#I thought it was going to be a disaster for sure

[dixonsbugaboo]

𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘵𝘺𝘱𝘦.

ꜱᴀᴊᴀ ʙᴏʏꜱ🎵

𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 1 - 𝘒𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦, 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶

Fem!Reader x Saja Boys

Summary: Reincarnated in the body of a demon from the last film you saw before you died, you have decided to change the script of the story in your favour. But you didn't count on your presence in the story changing everything.

Warnings: slow burn, swearing, Jinu being an asshole, ooc (probably), kinda self-disdain too, no proofread (oops)

Word count: 3300+

A/N: Hey there! First of all, please remember that English is not my native language, so there may be mistakes (sorry about that), and this is the first time I've written for this fandom, but the hype is very real and I wanted to join in on the Saja fanfic craze. I hope you like it :)

Ch. 0

︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿

From your perspective, being the producer of the Saja Boys was a wonderful idea. But in reality, it was a disaster and a task that would drain your will to live... if you were alive.

The Saja Boys were demons, in the most literal sense of the word, and they drove you crazy. They tested your patience, trampled on your pride, and were incapable of listening to your advice. You should have realised how difficult it would be to carry out your plan from the moment you first met Jinu... and you almost pulled each other's hair out, literally.

In the movie, Jinu was handsome, but in reality... he was simply breathtaking. Even in his demonic form, he was the most attractive man you had ever seen, with patterns crossing his sharp face like tattoos and radiant eyes that seemed to see right through you. Your demonic form, on the other hand, was a far cry from what a normal human would look like: with horns sticking out of your forehead, sharp teeth and eyes that were too big and outstanding. You were sure that if you could look at yourself in a mirror, your own reflection would be depressed.

Jinu walked confidently, heading in an unknown direction, not caring in the slightest that another creature from the underworld was literally drooling and staring at him. Or so you thought...

"Is this a staring contest?"

You tensed immediately when he stopped walking and spoke, his back still facing you, clearly addressing you.

"... Excuse me?"

"I asked you if this is a staring contest. Can you stop gawking at me? You're going to wear out my face...."

Damn conceited demon. There's nothing worse in the world than an attractive man who is aware of his good looks. Lesson learned.

You decided to continue on your way because you had a feeling that if the conversation continued, you would end up trying to scratch his eyes out with your claws.

"... he's not THAT handsome," you muttered as you walked away.

Silly you, Jinu heard you and teleported right in front of you, so you ended up bumping into his chest. Which, by the way, was pretty hard... considering you hit your nose bad, and now it hurted like hell.

"Pardon me?" he asked, hands on his hips and an arrogant look on his face. "I think you just lied to yourself." That smirk was driving you crazy.

"Lie? HA! All I see in front of me is a smug demon tortured by his past who tries to improve his days by bothering others because he has nothing better to do." You replied, rubbing your sore nose. You would never admit that, before you died, you were sure that if he were real, you would give him your soul without hesitating.

Apparently, your comment bothered him much more than you expected, and when he grabbed you by the shoulders, digging his claws into your skin, you were about to scream. The only thing that stopped you was your pride and the sheer terror that gripped your throat.

"You don't know anything about me. You don't know me."

Oops. That's right. You weren't supposed to have seen him before and didn't know anything about him. First mistake. But... what if you took advantage of the situation to speed things up? All you had to do was try to get along with him... and plant the seed of an idea...

"You know what?" you managed to say as you pulled his hands away from your shoulders, which were sore from his strong grip.

You had just dodged a possible death (if that was even possible, giving you were already dead) at the hands of your number one platonic crush. "You're right." You pretended to brush dust off your shoulders. "I don't know you. But I've heard of a demon who sounds a lot like you... and who was supposedly a musician in his human life."

Jinu raised his eyebrows, surprised and apparently calmer, letting his arms fall to his sides. Damn, he was tall. Next to him, you looked like a mushroom. A mushroom with horns and popping eyes.

"You know, before I died, I used to write music," you said, trying to plant the seed of the idea.

It wasn't entirely a lie... you did write music, although the demon whose body you occupied, through his memories, you learned that he had absolutely no knowledge of it, since they were a painter.

Jinu's gaze made it clear, however, that he had no idea what you were talking about. In fact, he thought you were crazy and waited respectfully for you to finish your ramblings so he could walk away and never come back.

"The thing is..." you continued. The poor guy wasn't very bright. "In the end, isn't it music that keeps us down here? Besides Gwi-ma, of course." You paused, looking for some response in his eyes. "Because of the hunters... because they sing... because their music keeps the Honmoon alive..." You continued, speaking slowly, trying to make him think it was his idea... but he didn't seem very interested. In fact, he looked at you as if he wanted to leave as soon as possible to get back to his miserable life in the underworld.

You snorted, bit your lower lip and decided to give up. What was the point of trying to get a demon with a brain the size of a peanut to understand the plan that, according to the script, would (temporarily) destroy the Honmoon? Because Jinu was clearly incapable of coming to that conclusion on his own.

You took a deep breath and decided to plant the seed deep in his mind, by force, to see if he would water it. As a gift.

"... Sometimes I think, oh, how awful it must be to live down here, hungry for souls, because of those tacky singers! And I realise that the problem has always been the same: the source of their power, which turns out to be the people who listen to their music... you know, right? their fans?"

Jinu nodded slowly, finally understanding where you were going with this.

"Guess we manage to steal their fans and... Ta-da! We're free!" You finish with a dramatic pose, looking at him out of the corner of your eye. At no point do you mention that this plan, if executed well, could be a feast for Gwi-ma, because that's not part of your scheme... although you'll figure out a way to deal with that in the future, when necessary.

Jinu remained silent, scrutinizing you.

Playing dumb didn't work for him, because even though his plan was to play bonkers so you would leave him alone, your intentions were apparently far from stopping talking anytime soon. Furthermore, he had been mulling over that idea long before you mentioned it... but he found it striking that you had thought of it. Did you say you wrote music?

You could even be useful for his plan...

Was that a sign to get started?

"You know what? I think it's a good idea," he finally said, after seriously considering disappearing so he would never have to see you again. "It might even work."

"Of course it would work, you idiot!" you shouted in exasperation, tired of the back and forth of the conversation.

Clearly, Jinu didn't like being called an idiot very much, and he stared at you with one eyebrow raised, weighing up whether it was worth slapping one of your eyebrows off. After all, even though you were a little rude and extremely irritating, with that brain of yours, you could be useful to him. And Jinu never let potential tools get away.

You cleared your throat, looking semi-serious again, before continuing: "The thing is... who knows? If someone who could sing found... I don't know... four other people who could sing... and a successful producer in her previous life... they could negotiate with Gwi-ma to form a band... and, you know, succeed?

You were tired of Jinu.

Jinu was tired of you.

But you needed Jinu to find the rest of the Saja Boys, and Jinu didn't mind a producer (not as successful as she claimed to be) with similar ideals to his... even though you were both sure that the other was the stupidest person in the underworld.

In the end, you decided that the best thing for both of you was to work together... even if that meant exchanging ideas again.

But if you thought that encounter had been disastrous, it was because you couldn't even imagine what it would be like to meet the others. Or to have them all together in one room. Or to explain to them how the roles and ‘personalities’ of a modern boy band work... or to get them to stop flirting with you just for fun. Or, quite simply, to get them to pay you the slightest bit of attention.

"I refuse to play the baby, even if Jinu asks me to. Nuh-huh. Not happening."

You put your hands over your face in frustration. Everything was more difficult because you already knew the roles played by each of Jinu's friends. And the hardest part was that they listened to Jinu and Jinu only, not to you, a grumpy, bossy stranger.

"But to satisfy the fans' absurd need to infantilise idols, there has to be one member of the group who behaves a little more like a youngster, Byeol." you said through your hands, tired of arguing.

It was a surprise (though it made sense) to discover that Jinu's friends had real names and not literal descriptions of their roles in the group. It was also a surprise to discover that Sang, whom you knew as Abby by his stage name, was the only one who really liked his role in the band: the himbo, muscular gym rat.

Byeol flatly refused to play the adorable maknae. Even though he was the youngest... and whose physique was more like that of a young boy.

Dasom wanted to be the leader, not the flirtatious Don Juan. Even though it had already been made clear that Jinu would be the leader.

And Minjun wanted to be the team mascot. Even though you had explained to him hundreds of times that boy bands didn't have mascots.

Jinu, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy your frustration. He knew your idea was good, especially after studying current music trends and fan preferences himself, but he would rather die (again) than confess that you were right.

You just wanted to pull your eyelashes out from the stress they were causing you. Because when they weren't complaining about your ideas, they were playing games to make you agitated and blush. Which was difficult when your lack of self-esteem and patience couldn't properly process the flirting and romantic jokes that Dasom, in particular, tried on you.

In the end, at the expense of your mental health, you reached an agreement: you would be strictly partners, and you would work as a team for the common good (making Gwi-ma happy so he would give you some space) and at the same time, for personal reasons: Jinu wanted Gwi-ma to erase his memories, Dasom and Minjun wanted to leave the underworld, even if only temporarily, Sang wanted to improve his quality of life in hell once they had destroyed the Honmoon... and no one knew exactly what Byeol wanted.

Thanks to Jinu, they accepted their roles and decided on their stage names (which, thank goodness, you didn't have to argue with them about, because they were able to come up with them on their own) and ended up accepting you as their producer and something like a secretary or manager or something in between... a helping hand to make their plan succeed.

In return, you only asked for three things: no flirting with you, even as a joke (or seriously), no asking what exactly you would get in return, and never, ever, telling Gwi-ma about yourself, since he didn't know you existed... and if he found out that a demon from his kingdom had a soul and wasn't under his control... you'd be dead.

You would think of something to prevent the death of the humans, Rumi's very avoidable misunderstanding with the others, Jinu's death and all that...in time.

For now, all your attention would have to go into producing their debut and making it a resounding success... and also convincing the boys that pastel pink was sexy.

They clearly had talent. Without using their powers, they were good singers, and you were surprised by Dasom's, now known as Romance, skills as a dancer and choreographer. Baby rapped effortlessly and was able to help you write, Abby had an incredible memory and physical resistance, Mystery had a heavenly voice, and then there was Jinu... who had all of the above, bathed in sarcasm. From that first encounter, your friendship never quite clicked. But you didn't care, because he would clearly end up with Rumi and they would live happily ever after, right?

Before you pitched the idea to Gwi-ma, you wanted them to be ready. You wanted their debut to be perfect. At first, simply because it was your plan, and because it was necessary for the story to move forward. But as time went by, it was also for their sake. Because even though they constantly drove you crazy and tested your patience, you learned to care for them. After all, part of your plan was to give them back their souls, and to do that, you had to understand them as best you could.

You learned that Baby was the most mature of them all despite being the youngest, even though he never talked about his past as a human beyond admitting that he had been a writer. You had the best conversations with him. He knew how to listen, he knew how to debate, and he was intelligent. Attractive, if you were asked for your honest opinion. One day, after rehearsal, you found him deep in thought, writing notes in a notebook. Although he found it difficult to open up to you, he finally admitted that even in the underworld he still liked to write, especially fantasy, and you convinced him to let you read something. After giving him your honest opinion in the form of constructive criticism and silly jokes, you two became closer. You found Baby to be a very interesting, attractive person with a great talent for storytelling. And to Baby, you were a reliable critic, smart (even if Jinu said otherwise), and although a bit grumpy, very funny. He learned to enjoy his time with you and to miss you when you weren't around. You were the one who could offer him the best conversation... and the best company.

Abby was much sweeter, and sometimes a bit childish. He was competitive and affectionate, hungry for physical contact. Apparently, he had been the eldest son in a military family, and from a very young age he had been raised to be the head of the family. That meant he was the only one of his siblings who couldn't have time for his mother's affection, because he had to be the strongest, and feelings only weakened men. Behind his confident gaze was a child who had never received a hug from his mother. The day you dyed his hair, he discovered how much he liked having his hair stroked, and since then, every now and then he asks you to do it, pretending it's good for his muscles, ignoring the fact that you both know it's the worst lie ever told. But after learning his story, you decided not to say a word about it and let him rest his head on your lap so you could run your fingers through his soft hair. What you didn't know was that, over time, it became Abby's favourite place, and that sometimes, when you hummed without realising while caressing him, he felt like he had finally left the underworld and came home. Because that's what you were starting to be to him.

At first, Mystery was the hardest to deal with, as he was the least vocal of the five. And not being able to see his expression made it even harder to understand his emotions. Was he happy? Sad? Angry? Maybe it was because he had gotten too into his role, but he was a complete mystery. Little by little, you learned to read between the lines, to interpret his silences. When he tilted his head to one side because he was curious, when he lowered his chin because he was angry... He was a bit like a kitten. And you understood why he insisted in been a mascot... without the need to talk, but kinda expressive. You learned that he was an orphan and had lived most of his life alone. As time went by and you learned to understand him, he opened up to you, little by little. He talked to you more, trusted you more. Until he explained that he had once been in love, that his heart had been broken, and that since then he had found it difficult to express himself with words and to open up to people. But for some reason, with you it was different. You never judged him, even though he went along with the others to tease and joke with you, and you were always patient with him. You wanted to understand him... and now he wanted to learn from you and try again to open up to people.

Romance hid a genuinely cheerful and funny boy behind a facade of smiles and empty flirting. Apparently, he had been a dancer in his human life, hence his talent, and he had had four older sisters, which made him the most patient with you. At first he was cold towards you, apparently because you reminded him of a life he couldn't return to, but little by little he came to understand that you had nothing to do with his sisters, hius past and his decisions, and that being distant towards you didn't benefit him at all. Gradually you talked more and more, understanding each other's tastes, and coming to enjoy each other's company. When Romance wasn't trying to embarrass you just for fun, his company could even be enjoyable. And although he didn't want to admit it, he liked spending time with you more and more, and he was beginning to enjoy getting on your nerves in a different way.

Jinu, on the other hand, was the one who had remained the most distant from you. You couldn't say why, but that's how it was. Maybe he was disgusted by your appearance, or maybe he was bothered by the smell of your breath, but he always stayed several steps away from you. He tried to look unbothered, calm, and composed, as long as he wasn't picking on you. How considerate. In fact, he practically only spoke to you directly to annoy you. It was frustrating because you knew he was sweet and kind to Rumi, but for some reason, with you, he was... like that. You wanted to strangle him every time he contradicted you or when he clearly pretended to be fine when his memories were torturing him. You couldn't see that he always turned to look at you when you turned away, that he was the one who cared most about you getting some rest, and that he was actually cold to you to try to prove to himself that you weren't important. That you were expendable. That you were stupid, no fun, not attractive at all, and in no way interesting. Because if he got closer to you, it could mean moving away from his goal.

︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿︿

Ch. 2

A/N: Well! Finally, a real chapter. I hope it was interesting enough to make you want to keep reading… My intention is to let the relationships develop slowly, and as the story progresses, and finally let you choose who will win your heart (wink). For now, everyone deserves a chance, right? Even Jinu, who acts all tough. Or should Jinu end up with Rumi, because they didn't give us that satisfaction in the movie?

Anyway, I hope you liked it and that you want to keep reading :)

See you soon,

Nun🐇​

[yamumsyadadd]

first of many

More here: End of the road , 4 times you meet.

The firsts of anything were nerve wracking but this? Your first date with Alexia Putellas, made you want to vomit. 

Miriam had already helped you buy an outfit but as you stood in your walk in wardrobe you couldn’t help but feel incredibly uncomfortable in your own skin. 

Your body was different now. You had birthed and breast fed two babies. You had survived the breakdown of your marriage and the public humiliation that came along with it. But this? This seemed so incredibly daunting. 

You didn’t have many friends. The one you would’ve called about this was Miriam, but you hoped she was busy dealing with alexia’s nerves (which she was, you just didn’t actually know that.) 

You arrived early, sat in your car for half an hour practicing deep breaths and trying not to throw up. It was fine, everything was fine. 

Expect it wasn’t. 

In terms of first dates, it was probably the worst in history. Firstly, you walked into the glass door, the entire restaurant stopping and looking at you. You could feel the bump growing already. 

Alexia was already at the table, she didn’t say anything about seeing you walk into the door but you knew she saw. She, of course, looked ethereal. Dressed in tan dress pants and a white shirt, her skin golden and her blonde with some faded pink strips. 

Originally you decided not to drink. You didn’t want to embarrass yourself but since you already did that, you ordered a wine. The conversation was fine, a bit awkward but it followed naturally. 

She spoke about her family, her friends and football. You talked about your kids, your papa and the foundation. It was nice, until it wasn’t. 

“I googled you.” She said over her wine glass. You raised an eyebrow, encouraging her to carry on. “You’re worth a lot of money, seemed to have worked hard. But I also saw the hate from Leah’s fans. How’d you deal with that?” 

It was a question you were expecting. At no point did you think that your soon to be ex wife about be bought up in conversation. 

“Uh, fine I guess. I had a lot going on, still do. So I don’t pay attention to it. In the end, she broke our family not me and that’s something she has to live with.” Alexia nodded, then you quickly changed the subject. 

It got less awkward as the night went on, but then disaster struck. Another patron knocked the waiter who just happened to be carrying a tray full of red wine. And where did it land? All over you of course. 

Alexia’s eyes went wide as she watched the waiter apologise profusely. You couldn’t do anything but nod. Slowly, you got up. For you, this was the final straw. You didn’t even bother to say goodbye, just walking out the door. 

The entire way home you cried. You imagined this would be perfect, the happy ending you so desperately wanted but it was anything but that. You continued to cry while you were showering, then later in bed. You were embarrassed, so incredibly embarrassed and you thought alexia felt the same way. 

Alexia had sat there in shock. She didn’t realise the internal battle that you were having. She thought the date was going perfectly. Sure, she had seen you walk into the door but she chose to ignore it so you wouldn’t feel embarrassed. 

She quickly helped the waiter clean up, then went to pay but they waived the entire bill. As soon as you got outside, you were gone. She tried to ring you, unsuccessfully, and texted a bunch of times but they also went unread and unanswered. 

In a moment of desperation she rang Miriam, explaining everything that happened and how you took off. Miriam assured alexia that she would handle it.

Miriam knew you best. She knew you would’ve had a whole plan for how you wanted this night to go, and when that plan failed, you bolted. You were an incredibly organised person and when things didn’t go the way you planned, you panicked. 

The lights were all off in your house when she turned up. Her knocks went unanswered but she knew the laundry door was always unlocked, you did that so the doggy door would be able to be used by your two dogs. 

She found you crying in bed. She didn’t say anything, just flicked her shoes off and climbed in with you. Miriam stayed with you all night. She didn’t care that she slept in her jeans or that you stole all the blanket. She especially didn’t care when your dogs woke her up by licking her face. She was there for you and you were glad. 

The following morning, you saw the missed texts and calls from Alexia but you didn’t reply. You couldn’t reply. It was too embarrassing and as much as you liked alexia, you thought it would be better to cut your loses. 

When alexia turned up at your office late at night four days later you were confused. She was holding flowers and dinner. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“I thought that since our first date didn’t go to plan, we could have a do over. Right here, no pressure, no people watching us, or waiters to spill wine on us.” She smiled at the end of her statement, placing the Chinese takeaway and flowers on the coffee table in the middle. 

You couldn’t say no to her. Not with the way she had a smug smile on her face that made you fold, or the way she carried herself. Her laugh is what got you though. It made goosebumps appear on your skin and you wished it could be bottled up forever. 

From that redo first date, it seemed to change something in the both of you. There was no offical asking to be girlfriends, it just happened. Alexia introduced you to her teammates as such, you met her family and she met yours. 

You were both wrapped in a bubble that would surely pop soon. 

It only took two months of your relationship before the secret was out. Some fan saw you and alexia in downtown Barcelona at a fancy restaurant eating dinner and then holding hands. 

Alexia didn’t mind too badly. She was a private person but she knew she loved you so she didn’t say much. Leah, however, turned into a horrible person. 

The vile texts started quickly. Telling you she always knew you used her, that all you wanted was her money. Which to you, was funny considering you were the one with the money. You paid for the house, for the lifestyle, you were the one that needed to prenup at the start of your relationship not her. It took Leah years to have money, you never wanted her money but now that you had moved on she would run that narrative. 

Unfortunately, the fight didn’t just affect you. She refused to come to Spain to see your children, which was apart of the court order. So once a month, you would fly to England with Oscars and Amelia, cop the abuse from Leah and fly home. 

You didn’t tell your kids you were in a relationship with Alexia and she hasn’t seen them since you started dating. You wanted to be sure, really sure but Leah decided to throw it back in your face. 

“Mama? Is alexia your new girlfriend?” Oscar asked as you tucked him into bed. You froze for a moment. 

“She is. You like alexia right?” 

He nodded his head but then frowned, “mummy says alexia is going to replace her and that I can’t like her. I have to be mean so it doesn’t happen.” 

“No babe that’s not true. Alexia isn’t going to replace mummy. No matter what happens, I’m still your mama and mummy is still your mummy okay?” 

“Okay but don’t tell mummy I like her. She’ll be mad at me.” You did your best not to show your sweet, innocent little boy how angry you were. 

It was one thing for Leah to abuse you, but it was another thing for her to try and alienate your children. 

That night, as you sat on the phone to your own papa, you did something you knew would cause problems and would became public very quickly. 

You emailed your lawyer, the same woman you had used for the last ten months, and asked her to apply for full custody with no visitation. At no point did you want to stop your children from seeing their other mother but this was just the start of a shit storm. 

[rori-is-writing]

⎯⟢ Life Line ⟣⎯

⟪ ⟨ Ch 2: Bother Me ⟩ ⟫

A The Pitt Reader X Soulmate AU.

Multi-Chapter | Explicit | Dr. Robby x Fem!Reader | 1,839 words ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ Summary: You had always wondered what it would be like to meet your soulmate...Yet, of all the scenarios you had dreamt up over the years, meeting your soulmate in the ER as your lifeblood poured out onto the floor was not one of them.  ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ Tags: Age Gap (20+ years), Brief mentions of near-death experience/shooting trauma, Caretaking, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD, Soulmates

Read on AO3 | The Pitt Masterlist

[ A/N: Hi there, how would you like another chapter of these two idiots being disasters together? ]

The trouble comes, it turns out, only when they try to discharge you a week later. 

“Do you have anyone who will be able to help you while you recover?”

You think of your parents—enjoying their retirement abroad—and of your sister—already stressed with a newborn and a useless husband on the other side of the country—and grimace. 

“Not really,” you confess with a shrug. The nurse looks less than convinced. 

It was fine. You’d figure out a way to convince them to let you leave on your own—surely they couldn’t just…hold you hostage here…right?

Michael finds you soon after. 

He bustles in a couple hours later with a bundle of blue fabric and a wheelchair. 

“I’m afraid we had to cut your clothes off when you came in so I hope you’re okay with scrubs until we get you home.” 

You blink at the wheelchair, not comprehending his words. 

“I thought I couldn’t leave unless I had someone to take me home?” 

“You do.” 

It takes you a frankly embarrassing amount of time to realize what it is he’s saying. 

“Oh!” You grimace, flustered as the pieces suddenly click into place. “You don’t have to do that! I’m sure I can call…someone…”

But your soulmate just stares at you calmly, waiting for your arguments to fizzle out. 

“Really!” You continue, doubling down. You are, after all, nothing if not stubborn. “I would never expect you to…I’m sure I can take care of things myself…I mean how hard can it be?”

You regret the words almost as soon as you say them because you see the way his eyebrows raise and his eyes go flinty. Suddenly, it’s not your soulmate speaking to you, but your doctor. And your doctor isn’t taking any of your shit today. 

“I’m afraid it’s hospital policy that someone has to drive you home. And seeing as how there are no emergency contacts in your chart and you’ve refused to give the nurses a phone number to call that leaves you with me.” 

“But—”

“You just had major surgery,” he says calmly—slowly—as if he were explaining something to a child. “Your liver was perforated when you came in. I had to open you up to repair the damage. That kind of trauma takes a toll on someone’s body. You’re going to be weak for a while. Hungrier too as your body burns through all of your daily calories just to heal itself. You need someone there who can take care of you because you’ll be lucky to have the energy to take a shower every day, let alone feed and care for yourself for the next couple of weeks.” 

“Weeks?!” You can’t help but gasp. You couldn’t lay around for weeks! You had work! Bills to pay! Things to do! It had already been hard enough convincing your boss to let you go on leave over the phone as you laid helplessly in your hospital bed. He had made it sound like you had gone out of your way to get shot just to make things harder for him. 

Typical. 

“If you’re lucky. Months if you’re unlucky…or if you decide you can do this alone and ignore your doctor’s advice.” He didn’t have to add the words ‘which you won’t be doing’ though they were heavily implied. 

You realize then, all at once, that you don’t actually know this man. Not really. Soulmate or not, he is essentially a stranger to you. A man you only just met a couple of weeks ago. If he were anyone else, you wouldn’t ever dare let him inside your apartment, let alone take care of you. 

But he’s not anyone else, your traitorous mind whispers to you. He’s your soulmate. 

Who else could you trust but him?

“Okay.”

He helps you change. You don’t bother fighting him on it. You figure, at this point, he’s seen more than enough of you for it to be a moot point. And, to his credit, he’s perfectly professional as he pulls the scrub shirt down over your head and folds up the wrinkled gown you’ve been wearing for days. 

Ugh. You really need a shower. Sponge baths only did so much. Maybe if you were really lucky you’d have the energy to just sit under the shower for a solid twenty minutes when you got home before you actually needed to get back out again. 

“You don’t have to take care of me you know,” you try to argue as he settles you into the wheelchair and rolls you out into the hall. Just because you’d agreed to this didn’t mean you couldn’t whine about it a little. “I know how to take care of myself.” 

“Need I remind you that you were shot in the liver and are lucky to be alive?” He scolded. “Let me do this.” 

A few people wave goodbye to him on your way out, making you feel a little awkward, but soon enough you’re being rolled out into a parking garage and up to a black Mercedes. 

You ogle the inside of the car as he helps you into the passenger seat. It’s so much nicer than your own car—an aged Honda Civic that was used even when your parents bought it, before later passing it onto you—with buttery leather and tinted windows and a touchscreen on the dashboard instead of the ancient cassette player in your car. 

Michael appear again, wheelchair no longer in tow, and climbs into the driver’s seat. 

“You’re going to have to play navigator.” He says as he starts the engine and pulls out of the parking space nice and smooth. 

“Hmm?” You hum, distracted by the display in front of you and the soreness in your abdomen. They’d given you your last dose of pain meds just before Robby had come to spirit you away but the drugs only did so much. You were sure it would feel far worse if you weren’t taking them at all though, so you tried not to complain. 

“Your address? You’ll have to tell me where we’re going.” 

“Oh,” you nod. “Right. Turn left at this light.” 

He does as you say and you both lapse into silence except for the occasional direction from you. 

It’s…nice. Normally silences amongst company can be awkward. Like everyone is struggling to come up with something to say…but not this time. Silence with Michael is strangely soothing. Like neither of you need to talk. Like you’re both just content to enjoy each other’s company. 

Soon enough, he rolls up to your rundown apartment complex and parks beside your beat up Honda. You can see immediately in the furrow of his brows and the purse of his lips that he’s concerned. You’re well aware of how poor this part of town is, but not everyone can have a doctor’s salary. 

“Here?” He confirms, as if at any moment you were going to laugh and say ‘haha gotcha!’. 

“Yep,” you tell him before trying to open the passenger door. 

He looks at you with alarm. “Woah! Hey! Slow down there!” 

You huff with impatience as he gets out of the car and scuttles around to the other side to help you out. 

“This is unnecessary,” you say petulantly. 

He doesn’t even deign that with a response, just patiently takes you by the elbow—his fingers warm against your skin—and lets you hobble alongside him up the stairs to your second floor apartment. 

Damn, you think, cringing a little when you finally get inside. I forgot to clean up before I left. 

Michael though, seems to barely notice the dirty socks on the floor or the pile of dishes that have definitely been sitting in your sink for the last several weeks now, instead he helping you across the tiny little living room to collapse on the couch. 

Jeez, you think as you gasp for air after that particularly long and harrowing journey from the car. Maybe you had overestimated your recovery…just a little bit. 

Michael leaves you to proverbially lick your wounds and wanders into your kitchen. You clear your throat. 

“Thanks for bringing me home.”

He hums in acknowledgment as you hear him open your refrigerator. Likely taking stock of your distinct lack of the major food groups. 

“So…I can take it from here.” 

He doesn’t respond, instead closes the refrigerator door and walks back into your line of sight to stare at you with a very fatherly look on his face. Like he’s both annoyed and disappointed in you. 

“No,” he disagrees, looming over you with quiet authority. “You can’t.”

You frown. “Excuse me?” 

“You can’t take it from here,” he continues calmly. “In fact, the only reason your doctor agreed to discharge you today was because I told them I would take care of you.” 

“What.” You flush, embarrassed. That can’t be right…and yet you know it is. 

The nurses had been so concerned when you had told them you didn’t have anyone to call or come pick you up. Hell, your family hadn’t called even once since the shooting. It had been front page headlines for days after you woke up from surgery. And yet you hadn’t received so much as a single text asking if you had even been involved. Your family were just too wrapped up in their own lives to notice that one of their own had been inches away from death. 

And, frankly, you preferred it that way. 

The worst thing you could do, you always told yourself, was to be a bother. Nobody needed you ruining their day with your problems. 

You could take care of yourself. 

“You need help,” Michael said firmly. “You barely made it upstairs on your own. Maybe that line works on others but I’m a doctor. I know what major surgery does to a body. So you can complain all you like but I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me.” 

You wanted to be angry. Furious. Fight back and tell him to get the hell out. But you were just so…tired. 

Maybe after a nap. 

 “I just don’t want to…bother you.” You say lamely. 

He stares at you like you’ve suddenly started speaking Mongolian. 

“You’re my soulmate,” he says slowly. “I would be upset if you didn’t bother me. Especially for this.” 

“I guess.” 

“No,” he says, “Bother me. Bother me when you’re hungry. Bother me when you’re in pain. Bother me when you need help getting up. If I didn’t want to be bothered then I wouldn’t be here. Hell, I wouldn’t even be a doctor.” He smiles crookedly, like he’s just told a very funny joke. 

You don’t know what to say to that, so you just nod. 

“Good,” Michael turns to look back at your kitchen. “Now, please tell me you have something to eat in this place that isn’t ketchup and ramen noodles.” 

You grimace. 

“Yeah…about that...”

Next Chapter | Life Line Masterlist

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[the-shedevil-writes]

Dog-Fight Part 2: Bodyguard (Bob Floyd x Reader)

HEY! THIS IS A PART 2! READ PART 1 HERE You may be very confused otherwise. DESCRIPTION: You and Bob finally go on that long-awaited first date, but the night takes an unexpected turn when you cross paths with the Marine who humiliated you just the night before. WORD COUNT: 4.2k WARNINGS: Bullying/asshole behavior from the Marines (SORRY MARINES. This is based off a movie 'Dogfight') Fighting/punching. Hurt/comfort. Emotional hurt/comfort. FLUFF! First date fun times! MY MASTERLIST - READ ON AO3!

This was a dream. And she was horrified at that fact. The last time she had been this excited was only the night before, when that marine had asked her to the party. And God knew how that went. Anxiety bubbled up in her stomach. But there wasn’t that lingering sense of dread. A trustworthy source of excitement laid beneath her surface.

The second she turned the store’s sign to closed, she booked it up the stairs to get ready. Earlier in the day, Bob had purchased two books at her recommendation. Of course, he liked war stories and history books. Not her specialty, but she had heard of some critically acclaimed novels in those genres, and he took in her every word. She blushed just thinking about the way he looked at her. Like she was important. Like he valued her every thought.

Now she stood searching through her clothes. She didn’t want a repeat of last night’s disaster dress. Frustratingly, she didn’t have many dresses that could work for a date. A few dresses that were overly formal that she had bought for events. A business casual dress for book shop events. But nothing date-worthy. She groaned and ran her hand down her face. The past 24 hours had been completely foreign to her. It’s not like she was actively going on dates. She’d rather get her fill by reading romance novels than actively use the cesspools called dating apps. 

Eventually, after throwing an abundance of hangers onto her bed, she pronounced

“Screw it.”

And she threw on a fitted pair of grey slacks and a striped blue button-up blouse. Letting her hair down from her work-updo, she looked at herself in the mirror. For the first time in a long time, she felt pretty. Sure, she thought that she had looked pretty before the disaster party. But this was different. The fact that Bob had actively sought her out to ask her to dinner made her see herself in a different light. She gave herself a small smile, letting the giddiness out.

At 7, she walked down the stairs in some light makeup and her shoulder bag tucked under her arm. She could see a silhouette in the door frame. Her heart pounded as she walked up to the door to see Bob standing there under the patio light. 

With a smile, she opened it, and he stood there blinking in surprise as he took her all in. He looked handsome in his forest green sweater and black dress pants. He quickly adjusted his glasses with one hand and held a small bouquet of wildflowers in his other. 

“I feel underdressed.” He chuckled as he looked at her. “Hi.”

“Hi, Bob.” She said, blushing.

They looked at each other for a moment. Both almost lost in thought. Lost in admiring each other.

“Oh-” He realized and held out the makeshift bouquet, “These are for you. I-I didn’t realize all the stores here close so early, so I couldn’t stop by the flower shop. But I didn’t wanna show up empty-handed.”

She took the bundle of wildflowers. His explanation was adorable.

“I’ve never gotten flowers before.” She admitted quietly. GOD, WHY WAS SHE GONNA CRY? She held it together and smiled brightly. “Thank you. I love them so much. Let me put these away, then we can go.” She beckoned him to follow her into the shop and led him up the stairs to her apartment above. 

She didn’t expect him to be in her small studio, so a hint of embarrassment crept up her. 

“Don’t mind the mess.” She said, grateful now that she had forced herself to put away the pile of clothes from getting ready.

Bob looked around curiously. He studied her living space as if he were a detective figuring out more about her. The movie posters, the tchotchkes that littered her shelves, and the family pictures that sat on the kitchen counter. 

Rushing to put the flowers in a cup, she turned on the sink. “Where were you thinking about eating?” 

He turned to her now that his daze was broken, “There’s this Italian place kinda by Hard Deck. Uh- Phoenix and Hangman recommended it to me.”

A small smile crept up on her face. She remembered the other aviators that she had briefly met at the bar. Did he ask them for advice? Was she worth the extra tips for a good date? 

“That sounds great!” She said, unable to rein back the excitement in her voice. She rested the cup of flowers onto the kitchen counter and walked back toward him. “You ready?”

He nodded, looking more nervous than her. “Let’s rock n roll.” He said, and then immediately cringed a little at himself, making her laugh.

“Let’s.”

After a car ride that somehow felt more tense and nervous than the first time, they walked up to the tall building called Oro Rosso. She didn’t know what to expect, but it wasn’t this. This was a decently upscale place. And as they got the truck valeted, she realized this wasn’t Olive Garden.

“Oh, Bob- are you sure this is the right place? This is… really nice.” 

He looked at her, “It’s okay. Phoenix said the food is really good.” He smiled as they walked up to the doors. “Figured if we’re gonna end up at Hard Deck, we might as well start somewhere a little nicer first.” 

“Can- Can I afford this?” She hesitantly asked.

He froze and furrowed his brows at her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, will I be eating a side salad as a meal tonight because that’s the only affordable option…” She admitted bluntly looking down at her dress shoes.

His eyes widened, and he gently put his hands on her shoulders. She looked up at him a little surprised. 

“Y/n, for starters, I’m paying. I want to. Don’t you even worry about that. And also…” He smiled and shook his head, “This isn’t some Michelin star type place. It’s just a little more than… The Hard Deck.” He reassured.

She looked up at him with shocked eyes, her lips slightly ajar. A blush rolled over her face.

“Okay…”

“If you really wanna go somewhere else, I’m okay with that too.” 

Goodness. He was much more accommodating than she was used to. But also, she should’ve expected this, considering how sweet he had been the night before. 

She shook her head and gave him an excited smile. “No. No. Let’s eat.” 

He nodded and took the opportunity to move his hand from her shoulder. His fingers traced down her arm until they interlinked with her palm. Both their breaths hitched as they both pretended to be totally cool. They looked around, waiting for a hostess to come up. Bob’s hand involuntarily squeezed hers.

Once they were led to their table, it was only then that Bob let go so they could sit across from each other. The dining area was dimly lit with the aid of a few candles on the table. She put her hands to her cheeks as she sat down. 

“It’s so pretty.” She admired, looking around at the chandeliers and the gorgeous decorations. The walls were covered in flowered vines and paintings. 

Bob didn’t take his eyes off her, but it wasn’t a stare. It was an admiring gaze. He looked at her softly enough that she didn’t even notice. “Yeah… Yeah, it is.”

She looked back at him with a thrilled expression before opening the menu. Bob did the same. 

Her brows furrowed, and her lip slightly pouted as she read through the options.

“Whatcha thinking?” Bob asked after a moment.

“I…” She started before dissolving into a laugh, “Have no idea. I feel uncultured right now because I have no idea what anything is.”

He sighed in relief, “Thank god. Me too.” He admitted, making them both laugh.

“There’s no lasagna or chicken alfredo-” 

Bob tsked, “No chicken tenders.”

She laughed a little too loudly at that and covered her mouth, quickly realizing she had disrupted the elegant atmosphere. A few patrons looked over at her as she blushed. But at her quick catch, Bob laughed even louder before doing the same thing. Now they were just stifling giggles at their own embarrassment.

A waiter came by with a judgmental eye. Both at their boisterous behavior, but also at their clothes, which, though fancy to them, weren’t exactly black tie. 

“What can I get started for you?” He asked

Bob and she looked at each other, unsure. Until he finally looked up at the well-dressed waiter and asked, “So we’ve never been here before. Surely, evident. But uh- what would you recommend?” 

The waiter nodded understandingly. “Our most popular dishes for newcomers are our Tortelli there- pumpkin filled pasta with amaretti. Then we’ve also got our Gnocchi di Castelmagno, which is potato gnocchi with an aged cheese sauce.” Looking back at each other with raised eyebrows because they had no idea what half those words even meant, they shrugged. Cheese and pumpkin-filled pasta sounded fine enough.

“Let’s just go with that.” She said with a smile, handing the waiter back the menus.

He took the menus back and nodded before heading away. She looked back over at Bob, who sat with a bashful look on his face.

“I probably should’ve asked the gang what they ate here,” He said.

“It’s okay. We’ll share.” She suggested 

With a relieved sigh, he chuckled, “Good idea.” 

There was that soft first-date tension again. It was the type of quietness that made her heart flutter and her feet kick slightly under the tablecloth.

“What does a day in the life look like for a pilot?” She asked curiously.

Bob took a nervous sip of his water before answering. “I’m actually not considered a pilot. I’m uh- a WSO. Weapon Systems Officer. Which I swear is cooler than it sounds-”

“Sounds pretty cool to me.” She beamed sweetly, and she noticed how quickly his face got red. 

He coughed, surprised, before excusing himself, then going, “Yeah, I uh- I spend the day training for any upcoming missions. I backseat for Phoenix, which means I watch all the systems of the jet, making sure everything's going okay, and I man the weapons.” 

There was something about that that really did it for her. It was silly, but she had a hard time trying not to seem too into that explanation. She smiled, keeping the butterflies in her stomach at bay. 

“I know like… nothing about any of this. So that just sounds pretty awesome to me.” She said before taking a sip of her water. 

“Well, what’s a day in your life look like?” He asked 

She laughed, “God, it’s so boring compared to yours.” 

“Not true at all.” He said, “There are plenty of days where I’d rather spend it at that book shop instead of doing push-ups or being insulted by higher-ups.”

With the extra reassurance, she answered.

“Well, I wake up. Get coffee. I’ll open the shop and greet my regulars. I help people find books they’re looking for or give them recommendations. My favorite thing to do is to make the funny little display tables. Organizing all the books just… turns my brain off for a little bit.” She explained, and she observed him nodding and drinking in every word. As mundane as her day sounded, he listened as if it were the most exciting thing in the world.

“That sounds very cerebral. Relaxing.” He said 

“Yeah, well, I still get frustrated. Rude customers. Late book shipments. Payments and bills. God, keeping the lights on by myself is borderline impossible.” 

“Especially now. Seems like everyone buys their books through a big chain or online-” He said

Her heart exploded. He understood why her bookstore was struggling.

“Exactly!” She exclaimed a little too loudly again.

The waiter came back with two big plates of food. It looked incredible and was also not as intimidating as the names suggested. She rubbed her hands together excitedly, looking at Bob as the waiter put the dishes onto the table. 

When the waiter walked away, Bob looked at her with raised brows and an impressed pout of his lip. She looked at him with the same expression before letting out a little laugh. 

“Let’s dig in, I guess.” She announced before looking down at her multiple forks with a nervous giggle. 

Dinner was incredible. Phoenix and Hangman were definitely proven right as they shared both plates and hummed contentedly. After getting their card back, Bob stood up and put out his elbow.

She laughed at this as she stood up and took his arm. “How fancy.”

“Your chariot awaits.” He joked. “And by that, I mean we should pick my truck up from the valet.”

They walked out of the restaurant arm in arm. She couldn’t help but peer up at him and admire his jawline. She liked that he didn’t wear contacts. His glasses, though big, added a hint of personality to him. As the night breeze blew through her hair, he noticed that she was looking at him.

“What?” He asked curiously while they waited for the valet to grab the truck.

“You’re handsome.” She blurted out, surprising not just him but herself. 

He let out a small breath and smiled shyly. “Thank you. Means a lot coming from a girl as gorgeous as you.”

Jesus Christ. She felt like she was going to have a heart attack at that. Sure, the Marine from the night before had called her a smoke show. He had buttered her up with compliments and what seemed like kind words. But the way Bob talked to her, he sounded so genuine. Everything he said felt like the truth. 

She blinked, surprised, before uttering a small “Thank you…”

When they got to The Hard Deck, she really took in the look of the bar this time. The night before, she had barely taken a good look at her surroundings. The warm lights were inviting as they walked in, his touch was electrifying on her lower back. She looked up and took notice of the model planes that hung down from the ceiling. The pool table shone in the back corner by a jukebox playing classic rock hits. Other memorabilia of the Navy hung around the walls, as well as a sign at the bar that said, ‘If you disrespect a lady, the Navy, or put your cell phone on my bar, you buy a round.’ 

She smiled a little at how cozy the bar felt. 

“Penny said you come here every Friday?” She asked curiously 

He looked down at her and nodded as they made their way over to the bar. “Just about. It’s nice to hang out with the squadron at the end of the week. We play a lot of pool.”

“Well, wanna play a round after drinks?” She asked

Bob nodded excitedly, “I’d love to.”

At that, Penny let out a laugh at seeing them walk up to the bar. She dusted her hands off. “Well, well, well… Made quick work, huh, Floyd?” 

His eyes widened, and he blushed. “I-I couldn’t not ask her out, Pen.”

Her eyes widened at that. He couldn’t resist asking her out. And that fact made her heart leap happily. 

“Has he been behaving?” The bartender asked, directing it at her now.

She nodded eagerly with a coy smile. “He’s been a very good date.”

“So far.” Penny joked. 

Bob laughed that off nervously, “Can we get two of our usual?” 

The bartender nodded and grabbed two beer bottles, sliding them across the table. “Have fun.” She said with a wink.

They were both slightly red in the face as they walked away. Bob’s hand returned to hers, and she naturally interlocked her fingers with his. She could feel his calluses against her hands, and she smiled to herself, thinking about them. 

She took a sip of her beer as they headed to the pool table. 

That’s when she saw them… Him, to be specific. 

They were dressed in all camo, their hats off hung in the corner. The same uniform that had walked into her bookstore the day before. The man who had asked her to the party that turned out to be a cruel, cruel joke. 

Hudson. The Marine who had taken her to the dog-fight. He walked with his buddies, chuckling as they obliviously took the pool table before Bob and her could make it over. He still looked as sharp and good-looking as when she met him. Not a care in the world behind his eyes. Even though there was a bruise above his left cheekbone, where she had hit him. She hadn’t realized that she had hit him so hard. 

She froze in place, and so did Bob, but for different reasons.

“Damn. Guess we’ll have to wait till their game’s over,” Bob said, but when his head turned to face her, he noticed how her face had gone completely pale. Her eyes were wide and frozen. “You okay? What’s- what’s wrong?”

She finally blinked and swallowed before trying to shake her head. “No-no-it’s okay, let’s just go.”

“What?” He asked confused, but that’s when the group of Marines’ laughter grew. They had noticed each other.

He looked over and saw that they were all not so subtly, looking at them now. Bob quickly connected the dots. “Is that him?” 

Her breaths were quick, and tears already brewed in her eyes. This was stupid. She should just ignore them and enjoy this amazing date. But now… now they were laughing at her. She gently nodded. 

“It’s fine… We’ll wait for their pool game to be done.” 

Bob nodded, agreeing with her plan to continue the night. But then suddenly, a smooth voice rang out over the rock music. 

“Hey, baby! You owe me for the shiner.” Hudson smirked.

She swallowed anxiously and went to turn away, but Bob stood in place. “Hey, man. Can we just use the pool table when you’re done?” 

Hudson and his buddies laughed at seemingly nothing. Showing their real intelligence. Or lack thereof.

“You’re already having my sloppy seconds, and you want more?” Hudson called out, making his buddies ooo like monkeys. He sauntered around the table and towards Bob and her. 

They were both of a similar height, Bob just ever so slightly shorter. But he looked up at Hudson with a stone face. He slowly blinked as Hudson got closer to him.

“Look. How about you leave us alone? I think you’ve done enough damage already.” Bob let go of her hand and gestured for her to back up. She did, watching in horror.

“Come on, let’s just go,” She tried to de-escalate, but was interrupted by Hudson.

“You’ve got yourself a real winner there.” He exclaimed, “Won me some big bucks at the dog-fight. Though she looked quite different.” His eyes drifted over her.

“I think it’s best you shut your mouth,” Bob seethed through gritted teeth, getting closer to the guy. Anger seeped behind his usually soft voice. He practically growled, making her eyes widen. This wasn’t a side of him she had seen. 

And it seemed to surprise Hudson as well, but he let out a dry laugh.

“I’m just letting you know that you’re taking out a prize-winning pi-” 

But Hudson didn’t even finish the word ‘pig’ because Bob punched him straight across his face. It sounded like a slab of meat had fallen off a hook. She gasped and covered her mouth.

The other Marines exclaimed, but didn’t get involved. This was clearly between the two gentlemen. But she quickly got in between the crowd and them just in case. 

Penny yelled out, ringing the bell, “HEY! TAKE IT OUTSIDE!” 

Hudson wiped blood off his nose. “You fucking-”

He shoved Bob to the floor, and at the commotion, she quickly turned to see Hudson on top of him.

He got in a punch to Bob. But right before Hudson could throw another, she ran over and grabbed the scruff of his shirt. Using all her might, she pulled him off Bob, and he exclaimed in surprise. She grabbed his shoulders and threw him to the ground.

The other Marines surrounded them, but she kicked him in his stomach. They froze in place at the sight of her panicked eyes on them. Hudson let out an ‘ough’ as he grabbed his stomach and face. 

“Is torturing me not enough?!” She yelled, “What have I done to you? HUH? What has he? I was dehumanized and HUMILIATED. While you guys get to giggle and laugh like FUCKING idiots!” 

Bob looked up at her with a swollen cheek, his glasses crooked on his face. 

“Just leave us. THE FUCK. Alone!” Her voice cracked as tears fell down her cheeks. Her foot pressed into the soldier's stomach.

The bar was silent. You could hear a pin drop. When Hudson went to get up, she looked down at him with fiery eyes, and he stayed down.

Suddenly, Penny was pulling her off of him. “Come on, sweetheart.” The bartender pointed to all the Marines, including Hudson. “You guys gotta go.” 

“Are you kidding me?!” One of them exclaimed, “He punched first!”

She raised a brow, silencing him. “I ain't stupid, kid. Now go before I call the cops.”

Hudson scrambled up and stumbled towards his friends, who coddled him like a baby as they walked out. They could hear quiet reassurances as if he didn’t just get his ass beat by a woman half his size. 

Y/n quickly knelt to Bob’s side as soon as they walked away. “You’re so stupid-” She chided affectionately as she sat him up and cupped his face. He winced as her thumb brushed his cheek. 

Penny looked around the bar at the other patrons. “Alright, folks. Show’s over. Let’s get back to our drinks, huh?” She yelled out before walking back to the bar. 

Bob shook his head and chuckled. “You sure know how to pick ‘em.” He joked. 

She ignored his comment. “Can you stand?” 

He nodded with a slow blink. Rising to their feet, they made their way over to a booth in the corner. They sat down in the same seat. 

“Well, we have the pool table to ourselves now.” 

“Bob-” She said seriously.

“I’m okay!” He insisted.

Penny came by with a bag of ice. “Here, Marlon Brando. You’re off the hook for this one. ONLY because I know what those guys did. Don’t ever do this again in my bar.” 

“Hard ask.” He said sarcastically.

She quickly took the ice from Penny. “Thank you.”

Penny nodded and walked away, leaving the two alone again. 

She took his bent glasses off and pressed the bag up against his face. He winced again, and she let off the pressure. Her face was so focused. With pursed lips and furrowed brows, Bob had something to distract him from the pain.

“You’re cute when you’re all worried.” 

That finally broke her and she let out a small relieved exhale. She rolled her eyes.

“You’re so dumb.” She said, but it was filled with endearment

“I’d do it again.” 

There was a soft silence as she moved the ice bag off and checked around his face. She moved the bag slightly to the side so she didn’t give the man freezer burn. Silently, she focused on tending to him.

“You okay?” He asked 

“Are you seriously asking me that when you’re developing a black eye?”

He shrugged, “He said some… awful things.”

“I’m used to it.” She admitted softly.

His eyes softened, and he gently took her wrist, pulling the ice bag away from his face. “You shouldn’t be. You’re beautiful. In every manner. Looks, personality, humor, brains. You’re a god damn ten out of ten. I am genuinely baffled by whatever planet they live on where you’re not.” 

“Stop-”

“I’m serious!” He said, sitting up more. “And Jesus Christ, you were badass. You practically threw him off of me. It was hot.” 

She couldn’t help but laugh as her face turned red with a blush. He brought his hand to her cheek and wiped away some of the stray tears on her cheeks. 

“Thank you.” He added

She sighed, “I just want you to survive till our next date.”

“So you’re saying there’s a next one?” He wiggled his brows.

“Figure you deserve one after taking that punch for me.” 

His hand stayed on her cheek, and there was a gentle silence between them. The bar had returned to normalcy. A Cowboy Carter song played on the jukebox. Patrons had gone back to talking and laughing. 

Her mouth curved into a knowing smile as she leaned in. Taking charge, she pressed her lips against his. She slid her hands up his shoulders, and he pulled her in closer. It was a lot hungrier than she anticipated their first kiss being. But after the prior events, there was no other way to kiss. Luckily, the booth was secluded from the rest of the bar. Their faces tilted against each other desperately. He let out a small exhale and wrapped his arms around her waist. 

She pulled away and looked up at him with doe-like eyes. Worried to hurt him, she gently cupped his face. “It doesn’t hurt?”

“Even if it did, I’d say no just so I could kiss you again.” He smirked before leaning in to do so.

And with his lips against hers, she had never felt more beautiful in her entire life. 

[fandomfluffandfuck]

Can I please request Bucky being ridiculously horny for Steve's Infinity War look? The beard, the Nomad uniform, the harness, gloves - all of it makes Bucky want to get on his knees for Steve, to have Steve pin him down with all of his serum enhanced strength, whatever Steve wants to do.

Maybe I'm just admitting to the fact that I've thought a fucking lot about this before, but I swear, haven't I written something about Bucky being ridiculously horny for nomad Steve? Like, I fucking swear. But, I can't find it in my masterlists or searching my blog. So... apparently not? I don't know. Whatever. I'll happily indulge in this motherfucker anytime, so, lets go--

The Beard

Since Bucky came off ice, he's been drooling over and admiring that goddamn beard carpeting Steve's jaw, making his stupidly handsome, square jaw look that much wider and more handsome and leading man. There's only so much Bucky can take. He's clawing his way toward semi-stable and Steve is not fucking helping.

Bucky cannot stop thinking about all the different ways he wants that beard. He wants it against his face, kissing him until his face is red as a sunburn; he wants it against his neck, scratching him raw while he bares his throat; he wants it against his chest, prickling over his hard nipples until he gasps, chest stuttering; he wants it against the thin, sensitive skin between his legs as Steve sucks his cock sloppy; he wants it between his legs, Steve licking him open; he wants it all.

And he can't fucking wait.

So--

The second they're alone, Bucky grabs Steve by the collar of one of those teeny, tiny, tight little shirts he's all too fond of wearing and shoves him through the open, curtained doorway of his hut. He just needs to get Steve somewhere, anywhere horizontal. He doesn't even get that far, though.

If Bucky were a plotting man, he would've known to pull Steve to the pile of blankets and feather-stuffed pillows toward the back of his quaint abode where he curls up to sleep, but he doesn't. The closest fucking thing is a chair by the tiny table in his "kitchen."

The wooden thing barely holds one super soldier's weight. Two is a surely a recipe for disaster.

Bucky doesn't care.

All he wants, all he needs is that fucking beard. And he's shoving his way between Steve's thick thighs to straddle his fucking lap in order to get it. He wants to curl up in Steve's lap like a cat, but that won't help him; he can't have his beard scratching against his cheek if his mouth is stuffed with cock (and what a pity is that!?).

In his lap, Jesus, it's barely a minute before Bucky is squirming, grinding forward against Steve's bulging, hot cock filling out the crotch of his beaten uniform and rocking back onto his thick, curling fingers at the same time. His mind is split in two. No. Three. Steve's fucking beard.

That beard.

Bucky is nuzzling against his cheek, feeling that thick beard at the same time that he's grinding and rocking and making a fool of himself. He must be in heat, the way it feels.

Steve's fingers are so thick.

Guh.

They're pulling on his aching rim and curling to punch against his prostate until he wants to mewl like a cat with its tail pulled. His back is already arched. He can't take anymore. He's desperate, clawing at Steve, stop pulling, stop teasing, never never stop.

Never.

No.

Yes.

Please!

Bucky could scream.

Steve's fingers are up underneath his robe, shoved in tight and wet in his hungry hole, feeding him, stuffing him, squelching with lube. God. God. Yes. More. His fingers are in his hole and his other is busy squeezing and kneading at his recovery soft hips and plush ass. He's put on weight not being in a constant state of stress and anxiety. It's good. He feels good.

He feels good.

Steve's making him feel so good. Touching. Petting him. Grabbing him so hard he's going to bruise like a peach. Bucky's gonna come out of this painted and not just with cum--

Beard burn.

Fingerprint bruises.

Hickies.

Yes.

All of it.

Bucky wants to come out of this looking like he's been mauled.

He mewls, grinding back harder, humping forward, and nuzzling more. He's an animal. He needs all of it. It's so goddamn overwhelming he's gonna ruin the inside of his robe. It'll be a fucking pain to do the walk of shame down to the lake to wash it, but Bucky could not give less of a fucking fuck when Steve's sizzling lips pull away to breathe and give Bucky the golden opportunity to smear his next messy kiss down the side of his handsome face until he gets to his jaw and--

He digs his teeth in.

Biting him.

The feel of his beard underneath his jaws is so unspeakably, unreasonably arousing that Bucky can't take it. Biting and moaning, muffled against his skin, Bucky just--

Cums.

The wet spot is so mortifying, big and obvious, moreso with every pump, but, fuuuuuck.

He needed that. God. He needed that so much he might start fucking weeping.

The Uniform

It. does. not. matter. how. many. times. Bucky. sees. the. dirty. beat-up. fucked-up. state. of. Steve's. uniform. every. time. Bucky. sees. it. it. will. make. him. feral.

There's just something about it and no matter how much Bucky tries to pick out words for it... he can't. Any civil conversation culminates the same way: with Bucky on top on him.

He, just, needs to get his fill of the entire thing in all of its filthy glory.

It only makes sense for Bucky, then, to roll Steve onto his gorgeous, broad back and hold him there with his thighs squeezing tight around Steve's tight little waist, bouncing on his very big, very erect cock, and both of his wrists locked into Bucky's metal grip.

Common sense.

Riding him. Of course. Just the fly of his uniform is undone, enough to get his cock and balls out and nothing else.

Ah, ah, ah!

They're both making embarrassing, whiny sounds. Though, only Bucky's are punched out of him in time with every brutal shove of Steve's mammoth dick.

Godddd.

Feelssogood.

That damn uniform with its huge star on his lover's unfairly buff chest, spread out sluttily as if it's meant to emphasize his tits, no matter how worn and torn the 5-pointed shape is. If Bucky manages to tear his eyes up from his chest, though, he'll find the high neck of the thick, robust fabric where it chokes Steve's hot, pale throat. Equally, Bucky wants to kiss the uniform and tear it off of Steve with his teeth.

And Steve's face when he's wearing the thing...

God.

Normally so proudly defiant and stubborn when it matters most, now Steve's stupid, handsome face is a picture of debauchery. With his beard that does nothing to disguise his painted blush and his longer hair sprawled around his thick-skulled head like it was paid to. He is a walking photoshoot, hotter than hell.

It only serves him right to be pinned down and let Bucky have his way with him. He's gonna fucking write his name on his cock. He's gonna spell it with every erotic twist and harsh grind. His way.

His way that ends up with the man blushing, pecs heaving, hair curling into loose waves with glistening sweat, and lips wet--lips begging.

"S-sweetheart," Steve trips over his own tongue, panting like a dog, "sweetheart, you guh-gotta, gotta let me touch you--"

Bucky's mouth tingles, watering intensely, staring down at how Steve's biceps bulge and flex, struggling against his grip. So, with what he knows to be a terribly teasing move, in retaliation Bucky flexes his thick, soft yet strong thighs, letting his hole eat him up with short, deep bounces. Stuffing himself so full he swears he can taste Steve's cock heavy on his tongue.

God.

"D-do I?" He barely manages to keep himself together, cocking his head to the side, staring down at his captive man.

The sounds Steve makes can only be described as a growl.

Then--

He whines, swinging the other way and stressing, "babyy!" struggling yet again beneath his grip.

Will the man ever learn?

Clearly not.

So, as punishment, Bucky doesn't ride, he rocks. Low and slow, squeezing him tight but doing nothing that feels so good as what he was just doing when Steve wasn't fucking complaining while getting his dick wet. Unbelievable. But, that's not the reason Bucky's eyes roll.

His dick will never not feel like heaven inside him.

Still, shaking his head to match the rest of his body, trembling as he sits on it, Bucky groans petulantly, "no. No. Th-th-this what you fucking get, Rogers.

"What?" Steve whines, jerking, inconsolable in his need to touch. "What did I do?"

Stupidly, Bucky pokes a finger into his big, proud chest, somehow thinking it won't draw all his attention to his heaving tits and not make him want to fucking lick him all over, going face deep in his killer cleavage. Impressively, though, Bucky only loses his train of thought for a good ten seconds. Then, he's back on it--

Accusing him, "you fucking come here, looking like this?" He hisses, eyeing him up and down openly, hungrily, "that's enough." He snaps, back to fucking taking it, riding him, "duhh-d-guh-do you, you, even know what you do to me, big guy? Huh, tahh-tiger? You know how you fucking wind me up? Y'make me wanna fucking pull my hair out," through his teeth, he continues, "ohmygod, Rogers. You're so thick. You can't do this to me. It's cruelt-y," his voice breaks.

Jesus.

He's got it bad.

He's gotta stop talking.

No problem his asshole fucking love-of-his-life picks it up, throwing his head back with an approximation of a throaty chuckle as he continues. to. fucking. squirm. under. his. hold.

He taking advantage of Bucky! He's taking advantage of his distraction, his brain melting more the longer he's on his cock, and he's using it for evil--jerking his hips up to meet every one of Bucky's bounces in his lap because he's too goddamn strong and can use his shoulders and tensing abs to pull his pelvis forward.

Fuuuuck.

He--he-

God.

Bucky can't focus.

Steve's winning inch by inch. Thrust by thrust.

And, spoiler, Steve's just thinking to himself that if this is what not taking care of himself--not shaving his face or body, not cutting his hair, and not mending his uniform, wearing it until it's ready to fall off his body--gets him then he's never putting in effort to anything ever again. He's gonna make Bucky do all the work forever. Drive him feral until he's worked up to the point of tears on his cock.

The Harness

Steve should have gotten a clue the moment Bucky didn't start stripping him out of his uniform but peeled him out of it. Piece by piece. Impossibly--compared to every other time Steve has rushed to the quiet of Wakanda from the cacophony of the world coming down around him--slow and meticulous. Yeah, he should've known.

And because he didn't, now he's being hit with a cargo ship to the fucking face--

Bucky is peeling him out of his beaten-to-shit uniform with all the glee and mourning he can manage at the same time. Only, it doesn't end when the last piece of this, everything-proof Kevlar that Bucky drops carelessly to the ground. Of course, it doesn't end. It's just beginning.

Because Bucky is grinning wide, curling two fingers suggestively around the worn leather of his shield harness that he plucks up off the dirty floor and leaning in reeeeeal close, whispering, "put this on for me, handsome," as if it's some sexy, skimpy piece of lingerie and not part of his goddamn combat uniform.

To Bucky, though, it is lingerie, or, perhaps that's too delicate. Lingerie implies breakability. Fragile and delicate. This is anything but that. It's tough. It will survive pulling and shoving.

It better.

When Steve tries to push, teasing him, arching one of his eyebrows, silently asking, what? This old thing? He gets the rise out of Bucky that he was looking for--

His lover barks, "chop chop, Rogers. You fucking chose to keep that shit after you tossed your shield back, so now you gotta keep it."

Oh, yeah, he's in a mood.

He's in such a fucking mood that Bucky turns the whole thing around on him. Steve was expecting to be stripped and sucked, based on how Bucky's eyes have hardly left his crotch and he keeps licking those damn cock-sucking lips. Bucky doesn't sink to his knees after Steve's slid his harness back on, framing his big, hairy tits and giving him a fatal kind of cleavage. Rather, Bucky's pushing him by the broad shoulders until his backs up against the wall.

Once he's there, he's flipping Steve around, using so much of his stregnth a mouthwatering "oof" is forced out of Steve's chest. And now Steve's the one in the compromising position. All the hair on the back of his arms raises, poised and tense--

The wait isn't long.

Bucky is on him.

Gnawing on his neck, fucking his leaking, dripping cock between the curves of his ass, and curling his greedy paws around the straps of his harness, tugging Steve back against his body so they grind together. Colliding. Harsh. Bodily.

"Bend over," Bucky bites out.

The urge to fight him, to growl back, oh yeah? you gonna make me?, rises in Steve for one single, blinding second. It doesn't last. It can't. Bucky pushes his palm flat to Steve's back and bends him, nearly breaking him.

He stretches, nah, pries Steve open with a vengeance. Getting him nice and ready for his cock before hauling him back onto his cock. He doesn't fuck Steve so much as he grips him by the harness and pulls Steve back onto his throbbing, hard cock like a tight little fleshlight.

Steve can feel his brain ceasing to function with every harsh shove of Bucky's dick inside him. Moaning, moaning, and moaning. Every noise guttural and raw. Bucky controls all of his movements, using him.

He's gonna--

Fuck.

He, he's gonna wear just his fuckin' harness more often.

He's gonna buy any goddamn harness he can get his filthy paws on. No matter the price.

Jesus Christ.

Bucky's fucking him so goddamn good it's making Steve rethink everything. Why does he usually end up on top? What is his dick even for when getting fucked feels like this? How can he piss Bucky off later? He doesn't like nice Bucky, he likes this--

Face smushed hotly up against the wall, blushing so much he's on fire, fingertips digging dents into the wall, sputtering around his own too-long hair, moaning raggedly until his throat aches, choking on cock 'cause he's being hauled back onto it so toe-curlingly far, and feeling Bucky's fists at his back, hanging onto his harness for dear life, fucking the shit out of him.

--mean Bucky.

The Gloves

"Mmngh! Hnng! Hnnng! Haahhh! Ah! Ah! AH!"

Bucky is going out of his goddamn mind. No, he's not actually, that is an understatement. He's, he's--he doesn't know what the fuck he is. He doesn't know when or where he is. He doesn't care. All that fucking matters is the pleasure.

There's too much pleasure.

It's filling him up, molten and thick, replacing everything else. There is only pleasure. Pleasure leaking from every pore.

Too much pleasure.

Every half breath he makes, hitching and whining, is desperate.

He's. out. of. his. mind.

More than out of his mind, splintering into a million tiny little pieces that are all on fire simultaneously, Bucky is glimmering with sweat so fucking slick and all-consuming--head to toe--that it's rolling in streams down his writhing, twisting body. He must look as though he just stepped out of the lake, naked, after bathing himself.

Dripping wet.

And in an attempt to keep his damp hair out of his face, Bucky's shaking hands--flesh and metal alike--are clenching clumps of his own hair, stuck halfway through pulling it before forgetting entirely what the hell he was doing. He has to pull it. He needs some kind of outlet.

Any kind.

If he can't outpour some of his pleasure forcefully, pulling his hair, clenching Steve's shoulders, biting Steve's fat bottom lip, or punching the goddamn mattress, he's gonna explode.

He might explode anyway, no matter how much lust-fueled violence he resorts to.

Too much.

Fuck.

It's so much.

Shaking, whimpering, and crying. He's just--sweating, drenched, pulling his hair, and arching his back until his unbalanced spine pops and cracks. He's so alive, synapses fuckin' firing, that it's killing him.

His sweat isn't the only wetness on his skin, though. His cock is jumping, twitching, and leaking obscenely into an overflowing puddle on his clenching, fluttering stomach. He can't stop the flow. It's being fucking forced out of him--punched out of him.

Literally.

Steve is wrist deep inside him, fisting his formerly tight little hole with his huge fucking baseball-mitt-sized hand made even bigger, thicker, and harder to take because he's still got his fucking sexy-as-fuck fingerless combat gloves on.

He is killing Bucky.

The fist plunging into him isn't the only one doing work, though; trying his best to keep Bucky still amidst his yowling and thrashing, Steve's other strong forearm is braced against his hips, keeping him (mostly) in place. If he doesn't keep it there, Bucky really fucking thrashes, fucking himself frantically back on his fist like he wants to break himself.

Maybe he does.

He needs some kind of release, any kind. If Steve doesn't fucking stroke his cock with his other gloved-hand, Bucky is going to break. To snap. To explode.

To get them where they are, Steve had to wrestle him onto his back anyhow. Bucky couldn't stop fucking back on all fours, riding his fist, and, Jesus, they don't have enough lube out here for Bucky to take him to the damn elbow, so Steve has him like this.

Clawing crazed, arching painfully, and caterwauling.

"St-Steve! STEVE! Haahhh! Ah! Ah! AH! Ffff-fuh-fuck, f-fist, nnnnnngh, ngh, huh, guhh, fist me, ohgod, fistmeee, harder. Harder."

It's toogood.

This ended up being what Bucky wants, rather than whatever Steve wants like you asked but... well... I just couldn't help myself and neither could Bucky 😘

[holylulusworld]

Menu gone wrong

Summary: You try to impress the captain.

Pairing: PostFA! Steve Rogers x fem!Reader

Warning: fluff, love-struck reader, baker reader, friends to more

This story is part of the @avengers-assemble-bingo "buildasteveparty" event - prompt used: bakery au / reader

Steve Rogers is an old-fashioned man. Not in a bad way, though.

He likes homemade food, his memorabilia, and fighting evil.

You’re not sure about the last one. Steve just kind of always ends up in a fight he didn’t start. But he surely doesn’t run away from a conflict. He ends it.

You first met Steve Rogers shortly after he came out of the ice. He ran from Fury and Shield, ending up in your little bakery, barefoot and lost.

You invited him in, offering tea, cookies, and a friendly conversation to him.

Over time, you became friends. Steve liked to spend time at your shop. He kept you company, and you told him everything about the modern world and even taught him how to use the internet and a smartphone.

Steve just loves to sit outside your store to draw or watch the people pass by. He cherishes these fleeting but peaceful moments and wouldn’t want to exchange them for anything in the world.

With his birthday coming closer, you put yourself under pressure to cook dinner for yourself and your friend.

Only you, Steve, and the delicious food. The only problem is—you can’t cook to save your life. While you are a genius when it comes to baking, you lack talent for cooking meals.

That’s how you ended up in your kitchen, cursing the steak, the green beans, and even the mashed potatoes. You huff and wipe your forehead with the back of your hand.

“No, this is…” You look at the steak. It’s burned, and not even a defibrillator could bring it back to life. Another messed-up plate ends up in the dumpster. “Back to square one, I guess.”

You invited Steve for a pre-birthday dinner to give something back to the man saving the world more than once. You’re not sure about it anymore. Offering Steve burned food won’t make him happy or like you more.

The next try ends up in an even bigger mess. This time, the meat is still raw, the mashed potatoes are liquid, and the green beans are hard. You’re close to crying when Steve walks into your kitchen.

Shoot. You forgot to answer your phone, and now he has come to your home only to find you crying in the kitchen.

“Doll! What happened?” Usually, Steve comes around in casual clothes. Not today. He’s in his combat suit, wearing his cowl and shield. The captain looks like he’s scared for the first time in his life when he drops the shield to the ground to wrap you in a hug. “I thought something happened to you.”

“Why?” You whimper and wrap your arms around your friend. “Steve.”

“You didn’t answer my call, Y/N. You always answer my calls after the second ring. I believed something must’ve happened to you.”

“I tried to cook for dinner and…failed,” you sigh against Steve. “I’m an awful cook. Look.”

Steve reluctantly let you go to look at the raw meat and the disaster you call dinner.

“It looks partially edible.” He laughs when you poke the meat with a fork. “Or maybe it’s…not edible. I’m not sure.”

“I wanted to do something special for you, Steve,” you sniffle and wipe your eyes. “Why can’t I cook? I’m a good baker, but this is just…awful.”

“Hey, don’t cry,” he softly says and cups your face. “You did so much for me already, doll. Simply by being you, you made my life better.”

“I…I…” You nervously stammer when he looks you deep in the eyes. Steve never looked at you like that before. “All for you, Steve.”

“How about I cook for you? I’m a decent cook,” he suggests, eyes filled with warmth. “We can try cooking together, too.”

“I’d like that, Steve.”

“Good. Let’s see what you have, and we can go from there,” he murmurs, his hands still on your face. Steve lowers himself, eyes holding your gaze as he brushes his lips over yours. “I think this will be the best birthday ever…”

[nuelles]

Scene Partners (in crime) || Spencer Agnew || Scene 1

Summary: You thought working behind the scenes at Smosh would be all coffee runs and clipboard duties. You were wrong. Enter Spencer Agnew: part improv genius, part walking disaster, and full-time chaos magnet. Now, you’re stuck partnering with him on a sketch series that’s equal parts hilarious and hazardous to your sanity. Between fake mustaches, last-minute costume changes, and pranks that escalate way too fast, keeping your cool is not on the agenda. Will you survive Spencer’s chaos? Or just fall head over heels? Either way, expect a lot of laughs (and maybe some accidental flirting).

Pairing: Spencer Agnew x f! reader

Tropes: Idiots In Love, Chaos Gremlin x Handler, Workplace Romance, etc as we go

Warnings: none

WC: 1.3k

Author's Note: why do i find writing series harder than one-shots....

A few months had passed since you started at Smosh—and since The Bagel Incident, as it had come to be known among the crew. It had been your first true introduction to the chaotic mystery that was Spencer Agnew, and looking back, it had only scratched the surface.

Spencer was... something. Quirky didn’t quite cover it. Chaotic felt like an understatement. Some days he was a human meme; other days he was an improv gremlin fueled by cold brew and bad ideas. And, sure, he was funny; there were times you found yourself stifling a laugh behind the camera or grinning at your clipboard like a lunatic. You’d die before letting him know that, though. You didn’t need to encourage his nonsense.

Thankfully, time—and sheer necessity—had taught you how to handle Spencer. You’d even started documenting your survival methods in a dedicated notebook: How to Survive Spencer Agnew. It was equal parts planner, journal, and emergency guide.

You kept it tucked in your tote bag like it was sacred. Inside, page one was a hard-earned list titled: "Daily Protocol for Chaos Containment."

Each rule had been written in Sharpie. Then highlighted. Then underlined twice.

Because this? This was war.

Never ask “What’s the worst that could happen?”

He will take that as a challenge.

Always carry duct tape, backup props, and snacks.

Not for you, or the crew. No, specifically for him. It’s the only form of currency he respects.

Learn to decode Spencer’s moods using context clues.

If he’s staring at a sandwich and whispering? He’s workshopping a bit. If he’s too quiet? Panic. If he says, “Trust me,” absolutely do not.

He respects confidence and sarcasm in equal measure.

 Fluster easily, and he’ll double down. Bite back and you earn his weird little respect badge.

Somewhere between the chaos, he actually gets the job done.

 You just have to wade through four layers of nonsense and at least one kazoo to get there.

And thanks to your little notebook/guide, you had been bestowed a new title, one you never applied for but somehow earned anyway: Spencer’s Handler. The name had started as a joke tossed around by the crew—but after the third time someone said, “Can you deal with Spencer?” mid-crisis, it kind of just... stuck. Whether you liked it or not, you were now the unofficial liaison between Smosh and Spencer Agnew’s unpredictable brand of brilliance. Need to interpret a strange Spencer monologue? That’s you. Need to talk him out of bringing a live goat to set? You’ve done it. Twice.

“So... quick question,” Ian said, poking his head into the prop closet. You were currently looking for costumes for the next shoot. “Why is Spencer duct-taped to a folding chair?”

You didn’t even look up from your clipboard. “He said he wanted to test if being restrained would ‘heighten his comedic instincts.’”

Ian blinked. “And you let him?”

“He said he wouldn’t rehearse unless I did.”

“...Fair.”

You checked off another box on your shoot prep list and walked out into the hallway, where Spencer sat comfortably duct-taped, holding a kazoo in his mouth like a cigarette. You crouched down in front of him and removed the kazoo.

He looked at you with a proud, slightly unhinged glint in his eyes. “I’ve transcended the need for rehearsal. I’m method now.”

“Uh-huh.” You stood up and crossed your arms, almost challenging him now, “If you’re method, then commit. Stay taped during lunch.”

“Joke’s on you,” he smirked. “I already mentally digested a sandwich an hour ago.”

“Great. That means I don’t need to get you an actual one.”

He made a gasping noise. “That was a fake lunch. You’d let me starve for the bit?”

You patted his cheek mock-sweetly. “You’re a grown man. Figure it out.”

Shayne walked by with a protein bar and tossed it directly into Spencer’s lap. “Your emotional support human’s getting bolder.”

“I like it,” Spencer said, managing to unwrap the bar using just his hands but now having trouble bringing the bar up to his mouth. “She yells at me less now, but the disappointment in her eyes is stronger. Like a mentor. Or a judge.”

Courtney passed on the other side, raising an eyebrow. “You still duct-taped?” 

Spencer, giving up on bringing the snack up, replied, “Spiritually and physically.”

While you would love to leave Spencer tied to the chair—which meant there would be less distractions for you and, god forbid, be able to get to your real job—you couldn’t. You sighed and pulled out the box cutter that was now a permanent addition to your job, apparently. “Alright, Houdini, we’ve got five minutes before the cold open and you still need a mic.”

As you started cutting through the tape, Spencer leaned in slightly, his voice softer but still full of that trademark mischief. “You know, most people run away from me.”

“And yet here I am,” you said, slicing through the last layer of tape.

“Voluntarily. Fascinating.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s go, Duct Tape Boy.”

He stood, stretched dramatically like he hadn’t been sitting for twenty minutes, and gave you a nod. “To chaos—and the woman who keeps it from catching fire.”

“Don’t flatter me,” you said, already walking ahead. “You’ve got glitter on your eyebrow and I’m not dealing with another makeup emergency today.”

Spencer followed, unbothered. “Then don’t look too closely. You might fall in love.”

You didn’t answer. You just shook your head and kept walking.

But your smile lingered a little longer than it should have.

You made it exactly three steps into the main studio before Selina flagged you down, holding a suspiciously large inflatable banana.

“Hey, where do you want this?”

Spencer perked up immediately. “Finally, my scene partner arrives.”

You paused, eyeing the banana. “...Why is that here?”

Selina grinned. “It’s in the script. Spencer’s fighting it.”

You looked at Spencer. “You’re fighting a banana.”

He shrugged. “It represents corporate greed.”

You turned back to Selina. “Put it near the crash mat. But for the love of all things holy, please deflate it halfway this time.”

Spencer leaned closer and whispered, “She says that now, but wait till you see my monologue.”

You snorted. “Oh, I’m ready. I've been emotionally preparing since 9 a.m.”

Selina gave you a look. “You’re braver than the Marines.”

“See?” he told Selina. “She gets me.”

By the time you were back behind the camera, headset on, you could hear Spencer improvising lines to the banana like it owed him money. Shayne was already struggling not to laugh, and Olivia had full tears in her eyes from trying to stay in character.

You didn’t stop the scene.

You didn’t want to.

And when Spencer glanced your way mid-rant, delivering a wildly over-the-top, “You were ripe with promise, and now you mock me with your decay,” you couldn’t help it—

You laughed.

The whole crew did. Even Spencer broke—just a little. His eyes crinkled as he smiled at you like that was the reaction he’d been aiming for all along.

After the shoot, while the others reviewed takes and reset for the next bit, Spencer sidled up next to you, unusually quiet for a moment.

“That laugh,” he said casually, “was the best part of my day.”

You looked over at him, surprised. “You broke character for it.”

He shrugged. “Worth it.”

You blinked.

And for just a second, the chaos paused. Not completely. But enough to realize that underneath the jokes and duct tape and monologues about breakfast food, something was shifting.

Spencer nudged you lightly with his elbow. “We still good for Thursday? That stunt rehearsal?”

You nodded. “Only if you promise not to light anything on fire this time.”

“No promises.”

“Figures.”

Still, your smile lingered again.

And this time, so did his.

As you walked back toward the editing bay to prep for the next setup, you caught Shayne in the hallway, grinning like he knew something you didn’t.

“You two are getting worse,” he said.

You blinked. “Worse?”

“Yeah. Like, ‘should we tell them they’re already flirting or just let them implode on their own?’ kind of worse.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t bother denying it. Not really.

Because maybe, just maybe, you were starting to enjoy the chaos more than you wanted to admit.

[a-whispering-echo]

Egg Man

Horror and Dusts first meeting!

fic for the Uni au that i was working on when i STARTED thinking about the dam thing. this was meant to be the BASE, like, draft thing, and id buff it out with more thoughts and descriptions and things later, but i couldnt be fecking bothered, so im posting this as it is now. i put so many random Deltarune and undertale references in here that are stupid and tiny and some more noticeable than others, but i did it, so- like, if you spot them...

Horror wasn’t sure what to make of Dust.

There were plenty of weird people at university - himself included. But Dust was… a particular flavour of weird. The kind of weird that made you wonder if he was actually a person or just some cryptid that had wandered onto campus and decided to stay.

He was easy to spot, at least. Always slouched, always in a hoodie and sweats, shuffling around in slippers with his ever-present red scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. The rest of him looked like a disaster - his clothes wrinkled, his eyelights wild, his expression somewhere between dazed and vaguely amused - but that scarf? Pristine. Always clean. Always neat. It didn’t make sense.

But then again, nothing about Dust did.

Horror had seen him around. The first time, he’d assumed the guy was just some perpetually sleep-deprived student, muttering to himself and shambling across campus like a ghost with a caffeine addiction. But the more he saw him, the more odd details he picked up. The way vending machines never seemed to reject his money, no matter how finicky they were for everyone else. The way he always had a pen and would scribble random equations on napkins or receipts. The way he never showed up to lectures but somehow still aced exams.

And then, of course, there was the talking-to-himself thing. Not in the casual way people muttered under their breath, but full conversations. Arguments, even. Horror had walked past Dust in the library once and caught him saying, “That’s a fucking terrible idea,” to thin air, pausing, and then sighing. “No, it would not be funny. Stop.”

Horror had quickly pretended he hadn’t heard anything.

So yeah. Dust was weird.

But Horror didn’t make a habit of judging people too harshly. He knew he wasn’t the most approachable either, being a big guy with a scarred-up face, a thick build, and a permanent case of looking vaguely pissed off even when he wasn’t. Add the head wound that made his memory spotty and his hands a little shaky, and he figured most people saw him as some sort of brute. He got it. He didn’t blame them.

Which was why he didn’t really plan on ever talking to Dust.

Until the egg incident.

-

Horror liked the communal kitchen at night.

It was quiet, for one. For another, it meant he could take his time cooking without anyone hovering or making jokes about his size versus the tiny cakes he liked to make. And tonight? Tonight, he was making one of those tiny cakes. Or at least, he had been until he realised he was missing an egg.

“Shit,” he muttered, staring at the counter like the egg might magically appear if he glared hard enough. “Thought I had enough…”

He checked the fridge. No eggs. He checked his grocery bag. Still no eggs.

With a groan, he rubbed his face. It was a bigger issue than it sounded; he’d already pre-heated the oven, mixed most of the ingredients, and was at the point of no return. If he abandoned the cake now, the batter would go to waste. And after the day he’d had? He really needed this cake to happen.

Horror sighed, leaning against the counter. Maybe he could substitute something - banana? Yogurt? He wasn’t sure if he had either. Maybe he could knock on a few dorm doors and ask around. Or maybe he should just call it a loss and-

“Need an egg?”

Horror nearly jumped out of his skin as something heavy landed beside him. He turned sharply, hands clenching into reflexive fists - only to find Dust standing there, blank-faced as ever, dressed in his usual chaos of wrinkled sweats and that damn red scarf.

“Stars-” Horror started, his heartbeat still trying to settle. “Where the hell did you-?”

Dust cut him off by reaching into the pocket of his hoodie and pulling out… an egg.

Horror stared.

Dust held it out, wordlessly, like this was a completely normal thing to do. Like it wasn’t fucking insane that he had an egg just hanging out in his hoodie pocket.

Horror didn’t move at first. He wasn’t even sure how to respond. He had questions. So many questions. Where had the egg come from? How long had it been there? Why did Dust have an egg in his pocket? Why was he just handing it over?

More than anything, though, Horror was just… confused.

Dust raised an eyebrow. “You wanted an egg,” he said, like he was reminding Horror of some very simple, obvious fact.

“I- yeah, but-” Horror stopped himself. There was no logical way to approach this situation.

After a moment, he sighed, wiped his hands on his apron, and gingerly took the egg. It was cold. Fresh. Not cracked, not even slightly damaged from being in a pocket, somehow. Like it had just been taken out of the refrigerator a few seconds ago.

“…Thanks?” Horror said, though it came out more like a question.

Dust just nodded and turned to leave. No explanation, no lingering, nothing. Just a simple handoff, like a man on a mission, and then he was gone, shuffling back down the hall as silently as he’d arrived.

Horror stood there for a long moment, staring after him, before slowly looking back down at the egg in his hand.

“…What the fuck,” he muttered to himself.

But he used it.

Of course he did. He wasn’t about to let a perfectly good cake go to waste just because the circumstances around acquiring one single egg were deeply unsettling.

The cakes came out great.

-

Horror wasn’t the type to let things go. When something got stuck in his head, it stayed there, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts until he either dealt with it or let it drive him insane. And the whole Dust Egg Situation was one of those things.

So, he did what any reasonable person would do: he took a few of the finished mini cakes, packed them up, and went to find Dust’s dorm.

Tracking him down wasn’t hard. Identifiable was a good word for Dust. Everyone knew of him, even if no one really knew him. Horror asked a few people in the dorm hall if they knew where he stayed, and it only took two or three conversations before someone directed him to the right door.

Horror knocked.

There was a long pause before it swung open - except, the guy standing there was not Dust.

The monster at the door was big. Built, that was, because he was actually quite short. A scar under his right cheekbone and over his nasal ridge, wearing an old t-shirt and sweatpants, arms crossed over his chest as he gave Horror a once-over with sharp, suspicious eyes. Horror blinked, momentarily thrown off by how Not-Dust the monster standing in front of him was.

“Can I help you?” Dust’s-maybe-friend asked, his higher than Horror had expected, but not unfriendly.

Horror cleared his throat, still a little thrown by the unexpected presence of someone so… imposing. “Uh, yeah, I’m looking for Dust. Is he here?”

Dust’s-possible-Roommate - who looked like he could bench press a small car - raised an browbone, “Did he give you something weird or did he piss you off? Cus I’m not his personal handler, but I’ll punch him in the face for you if you want.” He didn’t seem particularly bothered by the suggestion, more like he was offering a casual favour.

Horror blinked, unsure whether the guy was serious or not, but decided to keep his cool. “Uh, no, no, nothing like that. He just… gave me an egg. And, well, I made something with it, and I wanted to thank him. You know, for the egg.”

Dust’s-perhaps-brother’s face didn’t change. “He gave you an egg.”

“Yeah, just- It was helpful so I figured I’d return the favour..?” Horror trailed off, unsure how much more explanation would be necessary for the egg incident.

Dust’s-mayhaps-Lover started him down for a second longer, eyelights flaring in suspicion in narrowed sockets, before he seemed to decide that, yes, the situation was too weird to be anything but genuine. He deflated, letting his arms drop to his sides with a heavy sigh. “Yeah, that.. sounds like Dust. Right, fine, you can come in. He’s probably still in his cave.”

“Cave?”

“You’ll see.” He turned and called over his shoulder. “Dust! You’ve got a guest. Someone who wants to thank you for giving them an egg, apparently!”

There was a muffled voice from the back room that might have been a groan, or might have just been Dust making a noise for the sake of not coming out.

“Sit tight,” the guy said, stepping aside to let Horror in. “I’m Cross, by the way.”

“Horror,” he replied, ducking slightly as he stepped through the doorway. It was an old habit - he’d hit his head on too many low frames over the years, and more cranial trauma was the LAST thing he needed.

The dorm was… something.

Half the room looked like it had been touched by divine light and a military bootcamp at once - neatly organised bookshelves, immaculate floors, a faint scent of lavender and clean linen. The other half?

Chaos.

A storm of paper scraps, half-disassembled gadgets, what might have been a melted kettle (or possibly modern art), open textbooks stacked in precarious towers, mismatched mugs everywhere. Clothes strewn about, socks somehow pinned to the ceiling. A white noise machine hummed in the background, mingling with the low patter of rain sounds from a speaker in the corner.

Horror didn’t need to ask which half belonged to Dust.

Cross gestured vaguely toward the disaster zone. “Help yourself to the couch - if you can find any of it under that mess.”

Horror took a careful step forward, spotting a relatively clear spot on the edge of the couch and lowering himself down with the grace of someone trying not to break a student-loaned piece of furniture. He still clutched the small cake container in his hands like it was the most reasonable object in the room.

A minute passed. Then two.

He was about to ask if Cross had meant to actually retrieve Dust, or if this was some kind of weird hazing ritual, when he finally heard soft shuffling from the back. There was a faint clunk, a muttered curse, and then - Dust appeared.

Well. “Appeared” might have been generous. He half-limped, half-drifted into the room like a hungover ghost who’d overslept by a decade. His hood was up, his scarf wrapped tight, and his slippers made a soft sht-shhh noise against the floor as he dragged one foot slightly as he moved. He blinked at Horror like he wasn’t entirely sure he was real. His red scarf was perfectly wrapped, of course, but everything else looked like he’d just escaped a lab explosion - and maybe had.

“…Cake guy,” Dust said, voice low, rough, like he hadn’t spoken in hours.

“…Egg guy,” Horror replied, equally flat.

There was a beat. Dust tilted his head slowly, sockets narrowing a fraction. “Did you come to give it back?”

“What- the egg? No. I used the egg. You gave me the egg.”

Dust considered this. “Yes.”

“I brought you cake,” Horror said, holding out the box like a peace offering. “To say thanks. You know. For the egg.”

Dust stared at it like it might explode. His hand didn’t move.

“…You don’t have to eat it right now,” Horror added quickly. “Or at all. I just thought- I mean, you saved my baking session, and that doesn’t happen a lot, so I figured it was polite.”

Finally, Dust reached out and took the box. He didn’t open it. Just looked at it, then back at Horror. “..Why’d ya do that?”

Horror blinked. “Do what? Bake something?”

“No.” Dust’s voice was soft, distant. “The returning part.”

Horror scratched at the back of his neck. “It’s… just manners, I guess. You helped me out. Didn’t have to, but you did. Figured I’d say thanks.”

Dust hummed, almost like he was tasting the words, turning them over in his mind to see if they made sense. “Weird.”

“Yeah,” Horror agreed, deadpan. “The egg part was already weird, though, so I figured we were past that.”

Dust ust stared at him, wonky eyelights staring into Horror’s soul, his expression unreadable. Then, quietly, he sank down onto the edge of the couch, cake box balanced carefully on his knees, like it was something precious - or volatile. Horror watched him pick at the tape, fingers careful despite the ambient chaos that clung to the rest of him like static.

They sat in silence for a bit. The rain sounds in the background filled the space between them with a calm, distant rhythm, and the white noise machine hummed like the inside of a shell. Cross had vanished down the hallway at some point, giving them the kind of privacy that didn’t feel intentional but was deeply appreciated.

Eventually, Dust peeled the box open and peeked inside.

“They’re tiny.”

“They’re mini cakes.”

Dust blinked at them, brow faintly furrowed as though he was trying to solve a riddle, or maybe just trying to remember how food worked. “Why would you make them tiny? You’re… huge.”

Horror shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Big hands. Makes them look smaller. People laugh.”

Dust looked up. “You like that?”

A pause.

“I like feeding people,” Horror said eventually. “And tiny food makes them smile. Plus, it’s easier to make in batches. Less risk of it going bad before someone eats it.”

Dust stared at him for a long moment. Then, very slowly, he nodded. “Huh.”

He reached in, took one of the little cakes with oddly reverent hands, and just… held it. Didn’t eat it. Just looked at it like it was some tiny miracle that had fallen into his lap. Horror wasn’t sure if he was offended or flattered.

“Y’can eat it, you know,” he prompted after a moment.

Dust blinked once, twice. Then slowly, with the awkward focus of someone who hadn’t quite decided whether this was a trap or a gift from the gods, he lifted the mini cake to his mouth and took the smallest possible bite.

Horror watched him chew, dead silent, like he was observing a wild animal trying fruit for the first time.

Dust froze mid-chew. His sockets went wide, eyelights dilating with something close to awe. Then he gave a tiny, breathy exhale that might’ve been a laugh.

“Oh fuck,” Dust whispered. “She’s delicious.”

“She?” Horror repeated, both amused and slightly concerned.

Dust gestured vaguely with the half-eaten cake. “Her name’s definitely Susie.”

Horror blinked. “You named her.”

“You do,” Dust said, head tilted in confusion like a dog, “Thought I’d return the courtesy.”

“…How do you know I name them?”

Dust licked a crumb off his thumb with casual, unblinking focus. “You talk to them.”

Horror’s mouth opened. Then shut. He floundered for a second. “… I do not,” Horror managed, cheeks burning. “I don’t- talk to the food.”

Dust didn’t look up from where he was licking frosting off his finger with alarming dedication. “You told the last batch ‘sleep well, little guys’ before putting them in the fridge.”

Horror stared. “You were there?!”

“Library window. Good view. You hum badly when you bake.”

“I- okay, rude- ”

“Wasn’t a complaint,” Dust interrupted smoothly, finally looking up at him again. His expression was unreadable, but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth that might’ve been a smirk, might’ve been a tic, or both. “Just an observation.”

“Observation,” Horror muttered, folding his arms. “Right.”

Dust didn’t even blink. “You were whispering sweet nothings to a lemon tart last Tuesday. Called her Lilith.”

Horror’s soul attempted to exit his body through sheer embarrassment. “Okay, that’s- nope. We’re not doing this.”

Dust took another bite of the cake - Susie - and chewed thoughtfully. “She deserved it. Good crust. Solid flavour profile. A little clingy, though.”

“You are not psychoanalysing my pastries.”

Dust raised a finger in solemn objection. “They’re people too.”

Horror ran a hand down his face with a groan, but he was laughing under it, helpless and hoarse. “Stars, you are so fucking weird.”

“‘Says the guy who named a cinnamon roll Benjamin.’”

“I never said Benjamin out loud- ”

“You muttered it. Real soft. Like you were ashamed of how much you loved him.”

“Okay,” Horror huffed, looking vaguely to the ceiling as if asking some divine power for strength, “you’ve clearly been eavesdropping for weeks, and this is officially harassment.”

Dust shrugged, entirely unbothered. “You’re welcome to file a complaint. I’ve got a form somewhere.” He began patting himself down half-heartedly, as if he genuinely might produce a complaint form from his hoodie pocket.

Instead, he pulled out a gum wrapper. Then another pen. Then - concerningly - a paperclip chain long enough to strangle a mid-sized dog. He looked at it blankly. “…This is not a form.”

Horror stared at it. “What in the actual- why do you have that?”

“For emergencies,” Dust replied, as if it were obvious.

“Emergencies that require four feet of linked paperclips?”

“You’d be surprised,” Dust said. Then tucked it back into his hoodie.

Horror didn’t even have the energy to press it. There were some battles you just let go.

He watched as Dust delicately finished Susie off in three more bites, licked his thumb again, and held the empty wrapper up like it was a treasured artifact. “She was magnificent. May she be remembered fondly.”

Horror blinked. “You… want more?”

Dust tilted his head. “Do I look like I can feed myself?”

Fair. Horror’s eyes flicked briefly to the apocalypse that was Dust’s half of the dorm, to the open coffee cup that was growing mold, to the charred whatever-it-was in the sink. “…You shouldn’t be allowed near ovens.”

“I’m banned from four.”

“Of course you are.”

Dust leaned forward, elbows on knees, fingers tapping the empty box like he was deep in thought. ““…I like your cakes.”

The words were simple, but the way Dust said them made Horror pause. They weren’t just polite. They weren’t said out of obligation. They came out like a confession. Like something that had been sitting on the edge of his ribs for a while, waiting for the right moment to tumble out.

Horror glanced at him, surprised. Dust’s expression hadn’t changed, not really, but there was something in the way he held himself - shoulders dipped a little lower, hands relaxed against the cardboard like they trusted it. Like he trusted him.

“…Yeah?” Horror asked, quieter than before.

Dust gave a slow nod. “Yeah.”

The silence returned, but it didn’t feel awkward now. It sat between them like a cat, warm and vaguely smug, purring into the hum of the white noise machine and soft rain.

Horror shifted on the couch, resting his forearms on his knees and letting his hands hang between them, relaxed. “So… do you do this often? Hand out emergency eggs to strangers?”

“Strangers?” Dust echoed, sounding almost offended. “I’ve watched you make cakes for a month.”

Horror arched a browbone. “That doesn’t make me not a stranger.”

Dust shrugged. “You hum the same song every time. You like lemon zest even when the recipe doesn’t call for it. You do the little wrist shake when you mix batter. That’s not stranger shit.”

Horror rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks burning faintly. “Alright, stalker. You’ve made your point.”

Dust grinned. “Observer.”

“Stalker.”

“Enthusiast.”

“Psycho with an egg in his hoodie.”

Dust blinked at that. Something flickered behind his sockets - not hurt, not quite - but something sharper, something smaller, like a twitch behind the eyes you weren’t supposed to see.

Then he blinked again, and it was gone, replaced by a flat sort of amusement that was a little too practised.

He let out a soft huff. “You wound me.”

Horror didn’t miss the shift - but he let it go. Just tilted his head and gave a snort. “Good. You’re weird as hell.”

Dust perked back up like nothing had happened. “So are you.”

“Yeah, well, I own it.”

Dust’s grin stretched wider. “You name your cakes.”

Horror groaned. “We’re back to this.”

Dust held up the now-empty box like it was evidence. “I just think if they’re going to die delicious, they deserve an identity.”

“They’re not dying-” Horror stopped himself. Took a breath. “Okay. Technically, yes. But they’re pastries. They don’t have souls.”

Dust tilted his head again, eyes sparkling with something unnameable. “That’s speciesist.”

Horror opened his mouth to argue, stopped, then narrowed his sockets. “Are you telling me you believe in pastry souls?”

Dust didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he set the empty cake box on the coffee table - or at least the vague pile of books and laundry that might have once been a coffee table - and looked up at Horror with that eerie sort of sincerity he wore like a second skin. “I’m just saying, if someone whispered loving affirmations to me while I was being born into a 350-degree oven, I’d probably haunt them forever.”

Horror stared at him. “That’s not-”

“And,” Dust continued, voice solemn, “if I came out golden and perfect and was immediately devoured, I’d want a name.”

“Jesus Christ,” Horror muttered, pinching the bridge of his nasal ridge.

“Dust, actually.”

Horror let out a bark of laughter despite himself. “You’re cracked.”

Dust’s eyelights flared with delight. “That’s egg-cellent. Keep going.”

“No.”

“One more?”

“Absolutely not.”

Dust grinned wide. “You’re yolking.”

“Dust.”

“Egg-xactly.”

Horror buried his face in his hands. “Stars help me.”

“Don’t worry,” Dust said, patting his arm solemnly. “I’m egg-stremely supportive.”

“Stop.”

“I shell try.”

There was a pause, then a wheezing snort that bubbled up from Horror’s chest before he could stop it. He tried to smother it with his hand, but Dust caught it, grinning like he’d just discovered gold in his couch cushions.

“I knew you had a laugh in there,” Dust said, pleased with himself.

“I do,” Horror admitted, tone dry. “You’re just lucky I didn’t choke on my own tongue trying not to.”

Dust gave him a mock-bow where he sat, sweeping his scarf dramatically. “My talents are many. Inducing laughter-related cardiac events is just one of them.”

Horror squinted. “Is that why Cross offered to punch you for me?”

Dust gave a lopsided shrug. “He likes to feel useful.”

“And what, being a pain in the ass is your way of helping him stay busy?”

“Exactly. I’m a very giving person.”

“…You gave me an egg.”

Dust pointed at him. “See?”

Horror shook his head, fighting another smile. “Stars, you’re unreal.”

Dust leaned back against the lopsided couch cushions with a pleased sigh, hands folded over his now box-less lap like he’d just performed some ancient rite. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I’m not sure what it is,” Horror muttered. “But it’s definitely something.”

“‘Something’ is better than nothing,” Dust replied, then leaned his head back to stare at the ceiling. “Nothing is boring. You’re not boring. Therefore, we’re friends now.”

Horror blinked slowly. “…That’s how this works?”

“Yeah. Pretty sure. You bring someone a tiny cake named Susie and laugh at their egg puns - friendship sealed. Boom. Social contract.”

“That’s not a social contract, Dust. That’s a hostage situation in a bakery.”

Dust looked thoughtful. “Could be both.”

Horror chuckled again, low and reluctant. “You’re exhausting.”

“And yet,” Dust said, lolling his head to the side with a crooked grin, “you haven’t left.”

“…I haven’t.”

They let the quiet hang for a bit, letting it stretch comfortably. The rain on the speakers hadn’t stopped - still steady, still rhythmic - and the hum of the white noise machine had become less noticeable, folding into the atmosphere of the room like background radiation.

Dust shifted, his scarf slipping slightly down one shoulder. Horror glanced at it - still perfectly clean, like it had been pulled out of a sterile museum display instead of worn by someone who looked like they bathed in espresso and nightmares.

“Where’d you get the scarf?” Horror asked, surprising even himself.

Dust blinked, slow and owlish, like the question had been in a different language. “Hmm?”

“Your scarf,” Horror said again. “It’s always clean. Even though you’re…” He gestured vaguely at Dust’s Everything.

“Oh.” Dust looked down at it, fingers brushing it lightly. The change in him was small, but immediate - the faintest shift in posture, the way his hand lingered just a bit longer than necessary. “It was a gift,” he said simply.

“From who?”

There was a pause. Then:

“My favourite hallucination,” Dust said, matter-of-fact.

Horror blinked. “You’re kidding.”

Dust didn’t look up. “Nope.”

“…So, a hallucination gave you that scarf. And you… kept it?”

Dust nodded.

“How.”

Dust tilted his head again, sockets wide like it was the most reasonable question in the world. “Wouldn’t you keep a gift from someone who only exists when your brain’s on fire?”

Horror opened his mouth. Closed it again. Thought about it.

“…Okay, when you put it like that, it just sounds metal.”

Dust snorted softly. “It is kind of cool.”

“Also a little terrifying.”

Dust grinned. “That’s me.”

Silence again. Not the bad kind. The kind that said you don’t have to fill this space if you don’t want to.

Horror leaned back, hands folded across his stomach now. He wasn’t sure when his guard had dropped. He wasn’t even sure he’d noticed it going. But something about Dust’s honesty - off-kilter, raw, matter-of-fact - was weirdly comforting. The guy wasn’t trying to impress anyone. Wasn’t even really trying to be understood. He just was.

It was kind of… refreshing.

“So,” Dust said after a while. “What are you gonna name the next batch?”

“…You think I’m gonna tell you?” Horror asked, amused.

Dust put a hand over his chest in mock betrayal. “After all we’ve been through? Susie would be heartbroken.”

“She’s crumbs in your hoodie now.”

“She lives on in spirit.”

“Again: pastries do not have spirits.”

“You just lack faith.”

Horror let out a slow breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “Alright then. Fine. I’ll tell you one.”

Dust perked up instantly.

“Next batch,” Horror said, smirking slightly, “I was thinking of making little lemon cakes. You know what that means?”

Dust’s sockets brightened in anticipation and maybe hunger.

“Her name will be Ethel.”

Dust gasped like he’d just been given the nuclear launch codes. “Ethel.” He whispered it like a prayer. “She sounds regal.”

Horror couldn’t help it. He laughed - real, warm, unguarded. “Regal?”

Dust nodded solemnly. “You don’t name a lemon cake Ethel unless she’s got secrets. Unless she’s lived through at least one world war, three marriages, and still wakes up every day to terrorise the HOA.”

Horror laughed harder, shaking his head. “She’s got four lemon zests and a grudge.”

“She made her first lemon tart during Prohibition and never looked back.”

“She serves it to her enemies.”

“She is the enemy.”

Dust smacked the arm of the couch. “Ethel was born spiteful. She’ll stain your teeth with citrus and judgment.”

“She haunts fridges.”

“She is the fridge!”

They both broke then, giggling like teenagers, breathless and wheezing - Dust collapsing sideways with a strangled little sound that could not be real.

It wasn’t even a laugh - it was a full-on, wheezy, high-pitched giggle that sounded like it had snuck out without his permission. It tore out of him like a balloon deflating through a kazoo, helpless and shrill. Like a dying tea kettle mixed with a cartoon hyena.

Horror stared.

Dust clapped a hand over his mouth too late, eyes wide in panic.

Horror blinked at him, clearly startled. “…That’s your laugh?”

Dust froze, then slowly tugged his hood lower over his face like a turtle retreating into its shell. “No it’s not,” he mumbled, absolutely mortified.

Horror was still staring. Then - slowly - he grinned. A full, amused, genuine grin, the kind that didn’t come easy to him but felt worth it now.

“Stars,” he said, and laughed again, softer this time. “You sound like a broken whistle.”

Dust curled a little more inwards, clearly trying to die on the couch. “I will kill you and bake you into a pie. I swear.”

“You’d name it after me.”

“No, I’d name it Sharon.”

Horror snorted. “Why Sharon?”

“Because Sharon tastes like betrayal and too much nutmeg.”

There was a long pause. Then they both cracked, dissolving into laughter again - Dust’s a shrill wheeze muffled by his scarf, Horror’s deep and gravelly and coming from somewhere in his ribs. It was ridiculous. It was stupid. And it felt better than anything had all week.

Eventually, they both slumped against the couch like they’d just survived a war.

Dust sighed, defeated. He melted deeper into the couch, arms folded and scarf now halfway up his face like a security blanket. “I liked you better when you were just Cake Guy.”

“You mean when I hadn’t named your pastry’s soul and witnessed your horrifying laugh?”

Dust gave a one-finger salute from beneath the folds of fabric. “Exactly that.”

They fell into silence again, but it was different now. Softer, more lived-in. The sort of quiet that came when you realised you didn’t have to be funny, or clever, or particularly normal anymore. You could just… be.

Horror stretched his legs out, one heel knocking over a pile of newspapers that had definitely been there since the semester started. Dust didn’t even react.

“I’ll bring you more cake,” Horror said eventually.

Dust blinked at him, surprised. “Why?”

Horror shrugged. “Because you named Susie. Because you laughed like a dying goose. Because you’re weird.”

Dust tilted his head again, blinking slowly, expression unreadable for a moment - and then a soft, genuine smile bloomed on his face. Not the cracked little grin he used when he was plotting something unholy, or the sharp-toothed smirk that usually came with caffeine-fuelled chaos. This one was different. Quiet. Honest.

“Cool,” he said softly. Then added, even softer: “I’ll save you an egg.”

Horror blinked.

It shouldn’t have meant anything. It shouldn’t have felt like anything. But something about the way Dust said it - like it was sacred, like it was some kind of promise - made Horror’s chest tighten just a little.

He chuckled low in his throat, rubbing the back of his head. “Well. Clearly, I owe you a whole carton now.”

“I take payment in baked goods,” Dust said solemnly. “And firstborns.”

“I’ll give you muffins,” Horror replied dryly. “And you can pretend they’re the children of my labour.”

Dust’s whole face lit up, alarmingly fast, like a child being handed a flamethrower. Horror could actually see the exact moment he came up with the joke, and braced for impact.

Dust opened his mouth-

“Don’t say ‘bun in the oven,’” Horror said instantly, jabbing a finger at him. “I swear to god.”

Dust’s jaw snapped shut with a tiny squeak. His shoulders trembled with held-back laughter, eyelights wide and manic.

“But- ”

“No.”

“C’monnnn.”

“I’ll take the muffins back.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Dust whispered, scandalised.

“I will eat Susie’s siblings in front of you.”

Dust gasped, hand to his chest like he’d been mortally wounded. “You’re a monster.”

Horror gave him a toothy grin. “So I’ve been told.”

Dust’s eyes sparkled with unspent mischief. “Okay but… what if I do say it?”

“I’ll egg your bed.”

Dust threw his arms wide in theatrical defeat. “I’m already sleeping in crumbs!” he wailed. “Do your worst!”

And Horror looked at him - really looked - and realised with a sharp, unexpected certainty that somehow, without meaning to, they’d crossed a threshold.

This wasn’t just banter.

It wasn’t just some weird night and a weirder cake exchange.

It was a beginning. Something small and strange and alive, like the whisper of a song you hadn’t meant to hum, or a name carved in icing, or an egg from a strangers pocket.

And so, he smiled.

And Dust, scarf slipping loose, cheeks flushed with laughter and too many terrible puns, smiled back.

theyre sillies. Dusts a fucking loser, Horrors sweet, and theyre SO gonna kiss at some point lol.

[elvensorceress]

snippet sunday

more of Buck pining and being an oblivious disaster. whee! and also buckleydiaz roommate summer because I will accept nothing else.

tagging beloveds if you want to share anything 💕 @tizniz @hippolotamus @daffi-990 @spotsandsocks @sofa-king-lame @greencreekwolf @sergeantchenford @exhuastedpigeon @kejfeblintz @damnikindaship @capseycartwright @thelikesofus @dangerpronebuddie @livinginsunnyhell @mangonadaeddie @mangonadaeddie @drmellking @beyourownanchor6 @deluludiaz @saveahorserideaneddie @deluludiaz @sazanahashi @singitforthegirls 💕

Buck puts the flyer away and doesn't think about it. He doesn't need to. It's not relevant. Until it comes up at breakfast the next morning.

“Where did this come from?” Chris sits at the table and sets his crutches to the side. He holds up the colorful flyer advertising Pride Night Speed Dating at some wine bar in WeHo this weekend. Buck had left it in the living room with his keys. Where it was supposed to be forgotten and not something to worry about.

Buck puts down the cutting board he was cleaning and dries his hands. “Uh, Maddie gave it to me. You hungry, buddy?”

Chris nods but focuses on reading the flyer. “How is this supposed to work? What is a ‘speed date’?”

Buck dishes up a hefty serving of the scramble, tops it with extra cheese because Chris always wants extra cheese, and sets it in front of Chris with silverware and one of the muffins. “I don’t know for sure. I’ve never been to one of these. I think the idea is you sit down one on one with someone for five minutes, small talk and try to get to know them a little, and then switch tables and talk to someone else and do it all over again. Until you find someone you want to keep talking to. If that even happens.” 

Chris thanks him but hums contemplatively before he sets the flyer down. “So you go around ‘dating’ a bunch of people?”

“Y-yeah. I guess. Yeah?” 

Chris raises eyebrows at him. “I thought it was better to only date one person. And not go around dating a whole bunch of different people because it can hurt their feelings when you’re dating around behind their back.” 

Buck stops and stares at him, and why does it sound like a criminal accusation? Buck hasn’t done anything wrong. He hasn’t gone out to the event. He hasn’t even decided if he is going to go? “That’s when— when you know you like someone. And you know you’re dating only them. This is for— f-for when you don’t have anyone you like. You’re trying to find someone you like. Someone you’d want to go on a real date with.” 

Chris tips his head and keeps looking at him oddly, accusingly. At least it really feels like it. 

“This,” Buck picks up the flyer. “Is just a thing so you can find someone. S-someone you want to get to know. And might want to— to be with. If you had someone you liked, you wouldn’t go to one of these.” 

“Then,” Chris says. “There’s no one you like?”

Oh god. 

It’s too early in the morning for this. 

Why is there a washing machine churning Buck’s stomach and prickles all over his skin? Why is his face so hot? Why is it so hot in here? The A/C is working just fine and it usually comes through the kitchen first because the unit is in the backyard on the other side of the kitchen wall. It should be plenty cool in here. Why does this feel worse than hiding away illegal drugs or some other kind of contraband? It’s just an innocent social mixer thing. And it’s true that Buck isn’t crushing on anyone. He has no feelings for anyone. He’s single, unattached, and feelings-less. 

“Nope. No one. No prospects. Or suitors. Or whatever the hell we’re calling them in this century. Don’t want to be an old bachelor. And Maddie thinks I’ve learned my ‘how to be alone’ lesson adequately again. So. She thought I might like to go meet some people.” 

“You want to meet people. And find someone to date.”

“Yeah?” Isn’t that what most people want? A lot of them anyway? Maybe not, but Buck wants someone. He really, really wants someone to love who will also love him. And be with him forever and become his home and family so he actually has a home and family. “At some point?” 

Chris nods but doesn’t look at him. He does pick up his fork and stab through his food, not really putting together a bite and not doing anything but picking through it.

[rooks-dagger]

Ship Sleep Dynamics

Saw this tag done by @mythals-whore (here) and @flowersforthemachines (here) and thought it looked cute! This was such a fun way to explore these characters, and it gave me yet another opportunity to yap about Neverook 😊

No-pressure tagging @dudewheresmynug @dancing--lights @themildmahariel @in-the-drowning-deep @master-of-the-elements @curiouswisp @litchigaming @hedwigoprah @antivan-sprig @casa-dei-corvei @fenrelmercar @amellderiva @jouskaroo @etherealancientmusings @caughtnyact @griffongrey @thatgaymerguyb if you'd like to play! 💜

can we also take a moment to appreciate how jacked ember is? 🙂‍↕️ thank you.

Ember "Rook" Mercar + Neve Gallus ⚔️❄️

How often do they sleep together?

Every few days at least, every night if they can manage it. It’s highly dependent on their wild ass schedules, but that gets easier after the events of Veilguard when they’re both living in Dock Town.

But early on at the Lighthouse? These two were lucky if they could even nap for a few hours together.

Where do they sleep?

It takes some time for them to start sleeping in the same space together. Their options are really just the barebones cot in Neve’s study or the horrible green chaise in the meditation room. Neither are made for two people, and both are decidedly uncomfortable. But misery loves company, right? So they’ll cuddle up. Out of necessity (mmhmm riiight)

This usually means Ember will practically drag Neve down to rest on top of her or that the two of them will be spooned up tight to keep from falling off (“Rook, I swear, if you push me off this couch, I’m going to take you down with me.”) Honestly, the forced proximity of these shitty beds worked in their favor. Or at least, neither one is complaining about the end result.

Once they’re back in Dock Town after the game, they immediately get an ACTUAL bed for their apartment. Thank the Maker. Their backs were killing them.

How do they prepare to sleep?

Ember winds down with some stretches, brushes her teeth, and she might deign to comb her hair. Then she does a quick sweep around whatever space they’re staying in to lock up for the night (It’s an old habit. She doesn’t care if it’s paranoid. Her little patrols have stopped at least one cook-plate fire, foiled the plans of two assassins, and kept a demon-possessed rat out of the kitchen.)

Ember will then review Veilguard missives in bed, make note about key things she has to do the next day, etc. This has the side benefit of acting as a buddy system/forcing function to encourage Neve to at least start making her way to bed with her case notes if she’s not in full deep work mode. The two of them will also chat about a case or their day or just banter about, their conversations becoming sillier and their sentences tapering off as they start to fall asleep. Ember almost always falls asleep first (there are some nights when she’s convinced Neve is playing a twisted game of sleep-chicken.)

Meanwhile, I just know that Neve has terrible sleep hygiene and barely any routine to speak of. I’d be shocked if she even takes time to remove her makeup most nights tbh (my darling disaster girl). But she definitely reviews her case notes in bed, and she keeps a notebook on her nightstand for when she needs to jot down any stray thoughts. Ember also keeps a notebook and pen on her nightstand for when Neve inevitably misplaces hers under a mountain of papers. She’s become a pro at blindly handing it over (still half-asleep) to Neve in the middle of the night.

Neve probably has some small ritual to take care of her prosthetic / leg, too (e.g., a moisturizer or massage for her leg, a quick scan of her prosthetic to make sure it wasn’t damaged from the day’s adventures, etc.) and this becomes more consistent once they’ve moved back to Dock Town post-game.

What do they wear to sleep?

Ember: boxers/sweats and a tank top/t-shirt/sports bra. Similar to the in-game underwear. Basic, functional, the type of thing you'd find in a value pack at a big-box store lol.

Neve: an oversized shirt (watch it be the equivalent of a Cida Ciconia band t-shirt lol) and her underwear. She doesn’t seem like someone who’d bother with actual PJs. She’s been known to just strip and collapse into bed (at the apartment) or fall asleep in whatever she wore that day (at the lighthouse or office)

Do they cuddle?

Yes!

As mentioned earlier, this started because their bed options at the lighthouse were not made for two people. So, unless they wanted to part ways and sleep separately, or one person was willing to take the floor, they had to share. Not that they minded. It actually worked in their favor to have a set “reason” for being that close that didn’t require them to openly admit they wanted to cuddle (lol these idiots.)

I also just see Neve and Ember as being very physically affectionate with their loved ones. Sure, Neve will keep some distance in public to at least try and keep a target off Ember’s back, but in private (or among trusted friends) it’s all fair game. Meanwhile, Ember positively beams at their proximity no matter what. Dork.

What are their preferred sleep positions?

Ember will usually sleep on her back or her side, and always with the door in her sightline (yet another reason she hated that green chaise). She particularly enjoys having Neve resting on her chest while Ember holds her close. And she loves loves loves being the big spoon.

Also, Little Spoon!Neve supremacy. I will die on this hill 😤 Neve also likes resting her head on Ember’s chest because she finds her heartbeat soothing. Or she’ll curl up against Ember, tangling their legs together. I suspect Neve breaks away a few times in the night as she tosses and turns, but even so she tries to keep some physical contact with Ember.

How easy do they fall asleep?

It depends.

Ember can usually fall asleep quickly, anytime and anywhere. She’s got that military technique to be out like a light within minutes of closing her eyes down to a science (much to Neve’s disbelief. She tested just how asleep Ember was the first few times to see if she was faking it. Ember did not appreciate these experiments lol.) But Ember starts to have trouble sleeping once Solas is in her head during the events of the game. Plus, ya know, all the stress of leading the team in an apocalypse. It gets better post-game, but it’s never quite as easy as it had been. Could be a lingering effect of the blood magic idk (Ember shrugs it off, but Neve is determined to find an actual answer.)

Neve does not fall asleep quickly or easily. Her mind continues to chew on whatever case she’s working on. But sometimes she will push herself to the point of exhaustion and just collapse onto the bed and conk out. She and Ember continue to debate on whether that counts as “falling asleep” or “passing out.” 🙄

However, Neve does find it much easier to fall and stay asleep with Ember nearby. No, she will not elaborate. Unless you’re Bellara. And Bellara has sworn the sacred girl’s-night secrecy pact. Her oath to Neve is so strong even Ember can’t weasel anything out of her (and trust me, she’s tried.)

Do they toss and turn a lot?

Ember can, if she’s having a nightmare. These flare up after the final battle and will have her thrashing around until she jolts awake or Neve wakes her up. Luckily these nightmares become less frequent over time, only popping up during times of stress. Otherwise, she doesn’t move much in her sleep beyond readjusting her position around Neve if her arm starts going numb or something. 

Neve tosses and turns every night. She’s a fitful sleeper to begin with, even at the best of times. She’ll settle down a bit if she’s the little spoon, but it rarely lasts the whole night. Sometimes she’ll grow so agitated at not being able to fall asleep (whether it’s due to her racing mind, a bad dream, or pain in her leg) that she’ll just get up and go back to work.

Do they snore?

Neve has a very soft snore when she’s deep in sleep, which Ember thinks is adorable. Neve denies this slander outright. She absolutely does NOT snore, thank you very much.

Rana can back Ember up here. Neve snores and has done so since they were kids.

Who hogs the blankets?

NEVE. To be fair, she’s not used to sharing a bed with someone. And all her tossing and turning drags the blankets along with her. But if she wakes up in the middle of the night, she will notice and try to redistribute the blankets more fairly. Though there’s hardly any need since Ember is usually cuddled up close to her anyways.

What do they dream about?

Ember doesn’t remember most of her dreams. Sometimes they’re just silly things thrown together ("Lucanis and that cat Ferdinand had a cook off to see who Hal's assistant should be... but Ferdinand lost because kept eating the fish. Too bad. I think his recipe would have won 😔”) But more often it’s nightmares about being trapped in the Regret Prison, some of her more harrowing gladiator fights, etc.

Neve doesn’t usually dream but sometimes her cases blur together nonsensically in her mind, which she finds more annoying than anything. Or they’ll start mixing with current day anxieties - usually ending with bad things happening to people she cares about. Needless to say, she’d rather just go to sleep and wake up without having to deal with dreams or the Fade at all.

How easily do they wake up?

Ember wakes up easily and quickly. Years of being woken unexpectedly for a fight, an arena match, or some emergency forced her to become a light sleeper. She’s also naturally an early riser, but Neve can persuade her to stay in bed a while longer without much difficulty.

Neve CAN wake up quickly if she has a breakthrough in a case that she has to write down, or if she hears anything “off” (i.e., dangerous) in the usual Minrathous lullaby, but it’s a jarring transition and she will be grumpy after she’s dealt with the situation. She does not appreciate being woken up for anything short of an actual emergency otherwise.

How awake are they afterwards?

Ember is up and at ‘em once her eyes open, alert and ready to start the day. She'll attempt to make her half of the bed (she’s long given up on getting Neve to pick up that habit lol) and then go off to brush her teeth, make coffee, etc. She might even fit in a run or some training exercises in the morning.

Neve is… less enthused lol. She takes her time to gain her bearings and get out of bed. And she will want her coffee asap. She’s still trying to crack the case of how Ember is so damn chipper in the morning. “It’s called having an actual sleep routine, Neve,” Ember laughs. Neve pointedly ignores her.

[oikawaisincrisis]

Meanie, mine ~ A.M

Pairing: Atsumu Miya x fem!Reader

Summary: Atsumu Miya has been pulling her pigtails since they were six. What started as teasing turned into years of bickering, tension, and stubborn feelings neither of them could name.

CW (content warning): Atsumu is kind of a warning himself, childhood “friends” (if you can even call them that) to lovers, slight angst but mostly fluff.

AN: Hi guys! Thank you so much for all the love on my Ushijima post I’m so happy you enjoyed it 🫶🏻 This was requested so I hope I made it justice. Also I had a lot of fun writing this and I’m thinking of making a series of childhood friends to lovers with different characters so be on the lookout for that hahah. English isn’t my first language so I’m sorry if there’s any mistakes. Hope you enjoy and let me know what you think! :)

Requests are open so feel free to send yours! (you can check the list of characters I write for on my pinned post)

Masterlist

The sun was warm on the sandbox that day, casting gold across the schoolyard like confetti. Six-year-old [Y/N] sat cross-legged in the middle of it, hands buried in soft, sun-baked sand. Her shoes were kicked off to the side, forgotten. The pink ribbons in her pigtails bobbed as she leaned forward, smoothing the walls of the sandcastle she and Osamu Miya had been building for the past twenty minutes.

“It needs a moat.” She said seriously, tracing a circle around the edge with her finger.

Osamu nodded, equally focused. “I can make a tunnel for water.”

She grinned in response, bright and beaming. “Like a real castle! With a bridge, too?”

“Of course. A drawbridge.”

They giggled together, heads bent, both covered in specks of sand and pride.

Across the yard, Atsumu Miya stood with a red ball in his hands, kicking pebbles with his shoe and scowling. His twin brother was supposed to play dodgeball with him. Instead, Osamu was over there in the sandbox. With her.

Atsumu's gaze narrowed on the girl in the pink hair ribbons. She laughed at something Osamu said, and her smile went wide, soft and bright. Her voice, even from a distance, was gentle and light, like the breeze on a summer afternoon.

She looked like a ray of sunshine, Atsumu thought, warm and glowing, the kind of happy that made your chest feel funny and your ears go red.

He didn’t like her. Not like that. Ew. Gross. Of course he didn’t.

But for some reason he wanted her to look at him. Not at Osamu. Not like that.

So, in his brilliant six-year-old brain, he came up with the best idea he could think of.

Drop the ball. March over. Pull her hair.

And he did. He stomped right over to the sandbox, ignoring the way his sneakers filled with sand, and yanked one of her pigtails.

“Hey!” She squeaked, turning around so fast she almost toppled the castle wall. She blinked up at him, startled. “What was that for?!”

Atsumu puffed his chest, not really sure what to say now that he’d done it. “Your hair was in the way.” He said smugly, even though it definitely wasn’t.

Her jaw dropped. “You’re such a meanie!”

Atsumu grinned, triumphant. She was looking at him now. Her attention was on him and even though she wasn’t smiling like she did just moments ago with his brother, just the fact that she was looking at him made it feel as if he had gotten what he wanted.

Osamu groaned loudly behind them. “Can we build one castle without a disaster for once?”

“No.” They both said at the same time.

And that was the beginning.

From that day on, the pattern was set: [Y/N] with her soft voice and fiery glare, Atsumu with his smug teasing and constant interruptions, and Osamu, forever in the middle, sighing into his rice balls and wondering why he had to be born a twin.

——————————————————————————

Four years passed, and they were ten now.

Things had changed, sure. Osamu was a bit taller, Atsumu louder, and [Y/N] wore her hair in a braid now instead of pigtails. Especially after a certain boy pulled them one too many times.

But the essentials remained: she still brought her markers to school and drew at recess, Osamu still snacked all the time, and Atsumu still annoyed her every chance he got.

Today, the classroom buzzed with the end-of-day hum, papers shuffling, chairs scraping, kids packing up bags.

[Y/N] had drawn something that afternoon, something she was actually proud of. A little fox curled up under a tree, its fur shaded with orange and gold and bits of red leaf detailing. She had used every warm marker she had.

She kept it tucked carefully inside her notebook as she walked out into the hallway, clutching it tight.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t alone.

“Hey, what’s that?” One of the boys from class, Kenta, grabbed the edge of her notebook and yanked it open before she could stop him.

“Don’t!” She cried, reaching for it.

He held it out of reach. “Aw, what’s this? You still draw little animals like a baby?”

A couple of his friends gathered around. One of them snorted. “Is it sleeping under a tree? That’s so dumb and childish.”

“She probably talks to them too. Like, ‘Oh, Mr. Fox, would you like some tea?’” They mocked, laughing.

[Y/N] felt her cheeks burn. “Give it back!”

They didn’t. One of them mimicked her voice in a high-pitched squeak. “Do you wanna cuddle, Mr. Fox?”

“Stop it!” Her eyes stung before she could stop it. “Just stop!”

And of course, that made it worse.

“Aww, crybaby’s gonna cry?” Kenta grinned. “Maybe your fox will cheer you up!”

“Crybaby!” They all chanted, snickering, as they finally tossed the drawing to the ground and ran off.

[Y/N] stood frozen for a moment, fists clenched, blinking away the blur in her vision as she knelt down to pick up the crumpled drawing.

She didn’t know that someone else had heard everything.

——————————————————————————

Atsumu didn’t mean to hear it.

He was just turning the corner on his way to grab a juice box when he heard them shouting.

He stopped when he recognized her voice. Heard the word “crybaby.” Heard the laughter. By the time he peeked around the corner, it was already over. The boys were running off. She was kneeling on the floor, shoulders stiff.

Atsumu’s blood boiled. He clenched his fists, stared after the boys, and turned on his heel.

——————————————————————————

The fight happened at recess.

Kenta never saw it coming.

Atsumu charged him by the tree near the fence and socked him right in the mouth.

“OW! What the heck!?”

“You’re the crybaby!” Atsumu yelled, tackling him to the ground.

They rolled and punched and kicked, and it was two-on-one after that because Kenta’s friend jumped in, but Atsumu didn’t care. He was furious. He didn’t even know what he was yelling anymore.

Eventually, a teacher pulled them apart. Atsumu’s lip was busted, his eye was swelling, and his fists were scraped and dirty.

He got sent straight to the nurse’s office and scolded all the way there.

——————————————————————————

“Honestly, Atsumu. What is wrong with you?” The nurse muttered, dabbing at his lip with antiseptic.

He hissed. “Nothin’.”

“Do you want to explain why you were in a fight with two boys?”

“Nope.”

The nurse sighed. “You’re lucky your brother’s not in trouble too.”

“Osamu didn’t do nothin’. Leave ‘im out of it.”

She left to grab a bandage for his hand. A few minutes later, the door creaked open again, but it wasn’t the nurse. Atsumu turned his head and froze.

[Y/N] stood in the doorway, frowning, a folded handkerchief in one hand. Her braid was a little messy, and her cheeks were still pink from earlier. But her voice was calm.

“You’re so stupid.”

Atsumu blinked. “You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t ask you to fight them.”

“I didn’t ask ‘em to be jerks to you.”

“You’re mean to me all the time.” She huffed and crossed the room, hopping onto the stool beside the cot where he sat. “You’re also bleeding.”

“I know, thanks.”

She gave him a look. “Let me see.”

He started to protest, but she was already tilting his chin with two fingers and gently dabbing at his lip with her cloth.

He winced but not because of the sting from the cut.

“Oh, don’t be a baby.” She muttered, even though her touch was gentle.

“You’re the baby.” He grumbled. “Cryin’ over a dumb fox.”

“It wasn’t dumb.” She snapped, eyes flashing.

Atsumu looked at her and didn’t tease her again. They sat like that for a moment, quiet. She folded the cloth again and kept working.

“You didn’t have to do that.” She said eventually, softer.

“Yeah, I did.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “’Cause it made me mad. That’s all. I never liked that idiot, this just happened to be a good excuse to beat him up.”

She frowned, like she didn’t believe him.

She stayed beside him until the nurse returned and said he was cleared to go home. When he slid off the cot, she handed him the cloth.

“Keep it.” She mumbled.

“I don’t want your crybaby handkerchief.”

She glared. “Then give it back.”

He shoved it in his pocket. “Too late.”

She rolled her eyes, he expected her to get up from the chair and leave him there after throwing one last passive-aggressive comment at him. She didn’t.

“I still think you’re an idiot.” She said as she folded her legs underneath her, no intention of leaving his side. “And just for the record I don’t want to be here.”

Atsumu grinned, lip still bleeding.

“Yeah? You’re still a pain in the butt.”

Osamu met them outside the nurse’s office, arms crossed.

“You’re both ridiculous.”

They looked at each other and, just for a second, smiled.

——————————————————————————

Middle school was... weird.

Everyone was growing too fast or not fast enough, the desks were too small, and people started caring about who liked who and who passed notes in class. It was the start of confusing feelings and bad haircuts and awkward silences in the hallway.

But some things hadn’t changed. Osamu and [Y/N] still got along like peanut butter and jelly. They were lab partners, shared snacks during lunch, and could communicate in shrugs and eyerolls with the kind of ease that only came from years of friendship.

Meanwhile, Atsumu was still a menace.

“You forgot your pen again, didn’t ya?” Osamu muttered one morning in science as they settled in for lab work.

“No.” [Y/N] said.

“Yes.” Atsumu called from the next table over, spinning around in his chair. “She always forgets. Princess over there’s helpless without Osamu savin’ her.”

[Y/N] narrowed her eyes. “Call me princess one more time and I swear I’ll dump hydrochloric acid in your shoes.”

“Ooh, scary.” Atsumu said, dramatically clutching his chest. “You gonna cry if I take your pen too?”

He reached out and snatched it from her desk.

“Give it back!”

“C’mon, share with your favorite twin.”

“I’m gonna strangle you with your own shoelaces!”

Osamu didn’t even look up. “Please don’t. I don’t wanna have to explain a murder in my lab report.”

It was always like that. Constant bickering. Paper balls tossed at her head during lectures. Sarcastic pet names. Sassy comebacks. Everyone around them thought they hated each other.

Even [Y/N] and Atsumu had half-convinced themselves that was true but then there were the in-between moments.

Like how he always sat behind her in class, even though there were open seats up front. Or how he’d pretend to steal her erasers just to give them back when she pouted. Or the way he’d go strangely quiet when she talked about someone else.

Especially when she started crushing on Daiki.

Daiki wasn’t in their class, but he played soccer and was tall and charming and always said hi when he passed her in the hallway.

Osamu rolled his eyes whenever she brought him up. Atsumu on the other hand? He made fun of her mercilessly.

“You’re doodlin’ his name in your notebook now?” Atsumu said one day, snatching the paper from under her elbow at lunch.

“It was one heart!” She snapped, trying to grab it back.

He held it high. “You want me to sign it as him? Dear [Y/N], I think you’re super cute and your eyes are like, what is this? Sunlit puddles?”

“That’s not what I wrote!” She shrieked, face flaming.

Osamu sighed. “Stop being an idiot, Atsumu.”

Atsumu ignored him. “[Y/N], if you like someone that cheesy, you’ve officially lost all taste.”

She finally got the paper back and shoved it in her bag.

“Jealous?” She said before she could stop herself.

Atsumu’s grin dropped for half a second. “Why would I be jealous of him?”

But he didn’t tease her about it again.

——————————————————————————

It all fell apart a week later.

It had taken her everything to finally gather the courage. [Y/N] wrote Daiki a short note and slipped it in his locker. She didn’t expect a yes really, but she didn’t expect him to laugh either.

He’d read it with two of his friends and started snickering immediately.

“She thinks you’d date her?” One of them said. “Isn’t she that weird girl with the markers?”

“She hangs out with those volleyball twins, right?” Daiki added, not even trying to lower his voice. “Kinda loud. She’s like a little sister or something.”

His friends laughed. “Ouch. You broke the poor girl’s heart.”

“I didn’t even answer her yet.”

“You don’t have to.” She said, geez fixed on the ground.

[Y/N] had been around the corner, just out of sight, close enough to hear everything. She ran. Behind the gym, where no one ever went during lunch.

She wiped her eyes roughly, furious that she even cared. Furious at herself. She wasn’t loud. She wasn’t clingy. She just... liked someone. But apparently, that was hilarious.

So she sat down behind the school building, pulled her knees to her chest, and tried to breathe.

——————————————————————————

Atsumu had been looking for her.

He’d noticed she wasn’t at her usual lunch spot with Osamu. He told himself it was just because she still owed him a pen but when he checked the classroom, the courtyard, and finally spotted the edge of her shoe behind the gym, he knew something was wrong.

She didn’t look up when he approached. He didn’t say anything either. He sat beside her slowly, folding his long legs under him, and dug into his pocket. A slightly smushed, but still warm, milk bread roll appeared in his hand. He held it out silently. She stared at it.

“I didn’t ask you to sit here.” She mumbled.

“Good.” He said, tearing the plastic open with his teeth. “’Cause I didn’t ask ya if I could.”

She didn’t move. He placed the roll gently beside her on the pavement and leaned back on his elbows, eyes closed like he wasn’t paying attention to her at all.

The silence stretched between them.

“I hate middle school.” She whispered.

“I hate Daiki.”

She startled a little, turning toward him.

He peeked one eye open. “He’s a prick.”

“You don’t even know what happened.”

“Don’t need to.”

[Y/N] looked down at the milk bread. It was a little flat from being in his pocket, but it smelled sweet and soft. She picked it up.

“Thanks.” She said quietly.

“Don’t get used to it.” Atsumu said. “I just did it because my brother would be upset if he saw you like this so get over it quickly.”

She almost smiled.

He didn’t ask what Daiki said. He didn’t need the details. All he knew was that her eyes were red, her voice was tight, and her sleeves were damp from wiping her cheeks.

So he stayed there until the bell rang, kicking pebbles and making dumb comments about ants. When she finally stood up, she glanced back at him.

“You’re still a jerk.”

He smirked. “You’re still a princess.”

And for the first time, she didn’t throw something at him for saying it.

——————————————————————————

Inarizaki High School had no shortage of noise. But few things were louder than the crowd that followed Atsumu Miya wherever he went.

Star setter. Flirt. Loudmouth. Ego the size of the gym. Girls slipped him notes between classes. Fans squealed at tournaments. Even teachers groaned when he walked into class with that lazy swagger and messy hair, five minutes late and grinning like the world owed him something.

[Y/N] was not impressed.

“You’re like a walking ego.” She told him one afternoon, arms crossed, as she watched yet another girl press a folded letter into his hand. “You’ve got a fan club, Atsumu. An actual fan club.”

He grinned, cocky and unbothered. “What can I say? I’m lovable.”

She rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” He said, leaning against her locker, “you still talk to me every day. What’s that say about you, princess?”

“That I have no self-preservation instincts.”

Osamu walked by and deadpanned. “None. Zero.”

——————————————————————————

When the team’s first big tournament of the season rolled around, Inarizaki’s volleyball team packed up early for the bus. Their school was hosting, which meant they had to arrive first and, since [Y/N] had somehow ended up on event staff through sheer bad luck and one “volunteer” sheet signed without reading, she was stuck riding with the team.

As the last few seats filled, she looked up from her clipboard only to freeze in horror.

“Wait. No. Anyone but him.”

Atsumu was already grinning, tossing his bag into the seat beside hers. “Looks like we’re seat buddies, princess.”

“There are ten other seats.”

“All full” Osamu said from behind her. “Sorry. I already called dibs on the aisle with Aran.”

[Y/N] groaned. “Why do bad things happen to good people?”

“I’m sittin’ right here.” Atsumu said, dropping into the seat. “Guess that answers that question.”

She shoved her bag down beside her legs with a sigh and crossed her arms. “Don’t talk to me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He didn’t, surprisingly. For the first thirty minutes of the ride, he just leaned against the window, one earbud in, nodding along to something on his phone.

[Y/N] leaned away from him at first, but the bus was stuffy and warm, and her clipboard was heavy in her lap, and the sun through the window was just right...

By the time they hit the highway, she was fast asleep, cheek pressed to Atsumu’s shoulder.

He looked down the moment he felt the weight. She didn’t snore. Her lips were parted slightly, hair falling across her forehead, and her brow furrowed just a little like she was having a dream she couldn’t catch.

Atsumu didn’t move.

Carefully he shifted his arm to make her more comfortable, adjusting so her head rested in the crook of his shoulder. He reached up without thinking and gently brushed a strand of hair away from her face.

Then he just sat there. Still. Quiet. Watching her like she was the only thing in the world that wasn’t moving too fast.

——————————————————————————

At the tournament, everything was chaos.

The gym was packed with teams, staff, fans, and noise. [Y/N] had a clipboard in hand and her event badge hanging around her neck. She flitted between tables, updated match scores, and passed out water bottles like her life depended on it.

Somehow, even in the mess, she ended up in a conversation with Kita Shinsuke, Inarizaki’s composed, respected, mildly terrifying captain and somehow... they hit it off.

He was kind. Blunt, but thoughtful. Quiet, but funny when he wanted to be.

They chatted between matches. About the game, about her ridiculous volunteer hours, about how she managed to keep Atsumu from getting himself banned from school. Shinsuke even smiled at one of her jokes.

Atsumu noticed. He noticed everything. From the way Kita leaned in to hear her better to the way [Y/N] laughed, softer than usual, almost shy.

By the third time Atsumu found them talking, he stomped over, holding out an empty water bottle like it was urgent.

“Oi, princess. Water me.”

She stared. “Are you... serious?”

“I’m dyin’.”

“You’re fine.”

“I’ve got heatstroke.”

“We’re inside.”

Kita raised a brow. “You’re interrupting.”

“I noticed.” Atsumu said flatly.

[Y/N] rolled her eyes and turned back to Kita. “Sorry, he does this.”

“It’s fine.” Kita said calmly. “He’s just jealous.” There was no I’ll tone behind his words, he just said it like it was a fact that everyone but the two people before him knew.

Atsumu choked on air. “Wha- jealous!? Of what?!”

——————————————————————————

Later that night, after a long loss and a close score that came down to a missed serve and a broken rhythm, Atsumu didn’t speak to anyone.

The team went back to the school to change and clean up before dinner.

[Y/N] knew where he’d be before anyone else even realized he was gone.

The outdoor stairwell behind the gym, right where the vending machines buzzed and the shadows crept long in the afternoon light.

He sat on the lowest step, arms draped over his knees, head tilted back.

“You didn’t go to dinner.” She said, walking over.

“Wasn’t hungry.”

“You always say that when you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad.” He muttered.

“You are.”

He didn’t look at her. So she sat beside him. Silence stretched for a few seconds.

“I missed that serve.” He said eventually. “It was my fault.”

“It was one point.”

“One point matters.”

She glanced at him. “You’ve won games with worse odds.”

“Not the point.”

“No,” She said gently, “but it’s still true.”

He finally turned to her. “Do you ever get tired of knowin’ exactly what to say?”

She smiled, a little smug. “Only when you’re too stubborn to hear it.”

He huffed a laugh, eyes falling to the space between them. “They expect me to be perfect, you know? I mess up once and it’s like... like I broke somethin’ important.”

“You didn’t.”

“It feels like I did.”

She was quiet for a moment. Then, spoke softer. “You’re allowed to mess up.”

He didn’t respond.

She bumped his shoulder with hers. “Even if you are an insufferable, arrogant pain in my ass.”

He finally smiled.

“Thanks, princess.”

“Anytime, drama queen.”

——————————————————————————

By the last day of the tournament, Atsumu had started to feel like something was shifting. Like maybe the way her voice softened around him meant something. Like maybe her bumping his shoulder and staying behind with him meant more than just old habits.

He hadn’t even teased her when she fell asleep on him again during the bus ride back to the venue. Maybe she’d finally see he wasn’t just a walking ego.

So when he came looking for her before the final exhibition match, planning to tell her something real for once, he didn’t expect to see what he did.

Behind the gym, again. Her and Kita. Close. Talking. Laughing. Kita handed her something. Her fingers brushed his. She smiled, soft and unguarded.

Atsumu stopped in his tracks. His stomach twisted. He felt something sharp and ugly bloom in his chest. He wasn’t thinking when he walked over.

He wasn’t thinking at all.

“Hope I’m not interruptin’ your date.” He said, voice louder than it needed to be.

[Y/N] jumped, startled. “What? It’s not- ”

“Oh, please.” Atsumu snapped. “You’ve been followin’ him around like a lost puppy all weekend.”

Kita stood slowly, eyes narrowing. “Watch it, Miya.”

“Why? You two already makin’ plans for next weekend? Gonna braid each other’s hair too?”

“Atsumu!” [Y/N] hissed.

He turned to her fully now, anger blooming too fast for him to stop. “You know what? Go ahead. Flirt with him. At least he won’t be stupid enough to think you’re special when you’re not.”

The words hung in the air like a slap. Her face fell. Everything stilled.

He saw it immediately, the change in her eyes, the way her mouth parted slightly, stunned. Like he’d actually hurt her. For real. Not just irritated. Not just teased.

He had hurt her.

She stepped back. Once. Twice.

“Right.” She said softly. “Thanks for clearing that up.”

And then she turned and walked away. He wanted to run after her, tell her that he didn’t mean it but his muscles refused to move so he stood there frozen in place like a statue as he watched her slipping through his fingers.

——————————————————————————

It had been four days since the tournament. Four days since the words flew out of Atsumu’s mouth like knives. Four days since he saw the way [Y/N] flinched like she didn’t even recognize him anymore.

And now… she didn’t look at him. Not once.

She came into class, greeted Osamu, smiled at her friends, laughed at something Kita said when he passed by, but when Atsumu threw a comment in her direction?

Silence.

“Oi, princess.” He said that morning, leaning back in his seat, tone casual. “Got a new hair routine or somethin’? Looks shinier than usual.”

No answer. Not even a roll of her eyes. Not even a groan. Just silence as she scribbled something in her notebook, ignoring him completely.

Atsumu felt something cold bloom behind his ribs.

This was worse than yelling. Worse than insults. Worse than all their back-and-forth.

This… nothing was unbearable so he tried again at lunch.

“Ya know, I heard people who spend too much time with Kita start developin’ a stick up their ass.”

Osamu gave him a flat look. “[Y/N], you gonna let him get away with that one?”

She glanced at them, expression unreadable. Then went right back to her food and said nothing.

——————————————————————————

By the end of the week, Atsumu was unraveling. Truly losing his mind.

Every room felt louder without her voice snapping back at him. Every moment felt slower. Every hallway he passed her in felt like a missed chance he was too scared to grab.

He hated himself for what he said. He hadn’t even meant it, not the way it came out. “You’re not special.” He could still hear the echo of it.

She was special. She always had been and now she wouldn’t even look at him.

——————————————————————————

Osamu noticed the change almost immediately.

He wasn’t blind. He saw the way [Y/N] stiffened anytime Atsumu walked into a room. Saw the forced, polite smile she gave him when she couldn’t avoid him. Saw the way Atsumu’s teasing got quieter, sloppier, more desperate each time.

Until one day, in the locker room after practice, Osamu dropped his bag hard on the bench and said:

“What the hell did you do to her?”

Atsumu didn’t look up from tying his shoes. “What are you talkin’ about?”

“You know what I’m talkin’ about.” His voice was cold now. “She’s not lookin’ at you. She’s not talkin’ to you. I’ve never seen her act like this, not even when you pulled that stunt with the glitter glue in eighth grade.”

Atsumu winced. “I just…” He muttered. “I said something I didn’t mean. I messed it up.”

Osamu crossed his arms. “What’d you say?”

Silence. Then, quietly spoke. “That she wasn’t special.”

Osamu’s jaw clenched. “You what?”

“I didn’t mean it. I was mad. I saw her with Kita, and- ” He stopped himself.

Osamu stared at him, exasperated. “You’ve been in love with her since we were six, dumbass.”

Atsumu’s head snapped up.

“I’m not stupid, Atsumu. I saw the way you looked at her when she was buildin’ that sandcastle with me. The way you’d steal her markers just so she’d yell at you. The way you shut up when she cried behind the school. This has always been about her. And you’ve always been too much of a coward to admit it.”

Atsumu ran a hand through his hair, voice low and rough. “I don’t know if I can fix it this time.”

“Then don’t.” Osamu snapped. “Let her go. Let her move on. Let her be with someone who doesn’t hurt her just because he’s scared.”

Atsumu froze. Osamu took a breath, a little softer now.

“But if you’re not gonna let her go? If you’re not gonna spend the rest of your life kickin’ yourself for blowin’ this? Then grow a damn pair and tell her how you feel.”

Silence. “I don’t know if she’ll forgive me.” He said quietly.

“Then you apologize anyway.” Osamu said. “And maybe, for once, stop hidin’ behind sarcasm and say what you actually mean.”

——————————————————————————

The next few days crawled. Atsumu hovered on the edge of every room she was in. He watched her laugh with Osamu, passing notes during class. Watched her hand Kita a sports drink after practice, smile small but real. Watched the way her eyes slid right past him like he wasn’t even there.

It was a new kind of punishment. Not yelling. Not anger. Just being invisible to the one person he’d been trying to get to look at him his whole life.

He caught himself remembering things in flashes. Her sleeping on his shoulder, her smile behind the gym lights, the way she had gently cleaned his lip with her handkerchief years ago, pretending she didn’t care while her fingers trembled.

Now he felt as if he’dbroken it. He’d broken her and he wasn’t sure if he deserved to fix it.

——————————————————————————

The gym was mostly dark by the time [Y/N] stepped outside, her duffel slung over one shoulder, hair still damp from a quick shower. She sighed, rubbing at her neck, exhaustion creeping into her bones after a long afternoon of cleaning up after practice and managing the volleyball team’s logistics.

The last thing she expected was to find Atsumu Miya leaning against the wall just outside the main doors.

She stopped in her tracks.

“What do you want?” She asked, deliberately trying to keep her tone flat.

Atsumu straightened immediately, hands shoved into his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“I… just wanted to talk.”

She rolled her eyes and walked past him. “Not in the mood.”

He followed. “Just for a second.”

“Miya- ”

“Please.” He said, and it came out quieter than she expected. “I... I need to say somethin’. Just once. You don’t even have to say anythin’ back. I just- let me talk.”

Something in his voice made her stop. Not the usual sarcasm. Not teasing. No smugness, no stupid grin. Just... him. Real and raw.

She turned to face him, arms crossed. “You have exactly two minutes.”

He looked like he was trying to wrestle the words into shape. Like he hadn’t practiced this half as much as he’d claimed he would.

“I was lookin’ for you that day.” He said. “The last day of the tournament.”

She blinked. “What?”

“That morning. Before I saw you with Kita. I wasn’t plannin’ to fight. Wasn’t plannin’ to ruin everythin’. I was... gonna tell you. How I felt.”

Silence. He kept going, voice low and thick with everything he’d kept buried for years.

“It started when we were six, okay? You were sittin’ in the sandbox with Osamu and you were smilin’ and buildin’ that stupid castle like it was the most important thing in the world. And you looked so happy. So... bright. Like a sunbeam or somethin’. And all I could think was- I wanted that smile pointed at me. Not Osamu. Me.”

He took a breath. She stood there with an unreadable expression on her face but he kept going.

“So I did the dumbest thing I could think of. Pulled your pigtails. Got yelled at. Called a meanie. And it still felt better than bein’ ignored.”

She stayed silent, her eyes on his, unmoving.

“And it never stopped.” He said. “Every time I teased you, every time I said somethin’ stupid, it was just ‘cause I didn’t know how else to make you look at me. I was scared if I didn’t get under your skin, I’d disappear.”

His voice cracked a little.

“You looked at Osamu like he was the only person who understood you. Then you got older, and you started lookin’ at other people like that. And every single time I saw it, I wanted to tear my own goddamn hair out because I wanted it to be me.”

Atsumu swallowed.

“That day behind the gym. I saw you with Kita and... I don’t know. I lost it. I thought I missed my shot. I thought I was too late. So I said the one thing that would push you away for good. And I regretted it the second it left my mouth.”

He looked at her now, no longer hiding behind anything.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You are special, [Y/N]. You always were and I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember. Even when I didn’t know what that meant.”

A beat of silence. And another. And another. [Y/N] didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t say a word. Atsumu’s chest tightened. The silence clawed at his throat.

“I- I get it if you don’t wanna talk to me ever again,” he rushed out. “I mean, after everything, I’d hate me too. I’m a loudmouth. I don’t think before I speak. I ruin everythin’. And I get it if you’re into someone like Kita ‘cause he’s mature and quiet and- God, I’m makin’ this worse, aren’t I- ”

“Shut up.”

He blinked. She was suddenly in front of him, close. Too close and, before he could process the way her eyes were shining or how her lips parted or how her hands grabbed the front of his jacket. She kissed him.

Hard. Like she’d been waiting years. Like all that time she’d been biting her tongue and pushing him away had been holding back this single, explosive moment.

He froze for a second. Then kissed her back like he might never get the chance again.

Her hands curled into his collar. His found her waist. She was warm and real and right there in his arms and he couldn’t stop tasting the apology between their mouths.

When they pulled apart, barely an inch between them, her breath hitched.

“I really hate you.” She whispered.

His lips quirked up. “You kiss all the people you hate like that?”

“Only the ones who pull my pigtails and get into fights over me.”

He laughed, the sound soft and disbelieving. “Does that mean you’re not gonna pretend I don’t exist anymore?”

“No promises.”

He grinned wider. “Still a princess, huh?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Still a meanie?”

They stood like that, foreheads almost touching, breath mingling in the cool air outside the gym.

Then, like it had always been this simple, like the whole world had just clicked back into place, she leaned into him again.

And this time, he didn’t have to pull her pigtails to make her look at him.

Tags: @stanwallpapers

Taglists are open so let me know if you want to be added in future works! :)

[captainlakes]

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o1. Monday ♡

sirius black x ravenclaw!fem!reader!

summary: first day of week turns into a nightmare week when sirius and you, the biggest enemies on hogwarts, end up fighting in the middle of a class.

words: 1.7K

tags: angst, enemies, forced proximity, slow burn.

warnings: this is the first part of a series, make sure you're in the right part before reading!!! hate, violence (lightly). slight mention of domestic violence. voldemort and death eaters mentioned (once), no romance yet. english is not my first language!

note: you have no idea how badly i've been trying to write something of sirius and i finally made it :) + this is my first series here so pls be nice with me & hope u enjoy<33

━━━━━━━━ 💥🍽 ━━━━━━━━

Monday morning.

Nothing ever ends up well when you and the oldest Black are in the same room.

Everyone knows it. It is like a common knowledge that you and the marauder hate each other with every fiber of your souls. No one knows how it started though. There are rumors flying around the halls, from house to house and most of the time it's treated like a suburban legend, a fun fact the prefects of the houses share when a new student gets sorted in, but no one is really certain of the reason for the mutual hatred between the two of you. Everyone just knows it and goes along with it.

And when I say everyone, I mean everyone.

Students of all grades, most of the teachers, all of the phantoms and paintings, the grounds guardian, all sixth graders parents, some ministry guys that visited the castle, writers from the newspaper, The Prophet. Once, someone told you even Voldemort and his loyal followers were aware about it.

But Dumbledore has it under control. Mostly.

After the million of pranks and public discussions with Sirius on your first and half of your second year, the most powerful wizard in the world knew that leaving you both on the same house would be a menace, a disaster, for yourselves and for everyone around you, and Albus didn't need any more problems under his nose, the dark wizard corrupting students was enough.

So he separated you. The old man sent you straight to Ravenclaw. Why you? Yes, that was exactly what you had asked him but the explanation came easily: for you the change meant being part of a creative and intellectual house that also fit with your personality. For Sirius? A transfer would mean pushing him directly to the Death Eaters circle.

It really wasn't a difficult choice.

You didn't keep complaining because, after all, it had worked out well, you found a real home in Rowena's house, real friends and the most important part? You got free of seeing Sirius Black at every single minute, every single day, so it was a win-win for everyone.

The incidents fall to almost none. Just two public discussions during the next five years, a great progress if you asked any profesor who had dealt with your constant bickering and fighting in their classes.

Maintaining you apart was going perfectly for both sides. That's why you don't understand who was the clever person who decided Ravenclaw and Gryffindor sixth graders should share a class during an entire year, and even crazier, in what world Minerva McGonagall thought Sirius and you would work just fine while practicing transfiguration spells.

In any world, just to make it clear.

I mean, transfiguration spells? Sirius and you? That was set up for a total catastrophe.

And just as you thought, it happened.

A total catastrophe.

It started with a small disagreement, about him not moving the wand in the right way, then it escalated to him criticizing the way you pronounced the spell. Not much later, he was talking about your lack of ability and after that you could or could have not made a comment about his family that led to him to start screaming about you being always so insufferable and more hundreds of things that right now you don't remember. You just know that you fired back, yelled at him too as he started throwing spells at you and you couldn't resist the urge to not do the same, opening some birds cages, probably paralyzing Dorcas Meadows and slightly hurting Barty Crouch Jr in the process, to finally ending up with you being transformed into a fork and him being a bird.

A raven, specifically.

You just wanted him to be something as black as his heart —and his last name—. A raven seemed perfect to fill out your desires.

And to gain you a good scolding from Minerva, when she managed to fix your mess and to get you both back to your human forms.

The emptiness of your surroundings is evident by the silence that creaks around the four walls of the transfiguration classroom. There's no students anymore, not a sign of the rest of the marauders or Pandora, your best friend. They're all gone, probably dismissed after the little incident, if we could call it like that.

No one says a word for a minute, Sirius and you are sitting on the central part on the front row of desks, with unreadable expressions on your faces, almost shoulder to shoulder, waiting for whatever the old woman has to say.

It's not going to be good, you can realize by the way she watches you, by the way she's curling her fingers on both of your wands in a silent form of saying you're done with magic, the question is how long will that be?

How bad will the punishment be? Too long, maybe. The look of your teacher's face says it all even before she speaks.

“For Merlin sake, what were you thinking?” The angriness of McGonagall’s voice is clear.

“Minnie, please, just let me—” Sirius starts to speak but the woman doesn’t let him finish. The thought of him using the nickname he invented for Minerva in this situation seems bold of him, still you don't make a comment. You have enough problems already.

“No, Mr. Black” She says bluntly, giving him a stern look to indicate him to remain silent “You have no right after the scene you made…” She looks away, she paces “Fighting in the middle of my class like two little kids…This is not the kind of attitude I'm expecting from either of you” Now she's looking at you, making you want to hide beneath the table and not go out ever.

“Professor, I'm—” You tried to apologize, explain whatever the hell happened a few minutes ago but she interrupted you, abruptly.

“I know you have your differences but this time you were deliberately violent” She remarks, it's obvious that's she's done with this “You sent two students from each house directly to the infirmary”

“We didn't mean—” For a second time you attempt to explain the situation but again you fail as you are cut off.

“Whatever you meant or not meant is irrelevant, dear” Minerva told you, her voice softening just for a brief moment “You were one step away from start casting unforgivable curses to each other”

“Minnie, come on, that's ridiculous” Sirius interjects, sounding a bit offended by the accusations but still laughing in a bitter way. He looks at you and back to the woman that successfully developed a cat animagus “I wasn't…We weren't…It was just a playful fight”

“You, of all people, should be aware of the easy it is to turn a playful fight into a mortal one, Sirius”

Those words make his whole aura change. It was barely noticeable but you saw how his jaw clenched, how his right hand formed a fist beneath the desk and how he swallowed out of nerves, like if the comment of the woman hit the right spot.

His life in Grimmauld Place, probably.

You knew the basics just as everyone. Born in a pure blood family, heir of the fortune and greatest traitor after being sorted in the lions cave instead of the snakes cold house, as every one of his ancestors. Even his baby brother Regulus Black managed to get into the family house, however, he didn't and you were sure, for what your parents tell you sometimes about the Blacks, he might not have a great time in his house.

Walburga and Orion didn't exactly fit on the description of understanding people.

The silence lingers again, no one speaks. The only sound in the room is the soft breathing of the three present people, until the oldest of you sighs and looks up, studying both of the teenagers quickly.

“You are two of my best students” She states, firmly, confident that she's telling the truth “I can't let this kind of attitude overshadow your talent…This can't keep happening”

“It won't” You assure. Sirius stays quiet.

“No it won't” She agrees. There's a short pause before she adds “Each of your houses have 50 points less. 10 for the fight, 10 for freeing the birds, 10 for hurting Mr. Crouch, 10 for paralyzing Miss Meadows and 10 for explicitly ignoring my instructions of behaving”

“Fuck” Finally Sirius talks, or curse.

“Do you want me to add another 10, Mr. Black?” She shots back, in an authoritative tone.

“No, I'm sorry” He apologizes but doesn't wait too long to say “Can I go now? I have quidditch practice” He informs, you roll your eyes, he smirks.

“Forget about quidditch practice this week, Mr. Black” Minerva says and now you're smirking, while his smile fades “You'll be helping at the kitchen in the afternoons the rest of week” She announces, your eyes widened and your smile fades too. Fuck.

“Wait what?” Surprisingly you're the first to react, wanting to make sure you heard right. Sirius and you together ended always in a catastrophe, the proof of it was what happened today just half and hour ago “I'm sorry professor, I think that's a terrible idea”

“I can't believe I'm gonna say this but I agree with her” The Gryffindor boy supports you, taking you by surprise, forcing you to turn your gaze at him saying is this the end of the world? He raises an eyebrow “We're not a good team”

“We're a terrible team” You support him back “And we will probably intoxicate everyone”

“We’ll kill each other and kill the elfs too” He jokes though you're not sure it is more a joke or a warning “You don't want us there, Minnie” He leans on the desk, elbows resting on the cold flat surface, he's almost pleading “Please”

But she doesn't give in.

She smirks, walks a few steps closer, places your wands on the desk “You start tomorrow”

And the next thing you know, is that she's gone.

Leaving you alone in the classroom with the knowledge you're about to spend the rest of the week with him. Great, amazing, fantastic.

Your week just turned into a nightmare.

Good luck, you'll need it.

[thepeaklegendoffirstgen]

LOVE TROPES

Characters: James Lee, Gun Park , Goo Kim.

Exes to Lovers

Hand in hand, you and James once skipped through winding roads , hearts still young, but shoulders already heavy with the weight the world had placed on you far too early. And when that weight grew too loud to bear, you thought the kindest thing to do was let go. It was better that way.

Years later, when you cross paths again, everything has changed , except the ache. Your world has shifted, you’ve both grown, but your heart still beats the same around him.

You tell him he has better options now. That this is setting yourselves up for disaster. But your heart doesn’t listen. And neither does he.

He pulls you closer and says quietly, “You’re the only one I want.”

And maybe it is a disaster!

But it’s yours, this grown up kind of love that still feels young. You’ve both changed, but the love has not. And just like that, you settle into the quiet rhythm of life , hearts full, shoulders finally at ease.

Childhood Friends to Lovers

You and Gun had no idea what the clan was setting you up for. All you knew were the carefree days spent chasing each other through the estate, playing games and getting on each other’s nerves. But the elders, they always knew. It was never just play. It was always an alliance in the making.

Even as his priorities changed and your pestering became part of the background noise, even when he left the country, some part of his mind always wandered back to you.

When you meet again, it’s like no time has passed. But something’s different now. Neither of you say it out loud, but you both want something more , something truly yours.

And slowly, the rhythm shifts. The way you reach out to each other becomes less subtle. His fingers linger. His eyes soften.

When he asks you, almost too quietly, to stay, to stay with him at the damned junkyard , you do.

Maybe you’re fools. But you stay.

You stay as he pulls you to his chest, and his heart beats steady and sure in your ears.

Forced Proximity

You and Goo were forced to work together , very reluctantly. Goo never takes interest unless there’s something in it for him, and right now? His personal mission is to crack your too cool façade.

Your nonchalance gets on his nerves, and you know it. But what really gets him is how fate keeps putting you in the smallest, most cramped spaces together , just the two of you, always.

At first, it’s annoying. Then, he starts noticing.

The way exhaustion tugs at your features. The weight you carry in your silence. And when you excuse yourself to get away, he doesn’t let you go.

He wants to know everything : your favourite lip gloss, your playlists, the weight of your past, the secrets you bury. Maybe if he understands all of you, he can make sense of why you affect him the way you do.

Your thighs brush. His hand lingers. You’re too close, too often , but somehow, with Goo, it’s alright.

He may be a pest, but he’s your pest.

A lovely, maddening one you might just be falling for.

[silverlullabies]

The Coalition of Chaos (pt2)

Aka Reincarnation Is a Scam and Ghost, Soap, König, Alejandro, Price, Gaz, Rudy, Laswell, Graves, and Eris want a refund

Or, in which: Ghost is a cryptid in footie pajamas, Soap is a disaster with good intentions, König is mid-nervous breakdown, Alejandro regrets everything, Price is a tired dad trapped in a preschooler’s body, Gaz is about to fistfight a deity, Rudy is politely vibing, Laswell is silently compiling everyone’s incompetence into a report, Graves is running a toddler black-market, and Eris is three seconds from committing several elegant, well-planned felonies.

Simon Riley is three years old now.

Well, physically anyway.

Mentally? He’s thirty-something, emotionally scorched, and holding a grudge against God, fate, and whatever petty cosmic intern thought reincarnation would be a hilarious new venture to pursue.

Emotionally, he’s basically a black hole in footie pajamas.

He remembers everything.

Every bullet. Every betrayal. Every burning building and bleeding teammate. Every time he duct-taped a superior officer’s phone to a passing drone just to be an asshole. Every order given, every mistake made, every soul-crushing therapy session he didn’t attend because feelings are for civilians.

Now, he’s in a body that can’t reheat chicken nuggets, can’t hold a fork without dropping it, and can’t reach the goddamn counter to steal the bourbon he’s knows is hidden behind the flour jar.

He once infiltrated a fortified compound with nothing but a lockpick, a half broken comm, and sheer spite. Now he needs an adult to cut his grapes in half so he doesn’t “choke and die.”

This is hell.

Or, more accurately, it’s karmic retribution wearing a fuzzy dinosaur onesie with little foot claws.

Which, honestly, tracks. Because if anyone was going to be karmically punished with magical reincarnation, it was going to be Ghost.

And if toddlers are known for saying cryptic, eldritch things like “I remember when the bad man came,” or “This isn’t my real face,” then Ghost is the undisputed world champion of scaring babysitters into early retirement with statements like “The flames took everything,” or “When I was big, I did things I’m not allowed to say.” But spoken in the deadest most monotone voice imaginable while clutching a stuffed dragon.

It always earned him that special look adults give when they chuckle nervously and scramble to change the subject.

Fine by him. He takes the wins where he can find them, even if it means delivering unsettling power trips to feeling slightly better about needing help wiping food off his face after every meal.

Except for him, it isn’t some imaginative toddler phase.

He remembers the op that went sideways. The moment Roach hit the ground and never got back up. The way his own heartbeat roared in his ears louder than Shepherd’s gunfire. The gasoline. The fire. The stench of blood and cordite.

And now he can’t open a yogurt cup by himself.

Life really does come full circle.

His accidental magic started last month. Wild, unpredictable, and as spiteful as he is. So far, his toddler resume includes: Incinerating a pacifier (possibly on purpose, but good luck proving otherwise in wizard court), detonating the toy chest with one(1) sneeze, and summoning a stuffed rabbit into the air just to stab it repeatedly with a teaspoon in an act of preemptive psychological warfare.

His parents are already cooing about him being a “natural-born wizard”.

Yeah, because that’s exactly what’d you want, really. The soul of a government sanctioned murder machine trapped in a squishy, unstable toddler body with the emotional range of a rabid landmine.

Honestly, he tries not to question the universe too much in both this life and the last. Divine judgment? Sure. Karmic cycles? Okay. Cosmic irony? Whatever. He’d made his peace with all of it sometime around betrayal number seven and eight, possibly nine if you counted the time someone replaced his rations with cat food.

But this time he’s reasonably confident the universe is high off its divine ass. Like, celestial bath salts in the heavens level of wasted. Just absolutely blitzed, handing out second chances like party favors at a fever dream.

Because there’s no sane reason to look at someone the Simon “Ghost” Riley who was voted the walking embodiment of intrusive thoughts in high school and say, “Yeah. Let’s put that one into a toddler that can do magic.”

And yet, here he is, all three feet of him, wearing footed dinosaur jammies, and holding a juice box.

The universe is on crack and he’s the cautionary tale.

Continue

[adhd-merlin]

x

[vulpixelates]

i am being so brave about my storm anxiety, i deserve a cookie