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rosierin · 1 month ago

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clearing up the air | suna, atsumu

synopsis; (y/n) and suna have a chat about the time they almost hooked up. meanwhile, unbeknownst to them, atsumu is spiralling over it and decides to confront (y/n).

a/n; this fic is told from two povs: (y/n)'s and atsumu's

a part two of just a kiss (it wasn't)

this fic is part of the off-season quartet™ series! for more, click here :)

Honestly? (y/n) couldn't quite get over it.

Not that it was a massive deal. Telling the twins about her kiss with Suna wasn't worth all the fuss. It happened years ago, tucked away in a quiet part of her memory. Not forgotten, but simply... left to be. To exist and occasionally reminisce when nostalgia came to pay her mind a visit.

She hadn't given them the full story. Just enough to shock, to start a conversation full of playful teasing and knowing glances. She didn't go into detail, nor that she needed to—the lack-of left the implications hanging heavily in the air. And she liked it that way, liked that it still somewhat remained Suna and hers little secret.

Speaking of... she had barely spoken to the latter all evening. After their revelation, the four of them had gone back to watching another movie. An action this time, as opposed to the flowery romance that had prompted the conversation in the first place. Eventually, Osamu had started yawning, which set off a sleepy chain reaction. One yawn, then another—until they were all moving in slow, drowsy sync. As if someone had cast a spell over the apartment.

They’d scattered shortly after. Osamu and Suna had disappeared into the shared bathroom, while she’d ended up in a domestic tug-of-war with Atsumu over her ensuite. He’d insisted the other one was too cramped, which—in his defence—was true. But (y/n) knew better. He just liked lingering. Especially if it meant squeezing a few extra minutes into his evening to pester her.

After that, everyone returned to their room. (Y/n) lit a candle in hers, tucked herself under the bedsheets and reached over to her bedside table to grab her current book. She read in peace for an hour until she found herself craving something warm to drink.

She glanced over to her side. Her clock read 1:38am.

But it was never too late for a tea, was it?

With that, she slipped on her slippers and padded down the stairs.

She kept her footfalls silent, careful not to wake. But also because anything louder felt like it might break the spell that had settled over the apartment. Things tended to feel softer at this hour, and (y/n) found a unique kind of comfort simply living in it.

Outside, the occasional whoosh of a car passed by, headlights slicing through the blinds. Somewhere in the walls, electricity hummed faintly, almost like a lullaby.

She expected mostly darkness, maybe the glow of the fridge light, but paused when she noticed the kitchen was already lit.

At this time, it could only be one person.

“Boo,” she said, more in greeting than to startle.

Suna, of course, didn't flinch. It was impossible to sneak up on Suna.

As expected, he was slouching over the kitchen table, scrolling through TikTok. His hoodie swallowed his frame despite the broadness of his shoulders. His hood was pulled up, allowing only a few stray stands of chestnut hair to peek under the fabric. He looked like a real night-dweller.

"Sup," he greeted. Then glanced up when she brushed a hand over his shoulder in passing. "Finished reading?"

She gave him a soft hum in confirmation as she made her way to the cupboard, rummaging through the rows of tea boxes. There were far too many. Most opened and half-used, but that was part of the fun. She lifted one teabag to her nose, then another, weighing them like little mood testers.

“Fancied a bev,” she said. "You want one?"

She heard the creak of the chair behind her, followed by a strained grunt as Suna stretched his arms.

"Go on, then," he sighed as he resettled back into his seat. "What're you making?"

She hummed, still considering. “Dunno yet. Probably a tea, but I haven't made my mind up. Not feeling floral but not feeling minty either."

He let out a quiet huff that could qualify as a chuckle.

She was rambling, as she often did. But one thing about Suna is that he never made her little musings feel silly. If anything, he embraced them—encouraged them like he enjoyed it.

“High stakes," he joked.

“Always,” she said solemnly.

After more deliberation than strictly necessary, she plucked a green tea for herself and another blend for him—something mellow she knew he wouldn’t complain about. She dropped them into their mugs and popped the kettle on.

“I've decided on green,” she declared.

Suna mock-gasped. “Green tea at night is crazy work.”

She snorted, leaning back against the counter as the water began to boil. He wasn't wrong, but eh—a bit of caffeine after midnight never hurt anybody. They were Uni students after all.

“I know,” she sighed. “What a lunatic."

Suna played along. “Can’t take this girl anywhere.”

She spluttered a laugh, about to retort something equally as millennial when the kettle clicked off behind her. She spun around and poured the water slowly, letting the tea steep, watching the colours swirl like lazy clouds.

She handed Suna his mug and slid into the chair across from him, cradling her mug between both palms, letting the warmth seep into her fingers.

“How’s your assignment coming along?" She asked with a careful sip. "You said it was due soon, right? What's it on?”

Suna set his phone down and slumped his cheek into his palm. “Mhmm. I’m doing it on dark triad traits in romantic relationships.”

(Y/n) blinked owlishly. “Dark what?”

Suna went on with the diligence and calm of a true psych student. “It's stuff like narcissism, machiavellianism, psychopathy. I’m writing about how those traits show up in relationships. You know—manipulation, emotional detachment... that kind of thing.”

She let out a long breath. “Jesus.”

“It’s not all serial killer-y,” he added, stretching his legs under the table. “Basically, it's a study about people who don’t realize they’re being emotionally coercive. Micro-manipulations. Strategic affection. Withholding. Playing victim.”

Her spine tingled.

Suna looked eerily relaxed in contrast. “You’d be surprised how common it is.”

She stared at him, eyes slightly wide. “You psych students are kinda scary.”

He huffed a laugh. “We get that a lot."

“Do you ever notice yourself doing any of those things?" (Y/n) blurted. "Y’know… emotionally manipulating people and stuff?”

He gave her a dry look over the rim of his mug. “I don't think so. But if I did, I wouldn't tell you, would I? Kinda defeats the purpose of manipulation."

"Or—or you're just saying that and you're actually manipulating me right now as we speak." She tapped the side of her skull. "Reverse psychology."

Suna's indifference was well-practiced, mug halfway to his lips. “Maybe I am." Sip. "You’d never know.”

(Y/n) stared at him, waiting for a twitch of a smirk, a glint of mischief. He said things like that often—cryptic, close to the bone, half-truths dressed as jokes. And most people never knew what to make of them. She supposed that's what made them click.

He liked being unreadable. It gave him control over what parts of himself people were allowed to see. A wall of dry humour, deflection, and unnerving calm.

But Suna wasn’t cruel. He never had been.

He might’ve kept people at arm’s length, but he wasn’t cold. And certainly not manipulative—not in the way he was teasing about. Not in the way that hurt people.

“You can’t fool me,” she said lightly.

She could've sworn a muscle feathered in his jaw. A flicker of hesitation, like maybe he was going to say something. Or like he was thinking something he shouldn’t. It passed so quickly she must've imagined it.

Tilting her head, she rested her cheek in her palm, her gaze turning fond. “When you graduate, are you gonna psychoanalyse me too?”

He hummed. “I might already have.”

Her brow quirked at that. “For real?"

“Mmhm.” A pause. Then, like he was biting back a grin—“Want me to diagnose your situationship with Atsumu, or is that too much of a sensitive topic?”

She gave a scandalised gasp and swatted the air between them, grinning through her embarrassment. “That's mean!"

He chuckled. "Sorry, sorry."

She huffed and let the moment settle. Then, after a beat, her voice came out almost wistful.

“Dr. Suna, huh? Imagine that. Can't believe little aloof Rintarou's gonna become a doctor.”

He snorted. “That's if I graduate."

“You will," she said with certainty. “But what about volleyball? You're still gonna prioritise that, right?"

Suna nodded, tapping a thumb against his mug. “Yeah. Psych’s just the backup plan.”

“After this assignment, I’ve got a paper on emotional suppression to finish up. A whole lotta jargon, basically. Cognitive avoidance strategies and whatever."

A whole lotta jargon, indeed.

“I’m going to politely nod and pretend I understood everything you just said," she mused. Then she did just that—gave a gentle, thoughtful nod.

Suna huffed through his nose. “It's not as complicated as it sounds."

"Then you must just be using big words to show off."

"You got me," he shrugged. He glanced down at his mug, gave it a small swirl, then looked back up at her. The corner of his mouth tugged upward, just a little.

“And what about you, Miss Author?” He jutted his chin in her direction. “Written any novels yet?”

She rolled her eyes with a sigh. “That’s not how my course works. We don’t actually write books or anything.”

“I’m surprised,” he said, eyes gleaming. “With all that smut you read.”

She gasped.

How dare he.

He was talking about that damn romantasy book she was reading a few days ago.

“It’s not even that smutty,” she defended, partly already resigned.

She would never win this argument.

“It’s actually really plot-heavy!" She continued anyway. "Talks about war, trauma, sacrifice—serious stuff! Not that you guys ever believe me.”

Indeed, the teasing had been merciless ever since Atsumu caught her reading it in the kitchen, then dramatically read a passage aloud to further stretch her humiliation. The twins wouldn't stop bringing it up. Suna was quieter about his judgment, but he still gave her that look every time she pulled it out in public.

Thankfully, tonight, he showed mercy.

He masked a yawn into his shoulder as he said: “If you say so.”

“I do say so,” she muttered, glaring.

He snickered.

Then, veering the conversation back to their previous topic: "Anyway. Writing's going fine. Kind of. I spent, like, three hours rewriting a single paragraph today.”

Suna's eyebrows rose. She shook her head before he could ask.

“Don’t. The plot’s there, I think. But I keep second-guessing everything I write. I'm not quite happy with it yet."

"You want me to proof read it?"

She took that into consideration. Psychology involved a lot of writing, and she'd read Suna's essays before. He was as articulate as any psych major. Always pertinent and acute.

Maybe she should have him proof read.

“Maybe,” she said thoughtfully. “Lemme finish up a first draft, then I'll send it to you—if that's okay.” A smile tugged at her lips. “Thanks, Dr. Suna.”

He raised his mug in lazy salute. “Anytime, Miss Author.”

(Y/n) huffed a laugh through her nose, bringing her tea to her lips. It had started to cool, the steam and conversation fading in tandem.

She let herself settle into the quiet. Let her gaze drift the way one does when the night is late and the body begins to slow. Her eyes moved without much direction, skimming the edge of the table, the tiny scuff on the cupboard door, the soft dip in Suna’s hoodie where it folded at his chest.

Then, without meaning to, her eyes fell to his hands.

He was still holding his mug, fingers curled loosely around the ceramic. His rings caught the faint kitchen light—the slim silver band on his index, the slightly thicker one wrapped around his middle. He never took them off, not even when they got ready for bed earlier.

He hadn’t planned on sleeping soon then, she realised. Not if the rings were still on.

Something about the sight made her stomach dip.

Déjà vu.

That had been the catalyst, hadn't it? The way she’d stared at his hands that night. On New Year’s. The way her cheeks had burned at the thought of them on her skin. The way he’d noticed and showed her, exactly what it felt like.

Heat bloomed in her face before she could stop it.

She looked away sharply, and took a long sip of tea she definitely didn’t need. Her brain scrambled for something to say, anything to think about. But when she peeked over the rim of her mug, she found Suna already looking at her.

“This feels familiar,” he teased.

(Y/n) froze, then cleared her throat, dragging her eyes toward the window like she hadn’t heard him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

His voice sounded all too knowing. “Uh-huh. You don’t?”

“Nope. Not a clue,” she said, doe-eyed and innocent as she took a long, obnoxious slurp of her drink. “Must be confusing me with someone else.”

Suna mirrored her without hesitation, elbows on the table, mug in hand, lips curving as he sipped. “Nah. I don’t think so.” He leaned back just slightly. “I distinctly remember.”

One word stood out from his sentence. “Distinctly, hmm?”

“Hmm?" he echoed playfully. “What? Did you think I’d forget?”

“I mean…” she hesitated, trailing a finger along the rim of her mug. “Maybe not forget. But I didn’t think you’d distinctly remember."

Suna gave a little shrug. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have a good time.”

Her lips immediately twitched upward. “Oh?” But Suna leaned forward just enough to burst her bubble.

“So did you if I remember correctly.”

That earned him a withering look.

Somehow, she had a feeling he'd led her right into that one. Now she was remembering it all far too vividly—the way his fingers had felt, his lips on hers, the way she’d gasped his name and dug her nails into his skin.

He grinned at her embarrassment with that impish, self-satisfied look he wore so well, and tilted his head like he was watching something delightful unfold.

“Still gets to you after all these years?” he cooed. “That’s adorable.”

She groaned and waved him off. Any attempts at schooling him were whisked away by the flustered grin that had settled on her face.

"Yeah, well. We can’t all be as nonchalant as you.”

“No.” He said coolly. “It’d be boring if you were.”

"You like that I’m ‘chalant’?”

“Uh-huh. Means I don’t need to try so hard since you'll do all the yapping for me.” His words weren't unkind, but she scoffed at him anyway.

"So basically you like me because it’s convenient?”

That earned a flicker of something softer in his eyes. He shook his head slowly, like she’d missed the point. “No. I just like hearing you talk.”

She didn't even try to hide the warm, cheesy smile blooming on her face. Compliments from Suna always hit harder than they should.

"That's sweet."

He let out a quiet, almost wry huff—like her affection had landed a little clumsily. For a second, she thought he might roll his eyes or say something to undercut it, but was pleasantly surprised when he simply smiled into his mug instead.

(Y/n) let out a quiet sigh, pondering. “Can’t believe the twins know now.”

He set his mug down with a clink. “You brought it up.”

“I know, I know.” She waved a hand as if batting away her own impulsive decision.

“What made you tell 'em anyway?” The look he gave her was more curious than accusatory.

She paused. Considered it.

“I honestly don’t know,” she said with a laugh. “Just wanted to see their reaction, I guess.”

“You mean Atsumu’s reaction.”

She shot him a look, narrowing her eyes into a playful glare, lips twisting into a mock sneer. He smirked, utterly unrepentant, one brow raised like he’d been waiting for her to admit it.

Okay, so maybe she did want to bait Atsumu.

Besides, she'd kept this secret hidden for years. It was bound to come out eventually. She just happened to describe the memory with just enough detail to keep him reeling.

Petty, yes. A little sadistic? Also yes. But he was a grown man. He'd get over it. It didn't seem to bother Suna, either.

“Do you mind that they know?”

He shrugged. “Nah.” Then paused, chuckling to himself—a sound easy and fond. She figured he was probably remembering the conversation again. “Can’t believe you had the balls to tell ’em. Did you see Atsumu’s face?”

(Y/n) snorted, instantly picturing it—the mix of confusion and barely-contained emotion twisting across his features. Like he didn’t know what exactly he should be feeling.

“Yeah,” she said through a giggle. “He looked pretty… perplexed.”

Suna leaned back slightly in his chair with an air of mischief. “You think he would’ve handled it better if it had been Osamu?”

Her eyes went wide. “Absolutely not,” she said, shaking her head. “He would’ve lost his goddamn mind.”

She thought that would’ve made him laugh. And for a moment, he looked tempted to. But his gaze drifted—unfocused. Gone just the tiniest bit faraway.

She wondered if it was for the same reason as her. If he found himself replaying the memory from time to time.

What did he make of it?

She had never mustered up the courage to ask him.

She found herself watching the way his thumb swept over his mug again, absent and rhythmic.

That night had been quiet, too.

Mostly.

She shifted, glancing down at her tea, at the way her fingers curled around it. “Hey…” she said softly.

Suna looked up.

“Do you…” She hesitated. Then blinked through it, smiled a little to herself. “Do you still think about that night? Sometimes?”

Her tone suggested that she meant it in a positive light. That if he thought about it, it wasn't in regret, but out of reminiscence.

She dipped her gaze.

She felt a bit presumptuous for asking. A bit awkward for bringing it up after so many years. But it had just slipped out—soft and curious and maybe a little self-conscious. Because sometimes she wondered if it had mattered only to her. If, unlike her, he’d moved on the second it ended.

When she lifted her eyes again, her doubts had already began to fade.

“Yeah,” he said, looking a little amused. “I do."

(Y/n) flushed. It was her own fault for asking. But just because she expected an answer didn’t mean she was ready for how it landed.

So he thought about it too...

Her heart gave a traitorous flutter.

“Sometimes,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

And then, curiously—he looked away.

Suna, who had always been big on eye contact. Who could hold a stare without a flinch. He wasn't shy, surely. But (y/n) wondered if it perhaps something close...

The thought made her feel giddy in a way she wasn’t used to. Like maybe she hadn’t been the only one feeling a little exposed after all.

To say a weight had been lifted off her chest felt silly, but that's how she felt. Kind of like when something's stuck in your shoe, and you ignore it for ages because stopping to fix it seems like too much effort. Until you finally do, and realise just how uncomfortable it was the whole time.

"Me too," she murmured. Then, echoing his words from earlier: "Sometimes."

Funny how a few words could do that—clear the air. How years of something unspoken could soften with a single, quiet admission.

Easy silence settled over them. Occasionally filled in with light chatter—nothing important.

Eventually, Suna let out a yawn, muffled into the back of his hand. “Alright,” he said, pushing his chair back with a soft scrape. “I’m off.”

(Y/n) nodded, draining the dregs of her tea. “Okay.”

He stood slowly, stretching his arms overhead, and for some reason, she rose too. She stepped toward him without thinking. Not because the moment called for it. But simply because she felt like it.

Her arms slipped around him in a gentle hug.

Suna didn’t hesitate. He wrapped one arm around her waist, and pressed a lingering kiss to the top of her head. She warmed at the feeling of his lips on the crown of her head, her eyes slipping shut like she could fall asleep there. He smelled nice—like warmth and stillness all at once.

She felt Suna shift slightly, one hand adjusting at her back. For a moment, she thought he would pull away. But instead, it felt like he was angling his head.

Curious, she copied him.

Standing in the doorway, faintly backlit by the light spilling out of the kitchen, was Atsumu.

Her expression lit up instantly. “Oh, hey ’Tsum.”

He looked a little surprised. Not tense. Just tired, maybe. A little rumpled from sleep, as though he'd been tossing and turning in his sheets. She couldn’t quite read his expression.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” she asked, still half-tucked into Suna’s hoodie.

“Too hot upstairs,” he replied, voice easy, but his smile was a little strained.

The way he stood there, lingering in the doorway like the kitchen was suddenly too full, made her self-conscious. She thought of stepping back from the hug, hands still hovering at Suna’s waist—but he beat her to it.

He let out a small yawn and rolled his shoulders. “I’m gonna sleep.”

She nodded, offering a small smile. “Night night, Rin.”

He hardly spared her a glance as he moved past her, bidding her a quiet goodnight.

She watched as he retreated from the kitchen, and for a second, she could've sworn she saw him cast Atsumu a look. Not dirty—too brief for that. But pointed enough in its subtly that it made her tense.

(Y/n) refrained from rolling her eyes, already having a pretty good idea of what was really bothering Atsumu tonight. His silence had nothing to do with the heat.

She braced herself for the inevitable conversation.

Atsumu’s a simple guy. Or at least he used to be.

He liked winning. Liked things that made sense. Set, spike, score. Say what you mean, mean what you say. Eat when you're hungry, sleep when you're tired, move on when shit doesn’t go your way.

But lately—lately, his brain wouldn’t shut up. He’d lie in bed thinking about things that didn’t matter. Things that shouldn’t matter.

It was funny because before meeting (y/n), or more specifically, before moving in with (y/n), he never overthought. He saw things for what they were. Didn't overcomplicated things that weren't worth his time. And things were rarely worth his time.

(Y/n) wasn't one of those things.

And tonight was one of those nights where sleep felt impossible.

He kept thinking about that damn conversation. Kept replaying the way (y/n) and Suna looked at each other like they were having a mind-to-mind conversation Atsumu wasn't privy to.

He hated it.

Hated that he was even thinking about it.

Hated that he cared.

Feelings were dumb. Complicated. Slippery little bastards that refused to stay where they were supposed to. And no matter how many times he told himself it was none of his business, the thought still looped like a broken record.

Atsumu lay in bed, one arm slung over his forehead, staring at the ceiling with eyes much too wide for the hour. His window was cracked open, letting in a breeze that did jack shit to cool the restless heat under his skin.

The sheets were twisted around his legs, clinging to his bare chest. His pillow felt lumpy. And honestly? He felt overstimulated. The sound of traffic whirled in the distance, and from the hallway came the softest rustle. Probably Suna heading to the kitchen. Or maybe it was (y/n), grabbing water before bed.

The thought made his jaw tighten.

There it was again—his heart and brain teaming up to make him spiral. Why couldn't he stop thinking about that stupid conversation from earlier tonight? It wasn't even that deep. And yet... here he was.

He could still picture it perfectly—Suna in his usual spot in the armchair. 'Samu on one end of the couch, Atsumu on the other. (Y/n) sat snugly between them, eyes fixed on the corny rom-com playing on the TV, trying not to smile as she told them about that New Year’s Eve.

Like it was no big deal.

Like she hadn’t just said something that knocked the wind out of him.

“I've kissed Rin before," she'd said.

"She's leaving out the best part," Suna added.

Prick.

Well. Not really. Atsumu couldn't blame him for it.

"We didn't get that far."

What did that even mean?

They didn’t have actually sex—sure. Fine. Whatever. He got that. He wasn't stupid. And yeah—so what they almost had sex. No big deal. He could live with that. He could accept that.

…Sort of.

But almost left a lot of room.

Almost was intimate.

Almost was hands under clothes and mouths on each other's neck.

Almost meant something happened.

And it's not that he wanted to know exactly what.

But why?

Why hadn't they gone all the way?

And more importantly—would she do it again?

All questions he knew he shouldn't ask.

They were private, and certainly none of his business. But the urge to confront her was overwhelming.

He’d said nothing at the time. Donned a mask of indifference that he knew wasn't fooling anyone.

Not that he was trying to fool anyone.

He just genuinely didn't know what the fuck to say to that.

Congratulations? Or condolences—since they didn't go through with it.

He didn't want to seem eager at the time by bombarding them with questions—but maybe he should have.

Because now he was alone, left with this thoughts?

It was eating at him.

Because if anyone knew how close (y/n) and Suna were, it was him.

He spent all of high school with them, and now they lived together.

He knew the way they talked. Moved. Read each other like damn books. The way they could sit in silence and still have full conversations with a single look. The private little jokes. The comfort. The history.

Like sun and moon. Earth and wind. Hot and cold.

Never one without the other.

Always there for each other.

Despite what (y/n) said—the way she'd tried to play it off as teenage recklessness and curiosity—Atsumu knew better. That night they almost hooked up wasn’t some random accident.

It was inevitable.

Question was—was it really just a fling? Or were feelings involved?

And if there were... Did they still fester?

Suddenly, all her little interactions with Suna felt like red flags waving in his face.

Atsumu turned over with a groan, burying his face into the pillow.

He tried not to picture it. He really fucking did. But his brain didn’t know how to simply let things go.

It painted it in detail.

Her on Suna’s bed. Flushed. Lips kiss-swollen. That sleepy, vulnerable look she always got when her guard was down.

Her fingers in Suna’s hair. Her breath catching. Her thighs parting. Her voice whispering—

No.

Fuck.

He sat up and ran a hand through his hair, chest rising too fast.

It shouldn’t bother him.

He told himself that a hundred times.

(Y/n) wasn’t his girlfriend. They weren’t dating. Hell—half the time they were just barely toeing the line between friends and whatever the hell it was they were now.

But it still burned.

What did Suna make of that night?

Suna, who kept his cool no matter what. Who probably knew exactly what Atsumu was thinking and never said a word.

What did it all mean to him?

To make him feel even more insane, nobody seemed fazed at all.

They'd finished the movie and started another one like nothing had been said. Like it was barely even a lore drop in the first place. Just some harmless bit of trivia from her past.

Past, Atsumu told himself. It had happened years ago.

It hadn't fazed his brother.

Hadn’t fazed Suna—though with him it was always hard to tell.

And if it fazed (y/n), she did a damn good job hiding it.

She didn’t bring it up again. Didn’t elaborate. Just breezed through the evening with that soft, effortless calm she always had. Like it meant nothing. Like it hadn’t stayed buried under Atsumu’s skin like a splinter—sharp and raw and impossible to ignore.

He hated that he wanted to ask about it. Hated that his pride wouldn't let him.

Until now. Where his brain was loud and his impulses louder.

He'd heard someone go downstairs earlier. With a bit of luck, it was (y/n). And if tonight was the right time, she'd still be down there— blissfully unaware of question burning hot on his tongue.

With a decisive inhale, Atsumu tossed the covers off himself and grabbed a t-shirt before padding downstairs through the dark. Enough fucking around. He turned the corner and—

There.

From the base of the stairs he could already see the light pouring from the kitchen. Somebody was in there. Hopefully (y/n). He strode across the living room with a unreasonable tightness in his chest and paused.

She was there—which was great, he supposed.

Only she wasn't alone.

And was currently hugging her best friend.

Suna noticed him first.

"Didn't think you'd still be up."

Lie. Suna was a night owl. What Atsumu had meant to say was I didn't expect you to be in the kitchen (with her), but he couldn't say that without sounding like a bitter motherfucker.

Suna hummed something non committal as (y/n) spun around, finally noticing his presence.

"Oh, hey 'Tsum." The genuine fondness in her voice made it impossible for him not to smile back. "Couldn't sleep either?"

"Nah. Too hot upstairs."

She pulled away from the hug at last, but all Atsumu could focus on was the way her hands were still loosely hanging off his waist. Probably a subconscious thing, but still. The urge to yank either of them back to a more comfortable distance was too tempting.

Not to mention how Suna just... let her.

After knowing them for so long, Atsumu had started to notice these kinds of things. The way they gravitated toward each other. The casual touches. How (y/n) always seemed to initiate them: quick hugs, a hand on his arm, her head on his shoulder—but Suna never pushed her away.

Part of Atsumu wondered if all best friends were like this. Maybe it was normal. Maybe he was just overreacting. Or maybe it only bothered him because (y/n) was a girl. And Suna wasn’t.

Probably. He couldn’t imagine getting pissy over (y/n) being touchy with another girl. That wouldn’t mean anything.

Then again... the man she was hugging wasn't just anyone.

It was Suna. The same Suna who had her moaning his name that one night on New Year's Eve and—

"I'm gonna sleep," Suna said with a yawn. (Y/n) nodded and quietly bid him goodnight, her tone far more relaxed than Atsumu's as he too, muttered a quick 'g'night'.

When Suna stepped back from the hug, Atsumu could’ve sworn he saw his hand brush against hers. Maybe it was nothing. Could've been a trick of the light. Maybe he was seeing things again—wanting to see things.

His chest constricted. He swallowed. Felt stupid all over again.

Suna’s eyes met his briefly on the way out. He probably didn't mean anything by it, but Atsumu couldn't help but feel like they'd just had a silent conversation of their own. A glance that said he knew. Whether that was something to be concerned about, he didn't let on.

But Atsumu said nothing. Just stood there as Suna slinked past him without a word, suddenly unsure of where to put all the heat curling under his skin.

And then it was just the two of them.

(Y/n) leaned against the kitchen table, arms crossed loosely, hip cocked just slightly to the side.

Atsumu walked over to the fridge. Pulled open the door.

He didn’t even want anything—wasn’t thirsty, wasn’t hungry—but he couldn’t just stand there. He felt pathetic enough already. His shoulders and jaw tense from his brief interaction with Suna. He needed a distraction. For now, a water bottle would do. Maybe it would help cool his head.

“You okay?”

He could feel her eyes on his back. “Yeah.”

He took a swig. Let the coolness run down his throat. The chill of the water didn’t cool the prickle crawling up his spine.

She was still looking at him. He could tell without even turning.

If only his poker face was as good as Suna’s.

He shut the fridge with his hip and said, “Why’re ya starin’ at me, sweetheart?” The words came out smooth. His best impression of unfazed. He even added a lazy half-grin as he finally turned to face her.

Her lack of reaction was jarring.

No quips, no smile, not even an eyeroll.

Instead, she looked at him with that strange sort of gentleness she reserved for when she knew something hurt. A look so paradoxical in its softness that cut through him like a blade.

“Is it about earlier?”

Lie. Lie. Fake it till you make it.

“What do you mean?”

“Atsumu.” His name—just his name—landed like a full stop. No room to wriggle. No space to run. No excuses.

She had that tone again. The one that made people listen. The one that turned heads in rooms even when she wasn’t trying.

“I saw the way you looked at Rin on the way out,” she added. He hoped his face didn't betray how much her noticing rattled him. “It’s bothering you, isn’t it?”

His mouth opened, but no words came. Now what?

It was ironic. He’d come down here to talk to her. Only he expected to broach the subject in his own way. He was supposed to lead the dance. But now she’d cut right to the chase and he suddenly felt stripped bare. Cornered.

Thing is, she wasn’t even trying to trap him. She wasn’t that type of person. She just saw through him, like she always did. A habit so nasty and blessed at the same time it made him feel like glass. Transparent. Easily shaped under the right kind of heat. But just as easily shattered if she ever dared to press too hard.

He looked away, jaw ticking. Twisted the cap back onto the bottle just to keep his hands moving. “Botherin’s a strong word,” he said finally. “S’more like… curious.”

If she caught the piss-poor attempt at his indifference, she didn't make it obvious. Didn’t call him out on the dodge. Didn’t tease. Didn’t scoff. Just waited—patient as a saint. “Curious about what, exactly?”

Her voice wasn’t unkind. Just open. Like she was actually willing to have this conversation.

He scratched his jaw, hesitating with the words caught somewhere in his throat. He couldn't keep this up. The longer he drew this out, the more awkward it'd become.

Ask her, said a small part of his brain. Just make it sound casual.

“That night with Suna," he gritted. “What exactly happened?”

(Y/n) blinked, not from surprise.

“Oh.”

Oh, indeed.

Why on God's green earth did he phrase it like that?!

'What exactly happened', sounded like he wanted details.

Like he wanted her to describe the night.

A grating feeling clawed his chest—shame, probably—but (y/n) went on before he could dwell on it.

"Well, it's like I said. We kissed and we got a little carried away and...yeah. That's it."

He thought about how to proceed. Maybe he could still make this work.

“Right, but…” he bit back his frustration. Words were never his forte. In this moment, he hated himself for it. “When ya say 'carried away' was it because—"

She cut him off before he could finish.

“Tsumu.”

Heat crept up his neck.

"What? I just mean—"

(Y/n) looked like she was about to laugh.

"Why are you so curious?" She asked. "Don't tell me that's what's been keeping you up tonight."

Her smile was like kindling to the heat already rising in his chest—crawling up his neck, his ears.

He should've just stayed in bed.

"No, no..."

(Y/n) giggled.

Oh, who was he kidding?

"Fine. So what, it might have been on my mind."

She crossed her arms, smiling coyly. Her eyebrow rose expectantly.

He quickly clarified. "But not for the reason yer thinkin'! It's not like I wanna know exactly what happened that night... I mean—I've thought about it. But it's none of my business, and I ain't some kinda creep—"

"Wait, wait, wait—pause, Tsumu." His rambling was cut short. A small blessing, he realised. Because he truly had no idea where his speech would've gone had she let him continue.

"Since I know you secretly wanna know, but are too embarrassed to ask me—I'll tell you what happened that night."

A brief pause. Then: "I won't tell you exactly what we did, but I can tell you what we didn't do, if that helps."

...

Huh.

Well—that's not really what he came down here to ask.

It ran deeper than just hearing the details of their almost-hook-up. But he'd be lying if he said he wasn't curious about it. And since she was offering...

He crossed his arms as he leaned against the counter. (Y/n) mirrored him across the room, her back against the opposite surface, shifting a little as if she was getting ready to tell a story.

"We didn't have sex," she started firmly.

"Uh-huh".

"He didn't go down on me."

Nod.

"I didn't go down on him."

Another nod—this time, biting back a smirk.

He let the words sink in… until his brows drew together.

"Wait, so what did he actually do?"

This time, (y/n) looked embarrassed.

Atsumu cocked a brow, waiting.

She dropped her gaze to his hands.

Seconds passed.

His fingers twitched as it hit him.

"Is that all??"

A blush swept across her face, making Atsumu's grow amused in response.

God—how cute was she, looking flustered over something as plain as a little finger action?

Her expression grew indignant as his grin broadened.

"What do you mean, 'is that all'?! It was a big deal to me, okay!"

He couldn’t help himself. “Was it yer first time?”

The question seemed to have caught her off guard.

"So what if it was?" She grumbled, her lips jutting into the most adorable pout. And Lord help him—it took an unhealthy amount of self-restraint not to cross the room and kiss her dumb.

"So how come ya stopped? Sunarin not meet yer standards?"

"Sunarin met more than my standards."

The frown on her face bugged him more than it should have.

Of course she was going to defend him. They were childhood best friends. Like night and day, his brain echoed.

The fact that she’d almost given her first time to him was a sour reminder of their closeness. Not to mention, an opening for him to actually get the answers he looked for.

"Did'ja not want it to happen?"

He half expected her to snap at him. To shut it down the conversation right then and there.

But she didn’t.

She just tilted her head slightly, brows drawing together in thought. Even hummed a little, as if replaying the memory.

“...Yes,” she said slowly. “But also, no.”

Atsumu stared.

That's not exactly the answer he was waiting for. Hell—he didn't even know what answer he was waiting for. But it sure as hell wasn't that.

Vague. She was being far too vague.

(Y/n) sighed, as if reading his thoughts.

“It’s complicated, Tsumu. I did want it. We’d known each other for years, and I trusted him. But then—” she paused, her voice dipping softer—“I dunno. Maybe I just wasn't ready."

The silence that followed said there was more to that story. More weight than she was letting on.

He watched as she drifted over to the sink, two empty mugs in hand.

“I felt bad for Rin though. At least I did back then.”

She began rinsing out the mugs. Atsumu frowned, not quite following. “He didn't get much out of it. If it weren’t for me, he’d have gone through with it.”

She turned away just in time to miss the involuntary clench in his jaw.

Atsumu exhaled slowly as something hot and bitter flared low in his gut. Not rage. But something definitely petty.

Of course Suna would’ve gone through with it.

He was a guy. They were alone. And (y/n)’s skin would’ve been warm beneath his hands, her voice a breathy hush in the dark—

He cut the thought off with a sharp breath through his nose. Tried to master it. Shove it down.

He couldn’t be mad at Suna.

They were eighteen. Teenagers.

And if Atsumu'd had a childhood best friend like her—someone pretty and kind who laughed at all his jokes—he probably would’ve done the same.

And it wasn’t like Suna forced anything, either. He stopped when she did. Respected the line. He’d done everything right.

Still, that flicker stayed.

He was in Hyogo at the time. With his parents. With 'Samu.

Not with a cute childhood sweetheart.

Not with (y/n).

But what if the circumstances had been different?

He allowed himself to wonder—just for a second—what might’ve happened if they’d switched places. If it had been him beside her on New Year’s Eve. If she’d have let him explore her like that. Or if the only reason she ever let it happen was because it was Suna.

He stomped the thought down.

No.

It wasn’t his memory.

And it wasn't fair to assume. Wasn't fair to get so riled up about something so important to her. He'd said so much already. Probably crossed a boundary or two that would most definitely eat at him later.

But (y/n) was kind enough to talk about it anyway. Because she knew it was bothering him. Because (y/n) was sweet and treated him with so much damn care he didn't know what to do with it all.

Pathetic, his brain hissed.

He was still lost in his own head when (y/n) let out a giggle. The sound rousing him back to the present, as soft and lovely as a wind chime stirred by a summer breeze.

“Atsumuu,” she sang. "You're zoning out."

His eyes snapped to her.

She was drying her hands, watching him with a half-smile—amused and fond. "You okay, Tsum?"

"Uh-huh. Yeah. Just thinkin'."

“Still about me and Rin?” Her tone turned gently reproachful. “That’s a bit…”

Weird, she was probably about to say.

If only she knew the images that had been clawing through his brain all night.

A pang of guilt shot through him.

"Sorry."

Sorry for acting weird. Sorry for prying. Sorry for making you uncomfortable. Sorry for being lame.

She waved him off, as if shooing away his thoughts.

“You’re alright. I get it. You just learned some juicy gossip and wanted the details." She flashed him a grin. "I won’t shame you for it.”

He clenched his jaw.

That wasn't it. That wasn't even why he came here.

He came here to talk about feelings. Not gossip like he was one of her girl friends.

And yet... despite that, he felt something in his chest unclench at her words. Like he could breathe again. Like he could act normal and not beat himself up as much as he wanted to.

He returned her smile with a lopsided one of his own. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

(Y/n) turned toward the dish rack, stretching for a plate. “Might as well finish the washing up while I’m here.”

Atsumu watched as she rose onto her toes, brows drawn in mild frustration as she tried to slide the plate onto the top shelf.

Reaching around her with ease, he grabbed the plate and slid it into the cupboard. His chest brushed lightly against her back, lips curving into a smirk.

She gave him a look over her shoulder. “Show-off.”

“S'just genetics."

She rolled her eyes and turned back to the drying rack for another dish, and he stayed there, leaned lazily against the counter beside her. Close enough to feel the warmth of her arm every time she moved.

He let the moment settle. Let it feel… easy.

He sucked in a breath. Now would be the idea time.

He spoke before he could talk himself out of it.

“If Suna made a move on ya now..." He started, voice carefully neutral. "Would ya do it again?"

A few seconds went by. Though for Atsumu, they might as well have been hours.

He hated this. The silence between words. The pause. The short instant in which the urge to take everything back was devastating.

(Y/n) let out a spluttered laugh like she couldn’t believe what he’d just said.

“No way! Are you mad? We’re just friends!” she said with a grin. “Plus, I doubt Rin would ever even consider it. Don't be silly."

She laughed again, like the idea was absurd. Her amusement flickered through the air like sunlight.

Had he been a fool for worrying, after all?

“Was just askin’," he shrugged. "And ya can't be sure. Men are unpredictable."

“True. But I know Rin."

“Bet ya thought that too, until he kissed ya."

He felt a flicker of satisfaction as she bristled at his words. There was no denying that.

"That's not the point," she chided, bumping him with her elbow. “I mean, it’s Rin. He’s practically like a…” She trailed off.

Atsumu caught the pause. Felt it like a twitch behind his ribs.

“…brother,” she finished.

Ah.

That explained the pause.

Atsumu raised his brows, already smiling.

“Hate to break it to ya, sweetheart,” he drawled, “but siblings don’t usually…”

He lifted a hand to make a slow curling motion with his fingers.

Her eyes widened as she caught the gesture.

"Stop that!" She gasped, smacking his hand away. A blush bloomed across her cheeks.

He grinned, triumphant.

“Just sayin’.”

“Well, obviously,” she huffed, trying to appear serious. “But you know what I mean. We don’t see each other like that.”

She turned back to the dishes with a final shake of her head, a flustered smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

He was tempted to leave it at that. His main concern had been snuffed out—(y/n) and Suna were ancient history.

But a lingering curiosity remained.

"So... back then—it was all just for fun? No feelings involved?"

He could've sworn her movements slowed for a moment, her hands halting mid-wipe on a plate. The act felt a lot like he'd just stepped on a landmine, or perhaps like he'd just placed one down.

Meanwhile, (y/n) appeared to be thinking how to navigate around it.

"Something like that."

Something about the way she said it made his stomach twist.

She sounded... bittersweet.

Atsumu figured there must be a reason why she was dodging the question. And for someone as vocal about her feelings as (y/n), it must be something significant. Something perhaps too raw to tell.

Suddenly, everything began falling into place.

She was the one who’d stopped it that night.

She was the one who’d said it didn’t feel right.

Perhaps now he understood why.

It wasn’t just nerves. Or timing. Or being eighteen and reckless.

It was because she’d felt more than she was given. Because while one of them had been acting on love, the other had just been acting on desire.

She’d been in love with Suna.

And Suna hadn’t loved her back.

The thought sat heavy in his chest. Not because he blamed either of them—but because it explained so much. Why she was so sure nothing would ever happen again. Why she said they were just friends now and really, truly meant it.

Atsumu didn’t know what to say. Part of him wanted to reach out. Say something comforting. But what could he say that wouldn’t sound shallow? What could he offer that wouldn’t feel like salt?

For a while, he simply let the silence be. Let it stretch for a while as she quietly worked through her chores.

Then, softly, he pushed off the counter.

“…Wanna hand with the rest of the dishes?”

She looked up, blinking. Her eyes met his and softened—grateful for the pivot, maybe.

“Sure,” she said, smiling faintly as she passed him a dish towel. “You dry.”

The quiet turned companionable again.

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songbirdseung · 1 month ago

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𝑮𝑶𝑳𝑫𝑬𝑵 𝑳𝑨𝑩 he usually says yes to everything you ask, gives you what you need, makes you happy, all that. so? what's gonna happen when he says no to you asking to dye his hair brown again? SCREW BLONDE JAKE, I WANT BABY BROWN IKEU

“Oh come on, Jake! It’s just hair.”

You were currently straddling your boyfriend’s lap on the couch, halfway through your third movie of the night. Well, until you got sidetracked by the lead actor’s hair transformation. Chestnut brown. Soft. Shiny. Exactly like Jake’s when he first debuted.

And now, you were tugging at his hoodie with your best pleading look, completely derailing the movie marathon in pursuit of a very important cause: bringing back Golden Retriever Jake Sim™.

“Exactly,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “My hair. My choice.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically, hands moving up to run through his inky black strands. “Don’t give me that bulls-”

“I’ll have to get permission to do that,” he interrupted, deadpan. “From my team.”

“You’re a grown 22-year-old man,” you snapped back, tugging lightly at his hair in protest.

He just laughed, leaning back into the couch like he knew you couldn’t do anything about it. And maybe he was right.

But you were not the type to give up that easily.

You loved chestnut Jake. You missed it. That warm, golden hue that made him look like he walked straight out of a puppy adoption commercial. Your golden boy. And sure, he looked criminally good in black, but there was something nostalgic soft about the brown.

So. If you couldn’t convince him with logic, charm, or whining... then maybe it was time for drastic measures.

Cut to: you, standing in the bathroom with a bottle of his fancy shampoo in one hand, and a box of drugstore chestnut brown dye in the other. A genius plan, if you said so yourself. Sneak it in. Let it work its magic. He’d look in the mirror, gasp in horror, and then grow to love it. Right?

Right.

Except...

You left the bathroom door open.

And Jake, apparently, came home early.

You froze just as you were unscrewing the dye bottle, about to pour a little bit into his shampoo when you heard that familiar lazy, teasing, amused voice.

“Whatcha up to, pretty baby?”

You stiffened.

Slowly, you turned your head, and there he was leaning on the bathroom doorframe with one eyebrow arched, arms crossed over his chest like he’d just walked into a live betrayal scene.

It didn’t even faze you. You just blinked at him. Looked back at the bottles in your hands.

And internally sighed: Oh great. I failed.

Jake cocked his head, eyes dancing with amusement. “Is that... is that my shampoo?”

You didn’t answer.

“And is that...” he squinted, taking a lazy step into the bathroom, “a box of hair dye?”

Still no answer. Just you, staring like a raccoon caught in the fridge.

“Y/N,” he dragged out your name, clearly enjoying himself now. “Were you seriously about to dye my hair behind my back?”

You offered him a sheepish shrug. “Maybe?”

He laughed loud, belly-deep, like he couldn’t believe the audacity.

“Do you hate me or something?” he asked through laughter. “Because this feels like sabotage.”

You placed both bottles down on the counter and held your hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, yes, fine. I miss your brown hair. I was trying to... help?”

“Help?” Jake repeated, stepping closer, hands sliding around your waist. “You were trying to ambush me. In my own home. While I was defenseless.”

“You would’ve looked so cute, though,” you pouted, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Don’t you miss it just a little?”

He hummed, pretending to think. “I mean... I could go brown again. Eventually.”

Your eyes lit up. “Really?!”

Jake smirked, leaning down, his lips brushing your ear. “But now I’m definitely not doing it. Because you tried to poison me with hair dye, Y/N.”

Jake leaned in to kiss your cheek, grinning. “Nice try, pretty baby. But you’re gonna have to earn chestnut Jake back the right way.”

“And what’s the ‘right way?’” you asked, narrowing your eyes suspiciously.

“Oh, you’ll see,” he winked. “But just know... payback’s coming.”

#enhypen #enhypen imagines #enhypen au #engene #enha #enhypen x reader #jake #sim jake fluff #sim jake #jake imagines #jake sim #jake enhypen #jake sim imagines #jake sim x reader #jake x reader #jaeyun

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solxamber · 4 months ago

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Mission: Emotionally Compromised || Jamil Viper

Jamil’s greatest failure as a spy? Falling head over heels for the person he was meant to destroy.

this one is for @chocolatebearstrawberry who made the divider i use here!! i love you <3

As the CEO of one of the most powerful tech companies in the world, you’ve always prided yourself on two things: your razor-sharp business acumen and your ability to sniff out deception from a mile away.

Your competitors, on the other hand, have prided themselves on one thing: trying (and failing) to steal your technology.

For years, you’ve played a high-stakes game of corporate cat and mouse, batting away industrial spies like a bored housecat knocking expensive wine glasses off the counter. You’ve watched billion-dollar corporations sink millions into elaborate heists, only for their agents to fail spectacularly. Frankly, it's getting a little embarrassing for them.

But now, thanks to the untimely departure of your longtime secretary (who swears their early retirement has nothing to do with being bribed into luxury exile), you suddenly have a vacancy.

And judging by the pile of applicants currently waiting in the lobby, every single one of them is a spy.

The Parade of Intelligence Failures™:

First up is Agent Steve (probably not his real name), whose résum�� is written in Comic Sans and lists "lockpicking" under "special skills." When you ask him about his previous administrative experience, he stares at you blankly for three full seconds before blurting out, "I can type… very fast?"

Next is Ms. Definitely-Not-Wearing-a-Wire, who keeps touching her ear like she’s communicating with someone. Midway through the interview, you distinctly hear a whisper from her earpiece: "Ask about the security systems."

Then there’s Tech Bro #5, who brings a USB drive and, while maintaining full eye contact with you, tries to plug it into your computer. Your computer. The one sitting on your desk. Right in front of you.

By the time Mr. Fake-ID Falls Out of His Wallet stumbles in, you’re fighting the overwhelming urge to launch yourself out the nearest window.

This is getting pathetic.

You’ve sat through twenty interviews of barely competent corporate espionage, and you’re ready to set up a PowerPoint presentation titled, "How To Spy Without Immediately Getting Caught: A Workshop For Morons."

Do they think you built a billion-dollar empire by being stupid? Do they think your years of fending off corporate espionage haven’t honed your bullshit detector into a finely tuned death laser?

You start debating whether to just hire a golden retriever and call it a day—at least dogs have loyalty.

And then he walks in.

Enter: Jamil Viper.

The moment he steps into your office, you know this one is different.

For one thing, his résumé isn’t riddled with typos or hilariously obvious red flags. His credentials? Flawless. His demeanor? Polished and professional, with just the right amount of charm—not so much that it feels like he’s trying to butter you up, but just enough that you actually want to keep talking to him.

And his entrance exam? He aces it. Perfectly.

Too perfectly.

There is no way in hell that someone this competent just happens to be looking for a secretary position. You know he’s a spy.

But unlike the human disasters before him, Jamil Viper is actually good at his job.

And if someone is going to try and infiltrate your company, wouldn’t you rather it be someone who at least has the decency to be competent about it?

You lean back in your chair, watching him carefully as he sits across from you, his expression unreadable. You wonder how many layers of deception he’s hiding behind that composed facade.

Slowly, a smile creeps onto your lips.

This could be fun.

Because if Jamil Viper thinks he’s going to outmaneuver you, then clearly, no one has warned him that you love playing with fire.

You slide the contract across the desk, extending your hand.

"Congratulations, Mr. Viper," you say, amusement dancing in your voice. "Welcome to the company."

His fingers are warm when they clasp yours in a firm shake. His gaze, sharp and assessing, lingers for just a second too long.

And just like that, you hire a spy to be your personal assistant.

This is either the smartest or the dumbest thing you’ve ever done.

And honestly? You can’t wait to find out which.

Jamil has never questioned his assignments before. His role has always been straightforward—he is given a task, he completes it with precision, and he collects his payment. There is no room for personal involvement, no need for unnecessary complications.

This particular job should have been no different. His directive was clear: infiltrate one of the most formidable tech companies in the industry, assume the role of a secretary, gain the CEO’s trust, retrieve the necessary proprietary data, and exit without raising suspicion.

A simple, methodical process. He estimated it would take no more than a month, perhaps two if the CEO proved particularly cautious.

However, the moment he steps into your office, Jamil recognizes that this assignment will not proceed according to the standard operational model.

You are perceptive. That much is clear from the outset. Your interview questions are sharp, carefully constructed to gauge more than just his administrative skills. You are watching him—not just listening, but studying, assessing. There is a calculating glint in your eyes that suggests you have already categorized him in some way, and he does not yet know whether that categorization is in his favor.

Then comes the moment that shifts the trajectory of his expectations entirely.

You lean back in your chair, fingers steepled as you regard him with an almost amused expression. "So, Mr. Viper," you say, voice laced with something close to mischief, "are you a spy?"

The question is absurd in its directness, yet the casual way you pose it makes it clear that you are not expecting a confession—you are testing him. A lesser operative might have faltered, might have hesitated for the fraction of a second that would betray uncertainty. Jamil, however, meets your gaze evenly, offering a measured smile.

"If I were," he replies smoothly, "would I admit it?"

You laugh—not a dismissive scoff, but an actual, entertained laugh, as if you are thoroughly enjoying this game. And that is what makes Jamil's stomach twist slightly. Because he is beginning to suspect that you already know.

The contract slides across the desk, a silent challenge. He watches as you extend your hand, the motion deliberate, expectant.

He has been in the industry long enough to recognize a trap when he sees one. And yet, despite every internal alarm warning him to be cautious, he shakes your hand.

He has taken on countless assignments in his career, but this time is different.

This time, he is not just infiltrating a company. He is stepping into a game.

And for the first time in his life, Jamil wonders if he is the one being played.

Jamil Viper is, quite frankly, the best thing that has ever happened to you.

You have run this company for years, clawed your way to the top with sheer wit and willpower, and in all that time, you have never known peace. Your life has been a never-ending cycle of fires to put out, idiotic employees making mistakes, and backstabbing business partners who think “compromise” means “stealing your ideas and pretending it was a collaborative effort.”

But then Jamil arrives.

Jamil, with his quiet efficiency and terrifying competence. Jamil, who doesn’t ask you to repeat yourself because he actually listens the first time. Jamil, who doesn’t need reminders because he remembers everything, down to how you like your coffee and which pens mysteriously go missing when your CFO visits.

For the first time in your career, you are leaving work at a reasonable hour.

You actually saw the sunset yesterday. The sunset. Do you know how long it’s been since you’ve seen anything but the dim glow of your office lights at midnight? You don’t. You’re afraid to check.

Your skin? Clear.

Your inbox? Organized.

Your sleep schedule? Still questionable, but at least now it’s due to personal choices and not business emergencies.

You are so overcome with gratitude that you nearly burst into tears when you realize you no longer have to threaten your vendors personally because Jamil handles it all with a few well-placed emails.

He is better than any assistant you have ever had. Possibly better than some of your business partners. Hell, at this rate, you wouldn't be surprised if he could run the company better than you.

Which is exactly why you can’t afford to let him go.

You know why he’s here. You are not naïve. He is undoubtedly a spy, sent to steal your technology, your secrets, your life's work. But the problem is that he is too good. You cannot afford to lose him.

So, you make a decision.

You will convert him to your side.

It’s not just about protecting your company anymore. No, this has become personal. Jamil Viper is yours now. He just doesn’t know it yet.

The numbers didn’t make sense.

You were good at numbers. Numbers were the only thing in this world that didn’t lie. Numbers were solid, unyielding, completely immune to human deception. And yet.

Your CFO had to be skimming. You’d suspected it for a while—no one bought that many first-class flights for “business conferences” that didn’t exist—but now that you finally had the time to actually dig into the company’s finances, you could feel it in your bones. There was money missing. Not a lot at once, just enough that a lazier CEO wouldn’t notice.

But you noticed. And now, sitting in your dark office, practically feral with frustration, you were going to find it.

Jamil peeks into your office, and you see his brows furrow in irritation. He steps inside without invitation, eyes flicking to your desk, to the stacks of papers, to you, hunched over and pulling at your hair like a mad scientist on the brink of discovery.

“…Why are you still here?” His voice is level, but you detect the judgment beneath it. “I made sure your schedule was clear. You should have been home by five.”

You make a vague, distressed sound—somewhere between a whimper and the dying gasp of an overworked CEO. “I have a mouse to hunt,” you say, still frantically flipping through documents. “A very cunning mouse.”

Jamil, to his credit, does not roll his eyes. He does, however, step forward and pluck the file from your grasp before you can protest. His sharp eyes scan the pages, his fingers flipping through them with practiced ease.

You watch as his expression shifts into something thoughtful, his lips pursing slightly, his brows furrowing in deep concentration. You can see his mind working.

Jamil is infuriatingly intelligent. He always has been. You knew it the moment he walked into your office for his interview and answered every question with precision so perfect it was almost suspicious.

But this—this is something else. His eyes flick from one line to another, scanning, calculating, searching.

And then it hits you.

His hair.

His stupidly perfect, annoyingly silky, meticulously styled hair.

The way it’s always just slightly different every day. Some days it’s neater, tied back with care. Some days it’s looser, like he didn’t have time to properly tame it. Some days it’s so perfect it looks effortless, which means it probably took him ages to get it like that.

Your brain connects the dots.

Your CFO’s expenses had fluctuations that made no sense at first glance. But what if—what if the embezzlement wasn’t consistent? What if he only siphoned money on certain days—days when he needed to make the numbers look normal, like a fluctuation in operational costs?

Like how Jamil’s hair was slightly different depending on how rushed he was in the morning.

Your eyes widen. You grab Jamil’s arm.

“It’s the payroll processing days,” you say, the revelation clicking together. “The numbers don’t match on payroll weeks because he’s hiding them within the irregular adjustments! He’s only stealing when payroll is being processed because that’s when the accounts fluctuate naturally.”

Jamil blinks, then looks back at the files, and you see it—the exact moment he finds the irregularity, the way his eyes sharpen, the way the corner of his lips twitch in mild irritation.

“…Huh,” he says, flipping back to double-check.

You beam at him. “Jamil, I could kiss you.”

He does not react, but his ears turn slightly red. He hands the file back. “Don’t. Just fire your CFO.”

“Oh, I will.” You grin, stretching your arms behind your head. “And then I’m going to have so much fun ruining his career.”

Jamil gives you a look. You pretend not to see it.

Jamil has worked for a lot of powerful people before. He’s seen how they act—detached, ruthless, calculating. People who don’t say thank you unless there’s an audience, people who treat loyalty as a transaction rather than a virtue, people who see their employees as numbers on a spreadsheet rather than human beings.

And then there’s you.

You, who smile at every single employee as if they’re the most interesting person in the world.

You, who face betrayals with an easy grin, as if it’s just another puzzle to solve.

You, who refuse to be jaded, as if the sheer weight of your responsibilities isn’t trying to crush you every single day.

Jamil has worked as a secretary before, long enough to know that this is not normal. It’s not normal for a CEO to approve leave requests without question, to cover all medical expenses without a fight, to sit down at the employee cafeteria and listen to people’s grievances like a normal person.

It’s definitely not normal for you to turn to him at the end of a long, grueling day—after uncovering a massive embezzlement scandal in your own company—and say, “Let’s get dinner. My treat.”

Jamil expects a high-end restaurant. The kind of place where the portions are offensively small, the food is questionably pretentious, and the bill alone could sustain an entire household for a month. The kind of place where people like you—people with power, people with money—go to flaunt their superiority.

Instead, you take him to a tiny, hole-in-the-wall restaurant run by an elderly couple who clearly know you on a first-name basis.

“Ah, welcome back!” the old woman greets you warmly, eyes flicking to Jamil with curiosity. “And who’s this? A date?”

Jamil chokes on air.

You laugh—loudly—and wave off the comment. “Nah, just my secretary! He helped me catch a mouse today.”

Jamil doesn’t bother correcting you.

The menu is scrawled in barely legible handwriting on a whiteboard near the counter. You order the greasiest, most artery-clogging meal he’s ever seen in his life. Jamil orders something safer, something that won’t take five years off his lifespan.

When the food arrives, you practically vibrate in your seat, taking a bite with the enthusiasm of a child eating their first piece of candy.

Jamil stares at you in mild horror. “You eat this every day?”

You grin, already halfway through your meal. “Yeah.”

Jamil doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

But he eats. He eats, and he listens to you ramble about ridiculous workplace rumors, and he watches you laugh so hard you snort when you make a terrible joke.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, Jamil finds himself laughing too.

Not because your joke is funny—because it isn’t. It’s awful, actually.

But maybe because your eyes shine too brightly in the dim light.

Maybe because you seem so human right now, so painfully, vividly human.

Maybe because he knows he’ll have to leave you behind soon, and yet here he is, eating unhealthy food and smiling at you.

Jamil has never questioned his jobs before. He gets paid, he gets the work done. Simple.

So why does it feel so different this time?

Jamil has worked for some eccentric people before. Billionaires with more money than sense, CEOs who thought meditation on top of a glass skyscraper would give them divine insight, a director who once insisted that his morning coffee had to be stirred exactly 72 times counterclockwise or the stock market would crash. He’s seen it all. Or so he thought.

And then there was you.

You were a genius, of course. No one could deny that. You had single-handedly revolutionized an entire industry and kept your technology locked down so tightly that even the best corporate spies had walked away empty-handed.

But you were also—how to put this nicely?—completely, utterly unhinged. Eccentric was too mild a word. You were like a mad scientist and a particularly stubborn golden retriever had been fused together in a tragic yet strangely effective laboratory accident.

Jamil has had a front-row seat to your absurdity for months now, but today? Today takes the cake.

He enters the office expecting chaos, but he still isn't prepared to see a bouncy castle taking up the center of the room. It is massive. Garish. A primary-colored monstrosity that clashes violently with the sleek, modern aesthetic of your office. It is also, for some reason, fully inflated.

Jamil watches as you bounce in deep concentration, your tie undone, your shoes discarded somewhere in the corner. Your movements are precise, like each jump is a carefully calibrated equation.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Dare I ask?”

You pause mid-bounce, floating for a second in the air like some kind of enlightened acrobat before landing gracefully and turning to him with a grin. “I needed to think.”

“…So naturally, you brought a bouncy castle.”

“Of course.” You wave a hand, as if this should be obvious. “Sometimes, when my brain gets stuck, I just need a little kinetic stimulation. You know, shake up the neurons.” You jump again, flailing slightly before catching yourself. “It’s like—have you ever had a word on the tip of your tongue, and then you do something completely different and suddenly it comes to you? Same concept. Except instead of drinking water or taking a walk, I jump on an inflatable castle like a responsible adult.”

Jamil stares. His headache is already forming. “You’re going to break your neck.”

“Nope! Tested the weight limits. We’re good.” You bounce again, then stop abruptly, eyes widening. Your entire posture shifts, shoulders straightening, expression sharpening. You scramble off the castle, grab a nearby notebook, and start writing furiously.

Jamil watches, baffled, as you tear through an entire page with equations and diagrams, the kind of thing that would take a normal person weeks to conceptualize. And then you stop, beaming like a kid who just cracked open a piñata full of gold.

“I GOT IT,” you declare, spinning the notebook around as if Jamil has the clearance—or the desire—to understand whatever ridiculous breakthrough you just had. “This is going to make everything ten times more efficient! Jamil, this is genius.”

Jamil, who has not slept properly in three days because of this mission, who has already accepted that this job is going to either kill him or make him reconsider every life decision he has ever made, just sighs. “Great. So was the bouncy castle necessary?”

You turn back to him, eyes bright, smile wider than he’s ever seen. “Absolutely.”

And the worst part? The part that truly makes him question if he’s losing his mind?

He almost believes you.

Meetings like this made you wonder if you could get away with legally replacing the entire board with three possums in a trench coat. These relics in overpriced suits had two working brain cells between them, and one was currently occupied with nursing last night’s hangover.

They thought that their decades of mismanaging money somehow gave them wisdom. You would almost find it impressive, the way they clung to their illusion of relevance, if it weren’t so unbearably tedious.

You could fire them all, of course. You could clear this room in five minutes, clean house with a snap of your fingers, but you had held back out of sheer pity. They were close to retirement—one foot in the grave and the other on a luxury cruise.

Let them ride out their last few years clutching their outdated business strategies and egos. It wasn’t like they actually did anything.

But today? Today, you were at your limit.

Jamil was standing behind you, stone-faced, but you could tell he wanted to be anywhere else. His exhaustion mirrored your own. You’d been sitting here for an hour while they droned on about numbers they clearly didn’t understand.

Internally, you begged for something—anything—to spontaneously combust just so you’d have an excuse to leave. A small fire? A sudden, mysterious blackout? A divine intervention from the heavens themselves?

And then, as if the universe had heard you and decided to throw you a different kind of entertainment, one of them made a mistake. A grave mistake.

“—not that it matters to someone like you,” one of the old fossils sneered, voice soaked in condescension. “You just sit there and look pretty. Maybe that’s why you keep your secretary around—eye candy to brighten your day, hm?”

Silence.

Jamil felt the shift before he saw it. The room, which had been filled with the usual underhanded comments and the shuffling of papers, went utterly still. The air thickened, tension snapping tight like a bowstring.

You moved, slow and deliberate, sitting up from your languid position and resting your elbows on the table. Then, with a sharp crack that echoed through the room, you slammed your hand against the polished wood. Jamil was pretty sure he saw the surface splinter.

And then, you smiled.

“Say,” you said, your voice honey-sweet, “how’s your son’s wedding prep going?”

The man blinked, startled by the sudden shift in topic. “Uh—fine?”

“That’s wonderful.” You laced your fingers together, tilting your head like a benevolent ruler addressing a particularly stupid peasant. “I hope he has a strong savings account. And you, too, for that matter.”

His confusion deepened. “Why would—?”

“Because as of right now, every single one of you is fired.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

You stood, straightening your sleeves, your expression as calm as if you’d just commented on the weather. The rest of the board gaped at you, struggling to process what had just happened.

“Pack your things,” you continued, tone still sickeningly pleasant. “Security will escort you out. Your pensions will remain untouched—I’m not a monster—but your presence is no longer required. Effective immediately.”

Then, without waiting for a response, you turned on your heel and strolled out of the room.

Jamil took a moment to savor the stunned expressions, the way the old man who had made the comment looked like he was trying to compute his own downfall in real time. He had seen you be cunning, eccentric, absurd, even, but this was the first time he had seen you wield your power properly. It was—

Well.

He wasn’t about to admit it was impressive.

Or flattering.

Not even as he followed you out the door, suppressing the smallest, most insufferable urge to smile.

You’re good at reading people. That’s what makes you such a good CEO. You can tell when a business partner is about to backstab you. You can spot a bad deal from a mile away. You figured out your CFO was embezzling money based on a hunch and a particularly sleepless night.

So why the hell can’t you figure out what’s going on with Jamil right now?

Your day is over. Your work is done. You’re walking out of the building, feeling suspiciously well-rested for once, because Jamil is the best damn secretary you’ve ever had.

And there he is.

Standing near the exit, very much still here, despite having clocked out hours ago.

You stop. Blink. “Jamil? What are you doing here?”

He startles like you caught him committing a felony.

Which, honestly, makes you even more confused.

Jamil is the picture of composure in any situation. He could talk his way out of a hostage negotiation, probably. He could charm a boardroom full of old, corporate sharks into agreeing with his terms.

And yet, right now, he looks like he wants to evaporate.

You tilt your head. “What’s up? You good?”

Jamil scowls like you’ve offended his ancestors. And then, without meeting your gaze, he thrusts a box at you.

"Eat properly," he grumbles. "Heaven knows you can afford it."

And then he turns on his heel and almost sprints out of the building.

You stare at his retreating figure. Then you stare at the box in your hands.

What just happened.

You consider yourself a genius. You built an empire with your own two hands. You have patents worth billions. You have business rivals who would kill to know what goes on in your head.

And yet, this one interaction has you completely, utterly lost.

It’s only when you get home that you actually open the box.

Inside is a clearly homemade meal. Balanced, nutritious, and suspiciously catered to your exact tastes.

You crouch down. Laugh a little.

And then you pull out your phone.

You: thank you <3

Meanwhile, In Jamil’s car:

He hears the message notification. Opens it. Sees your text.

And immediately slams his forehead into the steering wheel.

The honk that follows is so obnoxiously loud that a street cat outside lets out an ungodly scream and scrambles away like it just witnessed a murder.

Jamil exhales sharply. He grips the wheel like it personally wronged him.

You’re going to be the death of him.

Jamil does not get sick.

It is a fact as ironclad as his ability to keep a secret, as certain as the sun rising in the east and setting behind your ridiculous office where you concoct new ways to stress him out.

Jamil does not get sick because sickness is a weakness—an opening in his otherwise airtight, bulletproof existence.

And yet.

Here he is.

Dying. Absolutely, irredeemably, spectacularly dying.

His body betrays him completely, weighed down by a fever that could probably fry an egg on his forehead. Every muscle aches as if he has been tossed into a meat grinder, his throat is raw, and his head is a battlefield of pain and regret.

He barely manages to lift his phone and call you, the only person who needs to know why he’s breaking protocol and skipping work for the first time in his entire life.

The phone rings. Once. Twice.

And then—

“Jamil! What’s up?”

Too loud. Why are you always so loud? He winces, nearly drops his phone on his face.

“I… I can’t come in today.” His voice is hoarse, unrecognizable. Disgusting. He clears his throat, which only makes it worse. “I’m sick.”

There is a long, stunned silence.

Then, very, very slowly—

“You’re what?”

Jamil closes his eyes. He does not have the strength for this conversation.

“Sick,” he repeats, barely suppressing the urge to just fade out of existence right then and there.

Another pause. Then, in a tone that is so soft he almost doesn’t recognize it coming from you—

“…Oh.”

Something about the way you say it makes his stomach twist—though that could also be the fever.

“Take care of yourself, okay?” you say, genuinely concerned. “Rest, drink water, and if you need anything—”

He does not hear the rest.

Because he blacks out.

Jamil is sick.

Jamil, your unshakable, hyper-competent, borderline immortal assistant—the man who somehow pulls miracles out of thin air while looking vaguely unimpressed—is sick.

You expected betrayals, corporate espionage, elaborate counter-strategies in your ongoing war to get him on your side.

You did not expect this.

And worse—he sounded awful.

Not just tired. Not just mildly inconvenienced.

You sit at your desk for approximately three minutes, trying to convince yourself that it’s fine, that Jamil is a grown man who can take care of himself.

Then you Google “how to care for a sick employee” and make the deeply logical decision to immediately drop everything and go check on him yourself.

Which is how you end up outside his apartment, ringing the doorbell like a maniac.

There is no response.

You ring again. And again.

Nothing.

A small, horrible thought creeps in. What if he passed out? What if he hit his head? What if he—

Just as you're about to kick down the door in a move that would absolutely get you arrested, it creaks open.

And Jamil is standing there.

Barely.

He looks terrible.

His usual sharp, careful composure? Gone. His hair is an absolute wreck, his eyes are dazed, and his entire body is actively betraying him by swaying on his feet like a tragic willow in a storm.

You are horrified.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, stepping forward before he can literally collapse. “Jamil, you look—”

Like death. Like the very concept of suffering incarnate.

But you do not say this out loud, because you are a good person.

Instead, you step into his space and grab him before he keels over.

“You’re burning up,” you mutter, steadying him. “When was the last time you ate?”

Jamil blinks at you very slowly, like his brain is buffering at dial-up speeds.

“…Food?”

That is not an answer.

You curse under your breath and haul him back inside, which is a feat of great strength because he is all lean muscle and fever deadweight.

How did this happen? Why did this happen? Who let this happen?

Oh. Right. Him.

Jamil is going to die.

Not from the fever, no. That would be merciful.

He is going to die from sheer embarrassment because you—his boss, his greatest headache, his most infuriating problem—are here, in his apartment, fussing over him like some kind of divine punishment.

He barely registers you pulling out a thermometer and shoving it into his mouth with all the grace of someone who has never done this before.

The numbers blink back at you ominously.

“You’re burning up,” you mutter. “Okay, I’m ordering soup. And you are not moving until you eat something.”

Jamil tries to protest. He does.

But then you press a cool towel against his forehead, and—

Oh.

Oh, that is nice.

His body betrays him once again by relaxing into your touch.

By the time the soup arrives, he is too weak to even lift the spoon properly.

So you—without hesitation, without a single ounce of normal human shame—just feed him.

Like a child.

Like he is some helpless, pathetic creature.

Which, okay, maybe right now, he is.

But still. This is humiliating.

It is also the best soup he has ever had in his life.

Jamil finally falls back asleep.

And you sit there, staring at his peaceful, fever-flushed face, wondering how the hell this became your life.

You were supposed to be running a company, not playing nurse to your best-paid spy.

You should not care this much.

And yet.

You check his temperature again. Still high, but better.

You sigh, raking a hand through your hair, and grab your phone.

“Okay,” you mutter into the receiver, pacing the room. “But what do I do if he wakes up and refuses to rest?”

A pause.

Your voice drops, quieter. “Yeah, I know. I just don’t want him to push himself again.”

Behind you, Jamil shifts.

You do not notice.

But he notices you.

Your hair is mussed, your usual sharp, teasing grin replaced with something softer.

You look worried. For him.

Jamil stares, something twisting in his chest.

Oh.

Oh, he is so incredibly doomed.

You always knew Jamil was a spy. That much was obvious.

The way he answered every question perfectly in his interview? Suspicious.

The way he executed his tasks with military precision? Suspicious.

The way he didn’t try to subtly flirt with you or brown-nose like all the other incompetent spies before him? Extremely suspicious.

But he was competent. So stupidly, ridiculously competent. And you’d rather keep an enemy that made your life easier than deal with another incompetent fool.

Besides, you like playing with fire. So you decided to see how far you could push him.

So tonight, you left your office unlocked. Oh no. What a terrible mistake. If only someone didn’t sneak in and steal your files.

And to make things more interesting, you left some semi-important files open on your computer. Documents that looked serious enough to be tempting but wouldn’t actually do much damage if leaked.

Right before you left, you made sure to sigh dramatically in front of Jamil and say, “Ugh, these files have been keeping me up at night. I sure hope they don’t get leaked or anything.”

Then, you went to your surveillance setup, made yourself some popcorn, and watched.

Because of course Jamil was going to take the bait.

And sure enough, there he was.

You watch as he sits down at your desk. Silent. Focused. The very picture of efficiency.

You lean forward as he navigates to the files. Click. Click. Scroll. His fingers hover over the copy button.

And then—

He just… stops.

Your eyebrows shoot up. Oh?

Jamil stares at the screen like it personally insulted his honor. His fingers twitch over the keyboard, hesitating.

Your interest piques. He should’ve copied them by now. He’s supposed to be a professional, isn’t he?

He clicks out of the important files.

Your jaw nearly drops. What.

He clicks out. He clicks out. He actively chooses not to take anything of worth.

Instead, you watch as he scrolls past all the confidential reports—

—bypasses all the juicy, corporate secrets—

—ignores all the schematics—

—and copies a single folder labeled “raccoons_for_a_rainy_day.zip.”

You almost choke on your popcorn.

Jamil pauses. Stares at the screen for a long, long moment.

Then, as if committing a terrible crime, he ejects the USB, tucks it away, and swiftly leaves your office.

You sit there, stunned.

Because out of everything in your company’s database, out of all the valuable information he could’ve stolen—

He took your emergency raccoon meme collection.

You blink. Once. Twice.

And then, slowly, a grin spreads across your face.

Oh. Oh, this is delightful.

You knew you were converting him to your side, but this? This is proof.

Jamil, the competent, efficient, dangerously intelligent spy, had a perfect chance to complete his mission. And instead of betraying you, he chose to betray his employer instead.

For you.

How flattering.

You had dealt with a lot of strange things in your life. A lot. But this? This was definitely one of the stupidest.

Your old secretary—the one who took a bribe and fled like a rat from a sinking ship—was currently sitting in front of you, begging for her job back. Why? Who the hell knew. You had been certain that the bribe she took would have lasted her a few years, maybe even bought her a cute little vacation somewhere far away, but apparently, money couldn’t buy wisdom. Or, in her case, common sense.

You leaned back in your chair, fingers steepled together, watching her ramble through increasingly desperate justifications. I’ve changed. I’ve grown. I’ve learned from my mistakes. You doubted it.

Jamil stood beside you, completely unreadable, but you knew him well enough by now to recognize the signs of his barely contained fury. His shoulders were stiff, his posture rigid, and—most damning of all—his fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

Oh, interesting.

Obviously, you weren’t rehiring her. She wasn’t even ten percent as competent as Jamil, and unlike her, Jamil wasn’t stupid enough to take a bribe when you were the one offering him far more than money. But this? This was a perfect opportunity to test something.

So you sighed, long and dramatic, before rubbing your temples as if this decision physically pained you. “I’ll consider it,” you said finally. “I’ll call you back once I’ve made my decision.”

Her face lit up, all eager gratitude, and she left the office with a bounce in her step.

The moment the door clicked shut behind her, you stood, intending to grab a file from your cabinet—but you didn’t get far.

Because Jamil blocked your path.

You blinked at him, more amused than anything, but your amusement flickered into something softer when you saw his face.

He looked wrecked.

Not in an angry way, not even in a controlled, simmering fury. No—this was something else entirely. His eyes searched yours like he was trying to find some sort of answer, his breath slightly uneven, his expression utterly betrayed. He looked like you had punched him in the gut.

You had seen Jamil irritated, seen him exasperated, seen him indulge in rare moments of smugness when his plans went exactly as intended. But this? This raw emotion spilling out of him like a dam breaking—this was new. And you couldn’t stop the way your heartbeat stuttered at the sight.

“Why?” His voice came out hoarse, like he barely trusted himself to speak. “Why would you… Why would you even consider hiring her back?”

You tilted your head, keeping your voice light. “Why does it bother you so much?”

Jamil’s mouth opened—then snapped shut. You could practically see his thoughts racing, running too fast for him to catch up, but something cracked inside of him, because once he started speaking, he couldn’t stop.

“Did I mess up?” he demanded, voice sharper than he probably intended. “Was I not good enough? Did I do something wrong? Why would you—” He cut himself off, exhaling shakily, his hands twitching at his sides like he desperately wanted to reach for you. “You know she isn’t competent. You know she isn’t better than me.”

You hummed, tilting your head in faux thoughtfulness. “Of course, I’ll give you a different position,” you mused. “No need to worry about job security.”

Jamil broke.

Before you could even register the movement, he grabbed you.

His hands found your face, his fingers curling against your skin like he needed to ground himself, like he needed to prove something—and then, he kissed you.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t polite. It was desperate, burning with frustration and something deeper, something so much more vulnerable than you had ever expected from him.

And then, hypothesis proven, you kissed him back.

For a moment, you simply blinked.

Jamil pulls away like he just touched something scalding, his breath uneven, his eyes wide with something close to terror. You watch as realization sets in—his own actions hitting him all at once, like a dam finally bursting and drowning him in the consequences of his own emotions.

“I—” His voice is hoarse, almost shaky, but he’s trying to regain control, trying to salvage something, anything. “I’m not who you think I am.” He says it like a confession, like a last-ditch effort to make you see reason, to make you step back and realize that you shouldn’t want him, that you shouldn’t choose him. “I was hired to—”

“My dear, sweet spy,” you interrupt, voice dripping with amused affection, “won’t you be mine?”

Jamil freezes.

You can see the exact second it dawns on him. The way his expression shifts from confused horror to pure, unfiltered disbelief. You knew. You always knew. Of course you did. He should’ve realized it sooner. You were too sharp, too perceptive, too you to have been in the dark about something so crucial.

And yet, here you were. Choosing him anyway.

His lips twitch. His shoulders shake. And then, he laughs.

Not a small chuckle, not a bitter scoff, but a real laugh, something rare and unguarded, something so genuinely light that it catches even him off guard. He laughs so hard that he nearly doubles over, his forehead dropping against yours as he exhales shakily, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

You feel his breath ghost against your skin, feel the warmth of him so close, and yet, there is no hesitation anymore, no careful, measured distance.

He shakes his head, still breathless from laughing, and when he finally meets your gaze, his expression is something unreadable, something painfully soft.

And this time, when he kisses you, there’s no fear left.

“…Fine,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable than you’ve ever heard it. “I’m yours.”

You wake up to the warmth of an arm draped over your waist, the steady rise and fall of a familiar chest behind you. It’s a rare thing—to wake before Jamil. He’s always been the early riser between you, slipping out of bed before the sun has even had the chance to settle into the sky. But today, for the first time in two years, you’re the one watching him sleep.

Two years since his terrified confession. Two years since you pulled him into the kind of love neither of you had ever expected to find. Two years of whispered promises, stolen kisses, and a loyalty that runs deeper than any mission, deeper than any past betrayal.

The early morning light filters in through the curtains, soft and golden, catching on the matching rings on your fingers. A quiet proof of what you’ve built together. The sight makes something tender settle in your chest, and you press a kiss to his forehead, gentle and lingering.

Jamil stirs, brow furrowing for just a moment before he instinctively pulls you closer, his grip tightening around your waist. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, voice thick with sleep as he murmurs, “Why’re you awake so early…?”

You smile, carding your fingers through his hair as you whisper, “Go back to sleep.”

And as the warmth of him lulls you back into slumber, a thought drifts lazily through your mind—

"You sleep too," he grumbles, but it’s lazy, half-hearted. You can already feel his breath evening out, his body relaxing against yours once more. You keep stroking his hair, slow and rhythmic, feeling the last bits of tension melt from his frame.

Maybe playing with fire was the smartest move you ever made.

Masterlist

#twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #jamil viper x reader #jamil x reader #jamil #jamil viper x you #jamil viper #twst jamil

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apas-95 · 1 year ago

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Did you know that NASA engineers considered the failure rate of some critical shuttle parts to be about 1 in 100 (significantly greater than what NASA upper-management considered the failure rate to be, and what was considered at all acceptable by the certification process)?

Do you know that NASA engineers currently have no idea how many rocket launches the next mission in the Artemis program (in 2 years!) is meant to involve, because the mission plan relies on SpaceX being contracted to deliver a supply of cryogenic fuel to the crewed Orion (™ Lockheed-Martin) capsule in orbit - a procedure that 1: has never been attempted before on any spacecraft, let alone the Orion™ capsule, not even in uncrewed technology demonstration flights; and 2: would require an as-of-yet unknown number of SpaceX 'Starship' launches, because said vehicle does not actually exist at time of writing?

Did you know they're planning on using this 'starship' as the crewed lander? A design for a lunar ascent vehicle, that is, that does not use hypergolic fuel, that relies on a swing-out crane as the only entry and egress point? During the original moon landings, the LEM had so many redundant methods to make sure it got astronauts off the surface of the moon, that in the most absurd, extreme case, where every single mechanism fails, there's a procedure trained into the astronauts to climb around the outside of the capsule, take a pair of bolt-cutters from the equipment box, physically cut the couplings holding the capsule to the lander stage, and take off to get home. Artemis' proposed lander, on the other hand, is planned to be a vehicle whose design didn't even include heatshields until it was realised it would obviously need heatshields, which are ceramic tiles bolted after-the-fact directly through the steel hull, because SpaceX had decided to mass-produce the original-design hull sections all at once for all the 'starships' first, before doing any integrated testing.

We're seeing the exact attitude that led to the shuttle disasters not being prevented now expressing itself in (and even through) the Artemis program, a project pushed harder and faster through the gates than it should be, by a government (and NASA administration thereby) desperate to advance the eponymous Artemis Accords (that goes unsigned by China, Russia, and much of the world) and reneg on all previous space charters that onsidered ownership, commercial exploitation, and military usage of space forbidden. Something bad is going to happen, and it's going to happen for the sake of SpaceX and the military-industrial complex at large.

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theatrenerd622 · 11 months ago

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I am currently watching the Dimension 20 Fantasy High series (because I'm apparently using summer break to reach my peak nerd form) and I am very invested but also it's so fucking funny because the plot is literally "6 freshmen get detention and miss a significant part of orientation. several dead, even more injured, everyone traumatized"

plus the characters are just:

a living football

a wizard with anxiety who is clearly convinced making people puke will solve all her problems

a barbarian who sings when he gets mad

a cleric going through a religious identity crisis

Nepobaby™

a flirty wanna-be-emo-kid with daddy issues who thinks she's way more closed off than she actually is

and I think that's really girl boss.

#if any of you fuckers spoil it I'll kill you bc i am on ep.11 #dimension 20 #fantasy high #adaine abernant #riz gukgak #gorgug thistlespring #kristen applebees #fabian seacaster #fig faeth

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evilminji · 1 year ago

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You knooooowwww... >.>

The only difference, technically, between a school in the Zone? And on Earth? Is the American government won't recognize your Zone diploma...

Not accredited. But like..... I'm JUST SAYING? If you didn't try to pass your school off as some Big Ivy League type? Pulled the "oh yeah, you'd never have heard of it, it's local." And the COMPUTERS say it's legit?

How many people will dig deeper?

If you legitimately have the knowledge, you legitimately have the knowledge. Not YOUR fault you left out the whole "extra-dimensional" part. It makes folk nervous! And nervous folks get stabby.

So like? If you were ALREADY planning to "Move" as you euphemistically put it? Talked it over with your VERY concerned folks and friends? Who do NOT like the look of the steady but concerning rise of Anti-Ghost Powers That Be? Who finally put their foot down and reminded you that you are a TEENAGER and it's NOT your responsibility to fix the world?

Well...

Fuck those guys, I guess. You'll miss the old house, but Team "Taking our ball and going literally anywhere else" makes some good points. Why ARE you putting up with this?

And honestly, you've never SEEN your dad have so much fun. Him and the Reality Realtor just sorta... Vibe. Himbo to Himbo communications. Smatters of advanced physics. Fudge. It's great.

They move the portal. Collapse the old one in a way that makes it impossible to recover or recreate. You... kinda don't want to ask. They had that "mad scientist glint" in their eyes.

And while everyone's checking out brochures to different realities? You? Head off to the nearest College. It's the Zone, so technically you could go to any of endless billions. But you'd like your education some time this century.

Cue! Danny Fenton! Entering?

Academia's wet dream. A sprawling CITY of a college. Where the classes are on EVERYTHING and the price is FREE. People have Obsessions okay?? They NEED to teach. Debate and discuss! Study! Right papers and read them! It's been going on a while! And what happens when you find a subject that's NOT covered?

YOU COVER IT!

It's like if New York was a College. Good fucking luck find the dorms. Sleep on the floor like the rest of us, you casual.

Danny was Not Prepared ™.

He loves it though.

Classes on aeronautics next making the perfect sandwich, shoved next to historical basketry, stacked above alien slam poetry. But only on Tuesdays! Ever shifting. Breaking his Fenton Born Adhd in to a fine PASTE to be smeared upon bread. Happy mental stimulation chemicals go Brrrrrrrr

If it wasn't wildly inappropriate, he would LICK IT to claim it as his then wrap around it and gaurd like a territorial cat. He thought he HATED school! Turns out he just hated high-school. College though? College, or at least ZONE College, is fuckin AWESOME.

He's sit in SO MANY random classes just cause.

Picked up and dropped them at a whim. When they no longer sparked joy. He's been a flighty bitch and for once? No one CARES. No one says "you HAVE to commit and stick with this FOREVER once you choose this" and? It just? It's so FREEING! He's learned so MUCH!

He's probably gonna come back!

Which? Is how a deeply, DEEPLY weird aerospace engineer from supposedly bumfuck NOWHERE, end up working at Wayne Industries. He's.... a lil crazy behind the eyes. Ha ha... CONCERNING ™!

Dude sleeps on the lab floor. Has weirdly spotty knowledge. Can be an unprecedented genius one second and not know who the current president is the next. Doesn't know what DAY it is. Forgets to eat. Tried to make a fusion reactor out of the break room toaster before Sandra from accounting distracted him with pictures of her cat.

It's like he wanders through life blissfully unaware that he is both terrifying and about three seconds from killing them all. Then FUCKING TRIPS because he forgot to tie his shoelaces again.

Who hired this man?

WHY!?

I mean, we KNOW why. Probably to put him on a watch list. But? He's like a terrifying murder puppy! Built like a tank! That's stoned out of its mind half the time. And have you HEARD his college stories? That CAN'T be legal. Was this guy raised in a cult!? Aaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!????

@hdgnj @legitimatesatanspawn @babbling-babull @dcxdpdabbles @hypewinter

#dpxdc #dp x dc #dc x dp #dcxdp #dc x dp prompt #minji's writing #Zone College Au

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specsthesecond · 1 year ago

Note

https://www.tumblr.com/specshroom/752286251279908864/some-rather-unlucky-investments-have-landed-you-in?source=share

Being fucked at any time without warning, whilst enjoyable, is also very tiring. It also interrupts your sleep. Which you could forgive if every one of those using your pussy portal was polite enough to at least make you cum.

You decide to read through the contract you barely skimmed before.

Something you notice is that as your rank goes up, so too does the amount you make per punter, but also, you can start to add restrictions like times, species, gender, etc., to your pussy's portal. (Provided you still maintain the minimum usage requirements).

Now, hoes does one go from Public Pussy to Pocket Pussy rank?

Brilliant question!

Well never fear for your Number One Pussy Portal Provider is here!

I see you're an entry level Portal Partner but with your activity and customer satisfaction levels it seems you'd be more fitting in a much higher level. Have you ever thought of upgrading your contract with us? There are tons of amazing perks and opportunities just waiting for you!

For example you could sign up for the Pocket Pussy Program, in which customers have the option to purchase your portal for their own personal use. Your special customer would be your only one and they would have to pay that exorbitant subscription price to keep you all to themselves. We suggest provoking possessiveness as much as possible to maximize your chances of getting Pocket Pussy status.

Similar to the Pocket Pussy Program, there's another option that lets you sign up for the Breeding Program to earn a little extra while you work.

All you need to do is let a monster breed your pussy to term and you get paid! It's easy!

This option is most popular with tentacle patrons. You will be compensated for each egg stuffed, fertilized and laid. Yes, the gestation period might be long but don't let that stop you from your normal portal activities! In fact many tentacle eggs are known to form quicker with copious and frequent fertilization.

That doesn't interest you but you still want that bonus? Fret not!

Why not use all your holes to your advantage!

Anal and Oral Portals are always another option! These portals offer much more leeway for obvious reasons and only activate when you approve it on the Pussy Portal App. This option is reserved for our premium users and naturally you'll have a higher quota to fill but that shouldn't be a problem for you given your current performance stats.

Just imagine getting all three holes fucked and stuffed while also tripling your income!!

As a loyal portal partner, our company's number one priority is you! So to thank you for all the hard work that you do we've introduced a new feature for our loyal employees.

Introducing the Cum Button!

Now your customers have the ability to make you orgasm with just the click of a button, provided they are a premium member and have purchased enough Cum Tokens™. (Feature is still in the testing phase as customers have been far more liberal with the Cum Button™ than we initially predicted)

As you can see we offer many opportunities for you to earn what you deserve. Please take your time browsing our options, we look forward to your continued partnership!

#monster x human #monster x reader #exophelia #monster fucker #monster fucking #monster lover #specsanswers #terat0philliac #terato #fem!reader #pussy portal

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buddierealm · 3 months ago

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ʚ MISTAKES NEVER LAST — e. diaz x reader

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 Wordcount: 7.1k Summary: Everything gets a lot more complicated. It's also a lot easier. Warnings: MCD (canon compliant), idiot4idiot, yearning overload, dead mom waffles™, depictions of grief/injury/surgery aftermath, firetruck KA-BOOM, and they were roommates??. A/N: rip...

That secret, useless, inconvenient talent of yours comes back again. Only this time, when you inconveniently cross paths with Shannon Diaz, she’s dying. Some people would wish death upon the woman their ex is currently married to, but you can't do that. In fact, you have to save her. And quick.

Because Chim is barely holding Eddie back from coming over here. If it were anyone but Shannon, you would've already been coming to terms with the fact that this woman just isn't going to make it. You'd already done all you could to control the bleeding, but there was already too much bleeding by the time you'd arrived on site.

Hen's also there, asking her questions. Her expression isn't reassuring in the least. She looks alarmed, and a little sad. If you could look through the cloud of denial blocking all of your emotions, you'd probably look the same. But right now, you're still focused on saving her.

You yell out at the ambulance, asking why it's taking so long to bring a stretcher over here. The amount of blood pouring out onto the concrete is making you dizzy. Eddie finally makes his way over. He crouches down and looks at you in question. He'd just been told it was pretty bad by Chim, but he wants confirmation. You have to tell him the truth. You shake your head.

Then he finally looks down at her. His eyes are filled with an inexplicable sadness. You've only met Shannon Diaz four times, this one included, but you can't bear the thought that she might die. That she might die and leave Eddie and Chris alone again.

“Shannon?” Eddie calls out to her.

She sounds delirious, “Hey. Are you here?”

He gives her a tight smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes and nods.

“I'm here.”

She looks between the both of you and you can tell she's trying to smile. The universe is playing the biggest joke on her ever, and she's trying to smile. You think you can see where Christopher gets his strength from.

“Well, this is embarrassing,” she jokes.

Yeah, you wouldn’t want your husband’s almost-mistress stare at you during your last moments, either.

Hen uses her stethoscope to measure her heart rhythm and sounds. She over looks at Chimney.

“Vitals trending downwards,” she announces. It makes a pit form in your stomach.

You gulp as Chim begins handing out assignments. You let her and Eddie have a moment as you get ready to pull her up onto the backboard.

“Ready?” Chim asks, and you nod, “On three. Three, two, one.”

You pull her up by her legs, rolling her onto the backboard. She closes her eyes slightly. You can imagine the pain is intolerable. You pull her up with the rest of the paramedics and bring her to the ambulance.

You're already on the ambulance before you can think to leave. You really don't want to make this any worse for her, but it's already too late to get off. Hen needs a hand and you aren't sure you can find someone quick enough once you step off. So you stay.

“She's decompensating. We got to intubate her,” Hen yells.

You prep the intubation tube and anything else she might need. But Eddie decides against it at the last moment, which is pretty understandable. He wants a his few minutes with her to not be silent. He holds her hand on the ride to the hospital.

“I don't feel anything. That can't be good, right?” she questions. It isn't.

She gasps and starts crying. Usually, you'd have to advise against it, but you'll absolutely let her have her moment.

“Leaving again,” she begins, “I'm so sorry. I'd love... a little more time.”

“Just be silent,” he advises her.

He's right, of course, it usually helps make her chances of survival higher. But you think it's more for him than her. He doesn't want to feel this right now. He wants to stay strong for her. He smiles, and tries to stop himself from crying.

“God, I love you so much,” he whispers. “Christopher loves you so much.”

You can feel Hen sneak a glance at you. This absolutely isn't about you, and yet she's still checking on you. You nod towards her, trying not to let the dam of your tears break.

You're so sad for them both, and you can feel your heart break for Chris. He probably wasn't going to have Shannon as a mother figure in his life anyway, but there was still a possibility. This takes even that small chance away.

“I...I,” Shannon says through labored breaths, “I love you...both.”

Her eyes move backwards, and it's clear she's finding it very difficult to say what she wants to next, but she's determined to get it out.

It comes out in barely a screech, when she makes eye contact with Eddie and then you and says, “Take care...of Chris.”

And then her eyes are rolling back, and she can barely breathe. Hen and Chimney start intubating almost immediately. Eddie sits back on the ambulance bench. You both stare at her with tears in your eyes. Instinctually, you grab his hand and squeeze tight. He doesn't dare let go until you've reached the hospital.

Shannon Diaz's death hits everyone hard. It hits her son and husband the most, of course, but the impact is widespread. After the hospital, you head straight home. Your head isn't screwed on right for hours after. You spend the long minutes on the couch, staring at the ceiling in disbelief.

Eventually, you make your way to the kitchen, and before you even know it, you're making food for two extra people, and packing it into Tupperware containers. It’s the kind of thing you’ve seen friends do for each other. It’s the kind of thing you hope Shannon meant when she spoke her last words.

You change out of your uniform and get into your car with a definite location in mind. So, you aren't too shocked when you end up parked in front of the Diaz residence.

It takes you a few minutes to gather up the courage to make it out of your car. When you do, you ring the doorbell twice and wait for an answer. A minute goes by before the door swings open.

Eddie's on the other side. He looks shocked to see you. His hair's a mess. His eyes are swollen and blood-shot, like he's been crying. You hold up the bags you brought over.

“It's food. And dessert,” you explain. “I figured you don't have much energy left to cook. Kid's gotta eat, right?”

You hand him the bags and he sets them on the table beside the door. The look in his eyes says he wants to lean in and kiss the living daylights out of you. He might’ve, in another universe, where his wife, who was trying to walk out on him for the second time, hadn’t just died horrifically.

Instead, he steps onto the porch and hugs you in gratitude. You think he might've forgotten about food altogether. You smile curtly when he pulls away.

“You need anything else?” you offer. “Anything at all.”

He shakes his head immediately, and you take it as a sign to leave. As you're walking back to your car, though, he calls out to you.

“Actually,” he runs over, “It's Chris. He's been in his room ever since we got back from my abuela's. He won't come out. I don't know... I'm not sure I know how to deal with him. Do you mind trying?”

You nod right away. Of course you'd try. You both make your way inside, and he closes the door behind you. He takes the bags you'd brought into the kitchen, as you take off your coat. He tilts his head to where Chris' room is, but you already know.

You make your way through the hallway and to Christopher's door. The door's already open, but you knock anyway. He's lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. It reminds you of yourself a few hours ago. He looks over at you, and then looks back up. You take that as a sign to come in.

You walk inside slowly, and make your way to sit beside him, on the edge of the low bed. You actually aren't too sure what you'll say. You were hoping it'd come to you in the moment.

“How're you feeling?” you ask, to start off.

He just shakes his head. Okay, not much to work with.

You sigh and look at the floor. You just try to imagine what you'd want to be said to you. That seems to work wonders, because you start blurting something out before you know it.

“Y'know, I'm kind of an expert at losing people. I've lost so many someones I've loved before,” you inform him, hoping it'll build credibility. And it's true. The job doesn't come without its losses. You've seen so many friends off, you've had to watch so many heroes you considered family pass away, you watch people almost lose the people they love the most on the daily.

“I know you’re feeling a lot of things. I know you might feel like it’s your fault in some roundabout way,” you tell him, because guilt always finds a way to creep into feelings of grief.

“But I need you to know, you did everything right. Even if it was just being there with her. You did everything you could,” you affirm. It's a little good to hear yourself too.

“And I know it hurts a lot, every time you think of her,” you guess, and he nods, closing his eyes tightly.

“But over time, it’ll hurt less and less. And eventually, you’ll remember her and it’ll only hurt a little. You're so strong, Chris. And she was so strong. And so brave.”

He needs to know, you think. He needs to know that she fought for him. He should remember her well, even if she wasn't the best at staying. You grab his hand and he squeezes tightly. You smile at him, and he smiles back. You bring a hand up to trace the side of his cheek, and it makes him laugh loudly.

“You hungry, bud?” you ask.

“Yes,” he all but shouts.

“Well, there's some dinner in the kitchen. I'm sure your dad's waiting for you.”

He shoots up and makes his way towards the door. Only then, do you realize that Eddie's been standing there the whole time. He thanks you quietly, as they make their way to the kitchen.

You stand in the hallway, not sure where to go. If you and Eddie were still together, you'd have stayed for dinner. You'd have stayed the night, too. Throughout the course of your relationship, you'd forgotten enough stuff around, opting to 'borrow' Eddie's instead, that you could stay over at any time without issue.

Now, though, it feels awkward to even be here. There are almost no traces of Shannon around the house. It's like she was a ghost that wafted in and wafted out with such meticulous care, that she didn't leave anything behind. It was newfound information to you that she was planning on leaving Chris and Eddie, again.

If you weren't so saddened and shocked by her death, you'd have resented her. The time you shared being integrated into their family was the best you've ever had. You don't think you'll never understand why anyone self-sabotages so thoroughly. You've had your moments, too, but those were fueled by a fear that you'd be the one getting left. A leave before you get left mentality. Or a leave before you get left again one.

So, you make your way to the door, set on leaving. You'll show up for the funeral tomorrow, but you can't stay here right now.

Chris catches you at the door. You feel cruel for trying to leave without saying goodbye now. You crouch down and give him a smile.

“I have to go,” you confess, “I'll see you tomorrow?”

“No,” he responds, and you frown.

“Can you stay and make me waffles tomorrow?”

You close your eyes and laugh. Wow, you regret making him waffles that one time. You ruffle his hair with one hand, as you think of the smoothest rejection possible.

“Y'know, maybe I could come over a little earlier and bring them with me,” you suggest.

He doesn't look too pleased. But he nods and makes his way into the living room to eat, as Eddie leaves the kitchen with two plates in hand.

“You can stay,” he whispers.

You look up at him with a shocked expression from your crouched position. You get up and shake your head. You can't, really.

“Hey, you did say anything,” he reminds you, “And Chris needs this right now. I can tell.”

You sigh, “I guess I did.”

Shannon's last words replay in your mind. Take care of Chris. Her eye contact with you couldn't have been a mistake. You can't shake the undeniable responsibility you feel for the kid now. You can tell it isn't just Christopher who needs you, but that is neither here nor there. Besides, you're more than willing and able to help. So you will.

Eddie nods in understanding, “Go make yourself a plate in the kitchen, and come join us.”

You wake up a little before sunrise. Sleeping was a battle in and of itself, but waking up to a bunch of clattering in the kitchen is less than pleasant. The couch was moderately comfortable. You fluff the cushions back up before making your way to the kitchen. You look at the offender who's woken you up through lidded eyes.

“Couldn't sleep?” you grumble at Eddie, as he opens up all of the cabinets to look inside for something.

“Hey. Yeah,” he says, still searching around.

You make your way over to him and grab his arms.

“Could you...just stop with the noise?” you whisper angrily.

You sigh, “You're going to wake Christopher up.”

He nods. You let him go. You cross your arms and lean on the counter, trying to wake yourself up for a moment. Coffee, you decide, is probably a good choice right now.

You walk towards the coffee maker and fill it up with enough water for two, clicking the button to get it to open. Then, you turn around and stare expectantly at Eddie, who's still standing in the same place you left him.

“So, what the hell is it you’re looking for exactly?”

“Melatonin pills. I can't do this funeral without at least a few hours of sleep,” he says, and you frown in confusion.

“My family's making it into town. My parents,” he explains.

You nod. Ah. The overbearing parents he told you all about that one night. You imagine that can't be easy. You wish you could find a way to pop their tires telepathically so they can't make it. The funeral's going to be difficult on its own, without their interference.

“You could always just tell them you moved houses. Y'know, misdirection,” you recommend, making jazz hands. He laughs. That was kind of the intention.

“Or just ditch the funeral. Kid won't remember it anyway,” you shrug.

He looks contemplative, “I think that'd make them a bit more...y'know.”

“Valid point.”

You turn around to pour two cups of coffee. You hand Eddie one and take the other for yourself.

“C'mon, you probably won't sleep anyway,” you tell him, as he second-guesses whether he should take that first sip or not.

He starts to drink from the mug, but looks a little saddened by the fact that he won't be getting any sleep any time soon. You nurse your mug and stare at the fridge.

“We should probably get started on those waffles. So they're ready when he wakes up,” you suggest.

“Yeah, sure,” Eddie says, like he's completely forgotten why you're here in the first place.

You gather all of the ingredients into a pile on the counter. It doesn't take you long to realize that a key ingredient is missing. Milk.

“We're missing the milk. Why the hell do you guys not have any milk? There's a growing boy in the house,” you complain, half-joking.

Eddie snickers at you, “We could just use water.”

You turn around and narrow your eye at him, “Sorry, what? You think I'm going to half-ass the dead mom waffles?”

“Oh, right. Of course not,” he reasons, sarcastically.

You grab his mug out of his hand.

“Go,” you order, “and bring back some milk.”

He rolls his eyes but leaves the kitchen nonetheless. You hear the front door shut. You begin assembling the dry ingredients, and cracking eggs into a large bowl. By the time you're done, Eddie walks in with two milk cartons. You smile and thank him, proceeding to make the batter.

The sun begins to rise as you talk and pop the waffles into the waffle maker. You sip on reheated coffee as the scent of something freshly baked wafts through the house. You almost burn a couple of the waffles, too engrossed in each other's conversation.

You'd be lying if you said it wasn't incredibly weird to be acting so normal. No one can bring themself to address the elephant in the room, so you just sweep the last two months under the rug and let yourself enjoy the calm before the storm.

The aforementioned storm being the funeral, of course.

The finishing touches you set up onto the dining table consist of butter, the jar of strawberry jam, chocolate syrup, and a few plates. Chris walks into the living room as you set up the last plate. His smile is wide when he realizes you kept your promise and stayed to make the waffles.

“Good morning, Chris!” you say.

“Morning,” he mutters, still clearly sleepy.

You're glad he looks a lot better than yesterday. He makes his way to the table to take a seat, as Eddie walks in from his room. He'd been in the bathroom getting ready for the day ahead. He kisses Chris on the cheek before taking a seat.

You sit beside Christopher, asking which waffle he'd like.

“That one!” he points.

You put two waffles onto his plate, and hand him the chocolate sauce and sprinkles you know he likes. You watch him and Eddie eat, sipping on your second coffee of the day. Eddie's phone pings with a text. He sighs and his body language speaks volumes about how stressed he is.

“What is it?” you ask.

“Oh, nothing. My parents just said their ETA is in half an hour,” he answers.

You look down at your mug. You should really head out before they get here. The last thing any of you need is Eddie's parents asking about you sleeping over the night his wife died. You aren't sure you'd be able to explain if you tried.

You wait until Chris is almost done with his waffles, and you make your way into the kitchen to wash out your mug. When you come back you announce that you should get going. Chris takes a last bite and gets out of his seat to hug you good bye.

“Thank you,” he says. You're sure he's just talking about the waffles, but it makes you smile anyway.

“Of course. I'll see you later, okay?” you promise, and he nods.

You give Eddie a smile, and mouth ‘good luck,’ before making your way to the front door.

No one likes funerals, and you're certainly no exception. You happen to think that funerals should be abolished altogether. Memorials are acceptable. But the time directly after a person dies should be strictly reserved for the family to grieve. Not only have they just had someone die, now they have to host a bunch of people who couldn't possibly care about that someone more than they do. And the cherry on top of it all is: the body's there for everyone to gawk at. It's absurd.

Besides, it forces you to contemplate your own life in ways you wouldn't otherwise. You hate it.

After the burial, there's a small reception at the Diaz's. You sit with the rest of the 118, and entertain Chris with little games. Eddie's parents have mistaken you for Carla twice now, each. Your modest, black dress is itchy and uncomfortable. You feel so overstimulated and sad you might just die right here and turn this into your own funeral. You don't do that though; it'd be incredibly self-centered.

So, you offer everyone who comes to hug Christopher a curt smile, and ignore their judgmental looks. Yes, you're aware his mother's just died. No, you aren't trying to replace her. But how do you explain to anyone that her dying wish was this?

When it's all over, you hug Eddie goodbye, and kiss Christopher's cheek with a promise that you'll be back. His grandparents aren't nearly as happy as he is at that, though. Hen drives you home after, and you rant to her all about it on the way there. She's one of the only people who were there when Shannon said what she'd said, so she just nods and agrees the whole way home.

You're on a quick med call, the night after, when you receive a phone call from Eddie. He hasn't called you since the day you fought about Shannon. It makes you frown. Your immediate thought is that he might be in danger.

“Hey Hen?” you call out to her as she patches up a citizen, “I need a minute.”

She nods and waves you away.

You quickly press 'accept,' as the last ring sounds. There's immediately just a bunch of heavy breathing on the other line.

“Hey, Eddie? What's wrong?” you say abruptly.

“Oh, uh,” he sounds a little surprised that you picked up.

“Nothing. Nothing's wrong,” he claims, but his voice is a little shaky.

“Talk to me,” you urge.

He takes a shaky breath, “You're on a call?”

“No, no. Don't worry,” you reassure.

You can almost hear him run a worried hand through his hair.

“What is it? Is Chris okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. He's fine. I just...”

You wait for him to continue.

“It's just,” he sighs, “They didn't even come for the funeral. They just came to convince me and Christopher to-”

He barely even continue with his sentence without pausing take a deep breath. He stays silent for a moment, and you genuinely begin contemplating if you should clock out a little earlier to be with him.

“My parents. They came all the way here to try and get me and Chris to go back to El Paso,” he rambles.

It makes your heart sink. Even in the time you weren't talking to Eddie, he's been a stable pillar in your life. You've let yourself get too close, and now the thought of him and his son leaving makes your chest hurt.

“Is that what you want?”

“No, no. God no. We're trying to build a life here, away from my parents,” he explains, and you almost sob in relief.

“I want nothing more than for Christopher to grow up somewhere he can express himself freely. Texas is not that. We're not going back,” he asserts, but there's still a bit of doubt in his voice.

You check the clock on your phone, it's almost midnight. Hen begins to call for you to join her in the ambulance.

“Hey, I'm sorry. I have to go,” you confess, “But my shift ends in an hour. I'll come around with a six-pack and we can talk all about it, yeah?”

“You don't...” he trails off, “There's no need.”

“Well, that's just not true,” you call him out.

You begin walking towards the ambulance, “See ya, Eddie.”

“Yeah. See you,” he says with a smile, and you hang up.

The city's been a complete mess since the bombings have started. Everyone's panicking at any sight of an unmarked package or unclaimed school lunch anywhere. You get the mass hysteria, though. You find yourself texting Eddie every few hours to check up on him and Chris. He does the same. It's so crazy to think that with a single wrong movement, you could end up so seriously injured. Or worse.

You can tell Eddie's a lot more than just on edge. All of these incidents are triggering something from his past. He constantly looks like there are skeletons being dug up from his closet, skeletons he's had buried so deep for so long. You're sure it has something to do with his time in the army, but when you ask him he just brushes it off. So, you just do your best to remind him that you and Christopher are completely fine.

Unfortunately, for him, that also means that he's started putting you and him in different firetrucks. It's a grim thought, but you figure he does it, because if he ever ends up injured en route, you're one of the only people he trusts to do their best to help. On site, and if it goes really badly, with Christopher.

So, today, you ride with Buck and a few other firefighters in a different firetruck than the rest of the them. His text comes through a few minutes after you've been on the road.

Checking in.

You laugh at how oddly clingy it is. You begin typing a message back, but before you can respond your phone is thrown out of your hand.

A loud noise fills your ears. You can feel the truck tip back, falling onto its side. You can see red, and heat licks at your face before you feel your face slide across the hard concrete of the street. A burning pain shoots up your chest. You breathe heavily, and every breath comes with unimaginable pain.

You try to sit up, your hands supporting you by leaning on the road, but you fail miserably. You wince in pain instead, and fall back onto your front. You look back at the firetruck, which was a few feet away from landing directly on top of you. You immediately start looking for Buck, whose fate wasn't as lucky as yours.

He's lying directly underneath the truck, his entire leg crushed by the vehicle. You can hear him scream in pain. You almost sob at the sight, but you notice someone standing above him. You squint. It looks like just a kid.

A kid with a bomb strapped to his chest.

Your eyes grow wide, as he says something inaudible to Buck. In minutes, the site is surrounded with cop cars and news vans. You try to crawl your way to Buck, in hopes you can help him in any conceivable way.

You hear Eddie call out your name. He's behind the truck with Hen and Chimney. He tries to instinctually run to you, but Hen holds him back, whispering something into his ear.

“Give me your captain!” the idiot holding you hostage screams.

He keeps yelling nonsense about the captain, and when he tries tell off someone for moving, with you directly behind him, Chimney steps into view.

“I'm the captain,” he announces, “I'm the captain, so please just let me help them, okay? Please.”

The teenager clarifies that he wants Bobby instead. You sigh, and continue crawling towards Buck, glad for the distraction. Once you reach Buck, you place a gentle hand onto his back.

“Hey, you're going to be okay,” you whisper. “We’re going to be okay.”

You lean back against the truck, breathing heavily. You both watch Bobby negotiate for your lives. You listen to the kid call you 'collateral damage' and it almost makes you puke. You'd really prefer if you didn't die right now.

The kid, Freddie, walks closer to you and threatens to make you all 'go boom,' as he says. You stare up at the sky. If these are going to be your last moments, you don't want to spend them staring at this murdering halfwit.

Your eyes land on Eddie instead. You smile. He smiles back. You wouldn't exactly say you'd die happy now, but you'd die pretty satisfied.

You're starting to think Bobby's very bad at negotiating if it has you thinking about death. He disarms him physically after distracting him instead. That works wonders.

Eddie, Hen, and Chimney run in your direction immediately. Eddie pulls you in for a tight hug. Your tears begin almost immediately. He kisses the side of your brow and wipes your cheeks. He only pulls back when you bring his attention to your dying friend.

You move to crouch beside Buck, as you all check his vitals and try to figure out a way to get him out from under this truck. You all try to pull the truck up with sheer force. You quickly realize there aren't enough people.

Thankfully, the people of LA, while incredibly self-absorbed and uncharitable, can be helpful too. They help you pull the truck up and release Buck in no time. You move him into the ambulance and make your way to the hospital.

You rest your head against the walls of the ambulance, feeling a little lightheaded. Hen and Chimney are working on stabilizing Buck, when Eddie turns his focus to you. He tends to a cut on your forehead from the initial blast, as you focus on evening out your breathing.

“You alright? Any pain anywhere?” he asks.

You shake your head, as he checks your vitals anyway. When he checks your pulse, he frowns deeply. He grabs the blood pressure monitor from behind him.

“Your heart rate's really high,” he notes, putting the cuff onto your arm.

“You're hypotensive too.”

You roll your eyes at him.

“I'm probably just coming down from the adrenaline rush. I was almost killed, y'know,” you say, clutching your chest.

A wave of pain hits you like a freight train. You take gasping breaths trying to calm your body down, but breathing's difficult and your chest feels heavy.

Your head's getting lighter by the second. You can feel your vision getting blurrier, too, until Eddie's just a blob of blue in your sight. You whimper at the heaviness in your chest. You can barely hear the questions Eddie's yelling at you, as you fall unconscious.

You wake up to a screech and a hug so tight it makes you see colors dance in your vision, from the pain. You're just about to cuss whoever it is out, when you realize it's little Christopher, who's just excited to see you wake up. So you grit your teeth, and smile through the pain.

You ruffle his hair, as Eddie makes his way into your line of sight. He looks like he'd been sleeping here, in this hospital room. You frown at his tired appearance. Carla comes by and takes Christopher away to bring a nurse over, and to give you and Eddie some privacy.

“Hey,” you croak out.

“Hi,” he greets, sounding he's about to cry.

You realize you can't remember a single thing after falling unconscious, “What happened?”

“You, uh,” he sounds a little choked up, “You had some internal bleeding. Hemothorax, probably from the fall.”

He gulps, “They had to perform a thoracotomy to remove the blood. Your lung was collapsed. You couldn't breathe. I just...”

He trails off. His eyes have a faraway glance in them. It looks like he's hanging on by a thread, so close to breaking down. You can tell he's reliving those moments in the ambulance, and whatever happened after. You pull his hand into yours. You let him feel your pulse with his fingers to ground him.

“I'm okay, alright? You didn't lose me. You saved me,” you say, with absolute certainty.

“No,” he sobs out, “I couldn't. I couldn't do anything. Hen had to help you. I was...stuck.”

“Oh,” you blink, “That doesn't matter, y'know. There's barely anything you could've done when I was in an ambulance, already on the way to the hospital.”

“No, no,” he argues, “I couldn't even hold your hand. You could've...You could've died. And I couldn't even look at you.”

You bring his hand up to your lips. It's a gesture that shocks him. He looks into your eyes with an intensity that almost makes you want to cry with him.

“It's okay. I forgive you. You did all you could. You did your best, Eddie,” you reassure him.

He nods once. Then, the nurses walk in and they're checking your vitals, looking at your stitches, and making sure you're comfortable. Eddie keeps his eyes on you the entire time. He searches for any way to help, but when the opportunity never comes up, he excuses himself.

"I'm gonna go call Hen. She wanted to know when you woke up."

A few days later, it's almost time for you to be discharged. Hen had taken the key to your apartment to bring you back some clothes and other essentials. You had slowly gotten up from your bed to throw the outfit she'd brought you on, in the few moments you had alone.

You only managed to slip your jeans on, though, before someone burst through your room door. You turn around immediately, covering yourself with your shirt. Your first instinct is to shout, so you do.

“Close the damn door, Diaz,” you yell.

For some reason, Eddie takes that as an invitation to close the door behind him, instead of getting out. You roll your eyes. Well, he's definitely seen it all before, so there's no reason to be shy. You move your shirt away to throw it on, which leaves you in just your bra.

He stands frozen in the corner. His eyes are trained on the bandages covering your surgical site. He must notice something, because he yells out before you can fully get your shirt on.

“Wait!” he shouts.

You look back at him, frowning. He makes his way across the room to you, staring at your torso. You wait expectantly for him to say anything. He doesn't. Just continues staring.

“Y'know if you wanted me to stay naked, you could've just asked,” you joke.

His face flushes, “No. That's not it, obviously. You bled through the surgical dressing, it's been soaked. When'd they last change it? How didn't you notice?”

You don't look down, now that he mentions blood.

“Uh, this morning probably? And I don't look,” you say.

He raises an eyebrow.

“I can't look,” you clarify, “I'm a bit of a hypochondriac. If I look, I'll freak out.”

He nods in understanding. He starts to gather a few things from around the room. He starts washing his hands with an antiseptic soap.

“So how were you planning on changing those every day at home, exactly?” he questions.

“Oh, I wasn't. I was planning on calling Hen to do it for me,” you explain.

He laughs, and grabs a pair of gloves out of the glovebox. You frown in confusion.

“What are you doing?”

“I'm going to change your bandages. Do you mind?”

“Well, yes. I like to think, as a respectable young woman, that my first choice, in a hospital full of doctors and nurses, for this isn't my ex.”

He nods, “Yeah, well, I'm all you have. They're pretty backed up. Train wreck. It could take hours for someone to come in and help you. And you seem pretty eager to get out of here.”

You are. You hate hospitals. You've hated them a lot more since you had a full-blown panic attack in one. And he's a trained professional. You're sure he's done this kind of thing an endless amount of times.

“Fine. Whatever. Go ahead,” you succumb to your fate

Eddie helps you sit up on the edge of the hospital bed. He makes his way downward, so he's at eye level with your wound. He's so close, you can feel his breath on your skin. It makes every hair on your body stand.

He starts to pull off the soaked dressings slowly. And it hurts like a bitch, even with all of the pain-killers they have you on. You wince in pain, and grab the back of his neck instinctively.

You're just about to apologize when he says, “It's okay. Just hold on. I'll be more careful.”

He dabs the wound to make sure it's dry. He grabs the new bandages and rips them open. He carefully positions them where they're supposed to be, applying gentle pressure to get the adhesive to stick to your dry skin. You keep your hand on the nape of his neck the entire time, gripping tighter when it gets more painful.

When he's done, he comes back up. But your hand doesn't leave him. He makes no move to step away. You both just stare at each other for a long moment. Your eyes drift from his eyes to his lips a few times.

Until a nurse steps into the room with wide eyes.

“Uh, I'll just come back,” she mutters, shutting the door as she leaves.

You turn around to look at him with narrowed eyes. You grab your shirt from your lap and whip him with it.

“You said they were backed up!” you accuse.

He just laughs and walks away, “They were!”

You finally throw your shirt on. You know you should feel a little taken advantage of, but you can't help but feel thrilled. Having him touch you again was a much needed comfort.

He makes his way towards the door, and then stops abruptly, like he's remembered why he came here in the first place, “Also, I think you should come stay with me and Chris for a few days. You need someone to help you around the house.”

“And I'm more than willing to do that every day.”

You shriek and laugh nervously at him. You wish you could say no. Well, that's a lie. It all just makes logical sense, you suppose.

You need someone to look after you, and he doesn't seem to mind. You'd also be doing him a favor by looking after Christopher while he's at work. Mutual transaction.

Also, the thought of him changing your bandages every day sends an undeniable thrill down your spine. You nod in agreement as he all but skips his way out of the hospital room.

Well, seems like Christopher isn't the only person who's going to enjoy this new roommate arrangement.

“Hello, Probie,” you tease, resting against the locker beside Eddie's.

“Not anymore,” Eddie responds firmly.

“No, no,” you say, shaking your head.

You wave your phone in front of his face, “I still have an hour to call you that. I’m wearing it out.”

He sighs, looking frustrated. He's been standing in front of the mirror in the station dressing room for 17 minutes trying to get his tie right. You counted.

You step closer in his direction. You grab the tie from him roughly. He almost tells you off, but gets distracted by your uniform, which is tighter today than your everyday one. He begins to look you up as down, as you begin to tie his tie neatly.

“How's your wound?” he asks.

“It's fine, dad. You don't have to keep asking me every ten minutes,” you snark, still working on the tie.

It usually doesn't take you three minutes to do this, but you'd like to prolong it as much as possible. You could guess he's definitely done the same once or twice while changing your dressings. That sadly ended a two days after you'd gotten discharged, and you wouldn't admit it even with a gun to your head, but you miss his touch.

Once it's tied, you tap his chest twice to get him to look. He finally takes his eyes off of you to look down. He looks pleased with it. He looks into the mirror one last time, and then slams his locker closed.

You can tell he's anxious, because his parents are in town. He gets this way whenever they come by. It's completely valid, but today is his day, no one else's. So you'll try to distract him in any way possible.

“You look nervous. Are you nervous, Probie?” you joke, sitting on the bench in the middle of the room. He joins you.

“I am not,” he denies, tying his boot.

“And stop calling me that,” he insists, but his eyes say he's entertained by this whole interaction.

You shake your head hard, “No. I actually can't believe I didn't do it more often, when I had the chance. Never mind, though, I still have 55 minutes.”

You laugh and move out of the way when he tries to grab you, shaking your head furiously. You walk out of the dressing room, cackling like a maniac. You pull your phone out and shoot him a message.

Probie.

He responds almost immediately. You can hear him chuckle from the other room.

Stop

You don't. In fact, his annoyance only makes you more insistent. You keep calling him that until the very moment he gets awarded the title of firefighter. Literally.

As you and Chris sit at a table, with Carla and Eddie's abuela, you convince him to cheer Eddie on when he appears to receive his new title. You want Chris to feel comfortable enough to cheer his dad on, but you also want to use the opportunity for evil.

You can't help but scream, “Yeah, Probie Diaz!” at him, as he walks over. He shoots you a feigned dirty look, but it dissipates into a smile as he sees Chris hoot for him, with you encouraging it. You both watch Bobby declare him a firefighter, pride filling your hearts.

When the ceremony's over, you take pictures and pointedly avoid Eddie's parents. You can already tell they know you're staying with him and Christopher. And they aren't happy about it in the least.

You're sure in another life, where you'd just meet them on an emergency and had absolutely no personal ties to them, you wouldn't hate Helena and Ramón Díaz.

In this life, though, you do. Anyone who's aware of the harm they cause Eddie, and by extension Christopher, would too.

After hours of carefully tip-toeing around Eddie's parents, Christopher decides that he’s completely worn out and passes out on the couch at the station. Eddie carries him, when you all make your way to the truck.

You both sigh loudly once you’re in the car alone, and as far away as possible from Chris' grandparents. You laugh quietly at your mutual distress, before making your way home in comforting silence.

Even though being around Eddie's parents has put a bitter taste in your mouth, you wouldn't trade this for the world. Christopher quietly snoring in the back seat, as Eddie drives you all back to their house. A house you've never felt anything less than loved and appreciated in.

You quickly realize on the way back that all of the glares and subtle side-eyes were completely worth it. You hope you don't have to see Helena and Ramón again any time soon.

A/N: caring more about your ex almost dying than your wife being dead is crazy work. i love eddie.

#eddie diaz x reader #eddie diaz #edmundo diaz #eddie diaz x you #eddie diaz fanfic #eddie diaz fic #eddie diaz drabble #eddie diaz smut #eddie diaz fluff #eddie diaz angst #911 abc #911 show #911 #evan buckley #evan buckley x reader

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