#there was a bit where they were going through the instruments one by one

[alas--pringles]

Mountain fans- always looking for visual crumbs of their favorite

Rain fans- always listening for audible crumbs of their favorite 😭

[kisses4reid]

scare | ·˚ ༘ spencer reid ,, (part 1)

synopsis - you’re in a relationship with some one else and have a pregnancy scare, both your own reaction and spencer’s makes you realise that you’re not happy.

genre - bau!reader x spencer, friends to lovers, multi-part, pregnancy scare, reader has sort of a douche bf, one sided love (at first), angst and fluff

warnings - pregnancy talk, mentions of sex, unhealthy relationships, stress, sickness

w/c - 1.4k?? take a guess cause that’s mine.

a/n - i’ve got 9 weeks free. yeah, i have a job. and yeah, i have about 6 other hobbies i enjoy. but am i gonna make promises i can’t keep about writing more?? yeah. i am. here, enjoy. (pls lemme know abt mistakes it’s rlly late at night rn.)

The plane whirrs, small chatter from Morgan and who you assumed to be Penelope over the phone humming along with the music you try to distract yourself with. It isn’t working.

Because every song has its own special and quirky musical instrument that happens to sound like a message notification. And you keep getting your hopes up.

Your left leg started to bounce, your fingernails found their way to your anxious teeth. And Spencer noticed.

He noticed about halfway through the case, when you stopped talking as much, started drinking an influx of water, started discreetly taking pain medication. At first, he thought it was a simple stomach bug, and he knew your stomach didn’t agree with a lot of travel. But then you started getting nervous.

Spencer glanced at you a few times before moving, sitting next to you (attempting to be discreet). He can’t be discreet though, because every time he’s around you, his body does this weird thing where it can’t decide whether it should be instantly calm or instantly more nervous. Your presence stopped his fidgeting hands, his tired thoughts. But god, when he looked at you, it’s like his heart wants to see you for itself.

And right now his heart hurt, why were you scared?

You barely noticed Spencer sit down, usually you would, but your phone was annoyingly blank, silent. You turned it off and on three times, and re-entered the plane’s wifi password five times.

And now your stomach was grumbling, and not in the way that those nice small sandwiches can help out with.

“Are you okay?”

You jumped, taking your earphones out and staring at Spencer surprised. You laughed nervously, quietly, “Spencer! Sorry. Yeah, I’m fine.”

His warm eyes searched yours and for a second you could ignore the tight feeling in your chest. It made you think back around 8 months ago, when Penelope, your childhood best friend and now co-worker, created a pros and cons list for both Lloyd, and… Spencer.

It was unprofessional and inappropriate, especially when you decided to listen because you had nothing better to do. And especially when she started making some good points.

He squinted his eyes, and you sighed.

“Sorry, I’m just a bit antsy. Feeling a bit… off.”

You felt sick, and stressed, and like your thoughts were going to be the cause of your death. Because you’ve never been sick like this. And to your overworked brain, it only meant one thing.

Spencer’s a great profiler. And although the team collectively agreed to not profile each other, it becomes hard for Spencer when the girl he’s in love with is so obviously in distress. Even worse when he can’t be the hero.

“I can leave you to sleep if you want.” He says, getting up to leave.

“Oh, no. That’s okay. Honestly, I think sleeping would just make it worse.”

Ah, right. Travel sickness, Spencer thought. He gaps his mouth slightly and nods. He relaxes into the couch and looks over to you, heart picking up slightly as pieces of hair fell from your loose ponytail.

You looked over to the table he was previously sat at, the book you gifted him last Christmas open and nearly finished. You smiled to yourself, but it was bittersweet.

“You’re actually reading it?” You asked, looking back at him with slight surprise.

“Of course. I’ve read it 6 times already, it’s a great pallet cleanser- Just like you said in that Christmas card!” He smiled childishly, like he was recalling the first snow.

“I know right! It’s so simple but interesting, I mean I’ve only read it three times but to me I always found it to clear my head.”

Spencer angled himself towards you, “Did you know that the author actually interviewed his daughter’s teachers to see what ages teachers were more invested in compared to class sizes? He said in an interview that depending on a students intelligence, there’s an underlying emotional connection made between student and teacher,” he took a breath, “It plays into the intelligence to ego ratio that so many people claim isn’t true. Which I’m not trying to say you have a big ego, or that I do-“

You waved you hands, “Woah, woah. Why would I think you’re talking about me?”

He furrowed his eyebrows, “Well, you’re very intelligent.”

“Oh!… Thanks for thinking I’m intelligent, or smart.” You shrugged, “But I think you insulted yourself. You don’t have a 187 IQ for nothing do you?”

“You remembered my IQ?” He laughed nervously. His smile warms your chest like a candle. Like that candle he got you randomly in April, after you mentioned your favourite one being used up by your boyfriend.

Your boyfriend. Ugh.

You smile falters for only a second, “Of course. You only mention it to every person that second guesses you.”

He nods and smiles, “Must be my ego.”

You laugh, subconsciously bumping your shoulder with his. But- Jesus. Your stomach is queasy.

“Hey, uh, do you want some travel sickness pills?” He reached over for his satchel but you grab his forearm and smile as convincingly as you can.

“No, no. We’re landing soon, but thank you.”

You’re overreacting.

That’s what he said. When you texted your boyfriend of a year and a half that you thought you were pregnant he said, You’re overreacting. Two words, two hours after your first text, on his day off.

Maybe you are. You started feeling sick on a slightly more gory case, it’s lasted ever since the case started, you get travel sick as well.

The headaches are from the computer screen and stress. The stress is from fatigue. The fatigue is because of the lack of sleep. The lack of sleep is because of the headaches.

Why do you always do this? Always thinking that there’s something wrong with you. Always being the biggest person in your own life, selfish.

But… what if?

There’s a sudden squeak from behind you, and you instantly snapped out of it. You took a deep breath and looked at your surroundings. You were at your desk, standing, the strap of your bag clutched in your hands - god, your knuckles were white. Your eyes darted in surprise and confusion, and you jumped once again when Spencer spoke into the silence.

“You okay?”

“Um…”

You didn’t look back at him, only looking down at your shoes and taking a deep breath. You plastered on a smile despite the bile collecting in your throat.

“Yeah! Yeah, I’m fine. I’ve gonna go, the bus leaves at um…”

You took out your phone. He didn’t even respond to your text asking him to pick you up.

“I’ll drive you home. But uh, I gotta pick up some groceries. I hope you don’t mind.”

He curved to your desk and gently took your bag from your hands, glancing at the way you traced your knuckles and how the leather strap now had slight wrinkles in it. He smiled, warmly. And he started walking like you rejecting the idea wasn’t an option.

Which is wasn’t, because he knew you too well.

“Well, a cucumber actually has 3% more water than watermelon. So if you really want a refreshing snack, cucumber is your man.”

You smiled and raised your eyebrows in interest. He’s had many vegetables and fruits in the basket, not a lot of protein. Explained a lot.

My man, you thought with a smile.

My man, you shivered.

“I don’t like cucumbers.” You said like it was distraction, and he nodded, picking up some kewpie mayo as he you around to the next aisle. He glanced at you,

“I know. You say it’s tasteless. I like it.” He shrugged.

“I know.” You smiled, and he smiles back.

God, you wish you could bask in it, the warmth. But your chest was still tingly, and your heart hadn’t stopped aching ever since you got excited about an email notification.

“Hey, are you sure you’re okay? I noticed you’ve been tense for like… a week.” He grabbed some pasta sauce and put his hand on your shoulder to turn you around - you obviously looked too far into your own head.

“Yeah, just feeling-“

“Y/n.” He turned to you, stopping your venture into the dairy aisle. His eyes were hard, worried. The fluorescent lights swayed slightly. A worker walked by the end of the aisle with a trolley full of food.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t,” he lifted one arm, wanting to rest his hand on your upper arm, to help you, “Don’t say sorry. Just tell me what’s going on.”

“I have been feeling sick. That’s true. And I’ve been stressed and, thinking a lot. A lot.”

It felt weird to nearly tell Spencer about your relationship problems. It was like complaining to a doctor about healing crystals. It was like a slap in the face. Maybe that’s why you never did tell him about it, because it was facing your fears.

It was the pros and cons list made by Penelope.

But I’m overreacting.

“It’s nothing.”

Spencer sighed. You had that habit, of nearly opening up, and then shutting the door just as he was about to walk in.

You heard his sigh.

“Okay. I gave Lloyd my car because he has the day off, and he likes going to his friends houses on his days off. And, I told him something that should probably freak him out. But he doesn’t really care. I don’t think he really cares, about anything. At least about me.”

You started walking, because holy shit you’ve never said that out loud before, and Spencer followed you,

“Y/n, if you want to tell me something-“

“I think I’m pregnant.” You stopped, and started picking at your fingers, acting as if it was admitting to not knowing your left and rights, or that you don’t really like coconut.

His eyes widen, and his heart drops. It was like his worst nightmare coming true- jesus, how could he even think about himself right now? The girl he loved felt trapped with a man she thought might be the father of her baby.

Spencer gulped, “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

You looked at each other, scared, you more than him. And then you cringed,

“God, I’m sorry Spencer. I shouldn’t have said anything-“

“No- Y/n, it’s fine. I’m glad you told me-“

“I haven’t even, like, taken a test yet-“

“Wait so-”

You spun on your heel and looked at him exasperated.

“So… let’s go get some tests.” He said (he hopes) calmly. He was really trying, to pretend to be calm and collected. That’s what you needed, a clear head to replace yours.

He paid for everything, even the 5 pregnancy tests and the over sized lollipop you put in the basket to ease your nerves later on.

The moon was high, you were about three hours late to get home now, and your head was attacking itself with rambles and aches and honestly, you were sick of it.

You shivered, huddling in your jacket and drawing only slightly closer to Spencer. His silence was like a hook, drawing you in closer and higher and taking every word you had been thinking that day to the tip of your tongue.

You looked up to him. His hair fell into his eyes, the breeze reddening his cheeks slightly.

It’s Spencer. You’ve known him for nearly 6 years, but it feels like you’ve known each other for ever. You know everything about him, and he knows everything about you. Well, not everything. He doesn’t know how you feel in your own apartment, how every anniversary had been forgotten even when it was the ‘1 year’ mark, how you felt like you were raising an over grown child who could drink.

He knows you’re strong, but admitting all that? I’d look weak.

You have looked weak in front of Spencer. He stayed overnight in your hospital room, he held you when you watched a little girl die, he wiped your tears when you watched a sad short film during your break.

You couldn’t hide anything from him.

“I don’t think I’m pregnant- Well, I mean I might be, but there’s a very low chance,” You started, Spencer’s jaw clenched for a millisecond, “I’ve just been feeling sick and… it could be because of stress from work, or just general stress- like, I don’t know.”

Spencer moved the grocery bag to his other hand.

“Kids are great, don’t get me wrong. Some people don’t get the chance to have kids. I mean…” You gulped, and Spencer finally looked down at you. But now, all you could do was stare at the car park’s concrete floor. Speaking out loud was like clearing your brain, the fog was lifting. “Lloyd doesn’t want kids. I do, at least in the future, not right now. I just hope it’s not with-“ You cut yourself off, and slow down a bit. Spencer matches your pace.

I just hope it’s not with him.

He gulps, and clears his throat, looking down at you with understanding eyes, “With everything that’s going on.”

“Yeah… yeah. You know, my job, my…” It’s no use lying to Spencer. He knows. He’s known, for a long time.

Your chest was tight, and you made eye contact with the pregnancy tests lying on top of Spencer’s groceries. The thought of going home, rushing to the bathroom, avoiding your boyfriend who was already waiting angry, made your throat close up. Because only now, when you were three hours late from work and ignoring his one attempt at a phone call, Lloyd texted, ‘I think you need to calm down.’ It was a bare minimum, and finally Spencer could see you realizing it.

No, ‘Wre you okay?’, ‘What’s making you think this?’ ‘Where are you?’

No. He was making you out to be the crazy one, the one to be over thinking, over bearing, too much.

You were confused. To put it blankly. And scared. And questioning your life decisions. And honestly you just wanted to curl up in a ball and to have Spencer make you bad cucumber salad at his warm apartment.

You looked up to Spencer but he was already looking down at you, reaching for his keys and nodding, “You can come to mine, it’ll be okay.”

taglist (open) - @jeffswh0re @reap3erslov3 @candyd1es @0108s22m @aurorsworld @theoraekenslover @c-losur3 @littlelearningbrat @khxna @laurakirsten0502 @cultish-corner

[ceeaann]

Arcane Highschool!AU 2

characters - vi, caitlyn, jinx, sevika, ekko, jayce and viktor content - 6.1k words, part 1 here, established relationships except for vi's, Star athlete!vi x band!reader, Childhoodbestfriend!caitlyn, New kid!jinx x Class president!reader, Troublemaker!sevika x Tutor!reader, Artist!ekko x Muse!reader, Bestfriend!jayce, and Enemies to lovers!viktor

A/N - lmaoo.. sorry yall for not posting for like a really long time ;-; studied my azz off last week which was def worth it cuz i did so feaking well on that exam hehe. this was lowk rushed bcuz i rlly wanted to post. hope yall enjoy queens (> 3 <)

— Star Athlete!vi and Band!reader

The weeks following that unexpected late-night moment between you two felt different—charged with something new, something unspoken but lingering in the air. It wasn’t just the occasional brush of hands when walking side by side, or the way she’d glance at you across the cafeteria before looking away just a little too fast. It was the warmth in her voice when she teased you, the way she stuck around after practice just to sit beside you while you tuned your instrument.

She never said why she stayed. You never asked.

But you both knew.

It started with one call—past midnight, your phone buzzing against your nightstand.

“I can’t sleep,” she said when you answered, her voice rough with exhaustion.

You could hear the faint sound of cars passing outside, the rustle of her shifting under the covers.

“You’re calling me because you can’t sleep?” you murmured, trying to ignore the way your heart pounded at the thought of her thinking about you this late.

“Yeah,” she admitted. A pause. “Your voice is kinda nice.”

Heat rushed to your face. “Oh.”

“Don’t get a big head about it.”

You smiled, rolling onto your side.

From that night on, the calls became routine. Sometimes she ranted about her coach pushing her too hard. Sometimes you talked about your music, your fingers unconsciously tracing the melodies you’d played that day. Other times, you simply listened to each other breathe, neither willing to hang up first.

one day, she told you about a celebration party her teammates where hosting

She invited you.

“It won’t be the worst thing ever,” she had said, arms crossed as she leaned against your locker. “Just show up for a little bit.”

You’d raised an eyebrow. “Since when did you want me at parties?”

Her lips had twitched, almost like she was fighting back a smirk. “Since I realized you never leave that damn band room. It’s tragic, really.”

So here you were, awkwardly lingering near the kitchen, nursing a half-empty cup of soda while bodies moved and music pulsed around you.

And she? She was in the center of it all—laughing, drinking, surrounded by teammates who treated her like some kind of legend. She belonged here, in the chaos and the noise.

You? Not so much.

You should have left an hour ago, but something held you in place. Maybe it was the way she kept glancing at you between conversations, like she was making sure you were still there. Or maybe it was the warmth in her eyes whenever your gazes met.

Either way, you weren’t leaving just yet.

You had just decided to step outside for some air when you felt a strong hand wrap around your wrist.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

You turned, blinking up at her. She was closer than expected, her usual cocky smirk in place—but there was something else in her expression, something tense.

“Just getting some air,” you replied. “It’s suffocating in here.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Come on.”

Before you could respond, she was leading you out the back door, weaving through the crowd with ease. The cool night air hit you instantly, a sharp contrast to the heat of the party.

You leaned against the railing of the back porch, inhaling deeply. “Finally.”

She chuckled beside you, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her jacket. “Didn’t think you’d actually come tonight.”

You shot her a look. “You asked me to.”

She was quiet for a moment, staring out into the night. Then, in a voice softer than you’d ever heard from her, she said, “Yeah. I did.”

Something about the way she said it sent your heartbeat into a sprint.

You shifted, watching her carefully. “Why?”

She exhaled slowly, running a hand through her hair. “Because I wanted you here.”

Your breath caught.

She turned to face you fully now, her expression serious—no teasing smirk, no sarcastic remark to deflect. Just raw honesty.

“I know I’m not the easiest person to be around,” she started, voice steady but laced with something vulnerable. “I’m stubborn, I’m hot-headed, and I probably piss you off at least twice a day.”

You huffed out a quiet laugh. “At least.”

Her lips quirked up slightly before she continued. “But you… you’re different. You challenge me. You don’t put up with my crap, and somehow, you still—” She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “I don’t know why, but I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Your heart pounded so hard you were sure she could hear it.

“I keep catching myself looking for you in a crowd,” she admitted, shifting her weight like she was forcing herself to stay still. “I wait outside your rehearsals, even when I could’ve left. I call you at night because your voice is the only thing that makes me feel like the world isn’t spinning too fast.”

She took a shaky breath.

“I like you.”

The words hung between you, thick with weight, with meaning.

“I don’t just like you, actually,” she corrected, her voice barely above a whisper now. “I—I think I’m falling for you.”

You stared at her, stunned, unable to form words.

Her fingers flexed at her sides, like she was bracing for rejection. “If that’s weird, or if you don’t feel the same, just—”

You stepped forward before she could finish, reaching for her hand.

She froze as your fingers slid between hers, as you squeezed lightly.

“You idiot,” you murmured, your chest aching with something overwhelming. “I’ve been falling for you this whole time.”

Her eyes widened slightly, like she hadn’t fully considered that possibility.

Then, after a beat, she huffed out a laugh. “God, we’re dumb.”

You grinned. “Yeah. A little bit.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, she looked nervous. “Can I—?”

You didn’t let her finish. Instead, you pulled her down into a kiss.

It wasn’t perfect—she was clumsy, caught off guard, but warm and sure the moment she realized what was happening. One of her hands came up to cup your face, rough and calloused but impossibly gentle.

When you finally pulled away, she was breathless, eyes flickering between yours.

“So,” she murmured, voice lower now. “Does this mean I can start calling you my girlfriend?”

You rolled your eyes, laughing softly. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you like it.”

You sighed dramatically, pretending to think. “Unfortunately.”

She grinned, lacing your fingers together. “Good.”

And as she pulled you back inside—back into the noise and the chaos of the party—it didn’t feel overwhelming anymore.

Not when she was right beside you.

Not when she was yours.

— Childhood Bestfriend!caitlyn

The days that followed felt like something out of a dream. The kind of dream you never wanted to wake up from.

She had been true to her word—she didn’t want to let you go again. Every morning, you’d wake up to a good morning text, and by the afternoon, she’d have already made plans for the two of you, whether it was a quiet café visit, a stroll through the city, or simply lounging in her estate’s massive library, reminiscing about the past between pages of old books.

She had slipped back into your life as if she had never left it.

And yet, there was something new about this—something deeper, sweeter

Like the way she’d always find an excuse to touch you, whether it was resting her head on your shoulder when she was tired, bumping her knee against yours under the table, or absentmindedly playing with your fingers when you sat next to each other.

Or the way she would wait for you. Even when she was drowning in responsibilities, she would insist on having lunch together, texting you just to tell you something random about her day.

Or the way she’d steal your snacks.

Without fail, if you had food, she would somehow find a way to take at least a bite. “Sharing is caring,” she’d say, plucking a fry from your plate before you could react. And if you tried to call her out on it? She’d just smirk, pop whatever she took into her mouth, and say, “You love me, so it doesn’t count as stealing.”

(And you couldn’t even argue. Because she was right.)

Then there were the nights.

Those were your favorite.

She was always busiest during the day, but at night? That was when she really let herself be soft with you.

Like when you’d both curl up on the couch, watching movies that neither of you paid attention to because she was too busy tracing lazy patterns against your arm, or playing with your fingers, or resting her head in your lap with the most peaceful look on her face.

Or the nights when she’d show up at your door unannounced, eyes heavy with exhaustion but still full of warmth as she mumbled, “Just needed to see you.”

You’d let her in without question, and she’d collapse onto your bed with a tired sigh, reaching for you without hesitation. “Come here,” she’d murmur, voice softer than usual, more vulnerable. And when you settled next to her, she’d just hold you, burying her face against your neck, breathing you in like you were the only thing keeping her steady.

Or—your personal favorite—the way she looked at you.

Soft. Fond. Like you were the most precious thing she had ever laid eyes on.

One evening, as you sat curled up on the couch in her study, she nudged you with her foot. “Hey.”

You looked up from your book. “Hmm?”

She grinned. “Let’s make cupcakes.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I want cupcakes,” she repeated matter-of-factly, already standing up and stretching. “And I want to make them with you.”

You laughed, setting your book aside. “Since when do you bake?”

“I don’t,” she admitted, offering a hand to pull you up. “But I’m a fast learner. Come on.”

You sighed but let her drag you to the kitchen. What followed was absolute chaos.

Flour on the counter, sugar accidentally spilled on the floor, a mess of ingredients neither of you fully measured properly. She kept getting distracted, flicking flour at you, grinning mischievously every time you yelped in protest.

At some point, she wrapped her arms around you from behind, resting her chin on your shoulder as you mixed the batter. “I think we make a good team.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s because I’m doing all the work.”

She hummed, tightening her hold on you slightly. “And you do it so well.”

Your cheeks burned. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it.”

You sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately.”

She laughed, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before pulling away. “Okay, okay, let’s get these in the oven before I distract you too much.”

Too late, you thought, but you didn’t say it aloud.

Instead, you watched as she carefully placed the tray in the oven, a proud gleam in her eyes despite the fact that neither of you had any idea if the cookies would even taste good.

It didn’t really matter.

Because moments like this—messy, chaotic, ridiculous moments with her—were worth more than any perfect, scripted day.

And when the cupcakes came out horribly burnt, she just laughed, tossed one to you, and said, “Guess we’ll have to try again tomorrow.”

And honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

— New kid!jinx and Class president!reader

Loving her was like standing in the eye of a storm—unpredictable, consuming, and just a little dangerous.

But you never wanted to be anywhere else.

She was everything you weren’t. But in the same way that she crashed into your life like a hurricane, she had also settled into it, leaving pieces of herself in all the places she had touched.

And now, she was everywhere.

You didn’t even know when it happened, but somewhere between her dragging you into trouble and worming her way into your perfectly structured life, she had become a permanent fixture.

No, more than that.

She had become yours.

Your mornings were different now.

Instead of waking up to your alarm and immediately drowning in responsibilities, you woke up to her texts.

chaos incarnate: WAKE UP chaos incarnate: pres, you better not be ignoring me chaos incarnate: hello?? chaos incarnate: fine. i’m calling you.

And then, not even a second later, your phone would start ringing.

You groaned, answering it without opening your eyes. “You’re the worst.”

“Good morning to you too, babe.”

You sighed, rolling over. “It’s four a.m.”

“Yeah, well, I missed you.”

Your heart stuttered, heat rising to your cheeks.

You hated how easily she did that.

“…We saw each other yesterday.”

“And? That was a whole eight hours ago.”

You groaned again, but this time, you couldn’t fight the smile spreading across your lips.

The entire school knew about you two.

Not because you told anyone, but because she made it impossible not to know.

She’d sling an arm over your shoulder in the halls, leaning in obnoxiously close just to see you flustered.

She’d steal your lunch, even if she had her own, just to make you roll your eyes and huff at her—because, according to her, you looked cute when you were annoyed.

She’d sit in on student council meetings—uninvited—kicking her feet up on the table like she belonged there, just to watch you glare at her.

And if anyone so much as looked at you for too long?

She’d pull you closer, smirking as she draped herself over you and drawled, “Mine.”

You pretended to be exasperated by it all.

You weren’t.

One second, she was smirking at you from across the room, her gaze sharp, teasing, full of something wild you could never quite pin down. The next, she was leaning against your desk, spinning a pen between her fingers as she sighed dramatically about how boring the student council meetings were, just to get a reaction out of you.

And sometimes—when no one else was around—she’d be quiet. Soft. Like a storm that had momentarily calmed, if only for you.

It was confusing. It was frustrating.

But it was also thrilling.

You never knew what she’d do next, but somehow, you always ended up right there with her.

“We’re skipping.”

You blinked up at her from your pile of papers. “What?”

She grinned, already grabbing your wrist, tugging you out of your chair. “I said, we’re skipping. Come on.”

You pulled back instinctively. “I can’t. I have to finish—”

“Boring,” she cut in, rolling her eyes. “You work too much. If you spend one more hour staring at those papers, you’ll turn into one.”

You crossed your arms. “And you get into trouble too much.”

She smirked. “Yeah? And yet, here you are, still standing next to me.”

You sighed, but the fight was already slipping out of you. With her, it always did.

She took advantage of your hesitation, intertwining her fingers with yours, and your heart definitely didn’t just stutter in your chest.

“Come on,” she murmured, giving your hand a squeeze. “Just for a little while?”

And just like that, you were done for.

The two of you ended up on the rooftop, the one place where no one ever checked.

She sat on the ledge, legs swinging slightly, looking up at the sky like she had never seen it before.

For a moment, she was quiet. Contemplative.

Then, without looking at you, she spoke.

“You know, you’re the only person who’s ever stuck around.”

The words were soft, but something about them hit harder than anything she had ever said before.

You swallowed, watching her carefully. “You don’t make it easy.”

She laughed, a little breathless. “No. I don’t.”

Silence settled between you, comfortable in a way you never expected.

Then, before you could think too much about it, you reached out, gently brushing your fingers against hers where they rested on the ledge.

She went completely still.

You hesitated, pulling back slightly, but she caught your hand before you could.

Her grip was tight—like she was afraid you’d disappear if she let go.

“You drive me crazy,” she muttered, shaking her head. “You’re stubborn, and you worry too much, and you never break the rules.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Thanks?”

She huffed, exasperated, before turning to face you fully.

And then—before you could react—she leaned in, pressing a soft, fleeting kiss to your cheek.

Your brain short-circuited.

She pulled back, smirking at your stunned expression, but there was something warm in her eyes, something real.

“You’re mine now,” she declared, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

You opened your mouth—probably to protest, maybe to demand an explanation—but she just squeezed your hand again, tilting her head at you.

“…Unless you don’t want to be.”

You swallowed, heartbeat hammering in your chest.

And then, slowly, you laced your fingers through hers properly, squeezing back.

“…I think I do.”

Her smirk softened into something almost gentle.

“Good,” she murmured.

— Troublemaker!sevika and Tutor!reader

You weren’t sure when this became normal.

When tutoring sessions turned into something more—into lingering glances across textbooks, into stolen moments between classes, into a relationship that neither of you ever really talked about, but both of you knew was real.

It had started with her grumbling about the stupid school system, about how she didn’t need to study when she had “better things to do.” But now? Now, she was here—on time, every time, sitting across from you with a scowl like she hadn’t just walked across campus grinning at you like an idiot when she thought no one was looking.

She had changed.

Or maybe she hadn’t, and you were just seeing her differently now.

Either way, she was yours.

And that was enough.

“You’re staring.”

You blinked, realizing that, yes, you were staring, and, yes, she was very much aware of it.

“I’m not,” you lied.

She smirked. “Yeah? Then why haven’t you flipped the page in five minutes?”

You opened your mouth, then shut it.

Damn it.

She leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm, her eyes glinting with amusement. “Didn’t take you for the distracted type, tutor.”

You sighed, closing the book. “Maybe if you actually studied, I wouldn’t have to get distracted.”

She scoffed, leaning back. “I do study.”

You gave her a look.

“Okay, fine,” she huffed. “I study when you make me.”

“Exactly.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue.

Instead, she tilted her head, watching you in that way that always made your stomach do something weird.

“Why do you even put up with me?” she asked.

The question caught you off guard.

Not because you didn’t have an answer, but because she sounded genuinely curious.

Like she didn’t understand why you were still here.

Like she didn’t realize how easy it was to love her.

You frowned. “Because I want to.”

She stared at you for a moment, something unreadable flickering in her expression.

Then, suddenly, she reached across the table, grabbing your hand.

It wasn’t gentle.

It never was with her.

But her grip was warm, steady, real.

“…Good,” she muttered, squeezing your fingers once before pulling away. “You’re stuck with me, anyway.”

You smiled. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Dating her meant learning to navigate her world.

The world of bruised knuckles and reckless grins, of sharp words and sharper instincts, of someone who had spent so long fighting that she didn’t know how to stop.

You didn’t mind.

She never hurt you—not really.

But sometimes, she’d show up to your study sessions with a fresh cut on her cheek, or a bandage wrapped around her hand, or a bruise blooming on her jaw, and every time, you’d sigh, pulling out your first aid kit without saying a word.

She hated it.

“You don’t have to—”

“I do.”

She huffed but didn’t pull away, letting you press a cotton pad to her cheek, wincing when the antiseptic stung.

“Idiot,” you muttered, brushing your thumb over her skin after you were done.

She smirked. “You love me.”

You didn’t argue.

Instead, you leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the uninjured side of her face.

She tensed for half a second before melting into it, her fingers curling around your wrist, holding you in place like she never wanted you to leave.

“…Yeah,” you murmured. “I do.”

There were other parts of her world, too.

Parts that had nothing to do with fights or scraped knuckles.

Like how she always walked you home, no matter how many times you told her she didn’t need to.

Or how she’d steal your pens just to hear you complain about it, only to return them later with a smug grin.

Or how she’d grumble about studying, but when you fell asleep next to her, she’d pull a blanket over you without saying a word.

Or how she’d stay, even when she didn’t have to.

She wasn’t the best with words.

But she didn’t need to be.

Not when she loved you like this.

“Hey,” she called one day, leaning against your locker.

You raised a brow. “What?”

She didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, she shifted, suddenly looking a little… awkward.

Which was weird, because she was never awkward.

You frowned. “Are you—”

“I got you something,” she blurted out.

You blinked. “You what?”

She huffed, shoving something into your hands.

It was… a necklace. Simple, understated. Something you would actually wear.

You stared at it, then at her.

“…Why?”

She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. “Because I wanted to.”

You looked down at it again, running your fingers over the chain.

It was nice.

And it was from her.

Your heart did that weird thing again.

“…Put it on me?” you asked softly, handing it back.

She blinked, like she hadn’t expected that, before scoffing. “You really like making me do things, don’t you?”

You smiled. “Yes.”

She muttered something under her breath but moved behind you, fastening the clasp.

Her fingers brushed against your skin, and you shivered.

“…There,” she murmured.

You turned back to her, letting her see the way you were smiling. “Thank you.”

She shrugged, but her ears were red.

You grinned.

Then, impulsively, you reached up, cupping her face in your hands before pressing a kiss to the tip of her nose.

She froze.

“…You absolute menace,” she muttered after a second, her voice half-choked.

You laughed. “You love me.”

She groaned. “I hate you.”

But the way she grabbed your hand, lacing your fingers together as she pulled you down the hall?

That told a very different story.

— Artist!ekko and Muse!reader

The world felt different when he painted you.

Maybe it was the way his eyes softened as they traced your features, the way his lips quirked up ever so slightly in that absentminded, faraway smile. Or maybe it was the way he became so completely immersed in the moment, like nothing else existed except you, him, and the quiet hum of creation between you.

You weren’t sure when it had started—when you had become his muse, when his hands had memorized the slopes and curves of your expression more intimately than you ever could. But at some point, it became normal to sit in his studio, to let him paint you while the sun spilled golden light across the room.

At some point, it became home.

"Stay still," he murmured, his voice soft but firm.

You huffed but obeyed, shifting just slightly to get comfortable. “You know, I’m starting to think you just tell me that so I don’t walk away.”

He smirked without looking up. “Would it work?”

You rolled your eyes. “Obviously.”

He chuckled, dipping his brush into a fresh stroke of color. "Then I don’t see the problem."

You watched him work, watched the way his fingers moved with practiced precision, his brow furrowing in deep focus.

It was so like him—to get completely lost in his art, in the way he captured emotions in strokes of paint. You weren’t even sure he realized how much he gave away when he worked. The quiet admiration, the unwavering patience, the unspoken tenderness in the way he committed you to canvas.

The thought made warmth curl in your chest.

He loved you.

Even in the moments when he didn’t say it outright, you felt it.

“…You’re staring,” he noted after a moment, amusement dancing in his tone.

You smirked. "So?"

"So," he mused, dabbing a final stroke onto the canvas before finally looking at you, "stay still."

You scoffed but didn’t argue.

His gaze lingered, studying you like he was committing every detail to memory.

Then, suddenly, he set the brush down, wiping his hands on a cloth before standing up and making his way toward you.

Your brows furrowed. "Are we done?"

He hummed, stopping right in front of you. "Almost."

Before you could question him, he reached out, gently swiping his thumb across your cheek.

You blinked.

“…Did you just wipe paint on me?”

His lips twitched. "Maybe."

Your jaw dropped. "You menace—"

He laughed, grabbing your hands before you could retaliate. "It’s barely anything!"

"You smudged me!"

"You’ll live."

You gasped dramatically. “I can feel it on my face—”

"Would you like me to fix it?"

You squinted at him, suspicious. "How?"

He smiled. "Like this."

And then, before you could react, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your cheek, right where the paint had been.

You froze.

Your heart stumbled over itself, warmth blooming beneath your skin.

"...That doesn’t count as fixing it," you mumbled, embarrassed by how breathless you sounded.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his smile soft, fond.

"I disagree."

Loving him meant understanding the way he saw the world.

The way his hands itched to create, to turn fleeting emotions into something tangible.

The way he’d go silent for long stretches, caught up in his own thoughts, before suddenly dragging you into his latest project with that spark of inspiration in his eyes.

The way he loved you—not just with words, but in the way he painted you, over and over again, like he was trying to keep you forever.

And maybe, in his own way, he was.

One night, long after the city had gone quiet, you found yourself back in his studio, curled up on the couch while he worked.

You weren’t posing this time.

You were just there, watching as he sketched in his notebook, his focus unwavering even as the hours slipped by.

“…Do you ever get tired of painting me?” you asked suddenly.

He paused, looking up at you.

Then, without hesitation—"Never."

You stared at him. “You say that like it’s obvious.”

"It is obvious," he said simply, setting his notebook aside as he moved toward you.

You let him sit beside you, watching as he reached for your hand, tracing absentminded patterns along your fingers.

“…There are infinite things in the world to paint,” he murmured, his touch feather-light, reverent. “Landscapes, emotions, stories… But you?” He lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles. "You are my favorite."

Your breath caught.

You weren’t used to this—to his quiet, devastating sincerity.

He didn’t always say how he felt outright. He spoke in colors, in soft touches, in lingering glances over paint-stained canvases.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

“…You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, feeling your face grow warm.

He smirked. “And you love me for it.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t deny it.

Instead, you tugged him closer, resting your forehead against his.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

You just existed—wrapped in warmth, in paint-stained fingertips and whispered affections between the silence.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

— Bestfriend!jayce

There were moments where you still couldn’t believe this was real.

That after years of laughter, inside jokes, stolen hoodies, and whispered dreams of the future, you had ended up here—curled up next to him, his arm lazily draped around you, as if this had been inevitable from the very start.

In a way, maybe it was.

Loving him never felt like a sudden thing, never like some grand revelation that struck you out of nowhere. It had crept in slowly, weaving itself between every late-night conversation, every lingering glance, every touch that lasted just a little longer than it needed to.

And now? Now it was second nature.

He was yours.

And you were his.

“You’re doing that thing again.”

You blinked. “What thing?”

He smirked without looking up from his book. “The thing where you stare at me like I put the stars in the sky.”

You scoffed, shoving him playfully. “Get over yourself.”

He chuckled, finally turning his attention toward you. “Not denying it, though.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth creeping up your neck betrayed you. “Maybe I was just zoning out.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Or judging you.”

“Doubt it.”

You sighed, dramatic. “God, dating you is exhausting.”

“Right?” he teased. “Can’t believe you fell for me.”

“Yeah,” you muttered. “Can’t believe I did, either.”

His expression softened at that, his teasing smile melting into something fonder.

Then, suddenly, he reached out, brushing a stray piece of hair from your face before letting his fingers trail down, tracing the curve of your jaw.

“…Lucky me,” he murmured.

Your breath caught.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

You just sat there, the warmth of his touch seeping into your skin, your heart stumbling over itself at the way he was looking at you.

Like you were something rare.

Like he had been waiting his whole life for you.

“…You’re such a sap,” you whispered.

His lips twitched. “Only for you.”

The thing about dating your best friend was that nothing really changed.

Not in the way you expected, at least.

There were still late-night fast food runs, still study sessions that turned into existential conversations, still a constant presence at your side whenever you needed him (and even when you didn’t).

But there were differences, too.

Like how he held your hand without hesitation now, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Or how he hugged you longer, pressing his face into your shoulder like he needed to be close to you.

Or how he kissed your forehead absentmindedly whenever you did something that made him proud, as if he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

Or how he whispered, "Love you," so casually, like he had always been saying it.

Like he always would.

“Okay, real talk,” he said one night, sprawled across your bed like he owned it.

You hummed, flipping a page in your book. “Mm?”

“If we weren’t dating, would you still have a crush on me?”

You blinked, giving him an unimpressed look. “What kind of question is that?”

“A valid one.”

You sighed, setting your book down. “We are dating.”

“But if we weren’t,” he pressed, propping himself up on his elbows. “Would you still be into me?”

You narrowed your eyes. “What kind of answer are you looking for?”

“The truth.”

You stared at him, trying to figure out what he was really asking.

Then, with a smirk, you shrugged. “Dunno. You’re kinda annoying.”

He gasped. “Rude.”

“But,” you continued, reaching over to poke his cheek, “I’d probably be in love with you anyway.”

He grinned. “Knew it.”

You rolled your eyes. “Shut up.”

“Hopelessly in love.”

You groaned. “Why do I even like you?”

He laughed, grabbing your hand and lacing your fingers together.

“…Because we were always meant to end up here.”

Your breath hitched.

The words were simple, said so casually, but they settled deep in your chest, spreading warmth through your entire being.

Because he was right.

Every moment, every choice, every little thing that led to this—it had always been leading you here.

To him.

To this.

To something more than forever.

— Enemies to lovers!viktor and reader

It still surprised you sometimes—how things had changed.

How the cold rivalry that once existed between you had melted into something warm, something constant, something that made your chest tighten in the best way whenever you so much as thought about it.

About him.

Once upon a time, you and him had been at odds with each other, a battle of sharp words and stubborn ideals. He was relentless, fiercely determined, a mind constantly working ten steps ahead. And you—well, you were the opposite. Passionate, chaotic, diving headfirst into the unknown with little concern for anything but discovery.

But now?

Now he was yours.

And God, you loved him.

“Stop working,” you whined, dramatically flopping onto his desk.

He barely spared you a glance, eyes still locked onto the notebook in front of him. “Can’t.”

“You always say that,” you huffed, watching as he furiously jotted down another equation, his pen moving like it had a will of its own.

“Because it’s always true,” he shot back, voice carrying that familiar unwavering certainty.

You rolled your eyes. “Five-minute break.”

“No.”

“Two minutes?”

“No.”

You sighed, tilting your head at him. “What could possibly be so important that you can’t take two minutes to—” You peered at his notes and blinked. “Wait. Is this…” You trailed off, recognizing the layout of a physics equation, the bold scrawl of hypotheses scattered between calculations.

He finally glanced at you, the sharp glint of his focus not dulled in the slightest. “I had a thought earlier and needed to get it down.”

You stared at him. “You had a thought so urgent that you couldn’t even pause for two seconds?”

“Yes.”

You exhaled, shaking your head. “You’re crazy”

“And you’re distracting.”

“You love me, though.”

A flicker of something softened his expression. He didn’t answer immediately, just studied you with those impossibly sharp eyes, the ones that always seemed to be unraveling the mysteries of the universe—except, in that moment, they were solely on you.

“Yeah,” he murmured eventually, the intensity of it making your breath catch. “I do.”

It was rare, hearing it outright like that. He wasn’t one for grand proclamations, but when he did speak—when he let himself be honest—it always hit you like a tidal wave.

You swallowed, warmth pooling in your chest. “Then take a break.”

He sighed, exasperated but amused. Then, to your utter delight, he set his pen down.

“Two minutes,” he relented.

You grinned, holding out your arms. “Hug me.”

He stared. “…Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

For a moment, he just looked at you, like he was analyzing the request for its deeper meaning. Then, without another word, he leaned forward and pulled you against him.

You melted instantly, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. His arms were strong, steady—the kind of embrace that felt unshakable, like he would hold the entire world together if it meant keeping you safe.

“…Better?” he murmured.

You nodded against him. “Much.”

His fingers lingered at your back, just the faintest trace of hesitation before he fully gave in, relaxing into the embrace.

And neither of you let go.

Dating him had been an adjustment.

He wasn’t the kind to wear his emotions on his sleeve. He was driven, always looking forward, always chasing after the next big thing. His brain never stopped, his heart never wavered, his ambition burning like an unstoppable fire.

Which meant he showed affection in his own way.

Like the way he never actually said I love you, but instead muttered things like, don’t forget to eat or stay inside, it’s cold.

Like the way he pretended to be annoyed when you interrupted his work, only to immediately pull you back when you tried to leave.

Like the way he sighed every time you teased him, only to let you lace your fingers with his under desks, his grip never faltering.

And the thing was?

You wouldn’t trade it for anything.

One evening, you were in the library together, him completely immersed in his research while you doodled aimlessly in your notebook.

The silence was comfortable, the kind that had become second nature between you.

Then, suddenly—

“…You make me reckless.”

You blinked. “Uh. Excuse me?”

He didn’t look up, his fingers tapping idly against the table. “You make me reckless,” he repeated, almost contemplative. “It’s irritating.”

You squinted at him. “Are you… saying you love me?”

He hummed. “Statistically, it would be hard to deny.”

Your heart stumbled over itself. “Oh my God.”

He finally looked up, arching a brow. “What?”

“You just confessed your love for me like it was a scientific fact.”

“…And?”

You let out a laugh, completely endeared. “You’re unbelievable.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t look annoyed. If anything, there was something fond in the way he regarded you, something soft in the way he reached out, tapping his fingers against your wrist.

“…You already knew,” he murmured.

It wasn’t a question.

Because of course you knew.

You had known for a long time now.

But hearing it—even in his own, methodical way—still sent warmth flooding through your entire being.

You smiled.

“Yeah,” you whispered, reaching for his hand, lacing your fingers together. “I did.”

And if he squeezed your hand just a little tighter?

Well.

You didn’t mention it.

[08crll]

🎨💐 246; GYEONG-SEOK HEADCANONS.

sfw & nsfw! <3

desc: 1.9k words. i NEED this man, i wish he was real. an angel loses its wings everytime this man gets written ooc 💔 so hopefully this one is in character.

sfw. gender-neutral!reader.

★ this man LOOOOVES cuddles. look at him. it doesn’t matter if you prefer being the big spoon or the Iittle spoon一he just wants to feel you close to him before he sleeps and when he wakes up.

★ he's probably a little touch starved too. but he would never say it, not because he doesn’t want to appear weak or anything, he just doesn’t want to scare you away.

★ if u were to ask him what his love language was, he’d say it was quality time or acts of service but, really, that’s only what be wants to provide that for his partner. what he really want is physical touchh:( and words of affirmation!!

★ crafty guy. he would make u cards, letters and those paper origami flowers. it doesn't even have to be on special occasions, sometimes you just come home from your work and he surprises you with a new paper craft he discovered. made out of anything he could recycle. be it a receipt, a paper bag, newspaper.

★ very touchy. but not in a bad way. always asking if you're okay with it.

★ this man probably gets all flushed and shy when you call him handsome.

call him your good looking boy and he already has that sweet smile you always loved to see. burying his face on your shoulder as you run your fingers through his hair.

“what’s with all your sweet words?” his voice muffled by your shirt. you couldn’t help but chuckle.

“can i not call you handsome?”

“aahh.. quit it,” he rolled his eyes, pushing you down the couch and peppering your face with kisses.

★ loves hugging you from behind, especially when you cook or you’re at the grocery store. you’d be looking at the list of things you needed to restock on while he pushed the cart not too far behind you.

was it powder or liquid detergent? you thought to yourself, pulling out the list from the back pocket of your pants. then, out of nowhere do you feel arms around your waist, warm hands settling on your hips. “where's our cart?” you murmured with a smile. gosh, you were just starting to freeze under the cold air conditioner of this damn store.

“its fine. ‘just right behind us,” gyeong-seok reassures you as he rests his chin on your shoulder. he really couldn’t care less if people stare. he wants them to see how much he loves you. “is this okay..?” he whispered, his breath tickling your jaw.

you just chuckle, not bothering to give him a verbal response. instead, you lean back into his touch. your back pressed against his chest. his lips curled into a sheepish smile, pulling his head up to place a soft kiss on that sensitive spot of your neck.

★ definitely has multiple drawings and doodles of you in his sketchpad. never shows you because he’s afraid you might think he’s being a bit much.

★ musician!reader & him? perfect pair. art recognises art! when he hears you playing your instrument in a different room, he immediately drops whatever he’s doing and carefully walks to where you were to watch you do your stuff. if na-yeon is home, he’d definitely bring her with him.

★ always has his eyes on you even during times when he probably shouldn’t, like when the two of you are having a conversation with na-yeon’s teacher about how well she’s been doing in her classes. or when you were having dinner with your parents. you were explaining how you met him and he just admires you like he’s looking at you for the very first time.

★ adding onto the previous one, because of how often he just stares at you; you often mistook this as him spacing out and not listening but he actually was listening to every single word you said. your voice sounded like heaven to him, how could he not? when you ask him to recite what you just said, you were surprised to see how he got it right, word for word.

★ definitely the type to go out of his way to do something because he thinks you’d like it. during one of your library dates, he catches you picking up a book about poetry, complimenting the work inside and how beautiful people write when they’re in love. after that day, he definitely went home and wrote multiple poem drafts about you.

★ speaking of dates!! this man would be the type to apologise to you because he can’t take you to those fancy restaurants. you had to remind him multiple times that eating at fine dinings wasn’t really your thing anyway, that it made you self-conscious to be around such fancy people. he frowned, thinking you were just saying that so he’d stop apologising and you knew just how to cure that.

“you know.. i always did have a soft spot for library dates.”

his face lit up and ever since then, he never forgets to take you on your weekly library dates. it was a good place to unwind as well. killing one bird with two stones; spending quality time with you knowing that you actually enjoy being here, and being able to have some peace and quiet.

★ the protective and worried type!! always texting “are you home?” after dropping you off at your place. “are you tired? do you want to sleep?” as much as he’d love to text you up until the early morning even if it meant he had no sleep when he got to work tomorrow, he doesn’t want you to be sleep deprived.

★ i’ve seen other ppl say this and i just can’t get it out of my head; he’s probably insecure about himself whenever you introduce him to your friends and your family :(

when you invite him to attend a dinner party, telling him it was just a get together with some old friends from your hometown, he misheard you.

“you should definitely go! i know how much you miss your friends,” he beamed, giving you a thumbs up.

you furrowed your brows. “honey.. wait, no, i want you to come with me, yeah?”

he looks at you confused. you want to bring him with you? for what? he was never the type to be jealous of you attending events by yourself. maybe it was because he trusted you or maybe because he didn’t want to hold you back. he knew you to be too good for him. a single father, struggling to make ends meet and provide for his sickly daughter—it wouldn’t be much of a shock to him if you ghosted him out of nowhere or if you leave him for another person. please give this man some reassurance!!! :(

★ always wakes up before you in the morning. his fingers trailing across your face while he admires the way the sun shines behind you making it look like you were glowing. he really doesn’t know what he did to deserve you, but my god, did he consider himself the luckiest man alive for that reason.

★ loves it when you cup his face with both your hands. he’ll have the biggest and silliest smile on his face when you do so.

nsfw! gender-neutral & fem!reader.

★ a soft dom, but would gladly be submissive if you asked.

★ as we already know, he’s a very good listener, even in bed. he’s always listening to the way you moan, the sound of your whine, the pitch. does flicking his tongue feel good? he’d ask but he had a feeling that the sound of you already gave him the answer.

★ probably would prefer to be intimate in comfortable spaces. although he would never object if you offered to give him a quickie, each time he’d remind you of how you never needed to do this. that he’d take care of it himself.

“you don’t have to. it’ll go away. i can—”

“i want to. please?”

how could he say no to those eyes?

★ prioritizes your comfort above anything else, above his own. if you were in an awkward place, but you really needed to get off—needed him—he would hold your hand firmly. “i’ll take you home, come on,” he’d say as he pulls you next to him.

★ loooves having you ride him, but he worries that it’ll tire you out too much

★ when your face gets sweaty, hair clinging to your forehead with your mouth open, he makes sure to brush your hair back with his fingers. he wants to see your flushed and fucked out face clearly, wants to see if he’s doing good

★ always preps you beforehand. he can’t stand the thought of hurting you, even IF you’ve done it countless times before.

reaching for the zipper of his jeans as he gently swats your hand away. “i need to prep you first, honey..” he cooed, pulling your pants down. he knows how eager you are, but he needs to take care of you first.

★ the only times he wouldn’t prep you would probably be when he’d be the sub. you ordering him around, telling him what to do and what not to do

★ subtle touches doesn’t get him turned on right away (he’s more mature than that. he’s not a pervert) this probably also means that he’s a little oblivious to your advances, you’d have to tell him directly what you needed or wanted of him and watch as his eyes widen, looking around to see if na-yeon heard the two of you. “honey.. are you sure?”

★ there would be times when you’d show off your skin and instead of him getting aroused, he’d just be in awe of your beauty. i mean, he probably IS aroused but he just doesn’t go insane over it.

★ breeding kink, FOR SURE, but he always asks first.

“can i come in you, baby? please?”

“i’m so close.. ‘so close..”

“pleaseee...” paired by him whispering sweet nothings in your ear.

★ doesn’t like BDSM. i mean, he’s a father now. also hates the thought of hurting you purposefully. he’d also probably never say it, but he doesn’t like getting degraded as well :( just give this man some praises, he’s already sad enough as is!

★ saw ppl saying he has a daddy kink and im just like nooooo 💔💔 he has a daughter that literally calls him daddy, why would he ever want you to call him that in the bedroom?

★ his rhythm would be slow and gentle, wanting to feel all of you and be with you in the moment. you would have to beg this man to go faster

★ the type to hold your hair back during blowjobs. he’d probably accidentally pull on it when you flick your tongue over his tip, but apologies would quickly come spilling out of his lips.

“‘m sorry.. sorry, honey.. i didn’t mean to.. fuck, that felt good..”

★ always reminding you of how beautiful you are while his cock is buried deep inside you.

“you’re so beautiful like this.. taking me in so well..”

“yes, that’s it.. c’mon.. you’re so pretty..”

★ he makes sure you come before he does, and when he does come (whether it’s in you or on you) he takes a minute afterwards to take a breath while you feel his cock still half-hard inside you.

“i love you so much.”

“you did so good f’me..”

★ aftercare king 🫡🫡

a/n: there are literally no fics of him (x reader) on ao3 so i have turned to tumblr bc tumblr RARELY disappoints when it comes to content for side characters 🙏

[pinkmoontaco]

Melodies of Us || Lee Jihoon

Pairing: Producer-Idol Woozi x Pianist Reader Genre: Fluff, Idol romance, Childhood crush Summary: 'Melodies of Us' follows Woozi, a seventeen member, a music producer, and Y/N, a pianist, as they reconnect after years apart. Despite facing public scrutiny and the pressures of fame, their love grows stronger. After a brief separation to navigate the challenges of their careers, they reunite, learning to trust and support each other through the highs and lows, with music always being the backdrop of their shared journey. Authors note: Hi everyone! I’ve poured my heart into writing this story, inspired by the Woozi video one of you recommended. Your love and support mean the world to me, so please give it a lot of love and share your thoughts in the comments. Your feedback truly inspires me to keep creating and improving. I’d love to know what you think and hear your favorite moments from the story! Love you guys!!!

Shoutout to @am-injel for recommending the video

If you have any requests for any member or any other groups feel free to do so

The small music room at the edge of the middle school was a hidden corner where Jihoon often escaped. It wasn’t because he was shy—though he wasn’t the loudest kid in the class—but because he liked the calmness. Playing the piano, even just practicing scales, was his way of unwinding.

One afternoon, as he pushed the door open, he paused. Someone was already there.

It was Y/N.

She sat on the wobbly piano bench, poking at the keys in a rhythm that sounded more like an experiment than a song. Her uniform sleeves were rolled up, her bag on the floor, and her focus entirely on the instrument. Jihoon recognized her immediately—she was a year ahead, a popular "noona" everyone seemed to know.

“Noona?” Jihoon said hesitantly.

Y/N turned, surprised. “Oh! I didn’t know anyone else came here.”

Y/N tilted her head, “You know, I’ve seen you around. You’re Jihoon, right? The guy who’s always with his guitar.”

He nodded, surprised she even remembered his name. “Yeah… That’s me.”

Jihoon hesitated. “It’s usually empty.” He stepped inside, looking at her curiously. “Do you play?”

“Not really,” Y/N admitted with a small laugh. “I just wanted to try it. But…” She pressed a few keys randomly. “I don’t think I’m any good.”

Jihoon moved closer, his fingers twitching with the urge to correct her posture. “You’re pressing too hard,” he said. “Here.”

Without waiting for permission, he leaned down slightly, guiding her fingers to the correct placement. Y/N followed his instruction, her brow furrowed in concentration.

“Like this?” she asked.

Jihoon nodded. “Yeah, noona. That’s better.”

She grinned at him. “You’re good at this, Jihoon. Do you come here often?”

“Almost every day,” he said quietly, still a bit shy under her bright gaze.

“Then maybe you can teach me?” she asked, her voice teasing but warm.

He blinked, caught off guard. “Uh... if you want.”

A few weeks later, Jihoon was standing on the baseball field, glove in hand.

Jihoon caught a glimpse of Y/N standing near the sidelines. She wasn’t supposed to be there—it was a middle school practice, after all—but she was watching him, waving with a wide smile.

“Noona’s here?” Jihoon muttered under his breath, feeling his heart skip a beat.

“Let’s go, Jihoon!” Y/N called, cupping her hands around her mouth. “Show them what you’ve got!”

The teasing tone in her voice made him blush, with her watching, he couldn’t afford to mess up.

The game was intense, and Jihoon did his best to focus, blocking out the awkward feeling of Y/N watching him. He managed to catch the ball each time, despite his initial hesitation.

When practice ended, Jihoon walked over to her, brushing dirt off his uniform. “What are you doing here, noona?”

“I was curious,” she said with a shrug. “And I wanted to see you play.”

“Me?” Jihoon asked, surprised.

“Well, yeah. I didn’t know you were this good at baseball too.” Her grin was wide and sincere.

Jihoon scratched the back of his neck, feeling warmth creep up his face. “I’m not that good...”

“You are,” Y/N said, leaning forward slightly. “You just don’t give yourself enough credit.”

That evening, as Jihoon walked home, he couldn’t stop replaying the sound of her laughter and the way she’d called his name from the sidelines. For a boy who kept most things to himself, her presence was like a bright light in his quiet world.

And though he wouldn’t say it out loud, he hoped Y/N would show up again—at the piano, at the field, or anywhere else he could catch her smile.

A few days after the baseball game, Jihoon returned to the music room after school. He expected the usual silence, but when he opened the door, Y/N was already there. She sat on the piano bench, her fingers lightly brushing the keys, as if she were waiting for him.

“Noona,” Jihoon said, surprised. “You’re here again?”

Y/N looked up, her smile brightening the room. “Of course! I figured my teacher might show up, so I didn’t want to miss the chance to learn.”

Jihoon flushed. “I’m not your teacher…”

“Sure you are,” she teased, patting the bench beside her. “Come on. Show me something new.”

He hesitated before sitting down, careful to leave a bit of space between them. “Did you practice what I showed you last time?”

Y/N nodded enthusiastically, though the sheepish look on her face told him otherwise. “Kind of? But I think I need a lot more practice. You’re way better at this.”

Jihoon chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Okay, noona. Let’s try again.”

As he guided her through the basics, he couldn’t help but notice how close they were. Her laughter filled the room whenever she hit the wrong key, and her determination to get it right made him smile. She wasn’t like anyone he’d met before—confident yet patient, teasing yet kind.

A week later, Y/N showed up at another one of Jihoon’s baseball practices.

“Are you going to be at every game now?” Jihoon asked as he approached her during a water break.

“Maybe,” she said with a playful shrug. “I like watching you play. It’s fun seeing you so focused.”

Jihoon rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at his lips. “Noona, you’re embarrassing me.”

“That’s my job,” Y/N said, grinning.

Jihoon glanced at his teammates, who were watching the interaction with curious smirks. He could already hear the teasing they’d throw at him later, but for some reason, he didn’t mind.

“Fine,” Jihoon said, trying to sound nonchalant. “But don’t cheer too loud next time.”

“No promises,” she replied, sticking out her tongue.

As spring turned into summer, Y/N and Jihoon began spending more time together. She would wait for him after practice, chatting about her day as they walked home. Sometimes, they stopped by the corner store to share ice cream, sitting on the curb as the sun dipped below the horizon.

One evening, after a particularly long practice, Jihoon and Y/N sat on the school steps, watching the sky turn shades of orange and pink.

“Jihoon,” Y/N said suddenly, her voice softer than usual.

“Hmm?” he murmured, resting his chin on his knees.

“Do you ever think about what you want to do when you grow up?”

He thought for a moment. “I don’t know. Maybe something with music. Or baseball. I haven’t really decided.”

She smiled, tilting her head to look at him. “I think you’ll be great at whatever you choose. You’re the kind of person who works hard for what they want.”

Jihoon turned his head, surprised by her words. “You really think so?”

“Of course,” she said, bumping his shoulder lightly with hers. “You’re pretty amazing, Jihoon.”

His face grew warm, and he looked away, unable to meet her gaze. “Thanks, noona.”

As they sat there in the fading light, Jihoon realized something: he didn’t just enjoy spending time with Y/N—he looked forward to it. Her presence made the quiet moments brighter and the loud ones more bearable.

Summer break had arrived, and with it came long, lazy days and the warmth of the sun. Jihoon thought it would mean fewer chances to see Y/N, but she surprised him one morning by showing up at the school baseball field during practice.

“Noona, don’t you have anything better to do?” Jihoon called out as she leaned against the fence, waving at him.

“Nope,” she said cheerfully. “I’m on summer break too, you know. And besides…” She grinned. “You’re the most entertaining thing around here.”

Jihoon shook his head, turning back to the field. He tried to focus on practice, but he could feel her eyes on him the whole time. When the coach finally called for a break, Jihoon jogged over to where she was sitting on the bleachers.

“Did you come all the way here just to watch me?” he asked, catching his breath.

“Maybe,” Y/N teased, holding up a bottle of water. “Here, you look like you need this.”

“Thanks,” Jihoon said, taking it. He hesitated before adding, “You didn’t have to come, though.”

“I wanted to,” she said simply, her tone sincere.

Jihoon didn’t know how to respond to that. He wasn’t used to people going out of their way for him.

Later that week, Y/N invited Jihoon to join her at the park. It was a warm afternoon, and they found a spot under the shade of a large tree. Y/N had brought a picnic blanket and snacks, and Jihoon had brought his baseball glove, just in case.

“Noona, you really don’t get tired of hanging out with me?” Jihoon asked as he tossed a baseball into the air and caught it.

“Nope,” she said, lying on her back and looking up at the sky. “Why? Are you tired of me?”

“No!” Jihoon blurted out, sitting up straighter. “I mean… no, I’m not.”

Y/N laughed, sitting up and leaning her chin on her knees. “You’re fun to be around, Jihoon. Even if you’re quiet.”

“I’m not that fun,” he muttered, looking down at the ball in his hands.

“You don’t see it, do you?” she said, her voice softer now. “You’re hardworking, talented, and you care about the things that matter to you. That’s why I like spending time with you.”

Jihoon’s heart skipped a beat. He glanced at her, her expression warm and sincere, and felt the familiar flutter in his chest.

“Thanks, noona,” he said, his voice almost a whisper.

“Don’t mention it,” she replied, smiling brightly.

As the summer days passed, Jihoon found himself growing more and more comfortable around Y/N. She became a constant presence in his life, showing up to his practices, sharing snacks at the park, and even challenging him to board games at her house.

But one evening, as they sat on the swings at the park, Jihoon couldn’t keep the question inside anymore.

“Noona,” he began, his voice hesitant.

“Yeah?” Y/N replied, gently swaying back and forth.

“Why do you spend so much time with me?” he asked, his eyes fixed on the ground.

She stopped swinging and looked at him, her expression thoughtful. “Because I like being around you, Jihoon. You’re different from everyone else. You’re honest, and you make me feel… calm.”

“Calm?” Jihoon repeated, finally looking up at her.

“Yeah,” she said with a soft laugh. “Like I can just be myself when I’m with you. No pretending, no pressure. Just… me.”

Jihoon didn’t know what to say to that. His chest felt tight, and his hands gripped the chains of the swing a little harder.

“You’re special to me, Jihoon,” Y/N added, her voice gentle.

Jihoon’s breath caught. He wanted to say something back, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he nodded, hoping she could see how much her words meant to him.

That night, as Jihoon lay in bed staring at the ceiling, he thought about Y/N’s smile, her laughter, and the way she made the world feel just a little bit brighter.

For the first time, he let himself admit what he’d been feeling all along.

He liked her.

The news came unexpectedly.

Jihoon had always been good at music and baseball, but he never thought those talents would lead to something bigger. So when a company scout came to his school after hearing about his musical abilities and offered him a chance to audition as a trainee, Jihoon was stunned.

“Seoul?” he repeated, sitting across from his parents at the dinner table. “They want me to move to Seoul?”

His mother nodded, her expression a mix of pride and worry. “It’s a big opportunity, Jihoon. But it’s also a big decision. Are you sure this is what you want?”

Jihoon hesitated. He thought about his small town, his school, his friends. And then, he thought about Y/N.

“I’ll think about it,” he said quietly, retreating to his room.

The next day, Jihoon found himself in the music room after school, nervously tapping his fingers against the piano keys. He had texted Y/N to meet him there, and now he was waiting, unsure of how to tell her.

When Y/N walked in, she immediately noticed his tense posture. “Jihoon, what’s wrong?”

He looked up, his heart sinking at the concern in her eyes. “Noona, I have something to tell you.”

“Okay,” she said, sitting down beside him on the bench. “What is it?”

“I got an offer,” Jihoon said, his voice barely above a whisper. “To go to Seoul. To become a trainee at a company.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. “What? Jihoon, that’s amazing!”

He glanced at her, surprised. “You think so?”

“Of course!” she said, grabbing his hand without thinking. “This is huge, Jihoon. You’re so talented. They’d be lucky to have you.”

“But…” Jihoon hesitated, looking down at their joined hands. “It means I’d have to leave. I wouldn’t be here anymore.”

Y/N’s excitement faltered, and for a moment, there was silence.

“When would you leave?” she asked softly.

“Next month,” he admitted. “If I decide to go.”

Y/N took a deep breath, trying to steady her emotions. “Jihoon, I won’t lie—it’ll be hard not having you here. But this is your dream, isn’t it?”

Jihoon nodded slowly. “I think so. But I don’t want to leave you, noona.”

Her heart ached at his words, but she forced a smile. “Jihoon, you can’t let that stop you. You’re going to do amazing things, and I’ll always be here cheering for you, no matter where you are.”

He looked up at her, his eyes glistening. “Promise?”

“Promise,” she said, holding out her pinky.

Jihoon hesitated before linking his pinky with hers. “I’ll miss you, noona.”

“I’ll miss you too,” she said softly.

The day Jihoon left for Seoul was bittersweet. His parents dropped him off at the train station, and Y/N was there, standing a little apart from the crowd.

Jihoon walked over to her, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “Noona,” he said, his voice cracking slightly.

“Jihoon,” she replied, her smile wavering.

For a moment, they just stood there, neither wanting to say goodbye. Finally, Y/N reached out and pulled him into a hug.

“Work hard,” she whispered. “And don’t forget to eat. You’re terrible at remembering that.”

Jihoon chuckled, though it sounded more like a sob. “I won’t forget.”

She pulled back, her hands resting on his shoulders. “You’re going to be great, Jihoon. I believe in you.”

“Thank you, noona,” he said, his voice steady despite the lump in his throat.

As the train pulled into the station, Jihoon reluctantly let go of her and stepped onto the platform. He turned back one last time, waving as the train doors closed.

Y/N waved back, her smile bright even as tears rolled down her cheeks.

In Seoul, Jihoon threw himself into training. The days were long, the competition fierce, and the pressure overwhelming. But every time he felt like giving up, he thought about Y/N’s smile, her encouragement, and the promise they had made.

He worked harder, knowing she was rooting for him from afar.

Years passed, and Jihoon’s dream of becoming a successful musician became a reality. After years of hard training, countless auditions, and endless performances, he had finally made it. As a member of the group that was taking the world by storm, his name was now known, his face recognized, and his music appreciated.

But despite the fame and the accolades, something was missing.

It had been years since he last saw Y/N. The memory of her smile, the sound of her laughter, and the warmth of her words always lingered in his mind. And so, one cold winter evening, Jihoon made a decision.

He would go back to his hometown, the place where it all began—the place where he had first met Y/N, the place that felt both familiar and distant now.

Jihoon stood in front of his old school, the place where he had once walked the halls as a shy, aspiring student. The building was quieter now, its paint chipped, and the playground that once hosted their after-school games seemed smaller than he remembered. But everything still felt... comforting.

He walked through the gates, a rush of memories flooding his mind. He could almost hear the sound of the baseball hitting the bat, the feel of the piano keys beneath his fingers. And then, he remembered Y/N.

He thought he would find her here, that she might still be in this place, still waiting to see him, just like he had always imagined.

With each step, his heart beat faster, hope rising in his chest. Maybe she was still living in the same neighborhood, or perhaps she had stayed in touch with some of their old friends.

But when he asked around, no one seemed to know where she was.

“I think she moved a while ago,” one of his old classmates said when Jihoon mentioned Y/N. “She went to college in Seoul, and after that, I’m not sure.”

Jihoon’s heart sank. He had hoped, even just for a moment, that he would find her here, in the place where it all started. He wandered around the familiar streets, searching for any trace of her.

But there was nothing.

The next day, Jihoon stood in front of the old piano at his middle school, his fingers lightly brushing the keys. The room was empty now, no longer the sanctuary it once was. It felt so different without Y/N’s presence, without her laughter echoing through the space.

“I thought I would find you here,” Jihoon whispered to no one in particular, his voice lost in the quiet of the room.

He closed his eyes, thinking back to those days when everything was simpler, when Y/N had been the one person who had made him feel like he wasn’t alone in the world.

He never expected fame to come so quickly, or for it to be so isolating. But as he stood in that quiet music room, Jihoon realized something: No matter how much time passed, no matter how many accomplishments he achieved, there was one thing he could never replace.

The feeling of being understood.

The warmth of her presence.

He missed her more than he had ever realized.

The following days were a blur. Jihoon returned to Seoul, unable to shake the emptiness that lingered in his chest. He threw himself into his work, but it was harder than ever to focus. His thoughts kept drifting back to the girl he had left behind—the girl who had believed in him before anyone else had.

He wondered if she still thought about him.

Did she remember their pinky promise?

The thought that maybe she had forgotten him haunted him, but he couldn’t let go of the hope that their paths might cross again one day.

Months later, Jihoon was at a variety show, doing an interview with his members. They were talking about their past, their training days, and their dreams. When it came time for Jihoon to answer a question, the host asked, “Jihoon, you’ve come a long way from your hometown. Is there anyone there you still keep in touch with?”

Jihoon paused, the question catching him off guard. He hadn’t really talked about Y/N in years. His throat tightened as he thought about her.

“I… I had a friend,” he began, his voice soft. “She was someone who really believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. She was always there, even when I didn’t realize it.”

The other members looked at him curiously, but Jihoon didn’t continue. He didn’t need to explain everything. His mind had already drifted back to that quiet music room, the park, the baseball field—every place where Y/N had once been.

He smiled, even though there was a bittersweet ache in his chest. He might not have found her in his hometown, but he knew that no matter where she was now, she would always be a part of who he had become.

Months had passed the group’s schedule was packed, but one evening, Jihoon’s mind was still on the past as he attended a musical performance with Hoshi.

It had been an impromptu decision—Hoshi had mentioned wanting to go see a musical, and Jihoon, needing a break from his usual routine, agreed to tag along. It wasn’t something he had planned on, but he thought a night out might give him a chance to clear his mind.

The theater was elegant, the grand chandelier casting soft light over the crowded room as they found their seats. Jihoon’s thoughts wandered during the first act, but something shifted when the curtain rose for the second.

On stage, bathed in a spotlight, sat a familiar figure—her fingers dancing over the keys of a grand piano. It was a moment of pure magic, the soft music filling the room and touching something deep within Jihoon’s heart. He blinked, certain that his mind was playing tricks on him.

But when she turned slightly, her face illuminated by the stage lights, Jihoon’s heart skipped a beat.

It was Y/N.

He sat there, frozen, his breath catching in his chest. She was performing, and she was incredible. Her fingers moved with such grace, every note she played perfectly in sync with the orchestra behind her. It was clear she had been practicing, honing her skill all these years.

Hoshi nudged him with a grin. “Jihoon, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Jihoon barely heard him. His eyes were locked on Y/N, who was lost in her music, oblivious to the audience. The whole room seemed to fade away, leaving only the sound of the piano and the girl he had once known.

After the performance, Jihoon couldn’t sit still. He had to see her, talk to her, just to know that she was real, that she was still out there, living her dream.

As the crowd began to disperse, Jihoon and Hoshi made their way backstage, where they were told to wait for the performers. Jihoon paced nervously, unsure of what to say. What if Y/N had changed? What if she didn’t remember him?

But when the door opened and Y/N stepped into view, her face lit up with recognition.

“Jihoon?” she asked, her voice soft but filled with disbelief.

Jihoon’s heart thudded in his chest. “Noona… it’s really you.”

Y/N’s eyes searched his face, a small smile slowly forming as she took a step closer. “I didn’t expect to see you here, Jihoon. I thought you were busy with… well, everything you’ve been doing.”

“I… I didn’t expect to see you either,” Jihoon admitted, his voice shaky. “I had no idea you were a pianist in a musical now.”

Y/N laughed, the sound so familiar that it felt like a weight lifting off Jihoon’s shoulders. “I’ve been busy too, you know? After college, I decided to pursue music full-time. This is where I ended up.”

Jihoon smiled, his heart swelling with pride. “You’re amazing, noona. I didn’t know you were this talented.”

Her cheeks flushed a little, and she looked away modestly. “Thanks, Jihoon. But what about you? Look at you now. I saw your performance on TV. You’re incredible. You’ve really made it.”

Jihoon shifted uncomfortably, unsure of how to respond to her praise. “I guess so. But I’ve been thinking about you a lot. About… us.”

Y/N’s smile faded a little as she looked up at him, her expression unreadable. “Jihoon…”

He swallowed, nervous. “I went back to our hometown a while ago, hoping to find you. I kept asking around, but… no one knew where you were. I thought maybe you had moved on, or that I had forgotten you…”

Y/N shook her head, her hand gently reaching for his. “I never forgot you, Jihoon. I always wondered what happened to you. But I guess I just thought you were too busy to even remember me.”

Jihoon’s chest tightened at her words. “Noona, I never forgot you. I could never forget you.”

There was a long pause as they both stood there, the years of silence between them suddenly feeling very heavy. But as Jihoon looked into her eyes, he realized that despite everything that had changed, some things remained the same. The bond they shared, the connection they had, it was still there, still burning bright beneath the surface.

“I was hoping… maybe we could catch up?" Jihoon said.

Y/N smiled warmly, her eyes lighting up. “I’d like that. I’ve missed you, Jihoon.”

Jihoon’s heart raced as he nodded. “I’ve missed you too, noona.”

Over the next few weeks, Jihoon and Y/N reconnected. They spent time reminiscing about their school days, about the late-night talks, the shared dreams, and the small moments that had meant so much.

Y/N told Jihoon about her journey into music, about how she had struggled and worked her way up to become a pianist in the musical. Jihoon shared his own story, about the hardships of being a trainee, the sacrifices he had made, and the loneliness that often came with fame.

Through it all, they never once lost the connection they had.

One evening, after another performance, Jihoon walked Y/N back to her apartment. As they stood outside the door, Jihoon hesitated before speaking.

“Noona…” he began, his voice tentative.

Y/N looked at him, her gaze soft. “What is it, Jihoon?”

“I don’t know what the future holds, but I know this—” He took a deep breath, his heart racing. “I want you to be a part of it. I don’t want to lose you again.”

Y/N’s eyes widened, her heart fluttering in her chest. She smiled, her hand gently resting on his. “You won’t lose me, Jihoon.”

Weeks passed since Jihoon and Y/N reconnected. Their lives had been different since their youth, but some things never changed—the way they talked for hours without getting bored, the way they understood each other without needing to say much. The connection they once shared had only grown stronger, and now that they were both pursuing their dreams, it felt like fate had brought them back together.

One day, Jihoon invited Y/N to visit his studio. It had been a while since they had spent time in private, just the two of them.

Y/N arrived in the afternoon, and as soon as she stepped into the studio, she was greeted by the familiar hum of creativity. There were soundboards, microphones, and instruments everywhere. She could smell the faint scent of coffee in the air and the sound of a few tracks playing softly in the background.

“Wow,” she whispered, looking around in awe. “This is incredible.”

Jihoon grinned, proud of the space he had helped create. “It’s not much, but it’s home. For now, anyway.”

Y/N laughed, sitting down on the leather couch against the wall. “This is amazing, Jihoon. I can see how hard you’ve worked to get here.”

Jihoon sat beside her, his gaze thoughtful. “It’s a lot more work than I ever expected. Some days, it’s easy to forget what I’m even working for.”

Y/N looked at him, her expression soft and understanding. “I get it. It’s hard when your dream becomes your reality, and it feels like you’re just moving from one task to the next. But I know you’re doing this because you love it. I can see that in every note you play, every song you write.”

Jihoon looked at her, the sincerity in her voice touching him more than words could express. “Thanks, noona.”

After a while, Y/N stood up and walked toward the grand piano in the corner of the room. Jihoon had made sure it was a perfect space for creativity, and now, it seemed like the right moment for her to play.

“Do you mind if I play for a bit?” Y/N asked, her voice soft as she approached the piano.

Jihoon shook his head, a smile on his face. “Of course not. This is your space too.”

Y/N sat down at the piano, her fingers hovering over the keys before she began to play a soft, intricate melody. The music filled the room, and Jihoon stood, mesmerized by the way her hands moved across the keys with effortless grace.

The piece she played was familiar to him, one she had often played back when they were younger. He smiled as the sound brought back so many memories—the late nights at their school, playing together and dreaming of the future.

“This one,” Jihoon murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “I remember this.”

Y/N smiled as she finished the piece, her fingers slowly coming to a stop. “You always loved this one. We played it together when we were younger.”

Jihoon nodded, his heart full as he sat beside her. “It feels like no time has passed. Your playing... it’s like you never stopped.”

Y/N’s smile softened, a touch of sadness in her eyes. “I didn’t stop. I just... took a different path. But music is still with me. It always will be.”

Jihoon’s gaze lingered on her, the quiet weight of their shared history filling the space. “I’ve missed hearing you play.”

Y/N chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve missed playing for someone who understands.”

They sat together for a while, talking about the past and sharing their experiences. Y/N told Jihoon about her journey, the challenges of becoming a professional pianist in a competitive world, and how she had found herself in the world of musicals. Jihoon shared his own story, about the years of hard work and struggles as a trainee, the sacrifices he had made to make it this far, and the loneliness that often came with being in the spotlight.

Later, Jihoon decided to show Y/N some of his work. “Do you want to hear some of my recent songs?”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Of course. I’d love to.”

Jihoon sat at the piano, playing the melody of one of the songs he’d written. Y/N listened intently, her fingers tapping the rhythm against her knee.

“You’re really good at this, Jihoon,” Y/N said after the song ended. “You’ve come a long way since we were kids.”

Jihoon smiled, though his thoughts were a bit more complicated. “You were always my inspiration, noona. I don’t think I’d be here if it weren’t for you.”

Y/N’s smile faltered slightly, but she didn’t say anything right away. Instead, she leaned back and looked at Jihoon thoughtfully. “I’m proud of you, Jihoon. You’ve made it, even when things got tough. I’m happy we reconnected. I’ve always wanted the best for you.”

Jihoon’s chest tightened at her words, and he looked at her, his gaze soft. “I’m glad we found each other again.”

The evening eventually came to an end, and Y/N stood to leave, the night air cooling as she prepared to go back to her own busy life.

“Thanks for coming today, noona,” Jihoon said quietly.

Y/N smiled warmly. “Anytime. I’ll always be here when you need me, Jihoon. I’m proud of you, you know?”

Jihoon smiled back, though his heart felt a little heavy. “I’m proud of you too, noona. I’ve missed you.”

As Y/N stepped out into the night, Jihoon stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching her disappear into the distance. He felt a sense of peace settle over him. They were both walking their own paths now, but they had found each other again. And that was all that mattered.

Jihoon couldn’t shake the feeling that their reconnection was only the beginning of something more. Days turned into weeks, and although both of their schedules were packed, they made an effort to keep in touch. Texts, late-night calls, and the occasional lunch break together kept their bond alive.

One afternoon, Jihoon found himself scrolling through his phone, looking at the messages he’d exchanged with Y/N. Her encouragement lingered in his mind, and he realized he hadn’t seen her perform since the day they met again at the musical show.

He texted her on impulse:

Jihoon:

Noona, when’s your next performance?

It didn’t take long for a reply to come through.

Y/N:

This Saturday. It’s a small recital for a local charity event. Why?

Jihoon:

Can I come?

Her response came after a pause, but it was filled with warmth:

Y/N:

Of course. I’d love for you to be there.

Saturday evening, Jihoon arrived at the venue, a cozy yet elegant hall filled with an intimate crowd. He wore a mask and cap to avoid drawing attention, but even so, a few fans recognized him and whispered excitedly. He slipped into a seat near the back, his heart racing slightly as he waited for Y/N to take the stage.

When she finally appeared, Jihoon felt his breath catch. She looked calm and radiant, her confidence shining through as she walked to the grand piano at center stage. She bowed to the audience before sitting down, her fingers poised over the keys.

The music began softly, a gentle, melancholic melody that filled the room. Jihoon could see her expression as she played, completely absorbed in the moment. Her emotions poured into each note, and he couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of admiration for her.

As the final chord echoed through the hall, the audience erupted in applause. Jihoon clapped as well, his hands stinging from the force. He was proud—prouder than words could express.

Jihoon waited for the crowd to disperse before heading backstage. He found Y/N chatting with a few other performers, her smile warm and genuine as she thanked them for their kind words.

When her eyes met Jihoon’s, her face lit up. “Jihoon!”

She excused herself and walked over to him. “You came.”

“Of course,” Jihoon said, his voice soft. “You were amazing, noona. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

Y/N laughed, a hint of embarrassment in her expression. “Thank you. That means a lot coming from you.”

Jihoon hesitated for a moment before pulling out a small bouquet of flowers he had been hiding behind his back. “These are for you. You deserve it.”

Y/N’s eyes widened in surprise. “Jihoon, you didn’t have to…”

“I wanted to,” he interrupted, his voice firm but kind. “You’ve always supported me. It’s my turn now.”

Y/N took the bouquet, her fingers brushing against his. “Thank you,” she said softly. “This really means a lot.”

The following week, Y/N visited Jihoon’s studio again, this time bringing her own sheet music.

“I thought we could try something new,” she said, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “I’ve been working on this piece, and I’d love your input.”

Jihoon raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “You want me to help?”

“You’re a genius when it comes to music,” Y/N replied, her tone playful. “Who better to collaborate with?”

They spent hours in the studio, blending her piano compositions with Jihoon’s production expertise. The room buzzed with creative energy as they worked together, bouncing ideas off each other and experimenting with different sounds.

At one point, Jihoon paused and looked at her. “This feels like old times, doesn’t it?”

Y/N smiled, her hands resting on the piano keys. “It does. I never thought we’d get to do this again.”

Jihoon nodded, his gaze softening. “I’m glad we found our way back to this. Back to each other.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed, and she looked down, her voice barely above a whisper. “Me too.”

As the evening turned into night, Y/N prepared to leave, but before she could step out the door, Jihoon stopped her.

“Noona,” he said, his voice hesitant but determined.

She turned to face him, curiosity in her eyes. “Yes?”

“I know we’ve both been busy, and our lives are complicated, but…” He took a deep breath. “I don’t want to lose touch with you again. Not ever.”

Y/N’s expression softened, and she stepped closer. “You won’t, Jihoon. I promise.”

He smiled, a sense of relief washing over him. “Good. Because having you here, in my life, it feels right.”

Y/N looked at him, her own emotions reflected in her gaze. “It feels right for me too.”

As they stood there, the silence between them spoke louder than words. Their journey had come full circle, and though they didn’t know what the future held, they knew they would face it together.

Hoshi couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. The moment he learned about Jihoon and Y/N reconnecting, he shared the news with the other Seventeen members. The group was thrilled, especially after hearing countless stories about Y/N from Jihoon during their trainee days.

“Wait, is this the Y/N noona?” Seungkwan asked, his eyes wide.

“The one he couldn’t stop talking about?” Vernon added, smirking.

Joshua leaned in, his curiosity piqued. “Jihoon, why didn’t you tell us you met her again?”

Jihoon groaned, sinking into the couch in their dorm. “Because it’s none of your business.”

Hoshi clapped Jihoon on the back, grinning from ear to ear. “Come on, hyung, don’t be like that! We’re practically family. If she’s important to you, she’s important to us.”

Mingyu chimed in, “We have to meet her. No excuses.”

“No,” Jihoon said firmly, shaking his head. “She’s not ready for that kind of chaos.”

“Too bad,” Jeonghan said with a sly smile. “We’re making it happen.”

Jihoon had barely stepped into the studio the next day when he got a text from Hoshi:

Hoshi:

We’re on our way. Don’t freak out.

Jihoon’s heart sank. He immediately called Hoshi, but the call went unanswered. Moments later, a knock sounded at the studio door. Jihoon sighed, bracing himself as he opened it.

Hoshi stood there, grinning, with Y/N by his side. Behind them, half the members were peeking around the corner, trying to stay hidden but failing miserably.

“Hoshi…” Jihoon started, glaring at his friend.

“Surprise!” Hoshi said, pushing the door open wider. “Y/N noona, meet the family!”

Y/N laughed nervously, looking at Jihoon. “I guess I didn’t have a choice in this, huh?”

Jihoon sighed, running a hand through his hair. “No, you didn’t. I didn’t either.”

Once inside, the introductions began. Y/N was polite and warm, but Jihoon couldn’t help but notice her slight nervousness as she met each member.

“Hi, I’m Seungkwan,” Seungkwan said, bowing dramatically. “I’ve heard so much about you. Jihoon hyung used to talk about you all the time.”

“Did not,” Jihoon muttered, earning chuckles from the group.

“Yes, you did!” Hoshi said, grinning. “You told us about how she used to cheer for you at baseball games and play piano for you when you were stressed.”

Y/N smiled at Jihoon. “You talked about me?”

Jihoon’s ears turned red, and he avoided her gaze. “It’s not like that. They’re exaggerating.”

Mingyu stepped forward, towering over both Jihoon and Y/N. “I’m Mingyu. It’s nice to finally meet you. We’ve all been curious about the legendary Y/N noona.”

“Legendary?” Y/N asked, raising an eyebrow.

Joshua chuckled. “In Jihoon’s words, you were his first inspiration.”

Jihoon groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Can we not do this right now?”

Y/N laughed softly, her nervousness easing as she saw Jihoon’s flustered reaction. “It’s okay, Jihoon. I’m flattered.”

The members quickly made themselves comfortable, and before long, the studio was filled with laughter and conversation. Y/N shared stories from her past with Jihoon, which the members eagerly soaked up.

“Wait, you were there for Jihoon’s first baseball game?” Dino asked, leaning forward with interest.

Y/N nodded. “I was. He struck out the first time he played, but by the end of the game, he hit a home run. I’ve never seen him look so proud.”

Jihoon sighed, his face flushed. “Can we not talk about that?”

“Why not?” Jeonghan teased. “It’s a great story!”

As the evening wore on, Y/N found herself growing more comfortable around the members. They were warm, funny, and clearly cared deeply for Jihoon. It made her happy to see him surrounded by people who supported him so wholeheartedly.

When the members finally decided to leave, Hoshi turned to Y/N with a mischievous grin. “Noona, you’re part of the family now. Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

Y/N laughed. “I’ll try not to be.”

After everyone left, the studio felt quieter, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Y/N and Jihoon sat together, the energy from earlier still lingering in the air.

“Sorry about them,” Jihoon said, rubbing the back of his neck. “They’re a bit much.”

“They’re wonderful,” Y/N replied, her voice soft. “It’s clear they care about you a lot. You’re lucky to have them.”

Jihoon looked at her, his gaze thoughtful. “Yeah, I am. But... I’m luckier to have you back in my life.”

Y/N’s cheeks warmed at his words, and she smiled. “I’m lucky too, Jihoon.”

They sat in silence for a while, the unspoken bond between them stronger than ever. Jihoon knew that, no matter what challenges lay ahead, he wouldn’t face them alone.

The weeks after Y/N’s first meeting with the Seventeen members were filled with an easy rhythm of shared time. Jihoon and Y/N grew closer, finding moments between their busy schedules to meet. She was even starting to get used to the members’ playful teasing whenever she visited their dorm or joined them at the studio.

One afternoon, Jihoon invited Y/N to his studio again, but this time, the space was quieter—just the two of them.

“Thanks for making time to come today, noona,” Jihoon said, setting down two cups of coffee on the small table.

Y/N smiled, brushing her fingers lightly over the keys of the studio’s piano. “Of course. You’ve been so busy lately, I thought you might’ve forgotten about me.”

Jihoon sat across from her, his expression earnest. “Never. I just... needed to find the right moment. There’s something I’ve been working on, and I want you to hear it.”

Jihoon walked over to his computer, pulling up a file on his production software. He hesitated for a moment before pressing play.

The room filled with a soft piano melody, layered with strings and gentle percussion. It was a piece unlike anything Y/N had heard from him before—introspective and filled with emotion. As the music played, Y/N felt the weight of each note, as if it was telling a story only Jihoon could share.

When the song ended, Y/N turned to Jihoon, her eyes wide. “Jihoon, that was... beautiful. It felt so personal.”

Jihoon nodded, his gaze fixed on the screen. “It is. I wrote it for someone who means a lot to me.”

Y/N tilted her head, curiosity sparking in her expression. “Who?”

Jihoon turned to face her, his eyes meeting hers. “You.”

Y/N’s breath caught, and for a moment, the room felt still. “Me?” she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jihoon nodded, his expression uncharacteristically vulnerable. “You’ve been such an important part of my life, even when we weren’t in touch. I never stopped thinking about you, noona. Writing this was my way of expressing everything I couldn’t say before.”

Y/N looked at him, her heart full as she absorbed his words. “Jihoon... I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Jihoon said quickly, his cheeks flushing. “I just wanted you to know.”

Y/N smiled, reaching out to place a hand on his. “Thank you. It’s beautiful. And... it means more to me than I can put into words.”

Not long after, Y/N found herself visiting Seventeen’s dorm again, this time at Jihoon’s invitation. The members were ecstatic to see her, greeting her with the same enthusiasm as before.

“Noona!” Hoshi exclaimed, practically bounding toward her. “You’re back!”

“You’re braver than I thought,” Jeonghan teased, smirking. “Coming here willingly.”

Y/N laughed, the warmth of their welcome making her feel at ease. “I couldn’t say no. Jihoon insisted.”

“Hyung, insisting? That’s a first,” Dino joked, earning a playful glare from Jihoon.

As the evening went on, the members bombarded Y/N with questions.

“Did you know Jihoon was this grumpy when he was younger?” Mingyu asked, leaning forward eagerly.

“Was he always this short?” Seungkwan added, causing an uproar of laughter.

Y/N chuckled, glancing at Jihoon, who was now sitting with his arms crossed, clearly unimpressed. “He wasn’t grumpy. He was focused. And for the record, he was taller than most kids his age back then.”

“Thank you,” Jihoon muttered, though the faint smile tugging at his lips betrayed his amusement.

“But,” Y/N added, smirking, “he’s always had that little frown when he’s annoyed. It’s adorable.”

The room erupted in laughter, and Jihoon groaned, hiding his face in his hands. “Why did I even invite you here?”

As the night wound down, Y/N and Jihoon found themselves alone in the kitchen while the rest of the members watched a movie in the living room.

“Did they overwhelm you?” Jihoon asked, handing her a glass of water.

Y/N smiled, leaning against the counter. “Not at all. They’re wonderful, Jihoon. It’s clear how much they care about you.”

Jihoon looked at her, his gaze soft. “They’re like my second family. But... having you here feels different. It feels right.”

Y/N’s cheeks warmed at his words, and she looked down at her glass. “I feel the same way.”

Jihoon hesitated for a moment before stepping closer. “Noona, I know we’re both busy, and I know our lives aren’t simple, but... I want us to figure this out. I want you to be a part of my life, not just as my past, but as my present and future too.”

Y/N looked up at him, her eyes searching his. “Are you sure, Jihoon? This isn’t going to be easy.”

“I’m sure,” Jihoon said, his voice steady. “I’ve never been more sure about anything.”

A small smile spread across Y/N’s lips, and she nodded. “Okay. Let’s figure it out together.”

Jihoon’s heart swelled at her words, and for the first time in a long time, he felt a sense of peace.

It was late in the evening when Jihoon and Y/N found themselves in his studio again. The familiar hum of equipment and the soft glow of the computer screen filled the room. Jihoon had invited her over under the pretense of showing her a new song, but as she sat across from him, engrossed in the notes spread on the piano, his heart raced.

“Noona,” Jihoon said, his voice quieter than usual.

Y/N looked up, tilting her head. “What’s wrong, Jihoon?”

He hesitated, his fingers fidgeting with a pen. “There’s something I need to say. Something I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while.”

Y/N’s expression softened, and she set down the sheet music. “You know you can tell me anything.”

Jihoon took a deep breath, gathering his courage. “I’ve liked you for a long time. Since we were kids, actually. Back then, I didn’t understand it, but now I do. You’ve always been someone special to me, noona.”

Y/N’s eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat. “Jihoon…”

“I know our lives are complicated,” Jihoon continued, his voice steady despite the pounding of his heart. “But I couldn’t keep this to myself anymore. I like you—not as a childhood friend, but as someone I want to be with.”

For a moment, the room was silent except for the faint hum of the equipment. Then, Y/N stood and walked over to him.

“Jihoon,” she said softly, her voice trembling just slightly. “I’ve always cared about you, too. And honestly, I’ve been scared to admit it. But... I like you too.”

Jihoon’s eyes widened, and before he could process her words, she leaned down and kissed him. It was soft and tentative, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still.

When they pulled away, Jihoon’s cheeks were flushed, but he couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at his lips.

“Does this mean you’ll give us a chance?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Y/N nodded, her own smile mirroring his. “Yes, Jihoon. I will.”

It didn’t take long for the news to spread, thanks to Hoshi’s impeccable talent for eavesdropping.

The next morning, Jihoon walked into the dorm’s common room to find all twelve members waiting for him, their faces a mix of curiosity and mischief.

“Hyung!” Seungkwan exclaimed, pointing an accusing finger at him. “You kissed her, didn’t you?”

Jihoon froze mid-step, his ears turning red. “How... How do you know that?”

“Hoshi hyung told us,” Vernon said nonchalantly, smirking.

Jihoon turned to Hoshi, who was grinning from ear to ear. “You couldn’t keep it to yourself, could you?”

“I have no regrets,” Hoshi said, laughing. “This is the best thing to happen in months!”

Jeonghan leaned back on the couch, a sly smile on his face. “So, Jihoon, when are you bringing her over again? We need to congratulate her for putting up with you.”

“Yah!” Jihoon snapped, his embarrassment reaching new heights. “Can you all not make this a big deal?”

“It is a big deal,” Mingyu chimed in. “Our stoic producer hyung has a love life! This is historic.”

Joshua patted Jihoon’s shoulder, his tone more sincere. “We’re happy for you, Jihoon. Really. You deserve this.”

Jihoon sighed, his initial annoyance fading. Despite their teasing, he could see the genuine happiness in their expressions. “Thanks, I guess. But can you all promise not to scare her off the next time she visits?”

“No promises,” Dino said, grinning.

As the members burst into laughter, Jihoon couldn’t help but smile. Their antics might drive him crazy, but deep down, he was grateful to have them by his side.

A week later, Jihoon invited Y/N to the dorm for dinner. Despite his warnings, the members were already on high alert, eager to see her again and, more importantly, to tease Jihoon mercilessly.

“Do you think they’ve kissed again?” Seungkwan whispered loudly as they set the table.

“I bet they have,” Mingyu said with a smirk.

“Ten bucks says Jihoon will get flustered if we even hint at it,” Vernon added, leaning against the counter.

“Guys, focus,” Jeonghan said, though his mischievous grin betrayed his intent. “We need to play this smart.”

Meanwhile, Jihoon and Y/N arrived at the dorm. Jihoon gave her a reassuring look as he opened the door.

“Don’t let them intimidate you,” Jihoon said softly.

Y/N laughed. “I think I can handle it.”

The evening started off relatively tame. The members greeted Y/N warmly, though their excitement was palpable. Over dinner, they chatted about everything from music to childhood stories, most of which involved Jihoon.

“Did you know Jihoon hyung used to eat instant noodles for every meal during trainee days?” Dino said, grinning.

Y/N raised an eyebrow at Jihoon. “Really?”

Jihoon sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why do you all insist on embarrassing me?”

“It’s our duty,” Hoshi said, laughing.

As the meal continued, the members kept sneaking glances at Jihoon and Y/N, exchanging knowing looks whenever the two shared a private smile or laugh.

After dinner, Y/N and Jihoon retreated to the balcony for a moment of peace. The evening air was cool, and the city lights twinkled in the distance.

“This is nice,” Y/N said, leaning on the railing.

Jihoon nodded, standing close beside her. “Yeah, it is.”

He hesitated for a moment before leaning in to kiss her. It was soft and brief, but before they could pull away, the sound of stifled laughter made them freeze.

They turned to find half the members huddled at the door, their faces pressed against the glass.

“Oh my gosh!” Seungkwan exclaimed, throwing the door open. “We caught them!”

Jihoon groaned, stepping back from Y/N. “Do you guys have no boundaries?”

“Nope,” Mingyu said, grinning. “This is way too entertaining.”

“You guys looked like a scene from a drama,” Jeonghan added, dramatically clasping his hands over his chest.

“Hyung,” Dino said, pretending to wipe a tear. “You’re growing up so fast.”

“Leave us alone,” Jihoon muttered, his face bright red.

Back inside, the members didn’t let up.

“So, Jihoon,” Joshua said with a sly smile, “how long have you been sneaking kisses behind our backs?”

“Yeah,” Hoshi chimed in. “And why didn’t you tell us? We’re supposed to be your brothers!”

Jihoon crossed his arms, glaring at them. “Because it’s none of your business.”

“Hyung, come on,” Seungkwan said. “You’ve got to give us something. Were you always this romantic, or is this new?”

“I’m not romantic,” Jihoon snapped, his embarrassment only fueling their teasing.

Y/N, meanwhile, couldn’t stop laughing. “You guys really don’t let up, do you?”

“Not when it comes to Jihoon hyung,” Vernon said, smirking.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Jihoon said, standing up. “If you’re all going to act like children, Y/N and I are leaving.”

“No!” Dino said, grabbing Y/N’s hand dramatically. “Noona, don’t go! We promise to behave!”

Y/N smiled, patting his hand. “I think I’ll be back soon enough. But for now, I should probably let Jihoon calm down.”

As Jihoon walked Y/N to the door, he sighed. “Sorry about them. They’re impossible.”

Y/N smiled, slipping her hand into his. “Don’t apologize. They’re wonderful. I’m glad you have them.”

Jihoon looked at her, his expression softening. “Still, I’ll make sure they behave next time.”

“Next time?” Y/N teased.

Jihoon smiled. “Yeah. Next time.”

As she left, Jihoon returned to the living room, where the members were waiting with smug grins.

“Don’t say a word,” Jihoon warned, though his expression held a hint of a smile.

The members burst into laughter, their teasing filling the room once more.

A week after the chaos of dinner at the dorm, Y/N visited Jihoon at the studio again. This time, the atmosphere was quiet and calm—just the two of them. Jihoon had asked her to help him with a melody he was struggling to finish, knowing her insight as a pianist would be invaluable.

“You know,” Y/N said, sitting at the piano in the corner, “I never thought I’d be working on music with you like this. It feels... surreal.”

Jihoon leaned against the desk, a small smile on his face. “I’ve always wanted to share this part of my life with you, noona. It just took me a while to get here.”

Y/N looked at him, her eyes warm. “I’m glad you did.”

As she played a soft tune on the piano, Jihoon watched her intently. Her presence in the studio felt natural, like she belonged there.

Just as they were starting to settle into the work, the studio door burst open, and Seungkwan, Mingyu, and Hoshi walked in with bright smiles.

“Hyung, we brought food—” Seungkwan started, but then froze when he saw Y/N. His grin widened. “Oh, noona’s here!”

Jihoon groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Why are you guys here?”

“We thought you’d be lonely,” Mingyu said, setting a bag of takeout on the desk. “But clearly, you’re not.”

Hoshi smirked, nudging Jihoon playfully. “We didn’t know you’d have such nice company.”

Y/N laughed, standing up to greet them. “It’s nice to see you all again.”

“You too, noona,” Hoshi said, then turned to Jihoon. “Were you two working or—?”

“We were working,” Jihoon cut in, glaring at him.

“Sure you were,” Seungkwan teased, wiggling his eyebrows.

As the afternoon went on, the members insisted on staying, claiming they wanted to “supervise” Jihoon’s work. They lounged around, occasionally offering unsolicited opinions on the music and cracking jokes at Jihoon’s expense.

At one point, Jihoon leaned over to show Y/N something on the piano. She laughed at a joke he made, and instinctively, Jihoon reached out to brush a strand of hair behind her ear.

The moment was subtle, but it didn’t go unnoticed.

“Oh my gosh, did you see that?” Seungkwan whispered loudly to Mingyu.

“Totally,” Mingyu whispered back, though his voice was anything but quiet.

“Hyung, stop being so romantic in front of us!” Hoshi exclaimed, dramatically shielding his eyes.

Jihoon sighed, straightening up. “Do you guys ever stop?”

“Nope,” Seungkwan said, grinning. “This is our entertainment.”

Later, when the members finally started packing up to leave, Jihoon walked Y/N to the door. Thinking they were finally alone, Jihoon leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to her forehead.

“Thanks for coming, noona,” he said softly.

Y/N smiled, her cheeks flushing. “Anytime.”

But before they could step apart, a loud gasp came from behind them.

“You’re doing it again!” Hoshi shouted, pointing at them.

The rest of the members rushed over, their expressions a mix of shock and glee.

“Hyung! In the studio?!” Mingyu said, feigning scandal.

“I can’t believe this,” Seungkwan said, clutching his chest dramatically. “Right in front of our takeout bag!”

Jihoon groaned, his ears turning red. “Can you all leave already?”

“No way,” Jeonghan said, grinning. “This is gold. Noona, you’ve really softened our Jihoon.”

Y/N laughed, covering her face with her hands. “You guys are impossible.”

“And you still like him?” Vernon teased.

“Don’t scare her off,” Jihoon muttered, shoving Hoshi lightly toward the door.

When the members finally left, Jihoon sighed in relief, turning back to Y/N. “I’m sorry about them.”

Y/N smiled, stepping closer to him. “Don’t be. I think it’s sweet how much they care about you.”

Jihoon softened, his usual stoic expression giving way to a small, genuine smile. “They’re lucky you think that. Otherwise, I’d never hear the end of it.”

Y/N laughed, wrapping her arms around him briefly. “I’ll see you soon, Jihoon. And next time, I’ll bring snacks for everyone.”

Jihoon watched her leave, his heart feeling lighter than it had in years. Despite the chaos, he wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.

As more fans became aware of Jihoon and Y/N’s relationship, the reactions grew increasingly varied. While many Carats supported Jihoon’s happiness, there were vocal detractors who scrutinized Y/N’s every move.

One evening, Y/N scrolled through social media, coming across both kind messages and a few harsh comments.

“Why her?”

“She’s not even that famous.”

“He seems happier, so I guess it’s okay.”

Though the positive comments outweighed the negative, Y/N couldn’t help but feel the sting of criticism. She closed her phone and leaned back, staring at the ceiling of her apartment.

Jihoon, sensing her mood during their usual phone call, asked, “Noona, is something wrong?”

Y/N hesitated before admitting, “Some of the comments... they’re a bit much.”

Jihoon’s voice softened. “I’m sorry, noona. I wish I could shield you from all of this.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Y/N said quickly. “I just… I don’t want to make things harder for you.”

“You could never do that,” Jihoon said firmly. “If anything, you make things better. Don’t ever doubt that, okay?”

Her heart warmed at his words. “Okay, Jihoon.”

The members, true to their word, found ways to show their support for Jihoon and Y/N. During live broadcasts, Seungkwan and Mingyu casually mentioned how “nice” it was to see Jihoon smiling more often.

Hoshi, on the other hand, was less subtle. In a recent behind-the-scenes video, he joked, “Jihoon-hyung has someone special cheering him on these days. It’s no wonder his melodies are even sweeter!”

Carats quickly picked up on these moments, and the majority of fans began rallying around the idea of Jihoon’s happiness being their priority.

To escape the pressures of public scrutiny, Jihoon planned a quiet getaway for himself and Y/N. They drove to a small countryside village near their hometown, where they could relax without worrying about being recognized.

The day was filled with simple joys—walking along quiet paths, visiting small cafes, and sitting by a riverbank as Y/N played a soft tune on her piano app.

“You really love the piano, don’t you?” Jihoon asked, watching her.

“It’s always been a part of me,” Y/N said. “Kind of like how music is for you.”

Jihoon nodded, leaning back on his elbows. “You’re part of my music now, noona. You inspire me.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed. “Stop saying things like that, Jihoon. You’ll make me cry.”

Jihoon chuckled, reaching out to hold her hand. “It’s the truth.”

As time passed, Y/N and Jihoon decided to make their relationship more public. They attended a charity event together, where Y/N performed as the opening act, playing a stunning piano solo.

Jihoon watched her from the sidelines, his heart swelling with pride. When she finished, the audience erupted into applause, and Jihoon was among the loudest to cheer.

Afterward, a few fans approached them cautiously.

“Jihoon oppa, Y/N unnie is amazing!” one fan said shyly.

“Thank you,” Jihoon said, smiling warmly. “She really is.”

Y/N, though initially nervous, found herself relaxing as fans expressed their support.

“We just want you to be happy,” another fan said.

Y/N glanced at Jihoon, her heart swelling with gratitude. “Thank you. That means so much to both of us.”

Back in the studio, Y/N became a frequent visitor. Though she usually stayed in the background, Jihoon would often ask for her input on melodies or lyrics.

One day, while working on a particularly emotional ballad, Jihoon turned to Y/N. “This song... it’s about us.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. “Really?”

Jihoon nodded. “It’s about finding someone who feels like home. That’s what you are to me, noona.”

Y/N smiled, tears brimming in her eyes. “You have no idea how much that means to me, Jihoon.”

During one of her visits to the studio, Y/N stayed late as Jihoon finished mixing a track. When he finally leaned back in his chair, exhausted but satisfied, Y/N walked over to congratulate him.

“You’ve worked so hard,” she said, brushing his hair back.

Jihoon smiled, pulling her into a gentle kiss.

Just as they pulled away, the studio door burst open, and Seungkwan, Hoshi, and Mingyu stood there, frozen in shock.

“AGAIN?!” Seungkwan exclaimed.

Jihoon groaned, his hand covering his face. “Can you guys knock?”

“No way,” Hoshi said, laughing. “This is too good.”

“I’m telling the others,” Mingyu said, pulling out his phone.

“Don’t you dare,” Jihoon said, standing up to chase him.

Y/N, meanwhile, couldn’t stop laughing. “You’ll never get a moment of peace, will you?”

Jihoon sighed but smiled, wrapping an arm around her. “Probably not. But as long as you I don't mind"

As their first anniversary approached, Jihoon found himself brainstorming ways to make it unforgettable. He wanted to show Y/N just how much she meant to him.

“Hyung,” Mingyu said one evening as Jihoon sat in the dorm’s living room, jotting down ideas. “You’re stressing out too much. It’s an anniversary, not a world tour.”

“It’s not just an anniversary,” Jihoon replied, frowning at his notebook. “It’s the anniversary. I want it to be perfect.”

Seungkwan, who was lounging nearby, chimed in. “Just be yourself, hyung. Noona already loves you. You don’t need fireworks—although, if you want fireworks, I know a guy.”

Jihoon sighed. “I’ll figure it out.”

Little did Jihoon know, Y/N was also planning something special. She knew how much music meant to him, so she composed a short piano piece inspired by their journey together. It was her way of expressing everything she felt but couldn’t always put into words.

On the day of their anniversary, Y/N arrived at Jihoon’s studio carrying a small gift bag and a folder of sheet music. She was nervous but excited.

“Happy anniversary, Jihoon,” she said, smiling as she handed him the bag.

Jihoon opened it to find a simple but elegant bracelet engraved with the words: You’re my melody.

“Noona,” Jihoon said, his voice soft. “This is perfect.”

“There’s more,” Y/N said, her cheeks flushing. She handed him the folder. “I wrote this for you.”

Jihoon stared at the sheet music, his eyes scanning the notes. “You wrote a song?”

Y/N nodded. “It’s not much, but—”

“It’s everything,” Jihoon interrupted, his voice filled with awe. “Thank you, noona.”

Later that evening, Jihoon took Y/N to a small, private restaurant he had rented out just for them. The room was decorated with fairy lights and candles, creating a warm, romantic atmosphere.

“This is amazing,” Y/N said, looking around in awe.

“It’s not much,” Jihoon said, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I wanted you to feel special.”

Y/N smiled, taking his hand. “I always feel special with you, Jihoon.”

As they ate, Jihoon pulled out a small box. “I have something for you, too.”

Y/N opened the box to find a delicate silver necklace with a tiny pendant shaped like a piano.

“I thought it would remind you of how much you inspire me,” Jihoon said.

Y/N’s eyes welled up with tears. “Jihoon, this is beautiful. Thank you.”

When Jihoon and Y/N returned to the dorm later that night, they were greeted by the members, who had planned a surprise party. The living room was decorated with balloons and banners, and a cake sat on the coffee table.

“Happy anniversary!” Hoshi exclaimed, pulling them into the room.

“You didn’t think we’d let you celebrate alone, did you?” Seungkwan added, grinning.

Y/N laughed, feeling overwhelmed by their kindness. “You guys are amazing.”

As the night went on, the members took turns teasing Jihoon about being romantic, sharing embarrassing stories, and welcoming Y/N further into their “family.”

Later, as the party wound down and the members dispersed, Jihoon and Y/N found themselves alone on the balcony. The city lights twinkled in the distance as Jihoon leaned against the railing, holding Y/N close.

“This year has been the best of my life,” Jihoon said softly. “Because of you.”

Y/N smiled, resting her head on his shoulder. “I feel the same. I never imagined we’d end up here, but I’m so glad we did.”

Jihoon turned to her, his expression serious yet tender. “Noona, no matter what happens—no matter how crazy things get—I’ll always choose you.”

Y/N looked up at him, her eyes shining. “And I’ll always be here for you, Jihoon.”

As they shared a gentle kiss under the night sky, they knew that whatever challenges lay ahead, they’d face them together.

[gyuswhore]

Soundproof

Lee Chan x reader | part of the Lonely Hearts Cafe Collab hosted by @camandemstudios

word count: 9.2k

contains: band member!chan, high school!au, angst, fluff, neighbours to lovers, mentions of stress and overwhelming emotions, chan is emotionally constipated, mention of parents

synopsis: Noise has followed Lee Chan his entire life, at least that what it feels like to you since the day his family moved in next door. It goes from his yells and screams to his midday guitar riffs and drum solos, all somehow ending up in your parents garage for his audacious band practices. Noise has followed Lee Chan his entire life, but at some point, you fell in line too.

[a/n]: this one was. a ride. to say the least. this felt like I was going back to my roots, I was getting so much htwhfd vibes from this and it made me all emo. its not as plot heavy or extensive as I usually go but it was about time I wrote something for chan before they took my dinonara status away so plsplsplsplspls remember to reblog or send me an ask with your thots 🥹

ty to @highvern the yin to my yang or whatever they say about married couples for beta-ing this for me, to jewel @100vern and mr. jewel for helping me out with all the technical instrument bits, ily hehehe. and of course, the BIGGEST thank you to everyone that participated in this collab, we had 26 fics this time around (what! the! fuck!) and it was honestly so fun to interact with new and old writers and to watch them create fics <333 ily guys tysm and PLEASE check out the collab masterlist above for all the amazing fics!!!

masterlist

The day you met Lee Chan was a memory as vivid as yesterday. Mostly because it was the first time you heard a scream so blood curdling. It was enough to push you out of your seat where you were pouring over an impossible Kumon problem, hurtling towards a window looking over your front yard, interest piqued beyond the math problems on your desk. Tripping over your stuffed otter in haste, you threw the toy onto the bed with perfect aim before returning to your mission. 

Nose pressed against the cool glass, you find a giant moving truck right in front of your house. Well, half in front of yours, the tailend towards the house next door. The truck's compartment is wide open, and a million wrapped and boxed things lay on the pavement, leaving a trail that leads all the way into the open front door. Wrapped chairs and tables, what look like vases and bowls littered next to crudely labelled cardboard boxes. The chaos wasn’t quenching your interest though; the men that haul things from the truck to the ground are not the ones screaming, and neither is the woman that pops her head out to drag a box through the threshold and into the house. 

Your hands are on the glass too, trying to push yourself farther than your tippy toes to catch a better look at the newcomers. You nearly give up, about to drop back on your heels and go back to hunch over algebra, before you hear a loud yell. “Dad! DAD! Look!”

He’s sprinting so fast you hardly catch him, through the door, jumping down the steps of the porch, zigzagging through boxes and furniture and uncut grass as he hurtles towards the truck. The bright blue hoodie he’s donned makes it easier to keep up, but also the fact that he’s holding a giant object in his arms as he books it across the lawn. 

“Chan, be careful, you’ve barely had it for ten minutes!” someone yells, their voice muffled through the glass. He doesn’t seem to listen, crashing into his dad who receives his bone crushing hug with surprise. 

It’s a guitar. He’s holding a guitar. His father speaks, directed at the woman in the doorway, “I told you to wait for me!”

“He found it himself!” she defends, but her tone is light with amusement. It’s half drowned by the unending chorus of thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou from the boy who continues to balance his brand new guitar and the tight embrace that’s locked his dad’s arms at his own sides. 

A few hours later, there’s company at your door, the distinct sound of your mother greeting her guests pouring through to your bedroom. You instinctively press pause on your speakers, the static noise of One Direction halting abruptly as you eavesdrop. As though on cue, your mother called for you. 

At the door is a woman with a kind smile on her face, handing your mother a tray full of something covered in foil, all while she’s being ushered onto the couch. Behind her trail two boys, a taller and a shorter. 

“This is my daughter,” she introduces you to the crowd beckoning you forward. Shuffling your feet, you oblige. “This is Mrs. Lee and her sons.”

“This is Geon,” Mrs. Lee gestures towards the shorter one that’s more content behind his mothers legs. “And this is Chan. You might be the same age!”

“They’ve just moved in next door,” your mother informs, lifting her head to address Mrs. Lee. “You’re enrolling him in the local middle school right? Maybe you can show him around!”

It’d be hard to do that when the boy in question was more interested in the carpet below his socks. But you nod and give a tight smile regardless. With the adults seated, your mother has somehow pushed you into dragging a seemingly unwilling Chan to show him your room. Both of you oblige, mostly because you see his mother give him the look when he wouldn’t move from his spot. 

It’s torturously silent as you climb the steps, trying to think if you’ve left out something embarrassing in the open. Your stomach jolts, the giant pile of clothes fashioning itself in your eyelids, your training bra at the top of the clean pile. Suddenly, you’re bolting up the steps faster than Chan, making a beeline to shove the damn thing under the mound of clothes before he could walk in and see. Throwing the door open, you take a moment to address Chan walking up the last step, “Um, just in here.”

There it is, pink with Minnie Mouse plastered all over it. By the time it’s hidden, Chan is walking through the threshold and into your room. His eyes wander, taking in the blare of your space. He looks odd standing with his clothes that are all black down to his socks and his mop of hair, a void against the bright pinks and blues of your bedroom. The desk is against the window that overlooks the backyard, your curtains patterned a purple chevron. It’s clean for now, but your shelves are lined with textbooks and novels, a smaller corner for your CDs. The bed is still warm and ruffled from when you were lounging in it, your nightstand decorated with a star lamp and your pink CD player. 

“You can sit down,” you invite, giving the pile of clothes one last kick in its place next to your blue wardrobe. You migrate to the chair behind your desk, letting him take the edge of the bed. He still hasn’t said a word, and you wonder if this is the same person that was running and screaming outside just hours ago. Chan continues to observe the contaminants of your room, landing on your nightstand where your CD player is, the case for your One Direction CD right next to it. Reaching for it, he says his first words to you.

“Is this yours?” A dense question in hindsight, but you appreciated him filling the silence. You nod immediately, “I have more! I have them all, actually.” 

He puts the case back on your nightstand. The silence plunges itself into the space once more, and the pressure on your chest is near unbearable. “You can…you can borrow them if you like.” 

Chan looks startled, eyebrows raised as he registers the offer. “Oh, uh, I don’t…I don’t listen to One Direction. Or boy groups or girl groups or…pop.”

“Oh,” you falter, heat rising in your cheeks. Nothing was said outright, but you couldn’t shake the distinct feeling of being judged. 

“Do you play?” he asks. Cocking your head in confusion, you ask, “The CD player?”

“No, uh,” he points to under your desk, where there’s a pink plastic ukulele covered in multicolour glitter from a chaotic DIY, “that.”

“I try to.” Your cheeks burn. “Youtube videos are helpful sometimes. Do you?” 

It was a pointed question, brought forth from the fresh memory of his loud gift receiving earlier. “I play the ukulele but it’s not a lot of fun. I just got a new guitar for my birthday last week. I only got it today because we were moving and I wasn’t supposed to find it but I did. It’s a Fender Jazzmaster in Olympic White. My mom wanted me to get Surfer Green but it felt like a gir— anyway.”

“Why…don’t you like Surfer Green?” you ask, because it felt like the obvious follow up. 

He stares at you, mouth open slightly. “What I really wanted was the Fender Mustang but my mom said that was too expensive. Dad would’ve gotten it but they bought my brother a console so I had to comiprise…copm…comripise—”

“C-Compromise?” you suggest meekly. 

“Yeah.”

You frown a little, “Aren’t you happy with the one you got?”

“I like the Jazzmaster too, but holding those Mustangs just–just feels different in the stores,” he continues. “Kurt Cobain had a Mustang.”

“Who’s—”

“You don’t know Nirvana?” 

“Um—” you stutter, like you’d been asked a question you didn’t have an answer for in front of the entire class. 

“Right,” he deflates, eyes flitting to the empty One Direction case on the nightstand. 

You swallow, wiggling your toes to hold down the fort that was your pride. “Are—um…Are there no other famous people with…what you got?”

He ponders for a moment, face uncurling. “Bob Dylan had one…”

You breathe a sigh of relief, having at least heard the name before. “That means it’s still really good!”

“Yeah,” he nods, like he was having a genuine epiphany. “Yeah it is pretty good.”

“Good.”

“I still want the Mustang though,” he continues, and then adding with a mumble you hardly catch, “Why does Geon have to get a present on my birthday.”

Later on in the week, when you’re out at the mall with your friends, too sweet frappes and milkshakes in hand, your gaggle enters the music store. The others crowd around the laid out drumset, some walk to the functioning keyboards, you find yourself trailing to the salon style depiction of electric guitars mounted on the walls. Cold fingers wrapped around your mocha frappe, you read the signs on the different guitars, trying to find two specific ones to pause on. 

There it is. The placard calls it a Fender Player II Mustang in bold black font. It’s jet black, reflective in the glossy finish, complete with all the white accents and the wood piece at the top. Your hand, sweaty with condensation, reaches out to touch the smooth surface of the guitar, half mesmerised by the finish. You’re interrupted with a jarring, “Can I help you out?”

Retracting quickly, you turn to the salesperson stood before you, small smile on her face. “Uh—do you guys have this in surfer green?”

She furrows her brows, “Not the Mustangs. We have Jazzmasters in surfer green but they’re out of stock. Would you like to place an order?”

Sucking in a sharp breath, you’re quick with your, “No, thank you.” It’d be strange for a middle schooler to book something that expensive all by herself, let alone with a flock of friends. The lady smiles at you regardless, and you smile back, going to give the black beauty one last look before walking back over to your friends, where they attempt to play the intro to Shake It Off with very little success. 

You steal one last glance as you leave the store.

Remembering freshman year of high school is quite easy when you take into account all the time you spent locked in a bathroom stall crying. It began to make a little more sense after your first bleed, having something to attribute your feelings to when things in your 16 year old brain got rough, but you wouldn’t leave a particularly high rating on your high school years. 

It wasn’t all bad, though, especially when you were sitting in your homeroom class with neatly folded hands and a slightly jittery leg, watching all the people file into the room. You didn’t know if he’d be here, it wasn’t like you talked to him in middle school much, nor did you hear anything from your mother. You’d rather have died than ask, choosing to wait until you bumped into him — if you bumped into him. The manifestation made itself known as Lee Chan walked into the door of your homeroom class nearly fifteen minutes past reporting time. The teacher simply smiled with raised brows as he greeted him, not missing the leisurely way his backpack was strung on one shoulder paired with his blaring METALLICA t-shirt. His eyes sweep right past you as he makes his way to the very back of the class to find a seat in the last row. 

It’s difficult to not crane your neck to see him, hiding under the guise of a neck stretch as you turn your head. He’s slumped in his chair, face unreadable as he stares at the front of the class. He isn’t doing much, which is like always, but it’s enough for you to want to take another peek. You don’t, because your homeroom teacher has clapped his hands to get the attention of the now full room, ready to start the first day of high school. 

Did you like Chan? Or did you just like the way that he was? At 14, he seemed infinitely cooler than you, just like he did in middle school when he made his first impression in the resounding girlish brightness of your room, in front of your boyband CDs and glitter crafted ukulele that were all seemingly too juvenile for his tastes. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but you knew you wanted to be his friend, a feat that seemed significantly harder than it should be. 

Chan would never tag along with his mom or brother when they’d come to visit, and he’d always be cooped up in his room when it’d be you sitting with his brother in the living room of his home while your mothers conversed endlessly. It was the only reason you were that enthusiastic anyway, the possibility of seeing him and sparking a conversation that didn’t die down in half a minute. You’d been to Chan’s room only once, and hardly even at all. It was the summer before high school and your families were barbecuing in the backyard of Chan’s home, and you’d been tasked to run up and pull him out to come eat. He was the only one left in the house, who seemed to not respond when you knocked cautiously on the wood of his door. 

His door was a collage of him; posters of unresolved rock bands, loud DO NOT ENTER warnings and endless loud tearings of the sort. You spotted a pink unicorn sticker among the mess, and you were almost sure it was the workings of Geon, one that Chan was yet to spot. There was a muffled hum filtering through the door, and it sounded like the low strumming of a guitar. Chan was playing something, and you remember so clearly the way you stood there for seemingly ages trying to figure out what the tune was. It was worlds quieter than his usual loud guitar riffs that seemed to occur at the very reasonable times of 10 O’clock at night. It seems you were taking too long, because next you know, his mother was bounding up the steps to find you vacant outside his door. 

“Is he not answering?” she asks. “God, those stupid headphones, never should’ve bought them—CHAN!” She raps on the door with significant force. “LEE CHAN, get out of your cave, everyone’s waiting for you at the table!” 

The door swings open to reveal a severely disgruntled Chan, his headphones nowhere to be found. “What?”

“Poor girl’s been knocking for twenty minutes, have some decency and get downstairs,” she snaps. You were frozen in your spot, mouth gaping as you tried to say something. You’d only knocked once, and not very firmly either. Technically, this was your fault. His mother looked down at his shirt that depicted a very graphic skull paired with pyjama bottoms. “And change for goodness’ sake!”

With that, her expression changed so quickly it gave you whiplash. She gave you a smile and pulled you along with her back downstairs, pushing you to sit down at the dinner table as Chan emerged into the lawn a while later. He’d pulled a jumper over his shirt despite the pleasant weather, his sweatpants changed out. You noted how he shoved Geon out of his seat at the very end of the table, making him move to the only other seat available — next to you. Nobody noted the exchange, nobody batted an eye. They were always going at each other, this had only felt like another brotherly spat.

Even now, as you note the free seat next to you in your homeroom class, you know it was only because he didn’t see you when he walked in, and that he’d rather die than sit anywhere closer than the farthest bench, but you couldn’t help feeling what you felt. An ugly kind of stir, a pang of hurt. There was nothing close about you and Chan but your proximity, but when the universe’s recipe to bring everyone else in the world closer fails, it’s impossible to feel like there’s resistance somewhere, somehow. 

Getting in the car of Chan’s mother’s car, he takes the front seat and immediately pops in headphones on, while you talk about your day to his mom. Geon, having been picked up from his middle school first, is fast asleep in the seat next to you, leaving you as the only person she could talk to. You didn’t mind, Mrs. Lee was always nice, maybe even exceptionally nice to you. She did mention wanting a daughter at some point, but you appreciate that she’s putting you out of your self imposed silence. 

Freshman year was a lot; emotions, friends, grades, and the very existence of the fact that you were growing up through the thick of it all. But there was one thing that it wasn't, and that was Chan.

Senior year of high school, things become exponentially harder for you. 

It’s the first day back to school, this time without the nerves of freshman year. Three years into the game, you’d built a high school specific armour that served you well for most of your career. You were jogging out the door and into the morning chill, immediately looking for the white of Mrs. Lee’s SUV, only to find a silver sedan parked in front of your driveway. Halting in your steps, you looked over to find the car you’d been looking for still parked and stationary in the neighboring driveway, looking back to the unfamiliar car in front of you. 

The windows rolled down just as you were about to cross the lawn and knock on the neighbor’s doors, maybe Mrs. Lee was running late? But all you saw was Geon in the shotgun seat waving you over, and you catch the explicit sight of Chan at the driver’s seat. 

Oh.

As you slipped into the backseat, you remember the distinct feeling of unease. “I…I still thought your mom was dropping us off.” 

“Chan bought the car yesterday! But he had to promise mom to let you carpool with us—”

“Geon,” Chan grit quietly as he turned the corner out of the neighborhood. In true seventeen year old fashion, you felt your legs turn to jello. You’d hardly seen him over the summer, overheard talks from the adults that he was giving guitar lessons to younger kids; perhaps that was how he bought the car? But the gap in contact meant you had no idea just how deep his voice had gotten over the past months. You remember the uncomfortable lurch in your stomach, the way Geon ignored his brother and only continued to speak to you, but you were hardly listening over the roaring in your ears. “...a new CD booklet but it’s all his shitty rock music—”

“Language,” Chan hissed. Geon frowned, “I’m going into high school next year. I think I’m allowed to say shit.” He only turned back to you in a grin, “He just can’t accept that his music is shitty.”

“Get out of my car,” Chan said as he pulled up in front of Geon’s middle school.

Immediately, panic flooded in your system. Do you stay in the backseat? Do you move up front? Why didn’t you think of this before? Getting out of the car and moving up front felt like an exceedingly embarrassing task. Opening the door, closing it, the awkward run up to the front seat, not to mention the silence, were you supposed to talk to him—

“You can just jump over the console up front,” Chan turned to say to you, and you jump a little at the way he directly addresses you. 

“Uh, are you sure?” you asked, eyeing the way he moves his elbow out of the way so you’d have space to hop over. 

“Yeah, I don’t mind,” he assured, only half paying attention. Leaving your backpack in the back, you found yourself moving towards the centre console, swinging a leg over to bring the sole of your shoe directly on the front seat to push yourself over. You succeeded, dropping down with a thud. Chan had already begun driving as you grappled to find the seatbelt. 

The only thing you remember from that first drive with Chan alone was the way your brain felt like a broken record. 

“Geon.”

“Language.”

“Get out of my car.”

“You can just jump over the console up front.”

“Yeah, I don’t mind.” 

It was too much for all of seven minutes from Geon’s middle school to your high school, evident in the way you blurted out a quick “thanks, see you at 3” over your shoulder as you’d booked it into the building and out Chan’s vicinity. If he’d found it weird, he didn’t say a thing. 

This went on for the first few months of senior year, even having been promoted to shotgun at some point to make the ordeal easier, much to the annoyance of Geon who sat moping for most mornings and afternoons. Despite the fact, Chan never really spoke to you throughout the time, his only words coming in the form of snapping at Geon when he mildly annoyed him. But you had acquired his phone number, which ensued a chatbox of endless short sentence exchanges. 

[Chan 7:15 AM]: Come outside [You 7:15 AM]: Ok  [Chan 3:02 PM]: Come outside [You 3:03 PM]: Ok 

The turn didn't happen until tonight. It’s the first week of winter break, a bleak Friday night as you’re getting ready to reorganise your shelf of magazines. The room is filled with Taylor Swift filtering through your pink speakers, still in the same place on the nightstand as it was in middle school. The pile of magazine issues is taking over your floor, more than half of them covered in settled dust over the years, some just about ready to disintegrate at a touch. You’re more than focused on your task of separating the viable contenders to the ones that have had their run, when the distinct sound of the doorbell cuts through your music. A glance at the clock tells you it’s nearly 8 PM, too late for guests. Well, invited ones anyway.  

Soon, there’s a warble of high pitched conversation, one that urges you to shut your music off to ensue your usual eavesdropping. There isn’t much you can make out with your ear pressed to the door, and you have half a mind to move out and loiter in the hallway. You still can’t tell who it is, but when you hear the sound of the front door closing, you know it’s safe to wander out. 

“Who was that?” you ask your mother casually under the pretense of wanting an apple.

“Oh, it was Chan!” she responds. Your hand that’s rummaging through the fridge freezes. “Did you know he’s in a band? He wants to use the garage for band practice, asked so nicely I couldn’t say no.”

Emerging from the fridge with a deformed stick of cheese, you ask as evenly as possible, “Why—What’s wrong with his garage?”

“They’ve got an extra car now so one always needs to be inside to make space in the driveway. Something about his dad’s exercise machines too but I wasn’t listening, I didn’t have a problem with him using the space anyway.”

“But,” you start, but falter. “But the noise…”

“He said weekends in the late afternoons only, seems reasonable enough,” she says. This time, when she turns to you she has a strange look on her face, and you immediately know you’ve pried too much. 

“Well, I’m done for the day, keep your music down, will you? I’m taking an early night.” 

The irony isn’t beyond you, but when there’s someone at the door at 3 PM on Saturday, you know exactly who it is. 

You’ve been loitering downstairs all afternoon, bringing your homework to the open kitchen table under the guise of “wanting a change of scenery”. There’s no one around when you slowly slip off your stool, dropping your pen like you were immensely inconvenienced by the distraction, slugging towards the door to wrench it open. 

Chan is in a zip up today and dark washed jeans, but it’s blacker than a void all the same. His guitar case sits next to him as his hands remain pocketed. He registers you for a moment, “Hey. Is your mom around?”

“Uh—” you stutter. Looking back to see her rushing towards the door to greet Chan. 

“Oh, you’re here!” Immediately, she smacks at your arm to move you from the door, “Let him in, will you? It’s freezing outside.”

You grumble something under your breath that she doesn’t catch, letting Chan into your home as your mother starts listing things off. 

“Okay! I made sure the garage was clean, the floors are mopped and I’ve put up a heater in there in case it gets too cold. Just plug it into the socket near the garage door and it should work. Don’t worry about staying late, it’s not like you have to drive home!” Your mother laughs at her own joke with vigour, prompting Chan to break a smile of his own which you’re sure is out of nothing but politeness. But you can’t help the hitch in your threat as you see him smile, the breathy laugh he lets out to seal the deal. 

“I’ll be out with snacks once all your friends get here, feel free to get comfortable, you can leave all your fancy equipment in the garage too, no one really goes in there.”

“You didn’t have to do all that, really—” 

“Nonsense!” your mother exclaims, cutting Chan off. She finds you trailing behind her and pulls you in. “You’ve been handling drop off duties since middle school, I’m glad you’re giving me a chance to do something for you.”

You want to mumble something about Mrs. Lee being the one doing most of the picking up and dropping off in the past years, but choose not to as she shoos Chan into the garage to let him set up. You’re left alone in the opening of the living room as your mother ushers into the kitchen to start on the aforementioned snacks. Following her, you take a begrudged seat back at the island, picking up your deserted pen and scratching a nonexistent itch in your scalp as you stare blankly at the papers in front of you. There’s a giant bag of dino nuggets slammed on the island as your mother rushes about behind you, and you stare at them a little confused. 

“Um,” you attempt to start, turning to address her. “I don’t know if Chan or his bandmates are gonna appreciate dino nuggets as snacks.”

She frowns. “But I always made you dino nuggets when your friends came over. Orange or apple juice, string cheese, and cookies!”

Your eyes close as you remember the spread that was always expected, that your friends always liked. “That was a while ago, mom.”

“You haven’t had friends over in so long, I wouldn’t know what kids like at that age.”

Shoulders slouched, you mumble under your breath, “That’s ‘cause you won’t let me change my room.”

She catches it, still adamant that your bursts of bright pink, purple and blues were perfectly appropriate for you. “But you still like the same things!”

“Yeah but…I don’t have to be so loud about it,” you grumble slightly, trying your hardest to complain without complaining. 

“Well, tell me what they’d want then.”

You hadn’t planned to be too involved with the process, but the situation called for it if you were to save face somehow. You're in the middle of fighting with the oven when you hear the distinct tremor of testing cymbals and the deep, low sound of guitar notes. By the time you’re done helping out your mother, band practice is in full session, the muffled noise of cohesive music pouring through the walls as you let your mother plate up the food. You manage to replace the tray with the dotted spaceships to one that’s less assuming. 

“Alright, you can go ahead and get this to them, my load of laundry’s been sitting in the dryer for half an hour!”

Snapping your head up, you bug your eyes out at your mother. “W–What?”

“Go on, they’re probably waiting!” she yells over her shoulder as she rushes to her ever important stash of laundry. 

Later in life, you’ll think back to this very moment, and the very embarrassing way you snapped down to look at your outfit first and foremost. The heat rose to your cheeks even in the moment, having the sudden urge to change into your jeans. It was like the first day in Chan’s car all over again, the prospect of carrying the tray over to a garage full of boys who knew they were infinitely cooler than you was downright mortifying.  

You were old enough to realise the oddity of your behaviour, the way you seem to flare up like an ignition the moment Chan was anywhere near the vicinity of your thoughts. But when you’re sitting in the middle of a group of giggling, exhilarated friends, talking about all the ways their crushes make them swoon, it all seems so out of place. The lift of their smile, the cascade of their hair, the way they enunciate their words. There was always something to talk about when it came to the person with the glowing halo around their beings.

Did you like Chan? 

Liking Chan meant having something to talk about. He pays you no mind, takes no interest in anything that doesn’t directly concern him, hell, you can’t remember the last time you heard your name from his mouth. But when you think of his dark hair, dark clothes and equally dark demeanor, nothing comes to mind to back up why you seem to see the monochromed boy scintillating like he glows from within. It was just him. It was just Chan. 

Even now, as you timidly duck through the half shuttered garage opening, you feel yourself putting every ounce of strength you had to not drop the tray altogether. 

It’s mostly silent now, the slight sounds of tuning instruments the only thing occupying the surroundings. The garage is near unrecognisable, not that you’re in there alot anyway. It’s darker, only a single yellow lamp ignited in the corner, the half covered opening of the garage letting in the fading orange of sunlight. An entire drumset’s been shoved in the area, the seat occupied by one of Chan’s friends you recognise immediately, Hansol. A giant black box with knobs and wires you think is an amplifier, and two people with guitars, a ruby red and a shiny, lacquered black, fiddled around by Seugkwan and Yeonjun. You don’t see Chan immediately, but recognise the white guitar propped up against the mic stand. 

“Grub!” one of them yells, and that seems to push Chan out of his hunch in front of the sockets. 

“Um, my mom said to give this to you,” you say, placing the tray on the spare table in the corner. “I’ll just…have a good session.”

“Fanks!” Seungkwan muffles through a mouth full of hotdog, waving as you timidly leave. 

You remember hearing a chorus of thank yous as you’d left the garage, but as you sit back down at the kitchen island to ‘resume’ your homework, all you can think about is Chan’s own voice was mixed in with the crowd. 

You can’t tell, but when your mother walks in to dump a clean pile of laundry to fold on the couch, she asks you why you’re smiling.

Every Friday, Saturday and Sunday, you accustomed your afternoons to homework on the kitchen island sponsored by the background music pouring from the garage. You couldn’t recognise any of the songs they played to save your life, but when it was Chan’s turn at the mic, you found you didn’t really care what was being strummed out. 

It took you a couple weeks, but you soon found yourself positively launching at the snack tray anytime your mother made a move to go deliver them, having honed the skill of reminding her of another more pressing task she always seemed to have. It didn’t take long for the boys to start calling you all sorts of heavenly names, a perk of being the bearer of the food. 

Chan stuck to his small “thanks”, but it seemed to do mounds better for your mood than the other “angel”, “goddess”, or “your highness”s being thrown at you. 

Until, of course, it all came crashing down.

The band had continued to use the garage even as the semester had started, pouring all the way into the end of the spring semester. Finals were upon you like an agitated hive of wasps, graduation edging nearer and nearer as you hunched over homework and notes and assignments for real this time. Sleep was a commodity, as seen by the fifteen minute naps you pushed in every morning in the passenger seat as Chan drove you to school. Not very surprisingly, Chan seemed unphased. Band practices occurred like normal, but with much sorrow, you had to give up your snack runs to your mother when you realised you couldn’t afford the distraction. 

Noise cancelling headphones and the wood of your bedroom door, you try your darndest not to miss the few minutes of cheese and crackers you’d share with the band, the feeling of being included by people you didn’t think would bat an eye. It felt silly, when you realised they were also just high schoolers with different interests, the isolation having been a wall constructed in your consciousness alone. 

The only thing you can manage is a hi when you pass in the hallways, or a quick goodbye when you get into Chan’s car where they crowd. It isn’t until you’re walking home late from study group when it’s past dark that you have a chance, the sound of music still rumbling from the shuttered garage door. There’s a temporary slouch in your shoulders, and a mind that’s too tired, too sleepy, and frankly, too sick of your own bedroom. So you find yourself walking into the garage from the door on the inside of the house, soliciting a very exciting response.

“Oh? Has the snack goddess returned?” Yeonjun asks, in jest because you can see the empty tray of snacks already devoured and digested. 

“Hey,” you smile tightly. You don’t know if it’s because you’re near exhausted, but the prospect of looking at Chan feels like it would push you over the edge you’ve been teetering on for weeks. 

Suddenly, this seems like it was a bad idea. 

“What, missed us too much?” Hansol muses, and you immediately want to cry.

You can’t understand what’s going on, but suddenly, the buzz of being around Chan is doing worse than just flooding you with a manageable buzz.

The weather’s getting warmer, and he’s wearing a t-shirt that reveals a universally acceptable amount of skin, but it feels like a visual hook when your eyes glaze over his form.

And then there it is.

The upturn of the corners of his mouth, the cascade of his dark hair, the way he enunciated, “Geon’s been worried about you.”

Have you? Have you, Chan?

Not a thought about the fact that these were the most amount of words he’d said to you in years, not a thought about how he’s looking directly at you, or that he addressed you in a way that wasn’t passive or monosyllabic. 

It’s the strange sting of tears that takes you aback, the itch in your nose, the lump in your throat. “I’m fine.” You sound…watery. “Just wanted to check in. Have fun.”

Through the now shut door of the garage, you hear a voice through the wood. “Geon’s been worried about her? Fuck you, Chan, seriously.”

When you make it up to your bedroom, it’s just another punch to the gut. The purple of your curtains, the baby blue of your bedsheets, the glitter of that stupid ukulele you just can’t seem to throw away. 

The pink of your CD player.

It’s all too much. Too much in the tears that roll down your face, too much in the sound of your sniffles, too much in the ache in your temples.

Too much, but after the years where it all felt so unsure, you find through the blur of your tears the clear sign pointed directly at Chan. And the one that doesn’t point back at you.

Your feelings weren’t even remotely new, but the epiphany you’d just received certainly was. 

You’re perfectly aware of how thick the air was when you slipped into the passenger seat Monday morning, refusing to look at Chan and simply muttering a small “hey”. As always. You slip into your nap that was mostly just you pretending to screw your eyes tight shut, head leaned against the window. 

The car slows to stop, but you don’t hear the sound of the door opening from the backseat to signal Geon leaving. 

It’s silent for a few moments before Geon pipes up. “Did you make her mad?”

“What?” 

“You did something.”

“Are you getting out or not?”

There’s a small mumble of “Idiot” as opens the door to leave, slamming the door shut with a force that shakes the entire car. It forces you to open your eyes, but you hardly flutter them as you stretch your arms out like you just woke up. You watch as you pull into the final turn that leads to your school, only to find Chan turn…the other way?

He pulls over to the side as soon as he makes the turn, exiting the car before you can react or ask what he was doing. You only stare as he enters a tiny neon lighted coffee shop tucked into a corner on the elevated pavement. It irritates you for some reason, so you simply tuck your head back into your own shoulder and close your eyes. The car door opens, and you feel him pull out to take the other turn. 

You don’t open your eyes till he parks and you hear the pull of the handbrake. Not even looking over, you reach for your bag to leave the car, only to be stopped by Chan. 

There’s two plastic cups in the cup holders and a paper bag with a bright logo. Chan picks one of the cups up and makes to exit the car. “The coffee’s only half a shot so it’s not too stimulating. Sandwich should warm up by lunch.”

He’s already slammed the door of the driver’s side shut, leaving you in your seat utterly perplexed. You stare at the light brown liquid in the to go cup, the slight stains of oil on the paper bag, mind blank. 

Then the door opens again, Chan poking his head in again, “I have to lock the car.”

“Oh!” You scramble to grab everything, looking up sheepishly. “Thanks for this.”

“S’fine.” 

And then he’s gone again, leaving you a mess you’re increasingly failing to conceal.

It seems the universe is dead set on ensuring your final weeks in high school are anything but laced with peace. 

The exhaustion, lack of sleep and the constant strain of using your brain so much is making you irrational. Suddenly, everything Chan does feels like a signal. 

It was coffee and a sandwich, then it was letting you know he was okay with waiting for you an extra hour when you had meeting after school, calling you in the mornings instead of his usual brief text asking you to come outside. But then there were the sights you’d witness in school. He’d smile, talk, and laugh so loud you could hear him from across the hall, to boys and girls and teachers alike, like he was only odd around you. It’s giving you whiplash. It makes you wanna spin him around and ask him what on Earth you did wrong. Why he’s held such distaste for you since the day you two met all those years ago as kids. 

When you break down into tears in the middle of your Algebra final, your teacher only assumes it’s the stress of senior year getting to you, and it probably is. But you know there’s more to what’s happening to your emotions. 

The good thing is that was your last final, walking out of the doors of your high school, knowing you’d never have to think of the last few months of torture ever again. The doors aren’t nearly as flooded as you imagined the final day of high school would have them be, having been one of the last people to take the exam. A bleak end to a bleak year. 

That is, until you find the familiar silver sedan parked in the very front of the nearly empty parking lot. 

Chan did not have an Algebra exam today, he’d been done with school for a whole week, and you’d been taking the painstaking walk back home for your remaining days, as you had expected to do for your very last. 

He’s leaning against the driver’s side door outside in the near empty parking lot anyway, wearing a black hoodie despite the warm afternoon, his jeans a dark blue. 

Your knees weaken. Why was he here?

Taking slow steps down to the parking lot, Chan finally notices you approaching, straightening up as you grow closer. 

“Are you done?” he asks first, which is jarring enough that he piped up before you. 

“Did you have a final today?” you ask sharply

“Uh, no.” 

“Did you have work in the admin office?” you push. 

“No—”

“Then why are you here?” 

That seems to stump him, his eyes flitting to everywhere but you. “I just—I thought you might need a ride.”

It’s silent as you stare at him, disbelief engulfing you. Nothing was making sense, he doesn’t make sense. 

“Chan, I just—” you stop, feeling the tears pool into your eyes. “I just don’t get you.”

Chan notices the wobble in your voice, the glisten in your eyes as he finally, finally, brings his gaze up to yours to take in your face. His face is unreadable, as it always has been, and it only overwhelms you more. It seems you feel too much and he doesn’t at all. 

“I…Seungkwan said you weren’t doing too well during your exam—” Of course, Seungkwan was in the same room as you wrote your final, the blabbermouth never knowing when to stop. 

“And you came running? Why Chan?”

“I don’t know, I just thought—” You cut him off again, because it’s the same Chan over and over and over again. No intonation to his voice, not an emotion on his face. 

There was nothing left to keep you tethered anymore, and you hardly understood what you were saying as you had a meltdown right there in your school parking lot, tears rushing down your face like some dramatic soap opera. 

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately. And I don’t know if it’s in my head or if it’s true or if you think it’s funny, but I think I liked it better when you just acted like I didn’t exist. I fucking like you, Chan and I don’t know…fuck, I don’t know anything. I could handle it when you didn’t care, I could handle it when you seemed to want to be friends with the entire world but me, when you looked at me like I wasn’t worth a conversation. But please just, stop doing whatever it is you’re doing right now. I’m tired of being confused.”

The world disappears as you sniffle loudly, wiping your tears and the trickle from your nose with your sleeve, having no care of what you look or sound like anymore. Everything was overflowing, and you needed it out into the air before it poisoned you from the inside out. 

And despite it all, minutes tick by where there’s nothing but the sound of your own tears, not a single word from the boy who merely stands before you like a human punching bag, never punching back.

“Chan!” you voice. “You’re supposed to say something now.”

Looking up to his beautiful face, you only feel yourself bursting into a fresh set of tears. 

“You…” he starts slowly. “You like me?”

“That’s what I said, yes,” you grit. You have half a mind to swing your near empty bag at him, just to have something to do, to get a reaction out of him that wasn’t perpetually lukewarm. 

“Okay. Let’s go home.”

In that moment, you feel your first headway of clarity. Letting his response sink in. Okay. Let’s go home. That’s all he had to say.

You did go home, but it wasn’t in his car.

The days leading up to your graduation ceremony were headlined with staying away from your house as much as possible. The weekdays were for hogging your friends’ TVs and eating from their fridge as you left for home well past dark, the weekends were when you just wouldn’t return home at all, sleeping over  under the pretense of blowing off steam. Which was true, almost.

You hadn’t seen Chan since that day, the aftermath of the explosion taking over your mind as you did everything to distract yourself from the fact that things would never be the same. Despite it all, you couldn’t help but feel significantly lighter, like a world’s worth of burden had been lifted off your chest. There was nothing to hide anymore.

But you were aware you’d have to face the music today as you adjusted the strap of your nice shoes under your dress and gown, the hat placed on your done hair already slipping. You make a mental note to pin it better. 

It’s easy to let the thought slip away as you make your way to the stage to accept your diploma, the distinct cheers and flashes of a camera from your family in the crowd as you give out a genuine smile. For better or for worse, Chan accepts his while you’re in the process of getting back to your seat, so you don’t see him. 

The grass area is flooded with students and families taking pictures and shedding tears and overflowing with congratulations. Your own parents usher you into a million different poses for the camera; flowers, without flowers, diploma, without diploma, each parent and then both. 

The last one had you forcing a smile, because that’s when the Lee family joins you to take larger group pictures. Chan holds up the camera as you smile at the lens, attempting to forget what lay behind it. 

Then comes the bit you’d been dreading. It’s you, Chan and Geon pushed into frame, to which you manage to push Geon between you two as a saving grace. 

“Now one with just the grads!” Chan’s dad yells out as he ushers you two to get closer. 

You hesitate too outwardly, because Chan is immediately filling the gap and stepping in next to you, flowers in both your hands to occupy them. You were thankful for it, because you’d really be selling the fact that things weren’t okay if they saw how awkward your hands would’ve been. 

It’s easier to avoid him for the rest of the day, even during dinner where you chose to sit on the opposite end of the table from him. You can hardly see him as you eat, joining in on the conversation like normal. 

By the time you’re home and in bed, under your baby blue sheets dark under the lack of light, you half congratulate yourself for avoiding him as good as you did today. Nearly drifting off in contentment before you feel the distinct buzz of your phone. 

Pulling out your phone from under you, you tap the screen to check the notification. 

Your heart is in your throat.

[Chan 12:42 AM]: Can you meet me at the park

All you can do is stare at the digitized letters, blinking furiously like they’d disappear if you shook off the delusion. But all it does is pop up another.

[Chan 12:45 AM]: Please

Please. 

Why were you so simple? 

Getting out of bed, it’s all you can think about. Pulling a zip up over your shirt and shorts, you put on your slippers and leave the house as quietly as possible. 

The walk was hardly five minutes, but it was impossible to not think about what on earth Chan wanted to talk to you about. Scrolling up the chatbox, it was riddled with nothing but the same monotonous texts, this new one glaring like a sore thumb in the midst of your empty, nonexistent relationship. 

The only thing you can hear is the crunch of your own footsteps on the gravel and the thump of your own heartbeat as the park comes into view. All you can see is Chan’s face sitting on the bench waiting for you, his clothes so dark they disappear. There’s a single street light illuminating the area, like a spotlight to the irony of the moment. 

Chan gets up as he sees you. “I didn’t think you’d come. You didn’t answer my text.”

You’re keeping a good ways away from him, needing the space if you were to think clearly. “Why did you ask for me to come here?”

He swallows visibly, the gulp obvious in the way his throat bobs. He presses his lips together, whisker dimples too noticeable to you for comfort. “I just…”

And then you watch him put his hand into his pockets, fiddling around for something. He emerges with a folded piece of paper, wrinkled like it’d been scrunched up and smoothed back out again. You almost think he’s gonna hand it to you, till he unfolds it himself. 

“I’m not…please don’t laugh. I don’t know how to put this into words so I wrote it down. I’m gonna read it off of here, I know how lame this is but I know talking to you is more important. Just, please don’t laugh.”

Chan looks at you, directly at you, like he was waiting for confirmation. Your eyes trail over to the sheet in his hands, his grip on the paper. He almost looks like he’s shaking a little. You try to absorb what’s going on. The tailspin in your mind is the usual with the way it becomes when Chan is around. But through the buzz, you realize this is the first time he’s reaching out.

So you nod. He takes a breath, and begins to speak. 

“I wanted to say sorry for being an ass. I didn’t mean to hurt you by being distant or not talking to you, but I can’t lie and say I wasn’t behaving that way on purpose. When I met you in middle school, I was probably the biggest asshole I ever knew. I never realised it but after that conversation in the parking lot, I thought about how horrible I must’ve made you feel about the things you liked the first day we met. I don’t know why I would avoid you or make things awkward like I did, but it felt like I couldn’t face you without struggling to do it. I didn’t realise how much I liked you till we started practicing in your garage, when you’d show up and talk to the band. It looked like it was fun talking to you, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. And then you disappeared, and I felt disappointed when it wasn’t you who walked in with the trays of snacks anymore. 

All of my friends noticed how I’d never talk to you, and they knew how I felt before I could come to terms with it. They pushed me to start…doing things to show you how I felt. But I don’t think I executed that very well. I didn’t realise how that was making you feel either. And it’s my fault because I just…I just don’t know how to talk to you. I hate that I can’t look you in the eye or the fact that I have to fucking…fucking write this down just so I can talk to you about it. I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry, and that…I do really like you. This doesn’t have to mean anything if you don’t want it to, but I’m trying to be better. I don’t know how to end this, but I hope I’m making sense.”

Chan lets his hands drop, his head following as he takes a long breath in and out. 

“Chan?” you start, voice shaky. He looks up to you, and you see the red that rims his eyes, the bite he has on his lower lip. “Can I hug you?” He answers you by moving forward himself, touching you for the first time as he places his hands on your upper arms tugging you towards him. You’re immediately hugging him, your arms coming around his torso in a tight hug. 

“Don’t think about it, Chan,” you whisper. “Stop thinking.”

Maybe he heeds, because you feel his arms coming around you properly, squeezing you tight. Your face is buried into his neck, breathing him in. You let out a small sob, letting your fingers dig into his back, molding into him. There’s less hesitation in his movements now, and it’s like you can feel the tension leaving him as he melts into your hold. 

Right there, in the middle of the park, it all feels so impossible. From the fact that Lee Chan just said he liked you, that he’s hugging you, or the feeling of his lips on your forehead as you slowly pull away. 

“That was brave of you,” you say, a hint of a smile on your face. 

He smiles too, and your heart swells. “Don’t praise me for talking.”

“I forgive you. Thank you for apologising,” you sigh. Staring up at his face, you do the same thing you’d done for so long at a distance. The lines of his eyes, the low slope of his nose, the deep corners of his mouth. Leaning up, you kiss him on the cheek. “We can figure out the rest together.”

Right at that moment, in the summer before college, freshly graduated and celebrating a close, there was more than one open waiting on the other side. There was an entire summer left to build on what you and Chan didn’t in the past years, and as you’d go to college to try and figure it out all over again, there’s comfort in the fact that you won’t be doing it alone this time. 

[yourdeepestfathoms]

The Larks and Being Sick

Cole

Will still try to push themself to perform, but even they have their limits

Conks the hell out when they’re sick, and they’ll sleep for hours (Perrine thought they died once)

Loses their voice. Thinks they’ll never be able to sing again.

Hand tremors won’t let them play their instrument

Gets flustered easily with a lot of affection and care (like if they have to be spoon fed because they’re too weak to hold a bowl themself)

Tries to deter cuddles because they don’t want to get anyone else sick

Emetophobic, and ends up making themself more sick by stressing out over possibly throwing up

Clementine

Super cuddly when they’re sick (usually SOMEONE gets sick after them because they were cuddling)

Mainly because they get really bad chills, so they just want to snuggle up to someone to keep warm

Quiet and mumbly

However, they will ramble deliriously when their fever gets too high

PILED with blankets (which Perrine will have to confiscate so they don’t get overheated, much to their dismay)

Kingsley

A big whiny baby when he’s sick

SUPER overdramatic

“I’M DYING!!!” “You have a cold.”

There’s sometimes a little bit of a “boy who cried wolf” situation with him, where he dramatizes how sick he is, but the others would never leave him to fend for himself, even after all the stuff he pulls for fun

When he has to be spoon fed because he’s too weak from the sickness, he’ll somehow find the strength to make a joke like “chop, chop, peasant!” (Perrine once considered pouring the water she was helping him drink over him)

When he’s really sick, he’s super lethargic, and it’s jarring to see him so worn out when he’s usually the most energetic in the group

Likes to lay his head into the lap of one of the others so they’ll play with his hair, soothing him

Will sometimes force himself into the lap of one of the others (mainly Perrine because she’s the big sibling of the group)

Perrine

Hates being taken care of, so she will act like she’s perfectly fine (she’s not)

Will refuse any and all help until she physically can’t move anymore—and even then, she’ll be stubborn

Pulls out the “but I’m the oldest!” card whenever anyone tries to take care of her

“You’re sick.” “No, I’m not.” “You’re burning up.” “I’m naturally warm.” “You’re shaking.” “It’s just a little cold.” “You literally just threw up.” “I meant to do that.”

She worries about the others when she’s sick in bed. What if something happens? What if they burn the house down while cooking?

Cuddly when she’s ill, but she doesn’t go out of her way to ask for any affection. However, she certainly won’t refuse any…

Easily becomes a little stir crazy from laying in bed. She also gets bored fast. She’s wasting so much time just laying around!

Wears her mask 24/7 to hide how pale and flushed she is from fever (the mask is making her sweat bullets)

Once threw up on stage and then passed out mid-performance because she underestimated how bad she felt (everyone was in a state of shock. she had to be dragged offstage by Cole and Clementine while Kingsley distracted the crowd)

Another time she was making breakfast for the group and fainted, and when she woke up, she was covered in oatmeal from managing to bring the bowl down with her

Would rather starve or die of dehydration than have one of the others spoon feed her

One time, ALL of the kids were sick at once, but Perrine pushed through it to take care of the others (she felt like death after, but anything for her friends)

[storiesabouteli]

BitterSweet // Elijah Hewson X Reader.

requests: (1) pre-relationship!eli with an incrediblyyy oblivious and socially awkward girl that kinda avoided him bc he’s very charismatic and lowkey a fuckboy so she think he’s fucking with her 😭😭 and eli is tryna pursue her and making it obvious that he takes her really seriously + (2) i was just wondering if you could write an imagine where eli helps the reader with her anxiety / through an anxiety attack or something similar?

words: 3,6K

You had enjoyed the band; they were instrumentally solid, and their lyrics were captivating. Live, they were even better. Eli, drenched to the point that his hair was soaked, let out soft groans in between sung syllables. This was just the soundcheck, and though only a few fans were around, he was performing like it was the real thing.

“Think we can tweak it a bit more?” His voice pulled you back, a warning that you might be getting in over your head. Eli chuckled, eyes trailing over you from top to bottom with a slight smirk. You couldn’t tell if it was meant to intimidate, mock, or if he just found you pathetic.

“Of course,” you replied quietly, certain no one else heard. The walk over felt longer in your mind as the guys watched, and you reached for the guitar in his hands. His swift movement to pull the strap off revealed hints of muscle, all the pale skin and the brief brush of his arm, warm and damp with sweat, replayed in your mind.

“Will you be around?” His voice was deeper, smoother than when he sang, with a lazy edge that was almost too pleasant to listen to. You were getting paid for this entire experience. “It’s my job.” He raised his brows, that same confident grin tugging at his lips. You avoided direct eye contact, though you glanced at him from the corners of your eyes. You didn’t mean to sound so blunt. You were only here to set up the studio for their album recording—a short period, and soon enough, you wouldn’t see them again.

You liked them well enough, but Eli had that vibe of the guy who would’ve bullied you in high school. You thought you were past that. “I’ll be around,” you said more clearly, finally looking him in the eyes. He nodded, making a mental note of your face up close and the matching brand of your boots and his. Your delicate hand passed the guitar back to him, and he couldn’t resist; it was too easy.

“Thanks, pet. I’ll be needing you again soon.” Your gaze dropped quickly as you backed away. Josh overheard and laughed, while Eli turned a bit pink—no regrets, though. You knew guys like him. You’d worked with bands before, and you understood better than to let whatever that was get to you.

…

You only spoke when asked, keeping things strictly professional. Eli was openly watching you, blatantly, if honest. The producers asked you questions now and then, and you always responded, they’d nod and follow your advice right after. Eli already thought you were smart, which only made him more intrigued. You were focused, a little shy, content within your own bubble; he admired that. It was obvious you were fine like that, and he was bothering you, but he didn’t know any other way to approach you.

“Hey, uh…” he started, sitting across from you at lunch. Once again, you were alone, not in a bad way, just enjoying your break. “What’re you listening to?” You lifted one side of your headphones to hear him. He cleared his throat, needing to repeat the question before you could answer.

“It’s not the first time you ignore me like that, and I like it.” You had to bite your lip but still laughed, as if he were too much to believe.

“The Strokes,” you showed him your phone, sipping your Coke. You fidgeted with the strap of your white tank top, which happened to be just like the one he often wore—and was wearing now. Along with the boots, it was oddly charming.

“I love The Strokes, real teenage throwback. What are your favorites?” He smiled wide, a grin he hadn’t seen all day, feeling confident this was going well.

“See? We have so much in common,” he teased, even though, so far, it was just the band and clothes.

“I’m not a big fan,” you shrugged, “I think his voice is lazy and dragged out, not really my style, though the instrumental’s good.” His heart sank a little. You spoke so casually, completely unaware of the impact. Eli hadn’t found flirting so difficult before.

“All right,” he glanced around, watching you look at your empty plate instead of his eyes. “Did you enjoy yesterday? What did you think of the show?”

You briefly thought of the awkward moment adjusting his guitar with everyone watching and how he’d been appearing more and more on your social media—not him directly, but clips of him with fans. You’d even gained some random followers from being spotted with the band. Your feed was flooded with videos of him leaning close to a girl at the edge of the stage, his damp curls brushing her face. She’d clung to him, and he clearly loved the attention, even stopping post-show to chat and connect with everyone. It was an energy you didn’t have. You’d once wanted to be more like him but were now comfortable being reserved. He was just naturally good at it.

Then there was one photo—a girl holding his face in an intimate kiss—that made you pause. A fan captioned that Eli would make a perfect boyfriend, even if they weren’t together anymore. She was gorgeous, and he looked like he belonged with her. Him talking to you felt off, like he was doing it out of pity; you weren’t even on the same page.

“I really enjoyed it. You guys are very good.” You were honest, forcing a smile and pushing away your thoughts to show you meant it.

Eli wasn’t convinced of that. “Good to know. We’re close enough now to hang out and maybe share a cigarette or two.” You looked up at him, his hazel eyes gleaming, his freckles glowing with a hint of blush. He had that high-school-crush look, but it still didn’t make sense.

“Can’t you talk like a normal person?” In your mind, the question hadn’t sounded so hard.

“I don’t know; this way I get to keep talking to you, don’t I?” He raised his brows as looked away, noticing the rest of the band watching from another table. He could be over there, so why wasn’t he?

He dropped a crumpled napkin on the table and waited, saying he’d be persistent later when you just nodded, unsure what to expect. You were about to speak, and it was warming to see him actually paying attention, his caramel eyes fixed on you, his whole body focused—until he nudged the table, spilling half of the Coke onto your white top.

“Sorry,” his accent thickened, sending a jolt of anxiety through you. People glanced over, and Eli began wiping the spot, his hand brushing over the stain.

“It’s not helping,” you said, touching his shoulder. “Eli, it’s fine; you’re just making it worse.” Your firm tone made him stop, realizing you were right.

You crossed your arms over your chest, feeling a little embarrassed, and he quickly noticed. Without hesitation, he shrugged off his black button-down and handed it over for you to wear. It wasn’t like you could refuse; you still had the whole afternoon before you could head home and change.

“Sorry, like, the flirting’s intentional, yeah, but I wouldn’t ever mean to harm you.”

You fiddled with his shirt, playing with the buttons. It smelled nice. He was now in a tank top like yours, and you remembered mentioning how you liked his arms before to the voices inside your head.

You cleared the table, picking up his napkin too, and he watched as you tossed his number into the trash on your way out.

“These things happen, I guess,” he chuckled, getting the closest he’d come to a genuine smile from you. The lighthearted way you suggested he’d done it on purpose; if he’d known that smile would come out, he certainly would have.

“Don’t worry. I’ll give it back,” you reassured him, grateful he wasn’t phased by the incident, though disappointed the conversation had ended, even if it wasn’t going great. At least it was something, and he got to appreciate how well his shirt suited you the rest of the day.

“It’s yours now, ma’am.”

…

At home, you made yourself dinner, still wearing his shirt. Sure, you told yourself it was just because of the chill, but deep down, you knew you wanted his scent—cologne mixed with a hint of cigarettes—lingering around you. Despite your reluctance, you eventually washed and dried it to return it properly. As you lay down in bed, a wave of mental relief washed over you, savoring the solitude after spending nearly the whole day with them fine-tuning songs. You picked up your phone, intending to scroll until you drifted off, when an Instagram notification popped up. Opening it, you saw he’d followed you and even sent a message. You set your phone aside for a moment, feeling like he was physically there; somehow, it made no difference.

When you accepted the request and opened the DM, the first thing you saw was a picture: a can of Diet Coke spilling onto his jeans, captioned with, “Thinking of you.” You couldn’t help but laugh softly to yourself. Eli probably thought it was funny—maybe it was, in a way. “You there? Am I getting ignored online too?” It made you realize you'd left the chat open, staring blankly. “Sorry, was busy,” you replied, though you instantly regretted it, realizing you could've been friendlier.

The typing dots popped up again, followed by, “With something more important than me?” You had to admit, his shameless confidence was quite charming. “Washing your shirt to return it. Hopefully, you won’t try that again xx,” you replied, heart-reacting to the Coke photo he’d sent. You didn’t want him to think you were actually ignoring him. After a pause, just as you were about to drift off, his final message came through. It was a voice note, low tone, a little sleepy, smooth.

“Uh, don’t see the problem, you know? Got to talk to you, and now you’ll return my shirt with your scent on it. You’re making this hard for me.” You could practically hear him smiling through the words, and once again, you found yourself grinning into your blankets.

…

You know those days that just aren't good? Your eyes ached, and there was a sharp pain in your head. Before entering the studio, some girls in Inhaler shirts were gathered near the entrance. They greeted you, and you nodded back, answering a few quick questions about them. You were polite, so one of them handed you her number, asking if you could give it to Eli. You took the slip of paper—it seemed routine, as if he received these often. She was beautiful. Your mind wandered to the number of girls chasing after him, not just here, but everywhere.

"Bobby’s sick; they’re not coming in today." One of the producers announced, and you felt a bit guilty for being relieved. Today, you didn't want to see anyone. It was hard to explain—if you knew how to avoid it, you would. Your chest felt like it was being crushed, heart racing, the familiar grip of anxiety that you just couldn’t make stop. As you thought about leaving, it hit you that you'd have to pass by those girls outside and take the bus home alone. You also worried about the delay in recordings, though you didn’t think Bobby should be there if he was unwell.

"Uh, you here by yourself? We won’t be recording today; thought someone might’ve told you. I just needed to grab my stuff." Eli shook his lighter, a rescuer in disguise. You held a cigarette between your fingers, hoping it would distract you, but you were restless, tapping your boot on the floor and fumbling in your pocket for your own lighter to no avail. He didn’t seem to notice anything wrong—at least he didn’t show it. His curls were perfectly in place, his jacket pulled over his arms, and that familiar, inviting smile. He’d clearly spent some time talking outside.

You opened your mouth, numb lips struggling to hide how off you felt, but no words came. He stepped close, his rings catching the light, and you focused on how nice his hand looked—a random, sudden thought that made you frown slightly. "Let me help," he whispered, his minty breath brushing your face. With the cigarette at your lips, you kept patting your jeans for the lighter. This was the closest you’d ever been to Eli; his fringe touched your forehead, and you realized how easily you could rest your head on his shoulder if you just leaned in. He sparked the lighter, holding it to your cigarette, his scent dizzying. His hand brushed your shoulder, and you wanted more. His calm eyes took in your vacant look as his fingers traced down your arm. For the first time, you couldn’t look at anything but his steady gaze. His freckles seemed to judge you silently, wondering why you had no control over yourself.

Seeing you weren’t taking a drag, he pulled the cigarette from your lips and placed it in his. "You can hear me, right?" His thumb brushed your palm, and you focused on your breathing as your eyes began to water. Eli was patient, his calm presence grounding you as you tried to steady yourself. Holding your hand, he gently pressed it to his chest so you could feel his heartbeat—thankfully steady. He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. "Feel that, love?" Closing your eyes, still feeling overwhelmed, you listened to his words. "Just breathe with me. You’re not alone; it’s all gonna be fine." His voice was a balm, and slowly, it started to sink in.

"You’re doing great; you wouldn’t even need me here," he said softly, matching your small laugh with his own. Your knees gave way slightly, and he held you by the waist, you were closer than ever before. "We can just sit here until you’re alright, yeah?" You nodded, sinking to the floor beside him, surrounded by a few guitars. You toyed with the rings on his fingers, finding it a welcome distraction, and he didn’t mind. Exhausted, as you always seemed to feel, Eli noticed your tired, red eyes and pulled you against him. It was only his shoulder, but you let yourself lean in. He took a drag from the cigarette, ready to toss it aside to focus on you, but you took it from him, repeating his movements.

"So, that’s our first kiss," he murmured, his usual flirty tone and smug grin returning. He seemed proud. "What?" you muttered, throat sore, but he didn’t need to hear it; he saw it on your lips. His free hand slid along your back, keeping you close, wanting to distract you from your own mind. He was good at it.

"The cigarette’s a swap of saliva, right? That counts." You wrinkled your nose, thinking how typical it was for him to come up with something like that. You put out the cigarette, tossing the butt away. Nicotine didn’t help much, but it was something—it was human nature, and you understood that. He noticed your shy smile, his effect on you having its way. "Not funny, Eli. I don’t get why you do this," you murmured, exhaustion pulling your eyes closed, though you stayed nestled against his soft shoulder. He swallowed, realizing you weren’t playing a game; you were just oblivious.

"One of the fans outside even gave me her number to give to you." Your tone was gentle, though the crumpled paper in your hand suggested you had some opinion on it. "You think I’m just messing around with you?" He took your face in his hand, studying your troubled eyes. "Why would I do that? I wouldn’t flirt with you if I didn’t mean it. I don’t know how to be more obvious."

The firmness in his voice cut through like the edge of a blade. Now it was his turn to look at you like a puzzle piece he couldn’t quite figure out. You stared at him like he’d just spoken in another language, your brow furrowing in confusion. “Aren’t you? I mean… isn’t this just, like, a thing you do? Flirt with people for fun?” Oddly enough he was still comfortable, Eli could be anything but scary.

He looked at you, serious, shaking his head slightly, as if letting you slip through his fingers was out of the question.

Eli raised an eyebrow, his grin slipping. “Is that what you think of me?”

You fidgeted with the sleeve of his jacket, avoiding his gaze. “I don’t know. I mean, you’re… you know…” Your voice dropped as if admitting the truth was embarrassing. “You’re you.”

He leaned closer, his voice low but insistent. “And what if ‘me’ wants you? What if I’m serious ‘bout this?”

Your eyes shot up to his, wide and startled, but you quickly looked away. “You’re not.”

“Yeah, I am,” Eli said, his gaze more serious now, one of those looks you couldn’t avoid. “I don’t just flirt with everyone. I don’t chase people. But I’m chasing you. What’s it gonna take for you to get that?”

His chest had been racing, but it started to calm as he took in your parted lips and the tears lingering in your eyes. He knew he was overwhelming you at a tough moment, and he hated that. His fingertips traced the bridge of your nose, lightly outlining your soft lines, enjoying how close you allowed him to be. “Are you okay, little one?” he asked softly, the edge of his jacket brushing your cheek to wipe away the last of your tears.

“Yeah,” you replied, the incident finally slipping away as you looked back at him, unable to focus on anything else. His careful eyes, the freckles scattered like constellations, each carrying its own name that you gave them—it was hard to think of anything but them. “God, I must’ve been such an idiot, right?”

He chuckled, his laugh warm and steady against you. Then, he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, gentle but grounding, repeating it a few times as if to anchor you. You rested your head against his chest, nestling your face there, feeling the safety of his warmth. Your arms wrapped around his waist, a quiet comfort settling in.

“You weren’t an idiot. If anything, I’ve been bugging you since I got here.” You murmured a soft agreement, and he laughed again.

“But it worked, didn’t it? What do you say?”

You hid yourself a bit more in his embrace, feeling good, as he held you close, content to be your shield.

…

There was a comfortable weight draped over you, not unpleasant in the slightest. Your legs were tangled up with his, and you could feel his breath against your shoulder, soon followed by a series of light kisses and playful bites. You laughed into him, accepting your fate, and hugged him tighter. “Good morning,” he murmured, his voice sounding even better with that just-woke-up rasp. You glanced around, fully taking in the scene. His hand rested on your waist, his touch warm, and he was amazing at reading you, always respecting your pace.

“No one’s here yet. I’m not about to get you in trouble.” You smiled back at him, genuinely relieved.

“So you’re gonna hide us from them, huh?” he teased. “Hurts my feelings a little, y’know?” You looked down at your feet, ready to counter him, but before you could, his face was close again. He pressed a soft, wet kiss to your cheek. His messy curls tickled you, and you ended up laughing.

“When I make you nervous like this…” he traced his thumb along your hands, which were colder than your hot cheeks. “Is it a bad thing? Does it bother you?”

You met his gaze, smiling with your lip caught between your teeth. “I like how you talk to me, Eli. I just… don’t know how to deal with it right away.”

He nodded, his smile warm. “Good. I like that—it’s cute how you don’t know what to do with yourself.”

So effortlessly, he pulled the same reaction from you as before. The two of you kept talking, stealing these quiet moments before anyone arrived. Eli picked up on your hesitance with him, knowing you thought he was too charismatic for someone like you. But he also made it clear he didn’t mind your quieter world; he’d be just as happy living in it if you’d have him there.

Later that day, you ended up with his jacket draped over your shoulders and his hand resting gently on your back. You got to listen Bobby complimented you, saying you were better at adjusting his bass than any of the past techs they’d worked with. The way he talked about you was similar to how Eli did, which made you suspect Eli had already mentioned you to them before, even without knowing you well yet. None of them questioned your sudden closeness with Eli, not even when he introduced you like they didn’t all already know who you were. They were welcoming, you felt at ease.

 Eli’s hand slipped from your waist slowly, your smile softening as he looked at you. He was enjoying the way things were going. “I’m gonna grab us some food,” he said, tilting your chin up and pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “And a Diet Coke too.”

 You grinned, your smile so wide it showed all your teeth. “Want me to come with you?” Before either of you could say more, Ryan appeared with a question about drum kits, and Eli could see in your eyes that you wanted to answer.

 “I’ll be right back, I promise, little one,” he chuckled, leaving you with them. Minutes later, Ryan mentioned, “It’s great that Eli managed to finally talk to you. We’ve been hoping to catch you since that project you worked on with Miles.”

 The statement was so casual that you raised your eyebrows, realizing it had been over two years since that project—quite some time if you thought about it. “You guys were looking for me?”

 Ryan nodded, as if it were obvious. “Actually, Elijah suggested it. He’s into the albums you worked on. It took a while—you’re not exactly easy to track down.” You laughed, looking at them, struck by how Eli had admired your work for much longer than you’d ever realized. You’d thought he was out of reach, yet he’d appreciated your work from the start.

 “Don’t break our boy’s heart, alright? We’d have to side with you then, but we’d rather not,” Josh added with a smirk, and you felt your face heat up just as Eli returned, grinning, with a Diet Coke and fries in hand.

 You figured maybe you could handle this, after all.

[skzdelf]

Rockstar | Hwang Hyunjin

⭑ PAIRING: Hwang Hyujin x f.reader

⭑ CONTENT: Guitarrist!Hyunjin - Singer!reader - Band!Au - Drummer!Felix - Bassist!Bangchan

⭑ SYNOPSIS: Hyunjin, the talented guitarist of a rising rock band, lives life on the edge, captivating the hearts of fans both on stage and behind the scenes. Watching him flirt and hook up with fans breaks your heart, but you hide your feelings behind your close friendship. One night, frustrated and jealous, you confront him.

⭑ WARNING: Panic attack - Jealousy - mention of drugs - slightly smut - swearing

⭑ WORDCOUNT: 3k (3000)

⭒☆━━━✰━━━☆⭒

Fever Bloom, the high school band you put together with your best friend and, at the time, a few strangers from neighboring classes who, like you and your friend, needed extra credit to pass a class, was just minutes away from playing its biggest show yet.

For some reason, the band had gained quite a bit of attention, which allowed all of you to keep going and reach where you were today.

Although everyone was very talented at what they did, whether it was singing or playing one or multiple instruments, you still couldn’t quite understand how, two years after finishing high school, you were about to perform with the band in a venue with a capacity of up to 6,000 people.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t nervous, because, damn, you were absolutely scared out of your mind.

You’d had enough rehearsals that the night before, you’d been relaxed enough to get a good night’s sleep; but peeking through the curtain to look at the audience had been the worst idea you’d ever had.

Your bandmates were already on stage, either walking around or settling into their spots, as the curtain would rise and the show would begin in just 20 minutes.

A tightness started building in your chest, your breathing grew unsteady, and sweat began to bead on your skin. You tried to keep your composure in front of your bandmates so they wouldn’t worry.

But Hyunjin, your best friend, already holding his guitar, set his eyes on you. After so many years of friendship, it was no surprise that you were an open book to him—especially with your face being so expressive all the time.

Whether you were happy, annoyed, angry, sad, or surprised, you could always express your feelings through your facial expressions, even if you tried to hide it.

You met his eyes, but you couldn’t make out his expression clearly due to the tears welling up in yours, blurring your vision. Quickly, you looked away and rushed backstage.

You could faintly hear the sound of his boots behind you as the world began spinning around you.

You stumbled into what you assumed was the dressing room—luckily, you were right—and quickly went to a corner of the room, hugging yourself tightly as you tried to steady your breathing.

You heard the door open again in the distance. Your eyes were closed, and your head was tilted slightly back, but the oxygen just wasn’t reaching your lungs.

Suddenly, warmth flooded your back as a pair of lean but muscular arms wrapped around you. He rested his head on your shoulder as yours fell against his chest.

“Easy, I’m here with you,” Hyunjin murmured in a low whisper, his lips brushing your ear as his hands gently stroked your arms.

Panic attacks didn’t happen often, but when they did, Hyunjin was usually there to comfort you and help you calm down.

You shook your head, unable to say a word. A sigh escaped your lips, and your trembling hands reached for his, squeezing them as if to make sure he was there, to reassure yourself you weren’t alone.

“I need you to breathe, okay? Just, focus on my voice. I’m right here; I’m not leaving you,” he continued, speaking words of support while holding you in his arms, radiating warmth and concern.

A couple of tears fell from your eyes as, little by little, you began to hear your surroundings clearly again and started breathing, weakly and in short, uneven breaths.

You could feel Hyunjin’s racing heartbeat against your ear. You hated putting him in these situations; you didn’t like worrying him, and you didn’t like showing such vulnerability to him.

“Th-thank you,” you whispered in a shaky breath, adjusting your posture and gently releasing his hands.

“We can delay the show if that’s what you need, until you feel better,” he said, still holding you in his arms as if trying to keep you from breaking, as if you were a porcelain doll.

“N-no, it’s not necessary. I just need some water, please.” He let go of you and took your hand, gently guiding you to the couch in the dressing room so you could sit down, and you did.

He left you alone for a moment to grab a bottle of water. You could hear the voice of your drummer, Felix, and Hyunjin’s voice in the hallway. Felix was asking about your whereabouts, letting him know there were only 10 minutes left before the show.

Hyunjin reentered the room with a cold bottle of water in his pale hand. You lifted your gaze from your knees and subtly looked him over.

He looked stunning. He was wearing an oversized red jacket with a thick, soft texture that draped over his shoulders with the effortless confidence of someone who owns their style. The dark stripes crossing it seemed to intensify the color, giving him a fierce, untamed vibe, as if the garment itself echoed his personality.

Under the jacket, his tank top was barely visible. With each movement, the jacket’s fabric flowed freely, while its sleeves fell over his arms like a waterfall, surrounding him in an aura of nonchalance.

His pants, black and fitted, had numerous rips that broke up the monotony of the smooth fabric. The slashes at the knees revealed flashes of skin, a detail that added a rebellious touch.

Completing the outfit, he wore black boots. The chains decorating his ankles gleamed under the light.

In his hair, a pair of red sunglasses added the final touch, wrapping him in an air of mystery. The red of the sunglasses, in tune with the jacket, completed the look with a harmony that felt powerful, as if the whole outfit was designed to make a statement.

Your best friend was simply an incredible person—kind, talented, and handsome. With a strong personality, sometimes arrogant, other times playful. You loved him with all your heart, but at the end of the day, he was just that—your best friend.

Nothing had ever happened between the two of you, but you couldn’t help feeling jealous when he gave attention to another woman, knowing how attractive he is and his ability to have any woman at his feet—including you.

He handed you the bottle, and you took it, sipping calmly. He sat next to you, his ripped jeans brushing against your thigh, exposed by the skirt you wore for the performance.

“Are you sure you’re okay? We can—we can reschedule” he repeated, his dark eyes locking onto yours.

“We’re not rescheduling anything. It wouldn’t be fair to all the people who paid for this. Besides, I’m already feeling better. Thanks for being here with me, Hyun,” you gave him a soft smile, and he patted your head, smiling back.

You both got up from the couch and walked slowly down the backstage hallway towards the stage again. Through the curtain, you could hear the crowd’s shouts—cheering for you, arguing with each other, or chatting with their friends.

You positioned yourself in front of the microphone stand at the front of the stage, with Hyunjin a few feet to your right, slinging on his metallic gray electric guitar with a sharp, edgy design.

You turned to look at the other band members. Felix was twirling his drumsticks between his pale fingers, nodding slightly as if to make sure everything was set; you nodded back in his direction.

To your left, Chan was adjusting his in-ear monitor, with his bass already strapped across his torso.

He gave you a friendly look. The guy wore a bright red leather jacket adorned with metal studs. The jacket was open, revealing a white T-shirt with red details that looked like paint splatters or graffiti, adding an urban touch. The shirt’s collar was crisscrossed with laces. His look was completed by a silver chain necklace hanging from his neck and small pieces of jewelry that added character to his style. Meanwhile, his baggy black pants, held up by a thick belt with metal accents, fit snugly around his hips.

Everyone was in their respective positions, lost in their own worlds, ready to perform the biggest show of their small career.

With trembling hands, you took the microphone—still off—between your sweaty palms, exhaling constantly to clear your troubled mind.

The purple curtain opened in front of you, the colorful spotlights flashed on, blinding you for a moment, and the crowd’s screams hit you like an euphoric stampede.

Although your band had many original songs you’d composed together, as well as some created individually, you and your fans enjoyed covering songs from other artists.

Tonight, you planned to play Salvation by The Cranberries. You were especially excited to perform this song since it’s one of your favorites, and you hoped the crowd would enjoy it too.

The show began, with the first songs led by Chan and Hyunjin as they moved across the stage, gesturing and occasionally approaching the edge. Most of the loud cheers were from the female fans, and they got even louder whenever Chan winked at the audience or whenever Hyunjin… whenever he did anything at all—absolutely anything he did drew screams from women and men alike.

They carried the first part of the show while you were still somewhat lost in your own thoughts, not wanting to look out at the cheering audience in front of you.

After the third song, when you felt Hyunjin approach to encourage you while playing his guitar, you started to loosen up.

You moved around the stage, dancing, singing more clearly, and joining your bandmates to sing in unison.

At times, your voice would break, making it sharper in certain parts of the songs and adding a personalized touch.

By the end of the tenth song, you were completely liberated, your once-styled hair now in a messy ponytail from shaking your head while dancing. After taking a sip of water, you stepped up to the mic to shout.

“Are you still with us, Tokyo?” The crowd cheers and jumps in place, pushing each other, cigarette smoke visible against the colorful lights.

“Tonight we’ve got a cover we hope you’ll really enjoy,” you say, as the crowd erupts in excitement and your bandmates return to their starting positions. “By the way, it’s one of my favorite songs,” you wink at the crowd.

Felix and Hyunjin begin playing their instruments simultaneously, and a few seconds later, Chan and you join in.

Felix’s remarkable talent on the drums elevates the experience even more. While your voice wasn’t identical to Dolores O’Riordan’s, you aimed to pay tribute to her skills.

It was a song with a great beat and meaningful lyrics against drug use, showing that the freedom one seeks won’t be found in illegal substances.

When the song ended, the crowd applauded with satisfaction and energy, calling for another cover that, unfortunately, you couldn’t give them.

“I’m sorry to say this will be our last song of the night,” you said, seeing on the screens how Felix pouted and Chan made a face. For the first time that night, the crowd booed and protested.

While you gave a short speech, Hyunjin helped the sound crew set up a stand and microphone in front of him; for the last song, he’d be doing some backing vocals to support your voice.

“I hope you’ve enjoyed this amazing night as much as we have. This is Neon Heartbeats.”

Chan’s bass began to play, and a few moments later, you started singing. Hyunjin and Felix joined in, giving the song a heavier, more energetic beat.

Hyunjin started singing with you while still playing guitar. You took the microphone off the stand and approached him, your bright eyes meeting his dark, shining ones.

You continued singing in unison, leaning back against him as the long-anticipated guitar solo approached.

When Hyunjin’s moment to shine came, he moved away from you, focusing intently on each string that his long, skilled fingers needed to play. He approached the edge of the stage, jumped down to the space between the barricades and stage, getting closer to the fans as he continued his solo, lifting his head to make eye contact with the fans, who practically threw themselves against the barricade trying to touch him.

You knew he loved that attention, and you couldn’t help feeling a rush of jealousy; liking your best friend was tough—especially when he was such a flirty maleslut.

You held it together in the moment, and when his solo ended, you resumed singing, now focusing on Chan, who was smiling brightly as he played his bass strings frenetically.

Felix hit his last beats on the drums and cymbals, bringing the song to a close. The crowd roared, wanting more, but after an hour and a half of performing, all you wanted was to collapse and rest.

With Hyunjin back on stage, he stood beside you, and the four of you lined up at the front of the stage, bowing in gratitude as the curtain fell in front of you, finally allowing you to breathe easy.

With wide smiles, you hugged Felix, laughing and bouncing in place as you embraced. Chan approached, telling you how well you’d done, and you returned the compliment.

With Hyunjin, things were even more awkward—at least on your end. He approached to hug you, but you subtly dodged him, giving him an uncomfortable smile. Before escaping backstage with the rest of your team, you noticed the way he furrowed his brow.

You stormed down the hall toward your dressing room, almost furious. You couldn’t get out of your head how Hyunjin had bitten his lower lip while face-to-face with a fan during his guitar solo.

You wanted to slam his head into the wall—or yours, or that girl’s, or anyone who got in your way.

Once inside, you shut the door forcefully and started furiously taking off your accessories, tossing them onto the vanity next to your makeup.

The door opened again behind you, and in the mirror’s reflection, you saw Hyunjin walk in, his hair messy and a little damp on his forehead. He closed the door behind him and made eye contact with you through the mirror.

“What is wrong with you?!” Hyunjin exclaimed, a flash of anger and confusion in his expression, his dark eyes piercing through the glass at you.

“Nothing, what are u talking about?” You continued taking off your accessories, specifically the choker you were wearing, which seemed to tighten more as the situation intensified.

“Then why the hell are you ignoring me?” he seemed very upset, his furrowed brow and clenched fists.

“Im not. You are talking nonsense”

At this point, you couldn’t hold his gaze anymore, that intense look filled with mixed emotions, seeming to want to pry into your mind.

“You aren’t even looking at me!” he exclames

“Because I can’t fucking stand your face right now,” you muttered, loud enough for him to hear.

“What the fuck are you saying?” he started to raise his voice, walking toward you with long, determined strides. In seconds, he was right in front of you.

“Because every time I look at your fucking face, I can’t think about anything but you practically making out with some random fan right in front of me!” you practically yelled at his face, lifting your head slightly to meet his eyes because of the height difference.

He stared at you with an unreadable expression, and you could almost see the gears turning in his head as he thought of what to say.

“And why is that a problem?” he asked in a softer, more relaxed tone. The bastard wanted you to admit it out loud.

“It shouldn’t be a problem, but my feelings for you make it really complicated,” you confessed abruptly. Hyunjin’s eyes widened in surprise not thinking you would confess that easily, while yours squeezed shut, feeling heat rise to your cheeks.

A few minutes of silence passed, filled only by the sound of your mixed breaths.

You felt Hyunjin’s cool hand rest on your cheek, tracing a soft caress down to your chin. From there, his thumb rose to your lower lip, leaving delicate touches and strokes.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he whispered, a sigh escaping his lips after he uttered that word so tenderly.

You opened your eyes, finding yourself gazing into the brightest, most loving eyes you’d ever seen. His gaze moved from your eyes to your lips and back up again.

“You look so fucking hot when you’re jealous,” He spoke in an even lower tone, his voice growing deeper. He smiled, pressing his full lips to yours, completely taking you by surprise with both his words and his sudden action.

Once you snapped back to reality, you returned his kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck as your fingers tangled in his hair.

His hands traveled to your waist, gripping it as he took a few steps forward, pinning your lower back against the vanity.

The kiss grew more intense, with Hyunjin gently biting your lower lip and pulling away, causing a small gasp to escape from your lips.

“I like you too, pretty girl,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to yours, his hand softly caressing your waist. You felt the warmth radiating from his body against yours. “How could I not fall for the most magnificent girl in the world?”

Your eyes met his again, filled with both wonder and affection. His beautiful dark eyes, framed by long lashes—still with your hand buried in his blond hair—you pulled his head toward you, bringing your worlds together once more that night.

⭒☆━━━✰━━━☆⭒

Hope you enjoyed it!!

Please don’t forget to reblog or like!!!

DO NOT COPY, REPUBLISH OR TRANSLATE MY WORK PLEASE

[knoepfl]

A Touch of Chaos

Characters

• Viktor: Ambitious and sarcastic Piltover inventor, physically frail but brilliant.

• Jayce Talis: Charismatic and confident inventor, Viktor’s partner and friend.

• Reader (Y/N): Viktor’s bold and resourceful Zaunite girlfriend, sharp-witted and unafraid to challenge him.

Trigger Warnings

• Mild Conflict: Teasing and light arguments between characters.

• Physical Disability: References to Viktor’s frailty and cane use.

• Mild Danger: Mentions of risky behavior in Zaun.

• Class Divide: Subtle Piltover/Zaun disparities.

• Romantic Themes: Affectionate moments between Viktor and Y/N.

Masterlist

Words: 1098

---

Progress Day always brought Piltover to life. The streets brimmed with excitement, dazzling lanterns illuminating merchant stalls and Hextech displays. Music swelled from every corner, laughter echoing off polished stone buildings as inventors flaunted their latest innovations.

Viktor never cared much for the festivities themselves—Progress Day was a spectacle more than substance—but this year, it served a purpose. One he wasn’t sure he entirely enjoyed.

“Would you slow down?” Jayce called from behind him, shoving his way through the festival crowd.

“I am slow,” Viktor shot back dryly, his cane tapping against the cobblestones. He glanced back at his companion. “You are just slow in the head.”

Jayce let out an exaggerated groan. “Why are you in such a hurry, anyway? Where are we going?”

Viktor didn’t answer immediately. His gaze shifted toward the edge of the festival, where the glow of the lanterns began to fade into quieter streets. “There is someone I would like you to meet.”

Jayce blinked, taking a moment to process. “Wait. You want me to meet someone?” He rushed to Viktor’s side, eyes narrowing. “You’re not secretly working with another partner, are you? I thought I was irreplaceable.”

Viktor huffed, shaking his head. “Not another partner. Someone far more… important.”

“Important?” Jayce teased, a grin spreading across his face. “Is Viktor finally introducing me to a girl?”

Viktor gave him a sidelong look, unimpressed. “If you continue to speak, I may regret bringing you along at all.”

Jayce raised his hands in surrender, though his grin remained. “Alright, alright. I’ll behave.”

---

The place Viktor led him to wasn’t a dimly lit lab or a back-alley workshop—no, it was a quieter corner of the festival where street performers played unfamiliar instruments, and merchants peddled more eclectic wares. The people here were a mix of Piltover and Zaun—an odd fusion of refinement and grit.

And then he saw her.

You stood with one foot perched against a crate, arms crossed loosely as you scanned the crowd with a sharp, discerning gaze. Your outfit—a mix of Zaunite function and personal flair—set you apart from the polished festivalgoers. Tools and vials peeked out of your belt, green chem-grease streaking the edge of your sleeves. Despite it all, you looked comfortable here—like the chaos of the world bent around you.

The moment you spotted Viktor, your demeanor shifted. A smile, genuine and bright, crossed your face as you pushed off the crate and crossed toward him.

“There’s my genius,” you said warmly, your voice cutting through the noise as you closed the space between you.

Viktor’s faint smile—rare and fleeting—appeared as you leaned in to kiss his cheek. “You are too kind,” he murmured, though the pleased tilt of his lips said he didn’t mind the praise.

You lingered close to him, your hand brushing briefly against his arm before your gaze flicked toward Jayce, who watched the exchange with open curiosity.

“So this is the famous Jayce Talis,” you said, cocking your head as you looked him up and down. “Vik said you were hard to miss.”

Jayce straightened slightly, a bit thrown by your tone. “And you are…?”

“This is Y/N,” Viktor said simply, gesturing toward you. “My… partner.”

Jayce blinked. “Partner?” He turned to Viktor, eyes wide. “You mean like—”

“Yes, Jayce,” Viktor interjected, sparing him the awkward clarification. “My girlfriend.”

Jayce froze for a beat before a grin spread across his face. “Well, this is unexpected.” He extended his hand toward you. “Nice to meet you, Y/N.”

You looked at his hand for a moment—just long enough to make Jayce shift uncomfortably—before taking it with a firm shake. “Likewise, golden boy.”

The nickname caught him off guard. “Golden boy?”

“Your reputation precedes you,” you teased, though your gaze was sharp. “Vik talks about you all the time. Says you’re brilliant—but a little reckless.”

Jayce let out a breath of laughter, glancing at Viktor. “Reckless, huh?”

Viktor, looking far too pleased, nodded. “It is not an inaccurate description.”

Jayce rolled his eyes. “Right. Because you’re always so careful.”

You laughed, a bright sound that caught Viktor’s attention. “He has a point, Vik. You wouldn’t know ‘careful’ if it hit you with a wrench.”

“I recall you hitting me with a wrench once,” Viktor muttered, but there was no bite to his words—just familiarity.

You grinned at him, tilting your head fondly. “You were being stubborn.”

Jayce watched the two of you interact, finally piecing together the dynamic. There was an easiness here, a softness in Viktor that Jayce wasn’t used to seeing. You poked at him, teased him, and yet… Viktor let you. More than that—he looked comfortable.

“So, how did you two meet?” Jayce asked, curiosity overtaking him.

You smirked, eyes glinting mischievously. “He wandered into Zaun like he owned the place. Nearly got himself gassed fixing a broken pump. I saved him.”

Viktor shot you a pointed look. “I was fine.”

“You were stubborn,” you corrected, nudging his arm gently. “You’re lucky I like you.”

Viktor’s faint smile returned. “Luck has little to do with it.”

Jayce stared between the two of you, stunned. “You’re serious? Viktor nearly—?”

“Viktor gets in plenty of trouble when left unsupervised,” you said lightly, slipping your hand into the crook of his arm. Viktor didn’t react, save for a glance at you that held an undeniable softness. “That’s why I keep him around. Someone has to stop him from blowing himself up.”

“I do not blow myself up,” Viktor muttered, though the way you squeezed his arm suggested you’d heard this argument before.

Jayce let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Well, you’re definitely a change of pace.”

You grinned at him, sharp and unbothered. “You’re not so bad yourself, golden boy.”

Viktor glanced at Jayce, his voice low and dry as he said, “I warned you.”

Jayce huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he took in the sight of you and Viktor. There was something unpolished and unpredictable about you—chaos in the middle of Piltover’s perfection—but you brought out something in Viktor that Jayce hadn’t even realized was missing.

“Well,” Jayce said finally, his grin returning, “at least she keeps you on your toes.”

Viktor glanced at you, his eyes softening. “She does,” he admitted quietly.

You smiled, leaning into him just slightly. “And you love it.”

Viktor’s lips quirked faintly upward. “Perhaps.”

Jayce threw up his hands in defeat, a laugh escaping him. “You know what? I like her.”

“Good,” you replied, smirking. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Viktor’s quiet smile lingered, and for once, Jayce didn’t have anything clever to say.

---

[fushiguruuzzzz]

+ CHAPTER SIX // GROUPIES 

series mlist 

Tags — alcohol, Toge highkey jumpscares yn like he’s from fnaf, “he’s right behind me isn’t he… 😟” type moment, that’s all I think?? Words — 1.0k 

It took you a moment to realize what was going on. The lighting in the rustic, shabby bar was dim, just barely casting a glow over the sharp edges of the many faces before you. Nobody should’ve expected you to be paying attention to that, your only duty was to keep your voice melodic and make sure you didn’t trip on the chord of the microphone. You failed to notice the odd glances shared by the instrument players behind you, as well as the eyes wide as saucers staring at you from the farthest wall. 

Only when the set was over and you finally got a chance to breathe—or so you thought—did you get an inkling of awareness. You were leant against the battered wood of the bar, the material oddly cool compared to your flushed skin as you waited for your drink. Nobara was beside you, mindlessly chattering away about the rip in her favourite skirt or the way a guy in her class was looking at her, but then her expression changed. She glanced anxiously behind you, making motions with her head that were meant to be some sort of signal but ended up making her look like some sort of challenged bird. 

“Y/n,” she gritted, eyes narrowing. “Be…hind… you…” 

Your head turned, but you didn’t even get a glimpse of him before he spoke. His voice was teasing, but it cut through the background noise like a gunshot in the midst of a quiet night. “So this is why you couldn’t go out with me?” 

Nobara’s eyes widened, but there was a knowing gleam in them that told you she had this all figured out. She might’ve seemed dull, a hot-headed, fashion obsessed girl concerned with nothing much, but there were more layers to her than her well-coordinated outfits. “I’ll leave you to it,” she smirked. She swiped her drink from the counter, and then all that was left of her was spilled droplets of her overly fruity beverage. 

You turned, meeting his eye. Your hip pressed into the wood, casual and inviting as you smiled. “If I denied that, would you believe me?” 

He shook his head, a huff of amusement leaving him. In the low lights, his hair reflected a soft gold, his skin looking smooth and ivory. He looked… good. Really good. You barely knew him, yet it was taking everything in you not to reach out, to run your hands over the sharp ridges of his face, stare into the soft, purple eyes that looked at you now. You’d never taken much interest in boys, never giggled and gossiped with the other girls at sleepovers while you painted your nails and braided each other’s hair. Toge seemed to flip that 180°, to give you that giddy feeling in your stomach that you’d grown to know as butterflies, but never felt personally. Not until now, at least. 

He leaned forward just a small bit, almost unnoticeable, almost involuntary. His face didn’t show it, but he could feel his heart pulsing in his ears. “You know, I figured this—” he motioned to the stage, microphone sitting prettily where you’d been standing just minutes before.  “—would be something worth mentioning. An ice breaker, maybe?” 

Your chest rose and fell with a quiet chuckle, one that couldn’t be heard beneath the clinking of glasses and drunken chatter. “But then I’d lose my mysterious allure, wouldn’t I?” 

“No offence, but I’m pretty sure stuttering over text cancels that out,” he shot back. His lips curled up into a grin, wide and genuine. You two seemed to be on the same frequency, something new and refreshing and undeniably enticing, growing with every retort. You laughed, and he felt his smile grow until it hurt his cheeks. “I can’t say I’m any better, though,” he admitted, leaning an elbow on the corner of the bar. 

“I know.” 

His brows knitted together in playful offence. “Hey! You’re not supposed to agree.” 

“You want me to lie?” 

“You lied about being a literal rockstar, so is a fib to protect my emotions that much of a stretch?” he said dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. Your body curled forward with laughter, eyes crinkling and hand reaching to cover your mouth. Maybe it was the alcohol or the breathlessness from singing, but you were pretty sure your head spinning was caused purely by Toge. His energy, the way the air around him seeped into you like it was meant to mingle with you all along—it drew you in like a magnet and sent your senses into orbit. 

He laughed with you, soft and carefree. It might’ve been nothing but a 30 minute break in the show, yes, but the moment seemed infinite to you. Being around him didn’t feel like a collection of moments, it seemed to stretch on, an endless tunnel of golden lights and coffee and smiles that left your face feeling sore. 

Across the room stood your friends, all clumped together and oddly silent. They gazed across at your figures, seeming to glow with the warmth that could only be brought from within. You didn’t know it, but they all knew what was to come, and they were… happy. For you. For him. They didn’t know Toge very well, and you didn’t either, but things felt different when he was around. Your eyes gleamed with just a little more light, something soft and bright and doughy, like how you looked when you came home after a long time away. It was slightly unnerving (in Megumi’s words), sure, but beautiful nonetheless. There was an unspoken sense of acquaintance between the three, shared between glances and the distance between you and them. 

Just then it was only you and Toge and the heavy warmth in your chest, and that was completely okay. 

Cat’s outta the bag ig???

maybe that should’ve been the chapter name

whatever I already had them planned out

Toge is yn’s groupie confirmed

I haven’t mentioned whether maki and Megumi are cousins this time, so view it as you wish

Hitting the halfway mark… this one is a very different dynamic than bttoh I think… Maybe I don’t have this series as much as I like to pretend I do… ig… I’ve been so chopped lately someone kill me. AND the Moodboard I posted flopped really bad do yall hate me be honest

Taglist — 50/50

@anotherwriternamedclara @ruruisru @adoresia @auroratumbles @sh0ot1ngst4r @soobin1437 @mystic-megumi @cinnamxnangel @lizbix @s3ns4ti0n4l @anonnieghost @s4toruz @gumims @bubybubsters @k4ss11333 @rreveurdoll @kaged-kitty @rwura @aldebrana @hqnge @good-mourning0 @daisies-and-domming @vi0let-writes @dazaisfavgf @hearts4aloise @coolgirl458 @keyaea @jealovsie @sirenla @academiq @mammoanlmao @moonchhu @ichcocat @blubearxy @hayl09 @q2uq2u @potteraep @fiannee @lailakys @jxisnwaol @treeguzzler @nanaanatiion @zayuriluvs @kr1nqu @cloudxox @azinniyaa @laaalaaaloooppppsiiieeeee @rottingvxmpire @gradmacoco @spkyssn

[ma1dita]

don't blame the kids

a 'partners in crime' installment - luke castellan x dionysus!reader prev -> not your goddess | next -> trouble's coming for you words: 7.6k summary: (established relationship (kinda lol)) The one where you both chaperone a trip to Mount Olympus. The Olympians are bigger gossips than you thought they'd be. (Luke Castellan x fem!Dionysus!reader) a/n: the Chapter—set during the winter solstice; tldr: your dads are besties + hera is a good judge of character.... more d & trouble as requested, enjoy! eh ill edit this once i get back from class later tonight, taglist & ao3 update to be posted then as well

—

Your head falls against the metal of the school bus with an audible thunk. The sound of discordant cackles wakes you up from a dreamless sleep, making you jam your mouth shut and feel your spit go stale on this chilly winter morning.

“Rough night?” 

Keeping your cool despite the pounding headache, you mumble out an incoherent reply to your younger brother, whichever one he was. The old leather seat sighs as one of them sits down, the added weight jostling your legs as you groan and open your eyes to see two blond heads staring at your tired form. One of them peers from over the seat in front while the other leans over your lap, rifling through your backpack for snacks—there’s no such thing as personal space with these two for siblings.

You blink slowly as your vision clears, the cold grayscale interior of the bus still too bright on your eyes.

It’s too early for this shit.

“You’re talking to yourself again,” Pollux grins, noticing briefly that you’ve made an internal thought external. He hands his twin a granola bar from your backpack and leans back against your shoulder.

“Need this weekend to be over already,” you mumble, “just wanna sleep a bit longer and forget all of this. You two helping me later or are you gonna do that juggling bit again with the bottles of ambrosia?”

“Too bad it’s just begun,” Castor chuckles, before flopping back into his seat, then calling out, “and we’re playing the water glasses, thought it would make dad laugh—HEY!“ You tossed your water bottle at him and missed only because he conjured it into his hand and not your intended target of his skull. 

“We’ll be around if you need an extra hand up there,” Pollux murmurs over a hot chip, the crunch reverberating into your ear, “Are we gonna talk about why your boyfriend is on the opposite end of the bus?” Or why he didn’t come to cabin 12 last night… The stealth of sons of Hermes aside, the twins always know when he drops by— Luke usually leaves bags of stolen candy and tiny trinkets tied to their doorknobs when they lose teeth. To be honest, they’ve known the tooth fairy hasn’t existed since they were ten, but Pollux has one last molar he was looking forward to cashing in for a Push-pop.

“Nope.”

“Good talk,” he nods, before belching so loudly you shove him into the aisle, “Ow!”

The rest of the bus is filled with quiet chatter and excitement as you decide to take the chance and get up to survey the handful of campers who join you for the winter solstice. Some of the younger ones are crammed like sardines with bobbing heads as the bumps and turns of the Long Island Expressway rock them in and out of sleep, which is a privilege you were just robbed of. The others that are still excited to see their godrents move animatedly as they clamber over each other and practice their performances for later, a dissonant symphony of prose and instruments out of tune, vines growing from the Demeters’ row, and multiple charcoal pencils rolling along the floor towards the driver sitting up front.

There’s only so much you can hide on a bus, and now that you’re awake…

“Beck!” you hiss as the smell of burning hair wafts through the enclosed space, “No fire on the bus!” The dark-skinned boy looks at you sheepishly, fanning his younger sibling’s singed eyebrows and cracking open a window. Ironically (no pun intended, but while we’re here, ha!) Hephaestus will love his kids even if all of Olympus goes up in smoke. You wish you could say the same for the rest of your campers. The ones left to consider—like those of Hermes, watch the blur of the road whizz past their peripherals, lacking their usual sense of merriment and mischief in knowing their father will be a no-show even on the one day a year they’re allowed to visit. Though a worthless trip off the island is way better than cleaning wine glasses with the nymphs—to them, kitchen duty ends when one’s fingers are about to fall off the bone. 

Making a mental tally of your kids in case any of them have decided to fall out of the vehicle during your much needed break (demigods can get into twice the amount of trouble mortals can in half the time after all), you notice Annie’s waving you over towards her and her seatmate who is coincidentally the only person you wish would drop into the East River.

You make your way over feeling like you’re walking to your death, with your knees buckling with the movements of the bus, momentarily stumbling to a stop in front of their row and conjuring a juice box for Annie with a small smile. Your boyfriend(? — could you still call him that? You remember falling asleep in the storage room counting the sleeping bags, waking up in your bed alone and not much else) looks up at you expectantly as if you’re the one who should have something to say now. You avert your eyes quickly. 

Even on the shortest day of the year, being under his gaze makes time pass slowly like being dipped in molasses. The feeling sits at your throat uncomfortably, and your resolve makes your stomach feel like an endless pit.

“Yeah, Annie?” you say simply. You don’t mean to, but the smile on your face fades ever so slightly. They both notice and don’t say anything—one in contemplation and the other in disappointment. 

“You look awful.”

Okay, what the fuck. Between the thousand-yard stare you gave your wall this morning and the amount of time you spent slathering makeup on at the crack-ass of dawn, you would think that at least your eyebags were concealed enough.

But Annabeth Chase is nothing if not honest, and even if you were the best actress she’s ever met (which you are), there is no way of hiding heartbreak. 

Can you call this that? 

Heartbreak. 

You’re still unsure of if it’s really over—can you say that Luke broke your heart if there’s no way of being certain? What is a break, anyway? Are there terms and conditions you should follow? Is this the part where you two just never talk again and it’ll always feel like this?

But if the boy sitting across from you broke your heart, you think you’d be able to tell—so let the evidence show (or lack thereof) that you’re pretty sure he took it with him, wordlessly and selfishly like a son of Hermes would. With no remorse. 

Let’s not call this heartbreak then. Perhaps the more accurate word to describe your expression is despondence—he chips away at you further with how he looks at you now. Luke catches himself admiring the way you’ve done your hair and the glitter on your eyelids and then honey meets amethyst as your eyes lock. In between an obvious sigh and the way you bite your tongue, he realizes that despite your beauty always rivaling that of Aphrodite (at least in his honest opinion), there’s something hollow in the way you look back at him this morning. He doesn’t know how to feel about that either. 

You both didn’t end off on a good note yesterday—and that much, plus the rare occasion of sleeping alone in the months you two have been together was disconcerting, to say the least. 

“Thanks for that. If that’s all, I’m gonna go back to my seat,” you deadpan, turning back towards the front of the bus. 

You can’t even look at him, you realize. In the almost five years you’ve known Luke Castellan, your favorite thing to do was just look at him, from the way his nose scrunches when he laughs, to the fluttering of his eyelashes when he gets tired, because one of the easiest parts of loving him was by just watching him to see if he was looking right back at you.

And you can’t even do that, because it comes with a whole bunch of feelings you have no time to unpack right now. You decide to focus on the scar that spreads across his cheek instead when Luke calls your attention back towards them. He says your name so softly you almost miss it, gentle, like how someone talks to a child. It’s infuriating.

“I thought you were driving the bus today?” 

Somehow a simple interaction like this feels like the hardest performance of your life. Breakups never came easy, but dear gods, why right before the winter solstice of all days— you mumble a reply so quietly even Annabeth leans a bit closer to hear, “Didn’t sleep well. Big day today.” You brace against the seatback in front of them, tightening your core as the bus whips around a bend.

“Thought it’d be safer if I got one of the satyrs. Had to promise him unlimited access to the kitchens for a month though.”

Almost slamming into a full stop, your eyes widen as your body hits leather, properly leaning over the both of them as the daughter of Athena holds onto your leg and one of Luke’s hands grabs your arm.

“Gods. Look how that’s going,” the younger girl jokes, before looking up again to see her brother and you staring at each other motionlessly. Everything goes quiet—you don’t hear screaming campers or see Clarisse shaking one of her younger siblings upside down for a candy bar. Your knees shake slightly under the weight you figuratively carry on your shoulders. How will you show face to the gods when you can’t even keep a smile steady?

Time stops for a moment, and if it’s only been 12 hours, you’ve already lost count— but its felt like a lifetime since he held you like he might still care. It’s hard to tell, the both of you are too stubborn and it reminds you of a time when all of your conversations went like this—vitriol and annoyance leaking from each word, but at least when you were fourteen it felt like the build up to something great.

But what happens after great is exhausted? The comedown is a terse conversation that almost flies over Annabeth’s head—said in a way that adults do when everything is veiled and heavy, not meant to be seen by prying eyes and younger hearts. 

“I didn’t mean for it to turn out this way,” Luke mutters from beside her. You retract your arm like you’ve been burned and shake your head, “Well, it did.”

The wise girl starts to put the dots together, face scrunching as she deciphers the hidden meaning behind your exchange. She should’ve known Luke didn’t actually want to sit with her and talk about her latest chess match—the son of Hermes loves a good game but has no interest if he’s not the one winning. They both watch you rush back to your seat, the swaying of the bus pushing you farther and faster until you fall away out of sight. 

When she gathers her thoughts, the words lay heavy on her tongue like a hot iron until she spits it out at her older brother. Annabeth Chase sparingly cusses, you see, mostly under her breath and really only when she’s stumped by a situation, especially since she’s only just turned eleven a few months ago—but she looks at him like a foreign object she doesn’t know how to dissect.

“You’ve got nerve, Luke. How do you always fuck up this bad?” Her dark braids drag over her shoulder as she turns to look the other way, away from him.

Luke swallows dryly, biting down on the flesh of his cheek. Between his plan for today and his impeccable timing of monumentally screwing up his relationship with you? 

It’s like Annabeth hit the nail on the head, and he couldn’t agree more.

—

“Alright, places everyone,” you drone, tapping your pen against your clipboard like a gavel before a session in court. The Hall of Gods is just as unruly as your campers when you don’t water down the juice boxes, you realize—Olympians are mulling about the throne room, chattering and making it known that they’d rather be doing who knows what on the only day of the year that it’s mandatory for them to be parents. You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose as you silently agree—there are much better uses of your time that you can think of right now, like making sure to hand Michael his epi-pen before lunch and hoping Connor and Travis aren’t scamming every seller blind at the street-markets of Olympus.

Everyone else is enjoying their free time and you’re…here, watching Apollo, god of music and truth, annoy his twin by sending birds to fly circles around her head. 

Cacophonous laughter startles you, turning to see Hades watching the chaos with his arms crossed over his chest. Draped in black, his chill expression looms over the papers in your hand as he peers at the schedule.

“Siblings, am I right? Sorry you have to deal with mine.”

“Divine Hades,” you bow your head slightly, “they’re erecting your pedestal for the solstice as we speak, I apologize in behalf of—”

He waves a hand dismissively, “No need, child. I know you’re just doing your job. I can wait.”

“Well, I can’t if they’re all acting like children,” you mutter, the both of you watching Zeus bicker with Hera with increasing volume before she storms out, not before addressing the god of the Underworld with a nod.

And he smirks, letting out another laugh that the sound of it quiets the Olympians and sends them towards their seats like obedient students in a classroom. The nymphs are finished pushing the newly-fashioned slab of a throne into position, twelve turning into thirteen and Hades makes his way over as well, gesturing back at you, “Remind me of your name again?”

You say it calmly, clicking your pen. Your dad is sprawled out on his throne, legs over the side as he stares at the ceiling, “Alright princess—let’s get this show on the road.”

“Will we be waiting for…” your voice trails off, briefly looking towards the door.

“Nonsense. I’m sure you can brief her afterwards,” Zeus booms, and you swallow. There goes your lunch break.

“Of course. And Hermes?” You ask, eyes flickering to the only empty seat.

“Working.”

Clearing your throat, you stand tall to address the deities in the room and though you can’t look any of them in the eye, (besides your father that’s already guzzling his fourth cup of ambrosia at eleven in the morning, but you're not any better---you're on your third can of Redbull) it does not deter you from what you came here to accomplish. Might as well do the job well if there’s nothing else to look forward to for today.

You go over the schedule of events like an automated system, not stopping even when Ares starts sighing at the end of your sentences and Demeter sends daggers toward Hades with her eyes. It’s enough to wonder why those without children present today even stay. Formalities, you presume.

“Any questions? Good, I’ll see you all in here at four o’clock,” you quickly say, not giving them a chance to interject—spinning on your heel to walk out of there with even a shrivel left of your patience. 

You find yourself running through your list again by the time you reach the end of the hall: you need to grab the tapestry that cabin 6 wove for their mother’s shrine from the bus, Lee needs help bringing in the harp after lunch, and your brothers need enough wine glasses to fill with water for their performance since they haven’t mastered the conjuring trick so well yet.

Her presence imposes itself upon you before you spot her perched next to the windowsill—the queen of the gods is not meant to be a decorative wallflower, after all. 

“D-divine Hera,” you stutter and stop short, “Would you have a moment to go over the schedule?”

“I know the schedule, child. I’ve been here longer than you. What is it, your fourth year running this thing?” She’s expressionless, maybe even a bit bored with the topic as she looks down at you. You stare at the peacock feather shawl that hangs off her shoulders.

“Third, ma’am.”

Hera smiles (or at least it sounds like she is, talking to her has always felt like twirling on a minefield), “It doesn’t surprise me that all of this falls on a woman. Where’s your husband?”

“My what?” 

You don’t mean to, but your knee-jerk reaction is to look her in the eye and the both of you are surprised by that. Hera’s perfectly arched brows are sky high now, but you haven’t been incinerated yet, so you can deduce that she might like you (or is still contemplating the matter), “The one with the pretty face, such a shame about that scar. You two were inseparable last year, I just assumed…”

With a face on fire, you clear your throat, “Oh. Luke and I aren’t…” Your eyes press closed, hot-red embarrassment brimming into tears you don’t expect to surface. Another reminder that he’s not your…anything right now.

“Mm,” she hums thoughtfully, “Sometimes I forget what year it is. Human societal norms and all that.”

A soft wind billows through the open air, and you hug the clipboard to your chest. You are not about to trauma dump on Hera. Though in a way, she might understand you more than you think.

“I sent him away, I guess. Sometimes it’s much easier to do things alone,” but even you don’t sound convinced. The side of Hera’s lip quirk upwards and she looks at you knowingly, “I agree. Though I guess there are worse things in life than sharing the hard parts with someone you love.” 

Looking down at your shoes, you’re not sure of what else to say. It reminds Hera of her and her husband, before time complicated everything. In the early years, every obstacle feels world-ending until it passes and all you can do is laugh with the person who was by your side. 

“I don’t have to be there later, don’t I?” the queen of the gods mutters. You shrug. Your opinion doesn’t matter, clearly, because she continues, “I don’t have any children in the show that are performing but…I want to be there.”

“I get that,” you say awkwardly, shaking your head to not fumble this conversation further, but she smiles, patting your shoulder as she walks past—it almost feels like a blessing. 

Or maybe she wasn’t even listening to you at all. 

She stops at the end of the hall.

“Trust is a fickle thing, child. It has more value once it’s been broken, and rebuilding it takes two sets of hands. Catch and fall, push and pull, go and follow.” Hera looks back at you again, her white dress swishing at her hips, “Do you agree?”

“I guess.” 

The queen of the gods looks at you thoughtfully, a girl humbly offering her heart out to her divine presence and wanting her partner, a son of Hermes at that— over any glory Olympus can provide. 

Oh, to be young and in love—it makes one invincible.

“Then I hope he makes it worth your while.”

She leaves you to your thoughts and they echo to meet her like a bittersweet greeting. Hera smiles, seeing them run through your head like a video on loop—replacing bloodied bandages in a dark train car, glitter and giggles in a locked room, burnt chocolate chip cookies, and face masks in the dim light of a bathroom. 

The ritual of marriage has definitely changed over the millennia the goddess has lived through, but what you and Luke share is what she considers to be its truest form—that of two souls choosing one another over and over.

—

There’s not a lot of things that can make the herald of Olympus stop in his tracks. He holds as many titles as the letters that fly through his fingertips—though Hermes delivers mail with gratifying ease. The job has always been second nature; being a father…not so much.

But all the power in the world cannot compensate for the fact that you cannot save your children from themselves.

So when he sees you leaning against one of the ornate marble doors outside the Hall of Gods that afternoon, he wills himself to join you in real time. Infinite versions of himself scatter across the Earth with every second that passes. But you look familiar, and well, the trickster loves solving a good puzzle.

“I know you,” he says matter of factly, yet he can’t put his finger on it. His voice is deep, like a howling wind; it blows your hair back even when he stands still in front of you. Your gaze lifts from your clipboard to travel across his face briefly, but you don’t look him in the eye. You can’t even if you wanted to—incineration by divine form and all, so you weren’t about to test your luck with him. Tempting though—you’ve heard enough about Luke’s father to want to burn holes through the god’s head like he could yours.

“Shouldn’t you be inside with the other campers for the rest of the show?” Hermes prompts again, despite your silence. He is the god of communication after all. But there’s not a single thing you could think of telling him besides, “Shouldn’t you? Your kids have been waiting all year to see you.” Mortal lifetimes pass in the blink of an immortal’s eye—but he can’t spare a few minutes to see his kids? Hermes shrugs, like it’s nothing of the sort. Nothing he can do about it. Olympus takes priority. 

“The work never stops. You would know that.”

There’s a startling shriek that escapes from the seam of the doorway as little Will Solace shuffles through the doorway shyly. He tugs at your sleeve, keeping his head bowed and mumbles your name, “Where’s the bathroom?” The god replies to the kid instead, looking at the tiny fractals of light that reflect off the boy’s hair, “Uhhh…down the stairs and to the left, fourth door.”

“Need me to go with you buddy?”

He squeezes your hand and shakes his head, undeterred by the fact he interrupted your conversation with an Olympian, instead going to hop down the stairs without looking at either of you, “Miranda tried to sing again. She should really just stick to plants.” 

Perhaps the presence of gods isn't as impressive to a mortal when their godrent regularly visits them.

“So why exactly did you want to speak with me?”

You cross your arms and lean against the cool wall and wonder why Luke’s dad is still in front of you. After all, he has to have better things to do than make conversation with a moping girl with a workload stacked to the heavens.

Hermes repeats your name slowly as if he’s memorizing the way it sounds coming off his lips, “You look a little lost. So much so that it made me take a moment here with you.”

“I’m right where I need to be unfortunately, so…thanks but no thanks.” He’s the god of many domains—finding lost things being one of them, good luck being another, among the others. He can feel—actually, he knows that you’re searching for something even if you yourself don’t know what it is. The force that summons him to you feels thick, like quicksand that pulls him in planting his winged feet to the ground. Hermes observes your standoffish attitude and wonders if he’s offended you somehow. 

Pushing down the yearning you feel for his son who sits inside the marble doors, you wonder if it would’ve hurt less had Hermes not made your want known to you, an ugly, embarrassing thing that feels like a lump in your throat. His caduceus vibrates loudly in his pocket and with a sleight of hand it appears in front of him, clacking buttons. It’s annoying to be treated like an inconvenience, especially in a time of need. Like father, like son, you suppose.

But unfortunately he’s right. You’re a lost little thing, mind scrambled from this hellish week and where you left off with Luke. You want him with you in all senses of the term, both right now as you glare at his father and in the way one breathes air through their lungs—autonomic, because you simply can't help it. Hermes looks at you again, scratching at his ear as if everything about standing in front of you is making his ears ring, “Who do you belong to again?” He’s trying to remember where he’s seen you before. The sound of trumpets pierce your ears when the door opens again, this time Castor catching his breath as he calls your name, “Hey. Where’s the little pipsqueak? 7’s going on soon.” Everyone seems to know you except him. 

How intriguing.

Rolling your eyes, you grumble, “Bathroom. Go back inside Cas.”

“See that’s the problem, Luke asked me where you are, should I tell him you’re…” The blond looks at who you’re speaking to and swallows, “busy?”

“That’s it. You’re Luke’s girl—” the frown that deepens on your face makes him pause, “I thought your name was Trouble?” The god looks even more confused, scratching his goatee—his son, through his nightly devotions, has asked for a lot of things from him in his short lifetime. The realization comes to the forefront of Hermes’ mind like a thumbtack pierced through a map as you respond. 

“Sometimes.”

In the past year, Luke’s narrowed it down to two things: to guide him onto the right path in life and to make sure you live well enough to be on it with him. That’s what was sacred to him—but Hermes could only see himself fulfilling one of them, if we’re being honest here: an unfortunate trick of the trade.

You grimace—maybe being in there and facing Luke would be better than having this conversation with his deadbeat dad.

“Only with him,” Castor smirks, and you shove your brother towards the stairs to go find Will. 

“How did you know that, anyway?”

Hermes chuckles, looking you up and down as if seeing you clearly for the first time, “His thoughts are even louder than yours. Even though he probably has nothing nice to say about me, he thinks about you all the time, that son of mine.”

“And what do you do then? Let it fall on deaf ears?”

“Listen, I’m not allowed to meddle,” he murmurs, a twitching hand ghosting over your shoulder. He wonders if can offer comfort —you know Luke better than the idea he has of him in his head, the glimpses of his son’s life that he’s allowed himself to see. You’ve been there these past few years to live it with him. Hermes swallows, retracting his arm to put it back against his side. The door swings open again—and it’s your father this time, cradling a wine glass that fills with ambrosia when he swirls it in his grasp.

“Kid, what’s the holdup—where’s the little sunspot and Thing 2?” Mr. D raises his glass with a grin, clapping his best friend on the back— “Hermes, my friend. Making a pit stop?” 

This just got even weirder—your head starts to spin a bit. 

Talk about a nightmare blunt rotation.

Between their lighthearted banter, Will and Castor skipping up the stairs towards you, and Pollux popping his head out of the doorway to yank the glass out of your dad’s hand (“SISSY! He’s drinking my musical instrument!”), you shut your eyes to center yourself. This might be the worst day of your life. Chaos becomes you and your blood is boiling at being surrounded by too many men when the only one you care about won’t even lo—

“Kid, you okay?”

Breathing heavily, you don’t realize you’ve clenched your hands into tight fists, and your dad doesn't know what to do. There's a thought that passes his mind as swiftly as his friend can scale the world that Luke would know what to do. Mr. D doesn't mean to, but he scoffs under his breath, shaking hand extending to reach out to an equally trembling shoulder and you flinch before it makes contact. 

"M'fine, I just need a second to think."

Pressing your palms into the pits of your eyes, your father watches you inhale a breath that seems to calm the storm brewing in your core, even for a moment, “Cas, take Will inside for his cabin’s performance. D, next time, don’t touch things that aren’t yours,” you say calmly as you conjure another glass of water and hand it to Pollux, not before taking a few sips to steady your resolve and perfect the tone of the vibrations. 

Sip. 

Too sharp. 

Sip. 

Perfect.

Putting the now fully functional instrument of water in your brother’s hand, he happily walks back through the door and now you’re just left with two gods that look at you somewhat impressed. 

“Can I help you with anything else, or are you both just going to waste my time?” Tapping your foot, your face is expressionless again, any previous traces of emotion wiped clean.

“Princess, you know you could talk—”

“Nope,” you protest, “Nothing’s wrong at all. Just ready to get this day over with.” It’s rude and to the point, but you have no patience left, “ and all offense D, I’m not gonna talk about my boy problems with you, and especially not you,” you grit pointing at Hermes, “neither of you would get it and I don’t even fully get it, and partially you two are the reason why we’re like this!”

“What did Luke do?” your dad says incredulously, eyebrows furrowing. He’s sobering up from the buckets of ambrosia he’s consumed—itching to find out about what the golden boy could ever do to agitate you like this.

The gods will never know what it feels like to love someone like this—every fiber of your mortal being constantly anticipating an end without knowing when that is. You sigh helplessly, “I don’t even know where to begin.”

“I don’t know who I am without you, and he only knows who he is because of you,” spitting the words out like acid, you seethe, “we’re not exactly normal teenagers, you know, so thanks for that. I can handle it from here.”

And you push past the both of them and walk through the marble doors like nothing even happened.

"Makes sense he'd fall for her," Hermes mumbles, “your girl is a force to be reckoned with.” If not a bit insane like his best friend. 

"Yeah. Just remember I can tear your boy limb from limb. Just because she can handle it doesn't mean she should. Pray your kid fixes it or fucks off. " It’s the truth—poor Penthus was just an example of Dionysus’ contradictory behavior. Ruthless punishments were like a walk in the park for your father. A jilted noise escapes Hermes's throat as if his own truth was trying to claw its way up his esophagus. The future of humanity rests on the shoulders of his favorite son, and for once, the messenger god is still---in fear? Guilt?

His thoughts are still trying to catch up with the rest of his body, but as he watches the door shut softly behind you, his winged shoes start to flap to signal his imminent departure.

“He's a good boy. He knows the worth of being loved by the right person at the right time. If he’s anything like me, he’ll cherish it while it lasts,” Hermes smiles as he fades from view, “and if he’s not like me at all—he’ll make sure it’s forever. But it looks like we’ll be in-laws, bestie!”

Mr. D groans, waving him off and conjuring another glass of ambrosia—when he walks in to rejoin everyone for the show, his boys are killing it on the musical glasses. He surveys the crowd, watching Luke Castellan only have eyes for you even in this dark crowded room.

“Shit.”

—

Nights on Olympus are prettier than what you’re used to. The stars are much closer than they would be if you were still on Earth, and they act as a natural nightlamp hanging over the enchanted ceiling of the ballroom you and your kids occupy for your one night stay. Yawning into your fist, you spot Charlie Beckendorf who’s already fallen asleep directly on top of his sleeping bag, sweatshirt on backwards and tennis shoes still on. Offering to take the last thirty minutes of his shift after watching him nod off earlier against a marble column while doing everything in your power to try to fall asleep was a no-brainer. But now that you were actually wanting to stay awake yourself, your eyelids didn’t seem to want to cooperate. 

Figures. Nothing you ever wanted has ever happened the way you wished for.

Sleep pricks at the corner of your eyes like dust from a sandstorm—presumably Hypnos forcing a hand on you getting rest. Here on Olympus he’s only a few doors away, after all.You rub your knuckles into the sockets of your eyes quite unkindly, hoping it’ll do the job. Even blinking is taking an added effort.

Patting your own cheek lightly to stimulate your senses, you cross your arms and decide to take another lap around the room. The rubber of your boots clomp louder with every shaky step and—

Tap-tap. Tap. T-tap.

D is rapping his knuckles against one of the glass doors on the perimeter like he’s playing the drums.

“Shhhh!”

Arms outstretched, you slip past rows of sleeping children, narrowly missing stretched out arms and fallen backpacks as you glare at him, “Are you trying to wake up all of Olympus?”

He looks at you with amusement, rumpled clothing and looking like a tiny, angry raccoon. You must’ve forgotten to take off your eyeliner, but he doesn’t mention it.

He brandishes two cigarettes in his hand and nods toward a door he left ajar leading onto the sprawling, wrap-around patio. And you swear you start floating towards him like an enticed cartoon character—surely you’re dreaming. 

Is there even a designated smoking area on Olympus?

“How long have you known?” 

The words almost slur out of your mouth as you swipe at his fist like a man starved—Mr.D can’t tell what exactly you’re asking. He’s known you’ve smoked since he found ash in the windowsill of his office. He’d known you and Luke have been having problems since you both started to sit at the opposite sides of the room during counselor meetings. Some things about you are harder to catch onto than others, and Mr. D is known for always being a little late to the party.

Dionysus, the god, was a late arrival to the Pantheon. Him as a father, he’s often late to discerning the happenings in his daughter’s life.  But he’s also known that boy has loved you long before he drunkenly stumbled onto his porch. Could smell it off of him— love makes people do crazy things after all. Out of all of your partners, he always thought the golden boy was just as bad—if not worse than you, gods willing. But you two were good kids, and the thought makes him chuckle, “I’ve always been able to read you, kiddo. I get there eventually.”

“Besides when I first showed up at your doorstep.”

“Shock of my life, actually. And that says a lot. You should be honored,” there’s a stupid smile on your father’s face now as he looks out onto the darkened horizon, glittering city lights on the floating mountain top. Olympus has changed in the years he’s been gone from it without him noticing. He looks over to you and realizes you have too—no longer fourteen with your hair sticky from Kool-aid, or multiple sun-tan tattoos. You always liked making a project out of your boredom.

Laughing gruffly—the base of your throat itches and you surface for air sounding like something being strangled. Blame it on the lack of sleep or teenage angst as he so aptly calls your temper tantrums, but he pulls you in to rub your back, leading you further down the walkway with a shushing, soothing coo as you whine, “What if this is the best I can be?”

“You’re nineteen, princess. A hell of a long way to go. To be honest, it gets worse as the years pass.”

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuck,” you groan, smacking your head against the cool marble. “That's like a blink for you. For me it feels like I’m constantly getting off on the wrong foot. How do you do it?”

He sighs and looks at you—and all of a sudden you see your father’s age in the way he grimaces. Left to do the dirty work, the things the gods don’t want to talk about, meant to endure because every ion of his existence has reeked of resilience. 

Because it’s what’s expected of him. 

You see the resemblance now.

His wrinkles are prominent and eyebags are heavy when he doesn’t fortify the image of a silly asinine man as he lets it all melt away in front of you.

You light a cigarette and puff life into the lit end to burn the other one, breathing out and handing it over. Smoke billows around the two of you as you lean against the marble railing—-but nothing has ever been so clear. It rolls through your lungs, warming you inside and out. You lean your head against his shoulder.

“I think you could shake this whole place up if you wanted to. Never met a more stubborn kid in my life,” your dad mutters, jostling when you elbow him, “I mean it. For a lack of better words, you’re a once in a lifetime kind of girl.” He’s not looking at you, but the sentiment wavers in the air and settles slowly until you learn to appreciate it. 

“You mean that?”

D has had a share of his own struggles, from being ejected from his mother and birthed from Zeus’ thigh, to being curb stomped by Hera herself, and of course the occasional trip to the Underworld. Suddenly your life pales in comparison. 

“Get that look off your face and stop thinking so badly of yourself. Life is not a dress rehearsal—just give it your best. I'll be in the wings for as long as you need me,” he swallows, “If you want that. I’m the only one dealing with this prison sentence, anyway.”

“I would like that.”

The god scratches his neck before dragging his Birkenstocks toward the door, swiveling to point at you, “Get to bed. You've got an early morning tomorrow.”

“I know. Is that an order?” 

“Yeah, twerp,” he mutters, lingering by the glass, “Quitting cold turkey is never fun. Things we lose have a way of coming back to us in the end. I've always been more of the type to go and get it myself though.”

“Cold turkey,” you repeat, nodding distantly. 

Letting go means to accept that you let it in. And if you’re not ready to let it go, fight for it. 

For a bunch of wordweavers, you both suck at talking to each other. It must be an Olympus thing to talk in riddles, but you’ve never been deterred by a challenge. Your fragmented conversation means a lot more than he’ll ever know. With a newfound appreciation for your dad, you smile and take a few puffs of the cigarette, taking a seat against the wall to let everything sink in. The comfortable weight of nicotine in your lungs lulls you to sleep, a momentary reprieve from everything. 

You swear you shut your eyes for just a second. Just a moment—to rest them a tiny bit.

And Luke slips out the glass doors in the other direction towards the throne room without you noticing.

When you wake up, it’ll all be over.

—

It’s snowing by the time Luke comes back. Biggest day of his life—something he’s been waiting for for months now, and it was just too goddamn easy.

And yeah, Luke understood that it is so irrevocably wrong to steal from the gods. 

But then why was it so easy?

Of course, it was all thanks to you. You don’t know it, but you helped the pieces fall into their perfect places. Keeping you up last night with the fight and leaving you to your own devices all day kept you indifferent enough about him to not notice the smaller details—him switching the night shift schedule around to his liking and making you the only obstacle between him and the Master Bolt and the Helm of Darkness (well, Ares was too, but onto more important things).

Everything happens for a reason, right? 

Getting on your last nerve has always been easy, and though he hates seeing you cry—it almost makes him feel guilty that there’s a certain thrill that soars through him when you two fight. You love him like how you argue, with an unbridled passion he loves to sink his teeth into.

And he loves you. It’s as simple and as complicated as that. So despite the tear in his side that makes him clench his teeth, his first objective after his completed mission is to sidle over to your slumped form with a smile. Luke slings his jacket over your body and wraps his arm to bring your head against his shoulder. The grounds are weather-protected like at camp, yet a few stray snowflakes still catch onto your hair. You stir, “Lu?”

“I’m here. Not leaving you.”

If salvation could manifest itself into something akin to human form, perhaps it would still look like a god. Being saved is a feeling unfamiliar to Luke—the only person he was always sure could save your ass was himself.  But he wants this, you nestled against him for as long as you want, until his arms ache and pins and needles ravage his body. Luke knows he would crawl to the ends of this earth and the next if it means he’ll be with you. 

Gambling with fate will be worth it if he can find a way to make this love last forever. 

This has to work. You did what you had to do, he thinks.

Sniffing, he kisses your forehead and his jacket faintly smells of smoke. Snowflakes dot his eyelashes and he rubs your arms to make sure you’re warm, “Let you sleep longer. Looks like you needed it.”

“How long have I been asleep?” you say groggily. His thumbs wipe at your eyelids gently with the hem of a fresh shirt, “Don’t worry. I took care of everything.”

It makes him grimace, emotional manipulation and a quick escape—hello Hermes!

“I’m tired, Luke.”

He sighs, and you turn to him, the both of you knee to knee, slowly being illuminated by a blanket of cool toned hues from the rising sun, “I know. Let me make it better, baby.”

Wistfully, you tangle your fingers with his in the space between you as if sealing a vow. 

”Every future I envision includes you with me. I need you to know that.” 

Overwhelmed by the events of the night, hell, these past few months—Luke starts to cry. A single rivulet cascading on the cheek adjacent to his scar and you catch it by pressing your lips to his jaw.

“Could you still love me?”

Inching closer, he feels as if you’re not close enough even when you’re breathing against the nape of his neck like this and you mumble, “You’re saying that like I ever stopped, angel.” The line blurs with each breath he takes—to earn a spot to walk amongst the gods, to live a completely ordinary life, or to be stuck in the strawberry fields of Delphini Farms forever. Luke was never awarded the privilege to want for himself before he met you, the absolution to all his wrongdoings. He can feel the quaking of your jaw under his fingertips as he slowly turns you to face him and all you have left to give him is a shattered breath.

“No matter what?”

Pressing his lips to yours as an apology feels like being saved. Lightly, until he pours himself into it and you relent, until the only thing that matters to you is that he’s with you now. Luke would merge your souls right now if he could—a tangled mess of eight limbs and head to head and everything is as it should be.

“Even if you don’t sit with me on the bus,” you smirk. He scoffs, kissing you harder and locking his lips with yours feverishly before resting much gentler ones against your tired eyes, “Oh don’t worry. Can’t get rid of me that easily, Trouble.”

A new day breaks on the horizon the longer you stay out there. But he takes these last final moments and keeps them under lock and key for safekeeping. You leave Olympus in a few hours, and by then there’ll be no time for regrets—his perfect crime with his perfect partner.

—

"I weep because you cannot save people. You can only love them." -Hanya Yanagihara

[jayaury]

Hell of a Party

A short story from October! Tried to capture those autumn vibes. Plenty more you know where! https://www.patreon.com/JayAury

. . .

Sid squinted through the windshield at what could generously be called a road. Damn thing was more rut than gravel, and the trees were so overgrown he could hear them scraping at the roof and sides of his old Chevy like groping hands. All of which made the midnight drive a risky thing

“Chris, are you sure there’s a house out here?” he asked as he tried to peer through the blackness. “We’re well outside town.”

“Sure, man,” Chris said affably from the passenger seat. “Just keep on a little further.”

Sid glanced over at his friend. He did like Chris, no question of that. They’d met in Folklore 102, and surprisingly hit it off. Where Sid was more withdrawn, Chris had been a party animal, embracing college life like a typical frat boy. Recently, he’d been going to some special parties. He’d been a bit vague on details, but had been badgering Sid to come with him for over a week. Sid had finally agreed just to shut him up.

That said, Sid was curious about those late-night parties. Because Chris had changed since he’d started going to them. For one, he started wearing those stupid sunglasses all the time like he was perpetually hung over. And he’d also become…

Well, stupider, to be honest.

Not that Chris had been terribly brilliant before. There was a reason he was taking folklore 102, which was notoriously easy. Well, one of two reasons. The other was that the female to male ratio was three to one. Sid stole a glance at Chris again, who was grinning, leaning back in the seat, those strange tinted glasses masking his eyes, lumberjack-style plaid jacked undone.

Chris suddenly jerked forward, grabbing the dash and pointing. “There! There it is!”

Sid jumped and swung his attention back to the road, peering ahead.

It took him a moment, but then he saw it. Jutting out of the tangled forest was a large house. Classically Victorian, it crouched among trees stripped to skeletal limbs by autumn’s chill. Tiled roofs rose in minarets and bay windows pushed forward, spilling out a brilliant yellow glow. Shadows flickered against the panes, and he could faintly hear the thud of music beating through the night.

Yet something felt… off about the house. Out of place. Sid had a hard time believing a building like that would be out in the middle of the boonies. Especially with the road in this condition. Yet, the evidence was before his eyes.

“How did you even find this place?” he asked.

“Got invited,” Chris said, practically bouncing in his seat, grinning like an idiot. His hands slapped the dash in eager drumming. “Come on, man. Bring us in! They got started without us, and you don’t wanna miss the fun!”

Still puzzled, Sid cruised closer, gravel crunching under the wheels as he brought them up. He parked among several other cars and got out, scanning the building. Again, he found the place odd. If felt like it should be more overgrown with the treeline so close. Instead, it looked like someone had just… plopped the house down in the middle of the woods.

“Let’s go! Let’s go!” Chris said, bounding out of the car and towards the porch. Sid followed more slowly, walking up the creaking steps and to the door, the sound of music growing. Weird stuff. Felt very instrumental and vibey. Flutes and horns with a pulsing beat that seemed to vibrate in his gut and throb in his groin.

Chris rang the bell, the chime nearly lost in the music. A moment later the door flew open, yellow light spilling out and illuminating a woman that made Sid stare.

She was simply gorgeous. Full figured and wearing a tight red dress that hugged every aching curve, her hair was a frizz of red whose style probably went out of date in the 70’s. Those hoop earrings surely had, but her face and body made you forget about anything else. She radiated gleeful fun, and the way her breasts strained the red fabric with her every breath riveted Sid’s attention.

“Beezie!” Chris cried, throwing his arms open.

“Baby!” Beezie replied in a sonorous, throaty voice that made Sid shiver and flush. Her arms enfolded Chris, pulling him in against her expansive chest, her lush red lips planting a kiss on his cheek. “Look at you. It’s so late! And this must be your friend!”

“Uh, hi,” Sid said, feeling hot just from her look. “Sid. Nice to-”

“How silly! We greet like this,” she said, and before Sid could respond her arms had enveloped him, tugged him in, and mashed him against her chest. The feel of her breasts made him flash hot, and that’s when her lips met his.

Sid jolted, sucking in a breath ladened with her flowery perfume. He couldn’t quite suppress a soft moan as her tongue slid against his lips, barely asking permission before pushing into his mouth. He’d never had a kiss like that, which seemed to last forever yet end far too soon when she broke apart with an audible pop, leaning back and admiring him as he blinked, dazed.

“Mmm, lovely to meet you!” Beezie said merrily. “I just know you’re going to be a big hit. And thank you, Chris. We always need more boys at these things. Just can’t get enough!”

Chris grinned stupidly, nodding eagerly. “Yes, Beezie. I was a good boy.”

“You certainly are. Such a good boy,” Beezie cooed, patting his cheek fondly.

Chris bit his lip, practically quivering with delight, much to Sid’s amazement.

“But come in! Come in out of the cold,” Beezie exclaimed as she stepped aside, ushering the both of them into the foyer, giving Sid a slight pat on his ass that made him start. “It’s nice and warm in here.”

Warm was right. No sooner had Sid stepped over the threshold it felt like the temperature went up twenty degrees.

“Put your coat anywhere, sweetie. And go check out the party! Chris? I think I should give you your reward, shouldn’t I?”

“Yes Beezie,” Chris panted. “Good boy!”

“A very good boy,” Beezie cooed before giving Sid another pat to urge him into the house.

He found himself being shooed into the living room, where the party was certainly in full swing, and it quickly became apparent that they really did need more men around. The place was absolutely filled with women. Practically three to every man. He could tell because every guy in there had at least two beautiful, flirty girls hanging off him.

Sid hesitated, then sidled into the room, trying to avoid attention. He was surprised to see pretty much every guy from his folklore class, and definitely every girl too. But there were others he didn’t recognize, and no one he was friends with.

In search of something to do, he hit up a large table at the back of the room filled with beer kegs and solo cups. He filled one, then drifted through the room uncertainly, eventually making his way to an empty spot against the lacquered wood wall.

He sighed, leaning there, watching the party from a distance. He swirled the beer he’d nabbed and glanced at the suds. He was never good at socializing at these things. Too bland. Too boring. He’d hoped that Chris would at least have introduced him a bit, but clearly that wasn’t happening. He grimaced. He shouldn’t of come. Was it too early to just… go home?

“Mind if I join you?”

He looked up in surprise. A woman stood before him. Beautiful, in a tight white top and a pair of cut off jeans that showed off her thighs. Her hair was a rich, thick mane of black and her eyes sparkled green. A pair of large glasses sat on her lovely face. Glasses that stirred some memory he couldn’t quite place.

“Uh, yeah. Sure.”

She giggled. “You don’t recognize me, do you?” she asked teasingly.

Sid flushed. “I uh…”

“It’s Millie.”

“Millie!”

She laughed, cocking a hip and resting her hand on it. “Surprised?” she asked.

He was. The Millie he knew was a mousey young woman from class, whose fashion tended towards bulky sweaters. Fairly popular, she’d often strike up conversations with him. He’d suspected she was interested in him, but never really believed it.

Now though…

She giggled. “Didn’t recognize me, did you?” she asked.

“No,” he admitted, and that was true enough. He couldn’t help but stare at her chest, her breasts absolutely straining her tight top. So that’s what those frumpy sweaters had hid. God damn…

“I bet,” she said, her hips cocking, the movement making her chest bounce. “In class I tend to go a bit more model student. Around here though?” she said, smiling as she tucked some black hair behind her ear, eying him through lidded lashes. “I can be a bit more… honest about myself.”

“You can?” he said, swallowing thickly.

“Oh yeah,” she whispered, stepping closer, her hand playing onto his thigh. “Very honest.”

Sid’s pulse jumped and his pants grew tight at that touch. How her fingers slid along his jeans, the heat of her palm radiating through the denim. Alright, so, looked like she had been interested in him after all. Very interested! More the fool him for fumbling that. Had to play it cool now though.

“You uh, come to these often?” he asked, and immediately mentally kicked himself.

“Sometimes,” she murmured, sliding in closer. “Quite often, actually. I’ve been telling Chris to get you to come for ages. Finally had to ask Momma Beezie to make that magic happen…”

“Oh, well, it’s… not really my scene,” he admitted.

“True,” she murmured, pressing still closer, her breasts squishing against his chest. “Shall we change that?”

Sid sucked in a breath, his pulse pounding, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled the pungent perfume that surrounded her. Something thick. Spicy. Something that seemed to rush up his nose and into his head like a puff of pink smoke.

“Ch-change it?” he gasped.

She winked, her hand lacing with his. “This way.”

He didn’t resist as she pulled him out of the room and towards the stairs. He was honestly eager to get away from the living room with all the noise and sight of horny just-adults discovering each other’s bodies. Especially when it sounded a hell of a lot like he was about to make some fascinating discoveries about Millie’s body. He climbed the creaking wooden steps, eyes riveted to her ass. Rooms lined the hall up there, and Sid heard distinct sounds of thumping and… were those moans?

Oh.

Oh wow.

Sid felt his face warm again as he realized what was happening, and he tried to hide his excited expression as Millie dragged him to a particular door. Play it cool, Sid. Nice and cool. He took a deep breath and sucked in more of her perfume. He felt himself flush further, his eyes again trailing to her plush ass.

She glanced back at him, winked, her hand turning the doorknob. “Hope you’re ready for some real oh for fuck’s sake!”

Sid barely heard her. He was too busy staring at what was happening in the room. A man had been tied spreadeagle on the bed, a blindfold over his eyes and what looked like birthday candles semi-melted on his naked chest. A blonde was crouched in front of him, her head bobbing, her naked ass bared to them in a full and glorious moon.

At the sound of Millie’s voice the woman on the bed paused and raised her head with a slurping sound that made Sid’s legs wobble with sympathetic excitement. Turning, the naked blonde looked at them with innocent baby blues, a playful smile alighting her ruby lips before her tongue slid over them suggestively.

“Hey Millie,” she said.

“Jezebel, you fucking whore!” Millie growled. “I told everyone my room was off limits tonight.”

“Mmm,” Jezebel whined, arching a little, her plump breasts bouncing playfully on her chest, nipples jutting proudly. “But you have the biggest bed. And I needed a big bed for what I wanted to do.”

“That’s not… is that my organic honey?”

“Is it?” Jezebel said innocently, glancing at an empty squeeze bottle on the side table. “I found it in a drawer. I thought you were done with it.”

“You…” Millie seethed, and Sid stared at the livid anger of his fellow Folklore student. Even her hair seemed to be writhing in rage.

As he took a wary step back, Millie seemed to remember him and turned a sharply sweet smile on him.

“Sid. Could you wait out here for just a minute,” she said with strained politeness. “Just need to have a quick chat with my… friend…”

“Uh, sure. No problem.”

“Great,” Millie cooed and shut the door on him.

No sooner had it closed than he heard Millie’s muffled shouting as she chewed out Jezebel, who sounded like she was just laughing.

Bouncing on his heels, Sid uncertainly looked around the hallway. Awkward didn’t begin to describe the situation, and he dearly didn’t want to be a part of it further. But he couldn’t drag himself away. His body still zinged from Millie’s touch, and his pulse was warm and hot with lust. He looked around the hall for some distraction. There were a few pictures on the walls, but inevitably and unsurprisingly, his attention was drawn to the other rooms.

He stepped closer to the first one and heard whispered giggles and a man moaning. The one beside that had little more than the frantic creaking of bed springs.

His face grew warmer with every sound, yet he felt oddly compelled to continue. It wasn’t doing his erection any favours, and just the thought of Millie’s affection once she finished her little… argument more than kept him from wandering too far.

Then he reached a particular door. One that was unusually quiet. Surprised, he listened closer. There was… something. He pressed his ear to the wood. He heard a groan. Not one in pleasure though. It sounded a little like pain.

Sid looked around nervously. Was someone in trouble? It wouldn’t surprise him. At a party like this, who would notice? Hell, he doubted someone screaming bloody murder could be heard with the music downstairs on so loud. He could practically feel the floor vibrate from the bass.

He looked again at the door. Considered getting someone, but who? And he didn’t even know if something was wrong. How stupid would he look then?

He bit his lip. Well… he should at least take a look.

Grasping the knob, almost hoping to find it locked, he held his breath as it turned easily. He looked again around again. Then opened the door just a sliver and peered through.

The scent of booze was thick in the air. So heavy he felt a little light-headed just from the fumes. He squinted and saw a number of kegs all gathered about a mattress slumped in the corner. And sprawled among them, draped over some pillows like some empress with the worst hangover ever, was the bustiest woman he’d ever seen.

She was dressed in stockings and nothing else, her plump breasts bared, heaving with her slow breaths. Her head was thrown back against the slope of pillows arranged around the floor, her hair done up in a pair of pink pigtails.

“Ohhhh,” she groaned again, shifting listlessly.

Sid hesitated a moment more, then eased the door open and tiptoed inside. “Hey?” he called.

No response.

He moved over her, the scent of alcohol so strong it made his head spin again. He found his eyes wandering once more to those impressive breasts. Huge. Soft. Squeezable…

He shook his head, which momentarily cleared it. “Excuse me?” he said, nudging her shoulder.

“Mrrrrr,” she groaned, head lolling.

“Are… are you okay?” he asked.

“Mrph…” She blinked blearily and looked up at him. “Oh,” she said, her voice slurred and lazy, but a smile lit up her face. “Ohhhh. You’re… kinda cute…”

“Uh, thanks,” Sid said. “I was just… are you okay?”

“Nooooo,” she groaned, head tilting again, her feet kicking grumpily. “Ugh. My sisters are… are such bitches, you know?”

“Your sisters?”

“Yeeaaaaah. They said… they said I had to stay in here for the party. Right? Because I… because I always go after the boys too… too hard. And I mean, I mean it’s not my fault, right? If you don’t… you know, train ‘em properly, of course you’ll lose ‘em. I mean… I mean look at these,” she said, cupping her immense breasts. Hefting them. “Who wouldn’t… wouldn’t get addicted to these babies?”

Sid stared. Her breasts were truly massive. And they looked soaked with something. The smell implied liquor. But… but was it just him? Or did it look a bit like her nipples were… well, dripping?

“I uh…”

“Hey,” she said, looking at him closer, a lazy smile turning her lips. “Did you come here because you were, like, worried about me?”

“...Kinda,” he admitted. “You sounded… not good.”

“Mmm. That’s because I’m noooot,” she drawled, rolling forward and onto her hands and knees. “Not at all.”

Sid wasn’t sure he liked the look in her eyes. The gleam of wicked amusement. The hazy heat that burned in those dark orbs as she began to crawl towards him. “O-oh? Why uh, why is that?” he asked, retreating, though he wasn’t sure why.

“Because I haven’t eaten in just… daaaaays. I’m soooo hungry,” she said, her lower lip pushed out in a pout. But still those eyes burned. Still they hungered.

“I uh, think there was a chip bowl downstairs,” Sid stammered. Then his back hit the wall with a thump. “I could probably…”

“That’s so sweeeeeet,” she cooed, stopping in front of him, pushing her plush bum onto her heels, her heavy breasts bouncing as she straightened, level with his crotch. “But I’m hungry for something special.”

“S-special?” Sid squeaked, his mind understanding what was happening, yet unwilling to quite believe it.

“Oh yeaaaah,” she breathed, her hand rising, finger sliding along the unsubtle bulging at the front of his jeans. “Mmm. And got a feast… fit for a queen right here.”

“I… uh… miss, I don’t…”

“Call me Brandy,” she said, the tips of her fingers pinching his zipper.

“Brandy, I ah!”

He gasped as she tugged, his fly sliding down, his cock fairly bursting into the open, throbbing lewdly. Brandy gasped, her eyes lighting up and her tongue stroking her lips. “Oh fuck yeah,” she breathed, leaning in, inhaling deeply as she lovingly nuzzled his cock. “Oh fuck yesssss. Soooo good.”

Sid gasped, stiffening as her tongue slid from her lips, teasing the tip of his manhood. “B-Brandy! I uh, I don’t think…”

“That’s good,” Brandy breathed, her tongue stroking his throbbing tip, teasing with every lap. “Men don’t need to think. Just gotta fuck. Gotta cum. And Brandy’s gonna get herself a good taste…”

Sid knew he should tell her no. Push her away. Especially with Millie around. What would she think? What would she say? What if someone walked in?

Then, Brandy’s plush lips parted.

Slid over his head.

Down his length.

And every other thought just flew out of his mind.

“O-oh fuuuuuck!” Sid groaned, head falling back.

“Mmmm,” Brandy replied, her lips gliding over his shaft, slow and gentle. Savouring it like he was a fine glass of wine. Her free hand came up, pulling more of him out into the open, her fingers cradling his balls, spoiling his manhood with affections he hadn’t even dreamed were possible.

“Hooooly fuck,” Sid gasped, his hands groping for something to hold onto and finding her pigtails. He grabbed them like a pair of handlebars, and for an instant he thought again of pushing her away. Pushing her off.

But then her lips slid up him again.

Then down.

And instead he started to thrust.

“Mmmmm,” Brandy moaned, letting him set the pace. Letting him fuck her face, her breasts slapping lewdly against her chest and his legs. Sid groaned, lost in the sensations consuming him as he fucked the gorgeous coed’s mouth. Fucking hell! No wonder she kept stealing boyfriends. Lips that good were an utter sin!

“Fuck,” Sid gasped, knowing it was wrong what he was doing, but knowing only made it all the sweeter. “Oh fuck yes. Take it… take it deep. Use your tongue more. I… nnnnn!”

He groaned, head falling back. Fuuuuuck. It was unreal how good it was! He was primed pretty much as soon as he’d walked into the house, and it only made the sensation that much sweeter. He was absolutely losing himself in those lips. In that mouth. The feeling of her hot tongue sliding around his shaft driving him towards the brink!

He was hammering her now, pounding into her mouth, and her exertions easily matched his. If anything, she seemed more desperate to make him cum. More eager to taste his seed. Her fingers stroked and massaged his balls. Tender. Encouraging. Insistent. Practically pumping them. Massaging them. Oh fuck. Oh fuck, he wasn’t going to last. He just wasn’t going to last! He… he was… he was…

“F-fuuuuuuuuck!” Sid cried, legs quivering, a cry of helpless surrender escaping his lips as he came, pumping into Brandy’s mouth, feeling her adoringly guzzle his hot seed, moaning happily.

The pleasure was unlike anything he’d felt before. Strong. Heavy. He felt his head spin as he fell against the wall, weakness radiating through him as he basked in the afterglow, Brandy’s lips caressing his cock, milking out the last few drops she could.

“Holy… holy shit,” Sid breathed. Then he looked down and saw what was sprouting from Brandy’s bare back. “Holy shit!”

He stared at the pair of leathery bat wings in dull incomprehension. For a moment he thought they were some strange cosplay or props. But then he saw them flutter. Flex.

And noticed too the spaded tail sprouting right above her luscious ass.

“Mmm?” Brandy hummed, lifting her head, revealing the pair of horns growing from her brow. Not to mention the slits of her pupils giving him bedroom eyes that sent his cock throbbing despite his horror.

He gaped at her, for a moment too shocked to do anything but stare. Then he saw her notice his cock, and a hungry grin lit up her face again.

“I… I g-gotta go,” he gasped, cramming his shaft back into his pants, holding them shut with one hand as he staggered back to the door.

“Wha… hey! Waaaait!” Brandy wailed.

Sid didn’t. Even though her plaintive cry pulled at him like a leash, he stumbled out the room and slammed the door shut behind him. His hands fumbled with his fly and zipper as he thudded down the stairs. Something was wrong in the house. Something was so very wrong!

He reached the landing and looked up, and had the second shock of his night.

The room was awash in a sea of red and blacks. The lamps had been turned down, their glow casting deep shadows over writhing bodies. He saw his entire class there, rutting like animals. The drunken making out had progressed much further. Not a man there had less than three women grinding on him.

But they were far more than women.

Everywhere he looked, bat-like wings were fluttered. Spaded tails lashed with delight and horns glistened in the glow of the lamps. Clothing had been abandoned, leaving curves of unearthly perfection and tantalizing seduction on full display as men were drowned in kisses of delight. As breasts were massaged and bodies arched, throats moaning in sultry pleasure. The slap of flesh thumped to the music. Fangs gleamed between ruby lips, and men moaned, their eyes lidded, but what looked like pink hearts throbbing in their pupils.

Sid staggered back a step. He looked across the room at the exit and knew that was a lost cause. He dared not cross that orgiastic trap. He retreated another and his back hit something with a hollow thunk.

A door!

He reflexively reached down, his searching hand finding a handle. He turned it, and fairly tumbled backwards into darkness.

Getting his feet back under him he shut the door quickly. Darkness enveloped him and he groped about the walls. A light switch. There had to be a light switch! He sighed in relief as his finger found one and he flicked it on.

The buzz of the bulb illuminated some sort of study. He looked around with bewilderment at the bookcases filled with rotting tomes. The scattered shelves filled with jars and strange artifacts.

“What in the…” he murmured, though really, he shouldn’t be surprised. An occult side room was far from the strangest thing he’d seen tonight. And honestly, fit the whole thing pretty well. Especially given the rather large bed occupying a far corner, the sheets rumpled. Not much of a mystery what that had been used for lately.

As he surveyed the room, he suddenly heard the door creak. “Sid?”

He whipped around to find Millie standing in the doorway, peering down at him through her large glasses. “There you are,” she sighed, stepping inside. “I told you not to wander off. Ah,” she added, looking at his face, a pout pushing out her lips. “And you saw something you shouldn’t have.”

Sid retreated several steps. “S-stay back, demon!”

Millie’s pout deepened. “Oh dammit,” she growled. “Which of those dumb bitches told you? No, wait. It was Brandy, wasn’t it? That stupid bimbo. Is it any wonder we lock her up when the party gets started?”

“I-I’m not kidding,” Sid said, looking around. His eyes locked on a long knife carved with runes on a shelf. He snatched it up, brandishing it before him. “Seriously! Don’t come any closer!”

Millie sighed, looking more exasperated than angry. “Honestly. Makes me wonder why I bother putting all this work into the disguises,” she mused, and snapped her fingers.

Sid’s eyes bugged as her clothes seemed to burn away in a flash of fire. Plump breasts bounced into the open. Dark horns curled from her brow and long legs climbed to sensual thighs. She stood at ease, one hand resting on a lush hip, her breasts giving a teasing bounce as she shifted her weight, her skin tinting a rich red before his eyes.

“Oh fuck,” he gasped.

“There,” Millie said with a smirk. “Now that’s the look I was aiming for.”

“S-stay away!” he yelped, taking another step back. “You won’t… won’t have my soul!”

Millie giggled. “Oh,” she purred, taking a lazy step forward, her wings giving a beat, wafting the sweetness of her perfume into him again. “Is that what you think I’m after?”

“A-aren’t you?” Sid demanded, retreating again, his body tingling as he inhaled her scent. His cock throbbing in his pants again.

She gave him a pitying look. “Poor Sid,” she crooned. “Such a silly boy. Sure, maybe I’d eat the souls of the rest of those dummies in there. But not you. I wanted to save you for something extra… special…”

“What… what do you mean?”

“Do you like my breasts?” she asked suddenly.

“Huh?”

“It’s not a hard question,” Millie asked, cupping those plump crimson orbs, hefting them teasingly. “Not hard like you are. Do you like them? Most do. They’re so big and soft and bouncy…”

Sid gaped, his eyes instantly riveted to those ample orbs as she gave them a teasing bounce. “I… I don’t…”

“They’re even bigger when I’m in my true form, aren’t they?” Millie crooned, squeezing them together, squishing them with another bounce. “So big and soft and bouncy. So firm. That’s the problem with playing human. You have to be more… realistic. More believable. But we all know what men really like, don’t we? They like them big. And soft. And bouncy!”

Catching himself staring, Sid jerked his attention back to her face. “Y-you won’t trick me!”

“Now Sid, don’t be silly,” Millie giggled, her eyes smoky, her smirk teasing. “I’m being more open with you than ever. I’m baring it all for you. My horns. My skin. My fat, bouncy tits.”

His gaze wavered. He was breathing hot and fast. Breathing in that perfume. That heavy, spicy perfume… “You… I…”

“Now now. Don’t pretend,” Millie cooed. “I know how much you love staring at them. I could feel you fighting not to look at them whenever we talked in the halls. So naughty of you trying to resist like that, Sid. Why, every time I took a deep breath, your eyes would just… pop!”

She gave her chest a sudden bounce. Sid felt his breath catch. His thoughts swirl and froth. He tried to shake it off, but his head felt strangely light. His hands shaking as they gripped the knife, its tip wavering.

“I… I don’t…”

“You were trying sooooo hard to be a good boy,” Millie cooed, stepping nearer. Nearer. Every movement punctuated by a swing of her hips. A flap of her wings. A bounce of her chest. “Being soooo polite. Soooo sweet. Sooooo caring. Never thinking that I wanted you to stare. That I wanted you to drool. That I wanted you to ask me out so I could ride that cock of yours and bury you under the tits you loved so much.”

Sid whimpered, his face burning hot. Flushed as she continued to lazily approach. Her wings fluttering, framing her, outlining her gorgeous figure, her hooves clicking on the floor.

Click.

Click.

Click.

“S-stay away,” Sid whimpered, suddenly recalling he should say that, yet the command lacked conviction. His head pounded with his pulse. Throbbing like his cock. His cock begging him to abandon reason. Abandon everything. Just fuck her. Touch her. Adore her. “I m-mean it!”

Millie smirked, and he knew she sensed his hesitation. Her eyes lidding in tantalizing hunger.

“You’re such a good boy,” Millie purred. “Always so sweet and nice. I’ve had my eye on you for weeks. But you just never seemed to come around. Always so shy and nervous around pretty girls. So I decided I’d better take the initiative. But not to date you. No no. I couldn’t stand that, Sid. Couldn’t stand you doing something silly like trying to be a gentleman and waiting for the fourth or fifth or sixth date before holding hands. I don’t have that kind of patience, Sid. I want you now. I want you to pound my pussy into pudding. To rut me like a fucking slut! To mold and squeeze my tits like dough and suck my nipples until I’m fucking putty!”

The fire in her eyes commanded Sid’s attention. Mostly. He still found it so hard to look away from her crimson breasts. How hard her nipples had become. How her fingers teased and rolled those buds in desperate arousal.

“I don’t just want your soul, Sid,” she continued, her words silken. Hot. Wrapping around him like the coils of a snake. Squeezing so sweetly. So lovingly. “I want you. I want to make you mine. All mine. Your silly mind. Your hot fucking body. And yeah,” she shrugged, her breasts again bouncing, “I want your soul too. But I want it all, Sid. I want you. I want to entrance you and love you and make you my adoring hunk of manmeat. I want to wrap you around my figure so we can make a whole new nest of hot succubi somewhere else.

“And I had the perfect evening set up for it,” she sighed dreamily. “A sweet little thing in my bedroom. Just you and me. We’d make out, and by the time I had you stripped and on my bed, you wouldn’t have noticed if I had two heads let alone wings and horns. But no,” she growled. “My idiot sisters had to ruin my evening. As always. So here we are.”

The back of his leg hit the bed frame, and Sid yelped as he toppled over and onto the sheets. The soft mattress bounced him, and he found Millie standing at the foot of the bed, smirking down at him, her golden eyes hungry and greedy.

“But then,” she purred. “There’s a certain appeal to this too.”

His hand flashed up belatedly, brandishing the knife. She glanced at it with amusement. “Oh Sid,” she hummed. “So defiant. So brave. But I have something I bet you’d much rather fill those hands with.”

His eyes returned to her breasts as she gave them another bounce. “I… I won’t,” he gasped.

“Just put it down, Sid,” she murmured, climbing onto the bed, straddling his legs, the heat of her body radiating through him and to his crotch. Her wings beat again, blasting his face with her perfume. His knife wavered as she loomed above him, smirking down, still cradling the plump orbs of her chest. “Just for a minute. Just to see if my big… soft… bouncy breasts are really as soft as they look. I promise,” she cooed, her hand stealing into his lap, opening his pants, “I’ll make it so… very… good…”

Sid wavered. Sweet fuck those breasts were so big. So soft. He inhaled deeply, and her perfume swam up his nose and into his head like pleasant pink clouds. Would it… would it really be so bad? Just for a bit? Those guys in the living room had seemed so happy.

Couldn’t he try?

Just for a moment?

“That’s it,” Millie murmured, her voice soothing, coaxing as the tip of the dagger dipped. “Just put it aside. Keep it close. You can snatch it up any time. I’m utterly at your mercy.”

That was a lie.

A bald faced lie.

But Sid slowly lowered his arm.

Set the knife down beside him.

“Such a good boy,” she said with a throaty, mocking note that made his cock twitch in his pants. Then she grabbed his belt, and hauled down both his pants and boxers.

His cock sprang up, twitching, thick and hard. Millie’s eyes flashed and a hungry smile worked onto her lips. “Finally,” she purred, sliding down him until her ass was lifted into the air, her tail winding above her bottom as she fairly drooled over his cock. She nuzzled his length, moaning, the feel of her tongue sliding up his manhood shooting through Sid like liquid lust.

“O-ohhhhh!” he groaned.

“Mmm. That’s… wait,” Millie said, a pout forming on her lips. “This tastes like… booze?” She gave him a sharp look. “Did that bitch Brandy already suck you off?”

“A… a bit” Sid whimpered.

Millie scowled. “Stupid slut,” she growled, her fingers wrapping around his length, starting to stroke him. “She’s always being such a brat! I swear, Beezie never should have brought her over.”

Sid failed to answer, only panting gasps escaping his lips as her fingers pumped him, sending aching pleasure throbbing to his balls.

“Guess that only choice is to thoroughly mark my territory,” Millie said with another playful smirk.

“Y-yeah?” Sid gasped.

“Oh yeah,” Millie purred, lifting her head to his cock and letting her tongue glide along his length.

Sid cried out in delight as her lips reached his tip, kissing the twitching head, her tongue lapping up the first drops of pre. She moaned at the taste, positively lavishing him with her affections before she began to slide down, down. Millie’s head dipping, taking more and more of him into her throat.

Sid’s eyes rolled back. A moan of pure, undiluted ecstasy escaping him as the possessive succubi’s head began to bob, those sinfully perfect lips gliding up and down his manhood, taking him deep into the warm tightness of her throat.

“Oh f-fuuuuuuck,” Sid moaned, his hands clutching the rumpled sheets as Millie did her work, masterfully sucking him off, her fingers stroking the twitching orbs of his balls. It was a world of difference from Brandy’s work. Soft, tender, adoring, he could feel her love for him in every movement of her lips. His whole body trembled with pleasure. Surged with ecstasy.

“Oh… oh… Oh f-fuck yesssss!” Sid cried out, arching on the bed, his balls tightening as he surrendered his load at last.

“Mmmm,” the succubus groaned as she gulped down his hot seed, her lips dragging off his cock with an audible pop. Millie arched up, smirking down at him with smoky, lidded eyes.

“Mmm. Delish,” she purred.

“Holy… holy fuck,” Sid gasped.

“See?” she said playfully as she crawled above him, her tail swirling above her, forming lazy hearts. “Told you it would be good, my sexy stud. And I’m going to make you so happy, my pretty boy. When I’m done, you are going to be so in love with me. So obsessed with me. You’ll never stop thinking about my tits. My ass. Never stop wanting to taste my lips and kiss my pussy.

“And then,” she purred, planting her hands on either side of his head, smirking down at him. “You and I are gonna go out there and make ourselves a love nest. We’re going to summon up more succubi. Conjure up even more cuties like me to enthrall some hot boys. But not you,” she cooed, kissing his cheek, the feel of her lips shooting through him like liquid fire. His mind squeezed in delight. “Not you, my pretty stud. Sure, I’ll let some of the girls have a taste if they’re very good. But you’re all mine, Sid. My pretty thrall. My sexy dumb stud. And doesn’t that sound nice?”

“I-”

Her hips rocked back, and Sid gasped as the soft heat and slickness of her pussy brushed his shaft, stirring him again to aching hardness.

“What’s that? Didn’t quite catch it,” Millie cooed as she swung forward.

Her breasts bouncing.

Bouncing.

“I um… I…”

“You want to be mine?” Millie cooed, her rocking hips going a little lower, the tip of his cock rubbing her slit. Her perfume surrounding him in pink softness. Loving submission. “You wanna be my stud? My brainless boytoy? My hot, sexy plaything for me to corrupt and fuck and play with for ever and ever? Is that what you want? More of this?” she breathed, her breasts swaying above him, her pussy rubbing against his twitching cock. “More of me? More… of… my… tits?”

Sid panted, whimpering, almost whining in animalistic need for more of the beautiful succubus. More of her pussy. More of her breasts. He couldn’t look away. They enthralled him. The bounce. The sway. He caught her eyes, glowing hot like fire. Her smile filled with lust and amusement and knowing exactly what he would decide. Exactly what he would admit. Exactly what he would do for her.

Anything.

Anything at all.

“Y-yeah,” he gasped. “Y-yesss! Sounds… sounds gooood.”

Millie giggled. “Sure does,” she purred. “And that means you’re mine!”

Her hips dropped, her velvety pussy devouring his cock in a single stroke. Sid cried out beneath her as her hips met his, Millie moaning in ecstasy as she began to bounce, riding his cock with slow, loving strokes.

“Ohhhhhh,” she moaned. “Oh fuuuuck! My breasts. Oh fuck, Sid, grab my breasts. Grab your nnn… grab your biiiiig priiiiize!”

As if his hands were magnetized, they shot up and cupped those impressive orbs. He groaned in delight as he felt how soft they were. How plump. How absolutely perfect. Everything he’d dreamed they were. Even better than he could have imagined.

And his.

All his.

And he was all hers.

“Yes!” Millie cried, her pace increasing, the bed creaking under them as she fucked him. “Oh hells yes! Squeeze my tits. Kiss them. Lick them! Oh Sid. Oh hells, Sid, yes! Good boy. Oh gooood stud! Keep nnnn… keep going. I’m gonna cum. Ah. Yes. Yes! Gonna cum! And you’re gonna… you’re gonna gimme that mind. Make yourself mine. Give it all up to be mine! Oh fuck. Oh fuck, Sid! You can’t… I won’t l-let you cum until you say it! Until you beg me! Beg me to m-make you my stud!”

Sid didn’t hesitate a second. Almost before she finished speaking he was moaning, “Please! Please, Millie!” he cried, voice muffled by her expansive titflesh. “N-need to be yours! Gotta be yours! T-take it! Take anything! Just… just… just let me cuuuuum!”

A squeal of delight escaped Millie as her arms wrapped around his head, pulled him deep into her breasts, smothering him in her enthralling bosom. “Yes! Yes! Yesssss!” she wailed.

Sid felt her inner walls clamp around him, squeeze him in a shudder of rippling ecstasy. He groaned in pathetic pleasure as she came, her own orgasm milking his out of him. White light seemed to burst in his eyes as his balls tightened, cock pulsing as he gave her his seed in great, throbbing bursts. As he surrendered to the joy of her. To her breasts. To her pleasure.

The dagger was forgotten. His fear was forgotten. Everything was forgotten, sucked away in that moment of hedonistic bliss. Drained away like his seed. Sucked away by the gorgeous succubus above him. Taking his will. His soul.

Everything but her.

Everything but love for Millie.

Gorgeous Millie.

His perfect, beautiful mistress…

[milkloafy]

REST AND RESPITE — DAN HENG

⋆｡˚ ❀ summary: dan heng finds himself growing fond of your outgoing and talkative nature. one day, when you’ve holed yourself in your room, he can’t help but worry about you. ⋆｡˚ ❀ wc: 1.0k  ⋆｡˚ ❀ a/n: shhh i haven’t played 2.1 or 2.2 update yet so dan heng is still chilling in the express to me <3 wrote this while sleep deprived and accidentally made dan heng softer than planned :> 

After the events that transpired at the Xianzhou Luofu, Dan Heng decided he needed the time to rest and reflect. He hoped March 7th and Trailblazer had a successful mission—he would surely join them again soon—but he knew he wouldn’t be giving his best effort if he were to go in his current state.

He decided a few moments of peace and quite would do him some good.

Unfortunately for him, however, you also stayed on board the Astral Express for the next mission. 

Peace, he would still get. Dan Heng enjoyed your presence and the two of you had gotten closer over the years. But quiet… That was another story. Ever since you had joined the Astral Express, the halls wer filled with sounds of your laughter. On the nights you and March 7th had a sleepover planned, Dan Heng found himself needing earplugs, to put it kindly. 

Despite the noise not being his typical preference, he noticed himself finding comfort in the liveliness and warmth you brought. Which is why, when a day came where he did not hear you chatting with Pom-Pom or Welt during your scheduled afternoon snack, Dan Heng began to grow concerned. After only brief contemplation, he walked down the hallway and knocked on your door, your favorite breakfast bar in hand. 

“Y/N?” he called through the wall.

“Oh— Come in,” you said, your voice distant. 

When he opened the door, he saw you curled up on the small sofa inside your room—your conversation area for guests, you had told him. You had a blanket wrapped around you and a slow-paced instrumental piece playing from your radio. 

You waved as you looked up at him with a smile. “Hi there.”

“Hello.” Dan Heng extended the breakfast bar out to you. “I noticed you haven’t come out to eat yet. Thought you might be hungry.” 

Your eyes brightened as you accepted the snack, expressing your thanks with a bow of your head.

“Is everything okay?” he asked once you took a bite. Though you didn’t look terrible, he still was unable to shake his worry. “You have been quiet today.”

You let out a small laugh, though it sounded unnaturally forced. “I’m sure you’re grateful for these few moments of silence.”

“Not when your wellbeing is in question.”

Your gaze warmed as his thoughtful words, patting the cushion next to you and beckoning him to take a seat. He obliged, feeling the warmth radiating from your body as his right arm pressed against you. Dan Heng quite enjoyed the warmth. You offered him the corner of your blanket and he shook his head, smothering a chuckle of amusement. 

Once the two of you settled in, you said, “I’ve just been having bad dreams all night.” You paused, as if deciding how much more you wanted to share. “They were about my time…before the Astral Express.”

Dan Heng nodded in understanding. You did not have to say more. The Express welcomed all types of people, each with vastly different backgrounds. Everyone came from unique places and sometimes they were not the best ones. He was unable to verbalize this feeling of empathy out loud to you, but he hoped you sensed that he was there for you.

“I’m not really thinking about it anymore,” you assured, your tone rushed. “Now I’m just exhausted but haven’t been able to sleep.”

He hummed to himself. You seemed tired, even a bit troubled. Perhaps even someone like you needed time alone. But something told him that, for this particular situation, that didn’t seem to be the case.

Clearing his throat, he spoke up. “If you think it will help, you are welcome to join me in the Archives today. I still have some entries to input, but if you would like some company, I’ll be there.”

You straightened up in your seat, eyes wide with excitement, before a flash of hesitancy crossed your face.

“It…won’t be bothersome to you?” 

“You’re never a  bother,” he said firmly. “Though, perhaps your slumber parties with March 7th while I’m trying to sleep may be.” 

That earned a laugh out of you. “Well, if you joined us one night, maybe you would see the appeal. Even Caelus joins sometimes!” 

Dan Heng smiled at that. “Perhaps you are right.”

You nodded and said matter-of-factly, “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”

He chuckled, happy to see a glimpse of your normal self coming out. Seeing you dejected and downcast was something he hated to witness, though he knew everyone had those moments. They were inevitable, after all. But Dan Heng wished he could always be there for you during those times.

It was natural to feel that way towards a good friend, he told himself. If he said it enough, maybe he would be convinced. 

So why did he feel his heart race when you asked him to help you up from the couch? And why was he glad you didn’t let go of his hand even after you stood up?

Dan Heng wet his lower lip as he glanced at your connected hands. They were not even interlocked—just barely brushing—yet he still reacted in such a way. He looked over at your face and noticed a bashful smile gracing your features. It was a sight he wasn’t exactly used to seeing, but it was pleasant nonetheless. 

Perhaps similar thoughts flashed through your mind about him. Did your heart also race when the two of you made close contact? Did your stomach flutter at his touch? He wanted to ask, but chose to hold back for now. You were distraught and vulnerable from your difficult night, and he thought it was more important to help you feel calm and well-rested first. 

But as he caught you sneaking glances at him before looking away with a coy expression, Dan Heng knew he wouldn’t be able to hold back for long. Still, patience was a virtue and he was confident that it would pay off. 

Soon, he promised himself. Dan Heng caught your eye and this time, you didn’t look away. He smiled and you returned it tenfold. Very soon.

[lets-try-some-writing]

In your professional opinion: what would be some Cybertronian Superstitions? Like do the miners hit the entrance of mines after someone dies inside it to help free their sparks from their tomb? Do people not say Unicron’s name after dark for fear it’ll summon him? Is there a name(s) that you can’t say inside the Iacon Hall Of Records or else you’ll be cursed with bad luck????

Please feel free to go hog wild with this.

Oh boy I LOVE the idea of that sort of thing. Honestly, I can see all sorts of little superstitions existing due to mythos and history.

Miners make it a point to never leave their tools unattended. They take them everywhere. To recharge, to fuel, even to get repairs. As for why they do this? There is a certain belief that the tools carry a bit of the luck and wisdom of those who held them previously. And since most tools are handed down from one fallen miner to the next, miners treat their tools with reverence. Many have carried the same pick, and each has left their mark. It cannot be disregarded.

Additionally, miners refuse to enter a deep tunnel system without whistling down it first. The habit has been long since made null and void by tunneling improvements, but there are stories of miners getting lost in the dark, before they adapted to it. Many died before their optics were augmented to the low light conditions. Great swaths of miners still believe that the wandering sparks of those lost in the dark linger there, scared and alone. Whistling down the tunnel before entering gives the lost spirits of the dead something to cling to, a guide to the afterlife in a sense.

Gladiators have a particular set of beliefs revolving entirely around the concept of honor. They know that their work is bloody and often cruel, and so they have developed a strange set of beliefs. Every gladiator, before combat, will take a stick or something equally useless, and snap it in half. They will give half of their broken instrument to a trusted comrade and march off to fight. If they return alive, the two pieces are to be put back together and promptly crushed into powder to be cast out upon whichever mech or beast died so that the gladiator could live. A sign of respect. However, if the gladiator were to die, their comrade is obliged to gather up the fallen's half of the instrument and have them run through their funeral rites with the joined object. This is done out of a belief that the dead must be honored, lest they linger in the living realm to haunt those who killed them (in the case of the gladiator surviving) or to stay with the other piece of their spark (in the event the gladiator dies).

Gladiators also have a firm belief that going into battle without paint will inevitably lead to bad luck coming upon them. They take meticulous care of their accenting paint, tracing swirls and jagged lines with delicate touches meant for those of higher castes. Some believe the marks distract enemies. Others say that the marks ward off attacks, letting otherwise lethal combat situations turn in their favor. No one really knows what they do. It is just something that must be done. Failure to go into battle without paint has led to more than a few gladiators meeting their end. Seeing such things has left the rest preferring to not take chances. Megatron himself went into battle without paint one time, and he quickly learned never to do that again when he returned with a brand new scar on his shoulder.

Amongst dock workers, there are various superstitions revolving around cargo in particular. It's bad luck to look at someone's cargo if it has a written letter attached. It doesn't matter what is in the box, it is considered a stain on one's spark to witness the usually rather sappy interactions between those who bother with sending hardcomms. Additionally, dock workers have long since grown to fear any box that comes in solid black. There was exactly one incident where a black box appeared amidst the cargo and disappeared without a trace, taking several other cargo pieces with it. Since then, any black boxes are either thrown right off the truck with a collective agreement that the loss will be signed off as an accident, or said boxes are loaded up with one unfortunate spark to transfer alone. Black boxes being delivered by one mech are often found missing, the driver and the box itself having vanished without a trace. Black boxes are terrifying, and not one dock worker is willing to risk it.

It is also notoriously bad luck among dock workers to deny the youngling with golden optics a ride. They will appear anywhere and at any time without rhyme or reason. When they appear, they never say a word, instead coming up to dock workers and pointing toward whatever transport they are loading up. Dock workers have long since learned to quietly nod and promptly ignore the youngling as they load up alongside the cargo. Interacting with the youngling results in the worker in question befalling some unfortunate end. Ignoring the youngling entirely leads to a similar situation. This superstition began long ago, and many younglings have abused it relentlessly since no one knows what the mysterious youngling from the myth actually looks like aside from their optics.

Low caste mecha as a whole have a strange superstition revolving around the concept of truth. They are notorious for keeping information to themselves, but low caste mecha never ever outwardly or blatantly lie. They are very careful to leave even the smallest grain of truth in their words. Why? Because telling lies brings the whispers of Liege Maximo. What are the whispers? No one is exactly sure. It is an evil omen, one that has led the low castes to develop odd honesty. They don't want to risk Liege's touch, not when he was stated to have been torn apart during the first age for his manipulations.

Low level soldiers hold the belief that giving away their names to one another is bad luck. Since they can all die at any given moment, they find it easier to remain nameless around one another. To them, remaining without a name in the optics of those around them ensures that survivors of battle can move on without fear. Giving a name means binding oneself to another. Their sparks might linger if they are attached, and that could lead to pain for both themselves and their comrades. So to get around this, soldiers don't do the name thing. Instead, every soldier refers to each other through characteristics or words of endearment. "Yellow" for a mech with yellow plating. "Comrade" or "Brother" for a mech they have served with frequently. Anything except a name. It would be cruel to bind the dead to living and the living to the dead.

Soldiers also have a belief that leaving a corpse to rot is incredibly bad luck. It doesn't matter whose corpse it is. It can't be left out. If nothing is salvageable, the spark chamber must be removed and taken to be given proper funeral rites. Not a spark wants to risk and angry spirit lingering because the body was not tended to properly. This belief extends to the point where soldiers will actively tear out their own spark chambers if they know they are going to die (or request others to do it for them). They don't want to linger and haunt those around them, so its best that the core of their frame is guaranteed proper rites.

Flyers of all kinds simply refuse to fly when Luna 1 and 2 are fully aligned. There are a thousand stories telling tales of fliers crashing, being killed, hit by rogue shots, and everything else. They won't risk it, and instead of flying, flyers will instead actively hide from the moons on such occasions. Usually unwilling to be locked in tight spaces, such cycles are the exception. To be seen by the moons is to be hunted. They won't risk it. Additionally, flyers have one particular stretch of Cybertronian landscape they all avoid like the plague. Mecha have been known to go in and never come back out, or if they do return, they are changed. They don't want to mess with that place, not for anything.

Flyers also hold the firm belief that one must keep their optics in perfect condition. They run tests all the time to ensure that their optics function without issue. Some even go so far as to get goggles or visors built into their frames just to protect them. Most chalk this up to a simple desire to not go blind. But flyers think differently. They won't get their optics replaced even if its an option. Why? Because they hold the belief that they carry the optics of a mech who didn't get to soar. Every flyer who has ever lived has had the optics of a grounder who will never get to grace the skies. For flyers, they see their optics as something sacred. They fly not just for themselves, but also for whoever their counterpart is, living or dead. They honor another through their sight, and so they must maintain their vision at all costs. Some call the phenomenon something akin to soulmates. The flyers state that it is the price they pay for their gift of flight.

(Note: Starscream and many of his people do not subscribe to the above thought process. Thundercracker is the only notable exception. Most chalk this up to his love of romance novels.)

Enforcers have many little quirks depending on city, but one they all share is the universal habit of naming their weapon of choice. It is a strange not quite religious belief for them. Whatever the thought process actual is, Enforcers rely heavily on their weapons, and as such, they must appease the weapon itself. They have to bond to it, make it an extension of themselves so that they can move it just as easily as a limb. They go about this through naming, and once named, they never get rid of the weapon in question. Even if its outdated, old, or broken. The weapon stays. If it is obliterated or lost, the Enforcer is obliged to get a copy of their prior weapon for the sake of their continued success. For this reason, most Enforcers fight with inbuilt weapons until they settle on something, and then they buy several copies just in case.

Enforcers will also never actively say "goodbye" to one another. Doing so would imply that there is a possibility of not coming back from the next patrol. So Enforcers simply don't use such language. "Good luck" or "Get those slaggers" are common supplements. Surprisingly, Enforcers only dodge around "goodbye" while on duty. They will casually wave off companions when not on the clock without a care in the world. However, if an Enforcer really does not like someone while on the clock, they will say "goodbye" as their polite version of a middle finger.

It is not exactly a rule, but Archivist as a whole simply do not refer to the Primes by name most of the time. There is a belief that uttering their designations aloud will bring their gaze upon whoever spoke. That can either be good or bad depending on the context, but since Primus's chosen can never really be predicted, most Archivists won't risk it. Instead, if they must say a Prime's name, they will tap a nearby surface a few times to supposedly draw attention away from themselves and hopefully keep the Prime in question from seeing them. It makes no sense, but even Orion Pax kept to the habit. Although some, like Orion, usually worked around this by coming up with slightly different pronunciations of the designations of Primes to hopefully avert their gazes.

Archivists also refuse to read anything relating to relics after a certain time. There is a longstanding belief that doing so can drive a mech mad. Hidden knowledge comes at Primus's chosen joor. Sometimes Archivists will reach grand discoveries at this specific time after delving into records of relics. But more often than not, Archivists have been noted having mental breakdowns, crying, losing their minds, or otherwise going haywire. Medical professionals chalk it up to exhaustion and mania. The Archivists believe it is a warning. They refuse to read about relics during Primus's joor. Obviously, there are some thing between the veil they are not meant to know.

Medics won't come within a ten mile radius of the smelting pits where most of the dead are dealt with. They believe it is a bad omen to linger in places of death, and that the wrath of the deceased can stick to their frames, making other patients lose their lives. This has led medics to make it a habit to remove dead mecha from hospitals as fast as physically possible, handing them off to medical students to carry to the pits. Medical students hardly ever do anything of note with the patients, so the professionals don't feel bad dumping all the potential bad luck on them. The only medics who actively hang around smelting pits are morticians and mecha focused on autopsies. They think lingering around the dead will help them understand the dead. That way, they can better diagnose just what killed a mech. Such medics are usually avoided by the rest who work with the living.

Medics have very sensitive servos. There is a longstanding belief that if a medic is to retire or happens to die, he or she must give up their servos to a younger medic in training. This is to pass on skill, at least in theory. It is also a sign that a medic in training is skilled and worthy of note. To take the servos of an old medic is to take on their legacy. Similarly to the miners, medics take honoring those who came before them very seriously. They will go above and beyond to keep their servos in perfect condition so that whoever comes after them can have the vital sensors that come with a medic's servos. Ratchet is one of the few mecha to not have inherited his servos from anyone. He has also never signed up to have anyone get them after he dies. Most take this to mean he never will die. And considering how long Ratchet has lived, a good chunk of the population firmly believe that Ratchet is eternal.

[thewriterwithsnakes]

could you write something for Ekko, literally anything except angst pls

The Ekko of A Violin

I'd love to! This is actually a mix of two asks for Ekko and I got a little carried away, enjoy!

@wallmayo asked for An ekko x female violinist reader who joins the firelights and they fall in love 🙏

I also kinda want to write more parts to this because it isn't super romantic yet, let me know if anyone wants more parts!

Summary: An undercity violinist hears about the firelights and wants to help, how will it pan out once she becomes acquainted with their devastatingly handsome leader?

Warnings: None really

The undercity was your home, no matter how rough it was. You grew up on the streets where people got robbed and maimed daily, it was a wonder you had survived it all.

But, there was one safe haven for you, an attic. When you were younger you discovered it, abandoned for the most part. The druggies downstairs were usually out or too high to even notice your presence so you found yourself coming back to the dusty room many nights, entertaining yourself with the things you discovered inside, forgotten like the room itself. One night you stumbled upon a smooth black case covered in a layer of dust. At first you thought it could be a weapon and you stayed weary of it. But over the next few days your curiosity got the better of you, and you opened it, brushing away the cobwebs and forgotten dreams.

Inside there had been an instrument, the case had kept it preserved and it also contained rosin and a bow. After that all your curious exploration of that attic fell away, outshined by your fascination with the challenge of figuring out this violin. It took you weeks up in that attic to not make your own ears bleed, but eventually, you started to get the hang of it. And once you got going, you couldn't stop. You played any music you could remember hearing, and when you didn't want to play that, you made it up as you went. Most of your teenage years were spent in a similar fashion, slinking through the streets and rooftops of the undercity to get to your refuge. When you played, the undercity melted away as you focused on each note, on the pitches and your techniques.

You figured that was how you survived the undercity without totally losing it like most people did. So when you found out about the firelights, the people who did their best to give a safe haven to people, you had to join. You wanted to help your home and it's people, and this was the perfect opportunity.

Growing up in the undercity made everyone rough around the edges and you were no exception. You'd had your share of struggle and you knew what to expect as a firelight in general. You met up with a firelight who would bring you to their mini oasis in this desert of depravation that Silco created, a desert he branded Zaun.

Upon arrival you saw quite a few people dressed quite similarly in what you presumed to be their armor. You bit your lip in nerves until your eyes laid upon the majestic tree infront of you. Sucking in a breath, you gazed in amazement at the wonderful world they created. It seemed like a whole different universe, so detached and different from the rest of the undercity. The only detail that wasn't was the mural that sprawled put across the base of the tree. It had some familiar and unfamiliar faces on it though you knew none personally. Your heart jumped at the idea of being able to live in a slice of this paradise, you weren't sure it could get any better and you couldn't wait to help.

You met Ekko your first day their, though you didn't know that. You didn't even know his name, which was purposeful on Ekkos part. You knew that name belonged to the firelights leader and he wanted to see how you acted when you didn't know. You had your violin case clutched tightly in your hand along with a small bag you packed, this would be your new home. As you bit your lip and tried suppressing a hopeful smile, a man approached you and your guide. He simply smiled and nodded at the firelight next to you who seemed to get some sort of message and left.

"Are all firelights telekinetic or is that just you?" You shot the man a joking smile in hopes that this environment would be kinder than the undercity. He let out a laugh that took your breath away.

"Not telekinesis, sugar, just mutual understanding" He shook his head in playful disappointment before turning and motioning for you to follow. "Come on, I'll show you to where you will stay,"

"Thanks, this place is certainly going to take some getting used to," You commented as you looked around, still a little starstruck at all of it. He led you to a small room with a simple bed and small dresser in it.

"Here is your luxury bedroom madam" He gave you a playful bow as he spoke in an attempted piltover accent. "Oh here m'lady let me handle your extensive luggage" He grabbed your bag and you couldn't help but snort.

"God that accent is terrible" You laughed and set your violin case down.

"Really?" He asked sarcastically. "I thought it was simply marvelous," The matter of fact attitude combined with the horrendous accent nearly had you doubling over laughing. He caught sight of your violin case and asked if you played. After a short quip back from you about how you just liked to stare at it combined with an eyeroll, you laughed and and said yes. He asked if you would like to play for the firelights occasionally, to help boost moral. You deliberated for a moment, you hadn't really played for other people before, but you had come here to help, right?

"Sure, why not?" You smiled and he was clearly happy to get that answer.

"Alright well I'll see you around," He stepped back and swung your door open to step backwards out onto the balcony that led to the stairs.

"Wait, I didnt catch your name!" You took a quick step towards him.

"I didnt get yours either, sugar," He winked and stepped back off the balcony and you let out a short scream. He appeared in the air on a hoverboard-like contraption with a smug smirk on his handsome face before he sped off into the night. You were left standing on your balcony, speechless, and for the first time in a long time, looking forward instead of backward.