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[iamactuallysocute]

SAJA BOYS x HUNTR/X’S ASSISTANT!READER 3

Well, shit happens. You’re not out yet, but you want to be, you want to leave… do you?

cw: mature topics, implied female reader and she/her pronouns used, cursing, the usual

AN: SORRY IF I DIDNT TAG U!! I completely forgot about the 50 ppl/post, so so so sorry if I said I’ll tag and didn’t, or you simply just didn’t fit in. I’m like absolutely so fucking sorry plz forgive me :((

Back then, you were feral in the best way, mean in your own sweet way.

Once, you snapped a plate in half just because Abby took a bite off your sandwich.

“Didn’t know it was yours.” he said innocently, bread still in his mouth.

“It had a FUCKING toothpick flag with my name on it.”

“Ohh.” His eyes widened. “That’s what that was?”

And when he reached to take the other half, you smacked his hand so hard the spoon you were holding broke.

Mystery choked on whatever soul-smoothie he was drinking. Jinu didn’t even look up from his book. Baby said, under his breath, “Ten bucks she bites him.”

And then you did.

You bit him.

You actually bit him on the shoulder.

That happened, yeah. Back when you were new to this whole thing.

Another time, you were cornered. Again. This time by Romance, who’d just “accidentally” caught you trying to sneak a text to Huntrix from the balcony with a signal booster you’d constructed out of a fucking spoon and a piece of the TV.

“You really are clever.” he murmured, head tilting, grinning ear to ear the fucker.

“I really will stab you.” you replied, hand curled so tight around the spoon it left a dent in your palm.

Romance leaned closer, as if the threat had been foreplay.

“BACK OFF, YOU ABSOLUTE MOTHERFUCKING ASS!”

Your voice had echoed. Bounced off the marble. Set Baby laughing from the hallway. Even Mystery flinched, staring at you from across the room.

But the best part?

Abby. That giant musclehead. He squeaked. Squeaked like a squeaky toy and actually leapt into Jinu’s arms, the demon leader catching him effortlessly with an expression like this again. Like Scooby into fucking Shaggy’s.

You stopped shouting.

Stared.

Jinu held Abby bridal-style.

Romance shrugged, one brow raised. “You scared him.”

You didn’t laugh, but god, you wanted to. You just turned and walked off, muttering, “Pussies.”

Another time, you were tied to a chair.

Mystery was crouched in front of you. Studying. Not speaking. That kind of silence that made you sweat even though the room was cold.

“You gonna say something, Chewbacca?” you muttered.

He bared his teeth.

“Oh scary.” you mocked. “Do it. Bite me. See what happens.”

He lunged. Fast. Too fast. Grabbed your arm and sniffed at it, tongue flicking the skin.

So you bit him first.

His arm. Hard.

Mystery yanked back, blinking at you like damn. You looked him dead in the eyes(at least where you assumed they were), and said, “Freak.”

He just licked the bite mark.

Abby: “Yeah okay that’s enough. Put her down, Cujo.”

(Guys Abby saw the Cujo movie, god forbid he reads an actual book. Just clarifying :P)

You’d also asked Jinu for two things: conditioner and your favorite body wash. That was it. Easy. Reasonable. Bare minimum.

You walked into the bathroom that day, freshly restocked cabinet, heart fluttering with the idea of a semi-normal shower—

Strawberry Vanilla.

You stared.

Froze.

“STRAWBERRY. VANILLA?!” You shouted so loud it cracked into a squeal. “Who the fuck thinks I smell like that?”

The entire house heard you.

Abby (from the hall): “I thought it smelled nice.”

You stormed out, half-wet, towel wrapped, bottle in hand. You slammed it onto the counter. “Fix. It.”

You’re not that big of an asshole, I promise. If one of the girls or Bobby did this, you’d give them a little kiss on the forehead and say that this was better anyway. But you really did deserve at least this after what the Saja Boys had done to you.

Romance smirked. “It’s very you, though. Soft. Sweet. Lickable.”

You threw it at him. Dead-on hit. Right in the chest.

He didn’t even flinch. “Thank you for the gift.”

At one point, you fought Baby over cereal.

You reached for the last box. So did he.

You stared at each other.

“You don’t even eat, do you?” you snapped.

He raised an eyebrow. Took the box. Walked off.

You tackled him. On instinct. He dragged you across the kitchen. You screamed. Romance howled in laughter from the couch.

Baby was the quietest. And somehow the most infuriating. He never raised his voice, never bothered to engage in your tantrums, but god, did he know how to push your buttons.

Like the time he stole your only pair of clean underwear and used it as a flag on a makeshift fort he made out of couch cushions.

You kicked him right in the jaw. Not even a scream—just BAM.

He laughed. From the floor. Didn’t say a word. Just laid there, one eye squinting at you.

You’d never felt more defeated by a demon in your life.

You did more things too.

Listen. You were trying to explain to them that stealing someone wasn’t ethical. And Jinu had the audacity to look you dead in the eye and say: “Calm down.”

So you picked up the nearest book—some ancient demon text, probably worth thousands—and threw it at his head.

He caught it.

Didn’t flinch.

“Okay.” he said. “Let’s try this again.”

You’d never hated someone so much while also kind of respecting them.

Once Romance walked in on you changing.

He said it was an accident.

Bull. Shit.

You were mid-change, shirt half on, bra off, and he walked in like he was touring a museum.

You screamed. He gasped—visibly excited, not horrified.

Then you launched a slipper so hard it hit him square in the forehead.

“Have you never heard of KNOCKING?!” you screamed.

He blinked. “Oh, sweetie, you didn’t say occupied.”

Cue second slipper.

He caught it.

Blew you a kiss.

You almost passed out from rage.

They liked you like that.

You were this blazing, buzzing lifeform in a house full of centuries-old boredom. You fought them. Screamed at them. Bit them, for fuck’s sake.

But you also laughed. You pouted. You cussed them out and stomped through the house in socks and fury.

They didn’t realize they were falling for you then. Not fully.

But they knew something was happening.

You were making them feel alive again.

Those were the early days.

And they loved you then, too.

Even if they didn’t know that’s what it was.

Now, Romance is standing in the kitchen, leaning half his weight into the counter, and his own damn face staring back at him from the cover of some fan magazine. He’s flipping through it one-handed, sipping from a cup of juice with a neon pink bendy straw.

That straw, has a little heart twist at the top.

He knew you were coming. Heard it. Felt it. Smelled it, which got him a little excited ngl.

You’re halfway to the fridge when you speak. “Is that why you guys always catch me so fast?”

He lifts his eyes from the page. Sees you. Blinks once. Then twice.

That. That right there—that millisecond of stunned silence, where his mouth parts just slightly, and he looks like you hit him with a gentle slap of pure serotonin? That’s the part you clock before anything else. You just asked him a question. Nothing monumental. Not even particularly friendly. But you talked to him, unprompted, and he’s never going to be the same again.

He puts the straw down. Carefully. Like the drink isn’t safe in his hand right now.

“…Sorry, angel. Gonna need you to repeat that.” he says, lazy and smooth, like he didn’t just die and come back.

You open the fridge and don’t look at him when you speak. “Your super senses. Is that why every time I try to escape you guys catch me in like, two minutes?”

There’s a pause. You grab your bottle of water, close the fridge.

When you turn around, he’s smiling. Soft. He shrugs. “A little bit of that. A little bit of instinct. A lot of wanting to chase you.”

“Seriously?”

“Baby, I hear your heartbeat shift the second you think about running. It’s cute.”

“That’s unfair.” you mutter.

He tilts his head. “Awww. You want fair now? In this arrangement?”

You toss the water bottle cap at him. It hits his chest with a pathetic plap. He catches it on the rebound without looking.

He sets the magazine down, finally. His own face smirking back up at him from the page.

“Can I tell you something?” he says, walking closer. “Your voice?”

He’s getting way too close now.

“Mm. You should talk to me more. Or yell. Or whisper. I’m not picky.”

“Romance.” you say, exasperated.

He stops just short of invading your personal space. His body radiates heat, though. His cologne is heavenly. The damn straw is still in his other hand.

“I’d say you’re into me.” he drawls. “But I think you’re still too cute to admit it.”

You stare up at him. Calm. Calm-ish. Mostly tired.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re breathtaking.”

You snort and step around him, heading for the counter. “Do you ever stop?”

He watches you go like it’s a religious experience.

“No.” he replies, still watching. “But if it helps—I do mean it.”

You glance back. That moment of eye contact hits. He actually does look serious, in that boyish way.

It’s infuriating.

It’s charming.

Romance takes a slow sip from his juice again, eyes never leaving you.

He’s a slut for you. Fully, unashamedly. Would bark if you asked. Would crawl if it meant being near you. He doesn’t say that. Not yet. But it’s in every look.

You sit down at the bar stool, finally, arms crossed. “So that heartbeat thing. You can really hear it?”

“Mmhm.”

“So what’s it sound like now?”

“You,” he says softly. “sound flustered.”

You chuck a spoon at him.

He laughs. Loud, open-mouthed, bright. Then slides the straw into his mouth again and winks at you.

And god, you weren’t supposed to be likable.

You were supposed to be a tool, information. Something to be squeezed, drained, used. Never kept.

But somehow… you stayed. And the boys? They stayed with you.

They started to like you.

LIKE like you.

Even worse?

You started to like them back.

Sometimes.

Not always.

(But sometimes.)

Each boy had his own pace, his own rhythm to this falling. And god, they were hopeless about it.

Romance was the first, obviously.

He practically came out the womb with his heart in his dick. But somewhere between groping you during pasta making and nearly passing out at the word thong, something cracked open in him.

He flirted still, endlessly, obscenely, but now, his touches lingered. His compliments turned into confessions masked as jokes. He’d hover too long when you passed, always looking, always watching.

He meant it.

He meant all of it.

Abby, on the other hand, didn’t realize he liked you until he already did. Muscle for brains, sweet in the worst way. The kind of demon who’d pick you up just to hear your little yelp. Who’d lift you off the ground because he liked how your feet dangled.

Once he told Mystery to back off a little—not because he was jealous (though he was), but because you flinched.

That’s weird because he used to laugh at you being scared.

You were small, squirmy, loud, and he liked that about you.

Mystery was different. Quieter. Harder to read.

But he followed you around sometimes. Always right there. Watching. Circling. Once, you turned around and he was just standing behind the couch, staring at you.

When you screamed, he only blinked and said, “Your hair smells good.”

You still don’t know how he snuck into your room that one night and laid on the floor like a dog. Not next to your bed—on the floor. Like your presence alone was enough to settle something beastly in him.

And weirdly? It was.

Baby was a fucking asshole.

No more needed. He laughed at you, made fun of you to the other boys and just didn’t give a fuck in general.

Oh, but he did. He did gaf, but only in his head. In his own little world. You didn’t know. Jinu didn’t know. Mystery didn’t know. Romance definitely had no way of knowing. Even Abby had no idea, though they’re quite close.

Nobody knew of his developing little crush except him and Gwi-Ma.

And Baby wanted to keep it that way.

Jinu, of course, had always been the only one who hadn’t tried to see you naked or use you as a footstool.

But Jinu’s affection was the deepest.

He never called it liking. Never flirted. But he’d watch your face too, not just your ass, khm khm Abby Romance and Baby khm khm. Adjust your blanket if you fell asleep on the couch. His big cat tiger thing followed you like a puppy, choosing your lap over Jinu’s. That said a lot.

Gwi-Ma, always whispering, always pushing around in their heads. Gwi-Ma wanted information. Wanted to twist you into something useful again.

“Softness is a waste.” he’d hiss through their skulls. “She’ll betray you.”

But they didn’t listen.

Not as much anymore.

Especially not when you were sitting on the counter in the morning, rubbing your eyes, hair a mess, and Jinu handed you tea.

Of course, the universe didn’t let you live in peace.

Your misfortunes were daily. Hourly. Unreal.

Once, you tripped on a fucking mug that Mystery had purposefully left sticking out from under the rug just to fuck with you.

He might seem cute because of his lack of talking but he is evil. (Like think about the scene where the girls had to go down on that slide, he smiled too the evil fuck)

You fell, hard, onto Romance’s lap, and instead of helping you up, he sighed and said, “At least buy me dinner first, darling.”

Another time, Baby just straight away fucking tripped you.

Once, Abby told you the front door was unlocked and you booked it, full sprint, only for him to catch you mid-air and giggle about it.

At least the tiger liked you.

You once cried into its fur. You’re pretty sure it purred.

And now, you are in the kitchen, humming softly, bare feet on the tile floor, chopping crisp cucumbers into the glass bowl Jinu had left out for you. Honestly, if there was one person in this goddamn hellhouse who actually listened, it was Jinu. You asked for tomatoes. You asked for spinach. You mentioned craving feta, and he gave you two blocks, one crumbled, one whole.

“Sweetheart.”

You don’t have to turn around, you know Romance’s voice.

“I’m busy.”

“Yeah.” he breathes, eyes laser-locked on your hands slicing up cherry tomatoes. “And dangerous with that knife. Love a woman who could kill me.”

He walks up to you, quiet, but you can feel him.

“What are we making?” he murmurs, leaning too close over your shoulder.

You stab a tomato.

“Salad.”

“Ooooh. Sexy.”

“It’s not for you.”

“What if I told you I’ve been having dreams about you?”

“Wouldn’t care.”

He blinks. “Okay, but they were romantic. Sweet. A picnic under stars. Wine. Kisses. Maybe a little tongue.”

“You licked my cheek last night.”

“Because I missed your mouth.”

You glare.

He clutches the counter like he’s about to faint. “Okay. Alright. I get it. You don’t take me seriously. Nobody does. Poor Romance, too handsome, too charming, too—”

“—horny.”

“—honest!”

You turn back to your salad.

“Romance.”

He blinks. “Yes, my future?”

“Go away.”

You flicked feta at his face.

“OH!” he shouts, catching the crumb with a noise that was absolutely not human. “You want me. I knew it.”

“I want you to leave.”

He’s unbearable. Radiantly idiotic. You can’t stop the snort that escapes you, and unfortunately, he heard it.

“That’s right.” he says, leaning in again, softer now. “You like me.”

“I like the salad.”

“You want a bite of something else.”

You stab another tomato with unnecessary violence.

“Okay.” he says quickly, backing off with hands raised in surrender. “I’ll stop. I’ll stop. I’ll just sit right here… stare at you respectfully… maybe touch myself a little.”

“I don’t care.”

And he sits at the stool next to you, arms folded, chin in hands, watching you build your salad.

And when you hand him a slice of cucumber later, tossed over your shoulder, he catches it between his teeth and whispers, “I knew you loved me.”

You whack him with the spoon.

“I’m so fucking in love with you, it’s disgusting.”

Now it’s later. I mean days later, and the crow with the little hat is absolutely beating your ass at chess.

You’re not even mad about it. It’s kind of an honor, really, to be in a full-length chess match with a bird. You’ve been locked in with him for nearly an hour now, curled up in your spot on the floor in the living room, one knee drawn up and a banana smoothie halfway melted beside you.

You glance at the board again, chewing your straw.

God, he’s good.

He taps his claw—tap tap tap—on your rook. Intimidating. Kind of rude. But you’re used to that energy by now.

“Stop being cocky.” you mumble at him.

The crow cocks his head.

Check.

You sigh. “Fine. You win this round. Want to play again?” you ask the crow, moving your knight back to its start.

The bird lets out a small caw, offended, and flutters its feathers.

“Actually,” comes Jinu’s calm voice. “he’s making room.”

You glance up.

“May I?”

You blink, surprised. “You want to play?”

“I want you to play me.” he clarifies, just a hint of a smile at the edge of his mouth. “Shoo.” he says to the crow.

The creature gives a sharp, disapproving squawk and hops off the table, landing on the couch with a ruffle of feathers.

You raise a brow at him, curious.

“You’re good.” he says, sitting across from you. “I want to see how you think.”

Not “I want to win.” Not “I want to impress you.”

He just… wants to understand you.

God, how were you supposed to deal with that?

You nod slowly. “Alright. White or black?”

“Ladies first.” he says.

“Okay.” you say, smiling faintly as you reset the pieces. “But I play dirty.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

You take white. He doesn’t even question it.

For a while, it’s quiet. Just the clink of ceramic pieces. The movement of your drinks as you occasionally sip from yours, and he politely declines when you offer him some.

Yes, you did that. You offered him some. Not because you like him, no. You’re just polite. That’s all. I swear. Please believe me.

“You’re calm today.” you murmur eventually.

“I had time to think.” Jinu says, making a move that sets you up for a trap if you’re not careful. “Sometimes quiet is productive.”

“Sometimes quiet is suspicious.” You raise an eyebrow.

He meets your stare. Doesn’t look away. And then, with a small smirk that threatens to ruin you entirely, he says:

“Sometimes quiet is attraction.”

Your hand freezes above your rook.

That was… not what you were expecting. From Abby, sure. From Romance—god, always.

But not Jinu.

“You’re saying you’re—”

“Interested.” he says.

Blunt. Gentlemanly. Warm.

Your pulse stumbles.

You shift in your seat. “Why now?”

“You’re beautiful.” he says first. No hesitation. “But that’s not it.”

You glance away, throat tight.

He makes his move. “I like minds like yours.”

You’re flustered now. Fully. Hot in the cheeks. You counter with your bishop just to do something.

“Romance would’ve tried to kiss me by now.” you say, trying for lightness.

“I’m not Romance.” he replies, eyes never leaving yours.

You believe him. Every word.

When the game ends—he wins, of course, because Jinu is as smart as he is kind—he helps you pack the board up. Doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t press. Just brushes his fingers lightly over yours once as he passes the rook back.

The touch lingers.

And when he gets up, he says, “Next time, I’ll bring tea. I know you like peppermint.”

Your chest tightens.

You never told him that.

He leaves with a respectful bow of his head.

And somehow, you’re left breathless. From a chess game.

From a gentleman.

(Ignore my ass time skip)

You’re sitting cross-legged in the hallway, sorting through a weird pile of tangled wires and ancient weapon parts they’d dropped in your lap earlier. Nothing major. They did that so you can figure out a way to escape and they can stop you.

“Hey.” Abby says.

“Mm.”

“I’ve been working out.”

“Never would’ve guessed.” you say dryly.

And then, suddenly, there’s a very large, very bare chest directly in front of your face.

Now you look up.

He’s shirtless. Again. His skin gleams like he actually oiled himself for this. Abs carved, arms pumped, veins showing like he just did fifty pushups in the kitchen while whispering your name.

“Wanna feel?”

Your face stays flat. You don’t even blink.

“Come onnnn.” he whines, bending a little, dragging your hand up with his. “Just real quick.”

He places your palm against his stomach—solid as a fucking wall—and flexes. Not once. Like four times in a row. Ripples. Actual ripples. You swear you felt your fingers move from the force.

He wiggles his brows.

“Right? Not even my demon form.”

You don’t pull your hand back, not yet. Instead, you just nod thoughtfully, like you’re evaluating a piece of expensive furniture.

“Cool.” you say finally, as if this is a regular thing that’s just… fine. No big deal. Nice abs. Seen better. Back to work.

You tug your hand back gently, and he lets it go. Then he drops into a crouch beside you, bare chest still glistening, looking over your shoulder at the mess of wires.

“You want help?” he offers, pointing at a connector like he knows what it is. He absolutely does not.

“You’ll electrocute us both.” you reply, not unkindly. You shift to block his hand. “Here, hold this instead.”

You pass him a coil of wire. He holds it with pride. Doesn’t even know what to do with it. But he follows you around now like you’re gravity.

He trails after you into the next room.

“Hey.”

You hum, distracted as you sort through some stuff on the table.

“Touch here?”

He points at his bicep this time. Raised it. Flexed it. Grinned.

You nod, reach out, squeeze once. Return to what you’re doing like it’s no big deal.

And he melts.

Giggles.

You let him have it. You don’t roll your eyes or push him away, not anymore. He’s harmless in that way.

At one point, he’s just following you silently, carrying a basket you didn’t even ask him to, looking so pleased with himself like he’s finally learned to be “helpful.”

“Hey.”

You pause mid-step. Look over your shoulder. He’s holding his own forearm this time, pushing the muscle up like he wants you to test it again.

“Last one, I swear.” he says, blinking innocently. “Promise.”

You sigh through a smile. Walk back. Run your fingers briefly along the curve of his arm, slow, like you’re checking for a pulse. Then you pat it once and move along.

“Still impressive.” you say without turning around.

Behind you, he makes the most pathetic little victorious noise. It’s not even a word. Just this soft, high-pitched “hehhhhh”

You catch him flexing behind your back in the mirror, giving himself a thumbs up.

Now, Baby.

He doesn’t flirt like the others.

Baby flirts by being an asshole. A smug, good-looking little demon who has never said “please” to a woman in his entire damn life.

It’s afternoon. You’re just coming out of your room, down the hall and into the living room where Baby is. Sitting on the arm of the couch. Head tilted back, neck exposed, pale. A lollipop in his mouth. He never chews, never crunches. Always sucks it slow, tauntingly, he knows exactly what image he’s painting.

He doesn’t say hi.

Just shifts his gaze to you, eyes lazy, bored. You make your way past him, his gaze drilling into your back, and just before you reach the kitchen

“Left your door unlocked.” His voice is soft.

“I know.”

A beat. He takes the lollipop out of his mouth with a slick little pop.

“Don’t let me be the one to find that out next time.”

His tone is all implication. You should be annoyed, but it’s Baby. You got used to this.

You sigh. Look over your shoulder.

“You gonna peek?”

He doesn’t answer. Just smiles. Not wide. Not big. Just this tiny, slow-curling smirk that says, “Maybe I already have.”

He’s pissed about it, honestly. That you got under his skin like this. That your laugh lingers. You were supposed to be leverage, a little human assistant with demon-hunting info.

Now you’re his little crush.

He hates that Gwi-Ma still speaks in his head, reminding him he’s not human like you are. Not real. Not worthy. And yet he finds himself around you, the asshole.

He tells himself he’s only watching you for strategy. For weakness. For moments to exploit. HUNTR/X is not quite destroyed yet, mind you.

But then why does it twist in his gut when he hears you laugh at someone else’s joke? Why does he get irritated when Romance sits too close? Why does he hang around?

A shit time skip later, you’re sprawled on the floor in front of the coffee table, trying to untangle a set of cords that were definitely cursed by someone, probably Baby. You’re muttering to yourself. He’s been on the couch behind you for twenty minutes, dozing off, a little lazy eye involved.

“Your hair’s dumb.” he says suddenly.

You pause, blink.

“Thanks, Baby.”

“You should dye it black. You’d look hotter.”

You glance back at him. He’s not even doing anything, as usual. He says it like it’s obvious. Like he’s doing you a favor.

You just raise an eyebrow.

“You think I’m hot?”

“I didn’t say that.”

A beat. Then, like it hurts him:

“You’re okay.”

God, he’s such a brat.

You stand, brushing dust off your hoodie. His eyes do flick to your legs. Fast, but you catch it.

You walk toward the kitchen, and, as expected, he follows. Not close. Just a few steps behind, to be around annoy you.

“Want something?” you ask, opening the fridge.

He shrugs.

You make him a sandwich anyway as you’re done with yours.

And when you hand it to him, he doesn’t say thank you, but you see him looking away before he bites into it.

And under his breath?

“…Good.”

You pretend not to hear it.

He pretends not to care.

For now? He eats your food. Watches you hum at the sink. Imagines—just for a second—what it’d be like to kiss the back of your neck.

(timeskip…yeah.)

It’s evening.

You sit cross-legged, tossing a fabric mouse for Jinu’s massive tiger of a cat.

That cat has paws the size of your face and it’s so hilarious for you for some reason. Big, dumb sweetheart with eyes that follow you. You adore him.

You flick the toy again. He launches.

Footsteps.

You look up, and Mystery, back from god knows where.

But in his hand?

A single flower.

Pink.

Tiny. A little wilted at the edge. The kind fans throw at their feet. A cheap gesture. Something disposable.

Except…

He’s holding it like it’s glass.

He crosses the room with slow, oddly careful steps. Doesn’t say a word. You glance between him and the flower, confused at first—until he stops in front of you. You blink up at him, frozen.

Then he kneels. And places the flower next to you. Right beside your foot.

Not in your hand.

Not in your hair.

Just… there.

Like a cat bringing a kill to your doorstep.

He doesn’t wait for praise. Doesn’t ask how you feel. Just stares, as if checking to see whether you’ll get it.

You do.

Fuck, you do.

Something warm wells in your chest. It’s small. Stupid. It’s just a flower, something he probably picked up on his way back from a meet n greet or wherever the hell these boys disappear to. But the fact that he brought it home—

For you.

It makes something in you ache.

He thought about you.

Of all the things he could’ve done with that flower—crushed it under his foot, thrown it back into the crowd, tossed it at Romance for the joke—he decided to hold onto it. To bring it home. To hand it to you.

“Thank you.” you murmur.

He grunts, stands, walks off.

Just like that.

And tiger, entirely uninterested in this soft moment, chooses that exact second to try to eat the flower.

“No, no—hey!”

You scramble to scoop it up before it’s covered in drool. Mystery glances back from where he’s halfway to the kitchen, eyes following the chaos. And for a split second—

A smile.

You sit back down, cradling the half-crushed flower in your fingers.

God. Your empathy is such a sucker for these boys. Even the quietest of them, the one who growls more than he speaks, who scratches his neck raw when anxious, who once nearly clawed Romance’s face off over a stolen chocolate bar.

He brought you a flower.

And it’s not nothing.

You keep it.

You press it between pages of the book you’ve been reading lately.

Meanwhile, the tiger tries to climb into your lap again. You huff, shifting to make room as he practically crushes your ribs. But you let him. He’s warm.

Yeah, so things started developing like this. You always got hit on but recently you started to get… extra hit on? Well hit on is a sexual term and that’s not all going on, but what I want to say is that they’re trying. The boys are trying and not planning to give you back to HUNTR/X anytime soon.

And… it’s a bit flattering, to be honest.

Aaaanyways, the next day, your feet slap dully against the marble as you drag yourself toward the kitchen, hoodie down to your thighs, no bra, and the expression of a half-dead. You might’ve slept, but it didn’t count.

The living room bleeds into the massive open plan kitchen, and…

“BRO, YOU SLEEP WITH THAT KNIFE UNDER YOUR PILLOW?”

“It’s not a knife, it’s a blade.” Mystery mutters, barely audible, tugging the drawstring on his hoodie.

“Same shit!” Abby barks, stomping across the room barefoot and shirtless, flexing. “What are you, a knight? You got a bedtime sword too?”

Abby’s cackling, slapping Baby on the back so hard the kid nearly chokes on his toast.

Mystery shrugs like they’re boring. You can tell he’s holding back a laugh, though. His mouth keeps twitching.

“DOLLFACE!!”

Arms around your waist.

You’re lifted.

Lifted.

You shriek and nearly fall out of your own body, but Romance is pressing himself to your back. You’re still squinting, trying to locate your soul you’re surprised they didn’t take yet, and now he’s sniffing your hair.

“You smell like heaven, why do you smell like heaven—?”

“Romance.” you groan, wiggling like a worm.

“Don’t wiggle unless you mean it.” he teases, voice dragging slow and syrupy into your ear.

Jinu doesn’t look up, but you can see him smile.

You lean your weight back until Romance groans and finally lets go, dramatic as ever, dragging his feet behind you like you’re breaking his heart.

You ignore him, walking past Mystery, who’s now sitting on one of the island stools, twirling a fork.

And because you’re awake now, you smile softly, real sweet, and say “Don’t let them bully you, by the way.”

That hush is instant.

Romance pauses mid-whine.

Baby raises an eyebrow.

Mystery looks up.

Abby’s face just looks fucking ridiculous but you don’t see that.

You look straight at Mystery, walking backward now, hands curled around a mug. “You were nice to me. With that flower.”

“Flower?” Abby blurts, straightening. “What flower?”

You sip your coffee with a tiny hum. “Other day. He gave one to me. Didn’t say much, but it was sweet.”

Mystery’s eyes flick toward the ceiling, like he’s praying to be smote where he sits.

And yeah.

Yeah, they’re all a little jealous.

The other three look at him like he just invented kindness.

Romance is having a full meltdown. He kicks at the island counter. Whines. “I gave you my soul and you give him praise?! He brought one ugly-ass flower—”

“It was pink.” you say.

“Fucking peasant flower!!”

He flings himself into a stool, arms crossed, leg bouncing furiously like a brat not invited to a birthday party. You press your lips together, trying so hard not to laugh. You can feel Jinu watching from the kitchen, calm and observant as always. He likes this.

(Geeked vs locked in)

You glance at Mystery.

He doesn’t say anything, but he’s smiling. Just the smallest hint of it.

You’re such an angel.

They’ve gone from kidnappers to roommates to… something worse.

Because now they all want you.

Jinu made it clear.

Crystal.

Over the chessboard and you’re still quite not over it.

He doesn’t waste energy playing coy. No winks. No crude jokes. He just looks at you like you’re the last star in a dead sky and nods when you speak and listens when you ramble and always—always—makes sure you have what you need. Tea when you’re cold. Quiet when you’re tired. Time when you’re overwhelmed.

But behind that gentleman act is intent. Hot, slow, burning intent.

He wants you. No questions. No confusion.

You see it in how he lets the others act like clowns while he waits. Patient. Focused.

Jinu is playing the long game.

He’d never pressure you. He’d never ask for more.

But he wants. God, he wants.

Romance, on the other hand, is hopeless, the fucker.

This man is suffering. Actually getting progressively worse before your eyes.

He tries every second. Every breath. Every glance. From the second you step into a room, he’s on you, with compliments, with whines, with declarations of undying lust.

He’s getting desperate, too.

The more you don’t kiss him, the more he stumbles over his words. He steals Abby’s cookies just to “romantically” offer them to you. Wears low-cut shirts and sprays on three pounds of cologne and leans against counters.

It’d be tragic if it wasn’t so funny.

You’re the first person he hasn’t gotten in one night.

He hasn’t known a crush like this in centuries.

He hasn’t known rejection like this ever.

He’s never known yearning like this.

And Abby. Sweet Abby.

He’s such a slut about it too. He’ll do fifteen pushups near you for no reason. Make you feel him up like I explained earlier. Carry three chairs at once and casually glance at you, waiting for a compliment.

You give him just enough.

Just enough to keep him glowing, to let him feel strong and wanted. You never mock him, never brush him off, and that kindness wraps around his poor demon heart.

He’d die for you. Actually die.

He probably already has, emotionally.

But he’s still an idiot.

Every time you touch his bicep, he smiles so wide. Every time you say “Thanks, Abs.” he goes crazy and kinda cums in his pants on the spot. He waits for your approval. He lives for it.

And the rejection? The casual way you tell him you’re busy? The calm “That’s nice, Abby.” when he deadlifts the couch?

He doesn’t even know what to do with it.

He flexes more. Tries harder. Starts randomly fixing things. Carries you to the other side of the house.

He thinks about crying sometimes. Real tears. Muscular ones.

He likes you so bad it hurts his bones.

Mystery doesn’t say much, but god, he’s trying.

You see it every time he sits just a little closer than yesterday. Every time he watches your hands while you speak. Every time he follows you into the kitchen.

He gave you a flower. That says it all.

He likes you. Probably more than he knows how to name. Probably more than he’s been allowed to like anything in a long, long time. He doesn’t touch you unless you touch him first. He doesn’t stare unless you stare first. But once you do? He locks in.

Baby is a dick.

An asshole. Through and through.

He laughs when the others get scolded. Snorts when you trip over your words. Rolls his eyes when you’re being too nice.

But the second someone flirts too hard with you? He stiffens. Bristles. Frowns. And when you look away? He glares.

He’s the kind of guy who’d pull your ponytail as a kid and then fight anyone else who touched it.

He talks the most shit.

But he likes you. Hates it. But likes you anyway.

And inside?

Gwi-Ma is roaring with laughter.

You don’t know that a demon overlord haunts them with every blush and boner and soft gaze you don’t even mean to give.

You’re their first love in centuries.

And you’re probably gonna eat cereal and tell them they left the fridge open.

It’s so unfair.

And you’re so, so valid.

They deadass kidnapped you, you’re in the right!! You’d be in the right for kicking them in the balls but… but you don’t do that. Maybe that’s why they like you so much.

They’ve lived for centuries. Hundreds of years. They’ve fought, tortured, burned, lured, commanded. They were gods to some people.

And now Romance can barely see straight. He lays awake at night, shirtless and sweating, imagining you brushing his hair back and saying things like “I’m glad I met you.” and stares at the ceiling like a teenager.

He cannot believe you’re rejecting him. Him. And it’s not even malicious. You’re not cruel. You just… don’t give in. You like him, kinda. You smile. But you don’t fall. And god, that’s what kills him the most. That even when you’re being soft, you’re still not his.

Jinu’s pride is intact, barely. He doesn’t beg. Doesn’t make a scene. He has dignity.

You’re… you’re so full of odd little joys. SUP boarding and books and hot sauce on popcorn. He likes hearing you talk.

And he never likes anyone.

He tells himself it’s enough to watch you grow comfortable here. That your happiness is enough. But still. The thought of you sleeping next to someone else—he swallows it. Every time.

Abby is down so bad it’s embarrassing.

The other day you called his arms “strong looking.” Just looking. Not even saying they are. And he almost dropped a weight on his foot from the joy.

He’s never been good with subtlety. Or pacing. Or restraint.

So he follows you around like a puppy. Flexes. Smiles. Lifts things. And then you just say, “Nice.” and go back to reading or doing your normal human things, and he’s left there, muscles and all, with a little crushed heart the size of a dumbbell.

He just wants you to like him.

He knows he was part of kidnapping you.

He knows that’s, uh, bad.

But you being kind to him? Genuinely kind? It makes him ache in places he didn’t even know he had.

Mystery hasn’t felt in so long. But he knows you’re… different. Important. He knows the others want you. And he wants to want less.

But… oh, how much he likes you.

Baby is the worst.

He doesn’t know what to do with you, and you ruin everything.

He wants to slam a wall. Or a door. Or maybe you against a door. But then you say, “Hey, Baby.” all soft, like it’s just another name, and he just… shuts up, no matter how big of a brat he is.

They’ve lived long enough to forget how the beginning feels. Four hundred years. Some more, some less. All of them once human, then not.

They are not okay.

Not a single one of them.

They are demon boys with wicked strength and terrifying power and not a clue how to survive the fact that they’re all in love with a human girl who lives with them because they forced her to.

And you’re rejecting them.

You’re sweet about it. Warm. Thoughtful. Empathetic, which almost makes it worse. You smile at Romance’s flirting and then keep walking. You praise Abby’s arms and then turn back to your book. You listen to Jinu’s calm voice and blink all slow and grateful and then—god, why do you have to do that—and still don’t kiss him.

You don’t mean to tease. That’s the tragedy. You just are.

They’re like boys again.

Real boys. Awkward. Confused. Heartburn and everything. Abby’s trying to figure out what else he can do with his body to impress you, because he has no other tool. Romance is re-writing the same love letter and never giving it to you. Jinu’s building you a bookshelf and pretending it’s just “because you needed one” and Baby’s picking at you for pronouncing this and that wrong just because it means he can hear your voice longer when you argue. Mystery’s thinking about your hands again. He doesn’t know why. He just is. He likes your hand.

They did lock you up. They did kidnap you. They’re the bad guys. They know this. They play around and joke and flirt and build routines with you and pretend it’s fine, but they know.

They know you didn’t choose them.

They know you might never.

And they don’t even blame you for it.

Meanwhile, Gwi-Ma is living his best life.

He doesn’t even try to hide the fact that your rejection makes his hauntings spicier. He could torture the boys so they don’t like you, but the weaker the boys are, the bigger control Gwi-Ma has over them. You’re useful, in this way.

For an example, telling Romance “She said she liked your shirt. Pathetic. She meant the color, not you.” or to Jinu: “The bookshelf is nice. She’ll put her romance novels there and still not touch your dick. Move on.”

Well, he’s not always joking it away. Most of the time he rubs it under their noses that they’re pathetic and failures and whatnot. Gwi-Ma pokes every bruise. Presses every soft spot. And still, they suffer in silence.

And all this leads to…

Backstage. A cooler of sugary drinks no one wants, and five ancient demons in skin-tight pants pretending to be idols.

Romance has one boot on the makeup table and is picking glitter off his sleeve with lazy disinterest. Abby’s chewing on something. Baby’s on his phone. Jinu’s fixing a seam on his jacket with tiny, perfect stitches. Mystery’s sitting on the floor, looking like he’s about to bite someone, which is normal. No one’s really talking.

Until Romance does. “What if we let her go?”

The words hang in the air. Burn in the silence. Nobody breathes.

Baby slowly turns to Romance and mutters, “You hit your head or something?”

Because that’s not a question they ask. That’s not even an idea they entertain.

Let you go?

Let you go?

“No.” Jinu says. Not angry. Not loud. But final. Like mom turning something down.

Abby nearly chokes on his food. He waves a hand, then his whole arm, then his entire torso like he’s trying to physically ward the words off. “No, no. Take it back. No one heard it.”

Mystery growls. Actually growls. Low and feral. Eyes glowing a little.

Baby doesn’t even look up from his phone but scoffs. “Romance is having a stroke. Ignore him.”

Not many words like this he remembers from his looooong long time living, but he really likes this word, for some reason. Stroke.

But Romance is serious. Or half-serious. That’s the worst part. You can always tell with him when something hits a nerve. His voice might come out beautiful, but sometimes, like now, you can just tell by the tone.

He shrugs, leaning back against the table. “Just saying.” he mumbles, chewing the inside of his cheek. “It’s not like she wants to be here.”

Yeah, no shit.

She doesn’t.

You don’t.

You didn’t ask for any of this. You didn’t ask to be kidnapped, or dragged into their living room, or become someone’s angel just by being decent. You were helping the girls, and now you’re cutting fruit in someone else’s kitchen and being flirted with by demon boys with gorgeous faces and damaged hearts.

Of course you don’t want this.

But they do.

God, they do.

Not the cage part. Not the chains. That was survival. Panic. Guilt still clings to it like dust. But you? They want you. Your laugh. Your sighs. The way you wrinkle your nose when you’re annoyed. Your stupid, wonderful lectures about “proper communication” and your goddamn warmth. Your worth.

So when Romance says it, when he dares voice the thing they don’t want to think about—

They panic.

Because it’s not a question of right and wrong.

Not for them. Not anymore.

It’s a question of loss.

Letting you go would mean living in the silence again. No footsteps down the hall. No spoon tapping against the pot while you cook. No sarcasm from anyone who’s not them, no annoyed eye rolls, no scent of your shampoo clinging to their clothes after they steal your towel off the rack again.

It would mean the house is a house again, not a home.

It would mean—fuck—it would mean being alone again.

And none of them want to go back to that.

So they shut it down. Instinctively. Immediately. Loudly. Not because it’s wrong, but because it’s unthinkable.

Because you’re going to like them eventually.

You will.

They don’t say it, but they believe it.

They have to. It’s the only thing keeping them upright.

So they say no. Again and again.

“No, dude.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“She’s not going anywhere.”

They all say it in their own voices, their own rhythms, their own ways of desperate.

Romance doesn’t argue. Not really. He leans his head back against the mirror, looks up at the lights, and closes his eyes.

He doesn’t push it again.

Because he doesn’t want to let you go either.

Not really.

And when the some staff member calls them in, when they’re lining up in sequence and fixing their microphones and checking their in-ears, they’re still thinking about you. All of them.

In different ways.

In different versions of forever.

In ways they don’t dare speak aloud.

And somewhere inside, deeper than they can say, they’re hoping. Hoping you’ll choose them.

Hoping you’ll stay.

Even if they never say the words.

(ashamed of my time skips)

“BABYYYYY WE’RE HOME.” Romance shouts. You’re the first thing he sees. His grin nearly splits his face. They just came home.

“Guess who’s BACK with the TITS OUT!” Abby’s shout follows, just as his shirt hits the floor somewhere by the entryway. Why was it off already? No one knows.

You’re in the sunken living room, tucked into a thick throw blanket, curled up against Jinu’s massive tiger cat.

You lift a hand, a lazy wave. “Hi.”

Jinu is quieter when he comes in. Doesn’t even say anything at first just walks into the room, and sets a bag on the table next to where you’re laying.

“What’s that?” you ask, your voice half-caught in the fur of the beast beside you.

“Stuff I saw. Thought you’d like it.”

You blink.

He’s gone before you even get to answer, the crow following him with a weird sort of offended flapping. It squawks once like it’s scolding him for not letting it deliver the gift itself.

Just as you’re about to sit up, Baby walks by. He doesn’t say anything, just tugs your hair as he passes, fingers slipping through the strands at the end. Touching you when he wants to but refusing to be soft about it.

Asshole.

Your “Ow” is mostly just for show. He snorts without looking back and disappears into the hallway.

“Hi.” Mystery says and oh your god it’s progress.

“Hi.” You look up at him, and just like that, he’s gone too.

And that’s when Romance and Abby both collapse down on either side of you like magnets pulled in too fast. The tiger cat lets out a long, huffing breath when Abby’s thigh brushes against its side—and then the beast melts into him. Practically rolling.

“Awwww, c’mere, big guy.” Abby croons, instantly elbow-deep in thick fur, cooing and petting and making baby noises that no one should hear come from a man that buff. “You missed Daddy, huh?”

“You’re the worst.” you mutter, but there’s no heat in it. Not when he’s scratching behind the cat’s ears and the thing looks like it’s going to drool.

Romance sighs, and leans in until you feel his breath against your neck. “You cuddled up all pretty without us?”

You glance sideways at him. His lashes are too long. His face too symmetrical. The pout is real, exaggerated, stupid. “Get your own cat.” you say flatly.

“Why, when you’re right here?” he replies instantly. “You warm, you purr—”

“Romance.”

“Fine, fine.” But his shoulder brushes yours and doesn’t leave. He slouches a little so his thigh presses against yours. A beat later, he whispers, “You smell really good.” like he’s proud of himself for holding it in this long.

Abby’s still fawning over the cat, rubbing its belly with both hands like a caveman making fire. The tiger groans happily in response.

You roll your eyes and turn your attention to the bag Jinu left. Unfold it slowly.

Inside, a new journal. A set of colored gel pens. A small box of your favorite tea. Lip balm you mentioned once in passing when your lips were dry. And a soft hair tie, black velvet, probably chosen just because it looked nice against your hair.

You stare at it for a long moment.

Hm.

No one says a thing.

You quietly press the back of your hand to your eye and pretend it’s because something got in it.

And when you look up, Romance is watching you. Not joking, not smirking. Just watching.

He doesn’t say anything either.

It feels like something’s shifting.

Not loud. Not fast.

Just… growing.

This weird, stitched-together thing between you and five demons who haven’t known softness in centuries. Who don’t know how to handle it now that it’s here. Who cling to you, some of them physically, some of them just mentally.

Abby has both hands sunk into the fluff, cooing at the beast like a baby.

You can feel Romance shaking with laughter, the fucker. He’s not taking any of this seriously—he never does. None of them really do, but Romance especially lives to push, tease, flirt, inch closer and closer to the line without ever fully crossing it.

It would be easier to write him off if he didn’t mean it, if his warmth was fake. But the longer you stayed here, the more you could tell it wasn’t.

Romance didn’t just flirt because it was fun and because he really really liked you.

He flirted because it distracted him. From the voice in his head. From the pressure in his chest. From the way Gwi-Ma’s claws still tugged at the edges of his mind even here, in this safe, stupid apartment. You’d seen the way his expression broke when he thought no one was looking, how the shine dulled in his eyes when he stared at nothing for too long.

Beautiful, yes. But breakable.

Abby loved the spotlight, loved touching people, he enjoyed a lot of things.

But the guy was always moving. Always laughing. Always doing.

Never still.

Because when Abby stopped?

When he was quiet?

That’s when it caught up to him. Gwi-Ma. The memories. The pressure. The guilt. The voices that reminded him of what he used to be and how far he’d fallen. The blood still under his fingernails. The centuries of doing shit no one would forgive—not even himself.

So he cooed at cats. He flexed his muscles. He grabbed your hand and made you touch his abs.

He needed to be loved. Even if it was just for five minutes.

“I wrote you a song.” Romance says, shirt open—why? Why is his shirt open?—and one knee bent.

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did.”

“Oh my god—”

“I’m singing it now.”

“Romance, no.”

He opens his mouth anyway, so before he can croon a single note, you slap your palm over his mouth.

“Mmmpf.” he mumbles beneath it, eyes crinkling with laughter.

Abby bursts out laughing, forehead pressed to the tiger’s belly. “Finally someone shut him up.”

Romance licks your palm.

“Ew—!”

You yank your hand back, smacking him on the chest. He just grins. The grin that would ruin a weaker girl. The grin that, if you weren’t chronically annoyed and slightly feral from being kidnapped, might actually make you melt a little.

But it doesn’t.

(Not visibly.)

And it clicks again, painfully, how much effort this is for them.

Not the flirting.

Not the games.

But the living.

Existing in this in-between space, pretending to be boys in their twenties when their souls are threadbare and ancient. When there’s something else inside them—someone else—always whispering in the dark.

You’ve heard them at night.

Not just Abby snoring like a lawnmower or Romance mumbling flirty shit in his sleep (which is… hilarious, honestly), but the other sounds.

The low whines.

The way their breathing turns jagged like they’re running.

The muffled words they don’t want you to hear.

Gwi-Ma, obviously, you just don’t know that.

And then Abby, sensing the emotional weight like it’s a fly he must slap with brute force, sits up and shouts, “Okay, let’s play ‘Who Wants to Touch My Abs Again!’”

Romance stares at him for a beat, then mutters “I hate when you say something good before I can.”

You groan, then reach forward and pet the tiger, threading your fingers through the thick blue fur, and when you do, you feel both boys lean in a little closer.

Gravity.

Not prison bars.

Not chains.

Just… gravity.

You. And them. And the warm belly of a tiger-cat who doesn’t care about demon curses or yearning pop stars.

You smile to yourself.

Just a little.

Yeah.

Being a hostage and missing the girls fucking sucks, but this is fun, sometimes.

Uhuh, all until Romance runs a hand up your thigh.

You grab a pillow and hit him with it. A clean hit to the shoulder. It barely moves him. He chuckles, soft and low, then grabs your wrist mid-pillow swing and brings your hand to his cheek.

And keeps it there.

Romance actually nuzzles into it, gorgeous lashes fluttering. “Why won’t you love me?”

“Because you talk like that.”

“Eh.”

Behind him, Abby’s scoffing.

“I’m right here.” he says, hand going to his chest. “Right here. Heart of gold. Literally. Jinu said I needed more iron in my diet and I told him to suck my—”

“Abby.” you cut in.

“Just sayin’.”

You stare at him.

He flexes.

You blink.

He grabs your hand and shoves it straight onto his bicep. Hard. “Go on. Give it a feel.”

“Abby.”

“C’mon, babe.”

And you—you actually just… sigh. Your hand stays there. Because at this point, resisting is more exhausting than just humoring them. And because, god help you, Abby’s abs really are the most offensive thing you’ve ever touched.

“This isn’t going to work.” you say calmly.

“It’s already working.” he replies, smug.

Romance nods solemnly, still holding your other hand on his face like you’re blessing him. “It’s working on me, too.”

“Jesus.”

Then the tiger-cat lets out a snore between you all, paw twitching, tail flicking once. Weird little reality this is. And you don’t deny it. Because denying it would mean you’d have to stop letting them lean in, stop letting Abby trace a line up your arm just to, stop letting Romance’s voice slide along your spine when he sang for you. And okay, his voice was gorgeous.

They aren’t subtle.

But they are sincere.

In their own fucked-up ways.

Romance, for all his dramatics, means it. His flirting isn’t just empty lines. You can feel it in the pause between his jokes, in the breath he holds when you glance at him for too long. In the ache when you say no.

And Abby doesn’t understand subtlety, but he does understand loyalty. When he lingers around you, when he gets all proud just because you let him carry something heavy for you or touched his stomach and didn’t insult him, yeah, that’s affection, demon style. Affection disguised as flexing and teasing and “accidentally” brushing against you whenever he walks by.

You clear your throat, shift slightly, ready to go. “Okay. Cool. Thanks for the… attention.”

“You’re welcome.” Romance says, grinning again. “And also, I love you.”

“Romance—”

“I do. Hey, don’t go—”

Abby chuckles, looping an arm around your shoulders suddenly, dragging you back down, cheek pressed to your temple. “Don’t worry, babe. I’ll love you tomorrow when he forgets.”

“HEY—!”

You shove both of them off. The tiger-cat lets out a sleepy growl like even he is tired of their bullshit. You stand, this time successful, stretch, and pretend your heart isn’t beating faster than it should be.

And know that they can definitely hear it.

They’re not human. They play like they are. Joke like they are. But they’re not. Their senses are dialed up so loud it’s a wonder they can function in this apartment without genuinely crashing out.

Take this for an example, hear your heartbeat change when you walk into a room.

You experienced this the first time when you tried to sneak to the door at night, barefoot and silent, you heard it behind you: tap tap tap, the unnecessary footsteps of Baby following you just because your pulse spiked. And he didn’t say anything. Just leaned on the wall in the stairwell and smiled, evil little smile.

They know when you’re aroused. Unfortunately.

They know when you’re scared. Worse.

And they definitely know when you’re lying.

That one was made clear when Jinu once tilted his head and calmly said, “You’re clenching your molars again. Makes your jaw tick. That’s your lying tell.”

And you’d almost launched the TV remote at him.

But they never stop listening. Even when they’re laughing, playing with the cat, arguing about what movie to put on, they’re tuned in. To you. To the wind. To each other. They track one another’s emotional shifts like dogs in a pack. When Mystery twitches, Abby twitches. When Baby goes still, Romance glances at him. When you so much as think about walking toward the front door? You hear someone move before you even touch the knob.

Imagine you’re Jinu, how the fuck do you explain to a hostage that you want to bury your face in their neck just to breathe them in?

Not exactly gentlemanly.

Mystery could pick you out of a crowd of a thousand by scent alone. He knew when you entered the room, even if his back was turned. He’d been trained to track, to hunt, to kill, and now every predator instinct in him was confused—because all it wanted to do was wrap you in his arms and nuzzle into your neck.

Okay, all of them can do this.

Their eyes don’t move much. Their ears do. It’s eerie, sometimes. But you’ve stopped caring.

Mostly.

And the strangest thing? You know they do it for your sake, now.

It’s not just control, not just torture.

It’s protection.

That one time you dropped a glass in the kitchen, quick little break on the floor, you had three demons in the room with you in less than two seconds. Romance was still wet from the shower, hair dripping, towel twisted low around his hips. Abby was shirtless and breathing heavy like he’d sprinted from the roof. Mystery was crouched beside you before you even realized your hand was bleeding, gently peeling your fingers open to check for shards. It was Jinu who pulled the dish towel off the rack and wrapped it around your palm. When did he even get there?

(Baby simply didn’t give a fuck because he knew the others were there. If you and him were alone, maybe he would’ve checked up on you.)

They don’t say they care. But they feel it when your heart gets heavy. They hear it when you cry in your room and try to stifle the sound into a pillow.

And they respond. Not always with words. Never quite the right way. But with presence.

Yeah, they still have to learn the right way, but at least they’re doing something, okay? Fuck’s sake, man.

They don’t know how to be human anymore.

But they haven’t lost you yet.

And now, they’re trying to understand you the way they understand everything else:

By listening.

By smelling.

By memorizing your habits and tells and tension.

You don’t say anything about it.

But tonight, when you pour a second glass of water before bed and leave it out on the counter? You notice it’s gone by morning. And you know someone drank it just because it smelled like your fingers had touched the rim.

Okay, who was the fucking creep?

Anyways, they still throw each other into walls. Sure. Mystery still growls. Baby still glares at your soul and rolls his eyes like you’re beneath him, but in reality, would jump anyone who even looked at you wrong. Abby still flexes and preens, but always backs off when you give him that look. Jinu still doesn’t stop them, fuck him and his cute nose. And Romance… that fuckass is dangerously close to making him falling in love with you YOUR problem.

You caught him once, staring at you over the rim of a cup of coffee. Soft-eyed. Dreamy. Quiet.

You asked, “What?”

He said, “What?”

Yeah. Exactly.

You’re still the prisoner, technically.

Still for information you haven’t given.

Still wearing the metaphorical leash they tug at when they get bored.

But at the end of the day, when you’re curled on the couch, book in hand, one of them reaching over your head to pet the tiger, another muttering about ordering takeout “for the human” you realize something terrifying:

You might actually like it here.

Not the kidnapping.

Not the control.

But them.

Them as people.

And you don’t know when the shift happened. But now when you think about escaping… you pause. Because it wouldn’t just be running away anymore. It would be leaving.

Plus the apartment is nice. Shower with LED mood lights. Big windows you once tried to climb out of to maybe fall into a window cleaner’s little elevator thingy(yes you’re creative like that, you miss the girls) until Baby appeared behind you and said, “Try it. Let’s see what breaks first, your back or your pretty head.”

He smiled when he said it. That kind of smile that makes your stomach drop and your legs run before you even realize what you’re doing.

Your escape attempts stopped being smart after the first two weeks.

You tried the whole “pull the fire alarm” route. Didn’t work. Baby pulled it first, just to prove that it wouldn’t call anyone.

Then there was the “I’m sick” bit. Jinu played along. Got you soup. Got you a thermometer. Took your vitals. And then said, “Your temperature’s normal. But I like that you’re lying to me now instead of them.”

Cool. Love that. Humiliating and oddly comforting all in one.

You once attempted to sneak out during a fake nap. Blanket on the bed, shoes by the door, steps quiet.

Except… the second you reached for the handle, Mystery was just there. At the edge of the hallway, glowing yellow eyes behind his hair, munching on a grape like he’d expected it. He didn’t speak. Just growled low in his throat.

You went back to bed after that. Slowly. Carefully.

But escape isn’t the only thing you’ve been accidentally doing.

You’ve also been noticing things. Unfair, stupid things. Like the time you walked into the kitchen to grab water and Mystery was reaching up to the top shelf, shirt lifted, and he had insane fucking biceps. The veins. The stretch.

Or the time you were making tea and Romance wandered in, yawning, scratching his stomach, and half-singing a song under his breath and you realized his voice was better than Jinu’s. Not as trained. But raw. Sexy. Real.

The kind of voice that could sing you out of your clothes if he tried even a little bit.

(He did try. A lot. Constantly. But that’s another issue.)

You noticed that Abby stretches like a fucking gymnast and watches himself in the mirror doing it. He caught you watching once, smiled, and flexed harder. You didn’t even pretend not to look. What’s the point? He knows.

You noticed that Baby actually hums to himself when he thinks no one’s listening. Usually lullabies. Soft, strange things in a language you don’t know. Probably not human. And he’s never once acknowledged it.

The apartment’s big, but not big enough. There’s always someone in your space. Always brushing past you. Always invading. Romance flopping on your bed while you’re trying to read. Abby coming in while you shower “just to check if the temperature works.” Jinu folding laundry for everyone—including you—like it’s totally casual, even though you didn’t ask him to touch your underwear.

They treat the living room like… they don’t treat it. Empty ramen bowls from late-nights. The cat, all massive pounds of him, belly up on the dining table. Abby doing push-ups in doorways. Baby watching The Bachelor.

But despite all this, the weirdest thing is how… livable it’s become.

They don’t always get human things, but they’re trying.

They open doors for you. Bring you random things. Offer you pieces of fruit they’ve already bitten.

Maybe they don’t know how to be normal. But you’ve seen something in them that’s worse than evil.

Loneliness.

Romance jokes to hide it.

Abby flexes over it.

Mystery hides in shadows to avoid feeling it.

Baby? Baby pretends he doesn’t care.

Jinu stares at you like you’re the only human left worth knowing.

So yeah. You still sleep with your door locked.

But you’ve stopped hating them for what they are.

They’re not your friends. Not yet.

But maybe… maybe they don’t want to be your captors anymore, either.

That partly could be because captors don’t do shit like them.

For an example, once Baby had a whole ass ritual/summoning/sacrifice/fuckknowswhat in the living room. Like, the air shimmered black. The coffee table disappeared. The carpet started curling at the corners.

You blinked.

He blinked.

You: “I just wanted the remote.”

Baby: “It’s in the void now.”

Mystery walks in, nods like this is fine.

Abby walked in just to say “Yo—how do I get my protein bar back then???”

They laughed about that for three days. You’re still not sure if Baby got bored or if Jinu did something to stop the ritual. Either way, you’re pretty sure the bathroom mirror winks at you sometimes now.

Once Abby accidentally ripped your bedroom door off its hinges trying to “gently knock.”

It was 8 a.m. You were asleep. Then—BANG. The whole fucking door gone. His sheepish voice after: “My bad. Thought it was stuck.”

He did install a new door later. You caught him Googling “how to be useful when you fuck shit up.” It was… weirdly sweet.

Now that we’re talking about shit that happened, Jinu caught you crying over a baking fail once.

You tried to make banana bread. It didn’t rise. It cracked in weird places. You’d been feeling off all day and this—this stupid bread—was the final straw.

You stood there in the kitchen, eyes welling up, and Jinu just… walked over. No questions. Just grabbed a second bowl, a fresh set of bananas, and started making one beside you.

Didn’t say anything.

You sob-laughed and kept going.

His came out better. Of course. But he told everyone yours was his. Said he couldn’t eat his own cooking because it was “too good” and he’d “get arrogant.”

Liar. Beautiful, kind liar.

Also, Abby used you as a bench press weight.

You were lying on the couch. He walked over. Picked you up. Proceeded to bench press you. You just laid there. Limp. Exhausted.

Later, he asked you to spot him while he did pull-ups on the doorframe. “Just in case I fall. I won’t. But, you know. In case.”

He just wanted you close.

Also, they all dogpile when they wrestle.

Yes. Wrestle. Apparently, male demons are like teenagers.

Abby started it, of course. He always does. Tackled Romance in the hallway. Said something like, “You were staring at my girl’s ass too long.”

Romance: “You don’t even HAVE a girl.”

You, from the kitchen: “Please don’t do this.”

They did it anyway.

Mystery joined five seconds in, unprompted, launching from the stair railing like a fucking jungle cat.

Baby stood watching it for a whole minute, then shoved his boba in your hand and muttered, “Hold this.” before leaping into the mess, knocking Romance flat on his back.

You did not hold the boba.

You drank it.

Jinu is kind of above them in this perspective, because he doesn’t fight unless someone started it. Sure, he likes launching Baby into walls, but it doesn’t really happen if Baby doesn’t start harassing him in the first place.

Also, you learned Romance talks in his sleep.

And not just talks—whispers. Sweet things. Dirty things. “Touch me there, baby.” “You smell like flowers.” “Say my name again.”

Once you bought it up and, “You could’ve just joined in.” he said. “Missed opportunity.”

You have not been in the same room with him after 1 a.m. since.

The weird thing about demons is they don’t really hide when it’s just them. Not when they’re comfortable. Not when they feel safe. And unfortunately—for your sanity—they’re starting to feel very, very comfortable around you.

They’ve stopped trying so hard to pretend to be fully human, at least in the house.

It started small. A glimpse of color under the collarbone. A strange purple sheen curling down Abby’s back when he turned to grab a soda out of the fridge shirtless. Then a jagged streak down Romance’s hip bone.

The patterns, at first, just peeked out. Not enough to say anything. Not enough to ask.

Now they’re just walking around like it’s normal. Like you’re one of them.

And it’s not just the bodies.

It’s their faces.

Romance, who never gave a fuck about subtlety, started keeping his marks visible more often than not. Purple vines around his cheekbones, curling like smoke into his temple and under his jawline. It makes his flirty, slow-spoken words even worse. He knows he looks good with them on. He’s seen you glance—he lives for it.

“Does it bother you?” he asked one night. Shirt unbuttoned. Mark on his throat glowing slightly when he leaned against the doorway while you tried to do the dishes.

You didn’t answer. Because the real truth was: no, it didn’t bother you. Not even a little.

You caught Abby flexing in the hallway mirror with the markings all down his shoulders and arms. When he saw you looking, he turned a little, just so you could see his back. The marks crawled up his spine like claws. He didn’t say anything. Just winked. Held out his hand for you to trace one. You did. No questions. No words. Just touch.

Even Jinu had begun letting his slip. You noticed he wore low collars more often now.

You’d once caught Mystery sitting on the floor with the tiger curled in his lap and the marks pulsing across his throat like a heartbeat. He looked so calm—but so dark.

Baby hides them the least now. They cut across his pretty boy skin, sharp down his jaw, curling onto his hands. He rests his chin in his palm when you sit nearby, fingers twitching, tapping, eyes flicking to your legs.

They’ve stopped pretending for you. That’s what it is.

Now, take this. The apartment is quiet. It’s the middle of the night.

You like it best like this. The kitchen’s softly lit by the overhead stove lamp, and your little yogurt bowl is in your hands. A little honey, a handful of berries Jinu actually remembered to bring back (you didn’t even have to remind him twice, bless), and just a dusting of cinnamon. You stir it slowly, lazy, humming something under your breath as you lean against the counter.

It’s your moment.

It’s peace.

Which is exactly why Abby comes in, the wet slap of feet on tile. Shirtless and barefoot, towel low on his hips, still damp from the sauna or a shower, you can’t really tell. But what really catches you is him. His skin. It’s not just wet. It’s marked. The ones you’d been seeing on them lately.

Purple lines curl over his torso, glowing just faintly beneath the surface. One coiles down his collarbone. One across his ribcage. A few wrapped around his forearms. He’s technically in human form, but only technically. This isn’t fully mortal. This is… something between.

“Don’t stare, sweetheart.” he says, voice hoarse. “I’m shy.”

Your eyes trail up before you even think twice. Broad shoulders, sharp collarbone, water dripping down one bicep. Towel riding low, one V-line on proud display. The pulsing marks just highlighting all of this. He leans his elbows on the counter next to you.

“You’re not covering them tonight.” you say, nodding toward the patterns. Not accusing. Just curious.

He scoops your spoon right out of your hand and takes a bite from your bowl.

You don’t say anything about it.

You just… tilt your head, wait.

“They’ve been spreading.” he says after a moment, licking the spoon before sticking it right back in the bowl. “Last few decades. No big deal.”

You stare at the curve of one mark near his neck, curling around his collarbone. It’s not ugly. It’s almost beautiful, actually. Alive and crawling. You trace it with your eyes.

“How long?” you ask.

“Three hundred years, give or take.”

You let that sit. He does too.

And he eats another spoonful of your yogurt like it’s his god given right.

You glance at the bowl, then up at him.

“You know that was mine, right?”

He grins. Cocky. Wide. Unbothered. “You don’t mind though.”

…You really don’t.

He shifts, weight leaning in your direction now.

“They hurt?” you ask, soft, eyeing one that flickers faintly when he moves his arm.

He takes a breath through his nose. Considers.

“Nah. Not unless I fight too long. Or resist the shift.”

You can imagine that. Abby, purple lightning under his skin ready to snap. You’ve seen it, once or twice, the blur of the line between his human form and whatever lurks just beneath it.

You dip your spoon back into the yogurt. You let him keep eating it, not even bothering to reclaim it. He’d just take it again anyway.

“You don’t care I’m half-demon in your little kitchen?”

They started calling the kitchen your kitchen. Not in a sexist term, though it’s not far from them, but this time because it’s mostly you who spends the most time there. God, you’re sweet.

You blink at him. “I mean… you’re all demon. But also? It’s just yogurt, Abby.”

He laughs.

And just like that, he leans a little closer. Arm brushing yours now. Like you’re just… two people. You, and the demon boy covered in violet war paint, bare-chested and still dripping from his shower, your spoon in his mouth.

“You’re weird.” he says, eyes on you. “In a good way.”

“Mm.” you hum. “And you’re naked in the kitchen.”

“Towel counts.”

“If you say so.”

He grins again, like he’s proud of himself.

You hand him the bowl. Let him finish it. He lights up like a puppy.

And you just keep staring at those patterns. The ones that have been spreading for centuries. That he doesn’t even bother hiding tonight. That mean something deeper—something ancient and clawed and hungry—but right now, they’re just lines on a tired body, one that’s spent too long at war.

You don’t ask what they mean. You don’t have to.

Because here he is, a half-shifted demon, warm in the kitchen, stealing your yogurt and leaning against you.

You let him.

You absolutely do.

And you felt it—that moment where something should have happened. Should have escalated. Should have gone somewhere. But it didn’t. It just… hummed there. Buzzed between you, the tension.

And you knew what that meant.

“I’m going to bed.” you say simply.

He straightens just a bit, towel staying low, muscles flexing. “Wha—Now? But I just got here.” His voice is still cocky, still laced with teasing, but there is something under it. Something real and desperate that has no business being there.

You don’t even look at him when you walk away, just call back over your shoulder with a little smile, “It’s literally 2 a.m., Abby.”

“…Good night.”

Desperate. Not even whispered. Pushed out of him.

You stop. Not for long, just a beat. A hesitation. A pause that gives too much away.

You turn your head, not fully, just enough that he’d know you heard. That you’re not ignoring it. “Good night.”

You watch it hit him. Watch the stupid way his lips curl into something almost embarrassed, almost like pride. And for once, he doesn’t follow you. Doesn’t chase or push or flex one more time.

He just stands there in the kitchen, lit by the fridge light, with demon marks on his skin and your voice torturing his brain.

And as you walk back to your room and close the door behind you, you close your eyes too just long enough to admit to yourself that…

He’s… pretty.

You hadn’t let yourself really see it before. Not like this. Not when he wasn’t grinning like an idiot or flexing for attention or tackling Mystery for fun. Not when he was quiet, not when the glow of those demonic scars made him look like something painted by candlelight. Not when his voice cracked with something a little too genuine for a monster.

You crawl into bed, lights off, heart weirdly soft. Your sheets are cool against your skin, your pillow smelling faintly like the lavender water you sprayed when you first got here.

You’re supposed to hate them. Supposed to fear them.

And yet…

He’s pretty when he tries to be human.

They all are.

Amazing little memes made by someone I absolutely fucking adore but asked not to be tagged:

Love u baby💋

~ thank you for all the support! tags: @lasa27 @limerenceisserenity @zoeisdreaming6 @killinkiwi @xxying-yangxx @bubbleishiaaa @prettylittlelavvy @gl00muraaii @boo-shalala @stxrrielle @vixyvlo @ny0000mw00m @loreleis-world @mshope16 @littlemissfix-itfic @fandomhoedamien @spiderset @azzberry @aerrz3 @tatsuri-zomushiki @theferretkids @apelepikozume @scpdragon @justanindiangirl12 @fuevrois @soggumm @ri-eveowe @lucifers16ducks @elixua @xh01bri @greensunflowerjuna @valeriele3 @lovely-maryj @c0sm1cp0tat0 @wantstoliveinfantasy @i-am-here3 @naarra @confusedparticle @itsberrydreemurstuff @asphodeloss @x-w-a @nosbaby07 @prorpy @blobbyblobblobblobblob @ryukumi @ryuucollapse @rainbowcupcakes23 @nnasv @aika-3 @thegirloftheirdreams

[p1astr81]

Possessive Lando would also really hit the spot <3 you know for example, his hand on readers' throat when he wins, in front of everybody.. jesus

Lando wasn’t outwardly possessive. He didn’t drag you away from other guys or tell them to back off. He was more… casual with it.

He always had a hand on you, or two. His hand in yours while you walked side by side. Or in your lower back when he guided you through crowded spaces. And even around your waist when standing behind you. Just casual touches to let people know that you were his.

And then one day, right before the race, some hot shot actor decided he wanted to get to know you. Openly flirting with you. Lando could see it from a mile away, could see how you were hardly entertaining it, only enough to remain polite. Still, it irked him. Made his heart beat faster and his brain shut off all logical thinking.

Fiery steps carried him. Hot and quick. His arm was around your shoulders as soon as he reached you, pulling you into his chest. “Hey, babe,” the jealousy seeped through his fake smile.

You rolled your eyes in affection. “Hi, Lan.”

Lando eyed the guys shirt with disgust. The number forty-four. Red shirt. “Ferrari? You didn’t want to cheer for a winning team?”

The guy shook his head. “Would rather vote for someone who has at least one championship.”

Lando laughed in response, a sarcastic one. “Right. You have fun watching the race.”

“Thanks, I will. Hope you don’t crash. Again.”

“Ha, yeah…”

And with that, lando was dragging you away.

Another win to his records. Another trophy in the case. Glorious. Every bit of it. But he had a strange look on his face. Cocky grin, devilish look in his eyes, confident as he walked up to you.

“My god! Lan, that was-“

He cut you off as soon as he reached you. Not with more words but with his hand around your neck and his lips on yours. You hummed in shock. A peck you might’ve been able to predict but this…

His hand squeezed the sides of your throat lightly. Not enough to cut off your airways, but enough for you to feel the pressure.

And he was kissing you hard. Like he was trying to suck the air from your lungs or trying to memorize the shape of your lips with his.

When he pulled away and saw your stricken expression—eyes wide and mouth agape—he somehow got even more cocky. Then he moved on to celebrating with the team. Like nothing happened.

Later, while getting ready for bed, you asked him, “what was that kiss? After the podium?”

He grinned at the memory, cocky all over again. He shrugged. “Had to let everyone know you’re mine.”

Your jaw dropped first. Then you lobbied a pillow at him. “Oh my god! It was a show?!”

“No!” He protested quickly. “It was a very dramatic declaration of my love.”

Shaking your head, you scoffed a laugh. “Right. Yeah. Sure. It had nothing to do with that guy flirting with me.” You slipped under the sheets.

He joined you. “Oh, it definitely did.” He moved closer to you, wrapped his arm around you and pulled you closer. His lips hovered above yours. “He had to know he had no chance.”

“He never had a chance.” You giggled, and leaned up to kiss him.

[thatonegrimm]

HI! OKAY SO 🙏🏻✨

I heard you were taking requests Ψ( ｀▽´ )Ψ perhaps perhaps if you have the time and if you feel like its (no pressure ofc!) you could write something on the reader being obsessed with the saja boys ? (`･ω･´)

And like i mean obsessed obsessed 🙏🏻✨ not sasaeng level obsessed but like really weirdly into them type :DD

Take it however as you will ><!! You have full creative liberty and anything and all in between!!

Have a wonderful day!! Please don’t go bald!! /pos

（๑✧∀✧๑）✨

OKAY SO—this request?? Absolutely unhinged in the best possible way. 😭🙏🏻✨ “Not sasaeng, just… deeply weird about them” is such a specific and hilarious vibe and I LOVE it. Thank you for the request—and for the “don’t go bald” blessing LMAOO Here you go!💌

🌙The Reader Is... Weirdly Into the Saja Boys

 You’re not a sasaeng. You’re just very dedicated to loving your boys.…They’re not ready.

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

🧿 Jinu

You didn’t mean for him to find it.

He was looking for a phone charger. Opened the wrong drawer. Then another. Then—

“What… is this?”

You froze.

It was the Jinu drawer.

Inside: Printed photos, a miniature plushie that suspiciously resembled him, a labeled ziplock bag with "Jinu's tissue (used???)", and a handwritten tag that said “Blue is your color 🥺💙” in glitter pen.

He turned slowly to look at you. “Is this… evidence?”

You choked. “It’s a scrapbook!”

He held up a sticker sheet with cartoon versions of him saying ‘you’re doing amazing sweetie.’

You grabbed it. “That’s limited edition!”

He was blushing. Hard. “You… really like me.”

You panicked. “Don’t flatter yourself. I also have a drawer for Abby—”

“WHAT?!”

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

💪 Abby

You ask casually, “So you’re doing chest and back today, right?”

Abby freezes mid-sip of protein shake. “How’d you know that?”

You blink. “You alternate it with arms and core. You did legs Monday, so it’s obvious.”

He stares.

You continue: “Also you always play the same playlist when you’re squatting. Something about training like a dragon king?”

“…Are you tracking my workouts?”

You shrug. “I like knowing what you’re doing.”

He blushes. “Babe. That’s weird. And also… kinda flattering? But mostly weird.”

Later, you text him:

YOU GOT THIS 💪✨ BE THE DRAGON KING

He doesn’t respond.

But you do hear him whisper it before his next deadlift.

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

📚 Mystery

He casually mentions a bad vibe in the morning and you immediately say:

“Oh, was it a reversed Ten of Swords again?”

He freezes.

“…How do you know that?”

You look away. “I don’t.”

“You do.”

You fumble. “Maybe I have a… tracking spreadsheet.”

“A what?”

He flips open your notebook. Finds tabs labeled ‘Mystery’s Mood Swings,’ ‘Card Pull History,’ and ‘Cursed Thursdays.’

He looks at you. No judgment. Just mild awe.

“You’ve been keeping records?”

“I just wanna understand you better,” you mumble.

He closes the book slowly. Sets it down.

“…You’re terrifying,” he says softly. “I think I like it.”

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

💋 Romance

Romance stumbles across your notebook by accident. Not a journal. Not a planner.

A fic notebook.

Labeled:

“My Demon BF, Romance 💋 AU #3: CEO of Hell, Softboy on Weekends”

He opens it.

Reads.

Keeps reading.

Reads some more.

“…You made me a CEO?” he says, breathless.

You die inside. “Give that BACK—”

“*Wait—*I have a motorcycle?!”

You lunge for it. He sidesteps with the grace of someone who’s just realized he’s the star of a fictional masterpiece.

“Oh my GOD,” he gasps. “You gave me a tragic backstory and a dual-colored eye?!”

“STOP READING—”

“Do I have a scar? Please tell me I have a scar.”

You scream into a pillow.

He clutches the notebook to his chest.

“I would die for this version of me.”

He does not let you delete it.

Ever.

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

🔥 Baby

You have a fan account.

Not a stan account.

A burner. Under a fake name.

@ hellfirebaby96.

You post daily updates. Edits. Speculation threads. Fan theories about his demon mark. You once made a thread titled:

“25 Reasons Why Baby Could Beat Satan in a Fistfight”

It went viral.

One day, Baby walks into the room while you’re making a post. He leans over. Squints.

“…Are you talking about me?”

You immediately close the app.

He stares.

“Did you just... write a 4k caption on why I’d ‘turn Hell into a ramen shop out of spite?’”

“…no?”

He grins. Too wide. “So you’re the reason my hashtags are insane.”

You blink. “You’re not mad?”

He pulls out his phone and follows your account.

Then reposts your thread with:

“#26: I’d do it to impress her.”

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

M-List

[n0rmal-cat]

Kpop demon hunters x reader- selling your soul for job experience Part 2

[i wrote more but a friend said to cut it off here and save the rest for part 3 which ill post tomorrow]

part 1 part3 part 4

They made a deal for their soul, they made a deal for their soul-

How did this mess even happen? And why on earth did they sell their souls in exchange for babysitting five idiots?! 

Apparently, they were meant to be the manager, but considering they could barely manage their own life, the thought of doing it for this bunch seems unlikely.

“So what exactly do you need me to do?” reader stood in front of the biggest couch they had ever seen, it was definitely bigger than their old apartment that's for sure. "You guys need like some water or snacks?"

"Water," the mint one raised his hand. He held a water bottle in his hand, but reader just guessed he was a really thirsty guy.

“Listen, whatever your name is,” the one with black hair said, casually nudging them with a hand on their back. “You don’t have to do anything-why don't you sit back and enjoy the ride?” a playful smile on his face.

“But I thought I was supposed to-“

“Don’t worry about Jinu,” the pink-haired one waved dismissively. “He’s just a little flustered after Gwi-ma asked you to be our manager. Why don’t you come sit by us? We’ll keep you company,” he beckoned, patting the seat beside him with a warm smile.

“Weren't you the one who said you wanted to eat my soul while I slept?” They pointed a finger at him, confused knitting their brow.

He chuckled, a hint of mischief in his eyes. “Guilty~”

Jinu let out a sigh. He grabbed reader 's chin with his claws, "Please, dear, won't you let me take the reins? I’ll buy you some food, huh, that’s what everyone wants, hm, a cute boy buying you food.”

Reader looks into his face strangely, “ya what?” 

He tried to smirk again, seemingly trying to look flirtatious but failing miserably.

“Ahg, never mind, we need to figure out our stage names,” Jinu said, pulling his Playboy mask off. “Ah, Mystery, Abs, Romance, and Baby!” he said to each of them respectively.

Mystery shrugged in nonchalance, Abs wore a puzzled expression, Romance beamed with enthusiasm, and Baby simply sipped on water, unimpressed by the unfolding drama.

“Stage name? Wait, what exactly are you guys doing? What am I the manager of” reader asked.

‘Ab’s’ leaped to his feet. “Oh! We’re a ‘demon idol group’ Jinu’s plan is brilliant! Just listen, we’ll become the biggest group out there, steal all the hunters fans, and then throw an epic feast!”

And of course now they knew that 'feast' meant eating half the population's souls, I mean, hey, at least that didn't include them since they didn't really have a soul anymore...

“The hunters? There are demon hunters, are they like YouTuber ghost hunters?”  This whole thing was just confusing reader even more than it already was.

“Please stop,” he rubbed his forehead. “Look, are we all ok with our names?” he looked around the room, annoyed.

Mystery shrugged, “It's fine…”

“Well, I, for one, absolutely love my name! It perfectly encapsulates everything I am,” Romance beamed, a playful smile lighting up his features. “Yeah, thanks for naming me ‘Baby.’ That’s so creative! Do you want a reward?” he teased, batting his eyes dramatically, which soon turned into a scowl.

“And what about you?” Jinu directed his gaze toward Abs.

“Ah, no, I’m not a fan of my name! Abs isn’t even a good name! Can’t I choose something cool? Like ‘Guns!’” He flexed his arms proudly, showcasing his muscles. Romance clapped his hands in enthusiastic support. “I think ‘abs’ is a cute name! Oh, you could even go by ‘Abby’”

With a wide grin, he wrapped an arm around the reader, radiating happiness. “Haha, yes! Maybe Gwi-ma was right about you!”

Jinu furrowed his eyebrows. "Okay, let’s move on... Our first single, ‘Soda Pop,’ is written! All we need to do now is work on the choreography, and we’ll be set for our debut," he held out papers with the lyrics on them.

Reader quickly skimmed through them. "So, did you mean to write it in a way where it sounds like you want to eat their souls or?"

"Oh no, I very much did, I find it quite funny humans don't know anything." he let out a small laugh.

"Ah..Wait, you don’t want a name?” the reader asked, genuinely curious.

“My name is Jinu,” he replied, confused.

 “No, I mean your stage name! Maybe something like Raven? Because of your hair!” the reader suggested, half-jokingly.

"Oh yeah, I knew that, phh." he clutched the papers in his hands, a darker purple on his face, before walking away slowly. “I’m gonna go…back to my room now, haha bye…bye..”

The room descended into an awkward silence, broken only by Baby's frustrated outburst. “Oh, so he gets to keep his name, but I’m just called Baby?” he spat, irritation evident in his tone.

“Relax, you know Jinu just wants to hold on to everything that makes him human while he still can,” Romance tried to calm Baby.

“Oh, don’t give me that nonsense! What? Do we not want to keep our humanity, too? It feels like we don’t get anything from this shitshow, I want my curse gone to ya know!” Baby shot back, his voice escalating.

“Please, your curse is nothing compared to the rest of ours!” Abby glared, her expression fierce. In a fit of anger, Baby clutched his water bottle so tightly that the top popped open, splashing mystery.

Just like that, a full-blown argument erupted among the four of them, the ground seemed to shake by the sheer volume of them. 

Reader put their arms up to block their face. These guys were gonna have fans? They could barely communicate without starting a fight.

“Hey!” Six angry yellow eyes suddenly glared back at them, fierce and unyielding. “I—” they almost struggled to keep their composure. Were they really going to do this? I mean, they had already agreed to a death wish, so what was the harm?

“Do you guys really think you can maintain a fanbase with those attitudes? You can barely string together two words before one of you starts yelling!” the reader exclaimed.

"And also, how are you even going to be idols, news flash, you guys are purple!" They let out a sigh as they finished.

Baby was the first one to smile. “Well, would you look at that, the manager knows how to manage,” he chuckled letting go of Abby’s hair.

Romance crossed his arms, a frown on his face. "But they’re right. If we go out looking like this, people will definitely stare, but it won’t win us any fans,” he said

“Can’t you guys just disguise yourselves as humans? I mean, we’re in this whole building, right?” Reader gestured dramatically to the apartment.

“That was Gwi-ma’s idea, not ours,” Addy replied, shaking his head. “We can disguise ourselves, sure, but it takes a lot of energy.”

“Especially when dancing,” mystery replied.

Reader glanced between them, a smirk forming as a lightbulb moment clicked. “Well, I mean, you guys are strong demons, aren’t you? Jinu picked you for a reason,” they said, wrapping an arm affectionately around Addy and Romance.

“You’re just as bad at flirting as Jinu,” Abby nodded at Romance's words.

“I’m trying to encourage you…” Reader shot back, forcing the words through clenched teeth.

A moments later and the same pink smoke appeared again this time relieving them in human form.

It was a little rusty, and you would see their patterns or eyes change for a split second, but overall it was good.

“Not bad, actually really good”

The only issue was… “We’re gonna need to do something about those clothes, though. Don’t get me wrong, the matching black outfits are great, but they’re just not… hmm, boy band-y?” Reader put a hand under their chin in thought

“So what do you suggest, oh great manager?” Baby asked rolling his eyes.

“Me? You’re letting me decide on your outfits?” Reader blinked with a mix of surprise and excitement.

“Well, we would have asked Jinu, but he’s not. Here right now.”

“He’s also like four hundred years old,” Romance added with a playful roll of his eyes.

“I would love to help, but I feel like I’d have to hear you guys perform the song first,” Reader said, genuinely excited. Who knew selling your soul could lead to a makeover montage? 

“You heard them let’s go find Jinu!” Abby punched the air. Like a pack of marching ants, they fell in line as they went to find Jinu.

“Jinu, we're pumped up and ready to dance~” Abby half sang.

They stopped at a door marked with a nameplate that read ‘Jinu’. Abby reached for the handle, only to find it locked. “Locked…” The group exchanged a few glances.

“Ha!” Abby kicked the door down.

“What is wrong with you?! You didn’t even knock!” Jinu yelled from his bed at a giant blue thing by his side. “And why do you all look like that?”

“Reader suggested we use these disguises because we’d blend in better, but now we need clothes, and they can't give us any without seeing us perform,” Addy explained, glancing back at Reader.

“We haven’t even practiced our choreography yet? And I was going to dress us, clothes aren’t that hard to understand guys”

“Wrong!” Reader screamed, stepping forward. “Fashion is incredibly complex! There are so many factors to consider when choosing what to wear.” 

With determination shining in their eyes, Reader pushed to the front. “So perform for me so I can help you pick the best outfits possible!” Were they being too much? "Please..."

"Yeah, come on, Jinu, let's go, you're the one with all the musical talent." Romance nudged baby, who rolled his eyes. "Jinu, we're already in these forms, just perform the song with us already."

He got up from his bed, making the blue thing turn alongside him, “Come along, Derpy.”

Romance put a hand to their ear “that’s her you encourage someone” he said whispering.

But reader was focused on something much more important.

A very big cat is the only thing reader could think of as they watch it walk past them. “I need that.”

“What?” one of the boys replied, looking puzzled. “What?”

Finally, Jinu stood before them in his human form, just like the others, they were ready to perform their practice performance.

“Just count down from three, then hit the button,” Jinu instructed.

“Got it, and one, two, three go!” Reader pressed the play button 

Settling down next to Derpy, they found themselves bobbing their head to the hypnotic beat that filled the room. The music was undeniably fun, and the boys' voices were surprisingly harmonious. Well, considering they were demons, it made sense performing was kind of their specialty.

“Wha!” reader had to duck down so they wouldn't get hit by the flying pink heart. Derpy tilted his head slowly.

As the music came to an end, the boys posed in perfect synchronization. “There, do you have everything you need now?” Jinu stepped toward the reader, his brow glistening with sweat, clearly trying to maintain composure despite them all looking like shit.

“Actually, yes! Oh, and you guys can change back now!” The moment the words left their lips, all of them let out a relieved sigh as they morphed back into their original forms.

“Now, how am I going to get these clothes? It’s not like I have any money,” the reader thought aloud. “Does Gwi-ma have a credit card or something?”

Juni wiped the sweat from his forehead and handed them a card, his expression earnest. “I won’t disappoint you!” reader exclaimed, rushing out of the room with determination.

“Gahhh, I need some water,” Baby groaned, doubling over and placing his hands on his knees, clearly feeling the effects of their hard work.

[sortagaysortahigh]

Slim Pickins | Joaquin Torres x Reader

A/N: omg guys im so glad ts is over, yall know I love reading fluff but writing fluff is a whole other ballgame for me. However, i had fun writing most of this, very dialogue heavy, friends to lovers/idiots in love, love confessions, all that jazz! Plus my comedic timing is here, idk if its funny tho ngl i might be rereading sections too often. Thank you to chicken @love-chx for beta-ing this for me, i love u chicken <3. Also tagging @anxietyandtacos bc casserole is my biggest supporter in my shitshow writing and i love her <3

Summary: Every Friday for the past few months you've been going on shitty dates, and at this rate, you're convinced that you're either ending this life alone or settling for another douchebag. You can't find a genuinely good guy, it's not like there's one right in front of you or something!

Warnings: 2nd person POV, might be use of y/n honestly i cant remember, Spelling and grammar errors (I am who I am), cursing, mentions of violence, reader does throw things at people, self-deprecating humor and 'I'm gonna kms' humor, reader has a shitty love life, SAMBUCKY SUPREMACY WOOO (implied sambucky intimacy <3), reader does threaten to murder joaquin a few times but it's fine!! they're friends!! SMUT: nasty kissing/makeouts, choking, minor spanking, MATING PRESS WOOOHOO!! (not too detailed), giggly sex, unprotected p in v, creampie, cum eating, squirting, fingering, oral (f receiving), handjobs, spitting, drooling, biting/bruising/hickies, praise, finger sucking

Word Count: 20.1k

Joaquin Torres x Fem!Reader

Ngl guys, I NEED THATT BARK BARK BARK BARK!!!!!, anyways heres the fic:

Every Friday night ended in the same repetitive cycle of disappointment for you, and somehow, someway, you managed to continue the cycle over and over again. 

It was a simple routine, you’d spend the week talking to some random guy from some shitty dating app, or maybe you’d meet him in a random store, at the movies, hell, even a few guys from the Air Force base! You’d text, with the occasional phone call or Facetime sprinkled in. From there they’d ask when you were free, the reply was always ‘this Friday works for me’ because it was your only genuine day off.

From there they’d plan some lackluster date, and of course, like an idiot, you’d go. The date would be horrible from start to finish, they typically fell into three broad categories: The Narcissists, The Idiots, and The Wanna-be heroes. 

Those that fell into the third category were always the worst, mainly because they were overly full of themselves while simultaneously empathetic. It made zero sense to you, then they’d go on long winded tangents about how admirable the work you did was, or how amazing it would be to work side-by-side with heroes like Captain America and the Falcon. Then, after your third attempt of drowning their non-stop talking out with a drink, they’d subtly try to ask for a connection to Sam Wilson or Joaquin Torres.

As if you were the walking LinkedIn for hero networking.

You preferred to listen to the Narcissists constantly talk about themselves while trying to gaslight you into liking and sleeping with them. 

Maybe Joaquin was right and you really were a walking douchebag magnet. 

Tonight was no different, you’d gotten dressed up, opting to gaslight yourself into thinking that maybe things would be different, or the date would be enjoyable, or at the very least you’d get an ounce of good sex for the first time in months. It wasn’t as if there were a million and one options; genuinely good men weren’t actively lining up at your doorstep begging for a chance to take you on a date.

Of course, you’d been on a few dates with guys that seemed as if they were truly good for you and you’d even tried dating some consistently. However, around the one or two month mark, something would click into place and the potential relationship blew up in your face.

There was the guy who’d just finished veterinary school, he had a great relationship with his family, shared a lot of the same ideologies and beliefs as you, loved animals, spent his off-days doing volunteer work, and even knew how to actually do his own taxes. 

Everyone had faith in him—Joaquin and Sam had even nicknamed him ‘the tax guy’. 

Then he’d gotten black out drunk after a concert with you and vented about how much he missed his ex-girlfriend while simultaneously forgetting that you were his current fling. He’d even mentioned that the only reason he really liked you was because you were pretty and the fact that you shared a birthday with his ex so ‘it had to be a sign that she would come back’.

Plus he also said you gave great blowjobs. But that was neither here nor there.

To make matters worse, you had to call his emergency contact to pick him up from your apartment. That emergency contact just happened to be his ex-girlfriend.

To say you had a terrible dating history was an understatement.

Yet here you are, glaring at your own reflection and questioning every second that led up to being stood up in a lackluster fake Italian restaurant in the middle of Washington DC. The drinks were overpriced, you were practically stranded, and the straw that broke the camel's back was your server having the nerve to leave his number on the back of your receipt while he tried to ‘comfort’ you after watching you get stood up.

Said server didn’t look a day older than eighteen, and that was pushing it.

So you did what any responsible twenty-something year old woman would do. You yelled at him, practically screaming at the top of your lungs, made a scene, and then raced to the restroom to look at your angry blurry reflection.

The fitted black dress felt too tight, your heels felt too small, the restaurant was too hot, your skin felt sticky, and your bra was digging into your back to the point that you wanted to cry tears of frustration—not to mention your thong had shrunken in the dryer and was currently clinging to your hips to the point that you were convinced you’d get a rug burn. The icing on the cake. however. was the sound of ‘Rather Be’ by Clean Bandit playing over the bathroom speakers. 

This had to be your personal hell.

It wasn’t long until you were calling someone to pick you up. You sat outside for nearly twenty minutes on top of a random pile of crates that were left outside of the restaurant. The humidity left your hair frizzy and skin moist while you debated on running into moving traffic to end your misery.

Well, you were until a very familiar motorcycle pulled up in front of you. So familiar that you had to do several double takes to process who exactly was on the bike.

Then Joaquin took his helmet off, shaking his head like a dog fresh out of water, and if you had half a mind to actually consider your best friend attractive, then in that moment you would’ve realized that several women walking out of the restaurant stopped to gawk at him, one so drunk that she’d even whistled at him and proceeded to attempt to cat call him.

Sure you noticed them, but it hadn’t ever fazed you. Joaquin was objectively an attractive guy, but you saw him as your friend.That was that. 

It wasn’t as if one day you’d wake up and figure out that you were utterly in love with the guy that had to ask his own mother to make him ‘less spicy’ versions of traditional Mexican dishes.

Joaquin flashed the crowd of women a smile and a wink, but before they could approach him, you practically rushed through the crowd with your jaw clenched, looking like the epitome of irritation.

“Jesus Christ, Cabezona, you look like shit.” He smiled as he spoke, eyes quickly taking your disheveled appearance in. Then he glanced behind you at the few women still looking in his direction, debating on asking for one of their numbers while you pulled the extra helmet out, mumbling a series of curse words under your breath.

“Yeah, no shit. How the hell did you get Buck’s bike?” 

He blinked a few times before looking back at you and nodding. “Oh uh—he’s staying with Sam right now, and I was there when you called me. He said it’d be faster than taking my truck. Besides, I look pretty damn sexy on it, don’t I?” He elbowed you, wiggling his eyebrows up and down while you scoffed.

“Whatever you say, Quino—” Then you paused, now glancing at him, noticing he was looking past you towards the women near the entrance into the shitty restaurant. Then you slowly nodded “—I’m totally cock blocking you aren’t I? Oh my god, Quino! Go—flirt or something, tell them I’m your cousin or something!” 

Joaquin laughed, shaking his head while looking back at you. For a second there was something else in his expression—something you didn’t recognize. But the second you noticed it, it was gone.

“It’s alright, Cabezona. Now c’mon, Bucky’s gonna kill me if I’m not back with this baby in the next half hour. He’s doing paperwork or something with Sam, y’know after Sam’s whole ‘I’m gonna sue you’ fiasco. Now get on the bike.”

You rolled your eyes at him, shoving him lightly before pulling the helmet on.You glanced down at your dress, shaking your head before struggling to get on the bike without flashing the entire street.

It took a few minutes, and several curse words, alongside grasping onto Joaquin’s side—grip practically bruising as you attempted to slide your dress down lower while your legs practically clung to the sides of the bike. 

“If I flash D.C. my ass, you think people would respect me more?” 

He glanced back at you as he pulled the helmet on, a muffled ‘nope’ leaving his lips.

Then you were instinctively grasping onto his waist, helmet-clad face pressed into his shoulder while you squeezed your eyes shut. It wasn’t your first time on a motorcycle, but you hated it nonetheless. 

You met Sam and Bucky through Clint Barton. It wasn’t exactly the most pleasant meeting, not when Clint had actively tried to kill you during his assassin era, but after managing to clear your name and cut ties with several illegal weapons dealers and mafia-based families worldwide, you needed a job.

That job practically landed in your lap about four years ago when Sam had called Clint for a favor, and you just happened to be exactly what he was looking for. Someone well versed in weapon’s mechanics with enough global intel to land you in the Raft for life. It was a no-brainer to work for Sam Wilson.

Working for Captain America meant you weren’t a criminal, and that was enough to get you to say yes. Then with Sam came Bucky Barnes. Truthfully, you had a theory that anyone who held the shield at one point came with Bucky, even if it was reluctantly. 

You and Bucky bonded fairly quickly, and in a lot of ways, he was like a father to you. Which was odd at first because you’d never had a great relationship with your biological dad, and prior to meeting the former Winter Soldier turned Congressman, you admittedly stated on several occasions that you would’ve fucked him.

However, you would not do that now—you weren’t into the freaky things that Sarah Wilson’s dark romance bookshelf held. Hell, you tried getting into that genre of romance novels, but the second Sarah handed you something by Penelope Douglass, you read three chapters and silently returned the book, opting to re-read Lord of the Rings for the fifth time. 

It’s safe to say you also silently judged Sarah, but then again, when you had nowhere else to go after being practically stranded in Louisiana with Sam, she gave you her couch and for that, you’d forever be grateful—even if she did read kinky freaky books. 

Joaquin laughed at the way you held onto him, and admittedly, it made his heart race a little bit. He always had moments like these, moments when you were a little too physically close for comfort, moments that would tear down the facade that you and him were just friends. That he only wanted to be your best friend, that you weren’t more than that to him.

But he knew you didn’t see him that way, and it didn’t bother him. For the most part, he never really thought about it—but it always crept up on him when he least expected it.

However, the second the bike was parked in the garage under Sam’s building and you practically fell off of it as you attempted to get off, Joaquin was easily snapped out of those thoughts. Now, he was focused on holding his own abdomen as he doubled over in laughter, meanwhile you were leaning against the side of Sam’s suburban, hands braced against the windows while you held yourself up with a panicked expression and unruly hair.

“Stop fucking laughing at me! I’ve had a shitty night, Torres!” You glared at him as you regained your footing, now smoothing out the dress and pointing a singular manicured finger at him.

He nodded a few times, catching his breath while holding in laughs, doing his best not to smile at you as you stormed towards the garage elevators. Arms crossed in front of your chest while you waited for him to catch up—the key fob being the only thing that would get the elevators to actually work.

It took him a few seconds to catch up to you, offering a wide smile while he scanned Sam’s spare key then hit the button for the elevator.

“So, what happened with this guy, uh, the electrician?” 

You scoffed. “No, the electrician was last week’s idiot. This week’s idiot just happened to be mister tortured artist with an obsession with Instagram. Completely stood me up at that shitty restaurant that he recommended. I got like 4 drinks, cost me like thirty bucks, then mister barely old enough to serve alcohol hit on me.” 

Joaquin’s eyes widened, lips rolling inward as he tried not to laugh, he noticed the way you sighed, shoulders slouching lower as you shook your head.

“Laugh. I know you want to—go ahead. Sam’s gonna laugh—he always does. Just let it out now, and the usual ‘I told you so’, I’m all ears.”

The elevator opening caught both of your attention, and he motioned for you to enter first. So you did, then he followed suit before pressing Sam’s floor number. As the doors shut he glanced back over at you, raising a single brow at the sight of you pulling several bobby pins out of your previously curled hair, now it was more of a frizzy disaster.

You held them between your teeth as you took bits and pieces out of the half-up, half-down style you’d spent far too long on. To make matters worse, the heat damage wasn’t even worth it—the asshole you’d gotten all dressed up for didn’t even show up! 

Joaquin held his hand out in front of your mouth, you easily dropped the pins into his palm, then you started handing them to him as you pulled each individual one out of your hair.

“How many are in there?” he looked down at his hand then back at you, slightly concerned.

“Beauty is pain—that’s why my thong is so far up my ass I might be getting a free fucking colonoscopy.” 

Your serious tone had his eyes widening in horror, then he processed your words, and the laughter that he’d previously swallowed down bubbled out. You shook your head at him, still dropping bobby pins into his hand as you rolled your eyes. Meanwhile his laughter echoed off of the metal elevator walls.

Eventually the two of you made it back to Sam’s apartment, your hair now framing your face in an awkward frizzy afro of sorts. But you knew Sam had hair ties somewhere in his apartment for his dates, so you’d just steal from his stash.

When you walked in, both Sam and Bucky paused. They had the perfect view to the front door, watching as you walked in, kicking your heels off with a frustrated pout, meanwhile Joaquin held the door open for you, then followed you inside before locking it behind him.

Sam and Bucky exchanged a singular look. Both struggled to understand how you and Joaquin could be so close and not see one another romantically. It made absolutely no sense to them, you were perfect for one another. Yet somehow, every Friday you went on terrible dates and Joaquin was always the shoulder you’d cry on after the fact.

“So, how was the plumber?”

You scoffed at Sam, glaring at him the second you managed to get the heels fully off of your feet, then you walked into his kitchen, thankful for the open floor plan. Everyone watched as you rummaged through the fridge, finally finding the bottle of mango lemonade that Sam always kept stocked in his fridge for you.

Several months ago you’d forced him to buy one, and now it was a habit.

You were quick to grab a glass from the cabinet beside the fridge, pouring yourself some juice while mumbling a jumbled mixture between English, Russian, and Spanish curse words.

First you took a drink, then you spun around, looking at them.

“It was terrible! That idiot stood me up! What the fuck?” 

Bucky slowly nodded, looking from the tablet in his hand to you. “Have you ever considered that maybe you should take a break from the DC dating scene, I don’t think it’s ever done you any justice. Or just delete the apps. I hear they’re terrible.” 

“Have I considered taking a break from dating? Well Grandpa, I have actually because no matter what the fuck I do, everyone just fucking sucks! What the hell is this? Some shitty rom com from the 90s?!” You were shouting now, frustration evident on your features while you gripped the cup in your hand so tightly that everyone was afraid it would shatter.

When no one replied, you groaned, putting the glass down on the countertop then storming to Sam’s guest room. 

He just watched from his seat on the sofa, shaking his head at you. “Torres, make sure she doesn’t burn my place down.” 

Joaquin nodded at Sam, following after you, only to find you rummaging through the drawer that had his own clothes in it. There had been several nights when he had to stay with Sam because of work, and of course, following his accident last year, he wasn’t exactly able to live alone—so he stayed with Sam for a while.

That led to him having several clothing items here, clothing items which you were currently going through like a madman. He shook his head at your frustrated expression, slowly approaching you, then grasping both of your wrists and carefully pulling them away.

“Cariño, calm down and go take a shower. I’ll find you something to wear.”

You let out a frustrated sigh, nodding your head.

It wasn’t as if you were genuinely upset, you didn’t feel the need to cry or anything of that nature. But you were just overwhelmed, and everything was bothering you to the point that you couldn’t even think straight. 

Somehow Joaquin always knew how to ground you, it was as if his presence alone was enough to calm you down. 

While you showered, he looked through the options, settling on a pair of loose sweats, and a Twilight shirt that you’d gotten him with the words ‘Chica where have you been loca?’ on it surrounding a heart with Jacob Black’s face in it. The clothes had been oversized because after his accident that’s all he could really wear, so he knew it wouldn’t bother you the way your dress did.

He slipped into the steamy bathroom and placed the pile of clothes onto the counter, then let himself out.

By the time that you’d gotten out of the shower and gotten dressed, he managed to make himself comfortable on the bed, gaze focused on his phone while he mindlessly scrolled through TikTok, even giggling to himself at the random thirst-traps and edits people made of him—Joaquin would be a liar if he said he wasn’t deep in the ‘Joaquin Torres edits’ and the ‘The Falcon edits’ hashtags.

He liked to watch the videos people made of his clips from press releases, interviews, and the occasional interaction he’d have during his daily life. Not only did it fuel his ego, but it also made him feel like what he did mattered—and of course it was nice to know people found him attractive enough to comment things like ‘bark bark’ and ‘my legs are wide open rn’.

As you walked out of the bathroom in his clothes, you focused on braiding your slightly damp hair, you’d done your best to not get it wet in the shower, knowing that once it was wet that would be a whole other world of issues.

Meanwhile, Joaquin shifted onto his side, gaze now on you. “You feel better now?” 

You nodded your head at him, opting to walk around to the other side of the bed before plopping down beside him. Once you finished with your braids you laid down, pulling the comforter over your body while turning to face him.

“I think my love life is utterly hopeless…I’m sorry for yelling earlier, I was overwhelmed and I felt like my clothes were actively trying to murder me.”

Joaquin laughed at you, nodding his head as he turned to face you now, his phone still in hand playing the most recent edit. Your brows knit together at the song playing from his phone, and before he could fully process what you were doing, you’d already snatched the phone from him.

Your jaw dropped at the sight of the video of him taking off Bucky’s helmet, clearly at a gas station. Then the beat dropped and several different clips of him biting his lip in interviews started playing, one transitioning into the next and so on.

His eyes widened, a rosey flush overtaking his features. 

“Seriously Quino! You’re over here watching edits of yourself! Oh my god! Wait do you save them into a folder—wait back up—!” you were laughing and giggling as he tried to snatch the phone from you, but you quickly tossed the blanket onto him, then used your legs to push him back slightly before rolling over and hopping off the bed.

While you moved you also went into his TikTok bookmarks, eyes widening at the several different folders, some labeled with emojis, others pertaining to workouts, a few having to do with places to visit, then there was a folder labeled ‘Cariño’ but you didn’t look at that one. Instead you focused on the one with the eagle emoji.

Then you looked back at him, watching as he practically jumped off of the bed. 

“Don’t you dare!” 

You shook your head at him, a wide smile on your face. “You do save them don’t you!” Then you flashed him his phone, now opening the folder, the several videos buffering through, and in the few seconds that you’d let your guard down, Joaquin was practically tackling you back onto the bed, now you were stretching your arm as far away as possible while attempting to shove him off. 

The mixture of your laughter and his practically bouncing off of the walls while you both rolled around the bed, then eventually you managed to pin him down, catching your breath as you held both of his arms above his head with one of your arms, straddling his waist, while you held his phone in hand.

Before either of you had a chance to process the position, the door to the bedroom opened, and Bucky stared at the both of you with wide eyes, his lips parted while he tried to process what he walked in on.

“Jesus Christ Sam, they’re about to have se-” before he finished his sentence, Joaquin’s phone was hitting him directly in the abdomen and Bucky practically doubled over as he choked on his words. Then you quickly got off of Joaquin, heat enveloping your features while you tried to process what you’d just done to Bucky.

Joaquin sat up quickly, blinking several times as he took in the sight of you rushing over to Bucky who was gripping his abdomen with his vibranium arm. Meanwhile Joaquin’s phone was now on the floor face down, but Ride by Sir-Mix-A-Lot was playing in the background.

“Bucky I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to throw it, I just reacted! Oh my god! Sam’s gonna kick my ass! Jesus this is it, I assaulted a congressman now I’m going to the Raft!” 

You were panicking while Bucky slowly stood up, nodding his head and catching his breath.

“Anyone ever told you that you have a strong arm, kid? You ever played softball?” 

You shook your head at Bucky’s question. Brows knit together as you tried to shrug off the shame and embarrassment of practically hurling Joaquin’s phone directly at Bucky all because you didn’t want him to finish his sentence. 

“You’re not going to the Raft for hitting me with his phone. Speaking of—” he squatted down to pick it up, eyes widening at the video playing before handing it to you, awkwardly clearing his throat before leaving the room.

You slowly turned to look at Joaquin who looked equally, if not even more mortified than you. Then you showed him the specific edit playing, a compilation of Joaquin shirtless when he played in a charity basketball tournament. 

“Y’know what, at least one of us is having a better day Cariño. Now, can you please, give me my phone back and stop judging me for supporting my supporters!” 

You blinked a few times. “I think this makes you a little narcissistic, y’know. Or at the very least, chronically online. Now Buck is gonna tell Sam about this entire situation—Jesus Christ, he thinks we were borderline fucking! Oh my god, this is mortifying for me!” 

Joaquin sat up, raising a single brow, slightly offended.

“Would it really be that terrible? Damn, just call a guy ugly why don’t you?”

You blinked a few times, now looking over at him, tilting your head to the side as your eyes trailed him. “You’re not ugly though, actually—wait nevermind. Not important, what’s important is I have to live knowing I hurled your phone at James Buchanan Barnes! He’s like a dad to me! I just assaulted my pseudo-dad!” 

He laughed at your panicking, lips rolling inward as you glared at him, throwing his hands up in a surrendering motion as he got off of the bed. “Listen sweetcheeks, you’ll be fine! Besides, if anything, Sam’s just gonna make awkward eye contact with us for a few days, and that’ll be it! It’s not like we’re actually having sex.”

You nodded at that, now handing him his phone as he walked towards you. Then you let out a deep sigh, opening the guest bedroom door again and grimacing as you walked back out.

The both of you silently walked back into the living room, sitting beside one another on the loveseat, both mirroring the same awkward expression and tense shoulders the second Sam and Bucky made eye contact, then looked at you two.

A tense silence filled the room for about three minutes. Then Sam sighed, shaking his head. “Listen, if you two are getting freaky, that’s fine by me, but save it for your own place—not mine, and don’t let it screw up work.”

Your jaw dropped at Sam’s nonchalant nature, then you looked at Bucky who simply shrugged. 

“Yeah, as long as it doesn’t influence work, then you two should be fine doing whatever it is you’re doing, just don’t do it near me, around me, in front of me, or within my vicinity—”

You cut him off, “All of those things mean the same thing Buck—”

He nodded his head. “That’s the point.” 

Then you shook your head again. “—Wait a damn minute, we’re not having sex!” You motioned between yourself and Joaquin. “We’ve never, not once, ever done anything under the umbrella of sex. We’re just friends, that’s it.”

Sam slowly nodded his head, very clearly not convinced, then he glanced at Joaquin who had a distant look in his eyes, very clearly zoned out and focused on something else. “So you mean to tell me, you two have never, not even after a long night of drinking, have ever hooked up? You’re just this close and comfortable with each other with no semblance of sexual or romantic feelings?”

You nodded your head, then glanced at Joaquin, who blinked a few times as if he’d finally zoned back in.

“Yeah, we’re just friends. Best friends at that—right Cabezona?” he elbowed you slightly.

“Mhm, now stop calling me that! My head is not that big!” 

He scoffed, raising a single brow. “Yes it is. Even if it’s not literally huge, metaphorically it is, little miss ego-maniac.”

Your jaw dropped at that, now shoving Joaquin with both hands, he hadn’t anticipated it, and had to grab onto the arm of the sofa to stop himself from toppling back. “Don’t be fucking rude Quino!” 

Sam and Bucky slowly nodded at the exchange before glancing back at one another and shaking their heads in sync. 

You two were truly hopeless.

Three days later you found yourself at the grocery store with Joaquin in tow. He decided that he also needed to buy groceries, and he’d practically yelled at you over text about waiting for him to pick you up so that both of you could go together. Something about having multiple sets of eyes making the process faster.

If anything, shopping with Joaquin made things ten times slower. He was like a little kid, going through every single aisle, getting easily distracted—and you couldn’t stand how he managed to touch every single thing! Hell, he’d tried to convince you to buy snacks that he liked for your apartment under the guise that he ‘spent all of his time there anyways!’ 

You were currently in the produce aisle, looking through the tomatoes, brows knit together, biting into your tongue slightly as you focused on finding ones that weren’t overly ripe and still firm. In one hand you held the clear plastic bag, in the other, you lightly felt several individual tomatoes and rummaged through the large wooden bin of them. 

Eventually you settled on eight that you actually liked.

Meanwhile Joaquin was weighing limes, hyperfocused on getting exactly three pounds of them. He’d roped you into making him ceviche based on his abuela’s recipe, and she said that he needed exactly three pounds of limes. 

You knew she was just messing with him. Clearly, Joaquin did not.

His abuela had called you directly and given you the list of ingredients, telling you to measure the seasonings based on taste and what you thought was enough. She said that she trusted your judgement while making several jokes about Joaquin’s inability to cook, not to mention his spice intolerance.

You’d met his family three years ago when Sam had sent you with him on a recon mission in Miami. The mission was relatively simple and had been completed earlier than expected, so it gave him the perfect amount of time to head home to see his family, and he’d dragged you along with him because you’d been complaining about missing home cooked meals.

His family loved you immediately, it also helped that during your years of not-so-legal work, you’d managed to pick up some Spanish. 

Although, it did take a lot of convincing for them to finally believe that you weren’t Joaquin’s girlfriend. Everytime you’d visit Miami with him, you had to go through the same process and the same ‘so are you two together yet?’ questions from his cousins.

But you didn’t mind, not when his family was so welcoming, and of course, you loved his Abuela the most—something you’d never tell his mother. While she was strict, she was also loving, and funny, and embraced you time and time again while also letting you tease Joaquin. 

Plus, every time she saw you, she’d do an egg cleanse on you while ranting about the importance of doing a ‘limpia’ every now and then.

By the time you moved on to the onions, Joaquin had finally perfected the three pounds of limes, tossing the bag into the cart. Then you glanced over at him, raising a single brow which led to him sighing and grabbing the bag, now handing it to you. 

You gave him the onions then proceeded to open the bag, grabbing each individual lime, making sure they were the right texture and color. Meanwhile Joaquin waited, swaying back and forth on his heels while he watched you.

“Y’know you can just tell me I did a good job now. I’m pretty good at the whole produce thing.”

You scoffed at him, closing the bag again and handing it to him. “You did better than last time, when you literally brought me a bag of half-rotten limes. Now can you go get the fish from the butcher area? I don’t like how it smells over there.” 

Joaquin shook his head, hands on his hips while he stared at you with a singular brow raised.

“You look just like your mom right now.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t bring my mom into this, you know you’re supposed to go pick out the right cuts of fish!” 

You shook your head. “No, Abuela gave us both a list, you can read! Here—” you dug through your purse for a second, then handed him his glasses that he insisted he never needed.It got to the point where he put them in your purse anytime he’d have them on for more than an hour. When he didn’t take them from you, you shoved them right against his chest.

“Seriously?! Fine—but you owe me one!” 

You nodded at him, smiling triumphantly as he slipped the thin white wired-frames on. “Now go get the damn fish or I’m not cooking anything! Thanks! Love you! Bye Quino!” As you spoke you shoved him away from you, then clapped a few times, laughing at him as he tried to lightly slap your hands away from him.

He scoffed, shaking his head while turning around and heading towards the back of the store, leaving you to finish the produce shopping. 

About ten minutes later, as you were trying to get cucumbers, someone cleared their throat beside you. You glanced over to your right, confusion evident on your features as you made eye contact with none other than mister tortured artist that stood you up. His eyes trailed your figure, a single brow raised as he took in your fitted sundress.

It was hot, it made sense that you’d be wearing something breathable. What didn’t make sense was the idiot beside you having the nerve to clear his throat, then practically eye-fuck you in the middle of a grocery store produce aisle. 

“Can I help you with something?” his eyes met yours as you spoke, irritation and venom evident in your tone.

“Y’know, I was gonna call you, had an uh—family emergency. Damn, I didn’t think you’d be this hot.” His eyes were back on your body, which earned a loud scoff from you.

“Dude, fuck off. Besides, I’m glad you didn’t show, I got back together with my ex, I needed someone to pick me up and he just happened to be around.” The lie practically rolled off of your tongue, it wasn’t exactly a good idea, but there was no way in hell that you’d let this douchebag think he had any real effect on you.

“Oh, you sure? You don’t have to lie to me, I said I meant to call, we can always try again—maybe somewhere more private and intimate.”

He didn’t even bother making eye contact with you as he spoke.

Joaquin was your savior, walking right up to you and putting the now bagged and wrapped fish into the cart, then he noticed the way you were breathing, and your fists clenched at your sides while you glared at the artsy douchebag across from you. 

He didn’t need to know what had been said to know that you were pissed.

So he smushed himself right next to you, a hand wrapping around your waist, gently resting against your side as he planted a kiss to the side of your head. 

“You alright cariño? This guy bothering you?” 

You relaxed against Joaquin’s touch, glancing at him, a pleading look in your eyes that only he could recognize. “Yeah, I’m fine baby, this is the asshole I was telling you about. Remember? From Friday?” 

He nodded, now taking the time to look at the guy across from you. Joaquin knew his name was Dylan, that much you’d told him when you vented on the drive to the store, complaining about your terrible taste in men and rambling about how much you hated having to settle. 

Joaquin also didn’t know what you saw in this guy. Sure he was tall, but the guy was lanky, scrawny, and looked like he smoked two packs a day. Not to mention the way his ‘oversized’ clothes were mismatched in the worst possible way, and he had paint stains all over his jeans. Plus he had on god-awful boat shoes.

Maybe he managed to catfish you—that had to be it. 

Well, maybe he was funny, or something. Joaquin knew you’d ranted about constantly settling, but at this rate, the bar had to be in Hell.

“Ah, this is Daniel? Wish I could say it was nice to meet you man, but clearly, the circumstances aren't great.”

Dylan nodded slowly, blinking several times as he looked between you and Joaquin. “So this is the ex boyfriend that you’re back with? You sure you aren’t bullshitting me, I think you would’ve mentioned your ex-boyfriend being the Falcon.” 

You simply shrugged. “I like to keep my dating life private.”

Meanwhile Joaquin was doing his best to contain his excitement that someone recognized him in public. He had a fake boyfriend facade to upkeep! He couldn’t afford to squeal right now.

Dylan didn’t look convinced, and clearly he was persistent. To the point that it was starting to piss Joaquin off. So he did what any rational best friend would do in this situation, he leaned into your space, and littered the side of your neck with kisses—right in front of the guy. At first, he’d only left a few pecks—then he lightly traced his tongue along your skin.

Your eyes widened, shock evident at the feeling of Joaquin’s lips and tongue along your bare neck.

You didn’t know whether or not you wanted to whimper or gag. Either way you’d be kicking Joaquin’s ass over this later.

The public display of affection was enough to earn a loud scoff from Dylan as he walked off. 

Then you were shoving Joaquin back slightly, now whisper-shouting at him. “Seriously dude! Maybe that was overselling it!” 

Joaquin shrugged, matching your tone, “What? I had to sell it! I mean come on, ex-boyfriend?! You could’ve said I was a one night stand turned into a three night stand or something!” 

You shook your head at him. “You didn’t need to fucking lick me! You pervert!” Then you ran the back of your hand along your neck, wiping away the remnants of his spit from your skin as you grimace.

He threw his hands up in surrender. “God forbid a guy acts a little freaky with his fake girlfriend!” 

Your jaw dropped at that.  “You’re so chronically online! You freak!” 

Joaquin watched as you rummaged through your purse, finally pulling out a small pack of makeup wipes, practically ripping it open as you grabbed a wipe and ran it along your neck. He raised a single brow at the dramatics of it all.Okay, maybe you weren’t being that dramatic considering he did run his entire tongue along the column of your throat in the middle of a grocery store produce aisle,but he had a point to make!

Besides, he’d be lying to himself if he said he hadn’t enjoyed it. If you’d let him do it again, he would without an ounce of hesitation.

It wasn’t the first time you had to put on a fake show of intimacy and affection in public. 

But usually that was done under the guise of working recon missions, having to blend into large crowds at fundraisers and banquets, going undercover with one another, posing as a happy—and sometimes unhappy—couple. 

Hell, once he had you pinned against a hallway wall at a masquerade ball, his lips on yours while he held one of your thighs up, wrapped around his waist as his fingers dug into the plush skin. 

He thought about that night sometimes, having to shake his head and force himself to snap out of it. 

“I am not chronically online! You’re just chronically offline!” 

You rolled your eyes at that, tossing the used makeup wipe into the nearby trash can before looking down at the list of groceries and essentials that you needed for your apartment, and the list of things for the ceviche. “Let’s go get my coffee before I wring your throat.”

“As long as you tell me I’m pretty while doing it.”

Then you shoved him again, now pushing the cart towards the coffee and tea aisle.

By the time that you’d actually made it back to your apartment and put everything away, it was nearly four. Then you’d spent half an hour chopping up vegetables while forcing Joaquin to handle cutting the fish.

He was reluctant the entire time, making faces as he tried to avoid getting any fish juice on himself. He’d even opted to wear a pair of latex gloves and one of your frilly aprons.

“This is so disgusting.” 

You laughed at his complaining, nodding your head while you focused on juicing the limes into a bowl. “Well, you were the one who practically begged your Abuela for the recipe, if you hadn’t opened that big ass mouth then we wouldn’t be here! Besides, it’ll be good when it’s ready.” 

Joaquin shook his head, now putting the last bits of the cut up fruit into the large container, then he moved his knife and cutting board directly into your kitchen sink, pulling the gloves off and tossing them in the trash can before turning the water to the hottest setting to wash his hands.

“You better wash that cutting board too! Just wash it once and leave it in the sink, I’ll put it in the dishwasher when I’m done here.” You focused on pouring the lime juice overtop the fish while you spoke, ensuring that all of it was saturated. 

“It’s fine Cabezona, I’ll do the dishes too. I owe you one after licking you like a dog—even though I’m positive you liked it!”

You nearly dropped the bowl at his words, a loud scoff leaving your lips. “Joaquin! You’re such a perv!”

He nodded while he washed the dishes, then unloaded your dishwasher, stacking each bowl and plate on the counter before putting them in the right cupboards. “I’m just saying, everyone likes being a little freaky every now and then. Besides, you’re always wound so tight—I guarantee you’re into that nasty shit.” 

You tried to drown him out as you closed the container and put it inside of the fridge, focusing on cleaning up and putting the container of cut vegetables away, followed by the additional lime juice that you’d squeezed for later.

“Joaquin Torres, now is not the time to talk about my shitty sex life! We can’t all be you!” 

He turned around, now shrugging your apron off and leaning against the counter. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

You raised a brow at him, looking over at him from your position next to the fridge. “Well lets see, anytime you get laid you walk into the office, my apartment, Sam’s apartment—hell you walk anywhere and you’re all smiles and laughs as if you’ve had the best night of your life. So clearly, only one of us is having good sex here, and it’s most definitely not me.” 

Joaquin’s expression was unreadable for a few seconds as he stared at you.

“Don’t even start pitying me either, and please, I don’t have time for another ‘you just have shitty taste in men’ speech, I’ve heard it enough from literally everyone. Maybe I’m just like an idiot because I genuinely can’t find a good guy to save my life.” 

Then you shut the fridge and moved back towards the small island that you were previously standing by, now focused on wiping down the countertop as Joaquin stared at you.

“Have you ever considered that you’re blind as hell?” 

You blinked a few times, pausing your motions to look over at him. “I’m pretty sure every good guy that’s left is either dead or in a committed relationship, so either I’m blind, or an idiot—or maybe both. I’m thinking I should just call a Nunnery and join a convent.” 

Joaquin sighed, shaking his head before turning back towards the sink, now loading the last few cups before shutting the dishwasher and washing his hands again. After he patted them dry on his pants, he was at your side again, leaning against the island while you reorganized your small fruit basket, putting the oldest fruits on the top to make sure you’d get to them before they went bad.

“I’m pretty sure you’ve dated guys that don’t know the difference between their, there, and they are.” 

You nodded at that. “Honestly, probably. Jesus, even the tax guy turned out to be an asshole. Maybe I’m like a douchebag magnet! What does a girl have to do to find a guy who isn’t a piece of shit,like, men are all shitty. No offense, well you don’t really count.”

He blinked a few times, arms now crossed in front of his chest. “What’s that supposed to mean? You always say I don’t count.”

“Because you don’t count. You’re my best friend, I don’t see you romantically. Yeah. I can admit that you’re attractive, but I wouldn’t ever date you.”

Joaquin didn’t know whether or not to be offended, so instead he pressed further. “Okay, elaborate on that.” 

You looked over at him, a bit confused. “Why?”

“Because, I’m pretty sure I should be offended—but I can’t tell.”

That earned a laugh as you shook your head. “I don’t mean to offend you, it’s just, you’re my friend and I see you as a friend. I mean, if I wanted to, I’m positive I could see you romantically, but I just don’t. I like what we have and given my shitty relationship track record, I don’t want to ruin my friendship with you just for the chance to bone you. Besides, your abuela would kill you if we stopped being friends. Y’know she likes me more than you.”

He slowly nodded at that. “But you would—hypothetically bone me?” 

You shrugged again. “Why’s that important again?” 

Joaquin ran a hand through his hair, staring at you with that far-away look in his eyes again. “Can you just answer the question without answering with a question.”

You sighed, now standing up straight, hands on your hips as you turned to face him fully. “Hypothetically speaking? Like full on mind-wipe? Forget I ever said it?” When he nodded you took a deep breath, eyes trailing his figure for a few seconds before meeting his own again.

“Yes. Hypothetically, I’d bone you—but I think you’d be boning me. You’re too overconfident and cocky to be submissive at first.”

It wasn’t as if Joaquin was unattractive, there was nothing unattractive about the man. Of course, he wasn’t the tallest guy around—however he made up for that in almost every other department.

He had nice teeth, sure they weren’t perfect, but you loved his smile. His hair was always done, and his curls were to die for, they were always soft anytime you’d touch them, and you knew he spent time taking care of his hair. Physique wise? He was a wall of muscle, tan skin that was perfectly toned from years of being in the Air Force and now being an Avenger. 

Joaquin’s eyes always held so much emotion, they were deep pools of chocolate that you could drown in—if you really wanted to.

Not to mention his hands? Jesus Christ you could write a book about Joaquin Torres’s hands.

But outside of all of his physical traits, Joaquin was genuinely a great guy. He cared deeply for everyone in his life, and even those he hardly knew. He was observant and knew how to read people well—especially you. 

His words snapped you out of your daze.

“I’d definitely do the boning.” 

You scoffed at that, shoving him again. “You make me sick!” 

Joaquin smiled, nodding his head. “Well, it’s true! Besides, you’d love my hypothetical boning! Now, not to totally void the mind-wipe, but I was thinking that maybe, possibly, we could, well—y’know at least try once. You could use it.”

You blinked a few times. “Joaquin Torres, are you asking to bone me?” 

He nodded, jutting his bottom lip out slightly for a few seconds. “I guess so yeah, it doesn’t need to be like romantic—you just need to get laid, and lucky for you, I’m great in bed.”

“You’re literally offering to pity fuck me. Oh my god, is this what my life has really come to? My best friend has to pity fuck me? Jesus Christ!” With that you stormed off, leaving Joaquin standing in the kitchen with a confused expression on his face.

He wouldn’t really be pity-fucking you. 

Okay, maybe he did pity your lackluster lovelife and even shittier sex-life, but having sex with you would’ve been a win-win situation for the both of you. Joaquin would probably be able to get rid of the random fantasies about you, and you’d actually get to have a real orgasm that doesn’t require a vibrator.

Maybe Joaquin should’ve been more bothered by your blatant rejection—yet somehow he still had a semblance of hope that you’d cave. It wasn’t as if he’d ever force himself onto you, but based on the amount of stress you’ve been under, alongside your lackluster love life, this was something you needed.

Although, maybe volunteering to be the person to sleep with you wasn’t the best idea in the world.

He should’ve known you’d overreact to the simple suggestion. 

You were constantly a walking ball of emotional tension waiting to explode. He’d been used to it, and he was one of the few people that knew how to calm you down and help you relax. Granted, there were also other ways that would most definitely help you relax—but now you think that he offered to ‘pity fuck’ you, which was an insane thought in the first place.

You had to be blind. Joaquin was positive you were blind. 

Even Sam had made several quips in the past about the way that Joaquin looked at you when he thought no one else was paying attention. He was constantly overly possessive when it came to you, and sure, he did take things a little too far at times—hence the grocery store incident—but you outright refused to see him as anything other than a friend!

It was infuriating in a way that he couldn’t explain. He couldn’t just go on and yell at you or be mad that you didn’t see him romantically, not when your reason for it all was so valid and made perfect sense. You and him were best friends, you’d almost instantly clicked, it was rare to meet someone that you meshed with so well. 

If you didn’t want to ruin the friendship, that made sense to Joaquin and he didn’t want to push the issue. But he was currently trying to swallow down the minor sting of rejection while considering the best course of action.

He could easily play it off, acting as if he was joking and hadn’t meant for the joke to get that far. The only issue with that was the fact that he was a terrible liar and you always saw right through him, something about knowing his tell—whatever the hell that meant.

Joaquin could also just swallow his pride and chase after you, which seemed to be the most realistic option here. It wasn’t as if you were on the verge of starting World War III, well, not this time at least.

So he took a few deep breaths, ran his hands through his hair, then made his way to your bedroom, glancing over at the sofa, spotting your black cat sitting and staring at him as he stopped walking—hesitating as he debated on actually walking into your bedroom. 

“Binx, this is a terrible idea isn’t it?”

A meow was her only response, Joaquin pretended that it was a meow of encouragement, however he knew the cat didn’t exactly like him. If anything, she was probably shaming him for his terrible timing and horrendous ideas.

Then Joaquin walked down the short hallway, knocking on your bedroom door a few times. Of course you didn’t respond—he should’ve expected that. 

So he slowly opened the door, met with the sight of you laying flat on your bed, feet hanging off the edge slightly while your face was pressed into one of your many pillows. Then you let out something between a muffled shout and groan, raising a single hand, middle finger facing him.

“Oh come on, Hermosa! You can’t really be in here pouting right now!” He opened the door wider, arms now crossed as he leaned against the doorframe, looking directly at you while you let out another muffled shout.

“I have no idea what you’re saying right now, you do know that, right?”

Then you were sitting up on your elbows, groaning again as you looked over your shoulder at him, eyes squinted, brows knit together, and an evident pout on your face. “Fuck off Joaquin. I really don’t need your pity right now, it’s bad enough Bucky gave me relationship advice yesterday! A man who hasn’t been on a real date since the 1940s has a better dating history than me!”

Joaquin slowly nodded. “I mean, I think he’s technically dating Sam? Actually—I don’t know what the hell those two are, but I know I’ve heard some suggestive sounds from Sam’s room before. That was enough for me.”

You groaned again, face back against your pillows. 

He finally walked into the room, grasping your ankles and dragging you down slowly, ignoring your squeal as he leaned against your bed to usher you onto your back. Then he plopped down beside you, both of you staring up at the ceiling fan. 

“I didn’t mean to insult you y’know. I just figured it would’ve been a win-win. Besides, you said it yourself, you don’t see me romantically, so I thought it would avoid the whole awkwardness thing.”

You sighed, hands now folded together over your stomach, eyes following the slow rotation of the fan’s blades. “Okay, I might have overreacted. But Quino, my love life fucking sucks. People are always yapping about how your twenties are supposed to be like full of great experiences and I mean, yeah so far most of my twenties haven't been horrible—outside of being like a criminal for the first two years—but I have terrible luck with relationships and even worse luck with sex.”

Then you finally turned to look at him, eyes trailing his side profile, taking in the different curves and ridges of his face. “This shit sucks.” 

He laughed at you, a smile on his face as he finally looked at you, neither of you fully processed how close you actually were to one another until this exact moment in time. Your faces were inches apart, he could feel your shallow breaths against his face, and the smell of your minty gum lingered between the two of you.

Joaquin’s eyes traced your features. “Y’know, you’re really pretty, Cabezona.” 

You raised a single brow. “Yeah, because every girl wants to be called pretty, followed by an endearing nickname about how big their head is.” 

He bit his bottom lip as he smiled, nodding a bit before speaking. “It’s part of the Torres charm. Besides, you know how my family is, everyone has a nickname—at least yours isn’t something like Lindito. They basically call me a cutie pie because I was a cute kid—it was fine when I was six, now I’m almost thirty!”

You laughed at him, raising both brows. “Don’t make me call your Abuela and tell her you’re talking about her!” 

Joaquin scoffed, brows knit together. “I’d never! Now, can you please get up and stop wallowing in pity and embarrassment. If anything, I should be the one wallowing, you just brutally rejected me.” 

You rolled your eyes then looked at him again, except this time you made direct eye contact with him. “This is literally embarrassing, I can’t get laid to the point that you offered to bone me.”

Now it was Joaquin’s turn to roll his eyes. “I didn’t mean anything offensive by it, but let’s face it—you need to get laid. Like properly, not whatever mediocre shit you’ve been doing with guys.”

Then you sat up, shaking your head. “Yeah, but it won’t be with you, mister hot shot, now c’mon, we have to finish cooking and call your Abuela before she kills you. Not me though, I’m her favorite.” 

A grand total of four days have passed since the night that you brutally rejected Joaquin and assumed that he was offering to ‘pity-fuck’ you—whatever the hell that meant. 

Within those four days, you managed to walk in on Sam and Bucky in a very intimate position in Sam’s office, which led to you yelling at them both while they shrugged their missing remnants of clothes back on—honestly, you were glad they weren’t full blown fucking when you walked in because you probably would’ve stomped your foot and yelled at them even more.

Then you spent an hour laying on the sectional in the room with your head in Bucky’s lap as you vented about your lackluster love life and fear of commitment, which was followed by even more relationship advice from him—which you screamed into a throw pillow over.

It also didn’t help that both Sam and Bucky were acting incredibly awkward following you walking in on them, but you simply brushed it off, telling them you couldn’t care less about what they did with one another, while emphasizing the use of locks on doors.

Sam tried to argue with you about needing to knock, which you rolled your eyes at, while telling him this office was technically government property, and it was a shared space with Joaquin as well—so technically, you were within your right to walk right into the space without a care in the world. Especially since the door was unlocked.

It didn’t help that your younger sister had called and told you that she was engaged to her long-term high school sweetheart. You hated him—but he made her happy so you tolerated him. Although, given the opportunity, you would kick his ass, so you congratulated her and told him he was always on thin ice.

That sent you into a minor depressive period because truthfully, you felt pathetic. You knew there weren’t that many good guys left in the world, but the fact that your younger sister had managed to settle down before you really sent you over the edge.

Joaquin told you that you were just being dramatic when you told him that you would just end up alone with seventeen cats, you were already on the way there! Binx was your first cat, but what was to stop you from adopting seven more!.

Even today as you sat inside of Sam and Joaquin’s shared office, you were irritated and venting. 

“No you guys don’t get it! I have shit luck with love! Y’know this is the first Friday in months that I haven't had a date? Mind you, each date was shitty. But damn, at least I was trying! Now I feel like a sack of moldy potatoes. My little sister is gonna get married next year and I’ve never even been in a real committed relationship!”

Sam shook his head. “You do know you have your own office in this building, right?” 

You scoffed at him. “So what? Now you don’t even want to talk to me? You’re in a relationship with my pseudo-dad so you’re basically my step dad that doesn’t love me Sam!” 

Joaquin groaned, spinning around in his desk chair to look at you. “Cariño, you need to calm down and stop yelling at everyone, it’s three thirty, and for the first time in a while we’re not on some high-stakes mission or on crunchtime with some Avengers related deadline to meet, or handling a potentially world-ending crisis. You can’t be mad at Sam for wanting some peace and quiet.”

You blinked a few times, jaw clenched as you squinted, staring directly at Joaquin, wishing you had magical powers to light him on fire. “Peace and quiet? Coming from you? You never shut the hell up!”

He took a deep breath, over the past few days you’d progressively gotten snappier. Joaquin figured it was because you desperately needed to get laid, you were so wound up and tense that anything sent you spiraling into a fit of rage. It was most likely because you hadn’t had your weekly dose of mediocre sex to keep your inner turmoil at bay.

“Jeez, have you always been this mean and whiny?” 

You glared at Sam, who shook his head, raising a single brow. “Listen, I’ve got a sister, you don’t scare me. I’ve also fought literal aliens from outer space—wait put that down! What the hell are you doing!” 

Then you were hurling your plastic water bottle at him. He ducked right on time, eyes wide and jaw dropped as he looked at you, then he shook his head, now standing with his hands on his hips.

“That’s it, get out! You’re on time out. Go work on a report or something, get the hell out of my office.” He stared at you, eyes wide as he pointed towards the doors.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you stood up and walked out, slamming the door behind you. They both winced slightly at the sound. The doors into the room weren’t exactly easy to slam—it was as if you’d put all of your strength into the action.

“You really are acting like her dad, man.” 

Sam scoffed, now looking at Joaquin. “And you’re acting like her shitty boyfriend. Go console her, give her a kiss so she stops letting all of her frustration out on everyone! It’s obvious you like her! Can’t you go confess your feelings and help her deal with her inner rage demon. She’s never this bad. She tried to shoot me once, but I think I’d prefer that over her hurling full bottles of water at me, in my own office!”

Joaquin’s jaw dropped, eyes wide as he stared at Sam. 

“Oh please, don’t look at me like I’ve got three heads, it’s obvious to everyone but you two. You’re basically in love with the maniac, and she’s so hellbent on just being your friend that she can’t process how un-platonic the both of you actually are! I mean come on! Her dating history is trash because she’s too slow to see what’s right in front of her, and you won’t man the hell up and tell her how you feel!”

Joaquin pursed his lips, eyes shut as he nodded a few times. He knew Sam was right, but he didn’t need the tough love, not today at least. “Listen man, I don’t know what to do about her, she’s just so—well you know how she is! Y’know I offered—”

Sam cut him off, blinking several times before speaking. “Offered to what? Don’t tell me you tried the whole ‘lets just have sex as friends’ thing. That never works!”

“Okay, it wasn’t exactly like that, in those words! But come on! She told me she doesn’t see me romantically! How’s a guy supposed to recover from that? I get it, we have a great friendship but if she doesn’t want to flush it down the drain, I get that, I just have to respect her boundaries, I can’t just bug the shit out of her until she snaps and fucks me.”

Sam grimaced, shaking his head. “Okay, a little too vulgar for me, kid. Were those her words, like verbatim?” 

Joaquin nodded. “Kind of, sort-of? She said that, but she also told me, she probably could see me romantically if she tried, but she doesn’t want to try so why should I push it? Besides, she’ll eventually relax! It’ll just take some time.”

“Yeah, how about you actually, y’know, act like the adult that you are and talk to her about your obvious feelings, and maybe little miss anger issues, might actually put two and two together and realize she’s practically in love with you, thinks you’re unattainable, so she settles for idiots and assholes.”

That conversation sparked one of Joaquin’s less-than-great plans. Instead of talking to you about things, he opted to simply do boyfriend-ish things around you while simultaneously being a little too up close and personal with you for several days, hoping you’d get the message, or at the very least, full-on reject him so he could actually move on.

It started the day after he spoke with Sam. That Saturday Joaquin showed up at your apartment with a bouquet of sunflowers—thankfully they were actually in season—and when he handed them to you, you were utterly confused. 

He was starting to think that maybe you were really that oblivious. Your reaction only emphasized that. The second he handed you the bouquet, you asked if he was apologizing for something, or if you’d forgotten about an important date—or if maybe these were ‘thank you’ flowers. 

Joaquin stared at you, utterly confused.

Who the hell just randomly shows up at someone’s doorstep on a Saturday with ‘thank you’ flowers—most people would just get them delivered. It also didn’t help that you simply shrugged, focused on trimming the stems before putting the flowers in water without any other questions. You were quiet the entire time, which also had him overthinking the gesture.

Mainly because you hadn’t been quiet in a while.

Then you decided it was time to grace him with the terrible news that you had a date on Monday. Who the hell goes on dates on a Monday?!

“Well, he seems nice enough I guess. He actually works on base, not directly with us, but I’ve seen him around. He stopped me yesterday on the way back to my office. I can’t even promise that he’ll be different—maybe if I’m lucky he’ll actually be good in bed.” 

Joaquin was glad you weren’t looking at him, he couldn’t even control his facial expressions, right eye twitching slightly at the news.

So he opted to step his game up, that day as the two of you spent time together, he stood closer than usual, and as he moved behind you, he made sure to place his hand on the small of your back, or he’d grasp your hips slightly, shimmying past you as if there wasn’t enough room for him to move without touching you. 

Throughout the entire day he helped you with your mundane tasks, and the domesticity of it all was getting to him—to the point that he had to give himself a pep talk in the bathroom

He even helped you unbraid your hair, fingers massaging against your scalp just enough to make you blush.

His final move that night was pulling you directly against his chest on your oversized sofa, arms wrapped around you, fingers gently grazing the sliver of exposed skin on your hip between the hemline of your shirt and the pajamas you wore. Hell—he even intertwined his legs with yours. 

Sure you’d cuddled in the past—but never like that. 

When you tried to question it, he hummed against your scalp, pressing a kiss to the top of your head while his gaze remained focused on the shitty slasher movie that you chose.

By the time the movie ended, the both of you had fallen asleep.

Sunday morning you were awoken by the sounds of Binx’s loud meowing and the rays of sunlight shining through your half-opened blinds. As you tried to get up, you then realized that Joaquin was still holding you in place—the motion had an unfamiliar feeling bubbling through you. 

Something similar to butterflies? But that wasn’t right—that was something associated with childish crushes and you’ve never had a crush on Joaquin Torres.

So you shoved his arm away, which in turn woke him up. Then you were up, walking to the kitchen, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes with the only goal of feeding Binx before she managed to start a feline uprising at eight in the morning.

“G’morning Sunshine.” Joaquin sat up as he spoke, yawning and stretching. Taking the time to roll his shoulders back then crack his neck slightly. The couch wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, however after a night of sleeping in the same position—he felt stiff. 

His voice was raspier than usual, and that didn’t help with the foreign emotions you were currently feeling. Your brows knit together as you looked down at Binx, who was now purring while rubbing herself along your calves. Of course the cat would be happy now that you were awake to feed her—she couldn’t give you thirty more minutes of sleep.

“Uh—morning Quino.”

Your voice was strained, and you cringed the second you finished speaking, glad he couldn’t see your face.

“So what’s on today’s agenda? Now that Sam and Bucky are on good terms, it looks like we’ll have a lot more free time.” 

You nodded your head without looking at him, now squatting down to give Binx her ceramic bowl of wet food, then you looked around, trying to find things to do that would help you avoid Joaquin’s stare. You were unfortunately, very unsuccessful, especially when the second you stood back up, he was already in the kitchen, one hand on your lower back as he walked past you, taking the time to brew a new pot of coffee.

You rushed to the bathroom, eyes wide, panic evident on your features as you looked at your own reflection. Maybe you were just imagining things, he’d always been touchy-feely with you, and it hadn’t ever affected you before. What was so different now? Maybe you were just overthinking things, this was Joaquin—your Joaquin.

There wasn’t anything different between the two of you. You were friends, best friends at that. You trusted him with your life, so why the hell did it feel like your skin was tingling from where he’d touched you, and why the hell were you blushing like a schoolgirl.

You tried to take longer with your morning routine, hoping that you’d be able to waste as much time as possible—maybe he’d get the hint and go home.

But instead, he walked right into your bathroom, which wasn’t exactly unusual for the both of you. Then he placed another hand on your hip, squeezing past you to grab his spare toothbrush and the toothpaste. Then he was brushing his teeth, standing right beside you—except he was closer than usual.

Or at least he felt like he was closer than usual.

You had to be losing it. This was normal, there was nothing different about this interaction—so why the hell did it feel so different?

The bathroom wasn’t exactly huge, so of course you’d be close. The counter only had one sink, it wasn’t as if this was a large dual-vanity bathroom with extra walking space. The bathroom had barely enough room for the both of you behind the wide-set counter, even then, you had your own organized chaotic mess of things along both sides of the white countertop.

Plus, with where Joaquin stood, his left shoulder was brushing against one of your plush towels hanging on a hook, and he hardly fit into the space between the wall and you. Usually he’d opt to lightly shove you closer to the wall, so you weren’t exactly sure why he chose that side today, maybe because it was closer to the toothbrushes.

While you swished your mouthwash, he flossed, humming the tune to Love Story by Taylor Swift. Then as you both made eye contact in the mirror’s reflection, you raised your brows at his song choice, taking a second to spit the mouthwash out, and in seconds, you were both scream-singing in sync.

“Little did I know! You were Romeo, you were throwing pebbles and my daddy said stay away from Juliet!” 

You were both incredibly off-key and pitchy. Bursting into a fit of laughter while trying to keep up with the song, except both of you only knew some of the lyrics, so you ended up mumbling and making up words while singing together.

He held one of your brushes in hand as he sang to you. “I've been feeling so alone—something about waiting for you—something something something—marry me Juliet you’ll never have to be alone!”

You laughed at him, a wide smile on your face while you shook your head, shoving him slightly before snatching your brush out of his hand. Then you opted to moisturize your face, using two fingers from each hand to rub circles against your face before tapping your under-eye cream on.

Joaquin watched you the entire time, brows knit together, focused on your movements. “The hell is all that even for? Can’t you just slap some lotion on and call it a day?”

You blinked several times, now turning to look at him, brows knit together in confusion. “You only use lotion?”

He nodded, shrugging “I mean yeah, I wash my face, then put lotion on. That’s really it.”

You shoved him once, then scoffed and shoved him again. “Of course you’d have nice skin just because. I can’t stand you, y’know that? Only using lotion, my ass—now c’mere!” 

Joaquin wasn’t exactly sure how he could get any closer to you, but then you stepped back a bit to grab one of your fancy little moisturizers, unscrewing the cap of the glass bottle, a dropper now in hand while you grasped his jaw—the motion catching him off guard, then you were focused on dotting the liquid along his face.

Before he could fully process it, you were rubbing circles into his skin, and he was staring with wide eyes and parted lips. 

“Close your mouth before you catch a fly.”

“So you’ve got flies in here? That’s disgusting, cariño. I think you actually should call someone about that.” Then you shoved him again, shaking your head at his antics.

The two of you stood in a comfortable silence as you moved on from one serum to the next, applying each product carefully to his skin as he stared at you with another unreadable emotion.

Maybe if you weren’t so blind you would’ve realized Joaquin had nothing but unending adoration in his eyes as he focused on your face, taking in each and every detail, committing this moment to memory.

Before he could get too caught up in the domestic fantasy, he cleared his throat. “Cabezona, are you finished yet? I think I’ll be fine without your ten step skin care routine!”

“Don’t you have your own apartment to be at? Instead of bothering me on my peaceful Sunday?”

He shook his head at you. “Nah, but I’m thinking, we should go out today. I heard about this great spot in Chinatown, you’ll love it, I promise! After we can go to the aquarium, you know you love seeing the octopi.” Joaquin sounded so excited and admittedly you were too—he was right, you did love seeing the ever expanding Octopus exhibit.

“Okay fine, but I have to get ready. No way in hell I’m going looking like I just rolled out of bed.”

“Works for me cariño, I think I have some clothes somewhere here too, gotta go find it in all of your shit.” Then for some reason unknown to him—he planted a firm smack to your ass as he walked past you.

Your surprised breath had him realizing what he’d done. It was something similar to a high pitched gasp—hell if he wasn’t so focused on the rush of heat throughout his entire body he would’ve registered it as a slight moan.

Joaquin froze in the doorway, and you froze in place, jaw dropped while you slowly turned to look at him. At the same time he was slowly turning around, absolutely mortified—the domesticity was really getting to him—to the point of no return.

“Did you just smack my ass? What the hell, Joaquin!” 

He slowly nodded “I don’t know—shit I mean yeah—but I don’t know what came over me! I’m sorry! I just—you and then me—and then—I’m sorry. God don’t kill me—I didn’t mean to, I just—I think I’m losing it here!”

You blinked several times, mouth opening and closing as you struggled to figure out what to say to him. 

“Listen Hermosa, I really didn’t mean it—like really. Oh my god—holy shit. I’m really sorry, like seriously sorry, don’t murder me—please you look like you’re about to kill me!”

He was full on panicking, this wasn’t part of his plan, hell his plan was supposed to be long and drawn out, he’d spend a week pestering you, doing relationship-esque things until you finally got the hint, then he’d do some grand gesture and ask you out on a real, genuine date. Not the shit that you’ve been so used to.

After the date he’d also fuck you until you forgot your own name—but now it was looking like he wouldn’t live to see that potential date ever happen. Not when your shocked expression was quickly warping into your usual glare. The glare was like a silent warning telling him to run, so that’s exactly what he did.

The moment you reached for your brush again—he was off, sprinting out of the bathroom, down the short hallway, and running away from you.

You were quick on your feet, chasing after him with your brush in hand, throwing several random things at him while he ran circles around your living room, then into the kitchen, then he’d ducked behind the Island for a few seconds to catch his breath before practically hurdling himself over it to get away from you.

“I’m sorry for smacking your ass! To be fair! It’s a nice ass!”

“You’re such a pervert! I’m gonna fucking kill you Joaquin!” Then you threw the TV remote at him, he barely managed to smack it out of the way mid-air, wincing at the impact on his palm. 

Now you were both at a stand still, the only real piece of furniture separating you both was your small sectional, he stood on the side closest to your bedroom door, you stood on the opposite end closer to the apartment door. He wished he had ended up on that side—then at least he would’ve been able to run down the building hallway.

“Come on Hermosa! I didn’t mean anything by it! I just—something came over me okay?! You don’t need to murder me—you’ll go to the Raft or something—Sam would kill you! Actually that’s a good point! If you kill me, Sam’ll kill you!” 

You blinked a few times. “Then let him kill me! At least I’ll kill you first you freak!” 

“You’re so mean! Take it as a compliment! Actually—shit! Don’t take it as a compliment, that's not how my mom raised me! But fuck—you’re so—just God—I can’t ever get you out of my head! Then you go and do shit like that! With the thing on my face and my heart is racing—and it’s not because I’ve been running. You just don’t get what you do to me Cariño!”

You paused, dropping the brush in your hand, it hit the floor with a shallow bang. You stared at him, brows knit together in confusion, his words didn’t make any sense to you. 

It wasn’t the first time you’ve done something like that for Joaquin, you two were close, extremely close, so why was everything suddenly so different?

“Then you look at me like you don’t know what I’m talking about! But I know you do! I know you feel it too! I spent all of yesterday trying to get you to really feel it! Then I had this whole plan about how I was going to act around you for a week—and honestly, I was just gonna do stuff that I’ve always wanted to do with you! But then waking up with you in my arms had my brain feeling like mush and my heart hammering in my chest—and you—you’re just—you’re everything to me.”

His confession had you in shock, brows raised, lips parted, heat enveloping your features while you struggled to process everything. 

“Fuck, last week you rejected me, and y’know what? I earned it, asking my best friend to have sex with me was a bit shallow, I can admit that!—but then you said you don’t see me romantically—which yeah it hurt, but you followed it with you could see me romantically if you wanted to, and that gave me enough hope that maybe you do feel the way I do, maybe you just don’t see it—or haven’t let yourself—but at this point, I have to let it all out because I literally smacked your ass like you’re my girlfriend and now you’re probably gonna behead me with some evil makeshift guillotine in your closet!”

As Joaquin spoke, he moved his hands rapidly, emphasizing certain words and phrases. He’d always done that—talking with his hands—but right now, something about it had your heart racing.

Or maybe it was the realization that Joaquin Torres had romantic feelings for you.

“Then I talked to Sam, and he told me that maybe you’re just settling for shitty guys because somehow, in the back of your mind, you won’t let yourself see what’s right in front of you.Not to sound like a narcissist here, but I’ve swallowed down my feelings for so long, and every now and then they come bubbling up and I have to gaslight myself into thinking that I’m just insane and don’t actually like you in the romantic sense!”

That’s when you realized why your heart was racing, not because Joaquin Torres has feelings for you—no. It was because you have feelings for Joaquin Torres. 

You really did settle each and every time, going for asshole after asshole and somehow convincing yourself that you just had bad luck and would never find a single guy that was actually kind hearted and cared about you beyond just having sex. Then you’d end up on a series of shitty dates, being heartbroken, angry, and frustrated—and the first person you always called was Joaquin.

Joaquin Torres who had every single positive trait that you wanted in a man. 

Joaquin Torres that knew you like the back of his hand.

Joaquin Torres who’s family absolutely adored you—and you adored them.

Joaquin Torres, the same Joaquin Torres that you’d instantly clicked with when you met several years ago.

You’d managed to completely drown out Joaquin’s mixture between ranting, venting, and confessing his feelings for you. Then you shook your head, walking around the sofa in three long strides until you were toe to toe with Joaquin.

“If you’re gonna kill me, at least tell me I’m pretty fir-” you immediately cut him off, rolling your eyes at his terrible attempt at humor. One hand tugged on his shirt, the other caressed the side of his face, practically pulling him into you as you smashed your lips against his. 

Joaquin was practically frozen in place for a few seconds until he felt you pulling away—clearly reading too much into his lack of reaction. So he gently grasped both sides of your face, kissing you back, pouring all of his frustration into the kiss. 

Things started slow, however the second you parted your lips, letting him in—things picked up very quickly. He kissed you as if he’d never be able to again, like he wanted to memorize this exact moment, and he held you firmly against him—one hand moving from your face to your hip, pulling your lower body flush with his own.

He bit your lip as he pulled away, resting his forehead against yours for a moment while you both stood in silence, your uneven breaths filling the space.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for years—Christ the day I met you I wanted to kiss you. Then when you came to the hospital to see me after I got my ass handed to me by that Flag smasher? All I wanted to do was kiss you until I couldn’t breathe.”

You bit your bottom lip slightly, eyes finally meeting his as he leaned back a few inches. 

“I think I might be an idiot, Quino.” 

He nodded at that, thumb gently caressing your cheek. “Oh absolutely, your taste in guys emphasized that.Would now be a bad time to ask if you want me to bone you?” 

You laughed at his joke, shaking your head with a smile, before lightly shoving him and taking a step back. “You’re such a freak!” 

“I never said I wasn’t! Come on, you’re basically my girlfriend now, let’s all be honest here—you could be my wife if you wanted to, I’ll propose right now, drop down on one knee and everything.” Both of his brows were raised while he shrugged, hands out in front of him and a smirk on his face.

“Oh my god! Quit being yourself for ten minutes Joaquin Torres!” Then you walked away from him, towards your bedroom. 

“Wait! Where are you going?!” 

You glanced over your shoulder with a single hand on your doorknob. “What, did you think you were gonna defile my couch?!Now, come on—I prefer having sex on a bed, besides, I haven’t even had sex in my bed.”

He blinked a few times. “Like ever?” 

You nodded. “I usually don’t bring my dates here, besides, letting random men know where I live isn’t the safest bet. Honestly, I think I settle for car sex the most. Wait—does my vibrator count?” Then you giggled as you walked into your bedroom, mentally counting to five to see how long it would take him to follow you. 

You only made it to three before he was practically running through the door and shutting it behind him. Then his hands were back on you, walking you towards your bed before pushing you down.

Before you knew it, he was shirtless and on top of you, his lips back against yours. He kissed you like he had a point to prove, lips moving against yours, kissing you deeply, moaning against your lips while you fought him for control of the kiss. 

Joaquin knew he’d won the second you whimpered as he rolled his hips against yours. He was perfectly situated between your thighs, and your toes curled at the feeling of his evident bulge pressing against your clothed core. 

Your hands were all over him, tracing his chest, then his shoulders, then his back. Eventually, one settled in his hair, lightly tugging at the curls, earning a low moan. But he hadn’t stopped kissing you, his lips perfectly moulded against yours, and you were both lost in one another. You had years to make up for. 

Eventually he pulled back for air, heavy breaths against your lips while he struggled to fully regain his composure. Then his eyes scanned your features, your eyes were slightly hooded as you looked up to him, an evident flush on your skin, and your lips were swollen.

“You’re so pretty.” 

You laughed at him, raising both brows. “Yeah, you aren’t too bad yourself, Torres.” Then you moved the hand in his hair to his jaw, thumb grazing against his bottom lip, tugging on it slightly while holding eye contact with him. 

He smirked, nodding a few times. “I always knew you were a freak in the sheets.”

You scoffed. “You’re so annoying!”

Joaquin smiled. “That’s why you like me, isn’t it?” 

That earned an eye roll. “Isn’t there something else you could be doing with your mouth instead of annoying me on purpose?” 

Then there was a glint in Joaquin’s eye, and he tilted his chin down slightly, just enough to pull your thumb into his mouth, lightly sucking on it for a few seconds before letting it go. 

The sight had your eyes widening.

“Yeah—there’s something I’ve been dying to do with my mouth. Promise you’ll love it.” Then his lips were on yours for a few seconds before he trailed open mouthed kisses along your jaw, taking the time to run his tongue against your warm skin, then as he kissed down your throat, he nipped a few marks into the skin, smirking at the sounds of your quiet whimpers.

Then he ran his tongue along your freshly bruised skin—the motion so familiar that it made you giggle. Well at least you giggled until the found the spot below your ear, which earned a surprised gasp from you—and that was all Joaquin needed to hear before he was kissing against your skin, sucking your skin into his mouth, teeth lightly tugging at it—your fingers digging into his back at the feeling.

Once he was satisfied with his work, he started kissing back down your neck, and along your exposed shoulder in your cut up t-shirt. His hands focused on pushing the shirt up from your waist, exposing more and more skin until he was met with your bra. 

You pushed him away, slightly embarrassed at the older plain black bra, it was your comfiest bra—it even had a few holes along the band closer to the hooks on your back. 

“What’s wrong, Hermosa?” He sounded so soft and concerned, looking at you as if he was afraid of breaking you.

“Nothing—don’t judge my ugly bra.” 

He laughed at that, shaking his head. “You think I’d judge something that’s coming off anyways?” Then, he was sitting back on his haunches, gently pulling you up before his hands grasped the edge of your shirt—making eye contact with you, waiting until you nodded—then he was pulling it upward, helping you take it off.

The second his eyes landed on your chest, he groaned, biting his bottom lip at the sight of your tits—even if they were confined in the plain bra—he didn’t give a shit about that, to the point that he was pushing you back onto the bed, lips back on your skin. Joaquin started from your shoulder, then moved along your chest to the swell of your breasts.

He took his time with you, a trail of bruising kisses along your plush skin, then he reached behind your back with one hand, fumbling with the clasp of your bra—the motion making you laugh as you shook your head.

He glanced up at you from your chest, a rosy flush overtaking his cheeks. “Don’t laugh at me, you’re gonna give me performance anxiety!” As he spoke, he finally managed to unclasp the bra, taking the time to pull the straps off of your shoulders, then he squeezed his eyes shut as he took it off of you. 

“Quino, what the hell are you doing?” 

He laughed, “Giving myself a grand reveal! Duh.” Then he opened his eyes, lips parted as he stared directly at your bare chest. He blinked a few times, then licked his lips while nodding his head. “Yeah—you’re so fuckin pretty, all of you—Christ.” 

You gasped as he practically dove into you, lips back on your chest, one hand massaging against your right side, his mouth focused on the other, a mixture between bruising kisses and low groans being left against your skin. Then he wrapped his lips around your nipple—gently sucking on the hardened peak, earning a high pitched moan from you.

Eventually he moved onto your other breast, repeating the motions until your back was arching into him while you pulled his hair so hard that it stung—although that wasn’t why he stopped. Joaquin opted to kiss along your stomach, even taking the time to bite into the soft skin, smirking against you at the sounds of your quiet whimpers.

By the time that he made it to the waistband of your pajamas, he paused, now looking up at you, giving himself the chance to process how truly wrecked you really were. Your hair framed you in a messy halo, your eyes were hooded, swollen lips parted, and you stared at him as if he was everything and more.

His heart was about to beat out of his chest.

Then he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your pants. “Can I?” 

You nodded at him “Please—” 

Joaquin didn’t need to be told twice, he was pulling your pants and panties off in one motion as you lifted your hips, easing the process along. Once they were full off, his eyes focused on you—taking in every single detail of your body, from the budding bruises he’d left, to the scars, stretch marks, hell even the few moles and birthmarks he’d never seen before.

His stare made you feel insecure in the moment, opting to sit up with your back against your pile of pillows leaning into the headboard, legs pressed together and arms wrapped around your chest, as if you wanted to hide from him.

“Mi Vida, don’t hide from me, you’re so beautiful, everything about you is beautiful.” His voice was full of adoration as he stared at you with a fondness you’d never really experienced before.

Joaquin stared at you as if he was in love, and that alone was enough to have you sitting up further, grasping his shirt and crashing your lips against his. He laughed against your lips, smiling into the kiss as his hands found their way to your waist—one at your thighs, pushing them apart to slot himself between them once again. 

Your hands were all over him, moving from his hair, to his cheeks, to his jaw, then down to his chest again, now beneath his shirt, fingers splayed against the toned ridges of his abdomen. The warmth of his skin was comforting in a way you couldn’t explain.

He moved away enough to pull his shirt off, tossing it aside somewhere, lips back against yours. The kiss was somewhat sweet, but now it was a mixture of teeth and tongue as he deepened the kiss, mouth practically overtaking yours.

Joaquin Torres had always been competitive, it was clear that his competitiveness was incredibly prominent in every aspect of his life—to the point that you felt as if you were drowning in him trying to keep up.

Eventually you pushed him away to catch your breath. He smiled at you once before moving back down, following his previous trail of bruising kisses, except this time with light open mouthed kisses. He’d even grazed his tongue against a few of the blooming marks along your skin.

Then he was between your legs, kissing along your inner thighs, gently biting into the skin—doing his best to leave marks. He’d always been possessive, and to him, you were his girl. The world didn’t need to see every single mark he’d leave against you, some were just subtle reminders for you.

Joaquin used both hands to spread your legs—wide. He was a bit shocked at how wide he was able to get them, raising both brows with a satisfied smirk. “Never knew you were this flexible.”

You scoffed, shaking your head as you looked up at the ceiling to avoid his gaze, feeling the flush of embarrassment taking over as he stared directly at your wet center. 

“Can I?” You didn’t look at him as you mumbled a quiet ‘please’. Too embarrassed to actually meet his gaze. 

Joaquin smiled, shaking his head at you, you’d never been the shy type, but maybe the intimacy was getting to you—however, he reveled in it. He’d never felt more in love.

He didn’t hesitate to lick a flat stripe along your cunt, the motion caught you off guard, eyes widening as you looked down at him, giving yourself a better view of him.

“That's it baby, I want you to look at me—promise I won’t be mean.” Joaquin’s teasing tone made you groan, both hands covering your face for a few seconds before you shook your head.

Joaquin winked at you before repeating the motion, this time with more pressure—starting at your sopping hole, ending at your clit. “You’re so fuckin wet—taste so good too. Fuck, I’ve wanted this for so long—wanted you for so long.”

Then his tongue was back on you, he hadn’t started slow, if anything he’d dove straight in—as if he was a prisoner on death row and this was his last meal. 

You couldn’t stop your moans and whimpers, Joaquin had been a man starved and he clearly had a point to prove. Your hands were in his hair, tugging at his curls, back arching into him while you tried not to roll your hips against his face—doing your best to keep some composure.

He knew you too well, and he noticed the way your thighs had already started tensing up. His tongue moved against your clit, alternating between small circles to rapidly flicking against it, the mixture of sensations eliciting borderline pornographic moans from you. He wasn’t stopping anytime soon—and he wanted you to let go. 

Joaquin knew you needed this, and honestly, he needed it too.

So he hooked one of your thighs over his shoulder, bringing you even closer to him, pulling your clit into his mouth, harshly sucking on it while moaning against you, his eyes now shut as he let himself get lost in the motions.

You looked down at him again and nearly lost every sense of composure you had left, his brows were knit together, eyes shut, and as he sucked on your clit with his fingers gripping your thigh, he moaned against you—as if he was doing this for his own pleasure, not yours.

Then you noticed the way his hips rolled into your mattress—that had you whimpering his name, biting your bottom look as you tugged on his hair, fingers grazing his scalp while you finally let go—now grinding yourself against him.

Joaquin let go of your clit, a deep guttural moan leaving his lips at the feeling of you grinding against his face, then he moved lower, nose now pressed against your pearl while his tongue lapped at your dripping hole. 

The second he slid his tongue into you—you whined his name like a prayer. Now fully rolling your hips against his face, moaning at the pressure from his nose against your clit and the feeling of his tongue licking into you—practically darting in and out of you at a brutal pace.

Your body was on fire, the coil in your abdomen wound so tight it felt as if you were about to explode, and all you could focus on was the feeling of Joaquin Torres’s tongue fucking into you.

He managed to press his face deeper against you, moaning at the taste of your cunt, drowning himself in it. His hips were grinding against your mattress as one of his hands held you against him, then he slid his tongue out of you, two fingers now prodding at your hole, his tongue back on your clit as he slowly slid them inside of you.

The stretch of his fingers alongside his tongue moving against your clit sent you over the edge—practically gushing against his face as you came with a high pitched “Quino!”.

Joaquin’s eyes fluttered open as he looked up at you, your lips parted, brows knit, eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy as your orgasm consumed you—fuck you’d never looked more beautiful.

You expected him to stop, but he was far from finished with you. Fingers now curling into you, fucking you through your orgasm—prolonging it. One of your hands moved from his hair, now on his shoulder—nails digging into his skin as you held onto him, unknowingly grinding yourself against him even more—rolling your hips over and over again—using him for your own pleasure.

“That’s it Hermosa—use me—fuck just like that.” His words were muffled against your core, you didn’t even fully register them as he finger fucked you through your high and into the world of overstimulation. It was simultaneously too much and not enough, your nerve endings on fire and all you could think about was Joaquin.

He brought your clit back into his mouth, cheeks hollowing as he sucked on it, tongue swirling over it slightly—just enough to have you seeing stars as his fingers brushed against the velvety spot inside of you that left you gasping his name. Joaquin focused on that spot, fingers moving rapidly and purposefully, moaning against your clit at the feeling of your walls fluttering around him.

This was downright sinful, prior to this moment, you were positive you’d be going to hell—but Joaquin Torres’s greedy mouth on your cunt had you convinced there was a spot dedicated to the both of you.

It wasn’t long until you were toppling over the edge again, vision blurring as a white heat overtook your entire being—practically screaming his name as your eyes watered slightly.

He looked up at you, eyes hooded, mouth still focused on your clit—moaning at the sight of you, knowing that he was the one bringing you this much pleasure was enough to have him on edge.

Thankfully, as you came down from your high, you gently pushed him away, whimper and shaking your head, voice breathy while mumbling. “It’s too much—fuck—give me a second”. 

When he finally moved away from you, he licked his lips, now staring at you with a dopey smile on his face. You should’ve been embarrassed at the shiny layer of your essence along his lips and chin—but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Not when he was looking at you like you’d hung the stars. 

Neither of you said a word as you held eye contact. 

Something unspoken in the air, an evident shift in your entire relationship—but neither of you cared. Not when he’d already confessed his feelings for you and made you cum twice in the span of twenty minutes.

Especially not when you knew that you were practically in love with Joaquin. It’d just taken him slapping your ass and word-vomiting a confession for you to realize it.

Your eyes moved from his, trailing along his body, stopping at his waist—the evident tent in his sweats had your eyes widening slightly. You’ve always had an inkling that he was big just based on the way he carried himself—but now you knew you were right and your mouth was already watering.

“Take them off Joaquin.” 

He nodded at your request—although it was more of a demand.

You laughed as he stood up, rushing through the process of taking off his sweats and briefs—stumbling a bit as he kicked them off. However, the second your eyes landed on his cock you stopped laughing, lips parted, mouth watering slightly—just enough that you were drooling.

He was big—huge even—thick and girthy in a way that you knew would make your head spin, a few defined veins traveling along the shaft of his cock, and the head had a pink-ish flush to it, already leaking precum. 

The sight was salacious.

Joaquin watched it happen, the sliver of spit gliding along the edge of your open mouth—then in seconds he was back on you, his tongue trailing along your chin, gathering it before kissing you. It was downright filthy, the way his tongue explored your mouth—the taste of cunt still fresh on his tongue. 

You moaned against his lips, one hand on his jaw, the other sliding along his torso, then down to his cock, fingers trailing the length of it, before you grasped him in hand, his hips bucking into you. You kissed him as your hand slowly pumped along his shaft—thumb spreading his precum along the tip, dragging it down his cock—using it to move faster, gliding along the length of it all.

He pulled back slightly, resting his forehead against yours as you jerked him off, pausing for a moment, long enough to spit on your hand—then it was back on him. 

“You’re gonna kill me—y’know that?” 

You laughed at him, head rolling forward the slightest bit, gaze focused on his cock—biting your bottom lip as you tighten your grip on him, speeding your motions up just enough to make his abdomen flex. “I want you in my mouth Quino.” Your words were quiet whispers, then your eyes met his again, faces only a few centimeters apart.

“Not today—fuck don’t think I’ll last today—shit” he moaned, heavy breaths against your lips while he rocked his hips forward—chasing his own high. But he needed more. “I need you, Corazón”.

You smiled, kissing him softly before shoving him away from you. 

“You’re giving me whiplash baby—but if you don’t want to, we don’t have to.” He laughed at his own joke, smile on his face while you looked up at him, shaking your head, biting your lip, holding back your own grin—or at least attempting to hold it back.

“Tell me how you want me, Joaquin.” 

His eyes widened at your seductive tone, you’d never sounded sexier—it made his cock twitch, and he was blushing. How one sentence managed to make him blush was insane, considering he’d just had his face between your thighs to the point that you were practically squirting against his tongue.

“Shit baby—on your back, but trust me okay? You said you’re flexible right?” 

You nodded at him, brows knit together as you slid down the mattress, now flat on your back with your legs bent at his sides. Then you watched as his palms met the backs of your thighs, lifting them slightly until you got the message and raised them up—legs now in the air. 

You were laughing at him, and soon enough, he was laughing too.

That was until he rested your ankles on his shoulders and leaned closer into your space, practically folding you in half. You were in shock at his position of choice. “What the hell, Quino? Basic missionary too boring for you or something?” 

He smiled, nodding his head. “Trust me—you’ll love it, I promise. Oh shit wait—I don’t have a condom.” His movements faltered as the realization dawned upon him, minor panic evident on his features.

“I’m on the pill—and I’m clean. I’ve never let anyone else ever—y’know without one. Wait—you literally go to the clinic with me to get tested!” 

Joaquin shrugged, which in turn made your legs stretch a bit more—earning a short gasp. “Well, when you put it that way corazón, I might end up cumming inside of you—I gotta ask now, are you okay with that?” 

You blinked several times “Quino, you literally have me folded in half and you’re asking if I’m okay with you cumming inside of me when I just gave you the okay to fuck me raw? Are you hearing yourself right now?” 

“I made you cum twice and you’re still so mean—jeez. God forbid a man wants full consent before creampie-ing his girl.” His hands left your calves, now up in faux-surrender as he spoke. The motion made you both start laughing again, but the second he moved his hips forward the slightest bit—his cock nudged against your clit and you gasped.

Then you were making eye contact again.

He hesitated for a few seconds. “You sure?”

You nodded, “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

That’s all the encouragement he needed. Joaquin teased you the slightest bit, running the tip of his cock along your dripping folds—tapping it against your swollen clit a few times before lining himself up with your entrance.

Then he slid in the slightest bit—and the immediate stretch had your eyes squeezed shut, a breathy gasp leaving your lips while he slowly rocked himself into you, inch by inch. 

“You’re so big—fuck Joaquin” 

He nodded, shushing you in a comforting manner “‘s okay—you’re doing so well baby, fucking cunt feels so good—just like that, relax into it cariño.” He kissed along your calves as he focused on filling you to the hilt, taking his time with you, letting you adjust to his size. 

Your hands gripped the comforters, knuckles practically white as you bit your bottom lip, doing your best not to clench around him—trying to relax, trying to let him in fully. The stretch stung in a painfully pleasurable way, something you couldn’t put into words, it was too much and not enough all at once. 

He was so deep—and you had a feeling the position also had something to do with that. It was like you could feel him in your stomach. Your toes curled while your back arched into him, head lulling back, brows knit, all the while mindless moans and mewls filled the space.

When Joaquin fully bottomed out he moaned your name, eyes focused on where your bodies met, you held him in a vice grip, he wanted nothing more than to ruin you—fucking you so hard you forgot about every single shitty guy that you’d been with—making you his and only his. 

But he also wanted to take his time with you, wanted to be slow and considerate—wanting to make this good for you.

It was as if you could read his mind, eyes fluttering open as you met his gaze. “Quino—I need you to fuck me, hard—” before you could even finish your sentence he was pulling out of you in a swift motion, to the point that only the head of his cock was inside of you, then he practically slammed back into you.

You screamed his name.

Your words snapped something inside of him, and as his fingers gripped your legs—he focused on fucking you into the mattress, hips unrelenting as he rocked into you, moaning at the feeling of your cunt. 

“So fuckin tight, you’re making such a mess baby—fuck look at that, just like that Hermosa—just like that” he praised you while he fucked into you, eyes trailing your entire figure, then pausing at your cunt, moaning at the sight of you practically sucking him back in, his cock coated in a layer of your slick, pussy practically drenching him.

Then he leaned even closer to you, one of your legs slipping off of his shoulder, however he still held you in place, hand on the back of your thigh, practically folding it against the mattress as his lips found yours again. 

The kiss was sloppy, neither of you could really focus on it, but Joaquin needed to be as close to you as possible—needed this moment to last. 

You couldn’t think straight, Joaquin clouded your every sense to the point that all you could do was moan and whimper a mixture between his name and slurred praise. Your thighs were tense, hips practically burning, and the pleasure radiating through your body was too much.

You tried pushing him back, but you didn’t want him to stop—you just couldn’t focus on anything but the fire raging throughout your body.

“‘S okay baby—you can take it, I know you can. Fuck you’re so good for me Corazón—mean the world to me too.” Joaquin was rambling, letting your other thigh go—giving you a quick sense of relief, but his thrusts hadn’t let up, and he wrapped a single hand around your throat—applying the slightest bit of pressure—testing the waters.

Your moan was the very definition of desperate as you grasped his forearm, holding him in place, eyes slowly opening, meeting his intense stare.

That’s what sent you over the edge, holding eye contact with Joaquin as he roughly fucked into you, his hand wrapped around your throat, and you finally realized the odd emotion you’d always seen in his gaze was just love—pure, undevoted love.

“Fuck—I love you Joaquin” your words were mumbled as you moaned, eyes squeezed shut again, legs shaking as your final orgasm hit. You couldn’t focus on anything but the pleasure sweeping through your body in waves, when you thought you were alright—it was like mini aftershocks kept hitting you.

He hardly processed your words, part of him couldn’t tell if he was hearing things or not, but it hadn’t stopped his hips from tensing up, cock twitching inside of you as he buried it to the hilt, thick ropes of cum filling you with an overwhelming warmth as he moaned “I love you—fuck love you so much—.”

Joaquin practically collapsed on top of you, his head buried in the crook of your neck, shallow breaths hitting your flushed skin, meanwhile he intertwined his fingers with yours, his other hand grasping the comforter below as if it was a lifeline while he came down from his high.

The weight of him on top of you was relaxing, it was everything you needed in the moment.

Then your doorbell started ringing, and it wasn’t just once, no it was several times in a row—something only Sam did when he was irritated and couldn’t get a hold of you.

Your eyes widened and so did Joaquin’s, he lifted himself up, using his hand on the mattress to brace himself as he looked at you.

“Is that—?” 

You nodded, then you looked over at your bedside clock, ‘10:38’ showing. Then you realized you were supposed to send over the finished satellite reports by ten thirty today, meaning it was eight minutes late, but also, you most likely had several missed calls and texts from Sam.

“Oh my God, he’s gonna kill me!” 

When the doorbell started ringing again, you groaned. Then Joaquin slowly pulled out of you, kissing your forehead as he whispered apologies against your skin, hearing your subtle wince. He was quick to stand up, pulling his sweats back on, then he looked between your open thighs, pausing in his motions—eyes trailing your fucked out cunt, practically moaning at the sight of his cum leaking out of you.

“God—I should take a picture of that. Fuck—shit Sam can wait another second—” Then he was back between your thighs, tongue lapping at your leaking hole, your eyes widening as you whimpered, one hand already in his hair, meanwhile Joaquin’s tongue was back inside of you—the motion outright filthy.

It didn’t take much for you to cum again, you were already too sensitive, you felt like a live wire.

A few seconds after Joaquin started rubbing circles into your clit with his thumb, you were moaning his name and gushing—this time you were genuinely squirting, legs shaking, and body tense.

You pushed him away from you—thighs clamped shut as you caught your breath. Both of you exchanged a look before glancing at the clock, five minutes had passed.

“That’s gotta be a record for you huh? Five minutes was all that one took?” 

You shushed him, slowly sitting up, looking around the room for your clothes. But he was already off the bed, wiping his forearm against his face—doing his best to clean himself up before opening one of your drawers, pulling out a pair of shorts and tossing it at you.

You’d already found his shirt, so you pulled that on, then slipped into the shorts on wobbly legs.

“You really are a fucking freak Joaquin.” You spoke as you tried to find your footing, grasping the edge of your nightstand and taking a deep breath. Your legs were already sore, so was your abdomen. 

“Yeah, but you liked it, besides, I didn’t miss the way you reacted when I choked you, you love that shit don’t you?” He wiggled his brows as he teased you, now helping you stand up straighter, both of you looking at one another before walking out of your bedroom. Then he sat on your sofa while you opened the front door.

Sam was clearly annoyed as he looked at you. That’s when you noticed Bucky was also outside of your apartment, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. 

This was about to get even more mortifying.

Sam practically invited himself in, already ranting. “Y’know kid, the job’s been relatively easy lately, and all I asked you to do was finish those reports because you’re the best data analyst I’ve got. You know everything about illegal and legal weaponry, practically specialize in foreign and alien-based tech, and you can spot an anomaly a thousand miles away, and yet here you are, damn near fifteen minutes past the deadline which I gave you on Wednesday—when usually you’d have everything over a day or two early.”

He paused, now turning to look at you again, shaking his head—he still hadn’t registered Joaquin sitting shirtless on the couch. “Then I called you, several times, I called you yesterday and today, you didn’t answer, I thought you died or something! How would I feel thinking you died when the last real conversation we had was me kicking you out of my office!”

Bucky cleared his throat as he looked at Sam, the first time Sam hadn’t noticed, then he did it again, which led to Sam looking at him with wide eyes.

“Yes, Buck?!” 

Bucky then nodded his head in Joaquin’s direction, Sam easily followed the motion.

Joaquin awkwardly smiled and waved at Sam. It didn’t help that he had red scratches along his chest—something you hadn’t even realized you’d done to him. Then of course, his hair was disheveled, and he looked a little too relaxed. 

That’s when Sam looked back at you, eyes taking in your figure, now noticing your own messy hair, the U.S. Air Force t-shirt you had on, and he noticed the way that you leaned against one of the countertops closest to you.

“Oh my god—are you two serious?! Didn’t I say don’t let this get in the way of work! I’m over here dragging that walking museum piece around because I thought you were dying, meanwhile you’re over here screwing Joaquin?!” 

You nodded. “Bucky’s the one who told me I needed to pursue less shitty guys.” 

Bucky shook his head at you. “That’s not what I meant. Don’t throw me under the bus here, he’s already pissed because I forgot to make brunch reservations—I don’t even like brunch.”

Then Sam looked over at Joaquin. “Did you at least tell the girl you’re in love with her before sleeping with her?” 

Joaquin shrugged, grimacing slightly before replying. “Does it count if I told her while we were having sex?” 

Sam blinked several times. “Those are details I didn’t ask for. Jesus Christ! Get those reports done and sent to me by tonight! And at the very least, answer your phone calls! Torres—you need to answer yours too! Let’s go Buck, before I lose my mind.” 

Then Sam was leaving, Bucky gave you an awkward smile, and a final, “for the record, I’m glad you came to your senses and realized you like him” before following Sam out.

Once the door clicked shut, you locked it. Now left with Joaquin.

“Well, that could’ve gone better.” You spoke as you walked to the sofa, plopping down across from him, feet now resting in his lap. 

He just stared at you for a few moments. “Y’know I do love you, right? It wasn’t a heat of the moment thing. I’m in love with you, and I was serious about the whole having to gaslight myself into thinking I’m not into you when I know I am.”

You laughed at him, smiling as you leaned against the couch cushions. “I can’t believe I’ve been this blind for so long, y’know how many shitty dates I could’ve avoided? Like genuinely—also you’re still a fucking freak.” 

Joaquin smiled, nodding his head. “Yeah? What—was the head too much at the end? Want me to tone it down some, I dunno, I think I might’ve set a record for you today, four orgasms? That’s more than you’ve had in months.”

You scoffed at his teasing. “Oh, shut up! It’s not my fault I didn’t know you were Mister munch!” Then you paused. “I need a shower.” 

He watched as you stood up, walking away from him, then you turned back, clearing your throat, waiting for him to meet your stare. When he did, you smiled. 

“Well, are you coming or what?”

Joaquin was positive he’d never moved faster, following you right into the bathroom, but before he could fully process what you were doing, you pressed him against the bathroom wall, a mischievous smile on your face.

“For the record, I’m positive that I love you too, Quino.” Then you were kissing him.

-

Thanks for reading my super hot and sexy ppl <3 Im literally posting ts from my job rn bc im so over working on a Saturday

[oldermenfucker]

Holding You, Holding Me / M. Robinavitch

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TWO: Sparks Fly

Summary: your parents’ wedding anniversary brings you and your mom’s friend closer to each other, closer than it should be, but there is no harm if no one finds out, right?

Warnings: kissingggggg, lots of tension, tiny bit of angst cause it’s Robby c’mon, English isn’t my first language<3

Word count: 3.47k+

an: things WILL get steamy and the drama will start when it’s dueeee🤭 please comment and tell me what you think of this chapter!!

If you wanna be tagged in the next chapters, fill this form<3

My mind forgets to remind me you're a bad idea You touch me once and it's really something You find I'm even better than you imagined I would be I'm on my guard for the rest of the world But with you, I know it's no good And I could wait patiently But I really wish you would

“Of course I’ll bring it to you, Mom,” you sigh, humming incoherently as you drop your bag and white coat in the passenger seat before you march toward the door of the PTMC. “You’ve called me three times already. I’m pretty sure I have your badge in my hand. Don’t worry about it, I’ll be there in a few minutes, alright?”

Hospital is an extraordinary place to work in, ER is even worse; you heard from your mother and her friends, not only because of the patients, but because of the strange layout it has. It feels like you’re trapped in a maze as you wander around the hospital until you find the elevator — embarrassing, really, because it is not the first time you're stepping into this place.

You count yourself lucky as soon as you spot a familiar face among the crowd, fingers twitching as the memories immediately flood back into your head.

Robby. The man you kissed a few days ago and had to break apart before your mom could catch you. The same Robby who you have grown to be familiar with throughout the years.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he notices you as well, giving you one of his heartwarming smiles when you reach the central, “What you doing here?”

“Mom called me at five in the fucking morning and said I need you to bring me my badge and hung up,” you shrug and smile back, nearly melting on the spot with how soft he looks at you, “But she made sure to call a few more times to check if I was really going to show up.”

“Typical Dana,” he leans on his forearm on the counter, scratching the back of his neck as he looks around, “I think she went to the break room, let’s go find her.”

“Don’t you have patients to take care of?” You ask, frowning at how eager he seems to be to get away from all this stuff, “You don’t have to come with me, I’m sure you’re pretty busy, so I’ll just go find her—“

“I’ll be more than happy to get away from this place, it’s a lazy day anyway,” he puts a hand on your back, stepping closer to lead you to the breakroom, but he can’t, nor can you with how this closeness brings back memories of the last time you were together. 

You clear your throat, “I don’t want to take your time for something so silly—“

“Stop overthinking it, alright? I’m a grown man and I have ten other people handling everything, let me show you there,” he doesn’t let you dwell on it much longer and with a gentle push, he is walking you through the floor, “I’m not sure if your mom’s there but that’s where it’s most likely.”

“I can wait a few minutes before I have to leave for work,” you reply, thanking him when he opens the door for you to the breakroom, letting you step in first, “I just wanna make sure she gets the badge and stops calling me.”

“I’m sure she’s around,” he closes the door and walks to the countertop, washing his hands while he looks at you over his shoulder, “Coffee?”

“Yes, please,” you smile, dropping your mom’s badge and your phone on the table, walking around the room slowly while he fills the coffeemaker, “You know… we never got to talk about that night.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t think there is anything to talk about.”

Your heart drops to the pit of your stomach. You freeze on the spot with your back to him on the other side of the room, arms going slack next to your body as you turn around slowly to look at him.

“Wha–what do you mean, Robby?”

Gosh, you sound so pitiful. Of course he thinks it was a mistake, of course he is not attracted to you, of course, of course of course ofcourse—

“Sweetheart, look at me,” suddenly he is in front of you with a mug of coffee, tilting your head up with his finger under your jaw, “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” It comes out as a whisper, but he hears you loud and clear and smiles a little when you try to turn your head away, but he keeps your face locked in place as he stares into your eyes.

“Don’t get lost in your head.” his thumb caresses your jaw so slowly that you might think you are hallucinating. “There’s nothing to talk about because—“

“Because nothing happened, right?” Your voice quivers, and you think he might lose his temper and shut you down completely, but instead of getting mad at you, he just shakes his head and leans down a little, “What are you smiling about?”

“Sweetheart, so many things happened that night,” he lets go of you for a moment to put the mug down so he can cup your face, his large hands covering your cheeks fully, “it doesn’t mean they were the right thing to do.”

“But they felt right,” you reply quietly, swallowing the lump in your throat as you try not to get lost in the way his gaze softens even more, “Why do you regret it?”

“I don’t regret it, sweetheart,” he shakes his head, leaning down to press his forehead against yours, “But we shouldn’t do it again, I can barely look at your mom anymore–“

“This isn’t about how she might feel, Robby, this is about us–“

“I know, I know–“ he leans down to peck your lips suddenly to stop you from talking. Wrong move, now he can’t stop kissing you, not when you taste so familiar like a book he has read ten times already.

He deepens the kiss, tilting his head to the side while one hand goes to the back of your head to keep you close, slowly backing you up to the wall of the breakroom without breaking away from your lips.

You reciprocate the kiss with the same passion, hands traveling up to his neck and then shoulders, pulling him as close as possible when he presses his body to yours and corners you, swiping your bottom lip with the tip of his tongue before you grant him entrance. His tongue moves over yours, battling for dominance, which you lose pretty quickly and let him take the reins again.

Voices are approaching, and they make him pull away slightly, glancing at the door quickly before he pecks your lips one last time and pulls away, walking to the other side of the room before you hear the footsteps behind the door.

“We’ll talk later, alright? I’ll text you, sweetheart.”

“Okay, yeah, yeah,” you reply breathlessly, running a hand down your face, rubbing your neck as you try to steady your breathing.

What was he thinking? He kissed you like he couldn’t stop himself, and he didn’t even try to stop himself. The more you think about his words, the more confused you get about his actions; he says it’s wrong, yet he can’t keep away from you. He says he can’t look at your mother anymore, but he pulls you closer the second he is sure she isn’t looking.

“Robby, have you seen— oh, honey, hi! I was looking for you everywhere,” Dana pulls you in for a quick hug, kissing the side of your head before she pulls back, “What are you still doing here? Aren’t you going to be late for work?”

“I thought I’d see you too, now that I’m here,” you shrug, trying so hard not to glance at Robby and give yourself away, “Your badge is on the table.”

“Thank you, honey, you’re a lifesaver,” she squeezes your arm, looking at Robby with a raised eyebrow, “What are you doing here? Go out there, you’ve got patients to treat.”

“I was the one who helped her find the breakroom, you should thank me too,” he shrugs, grabbing a plastic cup to fill with coffee, “I also needed coffee.”

“That’s your second cup, and it’s only been two hours since you arrived.” Dana crosses her arms over her chest, glaring at Robby, “Are you alright?”

“Of course, I’m fine,” he nods, taking a sip from his cup before he strides toward the door, “As fine as I always am. Goodbye, sweetheart.”

“Goodbye, Robby,” you smile at him, watching him flush a little and leave the break room with one last wave before you turn to your mother, “What’s going on? Is he okay?”

“Yeah, he’s just been a bit weird these past few days,” she shrugs, grabbing her badge and moving to the counter to pick up a mug for herself, pouring coffee before she takes a sip, scrunching her nose at the taste, “How did he drink this? It’s fucking cold.”

“Oh,” you whisper, mind reeling with the thoughts of how Robby’s behavior changed after your encounter at your mom’s party. He masks his emotions pretty well, but nothing really goes unnoticed by your mother’s sharp, curious eyes, and he has been her friend long enough for her to know how and when Robby’s behavior changes — even if it's something so little and subtle.

You just hope she doesn’t notice your change of behavior. Because if she does, you are fucked . 

“Alright, imma head out,” you exhale deeply, running your palms over your pants to wipe off the sweat as you walk to her to give her a final hug, “Have a great day, mom. Call if you need anything.”

“Will do, honey,” she kisses your head, hugs you back, sending you off, “Have fun at work.”

“Absolutely,” you grin and push the door open, holding in your breath as you walk through the ED, eyes finding Robby’s frame quickly, watching him talk to his new students before he glances at you and looking back to the crowd in front of him, but you don’t miss the way his eyes shine a little bright and his cheeks turn red.

Maybe the talk will clear up everything.

  ••••••

  “Fancy seeing you here, Doctor Robinavitch,” you say, finding him with two bags full of Thai food as he walks out of the restaurant. Smirking to yourself, you lean back on the door of your car, waiting for him to finally reach you, “You have a date?”

“Absolutely fucking not,” he chuckles, leaning down to kiss your forehead as soon as he reaches you, “Thank you for picking me up.”

“Of course, I’m always nice to broke men,” you grin when he groans and opens the back door, placing the bags on the backseat with care before he turns around and stands in front of you, placing one palm on the hood of the car.

“It seems humor has nothing to do with genetics, and I have a pretty fancy car in my garage, thank you,” he smiles when you look down at your shoes with a bashful smile, “I don’t wanna talk about things here, so,” he extends his hand to you, waiting for you to give him the remote, “Gimme the keys, I’ll drive.”

“This is an automatic car, Robby, you don’t need keys to unlock the door.” You duck under his arm and move towards the driver’s side, “I don’t trust you with my car, you might get us killed, old man.”

“As if you haven’t been in my car before, kid ,” he rolls his eyes but gets into the passenger seat, watching as you start the engine and fasten your seatbelt, “Just don’t get too excited about the food, I paid for it.”

“Don’t make me throw you out of my car, Robby.” You narrow your eyes at him when you hit the stop at the red light, “My place? It’s closer.”

“Sure,” he shrugs, leaning back on the seat and turning his head to look at you, “What are we doing, sweetheart?”

“Things that are… worth doing?” You crane your head to stare back at him, “Hopefully, I mean. There’s nothing wrong with trying.”

“That’s for normal people who meet on the streets, not us,” he sighs, looking outside the window, scratching his chin, “It’s just wrong . Morally wrong, I am much older than you—“

“Have you ever heard me complain about your age?” 

“We kissed a few days ago, sweetheart, you didn’t have time to think about it at all,” he chuckles and closes his eyes, listening to your soft breathing, “I’m not saying to discourage you, but—“

“My god, has anyone told you that you talk a lot?” You whine playfully, “You’re not discouraging me. Upsetting? Yes, but I’m not gonna lose hope this soon because you think it’s immoral for two adults to kiss.”

“One of the adults is twice the age of the other one and is the said adult’s mom’s friend,” he explains, running a hand down his face again, pulling on the edge of the seatbelt as you drive to your place, “Let’s just have dinner first then we’ll talk.”

“Right, you get hangry, how could I forget?”

“You’re insufferable. What the fuck does that even mean?”

“As you said, humor is not passed on by genes,” you look at him, winking as you pull into your apartment’s parking, “Okay, get the bags and I’ll get my boxes.”

You pull into your spot, cutting off the engine before you both get out. He follows you into the elevator quietly after he insisted on carrying your boxes for you while you held the food.

“What are these anyway?” He asks, shaking the boxes a little to hear what’s inside, “New purchases?”

“Those are my new toys, Robby,” you tell him as you both walk out of the elevator, unlocking your apartment door before stepping inside, holding the door open for him to join you as well while you take off your shoes, “New splints, needles for needle therapy, muscle tapes, and a new vibrator!”

“What?!”

“Wha– oh, no, no , hahah, no!” Your eyes widen so much you think they might pop out of your skull. You nearly drop the bags on the floor as you whip your face towards him, finding Robby blushing deeply as he stares at you with parted lips, “For muscles, a vibrator for muscles and limbs and rehabilitation, fucking hell , can you stop looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” His cheeks get redder, but he is no longer shocked, except he is grinning like an idiot, and you wanna wipe that smug smile off his face, “I’m not doing anything.”

“You know I know what you thought, so stop being an arrogant little boy about it,” you hiss, glaring at him as you march toward your kitchen to wash your hands.

This is so embarrassing , you think, because if this happened a month ago, you would have also rethought your entire life, but you wouldn’t be this flustered over it. This time it’s different, it’s worse, it’s more mind-wrecking because you have kissed Robby. He is no longer just your mom’s best friend who you had a crush on, he is the man who was sucking on your tongue only a few hours ago.

“No one’s called me a boy in the past twenty years, sweetheart,” he lowers the boxes on the ground, kicking off his shoes and placing them next to yours, “Also, I didn’t say a thing about your new vibrator, in fact I would love to see what it really is.”

“Fuck off, I’m eating all your food after I kick you out of my house,” you reach for the tissue paper next to the sink, drying your hands and turning around to look at him, “But if you are really interested…”

Robby leans back on the countertop on his elbows, eyes following all your movements as you start to pull out two plates and move to the coffee table in front of the couch.

“Don’t just stand there, help me or I’ll start calling you uncle again.”

“We’ve kissed, and you still wanna call me uncle? Disgusting ,” he makes a weird face before he brings the food to the table, sitting on the couch next to you and helping you unpack them. “What did Dana say after I left?”

“Nothing really, just that you’ve been acting weird for a few days.” You grab your plate and lean back on the couch, twisting your fork in the noodles, smiling when his ears turn red, “I wonder why.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, it’s not because of you,” he gives you a sharp look, trying to be convincing, but he is not even doing a good job at convincing himself, “I can’t look at your mom the way I used to.”

“Come on, it’s a decade-long friendship, I’m sure I’m not the only secret you’ve had to keep,” you shrug, but you know what he is really saying. It is hard to keep a cool persona around your mom when she is too quick to catch up on things, not to mention how easily she can pull the words out of your mouth.

“It’s not about that,” he puts his plate down and you do the same, turning around to look at your hands on your thighs first, not really ready to look you in the eye, “It’s about losing what we have created, and also your parents will skin me alive if they ever find out.”

“They won’t! Robby, what are you scared of?” You scoot closer to him, cupping his cheek while he leans on his side and reaches to caress your thigh, the distance between you slowly getting invisible, “We don’t work together, we don’t see each other as much as you see my mom. There is no reason for her to get suspicious.”

“Because!” He groans, dropping his head on your shoulder, pulling you closer as much as he can by throwing your legs over his thigh, “It’s not because of her, it’s… It’s us . I don’t want to ruin what we have if this doesn’t work out in the end.”

“We won’t know anything if we don’t try, Robby.” You can feel how your heart is beating faster, the doubt you have been trying to bury throughout the day is crawling back into your head, “You just have to… let yourself feel it.”

He doesn’t reply, not immediately anyway. But you can feel the hot exhale he lets out over your neck, his fingers tightening around your thigh. You scratch the back of his head, your nails working through the thin strands of his hair as you wait for him to say something.

Robby slowly pulls away enough to look into your eyes, the tip of his nose brushing against your cheek. The hand on your thigh moves to your jaw, thumb stroking the length of the bone, moving up to gently press down on your bottom lip.

He closes the distance in the blink of an eye — so much for a man who was telling you ‘Oh but it’s wrong’ and now is kissing you like he is starved for you. 

You kiss back instantly; there is no reason not to do so. Tugging on his hair gently, you let him tilt your head in the angles he wants to, deepening the kiss with so much intensity you have to wrap an arm around his shoulders to keep yourself from drifting away.

His teeth clash with yours, and his lips move with certainty you didn’t know he had in him. The kiss turns messy when he pushes his tongue into your mouth, humming at your familiar taste. 

You let out little gasps and sighs whenever you can breathe, both arms looped around his neck as you pour everything you can into this, letting him know you want him badly.

He lowers you onto the couch, maneuvering your body to his liking until he is as close to you as possible, making home between your legs without breaking apart from you.

But perhaps you should have listened to the doubt in your gut earlier today; maybe it would have helped to make this moment hurt less. He pulls back suddenly , face flushed and lips swollen, but there is a pain behind his brown eyes.

“I can’t do this.”

The way he whispers breaks you, and it only hurts worse when he sits back up to run a hand through his hair and stands up. 

You don’t have the energy to get up. You just lay there and watch him pace around your house, collecting his stuff before he stops and looks at you with a remorseful expression. 

“It’s wrong, sweetheart.”

You can’t say anything to him because he is out of your door in a second with his belongings gone. So you stay on the couch with a racing heart and a head full of foggy thoughts.

[writteninessence]

Backstage Pass idols!Hyunjin x Felix x Chan x manager!reader

Hair sticking to his temples, lip bitten raw, gaze bright with effort. He turned his head toward you like he’d felt your eyes on him, and for a second, just a second, he looked right at you. Didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. Just… looked.

Warnings: short lil sum, fluff, suggestiveness, might make your heart beat a little harder, make ya toes curl, forbidden(?) relationship, poly, dom!Bangchan (has my heart), some I probably forgot Word Count: 771 Tags: I don't have any yet! Comment or message me if you wanna tag along for the ride <3 A/N: possible series... be nice. we don't tolerate any hate over here. Enjoy <3

You’d learned how to walk on a tightrope.

It wasn’t in the job description, but no one told you what to do when your artists looked at you like that—like they were starving and you were the one thing they weren’t allowed to touch.

And maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if they weren’t them.

If Hyunjin didn’t move like sin in silk, fluid, unbothered, his beauty so sharp it felt intentional. He was always watching you out of the corner of his eye like he liked catching you slipping. Like he knew he was the one you couldn’t stop thinking about at 2 AM when the schedules were finalized and the lights were off and your fingers hovered over your phone.

If Felix didn’t have that voice. That impossible, low, honey-dipped drawl that made everything he said sound like a secret. And if he didn’t touch your arm every time he thanked you. And smile at you like you’d just done something miraculous for him, even when all you did was hand him a damn protein bar.

And if Bang Chan—God—if he didn’t make it so damn hard to keep your head on straight. If he didn’t know things before you said them, or watched you like you were a blueprint he had already memorized. Like he wanted to be the one to break your rules for you.

You were their manager. Their anchor. The one who kept everything running when they were tired, stressed, and cracking. You were supposed to be neutral.

 Unshakeable.

And yet, there you were—shaken.

They were rehearsing for an end-of-year stage—tight choreography at a grueling pace. You weren’t even watching. Not really. Not until someone called “break,” and you looked up just in time to see Hyunjin drop to the floor, chest heaving.

He didn’t look exhausted. He looked alive.

Hair sticking to his temples, lip bitten raw, gaze bright with effort. He turned his head toward you like he’d felt your eyes on him, and for a second, just a second, he looked right at you. Didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. Just… looked.

And you looked back.

Something in your chest stuttered.

Then he blinked and looked away. Gone.

You swallowed hard and glanced away, pretending to scroll through your tablet. Notes. Tomorrow’s flight. Anything that wasn’t him.

It happened again the next week during a late-night recording.

Felix was in the booth, hoodie pulled low over his forehead, voice dipped into his chest. You were sitting behind the glass with Chan, going over production notes on a tablet. You heard Felix finish a take, and before you could speak, he glanced up.

Right at you.

Not Chan. Not the engineer. You.

His gaze lingered, curious. Soft. Familiar.

Like he liked the sound of your silence more than the beat.

You blinked and looked away, typing some note you’d already forgotten before you finished it.

Inside the booth, Felix smiled to himself.

And then Bang Chan—the worst of them, the one who knew better—he didn’t say anything when it started. He just watched.

Not in a creepy way. No. He watched like a leader. Like someone who saw the way Hyunjin’s voice got low and polite when he asked you if you needed anything. Like someone who noticed Felix was suddenly helping you carry things no one asked him to. Like someone who saw your hands shake when he stood too close.

He saw it all. And he didn’t stop it.

It was only you and Chan left behind, finalizing lyrics before the rest of the boys gathered in the studio to record them.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Just stared.

Elbow draped over the couch back, one knee propped up, shirt slightly clinging to him. Calm. Still. Like he was giving you a chance to speak first.

But you didn’t.

So he did.

“You need to be more careful.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You’re watching them too openly,” he said. His tone was low but firm. Measured. Like he was weighing every word before handing it to you.

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

He stood slowly, notebook in one hand, the other running through his curls as he stepped into your space. Not enough to touch. But close. Too close.

“You’re making it hard for them to hold back,” he murmured.

Your breath caught.

“What makes you think they’re holding back?” you whispered.

Chan leaned in, close enough to brush your cheek with his breath.

“They told me.”

You froze.

He pulled away, walking toward the door like he hadn’t just cracked the ground open under you.

And then he left.

To be continued

-E

[chevxyn]

media's gaze — with itoshi sae.

syp; as the u-20 vs blue lock 11 game ended, you went to seek your friend— only to bump into a guy that the media came for.

mature language.

the game had ended around 15 minutes ago and the score resulted in 3-4, you went to find your way to meet your close friend to congratulate and to talk to him as he had called you.

as you walked around the stadium trying to find their locker room, you got lost— well, by the looks of it you’re at the merchandise area.

not losing hope, you kept walking as you checked your phone incase he answered, until you hit something hard, stumbling back.

the object, well, the person you bumped into looked behind and looked at you, almost immediately you gave a small bow and apologised.

“i’m so sorry! it’s my fault, i was looking at my phone and—“ you got cut off as the person spoke out, “it’s fine.” his voice had a cold undertone but you can make out that it’s a guy.

as you straighten your body, you could recognize that face— as it is hard to not know the one that is plastered on posters and standees in the stadium, itoshi sae.

now, you could’ve just run along— but you’re lost and he’s a player, no doubt he’d know the location of your friend right?

so you took a breath— opened your mouth, until his voice came out first, “sorry, i don’t do autographs or photos.” and you froze.

oh. oh!

your eye twitched and you nodded, “oh-kay.” you managed to let out, as he was about to leave when your voice finally came through.

“do you by chance know where the blue lock locker room is?” and he raised his eyebrow, “and you’re looking for it because?”

“i need to find a friend, his name is rin.” you said and he was silent a couple of seconds, and then you realized— right, it’s his brother.

after the 7 seconds of silence, you really just wanna leave now to cut the embarrassment, unfortunately— before you could, his voice had to cut you off once again, “you know rin?” he asked.

“he’s my close friend, we’ve been friends for a while.” he lightly squinted his eyes at the mention of you and rin close friends— considering he never saw the two of you together, staring at you up and down as if he’s judging you.

your gaze faltered slightly and you slowly let out a chuckle, this is so fucking awkward.

“turn left from here, there’s should be a hallway that players can go through to go to the pitch.” he suddenly spoke out, “first door, on the right. that’s where they are.”

oh.

you nodded and gave a respectful smile, “okay— thank you, uh— sae itoshi.” you said, but before you could go, he held you back once more.

“give me your number.” he said suddenly, his tone demanding— indicating it was not a request.

eh?— did he just, say what you think he said?

“why?” your curiosity got the head of you and he let out a small hum, “reasons, but not the ones you’re thinking.”

“i’m not interested in you.” he made it clear, and you nodded— “question still stands, why?” you raised your eyebrow, there is no way you’re gonna give him your number without a solid reason.

there’s some people that’s starting to realize sae is there and he sighed deeply, before he took out his business card and gave it to you.

“just to keep me updated with rin,” he said and you almost cringed, “why don’t you just go and talk to hi—“ and he started walking away.

what an asshole, you checked his business card that’s really just a card with his name and number— nothing else.

suddenly a text message came, from rin. “sorry [nickname], it’s near the hallway of the pitch area, i’ll wait for you in front of the room.”

after thinking about it while walking, fine. you’ll talk to sae considering you did had to hear rin rant to you the moment his dear brother fought with him in that snowy day.

and considering what you saw earlier in the field and how rin looked disappointed when sae said something, you might be a bad friend doing this.

but atleast you can help them to maybe lighten up with eachother eventually — besides even if the two of you do interact, you and him would not cross the line of just being acquaintances. right?

back to collection.

©chevxyn

[m-robinavitch]

#26? For Pope or Robby?

<3 <3 <3

Pairing: Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x Reader

Trope: Marriage of convenience

Warning: Some medical procedures and mentions of wounds.

Thanks to @velvetmel0n because she put my ideas into words and helped me with this 😭💕

“Okay, lunch is in here and please try to eat more than a few bites Robby,” smiling as you had him the lunch bag of leftovers from the dinner you made last night. “But just in case you can’t sit down for lunch I threw in a sandwich and some protein bars.” This time Robby smiled, throwing his bags over his shoulder before leaning down to your level.

“Thank you sweetheart,” a kiss to your cheek- chaste, soft, but so much love he’s forcing back. “I’ll be home at six but if not I’ll call you okay?” His hand was light at your waist, ghosting against you really but it’s the only thing he allows himself to touch. Because the sweet smile you give him isn’t real. The gentle way you kiss his cheek before bed or before he leaves for work isn’t real. But the way he looks at you with so much adoration and affection? That’s real. Because six months ago you weren’t married, you only knew each other by name and few words when Robby would come in to the diner for breakfast before his shift. Six months ago you just had a little crush on the tall, handsome, older man, because he smiled at you with something akin to affection and listened to you speak about your interests and left you more than necessary for a tip. Six months ago you burned your hand at work and came into his ED with tears.

“Hey, hey don’t cry, this is nothing okay?” Robby tried to console you, holding your hand gently before rubbing the ointment along the raw skin. “I’ll get you patched up and you’ll be back to making those pies that made me gain 10 pounds in a week.” You laughed between the tears, hiccuping a bit but- it wasn’t the pain that made you cry. No, it was the thought of the hefty hospital bill and days off you’ll have to take for your idiotic injury that made you blubber in front of the attractive doctor you only knew for a few weeks at this point. You were struggling, making less than enough for paycheck to paycheck. Student debt was crippling you, you had no insurance and didn’t even have a car because you couldn’t afford the gas to take you from place to place. Maybe it was the pain meds but you started to unload all of this onto Robby. He doesn’t know what came over him. Maybe it was the pretty girl he’s started to think about more than appropriate, crying in front of him and maybe begging for help even if she didn’t outright ask.

“I- I have good insurance. It goes to waste usually anyway and-“ his face was red, burning as he stuttered out more selling points and words and- was he saying what you think he said? Was he?

“What?” Was all you asked, tear stained face and wet eyes looking up at him through those pretty lashes that made him melt. Was he really saying-

“Just, think about it kid. I know you’re struggling. And- this can be just on paper, in name only.” The weight of what he said finally came down on him, he refused to look at you while he started to wrap your hand. And maybe it was the pain meds again, but marrying Robby for the benefits of insurance and financial stability? Not the worst idea you’ve had. He told you to think about it. To call him if you decided but if not- then this conversation never happened and you can go back to being whatever it was you were before. You sat on the idea for three days before you called him. Within the week you were both at the courthouse exchanging words and vows.

And after you send him off this morning with his lunch and a smile- a few hours later you find yourself standing in line at the ER your husband works at.

“It’s nothing, I sliced myself with a knife making lunch,” you told the triage nurse who smiled, handing you off to Whitaker and Mel for sutures. Only while being sat- Dana went to go ask Robby about the stray Robinavitch on her list. He strides over to you quickly with his large gait, throwing back the curtain and rolling Whitaker away from you while he asks what happened- taking the bloodied dish towel from your hand to inspect the wound. “Robby it’s nothing. I promise. You know I’m just- clumsy.” Honestly the attention made you flush, flustered because of all the medical professionals in the tiny curtained off room and clearly everyone is aware that you must mean something to Robby.

“We need to watch for infection, nerve damage, muscle weakness-“ Mel was spouting off about potential issues with your wound but stopped when you started to tear up. Anxiety starts filling your gut and you’re so stupid and-

“Hey, hey- it’s okay- I’m gonna watch you okay?” He takes your face in his, making you look up into his eyes so you can relax. “No tears- don’t cry. It’s going to be fine- I promise.” He kisses your forehead- ignoring the looks of everyone in the room because his wife you were crying and needed him at this moment. Dana absolutely will be asking him about this later. Because not once has he mentioned anything about you and he didn’t answer her when she asked how you were related but that doesn’t look like a kiss that you give to a relative. Especially when he takes the suture kit from Whitaker and all but begs Dana to sew you up because he loves his kids but like hell he’s having them suture you. The only other one he trusts would be Jack since Robby legally can’t do it himself- he’s already playing jump rope with insurance fraud. “Let Dana stitch you up, I’ll be right back sweetheart.”

“So how do you know Robby?” She asks, cleaning the blood before she starts working on the gash and-

“We’ve been married for 6 months.” You say as if that wasn’t the biggest plot twist she had ever heard. And she’s so good with her poker face that she nods- continuing to work on you hand and thinking if a million questions she has. There will be an interrogation as soon as you leave.

[ceyanabbiolo]

PHOTOGRAPH // M.S [23]

Summary: Daphne Denoire, a 21-year-old, returns to Boston after 3 years—but working for her brother’s best friend, Matthew Sturniolo, wasn’t part of the plan. He’s a 26-year-old multimillionaire. She’s the girl he was never supposed to feel this way about. With secrets between them and boundaries set, how far will they go for a love they never saw coming?

Warnings: fluff

wc: 4270

Chapter 23: Every Breath You Take

I never thought I’d brush shoulders with death and come back from it. Would I recommend the experience? Yeah… probably not.

Sure, being seriously injured has its perks—everyone waits on your hand and foot. However, it also turns your overly protective girlfriend into a part-time nurse — and a new part-time mother. 

It had been a full week since I came home, and Daphne had barely left my side. While my mom stopped by a couple of times, and Chris and Nick came when they could, Daphne? She moved in. For seven days straight, she was here, making sure I ate, slept, took my meds, and didn’t do anything dumb like try to lift a backpack or reach for a glass on the top shelf.

My body was slowly catching up. The pain in my arms had dulled enough that I could move them without wincing, and the gash on my chest had finally started to heal. I didn’t need it bandaged 24/7 anymore, which made showers slightly less of a production.

I still wasn’t at a hundred percent, not even close. But I was better than before, all thanks to the gorgeous brunette that stayed by my side. 

She was out running a few errands she’d been putting off, and I was left lounging around the apartment, sifting through a mountain of unread emails. You’d think nearly dying would earn you a break from responsibilities—maybe even magically erase your workload. Yeah… it didn’t.

Just as I was about to delete yet another email from my manager marked “urgent,” there was a knock at the door.

I glanced at the time. Daphne had said she’d be back soon, so I figured it was her—maybe struggling with her keys, or carrying way too many bags because she refused to take more than one trip.

I got up, dragging myself off the couch with a grunt.

But when I opened the door, it wasn’t her.

It was Noah.

We both stood there for a second—I was caught off guard, with that unreadable look he always wore when he was overthinking something.

“…Hey,” he finally said, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.

I blinked. “Hey,” A beat passed. “Didn’t expect to see you today,” I added, trying to keep my tone light.

“Yeah,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “Been meaning to come by… talk.”

Of course. It didn’t take much to figure out what this was about.

He glanced around. “Is Daphne here?”

I shook my head, stepping aside to let him in. “Nah, she ran out to do a few things. Should be back soon.”

He gave a small nod and followed me toward the living room. We settled onto the couch—he sat across from me like we were about to have a business meeting instead of a heart-to-heart.

Silence stretched between us for a moment before he broke it.

“Well… first off, how are you doing?” he asked, his voice gentler than I expected.

I shrugged. “Better. Not feeling too weak anymore, so that’s something.”

He let out a small chuckle. “That’s good. Really Good.”

Another pause. He wasn’t just here to check in on my health; that much was obvious. The weight in his eyes said more than his words.

I leaned back a little, quirking a brow. “Alright, man,” I said, a teasing edge in my voice. “You’ve been staring at me like you’re about to propose. Spit it out.”

Noah let out a dry laugh, rubbing his hands together like he needed to warm up to the idea of saying what was on his mind. 

“I came to apologize,” he finally said, his tone low and honest.

I smirked, leaning an elbow on the armrest. “Yeah… I figured that out.”

He rolled his eyes. “Shut up, dumbass,” he muttered, chuckling under his breath.

But then the air shifted. His face sobered as he looked at me.

“I just…” he started, voice quieter now. “If I hadn’t told you to get out that night… You wouldn’t be like this. You wouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

I exhaled, leaning back against the couch. “Listen, man. That had nothing to do with you. I should’ve been paying attention to the damn road. That’s on me.”

“No,” he argued, shaking his head. “You don’t get it. I know you, Matt. You’ve been riding since we were teenagers. You’ve never messed up. You’re the safest guy I know on a bike. You were upset. And that was my fault.”

I paused, watching the guilt settle into his features.

“Noah,” I said firmly, “it’s all good, alright? You were mad. And you had every right to be. I would’ve been mad too if I thought someone was sneaking around with my little sister behind my back.”

“In my defense,” Noah said after a beat, voice quieter, “Daphne’s… she’s pretty much all I’ve got, you know?”

I nodded because I did get it. More than he probably realized.

He hesitated, like he was choosing his next words carefully. “She’s been through some… really bad shit,” he continued, his eyes flicking up to mine—searching, almost cautious, trying to see if I understood what he meant. “She told me…she told you.”

I nodded, “She did.”

My chest tightened just saying it out loud. I remembered the night she told me—how small her voice had been, how she couldn’t even look me in the eye.

Noah gave a slight nod, almost like he was relieved, but the tension didn’t fully leave his face.

“I’ve just always felt like it’s my job to look out for her,” he admitted. “Especially after that. I couldn’t protect her then, so now… maybe I overdo it sometimes, but I just—”

“I get it, man,” I said quietly, my tone steady. “You’re a good brother. I respect that.”

Noah gave a small nod, then looked straight at me, not dodging it anymore.

“I’m not gonna sugarcoat it,” he said, voice firmer now. “I honestly thought you were playing with her at first.”

I didn’t flinch because I expected that. Still, hearing it hit a nerve.

“But I was wrong,” he added quickly. “And I’m sorry for that.”

There was a pause—then a small smirk tugged at his lips.

“I mean,” he continued, “can you blame me? I’ve heard stories. Stuff my sister probably wouldn’t want to hear about you.” His brows raised teasingly. “Your reputation precedes you, Matt.”

I scoffed, a smirk tugging at my lips. “As if you’re any better than me.”

Noah chuckled, shaking his head. 

“But…” His voice softened, tone more serious now. “You love her.”

I fell silent, the weight of his words sinking in.

“You both love each other,” he continued, eyes steady on mine. “It's clear to tell.” He paused, then added quietly, “When I walked in on you two at the hospital when you woke up…I understood you guys.”

I swallowed hard, remembering the look in Daphne’s eyes—the vulnerability, the fierce love.

“I’d never seen you look at anyone like that before,” Noah said, voice low. “And I’d never seen Daphne that happy.” His gaze softened even more, almost wistful. “You two...you complement each other…you guys make sense.”

For the first time since all this started, Noah seemed to let go of some of the tension between us. He took a deep breath, a quiet acceptance settling into his expression.

I finally broke the silence.

“Look, I promise you, I’d never hurt her,” I said, my voice firm. “If I ever did, it’d be like shooting myself before I do that.”

Noah scoffed, shaking his head. “Yeah, I’d hope so,” he said dryly.

I leaned back, running a hand through my hair, trying to explain how I felt without sounding like some cheesy love song. 

“I’d marry her,” I said, voice steady. “That’s how sure I am.”

Noah raised an eyebrow, surprised. “You would?”

I nodded without hesitation. “I’d do it today if I weren’t in bad shape,” I added with a half-joking grin.

Noah cracked a small, almost reluctant smile, the kind that hinted at relief beneath the surface.

For a moment, silence stretched between us—an unspoken, man-to-man understanding settling in the room like a quiet truce.

Then his voice broke through, soft but sincere.  “I’m sorry.”

The weight behind those two words was unmistakable, as if he meant every ounce of them.

I met his gaze steadily, feeling the same honesty rise up inside me. “I’m sorry, too.”

Noah let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. 

“Look, I’m fine with you two being together now,” he said, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“But seriously—please don’t make me walk in on any more of those… uh, moments. I’m not sure I’d recover from the trauma.”

I laughed, relieved by his humor. However, horrified all over again, remembering the memory of him walking on me and his sister, at the possibly worst and intimate time. I cringed over the thought and shook myself out of it. 

“Fair enough,” I replied simply. 

Noah and I were just settling back into the conversation, the tension finally easing between us, when the unmistakable sound of the apartment door opening interrupted us.

I didn’t need to guess who it was; only one person had spare keys to my apartment. 

I glanced toward the entrance just as Daphne stepped inside, her eyes immediately widening in surprise at the sight of Noah sitting comfortably on the couch. For a brief second, she froze, caught off guard like she’d walked into an unexpected scene in a movie. Her brow furrowed slightly, then a playful smile tugged at the corner of her lips as she shook her head.

“Hey, Noah,” she said with mock suspicion, dropping her bag by the door. “Good to see you’re busy self.” 

“Good to see you’re busy self,” he said in that joking voice that can only be used by siblings. 

She walked further into the apartment, the soft clack of her boots echoing lightly against the floor. In her hands were a few grocery bags, which she placed carefully onto the kitchen island.

Without saying much else, she made her way over to me, her eyes already scanning my face with quiet concern. She reached out, gently brushing a stray strand of hair away from my forehead. Her fingers lingered for a moment before she tilted my chin slightly to get a better look.

Her brows drew together, a slight frown forming as she studied the fading bruise just beneath my hairline.

“We should probably put some more of that cream on this,” she murmured, voice soft but focused. “It’s still a little swollen.” 

Her thumb brushed against my skin delicately, like I was made of glass.

From the corner of my eye, I could see Noah watching us. He wasn’t saying anything, just observing quietly. There was something thoughtful in his expression—not skeptical like before, but more like he was finally seeing us clearly. The way Daphne hovered just close enough to take care of me, how naturally we moved around each other. The way her hand didn’t drop from my face even after she finished speaking. 

Noah stood up slowly from the couch, stretching his arms with a quiet sigh. “I should get going,” he said, glancing at the time on his phone.

Daphne looked up at him. “You’re leaving already?”

He nodded, offering her a small, tired smile. “Yeah. I’ve got a few things to take care of. I’ll see you later, alright?”

She got up and wrapped her arms around him. “Text me when you get home.”

“I will,” he promised, holding her for a moment before pulling back. Then he turned to me.

Noah walked over to the bed, hesitated for a second, then leaned down and gave me a light hug, careful not to touch the bandages or bruise-covered parts of me.

“Glad you’re back, man,” he muttered quietly.

I gave him a small smile. “Thanks for being here.”

He nodded once, then turned and walked out, the door clicking softly behind him. 

As the door clicked shut behind Noah, I glanced at Daphne, who was already settling back beside me.

She looked at me curiously, her brows slightly lifted. “So…” she started slowly, tilting her head. “What did you guys talk about?”

I let out a small breath, resting my head back against the pillows. “Not much,” I said honestly. “Just... cleared the air, I guess.”

Her eyes softened a little, but she didn’t say anything right away, waiting for me to go on.

“He apologized,” I continued, “He’s trying.”

She nodded slowly, her fingers brushing gently over mine. “That sounds like Noah,” she said quietly. “He means well. Just takes a little time to catch up.”

She paused for a moment, her gaze dropping to our intertwined hands. I could tell something was weighing on her mind.

“Matt,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

I turned my head toward her, letting out a soft hum. “Yeah?”

She hesitated again, chewing lightly on the inside of her cheek. “I don’t want to be in the middle of you and Noah…”

My brows pulled together slightly, confusion crossing my face. “What do you mean?”

She took a slow breath, choosing her words carefully.

“I mean… I don’t want my relationship with you to come between your relationship with him. He’s your best friend. You met him first. You’ve known him longer.”

Her voice cracked just slightly on the last sentence, and I could see how much it genuinely troubled her. She wasn’t being dramatic—she was being honest. I sat up a little straighter, wincing as my body protested the movement, but I needed her to see the sincerity in my eyes.

“Daph…” I said gently. “You’re not in the middle of anything. This—what we have—isn’t hurting anything between Noah and me.”

She looked at me, unsure.

“He’s adjusting, yeah,” I admitted. “But if he had a real problem with us, he wouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t have stayed at the hospital, wouldn’t have visited.”

She was silent, so I took her hand again.

“Yeah,” I said softly, my thumb brushing over the back of her hand. “He’s my oldest friend. But you…” I paused, meeting her eyes with all the certainty I felt in my chest. “You’re my woman. My future.”

Her eyes locked with mine, and for a moment, they shimmered—like the weight she’d been carrying was finally starting to lift.

“You promise?” she asked, voice fragile but hopeful.

“Promise,” I murmured, with every bit of honesty I had.

She let out a small breath, a quiet sigh like she’d been holding it in for days. “Okay… it’s just—he’s my brother, and I don’t want—”

“I know,” I cut in gently, not out of dismissal but because I understood. I reached up, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s all good, love. I get it. You don’t have to explain more. I’d never want to come between you and him either.”

Her lips parted slightly, like she wanted to say something else, but instead, she just nodded, her shoulders sinking with a bit more ease.

“I just want everyone I love to be okay,” she whispered.

I smiled, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to her forehead.

She settled beside me on the couch, her head resting lightly against my shoulder. I could feel the weight slowly lifting off her, little by little. It made something inside me ache and melt at the same time.

I glanced at her, then to the hallway. “Wait here,” I said suddenly, brushing her arm as I stood.

She blinked up at me. “What? Where are you going?”

I grinned. “Just give me two minutes. I’ve got something for you.”

Confusion flashed across her face, but she didn’t argue. I walked carefully down the hall toward my room, the familiar ache in my back reminding me not to move too fast. I opened the top drawer of my dresser and pulled out the small black box I’d hidden there a couple of days ago—before the accident.

It had taken weeks to sort everything out, but I knew exactly what I wanted to give her.

When I returned to the living room, she looked at me like I’d grown a second head. “What is that?” she asked slowly, eyeing the box.

I sat down beside her again and handed it over. “Open it.”

Her fingers trembled slightly as she lifted the lid. Her eyes widened, and her jaw dropped. Inside, nestled in velvet, was a sleek car key. A brand-new key fob, shining silver with a soft glow from the dim lamp beside us. The Porsche logo staring back at us. 

“Matt…” she breathed. “What… what is this?”

I leaned back, watching her expression.

“It’s yours,” I said casually.

She just stared at me, stunned.

“I had it ordered before the accident,” I continued. “It had come in a few weeks ago”

Her eyes welled up almost instantly. “You bought me a car?” she whispered. She laughed through a tear, holding the box against her chest. “A Porsche, are you serious?”

After a few quiet minutes of her holding the box against her chest like it was something sacred, I nudged her shoulder gently.

“Come on,” I said. “Let me show you.”

She stood up quickly, slipping her shoes on. “Matt… I don’t even have words.”

I laced my fingers with hers and tugged her gently toward the elevator. “You don’t need words. Just come see it.”

The elevator doors slid open and we stepped into the underground garage. The air was cool, the overhead lights humming softly, casting a pale glow over the polished concrete. Her hand was still laced with mine, and I could feel the buzz of her excitement through her fingers.

I guided her toward the far end, where her car sat like a jewel in a vault—sleek, curved, and impossible to miss.

She stopped in her tracks.

Her breath caught. “Matt…” she whispered, a hand flying to her mouth. “That is not real. You did not buy me that.”

I clicked the fob, and the headlights blinked back at her, soft and welcoming.

“I did,” I said, watching her reaction like it was the best show I’d ever seen.

Her eyes grew wide as they zeroed in on the color. “Matt!” she gasped, bouncing in place. “You got me a baby pink Porsche!?”

She took off, hurrying toward it like a kid on Christmas morning. I followed slowly, hands in my hoodie pocket, grinning like an idiot.

She trailed her fingers along the smooth paint as she reached the driver’s side, heart clearly about to burst. When she opened the door, her eyes lit up even more.

“Oh my gosh.”

The interior was black leather—elegant, clean—but trimmed with delicate white stitching and soft baby pink finishes on the dash, steering wheel, and seatbelts. Her dream palette. Every detail exactly how she always described it.

“You customized it?” she asked, voice small with disbelief.

I nodded. “Had a whole Pinterest board to work off of.”

 She turned to look at me, speechless.

“Do you like it?” I asked, almost teasing.

“Like it? Matt, I love it,” she breathed. Her eyes were glassy now. “I can’t believe you did this.”

She turned back to the car for a second, as if still making sure it was real, then spun around and threw herself at me—arms wrapping tightly around my neck.

“I seriously cannot believe you did this,” she said breathlessly. “It’s literally perfect.”

I laughed softly, catching her easily. “You sound surprised.”

“Because I am!” she said, pulling back just enough to look at me. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes shining. “You got me a baby pink Porsche with my dream interior. You remembered everything.”

I shrugged, smiling. “Course I did.”

Then, before I could say anything else, she cupped my face in both hands and kissed me. It wasn’t hesitant or careful—it was full of excitement, giddy affection, and something deeper that made my heart ache in the best way. Her lips were warm, soft, and she kissed me like she didn’t care if anyone else saw. Well…no one would, it was a private parking garage. 

When she finally pulled back, slightly breathless, she grinned. “You’re insane.”

She was still grinning as she turned to admire the car again, brushing her hand along the sleek curves like it was made of glass. I leaned against the driver’s side, arms crossed, just watching her glow.

“You know…” I started, lips twitching, “I’ve actually got a deal with Porsche.”

She blinked, turning to me. “Wait—what?”

I nodded casually. “Yeah. I’ve been working with them on a few campaigns. This model? It’s not even out yet.”

Her jaw dropped. “You’re kidding.”

“It’s a 2026 special edition,” I said, walking over to her again. “Custom palette. Limited run. Baby pink’s one of the new shades they’re testing, and I told them it would be a seller.”

Her eyes widened. “So you’re telling me… this car isn’t even available yet?”

“Not until next year.” I grinned. “You’re the first person to drive it.”

She let out a half-laugh, half-gasp, staring at the car like it was a crown jewel. “You got me a future car, Matt. I feel like you're pranking me.”

“I would never,” I said, wrapping an arm around her waist and tugging her in. “You’re mine. So you get what no one else does.”

She looked up at me, stunned quiet for a second—and then kissed me again, slower this time, with more meaning. She pulled back, her eyes glossy with unshed tears, lips trembling ever so slightly as she looked up at me.

“Hey,” I said softly, cupping her cheek with my hand, brushing my thumb gently beneath her eye. “Why are you crying, sweetheart?”

She let out a shaky breath, a small, overwhelmed laugh slipping through. “I don’t know,” she said, wiping at her cheek quickly. “No one’s ever gotten me something like this before…not this thoughtful.”

Her voice cracked on the last word.

“It’s not even just the car, Matt—it’s everything. You remembered every little thing I ever said. The pink, the stitching, the interior—every detail. You paid attention.”

Her tears fell then, soft and quiet, and she looked down for a moment like she was embarrassed.

I lifted her chin gently.

“Daph,” I said, my voice low, steady. “Of course I paid attention.”

She sniffled, her hand gripping the front of my hoodie. I held her tight.

“You’ve got me, baby,” I whispered into her hair. “And I don’t forget a damn thing when it comes to you.”

I looked down at her, still clinging to my hoodie like she was afraid this was all a dream. Her cheeks were pink and damp, her eyes red-rimmed—but gosh, she looked beautiful like this. Completely overwhelmed, but full of something soft.

I slipped my fingers between hers and gently tugged. “Come on.”

She blinked, confused. “Where?”

I grinned. “The car. Take it for a drive.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Now?”

I nodded, already leading her toward the driver's side. “Right now.”

She laughed, breathless. “Matt, it’s almost 8 PM.”

“So?” I said, opening the door for her. 

She looked between me and the car like she couldn’t tell if I was serious. “You want me to drive this right now?”

“Yeah, love,” I said, walking around and getting into the passenger seat. “You think I gave you a car just to look pretty in my garage?”

She hesitated for another half-second before sliding in, adjusting the seat like she’d been born for it. I watched her eyes flicker over the custom stitching, the chrome finishes she once told me she liked in passing, the white detailing she always said was “clean girl vibes.”

She looked at me one more time—nervous, excited, glowing—and before I could even say anything else, she leaned across the console and kissed me.

Soft. Full of emotion. Like gratitude, joy, and something deeper were all spilling out at once.

I smiled against her lips, completely dazed when she pulled back.

“Damn,” I breathed out, chuckling. “With all these kisses, I’m starting to think it’s my birthday.”

She let out a watery laugh, wiping her eyes again with the back of her hand. “Your birthday?” she echoed, half-laughing, half-sniffling. “Matt, it feels like mine.”

That smile she gave me was wide, radiant, and real. I didn’t say anything back right away. Just watched her turn the key, engine humming to life beneath her hands, and thought…yeah. I’d give her the world.  

Daphne eased the car out of the garage, her hands trembling slightly on the wheel. “This feels so weird,” she admitted, a nervous laugh escaping her lips as the engine purred beneath us.

I watched her from the passenger seat, the soft glow of the dashboard lights reflecting in her eyes. There was something beautiful about this moment—her cautious excitement, the quiet determination in how she gripped the wheel.

As we drove through the quiet, empty streets, I found myself reflecting on just how far we’d come, how far I’d come with the woman beside me.

There wasn’t a single moment I could remember when I’d felt this sure about anything in my life. 

I promised myself then and there that I would never let anyone hurt her, and more than that, I’d never be the one to cause her pain. To me, the thought of her being hurt, whether by me or anyone else, was unbearable. It would make me wish I’d never survived at all.  

Every move she makes, every step she takes. I’ll be watching her, always a few steps behind.

Every single day, for the rest of my life. Every breath we take.

READ ALL RELEASED CHAPTERS NOW!

[a/n: last chapter tomorrow! like and reblog! mwah] –ceyana

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[punksyeet]

- reflection in the puddles <3

plot: rainstorms and cookies made by a (self proclaimed) baker boyfriend. who could ask for more?

warnings: just fluff this time ᯓᡣ𐭩

A/N: a little short and sweet nothing inspired by the thunderstorm we had today. went with a simple layout too to really set the mood hehe. enjoy! 🩶

———————————————————————————————

i love rainstorms.

i have ever since i was a little girl.

the pitter patter sound that the raindrops make on the roof, the occasional rumbles of thunder, even the fresh, earthy smell afterwards.

it’s always brought me so much peace.

i had one of those sit-by windows growing up - the ones with the built in cushion.

every time it rained, i’d grab the matching strawberry shortcake blanket and pillows from my bed, and simply lay there for hours until the storm passed.

sometimes even fall asleep.

never failing to dream about becoming a princess, my prince and i laughing and dancing in the rain.

god, it was my favorite thing in the world.

and here i am, over twenty years later, sat on the front porch of my home.

not quite laid near the window, but sat under an awning instead.

i like to think it’s the same experience i had as a little girl, only the grown up version.

“whatchu doin out here, girl?” i hear my boyfriend, jimmy, ask shortly after the front door opens and closes.

“enjoying the rain,” i reply softly, not looking back, but instead watching a puddle formed on the concrete.

the droplets of water repeatedly fall into it, causing numerous ripples. almost like a speaker playing music on full blast.

i hear him chuckle lightly and, shortly after, feel his warm hands softly rub my shoulders.

“i ain’t never met someone that loves rain as much as you mama,” he exclaims.

i smile to myself, leaning into his touch. “how could you not, jim? it’s beautiful.”

“sure is,” he replies, pushing my thick curls to the side.

“ain’t nowhere near as beautiful as you though,” he whispers right below my ear, planting a few kisses there afterwards.

i roll my eyes playfully, turning my head to meet his gorgeous face. “did you ruin my peace just to flirt with me, sir?”

he smirks and stands back up, reaching over to the tiny table that we have sat next to the door.

“and to bring you these,” he announces, holding out a plate full of scrumptious looking chocolate chip cookies. “freshly baked by your favorite baker in the world.”

“don’t mind if i do mister baker,” i tease, grabbing one and immediately taking a bite.

he smiles, watching me with hopeful eyes.

“very yummy baby,” i continue moments later, wrapping my free arm around his waist and looking up at him. “thank you.”

his smile widens as he reaches down and takes my chin softly, placing his lips on mine for a quick peck.

he licks his lips when we pull away and hums in approval. “mm! they are good.”

i suck my teeth and playfully shove his arm, earning a chuckle from him.

“mind if i join you, pretty lady?” he asks, grabbing a cookie himself and setting the plate back down.

i shake my head, scooting over while taking another bite.

he plops down gently, throwing an arm over my shoulders.

i lean into his touch and lay my head on his chest.

little me would be so happy to know that she finally met her prince. <3

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[bintheredreamedthat]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆.˚ 𝘛𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘔𝘢𝘺 𝘈𝘱𝘱𝘭𝘺

pairings: therapist!soobin x officeworker!reader

summary: it was supposed to be something mandatory. you weren’t supposed to catch feelings for your therapist. now, you were starting to wonder if he was letting you get away with things no other patient of his would. because when he tells you you’re hard to read, it doesn’t sound like a professional observation. it sounds like a challenge. and the worst part? you think you want him to lose.

genre: one-sided enemies to lovers LOL, forced proximity, eventual smut, dom!soobin, nonidol!au, reader is stubborn asf, more to add on later.

note: the nurse finally let me out of my room....teehee. this is my first series and I'm so excited to write this. the tags aren't completely finished yet bc I'm not quite sure where I want to go with this. I really wanted to write something yandere but I'm still testing out the waters of this account...please let me know where you'd like to see this go! ALSO, thank you guys for all the love and support on my last fanfic omg T.T it meant so much to me! lots of love <3 ramble finished.

part one | part two(comingsoon)

------

You’ve been working at MOA Solutions for almost three years now. It was a mid-sized tech company, nestled in the heart of the city. It was the kind of place that prided itself on innovation and fast deadlines. 

Your desk was tucked away in the corner, a small island of organized chaos surrounded by buzzing coworkers. You preferred it that way as it gave you a semblance of control in a place that felt anything but.

Your role as a project coordinator meant juggling expectations from every direction—clients demanding miracles, managers breathing down your neck, and a team that looks to you for answers. It was exhausting, but you liked the challenge. It made you feel competent, even if your confidence didn’t always show.

The truth is, you’ve never been good at asking for help. You’re fiercely independent, the kind of person who buries problems beneath layers of sarcasm and late-night overwork. Vulnerability felt like a weakness you couldn’t afford.

That’s why the announcement blindsides you.

An all-staff email pops up one Monday morning, announcing a new initiative: Mandatory mental health check-ins. Starting next week, everyone must attend a series of therapy sessions with the company’s newly hired licensed therapist.

The message was carefully worded, but the reason was clear: last quarter, one of the junior developers had a breakdown at their desk, overwhelmed by stress and anxiety. The incident shook the company. 

You stare at the screen, the words blurring as your brows furrow. Therapy? At work? Mandatory?

You didn’t need a stranger telling you how to fix your problems. You believed this would be old news by your first session; therefore, you never gave it more thought. 

But then the days passed, and the email still lingered in your mind like a shadow you couldn't shake. At work, conversations buzz around you, hushed whispers about the junior developer, sympathy mixed with tension, rumors of the burnout spreading like wildfire.

You caught yourself glancing toward the counseling services door more times than you’d admit, each time stepping back before your feet could move forward. 

The day of your first session arrived faster than you’d like.

You woke up that morning with a knot in your stomach, the kind that only tightens every time you think about meeting deadlines. You dressed carefully, opting for your usual armor: neat, professional clothes that make you feel invisible yet in control.

You sat at your desk, trying to focus, but the minutes crawled by. Your calendar notification blinks, reminding you: Therapy session at 3:00 PM.

You stared at it as if it were a challenge. 

The clock ticks closer, and every step toward the counseling office feels heavier than the last. You replay the announcement in your mind. Mandatory. Mental health check-ins. New licensed therapist. You wonder what kind of person they hired for this job. Is it someone warm and understanding? Or just another corporate cog sent to analyze its employees' every move?

You hesitate outside the counseling office door, the plaque gleaming softly under the fluorescent lights: Employee Wellness Services. You take a deep breath, knocking once. The door opens before you can step back.

“Hello, ” a calm voice says. You look up.

There he was—tall, composed, with a quiet kindness in his eyes that unsettles you. He wore a blue button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up just past the elbows, tucked neatly into some dark pants. He was wearing glasses, ones that made him look studious yet surprisingly charming. 

“Come in,” he says, stepping aside.

You step inside the room cautiously, half-expecting it to smell like a doctor’s office or desperation. Instead, it was… warm. A soft lamp glows in the corner, taking the edge off the clinical overheads. The air was clean, not scented. There’s a single framed print of a landscape on the wall, and you can’t decide if it’s thoughtful or strategically bland.

Your eyes flick to the man across the room—the so-called therapist. He closes the door behind you with a soft click, no fanfare.

You took the seat nearest the window. It felt like the better option somehow, an escape route, maybe. His chair was angled across from yours, not directly opposite. Strategic again, less confrontational. You saw what he was doing.

He picked up a tablet from the side table but didn’t tap on it yet, and folded his hands loosely in his lap, his legs crossed, in a casual pose. Comfortable. He waits for a moment before speaking, as if letting the silence stretch just long enough to see what you’ll do with it.

You don’t do anything. You stare back.

“I’m Soobin,” he says eventually, voice calm but not too soft. "Licensed clinical therapist. I’ve been contracted here to provide temporary support for MOA’s mental health initiative.”

You nod once, short and tight. “I read the email.”

A pause. He smiles, polite but unreadable. “Right.”

Another pause.

“Would you prefer I call you by your full name, or—?”

You say your name before he finishes the question, not because you were feeling generous, but because you wanted to get this over with. He repeats it with perfect clarity, no mispronunciation or hesitation. That annoyed you a little more than it should.

You crossed your legs, leaning back like you’re just here to waste thirty minutes and not unravel your entire life.

“So,” he says carefully, “before we begin, I want to make it clear that nothing you say here will be shared with your supervisors, your team, or anyone outside this room. This space is confidential.”

You nod again, slower this time. “Unless I’m a danger to myself or others. Yeah. Got it.” A flicker of something passes across his face; surprise, maybe. Approval? You don’t want either.

He nods anyway. “Exactly.” He taps the screen on his tablet, then sets it aside again without looking at it. He seemed less interested in jotting notes and more interested in reading to you. You don't like that.

“So,” he says again, “what would you like to get out of these sessions?”

You barked a quiet laugh, sharp and dry. “I’d like them to not exist.”

That earns the smallest shift in his posture, not a flinch nor offense. Something more like acknowledgment.

“To be honest,” you continue, “I think this whole thing is performative. The company panics because someone cracked under the pressure, and instead of easing workloads, they send us to therapy like it’ll fix burnout.” You didn’t mean to say that much; it tumbled out like it had been waiting. You could feel your heartbeat in your ears.

Soobin doesn’t react. He didn't try to argue; instead, he just listened. After a moment, he tilts his head slightly. “You’re not wrong.”

You blinked. He lets that sit.

Then, softly, “There’s truth in what you’re saying. Sometimes companies try to manage appearances instead of systems.” That… wasn’t the answer you expected.

You narrowed your eyes. “You agree with me?”

“I understand what you’re saying,” he replies evenly. “But I also think that doesn’t make this space useless. If anything, it means this space is even more important.”

You don’t say anything. He waits patiently, unruffled. God, you hate how unbothered he was. You leaned back again, studying him. He doesn’t fidget. He doesn’t force conversation. He just is. Like still water.

“You’re really good at this,” you mutter, then tack on, “the whole therapist thing.” That earns the smallest, faintest smile. “I’d hope so.”

“Do you actually care,” you ask, more sharply than you mean to, “or are you just paid to?”

Another silence. This one was heavier. When he spoke, it was slower, quieter, yet not unsure.

“I care,” he says. “Even if I wasn’t paid to.”

Something in your chest pulls tight. You shift in your seat, uncomfortable with the softness of it, with how quickly the heat behind your ribs changes from irritation to something else. You cast your eyes toward the window. “That’s convenient.”

Soobin just lets the moment settle between you. Somehow, that unnerved you more than any forced empathy would have. You glanced at the clock. Ten minutes down. Twenty to go.

You couldn't decide if you wanted to get up and walk out or ask him to keep talking. Neither felt like something you’d normally do; you were already in dangerous territory.

You don’t like the way the quiet stretches between you. It’s not uncomfortable exactly, at least, not the kind that made your skin crawl, but it left too much space for you to hear yourself think. And you’ve worked very hard to avoid doing that lately.

So you shift gears.

“So… Soobin,” you say, trying not to sound like you’re testing the name out loud even though you were. “How long have you been doing this? Therapy--I mean.” There’s a beat before he answers, just enough to make you feel as though he was deciding how much to give you.

“Six years,” he says. "Started in private practice. I’ve worked with all kinds of people — students, couples, professionals. Corporate settings are new to me, though.”

You hum. “So this is your first time working inside a company?”

“It is.”

“Do you like it?” That’s the first time you saw him pause, the first genuine hesitation. Not long but just long enough for you to witness. His lips tug faintly, but it wasn't quite a smile.

“I like being useful,” he says finally.

You snort. “That’s a very neutral answer.”

He shrugs lightly. “It’s an honest one.”

He was being impossible. Not in an overtly aggravating way, or in the cocky, smug therapist you were envisioning. In the infuriatingly good at not reacting way. You couldn't rattle him. You weren't even sure he could be rattled. It makes you want to try harder. Which was annoying in and of itself.

“Do you always just… sit there?” you ask, tilting your head. “Or do you ever actually talk about yourself?”

He studies you. “This space is for you.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that one before. Still sounds like a cop-out.”

Another pause. Then, with deliberate calm, he says, “I think sometimes people ask about me when what they really want is distance.”

Your jaw tightens just slightly. “That’s very therapist of you.”

He doesn’t flinch. “You’d rather I lie?”

You glared at the carpet. It was a nice carpet. Probably chosen to feel soft and safe, and it had you wondering just how many people have yet to cry into it.

“I just think it’s weird,” you mumble. “Talking about myself to someone who won’t even say what kind of music he likes.”

That gets the faintest flicker of something across his face. Amusement, maybe. He leans back a little, hands still relaxed in his lap.

“I like R&B,” he says. “And the occasional oldies playlist.”

You blink. He meets your gaze, expression unreadable.

“Happy now?” he adds. You don’t answer. But for the first time since entering the room, your mouth twitches at the corners. You’re not smiling, obviously. It was just… something. You settle into the arm of the chair slightly, a casual shift that says I could be here or not, it doesn’t really matter to me.

But inside, you’re keeping count of the minutes. Of how many questions you can throw back at him before he circles back to you. You’ve been in enough meetings, smoothed over enough client calls to know how to control a conversation without looking like you're in charge.

The trick was to keep them talking.

“You don’t look like a therapist,” you say next, watching him for a reaction. He tilts his head, eyes warm but cautious.

“What do therapists look like?”

“I don’t know. Older. Slightly burnt out. Cardigan energy.”

His mouth twitches. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” 

You shrug, tapping your fingers along the edge of the armrest like you were bored, even though you’re anything but. He doesn’t fall for it. Yet, he doesn’t get defensive; he just waits once again. You press on, voice light. “Do you like working with people who don’t want to be here?”

“That’s most people,” he says simply.

“Do you psychoanalyze everyone you meet?”

“No.”

You narrow your eyes. “But you’re analyzing me.”

“I’m listening to you.”

“Same thing.”

“Not really.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from reacting. He’s too good. So you double down.

“Alright, what’s your favorite part of the job?” you ask, folding your arms. “Let’s get into your psyche instead of mine.” Soobin pauses again. He wasn't thrown—more like he was weighing whether answering you was worth it.

 “Helping people name things they’ve never said out loud.” That catches you off guard.

“What, like secrets?” You blink at him.

“Sometimes. But more often, it’s the quiet stuff,” he replies. “Feelings they’ve minimized. Thoughts they’ve learned to ignore. Patterns they didn’t realize were patterns.”

You shift uncomfortably. “Sounds invasive.”

“It can be,” he admits. “But it’s not about forcing anything. It’s about inviting people to see themselves differently.”

You scoff. “Sounds like a tagline.”

He doesn't smile this time. “You’re very good at deflecting.” You freeze. He had said it like a fact. It wasn't a dig at you, but was addressed like… a truth, gently dropped into the middle of the room.

“I’m good at staying on topic,” you correct, trying to sound flippant.

“You haven’t stayed on topic once.”

You glance at the clock.

Just five more minutes

Five more minutes and you won’t have to be in this stupid chair with this too-calm man and his wire-frame glasses and rolled sleeves and maddening patience. Soobin sits back a little. Still no notebook. 

“I’m not going to push you,” he says. “You can come in here and talk about music or cardigans or the weather if that’s what feels safest. But I’ll always be listening. And I’ll always circle back to you — eventually.”

You don’t say anything. He doesn’t fill the silence this time. It stretches between you, no longer hostile, but still poses no comfort.  You glance at the clock again.

Two minutes.

He notices. Of course he does.

“You don’t have to come in with answers,” he says finally. “You don’t even have to come in with honesty. But if you keep showing up, I think something will shift.”

You rise from your seat before he can finish the sentence.

“I showed up, didn’t I?” you say coolly. He nods, standing too. “You did.”

You head for the door, hand on the handle, before you thought to look back. He was still standing there, his face holding no smugness or claiming himself as the victor. Just calm.

You hated how that made you feel. 

“Same time next week?” he asks. You hesitate for a half-second too long.

“…Yeah,” you mutter. “Sure.”

And then you’re gone, walking quickly back toward your desk. You didn’t say a single real thing in there. Didn’t give him anything. And yet, somehow, it feels like he saw right through you.

—

You don’t go straight back to your desk.

You take the long way, through the break room, past the stairwell, around the quiet hallway that no one uses after 3 p.m. You swipe your badge through the side door and step out into the alley behind the building, where the loading dock smells like cardboard and burnt cigarettes.

The air is sharp against your skin. You pull out your phone and check it, even though there are no notifications, just something to do with your hands.

For some reason, you felt... weird. Not in the way you thought you would. You weren't upset or shaken. You were just aware, in that awful, itchy way that made you want to peel your own thoughts off like wet clothes.

He didn’t say anything that personal. Yet, somehow, it still felt like something cracked open.

You thought about the way he looked at you when you asked if he was analyzing you. Calm. Like he knew exactly what you were doing, and didn’t take the bait.

You hated how quiet he was—that everything didn't feel like a performance.

And you especially hate that somewhere in the middle of asking dumb questions about his taste in music, you started listening like it mattered.

Your phone vibrates. A message from one of your team leads.

Can you circle back to the client doc before EOD? Small changes. You don’t respond right away. Just staring at the words, letting them float in front of you. Eventually, you tap out a quick on it and head back in.

When you reach your desk, your coworker, Mira,  leans over the divider with an eyebrow raised. “Well?”

You pause mid-sit. “Well, what?”

She gives you a look. “Therapy.”

You shrug. “He’s fine.”

“Fine?” she echoes, clearly unsatisfied. “That’s it?”

“I don’t know. Tall. Glasses. Probably drinks green tea.”

Mira hums. “Hot?”

You glare. “He’s a therapist.”

“That wasn’t a no.” You don’t answer. She backs off with a grin, satisfied enough. You turned back to your monitor and tried to dive into your edits, but your eyes kept flicking to the calendar — to the next placeholder where your name sits beside Counseling Session – Week Two.

It was just a line of text, but it felt like a countdown.

—-

You almost don’t go. You stare at the calendar invite for a good ten minutes before finally grabbing your badge and muttering something about "a check-in" to Mira, who gives you a knowing smirk and a you’ll text me everything look you pretend not to see.

You take the stairs instead of the elevator this time, maybe hoping it’ll slow your heart down. Maybe it’ll give you time to think of something clever to say before you walk into that room again, not because you want to impress him (you don’t), but because if you don’t steer the conversation, you’re afraid of where it’ll go.

The door’s already cracked open when you get there. Soobin looks up from his tablet as you knock once and step inside. No glasses today. His hair’s a little messy, like he ran a hand through it too many times before you showed up. He still looks irritatingly composed.

"Welcome back," he says simply, gesturing to the same seat as last time. “Come in.”

You hesitate a beat before sitting. Same room. Same lamp. Same too-soft chair that makes you feel like it’s trying to receive your trauma, like it’s Wi-Fi.

"You came back," Soobin says, not as a pleasantry — more like a quiet acknowledgment.

You glance at him. "Didn’t have a choice." He nods like he expected that answer.

“I figured,” he says. “Still. I’m glad you did.” 

You hate that that lands. You shift in your seat and fold your arms, eyes scanning the room like something about it might have changed in the past week. It hasn’t.

“So,” he says, “how have things been since last time?” You shoot him a look. “You think one session fixed me?”

“I don’t expect that,” he replies easily. You fidget with the zipper on your sleeve. “I’ve been busy.”

He waits. Just like last time. You wait too. You're better at silence than he was; you can ride it out.

But instead of filling it, Soobin speaks again, not about you. “I’ve been thinking about something you said,” he begins.

You glance up, caught off guard. “Which part?”

“That this whole setup feels performative.” Your shoulders stiffen.

“I don’t disagree,” he continues. “And I think it’s fair to feel skeptical of being told when and how to process things. Especially when it doesn’t come from you.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re not trying to convince me this is actually worth it?”

“Would it work if I did?”

You hate that he always throws your questions back at you like that. You hate that it works. You lean back, legs crossed, and say flatly, “You like playing this game, don’t you?”

“I’m not playing anything.”

“Right. Because you’re perfectly neutral. A vessel for all my emotional insights.” 

He lifts an eyebrow, and something like quiet amusement flickers across his face. “I’m here to help you get to your own insights. Not hand them to you.”

You scoff. “So basically you’re like a mirror with a psychology degree.”

Soobin doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he nods once. “That’s one way to put it.”

You sigh, eyes drifting to the window. The light’s colder today, clouded. You wonder if it’s going to rain.

“I didn’t think about this place once all week,” you lie.

“Mhm,” he hums. You glance at him. “What does that mean?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You hummed.” He tilts his head. “Did it bother you?”

You exhale sharply through your nose. “You are so annoying.” That actually gets a smile out of him. A real one. Small and quick, but still there.  It does something to your stomach you don’t want to name.

“I’ll take that as progress,” he says.

“It’s not.”

“Noted.”  You go quiet again. This time, it’s heavier. Not just defensiveness — something closer to... fatigue. Eventually, you ask, “Do you ever get tired of this?”

Soobin’s brow lifts. “This?”

“Holding everyone else’s shit all the time.” He looks at you a long moment, not looking away to dismiss it.

“Sometimes,” he says honestly. “But I chose this work. No one forced it on me. And even when it’s hard, it’s... real.”

You don’t know what to do with that answer. So you go for the easiest thing: deflect.

“You’re very full of wisdom for someone who looks like he should still be in college.”

Soobin laughs quietly. “You’re not the first person to say that.”

“And yet you still roll your sleeves up like you’re trying to intimidate people with your forearms.”

He laughs again. Actually laughs. It’s soft, low, a little surprised, like he hadn’t expected to enjoy that. You blink.  You didn’t mean for it to come across as a joke, and you definitely didn’t mean for him to laugh like that, as if you’d said something funny, not defensive. Your stomach twists.

He sobers a little. “If talking to me isn’t helping,” he says, more gently now, “you can say that. You’re not obligated to stay.”

You pause. You look at him. No smugness, no corporate gloss. Just a man sitting in a chair, offering a space you don’t quite know what to do with yet.

“I don’t know if it’s helping,” you say honestly. That’s the most honest thing you’ve said in two sessions.

Soobin nods. “That’s okay. You’re allowed to not know yet.” 

You glance at the clock. Four minutes left. He doesn’t rush to fill the silence, even with only a few minutes left. You can feel his eyes on you, but not in the heavy way most people look, not expectant or searching. Just... there. Waiting, like he’s leaving the door cracked open if you want to walk through it.

You don’t. Of course you don’t.

So you say, “Same time next week?” His mouth lifts slightly. “If you’re willing.”

“I’m contractually obligated, remember?”

“Right,” he says softly. “The contract.”

You glance at him, his sleeves still rolled up, the collar of his shirt slightly rumpled now, like even he’s not immune to time. You don’t thank him because that would feel like giving something away, so you just nod once briskly and step out the door.

“Next time,” he says softly, voice low but mischievous, “I might have to up my game. Can’t have you thinking I’m too predictable.”

You freeze for a moment, caught between rolling your eyes and laughing. He meets your glance, the smile deepening, like he’s dared you to guess what that means.

You clear your throat, a small laugh slipping out. 

What were you doing?

Without another word, you turn and walk away, that sly smile lingering in your mind longer than you’d like.

But something stays with you. You noticed the way he laughed. You hate that you want to hear it again. You walk faster, as if distance could fix this.

Back at your desk, Mira peeks at you over the divider again.

“Well?” she asks. You roll your eyes. “Still a therapist. Still a waste of time.”

And before she can say anything else, you put your headphones in and crank the volume.  You’ve always been good at shutting things out. But this time..it was harder than it should be.

-----

i love you nonchalant soobin <3

[thatonegrimm]

Hii ! Just want to start off with how much I truly LOVE ur writing ! It’s just amazing, I was wondering what would to Saja boys reactions(separately) be to a motherly/nurturing reader ? Like babys them when they get a paper cut or holds them when they get nightmares something like that :33 [hope u have a wonderful day !! <3]

Hi! Thank you so much—that means the world to me 🥹💖 This is such a soft and lovely idea… the Saja Boys being babied by a nurturing Reader?? YES. Absolutely. Here you go! 💌

🌙Saja Boys x Nurturing!Reader

They’ve lived for centuries. Fought monsters. Been monsters. But when you kiss their scraped knuckles, wrap them in blankets, or run your fingers through their hair when they’re too tired to talk—They melt. Because for the first time in their long, cursed lives… someone sees them as soft.

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

🧿 Jinu 

He didn’t even flinch when it happened.

Just stared down at the little slice along his finger — clean, shallow, already beading red.

You moved toward him automatically, tissue in one hand, mini first-aid kit in the other.

Jinu blinked at you. “It’s just a cut.”

“I know.” You took his hand gently. “But it’s your cut.”

He went still. Like the sentence short-circuited his brain.

You dabbed carefully at the wound, even though it was barely bleeding anymore. He didn’t pull away — just kept watching you with this stunned, slightly pink expression, like no one had ever done this before.

(They probably hadn’t.)

“Honestly, you’re lucky it wasn’t worse,” you murmured, reaching for a tiny bandage. “CD cases are brutal.”

He made a tiny sound — maybe a laugh, maybe disbelief — but didn’t stop you as you applied the bandage with unnecessary care.

Then, without thinking, you kissed his knuckle.

And he froze.

“I—” he whispered.

You looked up, amused. “You okay?”

He nodded, ears red. “Yes. Yes, I just—uh. Wow.”

And then sat down slowly on the floor like his knees had given out.

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

💪 Abby 

You woke up to the sound of the floor creaking.

Then the quiet clatter of something falling in the kitchen.

When you walked out, you found him sitting on the floor, arms resting on his knees, face hidden in his hands.

You didn’t ask what the dream was about. He didn’t need to explain.

You just knelt behind him and wrapped your arms around his shoulders, pressing your chest to his back. Held him like a weighted blanket. Like a constant.

“Breathe with me,” you whispered.

He did.

Slowly. Shakily. Letting your rhythm guide him.

“You’re okay. You’re safe,” you said. “I’ve got you.”

He didn’t cry. Not really.

But he reached up to grip your hand and held it like it was keeping him grounded.

“...You’re too good to me,” he murmured.

“I will mother hen you until you can function again.”

He laughed through a tired exhale. “That’s a threat.”

“It’s a promise.”

And you stayed like that — curled up on the cold tile floor — until his breathing returned to normal and his shoulders stopped trembling.

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

📚 Mystery 

It started small.

You brushed crumbs off his shirt. Straightened his hoodie strings. Wiped dried ink off the side of his hand when he forgot he’d been writing with a fountain pen again.

Then one day, while you were carefully untangling his headphones, he said:

“You don’t have to do that.”

You looked up. “Do what?”

He stared at the floor. “All this… taking care of me stuff.”

You blinked. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t know how to… deserve it.”

His voice was too even. Too casual.

You gently took his hand — still ink-stained — and held it.

“You’re not a burden.”

He swallowed hard.

“You’re allowed to be cared for,” you said. “Even if it’s weird. Even if it’s new.”

He didn’t respond. But later that night, he curled up on the floor beside the couch — closer than usual. Just close enough that your blanket could cover both of you.

And he didn’t say a word when you reached over and started running your fingers through his hair.

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

💋 Romance

You didn’t mean to do it.

He was sitting on the couch in full glam, looking drained but still too proud to ask for help.

So you walked over, tucked the blanket higher around his shoulders, and pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

He froze.

“Are you coddling me again?” he asked.

You grinned. “You want me to stop?”

He opened his mouth.

Then paused.

“…Absolutely not.”

You laughed, cupping his face in your hands.

“You’re dramatic. You pout when you’re sleepy. You get sad when your lip gloss wears off. Of course I’m going to baby you.”

He smiled — the real kind, not the flirt.

Then curled into your side like he’d been waiting all week for that exact invitation.

“I could get used to this,” he whispered.

“You already have.”

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

🔥 Baby 

He’d burned his tongue on hot ramen again.

You heard the yelp from across the room.

By the time you reached him, he was glaring at the bowl like it had betrayed him.

“Don’t laugh,” he warned.

You didn’t.

You handed him a glass of cold milk and sat beside him.

He took a sip. Glared harder. “I’m not a child.”

You nodded solemnly. “Of course not.”

“You didn’t even check the temp first.”

“You never let me.”

He opened his mouth to argue, then blinked as you reached up and gently kissed the top of his head.

He went silent.

“…Okay,” he muttered. “That was nice.”

You smiled. “Want me to cut your dumplings next time?”

“…Yeah. But I’m still not a kid.”

“Sure, sweetheart.”

He didn’t argue again.

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

M-List

[aziscribs]

Here's the man of the hour...

Diomedes of Argos ✨⚔️

Here's a better look at the full body if you want it <3

anyway, you know the drill, here's the detail dump after the cut!! vv

HIS HAIR + GROOMING - his mane of dirty blonde hair, not unlike a lion's mane 🦁! Diomedes is likened to a lion in battle many times in the Iliad, and upon my first uninfluenced impression of him, I could NOT get the lion imagery out of my head. I'm very aware that boars and albatrosses are more commonly associated with him, but I just got too attached to liomedes!! yea he has a weird mix of locs and free hair, don't ask me how it works it just does okay NONE OF MY DESIGNS ARE EVER REALISTIC yall should know this by now lolll... you might also notice though that his facial hair is in a similar shape to that of boar tusks 🐗✨, of course I had to pay homage yall!!

THE HELL ARE THOSE GOLDEN MARKS? - they're ichor, you silly goose!!! in book 5, Diomedes has a moment of aristeia, where he wounds both Aphrodite and Ares in battle ⚔️🩸✨! there's a common perception that ichor marks are permanent and similar to burn scars, and I think that's so damn cool, so he's got some marks on his upper chest from Aphrodite's ichor splashing down his cuirass, and his palms are stained with ichor from Ares + vigorously trying to scrub the marks off himself and his spear lol (I imagine it kinda stains the wrinkles and lines in his palms, but yall know I cant be bothered to draw detailed hands like that). ON THE TOPIC OF SCARS, peep Pandarus' arrow scar in his shoulder + oath scar on his palm that's barely visible lol ‼️ In the same vein, he's got mismatched eyes 👁️🫦🧿 from Athena's blessing of sight to him (in book 5, Athena blesses him to be able to tell the difference between gods and mortals!)

BOAR EMBLEM + BOAR TUSKS & SKIN & FUR + OWL FEATHER + ALBATROSS FEATHERS & PIN - kinda speaks for itself? boar cause.. tydeus 🐗, owl feather cause athena loves that guy 🦉, and just a couple of albatross nods here and there for now 🪽. I like to imagine Dio's life in stages of animals-- as a kid (epigoni) he's a boar, still trying to emulate his father, in the war he's a lion, finding his own footing and also being freaking insane, and after that (Italy) he's an albatross (as he's usually described as then). In the time period of the Iliad, he'd be a nice in between of all of this, thus the mix of kinda all of those symbols!

YOU READ THROUGH ALL THAT???? - okay congrats thanks for sticking around this long!! here's an extra hc just for you-- the soles on the bottoms of his shoes have paw pads on them 🐾! they help to cover his tracks, cause he's a smart boy like that! Odysseus isn't the only champion of Athena who has tricks up his sleeve! that's definitely the only reason and it isn't mostly a decision I made cause vibes + cute..... I'll try to include this feature in future drawings, though it's hard to show LOLLL, for now just know that the little paw prints all over the Achaean camp aren't from some cute lil puppy padding around but actually from a full grown ass man

this guy is long overdue! I've adored Diomedes ever since I first read the Iliad (my friends can attest to this I am so annoying to them about him)... I was really disappointed joining the Greek myth fandom to see that so FEW people liked, or even knew about this guy! buttttt diving deeper into the fandom + over time, I found more and more like-minded people who are just as (if not sometimes even more) insane about him as I am! and i've met so many lovely friends through that too 🩷🩷🫂‼️

thank you again for your love and time <3 you can look forward to more designs! I love adding little details into my designs, and there's a couple I might have missed out even with all this rambling, so if you can spot them they're a little treat for you hehe. again if yall notice anything I might not have noticed before, do lmk so I can pretend like that was my intention with the design all along lol hehe I love you all! thank uuuu!!! 🩷🩷🩷

[band--psycho]

Poly!141 x Reader - Stop The Wedding (Part 14)

Another long chapter! I hope you all enjoy this!💛

Yes you will probably be hating me for writing this - but just trust the process, I promise it'll be worth it!

Please be kind, reblogs are always welcome and greatly appreciated! Thank you for all the continued support 💛

Requests are open so if you have any ideas/requests, you're more than welcome to send them over (thank you to everyone who's requested a story so far, I'm working my way through them!)

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Catch up on the previous part here: Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 /Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8 / Part 9 / Part 10 / Part 11 / Part 12

Warnings: Angst, threats to life, blackmail

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If looks could kill you were sure Phillip would’ve dropped down dead on the floor in an instant. 

You could feel the anger radiating off of the four men around you as they looked at the Texan by the door. 

Kyle’s hand remained on yours, giving it a gentle squeeze, not caring that Phillip could probably see.

John and Johnny were now on their feet, standing protectively at your side and Simon had moved from Johnny's side, to the foot of the bed, blocking Phillip from looking at you.  

“The fuck are you doin’ here, Graves?” Johnny practically growled at Phillip, his Scottish accent becoming thicker in his anger. 

You could just about see him past Simon’s muscular build, but Johnny's words didn’t seem to bother Phillip at all though.

“I’m here to see my Fiance,” you heard him answer. The way he emphasised the word ‘Fiance’ making your chest tighten slightly. 

It baffled you how he could still use that word with such ease; like your relationship wasn’t built on lies…

“She doesn’t want to see you,” John bluntly snapped back.

“I think Y/n can speak for herself, don’t you, Captain?” Phillip questioned, patronisation lacing his voice as he took a few steps forward. 

You watched as John mirrored his actions, stepping away from the bed and towards Phillip, but his steps were interrupted when Simon stepped in front of him. 

“Take one more step,” Simon goaded; his fists clenched at his side. 

This isn’t what you wanted. 

If Simon hit him he’d be removed from the hospital, they all would, meaning that anyone could get into this room…

As angry as you were at Phillip, you still needed answers. 

Answers about him, about your relationship and about Shepherd.

You also needed to know what his involvement in this crash was.

One thing you were sure of was that if the four other men remained in this room, you wouldn’t get any of those answers. 

“It’s okay,” you spoke, giving Kyle’s hand a quick squeeze before pulling your hand away from his. 

You might as well have just slapped each one of your exes round the face with the look three of them were giving you right now. 

Simon however didn’t look at you; he didn’t take his eyes away from Phillip, and you knew why. 

Of course you did. 

“Can you guys wait outside?” You asked softly, trying to ignore the pain your heart felt as you looked around at them all. 

None of them could understand what you were doing, why you wanted to talk to Phillip after everything you knew; but they didn’t want to argue with you. 

They wanted to rebuild the trust they once had with you. 

And the only way you were going to start to trust them again was if they trusted you.

“Are you sure?” Kyle whispered his question as though he was saying a secret that he only wanted you to hear; worry swimming in his eyes. 

You nodded, forcing a small smile onto your lips, “I’m sure,”

Were you sure? 

No.

You weren’t really sure of anything anymore; but the only way you could get answers was by talking to Phillip, even if the thought of being alone with him in the room made you feel uneasy. 

“Five minutes” John began much to the disbelief of the Scotsman opposite him.

“John-” Johnny interrupted; his brows furrowing in confusion at the words he’d just heard. 

“Five minutes,” John repeated, glancing at Johnny before his blue eyes met yours, “after that we’re coming back in.”

“Thank you,” you said, forcing another smile onto your lips. 

John knew as well as Kyle did that the smile on your lips was fake; but it was clear that you wanted to talk to Phillip and even if they couldn’t understand why, they had to trust that you had a reason. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of her,” Phillip taunted as Johnny, John and Kyle began to make their way out of the room. 

“Si-”

You watched as his unclenched upon hearing his name from your lips.

“You do anything to her, and I’ll kill you right here,” Simon warned Phillip.

“Ghost, that is not nice,” Phillip replied back with a smirk on his face. 

You thought Simon was going to punch that smirk from Phillip’s face; part of you wished he did, the other part of you wished that you could get up from the bed and just do it yourself.

Would it give you the answers you needed? 

No? 

Would it make you feel a little better? 

Yes it would. 

But you couldn’t move from the bed you were in without being in agony. 

So you were stuck having to be reasonable. 

Hoping that Phillip would slip up like he had at the house before. 

Much to your surprise, Simon simply walked past Phillip and headed towards the door John was holding open for him. 

Leaving you alone with your Fiancé. 

“Are you okay?” He asked, taking a few steps towards your bed, sitting down in the chair that Kyle had been sitting in moments before. 

There was genuine concern in not just his eyes, but his voice as well.

“I’m fine,” your reply was blunt; you didn’t want to talk about how you were. 

The only reason he was here right now was because you wanted to see the look in his eyes as he lied to you. 

To have proof that everything you'd once believed was a love story was lie.

“What happened?” 

“Surprised you don’t know,” you snapped; but his face remained neutral, unphased completely by the venom in your voice. 

“Why would I know, honey?” He asked innocently; so much so that he almost fooled you. 

Almost. 

“Why wouldn’t you know? Isn’t this what you and Shepherd planned? How else would you know I was here?” 

He was clearly taken aback by your questions; his eyebrows furrowing in confusion as he processed your words. 

“I only found out you were here when I got a call from the hospital,” he began; taking a breath before continuing, “I don’t know what those men told you-”

“They told me that Shepherds’ been in hiding since Mexico,” you began, a humourless laugh falling from your lips, “which is bizarre considering we got an engagement card from him five months ago.”

You were waiting. 

Waiting for him to try and lie. 

To deceive you like he had done so many times before in your relationship.

But he didn’t. 

He didn’t say anything. 

He just stared at you.

“You and Shepherd are working together, you two planned this” you said; filling the silence that had descended upon the two of you. 

You weren’t asking him. 

You knew deep down he was. 

And the look in his eyes told you as much. 

“Y/n, I had nothing to do with this, I swear on-”

Something between a scoff and humourless chuckle slipped past your lips; utterly baffled that the man in front of you was trying to ‘swear’ that he had no part in this coincidental car crash, “You swear on what? On our relationship? On our love? On everything that’s just been a fucking lie”

“Y/n-”

You could feel the rage boiling in your veins; sitting up slightly, the anger pushing the pain shooting through your body to the back of your mind. 

“Was I just a pawn in your plan to hurt them?” you asked, nodding over to the men outside your room, tears already brimming in your eyes from the pure rage you were feeling. 

You hated the way your voice cracked as you asked the question; quickly blinking away the tears that were threatening to fall from your eyes.

You knew you wouldn’t be able to stop crying if you started and there was no way in hell you wanted to give Phillip the satisfaction of seeing you cry. 

Silence.

That was what your question was met with. 

Once again; the man who you thought you were going to spend the rest of your life with, couldn’t even give you the truth to the questions you were asking. 

You went to open your mouth; to shout at him, to demand the truth. 

But his words silenced you instantly.

“Yes,” 

You felt your heart shatter at his answer. 

You weren’t entirely sure why; this is what you wanted. 

The truth. 

And deep down, you knew that this would be his answer. 

You just couldn’t quite believe that he was actually admitting to it. 

“Yes,” he continued, “You started out as being part of the plan to hurt the 141.”

He reached out to you, attempting to touch your hand, but you simply recoiled from his touch, making a frown tug on his lips. 

Did he seriously expect that he could just hold your hand after that admission? 

“But our love isn’t a lie,” Phillip added, making your eyes snap to his; fury evident on your face. 

Phillip was undeterred by your anger; continuing to talk calmly and gently, as though this was a perfectly normal conversation. 

“I love you, Y/n, I want to marry you, to grow old with you; this isn’t about them now, this is about us.” 

He placed his hand next to your side; already knowing that you didn’t want to actually be touched by him, “We could start fresh, just me and you…away from everyone,”

“What about Shepherd?”

“Shepherd won’t interfere as long as we’re married,”

“And what if I don’t want to marry you?” you retorted back, hearing a frustrated sigh fall from his lips. 

“Then you won’t be protected,” his voice unusually low, “Neither will Y/f/n, or any of your other friends, or your family, even mere acquaintances of yours will be at risk,”

“Sounds an awful lot like you’re threatening me,” 

“Don’t get confused honey, I’m not threatening you, I’m telling you what happens if you choose the 141 over me,”

"Don't patronise me," You seethed; hating the way he was talking to you as if you were just confused by what was happening.

“This was a warning,” he explained, “a warning that if you continue to keep those men in your life and don’t marry me, there will be consequences,”

“What if I don’t choose them either?” You offered, hoping that maybe, just maybe, if you could get away from all of them, leave them all behind you and the people you cared for would be safe. 

“That won't make a difference,” he dismissed your question quickly. 

You didn’t care about yourself getting hurt; this was your choice and if not marrying Phillip meant that you came to harm, you could deal with that. 

But Y/f/n….your other friends…your family…people that you cared about the most, people that you would do anything to protect; the thought of them coming to harm because of you made you want to be sick. 

The people you cared about had always been your weakness. 

Your mum used to tell you that you were too kind; that your heart was too big, you never saw that as something negative, not until now. 

Even if you ran; you knew you wouldn’t be able to keep everyone in your life safe. 

“Do you really want Y/f/n to die?”

You felt your jaw tighten, his question snapping you from your thoughts. 

Of course you didn’t. 

And he knew that. 

“‘Cos they will, if you don’t marry me,”

“You wouldn’t-” your voice barely above a whisper now; he was a soldier, and Shepherd was the one whose orders he followed…of course he would. 

Before you could say anything more to Phillip the door swung open; and in walked John, Simon, Johnny and Kyle. 

Those were a quick five minutes….

“Times up,” John hissed; but Phillip didn’t move. 

You knew what Phillip was waiting for. 

He was waiting for you to make a decision. 

Your eyes darted from Phillip, to the men who’d just walked in before settling back on Phillip. 

You didn’t want to be with Phillip; the thought was enough to make your skin crawl. 

But what option did you have, really? 

“We tried findin’ him- but every lead just ended up being a dead end,”. 

Johnny's words echoed through your mind as the realisation came to you. 

You and everyone you knew, were at risk as long as Shepherd was alive. 

If it wasn’t Phillip doing the killing, Shepherd would just send someone else to do it. 

If you knew there was hope of John and the others finding Shepherd soon, then perhaps it would be a chance you’d be willing to take. 

But by their own admission they had no idea where the General was….

Johnny and Simon walked closer to you and Phillip and you knew what they were going to do. 

They were going to throw Phillip out of your hospital room. 

And then that would be your decision made for you. 

They’d have made things worse without intending to. 

You didn’t want to be with Phillip; but you knew John, Simon, Johnny and Kyle couldn’t protect you or the others you cared about. 

“Don’t,” your words fell from your lips quicker than you could process them, halting the two men’s movements.

“Y/n?” Johnny questioned; pain slowly creeping into his eyes as if knowing what was about to happen. 

You could feel everyone’s eyes on you. 

And you hated it. 

Hated that you were letting Phillip win…

Hated that you were allowing him to blackmail you into marrying him. 

You extended your hand to Phillips; feeling your insides twist as he slipped his hand into yours; a smirk coming across his lips as he looked at Johnny and Simon. 

“Ye’ve gotta be jokin, Bon, c’mon-”

“Think my Fiancé has made her feelings quite clear,” Phillip interrupted, releasing your hand and rising from the seat, squaring up to Johnny and Simon. 

“Y/n-” John began; but his words trailed off the moment you looked at him. 

You hoped he was smart enough to see that you didn’t want this. 

That there was more going on. 

You hoped that look you two shared somehow told him everything you were feeling without you having to say a single word. 

“Let’s go,” John ordered, making both Johnny and Simon turn to look at him. 

“John?” the betrayal and confusion clear in the Scotsman’s voice; Kyle’s eyes mirroring the same confusion. 

“Let's go,” he repeated, his voice firmer now. 

Simon's eyes narrowed in confusion for a brief moment, watching as John and Kyle left the room.

Relief washed over you as you watched two of the four men leave; hoping that John knew what you were trying  to tell him. 

Simon wasn’t oblivious to the look you gave John, he could see that you didn’t want to be there, he wanted nothing more than to go pick you up from your bed and take you to a place he knew you’d be safe, but he knew he couldn’t. 

He knew Graves had said something to you.

But he couldn’t do anything about it right now, no matter how much he wanted to.  

So he simply placed his hand on Johnny's shoulder, attempting to guide him from the room, but Johnny simply stayed there, as if he was frozen to the spot. 

His eyes remained fixed on you. 

“You cannae marry him, Y/n,” he was pleading with you; the look in his eyes was enough to make your heart ache. 

“Johnny,” Simon mumbled, pushing the Scotsman slightly, just enough to make him move a little.

“Ye’re just gonna let this happen, Si? Let her marry him?”

Simon didn’t say anything in response to Johnny's questions; he just kept his hand placed on Johnny's shoulder, trying to gently guide him out of the room; but also mentally preparing to have to drag him out of there.

“I suggest you leave; before I get you all thrown out of here for distressing my Fiancé,” Phillip advised; but all you could hear was the smugness in his voice. 

You had to stop your eyes from rolling at his words, ‘distressing my Fiancé,’

The only person that was causing you distress right now, was him. 

Knowing that he was threatening your life along the safety of the people in your life, if you didn't go through with marrying him. 

“Johnny, let’s go,” Simon ordered now, thinking that he would be met with the same resistance he’d been previously met with, but this time, when Simon guided him away, Johnny moved. 

The two of them slowly made their way out of the hospital room, joining John and Kyle who were already outside. 

"Good choice," Phillip beamed, turning to you, lifting you hand to his lips, but you pulled your hand away before his lips touched your hand.

"I'll marry you, but if anyone else I care about gets hurt, I'll kill you myself, Graves," you promised, watching his the colour drain from his face as though he'd seen a ghost, and thankfully he didn't get a chance to respond before the nurse was shooing him from the room as visiting hours were over.

You asked the nurse about Y/f/n, but she didn't know anything apart from that they were still in surgery.

You had a plan to delay it for now....but as soon as Y/f/n was better you wouldn't be able to delay it any longer....

All you could hope, was that John, Simon, Johnny and Kyle found Shepherd before that happened.

Tagging:

@imdeadontheinside786 @asterionex @pinkyyoshi @yaradigital @euriiverse @s-void @lilyalone @salemlovespies @z-wantstowrite @maryrhodalouandted @uraeus56 @skipping-throughlife @backalleytimetravel @fruitymoonbeams-blog @alejandro-vargass-wife @dasphinxone @magicwriterinspo @lilylovesliterature @tabbslouuformer @disasterofastory @yearninglustfully @therapyneeds @beautifuleaglealpaca @mischievousprincess01 @rite-te-suli-kireysi-ite @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @ontopofthefridge @rosecastiello @harrys-ravioli @hypertail @hahaifolded @felinegaymerl0ver @little-mini-me-world @noheadcanons-juststories @nocturnal-nyx @ilovesoapandnotthebar @leon-thot-kennedy @astridbaby @galactict3a @famouspoetrydinosaur @rivwritesiguess @nanamisfootrest @echo9821 @caramelsundaysstuff @yuki2129 @jesushelpme

[camficdiner]

To go order of [1.1] [2.20] 𝚂𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚢 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝-𝚐𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 — 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 [3.1] [4.2] THANK UUU

☕️Cams Fic Diner — order 100✨✨

🍒 thank you:

to the girlies who kept this diner alive with nothing but delulu, filth, and feral imagination.

to the ones who whispered “make it worse” and “more detail pls” a prayer.

to every mutual who submitted an unhinged smut request at 2 a.m. and said “take your time babe no rush <3” but checked in twelve hours later.

This is for you.

You kept the lights on. You filled the queue. You weren’t afraid to ask for Quinn in a hoodie or Jack on his knees or Will with his hands in your hair.

You made enemies to lovers an art form. You made truth or dare dangerous. You made the diner what it is.

💬 “You ordered. We delivered.”

✨ description & prompts:

fics by you, for you

from soft confessions to ruin-me-twice

this isn’t a milestone. it’s just the beginning.

✨💌🍷🛐🫡

💬 “Don’t hang up yet”

✨ description & prompts:

• character: jack hughes

• prompt: sleepy post-game confessions — you’re on the phone when he mumbles something that changes everything

• type: undefined situationship, soft confessions, long-distance ache, slow realization, fluff

• wc: ~1.2k

🛼🍒✨🧁

He always calls after a win.

That’s how this started.

Just late-night “we played good”s and “you up?”s and “I’m so fucking tired”s mumbled through half-yawns and pillow muffles. You weren’t really together, not officially — not in any way you could explain to your friends without fumbling for excuses.

You were just… you and Jack.

He flew out for roadies. You stayed home. He texted late. You picked up. And somehow that filled the gap that neither of you wanted to name.

Tonight, it’s late when he calls — well past midnight — and your phone buzzes with his contact photo and that stupid nickname he gave you last spring.

“Hey,” you say, soft and sleepy.

“Hey,” he breathes back, barely audible. “You up?”

“Mhm.” You shift your phone to your other ear. “You win?”

“Yeah,” he mutters, and then yawns, the kind that shakes his whole chest. “Missed you.”

Your smile is immediate, involuntary. “Missed you too.”

He hums, like he’s halfway to sleep already. You can hear the shuffle of hotel sheets, the faint clink of a water bottle being set down, the creak of his neck as he rolls it against the pillow.

You speak again, barely above a whisper. “You okay?”

Jack sighs. “Just tired. Brain’s all scrambled. But… I wanted to call.”

“I’m glad you did.”

Another long silence. You don’t fill it — you’ve learned not to. With Jack, sometimes the best parts are in the quiet. And right now, there’s something heavy in it. Something thoughtful. He’s thinking, and you can tell because he hasn’t fallen asleep yet.

When he speaks again, it’s not loud. It’s not clear. It’s barely even a sentence.

“…been thinkin’,” he mumbles, voice almost too low. “How we never really… defined this.”

You blink.

It’s the first time either of you have even come close to touching the what are we question.

Jack keeps talking before you can answer. Still soft. Still half-asleep. But honest.

“I dunno,” he says. “I just—I like talkin’ to you. I like when you’re there after a game. When I call and you’re already in bed but you still pick up. When I don’t even have to say much and you… know.”

Your chest squeezes. You try to swallow around it.

He breathes in again, shaky this time.

“Feels like I… get home and I miss you more, not less. Isn’t that fucked up?”

You laugh quietly, throat tight. “Kinda.”

“Yeah,” he exhales. “But it’s true. Even when you’re right here, it’s never enough. And I think…” His voice cracks, softens again. “I think I love you. Even if we never called it that. Even if I don’t even know if I’m allowed to say it.”

Your whole body stills.

You blink at the ceiling, trying to hold yourself together. The words settle in your chest like a weighted blanket and a punch to the ribs all at once.

“…Jack.”

“It’s okay if you don’t,” he says quickly, voice a little fuzzier now, like sleep is dragging him down. “You don’t have to say anything. Just needed to say it before I passed out.”

You wait a beat.

Then whisper, “You’re not the only one who feels that way.”

You think he smiles. You can hear it in the way his breathing shifts — soft and relieved.

“I knew,” he murmurs. “I hoped.”

A pause.

“I’m yours,” you say, finally. “Even if we don’t define it yet. Even if it’s messy.”

Jack lets out the softest hum, right before you hear the phone shift onto the pillow beside him. He’s fading fast now, but you swear you hear one last thing before he fully drifts:

“…’s not messy. It’s you. It’s always been you.”

You close your eyes. Let yourself believe it. Let yourself want more.

Maybe in the morning, you’ll talk about it.

Maybe in the morning, you’ll define it.

But for now, you both sleep — tangled in two cities, one phone call, and the quiet, sweet ache of finally knowing.