#composing my bias

[brigidandair]

Bias Tags Post

Just in case anyone wanted this, I did choose specific tags for my bias groups and individual group member biases. I don't see my bias groups changing anytime soon, but this list might get added to, and is also so *I* can remember exactly what all my tags are without scrolling down to a previous post, because lol what is a good memory. I decided to make this a public thing on my blog, just in case anyone who shares a bias of mine wants an easy way to find all the posts with that group/person in my blog at once. So feel free to use any of these tags! Groups: - B.A.P: #ultokis - ATEEZ: #yo ho ults - Astro: #starry ults - The Kingdom: #royults - MCND: #ult age - Seventeen: #slip into the shining bias life Individual Idols: - Yongguk (B.A.P): #gummy ult - Yunho (ATEEZ): #my sunshine - Moonbin (Astro): #my moonlight - Arthur (The Kingdom): #my majesty - BiC (MCND): #the biccest sweetie - Woozi (Seventeen): #composing my bias - Minghao (Seventeen): #performing my bias

[headslikekites]

auuhhhhh the tricky trials ost is so peak

[notthemindprobe]

The fact that Segun Akinola and his work are getting wrapped up in the whole "13's era was collectively shit" thing pisses me off to no end.

[mishkakagehishka]

And it'd make sense bc you know what's the first country you think of when you think of the classical period? France. That's right. I'm connecting the dots.

[lumitoiile]

☆ :  kinich headcanons

summary : fluffy boyfriend imagines, gn! reader (no pronouns.) author bias as he is in fact my main... ╱ word count : 634.

alright mister nonchalant you're up

kinich definitely isn't the most affectionate person in the world... but he shows his care for you in subtle ways.

he's an excellent listener, for one. he's not much of a talker, so listening is something he's good at. he'll listen to quite literally anything you decide to share with him, and he'll remember every single detail. he also just really likes your voice.

his love language is definitely acts of service. kinich will always offer to step in and help in whatever way he can, hardly ever asking for anything in return; costs, you say? ludicrous. he's always doing things for you, even if they're small.

puts ajaw in time out whenever you're together so the two of you can at least have a moment of peace.

he's a huge perfectionist. whenever he's the one in charge of planning a date or picking out a gift, kinich wants everything to be nothing short of perfect for you.

workaholic. not only does he tend to throw himself into his position as a saurian hunter, but he's also always accepting side commissions and small jobs. he knows he has trouble balancing work and his personal life, but he's trying to get better at taking breaks; especially to spend more time with you.

smiles from him are rare, but definitely worth it!! it doesn't come to him easily, but when he does smile it's like the sun peeking through the clouds after a rainy day.

while he's not overly possessive about it, he does get a tad bit protective. he worries about you but makes sure to respect your boundaries and independence.

surprisingly a big cuddle bug when he's tired. kinich tries to maintain a composed and mature demeanor most of the time, but after he's had an especially long day? his guard all but falls when he's finally with you, mumbling nonsense and sleepily leaning his head onto your shoulder.

both of you are at the top of ajaw's shit list... if he wasn't teyvats number one yapper before, he definitely is now, always complaining about how annoying it is to be around you two.

overthinks everything. if kinich feels like he's let you down, he literally cannot stop dwelling on it. whether it's not spending enough time with you or snapping at you when his stress becomes too much, he's his worst critic. you often have to remind him that it's okay to make mistakes, and that you love him, imperfections and all.

he's not big on PDA, but there are definitely a few exceptions. believe it or not, mister calm and collected actually gets jealous quite easily. he often feels bad about it and tries not to let it show, but if you're talking with someone new and not giving him enough attention, he'll subtly entangle his fingers with yours just to make sure everyone knows that you're his; and that he's yours.

date nights!! i think his ideal way to spend a night with you would be an at-home date or a picnic. he also really loves stargazing, since he's usually busy during the day. but honestly, he's not particularly picky about what you decide to do—as long as you get to spend time together ♡

he's obsessed with your hands. it's strange, but endearing in its own way; when it's just the two of you alone he's always kissing your knuckles and mindlessly tracing patterns into the skin of your palm.

it takes him a while to get to his first 'i love you', but when he does, the moment is unforgettable. he has a little trouble navigating and fully processing his emotions, but he says it with such care and sincerity you can't help but feel utterly cherished.

yes he's very lovely indeed 10/10 boyfriend

© lumitoiile. please do not copy, steal, or edit my work.

[amethystarachnid]

Hey! I wanted to request Loki x reader fanfic. Can it be arranged marriage with slow burn au where the reader is a princess of a small kingdom who never thought she'd be marrying into a higher kingdom let alone Asgard. So is surprised when is betrothed to loki. She tried to give him benifit of doubt but we'll he acts like an ass and she decides to give it to him back equally. They both banter and throw sarcastic jibes during the courting period and after the marriage but over time they become friends and then lovers. Maybe She calls odin out on his bullshit and bias towards thor, and all the fun family dynamics with frigga and thor.

Thank you! And wishing you a happy new year!✨🍀

THE ROYAL LOVERS

⤷ LOKY LAUFEYSON

ᯓ★ Pairing: Loki Laufeyson x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, some angst and some fluff

ᯓ★ Requests status: open (only by asks)

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 11k (I dont think I can make it more slow burn than this lol)

ᯓ★ Summary: just what the ask said

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing I think

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

You sit in the grand hall of your father’s castle, the sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows, casting kaleidoscopic patterns on the cold marble floors. The room feels heavier than usual, the weight of your father’s words pressing down on your chest. Betrothed. You turn the word over in your mind, trying to make sense of it, trying to figure out how this has become your reality.

“To one of Asgard’s princes?” you repeat, unable to mask the disbelief in your tone.

Your father nods, his expression grave yet tinged with pride. “Yes, daughter. This alliance is a great honor for our kingdom. A union with Asgard strengthens our position, ensures our prosperity, and secures peace for generations to come.”

Peace. Prosperity. You’ve heard these words countless times before, always in speeches or during court gatherings when foreign diplomats visit. Now they’re being used as the justification for altering the course of your entire life.

You swallow hard. “And which prince?”

A pause stretches between you, long enough for your heart to skip several anxious beats. Your father finally answers, his voice calm, though his eyes betray some unease. “Prince Loki.”

The name settles over you like a shadow. You’ve heard stories of Asgard, of its golden spires and indomitable warriors. Tales of its princes, too—Thor, the golden-haired god of thunder, beloved by all, and Loki, the sharp-tongued trickster whose reputation is far more ambiguous.

You straighten in your chair, forcing yourself to remain composed despite the storm building inside you. “I see. And when am I to meet this... prince?”

“Soon,” your father says. “King Odin and Queen Frigga have agreed to host a meeting at their palace. You will accompany me to Asgard in three days' time.”

Three days. That’s all the time you have to prepare yourself for the encounter that will determine your future. You nod stiffly and rise from your seat, excusing yourself from the conversation.

Once you’re alone in your chambers, the weight of it all crashes down on you. You pace the room, the rich fabrics of your dress swishing around your legs, your mind racing. Betrothed to a prince of Asgard. It sounds like something out of a storybook, but you’re no naïve dreamer. You know enough to understand the realities of political alliances.

Still, you can’t help but wonder: why would Asgard—a kingdom so vast and powerful it dwarfs your own—be interested in such a union?

Three days later, you stand before the shimmering Bifrost Bridge, its prismatic light almost blinding. The sight of it steals your breath, though you quickly compose yourself as the Asgardian guards usher you and your father toward the grand palace that looms in the distance.

The palace is even more magnificent than the stories described, its golden towers piercing the sky, its halls adorned with treasures from realms beyond your imagination.

You feel small here, insignificant. But you refuse to let it show.

In the throne room, King Odin sits atop his gilded seat, his presence commanding, even intimidating. Beside him stands Queen Frigga, her beauty and poise as striking as the rumors claimed. The sight of her eases your nerves slightly; she seems kind, her gentle smile a stark contrast to the stern expressions of her husband and the guards flanking the room.

And then you see him.

Prince Loki.

He stands a step behind his parents, dressed in sleek black and green, the golden accents of his attire catching the light. His dark hair is neatly combed back, his pale features sharp and angular. There’s an air of arrogance about him, a cool detachment that only adds to his enigmatic aura.

Your father bows, and you quickly follow suit, keeping your gaze fixed on the floor.

“Your Majesties,” your father begins, his voice steady. “It is an honor to stand before you. I thank you for welcoming us into your home.”

Odin nods curtly, his single eye fixed on your father. “We are pleased to have you here. This alliance is of great importance to both our realms.”

Frigga steps forward, her smile warm. “And you must be the princess,” she says, addressing you directly.

You lift your head, meeting her gaze. “Yes, Your Majesty. It is a privilege to be here.”

Frigga’s smile widens, and for a moment, you feel at ease. But the feeling is short-lived as you catch Loki’s gaze. He’s watching you, his expression unreadable.

“Loki,” Odin says, gesturing toward you. “This is the princess, your betrothed.”

The words hang in the air like a thunderclap. Loki’s lips curl into a faint, almost dismissive smirk. He inclines his head slightly but says nothing.

You suppress the urge to bristle. Fine, you think. If he’s going to be curt, so be it.

Frigga notices the tension and steps in, her voice soothing. “Why don’t the two of you take a moment to speak privately? Get to know one another.”

Your father nods in agreement. “An excellent idea.”

Before you can protest, you’re being led to a nearby chamber, Loki following behind you at a leisurely pace. Once the door closes, you turn to face him, your hands clasped tightly in front of you.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence is thick, uncomfortable.

“So,” you begin, forcing yourself to sound calm. “It seems we are to be married.”

Loki leans against the nearest wall, his arms crossed over his chest. “Indeed. Though I must admit, I find the arrangement rather curious.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Curious? In what way?”

He shrugs, his tone casual but laced with condescension. “Our kingdoms are not exactly equals. One might wonder what my father hopes to gain from such a union.”

The words sting, but you refuse to let him see it. Instead, you smile sweetly, matching his tone. “Perhaps he hopes I’ll teach you some manners.”

Loki’s eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he regains his composure. “Manners? How quaint. I wasn’t aware my betrothed was a tutor.”

You take a step closer, meeting his gaze head-on. “And I wasn’t aware mine was a child.”

His smirk falters, and for a moment, you think you’ve won. But then he chuckles, low and amused. “You have spirit, I’ll give you that. It’s almost endearing.”

“Almost?” you echo, tilting your head. “I’ll take that as a compliment, though I doubt you intended it as one.”

Loki studies you for a moment, his green eyes piercing. “You’re not what I expected.”

“And neither are you,” you reply, refusing to look away.

The tension in the room is palpable, an unspoken challenge hanging between you. Finally, Loki straightens, his expression unreadable once more.

“This should be interesting,” he says, his voice quiet but carrying an edge.

You don’t respond, watching as he strides toward the door and leaves without another word.

When you return to the throne room, Frigga gives you a knowing look, as if she can sense the clash of wills that just occurred.

“I trust you had a productive conversation,” she says gently.

You offer her a polite smile. “It was... enlightening.”

Loki says nothing, his expression calm but his eyes glinting with something you can’t quite place.

As the meeting concludes and you prepare to return to your chambers at Asgard for now, you can’t shake the feeling that this is only the beginning of a battle of wits and wills. And for the first time since hearing of the betrothal, you find yourself almost looking forward to the challenge.

The news spreads faster than you’d expect. Within days of the announcement, the realms are abuzz with the most unlikely engagement of the century: Loki, the so-called “trickster prince” of Asgard, and you, the princess of a modest but proud kingdom.

You learn of the reactions secondhand—your father shares reports from neighboring realms, some of which range from incredulous laughter to outright disbelief. Even within Asgard, whispers fill the air. Servants, courtiers, even the warriors of the great halls exchange furtive glances as you pass, clearly wondering how and why such a union has come to be.

You, however, have no answers for them.

Forced to stay in Asgard for the duration of your courtship, you find yourself in a whirlwind of carefully orchestrated meetings, formal dinners, and—most excruciating of all—dates.

The first one is planned with all the subtlety of a lightning bolt. Frigga herself announces it over breakfast, her tone pleasant but brooking no argument.

“The two of you will take a walk through the gardens this afternoon,” she says, her serene expression giving no indication that this is a royal decree rather than a suggestion. “It’s a lovely day, and I’m sure you’ll find the fresh air invigorating.”

Loki, seated across from you at the lavish dining table, barely looks up from his plate. “Invigorating,” he echoes dryly, his tone implying that being dragged into the sunlight is the last thing he finds appealing.

You sip your tea, determined not to let him ruin your mood. “It sounds delightful,” you say, forcing a bright smile.

When the time comes, the “walk” is as awkward as you anticipated. The gardens of Asgard are, of course, stunning, with vibrant flowers and towering trees that look as though they were sculpted by the gods themselves. But the beauty of your surroundings does little to ease the tension between you and your betrothed.

“You seem thrilled to be here,” you remark as you stroll along a cobblestone path, glancing at Loki. He walks a step ahead of you, his hands clasped behind his back and his expression neutral.

“I’m beside myself with joy,” he replies without missing a beat.

You roll your eyes. “If you hate this so much, why not just tell your parents you’re not interested? I’m sure they’ll understand.”

Loki stops, turning to face you with an arched brow. “You think I haven’t tried? My father, as you may have noticed, is not particularly accommodating when it comes to matters of ‘duty.’”

You shrug. “Neither is mine. But at least I’m trying to make the best of it.”

“Ah, yes,” Loki says, his lips curling into a smirk. “You’re positively brimming with enthusiasm. Tell me, is sarcasm a custom in your kingdom, or is it just your natural talent?”

“It’s a survival skill,” you shoot back, crossing your arms. “Particularly useful when dealing with insufferable princes.”

Loki laughs—a genuine laugh, though he quickly masks it with a cough. “Touché.”

The rest of the walk is less tense, though the banter continues. By the time you return to the palace, you’re both mildly annoyed but also—if you’re honest with yourself—mildly entertained.

The dates that follow are no less eventful.

One afternoon, you’re coerced into accompanying Loki to the library, which he claims is his “sanctuary.” You quickly learn that by “sanctuary,” he means a place where he can hide from people and indulge in his penchant for mocking their intellectual inadequacies.

“You know,” you say, trailing your fingers along the spines of ancient tomes as Loki lounges in a nearby chair, “if you put half as much effort into being pleasant as you do into being smug, you might actually be tolerable.”

“Why would I aim for tolerable when I can achieve perfection?” he counters, not looking up from his book.

You grab the nearest volume and plop it unceremoniously onto the table in front of him. “Here. Enlighten me, oh wise one.”

Loki picks up the book, glances at the title, and smirks. “A Beginner’s Guide to Asgardian History? How quaint.”

You grin, leaning on the table. “Well, I wouldn’t want to overwhelm you with anything too advanced.”

For a moment, his eyes meet yours, and you swear you see a flicker of amusement there. Then he closes the book with a theatrical sigh. “Very well. Sit, and I’ll educate you—though I can’t promise you’ll retain anything.”

By the end of the afternoon, you’ve learned more about Asgardian history than you ever thought you’d care to know. And, despite his constant teasing, Loki is an excellent teacher.

Another date—a “ride” across the Bifrost on enchanted steeds—proves to be even more chaotic.

“Have you ever ridden a horse before?” Loki asks as you mount your steed, his tone suggesting he already knows the answer.

“Of course,” you reply confidently, though your grip on the reins betrays your nerves.

As the horses take off, galloping across the shimmering bridge, you quickly realize that Asgardian steeds are not like those of your kingdom. They’re faster, stronger, and seemingly unbothered by the laws of gravity.

You let out an involuntary squeal as your horse leaps into the air, soaring above the bridge for a heart-stopping moment before landing gracefully.

Behind you, Loki laughs—an infuriating, delighted sound. “Having fun, princess?”

“Shut up!” you shout, gripping the reins tighter.

By the time the ride is over, your hair is a mess, your heart is pounding, and you’re thoroughly mortified. Loki, of course, looks as composed as ever.

“Well,” he says as you dismount, his smirk firmly in place, “that was exhilarating. Shall we go again?”

You glare at him, brushing strands of hair from your face. “Don’t push your luck.”

Despite the constant banter, you find yourself… not hating his company as much as you expected. Loki, for all his arrogance, is undeniably clever, and his sharp wit keeps you on your toes. He’s also surprisingly observant, occasionally making remarks that reveal a deeper understanding of you than you’re comfortable admitting.

For his part, Loki seems to enjoy sparring with you, though he never lets on too much. There are moments when his smirk softens, when his eyes linger on yours a little longer than necessary. But just as quickly, he retreats behind his usual façade of indifference.

The days pass, and the courtship continues, much to the amusement of the palace staff and the frustration of your parents.

“They’re impossible,” Odin mutters one evening after dinner, watching as you and Loki exchange yet another round of playful insults.

“They’re perfect for each other,” Frigga replies with a smile, her gaze warm as she watches the two of you.

Perfect. You wouldn’t go that far. But as you lie awake in your chambers that night, replaying the day’s events in your mind, you can’t deny that something about Loki intrigues you.

And though you’d never admit it, you’re starting to think that this arrangement might not be so terrible after all.

The day of your wedding looms ever closer, and Asgard hums with preparations. The golden halls are adorned with garlands of flowers, banners bearing the crests of your kingdom and Asgard hang side by side, and the palace is abuzz with activity. Servants scurry to and fro, courtiers gossip behind jeweled fans, and Frigga oversees every detail with her characteristic grace.

You, meanwhile, feel like a tightly coiled spring, caught between nervous anticipation and the persistent irritation that comes from dealing with Loki.

If the prince’s attitude was difficult before, it’s positively maddening now. You’re not sure what changed, but he’s been colder, more distant, his biting remarks sharper than usual.

One day, as you’re walking through the palace gardens, you decide to confront him.

“Alright, what’s your problem?” you demand, stepping in front of him and blocking his path.

Loki arches a brow, clearly unimpressed by your attempt to corner him. “You’ll have to be more specific, princess. I have so many.”

You cross your arms. “Don’t play coy. You’ve been acting like an even bigger ass than usual lately, and I want to know why.”

His lips curl into a smirk, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You flatter me with your concern.”

“I’m serious, Loki.” Your voice softens, though your gaze remains firm. “If I’ve done something to upset you, just tell me.”

For a moment, his expression falters, and you think he might actually answer you. But then his smirk returns, colder than before.

“Perhaps I’m simply preparing you for the reality of being married to me,” he says, his tone light but laced with something darker.

Your stomach twists, but you refuse to let him see how much his words sting. “Fine,” you snap. “Be an ass. See if I care.”

You storm off, leaving him standing in the garden, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

The tension between you only worsens with the arrival of Thor.

The golden-haired prince returns from a long mission, his presence immediately commanding attention wherever he goes. Thor is everything Loki is not—open, friendly, and effortlessly charming. He greets you with a beaming smile, his blue eyes sparkling with genuine warmth.

“You must be the princess,” he says, clasping your hand in his large, calloused one. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Good things, I hope,” you reply, returning his smile.

“Of course!” Thor’s laughter booms through the hall, drawing the attention of everyone nearby. “I can see now why my brother is so reluctant to share his time with you. He must be afraid I’ll steal you away!”

You laugh politely, though the comment catches you off guard. Before you can respond, Loki appears at Thor’s side, his expression carefully neutral.

“Thor,” he says smoothly, his tone deceptively light. “How delightful of you to join us. I see you’ve already met my betrothed.”

“Indeed, I have!” Thor claps a hand on Loki’s shoulder, grinning. “She’s delightful. You’re a lucky man, brother.”

Loki’s smile tightens, and you swear you see his jaw clench. “Yes,” he says, his voice a touch colder. “Lucky indeed.”

From that moment on, Loki’s demeanor shifts even further. He grows colder, more distant, and his once playful banter becomes outright cutting.

During a dinner with Thor and the royal family, you find yourself on the receiving end of one of his more caustic remarks.

“Tell me, princess,” Loki drawls, leaning back in his chair. “Have you been enjoying your time here in Asgard? Or is it too overwhelming for someone from such... modest origins?”

The table falls silent, all eyes turning to you. Thor frowns, clearly disapproving of his brother’s behavior, while Frigga gives Loki a sharp look.

You take a deep breath, forcing a smile. “Oh, it’s been lovely,” you reply sweetly. “Though I must admit, the company has been a bit... mixed.”

Thor bursts out laughing, while Loki’s eyes narrow dangerously.

“Well played, princess,” he says, his voice low and icy.

The tension between you only seems to escalate as the days pass, culminating in a heated argument the night before the wedding.

“You know,” you say, standing in the middle of the grand hall where the ceremony will take place, “if you’re so miserable about this marriage, why don’t you just call it off?”

“And bring shame to both our kingdoms?” Loki replies, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I think not.”

“Shame?” You scoff. “Oh, please. Everyone knows you don’t want this any more than I do.”

“And yet here we are,” he snaps, his eyes flashing with anger.

The argument spirals, both of you hurling insults and accusations until you’re both breathing heavily, standing far too close to each other.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The air crackles with tension, and you half-expect Loki to say something cruel, something to end the conversation once and for all.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he steps back, his expression unreadable. “Goodnight, princess,” he says quietly, before turning on his heel and walking away.

You’re left standing alone in the empty hall, your chest tight and your mind racing.

The day of the wedding arrives, and you wake with a mixture of dread and resignation. You’re dressed in an elaborate gown, the finest your kingdom has ever produced, and escorted to the ceremony by your father and a contingent of Asgardian guards.

The hall is packed with dignitaries and guests from across the realms, their eyes fixed on you as you make your way down the aisle. At the end of it stands Loki, dressed in black and gold, his expression a perfect mask of calm.

As you approach, you search his face for any sign of emotion, any hint of the man you’ve gotten to know over the past weeks. But he gives nothing away.

The ceremony proceeds smoothly, the vows exchanged without incident. But as you stand before the gathered crowd, your hand resting in Loki’s, you can’t shake the feeling that something has shifted between you.

When the officiant finally declares you husband and wife, Loki leans in, his lips brushing your ear as he murmurs, “The games begin, princess.”

You pull back slightly, meeting his gaze with a mixture of exasperation and amusement. “Bring it on, prince.”

The crowd erupts in applause, oblivious to the battle of wills raging between the two of you.

And as Loki leads you down the aisle, his hand resting lightly on yours, you can’t help but wonder what the future holds for this strange, tempestuous union. One thing is certain: life with Loki will never be dull.

The wedding feast is a blur of golden light, laughter, and endless toasts. Your smile is painted on, your cheeks aching as guests from every realm offer their congratulations. Loki plays his part impeccably, charming the crowd with his wit and occasional glances in your direction that are just shy of affectionate.

Inside, you feel like a tightly coiled spring, wound tighter with every passing moment. You know what comes after the feast. The thought sits heavy in your chest, making it hard to breathe.

The hour grows late, and when the last of the guests have finally departed, you’re escorted to the chambers that have been prepared for you and Loki. The halls seem longer than usual, the distance to your destination stretching endlessly as your nerves build.

When you reach the door, the servants offer you both polite bows before disappearing down the corridor, leaving you and Loki alone.

He opens the door, gesturing for you to step inside. His expression is unreadable, though his usual smirk is noticeably absent.

The chambers are stunning, of course—richly furnished and illuminated by soft, flickering candlelight. But all you can focus on is the massive bed at the center of the room, its silken sheets and embroidered pillows looking more like a throne than a place to rest.

Loki closes the door behind you, and you hear the faint click of the lock.

You stand frozen in the middle of the room, your hands clasped tightly in front of you as you stare at the bed.

“Well,” Loki says after a moment, his voice breaking the tense silence. “I suppose this is the part where we consummate the marriage.”

Your stomach flips, and you force yourself to turn and look at him. “I... I know,” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper.

Loki studies you, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly. Then, to your surprise, he sighs and moves to the nearest chair, sinking into it with an almost theatrical air of exasperation.

“Let’s make one thing perfectly clear,” he says, resting his elbow on the armrest and propping his chin on his hand. “I have no intention of forcing you��or myself, for that matter—into anything tonight.”

You blink, taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he replies, his tone dry, “that we don’t actually have to do anything. All anyone needs to know is that we sayit happened. As long as we both stick to the story, no one will be the wiser.”

Relief floods through you, so sudden and intense that your knees nearly buckle. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly,” he says, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. “I find the idea of spending the night in awkward silence far more appealing than the alternative.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, nodding quickly. “Alright. I... I agree.”

“Good.” He stands and moves to the other side of the room, unfastening his cloak and draping it over a chair. “We’ll sleep in the same bed—appearances and all that—but I promise to stay on my side. You won’t even know I’m there.”

You hesitate, glancing at the bed again. “Alright,” you say softly, your voice steadier now.

Loki changes into a loose tunic and trousers while you slip behind a screen to remove your elaborate gown and don a simple nightdress. When you emerge, he’s already lying on one side of the bed, his back to you.

You climb in cautiously, keeping to the very edge of your side. The mattress dips slightly under your weight, and you can feel the faint warmth of Loki’s presence, though you’re careful not to look at him.

The silence stretches between you, heavy but not entirely uncomfortable.

“Goodnight, princess,” Loki says after a while, his voice quiet but laced with his usual sarcasm.

“Goodnight, Loki,” you reply, your lips curving into a faint smile despite yourself.

The next morning, you’re awoken by a knock at the door. Loki groans softly, rolling onto his back but making no move to get up.

“Come in,” he calls lazily.

The door opens, and a group of servants enters, carrying trays of breakfast and fresh clothing. They’re followed by Frigga, who takes one look at the rumpled bed and your mussed hair and smiles knowingly.

“I trust you both slept well,” she says, her tone light but her eyes sharp with curiosity.

Loki sits up, running a hand through his disheveled hair and flashing her a lazy grin. “Like babes in a cradle, Mother.”

You flush, quickly busying yourself with the tea that one of the servants has placed on the bedside table.

Frigga’s gaze lingers on the two of you for a moment longer before she nods, clearly satisfied. “Good. The court will be eager to hear that the union has been properly sealed.”

You nearly choke on your tea, but Loki remains perfectly composed, raising an eyebrow at his mother. “Of course,” he says smoothly. “They needn’t worry about that.”

Frigga gives him a pointed look, then turns to leave, her skirts sweeping gracefully behind her.

When the door closes, you let out a shaky breath, your cheeks still burning.

“Well,” Loki says, leaning back against the headboard with a smirk. “That was convincing enough, wouldn’t you say?”

You glare at him, though there’s no real heat in it. “You could have warned me she’d ask.”

“And deprive myself of the pleasure of seeing you flustered?” He grins, clearly enjoying himself.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips.

The rest of the day is a whirlwind of public appearances and well-wishes from guests and courtiers. You and Loki play your roles to perfection, standing side by side and accepting congratulations with polite smiles.

But every so often, you catch Loki’s eye, and there’s a flicker of something there—something you can’t quite define.

As the sun sets and the festivities wind down, you find yourself wondering if this strange, tentative partnership might become something more.

The passing weeks blur in a mix of royal duties, public appearances, and private moments that seem far too fleeting. You and Loki settle into an unexpected, but not unwelcome, routine. It’s not one born out of affection, nor of any deep romantic feeling—at least not on your part—but something else entirely.

It’s friendship, of sorts, though it has an edge of guardedness on both sides.

Loki is still as sarcastic as ever, his barbed words often making you want to throw a pillow at him, but there’s a subtle shift in his attitude. He doesn’t try to make you uncomfortable, nor does he push you into situations that force your discomfort. Instead, he lets the two of you share moments of quiet companionship, moments that pass without him demanding anything more than just… being together.

At times, you even catch him offering a rare, genuine smile when the two of you exchange witty banter, the edge of coldness in his eyes softening for just a moment before it’s hidden away again.

It’s those moments—small, fleeting—that make you begin to wonder if there’s more to Loki than meets the eye.

But then, every time Thor is around, Loki retreats into himself. His demeanor hardens, his eyes become colder, and the playful teasing he once directed at you disappears, replaced by something almost resembling disdain.

It’s frustrating. You had grown used to Loki’s sharp wit and dry humor, but around Thor, he becomes a stranger. It’s as though he’s a different person entirely.

It’s in those moments that you realize just how much Thor’s presence affects Loki. The way his brother’s easy charm and warmth seem to have earned him the favor of everyone around them, especially their father, Odin.

The stark contrast between the two brothers becomes painfully obvious during family dinners.

On this particular evening, you’re seated at the grand table in the palace hall, flanked by Frigga on one side and Thor on the other. Loki sits at the far end, his posture rigid and his eyes fixed on his plate. The tension between the two brothers is palpable, though it’s subtle, buried beneath layers of carefully crafted politeness.

Frigga chats lightly with Thor about his latest battle, her soft voice carrying through the room. You listen attentively, though a part of you can’t help but glance over at Loki.

You can feel the weight of his silence, the way he seems to withdraw into himself whenever Thor speaks. Loki only offers the occasional half-hearted comment, his tone distant, as if he’s not really a part of the conversation.

Frigga, ever perceptive, seems to notice as well. She glances between Loki and Thor, her expression one of quiet concern.

“Loki,” she says gently, her voice carrying the weight of unspoken understanding, “is there something you wish to add?”

Loki straightens slightly but doesn’t look up from his plate. “No, Mother. I’m simply… observing.”

You can’t help but notice the way his jaw clenches, his gaze still fixed on his food as though he’s avoiding looking anyone in the eye.

Thor, ever the optimist, tries to break the tension. “Come now, brother. Surely you have a better tale to tell than mine. You’ve always been the more… creative one when it comes to storytelling.”

Loki’s eyes flicker toward Thor, but the look he gives his brother is colder than you’ve ever seen it. There’s something there, something unspoken that hangs heavy in the air between them.

“I have no tales to tell,” Loki replies coolly, his voice flat. “Not tonight.”

The silence that follows is thick, awkward. You shift in your seat, unsure of what to say, and Frigga clears her throat, clearly attempting to shift the atmosphere.

“I’m sure Loki has many stories to share when he’s in the mood, Thor,” she says, giving her son a kind smile. “But for now, perhaps we should allow him the peace to enjoy his meal in silence.”

Thor seems to take the hint, though there’s a flicker of confusion in his eyes as he nods. “Of course, Mother.”

But you notice the way he glances at Loki one last time before he turns his attention to you. He smiles, his usual warmth returning.

“It’s good to see you again, Princess,” Thor says, his voice easy and kind. “I trust you’ve settled in well?”

You smile back, grateful for the change of subject. “Yes, thank you, Thor. Asgard has been… more than welcoming.”

Loki stays silent, his fork moving absently as he pushes food around on his plate. You try not to let your gaze linger too long on him, but it’s difficult to ignore the way he seems to withdraw further with each passing moment.

Later, after the dinner has ended and the courtiers have dispersed, you find yourself walking the halls of the palace, your thoughts a tangled mess.

Loki’s behavior continues to trouble you. It’s clear that there’s something between him and Thor, something deep and unresolved. You can sense it in the way Loki acts when his brother is near, the way he retreats inward, shutting everyone else out.

And then there’s Odin. You’ve seen it too—the way the Allfather seems to favor Thor in ways that Loki could never seem to earn. The way Odin’s praise comes effortlessly to Thor, while Loki is left in the shadows, forced to fight for every scrap of recognition.

You’ve begun to notice the small things—the way Loki’s expression shifts when Odin speaks to Thor, or how he watches them both with an almost painful intensity when they stand together.

It’s hard to ignore the dynamic between them. Loki’s desire to prove himself to his father, to gain his approval in a way that seems perpetually out of reach, is something you can’t help but empathize with.

But you don’t know how to talk about it, how to approach him without making things worse.

That night, after the dinner, you retreat to your chambers, the silence of the room settling around you like a weight. Loki is already there, seated on the edge of the bed, his back to you as he stares out the window.

The flickering light from the torch on the wall casts shadows across his face, making his expression seem distant and closed off.

You hesitate in the doorway, unsure of what to say. But the longer you stand there, the more the words seem to push their way out.

“Loki,” you begin, your voice tentative, “I know things have been… difficult lately.”

Loki doesn’t turn around, but his shoulders tense at the sound of your voice. “Difficult? You mean the constant parade of Thor’s victories and Father’s adoration?” His words are sharp, laced with bitterness.

You step further into the room, your heart aching at the venom in his tone. “I didn’t mean it like that,” you say quietly. “But I can see it, Loki. I can see how much it hurts you.”

For a long moment, there’s nothing but silence. Then, Loki sighs deeply, rubbing his temples as if trying to stave off a headache.

“I don’t need your pity,” he mutters. “I don’t need anyone’s pity.”

You take a careful step closer, your voice soft. “I’m not pitying you, Loki. I’m just… I just don’t want you to feel alone in this.”

He laughs bitterly, his shoulders shaking as he turns to face you. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t understand what it’s like to be cast aside, to never be good enough no matter how hard you try?”

You swallow hard, your throat tight as you look at him. “I don’t know what that’s like,” you admit, “but I know what it’s like to feel like you’re constantly trying to prove yourself to someone who doesn’t even notice.”

Loki’s gaze flickers briefly to yours, and for a moment, there’s a crack in his armor. But it’s gone almost instantly, replaced by that familiar coldness.

“I don’t need your sympathy,” he repeats, though there’s less conviction in his voice.

“I’m not offering you sympathy,” you reply firmly. “I’m just saying… if you ever want to talk about it—about anything—I’m here, Loki.”

He stares at you for a long while, his eyes unreadable. And then, with a quiet sigh, he nods once, his voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you, princess. But I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”

You nod, though your heart aches at the weight of his words.

“I’ll be here when you are,” you say softly.

Loki doesn’t answer, but the silence that falls between you is… less heavy somehow. Less lonely.

You’re not sure what the future holds for the two of you, but in that moment, you both find a small measure of peace.

And for now, that’s enough.

The days following your conversation with Loki are a strange blend of light and shadow. The weight of your words lingers in the air between you two, but there’s an undeniable shift. It’s subtle, at first—a slight softening in the way he looks at you, a rare but meaningful smile that occasionally plays at the corners of his lips.

But it’s clear, too, that there are walls around him, walls that are not easily torn down. You don’t press him further, content to let him open up in his own time, if at all.

Then, one evening, when the palace is quiet and the rest of the court is engaged in a distant gathering, Loki surprises you.

You’re walking down one of the many hallways, heading back to your chambers after a rather dull meeting with various nobles, when you hear his voice.

“Princess,” he calls softly, his voice carrying through the silence of the corridor.

You turn to find him standing a little ways down the hall, leaning against the stone wall with his arms crossed. There’s something different in his stance—less guarded, more… open, though he still holds that impenetrable air around him.

You raise an eyebrow. “Loki? What’s the matter?”

He shifts, a subtle but noticeable tension in his posture as if he's deliberating whether or not to speak. Finally, after a beat of silence, he steps toward you, his footsteps soft on the stone floor.

“I… I’ve been thinking about our conversation,” he says, his voice quieter than usual.

You give him a careful look. “What about it?”

Loki glances down, avoiding your eyes for a moment before meeting your gaze. “About my father.” His voice tightens slightly, but it’s not the usual bitterness. It’s something more raw. “You were right. I… I’ve been carrying a lot of things for a long time.”

You wait, not wanting to interrupt, giving him space to speak.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever told anyone this, but…” Loki exhales slowly, his breath shaking as if he's letting something go for the first time. “I’ve never felt like I was enough for Odin. For my father. Not in the way Thor is. Not in the way that he needs me to be.”

You step closer, drawn in by the vulnerability in his voice. “Loki…”

He shakes his head, as if frustrated with himself. “I’ve always tried to do everything he wanted. Prove myself, be the son he wanted. But it’s never been enough. Every time I think I’m close to earning his favor, Thor does something. It doesn’t even matter what. Odin just… adores him.” Loki’s words come out with a sharpness, like they’ve been pent up for years, and yet there’s an unmistakable sadness there.

You want to reach out, to comfort him, but you don’t. Not yet.

“Thor…” Loki scoffs, though it’s not with malice—more a mixture of frustration and helplessness. “He doesn’t try. He just is. And Odin… he praises him for every little thing. Meanwhile, I’m left to pick up the pieces, to try to carve out a place for myself. But nothing ever works.”

A knot forms in your chest as you listen to him. It’s impossible to ignore how deeply Loki’s words cut, how much he craves the recognition and love he feels he’ll never receive.

“I know it’s not Thor’s fault,” Loki adds, almost as an afterthought, as if the words pain him. “But sometimes, I just… I can’t help but resent him.”

There’s an ache in his voice that hits you like a physical blow, and without thinking, you step forward and place a hand on his arm.

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Loki,” you say quietly. “I can see how much this hurts you.”

His eyes soften for just a moment, a flicker of something—something like gratitude—before the walls go back up. But it’s a start.

“I know you understand,” he mutters, his gaze dropping. “It’s just… hard to admit, even to myself.”

The silence between you two stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. It feels like a shared understanding, an unspoken bond that has formed between you.

“You don’t have to carry it alone,” you say softly, stepping back a little but keeping your eyes on him.

Loki looks at you, his expression unreadable. Then, with a small, almost imperceptible nod, he gives you a faint smile. “Thank you.”

It’s more than he’s ever said to you in any of your interactions, and it makes your heart flutter, though you don’t show it.

“Anytime, Loki,” you reply, your voice steady, though your hands are trembling ever so slightly.

The next day, Odin makes his usual rounds through the court, his presence like a weight hanging over everyone. He speaks with courtiers, listens to reports from the generals, and gives out orders. But as usual, his praise for Thor is effusive, his voice rich with admiration.

It’s when you’re walking through the hall toward the council room that you catch the conversation between Odin and Thor. They’re speaking loudly enough for you to overhear, and you can’t help but wince as Odin lauds Thor’s latest achievement.

“Thor,” Odin says, his voice full of pride, “you’ve done the kingdom proud. Truly, your battle strategies are unmatched. I’m so glad to see you take your place as the leader Asgard needs.”

Thor laughs, clearly pleased, though there’s no sign of arrogance in him. “Thank you, Father. But I couldn’t have done it without the support of my allies.”

Odin waves off the sentiment with a chuckle, his voice warm. “Your humility is one of your finest qualities, my son.”

And that’s when it hits you—how blatant the favoritism is. How obvious it is that Odin is always quick to praise Thor, but Loki, despite his brilliance, is always left in the shadows.

Your chest tightens with the unfairness of it all. You’ve heard whispers before—how Odin has always placed Thor on a pedestal, how his approval has always been out of reach for Loki.

You’ve seen it yourself, in the way Odin looks at his sons. Thor, with his easy smiles and loud boisterousness, is clearly the favored one. Loki’s quieter, more calculating nature doesn’t seem to earn him that same adoration.

And something inside you snaps.

You’ve had enough of watching Loki suffer in silence. Enough of the obvious bias that Odin so openly displays.

With a deep breath, you step forward, deliberately interrupting the conversation between father and son.

“Lord Odin,” you say, your voice steady and louder than you expect. Both Odin and Thor turn toward you, surprised by your sudden interruption.

Odin’s eyes flicker over you, but his expression remains neutral. “Princess,” he greets, his tone polite but distant. “What is it you need?”

You take a step closer, finding the courage you’ve never had before to speak your mind. “I think it’s time someone pointed out something that’s been bothering me for some time,” you say, meeting Odin’s eyes with unwavering resolve.

Thor looks at you, clearly surprised, but Odin’s expression doesn’t change.

“I’ve noticed,” you continue, “that you never seem to acknowledge your sons equally. You give Thor praise, constantly sing his virtues, while Loki…” You glance over at him, who stands with his arms crossed, looking more uncomfortable than usual. “Loki deserves the same recognition, and it’s time someone said it.”

Thor’s eyes widen at your words, and Odin’s gaze sharpens, though he doesn’t immediately respond.

“Princess, this is a matter between my sons and I,” Odin says, his tone calm but with an edge that warns you to back down.

But you don’t. “It’s a matter of fairness,” you say, your voice unshaken. “Loki is just as capable, just as brilliant, and he deserves the same respect as Thor.”

For a long moment, there’s silence, a heavy, thick silence that seems to hang in the air. Odin’s eyes study you carefully, as if deciding whether or not to chastise you.

But then, to your surprise, he lets out a slow breath. “Perhaps you are right,” he says, his voice thoughtful, though still carrying the weight of authority. “I will consider your words, Princess.”

You nod, your heart pounding in your chest as you turn to leave. You know you’ve probably made a powerful enemy, but for once, it feels worth it.

As you walk away, you can’t help but glance back at Loki, who is now watching you with a look of surprise—and something else, something softer.

Later that night, you’re in your chambers, lost in your thoughts when a quiet knock at the door pulls you from your reverie.

You open it to find Loki standing there, his usual composed demeanor in place, though there’s something different in his expression.

“Loki,” you say, surprised to see him. “What’s wrong?”

“I wanted to thank you,” he says, his voice low and sincere. “You didn’t have to do that. But you did.”

You shrug, trying to appear casual despite the flutter in your chest. “It was the right thing to do.”

“I know,” he replies, his tone soft. “But that doesn’t make it any less… meaningful.” He hesitates, then takes a step closer, his eyes meeting yours. “You’ve… you’ve done more for me today than anyone has in a long time.”

The words settle between you, and for a moment, everything is quiet.

You don’t know what to say. But somehow, it doesn’t matter. The air between you is charged, but calm, like a storm that’s waiting to break.

And then, without thinking, you step forward, closing the distance between you.

Loki’s breath catches slightly, but he doesn’t pull away. His hand brushes yours, tentative but warm, and that’s when you both understand.

You look into each other’s eyes for a moment, the words unsaid but understood, and then you kiss—softly, tenderly, as if this moment, this connection, is something you both desperately need but never quite expected.

It’s gentle, quiet, and everything in between, and for the first time in a long time, you feel as though the walls between you are starting to fall.

The day after you stood up to Odin, something subtle but undeniable changes between you and Loki. The lingering tension that had once surrounded him, the cold barrier he had erected between himself and everyone, especially you, seems to soften just slightly. He still wears that aloof mask he’s perfected over years of deflecting people’s attention, but there are moments when he looks at you differently—like he sees you, really sees you, as something more than just the princess he was supposed to marry.

But of course, Loki is Loki, and despite the small shifts, he’s still a master of maintaining distance. He keeps his emotions locked away as tightly as his wit, but you’ve begun to notice the cracks. Maybe it’s in the way he lingers a little longer when you’re together, or how he catches your gaze in passing, holding it just a little longer than necessary.

Despite the changes between you two, the world around you continues to spin, and your role as the Princess of Asgard, as Loki’s wife, only grows more public.

The next day, after an awkward breakfast with Frigga, where she kept giving you knowing looks and you were pretty sure you heard her suppressing a sigh, you find yourself walking through the gardens, trying to escape the subtle whispers of court life.

As you stroll among the flowers, you hear footsteps behind you. A familiar, booming voice calls your name.

“Princess Y/N,” Thor’s deep voice rings out, and you stop, turning to face him.

Thor looks even more like the golden child of Asgard today, his wide smile blinding and a glimmer of guilt in his eyes. “I’ve been meaning to thank you, for what you did yesterday. Defending Loki like that.”

You tilt your head, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I never saw it, you know?” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “The way Father favors me and how much it’s hurt Loki. I’ve always thought he was… I don’t know, distant, difficult. I didn’t realize I was a part of the problem.”

You blink, a little surprised by his sincerity. You’ve never seen Thor look so humble, so… vulnerable. It’s a stark contrast to the loud, boisterous warrior he usually presents to the world. “You didn’t know?” you ask softly.

He shakes his head, his broad shoulders slumping a little. “No, not really. And I’m ashamed to admit it. But I never thought about how he might feel when all the praise I get… it takes away from what he deserves. Loki’s clever, more than anyone gives him credit for. I see it now. I see how I’ve made him feel… less.”

Your heart aches a little. There’s so much more to Thor than the world gives him credit for, and perhaps there’s more to Loki’s pain than you even realized.

“Thor,” you start, your voice a little unsure but kind. “I think you need to tell him that. He needs to hear it from you.”

Thor gives a tight nod, the look in his eyes both heavy and sincere. “I will. But… I wanted to talk to you first, because I didn’t want you to think that I… I didn’t care.” He pauses, as if weighing his next words carefully. “I know you’re in a difficult position, Y/N, especially with Loki…”

You shrug lightly. “It’s not difficult. He’s my husband, Thor. I have a duty to him, yes, but I also want to see him happy. I don’t want him to feel this way anymore, either.”

“I understand,” Thor says with a soft smile. “And I promise you, I’ll try to make things right between me and Loki. But thank you. Truly.”

He offers a warm, brotherly smile and pats you on the shoulder, making you smile back, a little touched by the earnestness in his voice. It’s rare to see Thor so serious, but in moments like this, you realize just how much he cares about his family—even if it’s a little too late.

As the conversation dies down, Thor bids you farewell, walking off in the opposite direction to presumably find his brother. You remain in the gardens for a few more minutes, deep in thought. There’s a strange, almost bittersweet tension in the air now, an unspoken understanding of the dynamic between the brothers.

The next day, you find yourself walking the palace halls when you catch sight of Loki. He’s talking to a group of Asgardian nobles, but the moment he notices you, his demeanor shifts instantly. His sharp, emerald eyes cut toward you, his mouth forming a thin line. He says something to the nobles, and they scatter quickly, leaving him alone in the corridor.

You pause for a moment, unsure of how to approach him. But before you can decide, Loki walks toward you, his footsteps purposeful. You can feel the chill of his presence before he even speaks.

“What was that, then?” Loki’s voice is cool, his usual aloofness cloaking his words.

You raise an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

His eyes narrow. “You and Thor,” he sneers slightly, as though saying his brother’s name leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. “You two spent an awfully long time together yesterday, didn’t you? Talking about me, no doubt. What was it this time? His concern for my well-being?”

You bite your lip, taking in the sharp edge of jealousy in his voice. You feel a slight pang of guilt, but you stand your ground. “We talked about you, yes. But it wasn’t to criticize you, Loki. It was about… understanding.”

Loki scoffs, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, and his gaze shifts toward the floor. “I see. Understanding.”

“You don’t have to do this,” you say, your voice softer now. “You don’t have to push everyone away. Not me. Not him.”

Loki’s head jerks up, and his eyes flash with something unreadable. “I push people away because I know how this ends, Y/N. Thor always takes what he wants. He took Father’s love, and now he wants to take you, too.”

The words hit you harder than you expect, the raw, vulnerable emotion in his voice twisting something deep inside you. You take a step toward him, but he recoils slightly, his posture rigid.

“You don’t have to be afraid of that,” you say, your voice barely a whisper, but there’s certainty in it. “Thor won’t take me from you. I won’t let him.”

Loki’s eyes flicker toward you, the flickering of something darker in his gaze before he presses his lips together in frustration. “How can you be so sure?” His voice cracks slightly, and you don’t know how to respond, except to step even closer to him.

His face softens for a fraction of a second—just long enough for you to see how fragile he really is, how deeply the idea of losing you, losing anything, is etched in him. You place a hand gently on his arm, your voice even softer now.

“I know because we talked. Thor and I. He knows the way you feel, Loki. He’s going to make things right between you two. You don’t have to push him away.”

Loki’s jaw tightens, and you can see the battle within him, the struggle to trust his brother again. But then, something shifts in him, and his gaze softens, if only for a moment.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Loki admits in a low voice, the words barely audible, as though he’s afraid of speaking them too loud, afraid of what they might mean.

You reach up, gently cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing lightly over his skin, and he leans into your touch. “You won’t lose me, Loki. I’m not going anywhere.” Your voice is steady, and you see his breath hitch slightly as his emotions threaten to overwhelm him.

He looks away quickly, his throat tightening, but the tremor in his shoulders betrays him. “I don’t deserve you,” he mutters, barely holding it together.

“Don’t say that,” you reply firmly. “You’re not perfect. None of us are. But you deserve all the love and respect in the world. And I’m here, Loki. Always.”

He looks at you then, his expression softening with that familiar vulnerability you’ve seen fleetingly in the past few days, but it’s stronger now, more present than ever before. Without thinking, you pull him into an embrace, wrapping your arms around him tightly. For a long moment, he doesn’t respond, his body stiff in your arms, but then he exhales slowly, his breath shaky, and finally, he holds you back.

The weight of everything between you two finally lifts, and the walls crumble a little more. The steady rhythm of his breathing in your arms is all you need to know that he feels safe.

Later that night, when you retire to your chambers, Loki follows you, a quiet presence in the doorway.

You look at him, feeling something deep inside you—a need for closeness, for reassurance that everything will be okay. “Stay with me?” you ask softly, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you see something like relief wash over his face.

“I don’t think I can ever go back,” he says quietly, his voice laced with exhaustion, vulnerability.

You reach for him, and without another word, Loki walks into your arms, settling beside you on the bed. You pull the blankets up around both of you, and without a word, you curl up against him.

His arm drapes around you naturally, and you breathe in the warmth of his presence, the security of knowing that, no matter what happens, you

’ve found something real between you two.

“Thank you,” Loki murmurs softly, as if you’ve given him everything he’s ever wanted, even when you haven’t fully realized it yourself.

You smile, tracing circles on his chest with your fingers, whispering back, “No need for thanks. Just stay here, with me.”

The night deepens, and the world outside your chambers is cloaked in quiet, but inside, there’s an unmistakable warmth that envelopes both of you. Loki’s arm around you feels like the most natural thing in the world. As the minutes pass, you rest your head against his chest, listening to the rhythmic thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear. There’s a comfort in the silence, in just being close to him. You feel safe here, as if this moment is yours and yours alone, something you both can keep in the quiet intimacy of the night.

Loki doesn’t speak, but the occasional brush of his lips against your temple is all the words you need. Each kiss is a small promise, gentle and soft, as though he’s trying to tell you everything his voice cannot. The warmth of his lips against your skin lingers long after he pulls back, and the weight of the past few months—the distance, the uncertainty, the doubts—slowly begins to dissolve. You realize now that it was never about the marriage contract, nor the obligations that bound you together; it was about this—this connection between the two of you that had always been there, waiting for the right moment to surface.

You kiss him back, tentatively at first, but as you feel him pull you closer, your kisses deepen. They’re slow and deliberate, as though you both want to savor this, to make sure it isn’t just a fleeting moment but a beginning. His lips are warm and soft, and every time they meet yours, there’s a spark—a connection that has been years in the making, one that now feels as though it’s blooming into something beautiful, fragile, and new.

The kisses grow longer, more meaningful, as if both of you are learning how to express the things you’ve kept hidden for so long. Loki’s hand gently cradles your face, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, as if memorizing the feel of your skin. He deepens the kiss slightly, and you meet him with equal fervor, the world outside fading away until there’s nothing left but the two of you, tangled in the quiet intimacy of shared tenderness.

When the kiss finally breaks, neither of you moves, just breathing in the same air. Loki’s forehead rests gently against yours, and you can feel the warmth of his breath, still heavy with emotion.

“Stay here,” he murmurs, his voice low and filled with something you can’t quite put into words. It’s a question, but more than that, it’s a plea—a quiet request for this peace to last.

“I will,” you reply softly, your hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm. And you mean it, more than anything. You know that, in this moment, everything between you has changed.

The night goes on quietly, both of you finding comfort in each other’s presence, the soft and tender kisses gradually fading into the warmth of shared silence. It’s a perfect peace, a moment of vulnerability and connection that neither of you had ever expected but now can’t imagine living without.

As the days pass, the dynamic between you and Loki shifts. What once seemed like a forced relationship, something borne out of duty and circumstance, is now something more. The distance that once existed between you two has shrunk, replaced by an ease that only comes when two people begin to trust each other in ways neither expected. Your interactions are now filled with light touches, shared glances, and quiet smiles. There’s a softness in Loki’s demeanor that wasn’t there before—a gentleness that’s slowly replacing the walls he’s built around himself.

You see it in the way he looks at you, the way he seeks out your presence even when there’s no need for it. There’s an undeniable shift in his behavior, one that others notice, too.

Frigga, ever observant, notices the change in the air the moment she steps into the palace halls. She smiles knowingly when she sees the way Loki watches you during breakfast, his eyes soft and full of affection. It’s the first time she’s seen him like this in a long while—less guarded, more present. She watches you both from across the room, her heart swelling with a mix of pride and relief. For all the missteps and misunderstandings, she’s always known that the two of you could find something real.

Thor, too, sees the change, though he’s not as subtle in his observations. He slaps Loki on the back one afternoon, his booming laugh echoing through the palace halls. “Well, well! Looks like someone’s finally figured it out,” he teases, a wide grin plastered on his face.

Loki stiffens at first, but then the corner of his lips quirks up, a smirk that’s less mocking and more content than it’s ever been. “What do you mean?” Loki asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t play coy,” Thor says, his tone playful. “I’ve seen the way you look at her. It’s about time, brother.”

Loki sighs, rolling his eyes dramatically. “I’m not in the mood for your commentary, Thor.”

But even as he says this, there’s a subtle flush to his cheeks, a fleeting moment of embarrassment that makes you chuckle softly. Loki’s pride may be as sharp as ever, but there’s a vulnerability there too, one that he tries to hide behind his biting sarcasm and quick wit.

As the days go by, your connection to Loki only deepens. The two of you spend more time together, finding moments of quiet solace amid the chaos of palace life. You talk—about everything and nothing at all. You learn more about each other in those quiet, unspoken moments than you ever did in the months before. It’s in the way he brushes your hair out of your face when it falls in your eyes or how he looks at you when you laugh at something absurd he says. It’s in the way he remembers small details about you, like the way you take your tea or how you always tie your shoes in the same knot.

The change doesn’t go unnoticed by the people around you. The courtiers whisper about it, the nobles gossip behind their fans. They notice the way Loki looks at you when you enter the room, how his eyes soften when you speak. They notice how the two of you sit together at dinner, heads close, sharing small private jokes no one else seems to understand. The shift in the way he treats you is almost palpable, and it doesn’t take long for the rest of the palace to catch on.

But the real surprise comes from the children.

It starts innocently enough. One evening, as you walk through the palace gardens with Loki, you hear giggling in the distance. When you look around, you see a group of young children playing near the fountain. They stop as soon as they notice you, eyes widening before they run over to you, their faces alight with excitement.

“Princess Y/N!” one of them exclaims, a little girl with bright red hair. “Is it true that you and Prince Loki are really married now?”

You raise an eyebrow, surprised by the question, but before you can answer, another child chimes in.

“Yes! I heard you two are so in love!” The child’s voice is full of awe, as though this is the most magical thing they’ve ever heard.

Loki scoffs, but there’s a teasing glint in his eyes. “I assure you, we’re simply fulfilling our duties. Nothing more.”

But the children aren’t convinced. They gather around you, bombarding you with questions. “When will you have babies?” one of them asks innocently.

You blush deeply, not quite sure how to handle the question. Loki looks absolutely mortified, but there’s an amused edge to his expression.

“Well,” you start, unsure of what to say, “we haven’t really discussed that yet. But we’re very happy.”

“Oh, I bet you are!” another child giggles, clearly not taking you seriously. “You two are always together now. You must be so in love!”

Loki looks at you in mild horror. “What have we gotten ourselves into?”

You laugh, feeling the warmth in your chest spread. “I think we’ve just become a fairytale, Loki.”

The children’s excitement doesn’t end there. The next day, they’re playing again, this time reenacting your supposed “love story” with elaborate costumes. They insist on calling you and Loki the “Royal Lovers of Asgard,” and you can’t help but smile at their innocent enthusiasm. It’s impossible not to see the joy they find in the idea of your relationship, an idea that, in their eyes, is full of magic and wonder. The way they view you both—so wrapped up in this imagined romance—is innocent and sweet, and it makes you realize how far you and Loki have come.

As the days go by, the children’s stories spread throughout the palace. The courtiers begin whispering more frequently about the Royal Lovers, and soon enough, even the servants are in on the tale. You and Loki have become the subject of countless stories, both real and imagined. The court’s expectations of your relationship have shifted, but for the first time, it feels like you’re not just playing a part anymore. You’re both actively shaping this life, together.

And for all the teasing from Thor and the gossips from the children, there’s a part of you that feels proud of what you’ve built. It may have started as a duty, a contract forged by fate, but now it feels like something more. You and Loki are no longer bound by obligation alone. There’s affection, there’s trust, and there’s something deeper—something far more real.

It’s not the fairytale the kingdom expected, but it’s yours. And somehow, that feels perfect.

part 2 with royal kids? ;)

[goldfades]

could you write a fic with joe burrow where reader is a ballet dancer? i’m one myself and thought it would be cute to read 🎀🤍like maybe reader is getting ready for class and joe is all lovey dovey and infatuated with her skills or something along those lines😆🤍

this took such a long time cause i genuinely didn't know anything about ballerinas but i finally finished it! i hope you enjoy!

you’re standing in front of the mirror, tugging your hair into a sleek bun with a precision that feels second nature by now. the elastic snaps against your wrist, the rhythm of muscle memory guiding your fingers. the early morning light spills through the window, casting a pale pinkish glow on the hardwood floor of your apartment. your bag, stuffed with pointe shoes and an assortment of worn leotards, sits slumped against the door like a patient, silent companion.

you don’t hear him at first—too lost in the ritual of tying up your hair and mentally walking through the combinations you’ll be rehearsing later. plié, tendu, jeté. the words are as familiar as your own name. but then there’s the unmistakable creak of a floorboard, and you catch his reflection in the mirror, leaning lazily against the doorframe.

“how is it possible,” joe says, voice still gravelly with sleep, “that you look this graceful even when you’re just standing there?”

he’s in sweats, hair a mess, arms folded across his chest as he watches you like you’re some sort of masterpiece in motion. and maybe to him, you are. his lips twitch into that soft, lopsided smile—the one that never fails to disarm you, even after all this time.

you roll your eyes but can’t help the grin tugging at your lips. “you’re bias.”

“nope.” he steps further into the room, bare feet quiet against the wood. “just observant.”

you let out a soft laugh, shaking your head as you finish securing the last stubborn strand of hair into place. joe has this way of making every little thing you do feel like an event worth documenting, like he’s quietly cataloging moments to replay in his mind later. it’s sweet, if not a little overwhelming at times.

“shouldn’t you be at practice or something?” you ask, reaching for your bag. you don’t turn to look at him, not yet but you can feel the warmth of his gaze like a second skin.

“shouldn’t you be at class?” he counters, stepping closer. his hands find your waist, gentle but deliberate and he spins you around to face him. you barely have time to protest before he’s looking at you like you hung the moon. “i’ve got time before meetings. figured i’d spend it wisely.”

“wisely, hm?” you tease, raising an eyebrow. but there’s no real bite to it, especially when his thumbs start tracing lazy circles against your hips. it’s maddening how easily he can undo you with the simplest of gestures.

he nods, his expression softening. “yep. watching you do what you do best is a pretty solid use of my morning.”

you blink up at him, momentarily disarmed. “joe, i’m literally just putting on shoes right now.”

“doesn’t matter,” he says, tilting his head like he’s considering something profound. “you make everything look... i don’t know. effortless. like you were made for it.”

heat blooms in your cheeks and you glance down at your feet in an attempt to compose yourself. his words always seem to hit a little too close to your heart, peeling back layers you’re not always sure you’re ready to expose. but joe has a way of doing that—of making you feel seen in a way that’s both exhilarating and terrifying.

“stop,” you mumble, though your voice lacks conviction.

“not a chance.” his voice is low now, teasing but tender and you feel his fingers brush a stray thread of your sweatshirt. he tugs at it absentmindedly, his touch lingering like he’s unwilling to let you go just yet.

you step back, needing a moment to collect yourself and crouch to dig through your bag. the familiar scent of worn fabric greets you as you pull out your shoes. they’re old, the satin fraying at the edges, but still serviceable. joe crouches beside you, his knees cracking as he lowers himself down.

“i’m not trying to embarrass you,” he says after a beat, his voice quieter now. “i just... i don’t think you realize how incredible you are. how much work you put into this. it’s—i don’t know, just amazing to watch.”

you glance at him, and there’s no trace of sarcasm or pretense in his expression. just honesty. it’s almost too much.

“you’re such a sap,” you say with a smile, trying to deflect, but the words come out softer than you intend.

he grins, completely unbothered by your deflection. “you love it.”

and god, you do. more than you probably should admit.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[nxlx96]

The Boy Saviour - Oscar Piastri x Reader (she/her)

Hi, this is my first time writing x reader, and the idea came to me at 3am a few nights ago while i was trying to sleep and hasn't left me live ever since. This is also my first time posting on tumblr so bear the simple format.

Trigger Warning: Non-consensual drug use, as in, reader gets roofied in a bar (Not by any named character nor any of the drivers, so rest assured on that sense). There is also recreational alcohol consumption and a bit of off-camera violence.

WC: 8381

Also, this is more of a pre-slash story rather than a romantic one. That's all I have to say, I'll shut up and let you read.

Please let me know what you think!

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · · 𖥸 · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Post race driver parties are not an uncommon thing, although it is much more frequent in the European leg of the season; when everyone is in the same country or near enough they don’t care for a few hours of commute -Today's crowd was composed of Charles, Oscar, Max, Lando, Alex, George, Pierre, Carlos and as a star guest, Daniel-. These parties were often the perfect way to try and unwind from the pressure of the season and to smooth out whatever incidents happened on track. A few passive aggressive interchanges, three shots and everyone’s usually back to laughing and buzzing along.

Tonight they had followed Charles’ recommendation and gone to a club in the more residential area of Monaco, away from the yacht club and the casino. It was still tightly packed with people dancing on the dancefloor and the bar was busy as the drinks kept on coming, but the people there didn't care much for them and they were able to enjoy themselves without worrying about having too many eyes on them.

They had a booth in the second floor alcove, allowing them an almost full view of the dance floor if anyone cared to look down, but they were too busy roughhousing and laughing. She’d gotten used to it, of course, having grown as a girl in motorsports it’s simply part of the package. But sometimes she still needed a break when they were behaving like that, because while they recognise her as a proper rival, a true competitor despite gender bias, being drunk they sometimes forget they have size and strength to their favour while having their fun, and their brawling and heavy shoulder slaps felt a tiny bit too annoying while tipsy. Overwhelming.

So she excuses herself to the bar, shaking the glass that now only tinkers with half melted ice cubes. She gets a few nods and a stray thumbs up but the chatter continues like before.

The layout of the club had the bar as the centerpiece gemstone, the first thing you see when you come though the main entrance across from the massive dance floor. The dance floor’s design is full of different height platforms, similar to those at Jimmy Z. Their booth on the second floor has a perfect view of all the first floor, except for the public entrance, which is right underneath it.

Coming down the stairs, she followed the platforms' paths that led her to the bar once again, choosing a stool to sit and wait for the bartenders to take her order. 

On the wall to her left, the DJ booth rises itself over all the platforms in its own little block, colored lights sprouting from the base towards the right of it, in the corner between the bar and the DJ there is the smaller door they were escorted through, directly from the parking lot behind the establishment. On the opposite wall there's a hallway that leads to what she assumes are the bathrooms, judging by the long queue of women she can see standing in the hallway.

A tap on the countertop brings her attention back. The bartender asks for her order in French, and her basic understanding of the language allows her to order a raspberry mojito without spluttering too much. A sweet enough concoction to help smooth out the straight Vodka shots they downed back at the table. 

In no time, a new clear plastic cup was placed in front of her. A tall cup full to the brim with rum and sparkly water. A mix of raspberry puree, lemon and mint sitting at the bottom. She grabs the straw and starts mixing the cocktail, but the ice floating on top, and the decorative mint leaves that float at the top threaten to overflow the cup when she does, so she has to take another bitter sip of almost pure liquor before actually enjoying the sweetness.

She rested her elbow on the bartop and her chin in her hand, alternating between swaying to the music, looking at the bartenders preparing fancy and complicated cocktails and looking around the crowd dancing on the floor. It wasn’t exactly a quiet place, but it did provide respite from the boys’ rowdiness. Occasionally there would be people who sat in the barstools next to her. Some of them made some sort of small talk while waiting for their drinks to be ready, but no one lingered in her space for too long, allowing her to unwind on her own.

♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♭ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♭ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♭ 

As a woman in life, you learn to know when to follow your instincts. Call it bad omen, gut feeling or sixth sense. Sometimes you subconsciously register danger before you see or hear something. In this case, she felt a tight coil in her stomach -looking back it might have been more of a natural reaction than not a bad omen-, her adrenaline spiked like she’d been in the car after miraculously avoiding a collision. Her hands trembled a bit as she sneakily tried to look around. There was a couple at the bar two seats to her right, too engrossed in each other to be the source of panic. As she swiped to the other side, her hand caught the straw of her cup, pulling it from inside. She tried to catch it but it rolled over the edge of the bartop, falling to the ground. 

Fucking breathe!

Straw forgotten, she grabbed the cup and twisted around in her stool, swiping the room with her gaze. To her other side there was a group of friends rowdily chatting, no different from the drivers’ table upstairs. He made eye contact with one of them, a guy not participating in the conversation. He seemed embarrassed to have been caught staring as he turned red and avoided eye contact. Too shy, too far away, probably not that either. She started scanning the crowd on the dancefloor with her heart almost at her throat.

Without a straw, she was left to swirl the whole cup to stir its contents. No one in the vicinity was particularly close to her bubble, or paying special attention to her, but the sensation didn’t go away. Some movement from the group at her side made her tense up, but it was a small part of them that walked towards the dancefloor. Shy boy included. The ones left at the bar were immersed in conversation, crowding together to hear themselves over the music. So she relaxed again.

She’d been tilting the drink to her lips when she finally realised that her nearly melted ice cubes had sunk to the bottom of the cup, and the whole thing looked cloudy. Her heart stopped in her throat, closing her airways.

I’ve been drugged.

The realisation sinks in, but it feels unreal.

Is this really happening to me?

The glass is on her lips, and she tilts it back, but keeps her mouth sealed; knowing that whoever did it must be keeping an eye on her. Her jaw is clenched so hard it’s almost difficult to breathe. Her first instinct is to throw the whole thing on the ground, but it’s less than half full now. Whatever they put in it has been in her system for long enough. Her next thought is to notify the bartenders, but she hesitates before turning around. There had been no one near enough on her side of the bar to get close to her drink, and she’d kept her hand over it at all moments; but of course the rim was wide and there were gaps between her fingers where someone could have dumped something in. For now the bartenders are also suspicious. Twisting her arm, she sets the drink on the table behind her; uncaring now to leave it unsupervised. 

The damage has already been done anyway. She figures.

Her heart rate does nothing to slow down, and her thoughts do not help at all. She is in imminent danger with no way out. She’d left her purse at the booth upstairs, and doesn’t have her phone at hand. She looks up in the direction of their table. Under the strobing lights she can see the crowd of drivers has dwindled down. She can distinguish Alex, George, Carlos, Max and Lando sitting up there; the rest of them might be somewhere in the dancefloor. The idea of trying to get the attention of the guys up there was also discarded, since it will alert her assailant too, and she has no guarantee it’ll get the guys’ attention. Trying to find the others in the crowd sounds just as impossible a task as to find a needle in a haystack. 

Her hands shake. The safest alternative that comes to her mind is to run to the women’s bathroom. The crowd queuing in the halfway has reduced, and the hallway looks dark; but it’s her best shot.

Over the corner of her eye something catches her attention. A white button up shit that looks almost fluorescent under the black lights. The figure skirts around the dancefloor, following almost the same path she took to get to the bar, but it’s clear his destination is not the same, since he doesn’t slow down and seems to be aiming for the bathrooms instead.

“Oscar!” She yells before she realises. It might have sounded a bit too strangled, a bit too panicked, but it catches his attention. She’s reaching a hand out to him, and he extends his arm for her to grab as he gets close to her stool.

“Oh hey,” He looks sort of confused, and she doesn’t blame him. They do gravitate to the same groups, But they’re not particularly close friends, so her calling out feels awkward for both of them. “Didn’t realise you came here.” He gestures awkwardly to the bar, but she’s too relieved to have found a safe person she doesn’t even hear what he’s saying. 

She jumps from the stool, holding onto his wrist. “Come dance with me!” 

He hesitates “... You know I’m not-” She’s still not listening, she hesitates between abandoning her cup at the bar, but grabs it at the last second and turns back to him.

“Just one song, come on!” 

“I was going to-” He tries again, but this time she digs her nails into his skin, and desperately tugs him with a trembling hand. He doesn’t put any more resistance, simply trailing behind her as she tries to find a pocket of space for them among the moving bodies. As she walks she feels her blood rushing to her head. She’s feeling too tipsy and woozy for the amount of alcohol she’s consumed; and whatever hopes the whole thing had been in her head crumble like sandcastles at the sensation of her bambi legs. But she has her way out caught in a deathgrip by the wrist, she can still get out unscathed.

As soon as she finds space for them, she stops and turns around to face him, getting close in his space to be heard over the loud music. She wraps Oscar’s arm she’d been tugging on, around her waist, in hopes he can hold her up in case her legs give out and wraps hers around his body too.

She can feel Oscar’s hand in her back, blindly trying to find a patch of fabric to settle on top of. His avoidance of the naked skin of her back settles a minute worry in her mind. Yes, he is a man. Yes, she would probably feel more comfortable coming to her own teammate for help. But Oscar is still safe, he won’t take advantage of her. He is safety.

“Are you sober?” Is the first thing that comes out of her mouth once they’ve settled their positions and start to loosely sway to the beat of whatever song is playing.

Oscar is looking more and more confused at the sudden serious tone of her voice and the way it contradicts the easy smile on her face. She’s still acting up like nothing’s wrong. “Uhh yeah, I came in my car.”

Oscar you blessed man.

“Great! I need you to take me to the hospital right now.” Oscar freezes completely and she tries to keep the easy smile on her face. “Someone put something in my drink and I think I’m going to pass out soon.” His face does something complicated, and one of his hands tries to go for the cup on her hand, but she moves it out of his path, tripping over her own heel in the process. He catches her before she can stumble.

“Why are you still-?” He looks tense in a way she hasn’t seen him many times, he instantly understood the seriousness the situation entails. She’s so glad he believed her, a worry she hadn’t even processed having.

Her confidence starts waving, there is not much time to explain and her voice shakes as she tries to fill him in. “You have to take it- I- I don’t know what they put in- The doctor can… I don’t know-” She feels like she's twelve again, trying to explain to her mother that she accidentally broke her favourite mirror and cut her hand. “They can analyse it or whatever,” she finishes lamely. 

She can see it more clearly now, he’s not just tense, he’s angry. At her or on her behalf? She doesn’t know him well enough to be able to tell the difference.

“You’re so…” Careless. Irresponsible. Stupid. Her eyes fill with tears and he feels like a scolded child. “... smart.” He says instead, not following the script in her mind.

“I kno- Wait what?” He shakes his head, moving past the topic. His voice holds urgency now. 

“Do you know who did it?” He’s looking past her, scanning the crowd behind her.

“No I- There was no one near except the bartenders… I-I didn’t know if they-  A-and I didn’t know who to ask for help!” She sniffs, and clears her throat, swallowing around the tightness in her throat.

He notices her trying to maintain her composure, and smoothes out his expression. “It’s alright. You found me, and I will help you, okay?” In a very unlike-himself moment he wraps his arms closer to her, holding her in a loose hug. Maybe it’s the relief that comes from Oscar’s reassurance that makes her body relax, loosen up. She takes the moment to really get a deep breath, trying to regulate her heart rate, knowing an accelerated heartbeat will only speed the effect of the drug. The music is already hard to hear even with how the deep base thrums in her bones. She lets her head fall forward onto his shoulder and Oscar’s arms tighten around her like a vice, but when she stays standing up he relaxes. “Let’s get you out of here, yeah?” She’s pretty sure she just gave him a small heart attack, but she can’t really find the strength to apologize, so she simply takes another deep breath, this time taking in the smell of his cologne, and nods her head. 

She steps back, trying to maintain balance on the small heels of her shoes, and allows Oscar to grab her arm to guide them through the crowd. It’s a bit scary, how fast she seems to be falling under the effects. What would she have done had Oscar not been there? 

Oscar is aggressively polite as he makes a path for them towards the exit, loudly excusing them as he pushes through. She walks behind him, gaze set on his broad shoulders. They’re almost out of the crowd when she feels a hand closing in on her arm. She flinches and removes her arm before they can grasp her, and steps even closer to Oscar, almost stepping on his heels. “Oscar-” She manages in a squeaky voice, but he must hear her because he holds together and broathens his stride. The hands do not follow, only shoulder bumps as they make their way though. 

They get out the doors in no time. The space outside is deserted, late enough that everyone is either at home asleep or inside the club. Oscar turns to her, scans her and points toward the side street that she assumes would lead them around the building towards the private parking lot. “My car’s this way.” She briefly looks back to the doors, but they stay closed so she nods. Maybe the hand was her imagination, or a simple accidental brush of a hand. 

Her steps are still mostly steady but Oscar still keeps a hand on her left forearm, the warmth from his hand is a stark contrast to the cold air of the Monegasque night. The sweat that had layered over her body is cooling off rapidly as they round the building and by the time they’ve walked the length of the side street and caught sight of the actual parking lot, shivers have started to rack her up.

Oscar briefly lets go of her arm to fish the keys from his pocket and she instantly misses the warmth. Now untethered she slows her walking, paying a bit more attention to where she’s placing her feet. He clicks off the alarm and the navy blue McLaren Artura at the other end blinks its lights at them. “There’s our ride.” Oscar is smiling as he looks back, extending his arm for her again, but his eyes stray over her shoulder and the expression freezes in his face. 

A hand wraps on the arm that Oscar hadn’t been holding and it feels nothing like the Australian's careful and grounding hold. It burns as it takes a bruising hold of her and tugs her to the side. She stumbles with the force of it, body already feeling too close to a ragdoll to comfort. Her voice is strong but not steady as she demands, “Let me go.” She tries to back away from the foreign body, but her ankle gives up and twists painfully. She stumbles but holds her stance and tries to push away from the nasal french voice speaking at her in a sultry voice. The arm that had been trying to push away from the tall man gets caught from the wrist. The drink sloshes and some of it spills over her fingers and onto her dress. 

Just as he’s starting to use his weight against her, a body steps in between them. She collides with Oscar’s shoulder a bit, but her right arm is freed, and she pulls it back towards her. “Get your fucking hands off.” She has never heard him sound so angry. His accent has deepened like she’s never heard before. But he is still gentle as he wraps a hand firmly on her left arm. She can feel him pulling the guy’s hand and prying his fingers open to release her. She uses his back to support herself as she helps pull her arm free from those thick fingers. 

Once freed she stumbles back again, but the Aussie has a firm hold on her and keeps her upright. The guy tries to go around Oscar to get her again, and over the driver’s shoulder she looks at his face for the first time as Oscar pushes firmly with his forearm to keep him away. Tan complexion, prince-y dark hair and a well groomed beard. 

In any other circumstance she would have said he was attractive, but now she can only feel nauseous at the fake nonchalant smile the guy is sporting. With her muddled brain she half understands he’s trying to excuse this as a misunderstanding. He catches the words ‘friend’, ‘together’, ‘mine’ and ‘drunk’. She has no idea if Oscar even understands what the guy is saying, but he seems set on getting him away from her. 

After a more forceful shove that makes the assailant stumble back, Oscar looks over his shoulder and lets go of her, pushing her towards the parking lot. “Get in the car.”

She nods dumbly as she turns in the direction where the lights flashed earlier. The parking lot is only mildly illuminated, but it’s enough for her to be able to locate the Artura among the other luxury cars parked there. There are more confrontation sounds coming from behind, and what sounds very much like a hit, but she doesn’t look back. All her attention and remaining brain power is going to try to reach the car at the end of the parking lot. Her right ankle throbs painfully with each step, and the uneven terrain makes it three times harder, because when the fuck did the pavement turn to gravel?

She leans on a pink Porshe 911 as her legs buckle, the McLaren is right there. There’s the sound of another car starting up, more yelling but she’s already rounding it from behind towards the passenger door. The sound of angry screeching tyres spinning out without traction in the gravel grinds her head and the pain in her ankle is too much; her right leg gives out completely, the other one follows shortly and she’s going down. She tries to drag her hand on the car to find a purchase on something but there’s nothing other than the squeak of her sweaty hand on the polished paint. Her knees take the brunt of the impact, and it stings.

The angry car has sped off, and she’s pretty sure she hears it clip the wall of the sidestreet. She takes a deep breath and lets herself fall seated against the car, knees to her chest, back to the door. Dumly, she notes that the cup still has some liquid on it, its red is just as dark in the low light as the small pinpricks of blood on her knees.

She registers footsteps getting closer to her, and for a second her heart rate speeds up again until she hears her name called by a worried Australian. She bangs her head against the door, willing herself to keep her eyes open as she answers back. Oscar’s footsteps speed up and in no time he’s kneeling in front of her, warm hands on her biceps as he looks over her body. He brings a hand to remove stray pieces of hair from her face and she can see a hint of blood on his knuckles.

“Are you okay?” The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them.

🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎

Oscar cannot believe his ears. “How am- Are you forreal?” An incredulous chuckle escapes him because this girl, shivering on the floor with scraped knees and blown out pupils, who almost got kidnapped by a stranger in a foreign country, is more worried about him than about herself. He shakes his head and wipes his knuckles, showing her the unbroken skin. “I’m alright, see?” Her eyes scan his hand for a second too long before nodding. Her head bobs in a sleepy manner, and he knows he has to hurry. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” She’s breathing heavily, but Oscar can’t be sure if it’s an after effect of whatever drug the asshole put in her drink or the exertion of the situation. “My ankle hurts,” He looks down at her feet, still clad in heeled slippers with a complicated ribbon. Neither of her feet looks particularly swollen or bruised for now. “I’m scared…” Her voice is much softer, almost a whisper, but in the emptiness of the parking lot at night, it almost seems to echo. 

He grabs her arms again, rubbing up and down “It’s okay, it’s over now.” She keeps shivering under his arms and Oscar doesn’t know if it’s the cold or shock starting to settle in, “Can you walk?”

Her eyebrows furrow and she tilts her head in a terribly adorable gesture, “Walk where?”

“We need to get you into the car”

“But-” She slaps the back of her hand against the car, “I’m here”

Oscar can’t suppress the smile, “Yeah, but unless you’re planning on driving, we need to get you around the passenger side.”

“... Fuck.” 

“Force of habit, yeah.” He grabs onto her forearms. Her skin feels cold and sticky with dried sweat. “Come on, let’s get you up.” She pulls alongside him, but as soon as her right foot is firm on the ground, she makes a face and he takes more of her weight as she falters, her other leg not cooperating much. 

“Oscar” The slugginess in her voice makes the R in his name sound much breathier. “I don’t think I can walk.”

“Alright, well-” He bends down and swipes her legs off the floor, holding her in a princess's carry. She makes a strangled sound and her arms come to grab at his shoulders. The cup tilts dangerously but she rights it just in time. “Much easier this way.” He makes his way over to the passenger seat and bends his knees to open up the door, depositing her in the seat. “Ah look!” Wedged right in between the seat and the door, is a hoodie he’d abandoned maybe a few days ago. He pulls it and sets it on her lap, taking the cup from her hand. “Think you can get it on by yourself?”

“Mm-hm”

“‘kay, you do that while I figure out where to keep this.” He closes the door and rounds the car again to his seat, looking around the small space to find a safe place to place it without spilling what little liquid remains on it. As his companion wrestles with the fabric, she kicks an abandoned water bottle. “Bingo.” He leans down to grab it. A small shake reveals to still have stale water he poured out of the window before pouring in the remaining cocktail into it. He screws the lid back on and keeps the cup too, just in case. He drops both items in the footrest of the passenger before looking at the occupant. She’s relaxed into the seat, and her eyes are closed. Fear creeps in for a second, “Ready to go?”

thumbs-upHe gets a thumbs up in response. Still conscious it seems. He reaches over and pulls her seatbelt on, knowing he will ignore all speed limits to the hospital. After a second of consideration, he shakes her arm until she’s blinking up at him. “Try to stay awake, yeah?” He grabs his phone, to call Lando. It hasn’t been longer than 10 minutes since he left their table, but he needs someone to call the police on the guy, and let Lando know he needs to get a new ride. He looks at his companion, she’s looking at his phone as it rings in his lap. “If you feel like throwing up let me know, yeah?” He says as he pulls out of the parking lot.

“m’not throwing up.” Her angry eyebrows are back. 

“Okay, then you can help me explain to Lando-” Just then, the Brit’s voice comes through the car speakers.

“Heeellooo? Mate did you get lost on your way back or what?” He’s half yelling to hear himself over the music. It’s a miracle he even heard his phone ring.

“No, I’m taking the Alpine princess to the hospital.” He sneaks a look at her as he accelerates down the narrow monaco streets. She’s still awake, biting her lip as Lando processes the words.

“You what! What happened!? The fuck Oscah?”

He’s about to start explaining, but she speaks up “Some guy spiked my drink, I found Oscar and he got me out.” He has to keep his eyes on the road, but he can see out of the corner of his eye how she cuddles up into the seat. “I’m alright… Pinky promise.”

“Lando, listen, I need you to get Charles to call the police.” The traffic light up ahead has turned yellow, but Oscar doesn’t slow down. It’s the middle of the night and there are no other cars around, so he floors it right as it turns red. “I’ll give you a description, and his license plate. I need you to report him to authorities.”

“Fuck.” He says, eloquently. “Yeah I-” There’s a bit of silence from him, but the music is still humming loudly in the background. “I think I see Charles upstairs, I’ll go get him now.” Oscar can hear him speaking to someone, but it’s muffled like he lowered the phone. Almost a full two minutes later he speaks up again. “Kay, got Charles and Pierre here. They want to know if you’re really okay, sprout?”

Oscar is slowing down for a curve. Because as much as he would love to go as fast as during the actual race, he doesn’t know these streets as well, so he has to be careful. The silence stretches for too long, and as he turns to look at her again, he finds her completely asleep. 

“Shit, she passed out.” He presses harder on the gas pedal, Lando curses too. “He tried to grab her when we were getting to the parking lot. She twisted her ankle and scraped her knees, but other than that, she’s physically alright.” Streets and buildings blur as he speeds by. “Asshole was as tall as George or Alex. Lanky and tan. Dark hair, beard. I broke his nose, and probably his cheekbone before he ran away.” As he approaches a speed bump, he throws his hand over her chest to prevent her from flying around. 

This time it’s a new voice, Charles “He took off running?” 

“No, in a car. Porsche 911 Turbo S, Dark green.”

“Did you get the license plate?”

Of course I did, who do you think I am? 

“M3T9. He busted a backlight as he drove off, if that helps.”

“I will get on it, do not worry he will not get away.” Despite the noise, Oscar can hear how dark Charles’ voice becomes, and he remembers that Charles is a very prominent figure here; the prince of Monaco who is friends with the actual prince of Monaco.

“I’ll leave you to take care of him, then.”

“Yes yes, I will get him. You just get the petite poupée to the doctors, yes?” He has no idea what that means but it sounds like an affectionate nickname.

Oscar nods to himself in the car, “We’re already here, she’ll be alright” He can see the URGENCES sign of the Centre Hospitalier Princesse Grace. He eases his foot off the pedal, as he turns into the mostly empty parking lot.

“Keep us updated!”

“Will do.” 

The call disconnects and he’s left to pick a parking space that isn’t reserved for ambulances. Once he’s turned everything off, he turns to her and shakes her arm, calling her name to try and wake her up, but it’s futile. She’s breathing deeply, sound asleep. He rounds the car and opens her door. He leans over her legs to grab the bottle and scoop under her knees and in the process he discovers she did not manage to get both her arms though the sleeves of his hoodie, and that her right is still tangled inside. He almost huffs a laugh at that. Almost.

Picking her up again feels different than when he did it 10 minutes ago, because her body is too lax, too malleable. This time she makes no sound when he hoists her up, and her head lulls back, stretching her neck over the arm he has under her shoulders. She looks and feels like a ragdoll in his arms as he stands up and uses his elbow to drag the door down and closed; he quietly seethes at the thought of her being like this in the hands of such a vermin. 

How anyone could find such an unresponsive body attractive is a question he doesn’t even want to think of. Instead he stops to adjust her neck, letting her head rest on his collarbone instead of the previous uncomfortable position and fixes the hood over her head to cover up her face. It is the middle of the night, but he has learnt that every wall has eyes and that everything can and will be posted online. He has nothing to hide his face with, but protecting her identity in a moment of such vulnerability is his only priority in his mind after getting her help.

He’s careful of pushing the doors with his shoulder. The reception is empty except for the receptionist behind the desk. He sighs inwardly at that. The woman looks up and stands up immediately upon his arrival at the desk, his French skills are nonexistent, so he wholeheartedly hopes she understands English. “We were at a club and someone put drugs in her drink.” The woman nods once, so Oscar takes that as a sign that she does and continues. “She passed out in the car while driving here, like five minutes ago.” He’s not as oblivious as to think he looks innocent holding a dead looking girl, and the face of the woman, carefully stoic, sets his nerves on fire.

“Did she say what was put in it or who did it?”

 “No, but she asked me to bring what was left of the drink, because she said you could analyse it to treat her,” He sets the bottle on the counter and hikes her up in his arms. “She’d thought it was one of the bartenders, but as we were getting to the car the guy came and tried to take her by force.” He omits the part where he punched him and instead lets his trump card subtly show. “My friend Charles has already called the police to report the assault.” Despite how common it is, the name must register in her mind, because she makes a double take, between Oscar’s face and the face half hidden in his chest. “Please help her,” 

“Of course we will help.” She shakes her head like the thought of them refusing attention was a personal offence. She presses a button behind the counter and rounds the desk to take a better look at the girl in his arms. She produces a penlight from a pocket and gestures towards her. Oscar twists to allow her to get closer. “How long ago did she consume the drink?”

“Uh…” The nurse opens one of her eyelids and flashes her light, studying pupil reaction. “I have no idea, she found me around 15 or 20 minutes ago, she’d already realised by then and didn’t drink the rest of it, but I don’t know how long it was.” He can hear footsteps from behind, another nurse is coming from the personal hallway. “She started shivering too, but I don't know if it was cold or shock. I gave her my hoodie and it has stopped now, at least.”

The woman nods, and as the new nurse comes closer, she starts -hopefully- translating what he’s said in rapid French. It’s like watching Charles, Pierre and Lance gossip during drivers’ parade. The bottle is handed too, and when the exchange ends, the new nurse takes a cursory look, stops at Oscar’s face and mumbles something back before continuing their path towards the next hallway.

“We will get a room set up for her, do you want me to bring a wheelchair in the meantime?”

“No, I’m alright.” She’s deadweight, but not as heavy as Oscar would have imagined, he’s also trained enough during his life, he can hold a few more minutes. The receptionist goes back around the desk and starts asking questions about her for what Oscar assumes is a registry sheet. A new concern sparks in his mind, and he accidentally interrupts one of her questions with his own request. “I don’t know if I’ll be allowed to stay with her, but could you at least make sure she doesn’t get a male doctor?”

Her serious and stoic facade falls at that, and for a second she reminds Oscar of his own mum. “I’ll make sure of that, and I do think you might be able to stay with her. It’ll help her to see a familiar face waking up.” She gives him a reluctant smile and resumes asking if he knows her blood type. 

The other nurse comes back just as they’re finishing, and leads him to a room where they’ll be treating her. As he lowers her from his arm, he remembers to mention a detail he’d forgotten. “Hey, uh- Her ankle… She said it hurt, and might have twisted it.” 

The nurse nods, and answers in a much more prominent accent. “We will take x-ray of it. Your hand is okay?” 

Oscar looks back to his hand. There’s redness on his knuckles and a bruise is starting to form around the bones, but he flexes his fingers a couple of times and it only stings a bit. “No, I’m okay, thanks.”

“Okay, now you wait outside, I call when ready, yes?”

“Yeah, thank you.” 

He closes the door behind him and walks to a nearby bench, using the time to update Lando via text. In return he gets told that Charles stormed off the bar, Pierre, Carlos and Daniel in tow. The rest of them are deciding how to carpool home; and that everyone will keep the situation under wraps, including whoever Charles has contacted. He says that Alex will be stopping by the hospital soon, to drop off her forgotten bag and phone and whatever else she’s left at their table.

The receptionist nurse passes by Oscar in the way to her room and lets him know they’ll take her for an x-ray; and that after that, he might wait inside her room if he wishes, in turn he lets her know he will jump out for a second because another friend will bring her stuff from the bar. The woman nods and gives him the number of the room they will take her after the x-ray for him to come back. 

His phone rings just as they’re rolling her bed out. He only catches a glimpse of an IV line connected to her arm before they wheel her down the corridor, he too turns away. 

Alex is waiting with his emergency lights on. When he sees him come out of the doors, he gives him a tired smile. Oscar leans against the door and they stay in silence for a while. It’s colder out now, or at least it feels like that now that adrenaline is no longer coursing through him. The light sweat he’d worked up earlier is drying cold against his back. He raps his knuckles against the blue paint of Alex’s car, bringing the Thai’s attention to his bruised hand.

“I heard you broke his nose?” Alex’s tone is teasing, if maybe a bit impressed.

“Got a couple hits, yeah.” Oscar closes his fist, the skin tightens over his bones. The memory of a bone cracking under them probably shouldn’t feel as satisfactory as it did. “Should’ve done more.” 

It comes much more bitterly than he’d expected, and Alex places a hand over his wrist, patting him “You did more than any of us, don’t beat yourself up.” He reaches to the passenger seat and pulls a small handbag and Oscar spots a jacket hung behind the seat. “You cold?” Alex must have seen his eyes stray, and as he pulls it from its perch Oscar notices the Williams logo on it.

“Nah mate, I’d rather be cold.”

“Ah, come on I can’t let the boy saviour freeze tonight.”

“No, no, never in a million years you’ll catch me wearing Williams merch,” He grabs the handbag and steps away when Alex tries to push the jacket into his arms too. They’re both laughing as the jacket falls to the ground and Alex is left half hanging off his window to grab it. Oscar watches him struggle for a second or five before deciding to have mercy; so he grabs the jacket and stuffs it in Alex’s face, turns on his back and starts walking back to the doors so he can’t attempt to hand it to him again.

“Oscar!” Alex calls between fabric and laughter, and Oscar turns just in time to catch a juice bottle headed straight to his face. A second one follows right after, he fumbles with it since both his hands are occupied, but he manages not to drop it, Alex snaps his fingers in faux frustration at that. “Take care of her!” He says as he starts his car again.

“Will do, mate.” He watches as Alex drives away until his tailgate lights disappear behind a wall, just then he turns back into the hospital. As he makes his way back, he rearranges the stuff in his hands; he holds the purse under his arm since it doesn’t have any straps, and studies the bottles. Alex had gotten orange and apple. 

Which one would she prefer?

He has no idea, really. He always sees her drinking either water, isotonic drinks, or energy drinks. Apples or oranges? There is a new receptionist at the desk, and when Oscar rattles the new room number, he is directed to the elevators with instructions to the second floor where lower grade emergencies are treated.

He only has to wait around 10 more minutes before she’s wheeled back in. The initial receptionist seems to be the one assigned to her, as she is the one that stays and explains to Oscar that there isn’t any fracture in the ankle. It seems like just her soft tissue was affected and she’ll get by with wearing a brace and sports tape for a few days. The lower half of her body is covered by the sheets while his hoodie covers the rest. One of the sleeves has been pushed up to make space for the IV, and Oscar can see that her foot is resting on a couple of pillows to keep it raised. Her shoes are in a little cubby under the bed, cubby to which he adds her purse.

He gets told there isn’t much they can do about the drug except keep her hydrated and let her body work it though, because it has already been absorbed by her bloodstream, along with the alcohol she’d consumed. But that the sample analysis revealed it to be non-threatening, it’ll just leave her with a nasty hangover. Despite the slight pessimistic tone, the information leaves him relieved, and he relaxes into the chair he’d sat to wait. He thanks the nurse and watches as a new person in different colored scrubs, carefully and efficiently wraps her ankle in neon blue sports tape.

Before long, he’s left alone with her, with instructions of pressing the call button if anything happens, but to try and rest because it could be hours before she wakes.

He tries to keep himself busy whilst keeping an eye on her. He messages Charles with the name of the drug that was put onto the drink, and the only answer he gets is a demon emoji, a fist emoji, hands clapping and another fist. Confused, he simply reacts with a thumbs up. He updates those who have messaged him to ask about her condition, but doesn’t go further than that. He settles on drinking the orange juice, and leaves the apple one in the bedside table next to her bed, scrolls through social media for a while and checks up on her again, but it has been a long and eventful day, and when his eyelids become too heavy, he doesn't fight them very hard.

🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎

Waking up feels like a heavy G crash. There's a pounding in her head that goes at the same tempo as her heart, and it takes conscious effort to take a deep breath. There's a slight throbbing on her bicep, on the wrist of the opposite arm and a sharper throb on her right foot.

She's laying sideways in a soft enough bed and there is little light from what she can see through her eyelids. 

But it doesn't smell like her bed at all.

Instead there's the smell of a different laundry detergent, artificial minty eucalyptus shampoo and a herbal mix. It smells distinctly like men, and the unfamiliarity of it makes her heart race, worsening the pounding of her head.

There's a blank in her memory when she tries to remember the previous night. She knows she was going out with some of the Monaco based drivers, and that she'd abandoned the table at some point. That's where everything starts to get fuzzy. 

There are flashes. 

A body close to hers in the dancefloor. The cold air outside the club. Falling into the gravel. Hands roughly grabbing at her, and a french accent. Falling asleep in a car.

Panic really does settle in at this point, and tears blurry her vision when she opens her eyes; but the room is nothing like she expects it to be. She's in a single bed, and there is a heart monitor that is displaying her rabbiting heartbeat. A saline drip that is halfway empty connected to the back of her hand.

A hospital?

The light is warm and dimmed, seemingly coming from a lamp behind her. She looks down at herself and finds a hoodie that is not hers, and totally is the source of the smells; but looking under it’s collar reveals the same dress she wore last night.

She slowly turns her head, still wary of the raging headache. The overhead lights are off, and her foot is propped on a pillow under the blankets. She wiggles her toes and twists her ankle. A sharp pain sparks, but it's not unbearable.

The other side of the room is half hidden by the glare of the lamp that makes her blink before her eyes adjust to the light.

A figure is sitting in a chair, sound asleep and covered with a blanket identical to hers. Oscar’s arms are crossed across his chest and his neck looks like it will hurt when he wakes up. 

More memories rush to her mind as she turns fully to that side; Lando's voice over the speakers of the car, Oscar's worried face in the dancefloor, his broad back as he pushed another man from her. The light is low, but she can see a bruise forming on the hand where Oscar is holding a half full bottle of juice. 

Slowly, she registers the smell of stale car and something so uniquely Oscar that brings tears back to her eyes.

“Oscar?” Her voice is low, croaky and shaky, full of tears when she speaks. But the reaction is immediate, he's awake in a second. His head snaps back into the right orientation and he clutches the bottle in his hand. Maybe she should feel guilty for waking him up, but that is a too complicated emotion to think of right now, instead there is a pool of relief as he meets her eyes, and an immense amount of trust as he whispers her name and detangles himself from the blanket to get close.

“You're okay, you're okay.” It's obvious he doesn't know what to do about tears, his hands move around uselessly and he looks so constipated it's almost funny. “Are you hurt anywhere? I can- I can call a nurse?” His hand finally decides to hover over a call button at the side of her bed, but she claps hers over his instead, and attempts to dry her face with the other.

“No, it's okay. I'm- I'm okay,” She hiccups again, and his other hand comes to rub up and down her arm; an action that also feels familiar and warm. “Thank you, Oscar.” Her voice is still choked up, but very earnest. She squeezes his hand and he squeezes right back. 

“You don't have to thank me,” She wipes her eyes again and looks back up at him, he's giving her a half smile that pushes a dimple into existence. It's such an adorable new discovery that she can't help the rush of emotions that comes. She lets go of his hand and sits up to pull him into a hug.

“The fuck you mean i don't have to thank you!?” It sounds half muffled against the fabric of his white shirt. “You saved my fucking life, Oscar” His hands come to wrap around her back and tears spring up again at the thought of what could have been. “He could've-”

“Shhh, let's not think about that, yeah? You're alright and that's what matters.” His hands rub circles between her shoulders, “Charles took care of everything else.”

“What’s that mean?” She sniffs, trying to keep the tears from soaking up his shirt.

“I have absolutely no idea, but he knows people who can hide his crimes, I'm not worried about him.” I'm worried about you, “How are you feeling?”

She takes another deep breath. The smell of eucalyptus and laundry detergent is stronger when it comes from the source. She lets go and wipes her face again with the sleeve of her -his- hoodie. “My head hurts and my ankle stings, but I'm alright,” Thanks to you. “I just feel very hungover.”

“Here,” She hears the shake of liquid, and upon removing her hands, Oscar's is offering an unopened bottle of apple juice. “Alex got us these.”

She grabs it and pouts at him, “It's my favourite. Thank you.” The last line comes out more charged than intended, but that's alright because she doesn't think she'll be able to stop thanking him anytime soon.

Oscar simply smiles like he knows, he lightly shakes his head and starts filling her in on what happened after she “fell asleep” as he says. She has no idea what time it is, but there is no rush right now, she's safe and in good hands, and when sleep starts lapping at her feet, she lets herself be swiped by the tide because she trusts Oscar to be there when she wakes up again.

The end.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · · 𖥸 · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

well, if you got here, i want to thank you for reading this the whole way through. as i said earlier, this came to me at 3 am and did not leave my head again, so i had to bring it to life. i hope you enjoyed despite the slightly dark topic.

from my research, i learned that not some drugs are undetectable to the naked eye, so always be aware of your drinks and who is close to you. i hope this story stays as a fictional thing and that none of you ever have to deal with something like that.

taka care and thank you again for reading!

Love,

Nini.

[elbiotipo]

This is from one of my worldbuilding posts in response at the bias of temperate climates being considered the "default" in fantasy and fiction in general (so these are tags in response to tags in another post but try to keep up)

This is very true, and as someone from a subtropical region who has never truly seen snow, to me the danger that cold weather represents is, let's use the word, "exotic" when I read into writing. Things do get cold here, but the fact that there are entire months where things get cold enough that nothing grows and staying outside can outright kill you is not something I would get used to easily.

This is ESPECIALLY relevant when you're doing worldbuilding on pre-industrial societies. Nowadays we can go to the store in the deep of winter, but when most of the population is composed of subsistence farmers, the above dangers are more than fatal. In temperate regions, a great deal of effort in daily life was spent into getting ready for the winter; storing harvested crops and meat in one way or the other until the spring. A harsh winter or a bad harvest could and did mean people just starved to death.

In tropical and subtropical regions, you don't usually get a season where nothing grows. Actually, you do, most have a rainy and a dry season of some sort (in my region, you do get a relatively strong winter, but the main difference is rainy/dry), so the pace of life is regulated by rain, and there's also a greater diversity of crops (see for example the milpa/three sisters system of the Americas, still used today). It doesn't necessarily mean that tropical and subtropical regions had better food all the time, since they also faced the same challenges of dealing with bad harvests, droughts, and more (DROUGHTS, especially, are the kind of civilization-ending event), but they did sustain overall high population densities and extensive systems of irrigation. I'll admit I read this long ago and don't know where to look at it, but a good comparison would be the higher density of villages and small plots in rice-producing regions compared to those in more temperate places. The Americas were completely disrupted by European colonization so it's hard to make sweeping statements about them but if we believe 1491's research (there are some points in dispute there), they had very, very high population densities, and partly this must be because of year-round cultivation of a great variety of tropical and subtropical crops.

Indeed, cold places far away from fishing, for example, often had low populations because there simply wasn't enough reliable crops to support them. Until the widespread adoption of a calorie rich crop that can tolerate cold conditions. Can you guess which it is?

[sevsgiirl]

— sevika reassuring her anxious partner (soft and angsty headcannons)

synopsis: when you get into an argument with sevika, your anxiety gets the best of you. luckily, she knows how to get rid of your doubts.

note: this is my first time posting my hcs of sevika because I usually post long fics, but after seeing so many tiktoks of people mischaracterizing sevika recently saying she’d be the type to cheat after an argument (she would never) I just had to write this because I am not letting anybody smear my wife’s good name.

𖥔 sevika isn’t necessarily argumentative, but she is very stubborn. she doesn’t like picking fights with you, if she could avoid them as much as possible she would.

𖥔 however, she always feels the need to have the last word, and that riles you up.

𖥔 she never raises her voice at you and make it seem like she’s pissed, but her frustrations seep through.

𖥔 and she knows if the situation further escalates she’ll say something she’ll regret, so she’ll force herself to take a step back, look at you and say “we’re not doing this. I’m not in the right head space right now and clearly you aren’t too.”

𖥔 usually she’d want to fix the issue right away because she doesn’t like prolonging a problem when she knows simple communication could fix it.

𖥔 but when she knows it’ll take the whole day for the problem to be resolved, she’ll create some distance between you two so she can have a clearer mind before bringing up the issue again, and without any bias.

𖥔 however, when she tells you that she needs some time away from you for a bit, your anxiety levels skyrocket. you start scrambling for a way to make her stay and fix the situation but she just sees it as you wanting to argue again, so she shakes her head and goes for the door.

𖥔 “not now. I’m not angry but just give me some time.” she tells you before walking out the door and leaving you in your apartment alone, already feeling bad that the argument went too far.

𖥔 as a way to compose herself she’ll head over to the last drop to have a drink and play some cards, and people at the table would notice her brooding demeanor and ask if there’s trouble in paradise.

𖥔 she won’t answer, she doesn’t like taking advice from people especially when it comes to her relationship. she doesn’t like airing out her business, but people will chime in either way.

𖥔 telling her that as long as the love is still there, there’s nothing that either of you can’t overcome together. again, she stays silent but keeps it in mind.

𖥔 meanwhile, you’re back at home. it’s been a few hours and sevika still hasn’t returned and it’s getting really late.

𖥔 you start assuming the worst case scenarios. pacing back and forth as you wonder if she’s gotten tired of you already, and it doesn’t help when her past at the gardens come to mind.

𖥔 so your mind pivots to that, as bad as it sounds, your chest suddenly feeling heavy as the ugliest scenarios of her confiding in another woman’s arms plague your mind and you immediately feel tears forming in your eyes.

𖥔 you know she would never, but you always feared the worst. you’ve opened up to sevika about your trust issues and she always listened intently. her loyalty and devotion are her most notable traits, and you’d never doubt her. but still, during your darkest moments you can’t help but let those ugly thoughts win.

𖥔 as you imagine her seeking escapism in another woman’s body, you thought maybe if you had just shut up she wouldn’t go out doing god knows what so she wouldn’t be trapped in the same space as you.

𖥔 meanwhile, sevika is trying her best to walk in a straight line as she heads back home from the bar, mentally cursing herself for drinking too much because now, how else is she going to have a conversation about your argument earlier if she could barely form a coherent thought?

𖥔 it’s almost midnight by the time you hear sevika’s spare keys unlocking your door as she stumbles in, groaning as you step inside the living room and watch her walk in.

𖥔 “where were you?” you ask, your voice shaking but sevika didn’t pick up on your anxious state just yet.

𖥔 so she raises a hand to signal for you to give her a moment, but you being paranoid, take it a sign of her being annoyed with you.

𖥔 “I’ve had too much to drink, just give-“

𖥔 she stops dead in her tracks when she hears you sniffling, and it’s like all the liquor in her system got evaporated as she looks up and notices your watery eyes, fidgeting with your fingers and she immediately takes a step forward.

𖥔 “hey, what’s wrong-“

𖥔 “I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to blow things out of proportion and I understand if you’re fed up with my shit, but sev, j-just…”

𖥔 her eyebrows furrow as you look down at your feet “hey, remember what I said earlier? I’m not mad. I just needed some space to clear my head.”

𖥔 your glossy eyes pierce through her grey ones as you gulp “I-I thought you got tired of me a-and…”

𖥔 she looks at you and encourages you to finish, but as you think about it you can’t help but feel embarrassed “it’s stupid.”

𖥔 “sweetheart, just tell me-“

𖥔 “I thought you went to the gardens.”

𖥔 all thought process quickly stopped working as she stares at you, dumbfounded. feeling her heart twist at the thought of you losing faith in her that you’d assume she’d go and sleep with another woman just because she was angry at you.

𖥔 she wasn’t even angry at you. she could never be angry. she was frustrated with the situation but she’d never have it in her to be mad at you and blame you for anything.

𖥔 she takes a step closer and extends her hand to palm your cheek, calloused but warm.

𖥔 “sweetheart, you know I’d never do that. ever.” she put both of her hands on your face and fixed you with a hard gaze “no matter whatever bullshit we go through, don’t ever think I’d stoop as low as betraying you like that. I wouldn’t even imagine doing that to you.”

𖥔 she swallows the lump in her throat. she wasn’t the type to get emotional but seeing your big doe eyes look at her, all pitiful and devastated, made her heart break. so with a sigh she pulls you against her chest and tightens her arms around you, running her fingers down your hair as she rest her chin on top of your head.

𖥔 “I love you. so fucking much. you could put me in a room with a thousand women and I’d still crawl my way out of there to get to you. nothing else matters. just you. you know that, right?”

𖥔 you sniff, nodding as you let out a shaky breath “I know and I’m sorry. I just got a b-bit paranoid.”

𖥔 she shook her head “it’s okay, it’s not your fault. I’m not going to be upset when I should’ve stayed here with you and worked things out. I’m sorry for making you go through that, baby.”

𖥔 after a few minutes you finally look up at her and gave her a wobbly smile.

𖥔 “it’s okay,” you nuzzled against her touch and sighed “I love you, sev.”

𖥔 she smiles, thumb caressing your cheek “I love you more.”

[bangtanhoesthings]

Long ask.

Forgive me, this will be all over the place.

I have noticed that over the past few years the hate for the boys has been escalating particularly for Jimin, Jungkook and Joonie.

For Joonie, among other things, because as a leader, if they break him, they might break BTS. (Gosh look at him😭. Has me my man, my man, my man-ning all over the place like a dog in heat, it's embarrassing and a little concerning). Sorry, I digressed but look at him 😭😭😭, y'all don't thirst over this man enough. Woof! 🫦

Anyways, moving on.

For Jungkook, among a plethora of other reasons, because of the unrivaled, unmitigated global success he has had and continues to have (am so proud of my funky lil popstar ✨).

He came, he saw, he conquered. Kicked ass and took names. Ate and left no crumbs. Had them by the neck. Pulled up and shut it down (Somebody stop me 😭)

The way some army attribute his success to the 🛴 guy boils my blood, and that rage is for another day.

This post is towards Jimin.

Jimin's hate is both from outside and inside the fandom ( am not talking about solos, toxic shippers, mantis and the like) but people who claim to be 0T7.

I know that Jimin has had haters for years but the shady tweets I saw during the FACE and MUSE era from so called "ARMY" said a lot. Am not here to debate who is or isn't ARMY. That's for another time.

My question is, why does Jimin's success seem to be a sore spot for some 0T7s? The one reason I have been able to come up with is that Jimin sort of messed up the hierarchy system.

Let me explain and see if I make sense. For a long time, when people thought of the maknae line, no matter the order in which they ranked Tae and Kookie, Jimin was always the third one. Too many posts relegating him to the role of cheerleader and not much else. I saw posts before solo works commenced dismissing the idea that Jimin would ever release an album but would instead fully support the others. Well, he not only released two solo albums, but was also a composer, lyricist among other things, so they can take their opinion and smoke it.

When the solo era started, people had different expectations for what every maknae members would achieve but no matter the expectations, those for Jimin were that he would be third. Bronze medalist if you will.

FACE was released, Like Crazy got to number 1 and I logged off twitter. We were in hell particularly when it went from 1 to 45 after Billboard deleted over 100k sales and changed the rules (thank you Travis Scott for freeing Jimin and finally taking that number 1 spot). The hate from outside was expected, it was when it came from within the fandom that it hurt.

Fast forward to MUSE and it got worse. Sprinkle in a dash of Are You Sure and we have

Here I have a list of things I have noticed

1. An increase in the number of people talking about how they hate PJMs and how they are making them turn against Jimin. Honey, if a solo can make you dislike one member, you aren't sh*t anyway.

2. Dislike for Jimin disguised as dislike for his solos. If you haven't seen it, consider yourself lucky.

3. How sometimes ARMY came in droves when a member didn't achieve something but Jimin did. For example Spotify US. When a new song failed to enter but Jimin's songs increased ( during both LC and Who era).

4. His long run on the hot 100 has really revealed people's true colours. It's not his fault. Blame the fandom for their clear bias.

5. The number of ARMY accounts on X low key calling AYS fanservice.

6. Discourse on Jimin's ability to sing. I don't argue with stupid people.

I could go on and on but what I am trying to say is that in a perfect world, it would be wonderful if all the members had the same support from ARMY. The discrepancy needs to be addressed (caused by a multitude of reasons) but making it a member's fault and not the fandom is asinine.

I used to be a 1D fan and my favourite member to date is the least favourite and successful, Louis Tomlinson but that doesn't mean I hate on Harry, Zayn or Niall for their success. I wouldn't even know where to begin.

What prompted this you may ask? I saw a post talking about Jimin being the company and fandom fave and having special support. Like huh?

All in all what I am trying to say is that Jimin really shook things up and some people resent him for it. That one post (article?) about Jimin bringing out either admiration or envy keeps getting proven right.

Keep supporting this angel for a long and happy life.

What do you think are some other reasons for the increase in the 0T6 agenda against Jimin?

[dksfml]

misfit - lee chan, jeon wonwoo

pairing: student!lee chan x teacher!reader x coworker!jeon wonwoo genre: delinquency, slight violence, major plot twist, love triangle???, slightly suggestive, dino is hot period word count: 6.5k summary: what would you do if you caught yourself in teaching some delinquents (one of whom refuses to take his eyes off you) because of a job that your good friend slash now coworker has offered you? a/n: got inspired while watching study group. AND because I went to a seventeen con a while ago and dino surely got into my bias list. everyone stay safe!!!! enjoyyyyyyy

The morning air was crisp as you walked through the university gates, the golden hues of the rising sun casting long shadows over the quiet campus. This was your first official day as a professor, the culmination of years of studying, passing the licensure exam, and navigating post-graduation uncertainty. You had spent the last year lingering in your small apartment, jobless and wondering if you had chosen the right path—until Jeon Wonwoo offered you an opportunity.

Wonwoo had been your anchor during that uncertain period. You’d met him during your final year of university, and while he had always been somewhat reserved, his sharp intelligence and dry wit had drawn you in. He had a way of making everything seem a little clearer, a little more manageable. When you’d expressed your frustration with not finding a job after passing the licensure exam, he had listened quietly, like he always did, his gaze thoughtful. It wasn’t until a few weeks later that you had received an email from him, offering you a position as a lecturer at the university where he worked.

You still remembered that moment—how the weight of that email had felt like a lifeline. And how, when you’d thanked him over a coffee that afternoon, he had shrugged, as if it was nothing. “You’re smart. You deserve a shot,” he’d said, his voice so typically matter-of-fact.

Since then, Wonwoo had become not only a colleague but a steady presence in your life. He was someone you could rely on when things went wrong, and someone who always seemed to have everything under control. His reserved nature was still a mystery, but there was an unspoken understanding between the two of you. He had a protective streak that you only began to notice once you started working with him closely—watching him step in when things got too chaotic or when your confidence faltered in front of students.

In those quieter moments, when you shared lunch breaks or brief moments of downtime between classes, he would talk about his own experiences teaching. His insights were always thoughtful, often offering advice without being overbearing. And sometimes, when you were frustrated, he had a way of easing your worries with just a few words. Even when he didn’t directly say it, there was always an underlying sense that he was looking out for you.

You knew that, in a way, Wonwoo had always been a silent mentor—never overtly guiding you, but always there when you needed him. Today, as you stepped into the university grounds, he was still that familiar figure in the background. You might be starting your own journey, but you weren’t doing it alone. Not as long as Wonwoo had your back.

And now, here you were, about to teach your first class.

“You nervous?”

The question came from Wonwoo, who walked beside you, his usual composed and serious expression in place. He was a man of few words, but his presence alone was reassuring.

“A little,” you admitted, adjusting the strap of your bag. “But I’ll be fine.”

Wonwoo hummed, unconvinced. “You’re assigned to 3-C, right?”

“Yes. Why?”

He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. "You sure you don’t want me to switch with you?"

That made you pause. “Why would I?”

Wonwoo finally looked at you, and for the first time this morning, a flicker of amusement crossed his features. "You’ll see."

You frowned at his cryptic words but brushed it off. “I’ll be fine. Besides, you got me this job. I can’t mess up on my first day.”

Wonwoo didn’t reply, but his silence said enough.

And with that, he walked off to his own classroom, leaving you standing there, confusion brewing in your mind.

With a deep breath, you squared your shoulders and made your way to Room 3-C.

The moment you reached the door, the realization hit you.

Loud laughter, desks scraping against the floor, students yelling across the room—it was absolute chaos. Some were standing on chairs, others were throwing paper balls, and a few were in the middle of what looked like an arm-wrestling match atop a desk. The noise, the reckless energy, felt overwhelming. You could already feel a knot of anxiety forming in your stomach as you stepped into the doorway, taking in the scene before you.

You had expected some rowdiness—every first day was a bit chaotic, right? But this... this was different. It wasn’t just rowdiness; it was pure, unbridled anarchy. The kind of behavior that felt almost designed to test your patience and authority. You swallowed hard, trying to steady your breathing. This was your first real day as a professor, and it already felt like you were standing at the edge of a precipice.

You exhaled slowly, forcing your feet to move forward. So this is what Wonwoo had meant when he warned you about the challenges of teaching here. The thought barely crossed your mind before you pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The moment you crossed the threshold, a wave of noise and disarray seemed to crash over you. No one noticed. It felt almost as if your presence was irrelevant, swallowed by the overwhelming disorder in the room. The loud chatter, the sporadic shouts, the sound of chairs scraping on the floor—all of it blurred into a maddening symphony that made it impossible to focus on anything other than the noise itself.

For a moment, you simply stood there, taking in the madness. You had prepared yourself for some degree of disruption; you weren’t naive. But this? This was beyond anything you’d imagined. Students were climbing over desks, yelling across the room, engaging in loud arguments. The space felt thick with a palpable energy, a sense that no one was in control—not you, not anyone.

You weren’t one to raise your voice unnecessarily. It wasn’t your style. You believed that authority should come from presence, from the subtle ways you commanded respect—not from fear or shouting. You were here to teach, to guide—not to battle. But with every passing second, it became harder to ignore the creeping frustration building within you. The idea of just letting it slide seemed impossible.

And then, as if the universe itself had conspired to give you an out, someone else did it for you.

“Oi.”

The word was simple—short, firm, yet carrying a weight that immediately cut through the chaos. It was the kind of command that silenced a room without raising the volume. The laughter died down almost instantly, and the noise slowed to a muffled hush. You felt your body stiffen, your focus narrowing as you turned toward the back of the room.

There, leaning against the back wall with his arms crossed, sat a figure. His messy hair and relaxed posture told you everything you needed to know—he’d clearly just woken up from some kind of nap, and yet, his presence was commanding. The room had fallen silent for him as easily as if he were a force of nature.

Lee Chan.

As he met your gaze, the air between you shifted. His dark eyes gleamed under the dim morning light, unreadable but intense. There was a certain sharpness to him, like a predator sizing up its prey. It was unsettling, but you refused to be intimidated. You weren’t here to be cowed by anyone, least of all a student, no matter how powerful his presence might be.

You didn’t need to be told who he was—you could see it in the way the room moved around him. The students had instantly fallen silent at his command, all of them snapping to attention as if they knew, deep down, that this was a battle they would lose if they defied him.

Chan tilted his head slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. Then, in a voice that was still calm, but not without authority, he spoke again.

“Sit down. The teacher’s here.”

The effect was immediate and almost eerie. The class scrambled to obey, students shuffling quickly back into their seats. The previously rampant chaos dissolved into nothingness in the span of a few heartbeats. Chairs scraped across the floor in a rush of motion as everyone rushed to restore some semblance of order.

Your grip tightened around the roster in your hands. It was subtle, but the realization settled in: Lee Chan had more authority over these students than you did. In fact, he had more authority over this classroom than anyone, and they all knew it.

Still, you couldn’t let yourself be rattled. You refused to let this one student dictate the rhythm of the room. You took a deep breath, straightened your shoulders, and met Chan’s gaze once more. “Thank you,” you said, your voice calm but firm.

He didn’t respond. Instead, his dark eyes simply continued to study you with a quiet intensity, his expression unreadable. His gaze lingered for a moment before he turned away, clearly losing interest.

Turning your attention back to the roster, you began calling out names, trying to push the lingering tension aside. It would be easy to focus on Chan—his presence was like a weight pressing down on your chest—but you couldn’t let that control the way you conducted the class.

That is, until a voice from the back of the room snapped your attention back into focus.

“She would do better as a camgirl.”

The words came from one of the students—a boy with a cocky grin and an air of entitlement that grated against your calm. The remark hit like a slap, echoing in your mind as the room fell into a tense, suffocating silence.

You paused, fingers tightening around the paper, a slow burn igniting within you. It wasn’t the first time you had encountered disrespect, but something about the casualness of the comment—the way it seemed to roll off his tongue without any regard for your presence—struck a nerve.

You lifted your gaze, voice even but sharp as you locked eyes with the student. “What was that?”

The student—Kang Jaemin, according to your roster—smirked, sinking deeper into his chair. “Just saying,” he drawled. “You’d make more money doing something else. We’d all tune in, wouldn’t we, boys?” He winked, nudging his friends. A couple of them chuckled in response.

It was immature. It was crude. And it was unnecessary. You stood there, breath held, trying to decide whether to ignore it or shut it down immediately. You had faced worse—much worse—in your teaching career. You knew that responding with anger or frustration would only fuel the fire.

But before you could even form a reply, the sound of a chair scraping across the floor shattered the silence.

Without a word, Chan kicked his desk forward with a force that made everyone in the room flinch. The room went completely still, the air thick with tension as all eyes turned to him. His gaze was cold, hard—focused solely on Jaemin, who was still lounging in his chair, clearly oblivious to the danger he was in.

“Apologize,” Chan said, his voice low but filled with unspoken menace.

Jaemin scoffed, rubbing his nose like it was no big deal. “What’s it to you, boss?” He flashed a grin, trying to play it cool, but his eyes flickered nervously as he took in Chan’s stance.

A nervous whisper came from beside him. “Hey, Jaemin, just drop it. Chan’s already in a bad mood this morning,” his seatmate muttered, voice barely above a breath.

Chan didn’t move from his seat, his eyes never leaving Jaemin. His voice was steady, even calm, but there was a weight to it that made every student in the room uneasy. “She’s our teacher,” Chan said quietly. “You respect her, or you leave.”

The command hung in the air, heavy and unyielding. For a moment, the classroom seemed to hold its breath. Students shifted uncomfortably in their seats, exchanging glances as the tension between Jaemin and Chan grew.

Jaemin opened his mouth, clearly about to argue, but Chan’s eyes hardened, and he tilted his head ever so slightly—a subtle but unmistakable warning.

Jaemin hesitated. But only for a moment. Then, the challenge came.

“Or what?” he scoffed, his lip curling in defiance.

Chan exhaled slowly through his nose, his expression unreadable, his eyes locked on Jaemin with a quiet intensity that sent a chill through the room. The silence that followed was suffocating. His voice was calm but held a deadly weight. “Or I’ll make you.”

The tension in the classroom thickened, becoming almost palpable. Students shifted nervously in their seats, their eyes darting back and forth between Chan and Jaemin, sensing that something had shifted—something beyond their control. Some leaned forward, watching the confrontation with bated breath, while others instinctively backed away from the desks nearest the two boys, as though expecting an explosion.

Jaemin scoffed, brushing his fingers through his hair as he leaned back in his chair, trying to exude the same arrogance that had caused the conflict in the first place. “You think you can order me around just ‘cause everyone here’s scared of you?” His voice was mocking, almost too casual for the moment. He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Man, you’re pathetic. What, got a little crush on the new teacher?”

The taunt hung in the air like a spark waiting to ignite. That was all it took.

Chan’s movement was so fast, it was almost a blur. Before Jaemin could react, Chan was on him, his fist connecting with Jaemin’s jaw in a sharp, brutal crack! The impact echoed across the room, and Jaemin was sent stumbling backward into the desk behind him, his knees buckling as he struggled to regain his balance. The sound of the punch resonated like a thunderclap in the stillness that followed.

Gasps erupted from the students, the force of the blow sending shockwaves through the class. Those nearest to the altercation scrambled to get out of the way, chairs screeching against the floor as they instinctively shifted back, creating space. The tension had finally come to a head—and it was as chaotic as it was terrifying.

Jaemin wiped his lips, his fingers coming away stained with blood. His face twisted into a grotesque mask of rage as he glared at Chan, barely able to contain his fury. “You son of a—!”

Before Jaemin could finish his sentence, he lunged forward, a primal, reckless move driven by anger. His fist swung at Chan, but the other boy was already one step ahead. With a fluid motion, Chan caught Jaemin’s wrist mid-air, twisting it back so sharply that Jaemin let out a grunt of pain. The force of the move sent Jaemin to his knees, his face contorted with both shock and fury as he struggled to free himself from Chan’s iron grip.

The entire classroom was frozen, watching with wide eyes as Chan’s expression remained cold, calm, and terrifyingly controlled. There was no wildness to him—no desperation. His composure made the whole scene even more unnerving.

“You don’t talk to any woman like that,” Chan’s voice was low, dangerous, the words dripping with an almost chilling finality. “That’s not so gentleman of you.”

Jaemin’s face twisted with more rage, his breath coming in harsh pants. “Like I care what you think—” he spat back, but the words were drowned out by the mounting tension in the room.

Just as Jaemin struggled to break free, another loud bang rang out through the room—this time, it wasn’t from the students or the fight. Everyone froze, the noise so sharp it cut through the chaos like a knife.

At the door stood Jeon Wonwoo, arms crossed, his sharp gaze fixed directly on the fight in front of him. His presence alone was enough to send a wave of unease through the students, like a cold front sweeping in, freezing the energy in the room. The sharp clack of his shoes against the floor was the only sound as he stepped forward, his eyes narrowing in disapproval.

His gaze flicked to the two boys, and then, without hesitation, his voice rang out, cold and authoritative. “Break it up.”

The command was simple, but it carried a weight that no one could ignore. Chan’s eyes flickered toward the other professor for a brief moment, an imperceptible hesitation passing through him, before he released Jaemin. Jaemin stumbled to his feet, still seething, his chest heaving with rage, but there was little he could do. His pride had taken a blow that he couldn’t easily recover from, and the air in the room seemed to settle just slightly as the two boys were forcibly separated.

Before anyone could breathe a sigh of relief, the door burst open again, this time with the arrival of the student council president and another professor. They moved swiftly into the room, their presence immediately commanding the space. Within seconds, both Chan and Jaemin were being pulled away, their bodies being guided toward the door by the authority of the faculty and student leaders. The chaotic energy that had pervaded the room for what felt like an eternity dissipated as quickly as it had come, leaving only the echo of the confrontation hanging in the air.

And just like that, it was over.

The class sat in stunned silence. The atmosphere felt thick, almost suffocating, as if no one knew what to say after witnessing such a volatile moment. Some students exchanged nervous glances, others seemed almost relieved that the tension had been broken, but no one dared to speak out of turn.

You exhaled slowly, rubbing your temples, trying to process everything that had just happened. Your head throbbed with the weight of the moment, the emotional whiplash of what you had just witnessed settling deep in your bones. The chaotic flare of violence, the tension, the unsettling silence—it was enough to leave anyone rattled. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been so shaken, but there was no time to dwell on it. You still had a class to run—one that had just seen more than its fair share of drama.

The room remained heavy with silence, save for the occasional rustle of someone shifting uncomfortably in their seat. No one seemed quite ready to move on, the air thick with lingering unease, like a storm that hadn't quite passed.

Wonwoo stood beside you, his presence a quiet anchor amidst the unsettling atmosphere. His sharp gaze flickered over your face, a quick scan as though searching for any hint of lingering distress. It was a habit of his, the subtle way he kept track of everyone around him, always assessing.

“You okay?” His voice was steady, familiar—like a grounding force in the midst of chaos.

You exhaled slowly again, grounding yourself. “I’m fine,” you murmured, adjusting the papers in your hands as if that simple motion could erase the chaotic energy that had flooded the classroom. But the image of Chan, that brief glance he had thrown your way before disappearing down the hallway, lingered in your mind like an echo.

Wonwoo nodded, his gaze briefly flicking to the classroom before turning toward the door. His attention shifted elsewhere, but something in his posture, the small shift in his stance, told you he was still watching you. Observing. “Let’s just get through today, alright?” he said, a quiet suggestion more than a command.

At the far end of the room, just before stepping out, Chan paused. His back was to the door, but his eyes flickered back—just for a second—across the room. The briefest glance, but enough to make your stomach tighten. He wasn’t looking at you, not exactly. But it was as though he had taken note of everything. Of you. The way he looked at the scene, the way he committed it all to memory, was unsettling. Then, just as quickly, he was gone.

You couldn’t help but wonder what’s inside his head.

The faculty room was quieter, but the atmosphere was still charged, the earlier events hanging in the air like a storm cloud, ready to break. You sat at a corner table, trying to concentrate on the papers in front of you, but your mind kept returning to that fight. The way the room had shifted the moment Chan stepped in. The look in his eyes. Something about him felt different. Dangerous. And you had a creeping feeling you hadn’t seen the last of it.

Professor Kim, the head of the disciplinary committee, sighed heavily, adjusting her glasses. “The fight was disruptive and violent. This cannot be ignored. Both of them need to be disciplined appropriately.”

Professor Park, ever quick to share his thoughts, didn’t hesitate. “Jaemin, of course, has a long history of problems. We can’t say we didn’t expect this. But Lee Chan…” He trailed off, his tone shifting as though weighing something in his mind. “He’s not a student we can easily overlook. He’s a troublemaker—just in a different way.”

Your brow furrowed slightly as the name “Lee Chan” reverberated in your mind. From what you had heard, he was intelligent, sharp—his grades were impressive, even top-tier. But the way he carried himself? The silence that followed him, like a lingering shadow? It didn’t add up. Something didn’t feel right.

Professor Choi, usually reserved, leaned forward, adding to the conversation with a rare intensity. “He gets good grades, yes. But that doesn’t mean we should let his actions slide. His reputation alone is enough to make anyone hesitate. He’s not just a student—hell this school is named after his family name. Though no students here knows that fact, his presence still command respect, or fear. He makes people follow him, just by being in the room.”

You listened intently, absorbing every word, every hesitation. You had heard the rumors about Chan even before you came into this school, whispers in the hallways, the unease that followed him like a dark cloud. But until now, you hadn’t fully realized the weight of it all. The way people avoided his gaze, the way others seemed to bend to his will without question. You were amazed by the realness of it all.

Wonwoo spoke up then, his tone calm, but his words carrying an unexpected weight. “Chan might be smart, but he’s trouble. He’s one of those students who uses his reputation to get what he wants. He’s not above intimidation, and that’s something we can’t afford to ignore.”

You glanced at Wonwoo, surprised by his bluntness. He wasn’t someone who typically spoke so openly about students—at least, not those who still managed to keep their grades up despite their behavior. It was almost as if he knew something you didn’t.

Professor Kim raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “And you think his good grades should excuse his actions, professor? Because his grades don’t justify a fight. He’s crossed a line.”

Wonwoo sighed, a fleeting flicker of frustration crossing his features. “I’m not saying we should excuse his behavior. But Chan has a way of manipulating situations. If we come down too hard on him, it could make things worse. He’s the kind of student who doesn’t respond well to authority, and if we push him too far, it could escalate.”

The room fell silent for a moment, as if everyone was processing the implications of his words. The tension between caution and confrontation hummed in the air, unresolved.

Professor Park narrowed his eyes, a sharp edge to his voice. “So, what are you suggesting? That we give him a pass just because he knows how to make people scared of him?”

“No,” Wonwoo replied, his voice steady and certain. “But we need to be careful. We can’t treat Chan like any other student. He has a way of turning things to his advantage, of twisting situations. And this is not just because his family own this school. This is because he built his reputation that way, making other students afraid of him. If we push him too far, we risk triggering something we might not be able to control. He’s not like the rest of them.”

The conversation settled into a heavy silence, each person wrestling with their thoughts.

Finally, Professor Kim let out a long breath, her fingers tapping lightly against the papers in front of her. “We’ll put both students in detention for the time being. Jaemin, no surprise there. But with Chan…” She paused, as if trying to weigh the possible consequences of her next words. “He’s not the type to back down, and we need to keep that in mind moving forward.”

It had been one of those days—busy, slightly chaotic, but nothing out of the ordinary. You found yourself sorting through papers at your desk when a familiar voice broke through the quiet hum of the faculty room.

“Hey, you’re looking pretty focused there. Are you sure you’re not trying to work yourself to the bone?” Wonwoo’s voice had that familiar teasing tone, and you could almost hear the faint smile behind it.

You glanced up at him, raising an eyebrow. “Says the guy who spends half his time pretending to read the reports when he’s just watching the clock,” you retorted, leaning back in your chair.

He chuckled, pushing a strand of hair from his face. “I’m just keeping an eye on you. Don’t want you getting lost in all that paperwork.”

You shook your head, amused. “If I get lost, I’ll just call you for help. But I’m sure you’d rather be napping in the staff lounge, huh?”

His eyes narrowed playfully. “I’m a responsible adult. I don’t nap during work hours.” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Well, not all the time.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, rolling your eyes. “Maybe I should start timing your breaks, see how long you really go without a nap.”

He grinned, clearly enjoying the banter. “You wouldn’t dare. Besides, I’m more efficient than you think.” He tapped a finger against his temple. “Don’t forget, I’m the one keeping the department running smoothly.”

You leaned forward, matching his teasing tone. “I’m sure the students would beg to differ. They’ve all been talking about you.”

Wonwoo raised an eyebrow, his face unreadable for a moment before a grin tugged at his lips. “What about me?”

You leaned back again, crossing your arms with a playful smile. “Oh, nothing. Just that you’ve been the silent hero in the background. Maybe you’ve earned a fan club.”

He raised an eyebrow, his lips curling up at the corners. “A fan club, huh? I like the sound of that. Just make sure you don’t join it.”

You shot him a wink, amused by his overconfidence. “I don’t need to. I already have my own fan club.”

His grin widened, but before he could say anything more, the conversation shifted, and the teasing between the two of you faded into comfortable silence.

A few days later, you were buried under paperwork once again, the weight of the past week pressing down on you. Your phone buzzed with another unrecognized number, and you ignored it, frustrated. But then, almost instinctively, you found yourself dialing a number you’d been trying to reach all day—Chan’s number.

You sighed in frustration, tapping your fingers against the desk as the phone rang. “Come on, pick up already…” you muttered under your breath.

The soft click of the door opening made you freeze, and you quickly turned your phone’s screen away, hoping it wasn’t too obvious.

“Who are you calling?” Wonwoo’s voice broke through your thoughts, low and inquiring.

You froze, trying to play it cool, but the tension in your shoulders betrayed you. “It’s… just someone,” you said quickly, attempting to brush it off.

Wonwoo stepped closer, leaning against the edge of your desk. His eyes flickered to your phone before meeting your gaze, and there was a knowing look in his eyes. “Is that the fifth time today? They still aren’t answering?”

Your stomach twisted. Wonwoo was always perceptive, but this time, it felt like he could read you like an open book. You cleared your throat, trying to keep your tone steady. “It’s not a big deal,” you muttered. “Just trying to get in touch with a student. He’s been… absent.”

Wonwoo raised an eyebrow, not missing the way your fingers tightened around the phone. His voice softened, his teasing tone slipping into something more serious. “It’s Lee Chan, isn’t it?”

Your heart skipped a beat. He wasn’t just guessing. He knew. You hesitated for a moment, before nodding slightly, feeling the weight of the conversation settling in.

“Yeah,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “He hasn’t been showing up to class, and he missed his detention after the fight last week. He was supposed to work in the library after class, but… I haven’t heard from him.”

Wonwoo’s gaze didn’t leave you as he processed the information. “He’s been avoiding you?” His tone held a quiet concern, though there was still that ever-present edge of curiosity in his voice. “Isn’t that a bit… unusual for him? I thought he usually showed up when he needed something.”

You sighed, feeling a mix of frustration and unease wash over you. “Yeah, I thought so too. But it’s been days now. I’m not sure what’s going on. He’s always been hard to reach, but he’s never just ignored things like this.” You paused, your mind racing with the possibilities. “I’m worried something’s happened.”

Wonwoo gave you a long look, as if trying to gauge the situation. “Chan’s the type to do things his own way,” he said softly. “Maybe he’s just making a point. Or maybe he’s not ready to deal with the consequences yet.”

Your fingers tightened on the phone again, the thought of Chan slipping further away from your reach gnawing at you. “I just don’t want to let it slide. He has to face the consequences, but I don’t know how to make him show up.”

Wonwoo’s expression softened, just slightly, as he straightened up. “He won’t make it easy for you. But if you want him to show up, you’ll have to push a little harder.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “But that’s what you do, right? You get the students to listen.”

There was a certain understanding in his words that made you pause. Wonwoo didn’t say it outright, but he knew how hard you’d been trying to reach Chan, and how important it was that you got through to him.

You gave a short, tight smile, grateful for the insight. “Yeah, I guess I’ll just have to find a way to get through to him.”

Wonwoo nodded and gave you a small, knowing smile. “Let me know if you need help with that.” His tone had returned to its usual teasing edge, but there was something in his eyes that made you feel like he wasn’t just offering help on a whim.

“Thanks,” you said, though your mind was already elsewhere, focusing on what you could do next. After a brief moment, Wonwoo left, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

You stared at your phone for a moment, the unanswered calls piling up in your call log. Chan wasn’t just skipping school—is he avoiding you? That would made everything feel far more complicated. You couldn’t help but wonder what kind of game he was playing this time.

You made your way back to your apartment, your mind still racing with the events of the day. The walk had done little to clear your head. The sky had darkened by the time you reached the familiar building, and the usual hum of city life seemed distant, almost muffled, as if the world around you was out of focus. The weight of everything, your new role, the chaos in your classroom, and the unresolved tension settled in your chest.

As you approached your apartment door, you realized something was off. The hallway light flickered overhead, casting strange shadows along the walls, but that wasn’t what caught your attention. It was the door itself. The door to your apartment, which you were sure you had locked this morning, was ajar. Just slightly, but enough to make your stomach twist with unease.

You froze for a moment, unsure of what to do. Your instincts told you to back away, to go back downstairs and find someone, anyone, but you remained rooted in place. You had been living here for months without issue, and yet now, in the quiet of the night, the very thought that someone could have been inside your space felt foreign and terrifying.

You stepped forward cautiously, your heart pounding in your chest. Every step felt heavier than the last, and you felt a shiver creep down your spine. The door creaked softly as you pushed it open a little further, and you glanced inside. The apartment was dark, but nothing seemed out of place. The silence was unsettling, too perfect, like it was waiting for you to make the next move.

Your breath caught in your throat as you stood just inside the doorway, your hand still on the handle. Every part of you screamed to leave, to turn and run back down the stairs, but you couldn’t. You had to know. Had you forgotten to lock the door? Was this a mistake? Or was someone else in there?

The moment you stepped into your apartment, something felt off.

A slow, uneasy breath left your lips as you carefully pushed the door open, stepping inside with cautious, measured steps. The dim lighting from the street outside spilled through the window, casting long shadows against the walls.

Then—

“Oh, you’re back already?”

That familiar voice sent a sharp jolt through your body, but not from fear. From pure, unfiltered frustration.

Your head snapped toward the couch, where he sat so casually, one arm resting over the backrest, his legs sprawled out like he owned the place. A slow, knowing smirk tugged at his lips as his dark eyes drank in your stunned expression.

Lee Chan.

You exhaled sharply, tension flooding your body as you stormed toward him. Without hesitation, you smacked his broad shoulder—hard.

“You—!” Your voice wavered, caught between anger and relief. “Why are you not answering my calls?”

Chan barely flinched, only tilting his head slightly as he watched you with that irritatingly amused expression. Then, in one swift motion, he stood, his arms wrapping around you before you could escape.

“Now, why is my pretty teacher crying?” His voice was soft, teasing, but there was something in the way he pulled you against his chest, how his hands instinctively found your waist, that made your stomach flip.

You clenched your jaw, your hands gripping his hoodie. “Do you have any idea how worried I was about you?”

Chan let out a short exhale, like your concern was misplaced.

“Worried about me?”

“Yes, worried about you, you idiot!” You pushed at his chest just enough to glare up at him. “You didn’t show up for detention. You haven’t been at school. You disappeared, Chan. I kept calling, but you never picked up. What was I supposed to think?”

His gaze flickered across your face, unreadable. Then, his lips curled into something almost smug.

“Do every teacher worry about their students like this?”

Your stomach twisted at his words, heat creeping up your neck.

You smacked his chest. “You know what I mean.”

He groaned dramatically, tilting his head back. “Ugh, I hate this.”

“Hate what?” You narrowed your eyes, suddenly remembering exactly why you were so furious with him in the first place.

“Sitting in that classroom, watching you teach, pretending you’re just another professor, when I know I could grab you anytime and kiss you so hard you forget your own name.”

His voice was low, raw with frustration, and the way he looked at you made your breath catch in your throat.

Your lips parted, but before you could say anything, he scoffed under his breath.

“This is exactly why I told you not to accept Wonwoo’s offer.”

Your brows furrowed, irritation flaring inside you. “We’re not doing this again.”

Chan’s grip on you tightened slightly, his jaw clenching. “Yes, we are. You knew what would happen if you started working there. You knew there was a chance you’d be assigned to my class, and you still took the job.”

Your hands curled into fists against his hoodie. “What was I supposed to do, Chan? Turn down a stable job just because you don’t like it?”

“Yes.” His answer came without hesitation, sharp and unyielding.

You inhaled deeply, trying to steady yourself. “You’re being unreasonable.”

“No, I’m being realistic.” His voice dropped, something darker lacing his words. “Do you know how much I hate seeing you there? How much it pisses me off when I have to sit through a lesson and pretend I don’t want to pull you out of that classroom and keep you all to myself?”

You swallowed hard, your heartbeat pounding against your ribs.

“I told you it would be difficult,” he continued, his fingers pressing lightly into your waist. “I told you I wouldn’t handle it well, and now look. I can’t even focus in that damn classroom, because all I can think about is how wrong it feels for you to be standing there, acting like I’m just another student.”

You wanted to argue, to tell him he was being selfish, but deep down, you knew—he wasn’t lying.

It had been hard.

Harder than you expected.

Keeping your relationship hidden, pretending there was nothing between you when the weight of his gaze alone was enough to unravel you. And when he stopped showing up to class, when he ignored your calls—it hurt more than you wanted to admit.

Your shoulders sagged slightly. “I don’t know what you want me to do, Chan.”

He studied you for a long moment before sighing. “I don’t want you to do anything. I just…” His fingers brushed against your cheek, his voice softer now. “I hate this. I hate not being able to have you the way I want.”

Something inside you cracked at his words.

You reached up, your fingers threading through his hair as you exhaled shakily. “I hate it too.”

Chan smirked, but there was no teasing behind it this time—only something knowing, something bittersweet.

His arms tightened around you, his forehead pressing against yours.

“Then let’s stop pretending,” he murmured.

It was as if the air between you shifted—thick with tension, unspoken words, and the heat that had been simmering beneath the surface for far too long.

Chan’s fingers brushed over your shoulders as he slid your coat off, letting it fall to the side without a second thought. His touch lingered, slow and deliberate, as he guided you toward the kitchen table.

Your heart pounded against your ribs.

“Chan…” you started, voice barely above a whisper.

But he was already behind you, his presence overwhelming, his hands warm as they rested on your waist. He leaned in, his breath ghosting over the shell of your ear.

“Now,” his voice was low, filled with something dangerous, something utterly possessive.

“Bend for me, my love.”

[hyuneskkami]

01 ✦ ‘cops and robbers’ chase each other full of energy ! ༄.°

𝒽wang hyunjin x f!reader

masterlist . . . ✰

𓆩♡𓆪 𝒶n : i’m going crazyyyyy. I needed to put down—into words—an irl situation, and decided to call it a fanfic for my bias and post it 😭 anywayy it’s my first non-pjo or non-anime fic so I hope it turned out okay 😩 also here’s some fanart I found of the same vlive as the icons above (it’s so cute) ! <3 and as always!! anything I write about the idols is not a representation of them irl ! also possibly part ii coming as soon as I have the patience to write it bc I love the current flow 😋

𓆩♡𓆪 𝓌arnings + tags : day 1 , best friend!hyunjin , non-idol au , high school au , f!reader , best friends who do more-than-best-friends things , hinted bio students attending prep school together: hyune and reader , skz ot8 are in a highschool band together w reader , fluff , hyunjin’s a cutie patootie , smart!hyune x smart!reader , cutesy hand holding , hinting at stress (reader) , reader has glasses (which is unrelated to everything but still) , banter , teasing , ot8 appear a lot , nicknames (n/n, jagiya) , mother chan , jeongin is a menace , swearing a few times ;

𓆩♡𓆪 𝓌c : 0.8k

DAY #01 . . .

“you’re staring,” hyunjin said, continuing to flex his arm’s muscles.

“nope. i’m revising anatomy before class starts. I was looking at the humerus, articulated through the glenoid cavity to the scapula,” I said, smiling.

“oh, sure.” he rolled his eyes. “since you’re staring so hard, wanna kiss ‘em?”

I made a face at him, and stuck my tongue out. “you wish!”

he laughed.

“I have them too, okay?” I said, trying to one-up him, as always.

“what?”

“muscles—”

“want me to kiss them?”

I shoved his shoulder away. “we’re late, walk faster!”

“you’re the one with tiny legs, i’m being considerate— OW! don’t stamp on my shoes!”

“shut up!”

“I won’t!”

we made faces at each other and parted ways in front of my classroom since his was the one next to mine.

I spent the next five hours surviving lectures on enzyme activity, literary analysis of dostoyevsky’s works, thermodynamics, and more boring stuff, alongside minho, felix, and jeongin (who fell asleep around five minutes into the first class).

during the break, our group—chris, minho, felix, jeongin, seungmin, han, changbin, hyunjin and I—met up outside our classrooms.

“here’s your blueberry milk, n/n and felix, my favourite children,” chris said, handing us two cans he bought from the vending machine. we smirked at the others, popped the tin open and started downing our drinks in unison. “and here’s your strawberry milk, min. jeongin, your banana milk.”

the others were in the same class as chris, so they got their drinks on their way out. after collecting our drinks from our rightful mother, we headed up to the roof.

“are there any new songs you guys are working on?” hyunjin asked chris, han and changbin—the songwriters of our band—while falling into step beside me.

our hands brushed once, so he held it anyway, and we continued walking together hand-in-hand.

han was talking about a new song they were composing for the band to play at the next music festival, which required a duet.

“we can do it,” I said, raising my free hand, meaning hyunjin and I. everyone else nodded in approval, and continued talking about their classes.

changbin pushed open the door to the roof, and we quickly followed him in pairs, shutting the door behind us.

we took our spots on the fluffy blanket minho got and laid down, hyunjin’s head resting on my lap. minho sat down with his legs on han’s, while jeongin did the same with chris, and seungmin copied them to lay his legs on changbin’s lap.

we continued chatting about the upcoming music festival and tried to figure out a name for our band before then, while my fingers threaded through hyunjin’s soft hair.

after the bell rang, signalling the end of lunch break (during which none of us actually ate our lunches), we returned to our classes for one last hour, after which, we met up outside the school’s main gate to walk home together.

I ran towards hyunjin while his back was facing me, and placed my cold palm against the back of his neck. he jumped suddenly, and shrieked. he threw his jacket onto my face.

“bitch!” I yelled, grabbing the jacket.

“put it on, jagiya, because your hands are cold as fuck! or you’ll die of the cold and then i’ll have to explain to your mother why i’m carrying her only child’s dead body home.”

“joke’s on you, I don’t think she’d mind. ha! and anyway, i’m a normal temperatured human being, for your information, you’re the warm one!” I complained, slipping his jacket on.

“okay, n/n, we all know you’re wrong on that one,” jeongin said. “give up the fight before it gets too embarrassing—”

“you’re all so mean to me, the best member of our group, and for what?” I rolled my eyes, sighing.

felix and chris stepped in front of me dramatically, and said together, “we’ll protect you from these ghouls, y/n!”

everyone burst out laughing, including them and me.

along the walk home, minho, han, changbin, and seungmin went a different way from the rest of us.

we waved our goodbyes, reminding each other to think of a name for our band.

“when’s our next test, hyune?” I asked suddenly.

“at prep school? I think it’s this friday,” he said.

“ugh, you both are such smartypants, you’re always studying or talking about it,” jeongin complained, accurately playing his role as the youngest child and menace of the group.

“and yet it’s not enough,” I muttered to myself, not realising hyunjin heard my words.

my mind divided its attention between worrying about the syllabus I was yet to cover for the test, and listening to the boys’ conversation.

I was snapped out of my thoughts when jeongin, chris and felix parted ways with us.

hyunjin and I walked a bit further to my house, where he dropped me off.

“see you at prep school!” he said, and jogged a block further to reach his house.

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kozumesphone © 2024 | don’t repost my works onto other platforms, or edit and post them even on tumblr, without asking me first • don’t steal my works, steal my heart instead • reblogs and comments are more than appreciated !

[songbirdseung]

the new girl / sim jaeyun

where sim jaeyun takes a liking of the new employee working under their label. genre strangers to friends, friends to lovers warnings none?

Who would have thought that one day you’d be standing between the tall gray walls you had grown so familiar with, walls you had only seen through a screen while watching your favorite TikTok challenges? Yet, here you were, taking a tour of the very company you would soon be working for.

As you walked alongside your supervisor, a sense of disbelief and awe washed over you. Every corner you turned revealed a scene you had seen in videos, now coming to life before your eyes. The reality of it all hit you harder with each step. Never in your wildest dreams did you imagine you’d be working for this company, let alone as an assistant manager for your favorite boy group.

By the end of the day, your back ached from all the bowing, your cheeks hurt from maintaining a polite smile with every introduction, and your brain buzzed with the effort of trying to remember each and every name and face.

But when it came time to greet the last person, there was no way you could forget them.

Jake was heading toward the company's café to grab a coffee before clocking out for the day when he noticed you. Your unfamiliar face instantly caught his attention, and he found himself unable to look away as the barista prepared his order. Curiosity mixed with a sudden surge of courage propelled him forward, his feet moving on their own until he was standing right in front of you.

"Hi."

He had planned to say more, to offer something witty or engaging, but the moment he got a closer look at you, his brain seemed to short-circuit, leaving him with only that simple greeting.

Meanwhile, you were utterly speechless. If you had been in disbelief earlier just from being at the company, seeing Jake—your bias—up close now pushed you beyond anything you could have imagined. You knew you’d eventually meet them, but not this soon, and definitely not like this.

"Hey," you reply, a shy smile tugging at your lips as you look up at him.

The silence that follows isn’t awkward, but rather a comfortable pause, filled with intrigue and curiosity. You both take a moment to study each other, eyes searching for something familiar yet completely new. Jake gazes at you with a mix of wonder and hesitation, his mind racing to find the right words that wouldn’t make him sound like a fool.

"Uhm… are you new here? I don't think I've ever seen you around," he finally asks, his voice carrying a soft hint of uncertainty as if he's just as surprised by his boldness as you are.

"Yeah, it's my first day actually," you respond, your answer piquing Jake’s curiosity even more. In that moment, he forgets all about the plans he had with Ni-ki, finding himself sitting across from you, elbows resting on the table, leaning in as if trying to etch your face into his memory.

He sneaks a glance at your ID and name pin, reading off your name and work position before looking back at you with a playful grin. Whatever had come over him, this boldness was new, unfamiliar territory. But with you, it felt surprisingly easy. "Assistant manager? For a second, I thought you were a trainee," he jokes, laughing softly when he notices the blush spreading across your cheeks.

Meanwhile, you were internally freaking out, half expecting to wake up from what felt like a dream. The urge to pinch yourself or curl up in a ball once you were alone later was overwhelming, but you tried your best to stay composed. You didn’t want to embarrass yourself, so you kept your cool, even though your mind was spinning. "Yeah, I'm 21, there's no way they'd accept me as a trainee," you giggle, the sound soft and sweet, contrasting the storm of emotions swirling inside you.

Jake's eyes widen at your answer, the realization that you’re both the same age catching him off guard. But his surprise quickly melts into a smile, his mind already crafting a witty response.

"Really? We’re the same age? Well, I guess that means you’re old enough to help me sneak out of work early," he teases, leaning back with a playful glint in his eyes. "But I suppose since you're assistant manager now, you might be the one keeping an eye on me instead."

And that's exactly what you did. The next few days were a whirlwind of responsibilities, with tasks piled high on your desk, each one challenging enough to match your level of expertise. Your supervisors were thorough, guiding you through the nuances of your new role, ensuring you were well-equipped to handle the demands of the job. It was overwhelming at times, but you were determined to prove yourself.

Despite the hectic pace, you couldn’t help but steal a few moments to observe the boys, especially Jake. You found yourself subconsciously timing your breaks with theirs, just to catch a glimpse of them in the practice room or in the hallways. Watching them work so hard was fascinating, but your eyes always seemed to be drawn to Jake.

His energy was magnetic, and you admired the way he balanced his laid-back attitude with his dedication to the group. Whether he was practicing choreography with laser focus or joking around with the members during breaks, there was something about him that made it impossible for you to look away. Every time he flashed that easy smile or cracked a joke, it was like a small burst of sunshine in the middle of your busy day.

Jake seemed to notice your presence too. You’d often catch him glancing your way during practice, a mischievous glint in his eyes whenever your gazes met. It became a little game between the two of you—these stolen moments of connection amidst the chaos of the day. And each time, your heart would skip a beat, the memory of your first encounter in the café replaying in your mind.

"yn, come over, I think it's time you meet the boys you'll be closely working with," your manager calls out through the open door of the dance practice room, motioning you to join him.

With hesitancy, you make your way inside. Immediately, the boys, who were sprawled on the floor after a long practice session, turn their attention toward you. Some glance at you directly, while others observe you through the mirror. The manager brings you closer, a warm smile on his face as he introduces you to the group. One by one, they get to their feet, smiles spreading across their faces as they bow and greet you.

"Hi, I'm Heeseung," the eldest says, extending his hand with a kind smile. "Welcome to the team. Don't worry, we’re not as intimidating as we might look."

Jungwon, the leader, steps forward next. "Nice to meet you, yn. We’re all really excited to work with you." Jay gives you a small nod, his eyes twinkling with curiosity.

Sunghoon smiles warmly, brushing his hair back. "Looking forward to working with you, yn. It’ll be fun having you around."

Sunoo bounces up next, his energy infectious. "I’m Sunoo! It’s nice to finally meet you in person. You’re going to love it here—I’ll make sure of it," he says with a playful wink. "And if you ever need a break from these guys, I’m your go-to person," he teases, earning playful protests from the others.

And then there’s Jake, standing at the back, his smile widening as your eyes meet. That smile—his smile—it seems to melt away all the stress and tiredness from your shoulders. "Hey," he greets simply, his voice warm and familiar, like a shared secret between the two of you.

Last but not least, Ni-ki steps forward, his usual playful grin in place. "Hi, yn. I’m Ni-ki! It’s great to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you," he says with a wink. Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he adds, "Jake talks about you all the time."

There’s a beat of silence as the words hang in the air, and you feel the heat rising to your cheeks. Jake’s eyes widen slightly, his ears turning red as he quickly turns to Ni-ki. "Ni-ki!" he says, his tone a mix of embarrassment and warning.

Ni-ki realizes his slip-up, his grin fading as he looks between you and Jake. "Oh, uh, I mean—" he stammers, trying to backpedal. "Just, you know, about how you’re new and all…"

The other members chuckle, trying to suppress their amusement at the situation. Sunoo nudges Ni-ki, whispering something that makes him look even more flustered, while Jay and Heeseung exchange knowing looks.

Your manager, sensing the shift in mood, clears his throat, redirecting the conversation. "Well, I’m glad you’ve all had the chance to meet yn. I’m sure you’ll work well together."

Jake, still a bit red, gives you a sheepish smile, scratching the back of his neck. "Don’t mind him, he’s just… Ni-ki," he says, his voice trailing off as he struggles to find the right words.

You offer a reassuring smile, trying to play it cool despite the fluttering in your chest. "It’s okay," you say softly, meeting Jake’s eyes again. "I’m looking forward to working with all of you."

The awkward tension begins to dissipate as the boys, one by one, continue to welcome you with genuine warmth and friendliness. But even as the introductions wrap up and the conversation shifts to lighter topics, you can’t help but steal a few glances at Jake, wondering just what Ni-ki had meant—and if Jake had really been talking about you more than you realized.

[wholoveseggs]

~♡~Dating the Mikaelsons~♡~

One-Shot Edition

18+ ---- {Masterlist}

♡A date with Elijah♡

You are at the compound to confess your feelings to Elijah, as your nerves get the better of you, he finds a way to help you relax.

In celebration of getting to one-hundred followers I wrote some smutty one-shots based on my dating the mikaelsons headcanons.

♡ Thanks for all the love and support ♡

Warnings: smut, oral, my bias towards Elijah cannot be tamed ♡♡

{Part One -Klaus} ♡ {Part Two - Kol} ♡ {Part Three - Marcel}

Your heart was beating so rapidly you were sure he heard it before you even entered the compound. As you passed the iron gates you held your hand out, observing how much you were trembling. You took slow, deep breaths, willing yourself to relax. 

You had been nervous before you'd come but nothing like this. When you and Elijah had first met you had felt an instant connection. You could tell the attraction was mutual. His eyes watched you as you moved around the room, scanning your body. But he made no move towards you, that was just his nature, always polite, always a gentleman.

But that had been five weeks ago. The air was alight with tension. You had practically fucked him with your eyes, you had pulled every trick in the book to seduce him, and it seemed as though he was unphased. 

You sighed heavily, and you wondered if he actually did like you. Maybe you had completely misread the situation and were falling for a man that you didn't even stand a chance with.

But today was the day you were going to put yourself on the line. You were going to lay it all out, either he accepted or he rejected you. And hopefully rejected didn't mean get the hell out.

You stood with your hand on the banister, psyching yourself up to make the move and knock on his door. You cursed when you lost your nerve and stepped to the bottom of the stairs, pacing up and down on the landing.

At the fifth round of pacing you stopped and let out a frustrated cry. Even if he didn't feel the same, he wouldn't be cruel, he would be polite and let you down gently and try to not make things awkward. If you didn't just do it now you were never going to be brave enough.

"Hello there," his deep, intoxicating voice interrupted your internal anguish.

"H...hello," you said, standing in shock. He smiled down at you, a true, genuine smile and you suddenly relaxed.

"Are you alright? What are you doing here?" he asked, a little confused at seeing you standing on the compound's staircase looking like you had just seen a ghost.

"Well, I...I came to see you...I, er I wanted to talk to you...can we talk?" you blurted. You chewed the inside of your cheek as you tried to compose yourself, you felt like a teenage girl asking a boy on a date, and the realization made you smile to yourself.

"Is everything ok? Is it Niklaus?" he asked, a little concerned, he moved to the bottom of the steps, slightly closer to you.

"Everything is ok, I promise. Can we talk somewhere private? Privately? Privately...alone..." you babbled. Your nerves were getting the better of you as he had taken you completely by surprise with his sudden appearance.

He laughed a soft, low, melodic laugh and the sound flooded your stomach with butterflies, your hands began to shake again. He noticed you trembling, and took your hands in his, rubbing the back of your hands with his thumbs, his actions completely not helping your nerves.

"Your heart is beating quite fast. Are you sure you're feeling quite alright?" he asked with a slight smirk.

You nodded, a little breathless. He was close, so close, too close, you looked down at the floor, finding it hard to meet his eyes, you never realized how intimate holding hands could be.

"Where would you like to go to talk? Somewhere you feel comfortable?" he asked softly, concern creeping into his voice.

"Your bedroom," you blurted again, then wished the earth would swallow you up. You just couldn't help yourself. He seemed to find it amusing, once again letting out the delightful laugh that made your stomach turn backflips, 

"Are you suggesting that I take you to bed?" he asked, teasing you.

You blushed, so thankful that he was flirting and you hadn't fucked everything up. It was reassuring enough for you to look him in the eye and tease him back.

"Are you saying you'd like to take me to bed?" you replied, raising an eyebrow at him.

He watched you carefully for a moment, then suddenly got serious. He took another step closer, your hands still firmly grasped in his. He brought them up to his mouth, kissing the back of your hands, never breaking eye contact. You felt weak, your heart was hammering in your chest and you willed yourself to make a move.

You pulled him in closer, closing the distance between your lips, his hand moved to the back of your neck, gently drawing you in, cradling your head. Your lips barely touched at first, your eyes remained open, studying each others expressions. Elijah brought his lips to yours again, this time, it was gentle, soft, passionate. Your eyes fluttered shut, feeling his lips slowly move against yours, his other hand on the small of your back, pressing your body against his.

You parted, your breathing heavy and labored, he rested his forehead against yours, not allowing too much distance. He stroked his thumb over your cheek, looking deep into your eyes, suddenly you weren't worried anymore, not even a little bit. You knew he wanted you as much as you wanted him.

He pressed his lips to yours once more, in a soft, gentle kiss. He pulled away, taking your hand in his, "Come," was all he said, his face tender and loving as he gently led you up the stairs.

You reached his bedroom, he turned to face you, a small, shy smile on his lips. You had never seen him look shy or nervous before. His eyes met yours and he cupped your face, stroking your cheek and you leaned into his touch.

"Is this why you came here today?" he asked, his voice quiet, unsure.

You nodded, a slow smile forming, your hands resting on his chest. "Why did you think I came?"

He shrugged, a little embarrassed.

"Elijah, I've been flirting with you since the first day I met you. I was hoping it would get to a point where you would want to kiss me," you smiled, reaching up and stroking his hair.

He gave you a shy grin and averted his gaze before looking at you, clearly wanting to say something, not sure if he should. 

"You are so beautiful, and my world is not," he said with a gentle sigh.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, "Your world isn't that bad," you said softly.

He smirked a little, but there was still a sadness in his eyes. "Many of my lovers have met unfortunate ends," he let out, still caressing your cheek.

You knew he had a past. And no doubt a lot of blood was on his hands, but he had also saved lives and killed for the sake of life. There was good in him, and a sort of selflessness that was rare in any person.

"You deserve to be happy, Elijah," you said honestly. "You are allowed to love," you looked up at him, hoping that he would understand, that he would believe in himself just like you believed in him.

He didn't say anything for a while, he was used to pushing his feelings down. He seemed to be searching for words, his arms wrapped around your waist, bringing you closer.

You pressed your lips to his in a gentle kiss, and he let out a content sigh, his body losing its tension. You pulled away and glanced at his bed then back to him, desperate for him to finally make a move. He smiled a gentle, almost apologetic smile and kissed you again, more passionate this time.

His kisses were soft yet fierce, driven by need, a hunger that he was fighting to contain. You melted against him, letting him lead the kiss, letting his tongue move over yours as he deepened it.

You moved together towards his bed, never breaking your kiss. You felt the back of your knees hit the mattress and you sat, looking up at Elijah, his eyes gentle, his smile soft as he knelt before you, removing your boots.

It was the sweetest gesture, so sexy and intimate. He kissed your calf as he unzipped one and tugged it off, before moving to your other leg and doing the same, never breaking eye contact. You opened your legs slightly, your skirt riding up your thighs and he moved between them.

He kissed you again, slow and sensuous, you unbuttoned his shirt as his fingers slipped beneath your top. Your eyes closed, feeling his fingertips on your back as he lifted your top over your head.

You finished unbuttoning his shirt, slipping it off him and pulling him closer. Your breasts pressed against his bare chest, his arms wrapping around your body. You ran your fingers through his hair, stroking his scalp before kissing him.

He watched you with nothing but adoration, his hands massaging your back before placing them on your waist. You could tell that he wanted to take his time, he was enjoying the foreplay, teasing and savoring each moment. You desperately wanted him to speed up though, feeling his kisses move from your lips, down your neck, his tongue gently darting over your skin.

A moan escaped your lips and your eyes closed as he reached your chest. You panted a little, breathing heavily and you felt him grin against your skin. A sexy, playful smirk formed on his lips as he unhooked your bra.

Your hands found his chest and slowly ran them down his smooth, muscled torso, coming to his belt, swiftly undoing it, and throwing it to the side. He chuckled as you wriggled from his grasp, scooting back onto the bed. You leaned back, resting on your elbows, admiring the gorgeous man that had knelt before you.

Elijah took his time just watching you, his gaze roaming over your curves, taking everything in. You took the opportunity to take your skirt off, leaving you in just your panties. He crawled onto the bed and up your body, your legs wrapping around his waist as he reached you.

He gently kissed you, reaching his hand behind your head, cradling you as he explored your mouth. You softly moaned, grinding against him, growing more impatient and needy. He seemed content to kiss you for a while, moving his mouth from yours to tease your neck.

"Elijah," you panted, squirming beneath him, begging for more.

He smirked against your neck and stopped his torture, sliding your panties down your legs, his fingers, gently brushing your calves. His mouth moved to your thigh and he pressed his lips to your skin before hovering just above where you wanted to feel him the most.

"Tell me what you want," he whispered against your pussy, his hot breath making you tremble. You bucked your hips against him, urging him on, not wanting to beg, trying to keep the upper hand. He seemed to enjoy seeing you squirm, it made him chuckle a little and finally, finally put his mouth where you needed.

He looked up and gave you a devious smirk. His dark eyes pierced yours and your mouth fell open, letting out a deep moan as he slowly flattened his tongue against you and licked along the length of your pussy, swirling around your clit.

You ran your hands through his hair, feeling his tongue begin its torment, slowly licking, sucking, kissing and tasting, taking his time. Your eyes fluttered shut, panting, tugging on his hair when he hooked your leg over his shoulder and began to fuck you with his tongue.

Your whole body was trembling, the pleasure increasing with each flick and thrust of his tongue. When his mouth closed over your clit and he began sucking gently, you knew that it wouldn't be long before he turned you into a shaking, trembling mess.

But he had other ideas.

You opened your eyes, squirming and desperate, as he completely pulled away. He kneeled up, smirking at your disappointed face.

"You look so beautiful like this," he said softly, stroking your thigh. Before leaning over you as he slowly slid his hand up your stomach and over your breasts, stopping to lightly pinch your nipples.

"Enough teasing, Elijah," you whispered breathlessly, bucking your hips, grinding your pussy against nothing.

His smirk grew even wider, the corner of his mouth twisting, taking one of your hands in his. "Soon, darling," he breathed against your ear. He leaned against you, his muscular chest was warm and firm with the light sprinkling of chest hairs tickling your skin.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked quietly, one arm on the side of your head, the other lacing his fingers with yours, pinning your hand above you.

It was sweet and unexpected, and you couldn't resist, leaning up and kissing him softly. "I'm sure," you whispered against his lips.

You reached around to tug on his pants, signaling that you had had enough of his torment. He smirked and leaned back to grant you access, watching you with amusement as you unzipped him.

You slid your hands inside, freeing his already hard cock, biting your lip, feeling the weight of him in your hands. You gently stroked him, his eyes fluttering shut as he enjoyed the feeling, then a small, dark grin graced his features.

He intertwined his hands with yours, settling himself between your legs. He hovered over you, looking deep into your eyes. There were so many things he wanted to say, you could see it in the way his eyes darted over your face, emotions going from lust to admiration to wonderment, hopefulness. But he didn't, he didn't need to, he had his own way with words.

He cradled the back of your head, your faces almost touching as he finally eased into you, watching, waiting for you to tell him that he could keep going. You wrapped your legs around his waist and nodded, causing his entire body to relax as he began to move.

There was nothing rushed, or fast, or driven by animalistic desire. His movements were gentle, slow, considered and loving. He caressed you as he rested his weight on his forearms either side of your head, rocking gently.

"You feel so good," he groaned, capturing your lips in his, with a slow, deep, sensual kiss.

You couldn't help but moan into his mouth, each thrust drawing gasps and groans from you both. His arm wandered down to the small of your back, resting the weight of your lower body against him, so the rest of you was pressed into the mattress.

This new angle made everything more intense, hitting the most sensitive part inside of you, each movement of his hips bringing you closer to the edge.

Your fingers ran through his hair, the feeling of him thrusting over and over, in a gentle, rolling motion was overwhelming every sense. You crushed your mouth against his, needy and desperate, hoping that it would convey your feelings you couldn't express with words. 

You couldn't hold on any longer, your cheeks flushed as you buried your face in his shoulder, letting out a soft guttural moan. Every nerve ending flooded with pleasure, your vision began to blur, you were completely overcome by your orgasm.

Elijah softly chuckled, looking pleased with himself, feeling you tense around him. You whimpered slightly, your hands clasping his biceps as you came down from the high. He nipped at your ear, his lips ghosting along your neck, sending a thrill through your body.

"You make such pretty sounds," he murmured, his words turning you on again as he started to thrust a little harder, to the pace he needed.

You avoided his gaze, slightly embarrassed, and he tilted your chin up, bringing his lips to yours in a heated kiss. You squealed a little, surprised at his sudden passion and force, his thrusts pushing you into bed. You moaned into his mouth, his movements becoming more erratic, harder. You held onto his shoulders for support, wrapping your legs around his hips, feeling him pound into you.

He gripped your thighs, pushing your knees up around your waist, the new position allowed him to penetrate deep, and your whimpers grew louder and higher. He gave you a dark smile, clearly enjoying the fact that he could turn you into a moaning mess.

You buried your face in his shoulder again as he kept pounding you, making you tingly and light-headed. You wanted it to last forever, the way he was fucking you as if his life depended on it. His need for you and the relentless friction as his cock moved in and out of you brought you to the edge once more.

He smirked, his eyes piercing yours, leaning back, his thumb slid between you, gently playing with your clit. You cried out, your nails digging into his arms as your release overwhelmed you.

Your mouth fell open and your body contracted, the moment was so intense, a whole-body experience, Elijah didn't let up, fucking you right through it. Your moans grew louder, he was relentless, his thrusts getting harder and faster. His hands grasped the back of your thighs, gripping and spreading them wide as he buried himself deep inside of you.

His own smirk became strained as he stared down at you in delight. You knew, when he pressed his body against yours, your lips with his, he was about to find his own release.

Elijah let out the sexiest, deepest groan into your mouth, barely moving as he filled you with his cum. You stroked his hair and as he lay on top of you, his eyes closed, enjoying the bliss.

His kiss turned tender, loving and passionate and he laced his fingers with yours, squeezing gently. You smiled, kissing him softly and he rolled over, pulling you to his side, running his hands through your hair.

You intertwined your legs and rested your head on his chest, glancing up at him every now and then. He was enjoying the moment, both of you basking in the glorious glow of your love-making.

"Why were you so nervous?" he asked softly, twirling a lock of your hair around his fingers, a sweet and almost boyish grin spreading over his lips.

You blushed, thinking back to a mere hour ago, when your nerves were absolutely wrecked. "I thought you wouldn't feel the same. I was terrified that I'd scare you away," you explained, burying your face in his chest, embarrassed that you had felt scared.

Elijah gently took your chin, guiding you to look at him. He ran his fingers down your cheek, smiling fondly. "How could I not feel the same? Since the moment I first laid eyes on you, you've set my heart alight."

You felt the butterflies return, how could you have doubted him? Him of all people. He was the most romantic and sincere person you had ever met, he simply refused to express his feelings unless they were true.

"So... That's a yes?" 

"To?" Elijah asked, an amused grin growing on his face as he waited for your response.

"You want to go out sometime?" you asked, only a little shy this time.

He laughed a deep, genuine laugh, wrapping his arms around you, pressing a kiss to your hair.

"I would like nothing more."

{Part One -Klaus} ♡ {Part Two - Kol} ♡ {Part Three - Marcel}

♡♡ Thanks for reading my a date with... series! please check out the other ones if you haven't already ♡♡

[jae-bummer]

Erasing Boundaries

Request: Hi I hope you're well~~I'd really like to see no.12 with Bang Chan from the prompt list. 👀 I'd also like to say that I've been a long time follower and I really love reading your works! Thank you for putting the time and effort!! <3

Prompt:

12) When your bias tries to delicately friendzone you, they realize you just wanted to be friends in the first place. Shortly after, they realize they’re the ones falling for you.

Pairing: Stray Kids Bang Chan x Reader

Genre: Fluff

.

"We're just friends."

"You're a trustworthy person, Chan," Lee Know muttered from his spot on the studio couch. "So I don't understand why you're lying to me right now."

"I'm not lying!" Chan said, spinning around in his office chair. "I really don't have feelings for Y/N."

"Right," Lee Know muttered. "Because instead of multiple feelings, you have one feeling, and it is love."

"Seriously?" Chan groaned, flopping his head back. "Why are you even saying this?"

"You follow them around like a lovesick puppy," Lee Know sighed, pulling out his phone. "Don't think I haven't noticed."

"I feel insulted," Chan pouted. "I am not lovesick, nor am I a puppy."

"A lovesick wolf then."

Chan groaned again as he spun away from his younger member.

After a moment of silence, he turned back around. "Do you think Y/N has feelings for me?"

"Probably," Lee Know hummed, not bothering to look up. "But I thought you didn't have feelings for them."

"I don't!" Chan gasped. "Maybe...maybe I should talk to them."

"And confess? Good idea."

"No!" Chan chuckled. "To just confirm that we're friends and nothing more than that."

"Are you sure you really want to create that boundary?" Lee Know asked with lifted brows. "You're friend zoning yourself."

"I'm friend zoning, Y/N," Chan nodded. "This idea that we like each other romantically must have come from how they interact with me. I know I haven't been flirting."

"I'm sorry," Lee Know sighed. "Are you finally having a mental break? Or are we living two incredibly different lives?"

"I think you're seeing what you want to see," Chan nodded finitely.

"Hello, pot?" Lee Know laughed. "This is kettle. You're black."

"I can't be in a relationship right now," Chan sighed, switching tactics. "We've got too much going on."

"There are far too many arguments I can make," Lee Know muttered. "And frankly I'm exhausted."

"Good," Chan grinned. "I'll let you know how the talk goes."

"Please, don't."

..

"Why was your text so ominous?" you asked, plopping across Chan's bed. Taking a long sip from your frozen coffee, you looked up to see him pacing back and forth in front of you.

"Ominous?" he muttered. "It wasn't ominous. I just asked you to come over."

"You said we-" you cleared your throat, trying to pitch your voice deeper to match Chan's tone. ""needed to talk.""

"Well, it wasn't so much of a need as it is a want," he sighed, finally stopping and sitting down beside you.

You narrowed your eyes at your friend, trying to figure out what was going on in his head. Normally he had at least a hundred things swirling around up there, but today seemed to have a hundred and one.

"You're kind of starting to freak me out," you grumbled, sitting up from your lounging position to better look at him.

"No need," he said quickly. "I just...I wanted to make sure something was clear between us."

"Okay..." you trailed off.

"We're friends, yeah?"

"If we weren't, I'd consider the past year to be a cruel joke," you teased, but instantly stopped as Chan's face remained solemn.

"Chris?" you squeaked. "We are friends...right?"

"Of course, we are!" he gasped, moving to squeeze your knee, but stopping short. Taking a moment to compose himself, he finally swiveled toward you. ""Y/N, you're one of my people."

Your heart gave a small flip. Chan was one of your people too. As someone you could always go to for advice or comfort, he reminded you of the type of guy who was your older sibling's friend that you always had a childhood crush on. You reconciled long ago that someone like him was out of your league, or at least that was your perception of it.

"And as one of my people, I want you to know how important you are to me."

"Chris," you hummed, holding your hand up in the air. "This is awfully sentimental for a Thursday afternoon."

"Right," he winced. "I'll save you my speech that I definitely didn't take an hour figuring out last night."

Your eyes grew wide.

"Joking," he chuckled unconvincingly.

You would find out later that he, in fact, was not joking.

"Long story short," he continued, unable to meet your eyes. "We're friends."

"Yep."

"Just. Friends." he said, emphasizing each word.

"Hearing you loud and clear," you nodded, still unsure what the climax of the conversation would be.

"Good, good," he nodded, reaching toward the drink you had brought him. "So, how was your day?"

"Wait, I'm sorry," you coughed. "Was that it?"

"Well, yeah," he said, furrowing his brow. "Why?"

"I legitimately had anxiety on my way over here," you gasped. "And it was simply for you to tell me something I already knew?"

"You had anxiety?" Chan pouted, his expression soft. "That wasn't my intention at all! It's just that the members kept hinting to me that they thought we were involved, and I wanted to make sure the record was set straight with everyone and-"

"Take a breath, Chris," you sighed. You patted him lightly on the shoulder. "I may have had anxiety, but I also am relieved to know it was over something so silly. I know we're friends."

"We are," he nodded. "You're the Patrick to my SpongeBob, the-"

"Wait, why do I have to be Patrick?" you muttered.

"Because you live under a rock and can't open a jar on your own," he grinned.

"Ah, right," you teased. "And you're SpongeBob because you never stay hydrated and have an unhealthy fixation with your job."

"Low blow, Y/N."

"The truth hurts, doesn't it?"

...

"I messed up."

"You're right," Lee Know hummed. "We should have given Hyunjin up for adoption years ago. Should I start looking for the closest fire station?"

"That is not what I meant," Chan muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I messed up with Y/N. Bad."

"Please," Lee Know said quietly. "Please tell me you did not do what I think you did."

"I made it clear how we are thoroughly, only friends," Chan winced.

Lee Know inhaled deeply through his nose before holding it and letting it out through his mouth.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" Chan whispered.

"Give me a minute," Lee Know grumbled. "My therapist taught me to focus on my breathing when I wanted to get violent."

"Minho," Chan deadpanned.

"Yes, I know, you're my hyung, and I shouldn't speak to you this way, but damnit, man!"

"I know!" Chan cried. "I messed up."

"As you keep saying!" Lee Know sighed. "Now how are you going to fix it?"

"Fix it?" Chan chirped. "I shouldn't just wallow in my misery?"

"Let's try this," Lee Know said slowly. "If the roles here were reversed, what would you tell me?"

Chan scrunched up his face. "Well, I guess I'd tell you that it's okay to make mistakes and this wasn't a serious one. No one is going to die, except you, maybe of embarrassment. You can try to clear your conscience and confess, or just really make a go at trying to be only friends."

"And that's when I would say...?"

"Full steam ahead, let's make an ass out of ourselves," Chan chuckled.

"Correct," Lee Know grinned. "So let Y/N know how you feel. How you really feel."

"One problem," Chan sighed. "In the process of me friend zoning them, I'm pretty sure they friend zoned me twice as hard."

"What do you mean?"

"They said they knew all along we were only friends."

"Do you think just maybe," Lee Know said, tilting his head. "They were following your lead?"

"I mean...maybe?"

"Well," Lee Know grinned. "Time to find out."

...

"Christopher Bang!" you gasped, flying through the front door of the dorm. "I swear on every star in the sky, and EVEN the one's on Felix's cheeks, that if you summon me again with a "we need to talk" text, I'm going to end you!"

"I don't have much tact when I'm nervous," Chan admitted from the living room sofa. He cringed as he looked up at you. "You look nice today."

"I don't want compliments!" you huffed. "I want an explanation!"

"Okay, and you deserve one," he said calmly. "But first, may I interest you in a beverage?"

"Stop stalling."

"Alright, alright," he grumbled. Pushing himself up from the cushions, he came to stand in front of you. It looked like he hadn't slept in days (which wasn't entirely uncommon) but it seemed to really be wearing on him more than usual. "Our conversation yesterday-"

"Wasn't much of a conversation," you finished. "More like just stating the obvious but continue."

"Whatever it was," Chan sighed. "I was wrong."

"You were...wrong?"

"Yes."

You bit your lower lip, not failing to notice the way it drew Chan's eyes. "So are you saying we're not friends?"

"We are," he said quickly. "But from my perspective, that isn't the full truth."

You waited, unsure of what that could possibly mean.

"I told you yesterday that you were one of my people," he said softly. "But that wasn't entirely accurate. If I was being truthful, with you and myself, I would have said you're my person."

Lifting your brows, you tried not to stagger back. Was he actually about to tell you that he had feelings for you? After you had resolved yourself to live with the shadow of unrequited love?

"I care about you in ways that a normal friend wouldn't," he continued. His voice remained quiet, but he had moved closer. "And I understand if you only see me in that brotherly way, that's okay. I get it, but I drove myself nuts last night playing over our conversation. It was a mistake to try to draw a boundary in our relationship, especially when I honestly wanted to erase any we did have."

"Chris-"

"I'm a mess," he whispered. "I'm stubborn and obsessive and make so many mistakes. I'm tired and worn out...but if you can accept all of that...I'll try to be the best version of myself for you."

You stayed quiet, only able to blink up at him as you processed this new information. It felt as if someone was blowing a balloon in your chest, and it was destined to pop at any moment.

"But also, no pressure," he said quickly. "I'd rather be your friend than nothing at all."

"Silly boy," you said softly, only mildly concerned that you would spook him if you came at the situation too enthusiastically. Crossing the small amount of space between the two of you, you stuck out your bottom lip. "I see the best version of you every day. It's just that some days, your best is going to look different depending on what you have to give. Every trait you listed as a weakness has a strength to it. You're stubborn, but that makes you determined. You're obsessive, but you're committed. And with every mistake you make, you learn. It's okay to recognize the flaws in yourself, but you have to recognize the other side of all that. I care about every side of you, Chris. Every day, some days, whatever you're willing to give...I'm going to take."

You could see Chan's eyes go glassy. "You have no idea how much I needed to hear that."

"Good," you smiled. "So yes, I care about you in a more than friend way."

You gave yourself a mental high five. Suddenly, the unattainable childhood crush knew you existed, and wanted you back. How often does that happen?

"I don't deserve you," he hummed, cautiously pulling you into his chest. Wrapping his strong arms around you, he gave a loving squeeze. "But I'm glad you think I do."

Kissing him playfully on the underside of his jaw, you laughed. "Shut up, SpongeBob."