#literally like. word for word of dreams had words

[withlovemark]

“FLYING KISS”

pairing: childhood best friend! lee jeno x nerd! reader | genre: rom-com | words: 23k

synopsis -> you and lee jeno go way back, as in diapers and all that. before he was known as the chill fuckboy, he was an all time nerd! just like you! tired of being a loser who can’t even get the guy you wanted, you badly needed tips and a makeover. who’s better to ask for help than your childhood best friend, who has proven that a nerd can be hot?

warnings -> guaranteed giddiness! pet name unlocked: bunny, two dumb idiots, jeno is a yearner!!!, slow burn? kinda but once it starts, it starts, mentions of: car crash, a deceased parent, too many side characters from other groups, +18, crude language, mentions of fuck-boys, parties, drinking, a fight between the boys, blood, a nasty cut, heavy on the smut! reader is a virgin, lots of fingering, oral (m+f), handjob, blowjob, mention of mutual masturbation, corruption kink, pop the cherry!, soft sex, exhibitionism, jeno is a dirty dirty boy with lots of dirty thoughts and a dirty mouth.

an -> the second installment of the loverboy series is yours! this one literally just flowed through me, i could not stop writing, squealing and giggling at this trope. i’m dreading leaving them behind. you do not need to read stupid cupid to understand this story but here are some important things to take note of: 1) jeno is the chill fuckboy, he does not like the whole hopping to one girl to another thing so he gets into a lot of meaningless situationships with girls he does not care about 2) jaemin is currently the only happily taken member of the dream fraternity, he calls his gf: angel. k, have fun reading, with love, c!

the library buzzed with the soft hum of university life filled with quiet chatter, the occasional laugh and the rustling of pages. there were small groups of friends in heated discussions, catching up on life or laughing over a joke. some were hunched over textbooks, deep in concentration, others were lost in their books, barely blinking, while a few had surrendered to sleep, heads resting on their arms. and, tucked away in the back, were the ones who thought they were subtle – furtive glances, sneaky touches, stolen kisses.

there was a place for everyone in the library and it was your favorite place in the entire world.

but right now, as you watch your long-time crush, third year business major, the soccer team’s mvp, jung sungchan, stick his tongue down a random girl’s throat, you can’t help but feel like your safe haven has been tainted.

the grip you had on your pencil tightens as your eyebrows furrowed at the scene that played out, jealousy taking over your features. out of all the places on campus, he had to choose your spot. you have half the mind to report to the librarian. you were already classified as the school’s nerd, why not add snitch to your dictionary?

“what’s that look on your face?,” your best friend’s voice pulled you back to earth, playful, as he plopped down on the seat next to you.

jeno has been fated to be your best friend way before you were even born. with your dad’s being the best of friends, it was written in the stars, whether you liked it or not.

but you liked it, and so did he.

if it wasn’t for jeno, you might have ended up a complete social outcast. thanks to his status and the fact that you were always seen together, people decided you were tolerably weird. you weren’t nose-picking weird or talking to yourself in the hallways weird, just…a little awkward.

and if it wasn’t for you, jeno probably wouldn't have made it into university to begin with. you tutored him in almost every class, every time he struggled with anything school related, he ran to you, from elementary school to university, you were practically his teacher.

they say university is supposed to be the place where you let go of your childhood self and finally grow up. yet here you are now, a third year student and you still haven't quite grown into the lady you were supposed to be. trends went over your head, fashion didn’t interest you and makeup was harder than your architect class. half your wardrobe was made up of high school leftovers, you were still sporting bangs that you had from middle school and you never really saw the point in “fixing yourself up.”

at least, one of you did — jeno somehow made his way into the dream fraternity and somehow earned the title the chill fuckboy. it was odd, seeing people start treating him differently. even odder when you started to see girl’s eyes follow him like he was some kind of lead in a main k-drama and then land on you with a confused gaze. like they couldn’t understand why he was friends with someone like you.

“nothing,” you say quickly, finally tearing your eyes away from sungchan and forcing your attention on the assignment in front of you.

jeno, not satisfied with your answer, followed your earlier gaze, a light chuckle slipping past his lips, “aww, does my little bunny wunny have a crush?,” he cooed, reaching over to pinch your cheek, his trademark eye smile on display.

bunny was the nickname he had given you when you both were eight years old. in some twisted doom, like you were always going to be life’s punching bag, all your baby teeth fell out at the same time, leaving only the two front teeth behind. these days, he throws in a ridiculous wunny at the end just to piss you off.

“shut up jeno,” you scowl, swatting his hand away and adjusting your glasses back into place.

he chuckles, unfazed, before pulling out his own assignments and settling in beside you. a comfortable silence draping over the two of you, easy and familiar.

but your mind was still reeling. you wanted, so badly, to be the girl who was kissing sungchan instead of the nerd he only acknowledged when he needed answers for a test. you wanted to hold his hand, to walk around campus with him, to be the one sitting in the back of the library.

you wanted to be the girl that people wanted to be.

your gaze drifts to your best friend. jeno hadn’t always been this effortlessly put-together, with his hair perfectly styled, clothes fitting him properly, and those annoying sculpted arms that somehow always had a girl clinging to them.

you’re reminded of a different version of him – the times when you had matching glasses, his head way too big for his body, the endless rotation of naruto and pokemon t-shirts he always had on and the way he would stutter every time a pretty girl would even look at his direction.

if he could grow into the handsome, confident man he is now, why couldn’t you?

and then, just like that, a lightbulb flickers on.

“...neno,” you call out to him, sweetly.

jeno eyes you with immediate suspicion, you only use that nickname when you want something from him, “what?,” he asks, an eyebrow raised.

“we’re best friends, right?,” you ask, innocently blinking up at him.

“is the sky blue???,” he shoots back, voice dripping with playful sarcasm. you ignore it, too caught up in the plan buzzing in your head.

“so, as my best friend, you’d do anything for me, right?,” you press, excitement coursing through.

he narrows his eyes, “that depends on what you’re about to ask from me,” he says, looking at you with a mixture of suspicion and mild horror.

“make me hot,” you say, dead serious.

jeno chokes on absolutely nothing, eyes going wide as the words hit him, “what?!.” he hisses, half-whisper, half-scream, as if you just confessed to a felony. a few heads turned your way and you can’t help but blush under the sudden attention.

“you’re so dramatic!,” you whisper, shrinking behind your books. all your previous confidence, going down the drain as you finally realized what you just asked him to do.

jeno charmingly waves, muttering his apologies until the curious stares faded and the library’s usual hush returned.

“y/n,” he said, suddenly serious, gaze locked on you, “what do you mean by ‘make you hot’?” his entire focus on you.

you sigh, heat crawling up your neck, “nevermind, jeno, it’s nothing,” you say, grabbing the nearest book, hoping to bury this conversation along with your pride.

before you could turn a page, jeno snatches it away from you, “hey, no secrets between us remember,” he said, gently but firmly.

you stared at the table, lips pressed into a thin line, weighing the embarrassment against the aching truth in your chest, “i just meant…help me be desirable, i’m tired of being a nerd, jeno. i just want someone to look at me and think i’m pretty,” you admit, too embarrassed to look him in the eye.

“i think you’re pretty, bunny,” he says quietly.

you groaned, immediately burying your face in your hands. this was too embarrassing. you felt like you were fishing for compliments.

“ugh, you’re only saying that because you’re my best friend and our dads will literally kill you if you don’t,” you say, voice muffled by the table below you.

jeno chuckles lightly beside you, “i’m not just saying that.”

you sit back up slowly, looking him dead in the eye, “jeno, i’ve never been asked out, never held hands with someone, hell, i’ve never even kissed anyone,” you reason, head plopping back into your chair.

“—that’s not true!, you’ve kissed me,” he points out earning an eye roll from you.

“jeno we were 14 and i kissed you like how i would kiss my mom,” you say, “it doesn’t count,” you shut your eyes, silently begging the universe to erase this entire moment from existence.

but your words lingered in jeno’s head – the quiet desperation in your voice, the way your eyes had pleaded without meaning to and before he could even think twice, his mouth moved on its own.

“i’ll see what i can do,” he said. your eyes flew open, locking onto his with a sparkle that transferred over to his own.

“thank you, neno,” you grinned, ruffling his hair with a smirk, excitement bubbling through you.

he groaned in protest, batting your hands away but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him.

a second later, his phone flashes on his side. one glance at the screen and he was already gathering his things, “gotta go, lia texted,” he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

you nodded, smiling up at him, “have fun, don’t get pregnant,” you teased.

he chuckled, messing your hair up on his way out, “no promises,” he winked, making your face scrunch up in disgust. the image of your best friend having sex was not appealing at all.

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎

after spending a couple of hours buried in his current situationship’s legs, jeno finally made his way back to the dream house.

the conversation you had in the library constantly playing in his mind as he quickly barges into jaemin’s room, “dude-i oh…sorry!,” his eyes widen, apologizing as he redirects his stare at the ceiling, but doesn’t make an effort to leave.

jaemin scrambles to wrap the blanket around his girlfriend, who is currently face down, ass up with his dick still inside her, “dude!, get out!?,” he yells furiously, throwing a pillow at him.

“i need to ask you something,” jeno says, making jaemin groan, “can you ask me later?, im busy,” he grunts, his girlfriend still clenching tightly around him.

“oh…yeah, sorry…hi angel,” jeno mutters out, a playful smile on his lips before leaving and locking the door behind him, hearing an embarrassed, muffled, “hi jeno,” from jaemin’s girlfriend, on his way out.

“learn to lock the door!,” he laughed from the other side, the sound of skin slapping resuming as he made his way down the living room.

for the past few hours, your words had been playing on a loop in his head. he wasn’t sure where to start or how to go about helping you. not because he didn’t want to but because he’d never realized you needed that kind of help.

sure, he noticed that there were never any boys around, other than him, but he thought you preferred it that way. always scowling in disgust when a guy tries to get near you or even breathe the same air as you.

and besides the fact that he wanted to repay you for always helping him without asking for anything in return, he’d always thought you were pretty.

when you were six, with a scraped knee, and tear streaked cheeks after falling as you chased after his hamster who escaped - pretty.

when you were eight, missing all your teeth except the two in the front, food always ending up smeared all over your face - pretty.

when you were eleven, threatening all his bullies to stay away from him or you would call your dad - pretty.

when you were fourteen and you kissed him because you were curious why your parents were always kissing - so pretty.

when you were fifteen, drowning in a pink puffy dress that ate you up whole - ridiculous, but pretty.

when you were sixteen, at your mom’s funeral, crying on his shoulder, not allowing anyone else near you but him - hauntingly pretty.

when you were eighteen and you both had gotten your acceptance letters for university, excitedly jumping around together - pretty.

when you were twenty and crashed his car because you thought there was a dog on the road, only for it to be the shadow of the tree you crashed into - annoying, but still so damn pretty.

as your best friend, he wants you to see yourself the way he saw you.

if this was what it took to help you finally claim your confidence, then he’d do whatever it takes to make sure it worked. whether or not this was about impressing that boy you liked, he didn’t care. he just wanted to help you feel more sure of yourself.

an hour passed before jaemin finally joined him in the living room, immediately punching him in the arm, “learn to knock,” he huffs out before sitting next to his friend.

jeno chuckles, rubbing his arm, “i didn’t see anything, promise,” he turns to his friend, “you better not have or i’ll literally scoop your eyes out and feed it to you,” his friend grunts making him scrunch up in disgust.

“that’s disgusting,” jeno comments, the mental image making both of them squirm before bursting out into laughter.

“so what did you need?,” jaemin asks as soon as their laughter dies down.

“i actually need your girlfriend’s help,” he smiles sheepishly, piquing the other boy’s curiosity.

“with what?,” jaemin asks.

“with y/n,” jeno says before jaemin nods, getting up to get his girlfriend out of his room and into the living room. the rest of the boys knew who you were, of course, and as jeno had requested, they all looked out for you.

jaemin’s girlfriend listens intently at the plan jeno had - a makeover. he knew he needed a girl’s touch since he didn’t really know anything about the work that girls put into themselves to make them look ‘hot’.

he could argue he thought they just came that way. just like how you have always been pretty.

“well, im kind of done with all of that makeover and stuff,” she briefly smiles at her boyfriend, “but i do know the perfect girl,” shes says smiling, as jeno notes down the girls’ name, paying her a visit.

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎

two days later, jeno came prepared. plopping down in his usual seat in the library, right next to you, armed with a notepad that was opened to the page:

operation bunny’s glow-up

step 1: the makeover

step 2: closet cleanse and wardrobe upgrade

step 3: posture, confidence and flirting 101

step 4: bunny’s party reveal

you blinked at the notebook in front of you, registering the words written in jeno’s extremely neat handwriting, “what is this?”

“this,” he said, tapping the page, “is how i'm going to help you,” jeno explains.

there were too many steps and you’re suddenly so very aware how ridiculous this actually was, “can we just magically skip to step four where i’m already pretty and perfect and partying?,” you sigh, already feeling exhausted.

jeno almost wants to scold you for thinking you weren’t already pretty and perfect but remembered this is why he was doing this in the first place. to make sure you know you were pretty and perfect.

instead he says, “nope, this is a full process. you asked for my help and that’s what you’re getting, no backing out and definitely no easy way out.”

the sternness in his voice made you realize how serious he was about this. “you’re really gonna do all this for me, neno?,” you ask, a hint of gratitude shining in your eyes.

“of course i am, that’s what best friends are for,” he shrugs, ruffling your hair once again.

which is how you ended up here, seated in a salon chair with the girl you met just a couple minutes ago, your best friend leaving you all by your awkward self with no other than — giselle, third year cosmetology major and one of the school’s hottest girls.

her preppy personality was overwhelming, confidence radiating off her like perfume. you had no idea how to interact with her, no clue how any girl could be so aware of her beauty and completely own it the way she did.

it’s almost unfair how nice she was too. hot, popular girls were supposed to be mean, rude, intolerable. that’s how they’re portrayed in every teen movie you’ve seen. but giselle is kind, easygoing, talked to you like you weren't several social status’ below her in the pyramid you’ve made up.

“alright, so we’re gonna make sure your hair frames for your face perfectly and get rid of all your split ends,” she explains, hands already in motion as she fluffs your hair out, moving it around, parting it here and there to visualize what looks best on you.

once she figured it out, she let out a satisfied hum and got to work. the scissors glide gracefully, almost like they were an extension of her fingers and you can’t help but be mesmerized.

“so, how did you and jeno meet?,” she asks, casually starting the conversation as her hands continue to move through your hair.

“uhm, our parents are best friends,” you mumble, trying not to sound as stiff as you feel.

“ooh, that’s fun!,” she comments and you’re not entirely sure if she means it or if she’s just trying to be polite. either way, you appreciate her effort.

“and you’ve never had a crush on him?,” she adds, eyebrows raised. the shock on your face is evident, the very idea of having a crush on your best friend making your stomach twist.

“uhh no, i’ve never seen him that way,” you reply, a shudder slipping down your spine.

giselle laughs, clearly amused, “i see,” she hums, “your best friend is hot though, you know?,” you smile up at her, nodding, blush creeping up your cheeks.

of course you knew people considered jeno hot but you’re not entirely sure you agree with that statement.

he was the same boy who was crying to you because his hamster escaped, the same boy who got his braces stuck in your sweater, the same boy who ran away when you kissed him, the same boy who almost cried when your acceptance letter came in the mail first, his nowhere to be seen until a week later – your best friend was cute, the same way a puppy was cute.

“soo, who do you think is hot?,” she asks, playful curiosity dancing in her eyes.

is this what girl talk is?

“uhmm,” you shy away under her friendly gaze. you’ve never really had anyone to talk to about boys. with your mom passing away at an early age and all your girlfriends more interested in their anime crushes than real ones, this kind of conversation feels like uncharted territory.

“don’t worry, i'm really good at keeping secrets,” she says, urging you to go on. there’s something about her aura that you trust. and you knew that if jeno didn’t trust her, he wouldn’t have left you alone with her in the first place. so for the first time in your life, you indulge in girl talk.

“i think umm…i think sungchan is hot,” you mutter, shy, eyes immediately darting to the floor.

she gasps, an exaggerated, delighted sound, “i totally agree” she says giggling, “you have great taste,” she giggles. then, leaning in with excitement, she whispers, “i’m gonna make sure sungchan falls in love with you.”

you glance at her reflection in the mirror and despite yourself, a smile appears on your face, giddy and a little disbelieving.

“and…we’re done with your hair!,” she announces, your focus darting at your own reflection. your eyes widen slightly. she made your hair look like what you would see in the magazines – sleek, soft, effortlessly perfect.

the change in your appearance already reflecting back at you.

“this is just the beginning,” she whispers again, a friendly smile displayed on her lips.

she gently reclines the chair you were sitting on then tilts your chin up with practiced fingers, her eyes scanning your face with focused curiosity as she takes your glasses off, “hmm, okay,” she murmurs, turning your face side to side. you can’t help but feel awkward, gaze drifting everywhere else, avoiding eye contact.

“okay…i’m just gonna clean up your brows, and wax a little peach fuzz if that’s okay?,” she asks, voice light and reassuring. you nod, unsure what all that means but trusting her anyway.

giselle gets to work immediately, a new tool in her hand, and wax paper placed on your upper lip and in just twenty minutes, she steps back, satisfied.

your face looks softer…more defined. more you, somehow.

“you’re so pretty, y/n,” she says warmly, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “and we barely did anything.”

the compliment hits you harder than you expect. pretty wasn’t a word you would ever describe yourself yet here is one of the most beautiful girls you’ve ever seen calling you that. tears sting the corner of your eyes before you can blink them away.

“c’mon,” she says, voice still gentle but laced with excitement, “we’re not done, grab your stuff, we're going somewhere.”

after spending exactly thirty-two minutes in giselles car, singing along to the radio and laughing at her endless stream of chaotic stories, which you thought was something you’d never ever do, you were now at the mall. more specifically, standing in front of a waxing salon.

you shoot her a nervous glance, eyes wide with suspicion.

“i figured you’d be more comfortable with a stranger you’d never have to see again,” she says with a casual shrug, and suddenly it clicks why you’re here.

you knew what a waxing salon was, you just never thought you’d voluntarily stepped foot into one.

“this is my go-to, they get everything and it doesn’t hurt that bad,” she promises, reassuring, and you swore you look like a tomato with how much you’re blushing.

when giselle said they get everything, she meant they get everything.

even body parts that you didn’t think would have hair on them, body parts that no one else has seen but your own eyes. you almost can’t believe you were in this position right now, but giselle was right – a stranger was better for this. the only thing keeping you from bolting was the comforting knowledge that you’d never have to make eye contact with the person who was currently in between your legs again.

after an hour and several compromising positions later, you were finally done. your skin felt smoother than a baby’s, which was honestly kind of mind-blowing.

giselle was waiting for you at the reception, a bag in her hand, her eyes lighting up as soon as she saw you, “okay!, so i got you a little starter kit filled with makeup, skincare and all the other essentials,” she said, practically bouncing, “let’s go back to my place and i’ll teach you how to use it!”

her excitement was infectious and you couldn’t help but smile just as wide – her bubbly energy sinking into your bones in the best way.

making your way to giselle’s bedroom, you notice how different your rooms were. while yours was covered with posters and music records from all your favorite bands, her’s was covered in magazine clippings of what you assumed are the most popular fashion trends.

while your shelves were filled with books of all genres, she had an entire shelf dedicated to makeup and skincare products. another filled with several handbags and shoes. you weren’t even aware that girls had to have that many.

“sit, my canvas,” she says, lightly teasing, pointing to the chair in front of her vanity mirror as she pulls things out of the bag she gave you.

“we’re keeping it simple, just the basics: primer, foundation, brows, blush, and lipstick of course.”

you nod like you understood anything she was saying. she caught the panic in your eyes and smiled softer this time, “don’t worry,” she said, uncapping a small bottle of primer, “i got you.”

she talked you through every step. primer, foundation, blending like your life depended on it. she filled in one of your brows and handed you the pencil, urging you to try it out yourself. you tried to mimic her, hand shaky, tongue slightly poking out in concentration. this was definitely harder than she made it out to be.

“you’re a natural,” she says, satisfied with your work and you can feel your confidence growing with every second you spend with her. it’s as if she was sharing the amount of confidence she had with you.

by the end of it, you stared at yourself in the mirror and barely recognized your own reflection. not because the makeup was dramatic, it wasn’t, but because you looked like someone who belonged.

like someone who chose how she wanted to be seen.

“there…you look beautiful,” giselle murmurs behind you, chin resting lightly on your shoulder, “i have one last thing for you,” she says, reaching for another bag and you’re not sure how you could ever repay her for all of this.

as if she could read your thoughts, she quickly says, “don’t worry about it, jeno paid for it”

“glasses can be hot, but the ones you have now, completely hides your face so…,” she pulls out two things, “first, i got you these silver ones, they’re smaller but they’ll sit on your face better,” she hands it to you.

you take them, fingers brushing over the smooth metal. the glasses were cute, not your usual style, but when you slipped them on and looked in the mirror, you instantly understood what she meant. they frame your features instead of swallowing them whole.

giselle pats herself on the back, clearly happy with her decision, “and if you’re feeling a little braver,” she trails off, pulling out the last item, “-contact lenses, i asked jeno for your prescription so those should be good, they’re pretty easy to put on too but just in case, i’ll message you a youtube video with step by step instructions,” she smiles at you, soft and sincere.

and you can’t hold it in anymore. her kind actions pull at your heartstrings as the dam breaks – tears sliding down your cheeks before you can stop them.

“thank you, giselle,” you say in full gratitude, voice thick with emotion.

“of course,” she whispers, her eyes matching yours as she pulls you into a hug.

“-now stop crying, okay, makeup is expensive,” she says, laughing as she wipes at her own damp lashes. you both burst into giggles, the room light again despite the weight in your heart.

and then a knock makes its way to her bedroom door, echoing throughout her room.

giselle quickly fixes your tear stained cheeks, “alright, if you ever need anything else, just let me know okay?,” she says, and you nod, thankful for her kindness.

“let's see what your best friend has to say,” she squeals as she rushes over to the door, swinging it open and revealing jeno on the other side.

you hadn’t even thought about how jeno would react or how other people would take in your new appearance. you suddenly felt extremely nervous. he was the first person who was going to see you like this — you wanted him to react well.

jeno steps into the room, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, expression casual until he sees you and suddenly he feels like every air has been knocked out of his lungs.

you have always been pretty but right now you look absolutely, breathtakingly, beautiful.

he realizes he’s been staring in silence for too long when he notices you shift in your seat, the words, “what?,” slipping from your lips, almost harsh, trying to sound casual.

he blinks a few times, gulping “n-nothing y-you just look–,”

“different?,” you complete his sentence, afraid he will start teasing you. his stare becomes more uncomfortable with every second of silence that passes.

“-r-really p-pretty,” he finally manages to say. a smile takes over your features, his compliment completely blowing away the feelings of doubt that were starting to cloud.

jeno almost wants to beat himself up for stuttering so much.

“ahh, my work here is done,” giselle beams, looking in between you with a knowing look only she knew the meaning of. she clapped like she’s the proud host of a makeover show, as she should. jeno clears his throat, immediately reminded that you both had an audience.

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎

a soft knock echoed at your dorm room’s door, followed by jeno’s familiar voice. when you opened it, you caught the tiny flicker in his eyes. he was still trying to get used to your new appearance. its been two days since giselle’s successful makeover and he still hasn’t fully adjusted to this version of you.

but it was time to start step two of the operation - closet cleanse and wardrobe upgrade.

“wait,” you say, squinting at him, “you’re the one that’s gonna look at my clothes?,” you say, bewildered.

what did jeno know about ladies’ fashion?

“yeah, who else would it be?,” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“i don't know, i thought you would’ve brought giselle or another one of your lady friends,” you mumbled as he casually made himself at home on your bed.

he grinned, flopping back against your pillows like he owned the place, “nope, just me, don’t worry…i know what looks good,” he says, a playful smile on his lips as you eyed him suspiciously, “and how exactly are you going to rate my clothes?,” you ask.

he shrugs, “i’ll figure it out as we go, now come on, show me what you got,” he says, making himself comfortable in your sheets.

truthfully, his rating was completely unscientific and wildly biased. he was judging your clothes based on the question: if a girl walked by in this outfit, would i say hi?

and he knows damn well that if you ever found out you were being styled based on his imaginary dream girl, you’d kick him right where the sun won't shine. so he kept that little detail to himself.

“ugh, okay,” you groaned, giving in as you started taking your clothes out of your wardrobe and holding them up for him.

jeno leaned back, arms folded behind his head, watching you with an amused glint in his eyes. he was way too comfortable in your space but then again, he always had been.

one by one you pulled clothes from your closet – the shirts you’ve had since middle school, some with funky patterns, others just straight up horrendous. pants with weird patterns and those that didn’t help accentuate your figure at all.

for once, you were thankful for being one of the lucky ones who didn’t have a roommate. no one else needed to witness this humiliation.

jeno, however, was getting the full show. he has never realized how bad your wardrobe was until now. each new item of clothing you pulled out seemed to be worse than the last. and then came the final blow.

the naruto and pokemon shirts. his oversized naruto and pokemon shirts. jeno’s jaw slacks open, like the very memory of those shirts carried his own personal trauma, “why the hell do you have those?!,” he blurted, sitting up like he’d just seen a ghost.

“your dad gave them to me when you outgrew them, i just kept them,” you shrug.

“burn it.” his voice was flat, non-negotiable.

“what?! no!, these are comfortable and i like wearing them to sleep!,” you defend, clutching the shirts like they were priceless heirlooms. jeno stares at you wide eyed, expression teetering somewhere between disgust and betrayal “you cannot let anyone see you in those,” he says, deadly serious, making you chuckle.

“stop being so dramatic, i bet if you wore these now, people would think it’s cool,” you say and jeno shakes his head furiously, like he can't even fathom the idea of ever wearing it again, “no, absolutely not, i’ve buried that version of myself. deep.”

“well, i’m not burning them!,” you declare, shoving the shirts deep into your drawer, making sure he can’t pull it out behind your back.

by the end of it you had two piles. the “i guess that’s okay” pile and the “don’t ever wear that again, that’s going straight to donation,” pile which was unfortunately about three times bigger.

“jeno, i have like no clothes left!,” you say, plopping down on the bed next to him, limbs heavy with defeat.

your room looked like it was run through by a tornado, clothes scattered in every corner.

without a word, jeno pulls you into his arms, fingers brushing your hair out of your face with an ease that only comes from years of friendship, “we’re gonna go shopping,” he murmurs against your temple, “it’s gonna be fine.”

you let yourself melt into his side with a sigh, “okay, but like…in five minutes, i’m too tired to even attempt being a hot girl right now,” he chuckles softly and you feel the sound more than you hear it, sleep tugging you under.

jeno lets his eyes flutter shut too, a small contented smile on his lips.

five minutes, she said. he’d give her ten.

ten minutes turned into three hours and you woke up with your legs tangled with the boy beside you, “neno,” you groaned, shoving him off of you, “you’re so fucking heavy,” you whine.

jeno slowly wakes up, blinking the sleep away as he sluggishly rubbed at his eyes, “fuck, what time is it?,” he says before reaching out for his phone and answering his own question.

it was only 6PM, still plenty of time to run to the mall and get you your new upgraded outfits.

and exactly thirty minutes later, jeno was dragging you around all the stores with the latest fashion trends. you didn’t even know your best friend knew these stores existed, “how do you know so much about this?” you ask him, eyeing him suspiciously.

he shot you a grin over his shoulder, “well, i do listen to every girl i talk to, you know” he points out and you’re reminded of the fact that your sweet, nerdy best friend was also one of the university’s hot, sexy, fuck-boy.

you rolled your eyes, “gross.” you still can’t believe he even has that reputation. wanting to smack yourself every time you get reminded of it. how could your glasses-wearing, braces-clad, cried-over-a-hamster best friend turn into some kind of lady killer? it didn’t feel real.

“hey, it’s called research,” he teased, “gotta keep them interested somehow.”

he grabs a shopping cart, pulling at everything he thought looked nice on the mannequins, as well as a couple of pieces of clothing that fit his previous criteria.

you follow him around like a lost child. you don’t even remember the last time you had a shopping trip and bought something for yourself. you were usually only here to buy gifts or if you’re forced to buy new underwear.

after a while of aimlessly wandering as jeno does all the work, you find yourself in the dressing room, a shopping bag filled with clothes in your arm.

now here you were, staring at your reflection in pure disbelief. the first matching outfit jeno picked out was a tiny pink skirt and an even tinier pink crop top that left your midriff exposed, “uhhm, jeno i dont know about this one,” you say from the other side of the door, nervous.

“step out, let me see,” he says, patiently sitting outside of your dressing room stall, voice relaxed, clearly unbothered.

slowly, hesitantly, your fingers hover over the lock before unlocking the door, debating on whether or not you should let him see you in this ridiculous outfit that is showing way too much skin than you’re used to. before you could completely psych yourself out, you took a deep breath, mentally preparing yourself before finally swinging the door wide open, revealing the outfit to him.

jeno looked up and almost choked on air.

the outfit definitely hugged your curves in all the right places, made your skin glow and your legs look longer, and god, yes, he would definitely go up to you and say hi if he saw you at a party.

but then he thinks about all the other boy’s who would also go up to you and say hi and do god knows what else and the thought almost knocks him out.

“yeah, that doesn’t look comfortable, i don't like it,” he says a half lie. you quickly agree, relieved, as you go back into the dressing room to try on your next outfit.

jeno feels hot.

the air was too thick and he wanted to dunk his head in cold water to remind himself that this was you.

he shakes the thoughts away. these are thoughts he shouldn’t be thinking about, especially with his best friend. but it was no use. because the next time you stepped out of the dressing room you were wearing a white skirt a little longer than the last one and a light blue top that covered what needed to be covered but was just enough to exude that sexiness he liked in a girl and he swore he needed to get into a bathroom. now.

“this one’s a bit better, i could actually wear this,” you comment, innocently looking at him through those silver glasses that makes your eyes pop out, a small smile on display and all he could do was nod, “yeah…t-that one’s nice,” he says, disguising his stutter under a fake cough.

you smiled, pleased with his answer, and he felt his stomach flip.

he was in so much trouble.

this torture went on for a good fifteen more outfits, tiny side comments coming from him while his sanity continues to slip just a little more. his pants feel more restricted every time you walk out dressed in the cutest outfits that looked like they were made for you.

the worst ones were the ones you liked. the ones that made your eyes twinkle in the mirror and made you smile like you were finally starting to see yourself the way he saw you – absolutely beautiful.

there’s a million f words running through his head.

why the fuck did he think this was a good idea? why the fuckity fuck didn’t he just ask giselle to add this to her makeover process? why the fuckity fuck fuck did he throw all those tiny tops and short skirts into your basket? why the flying fuckity fuck fuck fuck shit fuck are you so fucking pretty? and more importantly – what the actual fuck are you, his best friend, doing to him?

after a long three hours of internal screaming – it was finally over.

you emerged from the mall looking like you’d just won a game show, all smiles and sunshine, bubbling with excitement, happy with the outfits your best friend picked out for you while jeno trudged behind you, hauling ten full shopping bags, half amused, half in pain.

he drove in near silence as you yapped on and on about your makeover with giselle, every detail you hadn’t had the chance to spill yet now tumbling out all at once.

in the middle of your yapping session, you noticed the boy wasn’t as active as he usually was, no silly side comments, no teasing remarks.

“neno..,” you sweetly called out to him and jeno nearly swerved.

god, the things that nickname did to him.

“you okay?,” you asked, eyes flicking over to him.

“yeah bunny, just tired,” he said with a small smile, trying to play it cool.

“that was a lot of shopping for a guy, y’know?” he glanced at you quickly, then back to the road, “keep going, tell me more about your day with giselle,” he says.

you eyed him for a second longer, as if trying to read him, then picked up right where you left off.

he dropped you off and made sure you were safely in your room. before he could leave you surprised him by reaching out and pulling him into a hug. with your arm tight around his waist, face pressed against his chest, you let out a soft sigh, “thank you, neno, sorry for taking up so much of your time.”

jeno chuckles, gently smoothing your hair down with one hand, hoping you don’t realize how fast his heart was beating, “you can never take too much of my time, bunny, you know that” he says, reassuring you.

you look up at him, with that sweet, grateful smile that’s currently driving him crazy, “you’re the best best friend in the entire world,” you say, before leaning up and pressing a sweet, innocent kiss to his cheek.

jeno should’ve been used to it.

you’ve been kissing his cheek ever since you were five years old and playing in the mud together. he argues today just wasn’t his day.

maybe it was the outfit? maybe it was the soft curve of your smile? or maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t had sex in so long (two days) it was affecting his logic?

whatever it was, that little peck nearly sent him spiraling.

“go and rest,” you said, pushing him towards your door and out of your dorm room, “thanks for shopping with me,” you ended the night with a lopsided grin before shutting your door as he finally made his way out.

he didn’t go home right away. instead he found himself at lia’s place, hands roaming and mind elsewhere, trying to exorcise whatever the hell was clawing at him from the inside out.

he kissed her like he meant it, touched her like he was desperate – because he was. so, so desperate for release. he fucked the shit out of her, releasing all his sexual urges as he guiltily pictured you in those tight, revealing outfits.

pictured you smiling up at him having absolutely no idea the effect you left behind. pictured your sweet voice calling him that nickname you gave him when you were fourteen before you stole his first kiss.

and when he finally finished, breathless and sweaty, staring up at the ceiling of a room that wasn’t his, next to a girl he barely knew, all could think about was: what the actual fuck is wrong with me?

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎

the easy part of this transformation was over — the shopping spree, the haircut, the subtle change of your appearance had all been external.

you could already feel the power your new look gave you. for the first time in your life, you realized that pretty privilege wasn’t just some exaggerated social theory. it was real. you felt it in the smallest gestures.

on your way to the library, retracing steps you’ve taken hundreds of times before, everything felt a little different. the way people intently held the door open for you, even if you were still several steps away. the way they’d immediately made space for you in the elevator. and the way someone had already rushed to help you grab a book from the top shelf – you used to have to drag the ladder with you just to get it before.

however, just because life became a tad bit easier, doesn’t mean you felt comfortable.

what had once been comfort in invisibility was now replaced with the pressure of being seen. you weren’t used to the lingering glances or the compliments or the catcalls — it made your skin crawl, making you want to hide under the table until everyone leaves.

when jeno finally walked into the library, his eyes landed on you immediately. you wore a soft white top with jeans that finally hugged your frame and a light blue cardigan around your shoulders, collarbones out for display. it was one of the outfits you bought last night.

the guilt on his shoulders felt heavier as he was reminded of what he did — what he thought of.

forcefully shaking the thoughts away, he quietly sits right next to you. his gaze drifts to your legs anxiously bouncing under the table. a sign that something was clearly bothering you. gently, he placed a hand on your knee. you flinched slightly, then looked up at him, your expression distant – like you just realized he was there.

“bunny, what’s wrong?,” he asks, voice low and tender, threaded with concern.

“they’re all staring, jeno,” you whispered, almost like you didn’t want the words to exist.

he looks around the room, noticing the way everyone was too deep into their own worlds and while he didn’t see anyone obviously gawking, he knew it didn’t matter. it wasn’t about them. it was about what you were feeling inside.

“no one’s staring, bunny,” he murmured, voice delicate, like handling glass.

he knew better than to dismiss it. he recalls what it was like when he stepped out without the comfort of his thick-rimmed glasses and oversized t-shirts for the first time. remembers the way his heart was pounding in his chest, afraid of the judgments he might receive. he didn’t need to guess what you were feeling. he’s sure you were battling the same internal conflict right now. but just like how he got through it, he knows you will too. he’ll make sure of it.

you shut your eyes, taking a deep breath, “sorry,” you whispered, exhaling like the breath had been stuck in your chest all day, “im just- being paranoid, i’m not used to people noticing me,” you say softly.

“that’s okay,” jeno said, a warm smile blooming on his face as his hand moved to your back, rubbing slow, soothing circles, “that’s our lesson for today.”

jeno gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze as he set his bag down beside you, “okay bunny, first thing’s first is it’s all about your mindset,” he taps his head, pointing to his brain and you can’t help but giggle at the silly antics.

“im serious,” he insisted, lips twitching into a smirk, “if someone stares, don't spiral and think ‘they’re judging me.’ instead think ‘i look good, that’s why they’re staring,’” he says.

your eyes pop out of your head, he says it like it was so easy, “doesn’t that sound a little too egotistical?,” you said, nose wrinkling.

“not egotistical, just confident,” he counters, “there’s a difference.”

you gave him a skeptical look but he was already sitting up straighter, leaving no room for arguments.

“next is posture, stop hiding behind your books and sit straight, shoulders back, chin up,” he demonstrates.

you copied his posture, finding his seriousness amusing as you rolled your shoulders back, “like this?,”

“yeah,” he nodded, approving, “you already look more confident”

you laughed quietly, already feeling silly, “i feel like i’m pretending to be someone i’m not,” you point out.

“well, confidence is pretending, at first anyway,” he replied, shrugging, “eventually you start owning up to it, it starts becoming comfortable.”

you studied your best friend for a minute or two. there was a time where he would hide behind his books as well, would even hide behind you. you realized now that his change didn’t just come out of nowhere – it wasn’t just a random growth spurt. it was something he’d worked on, something that took time and practice, just like you were doing now. you wondered how he ever managed to do this alone.

“and the most important thing to know, bunny,” he adds, voice gentler now, “you’re allowed to take up space, don’t ever apologize for being seen.”

you carried his words with you, tucking them somewhere deep, somewhere that had always longed to hear them.

you sat there in silence for a beat until jeno shifted beside you, nudging your arm lightly, “okay,” he said, eyes glinting with a mischievous spark, “time for your first assignment.”

you turned to him, instantly suspicious, “assignment?,”

he nodded, already scanning the room, “see that guy by the window,” he points to possibly the prettiest boy you’ve ever seen reading a worn copy of the hunger games: catching fire. you recognize him. you’re pretty sure he was in your elective art class.

“you’re going to flirt with him,” jeno smirks and your eyes almost bulge out of your head.

“you’re joking! that’s hyunjin,” you whisper, head whipping toward jeno.

“so?,”

“so, he’s…he’s too cool and i don't even know how to flirt!,” you whisper-shouted, hands flailing helplessly at your sides.

he chuckles, “you were the same girl who threatened to beat up my bullies when we were 11, you’re telling me you’re afraid of a boy now?,” his smile is playful, lightly provoking you. and when you don’t reply, he knew you knew that he was right, “just compliment him, smile, say he has nice hands or something.”

your mouth fell open, staring at him in horror, “that’s so dumb, jeno. what if he thinks i'm hitting on him?”

“...you are hitting on him,” he said slowly, like it was obvious.

you groaned, dragging your hands over your face, “i’m not comfortable with this.”

“that’s the point. confidence doesn’t grow in comfort zones,” jeno says and you wonder when he’s gotten so wise. usually you were the one who had these motivational words ready for him.

staring down at your lap, nerves buzzing like static in your fingertips, you take a moment to think it through. you glanced back at your best friend, he was already looking at you proudly – like he believed in you more than you believe in yourself.

you let out a breathy laugh, the absurdity the situation weighing on your chest, “if this ends in disaster–,”

“it wont,” he cuts you off and you knew there was no way to back out of this situation. besides you were the one who asked him to help you. slowly, you got up from your chair, taking a deep breath and making your way towards the boy.

“hi, hyunjin,” you start off quiet, timid, slightly afraid.

hyunjin darts his eyes away from his book, looking up at you, “hey” he replies. when you don’t say anything else right away, he shifted in his seat, “did you need anything?,” he says, an awkward smile on his lips.

you swallowed hard, nerves tangling in your throat, “i uhm…just wanted to tell you—you have nice hands!,” you say, a little too cheerful for your liking. you were internally screaming. curse jeno for putting that in your head. you actually can’t believe you used it.

he blinked. then a soft laugh escaped him, not mocking, but surprised, amused. “oh? uhm, thanks?,” he said, a playful glint in his eyes, “i like what you’ve done with your hair,” he compliments, leaving you shocked.

“what?”

he points vaguely in your direction, “you got a haircut, right? it look’s nice.”

you blinked, stunned into silence for a second too long. “thank you,” you finally breathed, cheeks warming instantly.

you didn’t realize he noticed you before. let alone remember you enough to notice a change.

“you’re welcome,” he smiles and you awkwardly wave goodbye.

you made your back to jeno, so certain that you looked like a tomato. dropping into the seat beside him, burying your face in your hands, “that was so embarrassing,” you mumbled through your fingers.

jeno tried to hide his laughter behind his fingers, afraid to be called out by the librarian for being too loud, “you actually told him he had nice hands,” he wheezed.

“shut up!,” you groaned, “that was your fault!,” you swat at his arm, “my brain just – stopped working.”

jeno calms himself down, sitting up straighter now, the teasing falling away just a little, “yeah, but you did it…and he talked to you, noticed your hair, said he liked it.”

the memory of hyunjin’s compliment flickers in the back of your mind and a small swell of pride flutters in your chest, “he did, didn’t he…,” a shy smile tugs at the corner of your lips.

jeno nods, eyes full of tenderness, “see? you’ve never been invisible,” he points out.

the words settle over you like a warm blanket and for a moment you just sit with them, the weight of the realization sinking in.

“i still felt like i was going to pass out though,” you admitted, a thin, embarrassed smile on display.

“that’s okay, confidence is scary,“ jeno said simply, “but the more you practice, the easier it’ll be,” he sends you a warm smile, never making you feel like these feelings were wrong.

without thinking, you leaned into his shoulder, seeking the steady comfort he always gave you, “thanks, neno,” you breathe out.

he freezes for a second, just for a second, before bumping his head lightly against yours, “anytime.”

then he pulls back just enough to grin mischievously, “now, go back to hyunjin and say something a little less awkward.”

“wait? right now?!,” you whip your head toward him, horrified once again.

“yes, right now…go,” he’s already pushing you up and out of your seat, laughing under his breath as he watches you stumble forward, nerves buzzing anew.

trying to ignore the way your heart pounds against your ribs, you walk back up to hyunjin, this time with a bit more confidence, capturing his attention once more.

“actually i…i wanted to say that’s a really good book,” you nod toward the hunger games book in his hand and hyunjin lights up instantly.

“right?, i’m on my third re-read,” he says excitedly.

with a casual gesture, he pulls out the chair next to him inviting you to sit as you talked about the masterpiece that is suzanne collins and the hunger games trilogy. the conversation went on for a good twenty minutes, it was easy and light and fun, a little playful sometimes. you lose yourself in the exchange, forgetting the nerves that once clawed at your chest.

when hyunjin bid his goodbye, you practically floated back to your seat. your heart was pounding in your ears but in the best way possible. you can’t believe that just happened. you usually only talk to people in class, if you’re required to.

jeno watched you. watched that twinkle in your eye appear, your smile beaming as the conversation continues and it’s the first time throughout this whole process that he sees the change.

you were slowly bringing back the girl he knew. the girl you lost along the way. the girl he always knew was still there, just waiting for a reason to shine.

when you returned to him, he can’t help but tease you just a little bit, “look who’s suddenly ms. social butterfly,” he grins, earning an eye roll from you as you tried to wipe the giddy smile off your face, “shut up”

“no seriously,” he says, leaning forward now, resting his elbows on the table, “twenty full minutes, i was about to send a search party,” he smirks.

“always so dramatic,” you huff but your smile betrays you, “i didn’t think it’d actually go that well,” you admit, cheeks still pink.

“you flirted, you sat down, talked about hunger games lore like it was natural…if i didn't know you, i’d think you do this every day,” he smirks.

you narrow your eyes, “are you mocking me or hyping me up?,” you say playfully.

“why not both?,” he shrugs, clearly enjoying himself. his tone softens just enough to say, “but seriously bunny, im proud of you,” and you smile at him like he just handed you the stars in the sky.

“thanks…i feel kinda…good.”

“confidence will do that to you,” jeno says, nudging your foot under the table.

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎

the next few days turn into a full crash course in flirting 101 with lee jeno.

one afternoon, he dares you to make eye contact with the cute guy handing out flyers in campus, not just a glance, real eye contact. it sounds simple but it makes your palms sweat. you were able to managed a flirty smile too and when the boy stammers mid-sentence, jeno practically fist-pumps the air behind you.

another day, he made you strike up a casual conversation with the barista at the cafe. told you to be a little playful, a little flirty. you passed with flying colors, only stumbling over a few words, the barista writing his number on your cup as well as giving you an extra cookie “on the house.” you nearly skip back to jeno, face lit up like christmas morning.

each small win builds on the last, stacking slowly, steadily until the idea of putting yourself out there and owning up to your confidence doesn’t seem so scary anymore.

through it all, jeno watches with the same steady pride adoring the fact that you were learning how to take up space and shine again.

but then comes the moment that even he isn’t prepared for.

it’s a warm afternoon, golden light slanting through the library windows, when jeno leans over the table, a mischievous glint in his eye, “alright, new assignment.”

you smirk at him, accepting his challenge, “what now?”

he tips his chin toward the entrance where sungchan – tall, charming, the boy you’ve had a quite, hopeless crush on for years – walks in, balancing a coffee and his bag slung casually over one shoulder.

the air is knocked out of your lungs and you suddenly feel dizzy, hoping jeno doesn’t follow through whatever he had in mind.

“sungchan,” jeno says, making your heart skip a bit. he grins, already knowing the effect he has on you, “go invite him to the dream frat party this weekend.”

you stare at him like he’s grown two heads, “are you insane?!, that’s sungchan!”

“which makes this the perfect challenge,” he teases.

you open your mouth to protest but jeno cuts you off with a nudge on your arm, “c’mon show me you’ve learned something,” he mocks playfully.

you groan dramatically but your feet somehow move anyway, heart pounding so loudly you’re sure jeno can hear it from where he’s sitting. you were determined to show jeno (and yourself) that you have completely embraced the confidence.

you gather every shred of courage you have and cross the room toward the boy who inspired this whole glow-up.

sungchan looks up just as you approach, his smile lighting up the whole room. you send him a smile – a little flirty, a little too sweet.

“hey,” sungchan says, voice warm, “you’re in my psych class, right? you always ace every test”

you blink, a little thrown by the fact the he paid attention to you, “oh yeah, that’s me,” you say with a soft, bashful laugh, earning a chuckle from the boy in front of you.

he leans against the shelves a little, eyes raking over you in a way that makes your stomach twist. it’s not the uncomfortable kind of stare you’ve been learning to dodge lately. it’s something softer, curious, warm. like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“you look different today,” he says, tilting his head, studying you, “—in a good way.”

you feel the heat rush to your cheeks but you force yourself to stay steady, remembering everything jeno has taught you.

“thanks,” you manage, giving him a more playful, more bold smile, “maybe you just weren’t paying enough attention before.”

this surprises him, eyebrows shooting up before a slow, impressed grin stretches across his face.

“maybe i wasn’t,” he admits, the easy charm in his voice sending your heart into a full sprint.

for a second, neither of you moves. the space between you humming with quiet tension – intoxicating and terrifying all at once.

you clear your throat lightly, breaking the spell, “come to the dream frat party this weekend,” you say it like it wasn’t an invitation. wasn’t a question. didn’t give him any room to deny.

sungchan’s grin turns teasing, a spark lighting in his eyes, “am i coming as your date or…?,” he leans toward you, trailing off, leaving the question open, playful.

you bite back a laugh, finding just enough courage to meet his gaze head on, “i guess you’ll have to come to find out.”

he stares at you for a heartbeat longer. you’ve definitely piqued his curiosity. and then he laughs, easy and alluring, “okay beautiful, you’ve convinced me. i’ll be there,” he whispers for only you to hear before sending you a wink and walking away.

back at the table, jeno watches. something inside him shifts. it’s subtle, a small, tight pull low in his chest but it settles in bitterly.

he pushes it away, refusing to acknowledge it because this wasn’t supposed to matter. he wasn’t supposed to care about anything but seeing you happy.

you make your way back to him, beaming, “he said yes!,” you practically squeal, dropping into your chair like your knees might give out at any second.

jeno chuckles, reaching out to ruffle your hair, a familiar, easy gesture that suddenly feels heavier than it should.

“of course he did, you’re impossible to say no to,” he tries to tease, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes and you’re too giddy to notice any of it. you bat his hand away, cheeks flushed and full of life.

jeno is forced to swallow past the uncomfortable lump rising in his throat.

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎

tonight is the dream fraternity’s party.

the night where you finally put everything you’ve learned, everything you’ve worked for, to the test. this was it. the final step in your glow up and you felt that electric sense of anticipation crackling just beneath your skin.

you were done waiting. done watching from the sidelines.

you were ready to let loose, to fully step into this new version of yourself.

you stepped into the house, the air thick with excitement. a tight white dress clings to your body, a bold choice you would have second-guessed before. you ditched your glasses for the night, switching it with the contact lenses giselle gave you — embracing the braveness.

this time, when you notice the stares, the double takes, the whispered comments, you don’t shrink back. you don’t flinch. you let them wash over you, feeding the fire inside you.

all those lessons with jeno clearly worked. that change in mindset was all you needed. the attention makes you glow. makes you feel powerful.

looking around the room, you searched for your best friend before finally spotting him in the corner at the back, near the kitchen.

you send him a tiny wave, he sends one back, excitement bubbling through you but before you could make your way towards him, a hand on your arm stops you.

“y/n! you look so pretty oh my god!,” giselle screeches over the loud music, a smile beaming on her face as she pulls you in for a tight hug. she was clearly already intoxicated, her balance a little wobbly but her energy still infectious.

“c’mon,” she says, already dragging you around the room with her, “you have to meet my friends!”

you happily followed her around, giggles escaping your lips, nervousness falling away with every step.

before you know it you were three shots in, dancing with the girls – giselle, somi, and angel, who you already knew before as jaemin’s girlfriend.

the music was loud, your laughters were louder.

and for the first time, you aren’t overthinking a single thing.

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎

when jeno saw you walk into the front door, it was like time had slowed down, like a thousand cherry blossom petals had burst into the air around you, everyone else blurring into a side character of your story.

you have always been pretty. always been beautiful. but tonight, you were absolutely radiant.

and it wasn’t even the dress, though he can’t deny how much he loved the way white clung to you, soft and luminous.

it was the way you walked around the room with your head held high. the way you glowed with every step, not shying away under anyone’s gaze. the way your smile beamed.

you weren’t hiding anymore.

you have finally stepped into your own skin, finally brought back the girl he knew.

in that moment, it wasn’t just the girl standing in front of him that he saw. it was every version of you that was always beautiful – the girl that was the first one out of the house, chasing after his hamster. the girl that didn’t care if she only had two teeth left, she would still eat what she wanted. the girl who was fighting bullies three times her size just to protect him. the girl who was brave enough to kiss him first. the girl who learned to pick up the pieces.

when you waved at him, he felt like he was on cloud nine. it felt like he had stepped into his shoes all those years ago – a boy hopelessly in awe of the only person he ever wanted to see him.

and when you started walking towards him, it was like his lungs could no longer function. you stole every breath he had.

but before you could give it back to him, giselle pulls you away, spinning you into the chaos of the party, leaving jeno standing there, fighting the urge to follow.

“was that, y/n?,” jaemin says, popping out from nowhere, almost giving him a heart attack as he clutches his chest.

he punches the boy in his arm before confirming that it was in fact, you. jaemin looks at him with a knowing glance. he recognizes the familiar twinkle in jeno’s eye.

“wow,” jisung comments from his other side, making him pause.

when did all his friends show up?

“she looks really hot,” jisung adds, eyes following your figure across the room.

a devilish grin appeared on jeno’s lips and in one quick motion, he had jisung under his arm, ruffling his hair, “no, no, no…not the hair hyunggg!,” he struggled from the older boy’s grip before jeno finally released him.

“point taken, won’t say anything about her ever again,” jisung pouts, fixing his hair back into place.

“i don’t know what you mean,” jeno smiles playfully, “i just wanted to play with you.”

chenle chuckles from nearby, “oh definitely, it’s totally not because you’re possessive and way too protective of y/n,” he points out.

“i am not possessive,” jeno argues, his voice defensive, “protective, sure, but she’s my best friend guys, our parents will kill me if something bad happens to her,” he says.

“she’s also a grown woman,” renjun points out, “you can’t keep pushing away every guy who thinks she’s hot, you know?”

“im not pushing away every guy!…just you guys,” jeno protests. he would never let any of his friends touch you, knowing what he knows.

there’s a pause as the group stares at him, “mhm, cause her really tall, really muscular, really intimidating, doesn’t smile at anyone, guy best friend being by her side almost all the time isn’t pushing away any boys,” haechan adds, teasing.

“it’s not my fault those boys don’t have the balls to ask her out,” jeno mutters, looking at mark for some support, hoping that he’d somehow take his side and tell the others that they were being ridiculous.

mark shrugs in a don’t look at me kind of way and jeno can’t help but groan in defeat.

“well, that boy definitely has the balls,” jaemin nods towards the dance floor as jeno follows his line of vision, his eyes immediately on your figure once again.

you're still with the girls but this time, sungchan and a few other guys from the riize fraternity have surrounded you, laughing and chatting with you.

“shouldn’t you get your girlfriend, jaemin?,” mark asks casually, “i know that wonbin guy has a thing for her,”

jaemin just laughs, completely unbothered, “nah, he doesn't stand a chance,” he says, sipping from his drink as the boy’s laugh.

but jeno knew that sungchan definitely had a chance with you. nothing is funny.

sungchan leans in close, whispers something in your ear and you were laughing. the laugh he thought was only reserved for him. he feels his fists clench up on his sides.

“you gonna push him away, jeno?,” haechan teases by his ear, a smirk playing on his lips, earning him a punch right on the stomach.

“shut up,” he says, haechan clutching over, his laughter mixing with his pain. he totally deserved that.

“c‘mon jisung, let’s find your girl for the night,” haechan manages to say in between choked breaths, before he dragged jisung and mark out of the room, resuming their fuckboy101 classes.

jeno watches as sungchan and you continue to talk, his gaze never wavering from the two of you. every inch of him wants to march over there and pull you away but he doesn’t. instead, he stays rooted in place, his eyes burning holes in the back of your head, feeling his pulse quicken in ways he can’t explain.

lia, his current situationship, walks up to him.

“okayy, that’s our cue,” chenle whispers before all the boys dispersed leaving jeno alone.

he doesn’t even greet her, doesn’t make an effort to say hi, eyes still glued on your figure.

“hi handsome,” lia drags her hands up his shoulders, settling on the back of his neck, her lips finding the side of his jaw.

it all happened so quickly.

one second you were still with the girls, the next sungchan dragged you to the side, his lips on yours. jeno’s jaw clenches. his heart dropping.

he needed to stop looking. he needed a distraction.

he finally acknowledges the girl clung to his neck. she reeks of alcohol and vape smoke. jeno turns to kiss her anyway.

he let’s lia drag him up the stairs, taking one last look at you. he let’s her lead him into his bedroom. let’s her strip off his clothes.

he knew you were going to be okay, knew you could handle your alcohol after many beer nights with him and he definitely knew that you were too smart to get yourself into any real trouble.

he can’t ruin this night for you.

“fuck me like you did last time,” lia whispers in his ear, trailing kisses down his neck, “fuck me like you mean it,” her hand travels down, wrapping around his already hard cock and jeno did.

he fucked her like she was all he needed. abused her hole, used her to release all his sexual tension, trying to push away the image of you from his mind.

but he found that every time you appeared, the better it felt and soon he was clenching, body shaking, his orgasm taking over as he came…with your name spilling from his lips.

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎

bunny: come over please it’s an emergency.

jeno was banging on your door in under eight minutes of that text. which was absolutely ridiculous considering the fraternity house was a twenty minute walk away from your building. a million thoughts were racing in his head.

what happened after he left you at the party that constitutes this emergency text? were you hurt?

you swung the door open, perfectly intact. no tears, no bruises, just you – in shorts and one of his your oversized naruto t-shirt, blinking at him like he was the one being ridiculous.

side note: it’s insane how you manage to make that shirt look sexy.

he exhaled hard, one hand bracing on the doorframe as he caught his breath.

“did you run here?,” you ask, stunned, noticing the sweat dripping down the side of his face.

“you said it was an emergency,” he shot back, chest still heaving.

you offered a sheepish smile, “sorry, come in,” before walking into your room. jeno followed, shutting the door with a soft click.

“what happened?” he asked, eyes scanning you again, just to be sure, as he sat on the edge of your bed watching you pace back and forth.

“sungchan kissed me,” you tell him.

he blinked, processing, he knew that. he saw you. the reminder leaves a bitter taste on his tongue. he pushes it away, playing the best friend card once more.

“that’s good? right?,” he says cautiously, cursing the fact that he was your best friend right now and had to listen to you talk about another guy, “that’s what you wanted?”

“yeah but,” you swallowed, embarrassment already creeping up your neck, “but i didn’t know what to do!”

“what do you mean?,” he asks dumbfounded, “you just…kiss him back.”

“it’s not that simple, you weren’t there – i panicked! i-i froze! i was too into my head and then i just – i ran,” you ramble, cringing as you relived what happened last night.

a snort escapes jeno before he could stop it.

you narrowed your eyes, “don’t laugh!, it was so humiliating, i can’t believe i ran away like a literal child!,” you groan in your hands.

he tried to control his expression but the corner of his mouths betrayed him, eyes twinkling with amusement, “y/n, it’s not a big deal, you were nervous,” he reassures, “just tell him you were drunk and then try again, it's not the end of the world,” he says it so easily – like you didn’t just go through the worst moment of your life. and that’s saying a lot considering you had a dead mom.

“that’s the problem, i don’t know what i'm doing, i always thought when it happened i’d just know but i didn’t,” you whine in frustration, pulling at your hair.

he must be crazy to think you’d get a different result if you went up to sungchan now and kissed him. you’re almost sure the same thing would happen.

“you’ll be fine next time, you’ll be prepared for it,” he says. the thought of there being a next time makes you panic.

“will i?,” you cut in, “what if i freeze again?,”

“you won’t”

“you don’t know that.”

he opened his mouth to argue, but you beat him to it.

“can you teach me?,” you said, voice quiet.

jeno stills, looking at you with wide eyes like he almost couldn’t believe what you just said – “what?”

“teach me,” you sat next to him, eyes locked on his, “add a step five, teach me how to kiss, teach me how to–” you couldn’t bring yourself to say the other things, the dirtier things you wanted to learn, “–how to do other things,” you mumble.

his jaw tensed. he can’t believe what it is you’re truly asking from him. teaching you how to kiss was already absurd but teaching you how to kiss for another man? it makes him want to throw up.

“bunny –no. i don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“why not?,” your head turns like a genuinely curious puppy.

“because best friends don’t–,” he faltered, “we don’t cross that line.”

“but it’s not like that,” you looked up at him, voice softening, “it’s just…practice.”

he didn’t move. didn’t blink. he can’t fathom the fact that he was actually starting to entertain the idea.

“it’s for educational purposes…just another step in the glow up,” you added, looking at him with those innocent eyes that makes him want to give you the moon, if you asked for it.

his throat worked as he swallowed, holding on to the last bit of restraint he had, “we can’t,” but it came out too quiet, too unsure, his resolve breaking with every second.

“neno,” you whispered, eyes locked on his. it’s not fair and you know it but you’ve already convinced yourself that this is necessary. that you needed to be taught.

“please…you’re the only one i feel comfortable with, just so i could learn, so i could know what to do when these things happen and i don’t make a fool of myself again,” you say, your tone low, almost pleading.

jeno’s breath hitches in his throat. he must be crazy or maybe you truly have him wrapped around your finger because now his eyes are flickering down to your lips and he can’t look away.

he realizes just how close you actually were and just like that, everything else blurs.

he leans in slowly, cautiously, searching your eyes for any flicker of hesitation.

you remain still, you don’t move, you don’t pull away. just watching him, a mixture of quiet excitement, nerves and something warmer, something softer, spreading through you like wildfire.

“just for practice,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against yours.

“just for practice,” you breathe back.

and that was all he needed to finally close the final inch – kissing you slowly, carefully.

it hits him instantly. fireworks. the same ones he felt when he was fourteen. the same one burned at the back of his memory. all this time he thought it was just because it was his first kiss, that feeling never once coming again. but here it is. bright, real and alive in his chest.

and this time he sees it for what it is – it’s you.

he feels you stiffen up and he pulls away softly, “don’t think about it too much, just follow my lead, okay, bunny?,” the once innocent nickname leaves you feeling hot, your heart pounding in your chest as you nod.

his hand makes his way to your cheek, warm and gentle, brushing the soft skin just beneath your ear, the small smile on his lips bringing you a sense of comfort as you as he pulls you back in. lips melting in his. you gave in, shutting the rest of the world out and only focusing on the boy in front of you.

jeno tilts his head, deepening the kiss as you follow his every move. his tongue licks your bottom lip, begging for entrance as yours part on instinct. body reacting before your mind could even process what was happening.

you kiss him back – not perfectly, not practiced but with all the pent-up wonder and want you’ve never let yourself say out loud. it was so natural with jeno. like you were always meant to be kissing him.

you can taste the faint mint of the altoids he always had, feel the heat radiating off his skin.

the makeout session grows heavier and heavier as you continue to keep up with him, learning to breathe through your nose.

you shift slightly and your knees brush, thighs pressing together and suddenly you’re aware of how close you have gotten. the lack of space between your bodies is dizzying. your fingers curl into the front of his shirt, wanting him even closer.

as if he could read your mind, jeno moves his hand from your neck to your waist, fingers splaying wide, grounding you and then in one swift motion, like you had absolutely no weight, he pulls you into his lap.

you gasp softly into the kiss and he swallows the sound, “sorry,” he murmurs against your lips, not pulling back. he was completely lost in you. in this feeling that only you could give him. he swears he could kiss you for hours and it still wouldn’t be enough.

“don’t be,” you shake your head, straddling him now. your hands find his shoulders, wrapping around his frame and threading through his hair. he kisses you harder now, less careful, lips moving in a messy rhythm, teeth clashing.

almost like it had a mind of it’s own, your hips instinctively grind down on his clothed bulge. the action sending jeno into a frenzy, a strangled groan transferring from his mouth to yours, his hold on your waist tightening.

the sound was so addicting, so intoxicating and it wraps around your head like a sweet drug.

you do it again, not entirely sure what you want to achieve but it felt good. it feels like a million butterflies flying in your stomach. there’s a growing tension in your belly that you can’t pinpoint. the feeling is new, exciting, hot.

jeno was right there with you, every boundary, every line he tried to draw was completely vanishing.

his lips trail down to your jaw, then lower, to the edge of your throat and you tilt your head back with a soft breath. your heart’s pounding. his is too. you can feel it, fast and erratic against your chest.

“y/n,” he grunts your name, like a warning – hoping you would stop him because he no longer couldn’t.

“what were the other things?,” he asks you, eyes completely blown out as he looks at you with a kind of hunger. and when all you do is grind against him once more, leaning into his touch, he’s decided he wants to see you on your knees.

“lesson number two, you’re going to suck my cock,” he whispers in your ear. the vulgar words make you feel hot, your body clenching, “do you want to learn that, bunny?,” he says, voice raspier, teasing, waiting for your go signal.

you nervously look up at him, all you could do was nod, an innocent glow in your eyes and jeno swears he could bust right there.

he reaches for one of your pillows, placing it on the floor beside your bed, “get on your knees,” he gently commands. you’re quick to follow, almost like you were in a trance. jeno tugs his sweats down to his ankles, his bulge prominent in his boxers and you can’t help but stare.

“go ahead, bunny, touch it,” he says. you almost can’t believe this is the same boy who was hiding behind your back, crying, every time the older kids would tease him.

this situation was absolutely ridiculous but that doesn’t stop your hand from wandering. following the outline of his cock as you palm him through his boxers. jeno lets out a hiss, the friction already fucking with his head.

“you can take it out,” he says, almost pleading. carefully you push his boxers off, his cock springing free, slapping against his thigh. you can’t help but gulp at his size, “i-its so big,” you say, making him laugh.

“thank you,” he says with a smirk on his lips and you playfully roll your eyes.

“what do i do?,” you look up at him, waiting for the answer. his eyes darken, that simple question snapping something inside of him. you were so innocent. so pure. and he was about to corrupt you.

he gently grabs your hand, redirecting it to your mouth, “spit,” he orders and like an obedient student, you follow, spitting in your hand.

“you can do anything, you can squeeze it,” he says, making you wrap your hand around his cock. your hand looks so tiny around his member and jeno almost just wants to skip this lesson entirely and fuck your hand dumb but he contains himself.

large hands envelop yours as he guides you on what to do, squeezing just the right amount.

“you can pump it up and down,” he says, guiding your hand to slide up and down his throbbing cock. he releases a sigh of pleasure, the warmth of your hand already making him weak.

“you can twist,” he says, twisting your hand around his cock, “you can put your mouth on it…lick it, swallow it, just keep the teeth away,” he smirks and you take a mental note of everything.

jeno releases your hand, giving you the space to experiment on his body. you’re excited, nervous but excited. you wanted to be good at this.

slowly, you continue his previous ministrations, pumping his cock up and down, squeezing and twisting your hand, just like how he showed you. jeno can’t help but let out a shaky breath, and you’re worried “does it hurt?,” you ask.

“no, bunny–feel’s really good, j-just go faster, please,” he begs.

it was sweet torture – how slow you were going, how much you were edging him on and you weren’t even aware of it. you pick up the speed, giving into his request and jeno grunts, his elbows coming in contact with your bed.

his cock looked so pretty, red and swelling, leaking.

your mouth exploringly wraps around his red tip and jeno curses under his breath, “fuuuck, oh my god.”

your confidence grows, feeling your pussy twitch at the sight of him. clenching your thighs, wanting some sort of relief. the sinful sounds he was making goes directly to your senses — the same sound you heard earlier but clearer now, more desperate, more whiny, and it knocks the breath out of you.

your hand continues to pump him, as you start sucking. you wouldn’t describe the taste of his cock to be good or sweet or like candy but it was addicting — it makes you want more. especially when every swipe of your tongue was accompanied by a breathy groan from him. it fuels you.

you take more and more of his length in until you could no longer fit him in your mouth and slowly you start bobbing up and down. his grunts and groans becoming more frequent.

jeno can’t do it anymore. this teasing was killing him. and the worst part is that you don’t even know how much you were affecting him.

his hand finds it’s way to your hair, gripping lightly, controlling the pace, increasing the speed, until you were choking, gagging, tears brimming in your eyes, “s-sorry bunny, it just f-feels so good,” he growls, thrusting his cock down your throat.

it was too much. he was too big. but you don’t care. you shut your eyes tightly, fighting the urge to gag as he continued to hit the deepest part of your throat.

this image of you on your knees, spit drooling all over your chin, tears in the corner of your eyes as you take what he gives you is absolutely heavenly.

jeno feels the coil about to snap, his breaths coming in heavy pants, thrusts getting messier and messier.

“o-open your eyes, bunny,” he orders. he wants you to see it. wants you to see him unravel. wants you to know how good you’ve been for him.

“p-play with my balls,” he instructs. your hands immediately follows through, squeezing him just where he needed it. heat travels all throughout his veins as he pulls you off, not wanting to force you to swallow his cum.

and then he falls apart – hard.

jaw going slack, eyes rolling back as his body fell into your pillows, abs clenching, cock pulsating. his cum shoots out of his tip, messily squirting everywhere, orgasm completely washing over him.

you watch him fall apart and you’re absolutely mesmerized. he looked so beautiful. so fucked out. and there’s that knot building in your stomach that you still can’t quite place.

you lick him clean, swallowing every drop that has landed on his stomach, his thighs, everywhere.

jeno’s eyes shot open as he tried to slow his breathing, slowly sitting back up, watching you clean him up like he was your last meal.

“how does it taste?,” he smirks and you look up at him through your damp lashes, “not very good,” you smile, earning a laugh from both of you. he guides you back up, as you stand in between his legs.

he lifts the naruto shirt off your body, leaving you in your light blue bra, flower patterns detailing it, “cute,” he playfully smirks and you suddenly feel embarrassed, arms protectively going across your chest.

“nu-uh don’t shy on me now, this was your idea, remember,” he says, before pushing your hands away and placing a soft kiss on the flesh on top of your breasts, looking up at you. your breath catches in your throat. that knot in your belly growing and growing making you push your legs together.

jeno notices.

“you did such a good job,” he compliments you, licking and sucking the skin of your breasts as he continues to look at you. your hands find comfort in his shoulders, stabilizing yourself.

“i did?,” you ask, “mhm, you’re such a good girl…made me feel so good,” he groans in between your breasts before traveling lower, placing a soft kiss on your stomach. his dirty talk has your mind reeling, feeling weak in the knees.

“-and good girls, must be rewarded,” he says, his fingers making their way to the hem of your shorts, squeezing the fabric between his fingers.

“how do you like being touched?,” he asks, softly, waiting, looking up at you.

“what?,” you ask, blush creeping up your cheeks.

“when you touch yourself, how do you like it?,” he asks, littering your stomach with soft kisses, his tongue lightly grazing on your skin.

“i-,” you stutter, “i-i dont,” you say, embarrassed of your lack of experience.

“what?” it was his turn to be surprised, gently sitting you on his thigh, like you just said the most ridiculous thing in the world.

sure he knew you were a virgin and had zero experience with men but you had to have touched yourself before? there had to be some part of you that gave in to the desires of the night and experimented?

you groan, hiding your face in the crook of his neck, “i-i’ve tried but nothing ever happens and i just feel silly with my hand down my pants,” you reason out and that very image alone makes his cock twitch again.

you were going to kill him.

“so you’ve never fingered yourself? never had an orgasm?,” he asks, completely shocked.

“i don’t even know how i’m supposed to do that,” you shrug.

“ok,” jeno says, taking it all in.

he thinks for a minute or two before he finally comes to a conclusion.

you stole his first kiss, it was only fair he stole your first orgasm. right?

“lesson number three, i’m teaching you how pleasure is supposed to feel like.”

his strong arms lift you up, making you squeal at the sudden action before he turns around, gently laying you on your bed.

jeno gets rid of his shirt, throwing his remaining piece of clothing over his head and holy fuck…your best friend is hot. his abs are on clear display, his semi-hard cock hung to the side, and you feel very hot as his gaze focuses back on you.

“when did you get those?,” you ask, fingers ghostly dancing over his six pack, trying to push away the nerves you were feeling.

he chuckles before leaning over, body trapping yours, lips finding that spot he left off of, as he continues to trail kisses on your stomach. your body can’t help but react, arching towards him. his fingers tugging on your pajama shorts.

“let’s take this off, bunny,” you comply, hips raising up, shorts sliding down your legs and you almost curse yourself at the underwear you decided to wear – a white one with cute little brown bears all over it.

jeno smirks, “really mature choice of underwear,” he teases and you scowl, “shut up, jeno,” you say, trying to hold onto the little pride you had left. he chuckles until he spots the dripping arousal your underwear has collected and something inside him shifts.

he wants to ruin you…so bad.

“look at you, bunny,” his voice drops an octave deeper, “already so wet and i haven’t even touched you,” he kisses the inside of your thigh and you feel your pussy clench, “you don’t even know what we can do with all this, huh?,” he says, gazing up at you. you watch him, as he got up, pulling you to the edge of the bed.

jeno’s hands wrapped around his cock and you tense up, “neno, are we about to have sex?,” you ask, your voice soft, timid, a hint of fear – it drives him absolutely nuts.

“no bunny, i won’t take that from you,” he says softly, “just want you to feel something, okay? just a little clit stimulation,” he explains and before you could even ask him what that means his cock was inside your underwear — collecting all your juices, tip hitting your clit over and over again as he slides up and down your wet folds.

“ohhh,” you release a sigh of pleasure, eyebrows furrowing as you try to understand this new feeling.

“feel’s good?,” he says, smirking at you.

“y-yeah,” you manage to breathe out and jeno absolutely loves the way your face was contorting.

he was playing a dangerous game with himself and this is supposed to be all about you. all he wants to do is insert his tip. just the tip. before he could lose control he stops, pulling his cock out of your underwear.

“why’d you stop?,” you ask, frustrated, already missing the lack of contact.

he chuckles, “my fingers will feel better,” he says for his own sanity.

he finally tugs off your underwear, the cool air hitting your pussy, before his thumb starts circling around your sensitive bud – rough, slow, precise circles that elicited a loud moan from you.

you slap your fingers across your mouth, surprised at the sound you made.

“don’t do that,” he orders, grabbing your fingers and latching it onto his before bringing it up over your head, a strong hand keeping it there, “want to hear you moan, bunny,” he whispers, sucking that sensitive spot just below your ear, earning another breath of moan from you.

your body arches up towards him, hips raising to his touch and he knew you were ready for more.

“gonna stick a finger in,” he warns, not giving you time to respond as his digit slides inside your hole, making you tense up, “relax,” he places a soft kiss on your lips, distracting you from the stretch, “it’s okay,” even with your dripping arousal, you were so so so fucking tight. he didn’t even know it was possible for someone to be this tight.

with a tiny bit of force, he pushes his finger in through your walls, “gonna make you feel real good, bunny,” he soothes as you slowly relax into his touch.

“gonna add another okay?,” he says and you just nod, trusting him completely. this stretch is definitely larger, and you find yourself biting down your lip. his fingers were so thick.

he slowly, gently thrusts them in and out, giving you time to adjust, “it’ll feel real good soon,” he seals with a kiss to your lips as he continues to stretch you out. fingers scissoring your walls until your pussy finally sucked him in.

the feeling of having something inside you was entirely new, strange, and you’re still trying to figure out if it felt good or not. but then jeno curls his finger and that knot in your stomach is rising faster and faster.

you want to know what happens when it finally breaks.

“ohh…neno,” you breathily moan, the pain completely morphing into pleasure. your walls completely adjusting to him, “please” you plead, not entirely sure what you were begging for.

your sweet, innocent, delicious moans of his name awakens something in him.

“im gonna eat you out now,” he tells you.

before you could protest, the idea of it making you feel embarrassed, he was already in between your legs, sucking on that spot that makes your eyes roll back.

“ohhh fuck, jeno,” you cry out, his tounge lapping up your juices, swirling around your sensitive bud, fingers still curling inside of you.

“neno, s-something’s happening,” you say in heavy pants, your breathing becoming shakier.

“p-please,” you beg, eyes wide, jaw going slack as you start panting, your hands gripping his hair, trying to ground yourself.

that coil in your stomach is hanging on by a single thread.

jeno looks up at you, he can feel you coming to a close. your walls pulsating around his fingers. he decides to finally send you over the edge, fingers rubbing fast, harsh, circles around your clit as the other continues to hit that sweet spot.

“let it happen, bunny,” he whispers, “let go…come all over my hand,” your best friend’s voice was the final push.

the thread snaps. the knot breaks.

you came crashing apart, stomach clenching, toes curling, eyes rolling to the back of your head. vision slipping into absolute darkness, feeling like you were floating.

jeno coaxes you through your orgasm, letting you ride out every wave. the sight of you unraveling drives him completely insane and it takes every nerve of self control to not ram his cock into you.

“such a good girl, bunny” he praises, littering kisses along your jaw, slow, reverent, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. your breathing is erratic, chest rising in short, shuddery pulls as you come down from everything.

he shuffles around your room quietly, grabbing a clean towel out of your bathroom before making his way back to your bed, gently cleaning you up.

your eyes flutter open at his touch. your best friend’s smile greets you, safe and warm, “you okay?” he asks and his voice is too tender. too full of something you don’t see.

“t-hat,” you clear your throat, a weak laugh slipping out, “that was a really fun lesson,” you smile, still caught in your daze.

jeno smiles back at you but it’s hollow and empty and he hates himself for smiling at all.

reality slaps him in the face, something in him crumples as he’s reminded that all of this – all the care, all the closeness wasn’t for him. it was all just for practice. a rehearsal for someone else. and now he’s drowning in the realization that he’s just the one you trust, not the one you want.

he’s helping you be prepared for another man, still pretending like it doesn’t kill him.

he almost wants to kill every man in the world for you to finally see him.

he stands, needing to put space between you, between what just happened and everything he’s feeling. but you catch him.

“where are you going?,” you ask, when he pulls his clothes off the ground, pulling his sweats up, getting ready to leave.

“back to the frat”

“jeno, it’s late, just stay the night,” you say, casually, easy. like it’s nothing. like it’s normal. like he didn’t just get a taste of something he’ll never recover from.

and it should’ve been easy. it should’ve been nothing. it should’ve been normal. he has stayed countless nights before.

but it’s not easy. it's not nothing. and it’s definitely not normal.

“please,” you say, moving over, making room for him and patting the space he usually took up.

jeno hesitates for a second or two before doing the one thing he never does if you were any other girl — he crawls back into your bed, your sheets and pillows molding to the shape of his body.

you immediately curl into his chest like it’s instinct. filling in that space that’s always been yours. legs tangle. skin touches skin.

it feels normal but it’s not. not with so little between you. not with everything unsaid.

jeno holds you close like he always does but this time he wonders if it’s the last. the sound of his heartbeat lulls you to sleep but he stays awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling, counting the cracks in his heart, wondering how much longer he can survive being just your best friend.

his fingers thread gently through your hair, slow and careful, memorizing the feel of you beneath his touch. the familiar scent of your strawberry shampoo wraps around him, soft and warm and absolutely cruel. it smells like home, like comfort, like everything he’s always wanted.

and then, in a voice so quiet it barely disturbs the silence, he whispers into the night air, words only for the moon to hear:

“i’m in love you, bunny.”

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎

the sun filters in gently, casting golden lines across your bedroom floor. you stir before he does, eyes blinking open to the soft rise and fall of his chest, quiet snores filling the air.

jeno’s arm is still wrapped around you, strong and secure, holding you like he didn’t want to let go. his face is relaxed, lips parted slightly, his usually styled hair falls softly on his features — he looks so vulnerable, peaceful.

he looks like the version of himself you remember all those years ago.

you should pull away but you don’t. instead, you study him — every line of his face, older now, more defined, but still him. you’ve seen him like this before, countless times, but something feels different now. you feel different.

and then it hits you, soft and sudden.

the feelings you had for him after you kissed him. the feelings you had for him when you wore your pink puffy dress, him in a pink matching tie as you danced the night away for prom. the feelings you had for him when he held you that night your world was falling apart.

you’ve always just needed him.

all of it crashes back into you at once — feelings you’d buried under years of pretending. years of silence. feelings you quickly tucked away the first time he talked about another girl.

the way you trained yourself to look away. the way you learned to smile through the ache. the way you accepted your fate of being his best friend.

your eyes drop to where your legs are still tangled with his, you notice the bulge in his sweats and memories of last night play in your mind. you feel his warmth everywhere and you wonder how you ever got used to not feeling this. how you ever convinced yourself that this didn’t mean something.

you knew that once he woke up. this would all be over. you would go back to being his best friend. back to the operation. back to the almosts that were always never enough.

so for a moment you let yourself have this, just for a minute longer. the closeness, the warmth, the boy who’s always been there. you snuggle into his side once more, nestling into the warmth of him, letting your eyes fall shut again.

the next time your eyes flutter open, you’re met with the cold reality you’ve always lived in. the warmth that surrounds you is gone. the space beside you is empty.

jeno is gone.

you sit up slowly, a heavy thud echoing in your chest, not of panic or confusion but just that quiet, hollow ache that settles in when you’re reminded that he will never be yours.

your eyes scans the room, no shoes by the door, his shirt nowhere to be seen. no signs he was ever there at all except for the faint scent of his cologne lingering in your sheets.

swinging your legs over the edge of the bed, you wrap the blanket around yourself as if that would fill the space he left behind. you check your phone, hoping for a message but there’s nothing.

something twists in your chest — you were just another name on his list.

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎

forty-eight hours.

that's how long it has been since you’ve last seen your best friend. forty-eight hours of sitting in the library alone. forty-eight hours of him not showing up to your shared classes. forty-eight hours of absolutely no contact. your messages were left on delivered. no goofy tiktoks. no instagram reels. nothing. and you hated every second of it.

you miss him and you’re not entirely sure why he had suddenly fallen off the face of the earth.

giselle: hey girly! <3 go to the party at the dream frat tonight, the girls and i are all gonna be there! <333

giselle: and sungchan will be there ;)

you stare at the messages.

you had nothing better to do and you’re hoping that maybe you’ll get a glimpse of your best friend while you’re there. just to see if he was doing okay.

you slipped on a light blue mini dress that accentuates your figure, did your makeup, paired it with white heels and you were good to go.

the dream fraternity still had a pretty huge crowd considering it was a wednesday night. bodies pressed together, bass shaking the walls, the usual laughter and shouting blurring into one.

you spot jeno almost immediately, in that same corner he seemed to always be in. there’s a new girl on his arm — pretty, tall, fair-skinned. you don’t recognize her. something in your heart twists.

you knew all the girls he was seeing. every girl he flirted with, hooked up with, even the ones he ghosted. usually you were the first one he would tell it to. the first one to know everything about him.

but now? he’s shut you out. it was loud and clear. he has drawn a line between you. the same line he draws once he’s gotten all that he wanted with whoever was his current conquest.

you felt absolutely sick. the years of friendship going down the drain just like this. your heart splitting into two while he’s just standing there, laughing, flirting, completely unaffected by the wreckage he left behind.

if he doesn’t need you then you don’t need him either. if he can act normal then you can too.

you force yourself to look away, scanning the crowd until you spot giselle and the rest of the girls in the middle of the makeshift dance floor, “y/n! you’re hereee!,” she squeals, giving you a tight, buzzing hug that makes you laugh for the first time in days.

“here! take a shot!,” she hands you a drink and you down it quickly, the alcohol burning your throat in the best way possible.

the dj plays a song that gets everyone hyped up and you feel yourself letting loose, having fun, with the girls beside you, already feeling better than you did when you walked in here.

then a hand taps your shoulder and you turn to see the boy that makes your mind race into a million happy tunes, “sungchan!,” you greet him with a wide smile. he looks down at you, amused.

“hi, pretty girl,” he whispers in your ear, hands settling on your waist. his touch is warm against your skin but it doesn’t burn the way jeno’s did. doesn’t leave you branded.

“you’re not gonna run away this time are you?,” he teases, playfully, earning a giggle from you.

“sorry about that, i was just…too drunk,” you lie. the lie jeno taught you.

“are you too drunk now?,” he asks, leaning in, a twinkle in his eye.

you smirk, biting your lips, “no.”

sungchan kisses you, rough, fast and with no room for gentleness. this time, you don’t freeze. you kiss him just as hard. you let his hands roam around your body from your waist to your hips to your ass.

but kissing sungchan wasn’t like kissing jeno.

it doesn’t feel the same. doesn’t feel as good. there were no butterflies, no fireworks, no dizzy, floating feeling.

you’re still grounded. still painfully aware that you’re in the middle of drunk, sweaty strangers. he didn’t take you to a different dimension. your body was just there – moving your mouth against his like a robot programmed to do so. but your heart? your heart’s somewhere else.

and it was so annoying that at a time like this, your lips on your long-time crush, that you’ve made the realization that your heart was where it always was — in the hands of the boy in the corner.

the same boy whose lips, touch, words imprinted your heart in a way that you could never forget.

the same boy who could never see you the way you see him.

suddenly you pull away, too fast, too sharp – the feelings rushing into you all at once, suffocating, overwhelming.

sungchan stares at you like you were crazy and perhaps you are. “i-i need to use the bathroom,” you murmur, forcing a small, apologetic smile. he nods slowly, “alright, i’ll just be here.”

you quietly slip from his arms, pushing through all the bodies, barely noticing the music or the people pressing in on all sides.

and when you finally push open the bathroom door, it’s like exhaling for the first time in minutes. you grip the edge of the sink, chest heaving, trying to gather the pieces of yourself that scattered the moment you woke up alone.

you wished jeno was here.

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎

almost like he had a radar that went off, everytime you were near him. the second you walked through the door, jeno felt it. his gaze snapped to you instinctively but he looked away just as fast.

he’s not ready to face you. not ready to continue pretending.

the next time he saw you, you were making out with sungchan. kissing him the way he taught you. and god, he needed a drink. lots of it. the image burns in his mind, cruel and unrelenting.

he wants to chop off the guy’s hands. wants to make sure he doesn’t touch you ever again.

he wants him to know that his hands were on you first. that it was his lips he was tasting. that you were his.

but that’s not the case. so he goes and grabs another drink, another shot, another mix of poison to blur the pain.

the sound of your name snaps him back to reality.

“why do you keep waiting around for y/n anyway, there’s so many hotter girls around,” the voice is lazy, mocking, it was that wonbin guy from the riize fraternity.

jeno leans against the the wall, hidden in the shadows as he listens in on their conversation.

“well, one she’s hot,” sungchan snickers and jeno’s jaw tenses.

“and two, rumor is she’s still a virgin,” there’s a wicked amusement in his tone, “and we all know virgins are the hottest in the room.”

laughter erupts around them, sharp, cruel, echoing off the walls and that was all it took.

jeno doesn’t think. doesn’t hesitate.

in one quick second, he marched over, fist landing right on the sungchan’s jaw, the crack loud and satisfying, sending the soccer player tumbling backwards.

“what the hell?!,” sungchan yells, rubbing at his jaw before his expression twists in rage. in the next breath, he lunges. his fist catching jeno clean across the cheek.

jeno barely flinches. the soccer player was stronger than he thought, he’d give him that. but nothing is getting past his rage, adrenaline coursing through him.

he’s not done. not even close.

he charges forward, ramming sungchan into the wall with a force that rattles the shelves beside them, “don’t ever fucking touch her again,” he growls, voice low and deadly.

sungchan pushes back, shoving him hard, “she’s not yours,” and his words hits deeper than any punch could. because it was true. you weren’t his. and he’s almost sure you would kill him for this but he doesn’t care.

jeno throws another fist, connecting with sungchan’s ribs, making him grunt and double over for a second before retaliating with a wild swing.

more people gather now, phones out, flashes going off, chants of “fight, fight, fight,” increasing all around them.

sungchan, lunges, tackling jeno to the ground as they roll, fists flying, shouts echoing.

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎

the loud commotion coming from outside the bathroom door forces you to pick up the pieces.

shouts. thuds. chaos.

you quickly gather yourself, pulling open the door and following the swarm of bodies funneling toward the noise like a moth drawn to a light.

and then you see him — you know that figure immediately, even with his back towards you.

your best friend was on top of someone, fists repetitively slamming down. your heart lurches, legs moving before your mind can catch up.

they roll and you see sungchan’s face bruised and battered.

what the fuck?

around them, the crowd erupts in shouts and arguments, phones raised like this was some kind of show.

the dream boys were trying to get a hold of the situation but they too just ended up shouting and arguing with the riize fraternity, voices overlapping in a haze of testosterone and ego.

“your guy started it first!”

“you’re on our turf!”

the room was absolute chaos and no one’s doing a damn thing. you finally push through the roaring crowd, running over to them, until you’re at the center of the storm.

“stop!,” you shout, but your pleas are swallowed by the noise as they continue to take jabs at each other.

with all your strength, you yank on sungchan’s shirt, sending him stumbling off jeno.

you finally take a good look at your best friend, he had a nasty cut forming on the side of his forehead, face flushed and bruised.

“y/n,” he breathes your name like he’s shocked you’re here.

he stumbles to his feet, eyes darting behind you “get out of here,” he says urgently.

you whirl around only to see that sungchan wasn’t done. he was charging at your best friend again.

without thinking, you step in – fist connecting with his throat – sharp, clean, brutal. completely flying him backwards as he gasped for air.

the crowd cheers.

of course you knew how to punch, you grew up with three men three times your size.

“okay, that's ENOUGH!” mark’s voice rips through the room like a whip – loud and absolutely furious. the crowd freezes, the chaos dies down. he grabs sungchan by the arm and shoves him toward his crew.

“get the fuck out of here,” he commands the room, controlling the crowd. bodies scattering like cockroaches under a light.

you turn to jeno, chest heaving, fury radiating off you, “what the fuck was that?”

jeno flinches at your tone like it was more painful than any of the punches he had just taken. you were never mad at each other. not like this.

when he doesn’t answer, you turn around, jaw tight, ready to leave.

“wait–,” jeno jolts back to reality.

you pause, barely looking over your shoulder, “what?!,” your anger is palpable, brows furrowed, chest still rising and falling too fast.

he softens, “your hand is bleeding,” he says gently. you glance down at your knuckles, raw and stained red, the adrenaline fading just enough for the sting to set in.

“c’mon,” he grabs your uninjured hand carefully and without another word, he leads you through the dispersing crowd, up the stairs and into the safety of his room.

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎

you stand in jeno’s bathroom, the fluorescent light above casting a soft glow on both of you. he dabs the small, barely any, blood that had stained your knuckles, applying ointment on the tiny wounds.

“you’re being dramatic, there’s barely anything there,” you mutter, watching how focused he is.

“just don’t want it to get infected,” he says quietly, his brows still drawn together.

then with a soft chuckle, “i can’t believe you punched him,” he smiles his trademark smile and for a second, you forget you were currently angry at him.

“no one hurts my neno and gets away with it,” you tease, the words light on your tongue, but they steal the air from jeno’s lungs. you were always protecting him.

your eyes meet his and the moment stretches. but then you remember yourself, remember why your chest is tight and your heart is sore. so you press your lips into a thin line, forcing away the smile that appeared.

a quiet silence hangs in the air, heavy, almost awkward, until jeno’s voice breaks it, “done,” he says, turning to leave the bathroom and into his bedroom.

before he could take another step, your hand captures his wrist.

“your face is bleeding,” you point out.

you guide him to sit on the edge of the tub, slotting yourself between his legs. no matter how mad you guys are at each other, this is what you do. you take care of each other. your fingers are careful, precise, as you press a cotton pad soaked in alcohol to the gash on his temple.

a particular swipe on the cut stings him, a hiss slipping past his lips as his hands instinctively finds the back of your thighs, gripping, like he’s grounding himself through you. the small contact is enough to bring back that familiar knot tightening in your stomach.

“stop being a baby,” you say, dabbing again, “this is your fault.”

he smirks faintly, “how are you so sure i started the fight?”

“please,” you scoff, “in what world would sungchan go up to you and punch you? especially since he’s in your territory,” you point out, quite familiar with the whole fraternity rules.

he sighs in defeat.

“what happened anyway?,” you ask cautiously, not sure if you were ready for the answer.

“nothing,” he says, a little too quickly.

you stop, eyes narrowing, “no secrets between us remember?,” you remind him.

right, that silly rule you made when you were eight years old and still held on to to do this day.

jeno sighs, his shoulder falling, “he said something about you. i didn’t like it,” he confesses and you still.

“what did he say about me?,” you ask, curious.

“that he only wanted you because you were a virgin,” he mutters, jaw clenching again like it’s the first time he’s hearing it. the urge to punch sungchan in the face coming back in seconds.

it was supposed to hurt. it was supposed to leave you angry, embarrassed, hollow — to hear those words coming from the boy you’ve had a crush on since freshman year. but that feeling of heartache never came. instead, confusion clouds your chest.

why did he care? that wasn’t supposed to be his battle.

“hmm,” you hum thoughtfully, tone laced with challenge “and what if i was okay with that?”

his hands on your legs twitch, just slightly

“you shouldn’t be,” he snaps, “you shouldn’t lose it to a guy like him.”

and just like that, the anger ignites. your hands finish cleaning him up in cold, calculated movements. you removed yourself from his space, placing the first aid kit back in the drawer with a little too much force, organizing everything just to keep from exploding because who the hell was he to decide who you should have sex with?

“oh? and who should i lose it to?,” you seethe.

“a guy like you?,” there’s a sort of anger in your voice that jeno can’t quite read.

“aren’t you the same?,” you throw at him, voice trembling with fury.

jeno furrows his brows at your insinuation, like he’s been slapped, “y/n–,”

“you left, jeno,” your voice is quiet, but it slices through the space between you like a blade. you give him one last look before storming out of the bathroom. and jeno finally understands it all.

“wait, bunny–”

you don’t stop. not even as you hear his footsteps close behind you, not even as your chest rises with every breath that feels too heavy to hold.

you make it into his bedroom but before you can reach for the door, his hands close around your wrist, gentle but firm and in the next second he spins you around and crashes his lips onto yours.

the fire in your chest blazes and still, you kiss him back.

the kiss melts into something deeper, hungrier. your hands grip his shirt as his thumb brushes your jaw. he pulls away just enough to press his forehead against yours, both of you breathless, hearts racing.

“that’s why i left,” he murmurs, voice barely a whisper between your shared air.

your brows draw together, confusion clouding your gaze, “what does that even mean?”

“can’t you feel it,” he says, guiding your hand to his chest, letting you feel the frantic rhythm beneath your palm, “the way my heart is beating, it only ever races like this because of you,” he confesses.

you swallow hard, barely finding your voice, “but you left,” you remind him, “why did you leave?”

his eyes flicker with something raw, something that’s been buried for too long, “because i couldn’t pretend anymore,” he says, voice shaking with the weight of it, “i couldn't go another day being your best friend–not when im so fucking in love with you that it hurts.”

his confession leaves you stunned and you can’t believe how blind you’ve both been. all these years of mutual pining, years of missed moments, of stolen glances and silent aching all leading up to this moment.

a tearful laugh escapes you, half breathless, half broken, “you’re a fucking idiot,” you whisper, voice shaking with the force of everything you feel, a mixture of love, frustration and the tenderness of finally hearing the truth.

with urgency, a quiet desperation, you pull him back in, leaning up to kiss him.

the kiss is slow but intense, full of everything you’ve both kept hidden, everything you’ve both wanted for so long.

jeno doesn't need to hear you say it. he feels it in the way your lips meet his, the way you kiss him like your very existence depends on it. he knows now that you’ve been waiting for this – waiting for each other, for the truth that was always there.

you deepen the kiss and jeno meets you with equal fervor, tongues moving with an ease that feels natural, as if it’s a rhythm you’ve both known forever.

you guide him towards you, steps slow but deliberate, until the back of your knees hits the edge of his bed, falling into the softness of his sheets, pulling him down with you, lips never once breaking from his.

pushing yourself up until your head hit his pillows. jeno follows your lips like you were magnets drawn together. he couldn’t get enough.

you pull on the hem of his shirt. jeno quickly tugs it off over his head, tossing it to the side, diving right back into you. the kiss is hungry, steamy, full of tongue, leaving you no room to breathe.

your fingers dance through his skin, feeling every muscle. jeno guides you to sit up, quickly finding the zipper in the back of the dress, sliding it off your body, leaving you in a lacy blue underwear that makes his cock twitch.

the dress didn’t warrant a bra, your breasts immediately exposed to the cool air, making jeno groan in satisfaction, his large hand latches on to your tit, loving the way it fits perfectly in his hand.

“you’re so beautiful, bunny,” he praises before his tongue circles against your sensitive nipple. he looks up, not wanting to miss your reaction. light, breathy moans spill from your lips, back arching at his touch, feeling every warmth he left behind.

he moved all throughout your body, taking his time, memorizing every detail, worshipping you with every brush of his lips.

his hand slip under your panties, wet and soaking for him. the familiar circles of his fingers on your clit immediately sends a wave of pleasure through you. you were already shaking, that fire inside you growing.

that delicious stretch of your pussy as he stuck two digits in makes your eyes roll back, overwhelming in the best way possible, a broken moan spilling from your lips. your hips move on their own, grinding on his hand, chasing that friction you can’t get enough of.

jeno has already memorized you. curling his fingers just right, dragging them against that spot that made your thoughts scatter, heat spreading through you so quickly.

“jeno—” his name left you as a gasp, pleasure building deep inside you. this time you knew what it was, “i-m coming,” you moan.

“i got you bunny, let me hear you” he whispered, his pace quickening, matching the frantic way your body moved with his touch, until you were spilling into his hand.

he coaxes you through it, littering soft kisses on your ear, along your jaw, down to your neck — making sure to leave a mark.

making sure everyone knew that you were his.

your eyes flutter open. there was still that growing fire inside you, burning hotter, higher. you needed more.

when you reach down for his belt, fingers clumsily fumbling at the buckle, urgency pushing you faster than your hands could manage, jeno snaps out of the trance he’s in, making his way back to your eyes.

“are you sure?,” he gasped, the words rushed, like he was forcing them out before he lost all sense of reason.

you nodded so fast, so desperate, “jeno, please.”

“we don’t have to do this, bunny, we can take it slow…i don’t want to rush you,” he panted, voice fraying at the edges. the thought of stopping absolutely wrecks him but you are more important than the desire spreading through him.

you refuse to wait any longer, you’ve already waited years. your whole body aches with the need you’d kept buried for so long. the need only he could fulfill.

“neno,” you whispered, voice trembling with need, “i want this…i need you.”

his resolve shattered at the sound of your plea.

“okay,” he breathed, kissing you gently before finally discarding his pants, boxers following suit, leaving him completely bare.

slowly, he removed your panties, the last remaining cloth between you. he reaches over his nightstand drawer, pulling out a condom and wrapping it on his hard cock, a grunt spilling from his lips.

“still sure?,” he searches your eyes for any signs of hesitation because if there was, even the tiniest one, he would stop immediately. no questions asked. no regret. no matter how badly he didn’t want to.

“so sure neno, it’s always been you,” you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer, letting him know that every single piece of you wanted him — heart, body and soul.

that was his final confirmation.

he kissed you once, slow and tender, before his hands roamed, leaving goosebumps that made you ache even more, “i’ll go slow,” he promised, voice thick with emotion “tell me if you need to stop, okay? at any point bunny, i’ll stop.”

you nodded, your heart hammering against your ribs so loudly you were sure he could hear it. fear and want and overwhelming love swirling in your chest.

finally, he aligned his cock against your hole, hand shaking slightly as he guided himself into you.

the stretch burns — it was nothing like his fingers, his cock was harder, thicker, fuller. and you’re not entirely sure if he could fit.

instinctively you tensed, eyes shutting close at the pain, a whiny hiss slipping from your lips.

jeno immediately froze, his thumb stroking soothing circles against your hip, “you’re doing so good, bunny,” he praises, forehead resting against yours, “breathe for me okay? we can take all the time you need,” he was so soft, so caring, so gentle.

your fingers tighten on his shoulder, just for a second, letting him know that you understood.

jeno fought to stay still, fought to put you first. but god, it hurts. you felt so good around him. so tight. so warm. he needed to move.

you forced yourself to relax, letting out a shaky breath and he pressed forward again, slower this time, giving you time to adjust to another inch of him.

“almost there, bunny, just a couple more,” he says softly, treating you like glass. you were so fragile. so pretty. your eyebrows furrowing in pain, lips parted slightly.

it hurt but it was jeno, and that made it bearable. your tight walls continued to adjust around him, molding to the size of his large cock.

with one final, gentle push, he was fully seated inside you, grunts spilling from his lips onto yours.

he stayed there, not moving, just breathing with you. trying to control his own desires. one hand cradles your cheek, carefully pushing away the hair that has stuck to your skin, “you’re amazing,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple, “taking all of me,” he continues praising, “so perfect, bunny.”

a few tears slid from your eyes. from the sting, from the love, from everything. jeno kissed them away with such tenderness.

“i love you,” you manage to whisper, his lips on yours in an instant, savoring it. the words makes jeno shift inside you.

that small burst of friction is enough to ignite the pleasure. it still hurt but you needed to feel it, to feel more.

and when you finally whispered, “move, please,” jeno felt like the air was rushing back in his lungs.

only then did he start rocking into you — careful, controlled, every movement meant to bring you closer to pleasure.

he angles his cock perfectly, each thrust sending a a wave of butterflies in your stomach. the pain slowly disappeared as your walls sucked him in, until you were only left with pleasure so mind numbing, you can no longer think about anything but the way the tip of his cock kept on kissing that spot that made you see stars. he was perfect.

“fuckkk bunny, you take me so well, pussy was made for me,” jeno grunts hopelessly. he was coming undone embarrassingly fast. for someone who was supposed to be an expert, you had him trembling, shaking.

it was different with you — he loves you.

every emotion hits him to the fullest. he feels you all around him. his rhythm starting to stutter, abs starting to clench as he tried to hold on to the remaining sanity he had left.

“you’re making a mess out of me,” he grunts, “please come on my cock,” he begs, whines, pleading for permission. his fingers finding your sensitive bud, rubbing slow but harsh circles.

you’ve never felt fuller. never felt more satisfied. that heat spreading down to your toes, your head rolling back in complete bliss as the high came crashing over you in breathy, broken moans of only his name — pussy immediately tightening around him, sending him to his own release as he spilled into the condom.

through it all, jeno whispered against your skin, grunts of i love you’s and praises hitting your ears in the most melodic way.

when you both calmed down, he pulled you into his arms, head resting on the heart that’s always been yours.

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎

you woke up to jeno’s brown eyes already staring at you, his fingers gently threading through your hair.

“good morning,” he murmured, eye smile on display and in an instant the memories of last night came rushing back, vivid and electric.

“good morning” you whispered back, both of you grinning like lovesick fools.

“how are you feeling?” he asks softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

you smile at him, “i feel amazing,” you say, leaning up to kiss him.

his hand on your waist is hard to ignore. as well as the bulge that’s currently hitting your inner thigh.

“and you’re feeling excited, aren’t you?,” you pull back, slightly teasing him.

“shut up,” he smiles, cheeks flushing, “it’s not my fault i woke up next to my very hot girlfriend”

your eyes widen slightly, “girlfriend, huh?”

“mhm, is that okay with you, bunny?”

“hmm,” you pretend to think about it but the smile tugging on your lips betrays you, “sounds perfect.”

jeno pulled you in for another kiss, his smile pressed against yours. before he could deepen it, you pushed him down to his bed sheets, hovering over him with a gleam in your eyes.

“what are you doing?,” he rasped, the bold movement catching him off guard, making his breath shift, excitement coursing through his veins.

“girlfriend duties,” you smirk.

you littered kisses down his body until you were head to head with his cock, already flushed, thick and throbbing for you.

without hesitation, you licked a slow stripe up his length, tasting him, humming in satisfaction before wrapping your lips around his tip and taking in as much of his length as you could.

jeno watched you, his hands behind his head, a proud smirk on his face. and when you look up to make eye contact with him, his smirk fades into a helpless groan.

“fuck, you’re gonna kill me,” his hand instantly threading into your hair, bunching it up and pushing it out of your face. he wanted to see you. wanted to see your mouth around him.

you hollowed your cheeks and started to move, bobbing your head at that speed you knew he liked.

what can you say? you’re a quick learner.

his hips twitched, barely holding back from fucking your mouth.

every wet, obscene sound filled the room, and you loved the way he was falling apart for you, chest heaving, hands gripping you tighter. his grunts make you clench around nothing.

jeno came in minutes, gasping for your name as he struggled to breathe. his hot release shoots down your throat. this time, you swallowed every single drop, milking him dry, only pulling off when he whimpered from overstimulation, pushing your hand away.

“how the hell are you already so good at that?,” he groans, the aftershocks of his orgasm still hitting him.

“i have a really good teacher,” you chuckle, making your way back to him, kissing him, making him taste his own juices as your tongues battled for dominance.

jeno flips you over, roughly, quickly, the sudden shift making you squeal in laughter, as he settles in between your legs.

“your turn,” he says, voice low and dangerous.

his mouth immediately laps around you, licking, sucking, spitting — filthy and hungry. it was so messy, so wet, so crude, and yet it felt so so good. your head is spinning, heart racing, thighs trembling

you’re right there, at the edge, ready to fall — and then the door swings wide open. you shriek, arms crossing, immediately covering your chest just as jeno scrambles to hover over you, covering every inch of you with his large frame.

“jeno what do you want for break—?” jaemin barges in, stepping into the room like he hasn’t just shattered the moment.

“oh,” jaemin smirks, this situation extremely familiar, “i see,” he teases, tone dripping with fake innocence.

jeno’s entire body stiffens, his butt literally clenching as he growls, “jaemin, get the fuck out.”

he doesn't spare the boy a glance, focused only on making sure he doesn’t see any part of your body.

jaemin bursts out laughing, “alright alright, enjoy your breakfast,” he says before locking the door behind him and leaving the two of you alone.

the second he’s gone, jeno exhales a heavy breath of relief. you both lie there, faces burning red.

“i’m gonna kill him,” he mutters before the two of you erupted in giggles, your shared laughter harmonizing in the air.

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎

a week of being jeno’s girlfriend could only be described as pure bliss. the perfect balance of best friends and lovers. you were the power couple, always walking into the room like you owned it.

not much has changed between you two, you still tell him to shut up, he’s still dramatic, still the best of friends, except this time there’s a million shared kisses, lingering touches, whispered confessions and sex (lots of sex).

he’s unlocked something in you. something wild, primal, greedy — desire wrapping it’s hands around you. you can’t get enough of him. you craved him again and again and again.

and jeno was just undone, just as hopelessly in love. he thought his sex drive was bad before, it’s even worse now. every little thing you did triggered him — a smile, a glance, a soft laugh, it all sent him spiraling, desperate to have you. his need for you was overwhelming, a fire he had no intention of putting out.

he taught you how to touch yourself, you watched him masturbate. he kissed you in places you never knew were sensitive, made love to you in so many different positions, locations, each one leaving you breathless and trembling in his arms — making up for all the lost time.

today, when jeno walked into the library, he noticed your figure missing from your usual shared table. you were supposed to be here by now, you were always here at this hour.

his eyes quickly scan the space, feet walking around, searching every corner, every dusty nook, trying to find a glimpse of you. he finally spots you at the corner, tucked away in the back with the old shelves filled with forgotten books.

“what are you doing all the way over here?,” he asks, snapping your attention towards him, as he placed a soft kiss on your temple.

“just wanted a quieter place to read,” you feign innocence, picking up your book and pretending to be interested once more. jeno doesn’t question it, just pulls out the chair beside you and sits, his thigh pressed hard against yours. he pulls out his assignments, busying himself.

“neno,” you call out to him, a playful flicker in your eyes as you put your book down, “want to know a fun fact?,” you say.

he smiles at you, still unaware of what you had brewing in your mind, “sure, bunny.”

you lean in close, your chest brushing against his arm, “i’m not wearing any panties,” you whisper, only for his ear to hear.

he gulps, eyes quickly scanning the room, afraid someone was close enough to hear that. when he realizes you two were definitely alone, he finally takes in the fact that you were wearing a cute pink skirt, “fuck, are you serious?,” he whispers.

you shrug, “why don’t you find out?,” picking up your book, a playful grin on your lips, you flipped through the pages pretending to be interested, excitement bubbling inside you.

you didn’t have to tell him twice.

you flinched slightly when his cold fingertips first made contact with your thigh, slowly slipping underneath your skirt, leaving a trail of goosebumps. you barely had time to react before his fingers slipped between your thighs, urging them apart.

and when he finds you bare and soaked for him, jeno can’t help but let out a groan, his cock twitching in his pants.

you just started a dangerous game and he was eager to play. eager to ruin you in this public space. excited to watch you try and hide your moans.

“so fucking warm,” he muttered, fingers collecting your juices as he slowly swiped up and down your folds, making you feel every graze of his finger.

you grabbed the edges of the book, trying to stay calm, trying to act normal even as jeno slowly, deeply slid a finger inside you.

you choke on a silent gasp, disguising it with a fake cough and jeno finds it absolutely amusing. he has no plans of taking it easy on you, especially since this was your brilliant idea.

he moved lazily at first, curling his finger inside you, feeling every clench, every desperate little twitch of your body. watching you bite your lip as you tried to contain the moans that we’re begging to be released.

“good girl,” he murmured, kissing you on the temple.

his free hand picks up his pencil, as he continued to work on his assignment, like you weren’t falling apart under the table, “just stay quiet for me, yeah?,” he smirks.

you don’t even manage a response. afraid that once you open your mouth, a loud moan of his name would slip out.

he starts writing in his notebook, fingers still moving inside you, edging you on with every second. you shifted in your seat, hips tilting up without meaning to, chasing the rhythm he set. needing him to go faster — to finally take you there.

jeno knew exactly what you needed, even without voicing it. he adds a second finger, stretching you wider, making your eyes flutter shut, your grip on your book tightening, holding onto it as if it was your lifeline.

your boyfriend grinned cockily as he fucked his fingers into you.

you thought you were safe, hidden enough until you heard distant footsteps of someone wandering nearby.

your eyes immediately snap to jeno, silently begging him to stop as you tried to shut your legs close.

but his hand was too strong, keeping you open for his fingers, “you wanted this, you’re gonna take it,” he mumbles into your hair. he didn’t stop. in fact, his thumb brushed against your clit, harsher, faster.

you buried your head in your book, biting your lip so hard it hurt, but still a tiny strangled whimpered escaped.

the footsteps paused, just for a second.

you held your breath, heat traveling up to your head, jeno still working under your skirt. the danger of being caught made it even hotter. your pulse pounding loud in your ears, body burning under his touch. and then the footsteps continued, fading into silence again.

jeno chuckles under his breath, fingers thrusting deeper, faster, his thumb never leaving your clit.

“almost got caught, bunny,” he teased, voice low and thick with lust, “bet you’d love that, huh?”

the thought made you tighten incredibly around his fingers, orgasm crashing over you like a wave you couldn’t stop, body jerking slightly in the chair as you hunched over the table, hiding your moans in your arms, desperately trying to stay as quiet as possible.

jeno’s fingers continued to work you through it until you were limp against the table, panting softly.

he pulled his fingers out slowly, letting you feel every second of it. you already felt so empty without him. he brings his fingers up to his lips, sucking them clean with a soft, sinful groan.

you sit up, watching him, wrecked and cheeks flushed, your heart pounding so hard it was all you could hear, a small satisfied grin on your lips.

jeno leans in, kissing you gently. you taste yourself on his lips, then he smirks, that devilish smirk, whispering against your ear, “next time…you’re sitting in my lap.”

𓏲 the end.

—

18+ only | watch at your own risk | contains mature content

bonus: this is so lee jeno x bunny coded -> click here

—

an: posted this earlier than i planned because if i even spend one more day with this, i’m never gonna stop writing but ahhh i can’t believe my time with this couple is over, i love them so bad!!! i hope you loved them too!

marks story is up next! since he did technically win the poll — pls give me nickname suggestions for mark’s girl! i’m currently thinking kitty but im not 100% sold >.< — she’s going to be a little more feisty than the others! slide in my ask for suggestions or simply comment here! pls!

likes, reblogs and comments are not required but is very appreciated ⏦ﾟ♡︎

tagging: @bluedbliss [if you would like to be tagged in future stories of this series, please let me know <3]

[wordsofwhimsy]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘗𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘺 𝘎𝘪𝘳𝘭𝘴

Pairing: Main!Mark Grayson x f!Reader

Warnings: None

Tags: Angst, post-breakup blues, eventual payoff tho

Word Count: 2,299

Synopsis: Three weeks after a breakup he can’t shake, Mark finds himself aimlessly nursing milkshakes and regrets—until William drags him out for a night at the club to help him “move on.” But no amount of drinks, dancing, or pretty strangers can quiet the echo of what Mark lost.

Inspiration: 'All the Pretty Girls' by fun.

a/n: i’ve been sittin’ on this for a hot minute and figured might as well drop it in the chat – hope y’all don’t mind 👀

The Burger Mart smelled like fryer grease and teenage dreams deferred.

Mark sat in the booth by the window—the one you two used to claim like it was yours by birthright—hunched over a milkshake he hadn’t touched in twenty minutes. Chocolate. Your favorite. He wasn’t even thinking about it when he ordered it. His body just… remembered.

He stirred it absentmindedly with the straw, head propped on his fist, eyes unfocused. He hadn’t shaved in a couple days. His sweater was riding up just enough for his suit to peak out and show off a stain, probably from when he crash-landed into a taco truck mid-patrol. He hadn’t cared enough to clean it.

William slid into the booth across from him with a heavy sigh.

"Okay," William said, dropping his phone onto the table with a dramatic clack. "I let you sulk. I let you eat your feelings. I even let you cry while watching that one sad episode of Avatar—which was kind of weird but whatever. But Mark, it’s been three weeks. Get your head out of your ex’s hoodie."

Mark didn’t look up. "It's not hers," he mumbled.

William gave him a pointed look. "You literally only bought that hoodie because she said you looked hot in dark blue."

Mark opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, but then closed it again. Fair.

William leaned forward, voice softening just a little. "You miss her. I get it. But sitting here rewatching your relationship in your head like it's a Friends DVD collection isn’t helping. You need to get out. Meet people. Let someone buy you a drink. Or at the very least, force you to smile."

Mark scoffed. "I smile."

"You grimace," William corrected. "Like you're doing emotional taxes."

Mark finally looked up, eyes tired but still warm. “I don’t want to meet someone new.”

“Then don’t. Just… let someone meet you.” William gave him a look that was way too sincere for how casual he was trying to act. “Besides, I’m an excellent wingman. And if I can get you out of this mope-fest, maybe the rest of us can sleep at night again.”

Mark sighed. He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to feel like he was moving on. But maybe sitting in the exact place you used to laugh across the table from him wasn’t doing him any favors either.

“…Fine,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “But I’m not dancing.”

William grinned like he’d just won the lottery. “You say that now, but we’ll see.”

Mark shook his head, but he couldn’t stop the ghost of a smile from twitching at the corner of his mouth.

—

The club pulsed with bass so heavy Mark could feel it in his teeth.

Neon lights cut across the dark space like strobes, catching on sequins, jewelry, and sweat. He wasn’t sure if the drink in his hand was his third or fourth—William kept handing them to him, and he hadn’t been keeping count. The burn in his throat helped, though. It made everything a little blurrier. A little easier.

He was standing in a loose circle with William and two girls they’d just met—Talia and Jess, or maybe it was Jenna? It didn’t matter. They were cute, confident, clearly into the whole “tall, sad, broody” vibe Mark had going on tonight.

And Mark was… trying. He really was.

He laughed at their jokes, nodded along to stories he only half-heard. His smile was soft around the edges, his eyes still a little distant. But he looked good. Alive. Normal.

“So what do you do, Mark?" one of the girls asked, leaning closer to hear him over the music.

He scratched the back of his neck. “Uh, college. I go to Upstate U. Technically an English major but don’t ask me why—I guess I like pain?”

William snorted into his drink. “This man hasn’t read a single book for class since week two.”

Mark shrugged, flashing that crooked little smile that made people lean in. “My ex was a lit nerd. I thought if I read her favorite book, I’d understand her better.”

“Did it work?” the girl asked, grinning.

He looked into his drink. “Nope. Still trying.”

He didn’t realize what he’d said until the girls blinked at him.

“Oh,” he added quickly. “Sorry. That was—yeah. Anyway.”

They moved on. Kinda. For a minute.

The conversation drifted toward the topic of favorite music, and Mark’s face lit up just a little.

“She used to play this indie playlist every morning while she got ready,” he said without thinking, swaying a little with the beat of the club's current song. “Had this dumb little dance she’d do while brushing her teeth. It was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen.”

Another blink from the girls.

William’s eyes narrowed like he was watching a slow-motion car crash.

“So, uh, any siblings?” one of them asked, clearly trying to steer the conversation somewhere else.

“Nah, just me. But her family kind of adopted me for a while. Her dad grilled me every time I came over. I think he secretly liked me, though—he let me have the last slice of pizza once.”

“Mark,” William hissed under his breath, elbowing him.

“What?” Mark blinked at him, genuinely confused. “I’m just talking.”

“You’re reciting your relationship timeline, dude.”

Mark blinked again. His buzzed haze shifted just enough for the realization to land.

Oh.

“Oh.”

The girl—Talia, he was pretty sure now—laughed, trying to keep things light. “Wow, she must’ve been something.”

Mark looked down at his drink again, swirling the melting ice around with his straw. His voice dropped just a little when he answered.

“She is.”

For a second, the noise of the club felt distant. Like the music was underwater and the lights were just colors bleeding together behind his eyes.

He wasn’t even sure why he’d come tonight. Maybe he thought being surrounded by people would help. Maybe he thought he’d forget how your laugh sounded when you were tired, or how you always ordered fries after saying you weren’t hungry.

But he didn’t forget. Couldn’t.

Because none of these pretty girls could measure up to you.

The night had worn on like a pair of shoes half a size too small—just enough discomfort to remind Mark he didn’t belong here.

The drinks had dulled the edges, but not enough. The music was still too loud, the lights too bright, and the ache behind his ribs just wouldn’t shut up.

William had drifted off somewhere—probably flirting with the bartender again—and Mark found himself leaning against the railing by the upstairs lounge area, drink in hand, trying to look like he wasn’t mentally replaying every dumb inside joke he used to share with you.

“Hey,” a voice came beside him. Soft. A little hesitant.

It was her—the girl from earlier. The one with the easy laugh and kind eyes. Jenna. Or maybe Jess. Definitely a J.

“You looked kinda lonely over here,” she said, smiling in that way people do when they’re trying not to scare off a sad dog. “Thought I’d come rescue you.”

Mark blinked. “Oh. Thanks. Yeah, I guess I… wandered.”

She leaned her hip against the railing next to him. “You wanna dance?”

He hesitated. His gut reaction was no, but then he remembered William’s voice in his head, practically begging him to try. Just give it a chance. Let someone meet him.

“…Yeah,” he said quietly. “Sure.”

The dance floor was slower now. Not as packed. The music had shifted to something dreamier, bass still thumping but with more space between the beats. Moodier. Intimate.

They found a spot under a flickering pink light, and she stepped in closer, hands grazing his arms.

Mark moved with her. Gentle, unsure. Her fingertips slid up to rest on his shoulders. She was smiling, looking up at him with that cautious sort of hope. Like maybe tonight could mean something.

“You’ve got one of those faces,” she murmured, “like you feel everything really deeply.”

Mark huffed a breath, almost a laugh. “Yeah… that’s kinda my curse.”

Her smile widened. “Well, maybe you just haven’t met someone who feels the same way. Yet.”

Mark’s breath hitched. He didn’t mean to think of you. But there you were.

The way you’d look at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention. The quiet comfort of your hand in his. That time you whispered “I think I’m falling in love with you” so softly, like you were afraid of the words, but even more afraid they were true.

She stepped a little closer. Her head rested gently against his shoulder. It should’ve felt nice. It did. Kind of.

But not in the way he wanted.

Because even now—this close, this warm, this quiet—all he could think about was how your head used to fit there better.

She pulled back just enough to look at him. Her smile faltered at whatever expression was on his face.

“You’re still in love with her, aren’t you?”

Mark didn’t answer right away. He didn’t have to.

“I’m sorry,” he said eventually, voice barely a whisper. “You’re… you’re great. Really. I’m just…”

“Not over it,” she finished for him, nodding softly. “I get it.”

He stepped back, running a hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t have—this was a mistake.”

She touched his arm lightly. “Hey. Don’t beat yourself up. Sometimes we try to move on before we’re ready. It doesn’t make you a bad person.”

Mark gave her a grateful, sad smile. “Thanks.”

As he turned to leave the dance floor, he glanced over his shoulder.

She was still standing there, watching him go, that hopeful expression faded into something quieter. Understanding.

Mark barely heard William over the music, his head still spinning from the failed almost-something on the dance floor.

“Dude! Where are you going?” William called, jogging up and grabbing Mark’s arm before he could disappear into the crowd. “You said you’d try. That was not trying. That was—I don’t even know what that was.”

Mark exhaled sharply. “I did try. I talked, I danced, I smiled. I mentioned my ex so many times I probably traumatized that poor girl. I’m done.”

“No, no,” William said, spinning him back toward the dance floor with all the force of a drama teacher trying to save the spring musical. “We came here to get your groove back, not to spiral in a parking lot. One more song. Just one. Then you can go do your sad-boy brooding in peace.”

Mark sighed deeply, already halfway to saying no. But William was giving him that look—the one he only used when he meant it. The “I care about you too much to let you rot” look.

“…One song,” Mark muttered, defeated.

“Atta boy,” William grinned, grabbing both their drinks from a nearby ledge. “Now pretend you’re not dying inside and maybe I’ll even buy you fries on the way home.”

They were only on the floor for about thirty seconds before Mark knew he couldn’t do it. The bass thudded in his chest, people bumped into him from every side, and all he could feel was wrongness—like he’d wandered into someone else’s life.

He turned to William, eyes apologetic. “I can’t.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Just pivoted, already pushing through the bodies, ready to find a wall to lean against or maybe just the nearest door—

And then it happened.

He crashed right into someone. Hard enough to stumble. He blinked, startled, ready to apologize—until he looked up. And the world just… stopped.

You.

Your eyes locked with his like magnets snapping together. Your mouth opened a little in surprise, but no words came out.

Mark’s breath left him like someone had knocked the wind out of his chest. “Y/N?”

Your eyes were wide. “Mark?”

He looked around for a second, almost like he was checking the sky for signs of divine intervention. “Are you real? Am I—?”

You gave a stunned half-laugh. “Yeah, I’m real. I came with my friends. I didn’t know you were here.”

“I didn’t know you were,” he said, heart beating so loud he could barely hear himself. “Jesus. This is—”

And then, right on cue, the next song started.

Your song.

That one you used to scream-sing in the car. The one that played the first night he kissed you. The one he hadn’t been able to listen to since the day you walked out of his life.

His mouth opened. Yours did too.

Neither of you moved for a second.

But then—like gravity had finally remembered what it was supposed to do—he stepped forward. You did too.

His hands found your waist like they never forgot how. Yours curled into the fabric of his hoodie like it was still yours.

He searched your face, not for permission—he already had it—but for something real. A signal. A yes.

Your lips quirked—barely. Just enough to say, I’m still here.

He kissed you.

And the world, for once, got it right.

The lights blurred, the bass fell away, and the only thing either of you could feel was the truth humming between your mouths: You hadn’t moved on.

Not really.

Because how could you, when nothing else felt like this?

You melted into him, arms looping around his neck, and it wasn’t desperate—it was homecoming. It was the breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. It was everything crashing back and still somehow fitting together perfectly.

The song kept playing.

And somewhere behind you, William saw it happen, and just raised his hands to the sky like, Finally—thank god.

[cameronsbabydoll]

Hi I loved SCC it literally altered my brain in a good way bc of your writing🩷🩷 do you think SCC! Reader one day just snaps, like full blown crashes out at Rafe for everything he’s done to her? I feel like she’s normally very calm and internalizes everything but maybe Rafe just said something to make her snap ( maybe he’s being mean abt reader making a simple mistake and calling her a bad mom/wife ie the only thing she’s allowed to be and she just loses it, and I mean lose it like actively full blown crashout for all the emotions that have been pent up for years) I just wanna see Rafe get yelled at and actually feel bad that he ruined her life.

Maybe she says something like “I hope our daughter doesn’t end up with a man like you”

idk I just want her to finally vocalize the things she’s been burying for years and take a bit of her power back yk?

it starts over something stupid.
a lunchbox left on the counter.
a slip you forgot to sign.

you apologize, soft and guilty, already beating yourself up for it.
but rafe just scoffs — like he’s disgusted.
like you failed him.

"you had one job."
"jesus, you can’t even manage that?"

and that’s it.

your hands are still trembling when the words rip out of your mouth.
loud. shaking. breathless.

“i gave up everything for this.”

he looks at you like you’ve gone insane.
and maybe you have. maybe that’s what happens when you bottle it up for too long — when you trade your life for a pretty little prison and pretend it’s what you wanted.

“i don’t go out. i don’t see anyone. i don’t do anything unless it’s for you or the kids—i don’t even know who the fuck i am anymore.”

you’re crying now, and you hate it.
hate the way your voice warbles.
hate the way he stares.

but you can’t stop.

“i used to be someone. i had dreams. i had friends. i had hope. and now i’m just—what? your wife? the mother of your kids? the woman who stays home and makes everything look perfect?”

he moves to speak, but you keep going.

“don’t. don’t you fucking dare try to twist this into something sweet. you took me. you trapped me. you called it love and locked the door behind me.”

his face shifts. something soft. something scared.

you know he didn’t expect this.

and that’s when you say it.
quiet. breathless. shaking all over.

“i hope our daughter never ends up with a man like you.”

his mouth opens. closes.
nothing comes out.

for once, you’re the one who leaves him speechless.
and god, it hurts — but it also feels like the first real breath you’ve taken in years.

[sirensslament]

DRENCHED hamzahthefantastic x reader

summary!: you only wanted a peaceful bath to melt the stress away. Instead, Hamzah finds you, and suddenly, peace is the last thing on your mind. Water everywhere, slick skin, desperate mouths. He ruins you once, twice, and still isn’t satisfied. Neither are you.

Pairing: boyfriend!Hamzahthefantastic x female girlfriend!reader

Trope: established relationship

Genre: straight up porn, literally no plot at all (mature/18+)

Note: well! i made a whole new alt account for this, no one's EVER going to find my main account hehehe. this idea came to me during ovulation, and i was so horny to the point i had to write it. im an english major in uni so i swear my writing is decent, not saying that my writing is good here though... oh, also! if anyone stumbles across this god awful work, just know that my requests are open, and the people i write for are in the tags! #multifandom!!!

Word count: 3k+

warnings !: mdni. smut: protective sex (reader’s on birth control), bath sex, cunnilingus, pussy slapping, overstimulation (m&f) big!dickhamzah, hair-pulling (kinda), messy sex (they’re in a bathtub), dacryphillia (if you squint), creampie, oral fixation, rough sex, softdom!Hamzah

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The sweet, thick scent of vanilla clings to the steamy air, curling lazily around the bathroom like an invisible blanket. A soft, satisfied sound slips from your mouth as you sink deeper into the bath, the hot water wrapping around you like a slow, loving touch.

It sloshes gently against the tub, some spilling over the side, but you don't care, not when the heat is soaking into every sore, tired muscle. You close your eyes, your head resting against the cool marble edge, the world outside dissolving into nothing.

You smile to yourself, silently cursing and thanking Hamzah for convincing you to splurge on the jetted bathtub he wouldn’t shut up about. You'd never admit it out loud, gosh he’d be unbearable if you did.

The low thrum of the jets hums under you, sending tiny, delicious vibrations across your skin. Thick bubbles cling to your body, rising just below your collarbones, covering you like a secret. Your fingers trace lazy patterns across the water’s surface, the dim glow of the bathroom light making the whole room look like something out of a dream.

For the first time in what feels like forever, you’re alone, quiet, at peace.

Until the sharp jingle of keys cuts through the air, and you hear the front door swing open.

“Yo,” Hamzah’s voice calls out.

You don't answer, you just sink a little lower into the water, biting back a smile. Heavy footsteps pad down the hall, and then he’s there, leaning casually against the bathroom doorframe, a lazy smirk on his face.

“Well, well,” he says, eyes raking over the scene in front of him. “This what you get up to when I’m not around?"

You roll your eyes, not bothering to cover yourself. "Maybe if you weren't so slow, you'd be here too."

He laughs under his breath, pushing off the doorframe, his hoodie hanging loose off one shoulder, sweatpants slung low on his hips. The way he looks at you, cocky, amused, a little dark around the edges, makes the warm water feel suddenly too hot.

“You’re lucky I like you," he mutters, pulling his hoodie off one arm at a time. Your eyes fall to his hair, once grown into luscious curls, now cut to a bleached buzz. He was handsome nonetheless, so handsome even it made you want to jump his bones.

You raise a brow, pretending to be unimpressed even as your heart kicks up. "Oh yeah? Gonna make yourself useful or just stand there looking pretty?"

He grins, that slow, lazy and dangerous grin you know all too well, and drops the hoodie on the floor.

"Move over," he says, voice low, already stripping off his shirt without waiting for permission. "I'm not about to let you have all this fun by yourself."

You scoff, but you’re already shifting to the side, sending another ripple through the water. He steps closer, dropping his sweats in one motion, completely unapologetic.

You continuously eye his movements, like a predator would to its' prey. Just before he even has the thought to enter, you rise up slightly, not caring as the bubbles drip off your body, revealing your chest drowned in water.

"Boxer's off too, Hamzah." You say with a sickly sweet smile.

Hamzah pauses for a second, caught off guard by your tone and the sight of your bare breast, that wicked little smile playing on your lips. His gaze sharpens, something dark flickering behind his eyes. He shifts his weight, peeling the last piece of fabric off without breaking eye contact.

You hum approvingly, sinking back into the bath, letting the water kiss your skin as you pretend not to stare.

Without hesitation, he steps into the tub, water spilling a little more over the sides with the sudden movement. He settles behind you, legs bracketing your body, his chest pressing against your back. You feel every hard line of him, hot and solid even under the water.

His hands waste no time, they roam your thighs under the bubbles, slow and deliberate, fingers tracing up the slick line of your hips. You breathe in sharply when he dips his head, his mouth grazing the sensitive spot just below your ear.

"You act all cocky until you actually have to back it up," he murmurs, voice a gravelly tease against your skin.

You let out a soft, mocking laugh, tilting your head to the side to give him more access. "Please. You wouldn’t survive if I actually tried."

Hamzah chuckles lowly, the sound rumbling through your spine. "You keep running your mouth... might have to find another way to shut you up."

One hand slides up, cupping your jaw gently but firmly, tilting your head back until your neck is exposed fully to him. His mouth drags down your throat, slow and deliberate, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses that leave you breathless.

Your body arches instinctively against his, seeking more contact, more heat. His other hand trails lower, under the water, the bubbles hiding the way his fingers glide along the inside of your thigh, creeping closer and closer, down to where you need him the most.

You shift, impatient, grinding back slightly against him, and you feel him, unmistakably hard against you.

He groans softly, a dangerous sound right against your ear.

“Yeah?” he mutters, one hand tightening slightly on your hip to keep you in place. “You want something?"

You answer by grinding back again, slower this time, just to spite him. He laughs under his breath, low, dark, promising.

"Say it," he growls into your ear, teeth scraping along the shell of it.

You're stubborn, biting your lip to keep from giving him the satisfaction, but when his fingers dip lower, just barely brushing against your drenched cunt, a whimper betrays you. You feel him smirk against your skin.

“I knew it,” he breathes.

Before you can retort, his mouth captures yours, messy, hungry, claiming, while his hand finally gives in, sliding exactly where you’ve been silently begging for it.

His hand dips beneath the bubbles, finding you with unrelenting precision.

His fingers brush lightly over your clit at first, barely there, just enough to make you twitch with need. You let out a soft, desperate sound, one that immediately has him grinning against your jaw.

"Patience," he mutters, but there's nothing patient about the way he finally presses down, slow, teasing circles that have you clenching around nothing, your legs parting wider in the water on instinct.

He drags one finger lower, sliding between your folds, feeling just how wet you already are for him, the bathwater doing nothing to hide the raw slickness that's all you. His breath catches a little, like even he wasn’t prepared for how ready you are.

“You’re fucking dripping,” he groans, voice dark and rough against your ear. “You want it that bad?"

You can only nod, too breathless to be cocky now. And Hamzah, always one to give you what you need, but never without a little cruelty, finally slips one thick finger inside.

The stretch makes you gasp, your back arching off his chest. He moves slow, deliberate, pulling out just a little before pressing back in, setting a lazy rhythm designed to drive you insane. The water rocks around you with each motion, bubbles clinging to your skin, framing the obscene scene unfolding beneath the surface.

"Fuck, you feel good," he hisses, pressing his forehead to the side of your head for a second, like he needs to catch his breath too.

You whimper when he curls his finger just right, grazing that sweet spot inside you that makes your thighs tremble.

“Yeah?” he breathes, his free hand sliding up to cup your breast under the water, thumb brushing teasing circles over your nipple. “Right there?”

You nod frantically, a broken sound falling from your lips.

He chuckles low against your ear, pure sin, and slips a second finger inside, stretching you wider. The burn is perfect, just enough to make your toes curl against the slippery floor of the tub.

His hand between your legs works faster now, fingers thrusting deep, then retreating, his palm grinding against your clit with every motion. Your whole body rocks with it, helpless against the delicious rhythm he’s setting.

“Come on,” he murmurs roughly, nipping at the side of your neck. “Wanna feel you fall apart on my fingers.”

You cry out when he hits that spot again and again, faster now, his thumb abandoning its slow circles to rub tight, desperate patterns over your clit, pushing you right to the edge.

The heat coils deep in your stomach, sharp and fast and impossible to fight. Your muscles tense, your nails digging into his thigh behind you as the first wave of your orgasm crashes over you, hot and overwhelming.

You choke out his name, your body shuddering violently as you clamp down around his fingers, riding it out as he works you through every last pulse, every last desperate jolt of pleasure.

He groans softly, almost like he’s feeling it with you, his fingers slowing only when you’re too sensitive to take anymore. He pulls out gently, hands smoothing over your trembling thighs, your stomach, grounding you.

Your head drops back onto his shoulder, breathing hard, heart hammering against your ribs.

“Good girl,” he murmurs against your skin, voice low and devastating. His arms wrap tight around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, and you feel him, still rock hard against your lower back.

Hamzah presses a kiss to your temple, letting you catch your breath for just a second, before his hand slides lower again, teasing, promising more.

“Hope you’re not tired yet,” he whispers darkly. "Because I'm nowhere near done with you."

He doesn’t give you much time to recover. His hands slide down the slick planes of your body, fingers gripping your hips firmly, almost possessively, as he shifts behind you.

The water rocks wildly with the movement, bubbles sloshing up and over the edges of the tub, but neither of you care.

He kisses your shoulder, your neck, slow and biting, and then he's tugging you up, coaxing you to climb out of his lap and sit perched at the edge of the tub.

“Come here,” he mutters, voice rough and low, so thick with need it makes your head spin.

You do as he says, breathless, letting your thighs fall open for him. The cold air hits your dripping core, and you shiver — but it’s nothing compared to the way his eyes darken when he sees you fully exposed like this, all flushed and wet and desperate.

He sinks lower into the water, grabbing you by the thighs and dragging you toward him until you’re practically sitting on his face.

Without warning, his mouth is on you, hot, hungry, absolutely filthy.

He licks a broad, slow stripe from your entrance up to your clit, groaning like he’s been starving for you. His buzzed hair scratches lightly against your thighs as you thread your fingers into it, gripping tight as you grind against his mouth, chasing every devastating flick of his tongue.

He doesn’t stop, not when your hips start to jerk, not when your thighs try to close around his head. He pulls you closer instead, growling low against your pussy like he’s furious you’re even trying to move away.

“Stay still,” he mutters against your folds, the vibration making your whole body jolt.

His tongue circles your clit lazily before he flattens it, dragging it over you again and again until you’re writhing above him, your moans spilling into the steamy air, reckless and loud.

Then without warning, he pulls back slightly and slaps your pussy with his palm, the wet, obscene sound echoing around the bathroom.

You yelp, more from shock than pain, the sting sharp and immediate, but then he soothes it with another slow, devastating lick.

“Fuck, look at you," he says, voice rough and breathless. “Fucking dripping all over me."

He slaps you again, rougher this time, and you cry out, hips bucking helplessly. The sensation sends a white-hot bolt of pleasure straight through you, and he watches you with that smug, fucked-out expression, loving every second of it.

"Messy little thing," he mutters, more to himself than to you.

Before you can even recover, he dives back in, his mouth ruthless now, sucking, licking, nipping, until you’re keening, thighs trembling violently around his head.

Your hands tangle desperately in his hair, nails digging into his scalp as you pull, needing something, anything, to ground yourself. He groans when you tug, the noise vibrating against your clit, sending you hurtling straight over the edge.

You come again with a cry, thighs clamping around his head, body jerking uncontrollably, and Hamzah doesn’t stop. He laps at you through it, relentless, forcing another orgasm to build before the first one even finishes.

“Hamzah— I c-can’t—" you gasp, trying to squirm away.

"Yes, you can," he growls against you. "You’re gonna give me everything."

His fingers dig into your thighs, holding you wide open for him as he doubles down, fucking you with his tongue, messy and obscene.

It’s too much. The overstimulation burns, pleasure so sharp it borders on pain, and then you feel it snap, sudden and brutal.

You cry out as you squirt, body convulsing, the release soaking his mouth, his face, the water, absolutely drenching everything.

Hamzah pulls back just a fraction, looking up at you like you just gave him his favorite fucking gift.

"God damn," he breathes, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, but there’s still a slick, shiny mess smeared across his lips, his chin, his cheeks.

"You’re a fucking dream," he mutters, voice wrecked and reverent.

You’re still trembling when he rises from the water, towering over you, his cock flushed red and angry, leaking against his stomach.

Big.

Thick.

You swallow hard, mouth going dry at the sight.

He wraps a hand around himself lazily, giving one long stroke that has him hissing between his teeth.

"You think we're done?" he asks, voice a dangerous, amused rumble.

You shake your head weakly, dazed.

He grabs you by the hips, flipping you around so your chest presses against the cold marble edge of the tub, ass high in the air, still dripping.

You barely have a second to gasp before you feel the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and then he’s pushing in, slow and unrelenting, stretching you wide.

You whimper, the burn delicious, overwhelming, as he sinks deeper and deeper until he's fully seated inside you, hips flush against your ass.

"So fucking tight," he growls, his hands sliding up your back, fisting in your wet hair and tugging your head back roughly. Not enough to hurt, just enough to make you moan, make you feel owned.

He holds you there for a beat, savoring it, the messy, wet slap of his hips against your ass, the water splashing around you with every little movement.

And then he starts to move.

Hard.

Deep.

Relentless.

The bathtub rocks violently under you both, water splashing up onto the floor, your gasps and moans bouncing off the tiled walls.

Hamzah fucks you like he’s been waiting for this forever, desperate, greedy, like he can’t get deep enough, fast enough. Every thrust punches a cry from your throat, pleasure sparking bright and raw under your skin.

“Take it," he grunts, voice rough in your ear. “Take all of it."

And you do, you take every brutal inch, every rough, devastating snap of his hips, until you’re falling apart again, shattered and sobbing his name into the crook of your arm, your body wrung completely dry.

And still, still, he doesn’t stop.

If anything, your wrecked, trembling body only fuels him, his thrusts getting rougher, meaner, like he needs to chase that high again, needs to drag every last drop of pleasure out of you.

You can barely hold yourself up anymore, arms buckling against the edge of the tub, whimpering into the marble, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes from the sheer overwhelming feeling of it.

Hamzah leans down, mouth hot against your ear, voice a brutal rasp. "Don’t run baby, take it."

You sob out a broken, desperate sound, but nod anyway, surrendering everything to him.

He pulls out abruptly, making you whine at the sudden emptiness, your walls clenching around nothing, but before you can even think, he grabs you roughly under the arms and flips you onto your back with a wet slap against the marble edge.

Water spills everywhere, your hair clinging to your flushed face, bubbles clinging to your skin, and Hamzah looks down at you like he could eat you alive.

“You're so fucking messy," he mutters, almost in awe, eyes drinking you in, the way your body trembles, the way your thighs are slick and shiny with arousal and bathwater, the way you're staring up at him like he hung the damn moon.

You barely have a second to catch your breath before he’s lining himself up again, pushing into you with one brutal, perfect thrust.

You both moan, raw, guttural sounds that fill the steamy air, and you wrap your legs around his waist immediately, holding him there, locking him deep inside you.

Hamzah braces his hands on either side of your head, his forehead dropping down to yours, breathing hard against your lips.

He thrusts again, and again, deep, hard, slow, grinding his hips down against your clit every time he bottoms out, pulling soft, broken cries from your mouth.

"Fuck," he grits out, voice wrecked. "You're so fucking tight— gonna make me cum so fast—"

You can feel him throbbing inside you, thick and hard, the stretch just enough to make your mind go white.

Your body starts to tense again, that heat building deep in your stomach for the third time, but this time it’s sharp, brutal, overwhelming.

“Hamzah—” you gasp, nails raking down his back.

He knows.

He fucking knows.

He shifts his angle slightly, hips grinding harder, deeper, and that's all it takes.

You break apart with a sob, squirting again, the release sudden and violent, your body jerking under him uncontrollably as wetness gushes around his cock.

"Fuck," Hamzah growls, losing control completely.

The feeling of you tightening, pulsing, soaking him is too much, he thrusts once, twice more, before he slams his hips flush against you and cums hard, spilling deep inside you with a guttural moan, his whole body trembling from the force of it.

You both stay there for a second, bodies locked together, panting, shaking, completely wrecked.

The water is an absolute mess, bubbles everywhere, half of it splashed onto the floor, slick and soapy and deramged, but neither of you move.

Hamzah leans down, pressing his forehead to yours again, both of you still breathing hard, hearts hammering against each other’s chests.

Then, slowly, he captures your mouth in a kiss, messy, slow, desperate, all tongues and heavy breaths and soft, broken sounds.

You kiss him back just as hungrily, clinging to him, swallowing every groan, every sigh.

He pulls back after a long moment, resting his weight on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you, brushing his nose lazily against yours.

"Fuck," he mutters, a lazy grin tugging at his lips. "You’re gonna kill me one day."

You laugh weakly, still trying to catch your breath. "You’ll die happy."

He smirks, dropping another slow, wet kiss to your mouth, your jaw, your throat, trailing kisses everywhere like he can’t stand to be apart from you for even a second.

"Yeah," he murmurs against your skin, voice thick and satisfied. "I will."

The two of you stay tangled together in the wreckage of the bath, the water lukewarm and the bathroom floor soaked, completely destroyed, and neither of you could care less.

a/n: damn. aint no one reading this shit.

[blastzachilles]

— Girls .ᐟ

CHARACTERS: BASSIST FUTCH!PAT x FEM!READER WORD COUNT: 2.3k CW: SMUT 18+, afab reader. fingering, oral (f!receiving), somewhat inexperienced reader, mentions of alcohol/cannabis, author has an unpacked hand kink and really likes bassists????, author who has never been to a party and gotten drunk tries writing about a party and getting drunk

a/n: happy late challengersversary!!!! baby’s first smut <3 . even if im posting last (need to even out the angst and smut). kind of happy with how this turned out. also thank you mel for the band name nod 100 emoji link to main post!

— You don’t know why you’re here right now. 

You have tons of homework you should be doing, and finals season is just around the corner. But your friends swore you were in dire need of going out, and that was that. They got you ready and (literally) dragged you off to this party. 

This party that your friends said would be fun. Sure, fun. Fun’s the reek of alcohol and weed, couples making out, and intoxicated people passed out, everywhere. They clearly don’t know you. 

Empty solo cup in hand, you make your way through the crowd to the backyard for some fresh air, sitting on the edge of the patio and basking in the cool breeze that comes with the late hours of the day. 

Until you see a crowd of people walking back inside the house. Oh yeah, your friends had told you about this. There was going to be ‘live entertainment.’ Which usually meant some shitty college boy band that was just trying to get into people’s pants. No thanks.

But for some reason, you find yourself walking back inside anyway, pushing through the crowd to get a few rows in front of the makeshift stage. Then the band walks out, and you look over the members. 

When you see them, you short circuit. 

You tune out every other noise but the sound of rushing blood in your ears as your heart starts to pound, hands going clammy with sweat. Thank god the lights are dimmed, is your only thought as you feel the blood rushing to your rapidly warming cheeks. 

You miss the band’s name, and their little introduction leading up to their first song. But you don’t really care, your eyes don’t leave whoever that is up there, playing the bass. 

The hottest person you’ve ever seen. 

Dark curls, broad shoulders, and a face that looks like it was carved by Michelango himself. They’re in a tight white tank that leaves little to the imagination, and black cargos with a statement belt. You’re mesmerized, and you feel yourself staring in a way that many would deem disrespectful. 

When you manage to tear your eyes away from their face, as the band introduces their next song, you decide to look them over. 

Big mistake. 

The first thing you settle on is their casual stance, almost like nothing can bother them. Then follows their legs–they definitely work out–and then comes their shoulders.

Those are great. Both of them. 

But it’s their hands that really get to you. Their fingers plucking the strings like it’s nothing. Like it’s second nature to them. It gets you thinking about what else they– 

That thought immediately goes south, and you feel the need to squeeze your legs shut, just a little more. 

Using what feels like superhuman strength to rip your eyes off their hands, you look back up to their face, only to be met with their eyes already locked onto you. A slow smirk crawls onto their face, and you feel like you’re going into cardiac arrest, like you’re not really alive and instead in some sort of dream sequence. 

The world falls away as your eyes bore into theirs, like you two are the only people who exist. You hold their gaze for what feels like forever before they tear theirs away again to play the next song, and while the moment feels broken, it doesn’t exactly feel over.

Especially when their set has finally finished, and while the band you still don’t know the name of packs up, you turn on your heel to rush to the bathroom. You need a moment after that. 

But you don’t get twenty steps in before someone catches your arm, stopping you in your tracks. Turning around, you find yourself meeting the gaze of them. The bassist. From the band. The one you were ogling so hard, it probably looked like you had googly eyes. 

“Pat.” 

“Huh?” you stammer out. 

“The name. It’s Pat.” 

“Oh! Yeah, yeah, of course.” you say, introducing yourself. “You were great up there. You–you all were. I really liked your band, uh–” 

“Phil’s Tire Town?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, of course. That.” 

“Yeah,” a small breath escaping Pat’s lips as they chuckle softly. It’s confident, like they know they’re hot and run with it. “Saw you staring at me the whole set. You here with anyone?” 

“Was with my friends, but they’re… elsewhere. Around.” You look around the room to see if your friends are anywhere, but they’re not. They’ll check in later, that’s how this usually goes.

“No… partner?” 

“Oh!” you laugh. “You mean that way. Oh, no.”

Pat laughs back, and you feel like your heart has skipped at least five beats. “You sound so sure of that.”

“Well, yeah, I am.”

They let out a little ‘hm’ at your words, nodding with interest before looking down at your solo sup, still empty. “You, uh, you drinking anything?”

You catch Pat’s gaze, and look down at your solo cup, trying to play it off like it hasn’t been empty the whole night. “Oh, yeah. Just finished the cup. Was about to head over to the bar to get myself another cup.”

“Definitely.”

“Yeah, definitely.” you laugh awkwardly. 

Then Pat walks past you, and your smile falls, your gut dropping as you prepare yourself for the worst.

But then they turn around to look back at you. 

“You coming?”

And you’re following behind them faster than ever. 

After you get to the kitchen and start drinking with Pat, the night goes by like something of a blur. You spend upwards of an hour laughing as you slowly progress further and further into an intoxicated state, and eventually, sometime around two, decide it’s time to get up and leave.

“I should, uh, I should head out.” you giggle, the alcohol starting to get to you.

“You sure? The party’s just starting.” Pat chuckles. 

“Yeah, positive…” 

“Let me walk you home then.” They say, with a tone that indicates they’re in it for something else.

“No… you don’t hav’to–” 

Pat grabs your arm, and you quickly shut up. “Please, I insist.”

“Okay.”

The walk back to your dorm is slow but enjoyable, you and Pat basking in the early morning breeze, giddy with intoxication. 

When you stop outside your door, Pat’s still with you, and the air feels charged. There was tension at the party, but not to this degree. You swear you could cut through this with a butter knife. 

“Well, I guess this is goodnight.” they say.

“Yeah. I guess this is. Goodnight, Pat.” 

“Goodnight.”

Neither of you move though. 

Instead, you’re both staring into each other as though trying to decipher who each other is just from a glance. Like you’re trying to crawl inside them and find out who they are, what makes them tick, and what gets them going. At least that’s what you’re doing. You can only hope they’re doing the same.

Heart pounding and hands clammy, you inspect Pat, their eyes, their face all over, and you sense your thoughts starting to wander and–

That’s why they call it liquid courage. 

Your lips crash against theirs, your kiss hungry and desperate, like their breath is the only oxygen you need. 

It happens in a matter of seconds. 

You pull them into your dorm, the kiss barely breaking, clothes being torn off and forgotten on the floor, as it registers in your head what you’re about to do.

“I’m–I’m not–” 

Pat helps you to your knees, sitting on the edge of your bed and spreading their legs. “Don’t worry. I’ll help you.” 

You nod, leaning in to rest your head on their thigh, kissing at it, getting soft gasps out of them that leave a grin on your face.

Pat’s hand finds its way into your hair, bringing your mouth closer to where they’re expecting you, and you look up at them, eyes wide in a way that shoots south. 

When your tongue darts out to give a small lick at their cunt, you grin against their folds when they let out a soft moan.

“Fuck yeah, baby. You feel that? That’s all for you.” 

As you lick again, a long stripe along their cunt, they push your head further in between their legs, your eyes still looking up at them. 

“Oh god, yeah. Yeah, that’s good.” They moan, head falling back as you keep going. 

You’re not really sure if you’re actually doing that good, but if they’re making those noises, you can only hope you’re doing something right. 

Burying your face deeper in their cunt, you circle their clit with your tongue, sucking softly before moving a little lower to delve your face into their folds once more, pushing your tongue inside Pat as their moans become louder and more frequent. 

“Oh, yeah—Fuck, I’m gonna—Fuck! I’m so close—Just a little more. Just—Oh!” Pat cries, their legs shaking around your head, grip in your hair tightening as they reach their climax, coming all over your face as you try to lap it up, prolonging their orgasm. 

When they’re done, they’re breathing heavy, head falling forward as their hand falls out of your hair, and you press a few kisses to their inner thighs. 

After a few moments, they perk up again, and smile down at you. 

“Okay. Your turn.” Pat huffs out, clearly spent from finishing, as they help you up and lead you over to your bed, lying you down. 

“Okay.” You gasp, grinning, face still glistening with their orgasm.

“Let me take care of you.” they whisper, leaning in and pressing their lips to yours again, before peppering them along your jaw, to your neck, to your collarbone, and then your chest. The intensity of it all makes you gasp, your mind fuzzy as though you’re in some sort of haze. You’re half aware of Pat’s hands rubbing your thighs as you watch their tongue circle your quickly hardening nipple, before they close their lips around it and begin to suck softly. The action elicits small mewls from you, your back arching and pushing your chest further into their mouth, making the feeling all the more intense. 

You feel like you’re in a dream, but come back with a protesting gasp as Pat lifts their head up and removes their mouth from your chest. 

“Hey!–” 

“Easy, babe.” they chuckle, a satisifed smirk on their face, their green eyes on you as they squeeze your thigh slightly. “Saw you staring at my hands while I was playing. You like ‘em?” 

Your face somehow manages to feel even hotter than it already does, but you give a small nod regardless. “Yeah. Who wouldn’t?”

They make a face as though to contemplate that answer, bobbing their head side to side. “Eh, good point. You wanna learn what else they’re good for?” 

It’s such a stupid line, but that paired with the cocky smirk on Pat’s face absolutely destroys any sort of self-preservation you have, and you’re quick to give in. “Yes. God, yes, please. I’ve been thinking about it since I first saw you.” 

“I know.” Pat’s voice is low, quiet, as they drag their fingers up along your inner thigh, reaching your cunt and running a finger along your folds, getting a few whimpers from you. “Yeah, that’s it, baby. Just like that. Such pretty noises, just for me. So wet, just for me.” 

It’s not a question, but you feel the need to answer it anyway. “Yeah–yeah. Wet, just for you.” 

Pat’s smirk widens at that, and they begin to ease a finger inside you. “That good? Yeah?” 

If the way you moan and your back arches is any indicator, it’s very good. So good Pat eases in another, sliding the two fingers in deeper as you grab at their shoulders. “Easy, baby. That’s it. Yeah, that’s good.”

And then Pat starts to curl their fingers inside you, repeating the motion, and you think you just might black out. You’ve never felt anything like this, and it’s like Pat’s been doing this to you forever, as if know every little thing that makes you moan and gasp and whine like never before. 

And when you start squirming, hips rolling erratically against their hand, signaling you’re close, Pat pushes their fingers knuckle deep to work you to your brink.

“Fuck, Pat! I’m gonna–gonna–”

“Yeah, that’s it. Come for me, baby.” 

“O-ok–Yeah–Oh! Fuck!” you moan sharply, finally being brought to your brink as you release all over their hand, releasing a stream of liquid as you squirt. Your legs shake, and Pat keeps working you through your whole orgasm. 

“That’s it, baby. Yeah, just like that. Beautiful.” 

Your chest is heaving with exertion, a wave of exhaustion coming over you after enduring such a brutal orgasm. 

“God, that was…” 

“I know.” Pat grins. 

You grin up at them, and with a final kiss, you say your goodnights, Pat’s warm body wrapped around you from behind as you fall asleep, spent and satisfied.

The next morning, when you wake up in your dorm, your hangover leaving you with a killer headache and your clothes still strewn across the floor, you feel it before you look to your side. The spot where they were sleeping, now empty and cold, the clothes they threw on the floor now gone. And when you reach for your phone, you feel a sticky note on top of it, taking it off to read it. You scoff to yourself, looking at their number on the note, on top of a ‘call me ;)’ written underneath.   

Maybe your friends were right. These parties are fun.

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[wistericals]

helios

AN: First fanfic on tumblr! This has literally been sitting in my google docs for the past year lmao. It's kinda inspired by Bomi Nkomo De by Kojo Antwi (iykyk). Special thanks to @buckybarnesfic for beta-ing! Divider by @saradika-graphics. Hope you enjoy reading!!

Mornings with Bucky were soft.

Few and far between, punctuated by late nights spent reaching for his warmth, only to be met with cold sheets. It had struck you early on in your love that he would never be entirely yours, not while duty called his name. And part of you loved him all the more for it. The other part craved his presence like a drug.

So yes, mornings with Bucky were soft, spent lazily basking in the light of his sleepy smile while his fingers traced the curves of your body, committing every dip and swell to memory.

You had asked him once, between gentle kisses, if he knew what he did to you, how a simple glance from him could leave you breathless, even after all these years. He chuckled, mumbling against your lips. 

“Now you know how I felt the second I saw you.”

Your connection with Bucky had grown from the moment you had locked eyes, slowly forged in the moments between missions and projects. A smile here, a glance there, all coming down to this; to a sunrise spent with your leg slotted between his and his hand resting gently on your hip, lost in each other’s gaze. 

You smiled, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. 

“Always the charmer, hm?”

You could feel him smile against your skin as he held you closer, his mouth coming down to press a kiss to your shoulder.

“Only for you, doll. Only for you.” 

You could have sworn that the sun rose a little higher. 

He shifted, moving so that his body eclipsed yours, the tip of his nose brushing your own. With the light caressing the panes of his face as your hands longed to, you could have sworn he was a dream. He was, in a way. Your dream. It was cheesy and cliché and you wouldn't imagine telling anyone but him, but in this moment, it was the truth, plain and simple.

He hummed, fingertips ghosting over your cheeks. “What’s going on in that head of yours, sweetness?” 

It was him, of course. Nothing but him. How could you think of anything else when he was right there, those eyes of his drawing you into his orbit. You told him so, leaning up to meet his lips with your own. His hand found the nape of your neck, pulling you closer, deeper. A groan left him when you pulled away, your eyes meeting. 

“I love you.” 

You told him so quite often, knowing that some part of him didn't quite believe that such a thing was possible. But it was much more than that. Loving Bucky came like a gale in a heatwave, easy and strong, in a way that stole your breath and soothed your soul. It was a personal mission of yours, to ensure that he always knew that he was cherished, and extremely so. 

His grin turned saccharine when the words left your lips, a soft glow rising to his face. 

“One more?”

As if you wouldn't say it a thousand times over. As many times as he needed you to. 

“I love you, Bucky Barnes” Your eyes met his once again, your own smile growing as you lightly tapped his nose with a finger. Even with your playful spin, the words held a certain gravitas, a weight that held the two of you in the moment.

His gaze softened, the light of the early morning illuminating his features just so, the warmth of him  against you sending something gentle and fuzzy through your veins.

His head met your chest, and the weight of him settled into your bones as your fingers slipped into his hair, nails rubbing lightly against his scalp. He let out a contented sigh, his lips grazing over your sternum.

“I love you, doll. So much.”

You pressed a kiss to the crown of his head in response, breathing him in. There would be another threat, of course. Something that demanded his presence for the greater good. But for now, with the two of you tangled together, all languid movement and soft touches, he was yours. And you were his.

And that is all you could ever ask of him. To keep returning to you, steadfast as the rising of the sun. 

[little-mari-on-a-roof]

Frenglish differences in Miraculous - Episode 22

Kung Food

Chloé

En: Does your great uncle really expect to win the contest with a soup? It's not even a main dish. Please. Doesn't he know how to make sushi like everyone else?

Fr: Ton oncle qui vient de Chine pense vraiment qu'il va gagner le concours avec de la soupe ? C'est ringard, c'est pour les vieux. Ouais c'est vrai. Il pourrait pas faire des sushis, comme tout le monde ?

Does your uncle from China really think he will win the contest with a soup? It's "ringard", it's for old people. Yeah that's right. Couldn't he make sushi like everyone else?

"Ringard" is a French word for something that's old fashioned, and often considered cringe.

Cheng Sifu

En: Marinette was right. It was evil act by that brat. No respect for Cheng Sifu.

Fr: Marinette a raison. Cette jeune fille a gâché soupe céleste. Elle a ridiculisé Cheng Sifu.

Marinette is right. This young girl ruined celestial soup. She ridiculed Cheng Sifu.

Chloé on the phone (before getting attacked)

En: Yeah, well, I was wondering if you'd like to come... Huh?

Fr: Et là tu sais ce qu'elle me dit ?

And then you know what she told me?

In French, Chloé is probably retelling what happened with Marinette. The English line seems unlikely coming from her since she doesn't really have any friends. The only person she could say that to is Adrien I guess?

Kung Food

En: Kung Food will make new soup called Brat soup!

Fr: Je vais créer une nouvelle soupe, je l'appellerai Soupe vilaine fille !

I will create a new soup, I'll call it Naughty girl soup!

Chat Noir - Ladybug

En: I don't know about you, m'lady, but I'm a bit hungry. - Let's go eat, then, shall we?

Fr: Ça faisait longtemps que je rêvais de t'inviter à dîner. - Alors on n'a qu'à passer à table.

I had been dreaming about inviting you to dinner for a while. - So let's go eat, then.

It's hard to translate what Ladybug says literally, but the idea is the same as in English. The difference is mostly that Chat Noir just told her he wanted to ask her out on a date.

Chat Noir facing Jagged with seafood appetizers

En: Seafood? This scampi happening. Let's hear if you can carry a tuna.

Fr: Super choix, ça c'est une entrée pas lourde. Vous avez compris hein ? Pas lourde (/palourde).

Great choice, now that's a light appetizer. You got it? Light.

The joke doesn't make any sense in English but it's a very common overused pun so I thought I'd translate it. In French, he says that the appetizer is "light", or more literally "not heavy": "pas lourde". The French word for a clam is "palourde", which is pronounced the exact same way as "pas lourde". Which means it sounds exactly as if he had said that the appetizer was "clam".

Ladybug - Chat Noir

En: Looks like a food fight is coming our way. - I prefer my sausages with mashed potatoes.

Fr: Ça se fait pas de se battre avec de la nourriture ! - Oui, en plus moi je n'aime que les saucisses de Morteau.

It's not right to have food fights! - Yes, plus I only like Morteau sausages.

Ladybug - Mayor Bourgeois

En: If we're not careful, we'll be the mashed potatoes. - You're no competition, Ladybug.

Fr: S'il continue comme ça on va devenir de la chair à pâtée. - Ce sera avec grand plaisir, Ladybug.

If he continues like we're gonna get turned into mincemeat. - It will be with great pleasure, Ladybug.

Kung Food about Mr Bourgeois

En: Pea brain!

Fr: Quelle andouille.

What an andouille (/dummy).

An andouille is a sausage made of chitterlings (it's disgusting and it stinks horribly). In French, the word is also used as an equivalent to dummy/knucklehead.

Kung Food

En: I take care of you two myself.

Fr: Je vais vous cuisiner aux petits oignons.

I'm gonna cook you with small onions (lit.).

In French, "with small onions" means with great care. In this context it's a pun that refers to the akuma's food related powers.

[terezis]

John can see the body AU? 👀👀

hue hue hue hue (me laughing) i didn't really get very far with it but i had a lot of ideas. i think the main conceit of the fic would be john figuring out what alecto is doing there with harrowhark, and then trying to exorcise her from harrow without harrow knowing, which is difficult for obvious reasons; least of all that that's not even the only ghost possessing her LOL.

(wake! gideon! what if they could take control of harrow's body while harrow was asleep/ in the dream bubble? makes u think)

anyways. it's about being haunted both by a very literal ghost (or two... or three) and also by his own guilt and paranoia (what does harrow know? what has a.l. told her? what has harrow said to others??? bad enough that cytherea betrayed him, now he really doesn't know who he can trust. but it's not as though he can just kill them all and start fresh with number seven just around the corner.)

anyways x2 this is what i got

They kneel in front of a pew in a dimly lit chapel. John clutches a string of well-worn knucklebones like a rosary. Annabel sits silently at his side, her grey hands folded neatly in her lap. He glances at her out of the corner of his eye—studies the curl of her wet lashes, the carved line of her jaw.

In the dream, the desire to memorize her face is very strong. He's glad to sit beside her. He wants to burn the afterimage of her profile into his eyelids.

They pray. Well, John does; Annabel turns to him and watches. John shuts his eyes against her gaze, lets his lips round out the words soundlessly: "I pray the tomb is shut forever. I pray the rock is never rolled away…"

He imagines their shoulders brushing together as though in girlish solidarity. In the dream, Annabel's voice sounds young, no more than ten years old; and she says, "Is this how it happens?"

-

It's a great relief when Harrowhark regains most of her sanity. John was beginning to think he'd have to put her down, which would have sucked for a great number of reasons—least of all that Mercymorn would get to say "I told you so."

Mercymorn had told him to put a minimum age requirement in the letters, but it's not his youngest Lyctor's pubescence that's the problem. It's a problem, he'll admit, but not the number one pressing issue. No, that superlative goes to…

John glances up from his tablet and and locks eyes with a ghost.

This is a less thrilling time. The Emperor Undying has had ten thousand years to cultivate a very good poker face, so he doesn't flinch—but it's a damn near thing. Annabel returns his gaze placidly, calm like she rarely ever was in life. She stands beside Harrowhark like a sentinel. Frost shimmers finely across her cheek.

John looks away first.

[denkilightning]

Ninjago S3P2 Spoilers

What kills me about Jay in P2 is that he's not even that different; he's not cold or unrecognizable. He's literally Early Seasons Jay, but with his negative traits more pronounced because he's now an adult with confidence issues. Jay always had quick, out of the box ideas that actually DID work (the fact that Nya questions his intelligence so much when most of Jay's plans always worked is frustrating but anyway-), Jay always had these aggressive reactions where he snapped at people (literally the second episode of S1), and Jay ALWAYS prioritized his family over the greater good.

But the ninjas still have this idealized version of Jay where he's just three things: dumb, cute, funny, and that's it. It's even more obvious because the anecdotes everyone tells about him in the first two seasons of DR are just Jay doing something stupid or funny. And now every time Jay breaks that image, it's solely because of the shatterspin, and if he does anything good, it's only because he was a ninja before, even though he already had many talents before becoming one, like painting.

I HOPE we see him receive an apology for all of this. The guy deserves a sincere compliment and words of encouragement when he inevitably comes back to help them in episodes 19-20, because throughout the entirety of P2, Jay hasn't received a single act of sympathy for his trauma or kind words other than those referencing him being a ninja.

YES YES YES i literally teared up at some point in s3 BECAUSE HES EXACTLY LIKE OG JAY

in their minds jay is literally just a bimbo manic pixie dream girl and the moment he actually acts like a person, Pretty Much Exactly Like He Was Before Just More Scared, they act like hes a monster

Literally the scene where they actually start fighting lee is THE highlight for this because what jay gets berated for, wyldfire gets praise and non-verbal approval for.

morro ras or wu come back and defend or comfort your kid because at this point im 100% RAS treated him with more compassion and empathy than the ninja have all season.

even at the end of s3p1 when cole asks 'still no memories?' its like hes talking OVER jay and hes the only one who sounds idk fucking Sad about it. everyone else sounds mildly annoyed

and btw i dont know if yall noticed but nya called jay offscreen A PARANOID EGOIST. which jay On Screen Calls Out Her For.

jay literally changed everything about himself, risked everything and did every job right for both admin and ras and all he got for that was a kick in the teeth from Every Single Person Around Him

someone had to save jay and still has to, and the person saving him Is and Will Continue To Be Jay Himself because even the ninja who love the memory of him so much aint gonna do shit about it.

because all in all, after all jay went through Hes Doing An Excellent Fucking Job Of Keeping Himself Together And Actually Doing Kind Things For Others.

[cryingatwindermerepeaks]

Jackieshaunamel little!mel and cg!jackie and Shauna PRETYY PLEASE -🌻( can I be that anon plss!!)

Little!Melissa x Cgs!JackieShauna - Party

Hi 🌻 !! You can definitely be that anon !! Also I hope you enjoy!!

Cw: parties, drinking, negative self talk

Word count: 1575

—————————

Getting invited to a party with the Varsity girls was a big deal. Maybe it wasn’t for Gen, who’d been going to parties like this for months. Or Rachel Goldman, who's older Sister had always gotten her into parties. But it was a big deal for Melissa. Partially, because, at 16, she’d never been to a proper high school party before. Mainly though, it was a big deal because Shauna Shipman had personally invited her. As in, Varsity player, smartest girl in the world, definitely going to get into an Ivy League, literally so fucking gorgeous, Shauna Shipman. She’d approached Melissa in the locker room after a training session. They’d been the only two left and had gotten to talking a little bit about how Melissa could improve. Melissa had spent the whole time completely freaking out because Shauna was just so cool and Shauna was talking to her. She’d practically died on the spot when Shauna invited her to a party they were having at Jackie’s house on Friday night.

When she pulled up to the front of the Taylor’s insanely massive house, Melissa felt like maybe she was in a fever dream. It was dark already, and the sound of music and chattering voices could be heard even from inside her brothers beat up old Jeep Cherokee. “You nervous monkey?” James asked, ruffling her hair teasingly.

“No,” Melissa grumbled, ducking away from his hand and putting on her cap. “I’m fine.” She slipped out of the car, taking a deep breath before closing the door.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” James hollered as he drove off.

Melissa was not going to do anything stupid. She’d planned everything out to make sure that wouldn’t happen. Who she'd talk to, what she’d say. Everything was going to be just fine.

Except it wasn’t.

Everything was so crowded, there were people everywhere, and it smelt like sweat and beer. Melissa couldn’t even find any of the people she’d planned to talk to because it was dark and her head felt too fuzzy to focus on finding them. And even if she could find someone, she couldn’t remember what she’d wanted to say. Someone offered her a drink, and she took it, because maybe that would make her feel a little less awkward and out of place. It didn’t. Could nothing go right for her tonight? She just ended up feeling fuzzier than before, a little more disoriented and a whole lot smaller. She cursed quietly to herself, rubbing at her face. She pressed her eyes closed, trying to clear her mind for just a moment. Bad idea.

“Fucking watch where you’re going, moron,” someone grumbled, bumping straight into Melissa. She felt sticky liquid spill down the front of her shirt before she even managed to open her eyes. She only caught the tail end of the guy who’d bumped into her disappearing out of the house. Tears burned in her eyes when Melissa looked down and saw the beer stain spreading across the front of her shirt, turning the sage green into a dark forest-like one. There were a few eyes on her for a moment before they all turned back to more interesting things than the pathetic JV player crying in the middle of a party like the baby she was. Melissa didn’t see the one pair of eyes that stayed on hers.

The night couldn’t get worse. Until it did. Shauna was standing in front of her and Melissa was crying. Shauna was saying something about Jackie’s bedroom and Randy being an idiot, she was holding onto Melissa’s arm, pulling her up the stairs. There were a lot of things happening, Melissa’s mind couldn’t really hold onto any of it. She just felt so small, Shauna’s hand on her arm wasn’t helping at all.

Jackie’s room was exactly as Melissa would’ve expected it. Neat, pink, frilly. Melissa felt wildly out of place, small and dripping with beer. It smelt gross and burnt her nostrils. “Hey, Melissa?” Shauna asked, and only then did Melissa realise she was hyperventilating. “Shit, dude. Are you good?” Melissa sniffled, pressing a hand to her chest. Stop, stop, stop, she mumbled to herself. God, why did she have to be such a baby? Shauna was going to think she was super stupid now. Shauna put her hands on Melissa's shoulders, guiding her down to sit on the floor beside Jackie’s bed. “It’s ok, you’re just drunk, nothing bad is going to happen.” Melissa wailed, because everything bad had already happened! Shauna wrapped her arms around Melissa’s shoulders. Her presence was firm, it felt sort of like she was holding Melissa together. It seemed like the night probably couldn’t get any worse but then Melissa did probably the most embarrassing thing she’d done all night. She put her thumb in her mouth. She just really wanted to stop crying and it was the only way she’d ever been able to soothe herself. It was stupid and childish and she didn’t know how to stop it. Melissa waited a moment for Shauna to chastise her, or leave, but she didn’t. She just rubbed Melissa’s shoulder in gentle circles until she stopped crying.

Melissa looked up when she heard the door opening, seeing Jackie standing there almost made her want to start crying all over again. Jackie was just as cool as Shauna. “Hey Melissa,” She smiled as if none of this was weird.

“Randy spilt beer all over her,” Shauna explained, still rubbing circles against Melissa’s shoulder. “I think she’s feeling a little bit small.” Melissa’s heart actually lurched right up her throat. How on earth did Shauna know that? Jackie knelt in front of her, gently guiding Melissa’s thumb out of her mouth.

“Poor thing,” She cooed softly, wiping the tears away from Melissa’s face. Melissa was sure her cheeks were stupidly red, but Jackie and Shauna were being so gentle with her and she couldn’t tell them to stop. She didn’t want to. “Randy’s the worst. Can we get you cleaned up?” Melissa took a deep breath and nodded. Jackie got up and went over to her wardrobe, while Shauna stayed on the floor with Melissa. Jackie picked out a blue and white striped sweater and then disappeared into her ensuite for a moment.

“Do you need help getting your shirt off?” Shauna offered and despite herself, Melissa nodded. “Hop up on the bed.”

Melissa pulled herself onto Jackie’s bed, her duvet was soft and striped with white and pink. Shauna gently guided Melissa’s arms out of the sleeves of her jacket and pulled her shirt over her head. She was sitting on the bed in just her sports bra, trying to remind herself this was no different to the locker room, trying to find it in herself to care that it wasn’t the same, when Jackie came back in holding a damp hand towel. “Thought you’d want to get the beer smell off, Randy is always drinking that stupid rolling rock beer, it smells just as bad as it tastes.” Melissa laughed a little at this, taking the hand towel from Jackie and wiping her stomach where the beer caused her skin to itch. As she did this, Shauna gently stroked a hand through the bottom of Melissa’s hair. Once she was done, Jackie helped Melissa into the jumper. It smelled like vaguely of perfume, Vanilla and rose. Not in an overwhelming, headache inducing way, but in the way that makes you feel just a little bit safer… like an invisible hug. Melissa couldn’t help but bury her face into it.

Shauna laughed softly, not teasingly. “I reckon you’re a bit small for the party now, huh kiddo?” Melissa pouted… she’d only just got here, she didn’t want to go home. Jackie caught the pout, bringing her soft hands up to cup Mel’s face.

“We’ll stay up here with you,” She smiled, in that warm and honest way Jackie smiled. Melissa felt her heart beat a little faster at this, unable to remember the last time anyone had cared this much for her. “Do you like dolls?” Jackie asked. Melissa did not like dolls. She thought they were a bit creepy, but she didn’t want to offend Jackie by saying that. She bit her tongue nervously. “I’m going to take that as a no, Lego?” Now, this got Melissa’s attention. Her whole face lit up, excitedly looking at Jackie.

Jackie reached under her bed and pulled out a plastic box filled with Lego. Melissa didn’t really think about why Jackie had the box, but took it excitedly when it was offered to her. “You’re cute,” Jackie mused, watching as Melissa tipped some of the legos onto her bed and started looking through it. Melissa just grumbled in response, she was not cute.

For a while, Melissa was waiting for Jackie or Shauna to switch up on her. Say they wanted to go back to the party and kick her out. But they didn’t. They played Legos with her for a while, asking questions and helping her build. And when Melissa got too tired to keep going Shauna offered to read her a story. When she was squished up in the bed between Jackie and Shauna she stopped thinking they might get rid of her. She stopped thinking about having to go home, or back to school on Monday. All that mattered was how safe and small they made her feel.

[ak-vintage]

From the Ground Up - Chapter 2

Pairing: DBF!Joel Miller x OFC ("Reader" Format/Second Person POV)

Series Summary: After getting laid off from your job, you are forced to move back in with your parents until you can get back on your feet. You can't help but feel like you have started your life over again at square one, but when your dad's best friend offers his help in the form of a job at his burgeoning construction business, you learn that maybe there is more than one path to the life of your dreams.

Chapter Summary: The Millers host their annual end-of-summer cookout, and you find yourself confiding in someone unexpected.

Chapter Tags/Warnings: Mild sexual innuendo. Mild angst. Complicated family dynamics. Alcohol consumption. (Still 18+ like the rest of my blog.)

Word Count: 7.6K

Read on AO3 | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

“Let’s hustle, babygirl. Don’t wanna be late.”

You cast an incredulous look over your shoulder at your father, who had been pacing back and forth across the kitchen floor for the last several minutes, practically breathing down your neck as you worked. Spread across the counter in front of you were three generously-sized fruit pies, each of them sporting a slightly different design sculpted into the golden-brown crust.

“I can literally see the party from here, Dad,” you huffed, gesturing out the kitchen widow in the direction of the Millers’ back yard. Half a dozen tiki torches had been planted in the rear of the house, grill smoke could be seen rising from the direction of the patio, and the heads of several early guests poked up just high enough to be able to glimpse over the top of the wooden privacy fence. “I think we’re going to make it.”

With careful fingers, you pressed and tapped along the side of each pie dish, testing their temperature. The last of the three pies you had baked for the Millers’ end-of-summer cookout had only barely finished cooling, the glass still holding some residual heat, but you knew you were fast approaching the limit of your father’s patience. If you didn’t get your creations ready to go in the next few minutes…

“How do I look?”

You glanced up from your work to catch sight of your mother fluttering into the room, dressed head-to-toe in matching cream linen, artfully draped in a way that conveyed casual sophistication. Her question was directed at your father, but he barely raised his gaze from his watch before replying, “You know you always look beautiful to me, sweet pea.”

Both you and your mom groaned, you under your breath, her quite loudly and dramatically, before she turned to you instead.

“Kathryn? Does this work?” she demanded, barely concealed irritation coloring her tone.

You put down the plastic pie carrier you had been fussing with and turned around to look her, taking a moment to assess her perfectly coiffed hair, her tasteful jewelry, her espadrille wedges that added at least two inches to her petite frame.

“You look really pretty, Mom,” you replied sincerely. “I’d maybe pull your hair up? You’ll be hot with it touching your neck all night. And wear a flat shoe? This is a Miller party – it’s going to be laidback.”

A miniscule frown appeared between her eyebrows, somewhere between thoughtful and defensive. After a moment’s consideration, she mused, “Hm. There’s no way I’m wearing flats with this outfit, I’ll drown in the fabric. But I’ll put a claw clip in my bag.”

Snorting a laugh, you turned back to your task. “Sure.” If she wanted to sweat and wobble around on the uneven grass of Joel’s backyard all night in the name of fashion, that was fine with you.

Out of the corner of your eye, you watched her pull a tube of lipstick and a compact mirror out of her handbag. “By the way, have you heard from Mia recently?” she asked as she dabbed a bit more color onto the center of her lower lip.

“I have, actually.” You packed as you talked, blowing a strand of hair out of your face as you started snapping lids on the pie carriers and stacking them together. “We texted for a bit this morning.”

The heavy, put-upon sigh that met your reply was something you ought to have predicted.

“Well, I’m glad she’s at least telling somebody in this family what she’s up to,” your mother snarked. She punctuated her statement with a loud snap of her compact, and you mentally patted yourself on the back for not startling at the sound.

“She’s 21,” you reminded her gently, refusing to play into the bid for gossip. Your younger sister had always been a free spirit, and her years away at college had only emboldened her fierce sense of independence. “She’s just enjoying what’s left of her summer break. It’s good for her to be on her own, don’t you think? It’s healthy.”

No matter how mild your tone, your mom was clearly uninterested in any opinions that weren’t her own in that moment.

“Yes, but what college student doesn’t come home for their summer break? What even is there to do when she doesn’t have any classes?”

You whirled around to face her, unable to school your expression into something less confrontational as you exclaimed, “What’s there to do? In New York City?”

Your mother had the audacity to look affronted. “Well, how should I know? The last time I was there was the day we moved her in.”

“Yeah, I’m aware,” you scoffed. Your sister would be starting the third year of her program in a mere handful of weeks, and still the only member of your family who had traveled to visit her in that time was you.

Drawing back as though stricken, your mother’s facial expression went from shocked to cold in the span of a heartbeat. “I don’t appreciate the tone, Kathryn.”

“Ladies!” Your father’s voice, forever the loudest thing in any room, was the only thing that prevented you from snapping back. “Can we please get this show on the road?”

You took a deep breath and nodded, willing your raised hackles to soothe as you scooped the stack of pies into your arms. If your father was the heat, your mother the storm, and you the eye at the center, your sister had always been path of destruction in the hurricane of your family. An easy target with her bone-deep contrarian streak and punk sensibilities, she chafed against your father’s need to always have the last word, your mother’s nitpicking and criticisms. Often, her only ally in your family home had been you.

When it came to Mia, even now that you were both well into adulthood, it did not take much to activate your protective nature.

“Yeah. I’m done now,” you said stoically. “Let’s go.”

You used the short journey over to Joel and Sarah’s to collect yourself, tucking the loose strands of hair that had escaped your ponytail behind your ears and smoothing down the front of your sundress that had been wrinkled by your apron. Really, you knew the fussing was probably unnecessary; it wasn’t as though there would be anyone here you needed to impress, and once you had spent more than a handful of minutes outside, the heat of the late summer afternoon would be enough to have you sweating unglamorously anyway. If you were honest, your little rituals of straightening and tidying yourself were more for your mental state than anything aesthetic.  

Since you had returned home about a month ago, you had lost count of the number of times you had found yourself defending Mia’s decision to stay in New York for the summer. Your parents weren’t alone in wishing that she had chosen to spend at least some of her break in Austin. It had been one of the few things you had been looking forward to when the possibility of needing to move home had become more and more real. At least your sister would be there with you, you had thought. However, when she broke the news to you that she wouldn’t be booking a flight this time, you could hardly blame her.

The moment you had been granted the freedom of your own home, your own life, you hadn’t been eager to step back into the chaos, either.

The double-wide gate in the wooden privacy fence that surrounded Joel’s back yard had been propped wide open, and from within, the sound of the local classic rock station accompanied by laughter and the chatter of many voices could be heard spilling across the lawn. Now that you were outside, you recognized that the smoke you had spotted earlier carried with it the scent of cooking meats, and as you approached, you caught sight of Joel’s dark brown curls and wide shoulders as he manned the grill. You couldn’t stop yourself from taking in his silhouette - heather-gray T-shirt stained with sweat, a slim ring of darkened fabric wrapping around his neck and a patch of the same nestled into the small of his back.

“Hey, guys!”

You startled, drawing back instinctually and snapping your gaze away from Joel’s broad, well-muscled back as the source of the bright, energetic greeting approached.

“Hey there, Sarah! Beautiful day for a cookout, eh?” your father replied, all traces of his impatient, short-tempered frustration dissolving now that you had arrived. He was back to being his typical self – magnanimous and charismatic.

“Yeah, we lucked out!” the teenager replied affably. Casting her gaze over her shoulder, she called out, “Dad! The Walkers are here!”

Joel paused, dropping his oversized pair of tongs onto the small table he had set up next to the grill with all his supplies. He turned and waved, and without any further prompting, your parents split off from you and crossed the patio to greet him.

You didn’t have long to contemplate the slight, however, because in the next instant, Sarah was offering you a warm, one-armed hug and a wide, white smile.

“Hey, Katie!” She pulled back after a beat, seemingly noticing the stack of containers in your arms for the first time. “Ooo, what did you bring?”

“Just a few pies. I hope that’s okay – your dad mentioned something to my dad about needing a dessert for today, so I figured…”

Sarah was quick to wave off your uncertainty. “That’s perfect! Here, I’ll show you where you can put them.” Gesturing for you to follow her, she wrapped around the rear of the house, revealing two long, folding tables covered in cobalt blue plastic tablecloths that had been set up along the red brick exterior. They were almost entirely covered in food – opened bags of burger and sausage buns, an overfilled bowl of potato salad, a tray of macaroni and cheese, a plate of raw, chopped vegetables, open containers of dip, and a platter piled high with bright red sliced watermelon that had started to drip onto the table around it. Just at the end of the second table, a narrow space had been left available, marked by a well-worn kitchen hand towel that someone had clearly spread out to reserve the spot. As you approached, Sarah whisked it away, tossing it over her shoulder like a seasoned chef.

“Here ya go!” she quipped. “Oh, by the way! I want you to meet my friend Ellie.”

You glanced up at your host, noticing that she had linked arms with another young girl who looked to be about her age that had been leaning casually against the back of the house. Shorter than Sarah by a few inches, she had dark eyes and a headful of dark brown, wavy hair that she had swept back into a haphazard ponytail, and her knobby knees, exposed by her cutoff denim shorts, sported scrapes and bruises like what you might expect to see on a much younger child after a trip to the playground. She offered you a small, close-lipped smile, pleasant but a bit uncertain.

“Ellie, this is Katie, she lives next door,” Sarah continued. “Ellie moved here at the end of the school year with her aunt, the one I told you about the other day?”

“Yeah, I remember. It’s nice to meet you, Ellie.” Offering her your hand to shake, you returned the girl’s smile with one of your own. “Welcome to Austin.”

Ellie’s handshake was firm, more confident than the tightness around her eyes would have led you to expect. “Thanks.”

“Where are you from originally?” You began unpacking the pies as you chatted, snapping off the plastic lids and settling each one in a line in the narrow space open on the table.

“Boston,” Ellie replied, and you felt your eyebrows raise.

“Oh, wow. That’s quite a distance.”

She let out a scoffing laugh and nodded. “You’re telling me.”

“I’m trying to convince Ellie to try out for the soccer team with me,” Sarah said, waggling her eyebrows. “Practices start soon.”

“Oh yeah, I guess they would, huh?”

To Ellie, Sarah explained, “Katie’s sister Mia played soccer, too.”

“Is, uh, she coming today?” the other girl asked, a little puzzled, and you shook your head with a laugh.

“No, not this time. She’s spending her summer with friends in New York.” Stacking the now-empty pie containers together, you tucked them neatly under the table, and they disappeared discretely behind the blue plastic tablecloth. “She’s a student at NYU.”

Ellie was visibly impressed at that, her eyes widening as she processed your words. “No shit.”

The phrase startled a chuckle out of you. You could hardly imagine how your parents would have reacted had you sworn in front of an adult stranger at her age, and you decided immediately that you liked this girl. She was gusty, bold in spite of her unease, and you couldn’t help but respect it. Truthfully, it reminded you of your sister.

“I know, right? She is definitely the cooler of the two of us,” you said wryly.

At that, Ellie just shrugged. “I don’t know. Seems like you make some pretty bitchin’ pies.”

Your chuckle transformed into a full-throated laugh then. “Suppose that’s true.”

“There’s soda and water in the blue cooler and beers and seltzers in the red one,” Sarah interjected. She gestured to the far side of the patio where two large cooler chests sat propped open, piled high with ice and staining the concrete patio with condensation. “And, uh, if you’re looking for something stronger, I’m pretty sure Uncle Tommy brought tequila? It would be in the kitchen if we have any.”

Of course, he did. That sounded like what you knew of Tommy Miller.

“Good to know. I’ll keep that in mind.”

The two teens bid you to enjoy the party and promised they would be back to try a piece of one of your pies later, and you waved them off with a smile. However, as they dissolved into the growing crowd of guests, you found that the crush of people did nothing to ease the feeling of loneliness that settled over your shoulders. Among the Millers’ friends and family, you recognized countless faces. The Adlers and the Ortegas, both of whom also lived on your street. Builders who worked for Joel and Tommy’s construction company, their spouses and children in tow. A few mutual friends of your father’s, like his favorite golf buddy Doug and a woman you knew to be his third wife. The elderly Mrs. Perez, who was known for her lush, vibrant flowerbeds and her nosy, meddling personality. 

There was a time when the number of familiar people would have been a comfort. There were plenty of them to talk to, many of whom you hadn’t seen in years who would be happy to spend the afternoon catching up with you. However, given the circumstances, that comfort had been replaced with an unsettling, stomach-turning sense of anxiety. How many of these people would want to know why you were back in town? Or, worse yet, how many already knew and had opinions about it?

The weight of your discomfort settled in your gut, and not for the first time, you wished Jacob had been able to come down to visit this weekend like you planned. Something for work had come up at the last minute, forcing him to stay back in Dallas, and though you understood how important his career was to him, that did not stop you from mourning his absence. He, at least, would have been a safe harbor in this sea of unmet expectations.

Suddenly heartsick and more than a little lonely, you pulled your phone out of the pocket of your sundress and fired off a quick message to him, hoping he might see it quickly and send words of comfort across the miles that separated you.

there’s a million people here and nobody i want to talk to. can i go home yet?

You allowed yourself to keep your phone in your palm for a minute, to stare longingly at the history of your texts as though your eyes on the conversation might manifest a response, but none came. It was not lost on you the way your communication with your boyfriend had started to deteriorate since your move. He seemed to be struggling to adjust to the extra effort required to stay connected to each other when it wasn’t feasible to see each other every other day. Perhaps that was something you should bring up with him the next time you managed to get him on a video call…

“Hey, I remember you!”

The low, warm drawl of a Texas accent drew you out of your thoughts, pulling your gaze up and away from your phone. Before you stood a tall, broad man with long limbs and thick, black curls he wore swept back away from his face. A thick mustache and scruffy goatee framed his smiling mouth, and a familiar pair of dark brown eyes flashed at you with good humor.

“You’re Mac’s kid, right?” he continued, gesturing at you with the sweating bottle of beer he held in his right hand.

You offered the man a small, friendly smile. “That’s me,” you confirmed. “And you’re…Tommy? Joel’s brother?”

“Yes, ma’am, the one and only.” You were certain that if he had been wearing a hat, he would have tipped it at you. “Nice to see you again! Hear you’re back in town for a spell.”

You and Tommy had met once before, years ago now, at a party similar to this one not long after Joel and Sarah had moved to the neighborhood. You had still been in college then, home with your parents over summer break, and they had guilted you into coming along, but you remembered that Tommy had been kind to you, had snuck you a couple drinks to cheer you up when you made it clear that you did not want to be there. Back then, his hair had been shorter and his face clean-shaven, but you would recognize that impish smile anywhere.

“I am,” you said with a nod.

“Well, I’m glad to know the old bastard’s got another lady in the house to keep him in line.”

You laughed at that. Little did Tommy Miller know just how true that was. “I’m certainly trying.”

Your reply had the man grinning, but before he could open his mouth to continue the conversation, another voice interrupted him.

“Hey there, darlin’,” said Joel, approaching the two of you from the direction of the smoking grill. “This guy botherin’ you?”

Tommy hit his older brother with a playful shove, knocking him back a step or two.

“Nah, I’m good,” you replied. “He seems harmless enough so far.”

Both men laughed, but it was Joel’s eye-crinkling, cheek-dimpling smile that had a flush of heat rising in your chest. “Well, if you change your mind, let me know. I can…I don’t know, send him to the gas station for some more ice or something, get him out of your hair.”

You nodded seriously, as though deeply considering his words. “Promise I’ll keep you posted.”

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“Oh, that’s all right,” you were quick to protest. “I can grab one myself.”

But Joel wouldn’t hear it. “Please, I insist. What are you in the mood for?”

Suddenly flustered, all of the drink options Sarah had mentioned earlier fled your brain under the dark, warm gaze of your dad’s closest friend. “A…beer?”

Both Joel and Tommy chuckled, and the former quipped, “Is that a question or an answer?”

That heat in your chest rose to your cheeks. “An answer.”

“All right, then. One beer comin’ up. Tommy, can you keep an eye on the grill for me?”

“Sure thing.” Giving Joel a mock salute as he wandered away, the younger brother nodded once at you and said, “Good to see you again. Don’t get into too much trouble, ‘kay?”

Joel was gone for longer than you expected given the proximity of the coolers Sarah had pointed out, but when he finally did return to your side, it wasn’t difficult to notice why. In addition to fetching you a drink, the longneck bottle frosty and dripping, he had also popped off the cap for you and shoved a thick, juicy wedge of lime into its open mouth.

“Here y’are.” He passed the bottle to you, swiping his damp palm against the fabric of his well-worn jeans. “I, uh. I took the liberty of adding a bit of lime. Hope you don’t mind.” There was a softness, a strange vulnerability to his smile at the confession, and you felt some tight, guarded thing in your chest ease at the warmth of it.

“Not at all, it’s perfect, actually. Thank you.” Gripping the tip of the wedge between your thumb and forefinger, you tugged it out of the bottle and squeezed it firmly. Fragrant juice sprayed in all directions, but most of it you successfully managed to direct back into the bottle, letting it mingle with the pale golden beer inside. “Pretty sure Corona without a lime is a sin.”

The older man cocked his head at you approvingly. “Couldn’t agree more. Now, was it you I saw adding those pies to the buffet earlier?”

“Oh, yeah,” you confirmed. “There’s a blueberry lemon, a strawberry rhubarb, and a cherry.”

You watched as his brows shot up to his hairline, carving deep wrinkles into his tanned skin. “Damn, darlin’. That’s a hell of a lot of work. You didn’t have to do all that.” The tips of his ears flushed, and he brought a broad-palmed hand up to rub self-consciously at the back of his neck. “When I told your dad I still needed a dessert, I figured he’d just…swing by the grocery store and pick up a couple boxes of cupcakes or something.”

The wave of embarrassment that flooded your body at his words was staggering, enough to have your palms suddenly sweating and your heart jumping to your throat. “O-Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you had something else in mind.” God, you ought to have known that the pies would be too much. And three of them? If you had disrupted Joel’s plans –

It was as though the older man could sense the direction of your thoughts. Heavy brow furrowed, dark eyes shining with sincerity, he was quick to reassure you. “No, don’t apologize. I didn’t specify – I shouldn’t have just assumed. ‘Specially not with you in the house now – you don’t do anything halfway, do ya, darlin’?”

You let out an uneasy breath of a laugh and shook your head. You had to admit, he had you there. “I guess not. Though if I’m honest, it was kind of nice to have something constructive to do for once.”

The frankness of your words surprised you, and again you felt a bit flushed, a bit self-conscious. Perhaps that was too much honesty for a man you hardly knew, a man with whom you had never had anything even resembling a personal conversation. There was just something so…disarming about Joel, a sense of ease with him that you struggled to articulate. You never felt the need to perform when you were around him, and something told you that if you tried, he would see through it in a heartbeat.

It was almost unsettling how easy it was just to be yourself in his presence. How many other people in your life could claim that?

The thought had a bolt of anxiety crackling down your nerves, and suddenly you knew you needed to pull away, to put some distance between the two of you before you forgot how to pick your heart up off your sleeve and stuff it back behind your ribs where it belonged.

“Well. Don’t let me keep you from the rest of your guests,” you said, taking a half step backward, drawing yourself back out of his space. When had you drifted so close to him? “Thank you for the drink. And for having me. I’ll let you get back at it.”

If Joel was surprised by your sudden, if polite, dismissal, he didn’t show it. Instead, he simply nodded, a soft, friendly smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.  

“‘Course. I’m happy you could make it,” he said earnestly. “Burgers and hot dogs should be done any minute now. Help yourself to some food, all right? We’ve got plenty to go around.”

“For sure. Thank you, again.”

When his buddy Mac had told him that his oldest daughter would be moving back to Austin, Joel admittedly hadn’t thought much of it.

Beyond a vague sympathy for your situation, knowing that the return to your childhood home hadn’t been exactly voluntary, the prevailing emotion he had felt at the news had been one of happiness for your father. Mac had never said so explicitly, but after almost 10 years of friendship, Joel felt like he knew the older man well enough to know that he missed his daughters, that he wished they hadn’t moved so far away in their pursuit of independence. Joel could empathize; the time was fast approaching when Sarah would be considering college options, and just the thought of his only child flying the nest was enough for his eyes to start misting over, for his throat to close up. He had thought it would be good for your father to have you close by, and that was where his consideration had stopped.

But then, one sunny, summer Sunday morning, he had rung his neighbor’s doorbell, and rather than being greeted with a booming laugh and a slap on the shoulder, it had been you on the other side.

Fresh from your bed, hair wild around your shoulders, a delicate crease in the softness of your cheek, stamped there by your pillowcase and a sound sleep.

An oversized t-shirt draped across your shoulders, skimming your hips, kissing your bare thighs, the faintest hint of the hem of a pair of shorts peeking out from beneath it.

Feet bare, little toes painted a pale pink, eyes squinting into the sun as its rays came spilling through the open door.

Soft. Warm. Painfully domestic.

…and beautiful.

Had you always been this beautiful?

The thought had darted across his mind like a hummingbird, like a butterfly, like some delicate, ephemeral thing that came and went so quickly that he hardly had the opportunity to acknowledge it. And so he didn’t – acknowledge it, that was. How could he, when the thought had been directed at the daughter of his closest friend?

Now, however, weeks after you had settled back into your parents’ home and several transient encounters later, Joel was finding it harder and harder to suppress the way he…noticed you.

It wasn’t as though he went looking for you intentionally; he did not seek you out. But if you were there, if you occupied the same space, he couldn’t seem to ignore that prickle of awareness, that unconscious pull that told his gaze where to find you. It was as though something inside him had tuned itself in to your frequency the moment you opened that door, and now, he was forever doomed to feel your presence like a physical thing.

It wasn’t normal. It wasn’t right. But he hadn’t figured out how to turn it off.

Somehow always busy in spite of your unemployment, he noticed the way you flitted from place to place, task to task – always thinking, always planning, always moving. He would catch glimpses of you through the window of your parents’ home, or he would stop by to chat with Mac, and he would see you puttering around the house with your hair piled on top of your head and headphones over your ears, vacuuming or dusting or cooking – always, always cooking. Occasionally, he would spot you sitting in a lounge chair on the back patio, a sleek, black laptop resting on your thighs as you frowned at the screen. It was the most stationary he ever saw you, and yet he could sense your whirring thoughts even from the next lawn over.

He wondered if you ever slowed down, if you ever took a moment to yourself just to breathe. He wondered if this had been typical for you back in Dallas, if this was how you had lived your life even when on your own, or if something about being back in your parents’ house had infused you with a sort of nervous energy you couldn’t seem to burn away.

Joel had hoped, when your father had confirmed that you would be coming to the party today, that it might be the respite you needed. Perhaps it would give you the opportunity to take the break you deserved - have a few drinks, enjoy some good food that you didn’t have to prepare for yourself for once, relax in the late summer sunshine. He would have liked to have given that to you.

Instead, you had shown up with a tight, anxious look in your eyes, and that look had eased only marginally in the hours since your arrival.

The sun was nearly set now, long shadows darkening the lawn held at bay only by the sporadic glow of tiki torches, and most of his guests had taken their leave for the night. Your parents, however, were still deep in a beer-soaked conversation with Doug and his wife, the four of them huddled around a picnic table prattling on about timeshares in Florida and trips to the Caribbean. Topics too rich for Joel’s blood, but precisely the sorts of grandiose things Mac and Angela loved to talk about when they had had one too many in an evening.

While your parents busied themselves with their friends, however, you had taken up at the rear of the yard, folding yourself into one of the many camping chairs that surrounded the small firepit Joel had lit a couple hours ago. There had been others with you earlier; he had spotted you chatting with a number of different people throughout the night, including Sarah and her friend Ellie on a few occasions. Now, however, you sat alone, an empty Corona bottle dangling from your fingers, your legs tucked up beside you as you rested your chin in your palm. The light of the fire danced across your skin, casting you in a soft, golden light, and though the effect was charming, Joel could not help but notice how your eyes seemed to hold none of that warmth. Instead, they appeared far away, as though your melancholy had transported you somewhere else entirely.

Without another thought, Joel crossed the length of the yard and came to hover at the edge of the circle of firelight. Clearing his throat, he asked, “Mind if I join you?”

You startled at the sound, but your wide-eyed surprise softened into recognition the moment your gaze met his. Sitting up a bit straighter, you gestured toward one of the other chairs near the firepit. “Please,” you replied easily.

Joel chose the chair immediately to your right, letting out a heavy, groaning sigh as he sank into it. He looked forward to this event every year, as did Sarah, but he had to admit – being on his feet for that many hours took its toll.

“Great party,” you said, an earnest but tired smile quirking one corner of your mouth. “Food was delicious. You really know what you’re doing with that grill.”

The unexpected compliment had him matching your smile, but he shook his head. “It’s hard to go wrong with meat and fire.”

Silence fell between you for a moment, the ambient sounds of the crackling fire and the revelry from the remaining party-goers taking up the space of your conversation. In the distance, he could barely make out the low drone of the radio that had been playing all evening. It sounded like something by Guns N’ Roses, but even Slash’s sweeping guitar riffs weren’t quite enough to dispel the vague awkwardness that had taken up residence around the firepit. Joel realized then that he hadn’t put much, or really any, thought into what he might say to you when he sat down. He had been struck with the urge to keep you company, to break your silent fireside vigil, but now that he had done so, he found himself floundering.

Thankfully, before it could become too uncomfortable, your voice cut through the silence, a question tossed like a lifesaver in the dark. “How’s the pie?”

Joel glanced down at the paper plate in his hands, the half-eaten slice of homemade heaven he had forgotten he was still holding staring back at him. “Incredible. This is my third piece, y’know. Keep having to go back and try the other flavors.” He shifted in his seat, pulling a plastic fork from his back pocket and digging in once again. Around a mouthful of flaky, buttery crust and sticky-sweet filling, he continued, “Think I got the last of the cherry, and it’s a damn shame. If there was any left, I’d be hiding it away in the fridge and keeping the rest for myself.”

The little half-smile you had been wearing since his arrival blossomed then, your eyes narrowing with delight. “I’ll make you one of your own sometime, if you want,” you offered. Your eyebrows waggled at him teasingly. “That way you don’t have to share.”

The thought was immediately tempting. “Careful, darlin’. You’re gonna spoil me.”

At that, you merely shrugged. “It’s nice to be spoiled sometimes.”

Your words were innocent, perfectly within the context of the conversation, and yet, he was thankful for the dimness of the firelight, hopeful that you would not spot the redness in his skin as a wave of heat rose up the back of his neck. He was quick to shovel another bite of pie into his mouth, quick to tear his gaze away from yours to find something – anything – else to focus on.

To say you were off-limits would be the understatement of the century. There was absolutely no earthly reason why he should be going hot under the collar at the idea of being spoiled by you. Or being the one to spoil you.

You struck him as the type of girl who hadn’t been spoiled nearly enough in her life. Would you like that, he wondered? Would the girl who spent her every waking moment caring for others want to be doted on?

Fuck.

Joel fidgeted in his chair. He needed to change the subject. Immediately.

“So, uh. How you been doin’? All right?” It was the most thoughtless, unoriginal thing he could have said, but if you detected any of the strangeness he felt at the question, you did not show it. Instead, you frowned lightly.

“I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

“Well…” He gestured vaguely at the other empty chairs circling the fire. “Can’t help but notice you been over here by yourself for a while. I know most everybody’s left by now, but… I don’t know. Just look like you’d rather be anywhere else.”

Something like surprise sparked in your gaze at his observations, but it did not stay long. Instead, it was overcome by shame, and Joel watched in real time as the openness of your expression shuttered, as all of your walls started to rise back up around you.

“I’m sorry, Joel, I don’t mean to be rude – ” you began, but before you could continue, he was already shaking his head.

 “No, don’t apologize. That’s not why I said something.” He wouldn’t have you feeling guilty for letting your guard down. Not here, not in his house, not if he could help it. “Honest, I just…wanted to make sure you were doin’ okay.”

You let his question hang in the air for a breath, seemingly weighing how honest you wanted to be in your response. Your eyes bounced back and forth between his, assessing, measuring. You must have seen something there that calmed your defenses, though, as you turned to face the fire once again and confessed, “It’s really nothing, I just… I just lost count of the number of times tonight I had to explain to somebody why I’m back in Austin.”

Joel’s brows rose, wrinkling his forehead. “Ah.”

“It started to get to me, I guess.” A small, self-deprecating smile twisted your lips, a weak attempt at injecting some levity into your own discomfort.

“Y’know, what you’re going through, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. You got laid off,” he said with a shrug. “It happens. Too often these days.”

“Logically, I know you’re right. But I just feel like…” You trailed off with a shake of your head, your arms coming up to cross protectively over your abdomen. “Never mind.”

“Tell me.” The words came out quiet and tentative, wanting to pry further but unsure he should.

But your response was lighthearted, your eyes flicking back over to meet his. Your mouth, soft and glistening in the firelight, quirked into a wry smile. “You don’t want to listen to me whine all night.”

At that, Joel scoffed a laugh and shoveled another bite of cherry pie into his mouth. “I came and sat with you, remember? Now c’mon, darlin’. What’s goin’ on in that head of yours?”

Another silence fell between you, though this one felt a bit easier, a bit friendlier than the ones prior. Your walls were coming back down again, softening you at the edges, and when you finally replied, your voice had taken on a wistful tone that made Joel’s heart ache behind his ribs.

“Have you ever sat back and looked at your life and…wondered how you got there?” you asked. “Like the life you’ve found yourself living isn’t the one you planned for at all?”

The question hit the older man like a punch to the gut, and suddenly, he was no longer sitting by a firepit in his back yard. Instead, he was 16 years old, watching his dad’s casket getting lowered into the ground while his mother cried into his shoulder and his baby brother clung to his arm with sweaty hands. He was 24, dragging that baby brother out of a frat party he was far too young to be attending, the teenager reeking of booze and sporting a fresh shiner that would surely be a deep, angry purple by the next morning. He was 28, head over heels for the pretty young bartender at his favorite local watering hole, spending his precious weekends tangled up in her bed, burning every dollar to his name to fill her tip jar, to fix her shitty car, to take her out to nice dinners just because she deserved it.

He was 29, staring down at a little pink plus sign, hands shaking and heart racing, knowing everything was about to change.

He was 30, a baby girl with her mother’s hair and her father’s nose cradled close to his chest as he begged and pleaded with the woman he thought was the love of his life to slow down, to stop packing for a second and just talk to him, to think about the baby, their daughter. To think about him.

Joel drew a deep breath, banishing the ghosts of his past for the time being, and instead simply nodded. “Yeah, I have.”

You looked at him with wide, soft eyes, a deep sense of recognition shining there. There was empathy in the little furrow between your brows, the slight pucker of your full lower lip. Voice low, almost a whisper, as though you were afraid of being overheard, you admitted, “I don’t think I like where I’ve ended up.”

The man felt his heart clench, and he released a deep sigh as he nodded in understanding. He knew precisely how you felt. “Well, I think the nice thing is that if we find ourselves someplace we don’t want to be, we can always…course correct. Make a different choice. Take a different path.”

“Ah, it’s hard to take a different path if the road is blocked, though,” you said, something uncomfortably close to cynicism creeping into your tone. Something about the bitterness of that sentiment grated coming from you; it felt so out of place, so wrong when paired with the kindness of your face and the warmth of your voice.

And yet…were you wrong? Had you not been pursuing every alternate path for months, only to find yourself on your parents’ doorstep, still jobless?

“That’s true enough, I suppose.”

His agreement must have been unexpected, because the moment his words left his lips, you were blinking rapidly and fidgeting in your chair as though coming back to yourself. Unfolding your legs, bringing your feet back down to the ground, you sat up a bit straighter in contrition.

“I’m sorry, I…I didn’t mean to be a downer on your evening,” you said, painfully sincere. “This was a nice party – you outdid yourself, really.”

“Anybody ever told you you apologize too much?”

The question surprised a chuckle out of you, and you glanced down at your hands, still wrapped around that empty Corona bottle, suddenly shy. “Once or twice, yeah.”

“Well, add one more to the list,” Joel said with a faint smile. “Can I get you another drink, darlin’?”

“No, I’d better call it here,” you replied, shaking your head. “There’s too much that needs to get done tomorrow for there to be three hungover adults in the house.” You nodded in the direction of your parents, and Joel peeked over his shoulder to find your red-faced dad laughing uproariously with your mom clinging onto his arm, her eyes glassy and wide in the darkness.

You, on the other hand, appeared entirely sober, and it occurred to him then that the bottle you were clinging to might very well have been the one he had given you hours ago.

You were, what, maybe 30? Not even, probably. You had no children to look after, no job to get to early the next morning. And still, you had cut yourself off after a single beer at his party so the housework – in your parents’ home – wouldn’t get neglected tomorrow.

Swallowing the unexpected lump that had formed in his throat at this revelation, Joel nodded once. “Fair enough.”

You offered him a soft, resigned smile, and fuck, there was that awareness again, that prickle at the back of his neck, that heat in his chest as he took in the brightness of your eyes, the delicate tendrils of your hair that had escaped your ponytail, the soft, feminine smoothness of your skin all on display in your little sundress. You were so goddamn pretty.

What the hell was wrong with him?

In the distance, your dad laughed again, the sound resonant and unmistakable.

It was time for Joel to walk away. He needed to leave you alone.

Getting to his feet with a groan, Joel tossed his paper plate, now thoroughly cleaned of the remaining cherry pie, into the firepit.

“Keep your chin up, okay, darlin’?”

You looked for a moment as though you might respond aloud, but instead, you merely nodded.

“Things’ll turn around,” he continued, and in a moment of sheer madness, he reached down and chucked you under the chin, skimming the soft skin of your jaw with the side of his index finger. The touch was fleeting, but he couldn’t ignore the way your warmth against his hand had his heartrate accelerating. “You’ll see.”

You drew your lower lip between your teeth, the flesh puckering in the low light, and you nodded again wordlessly.

If he had looked down, he might have noticed your breath hitch in your chest at his touch, but as it was, he could not make himself walk away fast enough.

It was after midnight before Joel’s back yard stood empty once again. Grill cleaned and covered, coolers drained, tables folded, tiki torches and bonfire snuffed. Sarah had gone to bed well over an hour ago, and the dark green backpack and beat-up Converse abandoned by his front door told him that her friend had stayed the night. The only other remaining guest was Tommy, now stretched out across Joel’s old leather couch, dark eyes half-closed as he watched baseball highlights at low volume.

Catching sight of Joel hovering in the doorway, Tommy shot him a sleepy smile and a wave. “Great party, man,” he slurred. “Gets better every year.”

The elder Miller smirked. “How drunk are you?” he asked, coming to hover near the end of the couch.

The younger man shrugged, running his fingers through his thick, black curls. “Eh. Less than you’d think, but probably a bad idea for me to drive. You mind if I crash here tonight?”

Joel shook his head. “Wasn’t gonna let you leave anyway.” Tommy might not have been feeling terribly inebriated at the moment, but he had no business driving himself home after the number of beers Joel had watched him put away throughout the night. “Now sit up for a sec, I gotta talk to you about something.”

Tommy’s brows rose, the bleary look in his eyes clearing slightly at the serious edge in his brother’s voice. He drew himself up to sitting and dropped his feet to the floor. “Yeah? What’s goin’ on?”

Lowering himself onto the now-free end of the couch, Joel let out a deep sigh and leveled him a sober look. “I got an idea I need to run by you. You’re gonna think I’m crazy, but just…hear me out.”

Credits: Dividers - @saradika-graphics

Taglist: @shchristine @80ssong @half-moon16 @sunshinehaze1 @kilamonster @peepawispunk @almostfoxglove @orodeah @rosebuds-and-moonlight @brittmb115 @kedsandtubesocks @yxtkiwiyxt @yorksgirl @pedroswife69

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[thatgirlmendo]

Until the Quiet Takes Us

Prologue - more chapters to come?? Let me know if you want tagged.

Summary: Joel returns to Austin and on the way comes across the reader after she had a run in with raiders. They left her for dead but he takes pity on her and promises to stay by her side until she recovers… he didn’t anticipate enjoying your company quite as much as he does…

Pairing: joel miller x female reader

Word Count: 1273

Content Warnings: Nothing sexual (yet 😏) some gore - but not much. Age Gap - Reader is 20s

Writer Notes: Y’all I AM HOOKED on writing now. I can’t stop. This little story takes place in the area I went to college and grew up in 😬 I’m excited to write about Joel in my favorite place on earth. I have literally been writing all morning. Comments welcome! I need feedback. Have not proof read yet, but I will once completed.

Sometime in the Spring

Your head is spinning. Your tongue feels heavy. Even opening your eyes feels like too much. You squeeze them shut tighter, trying to focus — trying to remember.

You’d been trekking along the outskirts of Austin, alone now after the last of your group was lost to looters. Cautious and careful you were hopeful that you might scavenge enough supplies to get the hell out of this city for good and continue your plan to head west.

You'd heard Austin was abandoned, that it had been picked clean, ravaged, empty.

And you had believed it. You let your guard down, even just for a moment.

You thought, if nothing else, maybe you could find a place to lay your head for the night, somewhere semi familiar.

It had been years since you’d seen the city you grew up in — and the sight of its skeleton hit harder than you expected. The plan had been to keep moving west, toward the hills, hoping to find old prepper bunkers or forgotten supplies hidden deep in the mountains.

But something pulled you back. Something you couldn't explain.

You knew you were making a mistake the second you stepped closer to the old city center. You knew it, and still but you kept walking.

The layout in front of you brought a small smile to your face. You remembered this place. Long ago, you and your dad would spend your weekends here — walking down Congress Street, hauling the kayak out for a lazy trip down the river. It was tradition. Muscle memory brought you back, even through the ruins. Even after everything.

Your family had fled to the Boston QZ when everything fell apart. You'd grown up there, survived there — until you escaped with a ragtag group of kids barely older than you. Jackson or bust had been the dream. But truthfully, there had been no real plan. Just to keep moving and stay breathing.

One by one, you'd watched your friends fall. One by one, you'd buried them in shallow graves or simply left them behind because your plans no longer aligned with theirs. Until you were here, alone. In the place that once brought you so much happiness. Now you were standing on the bones of a city you barely remembered, trying to chase down a ghost of who you used to be all those years ago.

You crouched by the rubble of what you thought might have been your old street.

The house was long gone, buried under concrete and ash.

But if you closed your eyes... you could almost see it.

Almost, just almost, feel it.

That was your mistake.

You heard the sound but too late.

The snap of a boot against gravel.

You tried to whip around, tried to draw your pistol — but something slammed into you hard from behind.

Your knees buckled. The world tilted sideways.

You hit the ground, struggling to sit up, fighting against the darkness closing in —

And then everything went black.

—————————————-

Joel isn’t sure what drew him to trudge through the once busy city center, it only brought back bad memories of before.

Austin’s bones are all that’s left. Nothing but sun-bleached concrete, skeletal high-rises, old shops gutted and dead. He doesn’t usually come this close. Too many memories, too many ghosts. But something about today, something low in his gut, pulled him in. Maybe it was stupidity. Maybe it was penance.

Maybe, just maybe it was fate?

He keeps his rifle slung low, boots crunching over shattered glass, the occasional rustle of wind tugging at the frayed edges of old banners still clinging to the posts that line the old once busy streets. Joel’s learned to listen for the wrong kind of silence, not that peaceful kind, but the too-still, something-ain’t-right kind of silence.

That’s when he hears it, you, a wet, shallow breath. A sound not natural to the ruins around him. He freezes, body tight, hand already at his gun.

Slowly, he follows it with that noise, gun at the ready if something is wrong.

He rounds a corner near what used to be an old coffee shop, and that’s when he sees you. Crumpled near the foundation of what might’ve been a grand house once. Half-covered in dust and debris, blood is caked into your hairline, one arm twisted at an ugly angle beneath you. You’re barely breathing, your chest rising in tiny, pitiful jerks.

Raiders. Joel sighs, he knows the signs. They hadn’t even bothered to kill you, damn them… just left you to die slow, like trash.

He should walk away.

He should.

But he doesn’t. Why doesn’t he walk away?

Something about you, the way your fingers still twitch weakly, as if you’re clawing your way back to life, you want to be alive. Something keeps him rooted to the spot. He curses under his breath, checking the perimeter quickly, then crouching beside you.

“Hey,” he says, voice low but firm. “You with me?”

No response. Your face twitches slightly, but you can’t open your eyes.

Joel runs a hand down his face, grunting. He doesn’t have time for this. He’s supposed to be heading back west, supposed to be done with this goddamn city and everything it represents.

But you’re so small lying there. So broken. And something ugly stirs in his chest when he looks at you — something he can’t manage to shove down.

It ain’t pity. He’s not sure what it is.

He should walk away. He knows he should.

Instead, he crouches down beside you. His hands are rough when he touches you, checking for injuries so he can move you, but there’s a carefulness to him too, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he isn’t gentle.

“Goddammit,” he mutters under his breath. “What the hell am I doin’.”

Your skin’s hot to the touch, fever or infection, maybe worse. But you’re alive. Somehow you are still breathing.

Joel glances over his shoulder, scanning the ruins around him. It’s not safe here. It’s never been safe here.

Carefully, he slides his arms beneath you. You let out a broken, helpless sound, and Joel feels something twist deep in his gut — something he doesn’t want to name.

You’re not his responsibility. You’re nothing to him, noone. Just another stray the world tried to chew up and spit out.

But when he lifts you into his arms, it feels final somehow, like a line’s been crossed he can’t come back from.

He holds you tighter than he should. Like maybe if he just grips hard enough, the world can’t take you away too.

“You ain’t dyin’ out here,” he says under his breath, half a promise, half a curse. “Not on my watch.”

Joel doesn’t know why he says it. Doesn’t know why he feels it like a brand on his skin.

But he keeps walking — away from the city, away from the past — carrying you with him, feeling the weight of you settle into something heavier than he’s ready for.

Something he already knows damn well he won’t be able to walk away from.

Its sickening and heavy. But he doesn't stop.

[sirensslament]

UNREQUITED yeon sieun x reader

summary!: You’ve had a quiet crush on Yeon Sieun for what feels like forever, obvious to everyone, even him. Despite your popularity and his usual indifference, something shifts one ordinary school day. When bullies cross a line, and you're the one to defend him, your world and his unexpectedly collide. A late-night tutoring session turns into something much more, something neither of you can quite put into words.

Pairing: oblivious!sieun x pining!femalereader

Trope: academic rivals (ish), to reluctant crush

Genre: fluff, slice of life, school life, romance

Note: i needed to write something for sieun, he's been invading my mind. also, i feel the need to write something for suho and beomseok. yes even beomseok.

Word count: 4k

warnings !: none!

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The fluorescent lights above buzz faintly, casting a soft white glow over the rows of students slouched at their desks. Outside the classroom windows, the sky is clear, just blue and clouds and the occasional rustle of wind. It’s one of those rare calm mornings, the kind where everything feels still, yet full of potential.

Your pen glides across the page with practiced rhythm, highlighting a line of notes in pink. You’re not really studying, you already read this chapter, twice even, but it’s something to do while waiting for the teacher.

Around you, the usual murmur of chaos unfolds: chairs scraping, laughter bubbling from random groups, the distant thump of someone playing music too loud through their earphones.

Suho is, unsurprisingly, dead asleep at his desk beside you. Face smooshed against his pink arm pilllow, hair a wild mess, mouth slightly open.

You narrow your eyes at him.

He’s been like that since first bell.

You reach down, grab a rubber ball from your pencil case, and flick it at his forehead.

Thunk.

He jerks up with a strangled grunt. “What the hell—?!”

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” you say sweetly, flipping your pen between your fingers. “Drooled a little, by the way.”

He wipes his cheek and glares at you. “I was in the middle of a dream.”

“Yeah? Dreaming about being a normal functioning student for once?”

He flips you off without looking. “You’re annoying.”

“You’re welcome.”

The two of you bicker like this every morning, a rhythm so natural it’s practically a warm-up for your brain. You’re close with Suho, not in a romantic way (which is something you two used to get mistaken for), but the kind of close that only comes from years of mutual trust, shared secrets, and stupid arguements.

You nudge him with your elbow. “You snored.”

“Liar.”

“Ask the class.”

“Ask your mom.”

You gasp. “Wow. You’re bold for someone who failed last month’s exam.”

“Bold for someone who’s still pining over Mr. Calculator up there,” he mutters.

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He jerks his chin toward the front row.

Yeon Sieun sits in his usual spot, upright and pristine. His desk is spotless, not a single pen out of line. He reads from a thick textbook like the rest of the room doesn’t exist.

You try not to look.

You fail.

His dark hair falls slightly over his forehead, just enough to soften the sharpness of his features. There’s something annoyingly elegant about him, even when he does nothing but sit and read.

“I’m not pining,” you say, a little too fast.

Suho smirks. “You literally sighed when you looked at him yesterday.”

“I was yawning.”

“You whispered ‘he’s so mysterious’ under your breath.”

“You have no proof.”

“I recorded it.”

You smack his arm. He snickers and slouches deeper into his chair.

The truth is: yeah, okay. You might be a little into Sieun.

Okay, a lot.

It’s not just the looks (though the looks are a problem). It’s the way he moves, like he’s too precise for this world. The way he’s smarter than every teacher but never brags. The way he somehow makes silence feel heavier than shouting.

But also? The way he doesn’t give a single shit about you.

It’s maddening.

He’s the only guy who’s never flirted, never smiled, never acknowledged your existence beyond the occasional polite nod. And for some reason? That makes you like him even more.

You sigh, quietly this time, and go back to pretending to study.

That’s when you hear it.

The slap of sneakers against the floor. The loud, lazy laughter of guys who think volume equals confidence.

Yeongbin and Jeongchan swagger into the classroom like they own it, already bumping into chairs and shouting inside jokes no one else fucking cares about.

“Here comes the circus,” Suho mutters under his breath.

You glance up just in time to see Jeongchan knock over someone’s water bottle with a flick of his foot. No apology. Of course not. He's the same guy who made a poor student record himself dancing to some k-pop song, the same guy who forced another student to eat their own shoe.

You tense. Watchful.

They don’t usually mess with Sieun. Not because they respect him, but because they’re scared of you.

Everyone knows. Everyone knows you’ve got it bad for him. Even the bullies. Especially the bullies. And up ‘til now, they’ve been smart enough to steer clear.

But something’s different today.

Yeongbin tosses a paper ball.

It lands right on Sieun’s desk.

You sit up straighter.

Sieun looks up. His movements are slow, deliberate. The kind of calm that feels dangerous. He doesn’t speak, just stares, those beautiful, dark eyes of his staring into yeongbin.

Yeongbin grins. “What, you got something to say?”

The class quiets.

You can feel it coming. That shift. That storm in the air.

Before Sieun can respond, you do.

You shove your chair back and stand, voice sharp.

“Hey!” The word cracks like a whip. “Why don’t you fuck off for once, huh? Or are you so bored you have to pick fights with someone ten times smarter than your dumbass?”

The entire class goes “Ooooohhhhhh—” like it’s a playground fight.

Yeongbin opens his mouth, but you stand up and walk past your desk.

“Say one more word and I’ll rearrange your face.”

He snorts. “Damn. Sieun’s bitch is barking now?”

You take the blow and smile sweetly. “I bite.”

The door slides open.

The teacher walks in.

Everyone snaps back into their seats.

But the air doesn’t go back to normal, not really.

You glance at Sieun.

He’s already turned back to his book, like nothing happened.

But you swear,

Just for a second,

His eyes flicked to you.

The classroom settles into something like silence, not the peaceful kind, but the awkward, tight-lipped kind that hangs in the air after something just barely avoided becoming a scene. You slide back into your seat, heart still beating a little fast from earlier. You’re not usually one to shout in class, but Yeongbin and his idiot minions had it coming.

Beside you, Suho lets out a low whistle, eyes wide. “Remind me never to piss you off.”

You huff, flick your pen at him again. “Should’ve been on that note weeks ago.”

He chuckles, stretching his arms behind his head with the casual smugness of someone who has no idea what’s about to hit him. “You’re so protective of him,” he says, nodding subtly toward the front.

You glance up, instinctively. Sieun’s still reading, his posture perfect, back straight, fingers curled neatly around a black pen. He hasn’t even looked back at you. Not once. No gratitude, no reaction, not even a single twitch of acknowledgement.

Your lips twist into something between a pout and a sigh.

Suho watches you like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. “Unrequited love is crazy.”

“I will break your nose.”

“You can try.”

Before you can retaliate, the teacher’s voice cuts through the room.

“Alright, everyone, settle down. Time to return your exams.”

A groan ripples through the class. People shift nervously in their seats, the bravado from a few minutes ago immediately melting into dread. Even Suho straightens a little, lips pressing together in quiet fear.

You swallow.

Right.

The exam.

You did study. Kind of. You had good intentions. But between school drama, watching late-night films, and… okay, maybe you spent too much time scrolling through study playlists and not enough actually studying.

Still. You’re usually solid. You’ll be fine.

The teacher begins handing out the papers, row by row, her voice a low mutter as she comments on the scores.

“Kim Haejo, 83… Not bad, but you rushed the last page.”

“Lee Da-in, 71. Need to revise the essay format.”

Then she reaches the front.

You catch it before it’s even announced, just a flicker of movement as the teacher places the paper down in front of Sieun.

A full page. Crisp red ink.

A perfect score. 100.

Your stomach twists.

Of course.

Of course he did.

He doesn’t react. Doesn’t smirk or even blink. He just takes the paper, places it neatly on the corner of his desk, and moves on like it’s no big deal. Like being flawless is just routine.

You look away quickly, biting the inside of your cheek.

Jealousy isn’t quite the right word. It’s more like… admiration mixed with frustration. You don’t want to be him, but you want to be near him. Want him to see you. Acknowledge you. Just once.

The teacher finally reaches your row.

You brace yourself.

And then,

“y/n. 61.”

…

You blink.

Sixty-what?

You take the paper with frozen fingers, eyes scanning the red marks. You did… that badly?

Suho leans over, peering at your score. His face splits into a grin so wide, you want to smack it off. “Ohhhh, damn. That’s tragic.”

You jab your elbow into his ribs. “Don’t speak to me.”

“Sixty-one? From the girl who color-codes her notes?”

“At least I didn’t fail,” you shoot back, flipping over his paper.

32.

You stare at it. Then stare at him.

He looks smug.

You burst out laughing.

“I knew you were stupid,” you manage between wheezes. “But this is a new record.”

He throws a pencil at you. “Betrayal in my own home.”

“This isn’t your home. This is a battlefield and you just died.” You stick your tongue up at him and throw up the middle finger just as the teacher turns around.

No one pays attention when you two go back to your silly banter, hitting each other with the now rolled up exam paper.

And you don’t see it, not right away, but he does glance.

Sieun.

A brief, subtle glance over his shoulder. No emotion, no expression. Just a quick flick of his eyes in your direction, as if cataloguing your laughter, the way your shoulders shake, the brightness of your grin.

Then he turns back around.

Not a word. Not a sound.

Just that single glance.

And for some reason?

Your heart skips.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The school bell rings with its usual shrill tone, sharp and final. The moment it does, chairs scrape against the floor and chatter explodes through the classroom like a shaken soda can. Students flood the hallway in clusters, some rushing for cram school, others heading to convenience stores or the bus stop. You take your time packing up, partly because you’re still mourning your exam score, partly because your stomach is doing backflips over what you’re about to do.

Suho’s long gone, he practically sprinted out as soon as the final bell rang, muttering something about street food and a nap.

Coward.

You, on the other hand, have a plan.

Well… "plan" might be generous. It’s more like a vague, impulsive idea wrapped in the thin tissue paper of hope.

You zip up your bag, sling it over your shoulder, and make your way out of class, your heart thudding just a little too hard.

You spot him a few meters ahead. Sieun. Walking alone, as always, head slightly bowed, backpack hanging neat and square on his shoulders. The hallway crowds shift and part around him like he’s not even there, like his existence doesn’t need space or sound. He moves like he’s got somewhere to be, even if it’s just home.

You follow.

Casually, of course.

Not like a creep.

You keep a few steps behind, pretending to scroll through your phone, eyes flicking up now and then to track his outline as he exits through the school gates.

The sun’s dipped low now, casting everything in that soft, honey-colored light that makes even cracked pavement look cinematic. Spring’s in the air, cool, but not cold, the breeze gentle against your skin. The sounds of traffic and distant conversations float through the open air.

He walks in a straight line, deliberate and quiet, like everything he does. There’s a certain rhythm to his movements, shoulders squared, steps even, gaze fixed ahead. You don’t think he’s noticed you.

Until he suddenly stops.

You freeze, nearly tripping over your own feet.

He turns around, slowly.

Your heart lurches into your throat.

You quickly look to the side, pretending to admire a particularly interesting patch of sidewalk cracks. Casual. Totally natural. Nothing weird here.

His gaze lingers for a second longer than it needs to, blank, unreadable.

Then, just like that, he turns back and continues walking.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Okay. That could’ve gone worse.

You pick up your pace just a bit. It’s not far now, you know he usually takes this route down past the old bookstore, then cuts across the quieter residential area. You’ve seen him do it before. Not that you were watching on purpose. That one time was purely coincidence. Probably.

After another few seconds, you decide to just do it. No more stalling.

You break into a few quick steps until you’re walking beside him, not too close, not too far. Just enough to feel the difference in your breathing. Just enough to hear the slight swish of his backpack straps when he walks.

He slows down a fraction. Looks at you out of the corner of his eye.

You stop right in front of him.

He stops too.

The breeze rustles your hair, brushing it into your face. You tuck it behind your ear, suddenly very aware of how loud your heartbeat is.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just stares.

His face is neutral. Impassive. A little tired around the eyes.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, fingers tightening around the straps of your bag. You clear your throat.

“Um.”

Still nothing.

You press on. “So… I kinda sucked on the exam.”

Silence.

You glance up at him. He blinks. Slowly.

“I mean, I usually do okay, but this time I just…” You trail off, swallowing. “Anyway. I was wondering if...maybe, you could, I don’t know. Help me study? A little?”

He stares.

You smile, trying not to let it wobble. “I’m not asking for, like, full-time tutoring or anything. Just… a couple sessions. One? One session? A single hour of your genius brain?”

Still no response.

You shift your bag again. “I’ll pay you,” you add quickly. “With snacks. Or drinks. Or loyalty. Whatever currency you prefer.”

He blinks again.

Finally, after what feels like a century, he speaks. “…Why me?” His deep voice almost sends you into a coma.

You blink. “Why… you?”

He nods once. “You have other friends. Why me?”

You exhale a soft laugh, surprised. “Well, yeah, I do. But none of them got a hundred on the exam. You’re kind of the smartest person I know.”

He looks like he wants to deny it, but doesn’t.

Instead, he says, “You don’t even like me.”

Your brows shoot up. “Wait, what? Who told you that?”

He tilts his head, voice low. “Isn’t that what people like Suho always say? That you ‘pine’ for me?” His tone is unreadable. Not mocking, exactly. Just… dry.

Damn Suho, always getting in your way regardless of his presence.

You flush instantly. “That’s not--I don’t--okay, first of all, Suho’s an idiot.”

“Mm.”

“And second of all--” You pause. “Wait. You actually knew about that?”

He shrugs. “Everyone does.”

You stare at him, mortified. “That’s so embarrassing.”

He says nothing.

“Like, deeply, deeply embarrassing.”

Still nothing.

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “Okay, fine, yes. I have a crush on you. Had. Had a crush. Past tense. Ancient history. Practically prehistoric.”

“…Right.”

You squint at him. “Are you mocking me?”

He shrugs again.

You exhale, deflating slightly. “Look. Can we just skip the awkward and go straight to the part where you say yes?”

He looks at you for a long moment.

Then, softly, almost too quiet to hear, he says, “Fine.”

Your eyes widen. “Wait, really?”

He nods.

“Just like that?”

“…Don’t make me regret it.”

You grin. “Never.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The library is tucked into the corner of an older street, nestled between a stationery shop and a run-down tea house that’s been closed for as long as you can remember. The sign is a little faded, the glass door sticks when you pull it open, and the smell inside is a mix of paper, dust, and old wood polish. It’s not the kind of place most students bother with, too quiet, too slow, too analog in a world of glowing screens and digital flashcards.

But for some reason, it feels just right.

He holds the door open for you, wordless as ever. You step inside with a murmur of thanks, trying not to show how fast your heart is beating.

The place is nearly empty, just one older woman sitting at a table near the window, a stack of romance novels beside her, and a student asleep over his textbook in the far corner. The air is still, padded and soft, every sound muffled by the thick carpet and the shelves rising around you like wooden sentinels.

Sieun leads the way, moving with his usual precision. Not too fast, not too slow. Just a steady, even pace that seems immune to nerves or second-guessing. You wonder what that’s like.

You follow him to a back table, one of the smaller ones, pressed against a wall of korean history texts and outdated encyclopedias. The light overhead is warm, casting a soft halo on the table’s scratched surface.

You take a seat, pulling out your notebook. He sits opposite you, already unpacking a textbook and a pencil case so neat and minimal it could’ve come straight out of a study vlog.

You try to act casual, flipping open your notes. “So… where do we start?”

He glances up, then reaches for your exam paper, the one you reluctantly brought with you in your bag.

“Your structure’s fine,” he says, scanning it. “You lose points on clarity. You rush your conclusions. You don’t support your arguments.”

You blink. “Wow, okay. Go easy on me.”

“I am.”

You squint. “That was you being gentle?”

He raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching, just a fraction. If you weren’t looking so closely, you might’ve missed it.

You grin to yourself. Progress.

He flips the exam to a specific paragraph and pushes it toward you. “Rewrite this. Just the ending.”

You oblige, biting your pen and focusing on the sentence. But your eyes keep drifting, over the paper, to his hands. Long fingers, pale knuckles, one thumbnail slightly chipped. His handwriting is ridiculously clean. You watch the way he taps his pencil against the page, once, twice, and then stops when you look up again.

“Are you going to do it,” he asks without looking up, “or are you going to keep staring at me like that?”

You freeze.

“…Huh?”

“You’ve been sighing every five minutes,” he says, voice flat but not unkind. “And leaning on your palm like we’re filming a drama.”

You jolt upright, yanking your hand away from your cheek. “Oh my god.”

His eyes flick up to you now. His expression is unreadable, but you swear his ears are a little red.

You sink slightly into your seat. “I wasn’t sighing that much.”

He doesn’t reply.

“…Okay, maybe I was. But I wasn’t daydreaming. I was just, resting my face.”

He looks back down at your exam. “Whatever you say.”

You groan, slumping back in your chair. “You’re so mean.”

“You asked me to help you.”

“I didn’t think tutoring came with constructive criticism.”

Another twitch of his mouth. That almost-smile again.

You let yourself smile too, just a little. There’s something weirdly comforting about his bluntness. Like it cuts through the chaos in your head. No fake politeness, no performance. Just him.

“Alright, fine,” you mutter, pulling your notebook closer. “Keep violating me. But only if it helps.”

He hands you another worksheet. “It does.”

You glare at him, but take it anyway.

The next half hour is quieter. More focused. He’s a good teacher, in his own awkward way, clear, patient, methodical. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t roll his eyes when you ask dumb questions. Sometimes he pauses too long, searching for the right word, and you realize how carefully he chooses what to say, even if it’s just about sentence structure.

You steal glances when he’s not looking.

The way his lashes cast faint shadows on his cheeks when he’s reading. The subtle crease between his brows when he’s thinking. The way he taps his fingers on the table in quiet, rhythmic patterns.

You realize, in that moment, that you really, really like him.

And not just because he’s smart or pretty or mysterious. But because of this. This quiet version of him. The one who sits across from you and treats you like someone worth teaching. The one who doesn't flinch when you ask dumb questions. The one who, though he pretends not to notice, does see you.

“You’re staring again.”

You jump, snapping back to reality. “I’m not!”

“You sighed.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You also smiled for no reason.”

You cross your arms. “Are you secretly a detective or something? How do you notice everything?”

He pauses. Then shrugs. “You’re easy to read.”

Your stomach flips.

“That’s rude,” you say.

“It’s not,” he replies. “You just… wear everything on your face.”

You blink.

He’s still looking at you, finally really looking, and for a moment, the space between you feels heavier. Like something unsaid is hovering in the air, thick and electric.

You don’t know what to say.

So you look away. Down at your paper. Up at the clock.

“Oh my god, it’s dark out.”

He glances at the window. He nods.

You both pack your things, slower than necessary. The library’s even emptier now. The romance novel lady is gone. So is the sleeping student. The silence is somehow louder, now that it’s just the two of you.

You walk out side by side, the door creaking behind you. The air is colder now, the sky a soft navy blue, stars barely visible through the haze of city lights. Street lamps flicker on, painting the sidewalk gold and orange.

You walk together in silence.

It’s not awkward, though.

It’s... comfortable.

Every few steps, your hands almost brush. But not quite.

You’re nearing your street when you slow down, then stop completely.

He pauses too.

You turn to face him, gripping the strap of your bag like it’s a lifeline.

“Thanks,” you say. “For today.”

He nods once. “It was fine.”

You laugh softly. “That’s your version of a compliment, huh?”

He looks at you, then away. Shrugs. “You improved.”

“Coming from you, that’s practically a declaration of love.”

He doesn’t respond to that.

So, naturally, your brain does something stupid.

Your heart’s racing. Your hands are sweaty. Your legs are jelly. But still, you lean forward, and before you can even think about how insane this is...

You press a quick, soft kiss to his lips.

Just a second. Barely more than a breath.

His lips are cold from the night air, and you can feel the faint, startled inhale he takes, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t flinch.

You realize what you just did.

You squeal, a sound that escapes before you can stop it, and stumble back like you’ve been electrocuted.

“I--oh my god--I didn’t mean--I mean I did, but not like that--I mean I didn’t plan it, it just--”

You’re already running.

“BYE,” you yell over your shoulder, clutching your backpack like it’s shielding you from divine judgment.

You don't look back.

You don't dare.

But if you had…

You might’ve seen him standing there, hand half-raised, eyes wide.

And the faintest, smallest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

a/n: huh.

[traincat]

Did you say you were working on an Ultimate Johnny/Peter fic? I can’t remember if that was real or if I dreamed it.

It's 50% an Ultimate Johnny/Peter fic, in that Johnny is Ultimate Johnny and Peter is from a 616-adjacent AU of my own creation. (Nothing against Ultimate Peter particularly, it's just that the story I wanted to write with this fic worked better with a Peter with a different background.)

(I did also recently post 13.5k of unfinished Ultimate JohnnyBobby fic over here, and it has background unrequited Ultimate Spideytorch.)

I've had this idea for ages, wrote a couple thousand words, scrapped it for a few years. Threw it out there as a WIP I was willing to post but then backed out because when I looked at it again it turns out I actually do really want to write it.

The basic premise is this: When Secret Wars (2015)'s incursions destroyed the Marvel multiverse, and after Franklin and the Molecule Man start putting them back together, Franklin stumbles upon the Ultimate version of his uncle and, instead of removing him from existence or restoring his old universe, he sends him to another universe instead, hoping he'll be happier there.

This universe is very similar to 616 canon re: around just after Peter graduates college and enters grad school, but with a few key differences. The biggest departure is that Harry is Peter's dead college love instead of Gwen. (I love to play mix and match with the college fivesome in general ngl but I think Harry lends himself to a roleswap with Gwen particularly well.) Another difference is that I wanted to pull from Bullet Points, which is a miniseries in which, among other things, the rocket launch fails, and Reed is the only survivor, leading him to a Nick Fury-esque role. So Johnny knows who Peter is, but Peter has no framework for Johnny.

Peter, having intentionally isolated himself from pretty much everyone in the wake of Harry's death, follows what looks like a falling star, and finds Johnny. I did want to play with a whole "two other worlds" thing, literally, with Johnny in a whole new universe that might be kinder to him -- and with a Peter who might look back at him -- and Peter, isolating himself in his grief, needing someone warm and bright to break him out of his self-imposed isolation.

The problem is that I like the concept but what I had written for it needs to be ripped up by the carpet. Full remodel. So right now I'm working on some other fic, including another Spideytorch fic, and I'm just kind of reassessing and building out a bigger outline for this one.

I'm probably ripping all of this up and rewriting it but a couple of snips under the cut.

Then he saw the scars. The top set was half hidden by the robe’s hem, perfectly circular. There was another set a few inches beneath. Peter couldn’t figure out what would make scars like those, but they were definitely scars, relatively new and shiny.

“Peter?” Johnny said.

Peter looked up, guilty, but Johnny hadn’t seemed to notice the staring. He was still scrubbing at his own hair, gaze on the floor.

“Can I borrow something to sleep in?” he asked.

Harry had used to wear his clothes to bed. He’d liked how it made him feel, he’d said. Safe, he’d said. “It smells like you,” he’d said, tossing Peter that grin over his shoulder.

(...)

Peter sighed, tipping his head back. “Would you believe he came from another universe?”

“There’s not a lot I won’t believe,” Felicia said. “But I’ll admit it was a shock when I came in through your window and there was a man restocking your sad excuse for a fridge. The fire show was a neat surprise, too.”

“He lit up?” Peter said, surprised.

“A little. He’s very protective of you,” Felicia purred. Her tone of voice was light; her gaze was an accusation.

“It’s not like that,” Peter said.

“He’s in your kitchen, making you dinner,” Felicia said. “He’s wearing your clothes. It looks a whole lot like that, lover.”

“He fell from another universe into this one, Felicia, he doesn’t exactly have a full wardrobe,” Peter said.

“He’s in your home,” Felicia said, dropping the pretense. Her tone was cutting. “That doesn’t happen. You don’t do that.”

It was the opposite problem, with Felicia. For once it was her, not him. He could be with Felicia for an afternoon, for a night. Any longer and her bad luck powers would start tripping him up.

The look on her face told him she was thinking the same thing.

“He knew me in his home universe,” Peter said, drumming his fingers restlessly on fire escape railing. “He hasn’t said it yet, but I’m pretty sure I died on him.”

Felicia’s face fell.

“Oh, Peter,” she said. “You can’t feel guilty over something like that.”

“No, 'Licia,” he said. “It pretty much turns out that I can.”

[smilingformoney]

Champagne Problems ~ Lionel/Reader

Chapter 1. IOU

Summary: It's the summer of 1971 and Lionel Shabandar is 18. With school behind him and university ahead, he has the world at his fingertips. A chance meeting brings you into his orbit, and life will never be the same again.

Word count: 7.5k

AN: I tried, guys. I really tried to make this short. But it's not. It's a growing behemoth. I regret nothing.

warnings: references to divorce and past domestic violence

Read on Ao3 or below the cut:

1971

You were standing on your tip-toes, trying to peek through the annoyingly high window of the boys’ college, when you were startled by a voice.

“The boys’ changing room is in the east wing.”

You jumped and lost your balance, grabbing onto the wall for purchase. You looked up, embarrassed, at the person who’d startled you.

It was one of the boys from the college. He had blonde hair, swept to the side like all the boys had, narrow eyes, an aquiline nose and thin lips that sported a smirk around the cigarette he was smoking. He was quite cute, you thought, even if he held that pretentious “I’m better than you” air that all the boys in the college did.

“I’m not looking for the changing room, I’m not a perv,” you insisted. “Do you know they’ve got Monets in there? Like, real, actual Monets, not copies.”

The boy looked at you curiously.

“Yes, I know. I saw them in my Art class this morning. Well, if you’re casing the joint to steal them, you’re not doing a very good job.”

“No, I just wanna see them.”

“You… want to see the paintings?”

“I know, I know, it’s dorky…”

“Not at all. Well, okay, a little bit. Do you want to see them? I’m sure I can convince the Art teacher to let us in after school.”

“What, you gonna threaten to have your father fire his father?” you snarked.

The boy shrugged and stomped out his cigarette.

“Well, if you don’t want my help…”

“No, wait!” you said quickly as the boy went to leave. “Yes, please. Would you help me?”

The boy smirked at you. “Alright. But you’ll owe me.”

“I have money —”

“Yeah, so do I. I’ll figure out what you owe me. Meet me at the front gate at 4 o’clock.”

He turned and left, and you realised far too late that you hadn’t asked the boy his name.

- - -

“It’s Lionel,” he told you later when you met him outside the front gate to the college and asked. “Lionel Shabandar. You?”

“[Y/n].”

“Just [Y/n]?”

“Just [Y/n].”

“Alright, just [Y/n]. Come with me.”

He beckoned you to follow him into the college, which looked just as fancy inside as it did outside, its interior looking like something out of a period drama.

“Wow, you literally go to school in a castle,” you gasped.

“It’s not a castle, it’s just medieval. Stop.”

“Huh?”

Lionel pushed you back before you could follow him around a corner. He peered around the corner, waited a few moments, then beckoned you to follow him.

“Prefect,” he explained in hushed tones. “I’ll get a lashing if I’m seen sneaking a girl in. I’m really putting myself on the line for you here, you know.”

“You still haven’t told me what I owe you,” you whispered.

“I’m still thinking about it. Quickly — through here.”

He ushered you through a door into one of the blocks.

“Then why are you risking a lashing for me?” you asked as he escorted you down the corridor, past a row of classrooms. “I didn’t even ask for your help.”

Lionel shrugged. “Can’t a gentleman help a girl in need?”

“I am not some damsel in distress,” you said firmly. “Don’t go thinking you’re getting a kiss out of this.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I’m just really, really nice. What school do you go to, by the way?”

“St. Swithun’s,” you lied.

“Day or boarding?”

“Er, day.”

“Ah, so you’re not sneaking out then. Here we are.”

Lionel opened the door to the last classroom in the corridor and held it for you.

You entered the classroom, and your eyes widened when you saw the walls, lined with actual, real Monet paintings.

“Ah, this must be our secret guest,” said the teacher, who was sitting at his desk, apparently waiting for you. He looked at you and sighed. “Shabandar, you didn’t mention your friend from another school was a girl!”

Lionel shrugged. “Is it important?”

“Yes! You know the rules about girls. Right, fine, she’s here now. What’s your name, miss?”

“[Y/n].”

“[Y/n], I’m Mr Barton. Shabandar tells me you’re interested in Monet.”

“Yes, I just wanted to look at them — but if me being here’s a problem, I can go…”

“It’s only a problem for Shabandar, especially if you’re caught near the boarding house,” the teacher said with a stern look at Lionel. “Did he tell you what we agreed?”

“…No?”

“This is instead of my exam,” Lionel explained. “I have to explain each painting to you.”

“And answer any questions you have, so don’t hold back, [Y/n],” Mr Barton added. “Alright, when you’re ready, Shabandar.”

He sat back with a pen and notepad, ready to assess Lionel’s painting-explaining abilities. Lionel showed you to the first painting and, as he explained it to you, you found your eyes drifting away from the canvas you’d tried so hard to see and back to the strange boy who’d agreed to help you see it.

You had met boys from the college before. Each one you’d met had been aloof, stuck-up, pretentious, all the adjectives one would expect to describe posh rich boys from a posh rich boy college. And Lionel definitely gave off the pretentious air you’d come to expect from a boy in his uniform. But… he was also here, helping you to see the Monet paintings. And you were sure he was going to pass his exam, because he told you about each one in detail, and he seemed genuinely excited about them. He told you so much detail, in fact, that you struggled to think of questions to ask.

“The best until last… this one is my favourite,” Lionel said admiringly as you reached the final painting, a landscape of a field with a stack of hay in it. “Haystacks at Dawn. There’s a twin painting, Haystacks at Dusk, but it’s lost.”

He spoke animatedly about the painting, and you took the opportunity to ask him questions about the twin painting, but apparently there wasn’t much to say about it other than it was lost.

“Very good, Shabandar,” said Mr Barton as Lionel wrapped up his spiel about the last painting. “I’ll think about your mark over the weekend. Now, let me escort your friend out, I don’t want you getting into trouble. Get back to your dormitory.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Before you had chance to say anything, Mr Barton was shooing you out of the classroom, closing the door behind him before escorting you down the corridor.

“So - um - did Lionel do well?” you asked. “Obviously I can’t say if everything he said was correct, but it was really interesting. He sounded like knew what he was talking about.”

Mr Barton laughed. “Mmm, Shabandar’s good at that. Sounding like he knows what he’s talking about. Well, I hope you enjoyed your little peek into the boys’ world. Don’t go telling your friends about it, or they’ll all want to have a look, eh?”

“Yeah, no, of course. Um, thank you.”

“Anything for an art enthusiast. So many of the boys here are clearly bored in my class, they have no appreciation for the strings I had to pull to get these paintings in for them. I’m glad someone appreciates it.”

“Oh, yes, it was amazing! Reproductions can never do the originals justice.”

“Well said,” Mr Barton agreed as he opened the front gate for you. “Well, have a good evening, [Y/n]. Do watch how you go.”

You left, feeling suddenly rather hurried, and the gate closed behind you, sealing you off from the strange world of the boys college.

And, you realised with a little disappointment, sealing you off from Lionel.

- - -

Lionel Shabandar had a problem, and that problem was you.

“I can’t believe I didn’t get her number,” he groaned for the third time that day. It was Sunday, the one day a week they were allowed out of school, and he was in the pub with Sinclair, his cousin, who was very eager to hear the story of the cute girl Lionel had found trying to peek into the art block earlier in the week.

“We should try to find her!” Sinclair suggested.

“No, I already tried. I asked around; there is no [Y/n] that goes to St Swithun’s. Either she lied about her name or her school. It’s hopeless.” Lionel sank down in his seat miserably. “Just leave me here to die.”

“It is not hopeless,” Sinclair said firmly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his trusty notebook and pen. “Let’s write down everything we know about her. Her name’s [Y/n], she says she goes to St Swithun’s… let’s put a question mark by that one. She likes art. What does she look like?”

“Pretty. Really pretty. Honestly, Sinclair, you should have seen her.”

“That doesn’t narrow it down. Hair? Eyes?”

“Gorgeous and gorgeous.”

Sinclair shook his head and laughed. “Li, believe me, I am so happy to see you lovestruck. But you need to get it together. This could be the love of your life here!”

Lionel sighed reluctantly. “Fine. Let’s see, her hair…”

As Lionel described your appearance, Sinclair diligently wrote down every detail, his tongue between his teeth and his brow furrowed in concentration as he scribbled.

“Okay, we’ve got some idea. We know she likes art — maybe we could start with that? There’s got to be an exhibition or something on somewhere that she might show up at. What about the Guildhall?”

“She might not even live around here. Maybe she came to Winchester just to peek at the Monets.”

“Then she’s likely to come back for something even bigger that she could have access to! And maybe she’s looking for you, too. I bet she is, she’s probably just as frustrated as you are.”

“Alright, fine,” Lionel sighed, rubbing his face with his hand. “Let’s see if there’s anything on at the Hall.”

There was an art exhibition due at the Guildhall, but it wasn’t for another week, Lionel and Sinclair discovered when they stopped by to enquire.

“I didn’t know there was so much going on in the city!” Sinclair said as they left, a handful of leaflets in his hands. He’d found each and every leaflet on display in the Guildhall very interesting, and had insisted on taking one of each.

“None of those are going to help us find [Y/n],” Lionel said.

“They might! What if she’s in one of the photos!” Sinclair gasped, and he immediately began looking through the leaflets. “You never know, maybe she’s really into… local rambling groups. Or… over-65s health clubs. Okay, maybe not that one…”

“What I don’t understand is why she lied,” Lionel said, not listening to Sinclair’s ramblings as he sorted the leaflets by most to least likely to feature a teenage girl they knew very little about. “What do you think’s more likely, that she lied about her name or her school?”

“School,” Sinclair said immediately, not looking up from the leaflet he was scanning over. “Hey, is this her?”

He held up a leaflet for a volunteer group. Lionel shook his head. The girl on the front matched your description, but it wasn’t you.

“You sound rather certain,” Lionel said.

“Why would she lie about her name?”

“Why would she lie about her school?”

“‘Cus she wanted to seem like an equal, and she thought if she said she went to St Swithun’s, you’d be impressed.”

Lionel sighed and leaned back against the wall.

“Maybe this exhibition next week is our best bet. Will it be open on Sunday?”

“Yes, it’s open 8-4 weekdays, and 10-3 weekends.”

Lionel didn’t even question why Sinclair had memorised the opening times already. His cousin had a memory like a steel trap for useless information, but anything useful went in one ear and out the other.

“Right. Next Sunday it is.”

- - -

While Sinclair and Lionel were meandering around the city trying to think of ways to find you, you were having a crisis of your own.

You couldn’t stop thinking about that boy you’d met from the college. Lionel Shabandar. Even his name sounded pretentious… but still, he’d helped you. Why had he helped you?

Every other weekend was your contact weekend with your dad, so while Sinclair and Lionel were hoping to catch a glimpse of you in Winchester, you were in Basingstoke, helping your dad out in the café he owned there. It wasn’t until Sunday evening, when the two boys returned to school, that you went back to Winchester where you lived with your mum.

If you could, you’d have staked out the college, and the few times that you did walk past it, you scanned the groups of boys outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of Lionel, but you had no luck.

You knew about the exhibition, and you did go — on the Saturday. Lionel wasn’t allowed out of school grounds until Sunday, so while he, assisted by Sinclair, lurked around the exhibition hoping to see you, you were at a friend’s house, being relentlessly teased for having a crush on one of the college boys.

An entire month passed, and both of you were too preoccupied with your A-level exams to continue your hunt for each other. Still, every time you passed the college, you looked for him.

You found each other again by pure chance.

It was the first weekend after your exams had finished, and you were with your dad, which meant working in the café.

You’d never seen him here before. You were sure you’d never seen him here before. You’d have recognised him when you met him outside the art block. A cute face like that wasn’t one you were bound to forget.

He was acting weird. He didn’t seem to recognise you, but more than that, he was being really friendly. Okay, so you didn’t really know him that well, or at all. But this was like a split personality or something.

Maybe it was because he was with his mum. At least, you assumed the woman he was with was his mum. She looked a lot like him. That was probably it, he was probably acting really nice to the coffee girl to impress his mum.

“Go on, go out and get some sun,” your dad said to you not long after Lionel and his mum left. “It’s quiet, I can cope on my own.”

“Ooh, no, Dad! You said the Q word!”

Your dad gasped and clutched his heart. “Oh, mercy, so I did! I’ve brought the curse down! Well, it’s my curse to bear. Go on, go be a kid.”

“I’m eighteen, Dad.”

“Then go be a pensioner, I don’t care, just get out of my sight.”

“Alright, alright, I’m going,” you laughed as you untied your apron. “I’ll come back in an hour to check you’re not busy.”

“No, you will not. You’re banned from work for the rest of the day.”

“You said it, not me!” you said with a grin before dashing out of the café, daring to hope that Lionel hadn’t gone far.

You turned left up the road, and were almost knocked over when someone walked right into you.

“Oof! Oh, sorry!” you said quickly. “Are you okay?”

It was, you realised, Lionel. Again.

You glanced over his shoulder and saw that his mum was up the road, waiting for him.

“No, that’s okay! I was coming back to find you, actually,” he said.

“Oh! Well, you found me.”

“Yes! Um, I wanted to introduce myself. I’m Sinclair.”

Your brain short circuited for a moment.

“Sinclair?” you repeated stupidly. Why was he giving you a different name?

“Er… yes? I know it’s usually a surname, but it’s my first name. Anyway - what’s your name?”

He seemed to be buzzing with energy, as if he were excited about something but trying - and failing - to contain it. His voice was similar, but different, than the other day. He was like an entirely different person.

You’d told Lionel your name the day you’d met.

“Um, it’s [Y/n]. Listen, do you… have a brother?”

Sinclair’s eyes lit up. “Ha, I’ll tell him you said that! You mean Lionel, right? He’s my cousin. This might seem like a mad question but… did you meet him a few weeks ago outside the art block at Winchester College?”

“Yes!” you said eagerly — too eagerly? “Yes, I did!”

“Oh my god! I found you!”

“Oh my god! You were looking for me?”

“Yes! Well, not me, Lionel. Well, I was helping. We’d almost given up… I didn’t even realise until I was halfway up the road with Mum - that’s my mum up there, by the way - that your name tag said [Y/n]. And you look just like he described. Wow, Lionel’s not gonna believe that I just found you hiding in a cafe in Basingstoke! If it’s not too forward, can I have your number? For Lionel, obviously. Don’t tell him I said this, but he was really bummed that he didn’t get your number.”

Sinclair was already reaching into his pocket and pulling out his notebook.

“Here, you can write it down in here!”

He handed you the notebook and a pen. You took it and, just as you were about to write your number down, your eyes scanned the writing on the page the notebook was open on.

Mystery girl

[Y/n]

St Swithuns ?

Likes art, Monet

“Really pretty” - LS

A list of your physical attributes followed, but you were mostly intrigued by the note that, apparently, quoted Lionel as calling you really pretty.

Conscious suddenly that Sinclair was watching you, you quickly scribbled your number, along with a note:

Lionel - IOU one favour - Just [Y/n]

“Are you usually here on a Sunday?” Sinclair asked as you handed his notebook back to him.

“Every other week, yeah.”

“Okay, great! I’ll let Lionel know, just in case. He’ll be so glad I found you!”

With a beaming grin, Sinclair set off back up the road to catch up with his mum, leaving you stunned in his wake.

- - -

Lionel called you a few days later, on Wednesday night. The phone rang while you were having dinner, so nobody answered it. You thought nothing of it until you went to your room to read a book, and your mum came in.

“Mum, what have I told you about knocking!” you said with frustration. It was a battle you’d been fighting for years, but she’d never listen.

“Oh, well, if you don’t want to hear about the boy that called for you…”

“No, wait! Um - who? Probably just someone from school…”

Your mum handed you a piece of paper with a phone number written on it.

“Someone called Lionel. He said something about someone called Sinclair owing him a favour now and asked you to call him. I don’t remember you ever mentioning a Lionel or a Sinclair from school.”

”Stop looking at me like that!” you groaned. “Just someone I met in dad’s cafe, that’s all.”

“Does your father still have you working at weekends?” Mum said sternly.

“Only a few hours, and he pays me, I told you. You’re blocking the doorway, can I leave, please?”

Your mum threw her hands up innocently and stepped aside.

“Tell your father contact weekends are for spending time with you, not putting you to work!” she called after you as you ran down the stairs.

“Working is spending time together!” you called back.

You picked up the phone in the living room and dialled the number your mum had written down.

“Good evening, Shabandar residence,” came a very formal, very posh voice after a few rings.

“Er - good evening,” you replied, trying your best to sound formal. “May I speak to Lionel Shabandar, please?”

“Whom might I say is calling, please?”

“Just [Y/n]. Tell him exactly those words, please. ‘Just [Y/n].’”

“Hold, please.”

You stood there for a minute or two, anxiously rocking on the balls of your feet, until the phone clicked and you heard a voice at the other end.

“Lionel Shabandar speaking.”

“Lionel, hi, it’s [Y/n]. I, um, I heard you were looking for me.”

“I wasn’t looking for you,” Lionel insisted. “I simply had my eye out in case you happened to show up. Don’t let Sinclair tell you anything different.”

You laughed. “Yes, of course. How did the rest of your exams go?”

“Swimmingly, I’m optimistic for them all. Have you finished for the year?”

“Yeah, just last week. I’m free as a bird now.”

“Excellent. Then… you’d be free for a trip into London tomorrow?”

“Yeah, that’d be great. Where do you want to meet?”

Lionel gave you the place and time, and when you turned to hang up the phone, you almost jumped out of your skin to see your mum was not so subtly spying on you from the hallway.

“Christ! Do I have no privacy?”

“If you want privacy, don’t go calling boys in the middle of the living room,” your mum said innocently.

“The phone’s plugged into the wall, I can’t exactly move it.”

“So who’s this boy, then?”

“Never you mind!” you protested, dodging past her to reach the stairs. “I’m going to London tomorrow, if I don’t come back, it was nice knowing you.”

“How old is he? Is he still in school? [Y/n]!”

But your bedroom door was already closed, and you pushed a chair against the handle just to be safe. You couldn't worry about getting your mum off your back now — you had, somehow, a date with Lionel Shabandar to prepare yourself for.

- - -

Lionel Shabandar was a boy that lived up to his name. He was a lion in every sense. He was proud, he was regal, he was fierce. He had fabulous hair. And he most certainly did not get nervous around girls.

Yet, here he was, nervously and painstakingly sorting through his wardrobe, trying to find the perfect outfit for his date with you.

Sinclair wasn’t helping. He kept buzzing around like an overgrown fly with opinions on fashion, advice on how to treat a girl on a date, and questions about the minute details of Lionel’s plan for the date.

“Christ, Sinclair, would you just stop!” Lionel snapped. “I have been on a date before, you know.”

“Yeah, but never someone you liked this much!”

“I don’t like her that much. I hardly even know her. That’s the point of a date, isn’t it? To get to know her and decide if I like her.”

“Ugh, you sound like my dad,” Sinclair groaned. He threw himself down onto Lionel’s bed, staring up at the ceiling. “He’s always trying to set me up with his mates’ daughters. And don’t get me wrong, I love meeting new people! But it feels so forced, like I have to fancy her. It makes me feel so guilty when I don’t. I hope I meet someone nice at university, someone I like.”

“Sinclair, you’ll be spoilt for choice. Speaking of choices… I’ve narrowed it down to two. Navy blue, or black. What do you think?”

Sinclair sat up again and looked at the two shirts Lionel was holding up.

“Blue,” he decided. “A black shirt makes it seem like you’re going to a funeral. Are you going to wear a tie? Or is that too formal?”

“Hmm… too formal, I think. It’s a date, not a job interview.”

“Right. You don’t want her to think you’re going to work afterwards. Do you want me to drive you there? I’d like to go into London anyway, there’s a vintage car exhibition going on in Greenwich.”

“Yes, but only because I don’t want Mum finding out about [Y/n], she won’t let me hear the end of it. If she asks, we’re going to this car thing together, alright?”

Sinclair mimed zipping his mouth closed.

“My lips are sealed!” he announced.

“That’s a change,” Lionel muttered.

- - -

You were worried that the pub Lionel had invited you to was going to be way too fancy and posh for you. You’d spent even longer than he had agonising over what to wear. While he worried about a tie being too formal, you worried about your clothes not being formal enough. Eventually, you settled on a navy blue summer dress, and brought a cardigan in case it got chilly later.

You waited anxiously outside the pub. He’d definitely told you to meet him outside, and when it came to ten minutes past your agreed meeting time, you began to worry he’d stood you up.

You were just thinking about finding a payphone to call and see if he was still at home when you saw him climb out of a car on the other side of the road. He crossed the road as if he owned it and jogged up to you.

“[Y/n], I am so sorry I’m late. You can blame my driver, he took me in completely the wrong direction.”

“Better fire him,” you joked.

“Oh, believe me, if I’d had our chauffeur bring me here, I’d have been perfectly punctual. No, Sinclair gave me a lift. Anyway…” He looked you up and down and smiled. “You look lovely.”

“Yes, I dressed to match you, apparently,” you laughed, indicating his shirt.

Lionel looked down and laughed. “Well, we both have good taste. Shall we?”

He offered you his arm and guided you into the pub. It was large, and not too busy; you found a table for two on the upper floor, near a window. It was quieter upstairs, Lionel had explained, but there was a second bar there so you could still get drinks.

“A London Pride and a small white wine,” Lionel said to the bartender as you passed the bar on the way to the table.

“Oh, um —”

“You’ll love the wine here, they have an excellent selection. Here —”

Lionel pulled a chair out for you and you sat down, leaving your cardigan draped over your knees. As Lionel took his seat opposite you, the bartender brought your drinks over. Lionel handed him a £10 note and told him to keep the change.

“Cheers,” he said, holding up his beer. “To chance meetings, I suppose.”

“Er - yes,” you agreed, holding up your wine glass to clink it with his.

Lionel took a generous gulp from his pint glass. You did your best to take a sip from the wine glass, but your facial expression said it all.

“No good? I’ll get you another one, a better vintage —”

“No!” you said quickly, before Lionel managed to stand up. “No, I - I should have said something. I don’t like wine. I’ll go and get myself something else.”

“Nonsense, I’ll get it —”

“Lionel, please,” you said firmly as you stood up. “I’m a big girl, I can order my own drink.”

When you returned to the table a few minutes later, you had a pint of lager in your hand, and two packets of crisps in the other.

“Ready salted or salt and vinegar?” you asked.

“No cheese and onion?”

“I really hope you’re joking about eating onion-flavoured crisps on a first date.”

Lionel laughed. “Of course I am,” he said, trying to ignore the way his stomach flipped at the fact that you’d called it a date. “I’ll have either, so it’s ladies choice.”

You passed him the ready salted, and he was a little disappointed — truthfully, he preferred salt and vinegar.

“So you’re a Peroni girl,” he said with amusement. “I’ll take note of that.”

“Gonna add it to your list in Sinclair’s notebook?”

Lionel’s eyes widened in alarm, and you laughed.

“Relax, I thought it was cute. I especially liked the ‘very pretty’ comment.”

“Well, it was all I really knew about you.”

You laughed. “Yeah… sorry. In my defence, I had no idea you’d go looking for me.”

“Without having cashed in my favour? I don’t let debts go unpaid, [Y/n].”

“Is this - is this the favour? Or do I still owe you?”

“You don’t owe me anything, [Y/n],” Lionel insisted. “To be honest, I’m simply glad to have met someone interested in Monet. The only other boy at school who seemed to remotely care about the significance of having so many originals on display was Sinclair.”

“You two seem very close for cousins. I barely know any of mine.”

“We were born three days apart, and our mothers are very close. My mother and I moved in with Sinclair and his parents when my parents got divorced. Sinclair and I were about seven at the time. Then, a few years later, Sinclair’s parents got divorced. His father moved out, leaving just us and our mothers. It’s been the four of us ever since.”

“Oh, wow, so you’re more like brothers, huh?”

“Mmm. Our mothers are actually identical twins, so as Sinclair will love to explain to you, genetically that makes us half-brothers.” Lionel chuckled with amusement as a memory popped into his head. “You should have seen him when he figured it out. We were learning about genetics in Biology, and he asked the teacher if our mothers being genetically the same person made us brothers. ‘You’re half-brothers,’ the teacher said, and his eyes lit up like it was Christmas morning. He told everyone he came across for the next month or so that we were brothers. He’s stopped doing it unbidden now, but if you ask him, he’ll tell you all about it.”

You smiled. Lionel was a natural storyteller, and definitely charming, but most of all, you could tell that, despite his attempts to seem cool and aloof, he really did love his cousin.

“When I ran into him - well, actually, he ran into me - I thought he was you at first.”

“Mmm, we look like our mothers.”

“I was so confused. I thought you were giving me a fake name. But he’s a lot more energetic than you, and when I realised he wasn’t you, he just looked like you, I asked if he had a brother. I thought it was weird how much that amused him.”

“[Y/n], why are we talking about my cousin on our first date?”

You laughed. “Because we don’t know much about each other, and he’s one of the few things I do know about you. And you brought him up!”

“Only to emphasise how unique it was that you were interested in the Monets. How did you find out about them, by the way?”

“The Art teacher at my school mentioned it. I suppose the art teachers in Winchester all talk and she found out that way.”

Lionel looked at you curiously over his pint glass.

“Hmm… so you do go to school in Winchester, then. But not St Swithun’s. Interesting…”

“How do you know I don’t go to St Swithun’s?”

“I asked around. There was only one [Y/n] anyone was able to identify, but she was in lower fifth. I didn’t think you were that young.”

“I’m eighteen. I just finished sixth form.”

Lionel smiled. “Me too! Where have you applied to? Not to brag, but I have offers from both Oxford and Cambridge. Conditional, though, so I have to wait for my results to be certain.”

“Which one’s your first choice? Oxford, I assume?”

“You assume wrong. I chose Cambridge.”

“Oh! What’s Cambridge got that Oxford doesn’t?”

Lionel shrugged. “I just liked it better.”

“Hmm… no, I don’t think so.” You leaned forward and rested your head in your hand thoughtfully. “The college is a feeder for Oxford, I don’t think you’d turn it down because of some vague feeling about Cambridge. There’s something there that Oxford doesn’t have. Or someone…? I’d suggest a girl, but I really hope not.”

Lionel’s eyes darted away, and he sighed.

“Alright, fine. I chose Cambridge because Sinclair did. When he said he was choosing Cambridge, I decided I’d rather go somewhere I’d at least know one person. And I can keep an eye on him.”

“Aww, that’s sweet that you want to keep an eye on your baby brother!”

“He’s not my baby brother! Wait, how do you know he’s the younger one?”

You shrugged. “You just have that protective older brother air about you. And you talk about him like a younger brother. Like he’s a little bit annoying, but you love him really. How come he chose Cambridge? Or did he not get into Oxford?”

“Oh, he had offers from both. But his offer from Cambridge was unconditional, and he decided that meant he’s supposed to go there. Anyway, you didn’t answer my question. Where are you hoping to go?”

“I am… not. I’m not. I’m not going to university.”

Lionel raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Oh! Well, that’s alright, I suppose. Not everybody does. Polytechnics are all the rage now.”

“Or, just, y’know… work.”

“Work, of course. I hear a lot of progress is being made for women’s rights in the workplace. You’ll even be getting equal pay soon. What work do you want to do?”

“I like helping my dad with his business. He runs a café, nothing fancy, and he mostly gets me serving customers while he sits out back and does the business stuff, but at the end of the day he’ll let me help him with stock and things like that. He says I have a good mind for it.”

“Then you should go to university! I’m going to study Business, you should too if you want to get into it.”

“I… I’m not…”

Lionel sensed your discomfort, and he placed his hand over yours on the table.

“I’m making you uncomfortable. I’ll stop prying. Let’s talk about something else. What was your favourite Monet piece that we looked at?”

“I liked the one you said was your favourite, actually. The haybale one.”

“Haystacks at Dawn! Yes, it’s lovely, isn’t it? I hope the owner sells it one day, I’ll be the first in line. He’s done quite a few studies of haystacks, you know, but Dawn has to be my favourite.”

“Yes! I find it so impressive the way he can make two paintings of almost identical subjects come across so differently just through the use of light and colour. And when he painted certain times of the day, like dawn and dusk, he only had a few minutes to capture it each day. Imagine the patience that takes? And he was such a perfectionist too. That’s why I wanted to see them in person, to really see the detail that he put into each painting.”

“[Y/n], you are a woman after my own heart. Yes. That’s exactly it. A reproduction just can’t capture that amount of dedication. In fact - this might be a little bold to suggest on a first date, but I’m not one to beat around the bush - why don’t you come with me to Paris this summer? I’m planning on going to the Orsay Museum, they have a large Monet collection, and a Van Gogh collection.”

“Paris? Wow, um…”

“Just think about it. I’m not asking to be romantic - though I’m sure it’ll be lovely to be in Paris with you - I’m asking from one art lover to another.”

“Alright, I’ll - I’ll think about it.”

“Good,” Lionel said with a smile, and he took his hand back from yours to pick up your now empty glasses and the untouched wine glass. “Do you want another?”

“Oh, yes, please. And some more crisps.”

“Of course.”

When Lionel returned a few minutes later with two more pints and two more packets of crisps, you plucked up the courage to make an admission to him.

“Lionel, can I be honest with you?” you asked as you took your pint and packet of crisps from him gratefully.

“I wouldn’t want you to be anything but,” he replied, sitting down.

“This is actually… my first date.”

He frowned. “No, I don’t believe that. You’re far too pretty not to have had a date before.”

“I mean, guys have asked. And I did kind of have a date with a boy from school when I was fourteen. We went to the cinema, we saw… oh, what was it now? Oh, it was the Jungle Book!”

Lionel sniggered. “How romantic.”

“I know, right? Anyway, we didn’t even hold hands or anything. Plus my mum thought I was too young to go to the cinema without an adult so she was there, albeit a few rows away. So it was really awkward. I think we realised afterwards that we didn’t actually fancy each other, we just really liked each other, and society had told us a boy and a girl who like each other have to like each other. Since then, I decided I’d only go on a date with a boy I knew I like-liked.”

“And that’s me?”

You blushed. “Yeah, apparently. I’m sure you get it all the time, but I think you’re really cute, and I couldn’t stop thinking about you after we met so… yeah. I figured I must like-like you.”

Lionel smirked proudly. “Well, I’m flattered. Not surprised, of course, I am indeed very cute.”

“And humble.”

“Precisely. So if you’ve never had a date before… does that mean you’ve never been kissed?”

Your cheeks were burning red by now.

“I - well - I did once, actually… at a friend’s house last year, we were playing spin the bottle truth or dare. I refused to answer the truth, so I had to do a dare, and I was dared to kiss this boy there - I didn’t know him, a friend of a friend. It was typical awkward first kiss, you know, dry, closed lips. Hardly even counts. But it was lips touching lips so, yeah, that was my first kiss.”

“A shame. I’d have loved to be your first kiss,” Lionel said with a cheeky grin. “Although I could settle for being your first good kiss.”

“And what makes you so sure it’ll be good?”

Lionel laughed. “Well, if it’s not, we can practice, can’t we? We have all summer before I go to Cambridge.”

“God, I can’t believe this, I’m getting flustered,” you cringed. “Look at me, I’m probably bright red, aren’t I?”

“Not bright red. A subtle flush, really.”

You rubbed the back of your neck nervously.

“Sorry, I - I guess I’m not used to this.”

“What, flirting?”

“…Yeah. Christ. My mum was pregnant by my age, and I’m getting embarrassed just at the mention of kissing.”

“Well, you know, that was usual back in the fifties. People got married and started popping babies out as soon as they left school. My mum had me at 28, and that was considered old.”

You snorted. “Yeah, my parents did that the wrong way round.”

Lionel looked at you with mock scandal. “[Y/n], are you a bastard?”

“Shut up!” you laughed. “No I am not, because my grandad made sure they got married before I was born. They lasted about three years before they got divorced. Turns out, rushing into marriage because you knocked your girlfriend up isn’t the best basis for a lifetime commitment.”

Lionel grimaced. “Yikes. Well, if it’s any comfort, like I said, my parents are divorced too, as are Sinclair’s.”

“Oh, wanna swap child of divorce stories? Here’s mine. So, as I said, parents both eighteen, dating at school, classic. Mum gets knocked up. My grandad, outraged. Just about ready to kill my dad. If my grandad owned a shotgun, it may well have been a literal shotgun wedding. They got married right out of school. Round about now, actually, just after they finished sixth form. Dad manages to bear it for three years. Imagine it: you’re 21, and you’ve already got a wife and a toddler. All your mates are out shagging. Best years of your life, and you’re stuck at home with the baby. I don’t know exactly what happened, or who she was, but… yeah. You can imagine what he did. My grandad, once again, is ready to kill him. The divorce went through pretty quickly. Mum didn’t ask for alimony, just child support. Dad couldn’t even do that, apparently. He went off the radar for a few years. I’ve never asked what he was doing. I only found out last year that he’d cheated. But he showed up again when I was… nine? Ten? Just before secondary school. Got his shit together. He was managing a café. Couple of years later, the café owner gives him a franchise. Then last year, he’d saved up enough money to buy it out. Now he owns the place. Runs it pretty much by himself, he’s got one employee and me. We have a really good relationship now. It’s weird to think that he was like that at all, but I suppose nobody’s the same at 36 as they were at 18. I sure hope I won’t be. When I’m 36, I really hope I’m not getting flustered when a cute boy says he’d like to kiss me.”

“I’ll kiss you when you’re 36 and I’ll let you know,” Lionel said.

You laughed out loud then.

“Deal. Go on, then, I told you my story of how love is a lie and marriage is a sham. What’s yours?”

“Well… my parents are both old money. It wasn’t an arranged marriage, so to say, but their fathers set them up. My father was nice enough, so Mum married him, and then… he changed. He wasn’t ever angry, not at first, but he was… cold. Distant. Mean. My mum was - and still is, when she wants to be - such a kind, fun-loving person. You’d think she was Sinclair’s mother. But my father seemed to make it his mission to squash her spirit. In the last couple of years, it was just… fighting. Non-stop. Screaming matches. I started spending days, weeks, with Sinclair and his parents. I didn’t understand why at the time, but I realise now it’s because Mum wanted me away from him.”

There was a long pause. Lionel stared out the window, brow furrowed in anger. You waited, patiently. Tentatively, you placed your hand over his. He looked back at you, as if he’d forgotten you were there.

“I don’t remember it, but Sinclair does. One day, Mum showed up at his house with me in tow. Sinclair told me he remembers his mum opening the door. He was really excited to see us. He came running up to us. Our mums were crying, he didn’t understand why… until he saw my mum had a massive bruise on her face.”

You gasped.

“I mean, huge. A few years later, when it was all a past memory, my mum bought this book. Phantom of the Opera. Do you know it? The guy on the front, with his eyes and cheekbones covered by a black mask?”

You nodded.

“I remember her showing the cover to Aunt Helen and saying, ‘He looks like me when we moved in.’”

“Oh my god,” you whispered.

“Mum swears that was the only time my father ever hit her. And Christ, she was so brave, she knew it would be the last. The divorce was messy. You know, lots of money involved, more of it going on lawyers than anything else. She didn’t want him anywhere near me, he wanted full custody. It went on for years. It was only when I was old enough to express what I wanted that anything got resolved. I said I didn’t want anything to do with him, and that was that. No contact arrangements unless and until I asked for them. Never did. On my birthday this year, he wrote to me. Said I’m a man now, I can see him if I want. He seemed to have it in his head that it was Mum and the courts that had decided no contact, that they were keeping us apart somehow. But it was me, I didn’t want to see that bastard. And I never will. I don’t care if he disinherits me. Mum’s - I don’t want to show off, but…”

“No, go on,” you said softly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

“Mum’s a millionaire in her own right. So’s Aunt Helen. Sinclair and I are set for life. I’m going to work, and so is he, we both want to make our own futures. Neither of us want to be those rich kids who just fritter away our parents’ money. I’m going to be - Christ, just you wait, [Y/n]. I’m going to be a huge name in the business world, you’ll see. And I won’t need a penny from him to do it.”

You believed it. You saw it in his eyes, that fierce determination. Like he’d take down anything and anyone that stood in his way. He knew what he wanted, and he was going to get it, no matter what.

“When I get that kiss at 36,” you said seriously, “I expect you to be the biggest fucking name in business.”

Lionel’s fierce frown melted into a smirk.

“Oh, I will be. I promise you that.”

[peaterookie]

I just had the craziest kirby dream ever

So there was this newly found kirby enemy and its name was literally the n-word, but it wasn't like the hard r it was just the casual one

It was a cylindrical white blob with black legs and slightly angry black eyes and people in the kirby community were freaking out about it, there was fanart of it everywhere and people loved that guy

The dream got so ridiculous that i accidentally giggled and woke myself up

Here's what it probably looked like in my dream, i sketched this hours after so my memory has faded a bit