#i just wanted my two boys in one space :'>

[marauder-misprint]

Hello!! I’m your new follower and honestly your fics are so good 🥺 I love the “these damn stairs” one and I wonder if u could write part 2 because shy reader and gentle super friendly Remus trope is the best heh.

Thank youuu for following ❤︎

Here is part 2 to 'These damn stairs' and there will be a part 3 because I can't just let it end here :) Might be a few days before I'm able to post part 3 because I got some really good requests in my inbox that I want to get to!

'It's a date'

Remus Lupin x reader

2.2k words

cw: fluff

Talking to Remus still felt like you had the eyes of the school on you. This meant that it was Remus who talked first. You would give him a small smile or a wave when you passed him on your way to a different class, but it was always him who came up to your desk before or after a class you had together. It was him who still came to sit with you at lunch; your friends warmed up to him quickly and proceeded to tease you about him when he was gone. 

You continued to study with him too. He’d wait for you outside the library before walking with you back to the small table from that first study session. With every passing day, you slowly began to be more comfortable in his presence. You were able to hold a conversation with him. It was a slow growing friendship, but it was growing. 

“You’re sure you don’t mind studying with just me?” you had asked once, worrying that he missed all of the attention that he used to get in the library because he was smart and nice. 

He just smiled at you, leaning toward you to say, “I really don’t mind. I’d rather work with you over anyone else.” 

That left you blushing for the rest of your time in the library that evening. Remus always knew what to say to get that blush to reappear. More often than not, you would leave your encounters with Remus with a pink face and racing heart. 

You were thrown off when you showed up to study with Remus on Saturday and he wasn’t waiting for you outside the library. You considered waiting for him to show up but decided to check inside just in case. You found him sitting at a larger table with his friends. There were open chairs on either side of him with the other three boys on the opposite side of the table. The sight sent your mind spinning as you tried to remember the conversation when you discussed studying today. You didn’t recall him mentioning the rest of the Marauders would be there. Plans must’ve changed. 

You headed toward a different table, your usual before you started sitting with Remus. You didn’t want to interrupt their “Marauders Study Session.” 

However, as soon as he saw you, Remus called you over.

“You know James, Peter, Sirius, yeah? Hope you don’t mind they came today. I’m afraid they need the extra push to get stuff done.”

You do mind but god forbid you say something and make a scene. So you nodded and sat down next to Remus. You attempted to keep your things more consolidated than you usually do. You didn’t want to encroach on Peter’s or Sirius’ space. It took you longer to fall into your studying groove with the entirety of the Marauders at the same table as you; you’re positive that anyone and everyone passing by is confused by it. You felt like an outsider intruding on something sacred. It didn’t help that every time you looked up, you swore at least one of them was looking at you or Remus. You’re a bit uncomfortable. It’s not like you’ve ever really talked to any of them. 

“So, erm, how long has this been a thing?” Peter asked after you caught your eye from across the table. 

A thing? What on earth did that boy mean?

“Excuse me?” 

“We’ve been studying together for a little over two weeks,” Remus said, shooting you a quick smile.

Oh That’s all.

Remus’ answer made the question make more sense. You supposed it was a thing that Remus was studying with one person rather than a herd of girls and essentially playing teacher. You berated yourself for thinking that Peter had meant something more. 

“Right, studying,” Sirius said with a smirk. 

Nope. What?

You pursed your lips together and train your eyes on your assignment. That is what you had been doing with Remus. That’s all you’ve been doing.

“Shut it, Padfoot,” Remus warned. 

He glared at his friends. He had warned them ahead of time to be nice to you, to try not to scare you off. He knows you are shy and more reserved. He didn’t want to cancel studying with you so that his nimrod friends didn’t fall behind on their own assignments. But now, he was beginning to regret inviting them. 

Remus reached for a small scrap of parchment and scribbled on it, “Don’t worry about them” before sliding it into your view. You took notice of it and nodded. He lowered his head to get into your view as well. He raised his eyebrows as if asking that you’re okay. You drew a simple smiley face on the parchment. He nodded and returned to his own assignment. With both of your heads bowed in focus, you missed the shared look between the other three boys. You were able to get some work done. The lingering feeling of eyes on you was impossible to shake. You tried to think of a reason why they would be so interested in you, but you kept coming up short. Well, not completely. You had ideas, but each seemed more ridiculous than the last and one was just downright hopeful. 

“Is it true you started talking because you got your foot stuck in that damn step?” James asked as he closed a book he was using for his Herbology assignment.

“Prongs!” Remus hissed as your face turned beet red. 

“Uh, I guess?” you said meekly. 

You tried not to think about that embarrassing day, even if it did lead to your first real interaction with Remus. It wasn’t a moment you wanted to relive. 

“Must’ve been some fall though,” James continued, despite the glared daggers from Remus. “Certainly got our boy’s attention.”

Remus’ face was beginning to turn red as well at this point. He really, really wanted James to stop talking; it was at the point where he was debating Silencio. 

“Oh? What… what do you mean?” you asked, biting the inside of your cheek. 

Sirius snorted a laugh. “Sweetheart, you should hear how much he talks about you.” 

Your eyes went wide. You weren’t sure what you had expected but it wasn’t that. It took a second for the words to fully sink in. Remus talked… about you? Often? With enough frequency that his friends made note of it? Is that why it felt like they kept staring at you? They were just trying to figure out what Remus found so intriguing about you? 

You turned to see Remus holding his head in his hands. You gently placed your hand on his shoulder.

“Remus?” 

A horrible thought crossed your mind: What if this was all just a prank on you and Remus was collateral? What if he didn’t actually talk about you and now he’d have to admit that? 

He ran his hands through his hair before looking at you. His face was bright red, highlighting each scar that ran across his nose and cheeks brilliantly. 

“Can we talk privately? Before I murder these gits?” he asked you in a low voice with pleading eyes. 

“Yeah. Yeah,” you breathed, standing up and waiting to follow Remus through the shelves.

He led you further than you would’ve expected from the table. You assumed that he really didn’t want the boys overhearing whatever you were going to talk about. With each step, you felt your heart rate increase. Maybe he thought you were going to cry at what he was going to say and didn’t want to do that near them. 

“I think we’re far enough. No hearing extension charm they’re capable of reaches this far,” he said, leaning back against the wall with some kind of effortless allure. 

“Are you okay?” you asked. 

You stood a few steps away from him. If something was going to go down, you wanted to have some space between you. 

“Yeah. Yeah, of course. I’m fine,” he said as he watched you with cautious eyes. “Usually their teasing doesn’t get to me this bad.” He let out an awkward chuckle. 

“Are they teasing you about being friends with me?” you asked, your chest filling with dread. 

You wrapped your arms around yourself to brace for the worst. Remus was popular. He was so well-liked. He was so good with people. And you liked to stay out of the spotlight. Some people thought you were a little standoffish, but so be it. You could see where his friends were coming from. 

Suddenly, you felt hands on your shoulders. And you looked up to see Remus’ warm eyes. 

“They are teasing me about being just friends with you,” he said softly. 

You rolled your lips against each other. What did he mean by that? Just friends? 

“Because I do talk about you a lot. I practically only study with you. I go out of my way to cross paths with you so I can see your smile. I hope this doesn’t sound creepy, but I stare at you from across the Great Hall when I don’t sit next to you.” He paused for a moment to see if you had any reaction yet. “And this is going to sound mean, but I’m so glad you fell on those stairs. It brought you into my life.” He waited again. “Please say something, love.” 

“Okay,” you said as your cheeks tinged pink. “So they aren’t making fun of me? This isn’t some kind of prank?” 

“No. It’s not a prank. The only one being made fun of is me because I wanted to wait longer.”

“Wait longer for what?” 

“Listen. I meant it when I said you are pretty. I meant it when I said I don’t want to study with anyone else. I mean it when I say I can’t get you out of my head. I just wanted to wait longer to be sure… sure that you’d say yes. Sure that you like me.” 

You tilted your head.

“Of course I like you, Remus.”

“But as more than friends? Would you be willing to go on a date with me?”

Your breath hitched. Had Remus just said a bunch of sweet things about you? Yes, and it made your face feel hot. But it was the question that really sealed the deal. He wanted to be sure that you’d say yes. 

“I’d really like that.” You broke into a wide smile. “You thought I wouldn’t say yes?” 

Remus let out the breath he was holding and mirrored your smile. He pulled you into a tight hug before answering. 

“I’ve wanted to ask you out since the first time we studied together. I didn’t want to move too fast. I didn’t want you to think I was trying to jump you or something.” 

You laughed into his chest and he slowly let you go. 

“So all of that back there, that was them being tired of listening to you pine?” you asked.

“Seems like it. I told them to be nice to you, but I guess I didn’t tell them to be nice to me.”

“I mean, I’d say it was pretty nice of them to get you a date,” you said teasingly.

“I’m still the one who asked!” he tried to defend himself.

You raised your eyebrows at him.

“Yeah, but would you have asked if they weren’t here?”

“Not today, no. Maybe in another week or so. I told you, I was waiting to be sure.”

“For a smart bloke, you really should’ve known that if you asked me out on the stairs, I would’ve said yes.”

“Wait, what?” He looked down at you in surprise. 

“Merlin, I’ve had a crush on you for a while. It’s part of what made falling into the stair so mortifying.”

“Those damn stairs, right?” he chuckled as you started walking back to the table. Then he cleared his throat. “So, Hogsmeade next weekend?”

“It’s a date.” 

The three boys were working when you returned. When they looked up, they had matching looks of anticipation on their faces. Neither of you said anything as you sat down and started to work. Without speaking, you seemed to agree that you weren’t going to say anything unless they asked. 

“So?” Peter asked. “Did Remus grow a pair?” 

“Always had a pair, Peter,” Remus said dryly. 

���Moony,” he whined before turning his attention to you. “Did he… you know?”

“Well, she might not know. Because if he didn’t, how would she know?” Sirius said. 

You rolled your eyes with a shake of your head. 

“What if he did and she said no? That’d be something,” James mused. “Although I don’t think they’d be so… content? Peaceful? Somber? Pleased-looking?”

“But wouldn’t they both look much happier if he asked and she said yes?” Peter asked.

“Oi! We are right here,” Remus interjected. “I asked. She said yes. You are to stay away from us in Hogsmeade. Now, work. I want to see finished essays.”

“Our boy became a man!” Sirius said, wiping an invisible tear from his eye. “We’re so proud of you.”

“Padfoot. Essay. Now,” Remus commanded before shooting you a wide grin. 

You could tell that he was pretty proud of himself too. 

tags: @allformoony, @oursweetmoony, @moonyswifee

[punkrockmlchael]

How They Are As Boyfriends - Corroded Coffin Version

Masterlist | Corroded Coffin Masterlist

These boys have been on my mind lately so here's how I think they are as boyfriends, all four boys in one spot! Once again thank you to my lovely besties @keeryhours + @the-witty-pen-name for help; I love you both so much, smooches

Modern AU ; Includes: Eddie, Jeff, Gareth and Grant (Freak) - also these are with gender neutral reader!

Warnings: Mentions of Drinking and Smoking (Weed), Some Mentions of Sexual Innuendos but nothing major, this is mostly fluff, though. As I've stated before: These boys deserve more love than they receive and I am here to give it to them and feed you all with the fluff in the process woooo!

Eddie:

(Word Count: 339)

Eddie is very touchy

No, like, so touchy. Touch starved. He always needs to be touching you in some way, shape or form. He has no concept of personal space at all, it's kind of funny

You're literally walking from the front door to his van? He's holding your hand, making sure to give you a nice little squeeze of your hand and a hug before he opens the door for you

He has an entire photo album of you in his camera roll. They include candid pictures he's taken of you, pictures he's taken of you while you're not looking, some, uh, spicy pictures of you

He loves to love you and your body, he'll spend hours kissing you and over your body while cuddling just because he loves you that much

Eddie likes to leave little notes around the house for you to find later. They usually are to tell you how much he loves you and how hot you are. Occasionally though he leaves you notes about how he "forgot" to take the trash out asking if you can

Oh, you and Eddie always get high together and order like two pizzas and breadsticks (the pizza guy knows your names at this point)

And, let's just say all of that food gets eaten each time, also, you also know the pizza guy's name and, Matt is pretty chill. Eddie ha even offered him some weed as a tip once (Matt said yes)

Eddie's kisses have two spectrums: he can be so soft and sweet and lovey and gentle with you but he can also be really passionate and needy when he wants you

Referring back to the first statement, Eddie's love language is physical touch... need I say more? But, he also is a huge gift giver and not necessarily in a "here's this really expensive gift" more of a, "hey I was walking through the park and I saw this rock it was kind of shaped like a heart so I grabbed it for you"

Jeff:

(Word Count: 340)

Jeff is pretty private about his personal life but he loves to show you off

Anytime you go out together for dinner, for drinks, for anything really he is always snapping candid pictures of you for his Social Medias

He'll usually caption it something cheesy and lovey like "dinner with this beauty, love them so much"

Jeff also loves to cook so you when you're not out and about getting dinner, you're usually at home making dinner together. You've told him countless times he needs to make a TikTok account for cooking but, again, he doesn't want to share too much of his personal life

He makes this really good pasta dish that his mom taught him, he made it for you the first time you came over and your swore to yourself that if you didn't marry him, getting that recipe was going to be a must

He is the type of person to tell you that he loves you multiple times a day, sometimes at the weirdest and most random of times. No, like, he'll call to remind you to bring the trash to the road because he forgot and he's ending the call with "thanks, baby, I love you"

He can get kind of handsy from time to time. Usually when kissing, like, there are times when his hands will roam down to your ass just to give it a little squeeze because he loves hearing the noises that'll come out of your mouth

Jeff's kisses are always soft and sweet. Whether it's a quick kiss before starting your day or a kiss to, uh, initiate something, he always makes sure his kisses are so soft and so sweet because he loves you so much

Jeff's love language is quality time. He loves being around you and spending time with you, even when doing different things. He's trying to learn a new riff on the guitar? Cool, you're sitting in bed reading your favorite book while he sits on the edge of it messing with his guitar

Gareth:

(Word Count: 371)

Gareth is an attention whore, point blank period. He loves to be the center of your attention, specifically. Little kisses, littles hugs, hand holding, he is a slut for all of that with you

He also loves to make you laugh and will always crack jokes, even if it's not really the time for a joke

He really loves when you play with his hair, too. If you're sitting on the couch he will come lay his head on your lap and force your hands into his hair, making you comb through the fluffy knots and scratch at his scalp gently until he is purring like a cat and falling asleep in your lap

Gareth will always finish your fries or any part of your meal that you can't, he doesn't even play the boyfriend tax because he knows he'll get some of your food

Gareth can't cook to save his life but somehow he knows how to bake? He claims he used to help his mom bake when he was younger and that's how he learned but you're still suspicious when you come home to freshly baked cookies

He sometimes drums on your ass if you're laying on your stomach in bed or on the couch

He gets kind of upset when you call him Gareth and not baby or babe or, as he says, "super hot and talented drummer who is a sex god"

He tells you he loves you every night before bed and every morning when you wake up

Gareth's kisses are sloppy and needy. And that's not because he's a bad kisser, the opposite, really. He just is always so excited to kiss you that they turn desperate and needy

Gareth's love language is a mixture of physical touch and quality time. He loves spending time together and he understands that sometimes you have separate things to do but he loves knowing you're still there. He's playing Call of Duty? You're laying in his lap playing on your switch making sure your Animal Crossing Villagers are happy. You're in the kitchen making dinner? Yeah, he's behind you with his arms around your waist and his chin on your shoulder. He's kind of clingy as previously stated

Grant (Freak):

(Word Count: 408)

Grant loves to take you out and spoil you. He loves dates and he loves taking you on dates. He even surprises you at least once a month, leaving a note telling you what to wear and when to be ready before he’ll take you to a restaurant you e been eating to try or a restaurant that you’ve been talking about for ages

He also is always thinking of you, not necessarily in a sexual way. No, he just loves making sure you’re happy. When you get coffee together and you’re stuck between two flavors he’ll make you order first so he can get the other one you were thinking of so you can still try it (and if you like his better, he’ll switch coffees with you)

He actually really likes to draw and doodle so from time to time when he’s writing with the boys or chilling while making a dnd campaign he’s usually doodling you little pictures (you keep them all, you have a special folder full of his drawings and doodles)

He always makes sure he’s holding your hand in crowds, and he always make sure you’re in front of him in crowds so he doesn’t lose you

He blushes a bright red when you call him babe or baby, which is funny, because he calls you baby more than your actual name

Grant always has the best snacks. Like roadtrips with him is the best because he thinks of all the snacks you’d want

He gives the best hugs, honestly, look at him. He just loves to wrap you up in a hug and hold you close to him, especially if he knows you’ve had a bad day. He will hold you so close and not let you go

Grant’s kisses are always so passionate. It could be the quickest kiss in the world or a make out session but it doesn’t matter, either way, he is always making sure there is so much love and passion into each and every kiss he gives you

Grant's love language is words of affirmations. He's never really had many people compliment him in his life so anytime you thank him, or compliment him or even just tell him you love him he turns into a complete stuttering mess. No, really, all you have to say is “awe, baby you look so good in that..” and he’s blushing, stuttering and dragging you to the bedroom

corroded coffin tag list: wanna be added? comment + let me know! @keeryhours ; @the-witty-pen-name ; @pupwrites ; @the-unforgivenn

[julietsf1]

Perfect Fit - Kenan Yıldız x Stylist!Reader

summary: Being Kenan’s stylist was supposed to be about clothes. Not lame excuses to spend time, lingering touches, and the slow realization that you might be in over your head (8.5k words)

content: slow burn, grumpy x sunshine, Stylist!Reader, inspired by the movie two weeks notice

an: guess who got dumped just days before valentines :') we move tho! something not f1 today guys (whaaaat??!!) I am watching a lot of football during break and I adore this guy!! next fics will be F1 again dw! wishing you all an amazing day <3

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

The first time I meet Kenan Yıldız, he is exactly fourteen minutes late and precisely ten times cockier than necessary.

I check my watch as he strolls into the private suite at the Juventus training center, hands in his pockets, grinning like he’s just won the lottery. Which, in fairness, he kind of has—football stardom, magazine covers, and a jawline that probably has its own fan club.

Still, none of that excuses his chronic inability to tell time.

I exhale, tapping my nails against the table as he finally, finally stops in front of me. “You’re late.”

Then, he shrugs. “You’re early.”

I stare at him. “That’s literally not how time works.”

He grins, like he’s enjoying himself far too much already. “It’s how my time works.”

He flops onto the couch. Flops. Like an overgrown puppy who has never had to experience the burden of professionalism.

“You hired me for a reason,” I remind him, keeping my tone even. “Which means you show up on time, listen to my advice, and do not, under any circumstances, make my job harder than it already is.”

Kenan, to absolutely no one’s surprise, looks thoroughly unbothered.

“You say that like I don’t have incredible fashion sense.”

I stare at him. “You showed up wearing Nike slides with socks.”

“They’re comfortable.”

“You are a multi-millionaire professional footballer. You can afford comfortable shoes that do not look like you are a high school boy.”

Kenan grins, stretching out on the couch, taking up an absurd amount of space, and watching me like this is the best entertainment he’s had all week. “Hit me with it, boss.”

Boss. The word drips with teasing.

I inhale deeply. Count to three. Do not strangle the athlete.

Instead, I pull out my laptop and spin it towards him, revealing a carefully curated mood board. “We start here. You have the Ballon d’Or ceremony in two weeks, and I am legally obligated to prevent you from showing up in anything offensive to the general public.”

Kenan leans forward, eyes flicking between the images—navy suits, sleek black tuxedos, a deep burgundy number that would look absurdly good on him if he had an ounce of taste.

Then he leans back, eyebrows raised.

“No way.”

I narrow my eyes. “No way what?”

“No way I’m wearing this.” He points at the burgundy suit, horrified. “Do I look like a retired jazz musician?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “It’s Dolce & Gabbana, Kenan.”

“It’s ridiculous.”

“You wear Juventus kits half the week.”

“That’s different.”

“It’s literally not.”

Kenan grins. “You’re very passionate about this.”

“Yes,” I deadpan. “That’s how jobs work.”

Kenan laughs, full and unbothered. “Alright, alright, keep your cool, boss. Let’s try some things on.”

…

It turns out styling Kenan Yıldız is a full-contact sport. And by that, I mean he is actively working against me.

“Oh, no, absolutely not.” I gesture at him to take the blazer off. “That’s too tight on the shoulders.”

Kenan spreads his arms dramatically. “I feel fine.”

“That’s because you have the self-awareness of a brick.”

He gasps. “Wow.”

“Take it off.”

“You just want to see me shirtless.”

I blink. “Kenan, I have dressed men for a living. If I were that easily impressed, I’d be unemployed.”

He grins, amused, but thankfully, doesn’t push it. Instead, he shrugs out of the blazer.

I am a professional. And, professionally speaking, I do not notice how broad his shoulders actually are. Definitely not. 

Nope.

Instead, I grab the next suit. “Here. Try this one.”

Dark navy, sleek lapels, crisp white shirt. It’s tailored enough to emphasize sharp angles, long lines.

It works.

I tell myself that my job is to make sure my clients look good.

That’s why I’m staring. Obviously.

Kenan catches my expression in the mirror and raises an eyebrow. “That’s a very serious face. What’s the verdict?”

I keep my voice even. “This one’s better.”

“Better?” He turns slightly, inspecting himself. “Or do I look outrageously handsome, and you just don’t want to admit it?”

I give him a look. “I’ll let the press decide.”

Kenan laughs. “Fair enough. You like navy on me though, don’t you? Be honest you were staring quite a bit.”

I blink, caught of guard.

“I was just checking for tailoring issues.” I mumble, feeling a bit embarrassed. 

He just snickers and turns around again, adjusting his jacket in the mirror.  “So, are you this fun with all your clients?”

I glance up. “No. Usually they listen to me.”

He smirks. “And yet you seem to be having such a great time.”

I scoff, shoving fabric swatches into my bag. “Delusional.”

He tilts his head. “No, I’m just observant.”

I refuse to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “Try not to get this suit dirty before the event, yeah?”

“I’ll do my best,” he says solemnly, then grins. “No promises, though.”

…

I am at my desk, minding my own business, deeply focused on fabric selections for the newest Juventus-Loro Piana collaboration. Something elegant. Something refined. Something that perfectly walks the line between classic and modern.

What I am not focused on is preparing for the door to slam open so violently it rattles the frame, as if the person behind it has never once encountered the concept of knocking.

Kenan strides in like he owns the place, Juventus training kit clinging to him, a towel slung casually over his shoulder, water still dripping from his hair in rivulets. He looks like he just stepped out of an expensive body wash commercial, the kind that would sell you on the idea that showering is some profound, life-altering experience.

Except Kenan isn’t selling anything.

He is, however, still wet.

Like, actively damp.

I stare at him for a second too long before recoiling in exaggerated horror. “Did you swim here?”

Kenan stops in his tracks, blinking at me like I’m the one who doesn’t make sense.

“Shower,” he says simply, as though that explains everything.

“Yes, I can see that,” I reply, narrowing my eyes at the small puddle forming beneath his slides.

Kenan just grins, completely unbothered. “Then why’d you ask?”

I exhale sharply, dragging my hand down my face. “Kenan.”

“Yeah?”

“What do you want?”

Instead of answering, he plops into the chair across from me, stretching out like this is his personal lounge. His long legs sprawl out casually, his damp towel draped haphazardly over one arm, and he’s grinning like he’s having the best day of his life.

“Need your opinion,” he says, completely unprompted.

I narrow my eyes suspiciously. “On what?”

Kenan gestures at himself with both hands, like he’s presenting a revolutionary new look. “My outfit.”

I blink.

Slowly.

Kenan, unfazed, leans back in the chair and shrugs. “Thinking of heading out later. Need to know if I should change.”

I stare at him.

I glance at his slides. At the clingy, sweat-soaked training kit. At the water dripping from his hair and pooling on my floor.

Then I stare at him again.

“Kenan,” I say finally, my tone flat.

“Yeah?”

“You are in a training kit.”

“So?”

“So unless your plans involve breaking into a 24-hour gym, yes, you should change.”

Kenan nods slowly, like I’ve just delivered some groundbreaking revelation. “Interesting. Interesting.”

I lean forward, folding my hands on the desk, fixing him with a hard stare. “Kenan?”

“Yeah?”

“Get out.”

Kenan grins, his expression one of pure mischief.

And, predictably, he doesn’t move.

Instead, he leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “You know, you really should work on your people skills. Very unprofessional of you to kick out your favorite client.”

“You’re not my favorite client,” I deadpan.

He gasps, clutching his chest like I’ve mortally wounded him. “Wow. That’s harsh.”

I let out a long, pointed sigh, pushing my chair back and standing up. “Fine. You want help? Here’s my professional advice: go home, shower—again, because apparently one wasn’t enough—and wear literally anything that doesn’t have a Juventus logo on it.”

Kenan hums thoughtfully, as if he’s actually considering it. “What about the slides? Keep them or lose them?”

“Kenan.”

“Yeah?”

“Get. Out.”

He doesn’t.

Of course, he doesn’t.

Instead, he leans back even further, crossing one leg over the other, completely ignoring the fact that he’s dripping water all over my floor.

“You’re fun when you’re mad, you know that?”

I glare at him.

Kenan just laughs, completely unfazed.

And, annoyingly, he still doesn’t leave.

…

It’s late afternoon, and I am in the middle of an important call with a brand executive—the kind of person whose voice alone makes you sit up straighter, whose Italian accent makes everything sound elegant, even words like inventory management—when the door to my office swings open without warning.

I don’t need to look up. I already know.

I take a slow, measured breath. “Kenan, if you interrupt me right now, I swear to god—”

I do, in fact, look up.

And there he is.

Standing in my doorway like he belongs there.

Kenan is dressed in what I can only describe as his most unserious outfit yet—an oversized hoodie, the hood pulled up like he’s in witness protection, sweatpants that are definitely not his size, and a smoothie in hand.

I watch as he makes his way to my couch, sits down, stretches out like he owns the place, and waits.

I press my lips together. I will not engage.

The executive is explaining the finer details of their new suiting collection, using phrases like textural fluidity and contemporary tailoring, and I desperately want to focus.

Kenan, unfortunately, does not care about my professional aspirations.

First, he sighs. Loudly.

I ignore him.

Then, he tilts his head at me, blinking slowly, as if I’m some sort of unusual species he’s studying.

I continue nodding along to my call, even as he leans forward slightly, resting his chin on his fist, elbow perched on the armrest like he’s the star of some old painting.

But when he starts slurping his smoothy—slowly, loudly, dramatically—I finally give in.

I mute my call, turn slightly in my chair, and narrow my eyes at him.

Kenan, completely unbothered, lifts his eyebrows.

I keep my voice even. “Kenan. Why are you here?”

He clears his throat, sitting up slightly. “I have a question.”

I exhale. “A question.”

“Yeah.”

I brace myself. “And what, exactly, could not wait until after I finished a conversation with one of the most prestigious fashion houses in the world?”

Kenan gestures loosely at himself. “Hoodie. Thoughts?”

I blink. “Your thoughts… on your own hoodie?”

Kenan nods. “Yeah. Should I add a jacket?”

I stare at him.

Then, after a long pause, I lean forward slightly, resting my elbows on my desk.

“You interrupted a meeting with Loro Piana.”

Kenan nods. “Correct.”

“To ask me if you should add a jacket.”

Another nod.

I inhale. Exhale.

I fold my hands together and say, very calmly, “Kenan, get out.”

He grins, standing up. “So… no jacket?”

“Switch to jeans, there is a suede bomber on the rack in the corner over there, leave me alone now please.”

Kenan chuckles, strolling out of my office, swiftly grabbing the jacket.

…

I should have known something was up the moment Kenan knocked.

Because Kenan never knocks.

The second I look up from my laptop, the door swings open, and there he is, grinning like a man who has just thought of something ridiculous and is about to make it my problem.

“You busy?”

I don’t even bother looking up from my screen. “Extremely.”

“Perfect,” he says, stepping fully into my office. “Be ready in an hour.”

I pause. That gets my attention.

“For what?” I ask warily.

Kenan leans against my desk, arms crossed in a way that suggests he thinks he looks effortlessly cool when, in reality, he looks like he’s about to present a terrible business proposal.

“Boat day.”

I blink. “Boat day?”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

Kenan tilts his head, like my answer has personally offended him.

“No?”

“That’s correct.”

He exhales dramatically, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Alright, fine. I wasn’t gonna say anything, but I actually need you there.”

I narrow my eyes. “Why?”

Kenan straightens up slightly, looking me dead in the eye. “Fashion crisis.”

I fold my arms. “You’re lying.”

He gestures at himself. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

Kenan sighs. “I just—look, things could go terribly wrong today. What if I make a bad fashion choice? What if my trunks clash with the boat? What if someone wears the same ones as me?”

I raise a skeptical eyebrow. “That’s your concern? Not drowning?”

Kenan waves a hand. “I’m an athlete, I’ll survive.” Then, after a beat, he gives me a winning smile. “Come on, boss. I need you.”

I roll my eyes, already sensing that I am going to lose this battle.

…

It takes me approximately four minutes from the moment I step onto the yacht to realize that Kenan has played me.

This is not, as he vaguely implied, a casual little boat trip.

This is a full-scale Juventus squad takeover.

The kind where music blares so loud you feel it in your chest, where food and drinks are scattered across tables in laughably excessive amounts, and where half the team has already started throwing themselves off the side of the boat like unsupervised toddlers.

I stop at the edge of the deck, blinking at the chaos in front of me, unsure of where to even begin processing this. Then, slowly, I turn to Kenan.

Then back to the scene.

Then back to Kenan.

He grins like he’s just done something spectacularly clever.

“See? Fun.”

I adjust my sunglasses and stare at him. “Why am I here?”

Kenan tilts his head, like he’s genuinely considering the question. “Moral support.”

“Moral support for what, exactly?”

He gestures vaguely to the entire scene, his hand making a lazy arc in the air. “For me.”

I exhale sharply, crossing my arms. “You’re not in distress.”

“I could be,” he counters, deadpan.

“You’re not.”

Kenan doesn’t respond. Instead, he reaches behind his back and pulls out two pairs of swim trunks like he’s unveiling some great treasure. One red. One yellow.

I blink. “What is that?”

“My dilemma.”

I stare at him.

Kenan holds up both options, one in each hand, like he’s presenting me with the most critical decision of his life. “Red or yellow?”

“You dragged me onto a boat so I could pick your swimsuit color?”

Kenan nods solemnly.

I sigh, pressing my fingers to my temples. “Red.”

“Why?”

“Because it’ll make you look more tan.”

He squints slightly, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m messing with him. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Kenan, I’m sure. It’s literally basic color theory. Unless you’d prefer to look pale?”

Kenan hums thoughtfully, flipping the yellow ones over his shoulder like they no longer exist and holding up the red. “You heard her. Red it is.”

I exhale, already exhausted, and mutter under my breath, “This day is going to be a lot.”

I make my first mistake when Kenan pulls his shirt over his head, preparing to jump into the water.

I look.

Not on purpose, obviously. It just… happens.

My gaze moves before I can stop it, taking in the casual ease of his movements, the way the sunlight glints off his skin, the way his back muscles shift with every motion. It’s objectively unfair. And now I am suffering.

I force myself to look at literally anything else—the horizon, the food table, the possibility of throwing myself into the ocean just to escape this sudden, deeply annoying awareness of him.

Kenan, naturally, remains completely oblivious to my internal crisis.

“You coming in?” he calls over his shoulder as he steps toward the edge of the yacht.

“I just got here,” I reply, arms crossed.

“So?”

“So, I’m taking my time.”

Kenan narrows his eyes slightly, like he’s just detected a challenge. I don’t like that look.

“I can teach you how to dive,” he offers, his voice infuriatingly casual.

“I know how to dive,” I shoot back.

He raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Kenan hums, clearly unconvinced. “Let’s see it, then.”

“I don’t perform on command,” I say, my tone firm.

“You’re scared.”

“Oh my god, I am not—”

“Prove it.”

I don’t think. I just move.

Bending my knees, I inhale sharply and push off, cutting cleanly into the water.

I surface just as Kenan jumps in after me, slicing through the water effortlessly.

That’s when I make my second mistake.

I look at him.

Really look.

Sunlight glints off the water as it drips from his hair, slicked back from his face. His jawline is sharp, his grin smug and easy, and there’s something about the way he moves—like he’s completely at home here, like he’s built for this—that makes me forget how to form coherent thoughts.

And then, worse—he looks back.

Bright eyes meet mine, amused and knowing, like he’s caught me staring. Which, to be clear, I was absolutely not doing. At all. Ever.

I clear my throat, shifting slightly, desperate for neutral territory. “You’re showing off,” I accuse, my voice sharper than I intended.

Kenan’s mouth tugs into a half-smirk. “And?”

“And it’s annoying.”

He grins wider, water dripping from his chin. “You sound jealous.”

“I sound rational,” I retort, shoving water in his direction.

Kenan laughs, tilting his head back, and then—without warning—he reaches forward.

His thumb brushes a stray drop of water from my cheek, a quick, thoughtless movement that shouldn’t mean anything.

And yet—it does.

The air shifts, subtle but impossible to ignore.

His fingers hover for just a second too long, his eyes catching mine and holding. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something curious, like he’s just noticed something for the first time.

And for a moment, I can’t breathe.

Then—just as quickly—he pulls back.

The moment disappears.

And we both pretend it didn’t happen.

…

It starts, as all bad ideas do, with Kenan appearing uninvited.

I am seated at my desk, entirely minding my own business, when a shadow falls over my workspace.

Before I can look up, Kenan drops into the chair across from me with the weight of a man who has just made a major decision and is about to make it my problem.

“Help me shop,” he declares, like we were in the middle of a conversation I have no memory of participating in.

I blink. Slowly.

Kenan does not blink back.

I cross my arms. “You? Shopping?”

He spreads his arms. “What, you think I just live off free team merch?”

“Yes,” I say, without hesitation.

Kenan grins. “Okay, fair. But I still need new stuff.”

I narrow my eyes. “New stuff?”

“For events,” he clarifies, shifting comfortably in his seat like he’s already convinced me. “You’re always telling me I should take my styling more seriously, so—” he gestures at himself—“here I am. Taking it seriously.”

I study him carefully, sensing an ulterior motive.

“So let me get this straight,” I say, resting my elbows on the desk. “You want me to drop everything and go shopping with you?”

“Yes.”

“Right now?”

Kenan nods.

I exhale, setting my tablet down slowly, deliberately. “Do you know how many emails I have left to answer today?”

“No,” he says. Then, before I can continue, he leans forward, pressing both hands together in a mock-pleading gesture. “Come on, boss. Think of it as a mission. A challenge. Your most difficult client yet.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That is not the selling point you think it is.”

Kenan tilts his head slightly, like he’s about to switch tactics.

And then, with devastating precision, he delivers the final blow:

“I’ll buy you coffee.”

My resolve shatters instantly.

I exhale. “Fine.”

Kenan lights up immediately. “That’s what I like to hear.”

…

Shopping with Kenan is like shopping with a toddler who has recently discovered his own free will.

At first, it’s fine. Normal. Civilized. He listens to my advice, nods along as I explain the importance of quality tailoring, even picks up a few decent items.

And then.

It starts.

“What about this?” he asks, holding up a horrific orange camoflage tracksuit.

I stare at it. Then at him.

“No.”

Kenan shrugs, completely unbothered. “I like it.”

I exhale slowly. “You are not wearing that in public.”

He grins. “You’re just mad because you know I’d pull it off.”

“You would not.”

“Would too.”

I rub my temples. “Put it back.”

Kenan sighs, begrudgingly returning it to the rack. But exactly two minutes later, he reverts to chaos.

First, a leopard-print jacket.

I shake my head.

Then, a graphic T-shirt that says ‘Big Dog Energy.’

I physically take it out of his hands and put it back myself.

“This is important,” I say, placing two actual, stylish options in his arms. “We need pieces that are versatile, that fit your personal aesthetic while maintaining an effortless, tailored look.”

Kenan blinks. “That’s some José Mourinho level strategizing. All of that for a pair of pants and a shirt?”

“Yes, because I actually know what I’m doing,” I say, nudging him toward the fitting room. “Now go try these on before I start dressing you like an old Italian lady.”

Kenan grins. “That’s a threat?”

“You’re seconds away from pleated skirts.”

He laughs, but goes inside anyway.

…

I believe the mission is complete.

But then—as we leave the last store, arms full of shopping bags, Kenan suddenly groans and rolls his shoulders like he’s just carried the weight of the world on his back.

“Ugh,” he says. “I need a break.”

I sigh. “Kenan, we’ve been shopping for three hours.”

“Exactly,” he says, slinging an arm around my shoulders like this has been an equal burden for both of us. “Which is why we deserve a reward.”

I eye him suspiciously. “What kind of reward?”

Kenan does not answer.

Instead, he steers me toward a side street, moving with the confidence of a man who has already decided my fate.

“Kenan,” I say, realizing too late where we’re headed.

No.

Not a spa.

A very fancy spa.

I stop walking immediately.

Kenan, noticing too late, is forced to halt as well.

I stare at him. “No.”

Kenan grins. “Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Kenan—”

He tilts his head. “You work too much. You stress too much. You never take a break.”

“I just spent the entire afternoon shopping with you,” I argue.

Kenan ignores this. “This is what you need.”

I narrow my eyes. “And your solution is to physically drag me into a spa?”

Kenan does not hesitate. “Yes.”

I exhale. “Why do I feel like you’ve planned this?”

Kenan grins wider. “Because I have.”

And then—before I can protest further—he opens the door and gently shoves me inside.

…

I don't know what kind of witchcraft these spa people are practicing, but I have fully given in to it.

There is something profoundly humiliating about the fact that Kenan Yıldız, of all people, was right.

Because I am relaxed.

Painfully, dangerously relaxed.

I sink deeper into the plush, warm surface of the massage table, the scent of lavender and eucalyptus thick in the air, the slow, expert pressure of hands kneading away every last drop of tension from my body.

It is impossibly good.

The kind of indulgence I would normally refuse, the kind of experience I would dismiss as unnecessary.

Except it is so necessary.

It’s so good that I don’t even care that Kenan is lying just inches away, stretched out on his own table, probably smug as hell about the fact that he successfully dragged me here.

I can hear him shift slightly, adjusting his arms at his sides. The sound is quiet, unremarkable.

And then—

The groan.

Deep. Low. Involuntary.

I don’t move, don’t react, but I feel it like a full-body event.

Like an alarm going off in my brain, interrupting my hard-won serenity, making my pulse hitch slightly before I force it back down.

No.

Absolutely not.

I refuse to acknowledge it, to let my mind go anywhere near the path it’s suddenly threatening to take.

I focus instead on the weight of the warm towel on my back, my grocery list, the weather forecast, the to-do list I abandoned the moment Kenan dragged me here.

But then—another groan.

Softer this time, barely more than a sigh, a quiet, unfiltered reaction to the way the masseuse’s hands dig into his shoulders.

My fingers twitch against the plush surface beneath me.

I press my cheek harder into the cushion, jaw tightening, every last bit of professionalism I possess clinging on for dear life.

This is not happening.

I am not hyperaware of him.

I am not wondering what it would sound like if—

No.

I take a slow, measured breath, force my mind onto something else, anything else.

But then—as if on cue, as if this is a test of my sanity—Kenan exhales, his voice slow and drawn out, heavy with satisfaction.

“Oh, yeah,” he murmurs lazily. “This was a great idea.”

I crack one eye open, glancing sideways at him. “You’re not supposed to talk.”

Kenan doesn’t even turn his head, just smirks faintly. “Why not?”

“Because it ruins the experience,” I mutter, shifting slightly, trying to reclaim the blissful silence I had finally achieved.

Kenan hums in agreement, but then, after a beat—

“You’re enjoying it, though.”

I don’t answer.

He turns his head slightly, grinning. “You are.”

“No, I’m not.”

Kenan tilts his head, studying me with too much amusement. “Liar.”

I close my eyes, exhaling slowly.

I am not doing this with him.

Not here.

Not while I am too blissed out to argue properly.

“Kenan.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

He laughs under his breath, but mercifully, he drops it.

And for the next few minutes, there is nothing but silence.

I let myself relax again, let my mind drift, surrendering to the warmth of the table, the slow, steady pressure of the massage, the weightlessness of being taken care of for once.

It is perfect.

Which is why, of course, Kenan has to ruin it.

I am still lingering in my post-massage haze when we are ushered into the next part of our spa treatment.

There is a moment of disorientation as I wrap myself in a ridiculously plush robe, knotting it at the waist, letting the softness of the fabric lull me even deeper into a state of near-delirious comfort.

Kenan, meanwhile, has fully leaned into his new life as a luxury spa enthusiast.

He is walking like a man who has just come into a great inheritance, arms swinging loosely at his sides, his robe slightly untied, his expression one of supreme satisfaction.

He glances at me as we walk down the softly lit hallway.

“You’re glowing,” he says smugly.

“I hate you,” I reply, but it’s missing any real venom.

Kenan smirks. “You love me.”

I scoff, tightening my robe for emphasis.

He bumps his shoulder into mine as we turn the corner. “Admit it,” he presses. “You liked it.”

I lift my chin. “I tolerated it.”

“Mmm.” He tilts his head as if considering. “So if I suggested we make this a weekly thing—”

“I would have you arrested.”

Kenan laughs, clearly pleased with himself.

We round the corner, stepping into the next treatment room, where trays of neatly arranged skincare products are waiting for us.

The spa attendant walks us through the benefits of the clay mask, explaining its detoxifying properties, the natural minerals, the way it will leave our skin glowing.

I nod along, listening attentively, taking this seriously.

Kenan, on the other hand, is poking at the clay like it’s some kind of foreign substance.

He leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “So, are we supposed to eat this, or…?”

I snap my head toward him. “I swear to god.”

Kenan grins, pleased that he has successfully annoyed me.

And then—before I can react—he swipes a streak of clay onto my cheek.

I gasp, scandalized.

“You did not just—”

Kenan leans back, looking entirely too proud of himself.

“Look at that,” he muses. “You’re already looking better.”

I narrow my eyes.

“Kenan.”

“Yes?”

“You have five seconds to run.”

He laughs, but it’s cut short the moment I dip my fingers into the clay and smear a thick, deliberate streak down the bridge of his nose.

He blinks.

I smirk. “Oops.”

And then—it’s war.

Kenan lunges, trying to grab my wrist, but I twist away, swiping another streak across his jaw.

He retaliates immediately, dragging a line of clay across my forehead, laughing as I gasp in horror.

“You’re gonna regret that,” I warn, dipping both hands into the mask.

Kenan dodges backward, but not fast enough.

I manage to smear clay across his entire cheek before he grabs my wrist, successfully pinning my arm down as he smears another layer across my temple.

We are laughing too loudly, bumping into the skincare table, earning scandalized looks from the spa attendants, who are clearly regretting ever letting us in.

By the time we finally call a truce, Kenan has clay all over his jawline, a streak across his eyebrow, and possibly some in his hair.

I am in no better shape.

We catch our breath, grinning like idiots.

Kenan leans back, tilting his head as he studies my face.

“You know,” he says, smirking faintly, “I think this is your best look yet.”

I scoff, wiping some of the mask off my cheek. “You mean, this is your best look yet.”

Kenan shrugs. “Well, yeah. Obviously.”

I laugh, rolling my eyes, and for a moment—just a moment—it’s too easy.

Too comfortable.

Like we aren’t just stylist and client. Like maybe, just maybe, we’re something else.

But then—the spa attendant clears her throat loudly.

Kenan and I snap back to reality.

Right. This was meant to be innocent.

…

I should be curled up under a blanket, wrapped in the soft glow of my laptop screen, watching Hugh Grant fumble his way into Julia Roberts’ heart while I eat my weight in popcorn.

Instead, I am sitting at a table at one of the most prestigious football award shows in the world, fixing Kenan Yıldız’s tie for the third time.

“Seriously?” I mutter, tugging at the silk knot as he sits there grinning, far too amused by my growing frustration. “How do you keep messing this up?”

Kenan shrugs, as casually as if he’s discussing the weather. “Maybe it’s cursed.”

“Or maybe,” I counter, tugging harder than necessary, “you have the attention span of a goldfish.”

“That’s a possibility, too.”

I inhale, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand. Not the fact that his tie is somehow always crooked, not the fact that he smells unfairly nice—woodsy and fresh, like expensive cologne and soap. Not the fact that his tux fits like it was made for him, which, technically, it was.

I tighten the knot, fingers brushing against the cool silk of his collar. Then I step back, ignoring the way his eyes follow me.

“There,” I say, smoothing down the lapels of his jacket. “That should hold.”

Kenan reaches up, tugging at the knot experimentally.

And then—he tilts his head. “It’s a little tight.”

I stare at him. Consider violence.

“Oh my god, Kenan.”

He tries not to laugh. “I think I might be suffocating.”

I exhale through my nose, stepping forward again and loosening it just a fraction. “You are a professional athlete. I think you’ll survive a slightly snug tie.”

“You’re very aggressive about this,” he muses.

“I’m aggressive about my work.”

“Hm.” He smirks. “You sure it’s not just me?”

I pull the tie one last time—just a little too tight for good measure.

Kenan coughs. “Okay. Point taken.”

I take my seat beside him, crossing my arms. “You never actually explained why you brought me here.”

Kenan leans back, stretching lazily. “Because what if I had a wardrobe malfunction? Imagine the headlines. ‘Rising Juventus Star Exposes Entire Ballon D’Or Ceremony Thanks to Fashion Mishap.’”

I give him a look. “Right, because that’s such a likely scenario.”

“You never know,” he says, completely serious. “Zippers are tricky.”

I stare at him. “Kenan, you’re wearing a bow tie and a tuxedo.”

“Still, anything could happen.”

I sigh, rubbing my temples. “You actually called me here because you thought you’d have a fashion emergency?”

Kenan tilts his head, amused, but not exactly denying it.

I exhale, shaking my head. “I canceled movie night for this.”

Kenan straightens slightly. “Movie night?”

“Yes, Kenan. That thing normal people do when they are not being dragged to last-minute award shows for ‘fashion emergencies.’”

His eyes spark with something I can’t quite place—amusement, maybe curiosity. “What movie?”

I wave him off. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It does, though.” He nudges my foot under the table, and I kick him back. “Tell me.”

I glance at him, half annoyed, half entertained. “Fine. Notting Hill.”

Kenan’s expression shifts, like I’ve just presented him with something fascinating.

“Hugh Grant?” he asks, suppressing a grin.

I sigh. “Yes, Hugh Grant.”

Kenan hums, clearly holding back laughter. “Are you a rom-com girl?”

I cross my arms. “I am a human being with emotions, Kenan. Of course, I watch rom-coms.”

“Didn’t peg you for the ‘charming British man falls in love with beautiful woman’ type.”

“I think you’re forgetting Julia Roberts is the one falling in love with him.”

Kenan nods, pretending to consider this. “So you like the whole reluctant, ‘I shouldn’t like you but I do’ thing?”

I narrow my eyes. “Why are we discussing this?”

He smirks. “Just gathering intel, boss.”

I blink at him. “For what?”

But before he can answer, a reporter materializes at the side of the table, microphone in hand, already launching into questions about Kenan’s season.

Kenan shifts gears effortlessly, offering charming but nonchalant answers, throwing in just enough personality to keep the conversation light. He’s confident, comfortable, every bit the rising star.

And then—the reporter turns to me.

“And you are his date?”

Before I can answer, Kenan speaks first.

“Best company I could ask for,” he says smoothly, flashing an easy smile.

The reporter nods, clearly filing that information away. Then, she tilts her head.

“Well, you two make a lovely couple.”

Silence.

For exactly three seconds.

I glance at Kenan, fully expecting him to jump in—to laugh, to correct her, to make a joke.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he just… smirks. A knowing, slow, absolutely infuriating smirk. 

I blink at him. Excuse me?

The reporter, seemingly satisfied, quickly thanks Kenan before shifting her attention back to the main stage, preparing for the next segment.

Kenan glances at me, clearly entertained.

“What?” he asks innocently.

“You didn’t correct her,” I say, narrowing my eyes.

He shrugs, reaching for his drink. “Didn’t seem important.”

I stare. “Oh, so that’s how we’re playing this?”

Kenan takes a sip, smiling against the rim of his glass.

And I know, with absolute certainty, that I will be thinking about this later.

…

The event wraps up hours later, and the energy that had been buzzing through the ballroom—the flashing cameras, the hum of conversation, the champagne-fueled laughter—fizzles out the second the car door shuts behind us.

It’s just me and Kenan now, wrapped in the quiet hum of the city, the streets blurred by the tinted windows.

He exhales, rolling his shoulders slightly as he settles into the seat beside me. His bow tie is undone, the silk hanging loosely around his neck, and his jacket is draped lazily over one shoulder. The perfectly put-together image from earlier is gone, replaced by something more undone.

I glance at him. “So? First big award show. Thoughts?”

Kenan stretches his legs out slightly, his head tilting against the seat as he flicks his gaze toward the window. “Not bad. Bit long, though.”

I huff a quiet laugh. “Yeah, sorry. No halftime break in real life.”

He turns his head toward me, grinning faintly, his voice lower now, softer. “Yeah, what’s up with that?”

I shake my head, looking away, watching the neon lights streak past outside. The movement of the car feels almost hypnotic, like we’re floating through the city instead of driving through it.

Another beat of silence.

Not an uncomfortable one. Just something quieter.

Kenan shifts beside me, stretching out his legs slightly, adjusting his posture in that effortless, lazy way he always does. And then—his hand settles on my knee.

Not a quick touch. Not accidental.

Just there.

Steady. Warm. Like he isn’t even thinking about it.

Like it’s completely normal.

My breath hitches—just slightly, barely noticeable—but I feel it.

I should move. He should move. One of us should acknowledge it. But neither of us do.

The space between us feels different now. Closer, somehow. Heavier.

The car hums softly beneath us, the muted sound of the tires against pavement filling the space where words should go.

And then, without thinking, I glance at him again.

And find him already looking.

It’s not like before.

Not teasing. Not playful. Something I don’t have the words for.

His gaze lingers, just for a second too long. Not in the usual way—not like when he smirks at me before making some sarcastic remark, not like when he’s enjoying winding me up.

This is different.

I feel it in the way my pulse kicks up, in the way my breath catches just slightly. It’s not dramatic. Not obvious.

But it’s there.

And I don’t know what to do with it.

So, I look away.

…

You’re coming to dinner with me.”

I glance up from where I’m sprawled dramatically across the couch in the fitting room, my limbs heavy with exhaustion after a long day of fighting Kenan’s terrible fashion instincts.

“No, I’m not.”

Kenan doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes, you are.”

I let my head fall back, groaning. “Kenan, I’ve been stuffing you into suits for six hours. I have blisters. My soul has left my body. I am going home.”

Kenan, completely unbothered, grabs my bag and slings it over his shoulder.

“No, you’re coming to dinner,” he corrects, grinning at me like this is already a settled matter. “Because we’ve been locked in here all day, and you need to eat before you start resenting me.”

I lift my head just enough to narrow my eyes at him. “I already resent you.”

Kenan just laughs. “See? I was right.”

I sigh, dragging my hands down my face. “Kenan, I look like I’ve been wrestling with a dozen overpriced jackets all day.”

“So?”

“So, I’m going home.”

“You’re coming to dinner.”

I give him a long, tired stare.

“Kenan—”

“It’s literally just food,” he interrupts, voice easy, persuasive, the way it always is when he knows he’s going to win. “Don’t overthink it.”

I exhale, already feeling myself caving.

It’s just food. It’s just dinner. That’s what I keep telling myself, over and over again, trying to push away the small, creeping realization that it doesn’t really feel like just dinner. I know what just dinner feels like, and this is not it.

We talk the entire time, without effort, without having to think about it, the conversation flowing so naturally that I don’t realize how much time is passing. He makes a comment about something, I fire back, he laughs, I roll my eyes, and somehow, we’re still going, as if we could sit here for hours and not run out of things to say.

And the way he looks at me—really looks at me—makes it even harder to pretend this is nothing. There’s no teasing smirk, no sarcastic remark waiting to be delivered. He just listens, like he actually cares about what I have to say, like he’s interested in the conversation itself, not just waiting for his turn to speak. Every time I laugh, I see it—the way his mouth tugs slightly at the corner, the way his expression softens in this way that makes something in my stomach tighten a little too much.

I tell myself I’m imagining it.

I pretend not to notice.

I am so careful not to acknowledge it.

So careful.

Until—

Kenan shifts, leaning forward slightly, resting his elbow against the table, his movements easy and unhurried. He’s still talking, still completely comfortable, still looking at me in a way that makes my skin feel warmer than it should. His hand moves as if it’s just part of the conversation, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, and suddenly, before I can even process it—his fingers brush against my skin.

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

I still.

It’s nothing. It should be nothing. A casual, thoughtless movement, something people do all the time without thinking. But I feel it anyway. The way his fingertips graze just barely against my skin, the way my breath catches before I can stop it, the way my pulse stumbles slightly out of rhythm.

I don’t move.

And when I finally bring myself to look at him, he’s already watching me.

There’s no teasing smile this time, no expectation that I’ll roll my eyes or tell him to stop being annoying. His gaze lingers, not in the way it usually does when he’s winding me up, but in a way that makes me acutely aware of how close we are, how low the lighting is, how long we’ve been sitting here.

And then, just as casually as anything else, like he’s just stating a fact, he says—

“You look nice tonight.”

I blink.

Kenan doesn’t laugh it off or turn it into a joke. He doesn’t make a stupid comment to lighten the mood.

He just says it.

And suddenly, I feel the shift. The weight of the moment. The way this night has felt different from the start, how I’ve been trying so hard to ignore it, to brush past it, to keep everything as normal as possible.

I clear my throat, shifting slightly in my seat, leaning back just enough to regain whatever little distance is left between us. “That’s suspiciously polite of you.”

Kenan grins, but there’s something different underneath it this time. Softer. Quieter.

“I can be polite,” he says.

I raise an eyebrow. “Since when?”

Kenan laughs, shaking his head, as if this conversation hasn’t just tipped over into something else entirely. “Shut up.”

…

I tell myself I’m imagining it.

That nothing has changed.

That Kenan has always been like this—touchy, flirty, full of too much energy and no sense of personal space.

But lately, it’s harder to believe that.

Because now, when he leans in, he doesn’t just lean in—he gets close.

Close enough that I feel the warmth of him, the barest brush of his breath against my skin when he murmurs something in my ear, his voice lower than necessary.

Close enough that I catch myself not moving away.

Like right now.

I’m adjusting the sleeve of his suit, focused, professional, completely in control, when I feel him shift.

A slow, deliberate movement.

And then—his hand finds my waist.

Not a full touch. Just fingertips grazing over the rim of my blouse, barely there, like he’s testing the waters.

My breath catches, but I don’t react.

I won’t react.

Instead, I clear my throat and step back just slightly, putting enough space between us to make it look intentional.

“Keep your arm straight,” I say, like my voice isn’t thinner than it should be, like I don’t notice the way his fingers hesitate before falling away.

Kenan hums, amused.

“You’re being very serious right now,” he murmurs.

I glance up at him. “Because I am serious. This suit costs more than your car.”

Kenan tilts his head slightly, smirking. “That’s a bold assumption.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Kenan, I know what you drive.”

He grins, unbothered. “Fair enough.”

I turn my attention back to the sleeve, carefully adjusting the buttons at the cuff. But then—he shifts again.

His hand finds my wrist this time.

His thumb, brushing just slightly against my skin. Warm. Steady. Completely unnecessary.

And then—his voice. Low. Playful. Right against my ear.

“I like when you fuss over me like this,” he murmurs.

My stomach tightens.

I exhale sharply, yanking my hand away, because this is ridiculous.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, turning away before I can see his reaction.

Kenan laughs—quiet, smug, entirely too entertained.

It’s not just this moment.

It’s all the moments.

A collection of small, seemingly insignificant things that, when pieced together, paint a picture I refuse to acknowledge.

The way he stands closer than necessary. The way he touches me more now—fingers grazing my wrist when I pass him something, the press of his palm against my back when he moves past me, the way his knee stays against mine when we sit side by side.

It’s slowly driving me crazy.

…

I should have gone home.

We both should have.

It’s late, the Juventus complex is quiet except for the soft hum of the overhead light, casting a warm glow over the table where fabric swatches are still scattered from earlier. We finished hours ago, but neither of us has moved to leave. I tell myself it’s because I’m still organizing things, tidying up, making sure everything is in order, but that’s a lie. I just don’t want to be the first one to go.

Kenan is behind me, leaning against the edge of the table, watching me work like he’s waiting for something. He hasn’t said anything in a while, which is how I know he’s about to start trouble. Kenan is always at his most dangerous when he’s quiet.

Then, right on cue, his voice comes, easy and amused.

“You realize the fabric will still be there in the morning, right?”

I don’t turn around. “You realize you’re still here too, right?”

“That’s different,” he says, like that’s the most obvious thing in the world.

I finally glance at him over my shoulder. “Oh? How exactly?”

He grins. “You’re working. I’m just here for moral support.”

I roll my eyes and turn back to the table, stacking the fabric samples in an even pile. “How noble of you.”

“Right? You should really be thanking me.”

“For what, standing there and doing absolutely nothing?”

“For the company.” His tone is light, teasing, but there’s something else there too, something I don’t want to examine too closely.

I let out an exaggerated sigh. “Kenan, you do realize I spend half my life in fittings with you, right? I get more than enough of your company.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

I pause.

It’s too small a sentence to mean anything.

Except it does.

I shake my head and focus on my work, pretending like he hasn’t just called me out in the most subtle way possible. “Well, someone has to make sure you don’t embarrass yourself in public.”

He hums, stepping closer, just enough that I feel it. “And here I thought it was because you liked dressing me.”

I scoff, ignoring the sudden warmth creeping up my neck. “I dress a lot of people.”

“Yeah, but I’m your favorite.”

The worst part is—he’s not even asking.

He says it like it’s a fact, like it’s already been decided, like he’s just been waiting for me to admit it.

I huff out a laugh, reaching for another swatch, doing everything I can to keep my voice steady. “I promise you, I don’t have favorites.”

Kenan tuts under his breath, stepping even closer, leaning just slightly toward me. “That’s funny, because I’m pretty sure I overheard you telling someone last week that navy brings out my eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve been paying extra attention to me.”

I exhale sharply, shaking my head. “It’s literally my job to pay attention to you.”

“So you admit it.”

I freeze for half a second too long, and that’s all he needs.

Kenan laughs under his breath, like he’s caught me in something.

“That’s not what I meant,” I say quickly, but it’s useless.

He’s already too entertained.

Then, before I can even attempt to redirect the conversation, he moves.

A casual shift, nothing obvious, nothing dramatic, but suddenly his hand is resting lightly on my waist.

It’s not a tight grip, not a bold gesture—just a small, steadying touch, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It’s not.

But I don’t move.

His fingers flex slightly, a slow press of warmth through the fabric of my blouse, and I hate the way my pulse jumps in response.

I force a dry laugh, ignoring the way the air suddenly feels heavier between us. “Don’t.”

Kenan hums thoughtfully. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s weird.”

“I don’t think it’s weird,” he muses, his thumb brushing absently over the fabric. “I think you’re just trying really hard not to like it.”

The absolute audacity.

I let out a sharp breath, pulling back just enough to glare up at him. “I’m not trying anything.”

His mouth tugs into a smirk, slow and knowing. “No?”

Before I can come up with a response, before I can convince myself that I actually have one, he tilts his head slightly, studying me, watching me squirm, knowing exactly what he’s doing.

His eyes flick down to my lips—barely noticeable, but I catch it.

I catch it, and my brain goes completely blank.

And I know.

I know exactly what’s about to happen, I know that I should stop this before it goes any further, before he gets any more of an ego boost than he already has, before I give him one more reason to look at me like he knows something I don’t.

But I don’t stop it.

And maybe—that’s all he was waiting for.

Because then, he kisses me.

It’s not rushed, not hesitant, just easy. Like he knew exactly how this was going to play out before I even figured it out myself. Like he’s been waiting for me to catch up.

And, somehow, before I can even stop to think about it, I’m kissing him back.

His hands move to my jaw, fingers sliding into my hair, firm but not demanding, like he’s daring me to stop him.

But I don’t.

Because I don’t want to.

Because of course this was going to happen.

Because Kenan has been pushing me toward this moment for weeks, maybe longer, and I let him, and now I don’t want to stop.

I don’t even notice that my hands have fisted into his shirt, pulling him in, until I feel him grin against my lips.

He pulls back just slightly, just enough that we’re still close, still breathing the same air, still feeling the warmth of it.

His eyes flick between mine, slow and deliberate, and when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than before, smug but softer.

“Finally.”

I should argue.

But instead, I just kiss him again.

[ilysungho]

uh oh! good boy sungho was caught touching himself in ur room :( how will he be punished ?!?

-🌷

tulip your mind works in such wonderful ways i could kiss it honestly, so lucky to have you as my anon... i've been thinking about this non stop since i got the ask THIS IS AN AMAZING INGREDIENT TO COOK A DISH OUT OF

he'd be so shy !!! seeing your surprised face as you come into your own room. sungho feels like you should get out but he's the one intruding your space in the first place. he thought you'd be out for a while, needing a bit more than just pictures he has saved of you. well, what better time to use his roommate privileges right? it isn't the first time he's come into your room to touch himself while you're out, and it wasn't going to be the last (that was until you caught him red handed). he could never get enough of your scent, the sweet smell of your skin lingering on his clothes whenever you sat next to him as he played fifa in the living room. the very same scent he moaned for when he comes to your room whenever he needs the extra simulation. he knows it's a risky move, but he also knows your schedule, and you let him know if you're going to be out.

well, he's just so shy. his hands would stop midway as he's frozen on your bed, his back against the headboard as he sits seductively with a surprised face. it wouldn't be until you ask him what he's doing that he realizes, immediately getting up to go to his room right away, mumbling quick apologies. you reach your hand out to grab his wrist, pulling him back in with a quiet face. his blush only goes darker as the two of you exchange piercing contact in a couple ways, all before you peck him quickly. sungho would be rattled at this, wondering why you're doing this to him right now. he might be a bit perverted but he fell in love with you over the months of living together, getting to know you so well that he himself doesn't know how he got to this point. and well, he pulls you back in to kiss your lips longingly, hungry with desire yet tender with intentions. one thing leads to another and you both spend the rest of the day in your room, neither wanting to let go of the other.

[earlgreylatte]

Overture

A moment you only recall when it’s too late.

Nolan wonders how he got here, married to Debbie, a father to a toddler, and another one due soon. He tried to rationalize it. That he’s doing this so people like Cecil will trust his intentions, so that it seems like he’s integrating himself like Martian Man, that he’s one of them.

That it’s all for the mission.

But he knows that he’s slowly screwing himself over when you toddle to him, chanting ‘daddy’ over and over. When his wife calls him over to feel his second child kicking, strong and firm. When Art, who is becoming someone he genuinely likes, with his wit and comforting presence, convinces him to ditch the white Viltrumite outfit, for something more ‘iconic’, something heroic. Something that isn’t him.

He enters through the back like he always does, leaving the dark night behind, to enter the well lit and painfully warm home he’s called his own for a couple years now. You, who should be fast asleep, call out to him excitedly, waving around a stuffed dog. He picks you up, his hold delicate in a way he never had to be until he came to this planet.

“A new costume? Looks like Art finally changed your mind,” Debbie, his Debbie, comments from the couch, resting a hand on her stomach. “But, didn’t we agree that a toddler knowing her dad is a superhero isn’t a good idea?”

“I thought she’d be asleep, by now. Especially since you talk about how much a bedtime is needed whenever I let her stay up,” He responds, focused on your babbling; you’re telling him about your day. What can a toddler even do that’s remotely interesting? Yet, he’s enraptured.

“She refused to go to bed until you read her another part of your novels,” his wife smiles warmly, “She’s your number one and only fan, it seems.”

“She’s got taste,” he notes, a fluttering feeling in his chest. “I’ll get her tucked in. Looks like she wants to see how Space Rider’s story ends.”

“Make it kid friendly,” she calls as he ascends up the stairs, “And then come back so I can get a closer look at that new suit of yours.”

“What have you done?” You ask, fifteen years old and trying to wash the grime out of your suit in the bathtub.

Mark grins at you while posing in the mirror, wrapped in duct tape, “I’m going to be a hero like you guys, even if my powers don’t come in!”

“You’re still young, and not every Viltrumite is the same,” you reply, draining the bathtub and wringing out the excess water from your suit. “Don’t be in such a rush. You aren’t even thirteen yet.”

“Easy for you to say,” he retorts, “Besides, duct tape can literally do anything! You guys can beat up the bad guys and I’ll tape them up for the police!”

Inwardly you wince at the idea of him going against the maniacs you face every day. But instead you tilt your head in an act of show.

“You could only be a hero to leaky pipes dressed like that. And, it looks like dad just got home, so if—“

He doesn’t let you finish, instead sprinting downstairs.

You finish cleaning and disinfecting the tub, leaving your suit in your room to dry, heading downstairs only for Mark to rush by you, heading up to the washroom. Hopefully he’s patient enough to let the tape soak enough before ripping it off.

“That boy is never getting his powers, is he?” Is what you’re greeted with when you enter the living room, you quirk a brow at your father while your mom only smiles and hooks her arms around his neck.

“Don’t ask me, you’re the superhero, space alien. But even if he doesn’t, we’ll love just as much.”

“And don’t girls normally mature faster than boys or something? He could just be a late bloomer. I got my powers at thirteen so it could be any day for him now,” you piped up.

“Very true, now you two finish up dinner while I untape the boy,” your mom announces passing by you to join your brother upstairs.

You step to join your father at the counter, but falter when his face contorts with frustration, eyes focused on the stairs. He steps forward with his teeth bared like a dog about to attack, ignoring your presence for a moment.

“Dad?” You cautioned, approaching him slowly.

He steps back, the tension leaving him, looking almost distraught. You place a hand on his arm, and he almost crumples, shame filling his face before he hides it with his hand as you embrace him. Neither of you say anything, as he leans onto you before pulling away, a weight in his eyes and his brow still furrowed.

You two silently finish cooking and setting the table.

And when a tape free Mark runs down the stairs with an exclamation of hunger, your mom following behind him, the interaction goes forgotten.

Yes, the moments here are the ones from Eve’s special episode! Wanted to explore Nolan a bit more and his perspective!

Season 3 was so good that I had to make this a series…

Masterlist, Series Masterlist

[kayawolfhorse]

The sun sets molten across the server, brushing the horizon in strokes of fiery reds and sickly, lurid golds. Rivulets of light drip sluggishly between the boughs of the dark oaks around Grian and glint against the diamond blade held loose at his side—a mere precaution, in this space between one held breath and the next. The night is young enough to have not yet spawned its monsters, and evenings are an agreed-upon respite this early in the game.

Grian flexes his hand around the sword as he walks. As newly-crafted as it is, the leather grip is still stiff, and it cuts a hard crease into where his time ticks away between the green lines of his palm. The heart and the life lines, he vaguely recalls, working in tandem to cease the pulse at his wrist. Who had told him that? It doesn’t matter.

The din of the day has faded into a buzzing hum that reverberates across Grian’s nerves. His shoulders feel pinched within the confines of the jacket Joel had wrangled him into. The grass doesn’t sound quite right beneath his soles. There is a sense of wrongness that clings to the back of his neck.

“Fancy seeing you here!”

His blade is at Scar’s throat before Grian can register the movement. “Scar!” He lowers his arm and glares. He does not put the sword away. “You can’t do that to a man.”

Scar’s grin is far too crooked to be anything close to the sheepishness he tries to sell it as. “Sorry, sorry,” he says, meaning approximately none of it. “Beautiful day we’re having, isn’t it? Would you just feel that breeze! The air is ripe with opportunity, don’t you think?”

“Uh huh,” Grian says drily. “Were you following me?”

“It’s all coincidences, Grian, all coincidence,” Scar says with a wink. His tinted glasses are perched rather precariously on his face. Behind them, in such low light, his eyes look odd. “I just happened to be in the area! That sword is completely unnecessary, by the way.”

“Do you want something? Is that what this is?”

“Can’t a guy just visit with his favorite bread bridge boy?”

“Bad Boy,” Grian corrects, and immediately wonders why he bothers. “And anyway, I’m hardly on favorite grounds.”

“Oh, nonsense.” Scar waves him away, and his striped shirt—predominantly buttoned for once—ripples with it. “Joel’s definitely crossed off the potential list, we can rule him out. Jimmy and you are about even on the mischief meter, but between you and me, you wear those sunglasses better.”

Grian wrinkles his nose. “They weren’t my idea.”

“And yet here you are, wearing sunglasses after the sun’s gone down.”

“On my head.” Grian gestures at where they’re propped in his hair to emphasize his point. “You’re over here actually wearing yours. Why are they blue, anyway? That’s got to make the world look weird.”

“Oh, they do,” Scar agrees. He slides off his glasses and takes a moment to consider them before, without warning, turning them around and sticking them on Grian’s face.

Grian’s sputtering protest dies in his throat as Scar adjusts where the glasses lay behind his left ear, brushing the shell of it in the process. Scar’s skin is rough with callouses and his touch is gentle. Grian is suddenly, inexplicably warm.

Once satisfied with his work, Scar takes a step back and tilts his head. The blue tint of the glasses does color the world strangely, but every observation of it is taken from Grian’s peripheral; his field of vision seems to have narrowed to encompass Scar alone. Like this, his eyes appear sea-green, and it’s nicer than the near-fluorescent shade his current life gives him, but Grian can’t help but think of kinder worlds and the lovely, lively emerald they bring with them.

“Well?” Scar prompts.

After Grian’s remembered how to breathe, he huffs at Scar. “Now I’m wearing two pairs of stupid glasses—hey!”

Scar steals Grian’s sunglasses and slides them into his own hair, and it’s stupid, really, how well he pulls them off. He strikes a pose and asks, “How do I look?”

“Like an idiot,” Grian deadpans, but the quirk of his lip betrays the straight face he’s trying to keep. This is the problem with Scar: no matter what may lie between them, regardless of the sides they stand on, it never takes Scar long to slip between the barbs of Grian’s scowl and soften the points into a smile.

Scar is entirely too aware of such an issue for Grian’s personal liking, if how his eyes crinkle at the corners is anything to go by. “A matching pair we make, then!”

“Hey, now, don’t go lumping me into this.” Grian’s sure the blue glasses look silly on him without the context of the rest of Scar’s get-up.

From a nearby tree, a spider leaps towards them with its mandibles splayed. Grian strikes it down in two hits; after it disappears, he turns to raise an eyebrow at Scar.

“Maybe the sword had some use,” Scar concedes, “but not against me!”

“We’re both green; I wouldn’t have killed you anyway,” Grian remarks.

“Of course, of course, that comes later.” Scar is easily wry and comfortably teasing.

“Of course.” Grian smirks. The night is dark. The faint, flickering light of a nearby torch illuminates Scar’s lingering smile—a small, private thing, accompanied by a slight pitch in his brow. Grian’s voice comes out lower than he means it to as he says, “Best be getting back, yeah? You wouldn’t want to lose time to some old skeleton.”

“Bedtime waits for no man.” Scar nods. “Especially if you’re teamed with Bdubs.”

Grian laughs. His fingers twitch at his side for something he can’t name but feels twisting in his chest. “Goodnight, Scar.”

“Goodnight, Grian!” With one last flash of his teeth, Scar’s unprotected back recedes further into the forest as he heads for the Clockers’ base. A beat passes, then another, as Grian’s feet remain rooted in place.

Nearby rattling shakes him of his stupor. Sighing, Grian passes a hand over his face as he starts in the direction of the bridge. Belatedly, he realizes he’s still wearing Scar’s glasses.

He folds them carefully into his pocket before he reaches the Bread Bridge. The world’s strangeness no longer has the justification of a filtered view. The stars don’t look quite right above him.

Before beginning the climb to the half-burnt mansion’s roof, Grian lightly touches the glasses’ translucent rim. He does not think about too-green eyes and too-indulgent smiles. He does not think about blood that always stains the same.

He’ll give the glasses back tomorrow.

[bakuchrome]

"Bad Timing"

SYPNOSIS: Toga's revenge at the worst time in the world

Katsuki Bakugou × reader

Master List

Your breath came in ragged gasps, the pain in your chest overwhelming as you slowly backed up until your back hit the unforgiving wall behind you. The impact jolted through your body, amplifying the ache radiating from your wounds. A metallic taste filled your mouth, and you coughed, splattering a bit of blood onto the ground. As your vision swam and your heart raced, you finally looked up to see your attacker looming over you, a cold smile twisting her features.

"Toga?" you croaked out, the words barely audible, yet heavy with disbelief and accusation. "What the hell are you doing here?" The question lingered in the air, more of a rhetorical query than a true inquiry; deep down, you already knew the answer, and it made your stomach churn.

"I swore to you and your little friends that I’d come back for revenge," Toga declared, her voice laced with an unsettling cheerfulness that contrasted sharply with your grim situation. You wouldn’t dare admit it to a villain like her, but a dark part of you resonated with her resolve. If the roles were reversed, perhaps you would have sought the same kind of retribution.

Her eyes glinted with a twisted intensity as she hovered above you, brandishing the knives that were all too familiar—the same ones that had sliced through your skin before, leaving scars both physical and emotional. "I hate you. I hate you. I hate you!" Toga's voice broke with each repetition, her tears cascading down her cheeks like an uncontrollable waterfall. The sight was both terrifying and strangely heart-wrenching, a reflection of the turmoil roiling within her mind.

"You think people just get away with their crimes?" she continued, her tone shifting from manic glee to a dark, terrifying earnestness. She brandished the knife again, pointing it threateningly towards you as if it were a divine instrument of judgment. "People are supposed to get punished!"

Her words surprised you, and you found yourself stuttering for a moment before managing to respond. "You think we weren't punished?" Your voice was shaky, filled with pain and defiance. You could feel her gaze piercing into you, as if she were searching for some profound answer within your weary soul. “I’m always in that house. I’m always in that room.”

The memories flooded your mind—lost nights drenched in the sweat of regret and guilt, tainted by the consequences of choices you had made. In that small, dimly lit space, Just like Toga, you felt the weight of that darkness, but unlike her, you sought redemption rather than revenge.

But as you lay there against the wall, heart pounding and blood trickling from your wounds, you wondered if any of it mattered anymore.

Ironically, the sound of you comedic ringtone filled the room. You both looked around, you then weekly crawled across the floor until you reached you bag on the edge of the bed. You dug through your brown bag, grabbing your phone.

Looking at the screen to see Kastuki was calling you, you felt a faint smile make its way onto your face. No matter the situation, you always answer. Just as you did now, putting the phone up to your ear.

You stayed silent waiting for him to speak.

'Y/n, don't talk until I'm done speaking, ok. Just listen, I wont repeat myself." Stupidly, you nodded as if he could see you.

'I fucking like you, like I'm all sweet on you cause I want to be with you in a way I've never been with anyone before. So tomorrow, if you agree that is- I'll pick you up and I'll take you over to my house. I'll cook for you." He finished. Nothing but out breathing on the line.

The large amounts od blood loss had got to you, you could feel your head spinning.

'You can speak now.' He said. You could tell it had taken him a lot of courage. Everything about him made you feel like a teenager. Not long after the two of you met in high school, you felt something for the boy. Something more than you should have, It mage you nervous. He made you nervous.

Maybe it was the trauma bond you'd had with him. But you always found yourself and your thoughts wondering back to him.

You felt heat rise to your face, you were blushing. "Now you tell me." You luagh to yourself.

'Yeah, well I thought why the hell not. Wanted to since our first year, im tired of waiting.'

"Katsuki, I really like you."

"Me too."

[fascinationstreetmp3]

What if...what if past dm didn't happen. How do you see it playing out? And actually give your two cents about danlou too plz. Cause sometimes I think he is the devil ( angel) to Daniel's minion. Idk if that makes sense?

admittedly it sometimes is difficult for me to shut off my "past dm definitely happened" thinking because im just so certain there are too many hints that it did LOL but...

for armand, there's this boy he wrote off in 1973, who he maybe genuinely couldn't find anything "fascinating" or extraordinary about, who he has perhaps been underestimating this whole time in 2022— i could see him realising that now daniel is truly sharp-minded and ruthless, with none of the attempts to knock him off balance really working, and he's figured out so much in such a short space of time and ultimately gotten the truth (and a little revenge) he was after in the end. there's something very intriguing in that, despite the anger he feels that daniel took everything from him.

maybe turning him could feel like a punishment to armand (even though i think daniel did want to be a vampire by that point, armand might not realise that. and it could also be a form of punishment for louis, taking away daniel's humanity in a perversion of letting him live for louis in 1973), but maybe it's also subconsciously a way of keeping around someone who has figured him out and seen him so quickly, even if that is something he runs from.

for daniel, i think everything that went down in dubai sort of "woke him up." when we first see him, he looks bored, tired, and lonely. he barely talks to his family, only enough for them to know he's sick, and he's teaching internet classes now. the pandemic has kept him away from the world but it also feels like the passion has seeped out of him long before that. at this point he's expecting to die someday soon and leave his daughters some cash. being invited for a second interview with louis doesn't immediately break him out of that mindset; it's invigorated him some by the end of the first season, but once there's an even bigger mystery to crack after armand reveals himself, that's when he really starts enjoying himself.

by the end of season 2, daniel is so far in it he doesn't want it to stop, chasing a high. and for that reason, even if the turning was "spiteful" on armand's part, i think daniel would've wanted to be turned either way. just like daniel in the books, he can't go back to an ordinary life and function normally or sit around waiting to die after being so involved in this world. armand gives it to him in some form— but daniel wants more, he wants answers and a story from armand, he wants to crack the truth about him and figure out "where the bullshit starts." so he chases after him when armand leaves, and it turns into an inverse of their original chase in the books:

the highlighted lines could actually actually work in reverse in this scenario too— daniel wants to know what makes armand so fascinating, wants to know what and who he really is. even down to daniel himself not being able to move about by day now when armand can. and as the chase goes on, they learn more about one another, becoming drawn to each other despite the animosity between them.

as for the second part of your question, do you mean danlou kind of acting as the show's version of devil's minion? or their relationship being more similar to what armand and daniel's is in the books? i see danlou as something unique, and especially if there was any kind of past dm, i don't know that louis would be directly involved— in the sense that i believe he wouldn't be happy to fuck with this kid's life even further than he already did, with the "think of me as god or an angel" speech he gave trying to set daniel free from everything he'd seen and heard from armand. even if louis doesn't really care as much about humanity in general as he sometimes claims, daniel is a symbol of something to louis, proof he can still do good.

whereas with armand, no matter what love was there, dm is ultimately about keeping daniel embroiled in that life. armand shares his blood and lets daniel get addicted to it, and it slowly breaks daniel apart until he's losing his mind.

like you said, louis is more the "angel" where armand's the "devil." in a past dm scenario i actually think it's possible the words louis speaks to daniel in 1973 could be something that helps daniel towards the end of his relationship with armand in the 80s ("if things ever get bad again," "these words will hold you up and carry you; they are your lifeline") and could be what led to him finally breaking free of armand and maybe asking to be "let go" if he really won't ever turn him.

but to me whether past dm happened or not, danlou is about daniel being the first person in a long time to listen to louis both in 1973 and 2022, louis changing and saving daniel's life in a way no one else ever did, and daniel coming back 50 years later and eventually returning the favour. they're both fathers to daughters, they've both repressed themselves in various ways, they've both had their memories messed with by armand.

they're the vampire and the interviewer who kick off the whole story being told, and i think the show portrays that very well, keeping them (and hopefully their relationship) relevant going forward and expanding on their relationship with each other in a way the books never did, and not really borrowing any dynamic from dm or anyone else. armand of course hangs over them both, the same way louis hangs over dm, the same way daniel factors into loumand in 1973 and 2022, and they're all important to each other for different reasons.

[sigmasoyboy]

Hellooo,

Can we have more infos about that "incel" couple please? 🙂‍↕️

The one where you just posted a picture on instagram for smutember ✨️

Thanks a lot 🤝

I've been thinking about these two a bit lately so you can have some of my crazy disjointed thoughts and ideas I might or might not put on paper one day… As always with them [cw: kidnapping, torture, mention of SA, self-harm and suicide, forcefemme, incel shit etc…]:

Sydney only giving Shiloh milk to drink because surely he would believe the common myth that it increases oestrogen AND the superstition/meme you see in manga that it will make your boobs bigger because of course he would… If he's dumb enough he might alternate between cow's milk and soy milk for variety. Shiloh hates it but it actually turns out to be kind of a godsend when Sydney withdraws food as a punishment; that's a lot of yummy nutrients he still gets to have.

Maybe surprisingly, but Sydney really insisting on not having sex (read: penetrative sex) with Shiloh because he wants it to be mutual and special and romantic so so bad, holding hands kissing missionary style. Also him often bringing up how ungrateful Shiloh is because at least he's not raping him (the bar is in fucking hell).

Rewarding Shiloh when he plays his girlfriend role well with comforting junk food, getting that high sugar high salt high fat shit for extra positive association. It feels nice to hug, kiss, cuddle and say corny stupid shit when it's followed by delicious greasy pizza with all the toppings you want or the comforting bite of that bacon cheeseburger with jalapeños and extra burger sauce when you were fed only rice crackers and milk for a while. Even just a fucking pop tart, a handful of cheezies or a funsize chocolate bar for smaller things hitting like a truck.

Shiloh sleeping in a dog crate Syndey got off of craigslist… It being not big enough to stretch his legs or sit up comfortably because it had to fit under Sydney's bed, which he managed because he had a crawlspace under it (a bit like those bookshelf beds I've seen floating around that look like, super hazardous) his uncle built him when he was a preteen, with a little curtain in front of it for ✨extra privacy✨. From cry corner to escape the world to girlfriend bedroom… Even if it's not like sleeping together, Sydney finding great comfort in sleeping above him (Shiloh not so much).

Sydney's attendance at college starting to suffer after he abducts Shiloh because he would rather spend time with him but still having to go avoid too much suspicion so he gags and lock Shiloh into the crate for the whole day. This leading to Shiloh starting to beg Sydney more and more not to go to college because he starts dreading being locked into that small dark space all day, maybe even developing full on claustrophobia after a few months of this shit. Naturally Sydney would delude himself (helped by Shiloh agreeing to anything not to get the crate) into believing it's heartwarming that his girlfriend wants them to spend more time together ♡ why not stay home one more day to play video games and watch anime while cuddling with his girlfriend, yay ♡

Shiloh trying to create an opportunity to escape by asking Sydney to let him sleep in his bed without restraints or the chain and getting false hopes when he agrees only to drug him with so much sleeping meds he's functionally unable to stand up even if he tried…

Sydney spending his big boy allowance to buy cute outfits for Shiloh, shoplifting at hot topic when his uncle starts asking why he needs money for clothes so soon already because women's clothes is surprisingly expensive. Using his own black eyeliner to doll him up and buying cheap flavored sticky gloss at Claire's to cover his chapped lips, all while he has gone unwashed for weeks to keep him grateful when he does allow him to shower, happily scrubbing him of all the grime.

Shiloh managing to choke Sydney and really, really trying to kill him but ultimately failing because he has lost so much muscle mass and strength from lack of exercise and shitty nutrition. Sydney getting out of his reach and instead of getting angry crying his eyes out, nearly more hysteric than Shiloh because he's tried so hard to get him to like him and yet he tried killing him again. Him leaving the basement for what feels like hours only to return with a knife and fresh scars blabbering about how maybe there is no hope and how he's going to kill both of them and Shiloh scrambling to change his mind and try to convince him not to kill him by telling him he does love him and he didn't know what went over him and begging to give them another chance, even resorting to trying to soothe him through sexual attention. Who knows how it does end up for them there, we'll see when I make up my mind（◕ω◕）

[dangerpronebuddie]

128, 74, 68, or 12. For the domestic shenanigans lol 🩷 also you're amazing hiiiiiii

Key, you are amazing hiiiiiii 🥰

I decided on 128 for you dear! (Under the cut bc tumblr hates me today):

“Don't touch me,” Buck hisses, “we're fighting.”

The pout on Eddie's face is almost enough to make Buck cave. Almost. 

“Come on, pleeeeease?”

Buck bites his lip to stop from laughing at Eddie's plea, and keeps chopping carrots for the soup he’s making. “No.”

“Baby, we talked about this,” Eddie persists, like a school kid tugging on his teacher's sleeve. 

“We also talked about the importance of honesty,” Buck points out, his voice hushed despite them being the only ones in the loft. Can’t be too careful though. The firehouse has ears.

Eddie snorts. “Look how well that’s working for us.”

Buck does snicker at that. “It was your decision to wait, my dear.”

“And it was your decision to make it seem like we’re having some big argument to throw Holmes and Watson off the trail, precious,” Eddie counters. 

Footsteps stomp up the stairs. “Speaking of,” Buck whispers. 

Eddie huffs and zips over to the couch, vaulting over it to flop into his seat and pretend to focus on the show that's playing. 

“Okay boys,” Hen says when she and Chim reach the top of the stairs. “What's going on between you two?”

Buck focuses on chopping the rest of his vegetables, letting the knife hit the cutting board with more force than really necessary. “Nothing's going on,” he says stiffly.

“Tell us that again, but this time try and make us believe it?” Chim leans against the counter Buck is working at and snatches a piece of carrot, tossing it into his mouth with a loud crunch. 

Buck plasters on a smile he tries really hard to fake. “There’s nothing going on.”

“Okay, we’re clearly not getting anywhere with you,” Chim huffs with a wave of his hand. He pushes off the counter and Buck half turns to watch the detectives interrogate his best friend. “You, on the other hand, can sometimes be surprisingly informative.”

“Nothing to be informative about,” Eddie says in his best huffy manner. He’s a better actor than Buck gives him credit for. Maybe it’s just that he’s never really been able to lie to Buck. And vice versa, if Buck’s being honest with himself. 

“One of you has got to give us something,” Hen prods. “This petty argument is throwing the whole team’s vibe off, and I refuse to spend another shift watching you two avoid each other when you should be…” She waves a hand.

Buck can’t see Eddie’s face, but he knows there’s a raised eyebrow and that scrunched up, adorably confused pout on his face. “Should be… what?”

“I believe the term is joined at the hip,” Chim declares. “Buck was practically in your lap three days ago, now he sits in the front seat of the engine just to avoid sitting next to you. Why?” he demands. 

“Maybe some of us just decided space would be a good thing,” Eddie snarks. Ooh, that’s a good one. Buck will have to praise him for that later. 

Buck tosses the vegetables he’s chopped into the soup pot and turns to see Hen leaning closer to Eddie, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. She sits upright with a gasp and points at him. “They’re dating!” she declares.

Buck drops his knife on the counter with a clatter. Eddie, remarkably, stays perfectly calm. Chim looks a little lost. “He just said they decided space would-” his face lights up like a damn light bulb- “Ooooooh yeah, they’re dating!” 

“That is decidedly not in the cards for us,” Eddie states, but Buck knows he’s about to fold. 

“Bullshit,” Hen scoffs. 

“And uh… just- just what makes you think something so outrageous?” Buck asks. 

Eddie turns to Buck and mouths outrageous? Buck shrugs helplessly. 

“Even when you two are fighting, the last thing either of you want is space,” Hen states matter-of-factly. “I seem to remember a lovers’ spat in front of the Charmin at-”

“Okay, let’s not go there,” Eddie says, waving her off. He looks at Buck again. “I told you a fight was a bad cover story.”

“Like your idea was any better,” Buck fires back, way too fond to care that they’ve been found out. 

“So you are dating!” Hen jumps up from her seat. “Please state the exact day and time this started.”

“And how it happened,” Chim adds. Buck raises an eyebrow at him. He simply shrugs. “There’s a second bet for that.”

Buck rolls his eyes and joins them at the couches, wrapping his arms around Eddie from behind. He presses a kiss to the top of his head, feeling just as light as when Eddie kissed him the first time. He knows the team is going to be insufferable for a while, collecting bets that may have been placed years ago. He can’t be too upset though. He always hoped he and Eddie were a sure thing, too. 

Send me a number!

[umi-adxhira]

ᝰ.ᐟ SERENITY | 021

FANDOM: TWTPTFLOB

WARNINGS: Um Dion, knocking reader unconscious

AUTHOR'S NOTES: :)

◄ PREVIOUS CHAPTER NEXT CHAPTER ►

It’s been a week since the incident, and now you’re able to walk, although the stitches and bandages wrapped around your body mildly restrict your movements. You make the decision not to leave your room - it’s unsafe to walk around vulnerable when demon children lurk in every shadow. You’ve already lost two maids. Now either Roxana or Griselda brings you food, carefully tasting it beforehand to ensure it isn't poisoned.

Technically, you could walk if you wanted to, but the truth is, standing for too long makes your legs weak. You hate the feeling of helplessness, of fragility, but you know better than to push yourself too soon.

A voice snaps you out of your thoughts.

“Why are you spacing out?” Jeremy, the boy in front of you, tilts his head, curiosity flickering in his sharp eyes. You blink a few times before offering him a small smile.

“Sorry. Just thinking,” you say, brushing off your wandering thoughts.

This time, neither Roxana nor Griselda was available, so Jeremy has taken it upon himself to bring your meal. You watch as he takes a bite of the steak and vegetables first, chewing thoughtfully before nodding.

“It’s fine. Eat up.”

He hands you the plate, and you thank him before picking up your fork. Silence settles between you both as you eat, the clinking of cutlery against porcelain filling the quiet.

After a while, Jeremy speaks. “It’s good that Fontaine died.” Your hand pauses mid-motion. Jeremy doesn’t look at you as he continues, his voice nonchalant, as if discussing the weather. “No one liked him much anyway. But it’s annoying that bastard Dion was the one who killed him.”

You swallow your bite, washing it down with water before responding. “Dion isn’t that bad. He’s been nice to me so far.”

Jeremy scoffs. “He’s annoying. Stubborn, too. Roxana doesn’t like him, so I don’t like him either.”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Do you feel like you have to dislike the same people Roxana does to win her favor? Because if so, you really don’t need to. I’m sure she’d appreciate your true self more than an imitation of her opinions.”

Jeremy’s expression darkens as he turns away with a huff.

“Shut it.”

But you don’t miss the small blush dusting his cheeks. It’s faint, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. Smirking, you reach out and pinch his cheeks.

Jeremy flinches, jerking away from your touch. “Why the hell did you do that?!” he exclaims, standing up abruptly.

You giggle. “Because you were cute. You were blushing while thinking about your sister.”

Jeremy crosses his arms, his expression shifting to something more prideful. “Of course I care about her. I love my sister. She even says I’m her favorite person in all of Agriche.”

You laugh. “That so?”

Jeremy puffs his chest slightly, looking smug. You take another bite of your vegetables, but before you can fully chew, Jeremy suddenly leans forward and bites your cheek.

You jerk back, startled. “What was that for?!”

Jeremy smirks. “You looked like a squirrel while eating.” Laughter bubbles up from your throat, muffled slightly by the food still in your mouth. You shake your head, finishing your meal before reaching out to ruffle his hair. His golden locks become a tousled mess under your fingers. “Hey!” Jeremy whines. “I just had it done!”

You offer a teasing smile.

“I can brush it back for you if you want.”

“No way,” he grumbles, pouting slightly. He lingers for a moment, though, hesitating before he turns back to you. “You know,” he starts, rubbing his arm awkwardly, “you’re not as bad as I thought.”

You blink at him in mild surprise before grinning. “That’s quite the compliment.”

Jeremy clicks his tongue, looking away. “Whatever. Just… don’t die or anything.”

Your smile softens. “I’ll try my best.”

Without another word, he loudly announces, “I’m leaving,” and storms out, slamming the door behind him. You sit there for a moment, staring at the closed door before shaking your head with amusement.

He really is just a kid.

You finish your food in silence, letting your thoughts drift. You think back to Jeremy, the way he acts tough but is still just a 14-year-old boy who loves his sister more than anything.

Just as you let out a soft sigh, the door swings open again. This time, without a knock.

Dion.

The atmosphere shifts instantly. You look up at him, your body unconsciously tensing, knowing what he did to Fontaine. He takes slow steps into your room, closing the door behind him.

“You’re looking better,” he remarks, his tone as unreadable as ever. You keep your expression neutral, offering only a slight nod in response. Dion walks over, his sharp gaze scanning you, as if assessing your condition. Then, with a smirk tugging at his lips, he moves closer - too close. “Did Jeremy bore you?” he asks, tilting his head slightly.

You hesitate, unsure of what he wants to hear. Dion is unpredictable, dangerous in ways that are difficult to define. Your instinct tells you to tread carefully. “No, he was fine,” you say cautiously.

Dion chuckles, his voice low.

“That kid is too soft on you. I wonder how long that will last.” Dion leans down slightly, his eyes glinting with amusement. “You look better when you’re nervous,” he murmurs, his fingers brushing the edge of your jaw before trailing down to your hand.

Your breath catches, heat creeping up your neck. What is he doing?

Slowly, he takes your hand in his, running his thumb over your knuckles in a deceptively gentle motion. His touch is light, teasing, yet there’s an undeniable control behind it.

“You’re still trembling,” he notes, voice barely above a whisper. “How fragile.” You swallow hard, refusing to react, but the way his fingers trace over the back of your hand sends an unfamiliar warmth curling in your stomach. Dion smirks at your silence, then moves, sitting on the edge of your bed. “You should be careful,” he muses, still playing with your hand. “You never know who might take advantage of you.”

His words are laced with amusement, but you sense something darker beneath them. You pull your hand away, but he doesn’t let go immediately - he lingers, just for a second, before releasing you.

Then, before you can react, his hand moves swiftly, pressing against the side of your neck in a precise motion. A sudden wave of dizziness washes over you, and your vision blurs.

What-?

The last thing you see is Dion’s smirk before darkness consumes you.

TAGLIST: @evaxmisu , @00hellohello00, @welpthisisboring, @hsrvl264, @flyingpansaurus

[tex-treasure-chamber]

Gifs belong to ianime0, from their post here

[whenthegoldrays]

and today we observe a phenomenon scientists have dubbed the flan boy effect

[termagax]

re: "good girl" i think they say it once randomly as a joke and its just one of those things that gets him wayyy more than they expected it would. so now its their secret weapon and they use it very sparingly and every single time he gets super embarrassed about it but it works ill tell you what.

[bowlofmie]

My lychee bunny journal cover case came today :D it is exactly as fuzzy as it looks!!

I miss lychee. I made some lychee and mandarin shaved ice a couple years ago for my sister’s birthday and we’ve been talking about how good it was recently; maybe I’ll make some again soon!

I have my new cover next to my current journal for comparison :) they’re both kinbor a6 journals

[nocentis]

Light of the Cove ┆ AU

Name: Jellal Fernandes Age: 29 Home Planet: Evra Status: Intergalactic Fugitive, Vagrant Affiliations: Pyk'ryan Rebel Faction Occupation: Defense Pilot, Supplier Classification: Carbon-based sentient life-form; bipedal, mammalian

Background: The universe at large has been dominated by the Lythrum for thousands of years.

Jellal spent many of his formative years helping to organize and direct his planet's department of defense. When his home was invaded, he helped lead the resistance against the Lythrum army. Unfortunately, the Evran Allied Forces were outnumbered and, subsequently, overpowered. His home was instated under Lythrum rule, and he, among many of his peers, was taken prisoner.

A select few of the Evran people inherited the ability to control the fundamental elements involved in nuclear fusion, such as helium and, eventually, hydrogen. Jellal was one of these generational Evrans, and as such, was the subject of study for a handful of years whilst held in captivity.

The prison ship which held him passed through a highly volatile, atypical magnetic field, which disrupted their technology and caused a shipwide blackout. During this blackout, Jellal managed to escape using an emergency pod and assigned his landing to the nearest heavenly body.

After nearly a week of drifting through the dense vacuum of space, breaking two days' rations into smaller and smaller pieces, his pod finally met the surface of a kingdom-sized asteroid. An ostensibly abandoned Lythrum outpost lay a few miles from where he landed, so he mustered what little of his strength remained, and he suited up for the journey, expecting to scavenge more supplies. When he stumbled through the outpost, he was met with hostility from its occupants — Pyk'ryan Rebel Captain Ynxa and their crew.

Over time, Jellal proved his credibilty to Ynxa and their crew, and joined the Rebellion as an official member. Due to his Evran stature, he became one of their main suppliers, often sneaking into Coves and "borrowing" precious supplies — namely fuel and advanced technologies — from especially heinous fugitives to stoke his rebel faction.

Lythrum: A bipedal mammalian species most often known for their cruel and destructive nature. Most Lythrum have thick skin with short, fine fur in a range of red-yellow hues. Their ears are typically long and pointed, though they come in a range of shapes and sizes. They might be described as fox-like by humans.

Cove: An intergalactic black market typically found on asteroids or small heavenly bodies far outside of claimed star systems. These markets are unregulated and often avoided by Lythrum forces, but they are lawless wastelands wherein there is no true authority and no protection.