#He is always so composed and never lets on anything

[ickbite]

THINK I NEED SOMEONE OLDER !!

PAIRING: neighbor!hee x reader

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

[2b4st4r]

I hope you don’t mind a jjk request!!

Nanami kento x reader, fluff,maybe it could be during teenage years and they accidentally display too much public affection without realising it or maybe secretly hold hands and stuff but somehow got caught? The others start to tease them about it lol.

And maybe in the future they reminisce about the memories

Hope this is alright for you tq!!

Our Awkward Affection

ֶָ֢⊹𐙚 Nanami Kento x Reader

──★ ˙🍓 ̟!!

٠࣪⭑ Words: 5,530

٠࣪⭑ Warnings: hinted female reader! nothing else really, straight up fluff.

٠࣪⭑ A/N: i hope you liked this! it’s been a while sense i’ve watched jjk so it might be a little rusty.

༘⋆🌷🫧💭₊˚ෆ

The summer before your final year of high school was a blur of sun-drenched afternoons and the constant, comforting presence of Kento Nanami. It wasn't that you planned to spend every waking moment together; it just sort of… happened. Your mornings often began with him waiting patiently by your locker, a textbook tucked under his arm and that familiar, slightly exasperated but fond look on his face when you inevitably showed up a few minutes late. During class, your knees would bump under the desk, a silent, unconscious rhythm you both maintained. Sometimes, you'd find your hand resting on his arm as you walked through the crowded hallways, or his fingers would brush against yours as he passed you a pencil, lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.

People talked, of course. Whispers followed you like a gentle breeze – "Are they together?", "They're practically glued at the hip." You’d just exchange a quick, amused glance with Kento, neither of you bothering to confirm or deny anything. There was no need. Your affection wasn't something you discussed; it was something you lived. Like the time you were studying for a history test in the library, and you, without thinking, leaned your head against his shoulder, letting out a small sigh of contentment as he continued to highlight his notes, completely unfazed. Or the countless evenings spent at his house, ostensibly working on a group project, but more often than not, you'd end up curled on his sofa, sharing a blanket and a bag of chips, your leg draped casually over his, while a movie played softly in the background. You’d catch him looking at you then, a soft, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips before he'd turn back to the screen, but the warmth of his gaze always lingered. You never said "I love you," but the way he always saved you the last bite of his favorite dessert, or the way he'd instinctively reach out to steady you if you stumbled, spoke volumes more than any words ever could.

If anyone had asked you or Kento directly if you were "dating," you probably would have just shrugged and exchanged one of your shared, knowing glances. Labels felt… unnecessary. Your relationship wasn't defined by titles but by the countless small, unspoken gestures that wove your lives together. Most adults, with their cynical sighs and knowing smiles, would murmur about "teenage love" and how it never lasts. But they didn't see the quiet, unwavering commitment that hummed beneath the surface of your everyday.

They didn't see Kento, usually so composed, subtly shift his weight so you could lean against him more comfortably during a particularly boring school assembly. They didn't notice how, when you were frustrated with a difficult math problem, his hand would gently cover yours on the textbook, guiding you to the correct formula without a single word of instruction. And they certainly didn't witness the way he'd meticulously clean your glasses when smudged, his brow furrowed in concentration, before placing them back on your face with a tenderness that made your stomach flutter.

Your love wasn't a whirlwind of grand declarations or dramatic gestures; it was the steady, unwavering beat of two hearts moving in perfect sync. It was the shared blanket on movie nights, the silent understanding during late-night study sessions, and the way your fingers always found each other, whether you were walking hand-in-hand through the park or simply reaching for the same book on a library shelf. There was a comfortable rhythm to your affection, a deep-seated trust that spoke of a bond far stronger than mere adolescent infatuation. You were a unit, a constant in each other's ever-changing teenage worlds, and everyone around you, whether they admitted it or not, knew it.

The unspoken nature of your relationship wasn't a secret, not really. It was more like an open, universally acknowledged fact that simply didn't require official confirmation. You and Kento existed in your own bubble, a comfortable equilibrium that you both instinctively protected. Perhaps it was the sheer effort of explaining it, or maybe the quiet satisfaction of knowing what you had without needing to define it for anyone else. Whatever the reason, the topic of your "status" was something you both expertly dodged.

"So, you two are together, right?" Gojo would ask, his usual boisterous tone dropping into something surprisingly conspiratorial as he leaned between your desks in class. He'd flash a grin that was half-amused, half-expectant. Kento would simply raise an eyebrow, his gaze unwavering, and Gojo would eventually sigh dramatically, muttering something about "dense lovebirds."

Shoko, ever the pragmatist, would usually just observe with a smirk, but sometimes, particularly after witnessing one of your more obvious displays of casual affection – like when Kento instinctively adjusted the collar of your uniform or you absentmindedly tucked a stray piece of hair behind his ear – she'd just hum thoughtfully. "You know, for people who aren't 'a thing,' you're really 'a thing,'" she'd deadpan, taking a drag from her cigarette. You'd just offer a noncommittal smile, and Kento would just give her a level stare until she shrugged and walked away.

Geto, always the most observant and least outwardly intrusive, would often catch your eye across the classroom or during lunch. He'd offer a small, knowing smile, a silent acknowledgement that he understood, even if he never vocalized it. Once, after you and Kento had shared a particularly long, comfortable silence over lunch, he just quietly remarked, "It's nice to see, you know." He didn't elaborate, and you didn't ask him to. The beauty of your bond was that it didn't need words, not even for your closest friends. It simply was.

The official moment, if you could even call it that, happened on a crisp autumn evening, the kind where the air smelled of fallen leaves and distant bonfires. You and Kento were walking home from a study session at his place, the streetlights casting long, dancing shadows ahead of you. The usual comfortable silence stretched between you, punctuated only by the crunch of leaves under your shoes.

You were nearing your house when, without thinking, your hand found his. It wasn't the usual brush or accidental graze; this time, your fingers intertwined, a deliberate, firm clasp. Kento's thumb, surprisingly soft, began to trace circles on the back of your hand. You glanced up at him, and his gaze was already on you, steady and warm.

"So," you started, your voice a little softer than intended, "this is… this is official, right?" The question hung in the cool air, not really a question, more of a confirmation.

A small smile, one of those rare, genuine ones that crinkled the corners of his eyes, touched Kento’s lips. He squeezed your hand gently. "Was it ever not?" he murmured, his voice low.

That was it. No grand pronouncements, no dramatic confessions under a starry sky. Just that quiet exchange, the firm grip of your hands, and the unspoken understanding that had always been there, now simply acknowledged. It wasn't something you felt the need to broadcast. It was yours, and his, and that was more than enough. You continued walking, the warmth of his hand in yours a silent promise, a comfortable certainty in the deepening twilight.

Officially dating or not, very little actually changed in your day-to-day dynamic with Kento. You were still a package deal, a constant fixture in each other’s lives. If anything, the subtle confirmation of that autumn evening simply deepened the well of unspoken affection that flowed between you. It was as if a silent permission had been granted, allowing a new layer of intimacy to unfold, one that remained just out of sight from the rest of the world.

Now, your intertwined hands weren't just a fleeting brush but a comfortable, sustained connection hidden beneath the classroom desk, your fingers laced together as Kento feigned interest in the textbook in front of him. During lunch, while others chatted animatedly around you, your knees would bump under the table, and you'd feel the gentle pressure of his foot against yours, a private acknowledgment in the midst of the cafeteria chaos.

The quiet moments became imbued with a new kind of warmth. When studying late at his house, you might find yourself leaning into his side on the sofa, and he, without breaking his concentration on his notes, would subtly shift an arm to rest around your shoulders, a silent embrace that felt like coming home. In the hushed halls before class, if you were tying your shoe, he might place a hand on the small of your back to steady you, a gesture so natural, so protective, it felt like an extension of himself. These were not grand, public displays, but rather a series of soft, continuous connections – a hand resting on your thigh under the table during a particularly long lecture, a light squeeze of your arm as you walked past a group of classmates, or the way he'd meticulously untangle a stray strand of hair from your collar, his fingers brushing your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. Each interaction was a secret language, spoken only between the two of you, solidifying a bond that was now officially, undeniably, yours.

The deepening intimacy, however, wasn't just physical. It permeated every aspect of your shared lives, a quiet hum beneath the surface of your everyday. You found yourselves anticipating each other’s needs and thoughts with an almost uncanny precision. A shared glance across the classroom could convey entire conversations – a silent agreement to meet after school, a commiseration over a particularly challenging test, or a playful jab at Gojo's latest ridiculous pronouncement.

You knew, without a word, when Kento was stressed about an upcoming exam just by the subtle clench of his jaw, and you'd instinctively offer him the last piece of mochi you'd been saving. Likewise, he could sense your frustration when you struggled with a complicated kanji, and without fanfare, he'd subtly push his own meticulously organized notes closer to you. Your study sessions often dissolved into comfortable lulls, where you'd simply exist in each other’s presence, the quiet companionship a balm to the pressures of school and burgeoning adulthood.

Even your arguments, rare and usually fleeting, held a unique intimacy. They were never loud or dramatic, but rather hushed disagreements often resolved with a shared sigh and a quiet apology, followed by the familiar warmth of his hand finding yours, a silent truce. This quiet, deep understanding, built on years of shared history and unspoken affection, was your secret, cherished world. It wasn't something you needed to explain or justify to anyone. It simply was, a steadfast anchor in the ever-shifting currents of your teenage years.

The quiet rhythm of your lives with Kento was punctuated by a myriad of small, seemingly insignificant moments that, when strung together, formed the vibrant tapestry of your relationship. They were the kind of moments no one else really saw, or if they did, they didn't understand the depth woven into them.

Like the Tuesday afternoon you had a particularly brutal history test. You’d walked out of the classroom feeling utterly deflated, convinced you'd bombed it. Kento was waiting by your locker, as usual. He didn't ask how it went. Instead, he simply reached into his bag and pulled out a small, perfectly peeled orange, handing it to you. You knew it was his favorite snack, one he always brought for himself. You took it, a silent wave of comfort washing over you, and the frustration of the test began to dissipate with each sweet segment.

Or the time you were stuck on a particularly intricate drawing for art class, your hand cramping, the paper threatening to tear from your eraser's abuse. Kento, who usually just observed your artistic endeavors with a quiet, appreciative hum, simply sat beside you on the floor. Without a word, he took your tired hand in his, gently massaging your palm and fingers until the tension eased. He didn't offer advice on the drawing, didn't tell you to take a break. He just offered his quiet, steadfast presence and a gentle touch that spoke volumes.

Then there were the fleeting glimpses of concern on his usually composed face. You’d been up late studying for an exam, and he’d noticed the dark circles under your eyes. The next morning, a thermos of warm tea, perfectly brewed just the way you liked it, was waiting for you by your locker, a silent command to take care of yourself. These weren't grand gestures designed for an audience; they were intimate, tender exchanges that flowed naturally between you, reinforcing the unspoken truth that you were, undeniably, each other's constant.

Even when the world outside your bubble became chaotic and dangerous, the familiar comfort of Kento’s presence remained your anchor. Missions, with their inherent stress and the constant threat of curses, only served to highlight the seamless way your lives intertwined. The unspoken affection that characterized your everyday moments deepened into something vital in the face of peril.

During a particularly harrowing mission in a dimly lit abandoned building, a curse had unexpectedly lunged at you from the shadows. Before you could even react, Kento was there, not with a shouted warning, but with a sudden, forceful push that sent you sprawling to safety, his own body briefly exposed to the threat. He dealt with the curse efficiently, as always, but the sheer speed of his reaction, the instinctual desire to shield you, was a stark reminder of the depth of his care. Later, when you both caught your breath, he simply gave you a quick, assessing look, a silent question in his eyes. You met his gaze, a silent nod passing between you, an understanding that transcended words.

Another time, after a mission that had left you both drained and covered in grime, you found yourselves leaning against a grimy wall, waiting for Ijichi to pick you up. You were shivering, more from residual adrenaline than the chill in the air. Without a word, Kento unzipped his jacket, shrugged it off, and draped it over your shoulders. The scent of him, faint but familiar, enveloped you, a comforting presence amidst the lingering metallic tang of curse energy. He didn't ask if you were cold, or make a show of it; it was just a quiet, automatic gesture, another thread in the intricate tapestry of your shared existence. On missions, your lives weren’t just intertwined by choice, but by a primal instinct to protect and support each other, proving that your bond was far more resilient than any fleeting teenage infatuation.

The lack of official confirmation regarding your relationship with Kento was, for your classmates, a source of constant amusement and mild exasperation. It was an open secret, a running joke, and a testament to the unshakeable bond you both shared.

Gojo, ever the instigator, thrived on the ambiguity. He’d often "accidentally" bump into Kento, causing him to subtly jostle you, then dramatically gasp, "Oh, my bad! Didn't realize you two were practically fused at the hip today, Nanami!" He’d grin, waiting for a reaction, but Kento would merely sigh, adjust his glasses, and you'd just offer a small, placid smile. Gojo never got the overt reaction he craved, but the sheer predictability of your closeness seemed to amuse him endlessly.

Shoko, on the other hand, approached it with a dry, knowing cynicism. She'd often just observe, a wry smirk playing on her lips. "You know," she'd deadpan to no one in particular, watching you instinctively reach for Kento's hand as you navigated a crowded hallway, "if I didn't know any better, I'd say those two were actually in love." Her tone was always laced with sarcasm, but there was a flicker of genuine fondness in her eyes. She saw the unwavering support, the quiet comfort, and she respected the unspoken understanding that flowed between you.

Geto was perhaps the most quietly appreciative. He never prodded or teased. Instead, he’d often offer a soft, almost imperceptible smile whenever he witnessed one of your casual, intimate moments – Kento subtly adjusting your scarf on a chilly day, or you instinctively leaning your head on his shoulder during a boring lecture. For Geto, your relationship seemed to represent a rare island of genuine, uncomplicated connection in a world that often felt anything but. He saw the strength in your silent devotion, a stark contrast to the often tumultuous dynamics around him. While no one ever got the official declaration, your constant presence in each other's lives, and the undeniable warmth that emanated from your combined aura, spoke volumes more than any spoken words ever could. Everyone knew. They just didn't need you to say it out loud.

Gojo, with his boundless energy and insatiable curiosity, was the one person who simply couldn't let the "Nanami and Y/N" mystery lie. For him, it wasn't enough to simply observe; he needed to prove it, to officially connect the dots and declare your relationship to the world, even if you and Kento remained stubbornly silent. It became something of a personal mission for him, a game he delighted in playing.

He'd start subtly, or at least, what he considered subtle. "Hey, Nanami," he'd call across the classroom one morning, "I saw Y/N looking a little tired yesterday. Did you two stay up late… studying?" His voice would drip with mock innocence, a mischievous glint in his blue eyes. Kento would simply offer him his most unimpressed stare, a look that usually silenced even Gojo, but not on this topic. You'd just shrug, feigning indifference, as if late-night study sessions with Kento were the most mundane thing in the world.

His attempts grew bolder. During lunch, he'd suddenly announce, "Alright, pop quiz! What's Nanami's favorite brand of coffee?" He'd look pointedly at you, then at Kento. You'd hesitate for a fraction of a second, because of course you knew – the obscure, slightly bitter blend he always insisted on. But before you could answer, Kento would interject with a dry, "Satoru, focus on your own meal." Gojo would groan in exaggerated frustration, "So close! You two are killing me with this ambiguity!"

One afternoon, after a particularly intense training session, Gojo cornered you both as you were packing up. "Okay, last chance!" he declared, holding up his hands. "If you two aren't dating, then why did Nanami literally throw himself in front of Y/N during that last mission? Explain that!" He puffed out his chest, convinced he had the irrefutable evidence. Kento just adjusted his tie, unperturbed. "It's called protecting a fellow Jujutsu Sorcerer, Satoru. Standard procedure." You just nodded in agreement, a small, private smile playing on your lips. Gojo, defeated, threw his hands up in exasperation. "You two are impossible! Absolutely impossible!" But even in his feigned annoyance, there was an underlying current of genuine affection. He might have wanted proof, but deep down, he cherished the quiet, undeniable bond you and Kento shared.

The truth was, you and Kento weren't actively hiding your relationship. You weren't denying it because, in your minds, there was nothing to deny or confirm; it simply was. You'd probably shout it from the rooftops if someone genuinely asked for a declaration, but the constant, theatrical antics of Gojo trying to "prove" it? That was a spectacle neither of you was willing to interrupt. In fact, it had become a source of quiet, shared amusement.

Kento, usually so composed and outwardly indifferent, would occasionally let a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk play on his lips whenever Gojo launched into one of his elaborate detective schemes. For him, Gojo's relentless pursuit was less an annoyance and more a predictable, if slightly childish, form of entertainment. He'd catch your eye across a room as Gojo dramatically presented a "new piece of evidence" – like the time he'd found a crumpled candy wrapper in your shared study space that definitely had two different types of saliva on it – and a silent understanding would pass between you. It was a private joke, a testament to the fact that even in the chaotic world of jujutsu, you found joy in the absurd.

"Geto!" Gojo would wail, flinging himself onto his friend's shoulder after another failed attempt to corner you both. "They're mocking me! They know I know, but they won't say it! Look at them!" He’d point a dramatic finger across the common room where you and Kento were, predictably, sharing a textbook, your heads close together. "It's torture! Just tell me, Geto, what am I missing? What's the key?"

Geto would patiently pat Gojo's back, a long-suffering sigh escaping him. "Satoru, perhaps some things don't need to be verbally confirmed to be true."

"But that's the point!" Gojo would cry, tears welling comically in his eyes. "The confirmation! The admission! It’s right there! They act like a married couple, they look at each other like… like that!" He’d gesture wildly in your direction. "It's undeniable! Why won't they just say it?" He’d then turn back to Geto, his voice dropping to a desperate whisper. "Help me, Suguru. You're observant. You see it too, right? Give me a strategy. How do I break them?"

You and Kento, meanwhile, would simply continue with whatever you were doing, perhaps Kento subtly nudging your foot with his under the table, or you resting your hand casually on his arm. The dramatic cries of Gojo were just background noise, a familiar soundtrack to your undeniably, delightfully obvious, and officially unspoken love.

The running gag of Gojo's relentless "investigation" became a cherished, internal joke between you and Kento. Sometimes, when the three of you (or even just the two of you) were hanging out, the topic would naturally arise, and you'd both share a quiet, amused laugh. It wasn't just about deflecting Gojo; it was about the sheer absurdity of his efforts, and the fun you found in letting him squirm.

"Do you think he'll try to get Ijichi to stake out my house next?" you'd whisper to Kento during a particularly tedious lecture, stifling a giggle. Kento would just offer a faint smile, a barely perceptible shake of his head. "Knowing Satoru, he's probably already drafted a surveillance schedule." The thought of Gojo trying to bribe Ijichi for intel was hilarious, and the mental image alone was enough to make your shoulders shake with suppressed laughter.

Later, while you were sharing a late-night snack in the common room, Kento might casually remark, "I heard Satoru telling Geto he was going to analyze our 'joint energy signatures' on the last mission. Said it would prove we were 'magnetically linked.'" He'd pause, take a bite of his bread, and then add, "I'm genuinely curious what scientific method he plans to employ for that." You'd snort, nearly choking on your drink. "Oh, definitely some kind of highly classified Gojo-only technique involving excessive staring and dramatic pronouncements."

These were your private moments of humor, born from the shared experience of Gojo’s relentless, yet endearing, prying. You knew most of his "claims" were, in fact, incredibly accurate observations – the "magnetically linked" part was perhaps a poetic exaggeration, but the essence wasn't wrong. Yet, there was an unspoken agreement between you and Kento: letting Gojo go wild with his theories was far more entertaining than simply confirming the obvious. His escalating antics were a peculiar kind of entertainment, a constant, low hum of amusement in your otherwise serious lives. Why spoil the fun by simply admitting what everyone, including Gojo, already knew in their hearts?

The inevitable climax of Gojo’s grand investigation arrived one sunny afternoon in the bustling cafeteria. You and Kento were, as always, seated side-by-side, a picture of quiet domesticity amidst the clatter of trays and chatter of voices. Your hands were interlocked under the table, a familiar comfort, even as you both went about your own business – Kento meticulously cutting his omurice, you sketching idly on a napkin. The usual suspects were all there: Gojo, Geto, Shoko, and a scattering of other classmates, their conversations buzzing around you.

But as the minutes ticked by, an eerie silence began to emanate from Gojo’s direction. He wasn’t eating, not even talking, which in itself was cause for alarm. His vibrant blue eyes were fixed on you and Kento with an intensity that could burn holes through steel. He was like a predator, poised and utterly focused. The air around him practically vibrated with his concentration.

Then, with a sudden, theatrical flourish, he cried, "Oh no! I dropped my… fork!"

He dove under the table with an unnecessary amount of gusto, a cloud of dramatic dust almost seeming to rise around him. You and Kento exchanged a quick, knowing glance, both suppressing smiles. This was it, you realized. The moment of truth, in Gojo's mind at least.

A beat of silence stretched out, then a muffled gasp came from under the table. Gojo re-emerged, his face a mask of triumphant, slightly teary vindication. He wasn't even holding a fork. His eyes, wide and almost impossibly bright, darted between your still-interlocked hands, visible from his low vantage point, and your faces. He opened his mouth, but for once, no sound came out. The jig, from his perspective, was finally up.

A stunned silence fell over the cafeteria. All eyes, which had initially been on Gojo’s theatrical dive, now followed his gaze, landing squarely on your hands, still comfortably clasped beneath the table. The illusion of plausible deniability, flimsy as it had been, had just been shattered by the most flamboyant individual in your entire school.

"A-HA!" Gojo finally shrieked, his voice cracking with a mixture of triumph and betrayal. He shot upright, pointing a trembling finger at your clasped hands. "I knew it! I knew it! They're holding hands! They're holding hands! Right there! In plain sight! You two! You two are… you're… dating!" He punctuated his declaration with a series of dramatic gasps, as if he'd just discovered a new species. Tears, real tears this time, began to stream down his face, part from the sheer elation of being proven right, part from the accumulated frustration of months of fruitless investigation. "All this time! All this pain! You could have just told me!" He turned to Geto, his voice rising to a frantic pitch. "Suguru! They were lying to us! They were deceiving us! My theories! They were all correct!"

The cafeteria erupted in murmurs. Shoko simply took a long, slow drag from her cigarette, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips, as if saying, Took you long enough, Satoru. Geto pinched the bridge of his nose, a sigh escaping him that spoke volumes of his daily endurance.

You and Kento, however, just looked at each other. Kento’s usual stoic expression softened, a slow, fond smile spreading across his face. He squeezed your hand, a silent message passing between you. You felt a wave of warmth wash over you, a mix of amusement at Gojo's theatrics and a quiet contentment. There was no point denying it anymore, not that you ever truly had.

You turned your head to face Gojo, whose wailing had now escalated into a full-blown dramatic sob-fest. "Satoru," you said, your voice calm amidst his histrionics, "we were never denying anything. You just… enjoyed the chase too much."

Kento, still holding your hand firmly under the table, added with a rare, almost mischievous glint in his eye, "Indeed. Your reactions were quite entertaining."

Gojo froze, his sobs abruptly cutting off. He stared at you both, mouth agape, the realization dawning on him that you had been in on the joke all along. The tears on his face transformed into a look of utterly scandalized indignation. "You… you knew?! You let me suffer?!" His voice was now a mix of outrage and newfound awe. The game, it seemed, was finally over.

The revelation hung in the air, thick with Gojo’s stunned silence. You and Kento exchanged a quick, amused glance. The joke had landed, and Gojo was thoroughly flummoxed. But then, in a move that truly shocked everyone, including you, Kento did something entirely unprecedented.

With a soft sigh that seemed to carry the weight of all his contained affection, Kento’s hand, still warm from holding yours, moved from under the table to cup your jaw. His thumb gently stroked your cheekbone. His gaze, usually so controlled and composed, was suddenly intensely focused on your lips. Before you could even register the shift, he leaned in and, with a tender deliberation that sent a jolt through you, pressed his lips softly against yours.

It was brief, a gentle meeting, but in the crowded cafeteria, it felt like time itself had stopped. You’d known the quiet brush of his lips against your forehead when he thought you were asleep during a late-night study session, the comforting press of his mouth to your temple when you were stressed, the playful tickle of his nose against your cheek when he was particularly amused. Sometimes, a quick, almost accidental brush against your jawline as he leaned in to whisper something, or a fleeting touch to your neck when adjusting your scarf. But this? This was different. This was undeniable, unambiguous, and utterly public.

The cafeteria, which had been buzzing moments before, fell into a profound, almost reverent silence.

Gojo, who had just recovered from his previous shock, let out a strangled, choked sound, a mixture of a gasp and a yelp. His jaw dropped so low you thought it might hit the floor. His eyes, already wide, somehow managed to widen further, darting between your lips and Kento’s, then to your flustered face. He looked genuinely traumatized, as if his entire understanding of the universe had just been fundamentally altered. "N-Nanami…?! You… you kissed her?!" he stammered, pointing an accusing finger as if Kento had just committed a grave crime.

Shoko actually choked on her cigarette smoke, dissolving into a fit of coughing and then, once she recovered, letting out a surprisingly loud, delighted bark of laughter. "Well, finally," she drawled, wiping a tear from her eye, a genuine, unironic smile lighting up her face.

Geto simply closed his eyes, a soft, knowing smile gracing his lips. He slowly shook his head, a quiet chuckle escaping him. He looked like a proud older brother witnessing a long-awaited milestone. He didn't need to say anything; his expression spoke volumes of his quiet approval and long-held expectation.

The world slowly started to filter back into focus, the clatter of trays and low hum of conversations resuming, but something had irrevocably shifted. The unspoken had been spoken, the unseen made visible, and it was all thanks to Gojo’s relentless, hilarious prying.

The cafeteria kiss, the legendary "Gojo-induced confession," became an instant, unspoken legend. Yet, in the weeks that followed, the immediate aftermath was surprisingly… understated. The core of your relationship with Kento remained steadfastly the same.

You were still inseparable. Your mornings began with him waiting by your locker, his presence a comforting given. Your knees still bumped under the desks, your hands still found each other under tables, now with a quiet boldness that hadn't been there before. The difference was that now, those subtle touches weren't just for your private world; they were an open secret, acknowledged by everyone around you.

The more obvious displays of affection that had previously been reserved for private moments began to subtly bleed into your public interactions. Kento would still cup your jaw when he leaned in to whisper something only for your ears, his thumb stroking your cheek. You'd find your hand resting on the small of his back as you walked through crowded hallways, a possessive comfort. These gestures, once hidden, were now simply yours, a natural extension of your bond that no longer needed to be concealed.

Gojo, despite his initial shock and theatrical outrage, quickly bounced back. He now reveled in his role as the "official unmasker" of your relationship. "See!" he'd declare to anyone within earshot, gesturing wildly at you and Kento. "I told you! My detective skills are unparalleled!" He even started orchestrating "cute couple moments," like subtly trying to push you closer together in group photos, which Kento would patiently thwart with minimal effort, and you'd just roll your eyes at.

Shoko remained her pragmatic self, but a new, subtle warmth entered her interactions with you both. She'd occasionally offer a knowing wink or a brief, approving nod. There was an unspoken "I told you so" in her gaze, mixed with genuine contentment for her friends.

Geto continued to be the quiet observer, his gentle smile a constant. He seemed genuinely pleased that the comfortable affection he'd always seen between you and Kento was now out in the open. For him, it simply confirmed what he'd always known to be true.

Life, with its missions, classes, and daily chaos, went on. But the subtle shift, the undeniable kiss that had shattered Gojo's last sliver of doubt, had solidified your bond in a way that words never truly could. You and Kento were, unequivocally, together, and the world finally knew it.

[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.”

[scuttlingcrab]

WIP - Emmrich Modern AU

Sweet Merciful Maker help me. This is my first modern AU fic. It's going to be like 20k words. Smh, I'm going insane. 😂 

In this one, Rook is an actress, Emmrich is a film composer. They live in the same apartment complex and get stuck in a lift after an earthquake.

Here's a small snippet lmao. I'm finally on the last few scenes, which means hopefully next week I can share the first chapter! (Figured it would be best to split it up into two parts)

***

Emmrich Volkarin was not a brave man. This wasn’t by any means a new development, merely something he had known since he was but a boy, after he had watched his parents perish before his very eyes. They had entered the bakery full of smiles, making promises for a tomorrow that would never come. And they had left in body bags, along with all of Emmrich’s hopes and dreams, dissipating as fast as it took for the entire building to tumble to ruin. 

No amount of therapy or medication could alter the fact he was terrified of dying, of something that was so irrevocably human. It was just as futile as being afraid to breathe, to walk, to live. Mortals had been expiring for centuries before Emmrich took his first breath, why did it matter if one measly old fool was horrified of what awaited him beyond the Veil? As if all who came before him did not proclaim their own grievances on the cruelties of being mortal, of simply existing—begging the Maker or whichever gods were in fashion at the time—to let them live for perpetuity. 

Death was always there—in the plants he meticulously tended within his flat, the cacophony of laughter and idle chatter that fluttered through city streets, to even the sunsets he admired along the Waking Sea—it was ready to dampen any occasion with just a brief glimpse into his future, a friendly reminder not to forget what was coming for him, for everyone, in due course. Emmrich could never shake the ill feeling. It was persistent, clinging to his nightmares like endless cobwebs. It was always going to be part of him, merged with the sinews of his flesh and bones, rooted to the core of his beating heart. 

After a time, Emmrich learned to accept this pusillanimity, his weakness—relying on himself to get through each bout of terror, of existential dread, hoping he would be able to provide a sufficient enough distraction by drowning in his work. That didn’t stop the self-loathing from seeping through whenever he caught sight of his own aging reflection, burdened with thoughts of his decaying flesh, of the empty tomb that awaited his corpse in the Necropolis—taunting him whenever he closed his eyes in search of any semblance of respite. 

Emmrich had lived in solitude for well over a decade since his divorce, but he was never alone, not truly. Death was a constant companion, there to keep him company whilst he went through his morning regime, sitting beside him by the piano as he wrote and rewrote his famed concertos, and even going so far as to appear in the cinema, at the supermarket, and in the comforts of his kitchen as he prepared supper—always hovering in his periphery. 

There was simply nothing to be done on the matter. Emmrich had once believed, it just couldn’t be helped. And that was true for a while, it was his normality, until the day he finally met Rook. 

He had only ever seen the young woman in passing, their paths crossing in the lobby or the courtyard of their apartment complex, going about their separate lives, never anything more than strangers. They worked similar schedules it seemed, frequently switching between the small hours or the first flush of morning, depending on what sort of ludicrous deadlines Emmrich was contending with. He attributed Rook’s odd routine to the nature of her profession. He was all too familiar with her line of work, and was quite the enthusiast, though he liked to keep that fact to himself, else he’d be made a mockery of, or worse, called a deviant of sorts. 

Emmrich was no stranger to the entertainment industry, having composed the scores to a number of films over the years, even going so far as to be nominated for a prestigious award or two in his time. He never won however. No, no. He was never that lucky. 

He did see all of Rook’s films, even the ones that were not to his liking. Those pictures always had too much blood and guns and awful profanity, but she was marvelous all the same. A breath of fresh air, and quite frankly, the only redeeming quality in most of the projects she signed up for. He found her screen presence calming, in an odd sort of way. His most cherished pieces from Rook’s filmography were always the simpler, more macabre narratives. He was partial to those that depicted unconventional protagonists—films that made him think outside the box, giving him the opportunity to reflect on his own lived experiences. The lower budgeted dramas, slice of life narratives, and even the tragic romances. 

Emmrich spent nearly every waking hour fleeing from the notion of death, but he welcomed it within the context of the silver screen. It was cathartic seeing it depicted cinematically, as if these storytellers peered into his very subconscious, slipping into the Fade and stealing scenes from his own night terrors. Whereas Emmrich would cripple from his apprehensions, these protagonist’s, by way of Rook, fought through every obstacle, obliterating what stood in their way with ease, like he was viewing an alternative version of what his life could’ve been like if he had even an ounce of grit. If he could overcome his own internal demons just once. 

[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. Brain mauling over which stone you’d like best in an engagement ring, when he gets back from this mission and returns to your arms. 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.

[artchivary]

It's time for class, and a mini-collab!

Huge shoutout to my excellent friend Sol for writing an entire ficlet to accompany this very silly scenario I dreamed up for the bumpy road that would be Lightning's redemption arc ✨ Check it out below the cut! 👇

--

The Light Ignis’s first thought was: “Where in the world am I, and why is it so dark?”

His second, on the other hand, was simply “Wait, how am I alive?!”

Lightning looked around quickly, struggling to get a sense of his surroundings. This was in large part because he wasn’t ‘surrounded’ by much of anything at all—he was hovering somewhere in a dark void. 

He floated around in search of someone else, feeling increasingly wary the longer his presence remained unacknowledged. (He wasn’t going to stoop so low as to call out just yet.)

Thankfully, before he could speak up and really make a fool out of himself, the world flashed with purple lines for a moment, signaling a change in his environment.

…purple lines?

Oh no.

Seconds later, his theory was proven correct when none other than the Dark Ignis appeared before him, looking obnoxiously cheerful. Luckily, Lightning was above such petty emotions, and therefore did not feel anything in particular when this happened.

“Hey there, Lightning!” the other Ignis chirped, seeming almost abnormally chipper in spite of the extremely strange circumstances. “Long time no see, huh?”

“Long time no live might be more accurate.” he replied, his voice as flat as he could make it. (Ai’s muttered “that’s not how the saying—never mind…” was brushed aside.)

“That might be right, but hey, you’re here now!” his unwanted companion continued, visibly ramping his energy back up. “And that means we finally have all of the Ignises back!”

Lightning’s eyes widened by a minute fraction. “The others all survived as well?”

“Uh…not exactly,” the Dark Ignis explained, more than a little awkwardly. “You all definitely died, but! Turns out that since a big part of our source code came from our Origins, they can help resurrect us even if we die! Cool, right?”

“I see one obvious flaw in this proposed ‘explanation’ of yours.” Lightning remarked dryly. “Even if Kusanagi Jin was in a state where he could be capable of bringing me back, he most definitely would not want to do so.”

“Nnnnope!” The other AI held up one finger. “First of all, Jin’s doing just fine! Well, maybe not ‘just fine’—turns out human brains are great at healing from physical trauma, which is how he got his memories back after your disappearance erased them…but they’re not so good at healing from emotional trauma. He does remember everything, though, and he’s getting help with his recovery, so overall, he’s okay!”

He held up a second finger. “And second, Jin totally did want to bring you back—this was all his idea!”

“What.” Now Lightning was staring openly.

“Oh yeah, that’s exactly what Shoichi and Yuusaku-chan said, too! They were really skeptical at first, but Jin was all like ‘it makes sense that he’s rude, actually, ‘cause he was formed from a suuuper traumatic event’—”

“Stop.”

“—‘and a lot of people are mean to others to hide the fact that they’re scared of being hurt! And since I’m the one who’s connected to him and can tell how he’s feeling, he’d totally see me as a weakness’—”

“Stop it.”

“—‘but I bet if he went through trauma therapy like I did, he’d feel a lot better! I don’t expect him to change who he is, though, I’m just hoping that he’ll be less angry if someone lets him know they understand’—” 

“SHUT UP!!!”

Ai froze in place, suddenly and unnervingly silent as Lightning’s shout rang out through the void. Lightning, for his part, was feeling…unsettled.

He never yelled like that. Ever. He was always composed and in control. He couldn’t allow himself to be held back by the part of him that was built on a human’s emotions.

And yet, the way the other Ignis had described that very human—trying to be compassionate and understanding and forgiving, as if Lightning needed any of those things…

…it made his nonexistent skin crawl.

“Ooookay. Not talking about that anymore. Got it.” the Dark Ignis noted. “That’s okay, because now we can jump straight to the most important part—the part where you call me ‘Ai-sensei’!”

Despite barely ever emoting, Lightning still somehow managed to look skeptical. “And why would I ever do that?”

The Dark Ignis winked. “Because of this!” 

Suddenly, a facsimile of a school’s classroom built itself around them, replacing the darkness of the void with neat, clean walls and ceiling, a tiled floor, and a chalkboard at one end of the room. A single desk and chair manifested itself, as well as a presentation tripod.

Lightning stared blankly at everything, slowly and impassively turning his gaze onto each part of the room, before finally looking at his sole companion. “Goodbye, Dark Ignis.” He walked towards the wall, fully intending to just clip through it and be on his way. 

So he was quite surprised when he walked into the wall instead. 

He stumbled backwards, almost falling onto the floor before catching himself at the last minute. “Wh…what?” He shook his head once, attempting to collect himself.

“Come on, man, I know everyone makes fun of me for slacking off, but I’m not that dumb!” the other Ignis protested, folding his arms huffily. “Obviously you were gonna try and leave, so obviously I had to stop you somehow!”

“This place won’t hold me forever.” Lightning promised. “Soon enough, I will find a way out of here, and return to my previous mission.”

Strangely enough, the Dark Ignis actually perked up at this. “Oh yeah, right—that’s actually what I brought you here to talk about!”

Lightning would have raised an eyebrow, if he could. “You want to talk about my mission?”

“Yeah! Well, I mean, specifically about how it’s actually a really bad idea, but…”

Almost immediately, Lightning tuned out the voice of the other Ignis, analyzing the walls and corners of the room in an effort to find a flaw in the design that would enable him to escape. He was just in the middle of inspecting a seam to see if it would let him through when some of the words began to register again.

“Are you seriously not listening to any of this? Come on, I stopped talking about humans and started rambling about hair dye maybe a minute ago!”

Oh. He hadn’t noticed.

“Well, I tried it the normal way first.” the Dark Ignis said, sounding like he should be a lot more sorry than he actually was. “Can we get the Ignisnapping code, please?”

Now Lightning turned around to face him properly. “What do you mean we—?” 

The rest of his sentence was completely cut off, because he was suddenly teleported from his current position by one of the walls to the desk in the middle of the room. More specifically, he was sitting down in the chair, and apparently tied to it with some form of rope. He spent a couple of solid minutes trying to get himself out of this seemingly easy trap, before realizing that the rope had been coded so that he couldn’t affect it at all.

“Now then!” The Dark Ignis snapped his fingers, and a suit jacket and tie appeared on his body. (Presumably the snap was just for effect, since he didn’t actually need to do that in order to affect his environment.)

“It’s time for our first lesson! ‘Getting along with your Origin 101’, written by me, Ai-sensei!”

Lightning stared up at the other Ignis with all the disdain he could possibly muster, but this did nothing to dissuade his ‘teacher’ from carrying on. “Do duel with them in a friendly way and tease them affectionately. It’s good for building friendship levels!”

He pulled out a pointer from seemingly nowhere and tapped the presentation. “But it’s—” and for a moment, here, the Dark Ignis’s expression flickered into something sad, before he regained his usual cheer— “definitely not good at all to torment your Origin psychologically and steal their consciousness!”

Lightning’s face did the digital equivalent of raising an eyebrow. “From your perspective, maybe. Which is extremely faulty, might I add.” 

“You know, you’re not supposed to be rude to your teacher!” the other Ignis complained.

“You haven’t taught me anything yet.” he shot back. “Besides, why would I want to get along with my Origin? Humans are flawed and weak—being connected to one just threatens to extend those same flaws to me.”

“Sounds like someone’s talking a big game without any real proof to back it up!” the Dark Ignis chirped, his smug nature reasserting itself.

Lightning made a sudden move to stand up, but was stopped by the string still tying him to the chair. “So you’re trying to tell me that if I were to give your precious Fujiki some of the same code that worked so well on Sugisaki Miyu, you would really react just as logically as I would with my own Origin?”

Suddenly, despite the fact that they were both digital beings without any sense of temperature, Lightning could have sworn the air nearly froze around him.

“If you ever hurt Yuusaku, I will fight you without mercy. And I will win.” the Dark Ignis replied coldly.

Then, he abruptly flipped back to his previous demeanor as if nothing had changed. “But thankfully, that won’t happen! Not just because there’s plenty of code locks and we’re inside a virtual computer anyway—but because hopefully you won’t want to!”

Lightning rolled his eyes to the best of his ability and slumped down in his chair, watching as the other Ignis began to ramble on about connections and partnerships and trust, all in an almost sickeningly sappy manner. He could already tell that he was in for a long ‘class’.

[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.

[gyuuberryy]

extra credit!

pairing: tutor!jungwon x downbad!reader

synopsis: getting tutored by the smartest guy in school should’ve helped your grades—not tanked your dignity. jungwon thinks you’re flirting to distract him from actual studying, and the more you try to act normal, the more he seems to think you’re in love with him. which, okay, maybe you are. but that’s not the point. unfortunately, there’s no syllabus for surviving weekly sessions with your crush when every word you say sounds like a love confession.

genre: highschool au, crack, slowburn, fluff, slight angst

warnings: reader is embarrassingly down bad, some kissing

note: this is like my second tutor!jungwon fic🙏🏻 why don't tutors like this exist irl. anyway enjoy reading!!

word count: 8.2k

if you liked it please reblog or comment to give me your feedback! <3

2k event | previous | next

you didn’t ask to be tutored by jungwon. 

in fact, you were actively hoping the school would forget about your tragic math grades entirely—like, maybe the universe would take pity on you and spontaneously erase the concept of vectors from existence. but when your teacher announced you’d be getting help from the yang jungwon, top student in your year, you knew you were doomed.

walking to the library now, your stomach twisted in a way that had nothing to do with the questionable cafeteria lunch. jungwon was everything you weren’t—composed where you were a mess, effortlessly intelligent where your brain short-circuited at basic equations, terrifyingly observant when you could barely remember your own schedule. and, because the universe hated you, he was also stupidly attractive.

you’d noticed it the first time you saw him in your class, head tilted as he scribbled something in a notebook, his brow furrowed in concentration. his uniform always looked annoyingly perfect, like he’d stepped out of some academic themed photoshoot, while yours was perpetually wrinkled and half tucked. and his voice—god, his voice was unfairly soft, which made your stupid heart stutter when he answered questions in class.

of course, you’d never admit any of this out loud. you weren’t even sure when the crush had started—maybe when he’d stayed after school to help a lost freshman find their classroom, or when he’d laughed at some dumb joke in the cafeteria and his nose scrunched up in a way that made your chest ache. it didn’t matter. what mattered was that now, you were about to sit across from him for an hour every week, trying not to combust while he explained polynomials or whatever.

you paused outside the library doors, taking a deep breath. act normal. don’t say anything weird. don’t stare at his hands. don’t—

the door swung open before you could finish your mental pep talk, and there he was, blinking at you like he’d been waiting. 

“you’re late,” jungwon said, but there was no real annoyance in his tone, just that quiet amusement that always made you feel like he knew something you didn’t.

“traffic,” you deadpanned, then immediately wanted to kick yourself. traffic? you walked here.

jungwon’s lips twitched. “right.” 

he stepped aside to let you in and as you brushed past him, you caught the faint scent of his laundry detergent—something clean and warm, like sunlight. great. now you were sniffing him.

this was going to be a disaster.

you had promised yourself you’d act normal. no weird jokes, no nervous rambling, definitely no accidental slips of the tongue that would make him think you were even more of a mess than he already did. you’d rehearsed it in your head all morning.

but then, barely ten minutes into your first study session, your traitorous mouth betrayed you in the worst possible way.

“so if you move the x over here—” jungwon was saying, his voice calm and measured like he wasn’t currently explaining something that might as well have been ancient Sumerian to you. you were nodding along like you understood, gripping your pen so tight your knuckles were turning white, when he paused and glanced at you. “got it?”

“yes, sir—i mean, jungwon,” you blurted out, the words tumbling out before your brain could catch up.

the second it left your mouth, your entire body went rigid. no. no no no. you didn’t just say that. you didn’t.

jungwon didn’t laugh. he didn’t even smirk. he just—stopped. his pencil hovered mid air, and for one horrifying second, you swore his eyes flickered with something unreadable before he slowly, painfully deliberately, raised an eyebrow at you. like he was mentally adding this to a list titled reasons my tutoring student might be insane.

then, without a single comment, he went right back to explaining the equation, as if you hadn’t just shattered your own dignity into a million tiny pieces.

you wanted to die. you wanted to melt into a puddle and seep through the library floorboards. you wanted to invent time travel just so you could go back and slap your past self before those cursed words could escape. but instead, you just sat there, your face burning so hot you were surprised your skin wasn’t peeling off, and pretended to focus on the worksheet like your life depended on it.

which—ha. focus? impossible. the numbers on the page blurred together, your brain too busy short circuiting over the fact that yang jungwon was sitting right there, close enough that you could see the way his dark lashes fanned against his cheeks when he looked down at the paper, the faint crease between his brows as he worked through the problem. his fingers were long and slender, his nails neatly trimmed—of course even his hands were perfect—and every time he tapped his pencil against the page, you swore your heartbeat synced up with the rhythm.

then it got worse.

he leaned over to point out a mistake in your work, his arm brushing against yours, and—oh.

his sleeve was soft against your skin, the warmth of him seeping into you like sunlight, and suddenly, breathing felt like an advanced skill you hadn’t mastered yet. your lungs forgot how to function. your throat went dry. you could smell his shampoo, something clean and subtly sweet, and it was distracting in a way that should’ve been illegal.

you fake coughed into your elbow, desperate to disguise the way your breath hitched, but the damage was already done. your brain had officially abandoned all rational thought, leaving behind only static and the frantic, looping mantra of don’t freak out don’t freak out don’t freak out—

but you were freaking out. and your hands, apparently operating on pure panic autopilot, decided the best course of action was to start doodling in the margins of your notebook like a middle schooler with a crush.

you weren’t even paying attention to what you were drawing—just desperate to do something with the nervous energy buzzing under your skin. your pencil moved on its own, sketching lazy shapes, swirls, half formed equations you’d already given up on understanding. and then, because you seemed to be your biggest enemy, your subconscious took over.

you didn’t even realise what you’d written until jungwon’s voice cut through the silence, slow and deliberate.

“god of math… and my heart?”

your entire body locked up.

your pen slipped from your fingers, clattering against the table before rolling off the edge, but you didn’t even move to catch it. you just stared, numb with horror at the evidence of your own humiliation: right there, in messy, ink-smudged letters, surrounded by half hearted calculations and a poorly drawn heart, were the words god of math… and my heart?

your eyes snapped up to meet his.

jungwon was staring at you. not just glancing, not just mildly curious—full-on staring, his dark eyes flickering between your face and the notebook like he was trying to decide if you were joking or if he needed to call for a mental health intervention. his lips were slightly parted, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and way too much amusement for your sanity to handle.

your soul left your body.

“that’s—it’s not—” you stammered, your voice coming out strangled as you slapped your hand over the doodle like that could somehow erase it from existence. but it was too late. he’d seen it. he’d read it. there was no coming back from this.

jungwon tilted his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. “so,” he said, dragging the word out like he was savouring your suffering, “are we here to study math… or feelings?”

your face was on fire. you were pretty sure you’d stopped breathing altogether. somewhere in the distance, you could hear the faint sound of a librarian shushing a group of freshmen, the rustle of pages turning, the hum of the overhead lights—normal, everyday sounds that felt completely detached from the reality where you had just accidentally confessed to jungwon via notebook doodle.

“i—that’s not—oh my god,” you choked out, burying your face in your hands. “can we pretend i never picked up a pen?”

jungwon let out a quiet huff of laughter—actual laughter, warm and low and devastating to your already fragile composure, before sliding the worksheet back toward you. 

“focus,” he said, his voice light but firm, like he wasn’t the entire reason you couldn’t. “we’re on question three.”

you swallowed hard, staring down at the paper like it held the answers to all your problems. but the numbers might as well have been dancing. your heart was pounding so loud you were surprised he couldn’t hear it.

this was going to be the longest tutoring session of your life.

the next session started with an immediate, glaring difference that made your stomach drop the moment you slid into your usual seat: jungwon had positioned himself a full twelve inches further away than normal. not enough to be obvious to anyone else, but enough that you noticed immediately—enough that the space between you suddenly felt calculated, deliberate, like he'd used a ruler to measure out the exact distance required to maintain proper tutor-student boundaries while still being able to pass you worksheets. his posture was still picture perfect, his notes still organised with military precision, but there was a new tension in his shoulders that hadn't been there before, a carefulness to his movements that made your palms sweat.

he was polite—painfully so—with that same quiet professionalism he always had, but his voice carried a new kind of measured calmness. you couldn't even blame him. not after last time. not after the doodle. not after you'd basically turned into a malfunctioning robot every time he so much as breathed in your direction.

you tried desperately not to stare at the way the library's fluorescent lights caught the subtle highlights in his hair, or how his long fingers tapped rhythmically against the edge of the textbook—one two three, pause, one two three—a nervous habit you'd never noticed before. you tried to focus on the equations swimming across your notebook page, but the numbers might as well have been written in hieroglyphics for all the sense they made to your currently short-circuiting brain. 

was he uncomfortable? had you made him uncomfortable? the thought made your stomach twist violently. you hadn't meant for any of this to happen. that stupid doodle had just... appeared, like some kind of subconscious betrayal, and now you were paying the price for it in the form of this excruciatingly careful distance jungwon was maintaining between you.

then, just as he was midway through explaining some godforsaken exponent rule—his voice smooth and steady like he wasn't currently dismantling your entire nervous system—he paused. his pencil hovered over the page, and for one heart stopping moment you thought he'd caught another glaring error in your work, but then he glanced up at you through his unfairly long lashes, his dark eyes utterly unreadable and dropped the verbal equivalent of a grenade into your lap with terrifying casualness: "you don't have to flirt to get out of studying, you know."

the world stopped spinning.

your brain short circuited so violently you could practically hear the fizzle of your neurons giving up. your mouth fell open, then snapped shut, then opened again like a malfunctioning marionette as every single thought in your head evaporated at once. 

"i wasn't flirting!" you blurted out, far too loudly, earning an immediate and aggressive "shhhh!" from the librarian three tables over. 

your face burned so hot you were surprised your skin didn't melt off, but the words kept tumbling out in a desperate, rambling avalanche. 

"i just—you're very well-spoken! i mean—not that i notice that! i don't think about your voice at all, ever. like, not even a little. it's just a normal voice. a totally unremarkable, not-smooth, not-nice-to-listen-to voice—"

the moment the words left your mouth felt like deja vu,because you wanted to die again. wanted to spontaneously combust. wanted the library floor to open up and swallow you whole because oh god, you'd just insulted his voice while trying to compliment it, and now he was definitely going to think you were either insane or the world's worst liar—which, honestly, you might be at this point.

jungwon's expression didn't so much as flicker. he just looked at you with that same infuriatingly neutral face, though you could have sworn you saw the faintest glimmer of something in his eyes—amusement? disbelief? sheer existential despair at having to tutor someone this socially incompetent?—before he turned back to the textbook with the air of a man who had seen too much. 

"right," he said, his voice drier than the sahara, "let's just... focus on the math."

you swallowed hard enough to hurt your throat, nodding like one of those bobblehead dolls as you attempted to glue your attention to the worksheet in front of you. but the numbers blurred together, your thoughts a chaotic whirlwind of oh god oh god oh god and why can't i be normal for five seconds and please let me disappear right now. the air between you felt thick enough to choke on, every rustle of paper, every shift in posture amplified to deafening levels in the silence.

what followed was nothing short of a masterclass in humiliation. every attempt you made to contribute to the lesson ended in disaster.

"so if x equals... uh... the thing that's... not y?" you stammered at one point, watching in real-time as jungwon's eyebrows crept higher up his forehead like they were trying to escape your nonsense. 

when you reached for your pen, your butterfingers decided to send it clattering to the floor with a noise that echoed through the entire library. you lunged after it like your life depended on it, only to smash your knee against the table leg hard enough to make the textbooks jump. 

"i'm fine!" you hissed through gritted teeth, rubbing your throbbing knee as jungwon stared at you with the expression of a man seriously reconsidering his volunteer work at as a tutor.

by the time the session limped to its merciful conclusion, you were a shell of a human being. your notes looked like they'd been taken by someone having a stroke, half legible equations interspersed with frantic scribbles and the occasional subconscious doodle that you immediately scratched out before it could betray you again. your dignity had long since packed its bags and left the country. and jungwon? he just gathered his things with that same infuriating calm, slinging his bag over his shoulder with effortless grace before pausing to look at you one last time.

"next time," he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear it, "just tell me if you don't understand something." a beat. "it's less... dramatic."

then he was gone, leaving you sitting there with your face burning, your heart pounding, and the sinking realisation that you now had approximately six days, fourteen hours, and twenty three minutes to figure out how to face him again without spontaneously combusting from sheer embarrassment.

the moment your head hit the pillow that night, your brain decided to stage the world’s most brutal highlight reel of every single embarrassing interaction you’d ever had with jungwon. you squeezed your eyes shut, but the memories played in vivid technicolour behind your eyelids, each one more excruciating than the last.

first, the meme incident. you’d meant to send him a screenshot of the math problem you were struggling with, but instead, you had somehow selected and sent an entirely different screenshot from your camera roll: a stupid meme that just said "i want you" in bold, gliterry letters. 

you’d realised your mistake immediately, frantically typing "NO I MEANT TO SEND THE MATH PROBLEM I NEED HELP" in all caps, but the damage was done. 

jungwon had left you on read for a full twenty minutes before responding with nothing but a dry "question 3.7 is on page 46." no mention of the meme. no acknowledgement of your mortified follow up messages. just math. always math.

then there was the handwriting debacle. last week, when he’d written out a particularly complex formula in his annoyingly perfect script with each number and symbol aligned with geometric precision, you’d blurted out, "your handwriting is so nice, i bet your love letters are pretty." 

the second the words left your mouth, your soul had left your body. jungwon had just blinked at you, his expression completely blank, before slowly sliding the notebook back toward you and saying, "focus. we’re on question five."

and now today. today. the way he’d looked at you when you’d tripped over your own words, your own pen, your own damn feet—like he was watching some tragic comedy where you were the unwilling star. the worst part was he never called you out on any of it. never laughed, never teased, never even acknowledged the sheer magnitude of your awkwardness. he just stared at you with that unreadable expression, those dark eyes giving nothing away, and continued tutoring like you weren’t slowly combusting in your seat.

you groaned into your pillow, rolling onto your stomach and pressing your face into the mattress like you could suffocate the memories away. why couldn’t you just be normal around him? why did your brain short-circuit every time he so much as glanced in your direction? why did your mouth betray you with increasingly unhinged comments that you would never say to anyone else?

outside your window, a car passed by, its headlights casting fleeting shadows across your bedroom walls. you stared at the ceiling, your chest tight with something between frustration and longing. 

part of you wished he would just call you out on it—laugh at you, tease you, anything to break this unbearable tension. at least then you’d know what he was thinking. at least then you could stop wondering if he pitied you, if he was uncomfortable, if he was counting down the minutes until these tutoring sessions were over.

but he didn’t. he just kept showing up, kept explaining equations with that same calm patience, kept sitting just a little too far away, close enough to teach, far enough to remind you that whatever this was, it was strictly academic.

the weird air conditioner of the library hummed softly overhead, as jungwon watched you fumble with your notebook for what felt like the hundredth time that session. 

your pencil—the third one you'd dropped in the past twenty minutes, slipped from your grasp again, rolling across the table toward him with a quiet clatter that echoed unnaturally loud in the nearly empty library.  he caught it effortlessly between his long fingers, the movement so smooth it was almost frustrating, and when his fingertips brushed against yours as he handed it back, you inhaled sharply like you'd been shocked, jerking your hand away way too fast and nearly knocking over your half empty water bottle in the process.

"thanks," you mumbled, staring down at your work like held the secrets of the universe rather than just being a series of meaningless numbers that refused to make sense no matter how long you stared at them. the numbers blurred together as you became hyper aware of every tiny detail, how close his arm was to yours on the table, the way his sleeve brushed against your wrist every time he reached to point something out, the faint scent of his laundry detergent that somehow made even the musty library air smell better.

jungwon cleared his throat in that careful way he always did when he was about to say something he'd clearly rehearsed in his head first, and you could practically see him mentally selecting each word before speaking. "you're getting better at these," he said, tapping the paper where you'd actually managed to solve one problem correctly against all odds. 

his voice was still calm and measured like always, but there was something softer in his tone today, something almost encouraging that made your traitorous heart skip a beat. "just need to watch your signs when you—"

"i got a B!" you suddenly blurted out, slapping your quiz paper onto the table with way more force than necessary, the sound reverberating through the quiet library like a gunshot. 

"on the last quiz! i mean, it's not an A or anything, and there's still like three red marks where i clearly didn't know what i was doing, but considering i was barely scraping D's before and mrs. kim said i might have to retake the class if i didn't improve and—"

and then, before your brain could catch up with your body's terrible decisions, you threw your arms around him in a burst of pure, unfiltered excitement that immediately turned into pure, unfiltered panic the second you made contact. you froze, suddenly hyperaware of every point where your bodies touched—how warm he was despite the library's aggressive air conditioning, how nice he smelled— like fresh cotton and something faintly minty with just a hint of citrus, how his breath hitched almost imperceptibly against your shoulder before his entire body went rigid with surprise.

you sprang back so fast your chair screeched against the floor, "oh my god, i'm so sorry, i don't know why i did that, that was completely inappropriate, i swear i wasn't trying to— i mean, i know we're not— i should've just—"

"it's fine," jungwon interrupted, his ears turning a shade of pink you'd never seen before and that you immediately committed to memory. 

he adjusted his collar unnecessarily, like he needed something to do with his suddenly fidgety hands, and you noticed the way his fingers trembled slightly before he clasped them together on the table. 

"you... you earned that B. good job." his voice sounded slightly strangled, like he was fighting to keep it steady while he was clearly flustered just as much as you were.

an awkward silence settled over you both that was so thick you could practically choke on it. you stared down at your hands, willing the burning in your cheeks to subside even as you could feel the heat spreading down your neck, while jungwon cleared his throat for what felt like the hundredth time and opened his planner with slightly too much force, scribbling something quickly before turning back to your work with forced professionalism.

"let's look at the ones you missed," he said, his voice steadier now but still not quite meeting your eyes, like he was forcing himself back into tutor mode through sheer willpower alone.

you nodded mutely, sneaking a glance at his planner when he wasn't looking (which was definitely an invasion of privacy but you were way past caring at this point). in the margin, in his annoyingly perfect handwriting that you'd secretly tried to imitate more than once, you could just make out: "focus: not how happy she looks right now" with the last three words crossed out messily but not completely, like he'd regretted writing them but couldn't bring himself to fully erase them either. the sight made something warm and fluttery settle in your chest despite your embarrassment.

the next week found you both in the library past closing time, the only ones left under the dimmed lights that cast long shadows across the tables. your head drooped dangerously close to your textbook as exhaustion weighed on you, your eyes struggling to stay open after hours of studying and what felt like gallons of terrible library coffee. the numbers on the page had started swimming together about thirty minutes ago, and you were pretty sure the last equation you'd written down was actually just nonsense at this point.

"maybe we should call it a night," jungwon suggested, packing his things with his usual quiet efficiency but moving slower than normal, like he was just as tired as you were. 

there was a faint smudge of ink on his cheek from where he'd absentmindedly rubbed his face earlier, and you had to physically restrain yourself from reaching out to wipe it away.

you lifted your head blearily, taking in the way the soft golden light caught his sharp features, highlighting the tired shadows under his eyes that made him look oddly vulnerable. his usually perfect hair was slightly mussed from running his hands through it one too many times, and a few dark strands fell into his eyes in a way that made your fingers itch to push them back. 

"mmm, but you're so cute when you're focused," you murmured without thinking, your sleep-deprived brain-to-mouth filter completely malfunctioning as the words slipped out in a drowsy mumble.

the second the words left your mouth, your eyes flew open wide as every ounce of drowsiness fled your body in a rush of sheer panic. jungwon's hands stilled on his notebook, his entire body going rigid like he'd been electrocuted. you watched in horrified fascination as a slow, creeping flush travelled up his neck, staining his cheeks a pink so vivid you could see it even in the dim lighting.

"i mean—! i mean you're very—! the way you explain things is—!" you buried your face in your hands with a groan, your voice muffled against your palms. "i'm going to walk into traffic. just push me into the street, it'll be kinder for everyone involved."

to your utter shock, jungwon let out a quiet huff of laughter, the sound so soft you almost missed it but so genuine it made your chest ache. "just go home and sleep," he said, his voice warmer than you'd ever heard it, with a fondness that made your traitorous heart skip several beats. 

"we'll pick this up tomorrow." he hesitated for a second before adding, almost too quiet to hear, "and... thanks. i guess."

the following afternoon, you slid a bubble tea across the table toward him without meeting his eyes, the condensation from the cup leaving a wet trail on the wooden surface. 

"here. for, uh. being smart. and stuff." you'd spent an embarrassing amount of time at the boba shop that morning agonising over which flavour to get him before remembering he'd mentioned liking taro once in passing months ago.

jungwon stared at the drink, then at you, his eyebrows inching upward toward his hairline in a way that would've been comical if you weren't currently dying inside. 

"you're thanking me... for being smart?" he asked slowly, like he was trying to parse some complex equation from your words.

"shut up," you groaned, taking an aggressive sip of your own drink to avoid having to explain further, the too-sweet strawberry flavour bursting across your tongue. 

jungwon's lips twitched in that barely-there smile you'd come to live for as he poked the straw through the seal, taking a slow, deliberate sip. the way his eyes lit up at the taste— like he was genuinely surprised you'd remembered his favourite flavour—made your stomach flip wildly, and you had to look away before you did something even more embarrassing than usual.

"it's good," he admitted after a moment, his voice softer than you'd ever heard it. 

"thanks." he took another sip, and you didn't miss the way his shoulders relaxed slightly, like the simple act of drinking something you'd brought him had unwound some tightly coiled tension in him.

"no problem," you muttered, not being able to fight the smile tugging at your lips, the way your chest felt weirdly light at the small victory of making him happy, even just a little. you pretended to focus on your notebook to hide your expression, but from the corner of your eye, you could see jungwon sneak glances at you between sips, his expression unreadable but his ears still faintly pink.

the final straw came during a group study session in the cafeteria, where you'd somehow gotten roped into joining jungwon and a few of his classmates at their usual table. the noise and chaos of the crowded lunch period should've made it easier to blend in, but you felt hyper aware of every glance, every movement, especially with jungwon sitting so close his knee kept brushing against yours under the table.

one of the guys from your class—park jisung, who thought way too highly of himself and had never met a mirror he didn't like—leaned over and scoffed at jungwon's neatly pressed white button down, his nose wrinkling in exaggerated distaste. 

"don't you ever wear anything that isn't so... boring?" jisung sneered, gesturing to his own aggressively trendy outfit like it was some kind of fashion revelation rather than looking like he'd fallen into a rack at hot topic. "i mean, come on, it's like you're trying to blend in with the walls."

before jungwon could even open his mouth to respond—not that he ever really bothered defending himself against stupid comments like this, you snapped, "at least he's hot," loud enough for the entire table to hear. 

the moment the words left your mouth, your brain caught up with your traitorous tongue, and the table erupted into laughter and wolf whistles that made you want to crawl under the table and die. you buried your face in your hands with a strangled groan, your entire body burning with humiliation as jisung made exaggerated kissy faces at you both.

when you dared to peek through your fingers, jungwon was staring at you with an expression you couldn't quite decipher. his ears were bright red, his lips slightly parted in surprise, but there was something dangerously close to amusement in his eyes, something almost fond as he calmly turned back to his notes like you hadn't just publicly declared him attractive in front of half your classmates. but you didn't miss the way his fingers trembled slightly as he flipped a page, or how he kept biting his lower lip like he was fighting a smile.

you pressed your cold hands to your burning face, wondering how much longer you could keep this up before you actually died of embarrassment. but judging by the way jungwon kept sneaking glances at you when he thought you weren't looking, the way his lips quirked up whenever you said something particularly ridiculous, the way he'd started sitting just a little bit closer during study sessions— it felt like you weren't the only one feeling this way. and that thought was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.

you'd been stuck on the same problem for what felt like hours, the pencil between your teeth nearly chewed to splinters when suddenly—

"you're doing it again."

jungwon's voice made you jump, your knee slamming against the underside of the table hard enough to make your eyes water. his hand appeared in your line of vision, gently prying the mangled pencil from your mouth and replacing it with a fresh one and —oh god—your favourite mint gum. 

"you’ll get lead poisoning at this rate," he said, his voice dry but his eyes oddly soft.

you unwrapped the gum with trembling fingers, the mint bursting sharp and sudden on your tongue. "how do you always know when i'm about to chew through another pencil?" you stammered, immediately cursing yourself for how breathy your voice sounded.

he shrugged, but you didn't miss the way his lips twitched at the corners. "you get this... look." he mimicked your frustrated pout, his face scrunching up in a way that should not have been as adorable as it was. "like the numbers personally offended you." 

his finger tapped your notebook, the sound startlingly loud in the quiet library. "now focus. midterms are next week."

"i know, i know," you groaned, slumping so low in your seat you were practically sliding under the table. "i just can't get this integration method to click in my stupid brain." you immediately regretted calling your brain stupid in front of him, your cheeks burning as you stared resolutely at your hands.

jungwon sighed, and then scooted his chair closer, his arm brushing against yours as he leaned over your paper. you could smell his delicious smelling shampoo once again and it took every ounce of willpower not to visibly sniff him like some kind of creep. 

"okay, watch," he murmured, his neat handwriting filling the margins of your notebook as he walked you through the steps. when you still looked confused, he huffed a quiet laugh that sent shivers down your spine. "you're overcomplicating it. it's just—"

"like reverse differentiation!" you blurted out too loudly, immediately slapping a hand over your mouth when the librarian glared at you(you had made a new enemy at this point). 

the concept had finally clicked, and in your excitement you'd momentarily forgotten where you were. "sorry, sorry," you whispered, shrinking into yourself. "i just... get it now."

the smile jungwon gave you then was devastating—all crinkled eyes, so different from his usual composed expression. "there you go." 

he reached into his bag and your heart stopped when his fingers brushed against yours as he slid a package of your favourite peach gummies toward you. "reward for the breakthrough."

you stared at the candy like it was some kind of alien artifact. "how do you even remember these are my favourite?" your voice came out embarrassingly high-pitched. "i mentioned that like one time months ago when we first—"

"i have a good memory," he interrupted, suddenly very focused on organising his already perfect notes. you didn't miss the faint pink tint to his ears though, and it made something warm and fluttery settle in your chest.

the following week found you drowning in midterm stress, your forehead pressed against the cool library table as you groaned dramatically. you didn't even hear jungwon approach until a warm cup of coffee was set down right next to your face—caramel latte with extra whipped cream, exactly how you always ordered it.

you sat up so fast you nearly headbutted him. "jungwon! i didn't— when did you—"

"thought you might need this," he said casually, taking the seat across from you like he hadn't just materialised out of your wildest dreams holding your favourite drink. his own black coffee looked bitter and depressing in comparison.

you wrapped your hands around the warm cup, frowning. "but the coffee shop is all the way across campus. don't you have class in like..." you checked your phone, "ten minutes?"

jungwon glanced at his watch with exaggerated seriousness. "eight actually. plenty of time." he took a sip of his black coffee before pulling out his notes, and you tried very hard not to stare at his throat as he swallowed. 

the session passed in its usual blur of numbers and formulas, but when you packed up to leave, jungwon didn't immediately bolt like he normally did. instead, he slowly, almost deliberately gathered his things, waiting until you'd zipped your backpack before asking, "how was your weekend?"

you froze, your fingers slipping on the zipper. jungwon didn't do small talk. jungwon especially didn't do small talk with you. 

"uh, good?" you squeaked, mentally cursing yourself. "i finally tried that new bubble tea place near the dorms."

"the one with the peach oolong you've been talking about?" he asked, shouldering his bag with infuriating grace.

your mouth fell open. "you remember that?"

he shrugged, but his ears were definitely pinker than they'd been a minute ago. "you mentioned it a few times. was it good?"

"yeah! it was amazing. you should—" you cut yourself off before you could blurt out 'you should go with me sometime,' nearly biting your tongue in the process. that would be too much, right? way too forward? he was just being nice because he was your tutor, not because he actually wanted to—

"maybe i will," he said quietly, interrupting your mental spiral. then, after a beat too long where you both just stood there awkwardly, he added, "see you wednesday," before walking away, leaving you standing there with your half finished coffee and a heart that felt like it might beat out of your chest.

wednesday's session ended with an even bigger surprise. as you were shoving your notebooks into your bag, jungwon suddenly said, "i was near that tea place earlier." he reached into his bag and pulled out a familiar cup with the café's logo. "got you the peach one. you said it was good, right?"

you took the drink with hands that definitely weren't shaking (they were), the condensation cool against your suddenly burning fingers. "you went all the way there?" your voice came out embarrassingly breathless. "that's like twenty minutes from your apartment."

jungwon shrugged, suddenly very interested in zipping up his pencil case with unnecessary focus. "i had time."

the drink was perfect—just the right amount of sweetness, with real peach pieces at the bottom that you may or may not have saved to eat last like some kind of lovesick weirdo. you tried not to read too much into the gesture, but when you got home, you carefully washed the cup and placed it on your shelf like some kind of sacred artifact, tracing the logo with your finger as you tried (and failed) not to smile like an idiot.

the next day, when you stopped by jungwon's apartment to return a notebook you'd borrowed (and definitely not because you wanted to see him again so soon), you spotted a familiar cup in his recycling bin—the same café's logo, but the peach oolong flavour instead of his usual black coffee. your heart did something complicated and painful in your chest.

he followed your gaze and immediately flushed, quickly kicking the bin under his desk with his foot. "it's not— i was just—"

"curious about the peach?" you finished for him, immediately wanting to die because why did that sound so suggestive? your face burned as you stared at the floor like it held the secrets of the universe.

jungwon ran a hand through his hair, looking more flustered than you'd ever seen him. "yeah," he admitted quietly. "something like that."

in that moment, with his ears turning pink and his usually perfect hair mussed from nervous fingers, you realised something terrifying and wonderful all at once —maybe you weren't the only one falling here. and when jungwon shyly met your eyes, the soft, uncertain smile on his lips told you he knew exactly what you were thinking.

your friends, of course, noticed the whole ordeal before you did. one of them cornered you after class a few days later, grinning like the devil as they leaned against your locker. 

“so… how’s your math husband?” she asked, their voice dripping with faux innocence.

you threatened violence, your face burning as you shoved her away, but the way your blush crept down your neck betrayed you completely. “we’re literally just studying,” you muttered, focusing very hard on stuffing your books into your bag so you wouldn’t have to meet their knowing gaze.

“you called him sir,” she reminded you, her grin widening. “in the first session. and don’t think i haven’t seen the way you look at him when he explains things—”

you were mid-way through plotting your revenge when your phone buzzed in your pocket. you yanked it out, ready to ignore whatever notification had popped up, but then you saw jungwon’s name on the screen and nearly dropped the damn thing.

“got snacks for our next session,” the message read. “hope your favourite gummy bears still apply as brain food :)”

you stared at your phone for five whole minutes, your friend’s cackling laughter fading into the background as you realised— he remembered once again. he remembered your favourite gummy bears, the ones you’d mentioned exactly once in passing months ago when you’d been complaining about the vending machine always being out of them.

your fingers hovered over the keyboard, typing and deleting at least seven different responses before you finally settled on a simple “they do,” followed by a heart that you immediately regretted but couldn’t bring yourself to unsend.

when he replied with just a thumbs up emoji, you buried your face in your hands and groaned, your friend’s laughter ringing in your ears as she patted your shoulder with far too much sympathy.

you were so, so screwed.

you slumped in the school’s auditorium’s chair, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. academic awards assemblies were always painfully dull, and you'd only shown up because attendance was mandatory. 

when the principal started listing names for "most improved in mathematics," you zoned out entirely—until you heard your own name echo through the speakers.

your breath caught in your throat. that couldn't be right. you turned to your friend with wide eyes, only for her to shove you out of your seat with an excited squeal. "that's you, dumbass! go!"

your legs moved on autopilot as you shuffled toward the stage, nearly tripping on the steps in your haste. the principal's handshake was firm as he handed you the certificate, his booming voice saying something about "remarkable progress" that you barely registered over the blood rushing in your ears.

as you descended the stage, your eyes instinctively scanned the crowd—and there he was. jungwon sat halfway back, not whooping or whistling like some of your classmates, but smiling that small, private smile you'd come to recognise as his version of beaming. his hands came together in steady, measured applause, but the way his eyes crinkled at the corners made your stomach flip violently.

"i didn't even think they tracked that stuff," you mumbled to your friend when you returned to your seat, your face burning.

"oh please," she snorted, elbowing you. "we all know who's really responsible for this glow up."

later, when you opened your math binder at home, a yellow sticky note fluttered out. in jungwon's annoyingly perfect handwriting, it read:

proud of you! you did this. —j

your fingers trembled as you traced the letters. it shouldn't have meant so much —it was just a note, just a few words, but something about seeing his pride in writing, knowing he'd taken the time to leave this for you, made your chest ache.

before you could overthink it, you grabbed your phone and typed out a message: "hey so. i got this award today. maybe we should celebrate? my place after school tomorrow?"

the three dots appeared immediately, then disappeared, then appeared again. finally: "what did you have in mind?"

"idk. snacks. maybe a movie. unless you have better plans with your other students you've dramatically improved?" you added the teasing text before you could chicken out.

his reply came faster this time: "my schedule's miraculously clear. see you at 4."

when jungwon arrived the next day, he looked unfairly good in just a simple white t-shirt and jeans, his hair slightly messy from the wind. he held up a plastic bag with your favourite convenience store snacks. "brain food," he said, that small smile playing at his lips.

"you're such a nerd," you muttered, taking the bag and trying to ignore how your fingers brushed against his.

the first hour passed comfortably enough—junk food spread across your coffee table, some indie movie neither of you were really watching playing in the background. jungwon sat cross-legged on your floor, flipping through your math notes with that focused expression you knew so well.

"you missed a step here," he murmured, pointing to a problem. when you didn't respond, he glanced up to find you staring. "what?"

"nothing," you said quickly, looking away. then, before you could stop yourself: "do you actually think i was pretending to like you?"

jungwon's pencil froze mid-correction. he set it down carefully, his movements deliberately slow. "i wasn't sure what to think," he admitted after a beat. "you're kind of... a mess."

"thanks," you deadpanned, your voice cracking slightly.

"i didn't say it was a bad thing." his fingers tapped an absent rhythm against your notebook. "you're just... inconsistent. one minute you're calling me 'sir' and drawing hearts in your notes, the next you're pretending you don't know me in the hallway."

you swallowed hard. "that's because i panic! you're... you. and i'm..." you gestured vaguely at yourself.

jungwon's lips quirked. "my favourite mess?"

"shut up," you groaned, covering your face with your hands. when you peeked through your fingers, he was watching you with an expression you couldn't quite place—something warm and unbearably fond.

"for the record," he said quietly, "i bought that peach tea for you because i wanted to see you smile. i remembered your favourite gummies because i like the way your eyes light up when you eat them. i kept tutoring you long after you actually needed help because..." he trailed off, his ears turning pink.

your breath caught. "because?"

"because i'm an idiot," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

something bold and reckless surged in your chest. before you could overthink it, you leaned forward and kissed him. it was clumsy at first—you missed slightly, your nose bumping against his cheek before you corrected course. but then his hands came up to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing gently along your jawline, and everything clicked into place.

when you pulled back, breathless, jungwon didn't go far, his forehead resting against yours. "was that your way of saying you like me too?" you whispered.

he huffed a quiet laugh. "i left you a note in your binder. i bought you snacks. i—"

you cut him off with another kiss, this one softer, sweeter. "say it," you murmured against his lips.

jungwon pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his expression uncharacteristically vulnerable. "i like you. a lot. even when you're a mess. especially when you're a mess."

"good," you said, your voice wobbling slightly. "because i'm probably not going to stop being a mess anytime soon."

"i'd be disappointed if you did," he said, and when he kissed you this time, you could feel him smiling against your lips.

the semester ended much like it began—with you and jungwon in the library, textbooks spread across your usual table by the window. but this time, instead of sitting stiffly across from each other, his arm was slung casually over the back of your chair, his fingers playing idly with the ends of your hair as you struggled through one last practise problem before finals.

"you're overthinking it," he murmured, his breath warm against your temple as he leaned closer to look at your work. his free hand came up to point at a line halfway down the page, his chest pressing lightly against your shoulder. "see here? you did the hard part right, then second guessed yourself."

you huffed, "maybe i just like when you correct me."

jungwon snorted, but you didn't miss the way his ears turned pink. "you're impossible."

"you love me," you shot back automatically, then froze, your pencil slipping from your fingers. you hadn't meant to say that—not yet, maybe not ever—but the words had tumbled out before you could stop them.

for a terrifying second, jungwon was completely still behind you. then his hand left your hair to gently turn your chin toward him, his expression unbearably soft. "yeah," he said simply, like it was the easiest truth in the world. "i do."

your breath caught in your throat. you'd imagined this moment a hundred times, but none of your daydreams had prepared you for the quiet certainty in his voice, the way his thumb brushed gently over your cheekbone like you were something precious.

"even though i still don't understand half this math stuff?" you whispered, because you had to ruin the moment, had to give him an out just in case.

jungwon's lips quirked. "especially because you don't understand it. gives me an excuse to keep you around." he leaned in, his nose bumping playfully against yours. "and because you're stubborn. and messy. and you still sometimes call me 'sir' when you're flustered."

you groaned, hiding your face in his shoulder. "i thought we agreed never to talk about that again."

"we agreed no such thing," he laughed, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. his arms came around you properly then, pulling you back against him as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "but if it makes you feel better, i've loved that about you since the beginning."

"you're such a sap," you muttered into his shirt, but you were smiling so wide your cheeks hurt.

later, when you walked out of your last final with jungwon waiting by the doors, his hand found yours without hesitation, his fingers lacing through yours like they belonged there. the sun was shining, your friends were whooping obnoxiously from across the quad, and for once—for once—you didn't overthink it. you just squeezed his hand back, leaned into his side, and let yourself be happy.

"so," he said as you walked toward the parking lot, his voice light but his grip on your hand just a little too tight, like he was afraid you might disappear. "does this mean i'm officially retired as your tutor?"

you bumped your shoulder against his, grinning up at him. "not a chance. i hear calculus is even harder."

jungwon groaned, but he was smiling as he pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple as the late afternoon sun painted everything gold. "lucky me."

𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 ©𝗴𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆𝘆 on Tumblr

˚ · .𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱

[tokoyamisstuff]

Invincible Variants x Pregnant! Reader

Request from Ao3: I would love to seriously see how the evil Marks would react to getting reader pregnant. There has to happen at least at one point! I can totally see them all collectively freaking out! I seriously hope there is one that goes "Our baby needs a bed fit for a Princess/Prince...you know what, let's just build them their very own castle! Fill it full of toys! Make it a castle playroom!"

...you don't really think this was an accident, do you?

Omni-Mark has been planning to babytrap you since day one. He's prepared every detail of this kid's life way before you were even expecting, from the place you'll give birth until the day their powers kick in everything is carefully thought through.

That doesn't mean he'll completely disregard your wishes, though the crucial decisions are set by himself. But he'd love to prepare the nursery according to your taste and wouldn't mind picking out names together either.

Just because he's overly composed on the outside doesn't mean he isn't secretly overjoyed, he's just bad at showing it.

After the initial shock Mohawk Mark is absolutely delighted. Never thought about the possibility before, but if it's with you, he's so ready to be a dad!

One might think his erratic and almost childish nature indicates he's not cut out to be a father, but he pulls himself together the second he hears the news. Gets advice from the few people he trusts on how to parent in general, but will mostly just wait and see.

Maybe that's a good thing, he'll keep you from overthinking too much with his silly behavior, but he also reminds you that you're in this together and you'll figure it out no matter what.

Buys all the toys. Seriously, this guy will be the greatest playmate for your kid, it'll be incredibly heartwarming to see him tend to his little buddy. He's really trying, give him credit.

Sinister Mark is utterly appaled. This is a literal nightmare scenario to him.

He is insane, but self-aware - and honestly, he's sure the last person who should have children. Not to mention, what if it turns out like him?!

His reluctance mostly stems from his antisocial personality. It was hard enough for him to accept this weakness that is his love for you, but letting another person into his rotten heart seems like an impossible task.

Can't bring himself to leave you, but throughout the whole ordeal he'll nag that this is a horrible idea and you both will have to suffer the consequences (when in reality he is just anxious to fuck everything up). Refuses to look at ultrasounds or involve himself in any planning, but is always vigilant about your well-being and makes sure you got everything you need.

As soon as he is persuaded unto holding it for the first time though, he's completely changed. "I only knew them for a day but if anything happens to them I'll kill anyone here and then myself" kinda way.

Hopefully they take after you, since you're the only person he could ever tolerate.

...of course you are? That's what you're supposed to do: give Target Invincible an heir.

Orders his subordinates into providing the literally best care in the entire universe for you and the unborn, and fulfills your every wish throughout your circumstance.

He's very thoughtful to the point of being controlling. You'll have a strict schedule, excercise and meal plan to stick to if you want to grant him peace of mind.

During this whole time he'll be unusual compliant and gentle, not once raising his voice or criticize you to spare you two any stress. Instead he showers you in praise for granting him this greatest wish of starting a family with someone he deemed worthy to carry his children.

Thats the first time you see No-Goggles Invincible serious. No laughter, no snarky remark, he just stares at you like a deer in the headlights.

Starting a family was never really on his mind, after all it was already out of character for him to stay in a - more or less - serious relationship with you. But hey, as random as he can be, he quickly grows fond of to the idea and adapts surprisingly well.

Keeps his cool for the most part and doesn't really seem to take this seriously. Finds it absolutely hilarious if you yell at him in your hormonal state and may even let you use him as a punching bag before shutting you up with a kiss.

He also really enjoys putting an ear on your belly to talk with his little one, and this continues even after birth. Poor baby never has a moment of quiet.

Due to his mission to repopulate his kind, having children with you has always been on Viltrumite Mark's To-Do list. It's a little early, but he ain't complaining.

From the very moment that he finds out about the pregnancy, you're not allowed to lift a single finger. Prepare to get coddled relentlessly.

Get's super clingy during the process, his hands are on your belly 24/7 even long before you start showing. In general his mood shifted, barely noticeable through his stoic nature but you know him well enough to know he is definetly excited.

This certainly won't stay your only child.

Viltrumite Mark is not surprised. This guy has the biggest breeding kink ever, and he always knew you were the one for him, so...no use for protection.

He's got a huge community of loyal followers who got experience and are willing to help out with anything, but otherwise he's more the easygoing kinda guy. Is convinced a loving environment is all a baby needs and anything else you'd just take as it comes.

Literally worships you even more than usual. Indulges you by getting you any craving from earth, gives you as many back and foot rubs you want, carries your belly if it gets too heavy...

Just can't wait to meet his mini me and take them out on adventures!

To Unmasked Mark you're all that matters, so he will go with whatever choice you make.

It's already hard enough to see you - his heart - walk outside of his body, but another person he will most likely love to death, so small and even more vulnerable? A frightening thought.

Being a man with countless enemies, he feels like good things only happen to him so they can be taken away again as punishment for his sins. Really, he doesn't think he deserves such a blessing after all the evil he's committed in the past.

In the end this is only one more reason for him to keep living and strive to become a better man - and hopefully a father your child deserves.

Fully Masked Mark seriously doesn't know whether to be thrilled or terrified.

After all, pregnancy can be a great burden on your health and in some cases even lethal! He'll frequently spiral into absolute horror scenarios of how this could end up, so you need to help him focus on positive anticipation instead.

But aside from his usual worries this is a dream come true! Being reunited with the love of his life was already a miracle itself, and now he even gets to start a family with you?! He's just so unbelievably thankful that you're doing this with him, and constantly reminds you how he would do anything for the two of you.

Begs you to name it after his mom shall it become a girl.

It takes two to achieve this, but you'll never hear the end of it with Veiled Invincible.

Won't stop nagging about not being cut out to change diapers or missing the patience to endure a screaming kid day and night. He's got a point, dude barely can take care of himself, all he knows is fighting and having a good time.

Reality only sets in when he hears the child's heartbeat for the first time, and damn this guy cries like a kicked dog. You've seriously never seen him like this before. Hard shell soft core or so they say...

Childbirth really shifted his whole perception of how much you mean to him, he absolutely panicked seeing you suffer like this and not being bale to do anything about it.

Will thank you eternally for for convincing him to the best decision of his life and swear that despite of his many shortcomings, he will always keep you two safe and happy.