#just going for a walk is not going to be an option because I will pass out within five minutes

[yasministration]

in his arms - harry potter

concussions and interruptions au

summary: harry had been right when he told you not to go back home after graduation. but how could you not when your entire history laid there? wc: 4.2k+ cw: descriptions of violence, reader's abusive parents, hurt/comfort

Harry had been right when he told you not to go back.

But there was a side of you itching to. You couldn’t just ditch your entire life. Besides, where else would you go? It wasn’t an option in your mind to stay with the Potters until you found your own place to stay after graduating.

It was something you and Harry had debated the entire train ride from Hogwarts. His parents were expecting you to join them at Godric’s Hollow. But yours were awaiting you on the platform when you stepped off the train, and you knew then, you had to go home. If it wasn’t for the obligation you felt towards your parents, it was because of the pathetic attachment you had to your bedroom.

Eighteen years did that to a girl.

The Potters watched in horror as you stepped towards your parents, face void of any emotions, bowing your head down to them in submission as a greeting. Lily seriously debated walking up to you right then, but she remembered how her own husband had arrested your father mere months ago, and held herself back to avoid causing a scene. Of course, you had been correct in saying that your father would pay off a judge, his sentencing non-existent, criminal record clean. But you were an adult now; they couldn’t force you into a marriage you didn’t want to partake in.

You barely had the chance to step into your bedroom when you returned to the manor. Your bags had clattered on the floor as you fell forward, harshly pushed through the doorway of your parents’ home.

It was then that you knew you’d made a terrible mistake.

The ache in your knees was bruising, pain clambering up your legs as you spun around on the cool floor, just in time to see the dark material of a belt fly towards you. The leather whipped through the air, and you cried as it snapped against your cheek, the skin immediately reddening at the contact. A growl tore through the otherwise silent mansion as your father leaned down, hands forming fists around the fabric of your uniform, straightening up with so much power that your body was forced off the ground, and you scrambled to put your feet on the ground as he tugged you up.

“You think it’s funny telling your boyfriend’s parents what goes on in the privacy of my house!?” Your heart dropped, mouth going dry. He knew. How long had this anger been brewing within him, knowing you were dating his foe’s son? Knowing that Harry was the very reason you’d rebelled against him and his arrangements to make you a Nott?

He shook you, and your cheeks immediately grew wet from the tears rapidly falling from your eyes. A sob broke through your chest, and your father pushed you away, hands releasing their grip on your shirt so you stumbled onto the ground, hands flying out to catch you before the rest of you crashed into the cold marble floor.

“Answer me! You think it’s funny!?”

“No, I don’t!” You sobbed, not daring you look up at him. In that moment, you wondered where your mother was — if she would ever fulfil her role of protecting you. But she was just sat on the couch, arms folded across her chest as she stared at you. Mrs. Potter wouldn’t let this happen, you thought. And then, Mr. Potter would never do something like this.

But your parents would.

And when the assault was finally over, your father’s knuckles bruised and bleeding, – wand now abandoned on the floor after he got bored of using magic against you – he crouched down next to your trembling form, and muttered “Get yourself cleaned up. We’re having dinner with the Notts tonight.” For the first time since you’d stepped foot into the house, you heard your mother’s voice.

“I don’t want to see a single trace of a bruise on your skin by the time you’re ready.”

Thankful for the dismissal, you pushed yourself off the floor, hiccuping loudly as tears ran down your face, water mixing with blood across the surface of your skin. Your arms ached as you hauled your suitcase up the stairs, muscles too weak to lift it off the ground. You father watched you climb up his flight of stairs, admiring the result of his hard work. When you finally reached your bedroom, you slumped down on the floor, letting your repressed sobs turn into a full breakdown.

Your entire body shook as you forced yourself back up on your feet, dragging the chair from the front of your vanity and securing it underneath the handle of your bedroom door. You tested the handle, ensuring it wouldn’t open if someone tried it. Though the room was silent, it rattled with emotions; raw and vulnerable. You forced yourself to calm down as much as you could, sitting on your pillowy bed as you observed your abandoned room. No one had stepped foot here since you'd gone to Hogwarts.

Your eyes trailed across the comfortable surface of your bed, landing on a small, dusty teddy bear. You laughed breathlessly, reaching out for him. Teddy. He was the only thing to ever give you comfort all these years, and now, he would give you the final push to save yourself.

Gripping him tightly, you ran towards the bedroom door, where your suitcase lay, haphazardly thrown there. Your fingers trembled as they curled around its handle, and you shut your eyes, taking deep breaths in an attempt to stabilise your heart rate.

One more push.

The world around you spun as you pictured the Potter household in your mind, the familiar ‘Happy Place’ doormat saturated with colours in your mind as you disappeared from the room around you. You remembered the three handprints on the house’s front door, a big one on each side of a tiny handprint — Harry’s, when he had been a baby. Mr. Potter's hand was painted in red, Mrs. Potter's in yellow, and Harry's tiny hand was orange. He was a result of blatant love.

And suddenly, you were there. Your legs buckled under your weight, the suitcase barely taking the weight of your fall as you clattered onto the floor. You bit your bottom lip as you cried silently, relief flooding your body.

Standing slowly, you brought your hand up, looking at Teddy, squeezed so tightly in your grip that your knuckles had paled. You shook your head, lifting your suitcase up and taking a few steps away from the front door. It was just enough that you could see past the vast gardens behind the Potter’s house. Sighing, you pushed your suitcase over, and slumped down on it in a seated position.

There was no more energy for sentiments.

Tears continued to stream down your cheeks, your entire brain numb. The pain in your body was a mere ache; ever present, but nothing you hadn’t gotten used to in the past couple of hours. You shook — of course you did. You hugged Teddy close to your chest as you stared into the distance, unaware of the effect the trauma had on your body. Cool afternoon winds broke past you; the skirt you wore didn’t help with protecting you from the harsh environment. At least, harsh for someone in your condition.

You didn’t wonder what you would look like to a passerby. A schoolgirl sat on a suitcase, bruises on her legs and blood staining her creased, white button-up shirt. A schoolgirl who looked as though she had run away from home.

Fuck, Harry was right.

Stupid. You’re so stupid, your inner monologue scolded. All of this could have been avoided if you had just gone with him. Now, you would burden him. You would burden his family. His family who had been nothing but kind to you over the past year. His family, who treated you normally despite seeing past your perfectly curated façade.

You were sobbing again, shoulders shuddering with every unsteady sob that jolted your body forward. God, you were so tired. It hadn’t been enough that you’d been beaten until your body hurt from the inside, out. It hadn’t been enough that you had bled through your own clothes. It hadn’t been enough that you apparated halfway across the country until you deemed yourself safe. No, you just had to spend all your energy crying too.

The first call of your name fell on deaf ears.

The second call was louder, more desperate, and was accompanied by hurried footsteps towards you, a hand reaching out to touch you. You caught the movement from the corner of your eye and immediately flinched away, hands coming up to cover your face as a reflex.

Harry stopped in his ground.

His footsteps had been too loud, his hand too quick to move. He had scared you. He didn’t know what to do, watching you tightly shut your eyes, hiding away from the nightmarish imagery of your father’s memory. The involuntary picture of the way a spell had flown towards you, the bright orange colour leaving your father's wand screaming danger. So Harry mumbled your name quietly, and then again, taking careful steps towards you.

The garbage bag he was in charge of bringing outside was left abandoned on his own doorstep as he crouched next to you, easing your hands away from your face. “Sweetheart? Oh, my love.” All noises from you immediately subsided as you courageously glanced upwards, meeting his eyes through a wall of blurry tears. Harry witnessed the moment you recognised him, eyes widening slightly before your body went limp, eyes rolling back as you slumped forward, into his arms.

His heart rate began accelerating, and Harry swallowed thickly, an overwhelming sense of fear overtaking him.

“Mum!” Harry cried urgently, tears in his own eyes as he prayed that the gap in the front door would be enough to alert her. “Mum!” He repeated, voice breaking as he yelled for his mum. He felt his breathing go unsteady, and he barely heard the front door slam open, making way for not one, but two people to break through.

Lily and James Potter had never heard their son scream this way in their life.

“Oh my god.” Lily gasped in horror at the sight of you, going completely still. Thankfully, James was already easing you out of his son’s arms and cradling you close to his chest as he rushed you into the house, carefully placing you on the living room couch. Lily rushed over to her son, crying to himself as he reached for your fallen Teddy, holding it tight to his chest.

“Sweetheart, come on.” Lily urged, not knowing where to turn her focus. She glanced back at her son one last time before running into the house, telling her husband to take care of Harry as she immediately began checking you for injuries. She started with your worst injury: a long gash that ran from your collarbone down to your bicep. It had completely ruined your shirt, and Lily couldn’t imagine how much emotional pain you had been in not to notice it.

James entered the house carrying your suitcase in one hand, and holding Harry close to him with the other. He was holding back his own tears at the question Harry had asked him just thirty seconds ago, but he needed to stay strong for Harry. He needed to stay strong for you.

Dad, is she going to be okay?

James shuddered as he replayed the fear-induced sentence in his mind. He guided Harry to sit down on an armchair across from you in the living room, but Harry only lasted ten seconds before he was standing up and making his way over to you, sitting on the floor next to the couch so he could caress your hair helplessly, putting Teddy on his lap.

His mum was focused on treating your wounds, however big or small they may be. She lathered a soothing balm onto your bruises, and mumbled healing spells to the cut on your cheekbone until it disappeared. When Lily ran out of things to do next, she cupped your cheek with one hand and rubbed gentle circles on your skin with her thumb.

“You’re safe now,” She whispered, and Harry looked up at his mum, noticing the tears in her eyes. “No one’s going to hurt you. Not while I’m here.” And your boyfriend started sobbing just in time for his dad to return to the living room with a freshly brewed potion in one hand, the other carrying a see-through vial. Lily eased herself off the stool to sit next to her son on the floor, engulfing him in a tight hug.

“She’s going to be okay.” She reassured him, but that’s not why he’s crying this time. He’s just grateful that his favourite people in the world love each other, no matter how much you think you’re a burden to his parents. He’ll fix that. But Harry let himself be held, wiping his tears away as his dad took the spot on the empty stool, shuffling closer to you.

James pinched your chin between his index and thumb, dipping your mouth open. He passed the vial to his wife, who unscrewed it for him before returning it, and he tipped it between your parted lips. He held his breath while you swallowed — an automatic response — and he allowed himself to inhale deeply before repeating the movement with the second vial.

The draught of dreamless sleep eradicated any unpleasant thoughts from your mind.

It had you floating in a state of unconsciousness, limbs so heavy, and yet you felt so light. It allowed your body to rest for as long as it needed, shushing your brain from its irrational insecurities, brought on by conscious thought. The world around you moved at a slower pace than usual, and it seemed you weren't the only one who’s gone numb.

Harry barely moved from his spot next to you, the same rotation of worries consuming his cognition. His parents were worried about you, and by extension their son. The longer it took for you to heal, the more Harry would spiral. But they knew you’d be okay. At least, physically.

They kept Sirius away for as long as possible. Neither he or Remus had known what happened, and for as long as possible, James and Lily wanted to keep it that way. So they made excuses to avoid seeing their best friends. Not to keep you safe, but to keep Sirius safe. The trauma he had endured with his family had been so similar to yours, so soul crushing, that no matter how healed he was, doubts were beginning to form. They wanted to avoid the relapse of flashbacks and ptsd he had survived once before.

But the Potters seemed to forget about the rare case between Sirius and Remus. Both had exceptional senses, thanks to their alternate forms. It had only been two days after you’d shown up to the Potters’s doorstep that Sirius and Remus had passed by – only with the best intentions in mind. The couple never knew Lily and James to need so much privacy, so they were prepared to ignore the Potters’s sudden plea for it.

Once at the front door, Remus caught a whiff of something.

He sniffed loudly, trying to wrap his mind around the familiar scent. Sirius looked at his husband with a frown and instantly took his familiar form of a black shepherd. Sirius’s ears perked up, snout moving quickly as he circled the front door. He was instantly alert, barking once before taking his human shape once more. He didn’t communicate to his husband the aroma he had recognised, immediately pulling out his spare key from his pocket and welcoming himself into the Potter household.

For the first time in days, the house stirred for a reason unrelated to you. James Potter froze in the entryway of his own, where he was caught with an array of Potions, but he didn't know how to tell his best friend to respectfully get out. Sirius ignored James’s presence, following the smell of blood into the living room, Remus right on his heels.

The world stopped spinning for a second as Sirius took in your unconscious figure, limp on the couch. His vision went blurry, and for the briefest moment, Sirius saw his face on your body before reality snapped back into place. His hands balled into fists at his side, and his voice almost came out betrayed when he asked in a low whisper “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Lily’s head snapped up at the sound of Sirius’s voice, taking in the scene before her. Sirius brushed off the comforting hand that Remus placed on his shoulder, taking long steps towards you. He knelt in front of you on the couch, and a hand came up to wrap around yours. “This shouldn’t have happened.” He said with a sense of finality, and his godson choked on air guiltily. Harry knew it shouldn’t have happened. And yet he hadn't tried hard enough to make you stay.

The bloodied uniform had been exchanged for a fresh pair of clothes, but a bandage peeked out from underneath your jumper, and Sirius couldn't begin to image what your injuries looked like underneath the layers of protection.

“What happened?”

“I went to take out the trash.” Harry began, his voice croaky. It was the first time he had spoken since asking his dad if you were going to be okay. If you were going to live. He whispered words of comfort to you at night, but nothing above a whisper. “And she was just sitting on her suitcase. Crying. And when she saw me, she just passed out.”

He sniffled, all emotions resurfacing as he coughed, trying not to sob.

The four adults in the room exchanged worried glances, but nothing was said for a long time. The same ritual occurred; Lily reapplying balm onto your bruises and changing your bandages, James feeding you the potions he had finished brewing with the finest ingredients, Harry caressing you, cheek pressed against your shoulder, the fine sliver of contact with you keeping him alive.

Remus made himself useful whilst Sirius just stared at the movement around him. He disappeared into the kitchen, only returning to the living room when dinner was finally ready. The entire family was summoned into the dining room, but wasn't the same as usual. Harry stared at his soup, listening to the quiet clinking of metal spoons against the bowls. He couldn't eat. Even if it was just lentil soup, something he could surely stomach.

No one attempted to make conversation.

At some point, James pulled out a small notebook and crossed something out. A book with the potion doses he’d given you — something to keep track of so he wouldn't go insane.

Then, Remus’s head snapped up. Sirius leaped.

The silverware on the table clattered as he sprinted out the dining room, and everyone was suddenly up.

You were awake.

The draught of dreamless sleep had been heaven compared to this. All your senses came rushing back to you, and you began to push yourself up, moaning when pain shot up your left arm. You shook, falling onto your back. You groaned, fear shooting up your spine when you realised you were not in your bedroom. A sharp gasp left your lips, but before you could panic, someone was shushing you, bringing a soothing hand to to rest atop your head.

“It’s okay, don’t sit up just yet. We’re here.”

We’re here. You twisted your head to the side and tears filled your eyes when you spotted the approaching crowd. Lily crouched down next to Sirius, and you heard her ask something from a distance, but your eyes were glued to Harry, standing a couple of feet away from you, next to his dad and uncle. It hurt when you shuffle onto your side, but you did so anyway, pushing yourself up on your uninjured arm. Sirius scrambled to help you sit up, letting you lean your weight on him so he could push you into a sitting position.

Your head rang as you straightened up, but the guilt you felt was ten times worse. Your voice came out croaky, raw from all the sobbing you did.

“You were right. I’m sorry.”

Harry pushed past your audience to sit next to you on the couch, and he pulled you into a tight hug that had his parents wincing. But you sniffed loudly, hands curling around his jumper and pulling him impossibly closer to you. The pain in your body come from everywhere, but they disappeared for a moment as your boyfriend held you, mumbling into your hair “Don’t you dare apologise. I love you so much. I’m just happy your safe. Thank you for coming here.”

His expression of gratitude sent a pang to your chest, but you pushed it down so you wouldn't get overwhelmed with more emotions, wiping your tears away to say “Wasn’t the graduation gift I was expecting, to be honest.” The comment didn't diffuse the tension in the way you were hoping. If anything, it only concerns everyone more.

“Oh, don’t do that, honey.” Lily pleaded, placing a hand on your knee. You furrowed your eyebrows, feeling scolded as you pulled away from Harry’s chest, bowing your head down. “I’m sorry.” You repeated, voice weak. Lily lifted herself up to sit on your other side, and she caressed you back with soothing circles. “Don’t apologise.” She told you in a whisper, as though sharing a secret with you. “I don’t want you to be angry with me.” You admitted, and it almost sent the mother to tears. Lily took a sharp breath, free hand gripping yours tightly.

“I could never be angry with you.”

“That’s not true. Everyone can be angry with me.”

“Honey, your parents aren’t here.” Your head snapped up to meet the person to whom the voice belonged to. Sirius was still crouched down in front of you, his hair now gathered to the back of his head in a bun. “You don’t have to keep repeating things they’ve told you. No one’s going to be angry with you for it. Lily and James, and Remus and me. We’re not your parents. You’re safe here. Let go of those beliefs they’ve forced into your head.”

It was as though all you needed was permission from Sirius to let go, even though it didn't necessarily bring a positive reaction out of you. You were sobbing, shoulders slumping forwards with every shake of your chest as you mumbled “Okay.”

“Okay?” He repeated, just making sure though he already sounded relieved.

“Okay.”

The tension in the room subsided a bit, and you couldn't help but feel a weight lifted off your chest.

“I’m going to bring you a plate of food.” Announced James, already disappearing from the room. When he came back, it was with a tray. Not only did it have a bowl of soup, but some soft baguette on the side too. In a small plate laid a peeled tangerine, but you weren't sure you could even eat right now. “Thank you, Mr. Potter.” You said, staring blankly at the food. It was as though all eyes were on you, and when you glanced up again, you found yourself shrinking from the attention you were receiving.

“I don’t think I’m really hungry right now.” James picked up a newspaper, sitting on the couch facing you. “Yeah you are, love, you just don’t know it yet. You’ve been living off potions for two days.”

“We can go eat in the dining room, if you want?” Harry asked quietly, and you knew it was more than an offer to sit at a table; it was a chance to get you away from the watchful eyes of his concerned family. Harry took the tray from you and stood up, waiting for you to follow. You winced when you pushed yourself off the couch, and the four adults grimaced as you straightened up. You walked stiffly across the room, following your boyfriend into the dining room. He set the tray down next to his abandoned bowl of soup, watching as you finally reached for the tangerine, ripping it in half.

You offered Harry the first slice, and he gratefully took it from you as a citrusy scent filled the room. He knocked it against your own tangerine slice, whispering “Cheers.” It encouraged you to eat the slice of fruit, eyes trained on your boyfriend, who smiled encouragingly at you while he chewed.

Then, in an almost peaceful unanimity, you both turned to your food. Harry shuffled his chair closer to yours, and finally — knowing that you were okay — he reached for his lunch. Whilst you blew on your soup to ease the steam away, his had long gone cold. But it tasted better with you safe beside him than it ever would in a world where you weren't home: in his arms.

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[beabatoru]

500 days of you ── .✦ spiderman! gojo x reader

pairing . academic rivals spiderman! gojo x reader

summary ⊹ ࣪ ˖ being at the top of your class for the past few years has not been a problem for you at all, that is until he transfers in, stealing away your spot with his genius intellect and annoyingly good 4.5 gpa, better than your 4.0, all while wearing that stupid grin you just want to punch off. what's worse is he also happens to be the cities hero, in who you fall in love with, unknowing to who was under the blue mask.

warning . college au, academic rivals to lovers, eventual smut, gojo is a pervert, panty stealing, dry humping, a bit of angst, hurt/comfort, sexual harassment, toxic relationship with family, unhealthy diet, fluff, set in new york like any other spiderman, female reader, p in v, oral, reader is a virgin, violence, gojo is full of himself, webs used.. inappropriately.

w . c

a . n : this is a reupload from my old blog ! it also means that I will continue this series because I miss spiderman gojo :((

500 days is all you have left until you graduate. according to your calendar that you have self made with several pictures from your childhood up to your teenage years, placed neatly beside your bed so you could cross each day as it passes with your baby pink highlighter, you have exactly two years. today, december 20, marks your first day of long awaited winter break in which you desperately needed after enduring what you believe was the worlds hardest final exam for your humanized and social science class.

your roommate has decided to take this time to go visit her family back at her hometown, to spend a few days with her family wrapped in a comforting warm and cozy atmosphere alongside whatever her family provides. but you chose to stay behind, not that you had anymore exams to finish up or anything, but because going back to see your family, if you could even call them one, wasn't even an option. your relationship with them wasn't abusive or anything, just strained, always putting your brother's needs before yours. that's part of why you picked the farthest college you could away from them, an entire different timezone.

you wouldn't call it running away, because that implies fear, you'd just call it more of a extraction. a nice and peaceful separation. sure, they reach out once in a while, but you always come up with excuses on the spot to end the call early. they barely knew that much about you, hell, they didn't even know which college you were going to even your plan in majoring in physics until a month before you left.

nyu is a beautiful campus, not traditional in any way, it bleeds right into the city. any spot there would be perfect to study, and well you didn't have anything to do for the next two weeks so a little studying before the next semester even starts. so with that you made your way over to your locker which was a brief fifteen minute walk away from your dorm.

you don't mind the walk, no rush, no crowds. the usual buzz of students chirping has died down. its not a eerily type of quiet, its peaceful. the faint sound of your footsteps echoed throughout the almost empty hallway. reaching your neatly decorated locker, you opened it unaware of the person right next to you, the door swung right into them.

"shit-"

your eyes widened as you saw the persons books fall right out their hands.

"oh my god im so sorry! I didn't see you there!" you immediately crouched down to pick of the several textbooks, most of them being physics for semester two. it wouldn't be a surprise if the owner of these books would be in the same class as you. "its alright" the mysterious person chuckled as they took away the books from your hands.

your eyes widened as they landed on them. or him, actually. he had beautiful bright blue eyes that for sure held every secret of the ocean, and snowy white hair that resembled the snow that was falling right outside. you couldn't even get a word out.

"im satoru." he said, waiting for you to give your name to him.

"right.. right. I mean- im y/n." you stumbled across your words. he gave you a crooked smile, almost naturally as he saw you stutter. his hands now itched onto his heavy physics books, tilting his head as he studied you. "you have any idea where mr. thompson's class is?" his smooth voice asked. mr. thompson. thats the name of your physics teacher.

"yeah! yeah he's my physics teacher!" that came out a bit more excited than you intended it to. "yeah? mind being an angel and leading me to it?"

you laughed softly, hoping the light pink tint on your cheeks weren't noticed by him. oh but they were. the awkward tension melted right away. "of course."

he didn't mind the blush, and the way his smile widened told you that he definitely noticed your blushing, but he didn't say anything about it, instead allowing you to show him the way around the campus. he fell into step beside you recalling how you as well had this course. "so.." he broke the silence, "you actually understand physics are you just one of those people who pretend to know what you're doing?"

you shook your head laughing a bit as your gaze fell down to your shoes against the pavement. "no, no I understand. im majoring in it so I kind of have to. but it honestly depends on the day, sometimes I feel like the textbook is gaslighting me" now it was his turn to let out a laugh. and it sounded genuine. "thats great. back at my old uni, people were only there for the credits or whatever. no one was really as passionate as I am." you gaze shifted to him. "oh, which school did you transfer from?"

"colombia university."

"is the lack of people taking physics seriously the reason for your transfer?" you asked half jokingly, but you wouldn't be surprised if that actually was the reason, you knew some people like that.

he sucked in a soft breath, eyes flickering from your figure to look forward. "no I just.. wanted a different environment I guess." there was a bit of hesitation in his voice, but you didn't push it. after all you just met this boy not even five minutes ago. you both finally reached mr. thompson's classroom, his door slightly ajar. "he should be in here.. he always is., im convinced he lives in there"

he hummed looking into the classroom, catching a glimpse of the bald headed man hunched over a stack of papers before looking down at you. "thank you, y/n. I hope we see each other in uh two weeks?" the way he said your name sent your butterflies on a rollercoaster.

"yeah.. yeah I hope so too." you said quietly which earned a sweet smile from him before he walked in to talk about whatever he needed to with the professor. with one final look at the door you turned, only to remember you didn't even grab your books, let alone close your locker which was the whole point you came out of your dorm. you quickly rushed back with the thought of the new student lingering in the back of your mind.

── .✦

in the blink of an eye, the break was over, and the dreadful second semester rolled right around the corner. the traumatizing sound of your alarm that was set at 7 on the dot woke you up for your 9 am physics class, slicing through the silence and especially your slumber.

you groaned, clicking repeatedly at your phone to shut the ear piercing sound off. for a second, you considered skipping. but you knew mr. thompson doesn't play no games, and neither did that syllabus. so you dragged yourself out of your bed, limbs heavy, and mind still foggy as you began to miss the warmth provided by your bed. the sky outside was still that dusty gray, soft flakes falling right out of it.

after making yourself a cup of coffee, you brushed out your hair to be somewhat socially acceptable. you were the top student of the school either way, you had to be presentable at all times. you threw on a jacket and a cute pair of pants before making your way out of your dorm, holding envy for your roommate for not having a morning class.

by the time you reached the lecture hall, well your body because your soul was still trapped in between your blankets, you noticed that you werent there first one there like always. your eyes landed on him.

satoru.

he was seated right there at the front of the class, his posture was excellent, back straight, shoulders relaxed, giving you another reason to like about him. his eyes were trained on his phone, with his earbuds blasting whatever he was listening to in his ears. but they shifted as you walked in, and when your eyes met, a soft smile appeared on his pink tinted lips making your chest feel just a little too full.

maybe the second semester didn't seem so dreadful at all.

"hey.." he took out an earbud out of his ear as you approached, sliding in the seat right next to him. "hi" you replied, placing your bag next to you. "glad we're in this class together. haven't really met anyone else since we talked."

"that so? not even your roommate?" you unconsciously fixed your hair to try and maybe woo him with your beauty. "oh actually i'm living in an apartment" your hand stopped playing with your hair.

"an apartment? in New York? the school is already bleeding us dry.. what are you, rich or something?"

that earned a chuckle from him, a quiet one that made your stomach flip. "yeah.. sure." he had a grin on his face, making you question if it was a joke or not. you both watched as more seats filled up with new and old students. but everyone was eventually startled when mr. thomspon walked in and slammed a textbook onto his desk.

"well I'd like to say im disappointed from last semesters final exam results." he began, a hint of amusement in his voice, "but id be lying."

a beat of silence.

"im proud to say that everyone passed." a relieved sigh escaped almost everyones mouths, echoing across the room. "and of course, ms. l/n, miss goody two shoes," you placed a hand on your chest in mock offense making satoru sniffle a laugh next to you. "you got the highest mark, like every year." he grumbled. "im starting to think you're just here to make everyone else feel bad about their grades."

"only slightly." you muttered under your breath, loud enough for satoru to hear. he turned a bit towards you. "lets see how long you stay up there, miss top of the class, until I snatch your spot."

you stared at him while he turned back to face the front. he was just joking right? I mean no one could steal away your spot. no one has for the past two years, and no one will. right?

── .✦

oh but you were wrong. oh so so so wrong.

this boy wasn't your new friend. he was your rival, like his whole existence was to take away everything you've worked hard for. he wasn't your soon to be charming lab partner or the cute guy you'd hang out with at a local cafe after class.

he was your academic nemesis.

it didn't hit you right away. not until the first quiz given to the class was passed back in which you got a 97% on. but once you saw a fucking 100% on satoru's paper circled in a horrid red ink, thats when it hit you. and the cherry on top was when mr. thompson grinned and leaned down to whisper, "looks like you've got competition." you stared at satoru like he had just murdered your family, not that you minded, but in a way he murdered your entire existence.

he looked at the paper, like he didn't even care that he passed, because to him this was normal. he caught your expression and was confused to see that the usual soft look on your pretty face was now replaced with pure wrath.

this wasn't just 480 days of school anymore.

this was war.

every time you raised your hand to answer a question, it was always outshined by satorus. damn him and his longer limbs. and every time, the professor would call on him.

every. single. time.

you even considered this being sexist. then satoru would answer correctly, of course. damn mr. thompson for finding this whole rivalry hilarious. like if your whole identity as "the smart one" wasn't practically being lit on fire in front of everyone right now. you felt the shift, and you heard the whispers of you being out throned. and what made this whole situation worse was that stupid charm that he offered you with, "im glad to be in physics with you." a lie.

a damn lie.

and you couldn't help but hate him for it every day, every higher mark, every time he got called on, and every time he smiled at you in the mornings or in the hallways thinking you two were still friends.

it didn't help that everyone practically loved him. girls slipped their numbers to him every other day, even undergraduates which you found disgusting. he did everything so effortless while you stayed up until 2 am re-reading lessons, burning through notebooks, killing your pens, and even pulling all nighters like kay chung for important upcoming exams, mistreating your body with more caffeine than you could handle to try and claw your way back up the top.

until eventually you burnt out.

you ignored every 'hello' coming from him or any stupid joke he'd come up with, you settled on a different seat away from him not having the guts to stare at him be better than you for another second. not while he thrived and you crumbled.

and it was like you were back at home, always being seen as the second option right after your brother. a man. of course the second you feel like you are finally worthy of something, someone has to take it away from you. but why now? why after two years in which you spent trying to escape that feeling, was everything going downhill? you weren't even sure if he was even aware of the harm he was causing you mentally and physically.

that he was undoing you without even trying.

but he did notice. he noticed how you stopped talking to him, saying hello or laughing at his jokes or even avoiding his gaze like if it would burn your eyes if you made eye contact, and it hurt because you were practically his only friend other than a boy he met in his calculus class. suguru geto, aka his 'man in the chair.' he always alarmed satoru discreetly whenever there was a bank robbery happening down the street. because not only was satoru now holding the title of the top student of nyu, but he was also the hero of manhattan.

"spiderman makes an unwanted appearance again last night," the news reporter said with her voice being more sharper than the bold lettering on the headline scrolling beneath her, "at a secluded alley near the 'sunny time up' bar, involving a man attempting to steal one of the employee's vehicle."

click.

"when will this vigilante wake up and realize that this job is for law enforcement"

click.

"he's a danger to the people of manhattan! this isn't a comic book, he's interfering with police work!"

every time you clicked on the remote to change channels, spiderman was everywhere. for someone the people claim to hate, he sure is the talk of the week.

"dude is like time square on new years.." you mumbled mostly to yourself.

"my father hates him." your roommate, wendy's father is the head of the police department. he's always complaining about he boy who hides away behind the blue mask, claiming that he is causing more trouble in the busy city. you gave a dry laugh. "your father hates everyone, including me" she sat on your bed next to you, holding a bag of chips in her hand which she offered you.

"I dont see why it's such a big deal. he does more than the police has done in the past five years. he's like what? our age? from what I have heard he is definitely not beyond his twenties." you stared at the video of him swinging across buildings, the sharp blue color of his suit making it hard to lose sight of him.

the color reminded you of satoru's eyes.

your mood suddenly shifted as you thought of him, your appetite was long gone as your stomach twisted in disgust. "how are you holding up with the whole academic rivalry thing."

"shut up." you grumbled.

"I feel like it's one sided, well from what i've heard from you." wendy's voice was quiet, but her words stung. because deep down, you have told yourself the same thing.

"its like he doesn't even try." you dragged your hand across your face as you stared at the textbooks on your desk before they shifted to the calendar right above it. 455 more days.

454 more days.

453 more days.

452 more days.

451 more days.

450 more days.

another school week has passed by. another week of avoiding his intense stare across the lecture hall. another week of hearing him laugh with that black haired boy that had way too many piercings on his face. another week of debating if anything was even worth it anymore.

you looked back up to your calendar, staring at that number written beneath the date. 450 more days until graduation! you got this! how many more days until everything will stop feeling so heavy.

how many more until you stopped caring.

but its like you couldn't even catch a break. your negative thoughts were interrupted by the vibration of your phone. you slowly dragged it out your back pocket before looking down at the called id.

mom.

you couldn't answer. not with your voice cracking or tears falling. you couldn't let them know that you were struggling the same way you were all your childhood and you especially couldn't give them that sense of pride in the way you were burning out. how could you tell them the pressure didn't go away but it only shifted from different mouths in different places. you couldn't handle hearing, "I told you so."

'just stay in state, I dont see why you have to move all the way to the other side of the world. you won't be able to handle it like your brother.'

'your brother stayed here in the same state, why can't you do the same? he visits us regularly!..'

shaking away the echoes of your parents voices, you watched the slow rise and fall of wendy's chest, and you quietly zipped up your jacket before sneaking out. fresh air was what you needed right now. it hit you like a reset button- the kind that clears your head. not caring where your feet took you, you made your way through the city.

the night was still alive, buildings lit up, parties at every corner you looked at, and other people walking as well. it did feel refreshing. until you heard it. a sharp, disgusting wolf whistle behind you. it was low and mocking. the city is big, its bound to have horrible beings. your steps didn't stop, your stomach twisted and you felt sick.

"hey where are you goin' sweetheart? you look delicious." the slurred voice behind you said. you didn't even have to look back to know what kind of man it was. your pace quickened, trying to reach a store or anything that had some sort of crowd. but the footsteps behind you didn't stop, they matched your speed and quickened.

this was exactly what your brother warned you about. being in such. huge city will only be more dangerous. you felt your throat drying up and you looked down at your shadows, seeing the mans hand reach for you. but before even his fingers could brush against you, a blur of blue and white appeared. there was a soft thud, a groan, then silence.

you slowly turned.

"hey," spiderman said calmly shooting a web right on the strangers face. "she's not interested." the man stumbled back, letting out a muffled yelp, fear overthrowing whatever he was on. he didn't even budge. your heart was still racing as you took in his muscular figure. and then he turned to face you. ".. now what are you doing outside at night, hm?" his voice shifted into a much softer one, like he was talking to a kid. you wanted to talk but you couldn't get a word out as you felt the heaviness in your throat as well as the weight you've been carrying from the past few months.

the way he stood was so familiar. "im sorry.." is all you could get out, you soft voice quivered which immediately sent his senses off. "hey, hey its alright why are you apologizing?" his large hands cupped your cheeks. despite them being gloved, they were warm and comforting. his thumbs swept under your eyes wiping away any incoming tears. "why are you apologizing?"

"I dont know.." you answered honestly. but the ache of not being enough was resurfacing. he let out a quiet breath at your answer. "thats okay.. you dont have to explain." his hands didn't move away from your face, in fact you found yourself leaning into his touch.

"let me take you home." he whispered. "..I live at the nyu dorms"

he nodded before dropping his hands to grab the back of your knees without any warning, picking you up, wrapping your legs around his waist. "hold on baby, okay?" your tired mind couldn't even process the pet name before allowing your arms to wrap around his neck, placing your head in the crook of it as well.

without another word, he laughed upward, shooting a web into the sky. the loud roaring of the wind as you both swung across building from building deafened your ears. gravity tugged at your stomach with every sharp dip and rise. you unknowingly shook in his hold, the hand that was holding you rubbed your back before settling to cupping the side of your thigh, dangerously close to your ass. "its okay, I got you."

his hand and feet stuck to the side of the dormitory building. "which dorm is yours angel?"

angel

that pet name reminded you of satoru. why is it that the smallest things reminded you of him? why does your mind insist in continuing to think about him. "... that one." you pointed to the window just two floors up and to the side, in which he crawled to, tightening his hold your plush thigh. he carefully slid the window open, crawling in.

"we're here.." he could barely get out before the soft click of a lamp lit up the room, revealing wendy who was staring at the both of you, holding onto each other rather intimately. your arms were still wrapped around his neck while his leg was pressed right in between yours, in the middle of placing you down.

your eyes widened as you stared back at wendy. "you're awake.." you whispered.

"you're with spiderman.." she stated the obvious. you and him were quiet, the silence louder than you wanted it to as you backed away from him. "I wake up to see you missing, assuming you probably went out to party, only to see you grinding on spider mans leg? oh my dad would hate you even more right now" the masked vigilante cleared his throat, his hand was still placed on your waist, not wanting to completely let go of you yet.

"I should.. get going." he murmured, before looking at you, not wendy. and behind the mask, you swore that for whatever reason he didn't want to leave.

"oh.. yeah uhm thank you, have I thanked you yet? whatever just.. thanks for everything." you stammered, scratching the back of your neck. with one final lingering squeeze on your waist, he pulled away. "any time." he then turned back to wendy. "can you tell your dad to stop trying to tase me?"

"nope." she furrowed her eyebrows.

"..worth a shot. take good care of your friend for me yeah?" he asked before leaving through the window, allowing the city to take him back. wendy's head sharply turned to look at you.

"what..?"

she blinked, once and twice and thrice. "you've got a lot of explaining to do." she grinned.

── .✦

"you just come back from patrolling?" suguru asked as his fingers moved quickly on his controller letting out a few curse words when his opponent did damage on him. "yeah.." satoru closed the window behind him, tugging off his mask letting his white locks spread out, making him look like a model. he threw it on his bed, making his was deeper into his apartment. "you can't just use my pc whenever you want to man." he grumbled as he watched suguru get a victory royale.

"hey, if im helping you out on your little 'hero' shit, I can play whenever the hell I want."

satoru undressed, pulling up some grey sweatpants, but staying shirtless. scars adorned his torso and chest. "guess who I ran into."

"uhh that crazy police guy that tried tasing you."

satoru shivered at the memory. "no thank god. it was y/n." suguru clicked off the game turning his full attention to his friend. "the chick you like?" the blue eyed boy nodded. "saved her from some drunk shit, took everything in me not to kill that bastard after seeing her cry."

"what happened then?"

"took her back to her dorm.. met her roommate as well. turns out she's the daughter of the head of the police department. anyways, y/n looks horrible.. like there's something going on with her."

"yeah its you. you stole away her spot of top student." suguru reminded him. "I didn't mean to!" satoru defended himself.

"her friend for sure is going to spread around the fact that she saw y/n with spiderman. talk to her about it." satoru thought about it. if he asked you if everything was okay with you after last night, maybe you'll start talking to him again.

one thing about wendy is that she can't keep anything to herself. suguru was right, your encounter with spiderman spread like wildfire. like full blown social media wildfire. your name was brought up in multiple group chats, tweets, even those dumb confession accounts on instagram.

"SPIDERMANS GOT A GIRLFRIEND LMFAOOO"

"yall hear y/n slept with spiderman?"

"what do they call baby spiders?"

you were speeding past everyone, heart racing like you were in a heist movie making your way to your next class before you were stopped. "hey.." the familiar voice cut through the air. satoru. "heard what happened last night.. everything okay?" he asked, noticing how thin your wrists were.

was this another one of his acts? "yeah.." you mumbled. "everything fine." you tried brushing it off but he wasn't having it. he raised an eyebrow before his hand placed right on your waist, the same spot spider mans hand was on. "talk to me. you ghosted me weeks ago.. did I say something or do something?"

dont act so innocent, you thought. of course he did something. "physics is just,, stressing me out I guess." which was partially true. his eyes travelled down your face, looking at your lips before his tongue darted out to lick his. "let me help you then."

despite the hatred you held for your rival, you missed him. sure you only talked a few times, but you missed talking to him, his dumb jokes and his dorky smile. "..okay" you agreed. "maybe later this week." and for the first time in what felt like forever, your chest felt light.

── .✦

your classes were finally over. with your bag placed over your shoulder, you made your way outside after deciding to pick up some sweet treats for both you and wendy, who you were still kind of annoyed at for spreading around your encounter with spiderman. you reached the warm welcoming bakery, picking out whatever looked delicious, chocolate cover croissants, blueberry muffins, and a few cream puffs before making your way to check out. the second you stepped out, the rain decided to make an appearance. one that you weren't prepared for.

you clutched onto the bag full of treats.

"you again?" the voice came from above you. you looked up, moving your dripping wet hair to get a closer look. there he was, perched upside down from a streetlight. "..here to save me from the rain?" you asked half jokingly. he hummed, flipping down to land right in front of you. "of course baby. wouldn't want you to get sick.."

his arms wrapped around your waist before shooting a web straight up the roof of the bakery, pulling you both off the ground. you let out a little yelp holding onto both him and the pastry bag. seconds later you both were outside the window of your dorm, before he effortlessly opened it up placing you on your bed. your shirt rose up a little exposing your cute little spiderman boxers.

"is that me?" he asked tracing the waistband that had his heroine name in bold letters. your breath hitched. you completely forgot about those, or even buying them let alone wearing them today. both you and wendy went shopping a couple days back, going into the kids section and jokingly buying each a pair of spiderman undies.

'hey you should wear these to thank him.' she snorted

'eat shit.'

your hand shot out to push his away, chuckling nervously. "okay thats enough.." but he was faster, he grabbed your wrist forcing it to be on your mattress before his other gloved hand tugged up his mask enough to expose his mouth. his jawline was sharp, and those pink lips.. your eyes widened as you looked up at him. "ah.. spiderman?" he brought said hand up to his mouth, his teeth pulling off his glove before spitting it out somewhere else.

"nah.. let me see this." he pulled up your shirt, showing off your midriff, as well as pulling your pants down to your knees. "mm yeah thats me alright.." you felt your heart pounding in your ears. his tongue darted out to lick your stomach.

"spider-man..!" you gasped. he looked up at you, wanting to savor this moment. as if he wanted to memorize this exact version of you.

"never thought I'd be someones fashion statement." he moaned as he saw the wet patch starting to form. his thumb placed itself right on it. "this alright..?" he wanted you bad, but he also wanted you to be okay with this. you nodded looking up at him with a look that just drove him crazy.

his rubbing continued before he pulled away pulling down just the lower half of his suit. "its hard as hell to hide my dick in this shit." he grumbled.

oh.

oh.

he was huge. like really, really big and heavy, it couldn't even stand up correctly. he fisted his cock a few times, watching his pre- cum ooze out before placing it right on your clothed cunt. you wrapped your legs around his torso, bringing him closer in. "thats it." he groaned slowly rocking into you. your body shook with every hump of his hips, the wet patch in your spidey briefs grew bigger. his hands traveled throughout your body, hot and rough as two fingers found their way into your mouth, forcing you to lick them. "good girl, get them nice and wet for me baby."

his voice was low and dripping with arousal. he brought his head closer to your face. you whimpered softly as your hands tugged at his suit, your legs that were still wrapped around him trembled. "wearing these and you expect me not to ruin you?" he moaned as he dipped a finger into the pouch that every boxer had, feeling how much you wanted him. the two fingers that were toying with your tongue left with a loud pop before his lips found yours in a sweet but messy kiss.

just before he could release his hot seed onto you, there was a knock at the door.

"y/nnnn! let me in I forgot my keys!" damn wendy. spiderman sighed pecking your lips one more time before he pulled back, sliding down his mask. he reached for the glove he threw away as well as his lower part of his suit. "ill be taking these as well.." he murmured ripping off your briefs, which had you cringing at the sound, exposing your cunt to the cold air. "ill see you around okay, darling? thank you for this, such an angel."

and with that he left. leaving you with no release and nothing covering your lower half.

"y/n!" wendy knocked again.

"coming!"

oh you wish you were.

[bratzray]

ᥫ᭡Forever Theirs ᥫ᭡

❥ Chapter 1: Introduction?

Warning: Obsessive behavior, stalking, mental tension, Baby is an iPad kid {saw this head-cannon and I loved it}

Synopsis: You finally made it to Korea, in your dream apartment and neighborhood. You decide to get to know your environment better than you do now when you meet them, The Saja Boys. They were singing their debut song “Soda Pop”, you watched for a little bit before continuing on your way, slowly forgetting about the performance. You finished your day by reading in the park before noticing something was off…

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Korea wasn’t the first option but it always was an option. Living in America and just making it by wasn’t ideal but moving to another country wasn’t something you saw yourself doing but you never downplayed the idea

You spoke to your family and close friends, saying your goodbyes because you don’t think you’ll be coming back, but at least you have one of your closest friends Ji-yoo coming with you. His mother’s family comes from Korea but his father was American, he wanted to come with you because he wanted to be closer to the other side of his family. 

The trip to Korea wasn’t all that bad, in fact it was kinda enjoyable, but getting settled in was the problem. You managed to find an apartment before moving to Korea but the problem was you had to get to it and with no car it was going to be a trip. 

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You finished moving into your apartment, it took a good while because most of the stuff you wanted needed to be shipped, but the apartment is finally yours’ 

You wanted to take a walk when you get a call, you look for your phone and end up finding it and picking up 

“Hello?” 

“Why are you speaking to me like you don’t know who’d be calling you this early?” 

“Hi Ji what do you want?” you ask, trying to find your purse to complete your outfit 

“You remember our little date plan right?” he ask with a slight attitude

“Yes I wouldn’t dare to forget, I’m going out right now to get some food to make.” you say, rolling your eyes at his attitude 

“Yea you better, because knowing you if I hadn’t called you would’ve forgotten.” he said as you hear a car door slamming in the background 

“Where are you right now?” you ask before rushing to your window and seeing him leaning on the side of his car

“Why the hell are you outside my apartment right now…” you ask him as you stare him down from your window 

“Girl stop talking and get your ass down here so we can go get this food.” he replied before looking up into your apartment building and flipping you off. You repeat the action back before finally putting your shoes on and walking to the elevator. 

You meet Ji-yoo at the front before he practically tackles you into a hug 

“You take too long, you know that?” he ask before letting go of you and fixing your frizzy hair, you roll your eyes before responding 

“Let's not talk about who’s taking too long because last time I checked, last dinner date we planned it took you almost 2 hours to even make it to my house…” you say looking at him annoyed 

“We turned a new leaf [✮], we don’t talk about the past.” he said snarky before walking away towards his car. 

You just huffed before making your way towards him, waiting for him to get what he needed from the car. You guys started walking towards the convenient store before you heard and saw a crowd of people, looking around you and Ji-yoo started making your way to the crowd when you heard it 

The Saja boys. That’s what this little boy group was called, or so you assumed since that’s what people were screaming. You watch their performance and for the most part they’re pretty good, but something in you was pushing you closer to them, pushing you to speak to them. You shove that feeling away and continue to watch, humming some of the parts that repeat itself. 

You try to find Ji-yoo before seeing him standing on the other side, practically salivating at the boys. You rolled your eyes before trying to shove your way through the crowd to make it to him, you almost made it when you saw him, or more so he saw you. One of the boys made direct eye contact with you, and he was holding it for a long time. It made you nervous, but you couldn’t look away. 

It felt like hours of just you and him staring at each other, before Ji-yoo snapped you out of it. 

“Come on before we get distracted again.” he said before pulling you out of the crowd and making it to the store. 

“Ji, was it me or was that boy staring mad hard at me?” you ask him before putting some ramen and kimbap into your basket

“No, I noticed but maybe it’s just that idol boy charm, probably nothing much really.” he said before he walked away 

You shake your head agreeing but there’s something in you telling you it was more than just that, that it wasn’t just an idol boy look, he looked like he was trying to find out something about you, like you stole money from him and he wanted to make sure it was you.  

You just shake away that feeling and continue with your shopping, getting snacks that you and Ji plan on scoffing down once you make it home 

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 On the other side of the city were the Saja Boys, they had just finished their debut performance before making it back to their apartment but something had been on Romance’s mind for hours and he just couldn’t shake it off. He finally build up the courage and asked 

“Was it only me, but did y’all feel her there too?” he asked before looking around the room at the boys 

Jinu huffs, “I did, but it was probably just nothing.” he replied shaking his head, but he knows deep down it wasn’t just nothing 

“No it wasn’t just nothing, I felt her and something’s telling me I saw her too.” Romance replied, huffing slightly at Jinu ignoring what he said 

“He’s right Jin, I felt her too.” Abby finally spoke up before looking up from his phone over to the two boys, while the other two were in their own world 

Baby laughed slightly before speaking up, “I found her, y’all are just useless.” He huffed before shoving his ipad into Romance’s arms. It was your instagram, it had nearly every picture you’ve ever taken, pictures of you and Ji-yoo, your family, and even you moving to Korea. 

“YES! That’s her, that’s who I saw, I bet you that’s who Gwi-ma was talking about!” Romance jumped up before shoving the Ipad into Jinu’s arms,

 “SEE LOOK FOR YOURSELF!!” he said, before dancing, feeling like he proved a point, just then Jinu looked at the Ipad and felt his heart pang even more than it already was, it was really you. 

“Now are we all just gonna sit here and do nothing, because I found her address…” Baby said before continuing to drink out of some type of bottle. The rest of the boys looked at him before finally deciding to go out and look for you, their soulmate. 

You and Ji-yoo were having the best night ever, just watching movies and eating the snack y’all brought earlier but it was getting late and he had work the next day. You lead Ji-yoo out to his car before giving him a hug and letting him go on his way. 

It was slightly warm and nobody was outside so you decided to just sit down at a bench that was near a small pond by the side of your apartment building. You were there for a while, kittens were just roaming around before one jumped onto your lap while you pet it. 

It was calming, with a slight wind and somewhat chilly air until you got this feeling, it was the same feeling you got when you were watching the Saja boys but this one felt different. It wasn’t that warm feeling anymore, it was more or so a feeling of being watched or even observed. 

This feeling never went away so you looked around, trying to find out where that feeling was coming from, but you found nothing. Not wanting to find out anymore you made your way back into your home, the little kitten that was on your lap followed you home. You’ll just keep in mind you’ll have to go shopping for your new companion. 

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The boys observed you, they watched how you pet the kittens around you, they watched how your body relaxed in the slight breeze that was around you. They loved everything about you and they weren’t willing to let that feeling go. 

“See, I told you it was her, just look at her.” Romance said with “heart eyes” as he followed your every movement

“I don’t believe it…” Jinu said looking stunned at your beauty 

“She’s…wow” Mystery mumbled to himself before leaning in closer from the corner to look at you better 

Baby and Abby were quiet, just looking and following the way you moved, slight obsession filled their eyes, they wanted to be closer, to have more of you. But before they could do anything everyone froze, as they watched you look around, slight fear on your face. That’s when they noticed you begin to leave, but Baby wasn’t going to let you go just yet. 

As you were making your way into your apartment building, baby followed right behind you, ignoring the constant protest from the others. He was silent, just following you until he saw you open your door and close it after the kitten that was following you got inside. That’s when he walked over to your closed door and took a picture of your apartment number. 

Some may call it stalking, but he’s just getting to know more about his soon to be lover. He finally makes it back outside before he was meant with four angry faces. 

“Why the hell would you follow her?” Romance said before grabbing Baby and pulling him into the rest of the boys as they surround him in a circle 

“What if you get caught then what?” Jinu said sternly before plucking Baby on the head 

“How were we supposed to help if someone saw you?” Abby said shaking his head before huffing 

Mystery stayed silent but by the look on his face, he wasn’t happy with what Baby did. Yes they wanted to get to know more about you and yes they might be a little obsessed with you, but following you home was a different topic. As the three boys continued to give Baby a stern talking that when he finally spoke up 

“Do you want her address or not? We can send her gifts now…” He said as he looked at the other boys, it took them a while to respond before Mystery spoke up 

“No gifts right now but soon.” He said before walking away, the boys followed after him 

“Do you really have her apartment number?” Abby asked as Baby pulled out his phone and showed him the picture of your apartment number. The other two looked at the photo and smiled, they finally found their soulmate, and they don’t plan on letting you go.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆

❥ Chapter 2

[gav-san]

Cosmic Joke: Donquixote Doflamingo (2/3)

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2/3: Doflamingo x Reader Length: 12k+ Rating: 18+(This one's not a joke) Warnings:  mature audience, 18+, Mdni, Strong Language and Sarcasm, Psychological manipulation, Dubious consent (emotional & telepathic), Stalking/obsessive behavior, Power imbalance, Violence & threat of violence, Telepathic intimacy, Mild coercion elements, Sexual content (18+)

For too long, you've been telepathically tethered to one of the most dangerous, flamboyant, and emotionally unstable men alive: Donquixote Doflamingo. What began as a childhood psychic bond rapidly devolved into a war of soup-based passive aggression, sarcasm, and sexy psychological warfare.

Previous/Next

-X-The War-X-

A Sample of Your Childhood Psychic Transcript – Extended Cut cont.

Age 15: 

You’d been unusually quiet that week.

Not because you were afraid.

But because you were furious.

It wasn’t one specific offense this time. Just… everything. The constant psychic lurking. The sound of his voice in your head at all hours. His smug little commentary during thunderstorms. The time he made you hear him getting laid twice in the same night with two different women, just to “remind you who had options.”

It happened on a particularly miserable afternoon. You were rain-soaked, sleep-deprived, and eating what could only be described as emotional broth. Again.

The fourth bowl this week.

It was lukewarm. You were lukewarm. Life was lukewarm.

And then, like mildew in your brain: Doflamingo.

You eat soup for the fourth day in a row, and I’m the unstable one? Sweetheart, if I have to hear you describe another broth like it’s erotic poetry, I will drown us both in consomme.”

And you, without hesitation, replied:

“If you’re going to hijack my brain, at least try not to sound like a hedge fund with abandonment issues and whores on speedial.”

That did it. You felt the bond sputter. Offended. Insulted. And, worse: flustered. Silence. For two whole seconds. You continued with the intensity of a caffeinated raccoon on the verge of violence.

“Your name sounds like a failed cologne brand. Donquixote Doflamingo? That’s not a name, it’s a Scrabble accident. And your coat? Oh my god, your coat looks like it crawled out of a Muppet and asked to die with dignity. You once monologued about world domination while drinking something pink and frothy out of a coconut.”

You had never felt more alive.

“You dress like a fashion crime scene. It’s like every piece of clothing you wear got into a bar fight with taste and lost. Every time I sense you’re happy, I get a sudden allergic reaction to silk and narcissism.”

You imagined he was somewhere, blinking at a wall, horrified. He didn’t reply for days.

Which only made you cockier.

You thought maybe, just maybe, you’d finally shut him up for good.

You were wrong.

So very, very wrong.

It happened at a port town. You were just walking along the dock. Normal day. Fresh bread. Overcast sky.

And then you mentally saw him.

Or rather, you mentally saw it.

In Doflamingo's head.

A flash of pink.

He was standing before a mirror..

It was the exact hue you liked. Your favorite color. A shade you only ever admitted to loving internally, quietly, selfishly. A soft, flushed, rose quartz warmth that made your stomach flutter when you saw it on ribbon, on cloth, on dusk-lit skies.

And he was drenched in it.

Pants, shirt, lapel flower, boots. A full outfit. It wasn’t garish. It wasn’t loud. It was tailored. Fitted. Subtle. Expensive.

He turned slowly and let his mirror do the insulting.

Smirking. Sunglasses glinting. A smug, calculating flame in silk and restraint.

“Something wrong, soup goblin?” he asked, voice smooth as a blade in velvet. “You feel upset. Must be the lighting. Or the fact that I’m wearing your favorite color.”

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out.

He mentally tilted his head. Listen to you unravel with polite interest. And then, the insult of all insults.

A coat. He shrugs on a pink feathered coat.

“This shade suits me,” he added. “I think I’ll make it permanent.”

That pastel bird-bitch figured out your favorite color and was now using it like emotional napalm.

You had previously mocked him. Many a time. You called him a Muppet. Said his fashion sense looked like a bird got drunk at a textile market and exploded. 

You were mad. 

You even said—offhand, buried in sarcasm—“Not that it matters, but if you really wanted to get under my skin, you’d wear something in rose quartz or sunset blush.”

You said it like a joke. 

He heard it like a command. 

And now?

He wears it. Constantly.

Not the same coat, not exactly. He has variations.

A dusky pink with gold-threaded lining for formal executions. A softer, almost pastel version for tea with underworld contacts. A rose-petal embroidered lining inside his cloak is just subtle enough to make your stomach turn every time the wind catches it.

You tried not to react.

You failed.

He saw it.

You looked at him across the mental bond. Another assassination done, blood still cooling under his boots, and he tilted his head with a smirk so slow and sharp it might as well have carved his initials into your spine.

“You like the coat?” he said aloud, too casually, “I had it made. Inspired by someone special.”

Age 16: 

This was your foundation year. The broth years.

You trained your brain like a monk with a ladle, cycling through every soup imaginable: alphabetically, regionally, and emotionally. You endured stews. Conquered purees. Survived bone broth. You catalogued cream-based betrayals, whispered to dashi like it was scripture, and gave Pho the reverence of a war hymn.

Bisque was a breakdown in velvet form. Bone broth. Cream-based betrayals. Dashi.. 

Once, close after his brother's death, you had tried to be the bigger person. You thought, maybe this could be a turning point for him. He had been much quieter and thoughtful.

That was a tactical misstep.

“Sometimes I feel—”

Him: “—like a feral soup goblin hoarding trauma and lentils… You can admit it.”

You don’t. Instead, you begin narrating fake soap opera plotlines in your head like it’s your divine calling. Elaborate affairs. Secret twins. Tearful betrayals over stolen heirlooms.

You cast him in every villain role.

Donquixote Doflamingo, Duke of Deceit, tragically torn between his fiancée and his evil clone. Donquixote Doflamingo, heir to the Flamingo Fortune, weeping as his mother’s ghost reveals she faked her death to become a competitive ballroom dancer. Donquixote Doflamingo, betrayed by his long-lost identical triplet, also named Donquixote Doflamingo.

The man once threatened to drown an island for disrespecting his wine pairing.

Now he’s being mentally reimagined as the mustache-twirling father of three dramatic bastards and one sentient chandelier named Chandré, who speaks only in riddles and falls in love with the gardener every third Tuesday.

You:...and then the evil count said, ‘I only married your sister for the paprika inheritance.

Him, with the weariness of a man betrayed by his own neurons: You are so lucky I’m not bored enough to take that seriously.

You: I already designed your wig.

You cast him in increasingly absurd mental soap operas. Sometimes, as the estranged twin who faked his death to start a spice empire. Other times, as the morally ambiguous cardinal who seduces people with soup recipes and unresolved trauma.

And when you get bored with plots?

You just chant.

“Slurp.”

“Slurp.”

“Slurp.”

Until, inevitably—

“SLURP? SLURP?! I swear to GOD if you say slurp one more time I will LEVEL a village. Who even ARE you??”

“Hi, I’m Donquixote Doflamingo, my hobbies include string-based homicide and traumatizing orphans.”

He doesn’t respond. Which only emboldens you.

Because by now, your inner monologue has become a psychic casserole of passive aggression, fictional drama, and a truly alarming obsession with soup. You’re mentally making stock with dreams and disrespect, stirring emotional bouillon with a ladle carved from spite.

But then?

You make a mistake.

A bad one.

You try dating.

It starts innocently. A boy smiles at you in the market. He says something charming about leeks. You flirt back. Lightly. Barely. A flutter, really.

That’s when you learn a critical rule of the bond:

Strong emotions are a direct line to your personal insane asylum.

You barely feel the blush crawl up your neck before it’s hijacked.

His voice—sharp, silk-snarled, and deeply offended—cuts through the bond like broken glass wrapped in velvet.

“Who is he?”

You flinch. Literally flinch. In public.

The boy is still smiling.

You are not.

Because the devil incarnate has decided to open a commentary track in your frontal lobe.

“Does he know you eat instant ramen with chopsticks and a spoon? Does he know you alphabetize soup by mouthfeel? You’re flirting with that sort of attitude?”

You try to pull away, focus, and laugh it off. The boy asks if you’re okay.

You lie.

Meanwhile, Doflamingo is pacing in your psyche like a furious flamingo in couture.

“Who is this worm? Who is this mouth-breathing peasant? I’ll staple his face to the back of his own neck. Tell him you’re taken. Tell him you’re MINE to torment.”

You ran. Full sprint. Half because of Doflamingo’s snarling possessiveness, half because the poor guy had the misfortune of giving you a flower while the world’s most dramatic war criminal was loitering inside your frontal lobe.

Silence followed. Three blessed, golden minutes.

“Smart. You’d die in two weeks without me. Also, he looked like he smelled like mayonnaise.” 

You could see it. Not literally, but close enough. The glint of his ridiculous rose-tinted sunglasses, worn indoors purely out of spite. He’d bought them, you were convinced, just to annoy you.

“I hope your sunglasses fog up every time you monologue.”

After that, you developed a series of new psychological conditions. Trust issues. Chronic stress. IBS. A mild soup addiction. 

You tried everything: meditation, journaling, white noise playlists. You filled your head with innocuous trivia; What’s the capital of Wano? How many teeth does a sea king have? Do clouds have feelings?

He did not like that.

"Did you just compare me to a cumulonimbus?! I am a divine force of nature, you little brat, not moist sky fluff! Stop thinking about flamingos!"

That, ironically, only made you think of flamingos more.

You began to suspect he could sometimes sense your general aura, not your exact thoughts, but the emotional weather system you carried with you. He never said it outright, but every time you moved cities, his mood spiked. Sometimes it was laughter. Sometimes it was violence. Either way, it was a red flag. Not a romantic one. A get-a-panic-room-and-move-into-the-sewers kind of red flag.

You knew better than to egg him on.

But you tried. You really, really did.

You meditated until your spine locked up. You imagined puppies, clouds, and serene fruit baskets. You learned the entire taxonomy of soup for mental armor.

And then—one day—you slipped.

A single sarcastic thought. Dry. Thoughtless. Petty.

“Wow. That’s healthy, Mr. Flaming-No.

And he hears you.

You feel the shift before the words even come, like a psychic heatwave rolling across your brainstem. Static crackling with smug glee. A sudden, unbearable presence in the part of your mind you usually reserve for private suffering and bad decisions.

"I thought you had joined a convent."

You don’t reply, immediately knowing that to retain sanity, you must not answer the goblin man. 

This does not deter him.

"Playing hard to get, huh? Fine. I love a challenge. A pause. Then, more horrifyingly, "Also, those pants you were thinking about? They do nothing for your calves. You have warrior thighs and sad ankles. Balance the silhouette."

You develop migraines. And rage. And a black belt in emotionally repressing everything. He is in your walls. He is in your thoughts. He is in your fashion critique.

And worst of all, he’s kind of right about the pants.

Age 17:

You’re seventeen now. Nearly a decade of resistance. Several years of soup-based psychological warfare. You are battle-hardened. Cunning. Emotionally fortified.

It’s a windy afternoon. You’re tired, mildly dehydrated, and emotionally detached from your alleged soulmate, who has been suspiciously quiet lately (read: plotting, brooding, probably doing unspeakable things with string and charisma).

You're just walking back from the market. Minding your own business, trying to decide if cabbage has a soul or just very boring anxiety, when your eyes drift. A new poster, slapped unevenly onto a corkboard, the corners still curling from damp. The ink hasn’t even dried all the way, smudged slightly where the print was rushed.

It’s background noise. Paper clutter. At best, a passing glance.

Until you see the name.

Donquixote Doflamingo

Bold. Black. Centered like a dare. 

You think there’s no way two people are cursed enough for that name. 

Underworld freakshow. Flamingo warlord. Thread-Thread Fruit user. Your long-suffering psychic parasite.

Yep, definitely him.

His bounty is astronomical. The numbers alone are enough to make your eyebrows try to retreat into your hairline. But that’s not even the worst part.

He seems tall. Dangerous. The kind of man that feels like a trick, like the kind of mirage that looks better the worse your judgment gets. If you squint too long, something behind your eyes might snap.

And your stomach sinks.

And of course, like a cryptid with the world’s worst timing and a god complex, he noticed.

“Didn’t know what I looked like until now? Tch.”

That voice. The one that had haunted your quiet moments for nearly a decade. The one who once threatened to puppet your kindergarten teacher because you dared to think her socks looked cowardly. The one that had berated your soup choices, hijacked your dreams, and turned emotional stability into a luxury you could no longer afford.

And now it belonged to that.

Tall. Tanned. Ripped within an inch of obscenity. Muscles like he’d been sculpted by someone deeply unwell. Blonde hair tousled like the aftermath of something sinful, and a smirk that didn’t just flirt with danger. It promised it, wrapped in silk and razor wire. A man who looked like a statue lost a bet, fell into organized crime, and liked it there.

He looked like every bad decision you hadn’t made yet.

No mistake. No hallucination. No soup-induced delusion. That ridiculous bastard in pink is real. He’s real, and—worse—he’s hot.

The glasses. The grin. The coat that screams midlife crisis, king of crime. The smile like tax evasion got a face. Golden-blond hair in wild tufts, tousled like he rolled out of someone else’s bed and never looked back. Tanned skin like sun-drenched sin. Broad shoulders, ripped muscles wrapped in silken arrogance. A torso built like it bench-pressed war crimes and did it shirtless.

And that smirk. That deadly, self-satisfied smirk. Like, he knows things. Like he wins them.

He looked like violence, money, and seduction had formed a committee: an exclusive, corrupt, and devastatingly attractive committee. The kind that held secret meetings in cigar smoke and blood-red velvet, made decisions with knives, and always got what it wanted. 

You blink. 

You look away. 

You mentally repeat the phrase ‘he’s probably 80% cartilage and trauma and is hiding a bald spot’ just to recover your dignity. It doesn’t help. Your face burns. Your stomach coils with shame. You scoff at yourself, an internal slap of reality.

Unfortunately, another thought slips through before you can stop it.

His collarbones could start a religion.

The bond goes silent. Not quiet—silent. Like the air before a storm, thick with pressure and the weight of something inbound. You feel it: that split-second pulse behind your eyes. Like thunder curling in your skull. A sharp, electric pause.

And then, like a god waking up from a thousand-year nap, stretching out with far too much interest:

“…Oh?”

You sit down. Right there. On the damn floor. The market bustles around you, but your brain has exited the building. He feels your panic like a shark senses blood in the water, and oh, he revels in it.

You bolt. Not physically. No, your body is frozen in public humiliation. But mentally? Emotionally? You retreat behind every available defense.

Soup. Obscure barnacle trivia. An emergency wall of potato-based imagery. You imagine peeling tubers under enemy fire. Chanting “yam” like a mantra.

But it’s too late. You slipped. He heard everything.

And worst of all, he is thrilled.

“Collarbones, huh?”

The word echoes with amusement, low and sharp like the strike of a match.

“You finally looked at me. Five years of miso and mockery, and one peek at my chest takes you down?”

You consider dying on the spot. But knowing your luck, he’d narrate the whole thing like it was erotica.

You try to lie. To salvage some form of dignity.

“It was a neutral observation. Biological analysis. Very scientific.”

His voice purrs through the bond, velvet and victorious.

“Sweetheart, you mentally described the way my shirt dipped below my clavicle with metaphor. You thought it looked lickable.”

Shame hits you like a blunt object. You nearly walk straight into a civilian holding a cabbage.

Somewhere in the ether of your mind, he laughs. Loud. Gleeful. Unapologetically delighted.

“And here I thought I was the obsessed one.”

You scoff. Loudly. Like he’s blowing hot air straight into your synapses.

Because, sure. You’re soulmates. Allegedly. Sure, he’s been squatting in your psyche like a haunted Den Den with a god complex for years. But you’re… you.

A broke nobody with six fake identities, a fugitive ex, and a dependency on pantry soups. He’s the de facto mafia king of the New World. A Warlord of midlife crisis fashion and felony flirtation.

You try to recover. You raise walls. You conjure a protective mental beetle named Gerald, whose entire job is to eat inappropriate thoughts on sight.

He eats Gerald.

You panic. You stammer mentally into your fallback plan: complete gibberish.

“Soup. Rainbows. Shoe sizes. Frog taxonomies—”

But it’s too late.

“I’ve got your frequency now, cariño. I heard thirst. Real, honest-to-god horniness. You finally blinked.”

And you did.

You blinked.

You cracked.

You thought about his stupid neck, and now this deranged flamingo with a god complex has leverage for eternity.

“You little soup-slinging, mind-muting, emotionally constipated goblin—you like me.”

You internally shriek, “NO I DON’T—”

“Yes, you do. You had a whole thought about my neck. And my shirt. You zoomed in.”

You curl up on the ground, metaphorically. Maybe literally. You consider setting your brain on fire. Deleting yourself from your own consciousness. Ejecting your soul like bad software.

“Ten years of lentils and psychological warfare. Ten years of pretending I was some cosmic fungus infecting your thoughts. But guess what—You. Like. Me.”

There’s pressure behind your eyes. Not pain. Something worse, his attention. Focused. Hungry. Triumphant.

You squeeze your eyes shut and summon the blandest image you can: beige wallpaper. The kind you’d find in a forgotten waiting room or a discount dentist's office.

He barrels through it like a tank through a bakery.

“You like the sunglasses. Say it.”

You grunt. Out loud. A merchant passing by flinches and steers his cart sharply away.

“Don’t go quiet on me now, soup girl. You gave me material. I’m never letting it go. This is my birthday now.”

You let out a pitiful whimper. He eats it up like dessert.

“You gonna cry about it? Gonna doodle ‘Mrs. Doflamingo’ in the margins of your little soup journal? I bet you’re mad I found out I’m more than just talk. You picked the worst day to realize I’m hot. You’ve given me leverage for life. You’re stuck in my brain, and now—now I live rent-free in yours.”

You scramble for mental footing. You need a defense. Any defense. Something—anything—before he starts monologuing about his abs.

“It was an accident. A brief psychotic episode. The sunlight hit your collarbones at a deceptive angle.”

He gasps. Mocking. Gleeful.

“Your horny little brain betrayed you again. God, I love your unstable little puberty arc. That’s all it took. I’m gonna get this etched into my sunglasses,” he continues, absolutely basking. “Maybe my coat. Right across the fluff. ‘My soulmate thinks I’m hot.’ Should I get it embroidered in soup alphabet letters? For the brand.” 

You bite down on the inside of your cheek like it might detonate a failsafe.

It does not. He’s still smiling inside your skull.

You attempt emotional flatlining. Dead eyes. No thoughts. Just the faint buzzing sound of shame vibrating in your teeth.

“I hate you,” you mutter under your breath, unsure if it’s psychic or spoken.

“Mmm. No, you don’t. You simmer. Like broth. Slow and steady. You’ve been cooking in this tension for years, mi amor. Admit it.”

You inhale. Deep. Holy. The kind of breath one takes before committing a crime or hurling oneself off a cliff. Preferably both.

“You are—without question—the worst creature I have ever known.”

“And yet,” he purrs, smug leaking through every word, “you like what you see.”

-X-Emotional Fallout-X-

Age 18:

You’re eighteen. You’re alone. It’s nighttime. You’re somewhere safe. Warm.

The kind of warmth that makes your shoulders loosen. That rare, golden hush where no one’s calling your name, no one’s watching. Maybe—just maybe—you let your guard down.

You were letting off steam. A long week. A longer year. You’ve been running, surviving, soup-warring your way through life with a telepathic menace in your head.

But tonight? He’s quiet. Finally, no insults. No commentary. No phantom sunglasses fogging up your thoughts.

So you let go.

Just a little.

A flicker of indulgence. One breath softer than the rest. Just a moment, you tell yourself. A harmless thing.

You’re having a little me time.

Which would be fine. Private. Normal. Human.

Except you forgot one minor, universe-breaking detail. The soulmate bond has a trigger—one liable to activate under very specific, very inconvenient circumstances. Namely: when the universe discovers you are, in fact, attracted to warlord pirates with blond hair and bad manners.

Not hypothetically. Not in a dream journal sort of way. No. Physically. Emotionally. Stupidly.

Far from you, in a bar that stank of sweat, smoke, and the slow rot of ambition, Donquixote Doflamingo lounged across a velvet-backed booth with all the restless menace of a lion in a too-small cage. His coat spilled over the side like a bloodied flag, pink feathers catching the dim glow of the overhead lights. 

One long leg stretched out beneath the table, the other bent. His posture said boredom. His eyes—half-lidded behind those ever-present sunglasses—said boredom.

Baby 5 was sulking across from him, arms crossed and pouting hard enough to bend metal. Vergo was mid-monologue, recounting logistics, rebellion rumors, and someone’s suspicious cargo manifest with the droning cadence of a man who believed punctuation was optional.

Doflamingo barely heard him.

He was twirling a toothpick between his fingers, letting it rest between sharp teeth, half-listening until something changed.

A pulse. A flicker. A sharp spike of emotion not his own, but intimately familiar. The bond flared, sudden and hot, as if someone had cracked the seal on a bottle of champagne and all that pressure found a weak spot.

His body jerked.

Just slightly, just enough to make the toothpick snap. He blinked once, slow and reptilian. The glass in his other hand tilted dangerously.

Baby 5 sat up straighter. “What?”

It hit him again like a sniper’s bullet: clean, precise, and devastating.

A white-hot pulse slammed through his skull, down his spine, a psychic lash so intense it stole the air from his lungs. His chair scraped against the floor as he jolted upright, all arrogance gone. 

His drink toppled, forgotten. The low murmur of the bar dimmed beneath the ringing in his ears. His sunglasses slid down the bridge of his nose, almost exposing his eyes, wide, startled, disbelieving.

“What the—”

Then he saw you.

Not clearly. Not fully.

Just a flicker.

But that flicker was enough.

You. 

Glowing with heat. 

Breathless. 

You, bathing in the soft radiance of lamplight. Skin flushed, chest rising and falling with breathless urgency. The curve of your throat, the tilt of your hips, the part of your lips as you whispered something meant for no one. 

Your expression was raw, unguarded. The kind of thing no one was ever meant to see, let alone feel echoing down a telepathic soul tether. 

It was not a memory. It was now. 

It was real. And it hit him so hard that the room tilted.

The bond flared, hungry and sharp, like a wire pulled taut between two hearts. His breath hitched. His pulse stuttered.

For a moment—just one—everything stopped.

He forgot the bar, the mission, the kingdom poised for collapse. He forgot Vergo. He forgot Baby 5’s question. He forgot the world.

Because you, the voice that haunted his every quiet moment, had just shattered the final wall. And the sound it made echoed straight through his ribs.

His mind, usually a thundering storm of dominance and calculation, went blank.

Didn’t even have a thought.

Just you—arching in soft light, whispering sin like it was a prayer, and him—wrecked.

For the first time in his life, Donquixote Doflamingo forgot how to speak. 

His mouth was open. His breath caught. One hand still hovering mid-air, fingers curled like he meant to grab the table. Or maybe the fabric of reality itself, and shake it.

Trebol leaned in, nose wrinkling. “Uh, boss? You good?”

Doflamingo didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Then, with the reverence of a man watching prophecy unfold, he rasped:

“She’s legal... she’s definitely legal now. Oh my god.”

Everyone at the table froze.

Baby 5 made a strangled sound. Vergo’s monologue died in his throat.

Doflamingo just stared into the distance like he’d been shot by Cupid and then hit by a train.

Thirty full seconds passed.

Then, laughter.

Low, slow, unhinged laughter. It started deep in his chest and rolled out like thunder, thick with disbelief and delighted menace.

“Oh, cariño,” he said, voice rough with something unholy, “you’re going to regret this.”

Wherever you were, wherever you had just collapsed back against your pillow in sweet, tired afterglow.

Then you felt it. 

A flicker. A shift in the air. 

Like the temperature dropped a degree, and the static charge of something watching curled at the edge of your consciousness.

Doflamingo was smiling.

Not passive. Not teasing. Real. Awake. Focused. And turned on.

“Well, well, well,” came the purr through the tether of your bond. “Look who’s finally an adult. And doing such adult activities.”

You scream.

Mentally. Physically. Existentially.

It’s a full-body, soul-level meltdown.

“GET OUT—”

“Too late. Saw everything.”

You die. Emotionally. On the spot. Your soul files a lawsuit. Your dignity packs a suitcase.

“Cute little sounds you make. Didn’t think you had it in you. I knew you’d fold one day, but I didn’t expect to get front-row seats.”

You scramble to recover, to bury the memory under seventeen mental potatoes and a Gregorian chant. You imagine beige wallpaper. Tax codes. That one time you stubbed your toe and cried out of spite.

It does nothing. He smirks louder. Emotionally. Telepathically. Spiritually.

“You looked so pretty when you thought I wasn’t watching.” A pause. Sinful. “Spoiler alert: I always am.”

You try to deny it, valiantly.

“That was—private. It was biological. It didn’t mean anything.”

“Sweetheart,” He croons, “it was spiritual phone sex. And you butt-dialed me.”

You vow—vow—never to touch yourself again. You briefly consider shaving your head and joining a monastery. You wonder if monks are allowed to cry this much.

Then he whispers it. Soft. Wicked. Smug enough to black out the sun.

“Don’t worry. Next time, I’ll help.”

You throw your shoe at the wall. It bounces. It hits you.

He feels it.

He laughs for forty straight minutes. Possibly more. You wouldn’t know. You’re already digging your own grave with a plastic spoon. 

The bond is buzzing now. You’ve been seen. And Doflamingo? He’s delighted.

You're no longer just hiding from an emotional terrorist. You're hiding from a man who has seen you naked. And he will never let you live it down.

You genuinely consider moving to the Moon. Quiet place. No warlords. No soulbond static humming behind your eyes like a mosquito with a superiority complex. 

Instead, you get a therapist.

A fancy one. Specialist in soul bonds, telepathic bleed, and emotional containment techniques. Her office smells like sandalwood and quiet judgment. She has a PhD in psychic hygiene and wears linen robes like a woman who’s never been personally terrorized by a flamingo in sunglasses.

It depletes most of your college fund. You eat instant noodles for six months and barter your roommate’s scented candles to afford the last session. But by the gods, it works.

You learn the ancient and noble art of greywalling. You don’t know how. It’s instinctive like a prey animal flattening in tall grass. You start thinking… wrong.

Not a wall exactly. More like a fog. A numb, soothing, beige silence that makes your inner landscape so boring it repels narcissists like holy water. No thoughts. No feelings. Just the psychic equivalent of elevator music and poorly lit office carpet.

It works. 

Doflamingo pings your mind, irritated. Sniffs around the edges. Sends increasingly unhinged mental messages.

“If you don’t stop thinking about taxes and glue, I swear I will fly to wherever you are and start narrating my workouts in detail. I am not losing a psychic staring contest to a gremlin. If you say 'zen garden' one more time, I’ll turn your stupid little frog plush into a hand puppet.”

But you hold. You breathe. You greywall.

This is the year you leave home and all semblance of mental stability.

You packed your bag and ran to become something else entirely: A tactical genius of emotional evasion.

Stone-faced. Steel-minded. Soupproof.

“You know who’d be cute with a little hat? A potato.”

And on the other end of the soulbond, Doflamingo snaps.

“HELLO? What the hell is this? WHAT. WHAT IS THIS? WHY IS THERE A HAT ON THE POTATO? TAKE THE HAT OFF—Why is my head full of... clam chowder? Is this a hostage situation? Did someone scramble you?”

You escalate.

You start doing fake reality show narrations in your head.

“Day six in the hideout. The color-blind Flamingo is pacing again. That’s the third chair this week. He is emotionally constipated and angry at soup.”

“I will find you and stuff a cannonball in your ear canal.”

He’s used to people screaming, begging, obeying, or dying. He is not used to being ignored.

By now, you’ve figured it out. You’re not the strong one. You’re not the clever manipulator. You’re not a warlord with sunglasses worth more than your entire village.

But you are excellent at one thing.

Going silent. Not just quiet— just annoying as hell. Emotionally, mentally, spiritually. You learn to layer your thoughts in static, white noise, nursery rhymes. You picture soup. Endless, brothy soup.

“Did you just think about turnip stew for six hours straight?”

Yes. Yes, you did. And you’ll do it again.

You become a master at decoys. You once spent three days mentally reciting the Goa Kingdom’s Tax Code.

“I swear to god, if you say Clause 7-B one more time—”

You start singing internally. Not good songs. Not ballads. You sing “It’s a Small World” on loop. You create psychic musicals about mundane tasks. You give him earworms so potent he starts questioning reality.

“I heard that stupid rat song in my sleep. ARE YOU SINGING ABOUT STUFFED ANIMALS?! HOW IS THIS MY BOND?!”

You imagine yourself as a sentient raccoon with a briefcase.

“WHAT IS IN THE BRIEFCASE?”

You don’t answer. You never do. That’s what makes it art.

He starts trying to reason with you.

“Just show me where you are. We’ll talk. I’ll be polite. No torture unless necessary. I can make you rich. Powerful. Better soup.”

You respond by imagining what a grilled cheese would sound like if it could sing.

He nearly chokes during a high-stakes underworld meeting.

At this point, he nearly snapped. He has restructured crime empires. He has murdered royalty. He is feared across the sea. But he cannot find the little rat in his head who keeps making musical numbers about turnips wearing wedding veils. You won’t even give him your goddamn name.

He doesn’t get it. No one harasses him. No one forgets he exists. But you? 

You cut him off. And now he’s fuming. And he’s not an idiot. He’s unstable, but not stupid.

“You’re being annoying on purpose, aren’t you?” 

You don’t answer. You’re pretending to be a turnip today. 

“You little goblin. You are doing this on purpose.”

You mentally picture a rutabaga in a scarf.

“Oh. Oh, I see how it is.”

He paces his study. Flings a chair at the wall. 

“You think you’re clever. You think I won’t burn ten towns to flush you out, but I will.”

And you? 

You imagine slow-cooked lentils with fresh rosemary.

“I SWEAR TO GOD.”

You start picking up tricks from watching the news; World Government censorship, Cipher Pol propaganda, even weather pattern irregularities around key islands. You realize if you shuffle your daily routine and keep your emotions scrubbed clean like laundry, you can dip below his radar.

He can’t read what you won’t allow. And if you act boring enough, he won’t even try.

You move to a new town. Take on a fake name. You’re working part-time cleaning ships. You’ve trained your thoughts to run like a filler arc no one asked for.

He doesn’t even want to harass you anymore.

He wants to understand. He wants to meet the freak who weaponized the word “pink pony yogurt club” against him. He wants to see your face just once and scream into your mouth for five uninterrupted minutes. He no longer calls you a divine punishment. 

He calls you “my affliction.” 

You replied curtly, ‘Ew’.

You’ve never met. You are just a girl. You have never been kissed. You are the emotional equivalent of a haunted IKEA display.

But he knows your mind like a battlefield, and he is losing. 

“You win. You broke something in me. I want to meet you and strangle you and feed you better soup.”

On a suspiciously bird-themed ship, Doflamingo Is Having a breakdown in sunglasses.

It isn’t love. It isn’t longing. It’s rage, confusion, and a slow-dawning fascination with the one thing in the world he can’t find.

“Where the hell did you go. I know you’re not dead. You’re too stubborn. Like cockroach-in-a-microwave stubborn.”

And you are.

You’re in some no-name town with a fake-ass identity, a head full of soup and math equations, pretending to be normal. You’ve erased every trace of your real self like a witness in a mob trial.

Meanwhile, he’s spiraling.

Combusting over a blurry flash of shoulder, like it was a religious experience. Living, laughing, and losing his damn mind over a maybe-nipple like it’s the final boss of his personal sanity dungeon. His usual women aren’t cutting it anymore. Too flattering, too available, not enough psychic mystery or soup-based emotional damage.

And somehow… he can’t get a lock on you.

“Alright then. Let’s see how long you can keep it up. Come on, little soup gremlin. Play hide and seek with the devil.”

You feel it then. The subtle shift. 

Before, you were a nuisance. Now? You’re a project. And Doflamingo loves unfinished projects.

You hear him muttering to himself now, sometimes through the bond. Like a shark circling a boat it can’t quite bite. You sit quietly. Eating dry crackers. Pretending to be a sentient loaf of bread. You picture him pacing in his ship’s throne room like a disgruntled flamingo.

You are not a warrior. You are not a revolutionary. You are not a threat. But somehow, you have become the single most fascinating thing in the life of one of the most dangerous men in the world.

And that’s a terrifying achievement.

Age 19:

You saw the news by accident.

It was plastered on the front of a damp bounty flyer, stapled to the wall of a dingy tavern somewhere halfway up a crumbling cliff road. You’d stopped to steal a sandwich and maybe a bar stool.

Then your eyes landed on it:

“DONQUIXOTE DOFLAMINGO — NEW WARLORD APPOINTMENT ANNOUNCED.”

Underneath, a grainy image of him smirking. Arms wide. Coat flared. Pink as sin.

You stood there, sandwich in hand, absolutely unblinking. Inside your skull, the bond buzzed like a wasp nest dipped in champagne.

“Warlord? They made him a warlord? Who looked at that walking Gucci tantrum and said, ‘Yeah, give him state-funded murder rights???”

You knew he knew you saw it. And you knew what was coming next. Sure enough, ten seconds later,

“Sweetheart.”

Your blood turned to soup.

“You’re wearing the pink panties, right?”

Dropped the sandwich. Burned the flyer. Left the town so fast you nearly took the bar stool with you.

You didn’t stop to think.

Because there was no thinking anymore.

Doflamingo—your soul’s biggest mistake—was now a Warlord of the Seven Seas, the Joker of the underworld, and was whispering sweet chaos into your brain like a bedtime story from hell.

He’s in his thirties, and he’s getting worse.

No character development. No healing arc. Just unfiltered rage and an ever-expanding pastel wardrobe like trauma is tax-deductible.

He doesn’t talk into the bond all the time. But when he does, it’s usually after a bloodbath. Or a tantrum. Or a business deal involving a body count.

You’ve gotten good at dodging emotional landmines. 

But sometimes he gets weirdly domestic. And those moments are somehow worse.

"You’d like this silk, I think. Soft. Expensive. Bloody, but I wiped it off. What do you eat besides soup?” He snickers, but his voice softens, “I bet you eat like a peasant. Tch. I’ll fix that."

You move again. That’s the third time this year. Send more potato-in-hat images.

You stayed on the move.

Changed your name. Your clothes. Your voice.

You learned how to lie through a Den Den Mushi with a smile.

You stuffed your thoughts with trivia and garbage again; cabbage facts, sock folding techniques, sandwich rankings by altitude.

Even worse, that’s the year you get into a fist fight—and by “fist fight,” you mean a life-or-death brawl with fate, blood, and the violent repercussions of your own hubris.

It happens in a dingy alleyway on the edge of a port town, under lanterns that flicker like they’re in on the joke. You’re not supposed to be there. You’re running a quick errand. You have a bag of yams in one hand and false confidence in the other. Then someone jumps you.

Not metaphorically.

You don’t remember what they wanted. Your coin purse, your life, your identity; it doesn’t matter. 

What matters is that you fought back. 

And lost. 

Spectacularly. Like a heroic cabbage in a blender. You have a bruised rib, a dislocated shoulder, and the sneaking suspicion that you bit someone mid-panic. But the worst part isn’t the pain. The worst part is what happens when you lose consciousness.

Because it turns out, when your soulmate is a warlord of the sea with Haki (You’d discover what Haki was much, much later) strong enough to black out a small country, and when you happen to be unconscious?

The bond fully opens.

And you are dreaming.

Or, you were.

You expect nothingness. Instead, you wake in a place that feels familiar and wrong.

Because suddenly you’re standing in a blood-red room that smells like cigars, velvet, and ambition. The floor is polished marble. The air is too still. And sitting in a throne that looks stolen from a villain-themed opera is him.

Donquixote Doflamingo.

Blond. Tanned. Shirt undone like it’s a war crime. Legs spread like arrogance made flesh.

He’s waiting.

Seated on a throne of strings and broken glass. Pink feathers bleeding into the wind.

His expression is the first thing you see.

Not his voice.

Not his laugh.

Not even that unbearable psychic hum that usually announced his presence like a bad omen with designer shoes.

Just his face.

Startlingly close.

Too close.

So sharp and vivid it felt like a vision carved into the backs of your eyelids, like lightning caught behind them. It flashed into being with no warning, no buildup. One moment you getting your ass kicked, and the next, his face was there, burned into your mind’s eye with impossible clarity.

He wasn’t wearing his sunglasses.

His eyes were wide open; exposed, unfiltered. The color of dried blood and burnished mahogany, glowing with something old and volatile beneath. Strange and warm and unnerving, like autumn leaves falling into a fire.

They were beautiful.

Offensively so.

The kind of eyes that made people forget to breathe, or think, or say anything remotely intelligent.

And he wasn’t smiling.

That, more than anything, made your pulse lurch.

Because Donquixote Doflamingo smiled at everything: mockery, threats, murder, his own reflection, that grin was his weapon and his shield. A constant, polished sneer that meant he was in control.

But his sunglasses are gone. His expression is bare. His jaw is clenched like it’s trying to hold in the whole damn ocean. And for the first time since the death of Rosinante, he looks… shaken.

“You reckless idiot. You absolute menace. You stupid, stubborn brat—”

His voice cracks like a whip, but not with anger.

It shakes.

“If you think you get to drop dead and leave me with nothing but flashbacks of you insulting my coat, I will resurrect your corpse just to yell at you.”

You’re still half-dreaming. Still bleeding. Your mind floats somewhere between agony and consciousness, but his presence is so loud, so sharp, it slices through the fog.

“Huh?”

He leans closer, fists trembling where they grip your dream-reality like it might vanish again. And his voice, so often smug, cruel, and unbearable, is soft.

Raw.

He stares at you like a man trying to memorize a constellation moments before the sky swallows it. His gaze is fixed, hungry; not with desire, but desperation. The kind that comes from nearly losing something he swore he didn’t need.

“You nearly severed the tether.”

His voice is low, rough. Not angry. Frayed.

“You think I wouldn’t feel that? You think I’d just let you slip away without consequence? Without a word? Without—”

He cuts himself off, breath hitching. Then slowly, deliberately, he rises to his full height. He’s huge, ginormous, terrifying.

The world around him responds, the dreamscape shuddering like glass under strain. Shadows ripple along the edges of the surreal, like the dream itself knows better than to test him.

And for once, he doesn’t swagger. Doesn’t smirk.

There’s no humor left in him.

“You can’t die here,” he says, each word a verdict. “Not now. Not before I get to make it worse for you in person.”

You groan, dragging yourself upright with the exhausted defiance of someone who’s been through hell and still refuses to leave it politely.

“You’re more dramatic than a pigeon in a courtroom,” you mutter, blinking the haze from your dream-vision.

He snorts once. No grin. Just grit.

“I’m more invested than a fucking pidgeon. I was born into power. I lost everything. I clawed it back with blood and strings. But you—”

He steps forward. Closer.

Then he kneels. A fluid motion, calculated but unguarded. He reaches out, his fingers curling under your chin; not cruel, not tender, just firm, like he needs to anchor himself to something real. To something that won’t vanish if he lets go.

“I was eight years old when I watched my father get crucified by the people he thought he could live among,” he says, his voice quieter now. “Watched my brother pity me. Then hate me for killing that selfish old man. Then Corozón betrayed me. I have been hated, loved, despised, and venerated—”

His thumb brushes the edge of your jaw.

“And still, none of it prepared me for you.”

He leans closer just enough that you can feel the heat of his breath against your cheek.

When he speaks again, his voice is low. Raw. Almost reverent.

“You don’t get to leave me. Not unless I say so.”

The words aren’t sharp. They’re jagged. Torn from somewhere beneath his ribs.

You stare at him, heart hammering. Not in fear, but in understanding. Because for once, this isn’t bravado or games. This isn’t performance.

This is real.

He means it. Every cracked, ugly syllable.

Doflamingo leans in, forehead pressed to yours. His breath is shallow. The dreamspace pulses, heavy with heat and gravity, like the air before a storm.

And then, you feel it. The tether. Glowing between you. Not frayed. Not dim.

Alive.

“...You are the only thing in this whole rotten world that can never leave me.” He murmurs. “Even when you curse me. Even when you run. Even when you talk back like a little brat.”

His voice drops lower, rougher.

“You will not die.”

It’s not a plea. It’s a command. Solid. Blazing. Horrible. Intimate.

“Live, you idiot,” he breathes. “Live so I can keep loathing you properly.”

And then you wake with a gasp.

Blood on your tongue. A gash across your shoulder. Screams in the distance. The world shuddered back into motion.

Age 20:

It’s the year he takes over Dressrosa. Crowned de facto king after what the papers cheerfully call a “peaceful transition of power.” You snort into your tea and accidentally choke.

Peaceful, your ass.

The article is accompanied by a photo of him on the palace balcony, looking like a war criminal in designer shades, surrounded by confetti and terrified nobles. There’s a quote, too, of course. Something bland and regal. You don’t read it. You don’t need to.

Because you already know what he said to you.

You’ve been getting little psychic postcards all week. And by postcards, you mean whispered threats with the cadence of a marriage proposal.

“Did you know I rewrote the laws of Dressrosa? Guess whose name is outlawed now? It starts with yours.” He’s such a smug braggart. “The throne’s missing something. I think it’s you.”

You set the paper down.

He’s a king now.

You grab your emergency mental foghorn.

Time to pretend you’ve never heard of wine, or thrones, or—God forbid—him.

He’s quieter now, which is worse. Before, he was noise incarnate: arrogant laughter and swaggering monologues, honeyed venom laced with entitlement. The man once used magical thread powers to dramatically soliloquize from the top of a castle. Subtlety was not in his vocabulary.

But lately?

He doesn’t scream anymore. He studies you.

The tether hums faintly, the bond never broken, just waiting. He tracks your moods like a cartographer of storms; silent, focused, and unnervingly accurate. He tracks your emotional rhythms like clockwork.

“Sad today. Tried cooking yesterday and got hurt. Maybe a burn.”

He speaks to no one in particular when it happens. Sometimes aloud. Sometimes just into the smoke. He reconstructs your voice with surgical precision. Imagines the expressions you’d make. Catalogs the things you hate about him, and commits them to memory like a prayer.

The bond has become something of an altar that he’s decided is holy. And you are extremely concerned about what a man like Donquixote Doflamingo qualifies as holy.

"I’ll find you eventually, cariño. You’re the only good thing the world gave me. You’re mine. You know that, right?"

And the worst part?

You feel it.

That subtle tug in your chest. That phantom ache whenever he’s angry. Or restless. Or, God help you, lonely. It drags through your ribcage like ghost wire, cold and aching.

“Speak to me. Scream at me. Hate me. I’ll take anything. Just don’t go silent.”

He sends thoughts now like love letters. Each one is worse than the last.

“Today, I stabbed a man for snoring. Thinking of you.”

They arrive unannounced, like bad weather. No lead-up. No apology. Just violent declarations scrawled across your sanity.

“Put something nice on. I’m fantasizing.” 

You eat plain soup with the fury of someone at war. You meditate like it’s a hostage negotiation. You sob quietly into Pancake, your frog plushie, the noble, bug-eyed witness to your ongoing psychological siege.

He hums. Softly. Like this isn’t deeply unhinged.

Pancake stares with you. Both of you silently scream.

You won’t give in. You are almost certain of that. But he is utterly convinced that one day you will tell him your name and location.

Because in his mind, you are his one and only buddy, his unfortunate soulmate with amazing thighs and a frankly heroic capacity for ignoring him. A rare combination of mental fortitude, dry wit, and bottomless resistance.

You will not break. 

You are not okay. 

But you are very, very stubborn. 

And that? He loves it. Horrifically. Loudly. Forever. Whether you like it or not.

Age 21:

The bathroom mirror had seen better days. So had you.

You scrubbed at your face with a rag that smelled faintly of mildew and mint, the water in the basin lukewarm and flecked with soap scum. Another bad day. Another town. Another name that wasn’t yours.

You were tired. Tired of hiding, tired of fake papers and muddy boots, tired of planning your meals like military operations. Most of all, you’re just tired of him.

It had been quiet lately. No jeering laughter in your skull. No flippant commentary on your soup obsession or your thoughts about frogs in hats or emotional potatoes. No psychic eyerolls during thunderstorms. Just... silence. The kind that made your skin itch.

So, naturally, your guard was haywire. You weren’t thinking. That was the problem.

You were just muttering to yourself under your breath as you scrubbed your teeth, watching your own reflection with the dull detachment of someone who hadn’t slept properly in three nights.

You’ve been mentally torturing him for years with soup, barnacle trivia, and passive-aggressive Gregorian chants. You once forced-fed him an hour-long internal monologue about sock fabrics while he was bleeding out in a back alley.

You assume—correctly, logically, reasonably—that Donquixote Doflamingo does not care.

About you.

Not in the way that would suggest softness or sentiment or any of the dangerous, thorned things that curl beneath skin and root themselves in a soul. No, he couldn’t possibly. Because you, regrettably, have heard him.

All of him.

It had started years ago, quiet at first, like a radio signal caught on a wind current. A glimpse. A murmur. Then, louder. Uninvited. Unfiltered. 

You learned quickly that soulbond telepathy had no dignity. That whatever cruel cosmic force tethered you to him had zero concept of personal space. Because sometimes, far too often, his mind was a midnight broadcast of sins, and you were the poor soul caught holding the receiver.

He had liaisons. Frequent. Loud. Ridiculously vivid. And you? You had trauma.

There were nights you sat rigid in bed, pillow over your face, trying not to hear the way he rasped breathless curses against someone else's neck. Days when your tea cooled untouched, as laughter and heat flooded your senses without consent. You once hurled a ceramic vase at the wall with such force that it cracked the plaster. He’d been particularly loud that morning. Your earlobes burned for hours.

So yes.

Of course, you assume he’s not all that committed to you.

You are the unwanted intrusion, the irritating frequency in his head that he forgot to mute. Background static. A parasite in his private thoughts. The gremlin soulmate who haunts his subconscious like a tax he never agreed to pay.

You’re just a loose thread in a coat he can’t burn. He’s only mentally present to torment you. To twist the tether. To punish you with psychic echoes of things that were never meant for you. That’s what you tell yourself. Over and over.

The moment you think that thought, clear as day, halfway through brushing teeth, a little smug even:

 “Thank god he doesn’t actually like me.”

Oh, sweetheart. If your future self could reach across time, she would gently touch your shoulder, look into your wide, blinking eyes, and whisper:

“You poor, sweet dumbass.”

Because you really believed it, didn’t you? That you were just a blip. A glitch in the psychic system. That Donquixote Doflamingo, flamboyant, feral, deeply unstable, disturbingly hot, was soul-bonded to you solely for the cosmic comedy of psychological torture. That he hated you. Loathed you. That his theatrics, his possessive taunts, his fixation were just funny little threats on the wind.

And sure. Fair. Who wouldn’t think that?

Turns out, you were wrong. 

Because the second that thought escapes your brain and the traitorous spark of relief formalizes, it happens.

You feel it. That awful, molasses-thick psychic presence slithering in like tar. Familiar. Claustrophobic. Saturated with heat and silk and something unhinged. He’s there.

Not in body. In mind. Sudden. Vivid. Uninvited. Like someone kicked the door to your soul off its hinges and waltzed inside, horrified.

A stunned silence stretches across the bond.

Then, his voice. Low. Icy. Coiled with disbelief.

“…Excuse me?”

You froze mid-brush, hand hovering near your mouth, foam dangling precariously from your lips. You blinked at your reflection like it had betrayed you.

Then came the second blow:

“What the fuck did you just say?”

Not playful. Not smug. Not even his usual theater-kid villain tone. No. He sounded offended. Personally. Existentially.

“You think—after all this—you think I don’t want to have sex with you?”

Your stomach dropped. The toothbrush slid from your fingers and bounced off the sink like it was abandoning ship.

“You think I’ve been putting up with you—you—for eighteen goddamn years, because I don’t want to fuck you?”

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out. 

He wasn’t finished.

“You soup-brained, nightmare-spitting, telepathic sewer imp—I’ve been edged for YEARS. You think I like being haunted by the one person on the planet who moans over lentils and emotionally blue-balls me with Gregorian chant every time I so much as breathe horny?”

“You’re insane,” you whispered, horrified.

“You’re gonna find out just how insane.”

You scrambled, desperate for deflection, decency, distance. You conjured oatmeal, the blandest thought you could find. You tried to imagine beige walls. Beige carpet. Beige feelings.

He bulldozed through it like a freight train made of silk and sin.

“Oh, baby. I wanted you to hear.”

You sputtered something unwell. Something about revenge. About him being a melodramatic megalomaniac. About loud, pornographic payback that starred women who weren’t you.

Your mind flinched to the image he’d wanted you to see:

Him sprawled across a massive bed, silk sheets rumpled and half-ruined. A woman tangled around him, moaning, gasping, her nails dragging down his chest— And he wasn’t even looking at her. 

He groaned for you.

He was achingly loud now.. 

Loud in that specific, dangerous way that meant he was pacing. Shirtless. Furious. Possibly throwing furniture. Possibly hard.

“You don’t think I’ve noticed?” he hissed, sharp and unbearable in your skull. “How your thoughts stall when I’m mid-thrust? How you go weirdly quiet when I face-fuck someone else? Like you’re trying not to care?”

You fought it. Clawed your way toward denial. You summoned soup. Rats in hats. Potato Fashion Week. You mentally described an entire monologue about barnacle society hierarchy.

He burned through it like God’s wrath in Gucci sunglasses.

“Every time you tried to tune me out, I got harder,” he growled. “You’ve been teasing me through sheer neglect, you evil little hellspawn.”

You clapped your hands over your ears, as if that would help. It didn’t.

“You thought you were winning. You thought I was suffering.”

A pause. A dangerous, inhale-through-the-nose, hands-on-hips kind of pause.

“You were right. But now, we are going to fuck. Hard.”

You tried to flee. You slammed mental doors. You summoned the cabbage soliloquy. The potato sock puppet. The ancient barnacle god of taxes. You tried to think of Law doing taxes in his hat.

He crushed it. All of it. Left nothing but the echo of silk sheets and chaos.

You curled up like a dying spider. “We are not—”

His voice slithered back in, slow and thick and molten:

“Yes, we are. On principle. Out of spite. For science. And because I’m going to make you say my real name while you cry about it, you mouthy little headache.”

You fell off the bed.

Audibly.

Painfully.

He laughed. Deep. Loud. Triumphant. A king reclaiming a throne made of your shame.

“You don’t get to deny me for half a decade and walk away,” he purred. “Congratulations, cariño. You’re the most effective form of torture I’ve ever known. Now tell me where you are and I’ll ruin your life properly.”

You stared at the wall like it had betrayed you. Like it knew.

The tile didn’t answer. It offered no help.

Doflamingo pressed harder. Slower. With the precision of a sadist and the flair of a poet.

You snap.

“You’re just trying to scare me.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “But I’m not lying.”

There was a pause. You could feel the smirk stretch across his words.

And then, Oh. Oh no.

You felt it.

A vision slammed into your mind like a lightning strike: His body pinning yours to a bed that smelled of sea salt and ruin. Your mouth swollen, your throat bitten raw, his coat long discarded and forgotten. His voice—low, ruined, reverent—rasping against your ear:

“Still think I don’t want you now?”

You gasped. Out loud. 

You slammed into the sink. Everything fell. Everything betrayed you. You clutched the counter like it might save you.

But he wasn’t done. Not even close.

“You’re mine, cariño. You just haven’t admitted it yet.”

The words slithered through your thoughts like silk dipped in sin; warm, invasive, and slow.

Heat flared at the base of your spine, sharp as a struck match, then climbed, curling upward in a slow, unbearable arc. You felt it before you could brace for it: phantom fingers beneath your chin. Telepathic, but too detailed. Too real. Too practiced.

He was in your head, and he was enjoying it.

“Let me clarify, cariño. I want to destroy you. Gently. Then humiliate you. Slowly. Then maybe tie a pretty little bow around your throat and make you say ‘mine.’”

You tasted static. Your thoughts short-circuited.

“POTATO SOUP. POTATO SOUP. POTATO SOUP—” You screamed it mentally, like a desperate exorcism. He laughed.

Low. Rich. Cruel.

He purred.

The bond vibrated, pulsing like a live wire too close to water. You slammed every mental door you could think of, but now, it didn’t quite close right. Something lingered. A thread, frayed and glowing. Still connected. Still feeling.

“You fucking String Cheese Menace! I’m being mentally violated by your interpretive telepathy porn.”

He laughed again. Louder. Prouder. Like you’d just handed him your diary and dared him to read it at a gala.

“String Cheese Menace? That’s new.” His voice oozed amusement. “You’re more obsessed with my name than I am, cariño. Keep going. I like it when you think about me.”

God, you were going to need stronger soup. Soup infused with holy water. Soup boiled under a blood moon and stirred with the bones of your dignity.

Because now, every time your mind even drifts near him, you hear it:

“Make sure you stretch— I’m big.”

And you do. Oh, you do. Too well. Too clearly. Too viscerally.

You will never emotionally recover from the sheer unholy clarity of that lesson.

And worse, no one else will ever understand.

Not a single soul on this cursed, spinning rock has woken up to the sultry, baritone voice of a wanted war criminal calling them “darling” before listing six assassination techniques like bedtime affirmations. They don’t dream of velvet-draped throne rooms, where their trauma lounges like a king in mirrored sunglasses, sipping wine and smirking like the devil’s prom date.

And all you can do, all you ever seem to do, is sigh. The long-suffering kind. The kind of sigh someone makes when told their spine could straighten if they just imagined choking a monarch.

Somewhere—far away but never far enough—you feel him lean back. Not smug. Not triumphant. Just satisfied. Coiled like a serpent. Smiling. Plotting.

“Goodnight, cariño,” he says, soft as sin. “Dream of me.”

Age 22: 

It was supposed to be a quiet stop. Just a sleepy little port, the kind that existed in soft sepia, where sea salt clung to the windows and everything smelled faintly of fish and too-sweet tobacco. A place full of rusted signs, loose cats, and old men who argued over card games they'd long since forgotten how to win.

You ducked into the crooked little newspaper shack half out of habit. The man behind the counter didn’t look up. You flipped through the headlines with the disinterest of someone who’s seen too much already; another Sea King attack, another explosion in the Grand Line, another scandal involving a Yonko’s lover and a talking bird.

And then you saw it. One name. Bold print.

“Rising In the North Blue: TRAFALGAR LAW of the Heart Pirates!”

You stared at the paper.

Your hand stilled.

No. No, that couldn’t be.

You remembered him. Not in color, not in clarity, but in blips of memory. Through Doflamingo’s thoughts, years ago. Blurry. Raw. Half-digested with fury. He had a fatal disease or something. 

“The brat. My brother’s final, pathetic pet project.”

You’d seen fragments of Law. A coat wrapped too large around too-small shoulders. A boy shivering in the dark, his breath visible in the cold. The way he hid behind Corazón like the sun was too bright, and the world too cruel.

You close the paper gently, fingers trembling just a little. And you whisper to the wind, like the secret might vanish if you say it too loud:

“Interesting.”

Later that night, curled up in the narrow bed of your too-small rented room where the walls are thin and the blankets smell like soap and sea, you try not to think.

But the bond stirs anyway. It’s not loud. Not demanding. It creeps in softly. Like a slow, stalking tide. Like blood blooming beneath bandages.

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

He hears your thoughts anyway. He always does.

“You heard, then.” His voice slides in; velvet and acid, sweet and scalding in the same breath. “The little roach crawled out of the grave after all.”

You flinch. Not at the words. The way he says them with that half-smile. That gnawing, sick amusement laced with something older. Sharper.

You’d been thinking about Law more than you meant to. Not constantly. Not in the big, bold thoughts Doflamingo could pounce on.

But in the spaces between. The pauses between breaths. The quiet just before sleep. Little thoughts. Half-formed. Careful.

A boy in the snow. A brother’s shaking hands. A ghost that chose to live.

You didn’t mean to send that thought through the tether. You really didn’t. It had just slipped out, quiet and instinctive, like an exhale after too many years holding your breath.

“Is he okay? He made it farther than anyone thought. I should find him.”

It wasn’t a declaration. It wasn’t even fully formed. Just a passing flicker of concern in the fog of your own mind, a warm memory brushed with frost. But the bond caught it anyway. Like static on a line, it jumped the circuit and lit up something you had tried for years to keep buried.

The response was immediate.

The world around you—brimming with late market noise, fish vendors shouting, tarps flapping in the ocean wind—seemed to pull back, muffled like cotton stuffed in your ears.

And then, with a slow, dangerous precision:

“What?”

The voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It slithered into your mind like smoke curling under a locked door; sweet, poisonous, and possessive. You froze, mid-step. One hand hovered over a basket of oranges.

You didn’t say anything aloud. But he felt your stillness. And that was enough.

“Say it again.” He demanded.

You clenched your jaw. Willed yourself to breathe. The market moved on without you, unaware, uncaring. Somewhere nearby, a child laughed. A bell rang. A gull screamed over the dock. The sea went on breathing.

“You’re thinking of finding him.”

It wasn’t a question.

It was a blade against your ribs, too casual to be anything but deliberate.

You resumed walking, slow and even, like you hadn’t just had your mind cracked open like a chest. The tether burned faintly behind your eyes: hot, expectant.

“You think he’d want to see you?” His voice curled around the thought like smoke around a blade; low, bitter, brimming with something too sharp to be jealousy. “My brother’s betrayal? The boy who ran from everything?” A pause, thin and cruel. “He wouldn’t know you from a toadstool.”

You kept walking. But the words sank their claws in.

Those were memories Doflamingo never meant to share. Too soft to hold onto, too vivid to forget. And they’d stayed with you, lodged in the back of your mind like splinters that never stopped aching.

His voice slid back in, cruel and smug.

“Is that what you’re doing now? Looking for my strays? Trying to replace me with a broken little pirate in a hat?”

Ah.

That made you stop right in the middle of the street. People moved around you like water, like you weren’t even there. You exhaled slowly. Then, with deliberate cheer:

“Bet he’d let me join his crew. Trauma solidarity. Anti-Doflamingo Alliance. He seems serious. Has a hat.”

The tether snapped taut.

And on the other end, Doflamingo seethed.

For a moment, you almost believed he was gone, until the pressure returned, sharp and glittering like glass ground into your spine.

“Don’t joke.”

He didn’t say it with humor. Not the usual oily lilt. This was raw. Unfiltered.

You felt it in your teeth.

So you doubled down.

“Why not? He looks like he has a dental plan. Bet he’d give me a crew jacket. Maybe even a title. ‘Executive of Not Taking Your Shit.’”

“You think this is funny?”

The fury came first—searing and immediate—but underneath it, curled like smoke in a cold hearth, was something quieter. Older. It wasn’t anger. Not really. It was fear. That sharp, desperate edge only someone like him could mask beneath silk and swagger.

You felt it. Not just through the bond, but in your ribs, in the subtle ache of your sternum. A pressure. A presence.

You tilted your head inward, tone clipped with practiced nonchalance.

“Everything’s funny when you’re not the one screaming in my head about ‘mandatory silk dresses’ and outlawing my name. Law already feels like a better conversationalist.”

The bond stuttered. Not frayed, not fragile, but destabilized. Like a tightrope in high wind. For a split second, the air around you changed; thick with salt, with ozone, with the kind of tension that cracks before a lightning strike.

“Are you out of your soup-stained, morally confused, freeloader mind?” His voice whipped through your skull, raw and incredulous. “You’re thinking of joining him over me?”

And there it was. The truth of his upset.

He was jealous. 

Instead, you looked up at the overcast sky, let the wind brush your cheek, and replied flatly, “It’s just a thought.”

He snarled.

“It’s betrayal.”

You shrugged, walking through the crowded street like your chest wasn’t being hijacked by an overgrown warlord having an emotional meltdown.

“It’s a job application.”

“You think that little cretin could protect you?” Doflamingo’s voice dropped lower, venomous now. “He’s playing pirate. I am a Warlord.”

You exhaled through your nose. 

“Yeah, but he doesn’t whisper in my brain when I’m trying to sleep. He doesn’t threaten potential boyfriends with crucifixion. He doesn’t refer to himself in the third person like a shirtless megalomaniac. Also, he has a doctor’s license.”

Doflamingo went disturbingly quiet, like a parent realizing their credentials weren’t quite as shining as they hoped. You’d learned long ago that his silence meant he was either plotting murder or branding. Planning. Wounded, maybe. Plotting revenge, definitely.

When he spoke again, it was quiet. Too quiet.

“He wouldn’t even like you.”

You smiled at a passing bird, the gesture almost sweet.

“We’re both tired, emotionally repressed, and have the same war criminal ex. We’d get along great.”

The bond hissed.

Then—like steam escaping a long-forgotten vent—came his voice, half-laughing, half-breathless.

“You little gremlin. You manipulative, soul-linked, absolute goblin. You want to use my trauma bond to run away and hide. You’re trying to network through my villain arc.”

You grinned.

“Glad you’re catching up, Doffy.”

You said it with a smirk, like a wink through the static. You could practically feel him pacing somewhere. Probably high on that gaudy throne of his in Dressrosa, rage-fluffing his ridiculous feathered coat like an over-caffeinated bird, trying to figure out if he could legally declare war on your intentions.

“I’ll kill him.”

“You say that a lot.”

“This time I mean it.”

“Okay, bet.”

Silence.

Sharp-edged, sulking silence.

Which, frankly, counted as a win.

You kicked your boots up onto the windowsill of your rented inn room, letting the afternoon sun warm your ankles while you mentally drafted your pirate résumé. Just in case. Because if Law would let you aboard? You’d be packed by nightfall. You had stolen pineapple bread, sourced from a dubious window seal.

Of course, you’d make it poetic.

“Dear Captain Trafalgar, handsome Law—please find enclosed my trauma credentials—”

The bond twitched.

And from wherever he was—in a tower, in a throne room, in the pit of his own frustration—Doflamingo swore.

Low. Measured. Dangerous.

“…You're not funny.”

“I’m hilarious,” you said airily, licking pineapple glaze off your thumb, “and your coat agrees. I bet Law agrees as well.”

Another pause. And then, something quieter.

Doflamingo exhaled.

Low. Long. Final.

Like the sound a monster makes when it decides it’s done playing dead. Like a beast surfacing. Like something ancient remembering its hunger.

You froze.

The bond didn’t shiver—it shifted, like something had turned to face you from the dark.

“Okay.” 

That was all. Just that. With enough conviction to be concerning.

The bread went slack in your fingers. Your stomach dropped like a cannonball. 

“Okay, what?” you asked, slow and suspicious.

“It’s time,” he repeated, voice syrup-slick and filled with rot.

“Pardon?” You stopped chewing.

“Run. Hide. Cross the Grand Line backwards for all I care. I am going to hunt you down.”

Mid-bite, mid-thought, mid-life crisis. The pineapple bread turned to sawdust in your mouth.

“Nope.” You said aloud, with the conviction of someone denying reality on principle. “Absolutely not. We don’t belong in the same sea, much less the same island. I have boundaries. And brain rights. And possibly a strong future in privateering—”

“You did this to yourself, brat. You’ve refused to meet, refused to even give me your name. You just threatened to share pillow talk with another man. Prepare yourself for the consequences of your actions.” 

A beat.

“You’re near the Red Line, aren’t you?”

You grabbed the pineapple bread, your coat, and your dignity (what little remained), and ran. But it was too late. You felt it deep down, threaded through your spine, your heartbeat, the air around you, like barbed wire laced through every bone in your body.

-X- End Part Two -X-

[bunnyclawzz]

Okai hear me out. Nerd mark, he has a HUGE crush on you, like, HUGE. He's been in love with you since you're both like 12, but he has never talked to you since he's too shy. Now, he gets his power, getting a lil bit confident and realize that he can steal whatever he wants from your room when you're sleeping/not in your house

What stuff the different warrants would take from your room? How would they use it? Would they return it? 👀

Haii!! I was like, dying for a request like this because I know Mark is a weird little freak!! I haven’t written lengthy smut in a while so forgive me if this isn’t written too well 😓 It’s a bit longer than I intended it to be but that’s whateverr

(˶' ꒳ '˶)

Warnings: Smut (not sex), clothes stealing, very freak/perv Mark, fem reader

Ever since he had first seen you back in middle school he's been head over heels. From day one he was completely enamored by you, he just did his best to hide his heart eyes for you...Which he always failed at doing.

He always watched from a distance like a stalker. Sitting in class admiring you year after year, eavesdropping on conversations just to hear your sweet voice, bumping into countless walls and people because he had been to distracted staring at you in the halls instead of paying attention to his surroundings. He knew had no chance of getting with you. Him, Mark Grayson, the guy who spends every Burger Mart paycheck on comics and collectibles dating you?? It's laughable! Then it happened. He finally got his powers after years of waiting for it to happen. He was of course ecstatic! He could fly, he got super strong,his stamina is so much better, he has enhanced senses!!

It took a long while for him to get used to it, of course. A lot of training and practicing to be a real hero. But as soon as he had it all under control? Being thee Invincible was the biggest ego boost ever. Becoming a hero, being on the news all the time, reporters practically begging to know more about him....it definitely made him confident. He would do extra long patrols just for the attention, just walking or flying wherever to "keep the city safe." Whilst on one of these extra long patrols he saw you. Nothing bad going on, just you walking home by yourself. Why would you ever do such a thing? You're so smart! You know what kind of things happen to people who walk alone late at night, so why would you even think to do it? He just can't have that! He had no option other than to walk you home safely! He loved how chatty you were the whole time, he doesn't even mind that the first time he gets a real conversation with you is as his hero persona

"What's it like fighting all the time?" "You seem so strong! Is it hard to workout and keep your strength? "What's flying like, it seems so fun to be able to do that!" All perfectly endearing questions which he Gladly answered for you as he walked beside you.

He got you home safely, walked you to the door and all like a real gentleman..and as soon as he realized he now knew exactly where you lived? Oh there was no stopping him and his stupid ideas. They stayed ideas at first! He didn't want to scare you by watching you from your window or sneaking in like he's been daydreaming about! But he could only fantasize so long before he acted on it.

It was as “normal” as stalking could be at first. Just watching your home from the sky-just to watch for any intruders, of course! What if someone tried to break in?! He had to be there to stop them! Just watching your home for at least an hour every day for five days. During that time he was able to pick up your schedule; when you left the house to go on a walk, or when you left to go shopping for hours on end, and how he noticed that you left your window open all the time. Yes, it’s just a small little crack, but honestly…you were practically inviting him inside with that.

Once he knew your home was completely empty, he flew down. He hesitated for a short second before he pushed the rest of your window open and slid inside. He was stunned for a moment. Your room really reflected you. All soft and sweetness. Just how he would imagine your room to be

He went to your bed first. Sat on your plush comforter like an awkward guest at first. It’s wrong, he thought to himself. What was he even doing in here? It’s gross really, why would anyone-and then he cuts his own thoughts short by shoving his face into your heart shaped pillow. He inhales deeply, practically huffing the thing. It smells just like you-his new heightened senses only help him. Smells just like you; from your hair products to your perfume and body oils/ perfume.

“Oh fuck….you can’t be real..” he murmured the words to himself between breathes, a hand already palming his bulge through the skin tight suit. “You can’t be human…such a f-fucking angel” he continued to speak to himself between breathes, his hand now clutching your still warm comforter as he grinds into your mattress. “Y-you smell so good-“ he murmured as if he was talking to you “-so perfect, baby” he groans as he tightens his hold on the pastel sheets. You already got him so close, nearing the edge from your sent alone, right about to tip over before he gasps and forces himself to sit up.

It’s wrong. Sneaking into his long term crushes room wad bad enough, but humping your bed was way too far!! He just felt so guilty about the thought of cumming in your room!

Unfortunately for you, that was only the first time he snuck in. The guilt and worry didn’t compare to the need and desperation he was feeling.

It became routine; waiting for your home to be empty, slipping inside, and perving around. The first few times he mainly just laid in your bed; daydreaming he was laying beside you, cuddling with you and not the pillow he held to his nose. The same one he began to hump and grind on after a week of sneaking in. Of course he didn’t only lay in your bed-you had so much other stuff to go through!

You’re vanity; all your pretty makeup, where you kept your perfume and where he would spray said perfume on his wrists so he could smell you even after he left. The closet where he would go through all your tops and bottoms, reminiscing about the first time he saw you in each article of clothing. You really do just have the prettiest outfits, don’t you? He’d gladly buy you more. Any little outfit and accessories you wanted as long as he got to watch you model them for him.

It became like a ritualistic schedule; Sneak in, lay in your bed, sniff nearly everything like a dog, go through your makeup, spray your perfume-But what really got him to act like a real pervert? The laundry basket.

He he didn’t do it at first. That first time he snuck in he completely avoided it. The second day though, the light brown wood container practically calling to him. Leaving it open that day with a pair of your used underwear at the top of the pile was practically an invite to Mark. When he took the dainty cloth out he whined. He stared at the garment with a pout. Who were you wearing these lacy panties for? Why do you even have something this pretty if it wasn’t for him? He had so many thoughts, so many that just got burrowed beneath his loudest thought.

He felt so guilty for using your used underwear like this. Yet he didn’t stop; Whining and moaning into your underwear, desperately licking at where your perfect cunt would have been-where he knew your fluids woukd leak out as he fists his cock on your bed. Using your lotion.

“B-Baabbyy..” he whines the nickname, huffing in your musky scent. He takes one more deep inhale of the flimsy lace before he moves it downwards onto his flushed dick. “P-please..god—You feel so good-“ He moans and moans over and over again till he can’t hear anything other than himself. It didn’t take long for him to cum, mouth hung open, whining and bucking his hips up as he pretty much ruined a pair of your fancy underwear. He pants heavily, looks like he just got out of a harsh fight with the way he was breathing. Once he came back to Earth, he pouts at the sight of your soiled underwear, he couldn’t just let this be a one time thing!

Over around two weeks you begin to notice more and more items of yours missing. Whining to your friends about how so much of your lotion is gone, how your soo sure that the washing machine is eating your underwear, how it’s weirdly warm and almost musky like in your room when you come home in the evening.

Just completely blissfully unaware that it’s your shy nerdy classmate Mark who’s sneaking into your room. How it’s him who’s using up so much of your lotion, who’s messing up your bedsheets and rummaging through all your items.

Or how it’s him stealing your used panties and shirts to sniff at while he jerks off just to imagine it’s really you in the room taking care of his needs.

[belli5]

Current Boyfriend .ᐟ ೀWS²

╰ Synopsis doing the current boyfriend prank on Will, because you know how tiny bit sensitive he gets when it comes to you.

Tags/contains Fluff, Will Smith x fem!reader, kissing, light angst(barely, just a little pout), ion kno fr.

➺ from Sera, to you 📨. Genuinely had a bad day at work, people made me cry there today so I had to come back to my people.. 😭

masterlist ᥫ᭡ please reblog this fic if you enjoyed it! Please do NOT rewrite/repost my work anywhere else without permission!

When you stumbled across that video, the one where girlfriends film a video, then drop “my current boyfriend” like it’s the worlds most casual bomb, you can’t resist.

Especially because you know exactly how Will will react. He’s your softest boy, he tries to play it cool, laidback rookie, the half cocky smirk he gave you when he scores or teases you, but underneath all that? He’s sensitive, a little territorial, a tiny bit dramatic when it comes to you.

And you love it, every inch of it.

So here you are, sitting cross legged on the edge of your bed, scrolling through your phone with your bottom lip tucked between your teeth. The original sound is blasting through your AirPods.

You can already picture it: Will’s eyebrows doing that confused scrunch, the half smile dropping while he tries to figure out if you’re messing with him or actually about to break his heart for fun.

You giggle to yourself, which makes him stir, because, of course, he’s here. Sprawled out on his stomach, face mashed into your pillow, wearing nothing but his grey sweatpants and a black hoodie.

His hair is a fluffy mess from his post practice nap, and one of his arms dangles off the bed like he fell asleep mid reaching for you. He always does that and it kills you every time.

You glance at him, still asleep, dead to the world. Good, you’ll need a few minutes to plan this properly.

The idea forms faster than you want to admit, you’ll film it like a casual “get ready with me.” He loves helping you pick outfits when you’re going out, partly because he likes pretending to care about fashion, but mostly because he just wants an excuse to touch you while you’re half dressed.

So, you’ll give him exactly that.

About an hour later, you’ve showered and picked out three outfit options, and set your phone on your dresser across from the big mirror. The phone’s propped up perfectly for you both.

Will’s still in bed when you peek in. He’s awake now, but barely. Blinking at you with sleepy eyes, cheeks flushed from the nap. He lifts his head when you step inside.

“Where’d you go?” His voice is scratchy, a little grumpy which makes you melt.

“Shower,” you say sweetly, walking over to brush his hair off his forehead. He chases your fingers like a puppy, nuzzling your palm before grabbing your wrist and tugging you down for a lazy kiss.

“You smell good,” he mumbles.

“You drooled on my pillow.”

“‘S your fault,” he defends, eyes already fluttering shut again. “Your bed’s too comfortable.”

You poke his shoulder. “Come help me pick an outfit.”

He cracks one eye open. “For what?”

You hum, feigning casual, “We’re going on a date.”

That perks him up instantly. He shifts onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow. “We are?”

“Mhm.”

He tries to hide how excited that makes him, but you see it. He always lights up when you say ‘date.’ It doesn’t matter if it’s the fanciest restaurant in San Jose or a walk to the gas station at midnight for ice cream.

He pretends to grumble anyway, flopping back dramatically. “You’re making me get up?”

“Yes, you baby,” you tease, tugging at his hoodie. “Come on, Will. Up. You can watch me change.”

That gets him. He’s up in five seconds, hair sticking up in every direction. He kisses your cheek again before dragging himself to where your phone is set up.

Perfect. You start recording before he realizes.

“Hey guys,” you say sweetly, smiling at the camera as you smooth down your hair. In the phone camera, Will’s behind you, half awake, arms crossed, watching you with a dopey grin. “So, tonight me and my current boyfriend are going on a little date, and I thought he could help me decide what to wear.”

“Current what?” His voice cuts in, sharper than you expected. You almost lose it immediately, your shoulders shake, but you keep your smile locked in.

You pretend not to hear. “Anyway, I have three dresses I’m thinking about. One’s this cute black one—”

“Babe,” he interrupts again. He steps closer into frame, his reflection now clear over your shoulder. His brows are pinched, lips parted. “Did you just say current boyfriend?”

You tap your lip. “Hm?”

He leans in, squinting at the camera like he misheard. “Current boyfriend? What does that mean?”

You shrug, batting your lashes. “What do you mean?”

He scoffs, a soft, incredulous laugh. “You just said current. Why would you say that? Are you planning on trading me in or something?”

“Will—”

“No, no,” he says, stepping fully behind you now, arms circling your waist like he’s staking a claim. “Say it again.”

You glance at the camera lens. “Guys—”

“Nope,” he interrupts, burying his face in your neck for a second. You feel him smile against your skin, but when he pulls back his pout is dead serious. “Explain.”

You try to hold it together. “Well… you are my current boyfriend.”

His jaw drops, eyes wide. He looks like you just told him you were moving to the moon. “Current?”

“Yeah.”

“Like… temporary?”

You bite your lip, shoulders shaking. “I mean..”

“Oh, wow.” He looks directly at the camera now, eyes narrowed. “Are you hearing yourself?So, what, you’re gonna— what, go find a new Will? Upgrade?”

You snort. “Not another Will.”

His mouth falls open again. He shakes his head dramatically, hair flopping. “You’re joking, right?”

You can’t hold it in anymore. You double over laughing, pressing a hand to his chest to steady yourself as he tries to hide his wounded expression behind a fake scowl.

“It’s a prank, Will.” you wheeze out between giggles. “It’s a TikTok trend! Girls say ‘current boyfriend’ to see how their boyfriend reacts—”

“You’re filming me looking stupid?” He cuts in.

“You’re so dramatic—”

“Current,” he mocks, voice all high pitched now, arms squeezing you tighter against him. “Like I’m just a trial version.”

You wiggle, trying to break free. “Will—”

“No, come here.” He buries his face in your shoulder again, mumbling nonsense about “disrespect” and “betrayal” while you giggle helplessly.

[paulyenvol6]

Falling For You

Based on this request. Once again, I still haven't watched Materialists, (I will soon though) so please don't be upset if you think I didn't write Harry very movie-accurately. Enjoy :)

Contains: fluff, kissing, very sweet and attentive Harry, age gap (late 20s and 45), mentions of reader's mother's death (I don't know why this got kind of dark suddenly lol), reader and Harry were set up by Lucy, first date awkwardness

Wordcount: 7,239

Masterlist

"Don't worry. I promise you, I thought about this long and thorough."

You chuckled because you didn't know what else to do.

"It's the perfect match. You just wait and get to know him and I'm sure the two of you are going to vibe."

"Thank you," you forced your lips to curl into a smile and briefly touched Lucy's arm.

"For what?"

"For meeting up with me again today."

She chuckled, returning the smirk and then staring down the street.

"No problem. But I gotta go now. You got this, okay? Be yourself because that's what he's gonna like you for and best of luck."

Lucy threw back her thick brown hair, her white teeth blinding you as she gave you a movie-like hollywood smile.

"Thank you," you replied, but felt very small all of a sudden.

Within seconds the lively matchmaker had disappeared into the hustle and bustle of New York City which made you realise that there was nothing left to do now but walk the few feet to the café where Harry and you had decided to meet up. You would have liked nothing more than to trap Lucy in another conversation about something meaningless just so you could postpone the imminent date for another five minutes, but now that Lucy had vanished, that option had faded away as well.

It wasn't like you were always like this when it came to dating. There was a reason why you had approached New York City's best matchmaker in desperate need to be set up with your perfect soul mate. And you were fond of Lucy, you had been content with the two men you had already been on dates with even though they hadn't worked out. Yet, you had realised that Lucy was good at her job and seemed to have a delicate sensitivity for finding suitable counterparts for you, so you sincerely trusted her. And you wanted to trust her with this. Even though it sounded so wrong in your head.

A 45 year old man, someone who was almost twice your age. It wasn't appropriate and neither had you ever had any particular interest in man much older than you. Would you even be able to find topics both of you were into? Would you be able to have pleasant conversation with such a gap – both metaphorically and age-related? You felt the insecurity in every muscle of your body, a worried crease between your brows that you weren't able to straighten even when you were standing right in front of the café. The rational part of you still wanted to give this a shot though. You were here already so why not at least use the time to explore this yet very strange man? If things would end up being horrible between the two of you, you could still flee the scene with some lame excuse and never see him again.

You were brutally ripped from your thoughts at the sound of a pair of shoes dragging over the stoney sideway, but it was just an elderly woman walking a small dog. The faint hint of hot anger was already thundering up your throat when a quick glance at your phone made you realise that it wasn't even past 3:50pm yet so Harry still had more than 10 minutes. You stopped in the motion, staring at your phone screen and furrowing your brow.

I wonder if he even has a phone? He was 45, so that meant that he was born in… 1980. He had already been in his adulthood when it had become normal for people to use a phone in their daily life so what if he was some retro, bitter man who refused any kind of new technology? You knew that you were being unfair, even your own mother had a phone and you didn't even know this man yet. More so, Lucy had set the two of you up, so there must be something connecting you.

You spun around at yet another noise behind you and this time stared into a pair of brown, hazel eyes. Beautiful, intense deer eyes that had small little wrinkles around them as the man they belonged to smiled at you.

"You must be y/n. Hi. Harry Castillo, very nice to meet you."

He offered you his hand, which you took with a trembling hand, but your mind was somewhere else. You were in awe of him because he might be much older than you, but he was gorgeous. Black, thick, wavy hair that was perfectly messy yet organized. A mustache and a beard stubble that looked neatly trimmed and well maintained. As for clothes, you were more than satisfied. Harry wore plain black trousers with a beige linen button up shirt that was just tight enough around his arms to show off the broadness of his shoulders, but wasn't too obvious either.

"Hi," you said, still caught off guard because you certainly hadn't expected him to be that good-looking – despite the pictures Lucy had shown you. They hadn't done him any justice, you now came to realise.

"I'm y/n. Nice to meet you."

The smile you gave him was genuine, not that you didn't have any doubts about the age gap now, but his appearance was nice. Not strange, not unattainable, not lacking in style or elegance. He definitely wasn't what you had imagined a 45 year old man to look like. Harry now gestured to the door of the café, a friendly grin playing around his lip that made him look even younger.

"Should we go in?"

You gave him a nod, grabbing the door handle and only barely catching it due to your weak hands.

"After you," he lowly made and then stepped inside behind you.

You hadn't been to this specific café before, but what could go wrong with an iced matcha? Harry staunchly approached a waiter, putting his hands in his front pocket and raised his voice against the roaring chattering and laughter.

"Hi, I reserved a table for two on the name Castillo."

You didn't hear the waiter's reply, but quickly followed when the man pointed toward a more quiet corner of the café.

"Here you go," he spoke, taking the small papery nameplate and gesturing to the chairs.

"Please."

Harry turned toward you as to make sure you had found your way and then pulled a chair back for you to sit down. To say that you were surprised was an understatement.

"Oh, thank you," you said, but quickly realised that you had to speak louder in this environment. Well, next time then.

Harry took his seat across the table, folding his hands in front of him once the two of you had gotten comfortable and watching you through warm eyes.

"It's very nice to meet you. Lucy raved about you the last time I spoke to her and so I was very eager to finally get to know you."

You chuckled, nervously playing with the salt shaker before dropping your gaze.

"Oh how she praised you. I almost started to feel like I was about to, I don't know, meet a celebrity."

"I hope I'm not a disappointment then," Harry said, pursing his lips and crossing his legs under the table.

"Not at all."

"So what do you do, y/n? Tell me about you and help me figure out why Lucy believed that she found a match made in heaven."

You bit on your lower lip, the bubbling in your stomach much more pleasant now than just a few minutes ago.

"I work as a journalist at the new york post."

"Oh really? Wow. A journalist…" Harry grinned, face twisting almost like he was amused about something, but he didn't say anything else.

"Yes. Honestly, it's the best job I've ever had. And I've had some."

"Tell me more."

You scoffed, shrugging with your shoulders and leaning back in your chair with a newfound calmness, which was unusual because usually it took two or three dates before you felt at peace around a stranger.

"I did a lot of different stuff. I don't know, growing up I – I guess I was the kind of person who never felt like they've found their passion. I always liked writing, but it never occurred to me that this could ever be my job. So I studied physics – weird, I know – but it was a pain. Let me tell you. I just instantly realised that this wasn't my thing, but instead of making the right decision and doing something else, I suffered through it without ever feeling satisfied. It was strange 'cause my life was moving on, I… I got closer and closer to graduating and really starting my life, but I didn't feel like I was changing or taking large steps. I felt like I was stuck at this point and hadn't done anything even when I finished college with a degree in physics. It didn't feel like I had moved. And then I had a million job interviews, and some firms offered me positions that I all rejected. Today I know that this was because it just wasn't my thing so I wasn't interested in any of these jobs, but back then I just thought that a better one would come."

It was now that you realised that you had been talking much too long and how strange it must be to tell your life's story in your second sentence. But stopping now would only make it worse so you would have to finish it. Fast.

"Anyways, I lived like that for a year, working in cafés and bars until I actually accepted a position at a research institute, but I didn't make it there long. On a random Tuesday evening I realised that I bascially wasted the past four years of my life and decided to change everything. So I quit my job, went back to college and studied journalism. And it was the best decision of my life."

You took a deep breath, but avoided his gaze. Did he think that you were crazy now? You had just poured out your heart and talked for two minutes without giving him the chance to ask a single question. He might think that you were a yapper and that you wouldn't give him the opportunity to tell anything about himself. Should you ask him something back now? Maybe what he was doing or – or –

"Oh I see. You really have a history then. I can't believe I'm not only sitting across a physicist, but also a journalist for the new york post. How am I supposed to say anything without feeling intimidated?"

You laughed it off, but instantly felt relieved. Him making jokes was a good sign, right? Maybe he wasn't completely put off by your oversharing.

"Oh please don't. I forgot about half of the stuff I learned about physics anyway. All I might be able to explain to you is the double-slit experiment. I always liked quantum mechanics the most."

You stopped, shaking your head and twisting your lips into an apologetic smirk.

"But I'm sorry, I don't wanna waste your time with physics, oh god."

You genuinely felt bad, the nervous quivering in your chest area returning, but Harry just briefly brushed with his palm over the back of your hand that was resting on the table.

"It's okay. I don't mind it. You're definitely not wasting my time. Especially because you seem to have a very interesting history."

Your eyes lit up, but nonetheless you decided to take matters into your hand and find out more about him now.

"What about you? What do you do and what's your life's history?"

Harry exhaled, making you think that you had said something wrong for an instant, but then he tilted his head.

"It's definitely not as exciting or vibrant as yours. I'm in finance and it's just as boring as it sounds. What can I say, I studied economics at the NYU and then pretty quickly found a job at an investment bank, but then didn't really feel fulfilled there, I guess. So when I was 29 or 30 I think, I found myself a new position."

"And are you happy with it now?" you wanted to know, but were interrupted by the waiter.

"Can I bring you something?" the young man smiled and then proceeded to take your orders which consisted of two cappuccinos.

Once he was gone, Harry picked up right where you had left off.

"Yeah, I'm happy. I'm not ruling out the thought of… I don't know, working somewhere else at some point in my life, but as of now, I'm content."

Harry shrugged, thoughtfully twisting his lips before leaning forward.

"May I mention that you're wearing beautiful earrings? I noticed them immediately, but didn't want this to be the first thing I say, so… They're stunning."

You instantly blushed, heat rushing to your cheeks and you felt your heart thump in your chest.

"Thank you, I'm so glad you noticed. I actually did them myself."

"Oh really? You're into crafting?"

You involuntarily played with the hanging earrings, made of a silver spiral and three small beads in various blue tones above on each side.

"Yes. I love making my own jewelery. I even tried myself with clothing but my talent doesn't extend that far. It's good for making presents though. I'm the most uncreative person ever, so when I have no idea at all I just make a pair of earrings or a bracelet or necklace."

"That's so cool. Is this self-made as well?" Harry spoke, reaching for your silver bracelet and briefly tracing the chain and the single rubin pendant.

"No, unfortunately not. This is old, a family heirloom. I got it from my mother when she… Shortly before her death."

You swallowed hard, forcing your mouth to form a smile so you wouldn't ruin the mood with the side information. But when your eyes met with Harry's, you saw that it was already too late. The bright eyes ensnared by the many laugh wrinkles were replaced by soft brown eyes that reminded you of a puppy's eyes. He watched you for a moment before chewing on the inside of his cheek.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to open up wounds."

"How could you have known?" you murmured, averting your gaze and looking down to your tangled fingers. The memory was still fresh, still cutting deep in your flesh when you thought of the events two years ago. The whole 12 months had been rough with one stroke of fate after the other. Your grandfather's death followed closely by your mother's, even though the latter hadn't been a big surprise. And then the breakup with your boyfriend. Your boyfriend of 6 years. The aftermath of it, the sorrow and heartbreak had made you think that you would never date again. Yet, here you were.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Harry said, connecting his fingertips with your knuckles again and gently caressing them, which somehow in a strange way was just what you needed.

"Do you want to talk about it?" you sarcastically laughed and then shrugged. "I don't wanna ruin the mood, you know? I… I guess it's not what people talk about on their first date, is it?"

And for some reason Harry's reaction was the best thing he could have possibly come up with. He squeezed your hand, once then twice. Then he took one of your hands, enclosed them with two large ones of his and held it comfortably like he wanted to protect it.

"Is this okay?" he asked lowly and you had to laugh again, only that this time there was nothing sarcastic about it.

"Yes," you replied and wholeheartedly meant it. This wasn't at all how you had pictured this date to go, hell, you had expected to sit in a café with a man almost 20 years older than you who you didn't have a single thing in common with. You had expected a dry conversation about his own thrilling youth back in the 80s or the special car that he had bought in the late 90s for 20 dollars and was now emotionally attached to until the two of you would part ways forever. And now you were here about to tell this man about the toughest and most traumatising year of your life. You still had your doubts whether you weren't actually traumadumping on him instead of opening up. This was a first date after all and wasn't this about having small talk and vaguely getting to know about one another's hobbies and likes and dislikes?

"I… I mean I don't want to overshare too much. This isn't like typical conversation for a first date, I think," you wryly grinned, ignoring your heartbeat thundering up your throat.

"I don't care what's typical," Harry replied friendly and almost joyfully. And you fell for it.

"It was just overall a tough year. Two years ago. My grandfather died in March which came as a surprise. He wasn't the youngest of course, but – but I guess I didn't expect it because he's just been a force of nature for as long as I can remember. We were close so of course it hurt. Around that time my mother found out about her cancer. It was clear from the beginning that – that she didn't have a chance to beat it. The last three months with her were actually very beautiful. Ironically. We did all the stuff we've always wanted to do and it was as if we suddenly remembered that we had free will. My brother, her and I spent two weeks in Norway. In a cabin on a mountain with absolutely no one around and they were the two best weeks of my life. It was so beautiful that I forgot what was actually coming, so her death hit hard even though I would've been able to prepare myself for it. I don't know, when I look back today I'm somehow indecisive about whether I handled it well or not. I enjoyed those three months and… I now have the best memories of her that I can always come back to and I think that's beautiful. But at the same time I think I wasn't able to face what was about to happen and it made everything after so much worse. It was like I distracted her and my brother and myself so much that I forgot why we even did all of the fun stuff in the first place. And then… you know, I had a boyfriend at that time. And I guess all of this was obviously a burden for me and therefore for him too, and in November of that year he broke up with me. Said that all of this was too much for him. I wasn't in a good place at this time of my life and at some point he didn't want to have anything to do with it anymore. Didn't want me to pull him down with me."

You stopped abruptly, short of breath and heart aching at the old memories flickering before your eyes. Your younger brother and you at your mother's funeral. How he could barely hold himself up from all the crying. He had been so young, so vulnerable. It wasn't fair, you had told yourself over and over again. He didn't deserve this and you didn't either. Your view was blurry faster than you were able to process, let alone do something about it and Harry's grasp around your hand tightened.

"I can't tell you how sorry I am, y/n. I don't even wanna say anything that sounds like I can understand because I can't, but I can tell you that what you had to endure was cruel and terrible."

You brought about a crooked smile that certainly wasn't as convincing as you had imagined it in your mind.

"Thank you. Jesus…," you then hissed, wiping over your eyes with the back of your hand and blinking away the remains of your tears.

"I… Could we maybe just change the topic? I think this is already enough for today."

You chuckled and this time you at least didn't have to fake it, even though it was a sarcastic and ironic laughter.

"Of course. No problem. Tell me… what kind of music do you like to listen to?"

It was an hour later when Harry asked for the bill and insisted on paying it.

"You really don't – " you had said, reaching for it, but he had lifted his eyebrows and snatched it away right under your nose.

"It's alright."

Another 10 minutes later you were standing outside, the sun low in the sky now, casting long comical shadows, but the streets just as busy as earlier.

"I had a good time," Harry said, wasting no time with awkward hum and haw as he stepped closer. "I would really like to repeat it if you're up for it too."

You sucked your bottom lip into your mouth, feeling slightly embarrassed as you stuffed your hands into your back pockets.

"I did too. But I wanna say sorry again for… I don't know, I know you said you didn't mind, but I still feel weird that I traumadumped on you like that. I don't know what has gotten into me, I guess – I guess I just felt comfortable, which is a good sign, but I hope I didn't make it weird."

You glanced up to him at your last words and felt your heart clench at his big eyes that looked so sincere, so truthful and honest. This didn't feel like a first date. And neither did it feel like a second. Why did it feel like you've known this man for years, why did it feel so natural to breathe the same air as him, look into those brown eyes of his and walk beside him like you had never done anything else in your life? This definitely wasn't normal.

"You didn't. You didn't make it weird, you didn't traumadump on me and you got nothing to apologise for. The most important thing is that you feel comfortable and if you tell me that you did, I'm glad. Actually I feel honored that you opened up to me like that. Or do you think I would like to see you again if I felt weirded out by you?"

He had a good point and Harry seemed to see your relief written all over your face.

"Thank you. For saying that."

"So? You're on board too?"

The corner of his mouth lifted, the hint of mischief glistening in his eyes.

"Yes. Of course. I had a good time with you. I haven't felt that relaxed in weeks so thank you for that."

It was settled then. Harry wished you a goodnight, then pulled you into a gentle hug, so soft and slow that you would have had the opportunity to withdraw in case it was too much physical contact for you on a first date, but you didn't feel anywhere close to driving backwards. Not only was he gorgeous, felt warm against your body and smelled heavenly, but you felt like the bond you had shared today had opened up doors to which a hug couldn't compare. You had only known each other for roughly two hours, but had connected on a level that you in some cases hadn't even reached with people you had been friends with for years.

Three hours later you were lying in your bed, the room dark aside from the moonlight glooming through the small slit between the curtains and the windowsill and the air silent. All the more, the inside of your head was loud like there was a fight happening, different types of voices screaming and shouting at each other, which kept you from sleeping. You had felt tired an hour ago, sure that you would need a good night of rest, but now that your head was flush against the cushions, your body sprawled out underneath the blanket, you couldn't have felt farer away from drifting off to sleep.

There was one very distinct voice, a slightly hazy and lovedrunk one that was over the moon, utterly swept off her feet and lingering on cloud nine. All she could scream was Harry's name and urge you to call him on the spot. Tell him how much fun you had, how much you were looking forward to the next date and that you wanted to put a ring on his finger before another bachelorette would snatch him away.

Although this wasn't a serious option, you couldn't help but feel seducted by this very distinct one every now and then, the high, soft, crystal clear sound that was almost like a pretty song so tempting and alluring that you found yourself savouring it from time to time.

But then there was this other voice, slightly lower and definitely more dangerous. Threatening, almost. She mentioned all the cons, the disadvantages and doubts she had and even though the first voice wasn't shy to toss in that there weren't many cons, you listened to that second voice as well. With his 45 years, Harry was too old. That was the most obvious one (and perhaps even the only one, voice number one noted). How were you supposed to explain any of this to your friends, your brother and everyone else in your family. Your aunt Maria was 48. The mere image of showing up at a family feast with Harry sent shivers down your spine. He, sitting next to you your aunt Maria while they were exchanging stories about their childhood and bonding over the toys that had been trendy in the late 80s. What a strange and disappealing picture. Certainly none that you would ever want to look upon.

He was too old. This wouldn't work. Not just because of the pressure from outside, but also from the inside. Sure, the date had been magical, a literal dream, but what if it wouldn't go on like this? What if there would come a point where you would stumble across a obstacle that was so deeply driven into the ground between the two of you that it was impossible to overcome. The differences, the different world views, the unfamiliar, the unforeseen… Maybe the problem was that you didn't know the risk. Maybe you were afraid of falling head over heels for this man without knowing if your relationship had a future. If you would work. But did one ever know before trying it out? With a throbbing ache in your temple you couldn't help but wonder whether Harry had any of these thoughts as well…

Around 5 and a half miles away, a man was lying on his side, the silky bedsheets halfly kicked away so only his legs and ankles were covered by the cool, slick fabric. He was hot although the thermostat was showing a reasonable temperature. Maybe it was just his mind playing tricks on him. It tended to do that a lot recently. It also wanted to convince him of the fact that dating a woman in her late 20s as a 45 year old was completely and utterly reasonable, morally okay even.

Harry sighed, his lips producing a wet smacking sound as he closed his eyes with a groan. His head was spinning and it only got worse whenever the darkness of his mind surrounded him. Guilt, regret and sheer uncertainty enmeshed him, knives twisting into his side and a sour taste thick in his mouth. He liked you, god, he had never been swept off his feet like that after a first date. He was in awe of you, captured by your wit and vulnerability that you were so proud and confident to let show. He was in admiration. In absolute reverence of your sensitivity, but also your humor and generousity. And the fact that this was happening after one date was remarkable.

But every time Harry was too deep in his daydreams, thinking of your laughter or the way you had fondled with your fingers every time you had unnecessarily felt embarrassed, it hit him like a sharp blow in the stomach area. You were 28. That meant an age gap of 17 years, which was too much and no one could possibly be able to deny that. Part of him wanted to slam his head against a wall because things would have been so much easier if he had figured that the two of you had nothing in common and could have moved on in an instance. Although… he hadn't felt like that then.

Harry didn't want to fool himself, he had just met you. There was a chance that he would find grave differences and things he didn't like about you once he got to know you better. If that happened, he knew he would feel disappointed, but at the same time it would mean that he wouldn't have to live with these doubts and feelings of guilt anymore. Did he want to be disappointed in your character? No, of course not. But did he want to date a 28 year old and be mistaken for your father whenever you stepped outside? No, definitely not.

Harry groaned again, turning on his other side only to come to the conclusion that the shift in his sleeping position had the amazing effect of having the moon shine directly onto his face. He sarcastically scoffed and shoved a pillow into his face.

The next days passed swiftly, perhaps because Harry had found that the best method to distract himself from his sinful thoughts was to focus on work and every other task he came up with in his free time. Therefore he listened to music all the time – although he avoided the artists that he had talked about with you -, fixed his toaster, ironed his shirts himself instead of bringing them to a dry cleaning store and went for a jog three days in a row.

Still, despite all these sidequests, he felt like a teenage boy who had a crush on a girl just from talking to her for once in his life. He was being childish, obsessed and completely torn from reality. And yet when he met up with you for a second date he was nervous, even more than before the first one. This time it was in a vietnamese restaurant that you had recommended. The date passed much too quickly for Harry's liking and sooner than he wanted, you were standing in front of the door in the dark, both your eyelids heavy, but your hearts light and your stomachs full.

"Thank you. Thank you for such a lovely evening," you whispered and adjusted your jacket to protect yourself from the cold.

"Thank you. I had a fantastic time."

He pulled you in for a hug, involuntarily smelling your hair and thinking how perfectly your bodies fit against each other. It felt natural. Right.

Later, Harry sat on his couch despite the hour. He had made himself a cup of tea even though he wasn't a big tea drinker. Tonight he had craved it, but he didn't know why. He felt cheerishful, skittish like he had just ran a marathon and didn't know what to do with the remaining adrenaline. A wild animal trapped in a cage and yearning for freedom. But kind of in a good way. In a way that made him all dizzy, his surroundings dream-like and indistinct.

How he found sleep that night, he didn't know. He couldn't stop thinking about you, all those little details that he hadn't noticed the first time he had met you, but now had completely captured him. The way you threw your head back when you broke into laughter. The way your nails scratched over your own palms when you were deep in thoughts. The way your ears moved when your face was drawn with a broad bright smile.

Eventually sleep must have taken over him in the midst of one of the vivid memories replaying in his head because when he woke up the next morning he had a strong suspicion that you had come visiting him in his sleep. He didn't know what exactly he had dreamt, but there was this feeling. This feeling of you.

Harry was looking forward to his next date rather than feeling anxious about it. You had bewitched him and every opportunity to learn more about you, even just spending a minute in your presence seemed like a gift from god.

He was at the restaurant before you and once again greeted you with a wide smile.

"Hi there. Good to see you."

"Good to see you too. I'm surprised you haven't grown tired of my face yet."

Harry raised his brows, looking at you like he was in disbelief and wrapped an arm around your shoulder as he guided you to the entrance.

"Me growing tired of your face…? I don't think I could."

"Oh you just wait and see."

The smell of pizza was strong in Harry's nose as the two of you were being led to your table by a waitress and he unconsciously swallowed. The italian restaurant was one of his recommendations and he certainly hoped he wouldn't disappoint you.

"Tell me about your project from work," you immediately spoke with flashing eyes the moment your back touched your chair. Harry chuckled, but then started to tell you all about the past two days and the project he had been so nervous about.

The waitress came and went, brought an expensive bottle of wine to your table, took your orders and then after what felt like a minute, two steaming plates of pasta were standing in front of you. This was just the case with you. Every conversation felt effortless, easy and light. You pulled one in like a black hole, only that you were pure light. Pure warmth and comfort. Every moment spent with you felt meaningful and important and maybe that was part of the reason why he knew he would never feel bored of you.

And still, the doubts about your age gap hadn't vanished with the second date. If anything, they had become greater, they had made their way from the back of his mind right to the top. The more time he spent with you, the more he felt like he had to be careful not to be too hasty and fall for you before he hadn't figured this out with himself and with you of course. He was scared of the disappointment that would follow when one of you mentioned the age gap for the first time. And this fear had put him before a drastic decision: Enjoying the time you two spent together while waiting for you to note the obvious or discuss it to avoid any miscommunication. Harry had fought with himself, he had even considered asking his brother for advice, but in the end he had picked the latter. Hadn't his pervious relationship failed due to a lack of healthy communication? You were precious to him and he didn't want to lose you that way, which was why right now was the best time to address the topic.

He cleared his throat, nervously tracing the stem of his wine glass.

"There's something I'd like to talk to you about," he started, his stomach twisting at the concern in your eyes.

"Nothing bad, really," he quickly reassured before sighing. "Well, you know… I just wanted to discuss something with you because I feel like we have to talk about it and I thought the earlier we do it, the better."

"Yes, sure," you replied, more relaxed now.

"I really like you, y/n and I know this sounds like there's a 'but' and there is a 'but' even though I don't know if we have to make it one."

You furrowed, forehead wrinkling as you tried to follow him.

"Okay, I'm definitely gonna rephrase this. The point is that we obviously have an age gap. Of course I'm aware of it and I've been aware of it from the start. And I do have my doubts just because it's… not so socially accepted? I guess I would just like to hear your opinion."

You laughed softly, tilting your head to the side. If he wasn't mistaken, a light pink shade was coloring your cheeks.

"I mean of course I'm aware of it too. I had my doubts when Lucy set us up thinking that we wouldn't connect or – or it would just be awkward. But… I don't know, I like this. Between us. It's in my head all the time that we shouldn't do it or that it doesn't have a future and of course we still have so much more to figure out about each other, but right now… I – I feel good going on dates with you and I'm thinking it can't be that wrong, can it? Because I have fun and I do think we connect."

Harry had felt like his heartrate had picked up with every word you had said and by the end his body was a trembling mess, his heart thumping in his chest and the butterflies in his stomach swirling and dancing.

Answer. He had to answer.

With a grin, he leaned forward until his elbows were supporting the weight of his upper body on the table.

"I agree. And I don't think I would like to stop seeing you because of it. It doesn't mean that I don't feel uncomfortable with it sometimes, but call me selfish, but I don't wanna put an end to this."

Your eyes seemed to sparkle at his words, a mixture of a mischievous and sly glitter and something relieved.

"Yeah?" you made, briefly brushing over the back of his hand, making his heart pound so loudly, it echoed in his head.

"Yeah."

"Me neither, Harry."

"Wait lemme just, lemme just – " He stopped mid-sentence, throwing his head forward as his body trembled and vibrated with laughter. You couldn't stop either, pinching your eyes shut as you held on to the armrest to control your shaking body.

"God… you needa – " Harry rubbed over the flushed skin of his forehead, but then another wave crashed over him and he shook his head.

"I'm going to suffocate," he whispered, a broken chuckle leaving his throat as he tried to regain control over his breathing.

"Jesus…," he then coughed after a while, wiping a single tear away. "You're gonna kill me. All I wanted was to get another bowl of ice cream and now look at me."

He pointed at his face, the redness of his skin even visible in the dim light of his apartment, the only source of light the TV screen.

"Oh ice cream. I'm sorry then, go on, mister."

He shook his head again, silently giggling as he rose to his feet and made his way to the kitchen. In the meantime, you adjusted the blanket again that Harry had kicked away with his feet during his laugh attack and then tapped on the cushion to your left when his head peeked through the kitchen door.

"Well hello there," you grinned and pulled back the blanket so he could slip underneath it. Your eyes jumped to the two delicious looking bowls, but before you could pay attention to the ice cream, you had something else to do.

You waited patiently, waited while he tucked himself in, waited while he ran a hand through his hair and waited while he relaxed beside you. Then you turned toward him with your whole body.

"Harry?" you asked, his eyes softening up at your shy smile.

"Yes?" he asked, a muscle around his mouth twitching.

"I really like this. Spending time with you."

You came a little closer, a hand reaching for the backrest behind him.

"So do I."

Your eyes frantically sprang between him and the pillows. Nervousness was flooding your system, an icy hand gripping your heart and part of your confidence seemed to fade away now. But you had made it so far, so you would finish it.

"Harry?"

He softly chuckled, tilting his head and his gaze lingering on your lips for a short, yet recognisable moment. That was all the reassurance that you needed.

"Can I kiss you?"

His smile deepened, his eyes impossibly warm and mellow. You couldn't even make out the color in his eyes, so dark they looked. Although that might be due to the darkness in his living room. Jesus, you had to stay focused now.

"Yes."

His words were soft and quiet, his voice low, but what they were eliciting in you was indescribable. A whole orchester seemed to play in your mind, a thousand little butterflies dancing and singing in your stomach, which made your body shiver and pulsate under the liveliness inside of you.

You bit the inside of your cheek before leaning toward him, eyes closing just before your lips touched. It was gentle and slow, like the two of you had come to a quiet understanding about what your first kiss was supposed to feel like. Harry was warm and his lips were moist just the right amount. Like he had prepared himself for this moment. You wanted to believe that he had.

At first, you did't even noticed the large hand cradling your head, but when you did you pressed yourself against it, purring like a satisfied cat while his mouth was savouring your taste. You lifted your pliant hands as well, blindly reachind for his face and stopping at his neck to find the soft locks in his nape. Harry was now softly covering your bottom lip with kisses, sucking it into his mouth every now and then while caressing your cheeks like you were something delicate and precious. You wanted to believe that you were to him. When Harry pulled back at last, his face briefly hovered in front of yours, examining you like he was still processing what had just happened, which you were more than grateful for. You really needed a moment as well.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, a thumb trailing down your jaw before brushing over the corner of your mouth.

"Thank you. So are you."

You stared into each other's eyes, but there was nothing awkward about it. Maybe you were acting like a couple of teenagers that were in love for the first time, but who cared?

Suddenly you felt a hand searching for yours and the next thing you felt was his palm squeezing yours as he placed both of your hands on top of your stomach.

"You wanna keep watching?" he asked.

"Yeah."

He could have asked you anything and you would have said yes.

He could have asked you to visit the end of the world with him and you would have said yes.

You had first met this man with the lowest expactations, thinking there was a good chance you would just walk straight out of the café and now there you were, deeply in love with that very same man.

And you were so tired of fighting it.

[marcelloandtyler]

"It's not your fault, Levi," Marcello said, taking his hand and forcing him to stop walking for a moment. He pulled him into a quick, tight hug, squeezing him against himself and kissing his jaw and neck softly before he let him go. "It's not on you to control them. It's just-- hard because of my history..." He scrunched his nose and shrugged. He blew out a breath and shrugged again. "I don't love the idea, but maybe I could see about doing it temporarily. I don't know. That way I can... have some time without worrying about money too much and... consider my options. And have a chance to... maybe start to get better somehow."

They came to another fork and Marcello again checked the app to decide which way to go, this time taking a right that would eventually loop them back towards the car.

Levi let out a breath and then shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I'm sorry that all these people that are connected to me are making it impossible for you to just live your life the way you want to," he murmured, frowning. "It's not okay." He glance at him. "Do you think that's the best plan for you?"

He nodded his head and then pressed a kiss against his shoulder. "Alright. We'll talk about it again later when you feel you might be more up to it."

[bbina]

the joint meeting went longer than expected

you can see the exhausted faces of karina and giselle from across the table. giselle's poor soul had to explain the entire visual board she had prepared all day (and probably all night too) yesterday that screamed and bodied zhong inc. and had to answer every question jaemin had thrown her way

well, what did you expect from the eccentric mind of jaemin. not to mention hyuck was added to the mix in this meeting since PR rollouts were also discussed in the meeting

you don't really know what happened in the next few discussions. it was like you just subconsciously went to auto pilot mode because the rest of the meeting felt like it went by a blur. you were still jotting down notes and taking down minutes because you do have to send it through everyone's inbox at the end of it

it's been a long day basically

the sound of chairs scrapping and applause brought you back to your senses

"thank you for the time" you hear chenle say, shaking hands with jaemin and jeno, who flashes you a smile

you quickly scramble your notes as you turn to look for winter but before you could actually walk away, you feel someone grab your arm. you look up to see it was chenle

he leans down, whispering something in your ear

"you looked a bit zoned out halfway through the meeting" he says casually. you can hear the smirk from his tone of voice

you freeze for a second before looking up at him. blinking once. twice

"i was still taking notes" you point out, "i mean who wants to sit through a 4 hour long meeting taking notes about hex codes, blending options and textures every 5 minutes"

chenle chuckles at your reaction. "there she is. the assistant i have grown to know for the past month" he teases before pocketing his hands in his suit pockets and walking off to god knows where

you take this moment to take a good look at your team. who all looked like they just survived a whole marathon with how sluggish they were moving. hyuck especially

"thank fuck this meeting is over" he calls out dramatically, leaning onto mark for support who immediately pushes him away causing him to land on giselle

"hyuck get off i'm tired!" giselle complains, taking the brunt of hyuck's weight as he leans onto her side

"hyuck.. stop it.. she's going to have a B.F" karina warns, voice tired

"what's a B.F?" mark quips

"a bitch fit" giselle murmurs, loud enough for the team to hear. hyuck immediately gets off of her and sits back down on a chair

you laugh weakly at the overall atmosphere of the team before you force yourself to find winter. all you wanted to do right now was to go home and lay on your bed

"hey miss assistant" winter greets sweetly, finding you instead. you offer her a tired smile before handing her a folder that contains the printed materials your team had presented

"here's ours" she says, taking your folder out of your hands to swap it with their folders

"thank you" you smile, "i can't wait for this day to end. i just want to sleep" you yawned, glancing up at the digital clock that was in the middle of the conference room

"oh i can tell. halfway through the meeting you out! i'm moved with the way you were still flawlessly doing your job by taking down the minutes" she laughed, recalling the scene in her head. winter even wanted to snap a photo but that would just disrupt the meeting

you feel yourself burn of embarrassment. chenle also said the same thing

"don't say that" you shushed her, "... was it really that obvious that i was zoned out?" you ask, lowering your voice

winter bursts out laughing at your question. "girl, i wanted to take a picture so bad! but you know, be professional as your boss would probably say" she teases, nudging you

you give her a look. what was she on about

"your boss was looking at you multiple times throughout the meeting. i guess he could tell you were mentally not there" she giggles, covering her mouth with the folder you gave her

"it was nice seeing you again winter. byeee" you bid goodbye, turning on your heel, ignoring her fits of laughter and before she can say anything else

you walk back to the team first to tell them that you'd be leaving the room first to arrange everything before you send out emails to everyone

everyone just groans and mumbles out words of acknowledgement. looks like it wasn't just you who just walked out of hell (aka this obnoxiously long overdue joint meeting)

chenle looks up, hearing your announcement to the team. he then glances at his watch for the time

its almost the end of the day

somehow he knows that you won't be clocking out just yet. force of habit is one would say

after all, who else make you stay up til late to finish a report that could easily be done the next day?

it's him

and only him.

. . . ᝰ.ᐟ

it didn't take you long to compile the joint meeting's minutes. you only highlighted key points from the meeting to save yourself some time and now all that's left is to send the file to everyone's inboxes before you can finally go home

click. email(s) successfuly sent

with a soft sigh, you closed your laptop and tucked it in your bag before finally getting up from your desk to clock out and head home after a very long day

you step out of the company and you're immediately hit with the cool night air

the lot was basically empty minus some cars parked nearby and when you scan the vicinity, there you notice a tall figure leaning against a car

"took you long enough" a familiar voice rings

it was jeno

you blink a few times as jeno pushes himself off his (presumably) car and slowly walks up to you

"figured you'd stay a bit longer than the rest of your co workers and i was right" he smiles, pocketing his hands in his pockets

you let out an awkward laugh. errr... so what?

"i mean yeah. i'm the executive assistant while also being the liaison officer so recently i have been staying longer in the company.." you rub your neck awkwardly cause what the fuck

jeno laughs, his eyes turning into crescent moons

"of course. also not to mention i noticed you looked tired today during the meeting" jeno says, making small talk, "hope we aren't working you to the bone.. that'd be unfortunate" he jokes

your eyes widened. were you really that tired that it was obvious?

"...was it really that obvious"

"on the opposite side of the table yes" jeno muses, finding amusement in your reaction

"enough about me. what are you doing here alone, sir jeno? is sir jaemin and winter still inside?" you ask, looking behind you

jeno shakes his head no, kicking pebbles with his shoes

"no they just left actually. jaemin is just making sure winter makes it home safe so i'm just waiting for him here" jeno explains

"oh okay. that's nice" you nod your head slowly. well, that's good to know

"well if that's the case then i'll be making my way too then. see you around, sir jeno" you bow politely before turning to the other direction

but before you can even make it far, you hear jeno calling out for your name

"miss y/n! wait up!" jeno jogs after you

you stop in your tracks as you wait for him to say something. what did he want even after work hours?

"i can take you home" jeno offers kindly

you immediately open your mouth to reject his offer but he cuts you off before you could even utter a word out

"it's getting late and it wouldn't be gentlemanly of me to leave a lady like you to go home like this" he says, motioning to your attire and your bag that's hanging on your shoulders

you look down on yourself to see that he was motioning your heels. oh right. you were wearing heels today. not that you've felt that dull ache on your legs after being in them all day

you barely feel it anymore

jeno gives you some time to think about his offer. to him, this would also be a perfect opportunity to get to know you

"listen sir jeno.." you hesistate, "thank you for the offer but i'm fine. i can manage" you try to explain without making it weird, sheepishly smiling at the taller man

jeno frowns a bit and tries his best to convince you further

"c'mon i promise i don't bite. you're clearly exhausted and the last thing you want is to wait for the bus during rush hour when i'm right here" jeno tries gently, patting your shoulder

as much as you want to just ride a car and not take public transport, the mere thought of feeling indebted to someone you barely know is already clawing against your skin. you really don't like being indebted to someone— let alone your boss' new business partner

"y/n?"

you know that voice anywhere

slowly, you turn and you see chenle a few feet away from where you were currently standing. the first three buttons of his dress shirt unbuttoned and he had his suit jacket draped over one arm. his expression was unreadable but the slight raise of his brows was unmistakeable

you turn your head back to check if jeno was watching but he simply tips his chin towards chenle's direction before diverting his attention back to you

"so, what do you say, miss y/n?"

"where are you going?" chenle asks, now moving near you and jeno

"home" you answer, glancing at chenle who was looking directly at you

"with him?" chenle blurts out almost immediately. there was a slight tinge in his voice that you can't really pinpoint what

"i don't see why not? i treat all my employees the same" jeno interjects smoothly, even flashing chenle his signature charming smile

little did jeno know, charming smiles don't work on ceo zhong chenle

"welp, i hate to be the bearer of bad news but y/n isn't your employee. now is she?" chenle smiles sarcastically at jeno

you blink at their interaction that's happening right in front of you. you've always had a little hunch that chenle might've find jeno a little intimidating because he was always a tad bit colder to them but this just sealed the deal

after a moment of heavy silence between the three of you, chenle suddenly turns to you

"where are you going again?" he asks again, this time his voice was a bit softer than earlier

"where else? home" you sigh, having enough of the two of them "so are we done here so i can finally get home and rest?"

you look between the two ceos who were both just looking back at you. heaving a sigh, you roll your eyes as you turn your back to them, heading towards to the bus stop when chenle suddenly grabs your wrists, halting you from walking further away

"i'll drive you home. i know where you live anyway" he says firmly and the way he was looking at you made you shiver a little. his gaze a little too intense for your liking like it was screaming "no objections"

not like you had any other choice anyway, you tug your wrist back before you nod your head yes

with that, chenle walks ahead first to the parking lot. you can only look at jeno apologetically

"sorry sir jeno. boss' orders" you murmured, shooting him an apologetic look

jeno only laughs in response and holds his hands out in mock surrender

"well, i'm certain you can't say no to that" he laughs softly

"y/n." you hear chenle calling out for you from the parking lot. with a sigh, you give jeno one last look before sheepishly walking away from him

"maybe next time, sir jeno. i'll be taking my leave now. take care on the way home" you wave goodbye as you sped walk towards chenle who was waiting by his car

jeno can only watch the way you and chenle interact from afar. the way chenle was impatiently tapping on his foot as he waited for you. the way you two seemed like you two had a small argument before he points towards the passenger door. although jeno noticed that chenle didn't fully get inside til he was sure that you got in first then he sees chenle looking at him before he gets in and shuts the door. the car then comes to life and not even a second later, you two are out of the parking lot of zhong inc

jeno stares at the car as it slowly disappears from his line of sight. jeno can't help but feel a smirk creeping up his face. he had a hunch that chenle didn't really like him that much ever since he made that off-handed comment about you

he can't help but feel like he needs to mess around with you more to see a reaction from him. it's not all the time you see a boss who's suspiciously overly protective of his assistant as of late

but who knows

and like it was on cue, jaemin had returned from dropping winter off at the subway station

"sorry i took so long. winter wanted to buy dinner before she got home" jaemin explains, walking up to jeno and smacking his shoulder

"what are you looking at?" jaemin raises a brow, following his line of sight

"nothing" jeno smiles before turning back to his car. "let's go home"

"alright" jaemin chirps, "we have a shit ton to do that's due on friday"

jeno hums, bringing the engine to life

"we sure do... we don't want to disappoint ceo zhong"

. . . ᝰ.ᐟ

"seriously?" you ask, sitting in chenle's passenger seat as he speeds through the city, "what was that about?"

chenle leans his head on his left arm as he drives with the other. he raises a brow at your question

"what do you mean?"

"you and that stint you pulled with sir jeno" you say

chenle scoffs, "he was being pushy towards my employees. obviously i had to intervene"

now it was your turn to raise a brow. "he wasn't being pushy" you defend jeno, "he was just being... nice" for lack of better word

chenle shoots you a look that screams "are you serious"

you frown, not really understanding what was wrong with jeno's offer

it was silence after that inside chenle's car. chenle was nice enough to turn on the radio so you wouldn't have to suffer through the impending uncomfortable silence. since you were basically being held gun point to ride with him

you sit rigid against the plush leather seat. this wasn't the car you rode in last night

oh right. how could you forget? your boss was basically a billionaire of course he had a line of cars ready to be used at any given point in time and you just managed to ruin one

chenle steals a glance through his peripheral vision. he sees you awkwardly fidgeting while still holding onto your bag

"you can relax in here you know? i won't get mad at you if you leaned back against the seat" chenle says, breaking the silence

you purse your lips together as you awkwardly do what you were told. you hate to admit how comfortable this car was. or maybe this was just the drowsiness speaking. you've already had a long day and the little stint between the two ceos didn't help either

chenle notices your silence and steals another glance. he notices you almost half asleep. barely keeping your eyes open. the a/c hitting you right in the face

"comfy huh?" chenle muses, finally mustering the courage to finally take a real look at you but he's met with you knocked out against the window

"that was quick" chenle comments, reaching over to adjust the a/c and turning on the heat so you'd feel better. not like you'd know. you were out cold after all

chenle sighs as he checks the GPS again for the directions to your house. it wasn't that far nor it was near either. it was like a perfect balance and an ample amount of time to think if there was things to think about

like what happened earlier in front of the office with jeno

it's not like chenle had acted on impulse— in this case he probably did. he didn't know what came over him. seeing his assistant talk to his partner ceo and the fact it seemed like jeno was offering you a ride home? in front of his company? seriously?

nobody gives his employees any special treatment but me, chenle thinks to himself as he slowly drives into your neighborhood

wait a second. special treatment?

chenle shakes his thoughts away. what the fuck. he thinks to himself. this car ride was now taking a tad bit too long for him but one thing is certain for sure. jeno definitely rubs him the wrong way

he barely notices the tight grip he has on the steering wheel til the GPS beeps and announces that they have arrived at their destination. chenle quickly pulls up to the curb and parks the car

now his next dilemma is how to wake you up. he contemplates between himself if he should wake you up or let you wake up on your own. he was kind of leaning towards more on the latter. he didn't want to interrupt your deep sleep with the way your cheek was pressed against window

maybe you'd realize it soon, chenle thinks, shrugging at the thought. not that he had anyone waiting for him either way and he did like to car rot at times so he was fine with this

chenle adjusts his seat to his liking before whipping out his phone and starts scrolling through emails and his socials. all in the guise of waiting for you to wake up

. . . ᝰ.ᐟ

the bus was awfully chilly tonight

you try to cover your arms to have some warmth but you feel that your sitting position felt off. since when did your usual bus had plush leather seats that almost feels like a reclining chair?

you try adjusting yourself but that's when you feel that you were a bit restrained

that's strange. your usual bus didn't have seatbelts—

seatbelts?

you can feel yourself waking up little by little. your eyes flutter open and all you see is darkness at first. you immediately sit up and look around, trying to remember where you are

then you see chenle seated right beside you— well more like laying next to you as his car seat was all the way down, while scrolling on his phone

chenle sees you sit up and waves

"oh hey you finally woke up" he greets, sitting up too and adjusting his seat back to its original position

"where are we?" you ask, startled. still a little disoriented by just waking up

chenle adjusts the a/c again before he answers you so casually

"at your place"

you whip your head around and you see your building. oh wow, so you were home the entire time

"we got home and you didn't wake me up?" you complain, suddenly wiping your face in case you were drooling in his other car. you don't know if you could afford the cleaning with this one too

chenle laughs, scrolling on his phone. "you looked too peaceful to wake up"

you can feel yourself burn in embarrassment at the realization. fuck, your own boss saw you sleeping in his car

"figured you were tired so i just let you sleep for a while. no biggie" he shrugs

"and how long was this "for a while" ?" you ask, quoting his words

"for like an hour or so. i don't know, i didn't keep track" chenle mutters, barely even paying attention to you

an hour. you were sleeping in his car for an hour. the drive to get to your apartment wasn't even an hour. it was 30 minutes at best without traffic

so does that mean chenle had left the car running for over two hours?

you quickly whip out your wallet and pull out a bunch of cash and placed them on the empty cup holders

"what–"

"for gas. for dropping me off and letting the car run for an hour or even more" you say quickly

chenle immediately shakes his head no. he grabs the cash and hands it back to you

"it's okay. this car doesn't eat much gas" chenle hands back the cash

you shake your head, pushing his hand away

"you've done enough for the past two nights. i hate to be indebted to my own boss" you muttered

chenle makes a face and pushes his hand back to your lap again

"you're literally not indebted to me what are you talking about?" he retorts, "i keep telling you its fine. as your boss, you don't have to repay me, jesus"

you shake your head no, holding your hands out to prevent chenle from giving you back your cash

"i can't accept this sir zhong. just let me do this for my own sake. i don't think i can be normal at work knowing you've drove me home twice now and i didn't pay for the damages and the gas" you plead as much as its a little embarrassing to say out loud. you just had to get your point across

now chenle stares at you like you just grew a second head. what kind of personal principle was that?

but hey, chenle won't judge but chenle doesn't need your money and he honestly sees this as helping you back since you are his assistant and you technically fall under his radar now no matter what

silence envelops the car and you almost thought that you had him there. that he was gonna accept your money and tell you to get out since he had already dropped you off but what comes out of his mouth next almost gave you whiplash

"fine. you want to pay me back? you can pay me back by letting me drive you to and from work starting tomorrow"

BUSINESS PROPOSAL ᝰ.ᐟ . . . PAY ME BACK

✎ . . . things aren't going as planned the way you thought it was going to be. especially the part where you find yourself falling in love with your own boss– which was definitely not part of the agreed proposal.

[ PREV / NEXT ]

✎ AUTHORS NOTE . . . bbina try not to upload at 1 AM challenge.. the business proposal ship was embarked... we're finally MOVING like for real this time. this is where the real story starts i think i hope i believe + not proofread lmfao

✎ TAGLIST . . . @mrkleelvr @jenodigital @https-dandelion @rik0shii @spacejip @yyangj3lly @multifandomania @taroddori @222brainrot @amouriu @defzcl @va1entinaa @carelessshootanonymous @onlywonb @flaminghotyourmom @do-you-remember-summer-127 @grimlinshere @yayayaiheardyouthefirsttime @hoeingthefuckup @meltinghershey @alwayswook @dutifullyannoyingstrawberrie @dudekiss3r @sibwol @mey-archive @morklee02 @httpsxnox @firydst @yuyita-rosier @ayukas @cottonjaems @monomya @neocults26 @greenyweirdo @cinneorolls @morkleesgirl @jising-jisang-jisung

[robinvomit]

[ deserving. ]

you woke to the lack of warmth and weight, eyebrows pulling together in groggy disappointment. waking up alone usually meant one of three things:

it was a special date and he was already trying to do something for it.

he was already gone, off to do some saving or destroying of some sort.

he was up because his thoughts weren't being kind.

you knew it wasn't a special occasion, that was for sure, and normally, he'd wake you up enough to let you know he'd be leaving. that left one option and it immediately brought a small frown to your features. it wasn't uncommon but he did have a habit of dealing with it elsewhere, like you seeing him in a bad headspace meant the end of the world.

shifting around to slide out of bed, you stretch your arms up and yawn, trying to shake the remaining sleep away before heading out the door. the hardwood is cold beneath your feet and you don't hear anything besides the usual white noise of the air conditioner being on. no tv, no radio, no self mumbling like he did when he was alone.

hal was in the middle of putting together what you could only describe as a sad, half assed sandwich when you walked in. he was still in pajama pants and a wrinkled tshirt, hair a mess and just existing. you could tell something was sitting heavy in his thoughts by the way his shoulders sagged and his hands moved slower than usual. he wasn't rushing to greet you, no bright smiles or lifting you up to annoy you.

you watched for a minute from the door way, noting another sign in the fact he didn't seem to notice you there. you took in the way the morning light spilled over him from the kitchen window, the way his brows pulled together just the slightest bit.

you smiled a little when he finally began to move from the counter to settle at the table. "morning, pretty boy," you greeted, tone careful, like anything too louder than a soft mumble would cause something to crack.

he looked up, eyebrow raising slowly. "...pretty boy?"

you nod and pad your way over to lean against his side, one hand coming up to push your fingers through his hair. "mhm.. something wrong with that?" you asked, nails gingerly scratching against his scalp.

he took a deep breath before letting it out, hand lifitng to go around you, settling at your hip. "you remember i'm thirty nine, tired and have been close to dead more than once, right?"

"okay, and?" you laughed, shifting to wrap your arms around his shoulders from the side, pressing a few kisses to his head. "that doesn't change anything."

he repeated it under his breath like it was some type of curse or joke you just hadn't revealed yet. like it was some wild thing despite the fact he'd been complimented dozens of times before. you wondered if, perhaps, he was having one of those mornings where it didn't feel real - where he was questioning when he started deserving good things.

bringing your hands around, you tipped his chin up and carefully cupped his cheeks, making him look at you. "you're my pretty boy, and i don't know what silly voice is telling you otherwise but it needs to hush."

he blinked at you a few times before softening, shifting in his chair to face you better just to hug around your waist, face hiding against you. "i love you," he sighed, shoulders relaxing, trying to get rid of that nasty sense of dread that seemed to weigh down on him.

"love you, too," you said, carefully hugging his head to you. "let's go get breakfast somewhere, yeah? don't even have to get dressed, pajamas all day."

[ taggies: @kitkatscabinet 🖤💚 ]

[dumbygenuis22]

Knockin' on your Door

Chapter 1: Holding My Peace

Pairing: Whipped!Spencer Reid x New BAU member (OC)

Summary: After the events of season two: the chaotic withdrawal of Elle Greenaway from the team, Spencer's developing addiction to Dilaudid and his inevitable sobriety, and Emily Prentiss' new appearance, SSA Hotchner finds the need for new, fresh eyes in the round table, picking out Special Agent Alison Michael, who, despite her little connections in the field, was noted as a skilled developmental psychologist and theoretical scientist with many helpful assets under her belt. As much as it was difficult for her to adjust, with her fairly quiet demeanor, there's a certain agent that can't seem to draw his eyes away from her. But there's very little he tries to do about it.

Content Warnings: Brief talk about violence in cases

Note: This is my first fic series, and there will be more soon!

"Because there's about 5,000 reasons I shouldn't," he said, voice nervous and filled with doubt as his skin flushed rosy around his cheekbones, his fingers tightening around his mug.

A very excited Penelope scoffed with a smile. "I could name about 5,000 reasons you should." Her fingers worked tirelessly on her keyboard as she spoke, still working as she teased him, the light from her computer set up shining on her face and reflecting off of her glasses.

She had all but beamed when Spencer told her, of all people.

He figured it would be the safest option, alongside Gideon.

He wouldn't even attempt to offer the information to Morgan, as it would swoop the carpet up under him and leave him vulnerable to teasing 24/7, more than he already was, anyways.

He licked his lips, blinking erratically, his body language no doubt audible to her.

"Can you please just work? She's waiting for more information..."

"Yes, and an invitation to a date with a one mighty boy wonder."

"Garcia," he says insistently, his brows thinning, but a little crack in his voice making him seem more desperate than firm.

"Okay, okay, don't get your sweater vest in a bunch," she joked, her voice dying down as she types away, waiting for a moment to speak, more soft and reassuring than anything when she does.

"I'm just saying, you should go for it. She's a nice girl, so the worst thing that could possibly happen is a soft let down or a single date."

As she spoke, he imagined the two situations, and practically keeled over even considering that sort of awkward confrontation.

She would be so sweet, and he thinks that's worse. If she was meaner, this would probably be easier. He's been through mean. He knows it very well.

She turns around in her chair slightly, looking at him as he stood to the side.

"And even then, with the bad outcomes considered, I really think she'd like you..."

"I really don't understand how I would even start. I just walk up to her randomly and say 'hey! You're really pretty, can you please go on a date with me?'" he set his cup down to mimick.

"Literally, yes."

"No."

She sighed and turned back to her computer, sending more documents to the printer, and turning back to him. "All done, my pretty," she says, and he picks up his mug and moves to the door, but before she hears it open, she calls to him. "Hey, wait right there, quicksilver," she said playfully.

His hand stopped on the door knob and he looked back, eyes wide, but less nervous.

"Just..." she started, knowing he would never in a thousand years attempt to initiate such romantic prowess.

But she was always going to try.

"Be yourself."

He looked down contemplatively, like he was battling a brain full of worries. A track that never stopped running.

He looked back up to her and his eyebrows pressed together, eyes squinted slightly as he speaks again.

"That never really makes anything better."

Her face softens and she opens her mouth to speak, only air coming out before he opens the door and leaves, closing it gently behind him.

He looks up and blinks a few times to adjust himself, setting his mug down to walk over to the printer and collect the photos.

He taps the edge of the stack over the table and holds them in his hand, walking over to the table next to the board he set up with the new agent: Alison Michael. He watched her form turn to him as he arrived, his shoes soft on the smooth, carpeted floors.

He looked to her as she looked up, then his eyes shied away.

"G-Garcia printed out the last of the crime scene photographs, and some, uh- detailed police forms," he managed out, his thoughts scrambled and slipping out of his mouth as he tried desperately to get his lips to cooperate with him.

And despite his nervous, awkward attitude, he saw her smile. She smiled. So gently, the corners of her mouth quirking up slightly, lines forming around it.

He swore he could sigh audibly, like his body was falling in on itself, her everything just too much.

The way her hair slipped delicately over her face, and the way she easily tucked it back could play in his head again and again.

And you'd think there wasn't enough things to think about over and over again having only met her a month ago, but there sure were.

The way she held herself. Her fingers sliding over keyboard keys. Her eyes looking over slumped glasses. Her lips curling into a smile.

It was all too much, but not enough to discourage him from thinking about quietly, the images nestled safely in the corner of his mind.

She leaned forward and grabbed a few of the photos, shuffling through them before she looked up. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he said after a moment.

He looked to the clear board that they set up as she taped on a few more photos of victims.

She didn't talk much, that much was apparent. He figured it was due to the position change, switching from solo scientist to a BAU member wasn't a very fluid transition, but Emily was adjusting fine, so he hoped she would too.

"What do you think?" Her voice glided through his ears like a gentle breeze.

He thought she should read him to bed everyday.

It would do more work than chamomile tea had ever done for him.

His eyes drifted to the board, scanning the five people, all white blond women around their late twenties.

"The suspect is most likely a male of a similar age of the victims. There's no sexual assault, but the stabbing could be a substitute."

"So he's impotent?"

"It's extremely likely, yes, with all the factors considered. Multiple stab wounds indicate anger and emotional stress paired with a seek for revenge, so much so it almost reads as personal. It's an especially prevalent idea because the primary group he's targeting is young blonde women. The specific type might be significant to him," he said fluidly, much more calm now that he's talking about something he's sure of.

"Like a girlfriend or a wife?" she asked.

"Exactly. Or possibly a mother or a female family member."

She turned to him, a little scrunch in her face. "Gross."

"Gross indeed. It's actually very common for serial killers--men in particular--to project familial trauma onto their victims. In fact, it's considered a widespread building block of unstable psychological pathology," he rambled.

He looked to her then, and then away, realizing he had done it again.

She probably thought he was a huge nerd, a dork, a being of pure awkwardness and intellectual, a person with zero social awareness, a social pariah even...

"I'm glad to have someone like you around. You make it easy to think."

His thoughts were calmed for a moment, and all that filled his mind was warmth. Face: hot. Body: hot. Mind: hot.

His nervous system was overloading, like he was met with an unknown intruder in his software.

His lips couldn't move as fast as he would like, and he stuttered a bit as he answered with closed eyes, before opening them, brows raised.

"Uh- t-thank you..." he said, his voice turning up in the end, like he was questioning the meaning of her comment, and if it really was a compliment.

She smiled and responded with a smooth, sweet, "You're welcome," like it didn't jab him in the chest everytime she so much as looked his way.

She turned to the board again and he straightened his tie, looking down nervously, before he felt his mouth open and close.

He remembered Penelope's advice, to just 'be himself' and confess to get it over with already. But he felt something completely different come out.

"So...how are you adjusting? To the BAU, I mean?"

She looked over her shoulder at him and shrugged on one side.

"I mean it's a big change," she acknowledged, "But I needed it. It's one of the first times I've felt like I belonged."

He nodded.

His brain was riding on a slow track, checking every possible comment and dialogue option and outcome before it happened.

This didn't usually happen at work, or anywhere for that matter.

He wasn't the 'think before you speak' type. I mean, of course, he definitely did think; he did it every waking moment of his life. But he didn't actively edit his speech for anyone, he just thought out loud.

But then again, he rarely found voices repeating over and over again in his head either.

He had an eidetic memory, so there was no need to worry about forgetting someone's face or looks or even their voice, but he replayed every scene of her in his head like a movie he could never get bored of.

And he's seen this ending before, much like he knew cruel rejection and hushed, giggled whispers. He just couldn't get out of that loop.

But her words cradled the parts of him that didn't speak of highschool or even college aloud. They lifted his heart and pushed it right back from where it had wilted delicately in its cramped, bony enclosure.

They wrapped around him and made him feel like he might want to talk to her again, to see what she would say next.

But the thoughts rolled around in his head and new ones pressed the others to the side.

She was just being nice, it didn't really mean anything.

She doesn't like him, not like that, anyway.

And what does that even mean, 'easy to think?' Comforting? Intellectually stimulating? Friendly?

He guessed she meant it in a friendly compliment way, like new coworkers often did. Just normal.

But he sets a soft thought down in the back of his mind that she meant it in a not so friendly way. Maybe even in a romantic sense.

But he doesn't dwell on it long, and it's when she brushes past him softly that he tenses, his fists balling up and shoulders locking like he might blow away. And he covers the thought up with a tarp like an old car he probably won't ever drive. But he treats it like a lover.

He turns slightly to watch timidly as she finds a file on her new desk Hotch let her set up on Monday. It had the essentials: a pen holder full of writing utensils and a fresh paper and reports in manilla folders in a black rack.

But she has some personal items that added individuality.

There was a little porcelain deer figurine next to the clay pen holder, and a snow globe engraved with 'Atlanta, Georgia' on the rim with white cursive. She also had books at her desk, classics and scientific journals he had read before.

He remembered the second day she arrived he looked her up on the internet and found her dissertation on childhood development.

It would typically take him less than five minutes to read an average PhD candidate's dissertation, but he took a full two and a half hours to dwell on hers.

Not because it was lengthy or complicated, but because he was analyzing and annotating it like a notable piece of literature.

He didn't skim or brush over a single sentence in the entirety of the 80,568 word psychology PhD dissertation. In fact, there was times he would smile, chuckle and nod his head as he read through the pages he printed out at home, like a Philip Massinger play.

He felt utterly and incurably infatuated, like a dog on a leash.

He was smitten, wrapped around her finger; while she seemed unknowing.

He told himself it was silly, having a crush in his late twenties. It would pass. But then she came back, holding an opened file, and looked up at him and closed it, holding it out to him. He took it instinctively, and she passed him again, gently brushing his upper arm with her hand and smiling, so he guessed it wouldn't end anytime soon.

She stood in front of the board again and looked to the vast array of details before she nodded to him without looking away.

"The Anderson home didn't show any signs of invasion and the victims' wounds were more practiced and careful. That means evolution, right?"

He licked his lips and parted them as he switched between looking at her and the board. "Yes, it does..." he said softly in response in a lingering tone, like he wanted to say more.

After she nodded he spoke again, less assured.

"You know, you don't always have to ask me for reassurance..."

She chuckled good naturedly. "I appreciate the praise, but I know I still have a lot to learn from everyone here. Especially you. I'm still more of a theorist at heart."

His face felt hot as her words echoed in his mind like a cave. 'Especially you.'

"Well- of course, there's always more to learn, but I just meant that with all that you have knowledge in and your accuracy streak with criminal profiling, I figured I'd tell you that you're...without a doubt very impressive," he maundered, his hand moving as he spoke, droning on about how great she was like her own personal fangirl.

She was just an angel, nodding as he spoke nervously, looking like he might talk himself into a grave.

She pondered his words for a moment, smiling and she crossed her arms over her chest. "I would argue you're also very impressive, Dr. Reid. And it would be a pleasure to learn from you."

He smiled, and he opened his mouth a couple of times, the beginnings of sentences coming out before he choked them down, struggling to figure out the right thing to say.

He ultimately settled on a feeble, "thank you," as he looked up again.

She tilted her head, catching the small smile on his lips, quivering in and out of existence like he was afraid to get too in his head about such open admiration.

"You know, I think I'm going to like it here a lot. The job is great and the team is very...dynamic. But you all fit together," she said in a silvery, gentle voice, her face softening, "and I hope I can fit in too."

His eyes watched her intently, his face mimicking her vulnerable softness.

"You will. You do."

She accepted his words with a graceful smile, and leaned back on the desk to absorb the information on the board more intently, a furrow in her brow like she was putting together a puzzle with the respective pieces.

His face was still soft, exposing his true nature.

His inner brows were raised and his eyes were wide like a doe.

He liked her. Really liked her.

He hoped she realized how honest he was. He hoped she stayed.

He lingered in the moment as she focused. And for once he wasn't the one with the brains.

He just felt her words echoing in his chest, stitching themselves into his ribs like ancient scripture.

He knew this was just another slippery slope he would only hurt himself going down, but he thought maybe--just maybe--he could have a piece of normalcy.

Maybe he could be the type of person to not hold everything in all at once.

And maybe this time it wouldn't hurt.

[vixenscratch]

What I do seems to be the opposite of what everyone else does, so, like. If it works for you, great! If it doesn’t, don’t follow my example.

I’ve found that the worst thing I can do is to wait until the stars align. I have someone holding me to “draw one thing a day, if it’s a stick figure that’s fine, but draw something.” (If there’s a reason to skip a day, then of course it’s okay to skip a day, just record the reason.) Because for me, if I try to wait it out, I will get anything done approximately never.

I don’t have anyone looking over my shoulder to keep me in the habit of writing, but the principle is similar. I stopped writing for years, almost completely. The only thing that helped get me started again was giving myself a low daily word count that I knew I could reach (and you can forgo the word count entirely and just make it “write something”), allowing the writing to be bad, allowing it all to be disconnected bits and pieces, random scenes that didn’t go together at all, the important thing was to train my brain to Sit Down And Write. Waiting for inspiration has just never worked for me. (Which doesn’t mean I don’t write when inspiration strikes, just that I very carefully don’t depend on it.)

A lot of it, in that initial stage, was sticking an existing character into a situation and seeing where it goes, how they react to it. Sometimes it was a random situation with random characters who didn’t exist before and wouldn’t be used again afterwards. (Most of what I write is original fiction, so insert your canon blorbos instead if that brings you joy.)

Doing that for a while shook things loose to where I could write shorts again. That’s when Fox Out of Water (shameless plug 😉) happened. Some day I will come back to those characters.

Right now I’m hopelessly wormbrained about a particular character/pairing, so I have like two dozen WIPs in various stages of completion and can’t take a walk without turning some situation involving them around in my head. But I don’t get there unless I train my brain to think writing. Having a friend to smash dolls together with helps, but I if anyone know that if you don’t already have them those friends can be difficult to find. (But I also play very rough with my toys so that limits my options more than if I was primarily writing fluff.)

I don’t need to make myself sit down and write every day right now. I can skip days and don’t keep track of what or when I write. If I feel like I have gone too long without writing I cycle through my WIPs and read through, often ending up tweaking something here or adding a sentence there, even when I don’t find the can-do to add more than that.

And sometimes I don’t stick to the WIPs, and just write a random scene/situation that’s been rattling around in my head during those walks.

For me the important thing seems to be training my brain to do the work. And sometimes the work sucks. That’s fine. I can “throw it out” (leave it in an earlier version of the draft or move it to a scratch document) later. But if I don’t do that, time gets away from me and before I know it I’ll have gone years without writing again. And I don’t want that. If I hit a point where I realize I’ve gone “too long” without writing I go back to making myself write something, anything, daily for a while.

That’s just what works for me, though. Evidently a lot of people feel very differently. Funny how different brains work (genuinely!).

Hi! Lately, I've been trying real hard to start writing again after a break of a couple of years, and it's simply not happening. I took the break to begin with because I figured that I could pick up writing fic again easily when I felt less burned out. But each time I've tried since 2025 started I can barely get the words out. I keep telling myself I need to go slow and build up to it, but my brain blanks after a sentence or two, with or without an outline. I can force myself into a drabble or two, or even a flashfic, but it feels like pulling teeth the entire time. I even tried going back to old drafts and adding to them (unsuccessfully). Nothing works! I'm getting more and more frustrated and angry with myself for taking this long of a break from being creative. Do you have any concrete recommendations for what to do when the ideas/words/characters/whatever just aren't coming? My brain is mush.

(I love this blog. So excited to see you back.)

I'll tell you what I do, but I also want to encourage folks to add their thoughts on the notes. This is very much a situation that can be worked on in a million different ways, so any one particular take might or might not work. Often, frankensteining a bunch together is the better route.

I've currently got two creative hobbies: writing fic and making site skins for AO3. When a site skin isn't working, I just have to drop it. I've been attempting to redo my glowy blue Tron skin from like 4 years ago and every time I go back to it, I just get frustrated and need to stop. I don't have a clear idea of where I want to take it, and so nothing looks "right" because everything feels wrong. For site skins, I need to have a solid idea to latch onto in order to get anywhere with them.

For writing, it's kind of similar. It's a LOT easier to write when I have an idea that really lights a fire under me. However, I've found that I can write even if I just know what the end goal of the story is. Even if my ending is just "and then they bone" at least I know where I need to get my characters in the end, and that guiding principle is really helpful because most of what my characters do in the fic is going to be aimed at that end point.

I don't know if it's just the way that you've phrased it in this ask, but it seems like you can't see the story for the words. If you're focused too much on the act of writing then you might need to back away from that for now and work on just imagining the story first. Spend more time daydreaming or lying in bed staring up at the ceiling and picturing your blorbo in situations. Get into the habit of thinking about the story before you start writing the story. Then the writing part is just transcribing the picture that's already clear in your head.

I well understand the frustration that comes when you've got something in you and no way to get it out. Whatever else is happening, the way you used to go about writing fic doesn't work for you anymore and now you need to discover a new method. Maybe it's handwriting in a notebook instead of typing on a screen. Maybe it's dictating into your notes app. Maybe it's chatting it out with a bestie over coffee or in a DM. Maybe it's something else.

Let's see what other people suggest for you, and then you can cobble together a method of your very own. Good luck, anon! I'm rooting for you ❤️

[sleepyjackets]

squeaky clean 🫧

pairings: toxic se-mi x reader

summary: you enter the squid games after being down on your luck yet you find yourself facing more bad luck when your ex finds you there with her

tags/warnings: smut, some angst, toxic!se-mi, fingering, public sex, p0rn with plot, dirty talk, ex girlfriend, se-mi is high key a manipulator

a/n: i wrote this a while back and revised it since season 3 is out and this fandom is finally alive again 🥳

If there was one person you could trace all your current problems back to it was her.

Some sketchy guy in a suit had offered you money to play dalgona with him on the subway. Which you didn't think twice before saying yes because you'd do anything for money after being down on your luck for the past few months. Whose fault was this?

Se-mi.

You two had dated for almost 3 years and moved in together. She convinced you to quit your job once she proposed. But you later found that she was cheating on you with your own best friend. She's always been a dirtbag but she was a loveable dirtbag whose many flaws you were blind to by choice (atleast for the first 2 years). Besides the cheating she was just not a good partner whatsoever but god was she so good making you feel like this relationship was actually good for you. Se-mi would make jokes about gaslighting you but it never dawned on you that she was doing that exact thing.

After moving out you essentially had no money. Your only option was to pick up 3 different jobs and work yourself to death until you joined these games.

After waking up you looked around trying to figure out how the hell you got here from that cramped bus. When you turn your head the first thing you see is the person you hold the most hate for in your heart.

Oh fuck me.

You run up to her and grab her arm, whispering in her ear harshly.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

She turns around and smiles that same enchanting smile that makes you forget how much you want to scream in her handsome face.

"Same reason you're here," She says with a small smile while her eyes drag over your frame with no shame. That's just Se-mi, If there was one word to describe her it would be shameless. While you're stuck in your thoughts you hear a laugh that's way too familiar and immediately snap back.

"You're here, I'm here, we should work together" She steps a little closer

"Did you just forget or something?" You ask with pure disbelief

"No but I'd like to believe that the past is the past you know? Brighter pastures ahead baby" She reaches her hand towards your cheek and you slap it away.

"Don't touch me. Or even speak to me." Your voice is hushed for the most part but towards the end you raise it

"You came up to me, sorry for assuming you were willing to put the past aside" She raises her hands in fake surrender

"That's it that's what you do. You make me feel like shit for not putting up with you and your weird little mind games" You're finally yelling at her the way you've wanted to yell at her for months.

"I'm not trying to fuck with your head baby, I'm not smart enough for that"

Then she just walks away. You know exactly what she is trying to do and you're falling for it in the same way you have many times before. She points out some bullshit insecurity she doesn't even have then makes you feel like an asshole for "enabling" her problems. You know her all too well but still let yourself feel like shit because of her.

*+:｡.｡

That night you're tossing and turning. The first game is tomorrow morning and guilt is eating you alive. Amidst your tossing and turning you spot Se-mi going to the bathroom and jump up running after her.

Once you're in the bathroom you walk up to her grabbing her shoulder and turning her around

"I'm sorry for blowing up on you earlier, how can I make it up to you?"

You blurt out without thinking all too much.

"You're apologizing that's new. But I guess I'd feel better if you agreed to be my partner" She smirks the same smirk you'd have if you won a game of uno not if you manipulated your ex into playing children's games with you.

"Yes of course anything else?" God you feel so pathetic

Se-mi grabs your arm gently tugging you towards her and kissing around your neck and collarbones. In between kisses she mumbles "I want things back how they used to be is all"

You laugh a little bit and let her set you with your back against the wall. Se-mi peppers kisses down your chest until she reaches your titties. She unzips your jackets and throws it aside. Her hands gropes your tit and kisses the other over your shirt. "No bra that's bold even for you"

Her hands lift up your shirt but she doesn't take it off instead opting for just holding it up. Her lips clasp around your nipple and while she's sucking she glances up at you with desperation in her eyes. But not desperation for you, desperation to win. Win what? You're not quite sure.

A moan shudders out of your mouth and you gently run your hand over her hair. Se-mi takes it upon herself to start sliding down your pants while kissing down your stomach. Se-mi's always loved eating you out because it gave her a chance to see you undone and vulnerable. As much of an asshole she was Se-mi always made sure the sex was focused on you. It was her way of reassuring you that she did care to an extent.

Once her lips make their way down her warm breath ghosts over you cilt before she sets her thumb over it and presses down a little.

"That feel good?" She says before blowing a little air over your cilt

"Jesus Se-mi" You look down a little shocked at her rather unique way of teasing you but you're not mad

"That's a yes I assume" She says before shoving her tongue into your folds. She gently presses two fingers up your pussy to keep her hands occupied. Your head tilts back while a strangled moan leaves your lips, all too familiar for you too. One hand slips through her hair pushing her face in deeper while Se-mi just let herself get lost in you.

She ups the speed of her fingers while pulling her mouth away glancing up at you like a teasing puppy. "Cum for me ok?" She says, moving to use her free to gently rub your thigh.

"Yes ok ok" You nod your head knowing you didn't have much control over this to begin with. When Se-mi adds another finger you finally loose all ability to hold back and spew all over Se-mi's fingers. She pulls her digits out and licks them with a sly smile. By the time she's back on her feet you're still a sweaty panting mess, it's pathetic compared to her messy perfection.

She kisses your cheek before turning the water on to wash her hands. You know it's the logical thing to do after fingering someone but you're still a little insulted by the notion that you're something she can just wash off.

Se-mi glances over and knows exactly what's on your mind because you two have had this exact argument about 4 times before. Her hand cradles your cheek while she mutters

"You made it up to me."

[oneofsookies]

I often see fics of Simon being a dickhead to reader, so, why cant reader be a bitch too?

note: english is not my first language, sorry if this is crap.

Sometimes life isn't easy, and other times, throwing yourself out of a window doesn't sound like a bad option. Moving, for example, made you want to choose the latter after realising you had to move all your things to your new flat on the fifth floor and the lift just happened to be broken.

While the first trips trough the stairs were trying to hype yourself up, thinking and sometimes even whispering to yourself encouraging words, by the tenth trip, the only things that went to your mind were curses to your past self being a fucking rat for renting a van and doing everything on your own instead of getting help.

“Need a hand?” You were aware that you should be thankful for the random acts of kindness; however, at the moment, that question seemed more like a stupid one instead of a solidarity one.

“Oh god no, thanks, as you can see, climbing five floors with a fucking table behind my back is something im actually very capable of” You turned, ready to shot him with the most polite smile you've ever learned after years working as a barista, only to hope a window was near for you to jump off. For the very kind soul, victim of your frustration, just happened to be huge and thick beam pole of a man that looked in fact, capabler than you.

He, however, decided to laugh it off and take his duffle bag, leaving it near you. Before you could even form a thought, the weight lessened and he was already walking up the stairs with a whole desk in his hands. Without many options, you took the bag off the floor and followed him to your door.

“Name's Simon” he says after placing the table following your instructions. You hand him his bag.

“Nice to meet you, Simon” You run your sweaty hands through your pants, screaming at the sky for having to leave your pride aside. “Sorry for the, you know.” You felt him trying to fight a chuckle, and were sure that if you could only see his face, you would punch the smile that is on his face.

“Anyways, thanks” you settle for ending the interaction before another comment went out of your mouth or you received a very much deserved punch. Awkwardly, you fought with your keys to open the door, and struggled to get the table inside under his gaze.

“See you around, neighbour” This was your turn to watch him, cursing the sky for such an embarrassing moment and your stupid mouth that didn't seem to care for your dignity.

What you didn't know was the fact that he had been watching since the moment you arrived with the van, interrupting his peaceful smoke before entering the crowded home he lived in. He observed with a curious gaze, later to find himself amused by the strings of words and actions he caught every time you passed by his side.

For the next months, you occasionally see him. Unwillingly,- totally not because you paid attention to him well enough- you came to learn what days you both got stuck in a deafening silence in the now, fixed lift. And often days, when your schedules didn't match, you just happened to run out of essentials and got to catch a glimpse of him in the lobby.

You were curious, you could not deny that fact. However, whatever glimpse of more, got quickly shut down every time he opened his mouth. You found his whole person distasteful, boring and very easily hateable.

Were you being unreasonable? Maybe. But you weren't hurting anyone, and the thing you sought was eye candy for your boring life, not to uncover a mystery man with the weird hobby of looking like he was about to rob a bank.

“You into all that?” You turn your head, realising he had been watching your phone over your shoulder. Fucking weirdo. Choosing peace, you just nod, closing the tab full of computers and going to any social media.

What you were unaware of was that the deafening but part of the routine silence you shared twice a day was going to be replaced with awkward, questionable and strange fill-in conversations that he insisted on having. And one day, you just had enough of it.

“You don't have to talk to me, you know that, right?” You burst, interrupting him mid-phrase. He stared at you, and you could only wish you had X-ray vision to see his expression.

“You this bitchy to everyone or just the ones trying to be polite?” He fired back. You bit the inside of your cheek, deciding whether to answer or finally give him the punch you've been itching for.

“I am in fact a very pleasing person to talk to when people don't stare at my ass and tits everytime they see me” You lied, knowing that in fact, you were a bitch to everyone. Did not lie about the staring, for it was something you were sure of after a week of running into him.

You got off the elevator, wishing you could just top it off with the punch, but decided not to for the well-being of your hand.

[a-d-nox]

pac/pap: what sparks are flying for you this month?

take what resonates leave what doesn't - nothing is 100% for you because these aren't personalized so please no angry comments or dms about what i am saying not being a good fit for you or that you "don't claim" just keep scrolling if that is the case. be kind, self reflect, and have fun.

last pac/pap: what slasher summer has in store for you

return to the masterlist of pap/pac posts

paid reading options: astrology menu & cartomancy menu

enjoy my work? help me continue creating by tipping on ko-fi or paypal. your support keeps the magic alive!

pile one

something had been brewing in your mind for a while... i think it's time for you to act fast and/or have big opinions - no need to sugarcoat. you're in a no-bs type of mode. who cares if it might ruffle some feathers, it's exactly the energy you needed to get through this fog.

there is definitely tension here. i feel like you may be feeling emotionally misunderstood, or perhaps you're oversharing with people that aren't giving anything to you in return. it could be messy romantic energy? maybe you are on the verge of crashing out? or maybe it's a blockage of some sort while you're just trying to go full throttle.

power struggle, anyone? or maybe it's internal - like wanting to be seen and respected, but fearing you're asking for too "much." don't dim your light just to keep things smooth. hesitation is a blockage...

pile two

you've been playing by the rules - maybe it's societal, familial, or internalized. but there's been a system you've trusted or rather you've submitted to, maybe even without realizing it: a belief system, relationship dynamic, and/or role you thought you had to play. reality check? you don't have to play by any rules if you don't want to.

there's a truth you can't unsee, a realization that exposes cracks in the foundation. i sense the joy of finally seeing things clearly or maybe just feeling free. you don't owe anyone a version of yourself that makes you feel small.

hi! this is a jailbreak. something is fizzling close to the fuse: a role, a relationship, etc. yes, it may feel chaotic, but once this explosion clears the sky for real alignment to rush in, know that good things will be coming your way.

pile three

feeling disconnected from your "why"? or perhaps hope feels distant or you’re doubting something you once trusted/believed? know that you weren't wrong - it's just taking longer than expected.

you've already sent something out like an intention, effort, desire, etc. know that it hasn't landed yet, but it is on it's way. you may not see results for a hot minute, but there is steady momentum going on behind the scenes.

i feel like you are feeling burnt out from waiting, or maybe just tired of nurturing something that hasn't come to fruition. but don't walk away right before the spark happens. don’t abandon what still matters most to you.

[blacktofade]

Gemtho Fortnight Day 1

Hello lovelies! The time has come for Gemtho Fortnight 2025! Thank you again for all your amazing prompts! I had a hard time only picking 14 and I hope you can forgive me if your prompt wasn't chosen!

That being said, I got a lot of prompts similar to today's one, so I used the prompt that came in first!

I’m not properly tagging any of these because I don’t want to spam certain tags, but after July 14th, I’ll create a masterpost with links to all the fills and tag that instead.

The prompts are copy/pasted directly from the asks I received and all content warnings will be posted outside of the cut.

As always, keep those tin hats on and enjoy!

---

prompt: gemtho rpf prompt: them getting caught somehow; like etho walks in during a stream, or one of them slips up in conversation. the fall out of it is up to you :3

cw: rpf

It doesn’t matter if it’s Gem’s fault for not thinking to tell him beforehand. Or if it’s Grian’s fault for incessantly messaging her for an impromptu R.E.P.O session while she was just trying to get edits done.

The problem is that she doesn’t hear footsteps on the stairs until it’s too late.

“Gem?” Etho asks. “Are you still editing? I brought you some tea.”

She fumbles at her setup, muting her mic completely, but he’s already leaning over her desk, holding out a mug.

It’s right there in her feed — his pale arm reaching into the shot — the moment before she finally cuts her camera to make sure no one else can see.

“Etho,” she says, glancing up, her heart racing. “I’m live right now.”

She sees the realization hit him, his expression shifting, face going ashen, and he backs up so abruptly that tea splashes across the edge of her desk.

“I'm muted now,” she tells him quickly, “and I've turned my camera off, but you — ”

“Gem,” he exhales as though there’s anything she can do.

“It's Friday,” she points out, but it doesn’t change the fact that there’s no way he could’ve known.

The last she'd seen, he was napping upstairs. She'd figured a short GIGS stream wouldn't hurt.

Etho sets down the mug and takes another step backward.

“Gem?” someone in her ears says — maybe Grian — but she can’t focus and ends up pulling her earbuds out.

“They didn't see much,” she tries. “Just your hand.”

But he stares at her, both of them knowing it's not just that.

For a second, Gem lets her gaze shift to her stream chat.

Did anyone else see that?

WHO WAS THAT?

Gem are you okay??

Why did that sound like etho??????

Without thinking about it, Gem ends her stream. In that moment, she doesn't care if it's suspicious or worries people, she just needs to make it stop.

“We can manage this,” she tells him, watching him swallow.

“But they heard me,” he says and after a moment, Gem nods.

On her other monitor, the GIGS channel on Discord starts to shift.

Everything okay? Impulse sends, followed closely by a message from Skizz.

My chat is saying you ended your stream? Let us know you're alright.

Gem can only imagine the chaos in their chats, how their mods must be trying to rein in the speculation already.

But it’s clear both of them are edging around the real question they want to ask. Which is when Grian appears.

Gem was that Etho?

Gem has no idea what to do or what to tell them.

“The Hermits are asking,” she says, glancing up. “Grian knows.”

It’s strange getting to see Etho make his decisions in real time, the way he glances to the side, like he’s mentally running through his options.

“You can tell them,” he says eventually, looking back over at her. “Whatever you want.”

Gem’s brows go high with surprise, because it’s not what she’s expecting.

It’s still new between them — less than six months — and everything feels too fragile.

Carefully, she rolls back her chair and pushes herself to her feet. He watches as she makes her way toward him, and he reaches out, hands finding her waist.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers as he pulls her closer, and she rests her forehead against his collarbone, eyes falling shut.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” he murmurs, palm rubbing along her spine. “We were going to have to tell them one day.”

“But you — ”

“I don’t care. It doesn’t matter.”

But Gem thinks it does.

“The most you’ve ever shared is your godawful setup,” she says, voice muffled against his shirt.

She can feel the rapid beating of his heart, but he still laughs as though it really isn’t as big a deal as she’s making it out to be.

“We could tell everyone,” he suggests. “Then you wouldn’t need to worry.”

Gem lets out a sharp laugh, pulling back as far as she can as he tightens his grip and stops her from slipping away.

“That’s actually insane,” she tells him. “Did you fall down the stairs on your way here and give yourself a concussion?”

“Maybe that would’ve been better,” he jokes. “You would’ve heard that.”

Gem lets out another laugh, tighter, as she clings to him.

“That’s not funny,” she complains, burying her face against his chest again.

She takes a moment, breathing in his deodorant, how he kind of smells like her and Winnie after being around them all week. It’s comforting.

“Are you serious about telling everyone?”

It would be a weight off. Half of the stress from being with Etho is trying to remember not to slip up.

“We could,” he agrees, and when she pulls back enough to glance up at him, his expression shifts, becoming more serious. “But the internet isn’t going to be nice to you.”

He says it carefully and she knows what he must be thinking.

People are going to question her motives, question whether she’s only in it for Etho’s notoriety. They’ll question what she sees in a guy almost ten years her senior, a guy she grew up watching. Every video will have prying questions, people believing they deserve to know, are owed details about their relationship.

If she’s not careful, she’ll lose her own identity and just become Etho’s girlfriend.

“The internet already isn’t nice to me,” she says quietly with a wry smile. “I’ll manage.”

His hands are gentle on her as he draws her closer, pulling her into a kiss that gives her butterflies even though he’s been kissing her all week.

She clings to him, emotions running high, but when he draws back, he shoots her a look that somehow makes her feel like maybe things will be okay.

“Don’t let this ruin your stream,” he says, kissing her cheek before stepping away, and Gem can’t help but laugh.

“I don’t care about my stream,” she says and Etho smiles like he knows. “It’s just gonna be a little crazy when I start it back up.”

“I’ll stay down here for a bit,” he tells her, glancing around, pausing when he notices her rocking chair. “How far do I need to move that to be out of sight of your camera?”

It feels insane, but Gem knows just having him nearby will help.

As he goes to pass her, she can’t help but drag him into another kiss, feeling his smile against her mouth.

“For luck,” she explains when she lets him go and he laughs quietly.

“No luck needed,” he promises. “Say hi to the Hermits for me.”