#i feel like i forgot half of what i wanted to say but this is enough

[cameronsbabydoll]

more blunt!simon because he’s hot

he doesn’t even look up from his phone when he says it.

just sprawled across the couch, one arm behind his head, legs spread like he’s on a throne instead of a beat-up cushion that still smells like smoke and sweat.

“ya know, if you’re gonna walk around like that, you oughta be ready to get fucked.”

you freeze. halfway across the living room, wearing nothing but a big t-shirt and the tiniest pair of shorts you forgot you even owned.

“like what?” you ask, already feeling the heat crawl up your throat.

he finally lifts his gaze.

smirks.

“like a mouth-watering little tease,” he says. “jesus. i can see the crease of your pussy from here.”

you make a shocked sound—half gasp, half laugh—and wrap your arms around yourself like that’ll help.

he scoffs.

“don’t act shy. you bent over the fridge earlier like you wanted me to notice. ass all high, thighs squeezin’ together like you were tryna get off on the cold air.”

you open your mouth to argue, but he cuts you off, lazy and cruel.

“if i pulled your shorts down right now, you’d be wet already. bet your fuckin’ panties are stickin’ to you.”

you stare. breath caught in your chest.

he grins wider.

“c’mon. lemme see. won’t even touch. just wanna take a look. see if i’m right.”

his eyes drop, heavy-lidded and hungry.

“you do like it when i talk like this, huh? your nipples are hard.”

you cross your arms tighter, turn to walk away, but his voice chases after you—

low and amused and absolutely depraved.

“run off if you want. just know the second i hear that shower start, i’m gonna be sittin’ here jerkin’ off with the door open. loud. so you know what you did to me.”

[nadvs]

the power play (part eight) (end)

pairing hockeyplayer! rafe cameron x tutor! reader

rating mature 18+

summary rafe is your complete opposite. the only thing you have in common with the hockey player you tutor is that he’s also recently had his heart broken. in a last-ditch effort to make the people who hurt you regret it, you agree to pretend to date.

Time folds into itself as you lie in Rafe’s bed, slipping in and out of a tired daze, lulled by the sound of his heartbeat.

When he shifts and exhales a sharp wince, you don’t know how many minutes have passed, but you’re sure it’s time to leave, to give him all the space he can get in his bed.

“I should go,” you whisper, sitting up slowly.

He’s in a trance, his shoulder aching, exhaustion seeped into his bones.

Your warmth is gone.

He sees your figure in the dark.

You leave as quietly as possible.

════════

The next day, Rafe walks out through the campus gym doors after meeting with his coach and physical therapist. Turns out the tear isn’t nearly as bad as it could’ve been, but as expected, there’s no chance in hell he can play for a while. He’s out of tournament.

He’s lost. It’s like he forgot his own name. Hockey is the constant in his life, or it was, and it’s messing with his head that he won’t be spending hours training or practicing or playing anymore. Instead, he’ll either be in physio or resting, and the closest he can get to the ice is on the bench.

His coach had said that at least it happened at the end of the season, that he’s only a sophomore with so much ahead of him, but all Rafe can feel is disappointment ripping through him.

His phone buzzes with a text from you.

I hope you’re ok. Guessing you can’t make it today?

Right. It’s Thursday. He’s supposed to meet you for tutoring in an hour.

If he never hurt himself last night, if today was a normal day, he’d be in class right now, his morning workout done, his body buzzing with the hot anticipation that he feels every time he’s about to see you.

But today’s far from normal. You said nothing after he kissed you last night. He’s an idiot for making a move on a girl who’d told him so many times that she doesn’t want a boyfriend.

But you’re the one who curled up next to him, who cried over his pain as if it were your own, who told him you care about him.

It’s insane what you do to him. He never runs in circles like this, never dwells on what a girl might be thinking, because he doesn’t have to. In any other situation, he’d cut to the chase and tell you that he wants you.

But the embarrassment from what happened last night still stings. He wouldn’t survive it, hearing you say you don’t see him like that, that you’re not looking for a relationship. When he’s so sure it’d end in an awkward rejection, what’s the point?

After everything that happened in the last 24 hours, it’s a loss he wouldn’t be able to cope with.

════════

You’re writing in your agenda as you wait in the study room, your pen smoothly gliding over paper. Your phone is sitting beside your notebook, and you unlock it to reread Rafe’s text from half an hour ago.

I can make it.

You’re tense about seeing him after last night.

You don’t know what to do. There’s no misinterpreting it. He kissed your forehead and there’s no way he would do that if he didn’t feel something deeper than friendship for you.

Still, it’s sad how hard it is to believe that a guy sees you like that, all because of the mark that Beck left on you. Rafe had once called you clueless about this stuff, and he was right.

The memory of how he’d snapped at you in the car that night serves as a reminder of how cold he can be, and how you’re not entirely confident you could handle loving someone like that.

You’re carrying too much baggage. So is he. You’d thought Rafe came into your life at the perfect time, but if anything, the timing couldn’t be worse.

You’re still working through your heartbreak and you don’t know if you can be with someone when you need to work on yourself. Especially when that someone distances himself from you whenever you ask the wrong question.

You’re scared. If you gave Rafe your heart, truly, all the way, there’s no telling if it’d be in good hands.

His broad figure appears in the doorway, his expression guarded.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” you say. You motion to your own arm, immediately noticing that he’s not wearing the sling you saw him in last night. “You don’t need the…?”

“It’s not that bad,” Rafe murmurs, nudging the door shut with his good elbow.

“I thought you tore it,” you say, your voice laced with concern. He sits down with his elbow bent, his injured arm tight against his body.

“I’m not going to need surgery or anything,” he repeats what he discussed earlier at the gym. “Few months of physio and meds and I’ll be good.”

“And rest, right?” you say. “You forgot to mention rest.”

“What do you know?” he says with a small smirk.

You mirror his smile, glad that although something so awkward is weighing over both of you, you can share a lighthearted moment.

“A lot,” you reply. You hold up your pen. “Do I need to give you another reminder tattoo?”

He scoffs, but he’s not sure he could tell you no if he tried, especially if the offer includes you touching him.

To your surprise, he lays his forearm on the desk. You chuckle, leaning forward, gently writing rest! on the inside of his wrist, right where you’d written your study room number on him all those nights ago.

“I think I have a future in this,” you say, admiring your work. He gazes at you as you tilt your head and blow cool air over the wet ink. “How are you?”

“Good,” he answers, in a melancholy daze. “You?”

“I’m good,” you reply. You meet his eyes again. “So, only a few months until you’re better? What’s the healing process going to be like?”

“The physio gave me a whole list of crap I gotta do,” he answers with a sigh.

“Do you have it with you?”

He hands you the sheet of paper jammed at the side of his backpack. You read over the instructions, tips on managing pain, on the importance of nutrition and rest, on avoiding rigorous activities.

You skim over one of the bullet-points in the middle. Sleep on your back with the injured arm supported.

“They even tell you how to sleep?” you try to joke. “So, you shouldn’t have someone else on top of you. Lesson learned.”

What happened last night is out in the open now, the atmosphere strained with tension. Your eyes are still on the page. He can see you’re uncomfortable and he respects that you’re addressing it.

“I shouldn’t have…” He grimaces, embarrassed all over again. He has no choice but to brush the kiss off, to lie his way out of this. “I was on a lot of painkillers last night.”

He wants you to look disappointed so badly that it makes him ache, because then he’d take his words back and call bullshit on himself. But when you glance up at him, the look on your face is one of relief.

“Don’t worry about it,” you say, looking back down at the paper. You’re alleviated of your anxiety. He either didn’t mean the kiss, or he doesn’t want it to turn into something, and it’s better this way. Safer. “How often do you have to do therapy?”

Rafe tells himself he can deal with the hurt later, that now’s not the time to lose it, even though he’s on the edge. He pulls his laptop out of his bag, finding it so much harder now that he can’t use both arms.

“Twice a week,” he answers, his words stiff.

“And exercises you have to do on your own,” you murmur sympathetically, reading over the page. “This is a lot. I bet you can get accommodations for school. Deadline extensions at the very least.”

You put the paper down, smoothing out the wrinkles, trying to make sense of why your heart is racing right now. Rafe throws you for such a loop that you don’t even know how it’s possible to be both eased and troubled by him shrugging off what happened last night.

“I’m really sorry you can’t play anymore,” you tell him.

“Nothing I can do about it now.”

His scowl is hard as he logs in onto his computer, typing with one hand.

“I’m not just saying this,” you tell him. “The team wouldn’t have made it so far without you.”

He doesn’t need the reminder of what he’s lost, the agony of how much work he put in just to spend the rest of the school year behind the boards.

“Those guys will be fine,” he says with a sardonic chuckle.

It hurts you to see him so sure of it.

“No way,” you reply. “They’ll miss you.”

His throat is raw and he wishes he could just disappear right now, because he’s seconds away from breaking down. His eyes burn and he swallows it down, forcing everything he’s feeling away.

“Let’s not do this, okay?” he says sharply, his gaze still off you.

And with that, Rafe proves your point. That it’s not just you who might be emotionally unavailable, but him, too. Even after what you’d done last night, even after you’ve shared so much with him, you’re kept at an arm’s length, good enough to kiss, but not good enough to be honest with.

“Did you finish the book?” you ask.

“No,” he states, stoic and disinterested.

You’d normally call him out for his bad attitude, but after what he’s gone through, you’d just feel guilty for it.

You compel yourself to just be his tutor right now – not his friend, not the girl he pretended to date – but his tutor, tasked with one job and one job only.

Rafe finally lets his eyes land where they want to be most, on you, when you ask if you can take his laptop to start working on the next assignment.

But you won’t look at him back. He can tell that you don’t want to.

════════

The moment Rafe gets to his dorm room after your tutoring session, he feels like he’s stalling with nothing left to drive him. His thoughts are tangled together, his body aches, and he has no idea what to do next.

He sits on the edge of his bed. He should probably look over those recovery instructions again, email his profs and teaching assistants about accommodations, do some school work to keep himself busy, but it’s like he’s frozen.

He looks down at the floor, his vision going blurry. The only person, if anyone, he could talk to about this right now is you.

But he can’t even do that. Especially not when you’re mad at him. He snapped, and then you were distant and talked only about his schoolwork for the rest of your hour together.

He feels like shit for how he treated you. He didn’t expect to do it, but you can be so stubborn, forcing him to talk about shit that he can’t talk about.

He lies in bed, still in painful disbelief of how quickly things can change, and how he has no control over any of them.

════════

It’s nearing six p.m. when Rafe wakes up. He checks his messages, hoping you texted him like he always does when he picks up his phone. But of course, there’s nothing from you.

He reads over the team’s group chat texts that he didn’t get to answering. After a few messages asking Rafe how he is after Coach told everyone he’s out for the season, some of the guys texted about a party tonight.

Being surrounded by noise and getting a break from reality sounds like just what he needs. And because he misses you and has no willpower when it comes to you, he texts you: Down to go to a party tonight?

You reply minutes later: Look at your tattoo.

He smirks to himself, glancing down at the word you’d written on his skin, and texts you again: I’ll just be standing there. That counts as rest.

You’re walking through campus to grab dinner, staring at your phone as you weave through crowds, your stomach in a knot.

It’s been that way since Rafe left the study room earlier today. You hate that you’re back in this headspace, overanalyzing, wondering what a man really feels about you.

You did it for years with Beck, going back and forth between being sure he liked you and feeling sad that he didn’t.

It shouldn’t be this complicated. You have fun with Rafe. He gets you, and you think you get him. He’s flawed, but so are you, and that doesn’t mean things can’t work out.

But it feels impossible. You’re not sure you can give each other what you both need. And you’re still hurting from the way he’d brushed you off today yet again, refusing to let you in.

With an aching heart, you text back: Sorry, I can’t tonight.

════════

Rafe’s limbs are heavy and hot as he leans against a wall, surrounded by his closest friends on the team. He’s letting them do the talking, too in his head to even think about having any real fun.

He wishes you were here.

He heads towards the kitchen to grab a drink. He spots a familiar face. And it’s the last thing he needs.

“Hey,” Emma says, leaning over the counter as she fills up a cup. “Where’s your little girlfriend? Not hanging onto you like usual?”

It’s the first words she’s spoken to him since their breakup. That night feels like a lifetime ago.

“What the fuck are you doing talking to me?” he mutters.

Her eyebrow raises in that infuriating way that tells him she’s enjoying getting a rise out of him.

“Warning you,” she laughs. “She’s kind of twisted. I don’t know if a normal person would hear all about your red flags and then like, cling onto you.”

“What’d you say to her?” he asks, his jaw tensing.

“She didn’t tell you?”

“We don’t talk about you.”

Rafe hates that it’s a lie, that he wasted so much of his limited time with you talking about someone else.

“I just told her the truth,” she says.

His nostrils flare as he glares down at her, at a loss for how he ever thought he saw any good in her. After he’s gotten to know you, after he’s seen what it’s like when someone treats him like he’s not a burden, he could never want someone like Emma again.

“I’m sure it’s nothing she hasn’t seen for herself by now,” she says when he doesn’t respond. “Obviously, she heard what an asshole you are. That must be her type. Or it could’ve been the part I said about how pathetic you were, crying to get back together. Maybe she wants to fix you.”

So, that was your first impression of him. That’s what you’ve kept from him.

Rafe heads back to his friends without saying another word. There was a time he was dying for Emma to talk to him. Now, he can’t waste another second around her.

He got what he wanted. She’s jealous. And that guy he saw her with before isn’t around.

He won.

But the victory is hollow.

════════

“It’s not pretty,” Isaac tells you, one foot outside the locker room, “but I got everybody to write something.”

“Thank you,” you say, taking the card. You look around the hall again, as if Rafe will catch you, even though you know he wouldn’t be in this part of the arena right before the semi-final game.

“I did say I owe you,” he replies.

“He’s watching from the bench?” you ask.

“Yeah,” Isaac answers, wincing. “How is he?”

“Fine, I guess,” you reply with a sad shrug. “He won’t really talk about it.”

You haven’t heard from Rafe since last night after you texted him back. But based on how Isaac’s acting, you can tell he hasn’t told anyone about your breakup, saving you from having to come up with any explanations.

“The guy’s a vault,” Isaac half-chuckles.

You nod, glancing down at the card, opening it up to see messy, scribbled messages from the guys on the hockey team written across the inside.

You’d bought the blank card at an on-campus convenience store after asking Isaac if the team did anything to commemorate Rafe after his forced departure. When he told you everyone was too preoccupied with the tournament, you took it upon yourself to do something.

You’re not upset with Rafe anymore. Not after you’ve taken time to reflect that he doesn’t have to tell you anything he doesn’t want to, no matter how much you wish he would. Not when you recall how heartbroken he was when he insinuated that his teammates won’t miss him.

“It’s nice of you to do this for him,” Isaac offers.

“Thanks. I think he needs to hear that people care about him.” You take a step back. “Good luck tonight.”

════════

It’s difficult for you to even imagine watching the semi-finals. You tell Lyla you’re too swamped with studying to attend.

The truth is that you know sitting in those stands will just make you feel the lack of Rafe, the wrongness of him not being on the ice, the gap in your chest that he left.

It’ll break your heart to see him on the bench, instead of in the game where he belongs.

You stop by his dorm room to slide the card under his door. And then, you go home to distract yourself with schoolwork, hoping that with enough time, you can finally feel like yourself again.

════════

You send the text a few minutes after you check to see that the team won, left with one more game to potentially win the championship.

Can you come over?

Nerves stitch your stomach when you receive his response that he’ll be there in twenty minutes.

Eventually, there are soft raps on your door, and when you open it, Beck looks exactly how you expected him to. Confused.

“I’m going to talk,” you tell him, “and I want you to listen and be honest with me, got it?”

He nods, brows furrowed as you step aside. He walks into your room, leaning against your desk as you sit on your bed.

You take a deep breath, nervous but already relieved that years of pressure will be off your shoulders after you say this.

“You know what you did to me,” you say, “and I don’t want you to pretend like you don’t. You strung me along. For years. You knew I liked you, didn’t you?”

Beck glances to the side, adjusting in his haphazard seat.

“It's not like I…” he mumbles.

“What?”

“I liked you, too,” he says, looking like it pains him to admit it. “I – I do like you. Still.”

It’s not what you expected.

“Since when?” you say in a huff of disbelief.

“It’s been a long time,” he answers.

You can only scoff. He sighs, clearly uncomfortable.

“You’re my sister’s best friend,” he says quietly. “Can you imagine how weird it would be if it didn’t work out?”

It’s a sudden, overwhelming realization, hitting you like an ice cold wave. The only reason he never acted on his feelings was because he was afraid of a mere possibility. Maybe it wouldn’t end well, so he saw no reason to even try.

“That’s why?” you say. “Why not just tell me?”

“Because of this,” he says tensely, motioning between you.

“Because of an awkward conversation?” you say. “How is that any better than what happened after your final? You stopped talking to me after that.”

“I thought… with time, we’d go back to how it was,” he mumbles. “And that maybe, we’d both just lose feelings. But then you started dating Rafe and… I can’t handle seeing it. You shouldn’t be with him.”

You hate how he said Rafe’s name, as if it was a swear word. It’s the only thing you can focus on. Not that he just told you what you’ve been wanting to hear for years. Just that he speaks about Rafe like he’s bad.

And Rafe isn’t bad. He can be difficult and short-tempered, but he can also be warm. Passionate. Funny. Caring.

And you love him.

Damn it. You love him.

“I don’t need you worrying about who I’m dating, okay?” you say sharply. “Maybe if you were a friend, sure, but you’re barely even that anymore.”

“Why are you talking like this?”

Beck seems jarred by your contempt. You’re surprised yourself. You always thought you’d sugarcoat your words with him, that you’d care about his feelings too much to ever be brutally transparent.

But this is necessary. And you realize you couldn’t have gotten here without Rafe.

“Because I deserve honesty,” you say. You let out a shaky sigh. “I know you didn’t want to have a hard conversation, but avoiding it led to this. An even harder one. You weren’t wrong to worry that we would never work out. We wouldn’t. I just want things to be civil from now on. Like you said, Lyla’s my best friend.”

Beck shakes his head slightly. It almost looks like he had some semblance of hope that this conversation would go another direction.

“You know he’ll just hurt you, right?” he says. “I saw him fighting with his old girlfriend all the time. He’s a jerk.”

“You don’t know him,” you mutter. “And you’re in no place to call him that. Not after how you treated me. You expected I’d always be on the sidelines, waiting for you, and then got mad when I started seeing someone else. It isn’t fair.”

Beck shakes his head in frustration and walks to the door, but stops himself before he turns the doorknob.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his back still to you. “You’re right. Let’s… be civil.”

It’s a glimpse into why you once liked him so much. He has a soft heart, desperate to run from conflict. But conflict is inevitable. And you can’t be with someone who doesn’t see that.

“Okay,” you say to his back.

The door shuts behind Beck with a hard thud, closing a chapter you’re glad to see end.

════════

You eventually text Rafe: Are you going out with the team? I’m free. Just saying.

Now more than ever, you miss him. It feels silly to distance yourself, to do exactly what Beck did with you and stay away from someone just because there’s a chance that it’ll end badly.

Every part of you longs for him, for the feeling you get when you’re around him, and you can only hope he wants to see you tonight, too.

He responds that he’s on his way to pick you up.

════════

Rafe pulls up to your building, unable to stop his mind from stumbling down memory lane. He idled here for the first time so long ago, with only revenge on his mind, waiting for a ridiculously cheerful and talkative girl to sit in his passenger seat.

When you open the car door and flaunt your bright smile as you climb in, it’s like his heart found its way back to him, like you hold onto it when you aren’t together and parade it around when you are.

“Was it you?” he asks.

“Was what me?” you say.

“The card.”

You grin, glad he got a chance to go back to his room before coming to pick you up. You don’t need the recognition. You’re just glad he seems happy about it.

You notice both of his hands on the steering wheel, recalling how he could only type with one a few days ago.

“Nice,” you say, buckling your seatbelt. “Your pain meds must be working. That’s great. I have to tell you something. I finally talked to Beck. I kind of… told him off, I guess. And… you can say you told me so. You were right. He did like me. Or actually, he does. It was a lot to take in.”

Rafe grimaces, hating to hear that the guy you once said you loved told you he wants you, too. He drives out onto the road, his body tense.

“I told him that it’ll never happen,” you continue. “And he was bitter. And he’s convinced things are going to end badly with you and me. I wonder how we should tell people we’re broken up. Do we just… mention it if they ask? I haven’t told anyone. You haven’t either, right?”

You finally look over at him, gazing at his profile.

Rafe is relieved that you really are done with Beck, that you’re acting like yourself, that you’re in his car again, rambling, filling his life with a light he never had before.

He’d rather not talk about your fake breakup. And definitely not about Beck. He doesn’t have it in him to waste any time with you focusing on someone who hurt you.

“Just admit it,” he murmurs.

“Admit what?”

“The card,” he mutters playfully.

You sigh, realizing he won’t let you get away with not taking credit for it.

“Did Isaac tell you?” you ask.

“Nobody told me.”

“If you want to call me corny, just do it,” you laugh. “Never stopped you before.”

Rafe smiles sadly. Admittedly, it felt good to read the messages from the guys, seeing that they really will miss him. But he doesn’t deserve you doing that for him after the way he lost his cool on you.

“I thought you were pissed at me,” he says.

“I was, a little,” you confess.

“Sorry I snapped,” Rafe says regretfully. “If you were mad, then why’d you do it?”

His voice is soft, just like it was when he’d asked you why you came to his room the night he injured himself.

“That’s why,” you say. “You always seem so surprised that people care about you. I just wanted to give you proof that they do.”

You interlace your fingers together, glancing out the window.

“And it’s okay. I’m not mad anymore,” you say. “I think at some point, I started to take it personally when you don’t want to talk to me. Sorry. I don’t mean to force you. I’ll stop.”

Rafe taps his thumb on the steering wheel. For once, he doesn’t want you to stop.

“It’s because it’s new for me,” he mumbles, giving in.

“What?”

“Someone caring as much as you do is new for me,” he replies. “That’s why I seem surprised. It throws me off.”

Your lips part, but the words won’t form. You’re in shock that he’s opening up, especially when you didn’t ask him to, when you just told him you’ll stop pushing.

“And I’m not used to getting asked so many questions,” Rafe says. “You never stop.”

“I am kind of relentless,” you say, crinkling your nose and smiling. “You make me curious, though.”

“I can tell,” he mumbles, earning a chuckle from you. “We’re good now, yeah?”

You’re touched that he worries this much about you being upset with him. Some time in the last few months, throughout your tutoring sessions and the events you attended as a fake couple and all the moments in between, he really did start caring about you.

It’s nice, because you feel the same way about him. How deep those feelings go remains unspoken, and you’re not sure you can face them yet.

“We’re good,” you reply. “I can’t stay mad at you. You’re too charming. In like, a really grumpy, always mad at everything type of way.”

“Wow,” Rafe huffs, pretending to be offended while flashing the smile you always get hypnotized by.

“Was that rude?” you quip. “You’re rubbing off on me.”

His smile widens, certain now that if he only has you like this, as a friend, it’s so much better than not having you at all.

════════

“How’d that presentation go?” Rafe mumbles in your ear.

You’re standing on the bar’s back patio with the team and the rest of the usual social circle, surrounded by music and chatter floating through the warm late spring air.

You’re right next to him, but not touching in any way, because there’s no reason to fake affection anymore. But knowing this doesn’t make it any easier to stay away from him.

“For my group project?” you clarify. “Picture me and three guys in front of a full lecture hall. They’re taking turns reading off of Wikipedia and I’m trying to pretend that I’m not losing my mind.”

Rafe chuckles, enamored.

“I got a good individual grade, though,” you say. “Wait. Did you ever check what you got on your midterm?”

“No.”

“Please do,” you say, bringing your clasped hands to your chin.

He sucks his teeth, a little nervous as he pulls his phone out of his pocket. He feels your cheek against his good shoulder as you lean in to look.

“An A,” you say proudly, leaning against him, your hand curled around his bicep. You did it without thinking, the closeness feeling more natural than anything you’ve felt before, a hard contrast to how hesitant you’d once been to touch him.

“Thought we broke up,” he murmurs, glancing down at your hand on his arm. It’s his way of testing why you’re touching him like this, aching to hear you say you’re doing it because you want to.

You look up through your lashes, eyes trained on his, silence sweeping over you. You have to feel it, too. He’s sure of it.

“Right,” you reply with a chuckle, hoping to smile your way out of the split in your chest. “Yeah. We are.”

You let go, crossing your arms as you awkwardly look away. You should have known your instincts were wrong, that Rafe is just another guy leading you on, confusing you, whether it be on purpose or not.

He can’t take what it feels like when you pull away like that. He once thought he could handle not acting on his feelings for you, but he can’t. He needs to know what’s so wrong with him, if Emma’s words poisoned you before he even had a chance with you.

“Is it because of what she said?” he says, squaring his shoulders to face you, to try to separate both of you from the rest of the group.

“Is what because of-”

“Emma told me what she said to you,” he interrupts.

You gaze up at him, wide-eyed.

“You talked to her?” you ask. Imagining it wrings your heart out, jealousy pooling through you.

He nods, his jaw tight, looking at you like you’re the one who needs to explain something here. Your forehead crinkles, your face falling with disappointment.

“I thought you didn’t care what she thinks,” you say.

“I don’t.”

You look down, as if you can find the answer somewhere on the ground. Your heart is racing, your mind spinning.

“Are you okay?” you hear.

Rafe looks over his shoulder to see that Beck has walked over, staring at you.

“I’m fine,” you answer.

“I told you this would happen,” Beck says to you.

Rafe meets your eyes again to see that they’re glossed over with tears.

“Fuck off,” he mutters to Beck.

“I’m just looking out for her,” Beck says.

“I look out for her,” Rafe says angrily. His raised voice earns a few side-eyes, the conversations around you silencing.

“Do you?” Beck asks.

Rafe breathes a humorless chuckle, rage coursing through him as he turns around, his back to you, his fists clenched.

“Don’t,” you say. “You’ll get hurt.”

There’s a hole in Rafe’s chest when he hears the concern in your voice for Beck. But when he turns around, you’re gazing up at him instead.

“You’re already in enough pain,” you say to him, your eyes drifting over his aching shoulder. He stares at you in awe, again, like he’s in shock that you worry about him. “Let’s talk out front.”

You don’t wait for him to agree. You storm back into the bar, darting through the throngs of people, pushing the heavy entrance door.

Your shoes pad over the concrete, your breaths unstable as you pass by the small crowds outside the bar.

You round the corner, finding a quiet pocket of privacy in the dark parking lot, next to the wall. You turn to see Rafe right behind you, facing you, his chest heaving.

“What’d she tell you that she said to me, exactly?” you ask, crossing your arms.

Rafe is in disbelief that he led himself back to doing this, talking about his past relationship with you again, letting it bleed into whatever it is that he has with you.

“That I’m a pathetic asshole,” he begrudgingly answers, his features shadowed in the darkness. “That I – I cried.”

“Her words don’t mean anything,” you tell him.

“She’s right, though, isn’t she?” he asks. “You agree. Just be honest with me. Tell me all of it. No more bullshit.”

Tears continue to sting your eyes, afraid you’re going to hurt him, but too worn down to fight.

“She said you were moody and mean,” you relent, “and yes, that you called her crying when you wanted to get back together. And you know what? The only person I thought was an asshole was her. She’s the pathetic one, okay?”

Rafe searches your face, his features hard, in pain.

“She was horrible to you,” you say. “You deserve someone better.”

What’s left of his composure burns away. He drops his head, his breaths barely escaping his mouth. He’d do anything to be what you want. Who you need.

“Why can’t it be you?” he asks through a ragged exhale.

You still, your heart pounding in your ears. A tear escapes past your bottom lashes, a result of one of the most overwhelming days of your life.

“What?” you whisper. You brush the wetness off of your skin, silently begging him to look at you again.

“What is it about me that’s so wrong?” he rasps, his voice starting to strain, putting sound to the question that he’s asked himself his whole life.

Rafe finds it in him to meet your gaze, all too acquainted with the sinking feeling of begging someone to love him.

Your eyes sweep over his face, your lips parted in silent shock.

He’s tipping over the edge, in slow, splitting agony, waiting to hear the words he knows you’ll say so he can finally let the hope that’s still somehow living in him die.

“What are you...” you say quietly, needing to hear it, to be sure. “What are you saying? You want me?”

Rafe pinches the bridge of his nose, sending a frustrated, pained exhale towards the starry sky, your name laced in a groan.

“Yes,” he says clearly, staring at you again, frustrated and afraid. “So bad that it fucking hurts.”

You’re able to feel every inch of your body, yet you’re numb all over. It’s an overwhelming, euphoric rush, looking up at the man you’ve given your heart to and knowing for sure that he’s given you his.

You blink as you step a little closer, taking in every inch of him, his messy hair, his handsome face, unable to believe that there was a time you didn’t see the warmth behind his eyes.

You can’t find the words, and for once, you stop trying to. Instead, you follow your impulse and take one more step, your body brushing against his, tipping your chin up.

Rafe swallows hard, his veins tight and hot as your gaze flutters down to his lips.

“You said you wanted it to be real,” he says, a note of disbelief in his voice.

A smile tugs on your lips. In a moment like this, he’s considering what you’d told him about how you wanted your first kiss to be real, showing you how much he listens to the things you say, how much he cares about your comfort.

“It will be,” you say softly.

After wanting you so badly for so long, Rafe can’t be still for another second. He brings his hands up to cradle your face, ignoring the pinch of pain in his shoulder. His heart thumps as he leans closer and gently leads you towards him.

His lips press against yours and every piece of you melts away. You were wrong when you thought his kiss would either be rough or gentle. It’s both, the pressure perfect, the urgency just as present as the tenderness.

He kisses you deeper, his lips hot and soft. When he smiles beneath the kiss, you smile, too, hooking your arms around him, hands splayed over his firm back, because you can’t possibly have him any closer.

He gently guides you backwards, pressing you against the cool brick wall, your face still in his hands, holding you as if you could slip away.

Rafe is warm against you, shifting to kiss the corner of your lips, your cheek, your jaw, the side of your neck. His breath is warm on your skin as you try to catch yours, squeezing him.

He’s never been so sure that he’s where he’s supposed to be. It’s like you’re grounding him with how tight you’re holding him, ensuring him that he’s wanted.

He shifts to kiss your lips again, panting. He pulls back just enough to lock eyes with you, never having felt so lucky before.

But he’s unsure of how to even navigate this when you’ve told him you don’t want a relationship.

“‘I’ll wait,” he murmurs, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. “Until you’re ready.”

“Ready?” you ask.

“To date,” he says.

You smile up at him, your lips still warm from his. You know you both have work to do on yourselves, but you’re confident you can do it together.

“We already dated, didn’t we?” you tease. “I’m ready. If it’s you.”

He sighs a breath of relief, kissing you once more.

════════

You haven’t done much since you made it to Rafe’s dorm room.

You’ve been lying in bed together with your heads on his pillow, his desk lamp blanketing the room in a soft light, facing each other and talking.

“We didn’t tell anyone we were leaving,” you realize, even though you left the bar about half an hour ago.

The way your eyes widen in worry is so adorable to him that he can’t help but kiss you, and he loves that he doesn’t have to hold himself back from doing it anymore.

“Should we go back? Say sorry to everyone?” he murmurs, a smirk on his face.

“Don’t mock me,” you laugh.

“But it’s so easy.”

You scowl at him, although you’re hardly able to stifle your smile.

“Don’t be mad,” he chuckles, planting a kiss on your lips again. Your cheeks burn, still reeling from how intoxicating it is getting touched and kissed by him now that you know it’s real.

“Right, that’s your job,” you joke, nuzzling in, your forehead against his chest.

A pinch of shame digs into him, his hand running up and down the curve of your spine.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, all the happiness from his voice gone.

You shift back to look at him again.

“I was kidding,” you say, your voice thick with worry.

“Nah, it’s true,” Rafe says.

You bite your lip, studying him.

“Is there a reason?” you ask.

“I just… I’ve always been like this,” he admits. “Sometimes, I can’t feel anything but pissed off.”

“It’s an easy emotion to feel.” You gently trace shapes over his chest, your finger skimming over soft cotton. “They say anger is hurt’s bodyguard.”

“You read that somewhere, huh?”

“You know me so well.”

Rafe’s smile is sad. He had no reason to hold back, not anymore.

“Nobody’s ever tried to understand me like you do,” he admits, “and it was shitty of me to get mad at you for trying.”

“Being mad is comfortable for you,” you empathize. “I get it.”

He takes in a slow, deep breath, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest.

“I grew up around a lot of fighting,” he tells you. “It was a relief when my parents split up.”

Rafe’s stomach twists with discomfort, the memories rushing back, the pain of being at that damn birthday party and seeing such a happy family still cutting into him. Seeing a proud father. Seeing a mother who stays.

And he can’t believe he’s saying it out loud, and that he wants to, and that you didn’t even have to ask.

“But then my mom… stopped trying to be a mom,” he continues. “And I was left with my dad and my sisters and it was like to him, they could do no wrong and I was nothing but a fuck-up.”

You look into his eyes, unable to believe that he holds such a deep, painful wound. Earlier tonight, he asked you what was wrong with him. You can see now that he must have been asking himself that since he was a child.

“I was always trying to make him happy and it never stuck,” he tells you. “Then I started playing hockey and… I could let out how mad I was. And people liked me for it. I finally had a place to go and – and I hate not having it anymore.”

The puzzle pieces click together. Your instincts were right when you’d assumed he was much more sensitive than he let on, hiding behind anger when all he’s ever wanted was love.

Knowing he was in a relationship where he was pressured to hide those types of things makes the pang in your heart even sharper.

“It’s temporary,” you remind him. “You’ll get back out there. But there’s so much more to you than what a good player you are.”

“You think I’m good?” he says. “You didn’t write anything in the card.”

You breathe a chuckle, gently gripping his wrist, the ink you’d etched washed away now.

“I prefer to write on you,” you tease, then gaze up at him again with sincere adoration. “I’m so sorry that happened to you. Thank you for telling me. There’s nothing wrong with you, okay?”

He stares at you in concern, as if he’s afraid you’ll take it back.

But you don’t. You just brush a kiss against his hand, squeezing his fingers with yours.

And this is so much better than the doses of temporary happiness he used to find to fill the gaps. After feeling empty for so long, this is real, complete wholeness.

════════

“Last book on the syllabus,” you say happily, already seated like usual. “We made it.”

Rafe smirks at you as he shuts the door behind him. It’s been almost a week since the night at the bar, and he’s only falling deeper for you, missing you even more when you’re not around.

“Don’t tell me you’re actually tutoring me today,” he answers.

“What’d you expect?”

He drops his backpack on his seat and stands behind you, leaning over to wrap his arms around you.

“Somethin’ more like this,” he murmurs, his lips against the side of your neck.

You smile, squeezing his forearms as you breathe in the crisp aroma of his cologne, remembering when you’d noticed how good it smelled at the first party you went to together.

“You think you can get away with this?” you say, although you feel weak all over. “Did you read the book?”

He kisses the side of your neck, sending a warm tingle through you.

“Rafe,” you sigh. “We have work to do.”

“Oh, shit,” he chuckles. “Your serious voice. I’m scared.”

“You should be,” you laugh. “How was physio?”

“Fine,” he replies, giving you one last kiss before he heads to his seat. Then, he remembers he doesn’t have to lie to you, that you’re the one person in his life that would never give him shit for telling the truth. “Brutal, actually. How are you?”

“Not ready for finals,” you reply.

“You’re already thinking about finals,” he scoffs as he unpacks his things.

“Of course I am.”

You can’t believe that the exam season is just three weeks away and that in two days, the hockey season will be finished and that before you know it, your freshman year will be over.

Rafe pulls out a paper bag from his backpack and places it in front of you, the logo stamped on it familiar.

“Did you..?” you say with a smile. He must have driven to the cafe you’d once met him at right after class, the one you said had the best treats. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Just take it,” he murmurs.

“Thank you,” you sing-song, putting the bag in your lap, sneakily opening it. “Food’s not allowed in here, but this is worth it.”

“Nobody’s going to care,” he teases. “And the door’s closed.”

“Did you miss the windows?” you reply with a laugh. You take a bite and then reach for your copy of East of Eden that you’d lent him and fan through the pages.

“There’s some beautiful prose in this one, isn’t there?” you say.

“Sure,” he says, staring at you with an enamored glint in his eyes.

“You’re just saying that,” you chuckle.

“When do I just say things?” Rafe challenges.

You shrug in agreement.

“So, the discussion question is about the changes of perspectives between both families and how it…”

You trail off as you notice a circle around a paragraph in blue pen, standing out from the yellow highlight and pencil you’d previously etched throughout the book.

“Did you mark something in my book?” you joke. “Who gave you permission?”

“Permission?” he asks amusedly. “God, why do love rules so much?”

He watches as your eyes skim over the page. He only marked one thing in the book and he’s aware of exactly what you’re reading.

You tilt your head, your smile fading, your heart weightless as you read.

A kind of light spread out from her. And everything changed color. And the world opened out. And a day was good to awaken to. And there were no limits to anything. And I was not afraid any more.

“Why did you circle this?” you ask.

“Why do you think?”

Another smile ghosts over your lips as you look down at the passage again, brows furrowing.

“What?” Rafe says, afraid you’re actually annoyed he marked your book.

“I guess I…” You clear your throat. “I used to read stuff like this and imagined someone thinking it about me, but never thought it would actually…”

You meet his eyes, your voice faded into silence as you exhale. He’s never seen you like this before. Uncertain. Afraid to speak.

You spent so long wanting to be loved just like he has, and while he spiralled into anger, you fell into insecurity, convincing yourself that someone would never care about you the way he does, questioning every sign.

Rafe sits up, reaching forward. You put the book down and take his hand. He gazes at you, feeling so damn fortunate that he walked into this room all those weeks ago, and even more fortunate that you see something in him.

He’ll have to prove to you that he sees something in you, too. He knows there’s work for him to do here. It’s work he wants to do.

“It’s true,” he says, glancing down at the book. “You changed everything for me, you know that?”

You breathe a soft, appreciative laugh, offering a small nod.

“Like your grades?” you joke.

He bites his bottom lip, smirking as he leans closer. You meet him halfway, sharing a soft, slow kiss, your eyelashes overlapping.

“Everything,” he repeats, inches away from your lips. “Thank you.”

You’re dazed, lost, and finally, a little less afraid.

════════

“Get as many as you want,” Rafe says, putting his car in park.

You stare ahead at the shop he just pulled up to, your mouth agape.

This morning, you’d asked him if he had to sit on the bench for the final game of the season this afternoon, or if he could sit in the stands with you. He’d told you he’d rather not watch it at all and that he had something else in mind, refusing to elaborate.

Your eyes travel over the sign hanging above the small bookstore, boasting its collection of old and rare books.

He pulls out his key, then chuckles when he sees that you’re frozen, staring ahead in awe.

“Really?” you say.

“No, I just wanted to show you the front of the store,” he mumbles. “Yeah, really.”

You laugh, excitedly getting out of the car. It’s a surprise, seeing just how much he likes to give you things to show he cares. He might not be great with words all the time, but his actions show you what you need to know.

Rafe follows you as you browse the shelves, picking up books, taking some with you and leaving others behind. He doesn’t understand how this could make you so happy that your smile hasn’t left your face, but he’d do it for hours for you.

He starts to take the books out of your hands, holding them for you as you search, but you don’t let him carry them for long, worried about his injury acting up.

He’s glad this is how he’s spending the afternoon. His coach and his friends on the team were cool with it when he told them he wasn’t going to attend the last game of the season.

It’s too hard to watch from the bench, wishing he could be on the other side of the glass. He’d rather be where he feels best: with you.

At one point, you’re reaching for a book on the top shelf, on the tips of your toes, and the sight warms his heart so much that he takes out his phone and snaps a photo.

“A little help?” you giggle, your voice strained. You look over your shoulder to see him smirking with his phone directed at you.

Rafe pockets his phone and steps forward to face you, his chest brushing against yours as he grips the book you’re trying to reach.

Your gazes stay locked as he hands you the book, looking down at you with a pure smile.

“Can we do this all the time?” you ask.

“You like it?” he says. “Bet there’s lots of places like this between us.”

A look of apprehension flashes across your face. You’re weeks away from the end of the school year, when you’ll both be moving back to your hometowns for the summer, three hours apart from each other.

“Do you mean it?” you ask.

You’re uncertain, needing to hear that he wants to keep this going over the summer, and after, that he’ll keep making an effort to see you.

“Three hours is nothing,” Rafe says.

You beam. You don’t need any more words, entirely comforted.

════════

“You made the right call not coming today,” Isaac says as you and Rafe enter the common room an hour later, the team dispersed across the small space. “That was embarrassing.”

“Shit,” Rafe replies, their hands clapped in greeting. “Was it that bad, man?”

“Never got my ass handed to me like that before,” Isaac says, a few of the other hockey players nodding in agreement. “Meanwhile, you’re on some cute little date.”

You share a smile. It’s clear he’s seen the photo of you that Rafe posted.

“It was cute,” you laugh. “Sorry about the loss.”

“Crappy way to end our season,” Isaac tells you. “But there’s always next year. Rafe’ll be back throwing punches.”

Rafe catches your frown.

“Thanks for the help with my essay, by the way,” Isaac tells you. “Got an A.”

“Great,” you say sweetly. “No problem.”

“You think Lyla’s coming?” Isaac asks. You nod, having texted with your best friend on your way here.

“She is,” you say.

Isaac grins when he looks up at the door. You turn to see Lyla come in. He steps away, eager to greet her.

You smile to yourself. After everything you’ve heard from Lyla, you’re pretty sure they’re only a few days away from becoming official.

“What was that look?” Rafe asks quietly.

“What?”

“When he said something about throwing punches, you looked mad.”

You adore it about him, how much he picks up on, but at the same time, it hurts to remember that the reason he knows how to do it is a result of his lonely childhood.

“I’m protective of you,” you say. “I know you’re healing well, but I don’t like the thought of you getting hurt. Is that so crazy?”

Rafe smirks, stepping forward, putting his hands on your hips, gazing at you with half-lidded eyes and a wide grin.

“What?” you whine with a soft laugh.

“It’s cute that you’re worrying about me, baby,” he answers, revelling in the feeling of touching you in public because he wants to, not because he’s supposed to be making someone jealous.

“You think I’m cute?”

His grip tightens, holding you like he always does, like you’re too good to be real, like someone might take you away.

“All the time,” Rafe murmurs, earning a gentle nudge from you. “Gonna miss you when you get too busy for me during finals.”

“You know I’m going to want to read all those books you got me, right?” you say. “I need you to keep me in line and study with me. Make sure I’m not getting distracted.”

“I thought you said I distract you.”

You chuckle, still in awe of how affectionate he is, of how much he loves to touch and kiss you whenever you’re close. He absolutely does distract you, and you love it.

“I mean, yeah, but everyone needs study breaks,” you say with a shrug. “And I don’t like it when you’re not around.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Me, neither.”

Rafe takes a second to just stare at you. It’s impossible to get enough of you. He never really looked forward to life in general, but since you made him yours, he looks forward to everything.

You press your cheek against his chest in a hug, listening to his heartbeat. And you love the feeling of knowing, with absolute certainty, that part of it beats for you.

(the end)

epilogue >

au masterlist

author’s note this was such a fun series to write!! thank you to everyone who supported the story. the epilogue is pure fluff and smut, so for the readers who don’t like spice, def skip it!! ily all!!

[biggianteggplant]

Panties? Never heard of her.

Under where? Bold of you to assume there’s anything under there.

TSUKISHIMA KEI

“You’re so wrong, it's actually impressive.”

“Wrong?” you echo, raising a brow. “Me? Says the guy who thought dolphins were fish until last year.”

Tsukishima Kei glares at you from across the living room, where he’s lounging with a smug expression and crossed arms. “Mammals can swim, thank you very much. I just forgot they had lungs.”

You snort. “Sure, Einstein.”

He huffs and leans back with that patented Tsukishima arrogance, stretching his long limbs across the couch like he owns both the furniture and the air around him. “You just don’t like losing.”

You tilt your head with mock curiosity. “Oh? So you’re claiming victory now?”

He shrugs. “I mean… yeah. I won. Obviously.”

You give him one slow blink.

Then you sigh, hands up in surrender. “Fine. You win.”

He opens his mouth to deliver what is absolutely going to be a snarky remark—but you cut him off with the real kill shot.

“Want your reward?” you say casually, stepping toward him with the tiniest smirk playing at your lips. “Spoiler alert: I’m not wearing anything underneath.”

The words hang in the air for maybe half a second.

Then he chokes on literally nothing.

“I’m—” His smug smirk falters, the sharp comeback dying instantly on his tongue as his eyes scan your face. “You’re what?”

You step even closer, leaning just enough for him to catch the glint in your eyes. “You heard me.”

“Wait—wait—what?” he sputters, now sitting fully upright, glasses sliding slightly down his nose.

It is glorious.

Tsukishima Kei, king of sarcasm, emperor of smugness, is now blinking up at you like you just flipped gravity upside down. He visibly tries to remember the argument—whatever dumb topic it started from—but it’s gone. Vaporized. Erased from his neurons like you hit delete on his entire system.

You lean closer, just slightly. “Still feeling cocky?”

His Adam’s apple bobs. “That’s not fair.”

You laugh. “What? You said you won. I’m just being supportive.”

He gapes for a second, then runs a hand through his hair, trying to compose himself—but it’s no use. His usual cool demeanor is absolutely ruined.

“You’re evil,” he mutters under his breath.

You grin and perch beside him on the couch, your voice sweet and innocent as you ask, “So? Do you want your prize or not?”

Tsukishima clears his throat, avoids your gaze for a second, then mutters, “You can’t just say that and expect me to—”

You cut him off with a whisper, right near his ear: “Kei. I’m serious.”

He turns to you slowly, cheeks slightly flushed, all smugness long abandoned in the wreckage of your sentence. You’ve never seen his expression shift this fast from cocky to completely undone.

“…What were we arguing about again?” he asks, voice low and dry.

You lean back, victorious. “Exactly.”

KAGEYAMA TOBIO

Rooftop party. Cool night air, string lights overhead, music playing low. The team mingled with drinks and snacks, while Kageyama leaned against the balcony railing—soda in hand, eyes flicking between conversations.

You spotted him from across the space.

He looked peaceful. Slightly confused. Probably thinking about milk or how weird the guacamole looked.

So naturally, you decided to mess with him.

You slid up beside him, fingers grazing his arm. He turned to you instantly, lips parting to greet you, but your lips were already close to his ear.

“Hey,” you whispered smoothly. “I feel the breeze… everywhere.”

A beat.

Another beat.

Then—

“...HUH??” he blurted, far too loudly.

A few people looked over. You waved them off with a laugh.

Kageyama was frozen. Soda in one hand, wide-eyed, staring at you like you’d just confessed to murder and expected him to help bury the body.

“Wha—You—Did you mean like… what kind of breeze??”

You stepped back, all coy innocence. “The one between buildings. Y’know. Rooftop breeze.”

His brain was breaking.

“You mean—you don’t have—?!” he sputtered, visibly spiraling. “You—are you not wearing—?!”

You just smiled. “I’m gonna go grab more chips.”

And then you walked away. Just like that.

Leaving him there, short-circuiting with a blush climbing from his neck to his ears.

From that point forward—

He was glued to you.

Followed you to the snack table. Stood behind you while you talked to Hinata. Blocked the wind when you leaned on the railing again. Offered you his jacket three times.

“Are you cold?” “Nope.” “...You sure? You seem cold. You could catch something.” “Like what, wind flu?”

He pouted, furrowing his brow in full Concerned Boyfriend™ mode.

Finally, you turned and leaned in again, lips brushing his ear.

“You’re cute when you’re panicking.”

He immediately stepped behind you, hands on your shoulders like a security guard.

“I’m not panicking,” he mumbled. “I’m monitoring the breeze.”

You died. You actually wheeze-laughed.

And for the rest of the night, Kageyama was your quiet, protective, flustered shadow.

Every time the wind blew, he was there. So was his hoodie. And his judgment.

SUGAWARA KOUSHI

The car ride was peaceful. Soft music. Sunset glow. His hand on the gear shift, occasionally brushing your thigh with that signature calm, casual affection. You were both just chatting about nothing when the light ahead turned red.

He eased to a stop. The car rumbled lightly in neutral. You turned to him, tone innocent—too innocent.

“Every bump we hit? I feel everything.”

Sugawara blinked.

“…What?”

You looked out the windshield, casual as ever. “Just saying. These leggings aren’t hiding much. And I may or may not have left a layer behind.”

Silence.

Dead silence.

Then—

“HghK–”

He coughed. Once. Twice. Choked on pure oxygen.

“…You–you’re serious?” he rasped, looking over at you like you just committed a crime of the best kind.

You turned to him, smiling sweetly. “Mhm. Just figured you should know.”

The light turned green. He didn’t move.

“Suga,” you prompted gently, amused. “It’s green.”

“...Right,” he said, brain clearly rebooting. “Green. Moving. Yup.”

He hit the gas a little too hard. The car jerked forward—right as the road dipped into one of those annoying city potholes.

You let out a soft “Oof.”

His grip on the steering wheel tightened. Visibly.

“...You felt that one, huh?” he muttered, left eye twitching, voice low.

“Mmm,” you hummed. “Vividly.”

That was it. That was the last straw. You could feel the way he shifted gears faster than necessary, tension radiating off of him like steam off a kettle.

Then the next light turned red. He didn’t stop.

“Koushi—!”

VROOM. Straight through it.

You stared at him, wide-eyed. “Did you just run a red light?!”

He didn't look at you.

“I need to get us off the road before I commit a felony,” he said, very seriously.

You snorted. “A felony??”

“Premeditated murder.” He shot you a look. “Of my sanity.”

You grinned and leaned closer, whispering, “You’re doing so well, baby.”

He inhaled like he was about to pray for strength.

KUROO TETSURO

Dinner with the group was going smoothly. Laughter. Drinks. Storytime chaos. Kuroo sat beside you at the long table, arm casually slung behind your chair as he sipped on his drink, listening to Bokuto animatedly recount a gym story.

You, on the other hand, were feeling… mischievous.

Your phone lit up in your lap. You typed quickly.

YN 🧨: I’m not wearing panties. Sent.

You didn’t even look at him. Just kept sipping your iced tea like an innocent citizen.

Kuroo’s phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at the notification and casually lifted it to read the message.

Mid-sip.

Bad idea.

He choked—visibly. A full, flustered cough-sputter combo as the drink went down the wrong pipe.

“Bro, you good?” Hinata asked from across the table, eyebrows up.

“Y-Yeah,” Kuroo wheezed, pounding his chest once. “Wrong pipe. We’re fine. I’m fine. Totally normal bodily function.”

You turned to him, eyes wide, feigning concern. “Are you okay, babe?”

He glared. Softly. “You’re going to hell,” he whispered, voice strained and slightly panicked.

You smiled sweetly and popped a piece of grilled meat into your mouth.

His knee bounced under the table like a man on the verge of snapping.

You leaned in, brushing your lips near his ear.

“Wanna guess what I am wearing?”

He turned his head slowly, eyes narrowed.

“Regret,” he muttered. “I’m wearing regret.”

Across the table, Akaashi raised an eyebrow. “You two good?”

Kuroo straightened up, clearing his throat. “Yep. Just... spicy food.”

Bokuto looked offended. “That wasn’t spicy!”

You just grinned, sipping your drink. Meanwhile, under the table, Kuroo texted back.

Kuroo 🔥: You're not walking out of this dinner.

YN 🧨: Promise?

He choked again.

KENMA KOZUME

The only light in the room came from his monitor. The clicks of his keyboard echoed rhythmically, headset snug over his ears, golden eyes flicking across the screen. He was deep in it—focused, calm, deadly accurate.

“Alright,” he muttered into his mic. “Going top lane—watch the mid push.”

You padded into the room behind him, quiet as a cat. Until you weren’t.

You slid onto his lap. No warning.

Kenma tensed just slightly, hands never leaving his keyboard. “...Hi.”

“Hi,” you said sweetly, snuggling into his chest. “Your chair’s warm.”

“...Mhm. I’ve been sitting for hours.”

You leaned in, whispered near his ear:

“So am I. No underwear, by the way.”

…

He blinked once.

Then—

“HUH—?”

BOOM. Dead. Instantly.

The kill feed lit up in bright red letters.

KOZUME was eliminated.

The Discord chat went feral.

Lev: “BRO?? YOU HAD ULT??” Yaku: “What happened???” Kenma: muted mic

You were biting your lip, trying not to cackle. His hand dropped from the mouse as he tilted his head back against the chair, eyes closed in silent internal screaming.

“You good, gamer boy?” you teased.

“...You just sabotaged an entire match,” he mumbled.

You shrugged, toying with the strings of his hoodie. “Blame the breeze. Or lack of layers.”

Kenma opened one eye to look at you. “You sat on me… in nothing??”

You nodded proudly.

“…I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

He sighed. Then leaned forward slowly, grabbed the mouse again, and switched screens.

“I’m queueing solo this time,” he muttered.

You gasped dramatically. “You’re abandoning me?!”

“No,” he said flatly. “I’m benching you before you get me banned.”

You grinned. “Aww, baby’s mad.”

“Baby’s trying to survive.”

You kissed his cheek and settled more comfortably in his lap.

He didn’t kick you off. (But his character died again two minutes later.)

USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI

It started innocently.

You were walking back from the team’s beach training, shoes in hand, sand sticking to your calves and sun still warm on your shoulders.

Ushijima had offered you a piggyback ride because you “looked tired.” (Read: you tripped on a rock 10 minutes ago and stubbed your toe like a warrior.)

So here you were—legs wrapped around his solid frame, hands looped around his shoulders, cheek resting on the back of his neck.

It was peaceful.

…Until you got bored.

You leaned forward, lips brushing the shell of his ear, and whispered low enough for just him to hear:

“I should’ve told you I’m not wearing anything under this… short.”

You didn’t clarify.

Not under your shorts. Not under your shirt. Just… short.

Let the man spiral. 😌

Ushijima’s footsteps faltered.

Just barely.

But for him? That was like an earthquake.

His grip under your thighs tightened—not in a rough way, just as if he was trying to make sure his brain didn’t drop you.

“…What do you mean?” he asked plainly.

You smiled innocently. “Take a guess.”

He walked in silence.

Then—you felt it: the very deliberate stumble. One step off balance. One dramatic little hitch in his stride. If you hadn’t been hanging onto his back, you’d have eaten sand.

You blinked. “Did you just… trip?”

“I adjusted,” he said stoically.

Liar.

You leaned in closer again, lips grazing his ear.

“Toshi?”

He hummed.

“I can feel your ears turning red.”

“I’m very warm,” he replied flatly.

“You’re very something,” you murmured with a grin.

He said nothing.

You could feel his jaw clenching and unclenching ever so slightly. Like he was trying to calculate whether dropping you now would be considered rude or just self-defense.

By the time you reached the tents, he was quiet, slow-moving, and very focused on staring directly ahead.

You slipped off his back, patted his shoulder, and said:

“Thanks for the ride. And the stumble.”

He finally looked down at you, eyes steady but clearly unsure if you were kidding. “You should tell me next time.”

You raised a brow. “That I’m not wearing anything?”

“That you're going to say things like that. While I’m holding you.”

You smirked. “Where’s the fun in that?”

He opened his mouth—then closed it.

And then he walked straight into a volleyball net.

No comment.

Just vibes.

And tension.

GOSHIKI TSUTOMU

It started out innocent enough. You just needed to fix your lipstick.

The venue was loud, the bathroom dimly lit with glowing neon strips, and outside the door, music thumped through the walls from the party Goshiki had dragged you to. He’d been invited by one of the pro teams for some sort of PR event—you weren’t paying attention. Mostly, you were too distracted by how nervous he was, constantly checking if his tie was straight and if his hair was okay (it always was).

He followed you into the bathroom under the assumption it was one of those shared, single-stall types. It wasn’t.

And now here you were, in front of the mirror, casually touching up your lipstick while Goshiki leaned awkwardly against the sink beside you, trying not to look like he was on the verge of a heart attack.

He cleared his throat. “Uh… are you almost done?”

You locked eyes with him in the mirror, slow and deliberate, a glint of mischief in your expression. “Why? Nervous?”

He immediately stiffened. “N–No! I mean—yes! No—I just—we’re not really supposed to be in here together…”

You capped your lipstick, turned slightly, and rested one hand on the edge of the sink. “Tsutomu?”

“Y–Yeah?” He looked at you with the wide, frantic eyes of a man who knew something very bad was about to happen to him.

You leaned closer, eyes locked on his in the mirror, and with the most casual tone you could muster, said:

“Kinda risky not wearing underwear in a place like this, huh?”

The effect was instantaneous. He visibly short-circuited.

“W–WHAT—?!” His voice cracked like a middle school choir boy. “Y–YOU—YOU’RE NOT—?!” He took a full step away from you like your words had physically struck him. “Y/N—WHAT DO YOU MEAN—?!”

You turned slowly to face him, your lips curling in amusement. “You heard me.”

He backed into the wall like you were a predator and he was the prey. “Are you serious?!”

You tilted your head. “What do you think?”

He made a noise that couldn’t be classified in any known human language. His ears were red. His neck was red. His soulwas probably red.

“I–I–I can’t be here,” he mumbled, looking everywhere except at you. “I’m not mentally strong enough for this kind of situation—!”

You laughed. “Tsutomu, relax. I’m just messing with you.”

He paused, blinking rapidly, like you’d hit him with a bucket of cold water.

“…You’re joking?”

You shrugged with a devilish little smile. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?!”

The door to the bathroom suddenly opened and someone stepped in. You and Goshiki froze.

The stranger glanced at both of you, blinked, then slowly backed out and closed the door again.

You turned to Goshiki with a raised brow. “See? Risky.”

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

And then he muttered, hands covering his face:

“I’m going to die right here in this bathroom.”

You patted his shoulder gently. “At least you’ll die flustered and cute.”

He groaned.

SHIRABU KENJIRO

The whole team had gathered for a photo after their practice match—sweaty, loud, and mildly competitive over who got to stand in the back versus the front. You and Shirabu ended up in the middle, shoulder-to-shoulder, your arm naturally sliding around his waist.

“Alright, everyone smile!” Semi called from behind the phone.

Everyone posed.

Well, almost everyone.

You leaned in close—so close that your lips brushed Shirabu’s ear—and whispered:

“If the flash is strong enough… they might find out I’m not wearing underwear.”

…

Snap.

The photo was taken.

Shirabu looked like a man caught mid-seizure. Jaw tight. Back unnaturally straight. Arms glued to his sides like a toy soldier.

You bit your lip to keep from bursting out laughing as the group disbanded, everyone going to look at the preview.

“Oh my god, Shirabu, you look like someone just told you you failed an exam,” Goshiki laughed.

Reon blinked. “Why do you look so… tense?”

“I’m fine,” Shirabu muttered, voice a full octave higher than usual.

You floated in beside him, all fake innocence. “You sure? You look stiff.”

He gave you a look. One that screamed: You did this.

You shrugged, swaying just enough to make his eyes twitch. “I was just trying to make you smile.”

“You tried to give me a heart attack,” he whispered through gritted teeth.

“Same thing,” you said sweetly.

He turned to look at the group again, brows furrowed, clearly overthinking whether the flash really had exposed anything.

“Don’t worry,” you leaned in again, smug. “I’m pretty sure your reaction was the most revealing part.”

He choked. Silently. Like a man dying with dignity.

Later, Semi uploaded the picture to the team group chat with the caption:

"Great pic! Except Shirabu looks like he’s about to report a war crime."

You: 😇 Shirabu: 🙃

AKAASHI KEIJI

Akaashi Keiji stood quietly in the fantasy section of your favorite local bookstore, one hand delicately holding a paperback while the other adjusted his glasses. His brows were slightly furrowed as he read the blurb.

“Time portals… betrayal… a cursed blade… hmm.”

You watched him from a step behind, amused. The man could write sonnets about emotionally tortured wizards but would completely short-circuit if you sent a slightly flirty text. And yet, he was unfairly attractive in a cozy, bookish kind of way—hair slightly tousled, hoodie sleeves pushed up, expression calm and focused.

Akaashi Keiji, lover of books and calm mornings. You, lover of chaos and this very specific moment.

So you leaned in, close enough that your breath grazed his shoulder, and gently tugged the sleeve of his hoodie.

He glanced at you. “Hmm?”

You smiled sweetly. “The real plot twist?” You paused. Then, with the most casual, deadpan tone you could manage: “No panties.”

It took exactly one second for the words to register.

His eyes widened. Then blinked. Then darted down, just for a millisecond—and then immediately shot back up, as if even looking lower was a sin.

He turned bright red.

“You—” he started, then stopped. His voice cracked slightly, which made it even better. “You’re not serious.”

You tilted your head innocently. “Am I not?”

His jaw clenched, a visible effort to keep composure. He placed the fantasy book back on the shelf with an impressively controlled motion. Too controlled.

“…We’re in public,” he muttered under his breath, glancing around like someone might pop out from behind a shelf and arrest him for having a thought.

You pretended to consider that. “Mm. So?”

His eyes flicked toward the giant Romance sign overhead. You could see the internal struggle.

“I came in here for dragons,” he whispered, like he was negotiating with a hostage-taker, “not psychological warfare.”

You grinned. “You came in here with me.”

He let out a sharp breath and rubbed a hand over his face. “That’s on me. That’s… completely on me.”

A small child ran past, holding a glittery book about unicorns. A passing couple chuckled at something in the self-help aisle. And there Akaashi stood—stoic, composed, visibly losing the battle against his own imagination.

You nudged him. “So? Still want the fantasy novel? Or are you suddenly more into… romance?”

He looked at you. Really looked. Eyes narrowed, lips pressed together, color still in his cheeks. Then, quietly:

“Romance sounds… fine.”

You smirked. “Thought so.”

BOKUTO KOUTARO

It was supposed to be wholesome.

A backyard trampoline. A sunny day. You. Him. Lighthearted jumps and laughter.

That is—until you landed weird, bounced high, and laughed, breathless.

“Whoa—okay,” you giggled, cheeks flushed as you adjusted your shirt and tried to sit. “Every jump is like Russian roulette for my dignity.”

Bokuto froze mid-bounce.

“Wait—what?”

You gave him a wicked little grin, steadying yourself on the elastic. “No underwear, Kou. One wrong bounce and someone’s gonna see the promised land.”

He landed. Hard. On his knees.

“WH—WHY WOULD YOU—WHY—”

His hands flailed, eyes wide and darting like he was scanning the skies for a satellite camera. “YOU—ARE YOU CRAZY?! THIS IS A TRAMPOLINE. TRAMP-O-LINE. THERE’S GRAVITY DEFYING PHYSICS INVOLVED—”

You bit your lip to hold in your laughter as he crawled over like some overprotective volleyball dad and gently forced you to sit. “Sit. SIT DOWN RIGHT NOW. NO MORE BOUNCING. THIS IS A SAFETY HAZARD. FOR YOU. FOR ME. FOR THE NEIGHBORHOOD.”

You blinked up at him. “So you’re saying… my dignity is a public health concern?”

“YES.” He hissed, whisper-yelling now. “I have a reputation. I can’t be the guy who got his girlfriend banned from trampolines because she—BECAUSE—”

“Because I air drop my shame?”

“STOP.”

You were wheezing. His ears were red. His entire face was red. His hair looked frazzled like even it was stressed out.

“KOU!” you mocked lightly, “You good? You look like you just got hit with a serve to the soul.”

He clutched his heart. “You can’t say things like that when I’m already airborne. My brain was three seconds from leaving my body.”

You snorted. “But wasn’t it fun?”

“…Yes. But at what cost.”

Eventually, he lay flat on the trampoline, face to the sky, muttering something about needing to pray for strength.

You just smiled, crawled over, and kissed his cheek.

“I’ll wear shorts next time,” you whispered.

He blinked up at you, dazed. “Make them tight.”

You both burst out laughing.

IWAIZUMI HAJIME

You were halfway into a seated forward fold on your yoga mat, groaning at the tightness in your hamstrings. Iwaizumi knelt behind you, his strong hands gently adjusting your hips for proper posture.

“Babe, you’re rounding your back again,” he said, voice calm and patient—trainer mode activated.

“I’m trying,” you mumbled, reaching toward your toes. “I think my legs hate me.”

He chuckled, warm and low in your ear. “Nah, they’re just tight. Breathe into it, I’ve got you.”

His hands slid down to guide your waist—firm but careful, professional, respectful.

And that’s when you dropped the grenade. Calm. Casual. Deadpan:

“You’re adjusting someone who’s currently free-balling, by the way.”

Silence. A very long silence.

His hands froze. Like statue-mode froze. You could feel the moment it registered in his brain—processing… processing…

“…You’re what now?” he said, voice suspiciously high for a guy who usually sounds like a gym coach with a god complex.

You tilted your head back to look at him. “You heard me.”

His mouth opened, then shut. Then again.

“I—what—why would you—” He ran a hand down his face. “What kind of psycho tells someone that while stretching?!”

You grinned. “What kind of boyfriend positions himself directly behind their partner without checking the underwear situation first?”

His eye twitched. “Because I trusted you were decent!”

You wiggled your hips slightly, just to watch him short-circuit harder. “Define decent.”

“Y/N.”

You fully collapsed into laughter, and he got up, hands on his hips, pacing a little like a man who needed to reset his entire reality.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “I was focused on helping you stretch—on spinal alignment—and you’re out here living like a menace to society.”

You sat up, still giggling. “Technically, I’m living like a menace to you.”

He looked down at you, eyes dark and full of warning.

“You better hope your legs stay tight,” he said slowly, “because when I’m done with you, you’re not walking straight for the rest of the week.”

You blinked. “…Wow. That escalated.”

He cracked his neck like a man about to go feral. “Oh, you wanna talk about escalation, free-ballin’ freak?”

KYOTANI KENTARO

It was supposed to be a chill gym session. Leg day. Headphones in. World out. Kyōtani was in his zone—hood up, jaw set, sweat dripping down his temple as he spotted you from behind while you did squats.

“Back straight,” he mumbled under his breath, watching you lower down again. “Good.”

You were focused too—or so he thought—until you paused mid-squat, tugged at the waistband of your leggings, and turned your head just slightly over your shoulder.

Voice low. Teasing.

“Wanna guess what I forgot to wear?”

He blinked.

You winked. “Here’s a hint. Starts with ‘u’ and ends with ‘nderwear.’”

The sound of his water bottle thunking to the floor was instant.

“...Huh?”

You bit your lip, standing up slowly from the squat, back arching slightly more than necessary. “Feels kinda breezy, y’know?”

Kyōtani just stared.

Not at your butt (for once). Not at your face. Just... blank. Blue screen of death. The man was buffering like a dial-up modem.

“You serious?” he muttered, throat dry.

“Deadly,” you replied innocently, grabbing your water bottle while he stood there, stock-still like a statue sculpted by pure panic and lust.

He finally dragged a hand down his face. “We’re in public.”

You leaned in, standing on tiptoes to whisper in his ear: “That’s what makes it fun.”

His jaw clenched. His fists clenched. Every single muscle in his body clenched.

“...You’re walking home,” he growled.

You blinked. “We live together—”

“Not with me.”

“But—”

“Not. With. Me.”

You smiled. “So, leg press next?”

He didn’t answer. He just walked off toward the weights section like he was about to lift an entire bench press rack into the sun.

You called after him sweetly, “Don’t forget to hydrate, babe!”

He didn’t turn around. Just raised a single middle finger in the air.

Affectionately.

KITA SHINSUKE

Kita doesn’t scare easily.

Ghosts? Zombies? Creepy kids in cornfields?

He watches them like documentaries. Calm. Straight-faced. Occasionally sipping his tea like it’s not the exorcism of someone’s soul onscreen.

You, though?

You're a menace. Not because you’re scared—but because you’re unhinged.

Another jumpscare flashes—a loud bang and a distorted figure lunging straight at the screen.

You jump and clutch his arm dramatically. “OH MY GOD—”

He glances at you. “You okay?”

You blink at him, wide-eyed.

Then, dead serious:

“That almost made me remember I’m commando.”

…

Kita Shinsuke.exe has stopped functioning.

His eyes go blank. One slow blink. Then another.

“…Pardon?”

You look over at him with mock innocence. “What?”

“Y-you… you’re…?”

You shrug. “I like to be comfy during scary movies.”

He looks at the TV. Then back at you. Then down at the shared blanket. Then back to the TV. But he's not watching it anymore. That ghost can scream all it wants—he’s fighting for his life.

“I—” he clears his throat, face doing its best to remain neutral. “You know this is a horror movie, right? Not… not thatkind of film.”

You nudge his knee with a grin. “Scares me into new awareness.”

He exhales through his nose like he’s doing deep breathing exercises. “You’re gonna send me to an early grave.”

“Want me to get up and grab us snacks? Maybe do a stretch or two—”

“NO.”

You’re dying laughing now, while he sits upright like someone just told him to recite a prayer before the next scene. His ears are turning red. His neck too. Maybe even his soul.

“Shinsuke,” you say sweetly, “you don’t seem scared anymore.”

“I’m not,” he replies, voice strained. “I’m deeply, profoundly stressed.”

You cuddle into his side, smug. “Want to switch to a romcom?”

He shakes his head. “No. I need something worse. I need psychological torment. I need something so scary it rewires my brain and makes me forget what you said.”

You: 😊 Him: 🧍‍♂️🫠

MIYA OSAMU

Osamu prided himself on two things:

His cooking.

His ability to stay calm under pressure—unlike some hot-headed twin he could name.

But right now, both of those things were hanging on by a thread.

You’d been lounging around his apartment all afternoon, half-watching TV while he moved around the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, brows furrowed, soft humming leaving his lips as he stirred the pot of pasta.

He was in his element—focused, relaxed, domestic. He didn’t even hear you padding over behind him.

So when your arms wrapped around his waist and your cheek pressed against his back, he just let out a soft, amused exhale.

“Well hey there,” he murmured, voice low and affectionate. “What’s this for?”

You hummed, pressing a little kiss between his shoulder blades. “Just wanted a hug.”

He smiled, turning the stove knob slightly lower. “Dinner’s almost done. Ya hungry already?”

You rested your chin on his shoulder and whispered sweetly:

“You know what’s not in the oven?”

He paused, wooden spoon hovering mid-stir. “…Hm?”

“My underwear.”

There was a moment of complete silence. No sizzling. No stirring. Just Osamu.exe has stopped responding.

“…What?”

You smirked against his back. “You heard me.”

He turned just enough to look at you, eyes flicking down to your oversized shirt—and just barely refraining from verifying anything with his hands.

“Yer not serious,” he said slowly.

You gave him your most innocent look. “Am I not?”

He blinked. Then again. His ears started to go pink.

And that’s when it hit him: the smell. The pasta.

“SHIT—!”

He spun back around and scrambled to yank the pot off the stove, muttering curses under his breath. The noodles were now somewhere between mushy regret and culinary sin.

You bit back a laugh as he stared into the pot like it had personally betrayed him.

He let out a frustrated sigh, setting it in the sink. “Y’know, I take my pasta seriously.”

You leaned against the counter, smug. “I take my undergarments seriously.”

He shot you a look—part flustered, part amused, and a whole lotta dangerous.

“You wanna play that game, sweetheart?” he said, voice low now, accent curling around the syllables.

You just smiled sweetly. “Do I ever not?”

There was a pause. Then he wiped his hands on a towel, slowly. Turned toward you.

“Dinner’s postponed.”

You blinked. “Postponed? What about—”

“I’ll make ya new pasta later. Right now?” He took a deliberate step forward. “You’re goin’ in the oven instead.”

You choked on your laughter. “OSAMU—”

MIYA ATSUMU

The music was loud. The lights? Blinding. The crowd? Wild.

But nothing—nothing—could’ve prepared Miya Atsumu for you.

You were swaying beside him, eyes lit up from stage lights and bass, both hands in the air. The beat dropped, and the floor practically vibrated under your feet. Atsumu, in his element, had one arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you close whenever someone got too near.

Everything was perfect. His kind of chaos. Until you leaned up, lips brushing the shell of his ear, and yelled over the music—

“No panties in this crowd.”

.

He blacked out for a second.

Like—not literally—but his body paused. Mid-groove. Brain buffering. Vision dimmed.

You just leaned back like you said nothing. Bopping to the next beat, like you hadn’t just ended his life with one line.

He turned to you slowly, eyes wide, mouth parted. “HUH?”

You winked. Didn’t repeat it. Just let it marinate.

He stumbled. Actually stumbled. Missed the drop. Forgot where he was.

His hand gripped your waist tighter. “Are ya—are ya messin’ with me? Or did ya actually just say—”

You only shrugged, raising an eyebrow, lips curved like you held the world’s most dangerous secret.

“Jesus christ,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

The music blared on. The crowd screamed as the next verse hit. And Atsumu?

He was not okay.

He stared at you like you were made of pure sin. Like you were sent from hell just to ruin his night in the best way.

“Why would ya tell me that here? In public? In a mosh pit of people?” he yelled, exasperated—but his voice cracked.

“Just wanted to see if you’d survive the set,” you said sweetly.

Spoiler: He would not.

His ears turned red. Neck too. He adjusted his shirt for no reason—like modesty even mattered now. His eyes kept flicking down, then to the crowd, then back to you.

He leaned in close, trying to regain control. “If ya think I ain’t thinkin’ about throwin’ ya over my shoulder and leavin’ this concert right now, yer wrong.”

You grinned. “But the encore hasn’t even started.”

“Neither have I.”

You burst out laughing while he groaned into your shoulder, hiding his face, clutching you like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

For the rest of the concert, he didn’t let you out of arm’s reach. Every time you moved your hips, he nearly malfunctioned. Every time you looked at him with that grin, he almost lost the beat again.

Let’s just say… he was feral to the rhythm of regret.

SAKUSA KIYOOMI

He’s lying on his bed, earbuds in, hoodie sleeves pushed up, FaceTiming you after a long day of practice.

Your voice calms him. Your laugh centers him. Your face on the screen? His favorite view.

He’s even smiling. Actual smiling. Sakusa Kiyoomi. Smiling.

You’re just talking about your day. Something about a weird barista and a pigeon that wouldn’t move from your car’s hood. He’s half-listening—more focused on the way you keep shifting on your bed, phone propped up a little low, camera angled slightly upward.

“Is your phone sliding?” he asks, adjusting his own.

You blink. “Hmm? Oh, no. I just didn’t feel like holding it up.”

He nods slowly. “Okay… just don’t drop it like last time.”

You smirk, leaning forward just a touch. “Speaking of dropping things…”

He raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

You tilt the camera just enough—just enough to suggest more skin than fabric.

“I’d stand up, but I don’t want to flash you,” you say, voice so casual it should be illegal. Then, with a tilt of your head and an evil little smile: “I forgot underwear today.”

.

.

He stares. Blinks once.

“Wha—” Clatter.

Phone: gone. FaceTime: angled at his ceiling now. You: laughing way too hard.

“Kiyoomi???” No answer.

You hear muffled shuffling, a curse, maybe a whispered prayer. Then his face appears again, close-up and very red.

“You did that on purpose.”

You hum. “Did what?”

His hand rakes through his curls. “You’re—unbelievable.”

You grin like the devil. “You’re welcome.”

He groans, tilting his head back. “I’m never FaceTiming you without a warning label again.”

“You gonna write one for me?”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Hazardous content. May cause cardiac arrest over Wi-Fi.”

You giggle. “Still love me though?”

His eyes flicker to the screen. Even flustered, his voice softens. “Unfortunately. Very much.”

.

You didn’t end the call early that night. But he did keep the phone at eye level the entire time after that.

Just in case.

[soeyekonic]

— ✩♬ ₊˚. comfortable ⭑ D.A

˚⟡˖⋆ synopsis on a rainy sunday wrapped in hoodies, shared cereal, and slow kisses, you and daniela find comfort, not in grand gestures, but in the quiet kind of love that feels like home.

disclaimers: daniela avanzini x fem!reader. this was a request and i hope i did justice to it 😣 all fluff. just all cutesy and domestic yk?? i wanted to get this out quickly before i forgot so i didnt proofread…my apologies if there are typos or grammar mistakes 🥀😣

currently playing: comfortable - h.e.r

rain taps gently on the windows, slow and persistent like a song on repeat. outside, the world is gray and blurred — trees bending slightly in the breeze, puddles forming like little mirrors on the sidewalk. inside, the appartement is warm, quiet, dimly lit by a soft lamp in the corner and the flickering glow of the tv, which is playing some 2000s rom-com you’ve both seen at least ten times.

you aren’t really watching it.

daniela is stretched across the couch, one leg over yours, body tucked into your side like a puzzle piece. she’s wearing your hoodie — that soft brown one she always steals — and a pair of loose shorts that have seen better days. her hair is unbrushed, wild curls spiraling freely over her shoulders and down her back. she hasn’t bothered with makeup, not even lipgloss. and still, somehow, she’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

you’re half-draped in a knit blanket, shared between you like a truce. her toes are cold where they press against your thigh, but you don’t mind.

you haven’t moved in a while. neither of you seems inclined to.

“baby,” she murmurs, not looking up from her phone. “is it bad that i want cereal for dinner?”

you tilt your head lazily, looking down at her. “you had cereal for breakfast.”

“and lunch,” she adds, grinning as she locks her phone and tosses it onto the coffee table.

you raise an eyebrow. “at least let me make you something real.”

“but your pasta involves actual effort,” she pouts, nestling further into your side. “and i’d have to sit up.”

you smirk and shift your arm around her waist, pulling her in until your chests are pressed together. “you’re getting lazy.”

“i’m getting comfortable,” she corrects, nuzzling her nose against your shoulder.

the word lingers in the air. comfortable. it sounds exactly like what you have. not just in this moment, but in every way.

you run your fingers through her curls, detangling slowly and gently like you’ve done a hundred times before.

“i like you like this,” you say.

“messy?”

“real.”

daniela hums, eyes fluttering closed under your touch. “you used to only see me when i was all done up. hair flat-ironed, makeup perfect, some overly coordinated outfit.”

“you looked like you walked out of a fashion editorial.”

“i was terrified of not being enough,” she says softly. “of you seeing me and thinking, ‘oh. never mind.’”

you pause your fingers in her hair.

“dani,” you say, heart clenching a little. “that could never happen.”

“i know that now,” she murmurs. “but back then… i was trying so hard. and now we’re here. i’m in a hoodie that smells like you, my curls are a mess, and i haven’t worn real pants in three days.”

you laugh gently, brushing her hair behind her ear.

“and i’m more in love with you now than i ever was back then.”

her breath catches, barely. she looks up, meets your eyes. there’s something unspoken in the look — something soft and grateful and full of quiet wonder.

she leans in, pressing her lips to yours. it’s not a kiss filled with heat or urgency — it’s slow, sweet, unhurried. like she has all the time in the world to love you.

when she pulls away, she rests her forehead against yours.

“i don’t think i’ve ever felt this safe before,” she whispers. “like i can just be. and you’ll still be here.”

you close your eyes, letting her words sink in like sunlight through skin. “i will. always.”

there’s a long pause as you just breathe together. the movie keeps playing in the background, unnoticed. outside, thunder rumbles low and distant.

eventually, daniela sits up, stretching her arms over her head, hoodie riding up slightly. she yawns, blinking blearily.

“okay,” she announces. “i’m going to attempt to make cereal. i will brave the kitchen for the love of honey nut cheerios.”

you reach for her hand. “let me come with you. you need a spotter in case you trip over your own socks.”

she looks down at the offending avocado socks and gasps. “rude! these are limited edition.”

you both shuffle to the kitchen, barefoot and drowsy. the lights are still off, and the pale late afternoon gray seeps through the windows like soft smoke. daniela opens the cabinet, pulls out the cereal box, and hands it to you like it’s a sacred ritual.

while she gets the milk, you start lining up two bowls side by side — but she nudges you with her hip.

“no, no. one bowl,” she says. “we’re doing this romantic movie style.”

you grin. “lady and the tramp but with cereal.”

she gasps. “we should make that a tradition. every sunday. one bowl, shared spoon, pajamas optional.”

“optional?” you glance at her oversized hoodie and bare legs. “that implies you own actual clothes.”

she shrugs dramatically. “not when i live with you. your wardrobe is my wardrobe now. i’m basically a very cute, well-dressed parasite.”

you nudge her lightly with your hip. “you’re lucky i like you.”

“mmhm,” she says, spinning in a slow, sleepy circle before curling back into you, bowl in hand. “you love me.”

you kiss her temple. “that too.”

back on the couch, you curl up again — the two of you tangled together, sharing bites between soft laughter and quiet sighs. the storm outside grows louder, the wind brushing against the windows like a lullaby. daniela rests her head on your shoulder again, chewing slowly.

“isn’t it wild,” she says after a moment, “how easy this feels?”

“what do you mean?”

“i spent so much of my life thinking love had to be hard. like… passion and pain and drama. like the more it hurt, the more it meant something.”

you nod, understanding. you’ve both had those relationships. the kind where you confused chaos for connection.

“and then i met you,” she continues. “and it’s just… slow. and quiet. and soft. and right. it feels like home.”

you don’t know what to say to that, except: “you’re my home too.”

daniela turns the spoon in her hand thoughtfully. “i want to grow old with you. just like this. sunday rain and cereal. hoodies and quiet kisses. all of it.”

“you will,” you say. “i’m not going anywhere.”

she smiles. you can see it, even without looking.

then, softly, almost shyly: “marry me someday?”

your heart skips. “what?”

daniela shrugs one shoulder, not looking directly at you. “i mean, not today. but yeah. i want it to be you.”

you set the cereal bowl down and gently tilt her face toward yours.

“it’s going to be me,” you say. “every time. every lifetime.”

daniela kisses you again — not because it’s dramatic or perfect, but because it’s natural. easy. because she wants to. because you’re hers.

later, as the storm outside quiets and the light shifts to soft evening gold, you both drift into a nap, still curled on the couch. the bowl forgotten. the tv still playing.

and the world — messy, loud, overwhelming — feels very far away.

here, in this little apartment filled with rain and love and avocado socks, there’s only you and her. and it’s enough. it’s more than enough.

it’s comfortable.

a/n: i fear it’s getting easier to write fluff. i kinda like it now

[saltnsugarbear]

i see you’ve tentatively opened ur inbox for bob requests lmaoo, may i TIMIDLY request a fox that flips the whole “bob has a breakdown reader comes to help” narrative? ITS A GOOD NARRATIVE but there’s soooo many fics of that, give us some protective bob! some bob with emotional weight!!

shyly putting this on the Robert Reynolds x reader tags doorstep

thank you for the idea, my love! I wanted to see how I felt writing for Bob and if I could find his voice in myself,,,,, I wanted to contribute and I want to give him kisses so thank you thank you <3

I went a bit,,,, idk not like a meltdown but I wanted Bob to be the one that had hope and whimsy!!! Bob is the one to banish the doubt and sadness!!! I feel unsure about this piece and if I like it but here you go Bob enjoyers <3

word count: 1.8k

content warnings: gender neutral reader, 🍃 smoking to cope with existence/trauma/thoughts, reader and Walker have a non-descript past, post Thunderbolts*, existential dread,

side note: did you guys know Bob might have photokinensis (control/production of light) which is pretty cool idk also he dropped out of high school and his addiction started in middle school :( his wiki made me sad

Bob takes care of you in little ways. Quiet ways.

You've learned that he loves quietly. He does your laundry, folds your clothes neatly, and puts them away. He knows your coffee order better than his own, what meals you prefer depending on the restaurant when the team orders out. Bob knows it's easier for you to fall asleep around the team than by yourself, and despite warnings from Walker, how violently you could wake up.

That's how the team first found out Bob could... Well... Glow, for lack of a better description.

Bob's photokinesis was jarring for the whole group. Ava and Yelena whispered softly as they put away blankets while Walker and Bucky picked up leftover trash, snacks, and dishes. Alexei was the only other person asleep on the other side of the couch, so Bob was left hovering near where you rest. No one was paying attention to his silent turmoil, not wanting to turn on the lights in the room and risking a disgruntled group of half-awake Avengerz but not wanting to risk catching an elbow to the stomach like Alexei had earlier that week.

He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts he hadn't noticed that Ava and Yelena had stopped talking. Bob didn't notice the soft glow even as your brows scrunched together, and you grumbled an annoyed "Walker.."

"What?" He chirped defensively, not bothering to look in your direction as he stacked cups in a bowl.

"Turn off the light," you complain, burrowing further into your blanket.

"What ligh-" Walker cuts himself off when he looks over.

Bob misses the way that the girls glance to Walker, who looks to Bucky. None of them had seen Bob display any other powers after the Void's fit over New York. So the soft glow emitting from the man's skin gave them pause, unsure if they should intervene or stay silent. Finally, after a few minutes of staring and your quiet grumbling, Walker makes a choice.

"Bobby-" The sharpness of John's voice makes Bob startle, a bright flash of light blinding him before the room is dark again.

"What the hell," you grumble, finally opening your eyes, officially awake after that. "Why are you yelling at him?"

"I didn't yell-" Walker starts.

"You raised your voice."

"I did not raise-"

"And you know he doesn't like when you call him Bobby." You tack on.

"I know, I forgot." John huffs, glancing at Bob. "Sorry, kid."

"It's fine.." Bob assures him passively, tangling his fingers together as his softly drags a nail over his skin. "I- I didn't turn on the lights, though?"

"You were the light." Ava says bluntly, and Yelena can't help but nod.

"You were glowing, Bob." She says it the same way she would tell him that he was wearing a grey sweater or he had done the dishes.

"I.. I was?" He asks, glancing at each of his housemates for confirmation. Ava huffs with an endeared roll of her eyes while Yelena nods solemnly again. Bucky and John look the most put-off but the revelation, so Bob is unsure if he should be alarmed or not.

"Next time you decide to glow, Bob," You start collecting your blanket as you prepare to get up. "Do it when I'm awake. And when I have sunglasses on, in case you decide to blind Johnny again."

"O-Okay.." He nods, shuffling back so you can stand up.

"Thanks, bub," you say softly, nudging him with your shoulder as you pass. He hums shortly, watching as you make your way down the hall.

The rest of the supers watch Bob quietly before Yelena speaks up.

"We will be talking about this tomorrow.." An easy dismissal that the others agree on, different noises and hums from them. Bob nods, shifting as he watches everyone else clear up. Ava sighs quietly and gives him a pitying look.

"We're not upset, Bob, just surprised. Go get ready for bed." The reassurance settles something in his stomach. He feels like he's can let out a breath again. Bob carries those words with him when he climbs into bed.

Not upset. Just surprised.

Bob can live with that.

Being in an apartment full of people in different stages of recovery from varying substances can be... Stifling, for when you want to let loose. You, Ava, and Bucky all made a vote to keep any form of alcohol or drug stronger than Tylenol out of the house. For the sake of the remaining Avengerz. The three of you also agreed your votes counted as more, as the people least affected by the ban, when the other four tried to argue against it. Not that Bob had much reason to fight it. It was for the better, really.

Except, you didn't realize how horribly this plan backfired until you wanted to smoke or have a glass of wine after an annoying day with Valentina or reading a particularly gruesome article. Or dealing with the most recent, Sam's copyright lawsuit.

As such, your only options were drinking in the dark of your bedroom or standing on the balcony and smoking. The latter is the more appealing, letting you watch the streets with a level of detachment you only got when you were high. The rest of the team had dispersed to their separate night activities, watching TV or sparring or training.

So, you're surprised when you hear the door open behind you. You turn to look out of reflex, and your curiosity peaks when you spot Bob in the doorway. He sniffs softly, and you remember the joint between your fingers.

"Oh, fuck-" You scramble to put out the joint, stubbing it out against the railing. "Sorry."

"It's fine, never really liked pot.." He laughs softly. Bob watches silently as you tuck it away in a small tin and shove it back into your pocket. "What are you, uh.. What are you doing out here?"

"Needed some quiet to... Well..." You sigh. "Like you guys and everything but.."

You let out a deep breath, leaning against the railing heavily. Bob nods behind you, taking a few steps closer to where you stand. He took the stubbing of the joint as the silent invitation it was to stay out with you.

"Alexei is a little loud... Ava and Walker are always fighting." Bob shares quietly.

"Not fighting," You muse before you look back at him. "Maybe bickering?"

"Bickering.." Bob agrees quietly, nodding a little. You hum before turning back to the city lights.

"C'mere," you call him over, glancing back at him when you don't hear him move. "I'm not gonna let you fall."

The assurance makes Bob's stomach twist with an emotion he can't name but is finding himself familiar with the longer he's a part of the team. He muses over it long enough that eventually you hold your hand out to him, not bothering to turn to him. Bob tugs at the cuff of his sleeve before putting his wrist in your grasp.

He doesn't miss the huff you let out, but it follows as you gently tug him closer to the railing. He can feel a flush making its way to his face when you cradle his forearm against your side like a football. Your hold on his arm is gentle but firm, keeping him in place beside you.

"Those people will never know what we go through..." You say quietly, watching people jay-walk, honk their horns at one another, and pass each other in fleeting steps.

"Isn't that the point?" Bob asks, keeping his eyes on the buildings, watching people walk the halls and live their lives. You make a noise beside him, contemplating it silently. You dwell on it for a few minutes before you speak up again.

"Do you ever... Regret signing up for that Sentry serum shit?" You ask Bob softly, eyes tracing the cars as they wind around the city. Bob hums softly, tilting his head this way and that as he thought.

"I wouldn't have met you guys... Probably still doing meth and signing spinning... So this is probably better?" He says it like it's a question, and then he nods. "I don't think I regret it."

You nod, letting that sit in the air, wishing you could cling to that feeling he had. You can't find it in yourself tonight, grabbing around for something that isn't there.

"Do you regret yours?" Bob asks in turn. You turn it over in your mind for a couple of minutes, listening to the city noise.

"I was a kid..." You tell him. "I didn't know... I didn't-"

You cut yourself off, letting out a breath. "I'd stop myself if I could go back."

"Then you wouldn't be here, and we wouldn't be here.." Bob protests quietly.

"You guys could still do this without me," you counter, crossing your arms over the railing. "Be the New Avengerz... Deal with Valentina, play dress up every now and then..."

"Who would fix Walker's shield?" Bob asks quietly, and you can't help but scoff. It's not a mean scoff, more of a huff of exasperation and fondness for the man.

"He can still fight crime with a taco," you tell him. "Sometimes the doubt and the pain is just...."

"All consuming," He fills in. You nod. It's the only way to describe it on nights like tonight.

"Guess you would know something about that." You sigh, having forgotten who you were talking to. He shrugs beside you, making a sound of indifference.

"It's not always like that." Bob reminds you. "Like a wave or- or Ava. It comes and goes."

The comparison makes you snort, ducking your head to hide your grin. Bob sees it, though, adopting a small smile of his own.

"You guys made it better, though."

"Even Walker?" You muse. That keeps Bob quiet for a moment.

"Not always, but... It has to be better than dealing with it alone?"

You hum softly, mulling over his words. Apply them to the pit gnawing at your stomach and climbing at your throat.

"It eventually goes away... Even if it's just for an hour or a month." Bob says. "Like the seasons..."

His words settle over you like a blanket, soothing the doubts in your brain.

"You should become a therapist," you tell him. Your words surprise a laugh out of Bob. You sigh softly, feeling the light buzz behind your eyes.

You lean against him but just enough that if he pulled away, you wouldn't fall over. Instead, Bob finds the pressure comforting. The feeling of his arm cradled against your body and your weight beside him fills Bob with an overwhelming sense of peace. He doesn't even release he's leaning against you as well.

You hum quietly, taking the small victory of him pushing against you. He's warm, even through his sweater, and it bleeds into your own being, taking that warmth and holding in your chest as you look at the city. There's a soft glow in your periphery, and you can't help but grin.

"You're glowing again."

[dakusan]

H O W S K Z T E X T W H E N … T H E Y ’ R E D R U N K

stray kids ot8 x reader | drunk texting, emotional whiplash, chaotic flirtation, love at 2AM

🌙 synopsis: They said they wouldn’t get that drunk. They got that drunk. Somewhere between the third shot and their thumb hovering over your name, they forgot how to act normal. They text like it’s a confession booth. They voice memo like it’s their last voicemail. Some of them send “u up?” with a smile. Some send “i miss u” with a death grip on denial. And some…? Just wanna draw you asleep and call it art. This isn’t just drunk texting. It’s SKZ being hopelessly, tipsily, embarrassingly into you. Soft boys. Unfiltered feelings. Typos that say too much. Welcome to the inbox you dream about getting.

💌 a/n: hi. yes. it’s me. Sunday softdrops baby. i blacked out and woke up in a google doc full of emotionally unstable drunk men with fluffy hair and no texting filter. did i write han’s entire section from personal experience? maybe. did jeongin flirt with me through my own writing? also maybe. am i okay? no. but it’s fine. 🫠 thank u for reading my little brainrot. u deserve a drunk text from your bias tonight. or at least a meme and a forehead selfie. p.s. reblogs = aftercare 🥺 p.p.s. if you read this and didn’t feel something, check your pulse babe. p.p.p.s. omg it took me longer to make that fucking banner than it did to write this entire post i’m losing my mind 💀 pls validate me it’s cute right

📍credits: @cafekitsune for the dividers

🎶 Now Playing: "Love Scenario" — IKON

Bang Chan // 방찬 ✨ The “Accidental Soulmate Confessor” Emotional | Heartfelt | Always just one beer away from writing you a wedding vow | Thinks he’s texting normally — he’s absolutely not.

[2:04AM] u kno ur the best thing that ever happened to me right [2:05AM] like not just in a 😚❤️ way but in a 🌎☁️🌟💍 way [2:07AM] am i spelling good? is this good spelling? [2:08AM] imma write u a song rn brb need to find my mic. love u. (You later receive a 32-second voice memo of him singing about your eyelashes before snoring kicks in.)

📱 Text style: Long heartfelt paragraphs cut into chaotic line breaks. One (1) existential crisis per text chain.

🥂 Drunk vibe: A soft ball of love. Tears up mid-sentence. Thinks about forever while holding his water bottle like it’s a mic.

💿 Aesthetic: Hoodie sleeves over his hands, star projector spinning, acoustic lo-fi playing, and the word “love” typed and retyped 12 times.

🍷 What he got drunk on: Two whiskey highballs and half a glass of wine he didn’t mean to drink that fast.

Lee Know // 리노 😤 The “Angry-That-He-Misses-You” Drunk Tsundere | Bluntly Flirty | Lowkey Clingy | Mad that you make his heart soft

[1:47AM] don t get used to this i m n ot cute i jst miss ur dumb face [1:48AM] ur the only person i wldnt throw a slipper at. tha means smthing [1:49AM] “come over so i can insult u in person 🐱🖤 (Follows with a blurry selfie in your hoodie: “it doesn t smell like u anymore fix it”)

📱 Text style: Aggressively incorrect spelling + love disguised as threats.

🥂 Drunk vibe: Angry at feelings. Loudly defensive. Will call you annoying then stare at your contact photo for 10 minutes.

💿 Aesthetic: One earbud in, black hoodie pulled tight, cat curled on his lap, 2 unread messages from you he pretends not to obsess over.

🍷 What he got drunk on: Soju bombs and a shot he claimed he didn’t like but still asked for another.

Changbin // 창빈 💪 The “Buff Romantic” Loudly Affectionate | Jealous in a Healthy Way™ | Protective Softie | Wants to fight your sadness and win

[12:33AM] LISTEN i don’t say it enough but UR 🔥 and funny and i wanna squish ur cheeks [12:35AM] also i think i saw a guy look at u once and i didn’t like it i think i’m jealous?? [12:37AM] but like in a healthy communicative way😤💕 (Sends 12 progressively zoomed selfies of his forehead.)

📱 Text style: Caps lock + muscle emojis + randomly tender confessions

🥂 Drunk vibe: 50% flirt, 50% hype man. Will body slam your insecurities if given the chance.

💿 Aesthetic: Heavy chain necklace, Spotify on sad R&B, heart-shaped Post-its on his gym mirror, three selfies in your messages before you even respond.

🍷 What he got drunk on: Tequila shots and one suspicious pink drink the bartender dared him to finish.

Hyunjin // 현진 🎭 The “Poetic and Probably Crying” Drunk Hopeless Romantic | Art Boy Delusions | Will write you a sonnet and cry while doing it | Thinks your hand is a masterpiece

[1:11AM] i saw a moon tonight and thought it was u [1:12AM] no wait it was a streetlamp but i still meant it [1:13AM] ur hands r my fav shape [1:15AM] can i draw u asleep? not in a creepy way. ok maybe in a little way. (Sends a blurry sketchbook page that just says “pretty” written over and over.)

📱 Text style: All lowercase. No punctuation. A poem in disguise.

🥂 Drunk vibe: Gazes out the window with a single tear. Dramatically clutches his chest while texting you you’re “divine.”

💿 Aesthetic: Scented candles, sketchbook covered in flowers, red wine stains on notebook paper, whispered voice notes that make your heart ache.

🍷 What he got drunk on: One bottle of red wine, a playlist titled “tragically yours,” and exactly one bite of cheese.

Han // 한 🌀 The “Unhinged Meme Lord with Accidental Feelings” Chaotic Neutral | Otter Memes + Unplanned Confessions | Panic Texts | Actually Madly in Love

[2:55AM] i just rememebred u like otters. here’s an otter. also me when u smile 🦦🫠🫶 [2:58AM] how do i send a pizza to ur house without knowing ur address?? wait nvm i do know it. im smart. genius. [3:00AM] ok but like... i love u. oh no i pressed send wait nO (Follows up with: “jk unless??? 😳”)

📱 Text style: Meme. Confession. Apology. Repeat.

🥂 Drunk vibe: Flirting through chaos. Will quote SpongeBob and then cry because “you’re the only one who gets him.”

💿 Aesthetic: Hoodie up, random snacks around his desk, YouTube playing a conspiracy video in the background, one hand hovering over the delete button.

🍷 What he got drunk on: Soju + cider mix, three jello shots, and something called “angry peach tornado” from a sketchy bar.

Felix // 필릭스 🌻 The “Sunshine Becomes Liquid Gold” Drunk Emotionally Soft | Hug Dispenser™ | Cries Because He Loves You Too Much | Wants to tuck you in spiritually

[11:45PM] hiii 💛 just want u 2 kno ur like my fav person ever like ever ever ever [11:46PM] u ever seen a star and been like wow that’s them?? bc that’s me rn with u [11:48PM] sending hugs via telepathy did u get it?? 🫂☁️💫 (Includes a 3-second voice note: “hiiiiiii... ur cute. ok bye.” followed by a giggle.)

📱 Text style: Stream of consciousness kindness + giggles in voice memos

🥂 Drunk vibe: Becomes 100x more affectionate. Holds your hand tighter. Cries over how lucky he is to know you.

💿 Aesthetic: Lavender candle burning, soft knit sweater, arms wrapped around a pillow, 7 open tabs of photos he wants to send but thinks “are too much.”

🍷 What he got drunk on: Sparkling rosé and one (1) baby bottle of peach soju. He got tipsy halfway through dessert.

Seungmin // 승민 😐 The “Denial But Obsessed” Drunk Pretends He’s Sober | Insults You Lovingly | Texts Like He’s Not in Love (But He Is) | Regrets Everything the Next Day

[12:12AM] i’m not even drunk lol u just looked really nice in that one outfit from last week [12:13AM] don’t let it go to ur head. average. 6/10. ok fine 11/10. whatever. [12:15AM] if i die tonight tell my dog i loved u more (Next day: “that wasn’t me. i was hacked.”)

📱 Text style: Passive-aggressive flirts + “idc but here’s my heart” energy

🥂 Drunk vibe: Thinks he’s subtle. Is actually fully feral. Will send “you up?” but claim it was a typo.

💿 Aesthetic: Glass of wine untouched, sarcasm layered over panic, piano keys he’ll pretend he doesn’t play when thinking of you.

🍷 What he got drunk on: Expensive red wine he “hates” but keeps sipping like it’s vengeance. Also maybe a whisky cola he didn’t finish.

I.n // 아이엔 🍓 The “Too-Sober-to-Be-This-Flirty” Drunk Composed | Mischievous | Knows EXACTLY What He’s Doing | Flirts with a smirk you can feel through the screen

[10:44PM] not drunk just thinkin. bout u. in that outfit from last week lol [10:46PM] r u free rn or should i keep pretending i don’t wanna kiss u [10:49PM] missed my stop btw. not bc of u. but also yes. entirely bc of u. (Sends a photo of his shoes and says: “u could be in front of these rn just say the word”)

📱 Text style: Quiet confidence + emotional landmines disguised as jokes

🥂 Drunk vibe: Barely tipsy. Still 100% in control. Uses texting as a weapon and you never see it coming.

💿 Aesthetic: Glossy lips, streetlight reflecting on his rings, late train ride, voice memo he replayed twice before hitting send.

🍷 What he got drunk on: Soju + soda with ice and a lemon wedge. He’s classy. He’s dangerous. He drank it slow just to mess with you.

[inwithrin]

⋆˚࿔ ellie loves your voice pt. 2

imagine ellie being completely obsessed with the sound of your voice. it’s not just that she likes it—it’s that she lives for it.

cw: praise, slight dumbification, fingering (ellie!receiving), soft dom!reader, sub!ellie. someone suggested this and i couldn't get it out of my head... this is also my first time writing a dom!reader LOL

you’ll be sprawled out on the bed, both of you wearing nothing but underwear and oversized tees, and ellie’s talking—about whatever’s in her head that day, a podcast she listened to, something joel said, what she saw on the street, what she wants to have for dinner. it doesn’t matter what it is—she talks, and you let her, nodding along.

until you tilt your head, blink at her with a half-lidded gaze, and hum. “hmmm?”

that’s it. that’s all it takes.

ellie falls apart at the sound of your dangerous, velvety, and deliberate voice. you know exactly what you’re doing. the moment it slips out of your mouth, ellie stutters—words catching on the tip of her tongue like she forgot how to speak. she tries to recover, eyes darting everywhere except your face.

you just keep looking at her, calm and curious. “go on, baby. what were you saying?”

she tugs her sleeve up to her mouth, trying to hide the red blooming across her cheeks. 

“ellieee…” you drag her name out, like you know she’s about to fold, and she does.

she loves it when you tut under your breath when she trips over her words. loves it when you murmur “you always get like this when i talk to you like that?”. but, she loves it more when you lean closer, tilt her chin up, and ask her to use her words.

your voice is her favorite form of ruin. 

it doesn’t matter if it’s late-night calls, lazy mornings, or when you’re right in front of her whispering in her ear like she’s the only thing you’ve ever wanted—ellie loves it. she aches for it.

she swears it’s not fair—how you can unravel her without even meaning to. but, you both know she wouldn’t have it any other way. you obviously see it—how she shifts under your gaze, thighs pressing together, her lips parting slightly, still gleaming from where she chewed on them, and her freckled face is blushing a deep pink.

you lean back, keeping your eyes on her, soft and indulgent. “you always get this shy, ellie?” your voice is syrupy sweet.

her brows twitch like she wants to deny it, looking at you like she’s caught. “i’m not shy," she mumbles.

“no?” you tilt your head. “could’ve fooled me, els—but look at you, flushed like i did something. or did i?”

her eyes flick to your mouth, you don’t miss it. she’s trying so hard to hold it together—you watch her fingers flex where they rest on her thigh. so, you press your luck—because you can, and because ellie lets you.

you lean in, close enough for her to feel your warmth. “that look on your face right now? makes me wanna ruin you, ellie,” you whisper.

ellie’s pupils blow wide, her breath knocks out of her—not believing how fast you turn her into a mess. you smile, satisfied, sitting back on the bed like you didn’t just turn her world upside down.

“jesus,” she mumbles, scrubbing a hand over her face. “you’re such a fucking tease.”

you hum again. “and you’re so easy for me. that’s the fun part.”

ellie groans—a frustrated and wrecked sound. and you swear you see her shiver. she loves this—the push and pull, the drawl of your voice, and of course, you.

“i’m not—” she tried, voice rough with want. “i’m not that easy.”

her tone betrays her, and you don’t let her off the hook—you just smile, eyes heavy-lidded, as you let your fingers brush along your thigh, slow and idle, just to see if she’ll look. instantly, she does. like a moth to flame.

“you’re this close to begging,” you murmur. “and i haven’t even done anything.”

ellie tries to glare—her tongue darts out to wet her lips, jaw tense like she’s holding back. 

you lean forward again, and your voice dips lower. “you want me to tell you what to do? to use that bratty mouth for something better?”

her fingers are gripping the blanket so hard her knuckles go white. “yeah—” she says. so quiet. so needy.

your gaze softens as you tip her chin up with one finger—making her look at you. “then ask me nicely.”

she swallows hard. “please—”

“you gonna be good for me, ellie?” you ask, your face so close to hers that she can feel your breath on her cheek.

she nods before the question even finishes. “yes—yeah, i will.”

that’s the best part of all—the way ellie gives you everything without hesitation. no games. no pride. just the raw want of it. 

you press your lips to the corner of her mouth—and whisper against her lips. “then say thank you.”

“thank you,” her voice trembles. 

you smile, soft and pleased—fingers brushing against her jaw. “good girl.”

her lashes flutter, thighs pressing together—the praise crawling under her skin, setting camp behind her ribs. 

“i haven’t even touched you, ellie,” you murmur, voice almost kind. “and look at you.”

her hand twitches against the blanket—like she wants to touch you, wants to move, wants to kneel—but doesn’t know which one would make you praise her again.

“it’s not fucking fair—” she whines, breathing shallow and fast.

you smile knowing she’s fighting it—she is pretending she’s not a mess from a few words, from your tone, from the fact you haven’t given her anything more than a voice, a breath, and a stroke of your fingertips.

“what’s not fair, baby?” you ask, looking down at her glassy eyes. you cock your head—waiting. she stays silent, and you reach for her knee—finally touching her—light and warm. “use your words, ellie,” you warn.

“you haven’t even kissed me,” she says—frustrated with need. “and i already feel like—like—”

she couldn’t finish her sentence, so you do it for her. “like you’d let me do anything?” you smile, thumb rubbing a soft circle on her knee. “yeah—i know.”

she nods, frantic, helpless—losing every bit of control she has left.

“if i kiss you now,” you murmur. “you’re going to be good?”

“yes,” ellie breathes. 

you press a kiss beside her mouth—not yet, not quite. “then be patient,” you whisper. “and sit back.”

she whines, settling back—waiting and trembling. she tries. ellie sits back like you said—gripping the pillow like it might anchor her. then, you lean in again, not kissing, just breathing against her, letting your lips almost touch hers.

a tiny, desperate sound spills from her lips. “i can’t be patient,” she whispers, fast. her fingers come up, clutching at your shirt, twisting the fabric. “please,” she says again. “please—can’t—please—”

“no?” you ask. “not even for me?”

her eyes flutter shut, head tipping forward like she’s trying to chase your lips. “i’ll be good,” she vows. “swear i’ll be good, i just—just need—”

you cut her off. “need what? i want you to be specific, els,” your voice makes her groan. “say it, ellie.”

she looks up at you, lashes heavy. “need you to kiss me,” she says. “please, just—kiss me, i can’t—fuck—i can’t think when you talk like that to me—”

“poor thing,” you murmur, cupping her jaw. “all dumb off a little teasing.”

she nods, fast and frantic. “please—”

“open your mouth, ellie,” you whisper, thumb brushing over her lips. “i’ll give you what you want.”

she obeys, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your thumb—before you pull her in. you kiss her like she earned it—like this is her reward for being so pliant, desperate, and so utterly undone by nothing but your voice. ellie melts under your mouth, whimpering. you let her have it, but you pull back, and she chases after you with a whine. 

you pet her cheek, smiling. “was that so hard, baby?”

she stares at you, lips red and parted, and you kiss her again. your kiss deepens before she realizes it—she gasps into your mouth when she feels your hand sliding up, palm firm against her waist, guiding her back onto the bed until she’s under you. instinctively, ellie arches her back, thighs parting, hands grasping at you. your mouth moves down to her jaw, then to her throat—where you suck a little mark that makes her whimper.

“please,” she pants, hips pressing up. “please, baby—”

you bite her shoulder gently, soothing the skin with your tongue. “so impatient,” you utter. “where’s that good girl you were promising to be?”

ellie’s legs wrap around your hips, trying to grind against you—hot and shameless. “i want you—”

you press a hand on her stomach, pushing her down to the bed. “ellie, behave. don’t make me hold you down.”

the moan she lets out is filthy. “maybe i want that,” she breathes, hair messy and eyes wide and gleaming. “maybe i want you to make me wait.”

you stare down at her—at the way her chest heaves, the flush painting her neck, at the way her pupils swallow her eyes whole. “you don’t want this the easy way, do you?”

ellie tilts her head, trying to chase your mouth again. “make me behave.”

that’s all it takes—you kiss her hard, deep. your tongue and hers fighting for control, but ellie gives into it, moaning into your mouth, melting under your hands. you pull her shirt up as you kiss her—not taking it off, but just enough for you to slide your hands along her bare waist and ribs, fingers dipping under her sports bra.

“you sound so pretty when you beg,” you whisper against her lips. “think you were made for it.”

she nods, brows furrowing. “was,” she gasps. “fuck—i was made for you.”

your hand traces a line down her stomach, finally slipping lower, beneath the waistband of her boxers, skin to skin. your fingers find her slick, and ellie groans, throwing her head back, body arching under you.

“so wet for me, already?” you ask, voice teasing but sweet. 

your fingers brush slow, little circles against her, so light it made her whine—hips jerking up, needing more.

“please,” she pants, hands fisting the blanket. “please, i—fuck—i need it, baby. c’mon, please—”

you hush her with your mouth, pressing a kiss to her lips, then her jaw, and her throat again—as if you’re soothing her. your fingers dip down and press in—just the tip—and her whole body reacts, mouth dropping open.

“you gonna be good for me now?” you say, nosing along the curve of her throat. “gonna let me take my time?”

frantically, ellie nods—whining like she can’t bear how slow you’re touching her. “yes, yes, i’ll be good—i swear,” she mumbles, her tone so desperate it makes you bite your lip. “just—please, i want you—need you—”

your head comes up, and you kiss her again, tongue sliding against hers as two of your fingers press deeper, and curl—the sound ellie makes is obscene. she clings to you now, arms around your shoulders, burying her face in your neck as you work her open, slow and steady.

“you’re so good,” you murmur. “you’re doing so good for me, els.”

ellie moans. “fuck—i love it when you talk like that,” she whimpers. “makes me feel like—like i belong to you.”

you curl your fingers just right, as you smile against her temple. “yeah?”

“again,” she gasps. “please, please—do that again.”

you give her everything—every slow thrust of your fingers, every whisper against her—because right now, you plan to worship her until she forgets her own name.

“talk to me,” she gasps. “please, baby—please, just… talk to me.”

you’re still inside her, thumb brushing gentle circles, mouth kissing along her cheek, jaw, and neck. you hum softly, letting your voice drop into that low, deliberate hush she loves.

“you like hearing me like this, don’t you?” you smile, putting some distance between you so you could see her eyes. “you get all pretty and ruined for me the second i open my mouth.”

“yes—fuck, fuck—yes, i love it—” ellie nods, biting her lip.

you kiss her again, tasting the desperation on her lips. your fingers doesn’t stop moving, your thumb circling against her clit, like she was made for your touch.

“i love how you sound, too,” you breathe, right against her mouth. “all those little noises—those whimpers you make when i touch you here—” your fingers curl, slow and deep. “—like you can’t help it.”

“i can’t,” she chokes, voice high. “can’t help it—don’t wanna, just—don’t stop, please.”

“i’m here, ellie,” you whisper. “you’ve got me—gonna keep talking to you, gonna fuck you like this until you come for me, okay? i’m gonna tell you how good you are, how perfect you sound.”

ellie whines, pressing her face into your throat, body trembling, chasing it. “don’t stop talking,” she begs again, more broken. “wanna come like that—please, please, please—”

you talk her through it—soft, filthy, and adoring—her voice tenses, and you can feel it, how her breath quickens, her fingers clutching at your skin, desperate to hold on.

you keep whispering low and slow. “that’s it, baby—let go for me.”

her hips jerk up against your hand, a moan escaping her lips. “don’t stop, please—” she gasps. “gonna come.”

“yeah?” you press your lips to her temple. “you sound so fucking perfect like this—broken, and begging. you’re mine, ellie—mine to hold, mine to wreck.”

her walls flutter around your fingers, trembling like she’s about to fall apart, and then, she shatters—body trembling, breath shuddering, hands clutching you like a lifeline.

“good baby,” you whisper—helping her ride off the high. “i love you.”

ellie looks up at you, flushed—a tiny smile breaking through the haze. “i love you too.”

[bitchinbarzal]

That’s What I Want | W Nylander

Inspired by “What I Want” by Morgan Wallen & Tate McRae

-

You tell him before the second drink.

“This doesn’t mean anything.”

Will just lifts his glass to his lips, eyes trained on you over the rim. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smirk. Just nods once, like you’ve said something expected.

“I’m not looking for someone to fix me,” you add.

“Good,” he says. “Because I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

The bar is dim, the kind of Toronto hideout that lives between neon and shadows. His arm brushes yours when he leans back, loose and unbothered, like he doesn’t carry the weight of eyes on him everywhere else. Here, he’s just a guy with tired shoulders and a jaw that locks when he’s trying not to say too much.

You tilt your head. “You got trust issues too?”

He lets out a breath—something between a laugh and a sigh. “You wouldn’t believe.”

“So we’re a perfect disaster,” you say.

He grins. “Only stay a couple nights, then be gone in the morning?”

“That’s the deal.”

The first night is heat and tension, mouths meeting like secrets spilled too fast. You kiss like people who know better. Who’ve both had too many almosts and one-night maybes that clung a little too long.

When you slip out of bed to grab water, his voice stops you in the dark.

“You think everything you touch goes up in smoke?”

You pause, fingers curled around the fridge handle.

“Don’t you?”

His silence feels like agreement.

It becomes a rhythm. Not a relationship. Not even really a situationship. You don’t text much. He shows up at your door when the nights are too quiet and his own bed feels too honest. And you always let him in. Not because it means something. But because it doesn’t. Because you’re both the kind of people who say “this is all it is” and mean it—right up until you’re curled into each other’s spaces, breathing steady and soft, like the world outside doesn’t exist.

One night, after a win, he kisses you like someone who forgot the rules.

“You don’t want this heart,” you whisper into the collar of his shirt. “It’s already broke.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“Baby,” he says, low and honest. “That’s what I want.”

Your laugh is sharp. “You’re insane.”

“Probably.”

“And a little bit reckless.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

You leave before dawn that time. No note. No goodbye. Just your perfume on his pillow and a cold side of the bed. You try to convince yourself it was always meant to fade.

But two nights later, when your phone buzzes at 11:43 p.m., and his name lights up the screen, you don’t hesitate. You answer. And you say it before he can.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I know. That’s what you want.”

You weren’t supposed to linger. Not on his couch. Not in his shirt. Not in his life.

But somehow, your toothbrush is in his bathroom. Somehow, you know he takes his coffee black but adds sugar only after a bad game. Somehow, he knows your “I’m fine” means you’re one text from shattering.

And you both pretend it’s still casual. Still temporary. Still just what we want.

Until it’s not.

He starts coming over when he doesn’t want sex. Just company. You start staying even after the sun comes up. He makes pasta one night, barefoot and tired, and when you ask why, he says, “You looked hungry.” You’re in his hoodie. His playlist is on. There’s a candle burning you left behind last week. And for one terrifying second, it feels like home.

You try to ruin it first.

“I’m not the kind of girl you bring home,” you say one night.

“I don’t bring people home.”

“You shouldn’t bring me home.”

He shrugs, like it’s already too late. “You’re already here.”

Then he gets injured. Not serious. But enough to be out for a few games. You expect to hear about it on the news. Instead, you’re the one he texts first.

You rush over without thinking, half-pissed he asked. Half-terrified he didn’t ask sooner. You find him on the couch, ice pack on his ankle, remote in hand.

He looks up. “You came.”

You drop your bag. “Yeah. Of course.”

The scariest moment isn’t when he touches you. It’s when he doesn’t. When he falls asleep with your head on his chest. When his fingers trace lazy circles on your back under the blanket. When he whispers, just before drifting off, “You know I’d never let you burn alone.”

You freeze. Eyes wide in the dark. Heart doing that thing it shouldn’t.

Because suddenly it’s not what you want anymore.

It’s who.

You wake up early. He’s still asleep, hair a mess, lips parted, breathing steady. You stare too long. Stay too long.

When you finally shift to leave, his hand finds yours without opening his eyes.

“Stay.”

And for the first time in a long, long time—you do.

It’s been six months.

Six months of everything and nothing. Of brushing hands and brushing it off. Of falling asleep in his bed but never calling it “ours.” Of acting like you’re still not in too deep.

You both keep pretending. Even when he kisses your forehead instead of your mouth. Even when you miss him when he’s gone. Even when you stop seeing other people without even realizing you had.

The moment it breaks isn’t soft. It’s messy. Like it always was going to be.

It starts when he sees you talking to someone else at a post-game bar. Some guy. Laughing too loud, standing too close. You catch Will’s stare across the room—cool, unreadable.

Later, he doesn’t say a word. Not until the car ride home.

Then: “Is that what you want?”

You frown. “What?”

“Guys like that. Smiling like idiots. Acting like they’ve got a shot.”

You glare. “You don’t get to be jealous. That wasn’t the deal.”

“Yeah?” he snaps. “Maybe I’m sick of the fucking deal.”

It’s quiet. Just the sound of your own breath and the tension clawing at your ribs.

“I never asked you for more,” you whisper.

“And maybe I wanted you to,” he fires back.

Silence. Raw. Exposed.

You stare at him, throat tight. “Why didn’t you say something?”

He doesn’t flinch this time. Just leans forward, voice low and wrecked.

“Because you said you were broken. And I was scared if I said it out loud, you’d run.”

You blink. “Say what?”

“That I want you. Not for a night. Not for a warm body in the dark. You.”

Your heart punches your ribs. “Will—”

“I don’t care if you’re a mess,” he says, louder now. “I like the mess. I like you when you’re falling apart and when you’re happy and when you leave your shit all over my place and act like it’s not yours.”

You’re already crying. Stupid, hot, unstoppable tears.

“And maybe I’ve been falling in love with you since the second you told me not to.”

You don’t say anything. You can’t.

So you grab his face and kiss him like it’s the first time. Like you never meant to feel this much, but you do anyway. Like all those nights pretending it didn’t matter were just a slow build to this one.

And when you finally pull away, breathless, he whispers

“That’s what I want.”

[quill-vy]

MARGIN OF ERROR — one

a/n: my first work: a lando norris fanfiction! i feel really really proud of this one, honestly, and i hope you guys enjoy it. i worked quite hard on this, but i did enjoy writing it! love you alls.

warnings: swearing, and nothing else (i think) let me know if there’s more :)

IN WHICH

lando norris is your childhood best friend and you guys maybe, just maybe, fall for each other. Margin of error: a tiny gap between friendship and something else.

he was the love of your life, but you weren’t quite sure he knew that just yet. hell, you weren’t even sure you loved that boy.

lando norris was your best friend. you went way back. at five, your parents had introduced you to each other, and somehow, he was the only boy you could get along with.

now you were 24, and you’d watched him grow into the man he’d always dreamed of being—a formula one driver. he never neglected you, and he never would. you were his top priority.

lately, though, something had shifted. the way he looked at you lingered a second too long, his hugs tightened just a little more. it had only started after his first win two months ago.

flashback: miami ‘24

you lay in bed, eyes glued to the tv as the checkered flag waved. your best friend had just won. holy shit. the excitement bubbled in your chest, followed by a pang of regret—you should’ve been there.

you made yourself a quick meal, waiting patiently for his call. you never texted right after a race, not wanting to distract him.

when lando finally got back to his hotel, he took his time—showering, sprawling across the bed, mindlessly scrolling. then, he called you. you weren’t on each other’s minds every second, but if anyone asked? yeah, you were obsessed.

the familiar facetime ringtone buzzed in your quiet room. you answered, voice thick with sleep.

"hey, lan."

"y/n! shit, did i wake you? my bad, forgot you were in london. soz." his grin filled half the screen, that same stupid, adorable smile.

"yeah, you fucker," you mumbled, rubbing your eyes. "saw your race today. congrats."

something flickered in his chest—that same weird flutter he got when your hands brushed, when your eyes held his a beat too long. his grin softened.

"thanks," he whispered, leaning back against the headboard. "can you believe it? my dream come true." he sighed, gaze drifting away from the camera.

you watched him, studying the curve of his lips, the way his damp curls stuck to his forehead. god, he’s pretty.

snap out of it.

"i regret not being there. i was free—should’ve flown out," you joked, forcing a laugh.

"oh, don’t worry," he said, fingers threading through his hair. "i’ll fly you out one day. trust."

singapore ‘24

and he did.

you’d always wanted to visit singapore. lando knew. so he made it happen—for you, and maybe, just maybe, for himself too.

you stood with the team, heart pounding as the cars screeched past. when lando jumped out of his car, victorious again, you screamed with the crowd. he disappeared into the sea of papaya, but when he finally emerged, helmet off, his eyes found you instantly.

his expression softened. he walked over, pulling you into a crushing hug.

"i’m so proud of you," you whispered into his ear.

he didn’t reply. he didn’t need to. his arms tightened around you, saying everything words couldn’t—until the team pulled him away for interviews.

hotel, 1AM

you knocked on his door, restless. when he opened it, hair damp from the shower, he didn’t even question it. just stepped aside.

"hey," he murmured.

"hey," you replied, flopping onto his bed like it was yours.

he swallowed hard, trying not to stare. not the time, norris.

"what’s up?" he asked, voice low.

you hesitated, picking at the sheets. "just… wanted to see you."

lando sat beside you, close enough that his knee brushed yours. "you saw me like, five hours ago."

"yeah, well." you shrugged and chuckled, avoiding his eyes. "it’s different when you’re not covered in champagne."

he laughed, nudging you. "missed me that much?"

"shut up." but you were smiling.

a beat of silence. then, softer: "...yeah. i did."

his breath hitched. the air between you thickened, charged with something unspoken.

lando’s fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach for you. just do it, you willed silently.

but then his phone buzzed—a teammate’s text, probably—and the moment shattered.

he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "you staying over?"

you nodded, already pulling the blanket over yourself. "if that’s okay."

"always."

as he climbed into bed beside you, careful to keep space between your bodies, you wondered how much longer you could both pretend this was just friendship.

TO BE CONTINUED…

a/n: sorry guys, this is a lil short. starting to regret i didn’t it as a oneshot 😞

how’d you like this one?

MARGIN OF ERROR — two

[zepskies]

hahaa aww I'm happy to do one of these for you, hun! 💜

you’re so right, and I love the inclusion of sammy in this 🫶🏽 (+ i’d probably set sam up with a mango cold brew tea and a vegan feta wrap…mostly bc i’m blanking out on what pastries he might like lol)

ahaha gotta have that Sammy judgment of Dean's life choices. 😂 Oooh I could see that order for Sam lol

I agree, I think Dean would be ordering his coffee/food based on his moods lol, but he would fuck uuuuup an apple turnover. It's like a different form of apple pie. 😂

(sidenote, we don’t have a brookie at my job (💔) however, that just means having to attempt making one at home…although it would probably go the way it did in your story where reader tried to bake him a pie lmfao :’)

Aw yeah that's a specialty thing you don't see in every coffee shop/bakery, but I kinda love that image of trying to make it for Dean at home and the mission not quite going to plan 😝

I can totally see him ordering a coffee cake!! oh yeah the ones we have are these small practically 4x4 squares, he’d definitely need more than one 😭 he might also enjoy an almond croissant 😗👉🏽👈🏽 ours has like this almond cinnamon paste in the middle i think he’d be pleasantly surprised with :)

Oh yeah! Beau doesn't strike me as that picky either, and willing to try new things, so he'd totally be into an almond croissant. That cinnamon in the paste sounds heavenly!

(a cookie butter latte paired with a plain butter croissant is also top tier. there are just soo many good pairings this man would enjoy<3)

This man loves baked goods, whether it's croissants, muffins, donuts, etc. And now you're making me want to order that cookie butter latte + croissant combo myself! 😩

(^gif doesn't correlate either. I just love this one. He's so fiesty 😂)

the (of almost all ages) took me out 🤣 those are great pairings for a cold brew though !! a nice contrast to the boldness of the drink :] although yeah he might end up taking like half the menu if it looks good 😭 and I wouldn’t blame him i’d just hate to prep it 🤣

ehehe you know Ben and his rich tastes 😏

But yeah this guy has a heightened metabolism and he can be a human/supe vacuum if he wants to be. Fire up the oven, cuz it's about to get a workout 🤣 (but oh God, that day with 16 orders for one person sounds horrible logistically!)

cinnamon rolls !!! such a classic they’re so good, and they pair really well with a lot of hot drinks, imo 🙂‍↕️🤎 I forgot they usually have glaze lolol he’d be acting a fool for sure 😂

So classic! I feel like you wouldn't overdose on the sugar if you're pairing it with a flat white lol. HC that Russell can be a menace once he's comfortable with his girl lol

(on the topic of cinnamon, we have horchata flavoring for the spring, and our matcha horchata latte literally tastes like cinnamon toast crunch in a drink :p i’m sure he’d enjoy it)

omg horchata?? I LOVE horchata. That sounds amazing 😭

I hope tomorrow goes as smoothly as possible for you 💕💕 and thank you again for taking the time to do this !!!🥹💖 I promise i’m not trying to sneak requests :’)💗 I feel a bit guilty 😅🫂

Aw no worries, my lovely, thank you! You're very welcome. I wasn't kidding when I say I have a lot of fun doing these HCs, and this one was pretty quick and easy for me to do. I just wanted to put it out before tomorrow or else I wasn't sure when I would get to post it. You're a patreon member, so regardless you're always welcome to send me requests. HCs are literally the easiest ones for me to do. 😂💕

But I've gotta say, I definitely couldn't do what you do. That does sound super stressful. I hope it gets easier! lol 🥲🥲💕

hiii lovely happy wednesday 🫶🏽:) random question while i’m on my 10 :D this kind of goes hand in hand with your coffee shop headcanons if you squint, but in your opinion what coffee shop pastry would the boys (your favorite jackles characters) choose? 🤎

if that makes sense, like I think beau would really like our dulce de leche cheese danish :p or like ben might like a jalapeño cheese bagel lmao

again I loveee your insights <3 it makes work more entertaining for sure cause then i’m thinking of your responses at random times lol 💗 + I hope you’re having a wonderful week !!🫂

Happy Wednesday, friend! 😘 Oh yay! I love your random questions, and I love coffee shop pastries. 🥐 ☕

Dulce de leche Danish sounds amaziiiiing. 😩 And thank you!! I'm flattered that you love my insights - and that my little rambles infiltrate your brain! lolol 🥰💜 Hope you're having a great week too, hun! Mine is ok so far. I have a lot coming up tomorrow, so this is a fun distraction until then! 😂

HEADCANON: Coffee Shop Pastry Orders

Dean Winchester

*snorts* You mean the human garbage disposal?

We all know Dean's not picky about food. Though since he's drinking an espresso in his coffee order headcanon, I think he'd go for something indulgent to fill his stomach, like a cheese Danish, a couple of donuts, or if they have it, a brookie. 😂

He's very happy to show it to you and Sam when he brings it over to your table, strolling over on those bowed legs. Sam, of course, wears that half amused, half judgy look of his.

"It's a cookie mashed up with a brownie, Sam. Best of both worlds."

Beau Arlen

Beau the basic latte guy needs a basic (but delicious) coffee shop confection to go with it, so I'm going to say he's into coffee cake.

He likes them crumblies on top and a nice, warm cinnamon swirl in his cake. 👌🏽

Just be warned. He's probably going to have you order him another slice of cake while he's still working on the first one.

Soldier Boy (Ben)

Like Dean, this guy's not all that picky about food post-captivity. Of course he likes good food, but he's also highly indulgent in most respects.

"I like what I fucking like," as he often tells you with a smirk. That goes for food, drugs, and frisky women (of almost all ages).

That being said, since we paired him with a cold brew, he'll probably want something classic, like himself: a glazed donut or a slice of marble pound cake with that thin strip of icing on top.

However, I think he could be persuaded (by you) to order something a little adventurous. He'd be game enough to try a jalapeño cheese bagel, with hash browns, and that donut and/or slice of pound cake on the side...

And he'll probably tell them to pack him up an extra bagel for the road. 😂 🥯

Russell Shaw

Russell's another one who's highly self-indulgent lol. He ain't picky about food, that's for sure. He'll eat junk food just as easily as a five-course meal from a Michelin star restaurant.

But since he got paired with a flat white, I think he'd get the biggest cinnamon roll he can find. He'd ask if they could warm it up for him, get that icing all warm and running down the sides, sticky and sweet.

And he looks at you mischievously while he licks his fingers afterward. ✌🏼

(He's only satisfied when he makes you blush.)

AN: Do you agree with these? Got other pastry orders for these guys? 💜

I love working on these HCs every time, no matter how simple or complex the prompt is. 😂

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Dean Winchester Imagines

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Beau Arlen Masterlist

Soldier Boy Masterlist

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Main Masterlist 

Dean, Beau, Soldier Boy + Russell Tag List (Part 1)

@kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @luci-in-trenchcoats @lamentationsofalonelypotato @waynes-multiverse

@mostlymarvelgirl @roseblue373 @this-is-me19 @emily-winchester

@deans-spinster-witch @sanscas @hobby27 @kaleldobrev @spnwoman

@samanddeaninatrenchcoat @pieandmonsters @globetrotter28 @midnightmadwoman @chevroletdean

@lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @spnfamily-j2 @deansbbyx @chernayawidow

@mimaria420 @stoneyggirl2 @fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @waywardxwords @twinkleinadiamondsky

@my-stories-vault @0ccvltism @rizlowwritessortof @cookiechipdough @mrsjenniferwinchester

@fromcaintodean @k-slla @jackles010378 @deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused

@mrlonelycat @deans-daydream @leigh70 @aylacavebear @kmc1989

@siampie @rubyvhs @winchestergirl2 @winchester-whiskey

[milanistvrn]

╭────── · · ୨୧ · · ──────╮

in which, after weeks of watching you grow close to chris, matt finally confesses that he could love you better—privately, honestly, and with everything chris never gave.

╰────── · · ୨୧ · · ──────╯

word count: 1k.

──────── boyfriend, dove cameron.

you never meant to get this close to chris. it just happened—slow and easy, like most things with him. he’s funny, always saying something stupid to make you laugh, always nudging your shoulder or leaning into your space like it’s natural. and you let him. because it feels good to be wanted, even if it’s never been said out loud.

the thing is, you notice matt more.

you notice the way he watches from across the room when chris pulls you into some dumb inside joke. you feel his eyes when you laugh too loud or lean too close. you see it in the way his smile never quite reaches his eyes anymore. he doesn’t talk to you like he used to—not unless he has to, and even then it’s clipped, distant.

you tell yourself you’re imagining it. matt’s just quiet. that’s how he is.

but something shifts the night you end up at the sturniolo residence for a movie night. you’re wearing a soft hoodie and short shorts, your braids tied into a low ponytail. your skin glows under the warm lights, lashes curled, lip gloss catching the light every time you smile. you didn’t dress for attention, but you feel it anyway—especially from matt.

you’re curled into the corner of the couch with chris. his arm is stretched behind you, not touching but close. you’re both sharing a blanket, knees brushing. he’s whispering dumb commentary about the movie and you’re giggling into your hand, eyes half on the screen and half on him. for a second, it feels like something more.

you glance up and catch matt staring.

he’s across the room, slouched low in the armchair, hoodie half-zipped, jaw tight. he doesn’t look away when your eyes meet. he just blinks slow, then gets up without a word and disappears into the kitchen.

you try to focus on the movie, but you’re not laughing anymore. you excuse yourself ten minutes later, something in your chest heavy and unsure.

the kitchen’s dark except for the light over the sink. matt’s standing there, back to you, hands gripping the edge of the counter like he’s holding something in. you almost turn back, but then he speaks.

“you ever gonna tell him how you feel?”

you pause. “what?”

he turns, eyes sharp but unreadable. “chris. you ever gonna tell him you like him?”

you frown, arms crossing over your chest. “i never said i liked chris.”

“you don’t have to.” he steps closer, slow, like he’s testing you. “it’s obvious. to everyone.”

“so what?” you snap, voice low. “why do you care?”

he stops a few feet from you, looking at you like he’s trying to decide something. “because he doesn’t see you. not really.”

your brows knit together. “matt—”

“you think he’s gonna take care of you?” his voice is rougher now, bitter. “you think he’s gonna make sure your flowers don’t die ‘cause you forgot to water them? hold your hand when you’re overthinking? remind you to put your bonnet on when you’re too tired to care?”

you swallow, caught off guard by the way he says it—like he knows you. like he’s been watching, paying attention to every little thing chris missed.

“he doesn’t see how your voice softens when you’re trying not to cry,” matt says, stepping even closer, “or how you always fiddle with your necklace when you’re nervous.”

you blink fast, heart thudding.

he’s in front of you now, voice barely above a whisper. “i can be a better boyfriend than him. i could do the shit that he never did.”

you can’t breathe. can’t speak. he’s too close, too honest, and it feels like the floor’s falling out from under you.

his gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes. “i’d show up for you. not just when it’s easy. always.”

you’re still frozen, unsure if this is real—if matt’s really saying this to you, like all this time he’s been waiting. wanting.

“you never said anything before,” you whisper, voice shaking just a little.

his jaw clenches. “you were too busy looking at him.”

you don’t realize your hand moved until it’s resting lightly against his chest, right over his heartbeat. it’s fast. nervous.

“so say something now,” you murmur. “if you mean it.”

he exhales slow, like the weight’s finally cracking open. “i mean it.”

the silence after is thick with everything you’ve both been holding in. you don’t kiss him. not yet. but you don’t walk away either. and when his fingers brush yours, you let him hold your hand.

for the first time all night, you feel seen.

a/n: this has literally been sitting in my drafts forever lmao, + the button divider was created by @bluestriips !

[saturnsag3]

The Lead Up - will smith x macklin celebrini

summary: from my Erase Me series, mack gets a little insecure and starts to push will away

part 1 here, part 2 here, part 3 here, part 4 here

wc: 1,171

It wasn’t anything specific.

Just little things. Barely even things, really.

Will had picked up extra hours at the writing center to help pay for a summer course he wanted to take. It meant his schedule shifted a bit—some nights he stayed late, tutoring first-years who needed last-minute essay help. Sometimes he’d text, “Hey, I’m wiped—mind if we reschedule dinner?” or “Totally forgot I promised this kid I’d look over their midterm draft. Can we do tomorrow?”

It wasn’t weird.

Mack told himself that again and again. It’s not weird. You knew he’d get busy.

But still—he noticed.

The pauses between texts grew longer. The late-night phone calls they used to fall asleep to became more sporadic. There were new names mentioned in passing—coworkers and classmates, nothing serious—but they stuck in Mack’s mind.

He didn’t say anything. It would sound ridiculous. Jealous of a classmate? Over a name?

Still, it sat under his skin.

There was one night Will was in the kitchen making tea, his phone lighting up beside Mack on the couch. Just a text. A flash of a name Mack didn’t recognize. Nothing overt—just:

> i was just thinking abt what you said earlier and started laughing out loud LMAO

> ppl were looking at me crazy

Mack didn’t even know who it was from. He didn’t look. But he didn’t not notice, either.

And Will?

Will came back, handed him the tea like nothing was wrong, kissed the side of his head, and sat down like always.

That was the worst part. He was being normal.

And Mack kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

—

He started pulling away without meaning to.

Not drastically—just small things. Letting his texts go unanswered for a bit longer. Turning his head when Will tried to kiss him hello. Pretending to be busy. He didn’t know why he was doing it. Some kind of defense mechanism. If something was coming—some betrayal or break or fallout—he wanted to be ahead of it.

Will noticed. Of course he did.

One night he texted:

> u okay baby? you seem off lately 

Mack stared at it, typing, deleting, retyping. He almost wrote something real. Something raw. But instead, he sent:

> i’m okay :) just tired 

Another lie. And Will, being Will, didn’t push.

But that only made it worse. The space. The patience. The way Will was still showing up—checking in, making plans, brushing hair off Mack’s forehead like none of this paranoia was real.

Mack’s brain kept spinning:

If he is hiding something, he’s good at it.

If he’s not—why do I still feel like this?

It was like trying to hold a mirror up to fog. Nothing looked clear.

Then one rainy Friday afternoon, Will came through the door soaked and laughing—something about the buses being late and almost getting tackled by someone’s umbrella—and Mack just stared at him, heart pounding. Because how is he this calm? How is he this happy if something’s wrong?

The words came out before he could stop them.

“Where were you?”

Will blinked, mid-laugh. “What? I told you—class ran late. We had that guest speaker I mentioned earlier?”

Mack nodded once, too quickly. “Right. Of course. Totally forgot. Guess that explains everything.”

Will’s face changed then—confusion twisting into concern. “Huh? What’s going on?”

And just like that, it snapped. The restraint. The months of anxiety. The half-swallowed suspicions.

Mack exhaled, sharp and bitter. “I don’t know, Will. You tell me.”

“Mack what?—“

“You tell me, Will,” Macklin repeated, harsher this time. “You’re the one sneaking around.”

Will stepped back slightly. “What?”

“You’re lying to me.”

“About— about what?” 

Will’s voice cracked slightly at the end, jacket still soaked and dripping on the carpet, the smile from earlier completely gone now. “What the hell could I possibly lying to you about, Mack?”

“I don’t know.” Mack’s arms folded tight across his chest like they were the only thing holding him upright. “Late nights. New friends. Texts you don’t mention. Names I don’t recognize.”

Will’s mouth opened, closed. “Mack—what are you—”

“I saw that text,” Mack snapped. “The one from whoever that was. “Laughing my ass off,” or whatever. “Thinking about what you said.”Like I’m not supposed to notice that kind of thing?”

Will blinked, stunned. “Are you serious right now?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

Will let out a shaky breath, dragging a hand down his face. “Mack. That was Ruby. She’s in my film analysis class. We were talking about some dumb short movie we watched in class” 

“Oh, so now I get names.”

“You could’ve asked!” Will’s voice was climbing now, equal parts disbelief and panic. “You could’ve asked, Mack, and I would’ve told you. But instead you’re standing here acting like I—” He stopped short, his chest heaving. “Like I cheated on you? You really think I’d do that to you?”

Mack didn’t respond right away. His jaw clenched.

And then, quiet, deadly:

“Well, you’ve done worse.”

Will flinched like he’d been slapped.

For a long, terrible second, neither of them moved.

“You think this is the same?” Will finally asked, voice low. “You think this—now—is the same as before?”

“I don’t know what this is,” Mack bit out. “Because it doesn’t feel like before, and it doesn’t feel like now, either. It just feels like I’m waiting for everything to fall apart again.”

“Then why are you here?” Will asked, not cruelly, just desperate. “Why did you say yes? Why did you let me fall back in love with you if you were just gonna assume the worst the second I got busy?”

Mack looked away, breathing hard.

Will’s voice cracked again, softer this time. “I’ve been showing up for you. Every day. I text, I call, I check in. I’m not perfect, but I’ve been trying, Mack. Really fucking trying. But I can’t keep proving I’m not the guy I was.”

Mack swallowed thickly. “It’s not about you being perfect.”

“Then what is it about?”

“It’s about me not knowing how to trust that this is real.” Mack’s voice dropped to almost nothing. “Because it doesn’t matter how good things are when there’s a part of me always waiting for you to leave.”

Will stepped closer, cautiously, like he was approaching a wounded animal. “I’m not going anywhere, baby” 

Mack didn’t answer.

“I’m not,” Will repeated, firmer this time. “You wanna check my phone? You want me to text everyone I’ve ever spoken to in front of you? I’ll do it. Right now. But this—this distance, this second-guessing—I can’t fix that unless you let me.”

Mack’s voice wavered. “I’m scared.”

Will’s expression softened. “I know.”

“Its just like.. when I lov— when I feel strongly about something, I wait for it to disappear, because good things never happen to me, the second I let myself get comfortable they leave so— I don’t fuckin know, Will” 

Will’s throat bobbed. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said again, gentler now. “You don’t have to believe it yet. But I’ll keep saying it until you do.”

Macklin’s eyes were glassy now, but he didn’t look away. And Will—soaking wet Will—reached out slowly, resting his hands on Mack’s waist.

“You don’t have to be ready overnight,” Will murmured. “But don’t push me away because your brain’s feeding you bullshit.”

Mack let out a shaky exhale. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I don’t know how to fix it yet,” Mack whispered, “but I want to.”

Will nodded, eyes a little glossy, too. “We’ll figure it out.”

And Mack let himself lean in—just barely—forehead resting against Will’s.

Will’s breath caught, soft and warm against Mack’s skin.

They stood there for a long moment, rain pattering against the windows, the sharp edge of the argument dulled by the quiet that came after.

And then, softly—barely more than a whisper:

“I love you,” Will said.

Mack paused.

Will didn’t pull back. He didn’t rush to fill the silence. He just let the words hang there, patient and sure.

Mack’s heart was pounding so hard it hurt. He could feel Will’s hands still resting on his waist, steady. Solid. Everything in him was bracing for a fall—but Will was still there. Still here.

He pulled back enough to look Will in the eyes.

“I love you too,” Mack said, quiet and certain, like he’d just figured it out in real time. “God, I love you.”

Will smiled, and it was the softest thing Mack had ever seen.

But then, of course—because he was Will—he added, “Can’t believe your first ‘I love you’ is after an argument about me cheating on you.”

Mack groaned, pulling his face into Will’s shoulder. “Stop it. I’m embarrassed.”

Will laughed into his hair. “You should be.”

“Shut up,” Mack muttered, muffled by Will’s shirt. “I was spiraling.”

“I noticed.”

“You were supposed to lie and say I was being normal.”

“Not when you accuse me of running around with Ruby the Film Major.”

“She texted you!”

“She texted about a squirrel documentary, babe.”

Mack groaned louder. “I’m never recovering from this.”

Will pulled him in tighter, chin resting against Mack’s head. “You don’t need to. We’re good.”

Mack leaned in, exhaling slow.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “We’re good.”

Will kissed the top of his head, still smiling. “Say it again.”

“What?”

Will tilted his head down until Mack met his eyes. “The part where you love me.”

Mack rolled his eyes, cheeks pink. “You’re annoying.”

Will grinned. “And?”

Mack hesitated, lips twitching. Then he mumbled, “I love you.”

Will beamed. “There it is.”

And just like that, Mack believed it—at least a little. Maybe enough to stop waiting for the worst.

Because Will was still here.

And he wasn’t going anywhere.

sages thoughts⋆˙⟡: i’ve actually had this sitting in my drafts for like two weeks i just didn’t know when to post it lol, pls enjoy!!

[dearjoons]

📔 CLASSPRESIDENT!JIMIN HEADCANNONS

warnings: classpresident!jimin x brainsandbrawns!reader. he’s basically a smarter & bitchier tristan dugray. private school au. long time rivals with tension. power couple who isn’t a couple yet but SO should be. rich boy with a pride problem.

lulu speaks: he’s hot i want him BHADDD

✎ classpresident!jimin whose parents are part of the school board, and are the main funders of the school.

✎ classpresident!jimin who ran for class president and won by a landslide. it was mostly because his peers are scared to death of him, and because nobody else even bothered to run against him.

✎ classpresident!jimin who finishes physics tests 20 minutes early and leaves students feeling like idiots just for glancing at their calculator.

✎ classpresident!jimin who will give you detention for being late and then walk you to class himself, smirking the entire time down.

✎ classpresident!jimin who pulls your chair out and holds the door for you, but not for anyone else. ever. if someone points it out, he brushes it off with, “she’s too high-maintenance to be trusted with a door.”

✎ classpresident!jimin who shoots anyone who makes you laugh death stares, but only because he knows he’s never even been close to doing that—and he’ll likely never be.

✎ classpresident!jimin who absolutely sabotages anyone who tries to date you. he grades them harshly on their assignments because he’s a TA, tells teachers they were talking during a fire drill, spreads rumors that could ruin careers, all while you are blissfully unaware.

✎ classpresident!jimin who pretends he doesn’t remember your valentine’s day kiss from 4th grade. (it was a dare. it lasted a second. you definetly forgot about it by now, right???)

✎ classpresident!jimin who pulled strings with the professor to switch out your chem partner because he was too flirty.

✎ classpresident!jimin who remembers how his face used to get all red and his hands used to get all sweaty when he had to sit next to you in 2nd grade.

✎ classpresident!jimin who tried to actually flirt exactly once—you laughed in his face. he played it off, but he actually went home and screamed into his pillow.

✎ classpresident!jimin who has literally NEVER interrupted you when you’re speaking in class. not once. even if you’re wrong, even if he’s dying to correct you. he waits, because you’re the only person he respects at that level.

✎ classpresident!jimin who replies with “make me” evrey time you tell him to shut up.

✎ classpresident!jimin who 100% knows the way you smell. the actual name of your perfume—he looked it up. and now, when he catches whiffs of it in public, his head whips around like a dog hearing a toy jingle.

✎ classpresident!jimin who is in love with you—no matter what he says or how he rolls his eyes. painfully, hopelessly, endlessly in love with you, and he’ll take it to his grave…unless you find out.

lulu speaks pt2: when i found this picture of jimin i was half asleep and literally didn’t know if i was hallucinating or not. i wasn’t!! it’s real 💆🏻‍♀️

cai bot. masterlist. navigation.

[agathawellbelov3d]

Part 26; Starts w texts & the rest is a written part. Wrote this several weeks ago so it’s not my best! Not editing it tho lmfao. And no, I’m not formatting the writing. ALSO! All the posts should now be under #SnowBazMidtermAU so they’re easier to find :)

I should’ve said no.

But the second the words left his mouth, “Might as well grab dinner, yeah?” like it was the most natural thing in the world, I couldn’t help myself.

And I know better – fangs, food, public places – I’m practically begging for trouble.

But like the hopeless idiot I am, I said yes.

I always say yes, when it’s him. It’s pathetic.

I’d never admit that, though. Especially not to him.

It would ruin my whole dramatic vampire thing.

My heart is pounding faster than it should, like a stupid human’s heartbeat. Like Simon’s heartbeat.

And I listen for his, searching for the rhythmic pacing. It’s soft, steady. I want to focus on it, but can’t help but feel my own thundering against my ribs. Mine is faster, I realize to my horror.

I hate how he does this to me.

Without even trying, he makes a disaster of me every goddamn time.

He doesn’t notice, he can’t notice. But I do, and that only makes it worse.

We walk in silence, and I hate how charged everything feels.

I glance sideways at him. Simon’s walking with a ridiculous bounce that suggests he’s not thinking much of anything. His shoulders relaxed, hands in his pockets. His stupid leathery tail trailing behind him, swishing slightly.

“Are you sure you don’t want to just go to the dining hall with your friends?” I ask, desperately trying to get myself out of this. I’d do nearly anything to avoid eating in front of someone, anyone, and especially Simon. The thought of having to eat with him, fangs exposed – absolutely not.

He looks at me like I suggested something utterly ridiculous. “Why on earth would we do that? You can go there any day.”

I frown. “It’s a waste of money not too.” And I don’t want him seeing me try (and fail) to bite a sandwich, inevitably biting my lip until it draws blood.

He shrugs, “Then I’ll pay for it, I don’t care.”

“That’s not what I was suggesting.”

He stops, turning around to face me with his arms crossed. “Then what were you suggesting? What?” he teases, a smirk teasing the corner of his mouth. “You’re not nervous, are you, Baz?”

“I’m not,” I stutter, unconvincingly. Of course I’m nervous. It’s him.

“Then why aren’t you looking at me?” he challenges. And I wonder if perhaps he’s better at reading me than I thought. “You’re not teasing me either, and you love to do that. If I wasn’t so stupid, I’d think something might be wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” I mutter.

“Do you have an eating disorder or something?”

“What the hell kind of question is that?” I snap.

“I don’t know, sorry,” he shrugs, kicking the ground. “Don’t know why you’re so bothered, then. It's just food. And it’s not like we haven’t been hanging out everyday for the past week.”

“That’s the issue,” I say, my voice surprisingly sharp.

“Food’s the issue? Or I’m the issue?”

Both, technically. But I wouldn’t tell that to Snow, because then I’d have to explain to him that I’ve been desperately attracted to him for the past two and a half years and that when I can’t sleep, I turn around to face him. And that at night I watch the rise and fall of his freckled chest to calm down. Or how when he’s not looking, I can’t help but stare at the golden ringlets that frame his face like a halo. And that I want to be closer to him, but can’t. That I’ve memorized the exact blue of his eyes, and every freckle on his face, and how each twitch of his tail shows me the things he’s not saying out loud. And that I’ve had a weird fixation on him since we met. Which it’s not – it’s something more than that – but that will never happen.

I feel heat rise to my cheeks, and for once I’m grateful I forgot to feed yesterday, because otherwise, I’d be so pink there is no way he wouldn't notice.

I want to say something snarky, something that will make him shut up or feel stupid. But I’m sick of my heart racing, so I just try to be as honest as I can.

“Yeah, food,” I repeat. “It’s complicated. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That’s okay,” he says, and his voice is surprisingly soft. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

I’m surprised by the lightness in his voice. Snow has always struck me as someone who would mock me for any issues, not be so understanding. But maybe spending more time together has softened him, or maybe it’s just dulled my edges so he’s finally letting his guard down.

“I didn’t think you’d get it,” I mumble.

“I don’t,” he says simply, “But you don’t gotta tell me everything, so that’s okay.”

A beat.

“But I’m still getting food on the way back, even if you don’t get anything.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes at him. “Of course you are.”

We keep walking, but the silence is comfortable now. I don’t notice how much time has passed before we show up at a cafe right outside campus.

“Are you sure you don’t want to get anything?” he asks again, holding open the door as I walk in. (Of course he’s a gentleman. I wish I hated him for it).

I glare at him, hoping he’ll drop the subject.

He just smiles.

I end up getting a smoothie. He gets a sandwich and chips. He also pays, despite my protests.

We end up sitting together outside on a bench. It’s oddly comfortable. We don’t say much, but it’s nice. It feels like we’re almost friends.

[pankowcrumbs]

Baby Blues X Will Poulter

MasterList

Will Poulter Masterlist

Trigger warning: postpartum depression

I don’t remember when I last slept. Not really. Not that half-doze you get when the baby finally stops crying and you get ten minutes before they start again I mean real, proper sleep. The kind where you wake up not drenched in milk, tears, or both.

It’s two weeks since our daughter, Lila, arrived and the house still doesn’t feel like ours. There are nappies on the sofa, bottles in the bathroom, and muslins tucked into every piece of furniture like we’re decorating with spit-up chic. My boobs hurt like someone inflated them with gravel and forgot to deflate them. The baby just cried for three hours straight and wouldn’t latch, and when she finally did, she bit me. I didn’t even know newborns could bite.

I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, one breast tucked away, the other still leaking like a faulty tap. My dressing gown is half open, my hair hasn’t seen shampoo in four days, and I haven’t brushed my teeth because every time I try, Lila cries and I spiral into an irrational rage that makes me feel monstrous.

Will comes in holding Lila, swaying gently like he’s dancing to some silent lullaby. He looks tired too pale under the freckles, his usually neat hair sticking up in a way that would be funny if I didn’t feel like I was failing at everything.

“You alright, love?” he asks, voice soft.

I shake my head. Just once. That’s all I can manage before the tears start again. I’m crying all the bloody time. I don't even know why half the time sometimes I’ll cry because she’s finally asleep. Sometimes because I can’t make her stop. Sometimes because I miss who I was before she got here, and then I cry harder because I feel awful for even thinking that.

Will kneels down in front of me, still holding her like she’s the most precious thing in the world, and I feel even worse. Why don’t I feel that? Why do I look at her and feel... nothing?

“She’s beautiful,” he whispers.

“I know,” I whisper back, but it sounds like a lie, because what I want to say is I don’t feel like she’s mine. She’s just this tiny, loud stranger who took over my body and now lives in my house. But I can’t say that. Because that would make me a monster, wouldn’t it?

“I need you to take her,” I say, voice shaking. “Please.”

Will doesn’t hesitate. He kisses my forehead, gently passes Lila into her bassinet, and comes back to me, brushing damp hair from my face.

I sob into his chest, clutching his t-shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring me to this reality. “I can’t do this, Will. I feel like a bloody cow. All I do is feed her and cry and feed her and cry again. I don’t even feel like her mum. I don’t feel anything.”

He rubs circles into my back. “It’s alright,” he murmurs. “It’s okay to feel this way.”

“No, it’s not. Everyone expects you to be glowing and in love with your baby and I just... I just want to sleep. I want my body back. I want a shower. I want to feel like me again.”

“You’re still you,” he says softly, “just a very tired, very milk-covered version.”

I let out a wet laugh through the tears. “I swear she’s feeding more than a rugby team. I’m pretty sure I’m just a glorified human bottle.”

“You’re more than that. You’re everything,” he says. “But Y/N… love, I think you might need a bit of help.”

I stiffen. “You think I’m a bad mum?”

“No, God, no. I think you’re an incredible mum who’s trying to carry a hundred kilos of emotion with no sleep and cracked nipples and an unpredictable little dictator who doesn’t speak English.”

I sniff. “She’s definitely got your lungs.”

“She’s got your attitude,” he replies with a smirk. “Tiny, furious, and beautiful.”

There’s a pause. The humour fades a little. “I’m serious,” he says. “I think you might have postpartum depression. And that’s okay. It doesn’t make you less of a mum, and it doesn’t mean this is how it’ll always feel. But I think you need someone who knows what they’re doing to help you through it.”

I nod slowly. “I think you’re right.”

“I am?” he says, looking mock-offended. “Can you repeat that for the record?”

“You’re insufferable,” I reply, but I lean into him, forehead resting against his. “And you’re right.”

He kisses my temple. “I’m proud of you.”

“I feel like I’m falling apart.”

“You’re still standing, love. That’s more than enough right now.”

There’s a peace in that moment fragile, but real. We sit together on the sofa, the baby gurgling quietly in her bassinet, as if she knows this is a truce in the chaos. Will flicks on some mindless telly and I let myself rest, not because everything’s fixed, but because I’ve finally said it out loud. I’m not okay. But maybe I will be.

Eventually, Will reaches over and takes my hand. “We’ll look into getting you someone to talk to tomorrow. Proper support, yeah?”

I squeeze his hand. “Thank you.”

He smiles, tired but warm. “Anything for you. Even if I have to watch you leak through five bras a day.”

“Oi,” I say, whacking him lightly with a pillow. “That’s your child’s fault.”

“Actually,” he smirks, “I think we both know who’s responsible for the baby being there in the first place…”

I laugh an actual laugh this time and for the first time in days, I feel a flicker of something like hope. Like maybe, with him beside me, I can survive this. Even if I do feel like a milk machine with sore boobs and a baby who cries like she’s in a metal band.

“I love you,” I whisper.

“I love you more,” he says.

I used to think healing would come all at once like a wave, a moment, a single deep breath after which everything would be better. But it doesn’t. Healing creeps in slowly, like the first bit of sunlight after days of rain, barely noticeable until you realise you’ve gone a few hours without crying and the thought of holding your baby doesn’t make your chest feel like it’s caving in.

It started with the phone call.

Will sat next to me at the kitchen table, holding my hand while I nervously called the clinic. My voice shook when I asked about postnatal counselling, and the woman on the other end spoke so gently I nearly burst into tears again. She got me in within a week.

The first session was awkward. I didn’t know how to explain it the distance I felt from Lila, the resentment, the guilt. It felt like confessing something criminal, even though I knew it wasn’t. But the therapist listened. She nodded. She told me I wasn’t broken. That many women feel like this, even if no one talks about it.

Will took care of Lila during those sessions. He never asked questions when I got home, but he’d always have a cup of tea waiting, and he’d pull me into a quiet hug that I never realised I needed until I was in it.

“Was it okay?” he’d ask softly, and I’d nod into his chest, grateful.

One morning, about a month in, I woke up to the sound of Lila fussing in her cot not screaming, just those little noises she made when she was stirring. I lay there, listening, heart pounding like it used to. But instead of pulling the duvet over my head or nudging Will to get up, I got out of bed.

I walked to her cot and looked down at her tiny, scrunched face, and for the first time, I didn’t feel like she was a stranger.

I felt something shift.

I picked her up, held her close, and when she blinked up at me with those sleepy eyes, something warm flickered in my chest. It wasn’t a tidal wave, but it was real.

Later, when I told Will, he looked like he might cry. “I knew you’d get there,” he said, brushing a tear from my cheek with his thumb. “She’s always loved you. I’m so glad you’re starting to feel it back.”

I didn’t say anything just pressed my forehead to his and held onto him like he was the anchor keeping me steady. Because he was.

He started helping me build that bond in little ways. He’d bring Lila to me when she was cooing instead of crying. He’d take photos of us together when I wasn’t paying attention the kind of moments I didn’t think mattered at the time, but looking back, they helped me see myself as her mum. Not just the woman who birthed her. Her mum.

Some days were still hard. I still cried, still felt that itch of anxiety crawl up my spine when she wouldn’t sleep or latched badly and made me wince. But Will was always there. Calm. Present. Patient.

One night, a particularly rough one, Lila had been crying for what felt like hours. My nerves were shot, my back hurt, and my shirt was soaked through. I passed her to Will with shaking hands and whispered, “I need a break.”

“Go,” he said gently. “I’ve got her.”

I sat on the bathroom floor, door closed, tears silently dripping onto my knees as I breathed through it. A few minutes later, Will knocked.

“Love?” he whispered.

“Yeah?”

“You okay if I come in?”

I said yes, and he did holding a quiet Lila against his chest, her eyelids fluttering like she was finally giving up the fight.

“I just wanted to show you something,” he said, kneeling beside me. “Look at how calm she gets when she’s with you.”

I frowned. “She was screaming her head off when I had her.”

“But when you talk, or sing, or even breathe near her she knows you. She loves you, Y/N.”

I sniffed, reaching out to stroke her soft cheek. “It’s getting better, isn’t it?”

“It is,” he said. “You are. I’m so proud of you.”

I let myself smile. It was small. But it was real.

Over the next few weeks, I started keeping a little journal not because anyone told me to, but because I wanted to remember the small wins. The first time I laughed while feeding her. The day I wore something that wasn’t milk-stained. The time I sang her to sleep without panicking halfway through.

And always, always, Will was there. Celebrating the tiniest victories like I’d just won an Oscar. Bringing me tea in bed. Taking Lila for walks so I could nap. Making jokes when I needed them, and holding me when I didn’t.

“I’m not sure how I got so lucky,” I said one night, watching him bounce Lila gently by the window.

He turned and smiled, soft and sincere. “We both did.”

And I believed him.

Even now, months later, when I still have the odd day where everything feels heavy and I question whether I’m doing enough I look at my daughter’s face, at the way she looks at me with total trust, and I feel that bond growing stronger every day.

I still go to therapy. I still lean on Will. And he still reminds me, every single time I doubt myself, that I’m not alone.

That I am enough.

That healing takes time, but I’m doing it.

And I’m proud of me, too.

[sonnysolis]

Sonny arches a brow as Benny’s arm slides around her shoulders, her body instinctively stiffening for half a second before she settles under the familiar weight of it. It’s comforting in that rare, almost nostalgic sort of way—like slipping into an old jacket you forgot still fit.

“You always were annoyingly confident for someone with zero follow-through,” she mutters with a half-smirk, casting him a sideways glance. “If I recall, your last ‘heart-to-heart’ attempt ended with you getting drunk and crying at that diner off Western while I pretended to listen about whatever girl you were sad over. Although frankly, I'm not sure I could understand a word of what you were saying.”

She waves a hand vaguely as if to dismiss the memory (that may or may not have happened), the smirk lingering, but there's no venom behind her tease. Just... warmth. A flicker of the girl she used to be when they ran around the same city together, trying to act tougher than they actually were.

At the mention of being on her side, though, something flickers behind her eyes—just a glimmer, gone almost as fast as it comes. Someone on your side. That shouldn’t hit her as hard as it does. But, she'd be lying if she said it didn't. She keeps walking however, hiding it with a shrug.

“You volunteering for bodyguard duty, Benny?” she asks him, lightly. “Because that’s a full-time job with terrible benefits. And an even worse retirement plan.” She’s joking, but her tone lands somewhere between grateful and cautious. The idea of anyone—let alone someone from her past—being on her side feels too surreal and dangerous to believe outright. Still, she can’t quite shut the door on it. Not with Benny, at least. Not yet.

She slows her steps just slightly once they near the food stalls, eyeing him with mild suspicion. “What are you actually doing in Briar Ridge though? You say it's because you have family here but, something tells me there's more to the story than that. Call it a hunch, or just me being nosy.”

Then, almost as an afterthought, she adds, more softly, “You didn’t follow me here, did you? ‘Cause that would be a real weird twist and I’m not emotionally equipped for that kind of stalker energy.” Again, she's teasing him. Blending their usual playful humor with a twinge of wholesomeness.

Just then, she gives him a lighthearted elbow to the ribs before glancing forward again, her voice much quieter now. “But seriously... if we’re doing this whole 'fair exchange' thing? You gotta start. I have to gauge how deep we're getting first before I launch any missiles at you. So what’s your story, Benny? The parts of it, I don't know yet. You can start with what happened since I left Chicago, since clearly I missed something, or from the very beginning. Your choice. But just know that for every juicy detail you share, that's another juicy detail you get back.”

She doesn’t expect the full truth from him either way. Frankly, she doesn’t expect much of anything from anyone these days. But something about the way he looks at her—like she’s still Sonny, and not just some ghost wearing her skin—makes her want to believe he might actually confide in her about something real. In which case, she'd probably.... maybe... return the favor.

Benny grinned and shook his head. "Sorry," he laughed. "It's just—I don't know. The idea of you being a parent one day never really crossed my mind." In retrospect, if Sonny had asked Benny what he thought about her becoming a mom, he wouldn’t have doubted that she would do well. Benny naively believed that most women would likely be good mothers, but he knew that Sonny had a knack for handling a rambunctious crowd and turning angry customers into happy ones. There was no doubt about her capabilities. "It suits you."

One surprise at a time? He furrowed his brow as he looked at her. Did she just mention that she was here to surprise her son and ex? Or did he really hear that? Before Benny could ask her any questions, she redirected the focus back to him. He chuckled, recalling that Sonny had a talent for taking charge, and it had been foolish of him to think he could get her to open up about something she was probably hesitant to discuss in the first place.

"You try not to ask questions after not seeing a good friend for, like, ten years." He noticed her relax, a grin spreading across his lips after she called his face dumb. Tilting his chin upwards, a snort escaped him. "If my face is still dumb," he said, bringing his finger to her forehead and gently pushing her head back, "then so is yours, ankle hugger."' Ankle hugger' was one of the many nicknames Benny gave Sonney when she was being particularly annoying—lovingly, of course. Their love language always involved a bit of name-calling.

Benny felt a sense of contentment wash over him as new revelations emerged. It appeared that some residents of Briar Ridge were decidedly not in favor of Sonney's arrival, and as each piece of the puzzle slid into place, he gained a more vivid and cohesive understanding of the situation. He only hums in response to her passive reveal, deciding it'd be best to allow her to disclose her story on her own terms. He understood that much, as he wouldn’t want to overwhelm her with heavy discussions if she wasn’t prepared, he needed to be patient.

"Oh, Sonny, you're gravely mistaken if you think you can avoid a heart-to-heart with me," he said with a grin, quickening his pace to walk alongside her and throwing his arm around her shoulders. "You think nothing has happened to me since you left Chicago?" Benny was mostly trying to level the playing field rather than pressuring her to share something she wasn’t ready to discuss. Sonny knew Reina and would find it amusing to know she was in Briar Ridge. That, and Benny hadn't been able to talk about it with anyone. "All I'm saying is that it would be a fair exchange. Besides, don't you want someone on your side? You mentioned these guys have pitchforks or something, right?" He smiled, nudging her gently before letting go.