#i got lazy halfway okay

[demonicfarmer69]

sect leader lan got hit by a curse during a night hunt! thankfully sect leader jiang was there to help…jin ling doesn't seem to like it though 😡

[hplonesomeart]

Puzzlevison screenshot redraw!! On paper!! With water color!! Wahoo!!

I don’t have much credible experience with coloring traditional art—usually just doodling or sketching in my spare time for fun. But I’ve wanted to try expanding the different mediums I use and letting myself learn from them. It’s a nice change of pace and allows me to take a step back from responsibilities. And I’ve needed an excuse to keep working in this sketchbook so here we are!! I think in the end of this I might’ve treated the watercolors too similar to acrylic paints lol. Ah oh well all part of the ✨learning experience ✨

Also here have some goofy work behind-the-scenes progress photos

[pucksandpower]

Crash Course in Love

Lando Norris x Carlos Sainz’s best friend!Reader

Summary: in which Carlos forgets to tell his two best friends they’ll be staying in his villa together, and now a stressed out lawyer has to survive living with a human golden retriever, but you know what they say … opposites attract

You’ve been in Marbella for four days and already gone through three bottles of wine and two existential crises.

Carlos’ villa is too quiet for someone used to white noise: emails pinging, heels clacking, cortisol. The silence in this place isn’t peaceful — it’s accusatory. You’ve spent more time staring at the sea than you have your own reflection in the last ten years, which is saying something.

It feels indulgent. Like if someone walks in, they’ll accuse you of being lazy. You’d have to explain the insomnia, the migraines, the crying in bathroom stalls between depositions.

But Carlos isn’t here to judge. He’s off somewhere filming shampoo commercials in Paris or golfing in socks with his dad. He just texted you the gate code and told you to “relax, coño.” So here you are, inhaling almond-scented air and avoiding your inbox.

You’re halfway through a rerun of The Holiday when the doorbell rings.

You don’t move.

It rings again. Louder.

“Delivery?” You mutter to no one. You didn’t order anything.

You shuffle to the door in socks and an old hoodie of Carlos’ that you’ve unofficially adopted. You crack the door open and freeze.

Lando Norris is standing there. With a suitcase. And a sunburn.

“Hey,” he says, blinking like he’s not entirely sure this is the right house. “You’re not Carlos.”

“You’re … not a delivery guy.”

“Definitely not. Unless you ordered someone with mediocre Spanish and no plan.”

You blink. He grins.

“Sorry, I’m Lando. Uh. Carlos said I could crash in the guest room. Hotel bailed on my reservation. Long story. But he didn’t mention you’d be here.”

“He didn’t mention you’d be here either.”

“Cool. So we’re both surprised. That’s … fun?”

You stare at him. He looks like he just rolled off a yacht he wasn’t invited on. Sleeveless shirt, board shorts, and the confidence of someone who’s never had to Google “how to flirt.”

You open the door all the way. “Come in, I guess.”

He wheels his suitcase past you. It makes an annoying thunk over the threshold. You follow him into the hallway, watching as he does a slow 360 like he’s never seen furniture before.

“Whoa. This place is insane. Does Carlos actually live like this, or is he secretly royalty?”

“Just rich.”

“Same difference.”

You cross your arms. “You want something to drink?”

“God, yes. I’m parched. Is that still a word people use? Parched?”

You turn toward the kitchen. “Not since 1912.”

Behind you, you hear him mutter, “Alright. Tough crowd.”

He follows you to the kitchen like a golden retriever. Doesn’t ask where things are — just opens cabinets and drawers like it’s his Airbnb.

“I got this,” he says, pulling out two glasses. “I’m a fantastic guest. Top tier. Five stars on all platforms.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You have reviews?”

“No, but if I did? Flawless.”

He pours two drinks. One is wine. The other is apple juice. He hands you the wine. “Cheers.”

You eye the juice. “Is that … what you’re drinking?”

“I burnt a little on the flight. Gotta rehydrate.”

He’s completely serious. Like drinking juice is a medical emergency. You stifle a laugh.

“You okay?” He asks, suddenly earnest. “You look like you’re tired. But not like, normal tired. Lawyer tired.”

You blink at him. “Lawyer tired?”

“Yeah. Like … your eyeballs are sleepy but your soul’s still trying to finish a brief.”

You stare.

“I mean that in a good way. Like, impressive. Respectfully.”

“Wow.”

“I should stop talking.”

“Yeah, probably.”

***

Dinner is his idea. You offer to order something in. He insists on cooking. “I make a mean carbonara,” he says. “Or maybe risotto. Wait, do you eat dairy?”

You nod.

“Okay, sick. Chef Lando it is.”

You spend the next hour watching him destroy Carlos’ kitchen with the chaotic enthusiasm of a man who’s only cooked two times in his life and once lit a tea towel on fire.

He tells stories while he cooks, most of them involving near-death experiences, bad tattoos, and a rental car that somehow ended up in a lake.

You lean on the counter, sipping your wine. “Do you ever filter?”

“Rarely. But I can if you want. I can be quiet. Mysterious. Brooding.”

“You?”

He makes a face. “Okay, rude.”

“You burn your hand yet?”

“Twice,” he says cheerfully. “But I’m hiding it to preserve my ego.”

He fumbles with the tongs. Pasta flies out of the pan and onto the floor. He shrugs. “Five-second rule?”

You deadpan. “I’m not that desperate yet.”

He laughs. You notice he has a nice laugh. Not performative. Just … happy.

Dinner is terrible. Somehow both overcooked and cold. You take one bite and try not to gag.

“So?” He asks, eyes wide with hope.

“It’s … ambitious.”

He winces. “I’ll order pizza.”

“I won’t stop you.”

“Should’ve stuck with cereal,” he mutters, pulling out his phone.

You don’t mean to smile. But you do.

***

Later, you sit on the couch with your legs tucked under you while he scrolls through terrible Spanish romcoms on TV.

“This one’s got a 3.4 on IMDb.”

“Perfect.”

He clicks play.

You steal glances at him when he’s not looking. He’s gotten more attractive since the last time you saw him, though you’re not sure if it’s the jawline or the fact that he keeps folding your hoodie when you leave it on the back of a chair.

He’s obnoxious, yes. Too comfortable too fast. But when you yawn mid-movie, his entire face falls.

“Oh no, I’m boring you.”

“It’s the wine.”

“I’m still boring you.”

“You’re not.”

“I totally am.”

He turns toward you, earnest again. It’s disarming. “You wanna sleep? I’ll shut up.”

“You never shut up.”

“Harsh.”

He watches you for a moment. “You sure you’re okay?”

You pause. That question again. The one you’ve been dodging since the breakdown.

“Yeah,” you lie.

He nods. But doesn’t push.

You both go quiet. The movie drones on in the background.

“Hey,” he says suddenly.

“Yeah?”

“You’ve got a cool vibe.”

You look at him. “What does that mean?”

“I dunno. Like … your energy. It’s nice.”

You snort. “Are you high?”

“No! I’m complimenting you. With words.”

“This is how a teenager hits on a barista.”

“Okay, true, but still. I meant it.”

You stare at him.

He grins. “Just accept the compliment.”

You roll your eyes. But you don’t say no.

***

By the time you head to bed, the house smells like burnt garlic and whatever cologne he bathed in.

You hear him shuffling around in the guest room next to yours. Singing under his breath. Awful pitch.

You press your face into the pillow. You’re not supposed to like this. The noise. The chaos. The presence.

But when you wake up later and find your bags stacked neatly by the door — shoes lined up, hoodie folded on the chair — you smile.

Just a little.

And only when no one’s looking.

***

It starts the next morning with coffee.

You’re barely awake — just a hoodie-draped zombie with bed hair and a fading dream you don���t want to examine — when he appears in the kitchen, too chipper, too shirtless.

“You drink it black, right?” Lando asks, holding out a steaming cup like he’s been doing this forever. His curls are a mess. There’s toothpaste on his chin.

You blink at him. “How do you know how I take my coffee?”

“You made fun of me yesterday for putting oat milk in mine. I remembered.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “It’s called observation. I do it professionally.”

“Driving is not the same as remembering my coffee order.”

“I do both with style.”

You accept the cup, suspicious. “Did you spit in this?”

“Only love and a little judgment.”

You take a sip. It’s surprisingly decent.

“You’re not completely useless.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

He says it with a grin, but something flickers in his eyes when you smile over your cup. You don’t catch it. Not yet.

***

Days pass like that. Mornings laced with caffeine and accidental comfort.

You fall into a rhythm neither of you talks about. He gets up earlier than you expect — blasts music while brushing his teeth, sings ABBA off-key in the hallway, makes smoothies that look like radioactive goo.

You argue over playlists constantly.

“No. We’re not doing Pitbull at eight in the morning.”

“He’s Mr. Worldwide! It’s inspirational.”

“He’s bald and shouting.”

“That’s showbiz, baby.”

Sometimes, you win. Most of the time, he sneaks Mr. Brightside onto every playlist and pretends he didn’t.

You never thought you'd get used to someone like him. Loud. Playful. Constantly hovering in your peripheral vision. But there's a gentleness under the antics. A sweetness that doesn't beg to be noticed, but you notice anyway.

He drives you to the market without asking. Carries your groceries like it’s a competition. Starts trying to cook again — more confident than competent.

“What’s your favorite dish?” He asks one evening, hunched over his phone like it owes him money.

You answer without thinking. “Cacio e pepe.”

“Easy. I got this.”

He doesn’t got this.

He overcooks the pasta, forgets to salt the water, and ends up Googling “what is pecorino” in a panic.

You walk in on him whispering “don’t clump, don’t clump” at the sauce like it’s sentient.

You bite your lip to keep from laughing. “Need help?”

“Nope. I’m an artist. This is part of the process.”

He serves it with flair. You pretend not to notice the texture is more glue than cheese.

Still, you eat it. He watches your face the whole time, pretending not to. When you finish the plate, he beams like he’s won a Michelin star.

^**

The rain starts on a Tuesday.

You wake to gray skies and the soft percussion of drops against the villa’s roof. You think it’ll pass. It doesn’t.

By mid-afternoon, you’re both restless.

“I have to move,” you say, pacing in the living room. “I need to do something.”

Lando sprawls across the rug like a teenage boy at a sleepover. “Let’s play Mario Kart.”

“That’s not productive.”

“You’re literally vibrating with stress. Sit down. You need to get your ass kicked by Princess Peach.”

You do not get your ass kicked. You annihilate him.

“This game is rigged,” he whines as your kart zips past his. “You’re cheating.”

“I'm just better.”

“You're heartless. Cruel. Unfairly good at drifting.”

“You sound like a man who’s losing.”

He groans, flops over, and covers his face with a throw pillow. “I hate fish.”

You blink. “What?”

“Just thought I’d change the subject.”

You snort. “Okay. Why?”

“They smell weird. They look weird. Their eyes freak me out.”

“Do you think fish can understand us?”

He lifts the pillow slightly. “Are we high right now?”

“No, I’m serious. What if they know we’re watching them?”

“Then I owe a lot of apologies to some sushi.”

You laugh. A real one. Not the polite chuckle you use in meetings, not the rehearsed smile for courtroom civility. This one hits your ribs.

He sits up. Watches you. Doesn’t say anything for a moment.

“What?” You ask.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just … you’re different when you laugh like that.”

You glance away. “Like what?”

“Like you forgot something was weighing on you.”

His voice is soft now. Uncharacteristically so. You don’t respond right away. Just look out the window, rain sliding down the glass in long, lazy streaks.

After a while, you say, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He looks over.

“I mean, with my life,” you continue. “I was going so fast, for so long, and now I’ve stopped and I don’t … know what’s left.”

You stare at your hands. You hate how raw that sounds. How uncertain.

He doesn’t jump in. Doesn’t make a joke. Doesn’t try to fix it.

Just sits beside you. Quiet.

“I used to think being successful would feel better than this,” you say. “But I don’t even remember who I was before I started chasing things I don’t even know if I wanted.”

“Do you wanna go back?” He asks.

“No. But I don’t know how to go forward, either.”

He nods. Not like he understands completely — but like he’s trying to. Like he’s holding space for you, instead of advice.

“I don’t have answers,” he says eventually. “But I’m really good at distractions.”

You smile faintly. “Clearly.”

“I mean, c’mon. My carbonara almost killed you.”

“It did. I wrote a will after.”

“Harsh.”

“Truthful.”

He grins, and you feel lighter. A little.

***

That night, the rain intensifies.

You can’t sleep. Not because of the storm, but because something inside you is too noisy. Like your mind won’t stop pacing the room.

You wander out into the hallway, barefoot and restless, planning to make tea.

You don’t expect to see the front door open.

Or the rain soaking the floor tiles just past the entry.

Or him — barefoot, shirt clinging to him, hair dripping, crouched on the porch with his hands around a toppled plant.

You step outside. The rain is warm. Immediate. Your hoodie clings to your skin.

“Are you serious?” You call.

He looks up. His smile is sheepish, wide. “It fell over. I didn’t want it to drown.”

“In the middle of a storm?”

“Poor guy didn’t ask for this.”

You stare at him. His knees are muddy. There’s a leaf in his hair. He’s cradling the ceramic pot like it’s a kitten.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Guilty.”

“But also kind of … sweet.”

He looks at you.

You’re not sure what’s shifted. Maybe it’s the rain. The hour. The silence between the two of you that’s no longer awkward.

You’re suddenly aware of how close he is. How sincere his face becomes when he thinks you’re not looking.

He stands slowly. Water drips down his neck.

You say, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

You say, “You’re soaked.”

“So are you.”

And there it is — that moment. Hanging. Taut.

Not quite a kiss. Not yet.

But the kind of stillness that precedes something inevitable.

He tucks a wet strand of hair behind your ear. Doesn’t touch anything else.

His fingers are cold. His eyes are impossibly warm.

You shiver.

He notices. “Come on. Let’s not catch pneumonia.”

You nod. Follow him inside. Neither of you says much as you dry off.

But something’s different now.

And you both feel it.

Like you’ve stepped into something bigger than a holiday detour.

Something that might last.

***

You don’t expect him to ask.

You’re elbow-deep in a bowl of popcorn, half-watching some Spanish cooking show neither of you understands, when he says it — casual, like it’s nothing.

“You should come to Monaco next weekend.”

You blink. “What?”

“To the race. I’ll give you the VIP treatment.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What does that even mean?”

“It means you get a lanyard. And free food. And I pretend to be cooler than I actually am.”

“So, your regular weekend?”

He smirks. “Exactly.”

You scoff. “I’m not going to be some … grid girl.”

His grin falters. Just a little. “It’s not like that.”

“Lando.”

“You’d be my guest.”

“That’s worse.”

He turns toward you on the couch, legs folded under him like a golden retriever mid-persuasion. “Come on. It’s glamorous. There’s champagne. Helicopters. You love judging rich people.”

“That part is tempting.”

“I’ll let you wear one of my team shirts.”

“Still not sold.”

“I’ll bribe you with food.”

“Try again.”

“I’ll-” He pauses, thinks hard, then lights up. “-I’ll serenade you. Publicly. At the paddock.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would. Off-key. Acapella. I’ll make the engineers cry.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling.

He leans closer, dramatic whisper: “Come on. I’ll look lonely if you’re not there.”

“You’ll be surrounded by people.”

“Yeah, but none of them steal my fries and insult my music taste.”

You try not to let the warmth bloom too fast. “That’s your best argument?”

He lifts his hands. “That’s all I got.”

You shake your head. “Fine.”

He blinks. “Wait, seriously?”

You sigh. “Yes. Before I change my mind.”

He fist pumps the air. “YES. I mean — cool. Chill. No big deal.”

You snort. “You’re such a loser.”

“Your loser.”

You ignore the way your chest does a weird little flutter.

***

You regret saying yes almost immediately.

Not because you don’t want to go — but because it’s a lot.

The paddock is chaos. Noise. Cameras. Sunglasses on everyone, like they’re all pretending it’s not just overcast. You can feel eyes on you from the second you step out of the car.

Lando’s bouncing on the balls of his feet beside you, grinning like he owns the place. Which, in a way, he kind of does.

“You okay?” He asks.

You nod, a bit dazed. “You weren’t kidding about the VIP treatment.”

“Would I ever lie?”

“Yes.”

“Fair.”

He hands you a pass. “Here. This is your all-access badge. Makes you important.”

“Is it laminated?”

“Of course it’s laminated. We’re not animals.”

You laugh. He smiles like that was his whole goal.

People greet him constantly — engineers, press, fans. He throws a casual arm around your shoulder more than once, guiding you through the crowd.

You notice it after the third introduction: no one asks who you are. They all assume.

“Oh, so this is your-”

“Hey, you finally brought her!”

“Lando’s girl, right?”

You start correcting people. At first.

“Oh no, we’re just-”

“Not together, actually.”

“Just friends.”

But he never jumps in. Never clarifies. Just smiles, tugs you along, calls you mate in that annoyingly endearing way.

At some point, you stop correcting anyone. You tell yourself it’s just easier that way.

You’re lying.

***

You meet Oscar by the snack table.

He’s polite, a little dry, surprisingly funny. You’re mid-laugh when Lando shows up, scooter wheels screeching dramatically.

“Hey,” he says, too loud. “What’s going on here?”

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “Just talking.”

“Looked like flirting from over there.”

Oscar blinks. “I was complimenting her trainers.”

Lando squints. “They’re mine.”

“Ah.” Oscar smiles. “Well, you’ve got good taste.”

You can feel the tension radiating off Lando like heat from asphalt.

“Oscar was just telling me about the simulator,” you say, steering the conversation.

Lando crosses his arms. “Yeah? I’m faster than him in it.”

“By two-tenths,” Oscar says mildly.

“Still counts.”

You glance between them. “Are you … racing right now?”

Oscar shrugs. “Always.”

Lando tries to lean casually against a tire stack. Misses. Nearly faceplants into a crate of water bottles.

You wince. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he grumbles, hopping back up.

Oscar’s expression is unreadable.

You bite your lip. “Should I, uh, go find my seat?”

Oscar nods. “Probably safer over there.”

You follow Lando as he storms off, silent. His curls are a mess. His ears are red.

When you finally stop near the garage, you say, “What was that?”

“What?”

“You nearly crashed your scooter trying to interrupt a conversation.”

“He was flirting with you.”

“No, he wasn’t.”

“He was definitely flirting with you.”

“And if he was?”

Lando blinks. “I-”

You tilt your head. “Lando.”

“I didn’t like it.”

You cross your arms. “Why not?”

He stares at the ground. Rubs the back of his neck. Looks nothing like the confident, camera-ready version of himself from earlier.

Finally, he says, quietly, “I just really like you.”

You freeze.

“I know I’m not your type,” he adds quickly. “And I know you’re probably just being nice to me because I make dumb jokes and cook badly and follow you around like a puppy-”

“Lando-”

“-but I’d try, you know? To be whatever it is you’re looking for. Even if I’m not it.”

The words hang between you. Raw. Honest. Vulnerable in a way you haven’t seen from him before.

You laugh. Just a little. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s too much.

He looks crushed.

“Sorry,” you say quickly. “That wasn’t — I’m not laughing at you. I’m just … overwhelmed.”

His mouth twitches like he’s trying to smile through it.

You reach for his arm. “You don’t have to be anything else. You’re already …”

You stop. Your heart fills in the blank your brain can’t say.

You’re already it.

***

Back in the garage, you watch him from a distance. He’s talking to his engineers, gesturing wildly, helmet tucked under one arm.

He doesn’t glance your way.

For once, you’re the one staring.

Something’s shifted again. The line you’ve been walking is gone. Or maybe it was never there to begin with.

Maybe this thing — whatever it is — isn’t waiting to be defined.

Maybe it’s just becoming.

***

It starts with a subject line you don’t want to read.

RE: Return to Work Policy Update.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the villa’s sun-warmed patio, coffee cold beside you, when the email comes through. You stare at it for a full minute before opening it.

Then you read it. Reread it. And again.

By the time the words actually register, your throat is dry.

They want you back.

In the office. Full-time. Effective immediately.

No room for extension. No regard for the months of burnout, the time zone, the soft, tender recovery you’ve only just begun to trust.

The deadline sits there, bold and final: next Friday.

If you don’t return, they’ll consider it a resignation.

Your hands tremble. Not dramatically. Just enough to spill a little coffee when you try to pick up the mug.

You wipe it away with your sleeve. Then you close the laptop slowly, gently, like maybe that’ll keep the contents from being real.

***

Lando doesn’t notice at first.

You’re good at hiding. You always have been.

He bounds into the kitchen mid-morning, wearing swim trunks and no shirt, hair wet from the sea. “I made toast!” He announces proudly. “It’s only slightly burnt. Also, I may have used all the butter.”

You smile. Or something close to it.

He pauses. “Hey. You okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired.”

“You wanna go for a swim?”

“Not right now.”

He watches you for a second longer than normal.

Then shrugs. “I’ll save you a good floaty.”

You nod.

But later, you don’t join him. You stay inside. You open a suitcase you haven’t touched in weeks. You fold slowly, carefully. As if touching your things too fast might make it all feel too real.

***

The villa shifts.

There’s a silence between you that hasn’t been there before. Not sharp, just … echoey.

You stop making jokes. Stop dancing in the kitchen. Stop stealing his hoodies and pretending not to.

Lando notices.

And he spirals.

First, he overcompensates — louder jokes, bolder breakfasts, compliments that sound like YouTube comments.

“You’re glowing today. Like, solar flare-level.”

“Okay.”

“That hoodie’s working overtime. Is that a new shade of existential dread?”

You manage a weak laugh. It makes him look relieved. Which only makes you feel worse.

Because none of this is his fault.

He doesn’t know.

You don’t tell him.

***

Wednesday, he plans the party.

He does it in secret. Sort of.

Oscar is in on it. So is Carlos — over FaceTime, mostly to say things like “Do not set anything on fire” and “Are you using actual TNT?”

Lando doesn’t care about the logistics. He just wants to make you smile.

“She’s leaving, I think,” he mutters, digging through drawers for balloons. “She hasn’t said it, but … I can tell.”

Oscar looks at him, concerned. “Did something happen?”

“Not exactly.” Lando shrugs. “I think I broke it.”

“You?”

“She’s … retreating. Like, emotionally. It’s like she’s packing her heart before her suitcase.”

Oscar frowns. “That’s poetic. Are you okay?”

Lando ignores the question. “I just want her to know she matters here. That this mattered. That I’ll-” He stops. Runs a hand through his curls. “-that I’ll miss her. So fucking much.”

***

The party is terrible.

Confetti ends up in the punch. The playlist is just ABBA and Martin Garrix on loop. Oscar bails halfway through. Carlos texts I warned you.

But the real problem is this.

You don’t show up.

Lando waits. He checks his phone. Checks the garden. The pool. The kitchen.

Nothing.

Eventually, he wanders outside. Something tells him to check the back.

That’s where he finds you.

Curled into yourself on a bench beneath the lemon tree, head bowed, fingers twisted in the hem of your shirt. Shoulders shaking.

He stops mid-step. Heart hammering.

“Hey.”

You flinch, barely.

He walks slowly, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he moves too fast.

“What’s wrong?” He asks gently.

You shake your head.

“I thought you were mad at me,” he admits. “But you’re-”

“I’m leaving,” you say suddenly, voice hoarse. “Next Friday. If I don’t go back, they’ll fire me.”

He blinks. “Oh.”

“I didn’t know how to tell you.”

Lando sits beside you. Not close enough to touch. Just near.

You bury your face in your hands.

“I don’t want to go,” you whisper. “But I don’t know how to stay, either.”

And just like that, the dam breaks. The tears come fast, messy, embarrassing in their intensity.

You expect him to panic. To joke. To offer a stupid, misplaced solution.

He doesn’t.

He just slides closer. Wraps his arms around you.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he says softly, chin resting on your hair, “but I can sit here until you’re okay.”

You cling to him like he’s a life raft. And maybe he is.

You cry harder.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admit. “I’ve spent years building a life I’m not even sure I want anymore.”

“Then don’t go back to it.”

“I have to.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know who I am without it.”

He’s quiet for a long time.

Then, quietly, “I think you’re someone who deserves to choose. And be chosen.”

You pull back slightly. Just enough to look at him.

His eyes are red. Not from tears, just open. Vulnerable.

“Lando,” you whisper.

He leans in.

Slow. Careful. Like he’s waiting for you to stop him.

You don’t.

The kiss is gentle. Reverent. A question more than an answer.

You breathe into it. Let your hand slide to his jaw. Let yourself feel the way he sighs against your mouth, like kissing you is something he’s been holding in for weeks.

When he finally pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“Stay,” he says, barely audible.

You close your eyes.

“I want to.”

“Then we’ll figure it out.”

***

You don’t decide to stay because of Lando.

Not exactly.

You decide to stay because the thought of packing up now — of folding all this softness into a suitcase and shipping it back to a life you’re no longer sure you chose — makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with clarity.

Lando doesn’t ask questions. He just finds you that morning in the kitchen, barefoot and bleary-eyed, scribbling a pros and cons list onto the back of an electric bill.

You don’t look up. You just say, “I’m not leaving. Not yet.”

He’s quiet for a second too long, and you glance up — worried he didn’t hear, or worse, that he did.

But then he grins. Huge. Bright. Like someone lit a fire inside him.

“You’re not leaving?”

“No.”

“Like … not leaving leaving?”

“For now.”

“For now,” he echoes, nodding, trying to play it cool. “Right. Yeah. Cool. Chill.”

You sip your coffee.

He bumps your shoulder. “So … does this mean I can keep introducing you as my emotionally exclusive, spiritually bonded non-girlfriend?”

You laugh into your mug. “That’s not a thing.”

“It could be. It sounds deep. Very committed. Like a tax bracket.”

“Just say girlfriend.”

“But we didn’t talk about it.”

“Then talk.”

He straightens, clears his throat dramatically. “Would you do me the honor of being my emotionally exclusive-”

“Lando.”

“Girlfriend. Would you be my girlfriend?”

You give him a long look. “Okay.”

He whoops and spins you around the kitchen before you can change your mind.

***

The days fall into place like dominoes after that.

Not perfect. Just … consistent. Yours.

Mornings start with half-burnt toast and Lando doing pushups in the living room because “I skipped the gym, babe. You want me to be weak?”

You steal his hoodies like it’s your job. He leaves little notes in your shoes like it’s his.

Sometimes, you fight. Over dumb stuff — who used the last clean towel, whether ketchup belongs in the fridge or the pantry, if “driver” is a real career or just a glorified Mario Kart enthusiast.

But the making up is easy.

It always has been, with him.

***

One afternoon, Lando walks into a coffee shop holding your hand and introduces you to the barista.

“This is my girlfriend.”

You blink. He hasn’t used the word out loud yet.

“Well,” he adds quickly, “not officially officially, but like, we’re emotionally exclusive. Spiritually connected. She knows where I keep my socks.”

The barista nods slowly, very confused.

You squeeze his hand. “We’re dating.”

“Oh,” she says, relieved. “Cool.”

Lando turns to you as soon as she walks away. “Was that weird?”

“A little.”

“Did I oversell it?”

“Maybe.”

“But you still like me?”

“Unfortunately.”

He beams. “Sucker.”

***

You record a video of him attempting to fold laundry and accidentally inventing a TikTok dance while pulling a hoodie inside out. It gets 300,000 likes overnight.

He tries to act modest. Fails completely.

“I’m an icon,” he says, scrolling through the comments. ‘Boyfriend energy — see that? That’s me. I am the boyfriend.”

You steal his phone.

“HEY!”

“No more reading comments. You’re unbearable.”

He leans in, eyes wide and innocent. “You knew what you signed up for.”

You did.

You just didn’t know it would feel this good.

***

Carlos calls during dinner one night. You’re sitting outside, feet in Lando’s lap, a half-eaten bowl of pasta between you.

Lando puts the call on speaker.

“Have you both burned down my villa yet?”

“Nope,” Lando says cheerfully. “Just christened all of it.”

You kick him.

Carlos sighs. “I knew letting you stay there was a mistake.”

You grin. “We’ll leave it better than we found it.”

“Good. Because I’m coming back next month.”

Lando chokes on his milk.

Carlos raises an eyebrow — visible even through the pixelation. “What?”

“Nothing. Cool. Chill. Welcome back, mate.”

You lean in. “We’ll be out before then.”

“Where are you going?”

Lando shrugs. “Nowhere far.”

Carlos stares suspiciously, but lets it go.

For now.

***

It happens on a Sunday.

You come home from the market, arms full of fresh herbs and way too many lemons because Lando said “go big or go home,” and walk into absolute chaos.

Smoke. Everywhere.

You freeze in the doorway.

“Lando?”

A pan clatters. “It’s fine!”

You drop the groceries and rush in. He’s waving a dish towel at the smoke detector, eyes watering.

“What did you do?”

“I was trying to make that shrimp thing you like!”

“I told you I was allergic to shellfish!”

He pauses. “Wait, shrimp counts as shellfish?”

You just stare.

“I thought it was like … seafood.”

“It is seafood!”

“So … not fish?”

You blink at him. “That’s your defense?”

He drops the towel. “I’m really bad at this.”

You cross your arms. “I noticed.”

He opens his mouth to keep digging the hole.

You laugh.

It surprises both of you.

“God,” you say, walking over, “you’re a disaster.”

“I tried to impress you!”

“With anaphylaxis?”

“I got confused!”

You wrap your arms around his waist, still laughing.

He exhales, relief flooding through him.

You tilt your head up. “Next time, just buy me a cupcake.”

He grins. “Can do.”

Then he kisses you. Slow, familiar. Like you have nowhere else to be.

And maybe you don’t.

Maybe this is it.

Maybe this mess of smoke and lemons and burnt fish-smelling air is yours.

***

Later, curled up on the couch in one of his shirts, you ask, “So what’s the plan when Carlos comes back?”

Lando taps something on his phone, pretending to be casual. “We … move?”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s your plan?”

He tosses the phone down and stretches, clearly trying to be nonchalant. “I mean, we can’t actually stay here forever.”

“No,” you admit.

“I’ve been looking at places.”

Your eyes widen. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, cheeks going pink. “Just, you know. In case we want … options.”

You lean your head against his shoulder. “And do we?”

“I do.”

He presses a kiss to your hair, then grins.

“Hey … do you know any good lawyers?”

You look up. “Why?”

“Because Carlos is definitely going to want his villa back. And I think I need legal counsel before I sign the papers on a new one.”

You laugh. “Are you trying to retain me?”

He grins. “Emotionally. Spiritually. Legally.”

You nudge him playfully. “You’re such a dork.”

“And you love it.”

You do.

And you’re staying.

***

Carlos arrives at the villa just after noon, sun-tanned and dead-eyed, dragging two suitcases and a single, unrelenting hope.

Peace. Quiet. Maybe a cold beer. No one yelling. No team meetings. No cameras.

Just Marbella, his lemon trees, and the blessed sound of absolutely nothing.

He exhales as he unlocks the front gate, breathing in the soft scent of sea salt and sunscreen. It’s good to be home.

Or so he thinks.

Because he hasn’t noticed the massive moving truck parked next door yet.

***

He’s halfway through unpacking — half a beer gone, half a suitcase open — when he hears it.

A crash. Then laughter. Then what sounds like, yep that’s Lando’s voice shouting, “Babe, I think I broke the blender but like … in a hot way?”

Carlos freezes.

“No,” he mutters. “No. No. No.”

He walks stiffly out to the garden wall, cranes his neck — and there, as if summoned by evil spirits and bad karma, is Lando.

Wearing a tank top, holding a screwdriver, grinning like the world is made of sunshine and Monster energy.

“CARLOS!” He yells, delighted. “You’re back!”

Carlos stares, horrified. “Why are you here?”

“Oh, right — funny story!” Lando sets the screwdriver down on what might once have been a blender. “We live here now.”

“You what?”

“Moved in last week.”

Carlos blinks. “Here? As in … next door?”

“Yeah! Isn’t that great?”

Carlos looks like he’s trying to mentally summon a lightning strike. “You bought that place?”

“Well, technically it’s still in escrow,” Lando says, wiping his hands on his shorts. “But spiritually, we’ve already moved in.”

Carlos glares.

Lando grins wider. “Wanna see the kitchen? We painted one of the walls blue by accident but I think it kind of slaps.”

Before Carlos can recover enough to yell, you step out from inside, wearing Lando’s hoodie and holding a glass of orange juice like you own the sun.

You freeze. “Oh.”

He blinks. “You’re here too?”

You smile sheepishly. “Hi, Carlos.”

Lando beams. “We’re neighbors!”

Carlos closes his eyes. “I need another beer.”

“Want one of ours?” Lando offers brightly. “I bought those fancy ones you like. The ones with the weird labels.”

Carlos opens one eye. “Did you drink all the ones in my fridge?”

“No! I have your beer memorized.”

“That’s not better.”

You snort, already laughing.

Carlos stares at the two of you, then sighs. “This was supposed to be my peaceful getaway.”

“We can be peaceful,” you promise.

Lando leans against the garden wall. “Super peaceful.”

A loud crash echoes behind him.

You wince. “What was that?”

Lando blinks. “Oh no. I left the microwave on.”

Carlos groans into his hands. “This is my nightmare.”

“C’mon, it’s us,” Lando says, grinning. “What could go wrong?”

Carlos doesn’t answer. He just walks back into his villa, muttering something about divine punishment.

***

From his kitchen, he can hear you both laughing through the open windows.

And weirdly, it kind of sounds like home.

[kunasthiast]

sunshine

“you ever think about how lucky you are to have me?”

you didn’t even look up from your phone as you continued scrolling, sprawled out like a lazy cat on the living room rug (it’s comfy, okay?), half under a throw blanket.

“literally never,” you replied.

“liar,” your husband sukuna said from the couch, not missing a beat. “you’re lying and the universe knows it.”

he was half-focused on some work file on his tablet. he had his reading glasses low on his nose (which should’ve been illegal) and was wearing one of those loose black tees that hung just right on his arms. it’s like his arms were sculpted for violence and thirst traps. it was offensive, really. all of it.

a few minute passed by and you were still just scrolling on your phone. 

“you been quiet for a whole five minutes, brat. you dying or scheming?” he asked, not even glancing up.

“maybe both,” you said lazily.

that got his attention. he finally glanced at you over the rim of his glasses, flashing that signature i-know-you-want-me smirk. “if you die, i’ll sue god.”

you snorted. “you think god wants beef with you?”

“babe,” he leaned back, stretching — showing just enough abs to ruin your life, “god’s scared of me.”

a beat passed.

then you peeked over the your phone and said casually with a grin, “baby, serious question.”

“oh boy,” he muttered, lowering the tablet a little. “let’s hear it.”

you sat up cross-legged on the rug, head tilted. “every time you look at me, do you think i’m the sun or the moon?”

sukuna didn’t miss a beat. “sun.”

“oh?” you squinted at him. “so you’re saying i’m blinding and too hot to handle?”

“that,” he drawled, “and you’re dramatic, impossible to ignore, and have a dangerous habit of setting shit on fire.”

you laughed, grabbing a throw pillow and tossing it at him. he caught it without looking. “so i’m the sun, huh?”

“absolutely. you wake up and immediately decide to shine in my face whether i’m ready or not.”

“rude,” you huffed. “the correct answer was the world.”

he raised a brow. “mm. nah.”

“excuse me?!”

“you’re not the world,” he said, standing up and walking over to you — towering like the menace he is. “you’re the universe.”

you blinked. “…seriously?”

he crouched in front of you, grin widening. “yup. everything in me, around me, orbits you. even when you’re pissing me off, i still revolve around you, baby.”

you opened your mouth to say something, but your brain short-circuited halfway through. “...that’s so full of yourself.”

“no, you’re full of me,” he shot back instantly, smug and unbothered, and grinning with way too much teeth.

you groaned, shoving him away as he laughed. “you ruin everything, oh my god.”

“you asked,” sukuna laughed, snatching the pillow and smacking you gently with it. “don’t start shit you can’t emotionally recover from.”

“i hate you,” you muttered and flopped back dramatically.

“nah,” he said smugly, grabbing his tablet again. “you love me. you’re the universe, remember?”

a few minutes passed with only the soft clicks of sukuna’s tablet and your scrolling. but of course, peace in this house lasted as long as a soap bubble.

“babe,” sukuna called, not even looking up.

“hmm?”

“you know how planets revolve around stars, right?”

you groaned, already sensing the bullshit brewing. “don’t say it –”

“just saying,” he continued, smug, “i must’ve had some gravity to pull the universe.”

you stared at him. “you’re so full of shit, babe”

he finally looked up, smirking in that god-awful way that made your heart skip and your eyes roll at the same time. “and yet you married me. whose fault is that, brat?”

“definitely mine. i take full accountability for this karmic lesson,” you muttered, hiding your grin behind the throw pillow.

sukuna stood up, stretching his arms — muscles flexing in that unfair, jaw-dropping way — and walked over to you with the audacity of a man who knew he was too hot for his own good. 

“nah, you knew what you were getting into.”

he leaned down and kissed your forehead, then right under your eye, before pulling back just enough to grin at your expression. 

“but since you’re the universe,” he said, “guess that makes me your favorite star.”

“you’re a black hole,” you said flatly.

“damn right,” he said with a wink. “sucks you in and leaves you breathless.”

you choked on a laugh, smacked him with the pillow, and swore to the heavens that this man was a menace wrapped in abs.

“try harder, baby,” sukuna teased. “that weak-ass swing won’t even knock a planet off orbit. and this is planetary alignment,” he winked. again.

“god, i hate you.”

“nah,” he leaned down again, cocky as hell, “you love me. more than the sun. more than the moon.”

he paused, lips twitching. “more than sanity.”

“i’m divorcing you.”

“can’t,” he said, grabbing your hand to try and pull you up from the floor, “you’re obsessed with me.”

you just sighed, making yourself heavier, the ultimate act of petty defiance—still holding his hand.

“that’s what i thought,” he said triumphantly, letting go of your hand. “now get off the floor, we’re ordering takeout and you’re not choosing — i still have PTSD from that vegan sushi you made me try.”

“it was fusion!”

“it was trauma.”

“you are so dramatic—”

“and you,” he cut you off, pointing, “are still the universe. but don’t push it.”

you huffed, dragging yourself up. “you better be getting dessert.”

“only if you promise to orbit back to me tonight.”

“you’re disgusting.”

“you’re obsessed.”

you didn’t deny it.

[em1i2a3]

I Want You (Fever)

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Avengers!Fem!Reader

Summary: Grocery shopping turns into one of the most nerve wrecking nights that Bob has had in a long time (This is a continuation of “Plainclothes Man”)

Warnings: No Warnings only like…Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts because Bob? lol, this is just pure fluff with a hint of jealousy mixed in

Author's Note: Ask and you shall receive! I had this in my drafts this weekend and needed to do a little bit of fine tuning before I posted (I ended up throwing out the original idea and reworked it!). Hope y’all enjoy :) (ALSO WHAT A HIGH QUALITY GIF GOOD LORD)

Word Count: 4,465

Bob couldn’t take his eyes off you.

He’d been trying for the last twenty minutes, gripping the cart like it might keep him tethered to reality, but every aisle felt like a trap laid by fate itself. Every glance at you was a temptation, and every time he failed to resist it, it got worse.

It wasn’t just the sweatpants anymore–though God help him, those were doing their own slow damage. It was the way you moved in them. The lazy sway of fabric, the way the drawstrings danced against your thighs when you walked, the casual tug you gave them to keep the waistband in place. Like you’d forgotten they weren’t yours, even though that was far from the case.

But more than that, it was you in general. It was the quiet laugh you gave when he made a bad joke in the cereal aisle. The way you picked up the most ridiculous snack and turned to him with a grin, asking, “Okay, but what kind of monster thought making sour patch flavoured Oreos was a good idea?” just to keep him talking. The way you read your grocery list out loud like you needed him to hear it–like he was part of the journey. Like you wanted him woven into the moment.

You had no idea what you were doing to him, and that might’ve been the part that killed him the most, because you weren’t trying. You weren’t teasing him, you were just being yourself–open, warm, familiar in the kind of way that made his chest ache and his stomach twist into knots. You could’ve led him off the side of a mountain for all he cared and once he hit the ground he would’ve said “Thank you, now help me up so I can do it again.” You had so much power even though you weren’t aware of it.

”There’s your chips!” You said suddenly, and just like that, Bob’s brain and eyes were back to focusing directly on you.

You were a few steps ahead of him, half-turned toward the shelf with your hand already reaching up. There was such mundaneness to it, the way your fingers flexed slightly as you overextended your arm like you had done this a hundred times–which technically you had, though Bob just wasn’t around to see it. The oversized shirt lifted enough with the extension and his eyes–against his better judgement–flicked down.

And then he saw it, not just your skin, not just the soft slope of your waist. He saw the scar. He could see the faint, silvered edge of it–just a little shimmer near your lower back, peeking out where your shirt had roadie up and the waistband of his sweatpants dipped with movement. It wasn’t much, but it was just enough to remind him of it.

You’d told him about it once offhandedly, like it didn’t mean much to you anymore–but your voice had caught halfway through the story. A mission gone sideways. A blade you didn’t see coming. You had offered to show it to him, but he said no in the most polite and sheepish way he could manage.

Not because he didn’t want to see it, but because he didn’t trust himself not to reach for you. Not in a way that would’ve crossed a line–but in a way that would’ve revealed too much. That he cared too much. That seeing something that had hurt you, marked you, and almost taken you might undo him completely.

He remembered the way your lips had twitched–half-amused and touched–when he mumbled something like “I believe you. You don’t have to prove anything to me…” And you let it go.

But now, standing behind you in the aisle lit by flickering fluorescents, with your shirt riding up and the edge of the scar showing and glistening like a silver thread stitched into your soft skin, he felt like his soul was going to leave his body.

Because it wasn’t just a scar. It was proof that you trusted him enough to offer to show him it. Proof that he knew you–in ways not everyone did. And yet…Not in the way he wanted to.

And he wondered what it would feel like to press his palm there. Not to possess, nor to claim, but just to be close to you.

When your arm finally dropped, and the shirt settled back, you put the chips into the cart as if nothing happened.

”Extra crunchy plain kettle chips…I never thought these would be so popular.” You said jokingly. He opened his mouth–but he didn’t even know what he was going to say back. Maybe it was going to be something stupid, or maybe he was just going to confess right then and there, something along the lines of “You have absolutely no idea how much I want to touch you, not just because of how perfect you look to me, but because of everything that’s made you who you are.”

But the words never even formed in his throat.

”Y/N?” Your name rang out behind you, clear and surprised and full of recognition. It was a gravelly and deep voice, a man's voice. Bob could feel his stomach fall through him.

You turned first, and your smile lit up like a struck match.

”Oh my god! Connor?” The excitement in your voice almost killed him, and immediately he could feel himself grow hot with the idea of what he was about to witness.

He watched as the man appeared from the far end of the aisle–tall, sharp-edged with a little scar over his eye, clean-shaven and still somehow scruffy in that confident, ex-special ops kind of way.

Connor was already walking toward you with the familiarity of someone who used to share early morning missions and late-night runs with you. His voice was warm, loud, and confident, he was unmistakably sure of himself.

”I thought that was you!” Connor grinned, coming to a stop just in front of you, “I almost didn’t recognize you without the tactical vest and blood on your face.” You gave him a short laugh and glanced down at yourself.

”I clean up well enough, right?” You motioned to the clothes that you were wearing.

”More than well enough,” Connor replied, tone light but lingering, his eyes sweeping over you quickly before adding, “I always said you were the best-looking one in the unit.” You rolled your eyes, but the smile you gave him was real–warmed by shared history, by something friendly and effortless. Bob felt himself wanting to interject, but all he could do was stand there, and watch, like he was just part of the scenery now.

”You only said that because you didn’t want me breaking your nose during drills.” Connor smirked.

”Hey, you were always close to doing it though, you always had that elbow twitch. I remember.” And you laughed again–open, easy, head tilted back just enough that Bob saw the line of your throat, saw the way you leaned in just a little when you nudged Connor’s arm.

You weren’t really flirting, it wasn’t anything heavy and meaningful, it was like two friends catching up on lost time. But Bob felt it like a shard of glass under his ribs. He didn’t know what hurt more though–the way you smiled at Connor, or the way that Connor had so many experiences with you, and so many stories. Bob only had a few months, a few soft mornings, and one mission where he was the person they were up against. It was hard to imagine that you and him could ever be that close, and all he could feel was his heart sinking lower and lower.

Connor slung his hands into his pockets, “So, what’ve you been up to? I figured you were halfway across the world still setting fire to buildings and pissing off diplomates.” You shook your head, brushing your knuckles across your forehead.

”Took a break from international chaos. I’m with The New Avengers now. It’s a stateside thing, mostly.” Connor raised a brow.

”The New Avengers, huh? Never figured you to be the reformation type.” He commented, continuing to look at you.

”Yeah well…” You shrugged, “Figured I’d try being a little less feral, for now at least.” He laughed at that, then glanced over your shoulder for the first time since the conversation started–like he just remembered you weren’t alone.

”And who’s this?” He motioned with his chin, “Your backup?” You turned slightly to Bob, tilting your head with a small smile, waving him over like you were finally letting him in on a secret. The look in your eyes was unreadable as he approached slowly, and it made him nervous.

“This is Bob. Bob Reynolds.” You said. There were no titles, no explanations, no qualifiers, just his name–spoken like it was enough. Bob offered his hand to Connor automatically, even though his mind was already spiraling from the lack of any defining words.

The handshake was firm, yet casual.

“Bob Reynolds,” Connor repeated with a smirk, giving him a once-over, before glancing over at you, “Didn’t peg you to be someone who dates within the team.” Bob froze. The words landed like a live wire straight to his chest. His vision didn’t blur–but it tunneled. Everything around him narrowed, and went strangely quiet, like the store had vacuumed the sound right out of the air.

And then–you smiled. Not with embarrassment, or hesitation, but with this soft, relaxed kind of warmth–like the mixup didn’t bother you at all. You didn’t correct him either. You didn’t say no, that’s not what we are. You didn’t say we’re just teammates. You said nothing at all, and neither did Bob.

Because in that moment, something inside him had short-circuited, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe. Something about your silence felt good to him. Terrifying, yes. But…Good. Dangerous, and hopeful as well. Like maybe–just maybe– you liked the idea that people thought he was yours.

Connor chuckled, and nudged your shoulder, “Didn’t think you’d go for the soft ones, but I get it. Balances you out.” He commented, which made Bob turn a bit red in embarrassment and you shrugged.

”He grows on you.” Bob nearly forgot how to stand upright, because you weren’t joking. There was affection under those words, and just by hearing you say them, it was like his blood had turned electric beneath his skin. Like every inch had been tuned too tight, and he was about to snap in half from the tension. From the possibility.

Connor clapped him lightly on the arm, “Well, hey–good luck surviving her. She’s the reason I still have shoulder pain in cold weather.”

“I’m very proud of that,” You replied breezily, already reaching for another snack on the shelf like your words, or lack thereof, just hadn’t rearranged his. Connor gave you a small wink and started to walk off.

”Always good seeing you Y/N, you two have fun playing house.” And then he was gone, just like that. Bob stayed frozen where he stood, realizing he said absolutely nothing during the conversation. You turned back to him with a small smile, tossing a bag of popcorn into the cart.

”We still need to go to the dessert section for Walker's cinnamon rolls.” You said, like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

——————-

Once you were done shopping, Bob loaded the trunk with all the bags and returned the shopping cart to the store, sliding into the passenger seat in complete silence.

The engine hummed low beneath the weight of all that was unspoken, and the grocery bags rustled faintly as you rolled down the window to let some air into the stuffy car. You pulled out of the parking lot and onto the street, glancing once in Bob’s direction.

He hadn’t said a word since Connor left, and he looked absolutely dazed.

His hands were folded in his lap, not clenched–but fidgeting. His fingers were tangled loosely together, thumbs moving over one another in slow rhythmic circles. It was the kind of motion that only meant one thing when it came from Bob: he was nervous, really nervous. Tied-up-in-knots and about to implode kind of nervous.

You flicked your turn signal and merged into the next lane.

”Are you okay?” You asked gently. Bob didn’t answer right away, his eyes just stayed locked on the road ahead, but he wasn’t really seeing it–you could tell. His mind was miles away. Still stuck in aisle seven, maybe.

You hit a stoplight.

The soft red glow filtered into the car through the windshield, casting a faint warmth across your features. It slid like watercolor across your cheekbones, deepened the shadows around your mouth, and softened the bridge of your nose. It made you look celestial, like something that was too alive to exist in a place as mundane as this.

Bob turned his head to look at you–and once he did, he couldn’t look away.

The red glow painted you like a portrait Bob didn’t think he deserved to see. Something about it made everything more unreal. More dangerous. He didn’t even realize how long he’d been staring–until you caught him doing it.

You blinked and tilted your head, eyes narrowing with something like concern.

”Bob,” You said softly, “What’s going on?” His mouth parted, but nothing came out.

And then the light turned green.

You let the car roll forward slowly, but then you took the next turn–off the main road, down a quiet street lined with trees that filtered the dying daylight like gold dust. You pulled the car over, your tires crunching softly against gravel. And then you put it in park and killed the engine.

The silence fell like a held breath, as a gust of wind blew the cool spring air into the car. It smelled like moss, with a hint of dew, like it was going to rain, even though the sky was showing to be clear.

You unbuckled your seatbelt and turned toward him, shifting so you could see him fully. His profile was tight–tense in a way you rarely saw. He was breathing, but too shallow. His jaw worked like he was chewing on glass.

“Okay,” You said, voice calm but firm. “You haven’t said more than three words since we saw Connor. You’re fidgeting so much your thumbs are gonna rub raw. And you keep looking at me like you’ve got something to say…”Bob blinked, once and swallowed the lump in his throat, as a sheen of sweat began to form on the back of his neck.

Still nothing.

“So,” You continued, leaning a little closer to him, your tone gentler now. “Tell me. What happened?” Bob’s mouth opened like he was about to finally speak—but the words caught somewhere in his throat and came out as a half-breath instead.

You watched him closely, waiting.

“I… n-nothing happened,” he stammered, eyes flicking toward the windshield like it might offer him an escape. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I mean it’s not—it’s not not fine—but it’s not, like… bad. It’s just…”

He trailed off, his voice shrinking with every word until it was barely audible.

You didn’t say anything at first. You just looked at him. Really looked.

Then you slowly shifted closer.

Your thigh brushed his. Barely. Just enough that the contact registered like a spark. And when you leaned in, the warmth of you carried with it the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg–the smell of fall during spring, and Bob’s lungs forgot how to behave.

“Is it me?” you asked softly.

His eyes shot to you like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have.

“I—no,” he blurted, too fast, too flustered. “No! I mean. Not like—It’s not bad. It’s just, um…”

He trailed off again. His shoulders sank.

You tilted your head. “Bob.”

He closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose.

“…I don’t know how to be around you right now.”

That made you pause. Your gaze softened, but you didn’t pull back. If anything, you inched even closer–your arm brushing his this time.

“Why?” you asked. Your voice wasn’t teasing. Just curious. Barely above a whisper.

He opened his eyes and looked at you again–and this time, there was no hiding in the silence.

“Because Connor thought we were together,” he said, breathless. “And you didn’t c-correct him at–at all. And I’ve been trying not to hope for too much. Trying no–not to want that so much. But the second he said it, and you didn’t say anything–I haven’t been able to think straight since.”

You stared at him for a second, the air between you charged like a live wire.

And then…

“Did you ever think,” You said slowly, “That maybe I didn’t want to correct him because I liked what I heard?”

That made him blink–hard. His breath hitched audibly.

His mouth parted, but no words came. His hand–still folded in his lap–tightened slightly, like he was holding onto something that might float away.

You watched his lips part and close again, watched his chest rise and fall with uneven breaths, and you could feel the space between you contracting, the tension building like something was about to snap.

“Bob,” You said, softer now, “Am I the one that’s making you nervous?”

He nodded–tiny. Almost imperceptible. Then managed a whisper:

“A-Always.”

There was a beat of stillness.

Then you reached up, slow and steady, and brushed your fingers along the edge of his jaw. He flinched–not from discomfort, but from shock, closing his eyes at the sensation of your touch tracing along his stubble. Like he didn’t know how to receive that kind of closeness. Like he hadn’t dared imagine it outside of his dreams.

Your voice stayed low. Intimate.

“You don’t have to be nervous with me,” You said. “Not if you want the same thing I do.”

He could feel his heart seizing in his chest, his mouth going dry, lips parting again. “A-And what do you w-want?”

You smiled–just barely, just enough for him to see the truth in it. Something quiet and unguarded. Something only for him.

Then you leaned in.

And he felt it first in the air—how your breath brushed across his lips before your mouth ever touched his. Soft and warm, like the stir of wind before a storm. It made every muscle in his body go tight with anticipation. The space between you was shrinking by the second, his senses narrowing to the way you looked at him–like you already knew what this would do to him.

”You��That’s what I want.” You whispered. Bob swallowed hard. His pulse thundered in his ears. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. His hand twitched in his lap like it wanted to reach for you but didn’t dare.

And then–

You kissed him.

Your lips found his like they’d been there before in a hundred different dreams. They were soft, impossibly soft, and he swore time folded in on itself. It wasn’t rushed, or messy, or careless–it was a moment made of weightless things. Breath and longing. The quiet hum of the earth under your feet and the echo of a hope that had waited far too long to bloom.

Bob didn’t kiss back at first–not out of hesitation, but out of sheer disbelief. His breath hitched like he was afraid he’d ruin it by moving. But then your hand slid into his hair, your thumb grazing the curve of his jaw again, and something in him unspooled completely.

He kissed you back like he’d been drowning for years and only just now found air. Gentle at first–uncertain–but then a little more desperate. His fingers found your thigh where your legs were still touching, squeezing it gently, anchoring him to the here and now. He tilted his head slightly, deepening the kiss by a fraction, like he was afraid you might vanish if he didn’t get closer. Like he needed to memorize the shape of your mouth, the warmth of your breath, the soft sigh you let out when his lips parted just barely against yours.

And for a moment, there was nothing else. No car. No road. No Connor. Just the two of you suspended in something delicate and golden and sacred.

He was still breathing like he’d just run ten miles when you pulled back. He pressed his forehead against yours, eyes shutting tight like he was trying to hold onto the feeling, preserving it in his chest like a light in a jaw. The windows were fogging at the corners now, despite them being open, and the air between you had turned warm and close, while every shared breath was a little shallower, a little hungrier than the one before.

You tilted your head just slightly, brushing the tip of your nose along his cheek, and he shuddered.

“Jesus Y/N…” He whispered, “I-I think I’m gonna pass out.” You smiled gently against his skin, letting your lips brush over the corner of his mouth.

“You’re doing better than you think.” You whispered, as your hand slid down from his jaw to rest against his chest, right over his heart–feeling it pounding like a war drum. He looked at you then, dazed and wide-eyed, mouth still pink and parted, and when you shifted your weight toward him, his breath caught.

“Can I…?” you asked, your voice softer than ever, your gaze flicking downward–toward his lap.

He nodded before you could finish the question. Like it wasn’t even a decision, just a reflex. “Y-yeah. Yeah. Please.”

You climbed over the center console slowly, carefully, and Bob’s hands went to your hips instinctively, steadying you like you might disappear mid-motion. The second you settled on top of him, straddling his lap, he tensed beneath you–shoulders rigid, breath shallow–but his grip never wavered.

“Okay?” you asked again, brushing your thumbs over the fabric of his shirt.

He nodded again, voice trembling. “Yeah. I just… I don’t know what to do with my hands.”

You smiled, sliding yours over his. “You’re already doing fine.”

And then you kissed him again.

This time, it wasn’t soft.

It was warm and slow, sure–but there was something boiling under the surface now. A spark that had caught flame. You kissed him like you’d been waiting for this, starving for it, and Bob melted into it like he didn’t know how not to. His hands tightened at your hips, not possessive, just desperate for anchoring. For something real.

He moaned against your mouth when your fingers slid into his hair again, tugging just lightly. It was a sound you felt before you heard it–a low vibration in your chest where your bodies were brushing, where your thighs pressed against his hips.

You rolled your hips once, slowly, more a shift than a grind–and Bob gasped into your kiss.

“O-Oh god,” He breathed, voice trembling, forehead falling to your shoulder for a second as he tried to collect himself.

“You okay?” You murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple.

He nodded, his voice shaky and stunned. “Y-You’re gonna kill me.”

You kissed him again before he could spiral further, and this time his hands slid under your shirt, trailing up your back, like he wanted to feel every inch of you he was allowed. The smooth skin was vast, and all he realized was just how soft you truly were as he pulled your body against his. His mouth opened beneath yours, and you deepened the kiss slowly, tilting your head, tasting the warmth of him, the desperation he was too shy to say out loud.

And then his hips shifted under you, unintentionally–and the friction made you both gasp. His fingers flexed against your back, clinging. Needy. His breath came faster, rougher, and he whined into your mouth when your hips shifted again, intentionally this time–grinding against him with slow, aching friction.

“Y-Y/N,” he whimpered, voice cracking apart, and your hand found the back of his neck, holding him close as you kissed him harder. The car felt too small now, too warm, too full of air that wasn’t moving–but neither of you could stop. Not yet.

His mouth opened wider, tongue brushing yours hesitantly–like he was asking permission even now, like he didn’t know if you still wanted this. But the second you deepened it, the second your lips parted and your tongue met his with a soft, slick slide–he lost whatever fragile control he had left.

He moaned–quiet and broken–and then his hips lifted just barely into yours. You both froze at the pressure, the friction.

His fingers dug into your hips. “I-I can’t–” He breathed, forehead falling back to yours. “I’m gonna–if we keep–I can’t think.”

“Hey,” You whispered, brushing your nose against his, breathless, lips still ghosting his, “It’s okay. We can stop.”

“I don’t want to stop,” He blurted, and it sounded like a confession, “I just–I need to. I want to…So so bad, it’s just–god, I want to do it right.”

You smiled, fingers slipping up to his flushed cheeks, holding him there–trembling, dazed, burning beneath you.

“You are doing it right, Bob,” You murmured, kissing him once more—slower this time, gentler, reverent. “We don’t have to rush anything.”

His arms slid around your waist, holding you like he couldn’t let go, like if he did the whole thing might vanish like a fever dream. His breath was hot against your collarbone now, lips resting against your skin, and he nodded, finally beginning to breathe again.

“I-I just want to be close to–to you,” He whispered. “Even if it’s just like this. Even if we don’t–y’know. Yet.”

You leaned your head against his, your hand stroking the back of his neck slowly, grounding him.

“Then let’s just stay like this,” You said softly. “You and me.”

He nodded again, arms tightening around you.

“Yeah,” He whispered. “You and me.”

The windows stayed fogged, your breaths remained shallow, your lips kiss-swollen and raw. But you didn’t move.

And in the quiet heat of that parked car, it felt like something had finally started. Something that didn’t need words.

[pandacherryblossoms]

𐙚 Putting Enhypen on a Sex Ban 𐙚

Request

Genre: Fluff. A bit Suggestive MDNI 18+

Warnings: Suggestive content, Heavy innuendos, Light dominance/power play, Possessive behavior, Teasing/competitive dynamics, Implied intimacy

Heeseung

You’re parked on a quiet side street after your date, the kind of spot he always finds—private enough that he can lean over the console and kiss you like he means it. The kind of quiet that makes your heart race when his hand slides up your thigh and he gives you that smug, lazy grin like he already knows how the night’s gonna end.

“Missed me, huh?” he teases, voice low as he noses at your jaw, already working his way down your neck. “You’ve been looking at me like you’re about to climb into my lap.”

You roll your eyes, but he’s not wrong—and that’s exactly the problem. You let his hand drift a little higher before you catch it, lacing your fingers with his and resting them firmly in your lap. He blinks, confused but intrigued.

“I’m putting you on a sex ban.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then he laughs. “Yeah, okay.”

“I’m serious.”

That smile falters. “Wait. What?”

You turn toward him, totally calm, acting like this is just a casual little update to your relationship. “You’ve been way too cocky lately. Always teasing me like you know I’ll fold the second you touch me. So…” You shrug, nonchalant. “Let’s see how smug you are after a week without anything.”

His jaw drops. “A week?”

“You heard me.”

“Heavy petting? Kissing?” he asks hopefully.

“Kissing’s fine. But if your hands start wandering…” You give him a look. “That’s game over.”

Heeseung stares at you like you’ve just declared war. You watch the panic settle in behind his eyes, subtle but telling—because this isn’t just about sex. It’s about control. And for once, you’ve got it.

“Don’t act like this is punishment,” you add sweetly, patting his thigh. “Think of it as a challenge.”

His voice is dry. “Oh, I’m challenged alright.”

Jay

You’re halfway through browsing throw pillows when he says it, so casual you almost miss it.

“I swear, you can’t ever resist me. Doesn’t matter what we’re doing—five minutes alone and you’re done for.”

You glance at him over the rim of your iced coffee, blinking slow. He’s not even looking at you—just flipping through a stack of overpriced blankets like he didn’t just run his mouth in the middle of West Elm. Smug as hell. And clearly feeling himself a little too much today.

“Is that so?” you ask, like you’re just making conversation.

Jay hums, smiling to himself. “It’s fine. I like it. You’re cute when you’re desperate.”

You wait a beat, then: “Cool. You’re on a sex ban.”

His head snaps up. “What?”

You pretend to keep shopping, eyes drifting over the candles. “A sex ban. Starting now.”

Jay blinks. “You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

He stares at you like you’ve just told him the world’s gone colorblind. “What did I do?”

“You just said I can’t resist you,” you say, grabbing a candle and popping the lid like this is just another normal Sunday errand. “So I’m gonna prove you wrong.”

“You’re serious?”

“As serious as those ‘desperate’ eyes you mentioned.”

He doesn’t respond, just follows you to the next aisle, a little quieter than usual. His hand brushes yours. You don’t take it. He adjusts his jacket. Fiddles with his phone. You can practically hear the gears turning in his head.

And when you glance over, he’s already watching you, expression unreadable—but you can tell. He’s plotting.

This isn’t over.

Jake

You don’t even bring it up right away. Not when he wraps his arms around you from behind, not when he starts pressing kisses along your neck, and definitely not when he guides you onto the couch like he’s already got the rest of the night planned in his head. Jake’s warm, all charm and wandering hands, but you can’t stop thinking about what you saw earlier — the group chat open on his laptop, his name lighting up with that cocky little message:

“I could get her to fold in two minutes if I wanted. Watch.”

You let him kiss you a little longer, even kiss back just enough to get his hopes up. Then, right when his hand starts sliding under your shirt, you catch his wrist with a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Actually… I think you’re cut off.”

He blinks. “Cut off from what?”

You tilt your head. “Sex.”

Jake freezes like you’ve just spoken another language. “Wait, wait, hold on. What?”

“You heard me,” you say sweetly, pulling away and getting comfortable on the couch like nothing just happened. “Since you’re so confident you can make me fold whenever you want, I figured we should test that theory.”

“You saw that?” he says immediately, eyes going wide.

“Oh, I saw it.” You glance at him sideways. “Don’t worry, I’m just letting you prove your point. No sex. Let’s see how long you last.”

Jake’s already following after you, whining like it’s life or death. “Babe, come on. I didn’t mean it like that—okay, I kind of did, but it was just a joke! You’re seriously doing this right now?”

You just laugh, tossing a blanket over your lap. “Clock’s ticking, Jakey.”

And from the way he slumps next to you with the most dramatic groan, you can already tell — he’s doomed.

Sunghoon

You’re stretched out across the bed on your stomach, scrolling aimlessly while Sunghoon gets ready in front of the mirror. He’s already changed outfits twice and fixed his hair more times than you’ve blinked in the last ten minutes.

“You know,” he says, adjusting his collar, “it must be hard dating someone hotter than you.”

You lift your head just enough to look at him. “You mean me?”

He scoffs, eyes still locked on his reflection. “Be serious.”

“I am serious. You’re lucky I even like you this much.”

He turns, arching a brow. “Oh, is that right?”

“Absolutely.” You sit up, tossing your phone to the side. “You think I walk around looking this good for free?”

Sunghoon laughs, stepping closer with that cocky little smirk you know way too well. “You walk around looking good for me.”

“You wish.”

“I know.”

You blink at him, matching his grin. “You’re actually unbearable.”

“And you’re obsessed with me.”

You hum. “That’s crazy. Because I was just thinking the exact same thing about you.”

He leans down, hands on either side of you on the bed. “Sure you were.”

You stare at him for a second, smile widening. “Sex ban.”

His face freezes. “Huh?”

“You heard me.”

“Wait—why?”

“For being cocky.”

“I was joking.”

Sunoo

You’re on FaceTime with Sunoo while he’s away, just a quick call before bed to catch up. The conversation’s lighthearted, full of laughter as you both banter about random things. But then, Sunoo being Sunoo, can’t resist throwing a little playful jab your way.

“You know,” he says with a grin you can practically hear through the phone, “you’re always the one who folds first. It’s kind of cute, but predictable.”

You raise an eyebrow, a smile forming on your lips. His teasing gets to you, but you’re not about to let it slide without a little retaliation. You casually throw out, “Well, I think it’s time for a sex ban, then.”

There’s a dramatic pause on the other end of the call, followed by an exaggerated gasp from Sunoo. “Wait, what?! You can’t be serious.”

You stay silent for a moment, letting the tension build just a bit before you grin and shrug. “I am. You’re just too easy to tease.”

The next few seconds are filled with exaggerated, over-the-top reactions. Sunoo’s face lights up, and you can practically see him pouting through the phone. “No way! You can’t do this to me, baby. I was just kidding!”

He falls back dramatically onto his bed, completely throwing himself into the situation. “How could you hurt me like this? You know I’m too cute for a ban!”

You can’t help but laugh at his antics. There’s no doubt he’s putting on a show, but you love how much he’s leaning into it. He might have thought he could tease you, but now it’s your turn to turn the tables. And you’re enjoying every second of it.

Jungwon

You trail behind him as he unlocks the door, slipping off your shoes a little slower than usual. The night’s been easy — dinner, a walk, that quiet kind of comfort that only really happens with him. And now you’re tucked up behind him on the couch, knees pressed to his side, your arms lazily wrapped around his middle.

He’s half-scrolling on his phone, half-watching whatever’s playing on the TV, but you’re not really paying attention to either. You’re just pressed up against him, chin hooked over his shoulder, nose brushing the side of his neck. He smells good. Warm. Familiar. Like home.

“You’re being really clingy tonight,” he says eventually, not unkind — just a little amused.

You blink. “Am I?”

He shrugs, still scrolling. “Not that I mind. Just… extra cuddly all of a sudden.”

You’re quiet for a second. Not hurt, exactly, but something about the way he said it sticks. You pull back just slightly, arms still around him, but your face no longer pressed against his shoulder.

“Maybe I won’t be anymore,” you say lightly.

Jungwon glances at you, confused. “What? No, I didn’t mean it in a bad way—”

You lean back fully now, reaching for the remote to turn down the volume. “Actually…” you stretch a little, like the idea just came to you. “Since I’m apparently too clingy, maybe we should cool it. You know, physically.”

He pauses. “Wait—what?”

You smile sweetly. “Sex ban. Effective immediately.”

He stares at you like he’s trying to figure out if you’re joking. “You’re not serious.”

“Dead serious,” you say, folding your arms. “Since I’m overwhelming you and all.”

He sets his phone down, finally giving you his full attention. “You’re not overwhelming me,” he insists, brows pulling together. “Just… affectionate.”

You tilt your head. “I think it’s time to cool off then. I mean, no kissing. No touching. No nothing.”

Jungwon groans, running a hand through his hair like he’s mentally preparing himself. “You can’t be serious.”

You watch him carefully, studying his expression. The amusement is fading, replaced with a slight hint of frustration, and something else. “Oh, I am,” you say, voice low. “This is what you wanted, right?”

He mutters under his breath but doesn’t move toward you, instead leaning back against the couch in defeat. “Fine, whatever. You’ve made your point.”

You grin, feeling victorious. “We’ll see how long you last.”

Ni-ki

You’re on the floor of his apartment, caught up in a little game of back-and-forth teasing, a playful wrestle that started as one thing and quickly escalated into something else entirely. Niki’s laughing, squirming beneath you, his hands pressed against your sides in a half-hearted attempt to pin you down.

“You think you can take me down, huh?” he taunts, clearly having a blast. “This’ll be over in five seconds.”

You smile, feeling that spark of competitive energy flare up. You shove him off with a little more force than necessary, and he stumbles back, surprised. But he recovers quickly, his grin widening. “Okay, okay. You wanna play dirty? Fine. I’m game.”

With a quick shift, he’s on top of you now, his hands circling your wrists, pinning them to the floor. “You’re not gonna win this time,” he says, voice low, almost a dare.

“Is that so?” you challenge, wriggling beneath him, but it’s no use. He’s got you. You’re not getting out.

“I’ll prove it,” he says, leaning down to press his lips lightly against your neck. “You’re not going anywhere.”

It’s all playful and teasing — at least, that’s what it starts as. But there’s something in his eyes, something that shifts the moment he feels you tense up underneath him.

“Is that a challenge?” you ask, breath catching slightly. You give him a pointed look. “If you think you can keep me like this, then fine. You’re on a sex ban.”

Niki freezes, eyes widening. “Wait, what? Are you serious?”

“You heard me. No sex. No nothing,” you say, giving him a daring look. “Let’s see how long you last.”

Niki’s jaw slackens. “But I—”

“I’m not kidding, Niki. I think you need to prove you can keep your hands to yourself.”

The mischievous spark never leaves his eyes, but now there’s something more—determination. “Alright,” he says slowly, smirking. “Challenge accepted.”

You lean back, grinning. “I’m gonna win this one. You won’t last a week.”

And just like that, he’s ready for whatever this little game turns into. You’re not sure who’s winning yet, but you both know it’s only just begun.

[siannoyam]

Yeah okay so screenshot redraw but I got so lazy halfway through it and I’m not proud of it at all.

Fuck you Obi Wan I’m never drawing your ass ever again😡😡😡😡

[clarkeysbedchem]

you got me nervous

next part

george clarke x fem reader

summary: you’re chris’ younger sister who has a crush on his best friend. you’ve spent the past two years hiding your feelings from him - until you all end up in a club for your brothers birthday.

masterlist | main masterlist

It was Chris’ birthday, and the club was buzzing - sweaty bodies packed wall to wall, lights flickering in a wild fashion, and the bass thumping so loudly into your body that you could feel your bones rattling.

And then there was George.

Chris' best mate, who also happened to live with him. The flatmate that was usually sprawled across the sofa like he owns it, always laughing a little too loud, and wearing that damn smirk that somehow manages to be annoyingly hot. The one who never looks at you quite long enough for you to know if it's in your head, or if he knows.

Tonight, he's in black. Black tshirt, black trousers, black rings on his fingers that you definitely shouldn't be noticing, and that same cocky look that had been messing with your head since you first met him.

You’ve already messed up twice - once when you bumped into him trying to get to the bar and literally apologized to the wall, and again when he asked you how your classes were going and you forgot how to pronounce your own degree.

You’re tried so hard to be cool, to be a one of those normal pretty girls that were always flocked around him, even when he keeps looking at you.

And it’s not like he’s looking at everyone. It's you. Only you.

Chris is off somewhere in a tangle of mates and shots, and you’re left standing near the back booth, fiddling with your bracelet, pretending you're not checking to see if George is still across the room.

Spoiler: He is.

And now he's walking toward you, all slow and confident, like the kind of trouble that knows it’s going to be forgiven before it even begins.

“Hey,” he says, way too close to your ear - you blame the music, but his voice still sends a shiver down your spine and made your face burn, “You okay?”

You nod with a gulp,“Yeah. Just needed a breather.”

George leans against the wall beside you, his shoulder brushing yours, and it’s almost enough to short-circuit your entire nervous system. You swear the temperature in the club jumps ten degrees when he inches closer to you. Your sense overwhelmed by the smell of his cologne, or maybe it's just him.

“You're quiet tonight,” he says, head tilted like he was studying you.

You almost let yourself speak before thinking, almost letting a clever quip slip past your lips, to flirt back with him. To finally act like you’re not the quiet, overthinking little sister of his best friend.

But all that comes out is a laugh that dies halfway through, “Just tired.”

“You sure?” His eyes flicking to your lips just long enough for you to notice, "You seem off."

Your pulse spikes, and you felt your chest tighten for a moment as your breath shook involuntarily. He was far too close now, his finger barely ghost over your wrist like he’s testing the water - You didn’t pull away.

“You look good,” he says, his voice low, “You’ve almost got me nervous to move.”

That was enough for him to gain every ounce of your attention. Your eyes snap up to his, your heart thudding against your ribs.

“Why would you be nervous?” you whisper, more breath than voice.

George laughs softly, not pulling back, “Because you’ve been driving me mad all night.”

You blink, “Me?”

His fingers trace up your arm, slow and almost lazy, like he’s memorizing the shape of you, “Yeah, you. The way you look at me like I’m off limits. The way you keep pretending like I don’t consume your every thought.”

You swallow hard wanting to turn away from him but it was impossible. Your breath hitched in your throat as his hand settles on your waist, warm and solid. Every nerve of your body standing on edge.

“I’m not gonna do anything you don’t want me to,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your skin just under the hem of your top, “But if you do want something…”

He leaves it hanging, lets you fill in the rest.

You lean in, finally finding your voice - just barely, “Please kiss me.”

He does. God, he does. Like he’s been waiting as long as you have.

And for the first time all night, you stop trying to be perfect. You stop trying to be quiet. You just feel.

When his mouth meets yours it felt like a secret - soft at first, almost hesitant, like he’s checking to make sure this isn’t just some alcohol-fueled mistake. Like he's giving you a chance to pull away.

You don’t.

You kiss him back like you had been storing this up for years, because you have. All those almosts, all those what-ifs - they’re pouring out of you now, warm and desperate.

You fist your hands in the fabric of his shirt, and he exhales sharply against your lips, like the tension’s finally snappish for him too.

His hands are on your waist, fingers splayed like he’s trying to restrain himself, like he needs to feel that this is real. Your back was pressed into the wall of the booth, music vibrating through the floor, yet all you can hear is the sound of your own breathing and the faint sound George makes when your teeth catch on his lower lip.

“Fuck,” he mutters, pulling back just an inch, forehead resting against yours, “We probably shouldn’t be doing this here.”

“Then stop,” you say, breathless.

He huffs a laugh, “That’s not a real suggestion, is it?”

“Not in the slightest.”

George lips catch your again - rougher this time, less careful. One of his hands slides up your back, curling around the back of your neck like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

Your head spun in the best way. This feels like a free fall – terrifying but exciting. Like every breath you had held every time he walked into a room could finally be let out.

“You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” he says against your mouth.

You laugh, the sound shaky, “Try me.”

“I didn’t think I could,” he admits, “Chris would kill me.”

You pause, blinking up at him, “You’re thinking about my brother right now?”

“Briefly. I’m not proud.”

You snort, and the tension breaks for a moment, leaving something lighter behind - giddy and dangerous. You’re still tangled together in a dark corner of a club, but it suddenly feels more intimate than any bedroom ever could.

George trails a finger down the side of your neck, voice softer now, “You always look at me like you’re trying not to. Like I’m gonna catch you.”

You shrug, cheeks burning. “And yet you did.”

His expression shifts into something deeper and it flickers in his eyes,. His thumb brushes your jaw, “So now what?”

“I don’t know.” You bite your lip, “We keep this quiet?”

“For now.”

“And maybe…” You lean in, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Maybe you kiss me again before I start overthinking everything and ruin it?”

He doesn’t hesitate.

His hands tighten around your hips, pulling you flush against him, and this time the kiss is all heat. No nerves. No hesitations. Just want.

You knew it was reckless. You knew it would. e complicated. You know you’re going to have to face your brother eventually, and that George probably won’t be able to sneak around forever.

But right now? Right now, in this dark corner with your heartbeat echoing in your throat and George’s hands on your body like you’re made of glass - It was worth it.

You can barely hear the heavy beat anymore. Everything else fading away - the flashing lights, the crowd, even the distant echo of Chris’s drunken laugh somewhere across the room. All you feel is George. His hands, his mouth, the way he’s pressing you back into the booth like he can’t get close enough.

And just when your lips trail down to his neck, just when his fingers tangle in the hem of your shirt, you hear it - “Oi, George!”

You both freeze.

Your felt your heart drop as George stiffens against you, letting out a quiet curse under his breath before pulling away just enough to peek over the booth's edge. You can feel your pulse pounding in your head.

“It's just Arthur,” he says, trying to play it cool - though his voice is lower, rougher now, “He hasn’t seen us.”

You don’t move, still pressed against the booth wall, trying to catch your breath and not look like you were about to let your brother’s best friend get to third base in public.

George leans in again, voice warm against your skin, “Don’t look so panicked. You’re not the one who has to explain to Chris why his little sister’s lipstick is smudged down my neck.”

Your hand flies to your mouth, “Shit, I-”

“I’m not complaining.” He grins, eyes dark and teasing, “You should see the look on your face.”

You shove his shoulder, and he catches your wrist, kissing the inside of it before reluctantly letting you go.

“We’ll pick this up later,” he promises.

taglist: @jamiekluivert @reidyourpalms @roc-haze @whisperturnedecho @graceln4 @dopeysunflowers @super-gay-for-u @bethorwhateverr @livvymd @lilyyxoii @4ngelrealm @kiyoomology @canyouseethesainz

[formulaonecrumbs]

i blame love ❤️

Lando Norris x reader

summary: just small snippets of their day when Lando is off i guess

warnings: none but tooth-rotting fluff. consider them a newer couple who’d been in love with each other for a while. kissing, but i don’t think anyone’s opposed to that, lando’s a biter

A/N: needed to go back to my roots with lando, my first love in f1 (i have so much written for him rn and i’m posting it all one after the other and it may be all inspired by the other 😭) ENJOY, LOVE U CUTUS ❤️

༻ ❤︎︎ ༺

lando’s on your couch, stretched out like a cat, stealing all your pillows.

he’s been here for four days.

he has a house. a very nice house. with faster wifi. but somehow, he’s been “too lazy to drive back” every single night.

you’ve stopped arguing. mostly because you like it. and because he keeps kissing you between complaints and you forget what you were saying.

“this pillow smells like you,” he mumbles, squishing it to his chest.

“because it’s mine,” you say.

“disgusting. i’m keeping it.”

you roll your eyes. “you’re ridiculous.”

he turns his head lazily and smirks. “and you love me.”

“those two things are unrelated.”

lando grins and makes grabby hands. “come kiss me.”

“you’re so needy.”

“correct. now kiss me.”

you walk over and kiss him. just a quick one.

he frowns like you’ve committed a crime.

“that was barely a kiss.”

“that was perfectly acceptable.”

he pulls you down into the couch with him, all limbs and warmth and smugness.

“nope,” he says. “gimme the deluxe version.”

you kiss him again, longer this time. his fingers thread into your hair halfway through like he can’t help it.

you only break apart because you’re smiling too much.

“better?” you whisper.

lando blinks up at you, dazed. “i forgot what year it is.”

༻ ❤︎︎ ༺

you try to cook dinner together. keyword: try.

he starts off helping, chopping vegetables and dancing to the music you’ve got playing from your phone.

but the second you turn your back, he abandons his post and wraps his arms around your waist from behind.

“you’re distracting me,” you say.

“i’m supporting you,” he says, resting his chin on your shoulder. “like a proper house husband.”

“you’re doing nothing.”

“i kissed the chef. that’s something.”

he does it again, right under your jaw.

you drop the spoon you were holding.

“lando.”

“yes, baby?”

“you’re insufferable.”

“and you chose me. forever stuck with me now.”

you don’t tell him that the word forever makes your chest feel like it’s glowing.

instead, you turn around and kiss him again.

he tastes like the mangos you chopped earlier. his hands are warm on your back. yours find the edge of his hoodie and tug him closer.

by the time you come up for air, something’s burning on the stove.

you both stare at it, wide-eyed.

“i blame you,” you say.

“i blame love,” he shrugs.

༻ ❤︎︎ ༺

after dinner (aka takeout), you lie tangled on the floor with a movie playing in the background.

lando’s halfway on top of you, one leg hooked over yours, face buried in your neck.

“this is the best decision you’ve ever made,” he mumbles against your skin.

“letting you stay here for four days?”

“letting me kiss you.”

you hum, running your fingers through his hair.

“debatable.”

he bites your shoulder gently.

“okay, okay, second-best.”

“what’s the first?”

you tilt his face up. look him in the eyes.

“falling in love with you.”

lando looks like you’ve just knocked all the air out of his lungs.

and then he kisses you like he’s trying to say everything he can’t get into words.

slow and sweet and a little desperate. like he’s never going to get tired of kissing you, and he’s trying to prove it.

“you’re sappy,” you whisper when he pulls away.

“you started it.”

you kiss him again. and again.

the movie ends. you don’t even notice.

THE END :>

[lilianne-tarot]

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Pile I

CARDS: 10 of Pentacles, the Fool reversed, 9 of Wands and 10 of Swords reversed.

let’s be real, you’ve been through it recently. Like, emotionally, mentally, physically, spiritually, just all of it. The cards are screaming resilience and overcoming, but they’re also side-eyeing you a little, like, “Are you actually letting yourself heal, or are you just surviving on autopilot?” Be honest.

10 of Swords reversed + 9 of Wands? darling, that’s the energy of someone who has been dragged through the trenches but still refuses to back down. You’ve been knocked down, betrayed, or just downright exhausted by life, yet here you are, pushing forward like the fighter you are. But the thing is… when was the last time you actually allowed yourself to breathe? Because this “I have to keep going no matter what” mentality is valid, but also, who said you can’t take a break? You don’t have to prove your strength by constantly being in survival mode. It’s okay to admit you’re tired. With The Fool reversed sitting here next to all this, I have to ask, are you resisting a new beginning? Are you clinging to the past because at least it’s predictable, even if it kinda sucks? Something is knocking at your door, asking you to take a leap of faith, but you’re hesitating. Maybe it’s a new opportunity, a new mindset, or even a whole new era for you (cue Taylor Swift ). Whatever it is, you’re holding back, and the question is why? Is it actual logic stopping you, or just fear of uncertainty? Because bestie, if fear is the only thing between you and a fresh start, that’s your sign to GO FOR IT.

Now, let’s talk about that 10 of Pentacles. This card is basically the “you’re meant for success, stability, and everything good” card, but here’s the catch: you have to believe you deserve it. Right now, there’s an energy of you working so hard but maybe not truly believing the rewards will come. Or maybe you think if you let your guard down, everything will fall apart again. Nah, babes, that’s the past talking. You’re being reminded that long-term happiness is possible without constantly being on edge. Trust that all the effort you’ve put in is leading somewhere. Stability is not a myth; it’s just something you have to be open to receiving.

Stop fighting battles that are already over. You don’t have to keep reliving past pain just because you’re used to it. Let it go. Rest isn’t laziness; it’s necessary. You’re not weak for taking a break. In fact, recharging will make you even stronger. Opportunities are knocking, answer the door. Even if it feels scary, don’t let fear make decisions for you. You’re closer to your dreams than you think. But you have to believe in the life you want. It’s not just for other people; it’s for you too.

The universe is basically giving you the “stop playing small” speech. You’ve done the hard work. You’ve survived. Now it’s time to live. The future you’ve been working toward? It’s not some distant fantasy. It’s happening, but you have to meet it halfway. You got this, bestie. 💖

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Pile II

Cards: The Moon, 8 of Pentacles Reversed, King of Cups Reversed, 4 of Pentacles

First off, bestie, are you feeling lost? Confused? Like you’re walking through life with a blindfold on, second-guessing yourself at every turn? Because this card is giving me me big "I have no clue what’s real and what’s just my overthinking brain" energy. Maybe you’ve been feeling unsure about your future, your relationships, or even yourself. It’s like you’re in this fog, and no matter how hard you try to see clearly, everything still feels murky. But here’s the thing, The Moon isn’t just about confusion; it’s also about intuition. So trust those gut feelings, even when your logical brain is like, "Nah, that’s crazy." Your intuition is on point, even if you don’t fully believe it yet. Now, whew, I feel called out just looking at this. These cards are all about burnout and feeling like no matter how hard you work, nothing is paying off. Have you been grinding non-stop but feeling like you’re getting nowhere? Maybe you’ve been questioning if all the effort you’re putting into something, your job, school, a passion project, is even worth it anymore. This card is saying, "Hey, take a step back and breathe for a second." You are doing so much, and while it’s great to be ambitious, you can’t pour from an empty cup. So if you’ve been feeling like you’re running on fumes, this is your permission to rest. You don’t have to be productive 24/7 to be worthy. You are enough just as you are, even when you’re resting.

Uh… what’s going on emotionally, bestie? This card is giving me major "I’m feeling everything but pretending I’m fine" vibes, idk but major olivia rodrigo vibes, from her betrayal songs. You might be feeling emotionally overwhelmed, but instead of dealing with it, you’re either bottling it up or letting it explode at the worst times. Maybe you’ve been dealing with someone who is emotionally unavailable, manipulative, or just straight-up confusing. OR (and hear me out) you might be struggling with setting boundaries, especially with people who drain you emotionally. If you've been feeling extra sensitive lately, or like you’re constantly on the verge of snapping, this is your sign to check in with yourself. Your feelings are valid, and you don’t have to pretend to be okay when you’re not. Be gentle with yourself, okay? What are you holding onto so tightly that it’s keeping you stuck? Is it fear? A toxic situation? A scarcity mindset that’s making you afraid to take risks? The universe is asking you to loosen your grip a little. You can’t welcome new blessings if your hands are full of things you’re afraid to let go of. This could be about money, love, or even old beliefs that no longer serve you. Whatever it is, I promise you, letting go won’t ruin you, it will set you free.

You’re not crazy; you’re just in a phase of uncertainty. Trust your intuition, even if things feel unclear right now. You need a break. Burnout isn’t a badge of honor. Rest is productive, too. Stop bottling up your emotions. Cry if you need to. Talk it out. Scream into a pillow. Just don’t let it fester inside. Loosen your grip. Whether it’s fear, control, or a situation that’s keeping you stuck, it’s okay to release it.

I know things might feel heavy right now, but listen, you are doing so much better than you think. You are growing, even when you feel stuck. You are worthy, even when you’re not at your best. And most importantly, you are not alone. Keep going, bestie. I believe in you.

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Pile III

Cards: The Hermit, Wheel of Fortune, The Fool, Nine of Swords Reversed.

Bestie, we need to have a real talk because this spread is giving "deep self-reflection mixed with anxiety and a sprinkle of self-sabotage." You’ve been in your introspective bag lately, haven’t you? The Hermit is showing up loud and clear, which means you’ve been spending a lot of time in your head, analyzing everything from your past mistakes to your future moves. It’s giving "I need answers, and I need them now!" vibes. But here’s the thing, sometimes the answers don’t come when you’re actively looking for them. Sometimes, they come when you allow yourself to live, to experience, to take that step forward without needing a perfect plan. And then we have the Wheel of Fortune, which is basically the universe’s way of saying, “Ready or not, here I come.” Change is coming, whether you’re prepared for it or not. The good news? This is a shift in your favor. The not-so-good news? It might feel a little uncomfortable at first. Change always does. I feel like some of you have been resisting this change, afraid to let go of old cycles, old identities, or even old people who no longer align with who you’re becoming. Bestie, it’s time. The wheel keeps turning, and you don’t want to be stuck in the past while life moves forward without you. Now, let’s talk about The Fool, reversed. Normally, The Fool is all about fresh starts, jumping into the unknown, and trusting that the universe will catch you. But reversed? It’s giving hesitation. It’s giving fear of failure. It’s giving "What if I make the wrong decision?" And to that, I ask, what if you make the right one? What if taking that leap is exactly what you need to finally feel free? Staying stuck because of fear isn’t serving you, and deep down, you know it. You’ve been standing at the edge, looking at the possibilities, but refusing to jump. It’s time to take that risk. Life is messy, unpredictable, and full of surprises, but you are capable of navigating whatever comes your way.

And LAWD, Bestie, be honest, how much sleep have you lost lately? Because I see that ya'll are going through late-night overthinking, worrying about things you can’t control, and letting fear dictate your reality. I see you stressing about things that haven’t even happened yet. It’s like your brain is running a horror movie marathon starring all your worst-case scenarios. But let me remind you: Most of those fears? They’re not real. Your mind is playing tricks on you, making you believe that everything is worse than it actually is. It’s time to break free from this cycle of stress and worry. You are stronger than your fears, and you have more control over your thoughts than you realize.

So what’s the takeaway here? you’ve done enough thinking, it’s time to apply what you’ve learned, change is coming, and you need to embrace it. Stop doubting yourself and take the damn leap. You are so much more powerful than you give yourself credit for, and the universe is fully supporting you. It’s time to step out of your comfort zone, trust yourself, and believe that good things are actually meant for you. The cycle of doubt and hesitation is ending. Let’s move forward, bestie. You go bestie! EZPZ!

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Thank you so much for reading all the way through! I hope my reading resonated with you and that you had a lovely time going through it. If you enjoyed it, please like and reblog, it really means a lot! Let me know which pile you chose; I absolutely love hearing your thoughts and feedback on my readings! If my reading resonated you, you may consider buying my paid reading as it would really help me out financially♡

Note: tarot cards provide guidance and possible insights into what could happen based on current energies, thoughts, and actions. the cards can highlight potential paths or outcomes, but they do not fixedly predict the future. this is a general reading so take what resonates!

[muniimyg]

*ੈ εつ‧₊˚° ♡ ༘ ctrl+alt+delete // jjk ༘ ♡ °˚₊‧ εつ ੈ*

19 // next // series m.list

note: oh wHAT DO YOU KNOW ABT MEET CUTES??? huashjdkfasjf.... ignore my mistakes ,, i am sick ! goodnight pretty pussy kimi friends <3

//

friday night. 

jimin’s voice rings through the chaos of the small, but somehow always too crowded, apartment. it’s filled with people yet jimin’s squeaky yapping is the loudest thing in jungkook’s ear.

“stop freaking out!” jimin cries, dodging around taehyung, who’s already got a hand to his forehead like he’s holding back a migraine. “bro, you look fine.”

“but what if this is the wrong shirt?” jungkook whines, his brows knit together, tugging at the hem of the plain black tee he’s been second-guessing for the last hour and a half.

taehyung groans, dramatic as ever. “what if i hit you right now?”

“what if you go kill yourself—”

before jungkook can finish, the sound of liquid splashing against fabric cuts him off. the liquor spreads fast and drips down his shirt.

jungkook takes a deep breath in.

“oops,” jimin says, not even trying to hide the grin as his tequila splatters all over jungkook’s chest. “now you have to change. you’re welcome.”

“you—!” jungkook starts, eyes narrowing like he’s about to lunge.

“do it,” taehyung interrupts, his grin lazy, sharp, and mean in a way that only jungkook’s closest friends can manage. “before ___ walks in and sees you covered in alcohol. how’s that for a first impression, mr. perfect?”

jungkook shoots both of them a glare, muttering curses under his breath as he storms off toward his room, the familiar bubble of frustration fizzing in his chest.

god. 

tonight, out of all nights; he’s spiraling. really—because how could they not see how serious this all is? 

you’re coming over. 

you. 

st4rg1rlyni3. 

… and since this is your first time meeting… he has to get it right. he has to at least look good. presentable. maybe even… handsome.

once jungkook reaches his room, he pulls open his closet door with more force than necessary. the shirts hang neatly—too neatly—because he reorganized them this morning, just in case you’d... what? wander in here and look inside his closet?

he groans at himself, grabbing the first thing that doesn’t make him want to scream, a striped blue button-up he swore he wouldn’t wear tonight.

as he shrugs the shirt over his shoulders, he’s halfway through tugging it down—arms trapped in the fabric, mid-struggle—when his door creaks open.

his heart stalls. freezes, really, like his whole body is buffering.

because it’s you.

you’re standing there, hand still on the doorknob, looking as though you hadn’t expected to walk in on this exact moment—but you’re also clearly trying to hold back a laugh.

“oh.” your voice comes out light, amused. you glance down at your phone for a second before back up at him, a brow raising. “taehyung said the bathroom was—hmmm. okay. i get it.”

jungkook is acutely aware of every awkward detail: his hair sticking up from all his stressed-out fidgeting, the half-buttoned shirt that’s probably wrinkled by now, the way his mouth is hanging slightly open because he still hasn’t figured out what to say.

“um...” it’s the best he can manage, voice a little cracked.

your smile grows, softening the edges of the moment. 

“nice shirt.”

he stares at you, feels his cheeks flush a little hotter. because of course you’d show up looking this good, all easy confidence and effortless charm, while he’s here feeling like a walking disaster. your hair is curled in such an effortless way that truly scratches his brain. you’re wearing a baby pink dress that tugs your curves perfectly. 

truth be told, he was just talking shit about the colour pink. 

seeing it on you? 

yeah. it’s his favourite colour now too—

that’s when jungkook realizes he’s been silent for a minute too long. you’re looking at him like you’re waiting for a response.

“thanks,” he finally blurts, so fast it sounds like one word. then he clears his throat, scrambling to add, “just—uh, just picked it.”

your gaze lingers on him, a smile tipping into something dangerously close to teasing. 

“what’s… with the awkwardness? am i prettier than you expected?”

his breath hitches, and you swear you catch the faintest blush coloring his cheeks. but jungkook recovers quickly, his lips curling into a crooked grin.

“the issue was never if you were pretty. you are pretty. there’s no denying that,” he admits, his voice steady yet soft. “it’s your attitude.”

your brow arches, feigning offense. 

“what attitude? i just got here.”

“that one,” he says, gesturing vaguely as if you radiate something he can’t quite put into words.

you scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. “oh, so we’re acting like we didn’t just celebrate seven days of talking with cake? like you aren’t completely obsessed with me—”

“okay, miss disliker.”

“mr. vlog dedicator.”

“weren’t you mad at me a few days ago for muting when i peed?”

“yeah. i can admit to that. if i made peeing videos, you’d watch them, right? can you admit to that?”

jungkook bites down on his bottom lip, a nervous habit you’ve started to notice, and inhales sharply through his nose. his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and for a moment, his gaze drops to the floor like he’s trying to gather himself.

the air stills.

“sorry,” he finally breathes, his voice low and almost unsure. “seeing you in person… god, i don’t know how to act right now. i’m sorry, baby.”

his words settle over you, warm and sweet, sinking into the spaces you didn’t know were waiting to be filled. your stomach tightens, flipping over itself, and you’re suddenly too aware of the way his voice dips when he calls you baby.

jungkook finishes buttoning up his shirt, his fingers fumbling slightly on the last button, and then he extends his hand toward you. 

“nice to meet you—”

but before he can finish, you reach out, wrapping your arms around his neck instead.

his entire body tenses for a split second, caught off guard before he melts into the embrace. his arms come around you, pulling you close, holding you tight.

you rest your chin on his shoulder, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. his cologne—something woodsy with just a hint of spice—wraps around you, grounding you in the intimacy of the moment.

why does this feel so right?

your hands flex against his back, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath your fingertips. it’s overwhelming—how natural this feels, how easy it is to lean into him like this.

he exhales against your hair, his breath warm and steady now, and you can feel the tension draining from his body. you pull back slightly, your arms still looped around his neck, and meet his gaze. there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—uncertainty, maybe, or hesitation—but it’s quickly swallowed by a softness that tugs at your chest.

his hands slide down to rest on your waist, grounding you in place. “hi.”

you blink, your stomach flipping again as his words settle in. he’s staring at you like you’re the only person in the room, and it’s almost too much to bear.

“hi.”

“i’m really nervous, to be honest. jimin and tae have been eating up my anxiety and i’m… i’ve embrassed myself in front of you already so what the hell?” he says, his grip on your waist tightening just slightly. “you’ve been in my head. and now… now you’re here, and i don’t know what to do with myself.”

you smile softly, trying to keep things light despite the way your heart is racing. 

“excited much?”

he laughs, the sound warm and a little breathless. “only a little.”

you don’t know who moves first, but somehow, you find yourself leaning in, his forehead pressing gently against yours. his eyes flutter shut, and for a moment, the world outside fades into nothingness.

“you smell nice,” he murmurs, his lips so close to yours that you can feel the ghost of his breath.

“so do you.”

he chuckles, his hand lifting to brush a strand of hair away from your face. “this feels too perfect,” he whispers, almost like he’s afraid saying it out loud will break the spell.

your stomach flips again, and you’re suddenly so aware of everything—his hands on your waist, the warmth radiating off his body, the way his lips hover just a breath away from yours.

“then don’t ruin it,” you tease, your smile growing.

he grins, leaning back just enough to meet your eyes, and for a moment, you’re both caught in the weight of everything unsaid.

“not a chance,” he says, his voice steady now. 

you believe him.

the night feels like a dream. 

not the kind you forget the second you wake up, but the kind you spend the rest of the day reliving, hoping to hold onto every detail.

jungkook’s mind is filled with you.

every time he looks at you, touches you, or hears you—he can’t help but feel like his heart is beating outside of his chest. it’s so strange and love has never felt this way—so intense and real… so fast. 

you’re witty in a way that makes his chest ache, sharp without being mean, playful but never overbearing. he can’t remember the last time someone teased him, really teased him, without making him feel small. you make it fun—safe, even.

and god, you’re beautiful. 

not in the way he thought before, through screens and pictures, but in a way that’s... more. the kind of beauty that makes him feel like he should thank someone—maybe you, maybe the universe—for the chance to be here, breathing the same air as you.

he notices the way hobi smirks when he catches jungkook staring at you too long. the way taehyung elbows him whenever you laugh at one of his dumb jokes. the way jimin whispers “she likes you, idiot” every time you brush past him, your shoulder grazing his.

it’s obvious. 

to everyone. 

and apparently, to you too, because you’ve joined in. 

you’re teasing him just as much as his friends, your words sharp and deliberate in a way that keeps him on his toes. it’s almost unbearable, the way you make him feel like a little kid with a crush, heart pounding and cheeks burning every time you look his way.

and then, in the middle of it all, he snaps. 

not in a bad way, but in the way you’d snap a rubber band to bring yourself back to reality. he steps closer, his hand finding your waist, his fingers curling just slightly.

“can i show you something?”

your brows lift, curiosity flickering across your face. you nod. 

“sure.”

jungkook leads you to his room, the chaos of the party fading behind you. his fingers brush yours as he walks ahead, close enough to touch but not quite. it’s deliberate, like he’s trying to keep his cool but failing miserably.

once you're in his room, he gestures towards his balcony.

you two step out and it's this set up of a cozy and quiet escape. there are string lights wrapped around the railing, a single blanket draped over the chair, and the view—god, the view is stunning.

the city stretches out like it’s alive, blinking lights and faint noises making it feel infinite.

“i fought for this room,” jungkook brags, leaning against the doorframe. “tae wanted it, but i beat him in an arm wrestling match.”

you laugh softly, stepping out onto the balcony.

“it’s worth the fight.”

“it is.”

he doesn’t mean the room, though.

you settle into the blanket he hands you, the conversation flowing into something softer, deeper.

“it's been a few hours already but... it’s still so weird seeing you in person,” he admits, his voice quieter now, like he’s letting himself be vulnerable. “i feel like... i’ve known you my entire life. it feels...”

“different?” you offer, your gaze steady on him.

he nods, his lips curving into a small smile. “in a good way."

“in a good way." you echo.

with that, you two settle in to each others presence. looking out at the view and laughing at each others lame jokes. for two sociable people, you two sure love your space from everyone... perhaps, it's because you're with the one.

as the conversation drifts, eventually, jungkook asks, “so... the anon thing. have you figured out who it is yet?”

you shrug, pulling the blanket tighter around you.

“no, not really. hobi told me to take it slow. to focus on myself for now.”

“what does that mean for... you know.” his voice drops, suddenly shy. “your content.”

another shrug.

“i’m not sure. i don’t know if i want to keep going, but... i don’t think i have any other options.”

he frowns, leaning forward. “what do you mean by that?”

you hesitate, your fingers tracing the edge of the blanket. “i don’t really know what i am these days, to be honest with you.”

that's the plain truth.

you haven't really admitted it to anyone... honestly? hardly to yourself... but for some reason, it just came out. for a moment you think; maybe this is dangerous. trusting someone so fast and feeling how natural it is to say the hard things...

then, there’s a beat of silence before he speaks.

“that’s okay.” jungkook voice is steady, sure. “not knowing is okay. being you is enough.”

you blink, startled by the simplicity of his words.

they hit harder than you expected, settling somewhere deep. it’s strange, feeling so understood by someone you’ve only just met.

the moment is broken by the buzz of jungkook’s phone. he checks it, lips quirking into a smile.

“jimin says everyone went to the pool.”

he stands, holding out a hand. “come on.”

jungkook leads you to the rooftop pool. 

the rooftop is alive with soft laughter and the sound of water splashing, but all of it fades when you step out hand-in-hand with jungkook.

every set of eyes shifts to where your fingers are intertwined, lingering just a second too long before darting to his face, then back to yours. you feel your cheeks heat up, suddenly shy… but you two don’t let go. instead, you hold his hand even tighter. 

instinctively, you move slightly behind him, but jungkook isn’t having it.

he pulls you forward gently, his hand sliding to your waist, keeping you anchored there. 

for fucks sake… the prettiest girl at the party is with him. why would he hide this? why wouldn’t he boast?

“do you guys swim often?” you ask, trying to deflect from the weight of their teasing stares.

jungkook shrugs, playing it cool. “only when i wanna vlog and get your attention.”

you laugh, shaking your head. “right… because you just hate it when people only like you for your body?”

he nods, lips twitching into a grin. “exactly. oh, you so get me—”

“hate to break it to you,” taehyung interrupts, draping an arm around jungkook’s neck, “but posting thirst traps isn’t exactly original content.”

“what does that make me?” you quip, arching a brow.

taehyung shrugs, also playing it cool. “jungkook said he’d beat me up if I ever click your links.”

you snort, covering your mouth to hide your laugh.

“oh, come on,” taehyung continues, pulling at the hem of jungkook’s shirt, threatening to lift it. “jungkooookieee… go for a swim and do the whole romantic wet hair look. she’ll love it.”

“shut up—”

“no, seriously! right, ___?” taehyung calls over his shoulder, his grin mischievous. “you’ll love it, right?”

before you can answer, jimin comes barreling in, teaming up with taehyung to ambush jungkook. they shove him into the pool, their laughter echoing as jungkook resurfaces, glaring at them.

you step to the edge, watching as the three of them wrestle and splash around in the water. hobi appears beside you, crossing his arms with a knowing smile.

“this is gonna get worse before it gets better,” he teases, nudging you lightly.

you kneel by the pool, your gaze following jungkook as he swims to where you’re crouched. his wet hair clings to his forehead, and there’s a boyish charm in the way he grins up at you.

he’s breathtaking like this. 

wet hair curling just enough to look messy, droplets sliding down the sharp line of his jaw, catching faint glimmers of the rooftop lights. his shirt clings to him, fabric plastered to every dip and ridge of his body, leaving nothing to the imagination—not that it matters. you’ve spent enough time watching him online to know every detail by heart, but this is different. 

you swallow hard, a little lightheaded. 

“help me up,” he says, holding his hand out.

“no.”

his grin falters. “what? why not—”

“you’re gonna pull me in.”

“no, i won’t.”

“yes, you are.”

“how do you know?”

“i know you.”

jungkook tilts his head, his grin returning as he leans his arms on the pool edge. “oh? you think you’ve got me figured out, huh?”

you smirk. “don’t i?”

“you don’t,” he challenges, wiggling his fingers. “come on. trust me.”

against your better judgment, you give him your hand. the second his fingers close around yours, you know you’ve made a mistake.

“jungkook, don’t—”

but it’s too late. 

he tugs you in, and the cold water shocks you, stealing the air from your lungs. you bob to the surface, pushing your hair out of your face, only to see him laughing like a kid who just got away with a prank.

you splash him. “you’re the worst!”

“am i?” he teases, swimming closer.

you’re still laughing when he scoops you up under the water, holding you bridal style. he hums, grinning down at you. “saved you.”

“you pulled me in.”

“okay, fine. i pulled you in.”

“you give in easily.” you tease, splashing water to his face. jungkook squints, taking the splash. before you can say anything else, he defends himself with a few words that make your stomach turn again. 

“how am i supposed to argue with a pretty girl like you?”

back in his room, jungkook has a hoodie and a pair of sweats laid out for you. he’s drying off with a towel when you step out of his bathroom, his clothes hanging loose on you.

he pauses mid-motion, the towel draped over his shoulder as his eyes take you in. “you look better in my clothes than i do,” he teases, his voice dipping just slightly.

“gross.”

he grins, leaning against the dresser. “i’m serious. i might have to start hiding my hoodies.”

“please. you’d hand them over without a fight.”

“not true.”

you roll your eyes, stepping closer. without a word, you take the towel from his shoulder and start drying his hair. he freezes for a moment, caught off guard, before leaning into your touch.

your fingers work through his damp hair, your eyes inadvertently drifting to his lips. the air between you feels heavier now, thick with something unsaid. jungkook tilts his head slightly, his gaze dropping to your mouth before flicking back up to your eyes.

he leans in—so close, you can feel his breath on your skin—and then stops himself, pulling back just enough to create a sliver of space.

“i... i’m gonna wait,” he says, his voice low, almost a whisper.

“for?”

jungkook exhales, dragging a hand through his half-dry hair, the strands falling back into a soft, messy tangle that makes your stomach flip. the towel around his neck shifts as he fidgets with it, like it’s the only thing grounding him right now. 

“i don’t know,” he murmurs, voice quiet, like the words aren’t fully formed yet. “i want to show you i’m patient. i want to show you that i’m a good man. i am... so...” his eyes flicker to yours, holding your gaze for a beat too long, raw and unguarded. “let’s go? i’ll drive you home and hold your hand the entire way.”

you tilt your head, biting back a smile. 

“you’re really not going to kiss me right now?”

his lips twitch into a soft laugh, dimples pressing into his cheeks as his shoulders relax.

“i just want you to know that you’re perfect for me,” he says, his tone so sincere it makes your breath catch. “i want to be perfect for you... and it’s hard when i’m losing my patience. if i kiss you right now…” he hesitates, his voice dipping lower, “i won’t stop.”

you lean forward, close enough to catch the faintest scent of his cologne mingling with chlorine. 

“okay, i get it. you wanna be a good boy. fine by me…” you whisper, your lips brushing the air between you. “you’re right. maybe you shouldn’t kiss me tonight—as a matter of fact—don’t.”

his brows lift, the corner of his mouth curving into a grin that feels dangerously addictive. 

“really?”

“yeah.” your smile widens as you lean just a little closer, your nose nearly grazing his. “i like making people wait.”

his grin deepens, the heat in his gaze undeniable. 

“yeah?”

“yeah. i like it because it usually leads to begging.”

and then, before he can respond, you close the distance—not to his lips, but to his cheek, pressing the softest kiss there. when you pull back, jungkook's stunned expression is almost too satisfying. 

almost.

[megumismyhusband]

you were so excited when you got accepted as the court apothecary’s apprentice.

you told everyone. your family, your friends, the neighborhood cat. even the bread vendor lady who always gave you the misshapen rolls. “i’m gonna work under seishiro nagi,” you said, practically bouncing in place. “he’s the best herbalist in the entire kingdom.”

you imagined he’d be this calm, relaxed mentor type. all long robes and elegant handwriting and gentle wisdom, with shelves full of perfectly labeled jars and scrolls full of ancient remedies.

you were wrong.

so very wrong.

because seishiro nagi, as it turns out, is the most unbothered, sleepy, useless mentor in the history of herbalism.

you showed up on day one with your sleeves rolled up and your notebook ready, and he was napping on the bench. he didn’t even wake up when you knocked. just gave a slow, lazy wave from where he was lying and muttered, “you can get started without me.”

and it never ever got better.

he made you organize the shelves. you sorted the dried herbs. you restocked the supplies. youprepared all the teas and pastes and powders while he lounged around chewing on mint leaves like a goat.

he’d occasionally point at something from the floor and go, “that one goes with the fevergrass,” or “don’t forget to dry the nettle,” but that was the extent of his teaching.

you once caught him fast asleep with an open book resting on his face and a half-chopped root still on the cutting board. like he started working, got bored halfway through, and just decided unconsciousness was the way to go.

you complained. several times. to him, to yourself, to the basil plants. didn’t matter. he never changed.

until one random morning.

you walked into the apothecary just like always, mentally preparing to do everything yourself, and—

he was already up. working.

you froze in the doorway. “did… something explode?”

nagi looked over at you, deadpan. “no.”

“…are we expecting guests?”

“no.”

“…are you possessed.”

“no.” he mumbled, slicing ginger with slow, uneven motions. “don’t worry about it.”

you hovered awkwardly behind him. “uh. okay. well, i’ll just finish up the drying racks, and—”

“nope.”

he turned, blocking you with his body.

you blinked. “what do you mean ‘nope’?”

“i’m doing everything today.”

“…why?”

he shrugged. “why not.”

you stared at him, absolutely dumbfounded. “are you punishing me? did i break something?”

“no.”

“then what—”

“you work too hard,” he said simply, like it was obvious.

“i wonder why.” you mutter.

“hm?” he looks up from the knife in his hand.

“you’re the reason i grind three pounds of root a day while you nap with a daisy up your nose.”

in response to your rambling he gave you a look. “you grind it wrong when you’re mad. the texture’s all lumpy.”

you glared. “that’s your problem?”

“and,” he added, real quiet, like he was trying not to say it at all, “i dunno. it’s annoying when you’re tired.”

“…what?”

“you make those sigh noises. like a wet sad puppy.”

you blinked at him.

“plus,” he said, almost like an afterthought, “maybe i wanted to impress you today or something.”

you blinked harder. “what.”

“nothing,” he said quickly. “go sit down. i made you tea.”

and just like that, he was back to acting like none of this was even remotely unusual.

you sat down. still incredibly confused. still staring. sipping the nicely brewed tea that tasted slightly like bark.

but you didn’t complain.

because for once in all your months of being his apprentice, seishiro nagi was working.

maybe it was because he didn’t mind working if it was for you. but who knows.

[wordsofwhimsy]

𝕵𝖚𝖘𝖙 𝖆 𝕭𝖆𝖇𝖞 ♡

Pairing: Mohawk!Mark Grayson x f!Reader

Warnings: None

Tags: Fluff, straight cuddlecore

Word Count: 377

a/n: this almost could've worked for my opposites attract fic but this reader is a bit too girly and froufrou. i love this idea so much tho, had to write it anyways. also i'm going kinda crazy posting today i know but i really need this therapy rn T-T hope y'all don't mind

You’re curled up in Mark’s lap like a kitten on a cloud, surrounded by a fortress of stuffed animals. Pink fairy lights flicker across the walls of your room, casting little sparkles on his black boots and the hard lines of his face. He looks… so wrong in here. The zipper to his suit halfway down his chest, dried blood on his gloved knuckles, one side of his mohawk still damp from the shower he finally took.

But his hand is in your hair, gently twirling a strand around his finger. And that means everything.

“Mark,” you whisper, pressing your cheek against his chest, “can you call me something cute?”

He raises an eyebrow, eyes still half-glowing from whatever mission he’d stormed back from. “Cute like what?”

“Like… bunny,” you say, already giggling like it’s the funniest, most scandalous thing. “Or princess. Or— ooh! Baby! You never call me baby.”

He scoffs, just a little. “You are a baby.”

You light up. “You think so?!”

“I mean,” he mutters, tugging you closer, “you’ve got pink bows on your socks and cried earlier ‘cause your strawberry milk was too warm.”

“That was traumatizing, Mark.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, his voice low, like it’s just for you. “Okay, okay. C’mere, Bunny.” He says it like it’s a secret—like it’s dangerous that he loves you this much.

You practically melt, hiding your face in his chest with the most dramatic little squeal. “Say it again!”

“Bunny,” he repeats, softer this time, brushing your bangs out of your face. “You’re just a baby, huh?”

You nod fiercely, your voice muffled in his shirt. “Mhm. I’m your baby.”

He leans down and presses a slow, lazy kiss to your forehead. “Yeah. My spoiled little baby who makes me watch magical girl cartoons after I beat the hell out of interdimensional warlords.”

You giggle, already reaching for his hand to place it over your heart. “But you like it.”

He doesn’t even try to lie. “Yeah,” he murmurs, letting his eyes close, “I like it.”

Outside, the city burns quietly in the distance. But in here, wrapped up in stuffed bears and your bubblegum-pink blankets, you’ve got a superpowered menace wrapped around your finger — and you got him calling you bunny.

[thegreatcabbagewizard]

Doin the thing with the thing(Witch Hat Atelier cover ch85)

This was also done by @mizaruwu @nell0-0 @zarvasace @lele5429 @theegh0st and finally @feed-your-dragons(it doesn’t let me tag you) who also did Wind but I was halfway through rendering when they posted so I got permission to post mine :)

Pls click on the picture, i need to stop posting directly from my iPad it ruins the photo quality.

I cannot with drawing water. The water just doesn’t water :( I also was too lazy to draw Aryll so you’re getting a transparent picture from google

Take Lineart

Its a bit janky but its okay

ALSO

The eyes in the third layer are amongus >:3

Get amongussed

[bjlipss]

— bug, part v.

contents: college!sukuna x weird!reader. weird as in just odd and confusing behaviour but nonetheless cute, nothing pervy-weird. reader wears glasses because yes. really awkward and silly hehe. also there is a use of “girlfriend” in here so ig fem reader should be mentioned.

part iv <- part v -> part vi

you are both in the library.

not because either of you are studying. not really.

you’re curled up in one of the weird, saggy armchairs near the back—hoodie too big, socked feet tucked under you, notebook propped awkwardly on your knees. you’re not even pretending to do anything academic. your textbook’s open on the table beside you, forgotten, while you scribble doodles into the margins of your notes like it’s a commissioned masterpiece.

there’s a frog with a sword. a duck in sunglasses. something that might be a hedgehog in a cape.

you’re also humming. low and wandering. not a tune he recognizes, and maybe you don’t either—you keep shifting the melody halfway through, then giggling softly to yourself like your brain changed channels mid-song.

sukuna’s sitting across from you, textbook cracked open on his lap, posture loose and lazy like he’s got all the time in the world. and technically, he does. he’s already skimmed the chapter. already skimmed the quiz. already skimmed three possible excuses to ditch group work next week.

but he’s not looking at the page.

he’s watching you.

he doesn’t even realize it at first—how long he’s been staring. how quiet he’s gotten.

your hair’s a mess. your glasses keep slipping down your nose. you’ve chewed halfway through your pen cap, and your shoelaces are still untied from this morning. and you’re not even trying to be quiet—just softly off in your own world, like it never occurs to you to shrink yourself down.

and somehow, he doesn’t want you to.

he glances down at his notes. blinks. tries to focus.

then looks at you again.

you’re drawing something new now. a little bat with cartoonishly huge eyes and a speech bubble that says “i crave blood and validation.”

his lips twitch before he can stop them.

you notice.

your gaze flicks up—quick, sharp. “what?”

his mouth opens.

and then he says, too fast, “you wanna come to my game?”

you blink.

“…what game?”

he clears his throat. suddenly, very interested in the pattern of the wood grain on the table.

“basketball. tomorrow night. we’re playing against southfield.”

you tilt your head, curious. “are they the ones with the scary mascot?”

“…it’s a goose.”

“yeah. terrifying.”

he huffs a laugh, soft and embarrassed. rubs the back of his neck. “you don’t have to or whatever. i just—figured you’d like it. it gets loud. chaotic. you like loud shit.”

you grin.

“okay.”

he blinks. “yeah?”

you nod. “i’ll bring a sign. and confetti. maybe a kazoo.”

he groans, dragging a hand down his face. “jesus. please don’t bring a kazoo.”

you lean forward, eyes bright. “you can’t stop me.”

he rolls his eyes, fighting a smile, and you go back to your doodles like he didn’t just invite you into his world a little bit. like it’s easy. like it means something.

—

the gym is packed. humid and echoey and full of noise.

the bleachers are overflowing. the ref’s whistle shrieks every two minutes. the other team’s fans are booing already, and someone spilled nachos on the court.

and you’re there.

front row. bouncing in your seat. wearing his hoodie—his actual hoodie, which he only lent you as a joke and immediately regretted because you looked so stupidly happy to wear it.

you wave when you see him jog out with his team, hands cupped around your mouth.

“GO SUKUNA! BREAK THEIR LEGS! OR RULES! OR BOTH!”

he snorts. tries not to smile. fails.

his teammates elbow him, whisper stuff, smirk, but he doesn’t care. not when you’re waving that crooked sign you made with sparkly markers and duct tape that says “#1 BASKETBALL MENACE” with what appears to be a drawing of him dunking a goose.

the game itself is rough. fast. brutal.

southfield’s team is good—long-legged and sharp-elbowed and fast on the rebounds—but sukuna’s better. faster. meaner. he scores three baskets in the second half alone. when he shoves past their point guard to land the final shot, the whole gym explodes.

they win by four points.

the whistle blows.

the crowd surges to its feet.

and then—before he can even breathe—you’re there.

you leap over the bleachers like it’s a war zone, stumbling slightly but recovering fast, and run straight to him across the court, absolutely beaming.

“THAT WAS AMAZING,” you shout, grabbing his arm with both hands. “you did that spinny jump thing! and then the swoosh! and then you yelled at the ref—oh my god, that was so hot—”

he blinks down at you, flushed and sweaty and grinning so wide his face might crack.

“you don’t know anything about basketball,” he points out, a little breathless.

you shake your head violently. “nope! not a clue!”

“you just called a layup a ‘spinny jump thing.’”

“yeah! and it was the coolest shit i’ve ever seen!”

he laughs. actually laughs. the sound cracks right out of him—bright and sharp and real. and you’re still holding his arm, squeezing it like it’s the only thing anchoring you.

he hesitates.

then says, quiet, “you wanna come over later?”

you blink. “like. to your dorm?”

“i can… tell you about the game. the rules. what the spinny jump thing’s actually called.”

you light up like he just offered you front-row seats to the moon.

“yes. absolutely. teach me all the ball lore.”

he snorts. “never say that again.”

“no promises.”

and then you’re walking beside him through the crowd, still rambling, still glowing, and he can’t help it—his hand reaches up, gentle and automatic, to push your glasses up your nose where they’ve slid halfway down again.

you blink, startled.

then beam at him.

and he reaches up again—this time to ruffle your hair, fingers combing through the mess like it’s something he’s allowed to touch.

you lean into it without thinking.

and somewhere in the blur of noise and sweat and laughter, he realizes:

you’re his favorite win tonight.

—

his dorm isn’t as much of a mess as you expected.

a little cluttered, yeah—hoodies draped over his desk chair, empty water bottles on the windowsill, a pair of sneakers half-kicked under the bed—but it smells clean. woodsy. like laundry detergent and something sharp underneath that’s just him.

you step inside, slow and curious, still holding the bag of vending machine snacks he insisted you didn’t need to bring.

“so this is the lair of the basketball menace,” you hum, peeking at his bookshelf. “i expected more… chaos. broken trophies. claw marks on the wall.”

he snorts, toeing the door shut behind you. “those are in my evil backup dorm.”

“ah. the one in hell.”

he chuckles, shaking his head, and crosses the room to yank a hoodie off his desk chair and toss it onto his bed. you settle into the chair without waiting for permission, crossing your legs and tearing open a packet of sour candy.

he raises an eyebrow. “that’s my chair.”

you grin. “i’m your guest. this is diplomacy.”

he doesn’t argue—just walks over and sits on the bed instead, close enough that your knees brush against his when he leans forward to grab a bottle of water.

“so,” you say, mouth full of sugar, “tell me the basketball secrets. what was that thing where you jumped like a frog and then spun like a gremlin and then landed like a swan?”

he stares at you.

“…a layup.”

“bless you.”

he huffs a laugh, dropping his head into his hands for a second like he needs to gather strength. “okay. alright. lesson one: do not describe sports like they’re cryptid mating rituals.”

“but that’s my only frame of reference.”

he throws a piece of candy at you. you catch it in your mouth with a triumphant squeak.

“focus,” he says, pointing a finger at you. “basketball. it’s about coordination. spacing. control. and momentum. you don’t just run around like an idiot trying to get the ball in.”

you tilt your head. “so it’s like murder chess. but fast.”

“jesus christ.”

“you’re doing great.”

he glares. but it’s a soft glare, the kind he aims at you more often now. like he’s not really mad. like he doesn’t know how to be.

he shifts on the bed, legs stretching out a little, one knee knocking gently against yours again.

you don’t move away.

“okay,” he says, quieter this time. “you saw when i blocked that guy at the end, right? that’s called a charge. you plant your feet, and if they run into you, it’s a foul on them.”

“ohh,” you nod, thoughtful. “so you baited him.”

“kind of.”

“like psychological warfare.”

he sighs. “sure.”

“can you teach me that?”

he looks up. “what?”

“the foot thing. the standing-your-ground move.” you gesture vaguely with your half-empty candy bag. “i’d like to charge people in my life. for crimes.”

“you’d fall over.”

“not if you believe in me.”

he laughs again—more like a puff of breath this time, shaking his head like he’s trying to hide how fond it sounds.

“i’ll teach you,” he mutters.

you beam.

for a moment, the room goes quiet—soft and buzzing and still. the lights are dim. the windows cracked open. your socked foot nudges against his again, deliberate this time, and he doesn’t pull away.

he watches you—really watches you. the way your glasses have slid halfway down your nose again. the way your hoodie sleeves have swallowed your hands. the way your smile hasn’t left since the moment you walked in.

“you’re happy,” he says quietly.

you blink. glance up at him. “of course i’m happy.”

“…why?”

you look at him like it’s obvious.

“because you invited me.”

he opens his mouth. closes it.

because he’s not used to that answer.

not used to people being happy just to be where he is. not without expecting something back. not without reading into it. not without laughing or pushing or prying.

you twist around in the chair a little, knee brushing his again, closer this time. “also, i got to yell about your legs in public, so. that was cathartic.”

he groans.

you laugh.

and then—softly, almost like you don’t realize you’re doing it—you reach forward. one hand, hesitant, rising to brush at his forehead, where it’s still a little damp with cool sweat. your fingers graze his temple.

“you’re sweaty,” you murmur, nose wrinkling.

he raises an eyebrow. “you ran to me.”

“yeah, because you were dazzling. like a sports anime protagonist.”

he laughs, quiet and helpless.

and then he reaches out, just as softly, and pushes your glasses up again where they’ve started to slip.

your breath catches.

and his hand lingers—just for a second—his thumb brushing the curve of your cheek.

then he pulls away.

you don’t say anything.

you just smile again—smaller this time, softer. and then you fold yourself into the chair, arms wrapped around your knees, and mumble, “i like it here.”

he leans back on his palms, still watching you. cute, his mind screams, as you spin around like a little kid.

—

it starts normal.

as normal as anything gets with you, anyway.

you’re flopped sideways on his bed like you live there, half under his blanket even though you insisted you weren’t cold. the game’s playing on his laptop, volume low, light flickering against the walls. he’s sitting beside you, legs on the floor, back to the edge of the mattress, trying to explain what a pick and roll is without dying of secondhand embarrassment.

you are, predictably, not paying attention.

“what if,” you murmur, chewing on a piece of candy you found in your pocket, “instead of doing basketball, they just kissed in the middle of the court?”

he doesn’t turn around. “they’d get fouled.”

“for passion?”

“for being weird.”

“bold of you to assume that wouldn’t raise morale.”

he sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face.

and then your fingers find his hair.

slow. absent. like you didn’t mean to. like your hand just drifted down from the blanket and landed there, right against the back of his head, where his hair’s still a little messy from earlier.

you comb your fingers through it once. twice.

and then you go still.

he does, too.

his mouth goes dry. his heartbeat spikes.

you’ve touched him before—high fives, shoulder bumps, the flower behind the ear thing, even his hair a bit ago—but this is different. slower. deliberate. intimate.

and worse—you don’t move.

“you okay?” he says, voice too low, too tight.

“…mhm.”

he swears he can hear your smile.

and then, as if that wasn’t enough, you shift. twist around. and lean into him from behind—your chin resting right at the curve of his shoulder, your weight warm against his back, like you’ve done this a hundred times before.

he straightens like he’s been electrocuted.

you don’t even flinch. just murmur, “comfy,” like that explains it.

his whole body’s locked up. tense. pulsing. his brain’s screaming at him to move, to shake you off, to tell you you’re invading his space and messing with his head and ruining him—but—

but you’re so soft.

and warm.

and he can feel your breath against his neck, feel the weight of you slouched against his back like you trust him enough to fall asleep there.

his hands curl into fists.

“…this is illegal,” he mutters.

“mm?” your voice is all syrup.

“this is a crime.”

you hum, noncommittal. “you’re warm.”

he covers his face with both hands. “you’re going to kill me.”

you don’t answer.

and when he turns, just slightly, he realizes—

you’re already asleep.

your face tucked into the crook of his shoulder. your glasses slipping crookedly down your nose. your breathing slow and steady and peaceful, like you didn’t just turn his entire bloodstream into static and curl up on him like a goddamn cat.

he exhales, long and quiet.

his hands hover awkwardly in the air for a second—unsure, unsteady—and then he reaches up and gently adjusts your glasses, sliding them off and placing them on the nightstand with shaking fingers.

then, hesitantly, he leans back into the bed. just a little. just enough so you’re not tilted.

just enough that you stay.

and he stares at the screen, watching the players run back and forth, hearing the echo of your earlier nonsense—

they should kiss for morale.

—and he lets out a breathless, silent laugh.

then slowly, very carefully, he lets his head tilt back against yours.

—

you wake up before he does.

not on purpose.

you’re just used to strange hours and uneven sleep, and the light coming in through his blinds is warm and gold and soft on your face. you shift a little, nose scrunching, and when you register the steady, heavy rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, you freeze.

oh.

you’re still curled up on him.

very much wrapped around him.

very much drooling on the shoulder of his hoodie.

you lift your head slowly, blinking blearily. his arms are crossed over his chest, his jaw tilted slightly to the side, his brows a little furrowed even in sleep. like he’s suspicious in his dreams. his hair’s messy again, spiked worse than yesterday, one piece sticking up at an impossible angle.

he looks unfairly good.

annoying.

you shift again, trying not to wake him, and nearly fall backwards off the bed.

his hand shoots out, grabs your wrist without opening his eyes.

“don’t,” he mumbles.

you blink.

“…don’t what?”

“fall off and die. s’too early.”

your mouth twitches.

“oh? you care?” you whisper dramatically.

he grunts. doesn’t answer.

you scoot closer again, pressing your cheek back to his chest with a little huff. “you’re grumpy in the morning.”

“you never shut up,” he mutters.

“mm, false,” you say cheerfully. “i’m just excited to be alive.”

he groans.

you go quiet for a minute. a soft kind of quiet, like the hush after a snowstorm. the game on the laptop has long since ended. the blanket’s mostly fallen to the floor. everything feels slow and syrupy and safe.

you poke his arm.

he doesn’t react.

you poke it again. harder.

“i know you’re awake,” you sing.

no response.

“sukunaaaaa.”

nothing.

“sukunaaa, do you want to hear about my dream?”

his eyes crack open just enough to glare at you. “if it involves centipedes again, i’m leaving the country.”

you gasp. “how dare— it was butterflies this time, thank you very much. and one of them had your face.”

he blinks at you.

“…what the fuck.”

you grin.

he sighs, long-suffering, but there’s the faintest curl of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. like he’s trying to be annoyed. like he wants to be annoyed. but he can’t, not really. not when you’re looking at him like that. like he hung the sun. like this little morning moment matters.

“…hey,” you murmur, suddenly a little shy. “thanks for letting me stay. i didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”

he stares at you. your sleep-mussed hair. your socked feet dangling over the side of the bed. the sleepy blush on your cheeks.

he reaches out. flicks you lightly between the eyes.

“you’re annoying,” he says. quiet. fond.

you beam. “you love it.”

he doesn’t answer.

he doesn’t have to.

because a second later, you’re back under the blanket again, leaning into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world—and he’s letting you, tucking you there with one arm, no complaints, no snide comments.

just soft breathing. and the sound of your heartbeat. and the golden hush of morning.

[arixella]

How would the monster trio (and Ace) react to reader telling them “hold me beer” as she goes on fight someone or do something?

Yessss this is a good oneee!! <3

Them reacting to you telling them “hold my beer” as you goes on fight 'monster trio + ace

wc: 870 a/n: none one piece masterlist

Monkey D. Luffy

-Luffy would be absolutely thrilled and a little confused, but he’s always up for a challenge. The moment you say, “Hold my beer,” his face lights up with excitement, and he jumps at the chance to hold something for you.

“Hold your beer?” Luffy blinks for a moment, then laughs loudly. “Sure! I’m the best at holding drinks!” He takes the beer from you, but instead of holding it like you expected, he’d immediately start chugging it down, misunderstanding the request entirely. He might even finish it before you’re halfway through your fight.

-As you head off to face your opponent, Luffy’s attention would shift to you in an instant. He’s your biggest cheerleader, so he’d be shouting from the sidelines, encouraging you like you’re the most amazing person in the world. “Go [Y/N]! You can do it!” He’d probably distract the opponent by making loud noises and jumping around to cheer you on.

-If anyone dares to challenge you or tries to hurt you, Luffy would leap into action without a second thought. “You mess with [Y/N], you mess with me!” He’ll throw himself into the fray to make sure you’re safe, even if it means forgetting about the beer completely.

-Once the dust settles, Luffy would return to you with a huge grin, practically bouncing with energy. “I knew you could do it! I’m the best drink holder, right?” He’d give you a thumbs up, still proudly clutching the empty beer can.

Roronora Zoro

-Zoro would act annoyed, but he’d still take the beer without hesitation, just to avoid further argument. “Tch, I’m not your personal drink holder,” he mutters, but when you give him that sharp look, he grabs the beer, grumbling under his breath.

“Fine. I’ll hold your drink. Don’t make a big deal about it,” Zoro would say, still annoyed, but not willing to argue further. He’d stand there, leaning against something, taking a long, lazy look at the fight you’re about to take on.

-Despite his grumbling, Zoro’s focus would shift to you. His arms would cross as he watches with a calm, observant expression. While he’s not one to outwardly cheer or show much emotion, his eyes would follow every move you make, and if anyone were to get in your way, he’d be ready to spring into action without hesitation.

-If things get rough, Zoro would throw the beer aside, unsheathing his sword in one smooth motion, and dive into the fray. “Told you not to get into trouble,” he’d grumble, but there’s no doubt that his actions show how much he cares. He’s there when it matters.

-Afterward, Zoro would hand the beer back with little fanfare, though there’s a hint of something almost tender in his eyes. “Don’t make me do that again. You better not get hurt next time.”

Sanji

-Sanji would be absolutely charmed by your request, treating the beer as if it’s the most precious thing in the world. “Anything for you, beautiful [Y/N],” he’d say with a dramatic flourish, as if he’s being asked to hold a rare gem. “I’ll guard this beer like it’s my life!”

-While you head off to fight, Sanji would watch you with a look of admiration in his eyes, practically swooning. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ve got your drink, and I’ve got your back!” He’d keep his focus on the beer, but he’d also be checking in on you from time to time, making sure you’re doing okay.

-If the fight turns dangerous or looks like it might go south, Sanji would jump in immediately, tossing the beer aside with no care for it. “I can’t let you fight alone, my love!” He’d be there, protecting you and finishing off your opponent with a blend of flashy moves and smooth remarks.

-After the fight, Sanji would rush over, eager to check on you, offering the beer back with a gentle smile. “You were incredible, my darling. Let me treat you to something better than this beer—how about some food and a real drink?” His concern for you would be apparent, and he’d make sure you’re well taken care of.

Portgas D. Ace

-Ace would laugh and enjoy the moment, though he’d play along with a playful wink. “Hold your beer? Sure thing, [Y/N]. I’m your guy,” he’d say with a grin, clearly finding the situation amusing.

-As you go off to fight, Ace would keep an eye on you from the sidelines, supporting you with shouts of encouragement. “You’ve got this, [Y/N]! Don’t let them push you around!” He’d make sure the beer stays in one piece, but his real focus would be on making sure you’re handling the situation.

-If you end up needing help, Ace would jump in with his usual confidence, tossing the beer aside as he steps forward to deal with the problem. “Looks like you need a little backup, huh?” He’d tease you but be ready to back you up in a flash.

-Once you’re victorious, Ace would return the beer with a wink. “No problem at all! Your drink’s safe and sound.” He’d tease you about how easy it was, but it’s clear he’s just happy to see you succeed. "Next time, just let me know if you need me to hold anything else."

♡♡♡

© 2024 arixella | please do not plagiarize or translate any of my work without my consent.