#the op has a drinking game for these too

[lay-z]

Since I’m currently melting at work, forced to endure this bloody heat wave for capitalism even though humans are supposed to be free and allowed to lay in the shade, eating juicy fruits and drinking cold coconut water—here have some blurbs that will hopefully lift all of our moods.   

cw: tf 141 x fem!reader; established romantic relationship; suggestive | 18+

Kyle positions all the fans tactically for maximum refreshment and coolness—rolling down the blinds and closing every curtain in your flat to get the temperature to a more humane one.  

Watch him build one of those bed sheet caves where he attaches one fan to it to have it inflate, so you and him can crawl inside with snacks and drinks, wearing nothing but underwear while watching a show on your trusted laptop, playing footsies for romantic and emotional support, because neither of you can bear any sticky skin on skin contact right now. 

He does lean in for the occasional smooch, though. Completely nonverbal, just expecting it, like a baby bird opening its mouth eagerly to receive a worm from mama.  

“Baby,” he chirps eventually between spoons of succulent pistachio ice cream and into the fifth episode of Game of Thrones (because you’re both trying to manipulate yourselves that it’s chilly outside whenever there are scenes in Winterfell). “Baby, can we take a cold shower together? I’m so sick of not touching you.”

The pout he shoots you next is so bloody adorable that you can’t help yourself but tackle him inside your little inflated cave, knocking over the fan as you play fight and laugh, getting tangled up in the thin sheets. 

John has the large pool in the backyard prepared for you, complete with deck chairs and an ice tub filled with drinks as soon as he’s checked the weather report for the whole week. 

There is no way he will let either you nor himself suffer in this heat—not with this backyard and not if he can prevent it. 

He takes you grocery shopping before it gets too hot, buys all the fancy stuff you’ll need for some fruity cocktails and some nice meat and vegetables to put on that expensive grill he rarely gets to use, along with the silly chef's apron you’ve gifted him some time ago. He wears it with pride, rocking it with some swim trunks, shirtless, his aviator shades and Boonie hat on.

The sun is burning, there are no clouds in sight, no breeze sweeping across the grass, but you and your husband are enjoying yourselves like you’re on a second honeymoon. 

And while he’s standing by the grill, giving the BBQ tongs two experimental clicks (as you do), he looks over at you with a fond smile and the look of growing desire behind his dark shades while you’re lounging in the sun, dewy skin glistening like diamonds with sweat and sunscreen. 

Perhaps this time you’ll allow him to get freaky with you in the pool later.  

Simon loves that you despise heat as much as he does—extremes in general. All his scars inflame and itch in hot weather, and they tighten and itch when it’s too cold. It doesn’t help that he’s sweaty as bloody hell, too. 

Spring and autumn, that’s when he doesn’t have too many problems with them—and those seasons happen to be your favorites, too. 

When the excruciating heat wave hits, your shared flat turns into a bat cave. The AC runs on its highest setting, everything is dark, and you both keep physical strain and activity as well as fabrics worn on your bodies to an absolute minimum. 

You’re lounging on the floor in the living room, fanning yourself with a colorful and handmade fan that Simon had picked up for you as a gift from an op back in Mexico, when he sneaks into the room, nudging your calf with his toes before grunting: “C’mon. Made somethin’ f’us, luv.”

Oh, you’d been wondering where he’s been for the past hour. 

He helps and lifts you up with ease when you reach out a hand to him with a soft groan, because everything is too much in this weather. 

And when he pulls you into the bathroom, you nearly cry in relief when you see the large tub filled with ice water, drinks on the side table that he’d carried in there, a laptop perched on the laundry basket within reach. 

“Date night.” He announces dryly, though you can hear the hint of a smile in his gruff voice as he tugs his boxer briefs down unceremoniously.  

Johnny doesn’t mind the heat much. In fact, he thoroughly enjoys walking around your shared flat shirtless—until his pants come off too, and suddenly he’s walking around butt naked, parading around the rooms wherever you happen to be like a proud cock with a matching (and very fluffy) coxcomb. 

“Really?!” you ask incredulously, spoon half-way at your mouth and dripping with cold milk when he strolls into the kitchen, soft and uncircumcised dick swinging between his meaty thighs. “In front of my cereal?”  

He barks out a laugh and opens the fridge to grab a water bottle while you can’t help but admire the curve of his muscular back and his unfairly plump ass.  

“Don’t act like ye dinnae like what ye’r seein’, baby.” He shoots you a wink and you huff with hot cheeks, stuffing a big spoonful of cereal into your mouth, mumbling: “Showoff.” 

You don’t know how exactly it happens, but Johnny coaxes you to join him in his nudist cult—ending up in bed together, no pillows or blankets on the mattress, just two sweaty lovers laying there like a couple of starfish as his hands begin to wander eventually, because they always do. Calloused fingers tracing the curve of your hip while sweat beads on your upper lip. 

“Johnny,” you growl, though it comes out more like a whine. “Stop. I feel disgusting.” Though that only elicits a wolfish grin from him. “Aye,” he snickers. “Lemme make an even bigger mess of us.” 

[leyavo]

The TF141 guys when you mention you’re trying to romanticise your life:

John’s the only one that questions it, knows he’s not in the loop with trends/slang etc. “What do you mean darling?” And he starts romanticising his own morning routine. A nice black coffee, your drink of choice too waiting for you. some music playing as he gets dressed for the day.

Planning shared time with you later, having a bath together and little candles flickering on the side. He also values his alone time and has a bubble bath, cigar and a glass of whisky. Getting himself some fancy pens, the ink smooth so it makes writing up all those reports so much easier and more fluid. He takes time to check in on your day too, a text here and there when he’s not busy or weighed down with work.

Simon’s panicking, thinking he’s been neglecting you. He’s getting you seasonal flowers, bright tulips or daffodils in spring etc. buying you your favourite chocolate. He’s doing little things like ironing your shirt for work or packing your lunch when he gets time. It’s not till you confront him about doing all these little things do you realise he took it to heart.

“Si, I meant romanticising my day, the mundane things I can do to make me feel a bit better.” After convincing him he does enough and he’s romantic in his way he begins to think. Simon then starts small by adding a hazelnut syrup to his black coffee in the morning. Washing his mask more often too, a ritual after each op where he hand washes all the sweat and dirt as if cleansing himself of the sins.

Johnny’s thinks romanticising his day is day dreaming about you and how you smell so good. How he’d like to have his way with you before you go to work. But in all seriousness, Johnny journals (like in the game). He’s got one for work and one for his home life, some pages are scribbled mess of writing and sketches, of you, of little things that catch his eye (also you).

He’s got a box full of journals under the bed, sometimes he likes to read them, connect with who he was years ago and appreciate who he’s become. Loves reading back on your first dates and what he thought you (man’s a dog). Adds some more notes in the margain “we married them.” “You did get laid this night.” Maybe he’ll even show you some of them one day.

Kyle’s knows exactly what you mean, you’re always trying to add more intention to your day and being present. Kyle understands and uses the present as an anchor to stop him spiralling with his job. He calls them glimmers, how when the sunlight steals his attention and reminds him to breathe and stop overthinking.

He makes time for himself to stretch as soon as he gets out of bed, create small moments in between his fast paced job. Loves reading fantasy books, dragons preferably and designates his time before bed to read at least one chapter (you’re normally reading beside him too). Even part of an online fanclub for said book where he talks about theories for the next book in the series. Total nerd for it there like eight books already.

[kenzdolls]

GAMER INTOLERANCE.

⌗ synopsis: you’re a person with IGD (Internet Gaming Disorder), so how does your boyfriend deal with it?

⌗ pairing: mha men x reader

⌗ side note: the loneliness is real I’m gonna be honest—

𐔌.  IZUKU MIDORIYA:

▹ keeps detailed notes about your gaming habits in hero analysis notebook #47 (yes he made a whole notebook just for understanding you better) and accidentally discovers the correlation between your longest gaming sessions and when you're avoiding real-world stress

▹ definitely doesn't stay up until 3am researching igd and healthy coping mechanisms but somehow always has perfectly timed snack deliveries and gentle check-ins during your marathon sessions

▹ creates the most elaborate care packages with color-coordinated sticky notes reminding you about hydration, eye breaks, and "you're doing amazing but maybe stretch?" written in his chaotic handwriting

▹ gets genuinely excited about your achievements and keeps a list of all your high scores, favorite games, and that one boss fight you've been stuck on for three weeks (offers to help research strategies even though he's terrible at gaming)

▹ worry-mumbles about your sleep schedule but learns your game's soundtrack so he can tell how intense your session is getting just by the music bleeding through your headphones

▹ develops an entire system of gentle interventions disguised as coincidences: "oh wow, i just happened to make too much katsudon, and the sunset looks really pretty from the balcony right now, want to see?"

𐔌.  KATSUKI BAKUGOU:

▹ storms into your gaming space like "oi, when's the last time you ate something that wasn't energy drinks and regret?" but there's always a perfectly prepared meal in his hands that he "accidentally" made too much of

▹ absolutely does not research your games to understand what you're going through but somehow always knows exactly when you're about to rage quit and appears with aggressive support: "that boss is being a little bitch, but you're not gonna let some pixels make you their bitch, right?"

▹ installs parental controls on your setup (without asking) but the restrictions are weirdly thoughtful - blocks during meal times he's cooking and creates mandatory "touch grass" periods that coincide with his training schedule

▹ learns gaming terminology just to trash talk your opponents more effectively: "that scrub is camping like a coward, show them what a real gamer looks like!"

▹ forces you into "training montages" where he makes you do push-ups between deaths ("if you're gonna sit on your ass for 12 hours, at least make it a strong ass")

▹ secretly learns to play your favorite co-op games because "someone has to carry you through this shit" but gets embarrassingly competitive about your team rankings

𐔌.  SHOTO TODOROKI:

▹ approaches your gaming habits with the analytical precision of someone who's never experienced a hobby before: takes notes, asks incredibly direct questions like "do you game more when you're avoiding your father?" 

▹ creates detailed spreadsheets tracking your gaming hours vs. mood vs. sleep quality because "data helps me understand how to support you better" (doesn't realize how intense this sounds)

▹ his rich boy solutions are accidentally perfect sets up the most ergonomic gaming space known to mankind with temperature control, blue light filtering, and a mini-fridge stocked with actual nutritious snacks

▹ sits quietly nearby during your sessions working on his own stuff, becoming a comforting presence who somehow always knows when you need emotional support without you saying anything

▹ learns to make your comfort foods from scratch because "store-bought isn't good enough for someone i care about" and delivers them with zero fanfare

▹ accidentally becomes your guild's favorite person because he remembers everyone's schedules and sends polite reminders about raid times and event deadlines

𐔌.  EIJIRO KIRISHIMA:

▹ becomes your personal hype man who genuinely celebrates every single achievement: "bro, you just got that headshot! that was so manly!" *aggressively supportive arm gestures*

▹ definitely doesn't panic-research igd at 2am but starts leaving little encouraging notes around your setup: "remember you're more than your rank!" and "hydration is manly!"

▹ learns your game just enough to understand when you're having a rough session and swoops in with the most genuine pep talks: "hey, bad games don't make you a bad person, you know?"

▹ creates "gym buddy but for life balance" energy - suggests you both work on your respective challenges together (his self-doubt, your gaming habits) with matching goal charts and reward systems

▹ masters the art of the perfect gaming break: warm hugs, protein smoothies, and stories about his day that are just interesting enough to ground you without being demanding

▹ somehow makes every gaming achievement feel like a shared victory while also making every break feel like quality time instead of an interruption

𐔌.  DENKI KAMINARI:

▹ initially thinks dating a gamer will be awesome until he realizes you're way more hardcore than his casual mobile gaming and gets lowkey intimidated by your setup

▹ becomes the master of chaotic interventions: unplugs your router "by accident," challenges you to stupid tiktok dances, or starts playing ridiculously loud music until you're forced to acknowledge his existence

▹ absolutely enables your habits sometimes brings you energy drinks and snacks but draws the line at letting you skip meals: "babe, you can't sustain this lifestyle on doritos and spite"

▹ creates elaborate schemes to make irl activities more appealing than gaming: "what if we went to the arcade? it's like gaming but with more lights and you can see my devastatingly handsome face"

▹ learns to recognize your different types of gaming moods and adapts accordingly - respects your serious competitive sessions but crashes your casual farming sim time with commentary and jokes

▹ somehow becomes friends with your online gaming buddies and creates a support network that bridges your digital and real relationships

𐔌.  TOMURA SHIGARAKI:

▹ completely understands the appeal of escaping into digital worlds and doesn't judge your habits because he's been there, but gets weirdly possessive when games take priority over him

▹ creates a bizarre competitive dynamic where he tries to out-game you, leading to couples gaming sessions that last 20+ hours and probably aren't healthy for either of you

▹ oddly supportive in his own twisted way: "the real world is garbage anyway, at least you're good at something" (this is his version of encouragement)

▹ enables your worst habits while simultaneously calling you out: stocks your space with junk food and energy drinks while muttering about how you're "rotting away like society"

▹ becomes eerily invested in your gaming drama and holds genuine grudges against players who've wronged you: "give me their usernames, i'll make them regret existing"

▹ his room setup makes yours look casual and he creates the ultimate gaming cave where you both can ignore the outside world, which is either deeply romantic or deeply concerning depending on perspective

𐔌.  DABI (TOUYA TODOROKI):

▹ approaches your gaming addiction with his signature blend of dark humor and genuine concern disguised as indifference: "nice to see you're as committed to avoiding reality as i am"

▹ secretly worried because he recognizes destructive coping mechanisms but expresses concern through sarcasm: "wow, 16 hours straight, that's almost as impressive as my daddy issues"

▹ becomes surprisingly attentive to your physical health in subtle ways - adjusts room temperature without being asked, replaces your desk chair with something that won't destroy your back, casually mentions eye strain

▹ uses his insomnia to keep weird parallel schedules with your gaming marathons, becoming a comforting presence who's just... there when you need him at 4am

▹ learns your games well enough to have intelligent conversations about them, but always with his trademark cynicism: "so you're telling me you spent six hours optimizing a virtual farm while eating cereal for dinner?"

▹ creates moments of genuine connection by sharing his own escapism strategies and bonding over the appeal of worlds where you have control

𐔌.  SPINNER (SHUICHI IGUCHI):

▹ actually the most qualified to understand your situation as a former shut-in gamer himself, approaches your relationship with genuine empathy and zero judgment

▹ shares his own experiences with gaming addiction and social withdrawal without making it about him: "i get it, sometimes the digital world feels safer, but isolation isn't actually protection"

▹ creates the perfect balance of gaming together vs. encouraging other activities - suggests co-op games that build teamwork, then translates those skills into real-world adventures

▹ helps you recognize the difference between gaming as hobby vs. gaming as avoidance with gentle questions: "are we playing this because it's fun or because tuesday sucked?"

▹ his lizard brain finds your intense focus oddly attractive but knows when to interrupt with perfectly timed reality checks disguised as snack breaks and conversation

▹ becomes your accountability partner who actually understands the struggle - celebrates your healthy choices without making you feel broken for needing support

⌗ taglist: @idexmids @siriuslyginnychase @eleteo125 @st4r-dustx @corpsebridenightamare

⌗ mutuals: @haikyuubby @va-3 @tulippanes @luvseraphh @miss-indigen0us @cupkiki

[ktownshizzle]

Nerd & Nerdier | Chapter 3

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x reader, Jeon Wonwoo x reader; endgame? x reader ✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluff, Attempt At Comedy, Roommates au, Love triangle

✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: Moving in with two introverts should have been easy. Not when it’s Min Yoongi and Jeon Wonwoo, who decide they both want you. Unhinged, awkward, and nerdy as hell, they proceed to compete for your attention in the most unnecessarily dramatic fashion that culminates into a… rap battle.

✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: Wildly gratuitous, You might 100% chance you’ll fall in love with both of them so that’s a problem, no mxm dynamics to be expected

✎ ˎˊ˗Chapter Warnings: reader felt violated while in the club, both men are down so bad

✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 1.8k ✎ ˎˊ˗ Posting date: February 26, 2025

✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Everyday I continue to find My People who understand the obsession with this cat and this ghost in a deep, cellular, molecular level. So here we go… Thank you Cathy Jae <3

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Ch 1 | Ch 2

Roommate Rule #3: If Your Bickering Roommates Start Acting Strangely in Sync, Something is Most Definitely Up.

After that night, a weird calm settles over the apartment.

No more rap battles. No passive-aggressive co-op games. No intense staring contests over meals.

It should feel normal, better even? But it doesn’t.

Plus, now, whenever you’re home, they’re both there. Always. Kinda hovering.

It’s never just Yoongi in the kitchen, grumbling about how you keep putting the spices in the wrong order. It’s never just Wonwoo on the couch, lost in a book but somehow still aware of everything you do.

It’s both of them.

At first, you chalk it up to coincidence. Maybe their schedules just aligned, or maybe you’re overthinking things. But then a whole week passes, and you realize—no, this is intentional.

And you have no idea what to make of it.

At work, a colleague from another department—Hyunjae—strikes up a conversation by the coffee machine. He’s nice, seems harmless, and when he asks you out to dinner, you say yes.

Because why not?

You don’t have a boyfriend. Your weird roommates haven’t exactly made anything explicit. And maybe—maybe—this is exactly what you need to clear your head.

That night, when you tell Yoongi and Wonwoo about the date, their reactions are... expected?

They don’t react that much. They don’t even comment on how you're looking hella cute with your lilac dress and heels. Stoic, as per usual.

Yoongi leans back in his chair, nodding once. "Have fun."

Wonwoo barely looks up from his phone. "Yeah. Hope it goes well."

But their voices are just a little too flat. Their movements a little too controlled.

As you do a final check on the contents of your bag (card, keys, mint, lip tint), Wonwoo casually mentions that he’s streaming tonight—his gaming channel has been blowing up lately and Yoongi tells you to call him if anything happens. Guess that’s that.

It’s fine. Everything is fine.

Except it’s not. Because the date was bad.

Dinner was okay, but when you went to the bar next door, the guy got pushy once the drinks started flowing. A hand on your waist that lingered too long. Fingers grazed your thigh like he had a right to.

You felt off. Uncomfortable. A little violated.

You told him off and walked away.

You lock yourself in the ladies bath room. Fuck. You stare at your phone. There’s only one voice you hear in your head as you stroll through your contact list. You just hope he answers.

Of course he does, on the second ring.

“Yoongi? Can you, umm, can you pick me up?”

"Where are you?" Yoongi asks, voice a little sharp. “Are you okay?”

You tell him the club’s name, and you barely get through the sentence of telling him you’re hidden away because you don’t want to be with your date anymore, before he says, "Stay where you are. I’m coming."

Fifteen minutes later, he’s here and the rush of relief mixes with the cool air as you exit the bathroom stall you've taken residence in.

You see him before he sees you. Black button down, dark jeans, and fire in his eyes, but when they land on you, something in his expression shifts—softens just slightly.

He’s at your side in an instant.

"You good?" 

You nod, but your throat feels tight. 

He exhales sharply, jaw clenched. "Where is he?"

You shake your head. "Probably gone. It’s fine."

It’s not fine, but you don’t want him to cause a scene.

Yoongi doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push even as you see him tensely run his fingers through his hair. Instead, his other hand find yours, wrapping around your wrist—not pulling, not rushing. Just there.

And then, without thinking, you step into him.

You don’t know why. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s just Yoongi. The way his presence alone has made you feel safe after a night of shaky thoughts.

Suddenly, the music around you fades. And all you feel is him. Warm, steady, strong.

His arms come up instinctively, one wrapping around your back, the other resting against the nape of your neck. You’ve never done this before, but somehow it feels like you have.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to when you feel his heart hammering inside his chest to mirror your own.

You breathe him in—a faint trace of cologne you're now so familiar with, something distinctly Yoongi—and you don’t know what to do with the way your heart twists inside your chest.

When you finally pull back, Yoongi searches your face. "Let’s go home."

You nod, letting him lead you out, your hand clasped in his.

You don’t sleep that night.

Not because of the date, not because of the club, but because of the voices in the kitchen.

You hear them some minutes after you turn off your bedroom light.

Hushed but heated.

You don’t want to eavesdrop, but you don’t exactly want to interrupt either. So you press your ear to the door and listen.

"You should have called me." Wonwoo’s voice is sharper than usual.

"She called me." Yoongi’s tone is steady but defensive.

"That’s not the point, hyung."

A pause.

"Then what is the point?"

Wonwoo exhales harshly. "You can't pull shit like this."

"Like what?"

"Like running to her first."

“You were streaming, when she called. You think I'd wait for you? She was crying…”

Your breath catches.

Silence stretches between them, heavy and suffocating.

Then, quieter: "It’s not fair."

Something in Wonwoo’s voice makes your chest ache.

You don’t know what possesses you to move, but suddenly, your feet are carrying you toward the kitchen. Before you can think twice, you push the door open.

They both turn at the same time.

Yoongi leans against the counter, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. Wonwoo stands stiffly near the sink, his jaw tight.

You take a breath, steadying yourself. "What the hell is going on?"

Neither of them speak.

You cross your arms. "I’m serious. You two have been acting weird for weeks. First, you’re constantly competing, then suddenly, you’re always together like some weird tag-team act. And now you’re fighting over who picks me up when I call for help?"

Still, silence. 

You swallow hard, but you’re unable to stop the nagging question in your head. "I need to know. Is this… Am I like a bet or something?”

“NO!” both men bellow.

You exhale a shaky breath. “Then what’s the deal?"

Silence. Again.

Yoongi and Wonwoo are both staring at you, like they’re waiting for you to say something. But instead, you exhale and lean back, crossing your arms.

“You know what?” you say, voice steady. “I think you two need to figure out if you actually…” Fuck you’ll say it if they can’t. “…like me… or if you just like competing with each other.”

That hits.

You let the silence stretch. Let them sit with it.

Because this whole thing—this weird, passive-aggressive, emotionally constipated mess—has never really been about you. Not the way it should be.

“I like both of you,” you continue, watching them carefully. “And maybe that’s selfish. But I don’t want to pick between two people who haven’t even stopped to ask themselves if what they feel is about me or just… winning.”

Yoongi looks away first. Wonwoo’s fingers twitch against his knee.

“So,” you say, standing up. “Figure it out. And let me know in the morning or… I’ll just move out.”

And with that, you leave them stewing.

Morning comes too fast.

When you step into the kitchen, you immediately pause.

Because—

What the fuck.

Yoongi is leaning against the counter, one hand tucked into the pocket of his sweats, wearing an offhandedly sexy fitted black t-shirt like he didn’t just wake up ten minutes ago. His hair is still a little messy, but in a good way—in the kind of way that makes you wonder what he looked like rolling out of bed.

And Wonwoo?

Wonwoo is sitting at the kitchen table, scrolling through his phone, looking like a fucking editorial ad in his oversized crewneck and glasses. The morning light is doing too much for him, highlighting his sharp jaw and the way his fingers tap absentmindedly against the table.

They both glance up when you walk in.

And they both smile.

Oh, hell no.

“Absolutely not,” you say immediately, pointing at them. “You do not get to look this good this early in the morning.”

Yoongi chuckles, taking a sip of his coffee. “Didn’t realize there were rules about that.”

“There are now,” you mutter.

Wonwoo grins, “You look cute when you’re grumpy, noona.”

You shake your head, unable to keep your cheeks from flushing despite being slightly annoyed with both of them, still.

Yoongi gestures vaguely. "You were right last night. About us. About this."

Wonwoo leans forward, fingers interlocked. "We both like you, noona. We won’t deny it."

Yoongi sets his cup down. “So we have an offer.”

You raise a brow, leaning against the counter. “Oh?”

Wonwoo tilts his head slightly, watching your reaction. “We’re going to take you on dates.”

You blink. “…What?”

“Dates,” Yoongi repeats. “One with me. One with him. Or more. Up to you…”

You stare at them. “And then?”

“And then,” Wonwoo continues, “you can decide.”

You narrow your eyes. “You two came up with this plan together?”

Yoongi shrugs.

You cross your arms. “And what if I don’t want to go on these dates?”

Yoongi answers: “Then we drop it. No pressure.”

"And if I don’t choose either of you?"

Wonwoo sighs. "Then we take the L."

…Huh. You hadn’t expected this.

You had expected stubbornness. Maybe even another argument.

Yoongi tilts his head as your eyes dart between the two of them.. "But let’s be real. That’s not happening."

"Yah!" You gape at him. "Are you fuckin’ serious right now?"

Yoongi grins. Wonwoo just waits.

You exhale, tapping your fingers against the counter. “Bet.”

Yoongi lifts a brow. Wonwoo licks his lips, now smiling.

“Alright,” you confirm. “Show me what you got.”

And judging by the looks on their faces, you have a feeling they plan to.

Chapter 4 >

A/N: To be in the middle of this love triangle is my most fervent dream, hope you enjoyed reading this! xo

QUESTIONS!!! Who should get their date first? Where should they go? Also, do you kiss on the first date? ;)

Permanent Taglist:

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Divider by: @cafekitsune (thank you!)

[niallerspayno]

Bordersz

Masterlist

A round of Never Have I Ever turns revealing when you admit you’ve never had sex—and suddenly, Zayn Malik is looking at you like he’s found something he didn’t know he was missing. One slow, heated night later, it’s clear this isn’t just casual anymore.

Tags: Zayn x reader, smut (virgin reader, fem receiving oral, protected p in v)

...

It’s loud, but not overwhelming—the kind of bar that smells like lime and beer, where the lights are low enough to feel cozy, and the music hums just below the chatter. You’re tucked into a booth that barely fits six, pressed between Zayn and Liam, a mostly-melted mojito in your hand.

You’re not really sure how this happened. One minute you were doing final touch-ups backstage, brushing powder over Harry’s nose while Louis heckled from the couch, and the next you were being dragged along to their night out. No time to change, no time to overthink it.

Zayn had just said, “She’s coming,” like it was obvious. Like no one needed to ask you.

So now here you are, squeezed between two popstars in a booth sticky with spilled rum and laughter, trying to pretend this is normal.

You’re their junior stylist—junior being the keyword. Lou brought you on a few months ago, and you’re still learning the rhythm of tour life. You handle the minor jobs—foundation touch-ups, hair gel emergencies, panic-bought concealer when someone’s breakout threatens a photo op. Most days you feel invisible, floating around the boys while they joke and banter like brothers.

But tonight, they’ve pulled you in. Not just physically—though Zayn’s thigh is warm against yours, and Liam keeps refilling your drink without asking—but socially. Properly.

“We’re playing something,” Louis announces, tossing a coaster at Niall. “Before I get too drunk to speak words.”

Niall catches it with one hand, somehow already flushed. “Truth or dare?”

Harry shakes his head. “Too chaotic.”

“Spin the bottle?” Liam teases, raising a brow.

“Oh, please,” you mutter, “You’d all die before kissing each other.”

“I wouldn’t,” Zayn says casually beside you, and you nearly choke on your drink.

Louis grins like he’s just won something. “Never Have I Ever, then?”

A chorus of nods follows. Glasses clink. A fresh round is ordered.

“You ever played before?” Liam asks, leaning in just enough that you can hear him over the music.

You nod. “Once. Uni party. Someone puked on a bean bag halfway through.”

“Charming,” Zayn murmurs near your ear. You swear you feel the ghost of a smile on your neck.

Louis slams his hand down. “Right. I’ll start. Never have I ever… worn eyeliner.”

Everyone groans and drinks.

Even Liam.

You laugh into your straw, relaxing a little as the game rolls on. The questions start off easy—silly tour stuff, harmless confessions. Harry admits to stealing conditioner from hotels. Niall cops to crying during The Lion King. Zayn hasn’t said much, but you catch him watching you out of the corner of your eye more than once.

And then Louis leans forward, smirking like he’s about to drop a bomb.

“Never have I ever… had sex in a tour bus bathroom.”

Groans. Laughter. Drinks raised.

And just like that, the game shifts.

You feel your stomach flip, your fingers tightening around your glass.

They’re about to start sharing stories.

You laugh along with the others, cheeks warm, limbs loose from the cocktails and the late hour. The game has moved into dangerous territory—no longer silly little confessions, but real ones. Blurred lines. Edging into intimacy.

Zayn’s thigh is still pressed against yours, the leather of the booth creaking when either of you shifts. He hasn’t said much since Louis’ bathroom story, but you feel him there. Solid. Present.

“Alright,” Harry says, swirling the last of his drink, voice low and mischievous, “my turn.”

“Oh no,” Liam groans. “Here we go.”

Harry grins. “Never have I ever had a one-night stand.”

The table explodes.

Niall howls, immediately downing his drink.

Louis slaps his hand to his heart. “So many sins. So little time.”

Liam drinks with an awkward little cough. “University was… a time.”

Even Zayn lifts his glass and sips—no drama, no explanation.

And then they all look at you.

You hesitate.

Smile faintly.

And slowly shake your head.

You don’t drink.

At first, no one reacts.

Not really.

Louis is already halfway into another story—something about a girl who turned out to be a twin. But then he falters, eyes narrowing just slightly.

“Wait,” he says, pointing at you with a squint. “Not even once?”

You give a small shrug. “Nope.”

Niall frowns. “But you said you’ve been in relationships.”

“Not… really,” you say. “I’ve dated. But nothing serious.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Liam’s brows lift, something dawning in his expression. “So… wait—”

“I haven’t,” you say quickly, cheeks burning. “Had sex. Ever.”

The words feel loud, too loud.

You wish you could grab them and stuff them back in your mouth.

There’s another pause, longer this time.

Then—

“Oh.” Niall says, soft and surprised.

You brace yourself for awkwardness. For teasing. For the boys to make it weird, even if they don’t mean to.

But instead—

“That’s alright,” Liam says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Nothing wrong with that.”

Louis blinks, then grins. “Shit, I think that just means you’ve got standards.”

Harry laughs. “High ones, clearly, if none of us ever made the cut.”

You snort, tension starting to break. “Please. You lot couldn’t handle me.”

That earns a chorus of laughter, and the mood shifts again—gentle now, softer around the edges.

Niall leans across the table, eyes kind. “You don’t have to feel weird about it. Honestly. If anything, you’re the only one here who hasn’t had some tragic, messy story.”

“Oh yeah,” Louis nods seriously. “You’re the only one who’s still pure. You must be protected at all costs.”

You roll your eyes, but the heat in your cheeks is fading, replaced by something warmer. Something steadier.

But beside you, Zayn hasn’t said anything.

You risk a glance, and he’s still looking at you—jaw slightly tight, fingers tracing the condensation on his glass like he’s trying to work something out.

“Zayn?” you say quietly, half-joking. “You alright?”

He snaps out of it, blinking once. “Yeah. Sorry. Just—”

He pauses.

Then, softly, “Didn’t expect that.”

You smile nervously. “Surprise.”

But he doesn’t laugh.

He just keeps looking at you, like he’s seeing you differently now. Not in a bad way. Just… deeper.

“How’s someone like you never…” He trails off, brow furrowing. “I mean—you’re beautiful. And kind. And smart. And—”

You blink, caught off guard.

He shakes his head, like the words slipped out before he could stop them. “Sorry. That sounded—fuck. That sounded weird.”

“No,” you say quickly, voice smaller than before. “It didn’t.”

Louis whistles. “Alright, loverboy.”

Zayn shoots him a glare, but there’s no real bite in it.

You can feel your pulse racing again—but this time, not from embarrassment.

From something else entirely.

Something new.

And maybe a little electric.

You try to laugh off the moment, but Zayn’s words linger in the air like smoke—visible, heavy, and impossible to ignore.

He’s still watching you, jaw tight, one hand wrapped around his drink like he’s forgotten it’s there. The way he’s looking at you now is… different. Focused. Almost reverent, like he’s seeing you for the first time.

Which, apparently, is also not going unnoticed.

Harry is the first to clock it. His eyebrows lift slowly, mouth twitching like he’s about to say something but—shockingly—chooses not to.

Louis, however, is less restrained.

He leans across the table, nudging Niall. “Is it just me, or did Zayn’s soul just leave his body for a second there?”

Zayn snaps out of his trance with a slow blink. “Piss off.”

Niall grins, catching on immediately. “Mate, you alright? You’ve gone a bit… soft in the eyes.”

You groan, hiding your face behind your hands.

Zayn shifts beside you, clearly trying to play it cool. “Can we not do this right now?”

“Do what?” Louis says innocently, clearly delighted. “We’re just admiring how smitten you look.”

“Yeah,” Harry adds, voice smooth, “it’s kind of sweet. Like watching a Victorian man fall in love with a scandalous woman who just showed him her ankle.”

Liam lets out a loud laugh. “Ankle, wow.”

You finally lower your hands, aiming a glare at the whole table. “You’re all children.”

Louis grins. “And yet you’re the one being courted in public.”

“Oh my God,” you mutter.

Zayn tries to lean back, casual, but the blush rising in his cheeks gives him away. “You lot are insufferable.”

“Maybe,” Liam says with a shrug, “but we’re not wrong.”

Niall lifts his glass. “To sexual tension.”

You slap a hand over his mouth before he can say more, laughing despite yourself.

Zayn shoots you a sideways glance, something soft behind his eyes. “You okay?”

You nod, heart thudding. “Yeah. You?”

“Yeah,” he says, and there’s something heavier in his voice. “I just… didn’t think you’d be full of surprises like that.”

You tilt your head, trying to keep things light. “You saying I seem like the type?”

He looks at you for a long beat, eyes warm. “Nah. I’m saying I don’t think I’ve figured you out yet.”

Your breath catches.

And across the table, four smug idiots exchange glances.

“Oh, they’re definitely gonna hook up before the tour ends,” Louis whispers loudly to Harry, who nods like he’s observing wildlife in its natural habitat.

You and Zayn say nothing.

But neither of you look away.

You try to shake it off—try to join back into the game, sip your drink, laugh at Harry’s impression of their old vocal coach—but it’s impossible to ignore Zayn’s presence beside you now. Like the heat of him has increased, the space between your bodies charged with something electric.

Every time you move, your thigh brushes his. Every time someone laughs too loud or leans too close, you feel his hand lightly graze your lower back as if instinctively grounding you.

The others keep stealing glances. Less subtle now.

“God, the vibes,” Louis mutters under his breath, dramatically fanning himself with a coaster.

“Should we leave them alone?” Niall asks, not even bothering to whisper.

“I’d be concerned if it wasn’t so hot,” Harry adds, sipping his drink with a smirk.

You shoot them all a look, but your heart is beating too fast for it to land properly.

Zayn, to his credit, doesn’t say anything. But you feel him tense beside you—like he’s fighting the same thing you are.

Liam glances at his watch and stretches. “Alright, I’m calling it. My liver’s begging for mercy.”

“Same,” Niall agrees, dragging his coat off the back of the booth. “And I want chips before bed.”

Everyone starts to shift, gathering phones and unfinished drinks. You follow suit, sliding out of the booth—Zayn moves too, standing beside you like it’s automatic. Protective.

“Alright, lovebirds,” Louis calls, clapping you both on the shoulder as he passes. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That leaves a lot of questionable grey area,” you mutter, earning a chorus of snickers.

The group spills out onto the pavement, the night cool and crisp, city lights glinting off the sidewalk. They start debating whether to walk or call a car, scattering slightly in different directions.

You hang back a little.

So does Zayn.

You’re both quiet for a second, until he speaks—voice low, like it’s just for you.

“Wanna walk?”

You glance at him, heart thudding. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

The others are too busy arguing over the route to notice as you peel away, footsteps falling into rhythm as the buzz of the night folds around you both.

You don’t say anything right away.

Neither does he.

But his hand brushes yours, once.

Then again.

And then—slowly, deliberately—he laces his fingers through yours.

Just like that.

And you let him.

The walk back is quiet. Comfortable.

Zayn doesn’t let go of your hand the whole way, even when you reach the hotel entrance, even when the doorman gives you both a knowing look as he holds the door open.

The lobby is mostly empty—just soft lighting, a few murmured voices from the overnight staff, the faint hum of an elevator arriving. You glance toward the others, who are still bickering near the vending machines, loud and distracted.

No one’s looking.

Zayn doesn’t stop walking.

He gives your hand a gentle tug, and you follow him into the lift without a word.

You ride up in silence. His thumb is stroking along your knuckles, slow and steady, grounding you even as your heart thumps against your ribs.

You’re not sure what this is. Or what it’s about to be.

But you don’t want to let go, either.

The doors slide open on his floor, and he turns to you—voice soft, careful.

“You don’t have to,” he says, like he’s offering you an out. “But if you want to come up. Just to hang out. Or talk. Or… not talk.”

There’s no pressure in his tone. No expectation.

Just Zayn. Quiet. Open. Honest.

You nod once, heart catching in your throat. “Yeah. I want to.”

He leads you down the hall, your hand still in his. The corridor is dim and quiet, carpet muffling your footsteps. When he reaches his room, he swipes the keycard and pushes the door open with his shoulder.

It’s a typical hotel suite. Neat. A little impersonal. But it smells faintly like him—warm spice and something smoky.

He lets your hand go gently, just long enough to toss the card on the counter and flick on a lamp.

The room fills with a soft amber glow.

You’re suddenly hyperaware of the silence. The way the door clicks shut behind you. The way his eyes find yours in the quiet.

He steps a little closer. Not crowding you, just… nearer.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low.

You nod. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

You hesitate—then smile, small and a little breathless. “Are you?”

He laughs under his breath. “Not even a little.”

And for some reason, that calms you more than anything.

You let out a breathy laugh, the kind that feels more like a release than amusement. “You don’t seem that nervous.”

“I’m good at pretending,” he says, and for a moment, the smile slips from his lips. “I didn’t expect tonight to go like this.”

You nod, fingers toying with the hem of your sleeve. “Me neither.”

He watches you for a second, then speaks again—quieter now. “Is it bad that I wanted to be around you tonight? Even before the game. Even before I knew…”

You look up at him.

His eyes are serious. Warm.

“I think I’ve been trying not to think about you like that,” he says, like he’s confessing something heavy. “Because you work with us. And you’re Lou’s. And you’re… you.”

“Me?” you ask, brows lifting.

Zayn gives a small, almost helpless smile. “Yeah. You. You’re funny, and sharp, and you don’t take shit from any of us. You look after everyone, and you don’t even realise it.”

Your heart thuds against your ribs, something fluttering and fragile rising in your chest.

“I’ve been thinking about you too,” you say, the words slipping out before fear can catch them. “And not just tonight.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for a while. Then he nods—just once—and steps closer again.

This time, when he lifts a hand to your cheek, you lean into it.

His thumb brushes your skin.

And then he kisses you.

It starts soft—tentative, exploratory, like he’s afraid to break something delicate. But when your hands find the hem of his shirt, and he sighs against your mouth, the kiss deepens. His other hand finds your waist, then your back, pulling you closer until there’s barely space between you at all.

You feel dizzy with it. The heat of him, the scent of his skin, the way he’s kissing you like he wants to know every part of you, every thought.

But then he pulls back suddenly, breath hitching. His hands still on your hips, but his face just inches from yours.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, eyes closed. “Wait.”

You pause, blinking up at him. “Zayn?”

He lets out a rough breath. “I didn’t bring you back here just to sleep with you.”

You smile softly. “Okay.”

“I mean—I wanted to be with you tonight, yeah,” he says, words tumbling out fast now. “But I didn’t have some plan. I didn’t think, oh, she’s a virgin, now’s my chance. I swear I didn’t. I just… wanted more time with you. Away from them. Just us.”

“Zayn,” you say gently, resting your hand against his chest. “Even if you had brought me back here to have sex with me… I would’ve been okay with it.”

He opens his eyes then. Searching yours like he’s making sure.

“Because I trust you,” you continue. “And because I wanted this too. I still do.”

His shoulders drop slightly, the tension in them bleeding out. “You’re really something, you know that?”

You smile, letting your fingers trace the edge of his shirt. “You keep saying that.”

He leans in again, this time slower, more certain. “Because I keep meaning it.”

And when he kisses you again, there's no more hesitation.

It’s still gentle—deliberate—but deeper now. Slower. The kind of kiss that makes your knees a little unsteady. He backs you toward the bed with soft touches and quiet breaths, never rushing, never letting his hands wander too far too fast. Just enough to let you feel him. To know he’s there.

You fall back onto the mattress with a breathless laugh, and he follows, crawling over you with a low, fond hum. His hands settle at your hips, grounding you, but his eyes search yours again.

“You good?”

You nod, breath hitching. “Yeah.”

“Tell me if you want to stop.”

“I won’t.”

He leans in again, pressing a kiss to your jaw, then your throat. “Still gonna say it. As many times as you need.”

You reach for him, curling your fingers into the soft cotton of his shirt, tugging gently. “Take this off?”

Zayn sits up just enough to pull the shirt over his head in one smooth motion. You drink in the sight of him—bare skin, warm tattoos, the soft shadows that curve down his stomach. He doesn’t flex. Doesn’t show off. Just watches your face as you look at him.

You reach up and run your hand down his chest, slow. He shivers under your touch.

“Your turn,” he murmurs.

You nod, and he helps you—soft and careful, lifting your shirt over your head and unclasping your bra without fumbling or asking questions. Like he wants to make it easy. Like he’s been thinking about this longer than he’ll ever admit.

“Fuck,” he breathes, eyes roaming your chest, your waist, the soft curve of your stomach. “You’re so fucking gorgeous.”

You flush, but he doesn’t give you time to hide. He kisses you again, slower now, and lets his hands explore—palms dragging over your skin like he’s trying to memorize it. His mouth finds your collarbone, then lower, sucking a soft mark just under your breast. You arch up into him, a shaky gasp escaping your lips.

“That feel good?” he murmurs against your skin.

You nod, voice barely there. “Yes.”

His hands work down your body, undoing the button of your jeans, slipping them down your legs with the same kind of reverence he’s shown all night. You’re bare beneath him now, just your underwear still on, and Zayn kisses your inner thigh before glancing up.

“Can I taste you?”

You feel your breath leave you.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

Zayn lowers himself between your legs like he’s worshiping, not rushing, just sinking onto his knees at the edge of the bed with maddening calm. His hands slide up the backs of your thighs, thumbs sweeping in slow circles as he presses a kiss to the inside of your knee—then higher. Another kiss, hotter now. Then higher still.

You’re already trembling.

No one’s ever done this before. Not even close.

He leans in and kisses you over the thin fabric of your underwear, warm breath ghosting across your skin, and the sound you make is barely human. A choked gasp, hips jolting slightly before his hands tighten to keep you grounded.

“You’re so sensitive,” he murmurs, voice full of awe. “So responsive already.”

You manage a shaky breath. “I’ve never…”

Zayn glances up, eyes dark and soft. “No one’s ever gone down on you?”

You shake your head, suddenly shy again. “No.”

He lets out the quietest groan, his thumbs grazing along your hips. “That’s gonna change. Right now.”

And then he peels your underwear down.

Slow.

Torturous.

He watches as he does it, his eyes fixed on the way your body’s revealed to him inch by inch. When the fabric is finally gone and you’re bare before him, he exhales like he’s just seen something sacred.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re dripping.”

Your whole body lights up at the way he says it—rough, reverent, hungry.

Then his mouth is on you.

It starts with a slow lick, from bottom to top, just enough pressure to make your back arch. You gasp—your fingers shooting down to tangle in his hair—and he groans against you like your reaction alone is enough to wreck him.

He flattens his tongue and licks again, firmer this time. Then a flick—precise, teasing—over your clit that makes you moan, loud and raw.

“Oh my God—”

He hums, mouth closing around you, and the vibration nearly makes you come undone.

His tongue moves in perfect rhythm, unrelenting but still somehow patient, like he wants to savor every twitch of your body, every breathy moan. He circles your clit with slow, steady flicks, then sucks gently, just once—enough to have you clenching around nothing, toes curling, a whimper breaking from your lips.

Your thighs start to shake, and he slides his hands under them, spreading you wider, holding you open for him like he never plans to stop.

“Zayn—fuck—” You grip the sheets with one hand, the other still tangled in his hair. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes you can,” he murmurs, barely lifting his mouth. “You’re doing so fucking good. Just let go.”

You’ve never felt anything like it—like every nerve ending is alive, like the pleasure is building too fast to contain. It rushes up your spine, through your core, until it’s all you are—heat and tension and Zayn’s mouth and—

You shatter.

Your orgasm hits hard, your entire body shaking with it, a cry tearing from your throat as you grind against his tongue. Zayn groans again, deeper this time, holding you through it, licking you gently as your body pulses with aftershocks.

He doesn't pull away until your legs twitch and you whimper from overstimulation.

Then—finally—he lifts his head, lips shiny, pupils blown wide.

“You good?” he asks, voice low and wrecked.

You’re breathless. Boneless. Floating.

“I don’t even know my name right now.”

Zayn grins, crawling back up your body and pressing a kiss to your cheek, then your lips—slow and filthy and sweet all at once. You taste yourself on his mouth and moan softly into him.

“I’ve been dreaming about doing that,” he admits between kisses. “Didn’t think I’d ever get the chance.”

You cup his face, still flushed and dazed. “That was the best thing anyone’s ever done to me.”

His smile softens. “Then let me keep going. Let me make the rest just as good.”

And when he kisses you again, it’s the promise in his voice that makes your heart race all over again.

Zayn’s mouth is still warm against yours, his weight pressed carefully into your body, one hand stroking your side like he’s trying to calm you—but it’s your pulse that’s thundering now, a different kind of need building in your chest.

You trail your fingers down the line of his chest, over the tattoos you’ve only ever seen peeking from under his shirts, your touch featherlight. He shivers.

“You okay?” he murmurs, eyes fluttering open.

You nod. “Yeah. I just… I want to touch you.”

His breath catches.

“You can,” he says, voice rough. “You can do anything you want.”

You slide your hand lower, fingers tracing down the ridges of his stomach, then over the waistband of his jeans. There’s a sharp tension in his jaw now—like he’s trying to stay still for you, to be good, to give you time.

You palm him gently through his jeans, and he lets out a low, shaky exhale, head dropping to your shoulder for a moment.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You smile, gaining a bit of confidence, and undo his button. He lifts his hips slightly to help as you tug his jeans down, then his briefs, revealing him fully. And for a second, you just look.

He’s thick, flushed, hard already from everything you’ve been doing—and from the look of restraint on his face, he’s been aching for you this entire time.

You reach out, fingers curling around him, and he lets out a strangled sound.

“Jesus—okay, slow down—” His hand covers yours, not to stop you, but to guide. “Like this.”

He shows you, gently—how to stroke him, how to twist your wrist just enough at the top, how to run your thumb over the sensitive underside. You follow his lead, watching his face as his eyes fall shut and his lips part.

He groans again, deeper this time, hips rocking up into your fist.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You lean up and kiss his jaw. “I like seeing you like this.”

His eyes open—dark, wild, and reverent.

“I like you seeing me like this,” he whispers, and the honesty in it makes your stomach flutter.

You keep stroking him until his breath turns ragged, his hips twitching, his muscles trembling under your touch.

Then he catches your wrist gently, stilling you. “If you keep going, this’ll be over too fast.”

You smile, flushed and pleased. “You make it hard not to.”

He leans down and kisses you again, this time with heat behind it. “Come here.”

He reaches into the drawer again, his hand finding a condom—because now, there’s no more pausing. No more slowing down.

It’s time.

And he’s going to make it just as good for both of you.

Zayn kisses you again as he rolls the condom on—slow and deliberate, never taking his eyes off yours for long. His hand glides down your side, grounding you, while his body settles between your thighs, warm and solid and trembling with restraint.

“You still okay?” he murmurs against your lips.

“Yeah,” you whisper, breath catching. “More than okay.”

He presses a kiss to your cheek, then your throat, then the center of your chest—like a silent thank you. Then he positions himself, the head of his cock nudging your entrance, and pauses.

“This might sting a little,” he says softly. “But I’ll go slow. You just tell me anything you need.”

You nod, and he watches your face as he starts to push in.

You feel the stretch first—thick, deliberate, burning in a way that steals your breath. Your fingers dig into his biceps as your back arches off the mattress, and Zayn stills instantly.

“Breathe,” he whispers, kissing your jaw. “You’re doing so fucking well.”

You exhale shakily, and he continues—inch by inch—until he’s buried to the hilt, his body trembling above yours with the effort of holding back.

“Fuck,” he groans. “You’re so tight. You feel unreal.”

You feel full, completely overwhelmed in the best way—your body stretched and aching and lit up all at once. But with Zayn’s body wrapped around yours, the pressure starts to ease. The burn fades into heat, into want.

He doesn’t move until you shift beneath him, pressing your hips up gently in silent invitation.

“You sure?” he breathes, voice strained.

“Yes,” you whisper, eyes shining. “Please.”

Zayn kisses you again—slow and deep—before drawing his hips back and pushing in again, slow and measured. The first few thrusts are tentative, shallow, but they still make you gasp, your nails biting into his arms.

He’s careful, watching every reaction you give him.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, needing more. “Zayn…”

That’s all it takes.

He groans your name and moves deeper, hips rolling with just enough force to drag a moan out of you. You grip him tighter, the friction growing with every stroke, pleasure curling low in your belly as your body starts to adjust, to crave it.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Just like that, baby. You’re taking me so well.”

His voice wrecks you—deep and reverent, like he’s in awe of you. Like he can’t believe he’s the one making you feel like this.

He starts to move faster now, his thrusts harder but still controlled, like he’s desperate but still focused on you. You cling to him, breathing hard, the sound of skin on skin filling the room.

“You’re doing so good,” he pants. “So fucking good for me.”

Your hips roll up to meet his, desperate for more, chasing that spark again. “Zayn—don’t stop—”

“I won’t,” he groans, his pace quickening. “Wanna make you come again. Want you to fall apart on me.”

You cry out when he hits that spot deep inside you again, over and over, and it’s like everything coils tight—your body clenching around him, your thighs shaking, heat blooming hot and fast.

“Zayn—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“I’ve got you,” he rasps, his hand slipping between your bodies to stroke your clit. “Come for me. Let go.”

And you do.

Your second orgasm crashes into you, harder this time, ripping through your body like a wave. You cry out, shaking under him, your muscles fluttering around his cock as he fucks you through it.

He curses under his breath, hips stuttering as your body squeezes him tight, and then he’s groaning your name as he comes—deep inside you, buried to the hilt, every muscle in his body trembling.

Zayn collapses onto his elbows, forehead pressed to yours, both of you gasping for breath.

For a long moment, there’s just silence.

Heavy breathing. Heartbeats pounding.

Then he kisses you again—soft, slow, almost dazed.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod, still clinging to him. “That was… incredible.”

Zayn exhales like he’s been holding that breath the entire time. He leans in and kisses you again, slower this time, like he’s savoring the feel of your lips against his. His hand moves gently over your side, fingertips dragging lightly down your skin, grounding you.

“You sure you’re okay?” he murmurs again, brushing his nose against yours. “Not too sore?”

“I’m good,” you whisper, still breathless. “Sensitive, but… yeah. I feel good.”

He smiles softly, kissing your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “You were so perfect, you know that?”

You laugh, flushed and floating. “I don’t think I did anything.”

“You let me see you,” he says, voice quiet, reverent. “That’s everything.”

You blink, your throat tightening a little at the way he says it—like you gave him a gift. Like it meant something.

Zayn starts to shift, carefully pulling out of you. You whimper softly at the sensation, and his hand strokes your thigh instantly, soothing.

“Sorry, I know,” he murmurs. “Hang on, I’ll take care of you.”

He slips out of bed and disappears into the bathroom. You hear the water run, the rustle of something soft, and a moment later he’s back, warm towel in hand. He moves gently, kneeling between your legs again, cleaning you up with slow, careful strokes. You’re already squirming, body overstimulated, and he presses a kiss to your knee.

“Almost done, sweetheart.”

Your heart stutters at the nickname.

Once you’re cleaned up, he tosses the towel aside and crawls back into bed, pulling the sheets over you both. His arms slide around you instantly, tugging you into his chest like he can’t stand the thought of space between you now.

You bury your face in his neck, breathing him in—sweat and skin and something warm and smoky that’s just him. His fingers trail lightly up and down your spine, lazy and soft.

“You’re quiet,” he murmurs after a beat. “You sure you’re alright?”

You tilt your head just enough to look at him. “I’m just… kind of in shock. In the best way.”

Zayn watches you, eyes soft in the low light.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, his fingers never stopping their gentle glide along your back. “What kind of shock?”

You smile faintly, cheeks warm. “Like… I didn’t know it could be like that. I thought it would be awkward, or painful, or…” You trail off, tucking your head under his jaw again. “But it wasn’t. It felt… safe. And really, really good.”

He exhales a slow breath, his arms tightening around you. “Good,” he whispers. “I wanted it to feel like that for you. I wanted to take care of you.”

“You did,” you murmur. “You do.”

He’s quiet for a second, then tilts his head to rest his cheek against your temple. “I know it was your first time,” he says slowly, “and I don’t ever want you to think I—fuck, I don’t want this to feel like it was some kind of heat-of-the-moment thing for me. Or like it didn’t mean anything.”

Your breath catches.

“I didn’t just bring you back here to fuck you,” he adds, voice quiet but firm. “I brought you back because I wanted you close. Because I’ve been wanting you for a while now, even if I’ve been too much of a coward to say it.”

You lift your head, eyes searching his.

“Zayn…”

He brushes your hair gently behind your ear, his gaze steady. “I care about you. More than I realized, maybe. And I know we’ve been tiptoeing around it, but tonight just—” He swallows. “It made me sure. I don’t want this to be a one-night thing. I want you. For real.”

Your heart thuds hard, and you blink, surprised by how fast the emotion wells in your chest. “I want you too,” you whisper. “I thought maybe I was making more of this in my head, but… I didn’t want it to be just tonight either.”

A slow, crooked smile spreads across his face, like he’s been waiting to hear that. “Good,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead. “Because I’m not letting you go now.”

You laugh softly and curl into him again, one leg hooking over his, your arms sliding around his middle like you never want to be anywhere else.

His hand comes to rest at the small of your back, thumb sweeping in slow, comforting strokes.

“Can I ask you something?” you murmur against his chest.

“Anything.”

“Was I okay? Like… did I do okay?”

Zayn freezes for half a second, then lifts your chin gently so you’re looking at him.

“You were incredible,” he says, eyes dark with sincerity. “You were so responsive, so open. You let me see you, and feel you, and… I’ve never been with someone who made me feel like that. Don’t ever doubt it.”

You bite your lip, flustered, but his words settle deep in your chest like something solid. Something warm.

“I meant it,” he adds, brushing his thumb along your jaw. “I don’t want to sleep with anyone else. I don’t want to be with anyone else.”

You blink back sudden tears, overwhelmed and aching in the best way.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Then I’m yours.”

He pulls you in closer, burying his face in your neck, and holds you like he never wants to let go.

“Mine,” he murmurs. “Fuck, I like the sound of that.”

And the way he holds you after that—tight and tender and secure—tells you he means every word.

...

You wake to the feeling of warm fingers tracing lazy circles along your back and the low rasp of Zayn’s voice in your ear.

“Mm. Stay.”

You shift slightly, face still pressed against his chest. “What time is it?”

“Too early,” he mumbles, wrapping his arm tighter around your waist.

You smile against his skin. “We’re supposed to be at hair and makeup in twenty minutes.”

“Yeah,” he says, kissing the top of your head. “But we’re here.”

You laugh, eyes still shut. “That’s not how time works.”

Zayn hums and pulls you even closer, one of his legs slipping between yours, like he’s physically anchoring you in bed. “Five more minutes.”

You give in. Of course you do.

The five minutes turn into ten. Then fifteen. You only finally drag yourself up when your phone buzzes with a message from Lou: “WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU. GET YOUR ASS HERE BEFORE I LET LOUIS DO HIS OWN FOUNDATION AGAIN.”

“Shit,” you mumble, fumbling to get out of bed. “We’re so late.”

Zayn groans, rolling onto his back with one arm draped over his eyes. “I’d rather die than go to glam right now.”

You toss one of his hoodies over your head—it smells like him, and it’s soft and worn in the best way. He watches you from the bed, eyes hooded and slow-blinking like a cat in the sun.

“You look good in that,” he murmurs, voice still sleepy. “You should keep it.”

You pause at the mirror, cheeks warming. “You saying that because you want to see me in it again, or because you’re too lazy to wash it?”

“Both.”

You huff a laugh and toss him a clean shirt from his suitcase. “Get dressed, Malik.”

...

You both slip into the makeup trailer twenty-five minutes late, trying to be casual about it—but the second you open the door, the entire room freezes.

Harry’s halfway through a pastry, Niall’s drinking coffee, Liam’s looking over his shoulder at something on Lou’s phone, and Louis is—of course—the first to break the silence.

He points dramatically. “You two had sex!"

You freeze mid-step. Zayn stops beside you, one hand still in his hoodie pocket like this is all very normal.

Harry chokes on his pastry.

Liam sighs, rubbing his forehead like he’s already tired.

Niall mutters, “Took them long enough,” and goes back to his coffee.

You stare at Louis, wide-eyed. “How do you know that?”

Louis stands from the makeup chair like he’s about to deliver a TED Talk. “Let’s examine the evidence, shall we? You’re late. You’re glowing. You’re wearing his hoodie. And Zayn hasn’t looked away from you once since walking in. I rest my case.”

You blink. “You just described coincidence.”

“Oh, please.” Louis turns to the others. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Harry just smirks and says nothing.

Liam coughs behind his hand. “She does look a bit… soft.”

“And he’s smiling,” Niall adds, like that alone is suspicious. “Zayn never smiles this early.”

Zayn finally speaks, calm and cool as ever. “You’re all deeply annoying.”

“And deeply right,” Louis fires back, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

You roll your eyes and move around the boys toward the makeup counter, trying to pretend you’re not wearing Zayn’s hoodie, trying to pretend you’re not still a little wrecked from last night. “Can we focus on the actual job now, maybe?”

“Sure,” Harry says, leaning casually against the wall. “Just as soon as Zayn stops looking at you like he wants to write poetry about your mouth.”

You freeze for half a second, brush case halfway unzipped.

Behind you, Zayn hums. “Not a bad idea, actually.”

You toss a makeup sponge at him without turning around. It hits his chest and bounces off.

Lou finally speaks, tapping her fingers impatiently on her palette. “Unless someone here wants to explain to management why I was forced to airbrush Liam using my elbow, I suggest we get back to work.”

“Thank you,” you mutter, stepping beside her and grabbing one of the brushes from your kit. “Finally, someone with sense.”

“Mm,” Lou hums as she inspects a compact. “You’re glowing, by the way.”

Your head snaps toward her. “Seriously?”

She shrugs, entirely unfazed. “Hey, I’m just saying. That’s not your usual concealer routine. That’s the kind of glow that comes from… well.” She glances at Zayn. “Clearly a good night.”

Louis absolutely howls with laughter. “Lou!”

Even Liam lets out a surprised chuckle. “She’s not wrong, though.”

You groan, pressing your fingers to your forehead. “You’re all children.”

Louis gasps, clutching his chest. “She confirms it with sass! Look at her—feisty, radiant, tangled in Zayn’s hoodie like a love-drunk woodland creature.”

“I will stab you with this eyebrow pencil,” you mutter, pulling a brush from your kit.

Zayn, still seated in the chair with an air of practiced patience, lifts a brow. “Will you all leave my girlfriend alone, please?”

The room goes very still.

You blink.

Louis gasps again, somehow louder this time. “Girlfriend?” He turns to the others like he’s just witnessed a royal announcement. “Did you hear that? Girlfriend!”

“Confirmed by the man himself,” Niall says with a grin.

Harry gives Zayn a slow clap. “I honestly didn’t think you’d admit it first.”

Liam raises both hands. “I didn’t have that on my bingo card, but I’m not mad.”

Lou doesn’t even look up from her brushes. “Finally. Now maybe we can stop pretending none of us saw this coming two months ago.”

You glance at Zayn, stunned but smiling, and he just shrugs like it’s no big deal—like he hasn’t just casually dropped a title that makes your stomach flip.

“Was that okay?” he murmurs, soft enough only you can hear.

You nod, heart racing. “Yeah. More than okay.”

Louis, meanwhile, is pacing the trailer like he’s narrating a documentary. “First she was just the junior stylist. Quiet. Unassuming. Then—bam!—Zayn Malik’s girlfriend. What a plot twist. What a hero’s journey.”

“Someone sedate him,” Lou mutters.

“I’ve got a setting spray I could use like pepper spray,” you offer.

Zayn smirks. “Use it.”

You roll your eyes and turn back to work, trying not to grin too hard as you catch your reflection in the mirror.

Zayn watches you from his chair, one leg bouncing, one hand curled loosely around the edge of the counter—completely relaxed now.

And when your eyes meet again in the mirror, he winks.

[softlypaintedseafoam]

orpheus

synopsis. he looked back.

pairing. portgas d. ace x f!reader (afab)

word count. 7.1k | masterlist

content warning. marineford/post-war arc spoilers, reader is coded black (written ambiguously. anyone can read), character study, childhood friends to lovers, open-ended

reblogs & interactions appreciated.

my premiere fic on this acc! as someone who was watching op back when it aired on 4kids, ace has been my favorite character for over a decade. so come to my inbox and let's talk about how much we love him! the 'poem' the reader recites is actually a quote from this short film you should definitely watch

Dadan is doing your hair before bed when you learn of this story.

The night is late on Mt. Corvo, baths taken and house cleaned after the chaos of dinner. Much too late for you to trek down to your home in Windmill Village, ensuring that for the fifth night in the row you'd be spending the night at your friends' house. ("You're going home tomorrow," Dadan insisted, hands on her hips sternly. "This a base for bandits, not a daycare!")

The one who mentions the story is Leif.

The man is a strange case among Dadan's brood with his glasses and delicate mannerisms. Someone who seems like he should be a normal person in society rather a bandit. Perhaps that's what makes him so useful to Dadan's team; he looks like a normal person. He seldom swears, seldom drinks himself tired. Most evenings, like now, it isn't strange to see him reading a book in the living room among his friends by the window. Suddenly, he shudders, setting his book aside and closing the window firmly with a click of his tongue. "Orpheus must have looked at Eurydice," he mutters.

"Who- hey!" Luffy cries belligerently when the brief moment of distraction leads to Sabo smacking his hands. They're playing some sort of hand game where you're supposed to move your hands before your opponent hits them. 'Reflex training' Ace called it. "No fair!"

Sabo grins with a victorious laugh, ignoring Luffy's demands for a rematch. "You snooze you lose, Luffy!"

Ace's expression is just as smug, "your reflexes suck."

Amusing as their antics are, you wave an arm to regain Leif's attention. "Who's Orpheus and Eurydice?"

"Ohoho," Leif perks up, pleased. "They're characters from an old story."

Luffy cocks his head, "how old?"

"Older than Dadan probably," Sabo surmises without a second thought.

"Brat," Dadan seethes under her breath. She turns your head to an angle, beginning the first of your french breads.

Eyes wide with intrigue, you lean forward eagerly before Dadan's grip on your hair reminds you your actions are limited. Dadan picks carefully through the accumulated naps and tangles. The woman's only solace is that you're not tender-headed. You can't afford to be when most of your daytime activities lead to your hair being filled with sticks and leaves. ("What on earth are you brats doing for your hair to get like this?" You and Luffy share a look, snickering mischievously. It's no secret to anyone in this house that the woman's exasperation is worse than her bite.) "I wanna hear the story!"

Leif is more than happy to recount the tale of two lovers.

You liken the story to the life and death of spring.

The new life of spring is in their love as their dance causes petal after petal to bloom in the wake of their steps. But spring's death is in Orpheus’ turn and the sorrow that follows. In that stillness of spring that one seldom notices.

Orpheus’ delight in seeing the sun.

Eurydice's stumble.

Her silence.

Maybe he thinks he’s been tricked.

Regardless the variety of the tale, it all ends the same Leif tells you gravely. Dramatically, as if singing a song. Orpheus looks back and his beloved disappears.

The death of spring itself.

It's the most beautiful story you've ever heard.

"Well that's dumb," Ace crosses his arms, thoroughly unimpressed. "The exit was right there. He couldn't wait five minutes?" It doesn't take long for Luffy to agree with the eldest of his brothers, arms crossed with a matching expression.

Sabo rests a hand on his chin thoughtfully, "and if he heard her stumble in one version, he should have known she was actually there and not a trick."

Ericht, a hardy man with a throaty voice chuckles, raising a tankard at the boys' words. "See, Leif? Even the kids think it's ridiculous!"

"I don't think it's dumb," it's hard to be taken seriously when your head is at 45 degree angle, however. "It's sad and pretty."

"At least one of you lot have taste," Leif huffs, index finger raised indignantly to the air. "The rest of you are completely missing the point! It’s human nature to look! That’s what makes the story beautiful! It’s human to love. Love is why Orpheus looks back. He wants to tell Eurydice the sun is right around the corner! He’s worried for her safety. He’s afraid he’s been tricked-”

Luffy stands firmly, hand resting on his puffed out chest, "I wouldn't have looked back!"

"Me neither!" Ericht proclaims.

"Hear, hear!"

A clank of mugs and a chorus of cheers ensue and his audience is lost. Leif plops down beside yourself and Dadan in annoyed defeat. "This is what happens when you try to bring classics to criminals."

"You're a criminal," Dadan reminds the man with a snort.

It's a comment that causes the mild bandit to laugh. "I suppose you have a point there," he chortles. Moments like this makes you wonder once more why he turned to crime instead of academics. In another life, perhaps Leif becomes a teacher. Leif gives you with a small smile, sparing a glance the rest in the room. "They would have looked," he says just quiet enough for you to hear and you giggle as if you've been told a funny secret.

The rest of the night is uneventful as Dadan finishes your hair. She rushes the four of you to bed as soon as possible and even then, you rowdily have one final round of sparring before settling down. (At least Luffy doesn't fall through the floorboards this time!) Sleep doesn't find you as easily, your mind full as Sabo and Luffy snore around you. Turning onto your side, you stare at Ace's back.

"Ace," your whisper is just barely audible over the cacophony of sleep. "You awake?"

There's enough beat of silence before Ace shuffles, turning around to face you. You blink, unsure if its surprise you feel or otherwise. You'd suspected he hadn't been sleeping when you noticed how quiet he'd been. Yet you're taken aback he turned around anyway. It's strange. “What?”

"Would you look back if you were Orpheus?"

"That story again?" Ace whispers incredulously. You don't need a light to know his brow is furrowed in disbelief.

"I feel bad for Orpheus," you murmur as you recall Leif's words. It was a beautiful story as much as it was sad. "He just wanted to be with his wife again and now he can't ever be with her again." It's human nature to look, Leif said. It's human to love. It's what makes the story beautiful. With more quiet than noise in the room, it's not as easy seeing the beauty. But I can, you squeeze your hand into a tiny ball in quick protest. Apparently it is also human to be contradictory. I think I can see the beauty. Maybe the beauty is what makes it so sad.

There's a brief sigh that leaves the boy and you wonder if he's annoyed until he asks, "well would you look?"

The dance of spring. The death of it in Orpheus' turn.

If it was Ace or Sabo or Luffy behind me…

When you look behind you to see how far away Luffy is.

When Sabo swallows his saliva the wrong way and coughs.

The moments where Ace falls quiet and suddenly, even if he is with you and his brothers, he looks like the loneliest boy in the world.

You look back every time.

"Yeah," you curl into yourself into a small ball. A sigh escapes your lips in your admittance. "I guess we'd never see each other again, huh?"

You half-expect Ace to balk at your words. 'Why am I Eurydice, huh? I'm a guy!' Instead he's quiet and you wish you could see his face so you can try and guess what he's thinking. It's when Ace is quiet when he's the hardest to read. "Well," Ace proposes after a moment. "Maybe Hades'll be nice and Orpheus can try again some day. That time he won't mess up." He pauses, scratching the side of his head. "So stop being all sad about it."

A warmth settles in your chest at his clumsiness. "Yeah."

A particularly loud snore from Luffy makes you both snort silently. You hope the bright-hearted boy never changes. Once your amusement subsides, you yawn. "You never answered my question though," you yawn once again. Sleep will be upon you soon. "Would you look back too?"

"No, dummy," Ace replies without a second thought.

Your cheeks puff into a petulant pout, "Leif said looking is what makes us human."

There's another beat of silence.

"Maybe I'm not human then," it's a reply void of Ace's typical cocksure and defiant attitude. There's a shuffle and Ace turns around, his back facing you once more. "Night."

"… Night."

The next day, life continues as it always does. If anything, this nest of thieves in the mountains is as much a home to you as it is for the actual residents. A stray shoe of yours there, a few shirts that belong to you there. Even the rituals of the morning are your own, rushing out of the house before Dadan can wrangle your band into chores.

Hunting for your own breakfast with steel pipes and vinegar and a healthy dose of throttling thugs for your pirate savings.

Ace and Sabo with wide smiles, making sure Luffy and his tiny legs are keeping up.

Ace huffing when you trip and fall on your face, reaching out a hand for you to grab regardless of his gripes.

Orpheus and Eurydice aren't far from your thoughts.

"What are you smiling about," Ace raises an eyebrow as he tugs you onto your feet.

"Nothing," you laugh airily in return. You're human.

Ace looks back at you again another time, more concerned than his grouchiness let's on as he grumbles you're not talking as much as you always do. It's rich coming from the guy who constantly complained you talked to much your face when you were first getting to know him. "It's better when you don't shut up than when you're quiet," he barks when you point this out. "It's weird."

(You're human.)

The island is covered in snow the day you decide you'd join Ace's crew after months of indecision. Your vision of freedom is different from your friends'; you don't want to be a captain of your own crew. You don't want the worries of having to lead. So, the boys decide, you have to join one of theirs. It's hard picking between your friends. That indecision goes out the window the day you meet Old Man Naguri and you listen to his tales about his battle against Roger for all of until whenever you notice Ace leaving quietly.

"Ace," he turns around, surprised at your sudden appearance. He must have been deep in his thoughts if he didn't hear the snow crunching underfoot. "Are you okay? It's okay if you were scared of Naguri's story." Although the man had told it warmly ー fondly, even ー it's a haunting thought that they were defeated so easily when the older man was so strong.

Despite your attempts to comfort him, Ace is quick to shut down that train of thought immediately. "I wasn't scared," he retorts. "I just don't feel like hearing stories about Roger." He doesn't expand on his reasons and you decide not to ask. You only want the look on his face ー the lonely one ー to leave him. You never want to see him make that face ever again.

So you change the topic; ask him if he thinks Naguri's old crewmates would ever want to sail the seas together again as you walk back to your secret base. "I dunno," the dark-haired boy shrugs. The freckles on his face almost seem like snowflakes in the surrounding weather. "Probably not," he decides with a grumble. "Their adventures are over now so what's the point in staying together at that point?"

It crosses your mind not for the first time that Ace is the most independent kid you know. Maybe one of the loneliest. Even if it's different, you understand the feeling. You were the weird one in your group of friends in Windmill Village. The one too loud and too strange, lost in daydreams and content to play all the roles yourself if it came down to it. The kid with animal bones and dead flowers mixed into your collection along with seashells and stones. You couldn't curb those interests.

Not for any lack of trying, however.

You did try.

You just couldn't. You tried talking less, you tried being normal but you inevitably would open your mouth and your oddities rolled off as naturally as breathing.

No one on Mt. Corvo is normal, however. That's what makes you fit in. Ace's problem, whatever it is, doesn't seem like it's the same.

"Well I'd stay with you," you tell him earnestly; vehemently. It isn't enough to say it if Ace doesn't believe you. "Even if the adventure's over too. You're my friend." The adventures could be over and there could be no more treasures left to find but you'd still stay with him. "We can find another journey to go on after the first one and another one after that. And even we don't have anymore to go on, I'll still stay with you! Then you won't be alone when the journey's over because I'll still be there."

There's a pause, a blink and Ace lets out a sound of surprise. "But you said you didn't want to ch-"

"I'm choosing your crew right now, duh!" You rest your hands on your hips, nose pointed in the air. "Got it, Captain Ace?"

Ace's cheeks are cherry red from the cold but his usual frown shifts into a something as bright as the sun. "Fine, but I'll be a strict captain, you know!"

We're all Orpheus, you kick up snow with wide footsteps while you and Ace excitedly discuss all the things that would be on your ship. All the places you should go on your ship. It's because we're human. You think as much as your hands brush against one another, cold and warm at the same time.

You think as much when you both turn to Sabo and Luffy loudly returning home with a-

"Oh, hey guys! I didn't know that you were home!"

"Oh, Ace! I didn't know that your father was Roger!"

A look akin to horror blossoms across Ace's face as he looks back at you at break neck speed.

(You're human.

You knew Ace was human all the times he looked back at you before. You still know he is human when he meekly asks one week later if you still want to be part of his crew. It's the smallest you've ever seen him and the most uncertain.

"You're stuck with me forever, you dummy!")

𖤓

Orpheus and his dilemma doesn't return to the forefront of your mind again until the Burning of the Gray Terminal. You hug your knees to your chest, pressed against Ace firmly now that it's over. He doesn't make to push you away, nor does he call you a 'baby' despite how quick he was to disparage Luffy and his tears earlier.

You can still hear the fire roaring in your ears; the smoke thick, darkening the sky and Bluejam holding you at gunpoint. Sabo was gone, taken by his noble family and far from the chaos unfolding in the slums of the Goa Kingdom.

For the first time in your young life, you understood what hell on earth looked like.

The screams of the helpless drowned out in fire; a mysterious power knocking all but Bluejam himself unconscious. You were never one for believing in gods but Dadan and her band's intervention was nothing short of a miracle. Still fear had gripped you in your entirety, draped over Ericht's shoulder, when you saw Ace wasn't running behind you guys.

"I'll never run away," he proclaimed, defiant as ever. The sparks surrounding you look as if they were stars leaping from his body. A display that, in any other situation, would have looked breathtaking. He was that boy ー your boy ー in the fire. Your boy who never turned around, not even when Dadan went to stay with him.

Look back, You wanted to scream. You wanted to scream it for the whole world to hear. Look back!

He didn't.

You didn't see them again until over a week has passed and the belief they'd been reduced to nothing but ash nearly took hold of you.

You never want to experience anything like that again.

You're sure you'll love Dadan for the rest of your life. Her skin is wrapped nearly head to toe in bandages and the burnt ends of her coily hair will need to be cut off. Still she's alive. You'll take Dadan bandaged and bruised over any other possibility. She speaks for all of you when she wearily asks Ace, "why didn't you run away?"

The answer isn't immediate as Ace mulls over his answer. You're too tired to press him to hurry in divulging his secrets. "Sometimes, I get so angry," the boy begins gingerly. Tenderly, as if he doesn't want to touch a bruise too firmly. "And I feel like if I run away, I'll lose something I could never get back. And this time, Luffy and," he trails off unexpectedly. Your head dips as he shifts to scratch his head, one of his tics. "They were behind me. I don't know why but that's probably the reason."

They're words that make your lips tremble. "It's 'cause you're human," you mumble, exhausted. "You're human. Like Orpheus." You close your eyes, ready to drift asleep on Ace's shoulder. You won't cry; you've cried enough to last a lifetime. "Being Orpheus is scary."

Dadan sighs testily, "that old story again?" Her words are more amused than disgruntled. "Leif, quit teaching weird stuff to the kids."

"They're taking after my love of the classics," Leif sniffs wetly. "There's nothing weird about it at all. She's right," it must be a vindicating feeling for the both of you. "It is scary to be Orpheus."

Maybe it's why Ace didn't look back. You press into his shoulder more firmly. "You don't have to be scared next time, I'll be there too." I'll protect you.

"I wasn't scared," he protests, resting his head atop yours. "You were the scared one." There are no arguments to be had there.

(It's a few hours later Dogra comes home, news pertaining to Sabo freezing your blood.

You never see the boy with the missing tooth again.)

𖤓

You leave Dawn Island when you're 17 on a small boat sturdy enough to get you and Ace by until you get your actual ship. You're pirate savings are long gone. "What pirates having savings anyway," you said when you remembered the silly notion you had as children. "We were so dumb for that!"

That's right, we were kids.

Kids who, for the longest time, could only talk hypotheticals about your ship and your adventures. That precious promise of the forever beyond journey's end. Now you're finally on the sea, you inhale in shaky belief at the long stretch of blue surrounding the two of you. We're finally doing this.

You run your hand over the water's surface, admiring how it feels silky to the touch. The distant cries of seagulls in your ear and the briny smell of the sea breeze in the air. You sure that you're going to blink and suddenly you be back in the boys' room, groggily staring at the ceiling in puddle of your own sweat as Ace and Luffy hold you tightly. Their snores sound vaguely enough like seagulls that they could be tricking you into thinking you're sailing right now.

It's spring, you breathe.

"Where to now, first mate?" Ace's voice pulls you from thoughts and you see him smiling. Frowns are no longer commonplace on his face anymore. It suits him as much as the sun shining down on him does. A sun child, that's what you are.

"Wherever the wind takes us, captain," you salute before breaking into a laugh. You aren't sure what to do with all the giddiness swelling in your person.

Ace matches your energy tit for tat, tugging the sail in the direction the wind. "Then off we go to uncharted waters!" You whoop excitedly, water droplets following your hands as you raise your arms.

You initially think it rotten luck you shipwreck on Sixis a few weeks into your journey, following legends of bountiful treasures. After acquiring Deuce and Ace eating the Flame-Flame Fruit to boot, you're more inclined to say fate works in mysterious ways.

Deuce is nice; you like Deuce.

The start to your friendship may have been rocky with his comments about Roger's son ー as well as you subsequently throwing your shoe at the back of his head ー but things ultimately had been smoothed over. It's hard to tell there'd been any foul feelings before, at least on Deuce's part. Not with how Ace throws his arm around Deuce's shoulders as he cheerily recounts a story about Luffy for the millionth time.

It's sweet.

It makes your stomach churn uncomfortably.

You groan, palming your forehead. I'm jealous. This is so stupid. It isn't even like we're not best friends anymore. You know that is fact. It's the 'whys' behind your jealousy that you don't understand.

The Spade Pirates have grown considerably since it was just you and Ace in a rickety boat. There's Deuce, Cornelia, Pinnacle, there's even a lynx in your crew. All of whom who joined this crew because they liked Ace. Most of them liked him almost immediately; it's darling in how effortlessly he does it. There is no effort, you realize not for the first time.

Even when you were 10 and Ace found more reasons to try and keep you at arm's length, you liked him. You always wanted to be his friend; it's something you and Luffy have always had in common. Your old friends in Windmill Village were unable to see your vision, however.

In hindsight, it's objectively not hard to see why.

Ace had been an angry, belligerent child with a harsh mouth. The Ace on the deck before you is practically a different entity entirely. Polite, gentle and extroverted. It's hard believing how easy making friends comes to him now when before the only friends he was able to gain were you, Luffy and Sabo. Which it is why it's so great Ace has so many now, truly. Truly.

This is what you wanted, isn't it? You've always wanted this ever since you were able to further understand Ace's complexities.

You are happy. As such, you're unable to grasp why you feel so gross. No, you sigh. That's a lie. I do know why. You're not Ace's only confidant anymore. He'll still go to you when he needs you, of course. It's just that you're no longer the immediate choice. It's simply a period of adjustment. You hold back a huff but Wallace, your friend in the crow's nest, is quick to notice your mood.

"Everything alright over there, partner." It's not truly a question; you can tell by the lack of rising intonation. It's a prod.

"Yeah, I'm fine," you tell the fishman offhandedly. "Just thinking."

"Oh no," Wallace grins wickedly, dark eyes dancing mirthfully. Even if he worries, Wallace seldom pushes if you really don't want to talk about it. It's his best trait after his humor. "Sounds like we're in trouble."

"Oh shut up," you hiss playfully, giving him a light shove. "See if I haggle for you again the next time we go to a market." Despite your sharp words, you're both laughing. From the corner of your eye, you see a flash of black turn around into tan and freckled flesh. You ignore wishful(?) thinking in favor of reality. You're not Ace's number 1 confidant anymore and that's alright. It's an awkward feeling having to share the role with someone else after so many years in that best friend role.

It'll pass; it'll pass.

𖤓

You realize you've been in love with Ace for the better part of your life one year later after the Spadille washes up on the shores of Amigasa Village. The entire affair is an ugly thing. Tears at the weight of your emotions; tears from realizing how much weight you were carrying in your heart to begin with.

What's worse is there's no grandeur in what causes your awakening.

It came to you slowly then all at once watching your oldest friend, snoring into a bowl of tororo soba. His face was a mess, flecks of tororo smeared on his face while the locals panicked assuming he had died mid-meal.

I love you, you chuckled silently, chin propped on your palm.

Then you blinked and everything else hit you like a surge of conqueror's haki.

"How could I be so blind and stupid," you screamed into your hands, Wallace patting your back all the while. Even being around Ace was a struggle. I told him I needed to go and forage mushrooms when he asked if I wanted to learn how to weave kasas with him. Mushrooms that even locals barely were able to find themselves. It wasn't your smartest attempt to process your emotions alone and far away from the cantankerous heartbeats Ace caused. "Was it obvious? Tell me it wasn't obvious!"

"I mean," Wallace's strained, sharp-toothed smile offered zero comfort. "It isn't to Ace?"

"Kill me."

"Hey, the hard part's over now," the weedy stingfish fishman shrugged. "It isn't like it isn't reciprocated."

"I don't know what you're talking about," you grumbled.

"You know Ace is in love with you, right?"

"Wallace."

"He is, though! Not that he's noticed but- come on, now," Wallace's tone was pressing, as if he was stating a long known truth. "You have to have noticed you're special to him, right?"

'Because I'm his oldest friend,' you wanted to say. Somehow you knew it wasn't an answer Wallace would accept.

It was a trying five days of woes and sorrows; scouring your memories.

(You can pinpoint the exact day you fell in love with Portgas D. Ace.

A day only a few months after Sabo's death and Luffy's inability to even begin the process of healing from it. When he begged Ace on that windswept cliff not to die to which Ace vehemently declared that he wouldn't.

In that moment, Ace was sparkling.)

By day five, you've gone through most of the five stages of grief. In all honesty it felt like you'd gone through ten, you truthfully believe as you recuperate by the shore.

There's not another place in the world as healing as the sea at sunset. In a world of power holders and haki, it's almost an impossible magic to perceive. How the sky becomes shades of indigo and vermilion and the sea becomes wine-dark. You close your eyes, breathing deeply as you lean your head back as if in meditation.

It's hard to tell what you notice first ー the crushed sand or the rise in heat behind you. You whip your head over your shoulder, a motion practically second nature.

"What are you sneaking around for," you smile lightly as Ace winces, brow furrowed, like he's been caught doing something wrong. His fidgeting is almost secondary to how he looks in the light of the setting sun.. It's a good look on Portgas D. Ace even before he adopted his gentle demeanor. For a second, you feel like Orpheus when he sees the light and turns, forgetting he wasn't supposed to gaze at his beloved until after they'd left Hades' domain. How Eurydice looked in his memory when bathed in its light. I get it, your eyes feel hot looking at the boy turned man behind you. I get why you looked.

"Mind if I join you," comes a hesitant reply, Ace.

"Since when do you ever have to ask to do that?" Nonplussed, you tap your fingers against the sand. He waits, as if gathering his bearings, before gingerly taking a seat to your left. Your heart flutters as your knees brush against each other and you wonder if this reaction has always been present. If you've merely been blind to it. "Your shadow isn't with you."

"Tama?" You raise your eyebrows with a questioning smirk as if to say 'who else would I be talking about?' A light chuckle falls from Ace's lips. The young girl had been attached to Ace's hip ever since you washed up on the shore. "Yeah, she's a sweet kid. But Kotatsu stole her away from me. Cats always win over over people at the end of the day."

"Tragic," your chuckle as you picture the yellow lynx allowing the girl to sleep atop him as he purrs and purrs. The thought inspires memories of Luffy, clinging to your person even as you try rolling out of the sleeping boy's grip. "Tama's lucky. It took me and Luffy three months before you could start tolerating us. It took her basically nothing."

"Aaah," Ace makes a sheepish sound at the reminder. If it were up to him, he'd be more than happy to pretend that weren't the case. In fact, that part of your knowing each other always fails to be brought up in Ace's many, many stories about Luffy and your childhood. "That… is something I don't rightly remember," he coughs out at last. "Maybe you're remembering wrong."

"Oh am I now," you snort, equal parts incredulous and entertained.

Ace nods, black tresses dancing with the movement. "Pretty sure. We've always gotten along."

"Luffy told me you punted him off a bridge his first day at Dadan's."

"I-"

"There was also that time you basically threw boulders at us for following you."

"That-that was-"

"And I'm pretty sure-"

"Okay, okay, I was a brat!" Ace throws his arms in the air, you guffawing all the while. "Stop reminding me!"

"What's funnier was your first etiquette lesson with Makino! I half expected you to call Red-Haired Shanks a bastard when we met him last month!"

Ace groans your name in embarrassment, face in his hands and the tips of his ears blazing red. Resting your arms on your knees, you lean forward against your chest in. Sitting there on the beach, ocean singing in the background, you could almost delude yourself into thinking you're the only people in the world. There is no Amigasa Village, no World Government and no concepts like Emperors and government-sanctioned pirates.

It's simply you and Ace.

What was I panicking about so much before? Watching Ace settle into himself, stardust dotting his skin and wavy hair moving in the breeze only cements the feeling. I love you; so much.

Enough that you'd traverse the realms beyond to bring him home.

Enough that you'd damn yourself right when victory is on the horizon.

And that's okay.

"What are you thinking about," brown eyes glance in your direction, lips twisted into a suspicious pout.

"Nothin'," you reply petulantly. I'll tell you one day, you vow silently. Once I get used to it. I've spent the better part of my life being in love with you without knowing. I wanna enjoy it now that I do. Treasure it like you're holding something precious because you are. "What are you thinking about?"

His eyes dart away following your question, Ace opening and closing his mouth a beat after. You shuffle your feet, shifting back and forth between the tips of your toes and your heels. Remembering your odd behavior the past few days, you don't doubt it is at the forefront of his mind. "... are you mad at me?"

You make a sound of bewilderment, leaning back and brow furrowed. "No? Where did that even come from?

"Sorry that isn't-," Ace stumbles over his next words. "It wasn't what I meant to- I just meant I knew something is bothering you but I didn't know how to bring it up but I know you talked to Wallace and I didn't want to come off as nosy or... I just wanted to make sure you were okay." Ace breathes, the deluge of words slowing down. "I'm always here to talk. But if you don't that's okay too. I just don't... It felt like… maybe you were avoiding me or something." He is mumbling by the time he finishes, abashed, after thoroughly exposing all of his cards.

Oh, I definitely was doing that. It will be a a cold day in hell before you admit that, however. Ace would only feel worse.

"I know how it must've looked but I promise that was just me making a bigger deal out of something than it actually was." Wallace will certainly agree with that sentiment. You can only imagine how he must have felt watching you be so obviously smitten. "But it wasn't you! It was just me! I didn't want to worry you and I was getting in my head and well, Wallace just kinda happened to be right there and well... it kinda just got word vomited onto him. Otherwise, I would have kept stuff to myself."

Ace rasps the back of his hand against your arm, "you're sure you're okay?"

You know Ace is in love with you, right?

"Yeah," you press yourself into his side, resting your head on his shoulder. "I'm good. I just had to freak out about it, I think. Everything's perfect." Nice isn't enough to describe how it feels, being enveloped in the warmth that flows from his body. I could die like this, you remember a poem Leif recited a long time ago. Softly; peacefully. In the middle of a dream.

𖤓

"Gimme my props."

The only response you have to your sing-song demand is a playful groan.

You nudge into Ace's arm with your whole body, "come on, flame boy! My props!"

The night is young on the seas, the Moby Dick alight with drink and song. Pirates never miss a reason to party, Ace becoming the Second Division Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates is no different. He deserves the position more than anybody, in your extremely biased opinion. He's more than earned it and you're happy to see him accept it, even if it was with an uneven stride.

"Ace, we're on the ship of the world's most tolerant pirate," you told him the night before when the two of you sat alone in one of the crows nests. "If you trying to kill him a hundred times didn't get you kicked out, I don't think Roger being the cherry on top is going to do anything either."

"You don't know that," he replied quietly, shoulders to his ears. It was like you were children again and he was so sure you'd take back your promise. As if him being Roger's son would be a dealbreaker. Ace could have been the son of the devil himself and you'd still have kept your promise.

"I don't," you agreed promptly. Still, you knew Whitebeard's character. He was the father to an entire fleet of vagabonds and rejects; what was one more with a large secret?

"And what if you're wrong?"

"Well, first as your friend I would tell you that you really picked the wrong tattoo," you grinned at his snort, watching as he failed to keep his lips from curving upwards. You raise your right hand, showing off your own, smaller Whitebeard jolly roger on your inner forearm. "Alright, alright, I'll say we both picked the wrong tattoo. And that we really fucked ourselves over burning down the Spadille." The ship was long gone now, only existing in your memories. "So assuming we have to battle our way dramatically off the Mobyー we'll jump on the Striker, head to the closest island to get some cover ups and we'll start over," you wink and Ace's eyes softened, looking as if he was staring through you. "But I doubt things will go that route and I look forward to you telling me I was right."

"Okay," Ace drapes himself over you, pulling your back into his chest. You squeal as rough fingers tickle your sides. "You were right so be humble about it!" Perfect. Ace is absolutely perfect.

"Stop it already! I'll be humble!" It doesn't take much time for the tickles to stop with your ceding, Ace's arms lying lazily across your stomach. In the far distance ー as distant as distant can be on a ship so ginormous ー Binks' Sake is being sung on loop with Jozu and Haruta particularly off-key. There's something comforting in how terrible they sound, you giggle softly. "Hey," you press your back further into his chest. "I love you."

"Yeah, I love you too," Ace snickers, lips curled into a lazy half-smile. There's no deep pondering at all behind those eyes. No inclination to look deeper into your words.

Not quite, you brace yourself with a quick in-breath. "No; Ace," while not enough to pull yourself out of his hold, you lean forward enough to look over your shoulder with ease. "I love you."

There's a pause.

Panic then flashes across his face, nothing but a grunt of shock escaping his ajar mouth. You stumble at how quickly Ace is to separate from you, attempting to make his exit to Oden knows where before you grab one of his hands.

"Ace," you squeeze his hand delicately as he stands completely still, face buried in the hand he has left. "Ace," you call again and Ace looks back at you ー truly looks back at you, brow furrowed and eyes wet with conflict. "I'm in love with you. You and no one else. You, Portgas D. Ace, and you can't run away from that. And," your throat clenches. "I want you to admit that you're in love with me too."

"You shouldn't-"

"Do you love me?"

A choked sound escapes him, "you can't-"

"I can and I do," you interrupt him belligerently, both your hands wrapped his tightly. Like he's begging you to end this torment for something he can't have; that you shouldn't want. That maybe he never wanted to know he wanted in the first place. "I'm in love with you. You don't have to love me back just don't," the breath you release is shaky. "Don't run away from it. Don't run away from how you feel about me."

You know Ace is in love with you, right?

"You're in love with me," you ask with a falsetto pitch, face warm and throat tight. It takes more strength than you're prepared to admit to tug Ace into facing you directly. It takes more strength than you're prepared to admit to hold his gaze. "Aren't you?"

"I," he starts, tears pooling in the corner of his eyes. It's a steadying process of half-formed words, stumbles and shaking shoulders. A steadying process of deep breaths. "Of course I love you," he chokes at last. "I've always… always," it's enough for you, those words. More than enough; you can tell from how Ace's figure suddenly becomes unclear. Whatever else he wants to tell you can wait for later when he's able to say them.

Finally, something you in whispers. Finally.

"Can we kiss?" The two of you can't help laughing at your own words. It's a clumsy affection, unsure what to do with itself. You look forward to figuring it out together. We have forever, after all. It's what you promised one, long winter ago.

"Yeah," Ace nods with a sniff. You wonder if he's remembering the same winter. His smile tells you he is. "We can kiss," the first of many, chaste with the underlying taste of salt. Warm and yours; your personal spring in the sea.

𖤓

For the second time in your life, you're seeing hell on earth.

You're battered, bruised and the ground is littered with more corpses than you can count; pirate and marine alike. Your blood roars through your ears, your breath just as loud. Breath after breath, stride after stride.

The scent of death, fire and everything in between is cloyingly thick but it doesn't matter.

None of it matters.

Ace is safe; alive.

The Moby is gone and Pops will soon be another memory along with it you acknowledge sorrowfully as you leave the strongest man in the world behind.

You'll grieve later, you decide. When you're far from Marineford, far from Garp who'll never choose his grandsons no matter the cost and far from the people who nearly took your beloved from you.

We're almost there, you pant. We're almost there, the edge of marine headquarters so close you can almost taste the sea salt.

It's surprisingly easy to pick out the sound of Ace's shoes and Luffy's sandals drumming against the pavement.

Your boys are fine, your boys are well, your boys are alive.

You'll cry all you want after you make it back to the ship.

"Well your captain is that guy so you can't help it, can you," Akainu's voice is velvet smooth. Too calm in the chaos but still so loud. "Whitebeard is just a loser from the old times, isn't he?"

Ace's footsteps come to an abrupt halt, "loser?" Why is he stopping?

"Ace," Luffy cries out, just as confused.

It's strange how Orpheus comes to mind as you nearly fall over in your attempt to stop running. Your lungs burn white-hot from exhaustion, only seeing the purple and white of Ace's tattoo. Your body stopping doesn't feel like your own, like an out of body experience.

This whole war feels like you're one of the thousands of civilians watching the broadcast from all parts of the world. All watching with bated breath to see who will claim victory; watching to see how the season will change.

You feel like your that little girl again, confined to Dadan's work on your hair as Leif tells you the most beautiful story you've ever heard.

It's new life of spring when it was all Luffy could do to cry out joyfully Ace's name, the flames of his now unextinguished powers on fully display. The chill of late winter still clings to the season with how Whitebeard has to be left behind. The stillness of spring that one seldom notices.

Orpheus’ delight in seeing the sun.

Eurydice's stumble.

Her silence.

Maybe he thinks he’s been tricked.

Regardless the variety of the tale, it all ends the same Leif told you gravely.

He looked back.

[lorelune]

(minors DNI // WC: ~2k // CWs: reader & oliver are in their late twenties, reader is implied to have major trauma/PTSD due to abuse (not by oliver), references to oliver being a cheater, reader is referred to as damaged)

you're 'the one that got away' for oliver.

you fucked around in your early twenties, never put a label on your relationship, but it lasted long enough that it probably should've had one. he can't count the number of nights you stayed over his or the times he stayed at yours. the breakfasts he cooked, the times you went for coffee, arm-in-arm. you went to plenty of his games and the after parties too. you were, for all intents and purposes, a fixture in his life.

there was never any exclusivity and you both understood that. there was never meant to be be longevity, despite it occurring.

oliver is the one who leaves you in the end. in retrospect, he isn't sure if he got bored or scared with you. all he remembers is fucking you so good and sending you out the door the next morning with the explicit understanding that that was it.

you hadn't cried when he called things off, you hadn't had much of an expression at all. resignation, maybe. like you were already prepared for your entanglement's end. you probably were. oliver never promised you more than a good fuck and pleasant demeanor. everything else was luxury, right?

he doesn't see you for a long time. he hears from a friend of a friend that you've moved away. it's severing for oliver to hear. you have been physically removed from his space, and he doesn't have the option to linger in the way that he often does with his trysts and situationships.

it haunts him, a little bit (for years). you were better to him than the other people he gets involved with. your smile was kinder, your laughter was more genuine and from your belly. you were a better fuck, probably, but that feels secondary from the way he simply misses your presence.

it takes him awhile to realize he regrets ending things, and regrets how he ended them too. it starts aching to think about how you must have felt as he showed you to the door for the last time.

oliver doesn't ever text to check in with you. your socials are active for awhile, and he snoops on those, but the activity dwindles in the years that follow.

he doesn't see you again for a long time.

when he does, he feels older, more surely-shaped. maybe he is a little tired of fleeting romps and drinks being thrown on him by beautiful women. having a reputation as a bonafide cheater for most of his twenties has started to weigh on him. his mother tells him that he's 'finally growing up to be a good man'.

oliver sees you again, after so, so long, out and about, like it's the most normal thing in the world.

he's sees you again at an Ubers event, some charity gala full of photo ops and networking.

he recognizes your side profile first.

it's like getting punched in the gut, like breaking a rib in more than one place. it's you. in the flesh, wrapped in a soft-looking formal garment that hugs you perfectly. oliver is glad that he notices you while he's alone because his breathe audibly stolen from him.

it's not until later in the evening, during a lull between events, that he's able to talk to you. he's prepared to be casual and charming, how he always is in these situations. it's not something that usually takes effort, but considering how his palms are sweating and his hands might be shaking, it's taking it today.

oliver waits until you're in a bit more of a private spot. you're both tucked away to the side of a ballroom as he approaches. he calls your name and you turn to meet him.

it's like he's been punched in the gut again.

you're beautiful, you always have been, and seeing you in the flesh again is an unignorable reminder of this. but there's part of you that looks unwell in equal measure.

"oliver," you say, more softly than he expects. there's no heartbreak in your voice, no yearning, no anger. but there's another tone there, something lurking and looming. "it's good to see you. how have you been?"

he tells you, but he's hardly thinking about the words coming from his lips. something about his play, about Ubers, about a PR campaign he recently had. you nod along, your smile seemingly pleasant but something about you is so unpleasant.

your gaze seems dimmer. there's a scar over your lip that wasn't there before. it looks like it has been split and healed over a few times. your shoulders have been sagging the whole night, like you're cowering from something. there's no swagger in you, none of the vivacity that oliver has tied to you for so long from his memory.

"how have you been?" it's only polite of him to ask, isn't it?

"oh, you know." you laugh, and then he hears it— it's pained, like you're attempting to make the sound move through tar. "i've been alright. could've been better, but things aren't so bad now. i moved back recently."

"permanently?"

"something like that, yeah." there's a glimmer of something in you, something more warm and genuine. like hope, but it immediately gets eaten but the aethery thing that oliver is starting to see the shape of better. "i'm working with the media company that just got contracted by Ubers, so you might be seeing me around... if that's alright?"

you never used to ask for permission especially for things that didn't actually require it.

"of course it is, it'd be nice to see you around. maybe we can grab a coffee sometime, catch up properly?"

you stare at him then. the odd veneer rolls off you then and oliver sees you.

(what happened to you?)

he sees the scar on your lip again, the dark circles, the way your cuticles and nails are picked. you look hollowed out, cored, and left as something...

damaged?

it feels cruel to think. even the word coming to mind is like a shock of cold water dousing him.

(did he do this?)

"i don't know." you laugh then, transparently sadder. you shrug. "i'm a little more weary these days, oliver, forgive me. i would be nice to catch up, but i'm not in the business of loaning my heart out."

your words are honest, sad and true.

"i wouldn't be asking that of you," he says. his voice is softer than he's heard it be in awhile. almost like a coo. "just coffee."

"it's never 'just coffee' with you though, is it?"

a wry smile is attempting to make it's way onto your face, but it only makes you look more pained.

"i don't know," oliver kicks his heel into the ground in an arc. it must make him look boyish, rather than as aged as he feels. "with you, i'll take anything."

"you're as unconvincing as ever." you shake your head. "still a charmer?"

"is that a yes?"

"it's not a no."

you look at him then. really look at him. he hopes you can see past the memory of him, of heartbreak, of his own callousness and lackadaisical approach to connection.

you sigh and laugh again, it looks like you're going to speak, but your phone goes off. it's a shrill ring, and you jump literally inches off the ground. swiftly, you're ignoring him, pulling your phone from your clutch.

'Unknown' displays on the screen.

oliver watches your breath catch. watches something horrified expression play out on your face, a quiet, hardly there utterance of "not now, not today, please—" that leaves your lips.

"it feels like you shouldn't take that." oliver speaks without speaking.

"yup." your hands shake as you jam your finger on the screen, ending the call. you silence your phone. shut it off. lower it into your clutch. "... definitely not one i want to answer."

there's an invisible scar you're wearing, oliver can see it so clearly now. it cleaves him.

"sorry," you laugh, more nervous. "i— shit. i gotta be careful who i get coffee with, you know?"

oliver says your name, clearly, steady. it makes your gaze shoot to him. boring into his own, there's panic.

(this isn't an entirely foreign thing for him to see in you. he remembers your anxieties, your fears, how he held you through them because that was the right thing to do, even if he didn't intend to keep you— oliver likes helping people. you didn't come to him un-damaged and he didn't expect you to be anything other than yourself.)

and now, the version of yourself that you are to him, is so shattered.

it hurts that it's so apparent. it hurts that something, someone, someones— he doesn't fucking know—have broken some part of you.

(if not all of you.)

(if he had kept you— would this have happened? would have been spared the pain you carry?)

"how about," his own voice feels sturdy, he wants you to hold onto it, "we start where you're more comfortable?"

that gives you pause, it looks like you've been slapped.

(do you remember comfortable anymore?)

"a coffee is fine." you don't look at him as you. "if it’s you, a coffee is okay."

the words balm something in him immediately. but slice him too.

(it's nice to know that the heartbreak he initiated didn't scar you so deeply— he doesn't think you'd speak of him with so much trust otherwise. however—)

(he was so callous about how he acted. so ignorant, knowingly, to your feelings and ache. the way he shoved you away was downright cruel.)

(comparatively, could this be considered... minor? among whatever else you endured?)

"we can try some place new," he suggests. it feels like multiple ribs are broken.

"that would be nice." you meet his gaze, soft-eyed like you were back then. "this isn't an invitation to hook up, either. it's a catch up."

"so, not a date?"

"don't even joke."

there's an edge of humor there, but seriousness too.

oliver— he wants you. he doesn't exactly care how. he wants to know the fragility of you again, how it's changed, how he can grow into it and support the parts of you that are so clearly faltering. he wants you close, he doesn't care if that's as a friend or as a lover. if he disregarded your feelings in the past, he can disregard his own now. he just wants to be there for you now, because he wasn't then. he can't take ownership of your wound, it's yours, but he'll supply all the doctoring required for it to heal.

maybe it's selfish of him.

"a catch up, then." oliver agrees with a tilt of his head. "do you need a chaperone this evening as well? i think some of my teammates would eat you alive."

"oh my god," you shake your head. "i swear to god, they've been trying."

he offers you his arm and raises an eyebrow.

you move to take it, seeking comfort in him because it's familiar and aren't you both just animals of habitual action who crave this—

"i mean it, aiku." you swallow. "i can't— i can't do whatever shit we did before. i can't and i won't. if this is initiating that, i don't want any part of it."

"it's not." let me take care of you, oh, however you will take him.

maybe it's age, maybe it's experience, maybe it's the growth and ruminating evolution of the care for you and connection you had back then, but he feels such fucking relief when you take his outstretched arm. he pats of your hand, like the way one would a timid cat. you lean into his side; he doesn't even think you notice that you do

he'll take you for coffee. he's going to offer to drive you home tonight too. he won't be overbearing (he's good at not doing that), but he will be... present, if you have him. if you'll have him, he hopes that you'll reveal more of yourself to him. he can show you more of him, too, and maybe you could believe that oliver isn't the insensitive dickhead he was years ago.

for now, he has this, the warmth of you on his warm. the ghost of the thing that shattered you feels cold and heavy against his back too, but he doesn't mind all that much.

at least you won't be bearing this weight alone.

at least he can try to make things right, and go somewhere better, with you on his arm.

[penkura]

No One Better

Note: Ahh I didn't know how to go about this, but here it is! It's another in the OP Men as Dads series, but this one is ONLY Zoro and his son. I just had this idea after seeing this OC template on Pinterest, and I had to do it, I couldn't not. I have thoughts floating around for other characters in this same vein of calming down their children, and I will post them separately like this most likely! For now, please enjoy Zoro being a wonderful, soft dad to his little boy. 🥹 I want to have his babies so bad, where is my irl Zoro omg

Your son may be Zoro’s child too, but he’s a big crybaby when either of you are missing from his sight. He could be happily sitting in your lap or on Zoro’s chest, but when Keitaro notices one of you isn’t around, he immediately pouts and begins to cry. At first it’s legitimate tears, until he learns that he can get you with crocodile tears because that’s your baby boy, of course you’re going to run to him when he cries! You figured it out quickly when he instantly started to smile and coo at you the first time he cried crocodile tears to get your attention, Zoro didn’t believe you for a few weeks until your ten-month-old did it to him too. He just loves you and Zoro so much, he wants you both around him all the time.

Zoro is able to calm him down very easily, just by talking to Keitaro gently. An older woman on an island you stopped at was surprised to see how easily Keitaro calmed down and went from nearly sobbing to happy little giggles when Zoro just took him from you and started asking him what was wrong, why was he so upset all of a sudden (he couldn’t see Zoro standing nearby, that was the problem). The woman was highly impressed and said her own husband hadn’t been that good with their children, it made you smile and thank her for the compliment, since you knew Zoro would never.

Keitaro is big enough to sit up on your lap during a party between your crew, the Heart Pirates, and the Kid Pirates when the three of you run into each other. Members of your (now permanently) allied crews coo and fawn over your son, the youngest of all the crews, and he adores the attention he receives from all these new people. Once everyone goes back to drinking and playing games, you choose to stay to the side with Keitaro, keeping him from the alcohol and making sure he stays happy while everything goes on, and he does, looking around at everyone and giggling when he sees Luffy do something funny.

Keitaro is happy and calm until he realizes he doesn’t see Zoro anywhere, making your nearly year old son start to pout and fuss. You try your hardest to calm him down when he really starts to cry and kick his legs because he’s frustrated, quietly speaking to him and placing kisses on his little head to help.

“Hey, little guy,” you feel beyond relived when Zoro comes over, resting his arms on your thighs and getting nose to nose with your son, which starts to calm him down, “What’re you crying for?”

Keitaro slowly calms down, looking at Zoro cross-eyed at first before his eyes fully focus on him, starting to smile and coo again as he puts his tiny hands on Zoro’s face. It makes Zoro smile in return as he takes your son from you, intending to give you a small break.

“Let’s give mama a few minutes to enjoy the party too, yeah?” Zoro gently tosses your son in the air a few times, Keitaro letting out squeals and giggles in response.

You slip away to the girls for a while, Ikkaku giving you a smile and telling you how lucky you are with Zoro, causing you to look back at them with your own smile. Keitaro has his thumb in his mouth as he lays against Zoro’s chest where he can see you, content and slowly falling asleep, while your husband rubs his back to help him relax.

“He’s really the best dad to Keitaro, I couldn’t have asked for anything better.”

[crownjewel123]

hiiii!!!

i had an idea for an isaac x fem!reader fic, i saw one about stiles ages ago and i still can’t find it but it was about the reader being a cheerleader and wearing stiles jersey for one of his lacrosse games. stiles had a pre-existing crush on her but they like didn’t talk much yk i just thought it was really cute and i was wondering if you could do something along the same lines but for isaac?

plsplspls i love ur work sm

Oh hell yeah! That’s honestly so adorable, and I wouldn’t mind to do one with Isaac that’s like that. (Credit to the op though, whomever you are- I haven’t read that one or I would tag).

Also thank you so much! I’m just getting back in to TW so I hope this does it some justice? I adore Isaac.

————————————————————————

Isaac Lahey is a cute guy.

Anyone with eyes can see it.

It’s become a sort of, tradition, on the girls cheer team to confess to their crushes in unconventional ways. What way exactly?

‘Borrowing’ a guys jersey and wearing it at the game. But the hardest part was finding a way to obtain it. I mean, asking directly has its perks sure- no when you’re trying to surprise someone though. Besides, as cute as he was, talking to Isaac directly just seemed a bit intimidating.

So, who better to ask than Scott McCall?

Finding him at his locker the day before the game was easy. He knew who you were, of course. Being one of his friends since the fourth grade had its perks. Nobody even bat an eye when you showed up at his locker beside him and Stiles.

“Hey Scott, can I ask you a favor?” You didn’t mind the way both of their gazes flickered to you. Not yet, anyway. Not even with Stiles apprehension- he always knew when you were planning something.

“Hey, what’s up?” Scott closes his locker as he pulls his books close, turning to face you directly.

“..Could you help me get one of Isaac’s jerseys for the game tomorrow?” As soon as the question left your lips- Stiles spit his water he had been sopping at. Lowering his drink from his lips, he looked to you directly.

“You-… you?! You… like LAHEY?” Stiles voice raised a few octaves as he spoke and you shushed him with a furrow of your brow. He didn’t need to spoil it now.

“Stiles, c’mon.” Scot gently nudges him with his shoulder to quiet down. “They’ve had a crush on Isaac since forever, how did you not know?”

Stiles is still muttering, he raises his arms and shoulders in a mock shrug. Maybe he was too caught up in everything else to notice. It’s not as if he was looking at you like that..

“Anyway,” Scott continues, throwing an amused glance at Stiles, “I’ll meet you at your car after lacrosse and cheer practice.” He assures you with a grin. Satisfied, you pat Scott’s shoulder and send a look the still sputtering Stiles direction.

“Thanks Scotty,” you laugh as you pass Stiles, playfully patting the top of his head, “Good luck buddy.”

And then you went on with your day. Practice went by pretty quickly after running through the routine on the sidelines a few times. You somehow didn’t get caught starring holes into the side of Isaac’s head as he played, and somehow got the formations down. When everyone dispersed for the night, after you climbed in your car Scott appeared within five minutes. With a smirk to you, he had pulled out a jersey with ‘Lahey-14’ and hands it over.

“I can’t wait to see his reaction.” Scott remarks with a laugh. As if he already knew the outcome, and it was the good ending. Like a romance fanatic knowing two characters were pining for one another before the characters themselves. You just smiled and took the shirt.

“I almost want to wear it before the game- but I don’t want to tip him off.” You laugh, and Scott laughs along with you.

“You should definitely leave it as a surprise,” Scott laughs before opening your door and slipping out of the car, “See you tomorrow?”

“See ya!” You call, waving to your friend.

You’re both oblivious to the curious gaze of Isaac Lahey, who had been watching the whole time. Only able to hear and see bits and pieces.

The next day is a bit of a blur. In all honesty, when isn’t it. Most of the teachers here at Beacon aren’t exactly the most memorable. In fact, some have tried to kill you-and your friends/friends families so..

Anyway, when the cheer meet up starts, you’re already anxious. The girls team meets up in the locker rooms before the big game. It’s there, on top of your cheer uniform that you’d worn for the day, gets its new addition. Slipping Isaac’s jersey from your backpack, before you toss it in a locker, you pull it over your head and stride over to the others. There’s a roar of amusement, and intrigue as you join the circle.

“I knew it!” One of your friends on the team, Jerrica squeals. “You two are gonna be so cute together!” She cheers, grabbing your hands tightly as her brown eyes meet your own.

You smile, cheeks warming as your gaze turns to the captain. She sends you a knowing look before clearing her throat and addressing the team.

“Alright y’all, we’ve been putting in the work. We’ve got this down, don’t forget to spot, and watch out for one another. We’re gonna kill it tonight!” She cheers, earning an uproar from the team before leading everyone out to the field.

The nervous steps up to the table as you walk out into the field. Eyes drifting around the field to see who you can spot. There’s Stiles, bench-warming, who has turned to spot you- he just waved. Waving back, your gaze ventures past him to the field. Scott and Isaac are tossing a ball back and forth with their helmets on. A pre-game practice, that they didn’t really need.

As the cheer team steps onto the sideline, Scott softly grins in a knowing sort of way. The ball is in his own net as he throws a look and a wave your way. With a gulp, you wave back, cheeks warming as the always curious Isaac turns around to face you. As he moves, you can feel your heart hammering in your chest- and you know they can hear it. You feel his eyes on you before you see them, following the team down a little with your back to him. The perfect opportunity for him to read your back- ‘Lahey - 14’.

When you stop a little to the side of the team, you almost jump out of your skin when you turn to see him beside you. That wasn’t supposed to happen- he wasn’t supposed to approach until after the game. But, he didn’t exactly follow the rules.

“My jersey looks good on you,” Isaac murmurs as he peers down at you, an unreadable expression on his face. The kind of look that would make your heart melt if you didn’t contain yourself.

“Oh-uh.. Yeah?” You reply weakly- still a bit surprised.

“Definitely,” he brushes a stray hair over your ear, leaning down so your faces are inches apart. “Maybe after the game, you and I can go somewhere to celebrate?” He grins as you stammer a moment, starring up at him as your brain processes his words. You’d been expecting to be the one approaching him after this, and he had entirely flipped the script.

“Absolutely,” you agree after a moment of collecting your thoughts. “Just us?”

“Just us,” he confirms, caressing your cheek with his hand. It looks like he wants to say more- but Coach blows his whistle signaling a huddle before the match. He looks over you one last time with his piercing blue irises and beams. “You should keep that jersey- and wear it for me every game night ,” he calls as he hurries away.

Behind you, the girls cheer team swoops in to huddle around you. All spouting their praises and support before getting ready to cheer for the game.

With a smile, as the game starts, your eyes meet Isaac’s out in the field. He smiles at you in this way that makes your heart do a backflip, and you can’t help but feel like you made the right choice.

It’s a date.

[actual-changeling]

Welcome back to Alex's unhinged meta corner, and today I have something surprisingly not kiss-related—though it is still about the final fifteen because hey, gotta keep the brand image.

I read this post by @goodoldfashionednightingale and began typing a small response. Then I made the mistake of drinking half a litre of coffee on an empty stomach right after taking my adhd meds and my brain began vibrating at the speed of light.

But oh, have I discovered parallels. This, my friends, is about the nightingale, where it comes from, what it means, and what the fuck happened in part 3 of 1941.

Ready? Let's go.

Now, as OP said in her post, s1e3 is important. In the script book, Neil himself says that these flashbacks are where the producers would tell him to cut scenes to save money. They suggested every single one—except for the one he ended up taking out, which was the bookshop opening scene set in 1800. The others are building blocks, you need them to see how their relationship progressed and what kind of important milestones they had.

(side note: author is very miffed that english does not have a separate subjunctive form like german which makes quoting lines way more confusing than it has to be)

The one I want to mention is neither 1941 nor 1967. No, what I want to talk about is 1601. This might be about to get a bit rambly but I will do my best to keep it tidy.

The focus of that flashback is on the Arrangement, yes, but it gives us a lot more information than that.

they both see Shakespeare's plays regularly, maybe even meet in the crowd

Crowley prefers the comedies

Aziraphale does not seem to have a preference, he enjoys the tragedies and presumably the comedies too

there is an oyster woman selling food -> reference to their meeting in Rome when Aziraphale tempted him to try some oysters

Aziraphale reflexively denies their relationship

Crowley might say he is not worried but circles Aziraphale the entire time, keeping watch

they both ask favours of each other and both agree to do them

What stands out to me in relation to what I am about to expand on is the line that Crowley delivers after Aziraphale's little 'buck up'—which Crowley finds adorable btw but that's a post for another time.

"Age does not wither nor custom stale his infinite variety."

Why would he say that? What exactly is prompting this? WHY say that specific line?

At first I thought it might be to tempt Shakespeare because he does commit art theft by just copying that line down, BUT I think there is more to that. So much more, in fact. I am wiggling now because I am very excited about this and my adhd meds are kicking in anyway.

First things first: the line itself.

It appears in Shakespeare's play Antony and Cleopatra, a romantic tragedy, which was first performed in 1607 aka six years after this meeting. Enobarbus is talking about Cleopatra and describing why Antony won't leave her. Her.

Ccrowley uses his—again, who is he even talking about? Hamlet? Shakespeare? Random poetic quote?

No, I think this line is about Aziraphale and it's a code. Right after, the next line from Aziraphale is "What do you want?", meaning that this is their code phrase for 'I have a favour to ask of you'.

Age does not wither nor custom stale his infinite variety

Age will not affect his appearance nor will he ever become boring to Antony. Crowley, who later chooses the name Anthony for himself, tells Aziraphale, an immortal, that he will never age and that he will never grow bored of him.

It's flattery, pure and simple, and it's code at the same time. This establishes the important fact that they might use more of Shakespeare's work as code/already have a system in place (even though he steals Crowley's line for later).

They play their little morality game of back and forth, Aziraphale agrees, Crowley probably manipulates the coin toss, and THEN we find out that the oyster woman is called Juliet.

Why? What is the meaning of that? Why give her a name and that name in particular? Why bring the sexy oysters back into it?

Romeo and Juliet premiered in 1597, so it is safe to assume they have both seen it by 1601, but this is mostly for the audience, not for us-or is it?

Aziraphale gives Crowley puppy eyes until he agrees to make Hamlet popular, and while I don't think Juliet itself is a code word, although it's very interesting that the OYSTER woman is the one with that name (especially adding what we now know about Job), Romeo and Juliet might be.

Yes, the Nightingale song came out in 1940 but the bird has been around for much, much longer, and, as many probably know by now, also shows up in Romeo and Juliet.

This is where I am starting to vibrate at the speed of light because listen to me. Listen.

Crowley is Juliet. Anthony J. Crowley. Antony Juliet Crowley.

(side note: I'm not saying that Crowley chose it based on that—though I am not not saying that—but that it is a clue for us at the audience.)

Why do I think that? In the play, Romeo spends the night with Juliet and then goes to leave as the night begins to end. Juliet tries to stop him and tells him that the birds they are hearing aren't larks, which sing at dawn, but nightingales, which sing at night.

Who is the one always pushing for more? Crowley. He is the one trying to convince Aziraphale it's safe, they're safe to spend time together.

Romeo disagrees with Juliet and says 'I must be gone and live, or stay and die'.

Leave and stay alive, or stay and hell/heaven will punish us. It gets even better though.

We all know how Romeo and Juliet ends: Romeo thinks Juliet is dead, kills himself, Juliet finds him and then kills herself too.

Hey, do you know how Antony and Cleopatra ends?

Antony thinks Cleopatra is dead, kills himself and dies in her arms, then Cleopatra also kills herself—by snake poison; Romeo also died by poison.

The parallels are THERE. They are jumping down our throats! Two tragedies, two sides, several familiar names and phrases, same fear, same ending.

I think by now you can guess how this ties back to 1941.

We do not see how that night ends, but we know it ends. One of them wants to stretch it out, maybe even quotes Romeo and Juliet because look at the setting!

Candlelight, wonderful night they spend together, the threat of Crowley's early demise, and, to quote the play once more, this time Romeo: I have more care to stay than will to go.

Crowley thought it was his last night on earth and went with Aziraphale to his bookshop, to be with him, because he cares more about that than the fact that he will be dragged to hell come morning. Do you remember?

"Expect a legion to come for you first thing tomorrow" THAT is the threat. They have until dawn, just like Romeo and Juliet, which is why she is so desperate for the birds to be nightingales. Fortunately for them, Aziraphale saves the day, BUT there is NO SECURITY. They do not KNOW if a legion will still show up or not. If dawn is a deadline and they will need to fight.

Sure, they improved their chances, but who knows? Maybe they will come for him anyway, it's not like hell is all fair and square.

The best part: it gets even better.

Juliet eventually panics and tells him to go, and Romeo drops a line that huh, sounds oddly familiar, doesn't it?

'More light and light, more dark and dark our woes!'

Remind me, what does Aziraphale say again? Ah, yes. Perhaps there is something to be said for shades of grey.

There is more. Yes, even more. We know the whole rescue relies on a magic trick, a switch. Guess what Juliet yearns for while telling Romeo to go save himself?

Oh, now I would they had changed voices too. While they did not for Romeo and Juliet—they kiss and part—they did for our two. One fabulous switch and we're good.

(side note: Toads? Associated with hell. Larks? Associated with the dawn, yes, but also heaven since Romeo says 'Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat the vaulty heaven so high above our heads.')

So, this was a whole lot of information, let's see if I can summarize my thoughts.

I believe the nightingale is a code word that has existed even before 1941 and gained a lot of importance over the years. In 1941, the song is added to the meaning and whatever happened between the two that we have not seen yet, it fundamentally changed their relationship. Maybe they kissed, maybe one of them tried to convince the other to prolong the night but they parted on not-great terms.

The nightingale and the song become a symbol of hope, a goal to achieve, another uninterrupted night, maybe, or an uninterrupted life.

When they part in the final fifteen, it's morning. Crowley points at the sky and says "no nightingales", which at that point has several different layers to it.

No nightingales because their night is over, just like with Romeo and Juliet, and please, please allow me to add another detail, because I am frothing at the mouth over this. The scene I quoted, known as balcony scene, do you know what it is preceded by?

A ball.

Star-crossed lovers defying their sides, falling in love at a ball, getting a hurried, wonderful night together but torn apart by danger of punishment, the nightingale as a dream, as a wish for unhurried time together. Family rejection, torn apart by parents, willing to die for each other so they can reunite in death.

No nightingales. The ball, the romance, is over, their dancing is over, heaven is tearing them apart, and Aziraphale returns to heaven while they are both stuck in a pit of misunderstanding and miscommunication, all bound together by fear for each other.

The thing is, Crowley hates tragedies, he never liked the "gloomy ones", and he does not want them to end in one—luckily, this isn't the end. Yes, they kiss and part, but the play keeps going. We have an entire act 3 to fix what Romeo and Juliet couldn't, to ensure that this is a COMEDY, not a tragedy.

Both Antony & Cleopatra and Romeo & Juliet died out of fear, hurried into making bad decisions because they knew what would happen if their sides were to catch up with them.

Crowley and Aziraphale can reunite heaven and hell with love, not death. This is THEIR story and they are writing the ending. No more day and night, no more deadlines, no more hiding and sneaking about, no more fear of larks and sunshine.

Good Omens will end the way it began: In a garden with two no-longer-star-crossed lovers embracing the song of a lark as well as that of the nightingale.

I hope this made sense to everyone who was no present while my mind started to vibrate itself into a puddle because the thing is I can see Neil doing all of this completely on purpose.

Thoughts? Questions? Additions? Come and join me in my insanity and until next time I have a mental breakdown over this show (probably in like two hours).

[emakataken]

Part 4

Idea: After a chance meeting at a firefighter bar, Tommy Kinard a guarded Air Ops pilot and Buck a restless academy recruit, fall into something neither of them saw coming.

This is a long one.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

It’s Thursday night and Marlowe’s is already half full. The air hums with easy noise, music, scattered laughter, the clatter of plates and the smell of beer-battered chicken drifts through the air. Buck steps in just behind Tommy, brushing rain off his shoulders with a wince he tries to hide. The movement pulls tight across his back and something twinges wrong. He exhales slowly, blinking through it as Tommy holds the door long enough to glance at him.

“You good?” Tommy asks, quiet, without making it a thing. 

“Yeah. Just landed wrong on a drill this morning,” Buck says, voice low. “I’ll be fine by morning.”

Tommy doesn’t push, but his eyes narrow slightly. Buck knows that look, he’s on Tommy’s radar and that thought makes something warm bloom in the pit of his stomach. 

The familiar buzz of conversation draws them forward. In the back corner booth, the rest of Tommy’s family is already gathered. Mickey sprawled with a dark lager in hand, arguing with Gina about 80s sitcoms. Sal’s flipping through the menu. Gina half-turned in her seat, gesturing with a french fry as she lectures Eli about his blood pressure. 

“Hey,” Sal calls as they approach. “About fuckin’ time.”

Tommy slides in first, his shoulders relaxing in that way Buck’s started to recognize, something about these people, this table, lets him breathe easier. Buck follows, biting back a flinch as he twists into the booth. He settles beside Tommy with more stiffness than usual, and Tommy’s hand drops unnoticed coming to rest against Buck’s thigh.

“Sorry,” Buck says. “McDaniel made our last run a nightmare. We passed, but barely. Kid still can’t brace a line worth shit.”

“He’s gonna get someone hurt before he gets cut,” Eli mutters without looking up from the trivia sheet.

Buck snorts, “he won’t get cut. Kid’s the commissioner’s son.”

Gina watches him as she slides a cold pint his way. “They keep sticking you with him because they know you’ll keep him from getting hurt.” Her voice is softer now, threaded with the kind of knowing Buck’s still getting used to. Her gaze flicks from the tightness in his jaw to the way Tommy hasn’t moved his hand. “You good, kiddo?”

Buck gives her a crooked grin that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Always.”

It’s not the full truth, but it’s enough.

He’s been showing up for nearly two months now. Long enough that Gina has his drink waiting, an orange slice perched on the rim. Long enough for Mickey to start ribbing him mercilessly, and for Sal to toss him the trivia sheet without asking if he’s staying. They all know. Even if no one says it out loud.

Tommy hasn’t labeled anything. He doesn’t have to.

Buck sits next to him every week, knee to knee. They lean in close to whisper guesses, pass notes, and trade quiet glances across the table that no one calls out. But everyone sees it. Especially Sal, who’s known Tommy the longest. Who’s suspected the truth for years but never pushed. Now, he watches with the kind of quiet pride that comes from seeing your best friend finally stop pretending.

Tonight, Buck’s off his game. He’s too quiet, his posture is tight, movements careful . He takes a mozzarella stick and leans back too fast, something seizes in his side and he grits his teeth.

Tommy catches it. “Hey,” he says, voice low. “You need to stretch out or…”

“I’m fine.” Buck cuts in quickly. “Just… long week. And fuck.” He closes his eyes and lets out a deep breath then smiles as Tommy’s fingers curl tighter around Buck’s leg beneath the table.

“What’s the capital of Montenegro?” Eli asks, oblivious, pen hovering.

“Podgorica,” Buck answers, opening his eyes.

Sal whistles. “You cheat or are you just a freak of nature?”

Buck shrugs, reaching for another mozzarella stick. “Training and I read a lot on….” He cuts off with a sharp inhale, his shoulders seizing as his back spasms hard enough to make him drop the food.

Tommy’s hand moves from his thigh to his back, fingers pressing lightly into the tension. Buck doesn’t flinch from the touch, as he grits his teeth through the ripple of pain and forces a breath out slow.

“Jesus, you’re twenty-four,” Gina says, mock-horrified, trying to pull the mood back with a grin. “You shouldn’t even have back pain yet.”

Tommy doesn’t look at her when he answers. Just mutters it low, more truth than joke. “Tell that to the shrapnel scars.”

Mickey looks away, giving them space. Sal flips the trivia sheet like it’s nothing, asks Eli about his day just loud enough to break the silence.

Gina’s smile fades. She meets Buck’s eyes, something older and softer settling in her expression. Then, without a word, she plunks her purse onto the table with a solid thud and starts rifling through it.

“Hold on.” She pulls out a white prescription tub, the label half-peeled and scuffed, and hands it across the table to Tommy. “It’s for Sal’s neck when he fucks it up going all Boston on his firehouse. It’ll help. Apply a thin layer. No more than that or he’s gonna feel like he’s on fire.”

Tommy takes it without hesitation.

Gina reaches again, this time sliding a glass of water and two small pills toward Buck. “Anti-inflammatories. Prescription grade. You’ll sleep better.”

Buck looks at her, eyes tight but his gaze flares with gratitude. He doesn’t say anything. Just nods once and pops one of the pills with a murmured thanks.

“Hey,” Gina says, reaching for another fry. “You ever need a real meal, we’ve got leftovers most nights. The kids love guests.”

Buck’s grin softens, eyes going the glossy blue that always ensnares Tommy. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Sal says, elbowing him. “Besides, I need someone else to argue with Gina about the MCU.”

 "What's the MCU?"

“Jesus Christ, kid,” Sal groans, squeezing his temple. “We’re putting on Iron Man. Tommy, bring your boy over for movie night next Saturday.”

Tommy watches it happen. How easy Buck has slotted himself in. How the group curves around him, how he belongs here. Not just tolerated but wanted. It’s more than Tommy thought he could have. 

Buck’s still smiling when he leans back, fingers curled around the glass like it’s something more than water. Tommy can see the pulse ticking in his neck, the wince he tries to hide when he shifts in the booth.Just smiles wider when Gina slides the fries closer to him or when Sal drops another ridiculous trivia fact into the conversation just to bait him.

The second pitcher is half-gone, the trivia sheet creased and stained in the middle of the table. Buck’s posture has relaxed, but the tension in his spine has eased under the medication.

They’re halfway through a music round when the laughter from the bar registers at first as the voice cuts through, sharp, smug, pitched high enough to reach their target. “Didn’t realize trivia night was date night, Kinard.”

Another voice chimes in, dripping sarcasm. “Must be nice. Sit around holding hands while the rest of us haul ass through brush fires.”

Buck stills and his fingers pause on his glass.

Tommy’s spine goes rigid beside him.

Sal shifts, muttering, “Fuckin’ Novak,” under his breath, like a curse. He shoots a look across the bar, enough to say cut it out without standing. “Thought that asshole lost his shield with Gerrard.”

Eli shakes his head. “Nope. Just got shuffled to Station 14.”

“You always bring rookies, Kinard?” Novak calls out, loud enough to slice through the bar. “Or just the ones you’re breaking in off-duty?”

The table goes still.

The room around them dips into a hush. Buck turns, not fast, just rotates to face them steady and blank-eyed.

“I’ve held my best friend’s hand while he bled out in the sand, whispering lies about how he was going to make it,” Buck says, voice level. “So if the worst thing you’ve got is a cheap shot about who I sleep with and who I trust at my six? Say it louder. Let us all hear how small you really are.”

The air crackles. A few tables shift. One of the guys starts to say something, but the bartender lifts a hand. “Out,” she says, already dialing the rest of the room back to peace. “Now.”

The group doesn’t argue. Just slinks out, smirks brittle, the way cowards always do when the room doesn’t back them.

Buck turns back and picks up his glass and drowns it and refills it.

Gina blinks and smiles approvingly towards Buck. Then reaches for the pen and mutters, “You handled that better than I would’ve. I’d be in cuffs.”

The tension cracks a little. Eli huffs. Sal barks a laugh that sounds like relief.

It does nothing to soothe the tension that leaks back into Buck’s spine as Tommy lets go of Buck’s back like he’s been burned. 

When he glances sideways, Tommy isn’t meeting his gaze. His jaw’s set, hand wrapped too tightly around his own glass.

They roll into another round. Elijah argues a sports question with the bartender. Gina’s laughing loud enough to make a toddler at the next table clap. Buck gets the tie-breaker question right but his grin doesn’t reach his eyes.

Tommy hasn’t said a word in ten minutes. He doesn’t need to.Because every time Buck leans just slightly into his side. Tommy feels it like static under his skin. It hits him how dangerous it is to let this become routine. Buck in his space, in his life, a little more each week. With his soft voice, intense eyes and bruised knuckles and that deep-seated belief that if he just keeps trying, people might stop leaving.

“Alright, degenerates,” Sal says, pushing to his feet. “Some of us have an alarm going off at 0600. Tommy, are you driving or is the kid crashing with you again?”

Tommy’s mouth opens. Closes. Buck is already stretching, slow and lazy, like the answer’s obvious.

“I’ll ride with him,” he says, casual. But his eyes flick to Tommy’s, asking even as he pretends not to.

Tommy nods once, clipped. His voice comes late. “Yeah. I got him.”

They don’t talk on the drive.

Buck rides with the window cracked, wind threading through his hair, eyes fixed on the blur of streetlights. Tommy drives smooth, controlled, but his grip on the wheel is too tight, jaw set like he’s chewing through every unspoken word.

When they reach Tommy’s house, Buck follows without asking, without being invited. The door shuts behind them with a soft click, and Tommy toes his boots off but doesn’t look back. He stands there, still and taut, like if he meets Buck’s eyes now, he might say something he can’t take back or worse.

Buck shrugs off his jacket. 

Tommy stays standing in the center of the room, spine too straight. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Buck pauses. “Do what?”

“Back at the bar,” Tommy says. “Put a target on yourself.”

“I didn’t,” Buck says evenly. “But I wasn’t going to let his comment go.”

Tommy finally turns, eyes sharp. “You think that matters? You think anyone gives a shit.”

Buck stiffens. “You think…”

“I think you’re twenty-four,” Tommy snaps cutting him off. “And you’ve been lucky so far.”

Buck lets out a quiet laugh. “Lucky?”

Tommy presses on, like he can’t stop now. “You act like you’ve seen the worst of it, like nothing can touch you. But you don’t know what it’s like to actually lose everything because someone decided you didn’t belong.”

Buck’s mouth opens, then closes. His chest tightens.

Tommy doesn’t stop. “"You think standing up in a bar makes you invincible? Guys like Novak don’t just run their mouths, they wait for a chance to hit back when no one’s watching. And it’s not just bruises, Buck. One wrong move, one pissed-off superior, and suddenly you’re off the roster or out of the job. You keep throwing yourself in the line like that, and eventually, there won’t be anything left but what’s broken. We’re not even..” He cuts himself off, but the words hang in the air like a spark about to catch. “This. Whatever this is. It’s not…”

“Real,” Buck says, softly finishing it for him. “It’s not real. Because if it’s not real, then you’re not really gay.”

Tommy looks away. The silence is answer enough.

Buck lets the breath leave his lungs slow. Measured. “You don’t get to decide what it means to me.”

“I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“No,” Buck shakes his head. “You’re trying to keep yourself safe. And that’s fine, Tommy. But don’t pretend I’m just some kid who doesn’t understand.”

The silence stretches long. Buck turns away, to hide the sting in his eyes. He moves to the kitchen, his gait is off, he twists open a beer and pops the second painkiller. “I know what I’m doing,” Buck says after a moment. “I know who I am.”

Tommy closes his eyes.

“I’ve had people try to erase me before,” Buck continues. “Not because I’m bisexual. Because I was too hyperactive. Too much. Spent my thirteenth summer locked in the basement. Ship out for the Navy a week after my seventeen birthday. They reshaped me, rebuilt me.”

Tommy finally looks at him. “Evan…”

Buck doesn’t answer. Just stands there, back turned, the line of his shoulders too tight to be anything but grief as he clings to Tommy’s countertop. 

“You don’t have to say it,” Buck shifts, reaches for the Sierra Nevada Pale Ale that Tommy adores and drains half the bottle, he sets it down, not hard, not loud. “I’m not asking for anything you’re not ready for. But don’t make me feel like I imagined this.”

Tommy exhales, rough as he rubs a hand over his mouth like that’ll keep everything inside. “You didn’t imagine it,” he says. “That’s the problem.” 

Tommy watches the tension knot at the base of Buck’s spine, the way he tenses to hide the flare in his lower back. Tommy crosses the room and steps close, “you’re hurting,” he murmurs. 

“Yeah,” Buck says, a little breathless. “Still kinda feels like it’s on fire.”

“C’mon,” Tommy says, voice low. “Bedroom. I’ll work the ointment in.”

Buck hesitates just long enough for it to register. Like letting someone care for him beyond sex is still new. Tommy laces their fingers and gently tugs him down the hallway. 

The bedroom is lit by the lamp on Tommy’s nightstand. The bulb hums. The air carries the clean, earthy scent of laundry detergent and vanilla bean. Tommy closes the door behind them shutting the rest of the world out.

“Shirt off,” Tommy murmurs, setting the small tub on the dresser.

Buck peels his shirt over his head with care, jaw clenched against the movement. The muscles in his back pull taut. The lighting catches the scars that web across his ribs and shoulder blades, burns, shrapnel, a healed gash under his right shoulder that still drags slightly when he moves. Tommy’s seen them before. In showers. In flashes of undressing. But not like this. Not when Buck’s not trying to hide, not trying to seduce.

Tommy exhales slowly, suddenly very aware of the ache blooming in his chest. He almost lost this. Before he even understood what this was.

He dips two fingers into the jar and steps forward, palms warm with the balm. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

Buck doesn’t answer, just braces himself against the mattress, and breathes shallowly.

Tommy starts at the base of his spine. His thumbs work over inflamed muscle, feeling it give under pressure. Buck hisses, then exhales, slowly unclenching.

When Tommy shifts higher, skimming along Buck’s ribs, his thumb grazes the scar under his shoulder blade.

Buck shifts, face half-buried in the crook of his arm, voice low and a little hoarse. “It was a compound outside Ghazni. Routine check, or it should’ve been. Intel said soft entry, low presence. They were wrong.”

Tommy stills, but doesn’t speak. His thumbs move again, gentle, tracking along Buck’s lower back. 

“There was a kid,” Buck continues. “Couldn’t have been older than twelve. Stood in the doorway, just looking at us. And then he ran. And we knew.”

He swallows. The muscles in his back twitch under Tommy’s hands.

“I got one Zen out. Carried him while the rest of the team laid down cover. Then the second blast hit.” He exhales, slow and shaky. “Roof came down, fire, concrete. I woke up to silence. Dust in my mouth. My ribs torn open. All I could hear was someone crying. Except it wasn’t crying, it was my squad leader, Ghost choking on his own blood.”

Tommy’s hands go still. Buck doesn’t notice. Or he does, but he can’t stop the words now that they’ve slipped past his lips. “I crawled, got to him, but my hands were shaking so bad, I tried but I couldn’t hold pressure. So, I just held him. Told him he was gonna be fine. That evac was on the way.” Buck’s voice falters. “They were but I think we both knew he was going home in a box.”

Tommy’s hand slides up, presses to the center of Buck’s back.

“I know what it means to be erased,” Buck says. “I know what it’s like to walk out of hell with someone else’s blood in your veins and nobody waiting on the other side. So yeah, when some washed-up firefighter wants to make jokes about who I am? He’s not breaking new ground. And he’s sure as hell not going to make me run.”

Tommy swallows hard, his throat tight. He presses his forehead to the space between Buck’s shoulders. “Jesus, Evan.” His hands move again, slower now, deliberate, like he’s not just tending to muscle but trying to map the damage, to know him in a way that words can’t always reach.

“I don’t tell you this for pity,” Buck murmurs. “I tell you so you know, when I say I’ve been through worse, I’m not bluffing. I’m not some kid.”

Tommy doesn’t answer right away. He just leans in closer, his chest brushing against Buck’s back, arms moving around him like shelter. “I don’t need proof,” he says, lips against the shell of Buck’s ear. “But thank you for surviving it.”

Buck’s eyes slip shut, and he breathes out. He sinks into Tommy, letting the strength there hold him together. Tommy's pulse drums steady against Buck's ear, and he turns his head just enough to glance up. "I scare you?"

“You scare the hell out of me.” Buck turns to face him, his back surprisingly forgiving. Tommy’s arms loosen just enough to let him move. Tommy’s eyes search Buck’s face in the dim light, wary and wanting and wide in a way they rarely are.

"Because of who I am," Buck murmurs, "or what we are?"

Tommy shakes his head slowly. "Because of how easy it is to be with you, of what we are becoming." His breath catches, sharp enough to be a confession of its own. He leans in, pressing their foreheads together. "I'm not good at holding onto things."

Buck’s hands find Tommy's waist. "I’m not easy to shake, kind of needy."

Tommy lets out a short, rough laugh, half disbelief, half relief, and slides one hand around to the back of Buck’s neck. He pulls him closer, mouth grazing Buck’s. "Believe me," Tommy murmurs against his lips. "I’ve noticed."

Buck kisses him again, deeper this time, his tongue curling like it can pull out every conversation they've avoided. Tommy guides him mindful of Buck's body as he moves Buck carefully beneath him. Smiles softly as Buck lets out an appreciative groan at being manhandled. 

Tommy takes his time, every kiss, touch, like he’s trying to reassure himself that Buck is still here. Still breathing. Still his, if he dares claim it. And when Buck arches up into him, gasping quietly. Tommy feels it in his bones, the shock of how close he came to losing him before he even knew what this was.

They move slowly, like time doesn’t matter, like nothing outside this room can touch them. Tommy’s weight is familiar, something Buck can press into instead of bracing for. His hands skate down Buck’s sides, over the ridges of muscle and scars. 

Buck sighs into the touch. “You always gonna be this gentle?”

Tommy kisses him. “When you're in pain.”

Buck's breath hitches. His hands slide up, dragging his fingertips across the heat and skin. “Oh,” he says, rough. “I can take pain.”

Tommy groans low in his throat, like Buck’s words hit somewhere vital. .He leans in, his mouth brushing Buck’s ear, making him shudder. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “But you don’t have to.” He shifts, one thigh sliding between Buck’s, and Buck’s body bows up with it, instinct and want tangled together. But when Tommy starts to press in, Buck tenses slightly, just enough.

Tommy stills. “Back okay?”

Buck nods. “Yeah. Just go slow.”

Tommy dips slowly and captures his lips. “We’ve got time.” And he means it, deeper than right now, deeper than the soft slide of skin or the heat simmering between them. He means it in the way his hand finds Buck’s, fingers threading together.

They move together again, slower this time. 

Buck arches into him, brain surging with oxytocin, as Tommy mouths down the slope of his neck, along the bend of his shoulder.

When Buck comes, his free hands tightens around Tommy’s. Tommy follows face pressed into Buck’s neck, breath rugged and uneven. They stay close after. Tommy stays braced over him, one hand pressed flat to Buck’s sternum, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat. 

Buck leans up and kisses him softly. “You staying up there forever?”

“Considering it.”

Buck hums, amused and drowsy. “That’s fine. Just don’t roll off.”

Tommy grins, breathless. He shifts, easing down beside Buck and tugging the blanket over them both.

Buck watches him through half-lidded eyes. “You still scared?”

Tommy’s voice is quiet. “Yeah. But not of you.”

Buck nods. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Tommy presses a kiss to Buck’s shoulder, then to the scar just beneath his collarbone. “I know.”

Buck pads through the house, buzzed from the mix of painkillers and beer, and floating in the softness that only comes after an orgasm and too much trust handed over too easily. He heads for the front door, cracking it open just enough to grab the Chinese takeout he’d ordered in the dumb, blissed-out stretch of afterglow. He nudges the door shut with his foot and heads for the couch.

The living room is dim as  Love Actually plays quietly on the TV, already halfway through the part with the cue cards. Tommy’s watching, sock feet propped on the coffee table, eyes crinkling. Buck sinks down beside him. He drops the takeout onto the table, leans back with a sigh. 

The scent of sesame oil and soy sauce drifts up as he opens the bag, but he doesn’t move to eat. Just sits there, watching the flicker of the TV dance across Tommy’s face.

He turns the chopsticks over in his hands without unwrapping them. Once. Twice. The quiet stretches. He knows he shouldn’t ask. Not after everything. Not after Tommy had nearly ended it hours earlier, standing too still in the kitchen, voice sharp with fear and nearly ready to burn it all down around them. 

So he exhales, not quite steady, and risks it anyway. “Have you ever taken a weekend off?” Buck asks. Not really a question.

Tommy smirks, not looking at him. “Where are you going with this Evan?"

Buck lets out a breath. Not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. He swirls the chopsticks between his fingers, eyes on the motion, not on Tommy. “I mean like… the coast. Just sand and the ocean and a cheap motel with sheets that smell like saltwater and sunblock. The kind of place with a broken vending machine and one working ice machine down the hall.”

Tommy hums.

“Could do something crazy,” Buck says, voice tugging at the edges of a memory. “Like skydiving.”

“I’m a pilot, Evan.” That tone, that low, exasperated one laced with affection, does shit to him.

“Yeah, but have you ever jumped?” Buck drawls it now, head tipping toward Tommy like he’s chasing something he knows he shouldn’t want this much. “Flying is one thing. Jumping out of it? Whole other game.”

Something flickers in Tommy’s eyes, but he doesn’t bite.

“I could teach you,” Buck says, and it slips out before he can stop it. The longing in it is sharp and unmistakable. “God, the amount of shit I could actually teach you.”

He exhales, lets his head fall back against the couch. “Jump timing. Exit checks. How to spin without panic. How to land without breaking anything. How to breathe when everything’s falling.”

Tommy’s gaze is steady now, watching him. Really watching. 

“I miss it,” Buck says, softer. “The silence in freefall. It’s not actually quiet, the wind’s screaming past you but it feels quiet. Like nothing else matters except your heartbeat and the math. You have to trust yourself.”

He pauses. Let the silence stretch between them.

“I know I’m younger,” Buck says. “And maybe that makes it easy to think I don’t get it. That I haven’t learned the weight of everything. But you don’t even know how safe you’d be with me. You don’t know what I’ve trained for. What I’ve survived. What I’d do if someone ever touched you wrong.” He swallows, steady now. “Tonight. The bar, that was nothing.”

Tommy’s breath catches.

“I know how to fall,” Buck murmurs. “And I know how to make sure someone else doesn’t. I could be your line,” he whispers. “You’d never hit the ground.”

Part 5.A

[ohimsummer]

RANDOM HORROR GAMER! SATORU HCS

— one(1) suggestive under the cut so minors dni, gamer! gojo x reader, established rs, explicit language, some gamer! reader, pet names (sweetums, baby, (my) love), the link has body horror!!, horror-loving gojo in general <3

⭑ ࣪ ˖ sum’z notes.ᐟ gojo playing outlast and resident evil and silent hill and fnaf and and

horror gamer! satoru who always likes you around whenever he starts playing. doesn’t matter if you’re cooking, showering, or out for the day—and prefers you in his lap while in his comfy gaming chair, but if you’re even just on the bed nearby then that’s totally okay, too.

horror gamer! satoru who finds it so cute when the jumpscares actually startle you. laughs when you let out a yelp or a scream, giggling a ‘relax, baby’ as if his heart didn’t stop for a second at the same scare.

horror gamer! satoru who asks your opinions and recommendations on what games to play, even if you know nothing about them. if he’s stuck between two games, he’ll let you be the tiebreaker, shoving the two options in your face for you to choose from even if your reasons are inane. ‘you like the art on this one better? the title sounds cooler? okay, come check it out with me!’

horror gamer! satoru who finds it comforting whenever you’re cuddled under him while he plays. your scent and the warmth of your body soothes him, makes the scares a little less frightening and he calms down way quicker when he gets to hug you so tight. (refers to you as his emotional support y/n)

horror gamer! satoru who’s just about always eating his words about how terrified the game is making him. talks so much shit going ‘oh this dumbass monster isn’t even that scary’ and you just like to humor him even though you can feel his heart pounding in his chest.

horror gamer! satoru who enjoys when you also talk a little trash with him. ‘i could totally take that monster on, right, baby?’ ‘hell yeah, it looks weak as shit, you could destroy that thing.’

horror gamer! satoru and you both frantically talking over eachother when he gets to a fast-paced area of the game, parts that require swift puzzle-solving or thinking quickly on your feet. ‘fuckfuckfuck where do i go, where do i go ?!’ ‘that way, THAT WAY, no the other way, oh my god, run!!’

horror gamer! satoru who likes handing you the mouse/controller and watching you play. guides you through some parts when you get confused, and always returns your victorious grin when you’re able to get past the really scary or difficult areas by yourself.

‘look at my baby gettin’ through the little mini-boss after 26– ow, fine, 18 tries! so proud of you, sweetums, guess my super-awesome gaming skills are rubbin’ off on ya, huh?’

horror gamer! satoru who lets you get jumpscared even when he knows a scare is coming up. ‘didn’t wanna ruin the experience for ya, baby’ while he’s almost spitting out his water from trying to hold back laughter.

horror gamer! satoru who you have to gently drag away from his setup when he starts getting frustrated. he’s been stuck on this one part for hours now because of rng or the boss is just ‘stupid and rigged’ and insanely hard. you can see his jaw clench, his moves getting sloppier in his exasperation.

horror gamer! satoru let’s you pepper kisses up and down his neck, over his jaw and cheeks, on his forehead as you murmur suggestions to take a break in his ear. you hold your own drink up in an offer for him to take a sip, before slipping away to grab one of his favorite sweet treats to hopefully ease his frustrations. ‘give it a rest and come cuddle with me for a bit, my love, you can always try again later.’

horror gamer! satoru who buys another controller (in your favorite color) so he can play co-op horror games with you. he loves watching you improve, proud when he doesn’t have to carry you as hard anymore. and it feels so much more fun because it’s like you’re experiencing the scares together, not the same as when you’re just watching him play.

horror gamer! satoru who goes horror game-hunting with you. he loves that your interest in them has grown so much, and you two can actually talk in detail about them since your ‘horror knowledge’ isn’t at base level anymore.

horror gamer! satoru likes that you’re not just watching him play and listening to him explain what’s going on anymore. you’re more heavily intrigued in the game lore and spotting tiny details or references in the games.

you’re playing a multiplayer horror game with satoru, exploring a different room of the house since you two have split up to cover more ground.

‘oh, wow! satoru, look at this little figure on the desk!’

his avatar makes its way over, and he’s a little excited to see the tiny evil within 2 reference on the piece of furniture.

‘it’s obscura, isn’t that so cool?’ ‘fuck yeah, wonder if there’s any more hidden around here somewhere?’ and you both keep an eye out for any other allusions to more horror game characters.

horror gamer! satoru who convinces you that playing in the dark is so much better. and it is, it makes the whole experience that much scarier, and you hate (love) it. you find yourself peeping into the dark shadows of the room, goosebumps raised on every inch of skin. and also wanting to punch satoru in the throat when he grazes a finger up the nape of your neck, laughing at your fright when you just about jump out of your skin.

horror gamer! satoru who buys little trinkets or figures of horror game characters. bought you a silent hill nurse figurine to go next to his of pyramid head. you both dressed up as said characters for a Halloween party once, and then ended up, um, undressing eachother in someone’s bathroom later that night…

horror gamer! satoru who knows all kinds of horror game trivia and he loves exchanging facts with you, even if you tell him stuff he already knows. again, he just loves that you share his favorite interest! tell him over and over about how [char.] is your favorite horror game villain or how [song] makes that scene so much creepier! he will eat it up again and again and again.

horror gamer! satoru who gets so excited whenever you present a new game to him, especially if it’s one he hasn’t seen before! ‘holy shit, baby is this a new release? fuck, we have to play this tonight!’

a casual (horror-themed) date night with horror gamer! satoru could be going out to see a new scary movie in theatres, or even just staying in to play your favorite horror games together. on nights like those, he likes to suggest cheesy, parody, or nostalgic horror games like slenderman or some .EXE game.

tagz: @anthoosies @staryukis @hellkaiserinphoenix @biscuitsngravie @elusivemoon @rxddxvotion @babytoshiii

[siffrins-therapist]

👾censoredmandibiles Follow

OK time to settle something

EDIT: this post WAY ended up breaking containment. GO CLUTCH YOUR PEARLS ELSEWHERE

🦑tentacleovi Follow

YO FREE BLOCKLIST IN THE NOTES HOLY SHIT

#RIP OP's notifs #i don't go here but i suggest making popcorn before diving into those notes #some of it is puritan bs you'd expect #some of it is discourse i never even knew existed

41.6K Notes

🕷️friendofcharlotte

I think a painting my friend got at a thrift store was painted by Mr. Italy Veneziano? Is there a way to authenticate it? Google isn't helping.

⭐wishonadeadstar Follow

Try here. Turns out my nan's portrait of her farmhouse was originally painted by Mr. Romano when he was living in NY during the 1920's.

🕷️friendofcharlotte

THANK YOU

8 Notes

📽️bisexuallightinggoggles Follow

hey yo so the US rep put like 100 hours into playing that game Spiritfarer just this week... anyone want to go check on the guy??

💿newagepirate Follow

There are literally government workers who's literal job it is to check on him

⛰️lesbianmothernature Follow

how tf do you know he put 100 hours into playing a game anyway????

📽️bisexuallightinggoggles Follow

We're friends on Steam. He adds like everyone who asks.

And for everyone in the notes asking what Spiritfarer is it's one of those cozy simulator games here's the trailer.

#isn't the 'deathiversary' of his friend Davie this week? #i'm definitely not the first person to think of that #okay looking at the notes was a mistake #like i'm not one of those ppl who puts #'DNI if your username makes fun of davies death' but #immortal or not #even if it happend centuries ago #you can still be sad your FUCKING FRIEND DIED

12.3k Notes

🥾hikingawayfrommyfeelings Follow

So if I become a citizen of Ladonia can he just... visit me through my computer?

🦝trashypanda Follow

He gets mad when you summon him :(

🦘callmejoeythewayi Follow

"summon him" Like a fucking demon?

🫒shrekbignaturals Follow

We are NOT rehashing that old discourse.

🎱magic8saveme Follow

Oh god I just revived my blog after escaping x/twitter and last time I saw that disk hoarse, my dash was just post after post of this for DAYS

🪄magictrio-dropout

#was there actual discourse about whether the nation-people were demons? #cuz the discourse i saw on my dash was #whether tales of things like demons vampires and #other immortal or 'came back to life' creatures #were born from when the nation-people resurrecting #or like #doing creepy stuff

IDK about tumblr or the first bit (I've personally never heard that at least not from anyone being serious) but the other stuff has been debated in academia for decades! One of my literature professors is ADAMANT that the vampire myth can be traced to old folklore about the reps and them reviving and possibly the blood-drinking comes from an evolution of the myth when before, old stories talked about blood soaking the earth where vampires rose. If anyone's interested, here's where you can find my professor's paper about it.

🎃warongayxmas

So like. *grabs a bat and slowly approaches a hornet's nest* Then does the Jesus story have the same roots then?

🫒shrekbignaturals Follow

WE 👏 ARE 👏 NOT 👏 RE 👏 HASHING 👏 THAT 👏 DISCOURSE👏

🥾hikingawayfrommyfeelings Follow

Wtf happened to my post???

#so did OP become a Ladonian citizen or what?

187.4k Notes

🐦‍pinchforawish Follow

MY DAD GOT TO SEE MR ENGLAND LIVE BACK WHEN HE WAS IN A PUNK BAND

🐦‍pinchforawish Follow

TUMBLR WTF HOW TF DOES THIS VIOLATE GUIDELINES

🏴dinotonugget-deactivated

Finally. Proof that the site runs so shittily bc Mr. Eyebrows works for staff

🫎moosecrossing Follow

Spoke the truth and got fucking killed for it

67.9 Notes

[milessunflowers]

trans!wag!ollie with a reallyyyyy tall reader (maybe hockey!reader?) <33

HOCKEY!READER X TRANS!WAG!DRIVER HAS ME ON MY KNEES RN

wag!ftm!oliver bearman x hockey player!male!reader

synopsis: no one loves hockey more than your boyfriend. no one can even compete with how much that man loves ice hockey.

author's note: me watching the ducks/islanders game as im writing this: 🙂‍↕️. tran!ollie also owns my heart. i srsly love it so so much. he's just so precious and dear to me that i lowkey project (DUCKS JUST SCORED AS IM WRITING THIS LFG) onto him a bit too much 😅

any chance he ever gets, he's at the games

will literally drop any plans at all to go to one

even if it isn't your team playing

like he just loves the sport

like one of his friends will ask him if he wants to go to a game and will automatically be there

if it does happen to be your team playing, though, it's an added bonus

but it's not like you don't take him to your games anyways

he is seriously always there

he just likes going to any game possible

plus the atmosphere really helps because it's energetic and loud and helps him feel more secure if he is dysphoric

the jerseys (specifically when he wears ones with your name and number on it) make him feel so masculine

and not to mention that it really has you wrapped around his finger

he loves watching you fight more than seeing you score

he finds it to be the hottest thing ever

especially if you are in the penalty box and you've got an angry look

and when it's on the jumbo tron he's literally obsessed

you love playing the game for two reasons specifically: 1. because you love your teammates and have a blast with them, and 2. because ollie makes it so much better

ollie will rant about how blind and dumb the refs are if they call a bad call against you

boos the refs sometimes too

he is not nice if his team loses because the refs are terrible at their jobs

claims he could do ten times better than them (he cannot)

you guys go on dates to some rinks to play and ollie is moderately good

he is always taking your team hoodies when he is dysphoric

so it makes you know when he isn't feeling that good about himself which turns into a makeshift date filled with heartfelt sports movies

hes very clingy when on his period/when hes dysphoric so you are always prepared with drinks, pain medicine, snacks, and cuddles

he hates the cold but loves the rink so much that he doesn't even remember it's cold

by the time you leave the locker room, he has made a bunch of friends with fans around him as well as has almost lost his voice

you laugh and just kiss his forehead when his voice cracks because of it

hes just so adorable and supportive you can't help it

your teammates know it's gonna be a fun time when ollie decides to sit closer to the ice

because he will try to taunt them just to make sure they are still having fun

plus you guys are absolutely adorable

and with your older teammates, they always threaten you that if you hurt ollie, you'll be shunned

safe to say ollie is their favorite

plus, you and your whole team agree that ollie is the best good luck charm

even if you don't win, you guys always have fun because he doesn't want you to beat yourselves up

best support ever

he is so cheerful and always makes sure that you know how good you did

and when he is feeling down about something, you tell him how handsome and perfect he is

and, whenever you can, you go with him to his appointments and help with his hormone therapy

you guys are an iconic couple that everyone wants to be you and be with you

the height difference is a good few inches so it makes you guys even cuter

like ollie is just staring up at you and has to barely stand on tip toes to be able to kiss you

but you tease him for it anyways

TAGS! (if you want to be added, lmk!)

@op-81-lvr-reblogs, @koalapastries, @justaf1girl, @ghostking4m, @spoonfulofmilo, @seonghwaexile, @alex-wotton, @raizelchrysanderoctavius

[nyarumie]

Water Predicament. (Oneshot)

narumi gen x f!reader - smut, NSFW. improper use of gaming controller, pussy eating and fingering, i guess this counts as pussy drunk gen, best friends to ???

Author's Note: Literally my FIRST ever smut/nsfw 😭 Forgive me if there are lapses here and there, I tried my best! Let me know if you want a part two 💌 Feedback is appreciated!

Cross-posted on Ao3. Please check pinned for masterlist, links, and other important info (⁠｡⁠･⁠ω⁠･⁠｡⁠)⁠ﾉ⁠♡

This was only an accident.

As best friends, it is only natural for you to stay in Gen’s office on a daily nightly basis, gracing him with your company (and occasional co-op) as “a sign of your mighty and genuine friendship”, your words, not his.

He had asked you to join him in Mario Kart, deciding it was nice to take a breather from grind-heavy games. You, who has been cleaning up his mess for the past hour out of boredom, happily accepted the invitation.

You sat cross-legged beside him on his futon, grabbing the long forgotten controller on the floor.

Pocky in mouth, he asked you, “You fine with random maps?”

“Always up for anything.” you said.

He wordlessly set up the round you’ll be playing, taking this opportunity to eat up as many pocky sticks as you can; not that he’ll run out of it, half of his snack supply was from you. As you grab another pocky, you hear the countdown of the round go off.

“3… 2…” Now that's your sign to get the gear working.

“1… Go!”

And the vehicles went off. Both of you were silent, save for the occasional grumbles and curses whenever a random player takes over you.

This went on for several rounds, and by the 5th round, you found yourself getting thirsty. Losing or winning didn't matter to you, deciding to stop in the middle of the race. Scanning the stashes of unopened cans, you find that none of those caffeinated drinks fancy your tastes.

You tugged at Gen’s oversized shirt’s sleeve, gaining a percentage of his attention, but still not looking away from the screen. “Mhm?”

“Gen, don't you have a bottle of water around here? I need a drink.”

“Beside me.”

So he does drink water too.

Getting up, you went over to his other side and grabbed an unopened bottle. You went back to your original position, pressing the controller between your thighs as you tried to open the bottle.

‘The cap isn't even budging!’ you internally complained.

You decided to press the water bottle in your thigh too, making the controller press further in.

You're still struggling with opening the cap, despite your thighs and one hand tightly holding it down while the other tries forcing it to twist. Looking to the side, you see Gen still paying no mind to you, which is totally fine, just to save yourself from this predicament.

‘I can kill a goddamn Honju and not open a shit ass water bottle? You’ve gotta be kidding me!’

As you struggle with the bottle, your unmoving Mario Kart character has finally been found by the other players, purposely attacking you with direct-hit items just to torment you—a stranger to them all. Hit after hit causes the system to consequently cause the controller to… shake violently against your clothed sex.

You paid no mind to it, thinking that it will pass—but oh, the random players you matched with are ruthless. They won't stop the attack, the controller’s vibration not stopping anytime soon; causing you to weaken your grip on the water bottle and try your hardest to not moan.

You should've known better and pulled the controller away, but alas, before you can even do that, a rather loud and needy whine slipped from your lips.

Your head whipped to Gen’s direction swiftly, checking if he even heard you, only to find him still focused on the game.

Embarrassed is an understatement to describe you right now. You felt ashamed and disgusted that you’d even feel pleasure from whatever this is! For goodness’ sake, this is Gen’s game controller! It just so happened to have a vibrating feature, that's all.

Still… you’d be lying if you denied the pleasure you felt. Awkwardly, you slid further back so that you won't be caught by Gen’s peripheral vision. You kept the stick of the controller right where you pressed them, a different kind of thirst starting to overtake your senses—water bottle now disregarded.

Pathetic, you felt absolutely pathetic. The perfect definition of getting horny at the wrong place and wrong time. You felt your breathing gradually getting heavier at each vibration you felt, licking your lips as you got needier. You should stop, but you can't. You’re mentally apologizing to Gen right now.

Unable to help it, you once again slip out another needy sound, much subtle this time. “F-fuck…”

To your horror, you suddenly heard him speak, causing you to shriek and pull away the controller.

“You know, you could've just told me if you wanted to fuck.” he said, now turning to watch you with, eyes filled with amusement.

“What are you—!”

“Hm. Right. What were you doing? And to my controller, too.”

Looking at anything but him, your head is a mess as you try to reason your way out if this. Is he mad? “Um… Gen! I was just… just trying to open the water bottle and, this — it was an accident!”

He started inching closer to you, and you know you should be avoiding him, but it's as if you're a deer caught in the headlights, unable to move.

“I’m no idiot. I was also throwing at your character, y’know. That was no accident.”

His arms caged you from where you are sitting, your eyes going wide at your close proximity. You know his figure and stature is much larger than yours, but hell, the evident difference from how close the two of you are makes you want to be devoured.

“At first, I thought nothing of your needy whine as frustration; that water bottle sure is tight as hell. But you were acting weird out of the blue. And you’re not particularly too quiet either, in case you didn't know.”

There's no use denying the obvious, then. You placed your hands on his chest, eyebrows knitting closely together. “Alright, alright! Fine, I was nasty and felt disgusting using your controller that way. I apologize. I should've—”

“You should've asked me to fuck you instead. There, I finished it for you.”

Pinkish hues stared back at your colored irises, his eyes showing no hint of humor, rendering you speechless.

Sensing your hesitation, he lowered his head to the junction of your ear and jaw, softly trailing his lips across the outline of your face. Your heart thumped at this, breathing getting heavy.

A hand made its way over the expanse of your exposed thigh, a blessing that you wore comfortable shorts tonight. His other hand gripped your waist, fingers going underneath your shirt.

“Gonna keep caressing you like this if you don't tell me what you want.”

He’s not making this any easier for you at all. You already felt too heated up at the slightest touch he gave you, saying out loud your desires is just outright embarrassing that you’d rather fade into thin air. But you were getting needier, and you trusted Gen more than you trust anyone.

Breathlessly, you tightly grabbed his shirt, finally giving in. “Gen… Gen, please, need something, need you—wanna feel good, please.”

Hearing this, he wasted no time slotting his lips against yours, earning a whine from you. Without pausing, he wrapped his arms around your waist and lifted you, sitting you back down on his lap. His hands wandered almost everywhere—your thighs, arms, the plushness of your ass, and the shape of your waist. With newfound courage, your tongue sought entrance to his mouth, causing him to groan and squeeze your asscheeks.

His hands found their way through the inside of your shirt, trailing all the way up to cup your breasts. He suddenly pulled away from the kiss, a string of saliva connecting you. With hooded eyes, you raise a brow at him in confusion.

He kissed your nose. “Let me know if I do something that makes you uncomfortable. I’m giving you a free pass to punch me too.”

You snort. “Didn't know you can still crack a joke. But of course, I’ll take your words to heart. Please continue?”

“Mhm… You're so needy.” he said, pulling your shirt up along the process, revealing your sports bra underneath. You still wear these even at night?

Deciding to tease you, he lightly pinched your nipples through your bra, causing you to whine and arch your back towards him, your hands finding purchase in his hair. “Don't tease. Please, need more. Wanna feel your mouth everywhere, Gen.”

Satisfied with this, he hummed and removed your sports bra and shirt in one go, tongue immediately teasing the surrounding of a nipple and a hand on the other.

Your breath shuddered at the sensation, now fully aware of how close you're hugging him to you.

His mouth moved to the other breast and sucked, groaning at how hard your nipple has become. You hear him speak throughout his ministrations, your whines turning into moans at how lewd his sucking sounds. “Mmpf… So soft, you're so fucking turned on. I bet you're drenched down there right now,” he groaned.

One of his hands supported the back of your head, the other going around your waist. “Wrap your legs around me.” he said.

You did as he asked, moving to lay you down on his futon. He moved his way down, pulling your shorts off of you along the process. He held your legs apart, staring with awe at the wetness evident in your panties. He pressed his thumb to your still covered pussy, earning a whine from you. “Gen, more. Please, do something, anything. Need to come.”

Wordlessly, he moved your panties to the side, cursing at the sight of your fully exposed wetness. “God, you're practically dripping. How shameless you are, really.” he teased. “Since you started with my controller, how about…”

He started another round of game on his BS5, setting the difficulty to the highest mode—that’ll make the AI-controlled opponents continuously attack his unmoving character, causing the controller to vibrate nonstop.

You held your breath in anticipation, getting needier at his idea. The game started, and he pressed the controller to your dripping hole as he felt it vibrate. Your back arched, surprised at the sudden sensation. “H-hah…! Give me a warning next time!”

He just shrugged and continued, moving the controller to your clit. “Fuck… Gen, i-it’s vibrating too hard— Mmph! Feels so good, hah…” Hearing your moans fueled him to turn you into an even greater mess, pressing it harder to your clit and two of his fingers easily entering your dripping hole.

The sensation felt too overwhelming, your moans echoing in his room, body uncontrollably spasming. It's been far too long since you've felt such intense pleasure, and you haven't even come yet! Your legs would've closed together if it weren't for his wide figure, leaving you with no choice but to grab on one of his arms instead, your other hand finding purchase on his futon.

He's so relentless—uncaring of how loud you’ve become, just focused on fucking you with his fingers. He hears you moan his name repeatedly, your head tossing and turning. He feels you getting tighter, a sign of your imminent orgasm.

The gradual, violent shocks from his controller almost rendered your clit numb, one last vibration finally making you gush around his fingers. Your hand tightened its grip on his arm, the hand on his futon covering your mouth as you fell into a silent scream, back arching. Gen mutters a series of curses at the sight of you unraveling before him, fucking you with his fingers throughout your orgasm.

He pulled his fingers out when he heard you whine, aware of how sensitive your hole is. You call him, “Gen. That was… unbelievable.”

“Oh yeah? That better be. But I’m not done with you yet.” he said, a devilish grin adorning his face. “I’ve yet to get a taste of you. Need to clean and drink you up.”

“Wait—!”

He placed his hands at your thighs, lifting them to place them on his broad shoulders. He wasted no time lapping up your juices, the feeling of his tongue making you shudder. His tongue got a taste of your come-slicked hole, moving to swirl it around your clit. This causes you to grip his hair, your other hand pinching your own nipples.

The slurping sounds from your pussy sounded too obscene, him making it known to you that he was definitely having the time of his life devouring you like this. “Gen… too sensitive. But—hah… Wanna come on your tongue, please.”

Good heavens, he wasn't even fingering you, but you can feel your liquid arousal dripping out of you. Gen’s licking on your clit turned your heavy breaths into high pitched moans, the lower half of your body starting to spasm. You felt him wrap his lips around your clit, now sucking it hard, causing you to come even harder than before.

He wiped his mouth at the back of his hand, moving up to slowly kiss you full on in the mouth. Your weakened arms wrapped around his shoulders, welcoming his relaxing gesture.

After a while, he pulled away, a smug grin on his face. “I’m a whole lot better than my gaming controller, aren't I?”

Seriously? Is that why he started this?

You rolled your eyes. “I never said it was better than you. Also, what happened to ‘should've fucked you’? Your dick’s still in your pants, mister.”

You felt his hands slide down your legs, moving it to cross over his back. “Never said we’re done.” He grinded his painfully obvious erection on your drenched pussy, a sign that the night is yet to end.

You silently prayed you’ll be able to walk tomorrow — you have a whole bunch of officers to train, or else you’ll get a week’s worth of scolding from Hasegawa!

[revolutionsingingintherainnn]

Hi Kavi! I was hoping I could request prompts 24 an 81 with desi!reader and Oscar Piastri where like both of them are cricket fans and have like a playful rivalry?

Feel free to incorporate it as u want (IK it's a bit of a weird request) .

Take ur time and i hope u have a great day:)))

Pub Rivalry ☽｡⋆

Prompts: 24. “I could pick you out from a room full of thousands of people.” + 81. subtle protection

₊˚ෆ op x desi!reader ᯓ★

₊˚ෆ fluff ᯓ★

masterlist ☾☼

The pub was buzzing with energy, full of excited chatter and clinking glasses. A bunch of cricket fans had all gathered to watch the super-hyped match between India and Australia. You and Oscar had managed to score a table near the front, the best seats in the house—well, for those who actually cared about cricket.

Oscar was already in his Australian jersey, scanning the crowd as he spoke with a half-smirk on his face. "I can't believe we're doing this," he said, his tone amused, though his eyes remained glued to the screen. "You're gonna lose today, I just know it."

You laughed. "Oh, please. India's got this in the bag. You guys are just pretending to be competitive.

He raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Pretending? You do know that Australia has one of the world's best cricket teams, don't you?"

You leaned in, your voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Well, someone has to support the underdogs."

Oscar laughed softly, clearly not fazed by your banter. "You're lucky I love you. Or else I'd be taking this way too seriously."

"Oh, I know. I could pick you out from a room full of thousands of people because you'd be the one sulking when India wins."

Oscar shot you a look. "You know that doesn't work on me anymore."

The match started, and the pub fell into a hushed silence as everyone focused on the screen. You and Oscar sat side by side, as was your wont, exchanging light jabs between sips of beer.

Australia's first over was quick and aggressive, and Oscar couldn't help but beam every time one of the Australian players made a good play. You, on the other hand, were practically bouncing in your seat every time India made a run. It was a sight to behold—your intense concentration and exaggerated cheers for every boundary.

This is it! This is the over!" you yelled, practically standing on your seat when an Indian player took a powerful swing. Oscar rolled his eyes, but there was a fondness in his smile as he glanced at you.

"You're impossible," he muttered, chuckling to himself.

And finally, after a few tense overs, you excused yourself to the bathroom. "Be right back! Don't get too cocky while I'm gone," you warned Oscar.

Oscar just waved you off, grinning. "Of course, of course. Hurry along; you don't want to be missed during the inevitable collapse of your own side!"

You flipped him off behind your back, and smiled when you heard his laughter.

The moment you vanished from view, Oscar turned back to the game, completely focused on the match. However, after a few minutes, he began to notice something: the crowd seemed different. People were shifting around, voices getting louder, but no sign of you. He looked around. No sign of your bright, beaming smile, no sign of your dramatic, loud cheers.

His eyes narrowed.

You had been away for merely a few minutes, yet Oscar didn't like that. There was a mild knot in his stomach as he pushed his way through the crowd, his eyes scanning to find you.

Meanwhile, you'd become sidetracked by a scene of some Australians celebrating the wicket of an Australian when you didn't even notice it until you'd meandered over there joining in on the celebration. You were pushing through the crowd when your foot caught onto something-a stray chair leg-and suddenly, everything was tipping to one side.

"Oh, no—" you mumbled to yourself as you went tumbling forward, your arms flailing wildly as your drink went flying out of your hand.

Before you could hit the ground, you felt a pair of strong arms catch you, pulling you back up with a swiftness that made you blink in surprise.

"Careful there," Oscar's voice was low, full of both amusement and concern as he steadied you, his hands on your shoulders.

You looked up at him, your heart racing a little from the sudden stumble. "I—uh—I might've gotten distracted, just a little," you stammered, your face flushing in embarrassment. "And now my drink is definitely gone."

Oscar let out a small laugh, a playful glint in his eyes. "I see. Distracted by the crowd, were you?

You groaned, smoothing your clothes. "Totally. I was just trying to enjoy the match, and then—well, here we are."

Oscar shook his head fondly, his expression softening. "Well, I could have told you that the pub floor isn't a good place to practice your cricket swings." He gave you a little nudge, making sure you were steady on your feet.

"Hey!" you shot him a playful glare. "I didn't need you to be my personal bodyguard, okay? I'm perfectly capable of not falling flat on my face."

Oscar's smile softened. His voice dropped a little lower, filled with an affectionate warmth. "I'm just looking out for you," he said, his hand brushing your cheek as if reassuring you that he wasn't letting you out of his sight. "You're clumsy, but I've got you, always."

It made your heart skip a beat to listen to him speak, always making you feel safe even when you were being the clumsy self that you mostly were.

"Well, I wasn't planning on a somersault. But thanks for catching me," you said, a little softer now.

"No problem," Oscar said, and his grin was back on his face. "Just keeping my beautiful girlfriend from public humiliation." His words were laced with that teasing tone, but behind it was something protective. It warmed your heart.

You rolled your eyes, but secretly you were grateful. "I swear, you're the only person who's actually prepared for my clumsiness."

"Well, it's not a bad thing," he said with a sly smile, brushing a lock of hair away from your face. "Keeps life interesting."

Before you could react, a deafening cheer went through the crowd—India hit a six, and you couldn't help but spring to your feet, forgetting all about the embarrassing fall you had made some minutes ago. Oscar retreated, but his hand reached up to the small of your back, urging you along as you leapt around with excitement, not letting you fall again. It was such a simple, protective gesture, but it made your heart flutter.

The match was nearing its end, and the banter between you two was endless. Even if you were supporting different teams, there was something playful about the competition that just made everything a little funnier.

"Well, at least you're not completely useless when it comes to cricket," Oscar teased, as you cheered another Indian run in. "But I still don't think they are going to win. Australia's just better.

You shot him a teasing grin, tapping your fingers on the table. "We'll see, Piastri. We'll see. Just remember, even if India loses, I'll still be able to claim victory in this pub rivalry."

Oscar smiled, his eyes softening as he watched you, the warmth between you two undeniable. "You really think that's how this works, don't you?

"I know you think you can win everything, but sometimes, it's not about who wins the match," you said, grinning. "It's about who can outlast the other in teasing and banter."

Oscar gave you a sidelong glance, his tone more playful than ever, but his voice dropped lower, his gaze softening. "Well, lucky for you, I'm good at both. But when you trip again, I'll be right here—ready to protect you from another graceful tumble." His fingers intertwined with yours, reminding you that he was always there.

You grinned back at him, shaking your head. "Let's just hope my cricket team doesn't disappoint before I do."

Oscar's eyes softened, his hand finding yours and giving it a gentle squeeze. "Don't worry. You'll always be the winner to me—clumsy or not."

The match ended, with Australia securing the victory, but it didn't matter to you. The real prize was how comfortable and loved you felt next to Oscar.

As you both stood up to leave, the crowd still celebrating the match's conclusion, you turned to Oscar with a grin.

"Alright, Piastri. You won this round," you said with mock reluctance, knowing full well that your playful rivalry wasn't ending here.

Oscar pulled you into a quick, warm hug; his arms wrapped around you protectively. "Don't worry, I'll let you win next time. But only if you promise not to fall over in public again."

You smiled, wrapping your arms around him, your voice soft as you replied, "Only if you promise to be there to catch me.

Oscar’s smile softened, and he kissed the top of your head. “I’ll always be here. To catch you. and to win the next round of cricket, obviously.”

You looked up at him, your heart swelling with affection. “You’ve got a deal, Piastri.”

The playful banter and rivalry were still alive but, in this moment, it was clear—there was nothing you'd rather do than share these little, perfect moments with him. And as long as he was by your side, even if you tripped and fell a hundred more times, you'd always feel like a winner.

𓇼🐚☾☼🦪

i'm shit at cricket, whether its knowing about the sport or playing it, but let me know if y'all like this one! this is my prompt list, so y'all can select a number, give me a driver and i will write it as soon as possible! i also have a google form for a taglist if anyone's interested! you can sent in your requests here :)

taglist: @imlonelydontsendhelp ; @greantii ; @anamiad00msday ; @maketheshadowsfearyou ; @nocturnalherb16 ; @justaf1girl ; @peterholland04

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