#still trying to catch up on posting these here | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

deadrobinthoughts · 3 days ago

Text

† love me anyway : various.

⋆˙⟡ "Love me in the quiet, in the chaos, in the ruin. Love me when I am sharp edges and storm-torn hands. Love me not for what I could be, but for what I am and if I break, love me still".

⋆˙⟡ request: not a request - just something from a notebook. ⋆˙⟡ featuring: dick grayson, jason todd, tim drake, damian wayne, cassandra cain, bruce wayne, clark kent, kon-el ↦ kalico note: it's the fact i am nervous to even post. i may take a break from posting anything big for a while, i apologize everyone.

⋆˙⟡ 𝐓𝐢𝐦 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐤𝐞

the room feels smaller now, heavy and tight, as if the walls are inching closer every second you stand there in silence. tim hasn’t looked up from the floor since it began, his fingers curled into loose fists at his sides, tension visible in his frame like he’s fighting a battle you can’t see. it’s quiet - too quiet - broken only by the faint hum of traffic through the walls, the muffled life of the city that hates you both doing nothing for the darkening mood.

you shift on your feet, swallowing hard, chest tight with something bitter and heavy. “tim,” you whisper; it’s soft, cracked, because you don’t even know how to start, how to make this feel right again. his gaze flickers to yours, exhaustion etched deep in every shadow of his face, his eyes haunted by the kind of doubt that eats someone alive from the inside out. you feel your throat tighten, struggling against the burning in your jaw, the way every word catches, jagged and painful.

“i don’t know what you expect from me,” you finally whisper, voice tight and strained with emotion. it hurts to say, like pulling glass from your chest, like exposing every wound, every hurt, every insecurity you’ve both tried so hard to keep hidden beneath the surface. “i don’t know how to fix this, tim. i don’t.. i don’t know how to make you believe that you’re enough, you pull away more and more every time i try. and i-” your voice cracks, sharp and sudden, shattering against the quiet. “i don’t know what you want.”

tim’s expression doesn’t shift, but something in his eyes flickers; a flash of hurt, brief but intense enough to sting. he swallows, fingers flexing at his sides, knuckles white with restraint as he fights to keep himself still and composed. but the pain is there; it bleeds through in every line of his face, in every shaky exhale, in the unsteady rise and fall of his chest beneath his thin, worn t-shirt.

“love me anyway,” he says suddenly, his voice rough and low, barely above a whisper. it feels loud, echoing through the room, through your chest, through every fiber of your being. he lifts his head, meeting your eyes, and the way he looks at you nearly tears you apart. it’s desperate and vulnerable in ways tim so rarely lets himself be. “even if you don’t know how. even if i don’t deserve it- even if you think it’s pointless. even if you’re tired. even if it’s hard. i know, i forget to be present, i have days when i'm barely here at all and i know.. i know ive heard you say you need and i..” he swallows roughly, jaw tightening as he forces out the words. “just love me anyway.”

and something inside you splinters, crumbling beneath the weight of his plea. you’re frozen, rooted to the spot with an aching in your chest from how how wounded he sounds. you want to reach for him, to close the distance, to promise him every impossible thing he’s asking for but your voice dies in your throat, caught in the crushing realization that he’d ever doubted it at all.

tim looks away, the silence returning heavier than before, swallowing the fragile moment whole. “i think… we need a break,” he says quietly, his voice barely audible now. it’s like he’s conceding defeat, like he’s finally admitting to himself - and to you - that maybe neither of you can keep pushing through walls that neither knows how to break down.

and you realize, standing there in the silence, heart heavy with the echo of words you can’t unsay, that loving someone doesn’t always mean you know how to save them. sometimes, love isn’t enough to bridge every gap. sometimes, it just means watching helplessly as they disappear behind walls neither of you built but both of you suffer behind.

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

⋆˙⟡ 𝐃𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐬𝐨𝐧

the apartment feels too small, too still, as if the silence is pressing down on you, wrapping around your throat and squeezing until you’re breathless. dick stands across from you, still soaked from the rain, his jacket clinging heavily to his shoulders, a silent testament to the urgency that drove him here. his chest heaves slightly with uneven breaths, shoulders rising and falling beneath damp leather and the faint chill that clings to his skin. he doesn’t say anything, but his eyes - god, his eyes say enough, shadowed and exhausted, pleading with you to understand something he can’t quite put into words.

your chest aches with the weight of everything you’ve left unsaid, weeks of holding back finally fraying at the edges, spilling out in a voice that trembles despite your best effort to hold it steady; “i don’t know what you wanted me to do, dick. i don’t know what you expect from me!”

he visibly flinches at the rawness in your words, like each one lands sharper than the last, forcing him to finally look you in the eye. his jaw tenses, his shoulders drawing up defensively, and then something snaps in him, a fragile thread he's been clinging to finally giving way.

“love me anyway!” he shouts, voice cracking halfway through, rough and desperate, filled with the ache of a man who’s always been strong. a man that's always held the weight of everyone else’s world but never learned how to build his own. his hands curl into fists at his sides, knuckles white, his expression a mix of anger and pain. “that’s all i ever wanted! i screw up, i know. i run, i get in trouble, i - i never stop, and i hate that i do that to you.” his voice drops, quieter but no less intense, eyes burning with unshed tears. “i know it’s not fair. but goddammit.. love me anyway.”

your throat tightens, every second of silence after his plea stretching painfully between you. the vulnerability on his face hurts worse than any wound, cuts deeper than any fight you've ever had. you’ve always loved him through everything, even when it hurt, even when he pushed you away but this feels different.

something vital is hanging in the balance.

you’re still, your heartbeat a dull ache against your ribs, hands trembling as you force yourself to speak, voice hoarse and barely audible. “i think...i think we need a break.”

the words settle like lead between you, heavy and irreversible. dick steps back as if you've struck him, his expression shifting from desperate to blank in the blink of an eye, the shock and pain flickering briefly across his face before fading into a hollow resignation. you can feel the space opening wider, see the way he begins closing off, like the words themselves have forced distance he doesn’t want but somehow expected.

he doesn’t respond right away, just looks away from you, breathing deeply, and you wonder - achingly, hopelessly - if this is the moment everything finally breaks for good.

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

⋆˙⟡ 𝐃𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐖𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞

the fight burns in a slow, devastating silence before either of you speaks a word, and it's almost worse this way because silence means damian is thinking, analyzing, preparing. he's pulling away, stepping backward, eyes dark, focused and distant, like he's already starting to construct walls. preparing to shut you out. his posture is painfully rigid, a soldier at attention, a prince too proud to bend, to break - even in front of you.

you can’t handle it. not tonight. not when the air feels charged like a storm. electric and impossibly heavy with the weight of unspoken hurt. you step forward, swallowing back the lump in your throat, forcing words past trembling lips because he needs to understand.

"i don't know what you expect from me, damian," you say, voice soft but threaded with frustration; with an exhaustion you've been carrying far too long. "i don't.. i don't know what else you want me to do."

he lifts his gaze sharply, eyes narrowing, brows furrowing in an instant. but there's something beneath the anger - a brief flash of vulnerability, a crack in the carefully constructed armor that damian has worn from the moment you first met.

"love me anyway," he finally snaps, voice sharp but laced with something deeply wounded, something young and aching and desperately trying not to break. "is that so impossible for you?"

there's the truth of it; the fragile heart beneath the fierce exterior, the boy who still expects rejection, who still braces for it every time love is offered, every time tenderness is shown. your heart shatters because, beneath everything, damian still believes he's unworthy. he still believes he has to earn your love, to prove himself, to constantly fight for something he fears will slip from his fingers at any second.

"damian.." you begin gently, stepping toward him, wanting to reach out but hesitating because he looks so guarded, so closed off. "i do love you. you know that."

he shakes his head sharply, lips pressed into a tight, thin line. "not enough to accept me. not enough to trust that i want you exactly as you are - that i do not need you to change." his voice cracks just slightly, barely perceptible, but you feel it deep down in your bones. "if you can't - if you won't - i believe.. perhaps, we need a break."

the words freeze your blood. damian never retreats, never surrenders - not to anyone, not even you. yet here he stands, voice unsteady and broken, telling you that he'd rather let you go than endure the pain of not being enough. you stare at him, throat burning, eyes stinging with unshed tears because you see it clearly now; the careful defenses, the self-inflicted punishment he believes he deserves.

"i don't want a break," you whisper, heart beginning to ache. "i just want you. i just-"

he inhales sharply, gaze suddenly intense, eyes bright with a pain he's been holding back for far too long. "then prove it," he says softly, desperately. "because right now.. right now, i do not know how to believe you."

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

⋆˙⟡ 𝐉𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐓𝐨𝐝𝐝

the air in the apartment feels suffocating, thick with unspoken words and tension that coils around your lungs until every breath feels like swallowing razor blades. jason stands near the window, silhouetted against the dim glow of the streetlights below, his back turned to you as though he can't bear to face what's happening head-on.

he’s painfully still, shoulders rigid beneath his worn leather jacket, fists clenched tightly at his sides. you can practically feel the barely contained storm radiating off him; the anger, the frustration, the quiet, desperate hurt that's been building for far too long.

your voice finally breaks the silence, quiet and strained, exhaustion pulling at every syllable. "i don't know what you expect me to do anymore, jason.." your voice cracks under the weight of honesty, frustration, and helplessness. "i keep trying, but.. nothing changes. you won't let me help and you won't let me in. what am i supposed to do? tell me what to do."

jason turns sharply, the motion quick and sudden, like your words have sliced through whatever fragile restraint he had left. his eyes are burning, fierce with anger but deeper still with hurt that he's tried so hard to bury beneath layers of bitterness, control, and sarcasm. his jaw tightens, muscles twitching as he tries to keep steady, and when he finally speaks, his voice is rough, low, breaking under the strain of what he's feeling.

"love me anyway," he snaps, almost desperately, the words shattering like glass between you. his eyes burn into yours, fierce yet wounded, daring you to deny him, challenging you to turn your back; to prove every fear he's ever had right.

"even if i'm fucked up. even if you hate the way i push you away. even if i don't deserve it.. even if it's impossible to keep dealing with me, just-" he falters, breathing sharply through clenched teeth, eyes glistening, more vulnerable than you've ever seen. "just love me anyway. you're supposed to-"

your chest feels like it's caving in, his words echoing sharply inside your ribcage, leaving bruises no one else could see. you want to reach out, to hold him, but you feel paralyzed, stuck between your own hurt and his pain. jason swallows hard, looking away now, eyes darkening as something closes off inside him again, shielding that fleeting vulnerability behind thick walls once more.

after a heavy pause, his voice returns, quieter now, hollowed out by acceptance. "we should take a break," he says, sharp, not meeting your gaze. his eyes fix on the floor, shoulders tense, as if bracing himself against your response, against the hurt he's sure will follow. you stare at him, the ache spreading slowly through your bones, settling into your marrow. neither of you moves, the words hanging heavy and bitter between you, and for a moment, all that's left is silence, stretched unbearably thin.

because loving jason todd has always been complicated; beautiful, painful, chaotic, deep - but you realize, for the first time, that maybe love isn't always enough to save someone who won't let you in. even if you want to love him anyway.

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

⋆˙⟡ 𝐂𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐚 𝐂𝐚𝐢𝐧

cass stands quietly, the air around her tense, as if the world itself has paused to listen. her eyes remain fixed on the floor between you, shadows dancing across her features beneath the dim lighting of the training room. you've always been able to read her, even without words, but now the silence feels suffocating rather than comforting. it hangs in the space, heavier with every breath she doesn't take, every move she doesn't make, every heartbeat that feels painfully slow. she's never been good with words, and yet you both know something needs to be said.

"i don't know what you expect from me, cass," you finally say, your voice strained under the weight of exhaustion and frustration, a quiet desperation settling into your bones. "i can't guess what you're thinking or feeling all the time, and it's starting to feel like… like it's not enough. like i'm not enough."

cassandra flinches subtly, her eyes wide and dark, flickering with emotions she struggles to name but you see clearly: confusion, hurt, fear. her fingers twitch restlessly at her sides while she desperately tries to find the words to fix it all. then, uncharacteristically, she takes a careful step forward, eyes locked on yours, silently pleading for you to understand her, to hear what she can't say.

"love me anyway," she whispers, her voice shaking softly, like each word costs her something she can't afford to lose. her gaze searches yours, the quiet tremble in her voice revealing more than she's ever willingly shown. "please…just love me anyway."

you can feel your heart fracturing at the quiet, pleading desperation in her voice. because you do, you love her so fiercely it aches, but it's not enough, not right now, not with this distance growing between you, leaving you both feeling lost and uncertain; distant despite standing mere inches apart. your eyes blur with tears you fight to hold back as you take a slow, shaky breath and whisper words that you know will break you both.

"i think…i think we need a break, cass."

she freezes, shoulders stiffening, the vulnerability in her eyes turning to open, stark panic. cassandra doesn't speak, doesn't make a sound, but her expression says everything she can't. for the first time, you've genuinely shaken her, genuinely hurt her, and the knowledge makes you sick.

she doesn't cry, doesn't shout, but she looks at you as though you've taken something vital away from her, leaving her unsteady, lost.

and yet, even in this silence, even in this hurt, you both know it isn't an end. it feels more like a desperate attempt at preserving what's left, at giving yourselves time to breathe, to heal, to find your way back through the fractures that have grown between you. and as cassie slowly draws herself up, taking a breath that's a little too shaky, a little too unsteady, you wonder if the space will heal or widen the cracks you've already made.

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

⋆˙⟡ 𝐁𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞

the air is heavy, tense with the kind of silence only bruce can summon. he stands there, halfway turned away from you, his profile sharp against the pale glow of the batcomputer. his posture is rigid, shoulders tense beneath the thick fabric of his suit, and you can see the way his jaw is clenched. everything between you is raw, an open wound you've both pretended wasn't there, but now the illusion has shattered completely.

"i don’t know what else you expect me to do," you finally say, your voice softer than you intended, heavy with exhaustion. you've carried this burden for so long; loving him, accepting the shadows, the secrets, the distance. you've given all you could, pouring your heart into a man who always seems just out of reach, a shadow slipping between your fingers. "i've done everything, bruce. i've tried to be everything. i've tried to be what you need, what gotham lets you have."

bruce turns then, slow and deliberate, fixing you with a look that makes your heart ache. his eyes are dark, guarded, but beneath that practiced stoicism is a flicker of hurt, a quiet desperation that few ever get to see. "you love me when it's easy," he mumbles, voice rough as sandpaper, each word heavy with accusation. "you love me when it doesn’t hurt. but this-" he gestures toward the cavern around you, to the shadows lingering in every corner, the endless responsibilities of a city that never sleeps- "this was never going to be easy. not for me. not for us."

"you've never made it easy, bruce. not once. but i've always stayed," you manage, feeling your voice break despite your best attempts to hold yourself together. your throat aching from the strain of holding back tears. you don't want to crumble now, not in front of him, not when every part of you feels exposed. "i just.. i just don't think i can do it anymore. i think.. we need a break."

his reaction is subtle, almost imperceptible. a flicker of his eyelids, a brief tightening of his lips, but to you, it feels like an earthquake. he's silent for a long, heavy moment, staring at you as if he's trying to decipher a code, trying to understand how he let it get this far. when he speaks, it's softer, lower, more vulnerable than you've ever heard him.

"is that what you really want?"

and god, it hurts. because you don't know how to answer. you're not even sure what you want anymore, what you can bear. you only know this ache, this constant, relentless hurt is tearing you apart. your silence seems to be answer enough and he takes a step toward you, his voice quiet yet impossibly heavy as he finally whispers:

"or just… love me anyway."

the words hit you with enough force that you're not sure if your knees will hold. your vision blurs with unshed tears, your chest painfully tight. you want to say you already do - you have, you always have - but the words won't come. instead, you stare at him, heartbroken, desperately wishing things were different, knowing nothing is ever simple with bruce wayne.

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

⋆˙⟡ 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐭

the farmhouse is quiet, the soft hum of the wind outside making the silence between you and clark seem louder, heavier, as if every unspoken word had been bottled and finally shattered against the kitchen floor. he stands near the window, bathed in moonlight that makes him look both ethereal and distant, the set of his shoulders carrying the unbearable weight of too many lives; too many expectations. his head is bowed slightly, hands resting against the window ledge, grounding himself against the storm he feels coming. he hasn't looked at you yet, hasn't let you see the hurt he knows is reflected clear as day in his eyes, but you can feel it, radiating off of him in painful waves.

you draw a breath but it feels sharp, uneven, scraping against your ribs. your words come out quieter than intended, a whisper edged with frustration, exhaustion, and confusion. “i don’t know what you want from me anymore, clark. i don’t know what you expect me to do.”

he turns at that, expression tight with something that almost looks like desperation. it's rare - unsettlingly rare - to see him shaken, the unwavering calm he wears for the world fraying at the edges. his jaw is tense, muscles flexing as he pushes back an anger that's not truly meant for you, but for the crushing reality of what loving him means. "i need you to love me anyway," he says firmly, voice edged with raw honesty and aching vulnerability. "even if i can't always be here, even if i have to choose the world over us.. i need you to love me anyway."

your chest tightens painfully, heart squeezing in your chest at the stark truth laid bare between you. it feels like your throat is closing up, because you've always known. you've known that loving clark kent meant sharing him, not just with metropolis, but with the world. you'd accepted it willingly, openly, long ago. but now, standing here in the silence, the truth feels crushing. because sometimes you want selfishness. sometimes you want him to choose you first, even if it’s just this once.

your voice breaks quietly into the heavy silence, rough with the ache in your throat and the tears you’re barely holding back. "maybe…maybe we need a break then, clark."

the words hang there, still and final, and clark's expression shifts immediately. pain flashes openly across his face, unguarded and profound. he looks like you've struck him harder than kryptonite ever could, and you watch his fingers tighten against the windowsill, gripping it so hard you’re almost certain the wood will splinter beneath his touch. he takes a breath, slow and shaky, then looks away, nodding faintly in acceptance as if he'd somehow known this was coming but hoped desperately it wouldn't.

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

⋆˙⟡ 𝐊𝐨𝐧

the headquarters feels too quiet, unbearably empty despite the distant murmur of voices in another room. kon stands with his back pressed against the kitchen counter, eyes cast down toward the cracked tile floor, brows furrowed in frustration. the tension between you is thick, stretched thin, like a rubber band about to snap. he's always so casual, so good at brushing things off, shrugging away the weight of the world with an easy smile and a cocky tilt of his sunglasses. but now? that armor has slipped away, leaving something broken and hurt exposed beneath.

you can see it in the hard line of his jaw, the way his shoulders are pulled tight, the bitter edge to his usually carefree expression. kon doesn't show vulnerability easily; he hides behind bravado, sarcasm, and a careful mask of arrogance. but tonight, there's none of that. tonight, he's just standing there, wounded and open, looking at you like he's waiting for something, anything to make sense of the fracture between you.

"i don't know what you expect from me, kon," you finally say, voice trembling but steady, the hurt and exhaustion plain in every quiet syllable. "you're always pushing me away, but then you look at me like i’m the one leaving. what do you want me to do?"

his eyes flash sharply behind his sunglasses and in one swift movement, he pulls them away, dropping them carelessly onto the counter. his gaze is intense, open, painfully honest in a way that steals your breath away. there's a rawness there you've never seen from him, as if something inside him is breaking apart and he's desperately trying to hold it together.

"love me anyway," he says fiercely, voice hoarse and tight by the force of his own emotions. "that's it. that's all i've ever wanted. from anyone. i know- i know i'm a mess, alright? i know i don't always make it easy, but i just- i need you to love me anyway."

your heart twists painfully in your chest, because you've always known. you’ve known that kon’s cocky grin and fearless bravado mask something deeper. you've always loved him through it all, every sharp edge and every hidden hurt. but tonight, standing across from him, you finally understand that love alone isn't enough to fix what's broken between you.

not when he won't let you.

"maybe…" you whisper softly, the ache pressing sharply against your throat, heavy and painful, "maybe we just need a break."

he freezes, breath catching painfully, and you watch the quiet devastation spread slowly across his features, shattering whatever confidence had managed to remain. he opens his mouth as if to say something, then stops, swallowing thickly before looking away.

you stand silently in the hollow aftermath, wishing desperately it didn’t feel so final, watching as kon struggles to piece together a response, realizing too late that words aren’t always enough; especially when they're the wrong ones.

240 notes · View notes

moldychefboyardeecan · 3 days ago

Text

Too Close!

A Sanji one shot I thought was cute.

WC: 1.17k

Parings: youxsanji

tags: cooking?, comfort, cute,injury,might be ooc

a/n: i get injured/weak..a lot. I often feel like a burden since so many people have to re-accommodate me. So..I guess take it from my perspective, this is how I feel. Last real post before Japan yahoo.!

When it came to Vinsmoke Sanji, you didn’t know how much of a fragile man he is. After finding out, it drew you closer to him. For so long, he kept you stable, a reminder that there’s a window to open, and he would be the sun. Always pampering you and the crew, but always kept his gaze lingering, and you seemed to have matched that too; because every time you meet his eyes, you give him a small smile, while he turns red, his eyes practically becoming hearts.

After a while, you both were more adventurous than before when it came with each other. A giggle here, a laugh there, a brush of hair away from your face and his. It was starting to become more common between the two of you to stay close together. You started washing the dishes after him, and he tried to teach you how to cook. In which you burned your fingers by placing them too close to the torch when you were trying to flambé something.

“Fuck! Im sorry..” you muttered, placing the finger which was most in pain by your mouth, basically sucking the burn, as if the irritation would go away, but at most, all it did was give you a sense of temporary relief. Sanji took your hand and kissed your finger. “Mon Soleil, it happens. I’ll finish up here. Go to Chopper and I’ll meet you in your quarters to check on you.” Your face turned red and you were giggling— until you realized where you were and this wasn’t a daydream. Then your face, fully red in embarrassment now, gave him a hesitant ‘thank you’ before dashing out of the kitchen, trying to catch your breath from that moment.

Too Close..! Too close! Too-

..Close. A hand holds your shoulder, and by the sleeve, you recognize who it is: Sanji. Too close. But not in a way to not be friends..

..right?

“You okay? You seemed a bit..off in there. I told you to go to Chopper damnit! Not just stand outside the kitchen doors!” He gritted his teeth between his phrases, trying to hold himself back from shaking you back and forth to remind you to get a grip on yourself.

You give off a soft chuckle, in awe of his care and concern for you.

Maybe we can be this close, as friends.

After a good scolding from Sanji reminding you to be careful in the kitchen, Chopper's initial shock from your injury, you were in your quarters, your hand feeling a bit better, your fingers throbbing still. Chopper bandaged your middle and ring finger together, making it a bit harder to move the two fingers on your left hand. You sit on the edge of your bed, and lay your back against the mattress, your legs still hanging on the edge. You were a good wildcard for the Straw Hats, having helped Nami draw a map, and Franky with some repairs. But this injury would have you out of service for a few days, since most of your handiwork on the ship required both hands.

If only I didn’t fuck up that flambé, maybe I wouldn’t be so useless right now.

You sighed and stared at your ceiling, thinking about how you could still stay valuable to these pirates, who allowed you to be here, to be free. Maybe you could practice your switchblade? After all, you fight with that small thing, and you’re often well off just with that.

No, I’d just hurt my hands more..

Cooking?

I can’t hold the pan right now, I burnt myself today.

Drawing?

My left hand can’t handle the pressure of holding something down.

Reading?

I can’t hold the book.

You groan in frustration, feeling tears form.

Why am I so damn useless right now?!

You get up and place your hand on your counter to carry you up. Your left hand. The sensitive skin behind the bandages react to the sudden pressure and in return you feel the pain burning your fingers again. You hate sitting on your ass, watching everyone work hard while you couldn’t do anything but just that. Watch. Watch how they carry their weight while you have to be put on rest. Watch them sweat while you rest. Watch them laugh. It hurt, knowing that you were on the sides for now. Those thoughts finally broke you, sending tears to your eyes. Trying to hold back a sob, you bite your lip and take deep breath through your nose. You give in to the sadness and start crying, letting it all out, whimpering and sounding like a small child. You move into your bed, away from your table, curling yourself in, leaving your injured arm out, while your other arm wraps around you.

“Am..I, really..that..useless?..” You whisper to yourself, in between sniffles. You felt your other arm wrap around yo— Wait. Your injured arm is still out. You look up and see a blonde man, hair covering one side of his face, only showing one of his big beautiful blue eyes and his curly eyebrows. Sanji.

“No, you aren’t.” He said, rubbing your side while he sat on the edge of your bed. “Trust me, you’re amazing. More than anyone would know. More than we let on, actually.” He ended with a chuckle, feeling his genuine heart echoing from him. He laid his back on the bed, his legs on the edge, as if he were still sitting. “I think I’m probably the biggest burden here, if we’re being honest.” He added.

You try to recuperate your voice back , but all that comes out are hesitant, shaking words. “What makes you say that? You’ve benefited me in many ways.”

He smiles softly, before slowly turning his demeanor to a solemn one. “I'm glad. At least you think I can help.”

Your face stiffens up, and forms a concerned look. “I'm serious. You mean..a lot to me.” You gulp down the anxiety and tension, preparing yourself for anything that would come after that. “A lot more than I thought.”

He looks up at you, his face melting slowly once again, his eyes already swollen with a quivering lip. “You..mean it?.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

With that, he crashed into your shoulder, pulling you into a hug tight and close.

“Then we can mean a lot to each other.” He cupped your face, and pressed your forehead against his, before pulling your lips into his. It wasn’t rough, it wasn’t careless, but a promise. A promise to both of you, to be enough not for everyone, but for the only other people that mattered in the world at that moment: eachother.

You were right. This isn’t too close. This is perfect.

#fanfic #one piece #x reader #sanji #one piece sanji #black leg sanji #sanji x reader

63 notes · View notes

khaoala · 2 days ago

Note

Lore request number 1847389291 (sorry I've been asking so much lmao new som som trying my best to catch up) what happened at firsts graduation I saw that hug and that kt almost didn't go but no details help? Pls?

anon, first of all, feel free to send fk lore questions whenever you like. i'll try to give as much context as i can, and people also add things in, and it's a blast, i love when these come in.

second of all, i'm so very glad you're making me talk about first's graduation. it's probably one of my favorite firstkhao moments.

first's graduation (he has a bachelor's degree in cyber business management and graduated with honors, he's that guy) happened on december 15, 2021, so two weeks after the announcement of the eclipse during gmmtv 2022. this event is what we (or at least i do) like to call "the event that inspired the plot of our skyy 2 x the eclipse" because it's basically what happened 😏😏

as you can imagine, graduating is a very important moment and in thailand they do this thing a lot of holding fan gatherings when an artist graduates and many of their friends come to congratulate them too (like when earth, firstkhao and arm went to mix's graduation last year).

first had a lot people over to see him. besides his family members, ofc, first's favorite bruda (tay tawan) attended, gawin, ciize, louis, love, nanon and many many others.

but khaotung, being the rascal that he is, told first that something came up and that he wouldn't be able to attend first's graduation which made first properly sulky. i'm not even kidding. they were all using masks ofc because 2021, covid, all that shit, but we know mr. kanaphan to have amazingly expressive eyes and baby boy looked so sad and pouty because his best friend said he wouldn't attend (tumblr doesn't let me post more than one video, but i'll link you to the videos and the graduation tag so you can check out his contained tantrum in the end of this post).

at some point when ciize (who is the founder of this fandom, may i add, since when they were just a ghostship, she was already in the trenches) approached first, and he was talking in the phone with khaotung and first offered her the phone and she asked "what did you do to make him so angry, khaotung?!"

ofc khaotung was just joking and ofc he wouldn't miss his best friend's graduation. he showed up and i kid you not, it was like first's sunny disposition came back to him in a blink. ofc, he was still annoyed bc khaotung fooled him and there were many instances where it looked like he was going to hit khaotung, but khaotung knows his baby bestie and stayed by his side all the time. there were a few moments when first would be talking to other people but his hand would stay around khaotung (there's one particular video of them talking to what i believe is one of the staff, and while first's eyes are on them, he keeps caressing khaotung's back absentmindedly because the next thing we assume happens is that first scolded khaotung - again - for pranking him).

khaotung was having a blast that day playing around with first. and first was also trying to look nonchalant at some point which was so adorable. you know how in the end of our skyy 2, after ayan's surprise to akk and how he says, "i told you i loved seeing you get pranked. when you make an angry face, you look so… (cute)". that is firstkhaotung during first's graduation.

you can search the tag #FirstkpGraduation on twitter where you'll find many more videos and pictures and here's the links to some of my favorite videos since i can't post them here:

[ link one ] [ link two ] [ link three ] [ link four ] [ link five ] [ link six ]

#bibs ask #Anonymous #first kanaphan #khaotung thanawat #firstkhao #firstkhaotung #fk lore #i love first's graduation fr #it's adorable #i wonder if first has a prank prepared for when khaotung graduates #long post

61 notes · View notes

otomeorangejuice · 2 days ago

Text

The last post I reblogged sent me on a spiral so here's how all the LADS LIs are nerds.

Zayne: He's a surgeon, that went through med school. Next.

Jk. Definitely the kinda guy to tell you random facts about the body, forgetting how gross some of them are and getting really embarrassed when his medical nerd talk puts you off your dinner. Loves explaining things whether it's his job or weird things about the human body. Tbh if he wasn't a doctor he'd probs be a teacher. Also ik it's his job but the lab coat SCREAMS nerd.

Caleb: military pilot with gravity powers, NERD. His fave subjects in school were probably physics and maths. Can name pretty much any aircraft at a glance and will yap to you about physics theories and the inner working of his favourite planes if you let him.

Everybody except those closest to him thinks he's just smart and cool but MC, Zayne and Gideon know that he's a chronic nerd that shows his affection by yapping at you about how cool planes are.

Rafayel: Art nerd. Now I don't think he'd care much about human art history overall, although I do feel he'd have a soft spot for the likes of Impressionism. But he's a nerd about the craft, the materials. He canonically creates his own pigments from seashells and such (which as a fellow art nerd I find so cool) but I personally believe he's probably experimented with trying to get natural pigments from all sorts of things.

This man is a colour theory girlie and he will ramble on to anyone about specific pigments and how he's aiming to achieve them. Thomas can pretty much rattle off the way he works by memory and sometimes finds himself looking at different things and wondering if that will give Rafayel the shade he's looking for. He low-key hates it but he tells himself it's for the good of the exhibitions and the art scene at the end of the day.

Sylus: Now I know we all joke that he's an old man but personally I think he's both a music and tech nerd. Like every person who knows about technology only trusts it so much (Catch him hating how much AI junk is infecting our lives ATM) plus Mephisto exists, like I think his tech parts are Sylus' doing. He's also a nerd about weapons and mostly collects them for fun only having a few that he actually uses for combat while overall preferring to use his fists and his evol.

Now he can't play music to save his life but he has the best audio systems money can buy, he has several record players, some vintage, some modern and he collects all sorts of vintage music paraphernalia. (Catch him having one of Eddie Van Halen's guitars on display). He canonically likes the Beatles (there's a pile of records as a decoration for his room on one of them is labeled Beatles) so I think he'd be a classic rock fan (Fits his vibe) but he still enjoys classical and opera

Xavier: Now Xavier is the only one who I don't think is a nerd. He's worse. This man is a gamer. From old school Nintendo to the newest VR releases he's played a good mix of everything. Personally I feel like he leans towards cozy games, has the cutest animal crossing island and the most impressive farm on stardew valley. Has definitely made himself and MC in the Sims (and then made Charlie and removed the ladder while he was in the pool). But he's also a god at the likes of the Bloodborne series. If he's feeling particularly jealous or pent up a few rounds of bashing bosses on Elden Ring will make him feel better. Also don't try playing a fighting game with him, he'll wreck you at Street Fighter.

And there we are the nerd (and gamer) squad.

#i didn't mean for this to be so long whoopsie #nerds are hot #love and deepspace #love and deepspace caleb #love and deepspace rafayel #love and deepspace zayne #love and deepspace sylus #love and deepspace xavier #lads xavier #lads caleb #lads zayne #lads rafayel #lads sylus

57 notes · View notes

gamesetattach · 2 days ago

Text

On the Record

Jannik Sinner x Reader A well liked personality in the tennis world, reader is one the favored sports commentators. Her interviews always make headlines for all the right reasons—the people love to watch her crack all their favorite players... especially Jannik Sinner because, I mean, the poor boy seems to just shatter. Honestly. Somewhere in time, this was an 800 word blurb... And now it's nearly 8,000. Not sure when that happened. This just became a tennis player personality study at some point, tbh

---

You weren’t just another sports commentator—you’d quickly made a name for yourself in your short career in the tennis world. The networks and the fans loved you, and so did the players. Your approach was the kind where players actually liked talking, one that made post-match interviews feel less like an obligation and more like an easy conversation. You had built a reputation for striking the perfect balance—professional and sharp, but always with just the right amount of humor to put players at ease.

It wasn’t uncommon for your analyses and your interviews to be clipped and spread, tennis fans enjoyed your commentary and admired how effortlessly you got athletes to open up. You asked questions that felt fresh, steering clear of the usual clichés that players had answered a hundred times before. You could tease them just enough to get a smile, knew when to pull back, when to lean in. And many of the players responded more than favorably to that.

---

Ben Shelton was a natural entertainer—electric on the court, brimming with confidence, always ready with a quip. But post-match interviews? Reporters could easily get him ticked off—understandably so. Questions were too often repetitive, formulaic, and sometimes interviews could be straight up disrespectful.

But with you holding the mic, it was never that.

"Ben! Congratulations on the win—another five-setter. You really like giving the crowd a show, huh?" you teased once, microphone in hand as he wiped sweat from his forehead.

Shelton grinned, shaking his head. "Look, I’m just trying to keep ticket sales up. If I finish in straights, what’s the fun in that?"

You raised an eyebrow. "Tell us, do you hold back on that power serve of yours sometimes—just to keep the game going?"

"I don’t know about all that," he replied smoothly, "But I will say, the longer I’m out here, the more entertainment value there is. I’m doing everyone else a favor."

"Selfless. A true man of the people." The crowd laughed, and so did you. “I can see why they like you.”

Ben nodded at you, moving to dap you up as the cameraman dipped the lens for the interview to wrap up. "See, you get it."

The moment was well loved, fans loving the ease of your exchanges. And that was nothing unusual—your interviews often made waves.

---

Your position often called for a sensitive touch, and your intuition meant you navigated that aspect better than most. You were always sure to respect the players’ boundaries.

When Jack Draper won his first top-ten match of the season, it hadn’t been pretty. He had barely scraped through in three sets, visibly struggling throughout, even throwing up courtside between games. It was impressive tennis, but it had been the kind of match that took everything out of both players, winner or not.

Networks had a certain, set agenda, and the players all knew of that obligation. And so some commentators might’ve been waiting, mic in hand—ready to pounce with questions about endurance, fitness, and whether he should’ve retired—without being mindful of the condition he was in. You’d offered Draper’s circumstance more tact and understanding than others would have.

You caught sight of him near the bench, after barely celebrating and stumbling his way to the net to shake hands with his opponent. He was still catching his breath as he toweled off and gathered his things, the sideline cameras were on him as your own crew quickly assembled in the middle of the court. You’d gently approached, mic cast behind your back to prevent any sound from being picked up, crouching slightly so he wouldn’t have to stop his movements to answer you.

The exhaustion was evident in his features to all who watched, his skin pale beneath the sweat, and you kept your voice soft, careful. "Jack, hey—no pressure. Are you feeling up for the interview? All good if not, I can cover for you."

Jack blinked up at you, sluggish, like it took effort to focus. For a split second, you’d even wondered if you should’ve asked at all—maybe it was better to deflect the crowd and let him slip away. But then recognition clicked in his eyes, and for a moment you thought he might wave you off, but he moved his head just a fraction down in a nod.

With a small, grateful smile at his lips, he said. "Nah, I’m good. Just… maybe we keep it short?"

You nodded immediately. "Of course. I got you."

So you’d kept the interview brief and simple, unprobing. Your voice stayed even, the questions light and general.

"Jack, congratulations. That was an impressive win against an impressive opponent. What are your thoughts coming out of it?" You asked, keeping the question away from his state.

"Yeah, tough one today, but looking forward to tomorrow." Jack exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Apologizes for the throw up, everyone.”

A soft chuckle rippled through the crowd.

You’d smiled, keeping it easy. "I won’t keep you long, but one thing’s for sure—you showed a lot of fight out there and we’re sure you will tomorrow as well. Anything more you’d like to say to the crowd, along with that?"

Jack turned toward the stands, where the crowd erupted into cheers just at the acknowledgment. "Yeah, just… thanks for sticking it out with me. You all carried me through."

You gave him a nod, and he backed out of the frame with a grateful look as he took your okay to head out. "Alright. Go get some rest, Jack. You’ve earned it."

---

Sometimes, you’d poke fun with the players—though you never crossed the line. And those interviews always showed the strength of your rapport with those on tour.

Carlos Alcaraz was truly sunshine personified. Always wearing that wide smile, he was friendly with everyone. And, with you, he was always outright charmed, knowing the interview would be memorable and fun.

After yet another dramatic comeback win, you stood across from him, shaking your head. "Carlos, you make my job so hard. I try to plan questions, but every time you pack the game with so many good shots I have a hard time choosing which one to talk about."

“Sorry.” He said, grinning and laughing up at the crowd. "You know, maybe I'll make it easy for you next time."

"Now, don’t do that. We love watching you fall into the splits and run all over the place." You both chuckled, and you continued with your questions. “Tell me, today was a spectacular match—now you're moving on to the finals—will you get a tattoo of the match date?”

“We’ll see,” Carlos’s smile had widened at that, if even possible. "If I win, maybe. Let’s see."

“What makes a day great enough to qualify for a tattoo of the date?”

“I always just try and play well, but if there’s something really special—then I like to remember that.” He shifted his weight back and forth between his feet, nodding up at the crowd as they cheered. “Especially with the great fan atmosphere, like here in the tournament.”

"Well Carlos, if you continue playing as well as you did today, I think you may run out of space pretty soon."

He’d grinned, pointing to the tiny text of his newest addition. "I get them small, still have lots of room. On the legs and all—"

You shook your head. "I say, skip the legs—go straight for the forehead."

He threw his head back at that, leaning up and away from the mic for a full-bellied laugh, and the crowd erupted with him. "We’ll see, we’ll see."

"Alright, Carlos! Thank you for your time. Great tennis tonight, we’ll see you again in two nights against Rune!" You easily finished, wrapping up the interview as he waved once more to the crowd.

---

The same often went with Andrey Rublev, a character loved by all. An intense firestorm on the court, but forever soft-spoken off it. He was one that could be reserved and bashful in interviews, even though he often couldn’t help his witty remarks—a large part of why he was so well liked.

“Andrey, congratulations! You’re having a great year so far—making it to the finals again after just winning a title,” He nodded, taking off his headband as you began the interview. “I was wondering, do you have any new superstitions this season? Or any old ones that have evolved over time?"

“Superstitions… I don’t know...” Rublev exhaled, brushing a hand through his damp hair. His eyes landed on the headband he was spinning on a finger. "Maybe this one—the headband. When I was younger, in juniors or something, I didn't have this long hair, but now before the match I’m tying like this every time."

“Ah yes, I’ve had the privilege of seeing you primp and preen before a match.” You’d teased, laughing lightly. “It’s quite the routine.”

“Yes…” He smiled, looking down a little. “It’s not so easy.”

“I mean, yeah, with that head of hair—I believe it.” You grinned at him. “I know you always looked up to Rafa Nadal growing up, do you feel like it’s kind of an ode to him?”

“Yes, of course. He was always my favorite—I was… when I was little, I was always wearing the same kit as him. Same shorts and shirt, and headband—everything. But, yes, it takes some time in front of the mirror.”

“That it does—you diva.” You laughed, and those in the stands followed suit.

“No… Diva? What is this?” Rublev glanced off camera before looking back at you, perplexed but smiling still.

“Don’t worry about it… They know.” The crowd cheered again.

He shook his head at you, chuckling a little before he gestured to you in confusion at the crowd.

You continued on, still laughing to yourself. “Everyone, Andrey Rublev! Our finalist—thank you Andrey!”

With that, the sound of your mics cut out and the other commentators came back into the audio, but the camera stayed on you and Rublev—panning out a bit. The remainder of your teasing conversation could be seen, with you presumably explaining what you had meant by diva between laughs and him playfully swatting you away immediately after.

It was a fan favorite moment, one that Rublev couldn’t seem to escape for the rest of the season. He was always sure to give you shit for it whenever he saw you around, but no one—including him—could deny that you always carried out the most entertaining interviews.

Though no interview was watched quite as closely as your ones with Jannik Sinner, however…

---

When it came to Jannik, the lens people would watch your interviews with became something else entirely.

The same reason people loved your interviews still held true—the way you got players to open up, the way you made even the most media-wary athletes feel at ease.

And Jannik wasn’t cold by any means, but he was careful. Composed. Someone who, in most press conferences and interviews, gave measured almost scripted answers, efficient and to the point. He was never rude—just reserved. He’d smile, be polite, but rarely let people in further than he had to.

And yet, every time it was you standing across from him, microphone in hand, his expression changed—softer, just barely perceptible. But people started to catch on… And when they did, they started to look for it as well.

A flicker of something lighter in his eyes, the way his usual, fidgety stance seemed to relax. If fans didn’t know him well, they might’ve missed it. But those who did could always tell that, even if he would never express it outright, he genuinely enjoyed talking to you.

---

One of the first times people noticed it was soon after your promotion, when you conducted one of your earlier on-court interviews.

It was after an iconic, comeback three-set win of Jannik’s. And something about the way he answered your questions—the way he looked at you—set the viewers abuzz. It was like the crowd had faded away for him. He still inserted his usual expressions of gratitude, but it seemed you and your questions were the center of his focus.

"Jannik, long night for you. With quite an abrupt turnaround," you had started, a smile in your voice as he nodded at your words. "Was there ever a moment where you doubted that you could take back the match? You were down for the first half there."

“No—,” He blinked, a smile slowly growing on his face. "What do you think of me? I try not to doubt… Of course, it’s not so easy but…"

He grinned at you as he trailed off, and you jumped right back in. "Oh, so you always knew you could take the game back is what you’re saying?"

His eyes stayed on you, corners of his lips twitching up again. "No, but—it’s important to stay positive. You know… I just try and play well."

“You just try…” You scoffed and looked at the camera. “You know, I think on most people’s best and most positive days, they probably can't serve so many aces in a row…”

Jannik shrugged, smiling up at the crowd as the crowd laughed at his nonchalant reaction.

It wasn’t necessarily a funny answer, or even a funny question, but Jannik’s cheeky smile and your quiet laughs in response added another layer to the tone of the interview. The audience cheered at his demeanor, a rare display of tasteful gloating from one of the world's best players.

That interview reemerged pretty consistently, you just brought out a different side of him. Not too many saw it then, but those who did were hooked.

---

The moment people most loved to replay the most went down after a late-afternoon match, the sun casting long shadows over the court as Jannik walked back on court for the interview, exhausted but victorious against his self-proclaimed rival. When he saw you waiting for him on the service, he didn’t just nod in acknowledgement and snap into his professional, media mode—his face visibly brightened, a slow smile tugging at his lips before he even reached you.

The smile stayed on his face, eyes fixed on you as you gave the cursory congratulations and eased the viewers into the interview while welcoming Jannik to the frame. "—and you had quite a few dives today, are you still in one piece?" You transitioned the introduction into the first question, microphone poised at his mouth after asking.

He nodded, eyes having never left you, but stayed quiet. His mouth opened as if starting to answer, but then he stopped and shook his head, hands on his hips. "... Sorry, can you repeat the question."

He pushed down protruding hairs under the brim of his cap with a sheepish smile as the audience laughed.

“Wow, zoning out already—that was only the first question Jannik.” You shook your head in teasing disapproval at the camera, and the corner of his mouth lifted to widen his smile at your reaction. “That might have been an answer to the question in and of itself—maybe you’re not in one piece… I asked about the dives you took during the match—any scrapes or scratches?”

“Ah, okay,” He nodded in understanding, catching up and smiling when people laughed once more. “No I—I’m okay. It is hard court, yes, but no scrapes so far.”

“Seems like Carlos has that effect on you, doesn’t he? You’re always diving after his balls—” You cut yourself off immediately, hand slapping to cover your mouth when you realized how that last sentence could have been interpreted.

You doubled over in laughter, unable to help yourself, and Jannik joined in when he pieced it together. It took you too long to recover, more time than was professional for sure, but the stadium was laughing along with you. Jannik watched as you tried again and again to compose yourself before you broke back into laughter each time, he chuckled at you while wagging a finger at the camera.

Then he set his palm on top of yours, taking your hand holding the mic to lift it to his mouth. “What kind of interview is this?”

The crowd went wild, pleased to see Jannik play into the humor of the situation. You wiped tears from your eyes and covered your face in embarrassment, his hand still over yours for longer than it needed to be.

When he returned the mic, and your hand, you gave an exaggerated look of regret towards the camera, breaking the fourth wall in more ways than one. “So sorry if I violated any network guidelines with that one… Did not mean for the interview to take this turn…”

And then the production assistant behind the camera, also in tears from laughter, signaled that time was almost up. Jannik teasingly threw his hands in the air when he saw the count down, poking fun at the fact that you’d derailed the interview and eaten up the screen time.

You lifted the mic and continued, shaking your head at yourself once more while smiling. “Looks like we need to wrap this up… Jannik any final words?”

“Well this is also some of my first words…” He laughed as you mouthed something in response. Don’t remind me, you’d mimed. “But I want to thank everyone here for the good energy and Carlos for another great game… And, of course, thank you for finishing off this day with such a… interesting interview.”

He said the last bit towards you, not missing the opportunity to tease you further—and nobody missed that.

The interview had understandably blown up. It had all the makings of a viral moment. An accidental, suggestive line implicating both Carlos and Jannik was bound to spread like a wildfire. Adding Jannik’s funny reaction on top of that only fueled the fire. People enjoyed seeing the facade of his usual composure break, fans were quick to interact with those rare moments where he revealed more of his charm and humor.

Though somehow, with all the traction the clip received, the discourse always seemed to land on you. Or rather, how he was with you. After getting past the comedic banter in the video, people started commenting on his behavior. On how he looked at you, how he seemed to miss the first question because he was admiring you. How he took your hand with no hesitation, and how you seemed unfazed by the touch. He was clearly comfortable with you—and you with him, judging by how naturally you took his teasing.

And so, anyone who wasn't already watching the two of you closely certainly started to after that.

---

It wasn’t just post-match interviews people watched. It was media days, press conferences, those brief moments of footage where your paths crossed in hallways.

Fans really started to notice the way his eyes would stay on you, taking just a second longer than necessary before answering the question. The way he always seemed to open up when it was you on the other side of the mic.

Jannik wasn’t the type to talk much during an interview, he kept his answers concise, but with you, there was always something—an easy joke, a quick remark, sometimes he’d even ramble on in an answer.

"Try to behave this one," he had joked when you were up to interview him after another game against Carlos, referencing that one, fateful slipup of yours a few months after its debut. You gave him a look, that line was sure to spread everywhere whether or not the rest of the interview was entertaining, and you both knew it. The people present in the stands were already whooping.

"I’ll try my best,” You smirked anyways. “I’ll try my best not to mention how Carlos gets you to fall for him.”

The crowd roared, and he shifted his jaw as he laughed with you. “That’s not how you said this the last time.”

“Well, I made many promises to many important people that I wouldn’t say anything like last time. Ever again.” You winked at the camera. “—Not on TV, at least.”

He inhaled a laugh, “Good. It’s for the best.”

"Okay… Let’s leave that behind us." You raised your brows at him as you offered a hand to shake in truce.

“Okay. Promise.” He took your hand, trying to look serious while fighting back a smile.

“Okay.” You nodded up at him, matching his expression even though your lips pursed with an incoming laugh, hands intertwined.

You both just stood like that for a beat, looking at each other with your hands clasped in a stilled handshake, laughter clearly threatening to take over. He was the first to break the silence.

“Are you going to ask a question, or what?” A smile ripped onto his face, and then your laugh just had to come out. Everyone in the stands had been in pieces since the interview’s start, but the laughter doubled at that.

“Yeah, yeah,” You shook your head. “What am I going to do with you—I’m going to be out of a job.”

“Ah, no. You’re too good for that.” His own laugh had faded into an amused smile. An affectionate one, even.

“Hear that?” You address the camera, deadpanning. “Glad we got that on tape.”

That interview continued on without any inappropriate hitches, though it stayed just as entertaining throughout.

And it wasn’t just a one-off thing. The more you interviewed him, the more obvious it became—it was a pattern. And the common denominator was you.

Fans were relentless. They clipped every smirk, every subtle glance. Every moment where Jannik let himself react.

He’s always laughing when its her She’s the only one who gets him to act like this. i love how he forgets all his media training when he’s with her Jannik, blink twice if you’re in love There’s no way they’re not a thing. If theyre not, they should be. Like now.

---

The best part? The most implicating part? You never even tried to make those moments with him. It just… happened. It always happened.

Like the time you’d been interviewing another player on court—someone else entirely, an opponent he’d lost to. Jannik could be seen in the back of the frame, still packing up at his bench. You hadn’t given any sign of noticing him, there was no moment of acknowledgement, you were faced away from Jannik as you interviewed the winning player with your usual, unique questions and comfortable professionalism—but the viewers’ eyes were on Jannik in the distance more than the interview itself, because the camera had caught everything.

It seemed the moment Jannik realized it was you speaking, that it was you on court, his head snapped to your direction. He was slower in gathering his things, looking back at you often. Even when signing things for fans on the sidelines, he’d turn his face to you every time you laughed. When he did finally walk out, his eyes stayed trained on you, turning his neck towards you until you simply had to leave line of sight.

And, even after the loss, it seemed he had a slight smile playing on his lips when he left. The soft kind, the same one he always seemed to wear when you were around.

Fans had slowed it down frame by frame, zooming in—and they saw it all.

---

The phenomenon quickly took on a life of its own. People had moved past just noticing, fan just straight up speculated after a while. Even other players and commentators were aware of the trope—it was everywhere online and it was hard to ignore the dynamic between you and him even in person.

It started small. A few viral clips, some curious tweets, the occasional comment under a post-match interview: He never laughs like that with anyone else. But that phase passed quickly. Then the compilation videos came in swarms soon after. The frame-by-frame breakdowns of every interview, every shared glance, every moment where Jannik seemed just a little too engaged, a little too interested.

"It’s the way he looks at her," Coco Guaff even said in a WTA YouTube video, the content being a montage of players’ talking about associations and relationships with umpires and broadcasters. You and Coco had an easy friendship, despite your role usually landing on the ATP side, so it only made sense that she dropped your name…

But it just so happened that her mention of you very quickly devolved into propaganda supporting those fan speculations of Jannik’s relationship to you.

"I mean, that’s not normal." She continued, shrugging at the camera as she giggled to herself. “The proof is in the footage, I don’t know what to tell you.”

And that wasn’t the only instance—Coco herself being notorious for backing the allegations.

Once, a post on a tennis podcast’s Instagram had gone doubly viral after she liked it. It was a screenshot of Jannik in mid-interview with you, visibly engaged, stars in his eyes. The text above the image read: Mans has never been happier in his life.

And the comments were rampant.

Need someone to look at me like that Guys, Coco liked?? You’d never know he just won a title, looks like the highlight of his day is just her Si vede che è cotto! Uh, heyy Coco

Another, a comparison of images—A photo of Jannik immediately after a match, visibly drained, side-by-side with another of him only minutes after, beaming down at you. Find someone who looks at you the way Jannik Sinner looks at his favorite commentator.

Forget clostebol, bros drug is just love Si vede che è cotto a puntino if they have no fans, im dead

Even official tennis accounts and sports networks got in on it, subtly referencing it in posts and during match breakdowns and things of that sort.

The ATP social team once posted a story of you two laughing behind the scenes on media day. And people immediately jumped on it, the screenshot spreading all over twitter.

Tennis Channel’s table of commentators once referenced you after discussing the tennis rankings and Jannik’s consistent performance.

“How does he do it?” One asked, after running through Jannik’s match statistics and win streak.

“I’m not sure, but I doubt he’d say.”

“We gotta get [Your Name] to ask, then I’m sure he’ll tell all.” Another chimed in.

Everyone at the table laughed, very obviously understanding the context. “It’s true, it’s true.”

And, of course, that clip was everywhere within minutes of it airing, as well.

...But the kick of it all was that neither of you ever seemed to deny the rumors—no matter how many times they were thrown at your face…

It wasn’t like anyone was subtle about it.

---

Once, Frances Tiafoe, never one to pass up the chance for a joke, had been sitting in the player locker lounge when Jannik walked in after a win.

“The match was tough,” He said as he briefly looked up from his phone to clap Jannik’s hand in congratulations. Then Frances smiled to himself before tacking on a cheeky line for the room to hear. “I’m sure the extra motivation helped… Knowing you’d get your favorite interviewer after, and all that."

Frances immediately seized with laughter, cracking himself up, and others around chuckled with equal enjoyment.

Jannik only shook his head as he made his way to the stationary bikes, smiling at Tiafoe’s antics, but he was mostly unfazed. He didn’t bother to give a response—no denial, not even much overt amusement—just that calm, neutral reaction. Masterfully deflecting without a single word.

It was the response he always gave when people brought it up, behind closed doors or otherwise.

Like when John McEnroe playfully called Jannik out on camera during a post-match interview after a Grand Slams quarterfinals. When Jannik approached the court again after winning, waving at the stands, it was McEnroe waiting to ask questions, mic in hand.

The crowd still listened and cheered throughout the interview, hanging on to all of Jannik’s words, but it was nothing compared to the reactions your interviews always prompted.

McEnroe decided to bring you up towards the end of his questions, dramatically sighing and shaking his head. "Alright, thanks for humoring me Jannik—Sorry it’s me today and not your favorite commentator."

The audience roared at your mention, but Jannik only exhaled a laugh, catching one of his ankles in his hands to stretch as he simply shook his head.

And McEnroe took Jannik’s lack of response as an answer. "Won’t even deny it, huh?"

Jannik just smiled, eyes drifting off to his box, and McEnroe took the action as reason to continue. Looking towards the camera in exaggerated belief, he threw his hands up, “And now he’s looking away from me—Wow, I can’t even keep his attention.”

Jannik laughed at that, placing a friendly hand on McEnroe’s shoulder. “No, I just—I saw my team say something so I looked over.”

“Right, right.” McEnroe kept on with his lamenting, teasing at the point further. “I was only the World Number One for a bit, won 70 titles…”

“I think—I think we go back to the questions, maybe.” Jannik said jokingly and McEnroe let out one more incredulous laugh.

“Okay, I’ll try… but I’m starting to doubt if I’m any good at that now…”

“I have no favorite.” Jannik finally offered, his voice faint as the mic was still pointed away from him.

“Too late, Jannik, it’s too late.”

The moment was all in jest, and John was sure to relay the interaction back to you later that day, as if you hadn't already watched it unfold live. You only laughed in response, teasingly placating him but never touching on what he’d suggested in the interview. McEnroe was just one of many peers in the sports broadcasting world that would make little comments to you, and you never gave them much of anything.

It was harder when players called you out though—especially when they did it live, in front of thousands of people.

Fresh off a hard-fought win, Matteo was still slightly out of breath when you grinned at him for the interview. "Matteo, great tennis out there today! We’ve been seeing you play at the net a lot more since your return—more confident, more aggressive with those volleys—tell us about that."

"No, no, I think I've always felt comfortable at the net.” He shook his head immediately, ducking his head down to really look at you, teasing glint in his eyes. “Maybe you’re too young to know my earlier game… or maybe you’re getting me confused with someone else."

The crowd already latched on to the reference, a collective ooh passing through the stands, you tried your best to play dumb despite that. You went the first reason he offered, "I mean I remember watching your games before I got on the job, but if I blocked out memories of volleys like today’s, then no one’s more sorry than I am."

Matteo smirked, looking out toward the crowd, not letting you change the subject or take the easy way out. "I know we’re both Italian, but come on."

You allowed a laugh, but were quick to move on, not lingering on Matteo’s implication very long.

The exchange had made the highlight reels, fans eating up both Matteo’s teasing and your barely-there reaction, and the way you had to abruptly ask the next question to avoid it from dragging on too long.

But the teasing, the compilations, the endless speculation—it was all fun, all harmless. Because as far as anyone knew, it was just a fan theory. Just playful banter and an easy chemistry that everyone got to bear witness to. And, if yours and Jannik’s response to all the teasing was anything to go by, it really was just baseless guess work—after all, neither of you had ever given concrete proof on any of it.

But most continued to entertain it anyways, because if it was true: it was only a matter of time before it came out…

---

The long-awaited proof came after an especially grueling match of Jannik’s.

The game had been absolutely brutal.

It was one of those that felt less like a tennis match and more like a battle of sheer will. Four and a half hours in the sweltering heat, the air thick and unmoving, turning every rally into a war of attrition. Jannik had fought through service games that stretched over ten minutes, through back-to-back tie-breaks where every point had felt like a match in itself. He had been pushed to his limits, his legs leaden, his body aching from the relentless pace. Every time it seemed like he had finally broken free, his opponent clawed back, forcing another hold, another deuce, another impossibly long rally.

By the final set, even his renowned movements had lost their usual crispness, his footwork a fraction slower, his serves just a little less sharp. But he refused to let up.

So when he finally won—when the last point ended and his opponent’s shot sailed long—it took him a second to process it. It took a second for everyone watching, too.

He barely lifted his arms in victory, letting his head drop as he panted. The stadium erupted around him, the crowd on their feet, but it seemed that all he could think about was how his entire body felt like it had been wrung out. He made his way to the net, movements heavy but thoughtful in his handshake and hug as he offered a good game to the opponent that matched and elevated his level throughout the game. Then trudging toward his bench with a nod to the umpire, shoulders still rising and falling with every exhausted breath.

The play had tested endurance more than anything—over four hours under the blazing afternoon sun, and no easy points. He held his face into his towel for a long moment, and then flicked water from his bottle over his face and on the back of his neck, his usual expression one of raw exhaustion.

He barely had enough left in him to toss a fist into the air when he made his way back onto the court, though the crowd had yet to cease their cheering. And then he all but stumbled his way over to you.

You. Waiting just off the service line, a steady presence in the chaos, a welcome face after the intense match.

And the familiarity of it, of you, cut through his exhaustion. Your expression was still pleasant, but it was different from the smile you usually had during interviews. There was something tight under your professional exterior—concern, maybe subtle, but unmistakable once anyone saw it. It was in the way your eyes flickered over him, assessing, before you even said a word.

And still, as he approached, his gaze softened—as it always did when his eyes landed on you. But his face was flushed from the heat, sweat dampening the curls at the nape of his neck, so as he stepped closer, you instinctively reached up, fingertips brushing against his arm before you pulled back.

Maybe people would pick up the small gesture later, but for now the stadium was still roaring, the energy crackling through the stands. You hadn’t moved to begin the interview yet, your crew still assembling beside you.

He gave you the slightest of nods, eyelids low and heavy. You held his eyes, raising a single brow, before giving the go-ahead to the production assistant. And then the mic was live, and you fell into interview mode.

Or you tried to, as best as you could.

"Jannik—what can I even say? That was a battle out there," you started. "I know you love tennis, but a part of you has to hate it at least a little right now. I mean, congratulations for sure, but are you regretting any life decisions?"

His head was down for most of your intro, chin tucked to his chest as he rolled out his ankles and looked at you through the brim of his cap. He smiled, despite himself—he could always count on you to keep the mood high.

“What do you mean? That was the most fun I’ve had in my life.” His voice was a little labored, but he managed to answer lightly.

“The scary part is, I believe you.” The crowd laughed. “I think we can all agree, watching that match was the most fun any tennis fan could have. Honestly.”

You had to raise your volume towards the end of your praise as the audience joined in to cheer in agreement. It really had been an incredible display of the sport.

The stands then erupted into a joint song, all chanting his name in unison. You dropped the mic as he stepped back to humbly receive the attention, and he looked up at the people while you looked up at him.

You held the mic back to him after the chants subsided, knowing his next move would be to thank the crowd. “Thank you everyone for supporting. It really is an incredible thing to play such tennis with this amazing crowd—it’s very special. Thank you!”

He waved up at everyone for a moment longer before returning his attention back to you. You were waiting patiently, watching him with a tender smile.

“We should probably be grateful that even such a taxing match could only make you love tennis more.” You restarted, picking back up from your initial question. “I don’t know if the sport could take it if that wasn’t the case.”

“No, I will be honest—” Jannik interjected, and you tilted the mic to him so it could catch his voice properly. “I will be honest. Right now I feel good, tired, but good. But maybe tomorrow, when I wake up, my legs will be sore and this kind of things… and then I might hate tennis—just a little bit. I will still be happy, but…”

“Wow, thank you for the honesty.” You laughed at the confession. “But even then, you say hate but it’s probably just like a ‘minus one’, right?”

“That’s true, 'minus one' on a scale of ten.”

“So where do you usually rank tennis, when you're not terribly sore? On a scale of ten?”

“... At least 11, maybe higher.” He said grinning, proud of the answer.

“So, we’re right back where we started then.” You threw up your hands in fake exasperation. “I’m trying to make you look bad here, at least help me a little.”

He shrugged and continued to smile at you, and you shook your head before moving the interview along. “In two days, hopefully after recovering from any remaining soreness, you’ll face off with De Minaur. He’s been playing really well throughout the tournament, how do you plan to approach that?”

He nodded thoughtfully, as he shifted to stretch his legs. It seemed that his adrenaline had faded again, along with the banter and the peak of the crowd’s celebration. The tension of exhaustion furrowed his eyebrows once more as his smile lessened while he took a moment to deliberate an answer.

“Alex and I are good friends, we practice together often and he’s a great player. I look forward to playing him in the finals. And hopefully, we can make a good match like today.”

You cast a glance at your production assistant, who signaled that you still had half the allotted session for the interview left, before nodding at Jannik’s answer. You decided to use up the bulk of the remaining time yourself, to help take the weight of Jannik a bit, and so you let your next question have a long and wordy lead up.

“You and Alex go way back. You kind of made your breakthrough a little after his, winning the ATP Next Gen tournament against him soon after he broached the top 20. You’ve kind of revolved near each other since then—you practice together often, like you mentioned—and it seems you and him often make big evolutions for your respective careers in and around the same tournaments.” You droned on, stalling an actual ask of any question, and you hoped no one took notice.

His face was strained, though his eyes were still on you—even though you hoped to cover your intent naturally, it seemed Jannik had caught on to your attempt to alleviate the need for him to use any further brain power. You could tell he’d switched off from listening because of it, now focusing on his body. You continued to string together facts in the background, trying to catalog Jannik’s state as you did.

Within the minute and half you spoke, it seemed he couldn’t help fidget in all his fatigue. He flexed his right wrist once. And lifted one heel, and then the other. Rolling his shoulders back four times and then forward three times. He hit the heel of his palm against his quads, once, then once more. And his fingers twitched, rubbing absently at the sorest spots—digging into the tender muscle of his forearm, kneading at the base of his neck.

Every shift in position came with the faintest grimace, something only you could catch in your proximity to him. In all your closeness to him.

Then Jannik parted his mouth every so slightly, a quiet exhale leaving him as he did. He shifted his jaw side to side in a slow, stiff motion, testing the tension held there before it clicked with a faint pop. And, words on autopilot, you forgot yourself.

You kept speaking, though the spiel was probably well past erring on excessive, but you unconsciously reached a hand up. Your palm settled on the side of his face, index on the bone behind his ear, thumb on hinge of his jaw. Your fingers nestled under the hair at the nape of his neck as you gently rubbed your thumb back and forth.

It was a simple, almost thoughtless action. An instinct, an undeniably intimate one. And then, before you could move to pull away, he caught your hand in his.

He lifted it ever so slightly, so your palm rested on his cheek, and he pressed his own hand into yours as he leaned his face into your touch.

The gesture was effortless, organic, like he had done it a hundred times before. Like he needed it then.

He sighed and his eyes flickered closed. His thumb brushed against the back of your hand, and he didn’t let go immediately. And when he did open his eyes, his expression softened just slightly as he glanced at you, as if all his strain melted away with your warmth.

The whole display happened within just a handful of seconds, but it was like the stadium fell still. And it might have just been the moment between you, but as you slipped your hand back to your side from underneath his, it really did feel like the entirety of the crowd was holding their breath.

You had trailed off somewhere in your monologue, and you couldn’t be sure of where, but you didn’t dare risk a look at the camera or towards your crew. The audience came alive again, murmurs rippling through the stands.

Jannik ran a hand over his face, taking only a beat to reset and set his attention back to the interview, looking as collected as ever. You tried to follow suit and compose yourself, finally asking the last question. "So, how do you plan to go into the match with Alex?"

You resisted smacking your hand to your face as soon as you said it. That might as well have been the exact question you’d asked earlier—it basically was—and it was far from the natural recovery you’d wanted. But Jannik, to his credit, took the redundant ask in stride and mixed up his response from his last one.

“Alex has kind of this defensive playing style that matches well with mine, and, of course, he’s fast and has the ability to return every ball. I’ve seen him grow and develop into an even better player in the past few years… so, it will be a very tough match—but, we’ll see.”

“Yes, we will!” You tried not to slump in relief when you caught the times-up signal in your periphery, and faked the best, most enthusiastic camera voice you could muster. “Thank you, Jannik, and good luck!”

You avoided his eyes, and the lens of the camera, and he smirked a little at that as he waved once more to the crowd before walking back to his bag. You allowed a single glance back when he moved to the tunnel after signing some autographs, and he was already looking towards you. His smile was small and teasing, and you could see the mirth in his eyes even from your distance. You shook your head at his expression, just enough for him to see—he should’ve been more scared.

Because you both were in for it. It was all out now.

---

The internet lost its mind.

For a year—two, even—everyone had speculated. The entirety of the tennis world.

They analyzed every glance, every subtle moment, every clipped interaction, convinced there was something there. And now? There was no denying it.

What you both pulled in that last interview couldn’t be faked, it couldn’t be rationalized. This wasn’t playful banter or a viral compilation of smirks and long-held eye contact. This was something neither of you could explain away. It was intrinsic. Reflexive intimacy, something was too practiced, too familiar.

It was proof.

Slow-motion replays were everywhere even before you ended the interview. The reception flooded all social media platforms.

Okay that wasn’t just chemistry. That was straight-up muscle memory. This whole time??? This WHOLE time?? I KNEW IT. I KNEW IT. Guys we called it

Tennis journalists tried to stay professional, but even the most formal accounts posted some variation of "well, this is interesting… "

And the fan posts were endless. Someone strung together a complete timeline of your relationship, tracing back all the way to when you started your role. Another person edited a fake wedding invite.

And the players—the players…

When Jannik walked into the gym to cool down, it was like stepping into an ambush. All eyes were on him.

Everyone behind the scenes has stopped in their tracks to watch the legendary game of his that had just gone down. And so, everyone behind the scenes also witnessed your accidental reveal. The confirmation.

Every congratulations he received was immediately followed up with some sort of reference to it.

“Great game,” Alex De Minuar said. “...And, mate… the whole time?

"That game was insane, man…" Ben Shelton patted Jannik on the back as he passed, turning as he added. "And I guess now's as good a time as any… to hard launch I mean."

“No words, no words.” Carlos Alcaraz, from where he was stretching, shook his head up at Jannik in disbelief. “For that match, and for the reveal.”

Jannik chuckled a little with Carlos, shaking his head to himself as he moved deeper into the facility.

“I knew it so—” Coco just watched from a distance, her and Madi Keys stopping mid conversation when Jannik entered. "Like literally the whole time, I believed it."

"Niente da dire?" Nothing to say? Matteo drawled, clapping Jannik on the back with a smirk. "Neanche una spiegazioncine?" Not even a little explanation?

And, around then, you’d made your way back to the commentary box, bracing yourself. You heard John McEnroe's voice from behind the door before you even entered. You couldn't help but cringe at the volume.

“Where is she?” The sound of a headset being placed down, with significant force. Laughter came from around him. “Where is she at?”

“Here we go.” You whispered to yourself.

---

Okay so, tell me, like for real, were you surprised? Did you know they were together all along, or did I get you? Because, I meant to get you, I did. Tell me where you realized, please please. It's okay if it wasn't a surpise, dw

Okay anyways, this was so fun. Too fun. Got carried away, in a lot of places, but I hope it's a fun read. Did not in fact edit, don't care, too long, didn't read—jk I'll go back in at some point soon. But if you're one of the lucky early few, read with one eye closed, and with the other mostly squinted.

Got almost all my favs in here, not nearly enough of the ladies, but my near-goat Ms. Coco has a cameo and what else really matters. What else really matters? And maybe, while reading, you were wondering: when is Jannik coming in? Does he ever? Well, I was wondering the same, okay...

K , kisses xx

43 notes · View notes

xuchiya · 14 hours ago

Text

Young Gen Love || jeong yunho || 800 follower special

| genre: fluff. slice of life. slow-burn-ish | mentions: nothing much. just a little anxiety but it is more of yunho being a gentleman.

thank you all so much, my loves! My journey here in this platform has been amazing, met a lot and lots of my loves! 🤍🥹

January 16, 2025

It was my first day on my night classes that my mom told me to apply to since it coordinates with my chosen course in college. I walk in the computer classroom, greeting everyone and the professor, I sat at the back and settle my bag down. Night classes always had a different kind of energy—dimly lit hallways, the hum of fluorescent lights, and the quiet murmur of students trying to absorb the lessons after an already long day.

I scanned my surroundings. Most of my classmates were older—some around my parents’ age, others even older. They were here to learn the basics of computers, eager but sometimes struggling with the difference between software and hardware. I admired their determination, but at the same time, a small disappointment settled in my chest.

There was no one my age. And it would be fun having someone close or older or younger than me would be my classmate, I spun on my chair, turning on my designated computer.

Just as I resigned myself to being the odd one out, the door creaked open. A tall figure walked in, gripping the strap of his backpack. Brunette hair slightly tousled, sharp eyes taking in the room, a quiet but undeniable presence. Our professor gestured for him to introduce himself.

"I'm Jeong Yunho, I'm 24 and ..." he said, voice steady, but there was a hint of nervousness underneath. "I’m here to learn more about computers. I only have basic knowledge, so... please take care of me." He bows his head before moving towards his seat which was just on my right side.

My lips quirked up.

He was a few months younger than me—just a small gap—but enough to make me feel relieved. I wasn’t alone anymore.

For two weeks, we didn’t speak. We barely even acknowledged each other kudos to my stuttering and introverted personality, but slowly, the class dynamics shifted. People became more comfortable, more familiar. I started moving around, observing other groups engagin conversatoins with them and having few shared laughters, taking notes on how they configured the computers, absorbing techniques like a sponge.

One night, I found myself hovering near his table. He was struggling on one of the tasks. Yunho was focused, brows furrowed as he listened to our professor’s explanation, his hands hovering uncertainly over the keyboard. He was clearly still learning, still figuring things out, but he was determined.

He always came to face the same error for the past 5 minutes until he sighs, "I have to redo this again ..." I chuckle, pulling a chair beside him, "You just miss one step that's why you were facing this error ... let me help."

He glances at me before nodding. He followed my instructions, even explaining to him why it needs to apply or how it functions when applied. He nods as we finish the task, he sighs in relief, turning to me.

"You're good." Yunho compliments. I chuckle, waving off his compliment but that didn't stop my cheeks from burning.

"No I'm not. I barely started my task." He looks at my open computer then back to me. A playful look on his eyebrows, "Or you're just lying to me right now and finished hours ago."

I chuckle shaking my head, "Believe me, I haven't even open File explorer."

Somehow, without realizing it, we started spending more time together—small moments, like exchanging notes, grabbing snacks during breaks, or sharing casual stories. Weeks passed, turning into months, and something about him pulled me in.

And that's where I started to notice things.

February 13, 2025

The night air was crisp, the streetlights casting a soft yellow glow along the sidewalk. The usual post-class chatter had faded as our classmates rushed off to catch their trains, leaving just the two of us walking down the main road toward my bus stop.

The city was still alive—cars rolling past with their headlights cutting through the night, distant honks echoing, and the occasional murmur of people walking ahead. I pulled my jacket tighter around me, my bag slung over one shoulder, as Yunho walked in step beside me, his hands casually tucked into his pockets.

I didn't think much of it at first, but as we walked, I noticed the way he moved—subtle, instinctive. When I unconsciously veered too close to the curb, he shifted, placing himself between me and the street without a word. I glanced up at him, but his face remained neutral, as if he hadn’t even realized he was doing it.

Curious, I tested it. I deliberately took a step closer to the road, pretending to adjust my bag strap.

Without missing a beat, he adjusted too, his shoulder brushing mine as he once again positioned himself between me and the passing cars.

I bit back a smile. But then I tried to walk in front of him, doing a little skip as I near to the road to see if he’d follow.

And he did.

A hand was suddenly were on my shoulder and pushes me gently back on the sidewalk and position himself beside me. A warmth spread through my chest. It wasn’t exaggerated. It wasn’t done for attention. He simply moved with me, like an unspoken promise to keep me safe.

"You know the rule" I finally murmured, breaking the comfortable silence. He turned his head slightly, looking down at me with mild confusion. "What rule?"

"The sidewalk rule." I lifted a brow, tilting my head toward him. For a moment, he didn’t respond, just kept walking. Then, he let out a small chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck, his ears turning red. "It’s just a habit, I guess."

"A habit?"

"Yeah." His voice was softer now. "I was raised to always walk on the side closest to the street when I’m with someone I—" He paused, clearing his throat, looking away. "—when I’m with someone important."

My breath hitched.

I turned my head away, hoping the cool air would calm the sudden rush of warmth creeping up my neck. My heart pounded so loudly I was certain he could hear it.

We walked in silence for a few more steps until the bus stop came into view. Yunho slowed his pace beside me, as if reluctant to reach it too soon.

And I realized, at that moment, I didn’t want the walk to end either.

February 21, 2025

It was late, the night air cool as our group made their way down the sidewalk towards the train station. Streetlights flickered overhead, their warm glow casting long shadows along the pavement. Conversations were scattered—some laughing, some yawning, everyone eager to get home after another long class.

As we approached my usual bus stop, the others barely slowed, waving quick goodbyes as they hurried off to catch their trains. I watched them disappear down the road, my breath fogging slightly in the chilly air.

All except one.

"You guys go ahead," Yunho’s voice came from beside me. His hands were stuffed into his jacket pockets, his posture relaxed, yet there was an undeniable certainty in his tone. "I'll wait for her til' the bus comes."

I froze.

My heart stuttered so hard I thought for sure he'd hear it. I turned slightly, expecting some kind of teasing grin, but there was none. Just him, standing there as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The others didn’t question it. They just nodded and waved, disappearing into the night. And suddenly, it was just the two of us.

The bus stop felt quieter than usual, the occasional car humming past as we stood beneath the soft glow of the streetlight. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, trying to ignore the way my pulse quickened. "You really didn’t have to wait, you know," I murmured, glancing up at him.

He shrugged. "It’s fine." Then, a small smirk tugged at his lips. "Can’t have you standing out here all alone, can I?"

I swallowed, warmth creeping up my neck.

For the next few minutes, we talked—about class, about the ridiculous things our professor said that night, about how our classmates were still struggling with the configurations. His voice was smooth, casual, as if this was just another normal moment. But for me?

I was barely keeping it together.

The way he stood close enough that our arms almost brushed. The way his laughter rumbled softly in the quiet night. The way he looked down at me whenever I spoke, his eyes warm and focused, like nothing else existed in that moment but me.

Then, headlights appeared in the distance. My bus.

I felt a strange disappointment settle in my chest. As the bus slowed to a stop, I turned to him, unsure of what to say. "Thanks for waiting with me," I said, my voice softer than intended.

Yunho just smiled, tilting his head slightly. "Of course."

I took a step toward the open doors, but before I could climb in, I felt a gentle tug on my wrist.

I turned, wide-eyed. Yunho’s fingers curled lightly around mine, his grip warm even in the cold air, "Get home safe ... I-" he said, his voice quieter now, more intentional yet cutting himself off which made me curious.

And then, just like that, he let go, stepping back with an easy smile, as if he hadn’t just tilted my entire world.

I somehow managed to get on the bus, my legs feeling suspiciously weak. As the doors closed and the vehicle pulled away, I turned toward the window, watching as he stood there, hands back in his pockets, watching me leave.

He didn’t move until I was completely out of sight.

I barely survived that night without combusting.

February 26, 2025

I was late.

Again.

The clock glared at me with red, unrelenting numbers as I rushed out of my internship office, my heart pounding with a mix of exhaustion and urgency. The overtime had stretched longer than expected, eating into my class hours, and by the time I finally made it to the campus, an entire hour had slipped through my fingers.

I hated this. Hated the way I stumbled into the classroom, breathless, trying to make myself as invisible as possible while my professor continued the discussion without sparing me a glance. But I knew he noticed. His sharp, fleeting glance from the corner of his eye said enough.

I barely managed to slide into a chair before the weight of my lateness pressed into my chest like a cinderblock. The screen in front of me was filled with configuration steps and code I had no context for. My classmates were already deep into the task, their fingers flying over keyboards with an ease that only familiarity could bring.

I was lost.

The frustration built in my throat, burning hot and bitter. My fingers hovered uselessly over my touchpad as my eyes flickered between the screen and my classmates' progress. I tried to piece together what I had missed, but the more I stared, the more my thoughts tangled into a suffocating mess.

Then, a voice.

Low, familiar—steady.

"You okay?"

I blinked, snapping out of my panic just enough to register the presence beside me.

Yunho.

When had he moved closer? He had been at one of our classmate's table earlier helping on the task, but now he was right beside me, his presence a quiet force against my frazzled nerves. His scent—rich, chocolate-sweet cologne—wrapped around me, grounding and distracting all at once.

I turned my head slightly, and that’s when I realized just how close he was.

Too close.

He wasn’t even pretending to keep a respectable distance. His shoulder nearly brushed mine, his face mere inches away. The dim glow of the computer monitor cast soft shadows across his features, making the sharp angles of his jawline look impossibly gentle.

I nodded, moving to one of our friend's computer as he navigates the task, I watch the task unfolding, hoping I could catch up but with Yunho's presence really close to me was a challenge I don't think I'll success.

A small smile tugged at his lips, almost amused. "Focus," he murmured, voice dipping lower. "I need you to teach me."

Teach him?

The irony almost made me laugh. I was the one barely keeping my head above water, the one scrambling to understand what I had missed, and yet here he was—acting like I had everything under control.

But there was something in his tone. Something reassuring, something that pulled me away from my spiraling frustration and anchored me to the moment.

To him.

I swallowed, forcing myself to nod. "Right. Okay."

I tried to focus, I really did.

But every time he leaned in to ask our friend what he did, every time his voice brushed against my ear, my brain short-circuited. The deep timbre of his words sent shivers down my spine, making it nearly impossible to concentrate.

At one point, I had been leaning forward too long, my back protesting from the awkward position. I shifted, stretching slightly as I took a small step back—only for my heel to catch against something solid.

A box.

A stupid box filled with unused wires.

I barely had time to gasp before I lost my balance, the world tilting as I braced for impact. But I never hit the ground.

Warm hands caught me. One gripping my waist, firm and steady. The other securing my forearm, his fingers wrapping around my wrist like a lifeline.

My breath hitched.

For a moment, neither of us moved. The air between us was thick, electric, charged with something unspoken. My heart pounded wildly against my ribs as I slowly lifted my gaze, and that’s when I realized—he was staring at me.

Really staring.

His expression had shifted from his usual playful ease to something deeper, something unreadable. His dark eyes searched mine, his grip on me unwavering.

"You okay?" His voice had softened, laced with concern.

I could barely breathe. My entire body was frozen, caught in the intensity of his gaze, in the warmth of his hands still steadying me.

I nodded—too quickly. "Y-Yeah. I just—I should—" I cleared my throat, forcing my voice to sound normal. "I should get back to my seat."

His hands lingered for half a second longer before he finally let go, and I nearly stumbled again—not because of the wires this time, but because my knees felt ridiculously weak.

I didn’t dare look at him as I hurried back to my seat, my heart still hammering, my skin burning where his hands had been.

But minutes later, a chair scraped against the floor, and before I knew it, he was sitting behind me. I inhaled sharply, trying to calm my racing pulse, "Go to the partition first," Yunho instructed, his voice steady, as if nothing had just happened. "You need a drive to place your folder."

I nodded, gripping the mouse, determined to focus. But my fingers didn’t move the pointer to the right place.

He noticed, "There," he pointed, his patience unwavering.

I tried again. Fumbled. And then—his hand covered mine. Large. Warm. Steady. Guiding the mouse effortlessly, his fingers brushed against mine, sending a sharp jolt of electricity up my spine.

My breath hitched. My whole body stiffened. The world outside this moment ceased to exist. The quiet murmurs of our classmates, the soft hum of the computers, the faint tapping of keyboards—it all faded into nothingness.

All I could focus on was him.

His warmth against my skin.

The way his fingers curled slightly over mine, his grip neither forceful nor hesitant, just there—as if this wasn’t something he had to think about, as if guiding my hand was the most natural thing in the world.

Seconds stretched endlessly. I forgot how to breathe, forgot how to think, forgot how to function.

He didn’t move.

Neither did I.

The space between us shrank, charged with something unspoken, something that made the air feel heavier. I could feel his breath ghosting near my temple, slow and steady, in complete contrast to the erratic drumming of my own heartbeat.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry.

I should pull away. I should.

But I didn’t. Because for all the chaos in my head, for all the ways my body betrayed me with its nervous tremors, there was one undeniable truth—

I liked this.

I like him.

March 14, 2025

Guilt settled heavily on my chest as I walked toward campus, my steps slower than usual.

I had clocked out overtime again, staying later than planned at my internship. It was becoming a habit, one that weighed on me more than I cared to admit. The familiar exhaustion clung to my body, but it was nothing compared to the quiet guilt pressing down on me.

By the time I arrived at my night class, the discussion had already been going on for an hour. I barely took a breath before sliding the door open.

The creak of the door was louder than I intended, loud enough to make heads turn. The room fell into momentary silence, the professor pausing mid-sentence.

I bowed my head slightly. "Sorry I’m late."

Keeping my voice steady, I gently closed the door behind me. My friends greeted me with small smiles as I passed, but I barely acknowledged them. My mind was still occupied—by my professor’s earlier warning, by the weight of my internship hours, by the nagging feeling that I was always two steps behind.

I settled into my seat, adjusting my chair as I exhaled quietly. It was only then that I felt it. I didn’t have to look to know whose they were.

Even as I focused on my computer, booting it up, I could feel his gaze lingering on me—not intrusive, just there. A quiet presence, unwavering, as if he had been waiting.

The soft glow of my friend’s screen pulled my attention. They were exchanging files, peer-to-peer, laughing as they successfully transferred them. The energy in the room felt light, carefree—so different from the tightness in my chest.

I sighed, rubbing at my temple before shifting my gaze to the board. The task was written clearly, the instructions laid out in neat bullet points. I had to catch up. Again.

"You'll catch up quickly." His voice cut through my thoughts just as a familiar scent—warm, chocolate-sweet cologne—wrapped around me.

My body instantly relaxed.

I leaned back slightly, eyes flickering to my side, where Yunho sat comfortably beside me. He wasn’t even looking at his own screen—just watching me with a quiet sort of amusement.

I scoffed lightly, turning back to my task. "Barely…"

He noticed something in my tone, something unspoken. His breath came out in a quiet sigh. "You don’t have to worry about being late when you can catch up this fast."

I turned to him, frowning slightly. "If only I wasn’t being called out…"

Before he could respond, one of our classmates announced that we could take a break. I grabbed my snacks and drink, slipping out of the room before the air inside became too suffocating.

The campus at night was quiet, peaceful.

Most of the buildings were dark, the hallways emptied out as students took their breaks in small groups. I walked up a few steps, my feet leading me instinctively to the open soccer field. It wasn’t particularly grand—just an expanse of grass surrounded by empty bleachers—but the sky above it made all the difference.

Stars.

They scattered across the vast darkness, twinkling softly, stretching endlessly beyond my reach. The sight alone eased some of the tightness in my chest, the weight of the day slowly lifting.

I sat on the benches, nibbling on a cookie from my container, my gaze locked onto the sky. The quiet, the solitude—it was exactly what I needed.

Until I felt presence sat beside me, his usual cologne had been my cravings ever since and I didn’t need to look to know who it was. He didn’t say anything at first, simply making himself comfortable next to me.

"Stars make you calm."

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. A fact. A truth only he seemed to know.

I glanced at him, but he was already looking at the sky, his features relaxed in the dim glow of the field lights. Something about the way he sat beside me—so effortlessly, as if he belonged there—made my chest ache in a way I couldn’t quite name.

Without thinking, I tilted my cookie container toward him in silent offering. He glanced down, a small smile playing on his lips before he shook his head. "I’m good."

I shrugged, taking another bite, savoring the sweetness on my tongue as the night stretched around us. The air was cool, tinged with the distant scent of damp grass, and the silence between us was easy—comfortable in a way that made my heart ache.

Then I noticed an arm—his arm—outstretched just behind me.

Not quite touching. Not quite reaching. Just there.

I glanced down, my breath catching slightly when I saw his hand resting flat on the seat, fingers lightly curled against the worn wood, mere inches from where I sat. Close enough that if I leaned back even slightly, I would feel the warmth of him.

For a moment, my mind raced. Had he meant to do that? Or was it just a natural movement? But then I realized—this bench had no backrest. And his arm wasn’t just there.

It was there for me.

A quiet, unspoken shield. A presence that kept me from leaning too far back, from losing balance on the edge of the bench. A silent protection. My throat tightened, a warmth blooming in my chest that had nothing to do with the night air.

I swallowed hard, staring back up at the stars as if I hadn’t noticed. But I had. And from the way Yunho sat, his posture relaxed yet deliberate, I knew he had too.

Class had ended, but I wasn’t free just yet. I lingered in the quiet classroom, shifting my weight from foot to foot as my professor gave me a patient but pointed look.

"I know your internship keeps you busy," he said, his voice gentle yet firm. "But you’re missing too much of the discussion. Try to balance it better, alright?"

Guilt pricked at my chest. I nodded, murmuring an apology, though my mind was already running through the hours I had spent at my internship today. The exhaustion from overtime clung to me like a second skin, pressing into my shoulders, but I couldn’t let it show.

As I stepped out of the classroom, the hallway stretched before me, eerily empty. The faint hum of a vending machine buzzed from the corner, the overhead fluorescent lights flickering slightly, casting soft shadows on the polished tiles.

A heavy sigh escaped my lips. I adjusted the strap of my bag and headed for the exit. A shadow shifted near the corner of the hallway, just beyond the reach of the dim light. My breath hitched, my pulse jumping in surprise.

"Ah!—" I barely had time to react before a familiar chuckle cut through the silence.

"Did I scare you?" He stepped forward, emerging from the dim glow like a scene straight out of a dream. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his dark jacket, the fabric slightly wrinkled from the way he had been leaning against the wall. His hair was tousled, the strands catching the light in a way that made my heart stutter.

My shoulders relaxed, but my pulse refused to slow down. "Argh! Yunho!" He chuckles as we walk down the hallway, I turn to him frowning, "What are you doing here? I thought you left with the others."

He shrugged, falling into step beside me as we exited the building. "I figured you’d be held back."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "You figured?" He turned his head slightly, giving me a look that made my stomach flip. "You were late today, figured Sir Coups will speak to you. Again."

Heat crept up my neck. I tried to look indifferent, but the knowing glint in his eyes told me he had already seen through me. Before I could defend myself, he nudged my arm lightly.

I blinked up at him. "What?"

"Smile… You look pretty." he murmured, his voice carried something unspoken. I shake my head but my lips still curled up into a small smile.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it was charged—thick with something lingering between us, something neither of us had yet put into words. The air felt heavier, warmer, despite the cool night breeze brushing against my skin.

We reached the front gate, and I instinctively slowed my steps, scanning the road for any sign of my bus. But there was nothing. No buses, no jeepneys, no taxis—just the dimly lit street stretching into the distance, eerily quiet. I was hoping a bus or anything will pass by so I could climb in as soon as possible.

But looks like fate has different plans.

With a resigned sigh, I started walking toward the next stop, and as expected, Yunho followed without hesitation.

The streetlights cast long shadows as we walked, the soft glow bouncing off the pavement. The only sounds were the distant hum of traffic and the rhythmic steps of our shoes against the sidewalk.

I hesitated before speaking. "Won’t your parents worry about you getting home this late?" He exhaled a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "No, they don’t mind… as long as they know I get you home safely."

I stopped mid-step.

For a moment, everything around me faded—the city lights, the distant sounds of passing cars, even the cool breeze nipping at my skin. My heart thudded violently in my chest, so loud I was sure he could hear it.

My smartwatch vibrated against my wrist. Abnormal pulse detected.

Of course. Of course, it did. Not with him for always making my heart abnormally fast!

I swallowed thickly, my face burning. Get me home safely? Had he really just said that? So casually, as if it was the most natural thing in the world? Before I could fully recover, Yunho turned slightly, his expression amused. "You okay? You look a little—"

"I’m fine!" I blurted out, shoving his arm lightly as I marched ahead, desperate to escape the warmth blooming across my face. He let out a soft laugh, the sound deep and rich, but he didn’t push me further. Instead, he fell back into step beside me, hands still tucked in his pockets.

A few more minutes passed before my bus finally appeared in the distance, its headlights cutting through the dim glow of the streetlamps. I exhaled in relief, stepping forward as it slowed to a stop.

But just as I reached for the handrails, something warm wrapped around my wrist.

I turned—and everything stopped.

Yunho’s fingers curled gently around mine, his grip neither loose nor forceful. Just enough to hold me there. Just enough to make my breath hitch.

The warmth of his touch seeped into my skin, spreading like wildfire through my veins. I looked up, wide-eyed, and he only smiled—a soft, knowing smile that made my stomach twist in the most unbearable way.

"Get home safe," he murmured, his voice quieter now, deeper, as if he were speaking directly into my soul. And there was no longer hesitation in his eyes. "I still need to take you out on a date."

My brain short-circuited.

A date?

Before I could even process it, before I could react, before I could breathe—

He lifted my hand and pressed a soft, feather-light kiss against the back of it.

The world blurred.

The sounds of the city dulled into silence.

Even my own heartbeat seemed to pause, as if it couldn’t decide whether to stop completely or speed up until it burst. His lips barely lingered for a second, but the warmth of his touch burned into my skin, leaving behind something I knew I’d never forget.

The bus doors hissed open behind me, but my feet refused to move. I stared at him, my mind racing, my heart a mess of erratic beats.

Yunho pulled away, his eyes never leaving mine. His fingers slowly slipped from my wrist, the absence of his touch leaving a void I wasn’t ready to acknowledge.

The driver cleared his throat, snapping me out of my trance. Dazed, I stepped onto the bus, my legs trembling beneath me.

The doors slid shut. The bus rolled forward.

Through the glass window, I saw him—standing on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, watching with a smile on his lips until I was gone. A breath I hadn’t realized I was holding escaped my lips.

The bus driver chuckled, shaking his head as he glanced at me through the rearview mirror, "Young love," he mused, his voice tinged with amusement.

I swallowed, my fingers grazing the spot where Yunho’s lips had touched. A slow, giddy smile spread across my face.

#ateez #ateez imagines #ateez x reader #ateez scenarios #ateez fanfic #ateez fluff #ateez atiny #ateez yunho x reader #ateez yunho #yunho ateez #ateez jeong yunho #yunho fluff #yunho x reader #jeong yunho x reader #jeong yunho #atz #jeong yunho fanfic

41 notes · View notes

beforetimes · 3 days ago

Note

Hello! I was catching up on your Shizun Luo Binghe/demon disciple Shen Yuan and I had a question about the second post.

How did Jin Lan City plague occur without svsss Shen Yuan saving Zhuzhi-lang while retrieving the mushroom seeds?

Shen Yuan was in the abyss during that time and wouldn’t have been there. If he’d gone before while he was still a disciple, Jin Lan City would have happened sooner. So did Shen Yuan just speed run the abyss with his meta knowledge faster then svsss Luo Binghe?

Or is there some other factor that caused Luo Binghe to somehow save Zhuzhi-lang while Shen Yuan was in the abyss?

Because Jin Lan City plague wouldn’t have happened if Zhuzhi-lang hadn’t been trying to pay Shen Qingqiu “back” (in his warped sense of repayment) for saving his life so he could hide him from humanity and require him away in the demon realm. That’s why it caught Shen Qingqiu off guard in canon.

So if Luo Binghe saved Zhuzhi-lang somehow (maybe he was out with Liu Qingge who was trying to distract his friend from his grief and himself from his own and ran into Zhuzhi-lang and saved him because all he could see when he saw a demon was the expression on Shen Yuan’s face as he pleaded before he died), it would make sense that Zhuzhi-lang to fixate on Luo Binghe (a human in this) and still need to go through the attempt to separate someone from the human realm.

Obviously, this would play out differently than Shen Qingqiu’s version. Luo Binghe wouldn’t be going on trial at Huan Hua probably (unless HHPM still had a thing for LBH’s mom and was trying to creepily come up with a reason to lock him up in HHP for creepy reasons??) and I can’t think of a reason Luo Binghe would have been after the mushroom to have gotten it for Zhuzhi-lang— AND ACTUALLY I HAVE A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT TANGENTIALLY RELATED QUESTION!!

Okay so if Luo Binghe is 100% human does that mean he’s not the son of Tianlang-Jun in this. Or is Tianlang-Jun human in this?? And where would that place Zhuzhi-lang??

Either Zhuzhi lang is a human and then we have a hole to fill of why sowers went to Jin Lan City. Or he’s a demon and we have a different hole to fill of who he’s obsessively devoted to and trying to save. Would there even be anyone to save?? If Tianlang-Jun is human, who was sealed under Bailu Mountain?? Was anyone sealed??

…okay I’ll stop spiraling.. I could spiral on this for hours but this is already long and I need to go to sleep 😅

going to be so honest with you because this blog is a place where we don't lie in hindsight but like. i saw the prompt in my inbox at around three in the morning and thought wow! that's so fun and angsty! and wrote the blurb out at four in the morning in my notes app while actively drifting in and out of sleep before turning in. so like. i didn't even consider 2% of this when writing that out. lmfao.

but! on that note i loveeee the ideas here so much... especially with zhuzhi lang! the idea of luo binghe learning to empathize with demons in a way he never has before because seeing shen yuan die thinking he was hated traumatizing him so much > > > actually peak. i think in this scenario, because i imagine tianlang-jun is a human and no one is really. sealed under the mountain. since i imagine that shen yuan would be the first humanoid demonic big bad of the cultivation world rather than tianlang-jun. and if luo binghe did help zhuzhi lang it would be trying to help him get his human body back or something along those lines, while luo binghe was looking for the sun and moon dew mushrooms [or whatever they're called] in some half-hearted last ditch event to somehow prove his disciple was alive.

honestly a lot of these could have much more interesting explanations / ways to tackle them i just am not built to figure it out lmfaoooo. i think my issue is that i like character-focused stories so much more than heavily indulging specific plot points. so in my head i'm like it would be so fun to break down this toxic relationship between shen yuan and luo binghe if it was the other way around while all these details about the sowers and zhuzhi lang etc etc etc get lost.

though i ALSO!!! really like the idea that the huan hua palace master was trying to lure luo binghe to the water prison because of his hang ups with his mother. because i feel that makes a tad more sense than the random-ish 'shen qingqiu is a bad person so we should lock him up' i vaguely remember from canon (says girl who hasn't read these books in years. do not quiz me please)

many fun things to think about. thank you for reminding me all these things happened LOL

#svsss #svsss au #scum villain #scum villain au #shen qingqiu #shen yuan #luo binghe #bingqiu #milez asks!#shizun luo binghe #disciple shen yuan #scum villain's self saving system

52 notes · View notes

cozycryptidcorner · 2 days ago

Text

post apocalyptic vampire/reader, pt 1

OLD PATREON STORY I FOUND WHILE DIGGING AROUND!!

“You’re holding her wrong.”

It’s all you can force your closing throat to say, the scent of blood and filth putrid in your nostrils. You can’t breathe, nor do you want to, if that somehow disturbs the creature clutching your infant daughter in its hands.

It looks up, ruby-red eyes narrow, like it cannot believe the fucking gall you have to interrupt such an intimate moment.

“You need to support her head.”

A silent, still moment passes, one where you urge your body not to move, every cell beneath your skin and teeth holding still at attention.

Then, like a prayer answered from god himself, the creature slowly shifts, moving his fingers up until the head of your baby is supported, easing the tension away from her airway and spine. You breathe a sigh of relief, and she sneezes, still asleep, not at all aware of the danger she is cradled in. Her lip puckers as her arms flail, only briefly, as though she could gain any sort of security in this current position.

The creature licks his teeth, all sharp and predatory, eyes downcast as he observes every little contour that your child takes up, from the dark hair upon her head to the swaddled feet that tend to kick away her blankets. One of your bunker neighbors whimpers, suddenly realizing that some of their limbs no longer belong to the rest of their body, but your eyes focus on the movement of this monster’s fingers.

After a period of reflection overstays its welcome, the creature finally says something. “Why did you run?”

You swallow thickly, palms against rusting metal. “Would you have believed me?”

No, the unspoken answer hangs heavy in the air. No, he would have ripped your throat out and drank from your arteries, drowning your unborn child, still so small, in your womb.

“You should have tried-”

“And risk everything?” You’re getting brave, an emotion almost beaten out of you as a teen. “Are you saying you would have waited until she was born to make the judgement?”

No, this monster has a temper. You don’t doubt it would have clutched your neck in its claws, angry tears running down its face, accusing you of crimes you never committed. You needed to run, so you did.

You don’t regret the six months away from the blood-bank camps.

He somehow understands this, so much better than you thought he would, rocking your baby back and forth. HIs baby, too, the monstrous voice in your head reminds your conscious, the miracle child of a living human and corpse.

“Julian,” you whisper, one last-ditch effort to plead your case. “There never was anyone else.”

The creature looks up, almost shocked, like he’s seeing you for the first time. Then, again, down at the little half-living baby in his embrace. You know he must sense something different with her, otherwise, he would have snapped her frail little neck in two the moment he laid hands on her. She’s alive because he can sense it, somehow, through scent or through sight. That’s… your only hope, your only reassurance that he will let you both live.

“Has it received a name, yet?” His voice is gruff, clogged, the most unsure of himself that you’ve heard.

“No.” She’s been out of you and breathing on her own for awhile, now, but you haven’t managed to narrow a name down.

He looks at her again, running his thumbs over her face. Her eyes open, her thickly disproportionate fingers reaching for his face.

“Julian,” you’re pleading now, and you don’t like that, not even for this situation, “the hunting party will be back soon. If they catch you here…”

“I’ll kill them,” he says, so very easily.

“And what of our child?” You prod, keeping your arms crossed around your wrists. “Can you fight a dozen soldiers and keep her safe without practice?”

That causes him to pause and think, brow furrowed, ruby-red eyes looking you up and down as though trying to figure out a threat level. But while his kind might be filled only with lust, anger, and violence, you’ve always found him… remarkably logical, even alongside those vices.

Best yet, he listens when wrong.

“Was there really no one else?” He asks, like he’s nothing more than a human boy, prodding for reassurance. As though he doesn’t have leagues of abominations at his beck and call.

You want to throttle him, but you tamper down the desire. Swallowing thickly, you hold your arms open, trying to appear as vulnerable as possible. “You can sense it, can’t you? This child is barely on the brink of living, like a piece of her calls from hell.”

He pauses for a moment before he stands, tall and dangerous, holding your baby out for you to take. Of course he can tell, why else would he spare her life? Trying not to seem too eager or concerned, you step over the pool of blood that separates you from him, clutching your baby close to your chest. After a moment with his head cocked to his side, he simply walks out of your provided bunker compartment, merely mumbling come, as some sort of order.

“Collect your things,” he says, almost generously. Like you have reason to thank him for granted you the permission necessary to collect your daughter’s clothes and diapers.

The carnage he left in his wake… it sickens you, but you try not to allow your eyes to dwell on a body for too long. This wasn’t the first human sanctuary you’ve sheltered with, nor do you think it will be your last, but you feel awful for the people to fall first to his wrath.

The air is thick with humidity, sharp and cold with a winter that has lasted for years. The sun barely pierces down from a thick haze of volcanic ash, so diluted that the father of your child prances about like his kind is the next to inherit the earth,

Carefully, as snow crunches beneath your boots, you wrap your baby in the scarf around your neck. The forest seems to swallow the shelter as you follow your beast into the forest, with only stripped, bare trees to witness your devotion.

For her.

#monster lovers #vampire the masquerade #vampire x reader #writing

27 notes · View notes

tinkerbellini21 · 3 days ago

Text

A Stranger's Jacket: Part 9

Evan "Buck" Buckley x plus size! reader

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: angst, comfort

Author's notes: I spent my first day of break at work, and I felt bad I didn't get this posted last night!

Masterlist | Taglist

Bobby arrived after giving his statement to the police. He looked absolutely shattered- bloodshot eyes, worry lines etched into his face. Hen had told you that Bobby saw Buck as a son, taking him under his wing. He didn’t say much, occasionally turning to talk to Athena. You hadn’t learned much about her yet— only that she was Bobby’s wife and a police sergeant— but this wasn’t the time nor the place for introductions. She wrapped an arm around his shoulders, rubbing his arm as she leaned her head against him. Like she was the glue holding him together, bending to fit around his slumped over figure.

After Maddie had her meltdown, she was able to hold herself together- that was until she had made the call to her parents. She was not looking forward to it. She knew what their answer was going to be. Chimney had convinced her that they deserved to know that Buck was in the hospital.

You understood her hesitation when she made the call. They weren’t coming. They would call when he was awake. Maddie was silent for a few beats.

Then she let loose, years of hurt and frustration boiling over. And she did not hold back.

You couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Maddie wasn’t having it.

“Do you know how much this will hurt him? His own parents couldn’t even make it to see him. Scratch that, you aren’t even parents! My brother could have died, Phillip and Margaret, and you can’t take the time to come see him?”

She’d spat out their names, words seething with fire. They tried to speak but she cut them off, not wanting to hear anything else leave their lips.

“Don’t even worry about him. His family is here!” Maddie’s voice breaks with a high note..

You glanced up discreetly, no one daring to look directly at her. She paced along the wall, tearing into her parents. You noticed her pulling on the ends of her sleeve with her free hand, an anxious tick you know all too well.

“I’ll deal with his hurt, like always.”

The fabric stretches as she wraps it around her fist, bringing it to her side. Soon after, she started hitting her thigh, tears in her eyes.

It’s silent, not even a muffled response through the phone. All of the white noise from the waiting room is seemingly gone. As if time had halted to a stop.

“I hate you every time his face drops and he—”

She paused as her voice broke with a hiccup. She takes a deep breath and pushes it out, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of hearing her own hurt.

You closed your eyes, that familiar ache settling in your bones. How could someone disregard their own son, much less someone as kind and loyal as Buck? Someone who yearned for his parent’s love and attention.

“He deserves so much more. So you know what Mom and Dad?” A short pause, a breath of courage as she mocks them. “Fuck you.”

She hangs up before they can respond. Chimney doesn’t move. No one speaks. Everyone is on the same page—Maddie needs space.

She pressed her lips to her covered knuckles, turning to look out the window. Her chest rose with a deep breath, exhaling shakily.Her other arm, wrapped around her torso. She was trying to hold herself together.

She tried to make sure that everyone he loved was here. But she couldn’t do that.

She couldn’t do anything but wait.

And her heart was breaking.

It was quiet again after that. You had opened up your phone to catch up on the news. When that got boring, you laid your head back against the wall with your eyes closed. Nurses were talking amongst themselves. You could hear the mechanical lock of a door being opened and then the sound of it shutting with a gentle thud.

Eddie volunteered to go on a food run after his stomach made a loud growl. You were adamant that you weren’t hungry, but he had still gotten you something to eat, that wasn’t a granola bar. You apologized again for your reaction earlier but he laid a hand on your shoulder, looked you in your eyes, and told you not to worry about it. With some gentle coaxing, he had managed to get you to eat a small bag of Cheez-Its.

With each small update that signaled Buck was stable, the waiting room crowd slowly dissipated. At one point, you were counting how many steps it took a person to come or go, the repetitive nature keeping your mind occupied from the negative thought. While some left on calls, others were eager to get out of the hospital, the place that typically meant something bad had happened.

The last update you remember was they were starting to repair the achilles tendon in his leg. That was around 10:45. You were still exhausted from your own trauma the previous week, and staying up this late was already a challenge. But you fought to stay awake. Or at least tried.

The first time you fell asleep, it wasn’t for long. You startled awake with a gasp, covered in cold sweat. You brought your hands to your head, taking even breaths to calm your racing heart. To ease the pounding in your ears.

The nightmare happened again, but with a different twist. This time, Dr. Daniel’s wasn’t on the floor. Buck was. You were so close to getting him into the office, but it was too late. Dead. Both of you.

You could feel eyes on you. Whose? You weren’t sure. But you had an inkling it was Eddie. You take another deep breath. Your ankle starts to shake back and forth anxiously.

“Nightmare?”

“Yeah.”

You take another deep breath, now aware that Eddie is watching you. But it wasn’t uncomfortable. You didn’t feel alone. Nor did you feel pressured to tell him about it.

You dug your fingertips into the corner of your eyes to help slow the headache coming on. It was strange to think that just 24 hours ago, you were in bed with Buck who was fighting your nightmares off.

“I used to get them badly after Afghanistan.” Eddie opens up, drumming his fingers on his thigh. “Therapy helped a lot. I journaled for a bit, and it was surprisingly useful. It gave me things to remember to talk about in therapy. And getting it out of your head, and onto paper—it makes it easier to process.”

You let it sit out there for a moment. Would it be okay to talk about your trauma when he experienced far worse in Afghanistan? He had technically opened the door, but in comparison to you?

Stop it. Stop comparing your trauma to others. You deserve your feelings, too.

The words, a combination from your therapist and Buck, ring in the back of your head. You turn your body to face him, straightening up to present yourself as more open.

“I haven’t had a real bad one until I went back to campus Monday, and saw Buck.”

“Yeah, I heard someone was your dream catcher last night.” Eddie teases, stretching his legs out. You let out a laugh, louder than you’d like to admit.

“He called himself my knight in shining turnout gear.”

That gains the attention of a few others, who join in on the laughing. Even Bobby looks a little amused as he rolls an empty coffee cup in between his hands.

“He’s Prince Charming for sure.” Athena chips in whilst walking back with another cup of coffee for Bobby. “Very endearing, wormed his way into my heart.”

“That was back when Buck stole fire trucks and slep-”

Hen shuts Chimney down fast.

“Nope, not here or now, Chim.”

The second time you fall asleep, you’re gently shaken awake.

You blink your eyes open slowly. The white of the room is still blinding. You would think they’d dim it down for the night. The faint smell of coffee remains in the air. Your neck is stiff. You exhale sleepily, finding the strength to sit up and force your eyes open. Hen is standing above you.

“How long was I out?”

“A few hours.”

“Mmhm, what time is it?”

“A little after four.” She responds, standing above you. “He’s out of surgery.”

You’re wide awake now.

Buck is out. He’s okay.

“For how long?”

“About an hour. They let everyone see him briefly, and we didn’t want to wake you until everyone was done.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know were holding. Tension you were holding in your shoulders slowly starts to melt away.

“Can I see him?”

Hen nods, taking you up to the next floor to see Buck in the ICU. You feel stuck, but instead of unable to move, you want to run down the halls to see him. You don’t have any trouble moving once the elevator reaches the floor. However, the walk down the hall seems longer than it is.

The room is dark, illuminated by the small light above the bed. The beeping of the heart monitor is steady, a light whoosh of oxygen filling the silence.

Maddie leans across the railing, fingers combing through Buck’s hair. He doesn’t stir.

His leg is held by a sling, cushioned by a pillow. Bandages cover his knee down to his ankle, holding him still.

Your breath hitches in your throat. You reach for Hen’s arm to steady yourself without thinking. Holding you up when Buck can’t.

“Oh Evan.” You whisper softly, tilting your head, a sad upturn of your lips settling in.

“He’ll be mostly out of it for the next few hours.” Maddie pauses, tilting her head to briefly look your way. You don’t miss the adoration on her face. “He ordered flowers and was going to bring you coffee and a granola bar for your first day of teaching. He was so proud of his plan.”

You bite your lip, willing yourself not to cry.

God damn it, Buck. You told me you’d be safe.

“I can go,” you offer, feet frozen in place. You bend your elbows, anxiously playing with your fingers. You don’t want to leave.Your mind is screaming at you to stay. But he’s not your family.

“No.” She gives a firm shake of her head. “He’d want you here.”

You don’t know if she’s just being nice. Or if she really wants you here. After today, you hope she does.

“Are you sure?”

You don’t want her to feel pressured to say yes.

“I am.” She motions to the empty seat. “Besides, they think you’re his girlfriend.”

Your heart stutters . Maddie told them you’re his girlfriend?

“Sit down. I’ll walk Hen out, I have to use the restroom anyway.”

You glance up at Hen, who gives a smile. Courage to move. You carefully sit down.

“I’ll be right back.”

As soon as they leave, you reach over to grab his hand, careful not to disturb the IV. His hand is warm, and you carefully wrap your hand around his fingers. .

You lose yourself in your thoughts. Or maybe you’re just groggy, because you actually aren’t thinking. You’re zoned out.

You feel like a muscle has moved in his hand. You look down for a few seconds, seeing nothing. You’re imagining things.

Your eyes drift down to his leg, which is bandaged and being held together with pins. After a whole truck fell ontop of him, you were surprised that they didn’t have to amputate his leg. It’s a miracle they were even able to save his leg.

“Ow.”

Your brows furrow together. Are you hearing things now?

A low, pained groan gets your attention. Buck’s lashes flutter, eyes fighting to stay open. He barely lifts his head, seeing his leg wrapped up. His face drops in devastation.

Then he spots you, his eyes lighting up.

You push yourself up, fingers tightening around his hand as he squeezes back, warm and strong.

“Hey, don’t move, okay? I’ll get a nurse.”

“Wait.”

He’s groggy, his voice soft, slow. You keep a hold of his hand, watching him. You stay quiet. Let him take this all in. The dark room. The beeping of machines. The pain. His blue orbs are glossy, confused. It’d be cute if he wasn’t almost crushed to death by a firetruck.

“I tried.”

“I know.” You let go of his hand. Your hands are shaking, nervous at the idea of jolting him wrong and causing him pain. Your fingers lightly graze the skin of his cheek, and when he

shows no signs of being hurt, you gently lay your palms on his face. You rub your fingers up and down his jawline. He lets his eyes shut. “I heard you asked about me.”

“Mhmm, I did.” Except it comes out as more of a question. It sounds like something he’d do, but he likely doesn’t remember it. You laugh softly, a tear rolling down your cheek. You quickly reach up to wipe it away.

“Kiss me.”

His eyes are open again. With a bite of your lip, your eyes flutter shut. It wouldn’t be right for you to kiss him. Not in this state. He’s still coming out of anesthesia.

“Here.” You lean forward to press a kiss to his forehead. Your lips linger, and he leans into your touch. “Ask me again later, okay?”

“Mmmkay.”

“Rest. Maddie will be back soon. She’s going to be so happy that you’re awake.”

A long pause of silence. You sit back down, hand returning to him. He firmly holds onto your hand, and you rub your thumb soothingly across his palm.

“Y/N.”

“Evan.”

“Thank you.”

You think back to earlier, Maddie pacing the length of the waiting room, doing her best to stay cool until she exploded. Maybe, deep in his mind, he knows that his parents aren’t coming. You swallow hard, leaning forward to stroke his cheek.

“I’ll always be here, Evan.”

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

🔥 taglist: @nickie-amore, @mimisweetz

#reader insert #x reader #911 abc #evan buckley #evan buckley x reader #evan buckley x y/n #evan buckley x you #911 x reader #911 x you #911 show #evan buck buckley x plus size reader #plus size reader #chubby #curvy #a strangers jacket series

36 notes · View notes