only for a few hundred pages”

YES YES YES YES please. just take me by the hand. yes i’m at the bookstore with her, as a shadow or as ghost following her between shelves, watching people passing by. i’m breathing lightly too cause it’s so nice when things are easy. just like she said. there’s so much beauty on the mundane part of their worlds, the real thing.

also jungkook nerdy talking about photography and slow shutter? it’s so cool to get to know him. i guess we’re both discovering him (nix and me). i cherish this a lot. the subtle ways a person lets you into their life, the little “hey, i really like this thing cause…” cause YES please tell me everything.

this happens to me since forever…having to peel the person little by little, earning their respect, earning your place within the person. And in return, you have someone who also notices you, also peels you back and is also aware of your subtle layers.

"We could head to the next gallery? Or go back to the one with that series you liked —the urban decay stuff."

“The fact that he noticed which photographs caught your interest earlier shouldn't feel significant. It's just basic observation. Nothing special. But it does. Feel significant, that is”

yeah. that’s what i’m talking about.

It feels safer, more grounded… building things that way. It’s not about holding on to the fact that someone notices something about you, but more about someone having the patience to discover you little by little. A little part of both of them that is shared little by little, does that make sense? I'm still figuring out how to verbalize this…

all i know is that i hate to reach the end of the chapter because i’m so absorbed in their worlds that when i finish a chapter it’s like i’m ripped out of the book. i’m a very dramatic girl. i’m aware. i’m a leo.

but READING TRANSFORMS ME 🤸🤸🤸i have a pretty good imagination 💭….

i’ve said too much. read this chapter guys. stay tuned with human nature through book pages. (that’s a pretty good quote…made by me okay bye)

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 20

˗ˏˋ DIY bracelets ˎˊ˗

"You were not expecting to really enjoy the MoMA exhibition, but Jungkook looks so interested and in his element that his energy is contagious. Even with a IUD in your uterus staging mutiny, and him trying to evade your questions throguh a DIY bracelet shop."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 10,4k

content: working hours at B&N, books, jk being goofy as usual, subway touches (what was that?), jk's genuine interest in photography, uterus pain, kids asking questions (lmao), jk being bff w boundaries as usual, soft conversations, avoiding certain topics, and making friendship bracelets (ew gay???) (p.s. i'm literally queer, shush it.)

✧ author's note ✧

*descends from the sky on a sparkly cloud of serotonin and unresolved sexual tension* GREETINGS, MY LITTLE PSYCHOTIC DAFFODILS. *ducks the knife thrown at my head* RUDE. *throws it back, it lands in someone’s thigh, probably Jungkook’s*

Okay okay okay okay. *deep breath.*

Hello, my beloved kikizens. If you’re reading this… I’m most likely abroad, roaming the earth like the girlboss nomad I pretend to be on Instagram, while in reality I’m crying over the outline of chapter 23 in the Notes app and eating overpriced airport pastries. Yes. I wrote this ahead of time. Yes. I am the most responsible irresponsible person you’ve ever met. Time traveling author note from Past!Kiki, sending love and ibuprofen to Future!You. Let’s hope the plane didn’t crash because, if so, Fuck Me Up Jungkook is now your responsibility. Please keep him fed and slightly emotionally constipated, just as I left him.

NOW. LET'S TALK. This chapter. THIS CHAPTER. We are entering the land of slow burn intimacy and micro-shifts in character dynamics that make me froth at the mouth. I need to scream about it. I am screaming about it. Nix at Barnes & Noble? A concept. Her choosing a retail job because she wants to save someone the way books saved her??? Yeah okay I'm totally fine, I'm just on the floor sobbing about it in a public bathroom.

AND JUNGKOOK. THAT BASTARD. Being respectful?? Giving her space while still being present?? Letting her lead and following her cues like a man who understands autonomy and emotional nuance??? Jail. Absolute jail. He’s so annoying and so HOT about it. I love writing him because he’s cocky and feral and dumb, but also deeply perceptive and compassionate when it counts. Like okay yes he's a little insufferable, but also, he's the kind of man who listens when you talk about your reproductive health without flinching and I think that's worth something.

Also. Let’s talk about the bracelets. Phoenix and Rogue. Fire-coded losers who pretend they don’t care while making color-coded matching jewelry??? WHO SAID YOU COULD BE CUTE. WHO SAID.

Anyway. This chapter is the beginning of a shift. A very soft shift. We’re not in love yet. We’re not even close. We are in that horrible, confusing, liminal space where friendship might be possible eventually but everyone’s still too scared and too stupid to say it out loud. They’re not friends yet. But they’re getting there. We’re watching in real time as they learn each other’s pressure points—what to push, when to pull back. It’s very ugh my chest hurts but also my heart is fluttering kind of vibe. Which is my favorite thing to write. Obviously.

Now. To talk about me, because I love attention: I’ve only been posting for a few months and I’m already overrun with WIPs like some kind of literary hoarder. It’s a problem. I start stories, then my ADHD bitchass brain says “new shiny idea???” and next thing I know I’m drowning in three AUs, an enemies-to-lovers high school AU I wrote at 3AM, and a secret smutty one-shot I can’t stop thinking about. It’s a whole ecosystem of chaos. But I do want to write them all. I do. I just also want to nap. And read. And rot.

So yeah. I think about y’all waiting for updates more than you know. I stress about it. I chew on it like emotional gum. My Spirk fic hasn’t updated in two months and it haunts me in my sleep. But I’m trying to accept that writing is better done when it feels good, not when I’m spiraling in guilt. So. If I ever start something and it takes me ages to finish, just know I do want to get there. I just move at the speed of depression and distraction.

AND A GENTLE REMINDER: this is a slow burn. A SLOW slow burn. Not the kind where they kiss in chapter 5 and you pretend it’s slow because they didn’t bang yet. No. I mean they will not start catching actual feelings for a while. There will be distractions. Other people, love interests. Awkwardness. Denial. You will watch them flounder. You will scream at your phone. You will think “surely they must realize it now,” and I will look you in the eyes and say, “no. no they do not.” Because the point is the journey. The point is the becoming. Not the kissing. (Okay fine also the kissing. But later.)

We are 20 chapters in, and I am being so serious when I say we are maybe… 20% into the full story. If that. I want to go all the way. From strangers to roommates to fuckbuddies to friends to best friends to oh my god it was you all along. I want to write every beat. Every change. Every stupid, messy, human moment. And yes. We will suffer. You, me, Nix, Jungkook, Yeji, Taehyung, everyone.

So I'd say sorry, but let's be honest, if you’re here right now—chapter 20, still with me—I know what kind of sick little freak you are. Masochist. You're not fooling anyone.

And I adore you for it. Thank you for choosing violence with me. Thank you for loving these two idiots. Thank you for reading. I mean it. So much.

Okay. Enough rambling. Go read. Go cry. Go scream. Tell your friends. Tattoo “Phoenix x Rogue” on your ass if you feel so inclined.

Mwah.

(Shameless reminder to support me on Ko-fi if you like my unhinged writing mess).

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Books have always been your lifeline in a world that feels like it's trying to drown you.

You've loved them for as long as you can remember, though you can't pinpoint the exact moment they became your refuge. It wasn't a dramatic epiphany or a life-changing event. Just a gradual realization that between the pages of a book, you could breathe easier. 

Kafka speaks to the part of you that feels constantly out of step with the world (though you'd never admit that to Taehyung—his smug "I told you so" would be unbearable). 

Murakami paints surreal landscapes that make your own reality feel a little less suffocating. 

And now Donna Tartt, because you're tired of Jimin's scandalized gasps every time you confess to not having read her yet.

You weren't the stereotypical bookworm growing up. No thick glasses perched on your nose, no disdainful sniffs at the mention of pop culture. You didn't turn your nose up at Harry Styles concerts or roll your eyes at school dances. 

But even as you navigated the treacherous waters of adolescence—first periods and friendship fallouts, the constant drama of simply existing as a teenager—books were always there. 

A constant, even if sometimes pushed to the background.

They became your armor when the weight of expectations threatened to crush you. When disappointment hung heavy in the air, threatening to send you away in a chokehold, you'd retreat into worlds made of paper and ink. 

It was easier to face fictional monsters than the very real ones lurking in parent-teacher conferences and college application deadlines.

Now, standing amidst the shelves of Barnes & Noble, surrounded by the comforting smell of new books and possibility, you can't help but feel a sense of belonging. Like you've come full circle. From the little girl who used to hide under her covers with a flashlight, devouring stories long past bedtime, to the woman who's made words her life's work.

It's not always easy. 

Sometimes the words on the page blur together, your mind too full of real-world worries to lose yourself in fiction. 

But even then, the weight of a book in your hands is grounding. 

A reminder that there are always other worlds to explore, other lives to live, if only for a few hundred pages.

Maybe that's why you're here, arranging displays and recommending titles to strangers. 

Because somewhere out there is another person drowning in expectations, desperate for a lifeline. 

And maybe, just maybe, you can be the one to hand them the right book at the right moment—help them with their very own small act of rebellion against a world that sometimes feels too heavy to bear.

Mark hovers nearby as you arrange a new display of bestsellers, lanky frame, loose shirt and baggy pants. He's the one who picked up your application when you and Yeji came in last week—the one with the kind eyes and the nervous habit of clutching his hands together every five seconds.

Blonde, blue-eyed. You’d dare say he’s not bad-looking. For a man.

"So basically," he explains, voice pitched low like he's sharing state secrets instead of retail procedures, "most days you'll either be on register, floor assistance, or shelving. Today you're just shadowing me on the floor."

Floor assistance, as it turns out, is mostly wandering around looking approachable (but not too approachable) and occasionally directing lost souls to the bathroom or the manga section. You're also expected to straighten displays, check for misplaced books, and maintain what Mark calls "the Barnes & Noble aesthetic."

"Which means?" you ask, adjusting a copy of the latest Sally Rooney that's slightly out of alignment with its siblings.

"You know," he shrugs, hands doing that awkward hovering thing again, "like... cozy but sophisticated. Inviting but not cluttered."

You nod like this makes perfect sense, though privately you think it sounds like the kind of bullshit corporate memo someone got paid way too much to write.

"What about recommendations?" you ask. "Do we have any input on displays or—"

"Oh, totally!" His face brightens. "We each get to curate an employee picks shelf. You can start working on yours next week."

That, at least, sounds promising. 

Already your mind is cataloging possibilities—perhaps a mix of classics and contemporary, maybe something unexpected thrown in. Definitely not the usual suspects everyone claims to have read but hasn't.

And just like that, the morning quickly blurs into afternoon. 

Your tasks are the same all day: shelving, straightening, and following Mark around as he points out the minutiae of bookselling. It's mindless work, but not unpleasant. There's something soothing about putting things in order, about knowing exactly where everything belongs.

By the time your lunch break rolls around, you've settled into a comfortable groove. The break room is empty except for you and your sad turkey sandwich, the ancient TV in the corner playing a rerun of The Office. One where Jim is pulling some elaborate prank on Dwight. You find yourself smiling despite the mediocrity of your lunch.

The afternoon passes in much the same way—quiet, uneventful, almost peaceful. You help an elderly woman find the latest Louise Penny mystery. You alphabetize a section of poetry that looks like it's been hit by a tornado. You dust shelves that probably haven't seen a feather duster since Obama was president.

And then, suddenly, it's 5 PM.

You glance at your phone, mildly surprised that eight hours have passed without a single customer meltdown or retail horror story. No one has asked to speak to your manager. No one has tried to return a clearly read book with coffee stains on page 47. No one has even approached you with one of those vague "I'm looking for a book with a blue cover about a thing that happens" requests.

In fact, you've barely interacted with customers at all. It wasn't your turn on register, and most browsers seemed content to wander without assistance. 

It's been... nice. 

Quiet. 

The kind of job where you can disappear into your own thoughts for stretches at a time.

You could get used to this, you think, clocking out and grabbing your bag from the locker. 

Maybe it won't be the soul-crushing retail experience Yeji warned you about. Maybe you've lucked into the unicorn of part-time jobs—one that pays the bills without completely draining your will to live.

Or maybe it's just the first-day honeymoon period, and next week you'll be dealing with entitled parents who think the children's section is a free daycare.

Either way, as you push through the employee exit into the early evening air, you feel a strange sense of… accomplishment? 

Surely, it's not saving lives or changing the world, but you can’t deny it’s satisfying; a day spent surrounded by books, putting things in order, creating small pockets of calm in a chaotic world.

And now, apparently (because God forbid the universe lets you forget) you have plans. 

With Jungkook, of all people. 

The thought should make you anxious.

It doesn’t.

You check your phone and see his text:

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚊? 𝚊𝚖 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 

You scan the street and spot him leaning against a lamppost, scrolling through his phone, looking unfairly good in a simple black t-shirt and jeans. Your roommate. Your sometimes-hookup. Your... friend?

The word still feels strange, but maybe it's time to try it on for size.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚒'𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚞

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚊𝚜 1𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚙𝚙𝚕

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚘 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚘 𝚒'𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚠𝚒𝚗

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚠𝚘𝚠 𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚊𝚛 𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚝𝚠

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝 𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚞𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚛 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚒'𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚛𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚐 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 🙄

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚌

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛?

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚟

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚑𝚝𝚘

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚒 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚞 𝚋𝚝𝚠 𝚒𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒'𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚡 

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒'𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚗𝚘 𝚞 𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚖𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚞 𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚝𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚢 𝚊𝚏

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚢 

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚑𝚝𝚘

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚐 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚑𝚑𝚑𝚑𝚑

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚒 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚞 𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗 𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒'𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚘𝚔 𝚋𝚢𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚞 𝚒𝚗 𝟹𝟸𝟷

You spot him leaning against the lamppost, scrolling on his phone like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders relaxed, black t-shirt fitting just right—not too tight, not too loose. It’s casual. Effortless. 

And yeah, you’ve seen him in casual before—sweats, pajamas, even that stupid hoodie he refuses to throw out—but this is different. This is casual street Jungkook in the wild, outside the apartment. 

Casual street Jungkook who’s here with you to do something normal and non-sexual and… friendly.

He looks good. But then again, you already knew that. There’s a reason you fuck him despite his infuriating personality. 

Even when he says things that make you want to strangle him with his own belt.

He catches sight of you approaching and grins, that stupid lopsided grin that’s all teeth and confidence. 

“Hey,” he says, voice light like this is just another day.

You don’t respond. Don’t even look up from your phone as your thumb swipes through apps in search of Maps. 

“We have a twenty-minute ride from Union Square to the MoMA,” you say flatly. “The exhibit starts in thirty-five, so let’s go.”

“Sure,” he says easily, pushing off the lamppost with a lazy shrug. “What line?”

“N, Q, R—whichever comes first.” You finally glance up at him as you say it, but only briefly. Just long enough to catch the slight raise of his eyebrows before he nods.

“Okay.”

And then you’re walking side by side toward the subway entrance like this is normal. Like this isn’t the first time you’ve agreed to spend time together without sex as the unspoken endgame.

The stairs down to the subway are crowded—typical for a weekday evening—and you both swipe your cards at the turnstile without a word. There’s a guy pissing in one corner of the station (because of course there is), and Jungkook widens his eyes in a grimace like he’s trying to wipe away the sight of it. You don’t comment, just keep moving toward the platform like nothing happened.

It shouldn’t feel awkward. It’s never been awkward with him before—not even when things got messy or complicated or downright stupid between you two. 

But now? 

Now it feels like there’s this invisible weight hanging between you, pressing down on every step you take together.

Maybe it’s because he brought up that whole “trying to be friends” thing this morning—friends who have expectations, and expectations lead to disappointment, and disappointment leads to losing control.

Or maybe it’s because now that he said it out loud—now that he put friendship on the table—you can’t stop overthinking every little thing about this outing. 

What does he expect from you? Does he want small talk? Does he want silence? Is this supposed to feel casual or meaningful or something else entirely?

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye as you both stop near the edge of the platform. He’s standing close but not too close—hands still in his pockets, gaze fixed on some ad plastered across the opposite wall. He doesn’t look uncomfortable or tense or anything remotely resembling how you feel right now.

Which makes sense because Jungkook never overthinks anything. He just does whatever feels right in the moment and deals with the consequences later (if at all). 

It’s one of the things that drives you crazy about him—and maybe one of the things you secretly envy.

The train isn’t here yet, so now what? Do you say something? Ask him about his day? Pretend this is normal and fine and not at all weird for you?

“So…” Your voice comes out hesitant—too hesitant—and you immediately hate yourself for it. 

Nice going, stupid bitch.

He glances at you but doesn’t say anything right away, waiting for you to finish whatever thought you’re trying (and failing) to articulate.

“What did… what did you do?” You clear your throat awkwardly, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as if that’ll somehow make this less painful for both of you. “Until… y’know… five?”

His lips twitch like he’s fighting back a smirk—like he knows exactly how much effort it took for you to ask such a simple question—and for some reason that makes you want to shove his head against the next train.

“Not much,” he says finally, his tone casual but not dismissive. “Watched some YouTube tutorials. Tried making sourdough again.”

You blink at him. “Sourdough?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, like baking bread is just a totally normal thing for someone like him to do in their free time. “Didn’t come out great though.”

“Oh.” 

You don’t know what else to say to that—to him—so instead you just nod and glance down at your phone again like there’s something urgent demanding your attention.

But then, as if destiny decided (for once) to make things easier for you, the train arrives with its usual screech of brakes and rush of stale air, saving you from having to come up with any more awkward small talk on the platform.

So you step onto the train together—side by side but not touching—and you can’t help but wonder if this whole ‘trying to be friends’ thing is going to be harder than either of you realized.

Inside Jungkook moves instinctively to the metal bar overhead, reaching up to steady himself as the train lurches forward. You follow suit, your fingers wrapping around the same bar just a few inches away from his.

It’s fine. It’s normal. People share subway bars all the time. Nothing weird about it.

Except your hand shifts slightly as the train rounds a corner, and suddenly your pinky brushes against his. Just barely—a fleeting touch—but it’s enough to make you freeze for half a second.

And… 

You don’t look at him. 

You refuse to look at him. 

Because if you do, you’ll see that stupid smirk he always gets when he knows he’s gotten under your skin, and you’re not sure you can handle that right now.

But then his hand shifts too—like, on purpose?—and his pinky brushes yours again. 

Softer this time. 

Lingering.

Your stomach twists in a way that feels equal parts annoying and… something else you don’t want to name. You glance up at him despite yourself, ready to snap something sarcastic or dismissive or whatever it takes to make this moment feel less charged than it suddenly does.

But he’s not smirking. He’s just… looking at you. Calmly. Quietly. Like this is nothing more than two people sharing a subway bar in a crowded train.

And maybe it is nothing. Maybe you’re just overthinking it because that’s what you do—because every little thing with him feels like it carries more weight than it should.

Still, when his fingers shift again—this time curling slightly so the side of his hand presses against yours—you don’t pull away. 

You don’t say anything either, just let your fingers relax against the bar as the train rattles onward.

It’s small. Subtle. Barely even noticeable in the grand scheme of things.

But somehow, in the cramped chaos of the subway car—with strangers pressed against you on all sides—it feels like the quietest moment you’ve had all day.

You don’t look at him again—not directly—but out of the corner of your eye, you catch the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. Not cocky or teasing or anything remotely resembling his usual expressions.

Just soft.

And for some reason, that makes your throat tighten all over again.

You never expected to find Jungkook beautiful.

He stands in front of a massive black and white photograph with his head tilted slightly and dark brown eyes narrowed in concentration.

The lightning inside the space makes everything feel way more thought-provoking than it actually is. All you notice, really, is how it deepens the line of his jaw, the slight furrow between his eyebrows. His lips, and how they move silently, like he's having some private conversation with the image before him.

Stupid, handsome motherfucker. Why does he exist in your space?

You've seen him naked. You've seen him laughing so hard he nearly falls off the couch. You've seen him half-asleep and grumpy at 6 AM.

But you've never seen him like this—completely absorbed, genuinely focused on something that isn't getting laid or annoying the shit out of you.

"The composition is fucking incredible," he says without looking at you, gesturing at the photograph. "See how they've used negative space to draw your eye to the subject? And the depth of field is so deliberate—keeps you just slightly off-balance."

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden technical analysis. Since when does Jungkook know smart words?

"You actually know about photography?" It comes out more surprised than you intended.

He turns to you then, one eyebrow raised. "Film major, Nix. Kind of comes with the territory."

"Yeah, but—" You stop yourself, not sure how to articulate that you assumed his interest in film was mostly about looking cool and impressing girls.

"But what?"

"Nothing," you mutter, moving closer to the photograph. "Just didn't realize you paid attention in class."

He snorts. "I maintain my GPA through pure charm and good looks alone. No actual knowledge required."

You roll your eyes, but there's no real annoyance behind it. "Seriously though, you seem like you actually know what you're talking about. It's... weird."

"Weird that I'm not a complete idiot?" He steps back from the photograph, hands sliding into his pockets. "Gee, thanks."

"That's not what I meant."

He shrugs, already moving toward the next piece—a series of distorted portraits that seem to melt into one another.

"I just like this stuff. Always have."

You follow him, curiosity getting the better of you.

"Since when?"

"Since forever," he says, stopping in front of the portraits. "My mom was into photography. Had this old Pentax she used to carry everywhere. Taught me how to develop film in our bathroom when I was like, eight."

His voice always turns weirdly soft when his mom is involved. It makes you pause.

This is the most he's ever shared about his family, you realize.

You're not sure whether to press further or let it go.

Before you can decide, he continues, "These portraits are using multiple exposure. See how the faces blend together? It's like—when you overlay two negatives, you get this ghost effect. The new digital stuff makes it easier, but there's something about doing it on actual film that hits different."

His enthusiasm is... surprising. And weirdly contagious. You find yourself leaning in closer to see what he's pointing out, actually interested in the technical explanation.

"The photographer probably used a really slow shutter speed too," he adds, gesturing at the blurred edges of the subjects' features. "Makes movement look like this—sort of ethereal, you know?"

You don't know, not really, but you nod anyway.

Because his voice picks up speed when he talks about this, his hands do slightly more animated movements as he explains, and there’s genuine passion coloring his words and it’s…

It's... different. Seeing him care about something so much.

"What?" he asks suddenly, catching you staring at him.

You hadn't realized you were. Heat creeps up your neck, and you look away quickly.

"Nothing."

"Nah, you were looking at me weird."

"Just..." You shrug, aiming for casual. "You're a huge nerd, that's all."

He blinks at you, then barks out a laugh. "Wow. I share my vast knowledge and expertise, and that's what I get?"

"Vast knowledge? Your head barely fits in the room as it is."

"That's it," he declares, turning away dramatically. "I'm not explaining anything else. Figure it out yourself, philistine."

You swat at his arm, fighting a smile. "Oh come on, I was joking. Keep nerding out. It's..." Cute? Interesting? Surprisingly not annoying? "...Educational."

He gives you a suspicious look but seems mollified. "Fine. But only because I'm generous with my brilliance."

You snort, following him to the next piece. "So generous."

And it's strange, this feeling—this easy back-and-forth that doesn't have the usual sharp edges.

For a moment, it almost feels like you could be friends. Real friends, not just roommates who occasionally fuck and mostly argue.

The thought is so unexpected that it—

Pain.

Sharp and sudden, like someone stabbing a hot poker into your lower abdomen. Your breath catches, body instinctively curling in on itself.

Your hand flies to your stomach as another wave hits, this one even more intense than the first.

It's the IUD again—has to be. But this is worse than before. Much worse.

You stop walking, one hand gripping the nearby wall for support as you try to breathe through it.

Just breathe. It'll pass. It has to.

It doesn't.

The third wave nearly brings you to your knees, a cold sweat breaking out across your forehead.

Jungkook makes it several steps before realizing you're no longer beside him. He turns back, eyes falling on your hunched form, and his expression shifts instantly from relaxed to concerned.

"Yo, what's wrong?" He's back at your side in three quick strides, voice pitched low but urgent.

You shake your head, not trusting yourself to speak yet. Just need a minute. Just need to breathe.

"Phoenix?" His hand hovers near your elbow, not quite touching. "Hey, talk to me. What's happening?"

"It's—" Another stab of pain cuts you off, and you bite down hard on your lip to keep from making a sound. "It's nothing. Just—cramps."

His frown deepens, eyes scanning your face.

"Bullshit. You look like you're about to pass out."

"I'm fine," you insist. "Just give me a second."

The lie tastes bitter on your tongue, but the alternative is worse.

Admitting weakness? Letting him see you crumble?

Absolutely fucking not.

Your uterus twists again—sadistic little organ—and you clench your jaw so hard you're surprised your teeth don't crack.

Breathe. Just breathe. You've handled worse.

(Have you, though?)

He's hovering now, that frown cutting deeper between his eyebrows, and you hate it.

Hate how his eyes flick over your face, cataloging symptoms.

Hate how his hand lifts halfway toward you before dropping back to his side, like he's afraid to touch you without permission.

"Ibuprofen," you manage, the word strained but determined. "I just need some ibuprofen."

"Nix, you seriously look like you're about to pass out—"

"Ibuprofen," you cut him off, sharper this time. "Seriously. I'll be okay. Just need. Ibuprofen."

You're not going home. Not happening.

You just got this fucking copper IUD on Wednesday—of course it's being a bitch. Three days of cramping is normal, right? Has to be.

And this is your first real attempt at being normal humans together, plus it's his birthday and Yoongi's expecting you to keep him out until eight. Your goddamn uterus is not ruining this.

A particularly vicious cramp rips through you, and you have to bite down on your lip to keep from making a sound. Jungkook notices, because of course he does. His eyes narrow, jaw working like he's physically biting back whatever argument he wants to make.

Finally, he sighs—loud, frustrated, dramatic in that way only he can be.

"Okay."

The surrender in his voice shouldn't feel like a victory, but it does. Even as another cramp threatens to fold you in half.

"Okay," he repeats, softer. "Let me see if I can get you one. Just—wait here, alright?"

He wraps his fingers around your elbow, not gripping, just guiding, and you let him because walking feels like a monumental task right now. .

Focus. One foot, then the other.

There's a cushioned bench a few feet away. A kid sits at one end, maybe seven or eight, swinging his legs and staring at the floor with the bored expression of someone dragged to a museum against his will.

Jungkook walks you toward it, his hand steady on your arm.

"Hello," he says to the boy, voice gentler than you've ever heard from him. "Sorry, my friend over here is in pain and really needs to sit down."

The kid looks up—first at Jungkook, then at you—eyes widening slightly. He doesn't say anything, just scoots over, fingers drifting to his mouth as he continues to stare.

"Thanks, buddy," Jungkook says, helping you sit.

You sink onto the bench, the relief immediate but not enough. It still feels like someone's playing Operation with your insides, fishing out organs with a pair of rusty pliers.

Jungkook lingers for a second, hesitant.

"You sure you'll be okay if I—"

"Go," you grit out, not trusting yourself to say more.

He gives you one last look—concerned, frustrated, something else you can't name—before turning and striding away with purpose, disappearing around a corner.

And then it's just you, the kid, and the agony twisting through your abdomen.

Great. Fantastic. You can't even make it through one normal human interaction without your body staging a fucking rebellion.

Every time you try to—what? Be a decent person? Spend time with someone who isn't Yeji? The universe laughs in your face.

The kid is still staring at you, blue eyes huge in his small face. You force what you hope is a reassuring smile but suspect looks more like a grimace.

"Your face is becoming white," he says matter-of-factly.

"Thanks," you mutter. "I'm aware."

"Like a ghost," he adds helpfully. "Are you gonna throw up?"

Jesus Christ. This is your life now. Being assessed by a tiny human while your reproductive system wages war against the rest of your organs.

"No," you say, though you're not entirely sure that's true. "Just need some medicine."

"My mom says medicine is for when you're really sick," he informs you, kicking his heels against the bench. "Are you really sick?"

Another twist of pain, and you have to close your eyes for a second.

"Something like that."

"Is that man your boyfriend?"

God, children and their questions. No filter, just an endless stream of curiosity with no regard for social niceties.

You should lie.

Should say yes, it would be simpler than explaining the complicated mess that is you and Jungkook.

"No," you say instead. "Just a... friend."

The word still feels strange. Foreign. Like you're saying it in a language you barely speak.

"Oh." The kid looks disappointed. "He looks like a superhero."

Despite everything—the pain, the frustration, the growing concern that the gyno didn't warn you about this level of copper IUD hell—you almost laugh.

Because Jungkook? Oh he would fucking love that. His ego is already the size of Manhattan; the last thing he needs is child-based validation of his supposed heroism.

"More like a supervillain," you mutter.

The boy's eyes widen further. "Really?"

"No, not really. Just a regular person who's..." You pause, not sure how to finish that sentence.

Annoying? Complicated? Stupidly attractive even when he's being insufferable?

"...helping me out."

You press your palm harder against your abdomen, hoping the pressure will somehow counteract the pain. But truthfully, it doesn't. If anything, it's getting worse, spreading from your core outward until your lower back aches and your thighs feel weak.

This can't be normal.

Well, maybe it is.

You've never had an IUD before—what the hell do you know?

Clearly should've read beyond the first page of that pamphlet they gave you, but you were too busy trying not to think about the actual insertion part.

"I have lots of friends," the kid announces proudly. "But none of them are girls."

He wrinkles his nose like this is the most disgusting concept imaginable.

Despite everything—the pain, the frustration, the knowledge that this day is slowly derailing—you almost smile.

"Girls aren't so bad."

He shrugs, unconvinced. "They like stupid stuff."

"So do boys."

"Nuh-uh. Boys like cool things. Like dinosaurs."

"Girls can like dinosaurs too."

He considers this, head tilted.

"I guess. My sister doesn't though. She just likes her stupid boyfriend." The contempt in his voice is impressive for someone whose feet don't touch the floor.

You're saved from further insights into his sister's love life by Jungkook's return. He's walking toward you with a small paper cup in one hand and a bottle of water in the other, his expression still caught between concern and that strange new softness.

"Got you covered," he says, dropping into a crouch in front of you. "They had a first aid station. Ibuprofen and water."

You take the pills and water with hands that shake slightly, downing them quickly.

"Thanks."

He sits beside you on the bench, close but not touching—some sort of distance that feels both considerate and maddening.

You realize now Jungkook is not one to push boundaries. Not when they’re firm, not when you’ve made them clear. Like when you told him this thing between you two stayed between you two and he just accepted it.

"Should take about twenty minutes to kick in," he says, voice low and even.

You nod, focusing on your breathing.

In and out. Slow and steady. Just get through this. You've handled worse.

(Have you, though? Because right now it feels like your insides are trying to claw their way out.)

"We can go home," he offers, so subsided it's almost comical coming from him. "If you want."

"No." The word comes out sharper than intended, and you soften it with, "No, I'm fine. Just need a minute."

He doesn't argue, just nods like he expected this answer.

Of course he did.

He knows you're stubborn, knows you hate showing weakness, knows you'll suffer through just about anything to avoid admitting you can't handle it.

The silence stretches between you, but it's not uncomfortable. Not exactly. It's... waiting. Patient. And you note how his knee bounces slightly, the only sign of restless energy in his otherwise still form.

"Thanks," you say again, quieter this time.

He glances at you, surprise flitting across his features.

"For what?"

"For not..." You gesture vaguely, searching for the right words. "Making it a thing."

His lips twitch, almost a smile but not quite.

"It's your body, Nix. Your call."

Something warm and unexpected unfurls in your chest at that—at the simple acknowledgment of your autonomy, your right to decide how to handle your own pain.

He could push. Could insist on taking you home, on calling a doctor, on making decisions for you "for your own good."

It's what most people would do, have always done, their concern overriding your independence.

But he doesn't.

Just sits beside you, a quiet presence in the middle of this mess, respecting your boundaries even as his knee keeps bouncing with what you suspect is concern he's trying not to voice.

It's... nice. Weird, but nice.

The kid on the bench has gone quiet, watching both of you with curious eyes. His mother appears suddenly, a harried-looking woman with a museum map clutched in one hand.

"Aiden, there you are! I told you not to wander off." She gives you and Jungkook an apologetic smile. "Sorry if he bothered you."

"He's fine," Jungkook says, easy and casual. "Just keeping us company."

Aiden slides off the bench, taking his mother's outstretched hand.

“They're friends," he informs her solemnly. "But not boyfriend and girlfriend."

His mother looks mortified. "Aiden!"

"It's okay," you manage, fighting back a laugh that would probably hurt like hell. "He's just observant."

Aiden's mother drags him away, his sneakers squeaking against the polished floor as he waves one last time.

And then it's just the two of you, sitting in silence on a bench in the middle of the MoMA like you belong there. Like this is normal.

All the while, the pain persists, still twisting through your abdomen.

Jungkook hums quietly—something soft and melodic that takes you a moment to recognize.

John Mayer. Of course it's fucking John Mayer.

Your gaze drifts to the floor, tracing the patterns in the polished concrete as another thought forms, heavy and insistent.

Should you tell him? About the IUD?

He's worried. You can see it in his eyes, the way his fingers tap restlessly against his thigh, the occasional glance he throws your way when he thinks you're not looking.

But he's not pushing. Not demanding explanations or insisting on taking you home.

Because that's not what he does.

He suggests, offers, hints... but never forces. Never demands.

Just accepts whatever you're willing to give, even when it's clear he wants more.

This morning he talked about being friends. About sharing things. About being more than just roommates who occasionally fuck and mostly argue.

Maybe this could be a first step. A tiny gesture toward whatever it is he's proposing.

But also...

Also what if you tell him and he smirks? Makes some stupid joke about how you wanted him raw that badly?

You know how quickly he covers discomfort with humor, how reliably he turns to sexual innuendo when a moment gets too real or too heavy.

And this moment is nothing if not heavy.

But overthinking it is getting you nowhere, and the silence is stretching too long, becoming its own kind of weight.

So you take a breath, summon what little courage the pain hasn't eaten away, and speak.

"I got an IUD." The words come out soft, hushed, almost hoping he won't hear them. "Wednesday."

His head tilts toward you, and you brace yourself. Wait for the snort, the smirk, the inevitable sexual commentary that will make you regret this tiny moment of trust.

But it never comes.

He just sighs softly, a small shrug lifting his shoulders.

"That's good."

Your eyes drift to him, confusion replacing the defensive tension you were building, because what does he mean?

He meets your gaze, then looks back at the photograph on the wall.

“I mean, it's good you're taking care of yourself. Your sexual health." Another shrug, this one smaller. "That's good, Nix."

Something in your chest loosens—a knot you didn't realize you were holding tight.

It's... not what you expected. Not from him.

Not from anyone, really.

"Yeah, well." You shift on the bench, wincing as the movement sends a dull throb through your lower abdomen. "Not feeling particularly great about it at the moment."

His lips quirk, not quite a smile.

"Pain that bad?"

"Like someone's playing Operation with my insides, but they're losing."

A soft laugh escapes him. "Fucking brutal."

"Pretty much."

Another stretch of silence, but this one feels different. Lighter, somehow. The pain is still there, but it's muted now, less all-consuming.

"Copper or hormonal?" he asks, voice casual like he's asking about the weather, not your reproductive choices.

You blink at him, genuinely surprised.

"You know the difference?"

"I do actually pay attention in health class, Phoenix. Plus, you know. Been with people who've had them."

"Copper," you answer, focusing on the question instead of whatever that feeling was. "I had a feeling hormones would mess with me."

He nods like this makes perfect sense. "Those are the ones that hurt more at first, right? Take longer to settle?"

Again, that surprise. "Yeah. How do you know that?"

"My ex." He shifts slightly on the bench, angling more toward you without actually moving closer. "She had one. Copper. Cramped like hell the first few months."

"Months?" The word comes out more alarmed than you intended.

His eyes widen slightly. "Not like, continuously. Just periodically. Mostly when she got her period. It got better though. Less intense over time."

"Great," you mutter. "Something to look forward to."

"Sorry." He winces. "Not helping, am I?"

"Not really, no."

"Do you..." He hesitates, eyes scanning your face like he's checking for warning signs. "Do you regret getting it?"

The question catches you off guard. Not because it's invasive—it's actually pretty reasonable given the context—but because of how genuinely he asks it. Like he really wants to know what you think. Not to judge, just to understand.

"No," you say after a moment. "No, I don't regret it. I wanted it. Chose it. This—This is just the shitty part. It'll pass."

"And this is something you want? Long-term?"

You nod, a little less certain than before but still sure enough.

"Yeah. I like not having to worry about it. Worth some pain now."

"Make sense. That's... smart." He tilts his head, that thoughtful look you rarely see crossing his features. "Planning ahead."

"One of us has to," you say without thinking.

His eyebrows shoot up. "Ouch. Direct hit, Nix."

"Sorry, I didn't mean—"

"Nah, it's fair." He cuts you off with a small laugh. "I'm not exactly Mr. Responsibility."

The self-awareness surprises you.

"You're not that bad."

"I’m not?”

“Okay I take it back.”

He chuckles.

The pain stabs again, sharper this time, and you can't quite hide the wince. His expression shifts immediately.

"Need to move around? Sometimes that helps."

You consider it. Sitting here isn't doing much except letting you focus on how much it hurts.

“Maybe."

"Think the ibuprofen's kicking in at all?"

His eyes scan your face, and you wonder what he sees there. Probably not the composed, controlled person you're trying to project.

"A little. It's not as bad as before."

"That's something." He stands, offering a hand but not insisting when you ignore it and push yourself up on your own. "We could head to the next gallery? Or go back to the one with that series you liked—the urban decay stuff."

The fact that he noticed which photographs caught your interest earlier shouldn't feel significant. It's just basic observation. Nothing special.

But it does. Feel significant, that is.

"Let's try the next one," you say, taking a tentative step. The pain doesn't immediately floor you, which is an improvement. "Slowly, though."

"No rush." He falls into step beside you, hands shoved in his pockets in that casual way he has, like he's completely at ease no matter where he is.

You nod, trying not to think about the surprise dinner. Trying even harder not to think about the stupid Mayer vinyl you bought him and the fact that all his film bros will be there.

"Thanks," you say after a few steps. "For not being weird about the IUD thing."

He glances at you, something almost like surprise flickering across his features before settling into a small smile.

“Nothing to be weird about. It's your body, Nix. Your choice."

"Yeah, but." You struggle to articulate what you mean. "Most guys would make some gross joke or get all squirmy talking about it."

"I'm not most guys."

"Okay pick me boy."

“And here we go again.” He snorts.

“Hey, you’re the one who said that generic ass shit.”

"Uh-uh, so," he says, deliberately casual as you round the corner into the next gallery space. "How do you feel about Mayer?"

You groan, shoving him lightly.

"I knew it. I fucking knew you were humming that shit on purpose."

He laughs, the sound warm and surprisingly genuine.

"Gravity is a classic! You can hate on the man all you want, but you can't deny the music."

"Watch me."

And just like that, you're arguing about John Mayer in the middle of the MoMA, the pain still there but somehow less important than this stupid debate about whether "Your Body Is A Wonderland" is the worst song ever written or just mostly terrible.

It's strange. Unexpected. Almost... nice

Maybe this friend thing isn't completely impossible after all.

New York smells different right before sunset.

The city air mellows somehow. Still dirty, still chaotic, but softer now. Like the golden hour light filtering through the buildings is actually changing the molecular structure of everything it touches.

Or maybe that's just the ibuprofen finally kicking in and making life worth living again. Hard to say.

Your phone pings as you walk beside Jungkook, the busy street full of that weird liminal energy between work day and evening. People rushing home, people headed out, everyone caught in that transitional space of not-quite-done and not-quite-started.

It's Yoongi, his message simple and direct:

𝐘𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬🎧: 𝙷𝚘𝚠’𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐? 𝚂𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔?

You glance at Jungkook, who's completely absorbed in his own phone, thumbs tapping absently against the screen.

Focused. Unaware.

Perfect.

You send back a quick thumbs up emoji, ignoring the follow-up questions Yoongi's already typing. The less you engage, the less likely you are to give something away.

6:30 PM.

Just over an hour until you need to steer Jungkook to the ramen place for his surprise. An hour to fill without either dying from secret uterine rebellion or accidentally revealing the plan.

You slide your phone back into your pocket and lean slightly to see what's so captivating on Jungkook's screen.

Not that you care. Just curious. Normal curious, not weird curious.

Instagram?

He's editing a photo—one of the abstract architectural shots he took at the museum when you weren't paying attention.

It's actually... pretty good.

The photo highlights the sharp angles of the stairwell, light cutting through the space in a way that transforms something mundane into something almost ethereal.

"You have a photography Instagram?"

He startles, immediately angling the phone away from you with the guilty reflex of someone caught looking at porn in public.

"Yeah, but it's nothing important. Just, you know. Silly stuff."

That's... suspicious. Jungkook doesn't do self-deprecation, not about things he's clearly good at.

He's the first person to brag about his skills, his looks, his whatever. The fact that he's downplaying this is weird.

"What silly stuff?" You raise an eyebrow, trying to peer around his shoulder at the now-hidden screen. "Show me."

"No, seriously, it's no big deal." He actually puts his phone in his pocket, which is basically equivalent to locking it in a vault given how attached he usually is to the thing. "Just a hobby."

"Since when are you shy about anything?" You nudge his arm with your elbow, oddly intrigued by this sudden reluctance. "Come on, I’ll show you mine, you show me yours."

"Not everything has to be an innuendo, Phoenix."

"That wasn't—" You stop yourself, because okay, that did sound suggestive. "Come on, I let you drag me through an entire photography exhibition. The least you could do is let me see your supposed 'silly' photography Instagram."

He's not looking at you now, eyes fixed somewhere to the left, scanning the street like he's searching for an escape route.

Then his face changes, relief washing over his features as he spots something across the way.

"Hey, wanna check that out?"

He points toward a small storefront wedged between a vintage clothing shop and a bubble tea place. The sign reads 'String Theory: DIY Jewelry & Crafts' in quirky hand-painted letters.

"A bracelet shop?" You follow his gaze, genuinely confused by the abrupt change of subject. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, why not?" He's already moving toward the crosswalk, clearly eager to leave the Instagram conversation behind. "Could be fun."

"Since when do you care about DIY bracelets?"

He shrugs, the movement a little too casual to be genuine. "Since right now. Come on, Nix. Live a little."

You narrow your eyes, suspicious of this sudden interest in arts and crafts, but follow him anyway.

 Because in all honesty… The distraction isn't unwelcome—you've still got an hour to kill, and arguing about his secret Instagram account wasn't exactly on your agenda for the day.

Plus, whatever he's hiding must be good if he's willing to make friendship bracelets to avoid talking about it.

You approach the shop, and it is small but bright, walls lined with colorful spools of thread, beads in every imaginable shape and size, and an assortment of charms that range from the typical (hearts, stars, moons) to the bizarre (tiny plastic dinosaurs, miniature food items, and what appears to be a collection of famous dictators' faces).

A twenty-something with purple hair and more piercings than you can count greets you from behind the counter.

"Welcome to String Theory! Let me know if you need help finding anything."

Jungkook nods in acknowledgement, already wandering toward a display of leather cords and metal clasps. You follow, still puzzled by this whole detour.

"So this is what we're doing now? Making friendship bracelets?" You pick up a spool of neon green thread, turning it over in your fingers. "Is this your way of making our friendship official? Should we be getting cards and flowers too?"

He snorts, examining a tray of silver charms with unexpected interest.

"If anyone's getting flowers in this scenario, it's me. I'm high maintenance."

"Yeah, no shit."

He glances at you, that familiar half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“We don't have to stay if you don't want to. Just thought it might be..." He trails off, shrugging again in that way he does when he's trying to seem indifferent.

"What? Entertaining? A good way to avoid showing me your Instagram?"

"Both." He picks up a small wolf charm, turning it over in his fingers. "But mostly I thought it might be fun. You know, do something with our hands that isn't..."

He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

"And there's the innuendo. I was wondering how long you could go without making it weird."

"About thirty seconds, apparently." He sets the charm down, moving on to a collection of colored stones. "So, you want to make something or not?"

You consider it.

On one hand, making bracelets seems like a throwback to summer camp or middle school sleepovers—not exactly your usual Saturday night activity.

On the other hand, you've got time to kill, and it's oddly... refreshing to see Jungkook interested in something so innocuous.

Plus, you're still curious about that Instagram account, and maybe if you play along with this diversion, he'll eventually let his guard down enough to show you.

"Fine." You grab a small plastic basket from a stack near the entrance. "But I'm not making anything with your name on it, so don't get any ideas."

"Wouldn't dream of it." His smile widens into something more genuine. "Though I bet you'd rock a ‘Kuko 4-Ever' bracelet."

"I'd rather die, thanks."

You move along the wall, selecting threads in deep blues and purples because they're pretty, not because they remind you of the way Jungkook's hair sometimes looks in certain light. That would be stupid.

"So," you say casually, examining a tray of small metallic beads, "are you going to tell me about this secret Instagram account or what?"

He sighs, the sound more resigned than annoyed. "It's not secret. It's just... separate."

"Separate from what?"

"From me. From Jungkook. It's just a creative outlet, okay? Nothing special."

"But good enough that you don't want to show me."

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and there's something unexpectedly vulnerable in his expression.

"It's not that I don't want to show you. It's just... people get weird about it."

"Weird how?"

"They either think it's pretentious or they make too big a deal out of it." He moves to another display, this one filled with various charms. "It's easier to just keep it separate."

You follow him, curiosity piqued even further.

 Jungkook, who walks around the apartment half-naked without a second thought, who leaves his dirty laundry in the most inconvenient places possible, who has absolutely no qualms about sharing the explicit details of his sex life—this same Jungkook is suddenly shy about his photography?

"I won't make it weird," you offer, surprising yourself with the sincerity in your voice. "Promise."

He looks skeptical. "You make everything weird, Nix. It's your special talent."

"Fuck off." You snatch a small charm from the tray without really looking at it—something circular with delicate metalwork. "I can appreciate art without being weird about it."

"It's not really art. Just photos."

"Of what?"

He hesitates, fingers tracing the edge of a tray.

 "Mostly urban stuff. Architecture. Shadows. Light. Some nature." A shrug. "Just things I find interesting."

"That actually sounds cool."

He glances at you like he's checking for signs of mockery, then seems to decide you're being genuine.

"Yeah, well. Maybe I'll show you. Someday."

It's not a yes, but it's not a hard no either.

You'll take it.

"Cool." You move to the register, where the purple-haired employee is arranging a display of finished samples. "So how do we actually do this bracelet thing? I haven't made one since I was like, twelve."

"You think I have?" Jungkook laughs, setting his basket beside yours on the counter. "I'm flying blind here too."

The employee—Ash, according to their name tag—smiles.

“That's what I'm here for. What kind of bracelet are you thinking? We've got traditional friendship styles, leather wraps, beaded, charm..."

"Whatever's easiest," you say at the same time Jungkook says, "The coolest one."

Ash's smile widens. "How about a leather cord with beads? Simple but looks great."

"Sounds good," Jungkook agrees, emptying his basket on the counter. "Can we work on them here?"

"Absolutely. Let me set you up at the table in the back."

As you follow Ash toward a small workshop area in the rear of the store, your phone buzzes again. You check it discreetly.

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢. 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚢 𝟾. 𝚑𝚘𝚋𝚒’𝚜  𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜.

You glance at the time.

6:45 PM.

Just over an hour left of... this. This strange, not entirely unpleasant detour into something that feels almost like friendship.

You slip your phone away before Jungkook can see, ignoring the small voice in the back of your mind that wonders what other secrets he might be keeping, and why you suddenly care so much about finding them out.

Ash sets you up at a small wooden table pressed right against the front window.

"So, what are we making?" Jungkook asks, already rummaging through his selection of beads like a kid sorting Halloween candy.

You don't answer immediately, an idea taking shape as you run your fingers over the threads and beads scattered across the table. Your eyes catch on the small containers of alphabet beads near the edge of the table, then drift to the vibrant collection of orange, red, and yellow beads in various shapes and finishes.

Perfect.

You pull the alphabet containers closer, fishing out specific letters: P, H, O, E, N, I, X. Setting them in a neat line in front of you, you reach for more: R, O, G, U, E.

Jungkook watches, brows drawing closer together as he pieces together what you're doing.

When recognition hits, he laughs—short and surprised.

"Okay, seriously? You're making Phoenix and Rogue bracelets now?"

You shrug, reaching for the orange, red, and yellow beads, arranging them between the letters.

"What? Hell yeah. We already branded each other, might as well make it something to remember each other by."

"You think I want to walk around with a bracelet that says 'Rogue' on my wrist?"

He looks genuinely baffled, like you've suggested he tattoo your face on his ass.

"I don't care what you do with it." You roll your eyes, already threading through the first bead. "I'm making mine."

He snorts, but instead of arguing further, he actually helps you sort through the letter beads, pushing the ones you need closer. Then, to your surprise, he reaches for the same fiery-colored beads you've been using.

"What?" he says, catching your look. "If we're doing this ridiculous twin bracelet thing, they might as well match."

"I thought you'd go for all black or something."

He shrugs, picking out a particularly vibrant red bead.

"Rogues can be fiery too. Besides," he adds with a half-smile, "these are my colors."

"Your colors?"

"Yeah." He lays out a pattern—red, orange, yellow, just like yours. "Warm tones. Bold. Kind of obnoxious if you use too many at once."

"Sounds like someone I know," you mutter, and he chuckles.

Your fingers work almost automatically, threading beads onto the leather cord. You're not being symbolic on purpose. It just looks nice.

When you glance up, Jungkook is staring at his own pile of beads, expression oddly distant.

He's rolling a small sun charm between his fingers, back and forth, like he's trying to make a decision.

"What?" you ask, because his silence feels weird.

He shrugs, the motion feeling slightly too forced on him.

"Nothing. Just..." He sets the charm down, picks up a red bead instead. "I actually had one of these. A bracelet. When I was a kid."

This feels like something—a small piece of himself he's offering without being pushed.

So you keep your tone light when you ask.

"Yeah? What kind?"

"Leather, like this." He picks up one of the cords, wrapping it around his wrist to measure before cutting it. "With these bright beads my mom found at some market. Reds and oranges, kind of like these. I wore it until it literally fell apart."

"How old were you?"

"I don't know. Ten? Eleven?" He shrugs again. "Young enough that it was still cool, not lame."

"And now?"

His eyes flick up to yours, then away. "Now what?"

"Is it lame now?"

His expression wavers, tightening around the mouth.

"Nah, it's whatever." He starts threading red and orange beads onto his cord, precise and quick. "Just not something guys usually wear, you know? Unless they're trying to be edgy or something."

"Since when do you care about what's 'usually' done?"

He laughs, but it sounds different than his normal laugh—a little hollow, a little forced.

"Fair point."

You work in silence for a few minutes, with some accompanying sounds; like the soft click of beads and the occasional muttered curse when you drop one.

A yellow bead rolls across the table toward Jungkook, who catches it easily.

"Thanks," you mutter as he hands it back.

"No problem." He pauses, looking at the half-finished bracelet in his hands. "I lied, by the way."

"About what?"

"My mom didn't find the beads." He keeps his eyes on his work, not looking at you. "I did. She just helped me put it together because I was too small to handle the clasps."

Something about the way he says it makes your chest tighten—like this isn't just a random childhood memory but something… soft.

Something he doesn't share often.

"That's sweet," you say, matching his tone. "You don't talk about your mom much."

He tenses, and you inwardly curse yourself.

"Not much to say."

That's a lie if you've ever heard one, but you don't push. Whatever this is—this small opening, it feels fragile. Like pressing too hard would make him shut down completely.

"Mine would've hated this place," you offer instead. "Too messy. Too handmade. Not enough structure."

His lips twitch, almost a smile.

"Mine would've loved it. She was always into this crafty shit. Had a whole room full of art supplies back when..." He trails off, shakes his head. "Anyway. How's yours coming?"

The abrupt subject change is obvious, but you let it slide.

"Almost done. Just need the clasp."

You hold up your creation for inspection. It's nothing fancy—just a simple leather cord with 'PHOENIX' spelled out in silver letter beads, filled with the fiery colored ones you picked.

But it looks kind of cool, in a childish, summer-camp sort of way.

Jungkook leans forward to look, his expression warming.

"Not bad, Nix. Very on-brand."

"Let me see yours."

He hesitates, then holds out his own bracelet. It's just like yours to match, with 'ROGUE' spelled out in metal letter beads. But he’s added a small sun charm that catches the light when he moves.

"Shit," you say, genuinely impressed. "Yours is way better than mine."

He shrugs, but you can tell he's pleased by the compliment.

“I have an eye for design. Part of my many talents."

"And so humble, too."

"Humility is overrated." He sets his bracelet down, reaching for the clasps Ash left for you. "Here, let me help you finish yours."

His fingers brush against yours as he takes your bracelet, the touch brief but somehow startling.

You watch as he attaches the clasp with surprising dexterity, tattooed fingers moving deftly, and it’s kind of attractive, really.

How good he is with his hands when he wants to be.

"There," he says, holding it out to you. "All set."

“Wait,” you announce, searching through the charms box.

You swear you had seen a rain charm earlier, and you had briefly snickered at it. But now that he’s wearing the sun charm it feels oddly… like yours needs to have the rain one, just to contrary him.

So you pick it up, add it to your bracelet.

And then you smile at him, show him.

He snorts.

You turn it in your hand. It feels solid, real. A physical manifestation of the nickname he gave you—the one that used to annoy you but now feels almost like a strange term of endearment.

Ash then approaches your table, a small fabric-lined box in her hands.

"All finished? Those look great!"

You both nod, holding up your creations for inspection.

"Phoenix and Rogue," she reads, smiling. "And they match! The fire colors work perfectly for both."

"Yeah," Jungkook says, and you're surprised by the hint of pride in his voice. "Kind of the point."

"Perfect timing, then," Ash says, setting the box on the table. "We're actually starting a new community art project. Would you be interested in contributing your bracelets?"

You frown, confused.

"Contributing how?"

"We're collecting handmade bracelets from customers to create a wall installation," she explains, gesturing toward a corner of the shop where several bracelets are already displayed on a corkboard. "It's part of our five-year anniversary celebration. Everyone who contributes gets a polaroid of their bracelet and a discount on their next visit."

"Oh." You look down at your bracelet, feeling an unexpected reluctance to part with it.

Which is stupid, because what were you going to do with it anyway?

Wear it?

That would be weird.

"You don't have to," Ash adds quickly, picking up on your hesitation. "It's totally optional."

"No, it's cool," Jungkook says, already placing his bracelet in the box. "I like the idea."

You glance at him, surprised again.

"You do?"

"Yeah. Creating something that stays here, becomes part of the place." He shrugs. "Better than it ending up in a drawer somewhere, right?"

There's something about the way he says it—like he's not just talking about the bracelet anymore—that makes you pause.

But then he's looking at you expectantly, waiting for your decision, and you place your bracelet in the box beside his, the matching colors side by side.

"For the record," you say as Ash takes a polaroid of your creations side by side, "I would've worn mine."

Jungkook's smile is slow and surprisingly gentle.

“Yeah?"

"Maybe not in public," you clarify quickly. "But yeah."

"Me too," he admits quietly, and it feels like he's sharing another secret—small but somehow significant. "Don't tell anyone, though. Ruins my image."

"What image? The one where you pretend to be cool but actually know an alarming amount about John Mayer's discography?"

"Exactly that one." He grins, the most genuine expression you've seen from him all day. "It's carefully curated."

Ash returns with your polaroid and receipt, both bracelets now part of the store's growing collection.

"Come back anytime to see them. They'll be here as long as we are."

"Thanks," Jungkook says, taking the polaroid and tucking it carefully into his wallet.

As you step back out onto the sidewalk, the city bathed in the deepening gold of late afternoon, you feel strangely light despite the lingering pain in your abdomen.

You reach for your phone to check the time, only to find your pocket empty.

"Shit," you mutter, patting your other pockets frantically. "My phone."

Jungkook stops mid-stretch.

"You lose it?"

"Must have left it in the shop." You're already turning back toward the door. "Wait here, I'll be quick."

"Want me to—"

"No, it's fine," you say, perhaps too quickly. "Just give me a second."

The bell chimes as you push back into the store, Ash looking up from behind the counter, eyebrows raised in question.

"Forgot my phone," you explain, gesturing vaguely toward the table where you were sitting.

"No problem. Take your time."

You move quickly to the table, eyes already scanning for your missing device.

Three minutes later, you're back outside, phone safely in hand. Jungkook's leaning against a lamppost, scrolling through something on his own phone.

"Got it?" he asks without looking up.

"Yeah."

You slip it into your pocket without checking the time.

"Ready?"

He pushes off the lamppost.

"Lead the way."

You start walking toward the subway entrance, mentally calculating the time. It must be around 7:20 now. Perfect timing to get to the restaurant by 8.

"Hungry?" you ask, as casually as you can manage.

Jungkook stretches again, arms reaching skyward in a motion that draws your eyes despite yourself.

"Starving. What did you have in mind?"

"I know a place," you say, already angling toward the stairs. "Trust me."

And the weird thing is, from the way he falls into step beside you without question, it seems like he actually does.

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