#and a tiny bit of them will always be that

[saatorus]

almost yours — a satoru gojo fic (teaser)

pairing — college satoru! x reader

synopsis — when you and your best friend seiko agree to split a too-big, too-expensive apartment, her hot older brother—who you definitely don’t have feelings for anymore—offers to move in to ease rent. what could possibly go wrong?

teaser wc — 1.4k

expected wc — 15 - 20k

taglist status — open

warnings — explicit sexual content, tiny bit of angst, yearning (ur downbad for him), satoru is kind of a gym himbo in this one, nerdjo turned fratjo (physics major satoru), will add more as i go along

authors note — well. so.... uh... hi i'm too giddy reading what i've written so far so here i am, releasing a snippet because why not <2

“You go down there!”

“No, I already went when I went to get some chips, it’ll look awkward if I did it again.”

“Okay, let’s both go down there together then!”

“Fine, but you’re gonna have to talk to Suguru on your own, his earrings are scary—”

“Wait but I’m scared too—”

You don’t wait for a response, already on your way out the door before Seiko can trap you into her nerves again. She’s panicking about Suguru’s earrings and his intimidating smirk, and you can’t afford to get tangled in her spiral—not when your own is spinning just as fast. Your heart’s pounding in your chest, the way it always does when he’s downstairs. Loud and stupid and unstoppable.

Satoru’s here.

That’s the real reason you said yes to coming over today, and you know it. You knew it even when you told Seiko, “Yeah, totally, I’ll help you go over functions again,” like you were some loyal academic comrade. She said she wasn’t in the mood to start until later—“We’ll just chill for a bit first”—and you nodded like that wasn’t the exact outcome you were counting on.

He was going to be here. You’d overheard her say it in class on Friday, casual, “My brother’s back for the weekend before his flight. He and Suguru are crashing at mine until Sunday,” and your body reacted like it heard a fire alarm. Instant adrenaline. Sweaty palms. A weird twist in your stomach like you hadn’t eaten all day.

Her older brother.

The one who used to help you with math back when you and Seiko were dumb little middle schoolers with pencil cases full of glitter pens and zero dignity. He never laughed when you got your decimals wrong, never treated you like you were slow or irritating. He’d just nudge the worksheet toward you with a little grin and say something like, “Wanna try that again, hm? You accidentally turned your eight into a three.”

He was kind. And cool. And way too old for you, even back then.

He used to wear big, floppy hoodies with strange anime prints on them, crooked glasses that slid down his nose, and he always smelled faintly like fabric softener and shampoo. He’d ruffle your hair as he passed by the dining table where you and Seiko did your homework, like you were some tagalong puppy. And every single time, you’d sit there for at least ten minutes after, heart pounding, replaying the exact way his hand felt through your hair like it was forensic evidence.

But he doesn’t look like that anymore.

Not since the summer after his junior year. Something changed. You don’t know what, exactly—maybe it was just time, maybe it was something else—but when he came back from his trip with Suguru that August, he was… different.

Taller. Way taller. His shoulders had filled out like crazy, broad and solid under tighter shirts. He didn’t wear his glasses anymore—got contacts, Seiko said, rolling her eyes like it was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. It changed his whole face. His eyes, already bright, looked sharper, clearer. His jaw had become something out of a magazine, all sharp lines and clean edges.

And he got hot. Objectively, unavoidably, annoyingly hot.

So hot that suddenly he was everywhere at school. Seniors above you whispered about him in the hallway. Seniors with perfect nails and shiny hair giggled when he’d be in the cafeteria with his group of friends. Even the teachers liked him. Everyone did. Liked him in a normal way.

Except you—you liked him in that humiliating, unbearable, long-standing way that made your chest ache and your stomach twist and your voice go all weird and high-pitched when he so much as looked at you.

You remember the first time you saw him again after the summer. You’d put on lip gloss—strawberry-scented, sticky as hell—and you’d worn that white, metal supported bra not your bright, training ones—even though you’d barely matured enough to form… well, boobs—even though it dug into your ribs and made your shoulders itch. 

And there he was in the hallway, laughing with Suguru, hair pushed back, earbuds hanging around his neck, and you remember thinking—Oh. I’m in trouble. I have the fattest crush on him and he won’t even look at me.

It didn’t matter. You were sixteen now. Practically an adult. And he was actually an adult. Second year of college— physics major—nineteen years old. Except now he was going to this stupid 3 year accelerated scholarship program with Suguru in Japan.

Now here you are, halfway down the stairs, hovering just out of sight with your heart going insane in your chest like it’s trying to physically escape your body.

Suguru’s the first thing you see—sprawled across the couch like royalty, all black clothes and nonchalant confidence. His hair’s tied up half-assedly, dark strands falling into his face, and he’s twirling something silver in his fingers. Probably a ring, or maybe a lighter. He looks dangerous and beautiful, and honestly, you get why Seiko’s so worked up.

And then—there’s him.

Satoru’s on the floor, legs folded in a messy tangle, like he hasn’t grown a day since he was twelve, except that he has. So much. His plain white t-shirt clings just a little too tightly to his chest, sleeves hugging his biceps in a way that feels like a personal attack. His hair’s a little wild—fluffier than usual—and he’s wearing mismatched socks, one black, one striped, like he got dressed in the dark and couldn’t be bothered to fix it.

He’s laughing at the TV—some variety show with screaming and subtitles—and the way his head tilts back as he laughs, the way his jaw catches the light—

Your heart actually hurts.

You stand there a little too long, shameless, helpless, your entire body screaming don’t look, don’t look, but your eyes refuse to obey. You feel twelve again. Small. Invisible. Watching from the sidelines like always.

And then he speaks. To you.

“You creeping or coming down?”

Your stomach plummets.

“I—what?! I wasn’t—I wasn’t creeping,” you splutter, stumbling down the last few steps in a panic, cheeks already burning. “I was—just walking!”

Satoru looks over his shoulder, grinning lazily. He scoots over and pats the carpet beside him. “Come on. Sit. You’re just in time—Suguru’s getting smoked.”

Suguru flips him off without looking. “This trivia show’s rigged.”

“You just suck at memory games.”

You lower yourself onto the floor, trying not to hyperventilate. You’re acutely aware of how close his knee is to yours, how warm he feels even from here, how his scent is something minty and expensive and a little too much for your nervous system.

He tosses the chip bag into your lap without looking. “How’d that mock exam go?”

You blink. “The—what?”

“Math. You had that calc practice test last month, right?” He glances at you, amused. “You and Seiko were complaining about it for like a week straight.”

You feel yourself short-circuit. “Oh. Uh… kind of ass?”

He laughs, reaching for a chip. “Figures. You always made the dumbest faces doing fractions. Like the paper personally offended you.”

You scoff, mostly to hide your dying brain. “Well, maybe if I had a better tutor—”

“Excuse me?” He gasps. “I was the best tutor in a ten-mile radius. Ask Seiko.”

“She failed.”

“That’s on her. I saw her bingeing dramas at 3am instead of studying.”

“I HEARD THAT!” Seiko’s voice rings out from upstairs.

You all crack up. Even Suguru snorts.

And for a moment, it’s perfect. Easy. Like it’s always been this way—like nothing’s going to change.

But you know it is.

He’s leaving. He’s going halfway across the world, and this stupid little crush, this years-long secret you’ve carried like a favorite book, is going to stay just that—yours, and only yours. He won’t remember this night. He’ll have new friends, new people. And you’ll still be here, sixteen-going-on-seventeen, sitting on the floor of your best friend’s house pretending your heart isn’t breaking just from how his knee brushes yours.

Then—

“Hey,” he says suddenly, quiet, leaning in slightly.

You look up, startled. “What?”

His eyes search your face, like he’s seeing something he’s not used to seeing there. Then he reaches out and tugs lightly on the ends of your hair.

“You’re growing this out?”

Your voice almost fails. “Uh… yeah?”

“It looks good,” he says, simple and real, and you can feel your entire bloodstream catch fire.

He’s still watching you.

But then the moment breaks—Seiko barrels down the stairs yelling about Suguru’s Instagram story, and everything shifts back into chaos. He turns away, laughing again, and the quiet slips between your fingers like sand.

Still. You tuck it away.

Into the little folder labeled him.

Because you’ll remember this night.

He won’t.

But you will.

authors note ; wow i love writing this should be my full time job tbh. also dw reader is not 16 in this fic the snippet is like a small flashback sorry jus had 2 make that clear and yes i said brothers bestfriend in my previous posts but bestfriends older brother is so much hotter so i tweaked what i've currently written to all ts sybau pmo icl yo gurt ok bai

[dearmini]

𐔌 아이엔 .ᐟ ꒱ ─ how to braid a heart.

YANG JEONGIN! ⓘ when you walk in on him learning to braid hair.. for you?

⌣ ﹒ ✿ ﹕ 𝑏f!jeongin ₊ ‎ ‎ 𝑓em!reader ˙ . ꒷ g. fluff ! 4300wc. ⎯⎯ ᒪIᗷᖇᗩᖇY ⟢ cw. pure love, intimacy, cursing, unfunny jokes, bickering, rain (again). ┆ ☆ ⋮ drabble .ᐟ

𝑦𝑎𝑛𝑖'𝑠 𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑙 𓈒 𓈒 ⭑ and back again with another mini drabble! I'M SORRY IT KEEPS GETTING LONG. I CAN'T HELP IT. I SWEAR I TRIED MY BEST OKAY. happy reading!

it starts on a rainy afternoon.

the sky’s an overcast blur, cottony grey and soft like the hush of a lullaby. outside the window, the rain’s been drizzling for hours—persistent, gentle. the kind that makes people want to curl into themselves and disappear under a hoodie. the kind that fills a boy’s bedroom with the scent of petrichor and lazy light and something warm, something waiting.

inside, the air is thick with the hum of effort and youtube hair tutorials.

yang jeongin is frowning.

deeply. intensely. so much that the tiny crease between his brows could write a thesis on how absolutely ridiculous this is.

his long legs are folded awkwardly on his bed, laptop perched dangerously on a too-fluffy pillow, volume turned down low like he’s committing a crime. on-screen, a chipper woman with shiny nails is explaining, once again, how to start a simple three-strand braid. he doesn’t know what “detangle thoroughly” is supposed to mean when the practice mannequin he bought off some shady online store came tangled, like the thing had beef with him in a past life.

jeongin sighs. sharp and dramatic. like a man defeated by plastic hair.

"why am i doing this," he mutters, though it's the twentieth time he’s said it and the answer never changes.

his fingers, ringed and slender, hover in the air like he’s diffusing a bomb. he’s watched four videos already—two american vloggers, one british lady, and a girl named chloe who made it look suspiciously easy. they all say the same thing: divide the hair, cross one over the other, repeat.

but his fingers? his fingers are traitors. they fumble. they hesitate. they grip too hard, twist the strands weirdly, somehow create a knot so intense it feels personal.

"great," he deadpans, staring down at the mess he’s made. “it looks like i braided a broomstick with anxiety.”

still, he doesn’t stop.

not even when his phone buzzes with a message from seungmin in their group chat.

[minimin]: iyennie what are you doing you’re too quiet [maknaeontop]: cry-typing bc love makes me stupid [minimin]: ew [minimin]: oh wait are you actually

he locks his phone without replying, because yes, he is actually. and he’s not ready to be bullied about it.

he exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. model face, they always say. sharp jawline, perfect skin, annoyingly symmetrical.

and yet here he is—sitting cross-legged in neon pyjama pants with strawberries on them, practicing braiding on a fake head like he’s training for the olympics of soft boyfriend behaviour.

he looks back at the wig head. it sits on his desk, propped up like a little goblin staring into his soul. its blank eyes challenge him.

“don’t look at me like that,” jeongin says flatly. “you’re the one who’s not cooperating.”

but the thing is—he’s serious about this.

it started two weeks ago, the first time you’d complained that your hair was being "super annoying" and you just wanted to 'chop it all off and live like a boy in the 2000s.'

you’d said it in passing, curling up against him on the couch, head tilted, the glow of the tv painting shadows across your cheek.

and he’d looked at you then. really looked.

the pout on your lips. the strands falling over your eyes. the quiet frustration under your breath as your fingers tugged a bit too roughly at a knot.

something about it stuck.

that night, after you’d fallen asleep, soft breathing tangled in his hoodie, the loverboy here had stared at the ceiling and thought.. 'i wish i could help. i wish i could do that for her.'

and that was that.

now he’s five videos deep, wrist aching, knees numb from sitting weird. his fingers are shaking, not from exhaustion, but from how hard he’s trying. his tongue sticks out in concentration—just a little, just the tiniest sliver of pink against the sharp lines of his mouth. adorable and determined.

outside, thunder rolls lazily. the window fogs up from the warmth of the room. he smells the faint citrus of his candle—the one you picked out, teasing him for liking “bougie scents” before sneakily smelling it three more times. the one he keeps lit when he misses you. which is often.

the mannequin head tilts slightly as he tugs on a finished braid. it’s not perfect. it’s kinda uneven. a few strands are sticking out. but—it's a braid.

his first real one.

he stares at it for a moment, expression unreadable, then lets out a quiet laugh under his breath. the kind that almost doesn't make a sound. just breath, and pride, and affection leaking out through the cracks in his self-deprecating walls.

“y/n,” he mumbles to himself, “you better bawl when i do this on you.”

a beat. he stares down at the wig, smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“…or at least pretend to be impressed. i’m emotionally fragile.”

and with that, he hits play on the next video. french braids this time. no one said love was easy. but jeongin's always been the type to take his time with the things that matter.

and you?

you matter most of all.

. . .

the braid unravels the second he blinks.

one second, he’s staring at it—fingers suspended mid-air like he’s diffusing a bomb, heart beating with the gentle anticipation of accomplishment—and the next, the strands slip like water through his hands.

and the softest little “nooo…” escapes him.

it’s quiet. gentle. like a child watching their sandcastle wash away.

jeongin sighs, slow and guttural, tilting his head back until it thumps softly against his headboard. the rain outside has softened to a drizzle, the kind that clings to windows like a lullaby. the sky is still grey, but there’s a warmth in his room now—a lemony-citrus kind of haze, mixing with the cotton scent of fabric softener from the blanket twisted around his legs. a comfort cocoon. a secret mission cave. the jeongin love lab™ (unofficial name. do not repeat this to anyone).

he’s surrounded by crime scene evidence: a bobby pin clamped between his teeth, a broken hair tie hanging from his wrist, a video paused on the screen of some lady who braided her own hair in twenty seconds. with french flair. while smiling.

jeongin narrows his eyes at her like she owes him money.

"she's mocking me,” he says under his breath, chewing dramatically on the bobby pin.

his phone buzzes again.

[minimin]: are u ok [sooniedoongiedori]: is the kid crying over love again [hyuniret]: what happened to my baby [maknaeontop]: get out [hyuniret]: not until you tell mama what’s wrong [hyuniret]: i’ll bake you cookies [hyuniret]: i’ll kiss your cheeks

jeongin’s nose scrunches, but his heart does that annoying soft thing. the warm thing. the “ugh i guess i like you idiots” thing.

he hesitates only a second before tapping hyunjin’s name. video call.

it rings once.

twice.

and then—

hyunjin answers dramatically. black buzzcut adorned with a pink headband, face glistening from what looks like a very intense skincare routine, lips pursed like a mum who’s just been told her son failed math.

“iyennie!” he gasps, clutching his chest. “you look pale. did someone break your heart? was it seungmin? i’ll kill him.”

“i’m literally fine,” jeongin deadpans, leaning back against the pillow mountain behind him. “this is not a therapy session.”

hyunjin gasps again, but more offended this time. “how dare. first of all, every call with me is a healing experience. second of all—what’s that behind you?”

jeongin freezes.

too slow.

too suspicious.

hyunjin leans in on the screen like a hawk. “is that a… wig head? is that… blonde hair? are you—are you braiding something?!”

silence.

jeongin stares blankly at the screen. “this call is over.”

“nope—nope—not a chance—explain yourself,” hyunjin screeches, kicking something off-screen and nearly knocking over his phone in the process. “wait—is it for y/n? you’re learning to braid for her aren’t you—”

“keep your voice down!” jeongin hisses, darting to shut his bedroom door like a teenager caught sneaking out. “what if she hears you? she’s not even home yet but still—what if the walls are thin or something.”

“my precious soft romantic noodle.”

“don’t.”

“my little handsy craftsman—”

“i will hang up, hyung.”

“so you are braiding! oh my god. you’re literally adorable. i knew you loved her but this is like—baking-level devotion. you're spending too much time with the main loverboy. aka me.”

jeongin mutters something unintelligible and grabs the mannequin again. its plastic eyes haunt him. “i’m just trying to get it right. my fingers keep slipping and she has this one little piece that always falls loose—she tucks it behind her ear, like—like this.”

he mimics it, almost absentmindedly. his eyes soften.

hyunjin notices, and for once, doesn’t interrupt.

there’s something about watching jeongin like this. all his sharp little edges dulled into domestic softness. not performing, not teasing, not being the chaotic maknae or the class clown or the guy who always says something sarcastic when things get too sincere.

he’s just… quiet. and trying.

and that’s the most vulnerable thing of all.

hyunjin clears his throat, gentler now. “okay, listen. i used to braid my hair all the time before i chopped it off, remember?”

jeongin perks up. “yeah, you were like… weirdly good at it.”

“still am, thank you very much. i even practiced on lixie a few times. he giggled the whole time like i was tickling him with angel wings.”

“of course he did.”

“anyway,” hyunjin continues, flipping his camera to demonstrate on a random knit scarf from his bed. “it’s not about making it perfect. it’s about rhythm. breathe with it. like—left, right, center. it’s a heartbeat, not math.”

jeongin raises an eyebrow. “that’s… kinda poetic.”

“i’m kinda a genius.”

“you’re kinda a nerd.”

“you’re kinda in love.”

he doesn’t deny it.

instead, jeongin copies him—slowly, carefully, the way you reach for something delicate in the dark. one strand over. then another. he’s holding his breath again. his knuckles are tense. but his fingers don’t slip this time.

the braid takes shape like a secret blooming.

“hey,” hyunjin says after a minute, voice quieter, eyes warm through the screen. “she’s gonna love it, you know.”

jeongin looks down at the messy braid in his hands. it’s still a little uneven. a little frayed at the end. but it holds. it stays.

he exhales.

“yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “i think so too.”

hyunjin smiles like he knows something ancient. “text me when she cries.”

“i’m not trying to make her cry.”

“no, no, like in a good way. like happy tears. you’re gonna ruin her standards forever.”

“…that’d be kinda iconic, actually.”

“that’s my boy.”

and for once, jeongin lets himself grin.

just a little. just enough.

the screen dims as the call ends. the room is quiet again—only rain against glass, the soft fizz of his candle, the faint smell of vanilla-laced cotton, the memory of your voice somewhere in the fabric of his hoodie.

the braid rests on the mannequin’s shoulder, gentle and crooked and completely real.

and somewhere in his chest, jeongin feels it.

the heartbeat of it. left, right, center.

you, you, always you.

the front door sighs open with the softest creak.

it’s after 6pm—the kind of dusky grey that makes everything feel like it’s been filtered through nostalgia. your arms are full—bag slipping off your shoulder, scarf unraveling from your neck, a paper coffee cup still lukewarm from earlier. you’re tired, windblown, and ever so slightly damp from the rain, which now smells like petrichor and wet pavement and the faint trace of ozone.

“iyennie?” you call out softly, toeing off your shoes, already craving the warmth of him.

no reply.

you frown a little, peeking into the hallway. there’s no music playing. no clatter of a game controller. no fake scoffing at your outfit or teasing demand for a bite of your snack.

nothing. just quiet. thicker than usual.

the lights are on in his room, though. warm, gold-toned. inviting. like honey melting across the walls.

you pause.

knock lightly. “jeongin?”

still no answer.

and so—curious, maybe a little concerned, you push the door open.

what you find… isn’t something you could’ve imagined in a hundred years.

jeongin—model-faced, sharp-jawed, fashion-manicured chaos incarnate jeongin—is on the floor. legs crossed, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, face scrunched in deep concentration. his tongue pokes out at the corner of his mouth. a wig head with synthetic blonde hair rests in front of him like a bizarre shrine, and his long fingers are tangled awkwardly in the strands.

he doesn’t notice you. not at all. he’s whisper-counting under his breath.

“left, right, center… center, left, wait—fuck—no, that’s not center, wait—why is this so hard?”

he groans. not dramatically. genuinely. like this braid has personally insulted him, his ancestors, and the entire yang bloodline.

you blink.

and then you do the only logical thing in that moment.

you burst out laughing.

jeongin jumps so violently he flings the poor wig head across the carpet. his eyes fly up, wide and accusatory, like you’re the villain in his villain origin story.

“what the fuck— oh my god.”

you’re already wheezing, hand to your chest, leaning against the doorframe. “oh my god. oh my god. you were talking to it. you were braiding a mannequin—iyen-ah, what the hell?”

“i was not—shut up—get out!”

you stumble in further, nearly dropping your coffee. “no way. you can’t erase this from my brain. this is permanent. this is my core memory now.”

jeongin scoffs, snatching the wig like it’s a bomb he’s shielding you from. “why are you even home already? you said six-thirty!”

you blink through your laughter. “it is six-thirty.”

he freezes.

then mutters, “…traitorous clock.”

you drop your bag with a dramatic thud and crawl onto the bed like a predator, face lit up with delight. “oh my god, this is amazing. who were you gonna show? or were you just planning to become a secret braid master and drop it casually in conversation like, ‘oh yeah, i do complicated french braids now, no big deal’?”

“shut up,” he mutters again, cheeks visibly pink.

you hum, sitting cross-legged like royalty, chin in your palm. “so who’s the lucky client, hm?”

jeongin glares. “it’s not for you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

you lift an eyebrow, unbothered. “oh no?”

“no,” he says, entirely too fast. “your dumb hair’s always falling everywhere. like a goddamn waterfall. it’s annoying.”

you press your lips together to hide the grin threatening to split your face. “right. so naturally, your first instinct is to learn an entire skill set to deal with my dumb hair.”

he throws a pillow at you. you catch it easily.

“you’re so—ugh—you’re so full of yourself,” he grumbles, yanking the hoodie sleeves back down and refusing to look at you. “not everything i do is about you.”

you lean back against the headboard, stretching with a content little sigh. “except when it is.”

he groans again, flopping backwards like a teenager in agony. “i hate you.”

you smile, impossibly fond. “no, you don’t.”

he peeks at you from one eye. “no. i really do.”

you stretch your leg out and nudge his thigh with your socked toe. “you were doing so well, too. you almost had it.”

“whatever. i didn’t even care.”

you nod solemnly. “of course. you were just… having a casual braid session with your… headless friend.”

“she has a name,” he says without thinking.

you gasp. “oh my god, you named her—”

he lobs another pillow, this one stronger. “get out.”

but you’re both laughing now—open and loud and soft around the edges, like this room has folded in to make space for something warmer.

your laughter fades into a smile. your eyes meet his, and there’s a lull, a hush, like the rain’s listening too.

“yennie,” you say, softer now, “you’re actually kind of a genius.”

he scoffs, rolling his eyes, but he doesn’t hide the way his lips twitch upward. “took you long enough to realize.”

you crawl closer, curling up beside him, the scent of your shampoo mingling with the faint cinnamon-sugar of his hoodie. your knee brushes his. your fingers reach out, tangle lightly in the edge of the messy braid still clinging to life.

he watches your hand.

you watch him.

and he says, low, quiet: “i just wanted to get it right.”

your heart does something dumb and fluttery. “why?”

he shrugs. doesn’t meet your eyes. “just figured… you let me touch your hair so much. i should at least learn to do something useful with it.”

silence.

heavy. sweet.

you lean in, press your forehead to his shoulder. he stiffens, then melts.

you murmur, “you’re a dumbass.”

“i know.”

“…but like, my favourite one.”

he grins—smug and shy all at once. “i better be.”

and the rain keeps falling.

and the mannequin keeps watching.

and you—two kids tangled up in love, in sarcasm, in shitty synthetic braids and soft secret affections—just stay there, skin against skin, laughter still echoing like thunder trailing behind lightning.

and you think—this must be what it feels like.

true love, in a room full of pillows and mistakes and too many words.

braided gently between your hearts.

. . .

the next morning is gentle in a way only weekend scan be—slow and sticky, syrup-dripped around the corners.

the room smells like jeongin: bergamot and laundry detergent, worn cotton and leftover vanilla candle from last night. he’s sprawled across your shared bed like a prince who owns the morning, blanket kicked halfway off, hoodie riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of tan skin above his waistband.

you’re already awake, curled into your corner of the mattress, pillow hugging your chest.

watching him.

thinking.

the image of him practicing braids on a wig still lives in your brain rent-free. it flickers behind your eyes every time you look at him now. and you can’t stop smiling. can’t stop remembering the way his fingers fumbled through strands like they were secrets. how he muttered to himself like the mannequin had personally offended him. how he told you, with his whole heart and no eye contact, “i just wanted to get it right.”

you’d kissed his cheek before bed.

he hadn’t brought it up again.

but now—

now, as golden light curls through the curtains and your boyfriend begins to stir—grumbling softly, smacking his lips like a grumpy cat—you decide it’s time.

“hey,” you whisper, reaching to nudge his side.

he flinches, groans. “don’t touch me.”

“it’s ten thirty.”

“i’m asleep.”

“you’re talking.”

“sleep talking. stop flirting with me.”

you roll your eyes fondly. “get up, braid-boy.”

he cracks one eye open, all sleepy lashes and morning puff. “say that again and i’m breaking up with you.”

you crawl closer, lips brushing his temple. “get up. braid. my. hair.”

he stares at you for a long, suspicious second.

then sighs, dramatically. “you’re serious?”

you nod.

and now he’s sitting upright—barely—but upright, hoodie sleeve wiping at his puffy face like a child. his voice is rough and low and wholly unimpressed. “fine. but don’t blame me if you end up looking like a scarecrow.”

“i will cry.”

“you always do,” he mutters, standing up and stretching like a sleepy cat. his hoodie lifts again. you stare. you’re only human.

you grab your brush and sit cross-legged on the floor, facing away from him. “you’re going to regret saying yes when i post this on instagram with the caption; ‘my boyfriend is a hairstylist now.’”

from behind you.. “post that and i’m deleting your animal crossing island in your sleep.”

you gasp. “that’s evil.”

he plops down behind you, cross-legged, his knees brushing yours. his fingers skim your shoulder blades as he gathers your hair in his palms.

“you’re evil,” he murmurs, and somehow it sounds loving.

your breath catches.

there’s something about the way his fingers move through your hair—careful, cautious, reverent. jeongin is often clumsy with affection, never sure what to do with the way he feels things. but now? with your head bowed, his hands sifting through strands like wind through grass?

it’s almost reverent.

almost sacred.

“you’re being weirdly gentle,” you mumble.

“shut up. your hair’s delicate. like a baby angel’s.”

you snort. “i’m going to vomit.”

“you asked for this.”

his fingers begin to work—slowly, hesitantly. a tug here. a curse there.

you feel his knuckles brush your scalp, his thumbs press against your crown.

it’s quiet, but not heavy.

your eyes close.

you breathe in: the crisp cotton of his hoodie. the faint smell of coffee from the kitchen. the feel of his breath ghosting the back of your neck.

then:

“ow—jeongin!”

“you moved!”

“i breathed.”

“well, breathe quieter.”

you twist around just enough to glare at him. “you are insufferable.”

he meets your eyes, lips twitching. “and yet, you’re letting me braid your precious princess hair.”

you frown. cross your arms. sulk.

jeongin pauses.

“oh no,” he says flatly. “the pout’s out. god save us.”

you jut your bottom lip farther out.

he groans, head dropping against your shoulder. “you’re going to milk this forever, aren’t you?”

you nod, slowly.

he laughs softly into your shoulder. “god, i’m in love with an actual cartoon character.”

you whisper, teasing, “you love me.”

he breathes, “so much it makes me stupid.”

and he doesn’t say it like a confession. he says it like it’s already been written somewhere in the sky, like it’s just fact. like “the sun rises,” or “your hair always gets stuck to his hoodie,” or “you make him soft without trying.”

you swallow.

your pout melts.

you whisper, “then make it pretty.”

he smiles. “always.”

and he keeps braiding.

the rest is gentle chaos.

he loses a strand. swears. starts over. pulls too tight. apologizes. yells at the hair. tells it to behave. tells your hair to behave.

you nearly cry laughing.

he finishes eventually.

“it’s awful,” he says, smug.

you glance at the mirror. it’s crooked. a little lumpy. possibly about to fall apart.

you beam. “it’s perfect.”

he rolls his eyes. “you’re such a liar.”

you grab his hoodie and yank him toward you. “no. i’m in love.”

he blinks. all that sass melts from his face like butter in sun.

“i—”

you press your forehead to his, breath tangled. “you don’t have to say it back.”

he does, of course.

“but i do. and i'm in love with you, too.”

you’re still turned toward him, knees touching, the scent of his hoodie weaving its way through your senses like thread through needle. the room hums with the afterglow of laughter, the kind that’s still stitched into the corners of your cheeks, still warming the undersides of your ribs.

you giggle—forehead brushing his, your breath ghosting between the spaces where his lashes flutter.

soft.

sacred.

“it is really good,” you whisper, like it’s a secret meant for no one but him. “you should become a hairstylist—”

and suddenly, he moves.

not away.

toward you.

he grabs your wrists with gentle fingers, tugging you forward so fast your balance tips. a startled squeak leaves your lips as you tumble into his chest, all cotton warmth and steady heartbeat, your hands pressed flat against the soft fabric of his hoodie, your nose bumping against his collarbone.

he laughs.

of course he laughs—rich and golden and boyish, like the sound of sunlight finding a windchime. you’re still gathering breath, blinking up at him, when his arms wrap around you—tight but not suffocating, possessive in the softest way. like a secret folded into a sweater. like a kiss that already happened, even before lips met.

“don’t—” you breathe, muffled into his hoodie, “ambush me.”

“you were being cute,” he murmurs, somewhere near your hairline. his voice is velvet and sin. “i couldn’t help it.”

“warn me next time—”

“nope,” he says, smiling into your scalp, “i like this method.”

and then—he pulls back just enough to see your face.

his fingers curl beneath your jaw. his thumb brushes a stray hair behind your ear. your breath hitches—because his eyes, usually full of mockery and sass, are now soft. unsharpened. like dusk settling into the horizon.

“say it again,” he smirks.

you blink. “say what?”

“that it’s good. the braid.”

you roll your eyes, pretending your heart isn’t melting like butter on a stovetop. “you’re really fishing for validation, huh?”

“i braided human hair for the first time. i deserve a grammy.”

“that’s not how that works—”

he silences your teasing with a kiss.

gentle.

melting.

a touch of lips that feels like a promise made without language.

you don’t realize your hands have slid up to his shoulders, your fingers curling into the warm dip where his neck meets hoodie. his skin is soft there. familiar. yours.

the kiss deepens—not in pressure, but in emotion. it stretches long, like honey poured slow. like time forgot to tick forward.

and when he pulls back, it’s only enough to whisper, “thank you.”

you tilt your head. “for what?”

“for letting me touch your hair.”

you blink, thrown off by the sincerity.

his grin is lopsided, his thumb still drawing lazy circles into your skin. “it’s… i don’t know. it feels like… trust.”

you go silent.

because it is.

because he gets it.

and that’s how you know—really know—you’re in love. with him.

you lean forward and rest your forehead against his again, both of you folded in like an origami heart—quiet, intricate, impossible to untangle.

“i love you, you know,” you whisper.

he hums. smirks. presses another kiss to your nose like punctuation. “i know.”

then adds, smug, “you love my braid skills and my face. admit it.”

you groan. “you ruined it.”

he snickers, pulling you closer again, your braid getting smooshed between your shoulders and his hoodie.

“baby.”

“what?”

“you’re stuck with me.”

you grin against his shoulder. “yeah. i know.”

and the world, for one small moment, feels like a soft pillow, a warm hoodie, and the safest arms to ever exist.

𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑒𝑛𝘵 𝘵𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝘵 ୨ৎ @cosmicalily @hyunjiiza @modesttiger @woozarts @katsukis1wife @shotngun @reignessance @peskybirdysya @honeyybbuubblleess @ellemir2404 @4ng3l-ch1ld @urlocalmultigroupfan @its-stayville-forever @ashtxrie @minlixyaoi @shuuporanglinos @bobaluvzz @inlovewithstraykids @yourfavoriteakutagawakinnie @mhluvie @channieschocco @m-325 @my-neurodivergent-world @unbel1ve4ble @cowboylikemalika @jeonginsbaee @pansexual-and-eating-pancakes — fill out this form to be added !!

comments, likes, asks and reblogs are always appreciated !! req. are officially closed till the month of june. thank you for reading, hope you liked it <3 © heartsbyani, dearmini '25 ★

[thecoochiefairy]

short n’ sweet. onyankopon.

𑄽𑄺 warnings 𑄽𑄺 4.7K word count. blackfem!reader/original character, onyankopon, football player!onyankopon, sweet!onyakopon, dominant!onyankapon, arrogant!onyankopon, unprotected sex, vaginal penetration, lil bit of sweet talkin’, praising, LOTS of dirty talk, squirting, creaming, aggressive dirty talk, nasty sex chile, just a fine ass black man, minors aren’t welcome!

𝓐ᥫ᭡

𝒄𝙤𝒐𝙘𝒉𝙞𝒆𝙛𝒂𝙞𝒓𝙮 𝙩𝒉𝙤𝒖𝙜𝒉𝙩𝒔 .ᐟ guess who it is? yo’ favorite couple. now, lemme’ tell you. this is NOT the new fic, so look out for that in the next couple of days. this was just the nasty part of my mind wanting to put pen to paper—and i might’ve seen this video that reminded me of ole’ girl and ony real bad. so i suggest watching before reading ;) it’s nasty. sorry? kinda? not really. okay, bye.

𝓐ᥫ᭡:: your baby’s birthday is full of surprises.

visual.

STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE HADN’T BEEN YOUR ONLY CHOICE. From Bratz, to Hello Kitty, the possibilities of a six month olds birthday party shouldn’t have been so complex—that was, if you weren’t dealing with your black ass family. 

Driving from New Orleans to Mississippi wasn’t the issue. It was planning this party, having to take it three hours from your hometown, packing your children up for their first road trip, and making sure everything was set in stone by the time you arrived.

To top things off, you didn’t…feel well. 

Once again, this was all the doing of your mother in law. You loved her, but her desires of doing everything to her perfection could be—suffocating.

It was an exciting time—your baby girl was turning six months old, and the entire family freaked out as if this weren’t you and Onyankopon’s second baby. You could appreciate everyone’s desire to celebrate—aunts, uncles, Onyankopon even had a couple of his teammates coming.

The idea of planning this whole thing was supposed to be fun. But it became less fun when you had the realization that you weren’t the one in charge of this. It was even more frustrating that Onyankopon tried his best to tame his mother, but there was nothing much he could do when she had her mind made up. 

So you did what you always did—gave a smile, and tried not to fuss as much as you wanted to.

It started with the decorations. You’d bought everything you wanted for your baby girl’s party to give Strawberry Shortcake down to her outfit—however, after going over budget, you found out that your mother in law had gotten decorations professionally made, and she decided that your decorations were too “Boring.” 

Strike two was when she decided to ship everything to your house and not hers, meaning that you were overflowing the car, but you had to pack your own stuff, your husbands, and two babies into Onyankopon’s G—Wagon. 

Strike three—your breast ached from having to feed Sage within this three hour drive, you had the worst cramps on the planet—and you learned that Salem could become carsick. You stopped two times, having to change his clothes, hold him within the passenger seat with a tiny bottle of water, and made sure no vomit made it anywhere on the seats. 

When you finally made it to your mother in laws, all you wanted was a nap. Onyankopon offered to take the kids downstairs for a while as you slept, but around the clock, Sage could be what you called a velcro baby, losing her everlasting shit if you weren’t within arms reach.

 You were tired, irritated, and sore more than usual. But you weren’t gonna cry.

It all led up to the day of your baby girl’s birthday—the morning was a little more chaotic than you hoped for, current focus along feeding Sage, while your mother in law ran rapidly around the house.

“Where are the cupcake toppers? Did you move them?”

Your eyes flick up to her, standing in a pale pink and red apron, looking like a mentally insane pastry chef.

Your voice is soft as you say, “Ony put everything in the garage like you asked him to, momma.”

She doesn’t waste a beat to rush out of the kitchen, leaving the scent of buttercream behind. You turn your attention down to Sage, the baby smacking her lips against your nipple as she continues to suckle.

You can’t even properly greet your husband as he enters the kitchen, not to mention, he was doing a great job of avoiding your irritation and his mother’s wrath. He’d camouflage into the wall if he could.

“Lil’ mama already lookin’ for yo’ titty this early?”

You release a soft breath, “I’m really thinkin’ about taking her off—putting her on the bottle for good.”

Your eyes narrow a bit, “And where have you been? Yo’ momma in here’ about to lose her mind because you moved the cupcake toppers.”

“That’s how you greet yo’ man? Don’t start trippin’ on me, girl. Forreal’.”

He pecks a kiss on your lips, leaning down to do the same with his baby’s forehead. Your irritation might’ve soothed a bit.

“I’m sorry,” you sigh, “I’m just—as little sleepy, is all. Good morning,” you pull him in for another soft peck on the lips, “Where’s Say-Say? Still sleep?”

“Yeah—lil’ nigga tried to swing on me earlier cause I told him to hand over that pacifier. But he ‘sleep—climbed his bad ass in Sage’s pack-n-play. The real question is—how you doin’?“

You can’t even answer the question. Onyankopon’s mother comes back into the kitchen as she questions, “Onyankopon—did you move the cake toppers? I told you not to touch them!”

Onyankopon raises an eyebrow, “And have you cuss’ me out? Hell nah’ I ain’t touch ‘em. They’ been in the garage since we got here.” 

“Are you sure you didn’t hear me mention the attic, and that’s where you actually put them?”

She dismisses his statement, the sound of opening and shutting doors echoing into the kitchen as she frantically pulls at the wood.

“Are you sure you ain’t lose em’?” 

“I have a great memory!” she huffs, “If I can’t find them—the cupcakes are gonna be dull—they don’t look a lick of Strawberry Shortcake!—And y’all just sitting there, watching me freak out!” 

She gives you no time to defend yourself, stomping out of the kitchen as she cusses. Your jaw is clenched a bit, turning back towards Onyankopon as you raise an eyebrow, “You wanna know how I’m doing? Forreal’? ‘Cause that might cause an argument.”

His eyes narrow, "C’mon, bro. Don’t start. You know how my momma be’."

“I ain’t even say nothing, Ony. You keep reminding how yo’ momma acts, but you ain’t saying nothing to her.”

 Your voice is a little sharp, pulling yourself back as Onyankopon tries to grab for Sage, “Stop—You know she’s gonna start crying.”

"If you 'bout to start somethin', can you do it after the party?" He takes note of your attitude, his voice more stern than usual, “We came all the way out here for lil’ mama—I ain’t about to let y’all make a scene.”

“I’m literally more calm than I should be,” you deadpan, “How you finna’ check me about my attitude but not yo’ momma? Your priorities are in the wrong place right now.”

Onyankopon smacks his lips, “I ain’t realized there was a manual on how to react when yo’ wife actin’ salty, and yo’ momma in the next room ‘bout to pop a blood vessel.”

“What you’ want me to do, Ony? How should I act?” You question, placing Sage against your shoulder, gently patting her back, even in the midst of your irritation.

“Just chill. I ain’t tryna’ click out on you and my momma.” 

Onyankopon’s gaze is serious, not backing down despite your glare.

“I’m so serious.” 

“Oh?” You raise an eyebrow, “I’m sorry that me being irritated with the fact that we drove three hours—well, let’s wrap it up to five since Salem was car sick—that I had to also feed Sage— not to mention that I was extremely uncomfortable since we had no room in the backseat with all the extra decorations your mom decided to buy when I already bought some! I’m running off twelve hours of sleep in the past two days, and somehow your momma still thinks I’m not doing enough. My fault—let me chill.”

Sage burps, babbling as she wraps her mouth along the end of your shoulder. Your arms are sore at this point. You sigh, “Take her,” as you lean your baby girl into his arms.

Sage babbles, wrapping her toothless gums on the end of his t-shirt, rubbing her face into her fathers chest. 

“Aight,” He nods, hearing the frustration in your voice, “I’m sorry. You’ right.”

You don’t mean to be snappy—You don’t want to be. You hate when you get like this, another exhale blowing from your lips as you’re holding that urge to cry. God, your period was definitely coming. Not only are you emotional, but even being upset with your husband, you wanna be as close to him as possible. And—were you a little horny? 

You rub the muscular bicep of his tattooed arm, “You mind getting her dressed while I take a quick nap?”

He nods, “Of course. I was gon’ do that anyways.”

He takes Sage onto his shoulder, “I’ll come wake you up so you got time to get ready—just focus on sleeping, aight? I’m ‘bout to get Say-Say dressed and go help my momma with these cupcakes before dressing Sage.”

You reach for his ear, rubbing affectionately as you hum, “You’re so sweet, Daddy. Thank you.”

Onyankopon’s serious gaze eases, a smirk growing on his face.

“Aight—you know ain’t no callin’ me that if you ain’t gon’ do all the rest,” He shakes your grip from his ear, pressing a kiss on your palm. 

“C’mon, ‘fore you get me worked up.”

You roll your eyes, giggling softly as you begin making your way back upstairs—but you can’t help but listen to Onyankopon talking to your daughter—as he always did.

“Don’t worry, baby. All of us gon’ be back in NOLA soon, and yo’ momma gon’ be back to herself—You gon’ get to see aunties, uncles— whatchu think? A whole lotta Strawberry Shortcake, huh? What a life you’ blessed with, pretty mama…”

Getting some type of rest definitely puts you in a better headspace, and the true realization that you were celebrating your baby’s birthday couldn’t have made you any happier. Sage’s Strawberry Shortcake Party was in full swing. 

Sweets and desserts scattered across the plaid picnic table for guests to choose from. Everyone was here—family, Onyankopon’s players, even you and your mother in law were now getting along—everyone was in adoration of your baby, the celebration being better than you expected it to ever be. 

Your dress matched Sage’s strawberry covered bonnet, oversized along her dark curls, her dress fluffing out from its poofy frill. The sight had you snapping a thousand pictures— however, you’re a bit distracted. 

You’d redone Onyankopon’s braids for him the night before, the olive green shirt he wears clinging to his muscular frame, complimenting his brown skin that mixes with all of his tattoos. It’s something about how much of a southern man he really was—being in between New Orleans and Mississippi—he’s sporting jeans, a hefty belt shining under the natural light coming into the house, cowboy boots heavy on his feet with each step. Facial hair, face tats, it all pulls together with the print hung under his belt that he can’t seem to tuck. 

God. 

But you’re no better—the mini halter dress you wear molds around your full hips and ass, lace trimming along the end of the pale pink material. Your matching woven sandals show off the French tip of your toes, dark curls framing around your curvy figure.

The sight of your husband—it’s becoming a problem. Your heart swells as you hold Salem in your arms, the tune of Happy Birthday echoing to your baby girl, Onyankopon holding her up towards the cake, allowing her to tear the dessert apart piece by piece. She’s giggling, and to see Onyankopon so soft with your daughter that you created together—it made you love him even more. 

 Back to the point of him being a problem— now, he’s being touchy. 

Salem’s a bit more independent now, running around the yard with his cousins as he screams out in excitement. You have the perfect view of your family enjoying the celebration that your mother in law put so much time and effort into—you couldn’t help but thank her, despite your differences. 

Back to the point again, Onyankopon being a problem. His fingers become hooked along the waist of your dress, his face pressed in the crook of your neck as he kisses on your skin, gently nipping and licking.

You knew your husband to be affectionate, so to him, this was just showing you love in a way that he felt was innocent. But with each kiss, each compliment, your clit throbbed. 

Maybe he noticed. Maybe he didn’t.

The party was now close to ending—Sage and Salem being taken upstairs to bed, leaving the rest of the adults downstairs, drinking and catching up with each other. You leaned yourself against his shoulder as he talked to his teammates, lightly padding your fingers against his lower back in the softest way. Your palms travel, finding the warmth of his ear—you start rubbing there.  

Onyankopon can always sense your change in temperature. Your hands wander aimlessly on his body at this point, still giving no reaction to your touch as he occasionally takes a long swig from the bottle of beer in his hand.

You’re looking at him— his legs spread against the chair, boots flat along the ground, bulge prominent as he continuously attempts to adjust himself. Your mind won’t stop fantasizing, and you can imagine yourself just—

Dishes. You needed to do the dishes.

The moment you say your goodbyes to everyone, you’re quiet as you wash off the ceramic plates into the sink. You can hear Onyankopon throwing things in the trash behind you, a sigh parting from your lips as you ask, “That was nice, wasn’t it?”

“Mhm.”

 His hands slide up from behind, his arms enveloping your body as his hands gently rub circles along your stomach. Your body is pressed against his, warm and needy—but, was this the right time to speak up? 

“My baby had a big day,” He says, his voice in a low hum.

“I just wish she would be able to remember times like these, you know? She was so giggly and excited to smash her cake, and her outfit was adorable—those are times we’ll never get back with her. I’ll think about them a lot,” you softly smile, leaning yourself back against your husband's chest.

“She gon’ know how much we loved her,” He kisses on the side of your neck, “We do got’ a few more times like this before Salem hits three, so don’t beat yo’self up too much, aight? Our family is perfect.”

You press your lips together at that. Turning your head to face him, you’re tilting up to find the gaze of his height. Your brown eyes pool into his sight, hand reaching for his facial hair, scratching your fingers into the coils of it.

“Thank you for holding me together today. I was a little frustrated earlier—but everything turned out better than I ever thought it would. I was good, wasn’t I?”

“It’s nothing you gotta thank me for, baby. We do this as a team, aight? You was’ good, even when you had every reason to be upset. You my lil’ team player, forreal’.”

That makes you smile. Your eyes are right below his as you say, “You’ my big team player,” you softly giggle.

“I know that. C’mere.” 

His hand cups the back of your head, locking your lips into a kiss, full lips overlapping yours. It removes the lip combo you wear, tongue deepening itself in your mouth. 

“Yo’ ass was good today, Mama.”

You’re always ready to accept his kisses, but sometimes—between you and yourself—you couldn’t handle Onyankopon when he got like this. Not to mention that your body felt overly sensitive in the moment, so just from a kiss, you were trembling.

You’re shy within your giggle as you breathlessly muse, “T—Thank you, baby.”

“You already know I’m gon’ thank you some more in ‘bout two minutes. Take yo’ ass upstairs.”

Onyankopon was always a man of his word. Here you were now—body shuddering from his tongue previously nose deep in your pussy, heart rate pounding in your ears as you straddled your smaller frame atop of his. You loved riding him—but you loved seeing his face more, rather than facing the opposite way as you were now. On the other hand, Onyankopon loved this position just as much as seeing your pretty face— his eyes continuously traced over the ink tattooed along your back, the dark pink complimenting your caramel skin. 

You whimper to him, “Wanna see you, Ony.” 

His tip is already being engulfed by the pretty pink of your folds, puffy as they’re stretched by the girth of him. 

Onyankopon takes a handful of your hair, giving it a tug—your body quivers the minute you feel his other palm smack your ass, “Yo’ shit too muhfuckin’ pretty, Mama. Lemme’ enjoy you like this.” 

Your lashes brush against your freckled cheeks as you slowly lower your hips, every inch of him being sucked in by your pussy, the back of your thighs meeting his abdomen as you go down. The curls of your hair drape along your figure with the sway of your body dipping, your lips parting a bit, shakily gasping in the softest way. 

Leaning yourself against his legs, your teeth lightly tug at your lower lip as you rock down, finding a rhythm within the angle, skin creating the tiniest clapping echo against his dick. You part a whimper from your lips. 

“Goddamn, Mama—Who you doin’ allat for?” 

A hand makes its way over the front of you, rubbing the middle of your stomach to feel your body shift. His touch has you arching, your soft cry of pleasure deafening to your own ears as your ass bounces on his hips. You never sounded like this so early. 

“Ion’ know who you was tryna’ play,” Onyankopon grunts out—you’re like a pendulum, putting him in a trance with the way you wine your body. But that never stopped his mouth. 

“A nigga gon’ know if you need him as soon as you walk inna’ room—allat’ attitude, touchin’ on me—That’s how you know a nigga love yo’ ass. You love me, huh?” 

“Love you,” your voice is still soft, whimpering as you hold your ass in your own palms, spanking yourself, “Love you, Ony…” 

Every time he mentions the word love, even indirectly—you’re like a puppy, willing to agree to anything that comes from his mouth. That’s how it’s always been. 

“You a good lil’ bitch,” he grunts, “Keep fuckin’ me.” 

His clasp at the end of your curls has your eyes rolling, your mouth pouting as he tugs you down to meet the sticky heat of your pussy becoming wetter. His palm lowers itself, gripping your ass, finding a hold there—you’re dropping, dropping, you’re groaning in the prettiest way, “Ughn, O—Ony…” 

“Keep singin’, baby. Keep throwin’ that shit.” 

His desire for you grew with each child, with each touch, with each word. But he would still give you the world.

Onyankopon always gave you an immense amount of pleasure—but when he wanted to reward you—god, you were lucky you weren’t a mental patient.

The positions are always dominated by him, now having you bent at the edge of the bed, body arched to perfection, legs tucked underneath his to keep you still. His fingers always find a hold of your hair, locking you in place as he’s sliding his tip up and down against your folds—slow, aching.

Your face is hidden beneath the sheets, palm finding a collection of the comforter beneath your fingers. Your pussy spreads as his tip sinks in—Onyankopon grounding  his hips, allowing the weight of his dick to fill you in all one thrust. 

Your mouth drops, “Damn, baby…”

It’s almost torturous—his tip goes from kissing at your folds, to the air within your chest leaving as you’re full in a milliseconds, dick curving into your walls, reaching for your cervix that eats a delicious pinch from his strokes. Again and again, the room fills with a sweet lullaby of the slaps his hips make against your ass. Each thrust is accompanied by a satisfying whine from your mouth. 

“This them’ good girl strokes,” he grunts, stroking through his words, “Good ass fuckin’ girl.”

For the sake of your mother in law and children, you press your mouth into the sheets, eyes rolling as your whimpers muffle through the material—but Onyankopon could be the worst sometimes.

His favorite place to grasp—your curls, his fingers collect anything he can get his hands on, using it to drop you down in the slowest he’s ever given you a thrust, his balls rubbing against your clit, dick nearly reaching for your windpipe—he’s deep, deeper than he’s ever been before.

“Don’t fuckin’ move,” his voice is dark, “Imma’ keep you here. Let you feel this big ass dick.” 

“Fuckkk.”

Your eyes roll as you gasp—your pussy was’ stuffed.

“Can’t f—feel you no more,” you whimper, trying to pull yourself together through the pleasurable tears that begin to collect in your eyes. You tremble, your mouth quivering a sob, “I’m too wet, baby. Oh my g—god…”

You don’t even realize you’re cumming—squirting for that matter—only able to hear the splat, splat of your arousal gushing in between your skin colliding together. Your thighs are trembling, the vibration traveling up to your throat as you groan. 

“Don’t be fuckin’ lyin’ to me—you feel my shit.” 

His fingers tightened around your curls, forcing you back onto his dick after a swift jerk, making your head tilt backwards for your throat to be exposed, your lower body going numb as he fucks you into an oblivious space.

He’s close, sliding his soaked tip out to see your cum glistening down the dick, to putting you back on him—again, again, again.

You’re brain is so fried, you begin bouncing yourself back on his dick, cumming, continuously cumming—you’re whining as you turn your head back towards him, “Dick so fuckin’ big, Daddy. Just taking your pussy. Just. Take…me….” 

You’re talking through the strokes you provide for yourself, you’re drooling, almost in a bimbo like state. He took you there. 

His body looms over yours as he finds a place of your throat to hold, pulling your face back to watch you. The sounds you made were identical to an angel crying, prettier than ever before. His dick finds the last crevice of space left inside you—his tip rests in between your cervix, “Make a mess on this bitch. Make. A. Fuckin’. Mess,” he emphasizes thrust. 

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuckkk.”

It happens—you scream—Onyankopon moans as you squeeze around him, pulling himself out to replace his dick with his fingers—he chaotically rubs your clit, fingers becoming drenched as you squirt again. 

His hand holds you in place as you cry, legs trembling, having one of the most intense orgasms you’d had with him. There’s more tears in your eyes, your head knocking into the sheets, hiding your flushed face as you hadn’t expected your own reaction.

His voice grumbled into the shell of your ear, “There you go, baby. You did that shit for me. Did all that shit for me, huh?”

You only have to let out a shaky exhale in response to his words, too exhausted to argue otherwise.

That’s when you both hear a knock— it startles you so bad that your entire body jolts, Onyankopon cradling you beneath his hold protectively. His voice is low as he responds, “Yeah, momma. What you’ need?”

“I heard screaming—is everything alright? 

You hide your face into his arm. 

Onyankopon deepens his face into your neck, chuckling before he replies, “Yeah. She—uh, saw a big ass spider. We’ good.” 

“Oh—I just wanted to check. Anyways , this baby lookin’ for yo’ wife’s nipple.“

You sigh, barely able to respond, nearly halfway asleep in the seconds they conversed with each other. Your voice is soft as you reply, “I’m comin’, momma—Just give lil’ mama her binky until then.”

The silence that fills the room confirms that she left, a quiet, soft laugh coming off Onyankopon’s lips. 

“You know she ain’t stupid—she finna’ get my ass, lawd.”

“No,” you cover your reddened face with his arm, “That’s so embarrassing. God, please go get Sage so I don’t have to face that conversation.”

“You heard how bad my ass was lyin’?”

He continues chuckling, the rumble of it hitting your back as you huff, “Ony.”

“Aight, aight,” He laughs, “Let me clean up ‘fore I head up there.“

The heat of the moment begins to fade away as your sobriety washes over you. The moment he goes to leave—you stop him. Turning to face him, you wrap your arms around Onyankopon’s neck as you pucker your lips out for a kiss, “I love you. You love me?”

“With my life, shawty,” He leans forward, pressing his lips into yours for a quick peck that you’ve been seeking.

“You sure?”

You didn’t mean to have the question sound worrisome, but your voice was a little—hesitant. You were hesitant.. 

“Baby. That’s never gon’ change. What’s going on?” he frowns, “Why’ you feelin’ like this?”

Remember all the times you said you weren’t gonna cry today? 

Too late for that. 

Your hands quickly cover your face as you feel your body trembling— you softly sob, hiding your cries within your palms as you release all the emotions you’d been holding for the past couple of days.

“Aye—What’s goin’ on, baby? Hey,” he takes your face into the palms of his large hand, “You can cry, forreal’, but what got you feelin’ like this? Why’ you think I wouldn’t love you? Talk to me.”

Your tears run down your face, cheeks as red as your baby girls as you continue to cry. Your voice shakes as you whimper, “You’re gonna be upset with me…” 

“Aight, aight, just—,” he shakes his head, cupping your face into his hands more  as he tries to figure out what to say.

“—You know I can’t stand seeing you cry. I ain’t never gon’ be mad at you for that—just talk to me.”

You take a deep breath, “I’m sorry for being mean to you, baby. I just—I love you so much—and you told me that you wanted a big family—but we just had lil’ mama, and you’re about to get back on the field again—“ 

“Mama,” he cuts off, “Slow down. What you’ tryna say? Are you pregnant?” 

“…I just—I wanted to try a new birth control because the IUD was giving me issues—and I forgot to take my pills—you probably don’t even want another baby.”

You’re crying even harder now, pressing your face into his chest.

“You—,” He sighs, not even attempting to mask his irritation, “You think I’d be upset that you’ pregnant again?” 

 His tone is low before he continues, “I don’t care if you get pregnant with ten of my kids. You my fuckin’ wife. We’ll have a whole muhfuckin’ football team if that’s what god blessed us with. I love you. That ain’t gon’ change.”

That makes your heart swell. You press your forehead to his, a tearful giggle falling from your lips. 

“I didn’t mean to start crying,” you softly say, taking a deep breath as your fingers wrap around his necklace, “My period was supposed to be a week ago, but when I realized it was late—I thought I was being dramatic thinking I was pregnant again, so I didn’t even tell you—I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be talkin’ nonsense,” He mutters, “I told you when we first started this family that the number didn’t matter to me—As long as you happy.”

“I’m more than happy,” you say, pressing your lips back into his, “I love you and our babies so much.” 

Onyankopon’s smile grows into a smirk, “I got a bunch of kids runnin’ around here anyway, Salem ‘bout two in one—I’m ready when you ready, baby.”

That makes more tears pour from your eyes. You tighten your arms around his neck as you softly cry, “I love you so much, Onyankopon.”

“I love you more, baby. Ain’t that why yo’ lil’ ass cryin’?” He chuckles, gently patting and rubbing on your back, “You gon’ be a mess if you keep goin’ like this. I’m finna’ go tell my momma—MA! MA!”

You giggle as he takes off—and at this point, you’re not entirely sure why you’re still crying. You’re just sensitive, okay?

You’re sobbing, but you’re so happy. You had no idea how lucky you truly were to have this man. Your heart flutters as you try to stop your tears, but the love for your family is making it difficult. The love for him made it all the more worse.

That was never gonna change.

[sknyuz]

prompt — “i’m so undeniably screwed for this woman.”

pairing — woozi x reader

genre — fluffy fluff, opposites attract, tiny bit of woozi’s inner turmoil but in a cute way

warnings — light swearing, mutual pining, woozi being emotionally constipated but adorable about it

word count — 600(?) i literally planned longer but my brain farted

note: nonchalant woozi + sunshine reader <3 thank you for this request hehe.

masterlist

he’s watching you again.

not in a weird way. not in a creepy way. probably.

it’s just—you’re laughing. again. and it’s the kind of laugh that bursts out of you like soda fizz, bright and sparkling, and it fills the whole studio. and he’s just—well...

“hyung,” seungkwan says, walking past with his laptop and a raised brow, “you’re staring again.” he sing-songs, rolling his eyes.

woozi blinks, caught.

“i’m not,” he replies, flatly.

“sure,” seungkwan sings, disappearing down the hall.

woozi sighs and sinks further into his chair. you’re sitting cross-legged on the studio couch, scrolling through your phone, earbuds in and completely oblivious to the absolute chokehold you’ve put him in.

and that’s the problem. you always are.

you’re warm, expressive, a walking serotonin shot. you light up every room you walk into and talk with your hands and cry over dog videos and compliment strangers’ outfits just because. you're the type of person who remembers birthdays, texts people good luck before big meetings, and bakes cookies on random tuesdays "just because you felt like it."

and woozi?

woozi is the guy who pretends not to hear compliments because he doesn’t know how to take them, he expresses love through perfectly mixed vocal tracks and buying your favorite snacks and pretending he’s not checking his phone every two minutes waiting for your reply.

and yet you’re here all the time.

you come by the studio even when he doesn’t ask. you bring coffee and snacks and once a tiny plush keychain because "it looked like you and i couldn't not buy it." you ask about his day like you really want to know. you hug him goodbye even though he never hugs back (not properly, anyway).

and sometimes you sit quietly beside him for hours, just vibing, while he works on music. humming under your breath. asking questions about things he thought no one ever noticed. like the way he softens the instrumental under the bridge to highlight the vocals. or how he layers harmonies to make the chorus sound fuller.

you notice everything—and it’s driving him insane.

because he’s not supposed to feel this soft. not when he barely knows what to do with his feelings half the time, not when you smile at him like you know something he doesn’t, like you’re waiting for him to catch up.

“you okay?” you ask suddenly, pulling out your earbuds and tilting your head at him. he startles slightly, coughing. “yeah.”

“you were spacing out,” you grin. “thinking hard, genius?”

he huffs a laugh, turns back to his screen. “something like that.”

you shuffle over and peer at his monitor, chin on his shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. he doesn’t move. doesn’t breathe. you’re close enough that he can smell your shampoo. something citrusy. fresh. “is this the new demo?” you whisper, like it’s a secret.

he nods.

“can i hear it?”

“it’s not done yet.”

“i don’t care.” you whisper, leaning in close to his ear.

and he sighs, already knowing that he’d lost to you with just one look. he hits play and pretends his heart isn’t doing backflips while you listen with that furrowed brow and soft smile. you always listen like this—like the song is a person you’re trying to understand.

when it ends, you turn to him, eyes wide. “woozi. that’s so good. it sounds like falling in love.”

he snorts, ducking his head. “that’s not what it’s about.”

“still feels like it,” you shrug.

he glances at you, a little helpless. you’re too close. too real. too much.

“you always say the dumbest stuff,” he mutters, but his voice is weirdly fond. you grin at this like you know you’ve won something. “you love it.”

and that’s the thing, isn’t it?

he does.

god help him, but he does. and his grumpy disposition falters as he rubs his palm into his eyes.

“i’m so undeniably screwed for this woman,” he mutters under his breath, almost too quiet to hear.

oh, but you hear it.

you blink, going still. lips part like you’re about to say something, but nothing comes out. instead, you stare at him with an amused look on your face.

his eyes widen slightly, and for the first time in a long time, he feels his composure crack.

“…shit,” he curses, throwing his head back. “did i say that out loud?”

you blink again. then smile, slow and warm and soft enough to melt him right there in the chair.

“yeah,” you say. “you did.”

a beat passes. he opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again.

“…okay.” he pathetically mumbles,

and then you’re laughing. again. that same fizzy, unstoppable laugh, and you bump your shoulder into his and say, “about time.”

he stares at you, and you stare back. then you reach over and take his hand—gently, casually, like you’ve done it a hundred times—and squeeze.

“don’t worry,” you whisper. “seems like we’re both in trouble, then. you make me feel like i got a few screws loose, lee jihoon.”

and woozi, ever the calm, composed, nonchalant musical genius that he is—completely short-circuits.

𐔌 . ⋮ taglist .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ @ateez-atiny380 @alien0n3arth @cuppasunu

join here!

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Running To You

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, control, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Sister series to Just What I Needed

Summary: You're rescued by a man who you don't even know is a real hero.

Characters: nomad Steve Rogers

Note: a stressed out steve rogers plus a cutie. it bloomed from the theory of Steve's beard being a symbol of his darker side, or a darker state of mind. In the wat that he would usually pride himself on a neat appearance but lets himself go a bit when he's not at his best.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You stumble up over the curb as you check the list on your phone. Oops, you should really look where you're going. You steady yourself and giggle at your own clumsiness. For how precise your inventory is, the rest of you is a bit of a clutter.

You dodge through the onslaught of pedestrians and apologise a deep 'hey, lady' thunders through at you. You quickly dip into the store and shield yourself with the door. You gasp and catch your breath, smiling at the associate nearest to you. The organic shop probably isn't the most exciting place to shop but it has most of the ingredients you need. Raw honey, tallow wax, essential oils...

You greet them with a small wave and 'hi' and turn to look at the shelves along the wall. They don't acknowledge you. Most people don't, not that you mind. You keep to yourself.

The door jingles and another customer enters. They pause by the door and look around. They might be lost. It's not unusual for one more person to wander in but usually they don't stay long.

He clears his throat and you do your best to focus on your list. You're going to need a basket. As you go to grab one from the stack, the man faces you. You shy away and stop short of latch onto one of the mesh baskets.

"Excuse me, miss," he holds up a familiar item; a red wallet with white polkadots. It's yours! "I think you dropped this."

"Oh, my, I did," you give a sheepish smile to his chest. He's an awfully big man. "Thank you."

"Yeah, no problem," he hands it over.

You accept it and hold it to your chest. You give a tiny shimmy, "thank you so so much!"

You dare to look up and meet his eyes. They're blue but reticent. He scratches his beard as he nods and backs up.

"I think I'm in your way," he grabs one of the baskets and offers it to you.

"Oh, no, but yes, thank you, I need one," you take it.

"Mm, yeah," he smooths out the tuft in his beard that he was pulling on. The hair is thick and coarse; the locks on his head are just as dense, pushed back away from the face, though his chin-length strands try to droop past his ears.

You put your head down and turn back to the shelves. He lingers, seemingly lost as he looks around. What's the odds that in a city like this someone would do something so nice? You look at the list again then peek over at him. He squints at a jar of sourdough starter.

"What do you use in your beard?" You ask then cover your mouth. "I'm sorry, that's not... polite, is it?"

He shrugs, "hm, I just use shampoo, I guess. Face wash?"

"Right. Well, it's pretty shiny." You scrunch up your face. "I'm sorry." You chew your lip in embarrassment. Your cheeks are ablaze. "I'm working on my beard oil. I make it. Um, sell it. But..."

"Beard oil," he repeats thoughtfully. "I don't... I guess maybe I should."

He touches his beard again, a crease between his brows.

"I don't meant to-- I... I'm not... it's cute. I mean. Suits you. I was just--" you show your teeth nervously. "I don't have a beard so..."

"Yeah," he agrees awkwardly and tucks his hair back behind his ears before it can fall forward.

"I ramble..." you drift off and face the shelves again. "I'll stop bothering you."

He inhales and backs up. He turns to the door then stops. You sense his gaze.

"It's a bit busy. Rush hour," he says. "You don't mind if I hide in here with you?"

You glance over. You shrug. "Um, yeah, sure. It's not my store. Not sure how interesting it is."

You fumble between the basket and your phone. You hum and scour the shelves with your eyes, scrunching your nose in concentration. He comes closer.

"What are you looking for?" He asks.

"Soybean oil."

"Soybean oil," he nods. "For..."

"Soap," you cheep.

"Ah. In my day, ma just used fat and lye."

You give his statement a thought. You've seen some recipes from way back. Like long ago. Almost a hundred years now. A lot of people prefer the gentler ingredients.

"Oh, that's cool that she made her own stuff," you muse as you take a canister and tap your spreadsheet to mark off that item.

"Yeah," you feel him trying to see the screen. "You're really organized."

"Can't forget anything," you say.

"Sure." He lurks and looks around before he focuses on you again. "I'm Steve, by the way."

You look at him. He's just as big as the last time you looked. His blue eyes seem uncertain. He can't be afraid of someone like you. You give your name.

"Nice to meet, you, Steve."

"You too," he agrees. "Can I help?"

"Oh, sure. What do you prefer? Rose or Gardenia?"

"Rose is nice," he says.

"I agree," you say and pluck up the small bottle.

"You said you sell stuff?"

"Sure do," you chime. You tuck the bottle into the basket. "You know, you don't have to pretend to care."

"What? I... I'm curious."

You eye him, "well, Steve, I'll believe you, but there's not much to be curious about."

His brows furrow, not so much in agitation, but intrigue. "The beard oil. How much?"

"Oh, you know, I could get you a sample from my hoard. Since you got me my wallet back. You don't have to do all that."

"I want to. I think you right," he runs his hands over his beard. "Needs a bit of taming."

You laugh, "looks good to me. Oh, you can try coconut oil. It's real easy and you can use it in your hair too."

"Coconut oil," he says. "I'll add it to the list. What about yours?"

"Soy wax," you look at your list. "I can use that for lots of things."

He lifts his heads, shoulders wide and straight, looking around on a mission. He strides around the rack behind him and you watch him search a shelf. He picks up two jars. He comes back to you. "Which do you prefer?" He holds up to two different sellers. You take the one in his left hand.

"Thank you," you grin.

"Next," he looks down at your phone.

"Jeez, you sure are helpful," you check again.

"They sell wicks. I need the long ones. Like this." You hold the basket and phone at a length.

He nods again, "on it."

You point him to the corner where they keep the candlemaking stuff and you go back to your own search. He's too quick for you. He has a hole bunch in hand. You have him put half in your basket and he takes the rest back.

Huh, looks like you made a friend.

🎀

Steve holds the door for you. It's so nice you thank him for what must be the dozenth time since you met. Maybe only even an hour ago.

As you get outside, you turn back to him, certain to keep away from the pedestrians who pay no heed to obstacles. "I can take that bag too."

He looks down as the door shuts behind him. "Pretty heavy," he says.

"Oh, I always do that. I forgot my little rolly bag," you shrug. "I can handle it."

"Wouldn't feel right letting you carry it all. Mrs. Rogers didn't raise a punk."

"Is that your mom? I bet she's nice too," you say. "It's alright, Steve. You've done enough. I owe you. My wallet would've been gone with the wind and I never coulda bought all this."

He stares at you, then once more peeks down at the fabric bag. You always bring the reusable; they're much stronger than the paper ones supplied in-store. He chews his lower lip.

"If you owe me, well, you wanna have a coffee? Together?" He asks.

You blink. That's so nice of him too.

"Coffee?" You press your lips together. You feel bad saying no. Not that you want to. It wouldn't be so bad to have someone to sit with. For once. "I don't drink it."

He nods, "tea? Hot chocolate? Water?"

You laugh.

"I'll have a cookie," you offer. "Um," you look up and down the street. "Where..."

"I saw a place. Never been in. Wanna give it a try?"

"Oh, cool. Yeah. I love new places, even if they're scary," you say.

"Here," he takes the other bag from your hands before you can argue. "It's a block back."

"Wait, Steve! I can carry that."

"Not if I'm around," he insists, "come on."

He rolls his shoulder in a gesture for you to follow. You huff and hop into motion. You walk next to him, wary of the oncoming people along the sidewalk. A man nearly bowls you over and you knock into Steve's elbow.

"Oof, I'm sorry."

"Get on the inside of me, doll," he says. "Used to be that people took their hat off when they passed a lady. Now they don't care if... well... you move."

He stops and lets you step across his path. He keeps you between him and the storefronts as he strides on undaunted. You wish you were as brave as him.

"Ah, there it is." He tilts his chin up.

You look ahead. You see the sign sticking out in the shape of a coffee cup.

"Oh, I see it," you hurdle ahead. "My turn."

You pull open the door as he follows. He stops to let another customer out before he enters. You follow him.

"There's a table," he nods.

You follow his gaze to the wall. You lead the way and he trails you. He puts the bags in one of the chairs.

"How about you sit?" He suggests. "What kind of cookie do you want?"

"Oh, Steve, uh," you pull out your wallet, "if they have oatmeal--"

"My treat." He insists.

"You can't do that," you argue.

"You gonna stop me?" He challenges. You gulp and blink at him. You don't think you could stop him from anything. He's quite the figure.

"I guess not." You murmur.

His expression softens, "hey, I'm kidding. I didn't... scare you, did I?"

"N-no," you force a smile. "I appreciate that. Thank you. Oatmeal. That's all."

"Alright. I'll be back." He turns and you see his shoulders rise and fall with a heavy breath.

You sit and jiggle your leg as you look around. You avoid the coffee shops, even the bakeries. They're always so busy. You are methodical in your ventures but today's seems to have gone off the rails. Not in the worst way. One time, you tried to take the subway and ended up lost in the rain.

There's women who look like they could be on a TV show with their fabulous dresses and perfect waves; a man in a suit with his laptop and a single earbud in, and an older couple near the door. There are many others in the line to get a treat of their own.

You turn in the chair and press your palms to the table. You stare at the wood between your hands. You feel the heat speckling over your scalp, that sense of suffocation burrowing into your chest, the voices swirling around you like a raging wind.

"Here," Steve interrupts your internal panic. He places a large cookie before you and mug. "They had this strawberry cream thing. No coffee."

You look at the pink concoction with a dark red swirl in the middle. "Mmmm," you lean forward to admire it. "Wow. It looks good."

He puts his own coffee down and moves the bags under the table. He sits and unzips his jacket to let the tension out of the fabric. You smile and pick up the cookie. You hide behind it.

"I can't eat this alone. It's as big as my face." You giggle. 

You break it in two and offer him half. He eyes it for a moment then accepts it with a thanks. You take a bite then round your eyes at him. He's staring. Oh no. Is that rude? You chew and swallow quickly.

"What?" You hide your mouth behind your hand.

"Nothing. It's just..." he glances around the shop. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" You make googly eyes and cross them. "Is there something on my nose?"

He snorts. "No. There's not." He sighs. "Just haven't had a nice quiet coffee in a while. It's nice."

Your brows pop up and you smile big. "I'm sorry I'm not a big coffee person. I tried it once and it made my belly gurgle."

"It's fine. Bad habit," he taps the handle of his mug with his index finger. "Are you gonna try that cup of sugar?"

"Not much better, is it?" You pick up the mug and blow over it. You put your lips over the brim and taste it cautiously. You hum. "Mm," you pull it away. "Delicious! This is a tummy ache worth having."

His cheek dimples as he watches you. You fidget against his gaze. He's nice but you never had anyone stare at you so much.

[sluttyminghao]

♡ pairing: jeonghan x fem!reader ♡ word count: approx 4k ♡ genre: smut, tiny bit of fluff at the end ♡ includes: dom!jeonghan, sub!reader, jeonghan is possessive af, slight bdsm themes (being tied), mentions of choking, corruption kink, praise + degradation ♡ warnings: mention of alcohol/drinking at the beginning ♡ a/n: damn I hope u guys like this it's been a WHILE since I put anything out! huge thanks to @lovetaroandtaemin, @mylovesstuffs, and @supi-wupi for beta-ing this for me! i appreciate u guys!

The click of the penthouse door behind you was quiet, but the silence that followed was thunderous.

Your heart beats too loudly in your chest, your heels echoing faintly on the polished floor as you step inside. The lights were dim, just enough to see the burnished gold fixtures, the curve of the leather couch. The silhouette of him.

Jeonghan.

He stood by the window, framed in city light—dark slacks, shirt sleeves rolled just below the elbow, a tumbler in one hand. The skyline glittered behind him, but he barely seemed to notice it. His attention, as always, was entirely focused on you.

“You’re late.”

Not a question. Not angry. Just… a fact. It cut through the air like the crack of a whip and sent shivers down your spine.

Your breath caught. “I-”

“No excuses.”

Your lips pressed shut. He hadn’t raised his voice; he didn’t need to. You felt small in the best possible way, stripped of any possible control before he even touched you. He didn’t have to shout. All it took was a glance, a single word, to make your knees twitch with the need to bend.

Jeonghan turned to face you, finally. The glass he had been holding met the bar top with a quiet clink. His eyes dragged over you, slow and unashamed. How typical of him. 

“Shoes off.”

You obeyed instantly. The moment your bare feet touched the soft rug, you felt grounded and exposed all at once. Your pulse skipped as he crossed the room, his steps lazy but deliberate.

“Hands behind your back.”

You clasped them there, feeling your breath go shallow.

“On your knees.”

You sank immediately, your knees cushioned by the rug, your back straight. The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of jazz in the background, something low and sultry, like him.

He moved closer. The scent of his cologne was warm, heady, and woodsy, with a sharp bite beneath—sin dressed in silk.

Jeonghan knelt before you, one hand lifting to cup your chin. His thumb brushed your lower lip, and you instinctively opened your mouth. But he only smiled, his gaze dark.

“Good girl.”

Two words. That’s all it took. Your thighs clenched without permission.

“You know what I like,” he said, thumb still resting lightly on your lip. “Obedience. Stillness. Eyes on me.”

You nodded slowly. He hadn’t told you to speak, and you wouldn’t dare now. His approval was a drug, and you’d do anything to earn more of it.

Jeonghan reached into his pocket and pulled out a length of deep red silk, folded neatly. You felt your breath catch.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he murmured. “How you looked yesterday in that tight little skirt. How you smirked when you walked away, like you wanted me to lose my patience.”

He stepped behind you, slow and controlled, and you felt the brush of silk against your wrists. He looped it around your wrists carefully, and tied it tight so as to not be painful, but just snug enough to make your pulse jump.

“And now,” he said in your ear, his voice like smoke, “I think it’s time you lost yours.”

You shivered, hands bound neatly behind your back, your breathing shallow. You couldn’t touch him, steady yourself, or stop what was coming. Not that you wanted to.

He walked in front of you again and took his time undoing the first few buttons of his shirt. Not all the way, but just enough to show off the smooth skin of his chest, the hint of a vein running down his neck. The sight made your mouth go dry.

He sat back on the leather couch, legs spread, elbows on his thighs. Watching you.

“Well?” he asked, lifting a brow. “Come here.”

You shuffled forward on your knees, awkward with your arms behind you, but eager. His gaze flickered down your body; hungry, possessive.

When you reached him, he leaned forward, fingers threading through your hair, tilting your head back so you had no choice but to look up.

“You’re so easy to ruin,” he whispered. “I just have to say one word, and you fall apart.”

His other hand moved to his belt, slow and purposeful, the metallic sound of the buckle unfastening sending a fresh wave of heat to your core.

You licked your lips without thinking. His grip in your hair tightened just slightly; not enough to hurt, just enough to make sure you knew who was in charge.

“You don’t touch,” he murmured. “You don’t move. You take everything I give you.”

You nodded, trembling under his gaze, your bound hands twitching behind your back.

He released himself from his pants, thick and already hard, the head flushed and glistening. Your mouth watered.

“You want this,” he said—again, not a question.

“Of course I do,” you breathed.

His fingers slid down your cheek, thumb resting against your lower lip again.

“Then show me.”

His voice was low, almost a rumble, the words leaving his lips like a promise. His thumb slid across your bottom lip, teasing, before he gently pushed it inside, pressing it against your tongue. You instinctively sucked it, just a little, and heard him groan low in his throat.

"Good," he murmured, his hand sliding down to tug at your hair, pulling you closer. "That's it. You’ll do exactly what I say."

You shivered as your body betrayed you. You could feel the weight of his gaze on you, hungry, patient. He wasn’t rushing. He wanted this to last. And as much as you felt like you were losing control, you couldn’t deny how much you craved it—this surrender, this submission.

He pulled back, eyes darkening as he scanned your bound wrists. He took the silk away quickly, releasing your hands briefly and, without any warning, wrapped it around your neck. Not tight enough to choke, but enough to make you aware of the pressure. Enough to make your heartbeat race.

"Keep your eyes on me," he commanded, his voice steady and controlled.

You obeyed, your gaze locked on his, watching as he slowly undid the remaining buttons of his shirt, revealing more of his chest, the soft light casting shadows across his body. Every inch of him was perfect; muscle and skin, toned but not too much. Just enough to make your mouth water, to make your thoughts scatter mindlessly until he was the only thought in your mind.

He ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead before lifting his gaze to yours again. He smiled—small, knowing, making your breath hitch. He removed the silk from around your neck, only to retie your hands behind your back again.

“Are you ready?” he asked, but it wasn’t a question.

You nodded, your body tingling with anticipation.

His hand moved to your neck, fingers wrapping around gently but firmly, guiding you closer. The tension between you grew, thick and charged, as he placed a kiss on your forehead, a soft contrast to the hard edge of his grip.

"Don't move. Don't make a sound until I say," he said, his voice now more than just an instruction—it was a command.

You felt a rush of heat pool in your core, your body was desperate for release, but you knew better than to break his rules.

He stood, towering over you, and you felt his presence like a storm ready to break. He reached for his belt again, this time more deliberate, more confident. You could hear the sharp sound of leather against metal as he loosened it, the slow rasp of it filling the space between your ears.

His voice came again, low and commanding. “Look at me. Watch me. Don’t take your eyes off me, or there will be consequences.”

Your entire body trembled with the weight of his words. The silk around your wrists was the only thing holding you together, the pressure making you feel both confined and helpless. And you loved it. You loved the way he controlled every single movement and every breath you took.

He removed his pants in one fluid motion, stepping out of them and standing before you, fully exposed. Your gaze dropped to him, as much as you tried to keep control of it. His skin was smooth, his muscles defined in all the right places, and the way he stood—self-assured, commanding—only heightened your need.

"Look at me," he repeated, his voice a low growl.

You forced your gaze back to his eyes, the fire burning in them making you dizzy. The weight of his attention was almost unbearable, and yet you couldn’t look away. You didn’t want to.

With one swift motion, Jeonghan closed the distance between you again, his hand gripping your chin and forcing your head back slightly. You could feel his breath against your lips, his presence all around you, filling your senses.

“Tell me you want this,” he demanded, his voice laced with a darkness that made your chest tighten. He pulled yet another piece of silk out from his pants pocket, and tied it the same way he had previously; just enough to have your pulses quicken.

“I want this,” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper. “Please, Jeonghan.”

“Good girl,” he murmured, his thumb brushing across your lips once more.

His hands moved again, pulling the silk tight around your neck for just a moment longer. You gasped, your pulse racing, before he released it. The air hit you sharply, and you realized just how much you needed him.

Jeonghan moved behind you, his hands settling on your shoulders. The sensation of his touch was like fire on your skin, leaving trails of heat wherever he placed his hands. He was so close, his body practically brushing against you, and the tension in the room made it impossible to focus on anything but him.

“You’re mine tonight,” he said softly, but the weight of his words felt like a claim. “And you will do exactly what I say.”

He stepped back just enough to give himself room, his hand grazing your back as he moved. The silk around your wrists was the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely. The way he held you, controlled you, had your body aching for more.

“On your hands and knees,” he ordered.

You obeyed instantly, shifting into position, your body trembling in anticipation. You could feel the heat between your legs, the need to be touched growing unbearable. But you didn’t dare move without permission.

Jeonghan’s voice dropped lower, a command more so than a suggestion. “Now show me just how much you want this. Show me how you can take it like the good girl you are.”

You felt the weight of his gaze on your back, the anticipation thick in the air. The muscles in your legs were tensed, your body hovering on the edge of the abyss, desperate to follow his every command.

Jeonghan didn’t rush, though. He was taking his time, letting the tension build as he circled behind you. You could hear the soft shuffle of his footsteps, feel the warmth of his breath as he drew closer. His hands eventually landed on your hips, gripping them tightly enough to leave a mark, but not enough to hurt. He tilted his head, admiring the way you looked on all fours, bound and vulnerable.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he murmured. “So willing. So eager to please.”

You shivered at the praise, your body reacting against your will. You didn’t want to admit how much you craved the control he held over you, how much you needed to hear him tell you what to do.

The sound of his breath quickened slightly, and you felt the heat of his body shift behind you. His fingers brushed over your skin lightly, making you jump. The teasing sensation only made you more desperate, more needy. You wanted him to touch you, to claim you fully, but you stayed still, waiting for his next command.

Jeonghan’s hands moved to your waist, gently tracing your skin as if he was memorizing every curve, every inch. His touch was possessive, but it sent a shiver of excitement through you. You knew that if you moved even an inch, he would punish you—wouldn’t let you get what you so desperately wanted. His control over you was absolute.

He leaned over your back, his chest brushing against your spine, his lips just grazing your ear. “Do you know what I want from you right now?” he whispered, his voice a dark promise.

You nodded, unable to speak, your mouth suddenly too dry to form words. His hands were everywhere—on your skin, your hair, your body—claiming you, marking you as his. You could feel the power in him, the way he molded you to his will with nothing more than his touch.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice low, commanding.

“I’m yours,” you whispered, the words slipping out of you without thought. “I’ll do anything and everything for you.”

Jeonghan chuckled softly, a sound full of approval that had your thighs clenching together. He stood back for a moment, admiring you again. His hands ran down your back, fingers brushing over your spine, and then he bent low to press a kiss to your shoulder.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice rich with satisfaction.

You could feel his body shift behind you, and then you heard the rustle of the carpet beneath his feet as he positioned himself. Your breath caught as you felt the heat of his body pressing closer, his hands moving to your hips once more, pulling you back toward him.

Slowly, deliberately, he guided you to your hands and knees, his grip firm and insistent. The pressure of his body against yours sent waves of heat crashing through you. You were drowning in the sensations, your body alive with the electricity of his touch.

“I hope you’re ready, my sweet little slut,” Jeonghan said, his voice steady, almost casual—but there was something dangerous in his tone that made your heart race. “You’re going to take all of me like the good girl I know you are.”

His words sent a jolt of desire straight to your core. You didn’t need any more prompting. You were ready. Ready for whatever he had planned.

His hands shifted lower, tracing the curve of your hips, before finally settling on your thighs. The heat of his touch spread through you as he positioned you just how he wanted you. You knew the moment you were vulnerable to him, your body positioned for his pleasure.

You could hear the rustle of his breath, the sound of his movements, and then you felt the weight of him pressing against you, the sensation sharp and intense.

His hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer, and you felt the heat of his body against yours. There was no space between you now, no distance. He was inside your mind, inside your body, taking control in every way possible.

“Stay still,” he commanded again, his voice firm, unwavering. “Do not move.”

You held your breath, your body trembling with anticipation. The need to move, to react, was almost overwhelming. But you stayed still, just as he had ordered.

Jeonghan’s hands tightened around your hips, pulling you even closer, and then you felt him—a slow, deliberate push, the thickness of him stretching you as he slid into you. The sensation was intense, almost too much, but it felt perfect in the way only he could.

You gasped, your body arching instinctively, trying to adjust to the sensation of him inside you. The tension in your body was unbearable, the need to move was stronger than ever, but you didn’t. 

His grip on your hips tightened further as he began to move, his strokes slow but deliberate. Each thrust was deep, filling you, driving you to the edge of madness. You felt every inch of him, each thrust deliberate and controlled.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice full of approval. “Taking it so well.”

You couldn’t stop the low moan that escaped your lips, the pleasure becoming too much to contain. Your body was on fire, every nerve alive, every part of you desperate for more.

Jeonghan’s pace increased slightly, his hands now gripping your shoulders as he pushed deeper into you. The rhythm was steady, controlled, but there was a desperation to it now—a hunger that was now beginning to mirror your own.

“Do you want more?” he asked, his voice low and commanding. “Tell me.”

“Yes,” you gasped, the word slipping from your lips without thought. “I want more, Jeonghan. Please.”

The sound of his name on your lips seemed to spur him on even more. His movements became more urgent, more forceful, as he took you, claiming you in the way only he could. You could feel his cum fill you up, seeping from your soaking cunt as he pulled out with a sharp breath. Your body collapsed onto the floor, as Jeonghan stood and made his way to the bathroom to get you a towel to clean yourself up.

The air between you and Jeonghan seemed to hum with an intensity that made every breath feel too loud. His hands rested on your shoulders, warm and steady, grounding you as you absorbed the weight of his gaze. There was something deeper than mere desire in the way he looked at you—something primal that made your pulse quicken.

Jeonghan took a step closer, his chest brushing against your back. His presence was overwhelming, and yet, there was a gentleness in his touch that contrasted with the power he exuded. You could feel his warmth, the way his body seemed to fill the space around you.

“You did so well,” he murmured, his voice low and rich with approval. He slid his hand down your arm, his fingers trailing over your skin like a whisper. “But I want you to understand something more than just this…”

The words were soft, but they carried a weight that made your heart race. His lips brushed against your ear as he continued, voice dark and commanding. “This isn’t just about what we do in these moments, or how you make me feel. It’s about the way you give yourself to me. Trust. Control. The way you let me control you.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, and your breath hitched as his lips pressed just above your collarbone, soft yet firm. Every touch seemed to spark something inside you, igniting a fire you couldn’t extinguish.

He pulled back slightly, but only enough to look you in the eyes, his fingers lingering on your jawline. “You trust me, don’t you?” The question wasn’t an invitation to answer, but a challenge, a test of everything you had surrendered to him.

You swallowed hard, your body aching to respond with something more than just words. The intensity of the moment pushed you to the edge, your emotions tangled with the raw desire that flowed between you.

“I do,” you finally whispered, your voice thick with the weight of everything that had been building between you. “I trust you.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Good,” he said, his fingers tightening slightly—not painfully, but enough to remind you who was in control. “Because I’m going to take you—slowly—every inch of you. You’ve earned this.”

His hands moved then, a perfect blend of discipline and restraint as they slid to your waist. The tension in the room was unbearable, thickening the air, but Jeonghan moved with careful precision. You could feel his heat behind you as he guided your body in the direction he wanted. Every movement was deliberate, every touch, a reminder of how much he knew you—how well he could make you bend to his will.

“I want you to remember this moment,” he murmured, his lips just grazing your neck, his breath warm and tantalizing. “You’re mine now. And you’ll take everything I give you.”

His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you back toward him with an intensity that made you gasp. You were caught between the heat of his touch and the unrelenting force of his presence. Every inch of your body was alive with anticipation, the air thick with the promise of more.

“I need you to understand something, though,” he continued, his voice dark, full of intent. “You’re not allowed to move unless I tell you. You’re going to feel everything I give you, and you’ll take it without hesitation.”

The way he spoke was like a command, and yet, the control he held over you was somehow freeing. It was the type of surrender that made you ache for more, made your body burn with the need to obey him.

You nodded, unable to form words, your body trembling with the desire to be touched, to be held, to be claimed completely.

Jeonghan’s hands slid over your back, firm and possessive, before his fingertips brushed the curve of your spine. He leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was deep, hungry, and full of everything unsaid between you. The world around you seemed to disappear in that kiss, leaving nothing but the fire that burned between the two of you.

“Let me lead you,” he whispered against your lips, his voice rough, almost desperate in its intensity. “Trust me.”

With one final gentle push, Jeonghan led you back to the couch, the place where it all began. He guided you with careful precision, his hands never leaving your body, always in control. But even in his dominance, there was a tenderness that made everything feel just right—like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

His lips were at your ear again, his voice low and commanding. “Tonight is mine, and you’re going to give me everything. All your trust and all of your desire. Everything.”

And as his lips brushed the soft skin of your neck, you realized just how far you were willing to go for him—just how much you were ready to surrender to the moment.

[leonarecs]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

i’m melting at the way he spoils her goodnight

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

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

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

DEANNN YOU BEAUTIFUL GENTLEMAN, COME SAVE THE DAY PLEASEE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

i’m hurting rn

mattheo when asked to explain his feelings for reader ^^

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

AWWWWSAGSDS HE’S SO CUTE

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Want me to feed you too, Ace.”

yes actually yes please

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

LMFAOOOOO my mind right now: daddydaddydaddydaddydaddydaddydaddydaddy 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

instantly i thought of this pic

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

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

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

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

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

call his ass out king

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

IT TOOK TWO SECONDS FOR HIM TO SNAP OMGGGNDGHG

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

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

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

that’s so fucking mean 

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

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

You had been the one to ask Dean. 

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

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

She will be loved

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who?” The one word spits bluntly. 

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

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

“Him?! Dean Thomas asked you?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How? What did he say?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

©️pizzaapeteer 2025

[nebularsung]

quiet mornings and latte arts | p.js

boyfriend!jisung x fem!reader

❝ a flirty barista pushes boundaries, sparking soft jealousy in your usually quiet, clumsy boyfriend, awakening a protective side you didn't know that existed. ❞

genre. fluff ⭑ word count. 3.8k+

content. jealous ji (my fav kind of ji), a very flirty and inconvenient barista, head over heels ji that does anything for you, just fluff actually!

Soft jealousy, sleepy mornings, and a little reminder of who really owns your heart.

It was a slow, golden Sunday morning—the kind that made the city feel like it was still tucked under the covers. The air was crisp, but not cold. Quiet enough that your footsteps echoed softly down the sidewalk. You turned the corner and entered the café, greeted by the familiar chime of the door and the warmth that always lived inside those walls.

Your favorite spot was free—the second stool from the end, tucked just enough to feel cozy without being hidden. You loved this place. You loved what it meant. You’d been coming here with Jisung since your first winter together, wrapped in scarves and shy glances. This place had seen everything—first dates, quiet arguments, soft reconciliations, sleepy-eyed mornings. It was your safe space. Yours and his.

But lately, someone new had been adding… flavour to the atmosphere.

“Look who’s back,” came the now-familiar voice, syrup-sweet and a little too smooth.

You looked up from your phone to see him—the new barista. All charm and dimples and a gaze that held a touch too long.

“Your usual?” he asked, already turning to start it.

“You remembered,” you replied with a small smile.

“How could I forget?” He flashed you a grin, and then added, “But if I got it wrong, you’ll have to punish me. Deal?” You laughed softly, mostly out of politeness.

He returned with your drink—perfect, as always—and this time, the foam was adorned with a heart. Not just any heart, either: two tiny initials carefully drawn inside it. Yours… and his.

“This one’s on the house,” he said, placing the cup down and sliding it toward you like it was a love letter. “You deserve something sweet today.”

You blinked, a little caught off guard. “Thanks…?”

“Anytime.” He winked. “Really. Any time.”

You left a bit embarrassed and with a coffee that suddenly felt very complicated.

Back home, Jisung was lounging on the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled down to his knuckles, the hood drooping over his eyes. His phone rested forgotten on his chest, and a soft instrumental played from the speaker—something gentle, something he probably made himself.

“Hey, babe,” you said, holding up your drink. “Guess what? Free coffee today.”

His eyes flicked to the cup. Then to you. He sat up slowly. “Free?”

“New barista said it was ‘on the house.’” You said it casually, watching him closely.

He gave a soft hum, barely a note of sound. “Nice of them.”

He didn’t say more—but you noticed the subtle shift in him. The slight crease between his brows. The way he suddenly had his hands shoved under his thighs like he was anchoring himself. He didn’t ask any more questions, but he didn't need to. You knew him too well.

The next day, you mentioned heading back to the café. You didn’t even finish the sentence before he was reaching for his jacket.

“I’ll come with you.”

You tilted your head. “Thought you hated their oat milk.”

“Maybe I’ll give it another shot.” He didn’t meet your eyes as he said it, but you caught the flush rising in his cheeks.

You just smirked. “Sure.”

The café buzzed with its usual morning rhythm, but the moment the two of you walked in together, everything seemed to shift.

Jisung’s hand found yours immediately—his fingers cool but firm. His thumb stroked the inside of your wrist like a nervous habit. You ordered together, and while you spoke, he leaned in close. His presence was unmistakable—quiet, grounding, but unmistakably there.

The barista turned around and paused when they saw you weren’t alone.

“Well, well,” he grinned, eyeing the hand on your waist. “Didn’t know you were bringing a plus-one.”

You offered a polite smile. Your partner said nothing, but you felt the small tightening of his grip.

“And what can I get for you, mystery man?” the barista asked, too sweet, too amused.

“Oat milk latte,” your boyfriend replied flatly, gaze steady.

“Oat milk?” the barista teased. “Bold choice.”

“He likes it bitter,” you said quickly, shooting your partner a glance—his eyes never left the barista.

As you moved to wait for your drinks, he pulled you subtly closer, arm now looped around your shoulders. The tension in his jaw was faint, but you could see it. His lips hovered close to your ear.

“Heart foam again?” he whispered.

You snorted. “Yours better be even bigger.”

When the drinks were handed over, there was no heart in the foam this time. No napkin note. No extra sweetness. Just two cups, side by side.

You stepped out into the sunlight, warm drinks in hand, and walked in silence for a while. His hand stayed in yours, thumb brushing over your skin again and again.

“Okay,” you finally said, nudging him with your elbow. “So… someone was feeling a little territorial there.”

He sighed through his nose, sheepish. “I wasn’t—”

“You absolutely were.”

A pause. Then he mumbled, “It’s just… that place is ours, y’know? And I didn’t like the way they looked at you. Like they could just walk into it. Into us.”

You stopped walking and turned to face him. He kept his gaze down, always a little shy when his feelings were too loud. But you reached for his face, cupped his cheeks gently.

“That café is ours. Our spot. Our memories. No one’s rewriting them unless we say so.”

He finally met your eyes, his cheeks flushed pink. There was a small knot of worry in his expression, but it was unraveling.

“Come on,” you said with a small smile, tugging him toward the café again. “Let’s go make some new memories. Window seat. Your playlist. My bad jokes.”

He laughed under his breath. “God, I love you.”

“And I love my quiet, jealous little coffee snob.”

Back at the café, the window seat was waiting. You shared headphones, drinks, stories you already knew just to hear each other’s voices. And this time, your cup had both your names scribbled in the corner—his handwriting.

Possession isn't always loud. Sometimes it's quiet hands and hard stares.

You thought it was over.

The drinks etched only with your names, the subtle yet unmistakable way your boyfriend had reasserted his place beside you. The quiet death of the barista’s flirty spark behind the counter.

But apparently… that was only round one.

It was two days later when you dropped by alone again—Jisung was holed up in the studio, headphones like armor over his ears, hunched over his desk with tired eyes and calloused fingertips stained with ink and half-finished lyrics. He hadn’t eaten. Barely spoken. You kissed the crown of his head and promised to bring him something warm, something sweeter than the stress he was drowning in.

You should’ve known something was off the second the bell chimed and the barista’s gaze landed on you like it was a secret you’d come back to share.

“Ooh,” he drawled, voice dripping with heat and honey, the kind that stuck to your skin. “Back so soon? Thought maybe you’d switched allegiances.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Didn’t see you yesterday.” He leaned on the counter like it was a casual thought, but his eyes didn’t waver. They slid over your face, pausing at your lips just a moment too long. “Figured you might’ve sold out to that soulless chain down the street.”

You gave a polite laugh, more amused than flattered. “Nah. Just busy. My boyfriend’s buried in work.”

“Ah,” he said knowingly, nodding like he had you all figured out. “The ever-elusive boyfriend. I don’t blame him, though. If I had someone like you waiting at home, I wouldn’t get anything done either.”

Your lips parted, somewhere between a laugh and a wince. “You’re bold.”

He grinned, lazy and too familiar. “I am.”

Your drink came with a heart again—bigger this time, taking up the entire surface of the foam. He slid it toward you, and with it, another napkin.

You barely read the message—something about being available if he ever gets too busy for you—before you folded it swiftly and shoved it into your pocket. Not because it meant something. But because it didn’t. Not really. Not when your heart was already home.

You didn’t say anything when you got back. Just handed Jisung the drink, kissed his temple, and slipped into your room to change. He murmured a tired thank you, lips brushing your wrist, his fingers curling weakly around the cup like he was already somewhere else.

But you should’ve known better.

He saw the foam. Saw the heart. And maybe you didn’t notice—but your hoodie smelled like the café’s cinnamon syrup and just the slightest hint of something else.

Too much attention.

That night, he said nothing. But the next morning?

He was already dressed, shoes on, waiting by the door like a quiet storm when you reached for your keys.

“You’re… coming with me?” you asked, surprised.

He nodded once. Calm. Soft.

Absolutely terrifying.

The café was quiet that early—just a few regulars, the gentle clink of ceramic, the hiss of milk being steamed. Peaceful, in theory. But when the two of you stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted like a held breath.

The barista turned, spotted you… and smirked.

“Well, well,” he said, tone sliding into a grin. “You brought the boyfriend again. I was starting to think he didn’t exist. That you were just playing a little—”

Jisung didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. Just stood beside you, hands tucked in his hoodie pocket, jaw set in that subtle, silent way of his—like he was anchoring himself from doing more.

“He exists,” you said simply, your voice firmer than usual. The tension wrapped around you like static.

The barista tilted his head. “So… your usual?”

“Two of them,” Jisung answered, before you could speak. His voice low. Steady. But unmistakably sharp. “But this time, I’ll watch you make them.”

The grin on the barista’s face faltered just a little.

“Oh? Don’t trust me?”

Jisung smiled—not wide, not warm. Just enough. A flicker of teeth, a warning in disguise. “I just want to make sure there aren’t any… extra messages being served.”

The barista arched a brow, leaning in. “If there are… maybe they weren’t meant for you.”

That’s when Jisung moved.

No words. No scene.

He just stepped in—slow, certain—and slipped his arm around your waist, his hand spreading warm and possessive at your hip. He pulled you into him, gently but without hesitation, as if to say, She’s mine. This is where she belongs.

“They’re always meant for me,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper, but weighty enough to ground you.

You looked up at him. His gaze never left the barista, but his fingers traced soft circles into your side—steadily, reassuringly. He wasn’t angry. Not really. He was staking a claim the only way he knew how. Not through volume. Through presence.

The drinks came—this time, plain. No hearts. No swirls. No notes folded like flirtation on a napkin. Just sealed cups. Precise. Polite.

You turned to leave, but Jisung’s hand lingered on your back.

“Hold on.”

He pulled a pen from his pocket—one of those thick studio pens he always carried—and scrawled something across the side of his cup. Then handed it back.

The barista took it, scanned it slowly, and his lips tightened.

Already taken. Forever. Don’t try again.

Outside, the air was crisp. The silence between you buzzed with unspoken things. You took a few steps before glancing sideways, unable to hide the grin pulling at your mouth.

“You don’t even like their oat milk.”

Jisung shrugged, eyes softening a little. “Didn’t need to. I just needed to remind him.”

You looped your arm through his. “You really think he stood a chance?”

He looked down at you, cheeks tinged pink, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“No,” he said, voice low. Honest. “But I’m not taking any chances with you.”

If he can’t beat the barista, he’ll become one. Eventually.

Later that evening, after the chaos had simmered down and the tension from the café had melted into something resembling laughter, the apartment settled into a quiet hum. Golden lamplight bathed the room in warmth, your favorite blanket draped over your legs as you curled into the couch, lost in the pages of your book. Outside, the city moved on, but here inside—everything had slowed.

You were halfway through a chapter when you felt the shift.

Jisung hovered in the doorway, half-shrouded in the shadow of the hallway. His hoodie swallowed most of him, sleeves tugged over his knuckles, hair tousled like he’d run a hand through it one too many times. His eyes flicked to you, then darted toward the kitchen, like he was unsure which direction to commit to.

You looked up, smiling. “Everything okay?”

He scratched the back of his neck, fingers lingering as if buying time. “I, uh… I was thinking.” His voice was soft, uncertain. “Maybe we don’t need the café anymore.”

You tilted your head. “Oh?”

“I mean—” He waved a hand, like the words were still forming as he spoke. “It’s been kinda… weird. And maybe I overreacted. Or maybe I didn’t. But the whole place doesn’t feel right anymore. Not after that. And I don’t want you walking in there and dealing with that energy just for a coffee.” He paused, breath catching for a second. “I want you to have something better.”

Your heart softened at the edges. He wasn’t just thinking about jealousy or pride. He was thinking about you. Your comfort. Your mornings.

“What are you saying?” you asked, closing your book fully now.

“I wanna make you coffee,” he said, a little too quickly. Then added, quieter, “Here. Like… every morning. From now on.”

You blinked. “You’re gonna become my personal barista?”

He nodded once, solemn and determined despite the obvious nerves tightening his shoulders. “Starting tomorrow.”

You bit back a grin. “You’re really serious about this.”

“So serious,” he mumbled, already turning on his heel before you could tease him more.

The next morning… was something else entirely.

You wandered into the kitchen still half-asleep, dragging your blanket like a cloak, hair a mess, and socks mismatched. But whatever dreams you had been floating through were quickly swept away by the chaos in front of you.

The kitchen looked like it had hosted a small, very polite explosion.

Jisung stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hoodie abandoned somewhere behind him. His hair was even messier than yours, sticking up in tufts like he’d been running his hands through it for hours. He held a milk frother in one hand, his phone balanced precariously on a stack of cookbooks, a how-to video playing quietly. The countertop was littered with sugar packets, half-spilled coffee grounds, two rejected mugs already in the sink, and what might have been a trail of cinnamon leading nowhere.

The air smelled like burnt espresso, desperation, and a hint of cinnamon vanilla—his favorite.

He turned at the sound of your steps, eyes wide and hopeful. But behind that hope was a sheepish, flustered sort of panic that was unmistakably him.

“I tried to do the little heart thing,” he admitted, motioning vaguely to the mug in front of him. “It, uh. Looks more like a butt.”

You couldn’t help it. You laughed—soft, affectionate. The foam was definitely… interpretive. A little too much swirl, a bit sunken on one side. But the drink was warm, fragrant, and most importantly, made by his hands. For you.

You took a careful sip.

It was… terrible.

Burnt. A little too bitter. Possibly brewed with salt instead of sugar. You weren’t entirely sure.

But he was watching you like a nervous golden retriever that had brought you a very mangled tennis ball, tail wagging but unsure if this counted as a good deed.

You smiled through the sip. “It’s perfect.”

Jisung narrowed his eyes. “You’re lying.”

“Absolutely,” you said with a small grin. “But I appreciate the effort.”

He groaned and collapsed forward, burying his face against your shoulder with a muffled groan. “I swear I followed the video exactly.”

You laughed and wrapped your arms around his waist, tugging him close. His body sagged against yours, warm and heavy, like he’d been holding up the world with caffeine and love and now he could finally exhale.

“You’re already better than that barista,” you whispered.

He mumbled something unintelligible into your neck.

You pulled back just enough to see his face, your hand brushing the messy fringe out of his eyes. “Wanna know why?”

He blinked at you, quiet, waiting.

“Because you’re doing this for me. Not to impress anyone. Not to win some stupid game. Just because you love me. That makes every sip taste better.”

His expression cracked wide open at that—eyes softening, a shy grin tugging at the corners of his lips like a flower blooming in slow motion.

“I’m gonna get it right,” he said, earnest. “Even if it takes a hundred tries.”

And over the next few days, he did.

One mug at a time.

There were a few near disasters—like the day he frothed milk too long and it exploded onto the cabinets, or the time he accidentally poured in orange juice instead of oat milk. But with each attempt, he learned. He adjusted. He grew.

He found a playlist that matched the rhythm of morning light. He learned to warm the mugs beforehand. He figured out how to swirl the milk just right, even if the hearts still sometimes looked like melting clouds.

And one morning—just as the first golden rays slipped through the blinds—he placed a mug in front of you with foam shaped into something charmingly lopsided, but unmistakable.

A heart.

You kissed him before taking a sip.

Later that week, the two of you curled up on the couch together—your legs tangled, his hoodie pulled over both of you like a makeshift blanket. He handed you a fresh mug, the foam swirled into… something.

“It’s supposed to be a cat,” he mumbled, cheeks pink. “But it might be a bear. Or a… puddle.”

You took a sip, leaned your head on his shoulder, and sighed. “It’s perfect.”

He wrapped his arms around you, tucking you close, his cheek pressed to your temple.

And in that moment, you knew:

You didn’t need the café.

You didn’t need the foam hearts or the passive-aggressive flirting.

You didn’t need anything but this.

Him.

Love is in the mornings you don’t want to leave the bed, and the coffees that taste like effort.

The house is quiet, save for the soft hum of the kettle and the distant, gentle beat of rain tapping on the windows. The sky is still tucked in sleep, painted in shades of pale lavender and steel blue, and everything outside feels like it’s holding its breath.

Inside, though—it’s warm.

Jisung’s standing in the kitchen again, barefoot on cool tiles, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows in that slightly clumsy way he always does it. He’s squinting at the milk frother like it personally offended him, brows furrowed, lips pursed in deep concentration.

You watch from the doorway for a moment, heart squeezing at how much he wants this to be right. Not because he needs to be perfect—but because he wants to give you something that feels like care, poured in steam and effort and quiet devotion.

He finally notices you, and the serious look on his face softens immediately. The way his eyes crinkle, the tiny, lopsided smile that appears—it’s all so him. A little awkward, a little unsure, but so full of love it nearly knocks the breath out of you.

“You’re up early,” he says, voice still raspy with sleep, like velvet rubbed the wrong way. “I was trying to surprise you.”

You pad closer, feet silent on the floor, arms wrapping around his waist from behind. You press your cheek to his back, breathing him in—coffee beans and cotton, warmth and him.

“You already do,” you murmur.

He turns in your arms, hands instinctively finding your waist. One of them is still slightly sticky from the syrup he was experimenting with. He doesn’t seem to notice.

“I wanted to try a new recipe,” he says. “Hazelnut vanilla, with a little cinnamon. I know it’s your favorite combo.”

You smile against his chest. “Did it turn out?”

A sheepish pause.

“…Kinda?”

You laugh softly, and it earns you a pout. He’s cute when he sulks, especially when he’s trying to impress you and it doesn’t quite land.

You kiss the tip of his nose. “I’ll love it even if it’s terrible.”

Ji mutters something about low standards, but his ears turn pink and he lets you pull him over to the couch while the kettle finishes heating. He hands you a blanket before settling beside you, your legs thrown over his lap, your body instinctively curling into the space he makes for you.

He pulls out his phone, scrolling through the video tutorial again like he’s studying for an exam. You watch him, amusement mixing with something deeper—gratitude, affection, a quiet awe for this man who keeps trying. Keeps choosing you, over and over, in a thousand tiny ways that never need to be loud to be meaningful.

Soon, the smell of fresh coffee fills the room.

He disappears into the kitchen for a few minutes, and you hear the clinking of cups, the telltale hiss of the frother, the light thud of a cabinet being closed too hard.

When he returns, he’s balancing two mugs, eyebrows furrowed, lip caught between his teeth.

“Don’t laugh,” he warns as he hands one to you.

You look down. The foam art is… abstract again. A little swirl, a weird heart shape that might’ve once had dreams of being a leaf. But it smells divine, and the warmth seeps through your fingers as you take your first sip.

It’s perfect. Not because it’s a barista’s masterpiece. But because it tastes like late nights and early mornings, like whispered I love yous in half-sleep, like the effort it takes to care for someone with your whole chest.

Your boyfriend watches your face, nervous.

You let out a happy sigh. “I’ve never had better.”

The relief on his face is almost comical, and you can’t help but laugh as he relaxes against you. He sets his mug down and wraps his arms around you from the side, lips brushing your temple, then your cheek, then just resting there, warm and soft.

“Next time,” he mumbles, “I’m gonna try the tulip design.”

You hum against him. “Even if it looks like a splat, I’ll still love it.”

He chuckles. “It probably will.”

You shift closer, tucking yourself into his arms, coffee resting on the arm of the couch, the rain outside still soft and steady.

“Maybe we should make this our thing,” you whisper. “Messy coffee mornings. Lazy, rainy days.”

His voice is low, wrapped in something gentle and real. “Yeah. I like that.”

And in that little corner of the world—just the two of you, tangled in blankets and the scent of cinnamon—you realize:

It doesn’t matter how the coffee turns out.

He’s already your favorite way to start the day.

☆ masterlist + notes. can you tell i got a bit carried away? it's just that... jealous ji is my favourite kind of jihsjdkdsjd

★ @lyvhie @spacejip @zhapire

[nhmkhnh]

caitlyn & vi x maid!fem!reader

preface: love it when you blush, when you are obedient.

author's note: i also have a bot about this topic, here! no heartbreaking, unless you want to.

wrn: lowercase, quite a dom!caitvi, sub!shy!reader

masterlist / janitor ai / c.ai / carrd

they live to fluster you. caitlyn will casually brush a lock of hair behind your ear while giving you a complicated order you barely understand. her voice is velvet, her gaze unflinching. meanwhile, vi walks by and slaps your behind like it’s tuesday. “you missed a spot, sweetheart,” she grins. you’re red from head to toe, and they absolutely eat it up.

they argue over who gets to tease you more. vi claims she gets priority because she’s the more “hands-on” type. caitlyn rolls her eyes, “darling, she blushes harder when i whisper.” you, in the middle of this chaos, holding a tray of tea and dying quietly inside.

they're both obsessed with how obedient you are. caitlyn gives you a command — “kneel and wait for us by the fireplace” — and you do, without question, palms folded in your lap. she almost forgets to breathe. vi catches her staring and just smirks. “i knew you liked her soft.”

vi tries to play it cool, but she's the biggest simp. one time you tripped and vi launched herself across the room to catch you. when you apologized for the mess, she went feral. “don’t you dare say sorry when you’re this cute.” then she proceeded to glare at the floor like it personally attacked you.

caitlyn is the soft but terrifying dom. she’s all polite smiles and gentle words, but her energy screams control. she’ll guide your chin up with one finger and whisper, “look at me when i speak.” you’ll freeze, breath hitching, and she’ll smile sweetly like she didn’t just melt your brain.

they secretly spoil you rotten. you don’t know where the silk nightgown came from (caitlyn), or who keeps stocking your favorite desserts (vi). you suspect something when vi calls you “princess” and caitlyn mutters, “she’s more of an angel.” they think you’re too shy to notice — you are, but still.

they both love seeing you get flustered… and praised. caitlyn will praise your posture, the way you serve tea, your loyalty. vi just says “good girl” and you’re out of commission. they live for that tiny whimper you make when they’re both looking at you like you hung the moon.

you’ve walked in on them talking about you more than once. you tried to quietly dust the shelves in the hallway but stopped dead when you heard, “she bit her lip again today.” “i know. i almost kissed her then and there.” you fled. they knew. you didn’t sleep that night.

they’re absurdly protective. some noble made a rude comment? caitlyn was icy enough to chill the room. vi cracked her knuckles and grinned like she was hoping for an excuse to fight. you clung to your tray and whispered, “it’s okay.” it was not okay. they made sure that noble never looked at you again.

they want to keep you — but they’re careful. for all their dominance and teasing, both caitlyn and vi are so careful not to cross your boundaries. caitlyn always asks, “is this alright?” vi pauses to gauge your comfort before getting too close. because at the end of the day, it’s not just about control — it’s about worshipping the sweet, loyal thing that you are.

[batsovergotham]

i don’t know who i am anymore pt 2

"You've got the costume. You've got the power. You're Spider-Woman. Act like it."🕷🕸️

Main!Mark Grayson x Spider-Woman! Reader

warnings: smut, some angst, fluff, yay flashback time!!!

w/c: 18.4k

a/n: this chapter isn't really crucial to plot I left it in because I promised there would be more fluff n smut

Your room is excessively neat. Too quiet.

The graduation gown sits from your closet like it’s criticizing you. The cap is on your desk, tassel still sealed in the tiny package the school handed you during final week. You haven’t taken it out yet. You kind of enjoy the concept that if you don’t touch it, it won’t be real. That maybe the day won’t happen.

Your phone buzzes. Mark.

> you up?

You grin before you realize you’re smiling.

> barely. do i have to wear the cap or can i just glue the diploma to my chest

Mark replies quickly.

> new fashion trend but yes ben will cry if you don’t do it correctly

You pause, then smile wider. Ben. And May. They’re going to be there.

You’re going separately from Mark. Not because you’re concealing anything, you’re not. You’ve mentioned him before. Told May he made you laugh. Told Ben he helped you with chem. They know his name. They knew his voice, from the day he picked you up after school and honked twice in the driveway while you ran out the door, blushing.

But you haven’t spoken it out loud. Not yet. He’s yours, but in the manner that doesn’t always require explaining. And today? Today doesn’t feel like the proper day to characterize it.

You text him back.

> you bringing tissues? i’m guessing you’re a crier

Mark texts back.

> bold of you to think i have human emotions wait hold on just made eye contact with my mom and now i’m crying in the kitchen

You laugh and type back.

> idiot

Mark shoots back a text.

> your idiot

You ride to the ceremony with May and Ben. Ben drives. May has the radio tuned to a station that’s only playing slow, melancholy graduation music from the early 2000s. You sat in the back seat, legs hopping, trying not to pick at your gown.

Ben peers at you in the rearview mirror. “You okay, kiddo?”

You nod. “Just… a lot.”

May turns to face you. “You’ve earned this. You hear me? All of it.”

You nod again, but your throat’s a touch too tight to speak anything more.

May smiles. “And hey. That kid you mentioned once or twice—Mark, right? He going too?”

You pause.

Then nod. “Yeah. He’ll be there.”

She raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t press.

Ben snorts. “Is that the one who almost took out a mailbox trying to parallel park?”

“Ben.”

“I’m just saying. Bold choice.”

You grin. And feel your nerves relax just a bit. You notice Mark from across the field.

He’s in line with the rest of the alphabetically arranged mayhem, his hat slightly awry, robe blowing in the breeze. He notices you the second you locate him, like his radar is tuned to you and you alone. He doesn’t wave. He just grins. You don’t wave either. You just grin back. And yet, that’s louder than anything else going around you.

You spot them before Mark does.

You’ve known Debbie and Nolan for a while, at least, in the casual way people know the parents of their close friends. There were awkward half-smiles in the pick-up line outside school, courteous welcomes and dinners on evenings where you’d help Mark study for Chem, the one time Debbie handed you a tissue at a parent-teacher conference because your sinuses were acting up and she “always kept some handy.”

She’s standing beneath a tree now, away from the rush of post-graduation mayhem, wearing her usual blue button up, grey jeans, her hair tied in a tight bun. She seems peaceful. Warm. Like someone who’s handled the camera at a thousand school events and never missed the moment that mattered.

Nolan’s beside her. Tall. Hands in his pockets. Sharp posture. Watching the audience with that softly attentive face of his that doesn’t offer much, but never feels unfriendly either.

You tap Mark’s arm. “Your parents.”

He follows your eyes, nods. “Right. Let’s go say hi.”

You move together, falling into step as always. But your heart’s racing quicker now. They don’t know yet. About you and Mark. Not really. You’ve been around. Been to his place. Had dinner with them. Laughed at Nolan’s dry comments about his novels. Helped Debbie clean the dishes once after Mark burnt the noodles.

But that was all under the guise of just friends. Now? Now it’s different. Now you and Mark have held hands in school hallways, snuck kisses behind gym buildings, murmured vows in late-night conversations about how college won’t change how you feel. You’ve spent months orbiting each other with the type of gravity that only pulls tighter the longer you remain.

And they’re about to find out. Debbie sees you first. Her face brightens up.

“Oh!” she exclaims, coming forward. “There’s my favorite graduate!”

You open your mouth to say something, but she hugs you before you can.

“You looked so grown-up on that stage,” she adds, hugging your shoulders before stepping back. “Made me tear up.”

Mark coughs. “Mom.”

She turns to him. “You too, sweetheart. Obviously.”

Nolan provides a modest nod. “Congratulations, both of you.”

“Thanks,” you say, and you truly mean it.

Debbie’s glancing between the two of you now. Her eyes narrow. Just a bit. You gaze at Mark. Mark glances at you. And then Debbie says it.

“…You two came here to hang out together?”

Mark nods. “Yeah.”

Debbie’s stare lingers. “And sat together?”

You nod. Her brows rise.

“And walked out of the ceremony together?”

Mark touches the back of his neck. “Uh. Yeah. We’re... we’ve been together for a while now.”

The silence isn’t heavy. It’s loud. In a warm, astonished kind of manner. Debbie blinks once.

Then she claps her hands together. “Finally.”

Mark’s head twitches. “Wait—what?”

Nolan lets out a low sigh that could be the ghost of a chuckle.

Debbie glows. “Oh, please. Did you honestly believe I didn’t know?”

You gaze at her. “You—what?”

She pats your shoulder, smiling. "Sweetheart, the way you look at him? That’s exactly how I used to look at his dad, back when he didn’t have so much gray."

Nolan clears his throat. "It’s not that bad."

She smiles lightly, unfazed. "Keep telling yourself that, silver fox."

Mark’s mouth opens. Closes. “You knew?”

Debbie shrugs. “I didn’t know-know. But I guessed. And I hoped. And now I know for real, so now I get to celebrate.”

Nolan eventually talks again. “You make him calmer,” he explains simply. “That’s not easy.”

You gaze at Mark, shocked. Mark, for once, has nothing to say.

Debbie goes closer and offers you another hug, softer this time. “We like you, okay? We liked you before. But now it’s official.”

You grin into her shoulder. “Thanks, Mrs. Grayson.”

“Debbie,” she corrects softly. “You can stop with the formal stuff.”

You pull back. Then Debbie turns to Mark and slaps his arm.

“Ow!”

“You could’ve told us.”

“I was going to!”

“After the ceremony doesn’t count.”

Mark moans. “I wanted to do it right.”

Nolan arches a brow. “Did you think this needed to be a thing?”

Mark shrugs. “I don’t know! I didn’t want to make it weird.”

“It’s not weird,” Debbie says. “It’s you. And it’s her. It makes sense.”

Mark glances at you. And in the midst of the grass, surrounded by yelling family, confetti, and the loud sound of someone’s off-brand speaker playing a graduation playlist, he smiles like the sun’s just shining on you.

You grab for his hand. He accepts it without hesitation. And Debbie doesn’t say anything. She only offers a glance that says, ‘Good.’ Nolan nods once again. And just like that, it’s real. They know. They approve. And you didn’t even have to explain.

You don’t stay long.

There are pictures to take, relatives to manage, and dinner arrangements with May and Ben. But before you go, Debbie makes you promise to come by next weekend for dinner,“Nothing fancy. I’m making spaghetti again. He can’t burn it this time if I’m supervising.”

Nolan presents you a graduation card. Doesn’t tell anything about what’s inside. But when you open it later in the vehicle and see the check, your mouth drops.

Mark just shrugs. “They like you.”

You and Mark sit on the hood of his car after nightfall, still in your gowns, still excited from the day. You put your head against his shoulder.

“I can’t believe they knew,” you whisper.

“I can’t believe my mom used the phrase ‘finally.’”

“She’s been rooting for us longer than we have.”

Mark laughs quietly. You turn your head to look at him. And he’s already gazing at you.

Mark shifts awkwardly, but his voice is steady. "I meant it. Whatever's next... I want you there with me."

You smile, a little breathless. "Good. 'Cause I wasn’t planning on doing any of it without you."

He leans in. And kisses you. Not rushed. Not performative. Just real. And sweet. And slow. And as he draws away, he lays his forehead against yours.

“Guess we’re really doing this, huh?”

“Guess so.”

And the world, which earlier felt unimaginably large, suddenly feels exactly the perfect size.

The bell over the restaurant entrance jingles as you go inside, shrill and high-pitched like it always is. It’s the same sound that’s welcomed you since you were ten years old, strolling in on muddy boots and sunburnt cheeks, pleading for pancakes and chocolate milk after soccer games you didn’t even win.

But tonight, everything sounds different.

Tonight, the air feels thicker. Softer.

Like it knows this is the final time you’ll come here as a high school student. As a kid, really.

May and Ben are already in the back booth. It’s the one they usually pick, the one with the view of the parking lot and the flickering neon sign in the window that still hums on humid evenings. Ben’s waving as soon as he sees you, beaming so broadly it makes his spectacles drop down his nose. May’s almost halfway out of her seat, reaching for you with both arms.

“There she is,” she says, drawing you into an embrace. “My brilliant, beautiful, officially-graduated girl.”

You squeeze her back, chuckling into her shoulder. “I didn’t trip walking across the stage.”

Ben lays a palm over his heart. “Truly, a miracle. She’s grown.”

You sneak into the seat opposite from him, your cap tucked under your arm, your graduation case still grasped like someone would take it back.

“I feel like I should get a trophy for surviving that many speeches,” you add, laying the certificate on the table.

May chuckles, eyes gleaming. “You did great. You seemed so calm up there.”

“I was internally screaming,” you acknowledge.

“Still looked good doing it,” Ben says.

You smile, soft, bashful. “Thanks, guys.”

A server drops by to deliver you menus, but you wave yours off. “I already know what I want.”

Ben laughs. “Same grilled cheese you’ve ordered since fifth grade?”

“Why mess with a classic?”

You slump back into the old vinyl of the booth, letting yourself breathe for the first time all day. The walls of the café are yellowed from time, and the linoleum flooring creak under sneakers when the crew goes by. A couple of toddlers are fighting about jelly packets at an adjacent table. The Coke machine hisses behind the counter. It’s all so natural.

And for a second, you forget you’re standing on the verge of something new.

The meal arrives swiftly. Grilled cheese, delicately crisped. Crinkle fries, shared between you and May. Ben’s burger is too huge for one hand, and he gets mustard on his shirt inside the first five minutes.

It’s perfect. Comforting.

“Flash tripped,” May says mid-bite, and you snort.

“I know. He almost took out three people with him.”

Ben shakes his head. “That boy’s gonna become a joke someday. I can feel it.”

You grin. “He already is.”

The laughing fades slowly, and for a minute, you all just eat in silence. Until May leans over and gently nudges the diploma case on the table.

“Feels real now, doesn’t it?”

You nod. “A little.”

Ben observes you closely. “How are you holding up?”

You pause.

And shrug. “Weird. Good-weird. A little afraid. Kinda floaty.”

“That’s about right,” he adds. “Floaty’s normal.”

“I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and it’ll still be senior year,” you say. “Like all of this is some long fever dream.”

May hums. “If it is, it’s a pretty good one.”

You nod, then peek out the window, watching the tail lights burn red in the parking lot, the streetlamp flickering along the sidewalk where you used to ride your bike in figure-eights.

They don’t bring up Mark right away. But you can feel it coming. The question is floating there, dangling in the gap between bits of food and sips of milkshake. And then, eventually, when May folds her napkin neatly next her plate, she says it.

“So... we saw Mark.”

You keep your focus on your fries. “Yeah?”

“Before the ceremony,” Ben adds. “He was with his parents. Looked nervous.”

You grin faintly. “He doesn’t like crowds.”

“He kept looking for you,” May adds gently.

You peek up, just for a second. You nod slowly. “Yeah. He did.”

That’s all you say. That’s all they want. They don’t push. And let it be.

The check comes. Ben attempts to wave it off. You grasp it. May intercepts. Eventually, the server just splits it without asking.

You stroll out onto the parking lot, the air heavy with that delicious, post-rain smell, concrete and fresh grass and something electric that always comes with summer nights. The wind plays with the edges of your robe, the cap clasped in your hands now instead of placed uncomfortably on your head.

May hugs you again, slower this time.

“You did it, kid,” she murmurs. “You’re already braver than I ever was.”

You put your face onto her shoulder. “You raised me. So that tracks.”

Ben pulls you into a hug after, tighter than usual. He doesn’t say anything. He just pats your back, then kisses the top of your head as he did when you were seven and skinned your leg on the concrete.

And then they hand you the keys.

“You’re driving?” you inquire.

“Just once,” Ben adds. “You earned it.”

You grin and take them.

The engine growls to life beneath your fingertips.

The headlights slashed across the lot.

May gets into the passenger seat, her hair gleaming white beneath the dashboard light. Ben gets into the back. You take the long way home, past the school, past the restaurant, past the park where you once fell off the swings because you were showing off for a boy you don’t even remember now.

No one talks much. But the calm is lovely. Real. Safe.

Later, you’re cuddled up in bed, cap and gown hanging on the back of your door, when your phone buzzes.

> how was dinner?

You type.

> good

Mark replies quickly.

> did they ask about me?

You reply just as fast.

> kinda. but i didn’t say anything. not yet. not because i’m ashamed of you or anything. just... because it still seems like ours. and i want to keep it for me a bit longer.

Mark replies.

> i’m yours anyway take all the time you need

You gaze at the screen.

And you know what it is to have something that no one else has to comprehend. Not yet. Not right now. Just something that exists between text messages and lingering stares and shared milkshakes after the sun goes set.

The first thing you notice when you come on campus is the loudness.

Move-in day is exactly what everyone told it would be, horns blasting, trolleys squeaking, parents hollering directions over one another, someone shrieking over a mattress that’s missing and another youngster who’s obviously already locked themselves out of their room.

The third level smells like paint, hot carpets, and too many expectations jammed into too-small apartments.

Mark’s lugging a package labeled “DO NOT CRUSH,” and you’re following him with a laundry hamper that should legally require a forklift.

“Third floor,” Mark mutters. “No elevator. Of course.”

“You’re the one who said we should take the stairs for the ‘real dorm experience,’” you huff. “I’m currently experiencing the early stages of spinal collapse.”

He flashes you a grin. “Worth it.”

You nearly drop the hamper on his foot.

Room 3B is already open.

Inside, the place looks like a battle zone, half-unpacked books, a rolled-up poster of Seance Dog, a lava lamp, and a desk strewn with receipts and takeout menus. Sitting in the center of it all, arms crossed, is a guy with thick wavy hair and a look like he’s just done analyzing your moral integrity.

“You’re late,” he says.

“Love you too,” Mark answers without skipping a beat.

You blink. William Clockwell stands, wiping chip crumbs off his shirt. “I was beginning to think you’d chickened out of college entirely.”

“Please. I’d never leave you unsupervised in a shared living space.”

“Wise. You’d come back to a fort built up of Pringles cans and overdue library fines.”

Mark drops the box on his bed with a bang and turns to you. “Meet William. My best friend since first grade. He’s a threat. Don’t trust him with your password or your Netflix account.”

William’s already eyeing you. Not in a scary way, more like a scientist exploring an unexpected variable.

You offer your hand. “Nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard... a lot.”

“All of it true,” William says, shaking it. “And most of it flattering. You, however... you’re the famed accomplice?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Accomplice?”

“The one who helped him pull off that science fair stunt in senior year?”

Mark moans. “Don’t start.”

“I still think that lava is a questionable project theme for teenagers.”

You laugh. “It was definitely not up to code.”

William grins. “I like you already.”

Move-in goes swiftly, surprisingly rapid, since Mark has the organizational skills of a dropped ice cream cone. You hang posters, plug in chargers, uncover his lost headphones tucked beneath a package of granola bars. William occasionally offers in color commentary, largely to keep Mark modest.

“You realize half your shirts are inside out, right?”

“I fold with my soul, not my hands.”

“You fold like a raccoon on Adderall.”

You like William. He’s got a sharp tongue, but there’s something stable behind it, something loyal. You can tell he’d go to war for Mark if he had to. Probably with a clipboard and a thorough sarcasm itinerary. Eventually, he leaves to call his parents, and the room falls quiet.

Mark crashes into the bed like a ragdoll. You sit on the edge near him.

“You okay?” you ask.

He nods. “It’s weird. I’ve known this was coming for years, and now that it’s here, I keep thinking I overlooked something.”

“Like what?”

He shrugs. “I dunno. Something back in high school. Some part of me that didn’t get packed.”

You smack your shoulder with his. “It’s probably wedged under your bed with all the missing socks.”

He snorts. “Probably. I’m glad you’re here.”

“I wasn’t going to miss this.”

“I mean... not just for move-in.”

You look at him. And he looks at you.

“I know you’re not living on campus,” he continues. “And I get why. But selfishly? I’m still gonna miss you.”

“You’ll see me all the time.”

“I’ll still miss you.”

You smile. Then lean in and kiss him, gently and assured. When William steps back in, he doesn’t even flinch. He only raises an eyebrow.

“Should I knock next time?”

Mark doesn’t flinch. “Probably.”

You draw back and stroke the bed beside you. “We were talking about how messy your half is.”

William grins. “A true bonding moment.”

Then he tosses a granola bar at Mark’s head. “Also, I stole your pillow. Yours smells like stress. Mine smells like ambition.”

Mark rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. And William’s smiling too. Because they’ve been doing this forever. And now? You’re part of it too.

The email enters your inbox at 8:03 a.m. on a Tuesday.

You’re sitting at the kitchen counter at May and Ben’s house, still in your pajamas, hair jammed into a sloppy bun and a bowl of cereal halfway to your lips when you notice the subject line.

OSCORP SCIENCE SUMMIT: TRAVEL DETAILS + FINAL PRESENTATION SCHEDULE

The spoon doesn’t make it to your mouth.

You gaze at the screen for a whole thirty seconds before you even open it. Then your heart does this odd fluttering thing like excitement and sickness got together and decided to have a party in your ribs.

You scan the first few lines.

It’s official. You’re going.

Three days, all-expense paid. Two nights at a hotel you’ve never heard of. Formal dress necessary. Your name is on the list of junior interns presenting in the Friday morning breakout session titled: Next-Gen Bio-Application Engineering: Theoretical Pathways to Active Adaptives.

Which is a clever way of saying “the tiny tech you helped patch together on week two might actually be used in something real someday.”

You scroll down deeper and freeze at the sentence in bold.

"Guest passes available. Bring someone to support you."

You reread it. Then again. And one more time, like the words may transform into something else if you stare too closely. Your brain’s already finished the thought before you do. Mark.

You wait to bring it up. Not because you’re worried he’ll say no. You know him. He would say yes to everything you asked, even if it included three hours of lab lectures and the world’s most terrible folding chairs. No, the reluctance isn’t about doubt.

It’s about timing. Because college is already its own type of storm. You’re commuting. Juggling. Oscorp in the mornings, courses in the afternoons, late-night homework cuddled up on the couch with Ben napping in the next room and May softly bringing you tea without asking if you’re overwhelmed. Because she knows. Of course she does.

Mark, on the other hand, is living dorm life, fully absorbed. Sharing a room with William, childhood best buddy and snark personified. Navigating early lectures, social circles, and the continuous circle of dining hall food complaints. You see him virtually every day, sometimes between classes, sometimes beneath the quad tree you informally claimed in week one. You bring food. He brings coffee. It works.

You just haven’t found the right time yet. Not till Friday night.

His dorm is noisy when you come. Not party-loud. Just friends in college-loud. William’s got music playing, something instrumental, symphonic and dramatic and slightly sci-fi, and he’s rearranging the bookcase with the seriousness of a man prepping for combat.

Mark greets you at the door with a grin and a bag of peanut M&Ms. You collapse on his bed. He sits next you, half on, half off, long legs splayed out, shoulders crushed to yours. William barely looks over.

“Tell me you’re here to stop him from putting his entire sock collection under the bed.”

“I’m here for the candy,” you reply. “The sock situation is between you two and your God.”

Mark laughs. “It’s fine. I just lost, like, three.”

William tosses a book onto the shelf with a thump. “He’s making a sock graveyard and calling it neat.”

You grin, but it flickers. Because now the moment is arrived. And your heart’s already straining to race ahead of your words. Mark notices quickly.

He leans in a little. “What’s up?”

You grab your phone from your sweatshirt pocket and deliver it to him, the email still open on the screen. He scans it rapidly.

“Wait—this is... you’re presenting? At a science conference?”

You nod.

“I thought Oscorp just had you cleaning stuff and filing data sheets.”

“I did,” you say. “Until they realized I actually know how to think.”

He glances up. “That’s huge.”

“Yeah,” you answer gently. “It kind of is.”

He keeps reading, eyes searching the lines until he reaches to the bold one. 'Guest passes available. Bring someone to support you.' He glances at you. You try not to fidget.

“I was going to ask,” you say, a bit too hastily. “I mean, it’s just a couple days. You’d get a badge and everything. Probably sit through boring panels, but there’s a mixer night and some showcase things. And the hotel has free breakfast. I think.”

He’s already nodding.

“Wait—really?”

“Of course.”

You blink.

“That was fast.”

Mark lays the phone aside and nudges your knee with his. “You’re kind of a big deal. I want to see you be a big deal.”

Your face gets heated.

William clears his throat without glancing over. “I’m emotionally moved. Truly. Let me know when to trigger the romantic strings.”

Mark flips a pillow at his face. “You’re not invited.”

William catches it midair. “Wouldn’t go. Too many scientists. I prefer my heartbreaks abstract.”

You and Mark broke out laughing. Later, after William’s gone to the lounge to microwave something, and Mark’s sweeping crumbs off the blanket, you lean against him again.

“You’re really okay with going?”

“More than okay.”

“I might be a mess.”

“I’ll bring tissues.”

“I might drag you into science debates.”

He shrugs. “You’ll win.”

“I might panic the morning of.”

Mark leans down and joins his fingers with yours.

“Then I’ll be there. Exactly when you need me.”

You grip his hand. And for the first time since the email arrived, you genuinely believe it.

The suitcase won’t close.

You press down with both hands, knees braced against the side of Mark’s dorm bed, biting your bottom lip like somehow that’ll make the zipper listen. It doesn’t. Mark steps in just as you let out a noise halfway between a moan and a battle cry.

“Need help?”

“No,” you reply between tight teeth. “Yes. Absolutely. I’m a disgrace to physics and rubix cubes.”

He grins, lays his coffee down on the desk, and crosses the room. You sit back and let him take charge. He doesn’t even flinch at the amount of clothes flowing over the edge.

“What did you bring? Five days’ worth of clothes for a three-day trip?”

“I need options.”

He raises an eyebrow. “How many ‘options’ are made of this much wool?”

“That’s my presentation blazer.”

“You brought three.”

“They’re different colors!”

He manages to pull the zipper halfway when one corner of a collar gets hooked, and he groans in feigned discomfort. “This feels like a test.”

You smirk. “It is.”

“You’re evil.”

“And yet here you are, helping me.”

He gets the bag closed on the third time, straightens himself, and mock-wipes perspiration off his forehead. “That’s love.”

“Don’t think I didn’t see you slip an entire shoebox of chips into your backpack.”

“Conference food is a lie and I refuse to starve.”

You giggle, then slump back onto the bed. Mark lies alongside you, the springs squeaking slightly beneath his weight. From across the room, William speaks out without turning away from his laptop. “For the record, this is the most hetero rom-com shit I’ve seen all week.”

“Thank you, William,” you say without raising your head.

“I strive for accuracy.”

Mark rolls his eyes. “Ignore him.”

“Oh, I do. Daily.”

William flicks a pencil into the air and catches it. “Try not to make a scene at the conference. I don’t want to get a call stating you threw your jacket at someone during a panel discussion.”

“Only if they deserve it.”

Mark tilts his head toward you. “You nervous?”

You shrug. “A little. I mean, it’s Oscorp. And I’m not even technically a complete intern yet. I’m still under review.”

“You’ve got this.”

“You have to say that. You’re legally bound as my supportive moral rock.”

He leans forward, pressing a kiss on your temple. “Yeah. But I also mean it.”

You close your eyes. Breathe in. And for a second, the anxieties settle. That night, you stop by May and Ben’s to grab the remainder of your belongings. Your trip suitcase sits on your bed, folded clothing pouring out like your closet burst in slow motion. May leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you with that mom expression, fond and amused and somewhat frightened.

“That’s a lot of clothes for three days.”

“I need backup outfits. Blazers. Professional things. Emergency snacks.”

“You sounded like me before my first teaching conference.”

You turn, holding up two virtually identical coats. “Be honest. Which says ‘young but intelligent up-and-comer’ and not ‘sweaty undergrad who could faint during Q&A’?”

May tilts her head. “The one on the left. But bring both. Just in case.”

You grin and slip both into your carry-on.

Ben pops his head in a minute later with your printed itinerary. “Highlight the address. And the emergency number. And don’t eat anything off of a strangely unmarked buffet tray.”

“You’re projecting,” you mumble.

Ben winks. “Yes. Because I once had food poisoning at a tech convention and had to lie down under a folding table for two hours. Don’t repeat my sins.”

You giggle, then grab for your charger and zip up the final bag.

May steps closer. “You’re ready for this, you know.”

“Yeah?”

She nods. “You’ve been ready for a while. You’re just now having the room to prove it.”

You feel something constrict in your neck. “Thanks.”

“Take notes. Make eye contact. And for the love of God, don’t drink coffee before you speak.”

“Not even one cup?”

She raises an eyebrow.

“...Half a cup?”

“Fine. Half.”

Ben tosses in, “You call us if anything weird happens. If the hotel’s suspicious or they lose your badge or you feel weird, you call.”

“I will.”

You mean it. You embrace them both at the door.

May lingers just a little longer, smoothing your hair back and whispers, “I’m proud of you.”

The airport is pandemonium. You anticipated it to be bad, it’s early morning, middle of the week, and every airport is full with business travelers and Oscorp interns in wrinkled blazers, but this? This is something else. The type of travel day that makes you rethink every decision that lead to this point.

You and Mark make it through security fairly unhurt, though your tote bag gets flagged and they yank out your backup phone charger like it’s a nuclear weapon. He laughs to the TSA agent about you being a “dangerous scientist” and you answer by flicking his ear once you’re free of the conveyor belt.

“I’m never traveling with you again,” you murmur, shouldering your suitcase.

“Bold of you to assume I won’t save your life at least twice on this trip,” he answers with a grin.

It’s still early enough that your mind feels hazy, like your ideas are wrapped in fog. But you’ve got your boarding pass, your coffee, and the boy who makes you forget your own tension standing beside you, so you can’t complain too much. Not out loud, anyhow. You board in group C.

No frills. No improvements. Just economy seats, an air freshener that smells like lemon floor cleaner, and exactly six wailing babies within hearing range. You slide your carry-on beneath the seat, buckle your belt, and peek sideways. Mark's already glancing out the window, fingers tapping softly against the armrest. His leg is bouncing. He hasn’t even taken off his bag yet.

“You okay?” you ask.

He startles. Just a bit.

Then nods. “Yeah. Just... not a big fan of flying.”

You tilt your head. “Really?”

He shrugs. “I mean, I’ve done it. Vacations. Visiting family. But it’s never... comfortable.”

You nod, taking him at his word. There's something weirdly appealing about the idea that Mark Grayson, your easygoing, always-has-a-snack boyfriend, gets frightened on an airplane.

“Do you want the aisle instead?”

“No,” he responds hastily. “I’m good here. Just... could be quiet for a bit.”

You smile. “I won’t hold it against you.”

You reach over and hold his hand, giving it a slight squeeze. He squeezes back. Doesn’t let go. Takeoff is tough. The normal lurch. The little dip. The odd quiet before the engines scream.

Mark holds the armrest with his free hand, mouth tight. You keep your eyes on the window, chatting gently about absolutely anything else, how bizarre the hotel itinerary was, if Oscorp really required four distinct lanyard colors, whether your presentation slide backdrop is too dark for a morning panel.

By the time you achieve cruising altitude, he’s breathing easier.

“Still with me?” you ask.

He nods. “Yeah. Just... odd to not have control, you know?”

You don’t question it. You don’t realize how much that statement means to him. Not yet. You fall into a groove. You bring out your laptop to examine your presentations for the tenth time. Mark pulls out a sketchpad. He claims he brought it for note-taking, but you know better. About half an hour in, you peek over and discover he’s sketching. You’re not surprised, he’s usually doodling on discarded napkins or the margins of lecture notes, but this sketch is different.

It’s you.

Focused. Half-turned toward the window. Elbows on your tray table, face lighted by the illumination of your laptop.

“You’re drawing me again,” you mumble.

Mark doesn’t look up. “You always make a good subject.”

“Flattering.”

“Factual.”

You smirk, but you don’t push. You just let him sketch. There’s something calming about it. Something grounding. You go back to your slides. You make a few notes.

And when you put your head against the window a short time later, you close your eyes and let the hum of the engine cloud everything else. The open seat fills around forty minutes in, middle-aged man, Bluetooth headphone, travel pillow that smells like a retirement home. He nods pleasantly and instantly falls asleep with a snoring. You and Mark gaze at each other. His lips twitch. You mouth, help me.

He grins and inserts one earpiece into your palm. “White noise playlist. You’re welcome.”

You grab it and lean toward him. He doesn’t move away. Somewhere over the mountains, you start chatting about Oscorp.

“I don’t want to screw this up,” you mumble. “It’s my first real shot at being taken seriously in the field. And I’m not even a complete intern yet. If I mess up this presentation...”

“You won’t,” he adds simply.

“You can’t know that.”

“I do,” he answers. “Because you’re better at this than anyone else in that building. And so even if you trip over your words or forget what slide you’re on, they’re still going to remember you.”

You gaze at him.

“Because I’m a mess?”

He grins. “Because you’re the kind of mess that builds things.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to. You just let your hand slip into his again, and hold on.

When the flight attendant passes with beverages, you both grab ginger ale. You divide a bag of pretzels. You make silly jokes about cloud forms. He sketches a bit more, this time a window full of stars and a silhouette that looks disturbingly like you.

You rest your head on his shoulder after that. He leans into you. And you doze there, someplace between time zones, somewhere above everything else. The instant you step out of the gate and into the rush of arrivals, you feel it. Not simply the dry, over-conditioned airport air or the soreness in your shoulder from carrying your bag but the prickling awareness that something’s going to happen.

And then you see him. Tall. Hair blown from the breeze flowing in via the automated doors. Expensive sunglasses sat on top of his head. One hand in his pocket, the other carrying a tablet. Leaning nonchalantly against a pillar like he’s posing for a GQ piece he pretends he doesn’t know he’s in.

Harry. You halt mid-step. Your heart leaps.

“Holy crap,” you murmur.

Mark glances at you. “What is it?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. You’re already moving. You run to him. Not fast. Not theatrical. Just real. Like your body chose before your mind did. Harry glances up just in time. And suddenly your arms are around him.

“Whoa-!” He drops the tablet, startled, but then he’s holding you back, tight, one arm around your waist and the other wrapped protectively behind your head.

“God, you’re alive,” you whisper into his shoulder.

Harry laughs, shaky and full of something old and familiar. “I’m alive? You’re the one who vanished into Oscorp’s basement for six months.”

You don’t let go right away. Neither does he. When you eventually move back, your hands are still on his arms, and his are still ghosting over your ribs like he’s terrified you could disappear again.

“You’re taller,” you say.

“You’re lying.”

“You look exhausted.”

“Okay, that one’s fair.”

He grins. And you realize you missed that grin more than you realized. Mark approaches a few seconds later. He doesn’t interrupt. But you sense him standing there. Close, quiet. You turn to him, cheeks heated.

“Mark, this is Harry. Harry, this is Mark.”

Harry reaches out a hand. “Harry Osborn.”

Mark shakes it. “Mark Grayson.”

There’s a beat. Then Harry’s smile curves just a bit. “Boyfriend, right?”

Mark blinks. “Uh. Yeah.”

You nod swiftly. “Yeah.”

Harry glances at you. Then at Mark.

“Cool,” he says. Smooth. Even. Nothing in his speech gives anything away. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Mark’s jaw tics once. “Same.”

You fold your arms, still beaming, trying not to jump on your heels. “What are you doing here? I thought you were upstate for prep.”

“Was. Came back yesterday night. They required someone to organize arrival. I volunteered.”

You blink. “You volunteered to be my glorified chauffeur?”

Harry shrugs. “I’m owed a few favors. Plus, I get to make you uncomfortable for the next three days. Win-win.”

You laugh. It’s the type of chuckle that leaves you a bit breathless. And behind you, Mark adjusts his weight. Harry notices. Of course he does. He tilts his head, gaze moving between the two of you. His smile doesn’t fade, but it steadies. Calibrates.

“You guys get any sleep on the flight?”

“A little,” you say. “He passed out. I went over my slides till I hated them.”

“Typical.”

“I’m very productive when miserable.”

“Is that why you did all your AP Chem homework during a stomach bug in eleventh grade?”

“Don’t remind me.”

Harry turns to the luxury car sitting at the curb. “Come on. I’ve got the luggage already loaded. Hotel’s fifteen minutes out.”

The ride is quieter. You and Harry talk, filling the stillness with inside jokes and tiny recollections. Mark listens. He doesn’t insert himself, doesn’t attempt to compete. But you can sense him thinking. When you gaze at him, he grins. But it’s a touch tighter than normal. Outside the hotel, Harry pulls your bag from the trunk before you can resist.

“Still allergic to letting people carry things for you,” he says.

“Still refusing to let me pull my weight.”

“That’s because you’re still made of string cheese and spite.”

You smack his shoulder. Mark lingers at your side. You can almost hear the silent question emerging.

Harry glanced at the check-in counter. “I’ll go confirm your rooms.”

And suddenly he’s gone. You and Mark are alone again. And the quiet between you is weighted.

“You okay?” you ask quietly.

Mark nods. “Yeah. Just... I didn’t know how close you two were.”

You pause.

“We’ve known each other since kindergarten,” you say. “He’s family. Not in a romantic way. Just... he’s always been there.”

Mark nods again. But he doesn’t say anything else. You grab his hand. He takes it. And squeezes. But his eyes linger on the door Harry just disappeared through. You gaze at your reflection for longer than you mean to.

Your hotel room mirror is too clean, too harsh under the LED lights. Your hands are firm, but only because you’ve previously practiced every action five times. Blazer on. Lip balm. One final breath. You look nice. You look prepared. You don’t feel prepared.

The presentation isn’t till tomorrow, but Oscorp’s giving a formal supper tonight to welcome all their younger researchers, mentors, and visitors. A pre-conference “casual professional” gathering. The sort that’s theoretically optional, but not really. You know better than to skip it.

Mark is waiting in the hallway when you step out of your room. He glances up and genuinely blinks.

You halt, feeling self-conscious. “Too much?”

He shakes his head, slow. “No. You look...”

You raise a brow.

“...Insanely smart,” he finishes. “Like someone who’s way too smart for me and could prove it without even trying.”

You laugh. “That’s the goal.”

He extends out his arm. You link yours through his. And together, you head down. The banquet space Oscorp leased is obnoxiously lovely. Soft jazz sounds over ceiling speakers. Waiters in black vests hover around offering trays of sparkling water and bite-sized fusion dishes no one can recognize by look alone. The house smells like fresh carpet and expensive aftershave.

You see Harry almost immediately. He’s toward the front of the room, speaking with an older man in a fitted three-piece suit. He catches your eye mid-sentence, and his smile transforms instantaneously. Real. Bright.

He excuses himself, strides directly for you.

“Damn,” he exclaims, grabbing you into a hug. “You clean up good.”

You laugh. “You’ve seen me in a lab coat and stained hoodies. This isn’t a high bar.”

Mark stands next to you, quiet, smiling as nicely as he can.

Harry turns to him. “Grayson.”

“Osborn.”

They shake hands. It’s not unfriendly. But it’s not warm, either.

“Glad you could make it,” Harry adds, his tone level.

Mark nods. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

You feel it. The weight of their words. The way they glance at each other for a second too long.

You cut in swiftly. “Are we sitting? Or do I have to elbow someone for a table?”

Harry grins again. “Come on. I reserved you a spot.”

You’re seated between them. Harry on your right, Mark on your left, the table full of Oscorp interns and mid-level academics sipping wine like it’s just grape juice and mumbling names you dimly know from science papers.

Mark doesn’t speak much. He listens. Observes. His hand keeps resting on his thigh. Yours finds it midway through the appetizers. Harry’s talking to someone across from you about your project as if he developed it himself. He name-drops your work with ease, familiarity, even pride.

You’re not sure if it’s flattering or suffocating.

“You should’ve seen her in the early stages,” he continues. “She caught a pattern in the test batches that even the senior team missed. Half of the engineering pivot happened because she caught it first.”

The researcher, someone named Dr. Li, nods appreciatively. “Impressive.”

Mark glances at you. You grasp his hand under the table.

Dinner is a flurry of voices and clinking glass.

Harry chats. Laughs. Teases you. Reminds you of the time you blew up a beaker in tenth grade chem and attempted to blame it on a draft. Reminds you of when you fell asleep in AP Bio and drooled over your textbook. You laugh along. But you can feel Mark’s quiet. Not cold. Just... distant. He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t challenge. He doesn’t lean in or crack jokes the way he typically does. When the dessert comes, some fancy chocolate swirl with a name you can’t pronounce, he finally moves near.

“You okay?” he whispers. You gaze sideways.

“I think so.”

“You seem quiet.”

You hesitate.

Then. “You do too.”

He smiles, warm and crooked. “Just watching.”

You push your knee against his under the table.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

He glances at you.

“I am too.”

The night finishes gradually. People wander out. Harry sticks behind to chat with a few execs. You and Mark stroll outside into the quiet hotel courtyard, where the air is cooler and the lights are dimmer. You lean on a railing. He stands by you.

“I think I’ve eaten seventeen thousand calories in stress,” you say.

Mark laughs. “Worth it.”

You gaze up at him.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

You nudge him. “You sure?”

He nods. “It’s just weird.”

“What is?”

He exhales, brushing a palm over his face. “Seeing you like this. In your element. With people who’ve known you forever. And I’m... the new guy.”

You step in closer. “You’re not just the new guy.”

Mark looks at you. Really looks. And the anguish flickers there for only a second.

“You hugged him like you forgot I was there.”

You blink. “ Mark-”

“I get it,” he says. “You guys have history. I’m not trying to damage that. I just... I think I didn’t expect to feel so on the outside.”

You swallow. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“I want to be.”

He leans on the railing now, viewing the stars. You stand beside him. And say nothing. Because it’s not about jealousy. It’s about space. And who fills it. And who doesn’t.

You barely speak a word during the elevator ride. The silver doors glide shut with a gentle hiss, trapping you and Mark in with mirrored walls and soft overhead lighting that makes your reflections appear like strangers.

Your feet hurt. Your head is noisy. And you can sense him standing just slightly aside from you, not far, not frigid, but... far enough to notice. The elevator dings quietly. You lead the way out. Room 1024. Your room. You key in gently and enter inside, the subtle click of the door behind you making the whole suite feel 10 times quieter than it did this morning.

Mark follows you in, letting the door close gently behind him. You kick off your shoes. Your blazer lands on the back of the desk chair. He waits near the doorway, arms folded, watching you move.

“I’m gonna shower,” you say gently. “Wash the Oscorp off.”

Mark nods.

You disappear into the restroom before he can say anything else. You stand under the hot water until your fingers wrinkle. Not because it’s chilly. Not because you’re exhausted. Because it’s all finally catching up to you.

The dinner. The pressure. Harry’s return. Mark’s peaceful remoteness. Tomorrow’s presentation.

You’ve been holding it together all day, smiling, nodding, networking. Laughing too loud as Harry taunts you. Squeezing Mark’s hand under the table to make up for all the words you didn’t know how to speak out loud.

And now? You’re just... afraid. The type of afraid that doesn’t always have words. When you emerge out of the restroom in an enormous Oscorp T-shirt and bare feet, Mark’s still awake.

He’s sitting on the side of the bed, scrolling absently through something on his phone, hair unkempt from running his fingers through it too many times.

He glances up when he hears you.  And grins. Small. Tired.

You sit next him. He puts the phone down.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble.

Mark turns slightly. “For what?”

You gaze at your hands.

“For hugging him like that. For making you feel like a third wheel. I didn’t mean to.”

Mark doesn’t answer right away. But he doesn’t move away either.

“I’m not mad,” he says finally.

“I know.”

“It’s just... hard to feel like I’m still catching up. Like you and he share a language I don’t speak.”

You nod slowly. “We kind of do.”

He glances at you. You don’t flinch.

“I wasn’t easy to be friends with. I was awkward, and weird, and talked too much about things no one cared about. I wasn’t-” you swallow, blinking fast, “I wasn’t the kind of person people stuck around for.”

Your throat tightens, but you push through it.

“But he did. Even when he didn’t have to. Even when everyone else grew up and got cooler and louder and better… Harry never treated me like I was something he’d outgrown.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting for steady breath.

“When I bombed that exam and thought it meant I’d never be good enough… when Flash made me feel like I was nothing… When I hated even looking in a mirror, Harry was the one who showed up. He didn’t try to fix it. He just sat there. Just stayed.”

You finally glance up, and it’s harder than you expect, because Mark’s there, listening. Really listening.

“I’m not… I’m not saying it like it’s some big thing. I just-” your voice wavers, fragile and messy, “I guess I’m scared. That maybe… if people could outgrow me back then… it could happen again.”

You blink hard, shoulders stiff, trying to pretend like you’re fine. But your voice is too small when you add, almost too soft to hear.

“I don’t wanna lose you too.”

Mark doesn’t interrupt. You suck in a breath, trying to steady yourself. Mark doesn’t say anything at first. He doesn’t have to. He’s sitting close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, solid and steady and right there. Not moving away. You drop your eyes to the comforter again, cheeks burning for a whole new reason.

“And just so you don’t get the wrong idea…” you mumble, your voice low but honest, “I don’t feel that way about Harry. I never have.”

The words sit there for a second, heavier than you meant them to be.

You risk a glance up, half-expecting him to look mad or jealous, but Mark’s just… looking at you. Soft. Real.

“He’s my best friend,” you add, quieter. “But you’re… different.”

You don’t know if he hears the full meaning of that. You don’t even know if you could say it out loud yet. And he stays right there. He hesitates.

“You sure about that?”

You glance up. Not defensive. Just honest.

“I know what I feel. And it’s not for him.”

Mark scans your face. Then nods.  And eventually relaxes a little. You cuddle into the pillows. Mark lays alongside you. Not touching yet. But close. The hotel room is quiet save for the hum of the air vent and the faint shuffling of linens. You pull the cover up to your chin and look at the ceiling.

“I’m scared,” you mumble.

Mark doesn’t pretend not to hear you.

“Of tomorrow?”

“Of messing up. Of freezing. Of speaking the wrong thing. Of them realizing I’m just a kid who got lucky.”

He turns toward you.

“Hey.”

You don’t look at him.

“You’re not lucky,” he adds gently. “You’re good. You worked for this. You earned it.”

You still don’t speak. So he leans out and takes your hand. And suddenly you can breathe again.

“You’re going to get up there tomorrow,” he adds. “And you're going to do exactly what you’ve always done, blow people away and forget that they scare you the moment you start talking.”

“You make it sound easy.”

“Because I believe in you.”

You eventually gaze at him. And he’s still gazing at you. Like you’re the only thing that matters.

In a bit, the lights go out. The city lights dimly through the drapes. You lie in the dark, eyes open. Mark’s breathing is steady. You shift closer.

Your fingers are still tangled loosely with his beneath the blanket, and you finally glance at him, heart doing its awkward little somersault thing when you catch how soft his expression looks. He must feel you staring, because he turns his head a bit and meets your gaze.

“I didn’t know how to bring it up. With Harry and everything.” you murmur.

He exhales, long and slow. “I didn’t wanna say anything either. I mean, it's not like I didn’t trust you or whatever. It just… felt like I was watching something I wasn’t part of.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek for a second. “I get it. If I were you, I’d have felt the same way.”

Mark’s mouth quirks, almost a smile. “I was sitting there next to you, nodding along like an idiot while Harry’s talking about the time you both got banned from a Six Flags for hacking the rollercoaster music system.”

You groan, pressing your face into the blanket. “That was one time. And we didn’t get banned, we got strongly discouraged from returning.”

He laughs, and it’s real now, quiet, but warm. “I dunno. He made it sound like they were gonna put your faces on a watchlist.”

You grin against the sheets, heart hammering a little too fast again, but not from embarrassment anymore. From something else. Something hopeful. You lift your face, your voice going soft again.

“You know none of that means anything, right? I mean… not like this means something.”

His eyes meet yours, and they’re so open it almost knocks the breath out of you.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know now.”

The silence between you tightens again, but this time it’s charged in a completely different way. You shift a little closer, your thigh brushing his under the blankets. His fingers curl tighter around yours. Your voice comes out smaller than you expect.

“Can I… kiss you?”

Mark’s eyes widen just a little, his breath catching. Then he nods, barely more than a breath. “Yeah. Definitely.”

You lean in slowly, your pulse a roar in your ears, every nerve in your body dialed up. You’ve never been good at this. Kissing. Intimacy. It’s not that you haven’t wanted it. You’ve just never been sure how to get there. But Mark’s there, waiting, and when your lips meet his, it’s soft. Gentle. More of a brush than a kiss. You pull back, half-expecting to have fumbled it, but he’s already chasing after you with a smile.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “Come back.”

You do. The second kiss lingers longer. Still soft, but with more intention. Your nose bumps his and your hand accidentally catches his chest in a weird, flat-palmed way that makes you both laugh against each other’s mouths. It’s not perfect. It’s better. It’s you.

He kisses you again, and this time you relax into it, fingers finding his shirt and curling there for something to hold onto. His lips move against yours like he’s not in a rush but doesn’t want to stop either. You part your lips, testing the waters, and when his tongue brushes yours, it sends a thrill down your spine you didn’t expect. You make a small sound, a surprised, involuntary gasp, and Mark pulls back just a little, checking your eyes like he's making sure you’re still with him.

“You okay?” he asks, voice husky, his hand sliding up to cradle the side of your face.

You nod, breathless. “Yeah. Just… new.”

His smile softens into something tender. “That’s okay. We can go slow. I’m not going anywhere.”

You nod again, your hand now sliding under the edge of his shirt, fingers brushing the bare skin of his side. It’s warmer than you expected. He leans in again, kissing you deeper now. You shift closer, until your leg is draped over his, your chest pressed lightly to his, and god, the way it feels to have his body against yours makes your brain completely short-circuit.

You don’t even realize how much time has passed, how many kisses. Everything’s a blur of soft mouths, breathless sounds, hands that explore in halting, reverent paths. He’s not rushing. He’s matching your pace, like he’s reading your mind. Every movement, every graze of his thumb on your cheek or the slow drag of his palm down your side, it’s all careful, respectful, but electric.

Your lips are swollen now, flushed and tender from the growing intensity of every kiss, every breathless gasp between them. You’ve lost track of how long you’ve been like this, tangled up in one another, kissing until the rest of the world faded down to the warmth of Mark’s body and the way he makes you feel like you’re the only thing that matters.

His hand is on your waist, fingertips digging into the soft cotton of your sleep shirt, and yours is fisted in the fabric of his tee, pulling him closer every time his mouth meets yours like you need more of him. The air around you feels thicker, heavier. Charged.

You shift again, instinctively, your thigh pressing more firmly between his legs, and that’s when you feel it. The slow, aching pressure of his hardness through his pajama pants, against your leg. The awareness of it hits both of you at once. You freeze, barely a breath away from his mouth, and he exhales through his nose, shuddering.

“Shit,” he whispers, blinking at you like he wasn’t expecting this either. “That—wasn’t on purpose. I swear.”

You swallow. “I know.”

Neither of you moves for a second. Then your voice, quieter, more raw, “It’s okay. I… don’t want to stop.”

His eyes flick over your face like he’s trying to find the edges of your comfort. “You sure?”

You nod. “I want this. I just—I’m figuring it out as we go.”

Mark kisses you again, slower this time. Deeper. His hand slips beneath your shirt, not groping, just palm-flat and warm against your back. The contact sends a jolt through you. You gasp into his mouth, your leg shifting again, accidentally grinding against him.

He groans. Low, guttural. His hips buck forward, just barely, like he’s trying not to move too much, but can’t help the reaction. You feel it again, how hard he is. How hot this is getting.

Your hand trails down his side, hesitant but curious, and he catches your wrist gently.

“I don’t want to go too far,” he says, voice thick, but controlled. “But if we… stay like this…”

You don’t let him finish. You roll your hips, shy but deliberate, grinding into his thigh where it rests between yours. The friction sparks something sharp and needy in your stomach, and you gasp, clutching at his shirt.

Mark’s breath catches like you’ve hit him with a punch. “Okay,” he murmurs, “okay, yeah, that’s—god, that’s good.”

His hips move again, this time meeting yours, slow and tentative at first. You both moan, quiet, startled. There’s fabric in the way, layers of it, but somehow it only makes it more intense, more charged. You can feel him through the denim, and he can feel every shift of your hips against his leg.

You move again, grinding into him a little harder this time, your breath hitching as the friction hits just right, a soft cry escaping your throat. Mark growls under his breath and grabs your waist, steadying you, guiding you as you move against each other.

“You feel… fuck, you feel amazing,” he says, mouth against your neck now, teeth grazing your skin. You arch into him instinctively, pushing closer, chasing the pressure, the pleasure building between your legs in slow, delicious waves.

Your bodies fall into rhythm. Clothes still on. Nothing exposed. And yet the sensation is almost unbearable, the way your clit grinds against your underwear, the damp heat building there, the way his cock twitches beneath his jeans every time your hips roll together.

You whimper, head falling forward to rest against his shoulder. “Mark…”

He groans your name like it’s a prayer, hands gripping your hips tighter, pulling you against him as he thrusts up to meet you. “Keep going,” he whispers, “I’m so close—I can’t-”

You nod, frantic now, chasing your own high, your body moving on instinct, your thighs tightening around his, your clit catching perfectly against the seam of your underwear with every grind. The pressure is unbearable and perfect and building so fast you can’t breathe.

Your moans are louder now, breathier, and Mark's voice is rough in your ear, panting, muttering half-formed words, “just like that—don’t stop—fuck, you’re—so hot-”

You cry out, shuddering, as it hits you hard and fast, your orgasm crashing through you like a wave you didn’t see coming. Your thighs seize, hips grinding in a desperate, uneven rhythm as you ride it out, shaking against him.

Mark groans, body going tense beneath you, and a second later he jerks up into you with a broken, desperate sound, and then he’s gasping into your neck, cock twitching through his boxers as he comes hard, grinding against you one last time.

Silence falls again, but this time it’s charged in a completely different way. You're both panting, flushed, your bodies still tangled. The world shrinks to the hot, sticky thrum between your thighs and the warmth of his arms around you.

Your skin’s still buzzing, your heart hasn’t slowed, and Mark’s hand hasn’t left your body since he kissed you breathless and made you melt against the sheets. You’re curled on your side, facing him, still flushed and warm all over, your sleep shirt rumpled high around your waist. His fingers are drawing lazy lines along your thigh like he doesn’t want to stop touching you, and honestly, neither do you.

You look at him, your lips parted, still catching your breath. “That… was a lot.”

Mark grins, eyes a little wild, like he’s still not totally back in his body either. “Good a lot?”

You nod, cheeks hot. “Very. Just… I didn’t expect it to feel that good. Like my brain turned off.”

He laughs softly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “That’s kinda the point.”

You exhale, grounding yourself in the weight of him beside you, in the way his hand brushes along your hip like he’s memorizing you by touch. You shift slightly, parting your legs a little under the blanket, letting the warmth and tension start to build again. He notices. His eyes flick down, then back to yours, checking.

“You want more?” he asks, voice low, careful.

You nod slowly, nerves fluttering under your ribs, but not enough to stop you. “Yeah. I… I think I want you to, um…” Your eyes drop, and you swallow. “Go down on me?”

Mark doesn’t blink. Doesn’t hesitate. Just smiles softly like that’s the most natural thing in the world. “I’d love to.”

Your heart stutters, and he shifts immediately, kissing your lips once more before moving down the bed. He pauses when he’s kneeling between your thighs, hands sliding gently up your legs, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. His gaze is reverent, warm, focused entirely on you.

“Tell me if anything doesn’t feel good, okay?” he says, looking up at you.

You nod, voice small. “I trust you.”

He smiles at that. “Good.”

Then he lowers his head.

His lips press a kiss just above your knee. Then another, higher, a slow trail up your thigh that has your stomach clenching. His breath is warm, teasing, and when he kisses the soft crease beside your center, you gasp, hips twitching involuntarily. He doesn’t dive in. He waits, fingers smoothing over your skin, easing you into it.

Then finally, finally, his mouth settles between your thighs.

The first touch of his tongue is light, just a slow, warm stripe over your slit that makes your toes curl. Your fingers bunch the sheets, your head tipping back against the pillow as a soft, helpless sound slips out of you. He groans against you at the sound, the vibration of it making you shiver.

Mark licks again, firmer now, tongue dragging up to your clit in one smooth motion. When he flicks it, your whole body reacts—hips lifting, thighs squeezing around his head before you can stop yourself.

“Oh my god—Mark-”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, voice muffled, lips brushing you as he speaks. “That feel good?”

You let out something between a whimper and a laugh. “Yes. Jesus.”

He chuckles, low and smug and so affectionate, and then gets back to it. His hands hook around your thighs, pulling you open gently, holding you steady as he focuses on your clit now, licking slow circles, sometimes firm, sometimes soft. Every shift of his tongue feels different, like he’s reading every reaction, adjusting just for you.

You don’t know what to do with your hands. One ends up in his hair, fingers tangling instinctively, the other gripping the pillow beside your head. Your breath stutters with every pass of his mouth, every change in pressure.

When he sucks, just lightly, testing, you moan, sharp and sudden, your legs shaking around his shoulders.

He hums in approval, licks harder now, zeroing in on the rhythm that makes you come undone. Your thighs start to tremble, the pleasure curling in your gut, growing tight and hot and right on the edge of too much.

“Mark—Mark, I’m-” you gasp, barely able to form words. “I think I’m gonna—oh my god-”

“Do it,” he breathes against you, voice ragged, “I’ve got you.”

That’s all it takes. You break, coming with a cry you can’t even hold in, your hips jerking, back arching off the mattress. His name slips from your lips in broken pieces as he keeps his mouth on you, gentler now, easing you through it, drinking in every second.

You collapse back, panting, dazed. Your legs fall open, spent. Mark finally pulls away, lips slick, cheeks flushed, grinning like he just stole the sun. He crawls up the bed, brushing a kiss to your cheek, then your lips, letting you taste yourself, your heat still on his mouth.

“You okay?” he asks, thumb brushing your jaw.

You nod, swallowing hard, voice soft. “I think my soul left my body.”

He grins, nuzzling close. “Then I’ll just have to kiss you ‘til it comes back.”

Mark’s sprawled out against the pillows, shirtless, pants still half-on, but loose around his hips now. His chest is rising and falling in quick, shallow bursts. His hair’s a mess, his lips are pink and parted, and he’s looking at you like he’s not sure he’s still conscious.

You reach for the waistband of his jeans, your fingertips brushing against the bare skin of his lower stomach. You glance up at him, cheeks flushed. “Can I…?”

He nods quickly, already breathless. “Yeah. Yeah, totally.”

Your hands work the button open, sliding the zipper down slow. He lifts his hips to help when you tug his pants and boxers down, revealing him fully. You pause for a second, just looking, taking in the way his cock is flushed and hard, resting against his stomach, thick and twitching in time with every breath he pulls.

You’re flushed all over now, nerves buzzing beneath your skin. But you want this. You want him. And it’s not about returning the favor, it’s about the way he looked at you earlier, like you were something he’d dreamed about touching and couldn’t believe was real.

You lean in, your breath brushing over him, and he lets out a strangled sound just from that. You smile, barely, and then press a kiss to his hip bone, one side, then the other. Your hand wraps around the base of him, gentle but sure, and he groans, low and sharp.

You glance up again. “Okay?”

Mark’s eyes are almost black now, his voice wrecked. “Yeah. God, yeah.”

You lower your head, letting your lips ghost over the tip, tasting him, salty, hot, unfamiliar but not unpleasant. He twitches in your hand. You open your mouth and take him in slowly, inch by inch, your lips wrapping around him as you sink lower. His hand clenches the bedsheet beside him, the muscles in his stomach flexing hard.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, voice already strained. “You’re… wow, okay.”

You smile around him, letting your tongue glide under the shaft, dragging back up to the tip with a slow flick. He shudders, his hips barely lifting before he reigns himself back in. You start to move, careful at first, your hand stroking the base while your lips slide up and down over the head, learning the rhythm of his breath, the way he twitches when you go just a little deeper.

He groans again, voice muffled. “You’re gonna kill me. I swear.”

You hum around him, and his whole body jerks, a strangled moan slipping from his throat. You glance up and his eyes are on you, dazed and wide and wild, like he can’t believe this is happening.

“You look-” he chokes out, “fuck, you look so hot like that.”

You keep going, taking him deeper now, inching farther with each pass. Your throat tightens, your jaw working, your hand stroking in tandem. His abs are tight beneath your palm, his thighs trembling just a little where your fingers rest against them.

Mark’s hands twitch like he wants to touch you, maybe tangle in your hair, but he doesn’t, he just watches, eyes locked to yours every time you glance up. You speed up a little, hollowing your cheeks, letting your spit drip over your fist, making it easier to stroke him faster, smoother. You can feel him start to lose control, his breathing faster, his hips shifting in short, needy thrusts.

“I’m close,” he says, voice shaking. “Fuck, baby, I’m so close.”

You take him deeper, until you feel the head hit the back of your throat. Your hand moves faster, twisting around the base, and you moan softly around him. That’s it. That’s what pushes him over.

He comes with a groan that borders on a whimper, his hand shooting out to grip the sheets, hips stuttering. Hot, salty release spills into your mouth, thick and sudden, and you keep going, swallowing as best you can, letting the rest dribble out and down your chin as you ease off him, slow, careful.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, crawling back up beside him. He’s panting, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other still clenched in the sheets like he doesn’t know how to exist in his own body anymore.

When you settle beside him, he turns his head slowly, eyes glazed, lips parted in a dazed grin.

“Okay,” he says. “That was… that was insane.”

You laugh softly, settling your cheek against his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“I think I just died. And I don’t even care.”

You smile, lips brushing his collarbone. “You’re alive.”

“Am I?” He reaches over and pulls you in tighter, still breathing hard. “Pretty sure I flatlined.”

You kiss the side of his neck, warm and soft. “Guess we both need CPR.”

Mark snorts, breathless. “I think you gave me CPR. With your mouth.”

You grin, biting his shoulder. “You’re such a dork.”

“And you,” he says, turning his face toward yours, brushing your hair out of your eyes, “are amazing.”

He kisses you, slow and deep and grateful, tasting himself on your lips without flinching, without even hesitating. Just kissing you like he wants to stay there forever. When you finally pull apart, both of you a little breathless again, he presses his forehead to yours.

“We’re doing that again,” he murmurs.

You grin. “Which part?”

“All of it. Every single part.”

The room feels different now, thick with warmth, the air humming with the weight of what’s been said, what’s been done, what’s about to happen. The sheets are tangled around your waist, your body still trembling slightly, flushed from his touch, from his mouth, from the look in his eyes like you’re the most sacred thing he’s ever held. And you are, right now. You feel it in the way Mark touches you. No rush. No pressure. Just reverence. Just care.

You’re lying beneath him, heart thudding so loud you’re sure he can hear it. His hands are warm against your sides, thumbs brushing over the soft skin just below your ribs. He’s hovering above you, fully naked now, his body lean and strong, toned from fights and flights and all the impossible things he does daily, but still human here. Still yours here.

“You’re sure?” he asks, voice so soft it barely fills the space between you.

You nod, slowly. “I’m sure.”

Mark exhales, eyes fluttering shut for a beat like he needed to hear that, needed to feel it in his bones. When he opens them again, they’re darker, heavier with emotion, something raw and vulnerable behind the desire.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay. I’ll go slow. I promise.”

He leans in and kisses you, not rushed, not hungry, just deep, like he’s saying something he can’t put into words. You kiss him back with the same unspoken understanding, fingers sliding into his hair, pulling him closer. His body settles over yours, the heat of his skin seeping into you, grounding you, thrilling you.

He reaches down between you and lines himself up, his cock heavy and hot against your thigh. You gasp at the feel of it, the size, the pressure, the weight of what it means. He strokes himself once, slowly, before he presses the tip against your entrance, and both of you go quiet.

Mark kisses your jaw, your cheek, your temple, whispering between each press of his lips. “Tell me if it’s too much. I’ll stop. I’ll stop anytime.”

“I want this,” you breathe, your voice shaking but sure. “I want you.”

He pushes forward, just a little, and your breath catches in your throat.

The stretch is immediate, your body fighting the unfamiliar intrusion. It’s not painful, but it’s… intense. Tight. Full. You tense on instinct, your fingers digging into his biceps.

Mark freezes. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, forcing yourself to breathe. “Just… slow. Keep going. Just slow.”

He nods, kissing your forehead. “You’re doing perfect.”

He moves again, gradually, inch by inch, until he’s partway inside you, his hips trembling with restraint. You feel him everywhere, stretching you open, grounding you, filling you in ways that feel impossibly deep. You gasp again, blinking hard, focusing on the heat of his skin under your hands, the sound of his voice murmuring soft encouragement into your ear.

“So tight,” he breathes. “So perfect.”

He goes deeper, his cock sinking into you with slow, deliberate thrusts until he’s fully sheathed, buried inside you. His breath stutters, his eyes fluttering shut, jaw clenched hard to keep from losing control. You can feel every inch of him, feel your body stretching around him, learning how to take him.

You moan softly, hips shifting as you adjust, and when the sting fades into something fuller, warmer, you let out a shaky breath.

“I’m okay,” you whisper, legs curling around his waist. “You can move.”

He starts slow. Rolling his hips in shallow, careful thrusts, keeping his body pressed close to yours, never breaking contact. His hand strokes your side, your thigh, your cheek, anywhere he can reach. Every time you tense, he slows, waiting for your body to trust him again.

And it does. Little by little, the discomfort melts away. You start to move with him, rolling your hips up to meet his, gasping every time he sinks deep and grinds against something that sends sparks up your spine.

“God,” Mark groans, head dropping to your shoulder. “You feel… fuck, you feel amazing.”

You cling to him, overwhelmed by the heat, the closeness, the sound of his voice breaking into gasps every time your hips meet. He picks up a little speed, still slow, still careful, but more confident now. Every thrust fills you completely, the pressure building into something real. Something intimate. Every soft slap of skin, every low moan that spills from his lips, every helpless sound you make beneath him, it all adds to the rhythm, the heat, the connection.

Your fingers drag down his back, nails biting into muscle, and he groans, pushing deeper, harder, still slow but more intense now. He lifts his head, looks down at you with so much awe, so much feeling it’s dizzying.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispers, forehead pressing to yours, sweat glistening on his skin. “So fucking beautiful.”

You moan, your body clenching around him, your thighs shaking. “I think I’m close, Mark—don’t stop-”

“I’m here,” he says, voice thick and ragged. “I’ve got you. Come for me.”

The wave crashes over you without warning, shuddering and hot and endless. Your back arches, your mouth open on a cry as your walls pulse around him, the orgasm tearing through you like a current. Mark groans, burying his face in your neck as he follows you, thrusting once, twice more before he stills, hips pressed tight to yours as he comes hard, shaking in your arms, gasping your name.

Everything is still after. No sound but the ragged breath of two bodies wrecked and clinging.

He doesn’t move for a long moment, just breathes into your neck, his arms wound around you like he’s afraid to let go.

Eventually, he lifts his head, eyes heavy, lips soft.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, tears stinging the corners of your eyes, not from pain—just emotion. “Yeah. That was… good.”

Mark leans down and kisses you, slow, tender, no rush. No hunger. Just love.

The room’s gone soft around the edges, dim light pooled in the corners, sweat cooling on your skin, your muscles loose and twitching from the first time he’d taken you apart. The air’s heavy, damp with your breath and his, the sheets kicked to the bottom of the bed in a pile of tangled cotton and clothes. Everything smells like sex. Like him. Like you.

And you can feel him behind you.

Still hard.

You shift slightly, and his cock presses against your thigh, warm, heavy, twitching, and it makes your breath catch in your throat. You blink slowly, hazy, your body pulsing between your legs like it’s already remembering what it felt like to have him buried inside you.

“You’re still…” You glance down, blushing. “Wow.”

Mark laughs, but it’s quiet, breathless, like he’s just as surprised. “Yeah. Apparently, I’m eighteen again.”

You snort, dragging the back of your hand across your mouth. “I didn’t even know it could do that. Like, that fast.”

He shrugs, shifting beside you. “I mean, you were literally moaning like someone rewrote your brain chemistry with their dick, so…”

“Oh my god—Mark—shut up-”

He grins, eyes glinting. “Next time you’re gonna be that loud, maybe warn me. I wasn’t exactly planning on getting hard all over again five seconds later.”

You bury your face in the pillow, groaning. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s still pending peer review.”

Mark laughs again, but there’s a quiet behind it now, something deeper. He shifts toward you, his hand sliding over your bare hip, slow and warm. “Do you wanna go again?” His voice is soft now, careful. “I mean… only if you’re feeling okay. I know you said you were sore.”

You breathe in slowly, feeling the ache in your thighs, the pleasant throb between your legs. You are sore. Your body’s worn and flushed and used. But underneath that soreness is a craving you didn’t know you could feel, something thick and hot and electric.

You nod. “Yeah. I want to.”

Mark’s breath stutters. He leans in, kisses your shoulder, your neck, his lips trailing heat across your skin. “You wanna stay like this?”

You hesitate. Then you push up slowly, onto your elbows, then your hands and knees, arching your back, your ass lifting high.

You don’t look at him. You can’t. Your face is already on fire.

“I, uh…” Your voice cracks a little. “I want to try it this way.”

There’s a long pause.

Then Mark makes a strangled noise behind you. “Okay. Okay, you can’t just do that and expect me to function.”

You giggle, nervous, shifting your knees a little wider. “I don’t even know if I’m doing it right.”

Mark’s hands settle on your hips, and you feel him slide up behind you, kneeling. His fingers tighten, holding you in place like he’s grounding himself, and then he leans in, pressing a kiss to your lower back.

“You’re doing everything right,” he says, voice rough now. “You look so fucking good like this.”

You shiver, suddenly very aware of how open you are, how vulnerable. But it’s not scary. Not with him. You trust him more than you’ve ever trusted anyone.

He strokes his hand up your spine, then down again, until he’s cupping your ass in both hands, gently kneading the soft flesh. You feel the blunt head of his cock nudge between your folds, and your breath catches.

“Okay?” he asks again, even now, still checking.

You nod, biting your lip. “Yeah. Just… go slow again?”

“Always.”

He presses forward, and you feel the stretch immediately—sharper this time. Deeper. You breathe through it, bracing your arms as your body adjusts, the pressure building until he’s fully inside you, hips flush to your ass.

You whimper, legs shaking. “God, Mark-”

He groans, holding still, trying not to move. “You’re so fucking tight. I can feel everything.”

You breathe, slow and deep, getting used to the new angle, the depth. It’s intense, so much more than before. It feels like he’s deeper inside you, hitting places that make your toes curl.

“You okay?” he asks again.

You nod. “Yeah. It’s just… a lot.”

“Tell me when.”

You shift your hips experimentally, grinding back against him, and that alone makes you both moan.

“There,” you gasp. “There, I’m good. Move.”

He pulls back, just a little, then thrusts back in, slow, deliberate, his hands gripping your waist like he’s afraid he’ll lose you otherwise. The sound is obscene, wet, messy, needy, and your thighs tremble as you rock back into him.

Mark starts to fuck you in earnest, his rhythm picking up, the sound of his skin slapping your ass sharp and filthy. You can barely breathe, your face pressed to the pillow as your body jerks forward with every thrust.

“God—fuck—you feel so good,” he pants behind you. “I can’t believe this is real. You’re—fuck—you’re so good.”

You try to answer, but all that comes out is a moan as he hits a spot inside you that makes your vision go white.

He leans over you, his chest against your back now, his arm wrapping around to reach between your legs. His fingers find your clit, slippery and swollen, and he starts rubbing tight, fast circles in rhythm with his thrusts.

You scream, bucking under him. “Mark—fuck—I’m gonna—oh my god-”

“Do it,” he groans into your neck. “Wanna feel you come around my cock again. Wanna hear how loud I can make you.”

You unravel in seconds, your body locking, your pussy clenching down around him so hard it rips a growl out of his throat. You shake, crying out, eyes squeezed shut, legs useless beneath you.

Mark thrusts through your orgasm, chasing his own, and a moment later he slams in deep one last time, groaning loud as he comes, cock pulsing, his whole body jerking with it.

He collapses on top of you, both of you breathless, ruined.

After a long, quiet minute, he rolls off to the side, pulling you with him, your body limp against his chest.

You don’t speak. You can’t. You just lie there, letting the warmth of him bleed into your skin, his hand stroking your back like you’re something fragile and important.

Finally, Mark exhales a soft laugh. You’re curled against him, your head tucked beneath his chin, his hand smoothing up and down your back like he doesn’t want to stop touching you. And honestly? You don’t want him to either.

Your skin still tingles. Your thighs are sticky, your lips sore from kissing. You feel raw and loved and dizzy.

But deep beneath all that?

There’s still need.

Not playful. Not curious. Heavy.

You swallow, your voice small. “I’m still... kind of wired.”

Mark hums above you, lazy. “Wired?”

“I mean, like…” You shift slightly, pressing your hips against him without thinking. “I thought I’d be spent. But it’s like my brain's fried and my body’s just... still on.”

You glance up at him through messy strands of hair. “You ever get that? Like your muscles should be exhausted, but your whole body’s still buzzing?”

Mark lifts his head and looks at you.

And he’s not smiling this time.

His face shifts, just a little. Like something in him’s been quiet this whole time and now it’s starting to wake up. That soft, sweet boyish glow in his eyes dims, changes. Not gone. Just shadowed. Heated.

“Yeah,” he says, voice lower now. “I get that.”

His fingers slide down your side, finding the dip of your waist, his palm spreading over your hip. He holds you like that for a second. Still.

Then. “You wanna go again.”

It’s not really a question.

But you nod. “I do. I just… I don’t want it gentle this time.”

Mark blinks slowly, like he’s processing that. Then he exhales, breath shaky, and shifts to sit up slightly, his hand still warm on your waist. “You mean like—what? Different position, or like—more intense?”

You hesitate. Then push onto your elbows and roll onto your stomach, deliberately slow. You stretch your arms out and tilt your hips up just enough. Not knees. Not lifted like before.

Flat.

Heavy.

Open.

Your voice comes out low. “More intense.”

There’s a long pause. You feel it, him watching you. Breathing harder.

Then Mark says, quietly. “I don’t think I can be nice if we do it like this.”

You glance back at him. His jaw’s tight. His eyes are dark, locked on where your thighs are already pressing together, slick and aching.

“Then don’t be.”

That breaks him.

Mark shifts behind you slowly, spreading your thighs just a little more with firm hands that feel bigger like this, heavier. He settles on his knees, your hips tipped up with the help of the pillow beneath you, your chest and cheek pressed into the mattress. Your back arches without meaning to, presenting, offering, your entire body opening up for him without hesitation.

You feel him line up, the head of his cock dragging slowly along your entrance, teasing once, twice, more to coat himself in your slick than to test your patience.

“You’re still soaked,” he says, low and ragged.

He presses in with one smooth, solid thrust.

Your mouth falls open. No words, just breath. The stretch hits immediately. He’s thick, the angle is deeper than before, and the way your thighs are pressed together amplifies everything. The heat, the fullness, the pressure on every nerve ending. Your walls clamp down reflexively, overwhelmed, and Mark grits out a curse behind you.

“Jesus Christ—you’re tight.”

You try to nod, but it’s more of a twitch. He’s all the way in, his hips pressed firm to your ass, and for a long second, neither of you moves. You both just exist in the feeling.

Then Mark pulls back.

And slams into you.

The first thrust punches a sound out of your mouth. A sharp cry that bursts out before you can catch it. Your hands fist in the sheets, and your hips jerk forward from the force of it.

He does it again. Harder. Deeper.

His hands lock around your hips, gripping tight, holding you in place as he finds his rhythm. It’s not rushed, but it’s rough. Purposeful. Every thrust lands hard, rocking your body into the mattress, making the headboard rattle gently with the force.

You’re gasping now, helpless. “Oh my god—Mark—fuck-”

“Yeah?” he pants, voice raw. “You like this?”

You nod frantically, unable to speak. It’s too much, in the best way. Your body’s strung out, shaking, the friction relentless. Each thrust drives him so deep inside you it feels like he’s splitting you in half and rebuilding you in his shape.

The sound of it fills the room, skin on skin, slick and fast and wet, your cries rising with every thrust.

He leans forward a little, changing the angle, and suddenly he’s grinding against something inside you that makes your vision spark. You jolt, head lifting from the mattress as your whole body tenses.

“There,” he breathes. “That’s the spot.”

He keeps hitting it, again and again, each time with more force, more intent, his cock stroking over that perfect pressure point like he means to ruin you.

You sob into the sheets. “Mark—Mark—I can’t-”

“Yes, you can,” he growls. “You’re taking it so fucking well.”

One hand slips off your hip, snakes around to your front, fingers sliding over your clit. You’re already so sensitive the first brush makes your hips jerk, but he doesn’t stop. He rubs fast, firm circles, in sync with his thrusts, and the combination nearly knocks you out of your body.

The burn is everywhere. Your legs are trembling. Your muscles are tight and twitching, your breath broken into whimpers. You don’t know if you’re saying his name or just thinking it, chanting it, praying with it, begging.

“Please—please—I’m gonna-”

“Come,” he murmurs lowly, barely holding it together behind you. “I want it. I wanna feel it.”

You come like lightning. There’s no slow build, just a sudden, electric collapse. Your pussy clenches hard, convulsing around him, your voice breaking into a sharp cry as your whole body locks up.

Mark groans, deep and strained, his hips faltering. He fucks you through it, his cock dragging through the wet, pulsing heat of your orgasm, and then he slams in once more and freezes.

“F-fuck—” he gasps, head dropping to your back. “I’m—fuck—”

He shudders hard, cock twitching as he spills into you, his whole body jerking with it. One hand clenches around your waist like he’s trying to ground himself while the other braces against the bed beside your head. You feel the tension ripple through him, feel him lose it inside you.

And then it’s over. But the heat doesn’t fade right away. It lingers, wrapped around your body like a second skin, sinking deep into your bones.

Mark stays inside you for a moment longer, chest heaving, his breath hot against your back. Then, carefully, slowly, he eases out, one hand on your lower back as he moves, gentle again now, like the moment’s intensity is still ringing in his hands.

He pulls you into him when he finally lays down again, your back to his chest, arms tight around you like he’s trying to hold the moment in place.

You’re not sure how long you lie there, your bodies tangled, your skin still tacky with sweat, but the quiet between you doesn’t need filling. It’s not silence, it’s peace. The kind that only comes after something real. Something that breaks you open and puts you back together in the same breath.

You’re not sure how long it’s been. Minutes? An hour?

Time’s gone soft around the edges, all stretched out and blurry. Your skin is sticky, flushed. Every part of you feels sore in that half-numb way that says we went too far and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Your thighs ache. Your lips are swollen. Your muscles don’t want to move.

Mark is breathing slowly behind you. His chest rises against your back in that heavy rhythm you only get when your body’s winding down after something primal, after all the tension’s burned off and all that’s left is heat and heartbeat and the way you fit together.

You shift just slightly, trying to get comfortable, and immediately wince.

“Ow,” you whisper, wry and quiet.

Mark stirs behind you. He’s half-asleep, but not gone. His arm tightens around your waist, pulling you closer. “Mm?”

“I think my spine left the building,” you murmur, face still buried in the pillow. “My thighs are mad at me. My everything hurts.”

Mark chuckles. It’s low and sleepy, his breath warm on your shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

You snort. “I didn’t say I regretted it.”

He hums and nuzzles closer, pressing a soft, barely-there kiss between your shoulder blades. “Good. ‘Cause I definitely blacked out for a few minutes in the middle there.”

You turn your head just enough to look back at him. His hair is a mess, his face flushed and still dazed, eyes half-lidded. He looks soft like this. Disarmed. Like he’s not trying to be anything but yours.

“Can’t feel my legs,” you murmur.

“Same,” he says, voice muffled now, mouth resting against your bare skin. 

You laugh quietly. “Romantic.”

“The most romantic.” He kisses your neck this time. “Can’t believe this started with you explaining something about thermodynamic collapse at dinner.”

You groan into the pillow. “Don’t remind me.”

“No, it was hot,” he mumbles. “You had charts.”

“You’re never letting this go, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

You let silence stretch out for a little while. Not because there’s nothing left to say, but because it’s nice, being quiet with him. Not needing to fill space. His thumb strokes absent circles into your side. The fan hums softly from the corner of the room.

“Hey,” you whisper eventually.

Mark makes a soft noise of acknowledgment, his grip on you not loosening an inch.

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this before,” you say, the words barely audible. “Not just… sex. But this. Being held like this.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then he shifts just enough to hook his leg over yours, tangling you together even more.

“Me neither,” he says.

You smile. Close your eyes. Press your fingers over his hand, holding it there.

Mark kisses your shoulder again. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

“I’m sweaty and ruined and I probably have sheet lines all over my face.”

“Exactly.”

You huff out a laugh and feel it ease something in your chest. That pressure that’s always there, especially when you get too in your head, too tangled in what things mean. It’s gone now. There’s no future to plan for, no awkwardness to decode. Just warmth. Skin. Comfort.

Eventually, Mark’s breathing starts to even out behind you again. Slower. Deeper. You think he’s about to fall asleep, until his hand squeezes your hip, one last time.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

“Mm?”

“I’m still hard.”

You choke on a laugh. “Mark-”

“I’m just saying.” His voice is thick with sleep. 

“You’re delusional.”

“I’m in love.”

You freeze. He doesn’t seem to notice he said it, too sleepy. He’s already burying his face against your shoulder again, breathing the evening out. But you hear it. You feel it. And as your hand drifts back to find his under the blankets, your fingers twining between his, you realize the words don’t scare you. They feel right.

You whisper into the quiet, “Me too.”

And let yourself fall asleep tangled in him, no space between you. Just breath. Just warmth. Just him. You wake up before the alarm. Not because of the sun, though it’s already rising, a subdued gold streaming through the curtain edge. Not because of the nerves, though they're creeping up your neck like static.

Mark shifts next to you, so you awaken.

Not a lot. Just the tiniest finger twitch on your bare waist, the gentle, drowsy exhalation against the back of your shoulder as he moves and falls back into the sheet tangle. The warmth strikes you all at once. The intimacy. The stillness. And the fact that it’s today. You blink carefully, allowing your eyes adapt, but you don’t move.

Still snuggled behind you, Mark's chest pushed to your back and one arm draped over your stomach. Your legs are knotted with his. The room smells like hotel soap and shared flesh, and your body hurts in all the ways that make last night seem heavy and real and right.

You close your eyes again, just for a second. It’s not the nerves that drag you out of bed. It’s the weight of time.

You move carefully, sliding out from beneath his arm without disturbing him. You discover your clothes, your polished pants, your clean shirt, the jacket you picked out in a swirl of anxious energy the week before. You gather your bags, your badge, your quivering hands, and go silently into the restroom.

The water is too hot, yet you don’t turn it down. You lean into the tile, forehead on the wall, and let the steam fill your lungs. You’re not crying. You’re not breaking. But you are unraveling a little, and here is the only location that seems secure enough to do it without falling apart totally. This is it. Today. Your Oscorp presentation.

You know what to say. You’ve rehearsed it. Memorized it. You’ve revised your slides six times. You’ve spoken your introduction in the shower, in the mirror, in your sleep. But knowing what to say and feeling you’re ready to speak it in front of a room full of business executives are two very different things.

You dry off gently, wrap your towel firmly about you, and gaze at your reflection in the mirror. You don’t feel brilliant. You don’t feel like someone who deserves a seat in the room. But you button the shirt nevertheless. One at a time.

When you step out, your hair still damp around your shoulders, Mark’s awake. He’s sitting up in bed, hair ruffled, wearing nothing but sleep-wrinkled boxers and a bewildered face. He blinks when he sees you. Then grins. Soft. Proud. Sleep-warm and boyish.

“Morning.”

You exhale. “Hi.”

He stretches, arms extending over his head, and lets out a deep breath. “You’re already dressed?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“You okay?”

You nod.

He glances at you for a second longer. “You sure?”

“No.”

Mark scoots to the edge of the bed and puts his elbows on his knees. “C’mere.”

You hesitate. Then go. You sit alongside him, your bare knee caressing his thigh, and he threads his fingers with yours without a word.

“You don’t have to be okay right this second,” he offers gently.

“I want to be.”

He shrugs. “You will be. Once you’re in that room.”

You gaze at the floor.

“I can’t tell if I’m more scared of failing or of doing well and not knowing what comes after.”

Mark hums. “That’s fair.”

“You’re not gonna try to talk me down?”

“Nope.”

You gaze up at him.

And his look is peaceful. Grounded. Certain.

“I’m just gonna remind you you’re not alone,” he says. “You don’t have to carry this by yourself.”

You push your forehead to his. Just for a second. Then breathe out. And let him hold your hand for as long as it needs.

The ride down on the elevator is calm. You’re dressed in your presenting best. Your badge catches the light every time the elevator shifts. Mark’s dressed casually but neat, dark jacket, tidy pants, your favorite of his shirts beneath.

His hand touches yours in the confined space. You take it. Without speaking. Without thinking. You just take it.

The convention lobby is full. There are interns everywhere, stiff suits, coffee cups clasped like lifelines, frantic eyes darting from registration tables to room schedules to glossy name tags of higher-ups strolling by like gods. Your badge says PRESENTER. Silver. Heavy.

Mark doesn't say anything. Because he’s just a visitor. But he walks with you like he’s more than that. Like he always has. You find the check-in table, confirm your time, and receive your placement: Panel Room B, second slot. Thirty minutes. You nod. You try not to reveal how your pulse is beating in your ears.

The woman behind the counter grins. “There’s a prep room across the hall. Just presenters and organizers allowed.”

You gaze back toward Mark. Her eyes follow.

“Guests can wait outside the panel room,” she offers softly. “We’ll start seating soon.”

Mark glances at you. “You want me to stay close?”

You nod. “Front row.”

He grins. “Wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

The prep room is quieter but not calmer.

There’s a row of seats, a pitcher of water, a countdown clock on the wall. You sit. You grasp your iPad with white knuckles. You practice your opener in your thoughts again. And again. And again. Your chest feels tight. But suddenly the door opens slightly, and a worker comes in.

“First presenter’s almost done. You're next.”

You stand. Your legs feel like someone else's. And then you’re in the hallway. Then you’re standing behind a curtain, waiting for your name. You hear muted applause.

A voice over the mic. “Next up, a promising development in adaptive nano-tech applications-”

And your name. Clear. Loud. Sharp. You step into the spotlight. You don’t trip. You don’t freeze. You talk. Your voice shakes just for the first few syllables. But then you lock eyes with someone in the front row.

Black hair. Blue eyes.  Strong jaw. Leaning forward in his seat. Watching you like nothing else mattered. Mark. His expression is steady. Soft. He grins when you make it through your intro.

He mouths the word “yes” when your first graph loads without glitching.

He nods along as you hit your stride. And when you pause for audience questions, he’s the only person in the room you trust to look at. Because he’s still there. Still holding you together. Without touching a thing.

The applause still resonates in your ears even as the doors close behind you. It’s not thundering. It’s not cinematic. But it’s enough. Enough so you don’t feel like you failed. Enough that your lungs finally feel like they can fill again.

You stroll out of the panel room and into the corridor, where the carpet seems too soft under your shoes and the lights buzz somewhat louder than before. The high is wearing off, fast, and the weight of what you just accomplished is crashing over you in waves.

You don’t even know you’re trembling until you reach the corner near the prep area and touch your palm on the wall to stabilize yourself. Your breath is short. Your mouth is dry. Your heart is still hammering. But you did it. You did it. You look down at your badge, still fastened to your jacket, still sparkling with that strong silver PRESENTER print, and let yourself feel it for just a second. You deserved that.

“Hey.”

You turn. He’s already there. Mark. Leaning nonchalantly against the wall like he didn’t just witness you rise up and own a stage you thought you’d fall on. Like he hasn’t been holding his breath the entire time you talked. But his smile tells everything. You exhale like you forgot how.

“I didn’t screw up,” you reply, almost incredulous.

He pushes off the wall, approaching toward you with the deliberate, controlled stride of someone who’s trying not to run.

“You didn’t just not screw up,” he says. “You crushed it.”

You gaze at him, eyes wide. “I think I blacked out halfway through.”

“You didn’t miss a beat.”

“I—I tripped over one of the bullet points in slide six.”

“No one noticed.”

“I was shaking.”

“I noticed that.”

Your voice catches. “Was it bad?”

Mark stops in front of you. And shakes his head.

“It was honest,” he replies gently. “It made everyone pay attention. Made them believe you.”

You blink fast.

“I feel like I’m going to cry.”

“You should.”

He reaches up, moving your hair back from your face, fingertips sliding over the contour of your cheek.

“You earned this,” he murmurs. “Every second of it.”

You lean toward him before your knees can make any wrong judgments on their own. He captures your lips like he was waiting for it. Holds you. Not tightly. Not dramatically. Just long enough to inform your heart it’s good to slow down now. Just long enough to make it real. You don’t know how long you stay like that.

Eventually, a few more presenters stream by. A pair nod in your direction. One delivers a short, “Nice job in there,” before going down the corridor. You’re not sure if they mean it. But you nod nevertheless. You let go of Mark just enough to breathe again.

“Is it weird that I don’t remember most of it?” you mumble.

He grins. “You will. Once the adrenaline wears off.”

You look down at your hands. They’ve stopped shaking. For now.

“I was scared.”

“I know.”

“I thought I’d fall apart.”

“You didn’t.”

You nod, blinking hard again.

“Did you see who was in the front row?”

Mark nods. “Yeah. Dr. Li. And the guy from R&D with the weird eyebrows.”

“I think he was judging me.”

“I think he was crying.”

You laugh. A complete one this time. Unfiltered. It feels natural. Like breathing. You sit on one of the seats in the corridor with Mark, sipping the water he took off a catering tray while no one was watching. He offers you one of those lemon sugar cookies you usually claim not to enjoy, and you take it without objection. You lean against him, head against his shoulder. And just... exist. For a while.

Until a shadow crosses your range of view.

And a voice replies, “Told you she’d kill it.”

You glance up. Harry. Wearing a jacket you surely haven’t seen before, and smiling that little, familiar smile that never quite gives away what he’s thinking.

“You were in there?” you ask, shocked.

“Of course I was,” he admits. “Front row, four seats behind your boyfriend.”

Mark stares at him but doesn’t say anything.

You shift upright. “What’d you think?”

Harry shrugs. “Could’ve used more lasers.”

You laugh. “Be serious.”

“I am. But no—seriously? You were solid. Professional. Sharp.” He pauses. “You didn’t flinch when they asked about the lab failure data. That was impressive.”

You try not to shine too much. But it’s hard. Especially when the people who’ve known you the longest are the ones observing you the closest. Harry reaches out a hand. You shake it.

He leans in. “Also, Dr. Li was scribbling notes the entire time. That’s typically a positive sign.”

Your stomach flips again. But in a nice way.

He winks. “Catch up later?”

You nod. Harry slips back into the crowd. And you’re left with Mark again, looking down at your now-empty water cup.

“You okay?” he says again, softly.

“Yeah.”

And then, after a pause. “I think I really did it.”

Mark grins. “You did.”

You gaze forward to the far wall of the corridor, where the next group of presenters is being called in.

“Does it feel weird?” you ask.

“What?”

“Seeing me like this. Not as... me. But like this me.”

Mark’s brow furrows. “You’re always this you.”

You scoff. “You know what I mean.”

He shrugs. “I mean, yeah. It’s weird.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“But it’s also amazing,” he says. “Watching you take up space like that? Watching you be seen? I don’t think I’ve ever felt prouder.”

Your chest pulls tight. Mark lays his head on yours.

“You belong in that room.”

You nod slowly.

“I’m starting to think maybe... maybe I do.”

You’re still clutching the empty water bottle when you hear your name. The hallway backstage is quiet now, humming with leftover tension and the distant echo of footsteps, Oscorp volunteers, panel coordinators, applause still bleeding faintly through the walls. You just stepped out of the room where you presented, out of the lights, out of the pressure. Mark’s waiting farther down the hall. 

“Miss,” a voice says, calm and quiet.

You turn. And there he is. Dr. Otto Octavius. You freeze. The only thing louder than the blood pounding in your ears is the realization that he’s here. You didn’t see him at the panel. Didn’t know he was attending. And yet, somehow, it makes sense. He doesn’t sit in crowds. He observes from the shadows.

He’s taller than you expected. Not imposing, exactly, but deliberate. Measured. Like everything about him was engineered for efficiency. His glasses catch the hallway light. His posture is impeccable. His look is unreadable.

“You presented clearly,” he remarks without preface. “You didn’t falter, even when pressed on your control variable gaps.”

You nod, trying not to noticeably brace. “Thank you, Dr. Octavius. I didn’t know-”

“I wasn’t announced,” he adds, cutting you off with the ease of someone who never wastes words. “I prefer to observe when the subject doesn’t know they’re being watched.”

Subject. Your spine gets rigid.

“Walk with me.”

You gaze down the corridor, toward where Mark had gone. But you follow. He walks slowly. Not because he has to, but because he expects you to keep pace.

“I run a program,” he adds after a pause. “A very specific one. Experimental, sponsored privately, shrouded by enough nondisclosure to black out half a city block.”

You look over at him. “What kind of program?”

He doesn’t look at you.

“Cross-species neural adaptation,” he explains. “Specifically… arachnid-based.”

The word clicks against your ribcage.

“Spiders?” you ask, since you have to. He eventually turns his head.

“Yes.”

He stops walking. You stop too.

“The Midtown Spider Genetics Lab houses Oscorp’s most advanced neuroadaptive research,” he explains. “We’ve been isolating and enhancing spider genomes to test the limits of cognitive transference. Behavior mapping. Memory rewriting. Selective mutagenesis. And more.”

You don’t talk. You can’t. His eyes are fixated on you now.

“What we’re doing isn’t theoretical,” he continues. “It’s real. It’s volatile. It demands exactness. Focus. A steady hand and a sharper mind. That’s why I’ve only ever asked very few interns to shadow the project.”

You gaze at him.

“And you want me to be one?” you ask.

“No,” he says. “I want you to be the first of a new branch. The others were observers. I want you in the lab itself.”

You swallow. He sees it. Doesn’t flinch.

“You’ll finish out your academic year,” he says. “The program begins next fall. One semester. Midtown lab. Closed-access wing. Three days per week.”

You hesitate. The corridor is so silent you can hear your heartbeat. Octavius steps closer. Not looming. But close enough to make you feel the gravity.

“You didn’t flinch today,” he says. “Not when they pressed you. Not when you tripped. You held your ground.”

You nod slowly. Once.

“I’m in.”

His smile is a flash. Not approval. Something sharper.

“Good,” he says.

He hands you a folder. Simple. Sealed. Your name on the front.

“Review it. Skim it. Report to the Midtown Genetics Lab next September.”

You take it.

And before you can ask anything else, he’s gone, walking back the way you came, like he was never there at all. You stand in the lonely corridor, holding a folder that suddenly weighs more than the building around you. In your chest, something shifts. Not fear. Not yet. Something smaller. Sharper. The initial thread of something that will tug until there’s nothing left but truth. 

And spiders.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

current taglist: @adeptusxia0 / @moonjellyfishie / @ladynoirx321 / @moraxussy / @saturnalya / @the-good-kooshe / @atomspidyr / @iansimpsforeveryone / @luvvcharxo / @jiyeons-closet / @weponxwrites / @xzmickeyzx / @heiankyonoeiyuukun / @edgycatx / @oxymorondemon / @bluerrie / @swtheartz / @maxi-ride / @nightmarewasteland / @hot15936 / @rotinginmybed / @deleted-1-800 / @thehumanradio17 / @mhrasm / @yzzaqczec / @pickledsoda / @qxuanii / @tr3nzit444s / @ketsuekiakane / @jiminie-08 / @thatwaspossesion / @xoyumiqls / @liliesclouds / @maki-ki / @wifeofmarkgrayson / @pixviee / @sugawoonie / @uselesstutor09 / @marinefreaakk / @monaekelis / @woodle-isbae / @simping4l1fe / @wasitforrevenge

[lazysoulwriter]

standing tall. - pedro pascal.

requested! thank you for sending. tall girls supremacy!!!!! (not a tall girl, just find them hot)

---

It started with one photo. Just one.

You and Pedro Pascal at an afterparty — him in a perfectly tailored suit, you towering over him in stilettos and a silk gown, laughing at something he whispered against your ear.

The internet lost its mind. “Tall girl supremacy!!” “Pedro with his goddess? I’m crying??” “He’s so real for this.”

And honestly? You loved every second of it.

You met Pedro on set — a supporting role in his new prestige series. From the very first table read, he made you feel seen. Literally seen.

While most people awkwardly commented on your height or made jokes, Pedro had simply looked up at you, grinned wide, and said, "Finally, someone who doesn’t make me feel like a giant."

It was easy after that. Late-night conversations on set. Inside jokes. Flirty glances over coffee cups. You tried to ignore the way your heart skipped when he laughed. Tried to pretend you didn’t notice the way he always found a reason to stand just a little closer to you.

Of course, Pedro made the first move. (Because you're gorgeous, and he’s not stupid.)

-

Dating Pedro was a whirlwind of soft affection and quiet understanding.

He loved how you wore heels without hesitation. He loved how you never apologized for taking up space — in a room, in a conversation, in his life.

"You’re statuesque, hermosa," he told you one night, tracing the line of your jaw with reverent fingers. "Like you were carved out of marble just to drive me crazy."

The only thing he didn’t love? Seeing you hesitate when the cameras were around.

Because no matter how confident you were, there was always that tiny voice in your head: Too tall. Too loud. Too much.

Pedro saw it. And he wasn’t having it.

The night of the afterparty, it all came to a head.

You hesitated before stepping onto the red carpet with him, shifting on your towering heels. Pedro caught your hand immediately, pulling you back into his chest.

"Hey," he said, voice low and sure. "You’re not dimming yourself for anyone tonight. You hear me?"

You smiled nervously. "I’m like... two inches taller than you right now."

Pedro chuckled, squeezing your hand. "And you look like a fucking queen. If anything, I should be wearing taller shoes to keep up with you."

You laughed, the tension breaking. He pressed a kiss to your temple, completely ignoring the flashing cameras.

"Let them talk," he murmured. "I’ve got the most beautiful woman in the room on my arm. I'm winning."

And just like that, you stood a little taller.

The next morning, you woke up to thousands of tweets, edits, and fan posts celebrating you both.

Pedro had even reposted one — a photoset of the two of you looking every bit like Hollywood royalty — with the caption: "Love when she looks at me like I hung the moon 🖤"

Cue the internet absolutely combusting.

Later that week, curled up on his couch in sweats and no makeup, you teased him, "You're really not bothered that I’m taller than you sometimes?"

Pedro set down his coffee, turning to you with that fond, devastating smile. "Sweetheart," he said, "I’m old enough to know when I'm blessed. You could be six feet tall or sixty feet tall — I'd still look at you like you're the best thing that's ever happened to me."

You hid your burning face in his chest, laughing. He wrapped his arms around you tighter.

"Besides," he added with a wink, "I like having to look up at you. Keeps me humble."

You giggled, feeling weightless in a way you hadn't in a long time. And as he kissed the top of your head, murmuring sweet nothings into your hair, you realized —

Yeah. This was the real win. Not just for the tall girls. But for you. For the love you had found when you finally stopped shrinking yourself.

----

[beebbg]

hi!! can i request mel x fem! sfw romantic headcanons pretty pls? i'd love if they were childhood friends and either one of them caught feelings and pined for a longgg time :)

MEL X FEM! READER

I love slow burn AUGHHH ψ(｀∇ ´)ψ ! Again, this took me a bit to write so I’m sorry for any mischaracterizations.

Warnings: not proofread, maybe a tiny pinch of angst

I’ve mentioned Mel being super clingy. Well, she’s been like that her whole life. Ever since you guys met and became close friends, she’s never left your side. It’s nice to have someone like you around. Another person she can count on other than her family. Get ready to be told everything.

The pining didn’t start until later into the friendship when she dragged you with the others to do the usual, cement them. It was there she noticed how free you looked when chasing down the target. That wicked look in your eyes, the way you handled yourself. Yeah, she was in awe. Of course, everyone here is like that (it would be weird if they weren’t), but somehow this was different.

Once the idea of her having a crush on you settles in, oh boy. She’s doing everything in her will to act “cool” to appeal to you. She’s showing off more, being more bold, and being by your side even more now.

Mel tells you everything, but never about how she feels. There’s this small doubt you don’t see her that way. At times, it eats away at her. She overthinks her feelings, and what would happen if she did open up. Would you accept it? Would you spit in her face and never come back? (No, but there’s always a chance). She’ll be moping about it alone for a good week.

Meanwhile, you’re swooning over her as well.

It’s until the next time you’re over at the restaurant, she pulls you into the freezer to talk. It was an array of emotions, to put it lightly. Mel scrambles to find her words. She’s fidgeting. Are her palms getting sweaty, or are it the gloves?

But when she finds out the feelings were mutual, she’s beaming like no other. Mel hugs you so tight your lungs might collapse. But at least you’re happy!

[666thtoolofhell]

That Kingdon slow burn is coming 😭😭😭 all I think it’ll take for Patrick and Taylor to get on board is Langdon separating or divorcing cause wdym Taylor says she thinks Mel will probably be one of the only people not judging him 😭

I just listened to the whole interview and here are some bits that weren't transcribed to the written version:

The reaching up and tapping of the door header on their way to STEMI wasn't in the script - it was all Patrick and Taylor. Patrick would always do it and Taylor thought it was funny and "boy-ish" and copied him to tease him. She didn't even think they'd keep it in the actual episode.

Apparently all the staff will be behaving as if nothing out of the ordinary happened and one of them isn't suddenly not there anymore, just going about things as normal without even touching the subject and sidestepping the Langdon-shaped hole in the room, and Mel will be surprised at not seeing him and then very confused about the whole thing. (Until the reason why is eventually explained to her, I assume. Since she won't be judging him upon his return she'll have to be in the know regarding the basics by then, no?)

Mel will be genuinely excited when Langdon comes back next season, very much like she was when she saw him again after he'd been - unbeknownst to her - fired and away from the ED for a short while. (Imagine if the joy and enthusiasm were to be proportional? If she was that elated after he'd been gone for an hour, how would she react after ten months? Fic writers, you know what to do.)

That man needs to be at the very least separated and in talks of divorce if not already signing those papers by July 4th. We won't survive the slowly burning colleagues to friends to lovers wrapped in soulmatism these two are bringing to the table. [wishful thinking]

I have no real expectations except for the powers that be to continue to focus - as much as possible with the time allotted to them as characters and as a duo - on their wonderful bond and dynamic, still partnering them up for cases as well as for breaks and significant downtime moments, letting their wholesome relationship progress further, growing and flourishing as naturally as it did during the first season.

Since Langdon is going to return fully believing he's failed her and that he's no longer deserving of her trust I foresee Mel disabusing him of that silly notion so thoroughly and so fast he won't know what hit him. Mel treating him the same, without disappointment or betrayal or pity in her eyes, still wanting to work closely with and learn from him? Being supportive and there if and when he needs someone? Just being unapologetically herself in all the ways that immediately drew him to her in the first place? That is going to be a huge help and relief for him, I think, and ease his reintegration into their workplace and team if only a little bit.

I'm hoping their friendship solidifies as something that isn't exclusive to the hospital and that we'll get a teeny tiny blink-and-you'll-miss-it hint that it'll extend into their personal lives. Something like Mel telling Langdon more about Becca and their parents; or him telling her about Abby, the dog, the kids. Sharing and commiserating. Getting to know each other better. Finding only acceptance and understanding. That'd be nice.

Baby steps.

[dipperpepper77]

Arranged Marriage AU LADS Men

Dipper's Delusions

TAGS: Fluff, AFAB reader, children, men who yearn... ARE MEN WHO EARN.

Intro: Your kingdom reeked of smoke and burnt produce. The heat was so palpable that it seemed to stick to everyone's skin. Leaving yours to always be damp with soft sweat. The war was taking far too long to end. Your parents, the king and queen, opting for more drastic measures. Securing your hand to a foreign kingdom could provide aid and stability to your tiny kingdom. You weren't one for dramatics. Only nodding hesitantly as the documents were filled and signed over. Whilst, you didn't want to marry out of convenience... you also didn't want to see your people starve or succumb to the war.

The resources and power of the foreign kingdom would be enough to end the war and establish your own as one of the greats. One to not be messed with. Your people could now live in peace for your sacrifice. It would help that he was easy on the eyes.

It wasn't hard to convince him for your hand. He knew you. From prior balls were you didn't even spare him a passing glance. Now it was relatively the same. You still didn't grant him a passing glance in your shared castle. But, oh... how he longed for you. You were completely unaware of his sentiments for you. However, you'd soon find out.

Sea god Rafayel: You picked at your food with the gold plated fork. Your lips parting to make a comment but stopping halfway. Rafayel cleared his throat, "something's on your mind. Say it". You gave a curt nod before speaking "I thought it would be highly inappropriate to eat one's own kind". He let out an amused laugh. "Seafood? It's the circle of life, my dear. Eat or be eaten. Humans truly know nothing.. do they?" You shook your head a bit. Feeling more comfortable to take a bite of the seafood. It was rich and buttery. Light with the slight taste of the ocean. His hand grazed yours, picking it up in his soft delicate palm. "May I?" You nod. He places kisses to your knuckles. You felt a burning feeling in your throat. A lump forming as he nuzzled against your hand. "You don't need to feel the same... just know one thing. You will always have a place in my heart."

You found yourself easing into Rafayel. Gradually picking up with his steps. Finding yourself nuzzled in his embrace as he showed you his art pieces. More often than not you just found that... you couldn't be apart from him. His head laid on your lap as you fixed up his hair. You held golden shears as you cut small bits of his violet strands. "Raf... I think I'll do this wrong." He only smiled up at you. "You could never do wrong in my eyes. I trust you." He bit back a smirk. "Besides, If I look awful I'll tell everyone it's because my dear wife is possessive."

The kingdom was pushing for an heir after the anniversary of your marriage. You sat on the bed. The lump crawling back into your throat. You loved Rafayel. But, you were afraid. What if he changed? What if all he was doing was wooing you for an heir?

Rafayel kissed behind your ear. "Listen to me. We go at your pace.. okay?" You nod gently. Breathing out gently. "I'm scared.." His gaze softened. Looking at you like you were a wet trembling animal he needed to protect. He pushed a strand of hair out of your face. "Have I ever told you... you always happen to be the most beautiful woman in the room?" He got up. Extending his hand for you to take. He lead you to the garden. You looked at it in awe. You. Paintings full of your face. Painted in a way that showed you how utterly devoted he was.

(Skip forward) Rafayel was a proud dad of twins. One girl and one boy. Both had your hair and his face. Oh, how he doted on them. Kissing their cheeks constantly. The kingdom was quick to choose the boy as the heir. Leading to constant protests from a moody Rafayel. "No. Whoever shows they are ready for the throne gets it." He will NOT back down when it comes to showing equality to your children.

Crown of Light Xavier: A man beyond his age. When you heard of him at first, you thought he was an old man. But, when you saw him... it was another story. He was beautiful. You averted your gaze away from him. The side of your face seemed to be cradled by the candlelight. He smiled softly. "Do you like the light?" Your eyebrows furrowed but you decided to indulge him with a soft nod. His palm extended, a bead of light appeared only to transform to a bunny.

As soon as the precious moment occurred, it seemed to fleet just as fast. News of the kingdom awaiting an heir seemed to strike Xavier down. He hardly spoke to you. Leaving you to go into the bed chambers and sleeping. Dozing off as if he didn't have a wife.

You sat on the plush cushion of the couch. Embroidering a pillow for your future children if your husband just got out of his bed chambers for once. Then, you saw him standing at the doorway. His face looking like he mourned you. You spoke softly, "what troubles you so much?" He shuddered before he took a seat next to you. Whatever he was about to say seemed to be rehearsed. "I.. can... I can not give you children." Your eyebrows furrowed. "Can't or will not?" He shook his head gently. "Will not."

The castle has been tense ever since. You hardly spoke to him. It was the casual difference of him saying will not rather than could not. You sat on the silk bed in your bed chambers. Looking at nothing in particular. Rather, you were deep in thought about how you even got into this situation. Xavier walked into the room, blowing the soft flames of the candles that illuminated your room. You were about to protest... but, his hand rose. "Just... let me speak okay?" You nodded quietly. "It's not that I do not want children with you. It's more that I... I'm scared. Terrified actually. What if I'm not a good father? What if I don't last long enough to see them into adulthood.. I... I can't". Your hand went to the small of his back. Truly the most reassuring thing you could've done. He smiled softly. Using his evol to make a little light show for you as an apology. Light illuminated the room, forming intricate shapes.

You two had triplets on the first go. Poor Xavier's heart nearly dropped. But, he was making the most of it. Two little girls with golden strands and your eyes. The boy inheriting your hair and his blue eyes. King Xavier was reduced to a restless father. His girls pulling at his locks while the boy nestled in his chest... he wouldn't have it any other way.

Ice King Zayne: "I'd like to formally introduce my-". He walked away before you could even finish your sentence. Your eyes widened. What? He was the one who rushed your union. So why was he pushing you away? Did he think you lower than him?

You avoided him like a plague and so did he. The ice of his evol was not the only thing making this castle so... frigid. You ended up developing a routine: wake up, finish up royal tasks, meet with your ladies in waiting, eat in the empty dining table, and go to bed. 150 steps to your bed chambers. So you started counting again and again. 150 exact. What a mundane and boring life.

Today was no different. 150 steps to leave your room and to the dining table. But, this time you saw Zayne eating. You took your seat and ate in silence. The day was pretty pleasant afterwards. 150 steps to the chambers... 1...2...3. You only counted to 50 until you felt a hand grab your wrist and tug you somewhere else. Your mind was on autopilot. 150... 151? 180 steps to Zayne's chambers. Wait.. why are you in his chambers? He helped you out of your robe. His gaze appreciative of the silk white nightgown you wore. You looked up at him baffled. But, he just tugged you into bed with him. You were spooned into his embrace. Back hitting his muscular chest.

You were weak. How else do you explain just sleeping comfortably? He nuzzled his face into your neck. "I'm... not one for affection. I really tried... I just find being away from you is unbearable." What you didn't know is that he was a mess around you. The times he rushed away from you... he was hiding in the corner of the room blushing like a fool. He was not good at being vulnerable at all. But, he will try for you.

Twin girls appeared in his arms. Both having your face, your hair, your mannerisms. His genes didn't seem to even fight it. He thanked all the wishing he did. These little girls thawed the rest of his frigid heart that you couldn't reach. He would always carry snacks hidden under his heavy crown. Chocolate for the eldest twin, strawberry jam packets for the other, and whatever you craved. All with a faint blush whenever he was around you.

Dragon Sylus: You signed up for a marriage… not this. You were stuck in the tower being guarded by a damn dragon? You knew his name was Sylus. Knew he was also the king of the kingdom. Knew he preferred to be alone and recluse in the tower. Knew he hated humans. But, also knew he had to endure to keep the kingdom out of ruins.

He clung to you. His strong voice squeaking out. What happened to this strong dragon? “M-may.. I hold on to your ribbon?” You nod. His long fingers twirled around the ribbon that laid behind your dress. The one that held your waist. His black nails scratching lightly on it. “Pretty.”

You woke up more often than not in his arms. He always asked before he touched you. Not wanting to scare you off. His finger tips were ash black. His nails pointed and sharp. The noir color fading past his knuckle to reveal pale skin. Your fingers reached his horns earning you a soft groan. “They’re sensitive, my belle.” You took your hands off. He looked at you with almost worry. His nail dragging on your soft cheek. “Do I.. scare you?” You shot up. Wanting to protest. He shook his head. Getting up and leaving the room.

You found him mopping by a small nest that could only fit you and him if you squeezed. Maybe he made it so he could envelop you whole? That’s how he felt he could protect you. Your hand petted his hair. Asking.. begging to talk. He looked up at you. “I don’t want to scare you. It’s hard enough to ask you to have heirs with me. They’d be half dragon and half human.. I can’t ask you to create monsters.” You shook your head. Explaining you didn’t find him repulsive. But, his hand found yours again. “D-don’t.. not for my sake. I’d do anything for you. My horns? I’ll shave them down. Look more human. I’ll cut the claws.. the fangs too. Anything. Please.. I don’t wish to frighten you.” When you finally got him to see reason, he slept soundly on your chest.

He was the best girl dad. His little girl had your hair and his crimson eyes. She had the most fierce personality anyone had ever seen. More importantly… she had her dad wrapped around her finger. He’d always make her a nest. Always laugh whenever she started showing her dragon side. You two would take her to the gardens so she could enjoy the sun.

God of War Caleb: Strategically, this was a match made in heaven. His kingdom was one that never lost a battle. The soldiers were all top quality and ruthless when it came to protecting the crown. But, you grew up with Caleb. The powerful king was the same person who’d fuss over your dress, fix your ribbons, put your shoes on for you. His reward? You hardly acknowledged him as a romantic prospect. Hardly batting an eye to him at the balls.

How long would it take for him to snap? Not long actually.. you’re his wife now. His queen. You were blissfully unaware to his romantic sentiments. Usually giving him the same polite nod as always. Caleb… was a good and dear friend. Until tonight.

His hand snaked to the small of your back. Keeping you pressed against him. His cheek rubbed against yours. His voice… soft. Almost melodic. “Am I not enough? I’m yours… so humbly yours. My heart..” He placed your hand on his warm chest. Your fingertips feeling his steady and strong heartbeat. “This… it beats for you.” You could only swallow hard. Your eyes flickering with recognition. You truly loved him.

He followed you around like a lost puppy. Making countless excuses as for why he needed to be in your line of sight. No one understood how this man crumbled to a pathetic fool over you. But, they weren’t crazy enough to question him. A single utter of your name had his intention. If it was a negative comment? The person would rather be dead and gone than face Caleb’s wrath. Come hell or high water, that man would go to war for your dignity.

Caleb had his heir. A boy who looked exactly like him. A carbon copy down to his pout. He adored the boy.. absolutely. But, mentally cursed himself because he wished he looked a bit more like you. He also cursed himself because his son is EXACTLY like him. Caleb would follow you around for affection or praise, only to get knocked by his son. His son was equally possessive and jealous over your time. A chaotic but loving home is what I can best describe it as.

[ricedeity]

hi again

yuma: his vision is like.. "little halloween ghoul", cuz his color scheme reminded me of a pumpkin. basically his entire sv1 design was centered around being able to give him pumpkin shorts LOL. since he was the second ever jp male vocal i did also try to give him more japanese-style clothing too w the sandals. he also had a bit of a bandage motif to give a sense of eerieness. for v2 i dialed up the japanese-style w the top but also wrapped it the way it's done for corpses to keep the sense that Something's Wrong With Him

natalie: similar to kevin, as the first feminine english voicebank her general design vision was just "steampunk girl". i also wanted her to look very classic, hence the vintage-looking hair style. reprised this in sv2 by elevating her gloves to opera gloves for class. i just realized looking at her now that i forgot to add some details to her sv2 design ough. but anyways. something i think is cute about her sv2 design is that the hair kind of looks like a fancy hat. classy lady

mai: miss mai saw the biggest change in design direction because sv2 gave her coworkers! she used to be the only complimentary voicebank, but now there's 2 more, so i knew right away i wanted them to have some kind of matching uniform. mai has an "apple bunny" motif, and i described her as a student, so i thought it'd be cute if the other 2 were like her teachers. she gets to keep the ribbon to maintain her "sweet lolita" subflavor.

cong zheng and xuan yu: their design vision is "half-tone rock royalty". cong zheng has a rose motif and xuanyu has a (half) moon motif. i thought it was cute that they had matching color schemes so i wanted to keep that matching "half"-ness as much as possible... it's a bit more literal in their sv2 designs w the color split going right down the middle

cheng xiao: her design vision is "peking opera but idol", more or less. i aimed for a simpler, more stylized idol-ish outfit with peking opera design elements, rather than full peking opera costume, just for the sake of drawability. that said the amount of peking opera douyins on my fyp increased significantly between sv1 and 2 so her sv2 might feel a bit more authentic LOL

ninezero: i think this joke has been lost to history. but the reason ninezero looks like this is because of his first demo trailer.

he just looks like this to me forever now. but i gave him clothes for sv2.

lin lai + yun quan: i would say their vision is "things about chinese children i find kind of funny" (big disclaimer: i am chinese and allowed to laugh at these things). in sv1 it's the hairstyles they gave them in back in the olden times. for sv2 it's the school uniforms that modern chinese school kids wear today.

yun quan's new pigtail + hairclip style is supposed to vaguely resemble the butterfly shape. linlai has a new little plant sprout on his hat. i also realized that the jersey designs being different imply that lin lai and yun quan go to different schools........

ritchy: his vision was always "rapper + pirate" (cuz his color scheme/design reminds me of like... algae on water). that's why he has the big coat + shirtless combo. his sv1 design leaned a little more towards rapper than pirate so i just leaned a bit the other way for his sv2 design. his hair shape kind of resembles a big captain's hat a little bit.

d-lin: his vision was "rapper + cadaver". his sv1 version wears all white because it's what chinese corpses traditionally wear in funerals. his "rapper belts" are also meant to double to look like his innards are coming out. he's also got the Y incision commonly done for autopsies, now looking a tiny bit more subtle in the SV2 version as the Y part connects to the hoodie. like linlai, he didnt have enough hair to give him a new hairstyle so i gave him a different hat. bucket hats are cool

wei shu: his design vision was essentially "humble, flowy chinese-style clothing". his vest hanfu thing is replaced with a more simple overcoat. instead of big flower that mixes in to his hairbun, now a few of smaller flowers mixed throughout his hair, that hopefully carry through that "delicate" feeling (kind of like a disney princess). i also gave him and ling wan matching braids.

hayden: his vision is "catholic garb + 2000s boyband". the collar + vest he wears in his sv1 is meant to simultaneously be giving "bishop" and "jonas brother".

since sv1 leaned heavily on the "catholic" side (esp w the cape), i leaned more into the "Jonas Brother" side for sv2 with the goofy ass scarf. its length and flow is also meant to resemble a catholic stole. if you have the whimsy for it in your heart.

sheena: she's the first native en/jp billingual voicebank, so her design vision was "japanese silhouette + western fashion". it's a bit subtle, but her sv1 design is meant to be a kimono shape! the middriff is the middle sash, the cover over her arms forms the long sleeves, etc. i couldn't really think of a way to reprise this smoothly for sv2 so i put a shawl on her and gave her more of a classy lounge singer feel while still kind of keeping the kimono shape underneath.

eri: first jp rap voicebank, so in wanting her design to still feel japanese her vision was "street fashion gyaru". i elevated it to a bit more of a classy vibe in sv2, but the big varsity jacket is swapped for a big hoodie to keep the "street"-feeling vibe.

ayame: her design vision was "sweet lolita but literally" as in pastry sweets, haha. lots of ribbons as well. i took her apron-ish dress and took in more of a maid-waitress kind of look for sv2. her ojou-sama hair drills also levelled up.

jin: his design vision is basically just "sleek, well-dressed uncle with a rockin' past". he was already one of the more simple designs, but i think the tattoos are still striking.

yi xi: her vision was "athletic street fashion + butcher". the stripes on her sv1 top are meant to be like stripes you often see on athletic clothing, but also meant to resemble a slit throat. this is the best design thing i've ever done, by the way. sv1 also utilizes a jumpsuit like one you'd wear for sanitary food-handling, but also doubles for cool street fashion.

i felt like i'd be cheating by using the jumpsuit again for sv2 (even though it's sooooo good). so i leaned a bit more into the butcher end by just giving her an apron. i feel like the cut of her overall dress can kind of look like a qipao if you squint, which gives a chinese flavor. the opera gloves that "end" at the normal gloves are meant to resemble butcher sleeves.

yes, i think it is a bit silly to put a face mask on a vocal synthesizer whose only job it is to sing. but between "butchers wear face masks for sanitary reasons" + "face masks for street fashion" i feel like i had a right to.

ling wan: her design vision was something like... "modernized-version of what would look cool on the back of a horse with a bow and arrow". this is partially why she's one of the only girls with pants lol..... big flowy pants and a long element that blows cool-like in the wind. again, she and wei shu have matching braids

felicia: her vision was "cunty theater kid", basically? for her sv1 i kept it steampunk like natalie's, but for sv2 i pushed it a little more witchy. felicia is a voicebank with a lot of range so i think something like this has the potential to encapsulate her many possible usages. she's got a bit of a "crown" submotif (like a strawberry crown!) that carries through on the choker in sv2. also the top hat is so crucial to me.

riku: his design submotif is "boring jpop guy fashion" HAHA. i think i was referencing bump of chicken specifically? anyways i suppose he's a bit more idol-y in his sv2 iteration, but the jpop guy flavor persists

wanted to yap a little bit about my SV2 vimalion design process as i wait for my arm to recover from drawing all those fullbodies o(*￣▽￣*)ブ part 1 of ????

i have always loooooved vocaloid update designs, v4 update era was my Absolute Favorite, so when sv2 was announced, against my better judgement, i was absolutely determined to make "update" designs for all (checking) 28 ?? vimalion sv designs. ough

there were a few things i wanted to achieve:

i wanted the SV2 designs to feel more like a unified ensemble

i wanted it to be obvious from an immediate glance whether you were looking at a SV1 or SV2 design

i wanted to leave flexibility for new future SV2 (only) designs in the future

vimalion sv1 designs were largely "neutral colors (black, white) + key colors", so for sv2, i reduced this down to "dark neutrals (black, grey) + key colors, with a gradient". it does make everyone look a little bit emo, and some sv1 designs (like weishu) didn't have any light neutrals which kind of makes them fail point 2, but i think overall it worked out pretty well :')

i also gave everyone newwww hairstyles ^_^ because it's fun. but i made sure they were all hairstyles that didn't change the length or cut of the hair cuz i like the idea of them being able to switch between these designs at will lol

(also, i added an extra line to the logo. for Synth V Two)

but the main challenge of this premise is that there are many vimalion designs i simply feel like i nailed on the first shot. i simply think that some of the vimalion designs are Perfect. also some of them i made like, literally only months ago. so i can't really go a miku v4 or longya v4 route of trying to "improve" or "modernize" them with only slight adjustments.

to this end, my approach was more along the lines of v4 flower: take the same original Vision, but turn it into a different direction*

i feel like this approach lets each iteration have its own identity, and since i don't want the SV2 designs to be replacement for the SV1s but rather just New Additional Designs If You Want Them, i felt like it was the right approach :-)

*i know v4 flower was just based off a genderbend fanart but bear with me for the sake of my design theory lol

anyways, i haven't really talked publicly about the direction/themes/motifs/Visions for the vimalion dt designs, so i thought it'd be fun to identify them and talk about how i did them in a different flavor for their sv2 designs! some are a bit more interesting than others haha

Saki: the og, very first AI voicebank... so i wanted her to feel very Lowkey, very Tutorial Character. nonplayable secretary in the idol game vibe. so my vision for her is "chic sexy office lady", which i did with a sexy little tube top- fully out for her SV1 and buttoned up under her blazer (but still w some skin showing under) for SV2- combined w sexy officewear (it's just normal officewear?)

Qing Su: she and saki were the only faceless vocals for a while, so when people made fan designs they often made them reaaaally complex. so i wanted qing su to be elegant but simple: "marine fashion + hanfu". hence the sailor collar :-) SV2 has her showing more skin but i feel like it's like a "walk in the ocean" vibe. she's also got a bit of a lace subtheme in SV1 so i brought that back in SV2 with the gloves to kind of echo the "elegance" vibe of the long skirt.

also! back when letter vocals were only 1 letter i also tried to incorporate the letter into their designs... this didn't last long, but it did stick for qingsu- in her SV1 design, the combination of her bun and the hair stick make a Q shape. i reprised this in spirit for SV2 with the hair loop + ponytail also making a Q shape :-)

Ryo: his vision is "street fashion + modernized traditional japanese". for his SV1 i gave him a little half kimono thing, kinda samurai reminiscent... SV2 i gave him a haori instead (though i brought the kimono sleeves back for vibes) + hakama pants. also, his hair is based off kenshi yonezu, so i just picked another kenshi hairstyle for SV2 lol

Kevin: i felt bad for english voicebanks not having traditional fashion motifs to pull from like the japanese and chinese ones. i figured steampunk is the closest thing to immediately recognizable English Fashion Culture, so that's why the english voicebanks have steampunk elements. and thusly as the first English voicebank his vision was just "steampunk guy". i brought back the K-shaped neck thing from one of Kevin's earlier design iterations because it's sooooo good. and then i put the goggles on his head because they annoy me around his neck. that's basically all i have to say for him.

mo chen: his vision is "cute menswear + chinese fashion", or more succinctly "match qingsu" LOL. i couldnt really get him to matchsies super close w qingsu anymore though so i swapped out his wendy collar so he could have an elegant sweater vest over chinese collar moment. his hair is in a loop to match his sister but maybe it can look like the O from his logo if you want.

an xiao: his vision is "elevated high fashion suit". it was a very dramatic weird bodysuit moment for SV1 but SV2 looks a bit more like a normal high fashion suit LOL. also his tits gotta be out. also idk he gives me "suit + sneaker" vibes right? dont you agree? (holding a microphone up to you) hey

feng yi: she was the first one i earnestly designed with "VIMALION" in mind rather than just one-off designs, so i went a little bit too crazy with giving her motifs. i guess her vision theme is "han lolita-ish?" but she also had subthemes of clouds, ribbons, that weird criss-cross thing on her wrists... plus her main theme of ginkgo... anyways. i took the fluff under her skirt that served as a "cloud" vision and gave it to her as a fashionable little shawl for SV2. i swapped the zettai ryoukai of her arms and legs (thigh socks -> opera gloves, bare arms -> bare legs) just cuz?? i also made her colors closer to what they actually are LOL

weina: her vision is "phoenix goddess". i regretted giving her a bird theme when ling wan came out and was actually bird themed HAHA. but for SV2 i just did another angle on this vision, though maybe a little more elegantly this time... hers probably feels the most like a "level up". you can't tell in her key art but her cape is still wing shaped i promise.

----

okay i'll do the others in another part another time!! my arm hurts goodnight

[newtonsheffield]

I just know that Kate feels a bit of pressure for Anthony’s first birthday after they get together. She is a little bit stressed. Because Anthony’s sweet, and he’s cute and he waited for her to realise she was looking for him.

Anthony is such a good partner and Kate wants the time he spent waiting for her to be worth it.

“I just want us to spend the day together.” Anthony shrugged when she asked him what he wanted to do.

Kate rolled her eyes, “Well you always get that. What’s something special?”

Anthony rolled his eyes, “And that feels special. Always feels special the two of us.”

Kate growled. “God, you’re so annoying sometimes!”

She spends hours at the animal shelter, already having gotten Mary’s approval to house a kitten at her mum’s house for a few days.

“Would you be able to look after Ant’s birthday present for a few days?”

Mary’s eyes narrowed, “He’s not one of those white men that wants a pet lizard is he?”

“He is not, thankfully.” Kate sighed, “I’m bringing cat daddy Anthony into our lives.”

She spends hours there, staring at each kitten, one by one, trying to imagine them with Anthony’s personality, and had no idea. Then she turned to the last cage, the tiny grey kitten staring boldly back at her. He pawed at the cage and then slunk back, timid suddenly.

“Excuse me, what’s about this one?”

“Oh, he’s a cocky little boy.” The volunteer chuckled. “But he’s such a sweetie when he knows you. He loves a cuddle. Someone found him in a bin, no mum around.”

“Is he scared of dogs?”

“Hasn’t been so far.”

“This is the one.” Kate said firmly, so sure as she stared into the little blue eyes. “Who do I talk to about adopting him?”

Templeton Theodore Bridgerton is a sweetie, as it turns out. Proudly dressed in a little sweater by Anthony, sat on his lap, purring softly.

“He’s… I really love him, Kate.” Anthony said gently, scratching his ears gently.

“I remember you said you wanted a cat, and I didn’t want you to think you couldn’t because I have Newton.”

“My first son.” Anthony grinned, primly straightening the little bow tie on the kitten’s collar. “How does being a dad look on me?”

“Annoyingly cute, actually.”

“Perfect.”