#wow this got. longer than i expected it too

[livingthedragonlife]

i want to talk about the mimic chapter!!!!

kui is a genius at weaving overarching story themes and character themes and arcs and details into every chapter, but i love the way it happens in the mimic chapter the most.

the first thing that happens is chilchuck noticing the possibility of a mimic. he notices it instantly, because he remembers what the room looked like the last time the party was there. it's a great demonstration of how perceptive he is, and how seriously he takes his job... but he doesn't tell anybody.

the party could be in danger, there's a monster right around the corner, but he assumes (rightly, but still) that laios and senshi would only want to eat it and marcille would be mad at him for bringing it up. so he says nothing. out of sight, out of mind, ignoring the problem will have Zero lasting consequences. his emotional unavailability demonstrated right after, in a way that feels so seamless!!!

later, he wakes up marcille before he goes to refill his waterskin, but when he gets trapped in the mimic room, he assumes she fell asleep right after he left and therefore can't help him. he finds out later that he's wrong. marcille stayed awake to wait for him and woke up laios and senshi when he didn't come back. they were a little bit late, but chilchuck could have relied on his party members to be there for him, but assumed they wouldn't. he thinks quick on his feet, he figures out the puzzle in the room really fast, but he doesn't come out of it unscathed. he relies only on himself, and it almost got him killed.

obviously getting killed isn't too big a deal in the dungeon, but the point is that chilchuck put himself through unnecessary strife that could have been solved easily if they had just taken out the mimic right when they got into the room together—if he had told them there was danger in the first place. and the mimic turned out to be delicious anyway!!!!

BUT. THEN. when he finally DOES decide to be vulnerable, having learned this lesson, and tells everyone how old he is... they laugh. they still treat him like a child. they don't understand, they assume he's just as young as they did before.

this gets solved too, when he tells them about his family after the griffon/hippogriff fight. and sure, if he had been more open and vulnerable about having a family from the start, he wouldn't have to keep explaining that he's not a child only for them not to listen. but no wonder he doesn't!! no wonder he kept quiet when the one time he tried to open up, he got laughed at anyway! and that's just THIS PARTY, we know he's been through some shit with other parties—he formed a whole union about it

just!!!!!! all the actions from all the characters make sense if you look at it from their perspective, and it's all weaved so delicately into the storytelling you don't even realize how much you're absorbing about the world and the characters. chef's kiss.

[gyugraphy]

between book pages and baked pies (r.r.)

summary : He came in on Thursdays. Always looking for new books to read. Always smiled like he didn’t quite belong anywhere. Then, you asked him to pretend to be your boyfriend for one night. And he said yes.

Then you found out he’s the Sentry —

and suddenly, pretending doesn’t feel so simple anymore.

pairing : robert 'bob' reynolds x reader / sentry x reader

content : basically just fluff, fakedating!au, fakeboyfriend!au

warnings : none

word count : 7k

Thursday, 10:43 am.

You glance up, and there he is.

You’ve seen him before. Always on Thursdays, always around the same time. Always with that same energy — like he doesn’t quite belong to this world, or maybe just doesn’t expect to be noticed in it.

He has messy hair, a too-worn jacket, and the kind of posture that says please don’t ask me anything, but I’m also not in a hurry to leave.

Today, for the first time, he meets your eyes.

You smile. “Back again. That’s three Thursdays in a row.”

He blinks, like he’s surprised you’ve been keeping count.

“…I like it here,” he says, voice quiet but not shy. Just gentle.

“Most people say that when they’re avoiding something,” you joke lightly, leaning your elbows on the counter. “Bad day?”

He shrugs. “It’s a day.”

Fair.

He heads toward the fantasy section, the same corner he always drifts to. You try not to stare — you really do — but it’s hard not to watch the way he slows down at the shelves like they’re familiar terrain.

After a few minutes, he returns with two paperbacks — both epic fantasy, both with weathered covers and dramatic titles like The Hollow Crown and Ash and Sovereign.

You ring them up, sneaking a glance. “You like the ones where the world almost ends?”

He gives a faint smile. “Sometimes I like when it doesn’t.”

You pause, curious. “You a writer?”

He shakes his head. “No. Just… a fan.”

“I get it,” you say, handing him the bag. “Books are a safer way to live dangerously.”

He smiles at that. A little more real.

Then, on impulse, you ask, “So, what do you do?”

He hesitates just a second longer than most people would.

“…Sometimes I help save the world,” he says, deadpan.

You blink. And then you laugh, because there’s something about the way he says it — so dry and sincere — that it’s obviously a joke. Or at least… you think it is.

“Wow,” you grin. “That’s bold. You a firefighter or a Marvel cosplayer?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Something like that.”

You hand him his receipt, eyes narrowing playfully. “Well, mysterious world-saver, if you ever want book recommendations, let me know. We’ve got a great section for heroes with identity crises.”

He nods, turning toward the door. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He’s almost gone when he pauses and looks back.

“What’s your name?” he asks you, and you tell him.

He nods once. “I’m Bob.”

Then he’s gone.

The bell chimes again — sharper this time. Final.

You stand there for a moment, watching the door swing closed behind him. Then you shake your head and go back to restocking the display.

Still, for some reason, you keep thinking about him.

Bob.

⋆˙⟡

Your phone lights up with the most dangerous contact in your list: Mom.

You stare at it for a second, debating whether to let it go to voicemail.

Then you sigh, hit accept, and brace yourself.

“Hi, sweetheart!” your mom’s voice practically sings as you answer. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten how to use a phone.”

You smile, mouth full of lukewarm noodles. “Hi, Mom. You called me yesterday.”

“I know, I just missed you. So sue me.”

There’s a beat where you brace yourself. And sure enough—

“So, listen,” she continues, far too casually. “Next Saturday we’re doing dinner at our place. Just the usual — your aunts, cousins, possibly Grandma if we can coax her out of her crosswords. Nothing formal, but, you know, nice.”

“Mmhmm.” You sip your drink, waiting.

“We were thinking 6 o’clock. And of course we’ll do something vegetarian for you—oh, and listen, your cousin Chelsea is bringing that new boyfriend. Super cute. Works in finance. Wears suits on weekends. Can you imagine?”

There it is.

“Anyway,” she adds, far too lightly, “I just thought I’d ask — are you seeing anyone these days? Anyone worth bringing?”

You snort. “Bringing where? Into the lion’s den of a family dinner?”

“Oh come on,” she laughs. “We’re not that bad.”

You give her a look she can’t see. “Last time Aunt Diane tried to set me up with her neighbor’s chiropractor, and Uncle Marty asked if I’d frozen my eggs.”

“She meant well. He didn’t, but—still.”

You roll your eyes. “No, Mom. I’m not bringing anyone.”

“You’re not?” Her voice dips into gentle disappointment. “Not even just as a friend? You have such a sweet personality. I feel like people must just gravitate to you.”

You hum noncommittally, casually glancing toward your bookshelf. Your eyes drift to the spot where you keep returns and holds — including two fantasy books still waiting for a certain quiet customer to pick up.

You think of Bob, his soft smile, the way he said “Sometimes I help save the world” like it wasn’t even strange.

But you say nothing.

“Anyway,” your mom chirps on. “No pressure. Just… you know. You’re not getting any less amazing with time.”

“That’s not how time works, Mom.”

“Semantics. Just let me know, okay? We’ll keep a seat open. Just in case.”

You sigh and mutter, “Okay.”

She’s already launching into a story about a raccoon in the neighbor’s shed by the time you close your eyes and groan into your throw pillow.

You definitely don’t have a date.

You definitely don’t need one.

…But your brain is already wondering what Bob looks like when he’s not rain-damp and bookstore quiet.

⋆˙⟡

Tuesday, 11:07 am.

The bell over the door rings, and — like clockwork — you glance up.

There he is.

Bob.

Same as always, but also… not. His jacket’s still weathered, but he looks a little more put-together today. Hair slightly neater. Like maybe he didn’t get caught in a wind tunnel on the way over. Less cryptid, more mysterious traveler passing through town.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just gives a quick scan of the room before heading straight for the back... for the fantasy section. His usual.

You try not to smile.

Try.

“Tuesday this time?” you call out from behind the counter, tone light. “Switching it up?”

Bob glances over, mouth tugging up slightly. “Had some time.”

You nod, watching as his hand drifts over the table display near the entrance — new paperbacks, some with gold foil titles and overdramatic taglines. He doesn’t stop there long. Just a brush of his fingers across the covers before moving on.

“You sure it’s not just the emotionally damaged swordsmen calling to you again?” you add, moving toward a nearby shelf with a stack of returns.

He raises a brow, pausing in front of a familiar book. “Maybe I like consistency.”

“Bold choice in this economy.”

That gets you a huff of amusement, soft and unexpected.

He picks up The Lantern War — you know the one. Mid-trilogy. Sad prince. Betrayals. You’ve read it twice and cried both times. He opens it, flipping through the first few pages with surprising care, like he’s searching for something he might have missed the last time he held it.

You lean against a nearby shelf, casually.

“You know,” you begin, tone half-teasing, “you don’t talk much, but you’ve got this whole mysterious loner with a tragic past thing going on.”

Bob looks up — startled, but not annoyed. Just a little caught off guard.

“People pay for that kind of vibe on dating apps,” you add quickly, before you lose your nerve.

He blinks.

You wince. “Sorry. That was weird. I’ve just… been talking to my mom too much lately. She’s on this campaign to get me to bring someone to a family dinner and now I think I’m starting to project ‘potential boyfriend material’ onto every semi-normal customer.”

Bob doesn’t laugh, exactly — but something close. A breath. A smile. Small and real.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says, gently placing the book under his arm.

You nod. “It was meant to be one.”

The air shifts then. Not awkward — not yet — but quieter. You both stand there for a beat too long, not speaking. The store is still around you: soft music playing low, dust motes catching in the light near the windows, the occasional creak of the building settling. Cozy, lived-in quiet.

You watch him for a second longer than you should.

He always lingers when he’s here. Not like he’s killing time. Like he’s… catching his breath.

You don’t say it — not aloud, not now. But something clicks. The beginnings of an idea. Stupid, insane, utterly desperate.

Still.

As he approaches the counter, you glance at him sideways.

He wouldn’t. That’s insane. Would he?

He pays in cash, always cash, and nods politely.

“Thanks,” he says.

“See you Thursday?” you ask, voice light, playful.

He pauses, then shrugs. “Maybe.”

You watch him step back out into the sunlight, his silhouette framed by the door before it swings closed behind him. The bell chimes again. He disappears down the street, a figure in motion.

And you’re still watching the door when the next customer steps up and gently clears their throat.

Right. Work.

You turn back to the register, hands moving automatically — scanning books, making small talk — but your brain’s somewhere else.

⋆˙⟡

“Hi, honey!” she sings the second you answer. “Don’t panic — this is not a ‘guilt you into bringing a boyfriend’ call.”

You snort. “You literally said the word ‘boyfriend’ in the first sentence.”

“Okay, technically,” she says, unfazed, “but I’m just calling about the family dinner this Saturday.”

You sigh and lean against the counter. “I know, I know. 6 p.m., casserole, deeply invasive questions from Aunt Diane—”

“Oh, speaking of Aunt Diane,” she says sweetly, which should’ve been your warning, “she knows this great guy from her pickleball league—works in insurance, divorced once, only a little bitter. She wants to bring him to dinner for you to meet.

Your stomach sinks.

You stare at your fridge like it might offer an escape hatch.

“I—Mom, no.”

“Well, honey,” she says, trying for innocent, “you haven’t said you’re bringing anyone. And if you’re still single—”

“I’m not.”

Silence.

Your heart drops into your socks. You scramble.

“I mean. I am. Seeing someone. Kind of. It’s been, like, a month.”

A pause. Too long.

“You are?” she says slowly.

You wince. “Yeah. I didn’t want to bring him because, you know, the whole interrogation-by-relatives thing. I didn’t want to scare him off. He’s… kind of shy.”

Your mom gasps like you just told her she’s finally getting a grandchild.

“Oh my god, why didn’t you tell me sooner?! What’s he like? Is he nice? Where did you meet? Does he like dogs?”

“Mom, calm down,” you say quickly, pacing now. “He’s just… quiet. And really kind. And, you know. Nice.”

You mentally kick yourself.

“Well, now you have to bring him,” she insists. “If he’s already survived a month with you, he’s clearly got staying power.”

You laugh sharply. “Gee, thanks.”

She chuckles. “I’m just saying — you never bring anyone. This is a big deal.”

You force a smile into your voice. “Let me talk to him first, okay? I’ll see if he’s up for it.”

“Promise me you’ll try.”

“…Promise.”

You hang up, staring at your reflection in the microwave door.

Mouth open. Brain screaming.

You just fake-dated someone in a conversation.

Now all you have to do is actually find someone to play the boyfriend you’ve apparently been dating for a month.

You think of Bob. The quiet guy who reads about broken heroes and once joked about saving the world.

And for some godforsaken reason…

…you think he might actually say yes.

⋆˙⟡

Thursday, 12:45 pm

It’s raining again.

Of course it is.

A slow, steady drizzle beads against the front windows, softening the city outside into watercolor shapes. Inside, the shop smells like paper and cedar polish, with a hint of peppermint from the tin you cracked open after lunch. A jazz cover of something vaguely familiar plays from the old speakers near the register, barely audible over the patter of rain and your quiet muttering.

“Two days late on the shipment, again, and if they swap my fantasy order with true crime one more time—” you grumble under your breath, balancing a stack of returns against your hip as you shuffle toward the front display. “Who even wants twelve copies of Stabbing for Dummies?”

You sigh, crouch to fit the bottom shelf, and toss a glance at the fogged-up door.

“I swear, if one more teenager asks where we keep the smut, I’m moving to the mountains. I’ll sell rocks. I’ll become a rock girl.”

The bell above the door chimes.

Right on cue.

You straighten just a little too fast and nearly drop a paperback. “Welcome in,” you call absently, trying to sound composed — but you already know.

It’s him.

You don’t need to look.

Still, you do — and there he is.

Bob stands just inside the doorway, rain misted in his hair, the shoulders of his dark green hoodie slightly damp beneath a black denim jacket. His jeans are worn in the knees. The laces of his boots are uneven. He looks like he walked through the rain on purpose, like the storm outside didn’t even try to stop him.

There’s a quietness to him that doesn’t feel awkward anymore. Just familiar.

“Back to your usual Thursday shift?” you ask, setting a book down and turning toward him fully now.

He gives a one-shoulder shrug. “It felt wrong not to.”

There’s something steadier about him today. He still carries that bone-deep kind of tired — like his body’s been holding something heavy for too long — but his gaze doesn’t flick away as fast when your eyes meet. He lets the quiet settle for a beat before moving deeper into the store.

You catch yourself smoothing your shirt before following him.

“Let me guess,” you say as he veers toward the back. “Fantasy section?”

“Always.”

You trail a few paces behind, grabbing a book that’s been reshelved in the wrong genre. There’s no one else in the store right now. Just the two of you, and the occasional whisper of rain against the windows.

He stops in front of a display and picks up The Sword Beneath the Throne. Studies the cover like it holds some secret he hasn’t cracked yet.

You rest your elbow against a shelf. “That one’s going to wreck you emotionally,” you warn, teasing. “But, you know. In a noble sacrifice kind of way.”

Bob glances over. “Good to know.”

You hesitate — just for a second. Then you inhale, let the moment linger, and say: “Hey… can I ask you something kind of weird?”

His eyes shift to yours — cautious, but open.

“Sure.”

You clear your throat, suddenly aware of every sound in the store. “So… hypothetically,” you begin, with what you hope is a breezy tone, “if someone were being — let’s say — aggressively pressured by their entire family to bring a boyfriend to a dinner—like, a big one—”

“Okay,” he says slowly, still holding the book.

“And they may or may not have panicked and told said family they’d already been dating someone for a month… someone who does not, technically, exist—”

Bob’s brow arches slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Go on."

“Would it be completely unhinged to ask you to maybe… pretend to be that person? Just for a night. Three hours max. There’s pie.”

Silence.

Bob doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t recoil.

He just watches you.

And you, of course, rush in to fill the quiet.

“I know it’s weird. And probably creepy. And I swear I’m not dangerous. You don’t even really know me. But you’re the only person I know who could pull off being quiet and normal enough to not scare my mom or make my aunts think I’m secretly dating a war criminal.”

His expression shifts — thoughtful now, not unreadable. Still holding the book, but not looking at it anymore.

“And if it helps,” you add quickly, “I already told them you’re shy. So you wouldn’t even have to say much. Just… look human. Maybe compliment the stuffing. Smile once. Pretend I’m charming.”

He tilts his head slightly.

“You want me to pretend to be your boyfriend?”

“Just for a night,” you say. “No pressure. No long con. Just mashed potatoes and survival.”

“…Because your mom threatened you with a pickleball player.”

You blink. “Wait. How do you—?”

“You talk while you shelve books,” he says simply, mouth quirking. “I pick things up.”

You gape at him for a beat. Then snort.

And then laugh. A real one. It escapes before you can stop it — bright and ridiculous and yours.

Bob… smiles.

It’s small. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it thing. But it’s there.

“So?” you say, biting your lip. “Would you consider it? I can’t offer much. Just pie. And probably embarrassing levels of gratitude.”

He sets the book down.

Looks at you.

A long moment passes.

“Okay,” he says.

You blink. “Wait — really?”

He nods, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Why not.”

“You didn’t even ask what kind of pie.”

“I trust your judgment.”

You squint at him. “You’re either the nicest person alive, or wildly unhinged yourself.”

Bob shrugs. “Can’t it be both?”

Something in your chest tightens — in a good way.

“Dinner’s Saturday,” you say softly. “At my parents’. Here's... the address?” you added as you handed him a yellow post-it note with your parent's address in red ink, which was actually written not even ten minutes before.

You wrote it thinking that there's an 80% chance he'll accept it.

And he actually did.

He nods. “Should I wear something nice?”

“Honestly,” you say, “if you show up looking like less of a cryptid than usual, my family will be thrilled.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

He turns to leave, hood pulled up lazily as he disappears into the rainy street — a figure blurred by drizzle and glass.

And you?

You stand behind the counter, staring after him.

Your hands are a little shaky. Not from nerves.

From relief. And something else.

Excitement, maybe.

Because somehow, against all logic and odds —

Bob said yes.

⋆˙⟡

Saturday, 5:49 pm

“Not too much sugar,” your mom says over your shoulder, peeking into the mixing bowl as if she doesn’t trust you with a spoon.

You hold the measuring cup up dramatically. “Mom, you’ve raised me. If I die of poor pie proportions, it’s on you.”

She snorts and hands you the nutmeg. “Don’t tempt me.”

You smile, despite yourself. The kitchen is warm in that nostalgic way — cluttered, golden light filtering in through the curtains, something soft playing from the old speaker by the fridge. You’re elbow-deep in pie filling, sleeves rolled up, and trying not to think about how insane this all is.

You’ve told everyone you’ve been dating someone for a month.

That he’s meeting your family.

That he’s sweet and shy and real.

And in about fifteen minutes, Bob — your fake boyfriend — will be at the door.

You’re 85% sure he’ll show up. Maybe 90.

…Okay, 75.

“Do you need help with the crust?” your mom asks, and for once, she sounds like she’s trying not to pry.

You glance at her. She’s avoiding eye contact. She definitely wants to pry.

“Nope,” you say, pressing the dough into the pan. “Unless this is a metaphor for my love life, in which case, yeah, I could use a full support team.”

She hums noncommittally and starts slicing apples, her back to you.

“So,” she says, “you never told me how you met him.”

You hesitate. “The guy I’m—bringing tonight?”

She nods. “Mhm.”

You stall by rinsing your hands.

“It’s kind of a quiet story,” you say carefully. “We kept running into each other. Same place, same time. It just… kind of happened.”

“Hm.” She tosses apple slices into the bowl. “And you like him?”

You look down at the dough beneath your fingers. Think about his awkward smile. The way he listens like it costs him something. The warmth in his voice when he said, “Thanks for inviting me.”

You nod. “I think I do.”

Your mom looks over, something soft in her face now.

“Well,” she says gently, “I can’t wait to meet him.”

You smile and slide the pie into the oven just as the doorbell rings.

Your heart stops.

Your mom turns toward the sound.

You wipe your hands on a towel and take a breath.

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself, “moment of truth.”

You walk to the door.

And open it...

You expected nerves.

You did not expect him to look like this.

Bob stands on your porch like he walked out of a cologne ad and got lost on the way to GQ. His dark button-up is rolled at the sleeves, fitted just enough to draw attention to muscles he normally hides under worn hoodies. His hair—usually floppy and rain-wrecked—is now styled neatly back, just messy enough to look effortless.

You blink. “H-hi.”

He smiles—bashful, but sure of himself. “Hi.”

Before you can gather your thoughts or your dignity, he leans in and kisses you on the cheek. It’s warm, brief, but confident. His hand grazes your waist like muscle memory.

“I hope I’m not too early,” he murmurs.

“No—uh—no, perfect. You’re perfect. I mean, the timing. The timing is perfect.”

You step back to let him in, praying no one heard that.

As he crosses the threshold, he glances around, eyes scanning photos on the walls, shelves stacked with family memories. You take his coat. His scent lingers — fresh and faintly minty.

“My mom’s in the kitchen. Brace yourself.”

He chuckles. “Noted.”

You walk him into the war zone of casserole dishes and cousin chaos.

Your mom spots you both from the dining room and gasps like she’s just been cast on a reality show. “There he is! You must be Bob!”

Bob blinks for a moment, surprised she already knows his name. You shoot her a look that says Mom, please, I am begging.

He recovers quickly. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And polite!” she says, delighted, patting his arm like she’s already ordering him to call her ‘Mom’ by dessert.

Dinner unfolds in a blur. Plates are passed, stories fly around the table like darts, and somehow Bob navigates it like a pro. He even laughs at your uncle’s tired jokes. When your grandma comments on his posture, he adjusts with a quiet “Yes, ma’am” that makes her beam.

At one point, your youngest cousin, Milo, squints at him from across the table.

“You look really familiar,” Milo says, tilting his head.

You freeze mid-chew. Bob’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth.

“I get that a lot,” Bob says calmly.

Milo frowns. “Like, weirdly familiar. Like—superhero familiar.”

“Milo,” your mom cuts in, “eat your green beans.”

Milo shrugs but keeps sneaking glances.

You let out the breath you didn’t know you were holding.

And about halfway through dessert, something happens.

The TV is on behind your mom’s head, low volume. Just the news playing — no one’s really watching. Your dad’s closest to it, half turned in his chair, focused on his pie.

You’re listening to your aunt ramble about her new garden mulch when the news anchor’s voice shifts tone.

“—dramatic footage of the Thunderbolts’ mission this past Wednesday—”

Your brain barely registers it.

You glance at the screen.

Explosions. Screaming. Concrete cracking like bones.

A familiar flash of red and black—John Walker. Then Ghost phasing through debris.

And then—

Golden light. Blinding, unmistakable.

The Sentry.

A blurred shot becomes a close-up.

He’s floating mid-air. Hair wild, cape tattered, jaw clenched in focus. Glowing.

It’s not grainy enough to deny. The face is clear. The posture. The jawline.

You choke on your pie. Eyes widening.

Bob.

You snap your gaze toward him.

He doesn’t move, but his fork slowly lowers.

Your eyes dart to your dad. He’s starting to turn toward the screen.

Before he can react—click.

The TV cuts off.

Silence.

Your dad frowns. “Did the TV break again?”

Bob shrugs, wiping his mouth with his napkin.

Your relatives resume their conversations without a second thought. Bread is passed. Laughter resumes. No one’s the wiser.

Except for you.

And Milo, who is now staring at Bob with slack-jawed awe.

You place your fork down slowly. Your pulse is in your throat.

Bob meets your gaze across the table. Calm. Cautious.

You clear your throat.

“Hey,” you say sweetly, plastering on a smile. “Can you excuse us for a second? I just need to talk to my boyfriend for a minute.”

He rises without protest.

You grab his arm, steer him down the hallway... past photos of you in braces, past the coat rack, past everything normal, and into the dim, quiet hallway near the laundry room.

Then you turn, look up at him, and whisper—

“What the hell, Bob?”

You shut the door behind you.

Bob leans casually against the wall — too casually — like he isn’t literally the man you just saw hovering over a burning building on national television.

You cross your arms. “Okay. Start talking.”

He looks down at his hands, fingers laced. There’s a strange stillness to him, like he’s waiting for a storm he knows is coming.

“I didn’t lie,” he says quietly.

You stare. “Bob. I watched you on the news. You turned off my parents’ TV. With your mind.”

“I said I help people,” he replies, looking up at you now. Calm. Earnest. “Sometimes I help save the world.”

You gape. “I thought you meant you were a firefighter. Or a teacher! Or like, I don’t know, a really good therapist!”

He huffs a soft laugh. “Sorry. That probably would’ve been easier.”

“You’re—” You lower your voice, leaning in. “You’re The Sentry. You’re an actual Avenger. Or—Thunderbolt. Or—whatever the hell team you’re on.”

“Technically, I’m sort of on loan.”

You give him a look. “That's not the point.”

He’s quiet again. But not defensive. Not evasive. Just… waiting. Letting you process.

And you are processing.

All the little things you overlooked:

The quiet strength in how he moved.

The weird evasiveness.

The stormy energy he sometimes carried like he was trying to keep it bottled.

You exhale, the adrenaline finally catching up.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask, softer now.

“I didn’t want you to treat me differently,” he says. “I liked the bookstore. I liked that you didn’t know. You talked to me like I was just… Bob.”

You blink. “Is that your real name?”

“Yes.”

“And you really read fantasy novels?”

He actually smiles. “Especially the sad ones.”

You hesitate. Your heart is still pounding, but your voice softens even more.

“You came to dinner,” you murmur. “You sat through my uncle’s knee replacement story. You complimented my grandma’s brooch.”

He lifts a shoulder. “Wasn’t hard. I meant it.”

You stare at him.

The man who eats lemon muffins on Thursdays.

The man who shyly kissed your cheek.

The man who casually shut off a television with his brain.

You rub a hand over your face. “I dragged The Sentry into a fake dating scheme because my mom thinks I’m undateable.”

His voice is gentle. “You didn’t drag me. I said yes.”

You glance up at him. “Why?”

His gaze softens. “Because you asked.”

You swallow.

He takes a step closer. His voice lowers, almost shy again. “If you want to call this off now, I’ll understand. I’ll tell them we broke up before dessert. I can cry if it helps.”

You laugh — a short, startled sound — but it breaks some of the tension.

You look up at him. “You’d really do that?”

“I’m a very convincing fake ex.”

You’re quiet for a moment. He’s still standing there — not defensive, not cocky — just Bob. The same Bob who buys fantasy novels and waits for you to recommend the good ones.

The same Bob who just blew your entire reality to pieces.

And yet…

You find yourself saying, “Let’s just get through dessert.”

His brows raise slightly. “You sure?”

You nod. “We can panic later.”

He smiles. A real one. Small. Grateful.

“Okay,” he says. “Back to the pie.”

You nod, open the hallway door, and walk back toward the dining room together — fake-dating The Sentry, one awkward spoonful of whipped cream at a time.

You return to the dining room with Bob beside you, and despite the mini-crisis that just played out in the hallway, somehow… everything continues like nothing happened.

The pie’s been sliced. Plates passed around. The table is filled with the comforting hum of your family talking over each other, laughing, sneaking bites of dessert before their coffee cools.

Bob slips into his seat beside you, and when your mom asks if he wants whipped cream, he nods and says, “Yes, ma’am,” with a small smile.

She beams.

You stare at him for a second longer than you should.

He’s calm. Almost too calm. Like he’s pretending to be human in a sitcom, and somehow nailing the part.

Milo won’t stop glancing over, like he’s replaying the Thunderbolts footage in his head. But thankfully, he keeps his mouth shut.

You press your knee against Bob’s under the table.

He glances at you.

You mouth: Thank you.

He just nods.

⋆˙⟡

When the dishes are finally cleared and your aunts start hunting for their coats, you help your mom carry plates to the kitchen. She’s humming. Actually humming.

You try not to let guilt claw at your chest.

After a few minutes, coats are zipped, goodbyes are exchanged, and your mom pats Bob’s arm like he’s already part of the family. Your dad claps him on the back and says, “You handled the chaos pretty well, son. That’s promising.”

You’re still not sure whether that’s a compliment or a threat.

Finally, it’s just the two of you at the door.

You walk Bob out onto the porch. The sky’s dark, but the porch light gives his face a warm glow. You wrap your arms around yourself, partly from the cool air, partly because you don’t know what to do with them anymore.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly, leaning against the railing. “I dragged you into that mess because I panicked and lied to my mom and I never expected you to actually say yes or look like that or—”

Bob steps forward and kisses you.

Soft. Sure. Warm.

It happens in the span of a heartbeat — his hand resting gently on your cheek, the kiss itself lingering just long enough to make you forget where you are.

When he pulls back, he whispers, “Sorry.”

You blink, stunned.

He jerks his thumb toward the window beside the front door.

You turn.

Your mom is standing there, mostly hidden behind the curtain — watching. Her expression is somewhere between victorious and smug.

You groan. “Oh my god.”

Bob chuckles. “She’s committed. I respect it.”

You shake your head, trying not to smile. “That was mean.”

“That was method acting,” he teases.

You hesitate, then reach out and fix the collar of his jacket. “You really didn’t have to do all this.”

“I wanted to,” he says. “I meant what I said — I liked being asked.”

A beat.

“I still do.”

The air between you shifts — warmer now, quiet but honest.

You nod once, not sure what to say. Not sure what this is becoming.

He opens the gate and starts to walk down the path. Just before he disappears into the dark, he turns back.

“I’ll see you Tuesday?”

You smile. “Tuesday.”

And then he’s gone.

You close the door gently, heart fluttering like it’s trying to tell you something. You lean against the wood for a second, exhale, and whisper to no one:

“…Oh no.”

⋆˙⟡

Sunday, 7:36 am

It starts like any other day.

You stop at your usual corner café, order your iced coffee (half sweet, extra ice, just the way you like it), and wrap your hands around the plastic cup like it might ground you.

For a moment, the world feels normal.

You walk the next block with your earbuds in, the playlist soothing, the city humming gently around you. It isn’t until you pass the magazine stand by the subway entrance that something feels… off.

Your eyes drift lazily over the covers as you walk by.

And then you see it.

Front and center. Bold red font. A full-page photo.

“WHO IS THE SENTRY’S MYSTERY GIRLFRIEND?” (Shocking New Romance Revealed — Civilian Involved?)

You stop mid-step. Your breath catches.

Your own face stares back at you from under a blur of porch lights and lipstick smudged from a very real, very public kiss.

You nearly drop your coffee right there.

But it only gets worse.

Because as you turn the corner toward the bookstore — just a normal Tuesday morning — you don’t see the usual handful of early customers waiting for the shop to open.

You see a crowd.

No — not a crowd. A swarm.

Microphones. Cameras. People standing on tiptoes, phones raised high, shouting questions at… nothing, because the store isn’t even open yet.

Your stomach drops.

Your name gets shouted from somewhere in the noise.

And then, mercifully — your brain does the one logical thing.

It panics.

You spin around. Your foot hits the curb. Your coffee slips from your hand, hits the sidewalk, and explodes in a cold, sticky splash.

“Hey—hey! That’s her!” someone yells behind you.

You don’t look back.

You duck into the narrow alley between the bookstore and the laundromat, heart hammering, air slicing sharp into your lungs.

Your mind is racing with every terrible headline, every awkward question your mom is probably getting right now, and how very not normal your life has become.

And then—

“Hiii.”

You scream.

A figure drops from the fire escape like it’s nothing, landing in front of you with the elegance of a spy movie villain and the expression of someone who just finished a cinnamon roll.

Blonde. Tactical jacket. Combat boots. Sunglasses perched on her head like she accessorized mid-mission.

She smiles. “So. You’re the girlfriend?”

You stumble back a step, heart in your throat. “I—I’m—who are you?!”

“Yelena,” she says cheerfully, offering a hand like this is a brunch date. “Bob’s teammate. Sometimes assassin. Don’t worry, I’m nice-ish.”

You don’t take her hand. You just stare.

“I was sent to retrieve you,” she continues, already walking past you like she owns the alley. “Big mess. PR nightmare. Possibly global. Thought you might need help.”

“I—I’m fine,” you lie, inching toward the wall.

Yelena glances down at your coffee-covered shoes. “You’re not fine.”

You exhale shakily. “How is this real?”

She grins. “You kissed The Sentry on your porch. Now you’re in a tabloid warzone. Welcome to superhero dating.”

You press your palms to your face.

Behind you, the voices are getting louder.

Yelena tilts her head toward the street. “Wanna escape this circus?”

“…Yes.”

“Come on.” She tosses you a hoodie from her bag — black, oversized. “Put this on. You’re going to Thunderbolts HQ.”

“What?”

“Bob’s waiting,” she adds casually, “and he looks very stressed. It’s adorable.”

Your heart thumps harder.

You pull the hoodie over your head, the scent of leather and something faintly metallic catching in your nose. Yelena nods approvingly, then leads you toward a black SUV idling around the corner — quiet, sleek, and somehow completely unnoticed by the mob.

As you duck into the backseat, she climbs in beside you and shuts the door.

She tosses a protein bar in your lap.

“You’re going to need energy,” she says. “They’re gonna love you.”

The SUV pulls away.

The shouting fades behind you.

And your life? Well. It’s never going to be quiet again.

The SUV glides through a checkpoint, into an underground tunnel, then up a ramp. You think you see a guard tower disguised as a billboard. Or maybe you’re hallucinating. That’s possible too.

Yelena’s sitting casually beside you, texting someone, while you clutch your protein bar like it might shield you from public scrutiny and government agencies.

Finally, the vehicle stops. The door swings open.

Yelena hops out and waves you after her. “Don’t look nervous.”

“I am nervous.”

“Then pretend you’re not. That’s what we all do.”

You step out into a huge glass and steel atrium. Sleek floors. Tall ceilings. Giant screen with the Thunderbolts logo rotating in slow, dramatic fashion. Men in suits, agents in gear, someone zipping by on rollerblades like this is normal.

You? You’re in someone else’s hoodie, dried coffee on your pants, and your brain’s still processing “Bob is the Sentry.”

Yelena leads you through a corridor like she’s returning a library book. “Try not to look directly at Valentina unless you want to end up as the face of the team’s diversity initiative.”

“…What?”

“Just smile and nod.”

Yelena leads you down a bright hallway, past glass walls and security doors, through what feels like the inside of a top-secret airport crossed with an IKEA showroom. You’re still in someone else’s hoodie, your coffee’s long gone, and you haven’t quite recovered from the kiss-seen-round-the-world.

She swings open a door, and inside it’s surprisingly normal — couches, a kitchen, the sound of a blender whirring. A few Thunderbolts glance up.

Ghost gives you a quiet nod from her seat at the counter.

John Walker grins, already sharpening a teasing remark.

Bob stands awkwardly by the sink, like he just got caught sneaking a cookie.

“Well, damn,” Walker says, leaning against the counter. “I thought Bob was making you up. Or buying girlfriend stock photos online.”

“John,” Bob says flatly.

“I’m just saying, we’re happy for you, man. It’s cute. Weird, but cute.”

Ghost sips her tea. “He’s been checking his phone like a teenage girl since Saturday.”

Bob looks like he wants to phase through the wall. You try not to laugh — and fail. A little.

Then the doors behind you slide open, and Valentina Allegra de Fontaine enters like the final boss in heels.

She smiles, perfectly calm. “Glad you made it. Cute outfit. Hope you like government buildings.”

You blink. “Uh… thanks?”

Val flips open a sleek tablet and doesn’t look up. “So here’s the deal. We can’t exactly walk this story back without making it worse. You’re already part of the narrative. The kiss happened. The porch photos are out. Bob looked… well, shockingly competent.”

Bob mumbles, “Thanks?”

Val finally meets your eyes. “So. Option one: go home, brave the cameras, and let Reddit guess your social security number. Or option two: we give you a place to stay. Quiet. Safe. With a door that locks and, if you ask nicely, a reading lamp.”

You glance at Bob. “Would I… be staying with him?”

Bob visibly stiffens.

Val shrugs. “You’d have your own space. This isn’t The Bachelor. We’re not trying to force anything.”

Bob relaxes.

You think about it for a long moment. The tabloids. The porch. The look on his face when he saw you today.

“…Okay,” you say. “But I want a real lock. And maybe snacks.”

“Done,” Val says, already walking away. “Yelena, get her something from the vending machine. And no shrimp chips.”

Once the others drift off, you find yourself alone with Bob again — sort of. You’re standing near the couches, and he’s holding a mug like it’s a prop he forgot how to use.

You glance at him. “So.”

He looks up. “So.”

“You, uh… handled that well.”

“I was sweating the entire time.”

You smile. “Didn’t show.”

There’s a pause. The good kind.

“I’m sorry you got pulled into this,” he says.

“I’m not,” you admit, then quickly add, “I mean—not the whole national-news part. That sucked. But, you know. The bookstore. The pie. That stuff.”

He looks at you like you just handed him a book he didn’t know he needed.

He fidgets. “For the record, I didn’t just kiss you because your mom was watching," he says. You tilted your head.

Then, again, he softly says: “Do you think… once this blows over… maybe we could try the real thing?”

You consider it, heart full but calm.

“…We’ll see,” you say.

He grins.

So do you.

A/N: i have SO MANY prompts/scenes in my head for bob that i had to list it down on my notes (this is one of them). PS i wrote this when i was suffering from a writers block in the middle of writing the second part of Psyche. PSS i cant stop writing about bob (not that i want to) it's making me crazy

[fruitjedi]

I’m like nine percent sure anything will happen here (I’ll probably do some of these regardless) but I saw this and found it fun

Edit: OK! Y’all completed this notes game! It is closed!

⭐️15 notes and I talk to my one teacher about respecting me

25 notes and I start seriously looking into medical things I want

⭐️75 notes and I actually tell my director about future plans and ask him for advice

175 notes and I look into getting a private lesson teacher

⭐️215 notes and I start making time for my writing and reading interests

290 notes and I start truly planning my future

⭐️376 notes and I start playing live shows

550 notes and I start caring more about looking into my chronic pain issues

⭐️720 notes and I talk to my audio teacher about forecasting (this has been reached but I competed ig before it was reached cause I had to )

⭐️1220 notes and I stand up for myself more

1559 and I try to prioritize my health and feelings

1780 notes and I ask for help when I need it

2025 notes and I start letting people in more. (Not just close friends)

Edit I’m not setting an absolute limit but if I feel like you spam too much I will cut you off at some point .

Edit: beacuse I can’t cut the reblogs off in the replies I’ll dm you. If you don’t wish to be dmed to be cut off keep it at a max ten reblogs per person.

Edit: I have achieved some of the pink goals

Edit : thank you everyone ❤️

Edit: I’m adding some more stretch goals and the current 650 (the highest)will become higher (and I ask out teh guy I’m into)

Edit: I had to do 720 early

Edit: 1559 no longer applies

Edit: holy shit- this got above 1,000 notes. I wasn’t expecting it to get more than like 10

Edit I’m removing 1559 (and I talk to the choir director) and beacuse it no longer applies and changing that and changing around 2025 (and I ask out teh guy I like)

Edit: HOW DO YOU GUYS KEEP BLOWING UP THIS POST??? The most notes I’ve gotten ever is like 30. Wow. Thank you.

Edit: OK! Y’all completed this notes game! It is closed!

Pink have been reached

When I actually get to completing the pink goals they will get a ⭐️

@skythesnake you can’t be every single note

[nadvs]

the power play (part five)

pairing hockeyplayer! rafe cameron x tutor! reader

rating mature 18+

summary rafe is your complete opposite. the only thing you have in common with the hockey player you tutor is that he’s also recently had his heart broken. in a last-ditch effort to make the people who hurt you regret it, you agree to pretend to date.

< prev

You haven’t spoken to Rafe since he angrily left your dorm three nights ago.

You’re sitting in your booked study room, waiting for him to arrive, wondering if he’ll be regretful of your argument or be ready for round two or pretend it never happened.

Either way, you’d prefer to make light of it and move on. He may no longer be your fake boyfriend, if he really meant what he said, but you’re still going to be seeing him every week.

You hope that you can just give him back his jersey and leave what happened in the past.

The guilt that Rafe has been running from catches up to him once he walks in and sees you. He blew up the other night and you met him with understanding he’s never been given before, softness he doesn’t know what to do with.

“Let’s just get it out in the open,” you say as the door clicks shut behind him. “We fought. I was expecting a bouquet of apology roses, but maybe they got lost in the mail?”

He huffs. Typical of you to make a joke about it.

He sits down, slouched back as he unpacks his things, his long legs stretched out beneath the table. He doesn’t know what to say and is relieved, for once, that you fill the silence.

“I get why you got annoyed,” you say, “but I haven't changed my mind. This doesn’t have to be weird. No hard feelings, right?”

His jaw tenses as he sets your copy of We Have Always Lived in the Castle on the desk. He got through it quickly. And he actually didn’t hate it.

He’s sure it was only because reading killed the time he’d normally had spent training, but he figures this is a good enough topic to start with.

“I finished it,” he murmurs, looking down at the paperback. “It was good.”

“Oh. Wow,” you say, perking up. “You liked it?”

He nods, earning a prideful smile from you.

“Because…?”

“It was short,” he says.

“You walked into this room, I think a month ago to the day, and looked insulted when I asked you if you liked reading,” you say. “And now you’re telling me you enjoyed a book. That’s huge. I need way more than it was short.”

“You’re being a lot right now.”

“I know.” Your smile doesn’t falter. You motion for his laptop, he hands it to you, and you open a new document. “Keep talking. What did you like about it?”

“It got to the point.”

“The prose is very clear,” you agree, typing in the note. “What’d you think of the twist at the end? Did you see it coming?”

“No.”

“This is why I love this class. It introduces you to books you might’ve never picked up,” you gush, then take a breath. “You better not be trying to trick me. You knew I’d get excited about this and forget that we argued. But I’m already over it. Okay, I’m talking too much. Your turn.”

The relief of seeing you act like you normally do has lifted the weight that’s been sinking into Rafe since the night he snapped at you.

Now that he’s with you again, confined in a room he didn’t think he’d ever not mind being in, there’s no avoiding the fact that you have an effect on him.

Against his expectations, he cares about what you think. About how you feel. And he just wants to fix this.

“You don’t know what my fights with her used to be like,” he says. “I’ve heard it all.”

You still for a moment, then rest your elbow on the table, chin in your hand as you gaze at him through compassionate eyes.

You can sympathize that not knowing what Emma said is irritating him, but you couldn’t repeat her cruel words, even if you wanted to.

“I understand,” you say, “but I can’t bring myself to tell you something that’ll just hurt you.”

“That’s my point,” he scoffs. “It won’t hurt me.”

“It could.”

Rafe sinks into the realization that he’ll just have to take the loss here. You’re not going to tell him what he wants to know, because you don’t want to wound him. Even though he kind of deserves it for his outburst.

“I know I…” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I know I didn’t have to lose it on you like that the other night.”

“Yeah,” you breathe a defeated chuckle. “You didn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

He fans through the book just to have something to do with his hands.

You take in the remorse etched into his handsome face and you admire that even though he can be rash, he tries to clean up the messes he makes, pushing aside his ego when he needs to.

“We’re past it,” you conclude. You look at the laptop screen again, glad this will be a clean break. “Let’s write what we can about this book first and then go back to the other essay. What else did you like?”

Rafe expected that you’d bounce back after your rift. Your positivity is so relentless that it almost tires him out. But he needs to make sure you know he uttered those words out of disingenuous impulse.

“I didn’t really mean that we should end it,” he clarifies.

You look at him again, a crease formed between his brows.

“Are you trying to un-break up with me?” you tease. “This is awkward. I already started pretend-dating one of the other guys I tutor.”

“You tutor other guys?” he asks before thinking.

“I didn’t want you to find out like this,” you play along.

Rafe’s chest pinches. He doesn’t know why he assumed you exclusively tutored him. He thought he was the only one you see like this, the only one you ramble to and nag and joke with. Why does he hate that he’s not?

“Come on,” he murmurs, shoving past the unwelcome thought. “I know you miss me.”

You laugh. His typical brand of humor is detached and blunt and it’s nice to see another side of him, a playful side that makes him seem warm.

“I have to think about it.” You shrug. “Okay. We’re back together. I had a feeling you were just being mean the other night anyway.”

Rafe’s lips fall into a guilty frown. Without thinking, he scratches the back of his neck, grimacing and letting out a sharply exhaled fuck as his shoulder stings in pain.

“Are you okay?” you ask, serious now.

“Yeah,” he grunts.

“Convincing,” you say. “What is it?”

He sees no reason to hide it. You did tell him that he can vent to you and if there’s anyone he’d complain to about this, it’s you.

He’d rather not tell anyone on the team. Not even his closest friends. He doesn’t want to look weak.

“My shoulder’s fucked up,” he admits.

“Is it from that board check the other night?”

He nods and says, “Physio said it’s a strained muscle.”

“How bad?”

“I’m benched. He’ll look at it again before game two.”

“You mean you can’t play the first game of the championship?” you surmise.

Rafe’s tight expression tells you that you assumed correctly. You grimace sympathetically.

“Did he say if you can use anything to help with the pain?”

“Heat when it gets bad,” he says.

“I’ll be right back,” you say.

He watches you rush out, his forehead wrinkled in confusion. Moments later, you come back with an instant hot compress and place it on the desk in front of him.

“The library has a bunch of first aid kits,” you tell him, sitting back down.

“How’d you know that?” Rafe squeezes the package in one hand, the subdued pop cracking through the small room. “You really like it here that much?”

“A student of mine got a papercut once,” you explain with a laugh. “But yes, I do enjoy being surrounded by books.”

“Right,” he huffs, still in disbelief of how different you two are. “Thanks.”

He rests the package on top of his shoulder, comforting heat spilling through his t-shirt.

When Rafe lets out a velvety, satisfied groan, you find yourself flustered within half a second. Your mind sprints away from you. A mere sound has never made every inch of you tense like this before.

Your imagination can’t keep doing this to you, but it feels impossible to ignore the physical pull you’re starting to feel towards him.

You swallow hard and look at the laptop again, blinking.

This is bad.

You’re crossing the line and you need to yank yourself back into rationality. Rafe is a friend and all the affection he’s given you has been a sham and it’s disconcerting that you keep having to remind yourself of that.

You know he could never give you what you need in a relationship. The last time you saw him was cold, hard proof of that. He’s much too volatile to make a good boyfriend.

And that’s accompanied by a very big if he even likes you like that, which you highly doubt, given how easily you frustrate him. You refuse to overthink, to tumble into infatuation with another man who’ll just hurt you.

“Anyways,” you say, your eyes locked on the screen. “We really should get to work.”

════════

With ten minutes left of the session, Rafe’s laptop dies. You slide it towards him, disappointed you couldn’t upload the essay you’d just finished before the battery drained.

“Make sure to submit it before midnight,” you say. “Oh, and Lyla and Beck’s parents are hosting their birthday party on Saturday, so consider me unavailable for fake girlfriend duties that night.”

Rafe opens his backpack, pushing his laptop in as he mulls over your words. That sounds like the type of event you’d want him to come to.

“Do you need me there?” he asks.

“You were invited,” you say, “but I’ll say you were busy. You’d hate it. It’s an hour away, with a bunch of strangers you’d have to impress, and there’s obviously no way your ex would be there. I can do this on my own.”

Rafe stills before he speaks again.

“Do you need me there?” he repeats, more evenly.

It riled him up to see Emma leave the last party with another guy. To see his arm around her at the game. He hoped he’d be able to count on you to be by his side if he sees them together again this weekend.

But mostly, and more importantly, picturing you at that birthday party alone, in the same room with the guy who hurt you, all because you didn’t want to make Rafe feel forced into going, gnaws at him.

You stare at him, trying to make sense of his tight expression. It’s confusing that he’s still even in this room, asking if you want his help after you’ve given him an out.

“Are you sure?” you ask. You’re positive you’d be fine without him, but he’s sort of become a security blanket.

“I’ve… seen her around with some guy,” he tells you. “It’d be good to get away from campus. And I owe you for losing my cool the other night.”

“Do you even have a cool?” you chuckle.

Rafe glares at you, but it’s proven disingenuous by the small, dimpled smirk he chooses not to stifle.

“I hope I’m with you the next time you see them together,” you say. “Anyways, we can drive up together, then?”

Your eyes brighten with your smile. He doesn’t know if anyone has ever looked at him like that, purely and truly excited to spend time with him.

“A bunch of friends from high school will be there, and obviously Beck and Lyla’s parents, who basically consider me their daughter,” you continue, “so we’ll need to be convincing. It’s a casual dinner, then we’ll just hang out as long as we want. Can you pick me up at five?”

“Yeah,” he says. He stands up, pulling his bag over his good shoulder. “See you.”

You watch him pace towards the door, relieved that you’ll have him there, grateful that he's doing this for you even though you’re certain he really doesn’t want to.

“Hey,” you mumble. He looks at you again. You motion to his injury. “Be careful with your shoulder. And… you’re going to call me corny, but I’m really glad you’re coming.”

A few seconds of silence pass between you.

“You’re corny,” he replies.

You share a smile before he steps out of the study room into the quiet library.

Emptiness abruptly digs into his chest once he’s not with you, growing deeper the farther he walks away.

You’re unlike anyone he’s known. You don’t try to hide how much you care about him and you see things in him he didn’t know were there and you combat his temper with humor and with tenderness and with reassurance that makes him feel like he’s not irreversibly fucking up all the time.

He’s never felt like this before. Like the void he’s always trying to fill isn’t bottomless after all.

════════

Your exhale is shaky as Rafe exits the freeway with only a few minutes left of the drive to Beck and Lyla’s home.

You pull down the sun visor, gazing at your reflection. You’re suddenly quiet and fidgety after you’d chattered for most of the ride.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “And why the hell do I have to ask?”

You chuckle, catching his implication that you typically blab about what’s bothering you without him having to check in.

“I don’t know how I’m going to look their parents in the eye and lie.”

“It’s that hard to pretend to like me?” Rafe murmurs. He’s glad there’s no edge to his tone, glad he can hide that your words stung him a little.

“No,” you chuckle. “When you’re being nice, I like you. Just not like that, obviously.”

Obviously. It’s happening again, the painful crook in his core, the tangled feelings that just keep twisting together.

He used to not care if you liked him. Because he didn’t like you. But your last conversation did something to him, something that was already quietly building up, something that he needs to strip before it sticks.

After every fight he had with Emma, he sensed the palpable cracks forming between them. With you, things felt stronger once you moved past your argument.

Fuck. Why is he thinking about you like you’re his actual girlfriend, comparing his last relationship? This is the last thing he needs.

“It just feels… official. Like I’m bringing a boy home,” you continue. “Nobody’s seen me in a relationship before and they might question your intentions and I don’t want it to be weird.”

You look in the mirror again.

“And I think I’m having a bad hair day. And a bad face day. And I kind of hate my outfit.”

Rafe can’t take your nonsense. Insinuating that you’re anything short of beautiful is the most ridiculous thing he’s heard you say.

He shuts the visor and utters, “You’re doing that overthinking shit again.”

“Okay, so, that’s a perfect example of you not being nice,” you laugh.

You know if you really liked him as more than a friend, his curtness would hurt you. It’s reassuring, the realization that your attraction to Rafe will never be more than physical.

You breathe a sigh, anticipating being with your friends again after you’ve parted ways to different colleges. You wonder if anyone’s changed in the few months since.

You glance over at Rafe.

“What were you like in high school?” you ask.

“The same,” he answers.

“So, just as warm and cuddly?” you tease.

He smirks. You smile like you do every time you crack his facade. It always makes you feel a little proud.

“Better when I started playing hockey,” he relents. “How about you?”

You purse your lips in thought.

“What do you mean better?” you prod.

Rafe’s in no mood to elaborate, stiffly repeating, “How about you?”

You roll your eyes. It’s like pulling teeth, getting this man to share anything.

“I haven’t really changed much,” you reply. He finds himself thinking that it’d be a shame if you ever did.

Rafe follows the GPS to pull into a quiet suburban street. He slows down in front of the house and parks. You gaze out your window to see helium balloons surrounding the front door and reach for the handle.

“Hey,” he rasps.

You turn your head to meet his eyes.

“You don’t need to freak out. We got this. And you…” He looks away. “You look good.”

The words are tight coming out of his mouth, like he really didn’t want to have to say them.

You start to thank him, but he’s already stepping out of the car.

════════

The party is so busy that you and Rafe disappear in the crowd. He stands close by as you catch up with your friends, remembering details about where they’ve gone after graduation, asking questions, making jokes.

When it’s time for dinner, you sit next to him at the table, diagonal to Beck, who has done nothing but flash you awkward smiles here and there.

He’s hardly spoken to you. You wish you weren’t doing it again, second-guessing if he really is jealous.

You feel a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“I didn’t get a chance to say hi,” Lyla’s mother says. You smile at her and sit up to give her a hug.

“There’s a lot of people,” you say understandingly.

“My kids are too social,” she jokes quietly, leaning over. She looks over at Rafe. “You must be…?”

“Rafe,” you say. His smile is faint, but believable.

“I hope you know I have to grill you a little,” she tells him.

“I know,” he says, glancing at you. “She warned me.”

He’s playing it entirely cool. You’re relieved. You had nothing to worry about. He has this handled.

“How’d you meet?” she asks.

“I’m his tutor,” you tell her.

“Always been a smart one,” she replies, squeezing your hand. “Is that what made you like her?”

Your eyes land on Rafe again, nerves pricking your spine.

“It’s… one a lot of things, yeah,” he says.

“What else?”

Rafe’s heart thrums.

“I don’t know anyone like her.” His eyes soften as he looks at you, the amusement in them replaced by a depth you’ve only ever seen in glimpses, when his guard slips a little. “And she has a good heart.”

“She does,” Lyla’s mother says, straightening to stand. “You better treat her right.”

“I will,” he says with a nod. When she steps away, you nudge his knee with yours.

“That was amazing,” you say. Your praise gives him a high.

“I’m a great liar,” he replies.

You nudge him again, laughing.

“I don’t care,” you say. “You can’t take any of that back.”

He wouldn’t want to anyway. It was the truth.

════════

After dinner, Beck and Lyla’s mother brings out an ornate cake, prompting the room to break out in song. You watch Beck and Lyla blow out the candles as everyone applauds.

“I’ll never forget what the nurse said the day you two were born,” their father announces as he stands by the head of the table, holding a glass up. “Even when they’re big, you’ll picture them this small. And it’s true.”

He looks down, nodding curtly, lips twisting.

“Here we go again,” Lyla laughs.

“He cries every year,” you explain to Rafe in a hush.

He gazes at your profile as their dad continues his toast. He was aware you knew Beck for a long time, for years, but seeing this makes it real.

He can picture it now, you spending your adolescence in this house, making memories with this family, falling for the guy sitting on the other side of the table who brushed you off, who’s blind to how happy you make everyone around you.

The night you sat on that kitchen counter in that frat house back on campus, your eyes deepened with a sadness that hardly ever comes across your face, and you told him what you saw in Beck. What made you fall for him.

Fun. Kind. Nice to everybody.

And it’s a reminder of why this fire that’s growing inside Rafe for you needs to be put out. He’s the antithesis of the guy you’re in love with. You’d never want him like that.

“I’m so proud of both of you,” their father continues. “Happy birthday.”

Rafe looks down at his plate, wishing he’d been prepared for the wave of pain that’s crashing down on him as the sounds of conversation and dishes rattling and joyous laughter ricochet across the room.

He hates to admit it to himself, but Beck has everything he wants, down to a father who’s proud of his son.

He glances over at you again, but you’re still looking at Beck, your smile both happy and sad, your eyes trained on the one person you’re doing all of this for.

════════

The party moves to the rec room after Beck and Lyla’s parents wish everyone a good night.

Rafe’s hand is in yours as you lead him down the carpeted stairs, then settle on the plush sectional couch next to him as you chat with your friends.

He always hated his impulsivity. He was just telling himself to put out the fire, but he only throws fuel onto it when he curls an arm around your waist, pulling you closer the moment Beck walks in.

You nuzzle in, shifting to look at him again, your noses nearly bumping from how close you are.

“It’s the other shoulder?” you confirm softly, making sure you aren’t putting pressure on where he’s hurting.

“Yeah,” he says.

You nod and absorb yourself back into the group’s conversation. Your back is pressed against his chest and he hopes you don’t feel how hard his heart is pounding.

But he knows that the way you make him feel isn’t unique to him. He sees it now that you’re with your friends. You make everyone feel this way, like you want them around.

Drinks start getting passed. You look at Rafe again.

“I’m staying sober tonight,” you tell him. “Thought I should reassure you that I won’t be inviting myself over for another sleepover.”

He wants to ask why that’d be such a bad thing and it’s like he left his sanity upstairs, because now he’s wondering what the hell he’s doing wanting to flirt with you.

“Everyone’s playing,” Lyla announces as she places a box in the middle of the coffee table. “And nobody’s allowed to sit out. You legally can’t say no to the birthday girl.”

“It’s my birthday, too,” Beck says.

“Who cares?” Lyla jokes, opening the box. “It’s truth or dare. We’ll take turns picking a card and reading it out loud and if you won’t do either or you fail at a dare, you have to drink.”

“Oh, no,” you whisper to Rafe.

“Just be happy you found a way to read at a party,” he replies.

You crack a genuine laugh. His lips pull into a smile as he watches you, gratified that the joy you’re feeling right now is entirely because of him.

You feel Beck’s stare on you from his spot on the couch a couple of people away. You look up at him and he looks away and it’s like a discombobulating shove into the past, reminding you of when you’d catch him staring and let your mind run away with daydreams.

The feeling of Rafe’s arm tightening around you grounds you in reality, but it also sends a rush of heat through you and you hate that it does that.

“Truth: what's something you're glad your family doesn't know about you?” Lyla reads out. “Or dare: keep your eyes closed for three full minutes. Easy. Dare.”

She closes her eyes, then points to her right. The game continues around the circle and when it’s your turn to pick, you select a card, feeling everyone but Lyla’s stare on you.

“Truth: what’s the last excuse you used to cancel plans? Dare: don’t laugh or smile until your next turn.”

“Worst dare you could’ve gotten,” Rafe murmurs.

“You’d never manage,” your friend, Marcus chuckles.

You laugh, then laugh again when you realize you just proved both of them right.

“Damn it,” you say. “You know what? I’ll take the dare.”

You put the card down on the table and exhale deeply, trying to focus.

Rafe’s eyes flit to Marcus, whose eyes stay on you longer than he’d like them to.

“Your turn,” you say to Rafe, stone-faced.

He’d rather not play this, but he’s supposed to be acting like a good boyfriend. Besides, there’s something about disappointing you that makes him feel worse than disappointing anyone else.

He leans forward, his arm lifting off of you for a moment, and picks up a card. His hand settles on your hip again as he reclines, his bicep hard against your back.

He’s only staring at the card, so you tilt your head back to read it aloud for him.

“When was the last time you cried? Or, let someone in the room write whatever they want on you with a permanent marker.”

You look at him, holding back your smile, knowing you’re both thinking the same thing. As his girlfriend, it’d make sense that you’d be the one to mark his body.

He would never admit to crying, especially to a group of strangers. The reminder of Emma’s words, of how she’d said he called her in tears, makes your stomach drop. Suddenly, not smiling doesn’t take any effort anymore.

“Dare,” you answer for him. “I need a marker.”

“I’ll get it. Someone help me,” Lyla says, her eyes still shut as she stands. She feels for her way around the room as one of your mutual friends stands up to accompany her. “Keep playing!”

The next person starts their turn, and you take Rafe’s free hand and rest his arm across his lap, gently to not tug too hard and strain his shoulder.

It’s a shock how instinctually you did it, how touching him is natural now, yet still manages to make your heart race a little faster every time you do it.

“I’m going for a meaningful one. I’m thinking my name,” you tease, running your finger up the length of the inside of his forearm, eyes travelling over the faint lines of veins, “from here to here. Sound good?”

“No,” he answers gruffly. You crack a smirk. “And you lost your dare.”

“Don’t tell,” you mumble, forcing your smile away. “You know I can’t hold my alcohol.”

When both girls come back downstairs, Lyla blindly hands you the marker. You meet Rafe’s stare before you look down at his arm.

“The card said whatever I want,” you say quietly, mischief in your tone.

He watches you lean in, eyelashes fluttering as you blink, lips pursing in thought. The wet ink hits the inside of his wrist and his stomach goes numb when you start to slide the smooth, thin end of the marker over him, your thumb gently pressing into his skin as you hold him steady.

Rafe stares as you concentrate, and he starts to breathe a little deeper simply because the way you smell has become a comfort now, a familiarity, a hit of dopamine.

You sit up seconds later. He looks down to see Room 205 written in small, black characters. Your study room.

“You’ll never forget where to go,” you say happily. “Well, until it washes off.”

You finally meet his eyes again. He’s wearing the same concentrated look you’ve seen before, like he’s trying to figure something out.

“What, did you really expect I’d write something that bad?” you say as you snap the cap back on the marker.

The group continues with the next round, and when it’s your turn again, you have to choose between sharing your biggest insecurity or whispering a secret to someone in the room.

“Dare,” you decide, putting the card on the table and leaning back, lifting your chin to whisper into Rafe’s ear.

He slightly angles his head so that nobody can read your lips, shivers spreading over his skin from the feeling of your cheek on his.

“You’re probably my favorite student that I’ve ever tutored,” you say quietly.

It’s not a lie. Even with all his flaws, Rafe has given you something you’re not sure anybody else would have. He came into your life at the perfect time, came up with the perfect idea, and you’re deeply grateful for it.

He hastily cups your jaw, his hand so large it covers your cheek completely, as he tilts your head so he can tell you something, too. His lips brush over the shell of your ear.

“Just probably?” he whispers back. “That’s bullshit.”

You pull back, laughing, your eyes lingering on him.

“Don’t start making out, please,” Lyla teases.

You roll your eyes and look at the group again.

“I’ll spare you all the PDA,” you reply.

“Why start now?” a friend jokes.

“Yeah,” Beck quietly huffs. An ache of confusion rattles through you.

The game carries on, but Beck’s eyes linger on you. He’s never looked at you like this before. And it makes you believe what Rafe has been telling you this entire time.

════════

You leave the party holding Rafe’s hand and untangle your fingers from his the moment you’re out of the house, the moment there aren’t any eyes on you.

Rafe’s palm is cold now that your touch is gone.

Again, he’s powerless to the way his heart does whatever it wants and doesn’t give his head a chance to catch up.

He wasn’t supposed to like you.

He never expected to.

But when he looks at you as you tread towards his car together and the hushed moonlight bathes your features in its glow and you offer him that smile that makes his heart splinter in a way it never has, he yields to the truth, unable to put up a fight any longer.

He’s hopeless. You’ve pulled him under. And he had no choice but to let you.

next >

author’s note and the yearning (that eventually turns mutual) begins 🙂‍↕️

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[httpvomitello]

False Alarms .｡*･ﾟﾟ

Summary: When Joel notices you’ve been skipping meals, looking tired, and avoiding your usual morning hot chocolate, his mind jumps to the worst-case scenario: pregnancy. What starts as concern quickly spirals into a tense argument that cuts deeper than either of you expected.

joel miller x f!reader

(part 2)

WARNINGS: Angst, age gap, arguing, miscommunication, references to past trauma, hurt/no comfort, mention of pregnancy (false), language.

You hadn’t thought much of it when you skipped breakfast three days in a row.

Jackson was colder than usual this week. Some mornings, the thought of dragging yourself to the mess hall before your shift with Maria felt like too much. That, and you’d been feeling nauseous. Not sick—just… off. A tightness in your chest, a queasiness in your gut. You figured it was stress. You’d been helping with patrol coordination and dealing with Maria’s endless to-do lists. That’d be enough to knock anyone off balance.

But Joel noticed.

He always noticed.

“You eat today?” he asked as you slipped off your coat in the cozy warmth of the house.

You shrugged. “Not really hungry.”

Joel didn’t say anything. Not right away. He never jumped to conclusions. But he was quieter than usual that night. Thoughtful. His gaze kept flickering to you—watchful, almost guarded. The kind of stare that made your skin itch.

By day five, he was no longer quiet. He was suspicious.

And angry.

“We need to talk,” Joel said that night, arms crossed, jaw tense. The fire crackled behind him, but the room felt cold.

You looked up from the couch, half-curled under a blanket. “Okay... what about?”

His eyes locked with yours. There was something behind them—fear? Panic? Disbelief? Maybe all three. But Joel wore anger like armor. He didn’t do vulnerability unless he was desperate.

“You late?”

You blinked. “What?”

He gestured vaguely. “Your... your period. You late?”

The room spun for a second.

You sat up straighter, your heart starting to pound. “What the fuck, Joel?”

“Just answer the question.”

“Why the hell would you even ask me that?”

Joel didn’t flinch. “You been sick. Avoidin’ food. Tired all the time. You haven’t touched a cup of hot chocolate in a week, and you love hot chocolate. Somethin’s off.”

“I’m tired because I’ve been running around Jackson like a damn mule,” you snapped. “And maybe I’m not hungry because I’m stressed, not pregnant.”

His expression didn’t soften.

“You sure?”

That made something in your chest crack.

You shot up from the couch. “Wow. Okay. So what, you think I’d just get pregnant and not tell you?”

“I think maybe you don’t even know, and that scares the hell outta me.”

“Scares you?”

His words stopped you cold.

“I’m twenty-five, Joel,” you said quietly. “Not sixteen. I’m not stupid.”

“You think this is about your age?”

“What else would it be about?” you bit. “You think I can’t handle the idea of a baby? Or is it that you can’t?”

Joel rubbed his face. “Fuck! That’s not what I—”

“You’re not saying it, but you’re thinking it,” you cut in. “You think I’m reckless. That I’m some dumb kid who let something slip. Is that what I am to you?”

Joel’s hands were fists at his sides. “That’s not what I think.”

“Then why the interrogation?”

“Because I’ve been through this before, dammit!”

The silence that followed was deafening.

You stared at him, blinking fast.

He didn’t yell often. But when he did—it cracked something open. A ghost from the past.

Joel turned away, staring into the fire, breathing hard.

“I’ve had things taken from me,” he said lowly. “Things I never got back. I can’t— I can’t go through that again. Not without knowin’. Not without bein’ prepared.”

You didn’t move.

“So you think if I was pregnant, it’d be something to brace for?” you asked, quieter now. “A disaster waiting to happen?”

Joel didn’t answer.

“Right,” you whispered. “Okay.”

You grabbed your coat.

“Where you goin’?”

“Walk,” you said flatly. “I need some air.”

Joel took a step toward you. “You don’t have to—”

“I’m not pregnant,” you snapped, hand on the doorknob. “But thanks for showing me exactly how you’d react if I ever was.”

The door slammed behind you.

Joel remained standing in the middle of the room, thinking about the mistake he had made by letting his fears speak louder.

[no-144444]

always does- i.hadjar

꩜summary: as isack's best friend, you're a little oblivious until you're not

꩜pairing: isack hadjar x fem! reader

You never understood why Isack kept you so close-by (in a metaphorical sense, of course). You were his best friend, yeah. You didn’t wander away from him, even when he moved. You just… worked through the distance and the time differences, and you were as strong as before. You didn’t pull away too much when he had a girlfriend and you didn’t expect him to pull away too much when you got a boyfriend. When you guys were together, you were there to be together in whatever you were doing. It didn’t matter if it was a simple walk, or a day out at a theme park, time together was few and far between, so you had to make it count. Your other friends stepped back for the day, Isack stood or sat by your side, his hand brushing yours until he eventually took it. And you’d stay like that. Sleep in the same bed. Make morning coffee together. Brush your teeth together. Domestic shit, but it didn’t matter. Isack and you weren’t like that, you never would be. 

Obviously, you knew he was hot. Anyone with eyes and a brain saw the fact that he was conventionally attractive. But you never had that switch in your mind that your other friends had with their guy friends. They spoke about it like some day they just started seeing them differently. Like it was quick. Like it was a snap of fingers, and suddenly you're in love with him. It wasn’t the same for you. Isack was just… Isack. Your Isack. The Isack who bought you ice cream and held your hand walking down the streets of Venice, and that same Isack who would push you into the bushes in his back garden when you raced each other. He hadn’t changed much, just got taller, his voice got deeper, and he was an F1 driver. You hadn’t changed much either, ass and tits, hair longer than when you were five, and you finally didn’t work on the other side of the world, you were in Paris and he was in Monaco. 

“Come to Monaco,” he begged over the phone. “I’m so bored on my own and it’s so weird here.”

“I literally told you so, Isack,” you chuckled. “And anyway, I’ve a date this weekend, so I’m busy.”

He stopped. “A date? Like with a guy?” he asked. “Why do you have a date?”

You scoffed. “Wow, thanks. And it’s just this guy who asked for my number at work. He’s sweet.” 

“Seriously?” he scoffed. You didn’t notice the way his chest tightened and his jaw clenched. You didn’t see the way his breath hitched. “Just reschedule, please. I want you here.”

A younger you would’ve given in with the way he pouted, but you had a date. A date you wanted to attend. “No can-do pretty boy,” you shook your head, and he nearly passed out from the pet name. You didn’t see it, but caught a glimpse of the time. “Oh shit, I better go. Work,” you sighed, getting up. You didn’t wait for an answer. “Love you,” you smiled into your phone camera and hung up, knowing he'd say it back. 

“You’re so fucked for her, aren’t you?” Liam chuckled, sitting beside Isack. It pulled him out of the small world he created on the phone with you. When he saw your apartment, he just thought of the nights he spent there, the smell of the vanilla candles, the warm lights, the wool blankets, you. Isack groaned, putting his phone back into his pocket and looking at his hands. He didn’t like to talk about it. He didn’t really know what to say about it. “Talk,” Liam shrugged. “What’s going on?” “Nothing,” he shrugged. “That’s the problem.” 

“She doesn’t like you back?” he asked, cracking open a can of redbull and handing it to him, then opening one for himself. 

He sighed. “She doesn’t. She doesn’t notice me. I’m just her best friend.” 

“Have you talked to her about it?” Liam asked. 

“How am I supposed to admit something like that?” he questioned. “What if she hates me and doesn’t ever want to talk to me again? What if I lose her completely?”

It was his worst fear. More scary than crashing the car, than losing his seat, than anything. He couldn’t lose you. He refused. 

“I think you need to evaluate what you want and whether or not you can keep going like this,” Liam offered. “And I’m happy to listen more, if you need it.” 

Since when was Liam so philosophical? He listened to Zach Bryan for god’s sake. He got up, tapped Isack on the shoulder, and left him to ruminate. 

He remembered the exact moment he’d fallen for you. You were 15. You had come to visit him at Spa for one of his F4 races, and he’d won. He ran out of the car. You were waiting at the barrier. He couldn’t keep his eyes off you. You stood there, looking so proud, so caring, so you. He couldn’t get enough. He’d race the hell out of any car anyone handed him if it meant he saw that look on your face. And you’d hugged him. You’d kissed his cheek. You stayed up all night celebrating and fell asleep beside him. You didn’t question the way he was looking at you, because maybe he’d always looked at you like that. Maybe it was just him realising then.

But you didn’t feel the same, and that was fine. He didn’t care. Well, he cared a lot, but he wasn’t going to make it your problem. 

Quali was long and which was good and bad. Good, because it meant he was starting 4th in Monaco, which was incredible. Bad, because it meant he didn’t have his phone on him to track your location and watch your date play out in real time. Which is a totally normal thing to do, right?

He jumped out of the car, searching for Liam, or Ollie, or someone to talk to about how shitty the tires would be the next day, but he turned his head to the left and caught a glimpse of a face he knew all too well. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?!” he practically squealed. Ollie would have laughed, but he didn’t care. He wrapped his arm around your waist, lifting you up and against him. “Holy shit,” he breathed into your hair. Like he didn’t believe you were real. Like he couldn’t trust his senses. 

And it was like your eyes opened. 

You liked sleeping in the same bed as Isack. You like brushing your teeth beside him. You like the way he treats you. You liked the way he had kissed you on your 18th birthday when you were both wine drunk in Paris, walking along the river. 

You froze for a moment. You didn’t let him go. He didn’t seem to care, though he untucked his head from your neck and stared at you, confused. “Are you alright?” he asked, his face changing to panic. “Y/n.”

“You’re incredible!” you shook yourself back into the moment, as if you hadn’t just had the most insane realisation of your life. “4th in fucking Monaco!” 

He chuckled, his panic easing. “I know right,” he smirked. “I might just have to be your favourite driver now.”

“Of course you are,” you rolled your eyes. “Always have been,” he didn’t recognise the way you were looking at him, but he welcomed it all the same. “Come on, let’s get you something to eat.”

“You’re quiet,” he whispered, nudging your arm with his own. The paddock was loud and full of his name, but he still noticed you. Well, it would be hard no to, for him. “What’s up?”

You looked down, seeing where your foot collided with his in a constant, soft game of footsies. “Nothing, the sky,” you listed, stifling a giggle. He rolled his eyes and looked up, sighing. It gave you time to look at him. Notice the way his neck had gotten bigger, see the progress he’d made with his training, observe his bulging biceps and arms. Holy shit you had it bad for him, maybe all your mates were right? No, it couldn’t be. Because it wasn’t fast. You’d slowly fallen for him, over a matter of years. Slowly, you’d gotten used to the small things he does for you, you appreciated the hugs and cheek kisses, the protective arm around your shoulder every now and then, that stupid laugh you’d fallen so hard for. It wasn’t this quick, free-fall. It was slow, like a leaf falling down in the autumn wind. It was different. It was Isack. “I don’t know. This weekend just feels… different. Maybe you’ll get on that podium.” 

He chuckled, turning to face you. “I think something’s gone to your head,” he teased. “You sure it’s redbull in that can?”

You scoffed, playfully pushing him. “Never say never. Some things change, even when we don’t expect them too.” 

He stared at you, seeing that look in your eye again. “We’re alright?” he questioned. 

You nodded. “Always.” 

And once again, you walked away, leaving Isack all alone with his feelings. Liam always walked by at the right time, it was disturbing. “She’s in love with you, mate.” 

Isack jumped, not hearing his teammate join him on the bench (he was too busy looking at you longingly). “What the fuck-?!”

“She has it bad for you mate, I know these things,” he nodded. “You should ask her out, she’ll say yes.” 

“Do you remember any of our conversation from the other day?” He stared at him in disbelief as Liam shrugged. “And, I didn’t even think she was coming this weekend so what has changed between then and now, huh?” he questioned, his accent coming out the more he spoke. 

Liam cleared his throat. “Exactly mate, you’re welcome,” he smiled. “Nothing like an unrequited love story in Monaco, anything can happen here.”

“You brought her here?” Isack’s jaw dropped. “For what?!”

“For you, you fucking loser,” Liam chuckled. “Talk to her! Ask her out! Take control of your destiny!” the more he spoke the less Isack knew what he was saying. He stared at him dumbstruck as he walked off, winking at him. 

What a strange weekend. 

Every bone in his body ached to fall into bed, but he just couldn’t sleep. He’d tried everything. Meditation. Breathing exercises. Tea. that navy sleep technique. Visualisations. And now, walking the dark streets of Monaco. The barriers were up. The fanstands were empty, but by tomorrow morning they’d be full. And he’d be in a car on the second row. Part of him couldn’t believe it. Part of him didn’t want to. He had trouble sometimes with taking pride in his work, maybe because in his mind it was an obligation more than an ambition. He didn’t think he’d be truly happy with his career until he lifted that Championship trophy. It didn’t matter how many races he won, how many people called him the goat, or what people said about him. If he didn’t have that trophy it wasn’t worth it. His life’s work wasn’t worth it. And that scared the shit out of him. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” you spoke and he turned his head in disbelief. “Missed me too much already?” 

You had gone to bed earlier than him, and he didn’t have a chance to offer you his bed. Which was fine. But there you were, standing there in the streets he knew like the back of his hand (well, the hairpin he knew like the back of his hand), wearing your pyjamas out in the mild Monaco air. You couldn’t have looked more beautiful. He took a deep breath. “Always,” he smirked, walking up to you. “What are you doing out here so late?”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Do you always have to be so protective?” you chuckled. “I couldn’t sleep.”

You started walking in step with each other, your hand wrapping around his arm as you spoke. He cleared his throat. “Worried about tomorrow?” he asked, watching your side profile as you kept your eyes ahead. 

You turned to him. “Isn’t that supposed to be my line?” 

There was humor in your voice but it fell flat against the tension between the two of you. He was close. Too close. So close. You could feel his breath on your cheek, and he didn’t step back. He just kept staring. Staring and staring at your face as if he hadn’t seen it a thousand and one times. Like he didn’t know the layout of it like he knew the layout of the track beside you. The streetlamps illuminated his eyes, the perfect shade of brown. God, you could’ve just gotten lost in that moment, staring at him, when saying nothing truly meant everything.

He leaned over and his lips met yours. Not like it was planned but, not like it wasn’t either. Just simple, passionate, soft, and delicate. His hand cupped your cheek like he’d bruise it if he touched you too roughly. You didn’t mind. You kissed him back, gently running your hands through his hair as you felt yourself back up against a barrier. He didn’t stop and neither did you. 

“I love you,” he breathed out against your lips, not thinking clearly. He was drunk off the taste of you, off the moment. “I’ve loved you for a long time.” 

You didn’t answer right away, slightly shocked at the confession. People had mentioned it, pointed it out, or blatantly told you that he was in love with you. You didn’t take it to heart. It was hard not to when his hands were on your face as he kissed you against a barrier in Monaco. Your hands fisted his t-shirt, pulling him closer. “I love you too,” your voice was barely above a whisper, but he heard it. He always did. 

He pulled back with that soft smile on his face, fixing your pyjamas slightly. He looked at you with all the care in the world, but then again, he always did. 

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redbull & vcarb masterlist

[swtheartz]

“ LIKE STRAWBERRIES. ” — M. Grayson

Part two

Info : Reader is a healer, canon typical violence, slow burn, one sided beef to lovers type beat W / C : 1.6k.

A / N : silas actually uploading an entire fic??? this is unheard of!! uncharted territory!!!!! jk though. i was burnt out for NO reason and suddenly got a surge of spite against my depression and wrote this. lol. it WILL in fact be a series, this is only part one i fear

The first time Mark meets you is after the fight with his dad.

Cecil had told him he’d be fixed right up—in the physical aspect, at the very least. “The kid hates sob stories. Try not to say too much.”

So, he took the old man’s advice, and hadn’t said much to you while you were healing him. He’d argue that the silence was awkward. Foreign and strange, and he didn’t know how to not sit there and manage to not look out of place. The room you primarily worked in wasn’t like a hospital room, no.

It didn’t have those weird posters of kittens with something that said ‘believe in yourself,’ or something dumb like that, it wasn’t just pristine white walls with blinding fluorescent lights that gave patients headaches, and it didn’t smell like pure bleach and chemicals. No. It smelled of something floral and sweet, almost like fruit; but not quite there. The walls were more a peach color than anything, easier on the eyes than the standard American hospital. Not to mention that the walls were decorated.

All in all, it was strange. Like someone as bruised and bloody as Mark didn’t belong in there. Somewhere sweet and almost gentle, and the wounds that had made him feel as though they’d stay forever—stay etched into his skin, down to the bone, alongside the blood that wasn’t just solely his—mended themselves back together. The bruises and aches faded away.

The smell of blood lingered.

“Well,” the sound of your voice nearly startled Mark off the bed you’d had him laid across. “Take a shower and do a rain check with Stedman, and you’re all good to go, Invincible.”

“. . . What? Just- that’s it? That’s all?”

You’d stared blankly at him, arms crossed in the chair you were seated in. Though you were a healer, you did look as though you belonged amongst the official medical staff that’d be seen literally anywhere else. The slightest tilt of your head had him shifting uncomfortably.

“Did you want there to be more?” The question comes across as somewhat annoyed. Mark could see why you’d probably be agitated—but it was a genuine question!

“It’s just, uh,” he starts, swallowing nervously. “I expected it to take longer or something. Like an actual healing process, precautions I’d have to take and stuff.”

The hum of acknowledgment you let out as you nod your head makes him look at you again, and you speak. “Not when I’m the one healing you. My power is called that for a reason, and it’s so heroes like you can get back out on the playing field. To skip the healing process. If I hadn’t been here, it would’ve taken you months.”

Right. A healer. Mark himself had never really thought someone like you could exist. He’s seen powers like that only in his comics, and there weren’t any other supers capable of doing whatever you just did. The way you move is skilled and practiced, years of experience and heroes in and out of your ward showing through it.

“Huh. Okay, wow. Thanks?”

“Go home, Invincible.”

“Invincible.”

Mark grimaces. “I am begging you—literally just call me by my government name.”

He doesn’t miss the way your nose scrunches ever so slightly as your eyes never leave the clipboard in your hands, clearly focused; but not too focused. “You and I are not on friendly terms. We’re associates by definition.”

“Okay, okay,” he puts his hands up slightly in mock surrender, contemplating his response. Over the past few months, he’s noticed that you don’t quite like him. At all. You’re annoyed by how thick his file has grown in such a short amount of time, annoyed by all the times you’ve documented the amount of injuries he’s had, how much energy it takes you, and whether or not you want to quit working for the GDA after making his acquaintance all those months ago.

“. . . But hear me out.” Mark adds on, noticing the way your hands clutch even more at the wood and paper. “We’re associates when we’re on duty. By definition.”

“And I am on duty,” you retort, setting your papers down and pressing a hand to the bridge of your nose. “Constantly. The same way I’m on duty while watching you get your ass beat on live television, all because you seem to love pulling your punches. Like a fucking idiot.”

He winces at that, unable to deny the blatant distaste in your tone as you remind him of all the times Cecil has sent him your way, all the times you’ve scolded him and downright berated him because you watched as he actively held back.

“Your strength went up over one hundred percent, and you don’t even use it properly. Every fight you have, your file gets ridiculously thicker, Markus.” The way you say his name—

“Don’t say it like it’s a slur.” Mark pleads, a slight tinge of pink on his cheeks, “and it’s Mark. Just. . . Just Mark.”

“Get. Out.”

“Markus.”

“Mark.”

“Why are you here?” You sigh out the question with exhaustion, annoyance, and a dire need to rip your own hair out as Mark sits there on one of the patient beds, uninjured this time—shockingly. He’s sitting there like a lost puppy, just. . . Much larger, more awkward, and disgustingly pathetic.

He hesitates for a moment, choosing his response carefully. “I’m benched for a while. At least until Cecil figures out what to do with me.”

The sound you make is unsurprised. “Good. Sick of seeing you bleeding whenever you come here.”

“I know.”

“So stop doing it.”

Mark’s lips purse into a thin line. You’re so mean, and it’s not like he can’t see why. But you haven’t asked him to exactly stop talking to you (yes you have), and it’s not like you genuinely hate his guts. . . At least, in his eyes, you don’t. The Teen Team would beg to differ after seeing the way you speak to him.

“I’m just wondering,” he starts, unwilling to leave. “Are there like, any other heroes you’re sick of seeing? Besides me?”

You pause at that, and turn your head towards him. As always, your eyes are narrowed and tired, a little scrunch in your brow and a slight frown on your lips as you look at him. He’d really give anything just to see you smile—just once. He wonders if you have dimples. What your laugh sounds like, what you look like when you’re peaceful and calm for just a moment.

“Why?”

“Morbid curiosity,” Mark states simply. And to be fair, it is just that. Surely you don’t just dislike him and solely him, there has to be another hero you hate. Maybe even multiple. Mark likes hearing your voice, even if you’re just talking about the things you dislike.

He wonders what you do like. What you find solitude in.

“Hm.” For a moment, you exhale, and push away from your desk to think about your answer. “. . . Immortal,” you hum, thinking about it. “Can’t seem to keep his head on. Or stop charging into fights he can’t handle.”

“Like me?”

“No,” you shake your head and go back to focusing on your work. “You can handle your fights. It just seems to be a deliberate choice of yours not to handle them.”

“Ouch.”

“I hate it when Rex comes in here.” You ignore his little comment and continue, actually giving some thought to your responses. Usually, your conversations with Mark consisted of you insulting him endlessly before telling him to go home and sleep it off. Rinse and repeat.

“He can talk someone’s ear off. It’s sickening, really,” the last part is a mutter as you sort through a barrage of papers, clearly going back to focusing on what you were doing before he’d come and interrupted your rather quiet day. He’s been dropping by more often, and over time, you’ve began to hold actual conversations with him that didn’t involve you telling him how you should let him heal on his own, and him begging you to not leave him stranded in such a state—

“What’s your favorite kind of food?”

You pause for a second, pretending to not have heard, before ultimately you set your papers down again and turn your swivel chair to face Mark. “What?”

“Your favorite kind of food,” he repeats, staring right back at you. “Like, do you like spicy, or?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy.” You grumble, rolling your eyes as you shake your head. Just for a moment, you glance back up at him, watching him pout ever so slightly at your answer.

“I’m serious. It’s just a genuine question, y’know?” The two of you enter a staring contest of sorts when you glare at him, looking genuinely offended at the fact he was asking about something so minuscule and stupid. As though the two of you were friendly. . . .

“Fruit.”

Mark blinks at your response, opening his mouth to say something before closing it again, gears turning in his head. “Okay. . . So, sweet stuff?”

“Sweet stuff,” you mutter, turning back around. “Not artificial sugar. Natural. It’s better for my energy, helps me heal better.”

He nods as though that makes sense. You seemed the type to prefer natural things over the overproduced, sickeningly and overly sweet candies that left a bitter aftertaste. It makes sense in Mark’s mind—as though he should’ve known, should’ve been able to tell. The room you work in smells soft and sweet, just like honey and strawberries.

You smell like strawberries. Ripe, sweet. Tinted a dark red and soft when bitten into.

“Okay.” Mark whispers, more to himself than anything. A confirmation. A new alignment in the stars, the very universe itself as a whole. “Yeah, that seems like you.”

“Don’t stereotype me, Invinci-Boy.”

“Oh my god.”

TAGLIST : @lxluvsmoney @broicouldjustbuyyousomekombucha @koilikesthefishy @tokoyamisstuff @pookiei-bookie

[be4chywritez]

stolen everything | nico hischier

nico hischier x roommate!reader

rec: #27 with Nico, please?

prompt: "that's my hoodie..." "oh." "it's fine. i was going to get rid of it anyway. especially now that you've worn it." (roommate!reader)

recs are open + prompt list

beachy’s masterlist🐚

no recs for part 2

When you first agreed to live with Nico, you figured it would be easy. He was barely home because of the season, and when he was around, he mostly kept to himself.

But then the little things started grating on your nerves.

Like how he always made a face when you left dishes in the sink. Or how he somehow never ran out of milk while you always forgot to buy it. Or how he had an annoyingly smug way of reminding you that he was the more responsible one.

So, in the grand scheme of things, wearing his hoodie wasn’t a big deal.

It wasn’t even on purpose at first. Your laundry was still in the dryer when you got home late, and his hoodie had been left draped over the couch—easy access. It was big, warm, and comfortable, and you figured you’d return it before he even noticed.

Except now he was standing in the living room, eyeing you like you’d committed a crime.

"That's my hoodie."

You glanced down, acting as if you’d just realized. "Oh."

Nico’s eyebrows raised, expectant, like he was waiting for you to take it off and hand it over. You didn’t move.

Instead, you sank further into the couch, crossing your arms. "Relax, Hischier. It’s just a hoodie."

"It's my hoodie," he countered, stepping closer. "Why are you even wearing it?"

You stretched your legs out, feigning nonchalance. "Laundry’s not done. This was convenient."

Nico exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "You could’ve grabbed literally anything else."

You smirked. "Could’ve, yeah."

His jaw clenched, but then something in his expression shifted. Instead of arguing, he just shook his head with a small, exasperated chuckle.

"Fine," he muttered. "Keep it. I was going to get rid of it anyway. Especially now that you've worn it."

You rolled your eyes, tugging the hoodie’s collar higher. "Wow, thanks. So generous."

He looked at you for a beat longer, then smirked. "Just don’t get too attached."

You scoffed. "Yeah, yeah. You’re not that special, Hischier."

But as he walked off, you caught the way his gaze lingered for a second longer than necessary.

And maybe, just maybe, you would get attached.

The hoodie incident should’ve been nothing. Just a stupid little moment that neither of you thought about again.

Except that was a lie.

Because you thought about it. A lot.

And if Nico’s lingering glances whenever you wore it again meant anything, so did he.

At first, you kept it as a petty act of defiance. A silent way to annoy him. But then, it became habit—pulling it on after a long day, wearing it while making coffee in the morning, even falling asleep in it on the couch once or twice.

And Nico noticed.

"Are you seriously still wearing that?" he asked one evening, leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed.

You yawned dramatically. "It’s comfortable."

He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. "You own other hoodies."

"Yeah, but this one’s my favorite."

"Mine," he corrected.

You shrugged. "Possession is nine-tenths of the law."

"That’s not how that works," he muttered.

You grinned, feeling victorious—until he pushed off the counter and moved closer, standing just a little too near, eyes flickering over you like he was debating something.

"Alright," he said casually, reaching for the hoodie’s sleeve. "If you love it so much, maybe I should take it back."

You froze for half a second before dodging his grab, spinning out of reach. "Wow, rude!"

Nico smirked, clearly amused. "You said it’s just a hoodie. So give it back."

"Too late. It's mine now."

He sighed, shaking his head like you were exhausting, but you caught the hint of a smile playing at his lips.

"You’re impossible," he muttered, turning toward the fridge.

"You love it," you shot back without thinking.

And the second the words left your mouth, you realized how they sounded.

Nico paused.

His hand lingered on the fridge handle before he turned his head slightly, glancing at you. His expression was unreadable—caught somewhere between amusement and something else, something unreadable but heavy.

You swallowed. Looked away.

"Good talk," you mumbled, retreating before he could say anything else.

And if you caught him watching you later, when you curled up on the couch—still wearing the damn hoodie—you didn’t say anything.

Because maybe you liked it when he looked at you like that.

And maybe you weren’t ready to admit it just yet.

Dinner with the team was usually fine. A chance to unwind, talk hockey, maybe mess with Jack a little.

Tonight, though? Nico was seconds away from throwing his drink at him.

"Come on, man," Jack drawled, draping an arm over the back of his chair, grinning like an idiot. "Just set her up with him. It makes sense."

Nico barely looked up from his plate. "No."

Jack blinked, then leaned forward. "No?"

"Yeah." Nico stabbed a piece of chicken a little too aggressively. "No."

Severson, always the instigator, smirked. "Why not? Thought you didn’t care who she dated."

Nico clenched his jaw. "I don’t—"

"Then what’s the problem?" Jack cut in, eyebrows raised. "Luke’s buddy’s a good guy. He’s single. She’s single. Simple math, Cap."

Nico sighed, exasperated. "It’s not happening."

Jack studied him for a beat, then tilted his head, eyes narrowing like he’d just solved a puzzle.

"Wait." A slow smirk crept onto his face. "You like her."

The table went silent.

Nico froze, shoulders tensing. "I don’t—"

"Oh, dude, you so do," Jack practically yelled, smacking the table. "This totally explains the hoodie thing!"

Severson perked up. "Hoodie thing?"

Jack pointed at Nico like he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life. "His roommate—his very cute roommate—stole his hoodie, and he let her keep it even though it definitely pissed him off."

"It didn’t piss me off," Nico muttered, setting his fork down with a little too much force.

"Oh, sure," Jack mocked, leaning in. "So if I stole one of your hoodies, you’d just let me keep it?"

"That’s different."

"Uh-huh." Jack crossed his arms. "How?"

Nico opened his mouth. Shut it. Took a sip of his drink to buy time.

Severson smirked. "Yeah, you’re screwed, Cap."

Jack’s grin widened. "You think about it, don’t you?"

Nico rolled his eyes. "Think about what?"

"Her. Wearing it. Walking around your apartment, sleeves all long, looking all—"

Nico shot him a sharp glare, and Jack barely held back a laugh.

"I hate you," Nico muttered.

Jack ignored him. "You don’t want her dating Luke’s friend because you like her."

Nico exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face. "Can we please talk about something else?"

"Sure," Jack said, voice way too smug. "We can talk about how you’re totally in love with your roommate."

Nico groaned, dropping his head onto the table as the guys erupted into laughter.

Because denying it?

Yeah, that was starting to feel like lying.

And he was pretty sure he was completely screwed

Nico wasn’t expecting anything when he got home. Just a quiet night, maybe catching up on some TV before crashing early.

But then he saw it.

A note, stuck to the fridge in her messy handwriting.

Went on a date. Don’t wait up.

Nico stared at it longer than he should have, fingers tightening around the fridge handle.

Date.

He scoffed under his breath, grabbing a bottle of water and shutting the fridge a little harder than necessary.

You could do whatever you wanted. It wasn’t his business.

Still… his eyes flicked to the clock.

10:17 PM.

Not that late. But for some reason, he didn’t go to his room.

Instead, he ended up on the couch, flipping through channels, trying to pretend he wasn’t checking the door every five minutes.

It wasn’t like he was waiting for you. That would be ridiculous.

It was just—well, what kind of guy was this, anyway? You didn’t mention him before. Was he some random from a dating app? Jack’s stupid setup?

Nico scowled at the thought.

Doesn’t matter. Not your problem.

And yet, when 11:30 rolled around, he was still there.

Still not waiting.

Definitely not.

Then the door opened.

He looked up without thinking, instantly reading her expression.

You looked… deflated.

Her usual confidence was missing, shoulders slightly hunched as you kicked off her shoes. No smile, no excitement.

Something twisted in his chest.

"You’re home early," he said, keeping his voice casual.

You blinked, like you’d just noticed him there. "Oh. Yeah."

you walked past him toward the kitchen, tossing your bag onto the counter with a little too much force.

Nico frowned. "How was it?"

Silence.

Then you sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. "He stood me up."

Nico’s grip on his water bottle tightened. "What?"

You let out a humorless laugh. "Yeah. I sat there for, like, thirty minutes before I realized he wasn’t coming."

Something burned in Nico’s chest. Who the hell stands you up?

You turned around, leaning against the counter, finally looking at him. "I swear, I’m not even mad. Just… annoyed, you know?"

Nico nodded slowly. "Yeah. I know."

You studied him for a second, tilting your head. "Why are you still up, anyway?"

He shrugged. "Was watching TV."

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at the remote untouched on the coffee table. "Uh-huh. Sure."

He ignored the way his ears burned. "You hungry?"

your lips parted slightly, like you weren't expecting that. "I mean… kinda, yeah."

Without another word, Nico pushed off the couch and headed to the kitchen, grabbing takeout menus from the drawer.

"What are you doing?" you asked.

"Picking something," he said simply. "Not letting you end the night with nothing."

For a moment, you just watched him, eyes softening slightly. Then you shook your head, smiling. "You’re so weird, Hischier."

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, hiding his smirk.

You rubbed your arms awkwardly. “I’m gonna go change,” you mutter Nico whose phone is pressed to his ear he gives you a nod before turning his attention back to a takeout menu. 

You don’t immediately turn around, you stay leaning against the counter, he looks oddly domestic, maybe it's the ambiance, maybe it's the way he sits. You don’t know what it is but it freaks you out.

You turn around going into your room, you take off your makeup, and switch into a pair of leggings. You grab the first hoodie in your closet, putting your head through the head hole.

It’s fine it’s just insufferable, intolerable, annoyingly hot Nico.

Of course you thought Nico was hot, those eyes,  his hair, and his biceps honestly someone would be on drugs to not see his attractiveness.

you take a deep breath.

As you step back into the living room, now wrapped in the hoodie, Nico’s gaze flicks up from his phone. His expression is unreadable for a second, but then he just exhales, shaking his head like he’s already given up on arguing.

“You always steal my clothes?” he asks, voice quieter this time.

You shrug, walking past him to lean against the counter again. “Just the ones you were going to throw out anyway.”

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he checks his phone again before pushing up from the couch.

“They’re not delivering this late,” he says. “Gotta go pick it up.”

You nod, half-expecting him to just leave, but then he hesitates. Like he’s debating something. Finally, he jerks his head toward the door. “Wanna come?”

You blink, caught off guard.

“What, so you can critique my taste in music the whole drive?” you tease, tilting your head.

Nico smirks, grabbing his keys. “Obviously.”

It’s the easiest decision in the world to grab your coat and follow him out.

You follow Nico out into the cold, shoving your hands into the hoodie’s sleeves as he unlocks the car. The air is crisp, your breath visible in the glow of the streetlights. You don’t know why you agreed to come along—maybe because sitting alone in the apartment after a failed date felt depressing, or maybe because you just liked annoying him. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

The car is warm when you get in, the faint scent of leather and something distinctly Nico surrounding you. You’re barely buckled in before he’s adjusting the temperature, turning the heat up without a word.

Your chest tightens. It’s a small thing. Probably subconscious. But it makes your fingers twitch in the hoodie’s sleeves.

“You know, I could’ve just driven,” you point out as he pulls onto the main road.

Nico scoffs. “Right. Like I’d trust you with my car.”

“You make it sound like I’d crash it immediately.”

He smirks, eyes still on the road. “You would.”

You gape at him. “Excuse you, I’m a great driver.”

“Mhmm.”

Your jaw drops further. “Oh, you’re such an ass.”

He chuckles, shifting gears smoothly, like he isn’t even trying to rile you up. But you see the tiny smirk, the way his fingers flex on the steering wheel. It should be annoying. It is annoying. Except it also makes something flip in your stomach.

You huff, sinking into the passenger seat, arms crossed over your chest. “I should’ve just stayed home.”

“Probably,” Nico says, still smug. But then his voice drops, a little softer. “Would’ve been boring, though.”

Your breath catches for half a second.

Silence settles between you, not uncomfortable, just different. The radio plays quietly, and the city lights blur past the windows. You sneak a glance at him, at the way his jaw is set, the faint crease between his brows.

That’s when it happens.

A song filters through the speakers—one you like, one you’ve played in the apartment a million times. And Nico, without missing a beat, reaches for the volume and turns it up.

You stare at him.

“What?” he asks, eyes still on the road.

“You hate this song.”

He shrugs. “It’s fine.”

“Liar.”

He smirks, tapping his fingers against the wheel. “It’s growing on me.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you just watch him a little longer, trying to ignore the way your pulse flutters.

Then, before you can stop yourself, you ask, “Why’d you even invite me?”

Nico doesn’t answer right away. He shifts into a turn, his profile sharp in the glow of passing streetlights. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than before.

“Felt like it.”

That shouldn’t make your stomach flip. But it does.

You’re about to tease him, to break whatever this is, but then he glances over—and you’re caught.

His gaze lingers, eyes flicking over you like he’s seeing something new. Like maybe this whole hoodie thing, this whole you thing, is messing with him just as much.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you murmur, hating how breathless you sound.

His fingers tighten briefly on the wheel.

“I’m not,” he says, too quickly.

You don’t believe him.

But you don’t push it, either.

Instead, you turn your head toward the window, hiding your smile as the car keeps moving through the quiet city streets.

Maybe—just maybe—you should’ve stolen his hoodie sooner.

The rest of the drive is quiet, save for the occasional comment about a bad driver or a stupid streetlight. But something lingers in the air, something neither of you are willing to name just yet.

When Nico pulls into the parking lot of the takeout place, he parks but doesn’t move right away. Instead, he leans back slightly, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift. You swear you see him glance at you again, just for a second.

“I’ll be quick,” he says, reaching for the door handle.

You unbuckle your seatbelt. “I’m coming in.”

He pauses. “Why?”

“Because I don’t trust you to get my order right.”

He scoffs. “I’m not an idiot.”

“You also think medium spice is ‘too much,’ so yeah, I’m coming in.”

Nico mutters something under his breath but doesn’t argue further.

Inside, the place is mostly empty, save for a couple of late-night stragglers. The warm scent of fried food and spices fills the air, and you’re suddenly very aware of how close Nico stands beside you at the counter.

The cashier recognizes him immediately. “Oh, hey, Captain! Usual order?”

Nico nods, but you interject, leaning against the counter. “And a side of the extra spicy dumplings.”

The cashier raises an eyebrow, glancing between you. Nico just exhales sharply. “You’re going to regret that.”

“You underestimate me, Hischier.”

“Or maybe I just know you too well.”

Your stomach tightens at that. But before you can say anything, he pulls out his wallet.

You reach for yours instinctively. “I can pay for my own food, you know.”

“I got it,” Nico says simply, handing over his card before you can argue.

You narrow your eyes. “Is this your way of bribing me to give the hoodie back?”

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t take the bait. “Think of it as rent.”

You scoff. “That’s not how rent works.”

He shrugs. “Guess you’re just getting a good deal.”

The words shouldn’t mean anything. But the way he says them—casual, effortless, like it’s second nature to him to take care of you—has your heart doing something stupid in your chest.

The cashier hands him the receipt, and as you step to the side to wait for the food, you glance at Nico. He’s standing with his hands tucked into his pockets, looking completely unbothered. But then, as if he can feel your gaze, he turns his head slightly.

“You’re staring again,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.

Your breath hitches.

“So are you,” you counter.

He doesn’t deny it this time.

The food arrives, breaking the moment, and you’re both quick to turn away, pretending nothing happened.

As Nico pulls out of the parking lot, you expect him to drive straight home. But then he makes a turn that’s definitely not the way back.

You glance at him. “Uh, you know you just passed our street, right?”

“Yeah,” he says simply.

You wait for him to elaborate. He doesn’t.

“Okay… where are we going?”

He keeps his eyes on the road, his fingers tapping idly against the wheel. “Figured we could eat somewhere else.”

That surprises you. “Since when do you like eating in your car?”

“I don’t.” He shrugs. “Just didn’t feel like going back yet.”

You blink at him. “Didn’t realize you enjoyed my company so much, Hischier.”

He exhales through his nose, but you swear you see a flicker of amusement in his expression. “Don’t make me change my mind.”

You smirk but don’t push it. Instead, you settle back into your seat as he drives toward the edge of the city, winding through quieter streets until he finally pulls into an empty overlook.

The view is unexpectedly nice—city lights stretching in the distance, the kind of peaceful silence that only exists this late at night.

Nico shifts the car into park and leans back with a sigh. “Here.”

You watch as he reaches into the bag and hands you your order before grabbing his own.

“So,” you start, unwrapping your food. “What’s this really about?”

Nico raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” You gesture vaguely. “You being all weird. Wanting to eat in your car. Taking the long way home.”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he takes a bite of his food, chewing thoughtfully.

Then, finally—

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Just felt like staying out a little longer.”

Something about the way he says it makes your stomach flip.

You look down at your food, suddenly very interested in your dumplings. “Well. Guess it beats eating in our tiny-ass kitchen.”

Nico huffs out a quiet laugh. “Yeah.”

Silence stretches between you, but it’s not awkward. Just… different. Like there’s something sitting between you both, waiting to be acknowledged.

Eventually, you sigh, leaning your head against the seat. “I can’t believe I got stood up for this.”

Nico’s jaw tenses. “Guy’s an idiot.”

You glance at him. “Yeah?”

He nods, gaze fixed on the city lights. “Yeah.”

You study his profile for a moment—the sharp angle of his jaw, the way his fingers drum against his thigh like he has something else he wants to say but won’t.

And for some reason, that makes you bolder.

“You know,” you muse, “if you’re this bothered about me dating, you could always just—”

“I’m not bothered,” he cuts in, too quickly.

You smirk. “Uh-huh.”

He rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue.

Instead, he reaches for the bag and pulls out your extra spicy dumplings. “Bet you can’t eat more than two without regretting it.”

You scoff. “You severely underestimate me, Hischier.”

“I think I know you pretty well by now,” he says easily.

You pause for half a second, your stomach flipping at his words. But before you can dwell on it, he hands you the dumplings, smirking like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

And just like that, the teasing is back—comfortable, familiar, but with something new just beneath the surface.

Something that neither of you are ready to name.

The drive back is quiet, but not in a bad way. Just… easy. You’re full, warm, and comfortable in the oversized hoodie you still refuse to give back.

When Nico parks in front of the apartment, you expect the night to be over. You’ll go inside, say goodnight, and crash in your bed.

But Nico doesn’t move to get out of the car.

Instead, he taps his fingers against the wheel before glancing at you. “You tired?”

You blink at him, half caught in a food coma. “Kinda.”

He hesitates for a second, like he’s debating something. Then, finally—

“Wanna watch a movie?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Since when do you ask me to watch movies with you?”

He exhales, shaking his head. “Forget it.”

You smirk, amused. “Nah, I’m just messing with you. Sure. But I get to pick.”

Nico rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue.

Inside, you grab a blanket while he scrolls through the movie options. Eventually, you settle on some random action-comedy, something you’ve both seen before but don’t mind watching again.

You’re barely twenty minutes in when you start to feel it—your body sinking further into the couch, the warmth of the blanket lulling you into that half-asleep haze.

Nico, for his part, is suspiciously quiet.

Then, suddenly—

His arm moves.

At first, you barely register it, too tired to question why he’s shifting beside you. But then you feel it—his arm resting against the back of the couch, close enough that his fingers brush your shoulder.

The classic yawn and stretch move.

You would make fun of him for it if you weren’t currently fighting off sleep.

Instead, in your tired daze, you do something you probably wouldn’t have done if you were fully awake.

You shift, leaning into him without thinking, your head resting lightly against his shoulder.

You feel him stiffen for a fraction of a second. Then, slowly, he relaxes.

You don’t think about it too hard. It’s comfortable. Warm. Safe.

And maybe, just maybe, Nico lets himself sink into it too.

Because he doesn’t move. Doesn’t nudge you off or make some sarcastic comment.

Instead, his arm settles lightly along the couch behind you, his fingers barely brushing your arm.

The movie keeps playing, but neither of you are really paying attention anymore.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you know this is different. That this means something.

But right now?

Right now, you’re too sleepy to care.

And Nico?

He’s too comfortable to let it bother him.

For tonight, this is enough.

For tonight, you’ll both pretend it’s nothing.

Even if, deep down, you both know it’s not.

It’s the sound of a soft buzz that pulls you out of your sleep, though the warmth and the comfort around you keep you from fully opening your eyes. You let out a quiet groan, stretching slightly, only to realize that the position you're in feels... too comfortable.

You blink a few times, your brain slowly catching up with reality. You’re still lying against Nico, your head resting on his chest. His arm is around you, his hand resting on your hair, gently toying with the strands in a way that makes your skin tingle.

For a second, you freeze.

Then, slowly, you let your eyes drift open, seeing Nico’s face not too far from yours. His phone is in his other hand, and he’s absentmindedly scrolling through something, though you can tell he’s not really paying attention to it.

Instead, he’s focused on the way your hair falls across your forehead, brushing it back every so often, fingers gently working through the strands like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You don’t move, not wanting to disturb the calm that’s settled over the two of you. It feels almost too perfect.

And maybe it’s the fact that you’re still half-dazed from sleep, but in that moment, everything about this feels... right.

You let your head sink further into his chest, just basking in the warmth of his presence, the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek.

Nico’s hand pauses in your hair for a moment when he feels you shift, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he just lets out a quiet, almost inaudible sigh, his hand resting there now, fingertips brushing the back of your neck in a slow, comforting rhythm.

You smile to yourself, your own hand drifting to his chest, fingers grazing the fabric of his hoodie—his favorite hoodie, the one he never meant to let you steal.

You could pull away, you should pull away, but in this moment, you don’t want to. Not yet.

For the first time in a while, it feels like you’re exactly where you need to be.

"Morning," Nico says softly, his voice still thick with sleep, and you notice that his phone is long forgotten in his hand now.

You raise your eyes to meet his, catching the soft glint of something unreadable there. Something that makes your chest flutter, but you ignore it.

"Morning," you murmur back, your voice still heavy with the warmth of sleep.

He smirks, though it’s not his usual teasing smirk—it’s softer, quieter. "You know, I could get used to this."

You hum in agreement, your eyes fluttering shut again for just a moment as you relax deeper into him. "Me too."

There’s no hurry to get up. No rush to fill the silence. Just the sound of Nico’s steady breathing, the warmth of his touch, and the feeling of peace that settles over you like a blanket.

And for a fleeting moment, it feels like the world outside doesn’t exist.

Maybe it’s because you’re still tangled in the comfort of the morning haze, or maybe it’s the way Nico’s fingers still gently thread through your hair, but you could stay like this forever.

But, eventually, the reality of the day creeps in. You can feel the weight of time moving forward, but for now?

For now, you’re happy to just let it all slip away.

And when Nico’s fingers brush your cheek, gently nudging you to meet his gaze, you can’t help but smile, your heart racing in a way you don’t fully understand.

"Guess we should get up, huh?" Nico asks, voice still soft.

You nod lazily, the satisfaction of the moment still lingering. "Guess so."

But you don’t move right away. Neither of you do.

Instead, you just stay there, in that quiet, perfect silence.

[bbyg4rl]

୨୧ ─ jj tries to impress you . . .

cw: REQUESTED / jj x reader, fluff, jj’s kind of a dumbass but whats new?

The bell above the door jingles. JJ glances up mid-convo with Pope, fully expecting a tourist or some board pickup. Instead, he sees you—and immediately forgets what he was saying.

You’re framed in sunlight, scanning the shop with that unsure “first time here” look. There’s sand stuck to your calves and a glossed-up mouth pulled into a quiet little smile. JJ drops the fin in his hand instantly. Pope raises a brow. “You okay?”

“Leave. Go. Anywhere else,” he glares at Pope.

“What—”

JJ’s already moving. Shirt half-tucked, trying to smooth his hair. “Dude, vanish.”

Pope shrugs and heads into the back, muttering about needing a raise and being taken for granted. JJ shuffles to the counter, taking his spot at the center, as casual as three racoons in a trench coat. “Hey. Uh—this is the surf shop.”

You chuckle at that, “That’s what the sign says.”

He laughs way too loud. “Right. Yeah. I’m—uh—I’m JJ.”

You smile slower now, watching him. He’s sweating. A little sheen along his forehead, and his fingers won’t stop fidgeting at the hem of his shirt. His dimple flashes when he smiles and it’s kind of stupid how pretty he is for a guy who looks like he just rolled out of a truck bed. “Nice to meet you, JJ.”

“I’m just gonna look around, that okay, JJ?” You say his name again, softer this time. Just to test how it feels in your mouth. He nods, starry-eyed. “Totally. If you, like…need help lifting anything heavy, I got you.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “That so?”

JJ immediately grabs the nearest longboard from the display and hefts it up with one arm, muscles flexing as he grins. “Yeah. This one’s custom. Kinda heavy, but I mean—”

You step a little closer, eyes playful, and reach out, slowly trailing your fingertips along the curve of his bicep. Your nail grazes skin. “Mm,” you hum, all fake innocence. “You’re so strong, JJ.” And that’s the moment the board slips. It clatters against the floor with a dramatic thud, narrowly missing his foot. You burst out laughing, covering your mouth. “Wow. Tragic.”

“That was the wax. Shifty wax.”

“Right.”

JJ scrambles to re-rack the board, muttering about center of gravity and gravity itself, while you wander toward the front display like it didn’t happen. You’re still close when you reach for a bottle on the edge of the display—sunscreen or wax and it wobbles suddenly, threatening to fall on you.

Before you can react, JJ’s hand is around your waist, pulling you to him, steadying you. It’s barely a touch, but his brain short-circuits. You’re warm. Soft. Perfect. You look up at him, a little surprised at his reflexes. “Thanks.”

His hand lingers a half-second longer than it should. “Yeah. No problem. Safety’s important.”

You smile again, that little curve of your lips doing damage he wasn’t prepared for. “You always save strangers from dangerous bottles?”

“I—uh—only the cute ones.”

You raise a brow. “Smooth.”

“You have no idea,” he mumbles, almost to himself.

You tuck your hands into your pockets, lingering a second longer like you’re thinking of something else to say. But then you just tilt your head, amused. “Well. See you around, hero.” The bell jingles again as you leave.

JJ leans across the counter, eyes glued to the window, watching the way you walk back to your car. He leans on his elbows. Then his forearms. Then he’s practically folded in half, forehead to the counter.

John B walks in from the back and stops short. “You filming a porno in here?”

JJ doesn’t move, just looks over his shoulder “Bro, what?”

“Why are you bent over the counter?”

JJ smiles, slow and dazed. “She called me strong.”

John B huffs a laugh. “…And that’s all it took to fold you in half?”

JJ groans without moving. “Jesus, man—”

John B raises his hands as if in defeat. “Don’t ‘Jesus, man’ me. You’re the one bent over the counter like you’re waiting for me to give you backshots.”

♡ requested by @sunshine-on-marz for ꒰ ⑅ ๑  𝟖𝟖𝟖 : : BALANCE ꒱

check out my — masterlist / 2k celebration ૮꒰•༝ •。꒱ა

[bebe-writes-stuff]

Title: 7 minutes in heaven

Pairing: Baji x Reader

Summary: It started out as a fun silly little game but now you’re both stuck here.

(Fluff + some kissing) ( No warnings)

————————————————————————

It was dark.

Not pitch-black, but that claustrophobic kind of dim where only a thin sliver of light crept in through the crack of the closet door. Enough to catch glimpses—the slight gleam of Baji’s earring, the edge of your shoe toe-to-toe with his, the rise and fall of his chest just inches from yours.

You weren’t sure how you ended up in here—no, scratch that. You were sure. This had Chifuyu written all over it.

Stupid party. Stupid game. Stupid friends.

You shifted slightly, trying—and failing—to wedge yourself against the wall without brushing up against him. But the closet was laughably small. Your shoulder bumped his. He tensed. So did you.

Silence. Awkward. Suffocating.

You cleared your throat, desperate to break the tension before it swallowed you whole. “So… this is fun.”

Baji let out a dry laugh, low and short. “Yeah. Real fun. Who actually plays this game?”

You smirked, trying to hide your nerves. “Apparently us.”

Another beat of silence. You could hear voices outside the door—laughter, music—but it all felt muffled. Distant. Like the closet had its own world, one way too small for how fast your heart was beating.

“So…” you tried again, eyes fixed on that thin line of light, “what would you be doing if you weren’t in a closet right now?”

Baji scoffed softly. “Eating Mikey’s snacks before Draken fights him for them.”

You laughed—nervous, but real. “Sounds about right.”

Then a pause.

“…What about you?” he asked, voice a bit quieter this time.

You glanced at him in the dimness, the curve of his jaw just visible. “Avoiding this exact situation.”

He huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh or a sigh. “Yeah. Me too.”

Neither of you moved. Shoulder to shoulder, trying not to notice how warm the other felt.

And neither of you noticed that the minutes were stretching far past seven.

The longer you sat in that cramped closet, the easier it got to ignore the awkward silence—and instead lean into teasing.

“Well,” you muttered, nudging his foot lightly with yours, “at least you smell better than I expected.”

He snorted. “Wow. Thanks. That the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me?”

You smirked in the dark. “I can take it back, you know.”

“No, no,” he said, trying—and failing—to sound offended. “I’ll treasure it forever.”

That made you both laugh, the sound echoing slightly in the tiny space. It felt stupidly easy, like the tension had cracked open just a little. Baji leaned back against the wall, shaking his head.

“Swear, Chifuyu’s dead when I get out of here. I knew he was acting weird.”

“Oh please,” you said, rolling your eyes. “The second he said ‘you’ll thank me later,’ we should’ve run.”

“You did walk in here though.”

“So did you.”

“…Touché.”

You both laughed again, your knees bumping this time—and neither of you pulled away.

But then Baji’s laughter slowed. His eyes darted toward the faint light on his watch. “…Wait. That was definitely more than seven minutes.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I’m serious.” He leaned forward, knocking on the door. “Yo! Time’s up! Let us out already!”

No answer.

Your brows furrowed. You twisted the doorknob—and froze. “It’s locked.”

Baji’s voice dropped an octave. “What?”

“I’m serious.” You jiggled it again. Nothing. “They locked us in—!”

“Oh, hell no.” He turned to the door, now more irritated than amused. “Oi! CHIFUYU! Open the damn door!”

Nothing but muffled laughter from outside.

“Oh you bastards—”

He smacked his palm against the door a little harder than the space could handle, and in his frustration, he shifted too far. His elbow bumped into your side, your balance tilted, and you stumbled—

“Whoa—!”

In a heartbeat, his arms caught you. One around your waist, one braced against the wall behind you.

The air shifted.

Your palms landed against his chest. Close. Way too close.

Baji blinked, his voice suddenly softer. “…You okay?”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “Y-Yeah. Just… lost my balance.”

His arms stayed where they were. Holding you just enough. Not letting go.

Neither of you moved.

“…They so planned this,” you muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

Baji’s lips twitched. “Yeah. They did.”

But this time, he didn’t sound mad. Just… thoughtful.

You stayed like that—frozen in his arms—for a moment too long. Long enough to realize you weren’t exactly trying to pull away.

And before you could second-guess yourself, your body moved on instinct. Maybe it was the warmth of him, the way his arms had tightened just slightly when you stumbled.

You let your head rest against his chest.

It wasn’t dramatic. Just a quiet little movement. Soft. Familiar, even. Like it had always been there, waiting for a moment like this.

But then you heard it.

His heartbeat.

Fast. Way too fast. Thundering beneath your ear like it was trying to punch its way out of his ribcage.

You blinked against the fabric of his shirt, surprised. “…Are you okay?”

There was a pause. And when he finally answered, his voice was low. Rough around the edges.

“…Would you believe me if I said I wasn’t?”

Your breath caught.

His tone wasn’t sarcastic. It wasn’t cocky or teasing. It was real. Honest.

Something fluttered in your chest—nerves, warmth, something in between. Before you could stop yourself, your arms lifted and wrapped around him. Not in a stumble, not in a joke.

A hug.

A real one.

He stiffened for a second, like he didn’t know what to do with it. And then slowly, wordlessly, his arms wrapped around you too. Tighter this time. Like he wasn’t planning on letting go.

“…You’re really warm,” you murmured, mostly to fill the silence.

“Yeah,” he said against your hair. “That might be your fault.”

You smiled into his chest.

You stayed wrapped in each other’s arms, the silence now soft and full—not awkward like before.

After a few moments, you tilted your head up slightly, your voice quiet but curious.

“Do you know why they did this?”

Baji blinked down at you, caught off guard. “Huh?”

“You know,” you said, your voice a little more teasing now. “Why they shoved us in here. Out of everyone.”

He shrugged, shifting a little. “Dunno. No clue.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him properly. “Liar.”

He blinked.

“You always know what’s up with your friends,” you said softly. “You notice everything. Especially when it comes to them. So why are you pretending not to now?”

That shut him up.

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. Just looked at you—really looked.

Then finally, quietly, he muttered, “Yeah.”

His arms dropped from your waist, like he needed them free to talk with, to explain. His fingers raked through his hair.

“Yeah,” he said finally, voice low. “I know.”

He stared past you for a second like he was sorting through his thoughts—then suddenly, the words came pouring out before he could stop them.

“First day I met you, I remember you rolled your eyes at me so hard I thought they’d get stuck. I thought you hated me,” he said with a breathless, almost disbelieving laugh. “But then you offered me half your damn sandwich like it was no big deal. After that, I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

You froze, heart thudding as he continued.

“Whenever I see something nice—like, really nice—my first thought’s always, ‘would you like it?’ I catch myself looking for stuff to tell you about. Like I wanna be the first to show you, hear you laugh, get you to roll your eyes at me again.”

His arms went around you, holding you like he was scared you’d vanish if he let go.

“I always want to protect you. Even when you don’t need it. Even when it’s just someone talking bad about you, or you pushing yourself too hard. I just—I dunno. You’re important to me. More than I ever say. Probably more than I should’ve let happen.”

Then, his eyes widened a little, realization crashing in.

“…Shit. Sorry. That was probably—ugh, that was too much. I didn’t mean to—if I’m annoying you or making this weird—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You leaned in and kissed him.

Simple. Soft. Real.

And it shut him up immediately.

You felt him tense for a heartbeat, then melt into it, hands slowly finding their way back to your waist, pulling you closer like he’d been waiting for this moment without even realizing it.

“…You’re not annoying,” you whispered. “You never were Baji.”

He let out a groan—half annoyed, half flustered—as he dragged a hand down his face.

“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered. “Can you just—please—call me by my first name?”

You blinked, a little startled. “What?”

“You heard me.” He glanced at you, eyes flickering between yours and your lips. “Say it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “…Keisuke.”

The effect was immediate. His breath caught, jaw tightening slightly like the sound of it hit him harder than he was ready for.

He stared at you like you’d just pulled the ground out from under him. “…Say it again.”

That was all it took.

He leaned in and kissed you again—deeper this time, his hands finding your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left to pretend. It wasn’t nervous or awkward anymore—it was real, urgent, like he’d waited too long to stop himself now.

Between kisses, he murmured against your mouth, “I love hearing you say my name.”

You barely had a second to breathe before he trailed his lips from your mouth down to your jaw, then to your neck—warm, slow kisses turning into something more heated. Your breath hitched as he kissed just below your ear, then lower, his lips grazing your skin until—

“Keisuke…” you whispered, voice unsteady.

He let out a low hum, his hands roaming up your sides, grounding you as his lips marked you—one, two—soft hickeys left behind like secrets only he was allowed to know.

But then he paused.

You felt it in the shift of his breath, the tension in his shoulders.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. His thumb brushed against your cheek, gentle now. “You okay with this?”

You nodded, cheeks warm, heart pounding. “Yeah… I am.”

He smiled—soft, almost shy. “Good. Because I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.”

But just as his lips were about to find yours again, reality came crashing back with a faint snicker from outside the door.

Right. The closet. The party. Their friends.

Baji sighed like it physically pained him to stop. He gave you one last kiss—slow, lingering—then let go, fists clenching like he needed to do something with all the heat and energy now stuck in his chest.

You raised an eyebrow. “Wait. What are you—”

“Screw this,” he muttered—and then, with a swift kick and a sharp CRACK, the closet door broke open, wood splintering around the lock.

Light poured in. A few gasps and shouts followed.

Baji stepped out first, shaking off his hair, then turned back to offer you his hand like the smug, slightly flushed delinquent he was.

“Seven minutes, huh?” he said with a crooked grin. “Took a little longer.”

The room went dead silent.

Baji strode out like he hadn’t just demolished a door and made out with you in a closet for who-knows-how-long. You followed close behind, cheeks flushed, hair slightly tousled, his hand still gripping yours.

Chifuyu gawked. “You actually broke the—wait. Wait. Did you guys—?”

Smiley whistled low. “Told you it’d work.”

Draken folded his arms, raising a brow. “Took you two long enough.”

Mikey, sitting cross-legged on the couch with snacks in his lap, just grinned. “So… when’s the wedding?”

You rolled your eyes.

But neither of you let go of each other’s hand.

————————————————————————

[mylovesstuffs]

OT13 reacting to their s/o giving birth

Request: Hello!! Can I request a Seventeen OT13 fluff/crack/comfort reaction to reader giving birth? Like for each member the member and reader react differently? Like reader having a hard time with wonwoo’s child because of his wide shoulders, Vernon being unfazed as usual as his wife screams at him, reader having no tolerance for pain and is panicking so Mingyu panics too, etc

A/N: I'm so sorry for keeping you waiting, anon. This took much longer than I expected. I actually finished writing it yesterday, but my draft got deleted, and I was so frustrated that I nearly cried. I had been working on this for a week while juggling other writing projects and a busy, stressful schedule. Instead of breaking down and giving up, I sat down and rewrote everything from memory. Since it was my second time writing it, I at least had a clearer idea of what I wanted to do. I knew that if I didn’t finish it now, it would end up delayed for another week or more, and I didn’t want that. Also, I pushed other queued requests back to finally get this one out since it should've been out earlier but I wasn't done with it. I really hope I did justice to your request! Thank you for your patience 💓

Seungcheol: To me it feels like his leader instincts kicking in like it’s a group comeback 😭 You’re physically drained and can barely push anymore, so Seungcheol will be holding your hand tightly, his voice steadying you: “Just one more, baby, you’ve got this. We’ll meet our little one soon.” On the inside, he’s panicking but doesn’t let it show because he knows you need his strength, "Breathe, babe, breathe!” Wait, should I breathe too?! Once the baby is born, he’s in tears, holding your hand like, “You did so well. I’m so proud of you.” and kissing your forehead. Then proceeds to take the title of Best Dad very seriously.

Jeonghan: “This is YOUR fault!” you scream at him as another wave of pain hits, and Jeonghan, instead of being offended, just grins cheekily, “I know, I know. But look at me—I’m right here. You’re doing amazing.” He is unfazed and mischievous, even while you're snapping at him but don't get me wrong. He's like, "It’s okay, just a little more!” while secretly panicking and muttering, How does one raise a tiny human? He just doesn't want to look panicked in front of you and scare you. When the baby arrives, he jokes, “Wow, this kid’s already prettier than me. Must’ve gotten it from me.” Yes, he's like that—but in a moment of seriousness, he looks at you with so much love, “You were incredible.”

Joshua: You’re crying softly, scared and overwhelmed, and Joshua immediately cups your face gently, “I know it’s hard, but you’re so strong. You can do this. I’ll be here the whole time.” He's very soft and attentive, the perfect mix of calm and emotional. He never leaves your side, murmuring prayers under his breath. Holds your hand and whispers comforting words the whole time, “You’re amazing, you’ve got this.” When the baby cries for the first time, he literally cries too, “This is the best day of my life.” He lets out a laugh of pure relief and joy as his face says, This is our miracle. He insists on singing the baby a lullaby immediately. Sunday morning rain is falling in form of lullaby

Jun: Wait, I think I need to sit down—oh no, wait, you’re the one doing all the work! Chaotic but sweet, Jun is trying his best to be strong for you, but his emotions are all over the place. You’re gripping his hand tightly, shaking your head, “I can’t do it, Jun. I really can’t!” his heart clenches at your words but he then immediately leans in, his eyes wide but sincere, “You’re already doing it. Look at me. One more push, and we’ll meet our baby.” The sheer trust and love in his gaze give you the last bit of strength you need. After the birth, he’s SO emotional, holding them like the most delicate thing in the world in complete awe with wide eyes, “Wow… they’re so small. Are you sure they’re ours?” He traces a careful finger along the baby’s tiny hand, his eyes softening even more. “They’re perfect… just like you.” His lips press a lingering, grateful kiss to your forehead before pulling back, his eyes shimmering. “I love you. Both of you.”

Hoshi: He's excited and maybe a little too energetic. Freaks out every time you make a noise, “IS IT TIME?!” even if you’re just asking for water. During birth, I feel like, his s/o will be yelling from the pain and accidentally yell at him too lol. “STOP TALKING, SOONYOUNG!” you shout during a particularly painful contraction, and he freezes, wide-eyed. “Okay, I’m sorry! I’ll be quiet—but I’m still here!” When the baby is born, he’s crying harder than you are, clutching your hand, “WE DID IT! I mean, you did it! I’M A PAPA TIGER! Look at our little cub!” while also jumping up and down yelling.

Wonwoo: Wonwoo is the reliable rock you need. You’re biting your lip, trying not to scream, and he notices your trembling. He leans closer, his voice soft, “It’s okay to let it out. I’m here for you, always.” He stays by your side, holding your hand, his thumb gently rubbing the back of it to soothe you. Every now and then, he murmurs, “You’re doing so well,” his voice laced with admiration and respect for his beloved. When the baby is finally born, he doesn’t say much at first—just stares in awe, holding them close with a small, amazed smile. After a long pause, he finally whispers, “So this is what pure happiness feels like.” Theb he looks at you, eyes full of love, and promises, “I’ll be the best dad. For both of you.”

Woozi: Stressed but trying not to show it. Internally writing 15 songs about his emotions while saying, “Do you need anything? Water? Ice? A new husband?” all while trying his best to keep his emotions in check for your sake but low-key failing. “It hurts so much!” you cry, and Jihoon, though visibly worried and internally panicking, keeps rubbing your back, “I know, love, I know. Just a little more, and it’ll be over. You’re stronger than you think.” Once it’s over, he’s stunned silent, staring at the tiny life in his hands in awe, whispering, “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to write anything more beautiful than this.” Then he looks at you, his voice soft: “You’re incredible.”

Dokyeom: Your overly enthusiastic cheerleader is trying his best. But when you let out a scream, “AUGH!” Seokmin yelps even louder, “ARE YOU OKAY?!” despite knowing full well that you’re not. He’s gripping your hand so tightly—probably too tightly and almost crying with you. “YOU’RE DOING GREAT. I’M SO PROUD OF YOU!” Then, mid-contraction, he suddenly panics, “Wait, do you hate me right now? I think you do.” You glare at him between deep breaths, and he flinches, “Okay! No talking! Got it!” When the baby is finally here, Seokmin completely loses it, his happy sobs are the loudest in the room. “We did it! Well, mostly you, but we did it!” He’s melting, practically sliding to the floor as he holds the baby, overwhelmed by joy. Someone has to hold him up before he turns into a puddle of emotions.

Mingyu: He’s the definition of chaos with a side of tears. “Why is it taking so long?!” you cry out, exhausted and frustrated, and Mingyu, who has been pacing non-stop—pauses for a second before nervously responding, “I don’t know, but I’m here! We’ll get through this together, I promise.” He’s trying so hard to be helpful, but his clumsy ass is in full force. “Do you need water, baby? A towel? Oh no, I dropped the towel! Wait, where’s the doctor—should I call someone?!” The moment the baby arrives, Mingyu’s emotions explode, he’s full-on sobbing, barely able to form words. “You’re amazing! Our baby is amazing!” He cradles the tiny newborn like the most precious thing in the world, holding on so tight that the nurses have to coax him into letting them check the baby. “No! They’re so tiny! So perfect! I’m NOT letting them go.” spoiler: he doesn't. they have the check the baby from his hold.

Minghao: Zen but emotional deep down. He’s by your side, reminding you to breathe like a yoga instructor, “Inhale, exhale, you’ve got this.” But you are still exhausted and losing focus during labor, “I can’t do it,” you mumble weakly, and Minghao immediately takes your hand, his calm voice grounding you: “Yes, you can. Focus on me. Deep breaths. You’re stronger than you know.” After the baby’s born, he holds them with the gentlest hands, his eyes full of tears. “You did so well,” he whispers, brushing hair out of your sweaty face. “This is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever experienced.” His face is all smiley with streaks of dry tears down his cheeks as he kisses your nose, “This is the start of a masterpiece. You’re amazing, my love. I love you”

Seungkwan: The most emotional and slightly dramatic of them all. “Are you okay? Is the baby okay? Am I okay?!” He’s running on pure nerves. The situation escalates quickly when you reach the peak of labor, and it’s similar to Hoshi’s. “STOP TALKING, KWAN!” you snap, breathless from the pain. He gasps dramatically, clutching his chest, “I’m just worried! But okay, okay, I’ll shut up!” He’s jittery, constantly checking on you, the doctors, and the monitors, whispering prayers under his breath. The moment the baby is born, all his anxiety vanishes, replaced by unfiltered joy. He holds the baby, bawling his eyes out, voice shaking as he says, “This is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” Then, looking at you with pure adoration, he sniffles, “I’m going to spoil them so much.”

Vernon: Surprisingly calm but mostly because he’s in shock. You’re gripping the bed rails so hard your knuckles turn white, trying not to scream, and Vernon, who notices how much you’re struggling, leans down, holding your hand. “You’re doing so great,” he says. “We’re so close, babe. Just a little more.” He doesn’t say much else, just keeps his grip firm, standing by your side like an unshakable pillar until you give birth while internally thinking, This is wild. When the baby is born, he stares at them for a long moment before finally saying, “Wow… we made this. That’s crazy.” But then, as he holds the baby, his normally neutral expression softens into something breathtaking. His heart eyes are fully showing— completely smitten, both with the baby and with you.

Dino: Our Dino is flustered but super supportive. “Do you need me to do anything? Tell me what to do—I’ll do it!” He’s hovering, heart racing, watching you struggle through the pain, and it’s breaking him. When you sob, “I can’t do it, Chan!” he nearly panics himself, but he quickly shakes his head and crouches beside you, rubbing your back. “Yes, you can,” he says firmly, “You’re the strongest person I know. Just a little more, I’m right here!” The second the baby arrives, his stress vanishes, replaced by pure joy. His grin is so wide it almost hurts. “I’m officially a dad! We’re parents now, love! Can you believe it?” He holds the baby with so much pride and tenderness, already making promises. “I’m going to be the fun parent. You’re going to have the coolest childhood ever, little one.” and holds their pinky.

[mangocurist]

hiiiiiii jet @jumped-for-the-yaoi @daylilie (idk which acc to tag so i just did both) . guess who decided to write wincezam (i fucking love that name so damn much can you Tell)

cw they do like makeout and wemmbu is implied to have a boner at some point? idk lol i wrote most of this in a rage last night while i was still post limited it hasnt been edited

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖥧⚶⋆⭒˚｡✧𖦹✮𖤓✮𖦹✧˖°⋆⭒˚｡⚶𖥧𖥧𖤣.𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖥧⋆⭒˚｡✧𖦹✮𖤓✮𖦹✧˖°⋆⭒˚⋆

“Ugh. Dude, this is like, the third time this week, Wemmbu. Can you like, try and be a little more normal about me?” 

Zam rolls her eyes at him when his guards drag Wemmbu into the throne room, the clothes he'd borrowed (well, stolen, but on Lifesteal, there really wasn't much of a difference) from his doppelganger slightly stained with soot and redstone. 

Zam’s smiling as he looks down at Wemmbu, a brilliant light glowing from the sunny halo that encircles his head. He wants to rip it from Zam’s skull and use it to slit his throat— but Flamefrags is standing just a block away with a netherite sword, and while Wemmbu could probably survive it with the same exploits that got him on here in the first place, he'd really rather not reveal his hand immediately. 

Also, Zam’s rather nice to look at when he’s acting all confident like this. It makes Wemmbu wonder if he could've pushed his own Zam into acting a little more like this, if he just turned up the pressure a little more, pushed her buttons until she could no longer deny the blood on his hands.

Hm. Well, maybe not, on second thought. 

Wemmbu wasn’t sure if he liked that pacifist Zam who refused to raise her sword at any cost, but would send her guard dogs at any person who crossed her. At least this Zam was willing to get his hands dirty.

“You're— you're like, embarrassing yourself at this point. Seriously. Give it up, you're not gonna do anything with your… what was it? Orbital cannon? That’s a stupid name.” Zam blinks, one hand sweeping a strand of curly golden hair out of his eye, and stands up, walking closer and closer to Wemmbu until she stops right in front of him, motioning for Flamefrags and Manepear to leave them alone.

He's expecting the sword to his neck, sure, but the point of the blade pressing into his skin and the warm feeling of her fingers against his face, gently tracing the length of his cheek are unexpected variables— and, oh god, is that fucking perfume or blood? It smells like iron, so it could be either, but there’s also a tinge of some floral scent that he can’t quite place. Either way, Wemmbu shifts uncomfortably on the ground, silently hoping and willing Zam to come just a little closer. 

When she does, another unexpected thing happens. The sword falls to the ground, completely forgotten, as she settles on her knees, lowering herself to the same height as him. Oh, wow. It usually takes longer than this, but Wemmbu certainly won’t complain. “You are actually so stupid. Did you know that?”

To Wemmbu’s credit, he doesn't immediately jump forward and try to eat Zam’s face off. He’s not quite sure the prince-emperor would appreciate it if he ruined his makeup this early into the day. Then again, he did try to bomb the Prince Zam Empire earlier this morning, so surely she wouldn’t be too mad about her makeup compared to the attempted nuking? 

He doesn’t have to worry about that, though, because as it turns out, it’s Zam who ruins it first, yanking Wemmbu forward by his fitted shirt collar and smearing lipstick across his mouth as she cups the back of his head, teeth nibbling on his lower lip as he tries to wear down Wemmbu’s defences. At some point during the kiss Wemmbu thinks he can taste blood, and when he dares to look at Zam in the eye she’s grinning like the little yellow smiling freak she is. 

When Zam finally pulls away, Wemmbu is left practically reeling, glaring up at the prince who just smiles sweetly at him, pulling a handkerchief out of her pocket to dab at the blood staining her face. “You lost this time,” Zam says, then, as an addition, “And also twice before that. Three in a row is a pretty bad track record, dude.”

“Oh, shut up,” Wemmbu rolls his eyes. 

He’s about to say more— point out the fact that he’s never really actually won, because that would require him to level the Prince Zam Empire to the ground and honestly he doesn’t really want to do that, not if it means that Zam won’t be around to match him anymore; or maybe the fact that he hails from a server where murder is the norm and it would be so much easier than Zam thinks to shove a sword between his ribs, make him choke on a poisoned meal or gouge his eyes out with Wemmbu’s bare hands— but then Zam is sitting on his lap, soft, ungloved hands pulling his face down to level, and Wemmbu—

Well. It’s pretty hard to think with a prince in your lap. 

It’s harder (haha) for Wemmbu specifically because this isn’t just any prince, this is Zam, and his blood is still crusted at the corner of her lips where the handkerchief hadn’t reached, and it’s just difficult for him to do anything but stare up at Zam reverently.

“You’re the one who’s going to shut up,” Zam says, voice dripping with honey, and then he bites Wemmbu again, tongue darting out to lick away the blood before she’s on him again, practically trying to smother Wemmbu with the taste of his own ichor. He can honestly barely think with the weight of Zam in his lap and the feel of her touch on his face, but Wemmbu is a self-saboteur in the best of times and he thinks himself a comedian, so when Zam reaches behind him to undo the chains binding his hands, seemingly bored by his limited reciprocation, the first thing he does is reach into his inventory for a small stick of TnT and put it in his hotbar.

Zam doesn’t notice what he’s doing immediately, which is good, if a little worrying. Seriously, for someone who faces so many goddamn assassinations (and he would know! He’s been the attempted assassin no less than 28 times, and it’s been only a month or so since he’s found his way onto Unstable) she really has no sense of self-preservation when in the middle of a makeout session. 

Speaking of. Wemmbu snakes his hand underneath Zam’s shirt, revelling in the fact that she shivers at his touch. He traces along the flat planes of Zam’s back, then slowly inches his way back to the front of her shirt, and— oh, God. Is he not wearing a fucking—

Okay. Cool. Wemmbu has his hands on Zam’s boobs. That’s… cool. The prince doesn’t seem particularly nonplussed about it, either, he actually sounds quite happy about it, but this is a little bit too out of Wemmbu’s depth, and when he’s feeling a little bit out of his own depth, he makes stupid decisions.

He switches his hotbar item, and it takes only a second before Zam is wrenching himself away from Wemmbu, an unreadable expression on her face.

“Wemmbu,” Zam says slowly, as if she's sounding out his name. He blinks at her, trying to emulate that kicked puppy look that always worked on his Zam. It's a losing battle, but he figures he may as well try. At least he’ll look cute while dying with a sword stuck in his gut. Or maybe Zam will put it in his dick, which will look less cute, but it’ll be funnier, for sure. “Did you just try and put a stick of TnT up my shirt?”

“Well, I wasn’t actually going to do it, I think, but I kinda stopped thinking when I touched your boobs,” Wemmbu says, shrugging when Zam turns an almost murderous glare onto him. He sounds much more casual than he feels, still reeling a little from the unexpected experience. A little voice in his head mocks him for getting so riled up at touching boobs for the first time, and Wemmbu ignores it to try and face Zam properly. He’s going to pretend that TnT slipup was on purpose, starting now. “Give me a head start?” 

“You have ten seconds to get out of my sight,” Zam says, the rage in his voice practically palpable. Wemmbu laughs shakily, even as he stumbles his way out of the palace, weaving past each and every guard Zam sends running after him.

“Bye-bye, your highness!” He blows a kiss to Zam as he leaves, grinning when he notices the begrudgingly amused smile he sees her trying to hide. Hey, at least he didn’t fumble as spectacularly as that other him did. Speaking of which… he hadn’t framed his doppelganger in a while, had he?

Well. At least he had that to take his mind off things.

(Somewhere halfway across the world border, a different Wemmbu sneezes. “Please don’t tell me I’m about to be banned from another country.”)

[sturnioz]

Fb!chris reaction to shy!reader flashing him randomly. Just to see that she spontaneously got her nipples pierced

truthfully, i dont see shy!reader getting her nipples pierced. but i lowkey loved this idea so i had to do it.

"i got something to tell you." you say with a bright smile as you shuffle up beside chris, who is sitting on the edge of the bed, his fingers expertly rolling a joint, the other one casually tucked behind his ear — maybe forgotten about, you think, but you decide against pointing it out as you wait, hoping to have his attention.

but he doesn't look at you. instead, he hums in response, his eyes glued to the rolling paper, completely absorbed in his task to even spare you a glance. frustration wells up inside you, and your smile fades, replaced with a deepening frown as your brows knit together.

you gently poke his shoulder this time, trying to break through his focus.

"don't. m'busy." he snaps, his tone sharper than you expected — a clear sign that he's not in the mood for distractions.

you can't help but huff at that, your initial excitement now sizzling into disappointment. you grip the bedsheets tightly, longing for his attention and feeling a little annoyed at his dismissiveness that in a moment of impulse, you nudge him, hoping this time to draw him away and into the conversation want so desperately want to have.

"kid.. don't."

"i want to tell you something." you reply, trying again, your tone laced with a hint of attitude that surprises even you, and to your relief, it seems to get through to him as he abruptly turns his head, his glare sharp and his jaw clenched tightly.

"stop bein' a fuckin' brat, kid. i told you that i am busy, yeah? i told you that, 'n now you're gettin' an attitude with me? learn to behave before i—"

you find yourself lifting your shirt without thinking, revealing the new, swollen piercings you impulsively got. you can't help but grin with pride, despite the fact you cried when you got them done — but he doesn't need to know that.

chris' gaze drops immediately to your chest, his eyebrows raising in surprise as he blinks, momentarily taken aback before he tucks the joint behind his other ear, his tongue prodding at his cheek as he lets out a small hum of acknowledgment.

"wow.." he murmurs, and for a moment, you think his reaction is rather bland and disappointing. but then you notice the smirk slowly spreading across his lips, his hand reaching out to gently cup your breast.

his thumb brushes against your swollen nipple, and you can't help but hiss at the sudden sting, instinctively swatting his hand away with a sharp slap.

"sore?" he asks, an amused glint in his eyes.

"obviously," you reply, frowning slightly before gathering the courage to ask. "do.. you like them?"

"do i like them?" chris repeats, pausing as if he's considering his response. but instead of answering your question, he shifts the focus back to you. "what made you wanna do this anyway, kid? didn't think you'd be into this kinda shit."

"kitty was getting hers re-pierced, and i felt a little confident," you admit, feeling the heat creep up your cheeks. "i wanted something done too."

"confident, huh?" chris hums, licking his lips as he shakes his head. "kitty's a bad influence on you, kid. gotta stop hangin' out with her so much."

that is not the response you were hoping for, and you pull your shirt down with a small huff, obscuring the piercings from his view. chris grins, tilting his head to the side as he watches you move up his bed, settling a few feet away and grabbing your phone — you were absolutely going to tell the groupchat about this.

"i like 'em, by the way," you hear chris admit, and you pause, lifting your head in surprised. your eyebrows raise, and a shy smile threatens to spread across your lips at his unexpected compliment.

he nods slowly as he reaches for more rolling papers and a baggy of weed, his gaze lingering on you a moment longer than necessary before looking away.

"yeah.. like 'em a lot."

[xichilie]

mydei x reader (x phainon) where they were on a quest and they had to rest and they stayed at a hotel to rest except it was one room available with one bed, or u can make it two beds where mydei and phainon fight for whoever gets to sleep with reader heh (id perfer one bed…..) imagine them all 3 in one bed

i need more mydei x reader fanfics dont leave me hanging…….

The way I giggled and kicked my feet at this, one bed with mydei and Phainon YES, JUST YES😌

(BTW, mydei is wearing a shirt in the bed scene)

Mydei x (fem) reader x Phainon

Only one Bed

The rain had started coming down hard by the time Mydei, Phainon, and Y/N finally reached the small inn nestled between the hills. Their mission had taken longer than expected, and all three of them were exhausted. The golden glow of lanterns inside the building was a welcome sight as they stepped inside, shaking off their damp cloaks.

“I’ll go book us a room,” Phainon announced, stretching his arms. “You two just sit tight.”

Mydei scoffed. “Like I need your permission.”

Phainon shot him a grin before sauntering over to the innkeeper. Meanwhile, Mydei shifted his attention to Y/N, who was absently rubbing her shoulders as if trying to shake off the chill from the rain. Without a word, he reached over and took her bag from her hands, effortlessly slinging it over his own shoulder.

She blinked up at him. “Oh, you didn’t have to—”

“Just take it,” he muttered, looking away. “You always carry too much.”

A small smile tugged at her lips, but she didn’t argue.

Phainon returned a moment later with a slightly sheepish expression. “So… small problem.”

Mydei narrowed his eyes. “What now?”

Phainon rubbed the back of his head. “They only had one room left.”

Y/N tilted her head. “That’s not so bad.”

Phainon hesitated. “And… only one bed.”

There was a moment of silence as Mydei and Y/N processed that. Then Mydei let out a sharp exhale. “Absolutely not.”

Phainon crossed his arms. “You got a better idea, champ? Sleep outside?”

Y/N, ever the peacemaker, placed a hand on Mydei’s arm before he could actually consider that. “It’s a big bed, isn’t it? We can share.”

Mydei scowled, glancing away. “I’ll take the floor.”

“Fine,” Phainon said immediately, throwing an arm around Y/N’s shoulder. “Then I’ll keep her company in bed.”

Mydei turned back so fast Phainon barely had time to react. “Like hell you will.”

Phainon raised his hands in mock surrender. “Wow, relax! Just pointing out how ridiculous you’re being.”

Y/N sighed. “You two need to stop bickering. We can just share the bed. It’s not like any of us bite.”

“I might,” Phainon muttered under his breath, earning a glare from Mydei.

“Fine,” Mydei finally grumbled. “But you two better not kick in your sleep.”

They made their way upstairs to their room, which, true to Phainon’s word, only had one large bed dominating the center. A warm fireplace crackled in the corner, casting flickering shadows across the wooden walls.

“Well, this’ll be cozy,” Phainon said, already unfastening his cloak. “Who wants the shower first?”

“You go last,” Mydei said immediately. “Or else you’ll use up all the hot water.”

Phainon placed a hand over his heart. “You wound me.”

Y/N chuckled. “I’ll go first, then.”

They both nodded, watching as she disappeared into the washroom with a towel. As soon as the door clicked shut, an awkward silence settled between Mydei and Phainon.

Phainon flopped onto the bed with a dramatic sigh. “So. Just us now, huh?”

Mydei shot him a look before leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “Don’t talk.”

Phainon smirked. “Aw, come on. You’re not still mad about the bed thing, are you?”

Mydei scowled. “I should throw you out the window.”

Before Phainon could retort, the washroom door opened, and Y/N stepped out, drying her hair with a towel. Her damp locks clung to her shoulders, and the fresh scent of soap filled the room.

Both men froze. Mydei felt his cheeks heat up slightly, but he quickly looked away. Even Phainon, who was normally unbothered, rubbed the back of his neck as he cleared his throat.

Y/N, oblivious to the effect she had, continued towel-drying her hair. Seeing this, Phainon started to reach out. “Here, I’ll help—”

“Go shower,” Mydei cut in abruptly.

Phainon sighed dramatically but relented, gathering his things and heading into the washroom. The moment the door shut, Mydei let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His gaze flickered back to Y/N, who was still focused on drying her hair. Without thinking, he stepped forward and gently took the towel from her hands.

She blinked up at him. “Mydei?”

“Sit,” he muttered. “You’re going to catch a cold if you don’t dry it properly.”

She hesitated for a moment before obeying, sitting at the edge of the bed while he carefully ran the towel through her hair. She hummed softly. “You’re really good at this.”

Mydei scoffed. “You say that like it’s hard.”

She giggled. “Still, it’s nice of you.”

His hands faltered slightly at her words, but he quickly resumed. “Just don’t tell Phainon. He’ll never let me hear the end of it.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, Mydei’s usually rough hands surprisingly gentle as he worked through her damp locks. By the time Phainon stepped out of the shower, stretching and sighing in satisfaction, he paused mid-step at the sight of them.

“Well, well,” he said, smirking. “Look at this cozy scene.”

Mydei tossed the towel at his face. “Shut up.”

Phainon laughed. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

Y/N smiled. “He’s been very helpful.”

Phainon waggled his eyebrows. “Oh, I bet.”

Mydei glared at him. “Do you want to sleep outside?”

Phainon held up his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. Let’s just get some sleep.”

They all climbed into the large bed, with Y/N in the middle. Mydei made sure to keep a respectful distance, but Phainon, being his usual self, sprawled out comfortably. To Mydei’s dismay, Phainon had no problem cuddling up to Y/N, and she didn’t even seem to mind.

After a few moments of silence, Phainon muttered, “This is kinda nice, huh?”

Y/N hummed in agreement. “Yeah.”

Mydei grumbled. “Go to sleep.”

Phainon chuckled. “Night, lovebirds.”

Neither of them responded, but in the dim light of the room, Mydei’s ears burned slightly.

As the night settled in, the soft crackling of the fireplace was the only sound filling the room. Phainon, being the most relaxed of the three, had no trouble dozing off first. He had sprawled out, his head resting against Y/N’s shoulder as he nestled closer, completely at ease.

Y/N, warm and exhausted from the long day, soon followed. Her breathing evened out, her body shifting in sleep as she unconsciously adjusted. At some point, without realizing it, she turned towards Mydei, pressing against his side, her head lightly resting against his chest.

Mydei, who had been lying stiffly on his back, immediately tensed. His golden eyes flicked downward, catching the sight of her peaceful face just inches from his own. Her warmth seeped through the thin fabric of his shirt, and he could feel the steady rhythm of her breathing against him.

His heartbeat, normally steady and composed, faltered slightly.

For a brief moment, instinct told him to move away—to put some distance between them. But as he shifted slightly, her hand absentmindedly curled into his shirt, like she was seeking comfort even in her sleep.

He swallowed, exhaling quietly.

Phainon had draped an arm lazily over Y/N’s waist, holding onto her like a human pillow, his face buried in her shoulder. The sight irritated Mydei more than it should have. But Y/N’s warmth against him—her quiet presence—was grounding in a way he hadn’t expected.

His muscles, once tense, slowly relaxed.

“…Just this once,” he murmured under his breath, barely above a whisper.

Careful not to wake her, he let himself rest, his gaze lingering on the ceiling. Y/N remained nestled against him, her breathing soft and steady, and despite himself, Mydei stayed still, allowing her to stay close.

Sleep didn’t come as easily for him, but with her warmth beside him, he didn’t mind as much.

The soft golden light of morning streamed through the window, casting a gentle glow over the room. The fireplace had died down to a few embers, leaving only the quiet rise and fall of breathing from the bed.

Phainon was the first to wake, stretching his arms with a lazy yawn. He blinked a few times, adjusting to the light—until his vision settled on the sight before him.

Y/N was nestled comfortably in Mydei’s arms.

Phainon’s eyes widened slightly. At some point during the night, Mydei had taken her from his grasp and pulled her against him. Her head rested against his chest, one hand lightly curled into his shirt, and Mydei's arm was wrapped snugly around her, holding her close.

But the real kicker? Mydei was awake.

And he was smirking.

Triumphantly.

Phainon gawked. “You absolute—” He huffed. “I had her first.”

Mydei raised an eyebrow, his expression smug as he tightened his hold just a little, just enough to make his point. “Looks like she disagrees.”

Phainon groaned dramatically. “That’s not fair. I want cuddles too.”

Without hesitation, Mydei grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it at his face.

THWACK.

Phainon let out a muffled yelp as he peeled the pillow away, pouting. “Rude.”

“Too bad,” Mydei said smoothly, settling back into the pillows.

Phainon huffed and crossed his arms. “This is favoritism.”

Mydei simply shrugged, looking far too pleased with himself. “Sounds like a you problem.”

Phainon squinted at him before flopping back onto the bed dramatically. “Fine, but next time, I’m stealing her first.”

Mydei chuckled lowly. “We’ll see about that.”

Y/N, still blissfully unaware, snuggled closer into Mydei’s warmth, sighing softly in her sleep. Mydei shot Phainon one last smirk before resting his chin atop her head.

Phainon groaned into his pillow. “I hate you.”

Mydei closed his eyes, perfectly content. “No, you don’t.”

[saxophonebone]

Vol 3 finale if Pyrrha was a little bit more thirsty:

Pyrrha: *pauses and looks up at Beacon tower* 😕

Jaune: *looks back* …Pyrrha…you don’t have to-

Pyrrha:

Pyrrha: Mmm…my first kiss…too bad it’s my last…better make it last longer…

Pyrrha: OOOOH~! 💕 I didn’t expect Jaune to use tongue! 😍

Pyrrha: Wow…is that his hand on my hip…? 😳

Pyrrha: This is nice…! Maybe a few more seconds…if I’m going to sacrifice myself I think a little longer wouldn’t hurt…🥰

Pyrrha: *pulling Jaune backwards while still making out* Better hide in the courtyard closet so no Grimm interrupt us! I can’t believe how much Jaune seems into this right now…!

Pyrrha: *discarding her weapons and undoing Jaune’s belt* These keep poking me! I’ll grab them before I go up the tower…Oooh, Jaune’s skin feels so soft against mine…! Maybe I’ll just…

Pyrrha: *unbuttons Jaune’s jeans and feels something hard press against her* OH MY!!! I suppose if this is my only chance, I should do that thing I always wanted to do so I have no regrets…!

Pyrrha: *on her back with her skirt hiked up, her corset undone, and her legs wrapped around Jaune’s hips while he thrusts* Oh gods…! He’s looking right into my eyes while heOHFUCK makes love to me!!! Maybe there’s time to try other positions too…? 🥰

Pyrrha: *face down as Jaune thrusts from behind* OH my GOds~! I can’t see him but it feels bigger and deeper like thiiiissssOHGODS!!! I can’t leave just yet!! 😖

Pyrrha: *riding Jaune with her hands on his chest for support as she bounces up and down in time with his upward thrusts* Oh-my-gods-oh-my-gods-oh-my-gooooodddssss~!!! He’s not as deep but now I feel like I’M in control~!! EEP!! He’s grabbing my breasts!! 😫

Pyrrha: OOOOHHHHHmygods, he’s cumming!!!! It feels so HOT!! And so much more than I expected!! I’m cumming tooooOOOOOOO~!!! 💕

Pyrrha: *panting and lying on Jaune’s bare chest as he tries to catch his breath* Oh…oh that was WONDERFUL…I’m so glad I got to experience this at least once before I climbed the tower to sacrifice myself… 🥴

Pyrrha: …but I suppose it’s time…

Pyrrha: …Jaune…there’s something I have to do, and just know that I’m truly sorry about- 😔

Weiss: *bursts through the door* THERE you guys are! It’s all over! Cinder is down but when we couldn’t find you anywhere were afraid…

Weiss: …what are you guys doing?

Pyrrha/Jaune: *frantically covering up* 😳

Jaune: Wait, Pyrrha? What were you about to tell me?

Pyrrha: I-I-I-I-I…!! 😰

Pyrrha: …wished I had the chance to meet your family? 😅

Jaune: *skeptical in naked* 😒

[onlyswan]

summary: in which you sacrifice your strawberries and eyelash wishes for the boy knocking at your door.

idol!jungkook x reader, strangers to friends (?) to lovers / fluff and a pinch of angst / word count: 5.5k

content/warnings: allusions to death and grief / jungkook is a cutie patootie and a blushing hopeless romantic mess / he wants to kiss oc so bad (me too bro) / oc is a sunshine <3 / they do chores and watch movies together :((( / in one scene he was worried oc would think of him as a perv lmao / they’re dorks and i love them / seokjin cameo hehehe

> in which masterlist!

note: to make up for the pain i may have caused and will cause <3 LOL. i hope you enjoy reading as much as i enjoyed writing :D as always reblogs and feedback are appreciated! come chat w me. ily 🌼

—

“it’s so cold,” you mutter through chattering teeth.

the grocery bags sit on the hardwood table with a thud— the careless bringer too hasty. you shove your icy hands in the deep pockets of your jacket, breathing in and out with a sense of relief.

you are not granted the mundane euphoria for much longer, however. the doorbell rings and you are padding across the floor against your will. the cold air hits your face before it enters your apartment.

however, the happy smile that greets you blankets your heart with a type of warmth that is difficult to describe.

if you had to guess who was behind the door, you wouldn’t say the boy you’ve been fiercely pining over for the past month, but it is certainly who you’d be hoping for regardless.

“good morning!”

“oh! wait there for a moment!”

jungkook stands motionless by your open front door as you disappear into your apartment. confusion accompanied by curiosity, he tries poking his head inside, but then decides that he shouldn’t.

upon your return, his face lights up again.

“here you go!”

he accepts the jar of honey faster than he could think.

“w-why are you-?”

you tilt your head, lips forming a small pout. “isn’t that what you’re here for?”

“uh, actually-” he awkwardly pauses, hand that carries the heavy paper bag behind him suddenly feeling weak. “i came here to give you something.”

your eyes animatedly expand in surprise of the size of it, not at all expecting to receive a gift from him today. you do know that he’s fresh from japan, as you converse on the phone almost everyday… why would he come here almost immediately? and didn’t he say they weren’t given the chance to roam the city because of their work schedule?

“i just grabbed things i thought you might like. i hope i got most of them right?” he explains with a nervous chuckle as you take a look inside.

a diverse array of snacks; a beautiful journal painted with cherry blossoms; a hello kitty plushie; stickers, muji pens…

“oh my god, jungkook… these are too much. you didn’t have to.”

oh, curse the hopeless fluttering of your heart.

“wow, gifting your merch- that’s real idol behavior for you.” you tease him, referring to the hooded jacket that has their group logo on its plastic packaging. “thank you!”

“no but it seriously warms you up! i have one too!”

“jungkook, why are you so cute?!”

“ah, shut up! i’m getting embarrassed!” he whines, blushing. “just look at them later after i leave, how about that?”

“let go! it’s mine!” you glare at him, hugging the paper bag to your chest to deny his advances on snatching it away. “are you not leaving? don’t you have work?”

“i told you— it’s my rest day.”

“you did?”

“while we were texting last night.”

“oh,” you blink. “i don’t remember reading that.”

“you? what are you doing today?”

you bite back the smile threatening to give away the thoughts running in your mind a thousand miles per hour. why does he want to know?

“nothing special. just chores the entire day.”

jungkook puts his hand inside the pocket of his coat, an attempt to appear casual as he offers you his valiant effort. “do you want some help? i’m good at doing chores.”

you stare at him, perplexed, as if he just said the most ridiculous sentence you’ve ever heard in your entire life.

“it’s your rest day and you want to do chores?”

“sure,” he grins playfully, not at all seeing how that could be wrong. “why not?”

“you know…” you pause— observing his expression, considering shutting your mouth, but that plan rarely ever works out. “you can just say that you want to spend time with me, right?”

your bluntness sends his heart racing. you’re a danger to his health.

he sinks his perfect teeth on his bottom lip, bringing his dimples into view. to be honest, you didn’t always have a thing about dimples. you didn’t consider them all that special. but why do they make him look cute and sexy at the same time?

his cheeks become tinted with a pale scarlet. you’re wearing that friendly beam again; he doesn’t know how to act. he never knows whether you are joking or not.

“well, now i know.”

—

jungkook sets down the jar of honey on the table as he settles in the living room, fascinated doe eyes darting around every inch of your place. it’s not his first time here, but somehow, it looks different each time. the two frames hanging above the sofa captures his attention all over again, colorful drawings against the plain white wall. gifted to you by your siblings, you said.

a tall castle with a happy family. a little boy slaying a dragon to protect a princess from its savage fire.

he is blissfully unaware of the knowledge that the drawings are the lone survivors of a school bus and a tragedy. you want it to stay that way. you want people to feel the opposite of the sadness you feel when you look at them. that is how you seek your peace.

“are you wearing toe socks?”

“huh?” he makes a sound of confusion, only processing your question upon seeing your gaze trained to his feet. “ah- toe socks- yes.”

“i’m only noticing them now. they look funny.” you scrunch your nose, chuckling.

“don’t laugh! they’re so comfortable!”

“really?” your eyes widen with genuine interest. “i should try them then.”

“yeah, you should!”

he whips his head around as he jokingly voices out an observation.

“but ____, your house kind of looks different today… it’s almost like it’s cleaner than the last time i was here.”

you bury your face in your hands with a high-pitched wine, hiding from him in humiliation. you did not plan on inviting someone over that night, and he had to watch you run around organizing and picking up things— the scattered books all over the table and the floor; the jackets that have created a big heap on the small couch; the jewelry box that ended up on the dining table for some reason.

he laughs in endearment, unable to take his eyes from you. even the way your hair bounces as you furiously shake your head is pretty. wait, does that sound weird?

“that’s right, it should look different! the first thing i did when winter break started was clean up my mess.”

“what’s the first chore on the list then?” he catches the grocery bags in the kitchen from his peripheral. “were you putting away your groceries?”

“you really want to do chores? you don’t want to watch a movie or something?”

“aigoo, it’s fine!” he waves off your reluctance. “stop worrying! i already said i’d help you.”

“but it’s embarrassing…”

it’s either jungkook is denying your advances or he is simply dense. but the fact that he showed up at your door unannounced on his day-off despite complaining about his exhaustion from their hectic work schedule, you want to lean towards the latter and believe that he is… as good at chores like he claims to be.

“you must like fruits a lot.” jungkook comments as he is squatted infront of your fridge, sheltering the freshly bought perishables one by one.

kimchi, lettuce, strawberries, tangerines, shine muscat, apples…

this is an entirely different world through your lens.

it feels strange to watch another person restock your fridge for you.

“they’re easy to eat and i’m lazy to cook.”

he chuckles as he looks back at you, who is sat on the dining table, airy and carefree as you snack on a bag of assorted chocolates from the paper bag he brought. almost all of the white chocolates are gone, he notes.

“not because they’re nutritious?”

“that’s the bonus!”

“what is this?”

“cranberry juice.”

“and this?”

“oyster sauce.”

you energetically hop off the table, an idea lighting up the bulb in your mind.

“i have another recipe for you. french toast with strawberries, then drizzle some of the honey. should i make it for you?”

“ah!” he gasps as if he is in pain, but the truth is his mouth is watering. he hasn’t eaten breakfast, and he wanted to eat more for dinner last night but sleep proved to be much more enticing than food. “that sounds so good! i’m starving!”

“stand up!” you begin pulling at the back of his sweater, forcing him to remove himself from the floor. “i’ll make it! just go relax in the living room, okay?”

“but you just said you’re lazy to cook.” he tilts back his head, meeting your gaze. “i’ll help you.”

“i’m not lazy when it becomes to being a host.”

you bend down with a sweet smile, merely inches away from him, and jungkook swears the earth has stopped spinning on its axis. your face is natural and bare, except for the sheen of lip balm across your lips— and dear heavens, having you this close, you are so breathtakingly beautiful.

“they’re playing christmas movies on channel 36.” you announce, giving him the bag of chocolates. “and the remote is… somewhere on the sofa… or maybe the floor.”

and as he gets practically kicked out of the kitchen, your hands roughly pushing his back, he daydreams of kissing you and tasting sugar on your lips.

—

the sweet, addicting smell of the french toast— strong hints of butter and cinnamon— invades every corner of your apartment. consequently, it also compels jungkook to break your rules and insert himself in the kitchen again.

“you never give up, do you?”

“i don’t,” he agrees, nodding eagerly. he has successfully stolen the task of washing the strawberries, and then slicing them after. he endures the freezing water rendering his hands numb. “it’s a known fact.”

“are you saying i should study harder?” you cross your arms, expression painted with faux vexation.

“yes! exactly!” he humors you, grinning of amusement. “what’s my favorite color?”

you sigh, looking at him from head to toe.

“anyone can guess that from a mile away, jungkook.”

“fuck, okay. that’s fair!”

the sound of his laughter reminds of you reasons to stay through the cycle of the seasons. you don’t understand why, but for some reason, it has finally begun to feel like christmas. the only comfort that comes along with the cruel winter that nips at your skin; the blanket over your heart that provides a type of warmth one can travel to seek but will never be able to find alone.

“what’s my height then?”

“aren’t you six feet?”

the silence that follows is an answer enough for you. the noise of the television emerges now that none of you is talking. he pretends to be too busy to speak, transferring the strawberries over to the chopping board.

“yes, you’re ri-”

“liar!” you point an accusatory finger at him.

and he winces, guilty as charged.

“you hesitated!”

“tsk, i should’ve said yes faster! i wanted to experience what it’s like to be tall!” he regretfully purses his lips, eyebrows knitted as if he just lost the lottery. “but haven’t you read it online? even my shoe size and weight are there.”

“what? why do people even need to know that…?” you exclaim, flabbergasted. “i mean- of course i’ve searched up your name, but it feels like cheating on a test. does that sound silly…? it’s just more fun learning about you from you.”

you briefly walk away to grab a bottle of water from the fridge, and jungkook is left at the counter with fondness blossoming in his chest, bleeding into the chopped strawberries staining his hands red.

he calls out your name.

“mhmm?” you hum in question, muffled by the water in your mouth.

“want to hear a fact about me?”

you wipe your lips with the back of your hand, eyes expanding with fueled interest. “what?”

“i’m actually very good in the kitchen.” he boasts his skills with the kitchen knife, quick and precise, the blade against the wood creating the satisfying click you usually only hear from cooking shows. “are you seeing this? huh…? what do you think?”

“so i’ve noticed. i want something new!”

at that, his shoulder sags in disappointment. to his demise, there goes another failed attempt at making you acknowledge that he is boyfriend material.

“what do you want to know? ask me questions.”

“what’s your ideal type?”

being in your presence for the past hour has gotten jungkook re-adjusted to your personality— straight-forward, bold, smart— so vivacious that it’s dizzying. you make him nervous and comfortable at the same time, and he doesn’t quite know how to explain it either. but you’re a breath of fresh air, the change that he has been anticipating to disrupt his routine.

“why do you want to know that?”

you shrug coyly, smiling like the troublesome vixen that you are. you rather enjoy the tension that has hung in the air. if you’ve learned something from the past: men are easy to get, not easy to keep. because they relish in the chase, getting strung along like this. so, shouldn’t you have your fun too? but even if jungkook’s intentions were pure, you can only imagine that seeing someone whose life revolves around their career is… the perfect recipe for disaster.

“i think who you like also says a lot about who you are as a person.”

“i like someone who is kind and funny…” he hums in thought, unconsciously slotting a piece of strawberry in between his lips. “and passionate about the things they love… mhmm, someone who can be honest with me.”

his words form a constellation named after you, unbeknownst to you, and he wants to say more but anticipating what comes next after you connect the dots makes his stomach twist. he doesn’t feel like an adult yet. he’s still just a young boy with a gorgeous crush and high ambitions that coalesce in his dreams.

“i like someone who has a really pretty smile, too.”

and he should probably stop staring, erase the dumb lovesick smile on his face. for fuck’s sake, it would be easier for him if you would just do the same. behind the sparkles of your eyes, there is something he’s been dying to decipher.

“okay, why are you looking at me like that?”

because you are so pretty, especially when you smile.

“nothing,” he replies innocently. “you? what’s your ideal type? who do you like?”

“i don’t know… no one has captured my heart yet. they’re not trying hard enough!”

every romance you’ve had so far has been a letdown.

“but i’m still looking. i’m young, and hot, and the universe is vast.”

“mhm, i see… that’s true, but maybe… you don’t want to be looking too far.” jungkook suggests.

you smirk. “so you agree that i’m hot?”

“you know. you don’t need me to say it.” he chuckles, shaking his head.

“but i want to hear you say it.”

“you’re very beautiful, ____.”

“but that’s not-”

“the food is ready! let’s eat it before it gets cold!”

he runs to the living room without waiting for you, and you seize the opportunity to squeal without a sound, punching the counter without actually punching— releasing the giddiness threatening to spill from the seams of your heart.

you don’t know if this is heading somewhere, nor do you expect it to, but where you are right now is a good place to be.

—

the movie playing on the screen has become more of a white noise to you, a family comedy far less fascinating compared to jungkook drizzling honey over strawberries and bread from a spoon. you wonder if he is aware how often he creates sound effects while he is doing something.

beside you, his body quakes with cackles during the scenes that an editor would definitely insert the classic sound of an audience’s collective laughter and holler. you stumble upon the understanding that his happiness lies in a myriad of things, and you would envy him for it if not for the fact that he is currently sharing that happiness with you. you laugh when he laughs, and being becomes a little less heavier at that moment.

another commercial break rudely interrupts and jungkook turns towards you. the two of you sit cross-legged, knees knocking against each other as you occupy nearly the entire sofa.

“hi!”

“hi.”

“what are your plans for the holidays?”

“my best friend’s family invited me to stay with them for christmas until the new year. it’s kind of been a tradition since…”

the end of your sentence hangs suspended in the air. you still can’t say it out loud.

jungkook knows they’re gone and you’re alone: only the plain and brutal truths.

the reminder that this is the third christmas you will not spend with your family; the thought that this would be the third christmas they would spend without you if the afterlife was real— they bring tears to your eyes at once, but you forcibly blink them away, shoving enthusiasm down your throat.

“how about you?” you take a bite from your toast, attempting to divert your thoughts to… anything else. “are you coming home?”

you hide so well behind a smile. it doesn’t occur to jungkook that his question rubbed salt on an open wound.

“i miss my mom but i can’t go home yet.” he pouts. “i have work on christmas day as usual. we’ve been preparing hard for it.”

“oh, that’s right! gayo daejeon?!”

he nods in confirmation.

the music festival has been an annual event for his group since they debuted, and he never feels the need to complain because not everyone is given this kind of opportunity. what’s extraordinary for most has become his ordinary, and what was once his ordinary like everybody else’s has simply become a thing of the past. nevertheless, he does not have regrets. he is living a good life, one that he believes is his fate. as long as he has a voice and it is being heard, then his existence has meaning.

“your family will surely watch you, so they’re still celebrating it with you in a way. making them proud is the best christmas gift you can give!”

and right now, in his life, you are the cherry on top. you were so cheerful and supportive about the final shows of their tour as well, raving about how amazing it is to perform three nights in a row at gocheok skydome.

“i’ll watch you too!”

he can’t help it— you’re driving him to be better at what he does. childishly, he wants show off and be the one to capture your heart.

“ah!” he groans. “that means i should work harder at practice tomorrow! i can’t mess up infront of you and my family!”

“why not me? you want to make me proud too?” you interrogate him jokingly.

“of course, it’s my job. it’s what i do best. i’ll make you see!”

“use me as motivation then. you can’t mess up, okay? you have to do well, jungkook! you better not make a mistake! my eyes will be focused on you only!”

his face is reminiscent of a deer caught in the headlights— the headlights being your wide, threatening eyes.

he releases a shaky sigh in dramatic fashion. “i don’t feel motivated, though? i’m getting pressured?”

you wheeze; the plate over your lap tilts along with its contents.

“this is tough love!”

jungkook nearly staggers to his feet. “…love?”

you roll your eyes, small corners of your lips still cheekily lifted. “was the french toast good?”

jungkook is interrupted before he can form a response.

“but if it tastes like shit, just lie to me!”

“what are you talking about?!”

oh my god, you’re too fucking good at making him laugh.

“you’re eating it too! you know it’s delicious!”

“maybe you got a bad batch!”

—

“i’m going to the laundry shop across the street. i’ll just be a minute.” you announce, hauling a laundry basket to the living room.

your strained grunts prompt jungkook to look up from his phone, and eventually to stand up with urgency and relieve you of your heavy, heavy burden.

“shit, how heavy is this?”

you’re not given a chance to protest as the basket is immediately stolen from your grasp; your lips part open but no words come out.

“i’ll come with you!”

“well, hopefully not more than twelve kilos.”

it’s definitely heavier than usual; mainly comprised of the thick and layered clothes you’ve been wearing to shield yourself from the unforgiving cold.

“let’s go.”

jungkook wraps his hand around your wrist, gently tugging. the butterflies in your stomach wakes up earlier than spring’s arrival.

“this thing is bigger than you.”

an extremely obvious exaggeration.

“i’ll be the one to carry it.“

—

jungkook wears a cap and a face mask underneath his hoodie, eyes barely even visible in his all-black getup for the public to see; and somehow you also find yourself with a scarf around your neck, pulled up over the bridge of your nose.

when the year 2017 rolled in, you predicted that more crazy, life-altering stuff would happen. it has been an on-going theme, a relentless domino effect that has brought you to your knees time and time again. but you never would’ve fucking imagined that this is how you would be wrapping it up. how the hell did you cross paths with a famous idol, and why is he carrying your laundry basket right now?

“wait here for a bit.” you bring both hands to the basket’s handles, coaxing him to let go. “i’ll just bring it inside.”

“are you only dropping it off? that’s expensive!”

“what?” you stare at him in bewilderment, not expecting him to utter such statement at all. “you’re talking like you’re not rich!”

“i’m not! and still,” jungkook becomes flustered underneath his disguise. “it’s good to be practical. anyway, we have a lot of time.”

“you sound more like a mom than my mom did.”

“shhh!” he shushes you, putting a finger over his face mask. “let’s just do your laundry ourselves.”

“why would you do laundry right now? you’re supposed to be resting in the first place!”

a tug of war ensues infront of the laundry shop. strangers doesn’t know better. you look like a married couple bickering over who should take responsibility of the chore.

“____, just let me, mhm? i’m a pro at doing laundry too! we’ll be done before you know it!”

“how are you good at everything? honestly, it sounds like a scam!”

“how dare you doubt me?” he gasps in offense. “i do my own laundry!”

“seriously?” you quirk an eyebrow.

“i’m serious!”

“i don’t think i believe you, though…”

“if you search online, you-” your voice echoes in his mind, and subsequently, jungkook cuts himself off.

‘it feels like cheating on a test. it’s more fun learning about you from you.’

“oh, nevermind. let’s go inside already. i’m freezing!”

“jungkook!” you whine, stomping your feet on the ground as you refuse to let go of the basket despite jungkook beginning to head inside.

“why?” he copies the childishness of your tone, and although you can’t see his face, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes tell you enough.

“we can’t…”

the adorable sight of you appearing to be so shy is foreign to him. he can’t help but to chuckle. “why not?”

your lips form a pout.

“my panties…”

you bring a finger to point at the basket.

“they’re in there too… i was only going to drop them off today because you came with me…”

“ah…” jungkook awkwardly freezes, unblinking. “wait, you’re right?”

why didn’t he think of that? he’s a fucking idiot. of fucking course. what if you take things the wrong way and you’re creeped out by him now?!

“fuck, sorry. i’m sorry. i wasn’t- um, i swear i wasn’t trying to…”

his tongue becomes tied, struggling to search for the words that won’t make him sound like a damn pervert.

yeah, way to go, jungkook. you’re not the fucking boyfriend yet and you’re ruining your chances.

“did i make you uncomfortable? i’m sorry. it probably looked li-”

“hey, breathe, calm down. it’s alright, jungkook.”

you giggle in amusement, placing a hand over his chest— his heart. it’s meant to ease him, but the knowledge that you’re feeling his racing heartbeat only causes it to further intensify. he swallows the lump in his throat, dumbfounded by the turn of events. he wants the ground to swallow him whole, but he also wants to stay in this moment a little while longer.

“it’s alright. i’ll go bring this inside then i’ll treat you to lunch at the restaurant over there! don’t run away from me, okay?”

—

“the yukgaejang looks good.” you utter absentmindedly, admiring the spicy beef soup with plentiful vegetables from afar. “i’m jealous of you.”

the other tables are already having a feast while you and jungkook are waiting for your take-out to be prepared.

“then you should’ve ordered it too.” jungkook scolds you lightheartedly. “should i go?”

“no! i’m not good with spicy food. spice makes me cry.”

he smiles softly. once again, you complete the picture from his eyes. “what is there to frown so sadly about?”

“i feel like i’m missing out.” you complain, the pout on your face almost permanent. “spicy food is like one of the trademarks of korea, you know? but i can’t handle it!”

“so cute…” jungkook has decided to give in to his impulses, it seems— the evidence is him pinching your cheek for the very first time, and with the discovery of its delightsome softness, it will definitely not be the last.

“oh, oh, oh! an eyelash!”

his doe eyes glisten with pure wonder and excitement, and the air in your lungs becomes suspended when his hand moves to tenderly cup the side of your face. as he is absorbed in capturing the tiny eyelash that has fallen and glued itself on your cheek, your mind reels with the size of his hand, the sensation of his innocent touch against your neck.

“aaand-” jungkook takes your hand, passing on the eyelash to your index finger. “there you go. make a wish!”

your eyes flicker down, and none of you speaks for a moment or two.

a wish…?

what does one wish for when they have given up on wishing for miracles?

“did you do it?”

you peek at jungkook, nodding. at last, you blow the eyelash away, outside the window, where it becomes one with the snowflakes that came from the same sky where wishes are supposedly granted.

“what did you wish for?”

“i’ll tell you when it comes true.”

—

jungkook eats so well— you feel full just by watching him eat. so when he asked you, eyebrows knitted and legs bouncing, if he could have more rice, you were left with no choice but to plug in the rice cooker for the second time today. you cooked only enough for two meals today: brunch and dinner for one. you’re more than happy to have given him the dinner portion. you like that your apartment is providing warmth for another soul, despite the old times that it housed ones that ended up haunting you.

“are there any more chores to do? while we wait for the rice?”

you gaze switches from him to the living room.

the boy who was knocking at your door is now vacuuming your floors.

you sit on the couch with your legs hugged to your chest, chin propped on your knees. an unexplainable feeling swims in your chest, but your heart calls to welcome it. not to be delusional, but technically, isn’t this a marriage proposal?

it falls on dear ears— the infuriating sound of the cheap vacuum cleaner your landlord lended you and never came back for. underneath it is jungkook’s mellifluous voice, humming and singing, and it’s all you can hear.

the only use you knew of honey is the magic it does with tea for a sore throat. when you learned about his demanding occupation, he is all you can think of in relation to the elixir. since then, you’ve been taking the god awful amount of honey your pesky neighbor provides without any complaints.

this is nice… this is good. you are glad that you opened the door.

—

after a hearty and satisfying meal, you and jungkook retired to your previous spots infront of the television screen. more of the snacks he bought for you ended up being shared. near your stacks of books are colorful food wrappers and half-empty glasses of water. two mediocre yet entertaining movies later, you tell jungkook that you should pick up your laundry before the shop closes in an hour. however, after he has excused himself to the bathroom, he is greeted by the sight of you peacefully asleep on the sofa.

once more, a new side of you is laid bare, and his affection grows. he doesn’t know when he can admire your face this close again without melting from your stare.

heedful of disturbing your much deserved rest, he carefully places a pillow beneath your head, and he pulls down the blanket you’re wrapped in to cover your cold feet.

with one last stolen glimpse, he grabs your key and receipt from the bowl and leaves.

—

“is it time for you to leave?” you delicately rub at your eyes that are still half-closed; voice quiet, barely there.

you were awoken by the front door opening and closing, but nothing has quite registered to your fuzzy brain yet, except for the coat that you neatly kept and is already re-worn by its owner.

and he knows you’re most probably just sleepy, but the way you’re gazing at him as if you’re sad to see him go makes his heart clench.

“no, i picked up your laundry.” he enlightens you, consciously speaking with refined tenderness, as to preserve the serenity that has enveloped the atmosphere. “i can stay until eight. is that okay?”

you release a weary sigh, nodding. “of course… and you’re such a nice friend, thank you.”

he plops down on the sofa, filling the jungkook-shaped space beside you.

tired… you’re so tired… despite the given privilege to finally sleep to your heart’s content, you’re still so tired. your forehead lands softly on his shoulder, and unbeknownst to you due to your stupor, jungkook’s breath hitches— the polar opposite of the steady rise and fall of your chest. you make him swoon. he deliberately ignores the fact that you just called him a friend.

you peer down at the floor, past the curtain of your disheveled hair, slowly blinking. those ridiculous toe socks… you giggle in secret.

“jungkook?”

“yes?”

“are you cold?”

“freezing.”

you lift your head and he knows— you have to be playing games with his heart, bringing the temptation to kiss you so painfully close. “do you want some tea?”

—

the performance has commenced but the passionate screams of the audience still rings in jungkook’s ears as he runs backstage, chased by the staff attempting to wipe the sweat he is practically bathing in. he squeezes one eye shut as beads of sweat threaten to enter it. his chest heaves with exhaustion and his heart pumps with overwhelming adrenaline. most of the time, this job doesn’t feel real. he feels high. this is the textbook definition of a dream.

“where’s my phone? please? does anyone have it?” he yells in the midst of the chaos and clamor as he completely strips off his in-ears.

a hand reaches towards him with the device, and his expression of gratitude gets lost somewhere among the repetitive reminders of the remaining time before they should have returned to their designated seats.

he allows the hair and make-up stylists to do their jobs, him as their doll in need of a retouch. on the other hand, he impatiently waits for his phone to power on.

the tapping of jungkook’s foot ceases, and from his glowing reflection on the vanity mirror, the clueless people surrounding him witnesses love strike.

guess my eyelash wish worked like a charm. your performances went really well

and you looked so cool on stage ☺️

merry christmas jungkook ❤️

“jungkook-ah, what are you smiling at?!”

seokjin cackles. jungkook didn’t even notice him roll his chair so close. he then decides to play dumb to tease their youngest one.

“wow, who is this ____ you’re texting?”

“hyung!” jungkook panics, hissing underneath his breath. “lower your voice!”

“ouch!” seokjin yells, rubbing his arm that was hit as a punishment.

he allows a moment of silence.

his expression goes blank and he avenges himself.

“ah!” jungkook gasps as the slap on his thigh resonates, forced to be ripped away from overthinking a text message. “hyung! you better start running!”

Draft: i know it’s late.. but can i see you later?|

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