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[retellingthehobbit]

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[mariasont]

hey girlie, first of all absolutely adore all of your hotchie fics no one writes him as well as you do!! second of all i am dying to read bimbo!assistant! x hotch smuuuutt (only if ur comfortable, pls ignore if not!!) i feel like that would be the only time hotch would have her completely and utterly speechless (idk why but i literally cannot get hotch w a breeding kink out of my goddamn mind!!!!!!) anyways hope ur having a fab day, and thank u for feeding us over the last few days 😘

Space Between Distraction & Indulgence - A.H

summary: bimbo!assistant!reader want’s aaron’s attention. aaron wants to finish his case notes. too bad for him, you always get what you want

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI, explicit stuff going on here, fingering, p in v, no condom (bc we trust hotch is responsible but you shouldn’t be), dirty talk, hotch is a boob man sorry not sorry, after care with a side of psychoanalysis bc he can’t help himself

wc: 6k (got a little carried away my b)

a/n: thank u sm for requesting ugh!!!! u all r going to give me a god complex if you keep talking about how i write hotch LOLOL i love u sm hope u like the fic!!

Saturdays with Aaron had a way of making time feel like something slippery and golden, something you could almost touch before it vanished between your fingers. The mornings stretched long and languid, a lazy kind of indulgence that should have felt endless, but somehow, with him, it never was.

You woke up late. Very late. The kind of late that made you blink at the clock in mild disbelief before flopping back against the pillows. And then there was the warmth. Not just the heat of the blankets, but something deeper, something winding low in your belly.

Oh. Right. The dream. You swallowed, biting your lip as if that might make the memory dissipate. It wasn't outright filthy, but it had been suggestive enough. Annoying. Frustrating. Embarrassing. It was the kind of thing that made you wish Aaron was still in bed.

He wasn't, of course. That would require Aaron Hotchner to do something reckless and irresponsible, like relax. If he wasn't keeping the country from total collapse, he was finding something equally as urgent to fix, probably buried in reports right now, coffee in hand, eyes scanning the page like national security depended on it. And maybe it did. You didn't know.

What you did know was that you'd been circling him all afternoon, orbiting like some needy little planet trapped in his gravitational pull, and he still hadn't acknowledged you. A small part of you—one you didn't want to name—had hoped he'd notice you by now. That he'd glance up, see you, reach for you. But he hadn't. And that was okay. Really. You weren't needy. You weren't desperate.

But you noticed him. You always noticed him. And this version of him, the weekend version, was particularly hard to ignore. The casual clothes, casual for him, anyway, stomped all over your ability to think straight (not that you had much to concentrate on in the first place).

The grey crewneck he had on stretched across his shoulders, molding to the shape of him like it had been made for him. His jeans, worn in all the right places, settled on his hips in a way that made you feel like a pervert just by looking.

Even his hair had you practically drooling. Not messy, of course—Aaron Hotchner didn't do messy—but it was softer than usual, a little mussed, like he'd dragged his fingers through it one too many times without bothering to fix it.

It made him look almost touchable, like someone who should have been stretched out next to you on the couch, letting you mess it up even more, not hunched over a pile of paperwork like the case files were going to disappear if he blinked.

His forearms flexed every time he turned a page, his muscles shifting subtly every time he moved. You didn't even realize how blatantly you were staring until his fingers skimmed up to his jaw, scratching absently at the stubble there. Because now all you could think about was how it would feel under your fingertips, under your lips, under—okay. Enough.

The magazine in your lap was technically open, fingers flipping through glossy pages filled with designer gowns and scandalous headlines. Normally, you'd be all over it, sipping coffee as you devoured the who wore what and who was caught with who. But today, you weren't really reading, you were just holding it, turning pages for the sake of it. Something to occupy your hands while you definitely didn't stare at Aaron.

He had started keeping these around after you mentioned, offhandedly, how much you loved them. You hadn't even meant it as a suggestion, but the next time you visited, there it was—sitting on the coffee table like it had always been there.

He hadn't spared you so much as a glance since you walked in—not even when you'd practically drifted past his desk, close enough that he should've felt you there. He had mumbled a good morning, sure, but his eyes never left the page, his attention locked onto whatever was in that file.

You sigh—loudly. Pointedly. The kind of exaggerated little huff that normally earns you at least a glance, maybe even a what's the matter, sweetheart?  There was no reaction today. He just flipped another page, one hand smoothing over the text, the other tapping against the desk like you were completely invisible.

You toss the magazine onto the table—just a little too hard. Then you stretch out on the couch, shifting just enough that his button-down rides up, baring more of your thighs than should be considered decent. The air against your skin makes you hyperaware of what isn't there—only your favorite panties. The tiniest scrap of fabric between you and absolute obscenity. If he so much as glanced in your direction, he'd have the perfect view. But he doesn't.

You sigh again, softer this time, just enough to sound absentminded, like you're not trying to get his attention (even though you absolutely are). As you push yourself off the couch, you stretch a little, giving yourself an extra moment to watch him. You make your way toward him, steps slow, letting the hem of his shirt brush against the tops of your thighs as you move. His fingers flex against the page.

You settle against the edge of his desk, bracing yourself on your elbows, making a very intentional point of pressing your tits together. It's the kind of thing that should be subtle—just a natural consequence of your posture.

Months of Aaron have taught you more than just the way he takes his coffee or how he organizes his files. You've studied him—memorized him even. And one thing has become crystal clear:

He's absolutely a boob man.

You realized it gradually—the subtle stiffening of his posture whenever you leaned a little too close in the office, the way his fingers flexed when your blouse had just a bit too much give.

Then, when you started dating, it became even clearer. His hands never just grabbed—they claimed, like he was making up for all the times he couldn't touch.

His voice would go low, reverent, when he murmured, so pretty, sweetheart, his thumb brushing over your skin like he needed to feel it. And your bras—he had thoughts about those, much to your surprise. Which ones were his favorite. Which ones he hated because they got in the way.

But it wasn't until months later—when he had you spread out beneath him, his mouth hot and urgent against your skin—that he admitted it. His voice was rough, breathless, his grip tightening as he groaned, been trying so fucking hard not to look at these for years. And then, just to prove it, his mouth sealed over you like he had years to make up for.

"Do you need anything? Water? Coffee? Maybe lunch?"

His eyes lift—quick, practiced, almost indifferent.

Almost.

Because before they settle back down, they pause, just for a fraction of a second, right there. Right at the collar of his button-down, where the top buttons are hanging loose, where your skin is warm and soft and practically begging for attention.

But then, before you can revel in it, he's already looking back down. "No, I'm fine, sweetheart."

You bite your lip, actually contemplating throwing his stupid case file out the window. He's either knows what you're trying to accomplish and ignoring you on purpose or he's just that focused. You weren't sure which was worse.

You shove off the desk, but you don't step away. Instead, you step closer. Your hands find his shoulders first, sliding down to his chest as you lean into him, pressing against his back. The shift is immediate. He goes still, his spine going ramrod straight, like his brain has just caught up to what's happening.

Your shirt is paper-thin, your nipples are pressed right against him, and unless he's suddenly gone completely numb, he feels it.

You sink against him, letting your chin rest on his shoulder, breathing him in. Gods, he smells good. Clean, sharp, like something expensive.

You recognized it as the cologne you bought him. The one you picked, the one you dabbed on his wrist in the middle of a department store and grinned, telling him, This. This smells like you. This is the one.

Your fingers skim over his collar, your nails just barely catching against the heat of his skin.

"What are you working on?" You let the question drip from your lips, your voice all honey, sweet, but not innocent.

Aaron hums low in his throat. "Case notes."

"That's boring. Is there anything I can do to help? Your assistant is very willing to be of service."

His fingers pause and your stomach flips. But then, before you can savor it, he moves. His hand finds yours, slow, gentle, lifting it with patience. He presses a kiss to your knuckles, featherlight, frustratingly chaste, before setting your hand back down like you're some good little thing that's been successfully pacified. And then you catch it, the tiniest twitch of his lips.

"Thank you, honey, but I've got it under control."

You make a noise, half scoff, half petulant whine, and shift your chin against his shoulder, angling yourself just enough to shoot him a pointed glare. "You always say that. What's the point of having such a capable assistant if you're not going to use her?"

"Hmm. So that's what you want? For me to use you?"

"I don't know. Is that an option?"

Aaron's laugh is low, the kind that rumbles through his chest without much warning. It's never loud—it doesn't have to be—but it still manages to send your stomach into a ridiculous free-fall.

"There's just some stuff I need to finish up."

You groan, letting your forehead drop to his shoulder, arms squeezing around him like you can physically hold his attention. Like you can will it away from the pages in front of him and back to you where it belongs.

"Is that your way of telling me I just have to sit here and be patient?"

Aaron's pen doesn't pause. "Mhm."

You huff. "And you think I'll be able to do that?"

His answer is immediate. Too immediate.

"You've survived this long," he says, and you swear you can hear the smirk in his voice. "I think you'll manage."

"Fine," you say after a moment, stepping around the chair before sinking into his lap, giving him plenty of time to stop you, but he doesn't. He never does.

You shift until you're settled, one leg draped over his, chest brushing his. His breath stutters—just a little, just enough to tell you that he feels you. His fingers flex against the desk, pressing harder into the wood, tension rolling through his back as he goes perfectly still beneath you, like he's waiting to see what you'll do next.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," you hum, arms draping easily over his shoulders as you sink against him. Your cheek brushes his, lips just close enough that if he turned his head, just a little, you'd be right there. "You said you had to finish working. Don't let me stop you."

A slow inhale, a slight tilt of his head, then—his pen moves again, like nothing's changed. Like you haven't changed anything. You exhale against his skin, hiding your smirk in the crook of his neck, fingers idly tracing slow, featherlight circles along the nape of it. He's humoring you, and that's fine.

You let him pretend for a while, content to exist in the space between distraction and indulgence. You shift in his lap, weight pressing into his just enough.

His body reacts before he does, muscles tightening, his breath slowing like he's thinking too hard about not reacting.

"Sit still."

"I am still," you reply, the words light on your tongue, but the slow curve of your hips tells another story.

"Sweetheart."

You lean in, close enough that your noses brush, your forehead pressing to his as your lips part ever so slightly. "What? I'm not doing anything."

Aaron's breath comes out sharp, ragged, the sound scraping its way from his throat like he's been holding onto it for too long. His chest pushes against yours, every inhale pressing you closer, every exhale heating the space between you. He leans back, just enough to create the smallest sliver of distance.

You roll your hips again, slower this time, savoring the friction that sends a shudder through you, tightening every muscle in your body with anticipation. The feeling sparks through you, sharp and intoxicating, sending heat pooling in your stomach. His reaction was subtle, the shift of his jaw, his hand brushing against the desk, like he doesn't trust himself to touch you yet.

His gaze drops, heavy-lidded, to where your bodies fit together, the rise and fall of your breath syncing with his.

His hands land on your hips, thumbs pressing in, not enough to stop you, just enough to remind you he could if he wanted to. When his eyes meet yours again, there's no rush, no immediate reaction. You knew exactly what it meant and what usually followed, he was just waiting for the moment you tip the scales too far.

"Do you want to tell me what exactly it is you're trying to do?" he asks, his voice low, the kind of tone that makes you forget your own name for a second.

You push against him again, grinding just enough to feel the press of him, the heat of him, and god. His fingers dig in—tight—like he's trying to stop you, but you don't miss the way his breath catches, the way his grip falters for half a second. Your fingers curl into his shirt, and suddenly, you can't remember what your original plan was.

You shift forward, your body molding to his, your breath fanning against his skin as your lips brush his ear. Your teeth scrape, light, but not accidental.

"I'm just feel a little... overlooked." Your fingers tighten where they rest, nails digging in just enough to make sure he feels it. "Is it so bad that I want your attention?"

His grip tightens, harder this time, his fingers digging into your hips with a kind of warning you'd be stupid to ignore. The heat of his palms seeps through the thin fabric of his shirt, scorching into your skin like a brand.

"You have my attention." You don't believe him. Not really. You press your lips into a pout, brow furrowing just slightly. "But if you keep moving like that, I might now be so nice about it."

Your hips shift, an instinctive little squirm, testing to see if you can push past his hold. You can't. "I can't help it."

"You can't help it?" he repeats, almost thoughtful, like he's turning the idea over in his mind. "I think you can. You just don't want to."

You want to argue, you really do, but nothing comes out, only a sharp inhale that never quite makes it into words. Because he's right. He knows he's right.

The little noise that escapes your throat is purely instinctual, frustrated but breathy, like your body is already conceding before your mind catches up.

"I told you to stop," he murmurs, but the way it sinks into you, the way it wraps around your ribs like something stretched too tight, tells you exactly what kind of trouble you're in.

He mirrors you, crowding in, his breath skimming your ear. His palm presses into the small of your back, slotting you back into place. "But you don't listen, do you?"

You shake your head without even meaning to, the deafening roar of your pulse making it impossible to think clearly.

"No, you don't," he murmurs, his tone dipping lower, turning darker, more intimate. His hands flex as if to remind you of the control he holds. Then his lips graze your jaw, his breath fanning over your skin. "You push. You test the boundaries. And then you pretend to be shocked when I hold you to them."

His fingers slide down, dragging over your thigh with an almost excruciating slowness. He pauses to squeeze there.

"First, you sprawled out on the couch—" his thumb sweeps over your skin, "like you didn't know exactly how that would look."

Your breath stutters, catches, knots itself into something tangled and messy as his hand moves, sliding higher, pressing firmer, stopping just shy of where the ache blooms.

His eyes darken, the heat behind them smoldering with something deep, something that settles like fire in the pit of your stomach.

"Then you leaned over my desk, practically shoving these—" His hand moves before the words fully land, cupping the curve of your breast. His thumb rolls over your nipple. "—right in my face."

Your breath catches, your hips lifting, your thighs parting like you're meant to be touched. Like you need him there. But he doesn't give in. He just moves lower, slow and taunting, until his palm covers the heat between your legs, pressing lightly over the thin fabric of your panties.

His fingers flex, testing. Feeling.

"And now this," he murmurs, and gods, his voice, his voice, is like a razor wrapped in velvet, smooth and cutting all at once. "You squirm and pout like you don't know exactly what you're doing. But I know better, don't I?"

The words settle in your spine, and suddenly, you don't feel like you know what you're doing. Like you're the one pulling at a thread you don't quite understand, but it's already too late to stop. A shiver rolls through you, bone-deep, leaving your muscles lax, your body melting into his like you were always meant to be here.

"I'm sorry," you murmur so quietly, you're not even sure if he hears it. "I just... I wanted you to notice me."

Aaron's hum is low, deep, almost amused. His thumb finds your jaw, sweeping along the curve of it as he tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"Oh, I noticed you. I always notice you. In fact, you're all I ever notice." His hand slips away from where you want it most. "But if this is the only way you know how to ask for my attention, sweetheart, then I think we have a problem."

Your grip on his shirt is useless, you're clinging to him, to anything, but he's the one in control. His hands settle on your hips, demanding, guiding you over the hard line of his cock, forcing you to take the friction, to feel every inch of him through the layers still between you.

The friction is blinding, sending heat licking up your spine, setting every nerve in your body on fire. Your legs tremble, a sharp, choked sound escaping before you can stop it, and you clutch at his shoulders, nails sinking deep into muscle as pleasure coils tight and insistent in your belly.

"Aaron," his name slips from your lips, high and uneven, like it costs something to say it. Your head bows, forehead pressing into his shoulder, hands trembling against his chest. "I wasn't trying to be bad. I just... I didn't know what else to do."

"No, sweetheart," he murmurs. "You didn't think, did you? And now look where that's gotten you."

His words should sting, but they don't, not when his hands are so gentle, smoothing down your spine like he's soothing something raw inside you. And then his voice, warm and promising, settles over you, "But I'll take care of you now."

And gods, you need him to. He's so hard, the thick length of him pressing against you through denim and cotton, teasing, tormenting. Everything burns—your skin, your stomach, that deep, pulsing ache between your thighs. Your head swims, feverish, your mind caught between more and please and I can't take this. But he knows. Of course, he knows.

"Do you feel that?"

"Yes."

"Good. If you want to keep going, you'll take care of it. Go ahead."

Your hands move with the kind of urgency that betrays just how badly you need this, need him. Your fingers trail down, brushing over the tight muscles of his stomach, and it's almost enough to make you dizzy, just touching him, just knowing what's waiting for you beneath layers of fabric.

The button of his jeans fumbles beneath your fingers before finally popping open. And then you're pulling him free. He's thick in your hand, burning hot against your palm, and something about that, about feeling him like this, for you, makes something feral sink its teeth into you.

And then he finds you.

His fingers slip under your panties, gliding through the obscene slickness there, and you don't mean to react so violently, don't mean to moan so loud, but it rips out of you before you can stop it.

"Oh, honey," Aaron murmurs, almost thoughtful, like he's just now realizing the full extent of your undoing. "I didn't realize you'd gotten this worked up."

Like it's an observation. Like it's fascinating.

His fingers push, stretching you open, teasing just the right spot, and you jerk against him with a sharp, strangled moan. Your grip around him tightens, your strokes turning sloppy, uneven, desperate.

"Aaron—" His name tumbles out high and needy, your head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut.

"I didn't mean to—" Your voice shakes, a hitched little gasp tangled between syllables. "I just—" Your breath stutters, heat climbing, overwhelming. "I didn't know what to do."

"You don't have to know what to do." His fingers slow just enough to let you catch his breath as he murmurs. "You just have to let me take over. That's what you wanted, wasn't it?"

Your nod is frantic, almost mindless, as his words echo in your ears.

"Please." It falls from your lips like a confession, like you'd say anything if it means he'll give you what you want.

His fingers thrust deeper, and the shock of it rips a gasp from your lips, straight into his kiss. It's messy, frantic, all clashing mouths and stolen air, your breaths coming too fast to match his, like you're afraid if you let him go for even a second, he'll pull away.

Your grip on him tightens without thinking, your fingers flexing around his cock, but the sensation barely registers now, drowned out by the wetness pooling between your thighs, the slick drag of his fingers against your walls.

You can't keep up. You're chasing something that feels just out of reach, your hands leaving his cock, fumbling for something solid, something real. They find his face, fingertips brushing over the rough stubble of his jaw, trying to find yourself in him, in the way he's ruining you.

You kiss him like you can tell him everything that way, like he might understand the ache better through lips and tongues and the way your body trembles under his hands.

And then—he stops. His fingers slip free, and the sound you make is a whine, a protest, your hips tilting, seeking, trying to drag him back in. But he doesn't move, doesn't give you what you need, just smirks against your lips like he enjoys watching you squirm.

"You're so impatient," he murmurs against your lips.

But before you can protest, before you can tell him that yes, yes, you am impatient, please just give it to me, his hands tighten on your hips. And then—oh.

He lifts you, positioning you just right, and then, lowers you down.

The head of his cock pushes inside, and your breath catches, lips parting in a broken gasp. The stretch is devastating, inch by inch forcing your body to open, to yield to him. He's so deep, impossibly deep, and for a second, you forget how to breathe, how to think, your only thought being how does he even fit?

It feels endless, your thighs shaking against his as he takes his time, forcing you to feel every slow, torturous inch. Your body clenches around him, your nails dragging over his scalp as you bury your face against his neck.

"Breathe," he murmurs, voice thick, lips grazing your temple. "That's it. Let me take care of you. You just have to let me in, sweetheart."

"Okay, okay," you whisper, voice shaky as you bury your face against his neck, arms wrapping tighter around him.

His other hand moves, dragging up your spine before wrapping around your waist. And then—he presses deeper.

The air leaves your lungs in a sharp, punched-out gasp. He doesn't stop, doesn't let you breathe, just sinks in, stretching you open until he's fully seated inside you. Until there's nowhere left to go.

"That's it," he groans, voice tight, his mouth ghosting along your jaw. "So tight. So warm. Fuck, sweetheart, you know this is what you were made for, don't you?"

You try to think of something, something teasing, something bratty, something that might tip him over the edge, but your body betrays you, trembling around him, squeezing down so tight you feel him shudder.

"God, you're tight," he mutters, his fingers pressing into your hips, hard enough to leave bruises. "I can feel every little tremble, every squeeze. You feel that, sweetheart? How perfectly you fit around me?"

"It's like you don't want to let me go. Is that what you want, honey? To keep me right here?"

Your body clenches down instinctively, like you're answering him without meaning to, and his breath catches for just a second before his lips curve against your skin. You nod, frantic, a little dazed, a little wrecked, and his chuckle is pure sin.

"Good. Because I'm not going anywhere."

He pulls back just enough to create the kind of unbearable friction that makes your breath catch, your body tightening like a bowstring.

"Every little sound you make drives me insane." His breath drags over your cheek, his lips just shy of touching, like he's teasing himself as much as he is you. "Do you even realize what you do to me?"

You try to answer, you really do, but your lungs don't work properly anymore, your body focused on the pleasure threatening to snap at any second. Your fingertips tremble against his shoulders, your thighs quiver, and Aaron knows exactly what that means.

"That's it. I can feel you trembling, sweetheart. You're so close, aren't you?"

His words strike something deep, something primal, and the fire curling between your thighs roars in response. Your head tips back, your breath breaking apart as your hands scramble for purchase, fingers sliding to his face, thumbs brushing over the roughness of his jaw. You pull him into a kiss that's all hunger, all desperation, your lips parting to let him devour you.

He groans into your mouth, a sound that vibrates through your chest, and then his hips snap up into you. The stretch is suffocating, the sheer fullness of him sending sharp pulses of pleasure up your body with every deep thrust.

"I've got you," he murmurs against your lips. "You don't have to hold back. Just let go for me, sweetheart."

It crashes into you harder than you expected, knocking the breath straight from your lungs. Your moan catches halfway, tumbling out in pieces as your body convulses, clenches tight, gripping him in a way that makes him hiss through his teeth.

He thrusts deep, brutal, final, and then he's gone, his head dropping back as a groan tears from his chest.

He fills you in thick, pulsing waves, each pulse making your thighs tighten around him, making you gasp at how deep it settles. The feeling is overwhelming—the heat of him, the weight, the way his cock still twitches inside you, like he’s unwilling to let a single drop go to waste.

You're not sure where your body ends and his begins, your limbs heavy, useless, boneless as you slump against him. Your breath stutters, still uneven, every exhale pushing against his chest as the last waves of pleasure roll through you.

"You take every drop so fucking well," he murmurs. "Meant to keep you full."

His fingers press into your hips, just a little tighter, just enough to make you feel how deep he still is.

"Don’t move yet."

Your breath stutters, the words landing deep, something fluttering tight in your stomach.

"Just a little longer," he murmurs, his hands absently smoothing up and down your spine. His voice drops, lower, rougher—

"I want to make sure it sticks."

You shudder, pressing closer, your face tucking against his neck as everything—the fullness, every drop of his cum—settles in.

Aaron exhales, his chest rising beneath you, and suddenly, he shifts. His grip on your hips soften and slide up, like he can feel the way you're trembling against him. 

"Breathe, sweetheart," he murmurs. "You can do that for me, can't you?"

You try, you really do, but when you inhale, it's a stuttering, gasping thing, barely controlled. Your thighs still shake, your body still throbs around him, and you can feel the way he exhales, like he enjoys this—enjoys feeling you like this, soft and trembling in his arms.

"Easy," he murmurs. One hand slides up your spine, cupping the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair. "That was a lot."

You nod—or, at least, you think you do. Everything feels floaty, light, warm. Your head feels like it's filled with pink clouds. Your limbs feel soft, useless, like you're some well-loved doll that's been played with for hours.

He tilts your chin up, catching your gaze.

"You okay?" His brow furrows slightly, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

You blink slowly at him, lips parting, trying to focus.

"Mhm," you hum, then pause, frowning just slightly. "Wait, no—hold on."

His jaw tenses immediately, but you reach up, poking his cheek with a weak, clumsy finger.

"You didn't kiss me," you mumble, like it's the most important fact in the universe. "You're supposed to kiss me after, 'cause, like, you love me and all that."

Hotch lets out a slow breath, like he's holding something back. His head tilts, just barely shaking, like he's in mild disbelief of you. And okay, fine, maybe you do say a lot of dumb things. But this wasn't dumb. It was valid. It was scientifically proven that post-sex cuddles should include at least one (1) I love you and one (1) kiss, and you were simply holding him accountable.

"Of course I love you," he murmurs, like the answer is so obvious, so unquestionable, that it almost makes you feel silly for asking. And then he kisses you.

It's deep, drawn-out, the kind of kiss that makes you forget where you are. 

You're still in his lap, still tangled in the ridiculous, oversized leather chair, but you don't feel like you're anywhere. Not in his apartment, not even in your own body. Just floating, existing in between his lips and yours.

When you finally pull back, it's not even voluntary—just the sad, unfortunate reality of needing air.

"Wow," you murmur, your fingers lazily brushing over his jaw.

"Wow?"

"Mhm." Your tongue darts out, sweeping over the kiss-swollen curve of your bottom lip, like you're trying to catch what's left of him there, trying to savor it. "Like... I feel very wow."

A smirk tugs at his lips, but his hands don't stop moving, don't stop tracing, don't stop feeling. His fingers smoothed absently over your hips, up your spine, his palms blending into your skin. Like he's checking for something. Like he's making sure you're here with him.

And for a second, you think he's about to kiss you again. He looks like he wants to, his gaze flickers to your lips, his hands flex just slightly, his body leans in just a hair. But then his gaze flickers, his lips part slightly as if he'd just remembered something.

"You said something earlier."

You blink again, brain lagging behind slightly as reality creeps back in, still floating somewhere in bliss. Which you felt was a more pressing topic than whatever he's about to say.

Your face scrunches up immediately, like maybe if you look cute enough, he'd drop it. 

"I said a lot of things earlier," you rush out, voice a little too high, a little too hasty, your hand flapping vaguely in the air. "So many things. A real stream of nonsense, actually. I was just saying words, you know, as one does—"

You shift slightly, suddenly painfully aware of the position you're in, and he doesn't even blink.

"Aaron," you say, narrowing your eyes. "You're literally still inside me and you want to have a conversation right now?"

"Yes," he says simply, like of course he does, like this is completely reasonable, like you aren't still wrapped around him, skin warm and sticky from what you just did.

His brows furrow slightly, and his head tilts in that very specific way that means he's already pulling apart the words, unraveling them like a thread, and working through them with that brain of his before you can even begin to take it back. 

"You said you felt overlooked," he states plainly, like a fact, which you guessed it was. "If that was something you just said in the moment, we can drop it."

His eyes narrow, studying you like he already knows the answer. "But if you meant it, then I want to understand why."

Your mouth parts, ready to push out something easy, something light, something that won't lead to the very real, very terrifying act of actually admitting things.

He was serious. Not angry or annoyed. Just serious. And concerned.

You exhale, suddenly very invested in dragging your nails lightly over his chest, watching the way they disappear into the fabric of his shirt, how his muscles shift slightly beneath your touch.

"I mean... it's not a thing," you mumble, barely glancing up. "More like a thing-adjacent."

"Sweetheart." The firmness in his voice made your stomach flip. It's not a scolding or a warning, just his way of making you hear him. "I'm not interested in whether you think it's a thing or not. I'm interested in whether it's true."

"I mean, I guess... maybe a little."

His fingers flex, like he's taking that in. He nods once, slowly. "That makes sense."

Your brows furrow. "It does?"

"Yes," he states plainly, like it's obvious. "You pick up on subtle changes—even the ones I don't intend to project. And when I get hyper focused on something, I shut everything else out. Not just you. Everyone."

"It's a defense mechanism. A way to compartmentalize. It doesn't mean I don't notice you. It means my brain assigns the highest level of urgency to the task at hand, and everything else—everything outside of that—is temporarily shut out."

"When I do that, it makes sense that you would feel like I'm not paying attention to you," he continues. "Because in those moments I'm not."

Your breath catches. He says it so matter-of-factly, so plainly, that it almost doesn't sting at first, it just lands.

His grip tightens ever so slightly where his hands rest on your like he already knows how you're taking it.

"But that doesn't mean I don't want to be paying attention," he murmurs, fingers brushing slow, absentminded circles against your skin. "It doesn't mean you don't exist in the back of my mind, even when I'm caught up in something else."

Aaron leans in a fraction, his eyes holding yours.

"Do you know what I did last night after you fell asleep?" he asks.

You blink. "Uh... sleep?"

He smirks. "Eventually. But first, I checked the thermostat. You always get cold at night, even when you say you won't."

Your face warms. "That's just—,"

"And before I left for work last week, I moved your car closer to the building because I saw you left your umbrella at my place."

"I—,"

"And when I'm out of town, do you know what I do every morning?"

You swallow.

"No."

"I think about what you're having for breakfast," he murmurs. "Not consciously. It's not something I try to do. It just... happens."

"You always eat something sweet," he continues, his thumb brushing over your jaw. "It's usually a pastry or something covered in chocolate. Sometimes cake, if we're being honest."

Your scrunch your nose again and he smiles.

"So, tell me," he murmurs, tilting your chin up. "Does that sound like someone who overlooks you?"

Your lips part but nothing comes out. Your heart aches—not the bad kind, but the kind that makes your chest feel too small for everything inside it. Because he's right. He notices everything. Not in the big, showy romance-movie ways but in the little things. In ways that matter.

You inhale a little too hard, blinking quickly, but the stinging in your eyes isn't going anywhere.

Aaron sees it immediately. "Sweetheart."

You shake your head quickly, sniffling.

"I'm not crying," you announce, even though your voice cracks on the last word, which kind of ruins the effect.

He smirks. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," you say firmly, poking his chest. "I just—I feel very loved and now I have to process that."

"Okay," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Do you need time to process, or should I just assume you're going to be attached to me for the foreseeable future?"

Your smile is instant, automatic, the kind that takes over your whole face before you can even think about stopping it. Your arms tighten around his neck, fingers curling into his shirt like you have any intention of letting go.

"Oh no, you're definitely stuck with me," you declare. "Like, you might need to call someone if you ever actually want me to let go."

His smirk is instant. "You're saying I should alert the authorities?"

You nod sagely. "I mean, that would be the responsible thing to do. But by the time they arrive, I'll have already made a compelling argument about how you should just let it happen."

Aaron huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "I'm sure you would."

taglist: @readergf @edencherries @aurorsworld @princess76179 @malindacath @broadwaytraaaaash @sunfyyre @sleepysongbirdsings @trulycayla @crouchingapple @navia3000 @aaronlovesava @bakugocanstompme @pansexualhailstorm @averyhotchner @looking1016 @everythinglizzy @sky2nd @alexxavicry @spencerssatchel @candyd1es @storiesofsvu @pleasantgardenwitch @kodzukenmaa @hiireadstuff @dilflover-3 @spennciesslut @phoenix-le-danseur-de-pole @jstcln @just-here-to-read13 @c-losur3 @wondergal2001 @oliver-1270 @ssahotchbabe @savagemickey03 @justanotherbimboslxt @imoonkiss @estragos @khxna @de-duchess @raysmayhem-72 @piinksdoll @justyourusualash @whimsicalpolitical @kcch-ns @cool-light32 @reidfile @sugarbutterbailey @ssamorganhotchner @persephonestears @moonyxstars @spookyysinsanity @proxxyshouse @spoolsofgreenspoolsofblack @imsonotweird @jungchloe @she-wont-miss @duchesz @may-machin99 @historicallyweirdandqueer @in-the-kosmos @lcvealwayss @p13rc3-th3-m4tt13 @babyhoneybyhs @reire11

taglist is closed for now until i can figure out the best way to include more than 50 mentions :(

[vrystalius]

hiii there, i was wondering if we please get some more recruiter/salesman cutesy stuff?? you’re such a good writer (love your work) and we do NOT have enough fics of him being an enamoured wife guy on this app. thank you <3 😔

Secret Love Notes.

You keep slipping small love notes into all his pockets and suitcases to remind him that his wife loves him no matter what.

Pairing: Recruiter/Gong Yoo x wife!reader

Summary: You leave small love notes all over for him to find and he cherishes every single one of them.

Words: 0.7k, short and sweet!

Genre: fluff <33

Your husband never admits it out loud to you, but he notices how you slip little love notes into his pocket when folding up the laundry or when packing him a bento box. They have cute little encouragements and affirmations written on them along with some doodles of you two together, holding hands, kissing and whatnot.

You think you’re being sneaky by crouching a little when approaching his coat hung up by the entrance, stuffing a small folded note into his chest pocket.

Whenever he is about to go out the door, you hand him his leather suitcase and a colourful bento box you packed for him. Once you found out Gong Yo only plain loaves of bread or sometimes even nothing at all, you always insisted on packing some food for him so your poor husband can eat something home cooked every day.

Even if the box doesn’t match his aesthetics, he savours every bite and would never shy away from letting out a loud hum of content.

Gong Yoo sat comfortably on a wooden bench by the metro station, well aware of the two mobsters following him the whole day, but who cares?

He leisurely opened up the bento box. His face brightened up at the sight of another small love letter presented to him.

“Keep it up! You’re going great ♡ Your wife loves you ~ ☆ “

Accompanied by your sweet words was a chibi doodle of you doing a heart with your index finger and thumb and him as a chibi too, holding a pair of chopsticks and giving you a wink. He chuckled quietly to himself and folded the note to keep it in his pocket by his heart.

Once, after successfully recruiting a new player, Gong Yoo handed the confused and wounded man your love note with a confident smirk. That man was lucky to have escaped the games but was kind of confused on why a handsome looking salesman gave him a love letter that reminded him to “stay hydrated!! ☆ (drinking coffee doesn’t count >:( )”

He tries to leave behind as many love notes as you lovingly prepare for him, but his doodles were kind of wonky and presented you in a rather disturbing light.

Sticking to his trusty craft of origami your husband instead began leaving small paper roses for you to find as a way to leave his own love messages.

A paper rose in the fridge, in the pocket of your jacket, in your bag and on your pillow; they change colours based on the day too. Blue and red are the most frequent and popular ones though for some reason. Probably because those are the only kinds of coloured paper he owns.

After every day you leave letters behind for him, Gong Yoo always tries to come home on time to properly thank you for them. Pampering you is his favourite activity, meaning you get banned from the kitchen and forcibly made comfortable on your bed or couch with cushions and blankets to keep you warm and cozy.

To return the favour of you preparing bento for him, he’ll cook you a fine dinner that could rival that of high-end restaurants. Afterwards, he’ll make himself comfortable right next to you to plant well deserved kisses all over your face and body and let his hand travel over your body freely, tracing invisible patterns.

A man like him should not be holding a woman like you, that’s what he’s always thinking. You are way too good for him, too gentle, kind, loving, too much of everything good.

“I love you. More than letters or silly paper roses can convey. Allow me to demonstrate just how much I love my wife, hmm?”

💠

Author’s note. Thank you for reading!

The amount of smut and non-con about this man is INSANE, I just need to live my silly life as a wife with him where we snuggle on the couch like a boring cuddle every night and then go to sleep while he read a book and I knit like grandparents 🫶😭 Anyways, hope you enjoyed it anon!!

Anyways, make sure to EAT, SLEEP and DRINK enough!!

Take care of yourselves <33

[corroded-hellfire]

Forever Young - Eddie Munson x Reader

An As You Wish story

Summary: It’s Eddie’s 40th birthday and when everything else is making him feel old, you aim to show him that he’s still young.

Note: in honor of our birthday boy

Warnings: smut, p in v, unprotected (wrap it up), oral, m! receiving, older!eddie, Eddie still has his breeding kink of course

Words: 2.7k

[As You Wish masterlist]

To say Eddie wasn’t excited about his 40th birthday would be an understatement. The closer it came to the day, the grumpier your husband became. He’d grumble under his breath, the words obviously not meant to be heard by you or the kids; but the sentiment was still conveyed.

Months before his birthday, Eddie made it clear to you that he did not want a party. Although he loved spending time with his friends and loved ones, he had decided that he only wanted to spend this particular day with his family. But just because he would be getting through the day unscathed by in-person jokes and ribbing from the likes of Steve Harrington and Dustin Henderson didn’t mean his own family wasn’t going to tease the patriarch.

“Happy birthday, Dad!” Luke holds a card out to his father. His grin isn’t necessarily mischievous, but it’s smart to always be on guard when it comes to the teenager.

“Thank you.” Eddie takes the indigo envelope from his son and slips the card out. Before his eyes can even take in the bold bubble letters on the front, a pamphlet slips out. Eddie catches it before it can fall to the floor and holds it up to take a proper look.

Hawkins Comfort: The Exceptional Home for Senior Living

The clenching of Eddie’s jaw causes Luke to snicker. Your husband tosses the pamphlet at your son’s face before reading the card itself. Luckily for Luke, the card itself was sweet and didn’t add further insult to injury.

With a heavy sigh, Eddie nods his head and closes the card.

“Thanks,” he reiterates.

“Aw come on, Dad,” Luke says, stepping forward and patting his father on the back. “I’m just messing with you.”

Freshly dressed for the evening out, Eliza zooms into the room, the three-year-old already tickled pink at the thought of having some cake after dinner. She runs into her dad’s legs and wraps her little arms around them.

“Happy birthday!” It’s the fourth time she’s told him this today and he knows it won’t be the last.

“Thank you, baby girl.”

“See?” Luke says, nudging his dad. “You have a baby. You’re not old.”

Eliza’s face goes from gleeful to rueful.

“‘M not a baby!”

“Excuse me, miss.” Luke bows to her before snatching the toddler up into his arms. “I meant to say that Daddy has a young lady for a daughter.”

Placated by that explanation, Eliza nods her head once. “Better.”

As you walk into the living room, a minute later than Eliza due to her rapid speed, Luke gestures to you with one hand while the other one supports his little sister.

“And look! You have a wife who is in her twenties.”

Eddie’s tongue pokes out of the side of his lips, internally trying to decide if that fact makes him feel better or worse. He does have a young, hot wife. But does that make him feel young as well or does he just feel each and every day of those eleven years between the two of you?

“See! Mama is young!” Eliza says.

“Are they ganging up on you, honey?” You playfully pout as you approach your husband’s side.

“Luke’s ready to check me into a nursing home,” he gripes.

“Why you need a nurse?” Eliza asks.

“He doesn’t,” you say before Luke gets a chance to be a wiseass. “Daddy takes care of himself and all of us. Right, Lize?”

“Yeah!”

“Are we ready to go?” Ryan asks, waltzing into the room as he pats his flat stomach. “I’m starving.”

“Didn’t you have a bowl of cereal an hour ago?” you ask.

“Yeah,” Ryan replies. “An hour ago.”

Eddie sighs, remembering the days when he too was a teenager and could inhale food all day and keep that small waist of his. As if able to read his mind, you slip your arm around your husband’s middle and give it a small squeeze.

“Alright gang,” Eddie says, “let’s head out.”

After you all return home, Eliza isn’t nearly as excited about cake as she was before. Her head rests on your shoulder, soft whines coming out of her mouth as you carry her into the house.

“We told you not to eat too much ice cream,” you say.

“Daddy said I could,” she groans.

The restaurant gave Eddie a free ice cream sundae for his birthday and he invited all of you to share it with him. The boys, of course, had room even after finishing off their dinner plates completely. But Eliza’s tiny tummy was already decently full of her noodles before she picked up a giant spoon and started scooping the vanilla dessert into her mouth.

“But you had too much.” You press a kiss to her curls before setting her down on the couch.

Eddie hangs his keys on the hook by the door before coming over and wrapping his arms around you.

“Thank you for a nice dinner, princess.”

You smile up at him and press a kiss to the underside of his jaw.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“Daddy?” Eliza asks.

“What’s up?”

She pushes herself to sit up straighter and tucks her legs beneath her.

“How old you now?”

He gives her a small smile as he drapes his arm across your shoulders.

“40.”

“Whoa.” Eliza’s eyes widen comically. It’s hard for you to keep your laugh in. “That’s big number. I don’t think we got enough candles for the cake me and Ryan made.”

This time you have to turn your head to the side and hide your smile in Eddie’s armpit.

Thankfully, Ryan is able to assure Eliza that they don’t need to put the whole 40 candles on the cake. With a gaggle of offbeat singing surrounding him, Eddie smiles and closes his eyes to think of a wish. Apparently, he takes too long for his daughter’s liking. She sighs, naturally dramatic as always, and everyone else laughs.

Eddie is able to blow out all the candles in one go and you cut the cake, giving pieces to your two sons who are eyeing the confection with glee. You’re unable to keep from snorting in amusement at their never-ending hunger and you take a seat next to Eddie to eat your own piece. Deciding to power through it, Eliza manages to eat half off a slice before she lays across her dad’s lap, hands holding her once again full belly.

The perk to her being so full is that it’s easier to wrangle her into her pajamas and under her covers. With one last wish of a happy birthday to Eddie, he presses a kiss to her forehead and her eyes begin to flutter closed.

The boys aren’t far behind. Whether or not they’re going to sleep, you’re not sure. But as long as they’re in their rooms you’re happy. Because you have one last surprise for Eddie today.

You come up behind him as he unbuckles his belt and yanks it out of the denim loops on his black jeans. His shirt raises up slightly and you take advantage, slipping your hands beneath the fabric, letting your nails gently scratch over his pale skin. Eddie starts to unzip his pants and you press trailing kisses across his shoulder blade.

“Baby?” Eddie steps forward out of your grasp and turns around to face you. “I’m pretty tired.”

A frown creases your brow. Eddie has every right in the world to be too exhausted to fool around and just want to climb into bed, but you’re not buying that’s really the case right now.

“Okay,” you say softly, stepping forward and gently cupping his face in your hands. “We can just lay down and cuddle if you want. But something tells me you’ve got something on your mind.”

There’s silence for a moment. Then, Eddie sighs and steps backward out of your hands, and takes a seat on the foot of your bed. You move to stand in front of him and gently card your fingers through his bangs resting against his forehead. He rests one hand on your hip and appears deep in thought for a few minutes.

“I just…” he finally says. “I just feel like the older I get the more pronounced our age difference is.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, not expecting that to be what’s on his mind.

“Hey.” Gently, you take his chin between your thumb and forefinger and lift his head so he’s looking you in the eye. “So what?”

Eddie’s brow furrows and he looks at you, skepticism dancing across his face.

“What do you mean ‘so what?’”

“That exactly. So what if you look like you’re forty and I look like I’m twenty-eight? Those are our ages. Just like you looked thirty-two when we got together and I looked twenty. And how in thirty years you’ll look seventy and I’ll look fifty-eight. What does it matter? Do you really think I give a shit what anyone else thinks? The only two people in this marriage are you and me, buddy.” You grab his shoulder and gently shake him back and forth. “I knew how many years apart we were when we got together. When I married you. When I had a baby with you. You think I would’ve stuck around all this time if I had doubts about our age difference? No way, baby. You’re stuck with me. Even when I get gray hair and all.”

A finger absentmindedly brushes against Eddie’s temple as you speak. Your husband stiffens, connecting the dots between your words and where you touched him.

“I have gray hair?” He jumps up and scurries to the full-length mirror in the corner of your room.

“What?” A heavy sigh deflates your body as you realize the conclusion he jumped to. “No, Eddie. You don’t have any gray hair.” His inspection in the mirror bothers you, so you walk forward and manage to squeeze between him and the mirror. “But even if you did, you’d still be the sexiest man I’ve ever met.”

Eddie sighs and rests his forehead against yours.

“I don’t feel forty,” he whispers to you. “I feel like a kid still.”

“Well, you are a big kid,” you tease, managing to pull a small smile out of him. Relieved to see him feeling a bit lighter, you reach up and wrap your arms around his neck. “And besides, I think I’m the last person in the world you have to convince that you’re still young.”

“And why’s that?” he asks.

Giving him a suggestive smirk, you lean in until your lips ghost against his.

“Because,” you whisper, “of how nice and good you fuck me.”

A low groan reverberates from your husband’s chest and he pulls you flush up against his body.

“Yeah?” His voice is dripping in lust. “You like how I make you feel, princess? How hard I pound that tight little pussy of yours?”

“Uh huh,” you whimper before pressing your lips against his.

Eddie’s fingers dig into your hips as you walk him backward towards the bed. When the back of his knees hit the mattress, all it takes is a small push from you to have him falling onto his back. His eyes are dark with need as he watches you tug his open jeans down his legs. The two of you work together as he yanks his shirt off over his head and you tear his boxers off.

As you fall to your knees between Eddie’s thighs, he sits up enough to pull your top off as well. Once you’re free of the offending fabric, you take Eddie’s cock in your hand. You move it up and down slowly, feeling him harden in your grip.

“Fuck,” Eddie growls.

On a swipe down you lean in and press a kiss to the tip. The resulting moan from your husband sends a pleasant shiver down your spine. You pump his cock a few more times before you can’t hold off any longer and have to take him into your mouth.

“Yes,” Eddie hisses.

You run your tongue along the underside of his length, making sure to keep eye contact with him the entire time. The way he watches you with lust-blown eyes and his chest rises and falls in rapid succession with his shallow breaths has you squeezing your thighs together.

You start to bob your head up and down, taking him a little deeper each time. He becomes impossibly harder in your mouth. A large hand gently cups the side of your head and pulls you off of him. The way you whine in protest makes Eddie chuckle darkly.

“Sorry, baby,” he says. “Feels too damn good, though. Need you up here.”

He helps you to your feet and shed the rest of your clothes. Eddie shuffles back towards the pillows, eyes taking in your every movement as you crawl up towards him. When he moves to sit up, you put your hand on his shoulder and push him back down.

“You just lay there,” you coo, lifting one leg to straddle across his thighs. “Rest those old bones and let me take care of you.”

Eddie narrows his eyes, playfully glaring at you and the shit-eating grin on your face.

“Fine,” he challenges. Eddie raises his arms and laces his fingers together behind his head. “Get going.”

He doesn’t need to tell you twice. You line him up with your entrance and slowly lower yourself onto him. The two of you moan in tandem, the feeling of being united insanely pleasurable.

Once you’re fully seated on him, you start to rock your hips back and forth. Eddie squeezes his eyes shut and bites at his bottom lip. His fingers dig at the back of his head, digging into his scalp to keep from caving and grabbing ahold of your body.

Sensing his resolve breaking, you rest your hands on his chest and lean in to speak softly.

“What do you think, Eddie?” you croon. “Want to get me nice and knocked up on your birthday?”

“Shit.”

Your words snap the last bit of restraint he was holding onto and his hands fly to your hips, helping your body move against his.

“Come on, handsome,” you continue through labored breaths, “fill me up with your cum.”

“Jesus Christ.” Eddie huffs a laugh and tilts his head up, staring up at the ceiling. “I’m fucking forty now, I should be able to last longer than this.”

“You forget I know how to push your buttons.”

“Mm?” Eddie looks back down at you, raising an eyebrow as you bounce on his cock. “You mean like this?”

A ringed hand slides between your body and rubs quick circles over your clit.

“Fuck!” You bite down on your lip, attempting to keep your voice low.

“Let’s go, princess. Want you to come with me.”

Unable to respond in any articulate way, you nod your head and hum incoherently. With one hard flick against your clit, the coil in you snaps. Your head falls forward, your jaw hanging open as your high washes over you. The way you clench around Eddie has him following right behind you, the two of you rutting against one another as you ride out your orgasms.

“Holy shit,” Eddie groans as both of your bodies begin to come down.

Suddenly boneless, you flop down against Eddie’s chest and he instinctively wraps an arm around you. He presses a kiss to the top of your head and lets his heavy eyes close.

“I love you so fucking much,” you mumble against his chest, slightly sticky with sweat.

Eddie breathes a chuckle and rubs his hand up and down your back.

“How are you so perfect?” he asks.

Now it’s your turn to laugh.

“I’m going to remind you that you said that next time you get all grumpy over me making fun of your age.”

Before you have time to process his movements, Eddie grips your waist and flips the two of you, smirking down at you as he settles his weight against your body.

“I’ll just have to keep proving how well I can fuck you then,” he says.

You raise your eyebrows at him.

“Is that supposed to discourage me?”

[tea-writes19]

brother-in-law | b.b.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!parker!reader

summary: your brother peter tries to find you a boyfriend by posting an ad on instagram

warnings: swearing, fluff, suggestive content

a/n: my first smau + fic!!!! based on this fic by the lovely @pomegranatesarchive. fr it’s one of my fav smau’s and I don’t even follow f1😭

liked by mjjones, nedleeds, and others

peterparker: are you a young hot single in nyc? well meet y/n parker, my VERY single sister!! she enjoys cheap pizza, true crime, and long walks through central park! if you’re interested please comment down below…serious inquiries only!

view comments below

yourusername: peter wtf is this?!?

peterparker: I WANT A BROTHER! is that too much to ask for???

yourusername: NO!! JUST NO!! @/mayparker aunt may please take his phone!!

mayparker: sorry sweetie, but pete’s right. you’ve been really lonely and sad looking recently

yourusername: so the solution is to pimp me out?!?

peterparker: i will not be stopped

user1: i’m interested?

peterparker: no, too ugly

yourusername: PETER PLEASE

peterparker: i need them to at least look good in pics

mjjones: pete, y/n is going to kill you

yourusername: the bitch is hiding behind stark😡

peterparker: @/ me next time🤺

tonystark: please don’t drag me into this

user2: not bro literally selling his sister😭😭

user3: this is hilarious!

nedleeds: can you do this for me next?

peterparker: no you talk to people

user4: i’m interested!

peterparker: nah

yourusername: what’s the point if you’re just going to reject everyone?

peterparker: shhhh…let me work

yourusername: 🙄🙄

steverogers: what is happening?

peterparker: mr. america sir! are you interested?? y/n loves history! you’d be my first choice too!!

steverogers: uh no thanks…i’m too busy right now to think about dating

yourusername: not me getting rejected by CAPTAIN AMERICA in front of the world😭

user5: rip

user6: dude don’t you work with literal superheroes? ask them

user7: aren’t half of them married and in committed relationships?

user6: yeah but that still leaves the rest

user8: hey so this is insane!

user9: it’s kinda cute how much he cares about his sister

user9: weird too, but cute

peterparker: @/samwilson @/buckybarnes @/steverogers @/natasharomanoff @/joaquintorres @/mariahill @/wandamaximoff who’s interested?

mariahill: no thanks

samwilson: i’m good

steverogers: i already said no…

wandamaximoff: i’m dating vision so no

natasharomanoff: parker this is weird

joaquintorres: no thanks

yourusername: kill me now

user10: this was rough to read

user11: #savey/n from this torture

peterparker: okay, fine, i don’t care

tonystark: he cares

peterparker: on a completely different note @/buckybarnes i need help with a history essay. can you come over tomorrow?

buckybarnes: 👍

buckybarnes added to their story—>

[captain: what the fuck is a oligodendrocyte?]

story replies

steverogers: peter set you up didn’t he?

buckybarnes: he pulled the history essay thing

user12: omg is that y/n???

user13: peter’s post worked!?!

samwilson: man that kid got you good

liked by peterparker, buckybarnes, mjjones and others

yourusername: photo dump bc i graduate in a week!!!

view comments below

peterparker: no me?

yourusername: you lost post privileges after that stunt you pulled

peterparker: BUT IT WORKED OUT DIDN’T IT?!

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buckybarnes: the only person who can get alpine to cuddle

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user17: HELLOOOO????

user18: fr like wdym peter was successful??

yourusername added to their story—>

[caption: 💐🤭]

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user17: omg omg omg

user18: AHHHHHHHH

mjjones: peter is fangirling

liked by buckybarnes, mayparker, pepperpotts and others

yourusername: i graduated college!!!

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buckybarnes: congrats doll <3

yourusername: love you🫶🏻🫶🏻

user19: DOLL!?!?

user20: EVERYBODY STAY CALM IT’S HAPPENING

mayparker: so proud of you y/n!!!

yourusername: couldn’t have done it without you!!!

pepperpotts: congratulations y/n!

yourusername: thank you!!

user21: omg congrats!

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peterparker: my favorite college grad

yourusername: bootlicker😐

peterparker: i take it back

peterparker: you’re the worst🖕

yourusername: love you too petey

tonystark: congrats kid

yourusername: thanks…now give me a job

tonystark: get better taste in men first

buckybarnes: that’s fair

steverogers: BUCKY

© tea-writes19 do not repost, translate, or copy

thank you for reading <3

[admiringlove]

➵ pairing. gojo satoru x fem! reader.

➵ summary. gojo satoru was a slytherin through and through—cunning, clever, and infuriatingly charming, with a reputation as both a prodigy and a troublemaker. you, a gryffindor prefect, couldn't be more different—fearless, fiercely principled, and far too stubborn to let someone like him get under your skin. or so you thought. by day, the two of you bicker and clash, bound only by your shared duty, but by night, within the room of requirement, you're partners in something far greater—a secret operation known as the marauders, granting the whispered wishes of hogwarts students.

➵ warnings. gojo being gojo; mentions of unforgivable curses; mentions of strangling someone (gojo); mentions of injury; slytherins being called anarchists; snape; mentions of hexing a cat (i think that counts as animal cruelty but idk for sure); profanity; slight timeline inaccuracy bc i like professor fig so i kept him in the fic w the others; etc.

➵ genre. wizarding world au; academic rivals to lovers; enemies to lovers; angst; fluff; adventure; etc.

➵ word count. 6.6k.

➵ author's note. so so excited to introduce you guys to mischief managed! big thanks to @gojofile for proofreading. have fun reading, and i hope slytherin prefect gojo warms your hearts <3 also also, taglist is still open!

➵ navigation. masterlist, next.

Gojo Satoru.

The mere mention of his name was enough to stir an unpleasant bitterness in your mouth—like biting into a sour Acid Pop, sharp and unforgiving. He leaned casually against one of the stone pillars near the corridor leading to the Great Hall, his posture so relaxed it was almost infuriating. You, however, stood at the top of the steps leading down to the bustling crowd of prefects below, arms crossed tightly over your chest, waiting. It was the sort of wait that carried the weight of years—years of dealing with him, with this. You had, like the others, arrived promptly, but unlike them, you had been watching the clock tick away in growing frustration, the minutes wasted under the strain of his absence.

With every second that passed, the sour taste in your mouth grew. You were no stranger to his arrogance, no stranger to the fact that Gojo Satoru never seemed to care about anyone else’s time but his own. How predictable, how utterly insufferable. He had this remarkable ability to ruin an entire evening simply by being late, the kind of late that stretched from a few minutes into an eternity. The others, however, had long since forgiven his transgressions, accepting the lack of discipline as some sort of unavoidable part of his charm.

You didn’t share that sentiment.

He walked up to the group then, casually slipping past the other prefects who all, unsurprisingly, seemed more than willing to let his tardiness slide. His lips curled into that infuriatingly charming, carefree smile, and the first few apologies that spilled from his mouth were as hollow as they were insincere. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking entirely too pleased with himself. If there was one thing you had to give him credit for, it was his ability to navigate the world with a confidence so blinding it nearly rendered everyone around him incapable of holding a grudge.

Except, of course, for you.

You could feel the weight of your own gaze burning into his back as he spoke. He was an impossible contradiction—infuriating, selfish, and absurdly arrogant, and yet, undeniably captivating. Even with all his faults, there was something magnetic about him. Those piercing blue eyes of his, so impossibly bright, and the soft curve of his lips, perpetually tipped upwards in a self-assured grin, had a power over people that you could not quite ignore. You’d seen it yourself—the way his presence could make entire groups of students lose their composure, how even the toughest of professors faltered under his gaze.

But not you.

You couldn’t care less for his entrancing gaze, nor for the way his words slipped from his lips like honey, perfectly crafted to disarm and beguile. His blue eyes, though striking, could not erase the irritable taste of his disregard. And his smile? It only made your stomach churn. You had learned long ago to keep your distance, to shield yourself from the charms that so effortlessly ensnared the rest. You were no fool.

"Alright, round up," calls the Head Girl, her voice slicing through the hum of conversation like a well-aimed hex. You sigh, already weary, and stand as she begins to rattle off the night’s patrol assignments. Your fingers toyed absently with the sleeve of your robe while you listened, half-attentive, until the sound of his name snapped you into focus.

Your gaze found him instinctively, as if drawn by some unseen force you hated to acknowledge. He was leaning back against the wall, all easy confidence, that maddening smirk tugging at his lips. Those pink lips, which were far too perfect for a boy who never seemed to put in any effort at all.

“[L/N], you’re with Gojo. Astronomy Tower and the North Wing.”

You exhaled sharply, the sound almost lost in the shuffle of murmurs and groans from the other prefects. Of course. Of course. You could practically feel his satisfaction radiating across the room without even looking at him. But you couldn’t resist. Your eyes flicked back to his, catching the faint tilt of his head, the knowing gleam in his irises. That smirk had only grown wider, as though he knew exactly how much this would infuriate you.

He always did.

You brushed past him on your way out, your shoulder caught the edge of his robe in a deliberate slight. He didn’t move, didn’t flinch, only watched you with that insufferable grin as though you amused him beyond words. You ignored him—pointedly, completely. He wasn’t worth your breath tonight.

There was too much at stake. You had an hour of patrol to endure before you could finally collapse into bed, and an early Potions lesson tomorrow morning with Snape waiting to shred your dignity into pieces. Snape adored Gojo, of course. He always found reasons to praise him, whether for his technique or his "sharp mind," as if the boy ever cared about rules or discipline. You, on the other hand, weren’t so lucky.

You could still feel the sting from the first day back, the dull thud of Snape’s heavy Potions tome cracking against the back of your skull because you’d dared to yawn during his lecture. Gojo, meanwhile, had been sprawled at the back of the class, sound asleep, the faint rise and fall of his chest utterly unbothered. Snape hadn’t said a word to him. Not one.

As you stepped out of the eastern wing and into the cool, open air, the castle loomed behind you, its shadow stretching long and dark across the grounds. Your footsteps echoed faintly against the cobblestones, their rhythm unsteady, almost reluctant. You yawned, stifling the sound with the back of your hand, though the ache of it lingered in your jaw. It had been a day—a week, really. The first week of your sixth year at Hogwarts, and already it felt like you’d lived through months.

The Astronomy Tower rose ahead, its silhouette sharp against the star-flecked sky. The air was crisp, biting against your skin as you fought to keep your eyes open. Another yawn threatened to escape, but you forced it down.

“A little tired, are we?” 

His voice cut through the quiet, smooth and sharp, his steps falling in perfect cadence with yours. The click of his boots on the stone floor reminded you of a metronome, steady and deliberate, as if the universe itself aligned to his whims. You didn’t look back, didn’t even bother to reply. A hum escaped your lips instead, low and dismissive, but you knew it wouldn’t deter him.

“You know,” he continued, unperturbed, “I didn’t see you at dinner tonight, Fawkes Junior.”

The nickname landed with its usual weight, heavy but familiar, like a coat you’d grown used to wearing despite its ill fit. It wasn’t the “Fawkes” that bothered you anymore—not after you’d finally experienced the beauty of the bird last year. The phoenix was a marvel, even more luminous than you’d imagined, its plumage shimmering with an otherworldly glow. No, it was the “Junior” that still irked you, the diminutive edge of it, the implication that you were less than.

You remembered that moment in Dumbledore’s office, the phoenix rising from its ashes with a blaze of light so blinding it had brought tears to your eyes. Dumbledore had watched you closely, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he recited the same words he’d spoken countless times before. A phoenix, he’d told you, could carry the heaviest of burdens, its tears more potent than any potion. He’d winked then, a gesture that felt both knowing and unnervingly intimate. You’d laughed it off, of course. What else could you do?

Shaking the thought from your mind, you replied curtly, “I was in the library. Something about Quidditch. McGonagall wanted me to look over the first-years’ picks.”

“Ah.” His voice curled around the word, drawn out and laden with that peculiar tone he used when he wanted to draw people in. You hated that tone, the way it made you feel like a moth fluttering dangerously close to a flame. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to up my game, then. Can’t let you Gryffindors get too comfortable. The House Cup is ours this year.”

You glanced at him then, just long enough to catch the glint of mischief in his eyes, the faint tilt of his lips. “You and I both know we won last year fair and square,” you said, your voice tinged with accusation. “Not that you didn’t try to hex our Seeker into food poisoning before the match.”

He laughed, a low, melodic sound that set your teeth on edge. “And you caught me. Hexed me right back, if I recall.”

“It was deserved.”

“I’m still the best Seeker Hogwarts has seen in our generation,” he said, his tone mockingly self-assured.

You arched a brow as you ascended the final steps to the Astronomy Tower. His claim was, unfortunately, true, but you’d never admit it—not to him, not to anyone. Instead, you let silence answer for you, the faintest quirk of your lips the only acknowledgment of his words.

The door to the tower creaked open, the chill of the night air spilling over your skin. He stepped ahead, turning to face you with that same infuriating grin, as if he’d already won whatever battle was brewing between you.

It was the first week of September, and the air already carried a bite to it—sharp and unwelcome for the Quidditch players who would soon be out on the pitch. You pulled your cloak a little tighter around yourself, biting back the impulse to complain about the chill, but it slipped out anyway. "Bloody hell," you muttered under your breath, though the frustration wasn’t entirely with the weather. "Not that I mind it, really. I quite like it. It’s just—"

"—going to be a bummer while we’re playing Quidditch," he finished for you, his voice light, teasing, like always. You didn’t even look at him when you said it, but you knew he'd be grinning that absurd grin of his, the one that seemed capable of disarming entire rooms with nothing more than a flash of teeth.

"Right. And you try to find a new way to cheat. Again," you added, rolling your eyes at the inevitable.

He chuckled, a low, amused sound that seemed to vibrate through the very air between you. "I say we stay here for the hour," he proposed, his tone one that would’ve convinced anyone else in the world. But not you. "Not like anyone gives a damn. Nobody’s going to be out in the North Wing at this time, except for us. Not when the dungeons lead directly to the Room—"

You could feel the weight of his words, could almost see the exact way his eyes would be sparkling with the promise of mischief, the way his mind was already working out the logistics of evading anyone who might ruin his latest scheme. He was clever, yes—brilliant, even. But it was always something else. That glint in his eye, that knowing smirk, the feeling like there was more behind every word and every movement. He was a bloody narcissist, but you could admit it: he made it look like an art.

You shook your head, muttering a small "Shut up," with a stern tone, eyes fixed ahead, refusing to even glance in his direction. As you brushed past him, your shoulder nudged his as a small warning, the smallest of touches, but enough to tell him that you weren’t in the mood for whatever else was about to come out of his mouth.

"You’re such a bore," he muttered, his voice dripping with mockery as he rolled his eyes. You huffed, the sound escaping you before you could fully hold it in, and made your way toward one of the arches. The cool wind rushed against your face, teasing the strands of hair that had escaped your ponytail, and you felt a warmth rise to your cheeks. The Black Lake stretched before you, vast and murky, the Forbidden Forest just beyond it, a dark, intimidating blur. The rustle of leaves whispered to you on the breeze, and the air itself smelled fresh, clean. It was almost peaceful—if not for his insufferable presence.

"I'm only doing what's asked of me, Gojo," you said, voice cutting through the silence between you. Your eyes flicked to him, and you almost wished you hadn’t. He was leaning casually against the stone, an impossibly carefree smile curling at the corners of his mouth. "If you can’t do your job, maybe you shouldn’t be a prefect. You’re not fit for it anyway."

"I know," he said, his tone suddenly so dramatically solemn it made you want to roll your eyes in return. "I’m only fit to be the most marvelous person at this school, unfortunately. Everyone else is... well, they’re just ordinary, and that bothers me. Except for you. And Suguru. Maybe Shoko." His gaze flickered to you, challenging you to disagree, but you remained silent, too exhausted to indulge him.

"I thought I was a bore," you said, raising an eyebrow as you turned to face him, arms folded loosely across your chest. He chuckled low, the sound rich and almost taunting.

"Oh yes," he agreed easily, “You are a bore. You're sort of filthy, too, really. I get this weird, uncomfortable feeling whenever I see you—like a cockroach."

You didn’t have to look at him to know the grin that must have spread across his face at his own words. You could feel it in the tone of his voice, could practically see the smugness radiating from him. You twisted away, sharply, walking back toward the stone staircase that led down. “This cockroach,” you muttered, “will hex you to fall out of the tower to your death.”

"Ah, threatening me again," he said, a laugh in his voice as he followed, always too close behind. "You really should be careful. I wouldn’t want to be the one to give you an excuse to use that hex."

"Come along," you snapped, the patience draining from you. "I suggest we finish our patrol soon so I can actually get some sleep."

"And I," he replied without missing a beat, his voice light, "shall nap in Snape’s class tomorrow. We’re learning about the Blood-Replenishing Serum anyway. I did it last year—privately, of course. I’ll probably just wait until we actually have to brew it to pay attention."

"Self-absorbed prick," you muttered under your breath, but he heard it, as always. His grin widened, as if he had just received the highest form of praise, and his eyes sparkled with mock admiration.

"Pitiful nag," he retorted, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. He didn’t even have to try to sound smug. It was just part of who he was. And the worst part was, you couldn’t help but be aware of how much it irked you. And, somehow, how much you... didn’t mind it at all.

The next morning, Snape’s voice droned on like a monotonous hum, the same lecture about the Blood-Replenishing Serum that Satoru had so carelessly mentioned the night before. You sighed quietly, your quill scraping against the parchment as your thoughts drifted, mind half on the lesson and half on the weight of exhaustion pressing down on you. Every so often, you glanced up, only to see Gojo doing exactly what he'd said he would do: napping.

His head was cradled in his arms, the silky white strands of hair fanning out around him like some sort of halo, and his chest rose and fell with each slow, rhythmic breath. You scoffed under your breath. Typical.

Turning your attention back to Snape, you could feel the tension build in the pit of your stomach. The silence in the room lingered longer than usual, and when his eyes met yours, it hit you like a punch to the gut.

Shit.

"[L/N], would you care to enlighten us?" Snape's voice was smooth, deliberate. "What exactly seems to be distracting you from this crucial lesson in the very field you have expressed an interest in pursuing upon graduation? Do you or do you not want to go to St. Mungo’s?"

You blinked, the weight of the question settling over you as you rose from your seat. There was no use in pretending; he saw right through you, as usual. "Sorry, sir," you mumbled, staring down at your notes with a sudden sense of urgency.

He didn't buy it. You could feel his presence looming over you as he approached your desk, the air thick with expectation. "Without consulting your notes," he said coldly, his eyes narrowing, "name five ingredients required to make this serum work effectively. Without fail."

Your stomach twisted, but you met his gaze. The whispers of your classmates buzzed at the edges of your hearing, but they didn’t matter. You had been listening—despite the exhaustion weighing heavily on you—and now it was time to prove it.

"Powdered unicorn horn, sir," you said, voice steady, making sure to pause, "for its restorative and revitalizing properties. Knotgrass. Ginseng Root. Phoenix feathers. And Essence of Dittany."

There was a long pause, his gaze unrelenting, studying you like a hawk eyeing its prey. For a moment, you thought your heart might beat out of your chest. Then, finally, he let out a low hum, almost as if he were impressed but refused to let it show.

Without another word, he turned, striding back to the front of the room, leaving a tense silence in his wake. You slowly exhaled, unaware that you’d been holding your breath. The weight on your shoulders lifted slightly, and you sank back into your seat, your quill still hovering over the paper.

You turned your head, drawn by the weight of his gaze. Gojo Satoru watched you, his expression unreadable, a kind of casual indifference that masked something deeper, something you couldn’t name. He didn’t look away, not at first, just met your eyes for a long, deliberate moment before letting his head slump down again, a silent punctuation to whatever this unspoken exchange had been. You rolled your eyes and forced your attention back to the lesson, willing your pulse to even out.

By the time you emerged from the classroom, booksack slung over one shoulder, he was waiting, as though he had planned it all along. He fell into step beside you, grinning the grin that always made you question why the universe bothered with him at all.

“Looks like you’ve been brushing up on Potions,” he said breezily. “I might actually have competition now.”

“You’re not all that great, Gojo,” you replied, voice flat with practiced disinterest. You waved a quick goodbye to Utahime and Nanami, your friends already slipping into the tide of students heading toward their next class.

“Besides,” you continued, “don’t you have Suguru to bother?”

He groaned theatrically. “Him and Shoko don’t have Potions with us first period this year. Absolute tragedy. If Suguru did, I wouldn’t have to spend every lecture napping.”

“You’re insufferable,” you said, scoffing. “How can you even—”

“Ask me anything,” he interrupted, hands tucked casually in his robe pockets, his tone too smug for someone talking about Potions theory. “Anything we learned today. Go on.”

You stared at him, wishing—for perhaps the hundredth time—that there weren’t rules against strangling your classmates. The image of your hands wrapped around his neck, his perfect jawline slackening, his too-blue eyes dimming, was fleeting but satisfying. Instead, you sighed, letting the moment pass.

“You’re a bastard,” you said, shaking your head. “I don’t have time for this. We’ve got Defense Against the Dark Arts now, and unlike you, I actually care about passing.”

“Ah, DADA. Another subject you just happen to excel at,” he drawled, his voice laced with mock admiration.

“I excel because I work for it, not because I’ve got daddy’s money and a legacy to coast on.”

“Convenient how you keep forgetting I’m better than you at everything,” he said, the grin widening.

“Not everything.”

“Oh, right. Because you’re the dueling queen now. We both remember what happened to that poor third-year's cat last year,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“And yet, I’ve beaten you. Twice.” You smirked, savoring the memory of those duels. “I am Head of the Dueling Club, remember?”

“Because you’re unbearable?”

“No. Because I’m better.”

“You still can’t get the Patron—”

“Gojo Satoru and [L/N] [Y/N].”

The voice was sharp and clipped, and you both turned as one. Professor McGonagall stood in the corridor, her lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line.

“I trust,” she began, striding toward you with the air of someone who had better things to do than reprimand wayward students, “the two of you are maintaining decorum this year.”

You winced, the memory flaring sharp and uncomfortably vivid. Last year, an argument between you and Gojo had spiraled into chaos in the courtyard. Wands raised, tempers hot, and spells flying—until yours, a hex meant for Gojo, ricocheted off a stray shield charm and struck someone’s cat instead. The poor creature froze mid-leap, rigid and unblinking, to the horror of its owner and the delight of a small crowd that had gathered to watch the spectacle. McGonagall had arrived moments later, her reprimand as swift and merciless as her counter-curse. The scolding had burned itself into your memory, along with the mortifying sight of the cat limping off, thoroughly unimpressed. You'd received detention for the first time that year.

“Yes, Professor,” you said, your voice meek in comparison to how you’d spoken to Gojo moments earlier. “We were just heading to class.”

“Good.” Her sharp gaze flicked to Gojo, who suddenly seemed far less amused. “And I trust Mr. Gojo hasn’t been neglecting his responsibilities. If I find you late for your rounds again tonight, you’ll no longer be in contention for Captaincy of the Slytherin Quidditch team. Madam Hooch and Professor Snape will see to that. Do I make myself clear?”

Gojo swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he nodded. “Yes, ma’am,” he muttered, his voice devoid of its usual bravado.

You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you, quickly masked behind your Potions textbook. His humiliation was rare, and you intended to savor every moment of it.

As you walked away from the corridor and towards DADA, your smile only widens. This year might just turn out to be more interesting than the last after all.

When you entered the Great Hall for dinner that night, you spotted Gojo immediately. He’s at the Slytherin table, a loose sprawl of limbs, his laughter a little too loud, his hair catching the light like spun silver. You glanced away before he hooked you in, too. It's a small, bitter truth: you would have liked to sit with Shoko tonight. But she was at the Slytherin table, and the social architecture of Hogwarts had always been unkind to cross-house friendships.

You settled instead next to Utahime, who is demolishing her plate with a ferocity that suggests starvation, and across from Nanami, who has arranged his roasted parsnips into orderly lines. You helped yourself to a pasty and let the quiet chaos of dinner roll around you.

“Do you have rounds tonight?” Nanami asks. His voice is steady, his gaze as deliberate as his movements. Everything about him measured, careful. A newly minted Prefect, he wore the title like it was a chore he knew he’d never be allowed to set down.

“No,” you said, reaching for another pasty. “Iori might.”

Both of you turned to Utahime, who paused her assault on a piece of roast lamb long enough to let out an exhausted sigh. “Of course I do,” she said. “I have rounds, I have Quidditch, I have first-years practically dangling off me like flobberworms. Did you know McGonagall’s been having me run drills with Itadori? That kid’s a menace. Eleven years old and flying like he was born with a broom in his hand. Eleven! At that age, I could barely manage not to knock myself out midair.”

“You got scouted at the end of first year,” you pointed out, narrowing your eyes at her.

“Because I broke half the bones in my body trying to,” she shot back, grabbing what looks like a slice of shepherd’s pie—or maybe baked potatoes. It was hard to tell anymore, the table a patchwork of dishes, all melting into each other. “Itadori didn’t even have to try. Just showed up and decided to be brilliant. No learning curve. No effort. Nothing.” She shakes her head as if personally offended. “I hate people like that.”

Nanami nodded solemnly, as if Itadori’s existence were a philosophical tragedy. You scarfed down a Yorkshire pudding, barely tasted it, and pushed your plate aside. “Going somewhere?” Utahime asked, raising an eyebrow. “You were eating like you had somewhere to be.” “Snape,” you lied smoothly, leaning back in your seat. “I had some errands from today’s class.” She snorted. “I heard what happened today. Good luck trying to appease that sourpuss.” You laughed, the sound light, harmless. It was an easy lie, so practiced that it slipped off your tongue without weight. Let her think it was Snape. Let her think it was anything but the truth.

The truth, as you glanced toward the Slytherin table, was waiting. Shoko caught your eye first, and you gave her a small wave and an exaggerated grin that she returned. She turned back to something Suguru was saying, and then, just for a moment, Gojo’s gaze found yours.

It was quick—imperceptible to anyone else, but it was there. A look. A nod. That was all it took.

He stood, his departure casual enough to be an afterthought, though you knew better. You watched him slip through the Great Hall doors, his frame momentarily silhouetted against the darkened corridor before he was gone.

You reached for dessert—chocolate gateau, custard—but left the ice cream untouched. No time tonight.

Something, or someone, awaited you. Both, perhaps.

“I’m heading up,” you murmured, pushing back your chair. “I’ll see you at breakfast, yeah?”

Utahime barely glanced up. Nanami nodded, distracted. No one questioned it. Why would they? You gathered your things and stood, your resolve quiet but purposeful.

The lie had been effortless. The truth, however, was already starting to make its demands.

You stood, smoothing the creases of your robes with deliberate care, before slipping quietly out of the Great Hall. The buzz of conversation receded behind you, replaced by the low hum of torchlight flickering against stone walls. You moved quickly but not hurriedly, your eyes darting to the shadows, tracking movement that wasn’t there. You were certain the white-haired idiot had taken the quickest route—through Professor Fig’s classroom, perhaps ducking into the dungeons if he had been feeling bold. Typical Gojo, always choosing chaos and convenience in equal measure. You, of course, were left with the scenic route.

A sigh escaped your lips, soft as a feather, as you veered left down a quieter corridor. It was second nature by now, mapping out where Filch would be at this hour. Filch was predictable. His blasted cat, however, was not.

Rounding the corner, you stopped short. Mrs. Norris. The yellow-eyed menace herself. She sat planted in the middle of the corridor like a gargoyle come to life, her tail flicking languidly against the flagstone floor. Those unnervingly bulbous eyes fixated on you, unblinking, as though she had been expecting you all along.

You froze, your hand instinctively twitching toward your pocket—not for your wand, no, but for something far more effective. You had learned her ways, after all. It had taken a few unfortunate encounters, a near-miss with Filch, and a fair bit of trial and error, but you had cracked her code.

Fish pie. Trout. Even a sliver of smoked salmon would do. You had kept a stash since fourth year, just for occasions like this. Slowly, deliberately, you pulled a neatly wrapped morsel from your pocket and held it out. Her ears perked up, and for the briefest moment, you swore her sharp features softened. She approached, silent as a ghost, her eyes darting from you to the bribe.

You crouched, placing the offering on the stone. She sniffed once, twice, then devoured it with alarming efficiency. Satisfied, she gave you a look that felt almost approving, before slinking away into the shadows.

You exhaled, a small smirk tugging at your lips as you straightened up. Mrs. Norris might have been Filch’s enforcer, but even she had her price. You glanced down the corridor, the way clear now, and continued on your path. What awaited you at the end of this journey—well, that was a secret you intended to keep.

The Hospital Wing loomed just ahead, its faintly glowing windows casting soft squares of light onto the cold stone floor. You kept close to the shadows, your footsteps light as a whisper, your gaze flicking toward the open door. Madam Pomfrey was nowhere in sight, but you knew better than to trust the stillness. She had an uncanny way of appearing precisely when students would have preferred her not to.

Your hand brushed the cool banister of the staircase as you ascended, the air shifting subtly, growing cooler and quieter with every step. The torches along the corridor flickered faintly, their light wavering as if uncertain whether to welcome or warn you. You glanced back once, twice, the hush of the castle wrapping itself around you like a cloak. You were close now. Close enough to feel the familiar pull in your chest, an inexplicable certainty that drew you forward.

The corridor narrowed, the stones beneath your feet vibrating faintly, like the heartbeat of the castle itself. You reached out, your fingers grazing the smooth curve of a pillar, and paused. The walls ahead began to shift. Slowly, subtly, they rippled like water disturbed by a single drop. Then, as if answering an unspoken request, the stones crackled and ground against each other, carving themselves into something new.

The outline of a door emerged, its edges glowing faintly before darkening into a deep, obsidian black. The transformation was seamless, almost elegant in its inevitability. A smile tugged at your lips, small and triumphant. The Room always answered, but the spectacle never failed to enchant.

You pressed your palm against the cool surface of the door, letting it ground you for a moment. The world felt impossibly quiet now, the weight of secrecy pressing against your ribs. One more glance over your shoulder, a final check to ensure you were alone. The corridor was empty, the castle asleep in its ancient stillness.

With a deep breath, you pushed the door open. It glided inward without resistance, revealing the familiar expanse beyond.

The Room of Requirement greeted you with its usual, maddening perfection. The cavernous ceiling stretched high above, shrouded in shadow, while bookshelves lined the walls in neat, endless rows. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting a warm glow over the cozy seating arranged nearby. Round tables dotted the space, their surfaces scattered with parchment and ink. On the far side, a collection of training dummies stood silently, their worn surfaces gleaming faintly in the firelight. The space was vast and intimate all at once, a sanctuary conjured just for you.

But then your eyes landed on him.

Standing near the corner, his white hair catching the golden light like a beacon, was Gojo Satoru. He leans against a bookshelf with his usual infuriating ease, a smirk playing across his lips. His eyes, those unnervingly sharp blues, found yours immediately, and for a moment, you swore he’d been waiting here all along.

“Welcome back, Fawkes Junior,” he drawled, his voice breaking the spell of the room, his smirk deepening as he took in your expression. “You’re late.”

“No matter.” You shrugged, brushing past him and making your way to the sprawling pinboard that dominated the far wall. Tacked to it were parchment scraps and intricately scrawled maps of the castle, the grounds, even the surrounding Forbidden Forest. The parchment looked well-used, edges curling and stained with ink spills and hurried fingers. Across the room, a long table was strewn with yet more parchment, quills, and ink bottles. A small lantern burned low at its center, casting flickering shadows across the walls. Gojo had, at least, taken the liberty of setting up the space for that night’s work. Small mercies.

You shrugged your robe off, tossing it carelessly over a chair as you approached the table. “Let’s get started. How many requests so far?”

“Four,” Gojo replied, lounging lazily against the table with that infuriating grin of his. He tapped his finger against a short list he'd scribbled onto a scrap of parchment. “All from different drop points. I checked the rest last night, after rounds. Nothing new since.”

You leaned over the table, your eyes scanning the list. One particular entry caught your attention—a hastily written note, its ink smudged and nearly illegible. You tapped it with your finger. “Is this one from Reynard Willis? That new fifth-year transfer from Ilvermorny?”

Gojo smirked, his white hair catching the light in a way that made you want to throttle him. “The very same. Apparently, he was in desperate need of a Time-Turner. Got himself into some… personal entanglements he’d like to sort out.”

You let out a sharp laugh. “A Time-Turner? Is he insane? How does he even know about us?”

“Word gets around,” Gojo said with a shrug, though his grin widened. “Shall we indulge him?”

“Absolutely not,” you said firmly, shaking your head. “From what I’ve heard, he’s the type to lose his own wand, let alone keep something like that safe. No. Too risky. Reject it and take up this one instead.” You pointed to another request, this one penned in neat, precise handwriting. “Partridge Locks, seventh year. Wants her Charms grades adjusted from a pop quiz. Harmless enough. We won’t even have to touch her professors’ files—just a quick charm on the grade book.”

“Boring,” Gojo groaned. “Though you’re right. Getting caught stealing Time-Turners from McGonagall’s office would be catastrophic. You���re lucky you already have one. You get to parade around with something so precious while I—”

“I use it to attend all my classes,” you interrupted, rolling your eyes. “History of Magic and Ancient Runes are scheduled at the same time this year, and I wasn’t about to choose between them. Believe me, it’s hardly glamorous.”

“Still not fair,” he muttered, pouting. “Alright, fine. I’ll handle Locks. If I time it right, I can slip into Flitwick’s classroom through the dungeons.” He leaned over the map, tracing a path from the Hospital Wing to the Astronomy Tower. “Exit here, loop back toward the Great Hall, and no one will even notice.”

You crossed your arms, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Is there one for me? These other two seem simple enough. What’s this one about sneaking a love potion into the Ravenclaw Tower?” You plucked the parchment from the pile, scanning it. “Ooh, to Higuruma? Interesting. That could be fun. Though he’s clever—he probably wouldn’t drink it.”

Gojo snorted, leaning back in his chair. “Clever? Please. He’s a Prefect, not a genius. You could slip it into his breakfast tomorrow morning, and he’d down it without a second thought. Besides,” he added with a dramatic wave of his hand, “I hate sneaking into the Ravenclaw Tower. Riddles to get inside? Who has the patience for that?”

You laughed, a quiet, mischievous sound that echoed softly in the dim room. “Fine. I’ll take care of it. But if he figures it out, I’m blaming you.”

“No one even knows who the Marauders are,” he said, leaning back in his chair with an air of smug satisfaction. “For all they know, we could be an underground organization—some shadowy network pulling strings behind the scenes. It’s kind of brilliant if you think about it. Nobody suspects it’s just two bored students who stumbled across the Room of Requirement and thought it’d be fun to enchant parts of the castle to take requests.”

His grin widened, and you hated how infuriatingly infectious it was. “Come on, Fawkes, loosen up a little.”

“Loosen up?” You shot him a pointed look, then crossed your arms, leaning against the table. “You almost revealed to the entire Potions corridor that we can conjure Patronuses. Patronuses, Gojo. Do you even comprehend how much trouble we’d be in if McGonagall overheard? Let alone Snape. Although, knowing him, he’d probably let you off the hook and come after me instead. I’d be expelled before you could blink.”

You shuddered at the thought, and he snorted. “You’re such a goody-two-shoes. It’s honestly painful.”

“And yet, somehow, I still don’t know what your Patronus is,” you grumbled, narrowing your eyes at him. “The one thing I’m actually curious about, and you keep it locked up like some great clan secret.”

“It was all part of the mystery,” he said, his lips curling into that insufferable smirk. “Anyway, I’ve been working on something. A little… project. Something that might help us out.”

“What kind of project?” you asked, one brow arching.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” He clicked his tongue, wagging a finger at you. “You think I’m just going to tell you? Please. You’ll see it when it’s done. Next week, maybe. Until then, you’ll just have to suffer in suspense.”

You rolled your eyes, exhaling dramatically. “I hate you, you know that?”

He grinned, all teeth and mischief, as though he’d won some unspoken game. You grabbed another parchment from the pile on the table and scanned it, a frown tugging at your lips. “Take this one, too,” you said, sliding it toward him. “A Quidditch request. Someone—oh, of course, it’s a Slytherin—wants us to hex a Bludger for next week’s Hufflepuff versus Ravenclaw match. Anarchists, the lot of you. Just want to watch the world burn.”

He laughed, the sound reverberating off the high stone walls. “What can I say? Chaos is entertaining.”

You dropped into the chair where your robe was slung, your posture dissolving into a practiced slouch. “This year better be fun,” you muttered, your voice edged with a hint of boredom. “These requests have been so dull. Remember last year, when someone asked us to enchant everyone’s quills during the O.W.L.s? Now that was creative. I want more of that. Something… exciting.”

Gojo leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his gaze gleaming with intrigue. “Patience, Fawkes. You never know what the castle might throw our way.”

You sighed, letting your head tilt back against the chair, the flickering torchlight casting strange, restless shadows across the room. Despite the monotony of the tasks before you, there was an undeniable thrill in the secrecy, the subterfuge, the strange magic that bound you and Gojo to the whispers of the castle.

And somewhere, deep down, you knew this was only the beginning.

© all works belong to admiringlove on tumblr. plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

[haikyuubby]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐡𝐚 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐬’ 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞!

short imagines featuring: bakugo, midoriya, todoroki, kaminari, kirishima, shinso, and monoma!

part 2 to my valentine’s series!

❀ - fluff, gender neutral reader

𝐛𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐠𝐨

“you’re asking me to be your…what?

you hold out a pink card, the words “will you be my valentine?” printed on it.

“you’re asking me to be your…what?” bakugo says, reading the card.

you had a small pack of chocolates in your hand, awaiting bakugo’s answer.

it had taken a lot of courage for you to decide to ask bakugo to be your valentine, mainly because you two weren’t “a thing” yet, and because you didn’t know how he’d respond to this sort of thing.

“you’re such a dumbass, you know that? i already got you a gift for today, and it’s sitting in your dorm right now.” bakugo says.

“wait, really?!” you respond, throwing your arms around bakugo’s neck.

“calm down, and yes. i wasn’t gonna ask you to my my valentine in case you thought it was corny…”

“never that! thank you so much! i’m gonna go see the gift right now!”

after you go to your dorm, you find a red box sitting on your bed.

inside of said box was a dainty, expensive looking necklace.

who knew that bakugo could be so thoughtful?

𝐦𝐢𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐲𝐚

“you want me…to be your valentine?”

as you give a heart shaped sucker to midoriya, asking him to be your valentine, you can’t help but notice his flushed face.

he stares at you in awe, mumbling a bunch of “youreallywantmetobeyourvalentine?!”

you laugh at his antics, saying yes.

midoriya is unsure of what to say, he’s honestly starstruck that you asked him to be your valentine.

“okay, for real, you want me…to be your valentine?” he asks again.

you quickly nod your head, shoving the sucker in his hand.

“thanks, y/n. i’ve never had someone ask me to be their valentine before…” midoriya admits shamefully.

“i’m glad to be the first! i really like you, midoriya.” you say.

he chuckles, opening up the candy you gave him.

“would you maybe want to go somewhere with me today? we can train together then go out to eat?” he asks.

“i’d love to, midoriya.”

𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐢

“be your valentine?”

you give todoroki a small gift bag full of self care items and candy, with a handwritten note that reads “will you be my valentine?”

“be your valentine?” he says as he takes out the note from the bag.

“yes, will you?” you ask eagerly.

“i’ve never had anyone ask me this before…i will be your valentine.” he replies, lips curling upward every so slightly.

“i hope you enjoy your gifts, todoroki.”

“actually— y/n, would you like to go out to eat tonight?” he says abruptly.

you nod with a smile, grabbing his hand.

“it’s your pick.”

𝐤𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐢

“are you seriously…asking me?”

kaminari was currently looking at the card you gave him, asking to be his valentine.

“are you seriously…asking me?” he asks.

“yes, kaminari. that’s why i’m giving this to you.” you respond, awaiting his answer.

“i can’t believe that this is really happening…i’ll be your valentine!”

kaminari wraps his arms around your body, squeezing as hard as he possibly can.

“wait— does this mean we’re boyfriend girlfriend now?”

“if you ask me out properly, then we can be.”

𝐤𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐚

“i wanted to ask you first!”

“kirishima, will you be my valentine?” you ask while holding out a red teddy bear in front of kirishima.

“aw man, seriously?! i wanted to ask you first!” he says.

initially, you thought he was going to reject you based on how his sentence started.

after he says that he wanted to ask you first, you smile and hand him the red teddy bear.

kirishima then pulls you in for a hug, kissing the top of your head in the process.

“let me take you out, please?” he asks.

“of course, kirishima.”

𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐨

“only if you’ll be mine.”

“shinso, i have a question to ask you.” you ask, hiding a red box of chocolates behind your back.

“what is it?” he asks.

you pull the chocolates from behind your back, placing them in shinso’s hands.

“will you be my valentine?” you ask.

shinso analyzes the chocolates you got him, smiling in the process.

shinso sets the chocolates down, and grabs your hand.

“only if you’ll be mine.”

𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐦𝐚

“be my valentine!”

you walk up to monoma, mischievous intent glinting in your eyes.

you had a small gift bag full of candies hidden behind your back.

before you can even get one word out, monoma cuts you off mid air.

“be my valentine!” he demands.

“hey! i was gonna ask you first…” you say, giving him the candies that you were hiding.

monoma looks through the bag you gifted him, seconds before he starts going on one of his usual rants.

“HAHA! i did it first! i knew you’d ask me to be your valentine!” monoma says.

your eyes roll at his antics, and you step away from him slowly.

under the impression that you’re walking away from this encounter, monoma reaches for your hand to stop you.

“…do you want to go out with me sometime? maybe right now? i really appreciate the gift and i don’t walk you to walk awa—“

“yes, monoma” you cut him off.

“i’d love to.”

[fangdokja]

Yandere royal guards plot twist: reader was isekaid into their world and has no idea wtf they’re saying, so thinks being nonchalant is safest when it’s actually making them insane lmao

You got isekai’d. Now three murder machines think your blank stares are divine wisdom.

♡ Yandere! Royal Guards who don’t realize their beloved Sovereign is just some random girl from another world with no clue what’s happening.

♡ Yandere! Royal Guard who prowls at your feet like a starving beast, ears twitching, tail lashing, his grin full of sharp promises. “Sovereign, I’ve torn out the tongues of the palace spies. Their screams were... exquisite.” His voice purrs, expectant, waiting.

You stare blankly. “Ah.”

His pupils dilate. His breath shudders. “...Your restraint is incredible.”

♡ Yandere! Royal Guard who kneels before you, his wings folding like a dying swan’s. “Sovereign, forgive my forwardness, but do you love us?” His angelic eyes shine with desperation, manic with devotion. “You need only say it, and we shall set fire to the world in your name.”

You blink slowly. He is sweating.

“…Sure.”

His breath hitches—his body trembles—his fingers dig into his chest as though holding his heart inside his ribs. “Such… modesty,” he breathes. “To hide your love beneath cold indifference—your restraint is divine.”

♡ Yandere! Royal Guard who glowers from the shadows, a hulking wall of destruction. “Fight me.” His voice grinds like crushed bone, deep and sharp. “Your fists. Now.”

You shake your head. “No thanks.”

His nostrils flare. His hands twitch. “...You are waiting,” he mutters. “You want me to earn it.” His eyes gleam with lethal reverence. “I will not disappoint you.”

You sip your drink. He goes outside. The walls tremble. The ground shakes. The screams of unfortunate trainees echo into the sky.

They don’t know that you, a confused isekai victim, have no idea what they’re saying. They think your apathy is an unfathomable test. Every blank stare fuels their madness.

And the worst part? You’re just trying to stay alive.

────────────

♡ Note. This is NOT canon. Reader is canonically genetically equipped, capable in her position despite the chaos of the Yandere! Royal Guards, and her apathetic personality is really made to be that way. This is a what-if fanfic to the main story. Character banner art belongs to “inplick” and can be found in Instagram. But, it it also official art from a collaboration between Link Click x Sanrio.

♡ A/N. Anon, my request box is closed even for short requests (this isn't an ask, but a request). Also, please read the RULES before making requests. I only allowed this since I do plan on opening Anon requests; but, I haven't made the official announcement. My request box will officially open 2-5 months from now. But... since this can be used for drabbles anyway, fine. Don't expect me to spoil you guys though! I'm already swamped with a lot of long project requests alongside other works. Also, I don't like doing canon-divergent works of my OC's usually, but fine. Short, attempt at humor idea. Seriously. Please read the Rules, I don't like repeating myself.

────────────

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “Whispers In The Dark”: @keisocool , @elvabeth , @elloredef , @mjsjshhd , @lem-hhn , @yuki-istired

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology ♡ Book 2. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. ♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World. ♡ Book 4 [you are here]. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Hi Miss Raven! I'm really enjoying reading the things you wrote for the future event and trien sensei event! Wonderful writing as usual ^^

If you don't mind me asking, I actually want to see some yume content to certain twst characters from japanese players but I don't know what tag to use or where to look Do you know where I'm supposed to look? I'm not sure how jp player tag their content.

NOTE: I know shipping can be a sensitive thing, but please, please, please be civil about it. This is meant to be an informative post; if I list particular tags or examples here, they are just meant to be that: TAGS and EXAMPLES. It is not equivalent to me endorsing certain content or ships.

Thank you for the feedback 🎵 I have a lot more requests to write so you’ll be fed for a while please look forward to those~

The Japanese fandom LOVES to tag works so it's easy for other fans to find what they are interested in and to avoid what they dislike. Keep the fandom etiquette in mind and practice it yourself! This means don't use unrelated tags to boost exposure when sharing your own posts; it's seen as disrespectful and rude. It also means you do NOT go out of your way to find content you know you dislike and attack the creator.

I believe the general tag for Twst is # ツイステファンアート or #ツイステ. #twstファンアート or #twstイラスト are used for Twst fan art. Most people I know look for Twst stuff on Pixiv, Twitter, or doujin purchasing sites.

If you're looking for shipping content, there are different tags for that:

# twstプラス is for any Twst character x Prefect

#女監督生 is female Prefect

#男監督生 is male Prefect

#男装監督生 is female Prefect dressed in male clothing or pretending to be male

#twstプラスNL is for Twst character x female Prefect

#twstプラスBL is for Twst character x male Prefect

#twstBL can be used for Twst character x Twst character (no Prefect)

#オリ監 (may also include 創作), #顔あり, and #監督生顔あり refers to the creator's OC or their interpretation of Yuu; Prefect generally has a "face" in these works

#モブ is a generic or “mob” character; typically means Prefect is faceless or can easily be self-inserted or projected onto

#ツイステ夢 or #twst夢 is “yume” or self ship works

If you see a B or Q in the tag, the former means male and the latter means queer or genderfluid

Here are tags that may help you find a particular genre or more specific content:

#夜のツイステ or #夜のツイステプラス refers to general 18+ Twst content

#夜のtwstプラス is for 18+ Twst character x Prefect

#twstマイナス is for yandere Twst character x Prefect

#夜のtwstマイナス is for 18+ yandere Twst character x Prefect

#女化 or #にょた is a scenario in which a character's gender changes to female

#ケモノ is animal features, generally ears and tail (ie kemonomimi); this doesn't refer to beastmen (who already have these traits by default), but generally refers to Prefect or a non-beastman gaining them

#ツイステプラス or #twstプラス is typically “feed good” romantic content

#ツイステマイナス or #twstマイナス is basically angst or content that makes you feed bad

#twstパロ is literally “parody” or an AU; you can add other phrases ahead of it to denote the kind of AU

#卒業後 is "after graduation" and generally means a work setting

受け refers to a submissive or passive personality while 攻め refers to a more aggressive personality; these typically describe the dynamics in a romantic relationship

If you’re looking on Twitter, specific emojis tend to refer to the characters or groups of characters, which I have listed below. I’ve also included the first 2-3 katakana of each character’s first names.

The beginning katakana are combined with one another in order to write ship names. For example, if you want Leona x Prefect, you’d combine the first few katakana for Leona, レオ, and Prefect, 監 or ユウ, to create レオ監 or レオユウ (LeoPrefect or Leona x Prefect). Use a similar formula for your desired character. For example, swap out the レオ (Leo-) part for ジェイ and you get ジェイ監, or JeiPrefect, or Jade x Prefect.

Generally for yumeshipping, it’s the canon character’s name first and then Prefect in the end.

If you’re looking for a BL ship, name order matters. The name that appears first is the “proactive” one in the relationship, while the name that appears second is the “passive” one. For example, カリジャミ (Kalim x Jamil) has Kalim as the lead in the relationship, but ジャミカリ (Jamil x Kalim) has Jamil as the lead in the relationship. YOU DO NOT CROSSTAG; the name order basically makes the ship two entirely separate things and they are treated as such in the JP fandom.

Heartslabyul -> 🃏 ビュル

Riddle Rosehearts -> 🌹 リド

Ace Trappola -> ❤️ エー

Deuce Spade -> ♠️ デュ

Trey Clover -> ♣️ トレ

Cater Diamond -> ♦️ ケイ

Savanaclaw -> 🏜️ サバナ

Leona Kingscholar -> 🦁 レオ

Ruggie Bucchi -> 🐆 / 🍩 ラギ

Jack Howl -> 🐺 ジャク

Octavinelle -> 🐚 オクタ

Azul Ashengrotto -> 🐙 アズ

Jade Leech -> 🐬 ジェイ

Floyd Leech -> 🦈 フロ

Tweels -> イド

Scarabia -> 🕌 / 🧞‍♂️ スカラ

Kalim Al-Asim -> 🦂 / ☀️ / 🦦 / 🕌 カリ

Jamil Viper -> 🐍 ジャミ

Pomefiore -> 🍏 / 👸‍ ポメ

Vil Schoenheit -> 👑 ヴィ(ル)

Rook Hunt -> 🏹 ルク

Epel Felmier -> 🍎 エペ

Ignihyde -> ⚙️ / 🔥 イグニ

Idia Shroud -> 💀 イデ

Ortho Shroud -> 🤖 オル

Diasomnia -> 🐉 ディア

Malleus Draconia -> 🐲 マレ

Lilia Vanrouge -> 🦇 リリ

Silver -> ⚔️ / 💤 シル

Sebek Zigvolt ->⚡ セベ

Ramshackle -> 👻 オンボロ

Prefect -> 🦐 (🌸 or 🚺 = female, 🚹 = male) 監 or ユウ

Manga Prefect (usually refers to Yuuken) -> 🦞 コミ監

Grim -> 🐱 / 🐈‍⬛ グリ

NRC Staff -> 🎓 NRC(の)職員

Dire Crowley -> 🎭 / 🐦 クロ

Divus Crewel -> ⚗️ / 🐶 クル

Mozus Trein -> 📚 / 📖 モゼ

Ashton Vargas -> 💪‍‍ バル

Sam -> ☠️ / 🎩 サム

Lucius -> 🐾 ルチウス

Halloween Characters

Rollo -> 🔔 ロロ

Fellow/Ernesto -> 🦊 フェロ

Gidel -> 🐱 ギデル

Skully -> 🎃 スカ

Family Members and NPCs

Ace’s older brother or Anippola -> 兄ッポラ

Dylla -> ディラ

Chenya -> 😺 チェーニャ

Cheka -> 🧶 チェカ

Falena -> ファレ

Kifaji/Neji -> キファジー

Najma -> 💫 ナジュ

Ambrose the 63rd -> 🧙‍ ア ン

Neige -> ❄️ ネイジュ

Marja -> マーヤ

Baur -> 🐊 バウル

Dawn Knight 🌅 -> 夜明けの騎士 (this is his full title since we don’t know his actual name), have also seen 夜明パパ and シルバーパパ (“Dawn Papa” and “Silver Papa”)

Maleanor -> マレノア

I hope that helps you out ^^ Happy hunting, English-speaking Twsties!!

[noequivocating]

I'm tired of the good points being done in the notes. Let's talk about the "riots" in 2020 DC.

I was at protests that summer. I went when I could and was more afraid of the police than I ever could be of Covid. Turns out that was the right idea.

Let's start with my point of pain: we weren't rioting. Showing up to protest isn't a riot and stopping traffic isn't a riot either. We organized to remind our city that our lives matter and police brutality is going unchecked.

The police and national guard responded by doing their best to kill us.

Cops escalated in each protest that I attended. I've seen them shoot into groups with "non-lethal" weapons that permanently disabled people. Folks were burned and blinded because cops did their best to shoot us in the face. They literally crippled an old man on camera and faced no charges.

When the images got out and people couldn't look away thanks to lockdown, local pigs got creative. They decided to set a curfew and ruin everyone's sleep.

It wasn't hard to see cops trying to give out massive fireworks East of the River throughout the summer of 2020. When most neighborhood kids wouldn't light them (because you bet your Black Ass they got caught or weren't going out to get killed by swine) you could catch the same pigs out of uniform lighting them in the streets.

We were blamed for the noise. They tried to blame it on "local youths" that used their money on fireworks but it was one of the most anemic articles I've read since high school. Shit continued until at least August if memory serves.

Don't you fucking ever ask why Americans don't protest. I saw what happened to us and know that a majority of eyes just... looked away or stopped thinking critically because we're Black. What good would it be to protest the Trump Sequel and their attempts to strip our rights away? Look at how the nation responded to our demands of to be safe from a group that has no constitutional requirement to protect or serve us!

Tl;dr: we protested following the rules set up and the police did their best to kill us and turn the city against us. That's why.

"Why don't Americans riot?" Which Americans cuz Black people did in 2020 (and many years prior lol) and white people responded with getting back-the blue-bumper stickers

[goldfades]

ICE QUEEN & HER HOCKEY PLAYER──CROSBY⁸⁷

for this request!

─ summary | long awaited: crosby x figure skater where they both meet early in their careers and are not impressed by each other, so kinda enemies, they end up at the 2010 olympics and they still dont like each other but they both carry great pressure and basically just them falling in love over the years and of course the media would be highly involved in two generational talents

─ pairing | sidney crosby x fem!reader

─ word count | 19k

─ warnings | slooooow burn, angsty but gets very fluffy toward the end, lmk if yall want a part 2!!

─ ev's notes | thank you my babies cassie & amber for beta reading, yall are the best!!!!!! go give them some love<3 @v6quewrlds @sc0tters

ok love u bye!!! pls send me requests!!!!!!

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You first saw him across the rink, his focus sharp as he moved effortlessly through drills, like he was born on ice. It wasn’t admiration that struck you, though—more like irritation. Sidney Crosby. The “next one,” they called him. All this talent, all this praise, and yet here he was, gliding around like he had something to prove.

Not that you cared.

You had your own path, your own climb. Figure skating was different, but the pressure was just as suffocating. Every jump, every spin felt like the world was watching, expecting perfection. So why did it bother you, seeing him here, looking so... untouchable?

Your coach nudged you, urging you to focus, but you couldn’t help the flicker of competition that lit in your chest. He was just another athlete. Another story. And you, well, you were writing your own.

But something in the way his eyes met yours—cool, unreadable—told you that this wasn’t the last time you’d cross paths with Sidney Crosby.

You try to brush it off, turn your focus back to the ice beneath your feet, but that small moment lingers. His presence sticks with you, even as you push through your routine, every movement precise, practiced. It’s all muscle memory at this point, but somehow, your mind keeps drifting back to him. The way he didn’t seem phased by anything, not even you.

You lace your skates with a quiet determination, the cold air of the rink biting at your skin even though you’ve grown used to it. Every day, same routine. You’ve always found a strange comfort in that—the familiar rhythm of blade on ice, the tension before takeoff, the brief moment when you’re airborne, weightless, before gravity pulls you back. It’s your world, your escape. Everything else fades away here.

Except today, something lingers. Or rather, someone.

Sidney Crosby.

The name alone carries an echo in every corner of the sports world, like he’s already a legend and not just some kid skating circles with his team. You’re not immune to the whispers that float around the rink whenever he’s nearby—the excited murmurs from your teammates, the starry-eyed awe in the younger skaters who dream of meeting him, as if proximity to greatness might somehow rub off on them.

But that’s not you.

You’ve worked too hard to be impressed by anyone anymore. You’ve scraped your way to this point, each pirouette and double axel carved out of relentless practice, not natural-born talent. Sure, you’ve got skill, but it was earned—honed through hours of falling and getting back up again. Nobody handed you anything.

And him?

You glance toward the far end of the rink where he’s going through drills with the same cool precision you’d expect from someone nicknamed “The Next One.” It’s not that you don’t respect his ability—no, that’s not it at all. The guy moves like he was built for this. But there’s something infuriating about the way he carries himself, as if being good—no, great—comes so effortlessly to him, like it’s just a given.

You bend down, adjusting the tightness on your skates. You're focusing on the details, making sure everything is just right, because that’s what you do. That’s who you are. Everything has to be perfect, controlled. Sidney Crosby, meanwhile, looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world, and for some reason, that grates at you.

Your coach claps his hands, snapping you out of your thoughts, and you move into your routine. Instinct takes over as you push off from the boards and glide onto the ice, the familiar sting of cold rushing against your cheeks. Your legs pump rhythmically, each motion deliberate and precise. You lose yourself in the movement—the stretch of your arms, the swing of your leg as you enter a jump. For a moment, it’s just you and the ice, the world falling away in the face of the one thing that still makes sense.

But not for long.

Because when you land, your gaze drifts again—over to where Crosby’s skating, his sharp turns cutting into the ice with a sound that digs under your skin. He doesn’t even look like he’s trying. It’s infuriating.

You’re coming down from a series of spins when you hear a voice—your teammate. “You’re really in the zone today,” she says, breathless and smiling as she skates up beside you.

“Yeah, trying to be,” you reply, breathing heavily, trying to focus on anything but him.

Your teammate leans in a little, lowering her voice like she’s about to share some big secret. “Did you hear the news? Crosby’s making waves already. Some scouts are saying he’s the real deal—like, generational talent.”

You roll your eyes before you can stop yourself. “Aren’t they all?”

She grins, nudging you playfully. “Come on, don’t pretend like you’re not a little curious. Everyone’s talking about him.”

“That’s the problem,” you mutter under your breath.

Your teammate skates off, oblivious, leaving you standing there with the weight of that name hanging over your head. Sidney Crosby. It’s like the universe just wants to shove him in your face.

Fine, you think. Let him have his spotlight. Let him be the guy everyone’s fawning over. But you? You’re not here for that. You’ve got your own goals, your own pressures, and the last thing you need is to get wrapped up in some star athlete’s orbit.

You push off again, forcing yourself back into your routine, ignoring the nagging itch that comes with every glance toward his side of the ice. But it’s impossible to drown out completely. You can feel his presence like a shadow, always there, always in the corner of your eye.

When you finally step off the ice, muscles aching in that satisfying way that comes after a hard session, you tell yourself you’re done with him. Done with thinking about the golden boy who’s probably coasting on talent alone.

Yet, as you untie your skates, his image still clings to the edges of your mind—the sharpness in his movements, the quiet intensity in his face, the way he seemed so utterly... unbothered. Like nothing, not even you, could break his focus.

In the locker room, the conversation drifts back to him, as it always seems to. The chatter is almost relentless—"Did you see how fast Crosby is? The way he handles the puck?"—and it takes everything in you not to roll your eyes again. You try to tune it out, focusing instead on the methodical task of packing your gear.

But as you sling your bag over your shoulder and head for the exit, the door swings open. And of course, there he is. Crosby, walking in with that same laser focus, gear in hand, barely acknowledging anyone around him.

He doesn’t look at you. Not even a flicker of recognition as he passes by. It’s almost laughable, how oblivious he is. You half expect him to at least give you a nod or a half-smile, something—anything—to show he knows you exist.

But no. Nothing.

You let out a huff, brushing past him as you walk out. There’s no reason for this to bother you, really. You don’t need his approval, and you definitely don’t need him to notice you.

Still, as the door swings shut behind you, you can’t shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, this won’t be the last time you cross paths with Sidney Crosby.

Not by a long shot.

───

“Again!” Your coach’s voice cuts through the air like a whip, sharp and biting, echoing across the empty rink. You’ve been at this for hours, it feels like—your muscles are screaming, every part of your body aching, but none of that matters. Not to him.

You swallow the frustration that bubbles in your throat, biting back the urge to snap. Instead, you skate back to the center of the ice, forcing your legs to cooperate, the burn in your calves a constant reminder of how long you’ve been doing this. It’s not good enough, though. Not for him. And, if you’re honest with yourself, not for you either.

You’re trying to perfect your triple Lutz, but every time you attempt the jump, something feels off—your rotation, your timing, maybe even your mindset. Your blade scrapes the ice as you reset, steadying your breath, forcing yourself to focus.

“Go again!” he shouts, his voice almost hoarse now, and you push off, gathering speed. The rink blurs around you as you build up momentum, arms tight, posture straight, the way you’ve been drilled to do since you were a kid. You hit the jump—lift off—but somewhere in the second rotation, it happens again. You come down wrong, your ankle buckling as you land too heavily on your right skate.

Your coach swears under his breath. “What was that? You’re rushing! Slow down, get your rotation tighter—again!”

You don’t say anything. You just grit your teeth and skate back into position. It’s not like you’re unfamiliar with this kind of pressure—no, this is your life. Perfection or nothing. You’ve heard the speeches, felt the disappointment every time you come up short. You know it’s about pushing yourself past your limits.

But right now, with every muscle in your body screaming at you to stop, you’re beginning to wonder if there’s anything left to push through.

“Let’s go, again!”

You roll your eyes but quickly hide it. He’s watching, waiting for you to slip, and he’ll never let you hear the end of it if you show any sign of weakness. So, you breathe in deeply, shake out your arms, and steel yourself. Just one more. One more and you’ll nail it.

You skate hard, the familiar whoosh of ice beneath your blades almost comforting, like the calm before the storm. As you go into the jump, everything seems to click—your body feels lighter, your rotation sharper, and you think, for a second, that you’ve got it.

Then the ice meets you like a slap to the face. Your blade catches, and you fall, hard, knees scraping the cold surface as the impact sends a sharp shock through your legs. You feel the familiar sting of embarrassment heating your cheeks before the pain even registers.

“Are you kidding me?” Your coach’s voice booms across the ice, frustration crackling in every word. “You’re better than this! Do it again, and this time, stop messing around!”

Your breath comes in ragged gasps as you haul yourself up, limbs heavy and protesting. You can feel the sharp eyes of your coach drilling into you, his disappointment palpable even from a distance. And as you push yourself upright, swallowing down the lump of frustration lodged in your throat, something shifts at the edge of your vision.

Sidney Crosby.

Of course.

He’s on the ice now, on the other side of the rink, going through his own drills with an almost inhuman precision. His strides are powerful, fluid, each movement perfectly controlled. He makes it look easy. Like he always does.

You hate that it bothers you, but it does. Watching him now, so effortlessly skating through his practice, it only sharpens the contrast between his ease and your exhaustion. It’s like the universe has decided to throw him in your face every chance it gets.

You force your gaze away, back to the task at hand. You’ve got bigger things to worry about than whatever golden-boy magic Crosby is working over there. Your coach is waiting for you to try again, arms crossed, his face a storm of impatience.

“Are you going to stand there all day or are you going to land this?” he snaps.

You nod, swallowing down the irritation that’s rising in your chest. He’s right. You can’t let this beat you. You won’t.

You take a deep breath, center yourself, and push off, the sound of your blades cutting through the ice grounding you. This time, you focus harder, your mind narrowing in on each detail of the jump. Speed, lift, rotation, land. One step at a time. You block out everything—your coach, the ache in your legs, and definitely Sidney Crosby.

You launch yourself into the air, feeling the smooth power of the jump. For a moment, you’re weightless, and it feels right—until, once again, you come down a hair too early, your blade skidding out from under you. You stumble but don’t fall this time, catching yourself just in time.

“Better,” your coach mutters. “But not good enough.”

You barely hear him, though, because when you glance up, you catch Crosby watching you out of the corner of his eye. It’s subtle, just a flicker of attention, but it’s there. His face is unreadable, but you don’t need to see his expression to know what he’s thinking.

She’s struggling.

And for some reason, that thought sets your nerves on fire.

I’m not gonna let Crosby win.

The thought flares in your mind, sudden and irrational, but you grab onto it like a lifeline. It’s ridiculous—you know that. He’s not even competing with you. Hell, he probably doesn’t even care about you right now, but it’s too late. The idea’s already wormed its way in, digging deep into that part of your brain that refuses to back down from a challenge. Even if it’s one you made up.

You grit your teeth, fists tightening as you push off for another go. The anger fuels you, hot and biting, spreading through your limbs like wildfire. Suddenly, the exhaustion that’s been weighing you down all practice disappears, replaced by a sharp, laser-focused determination.

This time, when you skate, it’s different. Every movement is smoother, sharper. The ice feels like it’s bending to your will instead of working against you. As you approach the jump, you don’t hesitate. There’s no second-guessing, no nagging voice in the back of your mind telling you what could go wrong.

You launch yourself into the air, and everything falls into place. The height, the speed, the rotation—it’s all perfect. You land with a crisp, sharp sound, your blades slicing through the ice as if they were always meant to. No stumble, no misstep. Just perfection.

The rink is silent.

You glance over at your coach, and he’s standing there, mouth slightly open, completely stunned. His arms drop to his sides, the frustration and irritation from earlier replaced with disbelief. For a split second, even he can’t believe what just happened.

“That…” he starts, still catching up to what he’s seen. “That was perfect.”

You feel the rush of satisfaction, a grin tugging at the corners of your lips, but before you can fully relish the moment, your gaze slides across the ice—right back to Sidney Crosby.

And there it is.

A smirk.

Small, barely noticeable, but unmistakably there, tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watches you. It’s infuriating. The heat of your anger that had just started to cool flares up again, boiling over. You know it’s ridiculous. You know you shouldn’t care. But there’s something about the way he’s looking at you—like he knew exactly what just happened, like he’s somehow responsible for flipping that switch in you.

It’s smug. Too smug.

You feel your fingers curl into fists at your sides, the triumph of your flawless landing fading as quickly as it came. It’s not enough. Not when he thinks he had something to do with it. The thought of him thinking that he was the reason you nailed that jump makes you grit your teeth all over again.

Your coach calls out, voice still tinged with amazement. “Take a break—you earned it. That was the best I’ve seen all season.”

You nod, skating off toward the edge of the rink, but your eyes never leave Crosby’s. He’s back to his drills now, that infuriating little smirk gone, replaced by that same focused intensity he always has. Like you don’t even exist. Like he’s already moved on.

But you haven’t.

I’m not gonna let Crosby win. You repeat the mantra to yourself, feeling that fire spark inside you once more.

This is only the beginning.

───

“I’m telling you, he’s got it out for me,” you say, waving your glass in the air as you slump back in your seat. “It's like, every time I look up, there he is, judging me with those stupid, intense eyes. Like he’s some kind of skating god who knows better than the rest of us.”

Your teammates snicker around the table, but you can tell they’re more amused by your dramatics than actually concerned. Abby, sitting across from you, rolls her eyes, sipping her drink with an amused smirk.

“Uh-huh, sure,” she says. “Because Sidney Crosby is totally obsessed with you, out of all people. That’s what he does with his free time.”

“I’m serious!” You huff, propping your elbows on the table. “Every time I mess up, he’s there. Just... lurking in the background. Like some smug, perfectly-groomed shadow, judging me. I swear he enjoys it.”

Tasha, who’s been quietly sipping her beer next to you, finally chimes in. “Are you sure he’s not just, you know, existing and you’re projecting all your frustrations onto him?”

You glare at her, but she only grins, nudging your arm. “I’m just saying, maybe he’s just trying to live his life and it’s not all about you.”

“I don’t project,” you grumble. “I’m very rational. This is just... observation.”

Abby nearly spits out her drink, laughing. “You’re so full of it. Admit it, you just don’t like that he’s good at literally everything. It messes with your perfectionist brain.”

“You’d hate him less if you stopped watching him all the time,” Tasha adds, teasing.

You groan, dropping your head onto the table with a thud. “I don’t watch him. He’s just always there. Like a bad omen with a hockey stick.”

“Yeah, well,” Abby shrugs, “I’d be there too if I were as good as him. Honestly, if you weren’t so busy hating him, you’d probably respect him a little. Maybe you two would even be—”

“Don’t.” You cut her off, lifting your head with a glare. “Don’t even suggest we could be friends. Or worse—something else. That’s the last thing I need right now.”

Tasha grins mischievously. “Well, considering how much you’re talking about him, it sounds like he might be the only thing you need right now.”

You swat at her playfully, but before you can respond, the loud crash of a door opening interrupts your rant. The energy in the bar shifts immediately as a group of loud, rowdy voices enters the room. You don’t even have to turn around to know who it is. You can feel it—the sudden frat-boy energy that seems to follow them wherever they go.

“Speak of the devil,” Abby mutters under her breath, clearly amused.

Sure enough, you glance toward the entrance, and there they are. Sidney Crosby and his teammates, rolling into the bar like they own the place. They’re loud, obnoxious, the exact opposite of what you wanted for this low-key evening. You watch as they laugh, shove each other, and call out to the bartender as if they’ve been best friends for years.

Sidney, of course, is in the center of it all—looking as effortlessly cool as ever in a black jacket and backward baseball cap. His laugh booms across the bar, and you can’t help but roll your eyes.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter. “Why are they always like this? Who gave them permission to act like frat boys in public?”

“Relax,” Abby says, still laughing at your expense. “It’s not like they’re doing anything wrong.”

“They’re just breathing, and it’s bothering you,” Tasha adds with a smirk.

“I can’t help it!” You say, throwing your hands up in exasperation. “They walk in here like they own the place. No one’s even looking at them, and somehow they just... demand attention.”

As if on cue, Sidney’s voice rises above the noise, calling out to one of his teammates with a laugh that carries through the entire bar. His presence is magnetic, drawing attention even when he’s not trying, and you hate how aware of him you are.

“I’m telling you,” you say, turning back to your friends. “This is a sign. The universe is trying to ruin my peace.”

“You’re such a drama queen,” Abby teases. “The universe doesn’t revolve around you and Sidney Crosby. Just let it go.”

“I don’t want to talk about him anymore,” you declare, crossing your arms stubbornly. “He’s not worth my energy.”

But as soon as the words leave your mouth, you feel a pair of eyes land on you. You glance up—and of course, it’s him. Sidney freaking Crosby. He’s looking right at you, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, almost as if he knows exactly what you were just complaining about.

Your stomach flips, and suddenly, the heat rushes to your face. Great, just what you needed. You quickly look away, trying to pretend like you hadn’t been caught mid-rant about him for the umpteenth time.

Abby leans in, her voice low and teasing. “So... what’s that about not caring?”

“Shut up,” you mutter, grabbing your drink and downing the rest in one go.

Tasha bursts out laughing. “You’re so done for.”

“Am not,” you grumble, avoiding Sidney’s gaze. But you can still feel his eyes on you, that stupid smirk lingering in your mind, and you can’t shake the thought that, maybe, just maybe, he does enjoy messing with you.

Or worse—maybe you enjoy it too.

Later, you found yourself alone. You lean against the bar, the cool wood pressing into your forearms as you wait for the bartender to notice you. The noise of the bar hums around you—laughter, clinking glasses, some bad country song playing in the background. But for the first time since Sidney Crosby and his squad of obnoxious teammates showed up, you’ve managed to relax a little. Maybe it’s the alcohol kicking in or maybe it’s because you’ve successfully avoided looking in his direction for the past half hour. Either way, you feel lighter.

You tap your fingers against the counter impatiently, scanning the crowd for the bartender, trying not to let your mind wander back to Sidney. You promised yourself you weren’t going to let him ruin your night, and you’re doing a decent job of it so far. No reason to let him take up more space in your head than he already does.

"Hey, can I get another drink over here?" you call out to the bartender, who finally catches your eye and nods.

Just as you start to relax, though, you feel it—that presence. It’s like your body knows he’s there before you even see him, a tingle that runs up your spine, making your muscles tense involuntarily.

You don’t even have to turn around to know who it is.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Sidney’s voice is smooth, low, and far too casual, like he’s not already driving you insane.

You grit your teeth, rolling your eyes before you even face him. Great. Of course, he’d pick now to show up. When you’re alone. Just your luck.

Sidney leans against the bar beside you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him, but not so close that it feels like he’s crowding you. He’s got this irritatingly effortless way of taking up space without trying. It’s like the universe bends around him, making sure everyone notices when he’s around.

“What do you want?” you ask, not bothering to hide the irritation in your voice as you finally turn to face him. You don’t have the patience for his smug attitude tonight.

He’s leaning casually with one elbow on the bar, looking at you with that infuriating half-smirk, like he finds the whole situation amusing. His backward cap is still in place, strands of hair peeking out messily, and his eyes glint with something that feels way too much like a challenge.

“What makes you think I want something?” he asks, his voice almost teasing.

You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Because you don’t come over here for no reason.”

Sidney chuckles softly, and the sound grates on your nerves. “Maybe I just wanted to say hi. You know, be friendly.”

“Since when are we friendly?” you shoot back, crossing your arms over your chest. “Pretty sure we’ve never been that.”

He shrugs, still smiling, as if your hostility only makes this more fun for him. “There’s a first time for everything.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to gauge his angle. It’s impossible to tell if he’s genuinely trying to make conversation or if he’s just here to mess with you. Either way, you’re not having it.

“Look, Crosby,” you say, your voice sharp, “if you’re here to annoy me, you’re wasting your time. I’m not in the mood.”

His smirk widens, and for some reason, it makes your stomach flip in a way you don’t like. “Who said anything about annoying you?”

You let out a huff of frustration, leaning back against the bar and glaring at him. “You always do. Every time you show up, it’s like you can’t help but get under my skin.”

Sidney tilts his head slightly, like he’s considering your words, but the smirk never leaves his face. “Maybe that’s because you make it so easy.”

The nerve of this guy. You open your mouth to fire back, but the bartender finally appears with your drink, placing it in front of you. You grab it with a quick thanks, eager for a distraction. Anything to avoid looking at Sidney and that stupid grin of his.

“Why do you even care?” you ask, taking a sip of your drink. “You don’t know me. We’re in completely different worlds.”

Sidney doesn’t respond right away, just watches you with those annoyingly intense eyes, like he’s trying to figure something out about you. It’s unsettling, but you refuse to let him see that he’s getting to you. You’ve already let him mess with your head enough tonight.

“Maybe I don’t know you,” he says after a moment, his voice lower now, more thoughtful. “But you’re interesting. More interesting than half the people I’ve met in this sport.”

You blink at him, caught off guard by the shift in his tone. “Interesting?”

He nods, that playful glint still in his eyes. ���Yeah. You’re not like everyone else. Most people just... try to stay out of the way, keep their heads down, play nice. But you? You don’t take shit from anyone. I like that.”

You snort, unable to help yourself. “So what, you’re saying you like me because I don’t like you?”

Sidney laughs, and the sound is so warm, so genuine, that it throws you off for a second. It’s not the cocky laugh you’re used to hearing from him on the ice. This one feels... real.

“I’m saying I like a challenge,” he says, his eyes gleaming with something that makes your heart race even though you really don’t want it to. “And you’re definitely a challenge.”

A challenge. That word lingers in the air between you, heavy and charged, and you’re not sure if it’s because of the way he said it or because of how it makes you feel. Because on some level, you know he’s right. You are a challenge. You’ve always been a challenge. And maybe that’s part of why he gets under your skin so easily—because he’s not backing down.

But you’re not backing down either.

“Well, if you think you can just waltz in here and... what? Win me over?” you scoff, taking another sip of your drink. “Good luck with that, Crosby. I don’t go down that easy.”

Sidney leans in just a fraction, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “I never said I wanted you to go down easy.”

The words hang between you, thick with tension, and you feel your pulse quicken, the heat rising in your chest despite your best efforts to stay calm. His eyes stay locked on yours, and for a split second, you forget where you are, forget everything except the way his gaze makes you feel like he’s seeing through every layer of defense you’ve built up.

It takes everything in you not to let him see how much he’s affecting you. You keep your expression neutral, lips pressed into a tight line as you lean back, forcing some distance between you.

“You really think you can get to me with a few smooth lines?” you ask, your voice sharper than you intended.

Sidney shrugs again, but this time there’s a hint of something more serious behind his smile. “I don’t know. Guess I’ll find out.”

You glare at him, feeling that familiar frustration bubbling up again, but there’s something else there now too—something you don’t want to acknowledge. Something that feels dangerous and thrilling all at once.

“Well, don’t get too comfortable,” you say, standing up from the bar and giving him one last, pointed look. “I’m not as easy to figure out as you think.”

Sidney just smiles, leaning back against the bar as he watches you walk away, and you can feel his eyes on you the whole time.

“Good,” he calls after you. “I like a good mystery.”

You don’t look back, but damn it, his voice follows you all the way out of the bar, and it’s all you can think about for the rest of the night.

───

The rink is nearly deserted when you stayed that night, after practice. The cold air bites at your exposed skin, but it feels like a relief after the stuffiness of the bar. You needed this—the wide-open space, the sound of your skates carving into the ice, the familiar rhythm of movement that helps drown out all the noise in your head.

You plug in your phone to the speaker system, scrolling through your playlists until you settle on something fitting for the mood—dramatic, sweeping classical music, the kind that builds and builds until it feels like it’s going to break something wide open. It’s exactly what you need right now.

As the first notes fill the rink, you skate to the center, closing your eyes for just a moment, letting the music wash over you. The stress, the frustration, the lingering burn from your interaction with Sidney—it all simmers beneath the surface, but here, on the ice, you know how to channel it. You’ve always been able to let the pressure fuel you, turning frustration into focus.

Opening your eyes, you push off, gliding across the ice with an easy grace that comes from years of muscle memory. The music builds, and you pick up speed, letting the intensity of the sound guide your movements. Each jump, each spin, feels sharper than before, more deliberate. There’s no audience, no competition, just you and the ice and the echo of the music in the empty arena.

You land a triple axel cleanly, but it’s not enough. Not tonight. You need more.

I’m not going to let Crosby win. The thought flashes in your mind, unbidden, but once it’s there, you can’t shake it. It’s ridiculous—Sidney’s not even here, not even part of this—but somehow, he’s still under your skin, pushing you to go harder, to be better.

The frustration builds, a knot tightening in your chest, and with a surge of anger, you launch into another jump, pushing yourself to the limit. You flip in the air, body twisting with precision, and when your skates hit the ice again, the landing is so clean, so perfect, that even you’re stunned for a moment.

Your coach isn’t here to shout or correct you, but if he were, you know he’d be speechless. You nailed it.

You stop in the center of the rink, breathing heavily, staring down at the ice beneath your feet. How did you flip that switch so quickly? One second, you were spiraling, frustration threatening to spill over, and the next, you’re here—executing moves with a sharpness you didn’t think you had tonight.

It’s almost like—

“Nice landing.”

Your heart leaps into your throat, and you spin around, your skates squeaking on the ice as you search for the source of the voice.

Of course.

Sidney Crosby is standing in the entrance to the rink, leaning casually against the boards with his arms crossed over his chest, watching you with that same infuriating half-smirk. His dark hoodie is pulled over his head, casting shadows over his face, but you’d recognize that voice anywhere. You’d thought you were alone, but apparently, Sidney had other plans.

“Jesus—what the hell are you doing here?” you snap, pulse still racing from both the exertion and the shock of seeing him.

Sidney shrugs, as if he hasn’t just interrupted your entire night. “Could ask you the same thing.”

You narrow your eyes at him, pushing down the urge to scream. “I’m here because I’m training. What’s your excuse?”

He lifts an eyebrow, pushing off the boards and stepping onto the ice with ease, his skates gliding smoothly over the surface. “Didn’t realize you had the rink reserved.”

You cross your arms, glaring as he skates a slow circle around you, as if he’s sizing you up. The way he moves is so infuriatingly confident, like he knows exactly how to get under your skin.

“Sidney, I swear, if you’re here just to mess with me—”

He stops right in front of you, cutting you off with a grin that makes your stomach twist. “I’m not here to mess with you.” His voice drops a little, that playful edge still there but softer now. “Not unless you want me to.”

You take a step back, suddenly feeling a little too close to him. The music still plays in the background, dramatic strings swelling through the speakers, matching the tension that’s building between you two.

“Why are you really here?” you ask, trying to sound more composed than you feel. You’re not sure if it’s the adrenaline from skating or the fact that Sidney’s presence always seems to set you off, but your pulse is racing, and not just from the workout.

Sidney tilts his head slightly, watching you with those annoyingly intense eyes. “I could ask you the same thing,” he says, echoing your earlier words. “You’ve been skating for hours. What’s got you so wound up?”

Your mouth opens to snap back, but you stop yourself, unsure how to answer. It’s not like you can tell him he’s part of the problem, that every time he shows up, he stirs something inside you that’s equal parts frustration and... something else you refuse to acknowledge.

“I’m fine,” you finally say, your voice tight. “Just working on a few things.”

Sidney steps closer again, his eyes not leaving yours, and you can feel your defenses rising instinctively. He has this way of making you feel exposed, like he sees through every layer you put up.

“You don’t look fine,” he says quietly, the teasing edge fading from his voice. “You look like you’re trying to prove something.”

“I don’t have anything to prove to you,” you snap, more harshly than you intended.

Sidney doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even react to your tone. Instead, he just watches you, like he’s waiting for you to let your guard down.

“You don’t have anything to prove to me,” he agrees, his voice low, almost gentle now. “But it seems like you’re trying to prove something to yourself.”

The words hit you harder than you want to admit, and for a second, you feel the weight of the pressure you’ve been carrying—the constant need to be perfect, to land every jump, to be better than you were yesterday. And maybe, just maybe, part of that pressure comes from knowing that Sidney Crosby, of all people, has seen you falter.

Your hands tighten into fists, frustration bubbling up again, but this time it’s not aimed at Sidney—it’s aimed at yourself.

“What do you know about it?” you mutter, looking away from him, focusing on the ice instead of the way his presence is making you feel.

Sidney doesn’t respond right away, and when he does, his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it. “More than you think.”

Something in his tone makes you glance up, and for the first time, you see something different in his eyes—not the usual cocky smirk, not the playful teasing. It’s something deeper, something you recognize.

Pressure. Expectation. The weight of the world on his shoulders, just like you carry on yours.

For a moment, the air between you shifts, and you’re not sure if it’s because of the music still playing softly in the background or because of the way Sidney is looking at you. There’s something unspoken hanging in the space between you, something fragile and real.

“I get it,” he says, his voice quiet. “The pressure. The feeling like you have to be perfect every time you step on the ice. I know what that’s like.”

You swallow hard, the walls you’ve built around yourself trembling slightly. You’re not used to Sidney Crosby being... this. Open. Vulnerable. It throws you off balance, makes you feel like you’re standing on shaky ground.

But before you can say anything, he steps back, giving you space, and the moment passes as quickly as it came.

“Anyway,” he says, his usual smirk slipping back into place, “just wanted to check in. See if you needed anything.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to regain your composure. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Sidney grins, his playful edge back in full force. “Good. I like seeing you fired up.”

And just like that, the tension is back, simmering under the surface, and you’re left standing there, wondering how Sidney Crosby has managed to flip your world upside down in a matter of minutes.

As he skates away, you’re left with the echo of his words in your mind—and the realization that maybe, just maybe, he’s not the only one who likes a challenge.

───

A few weeks later, the cold of early winter is biting harder, a constant reminder of what’s looming: the Olympics. The most important competition of your life. Every jump, every spin, every session on the ice has been building to this moment, and now, the pressure is so thick, it feels like it's settled in your bones.

You’re sitting in the locker room, your gear strewn across the bench beside you. The atmosphere is tense but electric. Today is the day they announce the official Olympic figure skating team, and though you know you've earned your spot, the nerves are impossible to shake. Even after years of preparation, the thought of representing your country on the world’s biggest stage makes your heart pound.

Your coach comes in first, a rare smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He claps you on the back, and you can feel the energy shift in the room.

“They’ve posted the roster,” he says, barely containing his pride. “You’re on the team.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, and then the weight of them crashes down on you. You’re on the team. You’re going to the Olympics.

You let out a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding, your chest tight with a mix of relief and exhilaration. All the hours on the ice, the grueling practices, the mental battles—it’s all been worth it. You’re going to be part of something bigger than yourself, and for a moment, you let yourself revel in the feeling of accomplishment.

But then, like a storm cloud gathering on the horizon, another thought creeps in: Sidney Crosby.

You haven't seen him since that night at the rink, but his presence has lingered, a constant shadow in your mind. He’s been picked too—you know it without even needing to check the roster. Of course he has. He's Sidney Crosby. A generational talent, just like they call you, only... more somehow. More polished, more famous, more everything. And now, the media will eat this up, won’t they? Two stars, both at the top of their games, both chasing Olympic glory, both—

You shake your head, pushing the thought away. You’re not going to let Sidney Crosby get into your head. Not when you’ve worked so hard to get here.

Your teammates rush into the room, their excitement contagious as they celebrate together. You laugh with them, letting the energy lift you for a moment, but in the back of your mind, that quiet tension still lingers. You can’t shake the feeling that this is just the beginning of something bigger—and that Sidney is somehow going to be a part of it, whether you like it or not.

───

The night before the team heads out for the final round of pre-Olympic training, you find yourself back at the rink, once again pushing through a late-night session. The music is quieter this time, more contemplative, as you work on fine-tuning your routine. It’s just you and the ice, and for a little while, that’s enough.

Until the door creaks open again.

You stop mid-spin, your breath catching in your throat. You don’t need to turn around to know who it is—somehow, you can always tell when Sidney’s around. It’s like your body is wired to notice him, even when you don’t want to.

“What are you doing here?” you call out, not bothering to mask the annoyance in your voice.

Sidney doesn’t answer right away, but you hear the sound of his skates as he steps onto the ice, gliding easily toward you.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he says, his voice calm, almost too calm, like he knows exactly how to get under your skin. “Training late again?”

You grit your teeth, refusing to let him get to you. “Yeah, well, some of us still have work to do.”

Sidney chuckles softly, skating closer until he’s just a few feet away. “You really think you’ve got that much left to prove?”

You glance at him, narrowing your eyes. “Don’t you?”

For a second, he doesn’t answer, his eyes searching yours. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something almost… curious. Then he shrugs, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Maybe,” he says, his voice low. “But I’m not the one staying up all night to try and be perfect.”

His words hit a little too close to home, and you feel the flare of anger rise again. But before you can respond, Sidney’s already moving, skating around you with that effortless grace that somehow makes everything seem easy for him.

“You know,” he says, his tone light, “the media’s having a field day with this whole thing. Two Canadian stars, same Olympics, both at the top of their game. They love a good story.”

You roll your eyes, spinning around to face him. “Yeah, I noticed.”

Sidney’s grin widens, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s enjoying this more than he should. “You think they’ll keep us apart, or you think they’ll try to milk this for everything it’s worth?”

You cross your arms, refusing to play into whatever game he’s trying to start. “I don’t really care what the media does.”

Sidney stops in front of you, his eyes locking onto yours with that same intensity you’ve come to know all too well. “You sure about that?”

The question hangs in the air between you, and for a second, you’re not sure if he’s talking about the media… or something else entirely.

You stare at him for a moment, the weight of his gaze making the rink feel smaller, more intimate than it has any right to be. The soft hum of your music in the background seems distant now, a faraway echo compared to the silence between you. You want to say something cutting, to brush him off like you always do, but there's something different about this moment. It's not just annoyance. There's a challenge here—a tension, thick and electric, hovering just out of reach.

Sidney's eyebrow quirks up, and you feel your stomach twist in frustration. He's baiting you, but you don't know what game you're even playing anymore. And the worst part? He’s winning. Again.

"I'm sure," you finally manage to say, but your voice doesn’t carry the sharpness you intended. It's a little softer, almost uncertain, and you hate it. His smirk widens ever so slightly, like he's noticed it too.

"Good." Sidney pushes off the ice and skates a lazy circle around you, his movements fluid and deliberate, like he's taking his time to think about his next words. "Because it doesn't matter what they say. We're both here for the same reason—to win."

You scoff, rolling your eyes, but there's a part of you that knows he's right. You didn’t get this far by letting other people’s opinions get in your head. You worked for this. Hard. Late nights, endless drills, pushing yourself past your limits just to prove to everyone—and maybe to yourself—that you deserved to be here. That you belonged.

But somehow, Sidney Crosby always finds a way to make you feel like you're still fighting for that validation. Like there's always something left to prove.

"And here I thought you were just here for the cameras," you say, your words sharper now, biting back with the edge you'd been missing earlier. "They do love a good Sidney Crosby story, don't they?"

Sidney doesn't react the way you expect. He doesn’t bristle or fire back. Instead, he just smiles, a slow, knowing grin that almost—almost—looks genuine. "Maybe. But they’re not the ones I’m trying to impress."

Your heart skips, just for a second, caught off guard by his sudden sincerity. You blink, trying to keep your composure, to ignore the way your body betrays you under his gaze.

"Right." You scoff again, trying to laugh it off. "You don’t have to impress anyone, do you?"

Sidney stops, coming to a smooth halt just in front of you. He's close enough now that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his breath fogs in the cold air between you. He tilts his head, that smirk fading into something else. Something more serious.

"Everyone's got something to prove," he says quietly. His voice is low, almost a whisper, like it's a confession meant for you and only you. "Even me."

For a second, you don’t know what to say. His words catch you off guard, and you feel the weight of them sink in, wrapping around you like the cold air of the rink. You've always seen Sidney as untouchable, a star so far beyond reach that nothing could ever shake him. But now, standing here, staring at him, you realize he’s just as human as you. Maybe even just as scared.

Your throat tightens, and for a moment, the walls you’ve built around yourself start to crack. But before you can respond—before you can even process what’s happening—Sidney’s already pushing away, skating back toward the other end of the rink, like the moment never happened.

"Good luck with the routine," he calls over his shoulder, his voice light again, casual. "See you in Vancouver."

You stand there for a long time after he’s gone, the rink feeling empty without him. Your mind is racing, filled with thoughts you don’t want to acknowledge. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter—that he doesn’t matter. You’ll go to the Olympics, skate your heart out, and that’s all that matters.

But deep down, you know things have changed. And no matter how hard you try, Sidney Crosby is already under your skin.

The weeks leading up to the Olympics pass in a blur of training, media appearances, and endless speculation. The pressure builds with every day, every practice, every headline that pits you and Sidney against each other. It’s exhausting, and yet, part of you thrives on it. The stakes, the attention, the challenge. It's what you’ve always worked for.

But it’s also terrifying. Because every time you step on the ice, you know there are a million eyes watching, waiting for you to slip. And every time Sidney’s name comes up—whether it’s in an interview or in passing—it’s like a spark of irritation flares up inside you, reminding you that he’s still there, always lingering in the background of your mind.

The final week before the Olympics, you find yourself at a press conference, surrounded by reporters. You’ve done a thousand of these before, but this one feels different. The energy in the room is palpable, buzzing with anticipation as everyone prepares for the biggest event of the year.

And of course, the first question they ask isn’t about your routine or your preparation. It’s about Sidney.

“So, Y/N, you and Sidney Crosby have both been named as Canada’s biggest medal hopes this year. How do you feel about that?”

You force a smile, even though you want to roll your eyes. “I feel great about it. Sidney’s an incredible athlete, and it’s an honor to be mentioned alongside him.”

The reporter doesn’t stop there. “Do you think the rivalry between the two of you has helped push you both to new heights?”

You want to laugh. Rivalry? Is that what they’re calling it now?

“I think we’re both just focused on doing our best for our country,” you say diplomatically, but the answer feels hollow even to you. Because if you’re being honest with yourself, the rivalry is there. It’s always been there, even before the media latched onto it.

It’s not just about skating or hockey or who wins the most medals. It’s about something deeper—something neither of you has been willing to admit yet.

After the press conference, you slip out of the room as quickly as possible, your mind still buzzing with thoughts of Sidney. You’ve seen him a few times in passing since that night at the rink, but neither of you has said much. There’s been no need. The tension is there, lingering between you, always simmering just below the surface.

And now, with the Olympics just days away, it feels like everything is coming to a head.

You don’t know what’s going to happen in Vancouver, but one thing’s for sure: Sidney Crosby isn’t going to be easy to forget.

───

The sun barely peeks over the Vancouver skyline as you step into the bustling arena, the energy already electric despite the early hour. It’s the first day of the Winter Olympics, and the anticipation in the air is palpable. Athletes mill around, warming up and going through their routines, while coaches and officials rush to prepare the rink and finalize schedules.

The ice skating events are divided by discipline, with singles, pairs, and ice dance categories each occupying different time slots throughout the day. You’re scheduled for the women’s short program later this afternoon, but you arrive early to settle your nerves and observe the competition. It’s been a long time coming—years of training, countless sacrifices, and now, it’s finally here.

As you watch the men’s short program unfold, you catch glimpses of familiar faces—skaters you’ve competed against on the international circuit. The stands fill with excited spectators, flags waving, the hum of different languages mingling in the air. You take it all in, your gaze flitting from one skater to the next, mentally noting their performances.

And then, you see him.

Sidney is seated with a group of Team Canada athletes near the edge of the rink, his attention fixed on the ice. He’s wearing the official red and white tracksuit, his posture relaxed, and his expression serious. You know he’s here to support his teammates, but it doesn’t stop your heart from fluttering. You haven’t spoken since the night at the rink, and the tension still lingers, unspoken but ever-present.

You try to focus on the skaters on the ice, but your gaze keeps drifting back to Sidney. He’s surrounded by people, but his eyes seem distant, as if his mind is somewhere else. A part of you wants to approach him, to say something, anything, to break the silence that’s grown between you. But there’s no time for that now. Not when everything you’ve worked for is at stake.

A sudden cheer erupts from the crowd as one of the Canadian skaters finishes his routine with a flawless quad jump. Sidney stands, applauding along with the rest of the crowd, and for a moment, his eyes meet yours across the arena. It’s a fleeting connection—one that sends a jolt through you—before you quickly look away, your pulse quickening.

You remind yourself why you’re here. It’s not for Sidney. It’s for the chance to compete on the world’s biggest stage, to prove to yourself—and to everyone else—that you belong.

Hours later, as the women’s short program draws near, you’re in the locker room, lacing up your skates and taking deep breaths. You can hear the muffled sounds of the arena through the walls—cheers, announcements, and the faint strains of music from other performances. Your coach is by your side, offering words of encouragement and going over last-minute details of your routine.

When your name is called, you make your way to the ice, nerves and adrenaline surging in equal measure. The arena is packed now, the crowd buzzing with excitement. You take your position at the center of the rink, the bright lights shining down on you, and as the music begins, you shut out everything else—Sidney, the pressure, the noise—focusing solely on the routine you’ve practiced countless times.

As you step onto the ice, the chill bites at your exposed skin, the cold seeping into your muscles despite the hours of warming up backstage. You close your eyes, inhaling deeply, the familiar scent of the rink—a mix of ice, metal, and adrenaline—filling your lungs.

The bright lights of the arena are almost blinding, but you’ve grown used to the glare. It’s everything else that’s harder to ignore: the noise of the crowd, the anticipation hanging in the air, and the weight of every expectation you’ve ever placed on yourself.

Your name echoes through the arena, and you take your starting position at the center of the rink, feeling the world close in around you. It’s just you and the ice. You’ve done this routine a thousand times—maybe more—in practice. You know every step, every jump, every nuance of the music. But the stakes are different now, and doubt has a way of creeping in when you need confidence most.

The music begins, a soft piano melody that rises and falls like a tide. You push off, gliding into your opening spin, your body rotating effortlessly as your arms sweep out to the sides. For a moment, you feel a flicker of hope—this part, at least, feels right. But as you transition into the next sequence, the familiar pattern you’ve rehearsed starts to fray at the edges.

Your first jump, the triple flip, is where the anxiety tightens its grip. You approach the takeoff, heart racing, and launch yourself into the air. For a split second, you feel weightless, suspended above the ice, but then something feels off. Your body twists at the wrong angle, your balance shifts too soon. You land, but the landing is sloppy—your skate scrapes the ice, and you wobble, arms flailing to steady yourself.

Panic surges through you, hot and electric. It’s only the beginning of the program, and already you’ve stumbled. You try to shake it off, but the rhythm is broken, and your mind spirals into self-criticism.

You practiced this a thousand times. Why didn’t you get it right?

The next element is a step sequence, a chance to regain your composure, but the nagging voice in your head won’t let up. You force a smile, hoping to mask the growing frustration and fear. As you weave through the steps, your feet move, but your mind is still stuck on the failed jump. You feel disconnected from the music, from the ice, from the performance that’s slipping through your fingers.

You approach the triple Lutz—one of the most challenging elements in your routine. You breathe deeply, telling yourself you can still save this, but the seed of doubt has taken root. You accelerate into the jump, feeling the power build in your legs, and then you launch into the air. This time, you feel the rotation, the speed, the familiar rush of adrenaline, but it’s too fast, too uncontrolled. When you come down, you feel your left skate catch, and before you know it, you’re pitching forward. You barely manage to stay upright, catching yourself with a hand on the ice.

The gasp from the crowd feels like a punch to the gut.

I can’t believe I just did that. This is a disaster.

You’re only halfway through the program, but every second feels like an eternity. Each movement feels heavier, each step more labored. Your body moves through the motions, but your mind is stuck on replaying your mistakes. The music swells, urging you to keep going, but all you can think about is how much you’ve already ruined.

The spins that follow are supposed to be your strength, your signature—a moment when you can let go and show your artistry. But you’re too distracted, your mind racing with self-doubt. You rush into the first spin, and it feels off—your center of gravity isn’t where it should be. You struggle to maintain speed, and by the time you come out of it, your legs feel shaky. You curse yourself under your breath, frustration bubbling up. You’ve never felt this out of control in a competition before.

You’ve blown it. Everyone’s watching you fall apart.

The final jump, a double Axel, should be simple compared to the others, but the fear of messing up again overwhelms you. You take off, and for a second, you think it might be fine—until you under-rotate. The landing feels heavy, and you stumble. This time, you can’t save it. You fall, hitting the ice with a thud, the sound echoing in the silent arena.

You want to stay down, to disappear, to let the ice swallow you whole. But the music pulls you back up, and you force yourself to your feet, biting back the tears threatening to spill. Your legs feel like lead as you move through the final moments of the routine, each movement mechanical and empty.

As the music fades and you hold your ending pose, all you can think about is the silence. It’s deafening. The applause comes a few seconds later, polite but subdued, and it feels like salt in the wound. You know what the crowd saw. You know what you felt. It wasn’t the performance you’d spent years dreaming of; it was the kind that haunts you.

You skate off the ice, head down, feeling the heat of embarrassment burn through you. Your coach approaches, a hand on your shoulder, whispering words of encouragement you can barely hear over the sound of your own self-recrimination.

You blew it. You had one chance, and you blew it.

In the kiss-and-cry area, the scores flash on the screen, but you don’t need to see them to know what they’ll be—low, lower than you’ve ever had in an international competition. You feel tears prick at your eyes, and you clench your fists, willing yourself not to cry in front of the cameras.

When you finally look up, you see Sidney standing near the boards, watching. His face is unreadable, but you know he saw everything. The thought makes your stomach twist. You wanted him to see you at your best, to show him the skater you’ve worked so hard to become. But instead, he saw you at your worst.

You tear your eyes eyes away, feeling your throat forming that familiar lump. “God fucking damn it,” you mumble as you shut your eyes. You rush off to the bathroom, shutting it behind you swiftly.

It feels like your world was upside down.

You can't control the sobs that come next as you slid down the door, as your legs give out beneath you. The sobs rip through you, harsh and unrelenting, and you press a hand over your mouth, desperate to stifle the sound. The last thing you need is for anyone else to hear you breaking down. But the tears keep coming, hot and uncontrollable, and your chest tightens with the weight of your own disappointment.

You curl up on the cold tile floor, knees pulled to your chest, feeling the ache spread through your entire body. Every mistake from the routine replays in your mind on an endless loop—the missed jumps, the stumble, the fall. Each one feels like a punch, and you can’t help but berate yourself for every single one.

Why couldn’t you get it right? Why did you choke?

You lean your head back against the door, the cool wood grounding you for a moment. But then the wave hits again. You’ve worked for years—years—for this moment, and you blew it in front of everyone. All those hours of practice, all those sacrifices, and for what? For a performance that feels like it’s ruined everything you’ve worked so hard for.

The tears blur your vision, and you rub at your eyes, only to feel the sting of makeup smearing across your cheeks. It’s a mess—everything feels like a mess. You dig your fingers into your hair, pulling slightly as if the pain might drown out the thoughts that won’t stop tormenting you.

You were supposed to be better than this. You were supposed to prove you belonged here.

The worst part is knowing that Sidney saw it all. You tried so hard to ignore the tension, to push past the uncertainty of what’s between you two. But in that moment on the ice, with the lights bright and the stakes high, all you could think about was wanting to impress him, to show him the best version of yourself. And now he’s seen you fail, seen you fall apart, and you can’t bear the thought of what he must think.

The thought twists in your gut, making the sobs come harder. You bury your face in your hands, shoulders shaking. You feel like a little kid again, like all the progress you’ve made, all the strength you’ve built up, has crumbled in an instant.

After a few minutes, the sobs finally start to subside, leaving you feeling drained and empty. You breathe in, ragged and shallow, trying to calm the storm inside your head. But the silence only makes the thoughts louder. You can still hear the crowd’s disappointed murmur, see the faces of the judges as they wrote down your scores.

You’re not sure how long you stay there, slumped against the door, before the sound of footsteps approaching makes you freeze. You quickly wipe at your face, scrubbing away the tears and trying to pull yourself together. The last thing you need is for anyone to find you like this, crumpled up and broken.

There’s a knock on the door, soft at first, and you hold your breath, hoping whoever it is will go away. But then the knock comes again, a little more insistent.

“Hey,” a voice says quietly, and your heart sinks. You’d recognize that voice anywhere—Sidney.

You bite your lip, trying to steady your breath, but it’s no use. You know you can’t face him like this, not when you feel so raw and exposed. “Go away, Sid,” you manage to choke out, but it comes out weaker than you intended.

“Please, just… let me in.” His voice is gentle, and that makes it worse. You don’t want his pity, don’t want to be reminded of how badly you’ve messed up in front of him.

You wipe at your face again, even though you know you look like a mess. “I don’t want to talk right now,” you say, your voice breaking on the last word. You feel pathetic, and all you want to do is disappear.

There’s a long pause, and for a moment, you think he might leave. But then he speaks again, softer this time. “It’s okay to be upset. You don’t have to hide.”

The words are kind, and they cut through you. You hate that he knows, that he sees you like this. You hate that part of you wants to open the door, to let him in and just collapse into his arms. But you can’t. You can’t let him see how much you’re falling apart.

“I’m fine,” you lie, voice cracking again. “Just… go.”

But he doesn’t move. “Look, I know you’re upset. I saw what happened out there, but it doesn’t change anything. You’re still one of the best skaters I’ve ever seen.”

You press your lips together, shaking your head even though he can’t see. “I don’t need a pep talk, Sid.”

There’s another silence, and then, softer still, “I just want to be here for you.”

The vulnerability in his voice makes your chest tighten. You want to believe him, want to open the door and let yourself lean on someone for once. But the fear is too strong—the fear of being seen, of being judged, of letting someone close enough to hurt you.

“I can’t do this right now,” you whisper, tears streaming down your face again.

“Okay,” he says quietly, and you can hear the hurt in his voice. “But if you need me, I’m here.”

You don’t respond, biting down on your lip as the tears fall harder. You wait until his footsteps fade away, leaving you alone in the silence once more. Then, finally, you let out a sob, sinking back against the door, feeling the weight of everything crash down on you again.

───

The hotel room feels suffocating, the walls closing in as you sit cross-legged on the bed, staring blankly at the TV screen. The Olympics news channel is on, and you can’t help but watch, even though every fiber of your being screams to turn it off. They’re showing highlights of the day’s performances, and you know it’s only a matter of time before they replay yours.

The phone is pressed to your ear, and your coach’s voice crackles through the line, rough and familiar. He’s the one who’s seen you at your best and your worst, the one who’s pushed you to reach your full potential. But tonight, his words sting more than they usually do.

“You know, that wasn’t the skater I’ve been training for the past ten years,” he says, his voice firm, the edge of disappointment unmistakable. “What happened out there? You choked, plain and simple.”

You swallow hard, clutching the phone tighter. You know he’s trying to push you, trying to get a reaction—he always thinks tough love will get you back on track. But right now, every word feels like another weight pressing down on your already heavy chest. “I know, okay? I messed up,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, but you hear the waver at the end.

He sighs, and you can picture him running a hand over his face. “Messing up is one thing, but letting it get to you out there? That’s not you. You looked like a deer in headlights after that first fall. Where’s your fight? Where’s the girl who pushes through, no matter what?”

The criticism feels like salt in an open wound, and you bite your lip, willing yourself not to cry again. You’ve already spent most of the evening crying in the bathroom, and you refuse to do it now, not when he’s on the other end of the line. “I tried, but—” you start, but he cuts you off.

“But nothing,” he snaps. “Trying isn’t good enough at this level. You either do it, or you don’t. And today, you didn’t.”

You pull the phone away from your ear for a second, taking a deep breath as you try to keep your emotions in check. You know he’s right—of course, he’s right. This isn’t the first time he’s laid it out like this, and usually, it works. Usually, it fires you up, makes you want to prove him wrong, to prove to yourself that you’re capable of more. But tonight, all it does is make you feel small.

“I get it,” you say quietly, struggling to keep your voice even. “I let everyone down.”

He’s silent for a moment, and then his tone softens, just a little. “It’s not about letting anyone down. It’s about you. You know what you’re capable of, and today, that wasn’t it. You’re better than this.”

You glance up at the TV, and your stomach drops. They’re showing footage of your routine, the slow-motion replay of your first stumble, the way you clutched your ankle like it was the end of the world. The announcers are discussing it with hushed tones, one of them saying, “A disappointing performance from someone who’s been touted as a medal contender. You can see the hesitation after that initial fall—she never fully recovered.”

It feels like someone’s twisting a knife in your gut, and you have to look away, turning your attention to the wall instead. “They’re showing it on the news,” you mutter, voice barely above a whisper. “They’re saying I looked scared.”

“Well, they’re not wrong,” your coach says, and the bluntness hits you like a slap. “You did look scared. You were scared.”

You clench your jaw, fighting back the tears threatening to spill over again. “I know that,” you snap, more harshly than you intended. “I know I messed up, and I don’t need you or the whole world reminding me.”

There’s a long silence on the other end, and for a moment, you worry he’s going to hang up. But then he sighs, and you hear the weariness in his voice. “Look, I’m not saying this to make you feel worse. I’m saying it because you’ve got two options now: you let this break you, or you use it. You’ve got another routine, and if you want any shot at the podium, you’ve got to be perfect.”

The words hang in the air between you, and you stare down at your lap, the weight of everything crushing you. “I don’t know if I can,” you admit, the vulnerability slipping out before you can stop it. “I feel like… I don’t know, like I’ve lost it.”

“You haven’t lost anything,” he says, his voice sharp again, like he’s trying to pull you back from the edge. “One bad routine doesn’t erase everything you’ve worked for. You’ve been down before, and you’ve come back stronger every time. This is no different.”

The TV cuts to the end of your routine, the moment where you bowed your head and skated off the ice, and the announcers are speculating about whether the pressure of the Olympics got to you. You grit your teeth, feeling the shame creeping back in.

“I just— I don’t know how to fix it,” you say, your voice cracking. “I felt like everything was slipping away out there, like no matter what I did, I couldn’t get it right.”

“That’s your head talking,” he replies. “You need to get out of your own way. It’s not about being perfect; it’s about finding that zone where you stop thinking and just skate. You know how to do that. You’ve done it a thousand times.”

You want to believe him, but the doubt clings to you like a shadow. “What if I can’t? What if I mess up again?”

“Then you get up again,” he says simply. “That’s the only way forward.”

You lean back against the pillows, closing your eyes and trying to steady your breath. You know he’s right, deep down. But right now, it feels impossible to shake the disappointment and the fear. “Okay,” you say, even though it doesn’t feel okay. “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I’m asking,” he says, and for a moment, his tone is almost gentle. “Get some rest tonight, clear your head. Tomorrow’s another day.”

You nod, even though he can’t see it. “Yeah. Thanks, coach.”

“Hang in there, kid,” he says before hanging up.

You set the phone down on the bed, feeling the quiet of the room settle around you. The screen still shows highlights of the other skaters, and you watch as they soar effortlessly through their routines, their movements flawless, their expressions confident. You envy them—the way they make it look so easy, so natural.

But you know it isn’t. You know the hours, the pain, the sacrifices that go into making it look that way. You’ve lived it, day in and day out. And as much as you want to curl up and shut the world out, there’s a part of you that refuses to give up. A part that knows you have another chance, another routine.

The channel shifts from figure skating highlights to coverage of the hockey events. You immediately recognize the familiar red and white jerseys of Team Canada as the highlights reel begins, showing clips of their opening game. There’s Sidney, in perfect form, weaving around defenders with effortless grace. The crowd roars as he shoots and scores, the puck finding the back of the net like it was meant to be there all along.

The announcers are gushing, their voices rising with excitement. “And there’s Crosby with yet another goal—what an incredible start for Team Canada. Their chemistry on the ice is flawless, and they’re looking unstoppable.”

The camera zooms in on Sidney’s face, beaming as he’s mobbed by his teammates. There’s that calm, confident look you’ve seen so many times before, the look of someone who’s exactly where they belong, doing exactly what they were meant to do. The arena explodes in cheers, and you can almost feel the energy from the screen, the way the city has rallied behind their hockey hero.

You grit your teeth, feeling your hands ball into fists on your lap. Of course, he’s perfect. Of course, everything falls into place for him. While you’re stuck in this hotel room, replaying every mistake you made, Sidney’s out there doing what he always does—winning. Being flawless. Making it look easy.

The replay shifts to another play, this one showing Sidney setting up a teammate for a goal with a precise, lightning-fast pass. The announcers’ voices swell again. “Crosby’s vision is unmatched—he makes it look effortless. The chemistry and connection he has with his teammates are just on another level.”

You feel the knot in your stomach twist tighter. It’s not that you begrudge him his success; he’s worked hard for it, and you know how much pressure he’s under. But right now, it’s like every moment of his triumph is rubbing salt in your wounds. It feels personal, like the universe is reminding you of how far you’ve fallen, how badly you’ve failed.

And the worst part is, you can’t get his face out of your head. The way he looked at you after your routine—his expression soft, the same reassuring look he’s always given you when things went wrong. At the time, it felt comforting, like he was there for you when you needed someone the most. But now, seeing him bask in the glory of his victory while you’re drowning in your own defeat, it only makes the ache worse.

The camera zooms in again, catching Sidney in a post-game interview. He’s all smiles, his helmet still perched on his head, hair damp with sweat but eyes bright and full of that competitive fire you’ve always admired. “It’s great to start the tournament off strong,” he says, his voice full of confidence. “The guys have been working hard, and it’s awesome to see it pay off on the ice. We’re just taking it one game at a time, but we’re feeling good.”

The reporters laugh, clearly enamored with him, and you can’t help but scowl. It’s so easy for him to stand there and say that, to talk about feeling good when everything is going right. When he hasn’t been the one to crash and burn on the world’s biggest stage.

Your fingers dig into the comforter as the segment continues, showing highlights from the locker room—Sidney laughing with his teammates, high-fiving, all smiles and celebration. They look relaxed, like they’re already sure of their place in the finals. And why wouldn’t they be? They’ve got Sidney Crosby, and when you have someone like him, everything else falls into place.

You mute the TV, unable to watch anymore. The image lingers, though, and you can feel the anger building in your chest, tightening like a vice. It’s not fair. You’ve worked just as hard as he has, put in the same hours, made the same sacrifices. And yet, here you are, hiding in a hotel room, while he gets to be the golden boy, the hero.

You know you’re being unfair. Sidney was nothing but kind to you earlier. But you can’t help it—the jealousy and frustration bubble up, making it impossible to think straight. You want to scream, to throw something, to lash out at the injustice of it all.

Instead, you bury your face in your hands, trying to take deep breaths, but all you feel is the heat of your tears building again. “Why can’t I just be better?” you whisper to the empty room, the words cracking in your throat. “Why can’t I be like him?”

You know there’s no answer, and that’s the hardest part. You know that no amount of hard work or preparation can guarantee perfection. You’ve been told your whole life that you have to fight for what you want, that success doesn’t come without failure. But in this moment, it all feels so hopeless, like you’re swimming against an unstoppable current and no matter how hard you kick, you’re just sinking deeper.

You hear your phone buzz on the nightstand, and you almost ignore it, but a part of you hopes it might be a message from home—maybe your mom or your sister, someone who’ll tell you that it’s okay, that one bad skate doesn’t define you.

But when you check, it’s a notification from one of those sports apps, and your heart sinks again as you read the headline: Sidney Crosby and Team Canada Dominate in Opening Game. It’s everywhere, inescapable. Another reminder of how easily the world seems to fall in love with him, and how quickly they move on from the skaters who stumble.

You drop the phone back on the bed, shoving it away as you curl up against the pillows. You shut your eyes, trying to block out the noise, the pressure, the image of Sidney’s perfect smile and the sound of the crowd chanting his name. But it doesn’t help.

No matter what you do, it feels like you’re stuck in a loop, replaying your mistakes and wondering why, for once, you couldn’t have been the one with the perfect routine, the one who had everything fall into place.

Then, that familiar mantra repeats in your mind. I’m not gonna let Crosby win.

“Damn right,” you whisper to yourself as you lay back in the hotel bed.

───

The alarm blares, pulling you out of a restless sleep. You groggily reach over and shut it off, squinting at the clock—4:00 a.m. The room is dark, and the cold air bites at your skin as you push yourself out of bed. You’ve always been an early riser, but today is different. It’s not just about getting ahead of the competition; it’s about making up for yesterday, about proving to yourself that you can still pull it together.

You slip into your warm-up clothes, tying your hair back tightly, and grab your skates and jacket. You move quietly through the hallways of the hotel, the only sound being the soft hum of the lights and the shuffle of your footsteps against the carpet. The entire place feels eerily quiet, as if the world hasn’t woken up yet. And maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe that’s what you need—a chance to reset, to work without anyone watching or judging.

When you arrive at the rink, the lights are dim, and the ice is a blank canvas, untouched. You breathe in deeply, letting the chill fill your lungs, feeling the weight of your skates as you lace them up methodically. The rink is your sanctuary, your space to figure things out. Today, it feels even more important to reclaim it. You stand and step onto the ice, the familiar glide grounding you, and take a deep breath before you start.

You begin your warm-up routine—edges, spins, quick footwork. The movements feel stiff at first, but you push through, repeating them until your body remembers how it’s supposed to move. Every turn is sharper, every spin faster than the last. You skate hard, pushing your muscles to the limit, sweat starting to bead on your forehead despite the cold.

As you go through your jumps, you land a clean triple toe loop, and for a moment, it feels like progress. But then you try again, and your skate catches the ice wrong, sending you stumbling. You curse under your breath and reset, gritting your teeth as you go for it again. Over and over, you repeat the jump, and each time, it feels like it’s getting worse.

Your frustration builds, and before you know it, you’re skating full speed into your program. You launch into the combination sequence that tripped you up yesterday, determination burning in your veins. It’s messy—your timing’s off, your landings shaky—but you keep going, pretending that if you just push hard enough, you can force it to be perfect.

You don’t even realize how hard you’re pushing yourself until you skid to a stop, panting, your legs burning. The sound of your ragged breaths echoes in the empty rink, and you slam your hands on your thighs, hunching over. “What’s wrong with me?” you whisper to yourself, your voice echoing in the silence.

Just as you’re about to push off for another round, you hear a voice that makes you freeze. “Up early, huh?”

You whip around, and there he is—Sidney Crosby, leaning against the boards, still in his sweats. His hair is messy, and there’s a slight grin on his face like he knows he’s interrupting something private. You feel your stomach drop, the annoyance already bubbling up. Of all the people to show up at this hour.

“Yeah, well, some of us need the extra practice,” you snap, more harshly than you mean to. The last thing you want is to let him see how much this is getting to you, how much yesterday is still hanging over your head.

Sidney raises an eyebrow, his expression still annoyingly calm. “I figured as much,” he says, his voice annoyingly relaxed. “Saw the lights on and thought I’d come check it out.”

You glare at him, your grip tightening on the edge of the rink. “Well, you’ve checked it out. Congratulations. You can leave now.”

But he doesn’t move. Instead, he pushes off the boards and steps closer, resting his arms casually. “You know, beating yourself up like this isn’t going to help.”

“Oh, thanks for the tip, Coach.” You can’t help the sarcasm that drips from your words, your fists clenching at your sides. “I’m sure you’ve had so many moments where you just sucked and needed to figure out how to get it back together.”

He tilts his head, and you see a flicker of something in his eyes, but it only makes your annoyance grow. “Actually, yeah,” he says, his tone softer now. “I’ve had plenty of bad games. Plenty of times where I felt like I was completely off. It happens to everyone.”

You roll your eyes, looking away. “Not like this. You don’t know what it’s like to feel like everything you’ve worked for is slipping through your fingers.”

“Maybe not exactly like this,” he admits, and for a moment, you hear genuine understanding in his voice. “But I get it. The pressure, the expectations—everyone watching, waiting for you to mess up or be perfect. It’s not easy.”

You want to tell him to stop, that his sympathy isn’t what you need right now. But the more he talks, the more it feels like he’s seeing right through you, and that makes you feel exposed, vulnerable. “I don’t need a pep talk, Sidney. I just need to work.”

“Yeah? And how’s that going?” he challenges, gesturing to the rink. “You think pushing yourself like this is going to fix everything?”

“I don’t know,” you snap. “But what else am I supposed to do? Sit around and watch the highlights of you and your perfect team?”

His face darkens, and he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m not here to rub anything in. I just—I saw you, and I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Well, I’m not,” you admit, the words coming out harsher than you intend. “I’m not okay, and I don’t need you pretending to care. I just—” You cut yourself off, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak.

He looks at you for a long moment, the frustration still in his eyes but mixed with something else—maybe concern, maybe understanding. “You don’t have to do this alone, you know,” he says quietly. “You’re not the only one who struggles.”

But you don’t want to hear it. Not from him. Not right now. “Just leave me alone, Sidney. Please.”

For a moment, it looks like he might argue, but then he nods, the disappointment clear on his face. “Fine,” he says, stepping back. “But if you ever need someone to talk to, you know where to find me.”

He turns and walks away, and you watch as he disappears down the hallway, leaving you alone in the cold, empty rink. The silence feels heavier now, and the frustration sits like a weight in your chest. You push off again, skating into another spin, determined to work through it, but all you can think about is the look in Sidney’s eyes and the feeling that, for once, maybe you’ve pushed the wrong person away.

───

The next day, you walk into the rink with a heavy sense of dread. The weight of your previous performances and the mounting pressure of the competition is starting to feel like an unbearable burden. You arrive a bit later than usual, joining your teammates as they warm up. The mood feels different today—everyone is on edge, focused. No one says much; they just nod in acknowledgment as you step onto the ice.

You take a deep breath, the familiar chill of the rink grounding you as you skate a few laps to loosen up. The routine you’ve been working on still feels rough around the edges, and the more you practice it, the more you feel the lingering frustration. You can’t afford to fall apart again, not this close to competition.

As you glide toward the boards, planning to get some advice from your team’s coach, you notice a familiar figure standing there, arms crossed and a stern expression on his face. For a moment, you think your eyes are playing tricks on you, but then he steps forward, and you recognize the familiar build and the gray streaks in his hair.

“Coach?” you blurt out, stopping in your tracks. The surprise in your voice is evident, and your teammates glance over, curious.

He nods, his eyes sharp as ever. “Heard you were having some trouble,” he says, not wasting a second. “Figured I’d come see it for myself.”

You feel a mix of relief and irritation. Relief because there’s no one who knows your skating as well as he does. Irritation because, of all times, why now? “I didn’t ask you to come,” you say, trying to sound tough, but it comes out weaker than you want.

“I know you didn’t.” He steps onto the ice, his skates making that satisfying scratch against the surface. “But you clearly need it.” He gestures for you to come over, and despite everything, you find yourself obeying, gliding toward him like you’re fifteen again and still trying to impress him.

“You’re skating like you’ve got bricks tied to your feet,” he says bluntly, and you bristle. “I watched the tape, and honestly, it’s like you’re holding back. Why?”

“I’m not holding back,” you argue, feeling the defensive flare rise in your chest. “I just—” You pause, swallowing hard. “It’s the pressure. Everything feels off.”

He gives you a knowing look, one that makes you feel seen and called out all at once. “Pressure isn’t new for you, kid. You’ve handled it before. The only difference now is you’re letting it get in your head.”

You want to argue, to tell him that it’s not that simple, that the stakes are higher now, that you feel like the world is watching your every move. But then, as he stands there waiting, you realize he already knows all of that. “Okay, fine. Maybe I am in my head,” you admit.

He nods, satisfied with your honesty. “Good. Now let’s get you out of it.” He claps his hands together. “Start from the top. Show me the routine.”

You go through the motions, running through your routine as he watches with that critical eye he’s always had. He doesn’t say anything at first, just lets you move through the steps, and you try to shut out the noise in your head, focusing on the feel of the ice beneath your blades, the muscle memory kicking in as you twist into the jumps and glide into the spins.

But when you finish, you can already tell it wasn’t your best. You land off balance, your arms not quite in the right position, and the frustration hits you like a wave. “I can’t—” you start, but Ramirez cuts you off.

“Stop,” he says, holding up a hand. “You’re hesitating. Every time you go for a jump, you’re thinking too hard about sticking the landing. You can’t think. You just have to trust your training.”

He skates up to you, his eyes meeting yours. “We’re going to break it down. One section at a time. And when you hit that jump, you commit to it like it’s the last thing you’re ever going to do.”

You nod, taking a deep breath. It’s been so long since you’ve had someone push you like this, and even though it’s tough love, there’s something comforting about it. You start again, working through the steps slowly. He stops you, corrects your positioning, and has you repeat until it feels right. Then you move to the next part, and the next, until you’re sweating and your legs are burning from the repetition.

“Now, the jump,” he instructs, standing back a few feet. “No hesitation.”

You push off, feeling the adrenaline rush through your veins as you pick up speed. This time, when you go for the triple toe loop, you don’t think about the landing—you just let your body move. And for the first time, it feels right. You nail the landing, your arms pulling into the perfect position as you finish the rotation.

“That’s it!” Coach shouts, and you feel a surge of triumph. “That’s the skater I know.”

You repeat the jump a few more times, and each time it feels smoother, more controlled. The confidence builds, and by the time you finish, you’re panting but smiling for the first time in days.

Coach skates over, nodding in approval. “There you go. You’ve still got it. Just had to get out of your own way.”

You nod, feeling the weight lift off your shoulders. “Thanks, Coach,” you say, and you mean it.

He grins, clapping you on the shoulder. “Don’t mention it. Just go out there and show them what you’re made of. You know you’re better than what you showed the other day.”

As he leaves, you stand in the center of the ice, feeling the energy buzzing in your limbs. You go through your routine again, and this time, everything clicks. It feels natural, like you’re finally skating the way you know you can. The nerves are still there, but they’re manageable, and you feel like you’re reclaiming your rhythm.

Maybe you’re not back completely, but for the first time in days, you feel like you’re heading in the right direction. And that, more than anything, gives you hope.

───

The sun barely peeks through the thin curtains of your hotel room when your alarm breaks the quiet, a sharp reminder of the day that lies ahead. Today is the day, the one you've trained for endlessly. Months of repetition, muscle memory, and strategy all leading to this. You’ve imagined it countless times in your head, playing out the routine step-by-step in your mind, visualizing every move, every spin, every landing. Today, none of that changes—except the stakes.

You sit up in bed, the cool air of the room biting against your skin as you throw the blankets aside. The nerves should be overwhelming, but instead, a sense of clarity washes over you. Today, you’re ready. This is your stage, your time to shine, and no one can take that from you.

After getting dressed in your warm-up gear, you take a moment to glance at yourself in the mirror. There's something different about you today—your eyes are sharp, focused, determined. You’ve been through the pressures before, the tightrope walk between fear and success, but today, something just feels right. It has to be.

By the time you make it to the rink, the buzz of competition fills the air. The sound of skates slicing through the ice, the murmurs of coaches, and the faint cheers of early spectators start to build the intensity in your chest. But you push it aside. You’ve been in big competitions before; this is no different. It’s just another routine. You’ll hit it like you always do.

As you’re stretching in the corner, lacing up your skates, a familiar voice calls out from behind you.

“Looking sharp.”

You glance over your shoulder, finding Sidney standing there, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. He always knows when you need a bit of reassurance. His presence is steadying, calming. You offer a small smile in return.

“Of course,” you reply, your voice low and even. “I’m ready for this.”

Sidney steps closer, leaning down slightly to meet your gaze. “You’ve got this. Don’t let anyone get into your head today, okay?”

You nod, feeling the confidence surge in your veins. “I won’t.”

But as you finish tying your laces and stand up, something—someone—catches your attention.

A skater from Russia, one of the top competitors, is gliding effortlessly across the ice, her movements so fluid and smooth they almost mock gravity. You've seen her before, heard the whispers about how she's one of the favorites. You wouldn't mind, except she locks eyes with you as she spins to a stop, her lips curling into a smirk that drips with arrogance.

“Aw, look who’s here,” she says, her accent heavy as she steps off the ice, making her way toward you. “I thought you’d be smarter than to show up here. You must love embarrassing yourself on the world stage.”

Your heart skips a beat as you register her words, your jaw clenching. For a second, it’s like a hot flame flickers in your chest, spreading through your veins. You know better than to engage—this is a mental game, and she’s trying to get into your head, to throw you off. But your temper simmers beneath the surface, threatening to bubble over.

You take a step forward, your fists balling at your sides as the blood rushes to your face. You're ready to fire something back, something sharp enough to cut through her smugness. Your pulse pounds in your ears, and the ice beneath your feet feels like it's shifting, unsteady, as your emotions rise.

“Excuse me?” you snap, your voice low and dangerous, but before you can take another step, a firm hand grips your arm.

It’s Sidney. He pulls you back, his expression calm but stern, as if he’s reading every thought running through your mind. “Let it go,” he mutters quietly, his voice steady, almost like a tether anchoring you to the moment.

You hesitate, your body still tense, the adrenaline begging for release. But when you meet his eyes, the storm in your chest calms just enough to bring you back to your senses. Sidney’s grip on your arm doesn’t loosen until you take a slow breath.

“She’s not worth it,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, his gaze flicking over to the other skater who watches with amusement, a mock pout on her lips. He’s right. She’s baiting you. And as much as you want to prove a point, this isn’t the time. Not now.

You let out a sharp breath, forcing yourself to relax. “Fine,” you say, your voice cold as ice, but you turn away from the smirking skater, following Sidney’s lead.

As you walk toward the locker room, the adrenaline still courses through your veins, but Sidney's presence beside you keeps you grounded. His hand never leaves your arm until you’re far from the other skater’s gaze, and only then does he finally let go.

“You alright?” he asks, his voice softer now, his eyes searching yours for any sign of lingering anger.

You nod, but the fire in your chest hasn’t fully burned out. “I almost lost it back there.”

“I know.” Sidney sighs, running a hand through his hair. “She’s just trying to get in your head. Don’t give her that power.”

You nod again, taking in a deep breath and forcing your mind to focus. Sidney’s right, and you know it. You can’t let anyone throw you off your game today, especially not someone who’s already threatened by you. She’s scared—that’s why she said what she did. You can sense it now.

“I’ll be fine,” you say, finally feeling the confidence return. “Thanks for stopping me.”

Sidney smiles softly, his eyes filled with a quiet understanding. “Anytime. Now go out there and show them why you belong here.”

You feel the weight lift slightly from your shoulders, and as you head back toward the rink, you feel that calm determination return. The fire’s still there, but this time, it’s focused. You’re ready to skate, and nothing is going to stop you.

Not her. Not anyone.

And finally, the time has come.

You stand in the tunnel just before stepping onto the ice, your heart pounding steadily in your chest. Everything about the rink feels different now—the lights seem brighter, the air colder, the buzz of the crowd more intense. You close your eyes, centering yourself, taking in the familiar sounds of blades cutting into the ice and the faint murmur of the audience above.

This is it. This is your moment.

Your name is called, and a roar from the crowd erupts in response. You take a deep breath, feeling the chill of the ice underneath your skates as you glide onto the rink, your body moving with precision. Every inch of you is alive with purpose. It’s as if the weight of months of preparation, of early mornings and late nights, presses down on your shoulders. But you’re not buckling under it. You’re thriving. You can feel the tension in your muscles, that sharp edge of nervous energy, but you channel it into determination.

Before you take your starting position, your gaze drifts—just for a second—across the rink, landing on her. The skater from Russia, poised against the barrier with a smug expression painted across her face, her arms crossed as she watches you. She’s one of the best—hell, you know that. But it’s the way she’s staring at you, like she’s already counted you out, that makes something snap inside you.

You meet her eyes, and for a heartbeat, neither of you look away. There’s a flicker of judgment there, a cruel glint in her eyes that says she doesn’t believe in you. But instead of breaking you, it ignites something fierce in your chest. The fire from earlier flares up, but this time, it’s controlled, burning with a steady, focused heat. If she thinks you're going to falter under her scrutiny, she’s dead wrong.

You shift your focus back to the ice, feeling your breathing steady. You let her condescending expression fuel you. Today, you’ll give her a performance so perfect, she’ll have no choice but to remember your name.

As the opening notes of your music fill the arena, you take off, your blades biting into the ice as you begin your routine. The crowd falls silent, all eyes on you. Every step, every turn, feels deliberate. It’s not just muscle memory—it’s instinct now. Your body knows this choreography so well it feels like second nature, and you trust it. You trust yourself.

The first jump comes quickly—a triple lutz, one of the hardest in your routine. You feel the familiar rush of adrenaline as you gather speed, launching yourself into the air. For a brief second, you feel weightless, suspended in time as your body rotates. Then, the satisfying click of your blades hitting the ice. Perfect. The crowd erupts in applause, but you barely hear it. You're already moving on, focusing on what comes next.

Your mind is sharp, clear, hyper-focused on the moment. You move through your footwork sequence with precision, your blades carving intricate patterns into the ice as you twist and turn, your arms fluid and graceful. Every muscle in your body works in perfect synchronization, and for once, the nerves don’t feel like a burden—they feel like power, like fuel that’s pushing you faster, sharper.

As you glide into your next combination jump, a triple toe loop-double axel, you catch a glimpse of her again—the Russian skater, still watching you, her expression unreadable now. You wonder if she’s realizing that you’re not the pushover she thought you were. The thought brings a smug satisfaction to your lips as you execute the combination flawlessly, the landings soft and controlled.

You're in the zone now, riding the high of perfecting every element, your body responding to every beat of the music, every shift in the ice beneath your skates. There’s nothing but you and the performance, the world beyond the rink fading away.

As the music swells to its climax, you launch into your final spin. You feel the wind rush past your face as you whip through the rotations, faster and faster, your arms outstretched in perfect balance. The crowd is on its feet, the roar of applause echoing in your ears, but you don’t stop until the very last note. You strike your final pose, your chest heaving, every nerve in your body alive with the energy of the moment.

For a beat, there’s silence. Then, the arena explodes into cheers, a standing ovation. You breathe hard, your chest rising and falling as you take it all in, a rush of pride swelling in your chest. You did it. You nailed it. Every move, every jump, every spin was flawless, and you know it.

As you glide off the ice, that familiar sense of calm washes over you, but there’s something else too—a spark of mischief. You pass by her—the Russian skater—standing near the boards, her gaze still locked on you. You can see the flicker of something behind her eyes now. Is it irritation? Jealousy? You don’t care. You savor the moment, letting it fuel your next move.

With a cheeky grin, you blow her a kiss as you skate past, your lips curling in satisfaction. It’s not subtle, and you make sure it’s clear who it’s for. The boldness of the gesture sends a jolt of thrill through you. It’s petty, it’s catty, but damn, it feels good. You don’t even have to look to know the smugness has drained from her face.

By the time you reach the kiss-and-cry area, Sidney is there, waiting, his grin wide and proud. “That was incredible,” he says, his voice low with admiration as you slip off your skates.

“I know,” you reply, your breath still catching up to the adrenaline coursing through your veins. You can’t help but throw another glance toward the Russian skater, who’s still staring after you, no longer smirking.

Sidney chuckles when he catches your look. “Did you really blow her a kiss?”

“Of course,” you say with a laugh, unbothered. “I mean, someone had to put her in her place.”

You sit down next to Sidney in the kiss-and-cry area, letting the coolness of the seat and the reality of the moment settle over you. Your chest is still heaving from the effort, but a euphoric calm is taking its place. The roar of the crowd lingers in your ears, a distant hum compared to the electric rush that’s been running through your veins since the moment your blades touched the ice.

You sit down next to Sidney in the kiss-and-cry area, letting the coolness of the seat and the reality of the moment settle over you. Your chest is still heaving from the effort, but a euphoric calm is taking its place. The roar of the crowd lingers in your ears, a distant hum compared to the electric rush that’s been running through your veins since the moment your blades touched the ice.

Sidney leans closer, his arm resting casually on the back of your seat, his familiar presence comforting. “You were incredible out there,” he repeats, his eyes bright with pride. His grin, that cocky confidence that’s so quintessentially him, makes you feel a surge of warmth. There’s something grounding about having him here with you, someone who understands what it means to perform under pressure, to feel the weight of expectations, and to still rise above it.

“Thanks,” you manage, your voice breathless but light, and you meet his gaze, feeling a smile tug at your lips. “I felt it. Everything just… clicked.”

Sidney nods, his hand gently squeezing your shoulder. “It showed. That last jump? Nailed it. And that spin? Pure magic.” His grin widens. “And the kiss at the end? Bold move. But hey, if anyone deserves to be a little petty, it’s you after that performance.”

You laugh, the tension from the performance finally starting to melt away. “You know, it wasn’t planned, but she just…” You glance back toward the other skater, who’s now talking to her coach with a tight expression on her face. The same smugness she wore earlier has evaporated. “…she pissed me off,” you finish, shaking your head. “I wasn’t gonna let her get in my head.”

Sidney gives you a knowing look, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “That’s the spirit. You didn’t just show her up—you owned the ice. She’ll be thinking about that kiss for a long time.”

You lean back in your seat, still riding the high of the moment. The judges are deliberating now, your scores coming up on the board any minute, but you’re not stressed about it. Not like you usually are. You already know you gave the performance of a lifetime, and no number they flash on the screen will take that away from you.

Still, as the numbers begin to appear, you hold your breath, your fingers nervously drumming on the armrest. Sidney glances up at the screen, his brows furrowed in concentration.

“Here we go,” he murmurs.

The scores start rolling in—technical, artistic, execution—and they’re good. Really good. The kind of scores that make your heart skip a beat, that tell you everything you need to know.

You’ve done it. You’ve not only secured a personal best, but you’ve set yourself up as a true contender for the top spot.

The arena erupts in applause once more as your final score flashes on the screen, and you can’t help the laugh that escapes you, a mix of relief and joy. It’s overwhelming in the best way possible, the weight of all your hard work crashing down on you. You feel Sidney’s hand slip into yours, a squeeze of congratulations, and you turn to him with a beaming smile.

“See?” he says, his voice thick with pride. “Told you.”

You shake your head in disbelief, glancing back at the ice, as if you need to see it again to believe it. “I knew I could do it, but… seeing it up there, hearing them cheer like that…” You trail off, emotions swirling in your chest.

Sidney doesn’t let you stay in that awe-struck moment for too long, though. He smirks and nudges your shoulder playfully. “So, what’s next? Gonna blow more kisses at the competition?”

You roll your eyes, but the grin stays plastered on your face. “Maybe I’ll save that for when I win gold.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “You’ll have to up your game for that.”

“You think?” you tease, arching a brow.

He leans in, his voice low and teasing, “Maybe save a kiss for me when you do.”

His words send a warm flush up your neck, but you manage to keep your composure, glancing sideways at him. “Oh, you think you deserve one, huh?”

Sidney flashes you a grin, leaning back with that easy confidence. “If anyone’s getting a victory kiss, it should be me. I did keep you from tearing someone’s head off this morning.”

You laugh, unable to argue with him on that one. “You’ve got a point.”

Before you can say more, your coach approaches, eyes gleaming with pride, and you’re pulled into a round of congratulations. The victory, the adrenaline, the applause—it’s all so surreal. You’ve done it, and as you sit there, surrounded by your team, Sidney’s presence grounding you amidst the whirlwind of excitement, you realize just how far you’ve come.

But there’s something else. Something that lingers in your chest, stronger now than it’s ever been. This wasn’t just about proving yourself to the judges or the audience or that snide Russian skater who thought she could rattle you. No, this was about you. About finding the strength within yourself to push through, to rise above the doubts, the pressure, and the competition.

As the celebration continues around you, you find Sidney’s gaze once more. There’s a look in his eyes—something deeper, something that tells you he’s proud of more than just your performance. He’s proud of you.

And in that moment, with the weight of your accomplishment settling in, you know that this is only the beginning. There’s more to come—more competitions, more challenges—but right now, you’re ready for all of it.

You stand, pulling Sidney up with you, and before the moment can pass, you do something bold, something just for you. You lean in, pressing a soft, quick kiss to his cheek, the kind of kiss that says more than words ever could.

Sidney’s eyes widen in surprise, but his smile is immediate, warm. “Told you I’d get one,” he teases, though there’s a touch of tenderness in his tone.

You laugh, shaking your head. “Don’t get used to it.”

But as the two of you walk away from the rink, the roar of the crowd still echoing in the background, you know deep down—this is only the beginning of something even bigger.

───

The energy in the locker room is a mix of exhaustion and adrenaline. Your teammates are sprawled out on benches, some still cooling down from their routines, while others are glued to their phones, checking social media and results. You’re still riding the high from your performance, your mind replaying every step, every leap, and that perfect kiss at the end—both of them, in fact.

"Hey, turn that up!" someone yells from the other side of the room.

The television, mounted high on the wall, is blaring Olympic coverage, and everyone’s heads swivel toward it. You don’t pay much attention at first, too busy lacing up your shoes and chugging water, but the buzz of your name from the TV catches your attention.

"And in a stunning turn of events, it seems like all eyes are on Y/N L/N today!" the announcer’s voice booms, and your head snaps up.

“Wait, is that about—”

“Yup,” your teammate grins, elbowing you in the ribs. "They’re talking about you."

The screen shows a slow-motion replay of your final move on the ice, your body twisted into that perfect final pose, followed by the triumphant blow of the kiss aimed squarely at that other skater. The commentators’ voices narrate over the footage, practically salivating over the drama of it all.

“It wasn’t just her skill that had the crowd roaring,” one of them says with a chuckle. “That was a statement, folks. The kiss at the end was dripping with attitude. It’s all anyone’s talking about. People are calling it the ‘kiss seen ’round the world’ already!”

“Not to mention, did you see who she was aiming that at?” the other commentator adds with a laugh. “That wasn’t just a kiss for the audience—that was personal. Our sources are buzzing with rumors about the tension between her and the Russian favorite, and this just confirmed it.”

“Definitely adding some heat to the competition. This is shaping up to be a rivalry for the ages.”

The camera cuts to the Russian skater, her expression still cool and composed, though there’s an undeniable tightness to her posture, a simmering frustration just below the surface. It’s clear to anyone watching that your little display got to her.

“Whooo! She’s probably seething,” one of your teammates laughs, tossing her head back. “You really got under her skin with that one.”

The room fills with laughter and playful jabs, your teammates leaning into the cattiness of the moment. You’re not one to shy away from a little drama when it’s warranted, but you can’t help but roll your eyes, pretending to be above it all—even though a small part of you secretly loves it.

"Yeah, yeah, it was a moment,” you say, waving them off with a smirk. “It’s not that serious.”

“Oh, come on,” another teammate pipes up, sitting across from you. “You know that was the most iconic thing to happen all day. The commentators are practically obsessed with you now.”

You grin, unable to help yourself, but then you hear it—the kiss. The real kiss.

"And speaking of kisses…" the commentator’s voice lowers conspiratorially, as if he’s about to deliver some juicy gossip. “We’ve got some footage from after the routine that’s definitely got people talking."

Your heart skips a beat. They couldn’t be talking about that kiss. The one you shared with Sidney, could they?

The camera cuts to footage of you walking off the ice and into the kiss-and-cry area, and sure enough, there it is, caught on film—the quick, playful peck you gave Sidney on the cheek. The kiss that felt so impulsive but so right, in the moment.

Your teammates erupt into laughter, their eyes wide with delight. “Ohhh, no way!” someone shouts. “They caught that!”

The commentator’s voice returns, sly and teasing. “Looks like our gold-medal hopeful isn’t just a fierce competitor on the ice—there’s clearly something going on off it as well. A little victory kiss for someone special?”

“Is that Sidney Crosby?” the other commentator jumps in, clearly trying to contain his excitement. “It is! I’m calling it now: the hottest couple of the Olympics.”

Your face flushes red, and your teammates lose it. The locker room turns into a frenzy of laughter, teasing, and playful shouts.

“Oh my God, you’re in the tabloids now!” one of them cackles, clutching her sides. “They’re going to eat this up!”

"Seriously, we should be charging people for front-row seats to this drama," another teammate jokes, tossing a water bottle at you.

You cover your face with your hands, trying not to let the embarrassment take over, but you can’t help the smile creeping across your lips. You knew this was coming—Sidney is a massive deal, and your relationship was bound to catch the media’s eye at some point—but having it aired like this, right after one of the most important performances of your life? It feels like a lot.

“That was a cheek kiss, people,” you say, voice muffled as you shake your head. “It’s not a big deal.”

"Sure, not a big deal at all," your teammate mimics in a high-pitched voice. “Just a cheek kiss with Sidney Crosby, no biggie.” She winks. "But seriously, you two are adorable."

You groan, sitting back and letting the playful teasing wash over you. It's all in good fun, but your mind can’t help but wander back to Sidney. The way his cheek had felt warm against your lips, the way he’d smiled at you like you were the only person in the room. The commentators could speculate all they wanted—only you and Sidney knew what was really going on.

“Well,” one of your teammates says, pointing at the screen, “whether you like it or not, the world’s got its new favorite Olympic couple. You’re officially a thing.”

You raise an eyebrow, your lips quirking into a smirk. "Guess that means I’ll have to win gold now, doesn’t it?"

The room bursts into cheers and whoops, and even though you’re still a little embarrassed, you can't deny the spark of pride warming your chest. You may not have asked for the attention, but if people were talking about you, it was because of your performance. The kiss—both kisses—were just the icing on the cake.

As the chatter dies down and your teammates go back to their phones and conversations, you glance at the screen one more time. Your face is still up there, smiling, skating, kissing. The cameras are still following you, and now the world is watching your every move.

And somewhere in the crowd, watching all of this unfold, is Sidney. You can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking, whether he’s amused by all the media buzz or quietly rooting for you to rise above the chaos, like he always does.

───

A couple of weeks have flown by, and life feels like a whirlwind. The days blur into each other, each one filled with intense training, interviews, and media attention, but you’re thriving in it. You’ve hit your stride—the moment where everything just clicks. The routines you’ve practiced for years feel effortless, like second nature, and every time you step on the ice, the crowd roars just a little louder.

You’ve gone from being an underdog to the one everyone’s talking about—the name on every commentator's lips. They’re calling you a "generational talent" now, comparing you to the legends of the sport. It’s surreal.

At every competition, you push yourself further. Your performances are more than just technical mastery—they’re performances, filled with personality, elegance, and a certain kind of fire that no one else has. The crowd can feel it. So can the judges. Your scores reflect that, each one higher than the last, inching closer to the perfect mark.

But the real magic is in how you’ve taken control of the narrative. It’s not just about your skating anymore; it’s about you. The girl who sent shockwaves through the arena with a playful kiss, the figure skater who got her get back. You're unstoppable right now.

The media follows your every move, dissecting each routine, each interview, each glimpse of you with Sidney. They’ve dubbed you "The Queen of Ice"—a title that feels daunting but fitting. You’re skating with a newfound confidence, and your momentum is undeniable. It’s almost like you’re skating for something bigger now, fueled by the pressure and expectation, but instead of letting it weigh you down, you thrive under it.

On top of that, the Canadian hockey team is doing just as well, if not better. Sidney and his teammates are on a tear through the tournament, steamrolling the competition with a precision and intensity that’s impossible to ignore. The headlines are full of glowing reports about how the team is clicking, playing like a well-oiled machine, and Sidney’s name is front and center. Every game, he’s putting on a clinic, and just like you, people are starting to use the word legendary.

It’s crazy to think about how things have shifted so quickly. Not long ago, you were just hoping to make an impact, and now you and Sidney are always in the headlines, dominating in your respective fields. The media plays it up, of course—every now and then you catch an article about "Olympic royalty" or some speculative piece about your friendship-relationship-rivalry (you're not sure what it is, anymore), but you’ve learned to tune it out.

Still, it’s hard not to feel proud when you see your name in another headline. It’s not just about the gossip or the hype—it’s about what you’re doing. You’re succeeding at the highest levels of your sport and you’ve worked your whole lives for this moment, and now, you’re in it. Living it.

You’re in the Olympic Village after practice, sitting with your teammates in the common area, watching the latest round of highlights on TV. The hockey team had just demolished their last opponent, and the commentators are practically swooning over the way Sidney’s been playing.

"Another incredible game from Crosby," one announcer says, his voice full of admiration. "The guy is playing out of his mind. He’s always been good, but this? This is something else."

“Yeah,” another commentator adds, shaking his head in disbelief. “If he keeps this up, there’s no doubt they’ll be in the finals. And honestly? I don’t see anyone beating them.”

One of your teammates nudges you, grinning. “You hear that? Your boy is killing it out there.”

You laugh, shaking your head as you felt a flush rise in your cheeks. “He's not my boy, shut up.”

Your teammate just laughs and shrugs, looking back up at the TV.

The screen cuts to a highlight reel of you from the most recent competition, and the room quiets as everyone watches. The slow-motion shots of you mid-jump, your spins and edges so crisp and precise, make it look almost effortless.

“Look at that,” the commentator gushes. “She’s redefining what’s possible on the ice. It’s not just about her technical skill—it’s the way she connects with the audience. She’s performing at a level we haven’t seen in years. You can see it in the way she moves—the confidence, the passion. She knows she’s the best right now, and she’s skating like it.”

Your teammates break out into cheers, some of them even clapping. You hide your face in your hands, half-embarrassed, half-proud.

“Okay, okay, calm down,” you say, laughing. “It’s just one performance.”

One of your teammates smirks. “Nah, sweetheart, you’ve had like ten of those just one performances. Own it.”

You lean back, still smiling, but your mind wanders for a second. All the attention, all the pressure—it’s a lot. But then you think about Sidney, how he handles everything with such grace and focus. You’ve watched him lead his team to victory after victory, never letting the noise get to him. It’s inspiring. And it makes you want to keep pushing yourself, to live up to that same standard.

As the hockey highlights come to an end, your phone buzzes in your pocket. You glance at it, and your heart skips a beat when you see Sidney’s name.

Sidney: Saw the kiss thing on TV again. Apparently we’re the new "it couple."

You can’t help but smile. You ignore the weird butterflies that begin forming in your stomach—it's just Sidney.

You: Oh, so now you’re famous because of me, huh?

Sidney: Obviously. Also, everyone’s calling you the GOAT now. When are you going to start teaching me how to skate?

You: I’m already teaching you how to win.

There’s a pause before his next text, and you can practically hear him laughing through the screen.

Sidney: Touché. But seriously—you’re killing it. Proud of you.

You stare at the screen, his words sinking in. It’s such a simple message, but coming from him, it means the world.

You: Right back at you.

You tuck your phone away, feeling a quiet surge of giddiness. You glance at your teammates, looking at you almost expectantly—you immediately regret it.

“Oh, shut up!”

[woniedarlin]

Hi! I actually absolutely love your fic of jungwon being down bad for tsundere reader so I was wondering if you could write something where the roles are reversed and jungwon is the tsundere one 🤍

Chasing a Tsundere

pairing: tsundere! Jungwon x fem! reader

synopsis: You fell for Jungwon—hard. Unfortunately for you, he just had to be the grumpiest, most emotionally unavailable person ever to exist. He pushed you away, rolled his eyes at your persistence, and made it very clear he wasn’t the romantic type.

But giving up? Not an option. Because this is Jungwon we’re talking about.

author's note: Hello, my lovelies! This was so much fun to write. Big thanks to Anonie for the request—I hope you enjoy it! Happy reading!

caution: cursing and a bit of angst (tell me if there’s more!) , this story contains excessive tsundere behavior and a very persistent main character. Side effects may include secondhand embarrassment. Read at your own risk!

permanent tag list: @sol3chu @chlorinecake @13tter @jung1w0n

You leaned over Jungwon’s desk with your brightest smile, holding out a bento box wrapped in a pink cloth. “I made this for you. It’s your favorite! I even cut the veggies into stars!”

"Tch," Jungwon dismissed. "I don't want that disgusting slop."

If only he could have tasted that heavenly creation at least once. I mean, imagine turning down a homemade dish made with such effort? Poor you, who only deserved so much more.

He barely glanced up from his textbook as his pen continued to scribble down notes. “Why would I eat food from someone who burns toast?”

You pouted and clutched the bento to your chest. “That was one time, Jungwon. One time! Besides, I didn’t burn this.”

"I don't want your germs. Who knows what kind of gross crap is in there," he said; in which you glanced around the classroom; a few of your friends sent pity looks on your way. No one understood why you were so smitten with him, but they respected it nonetheless.

A few of your classmates looked to be in a similar state of enchantment. Maybe you should try it with them instead of the grinch?

"What do I have to do to make you go away?” Jungwon's words sting a bit.

“I don’t know.’’

You weren't even slightly intimidated or bothered, which was amusing. Most people would have backed off, but you just stood there. It wasn't enjoyable but also somewhat impressive. Not that he'd ever admit that. A long sigh erupted from his lips as he pinched the bridge of his nose. He slammed his pen down, causing a few heads to turn, but he cared little. “Sit. Down. Go bug someone else.” He gritted out through clenched teeth.

”Please accept?’’ you showed the bento.

You were persistent with your efforts; he had to commend you for that, though he’d never admit it to your face. That would give you too much of an ego boost.

He eyed the bento in your hand, his stomach betraying him by growling quietly. He hadn’t eaten all lunch, so the aroma of the homemade food was almost too tempting to resist. But still, the stubbornness won out. "No. I’m not interested in your food. Why do you insist on wasting your efforts on me?”

“Please?”

Shit. He couldn’t help but think, “How can I say no to someone so sweet?”

He sighed, finally looking at you with that familiar, unimpressed stare. “Just leave it on the desk. I’ll think about it.”

A small victory! You quickly set the box down. “I knew you couldn’t resist. I’ll see you later!” You skipped away before he could respond.

He glanced between the bento and the door you’d disappeared through. His stomach growled once more, begging to be fed. With another sigh, he opened the bento box and slowly ate. “Not bad…”

☔️

The rain fell hard as you stood at the school gates, holding your bag to keep it dry. You sighed and watched the heavy rain, getting ready to run for it. Just as you were about to leave, a familiar voice called out to you.

"You planning on running out in that weather? Do you have a death wish or something?"

Jungwon approached you, umbrella in hand. Before you could even respond, he thrust the umbrella into your hands. “Take it,” he said curtly, glancing at you for only a second before entering the rain, completely unprotected.

“Wait!” you called after him, holding the umbrella out. “What about you?” You extended the umbrella, an offer of protection from the relentless rain. Jungwon paused, glancing at you over his shoulder.

"I don't need it."

His face didn't reveal it, but the gesture touched him. He had been trying to push you away, to make you dislike him, but all you did was offer him shelter from the downpour when you needed it. He couldn't help but admit the irony.

“Don’t catch a cold, idiot.”

☔️

It was another typical day. The hallways were busy with students. But all you could think about was how warm Jungwon’s arm felt as you held onto him.

You had been walking together, but you wanted to be closer. So, you wrapped your arm around his and rested your head on his shoulder. You felt the tension leave your body as you relaxed into him. He was always warm, and being this close to him felt right.

You noticed Jungwon stiffen almost instantly, his eyes widening. “What are you—” he started, his fingers twitching slightly, unsure what to do, before reluctantly relaxing. Slowly, Jungwon’s shoulders relaxed, and the scowl that so often resided on his face faded away. You felt his arm loosen, “Weirdo,” he muttered.

For the rest of the walk, you were quiet. Strangely.

He led you through the crowded school corridors, expertly weaving around the students and making a ruckus. Eventually, he spoke up. " Are you okay?" he asked, looking at you from the corner of his eyes.

“More than okay,” you sighed, a dreamy smile forming. “I’m in love.”

Jungwon scoffed. “Love? Seriously?” he retorted. “You fall too hard.”

Suddenly, a girl appeared out of nowhere, walking up to Jungwon and batting her eyelashes at him. “Hey, Jungwon,” she cooed, giving him a flirty smile. “You look so handsome today.”

Oh, the audacity.

You felt your grip on his arm tighten, and without thinking, you made a slight hissing noise under your breath. Like an actual cat. Because that’s totally normal behavior.

Jungwon looked at her blankly. "Uh, thanks," he said, shifting his weight to put some distance between her and himself. After a few moments of awkward silence, the girl caught the hint and excused herself, shooting you a dirty look before sauntering away.

You furrowed your eyebrows. Jungwon noticed and let out a long sigh. He reached over with his free hand, gently touching your arm. "Hey, hey, calm down, alright? I can practically see the green flames of envy raging in your eyes," he says with annoyance. "She means nothing. No one does."

He pauses, "Except you, I guess?" he mumbles under his breath, his voice so low you missed it.

☔️

You were hauling a heavy box of basketball equipment to the gym hours later when a sharp voice stopped you.

"You're an idiot to carry that much all at once. Hand it over before you collapse." Jungwon came out from the corner with a frown on his face. He eyed the box in your arms and rolled his eyes as he took it from you, holding it quickly. “This is what happens when you don’t ask for help.”

“It’s not a big deal,” you replied with a sheepish smile. “The team needed help—”

He shook his head. "There's helpful, and then there's being too nice. You've got to stop saying 'yes' to everyone. That was what? A 40-kilogram box of balls and equipment? Your back would’ve snapped in two by lunch."

Jungwon continued, "Besides, Do they not have arms? If you need help, ask me.”

You opened your mouth to protest but hesitated when you noticed his face, “I’m fine, really,” you reassured him.

"And that's the problem. 'I'm fine.' What happens when, one day, you're not? When you're tired or overwhelmed and still say 'I'm fine' while falling apart inside?" He scolded you, "It's okay to say 'no,' and it's okay to ask for help. Do you not understand? This isn’t a game, and you’re not invincible!"

He turned and walked away, his final words echoing down the hall.

"Don't wait for a mistake to learn."

You didn’t expect this from him.

☔️

For weeks, you did everything. You put in the effort that he rejects, but on rare occasions, he accepts it. Well, you force him to take it. After classes, you were sitting on the rooftop, watching the view. For once, you weren’t seeking Jungwon out; you were trying to gather your thoughts.

Were you tired of chasing someone who always seems to push you away? Absolutely.

Jungwon noticed you perched on the rooftop. He couldn't help but wonder, what's got her so down? He knew he was causing you heartache but he also knew that with every rejection, you came back with more effort. He wanted you to see him as what he truly was. A jerk. Someone not worthy of your devotion... but you never seemed to give up, that determination was something else.

He wondered if he may have gone too far…

“Hey.”

His voice startled you, and you turned to see him standing a few feet away, his hands shoved into his pockets.

“What are you doing here?” you asked softly.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he said, walking closer. “You’ve been avoiding me all day.”

You looked away, fidgeting with your hands. “I… I don’t think I should bother you anymore.”

Jungwon froze. “What are you talking about? Bother me? You’re not…” He trailed off, then sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I know I’m an ass. I push people away and make it seem like I don’t want anyone’s company. But you… you never left, even when I wanted you to.” He sat down next to you, keeping a comfortable distance.

“I mean… you’re always annoyed with me. I just figured…” You trailed off, biting your lip.

“Stop saying that,” he interrupted, his tone sharper than usual.

“You think I enjoy acting like a jerk to everyone?“ He let out a humorless laugh, his eyes focusing on the horizon. ”The truth is, I am afraid to open up, to let people in because I know how easily they can break me.” He glanced at you briefly before averting his eyes again. “I’ve seen it happen to my parents and my friends. I don’t want to be another sad soul wandering the world broken.”

You hesitated before whispering, ‘’I’m sorry…’’

“Don’t apologize. Hell, I’m sorry. I’ve been so caught up in pushing you away that I didn’t even realize how much you were trying to get closer to me. I don’t deserve your attention, let alone your kindness.”

He continued, “You’re not… You’re the most annoying person I’ve ever met, sure. But if you stopped being around…” He trailed off, looking away as his cheeks turned red. “I’d probably hate it.”

“Jungwon…”

“What? It’s true. I don’t know when or how it happened… but my day feels..lacking if you’re not there.” He shrugged as though admitting that wasn’t a big deal. “So…don’t you dare think about stopping.” He added sternly. “I like you, alright?”

“Thank you…for liking me back’’ you said shyly.

He rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it. “Don’t get all mushy on me. You make it sound like I’d run into a burning building for you. I like you, but it’s not like I would get matching tattoos or serenade you under your window.”

“But will you?’’

He scoffed. “Really? Of all the things I’ve said, that’s what you focus on?” He shook his head, then looked directly into your eyes. “Fine. Yes, I'd run into a burning building for you. I’ll do anything for you. Happy now?’’

“Very.’’ You giggled, ‘’Come on, walk me home, boyfriend.’’

“Boyfriend?”

He raised an eyebrow at your quick upgrade in the relationship. “You're lucky I like you cause anyone else suggesting that might've been laughed out of the school." He stood up, dusting off his pants and offering you a hand. "Well, come on, girlfriend.“

☔️

Days later…

You sat across from Jungwon at the small restaurant table, your heart doing little flips every time he glanced your way, even though his usual unimpressed expression hadn’t faltered since you arrived. The date wasn’t even bad—just, well, awkward. But awkward in a way that had you wanting to laugh every five seconds because of how seriously Jungwon took things.

Like now.

He's been staring at his menu for ten minutes. It's three pages long, and each item has a picture next to it. How complicated can it be?

"What's taking you so long?" you say, resting your chin in your hand.

"Shut up." He replies, never taking his eyes off the menu. “Do you want water?” he asked, his brows slightly furrowed.

“Uh, sure?” you said, smiling awkwardly.

He waved the waiter over and ordered two glasses of water. After all this careful deliberation, he's just ordering water?

He barely looked at you as he added, “Bring her water. Lemon water.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing, which Jungwon noticed.

Jungwon blinked at you, tilting his head slightly. “What? You don’t like lemon?”

He looked a bit hurt at the rejection of his thoughtfulness. This was the same guy who'd throw paper planes at the teacher but couldn’t handle not knowing if you liked lemon in your water? You were so endeared that it took every ounce of self-control not to squeal.

“Oh, no, you’re adorable today,” you assured him, finally letting out a soft laugh.

“Cool,” he managed, cheeks turning pink as he looked down at the table.

“No, I mean—it’s just water,” you said, waving a hand dismissively. “I’ll live either way.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “It’s not a big deal. Just let me handle it.”

The corner of your lips quirked up. Why is he so serious about water?

The date went on, and the conversation flowed a little more naturally (after you decided to do most of the talking). Jungwon, though, still had his moments. “So, how much do you like me?” you teased halfway through your meal, grinning at him over the rim of your glass.

He choked on his drink.

He coughed, hitting his chest slightly as he cleared his throat. You didn’t think the question warranted that kind of reaction. But then again, you talked to the boy who spent ten minutes deciding whether he should get fries. “W-what kind of question is that?” he asked once he regained composure

You leaned in a little, resting your chin on your palm. “I’m just curious. Am I your type?”

He met your gaze, his eyes softening slightly. It was the first time all evening he'd looked directly at you without an expression of mild annoyance.

“What, you think I’m here for the ambiance?” he replied, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “You’re… not that bad a company when you’re not talking about nothing.”

It is a backhanded compliment, but from Jungwon, it might as well be a love confession.

“So,” you continued. “How much do you think I like you?”

Jungwon avoided your gaze, shoving a piece of meat into his mouth to avoid answering. “You’re so annoying,” he muttered, cheeks puffed slightly as he chewed. He ran a hand through his hair, looking quite flustered. His eyes darted around, possibly seeking an escape route. No dice, he’s sitting opposite you in a relatively small restaurant.

He asked again, “What kind of question even is that?”

“A valid one,” you teased, grinning. “But you’ll have to pay me if you want the answer.”

He frowned, confused. “Pay you?”

“Yeah, like—give me, I don’t know... probably 500,000 won, and I’ll tell you all my secrets.” You held up your hands dramatically.

“You said 500,000 won, didn’t you?” he said, pulling out the exact amount and sliding it across the table with an entirely serious expression. “Here. Talk.”

He stared at you expectantly, looking like he expected you to take the money and answer. It was a ridiculous situation. Here you were, in a normal restaurant on a Friday night, with your new boyfriend, who had just put 500,000 won on the table, waiting to know how much you liked him.

It took every ounce of will in your body not to laugh. Oh, he’s so cute…

Your jaw dropped. “Jungwon, I was joking!”

He froze, the faintest flush creeping up his cheeks. “What?”

You could see the cogs turning in his head as if he was contemplating what to do with you now. The situation was getting more absurd, and you pressed your lips together to keep from laughing. It was probably rude to laugh in his face when he just tried to pay you for the information he thinks is valuable.

Still, you laughed.

“I didn’t actually mean it!” you laughed, pushing the money back toward him. “I wouldn’t charge you to know something like that.”

He looked down at the table, “Yeah, well, you started it,” he muttered, returning the money. After a few seconds, he slid a 50,000 won bill across the table, looking slightly embarrassed. “Fine. But this will do?”

He looked up at you, his gaze uncertain. You smiled, tucking this little tidbit of information away for later. The Jungwon is willing to pay you to know you like him. What a night.

“Jungwon, you don’t have to pay me.’’

“Look,” he said, looking at you pointedly. “Just..” He huffed, rubbing a hand across his face. “Just take the damn money, okay? It’s not like I’m breaking the bank here.”

He nudged the money towards you again, his eyes holding a silent plea. Clearly, he didn’t know how else to go about the situation, resorting to his only known means of communication: his wallet.

“Uh…okay?” You accepted it with amusement.

He smiled, nodding in relief. “Good. Now what…what were you saying before?” He asked, trying to hide his embarrassed flush with a cough. “About how much you like me,” he mumbled, his words barely audible.

“You know, you’re too serious,” you teased, poking at his hand lightly. “But I still like you anyway.”

Jungwon looked away, but a smile twitched at the corner of his lips. “Hmph,” he finally said, flicking a sugar packet towards you. “You’re not so bad yourself. In small doses.”

☔️

The date continued similarly. You’d offer to split the bill, but he’d insist on paying. You’d reach for the menu, but he’d swat your hand away, insisting on ordering for you instead.

He was trying hard, and you couldn’t help but adore him even more despite the awkwardness.

Just as you finished teasing Jungwon, music began to play in the restaurant. The lively beat echoed through the room as the servers clapped their hands and started encouraging diners to join them in the center of the floor to dance. You perked up immediately. “Oh my gosh, Jungwon! They’re dancing!”

He glanced at the crowd gathering in the middle of the restaurant and frowned. “Yeah, I can see that. What about it?”

“Let’s go!” you squealed.

His brows shot up. “What? No way.”

“Come on!” You were already out of your seat, grabbing his hand and pulling him up. He barely had time to protest as you dragged him toward the impromptu dance floor.

“I don’t dance,” he muttered, resisting slightly, but you didn’t let go.

“Well, you’re about to learn!” you declared with a grin, already swaying to the music as you pulled him into the crowd.

Jungwon looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole, but he sighed in defeat as you started twirling. He awkwardly moved his arms, shuffling his feet in time with yours. “This is embarrassing,” he grumbled, his face heating up.

“You’re doing great!” you cheered, beaming at him as you twirled again, laughing. “Come on, loosen up a little!”

“Loosen up?” he echoed incredulously. “I’m not a dancer!”

“You don’t have to be! Just have fun!” You reached for his hands, placing them on your waist as you guided his movements. “See? Not so bad!”

Jungwon muttered something under his breath, but his steps started to match yours. He tried to keep a scowl on his face, but the way you were laughing so freely made it impossible for him to stay annoyed.

“You’re smiling!” you teased,

“I’m not,” he argued, though the pink tint on his cheeks betrayed him.

“You are! Oh, Jungwon, you’re having fun!”

“I’m not having fun,” he deadpanned; his hands didn’t leave your waist as you swayed together.

“You’re lying,” you sang, twirling yourself and accidentally stepping on his foot.

“Ow—okay, now I’m definitely not having fun!” he groaned, wincing.

You gasped. “I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he muttered, shaking his head. But when you smiled sheepishly up at him, his chest felt lighter despite himself.

As the song ended and the crowd cheered, you clapped your hands excitedly. “That was so much fun!”

He sighed, muttering, “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” but the faint smile never left his face as you pulled him back to your seats.

☔️

The evening had been fantastic, but it was time to say goodbye. The cool night air surrounded you as you reached your front door. Jungwon walked you home, although he hardly admitted that he liked it. Every second of it.

“Alright,” he said, avoiding your eyes as you stood by your door. “You should lock the door when you get inside. And… don’t forget to check the windows too. It’s late, and you never know.”

You couldn’t help but smile at how concerned he sounded, even though he tried so hard to hide it. “Got it, Jungwon. Thanks,” you said, already knowing how sweet he was, even if he’d never admit it.

He shuffled on his feet, clearly not ready to leave just yet. “I’ll… I’ll call you when I get home, okay? Just in case. And make sure you don’t open the door for anyone unless you’re sure it’s them. You’re… you’re too nice, okay? People could take advantage.” You could hear a slight shake in his voice as he talked on. “And, uh… make sure you stay safe, alright?” He finally looked at you with worry.

You couldn’t help but giggle at how adorable he was being. You stepped a little closer to him, surprising him with a quick peck on the lips. “I’ll be fine, Jungwon,” you said softly. “And thank you. For everything.”

His face turned a deep shade of red, and he immediately turned his head away, muttering something that sounded like, “I-I wasn’t doing this for you to kiss me, okay?” But his voice was quieter now, a little softer than usual.

You laughed, enjoying the moment, but before he could say anything else, you stepped back and smiled at him. “Call me when you get home, okay?”

He nodded quickly, still blushing furiously. “Yeah, I will. You—don’t—don’t worry about me!” he stammered, turning on his heel to leave. But just as he was about to walk away, he stopped and turned back toward you, his face hidden in his hands.

“I-I love you, alright?!” he shouted, his voice cracking. He quickly turned away, clearly embarrassed, and started walking briskly down the street.

You stood there, frozen for a moment, a broad smile slowly spreading. That was all he needed to say, and you knew exactly how much he cared. You couldn’t help but laugh softly to yourself, feeling your heart flutter as you watched him walk off.

“Love you too, Jungwon,” you whispered to the night air, knowing he wouldn’t hear. But somehow, it felt like the most perfect moment.

[Extra Scene]

Months later…

Jungwon lay on his bed with his phone resting on a pillow. He looked at you through the screen.

“You miss me, don’t you?”

You scoffed as you shifted under your covers. “We saw each other three hours ago.”

He hummed. “That’s three hours too long.”

“Why are you smiling like that?” you asked while squinting at him through the screen.

He glanced at you and smirked. “What, I can’t smile?”

“Not like that,” you said, raising an eyebrow. “You look like you’re up to something.”

Jungwon sighed dramatically as he turned onto his side. “Can’t a guy just admire his girlfriend?”

You scoffed. “You’re so full of it.”

“I’m serious,” he said, resting his chin on his hand. “You look cute today.”

You blinked. “…It’s a video call. You can barely see me properly.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he replied smoothly. “You’re always cute.”

His door suddenly creaked open before you could even think of a response.

“Mom! He’s at it again!”

Jungwon’s head snapped toward the door, his face instantly turning sour. His older sister stood there, arms crossed, and seemed to be entertained at her brother, who was way out of character.

You burst into laughter.

Jungwon groaned. “Can you not?”

“Oh, wait—” She smirked, peeking at the screen. “Hi! Are you the poor soul who has to listen to his crap every day?”

You bit your lip, trying so hard not to laugh. “Hi…”

“Oh my God.” Jungwon groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow and chucking it toward the door. “OUT!”

His sister dodged effortlessly. “Okay, okay, lover boy! calm down.” She wiggled her fingers at you. “Bye, future sister-in-law!”

“Just saying! You’re embarrassing,” she said to Jungwon while backing out of the room.

‘’GET OUT!’’

The door shut, leaving Jungwon lying there, face buried in his pillow.

You were still giggling. “Lover boy?”

He exhaled sharply as he peeked through the screen. “We’re never talking about this again.”

You grinned. “Sure, lover boy.”

“Okay, I’m hanging up.”

“No, you’re not.”

“…No, I’m not,” he admitted and groaned.

[yaniluvs]

is it a kiss if we share a straw? ✿ 'cause i like you a (matcha) latte

[ 승민‎ ] ✷ ‎  . . 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖽𝗒 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋'𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗐, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗎𝗆𝗉𝗒 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 !

⟡ read the prequel here ⟡

۫ 𖨂 𓈒 𝑛erdy!seungmin ₊ ‎ ‎ 𝑓em!reader g. fluff , humour , uni!au , classmates to lovers, skz ensemble. I3,7OOw. ⎯⎯⎯ L𝒾BRARY . 𓋜 . cw. bantering , jokes , intimacy , pets. ✦ requested. ! ࿐

yani's note ! ✿ oh god when i tell you all i had reached the IOOO blocks limit.. i almost died. so i had to edit this entirely to merge some blocks. haha.. the sequel is much longer than the prequel. well, you all deserve it since you loved the prequel !! i loved this fic so much >< thank you to the lovely iza for helping me w the titles bc my brain almost died !! also y'all please send me some requests for valentines/galentines month <3 anon. claims are also open !! hope you all like it !!! comments, likes, req./asks and reblogs are always appreciated ! send in a reply or an ask if you want to be in my mastertag, or my individual series' taglists. happy reading <3

it was a normal morning. seungmin had woken up to the sound of jisung dramatically singing in the shower, half-dressed and flinging water everywhere like they were in some kind of k-drama opening sequence. he had stepped over piles of jisung’s clothes, debated throwing one of his textbooks at him, and had finally settled at his desk, groaning at the mess around him. it was too early for this.

and yet— knock. knock. knock. the loud, rhythmic knocking echoed through their shared dorm. jisung, now out of the shower, poked his head out from the bathroom, toothbrush still in his mouth. "you expectin' someone?" seungmin stared at him. and then his eyes widened. oh no. he was expecting someone. before he could even get up, the knocking intensified—faster, louder, insistent. jisung pulled his toothbrush out of his mouth and smirked. “that’s a very excited knock.” seungmin scowled. “shut up.” the knocking was immediately followed by a singsong voice. “seungminnnn~ open up!” jisung practically lit up. “oh my god.” he gasped. “is that—” seungmin groaned, pushing past him and heading for the door. and when he opened it— y/n stood there, practically glowing in the morning light, wearing sneakers that looked like they had been through war.

in her hands?

two matcha lattes in takeout cups.

a small bag of pastries.

and another little package tied up neatly with string.

she grinned up at him. “good morning, seungminnie.”

he deadpanned. “never call me that again.”

she giggled and stepped inside, unfazed by his immediate rejection.

seungmin closed the door behind her. “you’re early.”

she hummed. “i like being early.”

“of course you do. isn't that why you were always early to our study sessions at the café?”

jisung, still standing by the bathroom, towel draped over his shoulders, wiggled his eyebrows.

“so this is what you two were doing instead of the café.”

y/n turned to him, brightening. “jisung! good morning.”

seungmin crossed his arms. “don’t entertain him.”

too late.

jisung grinned. “are those for me?”

y/n gasped, clutching the drinks to her chest. “no.”

jisung pouted. “not even the pastries?”

“i brought these for seungmin and me,” y/n stated proudly. “and these—” she wiggled the little package tied with string, “—are homemade treats for star.”

seungmin blinked.

she baked for his dog.

for his dog.

well, star was hers first but you get the point.

“wow,” jisung muttered, shaking his head in amazement. “so this is what love looks like.”

seungmin threw a pillow at him.

“get out.”

jisung dodged with ease, snickering as he padded toward his room. “i’ll leave you two alone. have fun being married.”

seungmin turned to y/n, about to say something—

only to find her already halfway to the couch, scanning the room excitedly.

“where’s star?” she asked, looking around like an impatient kid.

seungmin sighed. “he’s in my room.”

y/n immediately made a beeline for his door.

“y/n, don’t just barge in—”

too late.

she had already swung the door open, stepping inside like she owned the place.

and then— her heart melted. because there, curled up in a nest of blankets on seungmin’s bed, was star.

his golden fur was slightly tousled from sleep, his body curled into himself, peaceful, warm. and when he lifted his head, his dark brown eyes blinking sleepily— y/n felt her entire soul leave her body.

“hi, baby,” she whispered, stepping closer.

star’s ears perked. his nose twitched. he recognized her.

in an instant, his tail thumped against the mattress, his body wiggling with excitement.

y/n squealed. “you remember me!”

seungmin leaned against the doorway, watching as star launched himself off the bed and into her arms. y/n caught him, stumbling slightly as she hugged him tight, her face buried in his fur.

she giggled, pressing soft kisses to his head. “i missed you.”

seungmin rolled his eyes. “it’s been one day.”

y/n ignored him completely, pulling out the treats she had baked.

“look what i made for you, star,” she cooed, untying the package. “i made them with lots of love.”

seungmin snorted. “he’s a dog, not a boyfriend.”

y/n gasped, scandalized. “seungmin, take that back.”

“no.”

she glared. “you’re lucky i brought you a latte.”

“yeah, yeah.” he waved her off. “come on, let’s start the project.”

she pouted but followed him to the table, star happily munching on his treat at her feet.

seungmin slid into the chair across from her, sipping the matcha latte she brought.

(he wasn’t going to admit it, but it tasted really good.)

y/n, on the other hand, was already distracted.

“you know, seungmin,” she mused, sipping her drink. “i think you should get star a cute sweater.”

he raised an eyebrow. “a sweater?”

“yes.” she nodded firmly. “something classy. maybe a turtleneck.”

jisung, from the hallway, “a dog in a turtleneck??”

y/n gasped. “oh my god. yes.”

seungmin groaned. “you’re insane.”

she just grinned. “and you love it.”

seungmin opened his mouth to argue— only to close it again.

because, for some reason, watching her sit there, smiling so brightly, sipping her matcha like she owned the world—

he couldn’t bring himself to disagree. maybe he did love it.

maybe… he was starting to love a lot of things about her. and that thought? was a little terrifying. but still, a little exciting.

so, when thirty minutes into their so-called project work, seungmin had come to a harsh, undeniable conclusion: this was not a study session.

it was a y/n-admires-star-and-gets-distracted-every-five-seconds session. and it was infuriating.

"y/n," seungmin sighed, dragging a hand down his face, "focus."

"i am focused," she argued, still not looking at him.

seungmin followed her gaze—

she was star-ing at star. again. [see what i did there?]

the golden retriever was curled up beside her chair, sleeping peacefully, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. and y/n? she had completely zoned out mid-sentence, her cheek resting against her hand, eyes soft as she watched star’s ears twitch in his sleep.

seungmin clicked his tongue. "what exactly are you focused on?"

she blinked, barely registering his words. "him."

jisung, from the kitchen, snorted.

"are you serious right now?" seungmin groaned.

y/n hummed. "mhm."

seungmin leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "i knew this was a bad idea. we should’ve just gone to the café."

y/n finally tore her gaze away from star to look at him, gasping in fake offense. "excuse me?"

"you heard me," seungmin deadpanned.

she scoffed. "first of all, rude. second, blasphemy. third, i brought you a matcha latte, and this is how you repay me?"

jisung cackled. "she's got a point."

"shut up, squirrel-face."

y/n pouted dramatically, sinking into her chair. "you don’t appreciate anything. i bet star appreciates me more than you do."

seungmin exhaled sharply. "he's a dog."

she gasped. "and? that just means he has purer judgment."

seungmin narrowed his eyes. "so what you’re saying is that my dog likes you more than me?"

y/n grinned. "oh, absolutely."

jisung smirked. "can’t argue with that one."

seungmin threw his pen at him.

"okay," seungmin sighed, rubbing his temples. "since you're so focused on star, tell me—what exactly is so fascinating about him?"

y/n lit up. oh no. this was a mistake.

she leaned forward, clasping her hands together like she had been waiting for him to ask.

"well, first of all," she began, "look at him."

seungmin deadpanned. "i do look at him. every day. because he's my dog."

"dude, it's been three days since you've seen him. and the first was at the adoption cent-"

she ignored the two. "he's literally the cutest thing. did you notice how his ears flop when he breathes?"

jisung muttered, "here we go."

y/n gasped dramatically. "and the little scar on his eyebrow? he looks like a pirate. a handsome pirate."

seungmin tilted his head. "handsome pirate?"

"yes!" y/n cried. "he has this rugged, mysterious look—like a hero with a tragic past."

jisung choked on his water.

seungmin stared at her, baffled. "you think my dog has a tragic past?"

"...he does," y/n huffed. "the whole reason he was in the shelter is because— well, he was abandoned.. and not treated with care. which is why he deserves all the love in the world now."

her voice softened slightly at the last part.

and for a second—just a second—seungmin didn’t have a sarcastic remark ready.

he just watched as she gazed at star again, her fingers lightly brushing against the fur on his back.

soft. gentle. affectionate.

there was something about the way she cared that made something uncomfortable stir in his chest.

he quickly cleared his throat. "so you're saying he’s a main character."

"obviously," y/n nodded. "if this were a movie, he'd be the heartwarming, lovable side character who helps the protagonist through tough times."

"then what does that make you?"

she blinked.

then she grinned. "the best friend. duh."

jisung chimed in from the kitchen, "pretty sure you're the main character here."

[han's mind rn: the fourth wall??? what is it?]

y/n laughed. "oh no, seungmin's the main character. he's all broody and grumpy and—"

seungmin raised an eyebrow. "and what?"

she smirked. "secretly a softie."

jisung howled.

seungmin groaned, shoving his textbook over to her. "read. before i kick you out."

y/n giggled but picked up the book obediently, flipping through the pages. "fine, fine. but just so you know, i'm gonna see star every single day from now on."

seungmin sipped his latte. "did i have a choice?"

"nope."

he exhaled through his nose. "figures."

jisung snickered. "damn. she already owns half of this dorm and it hasn't even been a day."

y/n beamed. "you're right. i should start bringing decorations."

"don't even think about it."

she winked. and somehow—between y/n's constant distractions, jisung's unhelpful commentary, and star snoring at their feet— seungmin found himself not minding it at all.

. . .

seungmin had a headache. not because of uni. not because of work. but because the girl just wouldn't shut the fuck up.

the study session had officially derailed at this point. and to make matters worse, jisung—his supposed best friend—had fully switched sides and was entertaining y/n’s nonsense instead of helping to keep her on track.

“seungmin, do you think star has dreams?” y/n asked suddenly, staring at the sleeping dog beside her with a fond smile.

seungmin blinked, deadpan. “huh?”

“like—what do you think he dreams about?”

jisung smirked from across the couch, munching on one of the pastries y/n had brought. “bet he dreams about running through a field of treats.”

“or maybe about fighting evil!” y/n gasped, dramatically throwing a fist in the air. “like a true hero.”

seungmin dragged a hand down his face. “y/n, i swear—”

“or maybe he dreams about you,” she cut in, turning toward him with a teasing grin. “since you’re his owner and all.”

he hesitated. for a second. and for some reason, that second was too long.

y/n noticed.

her eyes twinkled, mischief curling at the edges of her lips. “oh my god. do you care about that?”

seungmin scowled, turning back to his notes. “i literally do not care.”

“liar.”

jisung snorted. “she got you there.”

seungmin groaned, flipping to another page in his textbook, pretending to focus. “can we please study?”

y/n hummed. “mmm, maybe later.”

his eye twitched. “maybe later?”

she nodded, taking a sip of her matcha latte. “mhm.”

jisung laughed. “yeah, man. priorities.”

seungmin closed his eyes, exhaling through his nose.

he could throw them both out. he could lock the door. he could actually get his work done in peace.

but he didn’t.

instead, he sighed and turned his head slightly—just enough to see y/n sitting on the floor, her legs tucked under her, her fingers running absentmindedly through star’s fur as she murmured something to him.

soft.

she was soft. i'm aware i mentioned it before. but this man is just too smitten and he doesn't wanna admit it.

moving on.

it was annoying how much that was becoming a fact in his life.

his throat felt weird.

he cleared it. “if we’re not going to study, at least do something productive.”

y/n looked up. “like what?”

jisung pointed lazily. “laundry.”

“ew, i'm not washing some boys' laundry. pass.”

“dishes.”

“hard pass.”

seungmin sighed. “what i meant was.. help clean up the disaster you made on the table. not your chores, jisung.”

jisung pouted. “it was worth a try.”

she stood up, stretching her arms over her head before reaching for the empty takeout cups. seungmin didn’t know why—but his eyes lingered on her for a second too long.

the way her sleeves slid slightly down her wrists. the soft hum she let out as she moved. the light clicking of her rings as they tapped against the cups.

it was—

subtle.

but not enough. he looked away, shaking his head as jisung smirked at him from across the room.

don’t. seungmin mouthed.

jisung grinned.

seungmin glared.

jisung winked.

seungmin threw a pen at him. (x2)

by the time evening rolled around, the three of them had managed to not study for a total of six hours.

seungmin didn’t even know how that was possible.

somewhere in between y/n stealing one of his blankets (“it’s cold, seungmo, have a heart”), jisung and y/n dramatically reenacting an entire scene from a movie (“what are we, if not cosmic dust floating in the abyss?”—“jisung, shut up”), and y/n curling up beside star again (“you’re the cutest thing in the world—yes, i mean you, star”),

seungmin had lost control of the day.

and yet.

he let it happen.

because when y/n turned her head slightly and smiled at him—genuinely, softly, with that bright look in her eyes like she was just happy to be here—

seungmin didn’t mind it at all. not one bit. soon, enough, it was right after the sun had set, and y/n, unfortunately, had to leave.

she unlocked the door to her shared dorm, pushing it open with her shoulder. the soft hum of the night filled the space as she stepped in, her body exhausted but her heart… full.

“where have you been?”

rina’s voice rang from the couch, where she was lying upside down, her head hanging off the edge as she scrolled through her phone.

aeri, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a cup of tea, smirked. “let me guess—seungmin?”

y/n shut the door behind her, pausing. “…no?”

a beat of silence. aeri and rina stared at her.

y/n groaned, kicking off her shoes. “okay, yes—but it was for the project!”

aeri snorted. “mhm. project.”

“yeah, totally.” rina rolled onto her side. “is that why you’re smiling like an idiot right now?”

“i am not—”

“you so are.”

y/n scowled, throwing a cushion at them. “shut up.”

they laughed, rina catching the cushion before sitting up properly. “seriously though, how was it?”

y/n sighed, plopping onto the couch beside her. “it was… nice.”

aeri hummed, sipping her tea. “just nice?”

“yeah. we didn’t even get much work done, honestly.”

rina raised a brow. “you didn’t get work done? that’s new.”

y/n shrugged, rubbing at her eyes. “i dunno… star was there, and jisung was being jisung, and it was just…” she trailed off, her gaze softening.

they noticed.

aeri set her mug down, tilting her head. “you really like that dog, huh?”

y/n smiled, running a hand through her hair. “yeah. a lot.”

she didn’t say more. she didn’t have to. because they both knew what she wasn’t saying.

knew how much that golden retriever meant to her.

knew how much she had worried about him for days.

and now—he was safe. with seungmin, of all people.

her stomach flipped at the thought.

“seungmin’s a good guy,” rina murmured after a moment.

y/n blinked, looking at her.

aeri nodded. “yeah. kinda stiff, but still.”

y/n huffed a small laugh. “yeah. he’s good.”

she didn’t realize she was smiling again. she didn’t realize how warm her chest felt.

she only realized when aeri and rina exchanged knowing looks.

“omg—”

“no.”

they gasped.

rina grabbed her arm. “you like him.”

“i do not—”

aeri smirked. “y/n and seungmin, sitting in a tree—”

“i will throw you out.”

they died laughing as y/n groaned, shoving her face into a pillow. her heart thumped in her chest.

god. she hated them.

but maybe, they weren’t entirely wrong.

the air was crisp. sunlight streamed through the glass windows of the university’s main hall, casting golden streaks across the floor. y/n walked in, her bag slung over her shoulder. the campus was bustling, students huddled in groups, talking, laughing, yawning from their morning exhaustion. she weaved through the crowd, searching—

“y/n!”

she turned at the sound of her name, spotting felix and hyunjin across the hall.

felix waved dramatically. “we were about to call you.”

hyunjin grinned. “where were you last night? we tried calling you.”

y/n sighed. “oh my god, not you too.”

felix perked up. “ooooh, why? who else asked?”

she immediately regretted speaking.

hyunjin gasped. “wait, wait—was it seungmin?”

y/n choked on her coffee.

felix clapped. “that’s a yes!”

“i hate you guys.”

they cackled as they walked toward their lecture hall, hyunjin slinging an arm around her shoulders. “c’mon, spill. what happened?”

y/n groaned. “nothing!”

felix wiggled his brows. “oh? you sure?”

“i will end you, lee felix.”

the university library was quiet—well, as quiet as it could be with them in it. the scent of old books mixed with the sharp aroma of coffee, and the late afternoon sun filtered through the large glass windows, casting soft, golden hues over the long study tables. dust motes floated lazily in the warm light, drifting like tiny fireflies in the still air. the heavy shelves stretched toward the ceiling, lined with worn spines and crinkled pages, whispering secrets of past knowledge. somewhere in the distance, the occasional sound of a page turning or a muffled cough punctuated the silence, but at their table, silence was a foreign concept.

y/n sat between felix and hyunjin, her open notebook filled with neatly written notes, margins lined with underlined key points and little doodles she barely remembered sketching. the steady scratch of her pen against paper was a familiar rhythm, almost meditative, yet constantly interrupted by felix's restless shifting and hyunjin's occasional, dramatic sighs. across from them, aeri was flipping through her economics textbook, brows furrowed, her highlighter hovering in hesitation before finally marking a passage in a precise, straight line. rina, on the other hand, looked far too unbothered for someone who was definitely lagging behind, sipping lazily on her iced americano, the condensation dripping onto her untouched notes. the cup left a wet ring on the paper, but she didn’t seem to care, content to simply exist in this moment of chaotic tranquility.

felix stretched his arms above his head before slumping back into his chair with an exaggerated groan, the wooden legs creaking under his weight. he adjusted his reading glasses, even though they served no real purpose beyond aesthetics. "so let me get this straight," he began, tilting his head as if the angle would somehow change the reality of the situation. "you guys have been studying for the past week and i just found out we have an assignment due tomorrow?"

hyunjin snorted, flipping his pen between his fingers with practiced ease. "lix, it was literally on the syllabus."

"who reads the syllabus?"

aeri sighed, flipping a page, her expression exasperated yet unsurprised. "people who want to pass, maybe?"

felix rolled his eyes before turning to y/n, nudging her arm with the side of his hand like an impatient child. "you’re good at this. help me."

y/n sighed dramatically, her gaze shifting from felix’s pleading expression to the scattered mess that was his notes—half-written sentences, numbers that had no business being in those equations, and a truly concerning number of crossed-out attempts. "i always help you."

"that’s ‘cause i’m your favorite."

rina leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm, a slow smirk tugging at her lips. "that’s funny, because i thought i was her favorite."

"i thought i was," hyunjin added, raising a brow.

aeri scoffed, feigning offense. "she likes me the most. y/n, tell them."

y/n stared at them all, unimpressed, tapping her pen against the edge of her notebook. "none of you are my favorite."

a beat of silence stretched between them.

"yeah 'cause it's probably seungmin now." murmured a devastated hyunjin.

felix gasped, placing a hand over his heart as if physically wounded. "how could you?"

hyunjin wiped a fake tear. "we were best friends, y/n."

aeri shook her head in disappointment. "wow. betrayal."

rina sighed, sipping her coffee with the air of someone deeply wronged. "i trusted you."

y/n groaned, rubbing her temples. "oh my god, shut up and study!"

felix pouted but leaned in closer, resting his chin on his hand. "fine. but only if you explain this." he pointed to his book, where a bunch of equations were scribbled down, some very wrong.

y/n took one glance and winced. "felix… what is that?"

"my attempt at math?"

"it looks like you just guessed."

"…isn’t that how math works?"

aeri smacked his arm with her highlighter. "no."

hyunjin burst into laughter while rina shook her head, stirring her coffee absentmindedly. "you are so hopeless."

felix whined, turning back to y/n. "okay, okay, explain it to me."

y/n sighed, but there was fondness in her voice. "alright, listen carefully…" she leaned in, grabbing a pen, and started breaking down the equations step by step, her handwriting smooth and deliberate, looping over the lined paper in a way that made even numbers look elegant. felix watched with exaggerated concentration, nodding along as if he actually understood, though his occasional side glances at hyunjin betrayed his confusion. hyunjin watched for a few seconds before stretching his arms out with a groan. "i give up. my brain hurts."

"same," rina mumbled, propping her cheek against her palm.

aeri rolled her eyes. "you guys have the attention span of goldfish."

"i have the attention span of a very smart goldfish, thank you," hyunjin corrected, tossing his pen onto his notebook with a soft clatter.

felix nodded. "same. i’m a gifted goldfish."

"omg, lixie, what if we become cute goldfish together!"

y/n groaned, pressing her forehead against the table for a dramatic moment. "yeah, actually, why don't you? the pool's in the next building!"

y/n had a talent for many things. writing poetry? check. memorizing entire songs after listening to them twice? absolutely. winning over strangers with her sunshine personality? without a doubt.

but being on time? yeah, no.

her eyes widened as she looked at the time on her phone. the numbers blinked back at her, unforgiving and merciless. oh shit indeed.

the library around her suddenly felt suffocating, the quiet hum of study murmurs and the distant shuffle of pages all blending into white noise. the golden afternoon light spilling through the windows no longer felt warm and dreamy; it was a glaring reminder of the twenty minutes that had already passed.

“oh shit.”

felix and hyunjin, who were still lounging at their study table, looked up in unison, their gazes slow and unconcerned. the contrast between their leisure and her rising panic was almost comical.

hyunjin blinked. "language."

“oh my god, i’m late!” y/n scrambled to shove her books into her tote bag, her movements frantic and chaotic. papers crumpled under the force of her hands, and in her rush, her elbow nearly knocked over the remnants of her coffee. the cup wobbled dangerously before felix, ever the observer, reached out and steadied it with a lazy hand.

“i was supposed to meet seungmin twenty minutes ago!” her voice wavered somewhere between hysteria and despair.

felix, unfazed, took a slow sip of his drink. “oh, he’s gonna murder you.”

“i know!”

hyunjin grinned, resting his chin in his palm. “do you want us to attend your funeral, or would you prefer we just remember you as you were?”

“not helping!” she hissed, yanking the strap of her bag over her shoulder with more force than necessary.

aeri, who had been listening from the next table, raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. "you guys are studying again?"

y/n waved a frantic hand. "yes, but listen—i planned something. a genius plan. a brilliant plan."

felix leaned forward, intrigued, though his smirk suggested he was already expecting something ridiculous. “do tell.”

“we’re not studying in his dorm.”

hyunjin’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “then where?”

y/n’s fingers flew over her phone as she sent a frantic ‘sorry! on my way!! don’t kill me!!!’ text before looking back at them, practically vibrating with excitement.

“i thought… instead of just sitting indoors, we could take star out.” she grinned, eyes gleaming with mischief. “maybe a walk? or even better—a garden! a little picnic study session! nature, fresh air, vibes.”

felix stared at her for a long moment, then burst into laughter. "you’re just using the project as an excuse to hang out with star, aren’t you?"

“…no.”

aeri smirked, arms crossed. "uh-huh. sure. and does seungmin know?"

y/n cleared her throat, her gaze darting to the side. "…he’ll find out when we get there."

hyunjin grinned, eyes glinting with amusement. “so basically, you’re kidnapping him.”

“i prefer the term forcefully encouraging outdoor bonding time,” y/n corrected, lifting her chin in faux sophistication.

felix leaned back in his chair, his laughter still lingering in the air. “or it's more of a date.”

“okay, okay, i have to go.” y/n swung her bag over her shoulder with all the grace of someone teetering on the edge of disaster. “if i don’t text in the next hour, assume seungmin has buried me alive.”

“will do,” hyunjin said cheerfully. “good luck, kidnapper.”

y/n rolled her eyes but didn’t stop to argue. instead, she bolted out of the library, weaving between study tables and stacks of books, her hurried footsteps echoing against the quiet hush of the space. the moment she pushed through the heavy doors and into the cool evening air, her heart pounded against her ribs.

seungmin was so going to kill her. but at least he’d have to do it after their impromptu picnic.

“notice how she didn't deny about it being a date?”

y/n practically sprinted to her dorm, dodging students and weaving through the hallways like she was in an action movie. her hair whipped around her face, strands catching in the soft glow of overhead lights, and her breath came in short, determined bursts. her mind raced faster than her feet, already imagining seungmin’s unimpressed stare, his sharp eyes narrowed in something between disappointment and reluctant amusement.

she nearly crashed into rina, who had just stepped out.

“woah—where’s the fire?” she laughed, stepping aside.

“in seungmin’s eyes if i don’t get there soon!” y/n yelled, yanking open the door and rushing inside.

“told you he’d kill you one of these days.”

“yeah, yeah,” y/n huffed, throwing her tote bag onto the floor. she hurriedly grabbed her water bottle, some notebooks, and very important essentials—star’s treats, a small blanket, and, of course, snacks. rina peered into the bag, her expression knowing. "you realize you’re doing more for this dog than you did for our last project, right?"

"first of all, rude," y/n shot back, stuffing one last thing into her tote. "second of all—no time to argue, i gotta go!"

she waved lazily. "don’t get yourself murdered."

y/n barely heard her as she bolted out of the dorm, her feet pounding against the pavement, heart racing. the wind bit at her skin, but she barely noticed. she had a mission.

so, by the time y/n reached seungmin and jisung’s dorm, she was breathless, her chest rising and falling rapidly, but victorious. she knocked rapidly, shifting her tote bag from one shoulder to the other. the door swung open, revealing jisung with terribly disheveled hair, not that she judged.

“ah,” he said, arms crossed, his features alight with mischief. “so you do have a death wish.”

y/n pouted. “i apologized!”

“thirty-eight minutes late,” he pointed out, raising an eyebrow. “a bold move, considering the man inside is the seungmin.”

y/n huffed, lifting the three matcha lattes in her hand. “bribery, if you will.”

jisung’s eyes twinkled with amusement as he stepped aside. “well, in that case, welcome.”

she stepped in, spotting seungmin at his desk. he barely looked up.

“you’re late.”

“i know,” y/n whined, setting the drinks down. “i had a valid reason.”

seungmin glanced at the drinks, his lips twitching. “bribery won’t work.”

“but this bribery includes your favorite matcha latte. i brought one for you too, ji!” she grinned.

jisung nodded. “compelling argument.”

seungmin sighed but grabbed the drink. “fine. you’re forgiven. for now.”

the second y/n stepped into the hallway, her eyes immediately searched for the golden fluffball.

“star!” she gasped, dramatically dropping to her knees as if she’d been away for years.

star, in all his fluffy, golden, star-like glory, perked up at the sound of her voice, tail wagging furiously.

“oh my baby—” y/n cooed, completely ignoring seungmin as she placed her tote bag down and reached for star. he excitedly trotted toward her, his tail thumping against the floor as she cupped his face and showered him with scratches.

“i missed you so much,” she whispered against his fur, her voice soft as she ran her hands over his head and back. she checked his food bowl, peeked at his bed, and gave him a homemade treat like the concerned parent she definitely wasn’t but absolutely felt like.

seungmin, watching the whole ordeal with an unimpressed expression, sighed. “are you actually here to study or just to visit him?”

“both,” y/n shot back, still petting star. “but mostly him.”

“figures,” seungmin muttered.

“good. now, time for the next part.”

seungmin narrowed his eyes. “what next part?”

y/n blinked innocently. “oh. did i forget to mention?”

seungmin stared. “excuse me?”

jisung, watching from the couch, was thriving on the dynamic. “okay, so are you guys going now or…?”

y/n stood up suddenly and grabbed seungmin’s wrist. “yep! let’s go.”

seungmin blinked. “go where—”

“no questions.”

“so you're kidnapping me now?”

“i prefer the term ‘forcefully encouraging outdoor bonding time,’” y/n corrected.

seungmin’s deadpan stare could have melted steel.

“no.”

“yes.”

jisung, delighted, grabbed a snack. “i voted yes ages ago.”

y/n huffed. “well, too bad, seung. you’re coming whether you like it or not.” she grabbed his wrist and pulled.

seungmin groaned. “i hate this already.”

“no, you don’t.”

“…no, i don’t.”

jisung waved. “have fun, lovebirds.”

“say that to my face when i come back to you and minho making out on the couch.”

“um, is privacy just a concept now???” jisung's eyes widened and he almost fell off the couch from the remark. “leave us alone!”

and just like that, she was dragging him forward, with star happily trotting beside them.

seungmin let himself be pulled (because, really, what other choice did he have?) as jisung waved them off. as they stepped outside, y/n grinned triumphantly. she was taking seungmin and star on a picnic.

call it a date, if you want to.

this was a win, either way.

the streets were alive with the hum of the noon—the soft chatter of pedestrians, the occasional honk of a distant car, the faint rustle of leaves as the wind carried whispers through the trees. the golden hour painted the world in warmth.

seungmin shoved his hands in his pockets as y/n led the way, walking slightly ahead with star. the breeze tugged at the loose strands of her hair, lifting them gently as if the wind itself were playing along. she was practically bouncing on her feet, occasionally turning back to look at seungmin with the biggest, most childlike grin ever.

he hated how cute it was. star trotted beside her, his tail wagging as he happily sniffed the air. the scent of freshly baked bread from a nearby café mixed with the subtle fragrance of damp earth, the aftermath of a brief afternoon drizzle. y/n giggled, reaching down to scratch star’s head.

“you’re such a good boy, you know that?” she cooed, her voice soft. “you deserve all the happiness in the world, my baby.”

seungmin raised an eyebrow. “i hope you know you’ve just activated his ‘spoiled prince’ mode.”

y/n shot him a look. “excuse me? star deserves to be treated like royalty.”

“he’s literally been in my dorm for one day, and he already walks around like he owns the place.”

“that’s right, baby, you’re the king. own it.”

seungmin muttered something under his breath, but he couldn’t hide the amused look in his eyes.

they turned a corner, walking past a row of small cafés. the air carried hints of roasted coffee beans and sweet pastries, the kind of scents that made everything feel a little warmer, a little cozier. y/n pointed at one of them.

“oh! that’s where felix and i go for late-night coffee runs.”

“late-night coffee runs? you mean ‘let’s see how much caffeine we can consume before death’ runs?”

“how dare you? we are simply connoisseurs of the fine art that is coffee appreciation.”

“you’re addicts.”

“you sound like aeri.”

“well, maybe aeri is right.”

“betrayal. i trusted you.”

“you trust way too easily.”

“that’s called being nice, seungmin.”

“more like being reckless.”

y/n stuck her tongue out at him. “you’re just mad because i forced you outside.”

“i am mad,” seungmin deadpanned. “i was perfectly fine at home, but no, you had to drag me into the world of socializing and fresh air.”

“fresh air is good for you.”

“no, staying inside and avoiding people is good for me.”

y/n snorted. “you are such a grandpa.”

seungmin side-eyed her. “and you are such a child.”

“and yet, here you are, following a said child to a picnic.”

seungmin sighed, looking up at the sky. “this is my life now.”

y/n just laughed, swinging their hands slightly before realizing what she was doing and immediately letting go.

seungmin didn’t say anything. they reached a quieter street, lined with trees. the golden hour made everything glow, and y/n looked at the street, eyes sparkling.

“it’s so pretty,” she murmured.

y/n suddenly turned to him, her expression soft. “aren’t you glad i dragged you out now?”

seungmin glanced at her, taking in the way her eyes shone in the golden light, the way she absentmindedly reached down to scratch behind star’s ear, the way she looked so effortlessly happy.

he sighed. “i guess it’s not that bad.”

y/n grinned. “that’s the closest thing to a compliment i’ll ever get from you, huh?”

“correct.”

she giggled, and they walked on, letting the peaceful evening carry them forward.

the park was bathed in golden sunlight by the time they arrived, the grass glowing under the warmth of the late afternoon. the blades swayed gently with the occasional breeze, casting playful shadows over the earth. the air smelled of sun-warmed leaves and the faint perfume of wildflowers that lined the walking paths. birds flitted between branches, their soft chirping blending seamlessly with the rustling of leaves. in the distance, laughter and chatter wove into the afternoon air—people jogging along the winding trails, couples lounging on picnic blankets, and children chasing soccer balls with delighted squeals.

but for y/n, it was perfect. a vast, open space. fresh air. the scent of flowers. and most importantly—star.

“finally!” y/n cheered, practically skipping onto the grass as she let go of seungmin’s wrist and crouched down.

“star! you’re free! run, my love, run!” she dramatically spoke.

the dog, catching onto the excitement, let out a happy bark and dashed across the field. his golden fur shimmered under the sunlight as he zoomed in circles, his ears flopping with every movement. the grass bent beneath his paws, tiny petals bursting into the air where he ran.

seungmin exhaled, rubbing his temples. “i feel like i’m babysitting two creatures at once.”

y/n shot him a playful glare. “excuse you. i am a fully functional human being.”

seungmin crossed his arms. “are you? because i just watched you sprint into the park like a five-year-old.”

“i am excited, seungmin! let me live!” y/n huffed, standing up straight and placing her hands on her hips. “look at him. look at my son being all happy.”

seungmin followed her gaze, watching as star excitedly sniffed around, kicking up grass with his paws. he had to admit—watching the dog so free and joyful was kind of… nice. the late sunlight glowed against star’s fur, a halo of gold against the soft green of the park.

y/n, noticing seungmin’s soft expression, nudged him. “see? this is fun. you’re having fun, aren’t you?”

seungmin scoffed. “i'll have fun when we finish our project.”

y/n gasped dramatically. “you love star. you love spending time outside with me. you just don’t wanna admit it.”

seungmin turned to her, deadpan. “i tolerate you at best.”

y/n smirked. “mm-hmm, sure, mr. ‘i secretly enjoy this but will never admit it.’”

seungmin ignored her, crouching down and clicking his tongue. “star, come here.”

star, tail wagging, instantly ran over to seungmin. y/n watched in amusement as seungmin gently patted the dog’s head, scratching behind his ears.

“wow,” y/n teased, arms crossed. “you really are a softie.”

“i am not,” seungmin retorted.

“oh, you so are,” y/n giggled, dropping down beside them. she reached out, rubbing star’s belly as he flopped onto the grass.

for a moment, the world was quiet—just the sound of birds, the occasional laughter of kids in the distance, and the rustling of leaves in the wind. and then, unexpectedly, seungmin chuckled.

it was soft—barely there—but y/n heard it.

she turned her head quickly, eyes turning into little crescents as she smiled, looking at the guy while he pet star.

“your smile is adorable, you know,”

“can we go and actually study now?” seungmin insisted, turning away.

y/n grinned mischievously. “seungmin has a pretty smile, confirmed.”

seungmin rolled his eyes. “shut up.”

“make me.”

seungmin shot her a look. “do you want me to throw you in a bush?”

“you wouldn’t dare.”

seungmin smirked. “test me.”

y/n, still grinning, turned back to star, petting his fur. she didn’t push further, but something about this moment—seungmin smiling, actually enjoying himself—made her heart feel… warm.

then, after what felt like forever of running around with star, playing fetch, and letting him explore every flower patch in sight, they finally settled under a large oak tree. the bark was rough against their backs, but the shade was cool, offering a soft reprieve from the sun’s golden heat.

seungmin stretched his legs out, pulling out his laptop. “alright. now can we actually get to work?”

y/n sat cross-legged across from him, her notebook and a takeout cup in front of her. “yes, yes, fine.”

seungmin raised an eyebrow. “you say that, but you’re still petting star.”

y/n froze mid-pat. “…okay, maybe i have a problem.”

seungmin sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “you definitely have a problem.”

still, he opened his laptop, scanning through the project notes. y/n followed along—at least, she tried to. but every few minutes, she found herself glancing at star, who was now napping beside them, his head resting on her thigh. he noticed.

“y/n.”

“hm?”

“you’re not paying attention.”

y/n blinked. “what? yes, i am.”

seungmin gave her an unimpressed look. “oh yeah? what did i just say?”

y/n panicked. “uh. something about, businesses..?”

seungmin sighed. “you’re impossible.”

y/n pouted. “look, i am listening, but how can i not admire this beautiful creature sleeping on my lap?”

seungmin side-eyed star. “yeah, yeah, he’s adorable. now focus.” y/n huffed, reluctantly turning back to her notes.

for a while, they actually worked—throwing around ideas, writing down key points, and organizing their research.

at some point, though, y/n noticed the way seungmin’s brows furrowed when he was focused, how he tapped his fingers against his laptop absentmindedly. and more than once, seungmin caught y/n just staring at him.

“what?” he finally asked, raising an eyebrow.

y/n shook her head. “nothing.”

seungmin narrowed his eyes. “are you admiring me now?”

y/n scoffed. “you look peaceful when you're reading.”

seungmin just blinked. “well.. i'm reading.”

they continued working, but there was something different now—something softer in the air. subtle things.

like how y/n adjusted star’s sleeping position carefully so he’d be more comfortable. like how seungmin absentmindedly handed y/n her coffee when he noticed she hadn’t taken a sip in a while.

like how their shoulders would brush every now and then, neither of them pulling away. it was all so small, yet it lingered.

and when the sun dipped lower, when the air got a little cooler, when the world felt quieter, y/n found herself thinking—

maybe this wasn’t so bad after all.

“star, come back, you little menace!” she giggled, barely able to keep up.

seungmin, standing a few feet away with his hands in his pockets, watched the scene unfold with an unreadable expression. his gaze flickered between y/n’s bright, joyful smile and the way star eagerly circled around her, tail wagging furiously.

it was ridiculous, how happy they looked together. ridiculous, and maybe a little… endearing.

star, realizing he was being chased, took that as an invitation to run even faster, his paws kicking up little tufts of grass.

“seungmin!” y/n called, breathless. “help me!”

seungmin sighed. “you brought this upon yourself.”

y/n pouted dramatically. “rude.”

still, seungmin finally crouched down and clicked his tongue, calling for star. instantly, the golden retriever skidded to a stop, his ears perking up as he sprinted toward seungmin instead.

y/n gasped, stopping in her tracks. “traitor!”

seungmin smirked as star practically crashed into him, licking his face. “i guess he likes me better.”

y/n stomped over, hands on her hips. “he does not!”

seungmin wiped his face with his sleeve. “he literally abandoned you for me.”

y/n huffed, flopping onto the grass beside him. star immediately lay down between them, tongue lolling out in content.

“fine,” she said dramatically. “maybe he likes you a little bit.”

seungmin raised an eyebrow. “wow. high praise.”

y/n stuck her tongue out at him before turning her attention back to star. she rubbed his belly, murmuring sweet nonsense as he wagged his tail in delight.

the moment was peaceful. warm. the kind of easy happiness that made time feel slower.

until—

a blur of brown and white fur came bounding toward them, yapping excitedly.

another dog, a lot smaller than star, skidded to a stop right in front of them. her fur was a mix of ginger-brown and cream, her ears flopping as she wagged her tail in excitement.

“oh?” y/n blinked, watching as the new dog sniffed star curiously.

before seungmin could react, a voice called out.

“berry! berry, you little gremlin, get back here!”

a guy—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in casual sweats—ran toward them, slightly out of breath, his australian accent quite evident. his curly hair was ruffled from the wind, and he had a charming, easygoing smile as he stopped a few feet away.

“oh man, i’m so sorry,” he said, hands on his knees as he caught his breath. “she just—she loves meeting other dogs.”

y/n, already grinning, waved him off. “no worries! star’s the exact same.”

the guy straightened, flashing a sheepish smile. “yeah? that’s good. she’s too friendly sometimes.” he gestured toward the excitable golden retriever, who was now playfully nudging star’s side. “her name’s berry.”

y/n gasped. “that is the cutest name ever.”

the guy laughed, clearly amused. “you think so? i was kinda worried it was too cutesy, but she looks like a little berry, so it stuck.”

seungmin, who had been standing quietly the whole time, resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

this guy is too friendly.

and y/n is too easily charmed.

“i’m chris, by the way,” the guy continued, offering a hand.

“y/n!” she shook his hand enthusiastically. “and this is seungmin.” she nudged seungmin’s arm. “say hi.”

seungmin sighed. “hi.”

chris chuckled. “nice to meet you two.”

seungmin nodded stiffly, before deciding to step back, returning to where their books were laid out under the tree.

y/n, completely unaware of the shift in his mood, continued chatting.

“so how old is berry?” she asked, scratching behind the pup’s ears.

“just over nine! she's been an amazing girl.” chris crouched down beside her, watching as berry and star playfully tumbled over each other. “she’s usually tired but still excited, though.”

y/n laughed. “oh, she's adorable. star has the energy of a child with unlimited sugar intake.”

chris snorted. “that’s the best kind, though.”

seungmin, from where he sat, clicked his tongue.

what’s so funny? what’s so interesting?

he tried to focus on his notes, but his mind kept drifting back to y/n’s voice—bright and animated as she talked to this guy like they’d known each other forever.

it was annoying. not that he cared. of course not.

except he did. a little. maybe. a tiny bit.

“seung!” y/n called suddenly, snapping him out of his thoughts. “come back here! your kid's making a new friend, and you’re missing it!”

seungmin sighed, shutting his laptop a little too aggressively.

when he walked back over, y/n gave him a big, innocent grin. “welcome back. did you miss us?”

seungmin looked at her. then at chris. then at the two dogs playing.

“no.”

y/n laughed, nudging him with her elbow. “liar.”

seungmin sighed, shaking his head. he hated how she could read him so easily.

chris, still petting berry, smiled. “you guys come here often?”

“sometimes, alone though. he just adopted star two days ago.” y/n chirped. “seungmin and i have a project, but i lowkey tricked him into coming here instead of the library.”

chris laughed. “genius.”

seungmin groaned. “please don’t encourage her.”

chris just grinned. “i mean, i get it. if my friend tried to make me study in a library instead of chilling outside with pups? i’d revolt.”

y/n gasped, dramatically placing a hand over her heart. “seungmin! you hear that?! i am validated!”

seungmin stared blankly. “i am regretting my life choices.”

chris chuckled. “well, if you guys ever wanna do another dog hangout, berry and i are around a lot.” he reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone. “here, y/n, you should give me your number. we can plan something.”

seungmin nearly choked.

y/n, completely oblivious to the way seungmin visibly tensed, beamed. “oooh, yes, of course! looks like our dogs are already friends.” she quickly typed her number into chris’s phone, and seungmin felt a very unreasonable surge of irritation.

chris stood, grinning. “cool. see you guys around!” as he walked away, berry gave star one last playful nudge before trotting off after her owner.

the moment they were out of earshot, seungmin exhaled.

y/n, grinning, turned to him. “that was fun, huh?”

seungmin raised an eyebrow. “you gave a random guy your number.”

“he’s not random! he has a dog, seungmin. that makes him automatically trustworthy.”

“that is the worst logic i’ve ever heard.”

y/n just laughed, bumping her shoulder against his. “you’re cute when you sulk, you know.”

seungmin scoffed. “i do not sulk.”

y/n just smirked. “mmm-hmm.”

seungmin rolled his eyes, but as they sat back down under the tree, watching star flop into the grass with a content sigh, he found himself almost smiling.

almost.

so with chris and berry gone, and star finally exhausted from his zoomies, seungmin and y/n settled back under the tree where their books, laptops, and coffee cups were scattered. ☆, now thoroughly worn out, plopped onto the grass with a deep, satisfied sigh, his golden fur catching the sunlight. he lay near y/n’s side, occasionally shifting to rest his head on her lap as she absentmindedly scratched behind his ears.

seungmin, on the other hand, was busy flipping through pages of notes, fingers tapping against his knee. he had somehow ended up with y/n’s pink highlighter, and though he’d never admit it, he kind of liked the contrast of bright neon ink against his otherwise meticulously organized notes.

“well,” y/n stretched, her head tilting back as she groaned dramatically, “we have two days to get this done. two. days. and i still have, like, 40% of the work left.”

seungmin glanced up. “you should be worried, but you don’t look worried.”

she grinned. “because i have you to keep me on track.”

he blinked, unamused. “i regret letting you meet my dog.”

y/n gasped. “excuse me? star was mine first.”

seungmin smirked, tapping the back of his pen against his notebook. “i literally signed the adoption papers. he’s mine now.”

y/n pouted, leaning down to rest her cheek against star’s fur. “baby, did you hear that? your so-called dad is so mean.”

star wagged his tail once but didn’t move.

seungmin scoffed, but there was something fond in the way he looked at her.

“anyway,” he said, flipping a page. “we need to get through at least two sections today if we don’t wanna pull an all-nighter before submission.”

y/n sat up, pushing her hair behind her ears. “alright, alright. time to be productive.”

for a few minutes, it was actually quiet. seungmin explained a concept, y/n listened, asked questions, and for a rare moment, she was focused.

and then— star stretched, rolling onto his back with his paws in the air.

y/n immediately melted, again.

“oh my god,” she whispered, “he’s so cute.”

seungmin closed his eyes, inhaling sharply. “y/n—”

“just look at him!” she gushed, putting her laptop aside to rub star’s belly. “how am i supposed to study when this exists?”

seungmin pinched the bridge of his nose. “you dragged me here for a study session and now you’re the one getting distracted.”

y/n pouted. “i can’t help it!”

seungmin let out a slow exhale before leaning forward to flick her forehead.

“ow—hey!” y/n rubbed the spot he’d flicked, looking betrayed.

“focus,” he said, smirking.

y/n narrowed her eyes but sighed, reluctantly returning to her notes.

minutes passed. then an hour.

despite her initial distractions, y/n actually did well. she caught up on most of the sections she had been behind on, taking notes diligently while seungmin occasionally tested her on concepts.

somewhere between paragraphs and equations, their coffee cups ran empty, and star dozed off beside y/n, his soft snores blending into the comfortable silence.

when the sunlight softened into afternoon hues, y/n stretched again, cracking her back dramatically.

“i think we actually made progress,” she said, sounding surprised.

seungmin glanced at her, amused. “you doubted me?”

“i doubted me,” she corrected. “you, on the other hand, are like an annoyingly effective tutor.”

he smirked. “annoying but effective. i’ll take it.”

she snorted.

then, after a beat, she turned to him with a softer expression.

“thanks for today,” she said.

seungmin blinked. “for… studying?”

“well, yeah,” she shrugged, “but also for letting me see star. and for putting up with my distractions.”

he glanced away for a second, pretending to focus on closing his laptop. “it’s fine. you were less annoying than usual.”

y/n gasped. “seungmin. was that… a compliment?”

he groaned. “forget i said anything.”

but y/n just giggled, nudging his shoulder.

. . .

with the study session wrapping up, y/n shut her notebook and stretched, arms reaching towards the sky as she let out a satisfied sigh.

“i think my brain is officially fried,” she declared, flopping back onto the cool grass.

seungmin rolled his eyes, finishing up his notes. “you always say that after studying for an hour.”

“that’s because my brain isn’t built for intense academic labor.”

“yeah? what is it built for?”

y/n hummed, glancing at the sky. “talking. music. daydreaming. falling in love with random fictional characters—”

seungmin scoffed. “should’ve figured.”

y/n giggled, turning to her side to look at him. “what about you? you’re a music major, right?”

he nodded. “yeah.”

“so, you like music?”

he blinked at her. “no, y/n, i hate it. that’s why i chose to major in it.”

she snorted. “okay, i get it. but like… do you just sing, or do you compose too?”

seungmin hesitated, eyes flickering to the grass as he picked at the hem of his sleeve. “…i write, too.”

y/n’s eyes widened. “wait, really?”

“that’s so cool,” she grinned. “what kind of stuff do you write?”

he glanced away, pretending to be uninterested, but there was a faint pink dusting his ears. “it depends.”

“depends on what?”

“…on the mood.”

y/n tilted her head. “like, do you write sad songs when you’re sad?”

“sometimes.”

“and happy songs when you’re happy?”

seungmin exhaled a laugh. “yeah, something like that.”

y/n hummed in thought before sitting up, crossing her legs. “can i hear something someday?”

he turned to her, eyebrows raised. “you wanna hear my songs?”

“well, yeah,” she said like it was obvious. “if you wrote them, they must be good.”

seungmin looked at her for a moment, slightly taken aback.

it wasn’t that he hid his music, but he also never had someone be this… interested.

y/n, on the other hand, seemed genuinely eager. her brown eyes sparkled with curiosity, her black curls catching the golden sunlight as she leaned in slightly.

“…maybe one day,” he finally said.

she gasped, dramatically placing a hand on her heart. “did i just get kim seungmin to agree to something?”

he rolled his eyes. “regretfully.”

y/n laughed, the sound soft and warm, blending into the lazy afternoon air.

then, after a beat, she asked, “so, when did you start writing?”

seungmin hesitated, staring at the ground for a second before answering. “…high school, i guess.”

“because you liked it?”

“because i needed to.”

y/n’s playful grin softened. “needed to?”

he sighed, leaning back on his hands. “…it was just an outlet, i guess.”

y/n nodded, understanding. “music’s like that, huh? the way it can say what words can’t.”

seungmin turned to her, surprised. “…yeah.”

for a second, they just looked at each other.

the breeze was soft, rustling through the leaves, and the golden afternoon light framed y/n’s face perfectly.

seungmin swallowed.

she was—

“…anyway!” y/n broke the silence, grinning again. “do you have a favorite song you’ve written?”

he blinked, shaking off whatever that thought was. “not really.”

“what? no way.”

he smirked. “i don’t.”

“well, what’s your most recent one about?”

he hesitated, the corner of his lips twitching. “wouldn’t you like to know?”

y/n groaned. “you are so annoying.”

“you’re the one asking questions.”

“because i wanna know you!” she huffed.

seungmin stilled.

y/n blinked, realizing how that sounded, and quickly scrambled to fix it. “i mean, like—! not in a weird way! just in a ‘we’re friends and i’m curious’ way—”

seungmin chuckled, amused at her sudden flustered state.

her face was slightly red, lips pursed, avoiding his gaze.

and he—

…was noticing too much.

clearing his throat, he glanced away, staring at star, who was now lazily sprawled across the grass, napping.

“…it was about wanting something you can’t have,” he finally said.

y/n turned back to him, blinking. “what?”

“the last song i wrote,” he said, not looking at her. “it was about that.”

y/n tilted her head. “oh…”

silence.

“…like a person.. or a thing?”

seungmin’s jaw tensed. “something like that.”

y/n’s lips parted slightly, but she didn’t push.

instead, she smiled gently. “well, if you ever wanna share, i’d love to hear it.”

seungmin glanced at her.

she meant it.

it was in the way her voice softened, the way her eyes held nothing but warmth.

“…yeah,” he muttered, looking away. “maybe.”

y/n grinned. “i’ll hold you to that.”

seungmin exhaled, shaking his head, but the corner of his lips twitched.

and as the afternoon stretched on, filled with more questions, quiet laughter, and stolen glances—

he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was shifting.

the golden hues of the afternoon had softened into a dusky warmth, but neither of them had moved from their spot. the books had been closed a while ago, pushed aside, making way for idle chatter and occasional banter. star was still sprawled across the grass, now lazily flicking his tail in his sleep.

y/n reached for her matcha latte without thinking, bringing it to her lips as she listened to seungmin talk.

“so, basically, jisung thought he was auditioning for a singing position but it was actually for theatre,” seungmin smirked, recalling the tragic yet hilarious memory.

y/n, mid-sip, choked on her drink. “what?!”

seungmin watched as she coughed, eyes wide in disbelief.

“you’re telling me he— he accidentally signed up for a theatre audition? how does one confuse that..”

“oh yeah.” seungmin nodded, crossing his arms. “i swear, i’ve never seen him improvise so fast. he ended up just… dramatically narrating the lyrics to some song.”

y/n wheezed. “please tell me there’s a video.”

“there is.”

“i need to see it.”

“we all do,” seungmin sighed. “but it’s buried in the archives of shame.”

y/n wiped the corner of her mouth, shaking her head. “jisung is actually insane.”

seungmin hummed in agreement, watching as she absentmindedly took another sip of matcha.

it took him approximately three seconds to realize—

that wasn’t her drink.

it was his.

his eyes flickered between the cup in her hand and his own, which was still sitting untouched beside him.

for a split second, he considered telling her—maybe teasing her for it.

but instead—

he said nothing.

maybe it was because she looked so natural, holding it like it had always been hers. or maybe it was the way she kept laughing, completely unaware of the fact that she had just—

whatever.

it didn’t bother him.

which was weird.

but before he could overthink it, y/n placed the cup back down, already moving to stretch.

“i need to move,” she groaned, standing up. “my legs are gonna cramp.”

seungmin leaned back on his hands. “what, so you’re just gonna run away?”

“not run,” she corrected, dramatically dusting off her jeans. “just gonna go play with my favorite boy in the world.”

seungmin raised a brow. “i’m right here.”

“i meant star, you nerdy narcissist.”

seungmin scoffed, shaking his head as he watched her crouch beside the golden retriever, gently running her fingers through his fur.

“cute.” there was a mumble.

star blinked up at her sleepily before sighing, dramatically rolling onto his back.

y/n gasped. “oh my god. you are so adorable.”

seungmin exhaled, his gaze lingering.

there was something about the way she was—so effortlessly warm, so naturally affectionate.

the way her eyes softened when she looked at star. the way she giggled when he licked her cheek. the way she—

“…min, look!”

he blinked, snapping out of his thoughts as y/n turned to him, beaming.

“what?”

she pointed at star, who was now trying to hold her hand between his paws.

seungmin huffed out a small laugh. “yeah, yeah. he likes you.”

“like???” y/n scoffed. “loves. he loves me.”

seungmin rolled his eyes, pushing himself up from the grass and walking over to them.

as he approached, star wagged his tail excitedly, shifting his attention to him.

“see?” y/n grinned. “he loves you, too.”

seungmin crouched down, scratching star behind the ears. “obviously. who wouldn’t?”

y/n shot him an unimpressed look. “you have no shame.”

he smirked. “why would i?”

y/n groaned, flopping onto the grass dramatically.

star, thrilled by her sudden movement, barked before immediately climbing on top of her.

“wait, no—!” y/n squeaked.

seungmin stood over them, arms crossed. “this is hilarious.”

“help me, you traitor!”

he shrugged. “nah, you’re his favorite, right? deal with it.”

y/n glared at him through a mess of golden fur, breathless from laughing.

and seungmin—

he noticed it again.

the way her cheeks were flushed. the way her curls were sprawled against the grass. the way—

“…oh my god, is this your revenge?” y/n gasped.

seungmin snapped out of it. “what?”

“you planned this.” she squinted at him, grinning. “you trained star to betray me.”

he snorted. “yeah, because i totally trained a dog i adopted yesterday.”

“exactly!”

he rolled his eyes. “you’re insane.”

“thank you.”

with that, she finally managed to wriggle out from under star, sitting up and dusting off her clothes.

star happily plopped his head onto her lap, sighing contently.

y/n smiled, running her fingers through his fur.

and seungmin—

he exhaled, sitting beside them.

he didn’t get it.

didn’t understand why—

why it was so easy to be here, with her.

why it was so easy to look.

but for some reason—

he didn’t mind figuring it out.

soon, the sky had started shifting into deeper shades of indigo, the golden warmth of the sun melting into something softer, quieter. they hadn’t moved from their spot under the tree, their books still scattered on the blanket beneath them, long forgotten. star had long since worn himself out from his zoomies, only to reawaken with another surge of energy, bolting across the grass like a streak of gold.

y/n had her knees tucked up to her chest, her chin resting lazily atop them, watching the dog with the kind of fondness that made something in seungmin’s chest tighten.

“you do realize you’re going to be his favorite person for life, right?” she mused, glancing at him with a knowing smile.

seungmin, leaning back on his hands, scoffed. “he better be loyal.”

she gasped dramatically. “loyal? seungmin, that’s a dog. of course he's loyal.”

he laughed, tilting his head. “yeah?”

y/n exhaled, flopping onto her back. “yeah.”

“finally,” he hummed, shifting to look down at her, “it seems you're tired.”

she lifted a hand, flicking his forehead. “against my will.”

seungmin chuckled under his breath, rubbing the spot absentmindedly. “right. that’s why you’ve been making it your life’s mission to barge into my dorm every day like a ray of sunshine.”

y/n opened her mouth to argue, but no words came out. she clamped it shut, lips pressing into a line.

seungmin smirked. “that’s what i thought.”

“you’re so annoying,” she grumbled, turning her head away.

“yet you’re still here.”

“stop repeating that!”

his laugh was warm, effortless.

the silence that followed was comfortable—easy in the way that it lingered without pressure, stretching between them as the wind stirred through the leaves above. the distant sounds of the park continued—laughter, conversation, the occasional bark—but between them, the world was quiet.

y/n was still lying on her back, her eyes tracing the deepening hues of the sky. seungmin sat beside her, his gaze naturally drawn to her profile—the soft curve of her lips, the gentle rise and fall of her chest. his hand rested against the blanket, fingers idly toying with the hem. he wasn’t entirely sure why he was still looking, but something about the way she was bathed in fading light made it impossible to glance away.

“do you ever just…” y/n’s voice was softer now, thoughtful. “feel so full of something but don’t know what to do with it?”

seungmin stilled.

“…what kind of ‘something’?”

she exhaled slowly. “like…” she turned her head, meeting his gaze. “something warm.”

his fingers curled slightly against the fabric beneath him.

warm.

he knew that feeling. he’d been feeling it this entire time.

a slow, deliberate kind of warmth. the kind that sneaks up on you and settles beneath your skin. the kind that lingers, even when you’re trying not to think about it.

“yeah,” he murmured, his voice quieter than before.

y/n’s lips parted slightly, her eyes searching his.

he didn’t know who moved first.

maybe it was her—her breath hitching as she leaned ever so slightly closer.

maybe it was him—the way his hand lifted, fingers grazing against her wrist, tentative but not hesitant.

maybe it was something neither of them could name, something inevitable. all he knew was that when their lips met, the world stopped.

it was soft at first, unhurried—like a quiet realization unfolding in real time. her lips were warm, plush, molding against his in a way that sent a slow, curling heat through his veins. he could feel the tentative way she responded, the hesitation melting away as she pressed closer. his hand moved on instinct, cupping the side of her face, his thumb brushing against the delicate skin of her cheek.

and then—

she sighed against him.

and something in seungmin broke.

the kiss deepened, slow and intoxicating, the warmth between them turning into something more. his fingers slid into her hair, tilting her head as he kissed her deeper, tasting the faint remnants of matcha on her tongue. her hands gripped his sleeves, clutching onto him like she wasn’t sure she’d ever let go.

a slow drag of lips. the slide of warmth. the gentle push and pull, like a silent conversation in a language only they understood.

she made a soft sound—a quiet, involuntary sigh against his mouth—and seungmin groaned, his grip tightening. in one swift motion, he pulled her into his lap, his arms wrapping securely around her.

she gasped against him, fingers gripping his collar now, knuckles white.

seungmin barely pulled away, his breath mingling with hers. “okay?”

y/n nodded, dazed, her lips already parting for him again.

and so he kissed her again, deeper this time, slower, more deliberate. like he was savoring it. like he wanted to memorize the way she felt against him. the warmth of her. the way her lips yielded so easily to his. the way she sighed when he angled his head just right. he was good at this—really good at this. she could feel it in the way he moved, the way he knew exactly how to kiss her like he had all the time in the world.

it was dizzying.

overwhelming.

addicting.

when they finally pulled away, y/n was breathless, her cheeks burning. seungmin exhaled slowly, his thumb brushing against her cheekbone. she looked adorable. her lips were pink, slightly swollen, her eyes half-lidded and dazed.

“wow,” she whispered.

seungmin smirked. “yeah?”

y/n blinked, nodding furiously. “yeah.”

he chuckled, pressing his forehead against hers. “good.”

for a moment, they just breathed, the weight of what had just happened settling between them.

then—

a sudden blur of gold zoomed past them. they both turned just in time to see star bolting across the grass, his tail wagging so fast it was a blur.

seungmin sighed, rubbing his temple. “of course.”

y/n, still dazed, let out a giggle, her fingers still curled loosely around his collar. “guess he approves.”

seungmin rolled his eyes, but the corners of his lips twitched upward. “yeah, yeah.”

y/n bit her lip, looking down at him. her gaze flickered to his lips. seungmin caught it. his smirk widened.

“you so wanna kiss me again.”

y/n shoved his shoulder. “shut up.”

he laughed, his arms still around her. “you’re not even denying it.”

y/n groaned, burying her face into his shoulder. “shut up.”

seungmin just grinned, his fingers slipping back into her hair.

yeah. this warmth? he could get used to it.

they stayed like that for a while, tangled in the warmth of each other, the air still thick with something unnamed yet understood. neither of them moved immediately—not because they didn’t know what to do next, but because this was nice. the weight of her against him, the slow rhythm of their breaths, the way their fingers stayed lightly curled in each other’s clothes as if neither was quite ready to let go.

eventually, though, reality had to set in.

y/n exhaled, shifting slightly in his lap, her fingers still resting on the collar of his hoodie. “we should probably… y’know.”

seungmin hummed, making no move to let go. “should we?”

she narrowed her eyes, giving him a half-hearted glare. “don’t be annoying.”

he smirked. “i literally can’t help it.”

rolling her eyes, she lightly flicked his forehead before pushing herself up, and immediately regretted it. her legs were numb, her heart was still racing, and the moment she was standing, she suddenly realized—

we just kissed.

the weight of it hit her all over again, sinking into her skin, making her stomach twist in a way she couldn’t quite place. seungmin was still sitting, looking obnoxiously unbothered, like he didn’t just leave her completely breathless. she huffed under her breath, brushing imaginary dust off her sleeves.

meanwhile, seungmin watched her, eyes sharp, amused. he could see the way she was avoiding his gaze, could see the way her fingers twitched, adjusting her sleeves.

it was cute.

“something wrong?” he asked, voice laced with amusement.

she snapped her gaze to him, lips parting, face slightly pink. “huh? no! why would anything be wrong?”

seungmin’s smirk widened. “mhm.”

“i—” she huffed, crossing her arms. “you’re so annoying, i swear.”

he finally stood, stretching his arms above his head before stuffing his hands into his pockets. “and yet…”

y/n groaned. “seungmin.”

he chuckled, glancing at her before tilting his head toward the scattered books. “c’mon, let’s pack up.”

she nodded, relieved for the momentary escape from the weight of that kiss. but even as they gathered their books, even as she stuffed her things into her tote bag, she could still feel it. the warmth, the way he held her, the slow press of his lips against hers.

she turned her back to him, biting her lip to keep herself from grinning like an idiot.

seungmin noticed. he definitely noticed. but he didn’t say anything.

instead, he grabbed her unfinished matcha latte—the one that had started all this in the first place. without thinking, he lifted it to his lips, taking a sip. and y/n, ever the observant one, immediately noticed.

her eyes widened. “did you just—”

he raised a brow. “what?”

“that’s mine.”

seungmin blinked, licking his lips, as if only now realizing. then, he shrugged. “you drank from mine first.”

y/n’s face turned red. he smirked.

flustered, she grabbed her bag, whistled for star, and stormed off in the direction of the dorms. seungmin let out a soft laugh before following.

. . .

the walk back was… not awkward. but not not awkward.

there was something lingering in the air between them, something unspoken, something charged. y/n found herself hyperaware of everything—the distance between them, the way their hands occasionally brushed, the sound of their footsteps on the pavement.

seungmin, for once, wasn’t teasing her.

that, more than anything, made her nervous. she risked a glance at him. he was walking with his hands still in his pockets, eyes ahead, looking as relaxed as ever. if anything, he looked… deep in thought.

“seungmin.”

he turned his head. “hm?”

she hesitated. “are you—are you being weird?”

his lips twitched. “what does that even mean?”

“i don’t know,” she groaned, hugging her tote bag closer. “you’re quiet. you’re never quiet.”

he gave her a look. “i am quiet.”

“not around me.”

seungmin exhaled through his nose, looking away. “…i guess i’m just thinking.”

y/n frowned slightly. “thinking about what?”

he shrugged. “stuff.”

she narrowed her eyes. “what kind of stuff?”

at that, he glanced at her, meeting her gaze for a moment too long. “you.”

y/n’s breath hitched. her face burned.

seungmin looked back ahead, as if he hadn’t just casually said something that made her entire body short-circuit. she opened her mouth. closed it. opened it again. closed it again.

seungmin smirked to himself. they kept walking.

by the time they reached his dorm, the air was slightly less charged, but only because y/n had started rambling about how star needed a new toy collection. she was already planning an entire schedule for star—days when she’d take him out, what treats she’d bake, whether she should get him a sweater for when it got colder.

seungmin just listened, hands in his pockets, nodding occasionally.

when they reached the door, y/n turned to him, rocking on her heels. “so… see you tomorrow?”

seungmin leaned against the doorframe, tilting his head. “you’re not barging in again?”

she pouted. “am i that annoying?”

seungmin’s gaze flickered to her lips for a split second before he smirked. “nah.”

her heart did a thing. she quickly looked away. “okay, well. goodnight, seungmin.”

“ ‘night, y/n.”

she turned, starting down the hall, feeling a little lighter. just as she reached the end, she heard his voice.

“hey, y/n.”

she stopped. looked over her shoulder. “yeah?”

seungmin shoved his hands further into his pockets. for a moment, he just looked at her. then, with a slow, knowing smirk—

“sweet dreams.” and then he shut the door.

y/n stood there. processing. then, with an exasperated groan, she spun on her heel and stormed toward her own dorm.

her face was burning. seungmin, on the other side of the door, chuckled under his breath.

yeah. this was definitely going to be fun.

soon, y/n barely had time to recover from seungmin’s stupid smirk before she opened her dorm door and was immediately met with a chorus of gasps and dramatic expressions.

aeri was lounging on the couch, legs crossed, sipping on what looked like matcha tea (as if that wasn’t already triggering enough). rina was sitting on the floor with her back against the couch, arms crossed, eyes deadly sharp. felix and hyunjin?

they were standing. right in front of her.

like interrogators. waiting.

y/n blinked. “uh—”

aeri squinted. “you’re late.”

rina narrowed her eyes. “suspiciously late.”

hyunjin placed a hand over his chest. “and you didn’t text us back.”

felix gasped dramatically, gripping hyunjin’s shoulder. “she never does that.”

y/n gaped. “never?”

aeri pointed her straw at her. “never.”

“i was busy,” y/n whined, slipping off her shoes. “i did text you guys.”

“hours ago,” rina said.

felix crossed his arms. “so where were you really?”

y/n opened her mouth. closed it. looked around at all their expectant faces.

aeri gasped. “wait.”

everyone turned to her.

she pointed. “you look different.”

hyunjin’s eyes widened. “she does.”

felix leaned in, inspecting her face. “…she’s glowing.”

“i am not—”

“you’re blushing.”

y/n clapped a hand over her face. “i am not blushing.”

rina smirked. “did something happen?”

y/n groaned, throwing herself onto the couch beside aeri. “can i please just breathe?”

“no,” aeri said.

felix gasped again, grabbing hyunjin’s arm dramatically. “wait—what if—”

“what if she kissed seungmin?” hyunjin finished, eyes gleaming.

y/n choked. “what—”

“she totally did,” rina gasped.

aeri sat up, pointing. “you so did.”

felix clapped his hands. “we knew something was happening between you two!”

“i—no you did not—”

“we totally did,” hyunjin argued. “seungmin has never let someone drag him out for picnics.”

aeri wiggled her brows. “did you finally kiss, you slow-burn idiots?”

y/n smacked a cushion over her face. “i hate you all.”

“she’s not denying it.”

rina snorted. “so? how was it?”

“excuse me?”

felix and hyunjin jumped onto the couch, both of them pressing closer.

“be honest,” felix whispered.

“was he good?” hyunjin asked.

“did he—” aeri leaned in, smirking. “use tongue?”

“oh my god—”

. . .

meanwhile, in another part of the building, seungmin finally stepped into his dorm, tossing his bag near the door. he expected peace. silence.

maybe jisung playing some dumb mobile game and minho scrolling on his phone. instead..

the moment he closed the door, jisung and minho—sitting side by side on the couch—turned to look at him in perfect unison.

seungmin paused.

jisung raised a brow. “you’re late.”

seungmin exhaled. “oh my god, not you too.”

minho sipped his coffee. “he seems unusually… relaxed.”

seungmin narrowed his eyes. “and?”

jisung smirked. “you never come back relaxed.”

seungmin rolled his eyes, moving toward the fridge. “you guys are annoying.”

jisung gasped. “minho. minho. look at him.”

minho hummed. “i see it.”

seungmin turned. “see what?”

jisung grinned. “you got some, didn’t you?”

minho smirked. “i knew you liked her.”

seungmin groaned, running a hand down his face. “you both need to shut up.”

jisung sat up, eyes gleaming. “you did kiss her, didn’t you?”

seungmin exhaled, grabbed a water bottle, and took a long sip.

minho raised a brow. “he’s avoiding.”

“he’s totally avoiding.”

seungmin sighed, leaning against the counter. “i hate both of you.”

jisung grinned. “we love you too.”

minho smirked, setting his cup down. “so? how was it?”

seungmin scoffed. “what is wrong with you people?”

jisung gasped dramatically. “you didn’t like it?”

seungmin froze for half a second.

jisung smirked. “ohhh, you totally did.”

minho nodded, smug. “he liked it.”

seungmin rolled his eyes. “shut up.”

jisung grinned, leaning back. “it’s okay, you can tell us. we don’t judge.”

minho nodded, taking another sip of his coffee. “we definitely judge.”

seungmin exhaled. “i hate you both.”

jisung smirked. “we know.” . . . “so…” rina wiggled her brows. “you’re seeing him again tomorrow?”

y/n groaned, collapsing onto the couch. “i see him everyday.”

felix smirked. “because you love him.”

y/n choked. “i do not—”

hyunjin held up his hands. “we’re just saying.”

aeri snickered. “you so do.”

y/n grabbed a cushion and screamed into it.

her friends just laughed.

meanwhile, back in seungmin’s dorm, minho stretched, setting his cup down. “so, what now?”

seungmin shrugged. “dunno.”

jisung smirked. “you gonna kiss her again?”

seungmin grabbed his pillow and chucked it at him.

jisung yelped.

minho snickered.

seungmin just leaned back against the couch, arms crossed, watching jisung groan into the pillow.

he would kiss her again.

he absolutely would.

but they didn’t need to know that.

yet.

“not like you two didn’t kiss or do each other while you had the dorm to yourself.”

minho didn’t even blink.

jisung, however. jisung choked on his own breath.

minho exhaled. “ah.”

minho took another sip of his coffee, unbothered. “he has a point.”

jisung spluttered. “excuse me?”

seungmin smirked. “you’re telling me you guys were alone for hours and did nothing?”

minho shrugged. “not my fault if he’s loud.”

jisung died. “i was not loud.”

minho hummed, setting his coffee down. “mm. sure.”

seungmin snorted. “see? it’s so obvious.”

jisung clutched his chest. “i hate you both.”

minho stretched. “no, you don’t.”

jisung threw a pillow at him.

seungmin just sat back, grinning, absolutely enjoying this.

jisung groaned, burying his face in his hands. “i hate my life.”

minho patted his head. “that’s okay. i love you.”

seungmin smirked. “aw.”

jisung screamed into his hands.

mastertag ୨୧ @cosmicalily @hyunjiiza @modesttiger @woozarts @katsukis1wife @bddaramjis @reignessance @jeongs-world

!! please let me know under this post, or this one, if i forgot you in the taglist, my inactivity made me lose track, i'm really sorry !!

[reallyromealone]

Title: sleep overs

Fandom: DC

Characters: Young justice, Bruce, Jason, dick

Fic type: fluff

Pairings: Bruce x reader, Connor x dick

Warnings: male reader, reader insert, trans reader, ftm reader, pregnant reader, baby Jason, tween dick

Notes: fucking with the timeline and doing what I feel for the sake of plot

Summary: Young justice gets to have a sleepover at Wayne manor and Connor finds out something

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

(Name) Watched as the young justice league came in with sleeping bags and night bags and wandering into the livingroom, the tweens excited to have a night of movies and games "my aunty sent me with this for you, she says thanks for the date night!" Wally said happily and (name) chuckled but accepted the brownies, he and Bruce would be enjoying these upstairs and of course leaving some for Alfred.

"There's pizza and drinks in the dining room" (name) said kindly, knowing if that boy was anything like his uncle that the amount they bought would barely be enough, that being ten large pizzas for the group of them. Jason waved in Bruce's arms as everyone piled into the livingroom "I always forget how rich you are" Connor whistled at the huge tv "there's also snacks in the kitchen if anyone isn't feeling for pizza and such" (name) said and Jason wiggled out of his dad's hold, the 1/12 year old wanting to see these new people and specifically his big brother who was chatting with M'gaan and Kaldur'ahm about whatever it is.

"Didi!" Jason yelled excitedly and dick grinned at his brother "whats up, little man?" Dick let the boy crawl into his lap, the boy looking at M'gaan and began babbling and making sounds "well I think you have a very cool stuffed animal too" she said honestly and dick looked confused "I read his mind, he wanted to inform me about how he has a stuffed toucan named toukie and it's not real and it's his best friend"

"Jason, come on sweety it's time for your night snack!" Jason heard (name)s voice and abandoned the group, stumbling and using his brother's friends as support to get to his parents, Artemis chuckling when the babe held onto her for a second to stable himself.

The parents left the kids alone, planning to check on them after they get Jason to bed "now, do you want some milk or do you want apple juice?" Heavily heavily watered down apple juice but apple juice none the less, Bruce settling Jason on the counter and kissing his tiny socked feet to make him laugh while (name) grabbed the bedtime snack "mooooo!" Jason yelled while the other grabbed soft baby snacks and a filled bottle of milk "good job!" Jason grabbed it on his own and took a drink "we have like ten kids in our house" (name) said softly while watching Jason enjoy himself "why did we agree to this again?" Bruce asked cuddling his husband and (name) smiled "because you love your son"

"I do love him"

Jason let out a soft burp and looked at (name) with raised arms "let's go get you ready buddy, we're gonna have our own movie night!" He cheered and Bruce led them off to (name) and Bruce's room, Bruce pulling the boys pacifier from his pants pocket and popped it in his mouth. Changing the boy into his pajamas, the two listening to the tweens giggling and having fun downstairs "when you're bigger, you can have sleepovers too" (name) said to the boy who was already getting sleepy, all he needed was a nice cartoon to fall asleep.

"Why don't you two get comfortable and I'll go grab our stuff" that stuff being the wine and a few slices of pizza, Bruce saluting (name) off jokingly while letting his babe rest in his shirtless chest, knowing the contact soothed the boy. (Name) Went to the kitchen and grabbed the wine, listening to the loud giggles and games and thankful he got Alfred those noise cancelling headphones, wanting the man to get a such sleep as he could. It was nice seeing his son have so many friends, they were playing that racing game Dick was so obsessed with from what it sounded like "oh, hi Connor" (name) said softly to the teen, Connor always appreciated now gentle (name) was with him and took the time to talk with him."how's the farm? How's Clark these days? Are you doing good in school?" He asked and Connor smiled sheepishly "farms good, dad recently adopted a new livestock dog we named lady" he said taking a sip from his soda and (name) listened with rapt attention"Clarks good, him and Lo wanna take me to Disney this year for my birthday"

"Oh you will love that, how's school?"

"It's fine, I hate matb but everything else is pretty good"

"Well I'm glad you're going well..." (Name) Doted a bit and Connor smiled, (name) was like a second parent to him, the man fought tooth and nail and even went as far as to go to the Kent house with all the things he could need to help the Kent's ease caring for another child, Mrs. Kent chuckled at the others caring nature.

"And what's this I hear from the grape vine of you dating my son?"

"You know about that?" Connor said meekly and (name) chuckled "I know everything, if he ever acts like an ass you tell me"

"Of course sir, also congrats on the pregnancy!" He pointed to (name)s stomach "whatcha.... Whatcha mean there"

"I hear th heartbeat.... Oh wait... You didn't know did you?" Connor said softly and (name) let out a nervous chuckle "nope but thank you, saves a trip to the doctor" he pinched the tweens cheek and put the wine away "now go hang out with the tests, it's a sleepover for you all"

Connor left promptly and not without hugging the man who chuckled "thank you Connor"

When (name) returned to the bedroom and Jason was already in his nursery asleep, Bruce's ability to put these kids to sleep was truly magic "where's the wine?" Bruce asked while (name) crawled into bed "your dick is too powerful" he grumbled, pulling off his binder and Bruce raised an eyebrow "want to elaborate?"

"Get ready for baby three, daddy" (name) said simply and Bruce froze "another one?"

"Yup, we really need to start using condoms" (name) pat the others shoulder "good news, for the next nine months I can't get double pregnant!"

"Why are you like this?"

"You chose to marry me"

"And I haven't regretted it once"

(Name) Kissed him lovingly and opened his arms, letting Bruce be little spoon and snuggle (name)s chest "I checked the kids, Kal will narc on them if they do things they shouldn't" (name) kissed Bruce's forehead and the two put on a show, recently they got into fishing shows.

"I love you..."

"I love you too pretty boy"

[theetherealbloom]

IT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU - CH.3

Chapter Three: The Air Buzzes Whenever You're Near

Summary: You find yourself sharing a hotel suite with Pedro Pascal while working on the set of Fantastic Four: First Steps. Despite your different roles—he’s the star, and you’re behind the scenes. Nothing could ever happen between you two… right?

Paring: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader

Warnings: Age-Gap Romance (Not Specified), Eventual SMUT, Crush, FLUFF, Slight Angst, Trope(s), Swearing, Anxiety, Lots of Cliches, Cheesy Dialogue, Romance, Kissing, Real People Fiction, Cameras, Paparazzi, Social Media, Swoonworthy, One-Room Trope, They were roommates, Strangers-to-Lovers, Actors, Hallmark Tropes, the reader can sing and play guitar, the reader is shorter than Pedro, the reader has hair, Alternate Universe, Awkward!Reader, Shy!Reader, Fan Girl!Reader, Cringe, Embarrassment, Starstruck,

Word Count: 6.3k

A/N: HEHEHEHEHE. Yes, this fic is basically a slice of life, low stakes, and all-around good vibes. Eventually, there will be some drama but nothing too heartbreaking… maybe… ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: Magnets by NIKI

Previous Chapter → Next Chapter | Series Masterlist |Main Masterlist|

CHILTERN FIREHOUSE HOTEL — EARLY MORNING  

The soft hum of your phone vibrating roused you from the haze of sleep. Your eyes fluttered open, squinting against the dim light of the TV still playing softly in the background.  

Your hand instinctively reached out to grab your phone from where it had slipped to the floor beside the couch. As you shifted, something warm and solid tightened around your waist.  

Oh.  

Oh no.  

Your breath hitched as the realization settled over you like a weight. Pedro’s arm was draped across you, his body pressed against yours, radiating warmth. Your head had somehow found its way to the crook of his shoulder, and the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest against your side told you he was still asleep.  

Oh God.  

Carefully, you reached down to grab your phone without disturbing him. Your thumb brushed across the screen to silence the alarm, and you winced when you saw the time: 4:30 a.m. Far too early to be awake but late enough to question how this even happened.  

Your heart pounded as you tried to make sense of it. You’d been watching a movie—something quiet and low-energy, just as you’d requested. You vaguely remembered leaning back against the couch, your body growing heavier with sleep. But you hadn’t expected to wake up like this, tangled together like it was the most natural thing in the world.  

Pedro stirred slightly, a low hum escaping his lips as he adjusted his arm around you, pulling you even closer. Your breath caught, panic and something else—something warmer—bubbling to the surface.  

Do I move? Do I stay? Oh, this is bad. Or is it good? Your thoughts raced, but your body refused to cooperate, frozen in place as if the universe had hit pause on this moment.  

A faint smile tugged at Pedro’s lips, even in sleep. His face was softer like this, the usual teasing edge replaced by something peaceful. It wasn’t fair, you thought, how he managed to look so effortlessly handsome even now.  

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your breathing. Carefully, you began to shift, attempting to untangle yourself without waking him. But as soon as you moved, his arm tightened again, and this time, his eyes fluttered open.  

“Mm, what time is it?” he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep.  

You froze, caught in the act. “Uh, it’s... early. Like, really early.”  

Pedro blinked a few times, his gaze slowly focusing on you. And then, as if realizing the position you were both in, a sleepy grin spread across his face.  

“Well,” he murmured, his voice still thick and low, “this is a nice way to wake up.”  

Your cheeks burned. “I—uh, I didn’t mean to—”  

“Relax,” he interrupted softly, his eyes twinkling despite the early hour. “I’m not complaining.”  

You stared at him, caught between embarrassment and the inexplicable urge to laugh. “Pedro...”  

He stretched slightly, his arm finally loosening its hold on you, though he made no move to pull away entirely. “You fell asleep first,” he said, his tone teasing now. “I just... went with it.”  

You let out a soft huff of laughter, shaking your head. “This is so unprofessional,” you muttered, though there was no real weight behind the words.  

Pedro smirked, sitting up slightly but still close enough that you could feel his warmth. “Guess we’ll just have to keep it a secret,” he said, his voice low and conspiratorial. “Our little... accidental cuddle.”  

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you, curving into a smile. “You’re impossible,” you murmured.  

“And yet,” he countered, his gaze lingering on you in a way that made your heart stumble, “here you are.”  

The air between you shifted then, the teasing fading into something quieter, something unspoken but undeniable. For a moment, neither of you moved, the world outside the suite forgotten.  

And then, because it felt safer than facing whatever this was, you stood, clutching your phone like a lifeline. “I need coffee,” you muttered, avoiding his gaze as you made your way to the kitchenette.  

Pedro watched you retreat into the kitchenette, his easygoing grin fading into something thoughtful. He stretched lazily, his hair still mussed from sleep, before following you at his own unhurried pace. 

You were already fussing with the hotel’s coffee machine when he appeared in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame like he belonged there. “You know, you’re very intense about your coffee for someone who just woke up,” he teased, his voice warm and teasing.  

You startled slightly, glancing over your shoulder at him. “I need caffeine to survive this,” you muttered, your words a little too sharp, betraying just how tightly wound you felt.  

Pedro quirked an eyebrow. “This? What exactly is this?”  

You didn’t answer right away, turning your attention back to the machine and praying it would brew faster. “Nothing,” you said finally, though your tone was anything but convincing.  

He stepped further into the kitchenette, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he didn’t want to spook you. “Is it the early morning? Or... could it be that you’re stuck sharing a suite with me?”  

You froze, clutching the edge of the counter. His voice held that teasing lilt you’d come to associate with him, but there was something softer underneath it, something that made your stomach flip in a way you were trying very hard to ignore.  

“I’m fine,” you insisted, though your tone made it sound like you were anything but.  

Pedro chuckled, and the sound was low and warm, filling the small space between you. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”  

You turned to face him, your heart thudding in your chest. He was standing closer now, his dark eyes studying you with a mix of amusement and something else—something you couldn’t quite name.  

“I just—” you started, but the words stuck in your throat. How were you supposed to tell him that sharing a suite with him, waking up next to him, was a level of surreal you weren’t prepared for? That he wasn’t just Pedro to you; he was Pedro Pascal, your literal celebrity crush and the man who’d unintentionally been making your life both thrilling and impossibly complicated?  

“I’m just trying not to embarrass myself,” you admitted finally, your voice barely above a whisper.  

Pedro’s grin softened into something gentler, something almost fond. “You’re doing fine,” he said simply.  

Before you could respond, the coffee machine beeped, signaling it was done. You practically lunged for the cup, desperate for something—anything—to do with your hands.  

Pedro didn’t push you further, but as you handed him a mug of coffee without meeting his gaze, he murmured, “For what it’s worth, I like having you around.”  

Your heart gave a traitorous little leap at his words, but you forced yourself to nod, mumbling a quiet “Thanks” before retreating back into your room to get ready.  

PINEWOOD STUDIOS — DAY

The car ride to work was tense—at least for you. Pedro, of course, seemed completely unbothered, chatting with the driver and making the occasional attempt to draw you into the conversation. But all you could manage were one-word answers, your mind too busy overthinking everything about the morning.  

Once you arrived on set, you threw yourself into your work, doing your best to stay out of Pedro’s way. Which was easier said than done, considering he seemed to have made it his mission to seek you out every chance he got.  

“Hey, everything okay?” he’d ask in-between takes, his dark eyes scanning your face like he could read your thoughts.  

“Yep, totally fine,” you’d reply, before darting off to find something—anything—else to do.  

By lunchtime, you were exhausted. You slumped into a chair in the corner of the break area, picking at your food while scrolling aimlessly on your phone.  

“Who are you hiding from?” Daisy’s voice cut through your thoughts, startling you. She plopped down in the chair across from you, popping a piece of fruit into her mouth as she gave you a curious look. “You’ve been acting weird all morning.”  

“No one,” you said quickly, maybe too quickly, because Daisy’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.  

“Oh, really?” she drawled, leaning forward with a knowing smirk. “Does this have anything to do with a certain actor you spent the night with?”  

Your face went hot, and you nearly choked on your drink. “I—what? No! It’s not like that!”  

Daisy’s smirk only grew. “Uh-huh. Sure. You’re just blushing like crazy for no reason.”  

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “It’s complicated, okay?”  

“It doesn’t have to be,” Daisy said lightly, leaning back in her chair. “Pedro seems pretty into you, you know.”  

Your head shot up, your eyes wide. “What?”  

She shrugged, biting into another piece of fruit. “I’m just saying, he keeps looking at you like you hung the moon. It’s cute, really.”  

You shook your head, trying to brush off her words, but the flutter in your chest told you it wasn’t that simple.  

And as if on cue, Pedro walked into the break area, his gaze immediately landing on you. He smiled, that easy, disarming smile that made your knees weak, and started making his way over.  

“Oh my God,” you muttered under your breath, sinking lower into your chair.  

“Good luck,” Daisy whispered with a grin, grabbing her tray and leaving you alone just as Pedro reached your table.  

“Hey,” he said, his voice warm and casual, as if he hadn’t just sent your heart into overdrive. “Mind if I join you?”  

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but all that came out was a soft, barely audible, “Sure.”  

Pedro sat down across from you, his eyes twinkling with that same unreadable expression that always made you feel like he knew something you didn’t.  

“So,” he said, resting his chin in his hand as he leaned forward slightly. “Why have you been avoiding me all day?”  

And just like that, your heart was racing again, because of course he noticed. Of course he did.  

Pedro’s question lingered in the air, heavy with curiosity and a touch of concern. He tilted his head slightly, watching you like he had all the time in the world to wait for your response. His fingers drummed idly against the table, a subtle rhythm that matched the uneven beat of your heart.  

“I… Um…” you stammered, feeling like your words were stuck somewhere in your throat.  

Pedro’s brow furrowed, and his expression softened. “Did I make you uncomfortable last night?” he asked, his voice quiet and laced with genuine worry. “I’m so sorry if I did—”  

“No, no,” you interrupted, your voice rushing out faster than your brain could keep up. You waved your hands slightly, as if trying to erase the idea entirely. “I didn’t mind. It’s just—”  

You trailed off, feeling the weight of his gaze. Pedro didn’t push, didn’t fill the silence with reassurances or jokes like he usually did. He simply waited, his head still resting on his hand, his warm brown eyes encouraging you to keep going.  

Taking a deep breath, you clenched your hands together in your lap, as if grounding yourself. “I’m just… I can’t believe you really want me around,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “Like you actually want to be friends with me. It seems so…”  

“Unreal?” Pedro finished for you, his lips curving into a soft smile.  

You nodded, biting your lip. “Exactly. Unreal. I mean, you’re you—a ridiculously talented actor, charming, funny, and so... well, famous. And I’m just... me. I keep waiting for the moment you’ll realize I don’t belong in your world.”  

Pedro blinked at you, his expression flickering between surprise and something deeper—something that made your chest ache in a way that was equal parts thrilling and terrifying.  

He sat up straight, his hand reaching across the table, stopping just short of yours. “Hey,” he said softly, his voice pulling you out of your spiral. “First of all, you’re not just anything. You’re smart, talented, funny as hell, and honestly, one of the most grounded people I’ve ever met. That’s a big deal in this industry, you know.”  

You looked up at him, startled by the earnestness in his tone. “Pedro…”  

“And second,” he continued, leaning a little closer, “I do want you around. Not because of some weird celebrity power imbalance or whatever you think this is. I want you around because you make my days better. You make me laugh. You make everything feel... lighter.”  

The lump in your throat grew, and you had to look away before your emotions spilled over completely. You focused on the half-eaten piece of fruit on your plate, blinking rapidly. “You don’t have to say that,” you murmured.  

“I’m not saying it because I have to,” he replied, his voice firm but gentle. “I’m saying it because it’s true.”  

When you finally dared to meet his eyes again, you saw nothing but sincerity staring back at you. It was the kind of sincerity that made your carefully constructed walls feel like they were made of paper.  

“Okay,” you said finally, your voice soft but steady.  

Pedro smiled then—a real, heart-stopping smile that lit up his entire face. “Okay,” he echoed, sitting back in his chair with a satisfied nod.  

The tension between you eased, replaced by something warmer, something fragile but promising. And for the first time all day, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, Pedro saw something in you worth sticking around for.  

“Now,” he said, breaking the moment with a playful grin, “can we please talk about how you were about to burn that coffee machine this morning? Because I have questions.”  

You groaned, rolling your eyes as he chuckled, the sound wrapping around you like a familiar melody. And just like that, the world felt a little less overwhelming, and Pedro felt a little more like home.  

The afternoon passed in a blur of tasks, and now, you found yourself walking toward the makeup trailer, your phone clutched tightly in your hand as you prepared to fetch Pedro for his next scene.  

You knocked lightly before stepping inside, the scent of hairspray and setting powder filling the air. Pedro was lounging in the makeup chair, eyes closed as Andrea Cracknell, the key hair and makeup supervisor, gave his hair a final tousle. Suzanne Harper, one of the main hair and makeup artists, was touching up the edges of his beard with careful precision.  

The warm glow of vanity bulbs cast a golden hue over his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the soft crinkles near his eyes.  

Dara Hannon, the daily hair and makeup trainee, glanced up and grinned as you stepped in. “Ah, there’s our favorite ray of sunshine,” she said, setting down a brush. “You always look so put together. How do you do it?”  

You laughed, heat creeping up your neck. “Trust me, I don’t. I just hide it well.”  

“She doesn’t need to hide anything,” Pedro murmured, cracking one eye open. His voice was smooth, laced with something teasing but warm. “She’s effortlessly stunning.”  

You felt your brain short-circuit.  

From across the room, Samanta, one of the junior makeup artists, let out a low whistle. “Damn, Pedro. You don’t hold back, do you?”  

Chloë Pyne—one of the main team hair and makeup artists—smirked, tilting her head as she studied you. “He’s right, though. You have one of those naturally pretty faces. Like, the kind that doesn’t need much makeup.”  

Pedro hummed in agreement, his gaze lingering on you a beat too long. “See? Told you.”  

You waved them off, suddenly very interested in the floor. “Okay, okay—enough. I came to get you, not to hear you guys exaggerate.”  

Pedro grinned. “We’re not exaggerating. You just don’t take compliments well.”  

“I take them fine,” you mumbled, eyes darting anywhere but him.  

He chuckled, stretching his arms as he stood from the chair, towering over you. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered, you know that?”  

Your stomach flipped, and you wanted to sink into the ground. “Pedro—”  

He smirked, leaning in slightly. “Yes?”  

You huffed, turning on your heel. “Come on, you’re needed on set.”  

Pedro chuckled behind you, his footsteps light and easy as he followed. Just before you stepped out of the makeup trailer, his hand brushed against your arm—barely there, a whisper of contact—but it sent a ripple of heat up your spine. You swallowed hard, pretending not to notice, pretending your stomach wasn’t doing ridiculous little flips at the way his presence lingered so close behind you.  

By the time you reached the sound stage, the energy on set had shifted.  

“There she is!” Vanessa beamed the second she spotted you, setting her script down to stride over. “Finally. The only competent person around here.”  

You snorted. “I think that’s an insult to literally everyone else.”  

Vanessa grinned. “And yet, somehow, they’ll survive.”  

Before you could respond, Joseph and Ebon chimed in from where they were going over their lines.  

“Thank God, I thought Pedro kidnapped you,” Joseph teased, crossing his arms with a smirk. “We were about to send a search party.”  

Ebon shook his head. “Nah, he would’ve kept her hidden all day.” He gave Pedro a pointed look. “You’ve been hovering.”  

Pedro scoffed. “I don’t hover.”  

Vanessa snorted. “You so do.”  

You stood there, mouth opening and closing like a fish, unsure how to defend yourself—or Pedro, for that matter—when another familiar voice called out.  

“Ah, the prodigal assistant returns!”  

You turned to see Jess Hall, the first AD, grinning as he strolled over, script in hand. “Seriously, where have you been? I swear the set runs smoother when you’re around.”  

“I… I’ve been doing my job?” you offered weakly.  

Jess huffed a laugh. “Yeah, yeah, keep being humble, we love that.”  

Before you could protest, Matt—the director—walked up, arms crossed, surveying the growing crowd around you with an arched brow.  

“So…” he mused. “Am I missing something? Because the way everyone gravitates toward you makes me think you might actually be running this set.”  

You blinked. “Uh—no? I mean, I just… I don’t know, I just do my job like everyone else.”  

Matt squinted at you like he didn’t quite buy that, but he just hummed and glanced at Pedro. “You keeping her distracted, or is she keeping you distracted?”  

Pedro grinned. “Bit of both.”  

Your brain stalled.  

Matt shook his head, muttering something about actors before waving a hand. “Alright, let’s go, people. Back to work before I regret hiring all of you.”  

As the cast dispersed, Pedro leaned in, voice low, warm. “See? Told you everyone likes you.”  

You groaned, burying your face in your hands as Pedro’s laughter rumbled beside you, rich and warm.  

“Why are you like this?” you muttered, voice muffled against your palms.  

He tilted his head, smirking. “Like what?”  

“You know what.”  

Pedro simply grinned, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, as if he wasn’t single-handedly unraveling your ability to function like a normal human being.  

There was a steady thrum in the air whenever he was close—something neither of you acknowledged but both of you felt. It was impossible not to.  

It crackled between you when you stood side by side, almost magnetic.  

And when your fingers brushed, even just for a second? Electric.  

You pulled your hand away as if burned, hoping he hadn’t noticed the way you tensed. But of course, he did. Pedro always noticed. His gaze flickered down to where your hands had been, amusement dancing in his dark eyes.  

“Careful,” he murmured, his voice low, teasing. “Someone might think you like me or something.”  

You sucked in a sharp breath and, without thinking, smacked his arm.  

Pedro just laughed, dodging the second playful hit you aimed at him before finally relenting, his hands raised in surrender.  

“Alright, alright, I’ll behave,” he promised, though his smirk said otherwise.  

With a final glare, you turned and threw yourself into work, desperate for some sense of normalcy.  

The next few hours passed in a blur of controlled chaos—wardrobe changes, prop resets, last-minute adjustments. You did your job like clockwork, moving through set with practiced efficiency. Fetching cast members, tracking schedule updates, and ensuring things ran as smoothly as possible.  

Your friends worked nearby, their presence grounding you amidst the constant hum of production. But despite the familiarity of routine, you felt off-kilter.  

Every time you caught sight of Pedro—laughing with the cast, deep in conversation with Matt, even just sitting between takes, flipping through a script—your stomach did that thing.  

The stupid fluttery thing.  

By the time filming wrapped for the day, you were both exhausted and wired, your brain still buzzing with the day’s events.  

You found yourself huddled in a loose circle with some of the PAs and crew, all of you packing up while chatting, the easy rhythm of conversation filling the space.  

Daisy elbowed you playfully. “So, how’s your day been? You seemed a little… frazzled earlier.”  

You cleared your throat, focusing very intently on coiling a stray cable. “Just… tired.”  

Jordan snorted into his coffee. “You’re such a bad liar.” He raised a brow. “Let me guess—Pedro?”  

Your mouth opened, but no words came out.  

The entire group cackled.  

“Yeah, thought so.”  

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you grumbled, hugging your clipboard to your chest like it might somehow shield you from their knowing smirks.  

“Oh, sure,” Lucy drawled, her smirk downright devious. “It’s not like the man literally gravitates toward you every chance he gets.”  

“That’s just how he is!” you argued, feeling heat creep up your neck.  

Daisy hummed, unconvinced. “Uh-huh. Sure.”  

“You guys are insufferable.” You crossed your arms, trying and failing to suppress your flustered expression.  

Jordan held up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. We’ll drop it. For now.”  

As the conversation flowed, the tension you’d been holding onto all day slowly unwound. Someone cracked a joke about a prop malfunction earlier, and you found yourself laughing, the sound blending into the hum of easy chatter around you.  

“Okay, but did you see the way the fake blood exploded everywhere?” Daisy wheezed, wiping tears from her eyes.  

Jordan shook his head, still grinning. “Poor props department. That cleanup looked brutal.”  

Lucy snickered. “I swear, Matt almost had a stroke.”  

You smiled, the stress of the day fading into the background. It was moments like this that made the long hours worth it—these small pockets of joy, of shared experiences.  

Then, like clockwork, he entered the periphery of your awareness.  

Pedro’s laughter rang out from somewhere behind you, low and familiar. The sound curled through your chest like a flickering ember, and before you could stop yourself, you turned slightly—just enough to catch sight of him.  

He was leaning against one of the equipment carts, deep in conversation with Matt, a lopsided smile playing on his lips. But then, as if he could sense you looking, his gaze flicked up—searching, landing squarely on you.  

And suddenly, it was just the two of you.  

Your breath hitched.  

Pedro’s smile softened, his eyes crinkling just slightly at the corners. He lifted a brow, like he knew exactly what was running through your mind.  

You tore your gaze away, your face burning, heart hammering against your ribs.  

“Yup. She’s gone,” Jordan muttered, loud enough for only the group to hear.  

You smacked his arm. “Shut up.”  

Daisy cackled. “Oh my God, you’re so screwed.”  

You groaned, hiding your face in your hands as the laughter around you grew.  

Maybe you were screwed.  

Because, try as you might to ignore it, that pull—the steady thrum of something unspoken, something undeniable—was getting harder and harder to resist.

You quickly said goodbye to your friends as they boarded the shuttle back to their hotel, the last remnants of laughter lingering in the air. The set had mostly cleared out, leaving only a few crew members finishing up and the cast slowly trickling out of their trailers. You tucked your arms around yourself, the night air cool against your skin as you waited for the others, your thoughts still buzzing from the day.  

Then—warm hands.  

A firm, sudden weight against your back.  

You barely had time to process it before you were lifted off the ground.  

A startled squeal left your lips as Pedro spun you effortlessly, laughter rumbling in his chest. “Gotcha,” he murmured near your ear, his voice thick with amusement.  

“Pedro!” you gasped, swatting at his hands, but you couldn’t help the breathless laugh that followed.  

He finally set you down, his arms still loosely around your shoulders, and when you turned to glare up at him, he had the audacity to grin—full, boyish, utterly unrepentant.  

“You didn’t even hear me coming,” he teased, giving your shoulders a playful squeeze before finally stepping back.  

“You ambushed me,” you huffed, pressing a hand to your racing heart. “I almost had a heart attack.”  

Pedro smirked. “I’d apologize, but your little scream was too cute.”  

Your face burned. “You’re insufferable.”  

Before he could respond, you heard stifled giggles from nearby.  

You glanced up just in time to spot Coco, Vanessa, Joseph, and Ebon approaching, all of them watching the scene unfold with varying degrees of amusement.  

“Oh, don’t stop on our account,” Vanessa quipped, smirking.  

Coco nudged Joseph with her elbow, grinning. “Are we interrupting something?”  

Pedro, ever the shameless one, just threw an arm around your shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Not at all,” he said easily, then glanced down at you with a teasing glint in his eye. “Unless you think we were?”  

You glared at him, resisting the urge to shove him away—because knowing him, he’d just make a bigger scene.  

Instead, you turned to the group, feigning exasperation. “Can someone please save me from him?”  

Ebon just laughed, shaking his head. “Nope. You’re on your own, kid.”  

Your stomach did an unfair little flip as Pedro pulled you closer, his warmth seeping into you despite the cool night air.  

And the worst part?  

You weren’t entirely sure you wanted to be saved.  

Pedro’s arm was still draped lazily around your shoulders, his body warm against yours, the scent of his cologne lingering—something woodsy, something undeniably him. You willed yourself to ignore the way your pulse picked up, to pretend your skin wasn’t tingling from the casual intimacy of it.  

Vanessa arched a brow, arms crossed as she watched the two of you with blatant amusement. “What are you doing just standing out here?” she asked, tilting her head. “You could’ve knocked at my trailer.”  

You blinked, shifting slightly beneath Pedro’s hold. “I, uh—” You cleared your throat. “I didn’t have your guys’ numbers, so I just thought I’d wait near the trailers.”  

Coco gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. “You mean none of us thought to give you our numbers?” She turned to the others, looking genuinely offended. “What kind of monsters are we?”  

Ebon chuckled. “Okay, okay, let’s fix this.” He pulled out his phone and waggled it in front of you. “Give me your number, we’ll add you to the group chat.”  

You hesitated, suddenly feeling a little overwhelmed. You had kept a certain level of professional distance with the cast—sure, you’d exchanged pleasantries, worked alongside them, shared the occasional laugh—but this? Being included like this?  

Pedro, still pressed close, must have sensed your hesitation because he squeezed your shoulder lightly, his voice softer this time. “Told ya,” he murmured, just for you. “We like having you around.”  

Your chest tightened.  

Before you could overthink it, you rattled off your number, and within seconds, your phone buzzed with a message from an unfamiliar group chat.  

Coco grinned. “Welcome to the chaos.”  

Joseph laughed, shaking his head. “You have no idea what you just signed up for.”  

You looked down at your phone, at the flood of messages already rolling in—Vanessa sending a series of emojis, Ebon dropping a meme, Pedro sending a voice note that was probably nonsense.  

A warmth spread through you.  

Maybe you weren’t entirely sure you wanted to be saved.  

But you were sure of one thing.  

You didn’t mind being pulled deeper into this.

CHILTERN FIREHOUSE HOTEL — EVENING

Turns out, everyone was exhausted. Some opted for room service, others had plans to meet up with friends in the city. The once lively group slowly dwindled, leaving you and Pedro lingering near the car.

Without a word, he reached for your bag, slinging it over his shoulder like it was second nature.

You blinked up at him. “Pedro—”

“I got it,” he said easily, already heading toward the car.

You huffed but didn’t argue, too tired to put up much of a fight.

The ride back to the hotel was quiet, the streets of London painted in golden hues from the setting sun. Pedro, ever so casually, turned to you.

“Do you wanna go out for dinner?” he asked. “Or we could just order room service.”

You shrugged, watching the buildings blur past the window. “I don’t mind either way. It’s up to you.”

Pedro hummed as if considering his options, but he didn’t push for an answer right away.

When you arrived at the hotel, the two of you walked through the dimly lit hallway to your floor. The plush carpet muffled your steps, the air between you thick with something unspoken—comfortable, warm, charged.

At your door, you kicked off your shoes, swapping them for the soft hotel slippers. Pedro did the same, toeing off his boots before setting your bag down on the small table in the suite’s living area.

“You didn’t have to carry that, you know,” you told him, watching as he stretched his arms above his head, his shirt riding up slightly.

He smirked, that lazy, insufferably charming smirk. “I didn’t have to,” he echoed. “But I wanted to.”

Your stomach did a flip.

You swallowed, folding your arms as if that might steady you. “Well… thanks.”

He shot you a wink. “Anytime, cariño.”

After flipping through the room service menu, you both settled on an easy dinner—something warm and filling without the hassle of going out. Quickly calling the food service on the landline, the order was placed, and as you sank into the plush couch, stretching your legs, you sighed.  

"During the weekend, I’ll probably go grocery shopping," you mused aloud. "Ordering room service and eating out every day is going to burn through my savings if I keep this up." You glanced at Pedro. "So, I’ll stock up on food in the pantry if I’m still, y'know… here. In your suite."  

Pedro, who had been casually leaning against the armrest of the couch, stilled. His expression shifted from amused to something unreadable. "Why?" His brows furrowed. "Where are you going?"  

You blinked at him, confused for a second. "Uh… the front desk said they might have a room for me by next week, remember?"  

"Oh." His lips parted slightly, but he didn't say anything else.  

You watched the way his fingers tapped idly against his knee, as if the thought of you moving out hadn’t quite registered until now. There was something oddly endearing about the way his frown deepened. Like he didn’t like the idea of you not being here anymore.  

Before you could think too much about it, you cleared your throat, shifting the conversation. "Anyway," you said lightly, folding your arms over your chest, "you guys did great today on set."  

Pedro’s eyes flickered back to yours, and just like that, his easy grin returned.  

"Yeah?" He leaned in slightly, resting his forearm against the back of the couch, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Any specific compliments, or just a general ‘you guys did great’ kind of thing?"  

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched at his teasing. "Oh, I definitely had specific compliments." You tapped your chin, pretending to think. "Vanessa was incredible, Joseph absolutely killed his scene, Ebon had amazing delivery—"  

Pedro gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. "Wow. So, I just… I don’t even make the list?"  

You bit back a laugh. "I mean… you were fine."  

"Fine?" he repeated, eyes narrowing playfully.  

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Serviceable. Passable. Not bad."  

Pedro let out an exaggerated groan, throwing his head back against the couch. "Unbelievable. Here I was, thinking you were my biggest fan."  

You giggled, nudging his knee with your foot. "You’ll survive."  

He peeked at you from beneath his lashes, a slow smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah, I guess I will."  

The warmth in his voice made your breath hitch. You quickly looked away, pretending to check your phone as the sound of the hotel staff knocking on the door saved you from whatever moment you’d just stumbled into.  

Pedro stood up to grab the food, but not before murmuring, just low enough for you to hear—  

"But it’d be a hell of a lot easier if you stuck around."  

And just like that, the butterflies were back.

CHILTERN FIREHOUSE HOTEL — LATE NIGHT  

The scent of warm food filled the suite as you both settled onto the couch, the soft glow of the television flickering against the dimly lit room. Pedro had absentmindedly put on a movie, something familiar and easy to watch—though neither of you seemed particularly focused on it. The conversation flowed naturally between bites of food, soft laughter filling the quiet spaces in between.  

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Pedro asked, “So… no special someone waiting for you back home?”  

You froze mid-bite, your fork hovering near your lips. It wasn’t the question itself that threw you off—it was the way he asked it. Casual, like it was just another topic of conversation, but there was something in his voice. A quiet curiosity. A weight that made your stomach flip.  

You swallowed and shook your head. “Nope,” you said simply. “It’s just me.”  

Pedro hummed, nodding slowly as he chewed. “Huh.”  

You raised an eyebrow, setting your plate down on the coffee table. “What’s that supposed to mean?”  

He smirked, tilting his head toward you. “Nothing. Just surprised.”  

You scoffed. “Surprised how?”  

He took his time answering, setting his own plate aside before stretching his arm along the back of the couch. His fingers drummed lightly against the cushion behind you, close enough that if you leaned back just a little, you’d brush against them.  

“I don’t know.” He exhaled, gaze flickering to the screen before finding you again. “You’re funny, smart, kind—"  

Your eyes narrowed. “Sounds like you’re about to say something insulting.”  

Pedro laughed, shaking his head. “I was gonna say, I just don’t get how someone like you is single.”  

A warmth crept up your neck, and you quickly picked up your drink, taking a long sip to avoid answering right away. Your heartbeat thrummed a little too fast, a little too loud.  

“I don’t know,” you murmured finally, voice quieter now. “Relationships just… never worked out for me, I guess.”  

Pedro studied you for a moment, his usual playful expression softening. He didn’t push, didn’t ask for more. Instead, he just nodded, accepting your answer without prying.  

And then—because the air was starting to feel too heavy—you smirked. “What about you? No special someone waiting for you?”  

He chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “Nah. It’s just me, too.”  

Your lips twitched. “Well, that is surprising.”  

Pedro groaned dramatically, throwing his head back against the couch. “Oh, come on—”  

You laughed, nudging his leg with your foot. “I’m just saying! You’re charming, talented, kind of a big deal—”  

“Kind of?” He placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense.  

You grinned. “Kind of.”  

He shook his head, muttering something under his breath about how unbelievable you were, but there was a smile playing at his lips.  

And just like that, the weight in the air lightened again, the conversation slipping back into something easy. The movie played on, mostly forgotten, and the two of you sat there, side by side—closer than before, shoulders brushing every now and then.  

Neither of you moved away.

End Notes:

OOOOOHHHH?!?! Things are heating up??? Or maybe it’s literally nothing at all and it’s all in your head 😃✊

OOF— you might stop sharing the suite at the end of the week? Oh naur T^T

Thank you all for the lovely words and comments that ya’ll keep leaving on each chapter. It warms my heart and gives me fuzzy feelings that make me dizzy AAAAAAHHH

Mfs, I’m posting this while I’m outside at a club LOL

TAGLIST: @comfortzonequeen @christinamadsen @liciafonseca @greenwitchfromthewoods @iqr-x @southernbe @maryfanson @brittmb115 @klajmekk @taytay0403 @whimsiwitchy @zymiii @sarahhxx03 @leilanixx @lilasskicker-23 @https-murdock @barnescamboy

[svtiddiess]

Nom Nom: The Bonus

Synopsis: Seungcheol has been hitting the gym more frequently lately, all for your sake, though you had no idea. When you fail to notice how much bigger his tiddies have gotten, he’s visibly upset. Determined to make up for it, you decide to give his tiddies the attention and admiration they deserve.

Pairing: Seungcheol x afab!reader

Genre: smut, fluff, established relationship, series

Rating: mature

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: body worship, tiddie biting, marking, dry humping, hand job, lemme know if I missed anything!

Note: The 1k bonus fic is finally here! Thank you again so much for 1k followers! We're ending the series with how we started it, by noming on daddy Cheol's tiddies.

Thank you so much @yuncheoligans for beta reading!

This is part of a series, read the whole series here!

Click here to join my taglist!

Reblogs are appreciated ♡

.ᐟMinors/blank/no age indicator blogs will be blocked.ᐟ

Your eyes light up at the sound of the door clicking open. Seungcheol’s back from the gym. He steps into the living room, drops his gym bag, and heads straight toward you with a teasing grin, pulling you into a tight hug.

"No! You’re sweaty!" you squeal, wriggling out of his grasp.

His arms drop, and he puts on a mock pout. "You don’t love me anymore," he mutters dramatically.

"I do, but I love the non-sweaty, non-stinky version of you even more," you tease with a grin. "Now, go shower."

With an exaggerated huff, he heads to the bathroom, leaving you giggling at his antics.

A little while later, he emerges freshly showered, clad in just a pair of loose basketball shorts, his torso on full display. Your eyes instinctively trail over his figure, and you can’t help but notice how much bigger and more defined his muscles look. All those extra gym sessions are clearly paying off.

"Look at you, Mr. Sexy," you tease, smirking. "Going to the gym more often is really working—you’re looking so big and buff."

Seungcheol blushes slightly but breaks into a giggle before flexing his muscles. "Do you notice any specific changes?" he asks, his tone hopeful.

You tilt your head, a little puzzled. "Uh, your muscles are bigger and more toned?" you offer hesitantly.

"But specifically, which muscle?" he presses, looking hopeful.

"All…of them?" you drawl, still unsure what he’s getting at.

His shoulders slump, and a small frown tugs at his lips. Alarmed, you knit your brows, worried you might have said something wrong.

"Cheollie, what’s wrong? Did I say something to upset you?" you ask softly.

"I’ve been working so hard on building my chest muscles just for you, but you didn’t even notice," he mutters, pouting like a scolded puppy.

Your eyes widen in realisation, and an apologetic "Oh" slips from your lips. You quickly get up and cradle his face in your hands.

"I’m so sorry, Cheollie. I didn’t realise," you apologise earnestly.

But Seungcheol only huffs, pulling away to plop down on the couch, arms crossed and his signature pout firmly in place. "I worked really hard just for you," he grumbles.

You follow him to the couch, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and pressing your cheek against his. "And it shows, Cheollie. Your tiddies look amazing," you try to reassure him with a playful smile.

"If they’re so amazing, why didn’t you notice until I told you?" he retorts, huffing again.

You open your mouth to respond but falter, no words coming out. Seeing this, Seungcheol whines and gently pushes you away, his pout unwavering.

"Cheollie," you plead, dragging out his name. "It’s because your tiddies were already perfect, so I didn’t notice the difference."

"Liar," he mutters, furrowing his brows and turning away from you.

"It’s true!" you defend, scooting closer to him, but he just moves to the other end of the couch, arms still crossed like a sulking child.

"Cheollie, come on," you coax, but he ignores you, his back turned stubbornly.

Undeterred, you inch closer and pepper soft kisses on his shoulder. "Cheollie," you murmur sweetly, hoping to break through his resolve. Still, he refuses to look at you, keeping up his act of playful defiance.

With a dramatic huff, you get up from the couch and climb onto his lap, carefully squeezing yourself into his space. Despite your efforts, he stubbornly keeps his head turned away, arms crossed and his pout still firmly in place.

"Cheollie, look at me," you purr, gently taking hold of his chin and turning his face toward you. He finally relents, his wide, puppy-like eyes meeting yours, his lips still pressed into an adorable pout.

"I’m sorry I didn’t notice all the hard work you’ve been doing just for me," you murmur, your thumbs softly brushing against his cheeks as you cradle his face. "But I promise I’ll make it up to you now."

His pout wavers, curiosity sparking in his eyes. "How are you going to do that?" he mumbles, voice barely above a whisper.

"By showing you just how much I love your tiddies," you reply with a mischievous smirk, your tone playful yet tender.

Before he can respond, you close the distance between the both of you, pressing your lips to his in a gentle, lingering kiss. His pout melts away almost instantly, replaced by a soft smile as his arms relax and slide around your hips, holding you close.

Smiling against his lips, you begin trailing kisses down his neck, your touch light and affectionate. A breathy giggle escapes him, and the sound makes your heart flutter.

Your hands shift to his chest, giving them a firm squeeze and earning a soft groan from Seungcheol. Squeezing them again, you marvel at how much bigger they've become.

"Cheollie, you worked so hard just for me?" you ask, your voice filled with awe and affection as you gaze at him.

He chuckles softly and nods, a smug smirk tugging at his lips. "All for you, princess."

Your cheeks flush, and a warm glow fills your chest at his words. He puts in so much effort, going to the gym every single day just for you. Your heart swells with love—he really is your Cheollie.

You press another tender kiss to his lips and softly murmur, "I love you," before letting your attention drift to his chest.

You start by peppering his chest with soft kisses; he lets out a soft chuckle and murmurs, "That tickles." You gently sink your teeth into the muscle, eliciting a groan from him. You hum softly against his chest before leaning in to suck on the tender skin, releasing it with a gentle pop.

"So perfect, just for me," you mumble before sucking on another part of his chest.

Seungcheol throws his head back and lets out a soft moan as he savours the mix of pain and pleasure coursing through him, his cheeks flushing at your words. Slowly, you trail your way up to his neck, leaving a path of purple and red marks in your wake.

"My perfect Cheollie," you whisper softly against his neck before peppering it with love bites, making sure the world knows exactly who he belongs to.

Your hands go back to squeezing his plump chest, squeezing them like a stress ball. Taking each nipple into your hand, you start rolling the bud against your fingers, earning a whimper from him.

You can't help but roll your hips against his when you hear the pretty sounds escaping his lips. You giggle when you hear him groan and teasingly grind against him once more.

"Always such a tease," he mutters, his voice strained, making you giggle.

"Can’t help it," you reply with a playful grin.

You lean down and look up at him as you lick a long stripe from the base of his chest up to his neck. Seungcheol can’t help but let out a deep chuckle at your actions. You throw him a wink before taking one of his nipples into your mouth, sucking the sensitive bud. He exhales deeply, his hand slipping to the back of your head as he gently presses you closer against his chest.

You run a teasing hand down his torso, stopping at his crotch. You slip your hand into his shorts without warning, grinning when you find that he's not wearing anything underneath. Wrapping your hand around his dick, you earn a groan from him when you press your thumb against his slit.

His breath hitches when you start stroking him at a teasing pace. Your tongue continues to suck his sensitive bud whilst your hand continues to toy with his shaft. You let go of his nipple with a pop, moving to give the other one equal attention.

Desperate for more, Seungcheol starts to buck his hips into your hand, a soft whimper escaping his lips. You giggle at his helpless state, leaning back to look down at him with a teasing grin.

"What’s wrong, Cheollie?" you ask, smirking playfully.

"Princess," he whines, his voice laced with desperation, "don’t do this."

"Do what?" you reply innocently, slowing your hand movements on purpose, earning a frustrated groan from him.

"Princess," he growls, bucking his hips up in frustration.

Deciding he’s had enough teasing, you pick up the pace of your hand movements; Seungcheol throws his head back and moans, hips matching your pace. Leaning back down, you press a few more marks onto his chest, leaving no part untouched by your claim.

"Shit, I'm close," he groans out.

You lean in close to his ear, your voice soft as you whisper, "Cum for me, Cheollie."

At your words, he comes undone. You bite your lip and watch in awe as Seungcheol comes apart beneath you, jaw slacked and pretty moans escaping his lips. He takes a few moments to catch his breath before grabbing your chin, and pulling you into a messy kiss that leaves you breathless, stealing the air right from your lungs.

Pulling away, both of you gasp for breath, your eyes locking as soft smiles form on your lips. He gently tucks a few stray strands of hair behind your ear before resting his forehead against yours.

"I love you," he whispers, his voice tender.

"I love you more," you whisper back, your words laced with affection.

At that moment, it’s undeniable—Choi Seungcheol is yours, completely and utterly yours, in a way no one else could ever have him.

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