#even when he’s not singing/just waiting for a bridge to end

[thatonegrimm]

Hey there! I'd love to make a request! :D

We have the Saja Boys' reaction to the reader singing Soda Pop (loved it btw ^-^). But, how would they react (separately) if they heard them singing one of HUNTR/X songs instead? (maybe the ones about hunting demons?) Would they hate it? Be jealous? Hype them up?

(On another note, I absolutely love your writing! <3)

Thank you for the request! Honestly I'm so obsessed with this song. Here you go!💌

🌙Saja Boys x Reader Singing— How It's Done

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🧿 Jinu 

You were folding laundry and casually singing under your breath—except “casual” turned into full-on Huntrix mode by the time you hit the second chorus.

“Huntrix, show this, how it’s done, done, done!”

Jinu froze in the hallway with a mug in hand, mid-sip, watching you full-perform the last two lines with dramatic finger-pointing and some admittedly impressive attitude.

“…Wow,” he said slowly. “That’s, um… that’s not Soda Pop.”

You blinked. “What? It’s just Huntrix. I love this song.”

He cleared his throat. “I noticed. You—uh—growled at the sock pile.”

You laughed, still swaying. “C’mon, it’s empowering! Don’t tell me you’re intimidated.”

“No,” he lied. “Of course not.”

You sauntered up to him, leaning in just enough to whisper the “mirror mirror on my phone, who’s the baddest?” line into his ear.

He blushed to the tips of his ears, almost dropped the tea, and muttered, “Okay. A little intimidated.”

But later that night, you caught him trying to hum the chorus to himself. He denied it.

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

💪 Abby 

Abby was in the middle of a workout when he heard it.

Your voice—from the other room—blasting through the verse with terrifying confidence:

“I don’t talk but I bite, full of venom (UH!)”

He paused his reps. Blinked.

And then you strutted in, mid-chorus, holding a brush like a mic and mouthing “Huntrix, don’t miss—how it’s done, done, done!”

He dropped his dumbbell.

“BABE!!” he beamed. “IS THAT HUNTRIX?!”

You blinked, slightly startled. “Yeah?”

He clapped like a proud stage mom. “OH MY GOD. DO IT AGAIN. From the top! I’ll do backup! Wait—wait—” He grabbed his water bottle like it was a lightstick.

“ABSOLUTELY NOT,” you laughed.

“C’monnnn! Hit the post-chorus!”

You gave in. He did your echo ad-libs with way too much enthusiasm.

You: “Run, run, we run the town—” Abby: “RUN, RUN, WE RUNNIN’!!” You: “Huntrix don’t miss!” Abby: “THEY NEVER MISS!!”

Later, he whispered, “I’m still your biggest fan, even if you do sound like you could assassinate a man in heels.”

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📚 Mystery 

You didn’t even realize he was there. You were alone in the common room, headphones in, body swaying as you sang under your breath… which gradually turned into a near whisper-growl by the bridge:

“Making fear afraid to breathe… ‘til the dark meets the light…”

Mystery stood in the hallway. Motionless.

He tilted his head.

You were beautiful, focused, glowing—an entire storm in soft clothes and sleepy morning light.

And the lyrics?

You were singing about ending people.

He blinked slowly. Stayed quiet.

Later that night, he appeared next to you on the couch, handed you a mug of hot cocoa, and said with a straight face:

“…So. You’d kill for fun?”

You laughed. “What? No! It’s just the song.”

He nodded. “It suits you.”

Then he quietly pulled out his earbuds and played the instrumental for you to sing again.

Didn’t even smile.

Just closed his eyes while you sang like a woman born for the throne.

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

💋 Romance 

You were getting ready in the mirror, singing into your lip gloss applicator with zero shame:

“Fit check for my napalm era—mirror, mirror on my phone, who’s the baddest?”

You turned and nearly ran into Romance standing right there.

He had his arms crossed, brow raised, and the most fake-offended pout on his lips.

“Excuse me?”

“What?”

“You’re singing a Huntrix anthem while I’m right here? No love song? Not even a sexy ballad?”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s not that deep.”

“Oh, it’s deep,” he muttered, fake-dramatic. “Betrayal. In stereo.”

You smirked and sang the next line directly to him, extra sassy.

He paused. Then sighed. “You’re way too hot when you sing that.”

He leaned in close, nose brushing yours. “But if you ever join Huntrix, I will seduce every member out of revenge.”

“Good luck with Zoey.”

He paused. “…Fair.”

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

🔥 Baby

You didn’t even see him at first.

You were vibing alone in the studio lounge, phone in hand, blasting the chorus:

“Huntrix show this, how it’s done, done, done!”

You nailed the flow. Full volume. Swag and all.

Then you turned.

Baby was standing by the fridge, sipping banana milk like he hadn’t just heard your entire concert.

You blinked. “How long have you been standing there?”

He shrugged. “Long enough to hear you say ‘you run the town.’”

You raised a brow. “Jealous?”

“No.” Pause. “But if I wrote a diss track and dropped it next week, it’s your fault.”

You laughed. “You’d lose.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“I love you, but Rumi would eat you alive.”

He dramatically gasped. “Say that to my fireball.”

Later, he came back with a scribbled rap verse titled: “Fire Eats Glam.”

You asked if he was okay. He said, “I’m better than okay. I’m petty.”

You kissed his cheek. He blushed.

“…Still gonna finish the track, though.”

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

M-List

[sillygoose067]

Hiii, I love everything you write! I was wondering if you could write something for Lewis Pullman x fem!reader, a story based on the song Sweet Melody by Little Mix. Since he’s in a band, the lyrics could really fit.

Perdón por el mensaje anónimo, simplemente soy tímido. <3

Awwww don't be shy! Admittedly, I had to google translate the message, but it gave me a mild case of cuteness aggression.

I'm so glad you still decided to send this request though, it was super fun writing for and I got to play around with it a lot :)

And yes, the fact that he's alr in a band really helped the process, lol. I’m thinking maybe I'll write some more revolving around that little tidbit...🤔💭

Enjoy!

———————————————————————————-

Fading Chords

Lewis Pullman x reader

You met him on a night that wasn’t supposed to matter.

A friend of a friend dragged you to a dive bar where the lights were too dim, and the floor stuck under your shoes. You were halfway through a watery gin and tonic when Lewis stepped up onto the low stage with a guitar that looked older than the bar itself. He didn’t say much—just nodded to his bandmates and adjusted the mic like it might bite him.

Then he started to play.

His voice was quiet. Not the kind that demands attention, but the kind that earns it. A little shaky, a little too soft for the room, but laced with something real—like he wasn’t performing for anyone, just with the music. You didn’t know the song. It might not even have had words yet. But you felt it pull at something deep and sleepy inside you.

Later, when you told him that, he blushed so hard he dropped his glass.

You fell in love slowly, and then all at once. Like a record warming to life under the needle. He was shy, and you liked that about him—how he tripped over his sentences but never over his meaning. He didn’t say things perfectly, but he said them with his whole heart. He asked before holding your hand. He texted you random song lyrics at midnight because they reminded him of you. He remembered your coffee order, your favorite Beach Boys album, and the way you always double-checked the locks at night.

He called you his “lucky chord.” Said everything sounded better when you were around.

Your life together was small and warm and filled with music. Mornings meant burnt eggs and vinyl crackle. Evenings were quiet strums in bed, Lewis humming songs he hadn’t finished yet. He’d play you fragments, looking at you like he was waiting for approval and terrified of it all the same. Sometimes he’d smile mid-song, just because you were there.

And you gave everything to that boy with his gentle hands and stammered jokes. You let yourself believe it would last.

But love, you’ve learned, doesn’t disappear all at once.

It fades. It thins. It rewrites itself in minor chords.

He started working more. Acting gigs that took him out of town for weeks. Then months. He still called, still sent you postcards from places you’d never been, but it was never enough to cover the space growing between you. The music didn’t stop, but it changed. Less about you. More about distance. About longing. Sometimes, it felt like he was writing love songs at you instead of with you.

When he was home, he was tired. You’d climb into bed beside him and feel the weight of everything unspoken settle between your bodies. You’d ask how his day went and he’d mumble, “Fine,” like the answer had been prerecorded.

He never stopped being kind. That was the hardest part.

He wasn’t cruel. He didn’t cheat. He didn’t lie. He just... wasn’t present anymore.

But he’d still pick up his guitar. He’d still play for you, hands slow and reverent on the strings, singing songs that made your chest hurt. And for three minutes, you’d forget. For three minutes, it felt like love again. But then the song would end, and you’d both be sitting in silence, pretending you hadn’t noticed.

He was still writing ballads. You were stuck in the bridge.

You held on longer than you should have. Tried to be patient. Tried to speak the language of someone who only knew how to say “I miss you” in melody. But eventually, the words caught up to you. The ones he couldn’t say. The ones you couldn’t keep swallowing.

And one evening—quiet, overcast, nothing dramatic—you left.

He was away filming. You folded your clothes into a suitcase with shaking hands and took one last look at the apartment that used to feel like a heartbeat. You left him a note on the table. Not a monologue. Just a sentence:

“We used to be in tune. But I can’t dance to a song that doesn’t see me anymore.”

You walked out to the sound of your own footsteps.

For a long time after, music hurt. Every chord felt like him. Every song on the radio was a ghost with his voice. You stopped listening. Stopped humming. Stopped letting melody brush against memory.

But healing doesn’t ask for permission. It arrives in small, quiet ways.

One afternoon, you find yourself tapping your fingers on the steering wheel to a song you barely know. The rhythm stirs something soft and unexpected. It’s not the same song you used to dance to—it’s new, uncertain—but it’s yours.

You start humming again. Off-key, uneven, but free.

And with every note, you feel a little more like yourself. Not the girl waiting for a melody to fill the silence. Not the girl lost in someone else’s song.

Just you.

Finally learning to carry your own music.

[freyalooove]

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

LeadSinger!Fred

LeadSinger!Fred! He was always a little too obsessed with you. You met when the band was still playing in basements and Fred had holes in his boots. He liked you right away — too much. Wrote lyrics about your laugh. Your perfume. The way you’d stare into nothing like your head was somewhere better. He said things like, “I don’t think you know what you do to me.” But he never kissed you. Just sang about it.

LeadSinger!Fred! You were his muse. Always. But it got messy. Every hit the band had? It was about you. Heartbreak ballads. Longing. Songs that made people cry in crowds. One night, during a tour stop, you screamed at him backstage: “I wish you’d just said it instead of putting it in a fucking song!” He shouted back: “I did! You just never listened.” Then he kissed you. And it nearly destroyed everything.

LeadSinger!Fred! He had a girlfriend — but you were the one on his mind. He tried to do the right thing. Stayed loyal. Never touched you again. But you felt it. In the way his eyes always found you in the crowd. In the way he gripped the mic during the bridge of your song. In the way he said your name like it still lived in his throat.

LeadSinger!Fred! The tension was unbearable. On tour. On stage. Everywhere. He’d flirt on stage — smirking at you, dedicating songs “for the pretty girl with the camera.” And after? You’d end up pressed against a hotel hallway wall, breathless, so close to falling again. But someone always pulled you apart. The band. The press. His girlfriend. The fear. You never got to stay.

LeadSinger!Fred! One night, you slept together — and it broke both of you. It was after a sold-out show in Paris. You were drunk. So was he. He kissed you like a secret. Took you apart like he’d waited years. You cried when he said your name against your shoulder. Afterward, he said nothing. Just lit a cigarette and stared out the window. “You know I’m not good for you,” he whispered. But you still reached for him.

LeadSinger!Fred! You left the tour — and he wrote a whole album about it. You thought it would hurt him. It did. But the songs? They were incredible. Raw. Gorgeous. Desperate. The press went insane. “Who broke Fred Weasley?” He never answered. But every time he sang the final track, he cried. So did you.

LeadSinger!Fred! You see him years later — and it still feels like it’s him. He’s older. Softer. Still rough around the edges. You’ve changed. Grown. But when he sees you across the bar? He walks up, leans in, and says: “I never stopped writing about you. Even when I stopped writing everything else.”

LeadSinger!Fred! He plays your song again — and this time, he says your name. The whole crowd hears it. You’re in the back, tears on your cheeks, arms crossed like protection. But Fred’s eyes are locked on yours. Voice trembling, smile breaking: “This one’s for the only girl I ever really meant it for.” And he sings it like he’s never loved anyone else. Because he hasn’t.

LeadSinger!Fred! This time, he chooses you. Publicly. Permanently. No more girlfriends. No more half-love. No more pretending. He shows up at your flat at 3AM. Ringless. Scriptless. Real. “If you want me, I’m yours. No more waiting. No more songs. Just me. Just us.” And when you kiss him again? It doesn’t feel like a mistake. It feels like home.

[sknyuz]

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

pairing — woozi x reader

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

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

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

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

masterlist

he’s watching you again.

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

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

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

woozi blinks, caught.

“i’m not,” he replies, flatly.

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

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

and that’s the problem. you always are.

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

and woozi?

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

and yet you’re here all the time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he nods.

“can i hear it?”

“it’s not done yet.”

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

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

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

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

“still feels like it,” you shrug.

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

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

and that’s the thing, isn’t it?

he does.

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

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

oh, but you hear it.

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

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

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

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

“yeah,” you say. “you did.”

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

“…okay.” he pathetically mumbles,

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

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

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

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

join here!

if you liked this, i appreciate a reblog as well :3 it helps my works and writing spread to other ppl very effectively !!

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

[dilemmaontwolegs]

F.I.N.E || MV1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x teacher!reader Summary: When your student gets injured and you can’t get hold of her parents you try call an old contact number hoping he can help. Warnings: slight angst, fluff WC: 3.4K

Max frowned at the unfamiliar number calling him. If it wasn’t for the fact it was a local number he would have ignored it but since few people had his personal number he decided to answer it. Immediately he was hit with the sound of high pitch cries and a soothing voice softly singing a lullaby that eased the knot of anxiety that had formed in an instant. 

“Hello, is this Max?” you asked when you realised the dual tone had stopped and the call had been answered. You shifted the child carefully on your lap and grabbed the old enrolment form to see the name again. “Max Verstappen?”

“Maxy?” the girl in your arms echoed with confusion.

“Yes, who is this?”

“Miss Y/L/N, I’m one of Penelope’s teachers. There’s been an incident and I found your number under her emergency contact list.”

“Oh no, sorry, there must be a mistake. You should call her mother or father. I’m not, we’re not, um, I shouldn’t be on that list anymore.”

You cringed as another piercing cry deafened your ear and you rubbed the little girl's back. “It hurts,” she whimpered.

“I know, sweetheart, someone will be here to get you shortly,” you replied softly and you hoped it was the truth. “Look, Max, I’ve tried every other contact number and no one is answering. Is there any way you could come down here? At least until I can get in touch with someone else.”

Max pinched the bridge of his nose but when he heard P’s shuddering cry he knew he had to go. “Okay, I’ll be there shortly.”

Max didn’t care if he got a parking ticket, he took the loading space right outside the preschool building. He likely would have gotten a speeding ticket too in his rush to cross the city but thankfully there weren’t any police in his path. 

“Maxy!” 

Penelope wriggled in your arms as she spotted the stranger walking into the classroom. His eyes immediately found her and he crossed the space to where you sat holding her.

“Hey, P,” he greeted with a smile and knelt down at your height. “What’s happened, bug?”

Her little eyes welled up again as she lifted her bandaged wrist. “I fell off the playground.”

“I don’t think anything is broken but I would suggest having her doctor check to be sure.”

“I don’t know who her doctor is. I don’t even know what I’m doing here.”

“You’re contact details were-”

“Those must have been from when she started. Her mother and I haven’t been together for a while.”

“Oh, I see. I’m sorry to put this on you. I swear I tried every other phone number we have.”

Max nodded and his sigh sounded exhausted as he pulled his phone out of his pocket. “I just need to make a call. I’ll be back in a minute, bug.”

Max walked along the room, looking over the children’s artwork as he pressed his phone to his ear and waited. Eventually the call went to voicemail and his spine straightened tensely. “Kel, I’ve picked up P from daycare and I’m taking her to the hospital. Call me when you get this.”

You could see the man was stressed when he returned and his short hair pointed in all directions from the hand he kept nervously running through it. It was cute.

“Daniil is in Italy this week for work,” Max said as he returned to your side and picked up Penelope’s Prada backpack before opening his arms. “I’ll keep trying to get a hold of Kelly. Come on, bug.”

Lunchtime was coming to an end and children were starting to file back into the room, a few of the older ones stopping at staring wide eyed at Max. He was tall but not that tall or formidable to draw such a reaction but your question was answered when one of the boys ran to his picture on the wall. Timothée unpinned the drawing of a race car and ran up to Max, holding it out with a pencil.

“Sir, can you please sign this?”

Max looked used to the attention and took the pen with a polite, “Sure.” He stared at the picture for the moment after signing it and chuckled. “Is the RB20?”

Timothée nodded eagerly. “It’s my favourite.”

“Mine too,” he said as handed the picture back and smiled as it was crushed happily to the boy's chest. Max then carefully picked up Penelope, slowly so she wasn’t jostled, and his arms brushed yours. 

“If you need anything you have my number,” you reminded as the weight was lifted from your lap. “Children can be a little overwhelming if you’re not used to it.”

Max smiled fondly at Penelope and shook his head. “This isn’t new. I still have her room set up.”

“You do?” Penelope asked hopefully and Max turned his head as he cursed to himself. “Are we going to live with you again?”

“No, no, sorry, P,” he said softly. “I just haven’t had time to redecorate.”

“Oh.” You both winced at the defeated tone and you knew the fresh tears had nothing to do with her arm this time but you were saved by the bell as it spurred Max to toss the bag over his shoulder and look to the door.

“I hope you feel better soon, Penelope.”

“Thank you, Miss Y/L/N.”

“Thank you,” Max echoed with a nod before departing.

All afternoon you were distracted with thoughts of the two of them until the final bell rang and you grabbed your phone. You had sporadically tried to contact Daniil and Kelly again but the calls went straight to voicemail every time and you found no returned calls.

Y/N: How is Penelope? Max: She is happy watching The Little Mermaid. She has a sprained wrist and the nurse complemented the bandaging so you should be proud. Y/N: And how are you? Max: I’m fine.

Max swore as the pot of water boiled over and he hissed as he grabbed the handle to find it was just as hot. He dropped his phone reaching for the teatowel and then P started calling out from the living room complaining that the movie was boring - the same movie she watched a thousand times and she had specifically asked for.

Y/N: My mentor used to tell me that stood for: freaked out, insecure, neurotic and emotional. Are you sure you are fine?

After turning the stove down to a simmer and wiping up the mess of water that had splashed across his floor he went and changed the movie to what would hopefully last longer than ten minutes before she changed her mind. Taking another attempt at making dinner, he grabbed a bag of pasta from his pantry and poured its entirety into the pot.

Max: I’m thinking I am definitely neurotic and possibly starting to freak out. Y/N: I couldn’t have that on my conscience. My offer still stands if you need some help. Max: You don’t have anyone you need to get home to? Y/N: My cat prefers his own company unless he’s hungry and he’s already been fed today so no. Max: I don’t want you to go out of your way. Y/N: I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t willing to follow through. Let me help. Please?

Max smiled at his phone before sending his address and looking around to see how tidy the place was. His jacket was tossed on the table instead of being hung up and Penelope’s bag was spilled across the entryway floor, not the first impression he wanted to make.

You entered the port address into your phone and locked the classroom behind you, feeling a little unsteady at the thought of seeing Max again. Penelope was a sweet child and she seemed comfortable with Max but you hadn’t really ever heard her talk about him before. You told yourself the only reason you were going there was to check on your student's wellbeing, but a small part of you wanted to see Max again.

You wondered if maybe he hadn’t heard your knock on the door or that you had the wrong apartment and you rapped your knuckles on it again before he called out. There was a crash and then a groan close to the door before it swung open and Max balanced on one leg.

“Uh, is everything okay?” you asked as he clutched his foot.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” he rushed before he caught the teasing curl of your brow and he froze before a smile grew on his lips. “Right, freaked out, insecure, neurotic and emotional.”

“You’re a quick learner.” You stepped inside at his invitation and he closed the door behind you while you rushed towards the burning smell in the kitchen. “Oh, wow.”

“Fucksake,” Max grumbled as he grabbed a wet tea towel before reaching for the tray of garlic bread in the oven. “Ouch, shit!”

“You said a naughty word,” Penelope called out from the next room like it was something that she regularly commented on. “That's another 20.”

Max sighed heavily as he looked at a jar on the bench that was already filled with cash. “Shit.”

“I heard that.”

“Shouldn’t you be watching your movie?”

You giggled at the amusing conversation before turning the tap to cold and taking Max’s hand. “Wet towels and hot trays make steam.”

He watched you guide his hand under the water and flinched as it hit the burn mark on his palm. “I don’t usually cook, if you couldn’t tell.”

“The life of a bachelor. Keep your hand there.” You moved with ease around his kitchen trying to save what was left of dinner but paused at a huge pot of pasta that had swelled up and pushed the lid half off. “Are you expecting a dozen other people?”

Max shrugged innocently. “I didn’t know how much to put in.”

“Well the good news is the top half is edible,” you stated after finding a colander and draining the pasta until only a thick layer remained stuck to the bottom of the pot. “Do you have any sauce?”

“Sauce?”

“What were you going to have with it?”

“Garlic bread.” You both looked at the charred sticks still smoking on the baking tray.

“Do you mind?” you asked as you pointed to his fridge and the cupboards around the kitchen.

“No, please. Go ahead.”

You checked the fridge first and you were pleasantly surprised to find it well stocked with fresh fruit and vegetables. “Do you live off salads or does all this go to waste?”

“Neither, my nutritionist comes by twice a week and he prepares the meals.”

For a moment you had forgotten his profession. You had googled his name after Timothée couldn’t stop talking about meeting the ‘Max Verstappen’. “That must be intense, and restricting. Does your social life suffer?”

“It’s not so bad. I still get to go out for dinner and have a few drinks when I want.” He started to pull his hand out from under the water but you tutted and caught his wrist, holding it back beneath the cold stream.

“Keep still,” you warned with a voice you saved for children who weren’t listening. “It needs 20 minutes under there.”

“You want me to stand here for twenty minutes?”

“No, science wants you to stay there for twenty minutes.”

“Are you a teacher or a nurse?” he asked with a playful roll of his eyes.

“Depends if it's halloween.”

His loud laugh made you smile and you eased your grip on his hand one finger at a time to see if he would stay where he was. He did. “I’ll behave, Miss Y/L/N.”

“You can call me Y//N.”

“I kind of like calling you Miss Y/L/N.”

You checked to see if he was serious but thankfully there was a teasing smile on his face before you returned to the fridge to gather some ingredients.

By some small miracle dinner can’t have been too bad since everyone cleaned their plates of the pasta, though you thought they were likely being polite since you could still taste the hint of smoke from the bottom of the pan. Penelope had spent most of the meal asking Max if he remembered what they used to do when she lived there, how they used to go travelling and shopping. You got to see first hand how much patience the man had as he answered each question despite how it made him uncomfortable.

“You miss her,” you commented after she had gone back to the tv. Max started to collect the dishes with you and sighed as he placed them in the sink. 

“It was a big change when they moved out,” he spoke quietly and you stepped closer so you could hear better. “She kept asking if she did something wrong.”

“That must have been hard for you.” His eyes widened and you wondered what shocked him, but you had a feeling it was the fact someone showed concern for him. Even though you didn’t know the details of the break up, it was clear he had and still did care for Penelope and you felt sorry for him. “Can I hug you? I’m a hugger and I feel like you could really do with one.”

“You want to hug me?”

You tried to shrug it off casually. “If you want to. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. Everyone needs a hug sometime.”

“I do,” he said quickly, very quickly, before he cleared his throat. “I mean, I-I wouldn’t mind a hug.”

You smiled at his tentativeness and stepped into his personal space, slipping your hands into the narrow openings between his limp arms and his body to curl around his waist. It took a moment for him to respond before his own arms embraced the comfort and curled around your back too.

“You smell really good, Max,” you complimented as you rested your head on his chest and caught the scent of his cologne.

“Thank you,” he chuckled, the amusement relaxing him even more until his entire body curved into yours. ��I think you have playdough in your hair.”

You hummed in agreement. “Highly likely. You wouldn’t believe the places I find that stuff at the end of the day, glitter too.”

His bold laugh made you smile and you didn’t care it was at your own expense, you were just happy to know it was because of you. Unfortunately you didn’t have the chance to hear it again as his phone rang from the countertop and you saw Kelly’s name light up the screen.

“I should let you get that,” you said as you stepped back, instantly missing the warmth and his scent. “I’ll go keep Penelope company.”

Max waited for you to leave the kitchen before he accepted the call, his calm state evaporating in an instant. “What the hell, Kelly? Where have you been?”

“My phone was on flight mode, I was on a plane. Is P okay?”

“Her wrist is sprained but she’s alright now.” Max pinched the bridge of his nose and reminded himself to breathe. “Why would you leave her alone?”

“She wasn’t alone. Maria was meant to pick her up after school and I should have been home in time for dinner but my flight was delayed.”

“Who is Maria?”

“Her nanny.”

Max had to suppress the groan at the news. He knew Daniil hated the idea of a nanny and he had offered to have more custody so that P would be raised by her parents and not a stranger, but Kelly had vetoed that idea.

“Do you want to go out for dinner? I owe you.”

“No, we’ve already eaten.”

“Some other time then.”

Max made a non-committal sound, his eyes darting to the living room where he watched Penelope explain the movie to you. You were so attentive and patient, asking questions that had Penelope thinking deeper and using such a simple interaction as a learning opportunity. He could see why you suited being a teacher.

“Maybe,” he lied, “just let me know when you’re almost here and I’ll bring P out to you, I don’t want to confuse her any more.”

“Right, of course,” Kelly sighed. “I’ll see you soon, Max.”

Max made the most of the time he had left with P, abandoning the dishes so he could sit on the other side of her and watch the movie about a chef rat. She had cozied into his side with a yawn and nudged his arm until he eventually draped it over her shoulder. It was completely innocent but you couldn’t help noticing the heat of his hand touching your arm, the warmth spreading like wildfire.

The fire was doused when his phone vibrated and the moment to leave had come.

While he grabbed Penelope’s backpack, you grabbed your handbag and prepared your own goodbyes. It was silly to feel sad the evening had come to an end but you knew that you would likely never see Max again. You weren’t famous and he didn’t have children, your paths weren’t meant to cross.

“Have a good weekend, Penelope,” you said as you knelt down and gave her a hug. “I’ll see you bright and early on Monday.”

“Bye, Miss Y/L/N.”

You rose to your feet wondering where you stood with Max until he opened his arms. “Anytime you need a hug, you have my number,” you offered as you stepped into his embrace, no matter how unlikely that prospect was.

“Or if I’m feeling fine?”

You giggled and nodded against his chest. “Especially if you’re feeling fine.”

The walk to the elevator was slow, as if no one wanted the strange evening to end, but there was no stopping time as it began making its way down from the penthouse to the ground floor. The doors opened and you instantly spotted Kelly in the reception area, her elegant and effortless beauty reminding you that you still had playdough in your hair.

With one last look at the man beside you, you gave him a small smile and stepped away. “Goodbye, Max.”

He didn’t respond as you headed to the valet area but he pulled his phone out of his pocket and yours vibrated a moment later.

Max: Are you okay?

Y/N: I’m fine.

Max: Me too. Emotional, you?

Y/N: Insecure.

Max: Want a hug?

You stopped and turned to see Max hand Penelope’s bag over before struggling to separate the girl from where she clung to his leg. She didn’t know, couldn’t see how it was hurting Max, but you could. So you waited, and when the mother and daughter had departed you stepped into the elevator with the subdued man, slipping your hand into his.

The elevator rose quickly and you watched Max’s throat bounce with the deep swallow he made before he choked out a broken, “Fuck.”

“I feel like I should remind you about the swear jar,” you teased as you bumped your shoulder gently against his arm. “But I’ll let you off this once because I have a soft spot for you.”

He looked down at you from the corner of his eye and you saw some of the sadness fading from them. “Does that make me the teacher's pet?”

You gasped dramatically and clutched your chest with your free hand. “I could never bestow such high praise after just one day.”

“What are your plans tomorrow then?” he asked with a smirk as the doors opened and he pulled his house key out of his pocket.

“I don’t have any.”

“Lovely, now are you going to answer my question?” He stepped inside the apartment and opened his arms. “Did you want a hug?”

Your smile chased away more of the shadows in his eyes and the last of it was erased when you stepped into his arms with an eager nod. “I will never say no to a hug.”

His chest bounced with a laugh and you felt him rest his cheek on your head with a contented sigh. “That is very good to know.”

[solxamber]

The Rhythm of Us || Jamil Viper

Through parties, desserts and disasters, you and Jamil find a rhythm that's uniquely your own.

1k Masterlist ; Prologue

w.c. 4.5k

Jamil’s voice is calm when he answers your call, though there’s a slight edge of surprise that he can’t quite hide.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Jamil,” you begin, already smiling as you sit cross-legged on your bed. “I was thinking about your offer earlier, and I’d love to get lunch with you tomorrow.”

There’s a pause on the other end, followed by a soft, almost imperceptible intake of breath. “Oh. That’s great,” he says quickly, the surprise in his voice replaced by his usual measured tone. “I’ll meet you tomorrow at noon. Is that okay?”

“Sounds perfect,” you say.

After hanging up, you can’t help but think he sounded a little pleased, even if he tried not to show it.

The next day, you find him waiting at a quiet spot near the botanical garden. The area is shaded, with a small table set neatly for two, and Jamil stands beside it with his usual cool demeanor. His uniform is impeccable as always, but there’s a certain ease in his posture that puts you at ease too.

“Hey, Jamil!” you call out, waving as you approach.

He nods, his lips curling into a faint smile. “You’re right on time.”

As you sit, you notice the spread he’s prepared: a beautiful array of dishes that wouldn’t look out of place in a high-end restaurant.

“This looks amazing!” you exclaim, eyes wide. “You made all of this?”

He waves a hand dismissively, though there’s a faint pink tinge on his cheeks. “It’s nothing special.”

“Nothing special? Jamil, this is art,” you say, reaching for a plate and immediately helping yourself. “You’ve seriously outdone yourself.”

“Okay, okay,” he says, shaking his head as you pile on the compliments. “Cut it out already. Just eat.”

But despite his words, there’s a small, satisfied smile on his face as he watches you dig in.

Lunch is lively. Between bites, you launch into a story about the latest chaos Ace, Deuce, and Grim dragged you into.

“So there we were,” you say, gesturing dramatically with your fork, “standing in Professor Crewel’s office, and Ace has the brilliant idea to blame the singed curtains on Grim’s ‘natural combustion reflex.’”

Jamil raises an eyebrow, though the corner of his mouth twitches upward. “I’m almost afraid to ask what happened next.”

“Oh, it gets better,” you say with a grin. “Grim starts running with it, claiming he’s going through some ‘highly dangerous fire-beast adolescence.’ Crewel didn’t buy it for a second, but Ace and Deuce looked so confident, you could almost believe them.”

Jamil shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know if I’m more impressed by their nerve or disappointed by their lack of foresight.”

“Probably both,” you say, laughing. “But hey, we survived, and no one got detention—this time.”

As the conversation flows, you can’t help but notice how at ease Jamil seems. His usual reserved demeanor softens as he talks with you, and he even offers a few rare chuckles at your antics.

By the time dessert rolls around, only one piece of a delicate pastry remains on the plate. Jamil nudges it toward you.

“Here. You can have it.”

Instead, you pick it up and hold it out to him with a sly grin. “You made it. You deserve the last bite.”

His eyes widen slightly, and for a moment, he seems caught off guard. “That’s not necessary,” he begins, but you cut him off by leaning closer, still holding the pastry.

“Come on, Jamil. Just take it.”

He hesitates, his composure visibly wavering under your teasing smile, but finally leans forward and takes a small bite. For a second, he’s silent, likely trying to process the fact that you just fed him.

“That good, huh?” you say, laughing at the faint pink dusting his cheeks.

“You’re impossible,” he mutters, but there’s no real bite in his words.

After lunch, Jamil insists on walking you to your next class. As you approach the classroom door, you reach out and take his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“I had a great time today,” you say, looking up at him with a warm smile. “We should do this again sometime.”

His gaze softens, and he nods. “Yeah. We should.”

As you disappear into the classroom, he stands there for a moment longer, watching the door with a soft, uncharacteristic smile playing at his lips.

You and Jamil are having a nice, peaceful stroll back from lunch when it happens. One moment, you’re chatting about something mundane, and the next, Jamil freezes like someone just hit him with a petrification spell.

“What—” you start, but his hand shoots up, silencing you.

“Don’t move,” he mutters, his voice low and intense.

Alarmed, you follow his gaze, half-expecting to see a monster, an overblot, or at least Grim setting something on fire. Instead, you spot… a beetle.

Granted, it’s a big beetle. The kind that looks like it’s been hitting the gym and maybe has a side hustle as a bodyguard for ants. It’s perched on a bush, twitching its antennae like it’s sizing you both up.

“It’s just a bug,” you say, cautiously glancing at Jamil.

“Just a bug?” Jamil hisses like you just insulted his cooking. “That thing has too many legs. It’s unnatural.”

Before you can reply, the beetle takes two slow, deliberate steps forward. Jamil, in perfect synchronization, takes two steps back.

“Jamil, seriously—”

“I’m handling this,” he interrupts, pulling out his magic pen.

Oh no. You see the look in his eyes, the slight glow of magic sparking at his fingertips, and you realize he’s about to go full Avatar: The Last Bugbender.

“Jamil, we’re not setting the school on fire over a beetle!”

“It’s me or the bug,” he deadpans.

“No, it’s me,” you mutter, resigning yourself to your fate. Sending up a quick prayer to the universe, you step forward.

“What are you doing?!” Jamil whispers harshly, grabbing at your sleeve like you’re walking into the jaws of a lion.

“Saving the school grounds from you, Pyroclasmus."

You approach the beetle, heart pounding as it shifts slightly, its shiny, armored body glinting in the sunlight.

“Shoo,” you say weakly, flapping your hand at it. The beetle stares at you, unimpressed.

“Shoo?” Jamil echoes behind you. “That’s your grand strategy?”

Before you can come up with something better, the beetle’s wings buzz ominously, and it launches itself directly at your face.

You scream. Jamil screams louder. And somehow, in the chaos, he practically climbs onto you like a human backpack.

“Kill it! Kill it now!” he shrieks, his voice breaking into a pitch you didn’t think was humanly possible.

“MAYBE A LITTLE HELP?!” you yell back, snatching up the nearest object—a notebook—and swinging it wildly like a deranged baseball player.

With a loud thwack, the beetle goes flying into the distance, vanishing into the horizon like Team Rocket blasting off again.

There’s silence. You’re panting, clutching the notebook like it’s a holy relic. Jamil is still clinging to your back, his arms wrapped around your shoulders in a death grip.

“...Did you get it?” he whispers.

“Yes, Jamil. I got it. The school is safe.”

He slowly detaches himself, his feet hitting the ground as he smooths out his uniform with a dignity that absolutely does not exist anymore.

“Well,” he says, clearing his throat, “thank you for your… assistance.”

You blink at him. “Assistance? You were hanging off me like a terrified cat!”

“I don’t recall that happening.”

“Oh, you don’t recall climbing me like a tree? Want me to ask the security cameras?”

He glares at you, his face carefully blank, but his ears are redder than Riddle after someone breaks a rule.

“Fine. You’re my knight. Happy?” he mutters, turning on his heel and stalking off.

“Anytime, your highness!” you call after him, grinning.

The next day, you find a small, ridiculously fancy cake on your desk. The note attached simply reads:

For my knight. Do not speak of this.

You laugh so hard you nearly choke.

You’re not entirely sure how it came to this. One moment, you were enjoying a rare moment of peace, and the next, Crowley had materialized out of nowhere, looking dramatic as ever.

“Ah, my most resourceful prefect!” he’d declared. “I need your unparalleled skills for a mission of utmost importance!”

You hadn’t even had a chance to ask questions before you were handed your task: retrieve his hat, which was somehow stuck at the very top of a tree on the campus grounds.

So here you are, clinging to a branch like a very confused and irritated squirrel, glaring at the offending hat above you.

“This is fine,” you mutter under your breath, trying to edge closer to the hat without looking down. “Everything is fine. This is just my life now.”

A voice interrupts your inner monologue. “Should I even ask how you got up there?”

You twist around—bad move, the branch wobbles—and spot Jamil standing at the base of the tree, arms crossed and wearing an expression that’s equal parts confusion and mild exasperation.

“Crowley,�� you call back, as though that single word explains everything.

It does. Jamil pinches the bridge of his nose. “Of course. Why am I not surprised?” He pauses, looks at you precariously perched above him, and sighs. “Stay still. I’ll help you down.”

You watch as he starts climbing the tree with an ease that feels unfair. Within seconds, he’s beside you, balancing effortlessly on a nearby branch.

“Give me your hand,” he says, extending his arm.

“I don’t know, Jamil,” you tease, even as you grab his hand. “Does this make you my knight in shining armor?”

He freezes for half a second, a faint blush dusting his cheeks, before recovering. “It makes me someone who doesn’t want to watch you break your neck,” he replies, voice dry but a little flustered.

With his help, you manage to climb down safely, landing on solid ground at last. You glance up at him as he dusts himself off, his expression as composed as ever.

“You’re surprisingly good at this,” you remark, folding your arms. “Tree climbing must be one of your hidden talents.”

Jamil snorts softly. “Someone has to be prepared for situations like this. And by ‘situations like this,’ I mean you.”

You’re about to retort when something hits you. You stare at him, then at the tree, and back at him.

“Wait a second,” you say slowly, narrowing your eyes. “You could’ve just used magic to get me down.”

Jamil freezes mid-step, a guilty flicker in his eyes before his calm mask slips back into place. “...And?”

“And you climbed the tree manually?” you say, incredulous. “Why?”

He shrugs, his tone carefully nonchalant. “It seemed faster at the time.”

You gape at him for a moment before bursting into laughter. “Oh my God. You wanted to show off, didn’t you?”

“I did not,” he protests, though the faint flush creeping up his neck suggests otherwise.

You lean closer, grinning. “Sure, Sir Jamil, whatever you say. Next time, I expect you to storm the tree with a sword and shield.”

“Please stop talking,” he mutters, but the small smile tugging at his lips betrays him.

As the two of you head toward Crowley’s office, a new question pops into your head. “Actually, now that I think about it—why didn’t Crowley just use magic to get his own hat back?”

Jamil goes quiet, clearly considering this. After a long moment, he shakes his head. “Who knows what goes on in his mind?”

“Maybe there’s nothing in there at all,” you muse, and Jamil snorts softly, trying to cover it with a cough.

When you finally deliver the hat to Crowley, he praises you with an exaggerated flourish, and you’re pretty sure Jamil rolls his eyes behind you.

As you walk away, you glance at him and smirk. “So, does this mean we’re even? You rescued me from a tree, I rescued you from...uh, your dignity?”

“Keep talking, and I might leave you in the next one,” he says, but there’s a warmth in his voice that makes you grin.

The aftermath of Kalim’s latest impromptu party is, as usual, chaos incarnate. Streamers hang from every surface like overzealous jungle vines, discarded cups litter the floor, and a suspiciously sticky patch near the dessert table seems to defy all attempts at cleaning.

In the center of it all is Jamil, shoulders squared, looking ready to singlehandedly wrestle the mess into submission.

“You don’t have to help,” he says, not for the first time, as you sweep a pile of crumpled napkins into a trash bag.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you reply, giving him a pointed look. “I like cleaning.”

The blatant lie rolls off your tongue so smoothly that you almost convince yourself. Almost.

Jamil pauses, giving you a look that clearly says, I don’t believe you for a second, but he doesn’t argue further. Maybe he’s too tired to fight you on it. Maybe he’s just glad for the company. Either way, you both fall into a rhythm, clearing tables, collecting discarded decorations, and righting toppled furniture.

It’s the final stretch, and the kitchen is the last battleground. You’re standing at the sink, sleeves rolled up, elbow-deep in soapy water. Scrubbing dishes isn’t fun at the best of times, but these plates seem particularly vengeful, coated in some unholy combination of caramel and glitter.

You’re attacking a plate with the kind of intensity usually reserved for mortal enemies when you notice Jamil glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. His hands move automatically, rinsing a glass, but his gaze lingers on you.

“What?” you ask, not bothering to look up as you keep scrubbing.

“Nothing,” he says quickly, but his voice carries a strange, soft warmth.

You glance over and catch him staring. There’s something odd about his expression—soft, unguarded, like he’s seeing something he hadn’t expected.

“What?” you repeat, raising an eyebrow.

“...You hate this,” he says simply.

Your hand pauses mid-scrub. “What are you talking about?”

“You hate cleaning,” he says, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “You’ve been glaring at that plate like it insulted your entire family.”

You scoff, but there’s no denying it—he’s onto you. “I do not!”

Jamil just raises an eyebrow, looking entirely too smug for someone who just spent hours cleaning up Kalim’s hurricane of a party.

You huff, realizing you’ve been caught, and turn back to your task. “Fine. Maybe I don’t like cleaning. But I wanted to help, okay?”

His hands still briefly in the soapy water, and when you glance at him, his face is unreadable.

“You stayed,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

You frown, confused. “Of course I stayed. I wasn’t gonna leave you to deal with this alone.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, his gaze lingers on you a moment longer, like he’s trying to memorize the sight of you standing there, sleeves rolled up, scrubbing a plate you very clearly despise.

And then it hits him, like a tidal wave. He’s absolutely, hopelessly smitten.

His chest tightens, and for once, Jamil Viper has no plan, no clever rebuttal to distract himself. He’s just standing there, fully aware of how utterly doomed he is.

“What’s with the staring?” you tease, breaking the silence.

Before he can recover, you scrunch your face into the goofiest expression you can muster, sticking out your tongue for good measure.

Jamil blinks, caught off guard. And that’s the moment he knows. There’s no going back.

He’s absolutely, irreversibly fucked.

The basketball court echoes with the rhythmic squeak of sneakers and the thud of a bouncing ball as you step inside, Ace's notebook in hand. He’d left it in your bag—typical Ace—and since you were passing by anyway, you figured you’d return it.

But the moment you enter, your eyes are drawn to Jamil. He’s in the middle of a play, effortlessly weaving through defenders, his movements fluid and sharp like a dancer’s. There’s a precision to everything he does—the way he pivots, the way his hands cradle the ball before shooting. The arc of the shot is perfect, and when the ball swishes through the net, you realize you’ve been holding your breath.

You don’t even notice the whistle blowing for a break until Floyd’s voice cuts through your trance.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Shrimpy!”

He’s already striding over, towering above you and grinning like he’s just caught something interesting in his net. Before you can say a word, he leans down, practically draping himself over you.

“Whatcha doin’ here, huh? Come to watch us play? Or maybe—” he pauses, his grin widening mischievously, “—you’re here to cheer for me?”

“Actually, I’m just here to give Ace his notebook,” you deadpan, though you’re slightly thrown off by how casually he’s leaning into your space.

Floyd hums, completely ignoring your response as he tugs at your sleeve. “Y’know, you should stay. It’d be more fun with you watching.”

Across the court, Jamil’s gaze flickers toward the two of you. His expression is as composed as ever, but the moment Floyd leans in closer—laughing about something you didn’t even catch—there’s a subtle twitch in his jaw.

Jamil tells himself he’s not bothered. It’s just Floyd being Floyd, right? And you’re here for Ace, not… anything else.

But the longer Floyd stays glued to you, the tighter Jamil’s grip becomes on the water bottle he’s holding.

With his usual smoothness, Jamil walks over, casual but purposeful. “Floyd,” he says evenly, “coach is calling for you.”

“Huh?” Floyd tilts his head lazily, but his grin says he knows exactly what’s happening. “Didn’t hear anything.”

“Well, you won’t if you’re not paying attention.” Jamil’s tone remains calm, but there’s a subtle edge to it as he places a hand on your shoulder, gently guiding you away from Floyd.

“Ohhh,” Floyd drawls, straightening up but not stepping back just yet. His eyes dart between you and Jamil, and his grin becomes downright predatory. “I get it now.”

“Get what?” Jamil asks, though his voice is just a touch too sharp to be casual.

“Nothing~” Floyd sing-songs, finally retreating. But as he walks off, he throws a glance over his shoulder and mutters just loud enough, “Jealous, jealous, Sea Snake~”

Jamil’s composure falters for half a second before he fixes his expression. Jealous? Him? Absolutely not. That’s ridiculous.

“You okay?” you ask, clearly amused as you watch him struggle to maintain his usual cool.

“Of course,” he replies smoothly, brushing nonexistent dust off his uniform. “Floyd’s just being… Floyd.”

You can barely hold back a laugh. As composed as Jamil tries to seem, the faint flush in his cheeks and the way his eyes avoid meeting yours tell a very different story.

By the time Ace saunters over to collect his notebook, you’re grinning like you’ve uncovered the world’s juiciest secret.

“What’s so funny?” Ace asks, glancing between you and Jamil, who’s pretending to inspect his water bottle with far too much interest.

“Oh, nothing,” you say lightly, though your grin doesn’t waver.

Ace squints, then sighs dramatically. “You’re just gonna let him suffer like this, huh?”

“Maybe,” you reply with a laugh, already planning to put him out of his misery soon.

Kalim’s parties have a reputation. They’re always loud, chaotic, and somehow manage to defy the very laws of reality. Tonight is no exception—music booms, people laugh and cheer, and the smell of rich food wafts through the air.

You’re leaning against a table, sipping on some mysterious (and surprisingly good) drink, when Floyd suddenly appears out of nowhere. Typical.

“Shrimpy!” he drawls, flashing that sharp-toothed grin of his. “Wanna dance?”

You blink at him, caught off guard. “Uh—”

“It’ll be fun!” Floyd insists, leaning in closer. His voice drops into that playful, teasing tone that promises something is about to go horribly, hilariously wrong. “C’mon, don’t be shy!”

Before you can even attempt a polite refusal, another voice cuts in, firm and unmistakably annoyed.

“They’re already dancing with me,” Jamil says, stepping between you and Floyd with a smoothness that almost masks the sharp edge in his voice.

Floyd pauses, blinking at Jamil. And then he laughs.

“Ohhhh, really? I didn’t see you on the dance floor yet, Sea Snake,” he teases, his grin only growing.

Jamil doesn’t flinch. His face is calm, composed, but you can see the faint tension in his shoulders, the way his hand clenches slightly at his side.

Floyd shrugs, backing off with a mischievous chuckle. “Guess I’ll just find someone else, then. Have fun, Shrimpy!”

As Floyd disappears into the crowd, Jamil turns to you, clearly ready to explain himself.

“I just didn’t want him to bother you,” he says quickly, eyes darting to the side. “You know how Floyd gets—”

You raise an eyebrow, not letting him finish. “Oh, so you were just saving me? That’s so sweet of you, Jamil. I don't really mind so I guess I’ll go dance with Floyd, then.”

His eyes widen, and for a moment, Jamil Viper—master of control, unparalleled tactician—looks completely and utterly panicked.

“You—you don’t have to do that,” he says, his voice uncharacteristically uneven as he grabs your hand.

You blink, taken aback by the desperation in his expression. He looks like the idea of you dancing with Floyd is physically painful to him.

You can’t do this to him. Not anymore.

“Come with me,” you say, tugging his hand and leading him toward the balcony.

The cool night air greets you as you step outside, the distant hum of music muffled by the doors. Jamil follows, quiet but tense, his hand still wrapped around yours.

You turn to face him, and he immediately starts talking, his words tumbling out faster than usual. “I just didn’t want Floyd to—”

“Jamil,” you interrupt, squeezing his hand gently. “Stop. It’s okay.”

He blinks, caught off guard.

You take a deep breath, smiling softly. “I like you, Jamil. I’ve liked you for a while now. And you don’t need to be jealous or worried or...whatever it is you’re feeling. Because there’s no one else. No one who even compares.”

His lips part slightly, and for a moment, Jamil Viper is completely speechless.

“You—you like me?” he asks, his voice so soft it’s almost a whisper.

You laugh gently, stepping closer. “Yeah. I like you. A lot.”

His gaze drops to the ground, and you can see the faintest hint of red creeping up his neck. But then he looks back at you, his eyes warm and vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before.

Before he can say anything else, you lean in and kiss him, your lips brushing against his softly. He freezes for a moment, and then his hand comes up to cup your cheek, his touch hesitant but firm.

When you pull back, he’s looking at you like you’ve just rewritten his entire universe.

“...You’re really something, you know that?” he murmurs, a rare, genuine smile breaking across his face.

You grin. “Took you long enough to figure that out.”

And for once, Jamil doesn’t have a single witty comeback. Instead, he just kisses you again.

The moment the words “Jamil and I are dating” leave your mouth, the reactions are immediate and chaotic—exactly as you’d expected.

Kalim is the first to respond, his eyes lighting up like you’ve just told him you’re planning a surprise party in his honor. “Really?! That’s amazing! I knew Jamil had it in him! Oh, this is great! We have to celebrate—wait, should I throw another party?”

Jamil, standing beside you, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Kalim, please—”

But Kalim’s already planning out loud, “I’ll get the musicians, some fireworks, maybe even—”

“NO!” you and Jamil shout in unison, and Kalim looks momentarily sheepish before settling for bouncing on his heels in excitement.

The rest of your motley crew, however, isn’t as quick to jump on the “Happy Couple” train.

“Wait, Jamil?” Ace blurts out, his expression a mix of shock and disbelief. “You’re dating Jamil Viper?”

Deuce chimes in, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “Isn’t he... I don’t know... a little serious for you?”

Sebek, always ready to yell about something, crosses his arms and scowls. “Jamil Viper, the ever-scheming right-hand man of the Asim heir? Human, are you sure this is wise?!”

Epel, meanwhile, tilts his head thoughtfully. “I mean, he’s kinda scary... but also kinda cool?”

Jack simply stares at you, his arms crossed and his tail flicking. “You sure about this?” he asks, his voice low and cautious.

Grim, predictably, jumps in with his usual brand of over-the-top indignation. “Hold on a second, henchhuman! You’re dating that snake? What about me? Your most important ally!”

Before you can respond, Grim’s eyes narrow as if he’s about to deliver a fiery rant... but then he pauses. “Wait... didn’t he give me that plate of grilled fish last week?”

You nod slowly, unsure where this is going.

Grim strokes his chin, as if in deep thought, before finally shrugging. “Eh, he feeds me, and you seem happy. Works for me!”

Jamil, for once, looks both exasperated and amused. “Glad to have your approval,” he says dryly, earning a triumphant nod from Grim.

Meanwhile, Ace is squinting at Jamil like he’s trying to solve a complicated math problem. “Actually... wait. He’s not bad. He’s smart, he can cook... he did save my butt in Alchemy class that one time...”

Deuce rubs the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “Yeah... and he’s pretty reliable. Like, way more reliable than Ace, for sure.”

“Hey!” Ace protests, but Deuce ignores him.

Even Sebek, though still frowning, grudgingly mutters, “He is competent. For a human.”

Epel shrugs, grinning. “And he’s good at keeping up with Floyd. That alone deserves respect.”

Jack nods in agreement. “As long as he treats you right, I don’t see a problem.”

You glance at Jamil, whose ears are faintly pink despite his calm expression. “Wow,” you say, grinning at him. “You’ve won them over. I didn’t think it’d be this easy.”

“Neither did I,” he mutters, shooting a pointed look at Ace and Grim.

Kalim, still practically vibrating with excitement, claps Jamil on the back. “See? I knew they’d all come around! Oh, I’m so happy for you two!”

Jamil sighs, but there’s a small, satisfied smile tugging at his lips. “Thanks, Kalim.”

Grim jumps onto your shoulder, wagging his tail. “Alright, henchhuman, now that this is settled, how about we celebrate with some snacks? Jamil, you’re cooking, right?”

Jamil gives him a flat look. “Don’t push your luck.”

As everyone laughs, you reach over and squeeze Jamil’s hand, and he glances at you, his expression softening. The chaos might be exhausting, but with you by his side, it’s a little more bearable—and, dare he say it, even enjoyable.

1k Masterlist ; Main Masterlist

Gonna pick up the pace with the milestone fics now! I'll be posting Riddle next, so after that:

[unhakies]

Okay hear me out college au taesan who goes to school for music and gets partnered of with reader to make their own song. Like he’s a little shy and introverted but then sees readers passion for music that he falls for her and it like he’s continuously only able to come of with lyrics for a love song as they get to know other more. He tries to hide it but seeing someone LVOE music like him gets him down bad and there’s a huge confession from being jealous but it’s like poetic and just cutsey

Omg sorry this is so much:’)

between the lines. k. woonhak

pairing: musicmajor!taesan x musicmajor!reader

genre: oneshot, romance

wordcount: 1.705k

notes — nothing is ever too much this is so cute i hope its what you wanted🥹💗

taesan didnt do well with group projects. he liked quiet, and group work was the opposite.

so when he heard this project worth most if his mark was a group project, being mad would be an understatement.

the professor clapped his hands, gaining the attention of the students who chatted excitedly. "this final project will be a composition between you and your partner. pairing are on the screen. also, you get extra marks if you preform the song at the end of the year festival."

you blinked at the screen then looked around, han dongmin, who didn't know him? he was known for his amazing composing skills.

you walked towards him after finding him through the chaos of the class. "han dongmin right? im name." you gave a smile and a small nod.

"right, it's nice to meet you."

you met in the music room the next day. taesan brought his guitar, and you brought your mini keyboard.

"so what vibe are we thinking" you asked, glancing at him. "mh, i'm not sure. i tend to give for more mellow vibes."

"let's find a middle. we can find something together." you smiled.

we. he liked the sound of that

he strummed random strings, trying to find the right melody. "wait! play that again." you looked up with stars in your eyes. he raised an eyebrow but nevertheless played it.

you clapped like you win the lottery and write something down and then hummed a melody, whispered some lyrics, and thats when taesan knew it,

he was done for.

a few weeks later, taesan was stumped. the project was going good—great if anything. but he kept writing lines, and they started to look familiar, like they were about you.

"i met a girl with stars behind her eyes she sings like she’s chasing the sky and i can’t write a song that doesn’t sound like loving her"

he couldn’t use them. obviously.

but every time you laughed over a dumb harmony or leaned in to fix his timing, he felt another lyric bloom in his chest.

you weren’t even doing anything. you were just.. being passionate. earnest. alive with music.

and taesan was absolutely, totally down bad.

taesan wasnt the jealous type. if anything, seeing other people get stuff is motivation for him to keep pushing.

but today was different. but it started like any other;

you sprawled on the floor, notebook hovering over your face as your tongue poked out of your mouth in focus

he smiled before you even saw him.

“morning,” you chirped. “i brought snacks.”

he sat beside you, accepted a pouch of dried mango you offered, and began tuning his guitar while you rambled about tempo and bridge transitions.

you both knew the demo deadline was coming up. but still, there was no rush. you liked to linger.

until the knock.

the door swung open mid-harmony. taesan’s fingers stilled on the strings.

“hey,” said minho, leaning against the frame like he owned the building. “heard you were in here, name”

you brightened. “hey! what are you doing on this floor?”

“jazz room got booked, thought i’d come snoop. that song you played last showcase, it was sick. you working on something new?”

“actually, yeah. this duet project with taesan,” you said, nudging him gently with your shoulder.

minho glanced over, boredly, and nodded once. “cool. you guys sound good.”

taesan managed a small, polite smile.

“wanna hang sometime?” minhi added. “i've got this beat that i need help on.”

you laughed, warm and casual. “sure, i'm down. text me?”

“bet.”

and just as quick as he came, he was gone, but the air didn’t go back to normal.

not for taesan.

he strummed a few bars quietly, but his thoughts were racing ahead of his fingers.

he knew it was stupid.

he knew you weren’t his. that you could hang out with anyone. that minho wasn’t doing anything wrong.

but something about the way your smile lingered. the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you said “text me” like it was nothing.

taesan wasn’t used to jealousy. it didn’t sit neatly inside him. it scratched.

“you okay?” you asked after a few minutes, when he missed a beat for the third time.

“yeah.”

“you’re playing faster.”

he paused. “sorry.” you tilted your head. “wanna take a break?”

“no,” he said too quickly. “i’m fine.”

but you weren’t convinced. you set your laptop down, fully turned toward him.

“did i do something?”

taesan’s head snapped up. “what? no, why would you think that?”

“you’re… closed off today.” your voice was quiet. he winced. “It’s not you.” you were silent for a beat. then you said, gently, “then what is it?”

he hated how visible he must’ve looked, but he couldn’t lie, either, not when you asked like that.

"it's stupid." he shrugged it off. "dongmin, nothing is ever stupid, trust me." you spoke, putting a hand over his.

he sighed and spoke, almost too softly “sometimes i think i care more than i’m supposed to.”

You blinked. “about the project?”

“no,” he said, “i don’t know how to explain it. i hear your voice in my sleep. i see your lyrics in my head before i fall asleep. and every time you talk about music like it’s your first love, I just, I want to be part of that. not because of the project. not even because of the music.”

you were staring now. carefully, like he was a puzzle unraveling right in front of you.

taesan looked down, thumb tapping anxiously on his guitar’s body.

“i guess it messed me up a little,” he muttered, “hearing you say yes to minho. like your writing just belonged anywhere. like, it didn’t mean anything special here.”

the silence that followed was weighted, heavy with realization.

you stood up, walked over, and sat down beside him.

“i said yes because i like music,” you said. “but i never said i liked writing with him. when I write with you,” you said, “it feels like the song already knows us.”

and taesan, he didn’t say anything.

he just nodded. held your words in his chest like the ending of a song he hadn’t dared to write yet.

and this time, when he played the next chord it rang clear

"also, call me taesan, okay?" you smiled brightly and nodded at him.

the campus had never looked like this before.

string lights draped across trees. a makeshift stage stood at the far end of the lawn, speakers crackling with nervous energy.

seniors milled around in denim jackets and club hoodies, eyes lit with relief and bittersweet excitement.

you stood behind the curtain with taesan, nerves curling inside your stomach.

the two of you were up next. your original duet. final project. last performance of the year.

and somehow, your last moment to say everything that had been left unsaid.

“you okay?” you asked quietly, adjusting your mic.

taesan nodded, then stopped. “kind of.”

you smiled. “same.”

but then you noticed him looking past you.

you turned, and saw minho, standing off to the side near the sound table, chatting with some other jazz majors.

his eyes flicked briefly to you, and he sent you a casual thumbs-up.

you returned a polite smile. it wasn’t a big deal.

but when you looked back, taesan was already turning away.

you reached out before you could stop yourself, your fingers brushing his sleeve.

“hey.”

he looked at you. something in his eyes felt a little further away than usual.

you lowered your voice. “you're going quiet again."

“i'm fine.”

“that's not what I asked.”

he hesitated.

“do you think i'm forgettable?” you blinked "what?”

“in a room like this,” he continued, gesturing at the stage, the crowd, the buzz of competition, “with everyone chasing the next big thing, do you think i'd stand out to you if we hadn’t been paired up?”

you stared at him. “taesan…” but the emcee called your names. you swallowed the lump in your throat and you stepped onstage together.

the lights were warm.

the lawn had gone still.

and when the intro chords began, the ones you’d spent weeks layering, reworking, shaping like clay, taesan kept his eyes down.

you sang the first verse.

and when he joined you in harmony, it felt different.

like he wasn’t singing with you anymore. like he was singing to you.

then the bridge came.

the part that was never in the original. the part he added at the very last minute. he hadn’t shown you the new lyrics. he just said “trust me.”

and now, in front of everyone, his voice broke the quiet:

“i wrote you in metaphors and hid you in rhymes but no lyric fits right if you’re not between the lines”

you froze, but continued to play the keys.

“you were a chorus before i could name you a melody i was too scared to keep but i memorized your voice like scripture and dreamt of you in every beat.”

you turned to him, fully now.

he looked at you finally and everything that had been simmering for the past few months poured out through his eyes.

“this song was always about you.”

gasps echoed in the audience. but all you could hear was your own heartbeat.

he walked towards you, the background music playing and you stared at him.

and before either of you could overthink it, you closed the space between you and kissed him.

right there on stage. amid the applause, the lights, and the hum of your shared harmony still echoing in the air.

after the stage cleared and the festival turned to night, you and taesan sat beneath one of the trees with his guitar resting between you.

“i cant believe you really rewrote the bridge and didn’t show me,” you teased.

“i was hoping u wouldn’t chicken out,” he said. “i almost did.”

you leaned on his shoulder. “it was the best line you’ve ever written.”

“i meant every word.”

“i know.”

and in the distance, crowds chatting loudly amongst themselves, but it was just noise now.

because the noise that mattered was still playing, quiet and finished , in both your hearts.

regular customers; @sh0dor1 @c1eod1n3

bonedo regulars; @beomev @8makes1atom @prodkwh @woonhakntaesansgf @raccooninii @woonbabie @lvlyhiyyih

[gloomwitchwrites]

You're having a bad day so they do their own version of Magic Mike for you

ANON! This ask sent me into a fit of giggles. I am so happy to do this. I had a lot of fun putting together some quick writes. I know you've been waiting a while. I hope you have a good laugh out of this, and maybe even giggle and/or kick your feet with glee. I know I did!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Reader (can be read as gn!reader)

Content & Warnings (MDNI): swearing, suggestive themes, dancing, singing, striptease, lap dance, brief non-descriptive nudity

Word Count: 800

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

"Everything okay, love?" asks John from the bathroom.

"Just a headache," you reply. "Had a busy day."

"Busy? Or bad?"

He knows you too well.

"Bad," you sigh, propping yourself up on an elbow.

John is no longer in the bathroom. He stands inside the doorway, leaning against the doorframe with one hand.

Freshly showered. Towel hanging on his hips.

"What?" you ask, noticing the smirk on his face.

John lightly pushes off from the doorframe. In a sultry sway, John begins to approach you, both hands reaching as if to undo the towel.

"John?"

He doesn't drop the towel, just teases the undressing. Your face grows hot as he nears. John comes to a stop just in front of you, the towel still perched on his hips.

"Go on," he purrs with a heated stare.

You tug and the towel falls away.

"Plan to fuck away my headache?" you cough out, gaze darting upward, focusing on his face and not what’s behind the towel.

John grabs your forearm, helping you to a seated position. "Not yet." He places one knee beside you on the bed. John holds your chin with thumb and forefinger. "No touching until I say so."

Simon "Ghost" Riley

"I’ve had a bad day," you sigh. “I’m tired.”

Turning your head away from Simon, you glance out the window.

As you exhale, something soft and large lands on your head. You yank it away. It's Simon's shirt. As you turn to address him, something else comes flying in your direction.

With a yelp, you snag it out of the air before it hits you. Simon's jeans. Belt included.

"What—"

Simon stands ramrod straight with arms at his sides in nothing but his boxer briefs and socks.

Perplexed, you fail to form words as Simon starts to saunter over to you. It’s stilted. Odd. The man has no rhythm but clearly all the confidence in the world.

"Oh my God," you murmur, clutching Simon's clothes to your chest, sinking further into the couch.

He's trying. He really is. But all you can focus on is how intense Simon’s face is, and how stiffly he…dances?

"Are you okay?" you ask.

Simon blinks. Frowns. "Yes." He glances down at himself. "Do you not like this?"

Whatever foul mood you were in has vanished, replaced with soft amusement and disbelief.

“Just…cuddle with me on the couch.”

“Clothes off?”

“Clothes off,” you confirm.

John "Soap" MacTavish

"Want to talk about it?"

"Not really," you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose.

When you glance up, Johnny has a devilish grin on his face.

"What?" you ask cautiously.

Johnny pushes off from the kitchen counter and reaches over his head, removing his shirt. Your mind promptly forgets its previous concern. All it cares about is Johnny's broad chest and muscled stomach.

"What are you doing?" you laugh as Johnny twists the shirt and grabs either end, placing it behind your neck.

"Helping," he coos.

Now in only grey sweatpants, Johnny pushes in. You lean back, a bit startled.

"Helping how?" you giggle.

Johnny rocks his hips, swaying them slightly in a semi-erotic rotation.

"You look ridiculous."

"Maybe,” he agrees. “But you're smiling."

You are. To the point that your cheeks ache.

"I could keep going," he teases, rolling his hips again.

You playfully push at his stomach and Johnny takes that moment to sink down into your lap. "Nope," you laugh. “Absolutely not."

Johnny does an exaggeratingly awful impression of a lap dance. It sends you into a fit of giggles, and he doesn't stop until you're wheezing.

"Better?" he teases.

The bad mood is gone.

"Much."

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

"My brain is static," you groan. Kyle grins and starts to hum. "What are you doing?"

He saunters over to you, the humming turning into singing.

"Is that Pony by Ginuwine?" you laugh, disbelieving.

“Girl, when I break you off,” he continues to sing, removing his shirt, spinning it over his head like a lasso. “I promise that you won't want to get off.”

"Oh my god," you mutter, covering your face, cheeks flaring hot.

You peek through your fingers only for Kyle to toss the shirt at you. It lands above your head.

“If you’re horny, let’s do it,” he sings, reaching for the front of his pants. “Ride it.”

Your mouth is open, staring at Kyle as more of his clothes disappear. He’s in nothing but boxer briefs. Placing his foot on the couch, his hips flex forward, giving you a clear view of what’s beneath the fabric.

"Stop," you giggle, covering your eyes with one hand. The other extends to cover his junk.

Kyle takes your wrist and draws your palm to his chiseled stomach. "How are you feeling now?"

The static is gone, replaced with a soft affection that warms your everywhere.

"I'm better,” you laugh.

[churipu]

WHAT REMINDS THEM OF YOU 𓆝 ⋆｡𖦹°‧

ִ ࣪𖤐 featuring. gojo satoru, megumi fushiguro, itadori yuuji

ִ ࣪𖤐 warnings. just pure fluff :D

note. i was going to write some hurt comfort — but then i figured that i wanted to keep myself sane for today :>

𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔

anything strawberry. scent, taste — anything strawberry.

gojo remembered when the first time he brought you home some honeoye strawberries after a mission since it was in season. the way your eyes just lit up at the sight of strawberries made him happy, and from then on — gojo looks at a picture of a strawberry or even smelled strawberry from god knows where.

he just thinks of you.

one time gojo saw a rabbit eating a strawberry while scrolling through his social media, and he wasted no time sending the video to you with a small message: "you <33"

or the other time gojo sees a bucket cap with strawberry motives and he just had to get it for you. the male waited in line for half an hour for that hat (and he had to "fight" a kid for it, he won in the end because the kid moved on to a duck motive hat instead).

"baby, look what i got you — strawberry scented bath bomb. it was the last one on stock, and i had to argue with a lady over it," he happily bursts through the door, boasting while raising what seemed to be a bath bomb.

gojo just knows when you change your usual brand of strawberry lip balm. it took him a peck and he asks you, "did you change your brand? this one tastes weird," he wipes his lips.

"they were out of stock, 'toru."

"why didn't you say so?" he cooed, kissing the bridge of your nose, "i'd go to the other side of the earth to get you one, y'know?"

you chuckled, "or, i could just wait for it to stock back . . ."

"nonsense!"

𝐌𝐄𝐆𝐔𝐌𝐈 𝐅𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐎

the smiths.

he finds it amusing when you start quoting that one scene from 500 days of summer, "i love the smiths . . ." and he just unexpectedly replied with, "sorry?"

but that time — he didn't know that he was "unknowingly" going along with it. confused, he had to question you about it, and when you told him it was from a movie. megumi finally understood and thought that maybe you really liked the movie.

he was wrong. it wasn't the movie, it was the smiths. so now, every time he sees anything or hears anything about the band, he finds himself thinking about you — but he'd never actually say that. megumi often listens to their songs just so he could understand when you talked to him about it.

also, quoting the movie was now a habit for you two. you just go, "i love the smiths," out of the blue and megumi will continue it (even if he says that it's pretty corny).

megumi loves it when you listen to the smiths out loud, singing softly to the tune. the male tries really hard to get you unofficial merchandise, official merchandise for the smiths are actually so hard to find today — so he just had to go and make it custom for you.

"and when the double decker bus, crashes into us . . ." he heard you sing, both of your ears jammed with earbuds from the earphones, "to die by your side."

that, was your favorite song. and megumi made it into a custom painting of you and him as if the two of you were in that one scene in 500 days of summer. i'm not kidding.

𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐈 𝐘𝐔𝐔𝐉𝐈

mochi skin. the texture, the flesh. it just reminded him of your cheeks — it's so squishy and soft. every single time he buys a mochi, he makes sure to do something that he calls a squish test.

where he squishes the mochi, and then squishes your cheeks. if they don't feel the same, yuuji gets rid of the mochi and gets another one (he eats them).

"it doesn't feel the same y/n, i don't like it," he whines out softly, tossing the mochi into his mouth — he angrily takes out another bill of cash to buy another mochi.

"yuuji, why does it have to be the same again?" you asked him, hands inside your pockets.

"because . . ." good point. why?

the male prompts to ignore you and buy another one (three others) to make sure they are the same texture as your cheeks. it's something he does — if a mochi he buys doesn't feel the same way like your cheeks does.

he eats them or lets you have them.

if it does.

he also eats them or lets you have them.

it's just something he does for fun, so he could always remember you. and when you're not there with him — yuuji makes sure to buy at least five before coming over to visit you so he could do the test.

when he's not feeling like it but he misses you, he takes a video and sends it to you with a caption: "i miss you."

© CHURIPU 2024 , DO NOT COPY OR REPOST ANYWHERE

[midnightsslut]

religion is one of the most prominent recurring themes on the album, and it has been present in some capacity for quite a few records now. taylor previously compared love to religion: her saving grace, her belief system, and a fated divine intervention (false god, cornelia street, and cruel summer are the best examples of this). ‘sacred new beginnings that became my religion’ and ‘we’d still worship this love even if it’s a false god’ are two of the defining statements about her philosophy on the lover album.

taylor doesn’t want to leave all of that behind on ttpd, at least not at the beginning. the first supernatural force she mentions is the spaceship on down bad, which she compares to a skylight of freedom in the epilogue. *something* has finally come to save her from her life of suffering. she doesn’t care if it’s a force of good at first; if anything, she’s just fine being taken away by aliens. she views this man as her destiny. it isn’t until guilty as sin? that taylor starts to ponder the moral implications of what she’s doing. is she guilty as sin for wanting to leave her previous religion and relationship behind? she comes to the conclusion that, even if she rolls the stone away and gets resurrected/redeemed, she cannot avoid the fallout. she is okay with the thought of having to wait, as long as both lovers vow to be together forever, just as she once did with someone else in false god. ‘I choose you and me religiously’ finishes the bridge of the song in a direct callback to cornelia street.

the next mention of religion has murkier imagery. she claims that she does not need the Lord’s help to save this man. she sees the halo that he has, and she can fix him herself. now that she feels free of her prior cage, she isn’t looking for divine intervention anymore. she wants control. she is their route to salvation.

when the relationship falls apart, she retreats back into the position of a believer rather than a divine figure. she compares him to a Holy Ghost who promised to save her and take her to heaven. instead, she is in hell in every sense of the word: she’s down bad and feels guilty for digging up the grave. he was a jehovah’s witness who promised that she could break free of the cage imposed by love without changing her religion altogether; she would’ve just had to switch denominations. she could still have a marriage and kids! she could still have a blue tortured poet! the man was different, but not the dreams they had together. the story of the first part of the album ends here. her faith has been broken, and she has only found any semblance of sanity by refusing to mention these belief systems altogether.

side b/the anthology blends the christian imagery of side a with goddesses, sorcerers, and prophecies. she bargains with these powers to let her have the future she wants (the prophecy). she doesn’t sound like someone believing in salvation. if anything, she feels cursed. she decides that the concept of divinely ordained timing will never work in certain relationships (‘the goddess of timing once found us beguiling / she said she was trying / peter, was she lying?’). this disdain extends onto her perception of other people’s faith (‘bet they never spared a prayer for my soul’). she does position herself as a prophet in cassandra, but even then, she admits that the role has hurt her. perhaps the pain in thank you aimee was meant to be, or perhaps she was just strong enough to build a legacy in spite of it, boulder by boulder. is she a martyr? does she want to be? or did she save herself?

the only real love song on this half of the album makes no mention of fate or any divine forces. it wasn’t meant to be. it’s not a supernatural invisible string or lightning in a bottle. she is just in love.

the album ends with the manuscript, which revisits an old story of a defining, formative heartbreak. as she sings ‘at last, she knew what the agony had been for’ while describing the legacy of her writing, she seems to revert to thinking about the purpose of trauma. the only exception is that, in this case, she is the one who found meaning in her pain by turning it into a manuscript. writing is her belief system now, and she proselytizes by telling her stories and thus giving up the manuscript.

ultimately, her belief in destiny has chewed her up and spat her out. she so desperately clung to her existing belief systems that she was fooled by a conman, which left her feeling cursed. religion is supposed to be with someone even in their darkest moments, but the album explains that taylor often felt abandoned. the only constant in her life was, well, herself. she’ll be okay, but her pen will be her saving grace.

[farfromstrange]

Fictober Day 27: Slow Dancing

Fictober Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Reader

Prompt: Slow Dancing (🌼)

Summary: You and Matt finally manage to be home at the same time, ready to have a romantic dinner when he suddenly puts on one of his jazz vinyls and pulls you in for a dance...

Warnings: Fluff. That’s it.

Word Count: 577

A/n: Posting the last remaining Fictober prompts I didn't get around to posting in October (2024), one by one. I don't like leaving things unfinished, and I promised I'd post them, so... stay tuned!

Read Me On AO3! (coming soon, once all prompts are posted)

The candles on the dining table cast a comfortable glow over the living room. 

For the first time in weeks, Matt has come home from work at a reasonable hour. No, ‘I’ll be home late, don’t wait up for me’ text. No apologetic phone call while he’s eating takeout with Foggy in the office. He came home, and he came home to you. Not the city but you. 

“I’m not going out tonight,” he told you as he kissed you hello, and you never thought a simple statement could sound so sexy. 

The table is adorned with homemade spaghetti and salad. You even brought out the wine one of Matt’s clients gifted him for Christmas last year—the good kind. Just as you’re pouring the first sip of burgundy liquor, the soft tune of a jazz vinyl breaks the comfortable silence. You look up to find your boyfriend standing by his record player, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the first few buttons of his dress shirt undone. He looks at ease, almost as if he has finally come home. You want nothing more than to wrap him in your arms and never let go. With his cheeks flushed and brown eyes so full of light he reminds you of an angel; an angel who more often than not believes himself to be the devil, but you know him better than anyone on this godforsaken planet, and you know the truth. One look, one touch, is enough for you to know the Matt Murdock you know and love is anything but evil.

Matt smiles at you, a little giddy. “C’mon, dance with me,” he says. 

You raise your eyebrows. “Dance?”

“Yeah.” He reaches out from across the room to take your hand. “Just for a minute. I want to hold you…”

You bridge the gap between you, your fingers gently brushing against his as you take hold of his hand. 

“Feel your skin,” Matt murmurs, “Your heartbeat…”

“Haven’t done that in a while,” you say.

He pulls you in. “I miss you.”

“I’m right here.”

“I know.” 

One arm slides around your waist while the other remains tightly in your grasp. You look up at him, this beautiful specimen of a man, watching as his eyelids flutter and he leans his head against yours. Slowly. Reverently. Your pulse jumps under his touch and your heartbeats align. 

He begins to sway you to the gentle rhythm of his favorite jazz tune. It’s just him, you, the music, and the steady beating of his heart against your ear. Thud, thud, thud. He’s so calm, so content. When you’re in his arms, all the wars he’s had to fight on the streets and in his mind are suddenly forgotten. At the end of the day, he will always crawl home to what’s most important to him—you. Even if it’s bloody and bruised and on the brink of death, he will crawl home to you. Because he promised. He swore he would always come home, no matter what and no matter how. You’re the reason he survives. 

“I love you,” he whispers. 

You don’t hesitate whispering back, “I love you,” your voice muffled against his chest. Matt’s hold only seems to tighten around your frame. His voice, only a mere hum in your ear, sings a distant melody. 

You let the music carry you away, the dinner you made long forgotten as you melt like a beeswax candle in his embrace. 

@ebathory997 @the-b33skn33s @scoliobean @drmeghanjones @lanae111 @gpenguin666 @linamarr @itwasthereaminuteago @norestfortheshelbywicked @yarrystyleeza @littlenerdyravenclaw @etanordoesbullsh1t @thychuvaluswife @harleycao @schneeflocky @imjustcal @pipsqueakkitten @merlinbtch @sya-skies @thatonegamefish @amberritonicole @pigeonmama @bohemianrhapsody86 @a-gir1-has-n0-name @winkev1 @callsign-ember @chittaphonstar @buckyyyismahhlife @trublu2u @xnatyx @zomtart @ethereal-blaze @littleagxs @ravenclaw617 @lucienofthelakes @steve-chandler

[ducksido]

Back again with another ask lol

Loved the first years with the pothead! Reader. Thanks for that it was amazing.

Could I ask for the dorm heads coming over to ramshackle and encountering a very high reader? I think Riddle and Malleus will be funny

-🐁 anon

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle steps into Ramshackle like he’s about to scold someone for an infraction—but he freezes the moment he sees you on the floor, half-buried in snacks, eyes red-rimmed, giggling at your phone.

Riddle: “Yuu, what in the Queen’s name—are you—intoxicated?!”

He’s horrified. Not angry, not yet—just completely baffled. You offer him a chip and a drowsy smile, and he looks like he’s about to pass out from secondhand stress. He starts pacing, muttering about school policy, and ends up leaving with flushed cheeks and a deep sigh.

Riddle (to himself): “This is a serious offense… but… they do seem rather relaxed. Still! No, absolutely not! I refuse to be charmed by this chaos!”

Leona Kingscholar

Leona shows up unannounced, probably wanting to nap in Ramshackle for the peace and quiet. But the moment he walks in, he catches the thick scent of weed and sees you lying on your back, mumbling, “The ceiling’s like… breathing.”

He raises an eyebrow and kicks your foot lightly.

Leona: “You better not be smoking up my nap spot, herbivore.”

But he’s not mad. Not at all. In fact, he flops down beside you and snags some of your snacks.

Leona: “Next time, share. And don’t hog the good stuff.”

Congratulations—you just became Leona’s new chill buddy.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul walks in like he’s about to make a business proposition, but stops immediately when he sees you stoned, face half-covered in cracker crumbs and giggling at the toaster for being "hot."

He blinks. Adjusts his glasses. Blinks again.

Azul: “...Are you under the influence? Is this… recreational?” You: “Duuuude, jellyfish must have crazy dreams.” Azul: “...I see.”

He's half-tempted to leave out of secondhand embarrassment, but his business brain kicks in. Now he’s internally calculating whether a “Magical Relaxation Lounge” is a viable idea.

Azul (leaving): “Hm. Market research is in order.”

Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim bursts in with a “Yuu!!” and then immediately gasps when he sees your state.

Kalim: “Whoa!! Are you okay? You look suuuper happy!”

You start laughing uncontrollably at his sparkly energy, and he starts laughing too—without even knowing why. He doesn’t fully understand you’re high, he just thinks you’re having a blast.

You offer him a gummy. Jamil tackles him from behind and yells “NO.”

Kalim: “Aww, Jamil! Yuu said it makes the clouds sing!”

Vil Schoenheit

Vil enters looking like he’s about to shoot a perfume commercial and stops mid-step when he sees your dilated pupils and dazed expression.

Vil: “...Are you aware you look like you’ve crawled out of a swamp? The bags under your eyes are criminal.”

You lazily blink up at him and offer a donut.

Yuu: “They’re from… the void…”

Vil pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs with maximum judgement. He sets down a bottle of water, scowls at the clutter, and mutters:

Vil: “Hydrate, cleanse, and don’t let me catch you like this in public. Ugh. This lighting isn’t even flattering.”

Idia Shroud

Idia doesn’t come to Ramshackle often, but when he does and finds you completely baked, he stops dead in his tracks.

Idia: “W-whoa. You're like… ultra chill mode. Like, final boss Zen state. Is this your limit break form??”

He’s impressed, honestly. He knows all about the herb from online forums but seeing you like this in real life?? Fascinating.

Idia: “Wait, does it increase snack drop rates??”

You tell him you feel like a soft cloud and now he’s convinced you’ve unlocked a passive buff. He sits down and watches anime with you, totally vibing.

Malleus Draconia

Malleus arrives in classic fae prince fashion—grand and looming in the doorway—and you just… burst out laughing.

Yuu: “Yo… yo, your horns are like... party hats for demons.”

Malleus tilts his head, entirely unbothered.

Malleus: “I see. So you’re in a heightened state of consciousness... Curious.”

He sits beside you with that eternal calm, genuinely interested in what you’re experiencing. You ramble about “colorful air” and “time soup,” and he nods like a wise sage.

Malleus: “I would like to try this sensation someday. If it helps ease the mind… perhaps it would lessen my loneliness.”

Bro just turned your high time into a deep emotional confession. You offer him some fruit gummies in solidarity.

[silversinfinity]

Taste Of Your Own Medicine

*this is a fetish blog- non-fet blogs and minors DNI (no age in bio -> blocked)*

Fandom: J/ujutsu K/aisen

Spoilers: None

Pairing/AU: N/anaG/o, normal universe set during N/anami's Salary Man Era TM

Length: ~2k

Tags: sneeze fetish content, sickfic, sneezing via flu swab test, inducing, light contagion themes, mess

ANON, IT'S BEEN 84 BILLION YEARS... ARE YOU STILL OUT THERE 😭😭😭

It’s 5/7 for a few more hours here still, aka n/anag/o day!! So I’m taking it as a sign to kick myself in the ass and drop a little n/anag/o treat for you all 🤑 I loved writing this when I first started it, and then I lowkey forgot about it, and THEN couldn't find the document when I remembered it existed... 😭 it’s been a long journey for a mere 2k words, woof!

Fanfic Masterlist

It’s surely the flu. Surely. Anything else would feel far better than this. 

Far better than the brain fog, the lethargy, the massive pressure behind his eyes and sinuses. 

Far better than the fever that stole his sleep last night, left only to shiver, sweat. Too hot with a blanket, too cold without. 

And anything else would be far, far better than the body aches. That was the worst of all, the thing that dug the last nail into Nanami's personal coffin. Everything hurt, dull yet wickedly persistent- even the very hairs on his head weren't an exception. He didn't know hair was capable of hurting, and boy, he's finding it out the hard way.

And maybe, maybe, despite all that, it would all be far better, if not for the annoying weight currently clinging to Nanami’s shoulders.

“Get off of me.” Gojo only presses into him heavier, mocking the few inches of height he has on him.

“Come back to bed then,” Gojo whines in his ear. Nanami’s headache squeezes tighter at his temples.

He sighs, breath crackling unpleasantly in the lower depths of his lungs. Though grating, Gojo’s voice has never sounded so convincing. “Trust me, I wish I hadn’t left.” The misconduct in his lungs catches on the end of his words with a weak, wheezing cough.

It should motivate him, at least. The sooner he gets this done, the sooner he can go back to bed, and hopefully, sleep.

Gojo rests his head on Nanami’s shoulder, idly watching him tear open the plastic wrapping in his hands. “Why even bother testing?” he mumbles, cheek squished against him.

“I need proof to get time off.”

“Man, your job sucks.” 

“Thangks, Captain Obvious.” Nanami wishes again that he would stop talking, just so he didn’t have to hear himself reply. The congestion dragging his consonants down is unpleasant to his ears, only worse layered over the roughness of a sore throat.

While Gojo manages to hold his tongue, Nanami assesses the items below him. He hovers his hand above the test kit on the counter, with a long q-tip lazingly perched between two fingers. His eyes glaze over the instructions; this isn't the first time he’s ever taken such a test, but a refresher never hurts. 

… Whether looking at it actually helped refresh anything was contentious, however. The font and diagrams were muddy where they lay, only legible enough to jog his memory.

15 seconds in both sides, mix the end into the tube of fluid, place a few drops into the test strip, and then wait for the result that wouldn't surprise anyone with an ounce of common sense.

Easy enough.

…Sort of. Nanami’s eyes water the instant the cotton swab touches just inside one nostril. A sharp tingle radiates up into his sinuses and lingers. He dreads actually moving the thing, knowing it will only prod and tease at each swollen, sensitive nerve within. 

Simply holding it in place won't do him any good either, though. He does as instructed, swirling the cotton tip along the walls of his nasal passages in a circular motion. The urge to sneeze increases tenfold. Nanami scrunches the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed in a tight, focused squint.

Gojo notices all of this, much to his dismay. “Don’t sneeze…” he sings into his ear. 

And Nanami nearly does. “HHdt-!” Tongue smacked to the roof of his mouth, he manages to withhold the urge from completely seizing him. But just barely. He blinks tears from his eyes. 

“Cand you please nod- guh…” Nanami is left with a lingering, even thicker congestion, if that's even possible. He should really blow his nose, except that he also really shouldn't, not until this test was over. 

The cotton swab dips into his other nostril- the one that's more sensitive of the two, because of course one of them has to be. It's the one Gojo has a better view of, too. Oh, joy.

Nanami’s breath catches almost instantly, only to release in an uncertain, tight exhale. “...hehh…” Gojo sees his abused nostril flare up and twitch, hiking upward as the entire bridge of his nose crinkled. Torturously, he swirls the cotton swab once, twice, three times. Hand trembling, breath shaking. The natural lines of his face turn more rigid to match his expression, barely holding it together. 

Don’t sneeze. Don't sneeze. Gojo’s earlier advice echoes in his head, much as he loathed it at the time. Just a few more seconds…

“That looks like it really tickles…”

It's a few more seconds too long, and Gojo’s urging is the final straw. “hhuH-!” Nanami gasps loudly, urgently, shuddering under the other sorcerer’s still incessantly pressed weight on him. That inward breath messily crashes into the main production- “hEHH’SHIEhh-! hEHHH’ZSHHieh-!” His shoulders jostle violently. His throat barks through the deepest parts of it, fully exposing the flu-centered trauma his vocal cords carry.

Spray sprinkles wet, grey dots in a random pattern on his shirt, baggy and soft to the touch. Gojo’s weight against him only lightens a little, although Nanami is too distracted to care or notice. “hhdh… hiH-!” Without opening his eyes, he draws up for a precursor to another sneeze. He clumsily grabs the collar of his shirt, ducking down within the fabric this time- “hiehHH’SCHFHH-!”

Oh, God.

“Oh. Bless you.”

Gojo says it like he's surprised to hear him sneeze. Nanami feels a vein threaten to bulge on his temple.

Pinching away any excess evidence with his shirt- he winces when the damp fabric touches back to his chest- Nanami re-emerges with a scowl no less irritated than before. In his other hand hovers the soiled cotton swab, having been yanked from his nose the second before disaster. 

He blinks away the stars that dance in his vision, wondering if it's possible to actually sneeze his brains out. The pain behind his eyes swells significantly, heightening his suspicions. Ugh.

He glances back down at the instructions. Right, next step. Into the tube the cotton swab goes, and Nanami swirls it, pushing against the sides of it. Just watching the motion stirs a tingle high in his sinuses, having not quite abandoned the sensation of the swirling motion.

Nanami glances at his watch after applying a few drops to the test strip. 6:51. He'd know by 7:06, then. 

Gojo watches him set his watch, cheek pressed into his shoulder. “Hm… I don’t see anything in those instructions about sneezing all over yourself?” he teases.

The vein from before does finally bulge on his temple. He’s almost- almost- exhausted enough to sigh another sigh and let it go. But there’s fifteen minutes he needs to kill before he can send his halfwitted boss a picture of this stupid test, and Gojo doesn’t sound like he’s going to become any less insufferable in that time. 

A taste of his own medicine might shut him up, or at the very least dent his pride. The unopened test kit resting on the counter is snatched into Nanami’s hand. He pauses for a dreadfully damp sniffle. “Gojo, I don't suppose you'd like to show me how to do this properly, then?”

Silence. Then, the other man tilts his head. “That’d be a waste of a good test, wouldn't it?”

“Haven't you considered that I might be contagious?” Might be, he says- more like definitely, absolutely. “Antivirals work better if you catch it early, you know.” Nanami maintains an even tone under the blanketing congestion.

“ …My Infinity protects me.”

Nanami pulls the new, fresh cotton swab from its packaging, careful not to touch the soft end. “You’re touching me right now, though.” And all this morning. And all last night. Satoru Gojo, the Strongest, Clingiest, Sorcerer in the world.

Said Sorcerer finds nothing to argue back with, instead speaking a short, “Fine.” Though his blindfold conceals his eyes, the pout on his lips is enough for Nanami to imagine the faux, pity-seeking look they’re wearing. Good thing he knows better than to fall for it.

Quicker than before, Nanami arranges the test tube and test strip on the counter top. Fresh cotton swab still in hand, Gojo actually steps back an inch when he faces him, showing reluctance. It's a rare emotion for him to express so physically.

He takes Gojo’s chin in one hand, holding him in place. The other man grimaces. “Hey, I can do it- myself, ya know…!”

”This is how Shoko would do it, and a doctor knows best. Chin up.” His hand grips a little firmer, and he tilts Gojo’s head up and towards himself. It’s an angle suited to expose his- and he hates to admit it- absolutely perfect nose. A straight, long bridge complimented by a set of narrow, symmetrical nostrils, all aesthetically framed by the dark fabric of his blindfold. 

Given a few minutes though, it won't look nearly as composed.

Nanami doesn’t bother to warn Gojo when he slips the cotton swab into his nose. The other man gasps reflexively, and the bridge shivers in protest. Nanami’s hold on his chin keeps him steady though. 

Any other day and he certainly wouldn't tolerate getting sneezed on- especially by someone who got on his nerves so regularly. But considering current circumstances, he can't find it in himself to care. He fully intends to change into a fresh pair of sweats after this test, not to mention that he's already dealt with enough of his own outbursts and fluids in the last 24 hours- what's a little more?

It would be worth the brief euphoria that came with getting payback, until his headache along with all the other bits of his misery tugged him out of that moment.

He changes the angle of the swab just slightly, softly bumping the shallow top wall of his nasal passages. Gojo swallows under Nanami’s palm. A circle is drawn along the rims of one nostril, and then another. His lips part to whine, but the sound melts into a telltale hitch.

“Nanhha- Nanami, whhait-hih-hihHH’SHIhh-!” Nanami doesn’t stop, nor does Gojo. “hyH’SHh-! ihhk‘SHieh-!” They’re fittish, rapid, and yet they drag out of him, like the last bit of juice squeezed from a lemon. He's trying to hold them back, but his willpower is faltering under Nanami's efforts and hurling out his throat instead.

A few more sneezes later, and Nanami gauges it's been long enough. He wordlessly removes the torture device from Gojo’s nose, and he sighs something between relief, exasperation, and another sneeze stopped in its tracks. He sniffles and tries to pull away, but Nanami tuts his disapproval.

“Still need to do the other side.” He doesn't allow Gojo so much as a spare breath to fight him on it. The nasal swab is already pressed to his septum, just inside the other nostril.

The tighter, desperate pinch of his eyebrows is visible even through his blindfold. Gojo’s lip quivers. He actually manages to hold it together this time- for the first five seconds.

Then…

“hih…hh, hihH-! hh…ghh-hiHH-! Hhp’TSHhh-! hihT’SHh-! Hh-hhH… HH’TShiew-! hY’ISHH-!”

His nostrils turn pink, shiny at the rims. Nanami ignores the mist settling on his wrist in progressively wetter qualities. It's generously soaking him when he decides again that he's done enough again, and he promptly wipes his hand on the leg of his sweatpants.

Gojo’s repeated sniffling, panting, and whining is mere background noise as he goes through the motions of this test.

“Nanamiiii… you're so meannn…”

Without taking his eyes off his watch to acknowledge Gojo’s Man-Child-like behavior, Nanami hands him a tissue. He always keeps a box close at a time like this. “Blow your nose, Gojo.”

There's still about 10 minutes left until he can actually consider this hassle taken care of. 

Well, one hassle taken care of, anyway. Gojo has regrettably pressed himself back against him, sinuses cleared into a now crumpled tissue. “Can we please just go lay back down now?”

That, Nanami could seriously consider. A dull throb trickles back up into his head, coupled with a growing feeling he'd swallowed glass in his throat. He may as well take Gojo up on this- standing here isn't doing him any good.

A fresh change of clothes and a new dose of ibuprofen later, and enough time has passed that Nanami’s watch goes off, once for his test, which he snapped a picture of, and then again a few minutes later.

Test results on Nanami’s read positive- no surprise. Test results on Gojo’s read negative- for now, at least.

[melancholiaincarnate]

wine and peach chapstick

「 in which ᵎᵎ 」 yuji itadori's mean (and quite attractive) uncle comes to pick him up from school (again) and takes you out on a date

「 words ᵎᵎ 」 2454

「 author's note ᵎᵎ 」 hii :3 sorry for the horrendously long wait for part two of this, i was veryyy unhappy with this, (and still am) but fuck it we ball LOL. that being said, requests r open, check my masterlist, and keep on the lookout for something spooky coming soon.....

「 warnings ᵎᵎ 」 sukuna ryomen, mentions of smoking, three or four slight nsfw references

choso looked at sukuna with a raised brow as the other man pulled on his shoes. "where are you going?" he questioned. choso was currently standing by the door, car keys in hand as he looked curiously down at sukuna, who was tying his shoes.

"to pick up the brat. where else would i be going?" sukuna scoffed as he tied his left shoe, then switched to the right, "i swear sometimes y' don't fuckin' think."

"i thought you said you were never going to pick him up again." choso sighed, hanging the keys back up by the door on the key hook that read 'live laugh love'. "you told me yesterday - verbatim, i am only doing this once, i fuckin' hate the kid." choso slipped off his shoes, hanging his jacket back up on the coat rack.

"yeah? well - plans have changed." sukuna shrugged, adjusting his lip piercing with his tongue before running a hand through his hair. "the brat's teacher is actually cute. i like her. i wan' see her again."

"not his teacher," choso's sigh is strained, "sukuna you can't mess around with yuji's teacher." the male pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "what happens if it ends badly? then yu's gonna be caught in the crossfire and -"

"you worry too much." sukuna picked up two helmets, one large and one small (the smaller one adorned with stickers), before stuffing the smaller one in his backpack. "shut up already, will ya? fuckin' - talk too fuckin' much." he didn't give choso a chance to reply before he slammed the door and swung a leg over his motorcycle.

the drive to yuji's preschool was not a far one - which sukuna, in fact, minded. his stomach felt weird and his hands were a little shaky, (and sweaty), and he would've preferred a bit of a longer ride in hopes that whatever this fuckass feeling was would go away.

helmet tucked between his arm and ribs, he entered the daycare, showed id, signed, and walked up the stairs to your classroom. he could hear the sounds of you singing a song with the kids, and when he approached the doorway, he took a deep breath to steady the growing weirdness in his belly.

nervousness was not something that ryomen sukuna felt. ever. but seeing you, singing and dancing and bouncing a small child on your hip, caused his heart rate to spike to one billion - if that was even possible.

he leaned against the doorway for a bit, (so he could collect himself), just watching with a pleased smile on his face, until you noticed him. "oh! mr. sukuna." the entire class turned to look at him and the smile dropped instantly, replacing with a frown. as much as sukuna may like you, he had a reputation to uphold, and that was yuji's mean uncle.

he didn't reply and instead just nodded once. he tried to look as chill as possible - what was wrong with him? why was he trying so hard? anger flared for only a moment in his chest, but it was soothed instantly by your voice telling the kids softly that it was playtime.

"kuna!" yuji shouted, shaking the boy next to him. "kuna came to pick me up again! megumi, look!" sukuna wondered how the raven-haired boy's brains weren't totally shaken up.

"nice." megumi blinked, letting yuji take his excitement out on him. even throughout all the shaking, his expression and tone stayed blank.

"yu, honey, go get your stuff." your voice sent shivers down his spine. he shook it off, watching as you walked to him with nothing but grace.

"good afternoon. it's nice to see you again." you smile. fuck, sukuna was so gone.

his chest burned as he spoke. "hey there, doll. wore this for me?" he leaned off the wall and picked at the hem, to which you rolled your eyes and swat his hand away. "it's nice, i like it. suits ya. makes your ass look fat."

"i didn't wear it for you." lie. you did. "and watch your language around the children." you scolded, squinting at him.

"kuna today i-" yuji bounded up to the two of you, and tried to show him a paper, but sukuna placed a hand on his head to quiet him. "ope-"

"quiet, brat. i'm speaking. we talked about this - you don't talk when i'm talking." he scoffed and yuji frowned as he looked up at sukuna. "go wait by the door. or - go talk to your friends or .. whatever you do here. i don't care - just stay in my sight."

yuji smiled and nodded quickly, heading back to his friends to talk to them before he leaves. you both watch as yuji talks animatedly to megumi and as megumi just listens, and then sukuna turns to you as you speak.

"you speak to him so mean." you comment, handing him the pen. he takes it, but lets his hand brush against yours for longer than it needs to. "he's nothing but a sweetheart!"

"he's a spoiled brat, that's what he is. choso and his father do nothing but spoil him, tch." he scoffs as he signs his name underneath his signature from yesterday. it looks identical. "i could do the same for you, if you'd let me." he's smooth, you notice, and he hands you your pen back with a smirk on his face. "spoil you, treat you right. hey, i bet you never had a man make you-"

"sukuna! the kids!" you swat at his arm, resulting in a laugh from him. "you're lucky you're not bad looking." sukuna feels his chest swell with pride. "i get off at five, if you want to pick me up." you roll your eyes as you place the pen down on the table with a smile.

"i'll be here, doll." sukuna grins widely, brushing a piece of hair away from your face. "hope you're not afraid of a motorcycle. can't drive a car but i've got me a real nice bike." he fails to mention that he is actually banned from driving the itadori/kamo car because he has crashed it five or six or seven too many times.

"mm, i think i'll live." you laugh, right as sukuna barks for yuji to come. yuji does so, waves goodbye to you, and with a wink, sukuna leaves.

"i'll see ya at five sharp, doll."

relief floods his system, and he finds himself smiling as he puts yuji's helmet on, and picks the boy up to put on the motorcycle. the drive home is usual - yuji yapping about his day, (mostly about megumi), while sukuna drives as safely as he can. sure, the kid is a brat, but at the end of the day, sukuna still loves him, and wants nothing but his safety.

"hey, yu!" choso's face lights up - and so does yuji's - as the two brothers see each other. "how was your day?"

"good!" yuji runs over to choso and he picks the boy up fairly easily, and places him on his hip. "it was good! today megumi and i-" sukuna slips off his shoes, and tunes them out, not wanting to hear the same spiel he just barely heard over the wind.

he goes upstairs to his room to freshen up. although you'll be wearing the same dress, he doesn't want to show up in the same outfit, so he changes, wetting his hair and quickly running a brush and some gel through it. he thought he looked pretty good, and his brows furrow when he realizes that he hopes you'd think he looks good too.

five pm rolls around fairly quickly, and you hear the rumble of the motorcycle before you see him. as he swings himself off, you wave slightly and he responds with a head nod. he takes the helmet off as he approaches you.

"hey doll. what happened here?" he places a warm palm on your torso, where splatters of paint decorate your dress.

"ah, maki and mai got into a paint fight.. and i got caught in the crossfire." you sigh, looking down. his hands are big and - god they're attractive. you feel a small heat building in your stomach before you shake it off, and smile. "so - ryomen, was it? it feels too .. formal to call you sukuna outside of my working hours. it's like if you called me miss."

nobody ever called him ryomen. "nobody calls me ryomen." he removes his hand before slinging his backpack off and placing a second helmet into your hands. it's yuji's but he figures you can fit. "if you want to call me ryomen, do as you please. that's fine by me."

"what if i call you ryo?" you grin up at him and he quirks a brow as he rolls his eyes and begins walking back toward his idling motorcycle. "i like ryo better than ryomen."

he won't admit it but he likes the way the nickname rolls off your tongue - sweet like honey. "i don't care. you comin' or not, doll?"

he helps you get on the motorcycle and as your hands wrap around his torso, your fingers itch to run up and down his stomach. you control the urge though. he's fit and you can feel the outline of his abs beneath his tight shirt.

"ready?" sukuna calls, as he revs the bike, "make sure that helmets on tight, y'hear?"

"it's on!" you shout back - and within an instant the two of you are speeding down the road. you can feel his stomach move with laughter as your arms tighten around him instinctually.

at a red light, he turns to face you, a hand coming off the bars to rest on your upper thigh to rub gently. "y'alright?"

"m fine!" you nod, and he laughs again, "how much longer?" you wouldn't admit it, but you were a little afraid at how fast the two of you were going.

"just a bit longer." you feel his chest vibrate as he hums and the motorcycle is off again as soon as the light turns green. you bury your face in his back, inhaling his slight cigarette and the scent of his cologne. he smells good, he's hot, he has a motorcycle, for christ's sake. you fucking scored.

within five minutes, he was parking his bike and helping you off. his hands wrapped around your waist, firm. you seemed to be at a bar in the city. "look at you." he tsks, his hands coming to smooth your hair down. "such a mess." he tucks a hair behind your ear as he finishes. despite his heavy hands, his touch is incredibly gentle.

"thanks, ryo." he huffs at the nickname (his chest is tight with warmth), and retracts his hands, before grabbing yours and leading you into the bar. men call out his name and he barely acknowledges them. as he leads you to the booth, you notice eyes following him, and then eyes curiously peeping at you. some part of yourself wonders how many other girls sukuna has brought here, and if you're just another tally to these other men.

"you're very well known here." you comment, shaking off the thought. he shrugs, lighting up a cigarette. before taking a puff, he offers you, but you shake your head. "i don't smoke."

"been comin' here since i was eighteen." he angles his head, trying to blow the smoke away from you so you don't inhale. your heart warms at the sight. hot and thoughtful? you're sure he's not even a real man.

"eighteen? isn't that underage?" you tease as a man comes by and pats sukuna on the back. "hello." you acknowledge him, and he just raises a brow and keeps walking after sukuna daps him up. another weird look that you decide to shake off.

"you gonna snitch?" sukuna scoffs, as another man approaches the table. this time, the man drops off a tray. on the tray is a bottle of liquor, some cups of ice rimmed with salt, and limes.

"can i get you anything else, sukuna?" the man asks.

"ask her, not me." he blows another puff, again, away from you. "she's runnin' my tab tonight." he nods at you and as the man explains what they have, you take an order of red wine and some cheese fries.

"wine and cheese fries?" sukuna snubs the cigarette out on the tray that was just brought. "the cheese fries i can deal with but - wine? really?"

"i don't drink much!" you protest. sukuna begins to pour himself a cup of liquor, before he stops.

"not gonna drink." he sighs, placing the ice cup back on the tray, "i gotta take ya home. but in exchange, i want some cheese fries. that a deal?" his finger circles the salt rimmed glass and then his finger comes to his mouth to lick off the salt.

you agree with a smile. despite his incredibly rough exterior, sukuna cares. deeply.

the rest of the night goes surprisingly smoothly. while sharing the cheese fries, (and getting cheese on your dress), you get to know more about ryomen, and he gets to know more about you.

after another short motorcycle ride, you and sukuna find yourselves on your doorstep. he decides then that if picking up yuji every day from school was what he needed to do to see you - he'd do it. some part of him had already decided that the minute that he saw you, though.

"well, doll-" he starts, bringing a hand to rub his rough thumb against your lips, "surely you don't expect me to just leave you without a little reward? i took ya out, ya ordered wine, i drove ya home. i deserve a sweet treat, don't i?" his voice is low.

his tongue comes to dart between his lips and wet them, and there's an accompanying smirk. his lips don't touch yours until you nod though, and he tastes oddly sweet. he doesn't taste like cigarettes or the tiny sip of wine he had, but rather like the peach chapstick you'd watch him put on after leaving the bar.

neither of you really want to pull apart but you're both struggling for breath. sukuna's eyes flutter open when you disconnect and he lets out a little rough chuckle.

"if you weren't such a nice girl, i'd take you inside and have my way with you." he sighs, "but unfortunately, you're tolerable."

you laugh, and he shakes his head. "i'll see ya tomorrow, doll. keep yourself safe, hear me?" you nod, and he presses another quick kiss to your lips.

you think that's his way of telling you he likes you.

[hannahssimblr]

May. 

The sun’s hot on the window. It beams into the centre, onto the side of my face. The birds must be singing—making a racket in the trees, the leaves of which I can only see the impression of, blurred through patterned glass. I lift one side of my headset to hear them, but any sound of burgeoning summer is drowned out by the cacophony of voices and the clacking of a dozen keyboards.

The call connects with a soft chime, and I straighten up.

“Good afternoon. You’re through to support. My name is Jude. How can I help you?” 

“Okay, where the fuck is my iPhone?”

Feel a thin smile on my lips. I will have quit this job by next week. 

“I understand that’s really frustrating. Let me take a look for you.”

The man—surely all head and no neck by the sound of his voice—barks me through the sequence of digits that is his order number, while I stare at the Freundlichkeit ist oberstes Gebot im Kundenkontakt sign pinned to the cubicle above my computer. Friendliness is the top priority in customer interaction. Feel a bit indignant looking at it—the one-sidedness of it. Like a little peasant, I rattle obliging phrases down the phone at this man who, according to my personal rules outside this place, is not allowed to speak to me like this. 

On this phone, however, he can say whatever he wants. 

“So it’s lost then?” he snarls once I’ve pulled up his order. “Who lost it? Who the fuck lost my phone?”

Take a breath. “I completely understand your frustration. I will raise a ticket with our logistics team to investigate, and if it has been confirmed missing, we will send a replacement or issue a refund. Whichever you prefer.”

“I’d prefer to have my iPhone now, like I was supposed to.”

“Thanks. Your feedback helps us improve. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

He hangs up. 

I take my headset off and pinch the bridge of my nose between my fingers. I forgot to use his name on the call. The team lead flagged me for that last week, saying customers like to feel human, as though the entire system wasn’t designed to the contrary. 

Thirty seconds of reprieve before the next call hits. Just enough time to remember I’m a person.

Slide my phone from my pocket, and the home screen reveals one new message. 

Evie. 

Eagerly awaiting your lunch update, pls.  Trying a bubble tea atm. Tastes like nothing. 

A picture of her cup against the backdrop of South William Street. Red brick buildings. Cracking sun. It makes me feel depressed. Forty-three minutes until I’m allowed to access my sad sandwich in the company fridge. I’ll spare her a picture.

Start to type something back. 

Grim. Always thought those looked good, in a kind of freaky frogspawn way tbh. There’s a place–

Chime. A call connects. 

Phone back in the pocket. Headset back on. 

“Good afternoon. You’re through to support. My name is Jude. How can I help you?” 

In the evening, after escaping the call center, I sit with Astrid outside a bar in Mitte. Her long, bare legs are stretched out in the golden light. The garlic-slick remains of her prawn tapas sit in a dish on the table, and I, pencil to paper, sketch, for the hundredth time, a diagram of a clay sculpture. 

“You’re allowed to stop working,” she drawls, following several minutes of silence. “It is possible to enjoy a Friday evening if you put your mind to it.”

“Mm, I know,” paw for my glass of wine and drink some without looking up from the page. “Just with everything... the job’s killing me this week. Can’t wait for next week when I can finally… you know, quit.”

“Well, not everything you deliver has to be perfect. Your assignments don’t matter so much in second year.”

“I’d rather have something to show at the end of the semester. You see where I’m coming from?” I gesture to the page, the drawing of a head, my head maybe, though it will probably be a decision based on time once I get into the sculpture studio. 

She sighs, heavy and hassled, and adjusts her sunglasses on her nose. “If a genie granted me one wish, it would be that you could just relax and enjoy your life.”

“Thanks, that’s nice,” I say, not knowing whether she intended it to be or not. Too busy to care. 

A mask, I think. Yes, the head should have a mask on it. Kind of halfway off. Scrawl a note to find a book about that in the university library on Monday. 

“There she is,” Astrid says, no excitement in her voice, and I look up as Mia crosses the plaza. Jeans and a t-shirt, hair sticking out from her ponytail in a halo of frizz, and a blush from the vigour of her walk across her cheeks and nose. Same flat expression she wore at Christmas.

Astrid doesn’t stand to greet her, but cocks her head to the side, peering up at her sister through her shades. “Hello,” she says. “How are you?”

“Fine,” says Mia. “I like your top.” 

Astrid just smiles. Shows no teeth. 

To me, then: “Hello, Jude.”

I tuck my sketchbook onto my lap and gesture towards the empty seat. “Hey, good to see you again. Sit down. Do you want to look at the wine menu?”

“Ah,” she slumps into the chair, brushes bits of her hair away from her forehead. “No, I’m not drinking alcohol. Not before performing.” Takes the menu anyway, perusing it while Astrid swishes pinot noir around her glass. 

“And the rehearsals?” She says. “They were fine?”

“Yes, they went well,” Mia flips to the cocktail page. “I’ve been finding Rachmaninoff emotionally consuming. It’s probably the most demanding concerto I have had to perform, so I’m feeling tired.”

Astrid nods. 

“What about it is so demanding?” I say, and hope their perception of my intelligence isn’t hinging on my knowledge of Rachmaninoff and his concertos, or whatever. “Is it like, you know, long, or something?”

“Mm, thirty minutes, approximately. It’s more about the endurance needed.”

“Right, right.”

She peers at me. “You’re coming to the concert?”

“Tomorrow, yeah. With my mom and sister. They’re actually flying in tomorrow morning, so yeah. They’re excited. My sister mostly, but my mom too. She sort of has an idea of the kind of person who listens to classical music and likes to play the part. If you know what I mean.” 

Mia nods. “Yes, I do.”

Wipe my hands on the sides of my jeans. “Hey, did you mean it, what you said at Christmas? About letting Ivy backstage and stuff? No pressure if you can’t, but I did want to ask.”

She hesitates. “I–”

“Oh, Mia is too busy for that,” Astrid says quickly. “Already going through so many long rehearsals, and then bringing a child around? I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Mia looks at her but says nothing. Heat crawls up my cheeks and into my forehead. “Okay, well, Ivy is not just some random kid. She’s my sister.”

Astrid shrugs. “Yes, but it’s a professional concert, and she’s still a child.”

“She’s a really great person.”

She just sips her drink.

I adjust my chair. “Well, I’m meeting them tomorrow at their hotel. They got one near the concert hall. It’s their first time in Berlin, so… we’ll make a day of it. Ivy’s apparently been listening to the concert programme on YouTube non-stop. She’s like, obsessed with the music.”

Nobody says anything. 

“Glad we’re all excited,” I mutter. 

Mia glances up. “I’m glad she’s coming.”

I’m not sure if she means it, or if she’s just being polite. Regardless, the conversation moves on. Something about a person they both know, or knew, and I turn my sketchbook over in my lap. Stare at the unfinished face. Mine or not mine. The mask sits crookedly on his brow. 

I scribble over it and close the page.

Beginning // Prev // Next

[pepperonidk]

ii. the song's about to start (can you feel it?) || to.you

↳ "... i'm about to fall for you.''

Pairing: Jeon Wonwoox gn!Reader Summary: Creative constipation. That's what Wonwoo calls the feeling he gets when he realizes he wants to write about how he feels about you. What exactly does he feel about you? That's... inconclusive, he thinks. Warnings: alcohol mentions, cursing Songs Mentioned: partners in crime - finneas, (only) about love - grentperez, buzz - niki

A/N: I'll be releasing a new chapter every day until Christmas, as a gift. :)

let me know if you'd like to be tagged! comments and rb's are appreciated :)

⏮ previous track || back to playlist || next track ⏭ 

Mingyu is the worst person to have in the car when all you want to do is think.

The thought popped into Wonwoo’s mind as he swatted at a wandering hand reaching for the volume dial on his dashboard. A groan sounded from beside him and Wonwoo rolled his eyes in return. Mingyu was a regular in the front seat of his car, and to his dismay, felt much too comfortable touching everything he could on the dashboard. His chair was leaned back absurdly far and the vents on the air conditioning seemed pointed in every which direction. 

“Wonwoo, I like this song,” he huffed as he reached forward to mess with the volume again. His drunken clumsy hands turned the dial much too far until Wonwoo adjusted it back to a reasonable level. With a sigh Wonwoo gave in and looked forward to his later drive home in silence.

He tapped his fingers against the wheel as Mingyu sang along. Croaked, more like. Mingyu had a melodic singing voice, but that wouldn’t be obvious to anyone hearing him right now. But Wonwoo was used to this, and although he pretended to be annoyed by it, he really didn’t mind. He liked this song too and he hummed along, quiet enough that Mingyu wouldn’t notice.

“You couldn’t look any more like a lover Or a partner in crime Or something of mine”

The song ended and Mingyu reached over to turn the volume down. Wonwoo was thankful, but realized if the radio volume went down, Mingyu’s would have an inverse effect. He looked over at Wonwoo whose eyes were trained on the dark and empty 3 a.m. freeway ahead of him.

“You know,” Mingyu began with a smirk in his voice and Wonwoo tensed, steeling himself for whatever nonsense would escape his friend’s lips. “Seungcheol said he saw you dragging Chan’s friend upstairs earlier.” Wonwoo’s hands grew tighter on the wheel and Mingyu didn’t miss the flush of red that appeared on his cheeks as Wonwoo remembered the brief feeling of your skin on his. He shifted his glasses higher up on his nose bridge. Mingyu’s laugh was grating, Wonwoo thought.

He chose not to say anything. A mistake, really, as now Mingyu, the yapper, had found an opportunity to fill in the blanks with his own speculations.

“Mr. Jeon, I never took you for the frat-party quickie type,” Mingyu continued, laughing to himself. “Especially not with people you write songs about.”

“Shut up,” Wonwoo huffed. “It wasn’t a quickie, I was–”

“Oh so you took your time,” Mingyu cut him off with a playful slap to his shoulder. Somehow he felt his face heat up some more. Wasn’t Mingyu drunk? How was he this perceptive? Thankfully, they weren’t too far from Mingyu’s home.

“We were looking for those two other idiots that hang around Chan,” Wonwoo tried to speak up over the sound of his friend’s guffaws.

“I’m just teasing, you grump,” Mingyu finally relented. He waited a beat before continuing. “But that new song of yours was definitely about them right?”

Wonwoo thought for a second before answering, even though he knew Mingyu already knew what he’d say. He simply nodded in response.

“Knew it,” Mingyu spoke again. The teasing lilt in his voice was soon replaced by something softer. “It’s been a while since you’ve written anything new. It felt new.” 

“What do you mean?” Wonwoo asked curiously. He’d always had a particular style when it came to writing songs, and Mingyu had known him long enough to see it become what it was. He didn’t particularly intend to write anything different, he just… wrote as he always did.

Mingyu leaned against the window, thinking to himself. “I’m not really sure myself,” he finally answered after a beat. “It just felt more like you, I guess.” 

The last time Wonwoo wrote a new song was when Joshua was still part of their band. 

Last spring, right as the trees were beginning to turn into various shades of light pinks and pastels, Joshua asked them all to stay after practice to talk. It was an unusual rehearsal from the start, and Joshua seemed nervous much unlike his usual calm and collected self. His dark hair was ever so slightly disheveled and he wore pajama pants instead of his nicer trousers that he usually wore to save time before heading to his office internship after practice.

Joshua clumsily missed notes that he had never missed before, and Wonwoo was more shocked than anyone else to see the founder of their band fumble around like he’d never held a guitar before. So when it came time for them to talk, Wonwoo was intrigued and surprised again when he finally spoke.

“I’m moving,” Joshua blurted out without his usual level of tact.

“You’re–”

“What–”

“Moving–”

Mingyu, Seungcheol, and Wonwoo all spoke at once and Joshua let out a sigh of relief that melted into a soft laugh, as if a weight had finally been lifted off his shoulders.

“Moving? Where?” Wonwoo asked again.

Joshua nodded with a sheepish smile before explaining. “You’ve all met my girlfr— fiance before. We’re both graduating next semester. She got accepted to a music conservatory overseas and my internship offered me a position at their branch in the same city, it just feels like the stars were aligning. It all feels like a sign.” In the many years he’d made music with Joshua, learned his cues and learned his melodies, he saw that Joshua spoke with a twinkle in his eye that Wonwoo had only ever seen when he spoke about his partner.

“I’m sorry to announce I’m leaving the band like this,” Joshua continued. “But I’ll help you find a replacement before I leave. In fact, I already have someone in mind.”

That’s how they found Chan, a friend of Joshua’s fiance who played in the university orchestra with her. They watched his end-of-year recital and sat through his flawless performance of a cello concerto by Saint-Saëns.  It all happened rather quickly after that and without even auditioning, the passionate but impulsive sophomore had become their new bassist.

After going out for a round of drinks at the local pub to celebrate Joshua’s news, Wonwoo found himself outside on the patio, resting his elbows against the railing and thinking about all of this until a voice cut through his thoughts.

“Wonwoo,” Joshua called as he moved to stand beside him. “What’s on your mind?”

He turned around to glance over at his friend. Joshua looked happier now, like he was constantly basking in the glow of something bright, and Wonwoo supposed that in a way, he was. “What does it feel like?” Wonwoo asked vaguely, but Joshua knew what he meant, as he usually did.

“It’s… hard to explain,” Joshua replied with a faraway smile. Wonwoo looked at him and waited for him to continue. “At first, it felt like… well you know, right before a show when we first turn on the amps? There’s a buzz, but it feels electric. It’s a little bit like that, anticipation because you know something good is about to happen.” Wonwoo nodded thoughtfully at Joshua’s response as he continued. “Now it feels so big… like exploring space, if space was safe and warm.” 

After a slight chuckle, a wave of silence washed over the two of them until Joshua spoke again. “Are you going to be okay?” Joshua glanced over at his friend.

“I will be,” Wonwoo answered. “Will you?”

Joshua turned around to face the window and smiled to himself as he watched his fiance laugh at something Mingyu and Seungcheol were saying. “I think so,” he said quietly. “But I’m happy to be here right now.”

“Yeah,” Wonwoo agreed. “Me too.”

When Wonwoo came home to his apartment that night, he reached for his guitar. He strummed quietly as he felt the familiar wash of inspiration take over him. A soft melody seemed to untangle itself into something that made sense in his head and soon, lyrics came along with it.

“Take my hand and come with me to another place We can walk around the universe tonight.”

He hoped he understood what Joshua had told him. Love as a concept was simple enough to put into an analogy, but difficult to really get, but for his friend, he’d try. He sent Joshua off later that spring with the lyrics and sheet music folded neatly in an envelope, a gift from Wonwoo to the happy couple and felt satisfied leaving it at that between the two of them. And so it was, until Joshua asked him to play it at his wedding six months later. It was his first time singing a song without the rest of the band, but it didn’t feel as scary as he imagined it to be. It was like having a conversation, or writing a letter to his friend. To Joshua.

He hadn’t written a song since then, not until he met you. Mingyu was right and the realization had heat seeping into his cheeks.

“Something something Halloween party,” Mingyu recalled the lyrics to his song, snapping him out of his thoughts. “That line about living in a VHS was pretty cute, what did you say to them to make you think of that one?”

“Nothing,” Wonwoo replied and that was an answer enough on its own.

“Oh Wonwoo,” Mingyu cooed as he ran a hand through his hair and shifted to find a more comfortable way to drift off for the last few minutes of the ride, content to let Wonwoo have a reprieve from the teasing.

After dropping off a drunk Mingyu and driving back to his apartment, he couldn’t decide whether to grab his notebook and pen or his guitar. This was a rather frustrating dilemma to have. Usually, he’d feel something akin to lightning and either a simple line or a melody would come to him and he’d grab whatever vessel he needed to bring it alive. 

The song he wrote about you two weeks ago began as lyrics first. He had watched you walk down the sidewalk in your pumpkin costume and groaned to himself as he realized half of your entire conversation was him saying, “cool.” He walked back into the party and through a sea of stupid costumes to find his guitar case and fished out the worn brown leather notebook that he always kept with him and grabbed a pen.

“I want to erase the things I said, but I’ll probably say them again. Wish I could hit rewind and not be so in my head.”

With a few tweaks and a chorus, it had become a song, and Wonwoo was proud of himself. It wasn’t until after he had finally set his pen down and saw he’d written the words “I wouldn’t have let you go leave me,” that he wondered if he really felt that way or if it was just a good line.

At the next party, when you told him you liked the song, the song he wrote about you, he felt something else, and he wondered what to call the flutter he felt in his chest. Attraction, maybe? He learned about the feeling of attraction in class, how the spike in your heart rate and cortisol levels can be read as attraction in the right circumstances… or stress in the wrong ones. With his adrenaline running high after his performance, he decided that the evidence presented was too inconclusive to be labeled one way or another.

Now, he decided to grab his notebook to look back at the page he’d scribbled on, to see if something could give that final push for lightning to strike. He scoured the margins, looking through the various doodles and squiggles and crossed out words. It was incredibly frustrating, Wonwoo thought, to have the desperate urge to write, but not know what to write. It’s probably because he still couldn’t figure out how he felt about you. Anxiety? Attraction? It was something new, but not something he knew how to explain. All he knew was that he wanted to write about you.

Nothing came to him even after flipping through his book, so with a sigh, he gave up and flopped onto his bed. His eyes fluttered shut and hoped inspiration would find him in his dreams.

The next morning, Wonwoo woke up feeling unrested and uninspired. He was expecting to wake up with that familiar whisper of a new melody or a new lyric in his ear, but instead he woke up to the sound of thunder outside. He ran a frustrated hand down his face. Creative constipation, he thought to himself.

Then as he settled into his seat for his psych class, he found himself so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he didn’t notice you call his name. His gaze was fixed on his lyrics notebook in front of him until you reached out and tentatively put your hand on his shoulder. The contact snapped his attention towards you and he felt a haze begin to clear.

“Wonwoo?” The tone in your voice surprised him. It was soft and laced with concern. “You okay? I’ve said your name like three times now.” 

“Yeah,” he shook his head as he muttered quickly. “Sorry, I was just thinking.”

He watched as you gave him a kind smile, tilting your head. “I hate to break your concentration, but my usual seat has been… taken over.” He watched as you nodded your head towards the row in front where Soonyoung, who was hunched over his laptop, was completely oblivious to the girl in your seat who was leaning toward him with a hopeful, dazed grin. “We’re picking project partners today and I think she’s trying to get Soonyoung to pick her.”

Wonwoo scoffed at the scene in front of him. “She’s wasting her time. I’ve never seen him pay attention to anything in this class that wasn’t a Fortnite stream.”

“Harsh, but accurate,” you agreed with a chuckle. “So can I…?”

“Oh, right, yeah,” he scrambled to move his backpack off the seat so you could settle into it. He watched you sit down and when you smiled at him he suddenly felt his cheeks heat up. He awkwardly tried to bring his gaze back to his notebook, not knowing what to say, but waiting for you to continue the conversation. 

After a beat, you continued. “So,” you leaned in conspiratorially. “Think she’ll succeed?”

He thought for a second before answering, his lips twitching as he did. “Not unless she pays him in… Robucks.”

“V-Bucks,” you corrected him with a playful grin.

“Right,” he twirled his pen in his hand, as if needing something to fidget with. “That.”

You chuckled in amusement. “Well, if she steals Soonyoung, I’ll settle for Chan. We’ve been project partners since we were little, so I’m used to picking up his slack.”

Wonwoo raised an eyebrow at you. “And if Chan gets taken?”

You simply shrugged as you smiled at him playfully. “Then I guess I’d be stuck with you.”

His pen slipped out of his fingers and he blinked at you, his glasses sliding down his nose. “Me?” he echoed.

“Yeah, you,” he blushed as you laughed at his surprise. “Unless you’ve already made plans?”

“I don’t know anyone else in class,” he admitted sheepishly. 

“Neither do I,” you replied easily. “Looks like we’re a great match already.”

For a beat, Wonwoo caught himself just staring at you, unsure of what to say. The tips of his ears felt red hot, and he looked down at his notebook again, scribbling in the margins. “Sure, a good match,” he repeated. 

“So what is it that had you thinking so deeply?” you asked as you pulled your laptop out of your bag.

Wonwoo paused for a beat, wondering how to reply. He wasn’t particularly fond of letting people into his writing process. It felt too intimate. Even Mingyu and Seungcheol had only ever looked into his notebook once and then decided it wasn’t worth being on the receiving end of Wonwoo’s death glare (not to be confused with his usual resting neutral glare). For some reason, he felt as though you wouldn’t be too much of a threat to his creative process.

“I have to write about a feeling,” he began tentatively. “But I can’t really figure out what it is.”

“Oh is this for, like, an essay?” You asked. You tapped on your chin as you thought about what to say.

“Yeah, something like that.” “What’s the feeling?” you continued to ask. Wonwoo found himself intrigued at your willingness to help him, but remembered how quickly you relent to offering your notes to Soonyoung and Chan when they miss something. He figured it’s probably second nature for you.

“Honestly, I’m not too sure myself,” Wonwoo answered honestly but still nervous that you’d see through his flimsy details. 

He was aware of how vague his answer was, but this was the closest thing he could tell you without divulging his thoughts. He wasn’t even sure how much of a help you’d actually be. Songwriting, Wonwoo recognized, was not something that everyone could do, but it was something he did well. He had a knack for being able to step into someone else’s shoes and write about their feelings. Like some sort of twisted empath, he could write a damn good love song without ever having been in love. He figured whatever higher being created him thought it would be funny to have such a stoic man only be able to express himself through a melody, like he was in some goddamn musical. 

The other members of his band had a bit of experience writing as well, but their styles were different from Wonwoo’s. They had a special knack for writing songs that sounded like them. Mingyu’s songs were always more upbeat and catchy, good for parties, and a little quirky. Seungcheol’s songs were much more focused on the rhythm and had fewer lyrics. Chan, although only having written a couple of songs so far, definitely had a more angsty, grungy vibe. It was only from Joshua’s leadership that they all learned to blend their styles into something cohesive.

Most people outside of the band assumed that the majority of songs were written by Mingyu or Seungcheol or even Chan now that he was part of it. But surprisingly, Wonwoo was the real lyrical mastermind behind No Name, although he never opts to correct anyone who thinks otherwise.

“Just write it down,” you replied as if it was the most simple answer. “Even if the feeling doesn’t have a name, you’ll get the point across.” When you looked over to see Wonwoo eyeing you skeptically, you continued.

“Not all feelings have a name,” you went on. “Like the feeling when you’re about to turn a door handle into a surprise party you knew about, or like when you get the first cup of hot coffee for the season because it’s finally cold enough outside for it. It’s like you know it’s the start of something new, something good.” 

Wonwoo could see warmth flashing in your eyes as he watched you list these feelings. It reminded him of Joshua’s words that night. Something about anticipation…

There it was. Lightning. His head shot up as you spoke and you turned to him with wide eyes. You watched as he reached for his notebook and began scribbling into it madly. Before you could ask him more about it, the sound of the professor’s voice filled the room. Wonwoo, however, did not lift his head.

“It’s the feeling of the first coffee run in autumn – can you feel it?”

The last part was a question for himself.

Sure enough, today was the day project partners were being assigned and although Wonwoo spent the majority of the class writing madly into his journal, his ears perked up at the announcement.

“Since you’re all adults and there’s over 60 of you in this class, it’s easier for everyone to just partner up with their current desk partner.” Wonwoo turned and met your eyes and you both let out a sigh of relief. He was glad it was you.

He managed to set his pen down as the professor continued to explain the assignment. “This project is about relationships,” he announced as he walked down the aisle to hand papers out to the class. “For the rest of the semester, you’re going to be getting to know your partner and hopefully yourself, quite well. Hopefully, if nothing else, you can leave the class with a new friend.”

The both of you turned your heads at the sound of Chan groaning as he looked over at Soonyoung. Soonyoung  looked wistfully at the girl who stole your seat, finally giving her attention. Unfortunately, she was in a separate desk cluster. Wonwoo was thankful that things worked out the way they did.

Wonwoo watched you stifle a chuckle at the two in front of you and pass him the worksheet. He scanned over the paper. It was mostly blank, save for a few sentences of instructions and two sections of items to note. 

Under the first section were three items: First impressions of your partner? Who do you think you are? How do you think others see you?

The second section simply stated: At the end of this project, reflect on your earlier impressions and see how they’ve changed. What’s changed about how you see your partner? How they see you? How you see yourself? What social theories or effects do you believe may have affected this change?

“You get out of this project what you put into it,” the professor stated. “The more time you spend with your partner, the more change you’ll see in any or all of the criteria. However, if you decide not to spend any time with them after the initial meeting, you still have some theories to write about.” He chuckled to himself as he scanned the students’ faces.

He continued on. “There’s no criteria for how much or how you spend time with your partner outside of being safe and respectful. But I suggest you do things together that mean something to you. Be intentional with the time you spend together.”

Wonwoo’s previous feelings of relief had suddenly dissipated as quickly as they came. This was a rather intimate project, and although the questions seemed simple enough, being in this class for the semester taught him nothing was ever psychologically simple. He snuck a quick glance over at you, busy writing your name on the top of your paper and writing down quick reminders to yourself in the margins of your notebook where you had neatly organized your notes from class. Your cheeks were pink, and so were the tips of your ears. He was sure his were too.

He looked down at his own notebook, filled with nothing that could help him on an exam. But he had half a song written down. 

It wasn’t until the professor had dismissed the class and Wonwoo was setting his things back in his bag that you finally turned up to look at him with your phone out towards him. “Before you head out, can I get your number?” you asked.

“Sure thing,” Wonwoo reached out for your phone, accidentally brushing his fingers against yours in the process. There was that flutter again, but Wonwoo was ready to chalk this one up to stress. Until he caught a glimpse of your tinted cheeks and suddenly he was at a loss once again. He focused back on the phone long enough to put his number in before handing it back to you, letting his fingers brush yours once again. For research purposes, he had said to himself. Results still inconclusive.

That afternoon, Wonwoo sat at his desk with the worksheet in front of him. The first question seemed easy enough to answer. He didn’t need to think too hard before writing a response.

First impressions of your partner: 

He thought back to his first time seeing you in class. Did that even count? All he ever saw was the back of your head and the way you would raise your hands to rub at your temples at the end of class as you slid your notebook for Soonyoung and Chan to take pictures of. He picked up his pen anyway. Begrudgingly kind, he wrote.

The first time he really saw you was that night at the frat party. You were quick to laugh at his jokes, and quicker to add on. And later, he watched as you danced with Soonyoung, who Wonwoo watched get shot down by a girl who was clearly more interested in the girl with her, even in your stupid pumpkin costume that stood out like a sore thumb. There was something about you that drew people in, he realized. Charming, good friend, obnoxious.

He thought about when you finally left that evening to go study. Hard-working, warm.

The next questions were a lot more difficult to answer.

Who do you think you are?

“Annoyed, mostly,” he muttered aloud as he forced himself to try to think. Although he had a knack for writing about other people, he wasn’t a huge fan of introspection. A musician, he wrote simply. I’m good at what I do, and I do what I’m good at. Simple. Blunt. It wasn’t much, but it was enough, he thought.

How do you think others see you?

This was such a dumb question, Wonwoo thought to himself. He never really cared about how other people saw him. Mingyu always said it was one of his charms, especially on stage, and he agreed. His Twitter DMs seemed to agree as well. But a question was a question, and he wasn’t going to hurt his stellar grade over a dumb question. Charismatic, quiet, intense, cold. 

He finally set his pen down and picked up his phone to see a text from an unknown number.

Unknown: Hey Wonwoo, are you free this evening?

Before Wonwoo could feel confused at who the hell would be so bold as to message him like this, you quickly sent a follow up text with your name and Wonwoo scoffed. He was amused. He saved your number before replying to you.

Wonwoo: Sure Wonwoo: Did you want to do something?

He didn’t wait long for a response as you quickly texted him an address and a time. The campus cafe, which thankfully was near his apartment, at 7 p.m. so he still had a few hours before he had to meet you. He pulled out his lyrics notebook and looked back at what he’d written during class. It felt like it was coming together and Wonwoo felt content as he grabbed his acoustic and began to strum absentmindedly, trying to figure out what his words sounded like in a melody. It was something simple, but he was happy with it. Mingyu was right, this song felt like him.

For the first time in a long time, he was writing about himself.

When Wonwoo walked into the cafe promptly at 7 p.m., he let out a soft sigh. The smell of pastries, cinnamon, and coffee wrapped around him like a comforting embrace and he took a moment to appreciate the smells of autumn. He scanned around the cafe and found you sitting at a booth by the window, staring out at the street. Now that October had passed, the jack-o-lanterns and skeletons had been replaced with the warm glow of fairy lights and other various holiday decor. As he walked towards you, he found himself catching his breath at the warm glow the lights left on your skin. Pretty, he thought to himself. When you finally turned your head and caught his eye, you smiled at him with a wave. As pretty as he thought you were looking away from him, it had nothing on the way your eyes lit up at the sight of him. 

“Hey Wonwoo,” you greeted as he finally made it to your table. He unwrapped his scarf from his neck and slipped out from his coat, setting them both neatly beside him on the leather seat of the booth. “I went ahead and ordered a little bit before you got here. Figured you’d look forward to something warm to fight the cold.” You gestured at the cream colored mugs that sat on the table and Wonwoo cautiously inspected the one in front of him. The steam still rose from its contents and the smell of Earl Grey tea made his shoulders relax. He wasn’t a coffee person.

“Thanks,” Wonwoo replied softly. “How’d you uh, how’d you know I prefer tea?”

You blushed as you looked away. “I was a little nervous,” you began, your attention once again on the sights outside. “I texted Chan on the way here and asked what kind of drink you preferred.” 

Wonwoo felt himself blush and was thankful that you weren’t looking directly at him. He scoffed before taking a sip of his tea. Seems like Chan pays attention. “Nervous, huh?” He didn’t mean for it to come out as teasing as it did.

You finally turned your attention back to him. “Yeah,” you chewed your lip. “This is kind of an intimate project. Did you see the questions? It felt like some sort of first date survey.”

He nearly choked on his next sip. You were right, and now that you had pointed it out, Wonwoo couldn’t help but fixate on the idea. A first date, he repeated to himself. He hoped the mug hid his blush.

“We don’t have to think of it that way,” you quickly added. Wonwoo let out a soft chuckle at your panic. “I mean, not that it would be terrible, but this is for class so I think we can keep it professional and then be friends, which I guess would not really be prof-” 

“You’re rambling,” Wonwoo cut you off. He felt relieved that he wasn’t the only one who was nervous about all of this, but he also took note of how you said it wouldn’t be terrible for this to be a date. He let out a sigh and set his mug down. “There’s no pressure at all. We can spend as much or as little time together as you’re comfortable with, and how we spend that time doesn’t have to be anything in particular. We could study, talk, or just sit here in silence too, if you wanted.” He hoped of course, that he’d see you more often, but he wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t. He knew people saw him as somewhat unapproachable. Even people who scream his name at performances seem to tense up and freeze when they see him on campus. He didn’t want you to be one of them.

To his credit, his words did seem to have an effect on you and he watched your shoulders begin to relax as you reached for your own mug to take a sip. “Thanks,” you began. “Sometimes I get too in my own head. But you’re right. No pressure.”

Glad that you were finally more relaxed, he let a beat of silence sit comfortably between the two of you. When he first met you at that party, you seemed a lot more sure of yourself, not that you seemed unconfident now, but more that you handled interactions with new people in a charming, easy way that he couldn’t. It made him relax knowing he wasn’t the only one who tends to overthink things. He made a mental note to write that down for his assignment later.

It was much easier to just talk after that. Wonwoo felt he had finally redeemed himself after that night where all he could say was “cool.” He was a man of few words… but not that few.

You told Wonwoo about how you’d met Chan, Seungkwan, and Hansol. How Seungkwan had come up to you at recess in elementary school after you had just moved to town and asked about the book you were reading. He was the first to speak to you, and Hansol was the first to drag you along to their adventures. Chan, who was your next door neighbor (and the same age as you), had declared himself your older brother when he found out you didn’t have one. “Everyone should have a big brother,” he had decided at 9 years old.

Wonwoo told you about the band, why it was called No Name in the first place. He and Joshua had started the band in high school with his best friends and kept it going since they somehow ended up at the same university. Mingyu wanted to call themselves The Four-Eyes “because it’s funny. Because you wear glasses.” And when Wonwoo nearly pounced across the table, Seungcheol suggested The Cherry-pops which Wonwoo hated even more. It wasn’t until Joshua broke up the argument and shoved Mingyu back to his seat on the couch that Joshua decided, “If we can’t decide on a name, then we go with No Name.” And that was that.

Wonwoo had found himself smiling at the memory, and chuckled at how long ago that was. Now, somehow, he had become the leader of the band, filling in Joshua’s role as a singer and at times, a mediator.

It was easy to be nostalgic with you, but maybe it was the tea, or the fairy lights that set him up. It wasn’t until both your mugs were halfway empty after a refill that Wonwoo remembered to ask. “So why a cafe?” he asked curiously. 

Your eyes lit up as you began to speak. “Oh, right,” you began. “Remember how we were talking earlier about feelings that don’t have a name and I mentioned the first coffee run in autumn?” Wonwoo nodded. “Well, I finally had some time today, and I thought I’d invite you to join me so you could feel it firsthand.”

Now that it was November, it was well past Wonwoo’s first run to the cafe. In fact, he’d been here at least twice a week since September.

“I know that it’s really late into the season,” you spoke again as if you knew what he was thinking. “And I’ve had plenty of coffee since September. But I’d just been so busy that I hadn’t had a chance to actually sit down inside a cafe and enjoy a cup of coffee.” You smiled as you looked down into your mug.

This is nice, Wonwoo thought to himself. “So what are you feeling?” Wonwoo probed as he recalled your words from earlier. Something new, something good. This was definitely that.

“Like life is about to fall into place.”

Later that evening, Wownoo found himself itching for his phone to text you.

It had only been an hour since the two of you parted ways after he walked you to your car, but he already found himself thinking about when he would see you again. You were easy to talk to but you didn’t mind when he only had a few words to say either. It felt easy. He hadn’t been on many first dates but he knew that none of them had him feeling this way afterwards… Not that this was a first date. Right?

Wonwoo: Hey Wonwoo: Are you free tomorrow? We can meet again if you want.

Tomorrow?  Wonwoo had sent the message before he could think too hard about it. He shoved his phone under his pillow and walked out to the kitchen of his apartment. He grabbed a glass of water and leaned against the island, running a hand down his face. He took a sip and began to pace back and forth.

Like a phone toss when it’s risky but you hit send.

He ran to his desk, momentarily forgetting about the phone, and wrote down the line. And another one. And another one. Until finally, he had a song. He took a deep breath before reaching under his pillow for his phone.

Coffee Addict (psych): I’m not busy :) where do you want to meet?

He thought for a second before an idea popped into his head.

Wonwoo: You know the music studies building? Meet me on the basement floor.

And so the next day he found himself sitting on the floor across from you in a cramped practice room with his hands clasped on his lap. He’s not really sure what had come over him last night after asking you to meet him, but he can’t say he regretted inviting you either. In fact, he woke up bright and early, feeling that flutter again as he thought of seeing you.

“This is cozy,” you joked as you looked around. The room really was cramped, and with a standing piano against one wall of the room, it made it feel even smaller. He wasn’t used to sharing this space with other people, but he didn’t really mind sharing it with you.

He chuckled and shook his head. “Sorry it’s cramped, I know,” he acknowledged. “I just… I wanted to show you something.”

“Oh?” you asked. “What is it?”

Wonwoo looked up at the piano before standing up and offering his hand out to you. A buzz in his fingertips. A flutter in his stomach. He sat down on the piano bench and patted the space beside him to his right. The bench was wide enough to fit both of you, but Wonwoo didn’t miss the feeling of your leg pressed against his. Before he could overthink himself into a panic, he stretched his fingers over the keys and began to play.

“It’s the anticipation when the amps turn on Just cables and crackle. It’s the first flicker of the neon sign It’s the words stuck in your Adam’s apple.”

He glanced over at you before continuing on to the next verse. Your hands fidgeted in your lap, but you watched as his fingers moved across the keys.

“It’s a bumblebee on a blossom The first coffee shop run in autumn.”

You looked up at him, eyes wide as you recognized your own words.

“The song’s about to start, can you hear it? The door’s about to open, can you feel it? The flower’s about to fruit, can you see it? I’m about to fall for you.”

A buzz. A flutter. He knew what this was.

“About to fall for you.”

A/N: a fun fact about this chapter: Chan knows everyone's favorite drinks. It sounds sweet, but he learned it's an easy way to get on their good sides when he's late for practice.

Also I gave myself butterflies when writing this chapter hehe