#trainwreck x reader

[lovieku]

MOTHERFUCKIN’ TRAIN WRECK! ⋆ 정국

𐙚 if you were my boyfriend… and you were my girlfriend…

when renowned fuckboy jeon jeongguk catches feelings, he loses his mind. only when it comes to you, though.

based on this ask

from the grande series ୨ৎ

pairing: fuckboy!jk x fem!reader

genre: fwb au

warnings: small smutty moments (cunnilingus, fingering, tiny boob play), angst, fluffi maybe idk, whipped and jelly koo, ft. namjoon!!!, oblivious oc, deep down she feels it too but jk is simply too much of a simp so it doesn’t look like it at first, he’s also so petty and sassy, jokes about ending it if oc doesn’t give him a chance </3, he’s just a little shit, peep the lyrics from boyfriend hehe, oh btw happy ending!!!

word count: 18k

a/n: wowww i’m so sorry for this pile of nonsense, it’s so bad i vomited a little in my mouth. i hate every single thing about it but i didn’t wanna leave you guys starved. i love u sm and thank u for the support, but u’re allowed to leave hate asks for what u’re about to read rn ❤️ also i’m SO SORRY for being unable to write a jungkook who isn’t a simp

🏷️ perm taglist: @ceellliiinee @jaytheatiny @dolligguk @luvismenu @theyloveyams @stillwjk-channie-lixie @bookstoread199 @girlygguk @vieviela @myngiii @angelxkoo @nnybtitts08 @mpbrinkss @https-mei @lyywst @mhdelu @apobangpogirlyyy @khadeeeeej @awrkive

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Jeongguk was only supposed to clean you up. That’s what he calls it when his angelic face finds its place between your spread legs, sinful eyes locking with yours, paired with a smirk you can hardly ever survive.

After all, he’s a man of simple devices. Why bother fetching a towel when he can use his own mouth? When he can let his tongue lap at your juices, slurp every last trace, have an excuse to taste you again, and again, and again?

It’s barely even effective as a way to clean you up, of drying the slick mess that sticks to your inner thighs from cumming three times under his merciless doings— you both know that. Then, how does he expect you not to break a fourth when he runs his wet muscle so torturously along your slit, getting ever more soaked?

Jeongguk is not really trying to end the night. He’s drawing it out. He already had you unraveling in phases— first on his fingers, then all over his cupid lips, ending with you convulsating just another time around his thick length.

It was rough, left purplish marks of his harsh hold digging into your sides, a faint trace of a forbidden hickey just under your collarbones, where you can easily hide it.

In all fairness, he couldn’t help it.

It was you who provoked him. You always do, getting under his skin, teasing him about his skills, downgrading them with playful indifference and nothing more than a meh, as Jeongguk rasps in your ear, clearly affected by your session of foreplay when asking, “Does this make you feel good?”

You’ll be sent straight to hell for lying like that, with seemingly no remorse, but you’re unable to resist the dangerous game and the familiar thrill that comes from it. Nothing compares to the dark wave that takes over his hooded eyes, his motions ever more intentional, almost overwhelming.

He moves to prove something to you, to show you there’s no one quite like him, even with all the guys in your phone, on your lips, inside your sheets.

Jeongguk is your fuckbuddy, and your friend on top of the rest. So, when he first laid his lips on yours, the bottom line plumper than his cupid’s bow, it had taken a great amount of alcohol to flow through both of your veins and blur the lines, let instinct take over.

From there, it was like you couldn’t help yourselves; the physical attraction was undeniable, it’s what brought you here in between the mess of his bed. If you ignore the silly crush you had on him during the first year of college, this was perfect.

Your fuckbuddy contract (Jeongguk hates calling you that, he prefers my friend who makes me cum a lot) includes a heavy emphasis on a no-strings-attached relationship, that can be interrupted whenever one of the two feels uncomfortable, and that should not come before your friendship. On top of all, you both are not exclusive. No commitment, no jealousy. You’re perfectly free of meeting other people, fucking other people. Unless you’re going to date one of those, of course. Then, bye-bye friend who makes me cum a lot.

These rules were established almost a year ago, after your hands couldn’t help themselves from roaming hastily all over his body, pulling him impossibly closer. It was the second time you allowed yourself to feel him, following the night when he initiated things under the clouded lights of a club.

You couldn’t help it. You had been thinking of that moment for weeks now, and when you were left alone with him in his dorm room, pulse racing, it’s all your thoughts were reduced to. Kiss him, kiss him, fuck him.

You felt guilty. A friend shouldn’t be thinking of another friend like you were about Jeongguk. Especially after you promised yourself you wouldn’t let your buried crush resurface and ruin what you had built— even if the memory of that infatuation is honestly just laughable now (you would never think of dating him, pft).

But Jeongguk, ever the gentlest when it comes to you, assured you it was okay to feel as you did, because he felt it too. And was dying to touch you again. His words, not yours.

It’s only sexual. A casual, sexual relationship. Two friends who happen to find each other irresistible.

So when he reacts with a flash of competitiveness at the mere suggestion he might not be the best you’ve ever had, it’s… weird, the feeling that overcomes you. You acknowledge it for a split second, as if you’re searching to name that something inside you stirring, but before you can, it seems to make you fall apart immediately, your grip tighter, back arched, moans high-pitched.

He basks in his silent victory, in the factual demonstration that he in fact can’t be compared to all your other guys.

Except, there’s actually no other guys.

Back when this friends-with-benefits arrangement first started, you were occasionally fooling around with an older guy from campus named Mingyu. Jeongguk knew him, given that they’re in the same photography class. He was also aware of your casual fling with him. And yet, Jeongguk still kissed you. Actually, did so much more than just that.

Either way, the line has always been clear: he has no right to question who you spend time with and what you engage in, Jeongguk isn’t a saint either.

You love him, you truly do. With time, he has become one of your closest friends, and you honestly can’t see yourself getting through college without him.

But there’s no denying the fuckboy allegations, the ones that are constantly thrown at him all around campus. He is a fuckboy. It must be his easy charm, flirting as natural as breathing, tripping out his tongue with seemingly not much thought. At some point, the majority of the girls in your campus got to have their moment with Jeongguk, either because of mindless teasing or one night stands, occasionally turning into casual arrangements.

You have accepted it as part of who he is. You know his fuckboy habits haven’t magically changed when you two started fucking. He doesn’t really spend much time talking about it with you, occasionally mentioning his doings every now and then, but you don’t need to know; his friends and the people whispering in hallways and lecture halls fill in the blanks.

That is exactly why you’ve let Jeongguk believe that your sexual life is equally as busy, floods of boys from your inbox to your sheets, as if you aren’t too much of a hopeless romantic to even think of anything that isn’t exclusively monogamous.

But this isn’t the case. Jeongguk isn’t yours, you aren’t his. It’s just about sex, and you’ve accepted that. You don’t want anything more from him. You tell yourself the only reason you’re not seeing anyone else is that the idea of it makes you uneasy. That you’re more than satisfied with Jeongguk being your friend-turned-into-fuckbuddy, and you don’t need other ones.

Jeongguk is more than enough. Oh, he is.

“Fuck, Gguk. You’re gonna make me cum— Ah, shit— again.”

Your head is thrown back in his pillow, legs weakly tightening around his head nestled so close to your core, and it’s clear his goal has completely shifted from getting you clean and neat when the tip of his tongue moves to flicker on your sensitive nub, relentlessly abusing it with casual kissing and sucking.

He opens his mouth to take more of you, his wet muscle tracing your slit and teasing your entrance for— sadly —the shortest second, and the way he hums approvingly against you brings you even closer to the breaking point.

You’re a fragile mess, overstimulated from the previous orgasms but desperate to chase yet another climax, his hands roaming up to find your breast only spurring you further.

Jeongguk knows you by now, and is aware of all the subtle gestures that make you come undone under him. He knows just what to do to push you over the edge, and when to do it exactly.

You’re a sucker for dirty talk and praise, and occasionally, when the ideal situation comes, you love being degraded. It’s a side of you that only ever arises during sex, mind hazed and irrational, the delirious need for release clouding all your usually composed senses.

At first, he teased you for it. Not because he’s not as much of a fan as you are of talking during sex, but because he never pictured you to be the loud type. And you truly are.

Jeongguk pinches your nipples in hopes of you getting the message and lowering your volume, but it only makes you whine higher, your moans surely not going unnoticed by the other students in the dorm.

It can only be worse when he decides to speak against you, his voice a low, almost unintelligible growl, “Pussy’s so fuckin’ good. All mine, fuck. Want to taste your cum once again, c’mon babe. Give it to me.”

And you, always obliging and well-behaved, let go for a fourth time, hips furiously rutting against his face, his words making your surroundings spin, the way his nose would brush your sensitive nub having your eyes roll to the back of your head.

Your gasp is strained when he retreats with one last wet stripe between your puffy lips, sealing the orgasm with a kiss on your clit, and when he finds your face again there’s a cockish grin spreading across his, chin coated with your juices.

He immediately meets your mouth then, sharing your own taste, and you both moan shamelessly at the action.

Jeongguk collapses next to you, his body warm and relaxed, pulling you closer by your waist and almost making you straddle him with the force of his hold. He sighs into your hair, kissing the root of it, “You did amazing for me, pretty girl.”

A pleasant shiver runs down your spine at the praise and the pet name rolling off his tongue with ease. It’s ridiculous.

With your cheek pressed against his chest, you glance up at him through your lashes and a lazy smile threatens to take over your face, but your playful pout is more prominent, almost convincing, “I’m never letting you do that trick on me again. Next time, I’m just going to take a shower like a normal person.”

The laugh he lets out is rich and unguarded, his chest rumbling under your ear, and it makes you pull away with a mock glare, brows knitted together as you swat at his toned stomach, “Don’t laugh. I hated that.”

His dark eyes soften as they dance with amusement, the corners crinkling, and he hums, going along with your blatant lie from the way your lips struggle to contain a grin, “Oh, absolutely. You were screaming in horror, couldn’t stand it.”

“Whatever,” you mutter incoherently, standing up to escape from the inevitable loss. The slick between your thighs reminds you of why you need that shower in the first place, causing you to awkwardly wobble your way to his bathroom.

Jeongguk watches you with a lopsided smirk, stretched out on the bed, his brown hair a messy halo on the pillow, and it completes the concept he goes perfectly with, the one of a devil dressed up as an angel, even more when his voice drips with faux desperation, “Hey, come back. I need my cuddles.”

“You’ll live,” you toss back before pulling the door shut behind you and stepping into the warm embrace of the shower. The hot water stings at first, then soothes you, sliding down your skin.

Jeongguk already knows the outcome of what he’s about to do isn’t going to turn in his favor, but he tries his luck regardless, standing up hastily and limply making his way to his bathroom door.

He only knocks twice, then puts on his best begging voice, talking loud enough to be heard over the shower, “Toots?”

“No!”

A scoff filters through the steamy air, followed by the unmistakable creak of the door handle as he steps inside. He’s relentless, voices his thoughts with the kind of logic only he would find convincing, “C’mon, we’ll save water!”

You stand with your back to him, his body wash traveling down your skin in soap bubbles, the scent filling the air, and you let your shoulders shrug. You don’t turn around. Number one, because you’ll give in. Number two, because you can hear the pout on his lips, and that’s the reason for number one.

You try your best to sound annoyed, “Jeongguk, just leave. You don’t even pay for it.”

“Our poor earth pays for it,” he quips, stepping further into the cramped space, body still bare, and that’s maybe a number three for you, “Because you wanna be so unfair to your best friend and leave him out in the cold.”

“You’re not my best friend.”

His gasp is dramatic, you even hear it echo through the tiny room, and you fight hard to contain the giggle locked inside you, but it escapes in the shape of a snort, which you quickly try to conceal by clearing your throat. You even further go with the lie, “You heard me.”

“Unbelievable. I’m kicking you out the second you’re done here,” he tries his best menacing tone, the threat barely harsh and effective, closing the door behind his back with an exaggerated thump, followed by unintelligible grumbling.

You take your sweet time in his now steamy bathroom. You shampoo twice, deliberately squeezing out a generous amount of his own fancy product in your palm, making sure the squeak of the bottle is heard through the door so he knows you’re helping yourself. His high-quality hair dryer blasts warm air over your damp hair until it’s only mildly wet. And you even rummage around his cabinet, indulging in his collection of expensive skincare creams. These little luxuries are exactly why you never pass a single occasion to shower over at his dorm room.

And the second you’re done in there, he doesn’t kick you out like he threatened. It takes a moment for him to move his attention from his phone to your figure, wrapped around in his fluffy robe, and he doesn’t even try to keep up the menacing act. Still spread on his ruined bed, his furrowed brows relax, and his lips break into a grin. He scans your face, then giggles, “You’ve got a massive pimple on your forehead.”

“Fuck you. I’m taking one of your hoodies.”

“It’s called borrowing,” even in the midst of checking out your freshly-washed naked body, now being stripped from his bathrobe, he’s still committed to the game of banter you two always play.

“It’s not if I’m not giving it back,” you counter, voice muffled by the fabric of one of his many black sweatshirts you’re already pulling over your head, quickly shuffling into your jeans, helping them up with some small hops that make him grin.

He doesn’t seem bothered by your comeback, too used to losing his own clothes to your closet; rather, he watches you move with what seems like hurry around his dimly lit room. He shifts higher, letting the sheets slip to reveal his still bare, and slightly sweaty torso, “Wanna hang out together at the party tomorrow?”

”Hmm, I’ll just see you there,” you don’t pay him much attention, using your phone camera as a mirror to wipe away any smudged mascara under your eyes. “I’ve already got a partner, actually.”

Jeongguk fully sits up now, vision a little blurry from the hasty and sudden movement, phone forgotten, “A partner?”

The way you casually let a smile tug at your lips while talking about a man is new, “Yeah. A guy from my English class asked me to go with him. He’s pretty cute.”

You’re too busy shoving your belongings in your bag and mentally cataloging every single item to notice the expression your best friend is currently sporting, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. Tank top, makeup, laptop… where the fuck is— oh, here. Lip balm. What else?

Jeongguk thinks you’re forgetting something deathly important. A fucking explanation, maybe? He’s known you to occasionally fool around with random guys, but he thought it was just that. Occasional and random. When did it get to having a partner? That sounds silly. Or maybe a little too formal, a little too real. What the fuck does having a partner even entail?

You’re blissfully unaware of the stubborn storm taking over Jeongguk’s thoughts, especially because you’re not exactly sparing him a second glance, moving with single-minded focus, hurrying to leave. Because apparently it’s so bad to want to spend the night with your best friend. Share a bed, watch a movie, talk gossip (it’s been so long since you’ve updated him the way only you can about the latest campus stories, ugh). Amazing, yes, that’s totally fine with Jeongguk.

And he does manage to sound unbothered, “What’s his name?”

“Namjoon.”

Jeongguk focuses on your slim fingers slipping your lip balm into the front pocket of your bag, syllabes leaving his lips in a slow mumble, “Ah, Namjoon. I know him. I guess.”

Fucking Kim Namjoon. Of course he knows him. 6 feet tall, polite, model student Kim Namjoon. Shit. Great choice. No, really, he’s the perfect catch.

“Hm? Well, I think he’s very nice. And hot as fuck.”

He grimaces, “Gross.”

“You’re one to talk,” pulling the hood over your head, you finally meet his eyes. You’re completely oblivious to the thoughts gnawing at him, so you think his disappointment is only caused by your next words, “I should get going now.”

“What? You’re not staying over for dinner?” The way he looks up at you with doe, puppy-dog eyes almost makes you trip on your own resolution, but you only ruffle his hair from your stance next to his bed, hoping the small action is enough to satisfy your hunger. Not for dinner.

“Nah, sorry Gguk. Gotta get up early for English class.”

He scoffs, moving stubbornly from your soothing touch, “Sure. English class with Joohyuk.”

“…Namjoon.”

“Right, that’s what I said. Namsun.”

You raise an eyebrow, half-laughing, “No, it’s Namjoon.”

“Namgi.”

“Namjoon.”

“Whatever, don’t care.” The words have barely any space to roll out through his pout, and along with his petty little slip-ups it’s the most childish act you’ve seen him pull so far. To be completely honest, he seems to break a new record every other day.

You fight the urge to roll your gaze at the ceiling, finding it impossible to deal with pouty, hungry and cuddle-starved Jeongguk. You sigh, muttering, “Insufferable.”

“Give me a kiss, brat.”

The teasing comes so naturally that for a second you don’t ponder on the demand being something a normal friend wouldn’t exactly ask. But it isn’t one you’ll deny.

You bend down to meet him as easily as he let the request out, muttering a playful Oh, I’m the brat now? before brushing his pushed lips with yours in a sweet, short kiss, enough to draw a soft sigh from both of you. You hum against it, voice warm with something that contradicts your words entirely, “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“Sure,” rolling your eyes, you grant his cocky figure that little win, too tired to put up a fight, even if you almost rethink it when he confidently leans back against the pillows, smirking up at you. You decide to cut it short, it’s for the best, throwing your bag over your shoulder as well as one last look at him, before readying yourself for the walk of shame through his frat.

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Namjoon is, by all standards, the perfect guy. He’s genuine, smiles sweetly with his dimples showing and his eyes crinkling into crescents that make him seem both wise and youthful.

Careful, even protective over you, making sure you’re comfortable. With your drink, with your seat, with your conversation.

Almost too attentive, which should calm your nerves, but instead you feel yourself unable to fully let go. Open up to him like he’s doing with you, like you think you want to do.

You’re not sure. You can’t feel that mysterious spark everybody talks about. That spark Jeongguk admitted he’s never felt with anyone so far, no matter the number of girls he’s been with. The one he’s confessed he’s desperate to feel. The one you hope he can find.

Wait, why are you thinking about Jeongguk?

Said boy has yet to acknowledge you, standing across from you in the crowded living room of your mutual friend’s house. Each weekend, the same ritual brings you back here, whenever Taehyung’s parents head off for one of their rich-people, luxurious trips. The space is familiar, a backdrop to countless parties, all too often ending in someone’s drunken confessions and stolen kisses that’d become the talk of campus until the next party came around.

As tradition would want, with the clock ticking its way past midnight, you’d be drunk out of your mind already. Tonight, however, you’re not even sure you want to be here.

Namjoon is keeping close tabs on your drinks, monitoring each glass you reach for, and you know he means well; ordinarily, you’d find it sweet, endearing even. But it only seems to heighten your anxiety now. It just reminds you of how out of place this whole thing feels. You want to drown your awkwardness in a wave of liquid courage, and the irony isn’t lost on you: the very reason why you’re nervous is keeping you from numbing it.

Namjoon makes you way too aware of yourself. You wish your first proper hang out wasn’t at a filthy frat party, the blasting music causing you both to lean into each other to make conversation. The proximity makes your palms disgustingly clammy, and you hope he doesn’t reach for your hand.

You also think this isn’t the type of scenario that best suits Namjoon. You would have loved to be with him somewhere softer, with less noise and more light, talking over coffee instead of loud techno, his poetic speech lulling you into infatuation. Maybe then, this would have gone like you had imagined it might. Like you wanted it to go, just to prove something to yourself. You’re still not sure what exactly.

But this house — this party — is a natural habitat for people like Jeongguk. It’s a playground he navigates with ease, his charisma amplified by the darkened rooms and faint cigarette smoke that seems to follow him, just like everyone around him. They exist solely to orbit his mood.

It’s as he saunters back inside after yet another smoke break that you spot him again, his focus entirely on whatever girl is currently at his side. With Namjoon leaving to grab a drink for the two of you to share, you take the short moment to be a shameless creep and study your friend’s movements from the other side of the room.

You can’t help but feel a sting of irritation. Jeongguk is fully aware you’re here. You’d texted him earlier, just something casual to say you’d arrived, maybe even expecting him to meet you or give you a quick wave. Instead, there’d been no reply.

Just like the TikToks you’d sent last night, after you told him you wouldn’t be staying over at his, that also went ignored. You didn’t think too much of it, figured it was probably one of his petty acts. You aren’t any better: it’s not like you’ll go up to him to say hi, not after he ignored you. Those videos were funny, too. He’s the one missing out.

But now, your eyes squinted to try and get the best possible view on each detail of the scene in front of you, what you notice is nothing about him and everything about who he’s currently spending the time he could have used to acknowledge you with.

It’s not just whatever girl. It’s Haeun.

You haven’t seen them hanging out together in what feels like months, and frankly, you’re thrown. Maybe that’s also the reason why he suddenly had no time for you. You scoff.

You’re just confused, really. Jeongguk didn’t mention a thing about her, and it’s not like he’s ever kept his hookups or flings a secret. But Haeun was never just that. She was the one he seemed almost ready to get in his first serious relationship with, the one girl you thought could make him forget all about his usual habits.

When Jeongguk had first started hanging out with Haeun, he’d seemed uncharacteristically interested. You naturally found yourself rooting for him, hoping he’d take a leap and start something real after many failed attempts.

At that point, your casual arrangement with him had been going on for a while, but you knew it wasn’t built to last. You’d expected it to end sooner rather than later, and you were okay with that. You just wanted him to be happy with himself and his choices.

But on the night he was supposed to take Haeun out on a date, the one that could have changed everything, it’s like a magic vacuum turned on and sucked all his progress away. He’d shown up in front of your door instead. No explanations, no details about what had happened; he didn’t want to talk. He only wanted to be near you and sink into silence.

That night you laid next to him, his head on you, hair sprawled out on your stomach, and said absolutely nothing.

Since then, he hadn’t mentioned Haeun at all, and you’d assumed it was over. The right side of your brain was irrationally glad for that, greedily geeking at the prospect of still getting to keep Jeongguk close in ways that go over a simple friendship. In ways that have you thanking God for not taking your friend’s sex skills away from you; in ways that have your nose scrunching whenever he leaves small, delicate pecks on the side of your neck as you watch a movie cuddled in his embrace. If he had decided to go on that date, you would be denied all of this luxury.

The left side of your brain is a little less greedy, a little more rational. The half of your mind responsible for keeping some logic instilled in you even thought it could have been a good thing for Jeongguk to experience a different side of relationships.

You’ve always sensed there to be deeper reasons beneath Jeongguk’s carefree front. You’ve watched him jump from girl to girl, dip in and out of flings with seemingly no thought, as if he’s not trying to bury issues he should find a different answer for, to avoid whatever insecurities he’s run too far away from to face.

He’s never had to spell it out for you. You never pressed him on the topic either. And you think he’s grateful for it, for your silence that offers him the stability he won’t admit he needs, for simply staying and understanding. For allowing him to be vulnerable.

You wish you could give him more than that quiet comfort. Wonder if you should try your luck and push him to see that he does deserve something real— more than the distractions he uses to keep his fears at bay.

Jeongguk would make an incredible boyfriend. He always spots the small details, the slight changes in your mood, and he picks them up before you can even notice yourself, caring in a silent way that doesn't go unnoticed. Not by you.

It’s easy to imagine him being the kind of partner who’d cater to his girl’s needs effortlessly, even in quiet, even if hidden. You know he could be that person if he could just let anyone in beyond sex. When he’ll find the one, it’ll be clear it’s all he was made for.

Right now though, if anyone were to ask you that, you’d advise them to just go and look for another one, because he’s a little, lying piece of shit. You’re just a tad bit upset about it, if your crossed arms and furrowed brows are anything to go by.

You don’t understand why he’s now there, standing next to the girl he himself stood up, the one he looked ready to fix everything for, and then wasn’t. Leaning in close as if nothing had ever happened.

Why couldn’t he tell you, at least give you a heads-up if he was reconnecting with her? You know it shouldn’t bother you as much as it does, but the fact that he’s hiding it stings. Are you overthinking this?

When he lifts his head from her ear and scans the room, his eyes landing right on yours for a brief second just to look away, you don’t think you are. His attention shifts back to Haeun as if he hadn’t seen you at all. What the fuck?

You question what’s the point of having eyes to see when you are now forced to witness Jeongguk leaving the room with Haeun hanging her draggy weight on his arm, his smile cockish as he helps her up by her waist, fingers digging dangerously close to the curve of her perfectly shaped peach.

Their chemistry is undeniable, hands finding skin with unpracticed ease. It must be the way Jeongguk can effortlessly work his charm with any girl he deems attractive enough to fuck, his smirk and the way he lets his nose scrunch almost timidly, as if you can’t see right through him, making women potty in his sculpted hands.

The prospect of your best friend getting laid by the girl he was almost ready to change it all for should make you happy. Smile, at least.

Instead, you frown, mindlessly taking long sips from the straw in your glass and letting it stir your too watered-down cocktail that lacks any real flavor. You don’t even try to find answers as to how another drink landed right on the counter you rest your back on, but you’re glad for it.

You’re more upset at the fact that he decided not to tell you anything. You would have helped him through it, supported him, advised him on what to do, how to move in such a situation. But even if he didn’t need any of this, you would have appreciated just knowing. From him.

The ways in which the two of you are intertwined right at this moment don’t exactly allow him to completely leave you unaware of his actions. It’s not fair.

But then, are you even supposed to feel like this in the first place? Is only sex supposed to have this impact on you? Is even the smallest cell in his brain producing a thought that might take him back to you, and could it compare to a third of what you think and feel?

Does he not get that tingly sensation with you, ‘cause he’s used to it? ‘Cause you’re nothing too different nor special from all the choice he has laid at his feet, nothing out of the usual routine?

A gentle hand on your arm jolts you out of your thoughts. The touch is delicate, but the way it pulls you from your spiral is rough, making you stumble on the already wobbly stool you’re sitting on. When you look to your side, Namjoon meets you with a warm smile.

You hadn’t even noticed him being back next to you, and you figure that’s probably how that drink found its way in your hands. You’re a deer caught in headlights as you look at him, then down at the almost empty glass, then back at the boy. Your eyes widen impossibly more, and you struggle with finding a louder volume to your voice, almost fading with the music, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to finish this all by myself.”

You remember him saying he’d get a drink for the two of you to share before leaving you with your haunting thoughts. He just laughs in a way that should soothe your nerves, but it doesn’t, “It’s okay. You look like you needed it. I’m getting another one for me and catching up with some of my friends over there. I’ll be back in a bit, alright?”

“Yeah, totally. No problem,” your words roll out your tongue in a slurred hurry, face already turning to the opposite side of the room, and you’re not even sure what you’re agreeing on. You just feel Namjoon slip away from the seat next to yours again.

The brief interaction was enough for Jeongguk to have time to completely disappear from your strict observing, and just like the boy who should have had your undivided attention tonight, he equally slips away. From your vision, from the party. And from you. He’s with Haeun now, after all. And you’re alone.

Being truthful, Jeongguk is once again slipping away from his problems only. He doesn’t know how he ended up with Haeun by his side, but when he found your big, confused eyes in the midst of what should have been his escape for the night, he thinks he could name a few reasons.

It’s suffocating, the grip you have on him. He can almost feel one of your slim, delicate hands around his throat. He’s a dirty little sadist, of course he enjoys the pain. But he shouldn’t, so he runs from it until his back hits the wall, and the hold only gets tighter.

There’s nothing to do but face the truth. And you’re in front of him, eyes lost and inviting him to tell you. What should be easy for him to say, what he owes you. But the words get stuck in his throat, right where you’re pressing, and he feels like he might stop breathing.

He could die like this, with your narrowed orbs pitying him, and he badly wishes you would call him a coward. The hold is just enough to hurt him, not to make him lose his senses; if anything, it only makes his head spin around the one thought he wants to avoid. You.

With the quickest distraction he could get his hands on, he keeps adding to it: Haeun clinging to his side, he steps out the packed room to light the nth cigarette, the smoke clouding his vision and making the image of you fade from behind his eyelids. You release your hand from him and disappear. He almost whines. He misses you already. But the faint ache is a reminder.

Instead, in front of him is the only girl he should have truly avoided. Haeun is another reminder. Not because she looks similar to you, you’re way prettier. You’re beautiful.

No, it’s just because he remembers Haeun being his first victim, using her to bury something stronger growing inside him. But it didn’t work then, and it doesn’t work now.

She’s the only girl he tried his luck with to avoid his now unavoidable feelings for you. Then, he physically couldn’t touch another woman beside you. So he started flirting with more cigarettes and alcohol. Maybe some joints then and there.

Jeongguk would love to know why he prefers destroying himself rather than just be the confident man he lets everyone else think he is, go up to you and be honest, like you make it so easy for him to be. The fact that it almost slipped out of him more than a couple times scares him.

It shouldn’t. He wants to fall into that soothing caress, but could he even handle the possibility of you simply, and rightfully if you deemed it the correct choice, rejecting him?

The answer is no. He can’t afford losing your touch on him, your lashes fluttering when you look up at him, your fingers tracing secret maps on his back. He wonders if you’re outlining the safest ways for him to escape from the maze he himself created, of which he forgot the exit to.

With Haeun pressing herself to his side, he thinks he’d rather stay trapped there at this point. A maze built by lies, letting you believe he’s fucking other girls on the side when he feels sickened just by the thought of it, his hand now coming up to push the girl back to a safe distance. Built by insecurities, preferring having you think that you’re simply one of the many he has when he firmly believes you’re the only one that the universe has especially assigned him to.

It’s making him lose his mind, while you live unaware, free from the truth. He’s sure in the stretch that went from yesterday, when you told him about your fucking partner, and tonight, seeing you so close to said partner’s face, your dress custom-made by the hands of every angel populating heaven, Jeongguk developed some kind of clinical illness. The flame of jealousy in his toned tummy has eaten him whole.

And he feels slightly ashamed of himself knowing this is how he found himself circling back to his first poor attempt at running away from you, in the form of a short girl, her eyes now questioning him just like yours had done earlier. Haeun furrows her brows, “Are you seriously doing this again?”

Jeongguk sighs, glancing away to take a long drag from his cigarette that fills his lungs and almost aches. He avoids the eye contact that would be needed for a conversation like the one he’s forced to have — one that wouldn’t have occured in the first place if he could just be a normal person — instead he looks back to the room through the glass doors, “I’m sorry, Hae. I— I can’t do this—“

“Yo, Gguk. You need to come with me now. ___ is throwing up in the bathroom.”

It’s Taehyung sliding the glass door open with more force than what he usually puts, and right now nobody would tell he’s the same one always advising his friends to be delicate with it. The look on his face is panicked and it quickly reflects in Jeongguk’s eyes, flickering between his friend and Haeun.

Next, his reflexes are quicker. He steps inside the house, skipping past Taehyung and the flood of college students dancing their Friday away to Usher and seemingly not caring about the urgency written all over his expression.

He makes it to the bathroom where people have started to crowd around as if lining up to an unmissable show, and he doesn’t care if his pushes are too rough as he makes his way through.

You’re quite literally hugging the toilet, your face one with the lid as a few girls try and help you with your hair. The moment they see Jeongguk, it’s like they know he’s the one that you need, that he’s finally here and you’re in good hands. He shoots them a quick nod as they step aside and then, he’s immediately crouching next to you, gently gathering your long locks into his fist.

He moves some stray strands behind your ears while you keep letting it all out, and as much as his broad back is enough to hide you from watchful eyes, he can still hear murmurs from onlookers.

It’s as Jeongguk is debating whether he should cuss them out or keep his attention on you that Taehyung comes to promptly clear the crowd, closing the bathroom door behind him only after making sure his friend doesn’t need any more help.

Jeongguk appreciates the gesture, knowing how overwhelmed you can get in these scenarios with too many people around. Although, no matter how calm he appears for your sake, his heart races even as you seem to settle and sit on the tiled floor, your back resting against the cool wall.

You gulp down a few times, squeezing your eyes to try and ground yourself, the way you can feel Jeongguk’s hand hold the side of your leg, his thumb delicately brushing the inside of your thigh, definitely helping.

“Toots,” he whispers, face close to your own, “Hey, doll. You’re okay now, hm? What happened?” His voice is low, slow, almost scared of flowing past his lips.

When you open your eyes he’s directly in front of you, squatting down to stay on your level, and his brows are drawn high in worry.

You sniff, your voice still rough from the scratching on your throat, “Fucking— Jimin. I met him in the kitchen and we mixed too much shit together—“

“Weren’t you with Kim Namjoon?” Jeongguk interrupts you, both his tone and the way his eyebrows now dip inquisitive.

You shrug, looking down at your fingers fidgeting, “Dunno. Why the fuck am I still not sober,” the way you tone the question doesn’t make it sound like one, and you end up giggling at yourself, hiccuping in the process.

Jeongguk sighs, unconsciously tightening his hold around your leg, his fingers digging and making you whimper subtly. He notices, soothing the skin only to take both his hands to scoop you up by your armpits, lifting both your bodies on your feet.

You yelp, throwing your weight on him with another one of your senseless chuckles, looking up at his bothered face through your lashes. He straightens your posture with wide palms on your waist, throwing one of your arms around his shoulders and causing you to step out of the small room on your tiptoes. He grumbles, “I’m taking you back to the dorm now. And we’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

“Talk about what?”

“Namjoon.”

You stay quiet as the both of you, your body snug against his, walk through the party and out the house to reach Jeongguk’s car. Your thoughts are sluggish, failing to grasp why he’d even want to talk about Namjoon. Isn’t he just a nice guy? You’re more concerned with Jeongguk’s seemingly irked tone and the distressed way his tongue pokes the inside of his cheek.

A soft, involuntary whine escapes you when you think you might be the reason for that, shuffling yourself closer into his warmth, but the contact is brief as he gently settles you into the passenger seat and clicks the belt, then he closes your door and circles the car to the driver’s side.

Awkward. The only sound that can be heard is the soft hum of the engine, beside the fuzzy buzz in your ears. You feel laughter bubbling up in your chest but you hold it there, turning to study Jeongguk’s side profile. Inhaling, you start, “Can you— can I put on—”

“No.”

Your smile falters, “What? C’mon, give me the aux.”

“The last thing I want right now is to listen to those songs.”

Any previous tipsy instinct that made you want to laugh at the situation fade with his words and the way his grip on the steering wheel says more than what he’s letting on. You’re hazy, but his clenched jaw and laser focus on the road make you sit up straighter, adjusting your slouched posture and the skirt of your dress with it, pulling it further down your thighs.

The tension coming off him feels so heavy that it leads to irrational, childish tears pricking your eyes, and you sound defeated when you whisper, “Are you mad at me?”

He brakes a little too hard at the red light, and you both lurch slightly forward. Jeongguk seems to realize just now that he’s unfairly taking his anger out on you, and the way you let out the question in the smallest voice makes his heart speed up, turning to you with apprehension, “No, toots. No, why would I be? I’m mad at that fucker.”

“He was just talking with some of his—”

“He left you alone. He was supposed to take care of you. Not let you get fucking wasted.”

Jeongguk sounds final, his tone allowing no more condoning nor excuses for the tall guy now left behind you, back at the party. But you don’t seem to focus too much on the meaning of his words, rather you bask in the consequences of them. He’s not upset with you!

That spurs you to contradict him further, this time on the accusation he threw at you, but it’s less than credible when you say it through a sheepish smile that unconsciously made its way on your lips at the protective edge to his tone, “I’m not fucking wasted.”

Jeongguk only sighs, but you can see him visibly relax, shoulders going down and leaning against the back of his seat, right hand coming to pat your bare knee with a small smile on his pierced lips.

You share a look that fully sobers you up only to get you high all over again off his doe eyes, the artificial lights dotting a universe of their own in those orbs, undiscovered galaxies and planets inviting you to move there, even with no water, no oxygen, no way of surviving.

When the soft hue of the red light reflecting on the side of your face morphs to green, he moves his attention back on the road, taking his hand with it to shift gears. Then, he concedes, “Put on the playlist.”

You blink, a little taken aback by his sudden shift in mood, but just as quickly you recover. Your brain seems to be able to focus on one thing at a time either way, so you don’t ponder on your insides collectively moving at the way he looked at you and instead reach for the aux cord, fingers tapping on your phone screen absentmindedly, with a conscience of their own.

Music interrupts the quiet, and you can’t help but join, “The night we met I knew I, needed you so. And if I had the chance I’d, never let you go. Sing with me!”

Jeongguk breaks into a grin, no matter how much he fights it, “You’re so fucking wasted.”

“So won’t you say you love me? I’ll make you so proud of me. We’ll make ‘em turn their heads every place we go, so won’t you please,” Be My Baby by The Ronettes fills the previous silent tension, which you seemingly already forgot everything about, using Jeongguk’s free hand as your own personal microphone, folding it in a fist between your palms.

Jeongguk would never say it out loud, especially now, after he only pretended he had to be begged to put it on, that he’s actually grown attached to this playlist. Started as a little mishap and turned into something that got under his skin, much like you have.

Its creation came about from a comically embarrassing moment that gave you ammunition to tease him for weeks. Although, he’s glad for it when he reflects deep enough: the whole episode helped shape the bond between you two, adding to its foundation.

He still doesn’t know how you managed to slip so sneakily into his dorm that evening, but what’s sure is that he wasn’t expecting you, taking the time of his life in his bathroom, fresh out of the shower. Simply following his usual routine, one that you wouldn’t have exactly considered usual since you only ever knew him as an avid Drake listener, he hummed along to Elvis Presley’s Can’t Help Falling in Love flowing softly from his phone speaker.

It wasn’t just that, of course, because then he started styling his wet hair in an exaggerated pompadour and fully got into character, strutting dramatic poses in front of the mirror and even practicing Elvis’s iconic curl of the lip. If his soul was by any chance watching over the scene, you’d hoped he’d agree with you that Jeongguk was truly giving Austin Butler a run for his money.

The private show sadly ended when he caught sight of you in the foggy glass, your lips sealed shut to try and hold your delighted laughter, but it got ripped out of you in the form of an obnoxious snort the moment his eyes went wide in horror and his face crimson in shame.

It was hell for a few weeks after that. You didn’t let him off so easily, teasing him for being a secret softie with a love for old-school romance under all the layers of his tough fuckboy image that only ever seemed to handle trappy beats.

When you jokingly suggested he might as well get fully into the act and start calling you toots or something, he didn’t back down from the tease, scoffing at you with narrowed eyes. Somewhere along the way, the dry, sardonic tone with which he first used that pet name on you stuck, and it became less of a joke, more of an endearing way to refer to you, and only you.

Before either of you could second-guess it, the playlist was born. You two crafted it together in fits of laughter and late-night texts, with Jeongguk suggesting songs from his secret stash and you contributing the ones you grew up on.

It quickly became the soundtrack to many of your aimless car rides, something that neither of you acknowledged outright but silently cherished. Sometimes, you’d get so carried away and slip into the roles of a ‘60s couple, playfully reciting cheesy lines back and forth.

No matter how much Jeongguk pretends he hates it to save what’s left of his bad boy reputation, he really doesn’t. Not even a little bit. Even the way he rolls his eyes and groans isn’t enough to hide the spark in his eyes when you sing along.

He feels worse than a pubescent teenager when he lets his guard slip to hear you hum words he can only imagine are just for him, meant in the way he wants. You swing side by side and smile up at him with dimples digging long slits into your cheeks, and he has to act as if it makes him feel completely normal and not like he’s going to crash his car any second.

Each lyric that spills from your mouth feels like it’s tying him down, even with your sweet voice a little unsteady, thanks to whatever is still left from the night’s drinks. You’re so not aware of what it does to him.

Your eyes are on the road, but Jeongguk’s linger on you, his fingers unconsciously tapping the steering wheel to the tune.

“I’d save every day like a treasure, and then, again, I would spend them with you.”

Jeongguk purposefully veers off onto streets he doesn’t need to take, buying himself a few extra minutes with you, but you don’t notice and he pretends to not know either. Would never admit it’s because he wants to hear you sing a little more, and that this ongoing joke between the two of you might be his favorite thing in the whole world.

“But there never seems to be enough time to do the things you want to do once you find them. Hold on, this one’s a little lower. I’ll find my note, wait,” you’re mostly talking to yourself, cheek pressed to the cool glass of the window, but you glance at Jeongguk as if seeking for approval, clearing your throat, “I’ve looked around enough to know that you’re the one I want to go through time with.”

Just as Time in a Bottle by Jim Croce fades out, Jeongguk pulls into the campus parking lot, turning the engine off and cutting the music with it. None of you move right away, accepting the stillness in the car.

You don’t accept the silence, though, letting your mind speak a thought that has been nagging at you, “Can you fuck me here? Right now?”

The way you voice the request would make anybody who didn’t understand English think you’d just asked for something as mundane as a glass of water, your eyes unfaltering, a small smile on your waiting lips, voice barely slicing through the quiet. It’s almost as if you don’t know it’s the kind of thing that could derail Jeongguk’s entire thought process.

Jeongguk lightly chokes on his own breath, giving a few coughs before turning to you, his tattooed hand messing his hair further, “Jesus Christ, ___. You know I can’t.”

You tilt your head, considering him, as if this is a serious debate rather than drunken rambling, “Why not?”

Jeongguk can only sigh. He takes in your disheveled state and notices the way your exposed skin prickles with the cold, reaching for the leather jacket he carelessly threw on the backseats before heading to the party, having had no idea you’d be the one wearing it by the end of the night.

He wraps it gently around your shoulders, moving sticky, stray strands of hair from your face, “You’re so drunk. Look at you.”

“I told you I’m not,” you protest weakly, but your confidence falters when his fingers ghost over your face.

“There’s vomit in your hair,” he shuts you bluntly, tone softer than the honest words.

“Oh,” your stubbornness doesn’t work this time, and you’re mortified as you glance down at your lap, where his fingers fall to mindlessly play with the zip of his bomber jacket, brushing your tummy in the process. Your voice doesn’t sound so sure now, especially when each subtle graze sends small shocks through you, “That’s disgusting.”

The soft chuckle he lets out has you stealing a look upward, and when you catch his expression your slowed down brain can only come to the conclusion that maybe he doesn’t find you all that disgusting: he sports a rare, wide curve of his bunny smile, eyes crinkling when that same fondness finds its way onto your lips. You can’t help what they do next, a mind of their own as you rest them on his own mouth, the tip of his nose tickling your cheek.

It’s the faintest of kisses, and it’s delicate, fleeting, over far too soon, but you’re the one to pull back first no matter how much longer you need it to be, “That was probably disgusting too.”

As you rest your back on the seat again, his eyes are still closed, and they flutter open as slowly as a smile stretches on his mouth when he meets you. You’re giving him a look he doesn’t deserve, one he shouldn’t lean into.

His voice is a whisper, and it fans over your face, still close to his, “Not at all.”

Gleaming eyes scan every angle of you, as if trying to find anything that’ll hold him back from what he really wants to do. But, of course, his need only grows when he lets his gaze wander down, then up again.

He glances to the side with a gulp, moving his body back to reach for the car door handle, “You think you can walk or should I carry you?”

“Carry me, please,” you mumble, not even pondering on the first option, and the moment the sound leaves your lips he’s out and reaching for your side, opening your door and scooping you up like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The walk to his dorm is a blur, with you dozing off in his warmth and being lulled by the hums escaping him and reverberating through his chest, melodies of the earlier songs playing against your ear.

You regain awareness when a splash of warm water cascades over your now naked body, the sensation startling enough to make your lashes flutter against your damp cheeks. The water runs over your face, washing away the remnants of the night, the drowsy yet oddly light sensation taking over you causing a giggle to echo against the walls.

You’re still too disoriented to process the tenderness with which Jeongguk’s hand moves, brushing through your soaked strands of hair and moving them from where they flattened on your face, combing through the sticky locks.

With half-open eyes, you’re met with the sight of him in front of you, standing close enough without needing to step into the small space with you, his brows furrowed as he works the shampoo through your hair. It’s a soothing, slow motion, the one he massages your scalp with, and it only melts you further into sweet slumber.

If it weren’t for one of his hands resting tightly on your hip, grounding you as the scent of the shampoo mingles with the steam curling around you, you would have gladly swayed into his palm, letting your weak body fall into his strong one.

You sniff, leaning into his care, voice small and oddly sincere, “I’m sorry for,” hiccup, “taking you away from Haeun. You two seem close again.”

Jeongguk stills for a moment, his fingers pausing in your hair before resuming their soft motions. He pretends he didn’t hear, and you pretend you never talked in the first place when he guides you to steady yourself as your knees wobble, “Hey, stand still. You’ll get shampoo in your eyes. Close them.”

You obey, letting your eyelids drop shut as you feel his hand gently tilt your head under the spray, his touch as tender as the words he isn’t saying.

If you weren’t a victim of both sleepiness and alcohol at this very moment, your thoughts would be racing each other like eager contenders in the Overthinker Marathon, each one fighting tooth and nail for the gold medal. They’d be dissecting every little detail of the night— the way Jeongguk had ignored you, his lingering hand on Haeun’s waist, only to be there the second you needed him, the girl from earlier not even worth mentioning.

Instead, your every thinking cell has taken a rare vacation, lounging together on an imaginary green field, clinking glasses filled with leftover cocktails from earlier, lazily watching clouds drift by.

Although there’s one cell in particular, too tipsy to sit still. It hops around gleefully, urging your lips to move before the Thinking Cell General can intervene. The way it jumps up and down, up and down, makes you giggle as you blurt out, “I don’t know if it’s the water, but I’m very wet.”

The silence that follows is thick, punctuated only by the sound of water cascading down your back. Jeongguk freezes as if the words have physically reached out and yanked him into stunned stillness. He can only let his throat bob in a visible swallow and look away, warning you in a strained mutter, “___. This is your last warning. Stop teasing me.”

You whine, pathetically wiggling your weak and pliant body in his hold to seek for some kind of reaction, but he doesn’t budge. He’s uncharacteristically focused on his tasks, ensuring every trace of shampoo rinses from your hair, rather than your hardened nipples bouncing with your stubborn movements.

But you recognise the way his jaw clenches so tight it must hurt, how he refuses to let his gaze wander lower where the steam of water outlines your form. His restraint is razor-thin, yet he holds it tightly, breathing only slightly uneven.

You’re not deterred by his warning; you never are. It’s the tiny tracks in his resolve that keep you pressing forward, voice laced with a vulnerability that makes his hand twitch against your scalp, “Just… I just need your fingers. Please.”

Jeongguk exhales sharply through his nose, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he angles the spray to wash the last suds away, hyper-focused on the practical task as though it’s a lifeline to his dwindling self-control.

But you’re persistent. You reach behind you, fingers messily finding the knob to twist the water off, and with the spray halting you’re left only with the hum of the bathroom fan and the faint drip of water.

Your other hand finds his, guiding his wide palm to rest on your lower stomach, just above where your want is written in every inch of your body. You whisper, plead clear in your tone, ”You know I want this. Won’t ever regret it. I’m conscious enough to be sure of that.”

Jeongguk huffs, his chest rising and falling as he stares down at you, fingers flexing slightly against your skin. He closes his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply as if accepting defeat. He can’t win this battle.

The brown-haired boy steps into the shower, the small space shrinking even further with the addition of his broader frame, forcing you to back up against the wall. Fully dressed, water clings to his fabric, and the contrast of his damp clothes against your bare, exposed skin makes you irrationally wetter.

Jeongguk keeps silent, and at this point you don’t care how desperate you look, pushing yourself against him and getting his clothes wetter in the process. It pushes him to initiate a torturous path along your skin, using his middle finger to trace a journey from your chest, savoring the way your breath hitches, down to your warm core.

The droplets of water he collects on the way are used to spread your puffy lips and press right on your sensitive nub, making you gasp. You’re a trembling mess from the simple motion, and he has to use his free hand to steady you against the wall.

Your breasts aren’t left without being taken care of, because the moment he begins circling motions on your clit that have you seeing stars, he lowers his head to envelop one of your tits in his ravenous mouth, teeth teasing it punitively, all while looking up at you with sliced, sinful eyes.

He’s greedy, and you can’t believe he managed to hide it so well until now. But his resolve crumbles the more he revels in the way you fall apart for him, and he loses control on your chest. The sensation is sharp, delicious, and the contrast between the harshness of his bite and the softness of his tongue has you whimpering.

You’re ashamedly aware of how close you already are, his digits picking a fast speed that urges you to let go and coat him in your juices. He knows, simply from the way you let your mouth fall agape and release loud moans in the steamy air, pushing your nipples further in his swollen lips.

When he inserts one finger in your warm hole, you jolt in his secure hold, eyebrows shot upwards in the shock of your sudden orgasm, one that hits you all too harshly. It drags on deliciously, Jeongguk never wanting it to end, the slurping sound of his sucking on your tits making your surrounding spin, along with his thumb accompanying the way his single digits thrusts into you.

He only stops when you unconsciously run from his doings, slim hand wrapping weakly around his wrist, and he retreats with one last wet stripe along the curve of your boob, promptly collecting your taste from his fingers, and he thoroughly hums around them, eyes closed and cheeks hollowed.

You think you could come again from the sight alone. Panting, you smile through your ragged breaths, “Fuck. Thanks.”

Five minutes later, no one would bet you’re the same girl that begged him for his fingers and came in record time around them. Now, you sit serenely on the toilet lid, wrapped up in Jeongguk’s warmest hoodie. The oversized fabric swallows your frame, knees tucked under it as you hug them close to your chest. You look as innocent as ever.

Jeongguk stands in front of you, meticulously brushing through your damp hair with practiced gentleness, each stroke of the comb a soothing lullaby. You rest your chin lazily on your folded arms, eyes closed, the edges of sleep blurring your thoughts.

You let out a contented sigh before murmuring, words unfiltered, “You’d make the perfect boyfriend. You always take care of me. And kiss me when I need it.”

The motions of the brush stop for a fraction of a second before resuming, and what you hear next is Jeongguk’s throat clearing, his voice low and almost shaky, “That sounds so very wrong, toots.”

“What do you mean?” You don’t open your eyes as you ask the question, the warmth of his presence and the excuse of the last traces of alcohol still flowing in your tired body making you bolder than usual.

“You want me to be your boyfriend?”

“In another life, maybe. Yes,” you don’t waste time replying, words carrying a dreamy quality, “I mean, would be cool.”

“Cool?” He chuckles, but it’s the kind that’s half-exasperation and half-something else entirely, voice strained with an edge of desperation too, “God, I don’t even know why I’m still putting up with you.”

You only nuzzle closer into the borrowed hoodie, giving voice to your next thought, your thinking cells now hosting a 60s themed party, “Be my, be my baby. My one and only baby.”

The sound of your singing fades under the whirring roar of the hairdryer, and Jeongguk is quietly thankful for the way it drowns your sweet hums completely, fearing if he hears another one of those tipsy love confessions leaving your lips he might drop to his knees, undone by something he knows he can’t claim.

You rest your head against his stomach, full weight leaning on his standing figure, his long digits pulling through your strands. If you’d look up at your best friend for even one fleeting second, you’d probably laugh at the concentration on his expression, his only goal drying your hair enough to not have you waking up with a headache the following day.

You sniffle and snuggle impossibly closer to him, the heat radiating from his tummy and the white noise lulling you further into drowsiness, every careful motion of his hand coaxing you closer to sleep.

When your phone pings from the bathroom counter, the sudden buzz makes you jolt slightly. You lift your head sluggishly and gesture toward the phone, mouthing up to Jeongguk, “Pass it.”

He hands it to you without turning off the hairdryer, keeping an eye on your sleepy movements. You blink at the bright light for a moment before your expression shifts, eyes widening.

You’re completely jolted awake at the only notification on your home screen: it's Namjoon.

You tap Jeongguk’s stomach with the heel of your hand— softly at first, then with increasing urgency. The repeated motion forces him to stop the device and place it on the counter as he looks down at you, trying to peek at the screen, “What?”

You hiccup and sniff before blurting out, “Namjoon. He texted me”

The boy that was just now carefully drying your hair scoffs, arms crossed over his chest, “What does that asshole want?”

The response to the rhetorical question doesn’t come, either because you decide to ignore it purposefully or unconsciously: you look totally engulfed by the words on your otherwise empty chat with Namjoon, and Jeongguk can’t help but subtly lean his body lower to read the same texts you’re going through.

Kim Namjoon [4:26 a.m.]: Hey. Sorry for texting late, I heard from someone you threw up back at the party. I’m so sorry. I completely lost sight of you in that mess. Are you feeling any better? Very sorry again.

Kim Namjoon [4:27 a.m.]: It’s totally okay if you don’t want to hear from me again. But I wouldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t at least try to make it up to you.

Kim Namjoon [4:27 a.m.]: I’d really like to take you out on a date. Would you let me?

Jeongguk kisses his teeth irkedly, “Why the fuck does he text like Prince William? Fucking English major,” and he truly tried his best to sound unaffected, but the words leave his mouth before he even knows he’s thinking of them.

Luckily, you don’t seem to notice, reading the message aloud like you can’t quite believe it yourself, “He said he’d like to go on a date with me. Like, he asked me on a date. And said he would like it. To go on a date—”

“Yes, we got it.”

“He doesn’t hate me, Gguk!” Once again, his petty comments go unnoticed as your face lights up, eyes crinkling with joy as you practically beam up at him.

Jeongguk wants to be annoyed, but he simply can’t when he’s met with all the stars in the universe right in your glossy, tired eyes. He swallows hard and forces a soft chuckle, “No, he doesn’t, toots. Anyone would be crazy to hate you.”

The grin on your lips only widens, nose scrunching adorably as you let your cheek sheepishly brush against your shoulder, “Oh my god, Gguk. I’m going on a date with him! Heh.”

“That’s nice,” he says, picking up the hairdryer again before your words can settle too heavily in the space between you. “I’m not finished with your hair, though. Stay still.”

The device roars to life once more, its noise filling the room and covering your excited giggles. Jeongguk keeps brushing through your hair with steady motions, his face impassive, but he feels something tighten, heavy and unyielding in his chest.

He tells himself the noise is a blessing, a shield from the silence he wouldn’t know how else to fill—or from the sound of his own voice, betraying him in ways he can’t afford.

────୨ৎ────

“I’ll miss the sex when Namjoon will ask me to be his girlfriend.”

In the quiet of the library, your sudden whisper startles Jeongguk. The chair screeches under him and it gains the both of you a few annoyed looks. He nods in apology at their way, moving closer to the table again, and he has to blink a few times before he can even meet your eyes. The scattered pens all over the white surface looked more interesting either way.

“When he— his— what?” He feels pathetic for being unable to even form a senseful sentence, but there’s no absolute way he blames his brain for that. It’s his heart, stuttering along with the barely intelligible question.

It cracks at the middle the more your grin splits your face in half, nose scrunching adorably, and he may be a horrible friend but he can’t bring himself to return your irony, nor the masked excitement under it.

If he were handed pen and paper and asked to write about how he feels right at this moment, he wouldn’t put down a single thing. Not because there isn’t anything to say. He fears your innocent teasing has done something catastrophic, snapping that one damned string that connected his brain to his heart, and the two aren’t communicating. Jeongguk is in the middle of two angered parents, fighting and on the brink of divorce. That’s what he gets for being a total pussy.

You shrug, frowning slightly when all you’re faced with is his blank expression, eyes unresponsive and detachedly looking elsewhere, but you keep yours on him, studying even the small movements, “I mean, he’s a nice guy. I think he’s serious about getting to know me.”

The word serious causes an involuntary twitch of his head, tilting almost imperceptibly to the side, and he sounds way too defensive, “And are you?”

Furrowing your eyebrows at his unexpected reaction, you return to your previous mindless doodling, keeping your voice low, “Well, he’s cute. Let’s see where this thing goes.”

“What about me?”

The question catches the both of you off guard. Your pencil halts as you glance at him through the corner of your eye, and even if you can’t see him clearly, the way his dark orbs widen is almost comical that you would laugh in any other situation. But now, the air is oddly tense and it makes your nose scrunch in awkwardness.

He breaks it with a chuckle, a subtle tremor in it that luckily goes unnoticed by you but that will probably keep him up at night for the next five years, and he lightly shoves your shoulder in an effort at feigning ease, “You really wanna pass on this dick?”

“God, you’re gross,” the annoyed roll of your eyes has Jeongguk releasing a breath he didn’t realize he was holding; it’s odd, but that’s just who he is.

The second you return to weightless banter, he’s back in his element. He can smirk, tease and deflect— these are tools he’s mastered over the months. But the thought of stripping naked for your eyes to see, and not in the sexual way you two engage in almost every night, terrifies him.

The waters are safe for what seems a fraction of a second before you pull him down in the deep, dark seas again, this dynamic between you foreign. While it is a simple, innocent question, your deceptive tone triggers unfamiliarity within him, “Besides, how’s it going with you and Haeun?”

“Huh? Oh. Haeun, yes,” his attempt at buying himself extra time is laughable, especially when Mr. Brain is now yelling at Ms. Heart for always wanting to get in the way of things he can handle alone, “Wonderfully. We— She— Huh, kissed me.”

Ms. Heart is furious. She has no other choice but to reach in her purse and slap the divorce papers on the dinner table, the glasses clinking against the plates, and Jeongguk flinches. Brain is speechless, clueless on how to react.

You only seem slightly taken aback, eyebrows raising in mild surprise, “Really? That’s nice.”

Jeongguk is equally clueless, subtly squeezing his eyes shut as if hoping to wake up somewhere else entirely, maybe in an ideal world where Kim Namjoon doesn’t exist and Mr. Brain and Ms. Heart are happily married.

Instead, he’s still in the library, and you’re still sitting next to him, scribbling on your English textbook. He frowns, getting pitiably lost in the view of your side profile, “Yeah, nice. Huh, when’s your date?”

When you glance up at him, you seem to be realizing just how odd it is for the two of you to spend this much time talking about your respective hook ups, and you cringe slightly at the unusual formality, wishing Jeongguk would just tease you like he usually does when you tell him about your untruthful and made up sexual adventures.

You purse your lips in thought, “Tomorrow, actually.”

“Oh. He’s going fast.”

“I like that.”

“I know you do.”

No matter the effort you put into trying to hide your amusement, a snort escapes you, and you quickly look away to recover from the childish grin spreading on your lips. You shake your head, closing the book in front of you, “You’re fucking disgusting.”

Jeongguk only smirks in an oddly proud way, nodding at your flustered state when he realizes he successfully managed yet again to shift the conversation from topics he doesn’t want to hear or talk about. He shrugs, “You just said that.”

“And I’ll say it again.”

“Whatever,” a small chuckle follows the dismissal, his hand coming to brush through his fluffy hair, getting too long for his liking, “I really wanted to see you tomorrow.”

Once again, Jeongguk is way too honest, way too easily. Ms. Heart is marching hastily with Mr. Brain walking close behind, trying to make sense of the situation and pushing her to reconsider her actions, but it’s no use: she’s tired, and sick of being walked over, again and again.

He doesn’t like the underlying meaning behind that, and wishes Mr. Brain would grow a pair and just swoon her back into love again. Jeongguk doesn’t like the genuine surprise etched across your face either, or, well, he doesn’t like the effect it has on him: it’s almost unbearable to accept that the blush dusting your cheeks, the one you’re probably unaware of, is caused by his unfiltered honesty. Because sincere bluntness isn’t exactly something he tries to show. Then, why does it spill out of him uncontrollably? Why— why do you look so beautiful like this?

“Hm,” your smile is small, but your dimple betrays it, Jeongguk’s whole resolve cracking with the way you sound dangerously decisive, “Too bad. You’re late.”

Jeongguk shouldn’t overthink this. You’re simply engaging in the usual dynamic, teasing him like always, no reason for his palms to sweat. He shouldn’t panic over the way nothing about what you said feels simple, nor usual, and your tone carries more than what you both want the words to mean.

He doesn’t know if it’s a warning or a test—or worse, the truth. Maybe he’s imagining it. Maybe Brain just misinterpreted the comment, too distracted by its constant squabble with Heart, both of them ignoring Jeongguk, who is still sitting at the cluttered kitchen table with his plate half-full, surrounded by a mess of inky emotions he doesn’t have the courage to clean up.

The sound of forks clinking against plates grates against his ears, drowning out the hurried excuses spilling from your mouth, the ones you’re babbling and making up along the way of gathering your things and standing up from the round table, shouldering your bag in the same hurry you left his room with before the next time he saw you was nose to nose with Namjoon.

You huff, giving a small, tight lipped smile that should be meaningless, but to Jeongguk it isn’t, “I’ll go now. See you around?”

“Huh, sure. Let me know how it goes with Namsun.”

You roll your eyes at the playful attempt, his grin just as empty, “Right. Bye Gguk.”

You’re off the hallway before he can add anything else. Not that he would have been able to. Your bag swings with your big steps, slim hands coming to absently tug your plaid skirt lower, and Jeongguk thinks and thinks.

He realizes he really doesn’t want to know how your little date goes. Would rather shoot himself rather than hearing you talk about another guy taking you out to dinner, stealing you from him and sealing the end to whatever the two of you have.

His options are narrowed. He either commits in front of you and forever changes the trajectory of your life or does something about Namjoon. But why does the option of ending his life sound much easier than stepping up to big, buff Namjoon, infatuated with the same girl he likes?

Oh.

The admission jolts him. It’s a physical reaction that causes his chair to shriek again under his movements, but this time he’s not polite enough to apologize for it. He must look crazy, wide eyes burning holes into his hands planted steadily on the table in front of him.

The girl he likes. You’re the girl he likes.

And every signal is there. The spark he sought for now lights a nervous feeling in his stomach, its fireworks interrupting Brain and Heart’s incessant arguing.

Does he look stupid not doing anything for the girl he likes? Not fighting for the girl he’s been falling for all this time?

────୨ৎ────

It should be easy. It is easy.

Jeongguk can’t let the sleepless night spent reciting lines to his ceiling go to waste. He’s sure not even theater kids could match his determination. And as he marches across campus toward the gym, where the squeak of sneakers and the echo of grunts will lead him to the person needed to put the plan into action, he reviews step by step what he’s told himself to do. It’s a well-rehearsed script, each word, every calculated expression—he’s gone over it a hundred times, accounting for every reaction.

Step one, be casual. Friendly, even. Approach Namjoon like there’s nothing calculated about this interaction—no ulterior motives, no scheme brewing beneath the surface. Just a casual catch-up between two guys.

“What’s up, Kim,” when Jeongguk spots the slightly taller boy exercising at a steady walking pace on the treadmill, he immediately hops onto the free one beside him.

Namjoon startles slightly, then smiles with those stupid, charming dimples of his, and it’s one that Jeongguk would probably only give if forced, “Hey, Jeongguk. Long time no see.”

The brown-haired boy nods, setting the speed and quickly catching up to Namjoon. He keeps his tone deliberately cool, even borderline disinterested, “You been good?”

On his left, your almost-boyfriend shrugs, jogging along, “Yeah, just studying, man. What about you?”

“Pretty much the same,” he hasn’t cracked open a book in weeks, and that study session from yesterday was just an excuse to be with you. But he can’t afford to let his thoughts linger on you too long or he’ll lose focus. He needs focus. “You catch that last game?”

Step two, pretend to care about what Namjoon is saying and then proceed with the acting skills only to suddenly remember something totally random he wanted to mention.

“Fuck, don’t remind me. I was so sure we would win,” the sweating man sounds way too affected by the recent football match, and Jeongguk fears if he asks one more question for the sake of pretending he’ll never get to the actual point.

So, he goes straight to it, “Yeah, it was rough. Oh, by the way. You know ___, right?”

The simple mention of your name causes a small stutter in Namjoon’s step, but he recovers with the stupid smile from earlier, only this time it’s wider, “Of course I know her. Why do you ask?”

Step three, just be honest. He just has to lay it all out. Be straightforward. Tell him the truth about how he’s felt for so long and what this whole thing with you is doing to him. It’s not a confrontation—it’s a conversation. Jeongguk will politely explain that he’s liked you for a while now, that he’s been in your life long before Namjoon, and, as a courtesy, he’d appreciate it if he would step back from pursuing you.

Civil. Calm. Totally chill. There’s absolutely nothing to get worked up over.

"You really don't know? Have no idea?" Jeongguk asks, his voice dropping, tone more pointed than he intended.

Namjoon slows his treadmill slightly, glancing over with furrowed brows and a faintly amused smile. “No, man. Enlighten me.”

“She’s my fucking girlfriend.”

What. The. Fuck.

That wasn’t the plan. Not even close to the plan.

────୨ৎ────

You feel stupid.

Wrapped around in your warmest coat, you still shiver. It could be the way your legs are exposed under your wool dress, high black boots reaching just beneath your knees. But there’s something else to the chill, making you shake in fading jitters. The excitement of the evening you told yourself you were looking forward to morphs into anxiety, and the passing looks of people mean more than they should as minutes tick and tick; they seem to glance at you for too long, their looks heavy with what you can only imagine is judgment.

A young girl swaddled in small but striking details from head to toe — delicate earrings that catch the light, a scarf knotted perfectly at the neck, polished nails clutching the strap of an expensive-looking bag, hair done up in a neat slicked bun — glancing nervously at her surroundings can only mean one thing: she’s been stood up.

Namjoon was supposed to meet you in front of the cozy cafè just outside the campus, its warm tones and surely even warmer ambience so very inviting. Maybe you’d go in, order a steaming hot chocolate for yourself, and chalk this up as a lesson learned. But instead, you chose to wait outside, shifting on your tiptoes every so often, scanning the crowd for a glimpse of the first man to ask you out in what felt like ages.

You feel as though you’ll be forever destined to wait more when thirty minutes go by and Namjoon is nowhere to be seen.

You frown, swaying on your heels. What you feel is not disappointment— not at first. But that only causes you to feel worse about yourself when you realize you’re almost relieved the tall man hasn’t shown up, and he’s not here to turn fears into even scarier realities. The date would have given a concrete meaning to your actions, and the thought stirs something not exactly pleasant within you.

The scratch at the back of your mind grows harder to ignore, and no matter how much you try to shake it off, your subconscious finds ways back to it when your hand instinctively dives into the depths of the expensive purse you had specially chosen for this occasion. A purse meant to complement your carefully selected dark ensemble— an effort that now feels entirely wasted. You spent so much time getting ready for something you’re not ready for at all.

Pulling out your phone, your thumb scrolls to Jeongguk’s number with a natural automatism, typing before you even register why he’s the first person you feel the need to tell.

You [9:39 p.m.]: hi

You [9:39 p.m.]: namjoon stood me up lol

The typing bubbles appear faster than you anticipated, and as you watch them dance across the screen, you burrow deeper into the fragile warmth of your jacket, the tip of your nose numb from the cold.

sassy queen 💁🏻 [9:40 p.m.]: Whattttttt????

sassy queen 💁🏻 [9:40 p.m.]: He’s such an asshooooooole

Your first instinct is to snort at his reaction, a childish grin tugging at your lips, but it turns into a scowl when the more you reread the text, the more it sounds weird. He usually never texts like a six-year-old using his mom’s iPad.

You [9:40 p.m.]: yes he is

You [9:40 p.m.]: why are u textin so weird btw lol

sassy queen 💁🏻 [9:41 p.m.]: Wym weirddd

sassy queen 💁🏻 [9:41 p.m.]: I’m totally normal

You [9:41 p.m.]: wtv

You [9:42 p.m.]: u still wanna hang out?

sassy queen 💁🏻 [9:42 p.m.]: Yes please

sassy queen 💁🏻 [9:42 p.m.]: Want me to pick u up

sassy queen 💁🏻 [9:42 p.m.]: Where are u rn

The head tilt is unconscious, but you feel it click in place. You’ve mentioned how Jeongguk is caring, how he can read your needs like no one else and caters to them quietly, but he’s never this pliant, this malleable. You like him because it’s hard to get him to bend (and you’d rather die than let Jeongguk know about this).

You [9:43 p.m.]: is ok

You [9:43 p.m.]: i’ll just walk

You [9:43 p.m.]: be there in 10

The walk usually takes you less than 10 minutes, but before meeting him, you decide to head back to your dorm and change out of these stupid fancy clothes you picked out for the date.

You keep your head low as you walk through the hallways, the full glam you put on impossible to miss as it sparkles under the fluorescent lights, just as your boots' heels echo through the corridors.

Taking off the dress and heels feels like peeling away the embarrassment of rejection, the weight of disappointment settling in as you realize you couldn’t prove to yourself that you could do it, that you can do it, take the leap and let something serious into your life.

You question whether you're even cut out for it when the guy who seemed perfect ended up proving the opposite.

Now, back in more comfortable clothes — Jeongguk's black hoodie from the other day and baggy sweatpants — you feel a little more like yourself. Scared of emotions, scared of commitment, no matter how many hours of your day are spent daydreaming about it.

The second you click the door of your room open, it’s like you can smell a weird shift in the air. And you do, literally sniff, scanning your surroundings for any hint of something burning or out of place.

But it’s not about the dorm in its physical state, no— it’s the odd silence that you’re met with, the people you’re used to sharing the space with now uncharacteristically careful with their volume.

“Oh my god, ___,” that is probably why you’re visibly startled by the sudden voice coming from your side, Iseul looking like containing excitement is the hardest task she’s ever been asked to deal with, just like the few other girls behind her, all practically vibrating, “You’re finally here.”

You furrow your brows, chuckling confusedly at the unusuality of it all— well, it’s not like you don’t get along with these people. It’s just that you’ve never gone over meaningless jokes and talks about the state of the dorm, plus you’ve never exactly been the center of attention like this. It feels off, and it reflects in your uncertain tone, “I am?”

“I’m so happy for you,” Binna chimes in next, grabbing your shoulders with way more enthusiasm than the level of your relationship with her would normally allow, and the way all of their heads nod along that it feels like a coordinated performance is starting to scare you.

“You’re… happy for—”

“I’ve always known you and Jeongguk were perfect for each other,” the affection dripping from Binna’s voice sickens you, maybe even more than the words she’s speaking.

Huh?

You swear you feel your heart skip a long beat before you mask it with an obnoxious, nervous laugh, only growing more when none of them crack a smile or react, “Me and— okay, is this a fucking joke?”

“C’mon, ___,” Iseul says, her sweet voice doing nothing to calm your tension, and if anything it only heightens it, “You don’t need to hide anymore, Jeongguk told Namjoon that you’re his girlfriend.”

Oh. So this must be a fucking joke.

And you can’t stand it.

You barely manage to shake off their relentless curiosity, the entire dorm suddenly buzzing with an interest in you after years of peaceful and civil indifference, and it only overwhelms you to the brim.

Fury boils in your chest as you step out of the building, the cold air failing to cool the anger that flares up within you. With every step, your frustration grows, and you hastily type on your phone as you make your way toward the one person that’s responsible for your temper.

You [10:07 p.m.]: what the actual fuck jeongguk

The response comes so quickly, almost as if he were waiting for you to type it, and you scoff in disbelief. In that moment, you feel a twisted sense of understanding with serial killers. It makes you question how much control you actually have over yourself.

sassy queen 💁🏻 [10:07 p.m.]: What’s up?

You [10:07 p.m.]: why’s the whole dorm asking me how's it like to be your gf?

sassy queen 💁🏻 [10:08 p.m.]: Eeehhhh???

sassy queen 💁🏻 [10:08 p.m.]: That’s so weird

You’re actually gonna fuck this man up.

You [10:09 p.m.]: jeon jeongguk.

You [10:09 p.m.]: they’re saying you told namjoon i’m your girlfriend.

sassy queen 💁🏻 [10:09 p.m.]: Don’t use my full name and the period please 🥺

You [10:10 p.m.]: i’ll fucking kill you.

sassy queen 💁🏻 [10:10 p.m.]: You’re so hot when you’re like this

You [10:10 p.m.]: shut the hell up.

The banging on his door comes shortly after, and Jeongguk doesn’t even flinch. He knows it’s you, and frankly he was even expecting your arrival to be louder, hit him a little harder than it does. And when he lets you in, you storm in his space with no room for oxygen, door closing behind you but unable to contain the volume of your rage private.

“Can you explain why the whole campus thinks we’re dating? ‘Cause you’re not my boyfriend, and I’m not your girlfriend, and this is not fucking funny.”

But Jeongguk evidently does find it funny, chuckling under his hand coming to cover his mouth while the other one lifts to show you the bright screen of his cracked phone, “Really? The uni Instagram page is shipping us.”

“Shipping us?” You snatch the device from his hands, eyes widening as you scroll through the amount of stories posted in the last hour, everyone and their mother feeling entitled to weigh in on your nonexistent relationship. You whine, a hand resting at your forehead in disbelief, “Oh my god, this is ridiculous.”

“What, are you ashamed of me?” Jeongguk asks casually, walking back and sitting on the bed with a soft thud, his whole demeanor relaxed with a nonchalance that makes your left eye twitch.

You scoff, unwilling to grasp how this is even an actual thing happening to you, tossing the phone back at him, “A little bit, yeah. You think this is a fucking joke, huh? I’m now apparently dating the uni’s most popular fuckboy.”

The damned boy in front of you leans on his forearms, pouting just for show, “Hey, that’s mean. I’m no fuckboy.”

Bag thrown to the ground with a violence that it does not deserve, you start pacing back and forth in his room, letting out a borderline insane laugh, not knowing whether to scream or cry, “Yes, you are. You went through every single girl in this building.”

“Do you really think of me like that?”

The sudden sincerity that you think you spot in his tone makes you halt your steps, body turning to him as he sits straight again, his head tilting slightly.

You sigh, frustration mounting, and you throw your head back at the ceiling for any signal from the universe that this is indeed a joke, a bad, huge joke on you, “Jeongguk. Please.”

Silence fills the room next, but it doesn’t make it any easier to think nor does it quite register in your brain, mind racing with jumbled and chaotic thoughts, barely coming through as coherent words, getting intertwined with one another.

But the more you walk from one side of the room to the other, the more you’re almost able to untangle the mess, just enough to start processing what’s happening.

Then, a nuclear bomb wipes it all out, Jeongguk’s words the missile, his quiet tone the explosion, “I don’t want you to see nobody else.”

“What the fuck?”

The aftermath of the destruction is not only loud, ears ringing with a shrieking alarm going off, your figure stiff with shock, but you feel its heat burning your whole body in consuming flames that threaten to swallow you whole if you don’t let them take over, rise, flood every nerve until all you can feel is the rage boiling in your veins when you practically scream at him, ”What the hell does that even mean? You're being selfish!”

“Am I?” Jeongguk asks calm, calculated, gaze locked on yours as if daring you to challenge him further. His tone is maddeningly measured even as he pushes himself off the bed and closes the distance between you.

It’s like he’s planned this— attack after attack designed to destabilize you completely. Not only did he thrust you into the spotlight without warning, claiming you for the whole campus to see as if you’re worth nothing more than a stupid prank and a few laughs.

But now he talks with a grace that belies the chaos he’s stirred, as if his words are just another fact, something as simple as the weather, “I haven’t been seeing anybody since this summer. Since we started using no condom.”

Your pupils tremble with something far more complex than just anger, though you refuse to give it a name. He’s practically towering over you, his stance purposeful, making you feel small; as if the intensity of his gaze is not enough that it makes you falter, as if the humiliation he’s putting you through isn’t either. Head shaking, your voice does too, “That’s— not true. You’re a fucking liar. You— What about Haeun?

“Nothing even happened with her.”

The speed of his denial sets you off, an incredulous scoff breaking free as you roll your tongue against the inside of your cheek—a habit you’d picked up from witnessing his easy tempers, “Then why did you tell me you kissed?”

“Because—” Jeongguk hesitates, and the pause is so out of character that it almost gives you whiplash. The boy who always has something to say suddenly seems unsure. His hand flexes at his side, a nervous tick you hadn’t noticed before, and he exhales as if the words are fighting their way out of him, “‘Cause— I was jealous.”

“Jealous?” Your voice cracks on the word, a laugh bubbling out of you that’s sharp and fractured, borderline unhinged. It cuts through the room like broken glass, and his expression tightens, jaw clenching. But he doesn’t interrupt.

“Jealous,” you repeat, louder this time, your incredulous tone thick with rage. “You’re telling me you made up that bullshit because you were jealous?”

He doesn’t respond, and it pushes you closer to your limit, on the verge of exploding. You don’t know how you find it within you, but with a long exhale and a quick prayer up at the ceiling, you meet his gaze in an almost patronizing manner, “Jeongguk, we are not exclusive. I thought that was well implied. You don’t get to act like this. You don’t get to be jealous.”

Nodding along to your words, Jeongguk’s brows draw together, his expression somewhere between anxious and defensive. There’s something in his eyes, something close to fear, but fear of what, you can’t quite place.

When he speaks, his voice is softer than yours, as though he’s trying to keep it from breaking, “I know. We both agreed to that, yes. We’re both allowed to see other people.”

The words feel rehearsed, like he’s repeated them to himself a hundred times. But with the silence stretching, it’s clear he’s struggling to say more. His lips press together briefly, and his gaze flicks to yours, searching. It’s as though he’s waiting — no, hoping — you’ll interject, offer something to fill the space.

You don’t. You hold firm, tilting your head slightly, your confusion evident. Your wide, questioning eyes, so big, so honest, pull the truth from him in a way you don’t intend, and he exhales like it’s been forced out of him.

“But I don’t want you to.”

The sheer audacity of his words hits you like a slap, the kind that stings more because of its unexpectedness. You snort, although there’s nothing particularly amusing about your heart cracking at the middle, but you manage to keep it from resounding in your words, "That’s so fucking mean. Do you even hear yourself? You get to fuck whoever you want, and I’m kept hostage? And now—now everybody thinks we’re dating!"

"That’s good," he says, simple, unflinching.

You blink, disbelief coursing through you as your lips part in a strangled gasp. "What?" The word is half a whisper, half a shout, and it escapes before you can temper it, "You’re so selfish. I fucking hate you.”

The emotion is foreign from what you’re used to showing him, softness in quiet ways, affection in silent gestures. But now, it’s all loud rage, the opposite of love spilling out of you in volatile waves. Your hands curl into fists at your sides, itching for release, something, anything to make him feel the way you’re being forced to feel, to cut through the weight of his seemingly impassive expression showing only the barest twitch in his brows, a crack too small to satisfy your anger.

It isn’t enough. You need more.

Your palms find his chest, shoving him with the force of every burning feeling inside you. “You’re stupid,” you spit, watching him take the push without exactly budging, like he’s made of stone. It only stokes your frustration further, your hands pushing again, harder this time. “And dumb.”

Jeongguk doesn’t step back, doesn’t fight you. He stands there, his chest steady, absorbing your hits without a word. His lack of resistance only makes the storm inside you rage harder, and the tears you’ve been holding back threaten to spill over.

You scramble for more, anything to turn the reality of what you truly feel into the illusion of anger, “And— and— Why the fuck are you silent! Say something!” You aim another punch at his chest, but it’s impossibly weaker, the exhaustion showing in your useless attempts at getting at him.

You sniff, and you know you lost against his indifference, your voice wavering feeling like a confession you didn’t mean to make. “Asshole. You’re being so mean. You’re making me cry.”

That’s what finally breaks him. Only the tears slipping rapidly from your eyes get his resolve to crumble. His hands are on you instantly, gripping your shoulders gently but firmly, refusing to let you squirm away. You slap at them weakly, but his touch is steady, his fingers brushing strands of hair from your face, cupping your chin to tilt it up toward him.

“Toots, no. Hey, hey,” he whispers, his tone soft in a way that disarms you completely. His thumb swipes at a stray tear, but your face turns away, evading him like it’s your only line of defense. He doesn’t back down, “Stop crying. Hey, look at me. Will you?”

“Stop calling me that!” You finally snap, jerking your face away again. The tears are spilling faster now, no matter how much you want to fight them, no matter how much you want to cling to the fury. “I hate you. You’re fucking all the girls in this college, and I’m only fucking you, because— because—”

“God,” Jeongguk groans, exasperation dripping from his tone. You’re about to hurl another half-formed insult or maybe even take a swing at him again, aiming low, but his next words stop you cold.

“Do I have to spell it out for you?” His tone is quieter now, more deliberate, the vulnerability in it cutting sharper than anything else he’s said. “I like you. I broke the rule.”

You’re sure your heart will fail you today. It misses at least four beats, and it steals the oxygen from your lungs, along with the color from your face.

You stammer, eyes widening as your pulse picks up again and pounds in your ears. “Don’t—don’t say shit like that. I swear to God, I’ll actually fuck you up. Stop—lying to me.”

“What the fuck, ___? I’m not lying to you,” Jeongguk’s voice attempts to be steady but it can’t hide the desperation, as if he’s holding on by a thread. “Why would I?”

The question is simple.

Why would Jeongguk lie to you? Does he have a reason to fake this?

The world seems to tilt, the ground beneath you shifting in some irreparable way.

You should feel scared. You should feel repulsed at the thought of commitment, the weight of his words pressing against you like a cage. But you don’t.

Instead, your eyes dart between his, searching for cracks in his sincerity, like a frantic spectator watching a tennis match, every glance like a volley in the game of something bigger than either of you. The matchpoint sends a thrill through your chest, something overwhelming and terrifying but not unwelcome.

Jeongguk watches you closely, feeling the weight of the silence between you stretch on longer than he can handle. He knows he’s the one that should break it, knows the truth he’s holding inside has to be spoken now.

It’s now or never. He can’t keep pretending—this isn’t just some casual thing to him, and he’s not ready to let it slip away without a fight. You’ve become everything he didn’t know he needed, and yet here he is, paralyzed by the fear of rejection, of being vulnerable, of watching the one thing he wants most slip right through his fingers.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? If he doesn’t speak up now, he’ll lose everything. His fear has no place in this moment anymore.

It’s a long exhale before his voice drops in soft honey, shaking with the weight of the truth, “Look. I know it’s hard to trust me. You’ve seen me fuck up multiple times over this stuff. But I want to stop this cycle. I want to allow myself something good,” his eyes search for any signal that he should stop talking, but in yours he finds every reason for him not to, “And you’re everything good that life will ever concede me. I can't… I can't let you go. I can't lose you.”

"Jeongguk…" His name slips from your lips like a prayer you've been too afraid to speak aloud until now. But you see it— he’s ready to find every solution, even if it means confronting the fear that has held him back for so long.

“I like you so much it’s killing me,” he admits, voice low and raw, every syllable cracking with vulnerability.

It’s a slow realization, like a tide that comes in quietly, softly. You’ve felt its caress for so long, and now that it embraces you wholly, you feel your heart expand, filling with the same warmth, the same longing.

The words you wish you could say are caught in your throat. You look up at him, eyes wide, trying to comprehend, to take in what he’s offering. You’re almost afraid to ask, as if the answer will shatter something you’ve worked so hard to protect, “You like me?”

“I lose my fucking mind when it comes to you.” His confession is a rush of honesty that sweeps through you, his eyes not leaving yours, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he blinks.

The world feels like it’s slowing down. There’s so much you’ve been holding back, but you don’t know how to make the words fit, how to make them sound right.

Jeongguk takes a small step back, his voice quieter but still heavy with emotion. “It’s okay if you wanna end it here,” he murmurs, his words barely above a whisper, like he’s bracing for the worst. “At least it wasn’t because you got with some other stupid guy.”

You shake your head, the thought of losing him too painful to bear. “Stop—” You let out a frustrated sigh, hands curling into fists at your sides. “God, you’re so dumb. This could have been so much easier if you’d told me sooner.”

He looks at you, confusion flickering across his face. “What do you mean?”

You feel your chest tighten, the truth slipping out before you can stop it. “I like you too,” you admit, the words finally leaving your lips hastly, like they were just waiting for the right moment. “I agreed to the date because I thought you were still… fucking around.”

His face softens, and there’s a flash of relief in his eyes. “I wasn’t. Haven’t been in so long.”

“...No Haeun?”

“Hell no. I don’t want no kiss if it isn’t from you.”

You laugh, a low sound that fills the air between you. “Cheesy fucker,” you tease, but there’s a warmth in your chest now, a feeling you can’t ignore. “Well, if you want to know, I wasn’t seeing anybody either. Namjoon asked me out randomly, but I haven’t been with anyone else since… this started.”

His eyes widen slightly, and for a moment, everything is quiet. He looks at you like he’s just heard something he never expected to hear. “Oh,” he says softly.

“Yeah.”

Jeongguk steps closer to you, his hands reaching for you, voice thick, “I’m so sorry, baby. I never meant to make you cry. It’s breaking my heart.” His thumb brushes across your cheek, gently wiping away the remnants of the tears you hadn’t even realized had fallen. “I’m so sorry.”

You shake your head, your heart swelling with both regret and tenderness. “It’s okay,” you say softly. “I’m sorry for yelling all that stuff at you. I don’t hate you. I…”

Before you can finish, his lips crash against yours, and all the confusion, all the fears, prove themselves to be worth this moment.

They dissolve into something real, the kiss trying to make up for lost time, for all the things left unsaid.

When you pull away, your foreheads resting together, Jeongguk’s voice is quiet but determined. “Come here, baby. You’re mine.”

“Prove it.”

[yayll]

omg PLSPLSPLS GIVE US GIRLDAD!DAZAI!!! Im literally so obsessed w ur work and luv luv luv reading it <3

just wanna say thank u so much anon for sending in the CUTEST request ever i have never thought abt it this way and when i finally did it was over for me. it wrote itself. THANK U FOR LIKING MY WORK THATS SO SWEET AHHH :') i keep getting ill so srry it's a lil late but i am so thankful for you trusting me w ur concept. mwahhhh.

~ a little something about girldad!Dazai simply trying his best, and loving it ~

Dazai never thought the day would come when his life finally felt complete. First, you happened to him and that was something he couldn't even fathom in a million lifetimes. It wasn't meant for him, and letting love into his heart felt like going against the nature of things. He struggled with it for a long time, pushing you away and making sure you realized this wasn't something worth pursuing... but you never relented, and he stopped fighting the longing for something more. You made him feel it was okay to want, to yearn, to need. And so came along every single repressed desire he had ever had. The love between you bloomed, and he thought this was the height of it all; The bandages he wore over his body were no longer grim reminders of his lack of humanity and the masks he wore on the daily. Those frayed wraps of fabric were symbols of love returning, of patience, of a lived in soul, and he no longer had to maintain them alone. He had you.

And then one day, he suddenly had a little girl in his life.

Another life to nurture and to start anew with, and his fear was that he yet again could not redeem himself from his past, but he was determined for her, for you and for himself to not let that be the case. When you gave him the most precious thing he didn't think he ever wanted nor could ever have, that was the day he vowed to be the epitome of a true figure worth looking up to. Osamu Dazai, the family man! Dad of the year!

... Except today, when he woke up late to take the apple of his eye to preschool. You were out of town, and though you eventually claimed to have faith in his solo parenting skills, it was a complete leap of faith. He comforted you for hours, how hard could it be? He can be both parents at once! How cruel of you to even doubt him. He remembers the look on your face when he slammed the door on you while holding your precious angel in his arms, both of them giggling while they waved you off as if they rehearsed it.

Aaaand now he realized why you were so worried. He looks at the time and he springs out of bed, running off to her bedroom. She even sleeps like a little lamb, he thinks to himself. He rushes at her side and softly turns her over.

"Little love, wake uuupppp..."

She pouts, shaking her head as she shifts in her sleep. He sighs and tries again a little more desperately.

"If you wake up, that will be really good for daddy, otherwise mommy will kill me! Up we go!"

He picks her up, and she rubs her eyes as Dazai does the most rushed morning routine ever.

He gets her dressed, though the socks don't match, and when he does her pigtails, they're lopsided. How do you do it?! And now he has to FEED her?! He stuffs a few handfuls of cereal into his mouth while giving her a proper bowl, but they're so late he thinks they should just start walking now.

"Take the bowl with you, we can do this thing called eat and walk! Yes?"

"'Kay, daddy!"

She simply giggles, not understanding how dire it is for her to make it today. She holds onto her cereal bowl as he grabs her backpack, both of them walking out into the street. Dazai's fast walking and her bowl sloshes a bit as she tries to match his pace and eat at the same time.

She's waddling adorably, and he gets lost in watching her carefully while also literally getting lost finding the school. He stops at the crosswalk, and thinks to himself. She looks up at him with a milk mustache, and her soft melodic voice rings once more like a voice of reason. She points to the right.

"That way! hehe."

Dazai has no time to fact check this, and at this point she's parenting him. You'd pass out of laughter if you could see him right now. They rush towards the school, and when he drops her off at the gate, he gives her a big kiss on her forehead.

"I love you, okay? Now give daddy the cereal bowl. How yum was that?"

She cheers, smiling wide.

"Yum!!!!"

He smirks, and takes the bowl. At least he got that right, that smile alone is worth every late start to his mornings. He waves at her as she enters the school, and forgets he's holding the bowl still, her teacher looking at him like he's deranged. You were so proud to hear that his first time parenting alone went so smooth! What you didn't know was that your little girl did most of the work keeping him on track. Still counts, right?

Another time he was exemplary was when he had just given her a bath and you were supervising to make sure he got her routine down.

"Osamu, that's the conditioner. The shampoo is over there."

You laugh while pointing at the clearly marked bottle. He rolls his eyes, smirking as he continues to rub it in her little swirl of dark hair.

"Oh please, I knew that. This makes it soft! And all detangled... It's a better routine, trust me. This is so much better."

He was totally bullshitting, he had no idea there was more than one hair product ever. This is the same man who used to find showers foreign and eat canned crab for every meal. You simply nodded, seeing right through his facade. But it was all so endearing watching your daughter splash the water on his face and play with rubber duckies, it was a dream come true. It was a dream you knew was more precious to him than anything, so you let him have his fun.

Once bath time is over, he places her on the bed in her diaper and walks out to grab her a change of clothes. Uh oh, he forgot today was laundry day! He walks back into the room a few moments later, thinking of how to pivot without having to bother you when he sees his little angel wrapped head to toe in a full roll of his bandages. His eyes go wide at the sight of the wrapped up toddler, and he laughs nervously as he rushes over while she has the time of her life squealing and rolling around the bed. He pretends to be mad.

"Little love! That's not clothes, silly! That's for daddy only, you have your own."

She simply disregards this, her mind focusing on how hilarious it would be if she just started making bubbles with her saliva instead. Dazai chuckles again, and puts his hands on his hips.

"Oh, such attitude! You know, l'm gonna have to do it... Remember when I told you about daddy's old job? I'm gonna have to get mean againnn..~"

He immediately launches himself onto the bed, tickling her through the thick fabric, and when you rush over you find them both just collapsed on the bed, Dazai counting her fingers and toes in order to distract her enough to unwrap her. Luckily, you had a spare onesie for her to save the day... even if it took the both of you to get her out of her improvised outfit. What a strong willed little one! You hoped this wasn't a special abillity developing...

It's no surprise she's a daddy's girl either, a mini Dazai at her core with your balancing characteristics on the surface. She was a little menace, sticking her tongue out at dogs every time she saw them because Dazai would do the same. He would even go as far as to help her dress like her hero! Of course you both had a stroke when you saw how tightly she wore that bolo tie, but the laugh after was worth the worry... After you scolded both of them... but it proved useless against two of the most experienced charmers you've ever met. You just couldn't win.

You especially could never get used to the sight after a long day of existing in the real world, simply watching her climb up to the couch and playing with Dazai's hair as she nuzzles herself into his shoulder, right in the crook of his neck. It was just as intense for his poor little heart as well. The way she'd yank on a strand while he pretended to be asleep was priceless, or when she'd stick her finger in his nose, causing him to have a sneezing fit soon after. It was almost karmic the way she both adored him and put him in his place, just like you.

"Daddy has brown hair because he drinks chocolate milk."

"Daddy stinks today. Throw him away!"

"Daddy looks like a mummy. Do you like mummies?"

"Who's Kunikida? He yelled at daddy today, it was funny!"

She'd babble on about all kinds of curious nonsense. You'd simply nod and agree. She was never wrong!

But what really got to you was watching her pass out on his head after hours of playtime, and the way Dazai would finally open his eyes with that smug smile of his, scooping her up and carefully taking her to bed. He tucks her in, whispering about all the adventures they'll have tomorrow and the days after. About all the rules they'll break together, and mysteries they'll solve when he takes her to work with him. He doesn't tell bedtime stories per se, but he spends all his time having actual conversations with her until she dozes off because he cannot believe this is a little extension of him and he's just as fascinated with knowing her the way she is with him. With life.

She's full of it, something he wasn't for a long time, and it brings him to tears when he sometimes thinks about it too long in private.

You're both his life and he didn't realize he could still feel regret like he does when he thinks of all the times he spent trying to end his own existence. It's a whole different world, and sure, he also loves to use her as an excuse to continue to slack off at work, and maaaybe he likes to sometimes force Atsushi to turn so she can pet him like the giant cat he is out of both their own entertainment, but dying is no longer the priority. It hasn't been for a long time, and he thinks he's doing an okay job... At being a dad, at being a human, at belonging in this world.

When he finally gets in bed with you, he feels whole. He also feels impish when he turns over and whispers.

"Maybe it's time for another, hm?~"

Oops!

[okiankeno]

Let the Rain Fall

Pairings: Sarah Christ/Reader, Sarah Christ/Cop Cameron

2. Quaecumque vera (1949 words)

Sarah has been informed that a new coworker will arrive in Hatchetfield today. The chief didn’t think Sarah was in the right headspace to pursue the Creekside Killer now that Sarah's case was highly personal. The chief wanted to hand over the reins to another investigator, and Sarah would play accomplice to them. Bummer.

[local-diavolo-anon]

In the domestic au i made when y/n brings Sun or Moon around woth them during the day it always devolves in chaotic stuff no matter what

Sun insists in riding their bus and sit at the first row of seats, every single day and welcome passengers personally, despite being unable to talk, and then Y/n gives him 5 euros to go and grab some ice cream during their break/at the end of their shift and every time he comes back with the biggest cup he could buy and pretends to eat it in your place

Moon climbs on top of anything he can see when y/n brings him outside in the late evening and you have no way to make him get down except pspspsing at him

He climbs on top of monuments, houses, historical buildings and street lights, he misses his wires and wants to be in high places like a cat

Both he and Sun HATE from the depth of their metal heart the escalators because moving ground conflicts HARD with their pathfinding protocols

So you either force them on and off of them (because once they are on, everything else is moving so you're back at square 1) or you watch as they try to walk around the problem

Moon probably climbed the walls of the mall instead of taking the escalators at some point, maybe he stood on the handrails like a crab just not to touch the moving stairs

[dystopicjumpsuit]

Monthly Roundup: June-September 2024

Hello, friends! Welcome to my monthly roundup, where I post links to all the fics, chapters, HCs, art, designs and ask responses I've published the previous month so there's a quick and easy way for readers to find my newest works. This roundup will cover everything I shared from June through September.

Fic requests are closed. Outstanding requests will be filled as soon as possible.

Note: I always accept HC and OC asks, even when fic requests are closed.

🍋 denotes mature content 🍋

Fics

🍋"Too Early"🍋 (Crosshair x Fem!Reader)

🍋"Watch and Learn, City Boy, Part 2: Autumn"🍋 (Sergeant Hound x Fem!Reader)

🍋"In the Matter of Marshal Commander Fox vs. the Stocking Kink, the Court Finds the Defendant Filthy."🍋 (Fox x Fem!Reader)

Art, Designs, HCs and Ask Responses

OC art: Oisin

Luci Salentino art (OC of @freesia-writes)

OC art: Cerra Kilian

🍋Savage Opress art🍋

🍋Headcanon: Hardcase and Fox have stocking kinks🍋

Click to see previous monthly roundups

[solxamber]

Trash Novel Chronicles: Love Triangles and Royal Rumbles - Leona Kingscholar x Reader

When you get isekai'd as the male lead in the novel where your favorite character, Leona Kingscholar is the second male lead, all that's left to do is rewrite the romance!

Series Masterlist

You're just an average person, doing normal human things like eating, sleeping, and, of course, staring at your poster of Leona Kingscholar for three hours straight. Totally healthy behavior. People have hobbies, right? Some knit, some jog, and you…? You defend your fictional lion husband from slander on the internet. You’re practically a digital knight in shining armor.

The story that has consumed your very soul? Oh, just your typical Cliché Villainess Academy Novel: Revenge Edition™. The plot is so by-the-book, it’s basically a war crime against creativity. Female lead? She’s been in love with the male lead since he gave some boring welcome speech that apparently hit her so hard, her brain rewired itself into a romantic mess.

The villainess? Obviously in love with the male lead too, but her one and only goal in life is making the heroine’s existence a never-ending trainwreck of public embarrassment. And the male lead? Sweet summer child. He just wants to get his degree and avoid eye contact with all of these lunatics.

Enter: Leona Kingscholar, the second male lead. The man, the myth, the walking sarcasm machine. He’s there purely to fuel jealousy in everyone else’s love story, but for you? He’s everything. The brooding, lazy, hot second male lead who rolls his eyes at every plot point like he’s just as done with this novel as you are. He has better things to do, like nap, but here he is, dragged into this mess by proximity.

If it were up to you, he and the male lead would run off together, leave the heroine and villainess to start their own hobby club about emotional devastation, and the two guys would live happily ever after in matching beach chairs somewhere.

But no. Instead, you’re stuck reading about her fawning over him while Leona is just… there. Existing. The only thing keeping your interest alive.

And now? Now, your loyalty to Leona Kingscholar is about to pay off. The fan event of the century is just days away. It’s going to be glorious. A whole day dedicated to Leona—merch, fan contests, life-sized cardboard cutouts (which, let’s be honest, you’re ready to risk it all for). You've cleared your schedule, mentally prepared yourself for the inevitable squealing, and created a battle plan for acquiring the best merch before everyone else.

But fate? Fate’s cruel.

You’re casually defending Leona’s honor online as usual, battling some no-name troll who dares to claim that the male lead is "better written." (HA! You laugh in their wrong face.) But then—what’s this? A an likes your tweet about Leona! And not just any author. THE ONE YOU LOVE. The serotonin shoots through you like an adrenaline shot straight to the brain.

Your heart’s racing. You’re vibrating at a frequency only dogs can hear. You leap out of your chair like some majestic gazelle—or at least that’s what you tell yourself as you promptly trip over the plushie army that guards your floor.

Before you know it, you’re tumbling, body flailing like a noodle, bouncing down the stairs in what feels like slow motion. The world spins. Your merch shelves mock you from the distance. You land at the bottom in a heap, your soul floating just above your body.

"Is this… how it ends?" you wheeze, gasping for breath, more in shock than pain. As your vision starts to fade, all you can think is: I never made it to the Leona event….

And with that, you die. Crushed under the weight of fandom.

You wake up, and your first thought isn’t the usual, “Oh, I’ve been isekai’d into a new world, how fascinating, I’ll have time to adjust in a moment of peace and reflection.” No. You wake up and it hits you like a brick: Oh no. Female lead.

But then, a beam of hope breaks through the clouds of despair and shines down on you like a heavenly spotlight: Wait. Leona Kingscholar is here.

Before you can even revel in the thought of being in the same universe as your broody lion crush, reality smacks you upside the head. Loud voices are pulling you back to the scene unfolding right in front of your very eyes.

You blink. Hold on. This is not a bedroom, and this is definitely not a private moment to gather your thoughts like in every other isekai novel. Oh no, you’ve been thrown directly into the group project scene.

You know, the one where the villainess is sharpening her claws on the heroine while Leona watches from the sidelines like he’s two seconds away from a permanent nap? Yeah, you’re smack in the middle of it.

The villainess, looking as pissed off as usual, is glaring daggers at the trembling heroine, who is staring at you with those wide, teary eyes like you’re supposed to swoop in and save her from this verbal smackdown.

And that’s when it hits you: you’re the male lead. The original goody-two-shoes, justice-loving male lead who always stepped in to defend the heroine. The one who got suckered into every cliché moment, complete with sparkles and heroic speeches about morality and blah blah blah.

Not you, though.

You take one look at the heroine. She’s giving you this look like you’re her knight in shining armor, expecting you to throw yourself in front of her and deliver some dramatic monologue about kindness and decency. And you? You're mentally checking out of this scene faster than the speed of light.

Nah. You’re not about that life.

Your gaze drifts to Leona, sitting on the far side of the room, slouched over like he’s wondering why he’s being subjected to this emotional soap opera when he could be napping. His face screams "done," and honestly? Same. He meets your gaze, eyes half-lidded and bored, probably hoping you’ll do the usual male lead routine and put an end to this nonsense.

But oh no, today’s different.

You casually stroll over to where Leona is sitting, ignoring the drama unfolding behind you. With the swagger of someone who knows exactly what they’re about to do is going to blow some minds, you hold out your hand to him. "So, uh… you want to ditch this disaster and go take a nap? Or maybe raid the kitchens? I’m thinking we play hooky and pretend this never happened."

Leona’s eyes flicker with surprise for half a second. The male lead? The goody-two-shoes-moral-compass of the entire plot? The guy who literally lived to stop drama in its tracks? Is offering to blow off this whole mess? He raises an eyebrow, smirking like the cat who caught the canary.

"Didn’t think you had it in you," Leona drawls, but you can tell he’s already down for this. "Alright. Let’s go. If anyone asks, I’m gonna say you dragged me out."

"Deal," you say, trying not to look too smug. And with that, you turn on your heel, and with Leona at your side, you head for the door, leaving behind a shell-shocked villainess and a teary-eyed heroine who’s probably still processing the fact that her supposed knight in shining armor just dipped.

As you and Leona stroll out, you hear the villainess mutter, “What… just happened?” and you can’t help but grin. You may have just turned the plot upside down, but at least you’re doing it in style.

"Hey, Leona," you say, nudging him, "think we can find some of those fancy desserts in the kitchen? I’m starving."

Leona snorts, shoving his hands into his pockets. "If you’re buying, sure."

And just like that, the male lead and the second male lead walk off into the sunset—or rather, the campus courtyard—hand in hand with a new mission: Avoiding all future plot nonsense at all costs.

You’re not sure how you got here, staring at the over-the-top ball decorations like you’ve stepped into a bargain bin fairytale, but hey, life has taken a weird turn lately. You, of all people, are living out the plot of a novel so cliché it makes your head hurt.

But you guess that’s what happens when you get isekai’d into a second-rate villainess story. The only thing missing is a glass slipper and some woodland creatures to sing with.

And of course, surprise! The ball isn’t just some casual evening of sipping punch and avoiding the villainess’s death stares. No, if you don’t nail the ball, you don’t graduate. Because nothing says "academic achievement" like knowing how to waltz while dressed like a background character from Bridgerton.

So here you are, in ball lessons, where everyone is nervously pairing off while you’re trying not to roll your eyes into another dimension. The heroine, with her usual doe-eyed sparkle, gets paired with you first. And let’s be real: she’s either terrible at dancing, or she’s using this as an excuse to get you to hold her close.

But you? Oh no. You’ve read enough of this garbage to know where that’s going, and you have zero interest in playing out the “close embrace, sparks flying, almost-kiss” trope. Absolutely not.

As soon as the music starts, you decide it’s time to act. You let your feet stumble—deliberately, of course—and flail around like you’ve never seen a ballroom floor in your life. The heroine, bless her clueless heart, giggles like she thinks you’re just being cute, but you’re not about to humor this. When the instructor’s eyes lock onto you, you seize the opportunity.

"Oh no!" you say dramatically, throwing a hand over your forehead like you’re in some kind of soap opera. "I’m so bad at this. Could someone please teach me how to dance?"

You pause, glance around the room, and then lock eyes with Leona Kingscholar.

"Leona!" you shout, loud enough that the whole room freezes. "You’re the second prince! You must’ve had etiquette lessons, right? Teach me how to dance!"

The room collectively loses its mind. The heroine looks like you’ve just slapped her with a glove and challenged her to a duel. The villainess is staring at you like you’ve lost your marbles. And Leona? Leona’s expression is somewhere between utter confusion and why me.

Leona leans back, crossing his arms, visibly annoyed. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters, but there’s no denying the faint twitch of a smirk at the corner of his mouth when he sees the heroine and villainess get shoved into an awkward dancing pair together.

Despite his clear irritation, Leona steps forward, because let’s face it, he’s the kind of guy who’ll humor you if it means avoiding worse drama. You slide into position with him, and honestly? You’re in heaven. You can barely focus on your feet, too busy trying to hide your grin while you imagine all the drama this is causing behind you.

Meanwhile, the heroine and the villainess are floundering around, tripping over each other like they’ve got two left feet each. The villainess is grinding her teeth, and the heroine keeps stepping on her toes. It’s a glorious disaster.

Leona, despite his annoyance, is surprisingly good at this. He’s leading with the kind of effortless grace that makes you wonder how someone so lazy can still be so competent at everything. You’re definitely not staring at his sharp features while he dances, not at all.

"You do realize this is a waste of time, right?" Leona grumbles under his breath, his eyes flicking to the chaos unfolding behind you. "Why me, herbivore? You could’ve asked anyone else."

You just shrug, trying not to sound too smug. "What can I say? I have excellent taste in dance partners."

Leona’s brow twitches like he’s torn between smirking and rolling his eyes. "Yeah, sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night." But the smirk wins out, especially when the villainess and heroine fumble yet again, nearly toppling over each other.

You glance up at him, beaming. Leona Kingscholar might be annoyed, but he’s not stopping anytime soon. And you? You’re just here for the ride, watching the heroine and villainess self-destruct from the safety of Leona’s arms.

Ball lessons? Piece of cake.

You’ve been doing everything humanly possible to avoid the female lead like she’s a carrier of the medieval plague. You thought you’d be safe here, hiding behind your “I’m too busy and mysterious for romance” persona, but no—somehow—the more you avoid her, the more she’s convinced that you’re the dark, brooding, irresistible male lead she’s always dreamed of.

You know, the type who avoids emotional connections but secretly harbors a heart of gold. But the truth is, you’re just a guy trying to get through the day so you can swoon over Leona Kingscholar in peace.

It’s not like you’ve been subtle about it either. You’ve been dropping hints left and right, hoping the universe would give you a break and let the female lead fall in love with literally anyone else. But no. Somehow, everyone is ignoring your very obvious affection for Leona.

It’s like you’re stuck in a tragic comedy where the female lead falls harder for you the more you try to disappear, and Leona just… well, he’s just living his best life, completely unaware of your internal screaming.

Take the latest tea party, for example. You were just trying to enjoy some pastries, maybe steal a glance at Leona from across the table, when the heroine decides to make her move. She picks up a delicate slice of cake and holds it out to you, eyes sparkling with that innocent-yet-hopeful look that says, “This is our moment.”

You? You’re not having any of that. Nope. No way. You’re not about to be part of this rom-com narrative. So, without missing a beat, you casually take the cake from her and, in one smooth motion, turn and offer it to Leona, who’s lounging lazily next to you, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Leona raises an eyebrow at you, clearly baffled by why you’re holding out cake like he’s some sort of royal who expects to be hand-fed. “What are you doing?” he mutters, looking suspiciously between you and the cake.

“Just thought you’d like some,” you say with a straight face, ignoring the heroine’s stunned expression. She’s sitting there, fork still poised in the air, blinking rapidly like you’ve just committed the greatest betrayal of the century.

Leona huffs, looking mildly irritated but mostly confused. After a pause, he shrugs and leans forward, taking a bite of the cake without even bothering to lift his own hand. “Whatever,” he mutters between chews. “Tastes fine.”

You nod, satisfied. Meanwhile, the heroine looks like she’s on the verge of tears, and the villainess is smirking in the background like she’s about to take out popcorn and enjoy the drama.

Later that day, you find a nice, quiet spot under a tree to relax. You’ve managed to avoid any major incidents so far, and for once, you’re not being dragged into some dramatic showdown. You lie back, close your eyes, and just let yourself chill. But, of course, the universe doesn’t want you to have peace.

Enter Leona.

Without a word, he flops down next to you, takes one look at your position, and decides—out of all the places he could sit—that your lap is the best pillow option available. You feel his head plop down on your lap like this is the most normal thing in the world. You stare down at him, completely dumbfounded, while he just closes his eyes and lets out a long, satisfied sigh.

“Leona?” you start, voice half bewildered, half amused. “You good?”

“Shut up,” he mutters without opening his eyes. “You’re more comfortable than the grass.”

You blink at him, not sure whether to laugh or cry. Meanwhile, the villainess strolls by, spots the two of you under the tree, and comes to an immediate halt. Her face contorts into a mix of disbelief and confusion, like she’s just witnessed something unholy. You can almost hear her mental scream of, what the hell is going on here?!

She doesn’t say anything, though. Just stands there, hands clenched, before turning on her heel and storming off. You don’t even care. You’re too busy reveling in the fact that Leona chose your lap as his personal resting place. If that isn’t a win, you don’t know what is.

And then, of course, there’s the infamous hallway incident. The heroine—who, by this point, you’re pretty sure has developed some kind of radar for finding you—comes running toward you. She trips over something (the air? her own foot? you don’t know) and launches herself straight into your arms in what is clearly an attempt to trigger some rom-com, slow-motion embrace.

But you? You’re not here for this.

With the reflexes of a seasoned avoider, you sidestep her dramatic fall, and she goes face-first into the floor. There’s a stunned silence as she lies there, unmoving, probably processing how she ended up eating dirt.

You glance over at Leona, who’s watching the whole thing with a lazy smirk, clearly enjoying the trainwreck. You give him a slight nod of approval, and he just rolls his eyes, a small grin still tugging at his lips.

The villainess, standing a few feet away, is laughing her head off. She’s doubled over, clutching her stomach, while the heroine’s dignity is scattered all over the floor. But you? You’re just staring at Leona, completely ignoring the chaos around you.

Somehow, despite all the madness, you can’t help but think: this is fine.

The day of the big spelldrive match arrives, and the heroine has never looked more confident in her life. She’s decked out in her team’s colors, standing tall at the edge of the field, waiting for you to join her in your usual spot. You know, like a loyal dog. A loyal, obedient dog who always does what she expects.

But not today.

Today, you roll up to the game decked out head to toe in full Savanaclaw merch. We're talking a custom jersey with Leona’s name on the back, a headband, face paint, and—just to really emphasize the point—a Savanaclaw banner tied around your neck like you’ve decided to cosplay as Captain Lion Fang.

You take your seat in the Savanaclaw section and immediately start hyping up the crowd like you’re getting paid for it. The heroine spots you from across the field and stares like she’s watching a crime scene unfold in real-time. Meanwhile, Leona’s already spotted you, and the smug smirk on his face tells you he’s LOVING the attention.

The game kicks off, and with each goal Leona scores, you’re going feral.

You’re screaming your lungs out, waving your banner around like you’re auditioning for some weird mascot gig. People are looking at you like you’ve lost your mind, but you don’t care. This is YOUR moment.

Leona, on the field, is living for it. Every time he glances your way, he adds a little extra flair to his plays, just to make you scream louder. He scores, and you’re on your feet, jumping up and down like you’ve won the lottery.

At this point, the heroine is practically catatonic. Her world is crumbling before her eyes. You can practically see her brain struggling to process what she’s witnessing: you, her loyal supporter, decked out in Savanaclaw gear and cheering for her rival.

“I... I don’t understand…” she whispers, her voice trembling like she’s been betrayed by the universe itself. “Why aren’t you cheering for us?”

You turn to her with all the nonchalance of someone who’s just ordered fries at a drive-thru. “Uh… Leona’s hot?”

It’s like you slapped her across the face with a wet fish. She stands there, frozen, her eyes wide, like she’s witnessing the fall of an empire. "B-But... you're supposed to support me!"

Before you can reply with another devastating truth bomb, Leona casually strolls over after winning the game, looking like he just walked out of a perfume ad. His hair’s tousled, a thin sheen of sweat making him look even more annoyingly handsome. He stops in front of you, smirking like he’s been planning this moment his entire life.

"Didn’t know you were my biggest fan," he drawls, voice low and lazy. “Gotta say, I’m impressed with your enthusiasm. Screamin’ my name like that… kinda hard to ignore.”

You open your mouth, ready to fire back with something witty, but what comes out is more of a high-pitched squeak, followed by, “Hahaha, Y-Yeah… you’re welcome?”

And then, the words that break you: “How ‘bout we celebrate with a nap?”

Your brain freezes. A nap? You? With Leona? Your heart is doing cartwheels while the rest of your organs are busy melting into a puddle. Your mouth is moving, but all that comes out is an unintelligible “Uhhuhmm.”

Leona chuckles, clearly enjoying how flustered you are. He reaches out, grabbing your wrist, and starts dragging you off with him—right in front of everyone. He doesn’t even care that the entire field is watching. He’s already made up his mind.

The heroine, meanwhile, is standing there in stunned silence, her brain fully blue-screening as she watches you and Leona disappear. She’s still processing the Leona’s comment when the villainess, who has been observing this whole disaster unfold, finally chimes in from the sidelines with a shrug.

“Well, as long as it’s not the heroine,” she says, flicking her hair back with an air of satisfaction. “This is fine.”

And off you go, being dragged to a nap date you’re definitely not mentally prepared for, your face burning hotter than the sun. Leona glances back at you, that smug smirk still plastered on his face. "You’re lookin’ a little red there. You sure you’re up for this?"

You sputter, tripping over your own words. "I-I’m fine! Totally fine! Nap? Cool! Casual napping! No big deal!”

Leona just chuckles again, clearly entertained by how much you're floundering. “If you say so. Just don’t pass out before we get there.”

Yeah. Don’t pass out. Easier said than done when the man of your dreams is casually dragging you off to nap like it's no big deal while your brain screams at you in ten different languages.

This is fine. Totally fine. You’re fine.

Maybe.

You were sitting with Jack and Ruggie at the cafeteria, chatting about nothing in particular—well, Jack was chatting. Ruggie was there purely because you promised to pay for his lunch. Still, you’d like to think that maybe, just maybe, he stuck around because he actually enjoyed your company. Maybe.

“So, any tips on how to deal with midterms?” Jack asked, ears twitching as he looked at you with that wide-eyed eagerness that only first-years ever had. He was honestly like a giant puppy, trying so hard to be good.

You leaned back in your chair, doing your best impression of a wise and worldly senior, which mostly involved pretending you weren’t sweating about your own midterms. “My advice? Caffeine. And if you have the chance to sleep, take it. Oh, and don’t forget to eat. I learned that one the hard way.”

Jack nodded seriously, committing it all to memory like you were passing down sacred knowledge. Meanwhile, Ruggie was on his third helping of food, barely acknowledging the conversation.

"Hey, if you're handing out wisdom, how ‘bout you tell me how to get free food more often?” Ruggie said between bites, shooting you a cheeky grin.

“Isn’t that already your specialty?” you shot back, eyeing the mountain of food in front of him.

He just laughed. “Can’t argue with that, but having backup plans never hurt.”

Before you could respond, you felt a shadow fall over the table. You looked up, half expecting it to be the heroine or some random classmate, but nope. It was Leona. Leona, who you were 99% sure had skipped class because he always skips class. And he looked… annoyed?

Oh no.

He ignored Jack and Ruggie completely, his sharp gaze zeroing in on you like you’d committed some grave crime. “Oi, herbivore,” he drawled, hands in his pockets like this wasn’t weird at all. “Let’s go.”

“Go where?” you asked, blinking up at him. Leona never approached people unless he wanted something.

“To the tree,” he said flatly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“The tree?” Jack echoed, ears perking up in confusion.

Ruggie, on the other hand, was grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “Oho~ Someone’s in demand.”

Leona shot Ruggie a look that could’ve curdled milk. “Shut it, Ruggie.”

Your brain was still trying to process the situation. You were sitting here, minding your own business, giving sage advice about caffeine and survival, and now Leona was dragging you off to his tree like it was completely normal?

He didn’t wait for an answer. He just grabbed your wrist, yanking you up from your seat as if this was some kind of kidnap situation, and started walking toward the courtyard.

“Uh—Leona? What’s going on?” you asked, doing your best to keep up without tripping over your own feet.

Leona didn’t even look back. “You’re talkin’ too much. Need some peace and quiet.”

You blinked, thoroughly confused but not necessarily mad about being dragged off. It’s just… “Why am I involved in your nap plans?”

“’Cause I said so.”

Wow, cryptic. You were about to ask again when you reached the tree. The infamous Leona nap spot. He plopped down against the trunk and, before you could protest, pulled you down next to him. Without another word, he stretched out and—because apparently boundaries didn’t exist—rested his head on your lap.

This was… This was happening.

You glanced around, half expecting to see a camera crew pop out and tell you this was some elaborate prank, but nope. Leona was lounging on you like it was the most natural thing in the world, eyes already closed, arms crossed behind his head.

“Uh, Leona?”

“Shut up. M’ tryin’ to sleep.”

You stared down at him, your brain short-circuiting. This was the third time this week he’d done this. Just… kidnapped you for a nap. What was his deal? Was your lap particularly comfortable? Did you radiate some kind of sleepy aura? What was going on here?

Meanwhile, from the distance, you spotted her. The villainess. Watching. For the third time in as many days. And you could see it. You could see the moment she put the pieces together. Her eyes widened in slow realization, her lips twitching into a smirk. She knew. She finally knew.

When Leona finally woke up—after what felt like hours of you sitting there, too dazed to move—you were free. For now. He stretched lazily and gave you a casual “Thanks,” as if this wasn’t the most bizarre situation you’d ever been in, and you quickly scrambled away, making your way back to the dorms with your head spinning.

And that’s when the villainess cornered you.

Oh no.

There she was, leaning against the doorframe with a knowing look, her sharp gaze trained on you like a predator sizing up its prey. You swallowed nervously. She was about to confront you about the heroine, wasn’t she? This was it. This was the moment. Was she going to declare some rivalry? Challenge you to a duel? Confess to you? Make this whole thing painfully awkward?

She smiled, and it was not the evil grin you were expecting. “I’m on your side.”

You blinked. “…What?”

She pushed off the wall, stepping closer, her eyes gleaming with a new kind of intensity. “Leona. I know you’re after him.”

Your heart stopped. This was it. She was going to call you out and—wait, what did she just say?

“I’ll help you confess to Leona,” she said, matter-of-factly. “On one condition.”

You were staring at her like she’d just sprouted wings and started speaking in tongues. “You… will?”

She nodded. “Yes. If you help me become more influential than that heroine, I’ll help you get Leona to notice you more.”

You blinked again, processing her words. She wanted your help to outshine the heroine, and in exchange, she’d be your wingwoman? Wingwoman?!

You grinned, holding out your hand for a dramatic shake. “Hell yeah.”

She clasped your hand, her smile mirroring yours. "Consider it a deal."

And just like that, you walked away from the most unexpected alliance of your life, fully equipped with a villainess-turned-wingwoman and a new plan to win over Leona.

Honestly? Life was getting weirder by the day.

“Okay, so just to confirm,” Ruggie’s eyes glinted with mischief as he leaned back in his chair, arms folded behind his head. “You want us to sit through this poetry reading,” he said, drawing out the word like it was some cursed phrase, “and cheer for the villainess. And in return, I get all the food left over?”

“Yup,” you nodded, trying to keep a straight face.

“And Jack’s here because…?”

“I asked him nicely.”

Jack shrugged, tail flicking behind him. “I’m just here to help.”

Ruggie snorted, glancing at you with a grin. “This better be some damn good poetry then. And the food better be worth it.”

“Oh, trust me,” you said, patting Ruggie on the back. “It will be.”

Little did you know, this was going to be a disaster of epic proportions.

The poetry reading started as expected—with the heroine striding up to the front of the room, practically glowing under the dim spotlight. She cleared her throat, clasped her hands dramatically, and began.

“It was a night… much like tonight…”

Your first instinct was to cringe, but you held it in, glancing sideways at Jack and Ruggie. Jack was doing his best to stay stoic, but you could see his ears twitching in discomfort. Ruggie had his hand over his mouth, clearly biting back laughter.

The poem continued, painfully dragging on about stars and roses and something about “destiny’s kiss.” By the time she reached the end, there was a collective sigh of relief from the audience. You weren’t even sure what you had just listened to, but you knew it wasn’t good.

Jack… Jack was crying. You stared at him, horrified. “Are you okay?”

“It’s… it’s so bad,” he sniffed, wiping his eyes. “I didn’t know poetry could be this bad.”

Ruggie had his face buried in his hands, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. “This is better than I thought,” he wheezed.

You shot him a look, but even you had to admit, this was pure comedy gold. Poor Jack had no idea what hit him.

The villainess, bless her heart, was watching all of this unfold with a look of shock and confusion, but when it was finally her turn to read, she stepped up like a queen. Her voice was smooth, the words flowing like silk, and you couldn’t help but be genuinely impressed. She absolutely killed it.

The plan was working perfectly. You and your crew started clapping, cheering like you were at a rock concert. Jack, who was still recovering from the emotional trauma of the heroine’s poem, clapped too, albeit more quietly.

But just as you were about to get even louder, you felt a hand on your shoulder. “Oi, sit down,” Leona grumbled, pulling you back into your seat.

“What—?”

He didn’t offer any explanation, just kept you firmly seated next to him, his face set in a bored expression. You blinked in confusion but decided not to argue. It wasn’t like you didn’t enjoy sitting next to Leona… it was just weird.

And by the grin the villainess was sporting, it seems like everything went exactly according to plan. Both for her and you.

After the poetry reading wrapped up, you gathered the leftovers like you promised. Ruggie was already hovering around, practically drooling over the spread.

“Here, take it all,” you said, handing the basket over. “Deal’s a deal.”

Ruggie beamed, clutching the food to his chest like a treasure hoard. “Pleasure doing business with ya!”

Jack was much more polite, bowing his head slightly. “Thanks for the notes. They’ll be a big help.”

“Anytime,” you replied with a smile, watching the two of them head off. Ruggie was already halfway through a sandwich, talking a mile a minute, while Jack followed along, still looking like he might need therapy after the heroine’s performance.

That left you alone… with Leona, who had been standing off to the side, arms crossed, watching you with an unreadable expression.

“What?” you asked, half-expecting him to complain about something. He always had something to complain about.

“You mind explaining what the hell that was?”

“Uh… what do you mean?”

Leona’s tail flicked in irritation, his eyes narrowing. “I’m talking about you, whispering and giggling with that villainess all the time. What, you after her now that you ditched the heroine?”

You blinked at him, utterly baffled. “What? No, of course not. Why would I be after her?”

Leona’s jaw clenched. “You tell me. All I’ve seen is you hangin’ around with her, whispering, plottin’... I’ve seen how you look at her.”

It took a moment for your brain to catch up, but then it hit you like a ton of bricks.

Oh my god. He was jealous.

A slow grin spread across your face as the realization sunk in. Leona, Leona Kingscholar, was jealous. And over you.

Before you could stop yourself, you leaned forward and planted a quick kiss on his cheek. “You’re jealous~.”

Leona froze, his eyes widening for a split second before narrowing dangerously. “What?”

“You’re jealous,” you repeated, giddiness bubbling up inside you. You could barely contain your excitement. “You’re jealous of me hanging out with the villainess!”

Leona’s lips pulled into a thin line. “You’re imagining things.”

“Oh no, no, no,” you grinned even wider, poking him in the chest. “You’re totally jealous!”

Leona growled, looking thoroughly annoyed now, but before he could snap back, you quickly explained. “Look, I made a deal with her. I help her become more influential than the heroine, and she helps me… confess to you.”

Leona blinked, taken aback, his tail flicking behind him as if processing the information. Then, in true Leona fashion, his expression shifted from irritation to smugness in record time.

“Oh?”

You sighed, shaking your head. “Yeah, so you don’t have to worry about me chasing after anyone else.”

Leona stepped closer, his voice dropping low, that usual lazy drawl making your heart do a little flip. “Good. But just so you know, cheek kisses aren’t real kisses.”

Before you could ask what he meant, Leona leaned in and kissed you—properly kissed you. Your eyes went wide for a second before you melted into it, feeling the heat of his lips against yours. He pulled back after what felt like forever, a smirk on his face as he watched you try to catch your breath.

“There. That’s a real kiss,” he murmured, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction.

You stared at him, dazed, and then a sudden realization hit you.

You left your entire life behind, all for this moment.

And you were so, so glad that stupid plushie was on the floor, because this? This was totally worth it.

The heroine’s voice was as sweet as it was grating, like sugar poured directly into your ears. She fluttered her eyelashes at you, her smile stretched painfully wide. “So, I was thinking,” she began, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. “You would make the perfect knight for my family! Don’t you think so?”

You blinked, trying to figure out a way to escape. “Uh… I’m kind of busy with, you know, my own life?”

“Oh, but imagine!” she gushed, not hearing a word you said. “We’d be so close all the time—like, so close. You could protect me, and maybe… we could have a picnic under the stars? Very romantic, right?”

Your soul was trying to leave your body. You were pretty sure Jack’s ears twitched somewhere nearby, sensing your pain telepathically. And then, like a gift from the heavens, the villainess—your beloved accomplice in all things anti-heroine—made her appearance.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said, stepping between you and the heroine with the grace of someone who had seen this movie before and knew exactly how to cut to the good parts. “But I need them for an urgent matter. A very important, not-at-all-romantic-but-very-necessary mission.”

You shot her a look of pure gratitude, but before she could fully rescue you from the heroine’s death trap of unwanted flirting, a shadow loomed over the scene. A very familiar shadow.

Leona.

Without saying a word, he strode up behind you and casually wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you back against his chest with an ease that had your heart skipping a beat. He rested his chin on your shoulder, his sharp green eyes fixed on the heroine.

“Oh no, carry on,” he said lazily, but his tone was anything but. “I’m just here to see what my mate is up to.”

The heroine blinked in shock, her hands hovering mid-air as if she had no idea what to do with this development. “Y-Your mate?”

“Yeah,” Leona said, tightening his grip around you, his smirk downright feral. “So whatever little fantasy you’re cooking up about romantic picnics or whatever—cut it out. This one’s mine.”

You felt Leona’s lips brush against your temple before he leaned in and, in full view of the now-utterly-horrified heroine, kissed the side of your neck. Slowly. Possessively.

You could almost hear the villainess muffling a laugh behind her hand.

The heroine’s face turned several shades of red as she stammered. “B-But I—”

“You,” Leona said, his tone dripping with amusement, “can fuck right off.”

The heroine gasped, her hand flying to her chest like she’d been physically struck. “You can’t just say that to me!”

Leona raised a brow, looking thoroughly unimpressed. “I’m literally the second prince. I can say whatever the hell I want.”

The heroine opened her mouth to argue, but then realized that, no, actually, she couldn’t argue with the literal second prince staking his claim. She sputtered for a moment before storming off, no doubt to sob dramatically about her dashed romantic hopes.

Once she was out of sight, the villainess finally let out a snort of laughter. “That was beautiful.”

Leona ignored her, his grip still firm around you as he leaned down to whisper, “Next time, you won’t need her to help you out. Just say my name, and I’ll be there to deal with the pests.”

You stared at him, a little dazed from the whole whirlwind of possessiveness, public displays of affection, and telling someone to ‘fuck right off.’ “You really went for it, huh?”

Leona smirked, leaning in for another kiss. “Damn right I did. And don’t you forget it.”

Somewhere behind you, the villainess was still giggling. You were pretty sure this was going to be gossip for weeks.

But honestly? Totally worth it.

Graduation day—the moment where everyone’s future plans would be declared, and all the chess pieces would fall into place. Or, in your case, the moment where you’d cause absolute chaos.

The grand hall was filled with eager anticipation. Everyone was dressed in their formal graduation robes, students buzzing with excitement over their new titles and responsibilities.

Leona, as expected, lounged at the back like a lion who had better things to do, half-asleep. Villainess stood tall and composed, already plotting her return to her family's estate. Heroine was in full glowing mode, ready to take her place as the beloved of the Grand Duchy.

And you? You stood at the podium, trying not to laugh. You knew what you were about to say would flip this graduation upside down.

One by one, people made their announcements.

When it was finally your turn, all eyes turned to you. The entire hall seemed to hold its breath, knowing the original male lead—you—was supposed to be the retainer of the heroine. It was all set, all according to plan, right?

Wrong.

You cleared your throat, glanced briefly at Leona who smirked lazily, and then made the declaration that would throw this script straight out the window. “I’ve decided to serve as Prince Leona’s right-hand man, personal secretary, and...well, whatever he needs.”

The silence that followed was glorious. Pure, dumbfounded silence.

King Falena, sitting in the front row, visibly blinked. Once. Twice. He tilted his head slightly, confusion written all over his usually composed face. “What?” he muttered, looking like someone just told him a desert hyena had enrolled in ballet school.

Leona, however, didn’t even open his eyes. He just smirked, crossing his arms smugly. “Told ya he’d choose me,” he murmured, almost too casually for someone who’d just stolen the original male lead’s entire plotline.

Falena’s gaze flicked between you and Leona, still processing. Then, slowly, realization dawned. He saw that look on Leona’s face—the one that said “mine, and I dare anyone to challenge it.” King Falena’s confusion morphed into surprise and then, with the subtlety of a royal diplomat, resignation. “Oh…” he whispered, finally understanding. “He’s down bad.”

Leona cracked an eye open just to catch his brother’s expression and grinned wider, like a cat who knew exactly what kind of bird it had in its claws.

Your parents, bless them, were in the crowd with expressions of supportive confusion. Your mother was squinting as if trying to work out if this was some sort of royal prank. Your father leaned in toward her, whispering loudly enough for the entire row to hear, “It’s a royal job, right? That’s prestigious?”

“Yeah, but… Leona?” your mom whispered back.

At this point, the heroine stood up, ready to throw a wrench into the works. “Wait! You’re supposed to be my—"

Before she could finish, the villainess, in all her dramatic glory, made her move. With the grace of a queen and the audacity of a mastermind, she stepped right up to the heroine, flipped her luxurious hair, and said, “Actually, I was going to ask you out.”

You blinked. Wait, what?

The entire room gasped. You could almost hear heads snapping toward the villainess like a collective whip crack.

Heroine’s mouth opened and closed like she was a fish drowning in air. “I—what?”

“Dinner. Candlelight. Maybe a picnic. You and me, a date. Sound good?” The villainess winked with such charm that even the professors in the back were wide-eyed.

Heroine blinked rapidly, as if trying to reboot her brain. “Uh… sure?” she squeaked, still reeling from the fact that her entire romantic arc had just gotten hijacked.

You stared at the villainess in pure confusion. “What just happened?” you whispered, looking at her for an explanation.

The villainess simply turned to you with a mischievous grin, giving you a sly thumbs-up like this had been part of her master plan all along.

You were still processing the fact that you were witnessing the greatest plot twist of all time. You returned a half-hearted, bewildered thumbs-up, unsure if this was a win or not.

Meanwhile, the professors up front were clearly on their last thread of patience. The head of the academy rubbed his temples, sighing deeply as if this whole day had aged him a decade. “That’s it,” he said, voice strained with exhaustion. “Everyone’s graduated. Just...leave. Please.”

And with that, the ceremony abruptly ended. You couldn’t help but laugh at the professor’s exasperation as the crowd started to disperse, still buzzing with gossip.

Leona slid up next to you, his hand casually resting on your waist as you walked out of the hall together. “So, my right-hand man, huh?”

You shrugged. “Figured I might as well make it official.”

Leona smirked, leaning down to murmur in your ear, “Just don’t expect me to go easy on you.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

And then he kissed you. In front of everyone.

King Falena, witnessing this public display of territorial claims, just shook his head with a resigned sigh. “Well, as long as it’s official…” he muttered, casting an approving glance toward you. “Congratulations, I guess.”

Your parents were still in shock, but when they saw that it was a royal seal of approval, they immediately switched gears. “A royal job!” your mom whispered excitedly. “That’s so prestigious!”

With that, Leona tugged you away from the chaos, his arm never leaving your waist as you walked toward the exit. You glanced back one last time to see the heroine still staring blankly at the villainess, who had now looped her arm around her like it was the most normal thing in the world.

The head of the academy, now red in the face, shouted after you as you reached the door, “I SAID EVERYONE GO, FOR THE LOVE OF THE GREAT SEVEN!”

You walked out into the sunlight, trying not to laugh, while Leona leaned in, his lips brushing your ear as he murmured smugly, “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

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

It was a day like any other, except you were meeting the villainess in her newly acquired estate. She had officially taken over as the head of her family, and the new title suited her all too well. The whole place screamed, I am in charge, with a side of don’t even think about challenging me unless you want to cry in public. You admired the aesthetic.

The villainess greeted you with her usual regal flair, sweeping into the room like she’d been born to dominate it—which, to be fair, she had. She offered you tea, which you politely declined, sensing that this wasn’t just a casual catch-up.

"So, what's new with you, Lady Villainess?” you asked, leaning back, fully expecting some grand declaration about her political conquests or business victories.

She smiled—a dangerous, knowing smile that made you immediately suspicious. "Well, I wanted to tell you something rather... unexpected."

You raised an eyebrow. Unexpected? Coming from her? That had to be good.

"I'm dating the heroine," she said casually, sipping her tea as if she hadn't just dropped the biggest plot twist since the whole 'villainess takes over' arc.

You nearly choked on absolutely nothing, mouth hanging open in sheer disbelief. "Wait. What?"

She smiled serenely, her expression the perfect picture of innocence—which made it all the more ridiculous. “Yes, darling. The heroine and I are officially a couple.”

You blinked. “The same heroine who couldn’t tell a poisoned apple from a regular one if her life depended on it?”

“The very same.”

“The one who gets lost in her own estate if she turns too many corners?”

“Yes, that one.”

You couldn't help it. The sheer absurdity of the situation hit you, and you burst out laughing. "Oh, that is rich. How in the world did that happen?”

The villainess leaned back, looking thoroughly pleased with herself. “Oh, it was simple, really. I realized I was always drawn to her... naiveté. And once I stopped trying to sabotage her every move, well, things just fell into place.”

You were still laughing, shaking your head in disbelief. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for you two, but this is the best thing I’ve heard in weeks.”

The villainess gave you a mock glare. “Don’t act so surprised. I’ve always had impeccable taste.”

“Oh, impeccable taste, huh?” you teased. “I just didn’t expect it to lead you straight to a walking ball of sunshine.”

“Well, someone needs to keep her from wandering into traffic.”

Still snickering, you stood up. “Alright, alright, I get it. You’re a saint for dealing with her.”

“I know,” she sighed dramatically, “but love makes us do ridiculous things.”

"Tell me about it," you muttered, still amused. You waved goodbye and promised to catch up later, your mind reeling from this new, absolutely hilarious development.

When you got back to the palace, you found Leona lounging in his usual spot, sprawled out on a couch like a lion that had just taken over the whole savannah. He barely glanced up as you walked in, already sensing the amused energy radiating off you.

“You’re grinning like an idiot,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. “What happened?”

You plopped down next to him, barely containing your laughter. “You won’t believe this. The villainess is dating the heroine now.”

Leona’s eyes flicked open, and for a split second, he looked like he didn’t believe you. Then, slowly, a smirk spread across his face as he processed the information. “You’re messing with me.”

“Nope. Dead serious. They’re a couple now. In love.” You leaned in, grinning. “The villainess—ice queen herself—is head over heels for Miss Pure Sunshine.”

Leona actually chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. “Well, I’ll be damned. Never saw that one coming.”

“I know, right? It’s the most chaotic thing ever, and I am living for it.”

Leona’s smirk turned into a full-on grin, which was rare enough to be considered a national treasure. He shifted, sitting up slightly. “You think we’ll get an invite to the wedding?”

You snorted. “Oh, you bet. I’m going to be front row just to see how she manages to keep the heroine from accidentally setting her own dress on fire.”

Leona’s laugh rumbled low in his chest, and he reached out, grabbing your wrist. “Come here,” he ordered, tugging you toward him.

“What? No, I’ve got work to do,” you protested weakly, but your protests didn’t mean much when he effortlessly pulled you into his lap.

“Work can wait. This is more important,” he grumbled, wrapping his arms around you in a possessive hug that made it very clear you weren’t going anywhere.

You sighed, leaning into him. “You just want to cuddle, don’t you?”

“I want you to stop running around and actually relax for once,” he retorted, resting his chin on top of your head. “Besides, it’s not like the kingdom’s gonna fall apart if we take a break.”

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips. “I should get a promotion. I’m basically doing all the work around here.”

Leona chuckled again, his grip tightening just slightly. “Yeah, well, don’t let Falena hear that. He might actually make you his advisor, and then I’ll never get any alone time with you.”

You snorted. “Oh please, you’d just kidnap me from work if that happened.”

“Damn right,” he muttered, his voice low and satisfied. “You’re mine, remember?”

You felt your heart do that annoying flutter thing as Leona’s possessive tone settled over you. Even when he was being a lazy lion, he made you feel like the most important thing in his life. It was comforting—and kind of hilarious, considering how little he cared about everything else.

The room fell into a comfortable silence, and for once, you actually allowed yourself to relax, leaning into Leona’s warmth. His arms tightened around you again, and you could feel the soft rise and fall of his chest as he started to drift off into a nap, his grip never loosening.

As you closed your eyes, you couldn’t help but think that, despite all the absurdities in your life—from slipping on a plushie to your best friend falling in love with her former rival—you wouldn’t trade any of it. Not for the world.

And as Leona’s breath slowed into the steady rhythm of sleep, you allowed yourself a small, contented smile.

Life was chaotic. But it was also perfect.

Series Masterlist ; Masterlist

Idia won the previous poll! Now for the next,

[rafecameronssl4t]

a fic where kook readers hates the idea of Rafe x Sofia and gets irritated seeing them together and at a party Rafe confronts her and tells her that they’re just hooking up and if she’s jealous. Please and thank you 🙏

Standards || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

gif by @giorgiawingham

A/n: yeah I’m not on break really since I’m posting lol

Warnings: angst, r is mean in the beginning mb just doing the request!! Stereotypical kook bitchy r 😛

Word count: 1,518

MASTERLIST

The sun hung lazily in the sky, casting a warm glow over the country club as you sat with Topper on the patio, sipping on a cold drink and letting the soft hum of conversation fill the air. It was a calm afternoon, typical of this place, where everyone dressed to impress and mingled like it was their job.

But the tranquillity was short-lived. Your eyes drifted towards the entrance, and the moment you saw them, your jaw tightened. Rafe Cameron, tall, smug, and all too comfortable, had his arm draped lazily over Sofia’s shoulder, his signature smirk plastered on his face. The sight of them together made your stomach churn, irritation bubbling up inside you

She was laughing, her hand clutching his forearm as she leaned into him like they were the perfect couple. Your stomach twisted, a bitter taste creeping up your throat as you watched them, Sofia all smiles and Rafe looking way too content for your liking. He looked different—softer, like he had let his guard down.

“Look at him,” you muttered under your breath, eyes narrowing as you followed their movements across the room. Rafe’s arm was slung lazily around Sofia’s shoulders, her face lit up with a grin that looked almost rehearsed, like she knew eyes were on her. You shifted in your seat, crossing your arms with a sharp scoff. “Our Kook king has completely gone soft, Topper.”

Topper barely glanced up from his phone, but when he finally did, the disdain in his expression mirrored yours perfectly. His lips twisted into a dark chuckle, shaking his head as his gaze flicked toward Rafe and Sofia. “Yeah, no kidding,” he said, voice dripping with judgement. “Rafe with her? Didn’t think he’d sink that low.”

The two of you shared a bitter laugh, finding some perverse satisfaction in tearing them down. It was easy—too easy, really. Sofia had a reputation, and not a good one. She was known for trying too hard to fit into the kook elite, always clinging to the right crowd, desperate to belong somewhere. But she didn’t. Not here. And certainly not with Rafe. The thought of them together made your skin crawl.

“He’s slipping,” Topper muttered, his voice full of judgement for his friend. “Rafe used to have standards.” “Right?” You rolled your eyes, unable to hide your distaste. The sight of Rafe with Sofia made your chest tighten, the annoyance simmering just beneath the surface. “It’s pathetic. She’s pathetic.” Topper snorted, this time putting his phone down, his full attention on the scene playing out across the room.

“She’s just desperate for attention,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain. “She’ll cling to anyone with money to fit in. It’s kinda sad, actually.” You nodded, your eyes still glued to them, unable to look away from the trainwreck. Sofia didn’t belong here, not with Rafe, not anywhere near him, if you were being honest with yourself. “Exactly,” you agreed, feeling the annoyance simmering just below the surface.

“She’s not even his type. I don’t get what he’s doing with her.” Topper snorted. “He’ll get bored and it’s probably just a phase,” Topper said with a shrug. “Rafe always does get bored, you know that.” You were about to respond, maybe throw in another biting remark about Sofia’s lack of style or how obvious she was being, when you noticed them heading straight toward your table.

Sofia had that too-bright smile plastered on her face, and Rafe—well, Rafe looked like he was enjoying himself a little too much, knowing full well that his presence was getting under your skin.“Great,” you muttered under your breath, sitting up straighter, preparing yourself for the inevitable. Rafe reached your table first, smirking down at you, his arm still casually draped over Sofia’s shoulder like she was an accessory.

“Hey,” he drawled, eyes flicking between you and Topper, clearly amused by the tension in the air. Sofia waved, her smile way too forced for your liking.“Hey!” she chirped, like she wasn’t fully aware of how much you couldn’t stand her. You shot them both a withering look, barely able to mask your irritation. “Rafe. Sofia.” He raised an eyebrow at your tone, but before he could say anything, you rolled your eyes and stood up.

The last thing you wanted was to play nice. “I’m out of here,” you muttered, pushing your chair back and walking away without another word, leaving them standing there awkwardly. Later that evening, the frustration still lingered as you found yourself at Topper’s party. The house was packed with familiar faces, music thumping from the speakers as the evening buzzed with energy.

You needed a break, something to clear your mind, so you stepped outside onto the back patio where the cool breeze offered a moment of peace. You didn’t expect to be alone for long. You heard footsteps approaching, and when you turned, Rafe was there, leaning casually against the railing, his expression unreadable.

You shot him a glance, not entirely in the mood for whatever he had to say. “We’re not together, you know. Sofia and I,” he said, his voice breaking the silence between you. You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms as you stared him down. “Could’ve fooled me,” you said coolly. Rafe shrugged, pushing his hands into his pockets, his gaze not leaving yours.

“We’re just hooking up. That’s it.” You scoffed, turning away slightly. “Oh, well, that makes it so much better,” you said, sarcasm dripping from every word. “I don’t know why you think I care.” Your words came out sharper than you intended, but you couldn’t help it. The tension between you and Rafe had been simmering for weeks, and his smug expression was doing nothing to ease the frustration building inside you.

Rafe’s lips curled into that infuriating smirk, and he took a slow step closer, his body language dripping with confidence. “You make it pretty fucking obvious, princess,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing. The nickname sent a shiver down your spine, and despite your better judgment, you found yourself biting down on your bottom lip. He’d always had a way of getting under your skin, of knowing exactly how to push your buttons, and right now, he was doing it with ease.

You didn’t respond, refusing to give him the satisfaction. But Rafe could see the way your body tensed, the way your eyes flicked away from his for just a second, betraying more than you wanted to admit. “Why, are you jealous?” His voice was still laced with that cocky edge, but there was something more in his eyes—something that made your pulse quicken. It wasn’t just teasing anymore; it was a challenge, daring you to deny it. You scoffed, forcing a laugh that felt hollow, even to you. “Please. You wish.”

He chuckled softly, the sound rolling off his tongue, as if he knew exactly what game you were playing. Shaking his head, Rafe ran a hand through his hair, his gaze never leaving yours. “I have standards,” he said, his voice dropping lower, more serious now. “You know I wouldn’t actually get with a freakin’ pogue.”

“Yeah, well these days, Rafe,” you muttered, your voice laced with frustration, “I don’t even know you.” His smirk faltered for a second, something flickering behind his eyes. For just a moment, it was like you had struck a nerve, like maybe he didn’t know how to respond to that. “You don’t know me?” he echoed, his tone softer, but still challenging.

You took a breath, standing your ground. “Not anymore.” Rafe’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if your words had gotten under his skin more than he wanted to let on. “Sofia’s just fun for now. She’s not permanent.” His tone was dismissive, almost like he was convincing himself as much as you. There was an edge to his words, like he was trying to brush it off, but the way he held your gaze—intense, lingering—told a different story.

You couldn’t help the way his words made your heart beat a little faster, though you tried to ignore it. He was playing some kind of game, you were sure of it. A game where the lines between teasing and something deeper blurred just enough to make you question everything. It was maddening. “Whatever you say, Rafe,” you muttered, not giving him the satisfaction of a real response.

You turned to leave, but you could feel his eyes on your back as you walked away, the tension between you thick enough to cut. But even as you left, you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this conversation than either of you had said aloud. Something unspoken lingered in the air, hanging heavy between you.

The way he’d looked at you—challenging, almost daring—stayed with you, creeping into the corners of your thoughts long after you’d stepped away. You wondered, against your better judgment, if maybe, just maybe, you weren’t the only one feeling something more. Something deeper. Something neither of you were ready to admit, but that was quietly pulling you both in.

[lxvsiick]

ICED COFFEE | JAKE SIM X READER

PAIRING: down bad! jake sim x nonchalant! fem! reader

SUMMARY: Jake visits the cafe every day to study but to only order drinks and watch his crush work.

GENRE: cafe, crushing, down bad jake, fluff

WORDCOUNT: 1.3k

A/N: I thought of the idea yesterday but wrote it today while thinking about coffee -- i really want some coffee right now but idk if im willing to walk through my campus for that ... um anyways, enjoy!

‧˚꒰🐾꒱༘⋆

The hum of conversation and the clatter of mugs filled the cozy coffee shop, sunlight filtering through the windows as customers quietly worked or chatted. Jake sat at a table near the counter, his textbooks sprawled open in front of him, but his eyes were far from the pages. Instead, they were glued to Y/n as she moved behind the counter, efficiently taking orders and preparing drinks.

He pretended to scribble something down in his notebook, glancing up every few seconds just to watch her pour a latte or chat with a customer. He’d been here for hours, supposedly to study, but all he’d done was order drinks he didn’t even want and admire the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she concentrated.

“Dude, you haven’t touched your notebook in over an hour,” Heeseung suddenly said, sliding into the seat next to him.

Jake jumped, startled out of his trance, as his six friends filed into the coffee shop, smirking knowingly.

“What are you guys doing here?” he muttered, trying to sound casual as he shut his notebook.

Jay raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “We’re here to witness this trainwreck.”

The others snickered, pulling up chairs around his table. They were grinning, fully aware of why he was there in the first place. Sunghoon across from him leaned in, smirking. “How many drinks have you ordered so far just to keep watching her?”

Jake rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. “I’m just...you know, getting some studying done. That’s all.”

“Right,” Ni-ki drawled, glancing over at the counter where Y/n was working. “And totally not here because you’re down bad for her.”

The group broke into quiet laughter, and Jake shot them a warning look. “Shut up, she’ll hear you.”

“She probably already knows,” Sunoo teased. “How could she not? You’ve been sitting here like a lovesick puppy for hours.”

Before he could respond, Y/n came out from behind the counter, walking over to their table with a no-nonsense expression. She glanced at them, her hands on her hips, looking every bit the part of a no-nonsense employee.

“I just got a complaint about a group being too loud,” she said coolly, her eyes flicking to Jake and then back to the rest of them. “Keep it down, or you’re getting kicked out.”

His friends stifled their laughter, shooting each other amused glances, but Jake just sat there, trying—and failing—to look casual.

“Yeah, yeah,” Heeseung said, grinning up at her. “We’ll behave. Promise.”

Y/n nodded, giving them one last look before turning and walking back to the counter. Jake couldn’t help but watch her, and his friends caught him staring—again.

“You’ve got it bad, man,” Jungwon said, shaking his head. “Like, embarrassingly bad.”

“Shut up,” he muttered, cheeks flushing slightly. He couldn’t help it. She was right there, and every time she looked his way, it felt like his heart was trying to jump out of his chest.

Jay leaned in, still chuckling. “How long are you gonna pretend to ‘study’ before you finally ask her out?”

“I’m not pretending,” Jake protested, though even he didn’t believe it.

“You’ve been pretending since you walked in,” Ni-ki quipped. “And now we’re here to enjoy the show.”

As his friends continued to tease him, Jake let out a defeated sigh. They weren’t wrong—he was hopelessly in love with her. But for now, all he could do was watch her from across the room, his heart pounding every time she looked his way.

‧˚꒰🐾꒱༘⋆

The café had quieted down after the rush, leaving only a few customers scattered at tables, sipping their drinks or working on laptops. Jake remained at his table, idly tapping his pen against his notebook. He hadn’t been doing much studying since his friends left, but he wasn’t about to go home either—not when Y/n was still working behind the counter.

The bell above the door jingled, and an older male customer stepped in, glancing around before heading straight for the counter where Y/n stood. Jake watched as she greeted the man with her usual professionalism, her voice calm and polite as she took his order.

But something about the man’s demeanor put Jake on edge. He leaned forward, watching the exchange more closely.

“So, do you work here every day?” the man asked, leaning over the counter with a sly grin.

Y/n offered a polite smile, staying professional. “Only on some days. What can I get for you?”

“Maybe your number?” the man said, not-so-subtly ignoring the menu. “A girl like you probably has a long line of guys waiting, huh?”

Jake felt his stomach twist, a flash of annoyance flickering across his face. Y/n, however, remained calm.

“Just here to work,” she replied, her tone firm but still courteous. “Would you like to order something?”

The man chuckled, unfazed. “Come on, don’t be like that. How about after your shift? We could grab a drink.”

Jake clenched his jaw. He could tell Y/n was handling it professionally, but the guy wasn’t taking no for an answer. Standing up, Jake crossed the room before he even realized what he was doing.

Approaching the counter, he slipped into a role that he hoped would help.

“Hey,” he said, pretending to be irritated. “What’s taking so long? I’ve been waiting to order forever.”

The older man turned to look at him, clearly not pleased by the interruption.

Jake shot him an impatient glare. “I mean, you’ve been standing here for ages. Some of us are thirsty, you know?”

The customer frowned, clearly annoyed. “I’m ordering, kid. Relax.”

“Well, if you could hurry it up,” Jake said, folding his arms and acting like an impatient customer. “Some of us have places to be.”

The man huffed, grumbling under his breath before finally turning back to the counter. “Just a black coffee.”

Y/n rang him up, her face as neutral as ever, though her eyes flicked briefly to Jake, a hint of amusement there.

The older man paid for his coffee, still muttering, before walking away to wait for his order. Once he was out of earshot, Y/n let out a small breath, glancing at Jake with a faint smile.

“Thanks for that,” she said, her voice light but genuine. “He wasn’t getting the hint.”

Jake rubbed the back of his neck, flustered now that the moment had passed. “Yeah, no problem. I just...didn’t want to see him keep bothering you.”

She smiled at him, then, in her usual nonchalant way, asked, “So, what do you want to order this time?”

He stared at her for a moment, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and resignation. He hadn’t planned on ordering anything, but now that he was at the counter...

With a sigh of defeat, he glanced at the menu. “I’ll take... another iced coffee. Thanks.”

She chuckled softly, shaking her head as she started preparing the drink. He watched her, feeling both proud of stepping in and a little awkward for having to order yet another drink just to cover his tracks.

As she handed him the cup, she gave him a knowing look. “You should really start studying instead of ordering all these drinks.”

He couldn’t help but smile sheepishly. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll get right on that.”

She laughed softly before turning back to her work, leaving him to return to his table with his heart racing, though he tried to play it cool. At least, for now, he had an excuse to stay a little longer.

‧˚꒰🐾꒱༘⋆

MASTERLIST

© ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, lxvsiick, 2024

[strawbeerossi]

August - Prologue

Pairing: Fem!Reader x Spencer Reid

Chapter Description: You look back on the way that you bonded with Spencer over the course of the time you've known him. After one night spent between you both, you tell the girls that you want to ask Spencer to Rossi's wedding. Too bad JJ had other plans.

Content/Warnings: Spoilers for 14x15, unrequited love, alcohol consumption, mentions of sex, JJ is a horrible friend (I’m so sorry), general heartbreak.

WC: 2.4K

Navigation || August Masterlist || Main Masterlist || Request

🏷️ @sadroses98

Spencer’s love life was a trainwreck. Everyone knew that after the Maeve debacle, dating wasn’t something that he was concerned with. He saw the horrible things that could happen to significant others of the BAU members. Haley dying, Jack being targeted, and Savannah being shot were things he’d seen first hand and he wasn’t eager to have a loved one go through any of it. He’d never forgive himself.

JJ was always special, in his eyes. Even whenever they were both young on the field together, he always pined after her. She was beautiful, funny, and she didn’t always look so bothered to talk to him. Of course, their failed attempt at a date to the Redskins game was just an indication that he should admire from afar. Besides, he’d like to have her in his life regardless. 

He maintained a healthy friendship with JJ over all fourteen years that he worked with the BAU, the woman being by his side even whenever he didn’t deserve it. It was something he wouldn’t trade for the world. He appreciated her, loving her so much that his heart swelled every time she came near him. He buried all those feelings deep in his heart, keeping quiet on the subject. It wasn’t the healthiest way to handle unspoken feelings but it was the easiest. Work would be awkward, plus she didn’t seem romantically interested. Best not to push.

Whenever you joined the BAU, you were blissfully unaware of Spencer’s feelings toward JJ, instead meeting a version of him that was so dedicated to bottling up those feelings. He was a bit standoffish with you at first, which you didn’t take personally. You’d heard of the endless trauma he’d been through and you felt like you had to work overtime to gain his trust.The problem was, you did damn near everything and it was like it wasn’t working.

You learned how he liked his coffee and brought him a cup every morning, you asked for facts about zany topics, you even mentioned Doctor Who in an effort to reach out to him. It was like he didn’t even want to look in your direction.

You managed to chip away at him over the next few months, getting him to laugh in certain circumstances or even having him greet you in the mornings. It was something that you had to work for but it was all worth it in the end whenever he’d gotten fully comfortable with you. He learned that he enjoyed talking to you, having you around.

The both of you had grown quite close to the point where every Friday that you weren’t on a case was spent having a movie night. He’d even taught you how to sew a scarf after too much trial and error. All the time you spent together was causing you to fall deeper in love with the lovable genius with each interaction. Every silly complaint about a show not being true to science, his rambles on topics that interested him, even when you two would get into arguments. 

It was no surprise that you’d fallen so fast. You wore your heart on your sleeve, yearning for a deep connection that nobody else could take away. Spencer was your person, you could feel it. There were daydreams of having a nice home with a big backyard for your kids, Spencer teaching them magic tricks or helping them excel in their academics. 

It was a Saturday night after a successful case that the team went out drinking together to celebrate. You may have let Penelope and Emily influence you into drinking your body weight in whatever liquor was put in front of you. Spencer hardly drank, however he allowed himself to have a few drinks, his tolerance being so low that he could feel a buzz after just one. 

You were too far gone to remember the events of the night but you did know that you and Spencer left together. The night was spent with drunken sex and whatever else you two got up to within the span of seven hours. You both woke up the next morning and it was still okay. There was no sneaking out when someone was sleeping, no forcing them out. You two actually spent a good portion of the morning together. The only issue? You got more attached. It was like you associated the sex with mutual feelings, the dream of actually finding someone to settle with. 

You’d gotten so caught up with the fantasy that you just had to tell the girls at work during one of your morning gossip sessions.

“I don’t know, I just feel like this could be the start of something great. I really do like him, he means the world to me. I just wish that I could say it.” You admitted, leaning against Penelope’s desk while sipping from your coffee mug. 

“Well, I say just go for it! Our genius needs to settle down.” Penelope encouraged, her eyes widening with excitement. “You two can have babies! I don’t think we could ever have enough BAU babies.” She gushed. 

JJ was laughing softly from her spot in the room at her friend’s excitement. “I mean, the worst he could really do is say no. No harm in trying to ask, right?” The blonde let her shoulders bounce. In a way, she could feel a pang of jealousy in her chest. You and Spencer? That didn’t seem right at all.

“He won’t say no! I am convinced he loves you! I mean, you always brighten his day.” Penelope was piling on encouragement, pushing you to take the bull by the horns and just get yourself out there, to put your feelings first.”Plus, you can invite him to Rossi’s wedding!”

It was safe to say that it was working. You felt a wave of confidence rush over you, taking it with stride. JJ had a point, Spencer wouldn’t be rude about turning you down. The pain would still be there in the event he did but at least he wouldn’t be cruel, right? 

“I’m gonna go talk to him about it. It’s a paperwork day, so it’ll be quiet.” Plus, she could just delve into files that needed to be filed away if he did let her down gently. It was the perfect plan!

You were planning on talking to him later in the afternoon, just enough time to give yourself a pep talk. However, Emily and Penelope killed that idea with a snap of a finger as a case had come up. It came with the territory of your job – make plans and have them destroyed by some loser who decided to massacre multiple people for the fun of it.

***

The case had taken a turn for the worse whenever JJ and Spencer were hot on the unsub’s trail, being locked inside a bank with no way to contact the outside world. The only thing anyone had was shitty footage from the security camera inside with no audio to accompany it. All you could do was assume what was happening as you stared at the screen, Emily beside you as she was talking to Penelope about getting anything if they could.

Their body language said it all though, the way that JJ seemed tense and the way Spencer had a look of… Relief? You didn’t know what was happening in the slightest but it was like you could feel your stomach churn, your heart slowly cracking. 

You didn’t want to assume it was anything too crazy, you didn’t need to worry. You were being silly. Once there were shots inside, everyone was rushing to the back door of the building to get inside. You were frozen in place, eyes focused on the room now filled with agents and cops. 

The sound of everyone talking was muffled, your mind somewhere else as you were slowly turning to the screen before approaching the two agents when they were coming out of the building. “Are you two okay?!” She asked quickly, a shaky edge to her voice as she was bringing a hand to her face. “This job stresses me out,” 

There was lighthearted, yet awkward laughter as you were eventually heading back to the SUVs. 

There was a tension hanging in the air any time that Spencer and JJ were together, the two barely sharing glances as the rest of the team were rejoicing and ending the case and preventing losing innocent people as well as potentially losing two of their best agents.

There was something wrong but you weren’t going to say anything.

Clearly something personal happened in the moment they were forced to play along with whatever the unsub wanted from them. You were curious but you didn’t want to bring it up, maybe out of fear of hearing something that you don't wanna hear. 

You didn’t ask Spencer to be your date to Dave’s wedding, instead going on your own.

The whole environment there made you sad. You were thrilled for Dave and Krystall but it was an atmosphere oozing with love while you were alone, the man you wanted to ask being weird and not speaking to you the way he usually did. There was a lot you wondered about. 

Did you do something wrong? Was he angry at you? More questions echoed in your mind, feeling defeated on how such a good relationship has fizzled out to nothing. 

You were brought out of your thoughts whenever Penelope was passing out whatever concoction of drink she came up with. “Here you go, sour puss.” The blonde spoke while placing the mixed drink in front of you at the bar, you offering a small smile in response. 

“It’s a good day, don’t be sad in the corner all night.” Luke added soon after while you were waving it off. He didn’t know the extent of why you felt the way you did. He just knew that you had been in a funk for days, not being your usual self.

“I’m not sad. I’m just.. I’m not really in the mood.” It was honest, however you knew that you had to show up for Dave, he was family. You would’ve done the same for anyone else in the team for whatever event. 

In the midst of your denial, your gaze had fallen on Spencer and JJ, the two talking together at a table farther from the rest of you. It could’ve been some deep, poorly concealed anger that had you putting the cup down and walking over to the two who seemed to be having a great time together. You were falling apart and it was like he wasn’t even paying attention. It stung. 

“Spencer! JJ!” You announced your presence with a smile, your hands clasping together. “I didn’t get to come talk to you guys earlier. I wanted to say hi.” You began. “Also, why are you two isolated from the team?! Come on!” 

What felt like a knife to your chest was the way Spencer looked at you with a lack of interest, almost as if your presence was bothersome. “Oh, we were just talking. We are fine, we will catch up later.” The male answered, hoping the answer was good enough to be left alone again.

That was the moment you broke.

“What the hell have I done to you? You’ve been dodging my calls and texts for days and you barely talk to me anymore. What is your deal?” In an attempt to not ruin the beautiful ceremony, you were keeping a calm demeanor. Even if you could feel the cracks in the facade. 

“What? Nothing! You’re acting like a child. I’m just having a conversation.” Spencer frowned, his attention finally on you for the first time in days. “You act like we talk every minute of the day.”

“Because we normally do! Come on, Spencer. Just talk to me.” You were begging for a minute of his time, an explanation. For days you’d questioned every interaction and every word said. You thought your relationship was stronger than that.

“I am talking to you. I don’t know what else I’m supposed to say.” 

JJ looked visibly uncomfortable with the whole interaction, so that’s whenever you were turning your attention to her. “And you, I’ve been trying to talk to you for days and you don’t give me the time of day. What is happening? Do you both have a problem with me?”

“Look-” 

“No! She has a point, Spencer. I’ll be honest with her.” JJ finally found her voice, although the nervousness was gone now, instead just taking the situation for what it is. “I’m sorry,” The words made your knees weak. 

You knew what was coming. 

“The other day, the key to us getting out of there and preventing any injuries, I played truth or dare. Which, I know what you’re thinking but it wasn’t a childish game in the slightest.” She said slowly while you watched her in disbelief.

“Anyway, I was told to give a secret that I’d never tell anyone else. Something I’d take to the grave and-” 

“You told Spencer that you loved him.” You finished, throat tight as you were restraining the urge to either sob or scream at the blonde. “It’s just funny that this all came out after I told you what I wanted to do. You never showed him the time of day before.” 

“I don’t think you pay enough attention. Spencer has always been my best friend and we spend time together alone quite frequently. Just because you had sex one time doesn’t mean that you both were in an unspoken relationship.” JJ responded, having the audacity to act as if she didn’t break girl code to the highest degree. 

There were a few moments of silence, every intrusive thought bouncing through your mind. Your gaze was briefly turning to David and Krystall, seeing the two happily talking with guests before you were tuning your head to the pair in front of you. 

You reached over for the glass of water that one of them ended up putting down, hand clutching the glass before you made the wise decision of throwing water in their direction, the glass emptying on the both of them before the same glass was being placed down on the table. 

Without a word, you turned on your heels so you could walk away from the two. The reception was over for you, no feeling of celebration. You leaving with tears brimming your eyes caught the attention of the small group of agents, the group now turning their heads briefly to look at Spencer and JJ.

“Oh no..” Penelope frowned, the normally bubbly blonde turning to Tara, Luke and Matt.

“Something tells me that JJ and Spencer are talking..”

[yawnderu]

Final Girl — Slasher!Keegan P. Russ x Reader (1/?)

A word before we start: screaming sounds a whole lot like laughter.

Nothing beats the paranoia of a high man. Rough, calloused hands shove you into the dark wooden closet, whisper-yelling orders to keep your damn mouth shut before the though of protesting could even occur inside your little drunken head. Everything is spinning inside around the room, too focused on the light sensation in your head to be able to connect the dots until it's too late.

“Listen, man, we don't have anyt—” Life can be unpredictable. One moment you're having fun with your friends in a rented cabin in the woods, and the other, your best friend is being shoved into the floor by a much bigger man, the loud sounds of his shouts and struggling instinctively forcing you to put a palm over your mouth, trying your best not to scream along your dying friend.

A quiet whimper makes its way out of your throat the moment a long, bloodied machete is raised in the air, horrified wide eyes meeting yours as the panic fully sets in for him. It's like seeing a trainwreck yet being unable to stop watching, even when your brain is screaming at you to close your eyes. To save yourself from the trauma, to protect your psyche, to let the last image of your best friend be him alive—

Hack.

The masked killer lands heavy blows one right after the other on the figure underneath him, blood splashing all over the room, forcing another muffled whimper out of your lip as the man hacks away at your friend's dead body, seemingly getting more and more excited with every single new wound he's forcing.

The house is quiet— way too quiet for a group of 5 drunk people. You were previously in the bathroom, too preoccupied throwing your guts out in the bathroom to hear any noise through the loud gags and the ringing in your ears. The man's heavy breathing fills the room, making you subconsciously hold your own, not wanting to get any of his attention and be his next victim. They say ignorance is bliss, yet not knowing if the man is aware of your presence only makes the black pit of dread grow in your stomach.

His movements are slow and calculated, letting go of your friend's mangled up corpse, the sound of the machete being pulled out of his flesh almost makes you gag, secretly thankful that you emptied your stomach earlier. Baby-blue eyes scan the room with a precision that almost seemed robotic, instinctive, like a predator who has always succeeded at catching his prey.

Your heart goes down to your stomach when his cold gaze connects with yours through the thin wooden blinds, masked head tilting to the side in what seems to be sick amusement. He inches closer to you, his footsteps surprisingly quiet for a man his size, eyes crinkling up with his pupils dilating quickly, black almost taking over the pale blue.

His gloved hand raises slowly towards the doorknob, maintaining eye contact with your tear-filled eyes— only for his head to snap up towards the sound of a crack on the wooden floor coming from the kitchen. He gives the closet one last look before running towards the sound, the sickening sound of your friend's blood and guts dripping down his machete and clothes following right after him.

Thrashing and more screaming is heard from the other side of the house, snapping you out of it enough to realize it's your only chance to escape the same fate your friends met. Your shaky hand twists the doorknob slowly, not daring to look at the dead body right in front of the door— the body of someone who died just to protect you.

A shaky whimper escapes your lips when you accidentally kick the limb corpse, shaking your head a few times to snap out of it before you move away from him, staring ahead with an unfaltering sense of dread eating you from within.

Your steps are wide and calculated, sobered up the moment the masked killer started attacking your friend right in front of you. From what little you can see thanks to the moonlight seeping through the windows, the entire place looks out of a horror movie, blood staining every single wall, dripping down at such a slow pace that it almost seems like it's God's way of taunting you.

Relief finds place into the pit of dread the moment you can see the entrance door, finally feeling like you're able to breathe again— like you're not leaving behind any of your friends who may have survived the brutal attack. Guilt has no place in survival, you convince yourself within seconds as your shaky hand reaches for the doorknob, only to be slammed against the wall, a gloved hand covering your mouth to muffle the bloodcurdling screams that leave your lips.

You thrash against his rough hold, earning nothing other than a much harder hair pull, only stopping your thrashing the moment you feel cold metal pressing against your throat. Your eyes close as tears fall down your cheeks, pooling on the soft fabric of the gloves of the man holding you against your will.

“And where the fuck do you think you're going, hm?” He turns you around forcefully, pining your body against the wall with his own, tilting his head to the side just to taunt you as his sharp machete presses harder against your neck. His free hand comes up to caress your cheek, teasingly spreading your friend's blood all over your cheeks, forcing a choked sob out of you.

“Aww... Now you're all quiet. Poor pretty, broken princess...” His tone holds nothing but fake pity and pure amusement, sickly getting off on your pathetically horrified expression. His body presses against you harder as he looms over you, only leaning down to press his masked face against the crook of your neck, not bothering to hide the way he's inhaling your smell as the back of his gloved hand keeps absentmindedly running over your cheeks in an action that would be soothing, had he not been the man who killed your loved ones.

“I'll let you go.” Your breath hitches at his words, not believing him for a single second— not when you can feel his boner pressing against your stomach, his hips subtly rubbing against you to get more friction while he wonders if it's truly worth it to let you go instead of sending you home in a box.

“But you say a word about this to anyone... and I mean anyone, princess, and I swear to God, I'll gut you like a fucking fish.” His words take a bitter tone after he calls you princess, though the hold on the machete softens slightly as he hears your choked sobs, knowing the only thing preventing you from nodding vigorously like a well-trained dog is the blood-bathed steel pressing to your neck.

“Yeah? Do you promise?” The machete is moved out of the way, yet he still keeps you pinned against the wall so you don't try to run away. His pinky finger is raised up to your face mockingly, giving you an expecting look that takes you a few seconds too long to understand. Your shaky hand comes up to his, intertwining your pinky with his in a childish promise, a whimper leaving your lips the moment he applies enough pressure to make it hurt before releasing you.

He moves out of the way after a few tantalizing seconds, nodding his head towards the door, watching you scurry away like a kicked puppy, his entire body itching to go after you— and deciding against it last second, knowing he'll be seeing you soon.

[NEXT]

Author's note: The art published in all chapters belongs to @moosch!! We're both very excited about this project and to expand on something we've been talking about almost daily for months, I hope you guys enjoy it as much as we do. <3

[robolvrr]

I loved your swerve x gn human bartender headcanons. Do you have any more headcanons for swerve x gn human if you do please share them ❤️

two bolts in a pod! ᴗ｡✷

swerve x gn! human reader headcanons.

thank you anon! enjoy.☆

"i.. you actually like listening to me talk?"

"... hey ratchet, check this one's processor! think they mighta hit it or somethin'..."

on the note of a human crew member it's common consensus that swerve is part of the many that have an intense interest in you as a species.

however, if you do happen to enjoy his company and questions and puns -- consider him your personal jester.

he gets so, so dramatic whenever you aren't fused at the hip joint. suddenly his shifts feel long and he's lamenting to his other cybertronian crew members which while is endearing to some in the way any lovesick trainwreck is, is incredibly annoying for others.

has helped make a stool at his bar for you, sized to scale.

there's this funky little staircase at the end of the table to help you up (since he doesn't want you squished in between mechs) that doesn't match at ALL.

spends an embarrassing time cycling stories ready to tell when asked. he frequently bites his fist because he thinks it's going to be boring, but you're in awe because hello, this is space and there are giant metal hot aliens.

you try to teach him to dance once. minibots are stockier, so seeing you bend and twist is as enchanting as it is perplexing.

it ends with him almost slipping and crushing half the bar but hey! your little laughs and snorts are more than enough to stroke a bruised ego.

brags. so much. when you develop nicknames and inside jokes.

"did you know that they call me and only me hotshot? huh? did ya?"

it's easy to just. lie to him regarding questions on humans. he's no means gullible but imagine he asks a normal question like "why is it called a tailbone" when you have an anatomy rundown and you confidently say you actually have a long, fluffy tail that only comes out every blue moon.

cue him researching through his limited sources (cough cough movies) to see where he missed THAT detail.

speaking of movies: will make you watch his collection before asking for yours.

enjoys lots of 80s sci-fi and cheesy b-thrillers.

expect him to whisper in your ear as you sit on his knees like a cute, nervous directors reel.

tries to get you to match those colorful clothes with his plating paint.

wh - romantic? him? nooo, it's just a friendly thing? a total cybertronian thing. uh huh. yeah. unless you'll know - wait no, don't clarify with brainstorm-

falls helm over pedes when you start giving him stuff. old, vintage bobbleheads. records and sports vanity jerseys and engraved shot glasses.

the courting gestures between your kinds are so different and alike it makes his coolant heat. you could be just beaming because you've alphabetically and flavor organized his stock records and he's here wondering how to sparkbond with a human without killing 'em.

my personal headcanon - he sits you on his shoulder when he's going around passing drinks. think of those bodybuilders and pretty models on the beach photoshoots. primus, he's down bad!

i see you getting spoiled rotten in all aspects, platonic and otherwise. he loves, loves all your reactions and expressions. has to sit in his habsuite and think about some venting exercises so he isn't buzzing in your presence all the time.

[chloewriteswhenshewantsto]

Guilty as Sin?

Helllooooo!!! I am back with another smutty trainwreck of a fic. This writing thing is still pretty new to me so I hope this isn’t horrible.

I hope you enjoy it <3

Warnings: Female Body Descriptions, Smut (like a lot), Anthony likes 🐱

Pairings: Anthony Bridgerton X Female! Reader

Word Count: 1.4K

As always, 18+ Minors DNI

———————————————————————

Anthony lets out a low chuckle, his hand sliding upwards to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing over your bottom lip. "I thought you liked my teasing, love." He said with a playful smile, his fingers brushing against your arousal with a calculated touch. "But I suppose you have waited long enough." He added in a seductive whisper, his mouth capturing yours in a deep and passionate kiss.

With a devilish smile, Anthony begins to trail kisses down the length of your body, stopping at the edge of the sheets as he hovered over your center. His hands caressed your thighs, gently pushing them further apart as he settled between them. His breath ghosted over your core, warm and teasing, as he let out a soft chuckle, amused by your growing anticipation.

Anthony's tongue gently glides over your core, the warmth of his mouth sending shivers down your spine as he begins to explore your body with a slow and deliberate intensity. He is in no rush, wanting to savor every moment and every sound that escapes your lips, his hands holding your thighs in place as he laps at your core, relishing the taste of you.

Anthony's tongue delves deeper, his mouth working in perfect rhythm as he alternates between long, slow strokes and quick, tantalizing flicks. Your moans and gasps only serve to fuel his desire, his grip on your thighs growing tighter as he hungrily laps at your core. His skilled ministrations are driving you to the edge, his name a breathless moan that falls from your lips over and over in growing desperation.

Anthony lifts his head from beneath the sheets to look at you with a devilish grin, his chin shiny with your arousal as he moves back up your body, propping himself on his forearm beside you. He brushes his thumb over your lips, still glistening with your wetness. "You look breathtaking like this." He whispers, his voice rough and low. "And you taste even better."

“So sweet,” He says licking his lips. “Would you like a taste?” He asks as he move his lips on top of yours. You groan as his tongue pushes into your mouth, tasting the slickness that still coats his lips. He kisses you deeply, his hand cupping your cheek as he pulls away again, his eyes dark with arousal. You can feel his hands in your hair and his body pressed deeply into yours. “Anthony.” You breathe out. “Keep going please.” You moan in between kisses.

Anthony's attention turns back to you as you speak, a lazy smile spreading across his face. "There you are," He murmurs, leaning down to press a gentle kiss against your forehead. "I was beginning to wonder if I'd kissed you senseless." He adds with a chuckle, his hand coming up to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

“No, not yet anyway.” You tease him. Anthony's smile widens into an even more devilish grin, raising an eyebrow in playful challenge. "Is that so, love? Shall we change that?" He purrs, his fingers trailing down your jaw to gently hold your chin, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. His tongue pushes past your lips, his mouth eager and possessive as he claims yours with a fierce heat.

As a moan escapes from between your lips, Anthony can't help but let out a low groan against your mouth, the sound practically a growl. The noise makes your skin tingle, and you can feel his body pressing against yours even more firmly than before, the heat between the two of you growing more intense as his desire for you continues to escalate.

He continues to kiss you deeply and passionately, his fingers tangling in your hair as he pulls you even closer, his mouth devouring yours in a way that leaves you breathless and dizzy with need.

Anthony grins against your lips, his hand sliding up to entwine itself in your hair as he deepens the kiss. His free hand pushed your thighs further apart, his fingers tracing your core in a torturously slow manner. "Of course, darling. I’m not finished with you yet." He purred, the sound of his voice alone almost enough to drive you mad with desire.

You moan softly as his fingers glide across your core, the touch sending a shiver down your spine. Your body arching into his touch, eager for more of that delicious friction. "Anthony..." You pant, your voice a low and breathless gasp as your eyes slide shut, your head tilting back in pleasure.

You can feel his fingers continue to work their magic, gently stroking your core in a manner that is both tender and arousing. He watches you closely, taking in the sight of your pleasure-filled expression with a satisfied smile. "You're so beautiful when you come undone like this, love," He rumbles, his voice tinged with a mix of adoration and pure desire. “And all for me.” He smirks down at you.

Anthony lets out a low groan as he enters you, his eyes squeezing shut for a brief moment as he revels in the sensation of your body around him. His forehead rests against yours, his breath coming out in short, uneven pants as he gives you a moment to adjust to his size. "God, you feel incredible, love." He whispers, his voice husky and filled with desire.

You gasp at the sudden fullness that comes with Anthony inside of you, your body responding to his touch as a wave of pleasure washes over you. His forehead presses against yours as he begins to move inside of you, his hands gently grasping at your hips and thighs in a possessive manner.

He whispers praises and curses in equal measure, his breath coming out in short gasps as he takes in the overwhelming feeling of your body wrapped around him.

He moves his hands down to rest on your hips, his fingers digging into the skin as he sets a steady pace. His mouth trails down your neck, scattering a trail of hot, wet kisses along your throat, his teeth grazing lightly over your skin. His name falls from your lips like a prayer, a soft, breathless plea for more, and he gladly obliges.

Anthony's movements become more intense, his thrusts hard and fast, each one driving you closer to the edge. His name falls from your lips in a continuous stream, a breathless gasp or moan following it each time he slams back into you. He tightens his grip on your hips, his fingers digging into the skin as he continues his relentless assault, his own release building as he brings you closer and closer to your own climax.

———————————————————————

Your eyes shot open, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as you sat up in bed, heart pounding against your chest. Your body was covered in a light layer of sweat, your breath coming out in short, erratic pants. Your bedsheets feel ablaze with the intensity of your emotions. It was just a dream? It had felt so real.

You feel a strong arm tighten around your waist, pulling you back against a warm, solid chest. Benedict's low voice rumbles behind you, groggy but filled with concern. "Darling? What's wrong?" He asks, his breath hot on your neck as he presses a gentle kiss to your shoulder.

Your heart falters as you turn and see your husband. The guilt of what you had just imagined hits you in tidal waves. “Nothing, darling. Just a bad dream, go back to sleep.” You reply giving him a kiss on the cheek.

It’s fine. You didn’t actually do anything wrong. You never actually touched Anthony, and you never would. You loved your husband, so why do you feel as guilty as sin?

[leclucklerc]

Hard Carry CL16 - 02. Down Under

Pairings: Charles Leclerc x driver!reader

Summary: Conflict arises as a hotshot rookie decided that the current world champion is the next opponent to beat.

Word Count: 5.3k

Previous Masterlist Next

Y/n l/n is a superstar inside and outside of Formula One.

It's the way she smiles and crinkled eyes. It's the way she handle interviews with pr trained answers and cheeky quips here and there. It's the way that she always dress to impress, catching everyone attention, be it on the grid or even in fashion week.

It's the way she made winning looks so easy. How she made making into the podium is just a regular Sunday for her. How she would gave the spectators a race that can be remembered by them for the rest of their life.

By the time she finished up her first season, people had called her a superstar in the making. Awed by the sheer talent and grit that she seemed to have for the sport. Finishing third in the standings of 2012 Formula One season, people have to admit that they’re entering a new era in Formula One.

When she finished her second season in Formula One, she’s a certified superstar, evident from the driver championship that she had won that year. When she finished her third season in 2014, she became a legend as she won the driver championship for two straight times. 

It’s almost as if everyone forgets all the slurs and bad things that they had called the female just a few years prior. As if, all of the negative press and criticism being directed towards her are nothing but an old news.

Maybe it’s because she finally proven herself that she can conquer the world of motorsport with her talent. Or maybe it’s just because people found more exciting things to talked and shit about. Who knows? Y/n certainly don’t.

Though, that doesn’t mean that the female forgets all the shitty things that happened to her when she first entered Formula One.

“She’s going to fuck half the grid,” said one commentator, ignoring the fact that the female is seventeen years old, and most drivers are in their mid to late twenties. “She’s going to ruin the sport.”

“A fucking barbie,” said another one. “That’s what she is.”

There are more. More things being said that’s downright horrifying and disgusting. She knows that no one cares about her age, that one of the ugly consequences of her entering a male dominated sport as a girl is the sexualization that she will eventually receive. But still, hearing all these things is gross beyond words.

Her sex life seems to be a favorite topic of them. Talks about she’s dating or fucking who, how she is seen talking with one driver and the next day a news station will say that she’s fucking him and ruining his family. Talks about her being a slut who parties too hard and a raging alcoholic for drinking alcohols during her downtime.

As if, her life is nothing, but a trainwreck of a circus show for them to watch and laughed upon.

It was during that horrible first season when y/n realized, that to be a champion you need to be an overall asshole.

A sick and twisted personality of hers that she always kept under her bright smiles and friendly front. It’s more to always have that competitiveness – on the track or off the track. To always have that fire and determination to always be the best. To actually believe and have the confidence to say that yes, I am the best driver in the grid. Yes, I make no mistake.

Be the best or be nothing. Show the world your worth or you will be worthless. The black and white view that you have to be so fucking successful or be nothing at all.

(It took y/n awhile to recognize that.)

The first time she realized it was when she won her first race in China. It was a close race, with her almost hitting a Mercedes and her own teammate. Back then – way too drowned in the euphoria of winning her first race – she doesn’t realize what that means to the people around her. Mainly, to other drivers on the grid.

There are a lot of drivers that came from a different time period. A period where Formula One has a rigid structure and strict unseen rules. For them, who had lives in that time period, y/n arrival and all the changes that she had brought, looks like a threat for them. A challenger who appeared to challenge their authority.

“If you drive that Porsche, anyone can win.”

“I don’t get it, she drives dangerously. She should’ve received a penalty for that.”

“I just don’t understand what the hell FIA is thinking! I know they’re all about diversity and inclusivity lately but-“

Y/n turned off the tv in front of her, face blank.

The phrase ‘never meet your heroes’ rang true inside of her head. Because hearing all of those things from her own childhood heroes is a bit tragic beyond doubt.

After all, these men are the people she had looked up to. They’re the reason why she wants to race in Formula One. They’re the reason why she have such a deep love for motorsport and why she’s trying her hardest to show all of them her capabilities.

Knowing the horrible and degrading things they called her should saddened her.

Though, instead, she doesn’t feel anything.

For a moment, she felt empty, as she sat there inside of her empty hotel room. She could hear chatters from the hallway outside, no doubt from the Porsche team who’s staying in the same floor as her. Besides that, everything felt a bit empty. And silent.

She just sat there, staring at the dark screen of the television in front of her. The euphoria of her earlier win had left without any trace.

Maybe it's because that she had gotten used to it. That these kind of talks is nothing new for her and slowly - but surely - had become a part of their daily life.

But no one deserves to live like this. No one deserves to be judged just because of their gender. No one deserves to have their skills and talent to be dismissed just because they don't have an extra weight between their legs.

Y/n, doesn't deserve this.

And in one second, that empty feeling was replaced by anger.

What right do they have to say things like that?

What right do they have to judge her life and talent like that?

Some never even won a race in their life! Or even get into the podium! Some even drive for shitty teams that have a brick of a car. A mid-tier driver that doesn’t have enough talent for the bigger teams. Now, just because they lost to a girl almost half their age, they think they have the right to talk shit to her?

So fucking funny. It almost made her laugh.

Barbie, slut, whore, the downfall for Formula One.

Barbie, slut, whore, the downfall for Formula One.

Honestly, it was frustrating that there are some older drivers that won’t accept their loss. It was more frustrating to hear all of their declarations that if they were also put inside y/n’s Porsche, they can drive better than her.

All that talks that questioned her ability just because of her age and gender. All of the talks that keep underestimating her over and over again.

Maybe that’s why she turned up like this, to have this kind of twisted and sick personality.

“Y/n,” started Herman as he introduced the young man besides him. She almost get a sense of déjà vu at the image. After all, this happened almost every year. Herman calling her to a meeting room just before the pre-season testing. Herman, introducing her to her newest teammate of the year.

Tall, blond, blue eyes. Probably some kid they picked off of F2 or other racing category randomly. She wonder how long this kid will last. How long, will it take for him to blow his gasket off.

“This is Henry Santos, your newest teammate,” said the older man as he gestured towards the male. He looked around y/n age and got starry eyed as he stared at y/n.

Typical, y/n almost scoffed out. It’s the same routine every year.

Almost immediately, she plastered a smile. It was so wide and so immediate. To the point it’s almost fake. “Hi,” she grinned. “Nice to meet you, I’m y/n l/n.”

Henry also nodded, excitement radiating off of him. “I know,” he said. “I’m a big fan.”

“That’s sweet,” she answered before turning her head towards Herman. “So, team briefing?”

Herman as well as other employee for Porsche immediately ushered them inside one of their meeting room in their motorhome. Talks about plans, the cars, and the upcoming season began as y/n listened to it attentively.

The same thing could be said to Henry as the kid could be seen writing a lot of things on his notebook, from his gaze, she could see how serious he is.

It’s the same look that she sees every year.

Kids being picked by Porsche for the position of their second seat. Kids, who was hoping to be able to stay in Porsche – one of Formula One top team, contenders for the championship – for more than one year.

Kids, who salivated at the thought of taking y/n’s seat.

She always blame her horrible experiences in the grid for this twisted personality of her. This kind of competitiveness, the urgency to always see as if they’re her rivals. The ability to unable see anyone as anything but competitors for her seat as uncertainty eats up her heart and whispered words that made her doubt everyone.

Sometimes, she felt a bit guilty, considering a lot of these kids, when they first entered Porsche, are good kids. Someone that just want to left their marks in Formula One.

But everyone wants to leave their marks in Formula One.

Everyone, wants to be the world champion.

Y/n included.

With three world titles under her name, it only made her hungrier for the title of the world champion. Some called her greedy, some called her over ambitious, but y/n thinks that’s just normal. When you taste the taste of winning once, there’s no going back. She's sure that Lewis and Sebastian shared the same feeling.

After that high of being the world champion, there is no way they want to lose it. The taste of winning is addicting after all. It's a dangerous drug to every driver. Once you taste it, you will always want more.

The same thing could be said for her teammates for the past few years.

If you’re in a Porsche, you will be part of the top team. You will fight for wins and podiums. It’s hard, to let it go, for your teammate. No matter how amazing they are.

She guess she has to be grateful that she’s the number one driver in the team.

The Formula One season started soon after that, kicking it off in Australia. Just like every year, Herman will force her to get along with her teammate, shoving them inside of the same private plane and made them do various media activities together.

Contrary to popular belief, she really doesn’t mind. Henry seems like a good kid. A bit nervous, a bit starry eyed. Nothing that she can’t handle. All of their media responsibilities ended for the day before it was time for them to do their driver briefing.

“You seem to get along with your new teammate,” called out a new voice, effectively catching her attention during her journey towards the briefing room. Henry had said that he needs to take some things back in their motorhome first, making y/n doing the journey alone.

“Maxie,” greeted y/n with a grin.

The so called ‘Maxie’ frowned.  “Don’t call me that,” he said. She could see an entourage of Red Bull employees all around him, no doubt protecting Christian’s very own prodigy from whatever danger he could have inside a guarded area.

Daniel couldn't be seen near him. It made her remember all the hushed talks about the Aussie contract renewal with Red Bull.

The woman laughed. “Aw, is little Maxie mad?” she said as she slung an arm around his shoulder – which is a feat itself considering he’s taller than her. “Don’t be that way to your best friend.”

“You’re not my best friend.”

“We so are!”

Years ago, back in 2015, when a kid called Max Verstappen joined Formula One, y/n felt that it was her duty to guide the lost little lamb. Or maybe it’s just her excuse to bully the new rookie.

You really can’t blame her for that. After all, she had been the youngest kid on the grid for years. She debuted when she was barely 17, she doesn’t even have a normal driving license. So that’s why when she first saw Helmut Marko newest golden boy, she thought that it was her time to be the reliable guy on the grid and helped Max to adjust to the Formula One lifestyle.

Which had not been going pretty well, considering Max is not the cutest kid on the planet – he broods, like a lot. Also Christian is basically in love with the kid. He’ll probably sell his own family for Max. 

She was not even surprised the slightest when it was announced that he and Kyvat will do a driver swap back in 2016. Controversial but interesting. She likes it.

“Ah, is that the Netflix crew?” said y/n as she waved towards the camera near them as they walked towards the briefing room. “Sorry babes, no camera during the briefings.”

“They know that,” muttered Max. “They just like following us around.”

“Ooo, spicy, stalker much, eh?”

A Red Bull employee actually chocked out a laugh at that and y/n count that as a win. The walk towards the briefing room is uneventful and was filled with small talks between her and Max. Some of the employees would chimed in, giving their own opinion or remarks but it’s pretty boring mostly.

It didn’t take long for them to arrive at the room.

Surprisingly, the first thing that she saw is a familiar pair of green eyes.

“Ah,” she said, stopping a bit in order to not bump into the male in front of her. “Charles,” greeted the woman good-naturedly. “You’re pretty early.”

Charles who came from the opposite direction, flushed a bit at that. He still got his pretty face which is nice. “I- uh, I don’t want to be late,” he replied. 

“A good mindset,” she said, giving him a thumbs up. “Anyway, have you met-“

“Charles,” greeted Max, with a nod of his head.

Charles too, gave him a nod. “Max.”

Both of them stared at each other silently at that, as if they're in the middle of sizing up each other before a battle. And maybe they are.

Y/n blinked. There seems an odd tension between the pair. “You guys know each other?” she asked, as the three of them enter the room. The female immediately sat at front.

Max, who decided to sit next to her, shrugged. “We met a lot during karting,” he answered, as if that explained the thick tension between the two of them.

“Yes,” replied Charles as he sat at her other side. “We often race against each other.”

“Ah,” she said. “Rivals huh? Neat.”

The door opened again at that, signalling the arrival of another set of drivers.

“Playing nice with the babies, y/n?” laughed Sebastian Vettel, clad in the familiar but still obnoxious red of Ferrari. She could see Kimi walking in alongside him, though just as usual, the man merely greeted her with a nod of his head before he take a seat behind them.

“For real,” she answered. “Gotta protect these kids hopes and dreams.”

“This is my fourth season,” argued Max back.

“Babies,” said y/n again.

Sebastian answered that with a laugh before he greeted Charles with small greeting and a pat on his back. It’s obvious that they had met beforehand. 

Slowly after that, more and more drivers appeared as low chatters began amongst themselves. Y/n was mainly occupied with both Charles and Max, though sometimes other drivers would greet her or chimed their opinion or two.

“Okay ladies and gentlemen,” started the man from FIA as he stood at the front of the room. “Let’s start the briefing. Is there any concern?”

And that officially starts the 2018 Formula One season.

The first time Charles ever saw y/n, was back in 2012.

It was the year where many things happened. He was entering almost the end of his karting days, looking for sponsors and teams who would want to support him for the higher categories. It was the year where he almost questioned his decision to be a racing driver. 

It was the year, where he realized that a future in Formula One is something that not everyone can reach.

To Charles back then, 2012 was one of the hardest year for his racing career. At the end of 2011, his father had confide to him that they’re running low on funds. That supporting his very expensive hobby will be harder and harder to do. It had stumped him, a realization about the harsh reality of the world.

Charles will be always grateful for Jules and all of his help after that. After all, without the man, he’s not sure if he will able to continue racing.

It was also the year where he found himself idolizing a new driver in Formula One. 

He first noticed her in a magazine. Charles doesn’t even know why did he picked that magazine all those years back. Maybe it was because she’s the only female in the stack of motorsport magazines. Maybe it was because she’s standing in front of a Formula One car, her face plastered on the cover with a headline that he will never forget.

"Youngest Race Winner in Formula One, y/n l/n," could be seen staring back at him. Behind that, in a font that is a bit smaller, the magazine too had added, 'The First Female Driver to ever won a Formula One Race.'

There’s something fierce and intimidating on her face as she stared back at her. It was as if she’s telling the world that she’s a winner. That she had arrived in the Formula One scene with one goal in mind.

To win.

Charles flipped open the magazine and began reading the article being dedicated to the female. About her passion, about her journey so far, and about her team. It is safe to say, that he was hooked ever since then.

As someone that wants to become a Formula One driver, it's only normal to follow the latest news regarding the sport. About the teams, or maybe the junior programs and opportunities that they had that can help his karting career. The arrival of Porsche back in 2012 was a really big moment for any fans of motorsport, so is y/n's arrival at the paddock.

For months, or even for the whole season, what people could talked about in the karting track is about the female. Oftentimes, she's an object of awe and reverent. As someone that started to break many boundaries that's being placed on the sport. Other times, she's an object of mockery and disapproval. Mostly due to her unconventional way to get her seat.

Honestly, back then, he also felt a bit apprehensive at that. After all, wouldn’t it be nice if he also came from a wealthy family that can just buy a whole Formula One team to support his dream? He wouldn’t have to work as hard as he is now, he wouldn’t have to desperately try to find sponsors or teams who would give him a bit of their time.

Maybe, if he came from a wealthy family, Arthur won’t have to give up karting.

That subject is still a sore spot for him. He knows that karting is an expensive sport, he knows that there is no way that his family can support two people karting at the same time. He knows, that he should be grateful that he’s the one being chosen for the investment.

But still, even after years, the guilt just won’t left him.

It’s the way he could see Arthur’s eyes dimmed a bit when he came for his races. It’s the way he would sometimes brought Charles’s old kart and use it in a track late at nights – thinking that no one will notice. His little brother is still as supportive as ever, cheering for him and wholly opened for discussions about his races, but Charles is not stupid. He can see how hurt Arthur was. 

And well, that served as more than enough motivation for him to race as hard as he can.

That reservation that he has for y/n l/n instantly disappeared as he watch the course of Formula One 2012 season. To him back then, it was really amazing for someone so young – only two years older than him – to be able to enter the pinnacle of racing and absolutely dominates the scene.

He watched the videos of her maiden win at the Chinese Grand Prix. He had obsessed over the overtakes that she did in Bahrain Grand Prix. That’s why, when the Monaco Grand Prix came around, he found himself watching it from the balcony of his friend apartment. 

The Grand Prix weekend had always brought a lot of fanfare. From the literal reconstruction of roads to the festive mood that people in Monaco seems to have, the Grand Prix weekend is something that Charles had always looked forward to.

“You seems more excited than usual,” said his friend, leaning forwards to his balcony railings. From their position here, he can almost heard the loud cheering from the grandstand or even the hustle and bustle that the Grand Prix seems to always brought to Monaco.

I’m going to race there one day, he thought, just like the years before. I’m going to be a Ferrari driver and I’m going to win the Monaco Grand Prix.

“Well,” started the Monegasque. “I have a new favourite driver.”

His friend raised his eyebrow. “Alonso?” he asked. “No, is it Felipe Massa?”

Charles shook his head. “Nah,” he denied. “L/n.”

At that, his friend stared at him. “Huh,” he finally let out. “It’s kind of weird not seeing you cheer for Ferrari.”

“I always cheer for Ferrari,” corrected Charles. “It’s just that I have another favourite driver on the grid.” 

“Mhm,” hummed his friend. “Not surprised though.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Cause you’re active in karting and all,” said the male. 

Charles blinked. “What do you even mean by that?”

“Like she’s a female and she’s one of the top driver,” explained his friend. “I just think that it would be obvious for guys like you – those who actively pursue racing as their career – to have some kind of crush to her.”

Crush?

And- and that stumped him.

It almost made him remember all of the things being said towards y/n. All the weird comments about her being a female or her attractive appearance. How she is more marketable and can play with the male fantasy and that it gave her an advantage compared to her other male counterparts.

How sexualized she is by everyone in the media.

He doesn’t like that.

Why is people talking about her gender when she made that insane overtake last race? Why is people talking about her in such a sexualized way when she’s literally the youngest race winner that Formula One had ever had?

All of them saw her as if she’s an object. As if, she’s in Formula One just to fuck around the grid and leave. They didn’t see her as the driver who won the China Grand Prix. They didn’t see her as the driver who got P2 in her debut race. They didn’t see her as a driver that has any worth for their attention and respect.

It was a bit of a horrifying realization. 

He knows that the world of motorsport has its own values and ideals. How people think that it’s a sport only for men and a job as a racing driver is something exclusive to someone who has balls between their legs. 

“No,” he replied, hand tightening around the railing. “I don’t like her just because of that.”

Because the woman is more amazing than that. He knows that she’s attractive. Anyone who has a pair of working eyes can see that. But that’s not the only reason why he put her in a pedestal so high. 

He likes her because she’s only two years older than him and she’s already a race winner. He likes her because she won’t back down from all the shitty things that the media had said about her ever since her debut. He likes her because she fights for the championship against drivers with an infinite experience and skills. Charles likes her because she’s an amazing driver. Charles likes her, because she has the skills to back up her seat in Formula One.

Not because-

A black Porsche car zoomed past him.

Not because-

He watched her finishing the race at fourth in Monaco.

Charles likes her, because she’s someone that is changing the sport.

She’s someone more amazing than how the media is portraying her. A fighter, someone that’s fighting for her voice to be heard. 

His idol.

From that on, he followed her career attentively. His family called it obsession but he likes to call it admiration. From her maiden driver championship in 2013, to her third one in 2017, he had followed it all.

He watched her win three championships. He watched her break countless records. He watched her turned all of those criticisms into words of adorations and worships.

A legend. A superstar. The best driver on the grid.

It had served as an amazing motivation for him to pursue his career in Formula One. Especially during darker times in life where he had questioned his place in the sport so many times. After loss and loss, the female had always became some sort of motivation for him to continue his racing career.

So after winning F2 and being offered a seat in Sauber, he was excited.

That offer had been a testament of his skill, that someone finally acknowledge him. That offer had made the lie that he had told his dad before his passing a truth, that the guilt won’t eat him up once more. That offer had made the dream that he had held for so long a reality.

That offer had made him even closer to y/n.

When Fred had offered him to meet the female during the pre-season testing he had took up the offer in an instant.

The phrase ‘never meet your heroes’ is something that he would like to disagree because meeting y/n is like a dream come true. She’s Charming and witty. A hard worker and attentive to whatever nonsense he said during their meeting. Y/n is just so nice, just like how he imagine her to be.

Charles almost tripped himself when she asked for his number after that because holy shit- 

Somehow, after that meeting, he convinced himself that they stood at an equal ground. That after years and years of blood, sweat, and tears, Charles finally found himself on an equal ground with his idol.

He had never been so wrong.

He looked up, and he could see the female stood in front of the podium in front of him. Her smile bright, as she sprayed champagne towards Sebastian and Lewis who respectively stood at the second and third place.

It’s 2018 and it’s the Australian Grand Prix.

It’s 2018, and Charles saw the person that he had idolized for a long time won a race that Charles also participates in.

It was almost surreal to see her like this. To see the woman he had chatted with at the Porsche hospitality a few weeks ago to the woman who just won the first race of the season. The three of them – y/n, Sebastian, and Lewis – looks almost unreal to him.

The top drivers in the grid. The three world champions.

The best of the best.

His own 15th position on the grid stings a bit. Which is a bit unreasonable because he drives a Sauber. There is no way a Sauber could defeat cars from the top teams. Him, being a 15th position in a Sauber should be a pretty good achievement already.

But alas, it just doesn’t feel enough.

When they had chatted during the pre-session testing, it had gave him a fake illusion about them being an equal. After all, Charles is a Formula One driver now. He drives in the pinnacle of motorsport. He had shown the world that he’s capable to be a Formula One driver. Just like what he had dreamt of for years.

Today, is a harsh wake up call.

Y/n had looked so friendly and attainable that it gave him a false sense of hope that they stood on the same ground. Maybe it’s the euphoria of being promoted to F1 or maybe it’s the euphoria of managing to meet the woman that he had idolized for so many years.

Seeing this, her being at the top of the rankings while him, at the bottom, is a harsh reality check for him.

Because they’re not equal.

She’s still the faraway star that he can’t reach and he’s still the silent admirer that doesn’t have the courage to reach for her.

He’s still Charles Leclerc and she’s y/n l/n. Formula One superstar and legend. 

If he want her to look at him, to make sure that she remember his name, then he has to be better. He has to prove that he will worth her time.

Drive to Survive Season 1 Episode 3

It’s all about Porsche.

“It seems like a curse,” laughed Christian. “No one can hold off the second seat of Porsche for more than two years.”

A montage of past drivers could be seen. In some clips, a younger y/n could be seen standing or talking with the past drivers. It’s clear that these people are the previous holder of Porsche’s second seat.

“I think that it’s a known secret,” started Will as he stared at the camera. “While y/n portrays herself as a fun loving and charming woman, it’s clear that she is really strict and competitive towards her teammate.”

Y/n and Henry could be seen at that, the both of them entering a Porsche car. From how it looks, it seems that the both of them are going to the track together from their hotel. Henry could be seen wearing the standard Porsche polo shirt while y/n in wearing an oversized Porsche racing jacket and a sports bra underneath it.

“Are you driving?” asked the female, raising her eyebrows from behind her sunglasses.

“Sure,” said the male as they both entered the car, “I can drive.”

“Well if you can’t drive all of us are fucked,” answered the female as she sat on her seat. Y/n sitting at the front while two of their staff sat the back.

“Are you excited?” asked the staff as they made their way. “It’s your debut race.”

“I am,” laughed Henry. “There’s a lot of expectations that came with being a Porsche driver.”

During this conversation, y/n doesn’t seems interested in the conversation as she scrolled on her phone silently. The show made it more dramatic as they show a scene where there’s some kind of awkward silence inside the car.

After that, both y/n and Henry could be seen entering the grid. The female are laughing and taking pictures as well as giving autographs to her fans. From this image, we could see how much of a superstar the female is. Though, as they continue their way, the female could be seen greeting other employees and other drivers in a friendly way while Henry could be seen looking confused at the back.

A rookie and a superstar. A very different image.

“It’s not a bad trait to have,” clarified Will. “Because in order to be a world champion, you have to be competitive. In this sport, your first rival should always be your teammate. After all-“

Two Porsche could be seen racing against each other.

“-You have the exact same car-“

A team radio could be heard between Henry and the race engineer who’s ordering for the male to do a pitstop.

“-the same team strategy-“

A scene of two Porsche crashed into each other could be seen.

“And the same competitiveness to show that you’re the best driver on the team.”

The scene changed back into the interview room as Henry Santos appeared. His name could be seen besides him and his position as Porsche driver are written underneath it.

“My name is Henry Santos and I race for Porsche Royale Formula One team,” answered the male smoothly. A question was being asked offscreen as Henry could be seen listening and blinking before he let out a laugh. “Yes, there are a lot of pressure, considering this is my rookie year.”

On the screen, the standings from 2017 could be seen where Porsche won the constructor championship and y/n winning the driver championship. Henry voice too, could be seen as a voiceover, “Porsche is a winning team,” he said. “I want to be someone that can honour that ambition.”

“Do you think you can become the number one driver in Porsche?” asked the producer.

Henry’s smile froze as there’s a stretch of silence after that question.

It’s clear that Netflix wants some kind of drama from that question. The fight of Porsche’s number one driver position. A rookie versus the world champion.

“Yes,” he finally answered. “Yes I believe I can.”

It was almost like a declaration of war. After all, y/n is the reigning world champion. She’s the one that’s using the number one on her car this year. A consistent driver that always shows a remarkable performance each year.

For a rookie like Henry to say that, it’s a bold claim to have.

“A conflict,” said Christian as he appeared once again. “Will bound to happen in a team like that.”

Taglist!

@mellowarcadefun @glai1023-blog @jjkclub @newlifeforus @jpg3 @sp1cycurry @eternalharry @be-your-coffee-pot @itsjustkhaos @chanshintien @fairiesdowntheroad @not-laracroft @ilovegreengrapes @nzygftoji @reblog-princess @aaaooz @chasing-liberosis @thatgirlthatreadswattpad @reneny @hiraethrhapsody @stevesworld9 @miniboast @notleclerc @willowpains @lndonrris @laura-naruto-fan1998 @yaren23 @gills-lounge @asfaraslifegets @dl-yum @dessxoxsworld @goldenchemistry @vellicora @neoteez7 @lana-d3l-rey @mynameisangeloflife @fennecspage @yuriankasavchuk @hascrt-ay @kihc-zya @leilanixx @cha-hot @mafiulaputaama @hockeyboysarehot @stopeatread @lovewithmary @inloveallthetime

[wildestdreamsblog]

Latibule Spinoff: Kim Taehyung

Pairing: Actor!Kim Taehyung x Journalist!Reader

A/N: This came to me when I watched the chicken shop date between Amelia and Andrew...gurl I was smiling the whole episode hehehuhu. The chemistry was off the charts

Latibule Universe Masterlist

Sticking to your script, you pressed on, and to your surprise, he did too. The banter flowed smoothly, and you found yourself navigating the questions with a surprising ease, the audience hanging on every word. You were almost at the end of the show, your cue to ask one last thing that had been requested by his fans.

“Now, Taehyung, as you know, the show conducted a survey online about what your fans want to know the most,” you began, your smile brightening as the moment approached. “And surprise, surprise! Most, if not all of them, wanted to know more about your love life. So, Taehyung, how is your love life?”

You flashed a knowing smile at the camera before turning back to him, eager for a response so you could wrap up the show and finally escape this whirlwind of situation. But instead of a quick answer, he leaned back, his signature tata smile beaming as he playfully looked at the audience and then back to you.

You could almost feel the anticipation ripple through the studio. The audience was captivated, their murmurs growing louder, eager for his reply.

“I never speak about my lovelife…” he began, drawing it our for effect. He knew how to modulate his voice enough to tease the audience. “But since this is a special episode, and you are a special dear host to me, I’ll only speak about this here.”

The audience erupted into cheers and laughter, completely enraptured by his charm. You could barely hide your annoyance, though a part of you couldn’t deny the magnetic energy he brought to the stage. This was the moment he thrived in, the very reason he was a star.

Your heart skipped a beat. It was like in the beginning, you knew a trainwreck was coming your way and it did keep you on your toes. You didn’t know when it was coming, nor when Taehyung would struck. But now, you could see how close the train was.

And it was coming for you.

“For the first time in my life, I genuinely like this person,” he shared, a hint of practiced shyness mingling with an undeniable sincerity. The way he said it sent a ripple of excitement through the crowd. “But she wouldn’t give me the time of day.”

The audience gasped collectively, a chorus of “aww” filling the studio as some dramatically clutched their hearts, enraptured by his words. If only they knew how persistent and annoyingly so he had been! He had railroaded your life, manipulating every situation, bending reality to fit his whims, and now he was

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed the showrunner gesturing urgently for you to follow up, but you felt frozen, your mind racing. What he was saying left you dumbfounded, and the idea of stepping on a landmine—an active one—terrified you.

“B-But who would say no to Kim Taehyung?” you asked with a faux chuckle, attempting to defuse the tension. The audience nodded in agreement, their laughter mingling with the buzz of excitement.

But then, just as you thought you could shift gears and end the show gracefully, Taehyung leaned closer. His body turned toward you, that familiar smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. You felt a rush of heat flood your cheeks, knowing this was the moment you had been praying wouldn’t come.

“But Y/N, you said no to me,” he said, his voice low and teasing, yet carrying an edge that sent your heart racing.

Read the whole scene in Kofi

[grimsonandclover]

Next Last

Sympathy is a knife.1

or; Broken bones hurt less than broken girls

Stanford!Tashi x tennis player!reader

Song of the post 'Limp - Fiona Apple'

You didn't respect tennis, so why should she respect you? She hated you. The spoiled nepo-baby who's never had to work a day in her life, and yet somehow you've managed to pay your way into NYU and play on the team. Somehow, you managed to beat her last year when Stanford played NYU, and now she's scheduled to play you again at the French Open. You're a goddamnned mess, everyone knows that.

So how are you still so good?

You're a trainwreck self sabotaging in front of the world.

So why does she feel so terrible when you're on the ground, crying like that, clutching your knee? She should be celebrating. But she's not.

SFW

6k words

angst, rivals to ...something? more in part 2 whenever that is, reader's got issues, death of a parent, mommy AND daddy issues, substance abuse by the reader and possible addiction/dependancy, injury, early 2000s NYC socialite treatment, reader is very irresponsible with a DUI (ewww don't do that please), some vomit, panic attacks, some trauma post-parent death, pre-established relationship, cheating, art follows tashi like a lost puppy, suicidal thoughts/depressions, thats a weird order to put those warnings in but oh well, just overall sad times, big sister tashi, reader should get a therapist but instead she parties and plays tennis, best friend patrick

"You're fucking joking." Are the first words Tashi Duncan says when she's told that she's going to compete against you next week. They come out venom-laced and shoot from her lips like daggers. Then, she says them again. "You're fucking joking."

You, the prodigy of NYU that should've been kicked out long ago if not for your pure, unbridled talent (if unbridled talent meant daddy's money, too). You, the daughter of a late, hot-shot Hollywood producer father and triple-divorcee restauranteur mother. You, the younger sister to B-list nepo-baby actress Seline, the older sister to teenage heartthrob boyband member Jonah. You, the tennis star with her name known by people who've never even seen a single match of tennis in their life during the day, and hot-mess socialite with her DUI mugshot from last year plastered on TMZ by night, your name sprinkled over several blind items on Crazy Days And Nights despite your big-name boyfriend. You, the only person comparable in skill to Tashi Duncan. You, who had already beat her once the same week you got that DUI.

Tashi Duncan hated you.

No, hate was too simple of a word. Hate couldn't begin to describe what she felt. It was more akin to revulsion. You were revolting to her. She felt physically sick when she was in the same room as you, which wasn't often. Until now. Now she had to once again share a court with you at the French Open.

For a split second, she considered pulling out. Then, she got her shit together and remembered that she's Tashi Nicole Duncan, and she wouldn't let a mess of a person like you with no respect for the sport make her think like that.

"Art, could you call my coach?"

Her pet-- I mean, her friend did as she asked, handing the phone to her. "What's the earliest you're available tomorrow?"

"You're fucking joking..." Are the first words you say when you're told that you're going to compete against Tashi next week. They come out quiet and tired, slow and disappointed. "She hates me. She hates me and she's going to kill me.

Tashi, the prodigy of Stanford with better grades than you could ever dream of achieving. Tashi, the daughter of a very much alive working-class father and happily married once mother, oldest sister to twins Nathalie and Renee, who are very normal teenage girls still living their normal lives in high school. Tashi, the tennis star every coach wants to get their hands on, with sponsors creaming their pants for her name on their products. Tashi, who's never once been arrested because that's just not a thing well-rounded people do. TMZ has barely ever even heard of her, and nobody's ever anonymously speculated who she's sleeping with. Tashi, the only person comparable in skill to you. Tashi, who looked like she'd rather she was pronounced dead the day before than hear your name announced by the umpire last year.

Tashi Duncan hated you.

It wasn't just your insecure mind making that up, either. She made it blatantly obvious that she did when you went to shake her hand after winning against her. You could still see the laser-hot glare she gave you if you closed your eyes. Feel the iron grip of her soft hands on yours, like she was restraining herself from snapping your wrist. You didn't look forward to seeing those eyes stare holes into your skull until you got a headache, again, next week.

"Maybe I shouldn't go this year. I don't know... I mean, I just recovered from my ankle, and-"

"Don't be ridiculous." Your best friend, Patrick, cut you off, rolling his eyes. "You're not a pussy bitch, you're a tennis player. Act like one."

Despite his choice of words, you knew it came from a good place. The reassuring smile on him reaffirmed that. Patrick seemingly knew what you were capable of better than you did. "You're going to do fine."

Charlie, your boyfriend, patted your shoulder as he passed you to grab a bottle of water, offering no words of comfort past that. He never tried much in that department. Or most departments, it seemed. It's like he thought relationships were like modeling: show up and look pretty, that's all. You were there showering him with praise and words of affirmation when he had a stomach bug during fashion week and was scared he couldn't walk. Charlie reciprocated by patting you on the shoulder while you paced your living room.

Turning to your mom, who was sitting in a chair nearby, didn't do much to help ease your anxiety like Patrick's words did, though. She was on her phone, texting and calling the dozens of people she kept in contact with a day. It took her a minute to realize you were trying to get her attention.

"Oh, Christ, Y/N, you'll be fine." She waved her hand nonchalantly. "You'll win and it'll all be fine. And if you don't, well... maybe she'll feel like you're even. How's that?"

God, your feet were killing you in these chunky platforms. Is that wet patch on your skinny jeans from a spilled drink or are you so drunk you wet yourself on the dancefloor? Where are you, what's the name of this place? Patrick doesn't seem to know, either. You're pretty sure Paris is about two shots away from making out with him, based on the way she's staring at him. Why the fuck did you choose to wear skinny jeans, these are miserable. The sequin dress was right there. Is the music louder than usual? The brights are too light right now-- wait, shit, no, the lights are too bright. Where's Patrick?

You feel bile rise in your throat and shove a girl out of the way so you throw up into the club toilet. It tastes like strawberry and tequila and shit. Someone's banging their fist on the stall door begging to piss, and you can hear moaning and skin slapping in the other stall. Fifty-fifty chance it's Patrick. Twenty-eighty chance it's Patrick and Paris.

You flush, wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, and stumble out the stall to the sinks. God, you're a mess. You know you started the night with two hoop earrings, where did the other one go? The couple in the stall are so loud, and you can definitely recognize the sound of Patrick now. Mascara is smudgeding and it's making your eyes irritated and water, but you didn't think to use anything waterproof.

You almost trip over yourself and have a repeat of last time (the time you sprained your ankle at 1OAK and couldn't play properly for three weeks) as you approach the stall, knocking on the door. "Patrick," you gag a little as bile threatens to resurface, "Pat we gotta... gotta go. It's..." you pull your phone from your bra, "Fuck, it's three. Amber's gon' fuckin' killllllllll me." Amber being your coach. You wonder how not-hungover you'll be able to act when you see her in three hours.

It takes a couple more bangs on the door for him to stop. You can hear clothes shuffling, some giggling and whispers, and the zip of his fly before the stall door opens. Paris stumbles out with a giggle, adjusting her skirt before announcing that she's gonna go find Kim, and 'good luck with Amber.'

You're barely standing and conscious, but you're not so out of it to not notice how he looks. White residue on his nostril tells all. "You've got coke?"

Patrick steps out of the stall, eyeing a girl at the sink throwing him dirty looks in the mirror before he looks back to you. "You know what I'm going to say to that, Y/N."

"Come on, just enough to keep me up. I'm gonna crash by four."

"No."

"Patrick."

"No."

You huff, leaning back on the counter and crossing your arms. "Fuck you. Since when did you join the morals police?"

"Since last week."

That's not a pleasant reminder. You want to slap him in that moment, even if it was a perfectly reasonable excuse for his sudden reluctance to feed your craving. You were a nightmare to everyone you knew last week. And the week before. You wonder how far back this could go. "Fuck you."

"Yeah, well." He shrugs, wiping his nose again and checking himself out in the mirror, adjusting his jacket.

TMZ, oh how you loathe them, has pictures of you leaving the club by the time you're meeting Amber on the rooftop court of your residence. She's livid, as she always seems to be. Like someone shoved a lemon in her mouth and no one told her she could just spit it out. "You're late. You've got the Open in four days and you're fucking late. And hungover."

"It's only two hours."

Your voice is tired and croaking, and you haven't slept longer than two since yesterday. Hungover is a generous diagnosis. You're still drunk. Charlie, who was absent from your all-nighter club hopping, makes sure you don't trip over yourself going up the stairs to the roof before leaving your side to lounge on the pool chairs. Someone texted you "Hey girl, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but..." around the time you made it out of bed, but you deleted the text before you saw any more of it. Your mind wanders to that text when you look at him.

"Two hours, my ass. Christ, I should quit."

Amber threatens leaving you as much as you promise it won't happen again. Like 'yes', 'no', and 'You do this one more time and so help me God I will make sure you can never find a coach again,' are all the basis of her vocabulary. You play and pay too well for her to ever commit to those threats.

Practice goes on until your bones ache and cry for a break. Charlie's fallen asleep with a magazine tucked under his chin. Amber leaves for the poolside cabana and calls her girlfriend while you just lay on the ground, staring at the clouds. The adrenaline starts to wear off, meaning you feel like shit. Your mouth is incredibly dry, the sun is blinding. It's like your body remembered that you're meant to be hungover and is only now catching up. At least it's after practice. Not that you did all that well. You can hear Amber argue with her girlfriend over the phone and it only makes you feel worse about being such a horrible player by showing up late and half-shitfaced. You knew they were going through a rough patch. Least you could do is make her job easier.

Closing your eyes is only temporary relief. You can still hear the cars from the streets below and Amber whisper-yell into the receiver. "I told you already... Wednesday's no good, no... well then tell them to reschedule... Rebecca, it's not like you didn't know what kind of schedule I've got when we started dating..."

It feels like your legs are going to snap when you roll over, hands planted on the hard court ground and you silently beg your muscles to push you up. You're dizzy, the doubled, now tripled vision bringing back the bile from last night/this morning to the base of your throat, but you swallow it down. Over your shoulder, you look at the pool, the sunlight bouncing from the cold water. Amber's on the other side of it, brows furrowed. She sees you watching her and turns around, back facing you.

She turns back around when she hears a splash. You fell face-first into the pool. On purpose. The cool water feels amazing, the sting from hitting the water nothing compared to the ache in your bones that has been there since childhood. You open your eyes, watching your hair billow around you like smoke, the way the sun glimmers on the surface like sparkles, the shadow peering over the ledge. "Oh, god. I'll call you later, Becca. I love you."

When was the last time Charlie said he loved you?

It's so quiet under the water. You wish the bubbles that escape your lips and float above you would carry out everything you hold in your chest. Then you could float like they do.

Like all moments of perfect peace, it doesn't last long. Babies must leave the safety of their mother's womb. People wake up every morning despite wishing to stay in bed and fall back into nothing. Amber reaches into the water and grabs your arm to tug you out and you feel like you could cry. The first wail, the sign of life. Opening your eyes to the sun leaking through blinds, signaling to you it's morning.

Is death truly the only time we have? When you ask Amber, she just frowns and tells you to stop drinking as she dries your hair with a towel.

"Come on, Y/N. Put your back into it!"

The ball barely makes it over the net, bounce, bounce, bouncing down the other side of the court. The racket is heavy in your small hands, but he won't let you put it down yet. "Dad, I can't." You whine.

"What did I say about can'ts?"

You should bite your tongue. Can't's for quitters. "Maybe I am a quitter!"

He stomps across the court, grabbing the collar of your little tennis whites. Despite the action, there's no violence behind it. "No daughter of mine is a quitter."

His voice is low, like he's whispering a secret to you. "You can."

Your collar is let go and your father stands straight. "And you will. Now, do it again like Ronald taught you."

It's Renaud. Grabbing another ball from the basket behind you, you try again. And again. And again. By the time you're done, your arms are sore for days to come and you've got blisters on your feet. He makes you drop out of your preschool Mother's Day dance to practice with Renaud instead. You had the dance down pat, practicing it for weeks.

You only ever started playing because he wanted you to. Maybe five-year-old you should've held your ground more.

Tashi bit the inner skin of her lips, her mother talking casually into her ear through the phone. "And Nathalie, well, you know how she felt about it all. Cried the whole way home."

"Is she alright? Well, clearly not, but..." She zips up the final suitcase on her bed, taking a breath. They were flying out tomorrow, the Open being the day after.

Her mother sighs, nodding her head even though her daughter can't see. "She will be, in time. First heartbreak's going to be pretty tough, poor girl."

A knock on her dorm door pulls Tashi's attention from the call. Looking up, she sees Art peeking in. She holds her finger up, asking him to wait. "Well, let Beetle know that she can call or text me about it anytime. She forgets to check my texts."

"You forget to call."

Tashi huffs. Her mother's right, of course. It's not on purpose, it's just she's constantly go, go, going, her phone often goes forgotten. "Still. I'll pick up whenever she wants me."

Her eyes trail a bird outside her window. It hops across the little ledge, pecking at something on the brick. She wished she had wings. Tashi would just up and fly to her family right now. It's been two months since she last hugged her sisters. Did they forget how she felt? Sometimes, when she can't sleep, Tashi thinks about when they were just little soft fleshy things in bassinets, waking her up at night as they cried in her parent's bedroom. Now, Nathalie was going through her first breakup and Renee was going through some rebellious phase back home.

"You've got your hotel booked for tomorrow?" Tashi asks after a moment, biting her lip again. She can't help it, her worries jump from one subject to another.

"Yes, Tash. I love you, we all love you. We're booked, we're packed, we're ready. I've gotta go finish dinner, have you eaten?"

Tashi hums a response, smiling to herself. "I miss your cooking, mom."

"I miss you. Now, get some rest and I'll see you tomorrow."

When the call ends, Art steps in fully. "Everything with Nat alright?"

She frowns in response, shaking her head and sitting at the edge of the small single in her dorm. The old mattress creaks under her, the weight of dozens like her over the years taking its toll on the springs. "Brodie and her broke up last night at some party. Nat's taking it kinda hard."

He frowns with her and sighs. "I do not miss high school..."

"What'd you come in here for?" Tashi asks after a moment, turning to face him better. She tucks a leg under the other thigh, and Art's eyes catch on the flexing muscle under the warm toffee skin for a moment. Blinking hard, he sits beside her, grabbing one of her pillows to play with. It's a nervous habit of Art's. "It's about her."

When Seline sees the news, she doesn't call. Just sends a text asking if you're alright. Jonah does call, but you don't pick up. You know if you do it'll be like pouring your feelings to a brick wall. And then, when you're done, the brick wall will recite some line from his therapist and ask you for your new dealer's number, and that will be that. Your mother has stopped trying all-together.

Tashi feels a strange sense of pity when Art shows her the headlines, an emotion she doesn't associate with you.

Charlie, mid-grind at the club, decided he no longer liked playing your boyfriend. He forgot to relay that information to you, though. Honest mistake, he assumed you'd gather that when he turned around and stuck his tongue down another girl's throat. Oh, you should've seen the look on your face.

All those unrequited 'I love you's coming back to hit you in the face in a single moment. You had even tossed one on the way here. One that he let hit his turned shoulder and slide off the curve of it like bird shit. Now, here you were, frozen on the dance floor as you watched your boyfriend of a year make it painfully clear how much it all meant to him. Charlie Maddox was known for his looks, never his brain or heart. You tried so desperately to make up for it. You'd rip the beating muscle in your chest out for him and for what?

You've never been good at holding in your emotions. You were the 'wear your heart on your sleeve' kind of gal, much to your dismay. Meaning, you slapped him in the middle of the crowd, screaming something about love and his small dick (it was average), and stormed out of the club only to be met with dozens of paparazzi who were always there waiting for someone to leave. Patrick was just getting another drink at the bar when you left, missing the whole thing. You barely made it five steps out the door, tears streaming down your face, ankles twisting with every step, before taking a detour and puking in the alley behind a dumpster. Pictures were taken of every moment. One guy even ran up and took a picture of the puddle.

Sure he wasn't the best boyfriend, and it was a long time coming, but you weren't exactly in the mental state for such a sudden change in relationship status. You flew to France tomorrow. Amber said no distractions. Here Charlie was, throwing a wrench in everything with his stupid model face and his stupid model lips and his stupid model ego. You think you would've married him if he asked. Have his stupid model babies. Not like he ever would want that with you. How pathetic are you?

You're a hiccuping, sobbing mess. Why'd you take the train here? That club was hardly worth the trip.

It's embarrassing to be sitting on the subway seats, slumped down as you stare at the floor. Not because of your status or who you are, but because... well, just look at the state of you. Your hair is a mess from partying for hours on end, you ripped your heels off your feet the moment you sat down (and they've already been stolen), mascara is running down your cheeks and frankly, you haven't stopped crying. You try to cover your face when you see camera phones curiously life up, some obvious and some not so obvious. The guy next to you gives you the side eye, squinting like he's trying to tell if he recognizes you.

You just want to curl up and die. That girl, the one Charlie practically impregnated through a kiss with his tongue so far down her throat he could probably taste her lunch, looked like Mila Kunis. It wasn't, of course, but she looked like her. Why didn't you look like her? Maybe then he'd stay. He'd try and taste your lunch. Or maybe it wasn't looks. Something that you felt like you had even less control over. You cry a little harder.

If your dad was here he'd have something to say. He'd have some schpiel about life and relationships that you probably wouldn't want to hear anyway, but at least you'd be hearing him. You'd take just about anything. Your phone rings with Patrick's number and you don't pick up. The guy next to you snaps a picture. You wonder if your dealer has anything available. Amber's going to murder you in cold blood. You'd welcome it just about now. The P.A. announces the next stop, and it's not yours, and it would be an hour of walking barefoot across New York to get to your place, but you leave the subway anyway when it comes to a stop. Because that guy kind of stank, and a kid was crying too loudly, and you could hear someone calling someone else to talk about who they just saw on the train, and you just wanted to go home.

The walk was miserable. Your feet hurt and you had to put too much attention for your liking on where you were stepping so you wouldn't get some uncurable disease from the sidewalk. Less people noticed you on the streets, but someone had clearly let the press know what train you were on and they knew if you'd left by foot, they could probably catch up. They did. Now, they had pictures of you crying leaving the club, crying on the New York City subway, and crying walking home. Fantastic. By now you were known more for your tears than your tennis. You'd hail a cab but it was rush hour, and there's no point in even trying then.

You knew it was a fruitless effort asking for them to stop taking picture of you, but you tried anyway. All requests were drowned out by the snapping clicks of the cameras. You were still drunk, and the flashes made your eyes burn and head spin. Your name was being called all around you.

"Need a ride home?" "What happened with Charlie?" "Any news you can share about your sister's latest project?" "Chin up, darling, I can't get your face." "Excited for your match with Tashi Duncan, Y/N?" "Hey, you need some shoes?"

You look over to the guy who just offered you shoes, stopping in your miserable and painful tracks. He's at least wearing socks when he pulls his sneakers off. They're a size or so too big, like clown shoes, but they get the job done. You thank him, and then go back to keeping your head down as you walk. You can already see the headlines.

Your head was spinning so much you didn't know if you could play. You're on the stationary bike to warm up, an hour or so until your match. An hour or so until you face her. You already spent last night with Amber on the practice courts, getting re-used to how the clay changes the speed of the ball, perfecting your strikes as best you can. She offered to take you again, but you were too nauseous to go. That seems to be a constant for you.

Patrick's back in New York. He's got his own tennis career to take care of, but he's sending you texts here and there. Words of encouragement.

"picture her naked or smething"

"actually no dont do that. that wouldnt even work for me"

"make chuck realize what hes missing by winning"

"i just took the fattest shit!!!! oooooh I wanna send you the pic soooo bad. thatll take ur mind off of it"

You had to block his number for a good fifteen minutes just in case. It wouldn't have been the first time he'd done that. That did almost get a laugh out of you if you weren't still so nervous.

Someone was watching on the small TV in the corner of the room, you think it was Rebecca. They're saying it's going to rain tomorrow, but that's all you can understand. So much for those French classes you took for five years straight. You tried to focus on the blurring syllables you once knew as you cycled.

Seline sends you a bouquet of good-luck flowers, but she forgets you're allergic. Jonah forgot altogether that the Open was today, and you don't have it in you to remind your little brother. He's on tour anyway, what could he really do?

Tashi's pacing the practice courts with her coach, Art in the corner talking with her mom as they half-watch her. She's stressed out of her mind. She played and won the Australian Open earlier last year. To win this would already take her halfway to a career Grand Slam. Tashi needed this. To have anyone like you get in the way of that would be unacceptable.

Her coach is doing his best to assure her she'll win. Forget last time, this was it.

"I mean, have you seen her lately?" He said with a scoffed laugh. "Nobody wins an Open like that."

You have. You won the Australian Open, too, a few years ago at 16, and you were equally off the rocks back then. It didn't do much to quell her nerves. "You've put in the work, Tash. You've been training for years, harder than she could ever imagine doing. It's in the bag. All you need to be worrying about is where you're gonna put your Suzanne Lenglin cup."

"It's only the first round. Once you get through the initial nerves, the rest will go by like nothing."

"Right." You said with no real believability. Amber was leaning over the front of the stationary bike and you slowed down your cycling, nearing the end of the warm-up. "Except it's not just the first round."

It's Tashi. It's Charlie. It's Seline, and Jonah, and your mom. It's the first major tournament you've played since...

Since him.

Thump, thump, thump, thump.

Amber could hear all of it just by looking at you, and she had nothing left to offer but a pitying sigh and a pat on your shoulder. Even Patrick, now unblocked again, had nothing left to offer through the phone.

Nathalie is crying on the couch and Renee is doing her best to console her twin when Tashi returns to the player room, their mother and Art following behind. She starts doing stretches in the middle of the room as she addresses her weeping sister. "Beetle, he isn't worth your tears. You know that."

Tashi's mother wraps warm arms around her twins. "Baby, heartbreak heals. You're left only with the unconditional love you hold for yourself. Let it out."

It was her mantra. Words she'd repeat after all three of the sister's occasional breakups. Time heals all wounds.

Tired legs climb off the bike. You overdid it, and Amber silently panics that the overexertion will affect your playing. The couch facing the door connected to the player's tunnel is plush enough. Thoughts trail off to your family, all of which aren't here to watch you play.

Your mother was in France, too. You asked her to come but she was busy meeting with vendors for her new restaurant. Seline was on set for some blockbuster horror film back home. Jonah, well... maybe you should text him a quick 'hey, just letting you know im about to play one of the biggest tournaments a tennis player can, against the scariest woman I know. wish me luck!' But you don't. And your father. Oh, your father. He might've been the only one out of all of them willing to show up.

That doesn't matter now, though. He won't.

Thump, thump, thump, thump.

He won't.

Breathing gets a little harder to do, even though you're sitting.

He won't, he won't, he won't, he can't.

The words are falling out of your mouth now like sand seeping through the cracks in fingers. "He's not here. My dad's not here."

Your wild eyes look up to Amber, whose head whips to you. Her heart drops. Rebecca stops watching the TV. You've been here before.

"Amber, he's not here. He's not here. I can't play, he's not--"

A knock on the door, your name being called by two voices. One tells you to breathe, the other tells you that "they're ready for you."

You can only assume what comes from who as tears blur in your waterline. Thump, thump, thump, thump.

He's not here. The one person in your life that always would be. The one person who promised not to leave.

Tashi threw up after she played you and lost. Tashi Duncan lost.

Stanford Vs. NYU. She should've had it in the bag. It should've been nothing.

Top players lost all the time. It's a fact. Human error, lucky streak for the opponent, off-days. Not for Tashi. Losing to you was a slap in the face. It shook her confidence in herself so bad she didn't know how she'd recover. It was only when she played and won the Australian Open later that year, with you nowhere to be seen, that she got it back.

She spent a weekend learning everything she could about you. A weak moment in her own eyes, but she had to know more about the person who made her crumble. It wasn't hard to do-- researching you. You were in the press constantly, along with the rest of your family.

Your DUI and countless failed relationships, your sister getting thrown out of galas for fighting with other actresses, your brother sleeping with groupies and their tall tales about the ordeal, your mother's countless failed business ventures post-modeling career, and your father. Life and death.

Tashi had found an old interview of yours, done right after your own Australian Open win at 16. You mentioned how he's responsible for it all, pushing you to play since as long as you could remember. How despite his crazy career as one of the big producers in Hollywood, he'd still make time in his schedule to be there for all your games. He was your biggest critic and biggest fan, you said. That you didn't know where you'd be without him in any sense of the word.

When she checked the date of the interview, her heart stopped for a moment. A week before his accident. She even remembers seeing it on the news. How Tashi looked over to her dad as he folded laundry on the couch, watching it with her. "Hollywood producer found dead in major collision in L.A. A break malfunction is the suspected cause."

Maybe that moment, reading that interview on her bed with her father knocking on the door to offer tea, was the first time she saw you more than a mess. More as a hurt, teenage girl. Maybe she forgot it all, though, looking at you now.

You couldn't sit in a car for three months without having a panic attack after it happened. The mere mention of them could even make you spiral. It was after the funeral that you started your infamous 'spiral down the drain'. There was so much paparazzi outside the cemetery gates.

It's the only reason you didn't try to compete in any of the Grand Slam tournaments after winning the Australian at 16. Every time you picked up a racket for the next four years, you heard his nagging voice in your head.

"Come on. Not good enough. Put your goddamn all into it!"

"You're not getting a Grand Slam with this attitude. Do it again."

It was too much to do anything bigger than challengers or school tournaments. Every single one left you teary-eyed in the locker rooms before and after. Amber suggested a therapist several times, but nothing came of it.

You can still see the look of pride on his face after you won the Open. Every time you close your fucking eyes, he's there. Such a rare treat to see him smile, and you did it.

You thought you'd be ready now. You told Amber you're ready. It's been four years, damn it. You're supposed to be over it. What happened to time heals all wounds?

All this time, you thought you were scared of seeing Tashi again after beating her in '06. It's only now, the crowd in your ears as your name is announced, that you realize how wrong you were. He's still there, in the back of your heart. Oh, how that bit of flesh has been carved out over the years of your brief life. How it still beats, after all the shit you've put it through, only to make him proud. Could you ever make him proud again?

The only thing you could hear was your heartbeat. Thump, thump, thump, thump.

A tennis ball soars over the polyethylene net in a perfect arch. Long-loved Chanel tennis sneakers skid across the clay ground, arm slicing through the tension and humidity in the air. Thwack! The ball is launched back to Tashi Duncan. "Come on. Not good enough."

Then, the hitch of your breath; a sharp intake like more air in your lungs would be the thing to save you.

Sweat drips from your brow to your cheekbone, sliding down like a tear. From the back of your neck down your spine like a chill. Even from this distance, you can see the drops slide down her temples and the slope of her chin. Another crack emanates from her racket. You brace for impact. You see your father behind the net.

The court ground under your feet scraping. The sound of skin ripping open in thousands of tiny cuts, the cccccrrrrrrrrack! of bone. Bone. The gasps of the crowd. The crack of bone. Thump, thump, thump, thump.

Then, the only thing anyone can hear is the shriek of your cry.

Next Last

[azrielbrainrot]

Darling, I'd Wait for You, Even If You Didn't Ask Me To

Pairing: Band!member!Azriel x College!Student!Reader

Description: You have a really bad day and Azriel is there to help you through it.

Warnings: A little angst

Word Count: 4328

Notes: I don't know how I feel about this one but this is an important moment in their relationship. Hope you enjoy!

Band AU masterlist

It feels like you are running on autopilot as you climb the steps to Azriel's apartment floor, not even waiting for the elevator. The only thing your body seems to be concerned with is delivering you to your destination before it gives out, whatever it takes. You and Azriel got really close ever since you met him almost two months ago, still, this might be too much to drop on him. You're not even sure why you decided to come to him instead of Viviane but it had been your first thought, your only thought in fact.

Your mind only starts catching up to you after you knock on his door too hard with your cold hands, the pain giving you a moment of clarity long enough to realize the voice you hear behind the door isn't Azriel's but his roommate's. This makes you take notice of yourself. You must look like a trainwreck with your tear streaked face and damp clothes from the rain, holding onto your duffel bag like it's your last lifeline.

However, you don't have time to try to make yourself more presentable before Cassian opens the door. The smile that seems to always be glued to his face drops as soon as he takes you in, saying your name in question. You're not sure if it's because of the emotional overload you're going through or if it's just surprise and embarrassment at being caught like this, but you just stare at him, unable to move your body or form any words in response.

He's quick to pull you into the apartment, closing the door behind you. Cassian is a lovely guy but the truth is you don't know him that well, only met him a couple of times, you feel guilty that he had to see you like this. When you decided to come here you didn't remember he and Azriel lived together, didn't even think of the possibility of running into anyone besides him. It might have not even been a conscious decision, your heart felt like it was shattering into a million pieces and by the time your mind thought of going to Azriel, your body seemed to already be taking you his way.

“Are you okay?” He grabs your shoulders and looks you up and down, making sure you're not physically injured. You can't be sure but you're positive you didn't do anything besides look at him wide eyed.

He takes the heavy duffel bag off your shoulder and it's only then your arm feels the effort it took to carry it for the entire way, it was surely going to be sore the next day. You vaguely hear him call Azriel's name but it only registers when you see him come out of his bedroom, looking scared and confused.

As if your previous impression hadn't been bad enough, you run to him and wrap your arms around his waist as soon as you see him, burying your face in his chest and letting your tears finally fall freely. He's frozen for a second, not sure of what is happening, but he wraps his arms around you promptly. Unfortunately, this only makes you sob and shake harder into him.

Azriel was having a hard time trying to figure out what to do, it isn't every day that his friends run to him in tears, holding onto him like their life depends on it. He hasn't known you for that long either, doesn't really know how to best console you so he decides it's best to let you cry it out before trying to talk to you and it seems like you intend to do it into his shirt.

Your sobs were getting louder and you were shaking so much with each one that he's convinced your body wouldn't be able to keep you upright if it wasn't for him. Nodding at a wide eyed Cassian, he pretty much picks you up off the floor and takes you to the privacy of his room. Sitting down on the bed with you on his lap and just stroking your head, hoping it helps you at least a little.

After what must have been close to an hour, you start coming to little by little, vaguely aware that Azriel had moved you and was murmuring softly that it's going to be okay, finally letting yourself think back on what happened. You've been dreading break all semester for this exact reason. You knew the moment you stepped foot back in your hometown, you wouldn't be able to push the situation to the back of your mind anymore.

As soon as you left the train station, you got in an uber directly to Eleanor's house, not even stopping by your parent's house to greet them or drop off your bag. Even before arriving you knew the conversation was only going to hurt you but you couldn't have predicted how much. You only faintly remember her cries for forgiveness as you left her house in a rush, you remember the anger you felt as you heard her begging as if she wasn't the one who hurt you.

Eventually the sobs shaking your body subside and you're left holding onto Azriel. Your body was starting to scream at you for being in the same position for so long so you move your hands from where they were clinging to his shirt, pull your face back from the now damp fabric, cringing softly at the feeling and darker patch you leave behind, and move to wrap your arms around his neck instead, straightening your back and leaning your head on his shoulder. Letting out a soft sigh when his hand moves with you, stroking your back comfortingly.

“Do you feel better now?” You can feel him talking with how close you're pressing to him. You're a bit embarrassed by the position, sitting on his lap and clinging to him so much, but the comfort it's giving you far outweighs it and, in this moment, you just can't bring yourself to care. You just nod in response to his question.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He squeezes a little harder when he feels you tense up slightly. It's not that you don't want to tell him but talking about everything just makes it even more real. “You don't have to. I can just keep holding you for as long as you need me to.”

Your heart flutters in your chest. Azriel has a beautiful voice, one you're currently hearing whispering softly in your ear, and a way with words, you'd expect nothing less from a songwriter really. Still, sometimes it made your body all tingly and you were left wondering if you were reading too much into things or if there was more at play between you two. You can't deny that your relationship is different from any other you've ever had, you've never felt this comfortable with someone so quickly.

Letting out another sigh, you pull away from him enough to see his face. Regardless of what he says, you can't actually stay wrapped in his arms and ignore the truth forever. You catch his eyes for the first time tonight and the concern you see in them has you trying to pull yourself together. You don't want to worry him too much, you'd hate to think he was sad because of you. It's bad enough you ruined his night. And Cassian's. You'll have to apologize to his roommate the next time you see him.

It takes you a lot more effort than it should, but you move away from him, unwrapping your arms from around him and sliding off his lap. He lets you, not moving from his position against the headboard, only flexing his hands as if he wanted to reach out when he takes a look at you. You run your hand over your face trying to catch any lingering tears and over your hair, it's still damp from the rain. Gods, you don't know what you were thinking.

“Did I ever tell you about Eleanor?” You know the answer already. Before this whole situation you probably would have found a way to mention her with any new friend you made, she was such an integral part of your life, but now you avoided even saying her name out loud. He shakes his head, straightening himself and staring into your eyes, listening intently.

“Me and Eleanor met when we were kids, we've been friends ever since,” you have to clench your eyes to avoid any more tears at the thought, “She was my best friend. I never thought it would get to this.” You would have believed almost anything over this actually.

“I had this boyfriend through the last years of high school - Parker. I broke up with him right after graduation. I was moving here for university and, honestly, I think I was dating him out of habit at that point. The breakup didn't really affect me much, I was excited to start over in Velaris so I wasn't thinking about it.” You look down at your hands, this is the first time you're telling anyone all of this. “But a few months ago, I got a call from my mom telling me Eleanor and Parker were dating. I was confused because me and El were still talking almost every day and a little hurt that out of everyone she chose him, without at least warning me. I thought it had to be a lie or misunderstanding.”

“I called her asking about it and she confirmed it. That was the last time we talked until today.” You look back up at him, almost forgetting he was there. Actually saying these things out loud was strangely cathartic. “I've been ignoring it the whole semester, I knew knowing more was going to be more painful but I had no more excuses when I went home for break,” you let out a weak sigh, “I went to her house and she told me they only started dating after we broke up,” you can't help the pathetic tremble in your voice, “she said they've been in love since we were dating but they didn't want to hurt me so they didn't say anything. She almost made it sound like they were doing me a favor.”

You get up from the bed, your sadness turning into anger. “I'm not even sure how long they've been fucking behind my back. She told me they only kissed at a couple parties when they were drunk but she was hiding this whole thing from me for months at least so who knows what else she lied about. And if they were in love with each other the whole time me and Parker were together then they must have at least talked about it. I can't even trust her. She was my best friend and I can't even trust her.” You're probably pacing like a crazy person around his room but with everything he's seen in the last hour, you can't even be bothered by it. “Gods, I'm such an idiot.”

“You're not an idiot.” You look back at him. His voice had an edge you've never heard on him before, his words coming out clipped behind a tense jaw. He was angry. “You didn't do anything wrong. She's a bad friend.” Something tells you he had to choose his words and ended up at the least offensive one, not the one he would have prefered to use.

You have to swallow down the instinct to defend her. Azriel was right. What she did to you was awful. She shouldn't have treated you like this, shouldn't have helped your boyfriend cheat on you, even if nothing had happened physically, and definitely shouldn't have pushed you aside so easily, ignoring your almost two decades of friendship over a boy.

You feel your shoulders sag a little, your angry outburst had burned the rest of your energy. It seems Azriel noticed it too because he gets up from the bed and walks over to where you're standing in the middle of his room, reaching out to grab your hand.

“You need to forget about it. They're not worth your tears.” The feeling of his rough skin playing your fingers distracts you momentarily.

“That's easier said than done.” Forgetting Eleanor would be impossible, she's part of your history, and, as much you hate to admit it, so would be forgetting Parker, he was your first boyfriend after all.

“Trust me, I know,” he looks down at your intertwined hands, seemingly lost in his own thoughts, “But lingering in the past doesn't help with anything. You need to let yourself feel it and then move on.” He looks back up at you and touches your cheek softly, wiping at the tears still staining your face. “And it feels like you've felt it enough for today.”

“You're right. It's late I should-”

“I'm not kicking you out,” his face breaks out in a tentative smile, “I'll go get your bag so you can change, your clothes are still damp. Don't want you to get sick. Then we'll get you some food, alright?” You can only nod. Coming here was the right decision, he was being incredibly gentle and caring with you.

He brings you your bag and takes you to the bathroom, telling you to change and clean yourself off a little, disappearing back into his room right after. As soon as you see your face in the mirror you realize he was being nice in his assessment, your entire face was puffy. Even after giving it a good wash you still looked like a mess. It truly looked like you cried your heart out, you suppose you did.

You also use this time to call your mom quickly and let her know you'll be coming home the next day instead. She had probably heard that you had come and gone already because she doesn't even question your decision or the way your voice cracks, small towns are both a blessing and a curse. You wonder what everyone in town was saying now that your ex boyfriend was dating your best friend. You gather your things to move back to Azriel's bedroom before your thoughts catch up to you. He's right, you've cried enough for today, cried a lot more than those two deserve as well.

Looking at yourself in the mirror one more time, you take a deep breath before joining him in his room again. Now that you've settled down more you're not really sure what to do or say. He drops his phone and stands up as soon as he sees you, walking over to take your bag from you and placing it on top of a chair. He changed out of the shirt you covered in tears and snot, you barely noticed since it was the same color as before but this one is tighter, it strains against his back and biceps enough that you have to look away.

With everything going on, you hadn't even looked around his room before. It was fairly simple and organized, the dark furniture and paintings fit his aesthetic in general and the navy comforter and curtains combo contrasted beautifully with the white walls. The low lights cast shadows around, making the room feel cozier too, you could see yourself spending days in here. You notice a couple notebooks sitting on his desk that you suspect he might use to write songs but his bass is missing.

“What?” Your confusion must have shown on your face because he looked more than amused at your obvious snooping.

“Your bass isn't here.”

“We practice upstairs in Rhys' penthouse so I just leave it there most times.” He says walking to the door. “Let's find you something to eat.” You nod before following him.

“You all live close to each other then.” You haven't seen them interact too much but it's obvious how close and comfortable they are with each other, brotherly even.

“Rhys' father owns the whole building,” he chuckles a little at your wide eyed expression, “he rented us this apartment for probably half what everyone else pays.” You look around on your way to what you can see now is the kitchen. It's a big space with high ceilings and lots of windows. You don't even want to think how rich Rhysand's father must be to own such a building.

“It's a really nice apartment.” You take a seat at one of the tall chairs around the kitchen table. The kitchen alone was probably bigger than your own bedroom, even the furniture felt expensive not to mention the marble countertops.

Thinking about it now, it makes sense that Azriel and Cassian couldn't really afford this big of an apartment in such a nice place in the city with their jobs at the record store and the gym, especially with how much you know they invest in their band.

“Yeah.” He opens his fridge and looks inside, trying to find anything to eat. Your stomach finally makes itself known at the thought, you haven't eaten since before the train ride to your hometown. “You should see the view from the top of the building though. It's the best part, I'll take you there sometime.” You watch him give up on his search and open the freezer instead.

“Is this okay?” He holds up a frozen pizza and you nod immediately. You have the same one sitting in your own freezer right now. You do find it cute how it seems like he's a little disappointed that this is the only thing he has to feed you right now. He looks like he was ready to cook you a five course meal.

“More than okay,” you give him a smile and keep talking as he moves to get it prepared, feeling the tension leave your body bit by bit the more you talk to him, “Did Cassian leave?”

“He's probably with Rhys up in his apartment.”

“I feel like I should apologize to him.” You can't imagine the emotions going through him at seeing a girl he barely knows show up crying at his doorstep. “I think I almost gave him a heart attack.”

“You don't have to worry about it,” he comes and sits across from you. “I told him you were feeling better before he left.” That had to have happened while you were in the bathroom. You don't know how good the soundproofing is around the house since you didn't even hear him leave but you hope he at least didn't hear you sobbing for an hour and the short outburst that followed. It's enough that Azriel witnessed it first hand.

“Maybe I should apologize to you too,” you find yourself twirling your thumbs to avoid his gaze, “that was… a lot,” you finish sheepishly.

“You don't have to thank me for anything.” Your eyes find his again, you've found it's hard to look away from him for long, especially if he's talking to you. Azriel is incredibly captivating, even under these fluorescent lights.

“I showed up at your doorstep out of nowhere and just cried my eyes out for over an hour,” you look over to the pizza getting ready in the oven, “and now you're even making me dinner.”

“You can show up at my door every day if you want. I'd rather you weren't crying but if that's what you need then I’ll be here,” the smile he gives you should be illegal, it's almost tempting you to do exactly as he says. “And I'll make you dinner as many times as you want me to,” he looks over to the oven just like you had done before, “I'm not sure this counts as cooking anyway.”

You want to tell him you don't remember the last time someone took care of you so attentively and effortlessly, that not everyone is this compassionate, but decide against it. After dinner comes out of the oven, you busy yourself with eating while Azriel tells you more about the band and their next concert, he's letting you take a breather and leads the conversation, something you're not sure he's used to doing and appreciate immensely.

When you're done and he's cleaning up things, you watch him awkwardly. You didn't have a plan when you came here at all but you definitely didn't expect to stay so long, don't really know what to do or say now after everything is done. It's getting late too so you should really leave and make your way back to your apartment. You cringe softly at the thought of having to go back there after telling your roommate that you wouldn't be back for another couple weeks, she probably took the chance to bring her boyfriend over.

“Come on,” Azriel says as he pats your shoulder softly, telling you to follow him to his bedroom. He probably has work tomorrow as well, you're being a nuisance. You speak up when you get to his bedroom, looking at his comfortable looking bed wistfully.

“I should go home now,” you look over at your bag, not looking forward to carrying it again, “It's getting late.”

“You can stay here,” he looks a little confused, like he had expected you to stay already.

“No, it's fine.” You'd love to stay with him, at least so you knew you wouldn't end up crying in your bed alone while trying not to listen to your roommate and her boyfriend. “My apartment isn't far.”

“I'm not letting you go anywhere.” He reaches up to stroke your cheek, examining your face with a slight pained expression. You hadn't stopped to think about it yet but it seems it's going to take some time before he forgets you sobbing in his arms, these soft touches and worried looks might linger a little. You wonder how your heart is going to handle them, you already have to tell yourself not to let these things get to you too much, that he's only doing them out of friendship, on a regular basis.

“If you think it's not a bother.”

“You could never be a bother.” When his band makes it big there are probably going to be thousands of people that will put up posters of this same smile in their room, you feel blessed to be able to witness it in real time and so intimately.

“We have a guest room but it's full of stuff,” he says as he rubs the back of his neck and looks over in what you assume is the direction of the room he's talking about. He looks a little embarrassed and it makes you wonder just how much and what kind of stuff he's talking about. “I'll stay there so you can sleep here. It's more comfortable anyway.”

“No,” you can't make him sleep in the guest room in his own house after everything he has done for you today, “You stay here, it's your room. I can even stay on the couch, I can sleep anywhere.” After this whole day, you think you could even sleep on the floor.

“I want you to stay here. You need to rest properly.”

“Then…” You let your words trail off. You've already asked so much of him but the way he's looking at you patiently has you working up the courage to make one more request, possibly the biggest one. “Can we both stay here? I'd rather not be alone honestly,” something you can't identify shifts in his eyes and it makes you rush to assure him, “only if you're comfortable that is.”

“I should be the one asking you that.” Did his voice get deeper? It feels like it.

“I don't mind.” You feel more than comfortable with him, you would trust him with your life really.

The problem is trying not to get flustered at just the thought of sleeping next to him. You had spent a good while cuddling up to him, sitting on his lap, but it had been the last thing on your mind. Now, as soon as you feel him lay down next to you and pull the covers over the both of you, laying facing you, he's the only thing in your mind.

He watches you for a second, studying your reactions to him, before reaching out to you and holding your waist softly. You nod instantly, but it's only after he pulls you closer to him that you realize this is what he meant. He lays down on his back and you lay your head down on his chest, letting your hand rest on his torso tentatively.

The moon and the few lights filtering through the window cast a bluish glow around his room and the soft beat of his heart starts lulling you to sleep almost immediately. It makes you relax further in his hold, shifting slightly to find the perfect spot against him.

“You're warm,” you mumble sleepily. He only hums in response, tucking you better in his sheets. It makes you smile against his chest.

You want to tell him it would be impossible to get cold when he's as warm as a furnace, that you usually don't wear sweatpants to bed either but, by the way he had awkwardly looked for clothes to sleep in earlier, you think he probably would be wearing a lot less if it weren't for you too. You really wouldn't mind feeling his skin on yours but you appreciate the thought.

“Sleep now, princess,” he murmurs as he leans down to kiss your forehead softly. Princess? Your heart stutters in your chest but you're so tired that your body obeys him almost immediately, not giving you time to linger on the kiss or the nickname. And as you're laying in his arms, you don't feel so lost anymore.

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