#He is always so composed and never lets on anything

[ickbite]

THINK I NEED SOMEONE OLDER !!

PAIRING: neighbor!hee x reader

Synopsis. It’s okay to get with a guy a few years older than you! Even better when he tries to ignore how beautifully charming you are!

NOTE: age gap relationship (4 years) lowkey was craving this … 6k words — enha masterlist

Summer clung to the building like it didn’t know how to let go: thick, heavy, and restless. You stepped out onto the shared porch between your apartment and the one next door, glass of cold water in hand, tank top sticking to your skin. It was late, but too hot to sleep. The porch light above flickered again, buzzing once before sputtering out. You rolled your eyes at it and leaned against the railing anyway.

Right on cue, you heard a door creak open.

You didn’t turn, not yet anyways, it took everything in you not to dissolve into a massive puddle of sweat already. You just took a sip and waited.

“Still broken?” came a familiar voice—deep, calm, and slightly amused.

Heeseung.

You turned slowly, letting your gaze move over him. Gray sweatpants, black t-shirt, and a screwdriver tucked loosely in his hand like he hadn’t really planned to use it.

“I was starting to think you were ghosting me,” you said, giving him a look.

He didn’t rise to it. He never did. That’s what made it fun.

“I keep meaning to fix it,” he said, stepping past you toward the light fixture. “Never got around to it.”

“Mmm.” You sipped your water again. “Typical man.”

He shot you a sideways glance. “You got something against men?”

You smiled, stepping closer. “Only the ones who ignore me.”

“I notice you,” he said quietly, still not looking at you.

He was always like this, too composed and unreadable for your liking. You’d met him two months ago when you moved in. He’d helped you carry one box, said your name once, and since then had politely ignored every attempt at small talk.

Well… Almost every attempt, you’d have to corner him and put him in situations like this to get him to talk to you.

He reached up, twisting at the fixture with slow, precise movements. You let your eyes wander, just for fun.

“You always dress like that at midnight?” he asked suddenly, voice low.

You looked down at yourself, what was wrong with the way you were dressed? Sure, the tiny shorts you had on were close to showing your bare ass and your tank top was so thin that anyone who looked hard enough could see the outline of your boobs, but that wasn’t your fault or anything. All you could do is shrug, “it’s hot.”

“You think that’s an excuse?”

“You’re the only one complaining,” you said. “Unless you want me to cover up?”

That made him pause, his face looking like he was contemplating. Then, with frustrating calm, he said, “Do what you want.”

You tilted your head, lips tugging into a smirk. “Oh, I plan to.”

The light above you buzzed again, sputtered, and then gave up entirely.

Heeseung stepped down from the small ledge and sighed. “Guess I’ll need a new bulb.”

“Or maybe it’s nervous,” you offered, brushing past him as you returned to lean against the porch railing. “Lights flicker when the energy’s high, you know. Too much tension.”

He glanced at you. “There’s no tension.”

“I beg to differ.” You said it too sweetly for it to sound mean. He didn’t reply.

You turned your head, watching him for a moment in the dark.

“You always this quiet?” you asked.

“Only when I don’t trust myself to speak.”

That one landed.

You straighten your posture, heart beating just a little faster, watching the way he shifted his grip on the screwdriver like he suddenly wanted to be anywhere but standing next to you on a warm summer night with too little light and too much want.

“I’m nineteen,” you said softly, stepping closer. “In case you were wondering.”

He looked at you now, scanning you up and down. Like it physically hurt him to do it. “You’re too young.”

“It’s not like it’s illegal or anything.”

“That’s not the point.”

You smiled. “Then tell me what the point is.”

Heeseung’s jaw flexed. He glanced at your lips. Just once. Then back at your eyes, “I think you know.”

Another silence stretched between you. And then, finally, he stepped back. Just once. Just far enough to feel like rejection.

“I should go,” he said.

“You always run away when girls flirt with you?” You teased, stepping yet another step closer to him.

“Only when I want to flirt back.”

Your chest tightened. But you held your ground.

“Goodnight,” he added, voice low.

You didn’t say it back. Just watched him disappear inside.

The porch was quiet again. No light. No breeze.

Just the glass sweating in your hand and the faint hum of something that felt like it had already begun.

⸻

Next to go was the sink.

A slow, rhythmic drip that turned into a small, stubborn stream. You’d tried tightening the faucet, even looked up a tutorial, but it kept leaking very loudly and very annoyingly. Just enough to ruin your night.

So naturally, you knocked on his door.

Heeseung opened it a little slower than usual, like he was deciding whether or not to answer at all. He was in the same black shirt as the night before, hair slightly messy, one hand braced on the doorframe.

You leaned against the doorjamb with an innocent smile. “Hi, neighbor.”

He blinked. “What’d you break?”

“I didn’t break anything,” you said. “But my sink might be having a crisis. Thought I’d ask the guy with the screwdriver if he wanted to play handyman again.”

He hesitated. “Have you told maintenance?”

“I could,” you said. “But you do such a better job,” your hand goes to slightly run down his arm.

His eyes narrowed slightly. You didn’t miss the way he looked at your bare legs before dragging his gaze away.

“Come on,” you added. “I’ll owe you one.”

Heeseung stared at you for a second longer, then stepped out of his apartment without another word.

⸻

Your apartment smelled faintly of vanilla and laundry detergent. He paused just inside the door, looking around like he’d stepped into dangerous territory — which, to be fair, he had.

You watched as he walked past the bookshelf crammed with poetry books and old Polaroids, past the record player and the half-melted candle on your coffee table.

He looked everywhere but at you.

“The sink’s in here,” you said, motioning to the small kitchen. “She’s leaking.”

He rolled up his sleeves and crouched down under the counter, grabbing the pipe. “She?”

“All misbehaving appliances are girls,” you said, hopping up to sit on the counter beside him. “Boys just short-circuit and die. Girls at least give you warning signs.”

That earned a quiet laugh. “You’ve thought about this too much.”

You let your bare foot tap against the lower cabinet. “I think about a lot of things.”

Heeseung didn’t respond. He was busy adjusting the valve, fingers working in steady, precise movements.

You tilted your head and watched him.“Ever been inside a girl’s apartment before?” you asked casually.

He paused again. “Not answering that.”

“So you have.”

He glanced at you, lips twitching. “What about you? Ever lured a man over with plumbing issues?”

“Only the ones who pretend not to like me.”

This time he did look at you straight on, like he was weighing something in his head. “You’re not subtle, you know that?”

Honestly, it made your knees buckle slightly. “No fun in being subtle.”

Heeseung turned back to the sink, jaw tight. You caught the way his hand flexed on the wrench. He was trying so hard not to look again.

“I think it’s fixed,” he muttered, standing up slowly.

You stayed seated on the counter, knees almost brushing his chest. He didn’t move away right away, toying with everything to make sure of his work.

You smiled. “That’s it? No bill?”

His voice was low. “Thought I’d add it to your tab.”

“And what’s on that so far?”

Heeseung’s eyes dropped to your lips for a second too long, then back up. “Trouble,” he said. “A lot of trouble.”

You grinned. “That’s the best kind of anything.”

He stepped back then… weirdly fast. Like he realized how close he’d let himself get. He wiped his hands on a paper towel and continued to look everywhere but you.

“You should be more careful,” he said, voice tight. “Inviting guys in like this.”

“Who said I do this with just anyone?” You bit your lip.

“You’re nineteen,” he said, like it was a defense.

You slid off the counter and took a step closer. “You already used that one.”

He backed up until his shoulder brushed the doorframe. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

You stepped even closer, now just a few inches between you.

“Yeah?” you whispered. “Or maybe I just know exactly what I want.”

His breath caught.

And still, nothing happened.

You didn’t touch him. Didn’t lean in. You just looked him in the eye and let the silence carry every word you weren’t saying.

Then, calmly, you stepped back.

“Thanks for fixing the sink,” you said lightly, like your heart wasn’t pounding.

He opened the door to leave. But before he stepped out, he paused—one hand still on the knob. “Don’t do that again.”

You blinked. “What?”

“That look,” he said without turning. “Don’t give it to someone like me.”

Then he left.

And the door clicked shut, soft but final. But that ache under your skin? That feeling stayed.

⸻

He didn’t answer your texts.

Not that you’d sent anything obvious — no hey, where’d you go? or miss me yet? You weren’t desperate. Just strategic. Just playful.

Just one message:

u still alive or did the police get u

No response.

You weren’t surprised.

Heeseung had been doing the whole avoidance damage control routine like a pro. No more porch run-ins, no more accidental eye contact in the hall. Even his mail pile vanished earlier now, like he was timing it to avoid bumping into you.

It would’ve been impressive if it weren’t so stupid and if it weren’t you he was avoiding.

So on a sticky, slow Wednesday night, when the air felt like it was sitting on your skin and your playlist (full of tame impala and mitski like artists) had hit its third repeat, you decided to make a move.

Of course, not a bold one, you were too embarrassed. Just cookies.

Soft, warm, chocolate chip with flaky sea salt on top, the kind that melted in your mouth and made people forgive you for anything.

You boxed them in a clear plastic container, scribbled “for the grump next door” on a sticky note, and padded barefoot down the hall. You placed it on his doormat and knocked once. Then you walked away like it meant nothing.

And you told yourself that it didn’t, you were still young after all, this was just flirting.

But the next morning, when you opened your door, the container was sitting on your mat. Empty.

No note. No message. No thank you. Just a cleaned out tupperware that used to hold cookies.

You stared at it, your chest blooming with something smug and sweet, and said aloud to the hallway, “You’re welcome.”

⸻

Two days later, the door creaked.

You were already outside, tank top, loose cotton shorts, a half-melted popsicle hanging limply between your fingers. It was past eleven, and the sky looked like wet ink. Your skin was still damp from your shower, hair thrown up into a messy bun, strands clinging to the sides of your neck.

You didn’t look at him right away.

Just let the sound of his door echo like thunder.

Heeseung stepped out slow, like he was testing the air. Gray sweatpants again. A white shirt this time, sleeves pushed up his forearms. His hair was still damp too, probably showered after work. He leaned against the porch railing, almost mirroring you.

And no one spoke at this… at least not right away.

Until you broke the silence with a tiny, half-smile. “So you did like them.”

He didn’t turn his head. “They were alright.”

You licked a drip from your popsicle, letting the silence thicken.

“You ate all of them.”

“Didn’t want to be rude.”

You tilted your head. “Leaving the container without a note felt pretty rude.”

Heeseung finally looked at you then. Fully.

It was soft at first — just a glance, barely a pull of his brows. But then it dragged. Slowly. Over your legs. Your lips. The sticky pink smear on your wrist. His eyes flickered upward and met yours, like he hated himself for all of it.

“No more gifts,” he said.

You raised a brow. “Are you allergic to generosity or are you just emotionally unavailable?”

That almost got a smile. Almost.

“It’s confusing,” he said. “Makes it harder to pretend this isn’t…”

He trailed off.

You leaned forward, elbow resting on your knee. “This isn’t what?”

Another silence.

He didn’t answer. You didn’t need him to.

Heeseung looked exhausted, but not in the physical way, but like someone fighting a current he already knew was going to win. His fingers tapped against the porch rail once, then stilled.

“You looked better without the distance,” you said after a beat. “Three days of silence didn’t suit you.”

He scoffed under his breath. “Didn’t think you’d notice.”

“You’re hard to ignore.”

That one landed and his grip on the railing visibly tightened.

“Don’t do that,” he said lowly.

“Do what?”

“Make it sound like I matter.”

You stared at him, the popsicle melting slowly in your hand. “If you didn’t matter, I wouldn’t have baked you cookies.”

“Cookies aren’t—”

“You ate all of them, Heeseung.”

He looked away, biting the inside of his cheek like he was trying not to smile. He didn’t succeed.

You let the tension stretch, let him stand there knowing you were winning this round too. And when you were sure he wouldn’t speak again, you said, quietly “why does it scare you?”

Heeseung blinked, startled.

“Me. Us. Whatever this is,” you added. “You act like I’m dangerous.”

“Because you are.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sharp honesty.

He stepped toward you, slowly, arms crossed over his chest. He was still a full foot away, but something about the shift made the porch feel smaller.

“You’re young,” he said.

You stood.

“You keep saying that like it’s a spell. It’s not. It doesn’t make you want me any less.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Swallowed hard. “You’re playing with fire,” he muttered.

You took one slow step closer. “Then stop standing so close to it.”

That did it.

His jaw tightened, like the fight was slipping. His chest rose with something deeper than breath. His eyes dropped to your mouth again, then away, like he’d burned himself on the thought alone.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he said.

You smiled, just a little. “I think you’re the only one who believes that.”

Another silence.

Then, quieter than anything else so far, he said, “Don’t flirt with people who might not know how to stop.”

You didn’t blink. “You just don’t want to admit you don’t want to.”

And then, like that, you turned. Walked past him. One bare foot after the other. But just before you reached your door, you paused. “I’ll leave it unlocked next time,” you said softly, not looking back.

Then you disappeared inside. And the door clicked shut like a promise. Heeseung didn’t move for a full minute. But his heart did. God, it did.

———

The sky was bruised purple, heavy with rain and the promise of a storm. You watched from your window as the first fat drops splattered against the glass, blurring the city lights into shimmering halos. The air was thick, charged, like the whole world was holding its breath.

Then the power flickered once, then twice and finally went out completely.

You sighed, the sudden quiet so different from the usual hum of the ceiling fan and streetlights. The apartment plunged into darkness except for the soft glow of your phone’s flashlight.

Perfect timing.

You grabbed a candle from your kitchen counter, lit it, and set it on the windowsill. The flickering flame threw dancing shadows across the room, turning your familiar space into something fragile and uncertain.

Just as you settled on the couch, the doorbell rang.

Your heart jumped and your mind grew curious, you weren’t expecting anyone especially not at a time like this.

Peering through the peephole, you saw him: Heeseung, soaked through, rain dripping from his hair and sleeves, eyes wild but holding something like relief.

You opened the door before you could think twice.

“Power’s out,” he said, voice low. “Thought you might need help.”

You swallowed the heat rising in your chest. “Or maybe you just wanted an excuse to come over.”

He stepped inside without waiting for an answer, shaking water from his hair. The smell of rain mixed with his natural scent, something earthy, warm, utterly him.

You moved aside, watching him carefully as he pulled off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair.

“It’s gonna be a long night,” he muttered, scanning the darkened room.

You nodded, lighting another candle.

Heeseung sank onto the couch beside you, close but not touching. The silence stretched, heavy and electric.

“You never stopped,” he said finally, voice rough. “Not even when I tried.”

You met his eyes, bold and steady. “Did you want me to?”

He hesitated. “I wanted to do the right thing. But you… you make it impossible.”

You smiled softly. “Maybe we both stopped trying.”

Thunder rumbled outside, shaking the windows. Heeseung’s gaze dropped to your lips, then back up. “I’m not good at this.”

“You’re not supposed to be,” you said. “That’s why it’s real.”

The storm raged on, but in the quiet darkness between you, something fragile and fierce was born.

His hand brushed yours, just barely and it was enough. Enough to say everything without a word.

———

The storm had passed, leaving the world washed clean and the air crisp with early morning quiet. You woke to soft light filtering through your curtains, the scent of rain still lingering in the cool air.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand.

A message from Heeseung:

“Coffee? I’m down the hall.”

You smiled, grabbed your robe, and padded barefoot to your door.

Heeseung was sitting outside, a steaming cup in each hand. He looked… tired. The rain had left his hair damp, and the corners of his mouth were softer than you’d ever seen.

“Morning,” you said, taking the cup he offered.

“Morning,” he replied, voice low but steady.

You both sipped in silence for a moment.

“Last night was…” you started.

“Too much,” he finished.

You laughed softly. “I mean—”

“No regrets,” he said.

You looked at him, surprised. “Really?”

He nodded. “You make me want things I thought I should ignore.”

You reached out, brushing a stray damp strand behind his ear.

“I’m glad,” you whispered.

His eyes met yours, open and honest and something more. For the first time, the space between you didn’t feel dangerous.

It felt like home.

————

You hadn’t seen Heeseung all day.

Not in the hall, not on the porch, not in the quiet hours of late evening when the light turned gold and sleepy. You tried not to look for him, but the way your ears perked at the sound of footsteps gave you away. You kept your door cracked longer than usual. You left a second mug on the counter like it was instinct.

Still, nothing.

Until 10:47 p.m., when three soft knocks tapped against your door.

You opened it slowly, and there he was.

Gray hoodie, hands in his pockets, hair damp from a shower (his hair is always damp!). He looked like he was about to say something casual, probably something like “just wanted to check on you!” but the moment your eyes met, it died on his lips.

“Hey,” you said, voice quiet, warm.

He swallowed. “You doing anything?”

You shook your head. “Should I be?”

A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. “Come with me.”

You didn’t ask where. You didn’t need to.

⸻

The rooftop was warm from the day’s leftover sun, and the air smelled faintly of concrete and summer wind. The city sprawled below in a thousand tiny lights. The hum of cars far off. Somewhere, someone played jazz through a half-open window.

You stood at the edge of the roof together, side by side, not speaking. The silence felt comfortable now, not awkward nor heavy. Just full.

Heeseung sat first, back against the short brick wall, long legs stretched out. You sat beside him slowly, pulling your knees to your chest, careful not to brush against him.

“Do you come up here often?” you asked softly.

“I come up here when I want to stop thinking.”

You smiled. “And how’s that going?”

He didn’t answer. His gaze was fixed somewhere far below, but his fingers twitched slightly where they rested against the concrete — like they wanted to reach for something but didn’t trust the space between.

“You always come up here?” you asked.

“Only when I can’t sleep,” he said. “Which is most nights lately.”

“Because of me?”

He looked over at you then, not smiling, not teasing but honest.“Yeah.”

The word landed like a ripple in your chest.

You let the silence stretch again, watching the way the wind tugged at his hair. How soft he looked in this light. How close.

“I thought you’d keep avoiding me,” you said.

Heeseung let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “I did. For like five hours.”

“And then?”

“And then I wanted to see you more than I wanted to do the right thing.”

Your heart ached at that. Because it wasn’t flirty. It wasn’t clever. It was real.

You rested your chin on your knee. “What’s the right thing, anyway?”

He shrugged. “Not this.”

“But this is what you want.”

His voice dropped. “Yeah.”

You turned to face him more fully. “So take it.”

That hung between you — bold and unshaken. You didn’t look away. And he didn’t blink.

Slowly, his hand moved. Just his fingers at first, brushing against yours on the ground like they weren’t sure if they were allowed. You tilted your palm up.

He took it.His fingers threaded through yours — warm, steady, a little shaky. Neither of you said anything.

He looked down at your joined hands, then up at your face. His voice cracked just slightly when he spoke.“You make me nervous.”

“Why?”

“Because I feel like I’m already halfway in.”

You smiled. “Nothing wrong with that. ”

His lips twitched. Then stilled.

You weren’t sure who moved first. Only that suddenly, his face was inches from yours, the air charged and humming between your mouths. He looked at you like he was waiting for you to stop him.

You didn’t.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, barely louder than a breath.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Please.”

And then — finally — he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t wild. It was quiet and aching, like something he’d been holding in too long, like a secret finally spoken. His mouth moved over yours slowly, reverently, like he didn’t want to miss a single second.

His hand cupped your jaw. Yours curled into the front of his hoodie.

When you finally pulled apart, your foreheads rested together, breath mingling, hearts not quite steady.

“I’ve wanted that for a while,” he said.

You smiled, barely able to speak. “Me too.”

The wind stirred your hair. A car honked far away. Someone downstairs laughed.

But here, up on this rooftop, it was just you and him.

And something that had started slow finally beginning to catch fire.

———

Heeseung didn’t kiss you again.

Not right away. Not after the rooftop.

You’d both sat there for a while afterward, legs tangled, sharing secrets you’d never planned to say out loud. You told him how lonely the apartment felt some nights. He told you he hadn’t let anyone in, not really, in over a year.

Eventually, he walked you to your door and stood there for a long time like he wanted to be invited in. But he wasn’t ready and you didn’t force it. You just reached for his hand one last time and said, “Goodnight.”

He didn’t say it back.

He just watched you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he blinked.

⸻

The next day, he acted like nothing happened.

Not in a cruel way. Just careful. Neutral.

You saw him on the porch that morning — hoodie sleeves pushed up, coffee in hand. You waved. He nodded. Said nothing.

You tried to match it. You leaned on the railing like usual, bare legs tucked under you, hair freshly styled. The breeze played with the hem of your shirt, and you saw him glance over, quick and sharp — then back down to his phone.

You bit back a smile. He was failing at pretending. Badly.

Good.

⸻

That evening, your doorbell rang once.

You opened it to find a small white takeout bag and no one standing there. But you heard his door click shut a second later.

You brought it inside.

Inside was a container of tteokbokki — still warm — and a napkin with messy handwriting.

Eat something. You forget. - H

Your stomach fluttered like a traitor.

You texted him:

thank u. i’ll return the favor. don’t think this gets you out of round 2 tho.

No response.

But a minute later, you heard the sound of his microwave.

⸻

By the time the sun went down, the apartment was too warm to be comfortable. You sat cross-legged on your couch in shorts and an oversized tee, flipping through shows you weren’t watching.

You were thinking about the kiss.

How it started slow. How it stayed with you.

How he hadn’t touched you since — not even a brush of fingers — and how that made you want him more.

You heard footsteps outside.

His.

Then a pause.

Then a knock.

And you opened the door without hesitation.

Heeseung stood there, hoodie zipped halfway up, hands in the pockets, eyes unreadable.

“Can I come in?” he asked softly.

You nodded and stepped aside.

He didn’t sit right away. He stood near the counter, like he was thinking of a reason to stay or an excuse to leave.

You leaned against the arm of the couch and said, “You didn’t answer my text.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t know what to say.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re not regretting it, are you?”

He looked at you then — long, hard, like the idea offended him. “No,” he said, walking forward. “I’m regretting not doing it again.”

You smiled, slow and dangerous. “So do it again.”

He didn’t wait this time.

He crossed the room, leaned down, and kissed you like he meant it — deeper, hungrier, the kind of kiss that spoke of every second he’d spent trying not to think about you. His hands found your waist. Yours tangled in the collar of his hoodie.

You pulled him down onto the couch with you, your knees bracketing his hips, mouths still pressed together. This time, it wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t shy.

It was need.

He pulled away just enough to look at you, lips swollen, breath uneven.

“I’m trying not to move too fast,” he whispered.

You laughed softly. “I don’t care.”

His head dropped to your shoulder with a groan.

You stayed like that for a while — him curled against you, your fingers brushing through his hair, silence thick with everything unsaid.

When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible.

“This doesn’t feel casual anymore.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “That’s because it never was.”

⸻

It started with small things.

Like how he didn’t knock anymore.

Some nights, he’d just show up — hoodie tugged over his head, eyes tired, hands deep in his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them. You’d open the door without a word and let him in. Sometimes he brought food. Sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes he just wanted silence and your shoulder.

Other times, he kissed you the second you closed the door behind him.

Like he needed it. Like he couldn’t not.

One evening, around 9 p.m., he texted you:

I’m outside.

You found him sitting on the stairs just beneath your porch, arms resting loosely over his knees.

He looked up as you stepped out, then nodded for you to join him.

“I like when it’s quiet,” he said as you sat beside him.

You rested your chin on your knee. “Me too.”

He tilted his head, gaze soft. “You look different out here.”

“More peaceful?”

He shook his head. “More quiet.”

You smiled. “And you’re still sitting next to me.”

“That’s the problem.” He said it so easily now. Like he’d stopped fighting it.

You nudged his shoulder with yours. “What problem?”

He didn’t say it. He just leaned in and kissed you like an answer.

⸻

It didn’t take long for people to start noticing.

Not because you were obvious, but because the energy shifted. You weren’t flirting anymore. Not really.

Now, you looked at him like he was already yours.

And he looked at you like he hated how much he loved that.

One night, your upstairs neighbor passed you both in the hallway as you leaned against Heeseung’s doorframe, laughing too softly for anyone else to understand. She paused. Smiled.

“You two finally figured it out?”

You blinked. “What?”

She just waved her hand. “Nothing. It’s cute.”

Heeseung’s ears flushed pink.

⸻

The first time he stayed the night, it wasn’t planned.

It was a Friday. You’d had a bad day — some frustrating texts from friends, missed deadlines, your AC rattling like it was about to die. Heeseung showed up just after midnight with a bag of snacks, two cold cans of soda, and a promise to fix the AC.

You didn’t even make it through the first half of the movie.

You fell asleep with your head on his chest and his fingers tangled in your hair, both of you tucked into the corner of the couch like you were afraid moving would wake the spell.

When you opened your eyes, it was morning. The sky was pale and the city quiet. Heeseung was still there, one arm wrapped around your waist, his breath slow against your neck.

You didn’t move. You didn’t want to.

⸻

Later, as he slipped his shoes on at the door, you watched him with your arms crossed and a sleepy smirk on your face.

“Next time, bring a change of clothes.”

He glanced back at you, already smiling.

“You planning on keeping me here?”

You shrugged. “We both know you don’t want to leave.”

He didn’t argue, only leaned in, kissed your forehead, and said,

“I’ll be back tonight.”

And he was.

⸻

It was supposed to be a quick trip.

Just groceries. Maybe some snacks. You’d texted Heeseung out of boredom, and he’d replied three minutes later with:

“Pick me up.”

So now here you were, in a corner aisle of a half-empty store, laughing quietly as Heeseung leaned over your shoulder to read the label on a bottle of soy sauce you didn’t actually need.

“I swear you only come here to flirt in front of the ramen.”

You tilted your head toward him. “It’s the most romantic aisle. Obviously.”

He grinned, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “Then I guess I’ll propose in front of the instant miso.”

Your laughter echoed softly through the aisle. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t scandalous. Just a kind of closeness that said we’re comfortable here — in this in-between space of almost something, almost everything.

Heeseung tugged the cart behind him as you tossed in a bag of frozen dumplings. Your fingers brushed as you walked. You didn’t think twice before linking your pinky with his.

Neither of you noticed the guy standing at the end of the aisle.

Not until Heeseung froze mid-step.

You followed his gaze — and found a tall guy with messy hair and a smirk standing by the cereal section, arms crossed over his chest like he’d just stumbled across something way more interesting than Frosted Flakes.

“Hee?” the guy said. “Seriously?”

Heeseung’s hand slipped from yours instantly. His expression changed. Not guilty, exactly — but startled. Like something private had just been exposed to air too early.

You glanced between them. “Friend of yours?”

“Jay,” Heeseung muttered. “We… used to work together.”

Jay raised an eyebrow. “Used to?”

You stepped back slightly, giving them space, but Jay’s eyes flicked to you and then to Heeseung with a grin that said got it.

“I was just grabbing cereal,” Jay said, lifting the box like proof. “Didn’t realize you were busy.”

Heeseung shoved his hands in his pockets. “It’s not—”

“Relax,” Jay cut in. “I’m not judging.”

He looked at you again, this time a little differently — not rude, not intrusive. Just curious.

“You his girlfriend?”

You opened your mouth, but Heeseung beat you to it.

“She’s… someone.”

Jay blinked, caught off guard. “Okay.”

Heeseung rubbed the back of his neck. “We’re not really… telling people yet.”

Jay gave a small, knowing nod. “Then I didn’t see anything.”

You smiled a little. “Thanks.”

Jay winked at Heeseung. “She’s cute. Don’t mess it up.”

Then he turned and disappeared into the next aisle, humming to himself like the world hadn’t just shifted.

⸻

In the car afterward, Heeseung was quiet.

You didn’t press him. You let the silence sit, warm and humming, like tension without teeth. It wasn’t until you pulled into the parking lot that he finally spoke.

“I didn’t mean to make it sound like I’m ashamed.”

You looked over at him. “I know.”

He turned toward you, hand resting between your seats, thumb brushing yours gently. “I just… wasn’t ready for anyone to see it yet.”

“You don’t owe anyone anything, Hee.”

His jaw tightened slightly. “I know. But you do.”

You raised a brow. “Me?”

“Yeah. You deserve someone who’s proud of it. Of you.”

The words sat heavy in your chest — heavier than you expected. You squeezed his fingers. “Then be proud.”

He looked at you, then down at your joined hands. “I’m trying,” he said softly. “Just… don’t let go while I figure it out.”

You leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

⸻

You expected him to disappear.

Not fully — but to go distant. To start second-guessing what this was, what you were. After all, someone saw. Someone knew. And the last thing Heeseung had ever been was careless.

But he didn’t go anywhere.

He texted you later that night:

Home safe?

You left your hoodie in the car. Smelled like strawberries.

Might keep it.

You stared at the last message for a while.

Smiled.

Didn’t answer.

Let him sit with the feeling of wanting more.

⸻

The shift didn’t come all at once.

It came in the details.

He stopped sitting on the other side of the couch. Now he pulled you into his lap like it was second nature, held you while you talked, laughed into your shoulder when you made a joke.

One afternoon, you were curled up with your legs across his lap, flipping through a magazine you weren’t really reading. He was scrolling through his phone. You glanced over at his screen and realized he was typing your name into a playlist.

“She likes sad music” was the title.

You tried not to melt. Failed.

⸻

A week later, you made the mistake of calling him your friend in front of a delivery guy.

“Yeah, my friend’s inside—he’s just grabbing the—”

“Friend?” Heeseung called from the kitchen. His voice sounded innocent, but you knew better.

You leaned against the wall, calling back: “Do you want me to say situationship to the man dropping off pizza?”

He poked his head out from the kitchen, holding two soda cans. “Roommate with benefits?”

You blinked. “That makes it sound like we split rent and trauma bond.”

He walked over, handed you a can, leaned in to kiss your cheek.

You were very aware of the delivery guy watching through the half-cracked door.

“Boyfriend,” Heeseung said, voice low against your ear. “Next time, just go with boyfriend.”

Then he turned around like he hadn’t just lit your entire chest on fire.

⸻

You didn’t call him that again.

Not for a while. But he’d said it. And the word kept echoing in your head, soft and dangerous.

The real surprise came on a Sunday.

You had fallen asleep on his couch after a long day, curled into a ball with your face pressed against his hoodie. It was raining again. Heeseung sat across from you at the kitchen table, scribbling something in a notebook you didn’t know he used.

When you woke up, he was gone.

But a piece of paper had been tucked into your hand. Folded once. Smelled faintly like his cologne.

You opened it slowly.

I’m bad at saying it, but I’m not scared anymore.

I want to stay.

———

It started with music playing too softly from your phone.

A lazy morning. One of those cloudy, sleepy Sundays where the world felt distant — the kind where time stretched long and warm and slow, and the only thing that mattered was the blanket wrapped around your shoulders and the boy sitting on your floor, quietly tying the laces of your shoes.

He looked up at you after the second knot, dark hair flopping into his eyes. “Your laces were a mess.”

You blinked. “You tied my shoes?”

“I live dangerously.”

You smirked. “You’re soft.”

“You like that.”

He wasn’t wrong.

Later, you were on the porch — two mugs, one blanket, and Heeseung sitting with his legs stretched out, back against the wall, his eyes somewhere on the horizon.

You watched him, the way he looked more at home now. The way he no longer pulled away when you touched him. The way he let his hand rest on your thigh like it belonged there.

“You never said what that note meant,” you said softly.

He didn’t look at you. Just reached for his mug. “I thought it was pretty clear.”

“It was,” you admitted. “But I want to hear you say it.”

He stared into his coffee like it might give him the words.

Then, without ceremony, he said:

“I want this. I want you.”

You looked at him.

He still wasn’t smiling. But he was serious — in that quietly terrified way that people are when they’re finally telling the truth.

“I’m not good at big declarations,” he added. “I won’t do the speech or the fireworks. But I’ll wake up next to you. I’ll know your coffee order. I’ll call you when the streetlights turn on just because I know you like the sound of my voice at night.”

Your heart pulled tight.

“I’ll stay,” he said. “If you want me to.”

You didn’t speak.

You just leaned in and kissed him — soft, slow, like an answer. Like a yes.

He kissed you back, but he smiled this time, too. You felt it. You tasted it.

When you pulled away, you rested your forehead against his.

“You’re already here,” you whispered.

Heeseung nodded. “I know.”

———

That night, you shared his bed for the first time. Not rushed. Not messy.

You brushed your teeth together, bumping elbows. You stole his t-shirt. You crawled beneath his blankets and let him hold you like the world would still be waiting in the morning.

He fell asleep with one hand over your heart. And when you woke up — warm, tangled, safe — he was still there.

Not leaving. Not running. Just yours.

In all the ways that mattered

[xoxojisu]

WEAKNESS!

synopsis: you're rin's only weakness.

notes: except for the emotional constipation, crazy brother issues, turning into a literal demon on field, etc etc..

as much as he loathed to admit it, itoshi rin had a weakness.

it was annoying. infuriating, even. how could he let this happen? he hated it.

"rinnie!"

rin turned his head to see you calling him cheerily, bounding towards him with a sickeningly sweet smile. you wrapped your arms around him the moment you came close enough and embraced him lovingly.

he hated it.

he hated how much his heart raced when you came close. how he was unable to say anything the minute you were standing within a 20-meter radius. how all he could do was stand there and stutter like an idiot. how did your mere presence have this much effect on him? oh, and when you talked? and touched him? don't even get him started.

it was humiliating. absolutely humiliating.

"...hi," was his only response. a brief, stiff response. he found himself unable to say more, and just let himself soak up your touch and affection. he thought it was kind of lame how he became putty in your hands, but of course, he never did anything to change it.

you ran your hands through his hair. "how was your day?"

horrible. terrible. sickening. he hadn't seen you at all day, after all. he was tired and exhausted and dead and he just wanted to cuddle with you.

"shitty."

"oh, i'm sorry, baby." you cooed. "you wanna come over? we can just hang in my room, if you want."

yes, yes, yes. more than anything in the world. that was the place he'd been yearning to be at for the whole day, and also his entire life. get him there right now. there is literally nowhere else he would rather be.

"yeah, sounds good."

the two of you walked back to your place, hand-in-hand as you rambled about your day. rin didn't say anything. he rarely did. he just liked listening.

you told him all about school and the test you had today and how you thought you did and your friends and the latest gossip and just basically everything under the sun. rin listened attentively, clinging onto your every word, occasionally giving a nod or a soft grunt of acknowledgment. your voice never failed to calm him down, and it was one of his favorite things in the world.

once you were in your room, you and rin ended up on your bed, legs and hearts intertwined. you laid your head on his chest and continued to talk about anything that came to mind, with rin occasionally adding in small commentary to let you know he was listening.

as rin played with your hair soothingly, he could tell that you were getting sleepier and sleepier. rin, ever the observant analytic, could always see the signs.

your words would slow and slur, your body would get pliable and meltier, and you'd become more affectionate, too.

"rinnnn," you mumbled, cuddling closer, "you're so.. cute.."

his cheeks flushed pink and oh, wow, that wall looks really interesting.

"..nd, i love you sooo much," you continued, nuzzling your face into his chest, "you're my babyyy..!"

his ears turned red. visibly.

he was supposed to be stoic. cool. composed. intimidating. he had a reputation to uphold, a persona carefully constructed over years of being a distant and detached asshole. but then there was you, tearing his walls down with stupid stuff like this.

"stop saying stuff like that," he grumbled, voice low and gruff. not really because he meant it, but more because he didn’t know what else to do with himself. his heart was doing laps in his chest and his brain was buffering despite how many times you had said and done these things.

"but it's true..!" you whined with a tiny pout, wrapping your arms tighter around him, practically plastering yourself to his side. “my baby. my favorite person. my.. mmm.. my rinnie poo..”

rin almost choked.

"rinnie poo?" he repeated, eyes wide in disbelief, staring up at the ceiling like it had answers for him. "seriously?"

you giggled in response, soft and muffled against his hoodie, listing a string of other ridiculous nicknames, and he swore he could feel his soul leave his body. just for a second. just to scream into the void and come back.

“you like it,” you said smugly, eyes fluttering shut, “you totally like it. you're blushing.”

"am not."

“are toooo~”

he scowled, but it had no weight. not when your hand was resting gently over his heart and your breath was warm against his neck and your legs were tangled so tightly with his he could barely tell where you ended and he began.

he was so, so doomed.

“…shut up,” he muttered, burying his face in your hair. he inhaled deeply. you always smelled like home. like safety. like every soft thing he never knew he craved until he met you. "go to sleep, dumbass."

your breathing was evening out now, slower and deeper, but your grip on him was still firm. like you needed him close, even in your sleep. like letting go wasn’t an option.

he loved that. god, he loved that so much it hurt.

"i love you, itoshi rin.."

he let himself smile softly. kissing your hair and rubbing your back, he mumbled out a small,

"i love you too."

but you were already asleep. you didn't hear it.

but that was okay. you'd hear it tomorrow. and the day after. and for the rest of your life.

itoshi rin had a weakness.

but since it was you, he really didn't mind one bit.

masterlist thanks for reading! <3

[b33zlebubz]

Simon who doesn’t quite know how to react, the first time you cry in front of him.

It happens too fast. Or maybe it doesn’t and he was just too dense to notice the tension collecting behind your eyes as you both argue. One minute, you’re snapping at him because the dishes weren’t done, the next you’re sniffing into your hands as he blinks at you in confusion. Shoulders tense and shaky beneath your uniform, the kind of cry that only happens when you hold it down too long—ugly and sudden. He would know.

He’s usually on top of whatever house chores need done, not because you ask but because he knows you spend most of your time cleaning up after others at your job. He doesn’t want you to worry about doing so for him, too, when he’s home. But he’s getting his shit together to leave again, shedding Simon and his quiet little life in favor of Ghost—who boards his flight early tomorrow morning to fuck knows where. The dishes slipped his mind in his preparations, underneath other countless of his own errands and what have you.

You always grow tense as the date circled on the calender grows closer. Always sleep less, smile less, eat less. Cling to his side any moment you can, kiss him a little harder, let silence linger where conversation once flowed endlessly. Let dread settle close, heavy and tense, even during some of the sweetest moments.

It’s stupid, really, and you both know that. But he’s underestimated how much this one little chore was holding you together. Usually the composed one. Always there to talk him down when he needs it, when he’a huffing and angry or shaking in fear, even when your job is running you ragged and sleep is fleeting.

But you’ve never cried, never complained, never needed anything. Not until this moment. And he failed.

So, he freezes. Blinks. Hands floating dumbly in the air as he watches the person he admires most for their resilience finally crumble. It stuns him, cracks his heart a little. A deluge of ache filling his chest at how fucking careless he’s been. So much so that all he can do for a moment is stand there.

“Sorry,” you keep saying, wiping desperately at the irritated skin around your eyes. Try to breathe normally to no avail. “Sorry, sorry. Just—I don’t know. I know you’re busy, just…forget I said anything. I’m sorry. I’ll do them.”

Simon finally sighs at your uncharacteristic babbling, shakes his head and steps forward. Reaches out and ghosts his fingertips over your arm like he’s scared you’ll shatter otherwise.

“Jesus, love. C’mon,” he murmurs, quiet. “C’mere.”

The tears come down harder when you do. Step forwards tentatively and let Simon wrap his arms around you, pull you close to his chest. You curl up against him, face hidden in your hands pressed against his chest. He rests his chin on top of your head and mentally kicks his own ass. For not acknowledging the bags under your eyes, the far away look to your expression. For not checking in when he should’ve. For not seeing this is more than just the fucking dishes.

He runs his hand quietly over your back as your crying turns soft. You’ve done the same and more for him countless times; running him a bath when he returns too tired and high-strung to do anything but stare at a wall. Sit with him for hours in the dead of night when his nightmares keep him up with his gun in hand. Not once did you deem him annoying, terrifying, or anything else he thinks of himself in his worst moments.

And especially not when he fails to return the favor.

“S’alright,” he murmurs, placing a gentle kiss to your head. “You have a lot goin’ on.”

“You’ve got more than I do, though.”

“Doesn’t make your feelings any less important,” he breathes, running a hand gently over your back. “Y’need to talk to me, love.”

You breathe in deep and it's shaky, but it's a start. The tears slow down and the tension wound tight in your shoulders slackens, just a little. He holds you tighter. Shuts his eyes.

“I try,” you murmur, raspy. Tired. All your fight drained. “I just…don’t wanna add to your plate.”

He huffs. “I wouldn’t miss havin’ a lay-down with you for the world, if you needed it.”

You sniff again, manage somewhat of a chuckle. “Even when I’m fucking bawling?”

He smiles softly. Already aching for that first day back home, back in your arms. Stress-free. Soft. Happy. None of this goodbye shit hanging over either of your heads. Like always, he promises himself he will come home, for you. But for now, he holds you just a bit closer, a bit tighter.

“Even when you’re bawling,” he murmurs, and he thinks it might be one of the most sincere things he’s ever said.

[rickybobbydan]

I would LOVE some sort of slow-burn, mutual pining sort of thing with Jenson. Maybe something where he and reader (or OC if you're more comfortable with that) are both SkySports pundits? Where maybe Jenson is always taking her under his wing and they both have feelings for eachother but hide it so well?

Just a suggestion, I would love to read whatever you come up with if you decide to write anything for JB. 💖

Sparks

It started when you got the call. Of all the jobs with media outlets you had applied to, Sky Sports was the first to get back to you. You had a fairly successful stint covering IndyCar and having covered lower formula series like F2 and F3, along with a podcast where you talked about motorsports and, technicalities of those series, including F1. So, to say you were familiar with the world of motorsports, was the understatement of the year.

You went through the process and traveled to SkyCampus to meet the team of other pundits you would be working with. Of those, you were introduced to Nico Rosberg, Jenson Button, and unfortunately Danica Patrick. From a first glance, it was Jenson that shook your hand first. Your smaller one in his, a spark at first touch. The handshake lasted a second too long before she pulled back and smiled at Nico and Danica

“I’m y/n l/n. It’s nice to finally meet you all,” you composed yourself, smiling at Nico and Danica. Though Danica looked more bored than anything. You could say you weren’t her biggest fan, having spoken up about her inaccuracies when it comes to talking about F1, often having nothing to back up what she was saying.

Nico was the first to speak, “I’m glad to finally meet the revered podcast host. I've listened to some of your episodes on the current season discussing tire degradation and how to improve the world of F1 with sustainable methods.”

To say you were surprised that THE Nico Rosberg was an active listener of your podcast was like a dream come true.

"Thank you. That honestly means a lot. I try to be as informed and give input with the knowledge of my mechanical engineering degree,” you smile. Your attention then turns to Jenson, who smiles at you warmly, “I liked your episode on Monza. The bold takes on teammate rivalries within teams were captivating. I like what you have to say a lot.”

You meet his gaze and gave a small laugh, “Thank you. I hope it’s not too bold for live TV.”

Danica crosses her arms, leaning on the wall, utterly bored of this conversation, "We’ll see if she can hold her own on live TV.”

You looked toward her, giving her a rehearsed smile dedicated to people you didn’t like, “I guess we’ll find out in Bahrain.”

You met Jenson’s gaze, his blue eyes lingering just a little too long to be casual. It was polite not in the way that you wanted to keep staring into those pools of blue. You already had a feeling this was going to be a very interesting season.

Lingering looks and small smiles. That’s how it started. There wasn’t anything loud about Jenson. He was kind and gentle with you, the complete opposite of his interaction and look of displeasure directed at Danica.

It was the small things, leaning over, whispering small corrections on some data you may have miscalculated, helping out instead of making you feel small, like so many others in motorsports journalism had made you feel. Jenson made sure to always stand next to you in broadcast lineups. A subtle move, a step closer to you that would have people questioning if it was normal, if they stared too long. He offered a quiet murmur of, “You alright?” If Danica’s passive aggressiveness was ever directed at you.

You remember a particularly hectic qualifying breakdown, Danica kept interrupting you, talking over you, never letting you get a full thought out, it was Jenson who cleared his throat very loudly into his mic, “Let her finish, Danica.”

Through every interview, simmering frustration was replaced with surprise. He didn’t look at you, keeping his eyes on the camera ahead of him, but you saw a small smile and the two small taps, something you picked up on the first week you started working with him, on his microphone that reassured you, You’ve got this.

From then on, you two never brought up the silent agreement of making sure you had space to voice your input, more often more insightful than Danica’s thanks to the knowledge of the sport you had.

This was work. That was the one thought that constantly ran through your mind during every interaction with Jenson. Jenson mirrored the same thoughts, telling himself he needed to be respectful, that he admired you as a colleague, but every time your smile was directed at him or something Nico said, the tight pull in his chest was impossible to ignore. He knew what it was.

You would find him later, in a hospitality area somewhere around the paddock that he had introduced to you when you first arrived for the race weekend on Thursday. There, he had waited for you to find him, two cups of lukewarm coffee on the table in front of him.

“Thank you for what you did earlier,” you said quietly.

Jenson gave you that small smirk that had your stomach flipping, “You’d do the same for me.”

You would. You almost told yourself that you’d do anything to keep that smile directed a you.

Silverstone finally came around. Not only was this a home race for many drivers and some of the teams, but this was a home race for Jenson.

It was raining, the English drizzle bringing the type of cold that you could feel in your bones. It had been a long day of media duties, dealing with Danica, and feeling like all you wanted was a hot shower so you could feel your toes again. But once it was over, it was Jenson, with an umbrella barely big enough for two people who offered to walk you to the car park, shielding you from the rain.

The silence between you two was almost electric, neither of you saying anything. The months of pining without any thought that it might be mutual, an unspoken weight. You stayed silent, the sound of raindrops falling on the umbrella, the distant buzz of the paddock being the only sound between you two.

It was Jenson who finally dared to speak up, It’s always strange coming back to Silverstone. Driving days far behind me.”

You finally look up at him, realizing how close you are to him, “Do you miss it?”

He glanced in the direction of the track, jaw tensing, “Parts of it. I don’t miss the politics, the pressure. But the feeling of being in the car, I miss that. I miss the rush of adrenaline. Sometimes the loneliness, as odd as that sounds.”

You both take a few more steps, letting the silence settle between you two before speaking up, “It’s not so lonely now, is it?”

Jenson looks at you, really look this time. His lips parted, something unreadable in his expression, “No. Not when you’re next to me.”

You still at his confession, swallowing hard, but not saying anything.

Your hands brush once against the one that doesn’t hold the umbrella. Neither of you move away.

The tension kept building up throughout the season, steadily and quietly. Glances started lingering too long to be considered professional. He always looked for you first before interviews. He laughed at your jokes, you felt his eyes on you when you traveled from country to country, sitting next to you if the opportunity came. Long flights often ended up with you falling asleep against his shoulder, using him as your own personal pillow.

You never talked about it. Because this was work. Because he was older than you. Because you were supposed to be professionals and colleagues.

But sometimes you would catch him already looking at you when he thought you weren’t looking. It was like he was trying to memorize every detail on your face in case you disappeared one day.

And sometimes, after long flights and little to no sleep, in your tired stupor, when you noticed a hair out of place, all you wanted to do was reach out and brush it back into place. You wondered if it was as soft as it looked.

Then, the last race of the season: Abu Dhabi.

The bright light glittered off the water in Yas Marina. Everyone felt the year-long exhaustion now. But now, after the post-race coverage you, Nico, and Jenson did, you finally sat in the green room, shoes next to you, feet aching from standing in heels you now regretted wearing.

This was when Jenson walked in, hair tousled by the wind, looking tired. His demeanor and expression softened as soon as he laid his blue eyes on you.

“You okay?” He spoke up.

You didn’t hear him come in and look up as soon as he spoke, I’m just…tired.”

He sat next to you on the couch, knees touching, the warmth of his thighs seeping into your tired muscles, “It was a hell of a season.”

You looked over at him, in your exhaustion. You really looked at him.

The words tumbled from your mouth without thinking, “Were you just kind to me because I was the new girl?”

Jenson was now facing you, vulnerability swimming in the look he gave you, “No. It wasn’t because you were new.”

Holding your gaze, you said softly, “Why then?”

He exhaled, slow, “Because you’re you. And because” he stopped himself, calculating his next words, “I’ve spent the entire year denying myself of what I’ve felt, trying not to feel what I feel.”

You blinked, the familiar feelings resurfacing, “Then stop denying yourself. Stop trying.”

It was like the tension finally cracked between you two. The small, secret smiles, the lingering looks, all the times he protected you in his own subtle way, it all rushed in at that moment. Jenson looked at you, really looked like he was on the edge of falling into a decision he refused to act on all year.

For the first time, he didn’t deny himself what he felt for you. He reached out to you, placing a warm hand on your cheek. His thumb tracing the edge of your mouth, a look telling you he’d been contemplating this moment for a long time. You lean into his touch, placing your hand on top of his, asking him not to let go.

His touch was gentle, careful like you were something sacred he was dying to touch, to worship, “I don’t know what this is, but I know what I feel.”

“We’ll figure it out together,” you whisper.

His lips find yours first, his other hand cupping the side of your neck, hidden in your hair. You’d imagined this moment for months, but you still couldn’t believe this was happening. His lips moved against yours own, slowly, as if he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the taste of your lips. You kissed him back gently, almost as if anything else would break the moment. There was no rush here. You had wanted this for so long, your fireworks finally happening, but you think it might have been the ongoing celebrations out in the world, away from this moment.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against your own, his breath warm and mixing with your own.

“For the record,” he whispered, “I stopped trying, the day you wore your Sky Sports jacket inside out and still out-analyzed the entire panel.”

You laughed, coming out quietly, “You noticed.”

“I notice everything.”

[angeliccss]

Signed, Sealed, Yours: The Things We Don’t Say

Pairing: Joanne/Reader

Words: 2.2k

Summary: In the hush between chaos and clarity, she finally says it out loud.

AO3

AN: I’m so so sorry for taking literally forever to post this chapter, I’ve had a hard time liking anything I’ve written lately.

You hadn’t heard from Joanne all night. Not after you left her apartment wrapped in one of her expensive coats, your heart cracking under the weight of feelings you hadn’t known you could hold. But by morning, the silence broke.

A black car idled outside your building when you stepped outside, the driver in a pressed suit, holding a small white card between gloved fingers. He handed you the card. Joanne’s handwriting was unmistakable—elegant, looping, rushed.

“For my darling girl. Humor me.”

Inside the car: a bouquet of deep red roses, a gift bag from a designer brand you couldn’t pronounce, and a note taped to the dash.

“Lunch is waiting. Wear the dress. —J”

You stared at it all, dazed, heart hammering. Joanne wasn’t being subtle. Not that she ever really had been. The driver cleared his throat politely, motioning to the back seat. You slid in, fingers ghosting over the delicate petals, the fine silk of the dress folded neatly beside you.

It was overwhelming. It was so her. It was… distracting you from the sharp ache in your chest, the memory of her pulling away last night like she had no choice. Maybe that was her plan. Maybe it was working.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

Lunch was at an impossibly beautiful rooftop restaurant you’d only ever seen in magazines. Joanne was already there when you arrived—impeccably dressed, calm, composed. Like last night had never happened. Like she hadn’t looked at you like you were something she couldn’t afford to want.

She stood as you approached, her smile soft but careful. “You look beautiful, darling. Come sit.” You sat. You smiled back. You pretended your heart wasn’t breaking and mending at the same time.

As you ordered champagne you didn’t need, as you let her slip a velvet box across the table toward you without ceremony, you told yourself not to read into it. It was just Joanne being extravagant. It was just Joanne being guilty. It was just Joanne…

You opened the box. Inside: a delicate, stunning necklace. Your breath caught. She must have seen it, because she leaned in, voice low and certain. "I meant what I said." You looked up at her, wide-eyed. "You're mine now."

The words should have felt heavy. Instead, they made something inside you bloom. But still, at the edge of all this glittering, beautiful distraction, the truth gnawed at you: You were in love with her. And you didn’t know if she could love you back the same way.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

You wore the necklace. Of course you did.

It rested against your collarbone like it had always belonged there, catching the light every time you moved. Joanne’s eyes flickered to it again and again during lunch, the way someone might check if a secret was still safe.

She smiled at you—warm, affectionate, lingering just a moment too long. But something in her smile didn’t reach her eyes. You could feel it.

Just like she could probably feel the way your laughter wasn’t quite full. The way you held her hand across the table a little too tight, like maybe she’d vanish if you let go.

Everything between you sparkled, glittered, gleamed—champagne glasses clinked, compliments passed between you like currency. But beneath the surface, something heavier stirred.

Joanne ordered dessert even though neither of you really wanted it. A towering confection of spun sugar and espresso cream. “It looked too pretty not to try,” she said, offering you the first bite like it was penance.

You took it. You smiled. But you couldn’t stop thinking about how quiet her apartment had felt the night before, how her voice had cracked around the word scared. Joanne reached for your hand again. “You’re awfully quiet.”

“So are you.” Her mouth curved, just slightly. “I’m trying to be good.” You tilted your head. “Good?”

“I think I made you feel like you weren’t wanted,” she said softly, her thumb brushing across your knuckles. “And that wasn’t true. Not for one second.”

You stared at her. For all the wealth, the power, the performance—this was the part that disarmed you. The truth she never said unless it was already spilling out.

“I never thought I’d feel this way again,” she continued, voice low. “And I didn’t know what to do with it. So I did what I always do. I pushed.” You swallowed. “And now?”

“Now I’m trying to pull you closer. Even if I’m still scared.” The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was thick with weight—meaning. And yet neither of you said the one thing that could have cracked it open.

I love you.

You thought it. You felt it. You knew it. But the words lodged in your throat, too big, too fragile to risk out loud. Instead, you said, “I’m still here.”

And Joanne smiled—sad and soft, like she was grateful for every second more she got to keep you. “I know,” she murmured. “And I don’t want to waste that.”

You didn’t know how to say that you didn’t want her money or the restaurants or the velvet boxes. You just wanted her.

And she didn’t know how to say that she wanted to give you more than the world—she wanted to give you her heart, but didn’t know how without bleeding.

So instead, she called the driver. And you let her take you shopping again.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

The boutique was quieter, more private—by invitation only. You wouldn’t have even known it existed if Joanne hadn’t handed your name to the concierge like it belonged on the list.

She didn’t say much on the ride over. Her fingers were laced through yours, her gaze fixed out the window. But her silence felt different this time. Not cold—calculating.

You watched her, eyes tracing the sharp line of her jaw, the tension there. “What are you thinking about?” you asked softly. “Winning,” she said without hesitation. “I’m thinking about how to win.”

You blinked. “Against Larry?” A short nod. “He’s a petty man with too much pride and not enough sense. But he’s sloppy. And I know where the bodies are buried.” You felt the chill of her words even though her tone was casual.

Joanne turned her head then, and her smile was that same one she gave to lawyers in courtrooms—tight, unreadable. “He’s been siphoning money through one of his ‘charities.’ Using a youth arts fund to bankroll a ridiculous condo in Montauk.”

Your eyes widened. “You’re kidding.”

“I have receipts,” she said, as if discussing the weather. “And when I decide it’s time, I’ll leak them. Quietly. Strategically. After I’ve made sure he can’t land on his feet.”

You stared at her. She leaned closer, her perfume thick with something sweet and sharp. “He wanted a war. He forgot I never lose.”

The boutique doors opened for her like magic. Inside, you tried on silk blouses and designer shoes. She chose everything for you, offering soft praise between every change, her hands sometimes lingering at your waist, her voice low and coaxing.

You smiled, you let yourself be spoiled—but that same weight hadn’t left you. Because you knew her gestures weren’t just gifts. They were distractions.

And you were doing the same thing—smiling, playing along—because saying what you really felt would mean breaking something open between you.

Joanne sat in the dressing room’s velvet chair, watching you as you turned in front of the mirror. Her eyes didn’t stray. Not once.

“You know,” she said after a beat, “I’ve bought diamonds for people who meant less to me than you do.” You froze.

She knew it. Her gaze met yours in the mirror—cool, unreadable, but the tremor in her voice gave her away. “I’m not used to this,” she added quietly. “To giving a damn.”

And there it was again. The thing between you both, unsaid and massive. You stepped out of the mirror’s reflection and stood in front of her, still wearing a dress she picked—tight, elegant, too expensive for anyone but her to afford.

“Joanne—” you started. But her phone rang. She didn’t even glance at the screen before silencing it. “Don’t,” she said gently, like she already knew what you were about to confess. “Not here. Not yet.”

You didn’t know if she meant not ever. And that terrified you. But you nodded anyway, because you were both dancing around the same truth.

Love had never been soft for either of you. It had always come dressed in sharp heels and broken glass. But this—whatever this was—it was real. And eventually, one of you was going to have to say it first.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

Joanne’s hand lingered at the small of your back as you stepped out of the elevator and into the warmth of her apartment. The door closed behind you with a soft click, and something in the air shifted—lighter, safer.

“You’re quiet,” she said, setting her sunglasses on the side table. You turned toward her. “Just thinking.”

“That can be dangerous.” Her voice was teasing, but her hands found yours before you could reply. “Come here.” And you did. She kissed your temple first, slow and deliberate. “You were perfect today, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes lightly. “All I did was try on clothes.”

“Yes. And looked like you belonged in every single one.” Her smile was genuine now. Open. The kind that had been missing the last few days. You let yourself melt a little under it.

Later, on the balcony, the sun was dipping low, casting her in gold. She lit a cigarette and handed it to you first this time, fingers brushing yours.

“You’re going to turn me into a smoker,” you said dryly, taking a drag.

She exhaled her own cloud and smirked. “No, darling. You’re just going to do what you want. And right now, you want to be close to me.”

You flushed, and she caught it—her smile softening. “I don’t mind being wanted,” she added after a beat. “Not when it’s you.”

You passed the cigarette between you in silence for a few moments. The air was warm, her leg pressed against yours, her gaze distant.

Then: “He’s unraveling.” You glanced at her. Joanne nodded toward the glass doors where the TV was visible through the reflection. “Channel four. Third segment in.”

You both moved inside, her hand finding yours again, lacing through it instinctively. She turned up the volume.

“…ongoing investigation into the alleged misuse of charitable funds by Larry Weissman, a prominent figure in city politics…”

Your stomach dropped. The anchor continued, showing vague paperwork, blurred figures, aerial shots of a beach house.

You turned to Joanne, and the look on her face was so serene it almost frightened you. “I told you,” she murmured. “He doesn’t win this time.”

She didn’t look triumphant, not exactly. Just…certain. Like she’d already seen the ending and had chosen not to tell you how it all ended—only that it did.

You didn’t ask her what she’d done. You didn’t need to. Instead, you curled up beside her on the couch, letting her arm drape around your shoulders. “Joanne?”

“Mmm?”

“I’m glad you let me stay.” She kissed your hair. “I never should’ve made you go.” You didn’t speak after that. You just stayed close, the warmth of her body grounding you, the television droning in the background like static.

You didn’t speak after that. Just curled up beside her on the couch, letting her arm drape around your shoulders, her perfume soft and familiar.

For a while, the room was only filled with the low hum of the news and the occasional crackle from the fireplace.

Then Joanne shifted slightly, turning to look at you, really look at you. “I love you,” she said. Soft. Steady. Like it was the easiest truth in the world.

You froze. Not because you hadn’t hoped for it—but because hearing it aloud made everything real. More real than the clothes, the cigarettes, the war with Larry. More real than anything she’d given you.

You swallowed. “You do?” She smiled, brushing your cheek with her fingers. “Of course I do. It was never just about playing house with you. You think I spoil just anyone?”

You let out a shaky breath, staring at her, and then, your voice almost breaking, asked, “How do you know?”

Joanne paused. And then, quietly: “Because when I pushed you away, it didn’t make anything easier. It just made everything hurt. And I knew right then that I’d do anything to keep you.”

You didn’t answer. Not with words. Instead, you leaned in and kissed her. Not out of impulse. Not because it was what came next. You kissed her because you were in love, too. And now, finally, you weren’t the only one who knew it.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

Later, long after the news had been muted and the last ember in the ashtray had gone cold, you lay together in the dim quiet of her apartment.

Joanne’s arm was draped around your waist, her breath warm against your shoulder. You could feel her heartbeat—steady, certain, as if it had never faltered.

She didn’t say anything more, and neither did you. There was nothing else that needed to be said.

But as her fingers traced lazy, absentminded shapes along your skin, and her lips brushed once more against the back of your neck, you realized something:

This wasn’t a game anymore. It never had been. And no matter what Larry tried—this was something he could never touch.

[moody-alcoholic]

Cross My Heart

Chapter 6 - War Crimes

Summary: poly141 x reader. Enemies to lovers. WC: 4.6k Original abridged version HERE

CW: +18 content MDNI, Sex, PiV sex, discription of weapons, bombs, war.

Previous - masterlist - next AO3

Enjoy <3

You’re avoiding Soap - Johnny, you’re not sure what the fuck to call him now. And he kissed you, twice. You’re not complaining, he’s a good kisser - maybe a little eager, too much tongue, you have a feeling he likes long sloppy make out sessions. 

You sigh and start tapping your foot watching people mull around the base. You’re not going to kiss him again, it’s not professional. Fuck being professional he’s a SAS soldier, you shouldn’t be kissing him fullstop. He is a good kisser though. 

Your leg starts to bounce as you go over it again and again in your head. The last person you kissed was Ivan, with him it was always a transaction. You were both getting something more then just a kiss, or a handjob or sex. With Johnny… it doesn’t feel like that, it feels different.

Maybe you’re thinking too much, it is just a kiss. Two kisses, you remind yourself. Maybe you should talk to him about it, ask him to stop at the very least. You know nothing about him, what if he has a wife and kid at home and you just became a homewrecker. 

“Hey?” The voice makes you jump and you straighten up turning to see Alex, he has an eyebrow raised. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

“It’s okay.” You say quickly composing yourself. 

“How are you feeling?” You ask, gesturing at his arm. “Recovering?” 

“I’m good. I never got to thank you really.” He says. “Thank you. I would have died if it wasn’t for you.”

“Don’t mention it.” You reply. You feel guilty, if you hadn't bumped into 141 you would have stood by and let him get tortured. You wouldn't have cared what happened to him or who he was. 

“Sorry about your friend.” He says, you look over at him and scoff.

“Yeah, well, he wasn’t really a friend.” You say, almost snapping at him. You don’t know why you’re getting so defensive. He was a friend, probably one of your only friends. 

“What about you and Farah? You seem close.” You say moving the subject along. You watch as his face lights up, he doesn’t even try to hide it. You’ve seen the way he looks at her, the way he admires her.

“She’s a brilliant commander.” As if on cue she walks past the window. It stops Alex in his tracks as he watches her walk. He looks like he would walk through fire for her. You chuckle rolling your eyes. 

“What?” He asks. 

“I wish someone would look at me like that.” You say crossing your arms. 

“Like what?” He asks, crossing his arms too. You scoff, he’s like a school boy in love. It’s almost as cute as it is pathetic. 

“What about you and Soap?” He asks. 

“What about me and him?” You raise an eyebrow. He doesn’t say anything, just hums and looks back out the window at Farah looking over some paperwork. She always has someone following her around on the base, if it’s not Alex it's some other ULF soldier. She starts them young, just like Al-Qatala, just like the boy who blew himself up thinking he was going to make a difference.

“You should give her a chance.” He says changing the subject. You sigh. 

“With respect Alex. You have no idea about my relationship with the ULF. Besides, it won't make a difference to you. When this war is over no matter which side wins you’ll go home. Maybe in a bodybag but you’ll leave.” You sigh again. “Leave us with all this mess to clean up.” 

“Pick a side then.” he says, almost sounding annoyed. You don’t want to have this conversation again. 

“I did.” You say looking back up at him. “Whatever side gets me out of this country the quickest, no strings attached.” 

“You two done flirting?” You hear Soap call down the hall, you both turn to look at him. Alex stands up from the window and looks back at you. 

“141 are not the ticket out of here you think they are.” He says, you frown at him as he walks away. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He doesn’t reply and Johnny comes up to you. 

“What were you talking about?” He asks with a smile on his face. You sigh frustrated. 

“He’s got a crush on Farah.” You say, Johnny laughs, throwing his arm over your shoulders. 

“Tell me something I don’t know.” You shake your head scoffing. 

“C’mon, we need to get geared up. If we’re lucky they’ll have some good stuff from the last raid.” He says pulling you away from the window. 

_____

“So you must have had a nice house?” Soap asks as you’re walking up to the farm, hugging an old wall for cover even though it’s pitch black. 

“What?” You ask, surprised he’s being so casual before you’re about to break into a Konni weapons facility. 

“Your parents were both doctors, they probably made a lot of money.” He says. 

“Yeah, I guess.” You say, you can’t believe you’re having this conversation now. “My mum was a nurse.” You correct him. 

“But your dad was a surgeon.” He says. 

“Yeah, I guess. We lived in a town an hour from Sakhra. My father wanted to stay close to his parents.” You sigh, thinking about your old life makes you sad. “We lost it all when the war started.” 

“I’m sorry.” He says looking back at you quickly. You raise any eyebrow and shake your head. You look up at the fence and walls surrounding the old farm. The massive barn is where the weapons are being held, or at least that's where you assume. 

You gave them as much info as you could, you had only ever passed through the location, this was where you would have dropped off the specialists 141 killed. Alex was able to find older site plans from the early 90’s but even then you could tell from just observing the base they were extremely out of date. 

Price called an hour or so before you were already to leave. They’ve made it to Volgograd, no one told them about what you were doing. It felt weird for some reason it was almost like you were lying to them, and they trust Soap and Farah. 

“Let's keep it tight.” Soap says, his voice is lowered. You nod, taking a step closer to him, you’re almost at the back of the farm, not all of the wall is solid brick, some of it has been filled in with a chain fence.

Farah and Alex stick in the woodline, they’re looking out over the farm. You’re not really sure you’re going to need them but at least you have backup if you do. This time Soap actually showed you how to use the radio. 

“Who’s Laswell.” You ask as you hug the wall. You forgot to ask earlier but everyone seemed to know them even Farah.

“CIA contact.” 

“CIA? I thought you were British? What are you doing with the Americans?” 

“We go where we’re needed.” He says with a sigh. You shrug as you make it to a lower point of the brick wall. Soap swings his weapon over his back and pulls himself up to the top of the wall. 

“C’mon.” He whispers, leaning back down to offer you his hand. You smile and take it, letting him pull you up to the top of the wall. When you’re on the other side you’re behind one of the garages. 

“They store everything in the barn. There’s a loose panel round the back.” You say pointing through the gap between buildings at the massive industrial metal barn. Soap nods, you let him lead skirting round the perimeter of the farm. You use the shadows for cover only moving when you know it’s safe. It doesn’t take you long to reach the barn. 

This is too easy, the place has less staff then you’ve seen before. There are still 2 guards on the front doors of the barn. 

“Farah, how are we looking?” Soap asks into the radio. 

“You’re clear, no movement.” Her voice comes back. Soap looks at you smiling and you push forward hugging the wall as you make it round to the back of the building. Just as you remember there is a loose perplex panel hanging off. It's loud as you move it but you assume the barn is empty on the inside. You’ve been watching it for a few hours before making your move and no one has been going in or out. 

When you duck under the gap you come out into the massive barn. Anything that would have made you think this was a cattle barn has been removed. The place is now full of vehicles, ammo and weapons crates, different types of machinery and missiles. 

You wait for Soap to come through before following him over to them. They look new, not like the old soviet ones you’re used to seeing. Some of them even have the American flag printed on them, although most of them have been scraped off or painted over. As you walk round the smaller ones you make it to some bigger ones. 

These ones look older, you’re not sure how old though. They’re different then the stuff you’ve ever seen. Soap looks back at you frowning as you follow him over. You walk over to a table with tools on it, there's papers strewn around. 

“Fuckin’ hell.” Soap says as his hand runs over one of the missile heads. You look down at the papers, the only thing that sticks out is the yellow and black radiation sign. You swallow hard looking back at the huge missile in front of you. 

“Soap. These-” You’re too shocked to speak. You pick up a piece of paper off the table. “These belong to Makarov.” 

“Farah, the missions off. We’re leaving, there’s nothing we can do here.” Soap says, you can’t tell if he sounds more angry or sad.  

“Why, what's happened? Is the place empty?” She asks. He turns to look at you holding down the button on his radio. 

“No, it’s worse. Makarov has nukes.” 

“Say again?” Alex asks. 

“There’s nuclear warheads here. We can’t do anything without setting them off.” Soap says. You fold the paper up and put it in your pocket. 

“Your exit is still clear. Get out of there.” It's almost like she had no emotions about the whole thing. 

“Wait.” You say grabbing Soap’s arm. “There has to be a computer here, we can find out what Al Qatala were shipping over the border if it wasn’t missiles.” 

“It’s too risky.” He says.

“What if Makarov has nukes in Russia?” You say. 

“We’d know if he had nukes in Russia” He says, you let go of his arm and he moves to the exit.

“You didn’t know there were nukes here.” You say. 

“It’s not worth the risk, c’mon!” He snaps, reaching out to grab your arm and pull you to the exit. As you let him drag you, you see into a control room.

“Look.” You say digging your heels into the ground to stop him. “There’s a computer, let me check it.” He huffs looking round quickly.

“Quick.” he says, letting go of your arm. You smile and rush in, there’s no login option. You look for anything, something like a spreadsheet or order forms anything you think you could recognise. Finally after what feels like a few minutes you find what looks like an order request. They’ve tried to encrypt it but it must have failed for some reason. 

“A few days ago. There was a shipment of warheads and stabilisers.” You say you're trying to translate, you have no idea what stabilisers mean, it’s not really the best translation and you’re being rushed. 

“Nukes?” He asks, you look over at him standing guard on the door.

“It doesn’t say.” There’s requests for a bunch of different types of chemicals, names of things you don’t even recognise.

“He’s playing around with chemicals. I don’t know what any of this means.” You say, you see Soap hesitate, looking around before coming over to see. He scans the document for a second before pointing at something.

“Its elements, chlorine, phosphorus, hydrogen.” 

“He’s making chemical bombs.” You say as a matter of fact. 

“Soap you better be out there you’ve got incoming.” Farah says. Before you even have time to react you hear a door open. You both duck and you hear Arabic voices echo in the massive barn. You start taking your radio off handing it to Soap.

“I’ll distract them, then you can leave.” You whisper.

“Are you crazy, they’ll kill you.” He puts his hand out to stop you. 

“I’ve talked myself out of worse situations. I’ve been here before, if they catch you they’ll kill you.” He sighs, taking it in his hands. 

“Your weapon too.” He points. You shake your head. 

“Might need to shoot my way out if they don’t believe me.” Before Soap can stop you you stand up. “Stay here, I'll get them out.” 

“Good luck.” He calls as you make it to the door. You smile at him and walk round the corner where you can hear the voices.

“Finally. Do you know how long I have been looking for someone in this place?” You say walking towards them. Confidence is key, you can do this. 

“Stay where you are!” One of them calls, they hold their weapons on you.

“Don’t shoot unless you plan on shipping my body back to Makarov.” You say, they look between themselves for a minute.

“You work for Makarov?” One of them asks.

“He sent me to find out why the next shipment is delayed.” You say putting your hands down and stepping closer to them. 

“We’re working on it.” One of them says as they lower their weapons.

“We have half the staff we used to have. Most people have been sent to fight the ULF.” The other one says. 

“Do you think I care about your staffing issues? That shipment was needed yesterday.” You say pointing at a random missile. “Who do I need to talk to to get some answers here?” 

“We’ll take you.” They say turning. You nod following them out the barn. You don’t want to end up speaking to whoever is in charge, they will definitely be able to sniff you out. You hang back, the people escorting you are two wrapped up in their own conversation to notice you lagging behind. 

As soon as they turn a corner you take your chance sneaking through the space between the 2 garages and round the back of the main building. You sneak through a gap in the wall. You hope Soap got out, you head towards the meeting point anyway. 

It’s not long before you see Soap step out from behind the trees. 

“Thanks.” He says handing you back your radio. You smile at him, putting it back on your hip. A few seconds later Farah and Alex step through the foliage too. 

“Is it true they have nukes?” Farah asks, her composure is completely different now. 

“Chemical weapons too. They’ve been shipping them into Russia.” Soap says. 

“Are you sure?” Alex asks, frowning. “We haven't seen anything.”

“I saw a shipping order.” You reach into your pocket and hand Farah the piece of paper you picked up. She looks at it Alex leans over to look too. Before she has a chance to say anything alarms ring out from the farm. You look over at Soap pressing your lips together. 

“Let's get out of here.” Alex calls. You nod and follow them deeper into the woods.

…

You’re not sure why the phone call with Price and Laswell is the most stressful part. 

“You did what?” Price snaps.

“It was my idea.” You say, flicking your eyes up to Soap who’s been standing back from the table with his arms crossed, his body language has completely changed. Not the laid back Soap you’re used to saying.

“I don’t bloody care whose idea it was you’re supposed to be resting, recovering before you come out here.” Price lets out a sigh.

“I think we have other things to worry about.” Alex says. 

“Alex’s is right. If the US finds out Al Qatala are shipping nukes over the border to Makarov and Konni we’re in trouble.” Laswell says. 

“What’s the US’s response going to be to this?” Price asks.

“I don’t know but I would assume they do not want private militias or terrorist organisations having access to such weapons.” Laswell says. 

“We don’t need the Americans invading here too.” Farah says. 

“They don’t even know yet, but we need to tell them right. We can’t keep this to ourselves?” Alex says. 

“No, we don't tell anyone! Not the Americans, not the British. We will deal with this problem ourselves.” Farah says.

“The ULF is not in a position to disarm nuclear warheads.” Laswell says her voice is more stern. 

“Won’t make a difference if they’re all being shipped to Russia.” You say. 

“We can’t let anymore come through. Whatever Makarov is planning we need to put a stop to it before the next shipment. When is it?” Price asks.

“3 days, although with the security breach it could be moved up.” You say. There’s silence. 

“Laswell, any changes in Makarov’s movements?” Price asks after what feels like forever.

“No, as far as I can tell he’s still in Volgograd.” She replies.

“Okay, I’m sending Nikoli to pick you up. He’ll fly you out to Volgograd.” Price says, you look round at everyone. There’s a new person now, Nikoli.

“Copy.” Soap says. It’s the first time you’ve heard him speak since he finished explaining everything to Price. 

“In the meantime stay put. I can’t be worrying about you getting yourselves killed.” Price says. “Send Laswell everything you know, we’ll speak soon.” There's a click on the line. 

“The data you got from the base on the border arrived yesterday. I can go through it, I'll have what you asked for by tomorrow.” Laswell says. 

“Thank you.” Farah says, before ending the call. You look over at Soap, he seems disappointed about something. 

“You should get some rest.” Farah says her eyes flicking to Soap. You move over to him resting your hand on his arm. 

“Let’s go. We should get something to eat at least.” You say looking up at him. His eyes land on you but they seem dark, distant. You don’t know if it's about the nukes or the response from Price but you’ve not seen him like this before. He nods and turns to leave.

He’s quiet while you get something to eat. Pushing food around his tray while you inhale whatever mush they’re serving. You talk, if not just to fill the dead air, you’re sure he’s heard some of the stuff before but he doesn’t even complain. 

“I’m going to take a shower.” He says suddenly before getting up and moving away before you have a chance to say anything. You look down at the uneaten food on his tray. 

…

You’re laid in the shared dorm room staring at the ceiling trying to think what Johnny’s sad about. Or maybe he is just mad, maybe when he gets mad he goes silent. You feel like you don’t know him enough to judge him, or analyse him. A door opens and some people walk in, stripping their coats off and kicking off boots. 

You turn over in bed trying to ignore the noise and turning on and off of  lights. You’re not going to be comfortable here, you’re not going to be able to sleep. Not with everything going on in your head, and now all you can think about is Johnny. 

You swing yourself out the cot pulling your boots back on and heading out the room with your coat tucked under your arm.

Johnny got his own room, maybe it’s because of his status, maybe it’s because Farah likes them. Whatever the reason, you would rather be with him then where you are right now. 

When you make it to his door you hesitate, he told you where he was staying before you left. You let out a sigh and knock. You wait a few seconds before it opens, he’s standing there topless with a raised eyebrow. 

“You okay?” You ask, swallowing the nerves. 

“Are you?” He asks. You nod, he steps to the side inviting you in. As soon as you’re through the threshold his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you against him. 

“You’ve been quiet. Are you upset about something?” You ask, throwing your jacket over the chair. He lets out a long sigh burying his head in your neck. He doesn’t say anything, his hands running up your side, his touch is soft against your skin. 

“Was it what Price said?” You ask, he spins you in his arms. You press up against him, his cheeks are flushed. He reaches down and kisses you. His hands run up your shirt to your breasts. You put your arms up in the air breaking from the kiss so he can pull your shirt over your head. 

What the hell are you doing? This is more than just a kiss. You’re not stopping him though, your body moves with him, your tongue chases his. 

His kisses get deeper, more needy, then his tongue runs down to your neck, across your collar bones. You moan out for him, his hands slipping past your waist band. His mouth locks round one of your nipples. He hums, nibbling and flicking it as you push one of your hands through his hair. 

“Christ love, fuckin’ sweet as sugar.” He breathes, dropping to his knees and looking up at you. Looking up at you with those deep blue eyes. His lips wet and shining as he pulls your trousers down. You spread your legs for him, as much as you can. He kisses your abdomen, his hands grip your ass digging his fingers into the soft flesh. 

His mouth continues to move down, his tongue hot, pressing against your skin, he moans and you continue to run your fingers through his hair.

“Johnny, bed.” You say. He looks up at you, one of your hands drops to stroke his cheek. He slowly stands back up until he’s towering above you. Your hands drop down to the front of his pants fiddling with his belt buckle.

He slowly starts to move you over to the bed, as soon as you reach it you gently push him down. He bounces on the cot, his mouth tipping open. You take a step back kicking your boots off and stepping out your trousers. 

“Lay down.” You say. He follows swinging his legs into the bed and laying flat with his head on the pillows. “Think we’ll get interrupted this time?”

“Did you lock the door?” he asks, nodding towards it. You turn, going over and securing the latch. When you look back round he’s shimmed his bottoms off laying naked in the bed. You watch as his hand strokes up and down his cock exposing the red tip. 

This is your last chance to back out. There’s no turning back after this. 

You walk over to him and  swing your legs over him kneeling on his thighs. You replace his hands with yours, his head tips back as you slowly shuffle closer to his hips. His cock is big in your hands, angry and throbbing. You press your thumb over his tip collecting the pre leaking out. You’ve only just sat on him and he’s this wet already. 

You don’t know if you’re helping, but this is the most vocal he’s been since you got back. You kneel up and he opens his eyes watching as you hover above him stroking up and down his cock. You smile at him before you ease yourself down on him. 

He lets out a groan, his hands coming to rest on your thighs. They run up and down as you slowly begin to ride him. It doesn’t take you long to get into a steady rhythm, he watches you, his hands gripping you tighter and tighter with each thrust.

His gentle moans turning into grunts and pants. Before long you’re panting along with him, your heart starts beating faster in your chest. He feels good, the last person you had sex with was Ivan and that was nothing like this. It was just a transaction, this is different, he’s reacting to you, his touch is soft as is his gaze, his moans. 

It makes you work harder, leaning over to run your hands over his chest, he has scars, a particularly nasty looking on his shoulder. Probably a bullet, you run your fingers over one on his chest. 

“Make a habit out of getting shot?” You ask him between pants. 

“Not really, just end up in sticky situations.” He says. You reach down and kiss him, rocking your hips on him. He breaks from the kiss, tipping his head back. 

“Christ, perfect love.” He says, letting out a long breath. He’s bucking his hips in time with you. You’re getting close, the new angle pressing against the spongy spot inside you. You close your eyes arching your back trying not to dig your nails into him.

He grips you tighter, he’s getting closer, so are you. You sit back up straight bracing your hands on his chest. You moan with him, letting him control the speed with his hands gripping your thighs. 

“Jesus.” He arches his back as he cums. You feel him throb inside you, he stops moving as you ride him through the orgasm, it only feels like a few seconds later when you cum to the feeling of him filling you up pushes you over the edge. 

You fall against him, laying on his chest. He wraps his arms around you and turns you in the bed, when he slips out of you, you feel empty. He kisses your forehead then you turn over on your back. 

He does the same letting out a long breath. He reaches down and pulls the blanket over you both, you turn to lean up against his chest wrapping your arm around his stomach. 

“It wasn’t what Price said. He’s not really angry. He doesn't get angry anymore, at least not with us.” He says after a few seconds, his hand runs down your back.

“Leaving you at the farm. Not knowing if you would get out or not.” You look up at him. “You could have died.” 

“So could you.” You say, you don’t know if that will help or not but it’s all you can think to say, you're surprised he even cared. “Besides I would have got out.”

“You’re too cocky, it’ll get you killed.” He says.

“You’re a soldier, you literally put your life on the line every day.” You scoff back. 

“We’re trained.” 

“Me too, in another world maybe I would have been like you.” You say running your hand across his chest. 

“You served?” 

“Military service is mandatory in Urzikstan.” You shrug. 

“Not really your thing?” He asks.

“I’m not good at following orders. Used to being alone. I learned a long time ago that people you love can hurt you the most.” You sigh resting your head against his chest. He chuckles. 

“What?” You ask. 

“I know someone who said something similar to me once.” He says he tightens his arm around you.

“Yeah?” You ask, sleepy. 

“Yeah, I think you’d like him.” 

“Maybe one day I’ll meet.” You say relaxing against him. He kisses the top of your head.

“Yeah, maybe one day you will.” 

[satsugacafe]

𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐎𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐦 (𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐕𝐞𝐫.)

➳❥ 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬: Hirako Shinji, Shuhei Hisagi, Hitsugaya Toshiro, Ishida Uryu, Jugram Haschwalth

➳❥ 𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭: sweet! i was thinking of some hcs for hisagi toshiro uryu and shinji dealing with a yandere reader ^_^ so excited to see what other yandere hcs/fics you have already written too!

➳❥ 𝐀/𝐍: I hope this was what you meant by your request, since it wasn’t stated if you wanted reader as their partner or not—I made it non-established. Thank you for the request!

➳❥ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: yandere content, stalking, manipulation, threats, mentions of harming others, obsessive behaviour, mention of getting rid of reader (Jugram’s part), aggressive behaviour, non-established relationship (more at the obsessive crush stage)

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐍𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

⋆˚✿˖° Hirako Shinji

˚₊‧꒰ა Shinji had noticed it early on, not through anything obvious, but due to your eyes lingered too long on anyone who looked his way. He had chosen not to address it at first because curious to see how far you’d go.

˚₊‧꒰ა He didn’t mind the attention, in fact, he revelled in it. He liked being watched, adored, even obsessively. Shinji found it flattering in a way that would have disturbed most people. Your possessiveness amused him to a point.

˚₊‧꒰ა When he caught you following him through Seireitei when you’d claimed to be sick and stayed home, that’s when he started setting boundaries. Made sure you knew he’d seen you, made sure you knew he wasn’t angry, just aware.

˚₊‧꒰ა He liked the control it gave him, so rather than scolding or retreating, he just fed the flames just enough to keep you. He let you have pieces of himself but never everything.

˚₊‧꒰ა That’s when he started changing his patterns just to throw you off. Sometimes he disappeared for hours, reappearing without explanation. Other times he’d show up right behind you, whispering things in your ear that confirmed he knew you were always watching.

˚₊‧꒰ა He handled the more intense moments when your jealousy flared and your anger showed by distracting you, drawing your focus back onto him. Sometimes with a joke, sometimes with touch, sometimes just with that lazy smile that always looked like it knew too much.

˚₊‧꒰ა He wasn’t afraid of you. He should have been, maybe after he found your little notebook filled with names crossed out—names of women who had simply spoken too sweetly to him—but it only intrigued him. He burned the notebook in front of you and said nothing while watching your face.

˚₊‧꒰ა He kept you close out of curiosity and control. You were dangerous, and that was fine by him. So long as he remained more dangerous than you.

˚₊‧꒰ა When others tried to warn him, he dismissed them with a shrug. Not because he didn’t believe them, but because he didn’t care. You were his problem, his game. No one else got a say in it.

˚₊‧꒰ა He never once gave you reassurance. Never once told you that you were the only one, because he knew you’d chase that answer harder if you never got it. And he liked being chased. Liked the pressure of your obsession like a blade at his back. It kept things exciting.

˚₊‧꒰ა The more your madness grew, the more composed he became. You could cry, beg, threaten—he’d just tilt his head and look at you like he was dissecting a particularly interesting poem.

˚₊‧꒰ა He wouldn’t say, but he secretly enjoyed having his personal, crazed and obsessed fan who saw only him.

⋆˚✿˖° Shuhei Hisagi

˚₊‧꒰ა Poor Hisagi didn’t realise what he was dealing with at first. You seemed quiet, maybe a little intense, but he chalked it up to the way Soul Society operated. Everyone carried some form of trauma. He thought you were just a little overprotective.

˚₊‧꒰ა Then it started showing up in patterns. Friends avoiding him because of your glare, people flinching when you entered a room, subtle remarks from colleagues about how he was “never alone” anymore, even when he should be.

˚₊‧꒰ა He blamed himself for a while. Thought maybe he was giving you mixed signals or not being present enough. He tried to include you more, kept communication open, invited you to sparring matches and work breaks, but it only made things worse.

˚₊‧꒰ა The first time you snapped at a female division member who handed him a report, he froze. It was a threat. Knowing him, he handled it quietly, apologised to the girl and took you aside. And typically, you didn’t see anything wrong with what you’d done.

˚₊‧꒰ა He was never the type to raise his voice, but your behaviour pushed him to silent walls of steel. But even that only worked for so long before you started interpreting it as rejection.

˚₊‧꒰ა He wasn’t afraid of confrontation, but he hated the emotional strain. He started isolating you gently—setting firm boundaries masked in affection. “Time for myself” became sacred. Locked doors, off-the-grid missions, and a return to the weight of solitude he thought he’d buried.

˚₊‧꒰ა But you would follow him because you always found him. Sometimes just watching from a distance, sometimes sneaking into his quarters to leave little notes or gifts. It disturbed him, but he couldn’t bring himself to report you.

˚₊‧꒰ა Because of his kind soul, he carried guilt like armour, and believed love meant patience, and he had a lot of it, but you chipped away at it with every possessive glance, every quiet threat, every smile that never quite reached your eyes anymore.

˚₊‧꒰ა The tattoos on his face were meant to remind him of the things he’d survived. He started tracing them more when you were near. A grounding ritual. You never noticed it, but it meant everything to him.

˚₊‧꒰ა He avoided involving others. Even when Kira and Renji noticed the tension, he brushed it off. He didn’t want you labelled. Didn’t want them whispering about you like you were unhinged. He still thought he could help.

˚₊‧꒰ა When he realised he couldn’t, it broke something in him because he didn’t end things with cruelty or sudden abandonment. He just faded, and became harder to find—always one mission ahead of wherever you looked next.

˚₊‧꒰ა But he still thought about you with regret. Wondering if maybe in another life, with different wiring, you could’ve just loved him without burning the world down to do it.

⋆˚✿˖° Hitsugaya Toshiro

˚₊‧꒰ა Your clinginess irritated him first since he hated inefficiency, and your constant presence slowed him down. He’d told you a few times to give him space more than once, and when you didn’t listen, he began putting systems in place.

˚₊‧꒰ა You couldn’t sneak up on him—he could sense your reiatsu with pinpoint accuracy. You couldn’t hide things—he’d been trained to see through lies. And when he discovered you’d been monitoring who he spoke to, and cutting them off socially one by one, he confronted you without hesitation.

˚₊‧꒰ა Toshiro was the type to coddle, and you weren’t spared from his criticism. He outlined your behaviour, laid down the lines you’d crossed, and the consequences if you continued.

˚₊‧꒰ა And of course, you ignored him. Typical of you to do so. You believed it was love, and love meant sacrifice. He called it delusion.

˚₊‧꒰ა When his schedule became more erratic, you’d find him gone for days, sometimes weeks, and when he returned, he treated you like a subordinate, not a lover. His tone turned clipped, affection vanished, and he surrounded himself with people who would report if you showed up near him again.

˚₊‧꒰ა He started involving Rangiku, who was the only one who could get through to you with some level of warmth. She kept you distracted when necessary, but it wore on her. You were volatile, paranoid, and unwilling to see the line between care and control.

˚₊‧꒰ა Things got worse when he moved quarters and changed protocol without telling you. Even had a private report on your movements filed under a different name so no one would accuse him of bias. In your eyes, you didn’t notice the shifts, and it gave him the advantage to build walls around himself faster than you could tear them down.

˚₊‧꒰ა He hated the surveillance—that it was needed—but he wasn’t going to risk anyone’s safety, least of all his own, for the sake of a delusional relationship you refused to let die.

˚₊‧꒰ა The final straw was when you interfered in one of his missions—put yourself in danger just to be near him. He didn’t even confront you. He simply filed a report and had you reassigned. Minimal contact. Barely a glance when you passed by in the halls.

˚₊‧꒰ა His heart didn’t ache, nor did he question his choices. He simply considered the problem handled. If you escalated again, he was already prepared to treat you as a threat, not a lover.

˚₊‧꒰ა And yet, part of him still watched. Because even after everything, he knew obsession like yours didn’t end.

⋆˚✿˖° Ishida Uryu

˚₊‧꒰ა Noticed the signs veryyyyy early but kept silent, partly because he assumed he was overanalysing, and partly because he didn't know how to address it without sounding arrogant. After all, what were the odds someone could be that obsessed with him?

˚₊‧꒰ა But your possessiveness wasn’t subtle. The way you hovered at the fringes when he spoke with others, especially girls. The way your expression barely twitched, but your eyes tracked every movement. The way small, inconvenient things happened to people who were too friendly to him—missing books, vanished lunchboxes, notes snatched before they could be read.

˚₊‧꒰ა Not the type to jump to conclusions immediately. Instead, he made lists, timestamps, comparison charts. It became a quiet investigation—the same way he’d analyse his stitching patterns. You became another puzzle to solve.

˚₊‧꒰ა When he managed to confront you, he tried to address the situation carefully and logically, explaining his observations, showing concern without accusation. It only led to you smiling and said he was imagining things. You even laughed, which unsettled him more than anything else. Because you weren’t denying it—you were mocking the idea that he could stop you.

˚₊‧꒰ა From that moment, he put emotional distance between you. Still polite, still considerate, but distant. His texts became sparse. Meetings were brief, and never alone. He went back to sitting alone in class.

˚₊‧꒰ა And you didn’t take his rejection lightly. It only prompted you to try harder. Leaving lunches in his locker, stitching gifts by hand, blocking people online who complimented him. He knew it was you. No one else had access to his passwords, and no one else would bother.

˚₊‧꒰ა He refused to respond because Uryu knew that was what you wanted—any reaction. Instead, he maintained control. Filed incident reports with no names attached. Left fake journals in his room with misleading thoughts and plans, and let you find them.

˚₊‧꒰ა He started planting red herrings—faked interests in people he knew you’d confront, just to confirm how far you’d go. When they reported strange notes or sabotage, it all lined up neatly.

˚₊‧꒰ა He got tired. The kind of weariness that made him switch off his phone for days at a time. Ignore knocks at the door. Stay hidden longer than needed.

˚₊‧꒰ა He never told his father. His grandfather might have offered guidance, but Ryuken would have escalated things with brutal efficiency, and Uryu didn’t want his father and grandfather getting involved. He wanted it handled with dignity—even if you didn’t deserve it.

˚₊‧꒰ა When he finally decided to break things off, it was in writing. A detailed, restrained letter explaining boundaries, citing examples, and making it crystal clear: this was no longer a relationship. It was a security concern.

˚₊‧꒰ა And even then, he still half-expected you to turn up in the rain, smiling, acting as though nothing had changed. He’d already programmed new locks by that point.

⋆˚✿˖° Jugram Haschwalth

˚₊‧꒰ა This man had seen obsession before (because he was it as well). He had served under a man whose every breath attracted fanaticism, thus, he knew what devotion looked like twisted beyond recognition. That was why, when he saw the first signs in you, he recognised them immediately (saw a bit of himself in you).

˚₊‧꒰ა He was not flattered. He was disturbed.

˚₊‧꒰ა Your attention to him was unblinking. The way you spoke about balance, about loyalty, about how you would do anything for him—those weren’t declarations of love. They were pledges. Oaths. And Jugram had had his fill of those (as if those same words weren’t his).

˚₊‧꒰ა He didn’t confront you right away. He watched your tendencies against the same parameters he used for soldiers. Thankfully, you weren’t violent. Yet. But you were territorial and paranoid. You had an inflated sense of proximity to him that he never agreed to.

˚₊‧꒰ა That made him started limiting your access to him specifically. Made sure others were always present when you visited, refused gifts, declined meetings. Aaaand you always came back offering silence and support. He knew better than to trust that quiet.

˚₊‧꒰ა Then you began talking about deserving him which was the tipping point. He did not want to be put on a pedestal, nor did not want a shadow praying at his feet. And he absolutely did not want to see that same fanaticism he’d once sworn to serve mirrored in your eyes—funny who he didn’t enjoy his own devotion returned.

˚₊‧꒰ა Jugram wasn’t the type who gave second warnings. Instead, he issued commands and told you to cease all communication, return any property, and to consider the association terminated.

˚₊‧꒰ა You refused. Of course you did.

˚₊‧꒰ა Which was easy for him because he sent two high-ranking soldat members to deliver your relocation orders to a distant base. No reason given. No contact allowed. And when you tried to return, your access was revoked across the board.

˚₊‧꒰ა Unfortunately, you didn’t disappear, which he knew, but he was prepared for that too: surveillance and layers of misleading information. You could follow all you wanted—he would never be visible again.

˚₊‧꒰ა It disturbed him how much it reminded him of himself. The younger version. The devoted version. The fool.

˚₊‧꒰ა He considered taking you out for preventative necessity. But there was still a sliver of pity left in him. A tiny ember of understanding, leading him to choose exile.

˚₊‧꒰ა When reports were checked, your file was still around, never deleted because he knew people like you didn’t disappear, and he had no intention of letting you believe you ever stood a chance again.

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @stygianoir @spellboundsuguru @cookielovesbook-akie @kennys-partner @sovl-society @villainsrtasty @carnationdoe @darthwhorecrux

©satsugacafé 2025: no permission to repost, plagiarise, copy or translate my work onto any other platform or this one.

[tweeeny]

trying my best to write smth about silverstone gp (based on press conference interview)

 'Lando, wait! Lando!'

Brit’s fast. Oscar even had to run to catch up with him. When he did, Oscar blocked Lando’s way, breathing hard. The man seemed in no mood to talk - he was offended and slightly shocked. Oscar totally understood that reaction. He himself was praying for journalists to stay silent about that message on the radio. He couldn’t bear seeing Lando’s face like that - not when brit’s childhood dream of winning at a home grand prix came true. Lando hesitated for a moment, then lifted his head to look at Oscar with those beautiful light watery and now sad eyes. Took a deep breath. His voice was soft, yet trembling.

'You asked for…w-what?'

'That was stupid of me, I mean, no, I didn't mean to…'

'Oscar, I let you have your moment. Now let me have mine.'

'Lando, please, I can explain, I was…'

'You were frustrated, and that’s fine, I get it. But saying, not… asking for a swap when I literally had nothing to do with your penalty! I kept my distance to not ruin both of our races, to not make it dangerous for you, Max, me and others. I was way off you at the back. Why didn’t you own up YOUR shitty mistake? Even in the cool down room you were so stubborn. Just tell them, “misjudged, it happens, my bad”, and they would be on their knees for you, repeating, “this boy is a real grown-up, how composed he is, he will take it back at Spa and all other races too”.'

'Lando…'

'You could be mad at a penalty, at a lost win, at weather conditions, at anything, and yet you brought me to a convo, hoping that the team would allow you to take the lead again by swapping our positions for a damn challenge for the win because you thought the stewards, or rather everyone, were unfair to you. I love to fight you wheel to wheel on a track, don’t get me wrong, those are the most precious and meaningful minutes of any race to me, but that was not it.'

Lando’s eyes were watering.

'Oscar, you hurt me. I… why am I always praising you when the bitterness spreads all over my heart, but you can’t do the same. Why are you acting like a brat and then in a full “sorry mode” with shaky hands and a strained voice full of guilt?'

Lando sighed. He was tired. Both physically and emotionally.

'Oscar, no more talking to me in private today. Tomorrow we’ll be fine, will figure everything out, and such a situation won’t affect us in the future ever again. But today… I'd prefer to stay alone. Tonight as well.'

'Lando…'

Oscar was lost. His whole body felt heavy, and the head empty. He wanted to touch the brit, to show him how much he did actually care, but he couldn’t. Not when Lando was done with Oscar’s stupidity and childish behaviour. Aussie never was a so-called “ice boy”, he was a volcano, sleeping for years, waiting, only to make the biggest, yet miserable crashout in history (in his life, actually, but who cared). Lando was different. His emotions were his strength, and that’s why he was never ashamed of crying in public or showing the world moments of greatest happiness with a broad bright smile on his face. He even made sure Landostand would cheer for him - Oscar, who was so bitchy and unfair towards Lando on the radio during the race. Brit was right - Oscar fucked up.

'Boys, what's the matter? What’s the noise?' Zak came from a briefing room.

'Nothing's wrong. Everything’s alright,' muttered Lando, leaving them there. Oscar got deja vu. Everything felt wrong.

p.s. i am still in the process of writing my first fic. at first, it should have ended during Canada, then Austria. and now Silverstone djskajka. i hope i complete it before Spa skksdklsdks

[redo-rewind-if]

Okay okay so consider this

How would the ROs react if they went to speak to the MC for smth (in whatever setting that fits) But when they reach them they see that MC has been crying

And perhaps the MC composes themselves to talk to them, putting on a normal expression

How would they react

(I'm a little too into these scenario stuff lol I hope this wasn't confusing I have too many thoughts in my head)

Oooo, bit of an angsty one I see! Nice! Gonna assume ROs are in a relationship/close friends with MC for this scenario.

This also got a little long so under the cut it goes.

V: Walking into the room, V spots you seated by the window staring out into the city below. You jolt as the door closes, but don't turn around.

Shoulders shaking, you try to blink away the tears still slipping down your cheeks and surreptitiously wipe away any lingering wetness. You hope V doesn't notice. Doesn't say anything.

"Is everything all right? ... MC?" V asks softly -- because of course they do -- sitting down next to you on the couch, leaving just enough space that you don't feel closed in. Suffocated.

"Fine. I'm fine." You manage to reply with a weak smile. You doubt it convinces them -- doubt you even could at this point. "Just... had a long day. That's all."

V frowns, tinged with something soft and worried. "... I understand. Just know you can always come to me. No matter what."

"I know." If only it were that simple.

----------------------------

Amara: "MC! I'm back! You'll never believe what--" Amara voice rings out in the otherwise silent apartment as the door swings open. She cuts herself off when she sees you. Laying on the sofa, face pressed against a throw pillow. Maybe she'll think you're asleep?

"MC? Is everything okay?" Shit. Guess not.

You lift your head from the pillow, offering her a tumultuous smile. Hopefully, she'll mistake any lingering evidence of your tears for the remnants of sleep and pillow creases.

"Thought you weren't coming over for another hour?" You ask quietly, voice just a touch too rough to go unnoticed.

"Got finished earlier than I thought and wanted to surprise you." She says as she crouches down next to you, the sweet cinnamon of her perfume washing over you. Your shoulders relax just the slightest bit. "Is there anything you need me to do?"

"Just... stay? Here, for a little while longer. Please."

"Always." Amara replies, resting her hand softly on your shoulder.

You wish things would stay like this.

----------------------------

August: Lying with your head pillowed atop your arms on the kitchen table, you try not to jolt as you hear your doorbell ring. Not expecting any visitors, you don't even bother getting up to see who it is. You just want to be left alone.

Alas, it seems life has other plans for you. Your visitor doesn't bother ringing the doorbell again, instead you hear a rattle and a click and then August comes strolling in.

Head snapping up, you try to look casual -- try to hide the tear tracks under a smile and hope he somehow misses the obvious. As if.

"You really need better locks. That one hardly even..." He trails off, having only just looked up from the metal shim in his hand to see you.

You try to summon a smile. Try to pretend he hasn't noticed what a wreck you are. "Yeah, that's... yeah. What brings you over August?"

"... No. We're not doing this." He states firmly after a long moment.

"Not doing what?"

"Pretending you're okay." He sighs, clearly frustrated. "Look, you know I'm no good at this, but... just -- let me get your mind off of whatever's wrong, okay? We could... watch a movie or something?"

"Or something?" You repeat with a small laugh. "Okay. Let's."

"Shut up." He says with no real heat. "Come on, let's move over to the couch, I doubt that chair's that comfortable."

At least for now, maybe things will be okay.

[unordinary-diary]

So I have a question about Arlo’s powers that you might have the answer to

Do you know what the bleeding is all about? Like when he starts coughing up blood after his barrier breaks. Does he just like straight up start bleeding internally or something?

Anyway I love this blog sm you are giving me the unO content I crave

Ah, thank you! Yes, I absolutely have the answer. In fact, I’m going to take this opportunity to make a post that was already floating in my head.

Arlo and Recoil Damage

First, to answer your question in a literal sense, yes. It’s definitely internal bleeding. Specifically, damage to his lungs.

It’s also not at all unprecedented for a person to be wounded like this. Every person with a conjuring type ability takes damage when their conjures are damaged.

(Rein in ch. 16)

(Cecile attacking Arlo, ch. 109)

The difference with Arlo, is that his damage happens below the skin. Here’s where it gets juicy.

Symbolism

Arlo’s ability is very symbolic, possibly the most so of anyone in the series. His nigh unbreakable barrier he puts around himself represents his metaphorical walls, and how he keeps everyone at a distance. His passive makes him invulnerable— he gets punched in the face, clawed at, stabbed at, etc, and doesn’t even blink. The only way to hurt Arlo is to break through his barrier. And when his walls are broken down, there’s a wound in his chest. It’s not literal enough to be his heart that bleeds, but it’s very close.

There’s also something that’s been kicking around in my head for awhile—

“You’re the strongest one out of all of us here right now. You can try to brush this whole thing off... but to the rest of us, it’s still scary. If even you can’t protect yourself, what can the rest of us do?” — Remi, Ep. 61.

I remembered the line being “When people as strong as you show fear, it scares the rest of us.” However, that must have come from a different scene and I won’t track it down.

It’s plain and simple: High tiers have been taught their whole lives to bottle things up.

This is also seen reflected in Seraphina—

(ep. 20) Granted, the circumstances here are very different, but it’s a similar idea. High tiers showing emotions scares people.

So they bottle them up...

… until they explode.

(Ep. 106)

The judgment Arlo and Seraphina face is very similar. Seraphina rejects these expectations before the story starts, but Arlo has yet to do so. He is very much like the Seraphina we see in flashbacks.

All of this is to say: it is significant that his barrier wounds are internal. The little bit of blood we can see is mainly there so the audience knows he’s injured— but otherwise? Barrier cracks aren’t an injury that people can really see. Recoil damage is typically reflected as scratches, so his internal wounds are both unique, and symbolic of the way he hides his feelings.

[vibelladonna]

✑ 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝒾𝓇 𝓀𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓈 𝜗𝜚 𝓈𝑜𝓁 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒

Ah, kinks—something all humans have, especially those who read fanfics. I mean, who doesn’t love them? Whether it’s the soft, the spicy, or the downright unhinged, there’s always something that hits just right.

Let’s be real: scrolling through AO3, Tumblr, or Wattpad at 3 AM, looking for that one specific trope that scratches the brain itch?

Yeah, we’ve all been there.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions. 

I mixed a bit of canon and my headcanons for Crowe and Sol in this one—yep, once again! This time, I kept it focused on just four kinks to keep it short and sweet.

Hope you enjoy reading!

[ 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ]

Starting, I’ve noticed that TKATB fans have their unique preferences when it comes to Sol or Crowe.

For example, fans who gravitate toward Sol tend to enjoy the idea of him being dominant—whether it’s being in control of him or just envisioning him taking charge. It’s that mix of power and intensity that gets people excited. You know who you are, you freaks!

On the other hand, fans of Crowe are drawn to his reliability, his deep understanding, and his caring nature. He’s willing to guide you through anything, offering both emotional support and strength. It’s comforting, isn’t it? And yes, I’m a freak too—I get it.

✑ 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒

Naturally, I had to start with the man himself—Jericho, or Crowe, as he's known. Though the details are still unclear, he exudes a mysterious, almost savior-like presence. I WANNA KNOW SO BAD.

His style is effortlessly sharp, and his quiet confidence makes him instantly trustworthy. Reliable, steady, and composed, Crowe is the perfect support when life feels overwhelming. His charm is subtle, blending good looks with an alluring personality—irresistible, without ever being flashy. 

Now, let’s address the question: Can you see Crowe as kinky?

At first glance, no. Not. To a stranger, he’s too put together, with not even the faintest hint of anything unconventional beneath the surface. But as you get to know him, that answer begins to shift. Slowly, subtly, he reveals a side of himself that hints at complexity—an edge just beneath his polished exterior. However, don’t expect anything extreme or overtly wild.

What he does reveal is never too much but always just enough to leave you captivated—and maybe, just maybe, a little curious.

✑ Vanilla (Soft Dom…) 

For Crowe preferences!!

He's the ultimate soft, warm partner. Like, you just know he's all about the quiet, comforting vibes. No crazy power dynamics or rough kinks—he's all about that steady, affectionate love. It's Vanilla, but in the best way possible, full of layers. He’s not rushing anything, just enjoying the little things, taking his time, and making sure you feel heard and cherished. 

When you're with him, it's all slow and gentle—he’s not here for intense extremes. His love is patient, thoughtful, and wrapped in warmth. Every touch, every word, is like a soft caress, just so deliberate and tender. 

And honestly? There's no need for anything crazy. Crowe's happy to explore your connection, build that trust, and just savor the passion that grows naturally between you two. It's the kind of love that builds and lingers long after. 

Now… Crowe might be a soft dom—nah he IS A SOFT DOM.

Crowe’s not the type to push you past your limits just for the thrill of it. He’s not into playing mind games or testing how far he can take things. No, Crowe’s power is the quiet kind, the kind that makes you feel safe without even having to try. He knows the real strength is in taking care of someone, not in forcing them into anything they’re not ready for.  

When you’re with him, it’s like he’s always tuned into you, always listening, always aware of exactly what you need. He’s the guy who doesn’t take, but gives—gives you everything he can, with a level of care that’s almost overwhelming. And even though he’s gentle, don’t get it twisted—he’s still a tease. He’s the kind of man who’ll leave marks on your skin, a subtle reminder that you're his. But it's all in the way he leads, in that steady hand that takes yours, guiding you through every little moment.  

There’s nothing loud about Crowe—other than his moans and whining. I SWEAR he has pretty moans.

He doesn’t demand anything and doesn’t rush you, but he has this way of making you feel like you’re the only person in the room. When he touches you, it’s with a confidence that leaves you breathless but also comforted. He’ll press his forehead against yours, his hand guiding yours down to your stomach, just so you can feel his bulge inside you,how much he wants you, how much he’s thinking about you at that moment. 

There’s no need for words—just that connection, that intense eye contact that says everything.  

But yeah, he’ll also let you think you have the upper hand for a minute. Let you believe you’ve got him cornered, like you're finally taking control… only for him to flip the switch, regaining control without you even realizing.  

With Crowe, it’s not about begging or pleading for pleasure—it’s about your happiness, your satisfaction. His version of dominance is the kind that wraps around you like a warm blanket, soft and cozy. He just wants to see you smile, hear you laugh—moan, and whine under him, and know that every moment spent with him is full of happiness.  

So, if you're into a soft dom who values deep emotional connection, tenderness, and affection, Crowe’s your man! He just wants you to trust him, to let go and let him care for you. Let him be there for you in every single way, in every moment. 

And in that, he gives you all the security you’ll ever need.

✑ Praise (giving + receiving)

Crowe is all about Praise, and affection through words. Imagine him pulling you close, whispering in your ear while his fingers gently trace patterns along your skin. 

“You’re such a good girl for me, look at how well you take me, love. That’s my girl, always so ready for me, aren’t you?” His words make you feel safe, wanted, and cherished.

He doesn’t wait for you to ask for reassurance—he gives it freely, letting you know how much he appreciates having you around, and how much he loves seeing you smile. And when it comes to your body? He knows every inch of it like he’s got a personal map of your every curve and spot. He might even joke, “No one will ever know you like I do. I’ve ruined you for everyone else, haven’t I?”

Crowe has this vibe about him, like he’s always hungry to make sure you're feeling amazing, but don’t forget to show him some love, too. He thrives on hearing you praise him, especially when you whisper how much you need him, and how much he’s doing for you. The sound of your voice, the words you say—they get to him, melt him down until his heart's pounding.

Now and then, he’ll pull back, checking in on you, “You okay? Am I pushing you too far?” It’s not just about the rush for him. He wants you to be comfortable, to be in sync with him as he takes you through everything, slow and steady, giving you all that love. “That’s it, you're doing so well,” he’ll say, his voice smooth like syrup, making sure you know you're adored.

But here’s the thing: if you keep praising him, or if you’re the one in control, just wait. Crowe’s mouth? It’ll get filthy. AND I MEAN FILTHY. He can’t help it, don't be mean now...

I mean, you can. You giving him head? Taking his cock deep inside your throat, feeling he's about to cum, then you pulled back, teasing him. He'll say, "Please, my love, you were doing so good on my cock—please, please, keep going, I need that tongue of yours."

One of his favorite things is when you’re so into it that he can just forget what you say and speak directly to you, but in a way that’ll make your body react before your mind even catches up. Like, he’ll whisper, “God, you taste so damn good. Missed me, huh? Just wanna be filled up, don't you?”

His words drip against you, his eyes dark with heat, like he's speaking to your body, not even acknowledging your moans. “Such a good fucking pussy. Always making me feel so damn good. Want me to stuff you full, hm?”

And when it’s all done? Crowe doesn’t just drop it and move on. He’s got aftercare down to an art. He’ll guide you through it, keep you close, making sure you’re okay, settled, and cared for, getting ready to do it all again whenever you’re ready!

✑ Experimentalist

Crowe is the kind of man who never wants to leave any stone unturned, especially when it comes to experiences.

There was something about him that screamed experimentalist—like he needed to try everything, no matter how wild or unconventional. When it came to relationships, he was always up for anything, which meant he'd probably had more relationship experiences than most people you knew. 

His mind is open, impossibly so, and he had an insatiable curiosity that could never be satisfied. He’d never form an opinion on something without diving in and getting his first-hand taste. If there was something new to try, something out-of-the-box—Crowe was there, ready to explore. 

And honestly? He didn’t even need you to ask twice. If you suggested something wild, he’d be all in—his enthusiasm infectious, his curiosity never-ending.

However, he's pretty vanilla when it comes to experimenting, so don't expect him to go TOO hardcore. If there's a kink suited to his taste and he masters it? Oh, Babe, you'll feel it—so much in fact.

Take ropes, for example. Blindfolds? Handcuffs? Oh, he is intrigued. But, again, don’t expect anything brutal. He isn't the type to be into floggers or paddles; no, pain isn't needed for his skills. It is his anticipation. The slow burn of him carefully tying you up, not in a rush, but with the kind of patience that made every moment last longer. 

When his hands hovered over your skin, it wasn’t just touch—it was electric. He’d make sure to linger, let his fingers graze over every inch, just enough to make you shiver, your breath hitching in the air between you. It wasn’t about hurting you, not at all. No, it was all about the build-up—the moment when the ropes or restraints were placed just so, tightening the tension between you both until it was practically unbearable. 

And then? When you finally let go, it was a release so sweet and steady that it left you breathless. No rushing, no quick fixes—just a slow, fulfilling pleasure.

Adding on, Crowe loved the idea of restraint. Whether for fun, for art, or for that extra little spark of excitement, there was something about having you completely at his mercy. 

And if you ever flipped the script? If he was the one getting tied up? Like I said, Crowe will be just as filthy when he lets his guard down. 

✑ Dacryphillia

Okay, hear me out. I know what you’re thinking—"Crowe? He would never hurt me. Why would he want to see me cry?" And I get it, really. This is one of those wild ideas but just stick with me for a second.

You know how he’s all about emotions and deep connections, right? Get it?

He gets this deep fascination with what you feel and show, especially when it’s raw. Here’s where it gets interesting: Dacryphilia. Yeah, I’m talking about that thing where someone gets... well, aroused by tears, by the sound of you sobbing, the whole mess of emotions. 

So, let’s imagine this: You’re begging him, pleading for more. Your face is a mess of emotions, eyes watery, tears rolling down your cheeks. And yeah, he’s gonna ask if you’re okay because that’s the kind of man he is—always checking, always making sure. But if you keep begging for more? Oh, that’s when it gets dangerous. 

Each desperate plea of yours, each tremor in your voice, just fuels this fire inside him, an all-consuming fire. His eyes? They’re practically glowing, deep blue, and locked on you like he's drowning in you, in every little thing you’re feeling.

You can feel him there, so close you can almost taste his breath on your skin. His lips brush against your ear, a soft, teasing whisper sending shivers down your spine. "So desperate for me already, huh? We haven’t even gotten to the fun part yet..." His voice is low, and dangerous, like he’s savoring every second of this.

You know he’s enjoying this. Every inch of him is hooked, and once he has you like this, there’s no going back.

Crowe’s could be teasing you for what feels like hours, driving you wild with a mix of pleasure and frustration. He’s pulled every bit of sensation from you, your body trembling with each orgasm, each touch—until you’re left aching for more. You’ve come undone on his fingers, his tongue, but now, you’re desperate in a way that makes your chest ache.

You need him, inside of you, filling you up, but he’s holding back. Just barely, he brushes against you with his cock, grinning at the whine that slips from your lips.

His fingers tease your entrance, and you can’t stop yourself from begging, voice shaky, "Please... Please, please." You repeated. Tears burn at the corners of your eyes, blurring your vision as they fall helplessly. The emptiness without him feels unbearable.

Crowe tilted his head, the smirk on his face practically dripping with playful mockery. “Just please?” He dragged the word out slowly, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Tell me what you want, love. What is it you’re begging for?” His hand slid up your stomach, hand pushing down lightly as if testing the waters. 

A soft moan released from your lips as he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear, the playful glint in his eyes shifting into something darker, more calculating. “You want me to fill you up, don’t you?”

His soft gin stretched wider as you stumbled over your words, desperate and disordered, pleading for more. He could tell you were unraveling, and it only pushed him further, each whimper was like a small victory. 

“You’re falling apart, love,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you what you need... just say the word.” You could barely focus as the desperation built into your chest. His control over you was unnerving, yet exhilarating. The tears running down your cheeks were a mix of frustration and need, a silent scream for him. 

“I need you, Crowe. Please...” Your voice was broken, but he was the one who was in control, studying the way you reacted like a willing experiment.

Crowe’s hand lifts gently to your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears streaming down your face. He gives you a soft grin, his voice low and teasing. “Already crying for me, huh?” he murmurs, almost amused. His thumb slips past your lips, letting you taste the salty remnants of your emotions. "We’ve just started," he adds, a soft chuckle escaping him. 

Before you can respond, his hips jerk forward, pushing into you with one swift, forceful motion. The shock of it makes your breath catch, and Crowe can’t help but smirk, his eyes glinting with that dangerous, experimental gleam.

Every move, calculated and deliberate, is part of his twisted exploration. And you? You’re the willing subject.

✑ 𝓈𝑜𝓁

Sol is described as a “stinky basement-dwelling yandere”—ngl, this alone made me laugh. He’s a quiet kid, the one who lingered at the edges of every room, observing, never quite fitting in.

Beneath his reserved exterior was a complexity most couldn’t fathom. He’s incredibly smart, with a sharpness that slipped through his words when he spoke, though he rarely bothered to. His talents leaned toward the arts, paintings, and writings.

And yet, at the end of the day, Sol isn’t exactly smooth. He was hopelessly inexperienced when it came to relationships. He gets no bitches, and honestly, he probably doesn’t even try. But in his inexperience is a certain rawness, and once you did get to know him, he’ll flirt or charm you. But before, he just watched and wanted.  

Now, let’s address the question: Can you see Sol as kinky?

Yes, let’s not sugarcoat it—he is kinky asf. Of course, he is. There was no way someone as quiet and repressed as Sol didn’t have a horny side, one he tried to keep buried but couldn’t fully hide due to his love for you. 

✑ Switch (A Pervert…)

Now, about Sol’s... preferences. 

From reading his relationship information card and playing the game. He is a paradox, a Switch in every sense of the word. He didn’t neatly fit into the mold of “always dominant” or “forever submissive.” Oh no, that would be far too mundane for someone like him. He's not a standard yandere people.

Sol is a man of extremes, a “pervert” in the most endearing, shameless sense of the word. He believed in living freely, without the shackles of societal expectations or traditional constraints. Ethics, morality, conventional roles—he’d toss them aside without hesitation if they stood in the way of his desires.   

When he takes the reins as Dominant, Sol is the type to lean into theatrics, pushing boundaries with a devilish grin and that mischievous gleam in his eyes. He had a talent for making the experience unforgettable, for making you feel as though the entire world had melted away, leaving only the two of you. But when the tables turned, when Sol found himself in the more submissive role, he’d throw himself into it with equal fervor. 

He’d challenge you to prove your worth, tease and push until you stepped up to the plate, and then—when you finally did—he’d surrender so completely that it'll feel like a victory worth savoring.  

To Sol, sex and relationships weren’t just about power dynamics or tradition. They were a playground for exploration, a place where the only rule was to follow what felt right. With his “anything goes” mentality, Sol turned every interaction into a kaleidoscope of passion and unpredictability. 

As mentioned, Sol, can’t help himself when it comes to you.

Let’s say he has this thing—Voyeuristic Disorder, to be precise, a fancy word for being a pervert. Dosn't care to see anyone else naked. Only you he wishes to see. He was obsessed with watching you, whether you knew it or not. In public or private, it didn’t matter.

He just liked being there, lurking in the shadows, soaking in every moment. Watching you do the most intimate things, completely unaware that he was there. 

There was something so exhilarating about seeing you—your bare skin, the way you moved, the little things you did when you thought no one was watching. He couldn’t resist. The way your body reacted, the sounds you made when you didn’t know he was there—it was all he needed. 

Deadass, I’m shocked that the creator of the game never added a specific scene where you were taking care of yourself in bed—you freak, oblivious to him sneaking a peek from the window, his hand on his cock, jacking himself off, doing exactly what he does best. Watching. 

He didn’t let societal norms dictate how he expressed himself or who he loved. He was unapologetically himself—messy, chaotic, and a little too intense for most people’s taste. But for those brave enough to step into his world, you, well, if you picked him, that is.

Sol will offer an experience unlike any other: one filled with unrelenting honesty, unbridled passion, and a love that refuses to be anything less than extraordinary.  

✑ Praise (Receiving)

Sol isn't the type of man you’d peg as desperate for validation—at least, not at first glance. His sharp, confident exterior gave the impression of someone who had the world at his feet, who didn’t flinch under pressure or crack beneath judgmental stares. 

But peel back the layers of this supposed nonchalant and cool type of man, and you’d find a truth that was much more human, much more raw. Sol craved praise. Why? Perhaps it was the lack of it throughout his life. His track record for romance was, let’s say, less than impressive. Not because he lacked charm or good looks—he had both in spades—but because his overbearing aura and unapologetic eccentricities tended to drive most people away. 

They didn’t understand him, couldn’t see past the way he challenged conventions. He wore his "loser" title like armor. After all, who cared if he didn’t have admirers lined up at his door? He didn’t need anyone... right? Yet, when someone, such as you, did manage to offer him an honest compliment, something sincere, it was like watching a dam break. 

His confident smirk would falter for a second, his eyes softening, betraying the vulnerability he worked so hard to conceal. Sol wasn’t accustomed to receiving love—real, genuine love—and when it came, it hit him like a truck

✑ Masochist

The first time you noticed Sol’s tendency to endure pain, you’d thought it was just his stubborn nature. He’s always been the type to wear his emotions on his sleeve when it came to you—raw, unfiltered, and unapologetically vulnerable. But as time went on, you began to see something deeper beneath that tough, rebellious exterior. 

Sol wasn’t just someone who endured pain; he seemed to embrace it…? almost thrive on it, especially when it comes to you.

Sol is, without a doubt, a masochist. Not in the twisted, sadistic sense, but in an almost heartbreaking way. He’d do anything to please you, to earn your attention—even if it meant enduring the unendurable. 

He could never be a sadist. No, he loved you too much to ever inflict pain on you, physically or emotionally. The very thought of hurting you would make his stomach churn. Instead, he channeled all his devotion into being by your side, no matter the cost.

There were moments when his tendencies became painfully obvious. Like he gets into fights back to back, defending himself or you—for example, the movie theater bathroom or the Campus library (With or without.)

You hadn’t/have even been there to witness it—Sol hadn’t wanted you to see him like that, bruised and bloody. But when you found out later, he brushed it off with that crooked grin of his, the one that hid just how far he’d go for you. “It’s nothing,” he’d said, wiping the blood from his lip. “They deserved it for talking about you like that.”

Or that time with Crowe. It had been an innocent moment, just you laughing at something Crowe said, but to Sol, it might as well have been a dagger to his chest. He clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles turned white, nails digging into his palms until they drew blood. He didn’t want to feel that way—jealousy mixed with self-loathing—but he couldn’t help it. Watching you walk away with someone else, even for a moment, was unbearable. 

It wasn’t that he enjoyed the pain; it was just that he could handle it, even when it tore him apart inside.  

And in the quiet, intimate moments, Sol’s masochistic streak became something else entirely. If you picked him willingly, He’ll trust you, and loved you, enough to let down every last defense he had. He didn’t just endure pain; with you, he could find meaning in it. 

A sharp bite, nails dragging down his back—he shivered under your touch, his body responding in ways he didn’t fully understand but didn’t question. For him, it wasn’t just about the sensation; it was about the connection, the way it brought him closer to you.  

Masochism, for Sol, wasn’t about pain tolerance. It wasn’t about how much he could take. It was about the way he found a strange, twisted kind of comfort in it. The pain wasn’t the point; it was the context, the giver—you. Sol would never seek out pain for its own sake, but if it was for you, if it meant being close to you, he’d endure anything.  

Even in the game, he seemed to attract hardship like a magnet, always the one taking the hits—physically and emotionally. Whether it was the bullies who thought he was an easy target or the way he seemed to hurt himself just to prove his devotion to you, Sol carried it all with a quiet, unshakable resolve. Because, at the end of the day, it wasn’t about the pain. It was about you.  

And he’d never stop. For Sol, loving you wasn’t just a choice—it was a part of who he was. If being close to you meant enduring the worst the world could throw at him, he’d take it all with a smile. Because that’s who Sol is. A damn masochist.  

And he wouldn’t have it any other way.  

✑ Somnophillia 

It was inevitable, wasn’t it? Everyone could see this coming from a mile away—there was simply no other possibility. Sol, in all his twisted complexity, had long blurred the line between obsession and affection, his love taking on forms most would never dare to comprehend. 

Some might accuse him of holding darker urges, like necrophilia, drawn to the lifelessness of the dead. But no, that isn’t Sol. Despite his obsessions, there was a deep-rooted sentimentality within him—a refusal to let go, to lose. If anything, he had made it clear in his own hauntingly poetic way: he’d rather die with you than live without you. 

Yet, that didn’t mean his desires were any less unnerving. No, Sol’s particular brand of affection manifested in somnophilia, a fascination with the vulnerability of sleep, the beauty of your unconscious form. To him, those moments were sacred—your body relaxed, your mind adrift in dreams. It was when he felt closest to you, unguarded and free from the chaos of the waking world.  

Before your relationship, it started innocuously enough—or so it seemed. He’d find ways to end up at your apartment, invited by some pretense or perhaps even through sheer charisma. And then, ever so subtly, he’d lace your drink with something to make you drowsy, to keep you from suspecting as his fingers ghosted on you. 

You lay there, utterly still, utterly serene, your chest rising and falling with the kind of peaceful rhythm that seemed to still the chaos of the world around you.  

It was maddening, the way you looked so untouched by the noise that haunted him, your lips slightly parted, the barest whisper of breath escaping them. Every exhale was a siren call, soft and unassuming, but it gripped him like a vice.  

His gaze wandered, helplessly drawn down the curve of your cheek to your lips. They looked soft, and inviting in a way that felt almost cruel. He wanted to press his own to them, to taste whatever peace you’d found and see if he could borrow just a fraction of it for himself.  

But it wasn’t just your lips. His eyes traced lower, following the lines of your body, the way your clothes clung to you, hinting at the form beneath. He shouldn’t be thinking like this—he knew he shouldn’t. And yet the thought of you, warm and pliant beneath him, invaded his mind, unrelenting.  

He swallowed hard, trying to shake it off, but the more he fought, the more vivid the thoughts became. The sound of your soft sighs, the way you’d move under his touch, how you’d look at him—not like this, not sleepily and unaware, but awake, wanting.  

God, he was losing it.  

Sol leaned back, running a hand through his hair, forcing his gaze away from you for a moment. But it didn’t matter—your image was burned into his mind, and there was no escape. Watching you sleep was his guilty pleasure, though his guilt barely lasted long enough to stop him from pressing further. 

Once the two of you were together, the dynamics shifted, but only slightly.

Sol’s obsession deepened, and the lines of consent became more of a gray haze in his mind. To him, love was devotion—complete and all-encompassing. And if you loved him, shouldn’t you accept him entirely? Shouldn’t you trust him to care for you, even when you weren’t awake to see it? 

He was careful, always so careful with you, so don’t worry! 

His lips found their way to the sensitive curve of your inner thigh, his movements slow and deliberate as if savoring every second of this quiet moment. You stirred faintly, a sleepy whimper escaping your lips as the warmth of his mouth brushed against you, teasing and tender.

Sol’s hands gripped your hips gently but firmly; his fingers splayed across your skin to hold you in place. You tried to shift, your body instinctively responding to the soft, wet pressure of his tongue on your needy cunt, but his strength was unyielding.

“Shh,” he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly whisper in the stillness. One hand slid up to brush a stray lock of hair from your face, his thumb lingering for a moment as he marveled at the serene expression you wore, so unaware of the devotion he poured into every touch. “You’re even more beautiful like this,” he breathed, his words an intimate confession meant only for the dark.

To Sol, this meant everything. 

This was the essence of love itself—intimacy beyond words, a bond that transcended anything others could hope to understand. He wasn't like anyone else; he knew that, and perhaps that’s what made this feel so special.

So sacred.

There was a quiet possessiveness in the way he worshiped you, a deep yearning to etch himself into every corner of your being, to ensure no one else could ever touch the part of you that belonged to him.

And as you stirred again, a soft moan escaping your lips, Sol smirked against your skin, the faintest edge of smug satisfaction curling at the corner of his mouth. You might not fully wake, but you’d feel him—his touch, his adoration, eventually his cock. You’d know, even in sleep, that you were his world.

To be with him, you’d have to accept all of him. Even the shadowed obsession that came with it. 

[icarusignite]

he leaves you out like a penny in the rain

Pairing: Zayne Li x Non MC Reader

Summary: You spent years orbiting Dr. Zayne Li, but when a careless comment shatters the fragile bond you thought you’d built, you walk away. Only then does Zayne realize what he's lost.

Warnings: Hurt/comfort, angst. slowburn. Zayne being emotionally constipated rip

Word Count: 4.3k

A/N: This is my first time writing for LADS, and Zayne is my bbygirl, so I wanted to give this a try, hopefully it came out alright. I love me a good non-mc angst, so that's why this is the way it is. Part 2 will include Zayne's POV, but it's up to y'all if you want a comforting/grovelling chapter or more HURT lol. Would love to hear yalls thoughts <3

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | AO3

Dr. Zayne was an enigma of the most maddening, magnetic kind, and unfortunately for you, curiosity had always been your gravest sin. Nonetheless, it was a flaw you wore with something resembling pride. After all, not everyone could claim they'd managed to peel back even the faintest layers of the glacial fortress that was Zayne Li. But you had. Over the years, through careful observation and an embarrassing amount of persistence, you had glimpsed—just barely—the man who hid behind that frigid exterior. Not all of him, of course. He had never let you in entirely. But you liked to think you'd grown on him, just a little, like stubborn lichen.

Your fascination had begun back in medical school, the place where sleep went to die and energy drinks reigned supreme. Zayne was the kind of brilliant that made you question whether he was entirely human. The kind who could skim a textbook once and retain it with eerie precision, like his mind had never known the concept of forgetting. Meanwhile, you were a walking collage of colour-coded sticky notes, caffeine-induced tremors, and desperate all-nighters. A parody of a student, barely holding yourself together with mismatched socks and sheer willpower.

It wasn't fair, the way he always looked so composed. You'd catch sight of him walking into the exam hall, spine straight, slacks pressed to perfection, sweater vest unwrinkled and somehow smug in its neutrality. Meanwhile, you, in your hoodie that hadn't seen the inside of a washing machine in days, would feel something curdle inside you. Was it irritation? Admiration? You hadn't known back then. 

At first, you'd approached him under the guise of academic interest. You told yourself you were merely studying the competition. A reconnaissance mission, nothing more. You wanted to see how he prepared, how he dissected practicals and diagrams with such mechanical ease. But somewhere along the line, observation turned into participation. You started joining him. Not officially, because Zayne didn't do invitations, but he didn't tell you to leave, and that was an invitation enough.

Were you friends? 

You weren't sure. Not once in all those long years of shared library tables and late-night coffee runs had he properly smiled at you, but at least he let you stay. That had to count for something. 

You suspected he only tolerated you because you came bearing offerings, carefully chosen pastries from the bakery three blocks away. Lemon tarts. Matcha cake. Anything delicate and within your meagre student budget. You'd Pavloved your way into his company.

Zayne's presence had a gravity to it, even in the silence, his attention never once straying from his notes. Watching him work made you want to do better as well. He didn't need to speak for you to learn from him. He just needed to exist beside you, head bowed over anatomy flashcards, long fingers ghosting over textbook pages like he was reading by touch alone.

It was enough for you. You'd learned long ago not to ask for too much. Life had a way of punishing the greedy.

It was a stroke of serendipity that after years of drifting through separate orbits, you and Zayne found yourselves working beneath the same roof again.

You hadn't expected it. The world was large. The medical world, larger still. Yet here he was, striding through the sterile white halls of Akso Hospital like a ghost from your past, just as distant and devastating.

You didn't expect your paths to cross often. As one of the hospital's new pediatricians, your hands were full with small patients and even smaller attention spans. Your pockets jingled with sticker sheets and crinkled candy wrappers, and your days were painted in primary colours. It was fulfilling, exhausting, and utterly chaotic work.

But somehow, you kept seeing him.

At first, you chalked it up to mere chance. But then a pattern began to emerge, and Zayne became a frequent fixture of the pediatric wing. Too frequent for someone whose field wasn't pediatrics. Too present to dismiss as a ghost.

Maybe you noticed because you were looking, or maybe the universe simply had a cruel sense of humour.

However, most surprising of all was his demeanour. Gone was the man who kept his emotions triple-locked beneath ice and iron. Or rather, he was still there, but softened in the presence of his smallest patients. You watched him kneel beside a whimpering five-year-old with a broken arm and distract her with the clinical grace of a magician. You saw him take time out of his rounds to bring puzzles and books to a chronically ill boy who refused to eat. And one morning, peeking around the curtain of Room 415, you caught him braiding a little girl's hair because she was weeping about not being able to do it herself post-surgery.

Your heart stuttered.

Admiration. That's what it was. That ache in your chest every time you watched him from across the room had to be admiration and nothing more. A professional curiosity and a desire to learn. You'd flourished under his shadow in med school, so it wasn't so strange that you wanted to do so again.

You told yourself that often, rehearsing it like a prayer.

Your own patients adored you, though your methods were far more chaotic than Zayne's methodical care. You bribed your way into affection with cartoon Band-Aids and fruit-scented stickers, offering jellybeans and lollipops like sacred talismans. The younger kids squealed when they saw you coming down the hall; the teenagers pretended not to smile while secretly pocketing the candy. You had always been this way—eager, perhaps too eager, feeding on approval like a deprived animal.

But there was one person whose approval you could never quite gauge.

After all these years, Zayne was still an unreadable cipher. You didn't know what he thought of you. Whether he remembered your shared study sessions or noticed your offerings. You carried forth the rituals from med school into the real world like a superstition you couldn't let die.

During late-night shifts, you'd sometimes find yourself hovering outside his office. You didn't knock to chat. You'd long lost the reckless bravado of your student days. No, you simply rapped twice on the door, cracked it open just enough to slip inside when he told you to enter, and placed a steaming cup of tea on his desk. Sometimes it came accompanied by a carefully wrapped dessert.

He never looked up right away, and his gratitude was an awkward mumble, but he never asked you to stop, either. 

And foolishly, it was enough.

You never lingered long enough to chat, retreating with a bright, rehearsed smile and your usual farewell. "Make sure to take breaks, Dr. Li!"

You never got a response, but every now and then, you'd see expression soften the tiniest amount, which was akin to receiving a full-blown grin from a man like him. It made your heart hiccup.

You couldn't say how long this odd back and forth of yours continued like, but you began to catalogue your moments with Dr. Zayne like treasure. 

There was, of course, that one time it was raining at the end of your shift, the vindictive kind that came down in sheets.

You stood under the hospital's awning, trying to muster the courage to open your umbrella and brave the trudge to the train station. But then you saw him, and all hesitation vanished. 

Across the small stretch of concrete outside the side exit, beneath a narrow overhang, stood Dr. Zayne. His posture was immaculate as always, one hand clutching his phone, the other tucked neatly into his coat pocket. Water dripped in thin lines down the sleeves of his blazer, and you noticed—almost indignantly—that even in the middle of a storm, his expression was as unreadable as ever. His collar was damp, and his hair, though still neatly combed, was slowly giving up the fight.

You didn't think. You just acted.

You jogged across the short distance, the icy rain lashing against your legs. You flipped open your umbrella mid-step and thrust it up over both your heads, standing a little too close beneath its narrow span.

He looked up and blinked at you in surprise. 

"Dr. Li," you greeted breathlessly. "You planning on standing there until the rain evolves into hail?"

"No."

You squinted at him, then angled the umbrella slightly more in his direction. "Lucky I found you before you melted."

His eyes flicked toward you, then back out at the storm. "I'm not made of sugar," he stated simply.

"Well," you replied, grinning, "you're certainly not as sweet."

Something in his expression shifted, like he wasn't entirely immune to the jab, and he stepped further into the umbrella's shade. Closer to you. 

You adjusted your grip as the two of you fell into step. His legs were longer, and his pace brisk, so you had to hold the umbrella awkwardly high, your left shoulder slowly soaking through with rain.

Zayne noticed, but didn't say anything until you were halfway to the station.

"You're holding it too far left."

You glanced up. "I'm trying to keep you dry."

"You're getting wet."

You gave a half-shrug. "So? I'm replaceable. You're Akso's golden prodigy. Can't let you get drenched and catch a cold."

"That's a ridiculous hierarchy."

"Says the guy with the patent leather shoes."

"...They're waterproof."

You snorted. "Of course they are."

The silence that followed was companionable in a strange, off-kilter sort of way. Rain hissed around you, cars splashed by in the distance, but for a brief moment, the storm felt far away.

At the station entrance, you pressed the umbrella into his hands. "You need it more than I do," you insisted. "Your hair might actually un-gel out there."

In response, Zayne's brow creased like the suggestion had short-circuited a pattern in his brain.

"I'll return it," he said finally.

"I know."

He didn't reply, disappearing back into the crowd without a word, but the next morning, when you opened your locker at work, the umbrella was waiting for you. There was a thin elastic band wrapped around the handle, anchoring a packet of candy to its handle, and you felt a tentative smile tug at your lips. 

You'd mentioned it once in passing during a night shift to one of the nurses—something about craving a very specific, obscure brand of citrus-flavoured hard candy your grandmother used to send you during your med school days. You had lamented about not being able to find in stores anymore.

Yet here it was, that familiar crinkled package winking at you. 

You didn't stop grinning for the rest of the week. 

Then there had been the incident with the wrist brace. 

It had been a long week, an endless carousel of back-to-back surgeries, sleep-deprived consults, and aching hands from scribbling charts long past the point your fingers had gone numb. Everyone was tired, and even the invulnerable Dr. Zayne looked frayed around the edges.

You noticed his injury, almost instantly, a falter in movement as he flexed his right wrist after signing off on a file. It was expertly hidden, but you had spent years watching him, cataloguing every subtle shift in his expression like rare meteor showers. So, of course, you caught that wince. 

"Overworked?" you asked mildly, leaning against the nurses' station as he passed by.

"Repetitive strain," he responded without inflection.

You hummed. "Do you want—?"

"No."

Of course not.

Still, when he left, you disappeared into the on-call lounge, rummaging through the staff med-kit you were fairly sure only you ever used properly. Thankfully, you found what you were looking for before he returned to his office. A soft, fabric wrist support brace in neutral grey. Nothing flashy, just something to ease the tension. You placed it on his desk without expectation. 

He didn't bring it up the next day, or the one after that. There was no thank-you or acknowledgement, and you assumed that he'd thrown it out.

Until three days later.

You returned from rounds to find your usual patient folders neatly stacked on your desk, and beside them—perched so innocently it took you a moment to realize it hadn't been there before—was a box of your favourite pens. The ones you hoarded like treasure and had recently, much to your dismay, run out of.

There was a Post-it stuck to the lid.

"I assumed you'd prefer the 0.38mm ones. You always complain about ink bleed."

You stared at the note, and then at the hallway beyond the glass window of your office door, where Zayne was coincidentally passing by.

You stepped out into the hall and caught up with him. "Dr. Li!"

He turned and looked at you with an arched brow. 

You held up the box. "You're not subtle, you know."

His gaze shifted to the pens. "I wasn't trying to be."

"Returning the favour, were you?"

"I don't believe in unbalanced exchanges."

You laughed. "I gave you a wrist brace, not a kidney."

He didn't smile, but his voice softened just slightly. "It helped."

Your breath hitched, but you tried not to show it. "I see...well, thanks for the pens."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Zayne calmly continued.  "You should pace your charting. Your handwriting deteriorates after the fourth file."

You gaped at him. "Are you analyzing my handwriting now?"

"It's just always been that way."

"Wait. Always?"

Zayne's gaze remained fixed somewhere beyond your head. "Finals, third year. You wrote so fast during the pharmacology mock that your 'f's started looking like sevens. I wasn't sure if you were prescribing medication or unlocking a bank vault."

"You..." You squinted. "You remember that?"

"It was difficult to read your notes when we shared a study table."

"You remember us sharing a table?"

Zayne tilted his head minutely. "It was the only one near the east windows. You always took the seat closest to the outlet and claimed the light helped you concentrate."

"I didn't think you paid attention to any of that."

"You assumed I was unaware of the person sitting across from me for three years?"

"I assumed you were... indifferent."

Zayne's lips twitched in an imperceptible frown. "You used to rewrite your notes three times. All in pencil, because you said pencil was less threatening when you had to re-memorize everything from scratch. You also always sat cross-legged in library chairs and collected pens from every club's fair booth."

You let out an incredulous laugh. 

"And," he added, still with that maddening calmness of his, "you muttered anatomy terms in your sleep during overnight study sessions."

"You—you heard that?" you exclaimed, horrified.

"You once said 'ischiocavernosus' so many times, I thought you were casting a spell."

You buried your face in your hands, groaning. "I want to dissolve into the floor."

"You seemed very dedicated."

You peeked at him through your fingers. "That's a nice way of saying I was completely unhinged."

"Also accurate."

You shook your head, but under the mortification was something else. He had remembered, and not just a few throwaway details, but every odd little habit you thought no one ever noticed.

"Why didn't you say anything back then?"

Zayne shrugged, as if he had no response. 

You had been making progress. You were almost certain of it. Not in any obvious, sweeping way—Zayne wasn't a man of dramatic gestures or sudden declarations—but in the quiet consistencies, and the way he'd started waiting a beat longer in the hallway when he saw you approaching. 

You were still careful not to be greedy. You never dared ask for more. What you had was already more than you expected: acknowledgement. A place in the periphery of his otherwise closed-off world. You orbited him the way the Earth orbits the sun—at a safe, unchanging distance. Warm enough not to freeze, far enough not to burn.

That was until she appeared. 

No, not appeared. That implied novelty. You doubted she was new in his life. No, she seemed important, someone who had long ago carved out a space that had never been yours to want.

The Hunter. Dazzling and alive in the way people like you rarely allowed themselves to be. She was a presence that demanded space and then owned it unapologetically. You understood immediately why he who lived so carefully might have made room for her.

You hadn't meant to see them together. You were only there to return his charger—the one he'd left at your station after overhearing you grumbling to the nurses about your broken one. You hadn't even realized he'd been listening. 

When you knocked on his door and he called for you to come in, you had smiled hopefully. 

Only to find her perched on the edge of his desk like she belonged there. She was laughing casually, legs crossed, one hand braced behind her as she leaned toward him. She was telling a story, something fast-paced and colourful, her hands moving animatedly. And he was...

Smiling.

Not the faint, fleeting lift of his mouth he sometimes gave you on your most persistent days. Not the polite nod of acknowledgment.

No, this was a whole half-smile. Unmistakably soft and real. 

You'd never seen him look like that. Not in all the years of having known him. Not even when you had once tried to make him laugh with horrible anatomy puns.

You'd barely stepped into the room when Miss Hunter spotted you.

"Oh!" she cried delightedly. "Look at this, what a coincidence!"

You blinked, caught off guard. 

She beamed. "You work here? I had no idea you were at Akso too!"

You nodded numbly. "Pediatrics." 

"Right, of course, silly me. All our conversations, and I didn't think to ask you where you worked," she apologized. 

"It's alright."

"She's my neighbour, you know," Miss Hunter added, turning back to Zayne like sharing a favourite secret. "I haven't seen her come home in days! I hope you're not overworking her, dearest Zayne."

You felt something inside you crack at her term of endearment. And then you felt guilty. You hadn't done anything wrong technically, but the feeling took root anyway. 

Had you been pining after a taken man?

Oh god.

The thought alone made your skin prickle with shame.

You'd never so much as look at him again if that were the case. You'd pull away completely and pretend you hadn't spent the past however-many months—years, even—watching his every glance like a starving thing. You would bury your humiliation deep, fold it into some quiet compartment inside yourself, and walk away with your dignity intact.

But was Miss Hunter really with him?

You remembered her laughter echoing in your kitchen last weekend when you had finally managed to crawl home after a particularly long shift. She'd come over with refreshments, and after one too many drinks, she had begun to ramble. Her cheeks had been flushed with wine, feet up on your coffee table as she slurred names and nonsense.

"He's so frustrating," she'd said, in that melodramatic tone she took when tipsy. "Like, emotionally constipated. But god, when he lets his guard down, it's like... ugh. It ruins you. He lives on the floor right above ours—you've probably seen him around. Tall. Blue eyes. Smells amazing."

"I don't go around sniffing my neighbours," you'd deadpanned. 

"Well, you're going to have to trust me on this one, then," she'd insisted. "He's from the Association. I've worked a few cases with him."

You dragged yourself out of your reverie. 

Surely if she were dating Zayne, she would have said something. You were friends. Not best friends, maybe, but close enough. She told you when she hated her lipstick. When she found a new favourite song. When someone from the Hunters' Association made a pass at her.

She told you everything. 

Whatever had begun to splinter inside of you deteriorated even further when Zayne finally reacted to her words. 

"I hope you're not overworking her," she repeated, "or yourself, for that matter."

"I'm not her boss," he replied curtly. "She makes her own hours. Maintaining a work-life balance is one's own responsibility."

"I—well, yeah," you tried to laugh. "That's rich coming from you, Dr. Li. Pretty sure you haven't slept in three weeks."

You looked to him, searching for the usual twitch of amusement and the barely-there softness he sometimes allowed when you teased him. But he didn't look up, and his jaw tightened like he was holding back a scowl. 

"I have paperwork," he declared flatly. 

Your hand, still holding the charger, hovered in the space between you. You hesitated before setting it on the edge of his desk. "Right... of course, I just wanted to return this."

You didn't let yourself feel the sting until the door clicked shut behind you, and you were alone again in the hallway, blinking at the linoleum floor as if it might give you answers.

You thought you were making progress, but maybe all you had ever been was a convenience. A background hum in the routine of his life. And now, suddenly, you weren't even that.

Over the next few weeks, a new pattern emerged, one that kept chipping away at pieces of your fragile heart. Perhaps it was your fault, too. You kept returning to the scene of the damage, stupidly hoping this time it would be different, but it never was. 

You kept stopping by Zayne's office, in the hopes of regaining his favour. You'd even started doing the routine errands that should have been passed off to interns or residents. You told yourself it was more efficient to do it all yourself, but really, you just wanted to catch a glimpse of those elusive hazel green eyes, even if they now looked at you with disdain. 

And every time you passed by, Miss Hunter was there too. She seemed to be always in his office, no matter the time of day, even at odd hours of the night. Sometimes you'd catch sight of her perched on the window ledge with her legs tucked beneath her, and other times she was just by his desk, leaning into his space. And most miraculous of all, Zayne allowed it. 

He only allowed it for her, though. While in med school, he might have allowed you to share a library table with him, these days, he seemed adamant to distance himself from you as much as possible. 

You wondered if Miss Hunter was working on a project with him. You couldn't really tell the true nature of their relationship, but that had to be the only explanation as to why she was always around. On your rare days off, she still came over to your apartment to keep you company and gush about her charming coworker, so you were still under the delusion that she wasn't dating Zayne. 

It was the sort of delusion that was going to hurt you one day. And that day was today. 

Tonight, when you stopped by the man's office, you fully intended to pass by without lingering. That is, until you heard your name. 

Miss Hunter’s amused voice floated clearly through the door. “…I swear, she’s the only person I've ever met who doesn’t hate double shifts,” she was saying, chuckling fondly. “That girl is sweet. Like dangerously sweet. Even to you, and I know you don’t exactly roll out the red carpet.”

Zayne’s response was as dry as ever. “I didn’t ask for her kindness. She’s not helping anyone by wasting time with personal errands. If she spent as much energy on her department as she does playing nursemaid, maybe the pediatrics wing would run on schedule.”

"Don't you think that's a little—"

You didn’t stay to hear the rest of Miss Hunter’s reply. You didn't care to see if she would try to defend you or join him in his condemnation. The damage was already done. 

Humiliation was the only word for how you felt. Humiliation and utter defeat. 

You had done nothing but your best.

Day in and day out, you poured everything you had into your work—your time, your focus, your very soul. You had held the hands of anxious parents, wiped away the tears of frightened children before anesthesia dragged them under, and taken on shifts no one else wanted. You stayed late, came early, and went without sleep. You had practically bled for this job. 

And now here he was, the man you admired so diligently, cutting through you with a few harsh words spoken in private. Words that struck you like open-handed slaps across the face.

You felt sick. Like something had lodged in your throat and was refusing to budge.

So that was what he thought of you.

When he wasn’t pretending to be nice. When he wasn’t lending you his charger or leaving pens in your drawer, this is what he believed. That you were incompetent and unprofessional. That your kindness was a distraction.

Zayne hadn’t just criticized your habits. He had questioned your calibre and your right to be here.

Suddenly, you were ten years old again, sitting in the back of a classroom while a teacher shook her head at your test score. You were fifteen, being told by your guidance counsellor that maybe medicine wasn’t for someone “with your academic record.”  You were seventeen, crying in the school library after your chemistry teacher told you some people just weren’t “wired for science.”  You were eighteen, slumped at your mother’s kitchen table, listening to your parents whisper that maybe it was time to pick something “more realistic.”

You were every failure, every disappointment, every bruise to your spirit, and now Zayne had joined their chorus. 

His anger might have been easier to swallow than his indifferent dismissal of your abilities. 

And the worst part?

You didn’t think your patients were suffering. In fact, you knew they weren’t. You were a good doctor. You had earned every stitch of your white coat. The day you took your Hippocratic Oath, you had vowed to devote your entire life to it. 

So why did you feel like a fraud now? Why did one man’s brutal judgment make you want to pack up and disappear?

You weren't sure how you made it back to your office without breaking down into tears, but when you finally closed the door, you sank into your chair with a sharp inhale and buried your face in your hands. You could not find it in yourself to cry, so all you could do was exist in that suffocating space where shame and grief and rage all sat too closely together.

[whenstarsundress]

— i is for innocence

“you always look at me like that.” zayne’s voice was low, unreadable. his hands were still folded neatly in his lap, calm despite the way his gaze had pinned you where you sat across from him.

you blinked. “like what?”

“like you don’t know what i’m thinking.”

his eyes dragged over you slow and deliberate. “or maybe you do. and you’re just pretending.”

your breath caught. “i’m not—” you started, but the words trailed off as he stood.

zayne didn’t move quickly. he never needed to. every step was measured, silent, precise until he was in front of you, towering above you, shadows cast by the soft lighting dancing along his jaw. you looked up at him wide-eyed and barely breathing.

he tilted his head. “that’s the look.”

“what look?”

he crouched in front of you, eyes never leaving yours. “the one that makes me forget i’m supposed to behave.”

“zayne…” you swallowed thickly.

he reached up, one hand brushing your cheek featherlight. “you’re so sweet,” he whispered, fingertips trailing to your jaw. “you let me talk to you like this, touch you like this. and you still look at me like i’m safe.”

“you are safe,” you breathed.

his smile was tragic, like he didn’t believe it. like he didn’t deserve it. “i’m not. not with you.”

he leaned in slowly, enough for your foreheads to brush and your breath mingling.

“i think about kissing you every time you say my name,” he murmured. “i think about what sounds you’d make if i used my mouth somewhere else.”

your knees shifted instinctively. he noticed.

“i think about how innocent you are,” he added, voice dropping to a gravelly hush. “and how badly i want to be the one who changes that.”

your chest rose and fell in shallow waves. his hand moved to your knee, as he spoke tenderly, “but i won’t rush you. you deserve soft. slow. you deserve someone who makes you feel safe even when your hands are shaking.”

you stared at him, overwhelmed, “zayne, do you really think i’m innocent?”

“i know you are.” his thumb brushed across your cheek, down to your lower lip, barely touching. “and it makes me want to worship you. ruin you.”

you felt your breath hitch. but when he leaned back, he was composed again. always in control. as if none of that fire had just left his mouth.

“say the word,” he said softly. “and i’ll wait.”

you didn’t say anything. you just leaned forward and put your forehead against his, fingers trembling as they tangled in the hem of his shirt. “don’t wait.”

and that’s when he exhaled, like you’d just set him free.

[cursingtoji]

cw: band au, rockstar!geto x groupie!gf, slight manipulation?, car sex, oral. a/n: geto deserves a loser gf too. gojo version nanami version toji version

geto who has a rock band and though they’re quite small they already have a #1 fan: you.

the band is all you talk about, going to the point of making your own shirts and posters, you doodle the bands logo everywhere and, most importantly you don't miss a single concert.

by the end of it you're waiting next to the back door of the pub when the band comes out, as soon as you see suguru you call his name extending your little gift bag.

"woah for me? thanks, doll." he takes your chin and gives your glossy lips a peck that makes your heartbeat spike up and your face warm up. geto fucking suguru just kissed you!

during all that week you were on cloud nine, so distracted and giggly.

of course geto notices you, always in the front row and ready to give the band some gifts, he sees how you try to dress up as one of them before they even realize they have a visual identity.

geto likes having fangirls, if anything that’s the best sign that the band is doing well. till that point he never considered engaging to one in a more intimate level. after all, women were never a problem for him, fans or not.

the problem is when they think more of the relationship than it really is. geto has always made sure they knew that sleeping together and treating them well was not synonymous to committed relationship.

because he already is committed. to his music. so after spending the whole day trying to come up with a new song so the band may finally have a complete album to present to a record, he takes a frustrated break picking up his phone and to his dismay only finding a long message about how he hurt someone’s feelings.

“oh for fucks sake” he lets his phone fall on the couch and take his keys, this is not a good week to quit smoking.

“geto?” he hears a small voice calling him after he leaves the convenience store with a very much needed cigarette on his lips and nicotine in his system.

“oh hey” he recognizes you by name and face.

“you’re using the lighter” you point out enthusiastically, that was a limited edition you bought and gifted him.

“that’s right, you bought me this, did i say thank you?” he’s genuinely wondering, your face heats remembering the kiss.

“i-its no big deal” you brush it off, since he doesn’t seem to be in a rush you start to babble about one specific song and everything you loved about it, knowing he was the composer.

“do wanna go to my place?” he says after quietly listening to your passionate thoughts. you think steam is about to come out of your ears at how hot your face got.

geto throws away what’s left of his cigarette and takes your hand, not really waiting for a response since the heart in your eyes is pretty obvious.

“you’re so cute” he says with his face mushed into your breasts as he guides your movements on his lap. you never guessed when you came out this morning you would be riding your favorite guitarist’s dick a few hours later, if you knew you probably would’ve put a sexier lingerie. not that he would care, by the way he pushed your bottoms down all at once he probably didn’t even know what color your underwear was.

geto pulled your hair tilting your head to meet his mouth, he devoured you so intensely, so overwhelming… you came not even needing your clit to be touched, just by having him inside you and breathing into your mouth like that was enough.

for suguru it was all a power trip, when he saw you after a concert he knew it wouldn’t take you much sweet talking to get you in his car.

he quickly mumbled an excuse to meet the band at the bar later and in just a few minutes he had you bobbing your head down his cock, “just like that, gorgeous, so good” his head is thrown back as he moans softly.

and as the band grew more popular and they had to travel to other cities to perform he would always count on you to meet him at his hotel room.

“geto~” you mewl his name as he eats your pussy from behind so lewdly.

from the very first time you knew it was over for every other guy the moment he touched you. no matter what anyone said about geto, that he was using you, he would never marry you, you didn’t care. you would be his devotee as long as he wanted.

and geto got all he wanted, a pretty little thing that didn’t complain or asked too many questions and best of all: that loved his music and understood his work.

“i know, you have to practice” you kiss him one last time before gathering your clothing from the floor, the hints of him not wanting to stay over were all memorized at this point, so you turn your back at him and make your way to the bathroom to brush your teeth.

but the usual sound of the door opening and closing never came, instead you saw him coming from behind to lace strong arms around your waist, “well maybe just tonight” he smells your hair and through the mirror he sees the tattoo bellow your belly button, just above the hem of your underwear. your prof of love: the logo of the band.

geto touches it and you giggle at the feathery feeling, like a tickle, he likes that sound. he likes you.

“i was thinking you should get another, right here” a finger caress your right ass cheek.

“the same one?” you ask confused.

“no, silly, something else” he gets down hands caressing your hips and kissing the extension of your butt, “my name.”

[confessionsandcreampies]

s. itoshi relationship headcanons

at first, he’s so emotionally locked up it hurts—this man was emotionally dead when you met him. he didn’t even look at people unless it was for soccer. but then you made him laugh once, and he couldn’t stop thinking about it for days.

he lets you listen to music in his headphones—sae always has headphones on. but when he’s in love? he puts one bud in your ear without saying anything. just slides it in and keeps walking next to you. you’re the only person he shares his world with like that.

says the most devastating shit so casually—you’ll be cuddling and he’ll drop, “if you left me, i don’t think i’d let you go.” no tone change. no drama. just flat, sincere sae-style doom. and then he brushes your hair behind your ear like he didn’t just emotionally wreck you.

touch-starved baby—he acts indifferent, but once you’re in his arms, he won’t let go. sleeps wrapped around you like a snake. gets visibly annoyed if you try to get up in the morning. “where are you going? it’s warm here.”

you’re the only person he answers right away—sae hates being on his phone. ignores everyone. but if you call or text? he answers in two seconds. “what do you need?” all soft. he’ll never admit it, but you’ve got him wrapped around your finger.

precision. control. absolutely ruthless.—sae studies your body like it’s an opponent’s weakness. he doesn’t rush. ever. he takes his time dragging his fingers down your thighs, your stomach, your chest until you’re trembling. then he says, “i like seeing you like this.”

dirty talk that shatters your brain—“don’t look away. i want you to see how ruined you are.”—“beg for it. if you can’t use your words, you don’t deserve to come.”—“you’ll take what i give you. and thank me for it.”

cold dom with possessive undertones—he acts composed, but deep down? sae is obsessed. the second someone flirts with you, he’s grabbing your chin later that night and hissing, “mine. say it.” while he’s deep inside you, slow and punishing.

mirror sex demon—he loves fucking you in front of a mirror. pulls your cheeks apart so you can see your reflection. makes you watch yourself bounce on his cock. “look how good you take me. that’s mine.”

likes it a little mean—he has a biting kink. no question. sinks his teeth into your shoulder when he’s close. leaves bruises on your thighs. keeps his hand around your neck, not tight, but firm. “be still. i’ll tell you when you’re allowed to break.”

makes you work for it—you don’t just get to climb on sae and ride. oh no. he’ll sit back, arms crossed, and say, “you want me hard? show me you can earn it.” you have to beg, tease, grind on his thigh while he smirks and pretends he’s unaffected.

but the aftercare is lethal—once you’re trembling and raw, sae holds you so quietly. kisses your shoulders. runs warm water for a bath. dries your hair. stares at your face while you rest against him, and finally whispers, “you’re everything.”

[aventurineswife]

Can i ask... hsr men with a reader who always calls them by their name, when the reader suddenly uses a pet name, an intimate one at that out of nowhere? Like, would they ignore would they get flustered or stuff?

“Call Me That Again and I’m Yours”

Synopsis: They’ve always known you as someone steady—reliable, composed, respectful. Names were a boundary you never crossed. Until you did. Suddenly, a soft pet name slips from your lips—they can only respond in the only way they know how.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Mydei x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Caelus x Reader, Argenti x Reader, Romantic Tension, Emotional Vulnerability, Subtle Fluff, Soft Pet Names, Slow burn/Sudden Intimacy, Banter turning Tender, Hurt/Comfort (esp. for Mydei and Sunday), Stoic Men Unraveling, Subtext and Suppressed Feelings, Unexpected Reactions.

Warnings: Light mentions of blood (Mydei's scene), Slight angst / emotional baggage, Suggestive tension (Aventurine, Dan Heng), Emotional themes (e.g., trauma, guilt, redemption).

A/N: I might have to do multiple parts of this req, so let me know which characters you wanna see next! :DD

You’d always called him Aventurine—not Kakavasha, never anything soft. Just Aventurine. Clean, professional, distant. Even during your playful banter or those late-night strategy sessions when his voice dipped and his eyes lingered a little too long, you’d kept the line firm.

But tonight, as he adjusted the roulette brooch on his collar, you walked past him, leaned in, and murmured, “Looking sharp tonight, darling.”

He froze. For precisely 0.5 seconds—a brief hitch in his well-oiled persona. His fingers paused mid-adjustment, and the ever-present grin twitched, faltered… then curved into something slower. Something far more dangerous.

“Well, well,” he drawled, eyes flicking to yours like dice clattering on velvet. “Did my ears deceive me, or have you just raised the stakes?”

You arched a brow, amused. “I figured it was time to gamble a little.”

His smile widened, but you saw it then—the faint crack in his composure. The way his hand ghosted behind his back, fingers twitching in the air like he wasn’t sure whether to pull you closer or push you away. That name—it wasn’t just cute. It was intimate. Dangerous. It threatened the mask he so carefully wore.

“Careful,” he whispered, stepping closer until your breath caught. “Use that word again, and I might start to think you mean it.”

You smiled back, just as daring. “Maybe I do.”

And just like that, for once, you’d left him unsure who was winning.

“Sunday, we need to address the guest list again. The ceremony’s balance will collapse if—”

“—We include the North Sector delegates, yes,” he interrupted gently, hands folded, gaze serene. “I am already aware.”

You sighed, scribbling notes. Same old Sunday—graceful, poised, untouchable.

“Fine, love, but if this flops, I’m blaming you.”

Silence.

You didn’t catch it at first. His reaction was… almost imperceptible. The pen stilled between his gloved fingers. His eyes flicked toward you with the smallest shift of light. There was no smile, no obvious response, but something behind his gaze unraveled—like a ripple across still water.

“…‘Love’?” he repeated quietly, voice low, measured.

You looked up, unsure if you should laugh it off. “It just slipped.”

“I see.”

He returned to his work, posture perfect—but you noticed he hadn’t written a word since. His mind was elsewhere. The halo above his head shimmered subtly, like it pulsed in time with his heart.

It wasn’t embarrassment. It was something deeper. As if the word had struck a chord he’d long buried—something warm, painful, human.

“…You shouldn’t use a word like that lightly,” he finally said, glancing at you again.

“And if I didn’t?”

His lips parted, then closed. No answer. But his gloved hand slowly reached over and rested on yours, just for a moment. A silent concession. A rare flicker of vulnerability.

You'd breached something sacred—and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to pull away or fall in.

You found him alone after the skirmish, sitting on the edge of a ruined stone altar, cape torn, armor dusted with ash. The blood wasn’t his, but it stained his hands all the same.

“Mydei,” you called softly, approaching him through the rubble.

He didn’t look up. “I told you to stay with the others.”

“I don’t take orders well.”

A pause. Then a sigh—more relief than exasperation. His eyes finally met yours, heavy with exhaustion and something else: grief he didn’t voice, names he couldn’t forget.

You reached out, thumb brushing a line of red from his jaw. “You’re safe… Beloved.”

He blinked.

“Say that again.”

You tilted your head. “Beloved?”

He stood, slowly, towering, not in a threatening way—but like the weight of that word shifted the battlefield under your feet. He stepped closer until you had to tilt your head to meet his gaze.

“No one’s called me that since…” His voice cracked, just slightly. “Since before the sea swallowed me whole.”

You swallowed. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” he said, reaching out with a hand trembling with restraint. “No, don’t stop.”

In a world where titles were earned through blood and legacy, beloved was the one name he’d longed for but never dared to claim.

You gave it freely—and that was the one war he didn’t know how to fight.

Dan Heng stood silently in the Archives, eyes scanning over glowing data logs. You approached, hands behind your back, watching the way the soft blue light played across his features.

“Dan Heng,” you said as usual. He hummed softly, acknowledging you without turning.

You reached his side, pretending to study the data, but your focus was on the curve of his jaw, the slight furrow of his brow.

“I brought you some tea. Thought you could use a break, darling.”

The word slipped out, soft and syrupy.

Dan Heng froze.

His grip on the datapad faltered. He didn’t look at you immediately, but his ears turned a vivid shade of pink.

“…What did you call me?” he asked, tone low, almost cautious.

You played innocent. “Hmm? Oh, nothing, Dan Heng.”

He finally turned, eyes narrowed, a faint flush still lingering on his cheeks. “You did. Say it again.”

You tilted your head, grinning. “Darling?”

He exhaled sharply, muttering something under his breath, trying to maintain composure. He failed spectacularly. The calm, cool Dan Heng couldn’t meet your eyes for a solid thirty seconds.

But when he finally did, he stepped closer.

“…If you’re going to say things like that,” he murmured, voice softer now, “Don’t be surprised when I stop pretending I’m unaffected.”

You and Caelus had been walking side by side after a mission, stars glittering above. You laughed about something he’d said, casually bumping your shoulder against his.

“You always do this, Caelus,” you said, teasing. “Charging in like you’ve got plot armor or something.”

“I mean, I might,” he joked. “Main character energy and all.”

You rolled your eyes. “Sure thing, love.”

The moment the word left your lips, silence fell.

Caelus tripped over his own foot.

He caught himself quickly, turning to you with wide eyes. “Wait. Did you just call me—?”

“I did,” you confirmed with a sly grin. “Something wrong with that, love?”

His expression shifted, uncertain whether to be flustered or flattered. He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks blooming with color.

“I… No. I mean, it’s not wrong. Just. Unexpected.”

You nudged him again. “You’re cute when you’re trying not to smile.”

“I’m not trying not to smile,” he said quickly, then failed to hide the shy grin tugging at his lips. “Okay, maybe I am. Call me that again.”

The battlefield was quiet now, monsters defeated, the sunset casting golden hues across the ruins. Argenti stood tall, brushing dust from his armor with knightly grace.

You approached, hands behind your back.

“Argenti, you were amazing back there,” you praised, as always.

He nodded humbly. “Merely fulfilling my duty to Beauty and righteousness.”

You smiled. “Of course, beloved.”

Argenti blinked.

The word echoed.

He turned to you slowly, as if unsure he’d heard correctly. “Beloved…?”

You tilted your head, eyes innocent. “Yes?”

He pressed a hand to his chest, lips parting slightly in astonishment. “You honor me with such a name… Are you certain… I am worthy of it?”

“You’ve always been worthy,” you said softly.

He took your hand, kneeling with a reverent grace, eyes shining. “Then allow me to dedicate not only my blade but my heart to you. For Beauty may guide me, but you, my beloved, inspire me.”

You laughed, a little flustered yourself now.

Leave it to Argenti to turn one pet name into a poetic vow.